Ethel May Kitson 1874-1945

ETHEL MURRAY PHELPS (ETHEL KITSON)

(N.C. 1895-9)

Every generation of students has its notable figures who take a foremost place in the life of the College, and are loved and admired by their contemporaries. Of such was Ethel Kitson (Mrs Murray Phelps) to those who came up in 1895 - fifty-one years ago. Her gifts of mind and character were many, and were displayed with complete lack of self-consciousness or vanity. In person, too, her fair complexion, golden hair and bright blue eyes made her vividly distinct, and she somehow managed always to preserve an exquisite trimness in the midst of the most energetic pursuits. For she delighted in vigorous exercise, whether of mind or body, and would tackle the reading for the Historical Tripos, a political argument, or a dangerous opponent at lawn-tennis with equal enjoyment. In all these directions she was in the front rank, and she seemed to achieve a First Class in the Tripos with the same ease with which she spoke from the Liberal front bench in the Political Society, or, with her steady drive and neat style, won her tennis matches. It was, of course, in the daily and nightly discussions of everything under the sun that the long range of Ethel kitson's mind became apparent. She was already familiar when she came up with political and social questions such as Women's Suffrage, Temperance, and Home Rule, and she approached them with a much more mature judgment than the ordinary student. She looked to the Liberal Party to bring about the social reforms she so urgently desired, and to justify her deeply rooted belief that progress is impossible without freedom. Frivolous Unionists eagerly enjoying her hospitality might smile to see the signed photograph of Mr Gladstone presiding over the cocoa party, but they carried away with them unfading impressions of a resolute mind, a spirit active in goodness, a cheerful and warm friendliness.

Her marriage, not long after going down, to Murray Phelps, took her from her home near Leeds to Birmingham where most of her married life was spent. Absorbed as she was by a most happy family life and by the upbringing of four children, she yet remained as alert as ever about public questions, and she never forgot Newnham or the friends she made there.

I will sing of all our travels

In the country of the strange

In the land where curious jabbering

Falls out the lips like water

Falls from the lips of natives.

T’was on a day in August

When we left the smoky city

City of ten thousand chimneys,

City of the rich and thriving,

City of the poor and wretched,

Sons of toil and slaves of hunger.

Leeds the name of this great city

Where the mighty Kitson family,

Family of countless members,

Long has dwelt secure and happy.

Forth we sallied from the city,

Entered then the train for London

As the hour approaches three

We, the family of Kitsons,

Kitsons of the branch of Hawthorn,

Of the noble branch of Hawthorn:

First the Governor the Father,

He a man of portly figure

Then his better half the Mother,

She a very nervous lady,

Very timid, and as fussy

As a hen with chickens many

Greatly dreaded she these travels,

Full of danger and of peril

Danger from the savage nations

Whom she thought for blood were thirsting,

Thirsting for the blood of Kitsons

From the branch of Hawthorn springing

And sometimes her nerves waxed rampant,

Then with awful wild excitement

Clutched she at the thing was nearest,

Clutched she at her husband’s forelock

Clutched she at her son or daughter

Till the danger was averted,

Till the danger she imagined

Like the ghost it was had vanished.

Come we to the olive branches

Olive branches three in number

And the Governor the Father

And the better half the mother

Oft would chortle in their joy

Saying one unto the other

Very glad we are, our offspring

Are not more than three in number.

First of all the olive branches

Comes the son, the dark haired Robert

19 years in all he numbered,

In his stockings nearly six feet

Stockings, ah! We beg their pardon,

In his socks all azure tinted

He would measure nearly si feet

Very fond he was of Science

As a botanist was famous

Famous for his love of long names

Names his lips would linger over,

Truth to tell the plants he loved best

Always had the longest titles,

Titles of a hundred letters,

Dazzling to the brain of most men

Anything that had a short name 

Was not worthy of his notice

Was not worthy he should trouble

To pronounce it or to name it.

So much for the dark haired Robert

For the lover of the long names

And the scorner of all others.

