Page:The Strand Magazine (Volume 16).djvu/617
"The Duett" is a fanciful reproduction of one of the pictures in the Vernon Gallery. As a work of art it would probably be assigned to the Pre-Raphaelite School, were it not that the curly-haired gentleman―apparently of African origin―who is holding the music, has certainly not got the elongated neck which the late Sir E. Burne-Jones usually affected.
The "Umbrella" also contained two mournful poems on certain pseudo-tragic events which occurred in connection with the Rectory party; these were called "Lays of Sorrow," and, as I have just said, there were only two of them, either because the found of tears at the readers' disposal had temporarily run dry, or because the stock of sorrows had been exhausted.
No. 1 deals with the untimely death of a chicken; if all the Croft hens laid such a pile of eggs as that depicted in our illustration, the decease of one chicken could only be regarded as a matter of regret from a sentimental point of view. It need hardly be stated that the two youths hacking away at the old tree are two of the author's younger brothers. We give in reduced facsimile the opening of this "Lay," which continues as follows:―
"Small by degrees and beautifully less,"
As the sage mother with a powerful spell[1]
Forced each in turn its contents to "express"[2];
But, ah! "imperfect is expression,"
Some poet said, I don't care who,
If you want to know you must go elsewhere,
One fact I can tell, if you're willing to hear,
He never attended a Parliament Session,
For I'm certain that if he had ever been there,
Full quickly would he have changed his ideas,
With the hissings, the hootings, the groans and the cheers.
And as to his name, it is pretty clear
That it wasn't me and it wasn't you!
And so it fell upon a day
(That is, it never rose again),
A chick was found upon the hay,
It's little life had ebbed away,
No longer frolicsome and gay,
No longer could it run or play.
"And must we, chicken, must we part?"
Its master[3] cried, with bursting heart,
And voice of agony and pain.
So one, whose ticket's marked "Return"[4]
When to the lonely road-side station
He flies in fear and perturbation,
Thinks of his home―the hissing urn―
Then runs with flying hat and hair,
And entering, finds to his despair,
He's missed the very latest train![5]