The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Book of Humorous Verse, by Various, Edited by Carolyn Wells This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: The Book of Humorous Verse Author: Various Editor: Carolyn Wells Release Date: December 22, 2007 [eBook #23972] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 ***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BOOK OF HUMOROUS VERSE*** E-text prepared by Hilary Caws-Elwitt, Huub Bakker, and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) Transcriber's Note Some text styles have been preserved in this text by enclosing between special characters. Italics uses _underlines_ and small caps uses |pipes|. Font sizes are not preserved. The oe-ligature is represented by "[oe]". THE BOOK OF HUMOROUS VERSE Compiled by CAROLYN WELLS |Author of| "|Such Nonsense|," "|The Whimsey Anthology|," |etc.|, |etc.| New York George H. Doran Company Printed in the United States of America TO ROBERT CHAPMAN SPRAGUE INTRODUCTION A hope of immortality and a sense of humor distinguish man from the beasts of the field. A single exception may be made, perhaps, of the Laughing Hyena, and, on the other hand, not every one of the human race possesses the power of laughter. For those who do, this volume is intended. And since there can be nothing humorous about an introduction, there can be small need of a lengthy one. Merely a few explanations of conditions which may be censured by captious critics. First, the limitations of space had to be recognized. Hence, the book is a compilation, not a collection. It is representative, but not exhaustive. My ambition was toward a volume to which everyone could go, with a surety of finding any one of his favorite humorous poems between these covers. But no covers of one book could insure that, so I reluctantly gave up the dream for a reality which I trust will make it possible for a majority of seekers to find their favorites here. The compiler's course is a difficult one. The Scylla of Popularity lures him on the one hand, while the Charybdis of the Classical charms him on the other. He has nothing to steer by but his own good taste, and good taste, alack, is greatly a matter of opinion. And no opinion seemeth good unto an honest compiler, save his own. Wherefore, the choice of these selections, like kissing, went by favor. As to the arrangement of them, every compiler will tell you that Classification is Vexation. And why not? When many a poem may be both Parody and Satire,--both Romance and Cynicism. Wherefore, the compiler sorted with loving care the selections here presented striving to do justice to the verses themselves, and taking a chance on the tolerant good nature of the reader. For, "A jest's prosperity lies in the ear Of him that hears it. Never in the tongue Of him that makes it." Which made me all the more careful to do my authors justice, leaving the prosperity of the jests to the hearers. |Carolyn Wells.| ACKNOWLEDGMENTS The compiler is indebted to the publisher or author, as noted below, for the use of copyright material included in this volume. Special arrangements have been made with the authorized publishers of those American poets, whose works in whole or in part have lapsed copyright. All rights of these poems have been reserved by the authorized publisher, author or holder of the copyright as indicated in the following: Little, Brown & Company: For selections from the Poems and Limericks of Edward Lear. The Macmillan Company: For selections from the Poems of Lewis Carroll and Verses from "Alice's Adventures in Wonderland" and "Through the Looking Glass." Harr Wagner Publishing Company: For permission to reprint from "The Complete Poems" of Joaquin Miller "That Gentle Man From Boston Town," "That Texan Cattle Man," "William Brown of Oregon." Frederick A. Stokes Company: "Bessie Brown, M.D." and "A Kiss in the Rain," by Samuel Minturn Peck. Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Company: For the inclusion of the following Poems by Sam Walter Foss: "The Meeting of the Clabberhuses," "A Philosopher" and "The Prayer of Cyrus Brown" from "Dreams in Homespun," copyright, 1897. "Then Agin--" and "Husband and Heathen," from "Back Country Poems," copyright, 1894. "The Ideal Husband to His Wife," from "Whiffs from Wild Meadows," copyright, 1895. Forbes & Company: "How Often?" "If I Should Die To-night," and "The Pessimist," by Ben King. The Century Company: For permission to reprint from _St. Nicholas Magazine_ the following poems by Ruth McEnery Stuart: "The Endless Song" and "The Hen-Roost Man"; and by Tudor Jenks: "An Old Bachelor"; and by Mary Mapes Dodge: "Home and Mother," "Life in Laconics," "Over the Way" and "The Zealless Xylographer." Thomas L. Masson: For permission to reprint "The Kiss" from "Life." E. P. Button & Company: "The Converted Cannibals" and "The Retired Pork-Butcher and the Spook," by G. E. Farrow. Houghton Mifflin Company: With their permission and by special arrangement, as authorized publishers of the following authors' works, are used: Selections from Nora Perry, John Townsend Trowbridge, Charles E. Carryl, Oliver Wendell Holmes, John Greenleaf Whittier, Ralph Waldo Emerson, Bret Harte, James Thomas Fields, John G. Saxe, James Russell Lowell and Bayard Taylor. A. P. Watt & Son and Doubleday, Page & Company: For their permission to use "Divided Destinies," "Study of an Elevation, in Indian Ink," and "Commonplaces," by Rudyard Kipling. G. P. Putnam's Sons: Selections from the Poems of Eugene Fitch Ware and "The Wreck of the 'Julie Plante,'" by William Henry Drummond. Henry Holt & Company: Two Parodies from "----and Other Poets," by Louis Untermeyer. Dodd, Mead & Company: "The Constant Cannibal Maiden," "Blow Me Eyes" and "A Grain of Salt," by Wallace Irwin. John Lane Company: For Poems by Owen Seaman, Anthony C. Deane and G. K. Chesterton. The Smart Set: "Dighton is Engaged," and "Kitty Wants to Write," by Gelett Burgess. Small, Maynard & Company: For selections from Holman F. Day, Richard Hovey and Clinton Scollard. The Bobbs-Merrill Company: For special permission to reprint from the Biographical Edition of the Complete Works of James Whitcomb Riley (copyright, 1913) the following Poems: "Little Orphant Annie," "The Lugubrious Whing-Whang," "The Man in the Moon," "The Old Man and Jim," "Prior to Miss Belle's Appearance," "Spirk Throll-Derisive," "When the Frost is on the Punkin." The Bobbs-Merrill Company: For permission to use the following Poems by Robert J. Burdette, from "Smiles Yoked with Sighs" (copyright, 1900), "Orphan Born," "The Romance of the Carpet," "Soldier, Rest!", "Songs without Words," "What Will We Do?". Charles Scribner's Sons: For permission to use "The Dinkey-Bird," "Dutch Lullaby," "The Little Peach," "The Truth About Horace," by Eugene Field. CONTENTS I: BANTER PAGE The Played-Out Humorist _W. S. Gilbert_ 25 The Practical Joker _W. S. Gilbert_ 26 To Ph[oe]be _W. S. Gilbert_ 28 Malbrouck _Father Prout_ 29 Mark Twain: A Pipe Dream _Oliver Herford_ 30 From a Full Heart _A. A. Milne_ 31 The Ultimate Joy _Unknown_ 32 Old Fashioned Fun _W. M. Thackeray_ 33 When Moonlike Ore the Hazure Seas _W. M. Thackeray_ 34 When the Frost is on the Punkin _James Whitcomb Riley_ 34 Two Men _Edwin Arlington Robinson_ 35 A Familiar Letter to Several Correspondents _Oliver Wendell Holmes_ 36 The Height of the Ridiculous _Oliver Wendell Holmes_ 38 Shake, Mulleary and Go-ethe _H. C. Bunner_ 40 A Rondelay _Peter A. Motteux_ 41 Winter Dusk _R. K. Munkittrick_ 42 Comic Miseries _John G. Saxe_ 42 Early Rising _John G. Saxe_ 44 To the Pliocene Skull _Bret Harte_ 46 Ode to Work in Springtime _Thomas R. Ybarra_ 47 Old Stuff _Bert Leston Taylor_ 48 To Minerva _Thomas Hood_ 49 The Legend of Heinz Von Stein _Charles Godfrey Leland_ 49 The Truth About Horace _Eugene Field_ 50 Propinquity Needed _Charles Battell Loomis_ 51 In the Catacombs _Harlan Hoge Ballard_ 52 Our Native Birds _Nathan Haskell Dole_ 53 The Prayer of Cyrus Brown _Sam Walter Foss_ 54 Erring in Company _Franklin P. Adams_ 55 Cupid _William Blake_ 56 If We Didn't Have to Eat _Nixon Waterman_ 57 To My Empty Purse _Geoffrey Chaucer_ 58 The Birth of Saint Patrick _Samuel Lover_ 58 Her Little Feet _William Ernest Henley_ 59 School _James Kenneth Stephen_ 60 The Millennium _James Kenneth Stephen_ 60 "Exactly So" _Lady T. Hastings_ 61 Companions _Charles Stuart Calverley_ 63 The Schoolmaster _Charles Stuart Calverley_ 64 A Appeal for Are to the Sextant of the old Brick Meetinouse _Arabella Willson_ 66 Cupid's Darts _Unknown_ 67 A Plea for Trigamy _Owen Seaman_ 68 The Pope _Charles Lever_ 70 All at Sea _Frederick Moxon_ 70 Ballad of the Primitive Jest _Andrew Lang_ 72 Villanelle of Things Amusing _Gelett Burgess_ 73 How to Eat Watermelons _Frank Libby Stanton_ 73 A Vague Story _Walter Parke_ 74 His Mother-in-Law _Walter Parke_ 75 On a Deaf Housekeeper _Unknown_ 76 Hom[oe]opathic Soup _Unknown_ 76 Some Little Bug _Roy Atwell_ 77 On the Downtown Side of an Uptown Street _William Johnston_ 79 Written After Swimming from Sestos to Abydos _Lord Byron_ 80 The Fisherman's Chant _F. C. Burnand_ 81 Report of an Adjudged Case _William Cowper_ 82 Prehistoric Smith _David Law Proudfit_ 83 Song _George Canning_ 84 Lying _Thomas Moore_ 86 Strictly Germ-Proof _Arthur Guiterman_ 87 The Lay of the Lover's Friend _William B. Aytoun_ 88 Man's Place in Nature _Unknown_ 89 The New Version _W. J. Lampton_ 90 Amazing Facts About Food _Unknown_ 91 Transcendentalism _Unknown_ 92 A "Caudal" Lecture _William Sawyer_ 92 Salad _Sydney Smith_ 93 Nemesis _J. W. Foley_ 94 "Mona Lisa" _John Kendrick Bangs_ 95 The Siege of Djklxprwbz _Eugene Fitch Ware_ 96 Rural Bliss _Anthony C. Deane_ 97 An Old Bachelor _Tudor Jenks_ 98 Song _J. R. Planché_ 99 The Quest of the Purple Cow _Hilda Johnson_ 100 St. Patrick of Ireland, My Dear! _William Maginn_ 101 The Irish Schoolmaster _James A. Sidey_ 103 Reflections on Cleopathera's Needle _Cormac O'Leary_ 105 The Origin of Ireland _Unknown_ 106 As to the Weather _Unknown_ 107 The Twins _Henry S. Leigh_ 108 II: THE ETERNAL FEMININE He and She _Eugene Fitch Ware_ 109 The Kiss _Tom Masson_ 109 The Courtin' _James Russell Lowell_ 110 Hiram Hover _Bayard Taylor_ 113 Blow Me Eyes! _Wallace Irwin_ 115 First Love _Charles Stuart Calverley_ 116 What Is a Woman Like? _Unknown_ 118 Mis' Smith _Albert Bigelow Paine_ 119 Triolet _Paul T. Gilbert_ 120 Bessie Brown, M.D. _Samuel Minturn Peck_ 120 A Sketch from the Life _Arthur Guiterman_ 121 Minguillo's Kiss _Unknown_ 122 A Kiss in the Rain _Samuel Minturn Peck_ 123 The Love-Knot _Nora Perry_ 124 Over the Way _Mary Mapes Dodge_ 125 Chorus of Women _Aristophanes_ 126 The Widow Malone _Charles Lever_ 126 The Smack in School _William Pitt Palmer_ 128 'Späcially Jim _Bessie Morgan_ 129 Kitty of Coleraine _Edward Lysaght_ 130 Why Don't the Men Propose? _Thomas Haynes Bayly_ 130 A Pin _Ella Wheeler Wilcox_ 132 The Whistler _Unknown_ 133 The Cloud _Oliver Herford_ 134 Constancy _John Boyle O'Reilly_ 137 Ain't it Awful, Mabel? _John Edward Hazzard_ 137 Wing Tee Wee _J. P. Denison_ 139 Phyllis Lee _Oliver Herford_ 139 The Sorrows of Werther _W. M. Thackeray_ 140 The Unattainable _Harry Romaine_ 141 Rory O'More; or, Good Omens _Samuel Lover_ 141 A Dialogue from Plato _Austin Dobson_ 142 Dora Versus Rose _Austin Dobson_ 144 Tu Quoque _Austin Dobson_ 146 Nothing to Wear _William Allen Butler_ 148 My Mistress's Boots _Frederick Locker-Lampson_ 153 Mrs. Smith _Frederick Locker-Lampson_ 155 A Terrible Infant _Frederick Locker-Lampson_ 156 Susan _Frederick Locker-Lampson_ 157 "I Didn't Like Him" _Harry B. Smith_ 157 My Angeline _Harry B. Smith_ 158 Nora's Vow _Sir Walter Scott_ 159 Husband and Heathen _Sam Walter Foss_ 160 The Lost Pleiad _Arthur Reed Ropes_ 161 The New Church Organ _Will Carleton_ 162 Larrie O'Dee _William W. Fink_ 165 No Fault in Women _Robert Herrick_ 166 A Cosmopolitan Woman _Unknown_ 167 Courting in Kentucky _Florence E. Pratt_ 168 Any One Will Do _Unknown_ 169 A Bird in the Hand _Frederic E. Weatherly_ 170 The Belle of the Ball _Winthrop Mackworth Praed_ 171 The Retort _George Pope Morris_ 174 Behave Yoursel' Before Folk _Alexander Rodger_ 174 The Chronicle: A Ballad _Abraham Cowley_ 176 Buxom Joan _William Congreve_ 179 Oh, My Geraldine _F. C. Burnand_ 180 The Parterre _E. H. Palmer_ 180 How to Ask and Have _Samuel Lover_ 181 Sally in Our Alley _Henry Carey_ 182 False Love and True Logic _Laman Blanchard_ 183 Pet's Punishment _J. Ashby-Sterry_ 184 Ad Chloen, M.A. _Mortimer Collins_ 184 Chloe, M.A. _Mortimer Collins_ 185 The Fair Millinger _Fred W. Loring_ 186 Two Fishers _Unknown_ 188 Maud _Henry S. Leigh_ 188 Are Women Fair? _Francis Davison_ 189 The Plaidie _Charles Sibley_ 190 Feminine Arithmetic _Charles Graham Halpine_ 191 Lord Guy _George F. Warren_ 191 Sary "Fixes Up" Things _Albert Bigelow Paine_ 192 The Constant Cannibal Maiden _Wallace Irwin_ 194 Widow Bedott to Elder Sniffles _Frances M. Whitcher_ 195 Under the Mistletoe _George Francis Shults_ 196 The Broken Pitcher _William E. Aytoun_ 196 Gifts Returned _Walter Savage Landor_ 198 III: LOVE AND COURTSHIP Noureddin, the Son of the Shah _Clinton Scollard_ 199 The Usual Way _Frederic E. Weatherly_ 200 The Way to Arcady _H. C. Bunner_ 201 My Love and My Heart _Henry S. Leigh_ 204 Quite by Chance _Frederick Langbridge_ 205 The Nun _Leigh Hunt_ 206 The Chemist to His Love _Unknown_ 206 Categorical Courtship _Unknown_ 207 Lanty Leary _Samuel Lover_ 208 The Secret Combination _Ellis Parker Butler_ 209 Forty Years After _H. H. Porter_ 210 Cupid _Ben Jonson_ 211 Paring-Time Anticipated _William Cowper_ 212 Why _H. P. Stevens_ 214 The Sabine Farmer's Serenade _Father Prout_ 214 I Hae Laid a Herring in Saut _James Tytler_ 216 The Clown's Courtship _Unknown_ 217 Out Upon It _Sir John Suckling_ 218 Love is Like a Dizziness _James Hogg_ 218 The Kitchen Clock _John Vance Cheney_ 220 Lady Mine _H. E. Clarke_ 221 Ballade of the Golfer in Love _Clinton Scollard_ 222 Ballade of Forgotten Loves _Arthur Grissom_ 223 IV: SATIRE A Ballade of Suicide _G. K. Chesterton_ 224 Finnigan to Flannigan _S. W. Gillinan_ 225 Study of an Elevation in Indian Ink _Rudyard Kipling_ 226 The V-a-s-e _James Jeffrey Roche_ 227 Miniver Cheevy _Edwin Arlington Robinson_ 229 The Recruit _Robert W. Chambers_ 230 Officer Brady _Robert W. Chambers_ 232 Post-Impressionism _Bert Leston Taylor_ 235 To the Portrait of "A Gentleman" _Oliver Wendell Holmes_ 236 Cacoethes Scribendi _Oliver Wendell Holmes_ 238 Contentment _Oliver Wendell Holmes_ 238 A Boston Lullaby _James Jeffrey Roche_ 240 A Grain of Salt _Wallace Irwin_ 241 Song _Richard Lovelace_ 241 A Philosopher _Sam Walter Foss_ 242 The Meeting of the Clabberhuses _Sam Walter Foss_ 244 The Ideal Husband to His Wife _Sam Walter Foss_ 246 Distichs _John Hay_ 247 The Hen-roost Man _Ruth McEnery Stuart_ 247 If They Meant All They Say _Alice Duer Miller_ 247 The Man _Stephen Crane_ 248 A Thought _James Kenneth Stephen_ 248 The Musical Ass _Tomaso de Yriarte_ 249 The Knife-Grinder _George Canning_ 249 St. Anthony's Sermon to the Fishes _Abraham á Sancta-Clara_ 251 The Battle of Blenheim _Robert Southey_ 252 The Three Black Crows _John Byrom_ 254 To the Terrestrial Globe _W. S. Gilbert_ 256 Etiquette _W. S. Gilbert_ 256 A Modest Wit _Selleck Osborn_ 260 The Latest Decalogue _Arthur Hugh Clough_ 261 A Simile _Matthew Prior_ 262 By Parcels Post _George R. Sims_ 262 All's Well That Ends Well _Unknown_ 264 The Contrast _Captain C. Morris_ 265 The Devonshire Lane _John Marriott_ 266 A Splendid Fellow _H. C. Dodge_ 267 If _H. C. Dodge_ 268 Accepted and Will Appear _Parmenas Mix_ 268 The Little Vagabond _William Blake_ 269 Sympathy _Reginald Heber_ 270 The Religion of Hudibras _Samuel Butler_ 271 Holy Willie's Prayer _Robert Burns_ 272 The Learned Negro _Unknown_ 274 True to Poll _F. C. Burnand_ 275 Trust in Women _Unknown_ 276 The Literary Lady _Richard Brinsley Sheridan_ 278 Twelve Articles _Dean Swift_ 279 All-Saints _Edmund Yates_ 280 How to Make a Man of Consequence _Mark Lemon_ 280 On a Magazine Sonnet _Russell Hilliard Loines_ 281 Paradise _George Birdseye_ 281 The Friar of Orders Gray _John O'Keefe_ 282 Of a Certain Man _Sir John Harrington_ 282 Clean Clara _W. B. Rands_ 283 Christmas Chimes _Unknown_ 284 The Ruling Passion _Alexander Pope_ 285 The Pope and the Net _Robert Browning_ 286 The Actor _John Wolcot_ 287 The Lost Spectacles _Unknown_ 287 That Texan Cattle Man _Joaquin Miller_ 288 Fable _Ralph Waldo Emerson_ 290 Hoch! Der Kaiser _Rodney Blake_ 291 What Mr. Robinson Thinks _James Russell Lowell_ 292 The Candidate's Creed _James Russell Lowell_ 294 The Razor Seller _John Wolcot_ 297 The Devil's Walk on Earth _Robert Southey_ 298 Father Molloy _Samuel Lover_ 307 The Owl-Critic _James Thomas Fields_ 309 What Will We Do? _Robert J. Burdette_ 311 Life in Laconics _Mary Mapes Dodge_ 311 On Knowing When to Stop _L. J. Bridgman_ 312 Rev. Gabe Tucker's Remarks _Unknown_ 312 Thursday _Frederic E. Weatherly_ 313 Sky-Making _Mortimer Collins_ 314 The Positivists _Mortimer Collins_ 315 Martial in London _Mortimer Collins_ 316 The Splendid Shilling _John Philips_ 316 After Horace _A. D. Godley_ 320 Of a Precise Tailor _Sir John Harrington_ 322 Money _Jehan du Pontalais_ 323 Boston Nursery Rhymes _Rev. Joseph Cook_ 324 Kentucky Philosophy _Harrison Robertson_ 325 John Grumlie _Allan Cunningham_ 326 A Song of Impossibilities _Winthrop Mackworth Praed_ 327 Song _John Donne_ 330 The Oubit _Charles Kingsley_ 330 Double Ballade of Primitive Man _Andrew Lang_ 331 Phillis's Age _Matthew Prior_ 332 V: CYNICISM Good and Bad Luck _John Hay_ 334 Bangkolidye _Barry Pain_ 334 Pensées De Noël _A. D. Godley_ 336 A Ballade of an Anti-Puritan _G. K. Chesterton_ 337 Pessimism _Newton Mackintosh_ 338 Cynical Ode to an Ultra-Cynical Public _Charles Mackay_ 339 Youth and Art _Robert Browning_ 339 The Bachelor's Dream _Thomas Hood_ 342 All Things Except Myself I Know _Francois Villon_ 343 The Joys of Marriage _Charles Cotton_ 344 The Third Proposition _Madeline Bridges_ 345 The Ballad of Cassandra Brown _Helen Gray Cone_ 345 What's in a Name? _R. K. Munkittrick_ 347 Too Late _Fits Hugh Ludlow_ 348 The Annuity _George Outram_ 350 K. K.--Can't Calculate _Frances M. Whitcher_ 353 Northern Farmer _Lord Tennyson_ 354 Fin de Siècle _Unknown_ 357 Then Ag'in _Sam Walter Foss_ 357 The Pessimist _Ben King_ 358 Without and Within _James Russell Lowell_ 359 Same Old Story _Harry B. Smith_ 360 VI: EPIGRAMS Woman's Will _John G. Saxe_ 362 Cynicus to W. Shakespeare _James Kenneth Stephen_ 362 Senex to Matt. Prior _James Kenneth Stephen_ 362 To a Blockhead _Alexander Pope_ 362 The Fool and the Poet _Alexander Pope_ 363 A Rhymester _Samuel Taylor Coleridge_ 363 Giles's Hope _Samuel Taylor Coleridge_ 363 Cologne _Samuel Taylor Coleridge_ 363 An Eternal Poem _Samuel Taylor Coleridge_ 364 On a Bad Singer _Samuel Taylor Coleridge_ 364 Job _Samuel Taylor Coleridge_ 364 Reasons for Drinking _Dr. Henry Aldrich_ 364 Smatterers _Samuel Butler_ 365 Hypocrisy _Samuel Butler_ 365 To Doctor Empiric _Ben Jonson_ 365 A Remedy Worse than the Disease _Matthew Prior_ 365 A Wife _Richard Brinsley Sheridan_ 366 The Honey-Moon _Walter Savage Landor_ 366 Dido _Richard Porson_ 366 An Epitaph _George John Cayley_ 366 On Taking a Wife _Thomas Moore_ 367 Upon Being Obliged to Leave a Pleasant Party _Thomas Moore_ 367 Some Ladies _Frederick Locker-Lampson_ 367 On a Sense of Humor _Frederick Locker-Lampson_ 367 On Hearing a Lady Praise a Certain Rev. Doctor's Eyes _George Outram_ 368 Epitaph Intended for His Wife _John Dryden_ 368 To a Capricious Friend _Joseph Addison_ 368 Which is Which _John Byrom_ 368 On a Full-Length Portrait of Beau Marsh _Lord Chesterfield_ 369 On Scotland _Cleveland_ 369 Mendax _Lessing_ 369 To a Slow Walker and Quick Eater _Lessing_ 369 What's My Thought Like? _Thomas Moore_ 370 Of All the Men _Thomas Moore_ 370 On Butler's Monument _Rev. Samuel Wesley_ 370 A Conjugal Conundrum _Unknown_ 371 VII: BURLESQUE Lovers and a Reflection _Charles Stuart Calverley_ 372 Our Hymn _Oliver Wendell Holmes_ 374 "Soldier, Rest!" _Robert J. Burdette_ 374 Imitation _Anthony C. Deane_ 375 The Mighty Must _W. S. Gilbert_ 376 Midsummer Madness _Unknown_ 377 Mavrone _Arthur Guiterman_ 378 Lilies _Don Marquis_ 379 For I am Sad _Don Marquis_ 379 A Little Swirl of Vers Libre _Thomas R. Ybarra_ 380 Young Lochinvar _Unknown_ 381 Imagiste Love Lines _Unknown_ 383 Bygones _Bert Lesion Taylor_ 383 Justice to Scotland _Unknown_ 384 Lament of the Scotch-Irish Exile _James Jeffrey Roche_ 385 A Song of Sorrow _Charles Battell Loomis_ 386 The Rejected "National Hymns" _Robert H. Newell_ 387 The Editor's Wooing _Robert H. Newell_ 389 The Baby's Debut _James Smith_ 390 The Cantelope _Bayard Taylor_ 393 Never Forget Your Parents _Franklin P. Adams_ 394 A Girl was Too Reckless of Grammar _Guy Wetmore Carryl_ 395 Behold the Deeds! _H. C. Bunner_ 397 Villon's Straight Tip to All Cross Coves _William Ernest Henley_ 399 Culture in the Slums _William Ernest Henley_ 400 The Lawyer's Invocation to Spring _Henry Howard Brownell_ 402 North, East, South, and West _Unknown_ 403 Martin Luther at Potsdam _Barry Pain_ 404 An Idyll of Phatte and Leene _Unknown_ 406 The House that Jack Built _Samuel Taylor Coleridge_ 407 Palabras Grandiosas _Bayard Taylor_ 407 A Love Playnt _Godfrey Turner_ 408 Darwinity _Herman C. Merivale_ 409 Select Passages from a Coming Poet _F. Anstey_ 410 The Romaunt of Humpty Dumpty _Henry S. Leigh_ 411 The Wedding _Thomas Hood, Jr._ 412 In Memoriam Technicam _Thomas Hood, Jr._ 413 "Songs Without Words" _Robert J. Burdette_ 413 At the Sign of the Cock _Owen Seaman_ 414 Presto Furioso _Owen Seaman_ 417 To Julia in Shooting Togs _Owen Seaman_ 418 Farewell _Bert Leston Taylor_ 419 Here is the Tale _Anthony C. Deane_ 421 The Willows _Bret Harte_ 423 A Ballad _Guy Wetmore Carryl_ 426 The Translated Way _Franklin P. Adams_ 427 Commonplaces _Rudyard Kipling_ 427 Angelo Orders His Dinner _Bayard Taylor_ 428 The Promissory Note _Bayard Taylor_ 429 Camerados _Bayard Taylor_ 430 The Last Ride Together _James Kenneth Stephen_ 431 Imitation of Walt Whitman _Unknown_ 434 Salad _Mortimer Collins_ 436 If _Mortimer Collins_ 436 The Jabberwocky of Authors _Harry Persons Taber_ 437 The Town of Nice _Herman C. Merivale_ 438 The Willow-Tree _W. M. Thackeray_ 439 A Ballade of Ballade-Mongers _Augustus M. Moore_ 441 VIII: BATHOS The Confession _Richard Harris Barham_ 443 ["_Thomas Ingoldsby_"] If You Have Seen _Thomas Moore_ 444 Circumstance _Frederick Locker-Lampson_ 444 Elegy _Arthur Guiterman_ 445 Our Traveler _H. Cholmondeley-Pennell_ 445 Optimism _Newton Mackintosh_ 445 The Declaration _N. P. Willis_ 446 He Came to Pay _Parmenas Mix_ 447 The Forlorn One _Richard Harris Barham_ 449 ["_Thomas Ingoldsby_"] Rural Raptures _Unknown_ 450 A Fragment _Unknown_ 450 The Bitter Bit _William E. Aytoun_ 451 Comfort in Affliction _William E. Aytoun_ 453 The Husband's Petition _William E. Aytoun_ 454 Lines Written After a Battle _Unknown_ 456 Lines _Unknown_ 456 The Imaginative Crisis _Unknown_ 457 IX: PARODY The Higher Pantheism in a Nut-Shell _Algernon Charles Swinburne_ 458 Nephelidia _Algernon Charles Swinburne_ 459 Up the Spout _Algernon Charles Swinburne_ 460 In Memoriam _Cuthbert Bede_ 463 Lucy Lake _Newton Mackintosh_ 463 The Cock and the Bull _Charles Stuart Calverley_ 464 Ballad _Charles Stuart Calverley_ 467 Disaster _Charles Stuart Calverley_ 469 Wordsworthian Reminiscence _Unknown_ 470 Inspect Us _Edith Daniell_ 471 The Messed Damozel _Charles Hanson Towne_ 471 A Melton Mowbray Pork-Pie _Richard le Gallienne_ 472 Israfiddlestrings _Unknown_ 472 After Dilettante Concetti _H. D. Traill_ 474 Whenceness of the Which _Unknown_ 476 The Little Star _Unknown_ 476 The Original Lamb _Unknown_ 477 Sainte Margérie _Unknown_ 477 Robert Frost _Louis Untermeyer_ 479 Owen Seaman _Louis Untermeyer_ 480 The Modern Hiawatha _Unknown_ 482 Somewhere-in-Europe-Wocky _F. G. Hartswick_ 482 Rigid Body Sings _J. C. Maxwell_ 483 A Ballad of High Endeavor _Unknown_ 484 Father William _Lewis Carroll_ 485 The Poets at Tea _Barry Pain_ 486 How Often _Ben King_ 489 If I Should Die To-Night _Ben King_ 489 "The Day is Done" _Phoebe Cary_ 490 Jacob _Phoebe Cary_ 491 Ballad of the Canal _Phoebe Cary_ 492 "There's a Bower of Beanvines" _Phoebe Cary_ 493 Reuben _Phoebe Cary_ 493 The Wife _Phoebe Cary_ 494 When Lovely Woman _Phoebe Cary_ 494 John Thomson's Daughter _Phoebe Cary_ 494 A Portrait _John Keats_ 496 Annabel Lee _Stanley Huntley_ 497 Home Sweet Home with Variations _H. C. Bunner_ 498 An Old Song by New Singers _A. C. Wilkie_ 506 More Impressions _Oscuro Wildgoose_ 509 Nursery Rhymes á la Mode _Unknown_ 509 A Maudle-In Ballad _Unknown_ 510 Gillian _Unknown_ 511 Extracts from the Rubaiyat of Omar Cayenne _Gelett Burgess_ 512 Diversions of the Re-Echo Club _Carolyn Wells_ 515 Styx River Anthology _Carolyn Wells_ 521 Answer to Master Wither's Song, "Shall I, Wasting in Despair?" _Ben Jonson_ 526 Song of the Springtide _Unknown_ 527 The Village Choir _Unknown_ 528 My Foe _Unknown_ 529 Nursery Song in Pidgin English _Unknown_ 530 Father William _Unknown_ 531 A Poe-'em of Passion _C. F. Lummis_ 532 How the Daughters Come Down at Dunoon _H. Cholmondeley-Pennell_ 533 To an Importunate Host _Unknown_ 534 Cremation _William Sawyer_ 534 An Imitation of Wordsworth _Catharine M. Fanshawe_ 535 The Lay of the Love-Lorn _Aytoun and Martin_ 537 Only Seven _Henry S. Leigh_ 543 'Twas Ever Thus _Henry S. Leigh_ 544 Foam and Fangs _Walter Parke_ 544 X: NARRATIVE Little Billee _W. M. Thackeray_ 546 The Crystal Palace _W. M. Thackeray_ 547 The Wofle New Ballad of Jane Roney and Mary Brown _W. M. Thackeray_ 552 King John and the Abbot _Unknown_ 554 On the Death of a Favorite Cat _Thomas Gray_ 557 Misadventures at Margate _Richard Harris Barham_ 558 ["_Thomas Ingoldsby_"] The Gouty Merchant and the Stranger _Horace Smith_ 563 The Diverting History of John Gilpin _William Cowper_ 564 Paddy O'Rafther _Samuel Lover_ 571 Here She Goes and There She Goes _James Nack_ 572 The Quaker's Meeting _Samuel Lover_ 576 The Jester Condemned to Death _Horace Smith_ 578 The Deacon's Masterpiece _Oliver Wendell Holmes_ 580 The Ballad of the Oysterman _Oliver Wendell Holmes_ 583 The Well of St. Keyne _Robert Southey_ 584 The Jackdaw of Rheims _Richard Harris Barham_ 586 ["_Thomas Ingoldsby_"] The Knight and the Lady _Richard Harris Barham_ 590 ["_Thomas Ingoldsby_"] An Eastern Question _H. M. Paull_ 598 My Aunt's Spectre _Mortimer Collins_ 600 Casey at the Bat _Ernest Lawrence Thayer_ 601 The Pied Piper of Hamelin _Robert Browning_ 603 The Goose _Lord Tennyson_ 611 The Ballad of Charity _Charles Godfrey Leland_ 613 The Post Captain _Charles E. Carryl_ 615 Robinson Crusoe's Story _Charles E. Carryl_ 617 Ben Bluff _Thomas Hood_ 619 The Pilgrims and the Peas _John Wolcot_ 621 Tam O'Shanter _Robert Burns_ 623 That Gentleman from Boston Town _Joaquin Miller_ 629 The Yarn of the "Nancy Bell" _W. S. Gilbert_ 632 Ferdinando and Elvira _W. S. Gilbert_ 635 Gentle Alice Brown _W. S. Gilbert_ 639 The Story of Prince Agib _W. S. Gilbert_ 641 Sir Guy the Crusader _W. S. Gilbert_ 644 Kitty Wants to Write _Gelett Burgess_ 646 Dighton is Engaged _Gelett Burgess_ 647 Plain Language from Truthful James _Bret Harte_ 648 The Society Upon the Stanisalaus _Bret Harte_ 650 "Jim" _Bret Harte_ 652 William Brown of Oregon _Joaquin Miller_ 653 Little Breeches _John Hay_ 657 The Enchanted Shirt _John Hay_ 658 Jim Bludso _John Hay_ 661 Wreck of the "Julie Plante" _William Henry Drummond_ 662 The Alarmed Skipper _James T. Fields_ 664 The Elderly Gentleman _George Canning_ 665 Saying Not Meaning _William Basil Wake_ 666 Hans Breitmann's Party _Charles Godfrey Leland_ 668 Ballad by Hans Breitmann _Charles Godfrey Leland_ 669 Grampy Sings a Song _Holman F. Day_ 670 The First Banjo _Irwin Russell_ 672 The Romance of the Carpet _Robert J. Burdette_ 674 Hunting of the Snark, The _Lewis Carroll_ 676 The Old Man and Jim _James Whitcomb Riley_ 678 A Sailor's Yarn _James Jeffrey Roche_ 680 The Converted Cannibals _G. E. Farrow_ 683 The Retired Pork-Butcher and the spook _G. E. Farrow_ 685 Skipper Ireson's Ride _John Greenleaf Whittier_ 688 Darius Green and His Flying-Machine _John Townsend Trowbridge_ 690 A Great Fight _Robert H. Newell_ 697 The Donnybrook Jig _Viscount Dillon_ 700 Unfortunate Miss Bailey _Unknown_ 702 The Laird o' Cockpen _Lady Nairne_ 703 A Wedding _Sir John Suckling_ 704 XI: TRIBUTE The Ahkond of Swat _Edward Lear_ 708 The Ahkoond of Swat _George Thomas Lanigan_ 710 Dirge of the Moolla of Kotal _George Thomas Lanigan_ 712 The Ballad of Bouillabaisse _W. M. Thackeray_ 714 Ould Doctor Mack _Alfred Perceval Graves_ 717 Father O'Flynn _Alfred Perceval Graves_ 719 The Bald-headed Tyrant _Vandyne, Mary E._ 720 Barney McGee _Richard Hovey_ 721 Address to the Toothache _Robert Burns_ 724 A Farewell to Tobacco _Charles Lamb_ 726 John Barleycorn _Robert Burns_ 730 Stanzas to Pale Ale _Unknown_ 732 Ode to Tobacco _Charles Stuart Calverley_ 732 Sonnet to a Clam _John G. Saxe_ 734 To a Fly _John Wolcot_ 734 Ode to a Bobtailed Cat _Unknown_ 737 XII: WHIMSEY An Elegy _Oliver Goldsmith_ 740 Parson Gray _Oliver Goldsmith_ 741 The Irishman and the Lady _William Maginn_ 742 The Cataract of Lodore _Robert Southey_ 743 Lay of the Deserted Influenzaed _H. Cholmondeley-Pennell_ 746 Bellagcholly Days _Unknown_ 747 Rhyme of the Rail _John G. Saxe_ 748 Echo _John G. Saxe_ 750 Song _Joseph Addison_ 751 A Gentle Echo on Woman _Dean Swift_ 752 Lay of Ancient Rome _Thomas R. Ybarra_ 753 A New Song _John Gay_ 754 The American Traveller _Robert H. Newell_ 757 The Zealless Xylographer _Mary Mapes Dodge_ 759 The Old Line Fence _A. W. Bellaw_ 760 O-U-G-H _Charles Battell Loomis_ 761 Enigma on the Letter H _Catherine M. Fanshawe_ 762 Travesty of Miss Fanshawe's Enigma _Horace Mayhew_ 763 An Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog _Oliver Goldsmith_ 764 An Epitaph _Matthew Prior_ 765 Old Grimes _Albert Gorton Greene_ 766 The Endless Song _Ruth McEnery Stuart_ 768 The Hundred Best Books _Mostyn T. Pigott_ 769 The Cosmic Egg _Unknown_ 771 Five Wines _Robert Herrick_ 772 A Rhyme for Musicians _E. Lemke_ 772 My Madeline _Walter Parke_ 773 Susan Simpson _Unknown_ 774 The March to Moscow _Robert Southey_ 775 Half Hours with the Classics _H. J. DeBurgh_ 779 On the Oxford Carrier _John Milton_ 780 Ninety-Nine in the Shade _Rossiter Johnson_ 781 The Triolet _William Ernest Henley_ 782 The Rondeau _Austin Dobson_ 782 Life _Unknown_ 783 Ode to the Human Heart _Laman Blanchard_ 784 A Strike Among the Poets _Unknown_ 785 Whatever Is, Is Right _Laman Blanchard_ 786 Nothing _Richard Porson_ 786 Dirge _Unknown_ 787 O D V _Unknown_ 788 A Man of Words _Unknown_ 790 Similes _Unknown_ 791 No! _Thomas Hood_ 792 Faithless Sally Brown _Thomas Hood_ 792 Tim Turpin _Thomas Hood_ 795 Faithless Nelly Gray _Thomas Hood_ 797 Sally Simpkin's Lament _Thomas Hood_ 800 Death's Ramble _Thomas Hood_ 801 Panegyric on the Ladies _Unknown_ 803 Ambiguous Lines _Unknown_ 804 Surnames _James Smith_ 804 A Ternary of Littles, Upon a Pipkin of Jelly Sent to a Lady _Robert Herrick_ 806 A Carman's Account of a Law Suit _Sir David Lindesay_ 807 Out of Sight, Out of Mind _Barnaby Googe_ 807 Nongtongpaw _Charles Dibdin_ 808 Logical English _Unknown_ 809 Logic _Unknown_ 809 The Careful Penman _Unknown_ 810 Questions with Answers _Unknown_ 810 Conjugal Conjugations _A. W. Bellaw_ 810 Love's Moods and Senses _Unknown_ 812 The Siege of Belgrade _Unknown_ 813 The Happy Man _Gilles Ménage_ 814 The Bells _Unknown_ 816 Takings _Thomas Hood, Jr._ 817 A Bachelor's Mono-Rhyme _Charles Mackay_ 817 The Art of Bookkeeping An Invitation to the Zoological _Laman Blanchard_ 818 Gardens _Unknown_ 822 A Nocturnal Sketch _Thomas Hood_ 823 Lovelilts _Marion Hill_ 824 Jocosa Lyra _Austin Dobson_ 824 To a Thesaurus _Franklin P. Adams_ 825 The Future of the Classics _Unknown_ 826 Cautionary Verses _Theodore Hook_ 828 The War: A-Z _John R. Edwards_ 829 Lines to Miss Florence Huntingdon _Unknown_ 830 To My Nose _Alfred A. Forrester_ 832 A Polka Lyric _Barclay Philips_ 832 A Catalectic Monody _Unknown_ 833 Ode for a Social Meeting _Oliver Wendell Holmes_ 833 The Jovial Priest's Confession _Leigh Hunt_ 834 Limericks _Carolyn Wells_ 835 XIII: NONSENSE Lunar Stanzas _Henry Coggswell Knight_ 841 The Whango Tree _Unknown_ 842 Three Children _Unknown_ 843 'Tis Midnight _Unknown_ 843 Cossimbazar _Henry S. Leigh_ 843 An Unexpected Fact _Edward Cannon_ 844 The Cumberbunce _Paul West_ 844 Mr. Finney's Turnip _Unknown_ 847 Nonsense Verses _Charles Lamb_ 848 Like to the Thundering Tone _Bishop Corbet_ 848 Aestivation _Oliver Wendell Holmes_ 849 Uncle Simon and Uncle Jim _Charles Farrar Browne_ 849 ["_Artemus Ward_"] A Tragic Story _W. M. Thackeray_ 850 Sonnet Found in a Deserted Mad House _Unknown_ 851 The Jim-Jam King of the Jou-Jous _Alaric Bertrand Stuart_ 851 To Marie _John Bennett_ 852 My Dream _Unknown_ 853 The Rollicking Mastodon _Arthur Macy_ 853 The Invisible Bridge _Gelett Burgess_ 855 The Lazy Roof _Gelett Burgess_ 855 My Feet _Gelett Burgess_ 855 Spirk Troll-Derisive _James Whitcomb Riley_ 855 The Man in the Moon _James Whitcomb Riley_ 856 The Lugubrious Whing-Whang _James Whitcomb Riley_ 858 The Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo _Edward Lear_ 859 The Jumbles _Edward Lear_ 862 The Pobble Who Has no Toes _Edward Lear_ 865 The New Vestments _Edward Lear_ 866 The Two Old Bachelors _Edward Lear_ 868 Jabberwocky _Lewis Carroll_ 869 Ways and Means _Lewis Carroll_ 870 Humpty Dumpty's Recitation _Lewis Carroll_ 872 Some Hallucinations _Lewis Carroll_ 874 Sing for the Garish Eye _W. S. Gilbert_ 875 The Shipwreck _E. H. Palmer_ 876 Uffia _Harriet R. White_ 877 'Tis Sweet to Roam _Unknown_ 878 Three Jovial Huntsmen _Unknown_ 878 King Arthur _Unknown_ 879 Hyder Iddle _Unknown_ 879 The Ocean Wanderer _Unknown_ 879 Scientific Proof _J. W. Foley_ 880 The Thingumbob _Unknown_ 882 Wonders of Nature _Unknown_ 882 Lines by an Old Fogy _Unknown_ 882 A Country Summer Pastoral _Unknown_ 883 Turvey Top _William Sawyer_ 884 A Ballad of Bedlam _Unknown_ 886 XIV: NATURAL HISTORY The Fastidious Serpent _Henry Johnstone_ 887 The Legend of the First Cam-u-el _Arthur Guiterman_ 888 Unsatisfied Yearning _R. K. Munkittrick_ 889 Kindly Advice _Unknown_ 890 Kindness to Animals _J. Ashby-Sterry_ 891 To Be or Not To Be _Unknown_ 891 The Hen _Matthew Claudius_ 892 Of Baiting the Lion _Owen Seaman_ 893 The Flamingo _Lewis Gaylord Clark_ 894 Why Doth a Pussy Cat? _Burges Johnson_ 895 The Walrus and the Carpenter _Lewis Carroll_ 896 Nirvana _Unknown_ 900 The Catfish _Oliver Herford_ 900 War Relief _Oliver Herford_ 901 The Owl and the Pussy-Cat _Edward Lear_ 901 Mexican Serenade _Arthur Guiterman_ 902 Orphan Born _Robert J. Burdette_ 903 Divided Destinies _Rudyard Kipling_ 904 The Viper _Hilaire Belloc_ 906 The Llama _Hilaire Belloc_ 906 The Yak _Hilaire Belloc_ 906 The Frog _Hilaire Belloc_ 907 The Microbe _Hilaire Belloc_ 907 The Great Black Crow _Philip James Bailey_ 907 The Colubriad _William Cowper_ 909 The Retired Cat _William Cowper_ 910 A Darwinian Ballad _Unknown_ 913 The Pig _Robert Southey_ 914 A Fish Story _Henry A. Beers_ 916 The Cameronian Cat _Unknown_ 917 The Young Gazelle _Walter Parke_ 918 The Ballad of the Emeu _Bret Harte_ 921 The Turtle and Flamingo _James Thomas Fields_ 923 XV: JUNIORS Prior to Miss Belle's Appearance _James Whitcomb Riley_ 925 There Was a Little Girl _Unknown_ 926 The Naughty Darkey Boy _Unknown_ 927 Dutch Lullaby _Eugene Field_ 928 The Dinkey-Bird _Eugene Field_ 929 The Little Peach _Eugene Field_ 931 Counsel to Those that Eat _Unknown_ 932 Home and Mother _Mary Mapes Dodge_ 932 Little Orphant Annie _James Whitcomb Riley_ 934 A Visit From St. Nicholas _Clement Clarke Moore_ 935 A Nursery Legend _Henry S. Leigh_ 937 A Little Goose _Eliza Sproat Turner_ 938 Leedle Yawcob Strauss _Charles Follen Adams_ 940 A Parental Ode to My Son, Aged Three Years and Five Months _Thomas Hood_ 941 Little Mamma _Charles Henry Webb_ 943 The Comical Girl _M. Pelham_ 946 Bunches of Grapes _Walter Ramal_ 947 XVI: IMMORTAL STANZAS The Purple Cow _Gelett Burgess_ 948 The Young Lady of Niger _Unknown_ 948 The Laughing Willow _Oliver Herford_ 948 Said Opie Reed _Julian Street_ and _James_ _Montgomery Flagg_ 948 Manila _Eugene F. Ware_ 949 On the Aristocracy of Harvard _Dr. Samuel G. Bushnell_ 949 On the Democracy of Yale _Dean Jones_ 949 The Herring _Sir Walter Scott_ 949 If the Man _Samuel Johnson_ 949 The Kilkenny Cats _Unknown_ 950 Poor Dear Grandpapa _D'Arcy W. Thompson_ 950 More Walks _Richard Harris Barham_ 950 ["_Thomas Ingoldsby_"] Indifference _Unknown_ 950 Madame Sans Souci _Unknown_ 950 A Riddle _Unknown_ 951 If _Unknown_ 951 THE BOOK OF HUMOROUS VERSE I BANTER THE PLAYED-OUT HUMOURIST Quixotic is his enterprise and hopeless his adventure is, Who seeks for jocularities that haven't yet been said; The world has joked incessantly for over fifty centuries, And every joke that's possible has long ago been made. I started as a humourist with lots of mental fizziness, But humour is a drug which it's the fashion to abuse; For my stock-in-trade, my fixtures and the good-will of the business No reasonable offer I am likely to refuse. And if anybody choose He may circulate the news That no reasonable offer I am likely to refuse. Oh, happy was that humourist--the first that made a pun at all-- Who when a joke occurred to him, however poor and mean, Was absolutely certain that it never had been done at all-- How popular at dinners must that humourist have been! Oh, the days when some step-father for a query held a handle out,-- The door-mat from the scraper, is it distant very far? And when no one knew where Moses was when Aaron put the candle out, And no one had discovered that a door could be a-jar! But your modern hearers are In their tastes particular, And they sneer if you inform them that a door can be a jar! In search of quip and quiddity I've sat all day alone, apart-- And all that I could hit on as a problem was--to find Analogy between a scrag of mutton and a Bony-part, Which offers slight employment to the speculative mind. For you cannot call it very good, however great your charity-- It's not the sort of humour that is greeted with a shout-- And I've come to the conclusion that my mine of jocularity, In present Anno Domini is worked completely out! Though the notion you may scout, I can prove beyond a doubt That my mine of jocularity is worked completely out! _W. S. Gilbert._ THE PRACTICAL JOKER Oh, what a fund of joy jocund lies hid in harmless hoaxes! What keen enjoyment springs From cheap and simple things! What deep delight from sources trite inventive humour coaxes, That pain and trouble brew For every one but you! Gunpowder placed inside its waist improves a mild Havana, Its unexpected flash Burns eyebrows and moustache. When people dine no kind of wine beats ipecacuanha, But common sense suggests You keep it for your guests-- Then naught annoys the organ boys like throwing red hot coppers. And much amusement bides In common butter slides; And stringy snares across the stairs cause unexpected croppers. Coal scuttles, recollect, Produce the same effect. A man possessed Of common sense Need not invest At great expense It does not call For pocket deep, These jokes are all Extremely cheap. If you commence with eighteenpence--it's all you'll have to pay; You may command a pleasant and a most instructive day. A good spring gun breeds endless fun, and makes men jump like rockets-- And turnip heads on posts Make very decent ghosts. Then hornets sting like anything, when placed in waistcoat pockets-- Burnt cork and walnut juice Are not without their use. No fun compares with easy chairs whose seats are stuffed with needles-- Live shrimps their patience tax When put down people's backs. Surprising, too, what one can do with a pint of fat black beetles-- And treacle on a chair Will make a Quaker swear! Then sharp tin tacks And pocket squirts-- And cobbler's wax For ladies' skirts-- And slimy slugs On bedroom floors-- And water jugs On open doors-- Prepared with these cheap properties, amusing tricks to play Upon a friend a man may spend a most delightful day. _W. S. Gilbert._ TO PH[OE]BE "Gentle, modest little flower, Sweet epitome of May, Love me but for half an hour, Love me, love me, little fay." Sentences so fiercely flaming In your tiny, shell-like ear, I should always be exclaiming If I loved you, Ph[oe]be dear. "Smiles that thrill from any distance Shed upon me while I sing! Please ecstaticize existence, Love me, oh, thou fairy thing!" Words like these, outpouring sadly, You'd perpetually hear, If I loved you fondly, madly;-- But I do not, Ph[oe]be dear. _W. S. Gilbert._ MALBROUCK Malbrouck, the prince of commanders, Is gone to the war in Flanders; His fame is like Alexander's; But when will he come home? Perhaps at Trinity Feast, or Perhaps he may come at Easter. Egad! he had better make haste, or We fear he may never come. For Trinity Feast is over, And has brought no news from Dover; And Easter is past, moreover, And Malbrouck still delays. Milady in her watch-tower Spends many a pensive hour, Not well knowing why or how her Dear lord from England stays. While sitting quite forlorn in That tower, she spies returning A page clad in deep mourning, With fainting steps and slow. "O page, prithee, come faster! What news do you bring of your master? I fear there is some disaster, Your looks are so full of woe." "The news I bring, fair lady," With sorrowful accent said he, "Is one you are not ready So soon, alas! to hear. "But since to speak I'm hurried," Added this page, quite flurried, "Malbrouck is dead and buried!" (And here he shed a tear.) "He's dead! he's dead as a herring! For I beheld his 'berring,' And four officers transferring His corpse away from the field. "One officer carried his sabre, And he carried it not without labour, Much envying his next neighbour, Who only bore a shield. "The third was helmet-bearer-- That helmet which on its wearer Filled all who saw with terror, And covered a hero's brains. "Now, having got so far, I Find that (by the Lord Harry!) The fourth is left nothing to carry; So there the thing remains." Translated by _Father Prout._ MARK TWAIN: A PIPE DREAM Well I recall how first I met Mark Twain--an infant barely three Rolling a tiny cigarette While cooing on his nurse's knee. Since then in every sort of place I've met with Mark and heard him joke, Yet how can I describe his face? I never saw it for the smoke. At school he won a _smokership_, At Harvard College (Cambridge, Mass.) His name was soon on every lip, They made him "smoker" of his class. Who will forget his smoking bout With Mount Vesuvius--our cheers-- When Mount Vesuvius went out And didn't smoke again for years? The news was flashed to England's King, Who begged Mark Twain to come and stay, Offered him dukedoms--anything To smoke the London fog away. But Mark was firm. "I bow," said he, "To no imperial command, No ducal coronet for me, My smoke is for my native land!" For Mark there waits a brighter crown! When Peter comes his card to read-- He'll take the sign "No Smoking" down, Then Heaven will be Heaven indeed. _Oliver Herford._ FROM A FULL HEART In days of peace my fellow-men Rightly regarded me as more like A Bishop than a Major-Gen., And nothing since has made me warlike; But when this age-long struggle ends And I have seen the Allies dish up The goose of Hindenburg--oh, friends! I shall out-bish the mildest Bishop. _When the War is over and the Kaiser's out of print I'm going to buy some tortoises and watch the beggars sprint; When the War is over and the sword at last we sheathe I'm going to keep a jelly-fish and listen to it breathe._ I never really longed for gore, And any taste for red corpuscles That lingered with me left before The German troops had entered Brussels. In early days the Colonel's "'Shun!" Froze me; and as the war grew older The noise of some one else's gun Left me considerably colder. _When the War is over and the battle has been won I'm going to buy a barnacle and take it for a run; When the War is over and the German fleet we sink I'm going to keep a silkworm's egg and listen to it think._ The Captains and the Kings depart-- It may be so, but not lieutenants; Dawn after weary dawn I start The never ending round of penance; One rock amid the welter stands On which my gaze is fixed intently: An after-life in quiet lands Lived very lazily and gently. _When the War is over and we've done the Belgians proud I'm going to keep a chrysalis and read to it aloud; When the War is over and we've finished up the show I'm going to plant a lemon pip and listen to it grow_. Oh, I'm tired of the noise and turmoil of battle, And I'm even upset by the lowing of cattle, And the clang of the bluebells is death to my liver, And the roar of the dandelion gives me a shiver, And a glacier, in movement, is much too exciting, And I'm nervous, when standing on one, of alighting-- Give me Peace; that is all, that is all that I seek.... Say, starting on Saturday week. _A. A. Milne._ THE ULTIMATE JOY I have felt the thrill of passion in the poet's mystic book And I've lingered in delight to catch the rhythm of the brook; I've felt the ecstasy that comes when prima donnas reach For upper C and hold it in a long, melodious screech. And yet the charm of all these blissful memories fades away As I think upon the fortune that befell the other day, As I bring to recollection, with a joyous, wistful sigh, That I woke and felt the need of extra covers in July. Oh, eerie hour of drowsiness--'twas like a fairy spell, That respite from the terrors we have known, alas, so well, The malevolent mosquito, with a limp and idle bill, Hung supinely from the ceiling, all exhausted by his chill. And the early morning sunbeam lost his customary leer And brought a gracious greeting and a prophecy of cheer; A generous affability reached up from earth to sky, When I woke and felt the need of extra covers in July. In every life there comes a time of happiness supreme, When joy becomes reality and not a glittering dream. 'Tis less appreciated, but it's worth a great deal more Than tides which taken at their flood lead on to fortune's shore. How vain is Art's illusion, and how potent Nature's sway When once in kindly mood she deigns to waft our woes away! And the memory will cheer me, though all other pleasures fly, Of how I woke and needed extra covers in July. _Unknown._ OLD FASHIONED FUN When that old joke was new, It was not hard to joke, And puns we now pooh-pooh, Great laughter would provoke. True wit was seldom heard, And humor shown by few, When reign'd King George the Third, And that old joke was new. It passed indeed for wit, Did this achievement rare, When down your friend would sit, To steal away his chair. You brought him to the floor, You bruised him black and blue, And this would cause a roar, When your old joke was new. _W. M. Thackeray._ WHEN MOONLIKE ORE THE HAZURE SEAS When moonlike ore the hazure seas In soft effulgence swells, When silver jews and balmy breaze Bend down the Lily's bells; When calm and deap, the rosy sleap Has lapt your soal in dreems, R Hangeline! R lady mine! Dost thou remember Jeames? I mark thee in the Marble all, Where England's loveliest shine-- I say the fairest of them hall Is Lady Hangeline. My soul, in desolate eclipse, With recollection teems-- And then I hask, with weeping lips, Dost thou remember Jeames? Away! I may not tell thee hall This soughring heart endures-- There is a lonely sperrit-call That Sorrow never cures; There is a little, little Star, That still above me beams; It is the Star of Hope--but ar! Dost thou remember Jeames? _W. M. Thackeray._ WHEN THE FROST IS ON THE PUNKIN When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock, And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin' turkey-cock, And the clackin' of the guineys, and the cluckin' of the hens, And the rooster's hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence; O it's then's the times a feller is a-feelin' at his best, With the risin' sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest, As he leaves the house, bare-headed, and goes out to feed the stock, When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock. They's something kindo' hearty-like about the atmosphere, When the heat of summer's over and the coolin' fall is here-- Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossoms on the trees, And the mumble of the hummin'-birds and buzzin' of the bees; But the air's so appetisin'; and the landscape through the haze Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days Is a pictur that no painter has the colorin' to mock-- When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock. The husky, rusty rustle of the tossels of the corn, And the raspin' of the tangled leaves, as golden as the morn; The stubble in the furries--kindo' lonesome-like, but still A-preachin' sermons to us of the barns they growed to fill; The strawstack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed; The hosses in theyr stalls below--the clover overhead!