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
through 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 for me? -
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!