When I was Young and Ignorant -- Patrick Barrington

Guest poem sent in by William Grey

(Poem #1698) When I was Young and Ignorant When I was young and ignorant I loved a Miss McDougall, Our days were spent in happiness, although our means were frugal; We did not sigh for worldly wealth, for vain and tawdry treasures, We were a simple country pair with simple country pleasures. Beneath the village chestnut-tree it was our joy to meet once; We used to tread the dewy fields with wonder-waking feet once; We wandered once in leafy lanes and walked in Woodlands shady; But now she's gone to Birmingham to be a Bearded Lady I loved her as I loved my life when I was young and tender, And happily our time was spent although our means were slender. We used to pass the golden days in countrified pursuits once; We walked through simple country bogs in simple country boots once. High hopes of happiness I had, but now my hopes are zero, Alas! My love has left me now to carve her own career O; Not all the hopes of her I had of her are worth a maravedi; My love has gone to Birmingham to be a Bearded Lady. My love now dwells in circus halls with clowns and tight-rope dancers, Where dromedaries play bassoons and sea-lions do the lancers; She moves amongst trick-bicyclists, buffoons and comic waiters, With elephants and acrobats and prestidigitators. No longer daily by my side she wanders through the hay now, The glamour of the public eye has lured are far away now. Remorseless Fates, my tender hopes how cruelly betrayed ye! My love has gone to Birmingham to be a Bearded Lady. When I was young and ignorant I loved a Miss McDougall; But that was e'er she heard the call of Fame's imperious bugle. I thought her kind as she was fair, but I was green and calfish; My love, though brighter than a star, was colder than a starfish. High hopes of happiness I had when I was young and tender; But time and tide have falsified my juvenile agenda. Farewell, my castle is in the air! Phantasmal mansions, fade ye! My love has gone to Birmingham to be a Bearded Lady. -- Patrick Barrington

Another chequered romantic adventure from the imagination of Patrick
Barrington, once again from 'Songs of a Sub-Man' (London: Methuen & Co Ltd,
1934). Earlier romantic adventures by Barrington on Minstrels are [1] and
[2].  As usual an eccentric choice of lover and also, as usual, romantic
disappointment.  Though Barrington never married I wonder: was he ever
engaged?

William Grey

[1] Poem #1551, My Love is a Theosophist -- Patrick Barrington
[2] Poem #1597, I Met a Lady in the Wood -- Patrick Barrington

[Martin adds]

This one hits a new high for tortured yet perfect rhymes (even if he stole
the "worth a maravedi"/lady rhyme from Gilbert! :)). Calfish/starfish was
particularly groanworthy, especially since you can see it coming when he
mentions the star. Delightful stuff.

Battle Song -- Patrick Barrington

Guest poem sent in by William Grey

(Poem #1655) Battle Song There's havoc on the staircase where the guests come streaming, Shirt-fronts shining and tiaras gleaming, Frail folk shuddering and stout folk steaming -- Steaming in the heat of the fray. Midnight striking and the strife appalling, Strong men staggering and weak men falling, And deep in the heart of me a still voice calling: 'Make for the buffet while you may. 'Make for the buffet while you may, poor stranger, Make for the buffet while you can; There's hope for the stale there, strength for the frail there, Drink for the thirsty man. Thrust through the throng! Be obstreperous and strong! Fight till your strength is sped. Fight and prevail; do not falter, do not fail, Make for the buffet and be fed! 'Make for the buffet and be fed, poor stranger, Make for the buffet and be strong; Dense is the press and the air is growing less, Fierce is the fight and long. Fierce is the fight and oppressive is the night, Stern is the strife and fell; Pale is your cheek; you are wan and you are weak; Make for the buffet and be well!' Painfully and wearily the hours are dragging, Old men are falling now and young men flagging; White ties weakening and stiff shirts sagging -- Sagging as the hours go by. Consciousness is failing me and outlines merging, Thunder in my ears as of sea-foam surging, And deep in the heart of me a faint voice urging: 'Make for the buffet lest you die. 'Make for the buffet lest you die, poor stranger; Make for the buffet while you can; Fight your way through like a woman in a queue, Fight like a jungle-man! Batter the élite with your hands and your feet, Butt them in the backs with your head: Strike for your own! You are hungry and alone; Make for the buffet and be fed. 'Make for the buffet and be fed, poor stranger, Make for the buffet lest you die. There's hope for stale there, strength for the frail there, Drink for the throat that's dry. Courage and strength will rewarded be at length; Weight in the end will tell. Up, then, and on! Are you weary? Are you wan? Make for the buffet and be well, Poor stranger! Make for the buffet and be well, Poor ranger! Make for the buffet and be well!' -- Patrick Barrington

