To The Tripper

My dear Sir, or Madam, -         When James Watt,         Or some such person,         Had the luck         To see a kettle boil,         He little dreamed         That he was discovering you,         Otherwise he would have let his kettle boil         For a million million years         Without saying anything about it.         However,         James Watt         Omitted to take cognisance of the ultimate trouble,         And here you are.         And here, alas! you will stay,         Till our iron roads are beaten into ploughshares,         And Messrs. Cook & Sons are at rest.         "When I was young, a single man,         And after youthful follies ran"         (Which, strange as it may seem, is Wordsworth)         Your goings to and fro upon the earth,         And walkings up and down thereon,         Were limited by the day trip.         For half-a-crown         You went to Brighton,         Or to Buxton and Matlock,         Or Stratford-on-Avon,         As the case may be.         A special tap of ale         And a special cut of 'am         Were put on for your delectation;         You sang a mixture of hymns         And music-hall songs         On your homeward journey,         And there was an end of the matter.         But nowadays there is no escape from you.         The trip that was over and done         In twenty-four hours at most         Has become a matter         Of "Saturday to Monday at Sunny Saltburn,"         "Ten days in Lovely Lucerne,"         And "A Visit to the Holy Land for Ten Guineas."         Wherever one goes         On this wide globe         There shall one find         Your empty ginger-beer bottle and your old newspaper;         The devastations,         Fence-breakings,         And flower-pot maraudings         Which you once reserved for noblemen's seats         Are now extended to the Rigi,         The Bridge of Sighs,         Mount Everest,         And the deserts of Gobi         And Shamo.         Indeed, I question whether it would be possible         For one to traverse         The trackless forests of Mexico         Or "the dreary tundras of remote Siberia,"         Or to put one's nose         Into such an uncompromising fastness as Craig Ell Achaie         (Which is the last place the Canadian Pacific Railway made         And which may not be properly spelled)         Without coming upon you         Picnicking in a spinny,         And prepared to greet all and sundry         With that time-honoured remark,         "There's 'air,"         Or some other         Equally objectionable ribaldry.         Well, my dear Tripper,         Time is short,         And poets fill their columns easily,         So that I must not abuse you any more.         You are part of the Cosmos,         And as such I am bound to respect you;         But, by Day and Night,         I wish         That James Watt         Had taken no notice         Of his boiling kettle!