Cometh next the maiden Ethel

She the author of these pages

Of these lines of wit and wisdom,

Which come from her pen as quickly

As the water from a duck’s back

As the scholar from his studies.

Last but in her estimation

Very far from being the least

Comes the tomboy Jessie Beatrice,

Maiden of the mighty ankles

Maiden of the understandings.

Very long and firm her stride was

And her gait was very slouching

As of grooms that see the horses

Or of men whose minds are guilty

And who slink as if they fain would

‘Scape the searching eye of justice.

But my Muse must not pass over

The attendant sprite Miss Allen

Damsel with defective eyesight

Damsel who could jabber Français

With the quickness of a gamine

Hurling torrents of invectives

At the head of harmless victims.

These the Travellers, the Wanderers

Who had left their native city

And were starting on their journey

Left the black and smoky city

On this brilliant day in August.

Soon they reached the town of London

Dined there and went on to Dover,

Where they made their nightly sojourn.

But ‘ere ten o’clock next morning

Went they forth from their own land

In the steamboat the Invicta

Steamed they o’er the mighty ocean

Mighty ocean that resembled 

Some still pond that ducks frequent

Not a ripple stirred its surface

Save when the great duck

Paddled o’er the pond’s smooth surface

Quacked and flapped its wings in passing

And disturbed the oily stillness

Of the mighty sea the Duck pond.

Of the shining big sea water.

Rapidly they travelled onwards

In the steamboat the Invicta

Till at last they entered Calais

Landed in the port of Calais

Midst a crowd of jabbering natives

Natives yelling, natives piping

In a lingo quite original,

Monsieur, Monsieur, ici, ici

I alone can guide you safely,

Bring you safe from out the rabble

With your baggage and your offspring.

Then at hurried lunch at Calais

In the crowded railway buffet

‘Ere the Paris train we enter

Which deposits us at Paris

‘Ere the shades of night descending

Hide from us the brilliant city

City fashionable and busy

City frivolous and gay.

All next day was spent in misery

Save the early hours of morning

When we went to gaze on pictures

In the world renowned gallery

Of the grand ancestral Louvre

Virgins, Martyrs, Saints and Prophets,

Nymphs and swains and courtiers gallant

All were here in glowing colours,

Handed down to future Ages

By the brush of some great Master.

Now my Muse is filled with sadness

Filled with sadness at the suffering

Of the family of Kitsons

Kitsons of the branch of Hawthorn

For alack when duty summons

Even Kitsons fain must follow.

They must call on strange old females

Curious old Parisian females,

Who will gush and cringe and flatter

Ah! Que Monsieur parle bon Français

Ah! Que Mademoiselle est gentille

Et comme Madame est Parisienne.

Such the language these old toadies

Used unto the Kitson family

And the Governor the father

And the better half the mother

Sooth to say were quite delighted

Yes, they sure will send their daughter

Send the tomboy Jessie Beatrice

And the author of these pages

To the cringing, flattering toadies

To be taught how they may parler

Parler Français at a great rate.

Then these visits being over

Over to their satisfaction

Straight return they to their dwelling

And prepare them to depart

But alas when all was ready

The portmanteaus will not fasten

‘Tis vain to push and struggle

Oh! Attendant sprite Miss Allen

Your poor strength is not sufficient

But the blooming olive branches

They the mighty baggage squashes

Sit but on them, straight they fasten

Conquered by their weight so ponderous

Conquered by the olive branches.

Dinner ‘ere away they hasten

Get them places in the night train

Very small and hot the beds were

Very close together crowded

Like to herrings in a barrel

Like to paupers in a workhouse

Or to flies upon a ceiling.

Aix-les-Bains at last they entered

Town where invalids are rife

And where bathers dishabille

Wrapped in towels, borne in litters

Meet the eye at every moment

Meet the eye and charm the senses

By the beauty of their aspect

And their garb of towels curious.