The rousing heroic metre of this poem is sublime. Imagine the jingoistic
ends to which this form might have been pressed by a Henry Newbolt! Indeed
some of the lines could almost have been penned by Newbolt -- except that
Newbolt never wrote poetry anywhere near as good as Barrington's. But one
can almost imagine some of the lines seamlessly incorporated into a Newbolt
paean:

  Strong men staggering and weak men falling,

  Consciousness is failing me and outlines merging,
  Thunder in my ears as of sea-foam surging,
  And deep in the heart of me a faint voice urging:

Perhaps not. The prosody is too good. Newbolt's sentimental jingoistic
claptrap (Vitai Lampada, Poem #946) enjoyed an inflated reputation only
because of its timely articulation of tiresome (but then-fashionable)
imperialist values. His reputation was based not on poetic merit but on
politics. Barrington in contrast possesses fine prosodic skills, masked by
his wonderfully eccentric loopiness -- and the exuberant absurdity which
shines through his verse.  (Carefully rereading him while typing the poem
deepened my appreciation of his prosodic talents.)

The genius of this poem lies in Barrington's handling of the heroic verse
genre, subtly applied to a formal social occasion -- circumstances in which
anything like the belligerent heroic behaviour which Barrington recommends
would be simply unthinkable. The absurd juxtaposition in this case is a
wonderful clash between form and content.

The poem was published in 'Songs of a Sub-Man' (London: Methuen & Company
Limited, 1934).

William Grey

I Met a Lady in the Wood -- Patrick Barrington

Guest poem submittedy by William Grey:

(Poem #1596) I Met a Lady in the Wood I met a lady in the wood. No mortal maid, I knew, was she; She was no thing of flesh and blood, No child of human ancestry. Her beauty held my eyes in thrall. I spoke to her sweet words, soft-toned. She answered me no word at all, But only looked at me and moaned. I spoke to her about Exchange, Of Sterling and its recent rise. The subject was beyond her range; She stared at me with haunting eyes. I touched upon the price of Rye And its effect upon the Pound. She walked beside me silently, Like one that treads on charméd ground. She witched me with her elfin grace. I spoke of Wages and the Dole And briefly sketched for her the case For International Control. She gazed upon me as I talked; Some elfin thing she seemed to be. I knew her, by the way she walked, A creature of the Faëry. Through green and leafy glades we went, Knee-deep among the dewy ferns; I touched upon the Law of Rent And of Diminishing Returns. And, as we wandered through the wood Mid oaks and elm-tree boles rotund, Explained to her as best I could The workings of a Sinking Fund. I said that Rubber was depressed By recent rumours from Malay. She only moaned and beat her breast And cried aloud, 'Alack-a-day!' I said my brokers had foreseen A rise in Oil, and asked her view As to the trend of Margarine, She only answered 'Willaloo!' I took her to a green-lit glade Where tall trees twined their branches high And a moss-muted streamlet made Unmeditating melody; And there I paused awhile; and there I offered her my heart and hand, And bade her take me in her care To dwell with her in Fairyland. I said I was a Whale-oil King, With gold and goods and gear in plenty. She said she was a Mrs. Byng And had a family of twenty. She turned and left me where I stood. While round her elfin pipes were fluting She walked away into the wood, And I walked home to Lower Tooting. -- Patrick Barrington

 [Notes]

Edward Lear (1812-1888) was an early pioneer of nonsense poetry, a genre
developed further by the Rev Charles Lutwidge Dodgson, (alias Lewis Carroll,
1832-1898), and more recently by Spike Milligna (the well-known
typing-error, 1918-2002). Barrington (1909-1990) is a golden link in this
brilliant chain of absurdists.

Like many of Barrington's poems the comic effect is generated by an
absurdity of juxtapositions -- perhaps most absurdity comes to that, one way
or another. In this masterpiece of inspired nonsense Barrington juxtaposes
Arcadian romance with economic and commercial discourse. The denouement --
when the identity of the elfin companion is exploded -- is vintage
Barrington. As usual, Barrington's romantic narrative is unconsummated.
(Barrington never married.)

The poem was published in 'Songs of a Sub-Man' (London: Methuen & Company
Limited, 1934). The title of the collection presumably parodies Nietzsche's
"ubermensch" ("overman"). Barrington sketches more than one credible
untermensch.

William Grey.

