there be peace and plenty, A pocket full of money, And a barrel full of beer, And all other good things, Including a free and enlightened Press, And a strong demand For seasonable poetry. My dear Next Christmas, Here is my hand, With my heart in it. Till we meet again— As Mr. Hall Caine says— Addio. 

 

 

   TO THE TRIPPER 

 My dear Sir, or Madam,— When James Watt, Or some such person, Had the luck To see a kettle boil, He little dreamed That he was discovering you, Otherwise he would have let his kettle boil For a million million years Without saying anything about it. However, James Watt Omitted to take cognisance of the ultimate trouble, And here you are. And here, alas! you will stay, Till our iron roads are beaten into ploughshares, And Messrs. Cook & Sons are at rest. "When I was young, a single man, And after youthful follies ran" (Which, strange as it may seem, is Wordsworth) Your goings to and fro upon the earth, And walkings up and down thereon, Were limited by the day trip. For half-a-crown You went to Brighton, Or to Buxton and Matlock, Or Stratford-on-Avon, As the case may be. A special tap of ale And a special cut of 'am Were put on for your delectation; You sang a mixture of hymns And music-hall songs On your homeward journey, And there was an end of the matter. But nowadays there is no escape from you. The trip that was over and done In twenty-four hours at most Has become a matter Of "Saturday to Monday at Sunny Saltburn," "Ten days in Lovely Lucerne," And "A Visit to the Holy Land for Ten Guineas." Wherever one goes On this wide globe There shall one find Your empty ginger-beer bottle and your old newspaper; The devastations, Fence-breakings, And flower-pot maraudings Which you once reserved for noblemen's seats Are now extended to the Rigi, The Bridge of Sighs, Mount Everest, And the deserts of Gobi And Shamo. Indeed, I question whether it would be possible For one to traverse The trackless forests of Mexico Or "the dreary tundras of remote Siberia," Or to put one's nose Into such an uncompromising fastness as Craig Ell Achaie (Which is the last place the Canadian Pacific Railway made And which may not be properly spelled) Without coming upon you Picnicking in a spinny, And prepared to greet all and sundry With that time-honoured remark, "There's 'air," Or some other Equally objectionable ribaldry. Well, my dear Tripper, Time is short, And poets fill their columns easily, So that I must not abuse you any more. You are part of the Cosmos, And as such I am bound to respect you; But, by Day and Night, I wish That James Watt Had taken no notice Of 

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