Then they drove up to the Splendide

And were met by Rossignoli

He the master of the Splendide

He a dapper little Frenchman

Full of antics and of gestures

Full of strange gesticulations

Full of welcome for the Kitsons

Pa and Ma and olive branches

Then they stayed at Aix till Monday

Passed two days of calm and quiet

On the third day they departed

In a steaming locomotive

Until Chambèry is reached

There they’re met by Jacob Forster

He the world renowned driver

He a fiery little person

With a face brown as a berry

Like two living coals his eyes were

Like two living coals of fire

Straight they get into his carriage

In his carriage large and roomy

Drawn by five most fiery chestnuts

And attended by a small dog

By a small dog known as Pilou.

Thus accoutred forth they sallied

Drove through miles of glorious scenery

Snowy mountains, fertile valleys

Clothed with dark and gloomy pine trees

Interspersed with glowing beech trees

Beeches all alive with sunlight.

Nine the hours when they started

Two it was before they broke bread

At the hamlet of Pierre d’Êntremont

There they had a lusty dinner

Then went on to Pierre de Chartreuse

Slept in charming little attics

Slept most soundly, snored most loudly

Yes, the tomboy Jessie Beatrice

Snored like to a locomotive

With its works all out of order

With its works that needed oiling.

But before they sought their couches

Sought their couches in the attic

See their vision was delighted

By a monk of mould enormous

Robed in white he ate his supper

Drank down wine and gobbled victuals

Till you’d swear his girth grew greater

As he sat and gobbled victuals.

Tuesday morn at 9 they started

Drove by rivers and by mountains

To Sappey where they had luncheon

Onward then unto Grenoble

Where they made their nightly sojourn. 

Wednesday dawned, again they started

Midst a mighty crowd of people

Who had come to stare and wonder

Thinking this must be some great prince

Travelling in such regal manner

Nor must I forget to mention

An addition to their party

Monsieur Couévon a Frenchman

Full of wild enthusiasm

And the queerest little fellow

He would roar and haha loudly

Slap his thigh and scratch his noddle

Make all manner of contortions

Roll about and shout with laughter

At each word of wit or folly

Spoken by the Kitson family

And his talk was all of flowers

Socialists and priests and peoples

Uttered in most curious English

Uttered midst his shrieks of laughter

Thus augmented drove they onwards

In the midst of drizzling downpour

Till Gavez where they alighted

Ate their lunch and took much interest

In the doings of a merchant

Who deceived the guileless peasants

Made them purchase heaps of rubbish

At a hundred times their value

Dazzling by his honeyed language

And the power of his blarney.

But they left the sale behind them

Journeyed on to Bourg d’Oisans

To a somewhat dirty hostel

Where they had a greasy dinner

Vain essays they made to stifle

Bursts of laughter at the drollness

Of the comic little Frenchman

With his gestures and his antics

And his wondrous evolutions.

On the morn they started early

Reached La Grave in time for luncheon

After they went for a long walk

To the glacier known as La “Meije” 

But the Governor the Father

And the tomboy Jessie Beatrice

Soon got weary and went homewards

Weary of the steep ascension

But the author of these pages,

M. Couéven, the Frenchman,

And the son the dark haired Robert

Went on in pursuit of flowers

Over rocks and stones and boulders

Right unto the wondrous glacier

Very long and rough their walk was

Very much they all enjoyed it

And returned home decorated with the trophies

With the trophies they had gathered,

Gathered from the mountain pastures.

Friday was a glorious morning

And they drove past beauteous glaciers

White and shining in the sunlight

With a purity and beauty

Heightened by their rugged boulders

Strong and bold and dark and gloomy

Typical of evil spirits

Warring ‘gainst the light and sweetness

‘Gainst the chastity and glory

Of the peaks and snow-capped summits

But the landscape’s full perfection

Was not visible till lunchtime

Lautraut the place they lunched at

Very beautiful the Col was

Very loth they were to leave it

But ere nightfall they must enter

Briancon, that mighty fortress

In the vale by hills surrounded

Hills which on the day that followed

They must cross to reach Italia

Montgenèvre the pass they crossed by

Montgenèvre where hateful Douanes

Must examine all the luggage

Shove and prod and poke their noses

(noses very small and perky)

All amongst the goods and chattels

Of the mighty Kitson Family.

