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SUCCESSFUL RECITATIONS

Edited by

ALFRED H. MILES

1901

"Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it to you, trippingly
on the tongue; but if you mouth it, as many of our players do, I had
as lief the town-crier spoke my lines."--_Hamlet_. SHAKESPEARE.

London:
S. H. Bousfield & Co., Ld.,
Norfolk House, Norfolk Street W.C.
London:
Printed by H. Virtue And Company, Limited.
City Road.

PREFACE.

Many things go to the making of a successful recitation.

A clear aim and a simple style are among the first of these: the
subtleties which make the charm of much of the best poetry are lost
in all but the best platform work. The picturesque and the dramatic
are also essential elements; pictures are the pleasures of the eyes,
whether physical or mental, and incident is the very soul of
interest.

The easiest, and therefore often the most successful, recitations are
those which recite themselves; that is, recitations so charged with
the picturesque or the dramatic elements that they command attention
and excite interest in spite of poor elocution and even bad delivery.
The trouble with these is that they are usually soon recognized, and
once recognized are soon done to death. There are pieces, too, which,
depending upon the charm of novelty, are popular or successful for a
time only, but there are also others which, vitalised by more
enduring qualities, are things of beauty and a "joy for ever."

But after all it is not the Editor who determines what are and what
are not successful recitations. It is time, the Editor of Editors,
and the public, our worthy and approved good masters. It is the
public that has made the selection which makes up the bulk of this
volume, though the Editor has added a large number of new and less
known pieces which he confidently offers for public approval. The
majority of the pieces in the following pages _are_ successful
recitations, the remainder can surely be made so.

A.H.M.

THE ROYAL RECITER.

PREFATORY.

True Patriotism is the outcome of National home-feeling and
self-respect.

Home-feeling is born of the loving associations and happy memories
which belong to individual and National experience; self-respect is
the result of a wise and modest contemplation of personal or National
virtues.

The man who does not respect himself is not likely to command the
respect of others. And the Nation which takes no pride in its history
is not likely to make a history of which it can be proud.

But self-respect involves self-restraint, and no man who wishes to
retain his own respect and to merit the respect of others would think
of advertising his own virtues or bragging of his own deeds. Nor
would any Nation wishing to stand well in its own eyes and in the
eyes of the world boast of its own conquests over weaker foes or
shout itself hoarse in the exuberance of vainglory.

Patriotism is not to be measured by ostentation any more than truth
is to be estimated by volubility.

The history of England is full of incidents in which her children may
well take an honest pride, and no one need be debarred from taking a
pride in them because there are other incidents which fill them with
a sense of shame. As a rule it will be found that the sources of
pride belong to the people themselves, and that the sources of shame
belong to their rulers. It would be difficult to find words strong
enough to condemn the campaign of robbery and murder conducted by the
Black Prince against the peaceful inhabitants of Southern France in
1356, but it would be still more difficult to do justice to the
magnificent pluck and grit which enabled 8,000 Englishmen at Poitiers
to put to flight no less than 60,000 of the chosen chivalry of
France. The wire-pullers of state-craft have often worked with
ignoble aims, but those who suffer in the working out of political
schemes often sanctify the service by their self-sacrifice. There is
always Glory at the cannon's mouth.

In these days when the word Patriot is used both as a party badge and
as a term of reproach, and when those who measure their patriotism by
the standards of good feeling and self-respect are denied the right
to the use of the term though they have an equal love for their
country and take an equal pride in their country's honourable
achievements, it seems necessary to define the word before one
applies it to oneself or puts one's name to what may be called
patriotic verse.

It is a bad day for any country when false standards of patriotism
prevail, and at such times it is clearly the duty of intelligent
patriotism to uphold true ones.

ALFRED H. MILES.
_October_, 1901.

CONTENTS.

NAME. AUTHOR.

