The Amateur Photographer

BEWARE of those who slyly pilch

In many cunning ways;

Beware of little lyres that filch

From undisputed bays!

Beware the tumbler's beaded brim,

The ass in fiercer fur;

But most of all beware of him

Who makes my pen to stir--

THe Insecure

And Amateur

Implacable Photographer!

Beware lest, thieving for your thirst,

An earwig's in the plum!

Beware of folly, gay at first,

That later makes you glum!

Beware of pits when stars are dim,

The tooth of vagrant cur;

But most of all beware of him

That makes my pen to stir--

The masterful

Disasterful

Implacable Photographer!

Beware of angling in a stream

Whose trout are not for you;

Beware of trusting in a dream

That's gone before the dew!

Beware of truckling to a whim;

Of folks that always purr;

But most of all beware of him

That makes my pen to stir--

The premature

And Amateur

Implacable Photographer!

Norman Rowland Gale

The Ballade of the Glutton

I'M greedy by nature, and often in vain

Have lingered too long o'er the succulent hare,

Accepting the jelly, ignoring the pain,

Intent on receiving far more than my share.

I worship the plover's egg, tasty and rare,

And idolize fanciful French fricasses;

But what, darling dainties, with you can compare,

Soused salmon and lamb and young ducks and green peas?

I ask for real turtle, again and again--

Observe the Lord Mayor's John Thomases* stare!          [flunkies]

For kitchen-recitals to Susan and Jane,

And powdered impertinence, what do I care?

I sit down to eat, and I vow and declare,

I'd honour a dish were it made of stewed bees,

Though loyal to you, should you chance to be there,

Soused salmon and lamb and young ducks and green peas.

I cherish a chef, be he Grecian or Dane;

I even can relish a collop of bear;

I love ev'ry calf--if it boasts a fine brain--

And melt at a pullet, or even a pair.

Though gold's on the table and stately the fare,

I greet a grand entree with almost a sneeze

If you, dearest dainties, are sweet on the air--

Soused salmon and lamb and young ducks and green peas.

L'envoi:

O Redcoats of England, who struggle and dare,

Your glory's a morsel no glutton can please;

My yearning is all for a soft-cushioned chair,

Soused salmon and lamb and young ducks and green peas.

Norman Rowland Gale

'MOST ANGLERS ARE VERY HUMANE'--Daily Paper

THE kind-hearted angler was sadly pursuing

His calling unhallowed of choking the fishes;

He bitterly wept, for of course he was doing

An action most strongly opposed to his wishes!

His vertabra shook as he musingly planned

How kindly to threadle the worm he'd begun--it

Was plain had the reptile possessed a right hand

The penitent angler would gladly have wrung it!

He cast in his float filled with tearful emotion

And murmured "How fearful, how terrible this is!"

And just at that moment, amid some commotion,

He jerked out a panting and rather small piscis!

"Unfortunate fishlet, what dread impulse brought you

To meddle with bait which I carelessly threw in?

My dear little swimmer, I'm sorry I caught you,

So please don't blame me for contriving your ruin!"

"O barbel and salmon-trout, tench, dace and gugdeon,

O ev'ry fat jack and each eel (not a conger)

Why, why will you grieve me and stir up my dudgeon?

Go, die on his hooks who has eyes that are stronger!"

But, however, whilst moaning he pulled out a score,

And continued his wonderful luck till at last--it

Was plain that his soft heart could bear it no more,

Too deep were his groans, and--too full was his basket!

Norman Rowland Gale

The Decimal Point

WHEN first sent to School (now the Station was Rugby)

I fancied my masters and took to the boys;

I thought to myself--here 'tis plain I shall snug be

Revolving at last in an orbit of joys:

The Alphabet Grecian I quickly could stammer,

Nor ran any risk of a jaw out of joint;

I waddled sedately through Fatherland Grammar,

But own I was floored by the Decimal Point!

Le Roi de Montagnes was my Gallic translation,

And soon I was praised by my master, who said:--

"I certainly deem that, with good education,

A Scholarship laurel should circle your head!"

I revelled in idioms; I thrilled at the phrases;

I knew how to render "avaunt" and "aroint,"

But own that I shed many tears on the daisies

Of Rugby when stumped by the Decimal Point!