-- O, it sets my heart a-clickin' like the tickin' of a clock, When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock! _James Whitcomb Riley._ TWO MEN There be two men of all mankind That I should like to know about; But search and question where I will, I cannot ever find them out. Melchizedek he praised the Lord, And gave some wine to Abraham; But who can tell what else he did Must be more learned than I am. Ucalegon he lost his house When Agamemnon came to Troy; But who can tell me who he was-- I'll pray the gods to give him joy. There be two men of all mankind That I'm forever thinking on; They chase me everywhere I go,-- Melchizedek, Ucalegon. _Edwin Arlington Robinson._ A FAMILIAR LETTER TO SEVERAL CORRESPONDENTS Yes, write if you want to--there's nothing like trying; Who knows what a treasure your casket may hold? I'll show you that rhyming's as easy as lying, If you'll listen to me while the art I unfold. Here's a book full of words: one can choose as he fancies, As a painter his tint, as a workman his tool; Just think! all the poems and plays and romances Were drawn out of this, like the fish from a pool! You can wander at will through its syllabled mazes, And take all you want--not a copper they cost; What is there to hinder your picking out phrases For an epic as clever as "Paradise Lost"? Don't mind if the index of sense is at zero; Use words that run smoothly, whatever they mean; Leander and Lillian and Lillibullero Are much the same thing in the rhyming machine. There are words so delicious their sweetness will smother That boarding-school flavour of which we're afraid; There is "lush" is a good one and "swirl" is another; Put both in one stanza, its fortune is made. With musical murmurs and rhythmical closes You can cheat us of smiles when you've nothing to tell; You hand us a nosegay of milliner's roses, And we cry with delight, "Oh, how sweet they do smell!" Perhaps you will answer all needful conditions For winning the laurels to which you aspire, By docking the tails of the two prepositions I' the style o' the bards you so greatly admire. As for subjects of verse, they are only too plenty For ringing the changes on metrical chimes; A maiden, a moonbeam, a lover of twenty, Have filled that great basket with bushels of rhymes. Let me show you a picture--'tis far from irrelevant-- By a famous old hand in the arts of design; 'Tis only a photographed sketch of an elephant; The name of the draughtsman was Rembrandt of Rhine. How easy! no troublesome colours to lay on; It can't have fatigued him, no, not in the least; A dash here and there with a haphazard crayon, And there stands the wrinkled-skinned, baggy-limbed beast. Just so with your verse--'tis as easy as sketching; You can reel off a song without knitting your brow, As lightly as Rembrandt a drawing or etching; It is nothing at all, if you only know how. Well, imagine you've printed your volume of verses; Your forehead is wreathed with the garland of fame; Your poem the eloquent school-boy rehearses; Her album the school-girl presents for your name. Each morning the post brings you autograph letters; You'll answer them promptly--an hour isn't much For the honour of sharing a page with your betters, With magistrates, members of Congress, and such. Of course you're delighted to serve the committees That come with requests from the country all round; You would grace the occasion with poems and ditties When they've got a new school-house, or poor-house, or pound. With a hymn for the saints, and a song for the sinners, You go and are welcome wherever you please; You're a privileged guest at all manner of dinners; You've a seat on the platform among the grandees. At length your mere presence becomes a sensation; Your cup of enjoyment is filled to its brim With the pleasure Horatian of digitmonstration, As the whisper runs round of "That's he!" or "That's him!" But, remember, O dealer in phrases sonorous, So daintily chosen, so tunefully matched, Though you soar with the wings of the cherubim o'er us, The ovum was human from which you were hatched. No will of your own, with its puny compulsion, Can summon the spirit that quickens the lyre; It comes, if at all, like the sibyl's convulsion, And touches the brain with a finger of fire. So, perhaps, after all, it's as well to be quiet, If you've nothing you think is worth saying in prose, As to furnish a meal of their cannibal diet To the critics, by publishing, as you propose. But it's all of no use, and I'm sorry I've written; I shall see your thin volume some day on my shelf; For the rhyming tarantula surely has bitten, And music must cure you, so pipe it yourself. _Oliver Wendell Holmes._ THE HEIGHT OF THE RIDICULOUS I wrote some lines once on a time In wondrous merry mood, And thought, as usual, men would say They were exceeding good. They were so queer, so very queer, I laughed as I would die; Albeit, in the general way, A sober man am I. I called my servant, and he came; How kind it was of him, To mind a slender man like me, He of the mighty limb! "These to the printer," I exclaimed, And, in my humorous way, I added (as a trifling jest), "There'll be the devil to pay." He took the paper, and I watched, And saw him peep within; At the first line he read, his face Was all upon a grin. He read the next, the grin grew broad, And shot from ear to ear; He read the third, a chuckling noise I now began to hear. The fourth, he broke into a roar; The fifth, his waistband split; The sixth, he burst five buttons off, And tumbled in a fit. Ten days and nights, with sleepless eye, I watched that wretched man, And since, I never dare to write As funny as I can. _Oliver Wendell Holmes._ SHAKE, MULLEARY AND GO-ETHE I I have a bookcase, which is what Many much better men have not. There are no books inside, for books, I am afraid, might spoil its looks. But I've three busts, all second-hand, Upon the top. You understand I could not put them underneath-- Shake, Mulleary and Go-ethe. II Shake was a dramatist of note; He lived by writing things to quote, He long ago put on his shroud: Some of his works are rather loud. His bald-spot's dusty, I suppose. I know there's dust upon his nose. I'll have to give each nose a sheath-- Shake, Mulleary and Go-ethe. III Mulleary's line was quite the same; He has more hair, but far less fame. I would not from that fame retrench-- But he is foreign, being French. Yet high his haughty head he heaves, The only one done up in leaves, They're rather limited on wreath-- Shake, Mulleary and Go-ethe. IV Go-ethe wrote in the German tongue: He must have learned it very young. His nose is quite a butt for scoff, Although an inch of it is off. He did quite nicely for the Dutch; But here he doesn't count for much. They all are off their native heath-- Shake, Mulleary and Go-ethe. V They sit there, on their chests, as bland As if they were not second-hand. I do not know of what they think, Nor why they never frown or wink, But why from smiling they refrain I think I clearly can explain: They none of them could show much teeth-- Shake, Mulleary and Go-ethe. _H. C. Bunner._ A RONDELAY Man is for woman made, And woman made for man: As the spur is for the jade, As the scabbard for the blade, As for liquor is the can, So man's for woman made, And woman made for man. As the sceptre to be sway'd, As to night the serenade, As for pudding is the pan, As to cool us is the fan, So man's for woman made, And woman made for man. Be she widow, wife, or maid, Be she wanton, be she staid, Be she well or ill array'd, So man's for woman made, And woman made for man. _Peter A. Motteux._ WINTER DUSK The prospect is bare and white, And the air is crisp and chill; While the ebon wings of night Are spread on the distant hill. The roar of the stormy sea Seem the dirges shrill and sharp That winter plays on the tree-- His wild Æolian harp. In the pool that darkly creeps In ripples before the gale, A star like a lily sleeps And wiggles its silver tail. _R. K. Munkittrick._ COMIC MISERIES My dear young friend, whose shining wit Sets all the room a-blaze, Don't think yourself a "happy dog," For all your merry ways; But learn to wear a sober phiz, Be stupid, if you can, It's such a very serious thing To be a funny man! You're at an evening party, with A group of pleasant folks,-- You venture quietly to crack The least of little jokes,-- A lady doesn't catch the point, And begs you to explain-- Alas for one that drops a jest And takes it up again! You're talking deep philosophy With very special force, To edify a clergyman With suitable discourse,-- You think you've got him--when he calls A friend across the way, And begs you'll say that funny thing You said the other day! You drop a pretty _jeu-de-mot_ Into a neighbor's ears, Who likes to give you credit for The clever thing he hears, And so he hawks your jest about, The old authentic one, Just breaking off the point of it, And leaving out the pun! By sudden change in politics, Or sadder change in Polly, You, lose your love, or loaves, and fall A prey to melancholy, While everybody marvels why Your mirth is under ban,-- They think your very grief "a joke," You're such a funny man! You follow up a stylish card That bids you come and dine, And bring along your freshest wit (To pay for musty wine), You're looking very dismal, when My lady bounces in, And wonders what you're thinking of And why you don't begin! You're telling to a knot of friends A fancy-tale of woes That cloud your matrimonial sky, And banish all repose-- solemn lady overhears The story of your strife, And tells the town the pleasant news: You quarrel with your wife! My dear young friend, whose shining wit Sets all the room a-blaze, Don't think yourself "a happy dog," For all your merry ways; But learn to wear a sober phiz, Be stupid, if you can, It's such a very serious thing To be a funny man! _John G. Saxe._ EARLY RISING "God bless the man who first invented sleep!" So Sancho Panza said, and so say I: And bless him, also, that he didn't keep His great discovery to himself; nor try To make it--as the lucky fellow might-- A close monopoly by patent-right! Yes--bless the man who first invented sleep, (I really can't avoid the iteration;) But blast the man, with curses loud and deep, Whate'er the rascal's name, or age, or station, Who first invented, and went round advising, That artificial cut-off--Early Rising! "Rise with the lark, and with the lark to bed," Observes some solemn, sentimental owl; Maxims like these are very cheaply said; But, ere you make yourself a fool or fowl, Pray just inquire about his rise and fall, And whether larks have any beds at all! The time for honest folks to be a-bed Is in the morning, if I reason right; And he who cannot keep his precious head Upon his pillow till it's fairly light, And so enjoy his forty morning winks, Is up to knavery; or else--he drinks! Thompson, who sung about the "Seasons," said It was a glorious thing to _rise_ in season; But then he said it--lying--in his bed, At ten o'clock A.M.,--the very reason He wrote so charmingly. The simple fact is His preaching wasn't sanctioned by his practice. 'Tis, doubtless, well to be sometimes awake,-- Awake to duty, and awake to truth,-- But when, alas! a nice review we take Of our best deeds and days, we find, in sooth, The hours that leave the slightest cause to weep Are those we passed in childhood or asleep! 'Tis beautiful to leave the world awhile For the soft visions of the gentle night; And free, at last, from mortal care or guile, To live as only in the angel's sight, In sleep's sweet realm so cosily shut in, Where, at the worst, we only _dream_ of sin! So let us sleep, and give the Maker praise. I like the lad who, when his father thought To clip his morning nap by hackneyed phrase Of vagrant worm by early songster caught, Cried, "Served him right!--it's not at all surprising; The worm was punished, sir, for early rising!" _John G. Saxe._ TO THE PLIOCENE SKULL "Speak, O man less recent! Fragmentary fossil! Primal pioneer of pliocene formation, Hid in lowest drifts below the earliest stratum Of volcanic tufa! "Older than the beasts, the oldest Palæotherium; Older than the trees, the oldest Cryptogami; Older than the hills, those infantile eruptions Of earth's epidermis! "Eo--Mio--Plio--whatsoe'er the 'cene' was That those vacant sockets filled with awe and wonder,-- Whether shores Devonian or Silurian beaches,-- Tell us thy strange story! "Or has the professor slightly antedated By some thousand years thy advent on this planet, Giving thee an air that's somewhat better fitted For cold-blooded creatures? "Wert thou true spectator of that mighty forest When above thy head the stately Sigillaria Reared its columned trunks in that remote and distant Carboniferous epoch? "Tell us of that scene--the dim and watery woodland, Songless, silent, hushed, with never bird or insect, Veiled with spreading fronds and screened with tall club-mosses, Lycopodiacea,-- "When beside thee walked the solemn Plesiosaurus, And all around thee crept the festive Ichthyosaurus, While from time to time above thee flew and circled Cheerful Pterodactyls;-- "Tell us of thy food,--those half-marine refections, Crinoids on the shell, and Brachipods _au naturel_,-- Cuttle-fish to which the _pieuvre_ of Victor Hugo Seems a periwinkle. "Speak, thou awful vestige of the Earth's creation-- Solitary fragment of remains organic! Tell the wondrous secret of thy past existence-- Speak! thou oldest primate!" Even as I gazed, a thrill of the maxilla, And a lateral movement of the condyloid process, With post-pliocene sounds of healthy mastication, Ground the teeth together. And, from that imperfect dental exhibition, Stained with expressed juices of the weed Nicotian, Came these hollow accents, blent with softer murmurs Of expectoration: "Which my name is Bowers, and my crust was busted Falling down a shaft in Calaveras county, But I'd take it kindly if you'd send the pieces Home to old Missouri!" _Bret Harte._ ODE TO WORK IN SPRINGTIME Oh, would that working I might shun, From labour my connection sever, That I might do a bit--or none Whatever! That I might wander over hills, Establish friendship with a daisy, O'er pretty things like daffodils Go crazy! That I might at the heavens gaze, Concern myself with nothing weighty, Loaf, at a stretch, for seven days-- Or eighty. Why can't I cease a slave to be, And taste existence beatific On some fair island, hid in the Pacific? Instead of sitting at a desk 'Mid undone labours, grimly lurking-- Oh, say, what is there picturesque In working? But no!--to loaf were misery!-- I love to work! Hang isles of coral! (To end this otherwise would be Immoral!) _Thomas R. Ybarra._ OLD STUFF If I go to see the play, Of the story I am certain; Promptly it gets under way With the lifting of the curtain. Builded all that's said and done On the ancient recipe-- 'Tis the same old Two and One: _A and B in love with C_. If I read the latest book, There's the mossy situation; One may confidently look For the trite triangulation. Old as time, but ever new, Seemingly, this tale of Three-- Same old yarn of One and Two: _A and C in love with B_. If I cast my eyes around, Far and near and middle distance, Still the formula is found In our everyday existence. Everywhere I look I see-- Fact or fiction, life or play-- Still the little game of Three: _B and C in love with A._ While the ancient law fulfills, Myriad moons shall wane and wax. Jack must have his pair of Jills, Jill must have her pair of Jacks. _Bert Leston Taylor._ TO MINERVA My temples throb, my pulses boil, I'm sick of Song and Ode and Ballad-- So Thyrsis, take the midnight oil, And pour it on a lobster salad. My brain is dull, my sight is foul, I cannot write a verse, or read-- Then Pallas, take away thine Owl, And let us have a Lark instead. _Thomas Hood._ THE LEGEND OF HEINZ VON STEIN Out rode from his wild, dark castle The terrible Heinz von Stein; He came to the door of a tavern And gazed on its swinging sign. He sat himself down at a table, And growled for a bottle of wine; Up came with a flask and a corkscrew A maiden of beauty divine. Then, seized with a deep love-longing, He uttered, "O damosel mine, Suppose you just give a few kisses To the valorous Ritter von Stein!" But she answered, "The kissing business Is entirely out of my line; And I certainly will not begin it On a countenance ugly as thine!" Oh, then the bold knight was angry, And cursed both coarse and fine; And asked, "How much is the swindle For your sour and nasty wine?" And fiercely he rode to the castle And sat himself down to dine; And this is the dreadful legend Of the terrible Heinz von Stein. _Charles Godfrey Leland._ THE TRUTH ABOUT HORACE It is very aggravating To hear the solemn prating Of the fossils who are stating That old Horace was a prude; When we know that with the ladies He was always raising Hades, And with many an escapade his Best productions are imbued. There's really not much harm in a Large number of his carmina, But these people find alarm in a Few records of his acts; So they'd squelch the muse caloric, And to students sophomoric They'd present as metaphoric What old Horace meant for facts. We have always thought 'em lazy; Now we adjudge 'em crazy! Why, Horace was a daisy That was very much alive! And the wisest of us know him As his Lydia verses show him,-- Go, read that virile poem,-- It is No. 25. He was a very owl, sir, And starting out to prowl, sir, You bet he made Rome howl, sir, Until he filled his date; With a massic-laden ditty And a classic maiden pretty, He painted up the city, And Mæcenas paid the freight! _Eugene Field._ PROPINQUITY NEEDED Celestine Silvousplait Justine de Mouton Rosalie, A coryphée who lived and danced in naughty, gay Paree, Was every bit as pretty as a French girl e'er can be (Which isn't saying much). Maurice Boulanger (there's a name that would adorn a king), But Morris Baker was the name they called the man I sing. He lived in New York City in the Street that's labeled Spring (Chosen because it rhymed). Now Baker was a lonesome youth and wanted to be wed, And for a wife, all over town he hunted, it is said; And up and down Fifth Avenue he ofttimes wanderéd (He was a peripatetic Baker, he was). And had he met Celestine, not a doubt but Cupid's darts Would in a trice have wounded both of their fond, loving hearts; But he has never left New York to stray in foreign parts (Because he hasn't the price). And she has never left Paree and so, of course, you see There's not the slightest chance at all she'll marry Morris B. For love to get well started, really needs propinquity (Hence my title). _Charles Battell Loomis._ IN THE CATACOMBS Sam Brown was a fellow from way down East, Who never was "staggered" in the least. No tale of marvellous beast or bird Could match the stories he had heard; No curious place or wondrous view "Was ekil to Podunk, I tell yu." If they told him of Italy's sunny clime, "Maine kin beat it, every time!" If they marvelled at Ætna's fount of fire, They roused his ire: With an injured air He'd reply, "I swear I don't think much of a smokin' hill; We've got a moderate little rill Kin make yer old volcaner still; Jes' pour old Kennebec down the crater, 'N' I guess it'll cool her fiery nater!" They showed him a room where a queen had slept; "'Twan't up to the tavern daddy kept." They showed him Lucerne; but he had drunk From the beautiful Molechunkamunk. They took him at last to ancient Rome, And inveigled him into a catacomb: Here they plied him with draughts of wine, Though he vowed old cider was twice as fine, Till the fumes of Falernian filled his head, And he slept as sound as the silent dead; They removed a mummy to make him room, And laid him at length in the rocky tomb. They piled old skeletons round the stone, Set a "dip" in a candlestick of bone, And left him to slumber there alone; Then watched from a distance the taper's gleam, Waiting to jeer at his frightened scream, When he should wake from his drunken dream. After a time the Yankee woke, But instantly saw through the flimsy joke; So never a cry or shout he uttered, But solemnly rose, and slowly muttered: "I see how it is. It's the judgment day, We've all been dead and stowed away; All these stone furreners sleepin' yet, An' I'm the fust one up, you bet! Can't none o' you Romans start, I wonder? _United States ahead, by thunder!_" _Harlan Hoge Ballard._ OUR NATIVE BIRDS Alone I sit at eventide; The twilight glory pales, And o'er the meadows far and wide I hear the bobolinks-- (We have no nightingales!) Song-sparrows warble on the tree, I hear the purling brook, And from the old manse on the lea Flies slow the cawing crow-- (In England 'twere a rook!) The last faint golden beams of day Still glow on cottage panes, And on their lingering homeward way Walk weary laboring men-- (Alas! we have no swains!) From farmyards, down fair rural glades Come sounds of tinkling bells, And songs of merry brown milkmaids Sweeter than catbird's strains-- (I should say Philomel's!) I could sit here till morning came, All through the night hours dark, Until I saw the sun's bright flame And heard the oriole-- (Alas! we have no lark!) We have no leas, no larks, no rooks, No swains, no nightingales, No singing milkmaids (save in books) The poet does his best:-- It is the rhyme that fails. _Nathan Haskell Dole._ THE PRAYER OF CYRUS BROWN "The proper way for a man to pray," Said Deacon Lemuel Keyes, "And the only proper attitude Is down upon his knees." "No, I should say the way to pray," Said Rev. Doctor Wise, "Is standing straight with outstretched arms And rapt and upturned eyes." "Oh, no; no, no," said Elder Slow, "Such posture is too proud: A man should pray with eyes fast closed And head contritely bowed." "It seems to me his hands should be Austerely clasped in front. With both thumbs pointing toward the ground," Said Rev. Doctor Blunt. "Las' year I fell in Hodgkin's well Head first," said Cyrus Brown, "With both my heels a-stickin' up, My head a-pinting down; "An' I made a prayer right then an' there-- Best prayer I ever said, The prayingest prayer I ever prayed, A-standing on my head." _Sam Walter Foss._ ERRING IN COMPANY "If I have erred, I err in company with Abraham Lincoln." --_Theodore Roosevelt_. If e'er my rhyming be at fault, If e'er I chance to scribble dope, If that my metre ever halt, I err in company with Pope. An that my grammar go awry, An that my English be askew, Sooth, I can prove an alibi-- The Bard of Avon did it too. If often toward the bottled grape My errant fancy fondly turns, Remember, leering jackanape, I err in company with Burns. If now and then I sigh "Mine own!" Unto another's wedded wife, Remember, I am not alone-- Hast ever read Lord Byron's Life? If frequently I fret and fume, And absolutely will not smile, I err in company with Hume, Old Socrates and T. Carlyle. If e'er I fail in etiquette, And foozle on The Proper Stuff Regarding manners, don't forget A. Tennyson's were pretty tough. Eke if I err upon the side Of talking overmuch of Me, I err, it cannot be denied, In most illustrious company. _Franklin P. Adams._ CUPID Why was Cupid a boy, And why a boy was he? He should have been a girl, For aught that I can see. For he shoots with his bow, And the girl shoots with her eye; And they both are merry and glad, And laugh when we do cry. Then to make Cupid a boy Was surely a woman's plan, For a boy never learns so much Till he has become a man. And then he's so pierced with cares, And wounded with arrowy smarts, That the whole business of his life Is to pick out the heads of the darts. _William Blake._ IF WE DIDN'T HAVE TO EAT Life would be an easy matter If we didn't have to eat. If we never had to utter, "Won't you pass the bread and butter, Likewise push along that platter Full of meat?" Yes, if food were obsolete Life would be a jolly treat, If we didn't--shine or shower, Old or young, 'bout every hour-- Have to eat, eat, eat, eat, eat-- 'Twould be jolly if we didn't have to eat. We could save a lot of money If we didn't have to eat. Could we cease our busy buying, Baking, broiling, brewing, frying, Life would then be oh, so sunny And complete; And we wouldn't fear to greet Every grocer in the street If we didn't--man and woman, Every hungry, helpless human-- Have to eat, eat, eat, eat, eat-- We'd save money if we didn't have to eat. All our worry would be over If we didn't have to eat. Would the butcher, baker, grocer Get our hard-earned dollars? No, Sir! We would then be right in clover Cool and sweet. Want and hunger we could cheat, And we'd get there with both feet, If we didn't--poor or wealthy, Halt or nimble, sick or healthy-- Have to eat, eat, eat, eat, eat, We could get there if we didn't have to eat. _Nixon Waterman._ TO MY EMPTY PURSE To you, my purse, and to none other wight, Complain I, for ye be my lady dere; I am sorry now that ye be light, For, certes, ye now make me heavy chere; Me were as lefe be laid upon a bere, For which unto your mercy thus I crie, Be heavy againe, or els mote I die. Now vouchsafe this day or it be night, That I of you the blissful sowne may here, Or see your color like the sunne bright, That of yellowness had never pere; Ye are my life, ye be my hertes stere, Queen of comfort and of good companie, Be heavy againe, or els mote I die. Now purse, thou art to me my lives light, And saviour, as downe in this world here, Out of this towne helpe me by your might, Sith that you will not be my treasure, For I am slave as nere as any frere, But I pray unto your curtesie, Be heavy againe, or els mote I die. _Geoffrey Chaucer._ THE BIRTH OF SAINT PATRICK On the eighth day of March it was, some people say, That Saint Pathrick at midnight he first saw the day; While others declare 'twas the ninth he was born, And 'twas all a mistake between midnight and morn; For mistakes _will_ occur in a hurry and shock, And some blam'd the baby--and some blam'd the clock-- Till with all their cross-questions sure no one could know, If the child was too fast--or the clock was too slow. Now the first faction fight in ould Ireland, they say, Was all on account of Saint Pathrick's birthday, Some fought for the eighth--for the ninth more would die. And who wouldn't see right, sure they blacken'd his eye! At last, _both_ the factions so positive grew, That _each_ kept a birthday, so Pat then had _two_, Till Father Mulcahy, who showed them their sins, Said, "No one could have two birthdays but a _twins_." Says he, "Boys, don't be fightin' for eight or for nine, Don't be always dividin'--but sometimes combine; Combine eight with nine, and seventeen is the mark, So let that be his birthday."--"Amen," says the clerk. "If he wasn't a _twins_, sure our hist'ry will show-- That, at least, he's worth any _two_ saints that we know!" Then they all got blind dhrunk--which complated their bliss, And we keep up the practice from that day to this. _Samuel Lover._ HER LITTLE FEET Her little feet!... Beneath us ranged the sea, She sat, from sun and wind umbrella-shaded, One shoe above the other danglingly, And lo! a Something exquisitely graded, Brown rings and white, distracting--to the knee! The band was loud. A wild waltz melody Flowed rhythmic forth. The nobodies paraded. And thro' my dream went pulsing fast and free: Her little feet. Till she made room for some one. It was He! A port-wine flavored He, a He who traded, Rich, rosy, round, obese to a degree! A sense of injury overmastered me. Quite bulbously his ample boots upbraided Her little feet. _William Ernest Henley._ SCHOOL If there is a vile, pernicious, Wicked and degraded rule, Tending to debase the vicious, And corrupt the harmless fool; If there is a hateful habit Making man a senseless tool, With the feelings of a rabbit And the wisdom of a mule; It's the rule which inculcates, It's the habit which dictates The wrong and sinful practice of going into school. If there's anything improving To an erring sinner's state, Which is useful in removing All the ills of human fate; If there's any glorious custom Which our faults can dissipate, And can casually thrust 'em Out of sight and make us great; It's the plan by which we shirk Half our matu-ti-nal work, The glorious institution of always being late. _James Kenneth Stephen._ THE MILLENNIUM TO R. K. _As long I dwell on some stupendous And tremendous (Heaven defend us!) Monstr'-inform'-ingens-horrendous Demoniaco-seraphic Penman's latest piece of graphic._ --|Robert Browning|. Will there never come a season Which shall rid us from the curse Of a prose which knows no reason And an unmelodious verse: When the world shall cease to wonder At the genius of an Ass, And a boy's eccentric blunder Shall not bring success to pass: When mankind shall be delivered From the clash of magazines, And the inkstand shall be shivered Into countless smithereens: When there stands a muzzled stripling, Mute, beside a muzzled bore: When the Rudyards cease from Kipling And the Haggards Ride no more? _James Kenneth Stephen._ "EXACTLY SO" A |speech|, both pithy and concise, Marks a mind acute and wise; What speech, my friend, say, do you know, Can stand before "Exactly so?" I have a dear and witty friend Who turns this phrase to every end; None can deny that "Yes" or "No" Is meant in this "Exactly so." Or when a bore his ear assails, Good-humour in his bosom fails, No response from his lips will flow, Save, now and then, "Exactly so." Is there remark on matters grave That he may wish perchance to waive, Or thinks perhaps is rather slow, He stops it by "Exactly so." It saves the trouble of a thought-- No sour dispute can thence be sought; It leaves the thing in _statu quo_, This beautiful "Exactly so." It has another charm, this phrase, For it implies the speaker's praise Of what has just been said--_ergo_-- It pleases, this "Exactly so." Nor need the conscience feel distress, By answ'ring wrongly "No" or "Yes;" It 'scapes a falsehood, which is low, And substitutes "Exactly so." Each mortal loves to think he's right, That his opinion, too, is bright; Then, Christian, you may soothe your foe By chiming in "Exactly so." Whoe'er these lines may chance peruse, Of this famed word will see the use, And mention where'er he may go, The praises of "Exactly so." Of this more could my muse relate, But you, kind reader, I'll not sate; For if I did you'd cry "Hallo! I've heard enough"--"Exactly so." _Lady T. Hastings._ COMPANIONS A TALE OF A GRANDFATHER I know not of what we ponder'd Or made pretty pretence to talk, As, her hand within mine, we wander'd Tow'rd the pool by the lime-tree walk, While the dew fell in showers from the passion flowers And the blush-rose bent on her stalk. I cannot recall her figure: Was it regal as Juno's own? Or only a trifle bigger Than the elves who surround the throne Of the Faëry Queen, and are seen, I ween, By mortals in dreams alone? What her eyes were like, I know not: Perhaps they were blurr'd with tears; And perhaps in your skies there glow not (On the contrary) clearer spheres. No! as to her eyes I am just as wise As you or the cat, my dears. Her teeth, I presume, were "pearly": But which was she, brunette or blonde? Her hair, was it quaintly curly, Or as straight as a beadle's wand? That I fail'd to remark;--it was rather dark And shadowy round the pond. Then the hand that reposed so snugly In mine,--was it plump or spare? Was the countenance fair or ugly? Nay, children, you have me there! _My_ eyes were p'r'aps blurr'd; and besides I'd heard That it's horribly rude to stare. And I--was I brusque and surly? Or oppressively bland and fond? Was I partial to rising early? Or why did we twain abscond, All breakfastless, too, from the public view, To prowl by a misty pond? What pass'd, what was felt or spoken-- Whether anything pass'd at all-- And whether the heart was broken That beat under that shelt'ring shawl-- (If shawl she had on, which I doubt)--has gone, Yes, gone from me past recall. Was I haply the lady's suitor? Or her uncle? I can't make out-- Ask your governess, dears, or tutor. For myself, I'm in hopeless doubt As to why we were there, who on earth we were, And, what this is all about. _Charles Stuart Calverley._ THE SCHOOLMASTER ABROAD WITH HIS SON O what harper could worthily harp it, Mine Edward! this wide-stretching wold (Look out _wold_) with its wonderful carpet Of emerald, purple and gold! Look well at it--also look sharp, it Is getting so cold. The purple is heather (_erica_); The yellow, gorse--call'd sometimes "whin." Cruel boys on its prickles might spike a Green beetle as if on a pin. You may roll in it, if you would like a Few holes in your skin. You wouldn't? Then think of how kind you Should be to the insects who crave Your compassion--and then, look behind you At yon barley-ears! Don't they look brave As they undulate--(_undulate_, mind you, From _unda, a wave_). The noise of those sheep-bells, how faint it Sounds here--(on account of our height)! And this hillock itself--who could paint it, With its changes of shadow and light? Is it not--(never, Eddy, say "ain't it")-- A marvelous sight? Then yon desolate eerie morasses. The haunts of the snipe and the hern-- (I shall question the two upper classes On _aquatiles_, when we return)-- Why, I see on them absolute masses Of _filix_ or fern. How it interests e'en a beginner (Or _tiro_) like dear little Ned! Is he listening? As I am a sinner He's asleep--he is wagging his head. Wake up! I'll go home to my dinner, And you to your bed. The boundless ineffable prairie; The splendor of mountain and lake With their hues that seem ever to vary; The mighty pine forests which shake In the wind, and in which the unwary May tread on a snake; And this wold with its heathery garment-- Are themes undeniably great. But--although there is not any harm in't-- It's perhaps little good to dilate On their charms to a dull little varmint Of seven or eight. _Charles Stuart Calverley._ A APPEAL FOR ARE TO THE SEXTANT OF THE OLD BRICK MEETINOUSE BY A GASPER The sextant of the meetinouse, which sweeps And dusts, or is supposed too! and makes fiers, And lites the gas and sometimes leaves a screw loose, in which case it smells orful--worse than lampile; And wrings the Bel and toles it when men dyes to the grief of survivin pardners, and sweeps pathes; And for the servases gits $100 per annum, Which them that thinks deer, let em try it; Getting up be foar star-lite in all weathers and Kindlin-fires when the wether it is cold As zero, and like as not green wood for kindlers; I wouldn't be hired to do it for no some-- But o sextant! there are 1 kermoddity Which's more than gold, wich doant cost nothin, Worth more than anything exsep the Sole of Man. i mean pewer Are, sextent, i mean pewer are! O it is plenty out o dores, so plenty it doant no What on airth to dew with itself, but flys about Scaterin levs and bloin of men's hatts; in short, jest "fre as are" out dores. But o sextant, in our church its scarce as piety, scarce as bank bills wen agints beg for mischuns, Wich some say purty often (taint nothin to me, Wat I give aint nothin to nobody), but o sextant, u shut 500 mens wimmen and children, Speshally the latter, up in a tite place, Some has bad breths, none aint 2 swete, some is fevery, some is scrofilus, some has bad teeth, And some haint none, and some aint over clean; But every 1 on em breethes in and out and out and in, Say 50 times a minit, or 1 million and a half breths an our, Now how long will a church ful of are last at that rate, I ask you, say 15 minutes, and then wats to be did? Why then they must brethe it all over agin. And then agin, and so on, till each has took it down, At least ten times, and let it up again, and wats more The same individible don't have the privilege of brethen his own are, and no one's else; Each one mus take whatever comes to him, O sextant, don't you know our lungs is bellusses, To blo the fier of life, and keep it from goin out; and how can bellusses blow without wind, And aint wind _are_? i put it to your conscens. Are is the same to us as milk to babes, Or water to fish, or pendlums to clox-- Or roots and airbs unto an injun Doctor, Or little pils to an omepath, Or boys to gurls. Are is for us to brethe, Wat signifies who preeches if i cant brethe? Wats Pol? Wats Pollus? to sinners who are ded? Ded for want of breth? why sextant, when we die Its only coz we cant brethe no more--that's all. And now, O sextant, let me beg of you 2 let a little are into our church. (Pewer are is sertin proper for the pews) And do it weak days and Sundays tew-- It aint much trouble--only make a hole And the are will come in itself; (It luvs to come in whare it can git warm): And o how it will rouse the people up And sperrit up the preacher, and stop garbs, And yawns and figgits as effectooal As wind on the dry Boans the Profit tells of. _Arabella Willson._ CUPID'S DARTS WHICH ARE A GROWING MENACE TO THE PUBLIC Do not worry if I scurry from the grill room in a hurry, Dropping hastily my curry and retiring into balk; Do not let it cause you wonder if, by some mischance or blunder, We encounter on the Underground and I get out and walk. If I double as a cub'll when you meet him in the stubble, Do not think I am in trouble or attempt to make a fuss; Do not judge me melancholy or attribute it to folly If I leave the Metropolitan and travel 'n a bus. Do not quiet your anxiety by giving me a diet, Or by base resort to _vi et armis_ fold me to your arms, And let no suspicious tremor violate your wonted phlegm or Any fear that Harold's memory is faithless to your charms. For my passion as I dash on in that disconcerting fashion Is as ardently irrational as when we forged the link When you gave your little hand away to me, my own Amanda As we sat 'n the veranda till the stars began to wink. And I am in such a famine when your beauty I examine That it lures me as the jam invites a hungry little brat; But I fancy that, at any rate, I'd rather waste a penny Then be spitted by the many pins that bristle from your hat. _Unknown._ A PLEA FOR TRIGAMY I've been trying to fashion a wifely ideal, And find that my tastes are so far from concise That, to marry completely, no fewer than three'll Suffice I've subjected my views to severe atmospheric Compression, but still, in defiance of force, They distinctly fall under three heads, like a cleric Discourse. My _first_ must be fashion's own fancy-bred daughter, Proud, peerless, and perfect--in fact, _comme il faut_; A waltzer and wit of the very first water-- For _show_. But these beauties that serve to make all the men jealous, Once face them alone in the family cot, Heaven's angels incarnate (the novelists tell us) They're _not_. But so much for appearances. Now for my _second_, My lover, the wife of my home and my heart: Of all fortune and fate of my life to be reckon'd A part. She must know all the needs of a rational being, Be skilled to keep counsel, to comfort, to coax; And, above all things else, be accomplished at seeing My jokes. I complete the ménage by including the other With all the domestic prestige of a hen: As my housekeeper, nurse, or it may be, a mother Of men. Total _three!_ and the virtues all well represented; With fewer than this such a thing can't be done; Though I've known married men who declare they're contented With one. Would you hunt during harvest, or hay-make in winter? And how can one woman expect to combine Certain qualifications essentially inter- necine? You may say that my prospects are (legally) sunless; I state that I find them as clear as can be:-- I will marry _no_ wife, since I can't do with one less Than three. _Owen Seaman._ THE POPE The Pope he leads a happy life, He fears not married care nor strife. He drinks the best of Rhenish wine,-- I would the Pope's gay lot were mine. But yet all happy's not his life, He has no maid, nor blooming wife; No child has he to raise his hope,-- I would not wish to be the Pope. The Sultan better pleases me, His is a life of jollity; He's wives as many as he will,-- I would the Sultan's throne then fill. But even he's a wretched man, He must obey the Alcoran; He dare not drink one drop of wine-- I would not change his lot for mine. So here I'll take my lowly stand, I'll drink my own, my native land; I'll kiss my maiden fair and fine, And drink the best of Rhenish wine. And when my maiden kisses me I'll think that I the Sultan be; And when my cheery glass I tope, I'll fancy then I am the Pope. _Charles Lever._ ALL AT SEA THE VOYAGE OF A CERTAIN UNCERTAIN SAILORMAN I saw a certain sailorman who sat beside the sea, And in the manner of his tribe he yawned this yarn to me: "'Twere back in eighteen-fifty-three, or mebbe fifty-four, I skipped the farm,--no, 't were the shop,--an' went to Baltimore. I shipped aboard the _Lizzie_--or she might ha' bin the _Jane;_ Them wimmin names are mixey, so I don't remember plain; But anyhow, she were a craft that carried schooner rig, (Although Sam Swab, the bo'sun, allus swore she were a brig); We sailed away from Salem Town,--no, lemme think;--'t were _Lynn_,-- An' steered a course for Africa (or Greece, it might ha' bin); But anyway, we tacked an' backed an' weathered many a storm-- Oh, no,--as I recall it now, that week was fine an' warm! Who did I say the cap'n was? I _didn't_ say at all? Wa-a-ll now, his name were 'Lijah Bell--or was it Eli Ball? I kinder guess 't were Eli. He'd a big, red, bushy beard-- No-o-o, come to think, he allus kept _his_ whiskers nicely sheared. But anyhow, that voyage was the first I'd ever took, An' all I had to do was cut up cabbage for the cook; But come to talk o' cabbage just reminds me,--that there trip Would prob'ly be my _third_ one, on a Hong Kong clipper-ship. The crew they were a jolly lot, an' used to sing '_Avast_,' I think it were, or else '_Ahoy_,' while bailing out the mast. And as I recollect it now,--" But here I cut him short, And said: "It's time to tack again, and bring your wits to port; I came to get a story both adventurous and _true_, And here is how I started out to write the interview: 'I saw a _certain_ sailorman,' but you turn out to be The most _un_-certain sailorman that ever sailed the sea!" He puffed his pipe, and answered, "Wa-a-ll, I _thought_ 'twere mine, but still, _I must ha' told the one belongs to my twin brother Bill_!" _Frederick Moxon._ BALLAD OF THE PRIMITIVE JEST I am an ancient Jest! Paleolithic man In his arboreal nest The sparks of fun would fan; My outline did he plan, And laughed like one possessed, 'Twas thus my course began, I am a Merry Jest. I am an early Jest! Man delved and built and span; Then wandered South and West The peoples Aryan, _I_ journeyed in their van; The Semites, too, confessed,-- From Beersheba to Dan,-- I am a Merry Jest. I am an ancient Jest, Through all the human clan, Red, black, white, free, oppressed, Hilarious I ran! I'm found in Lucian, In Poggio, and the rest, I'm dear to Moll and Nan! I am a Merry Jest! |envoy|: Prince, you may storm and ban-- Joe Millers _are_ a pest, Suppress me if you can! I am a Merry Jest! _Andrew Lang._ VILLANELLE OF THINGS AMUSING These are the things that make me laugh-- Life's a preposterous farce, say I! And I've missed of too many jokes by half. The high-heeled antics of colt and calf, The men who think they can act, and try-- These are the things that make me laugh. The hard-boiled poses in photograph, The groom still wearing his wedding tie-- And I've missed of too many jokes by half! These are the bubbles I gayly quaff With the rank conceit of the new-born fly-- These are the things that make me laugh! For, Heaven help me! I needs must chaff, And people will tickle me till I die-- And I've missed of too many jokes by half! So write me down in my epitaph As one too fond of his health to cry-- These are the things that make me laugh, And I've missed of too many jokes by half! _Gelett Burgess._ HOW TO EAT WATERMELONS When you slice a Georgy melon you mus' know what you is at An' look out how de knife is gwine in. Put one-half on dis side er you--de yuther half on dat, En' den you gits betwixt 'em, en begin! Oh, melons! Honey good ter see; But we'en it comes ter sweetness, De melon make fer me! En den you puts yo' knife up, en you sorter licks de blade, En never stop fer sayin' any grace; But eat ontell you satisfy--roll over in de shade, En sleep ontell de sun shine in yo' face! Oh, melons! Honey good ter see; But we'en it comes ter sweetness, De melon make fer me! _Frank Libby Stanton._ A VAGUE STORY Perchance it was her eyes of blue, Her cheeks that might the rose have shamed, Her figure in proportion true To all the rules by artists framed; Perhaps it was her mental worth That made her lover love her so, Perhaps her name, or wealth, or birth-- I cannot tell--I do not know. He may have had a rival, who Did fiercely gage him to a duel, And, being luckier of the two, Defeated him with triumph cruel; Then _she_ may have proved false, and turned To welcome to her arms his foe, Left _him_ despairing, conquered, spurned-- I cannot tell--I do not know. So oft such woes will counteract The thousand ecstacies of love, That you may fix on base of fact The story hinted at above; But all on earth so doubtful is, Man _knows_ so little here below, That, if you ask for proof of this, I cannot tell--I do not know. _Walter Parke._ HIS MOTHER-IN-LAW He stood on his head by the wild seashore, And danced on his hands a jig; In all his emotions, as never before, A wildly hilarious grig. And why? In that ship just crossing the bay His mother-in-law had sailed For a tropical country far away, Where tigers and fever prevailed. Oh, now he might hope for a peaceful life And even be happy yet, Though owning no end of neuralgic wife, And up to his collar in debt. He had borne the old lady through thick and thin, And she lectured him out of breath; And now as he looked at the ship she was in He howled for her violent death. He watched as the good ship cut the sea, And bumpishly up-and-downed, And thought if already she qualmish might be, He'd consider his happiness crowned. He watched till beneath the horizon's edge The ship was passing from view; And he sprang to the top of a rocky ledge And pranced like a kangaroo. He watched till the vessel became a speck That was lost in the wandering sea; And then, at the risk of breaking his neck, Turned somersaults home to tea. _Walter Parke._ ON A DEAF HOUSEKEEPER Of all life's plagues I recommend to no man To hire as a domestic a deaf woman. I've got one who my orders does not hear, Mishears them rather, and keeps blundering near. Thirsty and hot, I asked her for a _drink_; She bustled out, and brought me back some _ink_. Eating a good rump-steak, I called for _mustard_; Away she went, and whipped me up a _custard_. I wanted with my chicken to have _ham_; Blundering once more, she brought a pot of _jam_. I wished in season for a cut of _salmon_; And what she brought me was a huge fat _gammon_. I can't my voice raise higher and still higher, As if I were a herald or town-crier. 