Harry Graham (52 und Schluss)

Ein Jahr lang gab es hier jeden Sonntag ein Gedicht des großen vergessenen Dichters Harry Graham zu lesen, vielleicht hat er dadurch ja ein paar neue Freunde gefunden. Den Abschluss der Reihe bildet »Envoi« aus »Misrepresentative Men«:

Harry Graham: Envoi

Behold how tenderly I treat
   Each victim of my pen and brain,
And should I tread upon your feet,
   How lightly I leap off again;
Observe with what an airy grace
I fling my inkpot in your face!

To those whose intellect is small,
   This work should prove a priceless treasure;
To persons who have none at all,
   A never-ending fount of pleasure;
A mental stimulus or tonic
To all whose idiocy is chronic.

And you, my Readers (never mind
   Which category you come under),
Will, after due reflection, find
   My verse a constant source of wonder.
'Twill make you think, I dare to swear–
But what you think I do not care!

Harry Graham (51)

Weil es so schön ist und zwar bereits hier gepostet wurde, nicht jedoch in der Harry-Graham-Reihe, sei nun erneut »Love's Handicap« aus »The World We Laugh In« zitiert:

Harry Graham: Love's Handicap

From the earliest days,
Ev'ry writer of lays
   Has delighted to sing about Passion;
But of rhymes there's a dearth
For the Briton by birth
   Who would follow this popular fashion.
For though Love is a theme
That we poets esteem
   As unrivalled, immortal, sublime too,
'Tis a word that the bard
Finds it daily more hard
   To discover a suitable rhyme to!
For one can't always mention the »stars up above,«
Ev'ry time that one talks about Love!

When the French troubadour
Wants to sing of l'amour
   No such lyrical fetters restrain him;
And when making la cour
To his mistress, chaqu' jour,
   There's no famine of rhyme to detain him.
He'll describe, sans détours,
How as soft as velours
   Is her hand, and her voice like a fiddle;
How they ate petits fours
Till she cried: »Au secours!«
   When his arm went autour of her middle!
And there's no need for him to refer to her »glove,«
Just because he's discoursing on Love!

The Venetian signor
Who discusses l'amor'
   To his lady-love's balcony climbing,
As he presses her fior'
To his bosom (al' cuor')
   Has no trouble at all about rhyming!
When with frenzied furor'
And such fervent calor'
   He suggests her becoming his sposa,
What for him does the trick
Is that rhymes are as thick
   As the leaves upon fair Vallombrosa;
And he never need liken his dear to a »dove,«
Ev'ry time that he sings about Love!

'Tis the absence of rhymes
That inclines me, at times,
   To renounce any mention of Cupid,
And, instead, to write odes
To (say) skylarks or toads,
   Though it may seem faint-hearted or stupid.
For it's easy to sing
Of the sunshine or Spring,
   And of Pan (or some mythical person),
But to find a fresh rhyme
For the Passion sublime
   That we bards are supposed to write verse on –
Well, I'm tempted to give the whole question »the shove«
And to sing no more songs about Love!

Harry Graham (50)

Wichtige Hinweise zur korrekten Nutzung von Badezimmern aus »The World We Laugh In«:

Harry Graham: The Bath

Broad is the Gate and wide the Path
That leads man to his daily bath;
But ere you spend the shining hour
With plunge and spray, with sluice and show'r–
With all that teaches you to dread
The bath as little as your bed–
Remember, wheresoe'er you be,
To shut the door and turn the key!

I had a friend – my friend no more!–
Who failed to bolt his bath-room door;
A maiden aunt of his, one day,
Walked in, as half-submerged he lay!
She did not notice nephew John,
And turned the boiling water on!

He had no time, nor even scope,
To camouflage himself with soap,
But gave a yell and flung aside
The sponge 'neath which he sought to hide!
It fell to earth I know not where!
He beat his breast in his despair,
And then, like Venus from the foam,
Sprang into view, and made for home!

