[Illustration: Man with swag and campfire]
When I tramp forth attended by
A retinue of “blues,”
And all the world and all its wife
Are clothed in sombre hues,
Then life holds nothing much to win,
And nothing much to lose.
’Tis little use to preach and pray,
And none to fume and fret—
No solace dwells within the days
Of love and lush and debt—
’Tis then I throw the bundle off
And light a cigarette.
And seeking, so, some mental perch
Upon some mental crag,
I straightway run the colours up
Of self-assertion’s flag,
Assume a tragic air, and thus
Apostrophise the swag:
“You’ve tarried closer far than friends,
And closer too than foes;
You’re with me when the autumn falls,
And with the first spring rose;
Though whence such fond affection comes
The Devil only knows.
“You’ve driven me along the track
Like mankind’s primal curse;
You’ve driven me—behold the proof!—
To scrawling slipshod verse;
And every wrinkle in your face
Denotes an empty purse.
“I know you well from stem to stern,
From centrepiece to rim;
For many, many years ago
You cost a modest ‘jim’—
Those years, those sun-tipped years! that now
Live with the seraphim.
“Since then I’ve marched the dusty way
That better feet have trod,
But always found, my bride! in you,
An unresponsive clod;
Until we two have grown alike
As peas within a pod.
“And yet to flirt with you I left
A woman passing fair
(A pleasant girl who had for me
A smile or two to spare),
A half-a-dozen quid a week,
A couch and easy chair.
“I left——” But, ah! a wintry wind
Awakes Matilda’s charms:
I calmly spread the old girl out
And snuggle in her arms—
Untouched by sighs or sentiment,
Unscathed by love’s alarms.