'T would better be if she were deaf outright; But anyhow she quits my house this night. _Unknown._ HOM[OE]OPATHIC SOUP Take a robin's leg (Mind, the drumstick merely); Put it in a tub Filled with water nearly; Set it out of doors, In a place that's shady; Let it stand a week (Three days if for a lady); Drop a spoonful of it In a five-pail kettle, Which may be made of tin Or any baser metal; Fill the kettle up, Set it on a boiling, Strain the liquor well, To prevent its oiling; One atom add of salt, For the thickening one rice kernel, And use to light the fire "The Hom[oe]opathic Journal." Let the liquor boil Half an hour, no longer, (If 'tis for a man Of course you'll make it stronger). Should you now desire That the soup be flavoury, Stir it once around, With a stalk of savoury. When the broth is made, Nothing can excell it: Then three times a day Let the patient _smell_ it. If he chance to die, Say 'twas Nature did it: If he chance to live, Give the soup the credit. _Unknown._ SOME LITTLE BUG In these days of indigestion It is oftentimes a question As to what to eat and what to leave alone; For each microbe and bacillus Has a different way to kill us, And in time they always claim us for their own. There are germs of every kind In any food that you can find In the market or upon the bill of fare. Drinking water's just as risky As the so-called deadly whiskey, And it's often a mistake to breathe the air. Some little bug is going to find you some day, Some little bug will creep behind you some day, Then he'll send for his bug friends And all your earthly trouble ends; Some little bug is going to find you some day. The inviting green cucumber Gets most everybody's number, While the green corn has a system of its own; Though a radish seems nutritious Its behaviour is quite vicious, And a doctor will be coming to your home. Eating lobster cooked or plain Is only flirting with ptomaine, While an oyster sometimes has a lot to say, But the clams we cat in chowder Make the angels chant the louder, For they know that we'll be with them right away. Take a slice of nice fried onion And you're fit for Dr. Munyon, Apple dumplings kill you quicker than a train. Chew a cheesy midnight "rabbit" And a grave you'll soon inhabit-- Ah, to eat at all is such a foolish game. Eating huckleberry pie Is a pleasing way to die, While sauerkraut brings on softening of the brain. When you eat banana fritters Every undertaker titters, And the casket makers nearly go insane. Some little bug is going to find you some day, Some little bug will creep behind you some day, With a nervous little quiver He'll give cirrhosis of the liver; Some little bug is going to find you some day. When cold storage vaults I visit I can only say what is it Makes poor mortals fill their systems with such stuff? Now, for breakfast, prunes are dandy If a stomach pump is handy And your doctor can be found quite soon enough. Eat a plate of fine pigs' knuckles And the headstone cutter chuckles, While the grave digger makes a note upon his cuff. Eat that lovely red bologna And you'll wear a wooden kimona, As your relatives start scrappin 'bout your stuff. Some little bug is going to find you some day, Some little bug will creep behind you some day, Eating juicy sliced pineapple Makes the sexton dust the chapel; Some little bug is going to find you some day. All those crazy foods they mix Will float us 'cross the River Styx, Or they'll start us climbing up the milky way. And the meals we eat in courses Mean a hearse and two black horses So before a meal some people always pray. Luscious grapes breed 'pendicitis, And the juice leads to gastritis, So there's only death to greet us either way; And fried liver's nice, but, mind you, Friends will soon ride slow behind you And the papers then will have nice things to say. Some little bug is going to find you some day, Some little bug will creep behind you some day Eat some sauce, they call it chili, On your breast they'll place a lily; Some little bug is going to find you some day. _Roy Atwell._ ON THE DOWNTOWN SIDE OF AN UPTOWN STREET On the downtown side of an uptown street Is the home of a girl that I'd like to meet, But I'm on the uptown, And she's on the downtown, On the downtown side of an uptown street. On the uptown side of the crowded old "L," I see her so often I know her quite well, But I'm on the downtown When she's on the uptown, On the uptown side of the crowded old "L." On the uptown side of a downtown street This girl is employed that I'd like to meet, But I work on the downtown And she on the uptown, The uptown side of a downtown street. On a downtown car of the Broadway line Often I see her for whom I repine, But when I'm on a uptown She's on a downtown, On a downtown car of the Broadway line. Oh, to be downtown when I am uptown, Oh, to be uptown when I am downtown, I work at night time, She in the daytime, Never the right time for us to meet, Uptown or downtown, in "L," car or street. _William Johnston._ WRITTEN AFTER SWIMMING FROM SESTOS TO ABYDOS If, in the month of dark December, Leander, who was nightly wont (What maid will not the tale remember?) To cross thy stream broad Hellespont. If, when the wint'ry tempest roar'd, He sped to Hero nothing loth, And thus of old thy current pour'd, Fair Venus! how I pity both! For _me_, degenerate, modern wretch, Though in the genial month of May, My dripping limbs I faintly stretch, And think I've done a feat to-day. But since he crossed the rapid tide, According to the doubtful story, To woo--and--Lord knows what beside, And swam for Love, as I for Glory; 'T were hard to say who fared the best: Sad mortals! thus the gods still plague you! He lost his labor, I my jest; For he was drowned, and I've the ague. _Lord Byron._ THE FISHERMAN'S CHANT Oh, the fisherman is a happy wight! He dibbles by day, and he sniggles by night. He trolls for fish, and he trolls his lay-- He sniggles by night, and he dibbles by day. Oh, who so merry as he! On the river or the sea! Sniggling, Wriggling Eels, and higgling Over the price Of a nice Slice Of fish, twice As much as it ought to be. Oh, the fisherman is a happy man! He dibbles, and sniggles, and fills his can! With a sharpened hook, and a sharper eye, He sniggles and dibbles for what comes by, Oh, who so merry as he! On the river or the sea! Dibbling Nibbling Chub, and quibbling Over the price Of a nice Slice Of fish, twice As much as it ought to be. _F. C. Burnand._ REPORT OF AN ADJUDGED CASE NOT TO BE FOUND IN ANY OF THE BOOKS Between Nose and Eyes a strange contest arose, The spectacles set them unhappily wrong; The point in dispute was, as all the world knows, To which the said spectacles ought to belong. So Tongue was the lawyer, and argued the cause With a great deal of skill, and a wig full of learning; While chief baron Ear sat to balance the laws, So famed for his talent in nicely discerning. In behalf of the Nose it will quickly appear, And your lordship, he said, will undoubtedly find, That the Nose has had spectacles always to wear, Which amounts to possession time out of mind. Then holding the spectacles up to the court-- Your lordship observes they are made with a straddle As wide as the ridge of the Nose is; in short, Designed to sit close to it, just like a saddle. Again, would your lordship a moment suppose ('Tis a case that has happened, and may be again) That the visage or countenance had not a nose, Pray who would, or who could, wear spectacles then! On the whole it appears, and my argument shows With a reasoning the court will never condemn, That the spectacles plainly were made for the Nose, And the Nose was as plainly intended for them. Then shifting his side (as a lawyer knows how), He pleaded again in behalf of the Eyes; But what were his arguments few people know, For the court did not think they were equally wise. So his lordship decreed with a grave solemn tone, Decisive and clear, without one _if_ or _but_-- That, whenever the Nose put his spectacles on, By daylight or candlelight--Eyes should be shut! _William Cowper._ PREHISTORIC SMITH QUATERNARY EPOCH--POST-PLIOCENE PERIOD A man sat on a rock and sought Refreshment from his thumb; A dinotherium wandered by And scared him some. His name was Smith. The kind of rock He sat upon was shale. One feature quite distinguished him-- He had a tail. The danger past, he fell into A revery austere; While with his tail he whisked a fly From off his ear. "Mankind deteriorates," he said, "Grows weak and incomplete; And each new generation seems Yet more effete. "Nature abhors imperfect work, And on it lays her ban; And all creation must despise A tailless man. "But fashion's dictates rule supreme, Ignoring common sense; And fashion says, to dock your tail Is just immense. "And children now come in the world With half a tail or less; Too stumpy to convey a thought, And meaningless. "It kills expression. How can one Set forth, in words that drag, The best emotions of the soul, Without a wag?" Sadly he mused upon the world, Its follies and its woes; Then wiped the moisture from his eyes, And blew his nose. But clothed in earrings, Mrs. Smith Came wandering down the dale; And, smiling, Mr. Smith arose, And wagged his tail. _David Law Proudfit._ SONG OF ONE ELEVEN YEARS IN PRISON I Whene'er with haggard eyes I view This dungeon that I'm rotting in, I think of those companions true Who studied with me at the U niversity of Gottingen, niversity of Gottingen. [Weeps, and pulls out a blue kerchief, with which he wipes his eyes; gazing tenderly at it, he proceeds-- II Sweet kerchief, check'd with heavenly blue, Which once my love sat knotting in!-- Alas! Matilda _then_ was true! At least I thought so at the U niversity of Gottingen, niversity of Gottingen. [At the repetition of this line he clanks his chains in cadence. III Barbs! Barbs! alas! how swift you flew, Her neat post-wagon trotting in! Ye bore Matilda from my view; Forlorn I languish'd at the U niversity of Gottingen, niversity of Gottingen. IV This faded form! this pallid hue! This blood my veins is clotting in, My years are many--they were few When first I entered at the U niversity of Gottingen, niversity of Gottingen. V There first for thee my passion grew, Sweet, sweet Matilda Pottengen! Thou wast the daughter of my tu tor, law professor at the U niversity of Gottingen, niversity of Gottingen. VI Sun, moon and thou, vain world, adieu, That kings and priests are plotting in; Here doom'd to starve on water gru el, never shall I see the U niversity of Gottingen, niversity of Gottingen. [During the last stanza he dashes his head repeatedly against the walls of his prison; and, finally, so hard as to produce a visible contusion; he then throws himself on the floor in an agony. The curtain drops; the music still continuing to play till it is wholly fallen. _George Canning._ LYING I do confess, in many a sigh, My lips have breath'd you many a lie, And who, with such delights in view, Would lose them for a lie or two? Nay--look not thus, with brow reproving: Lies are, my dear, the soul of loving! If half we tell the girls were true, If half we swear to think and do, Were aught but lying's bright illusion, The world would be in strange confusion! If ladies' eyes were, every one, As lovers swear, a radiant sun, Astronomy should leave the skies, To learn her lore in ladies' eyes! Oh no!--believe me, lovely girl, When nature turns your teeth to pearl, Your neck to snow, your eyes to fire, Your yellow locks to golden wire, Then, only then, can heaven decree, That you should live for only me, Or I for you, as night and morn, We've swearing kiss'd, and kissing sworn. And now, my gentle hints to clear, For once, I'll tell you truth, my dear! Whenever you may chance to meet A loving youth, whose love is sweet, Long as you're false and he believes you, Long as you trust and he deceives you, So long the blissful bond endures; And while he lies, his heart is yours: But, oh! you've wholly lost the youth The instant that he tells you truth! _Thomas Moore._ STRICTLY GERM-PROOF The Antiseptic Baby and the Prophylactic Pup Were playing in the garden when the Bunny gamboled up; They looked upon the Creature with a loathing undisguised;-- It wasn't Disinfected and it wasn't Sterilized. They said it was a Microbe and a Hotbed of Disease; They steamed it in a vapor of a thousand-odd degrees; They froze it in a freezer that was cold as Banished Hope And washed it in permanganate with carbolated soap. In sulphureted hydrogen they steeped its wiggly ears; They trimmed its frisky whiskers with a pair of hard-boiled shears; They donned their rubber mittens and they took it by the hand And 'lected it a member of the Fumigated Band. There's not a Micrococcus in the garden where they play; They bathe in pure iodoform a dozen times a day; And each imbibes his rations from a Hygienic Cup-- The Bunny and the Baby and the Prophylactic Pup. _Arthur Guiterman._ THE LAY OF THE LOVER'S FRIEND |Air|--"_The days we went a-gipsying_." I would all womankind were dead, Or banished o'er the sea; For they have been a bitter plague These last six weeks to me: It is not that I'm touched myself, For that I do not fear; No female face hath shown me grace For many a bygone year. But 'tis the most infernal bore, Of all the bores I know, To have a friend who's lost his heart A short time ago. Whene'er we steam it to Blackwall, Or down to Greenwich run, To quaff the pleasant cider cup, And feed on fish and fun; Or climb the slopes of Richmond Hill, To catch a breath of air: Then, for my sins, he straight begins To rave about his fair. Oh, 'tis the most tremendous bore, Of all the bores I know, To have a friend who's lost his heart A short time ago. In vain you pour into his ear Your own confiding grief; In vain you claim his sympathy, In vain you ask relief; In vain you try to rouse him by Joke, repartee, or quiz; His sole reply's a burning sigh, And "What a mind it is!" O Lord! it is the greatest bore, Of all the bores I know, To have a friend who's lost his heart A short time ago. I've heard her thoroughly described A hundred times, I'm sure; And all the while I've tried to smile, And patiently endure; He waxes strong upon his pangs, And potters o'er his grog; And still I say, in a playful way-- "Why you're a lucky dog!" But oh! it is the heaviest bore, Of all the bores I know, To have a friend who's lost his heart A short time ago. I really wish he'd do like me When I was young and strong; I formed a passion every week, But never kept it long. But he has not the sportive mood That always rescued me, And so I would all women could Be banished o'er the sea. For 'tis the most egregious bore, Of all the bores I know, To have a friend who's lost his heart A short time ago. _William E. Aytoun._ MAN'S PLACE IN NATURE DEDICATED TO DARWIN AND HUXLEY They told him gently he was made Of nicely tempered mud, That man no lengthened part had played Anterior to the Flood. 'Twas all in vain; he heeded not, Referring plant and worm, Fish, reptile, ape, and Hottentot, To one primordial germ. They asked him whether he could bear To think his kind allied To all those brutal forms which were In structure Pithecoid; Whether he thought the apes and us Homologous in form; He said, "Homo and Pithecus Came from one common germ." They called him "atheistical," "Sceptic," and "infidel." They swore his doctrines without fail Would plunge him into hell. But he with proofs in no way lame, Made this deduction firm, That all organic beings came From one primordial germ. That as for the Noachian flood, 'Twas long ago disproved, That as for man being made of mud, All by whom truth is loved Accept as fact what, _malgré_ strife, Research tends to confirm-- That man, and everything with life, Came from one common germ. _Unknown._ THE NEW VERSION A soldier of the Russians Lay japanned at Tschrtzvkjskivitch, There was lack of woman's nursing And other comforts which Might add to his last moments And smooth the final way;-- But a comrade stood beside him To hear what he might say. The japanned Russian faltered As he took that comrade's hand, And he said: "I never more shall see My own, my native land; Take a message and a token To some distant friends of mine, For I was born at Smnlxzrskgqrxzski, Fair Smnlxzrskgqrxzski on the Irkztrvzkimnov." _W. J. Lampton._ AMAZING FACTS ABOUT FOOD The Food Scientist tells us: "A deficiency of iron, phosphorus, potassium, calcium and the other mineral salts, colloids and vitamines of vegetable origin leads to numerous forms of physical disorder." I yearn to bite on a Colloid With phosphorus, iron and Beans; I want to be filled with Calcium, grilled, And Veg'table Vitamines! I yearn to bite on a Colloid (Though I don't know what it means) To line my inside with Potassium, fried, And Veg'table Vitamines. I would sate my soul with spinach And dandelion greens. No eggs, nor ham, nor hard-boiled clam, But Veg'table Vitamines. Hi, Waiter! Coddle the Colloids With phosphorus, iron and Beans; Though Mineral Salts may have some faults, Bring on the Vitamines. _Unknown._ TRANSCENDENTALISM It is told, in Buddhi-theosophic schools, There are rules. By observing which, when mundane labor irks One can simulate quiescence By a timely evanescence From his Active Mortal Essence, (Or his Works.) The particular procedure leaves research In the lurch, But, apparently, this matter-moulded form Is a kind of outer plaster, Which a well-instructed Master Can remove without disaster When he's warm. And to such as mourn an Indian Solar Clime At its prime 'Twere a thesis most immeasurably fit, So expansively elastic, And so plausibly fantastic, That one gets enthusiastic For a bit. _Unknown._ A "CAUDAL" LECTURE Philosophy shows us 'twixt monkey and man One simious line in unbroken extendage; Development only since first it began-- And chiefly in losing the caudal appendage. Our ancestors' holding was wholly _in tail_, And the loss of this feature we claim as a merit; But though often at tale-bearing people we rail, 'Tis rather a loss than a gain we inherit. The tail was a rudder--a capital thing To a man who was half--or a quarter--seas over; And as for a sailor, by that he could cling, And use for his hands and his feet both discover. In the Arts it would quickly have found out a place; The painter would use it to steady his pencil; In music, how handy to pound at the bass! And then one could write by its coilings prehensile. The Army had gained had the fashion endured-- 'Twould carry a sword, or be good in saluting; If the foe should turn tail, they'd be quickly secured; Or, used as a lasso, 'twould help in recruiting. To the Force 'twould add force--they could "run 'em in" so That one to three culprits would find himself equal; He could collar the two, have the other in tow-- A very good form of the Tale and its Sequel. In life many uses 'twould serve we should see-- A man with no bed could hang cosily snoozing; 'Twould hold an umbrella, hand cups round at tea, Or a candle support while our novel perusing. In fact, when one thinks of our loss from of old, It makes us regret that we can't go in for it, or Wish, like the Dane, we a _tail_ could unfold, Instead of remaining each one a _stump_ orator. _William Sawyer._ SALAD To make this condiment, your poet begs The pounded yellow of two hard-boiled eggs; Two boiled potatoes, passed through kitchen-sieve, Smoothness and softness to the salad give; Let onion atoms lurk within the bowl, And, half-suspected, animate the whole. Of mordant mustard add a single spoon, Distrust the condiment that bites so soon; But deem it not, thou man of herbs, a fault, To add a double quantity of salt. And, lastly, o'er the flavored compound toss A magic soup-spoon of anchovy sauce. Oh, green and glorious! Oh, herbaceous treat! 'Twould tempt the dying anchorite to eat; Back to the world he'd turn his fleeting soul, And plunge his fingers in the salad bowl! Serenely full, the epicure would say, Fate can not harm me, I have dined to-day! _Sydney Smith._ NEMESIS The man who invented the women's waists that button down behind, And the man who invented the cans with keys and the strips that will never wind, Were put to sea in a leaky boat and with never a bite to eat But a couple of dozen of patent cans in which was their only meat. And they sailed and sailed o'er the ocean wide and never they had a taste Of aught to eat, for the cans stayed shut, and a peek-a-boo shirtwaist Was all they had to bale the brine that came in the leaky boat; And their tongues were thick and their throats were dry, and they barely kept afloat. They came at last to an island fair, and a man stood on the shore. So they flew a signal of distress and their hopes rose high once more, And they called to him to fetch a boat, for their craft was sinking fast, And a couple of hours at best they knew was all their boat would last. So he called to them a cheery call and he said he would make haste, But first he must go back to his wife and button up her waist, Which would only take him an hour or so and then he would fetch a boat. And the man who invented the backstairs waist, he groaned in his swollen throat. The hours passed by on leaden wings and they saw another man In the window of a bungalow, and he held a tin meat can In his bleeding hands, and they called to him, not once but twice and thrice, And he said: "Just wait till I open this and I'll be there in a trice!" And the man who invented the patent cans he knew what the promise meant, So he leaped in air with a horrid cry and into the sea he went, And the bubbles rose where he sank and sank and a groan choked in the throat Of the man who invented the backstairs waist and he sank with the leaky boat! _J. W. Foley._ "MONA LISA" Mona Lisa, Mona Lisa! Have you gone? Great Julius Cæsar! Who's the Chap so bold and pinchey Thus to swipe the great da Vinci, Taking France's first Chef d'oeuvre Squarely from old Mr. Louvre, Easy as some pocket-picker Would remove our handkerchicker As we ride in careless folly On some gaily bounding trolley? Mona Lisa, Mona Lisa, Who's your Captor? Doubtless he's a Crafty sort of treasure-seeker-- Ne'er a Turpin e'er was sleeker-- But, alas, if he can win you Easily as I could chin you, What is safe in all the nations From his dreadful depredations? He's the style of Chap, I'm thinkin', Who will drive us all to drinkin'! Mona Lisa, Mona Lisa, Next he'll swipe the Tower of Pisa, Pulling it from out its socket For to hide it in his pocket; Or perhaps he'll up and steal, O, Madame Venus, late of Milo; Or maybe while on the grab he Will annex Westminster Abbey, And elope with that distinguished Heap of Ashes long extinguished. Maybe too, O Mona Lisa, He will come across the seas a-- Searching for the style of treasure That we have in richest measure. Sunset Cox's brazen statue, Have a care lest he shall catch you! Or maybe he'll set his eye on Hammerstein's, or the Flatiron, Or some bit of White Wash done By those lads at Washington-- Truly he's a crafty geezer, Is your Captor, Mona Lisa! _John Kendrick Bangs._ THE SIEGE OF DJKLXPRWBZ Before a Turkish town The Russians came. And with huge cannon Did bombard the same. They got up close And rained fat bombshells down, And blew out every Vowel in the town. And then the Turks, Becoming somewhat sad, Surrendered every Consonant they had. _Eugene Fitch Ware._ RURAL BLISS The poet is, or ought to be, a hater of the city, And so, when happiness is mine, and Maud becomes my wife, We'll look on town inhabitants with sympathetic pity, For we shall lead a peaceful and serene Arcadian life. Then shall I sing in eloquent and most effective phrases, The grandeur of geraniums and the beauty of the rose; Immortalise in deathless strains the buttercups and daisies-- For even I can hardly be mistaken as to those. The music of the nightingale will ring from leafy hollow, And fill us with a rapture indescribable in words; And we shall also listen to the robin and the swallow (I wonder if a swallow sings?) and ... well, the other birds. Too long I dwelt in ignorance of all the countless treasures Which dwellers in the country have in such abundant store; To give a single instance of the multitude of pleasures-- The music of the nighting--oh, I mentioned that before. And shall I prune potato-trees and artichokes, I wonder, And cultivate the silo-plant, which springs (I hope it springs?) In graceful foliage overhead?--Excuse me if I blunder, It's really inconvenient not to know the name of things! No matter; in the future, when I celebrate the beauty Of country life in glowing terms, and "build the lofty rhyme" Aware that every Englishman is bound to do his duty, I'll learn to give the stupid things their proper names in time! Meanwhile, you needn't wonder at the view I've indicated, The country life appears to me indubitably blest, For, even if its other charms are somewhat overstated, As long as Maud is there, you see,--what matters all the rest? _Anthony C. Deane._ AN OLD BACHELOR 'Twas raw, and chill, and cold outside, With a boisterous wind untamed, But I was sitting snug within, Where my good log-fire flamed. As my clock ticked, My cat purred, And my kettle sang. I read me a tale of war and love, Brave knights and their ladies fair; And I brewed a brew of stiff hot-scotch To drive away dull care. As my clock ticked, My cat purred, And my kettle sang. At last the candles sputtered out, But the embers still were bright, When I turned my tumbler upside down, An' bade m'self g' night! As th' ket'l t-hic-ked, The clock purred, And the cat (hic) sang! _Tudor Jenks._ SONG Three score and ten by common calculation The years of man amount to; but we'll say He turns four-score, yet, in my estimation, In all those years he has not lived a day. Out of the eighty you must first remember The hours of night you pass asleep in bed; And, counting from December to December, Just half your life you'll find you have been dead. To forty years at once by this reduction We come; and sure, the first five from your birth, While cutting teeth and living upon suction, You're not alive to what this life is worth. From thirty-five next take for education Fifteen at least at college and at school; When, notwithstanding all your application, The chances are you may turn out a fool. Still twenty we have left us to dispose of, But during them your fortune you've to make; And granting, with the luck of some one knows of, 'Tis made in ten--that's ten from life to take. Out of the ten yet left you must allow for The time for shaving, tooth and other aches, Say four--and that leaves, six, too short, I vow, for Regretting past and making fresh mistakes. Meanwhile each hour dispels some fond illusion; Until at length, sans eyes, sans teeth, you may Have scarcely sense to come to this conclusion-- You've reached four-score, but haven't lived a day! _J. R. Planché._ THE QUEST OF THE PURPLE COW He girded on his shining sword, He clad him in his suit of mail, He gave his friends the parting word, With high resolve his face was pale. They said, "You've kissed the Papal Toe, To great Moguls you've made your bow, Why will you thus world-wandering go?" "I never saw a purple cow!" "I never saw a purple cow! Oh, hinder not my wild emprise-- Let me depart! For even now Perhaps, before some yokel's eyes The purpling creature dashes by, Bending its noble, hornèd brow. They see its glowing charms, but I-- I never saw a purple cow!" "But other cows there be," they said, "Both cows of high and low degree, Suffolk and Devon, brown, black, red, The Ayrshire and the Alderney. Content yourself with these." "No, no," He cried, "Not these! Not these! For how Can common kine bring comfort? Oh! I never saw a purple cow!" He flung him to his charger's back, He left his kindred limp and weak, They cried: "He goes, alack! alack! The unattainable to seek." But westward still he rode--pardee! The West! Where such freaks be; I vow, I'd not be much surprised if he Should some day see A Purple Cow! _Hilda Johnson._ ST. PATRICK OF IRELAND, MY DEAR! A fig for St. Denis of France-- He's a trumpery fellow to brag on; A fig for St. George and his lance, Which spitted a heathenish dragon; And the saints of the Welshman or Scot Are a couple of pitiful pipers, Both of whom may just travel to pot, Compared with that patron of swipers-- St. Patrick of Ireland, my dear! He came to the Emerald Isle On a lump of a paving-stone mounted; The steamboat he beat by a mile, Which mighty good sailing was counted. Says he, "The salt water, I think, Has made me most bloodily thirsty; So bring me a flagon of drink To keep down the mulligrubs, burst ye! Of drink that is fit for a saint!" He preached, then, with wonderful force, The ignorant natives a-teaching; With a pint he washed down his discourse, "For," says he, "I detest your dry preaching." The people, with wonderment struck At a pastor so pious and civil, Exclaimed--"We're for you, my old buck! And we pitch our blind gods to the devil, Who dwells in hot water below!" This ended, our worshipful spoon Went to visit an elegant fellow, Whose practice, each cool afternoon, Was to get most delightfully mellow. That day with a black-jack of beer, It chanced he was treating a party; Says the saint--"This good day, do you hear, I drank nothing to speak of, my hearty! So give me a pull at the pot!" The pewter he lifted in sport (Believe me, I tell you no fable); A gallon he drank from the quart, And then placed it full on the table. "A miracle!" every one said-- And they all took a haul at the stingo; They were capital hands at the trade, And drank till they fell; yet, by jingo, The pot still frothed over the brim. Next day, quoth his host, "'Tis a fast, And I've nought in my larder but mutton; And on Fridays who'd made such repast, Except an unchristian-like glutton?" Says Pat, "Cease your nonsense, I beg-- What you tell me is nothing but gammon; Take my compliments down to the leg, And bid it come hither a salmon!" And the leg most politely complied. You've heard, I suppose, long ago, How the snakes, in a manner most antic, He marched to the county Mayo, And trundled them into th' Atlantic. Hence, not to use water for drink, The people of Ireland determine-- With mighty good reason, I think, Since St. Patrick has filled it with vermin And vipers, and other such stuff! Oh, he was an elegant blade As you'd meet from Fairhead to Kilcrumper; And though under the sod he is laid, Yet here goes his health in a bumper! I wish he was here, that my glass He might by art magic replenish; But since he is not--why, alas! My ditty must come to a finish,-- Because all the liquor is out! _William Maginn._ THE IRISH SCHOOLMASTER "Come here, my boy; hould up your head, And look like a jintlemàn, Sir; Jist tell me who King David was-- Now tell me if you can, Sir." "King David was a mighty man, And he was King of Spain, Sir; His eldest daughter 'Jessie' was The 'Flower of Dunblane,' Sir." "You're right, my boy; hould up your head, And look like a jintlemàn, Sir; Sir Isaac Newton--who was he? Now tell me if you can, Sir." "Sir Isaac Newton was the boy That climbed the apple-tree, Sir; He then fell down and broke his crown, And lost his gravity, Sir." "You're right, my boy; hould up your head, And look like a jintlemàn, Sir; Jist tell me who ould Marmion was-- Now tell me if you can, Sir." "Ould Marmion was a soldier bold, But he went all to pot, Sir; He was hanged upon the gallows tree, For killing Sir Walter Scott, Sir." "You're right, my boy; hould up your head, And look like a jintlemàn, Sir; Jist tell me who Sir Rob Roy was; Now tell me if you can, Sir." "Sir Rob Roy was a tailor to The King of the Cannibal Islands; He spoiled a pair of breeches, and Was banished to the Highlands." "You're right, my boy; hould up your head, And look like a jintlemàn, Sir; Then, Bonaparte--say, who was he? Now tell me if you can, Sir." "Ould Bonaparte was King of France Before the Revolution; But he was kilt at Waterloo, Which ruined his constitution." "You're right, my boy; hould up your head, And look like a jintlemàn, Sir; Jist tell me who King Jonah was; Now tell me if you can, Sir." "King Jonah was the strangest man That ever wore a crown, Sir; For though the whale did swallow him, It couldn't keep him down, Sir." "You're right, my boy; hould up your head, And look like a jintlemàn, Sir; Jist tell me who that Moses was; Now tell me if you can, Sir." "Shure Moses was the Christian name Of good King Pharaoh's daughter; She was a milkmaid, and she took A _profit_ from the water." "You're right, my boy; hould up your head, And look like a jintlemàn, Sir; Jist tell me now where Dublin is; Now tell me if you can, Sir." "Och, Dublin is a town in Cork, And built on the equator; It's close to Mount Vesuvius, And watered by the 'craythur.'" "You're right, my boy; hould up your head, And look like a jintlemàn, Sir; Jist tell me now where London is; Now tell me if you can, Sir." "Och, London is a town in Spain; 'Twas lost in the earthquake, Sir; The cockneys murther English there, Whenever they do spake, Sir." "You're right, my boy; hould up your head, Ye're now a jintlemàn, Sir; For in history and geography I've taught you all I can, Sir. And if any one should ask you now, Where you got all your knowledge, Jist tell them 'twas from Paddy Blake, Of Bally Blarney College." _James A. Sidey._ REFLECTIONS ON CLEOPATHERA'S NEEDLE So that's Cleopathera's Needle, bedad, An' a quare lookin' needle it is, I'll be bound; What a powerful muscle the queen must have had That could grasp such a weapon an' wind it around! Imagine her sittin' there stitchin' like mad Wid a needle like that in her hand! I declare It's as big as the Round Tower of Slane, an', bedad, It would pass for a round tower, only it's square! The taste of her, ordherin' a needle of granite! Begorra, the sight of it sthrikes me quite dumb! An' look at the quare sort of figures upon it; I wondher can these be the thracks of her thumb! I once was astonished to hear of the faste Cleopathera made upon pearls; but now I declare, I would not be surprised in the laste If ye told me the woman had swallowed a cow! It's aisy to see why bould Cæsar should quail In her presence, an' meekly submit to her rule; Wid a weapon like that in her fist I'll go bail She could frighten the sowl out of big Finn MacCool! But, Lord, what poor pigmies the women are now, Compared with the monsthers they must have been then! Whin the darlin's in those days would kick up a row, Holy smoke, but it must have been hot for the men! Just think how a chap that goes courtin' would start If his girl was to prod him wid that in the shins! I have often seen needles, but bouldly assart That the needle in front of me there takes the pins! O, sweet Cleopathera! I'm sorry you're dead; An' whin lavin' this wondherful needle behind Had ye thought of bequathin' a spool of your thread An' yer thimble an' scissors, it would have been kind. But pace to your ashes, ye plague of great men, Yer strength is departed, yer glory is past; Ye'll never wield sceptre or needle again, An' a poor little asp did yer bizzness at last! _Cormac O'Leary._ THE ORIGIN OF IRELAND With due condescension, I'd call your attention To what I shall mention of Erin so green, And without hesitation I will show how that nation Became of creation the gem and the queen. 'Twas early one morning, without any warning, That Vanus was born in the beautiful say, And by the same token, and sure 'twas provoking, Her pinions were soaking and wouldn't give play. Old Neptune, who knew her, began to pursue her, In order to woo her--the wicked old Jew-- And almost had caught her atop of the water-- Great Jupiter's daughter!--which never would do. But Jove, the great janius, looked down and saw Vanus, And Neptune so heinous pursuing her wild, And he spoke out in thunder, he'd rend him asunder-- And sure 'twas no wonder--for tazing his child. A star that was flying hard by him espying, He caught with small trying, and down let it snap; It fell quick as winking, on Neptune a-sinking, And gave him, I'm thinking, a bit of a rap. That star it was dry land, both low land and high land, And formed a sweet island, the land of my birth; Thus plain is the story, that sent down from glory, Old Erin asthore as the gem of the earth! Upon Erin nately jumped Vanus so stately, But fainted, kase lately so hard she was pressed-- Which much did bewilder, but ere it had killed her Her father distilled her a drop of the best. That sup was victorious, it made her feel glorious-- A little uproarious, I fear it might prove-- So how can you blame us that Ireland's so famous For drinking and beauty, for fighting and love? _Unknown._ AS TO THE WEATHER I remember, I remember, Ere my childhood flitted by, It was cold then in December, And was warmer in July. In the winter there were freezings-- In the summer there were thaws; But the weather isn't now at all Like what it used to was! _Unknown._ THE TWINS In form and feature, face and limb, I grew so like my brother, That folks got taking me for him, And each for one another. It puzzled all our kith and kin, It reach'd an awful pitch; For one of us was born a twin, Yet not a soul knew which. One day (to make the matter worse), Before our names were fix'd, As we were being wash'd by nurse We got completely mix'd; And thus, you see, by Fate's decree, (Or rather nurse's whim), My brother John got christen'd _me_, And I got christen'd _him_. This fatal likeness even dogg'd My footsteps when at school, And I was always getting flogg'd, For John turned out a fool. I put this question hopelessly To every one I knew-- What _would_ you do, if you were me, To prove that you were _you_? Our close resemblance turn'd the tide Of my domestic life; For somehow my intended bride Became my brother's wife. In short, year after year the same Absurd mistakes went on; And when I died--the neighbors came And buried brother John! _Henry S. Leigh._ II THE ETERNAL FEMININE HE AND SHE When I am dead you'll find it hard, Said he, To ever find another man Like me. What makes you think, as I suppose You do, I'd ever want another man Like you? _Eugene Fitch Ware._ THE KISS "What other men have dared, I dare," He said. "I'm daring, too: And tho' they told me to beware, One kiss I'll take from you. "Did I say one? Forgive me, dear; That was a grave mistake, For when I've taken one, I fear, One hundred more I'll take. "'Tis sweet one kiss from you to win, But to stop there? Oh, no! One kiss is only to begin; There is no end, you know." The maiden rose from where she sat And gently raised her head: "No man has ever talked like that-- You may begin," she said. _Tom Masson._ THE COURTIN' God makes sech nights, all white an' still Fur 'z you can look or listen, Moonshine an' snow on field an' hill, All silence an' all glisten. Zekle crep' up quite unbeknown An' peeked in thru' the winder, An' there sot Huldy all alone, 'Ith no one nigh to hender. A fireplace filled the room's one side With half a cord o' wood in-- There warn't no stoves (tell comfort died) To bake ye to a puddin'. The wa'nut logs shot sparkles out Towards the pootiest, bless her, An' leetle flames danced all about The chiny on the dresser. Agin the chimbley crook-necks hung, An' in amongst 'em rusted The ole queen's-arm that Gran'ther Young Fetched back f'om Concord busted. The very room, coz she was in, Seemed warm f'om floor to ceilin', An' she looked full ez rosy agin Ez the apples she was peelin'. 'Twas kin' o' kingdom-come to look On sech a blessed cretur; A dogrose blushin' to a brook Ain't modester nor sweeter. He was six foot o' man, A 1, Clear grit an' human natur'; None couldn't quicker pitch a ton Nor dror a furrer straighter. He'd sparked it with full twenty gals, He'd squired 'em, danced 'em, druv 'em, Fust this one, an' then thet, by spells-- All is, he couldn't love 'em. But long o' her his veins 'ould run All crinkly like curled maple; The side she breshed felt full o' sun Ez a south slope in Ap'il. She thought no v'ice hed sech a swing Ez hisn in the choir; My! when he made Ole Hunderd ring, She _knowed_ the Lord was nigher. An' she'd blush scarlit, right in prayer, When her new meetin'-bunnet Felt somehow thru its crown a pair O' blue eyes sot upun it. Thet night, I tell ye, she looked _some_! She seemed to 've gut a new soul, For she felt sartin-sure he'd come, Down to her very shoe-sole. She heered a foot, an' knowed it tu, A-raspin' on the scraper-- All ways to once her feelins flew Like sparks in burnt-up paper. He kin' o' l'itered on the mat, Some doubtfle o' the sekle; His heart kep' goin' pity-pat, But hern went pity Zekle. An' yit she gin her cheer a jerk Ez though she wished him furder, An' on her apples kep' to work, Parin' away like murder. "You want to see my Pa, I s'pose?" "Wal ... no ... I come dasignin'--" "To see my Ma? She's sprinklin' clo'es Agin to-morrer's i'nin'." To say why gals act so or so, Or don't, 'ould be presumin'; Mebbe to mean _yes_ an' say _no_ Comes nateral to women. He stood a spell on one foot fust, Then stood a spell on t'other, An' on which one he felt the wust He couldn't ha' told ye nuther. Says he, "I'd better call agin"; Says she, "Think likely, Mister"; Thet last word pricked him like a pin, An' ... Wal, he up an' kist her. When Ma bimeby upon 'em slips, Huldy sot pale ez ashes, All kin' o' smily roun' the lips An' teary roun' the lashes. For she was jes' the quiet kind Whose naturs never vary, Like streams that keep a summer mind Snowhid in Jenooary. The blood clost roun' her heart felt glued Too tight for all expressin', Tell mother see how metters stood, An' gin 'em both her blessin'. Then her red come back like the tide Down to the Bay o' Fundy, An' all I know is they was cried In meetin' come nex' Sunday. _James Russell Lowell._ HIRAM HOVER A BALLAD OF NEW ENGLAND LIFE Where the Moosatockmaguntic Pours its waters in the Skuntic, Met, along the forest side Hiram Hover, Huldah Hyde. She, a maiden fair and dapper, He, a red-haired, stalwart trapper, Hunting beaver, mink, and skunk In the woodlands of Squeedunk. She, Pentucket's pensive daughter, Walked beside the Skuntic water Gathering, in her apron wet, Snake-root, mint, and bouncing-bet. "Why," he murmured, loth to leave her, "Gather yarbs for chills and fever, When a lovyer bold and true, Only waits to gather you?" "Go," she answered, "I'm not hasty, I prefer a man more tasty; Leastways, one to please me well Should not have a beasty smell." "Haughty Huldah!" Hiram answered, "Mind and heart alike are cancered; Jest look here! these peltries give Cash, wherefrom a pair may live. "I, you think, am but a vagrant, Trapping beasts by no means fragrant; Yet, I'm sure it's worth a thank-- I've a handsome sum in bank." Turned and vanished Hiram Hover, And, before the year was over, Huldah, with the yarbs she sold, Bought a cape, against the cold. Black and thick the furry cape was, Of a stylish cut the shape was; And the girls, in all the town, Envied Huldah up and down. Then at last, one winter morning, Hiram came without a warning. "Either," said he, "you are blind, Huldah, or you've changed your mind. "Me you snub for trapping varmints, Yet you take the skins for garments; Since you wear the skunk and mink, There's no harm in me, I think." "Well," said she, "we will not quarrel, Hiram; I accept the moral, Now the fashion's so I guess I can't hardly do no less." Thus the trouble all was over Of the love of Hiram Hover. Thus he made sweet Huldah Hyde Huldah Hover as his bride. Love employs, with equal favor, Things of good and evil savor; That which first appeared to part, Warmed, at last, the maiden's heart. Under one impartial banner, Life, the hunter, Love the tanner, Draw, from every beast they snare, Comfort for a wedded pair! _Bayard Taylor._ BLOW ME EYES! When I was young and full o' pride, A-standin' on the grass And gazin' o'er the water-side, I seen a fisher lass. "O, fisher lass, be kind awhile," I asks 'er quite unbid. "Please look into me face and smile"-- And, blow me eyes, she did! O, blow me light and blow me blow, I didn't think she'd charm me so-- But, blow me eyes, she did! She seemed so young and beautiful I _had_ to speak perlite, (The afternoon was long and dull, But she was short and bright). "This ain't no place," I says, "to stand-- Let's take a walk instid, Each holdin' of the other's hand"-- And, blow me eyes, she did! O, blow me light and blow me blow, I sort o' thunk she wouldn't go-- But, blow me eyes, she did! And as we walked along a lane With no one else to see, Me heart was filled with sudden pain, And so I says to she: "If you would have me actions speak The words what can't be hid, You'd sort o' let me kiss yer cheek"-- And, blow me eyes, she did! O, blow me light and blow me blow, How sweet she was I didn't know-- But, blow me eyes, _she_ did! But pretty soon me shipmate Jim Came strollin' down the beach, And she began a-oglin' him As pretty as a peach. "O, fickle maid o' false intent," Impulsively I chid, "Why don't you go and wed that gent?" And, blow me eyes, she did! O, blow me light and blow me blow, I didn't think she'd treat me so-- But, blow me eyes, she did! _Wallace Irwin._ FIRST LOVE O my earliest love, who, ere I number'd Ten sweet summers, made my bosom thrill! Will a swallow--or a swift, or some bird-- Fly to her and say, I love her still? Say my life's a desert drear and arid, To its one green spot I aye recur: Never, never--although three times married-- Have I cared a jot for aught but her. No, mine own! though early forced to leave you, Still my heart was there where first we met; In those "Lodgings with an ample sea-view," Which were, forty years ago, "To Let." There I saw her first, our landlord's oldest Little daughter. On a thing so fair Thou, O Sun,--who (so they say) beholdest Everything,--hast gazed, I tell thee, ne'er. There she sat--so near me, yet remoter Than a star--a blue-eyed, bashful imp: On her lap she held a happy bloater, 'Twixt her lips a yet more happy shrimp. And I loved her, and our troth we plighted On the morrow by the shingly shore: In a fortnight to be disunited By a bitter fate forevermore. O my own, my beautiful, my blue-eyed! To be young once more, and bite my thumb At the world and all its cares with you, I'd Give no inconsiderable sum. Hand in hand we tramp'd the golden seaweed, Soon as o'er the gray cliff peep'd the dawn: Side by side, when came the hour for tea, we'd Crunch the mottled shrimp and hairy prawn:-- Has she wedded some gigantic shrimper, That sweet mite with whom I loved to play? Is she girt with babes that whine and whimper, That bright being who was always gay? Yes--she has at least a dozen wee things! Yes--I see her darning corduroys, Scouring floors, and setting out the tea-things, For a howling herd of hungry boys, In a home that reeks of tar and sperm-oil! But at intervals she thinks, I know, Of those days which we, afar from turmoil, Spent together forty years ago. O my earliest love, still unforgotten, With your downcast eyes of dreamy blue! Never, somehow, could I seem to cotton To another as I did to you! _Charles Stuart Calverley._ WHAT IS A WOMAN LIKE? A woman is like to--but stay-- What a woman is like, who can say? There is no living with or without one. Love bites like a fly, Now an ear, now an eye, Buzz, buzz, always buzzing about one. When she's tender and kind She is like to my mind, (And Fanny was so, I remember). She's like to--Oh, dear! She's as good, very near, As a ripe, melting peach in September. If she laugh, and she chat, Play, joke, and all that, And with smiles and good humor she meet me, She's like a rich dish Of venison or fish, That cries from the table, Come eat me! But she'll plague you and vex you, Distract and perplex you; False-hearted and ranging, Unsettled and changing, What then do you think, she is like? Like sand? Like a rock? Like a wheel? Like a clock? Ay, a clock that is always at strike. Her head's like the island folks tell on, Which nothing but monkeys can dwell on; Her heart's like a lemon--so nice She carves for each lover a slice; In truth she's to me, Like the wind, like the sea, Whose raging will hearken to no man; Like a mill, like a pill, Like a flail, like a whale, Like an ass, like a glass Whose image is constant to no man; Like a shower, like a flower, Like a fly, like a pie, Like a pea, like a flea, Like a thief, like--in brief, She's like nothing on earth--but a woman! _Unknown._ MIS' SMITH All day she hurried to get through, The same as lots of wimmin do; Sometimes at night her husban' said, "Ma, ain't you goin' to come to bed?" And then she'd kinder give a hitch, And pause half way between a stitch, And sorter sigh, and say that she Was ready as she'd ever be, She reckoned. And so the years went one by one, An' somehow she was never done; An' when the angel said, as how "Mis' Smith, it's time you rested now," She sorter raised her eyes to look A second, as a stitch she took; "All right, I'm comin' now," says she, "I'm ready as I'll ever be, I reckon." _Albert Bigelow Paine._ TRIOLET "I love you, my lord!" Was all that she said-- What a dissonant chord, "I love you, my lord!" Ah! how I abhorred That sarcastic maid!-- "_I_ love you? My _Lord_!" Was all that she said. _Paul T. Gilbert._ BESSIE BROWN, M.D. 'Twas April when she came to town; The birds had come; the bees were swarming. Her name, she said, was Doctor Brown; I saw at once that she was charming. She took a cottage tinted green, Where dewy roses loved to mingle; And on the door, next day, was seen A dainty little shingle. Her hair was like an amber wreath; Her hat was darker, to enhance it. The violet eyes that glowed beneath Were brighter than her keenest lancet, The beauties of her glove and gown The sweetest rhyme would fail to utter. Ere she had been a day in town The town was in a flutter. The gallants viewed her feet and hands, And swore they never saw such wee things; The gossips met in purring bands, And tore her piecemeal o'er the tea-things. The former drank the Doctor's health With clinking cups, the gay carousers; The latter watched her door by stealth, Just like so many mousers. But Doctor Bessie went her way, Unmindful of the spiteful cronies, And drove her buggy every day Behind a dashing pair of ponies. Her flower-like face so bright she bore I hoped that time might never wilt her. The way she tripped across the floor Was better than a philter. Her patients thronged the village street; Her snowy slate was always quite full. Some said her bitters tasted sweet, And some pronounced her pills delightful. 'Twas strange--I knew not what it meant-- She seemed a nymph from Eldorado; Where'er she came, where'er she went, Grief lost its gloomy shadow. Like all the rest I, too, grew ill; My aching heart there was no quelling. I tremble at my doctor's bill-- And lo! the items still are swelling. The drugs I've drunk you'd weep to hear! They've quite enriched the fair concocter, And I'm a ruined man, I fear, Unless--I wed the Doctor! _Samuel Minturn Peck._ A SKETCH FROM THE LIFE Its eyes are gray; Its hair is either brown Or black; And, strange to say, Its dresses button down The back! It wears a plume That loves to frisk around My ear. It crowds the room With cushions in a mound And queer Old rugs and lamps In corners à la Turque And things. It steals my stamps, And when I want to work It sings! It rides and skates-- But then it comes and fills My walls With plaques and plates And keeps me paying bills And calls. It's firm; and if I should my many woes Deplore, 'Twould only sniff And perk its little nose Some more. It's bright, though small; Its name, you may have guessed, Is "Wife." But, after all, It gives a wondrous zest To life! _Arthur Guiterman._ MINGUILLO'S KISS Since for kissing thee, Minguillo, Mother's ever scolding me, Give me swiftly back, thou dear one, Give the kiss I gave to thee. Give me back the kiss--that one, now; Let my mother scold no more; Let us tell her all is o'er: What was done is all undone now. Yes, it will be wise, Minguillo, My fond kiss to give to me; Give me swiftly back, thou dear one, Give the kiss I gave to thee. Give me back the kiss, for mother Is impatient--prithee, do! For that one thou shalt have two: Give me that, and take another. Yes, then will they be contented, Then can't they complain of me; Give me swiftly back, thou dear one, Give the kiss I gave to thee. _Unknown._ A KISS IN THE RAIN One stormy morn I chanced to meet A lassie in the town; Her locks were like the ripened wheat, Her laughing eyes were brown. I watched her as she tripped along Till madness filled my brain, And then--and then--I know 'twas wrong-- I kissed her in the rain! With rain-drops shining on her cheek, Like dew-drops on a rose, The little lassie strove to speak My boldness to oppose; She strove in vain, and quivering Her fingers stole in mine; And then the birds began to sing, The sun began to shine. Oh, let the clouds grow dark above, My heart is light below; 'Tis always summer when we love, However winds may blow; And I'm as proud as any prince, All honors I disdain: She says I am her _rain beau_ since I kissed her in the rain. _Samuel Minturn Peck._ THE LOVE-KNOT Tying her bonnet under her chin, She tied her raven ringlets in; But, not alone in the silken snare Did she catch her lovely floating hair, For, tying her bonnet under her chin, She tied a young man's heart within. They were strolling together up the hill, Where the wind comes blowing merry and chill; And it blew the curls, a frolicsome race, All over the happy peach-coloured face, Till, scolding and laughing, she tied them in, Under her beautiful dimpled chin. And it blew a colour bright as the bloom Of the pinkest fuchsia's tossing plume, All over the cheeks of the prettiest girl That ever imprisoned a romping curl, Or, in tying her bonnet under her chin, Tied a young man's heart within. Steeper and steeper grew the hill-- Madder, merrier, chillier still-- The western wind blew down and played The wildest tricks with the little maid, As, tying her bonnet under her chin, She tied a young man's heart within. Oh, western wind, do you think it was fair To play such tricks with her floating hair?