His aunt fell fainting to the ground!
Alas! they never brought her round!
She died, intestate, in her prime,
The victim of another's crime;
And John can never quite forget
How, by a breach of etiquette,
He lost, at one fell swoop (or plunge),
His aunt, his honour, and his sponge!

Harry Graham (49)

Da aktuell die beiden Reizthemen Lyrik und Kolonialismus dank Boris Johnson und Rudyard Kipling in aller Munde sind: Hier ein satirisches Gedicht aus »Familiar Faces« (1907), in dem Harry Graham über die Kongogräuel schreibt, für die der damalige belgische König Leopold II. maßgeblich verantwortlich war. Editorischer Hinweis: Ich habe mir erlaubt, das n-word in S4V1 unkenntlich zu machen.

Harry Graham: King Leopold

(»In dealing with a race that has been composed of cannibals for thousands of years, it is necessary to use methods that best can shake their idleness and make them realise the sanctity of labour.«—King Leopold of Belgium on the Congo scandal.)

People call him »knave« and »ogre« and a lot of kindred names,  
   Or they label him as »tyrant« and »oppressor«;  
The majority must wilfully misunderstand his aims
   To regard him in the light of a transgressor.  
For, to tell the honest truth, he's a benevolent old man
   Who attempts to do his »duty to his neighbour«
By endeavouring to formulate a philanthropic plan  
   Which shall demonstrate the »sanctity of labour.«

There were natives on the Congo not a score of years ago,  

   Whose existence was a constant round of pleasure;  

Whose imperfect education had not ever let them know 

   The pernicious immorality of leisure.

They were merry little people, in their simple savage way,  

   Not a thought to moral obligations giving;  

Quite unconscious of their duties, wholly ignorant were they  

   Of the blessedness of working for a living.

 

But a fond paternal Government (in Belgium, need I add?)  

   Heard their story, and, with admirable kindness,  

Deemed it utterly improper, not to say a trifle sad,  

   That the heathen should continue in his blindness.  

»Let us civilise the children of this most productive soil,«

   Said their agents, who proceeded to invade them; 

»Let us show these foolish savages the dignity of toil—  

   If we have to use a hatchet to persuade them!«

 

So they taught these happy n—ers how unwise it was to shirk; 

   They implored them not to idle or malinger;  

And they showed them there was nothing that encouraged honest work 

   Like the loss of sev'ral toes or half a finger.  

When they fancied that their womenfolk were lonely or depress'd,  

   They would chain them nice and close to one another,  

And they thoughtfully abducted ev'ry baby at the breast,  

   To facilitate the labours of its mother.

So they made a point of parting ev'ry husband from his wife  

   And dividing ev'ry maiden from her lover; 

If a workman drooped or sickened they would jab him with a knife, 

   And then leave him by the roadside to recover. 

If he grumbled or grew restive they would amputate a hand,  

   Just to show him how unsafe it was to blubber,  

Till with infinite solicitude they made him understand  

   The necessity of cultivating »rubber.«

 

Thus the merry work progresses, as it must progress forsooth, 

   While these pioneers are sharp and firm and wary,—  

And the Congo is reluctantly compelled to own the truth  

   Of that motto »Laborare est orare.«

Though the Belgians sometimes wonder, on their tenderhearted days, 

   (When the little children scream as they abduct them), 

If the natives CAN supply sufficient rubber to erase 

   The effect of such endeavours to instruct them.

 

Tho' within the royal bosom a suspicion there may lurk  

   That these practices offend the sister-nations,  

That one cannot safely advocate »the sanctity of work,«

   By a policy of theft and mutilations,—  

Yet wherever on the Congo Belgium's banner is unfurled,  

   Where the atmosphere is redolent and sunny, 

I am sure the Monarch's methods must be giving to the world 

   Some ideas upon the »sanctity of money!«

 

And, if so, I am not boasting when I mention once again  
That the Ruler of the Congo has not surely ruled in vain!