When the owners of the noses

Were sufficiently enlightened

(that is if the faintest glimmer

Faintest ray of light or wisdom

E’er could penetrate the great brains

Of those officers Italian

With their very tiny stature

And their very great assurance)

Onward then till Oulx was entered

Where their hunger they diminished

Whence for Turin they departed

Where they rested for the Sunday

Spent the most unhappy Sunday

For the heat was something awful

All day long they baked and frizzled

Nearly melted in the great heat

Refuge sought they at Superga

But in vain for La Superga

Were resembled the inferno

Where the evil melt and simmer

Melt and simmer in the furnace

Than a Mount with Holy Temple

Offering rest and joy and shelter

From the burning heat of noonday

From slow torture in a fire.

Now my muse is torn asunder

Twixt conflicting joy and anguish

For one member of the family

The attendant sprite Miss Allen

She the maiden of the goggles

She the maiden of the red shirt

Vanishes from out these pages

Where she for a week has figured

For a week of foolish blunders

Perpetrated every moment

By the damsel Lucy Allen.

She must leave the Kitson family

Who no longer can put up with

All her lies and taradiddles

All her airs and all her graces

All her hats and all her dresses

But above all her bad manners

And her many foolish blunders

Bitter tears she wept at parting

But the mighty Kitson family

Shrieked and chortled in their great joy

Very glad they were to leave her

Very sad she was to leave them

Thus my Muse is torn asunder

With desire to do full justice

To the sorrow of the Red Shirt

And the gladness of the Wanderers.

Now on Monday to Torino

Hotter was than the Inferno

So they left it by the railway

Steamed away unto Novara

There were met by Jacob Forster

With his carriage and his chestnuts.

Hot and dusty was the high road

Cross and grumpy were the Travellers

All except the dark haired Robert. 

When for lunch they reached Murano

Where they sat them in a dry ditch

And midst ants and clies refreshed them.

E’er nightfall they reached Baveno

By the placid lake reposing

By the Lake of Maggiore

Domodossola on Tuesday

And the Simplon Pass on Wednesday,

When at Isella they lunched

And at Sempione slumbered.

Lightly pass I o’er the next days

For my tale becomes too lengthy

Thursday Brieg they gained at lunch time

Fresch they reached e’er fall of even

And next day drove on to Münster

At Rhone Glacier nightly sojourned

Hospenthal the destination

They must reach e’er dawn of Sabbath

Therefore ever on they travelled

Past the mighty Rhonen Glekelen

To the summit of the Furka

There with rapid pace descending

Unto Galenstock for luncheon

And to Hospenthal for Sunday

But the quiet of their Sabbath

Was disturbed by squalling infants

Squalling babes and howling infants

Who, though much too young to toddle

Yet could howl in foreign lingos

Howl enough to knock the house down

In Italian, French and German.

So they left the Tower of Babel

Tower of Babel and of Babies

Early on the Monday morning

And went on to Tachormat

Thence to Disentis e’er nightfall

And next morn to Acqua Calda

O’er Lukmanier, a high pass

And thus on to Acqua Rossa

Famous for its iron water

For its waters very nasty.

Wednesday lunch at Bellinzona

And then on unto Locarno

Where they stayed a day to rest them

While the rain it fell in torrents

And the thunder loudly rumbled.

Very dull are now these pages

For the Editor, the author,

Is weary of romancing

And of telling taradiddles

To amuse the General Public

General Public who consist of

But the maiden Jessie Beatrice

And the son the dark-haired Robert

Who are pleased to see their own names

Figuring in an epic poem

Which shall make their names immortal.

Pardon all the long digression

Which has led me from the Wanderers

Who on Friday left Locarno

By the train to Bellinzona

Then went up the Bernardino

In the carriage of the Forster.