-- To gladly, gleefully do your best To blow her against the young man's breast, Where he as gladly folded her in, And kissed her mouth and dimpled chin? Oh, Ellery Vane! you little thought An hour ago, when you besought This country lass to walk with you, After the sun had dried the dew, What perilous danger you'd be in As she tied her bonnet under her chin. _Nora Perry._ OVER THE WAY Over the way, over the way, I've seen a head that's fair and gray; I've seen kind eyes not new to tears, A form of grace, though full of years-- Her fifty summers have left no flaw-- And I, a youth of twenty-three, So love this lady, fair to see, I want her for my mother-in-law! Over the way, over the way, I've seen her with the children play; I've seen her with a royal grace Before the mirror adjust her lace; A kinder woman none ever saw; God bless and cheer her onward path, And bless all treasures that she hath, And let her be my mother-in-law! Over the way, over the way, I think I'll venture, dear, some day (If you will lend a helping hand, And sanctify the scheme I've planned); I'll kneel in loving, reverent awe Down at the lady's feet, and say: "I've loved your daughter many a day-- Please won't you be my mother-in-law?" _Mary Mapes Dodge._ CHORUS OF WOMEN FROM THE "THESMOPHORIAZUSÆ." They're always abusing the women, As a terrible plague to men; They say we're the root of all evil, And repeat it again and again-- Of war, and quarrels, and bloodshed, All mischief, be what it may. And pray, then, why do you marry us, If we're all the plagues you say? And why do you take such care of us, And keep us so safe at home, And are never easy a moment If ever we chance to roam? When you ought to be thanking Heaven That your plague is out of the way, You all keep fussing and fretting-- "Where is my Plague to-day?" If a Plague peeps out of the window, Up go the eyes of men; If she hides, then they all keep staring Until she looks out again. _Aristophanes._ THE WIDOW MALONE Did you hear of the Widow Malone O hone! Who lived in the town of Athlone Alone? O, she melted the hearts Of the swains in them parts; So lovely the Widow Malone, O hone! So lovely the Widow Malone. Of lovers she had a full score Or more; And fortunes they all had galore In store; From the minister down To the clerk of the Crown, All were courting the Widow Malone O hone! All were courting the Widow Malone. But so modest was Mrs. Malone, 'Twas known, That no one could see her alone, O hone! Let them ogle and sigh, They could ne'er catch her eye; So bashful the Widow Malone, O hone! So bashful the Widow Malone. Till one Mister O'Brien from Clare, How quare! 'Tis little for blushing they care Down there; Put his arm round her waist, Gave ten kisses at laste, And says he, "You're my Molly Malone, My own." Says he, "You're my Molly Malone." And the widow they all thought so shy-- My eye! Never thought of a simper or sigh; For why? "O Lucius," said she, "Since you've now made so free, You may marry your Mary Malone, Your own; You may marry your Mary Malone." There's a moral contained in my song, Not wrong; And one comfort it's not very long, But strong:-- If for widows you die, Learn to kiss--not to sigh, For they're all like sweet Mistress Malone! O hone! O they're all like sweet Mistress Malone! _Charles Lever._ THE SMACK IN SCHOOL A district school, not far away, Mid Berkshire's hills, one winter's day, Was humming with its wonted noise Of threescore mingled girls and boys; Some few upon their tasks intent, But more on furtive mischief bent. The while the master's downward look Was fastened on a copy-book; When suddenly, behind his back, Rose sharp and clear a rousing smack! As 'twere a battery of bliss Let off in one tremendous kiss! "What's that?" the startled master cries; "That, thir," a little imp replies, "Wath William Willith, if you pleathe,-- I thaw him kith Thuthanna Peathe!" With frown to make a statue thrill, The master thundered, "Hither, Will!" Like wretch o'ertaken in his track, With stolen chattels on his back, Will hung his head in fear and shame, And to the awful presence came,-- A great, green, bashful simpleton, The butt of all good-natured fun. With smile suppressed, and birch upraised, The thunderer faltered,--"I'm amazed That you, my biggest pupil, should Be guilty of an act so rude! Before the whole set school to boot-- What evil genius put you to't?" "'Twas she herself, sir," sobbed the lad, "I did not mean to be so bad; But when Susannah shook her curls, And whispered, I was 'fraid of girls And dursn't kiss a baby's doll, I couldn't stand it, sir, at all, But up and kissed her on the spot! I know--boo--hoo--I ought to not, But, somehow, from her looks--boo--hoo-- I thought she kind o' wished me to!" _William Pitt Palmer._ 'SPÄCIALLY JIM I wus mighty good-lookin' when I wus young-- Peert an' black-eyed an' slim, With fellers a-courtin' me Sunday nights, 'Späcially Jim. The likeliest one of 'em all wus he, Chipper an' han'som' an' trim; But I toss'd up my head, an' made fun o' the crowd, 'Späcially Jim. I said I hadn't no 'pinion o' men An' I wouldn't take stock in _him!_ But they kep' up a-comin' in spite o' my talk, 'Späcially Jim. I got _so_ tired o' havin' 'em roun' ('Späcially Jim!), I made up my mind I'd settle down An' take up with him; So we was married one Sunday in church, 'Twas crowded full to the brim, 'Twas the only way to get rid of 'em all, 'Späcially Jim. _Bessie Morgan._ KITTY OF COLERAINE As beautiful Kitty one morning was tripping, With a pitcher of milk from the fair of Coleraine, When she saw me she stumbled, the pitcher it tumbled, And all the sweet buttermilk water'd the plain. "O, what shall I do now, 'twas looking at you now, Sure, sure, such a pitcher I'll ne'er meet again! 'Twas the pride of my dairy: O Barney M'Cleary! You're sent as a plague to the girls of Coleraine." I sat down beside her,--and gently did chide her, That such a misfortune should give her such pain; A kiss then I gave her,--and ere I did leave her, She vow'd for such pleasure she'd break it again. 'Twas hay-making season, I can't tell the reason, Misfortunes will never come single,--that's plain, For, very soon after poor Kitty's disaster, The devil a pitcher was whole in Coleraine. _Edward Lysaght._ WHY DON'T THE MEN PROPOSE? Why don't the men propose, mamma? Why don't the men propose? Each seems just coming to the point, And then away he goes; It is no fault of yours, mamma, _That_ everybody knows; You _fête_ the finest men in town, Yet, oh! they won't propose. I'm sure I've done my best, mamma, To make a proper match; For coronets and eldest sons, I'm ever on the watch; I've hopes when some _distingué_ beau A glance upon me throws; But though he'll dance and smile and flirt, Alas! he won't propose. I've tried to win by languishing, And dressing like a blue; I've bought big books and talked of them As if I'd read them through! With hair cropp'd like a man I've felt The heads of all the beaux; But Spurzheim could not touch their hearts, And oh! they won't propose. I threw aside the books, and thought That ignorance was bliss; I felt convinced that men preferred A simple sort of Miss; And so I lisped out nought beyond Plain "yesses" or plain "noes," And wore a sweet unmeaning smile; Yet, oh! they won't propose. Last night at Lady Ramble's rout I heard Sir Henry Gale Exclaim, "Now I _propose_ again----" I started, turning pale; I really thought my time was come, I blushed like any rose; But oh! I found 'twas only at _Ecarté_ he'd propose. And what is to be done, mamma? Oh, what is to be done? I really have no time to lose, For I am thirty-one; At balls I am too often left Where spinsters sit in rows; Why don't the men propose, mamma? Why _won't_ the men propose? _Thomas Haynes Bayly._ A PIN Oh, I know a certain woman who is reckoned with the good, But she fills me with more terror than a raging lion would. The little chills run up and down my spine when'er we meet, Though she seems a gentle creature and she's very trim and neat. And she has a thousand virtues and not one acknowledged sin, But she is the sort of person you could liken to a pin, And she pricks you, and she sticks you, in a way that can't be said-- When you seek for what has hurt you, why, you cannot find the head. But she fills you with discomfort and exasperating pain-- If anybody asks you why, you really can't explain. A pin is such a tiny thing,--of that there is no doubt,-- Yet when it's sticking in your flesh, you're wretched till it's out! She is wonderfully observing--when she meets a pretty girl She is always sure to tell her if her "bang" is out of curl. And she is so sympathetic: to a friend, who's much admired, She is often heard remarking, "Dear, you look so worn and tired!" And she is a careful critic; for on yesterday she eyed The new dress I was airing with a woman's natural pride, And she said, "Oh, how becoming!" and then softly added, "It Is really a misfortune that the basque is such a fit." Then she said, "If you had heard me yestereve, I'm sure, my friend, You would say I am a champion who knows how to defend." And she left me with the feeling--most unpleasant, I aver-- That the whole world would despise me if it had not been for her. Whenever I encounter her, in such a nameless way She gives me the impression I am at my worst that day, And the hat that was imported (and that cost me half a sonnet) With just one glance from her round eyes becomes a Bowery bonnet. She is always bright and smiling, sharp and shining for a thrust-- Use does not seem to blunt her point, not does she gather rust-- Oh! I wish some hapless specimen of mankind would begin To tidy up the world for me, by picking up this pin. _Ella Wheeler Wilcox._ THE WHISTLER "You have heard," said a youth to his sweetheart, who stood While he sat on a corn-sheaf, at daylight's decline-- "You have heard of the Danish boy's whistle of wood; I wish that the Danish boy's whistle were mine!" "And what would you do with it?--tell me," she said, While an arch smile play'd over her beautiful face. "I would blow it," he answered, "and then my fair maid Would fly to my side, and would there take her place." "Is that all you wish for? Why, that may be yours Without any magic," the fair maiden cried; "A favour so slight one's good-nature secures;" And she playfully seated herself by his side. "I would blow it again," said the youth; "and the charm Would work so, that not even modesty's check Would be able to keep from my neck your white arm." She smiled, and she laid her white arm round his neck. "Yet once more I would blow, and the music divine Would bring me a third time an exquisite bliss You would lay your fair cheek to this brown one of mine And your lips, stealing past it, would give me a kiss." The maiden laughed out in her innocent glee-- "What a fool of yourself with the whistle you'd make! For only consider how silly 'twould be To sit there and whistle for what you might take." _Unknown._ THE CLOUD AN IDYLL OF THE WESTERN FRONT I |Scene|: _A wayside shrine in France._ |Persons|: Celeste, Pierre, a Cloud. |Celeste| (_gazing at the solitary white Cloud_): I wonder what your thoughts are, little Cloud, Up in the sky, so lonely and so proud! |Cloud|: Not proud, dear maiden; lonely, if you will. Long have I watched you, sitting there so still Before that little shrine beside the way, And wondered where your thoughts might be astray; Your knitting lying idle on your knees, And worse than idle--like Penelope's, Working its own undoing! |Celeste| (_picks up her knitting_): Who was she? Saints! What a knot!--Who was Penelope? What happened to _her_ knitting? Tell me, Cloud! |Cloud|: She was a Queen; she wove her husband's shroud. |Celeste| (_drops the knitting_). His shroud! |Cloud|: There, there! 'Twas only an excuse To put her lovers off, a wifely ruse, Bidding them bide till it was finished, she Each night the web unravelled secretly. |Celeste|: He came home safe? |Cloud|: If I remember right, It was the lovers needed shrouds that night! It is an old, old tale. I heard it through A Wind whose ancestor it was that blew Ulysses' ship across the purple sea Back to his people and Penelope. We Clouds pick up strange tales, as far and wide And to and fro above the world we ride, Across uncharted seas, upon the swell Of viewless waves and tides invisible, Freighted with friendly flood or forkèd flame, Knowing not whither bound nor whence we came; Now drifting lonely, now a company Of pond'rous galleons-- |Celeste|: Oft-times I see A Cloud, as by some playful fancy stirred, Take likeness of a monstrous beast or bird Or some fantastic fish, as though 'twere clay Moulded by unseen hands. |Cloud|: Then tell me, pray, What I resemble now! |Celeste|: I scarcely know. But had you asked a little while ago, I should have said a camel; then your hump Dissolved, and you became a gosling plump, Downy and white and warm-- |Cloud|: What! _Warm_, up here? Ten thousand feet above the earth! |Celeste|: Oh dear! What am I thinking of! Of course I know How cold it is. Pierre has told me so A thousand times. |Cloud|: And who is this Pierre That tells you all the secrets of the air? How came he to such frigid heights to soar? |Celeste|: Pierre's my--He is in the Flying Corps. |Cloud|: Ah, now I understand! And he's away? |Celeste|: He left at dawn, where for he would not say, Telling me only 'twas a bombing raid Somewhere--My God! What's that? |Cloud|: What, little maid? |Celeste| (_pointing_): That--over there--beyond the wooded crest! |Cloud|: Only a skylark dropping to her nest; Her mate is hov'ring somewhere near. I heard His tremulous song of love-- |Celeste|: That was no bird! (_Drops upon her knees._) O Mary! Blessed Mother! Hear, my prayer! That one that fell--grant it was not Pierre! Here is the cross my mother gave me--I Will burn the longest candle it will buy! |Cloud|: Courage, my child! Your prayer will not be vain! Who guards the lark, will guide your lover's plane. The West Wind's calling. I must go!--Hark! There He sings again! _Le bon Dieu garde, ma chère!_ II |Pierre|: I made a perfect landing over there Behind the church-- |Celeste|: The Virgin heard my prayer! Now I must burn the candle that I vowed-- |Pierre|: Then 'twas our Blessed Lady sent that Cloud That saved me when the Boche came up behind. I made a lightning turn, only to find The Boche on top of me. It seemed a kind Of miracle to see that Cloud--I swear A moment past the sky was everywhere As clear as clear; there was no Cloud in sight. It looked to me, floating there calm and white. Like a great mother hen, and I a chick. She seemed to call me, and I scurried quick Behind her wing. That spoiled the Boche's game, And gave me time to turn and take good aim. I emptied my last drum, and saw him drop Ten thousand feet in flames-- |Celeste| (_shuddering_): Stop! Pierre, stop! Maybe a girl is waiting for him too-- |Pierre|: 'Twas either him or me |Celeste|: Thank God, not you! |Pierre| (_pointing to the church_): Come, let us burn the candle that you vowed. |Celeste|: Two candles! |Pierre|: Who's the other for? |Celeste|: The Cloud! _Oliver Herford._ CONSTANCY "You gave me the key of your heart, my love; Then why do you make me knock?" "Oh, that was yesterday, Saints above! And last night--I changed the lock!" _John Boyle O'Reilly._ AIN'T IT AWFUL, MABEL? It worries me to beat the band To hear folks say our lives is grand; Wish they'd try some one-night stand. Ain't it awful, Mabel? Nothin' ever seems to suit-- The manager's an awful brute; Spend our lives jest lookin' cute. Ain't it awful, Mabel? Met a boy last Tuesday night, Was spendin' money left and right--- Me, gee! I couldn't eat a bite! Ain't it awful, Mabel? Then I met another guy-- Hungry! well, I thought I'd die! But I couldn't make him buy. Ain't it awful, Mabel? Lots of men has called me dear, Said without me life was drear, But men is all so unsincere! Ain't it awful, Mabel? I tell you, life is mighty hard, I've had proposals by the yard-- Some of 'em would 'a had me starred. Ain't it awful, Mabel? Remember that sealskin sacque of mine? When I got it, look'd awful fine-- I found out it was a shine. Ain't it awful, Mabel? Prima donna's sore on me; My roses had her up a tree-- I jest told her to "twenty-three." Ain't it awful, Mabel? My dear, she went right out and wired The New York office to have me "fired"; But say! 'twas the author had me hired. Ain't it awful, Mabel? I think hotels is awful mean, Jim and me put out of room sixteen-- An' we was only readin' Laura Jean. Ain't it awful, Mabel? The way folks talk about us too; For the smallest thing we do-- 'Nuff to make a girl feel blue. Ain't it awful, Mabel? My Gawd! is that the overture? I never will be on, I'm sure-- The things us actresses endure, Ain't it awful, Mabel? _John Edward Hazzard._ WING TEE WEE Oh, Wing Tee Wee Was a sweet Chinee, And she lived in the town of Tac. Her eyes were blue, And her curling queue Hung dangling down her back; And she fell in love with gay Win Sil When he wrote his name on a laundry bill. And, oh, Tim Told Was a pirate bold, And he sailed in a Chinese junk; And he loved, ah me! Sweet Wing Tee Wee, But his valiant heart had sunk; So he drowned his blues in fickle fizz, And vowed the maid would yet be his. So bold Tim Told Showed all his gold To the maid in the town of Tac; And sweet Wing Wee Eloped to sea, And nevermore came back; For in far Chinee the maids are fair, And the maids are false,--as everywhere. _J. P. Denison._ PHYLLIS LEE Beside a Primrose 'broider'd Rill Sat Phyllis Lee in Silken Dress Whilst Lucius limn'd with loving skill Her likeness, as a Shepherdess. Yet tho' he strove with loving skill His Brush refused to work his Will. "Dear Maid, unless you close your Eyes I cannot paint to-day," he said; "Their Brightness shames the very Skies And turns their Turquoise into Lead." Quoth Phyllis, then, "To save the Skies And speed your Brush, I'll shut my Eyes." Now when her Eyes were closed, the Dear, Not dreaming of such Treachery, Felt a Soft Whisper in her Ear, "Without the Light, how can one See?" "If you are _sure_ that none can see I'll keep them shut," said Phyllis Lee. _Oliver Herford._ THE SORROWS OF WERTHER Werther had a love for Charlotte Such as words could never utter; Would you know how first he met her? She was cutting bread and butter. Charlotte was a married lady, And a moral man was Werther, And for all the wealth of Indies, Would do nothing for to hurt her. So he sigh'd and pined and ogled, And his passion boil'd and bubbled, Till he blew his silly brains out, And no more was by it troubled. Charlotte, having seen his body Borne before her on a shutter, Like a well-conducted person, Went on cutting bread and butter. _W. M. Thackeray._ THE UNATTAINABLE Tom's album was filled with the pictures of belles Who had captured his manly heart, From the fairy who danced for the front-row swells To the maiden who tooled her cart; But one face as fair as a cloudless dawn Caught my eye, and I said, "Who's this?" "Oh, that," he replied, with a skilful yawn, "Is the girl I couldn't kiss." Her face was the best in the book, no doubt, But I hastily turned the leaf, For my friend had let his cigar go out, And I knew I had bared his grief: For caresses we win and smiles we gain Yield only a transient bliss, And we're all of us prone to sigh in vain For "the girl we couldn't kiss." _Harry Romaine._ RORY O'MORE; OR, GOOD OMENS Young Rory O'More, courted Kathleen Bawn, He was bold as a hawk,--she as soft as the dawn; He wish'd in his heart pretty Kathleen to please, And he thought the best way to do that was to tease. "Now, Rory, be aisy," sweet Kathleen would cry, (Reproof on her lip, but a smile in her eye), "With your tricks I don't know, in troth, what I'm about, Faith you've teased till I've put on my cloak inside out." "Oh, jewel," says Rory, "that same is the way You've thrated my heart for this many a day; And 'tis plaz'd that I am, and why not to be sure? For 'tis all for good luck," says bold Rory O'More. "Indeed, then," says Kathleen, "don't think of the like, For I half gave a promise to soothering Mike; The ground that I walk on he loves, I'll be bound." "Faith," says Rory, "I'd rather love you than the ground." "Now, Rory, I'll cry if you don't let me go; Sure I drame ev'ry night that I'm hating you so!" "Oh," says Rory, "that same I'm delighted to hear, For drames always go by conthraries, my dear; Oh! jewel, keep draming that same till you die, And bright morning will give dirty night the black lie! And 'tis plaz'd that I am, and why not, to be sure? Since 'tis all for good luck," says bold Rory O'More. "Arrah, Kathleen, my darlint, you've teas'd me enough, Sure I've thrash'd for your sake Dinny Grimes and Jim Duff; And I've made myself, drinking your health, quite a baste, So I think, after that, I may talk to the praste." Then Rory, the rogue, stole his arm around her neck, So soft and so white, without freckle or speck, And he look'd in her eyes that were beaming' with light, And he kiss'd her sweet lips;--don't you think he was right? "Now, Rory, leave off, sir; you'll hug me no more, That's eight times to-day you have kiss'd me before." "Then here goes another," says he, "to make sure, For there's luck in odd numbers," says Rory O'More. _Samuel Lover._ A DIALOGUE FROM PLATO "_Le temps le mieux employé est celui qu' on perd._" --|Claude Tillier|. I'd read three hours. Both notes and text Were fast a mist becoming; In bounced a vagrant bee, perplexed, And filled the room with humming. Then out. The casement's leafage sways, And, parted light, discloses Miss Di., with hat and book,--a maze Of muslin mixed with roses. "You're reading Greek?" "I am--and you?" "O, mine's a mere romancer!" "So Plato is." "Then read him--do; And I'll read mine in answer." I read. "My Plato (Plato, too,-- That wisdom thus should harden!) Declares 'blue eyes look doubly blue Beneath a Dolly Varden.'" She smiled. "My book in turn avers (No author's name is stated) That sometimes those Philosophers Are sadly mis-translated." "But hear,--the next's in stronger style: The Cynic School asserted That two red lips which part and smile May not be controverted!" She smiled once more--"My book, I find, Observes some modern doctors Would make the Cynics out a kind Of album-verse concoctors." Then I--"Why not? 'Ephesian law, No less than time's tradition, Enjoined fair speech on all who saw Diana's apparition.'" She blushed--this time. "If Plato's page No wiser precept teaches, Then I'd renounce that doubtful sage, And walk to Burnham-beeches." "Agreed," I said. "For Socrates (I find he too is talking) Thinks Learning can't remain at ease While Beauty goes a-walking." She read no more, I leapt the sill: The sequel's scarce essential-- Nay, more than this, I hold it still Profoundly confidential. _Austin Dobson._ DORA VERSUS ROSE "_The case is proceeding._" From the tragic-est novels at Mudie's-- At least, on a practical plan-- To the tales of mere Hodges and Judys, One love is enough for a man. But no case that I ever yet met is Like mine: I am equally fond Of Rose, who a charming brunette is, And Dora, a blonde. Each rivals the other in powers-- Each waltzes, each warbles, each paints-- Miss Rose, chiefly tumble-down towers; Miss Do., perpendicular saints. In short, to distinguish is folly; 'Twixt the pair I am come to the pass Of Macheath, between Lucy and Polly,-- Or Buridan's ass. If it happens that Rosa I've singled For a soft celebration in rhyme, Then the ringlets of Dora get mingled Somehow with the tune and the time; Or I painfully pen me a sonnet To an eyebrow intended for Do.'s, And behold I am writing upon it The legend, "To Rose," Or I try to draw Dora (my blotter Is all overscrawled with her head), If I fancy at last that I've got her, It turns to her rival instead; Or I find myself placidly adding To the rapturous tresses of Rose Miss Dora's bud-mouth, and her madding Ineffable nose. Was there ever so sad a dilemma? For Rose I would perish (pro tem.); For Dora I'd willingly stem a-- (Whatever might offer to stem); But to make the invidious election,-- To declare that on either one's side I've a scruple,--a grain, more affection, I _cannot_ decide. And, as either so hopelessly nice is, My sole and my final resource Is to wait some indefinite crisis,-- Some feat of molecular force, To solve me this riddle conducive By no means to peace or repose, Since the issue can scarce be inclusive Of Dora _and_ Rose. (_Afterthought_) But, perhaps, if a third (say a Nora), Not quite so delightful as Rose,-- Not wholly so charming as Dora,-- Should appear, is it wrong to suppose,-- As the claims of the others are equal,-- And flight--in the main--is the best,-- That I might ... But no matter,--the sequel Is easily guessed. _Austin Dobson._ TU QUOQUE AN IDYLL IN THE CONSERVATORY |nellie| If I were you, when ladies at the play, Sir, Beckon and nod, a melodrama through, I would not turn abstractedly away, Sir, If I were you! |frank| If I were you, when persons I affected, Wait for three hours to take me down to Kew, I would at least pretend I recollected, If I were you! |nellie| If I were you, when ladies are so lavish, Sir, as to keep me every waltz but two, I would not dance with _odious_ Miss M'Tavish, If I were you! |frank| If I were you, who vow you cannot suffer Whiff of the best,--the mildest "honey dew," I would not dance with smoke-consuming Puffer, If I were you! |nellie| If I were you, I would not, Sir, be bitter, Even to write the "Cynical Review";-- |frank| No, I should doubtless find flirtation fitter, If I were you! |nellie| Really! You would? Why, Frank, you're quite delightful,-- Hot as Othello, and as black of hue; Borrow my fan. I would not look so _frightful_, If I were you! |frank| "It is the cause." I mean your chaperon is Bringing some well-curled juvenile. Adieu! _I_ shall retire. I'd spare that poor Adonis, If I were you! |nellie| Go, if you will. At once! And by express, Sir! Where shall it be? To China--or Peru? Go. I should leave inquirers my address, Sir, If I were you! |frank| No--I remain. To stay and fight a duel Seems, on the whole, the proper thing to do-- Ah, you are strong,--I would not then be cruel, If I were you! |nellie| One does not like one's feelings to be doubted,-- |frank| One does not like one's friends to misconstrue,-- |nellie| If I confess that I a wee-bit pouted? |frank| I should admit that I was _piqué_, too. |nellie| Ask me to dance. I'd say no more about it, If I were you! [Waltz--_Exeunt_.] _Austin Dobson._ NOTHING TO WEAR. Miss Flora McFlimsey, of Madison Square, Has made three separate journeys to Paris; And her father assures me, each time she was there, That she and her friend Mrs. Harris (Not the lady whose name is so famous in history, But plain Mrs. H., without romance or mystery) Spent six consecutive weeks without stopping, In one continuous round of shopping;-- Shopping alone, and shopping together, At all hours of the day, and in all sorts of weather: For all manner of things that a woman can put On the crown of her head or the sole of her foot, Or wrap round her shoulders, or fit round her waist, Or that can be sewed on, or pinned on, or laced, Or tied on with a string, or stitched on with a bow, In front or behind, above or below; For bonnets, mantillas, capes, collars, and shawls; Dresses for breakfasts, and dinners, and balls; Dresses to sit in, and stand in, and walk in, Dresses to dance in, and flirt in, and talk in; Dresses in which to do nothing at all; Dresses for winter, spring, summer, and fall,-- All of them different in color and pattern, Silk, muslin, and lace, crape, velvet, and satin, Brocade, and broadcloth, and other material Quite as expensive and much more ethereal: In short, for all things that could ever be thought of, Or milliner, modiste, or tradesman be bought of, From ten-thousand-francs robes to twenty-sous frills; In all quarters of Paris, and to every store: While McFlimsey in vain stormed, scolded, and swore. They footed the streets, and he footed the bills. The last trip, their goods shipped by the steamer _Argo_ Formed, McFlimsey declares, the bulk of her cargo, Not to mention a quantity kept from the rest, Sufficient to fill the largest-sized chest, Which did not appear on the ship's manifest, But for which the ladies themselves manifested Such particular interest that they invested Their own proper persons in layers and rows Of muslins, embroideries, worked underclothes, Gloves, handkerchiefs, scarfs, and such trifles as those; Then, wrapped in great shawls, like Circassian beauties, Gave _good-by_ to the ship, and _go-by_ to the duties. Her relations at home all marvelled, no doubt, Miss Flora had grown so enormously stout For an actual belle and a possible bride; But the miracle ceased when she turned inside out, And the truth came to light, and the dry-goods beside, Which, in spite of collector and custom-house sentry, Had entered the port without any entry. And yet, though scarce three months have passed since the day The merchandise went, on twelve carts, up Broadway, This same Miss McFlimsey, of Madison Square, The last time we met, was in utter despair, Because she had nothing whatever to wear! |Nothing to wear|! Now, as this is a true ditty, I do not assert--this you know is between us-- That she's in a state of absolute nudity, Like Powers's Greek Slave, or the Medici Venus; But I do mean to say I have heard her declare, When at the same moment she had on a dress Which cost five hundred dollars, and not a cent less, And jewelry worth ten times more, I should guess, That she had not a thing in the wide world to wear! I should mention just here, that out of Miss Flora's Two hundred and fifty or sixty adorers, I had just been selected as he who should throw all The rest in the shade, by the gracious bestowal On myself, after twenty or thirty rejections Of those fossil remains which she called her "affections," And that rather decayed but well-known work of art, Which Miss Flora persisted in styling "her heart." So we were engaged. Our troth had been plighted Not by moonbeam or starbeam, by fountain or grove; But in a front parlor, most brilliantly lighted, Beneath the gas-fixtures we whispered our love-- Without any romance, or raptures, or sighs, Without any tears in Miss Flora's blue eyes, Or blushes, or transports, or such silly actions; It was one of the quietest business transactions, With a very small sprinkling of sentiment, if any, And a very large diamond imported by Tiffany. On her virginal lips while I printed a kiss, She exclaimed, as a sort of parenthesis, And by way of putting me quite at my ease, "You know, I'm to polka as much as I please, And flirt when I like,--now stop,--don't you speak,-- And you must not come here more than twice in the week, Or talk to me either at party or ball; But always be ready to come when I call: So don't prose to me about duty and stuff,-- If we don't break this off, there will be time enough For that sort of thing; but the bargain must be, That as long as I choose I am perfectly free: For this is a sort of engagement, you see, Which is binding on you, but not binding on me." Well, having thus wooed Miss McFlimsey, and gained her, With the silks, crinolines, and hoops that contained her, I had, as I thought, a contingent remainder At least in the property, and the best right To appear as its escort by day and by night; And it being the week of the Stuckups' grand ball,-- Their cards had been out for a fortnight or so, And set all the Avenue on the tiptoe,-- I considered it only my duty to call And see if Miss Flora intended to go. I found her--as ladies are apt to be found When the time intervening between the first sound Of the bell and the visitor's entry is shorter Than usual--I found--I won't say I caught--her Intent on the pier-glass, undoubtedly meaning To see if perhaps it didn't need cleaning. She turned as I entered--"Why, Harry, you sinner, I thought that you went to the Flashers' to dinner!" "So I did," I replied; "but the dinner is swallowed, And digested, I trust; for 'tis now nine or more: So being relieved from that duty, I followed Inclination, which led me, you see, to your door. And now will your Ladyship so condescend As just to inform me if you intend Your beauty and graces and presence to lend (All of which, when I own, I hope no one will borrow) To the Stuckups, whose party, you know, is to-morrow?" The fair Flora looked up with a pitiful air, And answered quite promptly, "Why, Harry, _mon cher_, I should like above all things to go with you there; But really and truly--I've nothing to wear." "Nothing to wear? Go just as you are: Wear the dress you have on, and you'll be by far, I engage, the most bright and particular star On the Stuckup horizon--" I stopped, for her eye, Notwithstanding this delicate onset of flattery, Opened on me at once a most terrible battery Of scorn and amazement. She made no reply, But gave a slight turn to the end of her nose (That pure Grecian feature), as much as to say, "How absurd that any sane man should suppose That a lady would go to a ball in the clothes, No matter how fine, that she wears every day!" So I ventured again--"Wear your crimson brocade." (Second turn-up of nose)--"That's too dark by a shade."-- "Your blue silk--" "That's too heavy."--"Your pink--" "That's too light."-- "Wear tulle over satin." "I can't endure white."-- "Your rose-colored, then, the best of the batch--" "I haven't a thread of point lace to match."-- "Your brown moire-antique--" "Yes, and look like a Quaker."-- "The pearl-colored--" "I would, but that plaguy dressmaker Has had it a week."--"Then that exquisite lilac, In which you would melt the heart of a Shylock." (Here the nose took again the same elevation)-- "I wouldn't wear that for the whole of creation." "Why not? It's my fancy, there's nothing could strike it As more _comme il faut_"--"Yes, but, dear me, that lean Sophronia Stuckup has got one just like it, And I won't appear dressed like a chit of sixteen."-- "Then that splendid purple, that sweet mazarine, That superb _point d'aiguille_, that imperial green, That zephyr-like tarlatan, that rich grenadine--" "Not one of all which is fit to be seen," Said the lady, becoming excited and flushed. "Then wear," I exclaimed, in a tone which quite crushed Opposition, "that gorgeous toilette which you sported In Paris last spring, at the grand presentation, When you quite turned the head of the head of the nation; And by all the grand court were so very much courted." The end of the nose was portentously tipped up, And both the bright eyes shot forth indignation, As she burst upon me with the fierce exclamation, "I have worn it three times at the least calculation, And that and most of my dresses are ripped up!" Here I _ripped out_ something, perhaps rather rash-- Quite innocent, though; but to use an expression More striking than classic, it "settled my hash," And proved very soon the last act of our session. "Fiddlesticks, is it, sir? I wonder the ceiling Doesn't fall down and crush you!--oh, you men have no feeling. You selfish, unnatural, illiberal creatures, Who set yourselves up as patterns and preachers, Your silly pretence--why, what a mere guess it is! Pray, what do you know of a woman's necessities? I have told you and shown you I've nothing to wear, And it's perfectly plain you not only don't care, But you do not believe me" (here the nose went still higher): "I suppose if you dared you would call me a liar. Our engagement is ended, sir--yes, on the spot; You're a brute, and a monster, and--I don't know what." I mildly suggested the words Hottentot, Pickpocket, and cannibal, Tartar, and thief, As gentle expletives which might give relief: But this only proved as a spark to the powder, And the storm I had raised came faster and louder; It blew, and it rained, thundered, lightened, and hailed Interjections, verbs, pronouns, till language quite failed To express the abusive, and then its arrears Were brought up all at once by a torrent of tears; And my last faint, despairing attempt at an obs- Ervation was lost in a tempest of sobs. Well, I felt for the lady, and felt for my hat too, Improvised on the crown of the latter a tattoo, In lieu of expressing the feelings which lay Quite too deep for words, as Wordsworth would say: Then, without going through the form of a bow, Found myself in the entry,--I hardly knew how,-- On doorstep and sidewalk, past lamp-post and square, At home and up-stairs, in my own easy-chair; Poked my feet into slippers, my fire into blaze, And said to myself, as I lit my cigar,-- Supposing a man had the wealth of the Czar Of the Russias to boot, for the rest of his days, On the whole do you think he would have much time to spare If he married a woman with nothing to wear? _William Allen Butler._ MY MISTRESS'S BOOTS They nearly strike me dumb, And I tremble when they come Pit-a-pat: This palpitation means These boots are Geraldine's-- Think of that! Oh, where did hunter win So delectable a skin For her feet? You lucky little kid, You perished, so you did, For my sweet! The faëry stitching gleams On the sides, and in the seams, And it shows The Pixies were the wags Who tipt those funny tags And these toes. What soles to charm an elf! Had Crusoe, sick of self, Chanced to view _One_ printed near the tide, Oh, how hard he would have tried For the two! For Gerry's debonair And innocent, and fair As a rose; She's an angel in a frock, With a fascinating cock To her nose. The simpletons who squeeze Their extremities to please Mandarins, Would positively flinch From venturing to pinch Geraldine's. Cinderella's _lefts and rights_, To Geraldine's were frights; And I trow, The damsel, deftly shod, Has dutifully trod Until now. Come, Gerry, since it suits Such a pretty Puss (in Boots) These to don; Set this dainty hand awhile On my shoulder, dear, and I'll Put them on. _Frederick Locker-Lampson._ MRS. SMITH Last year I trod these fields with Di, Fields fresh with clover and with rye; They now seem arid! Then Di was fair and single; how Unfair it seems on me, for now Di's fair--and married! A blissful swain--I scorn'd the song Which says that though young Love is strong, The Fates are stronger; Breezes then blew a boon to men, The buttercups were bright, and then This grass was longer. That day I saw and much esteem'd Di's ankles, which the clover seem'd Inclined to smother; It twitch'd, and soon untied (for fun) The ribbon of her shoes, first one, And then the other. I'm told that virgins augur some Misfortune if their shoe-strings come To grief on Friday: And so did Di, and then her pride Decreed that shoe-strings so untied Are "so untidy!" Of course I knelt; with fingers deft I tied the right, and then the left; Says Di, "The stubble Is very stupid!--as I live, I'm quite ashamed!--I'm shock'd to give You so much trouble!" For answer I was fain to sink To what we all would say and think Were Beauty present: "Don't mention such a simple act-- A trouble? not the least! in fact It's rather pleasant!" I trust that Love will never tease Poor little Di, or prove that he's A graceless rover. She's happy now as _Mrs. Smith_-- And less polite when walking with Her chosen lover! Heigh-ho! Although no moral clings To Di's blue eyes, and sandal strings, We've had our quarrels!-- I think that Smith is thought an ass; I know that when they walk in grass She wears _balmorals_. _Frederick Locker-Lampson._ A TERRIBLE INFANT I recollect a nurse call'd Ann, Who carried me about the grass, And one fine day a fine young man Came up, and kiss'd the pretty lass. She did not make the least objection! Thinks I, "_Aha_! _When I can talk I'll tell Mamma_" --And that's my earliest recollection. _Frederick Locker-Lampson._ SUSAN A KIND PROVIDENCE He dropt a tear on Susan's bier, He seem'd a most despairing swain; But bluer sky brought newer tie, And--would he wish her back again? The moments fly, and when we die, Will Philly Thistletop complain? She'll cry and sigh, and--dry her eye, And let herself be woo'd again. _Frederick Locker-Lampson._ "I DIDN'T LIKE HIM" Perhaps you may a-noticed I been soht o' solemn lately, Haven't been a-lookin' quite so pleasant. Mabbe I have been a little bit too proud and stately; Dat's because I'se lonesome jes' at present. I an' him agreed to quit a week or so ago, Fo' now dat I am in de social swim I'se 'rived to de opinion dat he ain't my style o' beau, So I tole him dat my watch was fas' fo' him. |refrain| Oh, I didn't like his clo'es, An' I didn't like his eyes, Nor his walk, nor his talk, Nor his ready-made neckties. I didn't like his name a bit, Jes' 'spise the name o' Jim; If dem ere reasons ain't enough, I didn't like _Him_. Dimon' ring he give to me, an' said it was a fine stone. Guess it's only alum mixed wif camphor. Took it roun' to Eisenstein; he said it was a rhinestone, Kind, he said, he didn't give a dam fur. Sealskin sack he give to me it got me in a row. P'liceman called an' asked to see dat sack; Said another lady lost it. Course I don't know how; But I had to go to jail or give it back. |refrain| Oh, I didn't like his trade; Trade dat kep' him out all night. He'd de look ob a crook, An' he owned a bull's-eye light. So when policemen come to ask What _I_ know 'bout dat Jim, I come to de confusion dat I didn't like _Him_. _Harry B. Smith._ MY ANGELINE She kept her secret well, oh, yes, Her hideous secret well. We together were cast, I knew not her past; For how was I to tell? I married her, guileless lamb I was; I'd have died for her sweet sake. How could I have known that my Angeline Had been a Human Snake? Ah, we had been wed but a week or two When I found her quite a wreck: Her limbs were tied in a double bow-knot At the back of her swan-like neck. No curse there sprang to my pallid lips, Nor did I reproach her then; I calmly untied my bonny bride And straightened her out again. _Refrain_ My Angeline! My Angeline! Why didst disturb my mind serene? My well-belovèd circus queen, My Human Snake, my Angeline! At night I'd wake at the midnight hour, With a weird and haunted feeling, And there she'd be, in her _robe de nuit_, A-walking upon the ceiling. She said she was being "the human fly," And she'd lift me up from beneath By a section slight of my garb of night, Which she held in her pearly teeth. For the sweet, sweet sake of the Human Snake I'd have stood this conduct shady; But she skipped in the end with an old, old friend, An eminent bearded lady. But, oh, at night, when my slumber's light, Regret comes o'er me stealing; For I miss the sound of those little feet, As they pattered along the ceiling. _Refrain_ My Angeline! My Angeline! Why didst disturb my mind serene? My well-belovèd circus queen, My Human Snake, my Angeline! _Harry B. Smith._ NORA'S VOW Hear what Highland Nora said,-- "The Earlie's son I will not wed, Should all the race of nature die, And none be left but he and I. For all the gold, for all the gear, And all the lands both far and near, That ever valour lost or won, I would not wed the Earlie's son." "A maiden's vows," old Callum spoke, "Are lightly made and lightly broke, The heather on the mountain's height Begins to bloom in purple light; The frost-wind soon shall sweep away That lustre deep from glen and brae; Yet Nora, ere its bloom be gone, May blithely wed the Earlie's son." "The swan," she said, "the lake's clear breast May barter for the eagle's nest; The Awe's fierce stream may backward turn, Ben-Cruaichan fall, and crush Kilchurn; Our kilted clans, when blood is high, Before their foes may turn and fly; But I, were all these marvels done, Would never wed the Earlie's son." Still in the water-lily's shade Her wonted nest the wild swan made; Ben-Cruaichan stands as fast as ever, Still downward foams the Awe's fierce river; To shun the clash of foeman's steel, No Highland brogue has turn'd the heel; But Nora's heart is lost and won, --She's wedded to the Earlie's son! _Sir Walter Scott._ HUSBAND AND HEATHEN O'er the men of Ethiopia she would pour her cornucopia, And shower wealth and plenty on the people of Japan, Send down jelly cake and candies to the Indians of the Andes, And a cargo of plum pudding to the men of Hindoostan; And she said she loved 'em so, Bushman, Finn, and Eskimo. If she had the wings of eagles to their succour she would fly Loaded down with jam and jelly, Succotash and vermicelli, Prunes, pomegranates, plums and pudding, peaches, pineapples, and pie. She would fly with speedy succour to the natives of Molucca With whole loads of quail and salmon, and with tons of fricassee And give cake in fullest measure To the men of Australasia And all the Archipelagoes that dot the southern sea; And the Anthropophagi, All their lives deprived of pie, She would satiate and satisfy with custards, cream, and mince; And those miserable Australians And the Borrioboolighalians, She would gorge with choicest jelly, raspberry, currant, grape, and quince. But like old war-time hardtackers, her poor husband lived on crackers, Bought at wholesale from a baker, eaten from the mantelshelf; If the men of Madagascar, And the natives of Alaska, Had enough to sate their hunger, let him look out for himself. And his coat had but one tail And he used a shingle nail To fasten up his galluses when he went out to his work; And she used to spend his money To buy sugar-plums and honey For the Terra del Fuegian and the Turcoman and Turk. _Sam Walter Foss._ THE LOST PLEIAD 'Twas a pretty little maiden In a garden gray and old, Where the apple trees were laden With the magic fruit of gold; But she strayed beyond the portal Of the garden of the Sun, And she flirted with a mortal, Which she oughtn't to have done! For a giant was her father and a goddess was her mother, She was Merope or Sterope--the one or else the other; And the man was not the equal, though presentable and rich, Of Merope or Sterope--I don't remember which! Now the giant's daughters seven, She among them, if you please, Were translated to the heaven As the starry Pleiades! But amid their constellation One alone was always dark, For she shrank from observation Or censorious remark. She had yielded to a mortal when he came to flirt and flatter. She was Merope or Sterope--the former or the latter; So the planets all ignored her, and the comets wouldn't call On Merope or Sterope--I am not sure at all! But the Dog-star, brightly shining In the hottest of July, Saw the pretty Pleiad pining In the shadow of the sky, And he courted her and kissed her Till she kindled into light; And the Pleiads' erring sister Was the lady of the night! So her former indiscretion as a fault was never reckoned, To Merope or Sterope--the first or else the second, And you'll never see so rigidly respectable a dame As Merope or Sterope--I can't recall her name! _Arthur Reed Ropes._ THE NEW CHURCH ORGAN They've got a brand-new organ, Sue, For all their fuss and search; They've done just as they said they'd do, And fetched it into church. They're bound the critter shall be seen, And on the preacher's right They've hoisted up their new machine In everybody's sight. They've got a chorister and choir, Ag'in' _my_ voice and vote; For it was never _my_ desire To praise the Lord by note. I've been a sister good an' true For five-an'-thirty year; I've done what seemed my part to do, An' prayed my duty clear; I've sung the hymns both slow and quick, Just as the preacher read, And twice, when Deacon Tubbs was sick, I took the fork an' led; And now, their bold, new-fangled ways Is comin' all about; And I, right in my latter days, Am fairly crowded out! To-day the preacher, good old dear, With tears all in his eyes, Read, "I can read my title clear To mansions in the skies." I al'ays liked that blessed hymn-- I s'pose I al'ays will-- It somehow gratifies _my_ whim, In good old Ortonville; But when that choir got up to sing, I couldn't catch a word; They sung the most dog-gondest thing A body ever heard! Some worldly chaps was standin' near; An' when I see them grin, I bid farewell to every fear, And boldly waded in. I thought I'd chase their tune along, An' tried with all my might; But though my voice was good an' strong, I couldn't steer it right. When they was high, then I was low, An' also contrawise; An' I too fast, or they too slow, To "mansions in the skies." An' after every verse, you know They play a little tune; I didn't understand, and so I started in too soon. I pitched it pretty middlin' high, I fetched a lusty tone, But oh, alas! I found that I Was singin' there alone! They laughed a little, I am told; But I had done my best; And not a wave of trouble rolled Across my peaceful breast. And Sister Brown--I could but look-- She sits right front of me; She never was no singin'-book, An' never went to be; But then she al'ays tried to do The best she could, she said; She understood the time right through, An' kep' it with her head; But when she tried this mornin', oh, I had to laugh, or cough! It kep' her head a-bobbin' so, It e'en a'most came off. An' Deacon Tubbs--he all broke 'down, As one might well suppose; He took one look at Sister Brown, And meekly scratched his nose. He looked his hymn-book through and through, And laid it on the seat, And then a pensive sigh he drew, And looked completely beat. And when they took another bout, He didn't even rise; But drawed his red bandanner out, An' wiped his weepin' eyes. I've been a sister, good an' true, For five-an'-thirty year; I've done what seemed my part to do, An' prayed my duty clear; But Death will stop my voice, I know, For he is on my track; And some day I to church will go, And nevermore come back; And when the folks gets up to sing-- Whene'er that time shall be-- I do not want no _patent_ thing A-squealin' over me! _Will Carteton._ LARRIE O'DEE Now the Widow McGee, And Larrie O'Dee, Had two little cottages out on the green, With just room enough for two pig-pens between. The widow was young and the widow was fair, With the brightest of eyes and the brownest of hair, And it frequently chanced, when she came in the morn, With the swill for her pig, Larrie came with the corn, And some of the ears that he tossed from his hand In the pen of the widow were certain to land. One morning said he: "Och! Misthress McGee, It's a waste of good lumber, this runnin' two rigs, Wid a fancy purtition betwane our two pigs!" "Indade, sur, it is!" answered Widow McGee, With the sweetest of smiles upon Larrie O'Dee. "And thin, it looks kind o' hard-hearted and mane, Kapin' two friendly pigs so exsaidenly near That whiniver one grunts the other