Stranded at Brighton and bored to monotony,
Sadly I roamed by the crowd-haunted shore;
Fed up with bathing and boating and botany,
Languidly humming the strains of "Asthore";
Then, in the offing, descended an aeroplane,
Gaily the pilot came striding my way;
"'Afternoon, Sir!" he exclaimed. "Would you dare a 'plane
Voyage to-day?"
Turning, I gazed with an eye that was critical
At the contraption of fabric and wires;
Flying's a game which my friends in the City call
Simply gilt-edged--it uplifts and inspires.
Holiday-makers stood by in expectancy,
Cinema merchants rushed up with their reels;
"Go it!" cried somebody; "go an' get wrecked an' see
Just how it feels."
I who had fought for a seat in an omnibus
Surely could never recoil from a 'plane?
There, newly painted, she stood like a Romney 'bus,
Bidding me soar through the vasty inane.
Breathing a prayer for myself and my Fatherland
Swiftly I scrambled aboard (the First Act);
Upward we soared till I felt I would rather land
Promptly--intact.
Swift rushed the air and the engine was thunderous,
"Say, shall I stunt you?" the pilot then roared.
Clouds were above us and Brighton was under us;
Peace reigned below--there was Panic on board.
Fiercely pulsated my turbulent heart inside,
Fiercely we skidded and stunted and swayed;
Grimly I crouched in that brute of a Martinsyde--
Dazed and dismayed.
Every mad moment seemed in its intensity
More than a cycle of slow-moving years;
Finally I, in a state of dumb density,
Reached _terra firma_ mid hurricane cheers.
Since I've decided that nothing can justify
Passenger flights in a nerve-racking 'plane;
_Others_ may welcome the sport, but I'm cussed if I
Try it again.
G. R. SAMWAYS.
Aug. 13, 1919.