Horace Smith

Young England

The times still “grow to something strange”;
 We rap and turn the tables;
We fire our guns at awful range;
 We lay Atlantic cables;
We bore the hills, we bridge the seas—
 To me 'tis better far
To sit before my fire at ease,
 And smoke a mild cigar.
 
We start gigantic bubble schemes,—
 Whoever _can_ invent 'em!—
How splendid the prospectus seems,
 With int’rest cent. per centum
His shares the holder, startled, sees
 At eighty below par:
I dawdle to my club at ease,
 And light a mild cigar.
 
We pickle peas, we lock up sound,
 We bottle electricity;
We run our railways underground,
 Our trams above in this city
We fly balloons in calm or breeze,
 And tumble from the car;
I wander down Pall Mall at ease,
 And smoke a mild cigar.
 
Some strive to get a post or place,
 Or entree to society;
Or after wealth or pleasure race,
 Or any notoriety;
Or snatch at titles or degrees,
 At ribbon, cross, or star:
I elevate my limbs at ease,
 And smoke a mild cigar.
 
Some people strive for manhood right
 With riots or orations;
For anti-vaccination fight,
 Or temperance demonstrations:
I gently smile at things like these,
 And, 'mid the clash and jar,
I sit in my arm-chair at ease,
 And smoke a mild cigar.
 
They say young ladies all demand
 A smart barouche and pair,
Two flunkies at the door to stand,
 A mansion in May Fair:
I can’t afford such things as these,
 I hold it safer far
To sip my claret at my ease,
 And smoke a mild cigar.
 
It may be proper one should take
 One’s place in the creation;
It may be very right to make
 A choice of some vocation;
With such remarks one quite agrees,
 So sensible they are:
I much prefer to take my ease,
 And smoke a mild cigar.
 
They say our morals are so so,
 Religion still more hollow;
And where the upper classes go,
 The lower always follow;
That honour lost with grace and ease
 Your fortunes will not mar:
That’s not so well; but, if you please,
 We’ll light a fresh cigar.
 
Rank heresy is fresh and green,
 E’en womenkind have caught it;
They say the Bible doesn’t mean
 What people always thought it;
That miracles are what you please,
 Or nature’s order mar:
I read the last review at ease,
 And smoke a mild cigar.
 
Some folks who make a fearful fuss,
 In eighteen ninety-seven,
Say, heaven will either come to us,
 Or we shall go to heaven;
They settle it just as they please;
 But, though it mayn’t be far,
At any rate there’s time with ease
 To light a fresh cigar.
 
It may be there is something true;
 It may be one might find it;
It may be, if one looked life through,
 That something lies behind it;
It may be, p’raps, for aught one sees,
 The things that may be, are:
I’m growing serious—if you please
 We’ll light a fresh cigar.
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