I Had a Hippopotamus -- Patrick Barrington

(Poem #1576) I Had a Hippopotamus I had a hippopotamus; I kept him in a shed And fed him upon vitamins and vegetable bread. I made him my companion on many cheery walks, And had his portrait done by a celebrity in chalks. His charming eccentricities were known on every side. The creature's popularity was wonderfully wide. He frolicked with the Rector in a dozen friendly tussles, Who could not but remark on his hippopotamuscles. If he should be affected by depression or the dumps By hippopotameasles or hippopotamumps I never knew a particle of peace 'till it was plain He was hippopotamasticating properly again. I had a hippopotamus, I loved him as a friend But beautiful relationships are bound to end. Time takes, alas! our joys from us and robs us of our blisses. My hippopotamus turned out to be a hippopotamissus. My housekeeper regarded him with jaundice in her eye. She did not want a colony of hippopotami. She borrowed a machine gun from her soldier-nephew, Percy And showed my hippopotamus no hippopotamercy. My house now lacks the glamour that the charming creature gave. The garage where I kept him is as silent as a grave. No longer he displays among the motor-tires and spanners His hippopotamastery of hippopotamanners. No longer now he gambols in the orchard in the Spring; No longer do I lead him through the village on a string; No longer in the mornings does the neighborhood rejoice To his hippopotamusically-modulated voice. I had a hippopotamus, but nothing upon the earth Is constant in its happiness or lasting in its mirth. No life that's joyful can be strong enough to smother My sorrow for what might have been a hippopotamother. -- Patrick Barrington

Many thanks to Prabhash Gokaran , who went through
our hippo theme [Poem #844 onwards] and wanted to know why the funniest one
of the lot was not included. Well, the simple answer is that at the time I
had never read it before - and, with a little prodding from Prabhash, I'm
delighted to finally add it to the collection.

Of course, one of the first things I was struck by was the similarity of the
opening lines to "The Diplomatic Platypus" [Poem #1028] by the same poet,
but apart from this and a similarity of metre, "Hippopotamus" is a different
sort of silliness from "Platypus". Indeed, it leans more towards the
"children's poem" end of the spectrum, with its plethora of hippopotamorped
words and delightfully contrived rhymes, and the sheer delicious
ruthlessness of
  She borrowed a machine gun from her soldier-nephew, Percy
  And showed my hippopotamus no hippopotamercy.

One thing that jarred slightly was the broken metre in the lines
   Who could not but remark on his hippopotamuscles.
and
   My hippopotamus turned out to be a hippopotamissus.

Could someone with a print copy confirm that these are indeed accurate?

martin

[Links]

The other poem this reminded me (tangentially) of was "I Had a Little Pony":
[broken link] http://www.amherst.edu/~rjyanco/literature/mothergoose/rhymes/ihadalittlepony.html

We've run one other poem of Barrington's, Poem #1028

And what is surely the motherlode of hippo poems on the net:
  http://members.aol.com/HippoPage/hipppoem.htm

My Love is Theosophist -- Patrick Barrington

Guest poem submitted by William Grey:

(Poem #1551) My Love is Theosophist My love is a Theosophist And reads the Ramayana; Her luncheon is a pot of tea, Her breakfast a banana. She says that matter tends to clog The spirit-force behind it. My love is a Theosophist, And very tough I find it. My love is a Theosophist And wears no combinations; She says they get her thought-urge weak And lower her vibrations. She tells me flannel next the skin Impedes the astral motions. My love is a Theosophist, And has the strangest notions. My love is a Theosophist, And few things I deplore as Sincerely as the thoughtless way She crabs her neighbours' auras. She sensed Miss Hope's as bilious green, And got some quack to vet it. My love is a Theosophist, And many folk regret it. My love is a Theosophist, And though distinctly stouter She moves on a more mental plane Than do the folks about her. She moved into a potted plant Last week at Mrs Reece's. My love is a Theosophist, So I picked up the pieces. My love is a Theosophist, And has an intimation That she was Florence Nightingale In her last incarnation. She senses me as Titus Oates, More Ape-man than Apollo, My love is a Theosophist, And difficult to follow. My love is a Theosophist, And does not seem to worry If they forget to send the fish Or fail to cook the curry. As my potatoes grow more burnt Her temper grows the sweeter. My love is a Theosophist, And lives on Veeta Weeta. My love is a Theosophist-- Or, rather, is no longer; For, though her Ego-urge was strong, The Cosmic Will was stronger. While moving on the Higher Plane She moved into a lorry. My love was a Theosophist, And really I'm not sorry. -- Patrick Barrington

Patrick Barrington succeeded an uncle to become the 11th Viscount
Barrington. He died at the age of 81 on 6 April 1990.  There was an
enthusiastic audience of devotees for Barrington's whimsical verse, much of
it published in Punch in the early 1930s.

