Punch/Volume 147/Issue 3813/Cocoanuts
(A Bank Holiday Idyll.)
Sing me, I said, O Muse, and sound the trump
For him not least among our noble tars
Who first on tropic isle was made to jump
By reason of a pericranial thump
And prospect of a galaxy of stars,
And there in green retreat by coral chained
Beheld the vision of the fibrous nut,
And drank the nectar that its shell contained,
And knew the goal accomplished and disdained
The nasty skin-wound on his occiput.
He did not see the feathered palm-trees wave:
He did not see the beckoning yams beneath;
The turtle moaning for its soupy grave,
The sound of oysters asking for a shave
He heard not—he was back on Hampstead Heath.
For him no more the ocean seemed to croon
Its endless legend to the listless sands;
He walked abroad upon an English noon,
And "Ah!" he murmured, "what a heavenly boon
To rehabilitate our cock-shy stands!
"In vain Aunt Sarah with her spinster vows
Entreats the Cockney sport to try-his skill;
Her charms are languishing, but nuts shall rouse
To sterner combats and with damper brows
For 'Arriet's kindly glances 'Erls and Bill.
"And ah, the little ones! With how much glee
Their eyes shall gaze upon the oily fruit!
I shall behold them scamper o'er the lea,
Their warm young lips, in part from ecstasy.
In part from palatable nut-meat, mute.""
Such was the man, I said, and praised the worth
Of all who make the cocoanut their ploy;
And thought, "I too will have a round of mirth,"
And threw—and brought one hairy globe to earth,
And, turning round, beheld a ragged boy.
So smirched he was, so pitiful a lad
That when I saw the teardrop in his eye
I gave the nut to him. It made him glad;
He took it proudly off to show his dad—
His dad was the conductor of the shy.