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Alfred Noyes - What Grandfather Said
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(_An epistle from a narrow-minded old gentleman to a young artist of
superior intellect and intense realism._)


Your thoughts are for the poor and weak?
  Ah, no, the picturesque`s your passion!
Your tongue is always in your cheek
  At poverty that`s not in fashion.

You like a ploughman`s rugged face,
  Or painted eyes in Piccadilly;
But bowler hats are commonplace,
  And thread-bare tradesmen simply silly.

The clerk that sings "God save the King,"
  And still believes his Tory paper,--
You hate the anæmic fool? I thought
  You loved the weak! Was that all vapour?

Ah, when you sneer, dear democrat,
  At such a shiny-trousered Tory
Because he doffs his poor old hat
  To what he thinks his country`s glory,

To you it`s just a coloured rag.
  You hate the "patriots" that bawl so.
Well, my Ulysses, there`s a flag
  That lifts men in Republics also.

No doubt his thoughts are cruder far;
  And, where those linen folds are shaking,
Perhaps he sees a kind of star
  Because his eyes are tired and aching.

Banal enough! Banal as truth!
  But I`m not thinking of his banners.
I`m thinking of his pinched white youth
  And your disgusting "new art" manners.

His meek submission stirs your hate?
  Better, my lad, if you`re so fervent,
Turn your cold steel against the State
  Instead of sneering at the servant.

He does his job. He draws his pay.
  You sneer, and dine with those that pay him;
And then you write a snobbish play
  For democrats, in which you play him.

Ah, yes, you like simplicity
  That sucks its cheeks to make the dimple.
But this domestic bourgeoisie
  You hate,--because it`s all too simple.

You hate the hearth, the wife, the child,
  You hate the heavens that bend above them.
Your simple folk must all run wild
  Like jungle-beasts before you love them.

You own a house in Cheyne Walk,
  (You say it costs three thousand fully)
Where subtle snobs can talk and talk
  And play the intellectual bully.

Yes. I say "snobs." Are names alone
  Free from all change? Your word "Victorian"
Could bite and sting in ninety one
  But now--it`s deader than the saurian.

You think I live in yesterday,
  Because I think your way the wrong one;
But I have hewed and ploughed my way,
  And--unlike yours--it`s been a long one.

I let Victoria toll her bell,
  And went with Strindberg for a ride, sir.
I`ve fought through your own day as well,
  And come out on the other side, sir,--

The further side, the morning side,
  I read free verse (the Psalms) on Sunday.
But I`ve decided (you`ll decide)
  That there is room for song on Monday.

I`ve seen the new snob on his way,
  The intellectual snob I mean, sir,
The artist snob, in book and play,
  Kicking his mother round the scene, sir.

I`ve heard the Tories talk like fools;
  And the rich fool that apes the Tory.
I`ve seen the shopmen break your rules
  And die like Christ, in Christ`s own glory.

But, as for you, that liberal sneer
  Reminds me of the poor old Kaiser.
He was a "socialist," my dear.
  Well, I`m your grandson. You`ll grow wiser.
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