'TIS gone with its toys and its troubles, Its essays on cotton and corn, Its laughing-stock company bubbles, Its Cherry-ripe -- (music by Horn.) 'Tis gone, with its Catholic Question, Its Shiels, its O'Connells, and Brics: Time, finding it light of digestion, Has swallow'd the Year Twenty-six. I've penned a few private mementoes Of schemes that I meant to effect, Which, sure as I hobble on ten toes, I vow'd I'd no longer neglect. "My wits," I exclaim'd, "are receding, 'Tis time I their energies fix: I'll write the town something worth reading, To finish the Year Twenty-six." My pamphlet, to tell Mr. Canning The Czar has an eye on the Turk; My treatise, to show Mr. Manning The way to make currency work: My essay, to prove to the nations (As sure as wax-candles have wicks) Greek bonds are not Greek obligations -- Were planned in the Year Twenty-six. I sketched out a novel, where laughter Should scare evangelic Tremaine, Shake Brambletye House off its rafter, And level Tor Hill with the plain. Those volumes, as grave as my grandam, I swore with my book to transfix: 'Twas called the New Roderick Random, And meant for the Year Twenty-six. My play had -- I'd have the town know it -- A part for Miss Elinor Tree; At Drury I meant to bestow it On Price, the gigantic lessee. Resolved the fourth act to diminish, ('Tis there, I suspect, the plot sticks,) I solemnly swore that I'd finish The fifth, in the Year Twenty-six. But somehow I thought the Haymarket Was better for hearing by half, To people who live near the Park it Affords the best home for a laugh. "There Liston," I muttered, "has taught'em Mirth's balm in their bitters to mix: I'll write such a part in the autumn For him -- in the Year Twenty-six!" I meant to complete my Italian -- ('Tis done in a twelvemonth with ease,) Nor longer, as mute as Pygmalion, Hang over the ivory keys. I meant to learn music, much faster Than fellows at Eton learn tricks: Vercellini might teach me to master The notes, in the Year Twenty-six. 'Tis past, with its corn and its cotton, Its shareholders broken and bit: And where is my pamphlet? forgotten. And where is my treatise? unwrit. My essay, my play, and my novel, Like so many Tumble-down Dicks, All, all in inanity grovel -- Alas! for the Year Twenty-six. My Haymarket farce is a bubble, My @3Bocca Romana@1 moves stiff, I've spared Vercellini all trouble, I don't even know the bass cliff. My brain has (supine anti-breeder) Neglected to hatch into chicks Her offspring -- Pray how, gentle reader, Thrive you for the Year Twenty-six? George Whitfield, whom nobody mentions Now Irving has got into fame, Has paved with abortive intentions A place too caloric to name. I fear, if his masonry's real, That mine have Macadamized Styx: So empty, cloud-capped, and ideal, My plans for the Year Twenty-six! Past Year! if, to quash all evasions, Thou 'dst have me with granite repair, On good terra firma foundations, My castles now nodding in air: Bid Time from my brow steal his traces (As Bardolph abstracted the Pix), Run back on his road a few paces, And make me -- like thee -- Twenty-six. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TRANSLUCENT FINGERS by MALCOLM COWLEY ACROSS THE RED SKY by KATHERINE MANSFIELD SCINTILLA by WILLIAM STANLEY BRAITHWAITE FAITH AND DESPONDENCY by EMILY JANE BRONTE MONADNOC by RALPH WALDO EMERSON CUBA LIBRA [APRIL, 1896] by CINCINNATUS HEINE MILLER SUNSET WINGS by DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI EMBLEMS OF LOVE: 23. SOONER WOUNDED THAN CURED by PHILIP AYRES |