Classic Poem

My dining-room is large and light
(Twelve feet by nine, or very nearly),
And on its walls, both left and right,
" Old Masters " hang, at ev'ry height,
Where all may see them clearly:
Dangling from their respective wires,
The fam'ly portraits of my sires.

Great-uncle Charles, in gold and blue
(A second Nelson he was reckoned),
And Great-aunt Arabella, too,
Who, if what Greville says is true,
Was loved by George the Second;
And that stout ancestor, Sir Carey,
Who made such play with Bloody Mary.

Here, too, are prints of Speaker Strouchan
Whose rulings flowed like molten lava,
Of Bertram, thirteenth Baron Bolquhoun,
Of Admiral Sir Maurice Moynigan
Who fell at Balaclava,
Of Bishop Waughan, that great divine —
All famous ancestors of mine.

Upon an easel, too, observe
The portrait that so proudly stands here
Instinct in ev'ry line and curve
With all the charm, the grace, the verve
Of good Sir Edwin Landseer,
An artist who was quite the rage
In Queen Victoria's spacious age.

No picture this of hinds at play,
Of mongrels that with mastiffs quarrel,
Of Shetland ponies munching hay,
Of Monarchs of the Glen at Bay
In marshes near Balmoral,
Or dachshunds (of the slim and wan sort)
Retrieving grouse for the Prince Consort.

Inspect this subject well, and note
The whiskers centrally divided,
The silken stock about his throat,
The loose but elegant frock-coat,
The boots (elastic-sided),
And you'll at once remark: " Ah, ha!
This must, of course, be Grandpapa! "

A model English squire, 'twas he
Who entertained the local gentry;
Though not himself at home for tea,
To his demesne a paltry fee
Of sixpence gave them entry,
And through his grounds they all might pass,
Though cautioned to Keep O FF THE G RASS .

The Park was free on Saturdays.
Here members of the lower orders
Could watch my grandsire's cattle graze
Or (through their op'ra-glasses) gaze
At his herbaceous borders.
The masses he most truly pitied,
Though B ICYCLISTS were N OT A DMITTED .

As yet upon his vast estates
No labour troubles had arisen;
There were no beggars at his gates —
He and his brother-magistrates
Had sent them all to prison,
Knowing 'twas wiser to avoid
Encouraging the Unemployed.

Though tender-hearted, I declare,
And often moved to righteous rages
When told that his own workmen were
Reduced to vegetarian fare
By their starvation wages,
Such gloomy topics he'd dismiss —
He knew there was no cure for this.

But if a villager fell sick
He'd send the invalid a rabbit;
When lightning struck a yeoman's rick
'Twould cut him to the very quick,
He'd sigh: " Poor Farmer Crabbett!
He'll have no fodder for his cow;
I'd best foreclose the mortgage now! "

In politics it was his rule
To be broadminded but despotic;
In argument he kept quite cool,
Knowing a man to be a fool
And most unpatriotic
Who differed from the views that he
Had cherished from the age of three.

Once I recall — a sad affair —
When, as a child of years still tender,
I chanced to sit in his armchair,
He seized me roughly by the hair
And flung me in the fender.
He had such quaint impulsive ways;
I didn't sit again for days.

Dear Grandpapa — I see him yet,
My friend, philosopher and guide, too,
A personality, once met,
One could not possibly forget,
Though lots of people tried to —
Founder of a distinguished line,
And worthy ancestor of mine!