Harry Graham (48)

Ein Gedicht zum Ende des Wahlkampfs aus »Canned Classics«:

Harry Graham: The Craven (With Apologies to Edgar Allen Poe)

(At the last General Election the Unionist and Liberal candidates for Chelsea both enjoyed the name of Hoare.)

Ah! distinctly I remember, 'twas an evening in November,
   When I canvassed for the Member whose rosette I proudly wore,
Rousing voters to reflection on the Veto and Protection,
   Handing tracts in each direction, thrusting bills through ev'ry door,
   Till I reached the Chelsea section, where each rival's name is Hoare,
                 Simply that and nothing more!

There I argued with each zany, and cajoled the bright and brainy,
   In the district labelled Cheyné (where Carlyle abode of yore),
Till I found a man, a craven, with his feeble chin unshaven,
   Ev'ry window of whose haven a perplexing placard bore,
   'Twas a poster neatly graven with the motto: »Vote for Hoare!«
                 Only that and nothing more!

»Tell me which,« I asked him, snorting, »of the two you are supporting;
   On your window-sills the sporting of such posters I deplore;
Be you dunderhead or scholar« (here I seized him by the collar),
   »Will you brook the Yankee Dollar being dumped on Britain's shore?
   Do you fancy, in your squalor, that your food will cost you more?«
                 Quoth the craven: »Vote for Hoare!«

My acquaintance thus I rallied, till I grew fatigued and pallid,
   But my arguments (though valid) he continued to ignore;
»Shall an alien contribution help to wreck the Constitution?«
   I inquired, in consecution, till my throat was dry and sore.
   »Are you keen on Devolution? Tell me frankly, I implore!«
                 Quoth the craven: »Vote for Hoare!«

Harry Graham (47)

Eine Ballade aus »Adam's Apples«:

Harry Graham: Chance

Though most of us may disbelieve in fairies,
   And label Luck a superstitious myth,
If we'd had an experience like Mary's
   (I mean, of course, my cousin Mary Smith)
We certainly should realize, like her,
How oft the Unexpected does occur.

An aunt of hers, old Mrs Smith (of Barnet),
   Had given her a bracelet, subtly chased –
Two aluminium snakes with eyes of garnet
   Whose bodies were adroitly interlaced –
A bangle which poor Mary couldn't bear
But felt herself in duty bound to wear.

Last year she took her aunt off to the Lido,
   And there upon the sunny sands reclined
Or scudded through the waves like a torpedo –
   She looked so like one, too, from just behind –
While Mrs Smith sat by and viewed the scene
Or read the Barnet Parish Magazine.

One day, as Mary sported in the ocean,
   A shadow loomed beside her, slim and dark;
She heard a boatman cry, with deep emotion:
   »Guardati! Pesce cane!« (»Mind the shark!«)
And, making headlong for the shore forthwith,
She sprang into the arms of Mrs Smith!

»Thank God you're safe!« said Auntie, fondly kissing
   Her niece's pallid cheek and anguished brow;
»But what is this, my child? Your bracelet's missing!
   You must have dropped it in the sea just now!
We can't allow that heirloom to be lost.
It must be found at once, whate'er the cost!«

»Perhaps the shark has swallowed it,« said Mary.
   »If so,« said Auntie, »he should be ashamed!
Send for the Doge! Where are the Bersaglierei?
   What are the coastguards doing?« she exclaimed.
»With such a danger is there none to cope?
What's Mussolini there for, and the Pope?«

In vain did they employ the local diver
   And get the Doge to issue a decree
In which he offered anyone a fiver
   That bracelet to unearth – or to unsea!
Conscious at last that failure was complete,
They shook the spray of Venice off their feet.

This summer, Mrs Smith and cousin Mary
   Selected Westgate as a health-resort
Where bathing holds no risks for the unwary
   And shrimping is a well-protected sport,
And here they built their castles in the sand
And listened to the Borough Council Band.