Soon they felt them very peckish

But no halting place was found

So they broke bread as they drove on

Broke their bread and gnawed their chicken

In a manner most recherché

Comme il faut, élite, distinguée

Really quite the pick of fashion

Was the way they took their luncheon.

Very cold and keen the air was

Very beautiful the view was

As they neared San Bernardino

Where they spent the night of Friday.

(Ah! Methinks we have forgotten

All this while to sing the Triumph

Sing the Triumph of the Liberals

Headed by the mighty Gladstone

Man of glorious aims and projects

Man of wondrous execution

Whom the people of Gt Britain

Have elected to rule o’er them

To rule o’er them for the fourth time

While the Travellers, the Wanderers

Were proceeding on their journey

They at home had not been idle,

For the Queen, that worthy woman

Authorised great William Ewart

To take up the reins of office,

And to lead his band of Liberals

Liberals of all shades and colours

From the Rads unto the Irish

Lead this gallant band of followers

Into office, on to victory.

So much for the state of England,

Which much interested the Wanderers

We must come back to the muttons,

And describe how forth they started

On the morning of the next day

Drove on till they reached the summit

Of the Pass, the Bernardino

Then descended very swiftly

By a course of tortuous zig-zags  

Till they reached the town of Splügen

Where they stopped for two short hours

Ere they journeyed on to Thusis,

By the Gorge Aba Via Mala,

With its defiles steep and narrow

That struck terror to the liver

(Such the Ancients deemed the centre

Of the courage of the Warrior)

That struck terror to that portion

Of the better half the Mother

Who, so great her admiration

For the beauty of the scenery

Needs must walk to see it better.

At the hour of 9 on Monday

Forth they started out for Thusis

And drove up the Schyn valley

Alven au Bad reached for luncheon

(pardon my defective metre

But the names of all these places

Will not fit into my verses

Not without a lot of pressure

Pulling, twisting into order

Till poor things they’re maimed and mangled

Till their former shape has vanished)

But the family of the Kitsons

All this time were journeying onward

Till Bergur at last they entered

Whence they set out in the morning

And had luncheon at the Hospice

Of the Albula, a bleak pass

The eleventh that the Wanderers 

Had come over since they started.

Tuesday night at Pontresina

That most fashionable of places

In the midst of lovely mountains

And in sight of many glaciers,

But above all of the Roseg,

Next day over the Berniner

Where they lunched them at the Hospice

And drove down unto Le Prieu

On the lake of Poschiavo

Famous for its sulphur waters

Famous for its trout so monstrous.

The next day they started early

And the way was long and dreary

Very dusty was the high road

Into Italy which led them

To that land of flies and beggars

Land of grease and macaroni

Land of “dolce fa niente”.

But the Travellers, the Wanderers

Took much interest in the natives

Who in gaudy coloured garments

Looked so picturesque and dirty

Looked so very unconventional.

Opportunity was given

As they journeyed through Tireno

Where a fair was going forward

To observe this old world people

Whom before they thought existed

But in pictures or in stories

Or behind a barrel organ

In the crowded streets of London

Grinding rounds of fearful discord

From an old and wheezy organ.

Thus the dullness of the landscape

Was made up for by the people

Who inspired a lively interest

By the quaintness of their manners

And the boldness of their begging,

For they tried to wheedle money

From the pockets of the Wanderers

Tried by various arts and graces

Kissed their hands and raised their voices

And indulged in curious antics

Which prevailed not with the Wanderers

Who had lunch at Belladare

And ere nightfall came to Bormio

At the bottom of the Stelvio

Mighty Pass that on the morrow

They must cross, spite of the terror

Of the better half the Mother

At the thought of all its zigzags

But above all of the wild bears

That were numerous on the mountains

And which to herself she pictured

As enormous, huge and shaggy

Bloodthirsty and fierce and awful.

Friday dawned, at 8 they started

And the Governor the Father

Full of joy did sing and whistle

For many years his object

Had been to mount the Stelvio,

And at last he saw it realised

Thus his great joy was unbounded.

