A sigh sent wrong, A kiss that goes astray, A sorrow the years endlong— So they say.

So let it be— Come the sorrow, the kiss, the sigh! They are life, dear life, all three, And we die.

Worthing, 1899-1901.

Worthing

p. 73LONDON TYPES

p. 73

(To S. S. P.)

I. BUS-DRIVER

He’s called The General from the brazen craft And dash with which he sneaks a bit of road And all its fares; challenged, or chafed, or chaffed, Back-answers of the newest he’ll explode; He reins his horses with an air; he treats With scoffing calm whatever powers there be; He gets it straight, puts a bit on, and meets His losses with both lip and £ s. d.; He arrogates a special taste in short; Is loftily grateful for a flagrant smoke; At all the smarter housemaids winks his court, And taps them for half-crowns; being stoney-broke, Lives lustily; is ever on the make; And hath, I fear, none other gods but Fake.

p. 74II. LIFE-GUARDSMAN

p. 74

Joy of the Milliner, Envy of the Line, Star of the Parks, jack-booted, sworded, helmed, He sits between his holsters, solid of spine; Nor, as it seems, though Westminster were whelmed, With the great globe, in earthquake and eclipse, Would he and his charger cease from mounting guard, This Private in the Blues, nor would his lips Move, though his gorge with throttled oaths were charred! He wears his inches weightily, as he wears His old-world armours; and with his port and pride, His sturdy graces and enormous airs, He towers, in speech his Colonel countrified, A triumph, waxing statelier year by year, Of British blood, and bone, and beef, and beer.

Westminster

p. 75III. HAWKER

p. 75

Far out of bounds he’s figured—in a race Of West-End traffic pitching to his loss. But if you’d see him in his proper place, Making the browns for bub and grub and doss, Go East among the merchants and their men, And where the press 

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