Lord Lundy
Who was too Freely Moved to Tears, and thereby ruined his Political Career Lord Lundy from his earliest years Was far too freely moved to Tears. For instance if his Mother said, ”Lundy! It’s time to go to Bed!” He bellowed like a Little Turk. Or if his father Lord Dunquerque Said ”Hi!” in a Commanding Tone, ”Hi, Lundy! Leave the Cat alone!” Lord Lundy, letting go its tail, Would raise so terrible a wail As moved His Grandpapa the Duke To utter the severe rebuke: ”When I, Sir! was a little Boy, An Animal was not a Toy!” His father’s Elder Sister, who Was married to a Parvenoo, Confided to Her Husband, Drat! The Miserable, Peevish Brat! Why don’t they drown the Little Beast?” Suggestions which, to say the least, Are not what we expect to hear From Daughters of an English Peer. His Grandmamma, His Mother’s Mother, Who had some dignity or other, The Garter, or no matter what, I can’t remember all the Lot! Said ”Oh! That I were Brisk and Spry To give him that for which to cry!” (An empty wish, alas! For she Was Blind and nearly ninety-three). The Dear Old Butler thought-but there! I really neither know nor care For what the Dear Old Butler thought! In my opinion, Butlers ought To know their place, and not to play The Old Retainer night and day. I’m getting tired and so are you, Let’s cut the poem into two! Second Part It happened to Lord Lundy then, As happens to so many men: Towards the age of twenty-six, They shoved him into politics; In which profession he commanded The Income that his rank demanded In turn as Secretary for India, the Colonies, and War. But very soon his friends began To doubt is he were quite the man: Thus if a member rose to say (As members do from day to day), ”Arising out of that reply . . .!” Lord Lundy would begin to cry. A Hint at harmless little jobs Would shake him with convulsive sobs. While as for Revelations, these Would simply bring him to his knees, And leave him whimpering like a child. It drove his colleagues raving wild! They let him sink from Post to Post, From fifteen hundred at the most To eight, and barely six--and then To be Curator of Big Ben!. . . And finally there came a Threat To oust him from the Cabinet! The Duke -- his aged grand-sire -- bore The shame till he could bear no more. He rallied his declining powers, Summoned the youth to Brackley Towers, And bitterly addressed him thus-- ”Sir! you have disappointed us! We had intended you to be The next Prime Minister but three: The stocks were sold; the Press was squared: The Middle Class was quite prepared. But as it is! . . . My language fails! Go out and govern New South Wales!” The Aged Patriot groaned and died: And gracious! how Lord Lundy cried!
Hilaire Belloc’s other poems:
887