John Bull and His Island Alfred H. Miles
The Red Rose of War F. Harald Williams
England Eliza Cook
A Song for Australia W. C. Bennet
The Ploughshare of Old England Eliza Cook
The Story of Abel Tasman Frances S. Lewin
The Groom's Story A. Conan Doyle
The Hardest Part I ever Played Re Henry
The Story of Mr. King David Christie Murray
The Art of Poetry From "Town Topics"
The King of Brentford's Testament W. M. Thackeray.
"Universally Respected" J. Brunton Stephens
The Amenities of Shopping Leopold Wagner
Shamus O'Brien J. S. Le Fanu
Home, Sweet Home William Thomson
The Cane Bottom'd Chair W. M. Thackeray
The Alma W. C. Bennet
The Mameluke Charge Sir F. H. Doyle
My Lady's Leap Campbell Rae-Brown
A Song for the end of the Season J. R. Planche
The Aged Pilot-man Mark Twain
Tim Keyser's Nose Max Adeler
The Lost Expression Marshall Steele
A Night Scene Robert B. Brough
Karl the Martyr Frances Whiteside
The Romance of Tenachelle Hercules Ellis
Michael Flynn William Thomson
A Night with a Stork William G. Wilcox
An Unmusical Neighbour William Thomson
The Chalice David Christie Murray
Livingstone Henry Lloyd
In Swanage Bay Mrs. Craik
Ballad of Sir John Franklin G. H. Boker
Phadrig Crohoore J. S. Le Fanu
Cupid's Arrows Eliza Cook
The Crocodile's Dinner Party E. Vinton Blake
"Two Souls with but a Single Thought" William Thomson
A Risky Ride Campbell Rae-Brown
On Marriage Josh Billings
The Romance of Carrigcleena Hercules Ellis
The False Fontanlee W. C. Roscoe
The Legend of St. Laura Thomas Love Peacock
David Shaw, Hero J. Buckham
Brotherhood Alfred H. Miles
The Straight Rider H. S. M.
Women and Work Alfred H. Miles
A Country Story Alfred H. Miles
The Beggar Maid Lord Tennyson
The Vengeance of Kafur Clinton Scollard
The Wishing Well V. W. Cloud
The Two Church Builders John G. Saxe
The Captain of the Northfleet Gerald Massey
The Happiest Land H. W. Longfellow
The Pipes of Lucknow J. G. Whittier
The Battle of the Baltic Thomas Campbell
The Grave Spoilers Hercules Ellis
Bow-Meeting Song Reginald Heber
The Ballad of Rou Lord Lytton
Bingen on the Rhine Hon. Mrs. Norton
Deeds, not Words Captain Marryat
Old King Cole Alfred H. Miles
The Green Domino Anonymous
The Legend Beautiful H. W. Longfellow
The Bell of Atri H. W. Longfellow
The Storm Adelaide A. Proctor
The Three Rulers Adelaide A. Proctor
The Horn of Egremont Castle William Wordsworth
The Miracle of the Roses Robert Southey
The Bridal of Malahide Gerald Griffin
The Daughter of Meath T. Haynes Bayley
Glenara Thomas Campbell
A Fable for Musicians Clara D. Bates
Onward. A Tale of the S.E.R. Anonymous
The Declaration N. P. Willis
Love and Age Thomas Love Peacock
Half an Hour before Supper Bret Harte
He Worried About It S. W. Foss
Astronomy made Easy Anonymous
Brother Watkins John B. Gough
Logic Anonymous
The Pride of Battery B F. H. Gassaway
The Dandy Fifth F. H. Gassaway
Bay Billy F. H. Gassaway
The Old Veteran Bayard Taylor
Santa Claus Alfred H. Miles

THE
ROYAL RECITER

_EDITED BY ALFRED H. MILES_.

JOHN BULL AND HIS ISLAND.

BY ALFRED H. MILES.

There's a doughty little Island in the ocean,--
The dainty little darling of the free;
That pulses with the patriots' emotion,
And the palpitating music of the sea:
She is first in her loyalty to duty;
She is first in the annals of the brave;
She is first in her chivalry and beauty,
And first in the succour of the slave!
Then here's to the pride of the ocean!
Here's to the pearl of the sea!
Here's to the land of the heart and the hand
That fight for the right of the free!
Here's to the spirit of duty,
Bearing her banners along--
Peacefully furled in the van of the world
Or waving and braving the wrong.

There's an open-hearted fellow in the Island,
Who loves the little Island to the full;
Who cultivates the lowland and the highland
With a lover's loving care--John Bull
His look is the welcome of a neighbour;
His hand is the offer of a friend;
His word is the liberty of labour;
His blow the beginning of the end.
Then here's to the Lord of the Island;
Highland and lowland and lea;
And here's to the team--be it horse, be it steam--
He drives from the sea to the sea,
Here's to his nod for the stranger;
Here's to his grip for a friend;
And here's to the hand, on the sea, or the land,
Ever ready the right to defend.