'My Love is a Theosophist' is characteristic of his style.  It is
instructive as well as entertaining. References to psychic beliefs
("vibrations", "cosmic will", and so on) show that little has changed in
psychic belief systems over the last 70 years. A chemist or physicist who
walked through a time warp in a laboratory of 70 years ago would be
immediately struck by the archaic apparatus in use.  If you walked into a
spiritualist's or psychic's den of 70 years ago -- apart from the absence of
a personal computer on the desk in the corner -- you would perceive little
change.

That is one way of illustrating how science develops by it superseding and
replacing inferior theories and methods in a continuing process of
innovation which fosters a progressive incremental process of improvement in
our understanding.  Paranormal beliefs, in contrast, are moribund. The
silver lining to this otherwise darkish cloud is that Barrington's whimsical
scepticism resonates as delightfully and with as much relevance today as
when they were penned more than seventy years ago.

William Grey.

The Diplomatic Platypus -- Patrick Barrington

Thanks to Frank O'Shea for introducing me to today's
poem

(Poem #1028) The Diplomatic Platypus I had a duck-billed platypus when I was up at Trinity, With whom I soon discovered a remarkable affinity. He used to live in lodgings with myself and Arthur Purvis, And we all went up together for the Diplomatic Service. I had a certain confidence, I own, in his ability, He mastered all the subjects with remarkable facility; And Purvis, though more dubious, agreed that he was clever, But no one else imagined he had any chance whatever. I failed to pass the interview, the board with wry grimaces Took exception to my boots and then objected to my braces, And Purvis too was failed by an intolerant examiner Who said he had his doubts as to his sock-suspender's stamina. Our summary rejection, though we took it with urbanity Was naturally wounding in some measure to our vanity; The bitterness of failure was considerably mollified, However, by the ease with which our platypus had qualified. The wisdom of the choice, it soon appeared, was undeniable; There never was a diplomat more thoroughly reliable. The creature never acted with undue precipitation O, But gave to every question his mature consideration O. He never made rash statements his enemies might hold him to, He never stated anything, for no one ever told him to, And soon he was appointed, so correct was his behaviour, Our Minister (without Portfolio) to Trans-Moravia. My friend was loved and honoured from the Andes to Esthonia, He soon achieved a pact between Peru and Patagonia, He never vexed the Russians nor offended the Rumanians, He pacified the Letts and yet appeased the Lithuanians, Won approval from his masters down in Downing Street so wholly, O, He was soon to be rewarded with the grant of a Portfolio, When on the Anniversary of Greek Emancipation, Alas! He laid an egg in the Bulgarian Legation. This untoward occurrence caused unheard-of repercussions, Giving rise to epidemics of sword-clanking in the Prussians. The Poles began to threaten, and the Finns began to flap at him, Directing all the blame for this unfortunate mishap at him; While the Swedes withdrew entirely from the Anglo-Saxon dailies The right of photographing the Aurora Borealis, And, all efforts at rapprochement in the meantime proving barren, The Japanese in self-defence annexed the Isle of Arran. My platypus, once thought to be more cautious and more tentative Than any other living diplomatic representative, Was now a sort of warning to all diplomatic students Of the risks attached to negligence, the perils of imprudence, Beset and persecuted by the forces of reaction, O, He reaped the consequences of his ill-considered action, O, And, branded in the Honours List as 'Platypus, Dame Vera', Retired, a lonely figure, to lay eggs in Bordighera. -- Patrick Barrington

I was delighted to receive today's poem - its brand of inspired silliness is
rare, and even rarer when this well done. There's a very understated, almost
deadpan quality to Barrington's humour here that is hard to pinpoint, but
definitely recognisable. I am reminded of Shel Silverstein for some reason,
though, again, I can't exactly say why.

As for the form - as Frank said when he sent in the poem, "Its sustained
collection of triple rhymes puts the author right up there with Gilbert."
There is a difference, though - Barrington's rhymes are far less obtrusive,
their perfection blending them seamlessly into the poem rather than
highlighting them. The mix of double and triple rhymes is unexpected, but
(once I squelched the urge to sing the poem to Modern Major General)
remarkably smooth.

Links:

   Biography: Patrick Barrington, 1908-1990

   The other poem of Barrington's that seems to be popular on the net is his
   'I Had a Hippopotamus',
   http://members.aol.com/HippoPage/hipppoem.htm#barrington

   The 'triple rhyme' theme:
      Poem #1023, W. S. Gilbert, 'The Soldiers of our Queen'
      Poem #1025, Newman Levy, 'Thais'
      Poem #1026, Rudyard Kipling, 'The Prodigal Son'

Postscript:
  I have a distinct feeling I'm missing some of the references in the poem,
  particularly the 'Dame Vera' bit in the last verse. If anyone spots an
  allusion, do write in. Likewise, if anyone has more of a biography please
  add it on.

-martin