One morning, on the pier where they were sitting,
   Said Mary: »What's the tune they've just encored?«
»That,« said her aunt, »is the Refrain from Spitting –
   At least, it says so on the notice-board.
It's not an opera that I know well;
My favourite, of course, is William Tell.«

Then, as she spoke, there came the sound of cheering,
   And see! along the asphalt esplanade
A noble army from the beach appearing
   Of man and boy, of matron and of maid,
And in their midst a giant fish they bore:
»A shark,« they cried, »has just been washed ashore!«

At Mary's feet they laid the dead cetacean.*
   Her thoughts flew back to a Venetian bay
And, as they planned the beast's evisceration –
   I'll spare the lurid details, if I may –
She and her aunt exchanged a meaning glance
And prayed in secret to the god of Chance.

*: Sharks are not cetaceous. – Pub.
     This one was. – H. G.

Poor Mrs Smith's excitement rose to fever,
   And Mary too grew anxious, I confess,
As someone slit the fish up with a cleaver
   And found within its vitals – can you guess?
You're wrong, alas! They didn't find a thing
Except two buttons and a piece of string!

Yes. Providence, performing many wonders,
   May move in a mysterious way, no doubt,
Yet will not always rectify our blunders,
   As Mrs Smith and Mary have found out.
The long arm of coincidence grows weak;
The skirts of happy chance are far to seek;
And Jonah's shark was probably unique.

Harry Graham (46)

Aus »Strained Relations«:

Harry Graham: In-Laws

It seems to me a crying shame
   That humorists should all disparage
Those worthy persons whom we claim
   As relatives by marriage,
Who have been pilloried so long
In ev'ry so-called »comic« song
   That audiences never pause
   To think, but greet with loud guffaws
   All ribald jokes about »in-laws.«

I always view with deep distress
   The rude and vulgar illustrations
In which the minor comic press
   Makes fun of those relations
Who stimulate the married life
Of many a happy man and wife,
   Whose constant presence should invest
   Existence with an added zest
   And make each union doubly blest.

I recollect, in days gone by,
   When courting my inamorata,
A backward, timid swain was I
   Who needed a self-starter:
And yet her people were so kind
They wouldn't let me change my mind;
   And though they knew I was no »catch«
   'Twas they who kept me to the scratch
   And practically made the match.

The mother of my fiancée
   (Who had six daughters then unmarried)
Would lightly laugh my qualms away,
   And all objections parried.
She pushed us in each other's arms,
And raved about her darling's charms,
   Making a comprehensive list
   (Including sev'ral that I'd missed)
   Till I no longer could resist.

As for my dear one's father, he
   Was just as tactful as her mother;
He'd always leave us, after tea,
   Alone with one another.
Locking the door, with some remark
About how »lovers love the dark,«
   He'd turn the gas off at the main;
   And I would sit for hours with Jane
   Trying to light the stove again.

My loved one's sisters (she had five)
   Behaved in as discreet a fashion,
And did their best to keep alive
   Our oft-times waning passion.
Before they entered any room
In which, amid sepulchral gloom,
   The chilly pair of lovers sat,
   They'd knock their loudest rat-a-tat
   Or cough outside upon the mat.

When first I set up house with Jane
   Her parents were of great assistance;
They'd never viewed me with disdain
   Or kept me at a distance.
Her father came, without a fuss,
Three nights a week, to dine with us;
   Her mother, with maternal zeal,
   Appeared at ev'ry other meal,
   And quite at home they made us feel.

They chose the carpets and the chintz,
   They bought the curtains (with our savings),
Replaced my set of Baxter prints
   With Marcus Stone engravings;
And ev'ry day, when we were out,
They'd move the furniture about
   And rearrange our little nest,
   And though at times we might protest,
   We knew, of course, that they knew best.

And when our tiny firstborn came
   Their loving-kindness quite nonplussed us
We'd chosen »Henry« as his name,
   But they preferred »Augustus«:
And, later, though we'd wished to call
His sister »Mary« – not at all!
   In this we were allowed no voice,
   For they'd already made their choice,
   And she was duly christened »Joyce.«

My wife has brothers, charming men,
   Who never seem to need inviting;
They know they're welcome in my den,
   And when I'm busy writing
They very often condescend
To sit with me for hours on end,
   Explaining how I'd make it pay
   By doing what I do to-day
   In some completely diff'rent way.

