'Twas Doctor Watson, human mole, Obtusely, painfully polite; Who played the unambitious rôle Of parasitic satellite; Inevitably bound to bore us, Like Aristophanes's Chorus. . . . . . . But London town is sad to-day, And preternaturally solemn; The fountains murmur "Let us spray" To Nelson on his lonely column; Big Ben is mute, her clapper crack'd is, For Holmes has given up his practice.
No more in silence, as the snake, Will he his sinuous path pursue, Till, like the weasel (when awake), Or deft, resilient kangaroo, He leaps upon his quivering quarry, Before there's time to say you're sorry.
No more will criminals, at dawn, Effecting some burglarious entry, (While Sherlock, on the garden lawn, Enacts the thankless rôle of sentry), Discover, to their bitter cost, That felons who are found--are lost!
No more on Holmes shall Watson base The Chronicles he proudly fabled; The violin and morphia-case Are in the passage, packed and labelled; And Holmes himself is at the door, Departing--to return no more.
He bids farewell to Baker Street, Though Watson clings about his knees; He hastens to his country seat, To spend his dotage keeping bees; And one of them, depend upon it, Shall find a haven in his bonnet!
But though in grief our heads are bowed, And tears upon our cheeks are shining, We recognise that ev'ry cloud Conceals somewhere a silver lining; And hear with deep congratulation Of Watson's timely termination.
Ye Critics, who with bilious eye Peruse my incoherent medley, Prepared to let your arrows fly, With cruel aim and purpose deadly, Desist a moment, ere you spoil The harvest of a twelvemonth's toil!
Remember, should you scent afar The crusted jokes of days gone by, What conscious plagiarists we are: Molière and Seymour Hicks and I, For, as my bearded chestnuts prove, _Je prends mon bien où je le trouve!_
My wealth of wit I never waste On Chestertonian paradox; My humour, in the best of taste, Like Miss Corelli's, never shocks; For sacred things my rev'rent awe Resembles that of Bernard Shaw.
Behold how tenderly I treat Each victim of my pen and brain, And should I tread upon his feet, How lightly I leap off again; Observe with what an airy grace I fling my inkpot in his face!