FROM Pimlico to Central Park,
From Timbuctoo to Rotten Row,
Who has not heard of Joan of Arc,
His tragic tale who does not know?
And how he put his life to stake,
For Principle and Country's sake?

This simple person of Lorraine
Had thoughts for nothing but Romance,
And longed to see a king again
Upon the battered throne of France;
(With Charles the Seventh crowned at Rheims,
He realized his fondest dreams.)

Then came the fight at Compiègne,
Where he was captured by the foe,
And lots of vulgar foreign men
Caught hold and wouldn't let him go.
"Please don't!" he begged them, in despair,
"You're disarranging all my hair."

Unmoved by grace of form or face,
These brutes, whose hearts were quite opaque,
At Rouen, in the market-place,
Secured him tightly to a stake;
(Behaviour which cannot be viewed
As other than extremely rude.)

Poor Joan of Arc, of course, was bound
To be the centre of the show,
When, having piled the faggots round,
They lit him up and let him go.
(Which surely strikes the modern mind
As thoughtless, not to say unkind.)

But tho' he died, his deathless name
In Hist'ry holds a noble place,
And brings the blush of conscious shame
To any Anglo-Saxon face.
Perfidious truly was the nation
Which caused his premature cremation!

∗ ∗ ∗

I showed these verses to a friend,
Inviting him to criticise;
He read them slowly to the end,
Then asked me, with a mild surprise,
"What was your object," he began,
"In making Joan of Arc a man?"

I hastened to the library
Which kind Carnegie gave the town,
Searched Section B. (Biography.)
And took six bulky volumes down;
Then studied all one livelong night,
And found (alas!) my friend was right.

I'm sorry; for it gives me pain
To think of such a waste of rhyme.
I'd write the poem all again,
Only I can't afford the time;
It's rather late to change it now, —
I can't be bothered anyhow.

Paderewski

WHILE other men of "note" have had
A certain local reputation,
They never could compare with Pad, —
(Forgive this terse abbreviation), —
Loot: Orpheus may have been All Right;
Cap: Paderewski's Out of Sight!

No lunatic, competing in
The game of Arctic exploration,
Can ever really hope to win
More pleasures of anticipation
Than he who fixes as his goal
So satisfactory a Pole.

The grand piano is his forte,
And when he treads upon its pedals,
Weak women weep, and strong men snort,
While Cuban veterans (with medals)
Grow kind of bleary-eyed and soppy;
And journalists forget their "copy."

And as he makes the key-board smart,
Or softly on its surface lingers,
He plays upon the public's heart,
And holds it there beneath his fingers;
Caresses, teases, pokes or squeezes, —
Does just exactly as he pleases.

And oh! the hair upon his head!
Hay-coloured, with a touch of Titian!
He's under contract, so 'tis said,
To keep it in this wild condition;
All those who wish for thatch like Pad's
Should buy —

(This space To Let for Ads.)
On concert platforms he performs,
Where ladies, (matrons, maids or misses),
Surround his feet in perfect swarms,
And try to waft him fat damp kisses;
Till he takes refuge in his hair,

And sits serenely smiling there.
He draws the tear-drop to the eye
Of dullest dude or quaintest Quaker;
The instrument he plays is by
The very best piano-maker,
Whose name, I hope you won't forget,

Is —
(Once again, this space To Let.)

Before the style of his technique,
The science of his execution,
The blackest criminal grows weak
And makes a moral resolution;
Requiring all his strength of will
Before he even robs a till.

Rough soldiers, from the seat of war, —
(I never understood what "seat" meant) —
Have ceased to swear or hit the jar
After a course of Rooski's treatment.
'Tis more persuasive and as sure
As (shall we say?) the Water-cure!

Thus on triumphantly he goes, —
A long succession of successes, —
And nobody exactly knows
Just how much income he possesses;
He makes sufficient (if not more)
To keep the wolf from the stage-door.

And when he plays a "Polonaise,"
(His own unrivalled composition),
The entertainment well repays
The prices charged one for admission;
But still, as ladies all declare,
His crowning glory is his hair!