Some say that Guy of Warwick, The man that killed the Cow And brake the mighty Boar alive Beyond the Bridge at Slough; Went up against a Loathly Worm That wasted all the Downs, And so the roads they twist and squirm (If I may be allowed the term) From the writhing of the stricken Worm That died in seven towns. I see no scientific proof That this idea is sound, And I should say they wound about To find the town of Roundabout, The merry town of Roundabout, That makes the world go round. Some say that Robin Goodfellow, Whose lantern lights the meads (To steal a phrase Sir Walter Scott In heaven no longer needs), Such dance around the trysting-place The moonstruck lover leads; Which superstition I should scout There is more faith in honest doubt (As Tennyson has pointed out) Than in those nasty creeds. But peace and righteousness (St. John) In Roundabout can kiss, And since that's all that's found about The pleasant town of Roundabout, The roads they simply bound about To find out where it is. Some say that when Sir Lancelot Went forth to find the Grail, Grey Merlin wrinkled up the roads For hope that he should fail; All roads led back to Lyonesse And Camelot in the Vale, I cannot yield assent to this Extravagant hypothesis, The plain, shrewd Briton will dismiss Such rumours (=Daily Mail=). But in the streets of Roundabout Are no such factions found, Or theories to expound about, Or roll upon the ground about, In the happy town of Roundabout, That makes the world go round. The Song of the Strange Ascetic If I had been a Heathen, I'd have praised the purple vine, My slaves should dig the vineyards, And I would drink the wine; But Higgins is a Heathen, And his slaves grow lean and grey, That he may drink some tepid milk Exactly twice a day. If I had been a Heathen, I'd have crowned Neoera's curls, And filled my life with love affairs, My house with dancing girls; But Higgins is a Heathen, And to lecture rooms is forced, Where his aunts, who are not married, Demand to be divorced. If I had been a Heathen, I'd have sent my armies forth, And dragged behind my chariots The Chieftains of the North. But Higgins is a Heathen, And he drives the dreary quill, To lend the poor that funny cash That makes them poorer still. If I had been a Heathen, I'd have piled my pyre on high, And in a great red whirlwind Gone roaring to the sky; But Higgins is a Heathen, And a richer man than I; And they put him in an oven, Just as if he were a pie. Now who that runs can read it, The riddle that I write, Of why this poor old sinner, Should sin without delight--? But I, I cannot read it (Although I run and run), Of them that do not have the faith, And will not have the fun. The Song of Right and Wrong