But the better half the Mother

And the blooming olive branches

Found the mountains bleak and barren

Till at length they reached the summit

Reached it shortly after lunching

At the inn, Santa Maria,

Then appeared a vision glorious

For the group of Ortler Mountains

Lay in view all bathed in sunlight

Though the better half the Mother

Said that it was very ugly

Said ‘twas like a railway station

Screamed out, do you call this pleasure

Thus to drive in mortal danger

Down a road so steep and horrid.

“Hawthorn, Hawthorn, let me get out,

Bears I dread less than these zig-zags.”

Soon they came to Franzenhohen

And by chance they failed to notice

A signpost that bad them travel

Straight unto the Customs Office,

But an officer came running

And commanded fiercely, “Halt ye,

And return to Franzenhohen.

But the carriage of the Forster,

Could not turn round on a zig-zag

On a zig-zag steep and narrow

So the fiery little Jacob

Ever ready for explosion

Went off like a tinder barrel

Cursed and swore at the official

Who then answered I arrest thee

In the name of Emperor Francis. 

At the very self-same moment

Forster’s reins he wildly snatched

Who, his ire thus augmented,

Seized his ship and threatened fiercely,

Then the official, swift as lightening

Drew his sword from out the scabbard

But the Governor, the Father

Like a Peace Maker, a soother,

Placed his form between the fighters

Threw his arms around the official

Thus upon the troubled waters

Pouring oil, producing calm.

Then after the riled official

Had examined all the boxes,

See the fiery little Jacob,

And the Governor, the Father

With these same amazed officials

Smoked the pipe of peace together

Smoked in their alpine wigwam

And departed sleek and smiling

Unto Trafot where they halted

In an inn, an inn that smelt so

That they scarce could sleep within it

So departed with rejoicing

On the morn for Finstermüry

At St. Valentin had luncheon

And drove on midst rain in torrents

And reached Finstermüry for Sunday 

All that day and all the next day,

And in sooth the day that followed

Water from the skies came falling,

Tumbling, dashing, dripping, spitting

Washing rocks from off the hillside

Till the better half the Mother

Felt her nerves were on the rampage

For she feared they all would perish

In the elemental fury.

And they passed a lively Sunday

While without the tempest thundered

And within the fumes of ‘baccy’

Rose from out the lips of Germans.

Very cold and damp the air was

Very smelly the interior

Very ‘blasay’ were the Wanderers,

Ere they sought their downy couches

Which, alal, of down were guiltless

On the evening of that Sabbath.

Very darkly dawned the morrow

And the rain came down in torrents

But at 1 o’clock they started

Left Hoch Finstermüry behind them

And at 5 o’clock reached Sandbach

Very damp and cold and clammy.

After driving in such weather

On the morrow came the parting

Came the parting from the Forster

And from one whom Jessie Beatrice

Tells me I have never mentioned

Namely Fritz the maid of Jacob

Fritz his name, La Suisse his nation

Very fond he was of hitching

Up his nameless nether garments

Which like those far-famed in story

By a single pin were hanging,

Very much he dreaded Jacob,

Whom he served with slavish ardour

And who bullied him intensely,

But we come back to the parting

Which took place at Landech station,

First they said goodbye to Pilou

Then to the five fiery chestnuts,

Who so gallantly had drawn them

Over mount and stream and valley

Soldat, Tambour, Hans and Vainqueur

Licherlei the fifth and last one,

Let their names be ever honoured

As the drawers of the Kitsons

And the horses of the Forster.

Then there came the saddest moment

When mid sighs and tears and sorrow

They shook hands with Jacob Forster

And with Fritz his faithful henchman

Adieu, au revoir, bon voyage,

Rose up midst their sounds of anguish

And with hearts too full for language.

They took them to their places

To their places in the lunch car

On their way to Basle a large town

Where they spent the night of Tuesday

Spent the night and left the next day

In the train to Paris going.

