VI.

(P.S. by Lord Macaulay).

Then let us bless Our Gracious Queen and eke the Fire Brigade,
And bless no less the horrid mess they’ve been and gone
and made;
Remove the dirt they chose to squirt upon our best attire,
Bless all, but most the lucky chance that no one
shouted ‘Fire!’

DE TEA FABULA.

Plain Language from truthful James[1].

Do I sleep?  Do I dream? 
Am I hoaxed by a scout? 
Are things what they seem,
Or is Sophists about? 
Is our “to ti en einai” a failure, or is Robert Browning played
out?

     Which expressions like these
        May be fairly applied
     By a party who sees
        A Society skied
     Upon tea that the Warden of Keble had biled with legitimate
       pride.

    ’Twas November the third,
        And I says to Bill Nye,
    ’Which it’s true what I’ve heard: 
        If you’re, so to speak, fly,
     There’s a chance of some tea and cheap culture, the sort
       recommended as High.’

     Which I mentioned its name,
        And he ups and remarks: 
    ’If dress-coats is the game
        And pow-wow in the Parks,
     Then I ’m nuts on Sordello and Hohenstiel-Schwangau and similar
       Snarks.’

     Now the pride of Bill Nye
        Cannot well be express’d;
     For he wore a white tie
        And a cut-away vest: 
     Says I, ’Solomon’s lilies ain’t in it, and they was reputed well
       dress’d.’

     But not far did we wend,
        When we saw Pippa pass
     On the arm of a friend
      —­Doctor Furnivall ’twas,
     And he wore in his hat two half-tickets for London, return,
       second-class.

    ‘Well,’ I thought, ‘this is odd.’ 
        But we came pretty quick
     To a sort of a quad
        That was all of red brick,
     And I says to the porter,—­’R.  Browning:  free passes; and kindly
       look slick.’

     But says he, dripping tears
        In his check handkerchief,
    ’That symposium’s career’s
        Been regrettably brief,
     For it went all its pile upon crumpets and busted on
       gunpowder-leaf!’

     Then we tucked up the sleeves
        Of our shirts (that were biled),
     Which the reader perceives
        That our feelings were riled,
     And we went for that man till his mother had doubted the traits
       of her child.

     Which emotions like these
        Must be freely indulged
     By a party who sees
        A Society bulged
     On a reef the existence of which its prospectus had never
       divulged.

     But I ask,—­Do I dream?
       Has it gone up the spout? 
     Are things what they seem,
        Or is Sophists about? 
     Is our “to ti en einai” a failure, or is Robert Browning played
       out?