THE briny tears unbidden start,
At mention of my hero's name!
Was ever set so huge a heart
Within so small a frame?
So much of tenderness and grace
Confined in such a slender space?

(O tiniest of tiny men!
So wise, so whimsical, so witty!
Whose magic little fairy-pen
Is steeped in human pity;
Whose humour plays so quaint a tune,
From Peter Pan to Pantaloon!)

So wide a sympathy has he,
Such kindliness without an end,
That children clamber on his knee,
And claim him as a friend;
They somehow know he understands,
And doesn't mind their sticky hands.

And so they swarm about his neck,
With energy that nothing wearies,
Assured that he will never check
Their ceaseless flow of queries,
And grateful, with a warm affection,
For his avuncular protection.

And when his watch he opens wide,
Or beats them all at blowing bubbles,
They tell him how the dormouse died,
And all their tiny troubles;
And drag him, if he seems deprest,
To see the baby squirrel's nest.

For hidden treasure he can dig,
Pursue the Indians in the wood,
Feed the prolific guinea-pig
With inappropriate food;
Do all the things that mattered so
In happy days of long ago.

All this he can achieve, and more!
For, 'neath the magic of his brain,
The young are younger than before,
The old grow young again,
To dream of Beauty and of Truth
For hearts that win eternal youth.

Fat apoplectic men I know,
With well-developed Little Marys,
Look almost human when they show
Their faith in Barrie's fairies;
Their blank lethargic faces lighten
In admiration of his Crichton.

To lovers who, with fingers cold,
Attempt to fan some dying ember,
He brings the happy days of old,
And bids their hearts remember;
Recalling in romantic fashion
The tenderness of earlier passion.

And modern matrons who can find
So little leisure for the Nurs'ry,
Whose interest in babykind
Is eminently curs'ry,
New views on Motherhood acquire
From Alice-sitting-by-the-Fire!

While men of every sort and kind,
At times of sunshine or of trouble,
In Sentimental Tommy find
Their own amazing double;
To each in turn the mem'ry comes
Of some belov'd forgotten Thrums.

To Barrie's literary art
That strong poetic sense is clinging
Which hears, in ev'ry human heart,
A "late lark" faintly singing,
A bird that bears upon its wing
The promise of perpetual Spring.

Materialists may labour much
At problems for the modern stage;
His simpler methods reach and touch
The Young of ev'ry age;
And first and second childhood meet
On common ground at Barrie's feet!

Omar Khayyam

THOUGH many a great Philosopher
Has earned the Epicure's diploma,
Not one of them, as I aver,
So much deserved the prize as Omar;
For he, without the least misgiving,
Combined High Thinking and High Living.

He lived in Persia, long ago,
Upon a somewhat slender pittance;
And Persia is, as you may know,
The home of Shahs and fubsy kittens,
(A quite consistent habitat,
Since "Shah," of course, is French for "cat.")

He lived – as I was saying, when
You interrupted, impolitely —
Not loosely, like his fellow-men,
But, vicê versâ, rather tightly;
And drank his share, so runs the story,
And other people's, con amore.

A great Astronomer, no doubt,
He often found some Constellation
Which others could not see without
Profuse internal irrigation;
And snakes he saw, and crimson mice,
Until his colleagues rang for ice.

Omar, who owned a length of throat
As dry as the proverbial "drummer,"
And quite believed that (let me quote)
"One swallow does not make a summer,"
Supplied a model to society
Of frank, persistent insobriety.

* * * * *

Ah, fill the cup with nectar sweet,
Until, when indisposed for more,
Your puzzled, inadhesive feet
Elude the smooth revolving floor.
What matter doubts, despair or sorrow?
To-day is Yesterday To-morrow!

Oblivion in the bottle win,
Let finger-bowls with vodka foam,
And seek the Open Port within
Some dignified Inebriates' Home;
Assuming there, with kingly air,
A crown of vine-leaves in your hair!

A book of verse (my own, for choice),
A slice of cake, some ice-cream soda,
A lady with a tuneful voice,
Beside me in some dim pagoda!
A cellar – if I had the key, —
Would be a Paradise to me!

In cosy seat, with lots to eat,
And bottles of Lafitte to fracture
(And, by-the-bye, the word La-feet
Recalls the mode of manufacture) —
I contemplate, at easy distance,
The troublous problems of existence.

For even if it could be mine
To change Creation's partial scheme,
To mould it to a fresh design,
More nearly that of which I dream,
Most probably, my weak endeavour
Would make more mess of it than ever!

So let us stock our cellar shelves
With balm to lubricate the throttle;
For "Heav'n helps those who help themselves,"
So help yourself, and pass the bottle!

…

What! Would you quarrel with my moral?
(Waiter! Leshavanotherborrel!)

Andrew Carnegie

IN Caledonia, stern and wild,
Whence scholars, statesmen, bards have sprung,
Where ev'ry little barefoot child
Correctly lisps his mother-tongue,
And lingual solecisms betoken
That Scotch is drunk, as well as spoken,

There dwells a man of iron nerve,
A millionaire without a peer,
Possessing that supreme reserve
Which stamps the caste of Vere de Vere,
And marks him out to human ken
As one of Nature's noblemen.

Like other self-made persons, he
Is surely much to be excused,
Since they have had no choice, you see,
Of the material to be used;
But when his noiseless fabric grew,
He builded better than he knew.

A democrat, whose views are frank,
To him Success alone is vital;
He deems the wealthy cabman's "rank"
As good as any other title;
To him the post of postman betters
The trade of other Men of Letters.

The relative who seeks to wed
Some nice but indigent patrician,
He urges to select instead
A coachman of assured position,
Since safety-matches, you'll agree,
Strike only on the box, says he.

At Skibo Castle, by the sea,
A splendid palace he has built,
Equipped with all the luxury
Of plush, of looking-glass, and gilt;
A style which Ruskin much enjoyed,
And christened "Early German Lloyd."

With milking-stools and ribbon'd screens
The floor is covered, well I know;
The walls are thick with tambourines,
Hand-painted many years ago;
Ah, how much taste our forbears had!
And nearly all of it was bad.

Each flow'r-embroidered boudoir suite,
Each "cosy corner" set apart,
Was modelled in the Regent Street
Emporium of suburban art.
"O Liberty!" (I quote with shame)
"The crimes committed in thy name!"

But tho' his mansion now contains
A swimming-bath, a barrel-organ,
Electric light, and even drains,
As good as those of Mr. Morgan,
There was a time when Andrew C.
Was not obsessed by l. s. d.

Across the seas he made his pile,
In Pittsburg, where, I've understood,
You have to exercise some guile
To do the very slightest good;
But he kept doing good by stealth,
And doubtless blushed to find it wealth.

And now his private hobby 'tis
To meet a starving people's need
By making gifts of libraries
To those who never learnt to read;
Rich mental banquets he provides
For folks with famishing insides.

In Education's hallowed name
He pours his opulent libations;
His vast deserted Halls of Fame
Increase the gaiety of nations.
But still the slums are plague-infested,
The hospitals remain congested.

…

Carnegie, should your kindly eye
This foolish book of verses meet,
Please order an immense supply,
To make your libraries complete,
And register its author's name
Within your princely Halls of Fame!