Poor poor Johnny Dryden Thinks that English is too English – Wishes it could be more Latin, Than this horde that he’s combatting. But he’s heading for a hiding If he thinks our mongrel language Is a synonym for Latin, Somehow ripe for reformatting.
Poor poor Johnny Dryden Hates those final prepositions – Keep them out, just like in Latin, Else we’ll really let the cat in. Always ready for some chiding, He polices our transmissions Should we stray away from Latin In our ungrammatic chatting.
Poor poor Johnny Dryden, Hates infinitives to split – After all, you can’t in Latin… Oh, to truly scholar that in ! But the mobs are over-riding All his careful rules to bits ! Ripping off their hairshirt Latin For their English shifts of satin.
The title is pronounced PUNK-till-uh-gog-uh-low-KWO-shah-tyood.
detail from The Bower Meadow by Dante Rossetti, Apple Blossoms by John Millais, Hylas & The Nymphs by John Waterhouse, Laus Veneris by Edward Burne-Jones and The School of Nature by William Holman-Hunt
The Clone of Beauty
So why did the Pre-Raphaelites have just the single face to paint ? Did they all maybe share a model, or ideal, or a joke ? Or were they merely moral allegories, underneath the quaint, The playthings of a puritanic club of touched and airy folk ? Their lounging nymphs of languid myth are diaphanous deities, Sometimes naked, always perfect, from Pompeii to Camelot – But rousing such lacklustre lust, or any spontaneities, These strangely-sexless sextuplets are gazed upon to be forgot.
These muses with the single face, And even fewer flickers of emotion in their artful grace, Demanding our devotion as they pose from Albion to Thrace. Androgynous, without a trace of cleavage, Under wafting folds of lace, But then again, their cold embrace has little use for heavage. At least their hair is big and wild, Those flowing waves and ringlets piled in unexpected verve, Quite out of place around a mask so English in reserve. This Sisterhood of sylvan sylphs – In pastels, spotless-clean and bright, All bathed within a golden light – Are quite the finer sort of elves, Perhaps the fairest of the fay, Just waiting for a errant knight or shepherd boy to pass their way.
Or maybe just ourselves, The gawpers in the gallery – The hoi-polloi who shrug and stare, And wonder why they have to share A single personality.
I wrote this some years ago but dug it out after visiting the Pre-Raphaelite Sisterhood exhibition at the National Portrait Gallery. I had always assumed that the painters made all the faces the same in search of an shared ideal of beauty, but I now suspect that the similarities were in the flesh rather than the paint – the women they chose as models already looked alike. They also shared their models around, in every sense, and I don’t think these women did any modelling for more establishment artists. That said, they don’t seem to have gone out of their way to show much nuance.
Now, we just need a good investigation about the male models they used…
A lobby card from the 1947 Hollywood adaptation of An Ideal Husband, artist unknown.
An Ideal Crony
Sir Robert Chiltern, Bart – A plummy, chummy, bleeding heart, Who made some loot insider trading – Suddenly his star is fading When extorted by a high-class tart.
What ho !, his chums in high-up places Shall protect him from disgraces – Don’t let on, don’t make a fuss, For don’t you know he’s one of us ? So stiffen up the lips on both his faces.
So what, a sacred trust was sold ? We’d do the same for thirty gold ! So call the playwrite with the sharp wit, Sweep it all beneath the carpet – No need that the voting oiks be told…
Take a reflecting telescope And point it anywhere up in the sky And what do you see with your all-seeing eye ? Cogs and drums and springs and rope, And the ticking of ellipsoid gears, By distance squared, by lighted years.
But can you find between the lights The constant-heavens’ clockwork soul That’s somewhere in the blackest hole ? We all are squinting through the sights – From omega to omicron, We seek the great automaton.
Alas, as mirrors have got clearer, So the wheels we saw have blurred As though the constant tick has slurred. And just as we were getting nearer, We misplaced our guiding stars Amongst the lost canals of Mars.
A Market Stall by Candlelight by Petrus van Schendel
Fresh Pantoums, Only a Shilling !