can hear, And yit kape a cruel purtition betwane." "Shwate Widow McGee," Answered Larrie O'Dee, "If ye fale in your heart we are mane to the pigs, Ain't we mane to ourselves to be runnin' two rigs? Och! it made me heart ache when I paped through the cracks Of me shanty, lasht March, at yez shwingin' yer axe; An' a-bobbin' yer head an' a-shtompin' yer fate, Wid yer purty white hands jisht as red as a bate, A-shplittin' yer kindlin'-wood out in the shtorm, When one little shtove it would kape us both warm!" "Now, piggy," says she, "Larrie's courtin' o' me, Wid his dilicate tinder allusions to you; So now yez must tell me jisht what I must do: For, if I'm to say yes, shtir the swill wid yer snout; But if I'm to say no, ye must kape yer nose out. Now Larrie, for shame! to be bribin' a pig By a-tossin' a handful of corn in its shwig!" "Me darlint, the piggy says yes," answered he. And that was the courtship of Larrie O'Dee. _William W. Fink._ NO FAULT IN WOMEN No fault in women, to refuse The offer which they most would choose. No fault in women to confess How tedious they are in their dress; No fault in women, to lay on The tincture of vermilion, And there to give the cheek a dye Of white, where Nature doth deny. No fault in women, to make show Of largeness, when they've nothing so; When, true it is, the outside swells With inward buckram, little else. No fault in women, though they be But seldom from suspicion free; No fault in womankind at all, If they but slip, and never fall. _Robert Herrick._ A COSMOPOLITAN WOMAN She went round and asked subscriptions For the heathen black Egyptians And the Terra del Fuegians, She did; For the tribes round Athabasca, And the men of Madagascar, And the poor souls of Alaska, So she did; She longed, she said, to buy Jelly, cake, and jam, and pie, For the Anthropophagi, So she did. Her heart ached for the Australians And the Borriobooli-Ghalians, And the poor dear Amahagger, Yes, it did; And she loved the black Numidian, And the ebon Abyssinian, And the charcoal-coloured Guinean, Oh, she did! And she said she'd cross the seas With a ship of bread and cheese For those starving Chimpanzees, So she did. How she loved the cold Norwegian And the poor half-melted Feejeean, And the dear Molucca Islander, She did: She sent tins of red tomato To the tribes beyond the Equator, But her husband ate potato, So he did; The poor helpless, homeless thing (My voice falters as I sing) Tied his clothes up with a string, Yes, he did. _Unknown._ COURTING IN KENTUCKY. When Mary Ann Dollinger got the skule daown thar on Injun Bay, I was glad, for I like ter see a gal makin' her honest way. I heerd some talk in the village abaout her flyin' high, Tew high for busy farmer folks with chores ter do ter fly; But I paid no sorter attention ter all the talk ontell She come in her reg'lar boardin' raound ter visit with us a spell. My Jake an' her had been cronies ever since they could walk, An' it tuk me aback to hear her kerrectin' him in his talk. Jake ain't no hand at grammar, though he hain't his beat for work; But I sez ter myself, "Look out, my gal, yer a-foolin' with a Turk!" Jake bore it wonderful patient, an' said in a mournful way, He p'sumed he was behindhand with the doin's at Injun Bay. I remember once he was askin' for some o' my Injun buns, An' she said he should allus say, "them air," stid o' "them is" the ones. Wal, Mary Ann kep' at him stiddy mornin' an' evenin' long, Tell he dassent open his mouth for fear o' talkin' wrong. One day I was pickin' currants daown by the old quince-tree, When I heerd Jake's voice a-saying', "Be yer willin' ter marry me?" An' Mary Ann kerrectin', 'Air ye willin' yeou sh'd say"; Our Jake he put his foot daown in a plum, decided way, "No wimmen-folks is a-goin' ter be rearrangin' me, Hereafter I says 'craps,' 'them is,' 'I calk'late,' an' 'I be.' Ef folks don't like my talk they needn't hark ter what I say:. But I ain't a-goin' to take no sass from folks from Injun Bay. I ask you free an' final, 'Be ye goin' ter marry me?'" An' Mary Ann says, tremblin, yet anxious-like, "I be." _Florence E. Pratt._ ANY ONE WILL DO A maiden once, of certain age, To catch a husband did engage; But, having passed the prime of life In striving to become a wife Without success, she thought it time To mend the follies of her prime. Departing from the usual course Of paint and such like for resource, With all her might this ancient maid Beneath an oak-tree knelt and prayed; Unconscious that a grave old owl Was perched above--the mousing fowl! "Oh, give! a husband give!" she cried, "While yet I may become a bride; Soon will my day of grace be o'er, And then, like many maids before, I'll die without an early Jove, And none to meet me there above! "Oh, 'tis a fate too hard to bear! Then answer this my humble prayer, And oh, a husband give to me!" Just then the owl from out the tree, In deep bass tones cried, "Who--who--who!" "Who, Lord? And dost Thou ask me who? Why, any one, good Lord, will do." _Unknown._ A BIRD IN THE HAND There were three young maids of Lee; They were fair as fair can be, And they had lovers three times three, For they were fair as fair can be, These three young maids of Lee. But these young maids they cannot find A lover each to suit her mind; The plain-spoke lad is far too rough, The rich young lord is not rich enough, The one is too poor, and one is too tall, And one just an inch too short for them all. "Others pick and choose, and why not we? We can very well wait," said the maids of Lee. There were three young maids of Lee; They were fair as fair can be, And they had lovers three times three For they were fair as fair can be, These three young maids of Lee. There are three old maids of Lee, And they are old as old can be, And one is deaf, and one cannot see, And they are all as cross as a gallows-tree, These three old maids of Lee. Now, if any one chanced--'tis a chance remote-- One single charm in these maids to note, He need not a poet nor handsome be, For one is deaf and one cannot see; He need not woo on his bended knee, For they all are willing as willing can be. He may take the one, or the two, or the three, If he'll only take them away from Lee. There are three old maids at Lee; They are cross as cross can be; And there they are, and there they'll be To the end of the chapter, one, two, three, These three old maids of Lee. _Frederic E. Weatherly._ THE BELLE OF THE BALL Years--years ago,--ere yet my dreams Had been of being wise and witty,-- Ere I had done with writing themes, Or yawn'd o'er this infernal Chitty;-- Years, years ago, while all my joy Was in my fowling-piece and filly: In short, while I was yet a boy, I fell in love with Laura Lily. I saw her at the county ball; There, when the sounds of flute and fiddle Gave signal sweet in that old hall Of hands across and down the middle, Hers was the subtlest spell by far Of all that set young hearts romancing: She was our queen, our rose, our star; And when she danced--O Heaven, her dancing! Dark was her hair, her hand was white; Her voice was exquisitely tender, Her eyes were full of liquid light; I never saw a waist so slender; Her every look, her every smile, Shot right and left a score of arrows; I thought 'twas Venus from her isle, And wonder'd where she'd left her sparrows. She talk'd,--of politics or prayers; Of Southey's prose, or Wordsworth's sonnets; Of daggers or of dancing bears, Of battles, or the last new bonnets; By candle-light, at twelve o'clock, To me it matter'd not a tittle, If those bright lips had quoted Locke, I might have thought they murmur'd Little. Through sunny May, through sultry June, I loved her with a love eternal; I spoke her praises to the moon, I wrote them for the _Sunday Journal_. My mother laugh'd; I soon found out That ancient ladies have no feeling; My father frown'd; but how should gout See any happiness in kneeling? She was the daughter of a Dean, Rich, fat, and rather apoplectic; She had one brother, just thirteen, Whose color was extremely hectic; Her grandmother for many a year Had fed the parish with her bounty; Her second cousin was a peer, And lord lieutenant of the county. But titles and the three per cents, And mortgages, and great relations, And India bonds, and tithes and rents, Oh! what are they to love's sensations? Black eyes, fair forehead, clustering locks, Such wealth, such honors, Cupid chooses; He cares as little for the stocks, As Baron Rothschild for the Muses. She sketch'd; the vale, the wood, the beach, Grew lovelier from her pencil's shading; She botanized; I envied each Young blossom in her boudoir fading; She warbled Handel; it was grand-- She made the Catalani jealous; She touch'd the organ; I could stand For hours and hours to blow the bellows. She kept an album, too, at home, Well fill'd with all an album's glories; Paintings of butterflies, and Rome, Patterns for trimming, Persian stories; Soft songs to Julia's cockatoo, Fierce odes to Famine and to Slaughter; And autographs of Prince Leboo, And recipes for elder water. And she was flatter'd, worshipp'd, bored; Her steps were watch'd, her dress was noted; Her poodle dog was quite adored, Her sayings were extremely quoted. She laugh'd, and every heart was glad, As if the taxes were abolish'd; She frown'd, and every look was sad, As if the Opera were demolished. She smil'd on many just for fun-- I knew that there was nothing in it; I was the first--the only one Her heart had thought of for a minute; I knew it, for she told me so, In phrase which was divinely moulded; She wrote a charming hand,--and oh! How sweetly all her notes were folded! Our love was like most other loves-- A little glow, a little shiver; A rosebud and a pair of gloves, And "Fly Not Yet," upon the river; Some jealousy of some one's heir, Some hopes of dying broken-hearted, A miniature, a lock of hair, The usual vows--and then we parted. We parted;--months and years roll'd by; We met again four summers after; Our parting was all sob and sigh--- Our meeting was all mirth and laughter; For in my heart's most secret cell, There had been many other lodgers; And she was not the ballroom belle, But only--Mrs. Something Rogers. _Winthrop Mackworth Praed._ THE RETORT Old Nick, who taught the village school, Wedded a maid of homespun habit; He was as stubborn as a mule, She was as playful as a rabbit. Poor Jane had scarce become a wife, Before her husband sought to make her The pink of country-polished life, And prim and formal as a Quaker. One day the tutor went abroad, And simple Jenny sadly missed him; When he returned, behind her lord She slyly stole, and fondly kissed him! The husband's anger rose!--and red And white his face alternate grew! "Less freedom, ma'am!" Jane sighed and said, "_Oh, dear! I didn't know 'twas you_!" _George Pope Morris._ BEHAVE YOURSEL' BEFORE FOLK Behave yoursel' before folk, Behave yoursel' before folk, And dinna be sae rude to me, As kiss me sae before folk. It wadna gi'e me meikle pain, Gin we were seen and heard by nane, To tak' a kiss, or grant you ane; But guidsake! no before folk. Behave yoursel' before folk, Behave yoursel' before folk; Whate'er ye do, when out o' view, Be cautious aye before folk. Consider, lad, how folk will crack, And what a great affair they'll mak' O' naething but a simple smack, That's gi'en or ta'en before folk. Behave yoursel' before folk, Behave yoursel' before folk; Nor gi'e the tongue o' auld or young Occasion to come o'er folk. It's no through hatred o' a kiss, That I sae plainly tell you this; But, losh! I tak' it sair amiss To be sae teazed before folk. Behave yoursel' before folk, Behave yoursel' before folk; When we're our lane ye may tak' ane, But fient a ane before folk. I'm sure wi' you I've been as free As ony modest lass should be; But yet it doesna do to see Sic freedom used before folk. Behave yoursel' before folk, Behave yoursel' before folk; I'll ne'er submit again to it-- So mind you that--before folk. Ye tell me that my face is fair; It may be sae--I dinna care-- But ne'er again gar't blush sae sair As ye ha'e done before folk. Behave yoursel' before folk, Behave yoursel' before folk; Nor heat my cheeks wi' your mad freaks, But aye de douce before folk. Ye tell me that my lips are sweet, Sic tales, I doubt, are a' deceit; At ony rate, it's hardly meet To pree their sweets before folk. Behave yoursel' before folk, Behave yoursel' before folk; Gin that's the case, there's time, and place, But surely no before folk. But, gin you really do insist That I should suffer to be kiss'd, Gae, get a license frae the priest, And mak' me yours before folk. Behave yoursel' before folk, Behave yoursel' before folk; And when we're ane, baith flesh and bane, Ye may tak' ten--before folk. _Alexander Rodger._ THE CHRONICLE: A BALLAD Margarita first possess'd, If I remember well, my breast, Margarita, first of all; But when a while the wanton maid With my restless heart had play'd, Martha took the flying ball. Martha soon did it resign To the beauteous Catharine. Beauteous Catharine gave place (Though loth and angry she to part With the possession of my heart) To Eliza's conquering face. Eliza till this hour might reign, Had she not evil counsel ta'en: Fundamental laws she broke, And still new favourites she chose, Till up in arms my passions rose, And cast away her yoke. Mary then and gentle Anne, Both to reign at once began, Alternately they swayed: And sometimes Mary was the fair, And sometimes Anne the crown did wear, And sometimes both I obey'd. Another Mary then arose, And did rigorous laws impose; A mighty tyrant she! Long, alas, should I have been Under that iron-scepter'd queen, Had not Rebecca set me free. When fair Rebecca set me free, 'Twas then a golden time with me, But soon those pleasures fled; For the gracious princess died In her youth and beauty's pride, And Judith reigned in her stead. One month, three days, and half an hour, Judith held the sovereign power, Wondrous beautiful her face; But so weak and small her wit, That she to govern was unfit, And so Susanna took her place. But when Isabella came, Arm'd with a resistless flame, And th' artillery of her eye; Whilst she proudly march'd about Greater conquests to find out: She beat out Susan by the bye. But in her place I then obey'd Black-ey'd Bess, her viceroy maid, To whom ensued a vacancy: Thousand worse passions then possess'd The interregnum of my breast; Bless me from such an anarchy. Gentle Henrietta then, And a third Mary next began; Then Joan, and Jane, and Andria: And then a pretty Thomasine, And then another Catharine, And then a long et cætera. But should I now to you relate The strength and riches of their state, The powder, patches, and the pins, The ribbons, jewels, and the rings, The lace, the paint, and warlike things, That make up all their magazines: If I should tell the politic arts To take and keep men's hearts; The letters, embassies, and spies, The frowns, and smiles, and flatteries, The quarrels, tears, and perjuries, Numberless, nameless, mysteries! And all the little lime-twigs laid By Machiavel, the waiting maid; I more voluminous should grow (Chiefly if I, like them, should tell All change of weather that befel) Than Holinshed or Stow. But I will briefer with them be, Since few of them were long with me: An higher and a nobler strain My present empress does claim, Eleonora, first o' th' name, Whom God grant long to reign. _Abraham Cowley._ BUXOM JOAN A soldier and a sailor, A tinker and a tailor, Had once a doubtful strife, sir, To make a maid a wife, sir, Whose name was Buxom Joan. For now the time was ended, When she no more intended To lick her lips at men, sir, And gnaw the sheets in vain, sir, And lie o' nights alone. The soldier swore like thunder, He loved her more than plunder; And showed her many a scar, sir, That he had brought from far, sir, With fighting for her sake. The tailor thought to please her, With offering her his measure. The tinker too with mettle, Said he could mend her kettle, And stop up every leak. But while these three were prating, The sailor slily waiting, Thought if it came about, sir, That they should all fall out, sir, He then might play his part. And just e'en as he meant, sir, To loggerheads they went, sir, And then he let fly at her A shot 'twixt wind and water, That won this fair maid's heart. _William Congreve._ OH, MY GERALDINE Oh, my Geraldine, No flow'r was ever seen so toodle um. You are my lum ti toodle lay, Pretty, pretty queen, Is rum ti Geraldine and something teen, More sweet than tiddle lum in May. Like the star so bright That somethings all the night, My Geraldine! You're fair as the rum ti lum ti sheen, Hark! there is what--ho! From something--um, you know, Dear, what I mean. Oh I rum! tum!! tum!!! my Geraldine. _F. C. Burnand._ THE PARTERRE I don't know any greatest treat As sit him in a gay parterre, And sniff one up the perfume sweet Of every roses buttoning there. It only want my charming miss Who make to blush the self red rose; Oh! I have envy of to kiss The end's tip of her splendid nose. Oh! I have envy of to be What grass 'neath her pantoffle push, And too much happy seemeth me The margaret which her vestige crush. But I will meet her nose at nose, And take occasion for her hairs, And indicate her all my woes, That she in fine agree my prayers. |The Envoy| I don't know any greatest treat As sit him in a gay parterre, With Madame who is too more sweet Than every roses buttoning there. _E. H. Palmer._ HOW TO ASK AND HAVE "Oh, 'tis time I should talk to your mother, Sweet Mary," says I; "Oh, don't talk to my mother," says Mary, Beginning to cry: "For my mother says men are decaivers, And never, I know, will consent; She says girls in a hurry to marry, At leisure repent." "Then, suppose I should talk to your father, Sweet Mary," says I; "Oh, don't talk to my father," says Mary, Beginning to cry: "For my father he loves me so dearly, He'll never consent I should go;-- If you talk to my father," says Mary, "He'll surely say 'No.'" "Then how shall I get you, my jewel, Sweet Mary?" says I; "If your father and mother's so cruel, Most surely I'll die!" "Oh, never say die, dear," says Mary; "A way now to save you I see: Since my parents are both so conthrairy, You'd better ask _me_." _Samuel Lover._ SALLY IN OUR ALLEY Of all the girls that are so smart, There's none like Pretty Sally; She is the darling of my heart, And lives in our alley. There's ne'er a lady in the land That's half so sweet as Sally; She is the darling of my heart, And lives in our alley. Her father he makes cabbage-nets, And through the streets does cry them; Her mother she sells laces long To such as please to buy them: But sure such folk can have no part In such a girl as Sally; She is the darling of my heart, And lives in our alley. When she is by, I leave my work, I love her so sincerely; My master comes, like any Turk, And bangs me most severely: But let him bang, long as he will, I'll bear it all for Sally; She is the darling of my heart, And lives in our alley. Of all the days are in the week, I dearly love but one day, And that's the day that comes betwixt A Saturday and Monday; For then I'm dressed, all in my best, To walk abroad with Sally; She is the darling of my heart, And lives in our alley. My master carries me to church, And often am I blamed, Because I leave him in the lurch, Soon as the text is named: I leave the church in sermon time, And slink away to Sally; She is the darling of my heart, And lives in our alley. When Christmas comes about again, Oh, then I shall have money; I'll hoard it up and, box and all, I'll give it to my honey; Oh, would it were ten thousand pounds, I'd give it all to Sally; For she's the darling of my heart, And lives in our alley. My master, and the neighbors all, Make game of me and Sally, And but for her I'd better be A slave, and row a galley: But when my seven long years are out, Oh, then I'll marry Sally, And then how happily we'll live-- But not in our alley. _Henry Carey._ FALSE LOVE AND TRUE LOGIC THE DISCONSOLATE My heart will break--I'm sure it will: My lover, yes, my favorite--he Who seemed my own through good and ill-- Has basely turned his back on me. THE COMFORTER Ah! silly sorrower, weep no more; Your lover's turned his back, we see; But you had turned his head before, And now he's as he ought to be. _Laman Blanchard._ PET'S PUNISHMENT O, if my love offended me, And we had words together, To show her I would master be, I'd whip her with a feather! If then she, like a naughty girl, Would tyranny declare it, I'd give my pet a cross of pearl, And make her always bear it. If still she tried to sulk and sigh, And threw away my posies, I'd catch my darling on the sly, And smother her with roses. But should she clench her dimpled fists, Or contradict her betters, I'd manacle her tiny wrists With dainty jewelled fetters. And if she dared her lips to pout, Like many pert young misses, I'd wind my arm her waist about, And punish her--with kisses! _J. Ashby-Sterry._ AD CHLOEN, M.A. FRESH FROM HER CAMBRIDGE EXAMINATION Lady, very fair are you, And your eyes are very blue, And your hose; And your brow is like the snow, And the various things you know, Goodness knows. And the rose-flush on your cheek, And your Algebra and Greek Perfect are; And that loving lustrous eye Recognizes in the sky Every star. You have pouting piquant lips, You can doubtless an eclipse Calculate; But for your cerulean hue, I had certainly from you Met my fate. If by some arrangement dual I were Adams mixed with Whewell, Then some day I, as wooer, perhaps might come To so sweet an Artium Magistra. _Mortimer Collins._ CHLOE, M.A. AD AMANTEM SUAM Careless rhymer, it is true, That my favourite colour's blue: But am I To be made a victim, sir, If to puddings I prefer Cambridge [pi]? If with giddier girls I play Croquet through the summer day On the turf, Then at night ('tis no great boon) Let me study how the moon Sways the surf. Tennyson's idyllic verse Surely suits me none the worse If I seek Old Sicilian birds and bees-- Music of sweet Sophocles-- Golden Greek. You have said my eyes are blue; There may be a fairer hue, Perhaps--and yet It is surely not a sin If I keep my secrets in Violet. _Mortimer Collins._ THE FAIR MILLINGER By the Watertown Horse-Car Conductor It was a millinger most gay, As sat within her shop; A student came along that way, And in he straight did pop. Clean shaven he, of massive mould, He thought his looks was killing her; So lots of stuff to him she sold: "Thanks!" says the millinger. He loafed around and seemed to try On all things to converse; The millinger did mind her eye, But also mound his purse. He tried, then, with his flattering tongue, With nonsense to be filling her; But she was sharp, though she was young: "Thanks," said the millinger. He asked her to the theatre, They got into my car; Our steeds were tired, could hardly stir, He thought the way not far. A pretty pict-i-ure she made, No doctors had been pilling her; Fairly the fair one's fare he paid: "Thanks!" said the millinger. When we arrived in Bowdoin Square, A female to them ran; Then says that millinger so fair: "O, thank you, Mary Ann! She's going with us, she is," says she, "She only is fulfilling her Duty in looking after me: Thanks!" said that millinger. "Why," says that student chap to her, "I've but two seats to hand." "Too bad," replied that millinger, "Then you will have to stand." "I won't stand this," says he, "I own The joke which you've been drilling her; Here, take the seats and go alone!" "Thanks!" says the millinger. That ere much-taken-down young man Stepped back into my car. We got fresh horses, off they ran; He thought the distance far. And now she is my better half, And oft, when coo-and-billing her, I think about that chap and laugh: "Thanks!" says my millinger. _Fred W. Loring._ TWO FISHERS One morning when Spring was in her teens-- A morn to a poet's wishing, All tinted in delicate pinks and greens-- Miss Bessie and I went fishing. I in my rough and easy clothes, With my face at the sun-tan's mercy; She with her hat tipped down to her nose, And her nose tipped--_vice versa_. I with my rod, my reel, and my hooks, And a hamper for lunching recesses; She with the bait of her comely looks, And the seine of her golden tresses. So we sat us down on the sunny dike, Where the white pond-lilies teeter, And I went to fishing like quaint old Ike, And she like Simon Peter. All the noon I lay in the light of her eyes, And dreamily watched and waited, But the fish were cunning and would not rise, And the baiter alone was baited. And when the time of departure came, My bag hung flat as a flounder; But Bessie had neatly hooked her game-- A hundred-and-fifty-pounder. _Unknown._ MAUD Nay, I cannot come into the garden just now, Tho' it vexes me much to refuse: But I _must_ have the next set of waltzes, I vow, With Lieutenant de Boots of the Blues. I am sure you'll be heartily pleas'd when you hear That our ball has been quite a success. As for _me_--I've been looking a monster, my dear. In that old-fashion'd guy of a dress. You had better at once hurry home, dear, to bed; It is getting so dreadfully late. You may catch the bronchitis or cold in the head If you linger so long at our gate. Don't be obstinate, Alfy; come, take my advice-- For I know you're in want of repose: Take a basin of gruel (you'll find it so nice), And remember to tallow your nose. No, I tell you I can't and I shan't get away, For De Boots has implor'd me to sing. As to _you_--if you like it, of course you can stay, You were always an obstinate thing. If you feel it a pleasure to talk to the flow'rs About "babble and revel and wine," When you might have been snoring for two or three hours, Why, it's not the least business of mine. _Henry S. Leigh._ ARE WOMEN FAIR? "Are women fair?" Ay, wondrous fair to see, too. "Are women sweet?" Yea, passing sweet they be, too. Most fair and sweet to them that only love them; Chaste and discreet to all save them that prove them. "Are women wise?" Not wise, but they be witty; "Are women witty?" Yea, the more the pity; They are so witty, and in wit so wily, Though ye be ne'er so wise, they will beguile ye. "Are women fools?" Not fools, but fondlings many; "Can women fond be faithful unto any?" When snow-white swans do turn to colour sable, Then women fond will be both firm and stable. "Are women saints?" No saints, nor yet no devils; "Are women good?" Not good, but needful evils. So Angel-like, that devils I do not doubt them, So needful evils that few can live without them. "Are women proud?" Ay! passing proud, an praise them. "Are women kind?" Ay! wondrous kind, an please them. Or so imperious, no man can endure them, Or so kind-hearted, any may procure them. _Francis Davison._ THE PLAIDIE Upon ane stormy Sunday, Coming adoon the lane, Were a score of bonnie lassies-- And the sweetest I maintain Was Caddie, That I took unneath my plaidie, To shield her from the rain. She said that the daisies blushed For the kiss that I had ta'en; I wadna hae thought the lassie Wad sae of a kiss complain: "Now, laddie! I winna stay under your plaidie, If I gang hame in the rain!" But, on an after Sunday, When cloud there was not ane, This selfsame winsome lassie (We chanced to meet in the lane), Said, "Laddie, Why dinna ye wear your plaidie? Wha kens but it may rain?" _Charles Sibley._ FEMININE ARITHMETIC LAURA On me he shall ne'er put a ring, So, mamma, 'tis in vain to take trouble-- For I was but eighteen in spring While his age exactly is double. MAMMA He's but in his thirty-sixth year, Tall, handsome, good-natured and witty, And should you refuse him, my dear, May you die an old maid without pity! LAURA His figure, I grant you, will pass, And at present he's young enough plenty; But when I am sixty, alas! Will not he be a hundred and twenty? _Charles Graham Halpine._ LORD GUY When swallows Northward flew Forth from his home did fare Guy, Lord of Lanturlaire And Lanturlu. Swore he to cross the brine, Pausing not, night nor day, That he might Paynims slay In Palestine. Half a league on his way Met he a shepherdess Beaming with loveliness-- Fair as Young Day. Gazed he in eyes of blue-- Saw love in hiding there Guy, Lord of Lanturlaire And Lanturlu. "Let the foul Paynim wait!" Plead Love, "and stay with me. Cruel and cold the sea-- Here's brighter fate." When swallows Southward flew Back to his home did fare Guy, Lord of Lanturlaire And Lanturlu. Led he his charger gay Bearing a shepherdess Beaming with happiness-- Fair as Young Day. White lambs, be-ribboned blue-- Tends now with anxious care, Guy, Lord of Lanturlaire And Lanturlu. _George F. Warren._ SARY "FIXES UP" THINGS Oh, yes, we've be'n fixin' up some sence we sold that piece o' groun' Fer a place to put a golf-lynx to them crazy dudes from town. (Anyway, they laughed like crazy when I had it specified, Ef they put a golf-lynx on it, thet they'd haf to keep him tied.) But they paid the price all reg'lar, an' then Sary says to me, "Now we're goin' to fix the parlor up, an' settin'-room," says she. Fer she 'lowed she'd been a-scrimpin' an' a-scrapin' all her life, An' she meant fer once to have things good as Cousin Ed'ard's wife. Well, we went down to the city, an' she bought the blamedest mess; An' them clerks there must 'a' took her fer a' Astoroid, I guess; Fer they showed her fancy bureaus which they said was shiffoneers, An' some more they said was dressers, an' some curtains called porteers. An' she looked at that there furnicher, an' felt them curtains' heft; Then she sailed in like a cyclone an' she bought 'em right an' left; An' she picked a Bress'ls carpet thet was flowered like Cousin Ed's, But she drawed the line com-pletely when we got to foldin'-beds. Course, she said, 't 'u'd make the parlor lots more roomier, she s'posed; But she 'lowed she'd have a bedstid thet was shore to stay un-closed; An' she stopped right there an' told us sev'ral tales of folks she'd read Bein' overtook in slumber by the "fatal foldin'-bed." "Not ef it wuz set in di'mon's! Nary foldin'-bed fer me! I ain't goin' to start fer glory in a rabbit-trap!" says she. "When the time comes I'll be ready an' a-waitin'; but ez yet, I shan't go to sleep a-thinkin' that I've got the triggers set." Well, sir, shore as yo''re a-livin', after all thet Sary said, 'Fore we started home that evenin' she hed bought a foldin'-bed; An' she's put it in the parlor, where it adds a heap o' style; An' we're sleepin' in the settin'-room at present fer a while. Sary still maintains it's han'some, "an' them city folks'll see That we're posted on the fashions when they visit us," says she; But it plagues her some to tell her, ef it ain't no other use, We can set it fer the golf-lynx ef he ever sh'u'd get loose. _Albert Bigelow Paine._ THE CONSTANT CANNIBAL MAIDEN Far, oh, far is the Mango island, Far, oh, far is the tropical sea-- Palms a-slant and the hills a-smile, and A cannibal maiden a-waiting for me. I've been deceived by a damsel Spanish, And Indian maidens both red and brown, A black-eyed Turk and a blue-eyed Danish, And a Puritan lassie of Salem town. For the Puritan Prue she sets in the offing, A-castin' 'er eyes at a tall marine, And the Spanish minx is the wust at scoffing Of all of the wimming I ever seen. But the cannibal maid is a simple creetur, With a habit of gazin' over the sea, A-hopin' in vain for the day I'll meet 'er, And constant and faithful a-yearnin' for me. Me Turkish sweetheart she played me double-- Eloped with the Sultan Harum In-Deed, And the Danish damsel she made me trouble When she ups and married an oblong Swede. But there's truth in the heart of the maid o' Mango, Though her cheeks is black like the kiln-baked cork, As she sets in the shade o' the whingo-whango, A-waitin' for me--with a knife and fork. _Wallace Irwin._ WIDOW BEDOTT TO ELDER SNIFFLES O reverend sir, I do declare It drives me most to frenzy, To think of you a-lying there Down sick with influenzy. A body'd thought it was enough To mourn your wife's departer, Without sich trouble as this ere To come a-follerin' arter. But sickness and affliction Are sent by a wise creation, And always ought to be underwent By patience and resignation. O, I could to your bedside fly, And wipe your weeping eyes, And do my best to cure you up, If 'twouldn't create surprise. It's a world of trouble we tarry in, But, Elder, don't despair; That you may soon be movin' again Is constantly my prayer. Both sick and well, you may depend You'll never be forgot By your faithful and affectionate friend, |Priscilla Pool Bedott|. _Frances Miriam Whitcher._ UNDER THE MISTLETOE She stood beneath the mistletoe That hung above the door, Quite conscious of the sprig above, Revered by maids of yore. A timid longing filled her heart; Her pulses throbbed with heat; He sprang to where the fair girl stood. "May I--just one--my sweet?" He asked his love, who tossed her head, "Just do it--if--you dare!" she said. He sat before the fireplace Down at the club that night. "She loves me not," he hotly said, "Therefore she did but right!" She sat alone within her room, And with her finger-tips She held his picture to her heart, Then pressed it to her lips. "My loved one!" sobbed she, "if you--cared You surely would have--would have--dared." _George Francis Shults._ THE BROKEN PITCHER It was a Moorish maiden was sitting by a well, And what the maiden thought of I cannot, cannot tell. When by there rode a valiant knight from the town of Oviedo-- Alphonso Guzman was he hight, the Count of Desparedo. "Oh, maiden, Moorish maiden! why sitt'st thou by the spring? Say, dost thou seek a lover, or any other thing? Why gazest thou upon me, with eyes so large and wide, And wherefore doth the pitcher lie broken by thy side?" "I do not seek a lover, thou Christian knight so gay, Because an article like that hath never come my way; And why I gaze upon you, I cannot, cannot tell, Except that in your iron hose you look uncommon swell. "My pitcher it is broken, and this the reason is,-- A shepherd came behind me, and tried to snatch a kiss; I would not stand his nonsense, so ne'er a word I spoke, But scored him on the costard, and so the jug was broke. "My uncle, the Alcaydè, he waits for me at home, And will not take his tumbler until Zorayda come. I cannot bring him water--the pitcher is in pieces-- And so I'm sure to catch it, 'cos he wallops all his nieces." "Oh, maiden, Moorish maiden! wilt thou be ruled by me! So wipe thine eyes and rosy lips, and give me kisses three; And I'll give thee my helmet, thou kind and courteous lady, To carry home the water to thy uncle, the Alcaydè." He lighted down from off his steed--he tied him to a tree-- He bowed him to the maiden, and took his kisses three: "To wrong thee, sweet Zorayda, I swear would be a sin!" He knelt him at the fountain, and he dipped his helmet in. Up rose the Moorish maiden--behind the knight she steals, And caught Alphonso Guzman up tightly by the heels; She tipped him in, and held him down beneath the bubbling water,-- "Now, take thou that for venturing to kiss Al Hamet's daughter!" A Christian maid is weeping in the town of Oviedo; She waits the coming of her love, the Count of Desparedo. I pray you all in charity, that you will never tell, How he met the Moorish maiden beside the lonely well. _William E. Aytoun._ GIFTS RETURNED "You must give back," her mother said, To a poor sobbing little maid, "All the young man has given you, Hard as it now may seem to do." "'Tis done already, mother dear!" Said the sweet girl, "So never fear." _Mother_. Are you quite certain? Come, recount (There was not much) the whole amount. _Girl_. The locket; the kid gloves. _Mother_. Go on. _Girl_. Of the kid gloves I found but one. _Mother_. Never mind that. What else? Proceed. You gave back all his trash? _Girl_. Indeed. _Mother_. And was there nothing you would save? _Girl_. Everything I could give I gave. _Mother_. To the last tittle? _Girl_. Even to that. _Mother_. Freely? _Girl_. My heart went pit-a-pat At giving up ... ah me! ah me! I cry so I can hardly see ... All the fond looks and words that past, And all the kisses, to the last. _Walter Savage Landor._ III LOVE AND COURTSHIP NOUREDDIN, THE SON OF THE SHAH There once was a Shah had a second son Who was very unlike his elder one, For he went about on his own affairs, And scorned the mosque and the daily prayers; When his sire frowned fierce, then he cried, "Ha, ha!" Noureddin, the son of the Shah. But worst of all of the pranks he played Was to fall in love with a Christian maid,-- An Armenian maid who wore no veil, Nor behind a lattice grew thin and pale; At his sire's dark threats laughed the youth, "Ha, ha!" Noureddin, the son of the Shah. "I will shut him close in an iron cage," The monarch said, in a fuming rage; But the prince slipped out by a postern door, And away to the mountains his loved one bore; Loud his glee rang back on the winds, "Ha, ha!" Noureddin, the son of the Shah. And still in the town of Teheran, When a youth and a maid adopt this plan,-- All frowns and threats with a laugh defy, And away from the mosques to the mountains fly,-- Folk meet and greet with a gay "_Ha, ha!" Noureddin, the son of the Shah_. _Clinton Scollard._ THE USUAL WAY There was once a little man, and his rod and line he took, For he said, "I'll go a-fishing in the neighboring brook." And it chanced a little maiden was walking out that day, And they met--in the usual way. Then he sat him down beside her, and an hour or two went by, But still upon the grassy brink his rod and line did lie; "I thought," she shyly whispered, "you'd be fishing all the day!" And he was--in the usual way. So he gravely took his rod in hand, and threw the line about, But the fish perceived distinctly that he was not looking out; And he said, "Sweetheart, I love you!" but she said she could not stay: But she did--in the usual way. Then the stars came out above them, and she gave a little sigh, As they watched the silver ripples, like the moments, running by; "We must say good-by," she whispered, by the alders old and gray, And they did--in the usual way. And day by day beside the stream they wandered to and fro, And day by day the fishes swam securely down below; Till this little story ended, as such little stories may, Very much--in the usual way. And now that they are married, do they always bill and coo? Do they never fret and quarrel as other couples do? Does he cherish her and love her? Does she honor and obey? Well--they do--in the usual way. _Frederic E. Weatherly._ THE WAY TO ARCADY Oh, _what's the way to Arcady, To Arcady, to Arcady; Oh, what's the way to Arcady, Where all the leaves are merry_? Oh, what's the way to Arcady? The spring is rustling in the tree-- The tree the wind is blowing through-- It sets the blossoms flickering white. I knew not skies could burn so blue Nor any breezes blow so light. They blow an old-time way for me, Across the world to Arcady. Oh, what's the way to Arcady? Sir Poet, with the rusty coat, Quit mocking of the song-bird's note. How have you heart for any tune, You with the wayworn russet shoon? Your scrip, a-swinging by your side, Gapes with a gaunt mouth hungry-wide. I'll brim it well with pieces red, If you will tell the way to tread. _Oh, I am bound for Arcady, And if you but keep pace with me You tread the way to Arcady._ And where away lies Arcady, And how long yet may the journey be? _Ah, that_ (quoth he) _I do not know_-- _Across the clover and the snow_-- _Across the frost, across the flowers_-- _Through summer seconds and winter hours_ _I've trod the way my whole life long_, _And know not now where it may be_; _My guide is but the stir to song_, _That tells me I cannot go wrong_, _Or clear or dark the pathway be_ _Upon the road to Arcady_. But how shall I do who cannot sing? I was wont to sing, once on a time-- There is never an echo now to ring Remembrance back to the trick of rhyme. _'Tis strange you cannot sing_ (quoth he), _The folk all sing in Arcady_. But how may he find Arcady Who hath not youth nor melody? _What, know you not, old man_ (quoth he)-- _Your hair is white, your face is wise_-- _That Love must kiss that Mortal's eyes_ _Who hopes to see fair Arcady_? _No gold can buy you entrance there_; _But beggared Love may go all bare_-- _No wisdom won with weariness_; _But Love goes in with Folly's dress_-- _No fame that wit could ever win_; _But only Love may lead Love in_ _To Arcady, to Arcady_. Ah, woe is me, through all my days Wisdom and wealth I both have got, And fame and name, and great men's praise; But Love, ah, Love! I have it not. There was a time, when life was new-- But far away, and half forgot-- I only know her eyes were blue; But Love--I fear I knew it not. We did not wed, for lack of gold, And she is dead, and I am old. All things have come since then to me, Save Love, ah, Love! and Arcady. _Ah, then I fear we part_ (quoth he), _My way's for Love and Arcady._ But you, you fare alone, like me; The gray is likewise in your hair. What love have you to lead you there, To Arcady, to Arcady? _Ah, no, not lonely do I fare; My true companion's Memory. With Love he fills the Spring-time air; With Love he clothes the Winter tree. Oh, past this poor horizon's bound My song goes straight to one who stands-- Her face all gladdening at the sound-- To lead me to the Spring-green lands, To wander with enlacing hands. The songs within my breast that stir Are all of her, are all of her. My maid is dead long years_ (quoth he), _She waits for me in Arcady_. _Oh, yon's the way to Arcady, To Arcady, to Arcady; Oh, yon's the way to Arcady, Where all the leaves are merry._ _H. C. Bunner._ MY LOVE AND MY HEART Oh, the days were ever shiny When I ran to meet my love; When I press'd her hand so tiny Through her tiny tiny glove. Was I very deeply smitten? Oh, I loved like _anything_! But my love she is a kitten, And my heart's a ball of string. She was pleasingly poetic, And she loved my little rhymes; For our tastes were sympathetic, In the old and happy times. Oh, the ballads I have written, And have taught my love to sing! But my love she is a kitten, And my heart's a ball of string. Would she listen to my offer, On my knees I would impart A sincere and ready proffer Of my hand and of my heart. And below her dainty mitten I would fix a wedding ring-- But my love she is a kitten, And my heart's a ball of string. Take a warning, happy lover, From the moral that I show; Or too late you may discover What I learn'd a month ago. We are scratch'd or we are bitten By the pets to whom we cling. Oh, my love she is a kitten, And my heart's a ball of string. _Henry S. Leigh._ QUITE BY CHANCE She flung the parlour window wide One eve of mid-July, And he, as fate would have it tide, That moment sauntered by. His eyes were blue and hers were brown, With drooping fringe of jet; And he looked up as she looked down, And so their glances met. _Things as strange, I dare to say, Happen somewhere every day._ A mile beyond the straggling street, A quiet pathway goes; And lovers here are wont to meet, As all the country knows. Now she one night at half-past eight Had sought that lonely lane, When _he_ came up, by will of fate, And so they met again. _Things as strange, I dare to say, Happen somewhere every day._ The parish church, so old and gray, Is quite a sight to see; And he was there at ten one day, And so, it chanced, was she. And while they stood, with cheeks aflame, And neighbours liked the fun, In stole and hood the parson came, And made the couple one. _Things as strange, I dare to say, Happen somewhere every day._ _Frederick Langbridge._ THE NUN SUGGESTED BY PART OF THE ITALIAN SONG, BEGINNING "SE MONECA TI FAI." I If you become a nun, dear, A friar I will be; In any cell you run, dear, Pray look behind for me. The roses all turn pale, too; The doves all take the veil, too; The blind will see the show: What! you become a nun, my dear! I'll not believe it, no. II If you become a nun, dear, The bishop Love will be; The Cupids every one, dear, Will chaunt "We trust in thee"; The incense will go sighing, The candles fall a dying, The water turn to wine: What! you go take the vows, my dear! You may--but they'll be mine. _Leigh Hunt._ THE CHEMIST TO HIS LOVE I love thee, Mary, and thou lovest me-- Our mutual flame is like th' affinity That doth exist between two simple bodies: I am Potassium to thine Oxygen. 'Tis little that the holy marriage vow Shall shortly make us one. That unity Is, after all, but metaphysical. Oh, would that I, my Mary, were an acid, A living acid; thou an alkali Endow'd with human sense, that, brought together, We both might coalesce into one salt, One homogeneous crystal. Oh, that thou Wert Carbon, and myself were Hydrogen; We would unite to form olefiant gas, Or common coal, or naphtha--would to heaven That I were Phosphorus, and thou wert Lime! And we of Lime composed a Phosphuret. I'd be content to be Sulphuric Acid, So that thou might be Soda. In that case We should be Glauber's Salt. Wert thou Magnesia Instead we'd form the salt that's named from Epsom. Couldst thou Potassa be, I Aqua-fortis, Our happy union should that compound form, Nitrate of Potash--otherwise Saltpetre. And thus our several natures sweetly blent, We'd live and love together, until death Should decompose the fleshly _tertium quid_, Leaving our souls to all eternity Amalgamated. Sweet, thy name is Briggs And mine is Johnson. Wherefore should not we Agree to form a Johnsonate of Briggs? _Unknown._ CATEGORICAL COURTSHIP I sat one night beside a blue-eyed girl-- The fire was out, and so, too, was her mother; A feeble flame around the lamp did curl, Making faint shadows, blending in each other: 'Twas nearly twelve o'clock, too, in November; She had a shawl on, also, I remember. Well, I had been to see her every night For thirteen days, and had a sneaking notion To pop the question, thinking all was right, And once or twice had make an awkward motion To take her hand, and stammer'd, cough'd, and stutter'd, But, somehow, nothing to the point had utter'd. I thought this chance too good now to be lost; I hitched my chair up pretty close beside her, Drew a long breath, and then my legs I cross'd, Bent over, sighed, and for five minutes eyed her: She looked as if she knew what next was coming, And with her feet upon the floor was drumming. I didn't know how to begin, or where-- I couldn't speak--the words were always choking; I scarce could move--I seem'd tied to the chair-- I hardly breathed--'twas awfully provoking! The perspiration from each pore came oozing, My heart, and brain, and limbs their power seem'd losing. At length I saw a brindle tabby cat Walk purring up, inviting me to pat her; An idea came, electric-like at that-- My doubts, like summer clouds, began to scatter, I seized on tabby, though a scratch she gave me, And said, "Come, Puss, ask Mary if she'll have me." 