Their sisters, whom I love so well,
   Delight me with their girlish chatt'ring
They use my house as an hotel,
   Which is extremely flatt'ring.
It's really very nice to feel,
If one pops in to snatch a meal,
   Another's on the telephone;
   My wife and I are bound to own
   We're never lonely, or alone.

Harry Graham (45)

Aus »Canned Classics«:

Harry Graham: The Postman and the Lift

»›Most of our tenants pay rents of from £350 a year upward,‹ says Mr. Goddard, of Messrs. Goddard and Smith, the well-known Piccadilly house agents, ›and would strongly resent having to ride up and down in lifts with postmen.‹« – Daily Mail.

I used to live in Jermyn Street,
   Upon the seventh floor.
I occupied a charming suite,
Bed, bath, and boudoir, all complete;
   That flat is mine no more!
For in my lute appeared a rift:
They let the postman use the lift!

Was it for this I had to pay
   Three hundred pounds a year?
I never shall forget the day
A relative arrived to stay
   (First cousin to a peer);
My word! How Aunt Eliza sniff'd!
She met a postman in the lift!

»What!« she demanded, »must I ride
   With common men like him?«
She drew her scornful skirts aside,
Her smelling-bottle she applied,
   She shook in ev'ry limb.
»Be good enough,« she said, »to sift
The lower orders from the lift!«

»Good Goddard! Fellow,« I exclaimed,
   »Is there no public stair?
Are there no regulations framed
To make a working-man ashamed
   To breathe his betters' air?
To anarchy we surely drift
When common postmen use the lift!«

In vain I claim my legal rights,
   My landlord won't give way.
He says his pity he excites
To see men scaling seven flights
   So many times a day.
To other chambers I must shift,
Where postmen never use the lift!

Harry Graham (44)

Aus »Deportmental Ditties and Other Verses«:

Harry Graham: The Trucks of Truro. A Ballad for the Boudoir

A writer in Punch declares that the saddest sight he ever saw was a row of dispirited trucks standing in a siding, on each of which was painted the bitter words, »This truck not to go East of Truro.«

When the waters of the Douro
   Flow up-country from the sea;
When these trucks go East of Truro,
   Then my heart will faithless be!
Sparkling like some rich liqueur, oh!
Tender, delicate and pure, oh!
As Bellini's chiaroscuro,
   Is the love that kindles me!
When these trucks go East of Truro,
   Then will I be false to thee!

Though the clerk forget his bureau,
   I will not forgetful be!
Though these trucks go East of Truro,
   Thou shalt not go East of me!
Though each celebrated Euro-
Pean oculist or neuro-
Path, when he effects a cure, o-
   Mit to take his patient's fee!
Though these trucks go East of Truro,
   I will still have truck with thee!

Harry Graham (43)

Das Sonntagsgedicht aus »The Motley Muse«:

Harry Graham: Perspective

[»It is sad and humiliating, but true, that our humanity is a matter
of geography.« — The Pall Mall Gazette.]

When told that twenty thousand Japs
   Are drowned in a typhoon,
We feel a trifle shocked, perhaps,
   But neither faint nor swoon.
»Dear me! How tragic!« we repeat;
   »Ah, well! Such things must be!«
Our ordinary lunch we eat
   And make a hearty tea;
Such loss of life (with shame I write)
Creates no loss of appetite!

When on a Rocky Mountain ranch
   Two hundred souls, all told,
Are buried in an avalanche.
   The tidings leave us cold.
»Poor fellows!« we remark. »Poor things!«
   »All crushed to little bits!«
Then go to Bunty Pulls the Strings,
   Have supper at the Ritz,
And never even think again
Of land-slides in the State of Maine!

