A line-o'-verse or two

I’ve two for Barrymore to-day.”
“No, no,” he groaned; “’twould be a bore,
With all respect to Barrymore.”
Said I: “Then whither shall we go?”
Said he: “A moving picture show.”

THE CORONATION

Lang Syne.

Twas a holy mystery
In the days of chivalry.
More than pageant was the Rite
In the sight of clod and knight.
Sword and Scepter, Orb and Rod,
Faith in self and faith in God;
Oaths of Homage fiercely flung,
Faith in heart and faith in tongue; —
Gone the things that meaning gave
“With the old world to the grave.”

1911

Knightly faith was born to fade:
Now the Rite is masquerade.
Now a cockney paladin
Winds a penny horn of tin.
Where in reverence heads were bowed
Surges now a careless crowd;
“Muddied oafs” and “flanneled fools”
Jostle “Yanks” with camping stools; —
Gone the things that meaning gave
“With the old world to the grave.”

SONS OF BATTLE

Let us have peace, and Thy blessing,
Lord of the Wind and the Rain,
When we shall cease from oppressing,
From all injustice refrain;
When we hate falsehood and spurn it;
When we are men among men.
Let us have peace when we earn it —
Never an hour till then.

Let us have rest in Thy garden,
Lord of the Rock and the Green,
When there is nothing to pardon,
When we are whitened and clean.
Purge us of skulking and treason,
Help us to put them away.
We shall have rest in Thy season;
Till then the heat of the fray.

Let us have peace in Thy pleasure,
Lord of the Cloud and the Sun;
Grant to us æons of leisure
When the long battle is done.
Now we have only begun it;
Stead us! – we ask nothing more.
Peace – rest – but not till we’ve won it —
Never an hour before.

MY LADY NEW YORK

O siren of tresses peroxide,
And heart that is hard as a flint,
Blue orbs of complacency ox-eyed,
That light at the mark of the mint,
Ears only for jingle of joybells,
A conscience as light as a cork —
You are wedded to follies and foibles,
My Lady New York.

True, you have (not enough, tho’, to hurt you)
Your moods and your manners austere;
You have visions and vapors of virtue,
And “reform” for a time has your ear;
But of chaste Puritanic embraces
You soon have enough and to spare,
And then you kick over the traces,
And virtue forswear.

So go it, milady! Foot fleetly
The paths that are primrose and gay;
Abandon your fancy completely
To follies and fads of the day.
“Reform” is a something that throttles
The joys of the pace that’s intense —
Smash hearts, reputations, and bottles,
And ding the expense!

BALLADE OF THE PIPESMOKE CARRY

The Ancient Wood is white and still,
Over the pines the bleak wind blows,
Voiceless the brook and mute the rill,
Silence too where the river flows.
Still I catch the scent of the rose
And hear the white-throat’s roundelay,