Like the skies I was perfectly sober, Here once in an alley Titanic Of Ten-pins, I roamed with my soul,- They were days when my heart was volcanic, Till my ten-strikes created a panic I repeat, I was perfectly sober, But my thoughts they were palsied and sear,— My thoughts were decidedly queer; For I knew not the month was October, And I marked not the night of the year; I forgot that sweet morceau of Auber That the band oft performèd down here; And I mixed the sweet music of Auber With the Nightingale's music by Shear. And now as the night was senescent, And I said: "This looks perfectly regal; We have come past the emeu and eagle, And watched the gay monkey on high; The Willows Let us drink to the emeu and eagle,- But Mary, uplifting her finger, Said, "Sadly this bar I mistrust,I fear that this bar does not trust. Oh, hasten! oh, let us not linger! Oh, fly!-let us fly-ere we must!" In terror she cried, letting sink her Parasol till it trailed in the dust,- Parasol till it trailed in the dust,- Then I pacified Mary, and kissed her, But were stopped by the warning of doom- Then my heart it grew ashen and sober, That I journeyed-I journeyed down here- 425 Well I know now I'm perfectly sober, As I was walkin' the jungle round, a-killin' of tigers an' time; I seed a kind of an author man a writin' a rousin' rhyme; 'E was writin' a mile a minute an' more, an' I sez to 'im, "'Oo are you?" Sez 'e, "I'm a poet-'er majesty's poet-soldier an' sailor, too!" An 'is poem began in Ispahan an' ended in Kalamazoo, It 'ad army in it, an' navy in it, an' jungle sprinkled through, For 'e was a poet-'er majesty's poet-soldier an' sailor, too! An' after, I met 'im all over the world, a doin' of things a host; 'E 'ad one foot planted in Burmah, an' one on the Gloucester coast; 'Es 'alf a sailor an' 'alf a whaler, 'e's captain, cook and crew, But most a poet-'er majesty's poet-soldier an' sailor too! 'E's often Scot an' 'e's often not, but 'is work is never through For 'e laughs at blame, an' 'e writes for fame, an' a bit for revenoo, Bein' a poet-'er majesty's poet-soldier an' sailor too! 'E'll take you up to the Ar'tic zone, 'e'll take you down to the Nile, 'E'll give you a barrack ballad in the Tommy Atkins style, Or 'e'll sing you a Dipsy Chantey, as the bloomin' bo'suns do, For 'e is a poet-'er majesty's poet-soldier an' sailor too. An' there isn't no room for others, an' there's nothin' left to do; Commonplaces 427 'E 'as sailed the main from the 'Orn to Spain, 'e 'as tramped the jungle through, An' written up all there is to write-soldier an' sailor, too! There are manners an' manners of writin', but 'is is the proper way, An' it ain't so hard to be a bard if you'll imitate Rudyard K.; But sea an' shore an' peace an' war, an' everything else in view 'E 'as gobbled the lot!-'er majesty's poet-soldier an' sailor, too. 'E's not content with 'is Indian 'ome, 'e's looking for regions new, In another year 'e'll ave swept 'em clear, an' what'll the rest of us do? 'E's crowdin' us out!-'er majesty's poet-soldier an' sailor too! Guy Wetmore Carryl. THE TRANSLATED WAY Being a lyric translation of Heine's "Du bist wie eine Blume," as it is usually done. THOU art like unto a Flower, So pure and clean thou art; To me it seems my Hands I Franklin P. Adams. COMMONPLACES RAIN on the face of the sea, Rain on the sodden land, And the window-pane is blurred with rain As I watch it, pen in hand. Mist on the face of the sea, Mist on the sodden land, Voices from out of the mist, Calling to one another: "Hath love an end, thou more than friend, Voices from out of the mist, Calling and passing away; But I cannot speak, for my voice is weak, Rudyard Kipling ANGELO ORDERS HIS DINNER I, ANGELO, obese, black-garmented, With cold conglomerate tidbits-ah, the bill! As Lippo yonder, built upon the plan |