Although the movements of the sea Have always been a grief to me And still at times disastrously Affect my _corpus vile_, Sailors of high and low degree I long have honoured highly. But now we honour them far more Than ever in the days of yore For all they’re doing in the War To guard and shield and free us; And this is where the man on shore Can learn from “BARTIMEUS.” For lately, when I couldn’t stick A “fearless” book which made me sick And positively long to kick The author to the ceiling, By luck I chanced on your _Long Trick_ And found immediate healing. Relentless realists protest You only have one type—the best, Drawn from the Islands of the Blest— Of comrades, sons and mothers; They’d rather see you foul your nest Than praise the “band of brothers.” No matter; leave their ink to flow; It cannot work you weal or woe; The verdict of the men who know The truth in its essentials Should make the armchair critic slow To challenge your credentials. The naval officer you paint Is not at all a plaster saint; He doesn’t always brook restraint; He isn’t prim or stolid; But still he’s void of any taint That’s mean or low or squalid. And then you write of wondrous things That pluck our hearts’ most secret strings— The tender grace that childhood flings On scenes of stern endeavour; The news that joy and comfort brings Or chills the heart for ever. So when young writers, void of ruth, Portray the flower of England’s youth As ill-conditioned and uncouth— In short as Huns might see us— I turn for solace and for truth To you, good “BARTIMEUS.” ON RE-READING “BARCHESTER TOWERS” In days when Bellona less madly The wheels of her chariot drave, To you, Father Anthony, gladly My doggerel homage I gave; And again uncontrollably yearning For solace in desolate hours I find a brief respite in turning To _Barchester Towers_. How good are the women, how various, As slowly their natures unfold!— The feudal _Miss Thorne_; the gregarious And amiable _Eleanor Bold_; _Mrs. Quiverful_, dauntless though dowdy, With fourteen young ravens to feed, Who managed to melt _Mrs. Proudie_, So great was her need. _Mrs. Proudie_, of course, is prodigious, A terror to friends and to foes, Ambitious, correctly religious, Yet leading her lord by the nose; Very far from an angel or jewel, Very near to a feminine Pope, And priceless in waging the duel That smashed _Mr. Slope_. And who would not willingly linger With you, O _Signora_, who twirled Round the tip of your white little finger Staid clerics and men of the world! Commanding the spells of a Circe; Bewitching, though crippled and lame; Redeeming your malice with mercy And playing the game.