I mastered the building proceedings of Balbus,

And rarely omitted a requisite cum;

I never remarked that an equa was albus,

And deftly supplied the subjunctive with quum!

No canis to me was a dog in the manger--

A classic by Fate I was clearly anoint!

I own, though, I ran into desperate danger

When fogged and be-fooled by the Decimal Point!

Norman Rowland Gale

Golf Steals Our Youth

HAVE you seen the golfers airy

Prancing forth to their vagary,

Just as frisky in their gaiters

As a flock of Grecian Satyrs,

Looking everything heroic,

And magnificently stoic,

In a dress of such a pattern

As would fright the good God Saturn?

Have you heard them curse the sparrow

Fit to freeze your inmost marrow,

When the ball, that should be flitting,

On the grass remaineth sitting?

Have you watched their cheerful scrambles

In the soft and soothing brambles

While the foe, elate and sneering,

Passes gradually from hearing?

After blaming all the witches,

After rending holes in breeches,

After getting in a muddle

With each rivulet and puddle,

They return, a ll labour ended,

To record their prowess splendid,

And renew by dictionary

Their fatigued vocabulary.

Let these gentlemen ecstatic,

In their costumes so emphatic,

Crawl to find a rounded treasure

In the horse-pond at their pleasure.

What so good when time is sunny,

And the air as sweet as honey,

At the game of crease and wicket,

England's proper pastime--Cricket?

Norman Rowland Gale

Cricket on the Hearth

WHEN red-nosed Winter takes the road,

An icicle his walking-stick,

When frost is on the woodman's load,

And snow is falling fast and thick,

Come, lusty youth and sapless eld,

Let's make a circle round the blaze

And talk of stumps,

Of nasty bumps,

That flew and came in sunny days.

For Cricket is played again, again,

At freezing time in Hull or Bath;

When summer's done the game's not gone--

There's Cricket on the Hearth!

Here's Jones from Rugby, Eton Jack,

And Grandpapa who, long ago,

Loved hitting when the Field was slack,

And crumped the bowling, swift or slow!

No more he's nimble on the green,

But what a history he tells

Of Surrey men

And hits for ten,

And heaps of most tremendous Swells!

For Cricket is played again, again,

At freezing time in Hull or Bath;

When summer's done the game's not gone--

There's Cricket on the Hearth!

The girls may call to Hide-and-Seek,

And lovely lasses take the floor;

But we discuss the Lob and Sneak,

The Canvas, Umpire, Over, Score!

How great a game to fill July,

May, June, and August with delights,

Yet in the frost

Be never lost,

But stir the blood on nipping nights!

For Cricket is played again, again,

At freezing times in Hull or Bath;

When summer's done the game's not gone--

There's Cricket on the Hearth!

Norman Rowland Gale

A Prayer

TEND me my birds, and bring again

The brotherhood of woodland life,

So shall I wear the seasons round

A friend to need, a foe to strife;

Keep me my heritage of lawn,

And grant me, Father, till I die

The fine sincerity of light

And luxury of open sky.

So, learning always, may I find

My heaven around me everywhere,

And go in hope from this to Thee,

The pupil of Thy country air.

Norman Rowland Gale

Cicely Bathing

THE brook told the dove

And the dove told me

That Cicely's bathing at the pool

With other virgins three.

The brook told the dove

And the dove told me

That Cicely floating on the wave

Woke music in the tree.

The brook told the dove

And the dove told me

That Cicely's drying in the sun,

A snowy sight to see.

Norman Rowland Gale

Old Letters

LAST night some yellow letters fell

From out a scrip I found by chance;

Among them was the silent ghost,

The spirit of my first romance:

And in a faint blue envelope

A withered rose long lost to dew

Bore witness to the dashing days

When love was large and wits were few.

Yet standing there all worn and grey

The teardrops quivered in my eyes

To think of Youth's unshaken front,

The forehead lifted to the skies;

How rough a hill my eager feet

Flung backward when upon its crest

I saw the flutter of the lace

The wind awoke on Helen's breast!

How thornless were the roses then

When fresh young eyes and lips were kind

When Cupid in our porches proved

How true the tale that Love is blind!

