In 1907, Hilaire Belloc (1870–1953) published “Cautionary Tales for Children: Designed for the Admonition of Children between the ages of eight and fourteen years.” The New York Sun has already featured one of the book’s comic poems this month: “Jim, Who ran away from his Nurse, and was eaten by a Lion.” And we noted that in these poems for children, Belloc is somehow both the stuffy narrating adult, moralizing windily, and the mischievously irritating child whose adventures come to disaster. It’s usual, at this point in any discussion of Belloc, to rehearse sadly all the things wrong with the poet, since he was something of an antisemite, wrote faster (author of 150 books) than his mind could move, and opined loudly on far more topics than he understood. And the result is that even “Cautionary Tales” has fallen into disrepute — to our loss, since it is the single best in a class of literature that continues through to our own day: books about children coming to horrible ends, offered for the enjoyment of children. (See, for example the 1999–2015 “A Series of Unfortunate Events.”) The comedy in “Cautionary Tales” is not always aimed exclusively at children, however. In “Lord Lundy, Who was too Freely Moved to Tears, and thereby ruined his Political Career” Belloc indulges his dislike of the British Empire and the casual assumption of political position by the upper classes — all while pouring out the comic tetrameter lines of children’s verse.

Lord Lundy, Who was too Freely Moved to Tears, and thereby ruined his Political Career
by Hilaire Belloc

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!

___________________________________________ 

With “Poem of the Day,” The New York Sun offers a daily portion of verse selected by Joseph Bottum with the help of the North Carolina poet Sally Thomas, the Sun’s associate poetry editor. Tied to the day, or the season, or just individual taste, the poems will be typically drawn from the lesser-known portion of the history of English verse. In the coming months we will be reaching out to contemporary poets for examples of current, primarily formalist work, to show that poetry can still serve as a delight to the ear, an instruction to the mind, and a tonic for the soul.