There's a troop of trusty children from the Island
Who've planted Englands up and down the sea;
Who cultivate the lowland and the highland
And fly the gallant colours of the free:
Their hearts are as loyal as their mother's;
Their hands are as ready as their sire's
Their bond is a union of brothers,--
Who fear not a holocaust of fires!
Then here's to the Sons of the nation
Flying the flag of the free;
Holding the farm and the station,
Keeping the Gates of the Sea;
Handed and banded together,
In Arts, and in Arms, and in Song,
Father and son, united as one,
Bearing her Banners along,
Peacefully furled in the van of the world,
Or waving and braving the wrong!

THE RED ROSE OF WAR.

BY F. HARALD WILLIAMS.

God hath gone forth in solemn might to shake
The peoples of the earth,
Through the long shadow and the fires that make
New altar and new hearth!
And with the besom of red war He sweeps
The sin and woe away,
To purge with fountains from His ancient deeps
The dust of old decay.
O not in anger but in Love He speaks
From tempest round Him drawn,
Unveiling thus the fair white mountain peaks
Which tremble into dawn.

Not otherwise would Truth be all our own
Unless by flood and flame,
When the last word of Destiny is known--
God's fresh revealed Name.
For thence do windows burst in Heaven and light
Breaks on our darkened lands,
And sovereign Mercy may fulfil through night
The Justice it demands.
Ah, not in evil but for endless good
He bids the sluices run
And death, to mould His blessed Brotherhood
Which had not else begun.

For if the great Arch-builder comes to frame
Yet broader empires, then
He lays the stones in blood and splendid shame
With glorious lives of men.
He takes our richest and requires the whole
Nor is content with less,
He cannot rear by a divided dole
The walls of Righteousness.
And so He forms His grand foundations deep
Not on our golden toys,
But in the twilight where the mourners weep
Of broken hearts and joys.

And He will only have the best or nought,
A full and willing price,
When the tall towers eternal are upwrought
With tears and sacrifice.
Our sighs and prayers, the loveliness of loss,
The passion and the pain
And sharpest nails of every noble cross,
Were never borne in vain.
That fragrant faith the incense of His courts,
Whereon this dim world thrives
And hardly gains at length His peaceful ports,
Is wrung from bruised lives.

Lo, when grim battle rages and is shed
A dreadful crimson dew,
God is at work and of the gallant dead
He maketh man anew.
The hero courage, the endurance stout,
The self-renouncing will,
The shock of onset and the thunder shout
That triumph over ill--
All wreak His purpose though at bitter cost
And fashion forth His plan,
While not a single sob or ache is lost
Which in His Breath began.

Each act august, which bravely in despite
Of suffering dared to be,
Is one with the grand order infinite
Which sets the kingdoms free.
The pleading wound, the piteous eye that opes
Again to nought but pangs,
Are jewels and sweet pledges of those hopes
On which His empire hangs.
But if we travail in the furnace hot
And feel its blasting ire,
He learns with us the anguish of our lot
And walketh in the fire.

He wills no waste, no burden is too much
In the most bitter strife;
Beneath the direst buffet is His touch,
Who holds the pruning knife.
We are redeemed through sorrow, and the thorn
That pierces is His kiss,
As through the grave of grief we are re-born
And out of the abyss.
The blood of nations is the precious seed
Wherewith He plants our gates
And from the victory of the virile deed
Spring churches and new states.

And they that fall though but a little space
Fall only in His hand,
And with their lives they pave the fearful place
Whereon the pillars stand.
God treads no more the winepress of His wrath
As once He did alone,
He bids us share with Him the perilous path
The altar and the throne.
When from the iron clash and stormy stress
Which mark His wondrous way,
Shines forth all haloed round with holiness
The rose of perfect day.

ENGLAND.

BY ELIZA COOK.

My heart is pledg'd in wedded faith to England's "Merrie Isle,"
I love each low and straggling cot, each famed ancestral pile;
I'm happy when my steps are free upon the sunny glade,
I'm glad and proud amid the crowd that throng its mart of trade;
I gaze upon our open port, where Commerce mounts her throne,
Where every flag that comes 'ere now has lower'd to our own.
Look round the globe and tell me can ye find more blazon'd names,
Among its cities and its streams, than London and the Thames?

My soul is link'd right tenderly to every shady copse,
I prize the creeping violets, the tall and fragrant hops;
The citron tree or spicy grove for me would never yield,
A perfume half so grateful as the lilies of the field.
Our songsters too, oh! who shall dare to breathe one slighting word,
Their plumage dazzles not--yet say can sweeter strains be heard?
Let other feathers vaunt the dyes of deepest rainbow flush,
Give me old England's nightingale, its robin, and its thrush.

