Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, A BALLAD OF A BUN, by OWEN SEAMAN


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

A BALLAD OF A BUN, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: From whitsuntide to whitsuntide
Last Line: And second-cousin to the worm!'
Subject(s): Davidson, John (1857-1909)


From Whitsuntide to Whitsuntide —
That is to say, all through the year —
Her patient pen was occupied
With songs and tales of pleasant cheer.

But still her talent went to waste
Like flotsam on an open sea;
She never hit the public taste,
Or knew the knack of Bellettrie.

Across the sounding City's fogs
There hurtled round her weary head
The thunder of the rolling logs;
'The Critics' Carnival!' she said.

Immortal prigs took heaven by storm,
Prigs scattered largesses of praise;
The work of both was rather warm;
'This is,' she said, 'the thing that pays!'

Sharp envy turned her wine to blood —
I mean it turned her blood to wine;
And this resolve came like a flood —
'The cake of knowledge must be mine!

'I am in Eve's predicament —
I sha'n't be happy till I've sinned;
Away!' She lightly rose, and sent
Her scruples sailing down the wind.

Across the sounding City's din
She wandered, looking indiscreet,
And ultimately landed in
The neighbourhood of Regent Street.

A Decadent was dribbling by;
'Lady,' he said, 'you seem undone;
You need a panacea; try
This sample of the Bodley bun.

'It is fulfilled of precious spice,
Whereof I give the recipe; —
Take common dripping, stew in vice,
And serve with vertu; taste and see!

'And lo! I brand you on the brow
As kin to Nature's lowest germ;
You are sister to the microbe now,
And second-cousin to the worm.'

He gave her of his golden store,
Such hunger hovered in her look;
She took the bun, and asked for more,
And went away and wrote a book.

To put the matter shortly, she
Became the topic of the town;
In all the lists of Bellettrie
Her name was regularly down.

'We recognise,' the critics wrote,
'Maupassant's verve and Heine's wit';
Some even made a verbal note
Of Shakespeare being out of it.
The seasons went and came again;
At length the languid Public cried:
'It is a sorry sort of Lane
That hardly ever turns aside.

'We want a little change of air;
On that,' they said, 'we must insist;
We cannot any longer bear
The seedy sex-impressionist.'

Across the sounding City's din
This rumour smote her on the ear:
'The publishers are going in
For songs and tales of pleasant cheer!'

'Alack!' she said, 'I lost the art,
And left my womanhood foredone,
When first I trafficked in the mart
All for a mess of Bodley bun.

'I cannot cut my kin at will,
Or jilt the protoplastic germ;
I am sister to the microbe still,
And second-cousin to the worm!'





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