Verse and Worse

Abroad is where we tourists spend,

In divers unalluring ways,

The brief occasional week-end,

Or annual Easter holidays;

And earn the (not ill-founded) charge

Of being lunatics at large.

Abroad, we lose our self-respect;

Wear whiskers; let our teeth protrude;

Consider any garb correct,

And no display of temper rude;

Descending, when we cross the foam,

To depths we dare not plumb at home.

(Small wonder that the natives gaze,

With hostile eyes, at foreign freaks,

Who patronise their Passion-plays,

In lemon-coloured chessboard breeks;

An op'ra-glass about each neck,

And on each head a cap of check.)

Abroad, where needy younger sons,

When void the parent's treasure-chest,

Take refuge from insistent duns,

At urgent relatives' request;

To live upon their slender wits,

Or sums some maiden-aunt remits.

Abroad, whence (with a wisdom rare)

Regardless of nostalgic pains,

The weary New York millionaire

Retires with his oil-gotten gains,

And learns how deep a pleasure 'tis

To found our Public Libraries.

For ours is the primeval clan,

From which all lesser lights descend;

Is Crockett not our countryman?

And call we not Corelli friend?

Our brotherhood has bred the brain

Whose offspring bear the brand of Caine.

Tho' nowadays we seldom hear

Miss Proctor, who mislaid a chord,

Or Tennyson, the poet peer,

Who came into the garden, Mord;

Tho' Burns be dead, and Keats unread,

We have a prophet still in Stead.

And so we stare, with nose in air;

And speak in condescending tone,

Of foreigners whose climes compare

So favourably with our own;

And aliens we cannot applaud

Who call themselves At Home Abroad!

This is the Country of the Free,

The Cocktail and the Ten Cent Chew;

Where you're as good a man as me,

And I'm a better man than you!

(O Liberty, how free we make!

Freedom, what liberties we take!)

'Tis here the startled tourist meets,

'Mid clanging of a thousand bells,

The railways running through the streets,

Skyscraping flats and vast hotels,

Where rest, on the resplendent floors,

The necessary cuspidors.

And here you may encounter too

The pauper immigrants in shoals,

The Swede, the German, and the Jew,

The Irishman, who rules the polls

And is employed to keep the peace,

A venal and corrupt police.

They are so busy here, you know,

They have no time at all for play;

Each morning to their work they go

And stay there all the livelong day;

Their dreams of happiness depend

On making more than they can spend.

The ladies of this land are all

Developed to a pitch sublime,

Some inches over six foot tall,

With perfect figures all the time.

(For further notice of their looks

See Mr. Dana Gibson's books.)

And, if they happen to possess

Sufficient balance at the bank,

They have the chance of saying 'Yes!'

To needy foreigners of rank;

The future dukes of all the earth

Are half American by birth.

MORAL

A 'dot' combining cash with charms

Is worth a thousand coats-of-arms.

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!