Page:Punch Vol 148.djvu/44

Punch's Almanack for 1915.

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Officer (to Tommy, who is having his hair cut with horse-clippers). "Does it hurt much?"

Tommy. "Not much, Sir, only when 'is foot slips and 'e 'angs on to me by the machine."

 

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TO POESY—FOR THIS CHRISTMAS.

O Poesy, them chaste and heavenly maid,
 Whom all right-minded persons call divine,
How long, how long is it since I essayed
   Aught in thy line;

Since last I wooed thee, wooed thee as a queen,
 And thou didst not unswervingly say "No"?
On rough estimate, it must have besn
   Some months ago.

I had a temple sacred to thy name,
 A quiet shrine, where never sound could steal,
Wherein I fanned the favourable flame
   And did a deal.

Then, as from flower to flower the deep bees sup,
 I lit on themes of general bounteousness,
And, at a pinch, could always pick one up
   Out of the Press;

And sat aloof, and plied my gentle role,
 And, if afflicted by a sudden blight,
In soft communion with some poet-soul
   Got myself right.

Now, now, alas! that time has passed away;
 The Huns have hoch-ed, the Huns are hoch-ing yet;
A stranger occupies the shrine to-day
   (My flat is let).

The measures and the motives that I sang,
 And hoped to go on singing, are decayed;
Nor do the folk about me give a hang
   For thee, sweet maid.

That they have hearts attuned to warrior feats
 And high emprise, I cheerfully admit ;
But I believe that, if I spoke of Keats,
   They'd have a fit.

And men are round me who, with cries of brass,
 Would drag me down if I essayed to climb;
All, all is changed, and as a rule, alas!
   I haven't time.

So if, at this frail hour of hollow cheer,
 I still attempt the seasonable strain,
'Tis but to notify the fact that "Here
   We are again."
Dum-dum.

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