Scotch rhapsody

Do not take a bath in Jordan, Gordon,

On the holy Sabbath, on the peaceful day!'

Said the huntsman, playing on his old bagpipe,

Boring to death the pheasant and the snipe —

Boring the ptarmigan and grouse for fun —

Boring them worse than a nine-bore gun.

Till the flaxen leaves where the prunes are ripe,

Heard the tartan wind a-droning in the pipe,

And they heard Macpherson say:

'Where do the waves go? What hotels

Hide their bustles and their gay ombrelles?

And would there be room? —

Would there be room?

Would there be room

for

me?

There is a hotel at Ostend

Cold as the wind, without an end,

Haunted by ghostly poor relations

Of Bostonian conversations

(Like bagpipes rotting through the walls.)

And there the pearl-ropes fall like shawls

With a noise like marine waterfalls.

And 'Another little drink wouldn't do us any harm!'

Pierces through the Sabbatical calm.

And that is the place for me!

So do not take a bath in Jordan, Gordon,

On the holy Sabbath, on the peaceful day —

Or you'll never go to heaven, Gordon Macpherson,

And speaking purely as a private person

That is the place

— that is the place

— that is the

place

for

me!