The Song Book of Quong Lee of Limehouse

When, in the evening, a friend honours me with a visit, I engage his ears with the air of 'Hitchy Koo'; But when I am afflicted with a visit From those who fill me with a spirit of no-satisfaction, I command my machine-that-sings To render the music of 'We don't want to lose you.'

The noise that at this moment greets the ear Of the elegant visitor to this despicable hovel Is the incomparable music of 'Hitchy Koo'; And the price of this person's tea, mister, Is but a paltry six shillings the pound.

The Lamplighter

The dark days now begin, when in afternoon The Great Night Lantern makes a razor-edge Of black and white in the streets. And one comes, called the Lamplighter, And the straight stiff lamps of these stiff London streets, At his quick touch burst into light.

At this shy hour I see from my unshaded window Bright girls, hair flowing, go by with shuttered faces, Holding close captive their warm insurgent bosoms. And then, at the corner, Some slender lad of bold and upright carriage Greets them, and the shuttered lanterns of their faces Burst with light at the touch of the lamplighter.

Oh, kind ingenious lamplighter, Will you please step this way?

As the wise Mencius observed in one of his inspired hours, Doubtless thinking forward to situation of this person: Child who has once suffered unpleasant sensation of burning, Ever afterward reluctant to approach stove. Wherefore, as this person once accepted an invitation, In words as affable and polished as yours, Mister, To drink rice-spirit at The Blue Lantern, And was there subjected to a custom of this country Of an entirely disturbing and unpleasing nature, Known as Ceremony of Confidence, He has, since that day, viewed The Blue Lantern With a feeling of most decided repugnance.

A Night-Piece

I climbed the other day up to the roof Of the commanding and palatial Home for Asiatics And looked across the city at the hour of no-light.

Across great space of dark I looked, But the skirt of darkness had a hundred rents, Made by the lights of many people's homes.

My life is a great skirt of darkness, But human kindliness has torn it through, So that it shows ten thousand gaping rents Where the light comes in.

A Smile Given In Passing

As I walked the street in the purring evening A little maid with yellow curls Tossed me a smile; and suddenly Pennyfields Grew from darkness to light, and the light of the stars Grew pale.

I may not see her again, but I hold her smile in my heart, And she is with me in my shop and about the streets. My shop may tumble down; West India Dock may some time suffer a drought; Grief and Joy come for a day; And Hope and Fear, and Desire and Deed Arise and pass, and are no more; But the beauty born of her quickened smile Can never die.

Of a National Cash Register

Last week this person, desiring to make it known That he was in all ways moving up to the date, Introduced into his insignificant shop A machine-that-counts, Called a National Cash Register, Which announces to refined and intelligent customers The amounts of their purchases.

This week this person purchased a whole days' amusement; And the amount he paid for this was another's discomfiture and pain. And, after a night of cogitation, He is moved to reflect on the far-reaching and wholesome value Of a National Register which would announce to the face The cost of such pleasures as this.

Under a Shining Window

A lamplit window, At the top of a tenement house near Poplar High Street, Shines fluently out of the night; And looking upward I see That the bricks of the houses are bright and fair to the eye.

There are no flowers in West India Dock Road; Nothing but brick and stone, and iron and spent air. But when rough brick and stone are a shrine for beauty, They become themselves beautiful. Perhaps if this person encloses within himself Beautiful thoughts and amiable intentions, His insignificant frame may acquire The noble outlines of that tenement house.

Exchange of Compliments

At ten o'clock last night an ugly fellow, Of skinny exterior and most ungracious manner, Was thrown with a total loss of gravity From the flapping doors of the Blue Lantern.

He lurched in most ungainly fashion past this person's shop-- This person standing at his door-- And used base language of an unpolished nature, Calling him Ugly Yellow Bastard, Hop Fiend and Dirty Doper, Eater of Dogs and Cheater at Puckapoo, Son-of-a-Bitch and devotee of vice.

