Outlook Odes

Dear Sir, or Madam, As the case may be, When Britain first, At Heaving's command, Arose from out The azure main, This was the chawter Of that land And gawdian a-a-a-a-angels Sang this strain: Don't you think so? For my own part, I am quite sure of it: Monday night convinced me. Mafeking night, As you may remember, Was a honeyed And beautiful affair. But Peace night, I think, Really outdid it in splendours. At the cafe Which I most frequent, All was Peace. Round the table next mine, There were seventeen Jews, With a Union Jack. Ever and anon (Between drinks, as it were), They held up That Union Jack And yelled: "Shend him victoriouth, 'Appy and gloriouth, Long to-o reign over uth, &c., &c." I wonder, my dear Sir, or Madam, Why the Jews are so pleased: I can't make it out. Howsomever, Pleased they are, And a pleased Jew Is worth a king's ransom, Or words to that effect. Peace, my dear Sir, or Madam, Is a chaste and choice Thing.

Outside the aforesaid cafe, The crowd Was so numerous And exuberant That I was compelled (Much to my annoyance, of course) To remain inside Till closing-time. Then I went home In the friendly embrace Of a four-wheeler. For a little while, There was much shouting and yelling and roaring and squeaking and singing; And then I knew No more. My cab Bowled away Through the sweet evening air (That is to say, If the common or Regent Street growler Ever does bowl away), And all the time I snored. Duly awakened Outside my bungalow, I raked up the fare, And, in reply to kind enquiries In the hall, I remarked: "Peace, O woman of mine, Peace!"

To the Cambridge Crew

My dear Cambridge, You have pulled it off, As all men know. This ode Will make Oxford pretty sick; But the spoils are to the victor. If Oxford had rowed better And won, They should have had a nice new ode, Like good boys; But they have been and gone and lost, And are, therefore, Not fit subjects For immortal verse. Pah! I pass by Oxford! As for you, dear Cambridge, Here's to you: In spite of your long and honourable connection With the manufacture Of sossiges, There appears to be something in you, Which is more than can be said For some of the sossiges. Cambridge, my own, You have won the bowt rice! 'Ave a drink! What is the good of winning the bowt rice, If you don't 'ave a drink? I don't know, And I'm sure you don't. Also, what is the good Of winning the bowt rice At all? I give it up. Yes, I do really; Please do let me give it up. You have won; You can afford to be generous; Suffer me to indulge my little whim: There is no good In winning the bowt rice, Cambridge No good at all. On the other hand, When I come to think of it I am not quite sure That to have rowed In the Cambridge boat Which won the bowt rice, Is materially to have damaged One's prospects or career: At the very least, it makes one safe For a tutor's job At £80 per annum; And what self-respecting person from Cambridge Could wish for more? I have heard of a man Who rowed In a winning Cambridge boat And is now driving A hansom cab. And I have heard of another man Who omitted to row In a winning Cambridge boat And is now driving a four-wheeler. You see the difference, of course! After all, To row In a winning Cambridge boat Does give one A sort of start in life, And don't you forget it. Always remember, my dear Cambridge, who you are. You licked Oxford by five lengths In 1902. This is probably All you will get For your father's money. Be thankful.

Dear Mr. Dan Leno,-- This has been a great week For Art-- One of the biggest weeks in fact On record. For at the beginning of the week, my dear Mr. Leno, You were a mere popular entertainer, Whereas at the present moment You are a proud and 'appy man, And in a position to walk about the Strand With a diamond E Scintillating in your cravat. The thing that was anticipated By the intelligent paragraphists, My dear Mr. Leno, Has come to pass. His Britannic Majesty King Edward VII., D.G.: B. et T.T.B.R.: I.I., Does intend to give artists and authors and people A little bit more of a show Than has hitherto fallen to their lot. His Majesty, My dear Mr. Leno, Has always been noted for his tact, And in opening the ball with you, as it were, His Majesty has exhibited an amount of tact Which leaves absolutely nothing to be desired. Had he commenced with Mr. Swinburne, Or myself, Or Mr. Hall Caine What howls there would have been! Whereas as it is Everybody is delighted, And the Halls resound nightly with his Majesty's praises. Furthermore, Besides being tactful, The King's choice of you, My dear Mr. Leno, For an invitation to Sandringham Has its basis in a profound common sense; For I am acquainted with nobody in the movement, My dear Mr. Leno, Who could have done the Sandringham turn With anything like the success which appears to have been yours. I gather from interviews That the King "laughed heartily" at your jokes, And that "it was a treat to see him enjoying himself." It is just here that Mr. Swinburne, myself, and Mr. Hall Caine Would have broken down. It seems to me unlikely That the King would have laughed At Mr. Swinburne's jokes; My own jokes, as everybody is aware, Are constructed on a principle Which entirely prohibits laughter; While, as for Mr. Hall Caine's jokes, They have such a tremendous sale That it is not good form to laugh at them. Mr. Leno, my boy, You have been the humble means Of doing us all A great kindness. Those jokes of yours Which have tickled Royal ears Will be nectar to me When next it is my pleasurable duty To sit under you; That hand which Royalty has shaken I shall grasp With an added fervour; That smile will cheer me all the more readily Because it has cheered My liege Lord and Sovereign; Those feet---- But, after all, the great point Is the scarf pin. I suppose you would not care to lend it to me For a week or two While I have one made Like it?

To the Pope

May it please your Holiness There are possibly two, Or it may be three, Men In Europe Who could indite this Ode Without treading on anybody's corns. After mature reflection, I am inclined to think that I am those three men So that you will understand. Well, my dear Pope, I hear on all hands That you are engaged, at the present moment, In the cheerful act and process Of having a Jubilee. I have had several myself And I know what pleasant little functions they are, Especially when the King Sends a mission to congratulate one on them. To proceed, You must know, my dear Pope, That, by conviction And in my own delightful country, I am a rabid, saw-toothed Kensitite Protestant; All my ancestors figure gloriously In Foxe's "Book of Martyrs," And, if they don't, they ought to. Also, I never go into Smithfield Without thinking of the far-famed fires thereof And thanking my lucky stars That this is Protestant England And that the King defends the Faith. But, when I get on to the Continent, To do my week-end in Paris, Or my "ten days at lovely Lucerne," Or my walk with Dr. Lunn "In the footsteps of St. Paul," Why, then, somehow The bottom falls clean out of my Kensitariousness And I become a decent, mass-hearing, candle-burning Catholic. That is curious, but true, And may probably be accounted for By differences of climate. However, we can leave that; Here, in England, my dear Pope, We all like you, Whether we be Catholics or Protestants or Jews or Gentiles or members of the Playgoers' Club; And we all see you, in our minds' eye, Seated benevolently upon your throne Giving people blessings; Or walking in the Vatican Garden Clothed on with simple white. We all think of you, my beloved Pope, As a diaphanous and dear old gentleman Whose intentions are the kindest in the world. And yet, and yet, and yet-- The memory of Smithfield So rages in our honest British blood That, in spite of your white garments And your placid, gentle ways, We feel quite sure that you do carry, Somewhere about your person, A box of matches; And that, if certain people had their way, You would soon be lighting such a candle in England That we should want a new Foxe And a new Book of Martyrs Of about the size of a pantechnicon. Hence it is, my dear Pope, That we--er--Englishmen remain Protestant And make the King swear fearful oaths Against popery and all its works, Although, for aught one knows to the contrary, He may have Mass said twice daily Behind the curtain, as it were. All the same, I wish you good wishes As to this your Jubilee And Nihil obstat.