But Red-and-White and Poverty

Would only mate while shone the May;

Then came a Bag of Golden Crowns

And jingled Red-and-White away.

Grown old and niggard of romance

I wince not much at aught askew,

And often ask my favourite cat

What else had Red-and-White to do?

And here's the bud that rose and sank,

A crimson island on her breast--

Why should I burn it? Once again

Hide, rose, and dream. God send me rest.

Norman Rowland Gale

Bees

YOU voluble,

Velvety

Vehement fellows

That play on your

Flying and

Musical cellos,

All goldenly

Girdled you

Senerade clover,

Each artist in

Bass but a

Bibulous rover!

You passionate,

Powdery

Pastoral bandits,

Who gave you your

Roaming and

Rollicking mandates?

Come out of my

Foxglove; come

Out of my roses

You bees with the

Plushy and

Plausible noses!

Norman Rowland Gale

Song: "This peach is pink with such a pink"

THIS peach is pink with such a pink

As suits the peach divinely;

The cunning colour rarely spread

Fades to the yellow finely;

But where to spy the truest pink

Is in my Love's soft cheek, I think.

The snowdrop, child of windy March,

Doth glory in her whiteness;

Her golden neighbours, crocuses,

Unenvious praise her brightness!

But I do know where, out of sight,

My sweetheart keeps a warmer white.

Norman Rowland Gale

My Country Love

IF you passed her in your city

You would call her badly dressed,

But the faded homespun covers

Such a heart in such a breast!

True, her rosy face is freckled

By the sun's abundant flame,

But she's mine with all her failings,

And I love her just the same.

If her hands are red they grapple

To my hands with splendid strength,

For she's mine, all mine's the beauty

Of her straight and lovely length!

True, her hose be think and homely

And her speech is homely, too;

But she's mine! her rarest charm is

She's for me, and not for you!

Norman Rowland Gale

Holy Ground

SHY maids have haunts of still delight,

The lover glades he never tells;

And one is mine where mass the bright

And odoured chimes of foxglove-bells.

A dewy, covert, silent place

Where surely long ago God walked

Close to His creature's blinded face,

And for his finer moulding talked.

There hawthorn glows as if, white-hot,

God present, it were sacred found

To preach a creed too oft forgot--

That all we tread is holy ground.

Ah, could we but remember this,

Our thoughts would spring as purely up

To labour for our fellows' bliss

As doth to heaven a snowdrop's cup!

Norman Rowland Gale

On Seeing a Train Start for the Seaside

O MIGHT I leave this grassy place

For spreading foam about my feet!

The splendid spray upon my face,

The flying brine itself were sweet

If I might hear on Cromer beach

The freedom of Old Neptune's speech!

Ah, never language like to this

For those whose ears can understand!

Sometimes the coming of a kiss

To mate the ocean with the strand;

Sometimes the nameless oath is heard

The sea-god thunders through his beard!

I have a sea of blue on high,

I have a sea of green beneath;

For me sweet inland birds do cry

Until with joy I hold my breath;

But Ocean's harp of wave and stone

Is bird and leaf and stream in one!

Upon my dancing apple-sprays

The blackbird whistles melodies;

Half through a mellow run he stays

And flashes to a neighbour's trees:

He's rare, but rarer now would be

The strident pebbles of the sea.

And is it strange that round the shore

The lyric water should rejoice?

Ah no! for ever more and more

The happy dead are in its voice.

Majestic poet! might I be

As full of song, as finely free!

Norman Rowland Gale

The Hidden Wealth

ADAM and Eve together stood

Amid the crop they both were tending,

While far away the feathery wood

Of Eden in the wind was bending.

And Adam, feeling in his veins

The better for his splendid tussle,

Laughed at his body for its pains,

And showed to Eve his hardening muscle.

Fine was the bread his sweat had earned,

Despite the fields of rock and thistle,

While daily wounds and baulkings turned

His olden softness into gristle.

So, thinking deeply of the life

Of chartered idleness and blisses,

Suddenly he seized his comely wife

And took her mouth by storm with kisses.

"Dear heart!" he cried, "we fare the best

When earth and labour roughly grapple.

Who could have thought the only rest

Worth having, centred in an apple!"

Norman Rowland Gale