I'd freely rove through Tempe's vale, or scale the giant Alp,
Where roses list the bulbul's late, or snow-wreaths crown the scalp;
I'd pause to hear soft Venice streams plash back to boatman's oar,
Or hearken to the Western flood in wild and falling roar;
I'd tread the vast of mountain range, or spot serene and flower'd,
I ne'er could see too many of the wonders God has shower'd;
Yet though I stood on fairest earth, beneath the bluest heaven,
Could I forget _our_ summer sky, _our_ Windermere and Devon?

I'd own a brother in the good and brave of any land,
Nor would I ask his clime or creed before I gave my hand;
Let but the deeds be ever such that all the world may know,
And little reck "the place of birth," or colour of the brow;
Yet though I hail'd a foreign name among the first and best,
Our own transcendent stars of fame would rise within my breast;
I'd point to hundreds who have done the most 'ere done by man,
And cry "There's England's glory scroll," do better if you can!

A SONG FOR AUSTRALIA

_GOD BLESS THE DEAR OLD LAND_,

BY WILLIAM COX BENNET.

A thousand leagues below the line, 'neath southern stars and skies,
'Mid alien seas, a land that's ours, our own new England lies;
From north to south, six thousand miles heave white with ocean foam,
Between the dear old land we've left and this our new-found home;
Yet what though ocean stretch between--though here this hour we
stand!
Our hearts, thank God! are English still; God bless the dear old
land!
"To England!" men, a bumper brim; up, brothers, glass in hand!
"England!" I give you "England!" boys; "God bless the dear old land!"

O what a greatness she makes ours? her past is all our own,
And such a past as she can boast, and brothers, she alone;
Her mighty ones the night of time triumphant shining through,
Of them our sons shall proudly say, "They were our fathers too;"
For us her living glory shines that has through ages shone;
Let's match it with a kindred blaze, through ages to live on;
Thank God! her great free tongue is ours; up brothers, glass in hand!
Here's "England," freedom's boast and ours; "God bless the dear old
land!"

For us, from priests and kings she won rights of such priceless worth
As make the races from her sprung the freemen of the earth;
Free faith, free thought, free speech, free laws, she won through
bitter strife,
That we might breathe unfetter'd air and live unshackled life;
Her freedom boys, thank God! is ours, and little need she fear,
That we'll allow a right she won to die or wither here;
Free-born, to her who made us free, up brothers glass in hand!
"Hope of the free," here's "England!" boys, "God bless the dear old
land!"

They say that dangers cloud her way, that despots lour and threat;
What matters that? her mighty arm can smite and conquer yet;
Let Europe's tyrants all combine, she'll meet them with a smile;
Hers are Trafalgar's broadsides still--the hearts that won the Nile:
We are but young; we're growing fast; but with what loving pride,
In danger's hour, to front the storm, we'll range us at her side;
We'll pay the debt we owe her then; up brothers glass in hand!
"May God confound her enemies! God bless the dear old land!"

THE PLOUGHSHARE OF OLD ENGLAND.

BY ELIZA COOK.

The Sailor boasts his stately ship, the bulwark of the Isle;
The Soldier loves his sword, and sings of tented plains the while;
But we will hang the ploughshare up within our fathers' halls,
And guard it as the deity of plenteous festivals:

We'll pluck the brilliant poppies, and the far-famed barley-corn,
To wreathe with bursting wheat-ears that outshine the saffron morn;
We'll crown it with a glowing heart, and pledge our fertile land,
The ploughshare of old England, and her sturdy peasant band!

The work it does is good and blest, and may be proudly told,
We see it in the teeming barns, and fields of waving gold:
Its metal is unsullied, no blood-stain lingers there;
God speed it well, and let it thrive unshackled everywhere.

The bark may rest upon the wave, the spear may gather dust,
But never may the prow that cuts the furrow lie and rust.
Fill up! fill up! with glowing heart, and pledge our fertile land,
The ploughshare of old England, and her sturdy peasant band.

THE STORY OF ABEL TASMAN.

(DISCOVERER OF TASMANIA.)

BY FRANCES S. LEWIN.

Bold and brave, and strong and stalwart,
Captain of a ship was he,
And his heart was proudly thrilling
With the dreams of chivalry.
One fair maiden, sweet though stately,
Lingered in his every dream,
Touching all his hopes of glory
With a brighter, nobler gleam.

Daughter of a haughty father,
Daughter of an ancient race,
Yet her wilful heart surrendered,
Conquered by his handsome face;
And she spent her days in looking
Out across the southern seas,
Picturing how his bark was carried
Onward by the favouring breeze.

