TO THE TRIPPER

My dear Sir, or Madam,—

When James Watt,

Or some such person,

Had the luck

To see a kettle boil,

He little dreamed

That he was discovering you,

Otherwise he would have let his kettle boil

For a million million years

Without saying anything about it.

However,

James Watt

Omitted to take cognisance of the ultimate trouble,

And here you are.

And here, alas! you will stay,

Till our iron roads are beaten into ploughshares,

And Messrs. Cook & Sons are at rest.

“When I was young, a single man,

And after youthful follies ran”

( Which, strange as it may seem, is Wordsworth )

Your goings to and fro upon the earth,

And walkings up and down thereon,

Were limited by the day trip.

For half-a-crown

You went to Brighton,

Or to Buxton and Matlock,

Or Stratford-on-Avon,

As the case may be.

A special tap of ale

And a special cut of‘ am

Were put on for your delectation;

You sang a mixture of hymns

And music-hall songs

On your homeward journey,

And there was an end of the matter.

But nowadays there is no escape from you.

The trip that was over and done

In twenty-four hours at most

Has become a matter

Of “Saturday to Monday at Sunny Saltburn,”

“Ten days in Lovely Lucerne,”

And “A Visit to the Holy Land for Ten Guineas.”

Wherever one goes

On this wide globe

There shall one find

Your empty ginger-beer bottle and your old newspaper;

The devastations,

Fence-breakings,

And flower-pot maraudings

Which you once reserved for noblemen's seats

Are now extended to the Rigi,

The Bridge of Sighs,

Mount Everest,

And the deserts of Gobi

And Shamo.

Indeed, I question whether it would be possible

For one to traverse

The trackless forests of Mexico

Or “the dreary tundras of remote Siberia,”

Or to put one's nose

Into such an uncompromising fastness as Craig Ell Achaie

( Which is the last place the Canadian Pacific Railway made

And which may not be properly spelled )

Without coming upon you

Picnicking in a spinny,

And prepared to greet all and sundry

With that time-honoured remark,

“There's‘ air,”

Or some other

Equally objectionable ribaldry.

Well, my dear Tripper,

Time is short,

And poets fill their columns easily,

So that I must not abuse you any more.

You are part of the Cosmos,

And as such I am bound to respect you;

But, by Day and Night,

I wish

That James Watt

Had taken no notice

Of his boiling kettle!