This person did not respond in like manner, Knowing that he is not himself all-perfect, Nor even in every hour A devout follower of the teachings of the Four Books. He contented himself with repeating in a far-reaching tone, The words of the lofty Lao Tzu: When pot upon stove reproveth kettle for blackness, Pot speaking out of turn.

A Song of Little Girls

I want to make a song of the little girls That live about this quarter. I could make a song of boys quite easily with words, But words are too blunt for such delicate things as girls. I would like to make my song of them with bees and butterflies. One looks at the boy, and says Boy; And lo, one has described him. But little girls are morning light and melody; Their happy hair flutters and flies, or curtains their laughing faces-- Faces glad as the sun at dawn. Their clear, cool skin is like wine to the eyes, The lines of their fluent limbs run like a song, And every step is a note of grace which the frock repeats.

Don't you think it a pity, and greatly to be deplored That these should lose this beauty, And pass from it to the guile and trickery of woman?

Of Shop Windows

Looking closely at the glass windows of my shop, I see in them the whole of my shop reflected. Looking at my windows closely from the street, I see in them the life of the street reflected. Yet if I stand away, the glass remains transparent, And I see clearly through it to the things beyond.

If I look with close vision Into the hearts of men, I see my own small heart reflected. I will try henceforth not to look at them too closely.

At the Feast of Lanterns

Lithely on their strings swing the many-coloured lanterns, For this is the Feast of Lanterns; And Pennyfields and West India Dock Road Are to-night a part of my own country, Aglow with the hues of the Peacock's Tail, Very amiable to the eye.

In a recess of my heart Is a poor street hung with lanterns. These lanterns are my thoughts, And they are lighted at the last hours of the evenings, When through this street Walks the willowy maiden from the tea-shop across the road.

One Service Breeds Another

One of this person's white-skinned friends, Bill Hawkins, Who labours at the waterside, Had occasion, at the time of unkind weather, To rescue from the certain peril of drowning One who had slipped from the edge of a wharf to the dock.

Without reward the flower serves the bee. The mother serves the child with pain and toil. The soldier serves his king without king's gratitutde. And this person has noted with much private amusement, How, since this one service rendered, Bill Hawkins goes ever from his accustomed path To add service to service to the one he rescued; While the rescued one looks ever upon Bill Hawkins With eyes of no-approval, indeed, with intense disgust.

An Offer of a Lodging

Little maid of the yellow curls You look sad as you pass my window. You look as though you would like to creep into some warm nest, And hide your golden head.

Oh, look, little maid! I have made you a nest! Creep into it, and I will hide you away, Quietly, in the nest of my heart, I will wrap you around with verses and cover you with fair thoughts.

There is yet one little corner left, Free from the world's defilement; One little corner where not a breath of wrong Shall enter to disturb your slumbering. And I will cherish you there In the nest you will make so pure. I will hold you and guard you safe from the snares of the stony streets. Be at peace, little maid, and lie in trust; For though my feet may stumble, and I may fall, The corner that houses you I will ever keep whole.

Of Two Dwellings

At the lower end of Limehouse Causeway Is a house where girls surrender their bodies To the pleasures of base-minded and unpolished men, In return for shillings. And on the walls about this house Blossoms at summer the wild white rose.

In a tiny room at the top of a tenement Lives a white maid of surpassing virtue, Gentle in manner and quiet and dutiful, Combing her golden curls each morning Before a window that looks out to hell; That looks upon cesspools of mud, and mounds of refuse and the offal of the shops.

Concerning English Gambling

One morning, at the season of Clear Weather, As I sat alone in my Tea-House of the Refined White Lily, A stranger of affable address approached me, And showed me, with a multitude of argument, To what advantage I should come Were I to place the whole of my substance with him, Even to my shirt, As a token of my faith in Ice Cream Cornet for the Lincolnshire.

And because I would not do so, He withdrew himself from me as from one of mean birth and behaviour, Reviling me with the name of "No-Sport," And other characters of opprobrium.

But this person told him That he carried always on written leaves The words of his august father, Concerning horses and women, and the wind in the hills and the hooting of owls.

He did not tell him that he knew full well That Ice Cream Cornet was a non-starter for the Lincolnshire.