Oranges, lemons, and citrons and limes, Cockles and mussels and oysters alive, Tatler, Spectator, the Post and the Times, Parsley and sage and sweet basil and chive !
Cockles and mussels and oysters alive, Burgundy, claret, madeira and sack, Parsley and sage and sweet basil and chive, Cottons and calicos – red, white and black !
Burgundy, claret, madeira and sack, Currants and raisins, sultanas and prunes, Cottons and calicos, red, white and black, Ballads and broadsides and tuppenny tunes !
Currants and raisins, sultanas and prunes, Mercury powder to kill all your nits, Ballads and broadsides and tuppenny tunes, Coffee for merchants and lawyers and wits !
Mercury powder to kill all your nits, Books for the scholar and books for the squire, Coffee for merchants and lawyers and wits, Labourers, porters and servants for hire !
Books for the scholar and books for the squire, Scrag-end and brisket and trotters and bones, Labourers, porters and servants for hire, Heather for good-luck and Gypsy-charmed stones !
Scrag-end and brisket and trotters and bones, News of the morning and news of the wars, Heather for good-luck and Gypsy-charmed stones, Come see my wares from the far-distant shores !
News of the morning and news of the wars, Tatler, Spectator, the Post and the Times, Come see my wares from the far-distant shores: Oranges, lemons, and citrons and limes !
“Granville Sharp the abolitionist and Lord Mansfield of the King’s Bench are well known, but the eponymous defendant is more of a mystery.”
The Sunday Items
He ran from the court To the door of his champion, Slaved no more, And he knocked on the door of his champion To show he was free – He ran from the court and he ran from our history.
Did James and Granville then Shake hands like proper gentlemen ? Did they embrace, perhaps, In a quite un-English way ? We cannot say, For James is never heard agen.
Did he and Granville, As they bid goodbye, Look in one-another’s eye And share a smile and knowing nod That seemed to subtly imply “We’ve started something here, by God !”
Maybe he died that very day, Or lived another three long score, Maybe rich, maybe poor – He went about his way. The last we see of James Is at that door.
Obey in All Things your Masters According to the Flesh
When even Jesus shrugs his shoulders, Utters not a word ag’enst, And Paul is rooting with the holders Over people bought and fenced – All these chattels in their fetters Must submit unto their betters. God had cursed the sons of Ham – So help yourself – he just don’t give a damn.
And thus were Haitians much maligned By France, the Pope, and even God, (Who spat upon their Negro kind And swore to keep them ’neath His rod.) Till after ev’ry prayer had failed, They struck a pact which countervailed – It’s such a sorry state of works When Satan saves and idle Jesus shirks.
“Ever since Robert Newton played Long John Silver in 1950, pirates have all spoken with the same accent.”
– The Dorchester Echo
Curse ye, Robbie Newton ! Curse yer lily-lubbered hide ! For thanks to ye, all pirates be The yokels o’ the crimson sea ! We used-a hail from Luton, Or Nidderdale, or Morningside – But now it’s said we’re born an’ bred In Lynmouth, Lyme an’ Lizard Head.
From the Needle to the Scilly, Round the Bill and up Goonhilly, Fowey to Zoyland, thar we blow From Durdle Door to Westward Ho !
Ye scurvy-livered, timber-shivered blaggard, Robbie Newton ! Ye turned us to a joke, to a’ the folk that we be lootin’ ! Ye’d have us be a parody o’ bushy-bearded mutiny, A pantomime upon the sea, jus’ pussycats freebootin’ – We should be briny soldiers, but who could fear our bands Wi’ these parrots on our shoulders and these hooks upon our hands ? Ye’ve decked us in a strange disguise, wi’ peggy-leg an’ lock-o’-dread, An’ always wi’ the patchy-eyes fore’er a-lookin’ ’skance. We used-a be the buccaneers o’ Buckin’ham an’ Birkenhead, But now we’re jus’ the poxy-pillaged pirates o’ Penzance.
From Portishead to Plymouth Hoe, We’ll drag yer name to ten below. From Brizzle Dock to Davey Jones, We curse your skull an’ cross your bones !