Adventure of a Poet

As I was walking down the street
        A week ago,
    Near Henderson's I chanced to meet
        A man I know.

    His name is Alexander Bell,
        His home, Dundee;
    I do not know him quite so well
        As he knows me.

    He gave my hand a hearty shake,
      Discussed the weather,
  And then proposed that we should take
      A stroll together.

  Down College Street we took our way,
      And there we met
  The beautiful Miss Mary Gray,
      That arch coquette,
  Who stole last spring my heart away
     And has it yet.

  That smile with which my bow she greets,
      Would it were fonder!
  Or else less fond-since she its sweets
      On all must squander.

  Thus, when I meet her in the streets,
      I sadly ponder,
  And after her, as she retreats,
      My thoughts will wander.

  And so I listened with an air
      Of inattention,
  While Bell described a folding-chair
      Of his invention.

  And when we reached the Swilcan Burn,
      'It looks like rain,'
  Said I, 'and we had better turn.'
      'Twas all in vain,

  For Bell was weather-wise, and knew
      The signs aerial;
  He bade me note the strip of blue
      Above the Imperial,

  Also another patch of sky,
      South-west by south,
  Which meant that we might journey dry
      To Eden's mouth.

  He was a man with information
      On many topics:
  He talked about the exploration
      Of Poles and Tropics,

  The scene in Parliament last night,
      Sir William's letter;
  'And do you like the electric light,
      Or gas-lamps better?'

  The strike among the dust-heap pickers
      He said was over;
  And had I read about the liquors
      Just seized at Dover?

  Or the unhappy printer lad
      At Rothesay drowned?
  Or the Italian ironclad
      That ran aground ?

  He told me stories (lately come)
      Of town society,
  Some slightly tinged with truth, and some
      With impropriety.

  He spoke of duelling in France,
      Then lightly glanced at
  Mrs. Mackenzie's monster dance,
      Which he had danced at.

  So he ran on, till by-and-by
      A silence came,
  For which I greatly fear that I
      Was most to blame.

  Then neither of us spoke a word
      For quite a minute
  When presently a thought occurred
      With promise in it.

  'How did you like the Shakespeare play
      The students read
  By this, the Eden like a bay
      Before us spread.

  Near Eden many softer plots
      Of sand there be;
  Our feet, like Pharaoh's chariots,
      Drave heavily.

  And ere an answer I could frame,
      He said that Irving
  Of his extraordinary fame
      Was undeserving,

  And for his part he thought more highly
      Of Ellen Terry;
  Although he knew a girl named Riley
      At Broughty Ferry,
  Who might be, if she only chose,
      As great a star,
  She had a part in the tableaux
      At the bazaar.

  If I had said but little yet,
      I now said less,
  And smoked a home-made cigarette
      In mute distress.

  The smoke into his face was blown
      By the wind's action,
  And this afforded me, I own,
      Some satisfaction;

  But still his tongue received no check
      Till, coming home,
  We stood beside the ancient wreck
      And watched the foam

  Wash in among the timbers, now
      Sunk deep in sand,
  Though I can well remember how
      I used to stand

  On windy days and hold my hat,
      And idly turn
  To read 'Lovise, Frederikstad'
      Upon her stern.

  Her stern long since was buried quite,
      And soon no trace
  The absorbing sand will leave in sight
      To mark her place.

  This reverie was not permitted
      To last too long.
  Bell's mind had left the stage, and flitted
      To fields of song.

  And now he spoke of Marmion
      And Lewis Morris;
  The former he at school had done,
      Along with Horace.

  His maiden aunts, no longer young,
      But learned ladies,
  Had lately sent him Songs Unsung,
      Epic of Hades,

  Gycia, and Gwen. He thought them fine;
      Not like that Browning,
  Of whom he would not read a line,
      He told me, frowning.

  Talking of Horace — very clever
      Beyond a doubt,
  But what the Satires meant, he never
      Yet could make out.

  I said I relished Satire Nine
      Of the First Book;
  But he had skipped to the divine
      Eliza Cook.

  He took occasion to declare,
      In tones devoted,
  How much he loved her old Arm-chair,
      Which now he quoted.

  And other poets he reviewed,
      Some two or three,
  Till, having touched on Thomas Hood,
      He turned to me.

  'Have you been stringing any rhymes
      Of late?' he said.
  I could not lie, but several times
      I shook my head.

  The last straw to the earth will bow
      The overloaded camel,
  And surely I resembled now
      That ill-used mammal.

  See how a thankless world regards
      The gifted choir
  Of minstrels, singers, poets, bards,
      Who sweep the lyre.

  This is the recompense we meet
      In our vocation.
  We bear the burden and the heat
      Of inspiration;

  The beauties of the earth we sing
      In glowing numbers,
  And to the 'reading public' bring
      Post-prandial slumbers ;

  We save from Mammon's gross dominion
      These sordid times….
  And all this, in the world's opinion,
      Is 'stringing rhymes.'

  It is as if a man should say,
      In accents mild,
  'Have you been stringing beads to-day,
      My gentle child?'

  (Yet even children fond of singing
      Will pay off scores,
  And I to-day at least am stringing
      Not beads but bores.)

  And now the sands were left behind,
      The Club-house past.
  I wondered, Can I hope to find
      Escape at last,

  Or must I take him home to tea,
      And bear his chatter
  Until the last train to Dundee
      Shall solve the matter?

  But while I shuddered at the thought
      And planned resistance,
  My conquering Alexander caught
      Sight in the distance

  Of two young ladies, one of whom
      Is his ambition;
  And so, with somewhat heightened bloom,
      He asked permission

  To say good-bye to me and follow.
      I freely gave it,
  And wished him all success.
      Apollo Sic me servavit.