But when the paper we take in
   Describes how Mr. Jones
Has slipped on a banana-skin
   And broken sev'ral bones,
»Good Heavens! What a world!« we shout
   »Disasters never cease!«
»What is the Government about?«
   »And where are the Police?«
Distraught by such appalling news
All creature comforts we refuse!

Though plagues exterminate the Lapp,
   And famines ravage Spain,
They move us not like some mishap
   To a suburban train.
Each foreign tale of fire or flood,
   How trumpery it grows
Beside a broken collar-stud,
   A smut upon the nose!
For Charity (Alas! how true!)
Begins At Home — and ends there, too!

Harry Graham (42)

Aus »Baby's Baedeker«:

Harry Graham: Portugal

You are requested, if you please,
   To note that here a people lives
Referred to as the Portuguese;
   A fact which naturally gives
The funny man a good excuse
To call his friend a Portugoose.

Moral:
Avoid the obvious, if you can,
And never be a funny man.

Harry Graham (41)

Heute ein Vierzeiler aus »Ruthless Rhymes for Heartless Homes« + meine Übersetzung:

Harry Graham: Appreciation

Auntie, did you feel no pain
   Falling from that apple tree?
Will you do it, please, again?
   'Cos my friend here didn't see.

-

Würdigung

Tantchen, fühlst du keine Qual
   nach dem Sturz vom Apfelbaum?
Fall doch bitte noch einmal,
   denn mein Freund hier sah es kaum.

Harry Graham (40)

Aus den Anfangstagen des Radios berichtet das folgende Gedicht aus »Adam's Apples« (1930):

Harry Graham: The Home Breaker

There was a time – for ever past! –
   When, as the shades of night descended,
My troubles to the wind I cast
And, freed from worldly cares at last,
   My daily labours ended,
I hied me home, at evening's close,
To sweet repast and calm repose.

Beside the fire I loved to sit,
   Enjoying well-earned peace and solace,
And, as I smoked, my wife would knit,
Or else she'd read aloud a bit
   From Proust or Edgar Wallace,
Or we'd exchange our artless views
Upon the last Divorce-Court news.

Sweet moments (I recall them yet!)
   Before our conjugal estrangement,
Ere that well-meaning friend she met
Who gave my wife a wireless set,
   A portable arrangement,
Has made this home of ours a hell
Where peace and rest can never dwell.

A tireless wireless devotee
   With knitting now upon the floor cast,
My spouse no longer reads to me,
But listens-in to 5GB,
   To Shipping News and Forecast,
To talks on »British Fungi« or
»The Insect Life of Ecuador.«

And though I've caught her complex too,
   It strains our intimate relations,
And bitter quarrels must ensue
When both are trying to »get through«
   To diff'rent wireless stations;
For when I long to listen in
To Aberdeen, she wants Berlin!

In vain I grumble: »Darling, come!
   You make existence double hard if,
Each time I pick up Hilversum,
You move the tuner with your thumb
   And switch me back to Cardiff!
I know that you prefer Dundee,
But there's no place like Rome for me!«

          *          *          *          *

Wife of my bosom, cease to frown;
   If you have smiles to wear, please wear one!
We're still the happiest pair in town!
The battery has just run down,
   And so, as we've no spare one,
We'll read and gossip as of yore,
And home will be a home once more!

Harry Graham (39)

Aus »Deportmental Ditties and Other Verses«:

Harry Graham: The Mombasa Massacre

(Ex-President Roosevelt, who has been shooting big game in South Africa, accompanied by a cinematograph operator, has included two fine giraffes in his bag.)

O Theodore, in days of yore,
   Your courage I admired!
What fame you won, with rod and gun,
   What laurels you acquired!
The grizzly bear, within his lair,
   You bravely would pursue,
And goodness knows what buffaloes
   And other things you slew,
Ere, on the cinematograph,
I saw you slaughter a giraffe!

That kindly beast (alas! deceased!)
   Is harmless as a cat;
It seems a shame you shouldn't aim
   At higher game than that!
Go forth and track the savage yak,
   Go seek the tiger's gore;
Pursue the gnu, the kangaroo,
   The lion and the boar!
Go rob the bison of her calf,
But oh! don't murder the giraffe!

