Excerpt
"SOME DAY!"
(Latest Egyptian Version of Milton Welling's popular Song.)
Mr. Bull to Miss Egypt, sings:—
I know not when the day shall be,
I know not when we two shall part;
What farewell you will give to me,
Or will your words be sweet or tart?
It may not be till years have passed,
Till France grows calm, young Abbas grey;
But I am pledged—so, love, at last,
Our hands, our hearts must part—some day!
Some day, some day,
Some day I shall leave you!
Love, I know not when or how,
(So I can but vaguely vow)
Only this, only this,
(Which I trust won't grieve you),
Only this—I can't go now, I can't go now, I can't go Now!
I know not if 'tis far or near,
Some six months' hence, while we both live;
I know not who the blame shall bear,
Or who protest, or who forgive;
But when we part, some day, some day,
France, fairer grown, the truth may see,
And all those clouds be rolled away
That darken love 'twixt her and me.
Some day, some day,
Some day I must leave you!
Lawks! I know not when or how,
(Though the Powers kick up a row),
Only this, only this,
(Which I won't deceive you),
Only this—I can't go now, I shan't go now, I won't go Now!
IS SCIENCE PLAYED OUT?
["In a grain of butter you have 47,250,000 microbes. When you eat a slice of bread-and-butter, you therefore must swallow as many microbes as there are people in Europe."—"Science Notes" in Daily Chronicle.]
Charlotte, eating bread-and-butter,
Read this Note with horror utter,
And (assisted by the cutter)
Went on eating bread-and-butter!
Man will say—with due apology
To alarmed Bacteriology—
Spite of menacing bacilli,
Man must eat, friend, willy-nilly!
And where shall he find due foison
If e'en bread-and-butter's poison?
Science told our amorous Misses
Death may be conveyed in kisses;
But it did not keep the nation
From promiscuous osculation.
Now it warneth the "Young Person"
(Whom Grant Allen voids his curse on)
"Bread-and-butter Misses" even
In their food may find death's leaven!
Never mind how this is made out!
Science—as a Bogey's—played out.
Spite all warnings it may utter,
Women will have Bread-and-Butter!
OUT OF WORK.
(After reading "Outcast London" by the Daily Chronicle's Special Commissioner at the East End.)
Divines inform us that the Primal Curse
On poor humanity was Compulsory Work;
But Civilisation has devised a worse,
Which even Christian effort seems to shirk.
The Worker's woes love may assuage. Ah, yes!
But what shall help Compulsory Worklessness?
Not Faith—Hope—Charity even! All the Graces
Are helpless, without Wisdom in high places.
Though liberal alms relieve the kindly soul,
You can't cure destitution by a dole.
No, these are days when men must dare to try
What a Duke calls—Argyll the high-and-dry—
"The Unseen Foundations of Society";
And not, like wealthy big-wigs, be content
With smart attacks on "Theories of Rent."
Most theories of rent we know, the fact is
What we have doubts about, Duke, is—the practice!
When Rent in Power's hands becomes a rack
To torture Toil, bold wisdom will hark back
To the beginnings and the bases; ask
What hides beneath that Economic mask
Which smiles unmoved by Sorrow's strain and stress
On half-starved Work and whole-starved Worklessness!
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