Touchstone On A Bus

Last night I rode with Touchstone on a bus
From Ludgate Hill to World's End. It was he!
Despite the broadcloth and the bowler hat,
I knew him, Touchstone, the wild flower of folly,
The whetstone of his age, the scourge of kings,
The madcap morning star of elfin-land,
Who used to wrap his legs around his neck
For warmth on winter nights. He had slipped back,
To see what men were doing in a world
That should be wiser. He had watched a play,
Read several books, heard men discourse of art
And life; and he sat bubbling like a spring
In Arden. Never did blackbird, drenched with may,
Chuckle as Touchstone chuckled on that ride.
Lord, what a world! Lord, what a mad, mad world!
Then, to the jolt and jingle of the engine,
He burst into this bunch of madcap rhymes:--




THE NEW DUCKLING


I

THE NEW DUCKLING

"I want to be new," said the duckling.
    "O, ho!" said the wise old owl,
While the guinea-hen cluttered off chuckling
    To tell all the rest of the fowl.

"I should like a more elegant figure,"
    That child of a duck went on.
"I should like to grow bigger and bigger,
    Until I could swallow a swan.

"I won't be the bond slave of habit,
    I won't have these webs on my toes.
I want to run round like a rabbit,
    A rabbit as red as a rose.

"I don't want to waddle like mother,
    Or quack like my silly old dad.
I want to be utterly other,
    And frightfully modern and mad."

"Do you know," said the turkey, "you're quacking!
    There's a fox creeping up thro' the rye;
And, if you're not utterly lacking,
    You'll make for that duck-pond. Good-bye!"

"I won't," said the duckling. "I'll lift him
    A beautiful song, like a sheep;
And when I have--as it were--biffed him,
    I'll give him my feathers to keep."

Now the curious end of this fable,
    So far as the rest ascertained,
Though they searched from the barn to the stable,
    Was that only his feathers remained.

So he wasn't the bond slave of habit,
    And he didn't have webs on his toes;
And perhaps he runs round like a rabbit,
    A rabbit as red as a rose.


II

THE MAN WHO DISCOVERED THE USE OF A CHAIR

The man who discovered the use of a chair,
    Odds--bobs--
        What a wonderful man!
He used to sit down on it, tearing his hair,
    Till he thought of a highly original plan.
For years he had sat on his chair, like you,
    Quite--still!
        But his looks were grim
For he wished to be famous (as great men do)
    And nobody ever would listen to him.

Now he went one night to a dinner of state
    Hear! hear!
        In the proud Guildhall!
And he sat on his chair, and he ate from a plate;
    But nobody heard his opinions at all;

There were ten fat aldermen down for a speech
    (Grouse! Grouse!
        What a dreary bird!)
With five fair minutes allotted to each,
    But never a moment for him to be heard.

But, each being ready to talk, I suppose,
    Order! Order!
        They cried, for the Chair!
And, much to their wonder, our friend arose
    And fastened his eye on the eye of the Mayor.

"We have come," he said, "to the fourteenth course!
    "High--time,
        for the Chair," he said.
Then, with both of his hands, and with all of his force,
    He hurled his chair at the Lord Mayor's head.

It missed that head by the width of a hair.
    Gee--whizz!
        What a horrible squeak!
But it crashed through the big bay-window there
    And smashed a bus into Wednesday week.

And the very next day, in the decorous Times
    (Great--Guns--
        How the headlines ran!)
In spite of the kings and the wars and the crimes,
    There were five full columns about that man.


ENVOI

Oh, if you get dizzy when authors write
    (My stars!
        And you very well may!)
That white is black and that black is white,
    You should sit, quite still, in your chair and say:

It is easy enough to be famous now,
    (Puff--Puff!
        How the trumpets blare!)
Provided, of course, that you don't care how,
    Like the man who discovered the use of a chair.


III

COTTON-WOOL

Shun the brush and shun the pen,
Shun the ways of clever men,
When they prove that black is white,
Whey they swear that wrong is right,
When they roast the singing stars
Like chestnuts, in between the bars,
    Children, let a wandering fool
    Stuff your ears with cotton-wool.

When you see a clever man
Run as quickly as you can.
You must never, never, never
Think that Socrates was clever.
The cleverest thing I ever knew
Now cracks walnuts at the Zoo.
    Children, let a wandering fool
    Stuff your ears with cotton-wool.

Homer could not scintillate.
Milton, too, was merely great.
That's a very different matter
From talking like a frantic hatter.
Keats and Shelley had no tricks.
Wordsworth never climbed up sticks.
    Children, let a wandering fool
    Stuff your ears with cotton-wool.

Lincoln would create a gloom
In many a London drawing-room;
He'd be silent at their wit,
He would never laugh at it.
When they kissed Salome's toes,
I think he'd snort and blow his nose.
    Children, let a wandering fool
    Stuff your ears with cotton-wool.

They'd curse him for a silly clown,
They'd drum him out of London town.
Professor Flunkey, the historian,
Would say he was a dull Victorian.
Matthew, Mark, and Luke and John,
Bless the bed I rest upon.
    Children, let a wandering fool
    Stuff your ears with cotton-wool.
            Amen.


IV

FASHIONS

Fashion on fashion on fashion,
    (With only the truth growing old!)
And here's the new purple of passion,
    (And love waiting out in the cold)
            Who'll buy?

They are crying new lamps for Aladdin,
    New worlds for the old and the true;
And no one remembers the story
    The magic was not in the new.

They are crying a new rose for Eden,
    A rose of green glass. I suppose
The only thing wrong with their rose is
    The fact that it isn't a rose.
            Who'll buy?

And here is a song without metre;
    And, here again, nothing is wrong;
(For nothing on earth could be neater)
    Except that--it isn't a song.

Well. Walk on your hands. It's the latest!
    And feet are Victorian now;
And even our best and our greatest
    Before that dread epithet bow.
            Who'll buy?

The furniture goes for a song, now.
    The sixties had horrible taste.
But the trouble is this--they've included
    Some better things, too, in their haste.

Were they wrapped in the antimacassars,
    Or sunk in a sofa of plush?
Did an Angelican bishop forget them,
    And leave them behind in the crush?
            Who'll buy?

Here's a turnex. It's going quite cheaply.
    (It lived with stuffed birds in the hall!
And, of course, to a mind that thinks deeply
    That settles it, once and for all.)

Here's item, a ring (very plain, sirs!),
    And item, a God (but He's dead!);
They say we shall need Him again, sirs,
    So--item, a cross for His head.
            Who'll buy?

Yes, you'll need it again, though He's dead, sirs.
    It is only the fashions that fly.
So here are the thorns for His head, sirs.
    They'll keep till you need 'em. Who'll buy?