For if, in short, your views of sport
   Such massacres allow,
You'd better stay at home and slay
   The cart-horse and the cow;
Or men will doubt those tales about
   Your sportsmanship and grit,
Who read with gloom, upon your tomb,
   In blood-red letters writ:
»Here Lies – (a fearful epitaph!) –
The Man Who Murdered a Giraffe!«

Harry Graham (38)

Das Eröffnungsgedicht aus einer späteren Ausgabe von »Ruthless Rhymes for Heartless Homes«. Was auch immer P. P. bedeuten mag (und ob es sich wohl um eine tatsächliche, Graham bekannte Person handelte?); mir gefällt der Gedanke, dass es eine heute ungebräuchliche, nicht mehr recherchierbare Abkürzung ist, die sich an jeden Leser richtet:

Harry Graham: Dedicated to P. P.

(»Qui connait son sourire a connu le parfait.«)

I need no Comments of the Press,
No critic's cursory caress,
No paragraphs my book to bless
With praise, or ban with curses,
So long as You, for whom I write,
Whose single notice I invite,
Are still sufficiently polite
To smile upon my verses.

If You should seek for Ruthless Rhymes
(In memory of Western climes),
And, for the sake of olden times,
Obtain this new edition,
You must not be surprised a bit,
Nor even deem the act unfit,
That I have dedicated it
To You, without permission.

And if You chance to ask me why,
It is sufficient, I reply,
That You are You, and I am I,—
To put the matter briefly.
That I should dedicate to You
Can only interest us two;
The fact remains, then, that I do,
Because I want to—chiefly.

And if these verses can beguile
From those grey eyes of yours a smile,
You will have made it well worth while
To seek your approbation;
No further meed
Of praise they need,
But must succeed,
And do indeed,
If they but lead
You on to read
Beyond the Dedication.

Harry Graham (37)

Ein verdrehtes Sprichwort-Gedicht aus "Perverted Proverbs. A Manual of Immorals for the Many" (1903):

Harry Graham: »Learn to Take Things Easily.«

To these few words, it seems to me,  

   A wealth of sound instruction clings;  

O learn to take things easily— 

   Espeshly other people's things;  

And time will make your fingers deft  

At what is known as petty theft.

 

Your precious moments do not waste;  

   Take ev'rything that isn't tied!  

Who knows but you may have a taste,  

   A gift perhaps, for homicide,—  

(A mania which, encouraged, thrives 

On taking other people's lives).

 

»Fools and Their Money soon must part!«

   And you can help this on, may be, 

 If, in the kindness of your heart,  

   You learn to take things easily; 

And be, with little education,  

A prince of misappropriation.

Harry Graham (36)

Ein Gedicht passend zur Ferienzeit aus »Rhymes For Riper Years« (1917):

Harry Graham: Slush

Describing the scene at a railway station when schoolboys return home for the holidays, the Daily Mail says: »One small boy there was who had no mother to meet him. He stood, a lonely figure, till a big chauffeur came up and touched his cap... He would rather have had a mother than a motor to meet him. You could read that in his pathetic little eyes.«

Dowered with the wealth of Ophir,
   Reared on costly caviare,
Driven by a foreign chauffeur
   In a spacious Siddeley car,
Luckless little Thompson minor
   Would have paid a handsome cheque
For a mother to entwine her
   Loving arms about his neck!
Though the motor's speed is greater,
Thompson much prefers »the mater!«

Long ago, with eyes all shiny,
   She had asked, in tender tone:
»Would you like a little tiny
   Baby-sister of your own?«
Now it stung him like a blister
   That he'd answered: »I should like,
Not a tiny baby-sister,
   But a full-sized motor-bike!«
That was why no fair relation
Welcomed Thompson at the station!