'Twas done at once--the murder now was out; The thing was all explain'd in half a minute. She blush'd, and, turning pussy-cat about, Said, "Pussy, tell him 'yes'"; her foot was in it! The cat had thus saved me my category, And here's the catastrophe of my story. _Unknown._ LANTY LEARY Lanty was in love, you see, With lovely, lively Rosie Carey; But her father can't agree To give the girl to Lanty Leary. Up to fun, "Away we'll run," Says she, "my father's so contrary. Won't you follow me? Won't you follow me?" "Faith, I will!" says Lanty Leary. But her father died one day (I hear 'twas not by dhrinkin' wather); House and land and cash, they say, He left, by will, to Rose, his daughter; House and land and cash to seize, Away she cut so light and airy. "Won't you follow me? Won't you follow me?" "Faith, I will!" says Lanty Leary. Rose, herself, was taken bad; The fayver worse each day was growin'; "Lanty, dear," says she, "'tis sad, To th' other world I'm surely goin'. You can't survive my loss, I know, Nor long remain in Tipperary. Won't you follow me? Won't you follow me?" "Faith, I won't!" says Lanty Leary. _Samuel Lover._ THE SECRET COMBINATION Her heart she locked fast in her breast, Away from molestation; The lock was warranted the best-- A patent combination. She knew no simple lock and key Would serve to keep out Love and me. But Love a clever cracksman is, And cannot be resisted; He likes such stubborn jobs as this, Complex and hard and twisted, And though we worked a many day, At last we bore her heart away. For Love has learned full many tricks In his strange avocation; He knew the figures were but six In this, her combination; Nor did we for a minute rest Until we had unlocked her breast. First, then, we turned the knob to "Sighs," Then back to "Words Sincerest," Then "Gazing Fondly in Her Eyes," Then "Softly Murmured 'Dearest;'" Then, next, "A Warm Embrace" we tried, And at "A Kiss" the door flew wide. _Ellis Parker Butler._ FORTY YEARS AFTER We climbed to the top of Goat Point hill, Sweet Kitty, my sweetheart, and I; And watched the moon make stars on the waves, And the dim white ships go by, While a throne we made on a rough stone wall, And the king and the queen were we; And I sat with my arm about Kitty, And she with her arm about me. The water was mad in the moonlight, And the sand like gold where it shone, And our hearts kept time to its music, As we sat in the splendour alone. And Kitty's dear eyes twinkled brightly, And Kitty's brown hair blew so free, While I sat with my arm about Kitty, And she with her arm about me. Last night we drove in our carriage, To the wall at the top of the hill; And though we're forty years older, We're children and sweethearts still. And we talked again of that moonlight That danced so mad on the sea, When I sat with my arm about Kitty, And she with her arm about me. The throne on the wall was still standing, But we sat in the carriage last night, For a wall is too high for old people Whose foreheads have linings of white. And Kitty's waist measure is forty, While mine is full fifty and three, So I can't get my arm about Kitty, Nor can she get both hers around me. _H. H. Porter._ CUPID Beauties, have ye seen this toy, Calléd love, a little boy Almost naked, wanton, blind, Cruel now, and then as kind? If he be amongst ye, say! He is Venus' runaway. He hath of marks about him plenty; Ye shall know him among twenty; All his body is a fire, And his breath a flame entire, That, being shot like lightning in, Wounds the heart, but not the skin. He doth bear a golden bow, And a quiver, hanging low, Full of arrows, that outbrave Dian's shafts, where, if he have Any head more sharp than other, With that first he strikes his mother. Trust him not: his words, though sweet, Seldom with his heart do meet; All his practice is deceit, Every gift is but a bait; Not a kiss but poison bears, And most treason in his tears. If by these ye please to know him, Beauties, be not nice, but show him, Though ye had a will to hide him. Now, we hope, ye'll not abide him, Since ye hear his falser play, And that he's Venus' runaway. _Ben Jonson._ PARING-TIME ANTICIPATED I shall not ask Jean Jacques Rousseau If birds confabulate or no; 'Tis clear that they were always able To hold discourse, at least in fable; And e'en the child who knows no better Than to interpret, by the letter, A story of a cock and bull, Must have a most uncommon skull. It chanced, then, on a winter's day, But warm, and bright, and calm as May, The birds, conceiving a design To forestall sweet St. Valentine, In many an orchard, copse, and grove, Assembled on affairs of love, And, with much twitter and much chatter, Began to agitate the matter. At length a bullfinch, who could boast More years and wisdom than the most, Entreated, opening wide his beak, A moment's liberty to speak; And, silence publicly enjoin'd, Deliver'd briefly thus his mind: "My friends, be cautious how ye treat The subject upon which we meet; I fear we shall have winter yet." A finch, whose tongue knew no control, With golden wing and satin poll, A last year's bird, who ne'er had tried What marriage means, thus pert replied: "Methinks the gentleman," quoth she, "Opposite in the apple-tree, By his good-will would keep us single Till yonder heaven and earth shall mingle, Or--which is likelier to befall-- 'Til death exterminate us all. I marry without more ado. My dear Dick Redcap, what say you?" Dick heard, and tweedling, ogling, bridling, Turned short 'round, strutting, and sidling, Attested, glad, his approbation Of an immediate conjugation. Their sentiments, so well express'd, Influenced mightily the rest; All pair'd, and each pair built a nest. But, though the birds were thus in haste, The leaves came on not quite so fast, And destiny, that sometimes bears An aspect stern on man's affairs, Not altogether smiled on theirs. The wind, of late breathed gently forth, Now shifted east, and east by north; Bare trees and shrubs but ill, you know, Could shelter them from rain or snow. Stepping into their nests, they paddled, Themselves were chill'd, their eggs were addled. Soon every father bird and mother Grew quarrelsome, and peck'd each other, Parted without the least regret, Except that they had ever met, And learn'd in future to be wiser Than to neglect a good adviser. MORAL Misses, the tale that I relate This lesson seems to carry: Choose not alone a proper mate, But proper time to marry. _William Cowper._ WHY Do you know why the rabbits are caught in the snare Or the tabby cat's shot on the tiles? Why the tigers and lions creep out of their lair? Why an ostrich will travel for miles? Do you know why a sane man will whimper and cry And weep o'er a ribbon or glove? Why a cook will put sugar for salt in a pie? Do you know? Well, I'll tell you--it's Love. _H. P. Stevens._ THE SABINE FARMER'S SERENADE I 'Twas on a windy night, At two o'clock in the morning, An Irish lad so tight, All wind and weather scorning, At Judy Callaghan's door. Sitting upon the palings, His love-tale he did pour, And this was part of his wailings:-- _Only say You'll be Mrs. Brallaghan; Don't say nay, Charming Judy Callaghan_. II Oh! list to what I say, Charms you've got like Venus; Own your love you may, There's but the wall between us. You lie fast asleep Snug in bed and snoring; Round the house I creep, Your hard heart imploring. _Only say You'll have Mr. Brallaghan; Don't say nay, Charming Judy Callaghan._ III I've got a pig and a sow, I've got a sty to sleep 'em A calf and a brindled cow, And a cabin too, to keep 'em; Sunday hat and coat, An old grey mare to ride on, Saddle and bridle to boot, Which you may ride astride on. _Only say You'll be Mrs. Brallaghan; Don't say nay, Charming Judy Callaghan._ IV I've got an acre of ground, I've got it set with praties; I've got of 'baccy a pound, I've got some tea for the ladies; I've got the ring to wed, Some whisky to make us gaily; I've got a feather bed And a handsome new shillelagh. _Only say You'll have Mr. Brallaghan; Don't say nay, Charming Judy Callaghan._ V You've got a charming eye, You've got some spelling and reading You've got, and so have I, A taste for genteel breeding; You're rich, and fair, and young, As everybody's knowing; You've got a decent tongue Whene'er 'tis set a-going. _Only say You'll be Mrs. Brallaghan; Don't say nay, Charming Judy Callaghan._ VI For a wife till death I am willing to take ye; But, och! I waste my breath, The devil himself can't wake ye. 'Tis just beginning to rain, So I'll get under cover; To-morrow I'll come again, And be your constant lover. _Only say You'll be Mrs. Brallaghan; Don't say nay, Charming Judy Callaghan._ _Father Prout._ I HAE LAID A HERRING IN SAUT I hae laid a herring in saut-- Lass, gin ye lo'e me, tell me now; I hae brew'd a forpit o' maut, And I canna come ilka day to woo: I hae a calf that will soon be a cow-- Lass, gin ye lo'e me, tell me now; I hae a stook, and I'll soon hae a mowe, And I canna come ilka day to woo: I hae a house upon yon moor-- Lass, gin ye lo'e me, tell me now; Three sparrows may dance upon the floor, And I canna come ilka day to woo: I hae a but, and I hae a ben-- Lass, gin ye lo'e me, tell me now; A penny to keep, and a penny to spen', And I canna come ilka day to woo: I hae a hen wi' a happitie leg-- Lass, gin ye lo'e me, tell me now; That ilka day lays me an egg, And I canna come ilka day to woo: I hae a cheese upon my skelf-- Lass, gin ye lo'e me, tell me now; And soon wi' mites 'twill rin itself, And I canna come ilka day to woo. _James Tytler._ THE CLOWN'S COURTSHIP Quoth John to Joan, will thou have me; I prithee now, wilt? and I'll marry thee, My cow, my calf, my house, my rents, And all my lands and tenements: Oh, say, my Joan, will not that do? I cannot come every day to woo. I've corn and hay in the barn hardby, And three fat hogs pent up in the sty, I have a mare and she is coal black, I ride on her tail to save my back. Then say, etc. I have a cheese upon the shelf, And I cannot eat it all myself; I've three good marks that lie in a rag, In a nook of the chimney, instead of a bag. Then say, etc. To marry I would have thy consent, But faith I never could compliment; I can say nought but "Hoy, gee ho!" Words that belong to the cart and the plough. So say, my Joan, will not that do, I cannot come every day to woo. _Unknown._ OUT UPON IT Out upon it, I have loved Three whole days together; And am like to love three more, If it prove fair weather. Time shall moult away his wings, Ere he shall discover In the whole wide world again Such a constant Lover. But the spite on't is, no praise Is due at all to me: Love with me had made no stays, Had it any been but she. Had it any been but she, And that very face, There had been at least ere this A dozen dozen in her place. _Sir John Suckling._ LOVE IS LIKE A DIZZINESS I lately lived in quiet case, An' ne'er wish'd to marry, O! But when I saw my Peggy's face, I felt a sad quandary, O! Though wild as ony Athol deer, She has trepann'd me fairly, O! Her cherry cheeks an' een sae clear Torment me late an' early O! O, love, love, love! Love is like a dizziness; It winna let a poor body Gang about his biziness! To tell my feats this single week Wad mak a daft-like diary, O! I drave my cart out ow'r a dike, My horses in a miry, O! I wear my stockings white an' blue, My love's sae fierce an' fiery, O! I drill the land that I should pleugh, An' pleugh the drills entirely, O! O, love, love, love! etc. Ae morning, by the dawn o' day, I rase to theek the stable, O! I keust my coat, and plied away As fast as I was able, O! I wrought that morning out an' out, As I'd been redding fire, O! When I had done an look'd about, Gudefaith, it was the byre, O! O, love, love, love! etc. Her wily glance I'll ne'er forget, The dear, the lovely blinkin o't Has pierced me through an' through the heart, An' plagues me wi' the prinking o't. I tried to sing, I tried to pray, I tried to drown't wi' drinkin' o't, I tried with sport to drive't away, But ne'er can sleep for thinkin' o't. O, love, love, love! etc. Nae man can tell what pains I prove, Or how severe my pliskie, O! I swear I'm sairer drunk wi' love Than ever I was wi' whiskey, O! For love has raked me fore an' aft, I scarce can lift a leggie, O! I first grew dizzy, then gaed daft, An' soon I'll dee for Peggy, O! O, love, love, love! Love is like a dizziness; It winna let a poor body Gang about his biziness! _James Hogg._ THE KITCHEN CLOCK Knitting is the maid o' the kitchen, Milly, Doing nothing sits the chore boy, Billy: "Seconds reckoned, Seconds reckoned; Every minute, Sixty in it. Milly, Billy, Billy, Milly, Tick-tock, tock-tick, Nick-knock, knock-nick, Knockety-nick, nickety-knock,"-- Goes the kitchen clock. Closer to the fire is rosy Milly, Every whit as close and cosy, Billy: "Time's a-flying, Worth your trying; Pretty Milly-- Kiss her, Billy! Milly, Billy, Billy, Milly, Tick-tock, tock-tick, Now--now, quick--quick! Knockety-nick, nickety-knock,"-- Goes the kitchen clock. Something's happened, very red is Milly, Billy boy is looking very silly; "Pretty misses, Plenty kisses; Make it twenty, Take a plenty. Billy, Milly, Milly, Billy, Right--left, left--right, That's right, all right, Knockety-nick, nickety-knock,"-- Goes the kitchen clock. Weeks gone, still they're sitting, Milly, Billy; O, the winter winds are wondrous chilly! "Winter weather, Close together; Wouldn't tarry, Better marry. Milly, Billy, Billy, Milly, Two--one, one--two, Don't wait, 'twon't do, Knockety-nick, nickety-knock,"-- Goes the kitchen clock. Winters two have gone, and where is Milly? Spring has come again, and where is Billy? "Give me credit, For I did it; Treat me kindly, Mind you wind me. Mister Billy, Mistress Milly, My--O, O--my, By-by, by-by, Nickety-knock, cradle rock,"-- Goes the kitchen clock. _John Vance Cheney._ LADY MINE Lady mine, most fair thou art With youth's gold and white and red; 'Tis a pity that thy heart Is so much harder than thy head. This has stayed my kisses oft, This from all thy charms debarr'd, That thy head is strangely soft, While thy heart is strangely hard. Nothing had kept us apart-- I had loved thee, I had wed-- Hadst thou had a softer heart Or a harder head. But I think I'll bear Love's smart Till the wound has healed and fled, Or thy head is like thy heart, Or thy heart is like thy head. _H. E. Clarke._ BALLADE OF THE GOLFER IN LOVE In the "foursome" some would fain Find nepenthe for their woe; Following through shine or rain Where the "greens" like satin show; But I vote such sport as "slow"-- Find it rather glum and gruesome; With a little maid I know I would play a quiet "twosome"! In the "threesome," some maintain, Lies excitement's gayest glow-- Strife that mounts unto the brain Like the sparkling _Veuve Clicquot_; My opinion? Nay, not so! Noon or eve or morning dewsome With a little maid I know I would play a quiet "twosome"! Bays of glory some would gain With grim "Bogey" for their foe; (He's a bogey who's not slain Save one smite with canny blow!) Yet I hold this tame, and though My refrain seems trite, 'tis truesome; With a little maid I know I would play a quiet "twosome"! |envoy| Comrades all who golfing go, Happiness--if you would view some-- With a little maid _you_ know, Haste and play a quiet "twosome"! _Clinton Scollard._ BALLADE OF FORGOTTEN LOVES Some poets sing of sweethearts dead, Some sing of true loves far away; Some sing of those that others wed, And some of idols turned to clay. I sing a pensive roundelay To sweethearts of a doubtful lot, The passions vanished in a day-- The little loves that I've forgot. For, as the happy years have sped, And golden dreams have changed to gray, How oft the flame of love was fed By glance, or smile, from Maud or May, When wayward Cupid was at play; Mere fancies, formed of who knows what, But still my debt I ne'er can pay-- The little loves that I've forgot. O joyous hours forever fled! O sudden hopes that would not stay! Held only by the slender thread Of memory that's all astray. Their very names I cannot say. Time's will is done, I know them not; But blessings on them all, I pray-- The little loves that I've forgot. |envoi| Sweetheart, why foolish fears betray? Ours is the one true lovers' knot; Note well the burden of my lay-- The little loves that I've forgot. _Arthur Grissom._ IV SATIRE A BALLADE OF SUICIDE The gallows in my garden, people say, Is new and neat and adequately tall. I tie the noose on in a knowing way As one that knots his necktie for a ball; But just as all the neighbours--on the wall-- Are drawing a long breath to shout "Hurray!" The strangest whim has seized me.... After all I think I will not hang myself to-day. To-morrow is the time I get my pay-- My uncle's sword is hanging in the hall-- I see a little cloud all pink and grey-- Perhaps the rector's mother will _not_ call-- I fancy that I heard from Mr. Gall That mushrooms could be cooked another way-- I never read the works of Juvenal-- I think I will not hang myself to-day. The world will have another washing day; The decadents decay; the pedants pall; And H. G. Wells has found that children play, And Bernard Shaw discovered that they squall; Rationalists are growing rational-- And through thick woods one finds a stream astray, So secret that the very sky seems small-- I think I will not hang myself to-day. |Envoi| Prince, I can hear the trump of Germinal, The tumbrils toiling up the terrible way; Even to-day your royal head may fall-- I think I will not hang myself to-day. _G. K. Chesterton._ FINNIGIN TO FLANNIGAN Superintendent wuz Flannigan; Boss av the siction wuz Finnigin; Whiniver the kyars got offen the thrack, An' muddled up things t' th' divil an' back, Finnigin writ it to Flannigan, Afther the wrick wuz all on ag'in; That is, this Finnigin Repoorted to Flannigan. Whin Finnigin furst writ to Flannigan, He writed tin pages--did Finnigin, An' he tould jist how the smash occurred; Full minny a tajus, blunderin' wurrd Did Finnigin write to Flannigan Afther the cars had gone on ag'in. That wuz how Finnigin Repoorted to Flannigan. Now Flannigan knowed more than Finnigin-- He'd more idjucation, had Flannigan; An' it wore'm clane an' completely out To tell what Finnigin writ about In his writin' to Muster Flannigan. So he writed back to Finnigin: "Don't do sich a sin ag'in; Make 'em brief, Finnigin!" Whin Finnigin got this from Flannigan, He blushed rosy rid, did Finnigin; An' he said: "I'll gamble a whole month's pa-ay That it will be minny an' minny a da-ay Befoore Sup'rintindint--that's Flannigan-- Gits a whack at this very same sin ag'in. From Finnigin to Flannigan Repoorts won't be long ag'in." * * * * * Wan da-ay, on the siction av Finnigin, On the road sup'rintinded by Flannigan, A rail give way on a bit av a curve, An' some kyars went off as they made the swerve. "There's nobody hurted," sez Finnigin, "But repoorts must be made to Flannigan." An' he winked at McGorrigan, As married a Finnigin. He wuz shantyin' thin, wuz Finnigin, As minny a railroader's been ag'in, An' the shmoky ol' lamp wuz burnin' bright In Finnigin's shanty all that night-- Bilin' down his repoort, was Finnigin! An' he writed this here: "Muster Flannigan: Off ag'in, on ag'in, Gone ag'in--Finnigin." _S. W. Gillinan._ STUDY OF AN ELEVATION, IN INDIAN INK Potiphar Gubbins, C. E., Stands at the top of the tree; And I muse in my bed on the reasons that led To the hoisting of Potiphar G. Potiphar Gubbins, C. E., Is seven years junior to Me; Each bridge that he makes either buckles or breaks, And his work is as rough as he. Potiphar Gubbins, C. E., Is coarse as a chimpanzee; And I can't understand why you gave him your hand, Lovely Mehitabel Lee. Potiphar Gubbins, C. E., Is dear to the Powers that Be; For they bow and They smile in an affable style Which is seldom accorded to Me. Potiphar Gubbins, C. E., Is certain as certain can be Of a highly paid post which is claimed by a host Of seniors--including Me. Careless and lazy is he, Greatly inferior to Me. What is the spell that you manage so well, Commonplace Potiphar G.? Lovely Mehitabel Lee, Let me inquire of thee, Should I have riz to what Potiphar is, Hadst thou been mated to Me? _Rudyard Kipling._ THE V-A-S-E From the madding crowd they stand apart, The maidens four and the Work of Art; And none might tell from sight alone In which had culture ripest grown,-- The Gotham Million fair to see, The Philadelphia Pedigree, The Boston Mind of azure hue, Or the soulful Soul from Kalamazoo, For all loved Art in a seemly way, With an earnest soul and a capital A. * * * * * Long they worshiped; but no one broke The sacred stillness, until up spoke The Western one from the nameless place, Who blushing said, "What a lovely vace!" Over three faces a sad smile flew, And they edged away from Kalamazoo. But Gotham's haughty soul was stirred To crush the stranger with one small word. Deftly hiding reproof in praise, She cries, "'Tis, indeed, a lovely vaze!" But brief her unworthy triumph when The lofty one from the house of Penn, With the consciousness of two grandpapas, Exclaims, "It is quite a lovely vahs!" And glances round with an anxious thrill, Awaiting the word of Beacon Hill. But the Boston maid smiles courteouslee, And gently murmurs, "Oh, pardon me! "I did not catch your remark, because I was so entranced with that lovely vaws!" _Dies erit praegelida Sinistra quum Bostonia._ _James Jeffrey Roche._ MINIVER CHEEVY Miniver Cheevy, child of scorn, Grew lean while he assailed the seasons; He wept that he was ever born, And he had reasons. Miniver loved the days of old When swords were bright and steeds were prancing; The vision of a warrior bold Would set him dancing. Miniver sighed for what was not, And dreamed and rested from his labors; He dreamed of Thebes and Camelot And Priam's neighbors. Miniver mourned the ripe renown That made so many a name so fragrant; He mourned Romance, now on the town, And Art, a vagrant. Miniver loved the Medici, Albeit he had never seen one; He would have sinned incessantly Could he have been one. Miniver cursed the commonplace, And eyed a khaki suit with loathing; He missed the mediæval grace Of iron clothing. Miniver scorned the gold he sought, But sore annoyed he was without it; Miniver thought and thought and thought And thought about it. Miniver Cheevy, born too late, Scratched his head and kept on thinking; Miniver coughed, and called it fate, And kept on drinking. _Edwin Arlington Robinson._ THE RECRUIT Sez Corporal Madden to Private McFadden: "Bedad, yer a bad un! Now turn out yer toes! Yer belt is unhookit, Yer cap is on crookit, Ye may not be dhrunk, But, be jabers, ye look it! Wan--two! Wan--two! Ye monkey-faced divil, I'll jolly ye through! Wan--two!-- Time! Mark! Ye march like the aigle in Cintheral Parrk!" Sez Corporal Madden to Private McFadden: "A saint it ud sadden To dhrill such a mug! Eyes front!--ye baboon, ye!-- Chin up!--ye gossoon, ye! Ye've jaws like a goat-- Halt! ye leather-lipped loon, ye! Wan--two! Wan--two! Ye whiskered orang-outang, I'll fix you! Wan--two!-- Time! Mark! Ye've eyes like a bat!--can ye see in the dark?" Sez Corporal Madden to Private McFadden: "Yer figger wants padd'n'-- Sure, man, ye've no shape! Behind ye yer shoulders Stick out like two boulders; Yer shins is as thin As a pair of pen-holders! Wan--two! Wan--two! Yer belly belongs on yer back, ye Jew! Wan--two!-- Time! Mark! I'm dhry as a dog--I can't shpake but I bark!" Sez Corporal Madden to Private McFadden: "Me heart it ud gladden To blacken your eye. Ye're gettin' too bold, ye Compel me to scold ye,-- Tis halt! that I say,-- Will ye heed what I told ye? Wan--two! Wan--two! Be jabers, I'm dhryer than Brian Boru! Wan--two!-- Time! Mark! What's wur-ruk for chickens is sport for the lark!" Sez Corporal Madden to Private McFadden: "I'll not stay a gaddin', Wid dagoes like you! I'll travel no farther, I'm dyin' for--wather;-- Come on, if ye like,-- Can ye loan me a quather? Ya-as, you-- What,--two? And ye'll pay the potheen? Ye're a daisy! Whurroo! You'll do! Whist! Mark! The Rigiment's flattered to own ye, me spark!" _Robert W. Chambers._ OFFICER BRADY THE MODERN RECRUIT I Sez Alderman Grady To Officer Brady: "G'wan! Ye're no lady! Luk here what ye've done: Ye've run in Red Hogan, Ye've pulled Paddy Grogan, Ye've fanned Misther Brogan An' called him a 'gun'! "Way up in Tammany Hall They's a gintleman layin' f'r you! 'An' what,' sez he, 't' 'ell,' sez he, 'Does the villyun mane to do? Lock up the ass in his shtall! He'll rue the day I rue, F'r he's pulled the dive that kapes me alive, An' he'll go to the goats! Whurroo!'" II Sez Alderman Grady To Officer Brady: "Ye pinched young Mullady F'r crackin' a safe! An' Sinitor Moran An' Alderman Doran Is inside, a-roarin' F'r justice, ye thafe! "'Way up in Tammany Hall They's a gintleman layin' f'r you! 'What's this,' sez he, 'I hear?' sez he-- An' the air, bedad, grew blue! 'Well, I nivver did hear av such gall! But if phwat ye say is thrue, He's pulled a fri'nd av a fri'nd av me fri'nd, An' he'll go to the goats! Whurroo!" III Sez Alderman Grady To Officer Brady: "Here's Sullivan's lady Cavoortin' an' riled; She lifted a locket From Casey's coat pocket, An' it goes to the docket, An' Sullivan's wild! "'Way up in Tammany Hall They's a gintleman layin' f'r you! ''Tis a shame,' sez he, 'f'r to blame,' sez he, 'A lady so fair an' thrue, An' so divinely tall'-- 'Tis po'ms he talked, ye Jew! An' ye've cooked yer goose, an' now ye're loose F'r to folly the goats! Whurroo!" IV Sez Alderman Grady To Officer Brady: "Where's Katie Macready, The Confidence Queen? She's niece to O'Lafferty's Cousins, the Caffertys-- Sinitor Rafferty's Steady colleen! "'Way up in Tammany Hall They's a gintleman layin' f'r you! 'He's pinched,' sez he, 'an' cinched,' sez he, 'A lady tray comme eel foo! Go dangle th' tillyphone call, An' gimme La Mulberry Roo, F'r the town is too warrm f'r this gendarme, An' he'll go to the goats, mon Dieu!'" V Sez Alderman Grady To Officer Brady: "McCabe is afraid he Can't open to-night, F'r throuble's a-brewin', An' mischief's a-stewin', Wid nothin' a-doin' An' everything tight! There's Register Ronnell, Commissioner Donnell, An' Congressman Connell Preparin' f'r flight; The Dhistrict Attorney Told Magistrate Kearny That Captain McBurney Was dyin' o' fright! "Oh! 'Way up in Tammany Hall They's a gintleman lookin' f'r you! 'Bedad,' sez he, 'he's mad,' sez he. 'So turrn on the screw f'r Bellevue, An' chain 'im ag'in' the wall, An' lather 'im wan or two, An' tether 'im out on the Bloomin'dale route Like a loonytick goat! Whurroo!'" _Robert W. Chambers._ POST-IMPRESSIONISM I cannot tell you how I love The canvases of Mr. Dove, Which Saturday I went to see In Mr. Thurber's gallery. At first you fancy they are built As patterns for a crazy quilt, But soon you see that they express An ambient simultaneousness. This thing which you would almost bet Portrays a Spanish omelette, Depicts instead, with wondrous skill, A horse and cart upon a hill. Now, Mr. Dove has too much art To show the horse or show the cart; Instead, he paints the _creak_ and _strain_, Get it? No pike is half as plain. This thing which would appear to show A fancy vest scenario, Is really quite another thing, A flock of pigeons on the wing. But Mr. Dove is much too keen To let a single bird be seen; To show the pigeons would not do And so he simply paints the _coo_. It's all as simple as can be; He paints the things you cannot see, Just as composers please the ear With "programme" things you cannot hear. Dove is the cleverest of chaps; And, gazing at his rhythmic maps, I wondered (and I'm wondering yet) Whether he did them on a bet. _Bert Leston Taylor._ TO THE PORTRAIT OF "A GENTLEMAN," IN THE ATHENÆUM GALLERY It may be so--perhaps thou hast A warm and loving heart; I will not blame thee for thy face, Poor devil as thou art. That thing, thou fondly deem'st a nose, Unsightly though it be,-- In spite of all the cold world's scorn, It may be much to thee. Those eyes,--among thine elder friends Perhaps they pass for blue;-- No matter,--if a man can see, What more have eyes to do? Thy mouth--that fissure in thy face By something like a chin,-- May be a very useful place To put thy victual in. I know thou hast a wife at home, I know thou hast a child, By that subdued, domestic smile Upon thy features mild. That wife sits fearless by thy side, That cherub on thy knee; They do not shudder at thy looks, They do not shrink from thee. Above thy mantel is a hook,-- A portrait once was there; It was thine only ornament,-- Alas! that hook is bare. She begged thee not to let it go, She begged thee all in vain: She wept,--and breathed a trembling prayer To meet it safe again. It was a bitter sight to see That picture torn away; It was a solemn thought to think What all her friends would say! And often in her calmer hours, And in her happy dreams, Upon its long-deserted hook The absent portrait seems. Thy wretched infant turns his head In melancholy wise, And looks to meet the placid stare Of those unbending eyes. I never saw thee, lovely one,-- Perchance I never may; It is not often that we cross Such people in our way; But if we meet in distant years, Or on some foreign shore, Sure I can take my Bible oath I've seen that face before. _Oliver Wendell Holmes._ CACOËTHES SCRIBENDI If all the trees in all the woods were men, And each and every blade of grass a pen; If every leaf on every shrub and tree Turned to a sheet of foolscap; every sea Were changed to ink, and all earth's living tribes Had nothing else to do but act as scribes, And for ten thousand ages, day and night, The human race should write, and write, and write, Till all the pens and paper were used up, And the huge inkstand was an empty cup, Still would the scribblers clustered round its brink Call for more pens, more paper, and more ink. _Oliver Wendell Holmes._ CONTENTMENT "MAN WANTS BUT LITTLE HERE BELOW" Little I ask; my wants are few; I only wish a hut of stone (A very plain brone stone will do) That I may call my own; And close at hand is such a one, In yonder street that fronts the sun. Plain food is quite enough for me; Three courses are as good as ten; If Nature can subsist on three, Thank Heaven for three--Amen! I always thought cold victual nice-- My choice would be vanilla-ice. I care not much for gold or land; Give me a mortgage here and there, Some good bank-stock, some note of hand, Or trifling railroad share. I only ask that Fortune send A little more than I shall spend. Jewels are baubles; 'tis a sin To care for such unfruitful things; One good-sized diamond in a pin, Some, _not so large_, in rings. A ruby, and a pearl, or so, Will do for me--I laugh at show. My dame should dress in cheap attire (Good, heavy silks are never dear); I own perhaps I _might_ desire Some shawls of true Cashmere-- Some marrowy crapes of China silk, Like wrinkled skins on scalded milk. I would not have the horse I drive So fast that folks must stop and stare; An easy gait--two, forty-five-- Suits me; I do not care; Perhaps, for just a _single spurt_, Some seconds less would do no hurt. Of pictures, I should like to own Titians and Raphaels three or four-- I love so much their style and tone-- One Turner, and no more. (A landscape, foreground golden dirt, The sunshine painted with a squirt). Of books but few--some fifty score For daily use, and bound for wear; The rest upon an upper floor; Some _little_ luxury _there_ Of red morocco's gilded gleam, And vellum rich as country cream. Busts, cameos, gems--such things as these, Which others often show for pride, _I_ value for their power to please, And selfish churls deride; _One_ Stradivarius, I confess, _Two_ Meerschaums, I would fain possess. Wealth's wasteful tricks I will not learn, Nor ape the glittering upstart fool; Shall not carved tables serve my turn, But _all_ must be of buhl? Give grasping pomp its double share-- I ask but _one_ recumbent chair. Thus humble let me live and die, Nor long for Midas' golden touch; If Heaven more generous gifts deny, I shall not miss them _much_-- Too grateful for the blessing lent Of simple tastes and mind content! _Oliver Wendell Holmes._ A BOSTON LULLABY Baby's brain is tired of thinking On the Wherefore and the Whence; Baby's precious eyes are blinking With incipient somnolence. Little hands are weary turning Heavy leaves of lexicon; Little nose is fretted learning How to keep its glasses on. Baby knows the laws of nature Are beneficent and wise; His medulla oblongata Bids my darling close his eyes. And his pneumogastrics tell him Quietude is always best When his little cerebellum Needs recuperative rest. Baby must have relaxation, Let the world go wrong or right. Sleep, my darling--leave Creation To its chances for the night. _James Jeffrey Roche._ A GRAIN OF SALT Of all the wimming doubly blest The sailor's wife's the happiest, For all she does is stay to home And knit and darn--and let 'im roam. Of all the husbands on the earth The sailor has the finest berth, For in 'is cabin he can sit And sail and sail--and let 'er knit. _Wallace Irwin._ SONG Why should you swear I am forsworn, Since thine I vowed to be? Lady, it is already morn, And 'twas last night I swore to thee That fond impossibility. Have I not loved thee much and long, A tedious twelve hours' space? I must all other beauties wrong, And rob thee of a new embrace, Could I still dote upon thy face. Not but all joy in thy brown hair By others may be found; But I must search the black and fair, Like skilful mineralists that sound For treasure in unploughed-up ground. Then, if when I have loved my round, Thou prov'st the pleasant she; With spoils of meaner beauties crowned I laden will return to thee, Even sated with variety. _Richard Lovelace._ A PHILOSOPHER Zack Bumstead useter flosserfize About the ocean an' the skies; An' gab an' gas f'um morn till noon About the other side the moon; An' 'bout the natur of the place Ten miles beyend the end of space. An' if his wife she'd ask the crank Ef he wouldn't kinder try to yank Hisself out-doors an' git some wood To make her kitchen fire good, So she c'd bake her beans an' pies, He'd say, "I've gotter flosserfize." An' then he'd set an' flosserfize About the natur an' the size Of angels' wings, an' think, and gawp, An' wonder how they make 'em flop. He'd calkerlate how long a skid 'Twould take to move the sun, he did; An' if the skid was strong an' prime, It couldn't be moved to supper-time. An' w'en his wife 'd ask the lout Ef he wouldn't kinder waltz about An' take a rag an' shoo the flies, He'd say, "I've gotter flosserfize." An' then he'd set an' flosserfize 'Bout schemes for fencing in the skies, Then lettin' out the lots to rent, So's he could make an honest cent. An' if he'd find it pooty tough To borry cash fer fencin'-stuff; An' if 'twere best to take his wealth An' go to Europe for his health, Or save his cash till he'd enough To buy some more of fencin'-stuff; Then, ef his wife she'd ask the gump Ef he wouldn't kinder try to hump Hisself to t'other side the door, So she c'd come an' sweep the floor, He'd look at her with mournful eyes, An' say, "I've gotter flosserfize." An' so he'd set an' flosserfize 'Bout what it wuz held up the skies, An' how God made this earthly ball Jest simply out er nawthin' 'tall, An' 'bout the natur, shape, an' form Of nawthin' that he made it from. Then, ef his wife sh'd ask the freak Ef he wouldn't kinder try to sneak Out to the barn an' find some aigs, He'd never move, nor lift his laigs; He'd never stir, nor try to rise, But say, "I've gotter flosserfize." An' so he'd set an' flosserfize About the earth, an' sea, an' skies, An' scratch his head, an' ask the cause Of w'at there wuz before time wuz, An' w'at the universe 'd do Bimeby w'en time hed all got through; An' jest how fur we'd have to climb Ef we sh'd travel out er time; An' ef we'd need, w'en we got there, To keep our watches in repair. Then, ef his wife she'd ask the gawk Ef he wouldn't kinder try to walk To where she had the table spread, An' kinder git his stomach fed, He'd leap for that ar kitchen door, An' say, "W'y didn't you speak afore?" An' when he'd got his supper et, He'd set, an' set, an' set, an' set, An' fold his arms, an' shet his eyes, An' set, an' set, an' flosserfize. _Sam Walter Foss._ THE MEETING OF THE CLABBERHUSES I He was the Chairman of the Guild Of Early Pleiocene Patriarchs; He was chief Mentor of the Lodge Of the Oracular Oligarchs; He was the Lord High Autocrat And Vizier of the Sons of Light, And Sultan and Grand Mandarin Of the Millennial Men of Might. He was Grand Totem and High Priest Of the Independent Potentates; Grand Mogul of the Galaxy Of the Illustrious Stay-out-lates; The President of the Dandydudes, The Treasurer of the Sons of Glee; The Leader of the Clubtown Band And Architects of Melody. II She was Grand Worthy Prophetess Of the Illustrious Maids of Mark; Of Vestals of the Third Degree She was Most Potent Matriarch; She was High Priestess of the Shrine Of Clubtown's Culture Coterie, And First Vice-President of the League Of the illustrious G. A. B. She was the First Dame of the Club For teaching Patagonians Greek; She was Chief Clerk and Auditor Of Clubtown's Anti-Bachelor Clique; She was High Treasurer of the Fund For Borrioboolighalians, And the Fund for Sending Browning's Poems To Native-born Australians. III Once to a crowded social fête Both these much-titled people came, And each perceived, when introduced, They had the selfsame name. Their hostess said, when first they met: "Permit me now to introduce My good friend Mr. Clabberhuse To Mrs. Clabberhuse." "'Tis very strange," said she to him, "Such an unusual name!-- A name so very seldom heard, That we should bear the same." "Indeed, 'tis wonderful," said he, "And I'm surprised the more, Because I never heard the name Outside my home before. "But now I come to look at you," Said he, "upon my life, If I am not indeed deceived, You are--you are--my wife." She gazed into his searching face And seemed to look him through; "Indeed," said she, "it seems to me You are my husband, too. "I've been so busy with my clubs And in my various spheres I have not seen you now," she said, "For over fourteen years." "That's just the way it's been with me, These clubs demand a sight"-- And then they both politely bowed, And sweetly said "Good night." _Sam Walter Foss._ THE IDEAL HUSBAND TO HIS WIFE We've lived for forty years, dear wife, And walked together side by side, And you to-day are just as dear As when you were my bride. I've tried to make life glad for you, One long, sweet honeymoon of joy, A dream of marital content, Without the least alloy. I've smoothed all boulders from our path, That we in peace might toil along, By always hastening to admit That I was right and you were wrong. No mad diversity of creed Has ever sundered me from thee; For I permit you evermore To borrow your ideas of me. And thus it is, through weal or woe, Our love forevermore endures; For I permit that you should take My views and creeds, and make them yours. And thus I let you have my way, And thus in peace we toil along, For I am willing to admit That I am right and you are wrong. And when our matrimonial skiff Strikes snags in love's meandering stream, I lift our shallop from the rocks, And float as in a placid dream. And well I know our marriage bliss While life shall last will never cease; For I shall always let thee do, In generous love, just what I please. Peace comes, and discord flies away, Love's bright day follows hatred's night; For I am ready to admit That you are wrong and I am right. _Sam Walter Foss._ DISTICHS Wisely a woman prefers to a lover a man who neglects her. This one may love her some day; some day the lover will not. There are three species of creatures who when they seem coming are going, When they seem going they come: Diplomats, women, and crabs. As the meek beasts in the Garden came flocking for Adam to name them, Men for a title to-day crawl to the feet of a king. What is a first love worth except to prepare for a second? What does the second love bring? Only regret for the first. _John Hay._ THE HEN-ROOST MAN De Hen-roost Man he'll preach about Paul, An' James an' John, an' Herod, an' all, But nuver a word about Peter, oh, no! He's afeard he'll hear dat rooster crow. An' he ain't by 'isself in dat, in dat-- An' he ain't by 'isself in dat. _Ruth McEnery Stuart._ IF THEY MEANT ALL THEY SAID Charm is a woman's strongest arm; My charwoman is full of charm; I chose her, not for strength of arm But for her strange, elusive charm. And how tears heighten woman's powers! My typist weeps for hours and hours: I took her for her weeping powers-- They so delight my business hours. A woman lives by intuition. Though my accountant shuns addition She has the rarest intuition. (And I myself can do addition.) Timidity in girls is nice. My cook is so afraid of mice. Now you'll admit it's very nice To feel your cook's afraid of mice. _Alice Duer Miller._ THE MAN A man said to the universe, "Sir, I exist!" "However," replied the universe, "The fact has not created in me A sense of obligation." _Stephen Crane._ A THOUGHT If all the harm that women have done Were put in a bundle and rolled into one, Earth would not hold it, The sky could not enfold it, It could not be lighted nor warmed by the sun; Such masses of evil Would puzzle the devil, And keep him in fuel while Time's wheels run. But if all the harm that's been done by men Were doubled, and doubled, and doubled again, And melted and fused into vapour, and then Were squared and raised to the power of ten, There wouldn't be nearly enough, not near, To keep a small girl for the tenth of a year. _James Kenneth Stephen._ THE MUSICAL ASS The fable which I now present, Occurred to me by accident: And whether bad or excellent, Is merely so by accident. A stupid ass this morning went Into a field by accident: And cropped his food, and was content, Until he spied by accident A flute, which some oblivious gent Had left behind by accident; When, sniffling it with eager scent, He breathed on it by accident, And made the hollow instrument Emit a sound by accident. "Hurrah, hurrah!" exclaimed the brute, "How cleverly I play the flute!" A fool, in spite of nature's bent, May shine for once,--by accident. _Tomaso de Yriarte._ THE KNIFE-GRINDER _Friend of Humanity_ "Needy Knife-grinder! whither are you going? Rough is the road--your wheel is out of order-- Bleak blows the blast; your hat has got a hole in't, So have your breeches! "Weary Knife-grinder! little think the proud ones, Who in their coaches roll along the turnpike- Road, what hard work 'tis crying all day' Knives and Scissors to grind O!' "Tell me, Knife-grinder, how you came to grind knives? Did some rich man tyrannically use you? Was it the squire? or parson of the parish? Or the attorney? "Was it the squire, for killing of his game? or Covetous parson, for his tithes distraining? Or roguish lawyer, made you lose your little All in a law-suit? "(Have you not read the Rights of Man, by Tom Paine?) Drops of compassion tremble on my eyelids, Ready to fall, as soon as you have told your Pitiful story." _Knife-grinder_ "Story! God bless you! I have none to tell, sir, Only last night, a-drinking at the Chequers, This poor old hat and breeches, as you see, were Tom in a scuffle. "Constables came up for to take me into Custody; they took me before the justice; Justice Oldmixon put me in the parish- Stocks for a vagrant. "I should be glad to drink your Honour's health in A pot of beer, if you will give me sixpence; But for my part, I never love to meddle With politics, sir." _Friend of Humanity_ "_I_ give thee sixpence! I will see thee damn'd first-- Wretch! whom no sense of wrongs can rouse to vengeance-- Sordid, unfeeling, reprobate, degraded, Spiritless outcast!" [_Kicks the Knife-grinder, overturns his wheel, and exit in a transport of Republican enthusiasm and universal philanthropy._] _George Canning._ ST. ANTHONY'S SERMON TO THE FISHES Saint Anthony at church Was left in the lurch, So he went to the ditches And preached to the fishes. They wriggled their tails, In the sun glanced their scales. The carps, with their spawn, Are all thither drawn; Have opened their jaws, Eager for each clause. No sermon beside Had the carps so edified. Sharp-snouted pikes, Who keep fighting like tikes, Now swam up harmonious To hear Saint Antonius. No sermon beside Had the pikes so edified. And that very odd fish, Who loves fast-days, the cod-fish,-- The stock-fish, I mean-- At the sermon was seen. No sermon beside Had the cods so edified. Good eels and sturgeon, Which aldermen gorge on, Went out of their way To hear preaching that day. No sermon beside Had the eels so edified. Crabs and turtles also, Who always move low, Made haste from the bottom As if the devil had got 'em. No sermon beside The crabs so edified. Fish great and fish small, Lords, lackeys, and all, Each looked at the preacher Like a reasonable creature. At God's word, They Anthony heard. The sermon now ended, Each turned and descended; The pikes went on stealing, The eels went on eeling. Much delighted were they, But preferred the old way. The crabs are backsliders, The stock-fish thick-siders, The carps are sharp-set-- All the sermon forget. Much delighted were they, But preferred the old way. _Abraham á Sancta-Clara._ THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM It was a summer's evening; Old Casper's work was done, And he before his cottage-door Was sitting in the sun; And by him sported on the green His little grandchild Wilhelmine. She saw her brother Peterkin Roll something large and round, That he beside the rivulet In playing there had found. He came to ask what he had found, That was so large, and smooth, and round. Old Casper took it from the boy, Who stood expectant by; And then the old man shook his head, And with a natural sigh, "'Tis some poor fellow's skull," said he, "Who fell in the great victory. "I find them in the garden, for There's many here about; And often, when I go to plough, The ploughshare turns them out; For many thousand men," said he, "Were slain in the great victory." "Now tell us what 'twas all about," Young Peterkin he cries; And little Wilhelmine looks up, With wonder-waiting eyes: "Now tell us all about the war, And what they kill'd each other for." "It was the English," Casper cried, "That put the French to rout; But what they kill'd each other for, I could not well make out; But everybody said," quoth he, "That 'twas a famous victory. "My father lived at Blenheim then, Yon little stream hard by; They burnt his dwelling to the ground, And he was forced to fly; So with his wife and child he fled, Nor had he where to rest his head. "With fire and sword the country round, Was wasted far and wide, And many a childing mother then And new-born infant died. But things like that, you know, must be At every famous victory. "They say it was a shocking sight, After the field was won, For many a thousand bodies here Lay rotting in the sun. But things like that, you know, must be After a famous victory. "Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won, And our good Prince Eugene." "Why, 'twas a very wicked thing!" Said little Wilhelmine. "Nay, nay, my little girl," quoth he, "It was a famous victory; "And everybody praised the duke, Who such a fight did win." "But what good came of it at last?" Quoth little Peterkin. "Why, that I cannot tell," said he; "But 'twas a famous victory." _Robert Southey._ THE THREE BLACK CROWS Two honest tradesmen meeting in the Strand, One took the other briskly by the hand; "Hark-ye," said he, "'tis an odd story, this, About the crows!" "I don't know what it is," Replied his friend. "No! I'm surprised at that; Where I came from it is the common chat; But you shall hear--an odd affair indeed! And that it happened, they are all agreed. Not to detain you from a thing so strange, A gentleman, that lives not far from 'Change, This week, in short, as all the alley knows, Taking a puke, has thrown up three black crows." "Impossible!" "Nay, but it's really true; I have it from good hands, and so may you." "From whose, I pray?" So, having named the man, Straight to inquire his curious comrade ran. "Sir, did you tell"--relating the affair. "Yes, sir, I did; and, if it's worth your care, Ask Mr. Such-a-one, he told it me. But, by the bye, 'twas two black crows--not three." Resolved to trace so wondrous an event, Whip, to the third, the virtuoso went; "Sir"--and so forth. "Why, yes; the thing is fact, Though, in regard to number, not exact; It was not two black crows--'twas only one; The truth of that you may depend upon; The gentleman himself told me the case." "Where may I find him?" "Why, in such a place." Away goes he, and, having found him out, "Sir, be so good as to resolve a doubt." Then to his last informant he referred, And begged to know if true what he had heard. "Did you, sir, throw up a black crow?" "Not I." "Bless me! how people propagate a lie! Black crows have been thrown up, three, two, and one; And here, I find, all comes, at last, to none. Did you say nothing of a crow at all?" "Crow--crow--perhaps I might, now I recall The matter over." "And pray, sir, what was't?" "Why, I was horrid sick, and, at the last, I did throw up, and told my neighbor so, Something that was--as black, sir, as a crow." _John Byrom._ TO THE TERRESTRIAL GLOBE BY A MISERABLE WRETCH Roll on, thou ball, roll on! Through pathless realms of space Roll on! What though I'm in a sorry case? What though I cannot meet my bills? What though I suffer toothache's ills? What though I swallow countless pills? Never _you_ mind! Roll on! Roll on, thou ball, roll on! Through seas of inky air Roll on! It's true I've got no shirts to wear; It's true my butcher's bill is due; It's true my prospects all look blue; But don't let that unsettle you. Never _you_ mind! Roll on! (_It rolls on._) _W. S. Gilbert._ ETIQUETTE The _Ballyshannon_ foundered off the coast of Cariboo, And down in fathoms many went the captain and the crew; Down went the owners--greedy men whom hope of gain allured: Oh, dry the starting tear, for they were heavily insured. Besides the captain and the mate, the owners and the crew, The passengers were also drowned excepting only two: Young Peter Gray, who tasted teas for Baker, Croop, and Co., And Somers, who from Eastern shores imported indigo. These passengers, by reason of their clinging to a mast, Upon a desert island were eventually cast. They hunted for their meals, as Alexander Selkirk used, But they couldn't chat together--they had not been introduced. For Peter Gray, and Somers, too, though certainly in trade, Were properly particular about the friends they made; And somehow thus they settled it, without a word of mouth, That Gray should take the northern half, while Somers took the south. On Peter's portion oysters grew--a delicacy rare, But oysters were a delicacy Peter couldn't bear. On Somer's side was turtle, on the shingle lying thick, Which Somers couldn't eat, because it always made him sick. Gray gnashed his teeth with envy as he saw a mighty store Of turtle unmolested on his fellow-creature's shore. The oysters at his feet aside impatiently he shoved, For turtle and his mother were the only things he loved. And Somers sighed in sorrow as he settled in the south, For the thought of Peter's oysters brought the water to his mouth. He longed to lay him down upon the shelly bed, and stuff: He had often eaten oysters, but had never had enough. How they wished an introduction to each other they had had When on board the _Ballyshannon_! And it drove them nearly mad To think how very friendly with each other they might get, If it wasn't for the arbitrary rule of etiquette! One day, when out a-hunting for the _mus ridiculus_, Gray overheard his fellow-man soliloquising thus: "I wonder how the playmates of my youth are getting on, M'Connell, S. B. Walters, Paddy Byles, and Robinson?" These simple words made Peter as delighted as could be; Old chummies at the Charterhouse were Robinson and he. He walked straight up to Somers, then he turned extremely red, Hesitated, hummed and hawed a bit, then cleared his throat, and said: "I beg your pardon--pray forgive me if I seem too bold, But you have breathed a name I knew familiarly of old. You spoke aloud of Robinson--I happened to be by. You know him?" "Yes, extremely well." "Allow me, so do I." It was enough: they felt they could more pleasantly get on, For (ah, the magic of the fact!) they each knew Robinson! And Mr. Somers' turtle was at Peter's service quite, And Mr. Somers punished Peter's oyster-beds all night. They soon became like brothers from community of wrongs; They wrote each other little odes and sang each other songs; They told each other anecdotes disparaging their wives; On several occasions, too, they saved each other's lives. They felt quite melancholy when they parted for the night, And got up in the morning soon as ever it was light; Each other's pleasant company they reckoned so upon, And all because it happened that they both knew Robinson! They lived for many years on that inhospitable shore, And day by day they learned to love each other more and more. At last, to their astonishment, on getting up one day, They saw a frigate anchored in the offing of the bay. To Peter an idea occurred. "Suppose we cross the main? So good an opportunity may not be found again." And Somers thought a minute, then ejaculated, "Done! I wonder how my business in the City's getting on?" "But stay," said Mr. Peter; "when in England, as you know, I earned a living tasting teas for Baker, Croop, and Co., I may be superseded--my employers think me dead!" "Then come with me," said Somers, "and taste indigo instead." But all their plans were scattered in a moment when they found The vessel was a convict ship from Portland outward bound; When a boat came off to fetch them, though they felt it very kind, To go on board they firmly but respectfully declined. As both the happy settlers roared with laughter at the joke, They recognized a gentlemanly fellow pulling stroke: 'Twas Robinson--a convict, in an unbecoming frock! Condemned to seven years for misappropriating stock!!! They laughed no more, for Somers thought he had been rather rash In knowing one whose friend had misappropriated cash; And Peter thought a foolish tack he must have gone upon In making the acquaintance of a friend of Robinson. At first they didn't quarrel very openly, I've heard; They nodded when they met, and now and then exchanged a word: The word grew rare, and rarer still the nodding of the head. And when they meet each other now, they cut each other dead. To allocate the island they agreed by word of mouth, And Peter takes the north again, and Somers takes the south; And Peter has the oysters, which he hates, in layers thick, And Somers has the turtle--turtle always makes him sick. _W. S. Gilbert._ A MODEST WIT A supercilious nabob of the East-- Haughty, being great--purse-proud, being rich-- A governor, or general, at the least, I have forgotten which-- Had in his family a humble youth, Who went from England in his patron's suite, An unassuming boy, in truth A lad of decent parts, and good repute. This youth had sense and spirit; But yet with all his sense, Excessive diffidence Obscured his merit. One day, at table, flushed with pride and wine, His honor, proudly free, severely merry, Conceived it would be vastly fine To crack a joke upon his secretary. "Young man," he said, "by what art, craft, or trade Did your good father gain a livelihood?" "He was a saddler, sir," Modestus said, "And in his time was reckoned good." "A saddler, eh? and taught you Greek, Instead of teaching you to sew! Pray, why did not your father make A saddler, sir, of you?" Each parasite, then, as in duty bound, The joke applauded, and the laugh went round. At length Modestus, bowing low, Said (craving pardon, if too free he made), "Sir, by your leave, I fain would know Your father's trade!" "My father's trade! by Heaven, that's too bad! My father's trade? Why, blockhead, are you mad? My father, sir, did never stoop so low-- He was a gentleman, I'd have you know." "Excuse the liberty I take," Modestus said, with archness on his brow, "Pray, why did not your father make A gentleman of you?" _Selleck Osborn._ THE LATEST DECALOGUE Thou shalt have one God only, who Would be at the expense of two? No graven images may be Worshipped, except the currency: Swear not at all; for, for thy curse Thine enemy is none the worse: At Church on Sunday to attend Will serve to keep the world thy friend: Honour thy parents; that is, all From whom advancement may befall: Thou shalt not kill; but need'st not strive Officiously to keep alive: Do not adultery commit; Advantage rarely comes of it: Thou shalt not steal; an empty feat, When it's so lucrative to cheat: Bear not false witness; let the lie Have time on its own wings to fly: Thou shalt not covet, but tradition Approves all forms of competition. _Arthur Hugh Clough._ A SIMILE Dear Thomas, didst thou never pop Thy head into a tin-man's shop? There, Thomas, didst thou never see ('Tis but by way of simile) A squirrel spend his little rage, In jumping round a rolling cage? The cage, as either side turn'd up, Striking a ring of bells a-top?