Misrepresentative Women. Graham Harry

      Gentle Reader, who so patiently have waited

      For such viands as your poet can provide,

      (Which, as critics have occasionally stated,

      Must be trying to a delicate inside,)

      Once again are opportunities afforded

      Of a banquet, or a déjeuner at least,

      Once again your toleration is rewarded

      By a literary feast!

      You may think that Rudyard Kipling’s work is stronger,

      Or that Chaucer’s may be rather more mature;

      Byron’s lyrics are indubitably longer,

      Robert Browning’s just a trifle more obscure;

      But ’tis certain that no poems are politer,

      Or more fitted for perusal in the home,

      Than the verses of the unassuming writer

      Of this memorable tome!

      Austin Dobson is a daintier performer,

      Andrew Lang is far more scholarly and wise,

      Mr. Swinburne can, of course, be somewhat warmer,

      Alfred Austin more amusing, if he tries;

      But there’s no one in the world (and well you know it!)

      Who can emulate the bard of whom we speak,

      For the literary methods of our poet

      Are admittedly unique!

      Tho’ he shows no sort of penitence at breaking

      Ev’ry rule of English grammar and of style,

      (Not a rhyme is too atrocious for his making,

      Not a metre for his purpose is too vile!)

      Tho’ his treatment is essentially destructive,

      And his taste a thing that no one can admire,

      There is something incontestably seductive

      In the music of his lyre!

      Gentle Reader, some apologies are needed

      For depositing this volume on your desk,

      Since the author has undoubtedly exceeded

      All the limits of legitimate burlesque,

      And we look with very genuine affection

      To a Public who, for better or for worse,

      Will relieve us of this villainous collection

      Of abominable verse!

      I always love to picture Eve,

      Whatever captious critics say,

      As one who was, as I believe,

      The nicest woman of her day;

      Attractive to the outward view,

      And such a perfect lady too!

      Unselfish, – that one can’t dispute,

      Recalling her intense delight,

      When she acquired some novel fruit,

      In giving all her friends a bite;

      Her very troubles she would share

      With those who happened to be there.

      Her wardrobe, though extremely small,

      Sufficed a somewhat simple need;

      She was, if anything at all,

      A trifle underdressed, indeed,

      And never visited a play

      In headgear known as “matinée.”

      Possessing but a single beau,

      With only one affaire de cœur,

      She promptly married, as we know,

      The man who first proposed to her;

      Not for his title or his pelf,

      But simply for his own sweet self.

      He loved her madly, at first sight;

      His callow heart was quite upset;

      He thought her nearly, if not quite,

      The sweetest soul he’d ever met;

      She found him charming – for a man,

      And so their young romance began.

      Their wedding was a trifle tame —

      A purely family affair —

      No guests were asked, no pressmen came

      To interview the happy pair;

      No crowds of curious strangers bored them,

      The “Eden Journal” quite ignored them.

      They had the failings of their class,

      The faults and foibles of the youthful;

      She was inquisitive, alas!

      And he was – not exactly truthful;

      But never was there man or woman

      So truly, so intensely human!

      And, hand in hand, from day to day,

      They lived and labored, man and wife;

      Together hewed their common way

      Along the rugged path of Life;

      Remaining, though the seasons pass’d,

      Friends, lovers, to the very last.

      So, side by side, they shared, these two,

      The sorrow and the joys of living;

      The Man, devoted, tender, true,

      The Woman, patient and forgiving;

      Their common toil, their common weather,

      But drew them closelier still together.

      And if they ever chanced to grieve,

      Enduring loss, or suff’ring pain,

      You may be certain it was Eve

      Brought comfort to their hearts again;

      If they were happy, well I know,

      It was the Woman made them so.

      And though the anthropologist

      May mention, in his tactless way,

      That Adam’s weaknesses exist

      Among our modern Men to-day,

      In Women we may still perceive

      The virtues of their Mother Eve!

      In the old town of Coventry, so people say,

      Dwelt a Peer who was utterly lacking in pity;

      Universally loathed for the rigorous way

      That he burdened the rates of the City.

      By his merciless methods of petty taxation,

      The poor were reduced to the verge of starvation.

      But the Earl had a wife, whom the people adored,

      For her kindness of heart even more than her beauty,

      And her pitiless lord she besought and implored

      To remit this extortionate “duty”;

      But he answered: “My dear, pray reflect at