Other fellows had a mother;
   Sisters met them at the train.
As he watched them kiss each other,
   Thompson's heart was racked with pain.
Not a single fond, devoted
   Female waited for him there,
And with bitterness he quoted:
   »Can a motor's tender care...?«
(This, you must admit, was crim'nal;
Boys should never quote the Hymnal.)

See, his friends, in cabs and taxis,
   Hold maternal fingers tight,
While poor Thompson minor waxes
   Sad and sadder at the sight!
For although, perhaps, he'd rather,
   At the hour of his return,
Have a motor than a father
   (Fathers can be harsh and stern!);
Can he hope his sobs to smother,
With a motor for a mother?

Harry Graham (35)

Ein Gedicht aus »Ruthless Rhymes for Heartless Homes« (1902) über die kindliche Freude an Brennnesseln und Disteln:

Harry Graham: Inconsiderate Hannah

Naughty little Hannah said
   She could make her Grandma whistle,
So, that night, inside her bed
   Placed some nettles and a thistle.

Though dear Grandma quite infirm is,
   Heartless Hannah watched her settle,
With her poor old epidermis
   Resting up against a nettle.

Suddenly she reached the thistle!
My! you should have heard her whistle!
       *       *       *
A successful plan was Hannah's,
But I cannot praise her manners.

Harry Graham (34)

Das Sonntagsgedicht über einen uns bereits flüchtig bekannten Hund aus »The Motley Muse«:

Harry Graham: A Plea for Ponto

[Sir Frederick Banbury moved in the House of Commons:— »That in the opinion of this House no operation for the purpose of vivisection should be performed upon dogs.«]

When you're studying the habits
   Of the germ of German measles,
      When you're searching out a cure for indigestion,
You may practise upon rabbits,
   Upon guinea-pigs, or weasels,
      If you think that they throw light upon the question;
You may note how bad the bite is
Of the microbe of bronchitis,
   By performing operations upon frogs,
But I've yet to hear the mention
Of a surgical invention
   That can justify experiments on dogs.

I would sooner people perished
   Of lumbago or swine-fever
      (Or, at any rate, I'd rather they should chance it!)
Than that any hound I cherished
   From a »pom« to a retriever,
      Should be subject to the vivisector's lancet.
I know nought of theoretics,
But in spite of anæsthetics
   —Ether, chloroform or other soothing drug—
(Though perhaps I argue wrongly)
I should disapprove most strongly,
   If I found a person puncturing my pug!

If we wish to make a bee-line
   For the chicken-pox bacillus,
      From the hen-house there is nothing to debar us;
We may learn from creatures feline
   What the causes are that kill us
      When we suffer from infirmities catarrhous!
But when dogs' insides we study,
Then our hands and hearts grow bloody,
   And we needn't be a crank or partisan
To display a strong objection
To the so-called vivisection
   Of that animal we style the Friend of Man!

Harry Graham (33)

Aus aktuellem Anlass ein zugegebenermaßen nicht allzu aktuelles Gedicht: Einige erläuternde Strophen zu Großbritannien aus »Baby's Baedeker« (1902):

Harry Graham: Great Britain

The British are a chilly race. 

   The Englishman is thin and tall;  

He screws an eyeglass in his face,  

   And talks with a reluctant drawl. 

›Good Gwacious! This is doosid slow!  

By Jove! Haw demmy! Don't-cher-know!‹

 

The Englishwoman ev'rywhere  

   A meed of admiration wins; 

She has a crown of silken hair,  

   And quite the loveliest of skins. 

(Go forth and seek an English maid,  

Your trouble will be well repaid.)

 

Where Britain's banner is unfurled  

   There's room for nothing else beside,  

She owns one-quarter of the world,  

   And still she is not satisfied.  

The Briton thinks himself, by birth,  

To be the lord of all the earth.

 

Some call his manners wanting, or  

   His sense of humour poor, and yet  

Whatever he is striving for 

   He as a rule contrives to get;  

His methods may be much to blame,  

But he arrives there just the same.

 

MORAL

If you can get your wish, you bet it  
Doesn't much matter how you get it!