THE MODEL MOTORIST

Ye murderous, motoring scorchers,

With manners of Gadarene hogs,

Inflicting unspeakable tortures

On children and chickens and dogs;

Alarming your fellows with hoots and with bellows,

And filling their infants with terror,

Their cattle stampeding, and never conceding

That you could perhaps be in error,

Who fall upon Fido and squash little Florrie,

And hasten away without saying you're sorry!

O listen, I beg, con amore,

Pray pause in your Juggernaut flight,

And hark, while I tell you the story

Of Lipton, that chivalrous knight!

When charged with exceeding the limit of speeding

By constables ambushed in Chertsey,

He scorned to tell‘ whoppers’ or browbeat those‘ coppers,’

But, donning ( with marvellous court'sy )

The smile that he wears at a ball or a‘ swarry,’

Remarked:‘ You are always correct, boys. I'm sorry!’

With awe and respect did each‘ cop’ watch

A creature so rare, so unique,

Who questioned no constable's stop-watch,

Who showed neither temper nor pique,

But said,‘ Do your duty!’ in tones rich and fruity,

Admitting at once his transgression,

Content to take their word, with never a swear-word,

To leave an unpleasant impression;

Exclaiming — his parents were Irish —‘ Begorry!

‘'Tis me that's the scorcher, and faith, bhoys, I'm sorry!’

Then follow his brilliant example,

Ye chauffeurs to‘ joy-riding’ prone,

And seek by apologies ample

For sins of the past to atone.

Your pace do not quicken when dog or when chicken

In‘ bonnet’ or brake gets entangled,

Nor fly in a flutter, and leave in the gutter

The man whom your motor has mangled;

But after you've pounced like a hawk on your quarry,

Just stop for a moment, and say that you're sorry!