Little wonder that she loved him,
Abel Tasman brave and tall;
Though the wealthy planters sought her,
He was dearer than them all.
Dearer still, because her father
Said to him, with distant pride,
"Darest thou, a simple captain,
Seek my daughter for thy bride?"

But at length the gallant seaman
Won himself an honoured name;
When again he met the maiden,
At her feet he laid his fame:
Said to her, "My country sends me,
Trusted with a high command,
With the 'Zeehan' and the 'Heemskirk,'
To explore the southern strand."

"I must claim it for my country,
Plant her flag upon its shore;
But I hope to win you, darling,
When the dangerous cruise is o'er."
And her haughty sire relenting,
Did not care to say him nay:
Flushing high with love and valour,
Sailed the gallant far away.

And the captain, Abel Tasman,
Sailing under southern skies,
Mingled with his hopes of glory,
Thoughts of one with starlight eyes.
Onward sailed he, where the crested
White waves broke around his ship,
With the lovelight in his true eyes,
And the song upon his lip.

Onward sailed he, ever onward,
Faithful as the stars above;
Many a cape and headland pointing
Tells the legend of his love:
For he linked their names together,
Speeding swiftly o'er the wave--
Tasman's Isle and Cape Maria,
Still they bear the names he gave.

Toil and tempest soon were over,
And he turned him home again,
Seeking her who was his guiding
Star across the trackless main.
Strange it seems the eager captain
Thus should hurry from his prize,
When a thousand scenes of wonder
Stood revealed before his eyes.

But those eyes were always looking,
Out toward the Java seas,
Where the maid he loved was waiting--
Dearer prize to him than these.
But his mission was accomplished,
And a new and added gem
Sparkled with a wondrous lustre
In the Dutch king's diadem.

Little did the gallant seaman
Think that in the days to be,
England's hand should proudly wrest it
From his land's supremacy.

THE GROOM'S STORY.

BY A. CONAN DOYLE.

Ten mile in twenty minutes! 'E done it, sir. That's true.
The big bay 'orse in the further stall--the one wot's next to you.
I've seen some better 'orses; I've seldom seen a wuss,
But 'e 'olds the bloomin' record, an' that's good enough for us.

We knew as it was in 'im. 'E's thoroughbred, three part,
We bought 'im for to race 'im, but we found 'e 'ad no 'eart;
For 'e was sad and thoughtful, and amazin' dignified,
It seemed a kind o' liberty to drive 'im or to ride;

For 'e never seemed a-thinkin' of what 'e 'ad to do.
But 'is thoughts was set on 'igher things, admirin' of the view.
'E looked a puffect pictur, and a pictur 'e would stay,
'E wouldn't even switch 'is tail to drive the flies away.

And yet we knew 'twas in 'im; we knew as 'e could fly;
But what we couldn't get at was 'ow to make 'im try.
We'd almost turned the job up, until at last one day,
We got the last yard out of 'm in a most amazin' way.

It was all along o' master; which master 'as the name
Of a reg'lar true blue sportsman, an' always acts the same;
But we all 'as weaker moments, which master 'e 'ad one,
An' 'e went and bought a motor-car when motor-cars begun.

I seed it in the stable yard--it fairly turned me sick--
A greasy, wheezy, engine as can neither buck nor kick.
You've a screw to drive it forard, and a screw to make it stop,
For it was foaled in a smithy stove an' bred in a blacksmith's shop.

It didn't want no stable, it didn't ask no groom,
It didn't need no nothin' but a bit o' standin' room.
Just fill it up with paraffin an' it would go all day,
Which the same should be agin the law if I could 'ave my way.

Well, master took 'is motor-car, an' moted 'ere an' there,
A frightenin' the 'orses an' a poisenin' the air.
'E wore a bloomin' yachtin' cap, but Lor!--what _did_ 'e know,
Excep' that if you turn a screw the thing would stop or go?

An' then one day it wouldn't go. 'E screwed and screwed again
But somethin' jammed, an' there 'e stuck in the mud of a country
lane.
It 'urt 'is pride most cruel, but what was 'e to do?
So at last 'e bade me fetch a 'orse to pull the motor through.

This was the 'orse we fetched 'im; an' when we reached the car,
We braced 'im tight and proper to the middle of the bar,
And buckled up 'is traces and lashed them to each side,
While 'e 'eld 'is 'ead so 'aughtily, an' looked most dignified.

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