166
THE SWORD OF SONG
The philo-
sophical im-
passe. Practi-
cal advice.
Advice to poet's
fat friend.
He taught me A, he taught me’B,
He stopped my baccy ¥ and my tea.
He taught me Y, he taught me Z,
He made strange noises in my head.
He taught me that, he taught me this,
He spoke of knowledge, life, and bliss.
He taught me this, he taught me that,
He grew me mangoes in his hat.!8
I brought him corn: he made good grist of it :—
And here, my Christian friend, ’s the gist of it !
First, here’s philosophy’s despair,
The cynic scorn of self. I think
At times the search is worth no worry,
And hasten earthward in a hurry,
Close spirit’s eyes, or bid them blink,
Go back to Swinburne’s counsel rare,
Kissing the universe its rod,
As thus he sings “ For this 1s God ;
Be man with might, at any rate,
In strength of spirit growing straight
And life as light a-living out !”
So Swinburne doth sublimely state,
And he is right beyond a doubt.
So, ’'m a poet or a rhymer ;
A mountaineer or mountain climber.
So much for Crowley’s vital primer.
The inward life of soul and heart,
That is a thing occult, apart : -
But yet his metier or his kismet
As much as these you have of his met.
So—you be butcher ; you be baker ;
You, Plymouth Brother, and you, Quaker;
You, Mountebank, you, corset-maker :—
While for you, my big beauty,” (Chicago packs pork)
Pll teach you the trick to be hen-of-the-walk.
Shriek a music-hall song with a double ong-tong !
Dance a sprightly can-can at Paree
or Bolong !
Or the dance of Algiers—try your stomach at that!
It’s quite in your line, and would bring down your fat.
You’ve a very fine voice—could you only control it !
And an emerald ring—and I know where you stole it !
But for goodness sake give up attempting Briinnhilde ;.
Try a boarding-house cook, or a coster’s Matilda!
80
86
95
100
105
110