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And costliest scents that men distil,
And rare pomades, forgot their price
And marvelled at his splendid skill.
The curling irons in his hand
Almost grew quick enough to speak,
The razor was a magic wand
That understood the softest cheek.
Yet with no pride his heart was moved;
He was so modest in his ways!
His daily task was all he loved,
And now and then a little praise.
An equal care he would bestow
On problems simple or complex;
And nobody had seen him show
A preference for either sex.
How came it then one summer day,
Coiffing the daughter of the King,
He lengthened out the least delay
And loitered in his hairdressing?
The Princess was a pretty child,
Thirteen years old, or thereabout.
She was as joyous and as wild
As spring flowers when the sun is out.
Her gold hair fell down to her feet
And hung about her pretty eyes;
She was as lyrical and sweet
As one of Schubert’s melodies.
Three times the barber curled a lock,
And thrice he straightened it again;
And twice the irons scorched her frock,
And twice he stumbled in her train.
His fingers lost their cu
His ivory combs obeyed no more;
Something or other dimmed his sight,
And moved mysteriously the floor.
He leant upon the toilet table,
His fingers fumbled in his breast;
He felt as foolish as a fable,
And feeble as a pointless jest.
He snatched a bottle of Cologne,
And broke the neck between his hands;
He felt as if he was alone,
And mighty as a king’s commands.
The Princess gave a little scream,
Carrousel’s cut was sharp and deep;
He left her softly as a dream
That leaves a sleeper to his sleep.
He left the room on pointed feet;
Smiling that things had gone so well.
They hanged him in Meridian Street.
You pray in vain for Carrousel.
The Three Musicians
Along the path that skirts the wood,
The three musicians wend their way,
Pleased with their thoughts, each other’s mood,
Franz Himmel’s latest roundelay,
The morning’s work, a new-found theme, their breakfast and the summer day.
One’s a soprano, lightly frocked
In cool, white muslin that just shows
Her brown silk stockings gaily clocked,
Plump arms and elbows tipped with rose,
And frills of petticoats and things, and outlines as the warm wind blows.
Beside her a slim, gracious boy
Hastens to mend her tresses’ fall,
And dies her favour to enjoy,
And dies for réclame and recall
At Paris and St. Petersburg, Vie
The third’s a Polish Pianist
With big engagements everywhere,
A light heart and an iron wrist,
And shocks and shoals of yellow hair,
And fingers that can trill on sixths and fill begi
The three musicians stroll along
And pluck the ears of ripened corn,
Break into odds and ends of song,
And mock the woods with Siegfried’s horn,
And fill the air with Gluck, and fill the tweeded tourist’s soul with scorn.
The Polish genius lags behind,
And, with some poppies in his hand,
Picks out the strings and wood and wind
Of an imaginary band,
Enchanted that for once his men obey his beat and understand.
The charming cantatrice reclines
And rests a moment where she sees
Her chateau’s roof that hotly shines
Amid the dusky summer trees,
And fans herself, half shuts her eyes, and smoothes the frock about her knees.
The gracious boy is at her feet,
And weighs his courage with his chance;
His fears soon melt in noon-day heat.
The tourist gives a furious glance,
Red as his guide-book grows, moves on, and offers up a prayer for France.
Обри Бердслей (1872–1898)