-- Mov'd in the orb, pleas'd with the chimes, The foolish creature thinks he climbs: But here or there, turn wood or wire, He never gets two inches higher. So fares it with those merry blades, That frisk it under Pindus' shades. In noble songs, and lofty odes, They tread on stars, and talk with gods; Still dancing in an airy round, Still pleas'd with their own verses' sound; Brought back, how fast soe'er they go, Always aspiring, always low. _Matthew Prior._ BY PARCELS POST A DOMESTIC IDYLL I sent my love a parcel In the days when we were young, Or e'er by care and trouble Our heart-strings had been wrung. By parcels post I sent it-- What 'twas I do not know-- In the days when we were courting, A long time ago. The spring-time waxed to summer, Then autumn leaves grew red, And in the sweet September My love and I were wed. But though the Church had blessed us, My little wife looked glum; I'd posted her a parcel, And the parcel hadn't come. Ah, many moons came after, And then there was a voice, A little voice whose music Would make our hearts rejoice. And, singing to her baby, My dear one oft would say, "I wonder, baby darling, Will that parcel come to-day?" The gold had changed to silver Upon her matron brow; The years were eight-and-twenty Since we breathed our marriage vow, And our grandchildren were playing Hunt-the-slipper on the floor, When they saw the postman standing By our open cottage door. Then they ran with joy to greet him, For they knew he'd come at last; They had heard me tell the story Very often in the past. He handed them a parcel, And they brought it in to show-- 'Twas the parcel I had posted Eight-and-twenty years ago. _George R. Sims._ ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL A friend of mine was married to a scold, To me he came, and all his troubles told. Said he, "She's like a woman raving mad." "Alas! my friend," said I, "that's very bad!" "No, not so bad," said he; "for, with her, true I had both house and land, and money too." "That was well," said I; "No, not so well," said he; "For I and her own brother Went to law with one another; I was cast, the suit was lost, And every penny went to pay the cost."-- "That was bad," said I; "No, not so bad," said he: "For we agreed that he the house should keep, And give to me four score of Yorkshire sheep All fat, and fair, and fine, they were to be." "Well, then," said I, "sure that was well for thee?" "No, not so well," said he; "For, when the sheep I got, They every one died of the rot." "That was bad," said I; "No, not so bad," said he; "For I had thought to scrape the fat, And keep it in an oaken vat; Then into tallow melt for winter store." "Well, then," said I, "that's better than before?" "'Twas not so well," said he; "For having got a clumsy fellow To scrape the fat and melt the tallow; Into the melting fat the fire catches, And, like brimstone matches, Burnt my house to ashes." "That _was_ bad," said I; "No! not so bad," said he; "for, what is best, My scolding wife has gone among the rest." _Unknown._ THE CONTRAST In London I never know what I'd be at, Enraptured with this, and enchanted with that; I'm wild with the sweets of variety's plan, And life seems a blessing too happy for man. But the country, Lord help me! sets all matters right, So calm and composing from morning to night; Oh, it settles the spirits when nothing is seen But an ass on a common, a goose on a green! In town, if it rain, why it damps not our hope, The eye has her choice, and the fancy her scope; What harm though it pour whole nights or whole days? It spoils not our prospects, or stops not our ways. In the country, what bliss, when it rains in the fields, To live on the transports that shuttlecock yields; Or go crawling from window to window, to see A pig on a dunghill or crow on a tree. In town, we've no use for the skies overhead, For when the sun rises then we go to bed; And as to that old-fashioned virgin the moon, She shines out of season, like satin in June. In the country, these planets delightfully glare, Just to show us the object we want isn't there; Oh, how cheering and gay, when their beauties arise, To sit and gaze round with the tears in one's eyes! But 'tis in the country alone we can find That happy resource, the relief of the mind, When, drove to despair, our last efforts we make, And drag the old fish-pond, for novelty's sake: Indeed I must own, 'tis a pleasure complete To see ladies well-draggled and wet in their feet; But what is all that to the transport we feel When we capture, in triumph, two toads and an eel? I have heard though, that love in a cottage is sweet, When two hearts in one link of soft sympathy meet; That's to come--for as yet I, alas! am a swain, Who require, I own it, more links to my chain. In the country, if Cupid should find a man out, The poor tortured victim mopes hopeless about; But in London, thank Heaven! our peace is secure, Where for one eye to kill, there's a thousand to cure. In town let me live then, in town let me die, For in truth I can't relish the country, not I. If one must have a villa in summer to dwell, Oh, give me the sweet shady side of Pall Mall! _Captain C. Morris._ THE DEVONSHIRE LANE In a Devonshire lane as I trotted along T'other day, much in want of a subject for song; Thinks I to myself, I have hit on a strain-- Sure marriage is much like a Devonshire lane. In the first place, 'tis long, and when once you are in it, It holds you as fast as the cage holds a linnet; For howe'er rough and dirty the road may be found, Drive forward you must, since there's no turning round. But though 'tis so long, it is not very wide, For two are the most that together can ride; And e'en there 'tis a chance but they get in a pother, And jostle and cross, and run foul of each other. Old Poverty greets them with mendicant looks, And Care pushes by them o'erladen with crooks, And Strife's grating wheels try between them to pass, Or Stubbornness blocks up the way on her ass. Then the banks are so high, both to left hand and right, That they shut up the beauties around from the sight; And hence, you'll allow, 'tis an inference plain That marriage is just like a Devonshire lane. But, thinks I, too, these banks within which we are pent, With bud, blossom, and berry are richly besprent; And the conjugal fence which forbids us to roam Looks lovely when deck'd with the comforts of home. In the rock's gloomy crevice the bright holly grows, The ivy waves fresh o'er the withering rose; And the evergreen love of a virtuous wife Smooths the roughness of care--cheers the winter of life. Then long be the journey and narrow the way; I'll rejoice that I've seldom a turnpike to pay; And, whate'er others think, be the last to complain, Though marriage is just like a Devonshire lane. _John Marriott._ A SPLENDID FELLOW Delmonico's is where he dines On quail on toast, washed down with wines; Then lights a twenty-cent cigar With quite a flourish at the bar. He throws his money down so proud, And "sets 'em up" for all the crowd; A dozen games of billiards, too, He gaily loses ere he's through. Oh, he's a splendid fellow, quite; He pays his debts with such delight, And often boasts of--to his clan-- His honour as a gentleman. But when this splendid fellow's wife, Who leads at home a frugal life Begs for a little change to buy A dress, he looks at her so wry, That she, alarmed at his distress, Gives him a kiss and sweet caress, And says, "Don't worry so, my dear, I'll turn the dress I made last year." _H. C. Dodge._ IF If a man could live a thousand years, When half his life had passed, He might, by strict economy, A fortune have amassed. Then having gained some common-sense, And knowledge, too, of life, He could select the woman who Would make him a true wife. But as it is, man hasn't time To even pay his debts, And weds to be acquainted with The woman whom he gets. _H. C. Dodge._ ACCEPTED AND WILL APPEAR One evening while reclining In my easy-chair, repining O'er the lack of true religion, and the dearth of common sense, A solemn visaged lady, Who was surely on the shady Side of thirty, entered proudly, and to crush me did commence: "I sent a poem here, sir," Said the lady, growing fiercer, "And the subject which I'd chosen, you remember, sir, was 'Spring'; But, although I've scanned your paper, Sir, by sunlight, gas, and taper, I've discovered of that poem not a solitary thing." She was muscular and wiry, And her temper sure was fiery, And I knew to pacify her I would have to--fib like fun. So I told her ere her verses, Which were great, had come to--bless us, We'd received just sixty-one on "Spring," of which we'd printed one. And I added, "We've decided That they'd better be divided Among the years that follow--one to each succeeding Spring. So your work, I'm pleased to mention, Will receive our best attention In the year of nineteen-forty, when the birds begin to sing." _Parmenas Mix._ THE LITTLE VAGABOND Dear mother, dear mother, the Church is cold; But the Alehouse is healthy, and pleasant, and warm. Besides, I can tell where I am used well; The poor parsons with wind like a blown bladder swell. But, if at the Church they would give us some ale, And a pleasant fire our souls to regale, We'd sing and we'd pray all the livelong day, Nor ever once wish from the Church to stray. Then the Parson might preach, and drink, and sing, And we'd be as happy as birds in the spring; And modest Dame Lurch, who is always at Church, Would not have bandy children, nor fasting, nor birch. And God, like a father, rejoicing to see His children as pleasant and happy as He, Would have no more quarrel with the Devil or the barrel, But kiss him, and give him both drink and apparel. _William Blake._ SYMPATHY A knight and a lady once met in a grove While each was in quest of a fugitive love; A river ran mournfully murmuring by, And they wept in its waters for sympathy. "Oh, never was knight such a sorrow that bore!" "Oh, never was maid so deserted before!" "From life and its woes let us instantly fly, And jump in together for company!" They searched for an eddy that suited the deed, But here was a bramble and there was a weed; "How tiresome it is!" said the fair, with a sigh; So they sat down to rest them in company. They gazed at each other, the maid and the knight; How fair was her form, and how goodly his height! "One mournful embrace," sobbed the youth, "ere we die!" So kissing and crying kept company. "Oh, had I but loved such an angel as you!" "Oh, had but my swain been a quarter as true!" "To miss such perfection how blinded was I!" Sure now they were excellent company! At length spoke the lass, 'twixt a smile and a tear, "The weather is cold for a watery bier; When summer returns we may easily die, Till then let us sorrow in company." _Reginald Heber._ THE RELIGION OF HUDIBRAS For his religion it was fit To match his learning and his wit: 'Twas Presbyterian true blue; For he was of that stubborn crew Of errant saints, whom all men grant To be the true church militant; Such as do build their faith upon The holy text of pike and gun; Decide all controversies by Infallible artillery; And prove their doctrine orthodox, By apostolic blows and knocks; Call fire, and sword, and desolation, A godly, thorough reformation, Which always must be carried on, And still be doing, never done; As if religion were intended For nothing else but to be mended: A sect whose chief devotion lies In odd perverse antipathies; In falling out with that or this, And finding somewhat still amiss; More peevish, cross, and splenetic, Than dog distract, or monkey sick; That with more care keep holy-day The wrong, than others the right way, Compound for sins they are inclin'd to, By damning those they have no mind to: Still so perverse and opposite, As if they worshipped God for spite: The self-same thing they will abhor One way, and long another for: Free-will they one way disavow, Another, nothing else allow: All piety consists therein In them, in other men all sin: Rather than fail, they will defy That which they love most tenderly; Quarrel with minc'd pies and disparage Their best and dearest friend, plum porridge, Fat pig and goose itself oppose, And blaspheme custard through the nose. _Samuel Butler._ HOLY WILLIE'S PRAYER O thou wha in the heavens dost dwell, Wha, as it pleases best Thysel, Sends ane to Heaven, an' ten to Hell, A' for Thy glory, And no for onie guid or ill They've done before Thee! I bless and praise Thy matchless might, When thousands Thou hast left in night, That I am here, before Thy sight, For gifts an' grace, A burnin' an' a shinin' light To a' this place. What was I, or my generation, That I should get sic exaltation! I, wha deserv'd most just damnation, For broken laws Sax thousand years ere my creation, Thro' Adam's cause. When frae my mither's womb I fell, Thou might hae plung'd me deep in Hell, To gnash my gooms, to weep and wail In burnin' lakes, Whare damnèd devils roar and yell, Chain'd to their stakes. Yet I am here, a chosen sample, To show Thy grace is great and ample; I'm here a pillar o' Thy temple, Strong as a rock, A guide, a buckler, an example To a' Thy flock! But yet, O Lord! confess I must, At times I'm fash'd wi' fleshly lust; An' sometimes, too, in warldly trust, Vile self gets in; But Thou remembers we are dust, Defil'd wi' sin. May be Thou lets this fleshly thorn Beset Thy servant e'en and morn, Lest he owre proud and high should turn That he's sae gifted: If sae, Thy han' maun e'en be borne Until Thou lift it. Lord, bless Thy chosen in this place, For here Thou has a chosen race: But God confound their stubborn face, An' blast their name, Wha bring Thy elders to disgrace An' open shame! Lord, mind Gawn Hamilton's deserts, He drinks, an' swears, an' plays at cartes, Yet has sae monie takin' arts, Wi' great and sma', Frae God's ain priest the people's hearts He steals awa. An' when we chasten'd him therefore, Thou kens how he bred sic a splore, As set the warld in a roar O' laughin' at us;-- Curse Thou his basket and his store, Kail an' potatoes! Lord, hear my earnest cry and pray'r Against the Presbyt'ry of Ayr! Thy strong right hand, Lord, mak it bare Upo' their heads! Lord, visit them, an' dinna spare, For their misdeeds! O Lord, my God! that glib-tongu'd Aiken, My vera heart and saul are quakin' To think how we stood sweatin', shakin', An' pish'd wi' dread, While he wi' hingin' lip an' snakin', Held up his head. Lord, in Thy day o' vengeance try him! Lord, visit them wha did employ him, And pass not in Thy mercy by them, Nor hear their pray'r; But for Thy people's sake destroy them, An' dinna spare! But, Lord, remember me and mine, Wi' mercies temp'ral and divine, That I for grace and gear may shine, Excell'd by nane, An' a' the glory shall be Thine, Amen, Amen! _Robert Burns._ THE LEARNED NEGRO There was a negro preacher, I have heard, In Southern parts before rebellion stirred, Who did not spend his strength in empty sound; His was a mind deep-reaching and profound. Others might beat the air, and make a noise, And help to amuse the silly girls and boys; But as for him, he was a man of thought, Deep in theology, although untaught. He could not read or write, but he was wise, And knew right smart how to extemporize. One Sunday morn, when hymns and prayers were said, The preacher rose and rubbing up his head, "Bredren and sisterin, and companions dear, Our preachment for to-day, as you shall hear, Will be ob de creation,--ob de plan On which God fashioned Adam, de fust man. When God made Adam, in de ancient day, He made his body out ob earth and clay, He shape him all out right, den by and by, He set him up again de fence to dry." "Stop," said a voice; and straightway there arose An ancient negro in his master's clothes. "Tell me," said he, "before you farder go, One little thing which I should like to know. It does not quite get through dis niggar's har, How came dat fence so nice and handy dar?" Like one who in the mud is tightly stuck, Or one nonplussed, astonished, thunderstruck, The preacher looked severely on the pews, And rubbed his hair to know what words to use: "Bredren," said he, "dis word I hab to say; De preacher can't be bothered in dis way; For, if he is, it's jest as like as not, Our whole theology will be upsot." _Unknown._ TRUE TO POLL I'll sing you a song, not very long, But the story somewhat new, Of William Kidd, who, whatever he did, To his Poll was always true. He sailed away in a galliant ship From the port of old Bris_tol_, And the last words he uttered, As his hankercher he fluttered, Were, "My heart is true to Poll." His heart was true to Poll, His heart was true to Poll, It's no matter what you do If your heart be only true: And his heart _was_ true to Poll. 'Twas a wreck. Willi_am_, on shore he swam, And looked about for an inn; When a noble savage lady, of a color rather shady, Came up with a kind of grin: "Oh, marry _me_, and a king you'll be, And in a palace loll; Or we'll eat you willy-nilly." So he gave his _hand_, did Billy, But his _heart_ was true to Poll. Away a twelvemonth sped, and a happy life he led As the King of the Kikeryboos; His paint was red and yellar, and he used a big umbrella, And he wore a pair of over-_shoes_; He'd corals and knives, and twenty-six wives, Whose beauties I cannot here extol; One day they all revolted, So he back to Bristol bolted, For his _heart_ was true to Poll. His heart was true to Poll, His heart was true to Poll, It's no matter what you do If your heart be only true: And his heart _was_ true to Poll. _F. C. Burnand._ TRUST IN WOMEN When these things following be done to our intent, Then put women in trust and confident. When nettles in winter bring forth roses red, And all manner of thorn trees bear figs naturally, And geese bear pearls in every mead, And laurel bear cherries abundantly, And oaks bear dates very plenteously, And kisks give of honey superfluence, Then put women in trust and confidence. When box bear paper in every land and town, And thistles bear berries in every place, And pikes have naturally feathers in their crown, And bulls of the sea sing a good bass, And men be the ships fishes trace, And in women be found no insipience, Then put them in trust and confidence. When whitings do walk forests to chase harts, And herrings their horns in forests boldly blow, And marmsets mourn in moors and lakes, And gurnards shoot rooks out of a crossbow, And goslings hunt the wolf to overthrow, And sprats bear spears in armès of defence, Then put women in trust and confidence. When swine be cunning in all points of music, And asses be doctors of every science, And cats do heal men by practising of physic, And buzzards to scripture give any credence, And merchants buy with horn, instead of groats and pence, And pyes be made poets for their eloquence, Then put women in trust and confidence. When sparrows build churches on a height, And wrens carry sacks unto the mill, And curlews carry timber houses to dight, And fomalls bear butter to market to sell, And woodcocks bear woodknives cranes to kill, And greenfinches to goslings do obedience, Then put women in trust and confidence. When crows take salmon in woods and parks, And be take with swifts and snails, And camels in the air take swallows and larks, And mice move mountains by wagging of their tails, And shipmen take a ride instead of sails, And when wives to their husbands do no offence, Then put women in trust and confidence. When antelopes surmount eagles in flight, And swans be swifter than hawks of the tower, And wrens set gos-hawks by force and might, And muskets make verjuice of crabbes sour, And ships sail on dry land, silt give flower, And apes in Westminster give judgment and sentence, Then put women in trust and confidence. _Unknown._ THE LITERARY LADY What motley cares Corilla's mind perplex, Whom maids and metaphors conspire to vex! In studious dishabille behold her sit, A lettered gossip and a household wit; At once invoking, though for different views, Her gods, her cook, her milliner and muse. Round her strewed room a frippery chaos lies, A checkered wreck of notable and wise, Bills, books, caps, couplets, combs, a varied mass, Oppress the toilet and obscure the glass; Unfinished here an epigram is laid, And there a mantua-maker's bill unpaid. There new-born plays foretaste the town's applause, There dormant patterns pine for future gauze. A moral essay now is all her care, A satire next, and then a bill of fare. A scene she now projects, and now a dish; Here Act the First, and here, Remove with Fish. Now, while this eye in a fine frenzy rolls, That soberly casts up a bill for coals; Black pins and daggers in one leaf she sticks, And tears, and threads, and bowls, and thimbles mix. _Richard Brinsley Sheridan._ TWELVE ARTICLES I Lest it may more quarrels breed, I will never hear you read. II By disputing, I will never, To convince you once endeavor. III When a paradox you stick to, I will never contradict you. IV When I talk and you are heedless, I will show no anger needless. V When your speeches are absurd, I will ne'er object a word. VI When you furious argue wrong, I will grieve and hold my tongue. VII Not a jest or humorous story Will I ever tell before ye: To be chidden for explaining, When you quite mistake the meaning. VIII Never more will I suppose, You can taste my verse or prose. IX You no more at me shall fret, While I teach and you forget. X You shall never hear me thunder, When you blunder on, and blunder. XI Show your poverty of spirit, And in dress place all your merit; Give yourself ten thousand airs: That with me shall break no squares. XII Never will I give advice, Till you please to ask me thrice: Which if you in scorn reject, 'T will be just as I expect. Thus we both shall have our ends And continue special friends. _Dean Swift._ ALL-SAINTS In a church which is furnish'd with mullion and gable, With altar and reredos, with gargoyle and groin, The penitents' dresses are sealskin and sable, The odour of sanctity's eau-de-Cologne. But only could Lucifer, flying from Hades, Gaze down on this crowd with its panniers and paints, He would say, as he look'd at the lords and the ladies, "Oh, where is All-Sinners', if this is All-Saints'?" _Edmund Yates._ HOW TO MAKE A MAN OF CONSEQUENCE A brow austere, a circumspective eye. A frequent shrug of the _os humeri_; A nod significant, a stately gait, A blustering manner, and a tone of weight, A smile sarcastic, an expressive stare: Adopt all these, as time and place will bear; Then rest assur'd that those of little sense Will deem you sure a man of consequence. _Mark Lemon._ ON A MAGAZINE SONNET "Scorn not the sonnet," though its strength be sapped, Nor say malignant its inventor blundered; The corpse that here in fourteen lines is wrapped Had otherwise been covered with a hundred. _Russell Hilliard Loines._ PARADISE A HINDOO LEGEND A Hindoo died--a happy thing to do When twenty years united to a shrew. Released, he hopefully for entrance cries Before the gates of Brahma's Paradise. "Hast been through Purgatory?" Brahma said. "I have been married," and he hung his head. "Come in, come in, and welcome, too, my son! Marriage and Purgatory are as one." In bliss extreme he entered heaven's door, And knew the peace he ne'er had known before. He scarce had entered in the Garden fair, Another Hindoo asked admission there. The self-same question Brahma asked again: "Hast been through Purgatory?" "No; what then?" "Thou canst not enter!" did the god reply. "He that went in was no more there than I." "Yes, that is true, but he has married been, And so on earth has suffered for all sin." "Married? 'Tis well; for I've been married twice!" "Begone! We'll have no fools in Paradise!" _George Birdseye._ THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY I am a friar of orders gray, And down in the valleys I take my way; I pull not blackberry, haw, or hip; Good store of venison fills my scrip; My long bead-roll I merrily chant; Where'er I walk no money I want; And why I'm so plump the reason I tell: Who leads a good life is sure to live well. What baron or squire, Or knight of the shire, Lives half so well as a holy friar? After supper, of heaven I dream, But that is a pullet and clouted cream; Myself by denial I mortify-- With a dainty bit of a warden-pie; I'm clothed in sackcloth for my sin-- With old sack wine I'm lined within; A chirping cup is my matin song, And the vesper's bell is my bowl, ding-dong. What baron or squire, Or knight of the shire, Lives half so well as a holy friar? _John O'Keefe._ OF A CERTAIN MAN There was (not certain when) a certain preacher That never learned, and yet became a teacher, Who, having read in Latin thus a text Of _erat quidam homo_, much perplexed, He seemed the same with study great to scan, In English thus, _There was a certain man_. "But now," quoth he, "good people, note you this, He said there was: he doth not say there is; For in these days of ours it is most plain Of promise, oath, word, deed, no man's certain; Yet by my text you see it comes to pass That surely once a certain man there was; But yet, I think, in all your Bible no man Can find this text, _There was a certain woman_." _Sir John Harrington._ CLEAN CLARA What! not know our Clean Clara? Why, the hot folks in Sahara, And the cold Esquimaux, Our little Clara knows! Clean Clara, the Poet sings! Cleaned a hundred thousand things! She cleaned the keys of the harpsichord, She cleaned the hilt of the family sword, She cleaned my lady, she cleaned my lord, All the pictures in their frames, Knights with daggers and stomachered dames-- Cecils, Godfreys, Montforts, Graemes, Winifreds--all those nice old names! She cleaned the works of the eight-day clock, She cleaned the spring of a secret lock, She cleaned the mirror, she cleaned the cupboard, All the books she India-rubbered! She cleaned the Dutch tiles in the place, She cleaned some very old-fashioned lace; The Countess of Miniver came to her, "Pray, my dear, will you clean my fur?" All her cleanings are admirable. To count your teeth you will be able, If you look in the walnut table. She cleaned the tent-stitch and the sampler, She cleaned the tapestry, which was ampler; Joseph going down into the pit, And the Shunammite woman with the boy in a fit. You saw the reapers, _not_ in the distance. And Elisha, coming to the child's assistance, With the house on the wall that was built for the prophet, The chair, the bed and the bolster of it. The eyebrows all had a twirl reflective, Just like an eel: to spare invective There was plenty of color but no perspective. However, Clara cleaned it all, With a curious lamp, that hangs in the hall; She cleaned the drops of the chandeliers, Madam, in mittens, was moved to tears. She cleaned the cage of the cockatoo, The oldest bird that ever grew; I should say a thousand years old would do. I'm sure he looked it, but nobody knew; She cleaned the china, she cleaned the delf, She cleaned the baby, she cleaned herself! Tomorrow morning, she means to try To clean the cobwebs from the sky; Some people say the girl will rue it, But my belief is she will do it. So I've made up my mind to be there to see There's a beautiful place in the walnut tree; The bough is as firm as a solid rock; She brings out her broom at six o'clock. _W. B. Rands._ CHRISTMAS CHIMES Little Penelope Socrates, A Boston maid of four, Wide opened her eyes on Christmas morn, And looked the landscape o'er. "What is it inflates my _bas de bleu_?" She asked with dignity; "'Tis Ibsen in the original! Oh, joy beyond degree!" Miss Mary Cadwallader Rittenhouse Of Philadelphia town, Awoke as much as they ever do there And watched the snow come down. "I'm glad that it is Christmas," You might have heard her say, "For my family is one year older now Than it was last Christmas day." 'Twas Christmas in giddy Gotham. And Miss Irene de Jones Awoke at noon and yawned and yawned, And stretched her languid bones. "I'm sorry it is Christmas, Papa at home will stay, For 'Change is closed and he won't make A single cent to-day." Windily dawned the Christmas On the city by the lake, And Miss Arabel Wabash Breezy Was instantly awake. "What's that thing in my stocking? Well, in two jiffs I'll know!" And she drew a grand piano forth From 'way down in the toe. _Unknown._ THE RULING PASSION From "Moral Essays," Epistle I The frugal crone, whom praying priests attend, Still tries to save the hallowed taper's end, Collects her breath, as ebbing life retires, For one puff more, and in that puff expires. "Odious! in woollen! 'twould a saint provoke," Were the last words that poor Narcissa spoke; "No, let a charming chintz and Brussels lace Wrap my cold limbs, and shade my lifeless face: One would not, sure, be frightful when one's dead,-- And--Betty--give this cheek a little red." The courtier smooth, who forty years had shined An humble servant to all humankind. Just brought out this, when scarce his tongue could stir, "If--where I'm going--I could serve you, sir?" "I give and I devise" (old Euclio said, And sighed) "my lands and tenements to Ned." Your money, sir? "My money, sir! What, all? Why--if I must" (then wept)--"I give it Paul." The manor, sir? "The manor, hold!" he cried, "Not that,--I cannot part with that,"--and died. _Alexander Pope._ THE POPE AND THE NET What, he on whom our voices unanimously ran, Made Pope at our last Conclave? Full low his life began: His father earned the daily bread as just a fisherman. So much the more his boy minds book, gives proof of mother-wit, Becomes first Deacon, and then Priest, then Bishop: see him sit No less than Cardinal ere long, while no one cries "Unfit!" But some one smirks, some other smiles, jogs elbow and nods head; Each wings at each: "I' faith, a rise! Saint Peter's net, instead Of sword and keys, is come in vogue!" You think he blushes red? Not he, of humble holy heart! "Unworthy me!" he sighs: "From fisher's drudge to Church's prince--it is indeed a rise: So, here's my way to keep the fact forever in my eyes!" And straightway in his palace-hall, where commonly is set Some coat-of-arms, some portraiture ancestral, lo, we met His mean estate's reminder in his fisher-father's net! Which step conciliates all and some, stops cavil in a trice: "The humble holy heart that holds of new-born pride no spice! He's just the saint to choose for Pope!" Each adds, "'Tis my advice." So Pope he was: and when we flocked--its sacred slipper on-- To kiss his foot, we lifted eyes, alack, the thing was gone-- That guarantee of lowlihead,--eclipsed that star which shone! Each eyed his fellow, one and all kept silence. I cried "Pish! I'll make me spokesman for the rest, express the common wish. Why, Father, is the net removed?" "Son, it hath caught the fish." _Robert Browning._ AN ACTOR A shabby fellow chanced one day to meet The British Roscius in the street, Garrick, of whom our nation justly brags; The fellow hugged him with a kind embrace;-- "Good sir, I do not recollect your face," Quoth Garrick. "No?" replied the man of rags; "The boards of Drury you and I have trod Full many a time together, I am sure." "When?" with an oath, cried Garrick, "for, by G--d, I never saw that face of yours before! What characters, I pray, Did you and I together play?" "Lord!" quoth the fellow, "think not that I mock-- When you played Hamlet, sir, I played the cock!" _John Wolcot._ THE LOST SPECTACLES A country curate, visiting his flock, At old Rebecca's cottage gave a knock. "Good morrow, dame, I mean not any libel, But in your dwelling have you got a Bible?" "A Bible, sir?" exclaimed she in a rage, "D'ye think I've turned a Pagan in my age? Here, Judith, and run upstairs, my dear, 'Tis in the drawer, be quick and bring it here." The girl return'd with Bible in a minute, Not dreaming for a moment what was in it; When lo! on opening it at parlor door, Down fell her spectacles upon the floor. Amaz'd she stared, was for a moment dumb, But quick exclaim'd, "Dear sir, I'm glad you're come. 'Tis six years since these glasses first were lost, And I have miss'd 'em to my poor eyes' cost!" Then as the glasses to her nose she raised, She closed the Bible--saying, "God be praised!" _Unknown._ THAT TEXAN CATTLE MAN We rode the tawny Texan hills, A bearded cattle man and I; Below us laughed the blossomed rills, Above the dappled clouds blew by. We talked. The topic? Guess. Why, sir, Three-fourths of man's whole time he keeps To talk, to think, to _be_ of |HER|; The other fourth he sleeps. To learn what he might know of love, I laughed all constancy to scorn. "Behold yon happy, changeful dove! Behold this day, all storm at morn, Yet now 't is changed to cloud and sun. Yea, all things change--the heart, the head, Behold on earth there is not one That changeth not," I said. He drew a glass as if to scan The plain for steers; raised it and sighed. He craned his neck, this cattle man, Then drove the cork home and replied: "For twenty years (forgive these tears)-- For twenty years no word of strife-- I have not known for twenty years One folly from my wife." I looked that Texan in the face-- That dark-browed, bearded cattle man, He pulled his beard, then dropped in place A broad right hand, all scarred and tan, And toyed with something shining there From out his holster, keen and small. I was convinced. I did not care To argue it at all. But rest I could not. Know I must The story of my Texan guide; His dauntless love, enduring trust; His blessed, immortal bride. I wondered, marvelled, marvelled much. Was she of Texan growth? Was she Of Saxon blood, that boasted such Eternal constancy? I could not rest until I knew-- "Now twenty years, my man," said I, "Is a long time." He turned and drew A pistol forth, also a sigh. "'Tis twenty years or more," said he, "Nay, nay, my honest man, I vow I do not doubt that this may be; But tell, oh! tell me how. "'Twould make a poem true and grand; All time should note it near and far; And thy fair, virgin Texan land Should stand out like a Winter star. America should heed. And then The doubtful French beyond the sea-- 'T would make them truer, nobler men. To know how this may be." "It's twenty years or more," urged he, "Nay, that I know, good guide of mine; But lead me where this wife may be, And I a pilgrim at a shrine. And kneeling, as a pilgrim true"-- He, scowling, shouted in my ear; "I cannot show my wife to you; She's dead this twenty year." _Joaquin Miller._ FABLE The mountain and the squirrel Had a quarrel, And the former called the latter "Little Prig"; Bun replied, "You are doubtless very big; But all sorts of things and weather Must be taken in together, To make up a year And a sphere, And I think it no disgrace To occupy my place. If I'm not so large as you, You are not so small as I, And not half so spry. I'll not deny you make A very pretty squirrel track; Talents differ; all is well and wisely put; If I cannot carry forests on my back, Neither can you crack a nut." _Ralph Waldo Emerson._ HOCH! DER KAISER Der Kaiser of dis Faterland Und Gott on high all dings command, Ve two--ach! Don't you understand? Myself--und Gott. Vile some men sing der power divine, Mine soldiers sing, "Der Wacht am Rhine," Und drink der health in Rhenish wine Of Me--und Gott. Dere's France, she swaggers all aroundt; She's ausgespield, of no account, To much we think she don't amount; Myself--und Gott. She vill not dare to fight again, But if she shouldt, I'll show her blain Dot Elsass und (in French) Lorraine Are mein--by Gott! Dere's grandma dinks she's nicht small beer, Mit Boers und such she interfere; She'll learn none owns dis hemisphere But me--und Gott! She dinks, good frau, fine ships she's got And soldiers mit der scarlet goat. Ach! We could knock them! Pouf! Like dot, Myself--mit Gott! In dimes of peace, brebare for wars, I bear the spear and helm of Mars, Und care not for a thousand Czars, Myself--mit Gott! In fact, I humor efery whim, With aspect dark and visage grim; Gott pulls mit Me, and I mit him, Myself--und Gott! _Rodney Blake._ WHAT MR. ROBINSON THINKS Gineral B. is a sensible man; He stays to his home an' looks arter his folks; He draws his furrer ez straight ez he can, An' into nobody's tater-patch pokes; But John P. Robinson, he Sez he wunt vote for Gineral B. My! ain't it terrible? Wut shall we do? We can't never choose him, o' course--that's flat: Guess we shall hev to come round (don't you?), An' go in for thunder an' guns, an' all that; Fer John P. Robinson, he Sez he wunt vote for Gineral B. Gineral C. is a dreffle smart man: He's been on all sides that give places or pelf; But consistency still was a part of his plan-- He's been true to' _one_ party, and that is himself; So John P. Robinson, he Sez he shall vote fer Gineral C. Gineral C. goes in for the war; He don't vally principle mor'n an old cud; What did God make us raytional creeturs fer, But glory an' gunpowder, plunder an' blood? So John P. Robinson, he Sez he shall vote fer Gineral C. We're gettin' on nicely up here to our village, With good old idees o' wut's right an' wut ain't; We o' thought Christ went against war and pillage, An' that eppyletts worn't the best mark of a saint; But John P. Robinson, he Sez this kind o' thing's an exploded idee. The side of our country must ollers be took, An' President Pulk, you know, _he_ is our country; An' the angel that writes all our sins in a book, Puts the _debit_ to him, an' to us the _per contry_; An' John P. Robinson, he Sez this is his view o' the thing to a T. Parson Wilbur he calls all these arguments lies; Sez they're nothin' on airth but jest _fee, faw, fum_; An' that all this big talk of our destinies Is half on it ignorance, an' t'other half rum; But John P. Robinson, he Sez it ain't no such thing; an', of course, so must we. Parson Wilbur sez _he_ never heered in his life Thet the Apostles rigg'd out in their swallow-tail coats, An' marched round in front of a drum an' a fife, To git some on 'em office, an' some on 'em votes; But John P. Robinson, he Sez they didn't know everythin' down in Judee. Wal, it's a marcy we're gut folks to tell us The rights an' the wrongs o' these matters, I vow-- God sends country lawyers an' other wise fellers To drive the world's team wen it gits in a slough; For John P. Robinson, he Sez the world'll go right, ef he hollers out Gee! _James Russell Lowell._ THE CANDIDATE'S CREED BIGLOW PAPERS I du believe in Freedom's cause, Ez fur away ez Paris is; I love to see her stick her claws In them infarnal Pharisees; It's wal enough agin a king To dror resolves and triggers,-- But libbaty's a kind o' thing Thet don't agree with niggers. I du believe the people want A tax on teas and coffees, Thet nothin' ain't extravygunt,-- Purvidin' I'm in office; For I hev loved my country sence My eye-teeth filled their sockets, An' Uncle Sam I reverence, Partic'larly his pockets. I du believe in _any_ plan O' levyin' the taxes, Ez long ez, like a lumberman, I git jest wut I axes: I go free-trade thru thick an' thin, Because it kind o' rouses The folks to vote--and keep us in Our quiet custom-houses. I du believe it's wise an' good To sen' out furrin missions, Thet is, on sartin understood An' orthydox conditions;-- I mean nine thousan' dolls, per ann., Nine thousan' more fer outfit, An' me to recommend a man The place 'ould jest about fit. I du believe in special ways O' prayin' an' convartin'; The bread comes back in many days, An' buttered, tu, fer sartin;-- I mean in preyin' till one busts On wut the party chooses, An' in convartin' public trusts To very privit uses. I do believe hard coin the stuff Fer 'lectioneers to spout on; The people's ollers soft enough To make hard money out on; Dear Uncle Sam pervides fer his, An' gives a good-sized junk to all-- I don't care _how_ hard money is, Ez long ez mine's paid punctooal. I du believe with all my soul In the gret Press's freedom, To pint the people to the goal An' in the traces lead 'em: Palsied the arm thet forges yokes At my fat contracts squintin', An' withered be the nose thet pokes Inter the gov'ment printin'! I du believe thet I should give Wut's his'n unto Cæsar, Fer it's by him I move an' live, From him my bread an' cheese air. I du believe thet all o' me Doth bear his souperscription,-- Will, conscience, honor, honesty, An' things o' thet description. I du believe in prayer an' praise To him thet hez the grantin' O' jobs--in every thin' thet pays, But most of all in |Cantin'|; This doth my cup with marcies fill, This lays all thought o' sin to rest-- I _don't_ believe in princerple, But, O, I _du_ in interest. I du believe in bein' this Or thet, ez it may happen One way, or t' other hendiest is To ketch the people nappin'; It ain't by princerples nor men My preudent course is steadied-- I scent wich pays the best, an' then Go into it baldheaded. I du believe thet holdin' slaves Comes nat'ral tu a President, Let 'lone the rowdedow it saves To have a wal-broke precedunt; Fer any office, small or gret, I couldn't ax with no face, Without I'd been, thru dry an' wet, The unrizziest kind o' doughface. I du believe wutever trash 'll keep the people in blindness,-- Thet we the Mexicans can thrash Right inter brotherly kindness-- Thet bombshells, grape, an' powder 'n' ball Air good-will's strongest magnets-- Thet peace, to make it stick at all, Must be druv in with bagnets. In short, I firmly du believe In Humbug generally, Fer it's a thing thet I perceive To hev a solid vally; This heth my faithful shepherd ben, In pastures sweet heth led me, An' this'll keep the people green To feed ez they have fed me. _James Russell Lowell._ THE RAZOR SELLER A fellow in a market town, Most musical, cried razors up and down, And offered twelve for eighteen-pence; Which certainly seemed wondrous cheap, And for the money quite a heap, As every man would buy, with cash and sense. A country bumpkin the great offer heard: Poor Hodge, who suffered by a broad black beard, That seemed a shoe-brush stuck beneath his nose With cheerfulness the eighteen-pence he paid, And proudly to himself, in whispers, said, "This rascal stole the razors, I suppose. "No matter if the fellow _be_ a knave, Provided that the razors _shave_; It certainly will be a monstrous prize." So home the clown, with his good fortune, went, Smiling in heart and soul, content, And quickly soaped himself to ears and eyes. Being well lathered from a dish or tub, Hodge now began with grinning pain to grub, Just like a hedger cutting furze: 'Twas a vile razor!