To The Stock Exchange

    (On its Centenary)

    My dear Stock Exchange, -
    I am given to understand
    That to-day you are a hundred years old,
    And that to-day therefore
    You will celebrate
    What nine men out of every ten of you
    Call your "Centeenary"
    By taking a whole holiday instead of a half one.
    It would be easy for me, my dear Stock Exchange,
    To present you
    With a sort of illuminated address on this occasion;
    But I refrain.
    One short year ago
    I tumbled into a little money;
    It was "not enough to live upon,"
    But it was a nice sum.
    A man introduced me to a member of the Stock Exchange,
    The member of the Stock Exchange introduced me to a little game of "in and out,"
    And my five hundred pounds folded its tents like the Arabs -
    That is to say, it silently stole away.
    It was not the member of the Stock Exchange's fault;
    Certainly it was not my fault;
    And I will not say that it was the fault of the Stock Exchange.
    But I am not giving the Stock Exchange
    Any illuminated addresses
    At present.
    On the other hand, let me assure you
    That I believe the Stock Exchange
    To be a highly respectable,
    Honourable,
    And useful institution.
    It leaves the court without a stain upon its character.
    I say these latter things advisedly,
    Because some time back
    A friend of mine who writes articles on food supply
    Having delivered himself of the opinion
    That London's milk was largely water,
    Was sued for slander
    By the Amalgamated Society of Dairymen's Daughters,
    And had to climb down and apologise.
    So that on the whole I repeat that, in my humble opinion,
    If you want to find
    Really sound, white men,
    Men of spotless character and impregnable probity,
    You cannot do better
    Than wend your way to Gorgonzola Hall.
    And joking apart, my dear Stock Exchange,
    You really are a blessing.
    If it were not for you
    People with a lot of money,
    And people with only a little,
    Would simply not lose it.
    It would lie in banks and old stockings and kindred receptacles
    Till it went mouldy.
    You keep things going.
    You are the heart of the monetary world,
    You pump in the gold,
    You pump out all that you don't happen to want.
    And you go and live in Maida Vale,
    Keep a butler,
    Drive two horses,
    And change your name from Manassah to Howard.
    This "Centeenary" holiday of yours
    Gives me much pause.
    Supposing, instead of taking a day,
    You were to take a year,
    What would happen to England?
    SHE - WOULD - BE - RUINED!
    Yeth, indeed.