(Written After One Bottle.)

In the market-place or forum, If you’re dull, my cockalorum, Never heed the censor morum, But just brew yourself a jorum, In a beaker or a cup, Of this stimulating liquor, Which, when life begins to flicker, And your soul grows slowly sicker, And you feel a bucket-kicker, Is a patent pick-me-up.

It was near the Yorkshire Stingo That in modern London lingo, With a face like a flamingo, Said a friend of mine, “By Jingo! What a wretched wreck you are!” I replied, “I’m melancholic, And my pains are diabolic. I, who once was frisk and frolic, Now am glum and vitriolic-- Every nerve is on the jar!”

Then a smile that was sardonic Beamed about his brow Byronic, And he said, “This is masonic, But I think you want a tonic-- Try the famous (something) wine.” And he further said with unction That I need have no compunction In obeying his injunction, ’Twould renew each vital function, And just suit a case like mine.

I have drunk and I’m a giant Quite refreshed and grown defiant; All my limbs are free and pliant, And now neither May nor Bryant Can supply a match to me. Now my pen again grows graphic, And my verse is strictly sapphic, And my tricycle in traffic I can ride with smile seraphic, From all nervous tremors free.

I can laugh at Punch and Judy, And enjoy a book from Mudie; I am spick and span and dudey, And I freely spend my scudi, And I feel that I could fly. I’ve a bearing that is regal, All my acts are strictly legal, And I’ll wager that an eagle, Though he’d taken Mother Seigel, Couldn’t show as clear an eye.

So in market-place or forum, If you’re dull, my cockalorum, Never heed the censor morum, But just brew yourself a jorum, In a beaker or a cup, Of this stimulating liquor, Which, when life begins to flicker, And your soul grows slowly sicker, And you feel a bucket-kicker, Is a patent pick-me-up.

Ad Cor Meum.

O heart, my heart, that faintly flutters And sinks within my coward breast At every sound a demon utters-- The demon of a wild unrest-- What poison is it in you lurking That taints the rich red stream of life, And leaves your trembling owner shirking The storm and stress of daily strife?

The skies are black as Night’s dark daughters, The Haven’s far, and fierce the sea; Ill-omened birds above the waters Fly low and shriek with evil glee. O, sinking heart, to hope a traitor, If through the storm’s the peace we prize, Bid me sail on--the risk is greater For him who here at anchor lies.

Beat, heart, again with brave endeavour; Beat, heart, with faith in God’s right hand, Stretched out to those who ask it ever To lead them to the Promised Land. Mine eyes to earth no more inclining, I watch the storm that clears the sky; Who’d see the sun in splendour shining Must boldly fix his gaze on high.

Ichabod.

Write it up with falt’ring fingers, Write it with a blush of shame, Since no ray of glory lingers ’Mid the temples of our fame. O’er a Christian Church blaspheming, Which has dragged the name of God Through the mire of party scheming, Write the legend “Ichabod.”

Write it where our peers assemble, Dullards decked in solemn state, Though their sires made Europe tremble In the days when we were great. Peers to-day the land encumber, Lazy lords no spur can prod; O’er the House where now they slumber Write the legend “Ichabod.”

Shrined in History’s grandest pages Are the deeds of those who bent Tyrant kings in kingly rages To the will of Parliament. Now but placemen, bores, and traitors Tread the halls that Hampden trod; O’er the House of idle praters Write the legend “Ichabod.”

Once old England’s pride and glory Was that all her sons were free; Ah, to-day how changed the story! Where is now our liberty? Cranks and faddists forge our fetters, Every day we feel the rod, “Grandmamma” in sampler letters Works o’er England “Ichabod.”

A Derby Ditty.

Mud in my eyes, and mud on my cheek, My hat that drips, and my boots that leak, And a voice so hoarse that I scarce can speak-- That’s how I went to the Derby.

A fight with a man at the station-gate, Apoplexy through being late, A score in a carriage that seated eight-- That’s how I went to the Derby.

Never a cab for love or oof, The dye running out of my waterproof, Through chalk and water I pad the hoof-- That’s how I got to the Derby.

Smashed and crushed in a crowded pen, Bruised and battered by bustling men, A lamb in a roaring lion’s den-- That’s how I saw the Derby.

“The favourite’s beat!” the millions cry, The next umbrella extracts my eye, And I’ve laid two thousand to one with Fry-- That’s how I liked the Derby.

I’ve lost my temper, I’ve lost my tin; Where is my watch--my chain--my pin? And my boots are letting the water in-- That’s how I left the Derby.

A couple of doctors by my bed, A block of ice on my burning head, And somehow I wish that I was dead-- That’s what came of the Derby.

The brokers in on a bill of sale, Pills and potions of no avail, A jerry-built tomb with a rusty rail-- That’s what came of the Derby.

R.I.P. on a soot-grimed stone, And under my name these words alone: “The biggest juggins that ever was known” Has gone where’s there no more Derby.

Shall we Remember?

Ah, love, my love, as hand in hand, This glorious autumn weather, We stroll along the golden strand, And watch the ships together, We murmur vows we mean to keep, But by next year’s September, How many made beside the deep Shall We Remember?

Old love is dead; new love awakes, And hearts are playthings ever; Though change may mar, ’tis change that makes; Time every link can sever; Though dull love’s fire, to glowing gold We fan the dying ember-- Yet in new love, the love of old Shall We Remember?

The race of life is to the strong, The pace grows fast and faster, The leader takes the field along, And brings the weak disaster. The prize is won! Yet what is fame? A rushlight in November. In twelve short months the victor’s name Shall We Remember?

Paradise and the Sinner.