We have members in full measure:
Men of business and of pleasure,
Who in quiet hours of leisure
Court the Muse.
Some are big men in the city,
Yet can write you poems pretty,
Or a sweet decadent ditty,
When they choose.
And our Chairman is a German;
He's a firm man and a fair man,
And to quell a row a rare man --
Six feet tall.
When he brings down his small hammer
There is then an end to clamour --
Once for all.
Lord! 'Tis good to see their capers --
Bankers, brewers, wholesale drapers,
And proprietors of papers
(Keep it dark!)
Who, o'er pen-names, write spring verses,
Which their Editors, with curses,
Chuck into their wicker hearse --
What a lark!
And they do not write their stellar
Compositions in a cellar,
But each bard and story-teller
Sits down square
By a bottle of best claret,
And cigars of nineteen carat --
Which you don't get in a garret,
I can swear.
From a banker up in Warwick
We've an epic allegoric,
Full of color and caloric
Upon Loans;
And an ode lies on our table
On the subject of the cable
Written by an author able --
Name of Jones.
Yes, our club holds up its head -- there
Are some very fine things read there,
And fine literature bred there --
Words that burn,
And no editors shall get them,
Though the want of them should fret them,
If they pine and sicken -- let them --
It's their turn.
First published in The Bulletin, 16 September 1909
[Note: part 1 of this poem was posted last week.]