When they got unto the frontier

To Petit Croisé on the frontier

Bills were posted on the station

Saying on account of cholera

They must bear examination

By a Medicine Man, a Doctor

Also all their dirty linen

Must submit to disinfection

So they opened wide the boxes

Took out all the dirty linen

Placing it in bags of netting

Sending it for fumigation.

Soon it came back hot and smoking

With strong fumes and odours reeking

And was put back in the boxes.

Then they reached Vesoul for luncheon

Eat a very hurried luncheon

And ere 7 o’clock reached Paris

On the morn again they set out

Bound for Calais were the Wanderers

To take ship for their own country

For their native shores of Albion

Calais Douvre the boat they went by

Much surprised they were to find out

That for once the English Channel

Was not like an oily duckpond,

But was really rough and stormy

And in sooth an aged sailor

On being questioned of the prospects

Of the prospects for smooth weather

“Very rough” was heard to answer

“Very much it may be”.

One by one the wretched victims

First grew yellow, then a pallid

Hue of green o’erspread their features

Till at last they quite succumbed them

Unto all the grisly horrors

Unto “mal de mer” belonging.

But the family of Kitsons

(All except the dark-haired Robert

Who was just a little verdant)

All felt extremely healthy

Yes, their rude health was aggressive,

For it looked so very heartless,

To stand there all red and rosy,

Revelling in the ocean’s fury

While around the sick and suffering

Cursed the hour which saw them there.

But all crossings have their endings

And they neared the cliffs of Dover,

Cliffs so dear to men of Albion,

Cliffs oft sung in song and story

Steps unto their native England

Steps to home and wife and friends.

Then upon the pier they landed

Where a crowd had come to watch them

Come to mock at all the anguish

Undergone by all the sufferers

Whom the Calais Douvre was landing,

Then the Travellers the Wanderers

Walked across to the Lord London,

There to spend of all their travels

This the very latest evening

For the morrow saw them set out

Through a fertile verdant landscape

Where the harvest was in progress;

And the hops were being gathered

By an army of hop-pickers,

Tattered, ragged, poor and grimy

Young and old all worked together

Glad to get away from London

Come from all their dirt and misery

To the fresh air and the sunlight

Which alas to them were strangers.

‘Ere midday they came to London

Drove across to the Great Northern

Where they lunched and whence they set out

To their own, their native city

Which they had not seen for long time

And towards which their hearts were yearning

Not for long, for soon rejoicing

Filled their hearts, for black and murky

Loometh near the dirty city

And at last they’re home again

And are met upon the doorway

Of their old ancestral mansion

Of the ancient Hall of Elmet

By the shining, red faced butler,

Clark the butler, who with visage

Wreathed in smiles and breathing welcome

Whereupon their travels ended,

Safely ended spite the terror

Of the better half the Mother,

We must leave them safe and happy

In their old ancestral mansion

But we first must fondly greet them

‘Ere farewell we say for ever

First the Governor the Father

Who by dint of all his wanderings

Is so thin you scarce can see him,

And in weight has lost a whole stone,

Then the better half the Mother

Who is weary of her travels

Weary of the constant dangers

Which she thought beset their pathway

Which made her nerves wax rampant,

Then the son the dark-haired Robert

Who has gained much floral knowledge

And has made himself quite useful

As a brusher and a squasher

Squasher of Refractory boxes

Then the Author of these Pages

“Nut Brown Maid we now might style her

Save that never nut existed

Of a hue so brown and coppery

As was now the maiden Ethel.

Then the tomboy Jessie Beatrice

She had leant to do her own hair

Though it cost her many a struggle

Many a tear and many a tangle

But she triumphed and was victor,

Victor o’er that wig so shaggy.

Now farewell, Auf wiedersehen,

You my lines of wit or folly

(Whisper softly, mostly folly

Is the verdict of the author)

But at least your lines remind me

Of the Travellers the Wanderers

And the countries where they journeyed

In the year of 1800

1800 two and ninety.

FINIS

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