--then the rest he tried-- All were imposters--"Ah," Hodge sighed! "I wish my eighteen-pence within my purse." In vain to chase his beard, and bring the graces, He cut, and dug, and winced, and stamped, and swore, Brought blood, and danced, blasphemed, and made wry faces, And cursed each razor's body o'er and o'er: His muzzle, formed of _opposition_ stuff, Firm as a Foxite, would not lose its ruff! So kept it--laughing at the steel and suds: Hodge, in a passion, stretched his angry jaws, Vowing the direst vengeance, with clenched claws, On the vile cheat that sold the goods. "Razors; a damned, confounded dog, Not fit to scrape a hog!" Hodge sought the fellow--found him--and begun: "P'rhaps, Master Razor rogue, to you 'tis fun, That people flay themselves out of their lives: You rascal! for an hour have I been grubbing, Giving my crying whiskers here a scrubbing, With razors just like oyster knives. Sirrah! I tell you, you're a knave, To cry up razors that can't _shave_." "Friend," quoth the razor-man, "I'm not a knave. As for the razors you have bought, Upon my soul I never thought That they would _shave_." "Not think they'd _shave_!" quoth Hodge, with wond'ring eyes, And voice not much unlike an Indian yell; "What were they made for then, you dog?" he cries: "Made!" quoth the fellow, with a smile--"to _sell_." _John Wolcot._ THE DEVIL'S WALK ON EARTH From his brimstone bed at break of day A walking the Devil is gone, To look at his snug little farm of the World, And see how his stock went on. Over the hill and over the dale, And he went over the plain; And backward and forward he swish'd his tail As a gentleman swishes a cane. How then was the Devil drest? Oh, he was in his Sunday's best His coat was red and his breeches were blue, And there was a hole where his tail came through. A lady drove by in her pride, In whose face an expression he spied For which he could have kiss'd her; Such a flourishing, fine, clever woman was she, With an eye as wicked as wicked can be, I should take her for my Aunt, thought he, If my dam had had a sister. He met a lord of high degree, No matter what was his name; Whose face with his own when he came to compare The expression, the look, and the air, And the character, too, as it seem'd to a hair-- Such a twin-likeness there was in the pair That it made the Devil start and stare For he thought there was surely a looking-glass there, But he could not see the frame. He saw a Lawyer killing a viper, On a dung-hill beside his stable; Ha! quoth he, thou put'st me in mind Of the story of Cain and Abel. An Apothecary on a white horse Rode by on his vocation; And the Devil thought of his old friend Death in the Revelation. He pass'd a cottage with a double coach-house, A cottage of gentility, And he own'd with a grin That his favorite sin, Is pride that apes humility. He saw a pig rapidly Down a river float; The pig swam well, but every stroke Was cutting his own throat; And Satan gave thereat his tail A twirl of admiration; For he thought of his daughter War, And her suckling babe Taxation. Well enough, in sooth, he liked that truth And nothing the worse for the jest; But this was only a first thought And in this he did not rest: Another came presently into his head, And here it proved, as has often been said That second thoughts are best. For as Piggy plied with wind and tide, His way with such celerity, And at every stroke the water dyed With his own red blood, the Devil cried, Behold a swinish nation's pride In cotton-spun prosperity. He walk'd into London leisurely, The streets were dirty and dim: But there he saw Brothers the Prophet, And Brothers the Prophet saw him. He entered a thriving bookseller's shop; Quoth he, we are both of one college, For I myself sate like a Cormorant once Upon the Tree of Knowledge. As he passed through Cold-Bath Fields he look'd At a solitary cell; And he was well-pleased, for it gave him a hint For improving the prisons of Hell. He saw a turnkey tie a thief's hands With a cordial tug and jerk; Nimbly, quoth he, a man's fingers move When his heart is in his work. He saw the same turnkey unfettering a man With little expedition; And he chuckled to think of his dear slave-trade, And the long debates and delays that were made, Concerning its abolition. He met one of his favorite daughters By an Evangelical Meeting: And forgetting himself for joy at her sight, He would have accosted her outright, And given her a fatherly greeting. But she tipt him the wink, drew back, and cried, Avaunt! my name's Religion! And then she turn'd to the preacher And leer'd like a love-sick pigeon. A fine man and a famous Professor was he, As the great Alexander now may be, Whose fame not yet o'erpast is: Or that new Scotch performer Who is fiercer and warmer, The great Sir Arch-Bombastes. With throbs and throes, and ah's and oh's. Far famed his flock for frightning; And thundering with his voice, the while His eyes zigzag like lightning. This Scotch phenomenon, I trow, Beats Alexander hollow; Even when most tame He breathes more flame Then ten Fire-Kings could swallow. Another daughter he presently met; With music of fife and drum, And a consecrated flag, And shout of tag and rag, And march of rank and file, Which had fill'd the crowded aisle Of the venerable pile, From church he saw her come. He call'd her aside, and began to chide, For what dost thou here? said he, My city of Rome is thy proper home, And there's work enough there for thee. Thou hast confessions to listen, And bells to christen, And altars and dolls to dress; And fools to coax, And sinners to hoax, And beads and bones to bless; And great pardons to sell For those who pay well, And small ones for those who pay less. Nay, Father, I boast, that this is my post, She answered; and thou wilt allow, That the great Harlot, Who is clothed in scarlet, Can very well spare me now. Upon her business I am come here, That we may extend our powers: Whatever lets down this church that we hate, Is something in favor of ours. You will not think, great Cosmocrat! That I spend my time in fooling; Many irons, my sire, have we in the fire, And I must leave none of them cooling; For you must know state-councils here, Are held which I bear rule in. When my liberal notions, Produce mischievous motions, There's many a man of good intent, In either house of Parliament, Whom I shall find a tool in; And I have hopeful pupils too Who all this while are schooling. Fine progress they make in our liberal opinions, My Utilitarians, My all sorts of--inians And all sorts of--arians; My all sorts of--ists, And my Prigs and my Whigs Who have all sorts of twists Train'd in the very way, I know, Father, you would have them go; High and low, Wise and foolish, great and small, March-of-Intellect-Boys all. Well pleased wilt thou be at no very far day When the caldron of mischief boils, And I bring them forth in battle array And bid them suspend their broils, That they may unite and fall on the prey, For which we are spreading our toils. How the nice boys all will give mouth at the call, Hark away! hark away to the spoils! My Macs and my Quacks and my lawless-Jacks, My Shiels and O'Connells, my pious Mac-Donnells, My joke-smith Sydney, and all of his kidney, My Humes and my Broughams, My merry old Jerry, My Lord Kings, and my Doctor Doyles! At this good news, so great The Devil's pleasure grew, That with a joyful swish he rent The hole where his tail came through. His countenance fell for a moment When he felt the stitches go; Ah! thought he, there's a job now That I've made for my tailor below. Great news! bloody news! cried a newsman; The Devil said, Stop, let me see! Great news? bloody news? thought the Devil, The bloodier the better for me. So he bought the newspaper, and no news At all for his money he had. Lying varlet, thought he, thus to take in old Nick! But it's some satisfaction, my lad, To know thou art paid beforehand for the trick, For the sixpence I gave thee is bad. And then it came into his head By oracular inspiration, That what he had seen and what he had said In the course of this visitation, Would be published in the Morning Post For all this reading nation. Therewith in second sight he saw The place and the manner and time, In which this mortal story Would be put in immortal rhyme. That it would happen when two poets Should on a time be met, In the town of Nether Stowey, In the shire of Somerset. There while the one was shaving Would he the song begin; And the other when he heard it at breakfast, In ready accord join in. So each would help the other, Two heads being better than one; And the phrase and conceit Would in unison meet, And so with glee the verse flow free, In ding-dong chime of sing-song rhyme, Till the whole were merrily done. And because it was set to the razor, Not to the lute or harp, Therefore it was that the fancy Should be bright, and the wit be sharp. But, then, said Satan to himself, As for that said beginner, Against my infernal Majesty, There is no greater sinner. He hath put me in ugly ballads With libelous pictures for sale; He hath scoff'd at my hoofs and my horns, And has made very free with my tail. But this Mister Poet shall find I am not a safe subject for whim; For I'll set up a School of my own, And my Poets shall set upon him. He went to a coffee-house to dine, And there he had soy in his dish; Having ordered some soles for his dinner, Because he was fond of flat fish. They are much to my palate, thought he, And now guess the reason who can, Why no bait should be better than place, When I fish for a Parliament-man. But the soles in the bill were ten shillings; Tell your master, quoth he, what I say; If he charges at this rate for all things, He must be in a pretty good way. But mark ye, said he to the waiter, I'm a dealer myself in this line, And his business, between you and me, Nothing like so extensive as mine. Now soles are exceedingly cheap, Which he will not attempt to deny, When I see him at my fish-market, I warrant him, by-and-by. As he went along the Strand Between three in the morning and four He observed a queer-looking person Who staggered from Perry's door. And he thought that all the world over In vain for a man you might seek, Who could drink more like a Trojan Or talk more like a Greek. The Devil then he prophesied It would one day he matter of talk, That with wine when smitten, And with wit moreover being happily bitten, The erudite bibber was he who had written The story of this walk. A pretty mistake, quoth the Devil; A pretty mistake I opine! I have put many ill thoughts in his mouth, He will never put good ones in mine. And whoever shall say that to Porson These best of all verses belong, He is an untruth-telling whore-son, And so shall be call'd in the song. And if seeking an illicit connection with fame, Any one else should put in a claim, In this comical competition; That excellent poem will prove A man-trap for such foolish ambition, Where the silly rogue shall be caught by the leg, And exposed in a second edition. Now the morning air was cold for him Who was used to a warm abode; And yet he did not immediately wish, To set out on his homeward road. For he had some morning calls to make Before he went back to Hell; So thought he I'll step into a gaming-house, And that will do as well; But just before he could get to the door A wonderful chance befell. For all on a sudden, in a dark place, He came upon General ----'s burning face; And it struck him with such consternation, That home in a hurry his way did he take, Because he thought, by a slight mistake 'Twas the general conflagration. _Robert Southey._ FATHER MOLLOY OR, THE CONFESSION Paddy McCabe was dying one day, And Father Molloy he came to confess him; Paddy pray'd hard he would make no delay, But forgive him his sins and make haste for to bless him. "First tell me your sins," says Father Molloy, "For I'm thinking you've not been a very good boy." "Oh," says Paddy, "so late in the evenin', I fear, 'Twould throuble you such a long story to hear, For you've ten long miles o'er the mountains to go, While the road _I've_ to travel's much longer, you know. So give us your blessin' and get in the saddle, To tell all my sins my poor brain it would addle; And the docther gave ordhers to keep me so quiet-- 'Twould disturb me to tell all my sins, if I'd thry it, And your Reverence has towld us, unless we tell _all_, 'Tis worse than not makin' confession at all. So I'll say in a word I'm no very good boy-- And, therefore, your blessin', sweet Father Molloy." "Well, I'll read from a book," says Father Molloy, "The manifold sins that humanity's heir to; And when you hear those that your conscience annoy, You'll just squeeze my hand, as acknowledging thereto." Then the father began the dark roll of iniquity, And Paddy, thereat, felt his conscience grow rickety, And he gave such a squeeze that the priest gave a roar-- "Oh, murdher," says Paddy, "don't read any more, For, if you keep readin', by all that is thrue, Your Reverence's fist will be soon black and blue; Besides, to be throubled my conscience begins, That your Reverence should have any hand in my sins, So you'd betther suppose I committed them all, For whether they're great ones, or whether they're small, Or if they're a dozen, or if they're fourscore, 'Tis your Reverence knows how to absolve them, asthore; So I'll say in a word, I'm no very good boy-- And, therefore, your blessin', sweet Father Molloy." "Well," says Father Molloy, "if your sins I forgive, So you must forgive all your enemies truly; And promise me also that, if you should live, You'll leave off your old tricks, and begin to live newly." "I forgive ev'rybody," says Pat, with a groan, "Except that big vagabone Micky Malone; And him I will murdher if ever I can--" "Tut, tut," says the priest, "you're a very bad man; For without your forgiveness, and also repentance, You'll ne'er go to Heaven, and that is my sentence." "Poo!" says Paddy McCabe, "that's a very hard case-- With your Reverence and Heaven I'm content to make pace; But with Heaven and your Reverence I wondher--_Och hone_-- You would think of comparin' that blackguard Malone-- But since I'm hard press'd and that I _must_ forgive, I forgive--if I die--but as sure as I live That ugly blackguard I will surely desthroy!-- So, _now_ for your blessin', sweet Father Molloy!" _Samuel Lover._ THE OWL-CRITIC "Who stuffed that white owl?" No one spoke in the shop, The barber was busy, and he couldn't stop; The customers, waiting their turns, were all reading The "Daily," the "Herald," the "Post," little heeding The young man who blurted out such a blunt question; Not one raised a head, or even made a suggestion; And the barber kept on shaving. "Don't you see, Mr. Brown," Cried the youth, with a frown, "How wrong the whole thing is, How preposterous each wing is How flattened the head is, how jammed down the neck is-- In short, the whole owl, what an ignorant wreck 't is! I make no apology; I've learned owl-eology. I've passed days and nights in a hundred collections, And cannot be blinded to any deflections Arising from unskilful fingers that fail To stuff a bird right, from his beak to his tail. Mister Brown! Mister Brown! Do take that bird down, Or you'll soon be the laughing-stock all over town!" And the barber kept on shaving. "I've _studied_ owls, And other night-fowls, And I tell you What I know to be true; An owl cannot roost With his limbs so unloosed; No owl in this world Ever had his claws curled, Ever had his legs slanted, Ever had his bill canted, Ever had his neck screwed Into that attitude. He can't _do_ it, because 'Tis against all bird-laws. Anatomy teaches, Ornithology preaches, An owl has a toe That _can't_ turn out so! I've made the white owl my study for years, And to see such a job almost moves me to tears! Mr. Brown, I'm amazed You should be so gone crazed As to put up a bird In that posture absurd! To _look_ at that owl really brings on a dizziness; The man who stuffed _him_ don't half know his business!" And the barber kept on shaving. "Examine those eyes. I'm filled with surprise Taxidermists should pass Off on you such poor glass; So unnatural they seem They'd make Audubon scream, And John Burroughs laugh To encounter such chaff. Do take that bird down; Have him stuffed again, Brown!" And the barber kept on shaving. "With some sawdust and bark I could stuff in the dark An owl better than that. I could make an old hat Look more like an owl Than that horrid fowl, Stuck up there so stiff like a side of coarse leather. In fact, about _him_ there's not one natural feather." Just then, with a wink and a sly normal lurch, The owl, very gravely, got down from his perch, Walked round, and regarded his fault-finding critic (Who thought he was stuffed) with a glance analytic, And then fairly hooted, as if he should say: "Your learning's at fault _this_ time, anyway; Don't waste it again on a live bird, I pray. I'm an owl; you're another. Sir Critic, good day!" And the barber kept on shaving. _James Thomas Fields._ WHAT WILL WE DO? What will we do when the good days come-- When the prima donna's lips are dumb, And the man who reads us his "little things" Has lost his voice like the girl who sings; When stilled is the breath of the cornet-man, And the shrilling chords of the quartette clan; When our neighbours' children have lost their drums-- Oh, what will we do when the good time comes? Oh, what will we do in that good, blithe time, When the tramp will work--oh, thing sublime! And the scornful dame who stands on your feet Will "Thank you, sir," for the proffered seat; And the man you hire to work by the day, Will allow you to do his work your way; And the cook who trieth your appetite Will steal no more than she thinks is right; When the boy you hire will call you "Sir," Instead of "Say" and "Guverner"; When the funny man is humorsome-- How can we stand the millennium? _Robert J. Burdette._ LIFE IN LACONICS Given a roof, and a taste for rations, And you have the key to the "wealth of nations." Given a boy, a tree, and a hatchet, And virtue strives in vain to match it. Given a pair, a snake, and an apple, You make the whole world need a chapel. Given "no cards," broad views, and a hovel, You have a realistic novel. Given symptoms and doctors with potion and pill, And your heirs will ere long be contesting your will. That good leads to evil there's no denying: If it were not for _truth_ there would be no _lying_. "I'm nobody!" should have a hearse; But then, "I'm somebody!" is worse. "Folks say," _et cetera_! Well, they shouldn't, And if they knew you well, they wouldn't. When you coddle your life, all its vigor and grace Shrink away with the whisper, "We're in the wrong place." _Mary Mapes Dodge._ ON KNOWING WHEN TO STOP The woodchuck told it all about. "I'm going to build a dwelling Six stories high, up to the sky!" He never tired of telling. He dug the cellar smooth and well But made no more advances; That lovely hole so pleased his soul And satisfied his fancies. _L. J. Bridgman._ REV. GABE TUCKER'S REMARKS You may notch it on de palin's as a mighty resky plan To make your judgment by de clo'es dat kivers up a man; For I hardly needs to tell you how you often come across A fifty-dollar saddle on a twenty-dollar hoss; An', wukin' in de low-groun's, you diskiver, as you go, Dat de fines' shuck may hide de meanes' nubbin in a row. I think a man has got a mighty slender chance for heben Dat holds on to his piety but one day out o' seben; Dat talks about de sinners wid a heap o' solemn chat, And nebber draps a nickel in de missionary hat; Dat's foremost in de meetin'-house for raisin' all de chunes, But lays aside his 'ligion wid his Sunday pantaloons. I nebber judge o' people dat I meets along de way By de places whar dey come fum an' de houses whar dey stay; For de bantam chicken's awful fond o' roostin' pretty high, An' de turkey buzzard sails above de eagle in de sky; Dey ketches little minners in de middle ob de sea, An' you finds de smalles' possum up de bigges' kind o' tree! _Unknown._ THURSDAY The sun was setting, and vespers done; From chapel the monks came one by one, And down they went thro' the garden trim, In cassock and cowl, to the river's brim. Ev'ry brother his rod he took; Ev'ry rod had a line and a hook; Ev'ry hook had a bait so fine, And thus they sang in the even shine: "Oh, to-morrow will be Friday, so we'll fish the stream to-day! Oh, to-morrow will be Friday, so we'll fish the stream to-day! Benedicite!" So down they sate by the river's brim, And fish'd till the light was growing dim; They fish'd the stream till the moon was high, But never a fish came wand'ring by. They fish'd the stream in the bright moonshine, But not one fish would he come to dine. And the Abbot said, "It seems to me These rascally fish are all gone to sea. And to-morrow will be Friday, but we've caught no fish to-day; Oh, to-morrow will be Friday, but we've caught no fish to-day! Maledicite!" So back they went to the convent gate, Abbot and monks disconsolate; For they thought of the morrow with faces white, Saying, "Oh, we must curb our appetite! But down in the depths of the vault below There's Malvoisie for a world of woe!" So they quaff their wine, and all declare That fish, after all, is but gruesome fare. "Oh, to-morrow will be Friday, so we'll warm our souls to-day! Oh, to-morrow will be Friday, so we'll warm our souls to-day! Benedicite!" _Frederick E. Weatherly._ SKY-MAKING TO PROFESSOR TYNDALL Just take a trifling handful, O philosopher, Of magic matter, give it a slight toss over The ambient ether, and I don't see why You shouldn't make a sky. O hours Utopian which we may anticipate! Thick London fog how easy 'tis to dissipate, And make the most pea-soupy day as clear As Bass's brightest beer! Poet-professor! now my brain thou kindlest; I am become a most determined Tyndallist. If it is known a fellow can make skies, Why not make bright blue eyes? This to deny, the folly of a dunce it is; Surely a girl as easy as a sunset is. If you can make a halo or eclipse, Why not two laughing lips? The creed of Archimedes, erst of Sicily, And of D'Israeli ... _forti nil difficile_, Is likewise mine. Pygmalion was a fool Who should have gone to school. Why should an author scribble rhymes or articles? Bring me a dozen tiny Tyndall particles; Therefrom I'll coin a dinner, Nash's wine, And a nice girl to dine. _Mortimer Collins._ THE POSITIVISTS Life and the Universe show spontaneity: Down with ridiculous notions of Deity! Churches and creeds are all lost in the mists; Truth must be sought with the Positivists. Wise are their teachers beyond all comparison, Comte, Huxley, Tyndall, Mill, Morley, and Harrison; Who will adventure to enter the lists With such a squadron of Positivists? Social arrangements are awful miscarriages; Cause of all crime is our system of marriages. Poets with sonnets, and lovers with trysts, Kindle the ire of the Positivists. Husbands and wives should be all one community, Exquisite freedom with absolute unity. Wedding-rings worse are than manacled wrists-- Such is the creed of the Positivists. There was an ape in the days that were earlier; Centuries passed, and his hair became curlier; Centuries more gave a thumb to his wrist-- Then he was Man, and a Positivist. If you are pious (mild form of insanity) Bow down and worship the mass of humanity. Other religions are buried in mists; We're our own Gods, say the Positivists. _Mortimer Collins._ MARTIAL IN LONDON Exquisite wines and comestibles, From Slater, and Fortnum and Mason; Billiard, écarté, and chess tables; Water in vast marble basin; Luminous books (not voluminous) To read under beech-trees cacuminous; One friend, who is fond of a distich, And doesn't get too syllogistic; A valet, who knows the complete art Of service--a maiden, his sweetheart: Give me these, in some rural pavilion, And I'll envy no Rothschild his million. _Mortimer Collins._ THE SPLENDID SHILLING "... Sing, heavenly Muse! Things unattempted yet, in prose or rhyme," A shilling, breeches, and chimeras dire. Happy the man, who, void of cares and strife, In silken or in leather purse retains A Splendid Shilling: he nor hears with pain New oysters cried, nor sighs for cheerful ale; But with his friends, when nightly mists arise, To Juniper's Magpie, or Town-hall repairs: Where, mindful of the nymph, whose wanton eye Transfix'd his soul, and kindled amorous flames, Chloe, or Phillis, he each circling glass Wisheth her health, and joy, and equal love. Meanwhile, he smokes, and laughs at merry tale, Or pun ambiguous, or conundrum quaint. But I, whom griping penury surrounds, And Hunger, sure attendant upon Want, With scanty offals, and small acid tiff, (Wretched repast!) my meagre corpse sustain: Then solitary walk, or doze at home In garret vile, and with a warming puff Regale chill'd fingers: or from tube as black As winter-chimney, or well-polish'd jet, Exhale mundungus, ill-perfuming scent: Not blacker tube, nor of a shorter size, Smokes Cambro-Briton (vers'd in pedigree, Sprung from Cadwallador and Arthur, kings Full famous in romantic tale) when he, O'er many a craggy hill and barren cliff, Upon a cargo of fam'd Cestrian cheese, High over-shadowing rides, with a design To vend his wares, or at th' Avonian mart, Or Maridunum, or the ancient town Yelep'd Brechinia, or where Vaga's stream Encircles Ariconium, fruitful soil! Whence flow nectareous wines, that well may vie With Massic, Setin, or renown'd Falern. Thus while my joyless minutes tedious flow, With looks demure, and silent pace, a Dun, Horrible monster! hated by gods and men, To my aërial citadel ascends, With vocal heel thrice thundering at my gate, With hideous accent thrice he calls; I know The voice ill-boding, and the solemn sound. What should I do? or whither turn? Amaz'd, Confounded, to the dark recess I fly Of wood-hole; straight my bristling hairs erect Through sudden fear; a chilly sweat bedews My shuddering limbs, and (wonderful to tell!) My tongue forgets her faculty of speech; So horrible he seems! His faded brow, Intrench'd with many a frown, and conic beard, And spreading band, admir'd by modern saints, Disastrous acts forbode; in his right hand Long scrolls of paper solemnly he waves, With characters and figures dire inscrib'd, Grievous to mortal eyes; (ye gods, avert Such plagues from righteous men!) Behind him stalks Another monster, not unlike himself, Sullen of aspect, by the vulgar call'd A catchpole, whose polluted hands the gods, With force incredible, and magic charms, First have endued: if he his ample palm Should haply on ill-fated shoulder lay Of debtor, straight his body, to the touch Obsequious (as whilom knights were wont,) To some enchanted castle is convey'd, Where gates impregnable, and coercive chains, In durance strict detain him, till, in form Of money, Pallas sets the captive free. Beware, ye debtors! when ye walk, beware, Be circumspect; oft with insidious ken The caitiff eyes your steps aloof, and oft Lies perdu in a nook or gloomy cave, Prompt to enchant some inadvertent wretch With his unhallowed touch. So, (poets sing) Grimalkin, to domestic vermin sworn An everlasting foe, with watchful eye Lies nightly brooding o'er a chinky gap, Portending her fell claws, to thoughtless mice Sure ruin. So her disembowell'd web Arachne, in a hall or kitchen, spreads Obvious to vagrant flies: she secret stands Within her woven cell: the humming prey, Regardless of their fate, rush on the toils Inextricable, nor will aught avail Their arts, or arms, or shapes of lovely hue; The wasp insidious, and the buzzing drone, And butterfly, proud of expanded wings Distinct with gold, entangled in her snares, Useless resistance make; with eager strides, She towering flies to her expected spoils; Then, with envenomed jaws, the vital blood Drinks of reluctant foes, and to her cave Their bulky carcasses triumphant drags. So pass my days. But when nocturnal shades This world envelop, and th' inclement air Persuades men to repel benumbing frosts With pleasant wines, and crackling blaze of wood; Me, lonely sitting, nor the glimmering light Of make-weight candle, nor the joyous talk Of loving friend, delights: distress'd, forlorn, Amidst the horrors of the tedious night, Darkling I sigh, and feed with dismal thoughts My anxious mind: or sometimes mournful verse Indite, and sing of groves and myrtle shades, Or desperate lady near a purling stream, Or lover pendent on a willow tree. Meanwhile I labor with eternal drought, And restless wish, and rave; my parched throat Finds no relief, nor heavy eyes repose: But if a slumber haply does invade My weary limbs, my fancy's still awake, Thoughtful of drink, and eager, in a dream, Tipples imaginary pots of ale, In vain; awake I find the settled thirst Still gnawing, and the pleasant phantom curse. Thus do I live, from pleasure quite debarred, Nor taste the fruits that the sun's genial rays Mature, john-apple, nor the downy peach, Nor walnut in rough-furrow'd coat secure, Nor medlar, fruit delicious in decay; Afflictions great! yet greater still remain: My galligaskins, that have long withstood The winter's fury, and encroaching frosts, By time subdued (what will not time subdue!) An horrid chasm disclos'd with orifice Wide, discontinuous; at which the winds Eurus and Auster, and the dreadful force Of Boreas, that congeals the Cronian waves, Tumultuous enter with dire chilling blasts, Portending agues. Thus a well-fraught ship, Long sail'd secure, or through th' Ægean deep, Or the Ionian, till cruising near The Lilybean shore, with hideous crush On Scylla, or Charybdis (dangerous rocks!) She strikes rebounding; whence the shatter'd oak, So fierce a shock unable to withstand, Admits the sea: in at the gaping side The crowding waves gush with impetuous rage Resistless, overwhelming; horrors seize The mariners; Death in their eyes appears, They stare, they lave, they pump, they swear, they pray (Vain efforts!) still the battering waves rush in, Implacable, till, delug'd by the foam, The ship sinks foundering in the vast abyss. _John Philips._ AFTER HORACE What asks the Bard? He prays for nought But what the truly virtuous crave: That is, the things he plainly ought To have. 'Tis not for wealth, with all the shocks That vex distracted millionaires, Plagued by their fluctuating stocks And shares: While plutocrats their millions new Expend upon each costly whim, A great deal less than theirs will do For him: The simple incomes of the poor His meek poetic soul content: Say, £30,000 at four Per cent.! His taste in residence is plain: No palaces his heart rejoice: A cottage in a lane (Park Lane For choice) Here be his days in quiet spent: Here let him meditate the Muse: Baronial Halls were only meant For Jews, And lands that stretch with endless span From east to west, from south to north, Are often much more trouble than They're worth! Let epicures who eat too much Become uncomfortably stout: Let gourmets feel th' approaching touch Of gout,-- The Bard subsists on simpler food: A dinner, not severely plain, A pint or so of really good Champagne-- Grant him but these, no care he'll take Though Laureates bask in Fortune's smile, Though Kiplings and Corellis make Their pile: Contented with a scantier dole His humble Muse serenely jogs, Remote from scenes where authors roll Their logs: Far from the madding crowd she lurks, And really cares no single jot Whether the public read her works Or not! _A. D. Godley._ OF A PRECISE TAILOR A tailor, a man of an upright dealing, True but for lying, honest but for stealing, Did fall one day extremely sick by chance, And on the sudden was in wondrous trance. The Fiends of hell, mustering in fearful manner, Of sundry-coloured silks displayed a banner, Which he had stol'n; and wished, as they did tell, That one day he might find it all in hell. The man, affrighted at this apparition, Upon recovery grew a great precisian. He bought a Bible of the new translation, And in his life he showed great reformation. He walkèd mannerly and talkèd meekly; He heard three lectures and two sermons weekly; He vowed to shun all companies unruly, And in his speech he used no oath but "truly": And, zealously to keep the Sabbath's rest, His meat for that day on the even was dressed. And, lest the custom that he had to steal Might cause him sometime to forget his zeal, He gives his journeyman a special charge That, if the stuff allowed fell out too large, And that to filch his fingers were inclined, He then should put the Banner in his mind. This done, I scant the rest can tell for laughter. A Captain of a ship came three days after, And bought three yards of velvet and three quarters, To make Venetians down below the garters. He, that precisely knew what was enough, Soon slipped away three quarters of the stuff. His man, espying it, said in derision, "Remember, Master, how you saw the vision!" "Peace, knave," quoth he; "I did not see one rag Of such-a-coloured silk in all the flag." _Sir John Harrington._ MONEY Who money has, well wages the campaign; Who money has, becomes of gentle strain; Who money has, to honor all accord: He is my lord. Who money has, the ladies ne'er disdain; Who money has, loud praises will attain; Who money has, in the world's heart is stored, The flower adored. O'er all mankind he holds his conquering track-- They only are condemned who money lack. Who money has, will wisdom's credit gain; Who money has, all earth is his domain; Who money has, praise is his sure reward, Which all afford. Who money has, from nothing need refrain;. Who money has, on him is favor poured; And, in a word, Who money has, need never fear attack-- They only are condemned who money lack. Who money has, in every heart does reign; Who money has, all to approach are fain; Who money has, of him no fault is told, Nor harm can hold. Who money has, none does his right restrain; Who money has, can whom he will maintain; Who money has, clerk, prior, by his gold, Is straight enrolled. Who money has, all raise, none hold him back-- They only are condemned who money lack. _Jehan du Pontalais._ BOSTON NURSERY RHYMES RHYME FOR A GEOLOGICAL BABY Trilobite, Grapholite, Nautilus pie; Seas were calcareous, oceans were dry. Eocene, miocene, pliocene Tuff, Lias and Trias and that is enough. RHYME FOR ASTRONOMICAL BABY Bye Baby Bunting, Father's gone star-hunting; Mother's at the telescope Casting baby's horoscope. Bye Baby Buntoid, Father's found an asteroid; Mother takes by calculation The angle of its inclination. RHYME FOR BOTANICAL BABY Little bo-peepals Has lost her sepals, And can't tell-where to find them; In the involucre By hook or by crook or She'll make up her mind not to mind them. RHYME FOR A CHEMICAL BABY Oh, sing a song of phosphates, Fibrine in a line, Four-and-twenty follicles In the van of time. When the phosphorescence Evoluted brain, Superstition ended, Men began to reign. _Rev. Joseph Cook._ KENTUCKY PHILOSOPHY You Wi'yum, cum 'ere, suh, dis minute. Wut dat you got under dat box? I don't want no foolin'--you hear me? Wut you say? Ain't nu'h'n but _rocks_? 'Peahs ter me you's owdashus perticler. S'posin' dey's uv a new kine. I'll des take a look at dem rocks. Hi yi! der you think dat I's bline? _I_ calls dat a plain water-million, you scamp, en I knows whah it growed; It come fum de Jimmerson cawn fiel', dah on ter side er de road. You stole it, you rascal--you stole it! I watched you fum down in de lot. En time I gits th'ough wid you, nigger, you won't eb'n be a grease spot! _I'll_ fix you. Mirandy! Mirandy! go cut me a hick'ry--make 'ase! En cut me de toughes' en keenes' you c'n fine anywhah on de place. I'll larn you, Mr. Wi'yum Joe Vetters, ter steal en ter lie, you young sinner, Disgracin' yo' ole Christian mammy, en makin' her leave cookin' dinner! Now ain't you ashamed er yo'se'f, suh? I is. I's 'shamed you's my son! En de holy accorjun angel he's 'shamed er wut you has done; En he's tuk it down up yander in coal-black, blood-red letters-- "One water-million stoled by Wi'yum Josephus Vetters." En wut you s'posin' Brer Bascom, yo' teacher at Sunday school, 'Ud say ef he knowed how you's broke de good Lawd's Gol'n Rule? Boy, whah's de raisin' I give you? Is you boun' fuh ter be a black villiun? I's s'prised dat a chile er yo' mammy 'ud steal any man's water-million. En I's now gwiner cut it right open, en you shain't have narry bite, Fuh a boy who'll steal water-millions--en dat in de day's broad light-- Ain't--_Lawdy!_ it's |GREEN|! Mirandy; Mi-ran-dy! come on wi' dat switch! _Well_, stealin' a g-r-e-e-n water-million! who ever heered tell er des sich? Cain't tell w'en dey's ripe? W'y, you thump 'um, en w'en dey go pank dey is green; But when dey go _punk_, now you mine me, dey's ripe--en dat's des wut I mean. En nex' time you hook water-millions--_you_ heered me, you ign'ant young hunk, Ef you don't want a lickin' all over, be sho dat dey allers go "punk"! _Harrison Robertson._ JOHN GRUMLIE John Grumlie swore by the light o' the moon And the green leaves on the tree, That he could do more work in a day Than his wife could do in three. His wife rose up in the morning Wi' cares and troubles enow-- John Grumlie bide at hame, John, And I'll go haud the plow. First ye maun dress your children fair, And put them a' in their gear; And ye maun turn the malt, John, Or else ye'll spoil the beer; And ye maun reel the tweel, John, That I span yesterday; And ye maun ca' in the hens, John, Else they'll all lay away. O he did dress his children fair, And put them a' in their gear; But he forgot to turn the malt, And so he spoil'd the beer: And he sang loud as he reeled the tweel That his wife span yesterday; But he forgot to put up the hens, And the hens all layed away. The hawket crummie loot down nae milk; He kirned, nor butter gat; And a' gade wrang, and nought gade right; He danced with rage, and grat; Then up he ran to the head o' the knowe Wi' mony a wave and shout-- She heard him as she heard him not, And steered the stots about. John Grumlie's wife cam hame at e'en, A weary wife and sad, And burst into a laughter loud, And laughed as she'd been mad: While John Grumlie swore by the light o' the moon And the green leaves on the tree, If my wife should na win a penny a day She's aye have her will for me. _Allan Cunningham._ A SONG OF IMPOSSIBILITIES Lady, I loved you all last year, How honestly and well-- Alas! would weary you to hear, And torture me to tell; I raved beneath the midnight sky, I sang beneath the limes-- Orlando in my lunacy, And Petrarch in my rhymes. But all is over! When the sun Dries up the boundless main, When black is white, false-hearted one, I may be yours again! When passion's early hopes and fears Are not derided things; When truth is found in falling tears, Or faith in golden rings; When the dark Fates that rule our way Instruct me where they hide One woman that would ne'er betray, One friend that never lied; When summer shines without a cloud, And bliss without a pain; When worth is noticed in a crowd, I may be yours again! When science pours the light of day Upon the lords of lands; When Huskisson is heard to say That Lethbridge understands; When wrinkles work their way in youth, Or Eldon's in a hurry; When lawyers represent the truth, Or Mr. Sumner Surrey; When aldermen taste eloquence Or bricklayers champagne; When common law is common sense, I may be yours again! When learned judges play the beau, Or learned pigs the tabor; When traveller Bankes beats Cicero, Or Mr. Bishop Weber; When sinking funds discharge a debt, Or female hands a bomb; When bankrupts study the _Gazette_, Or colleges _Tom Thumb_; When little fishes learn to speak, Or poets not to feign; When Dr. Geldart construes Greek, I may be yours again! When Pole and Thornton honour cheques, Or Mr. Const a rogue; When Jericho's in Middlesex, Or minuets in vogue; When Highgate goes to Devonport, Or fashion to Guildhall; When argument is heard at Court, Or Mr. Wynn at all; When Sydney Smith forgets to jest, Or farmers to complain; When kings that are are not the best, I may be yours again! When peers from telling money shrink, Or monks from telling lies; When hydrogen begins to sink, Or Grecian scrip to rise; When German poets cease to dream, Americans to guess; When Freedom sheds her holy beam On Negroes, and the Press; When there is any fear of Rome, Or any hope of Spain; When Ireland is a happy home, I may be yours again! When you can cancel what has been, Or alter what must be, Or bring once more that vanished scene, Those withered joys to me; When you can tune the broken lute, Or deck the blighted wreath, Or rear the garden's richest fruit, Upon a blasted heath; When you can lure the wolf at bay Back to his shattered chain, To-day may then be yesterday-- I may be yours again! _Winthrop Mackworth Praed._ SONG Go and catch a falling star, Get with child a mandrake root; Tell me where all past years are, Or who cleft the Devil's foot; Teach me to hear Mermaids singing,-- Or to keep off envy's stinging, And find What wind Serves to advance an honest mind. If thou beest born to strange sights, Things invisible to see, Ride ten thousand days and nights, Till age snow white hairs on thee; Thou, when thou return'st, wilt tell me All strange wonders that befell thee, And swear Nowhere Lives a woman true and fair. If thou find'st one, let me know; Such a pilgrimage were sweet. Yet do not; I would not go, Though at next door we might meet. Though she were true when you met her, And last till you write your letter, Yet she Will be False, ere I come, to two or three. _John Donne._ THE OUBIT It was an hairy oubit, sae proud he crept alang; A feckless hairy oubit, and merrily he sang: "My Minnie bade me bide at home until I won my wings, I shew her soon my soul's aboon the warks o' creeping things." This feckless hairy oubit cam' hirpling by the linn, A swirl o' wind cam' doun the glen, and blew that oubit in. Oh, when he took the water, the saumon fry they rose, And tigg'd him a' to pieces sma', by head and tail and toes. Tak' warning then, young poets a', by this poor oubit's shame; Though Pegasus may nicher loud, keep Pegasus at hame. O haud your hands frae inkhorns, though a' the Muses woo; For critics lie, like saumon fry, to mak' their meals o' you. _Charles Kingsley._ DOUBLE BALLADE OF PRIMITIVE MAN He lived in a cave by the seas, He lived upon oysters and foes, But his list of forbidden degrees An extensive morality shows; Geological evidence goes To prove he had never a pan, But he shaved with a shell when he chose,-- 'Twas the manner of Primitive Man. He worshipp'd the rain and the breeze, He worshipp'd the river that flows, And the Dawn, and the Moon, and the trees And bogies, and serpents, and crows; He buried his dead with their toes Tucked-up, an original plan, Till their knees came right under their nose,-- 'Twas the manner of Primitive Man. His communal wives, at his ease, He would curb with occasional blows Or his State had a queen, like the bees (As another philosopher trows): When he spoke, it was never in prose, But he sang in a strain that would scan, For (to doubt it, perchance, were morose) 'Twas the manner of Primitive Man! On the coasts that incessantly freeze, With his stones, and his bones, and his bows, On luxuriant tropical leas, Where the summer eternally glows, He is found, and his habits disclose (Let theology say what she can) That he lived in the long, long agos, Twas the manner of Primitive Man! From a status like that of the Crees Our society's fabric arose,-- Develop'd, evolved, if you please, But deluded chronologists chose, In a fancied accordance with Mos es, 4000 |B.C.| for the span When he rushed on the world and its woes,-- 'Twas the manner of Primitive Man. But the mild anthropologist--_he's_ Not _recent_ inclined to suppose Flints Palæolithic like these, Quaternary bones such as those! In Rhinoceros, Mammoth and Co.'s First epoch the Human began Theologians all to expose,-- 'Tis the _mission_ of Primitive Man. ENVOY Max, proudly your Aryans pose, But their rigs they undoubtedly ran, For, as every Darwinian knows, 'Twas the manner of Primitive Man! _Andrew Lang._ PHILLIS'S AGE How old may Phillis be, you ask, Whose beauty thus all hearts engages? To answer is no easy task: For she has really two ages. Stiff in brocade, and pinch'd in stays, Her patches, paint, and jewels on; All day let envy view her face, And Phillis is but twenty-one. Paint, patches, jewels laid aside, At night astronomers agree, The evening has the day belied; And Phillis is some forty-three. _Matthew Prior._ V CYNICISM GOOD AND BAD LUCK Good Luck is the gayest of all gay girls; Long in one place she will not stay: Back from your brow she strokes the curls, Kisses you quick and flies away. But Madame Bad Luck soberly comes And stays--no fancy has she for flitting; Snatches of true-love songs she hums, And sits by your bed, and brings her knitting. _John Hay._ BANGKOLIDYE "Gimme my scarlet tie," Says I. "Gimme my brownest boots and hat, Gimme a vest with a pattern fancy, Gimme a gel with some style, like Nancy, And then--well, it's gimes as I'll be at, Seein' as its bangkolidye," Says I. "May miss it, but we'll try," Says I. Nancy ran like a frightened 'en Hup the steps of the bloomin' styeshun. Bookin'-orfus at last! Salvyeshun! An' the two returns was five-and-ten. "An' travellin' mikes your money fly," Says I. "This atmosphere is 'igh," Says I. Twelve in a carriage is pretty thick, When 'ite of the twelve is a sittin', smokin'; Nancy started 'er lawkin, and jokin', Syin' she 'oped as we shouldn't be sick; "Don't go on, or you'll mike me die!" Says I. "Three styeshuns we've porst by," Says I. "So hout we get at the next, my gel." When we got hout, she wer pale and saint-like, White in the gills, and sorter faint-like, An' said my cigaw 'ad a powerful smell, "Well, it's the sime as I always buy," Says I. "'Ites them clouds in the sky," Says I. "Don't like 'em at all," I says, "that's flat-- Black as your boots and sorter thick'nin'." "If it's wet," says she, "it _will_ be sick'nin'. I wish as I'd brought my other 'at." "You thinks too much of your finery," Says I. "Keep them sanwidjus dry," Says I. When the rine came down in a reggiler sheet. But what can yo do with one umbrella, And a damp gel strung on the arm of a fella? "Well, rined-on 'am ain't pleasant to eat, If yer don't believe it, just go an try," Says I. "There is some gels whort cry," Says I. "And there is some don't shed a tear, But just get tempers, and when they has'em Reaches a pint in their sarcasem, As on'y a dorg could bear to 'ear." This unto Nancy by-and-by, Says I. All's hover now. And why, Says I. But why did I wear them boots, that vest? The bloom is off 'em; they're sad to see; And hev'rythin's off twixt Nancy and me; And my trousers is off and gone to be pressed-- And ain't this a blimed bangkolidye? Says I. _Barry Pain._ PENSÉES DE NOËL When the landlord wants the rent Of your humble tenement; When the Christmas bills begin Daily, hourly pouring in; When you pay your gas and poor rate Tip the rector, fee the curate, Let this thought your spirit cheer-- Christmas comes but once a year. When the man who brings the coal Claims his customary dole: When the postman rings and knocks For his usual Christmas-box: When you're dunned by half the town With demands for half-a-crown,-- Think, although they cost you dear, Christmas comes but once a year. When you roam from shop to shop, Seeking, till you nearly drop, Christmas cards and small donations For the maw of your relations, Questing vainly 'mid the heap For a thing that's nice, and cheap: Think, and check the rising tear, Christmas comes but once a year. Though for three successive days Business quits her usual ways; Though the milkman's voice be dumb; Though the paper doesn't come; Though you want tobacco, but Find that all the shops are shut: Bravely still your sorrows bear-- Christmas comes but once a year. When mince-pies you can't digest Join with waits to break your rest: When, oh when, to crown your woe, Persons who might better know Think it needful that you should Don a gay convivial mood:-- Bear with fortitude and patience These afflicting dispensations: Man was born to suffer here: Christmas comes but once a year. _A. D. Godley._ A BALLADE OF AN ANTI-PURITAN They spoke of Progress spiring round, Of Light and Mrs. Humphry Ward-- It is not true to say I frowned, Or ran about the room and roared; I might have simply sat and snored-- I rose politely in the club And said, "I feel a little bored; Will someone take me to a pub?" The new world's wisest did surround Me; and it pains me to record I did not think their views profound, Or their conclusions well assured; The simple life I can't afford, Besides, I do not like the grub-- I want a mash and sausage, "scored"-- Will someone take me to a pub? I know where Men can still be found, Anger and clamorous accord, And virtues growing from the ground, And fellowship of beer and board, And song, that is a sturdy cord, And hope, that is a hardy shrub, And goodness, that is God's last word-- Will someone take me to a pub? ENVOI Prince, Bayard would have smashed his sword To see the sort of knights you dub-- Is that the last of them--O Lord! Will someone take me to a pub? _G. K. Chesterton._ PESSIMISM In the age that was golden, the halcyon time, All the billows were balmy and breezes were bland. Then the poet was never hard up for a rhyme, Then the milk and the honey flew free and were prime, And the voice of the turtle was heard in the land. In the times that are guilty the winds are perverse, Blowing fair for the sharper and foul for the dupe. Now the poet's condition could scarcely be worse, Now the milk and the honey are strained through the purse, And the voice of the turtle is dead in the soup. _Newton Mackintosh._ CYNICAL ODE TO AN ULTRA-CYNICAL PUBLIC You prefer a buffoon to a scholar, A harlequin to a teacher, A jester to a statesman, An Anonyma flaring on horseback To a modest and spotless woman-- Brute of a public! You think that to sneer shows wisdom, That a gibe outvalues a reason, That slang, such as thieves delight in, Is fit for the lips of the gentle, And rather a grace than a blemish, Thick-headed public! You think that if merit's exalted 'Tis excellent sport to decry it, And trail its good name in the gutter; And that cynics, white-gloved and cravatted, Are the cream and quintessence of all things, Ass of a public! You think that success must be merit, That honour and virtue and courage Are all very well in their places, But that money's a thousand times better; Detestable, stupid, degraded Pig of a public! _Charles Mackay._ YOUTH AND ART It once might have been, once only: We lodged in a street together. You, a sparrow on the house-top lonely, I, a lone she-bird of his feather. Your trade was with sticks and clay, You thumbed, thrust, patted and polished, Then laughed, "They will see some day Smith made, and Gibson demolished." My business was song, song, song; I chirped, cheeped, trilled and twittered, "Kate Brown's on the boards ere long, And Grisi's existence embittered!" I earned no more by a warble Than you by a sketch in plaster; You wanted a piece of marble, I needed a music-master. We studied hard in our styles, Chipped each at a crust like Hindoos, For air, looked out on the tiles, For fun watched each other's windows. You lounged, like a boy of the South, Cap and blouse--nay, a bit of beard too; Or you got it rubbing your mouth With fingers the clay adhered to. And I--soon managed to find Weak points in the flower-fence facing, Was forced to put up a blind And be safe in my corset-lacing. No harm! It was not my fault If you never turned your eyes' tail up, As I shook upon E _in alt._, Or ran the chromatic scale up: For spring bade the sparrows pair, And the boys and girls gave guesses, And stalls in our streets looked rare With bulrush and watercresses. Why did not you pinch a flower In a pellet of clay and fling it? Why did I not put a power Of thanks in a look, or sing it? I did look, sharp as a lynx, (And yet the memory rankles,) When models arrived, some minx Tripped up-stairs, she and her ankles. But I think I gave you as good! "That foreign fellow--who can know How she pays, in a playful mood, For his tuning her that piano?" Could you say so, and never say, "Suppose we join hands and fortunes, And I fetch her from over the way, Her, piano, and long tunes and short tunes?" No, no; you would not be rash, Nor I rasher and something over: You've to settle yet Gibson's hash, And Grisi yet lives in clover. But you meet the Prince at the Board, I'm queen myself at _bals-paré_, I've married a rich old lord, And you're dubbed knight and an R. A. Each life's unfulfilled, you see; It hangs still, patchy and scrappy: We have not sighed deep, laughed free, Starved, feasted, despaired--been happy. And nobody calls you a dunce, And people suppose me clever: This could but have happened once, And we missed it, lost it forever. _Robert Browning._ BACHELOR'S DREAM My pipe is lit, my grog is mixed, My curtains drawn and all is snug; Old Puss is in her elbow-chair, And Tray is sitting on the rug. Last night I had a curious dream, Miss Susan Bates was Mistress Mogg-- What d'ye think of that, my cat? What d'ye think of that, my dog? She looked so fair, she sang so well, I could but woo and she was won; Myself in blue, the bride in white, The ring was placed, the deed was done! Away we went in chaise-and-four. As fast as grinning boys could flog-- What d'ye think of that, my cat? What d'ye think of that, my dog? At times we had a spar, and then Mamma must mingle in the song-- The sister took a sister's part-- The maid declared her master wrong-- The parrot learned to call me "Fool!" My life was like a London fog-- What d'ye think of that, my cat? What d'ye think of that, my dog? My Susan's taste was superfine, As proved by bills that had no end; _I_ never had a decent coat-- _I_ never had a coin to spend! She forced me to resign my club, Lay down my pipe, retrench my grog-- What d'ye think of that, my cat? What d'ye think of that, my dog? Each Sunday night we gave a rout To fops and flirts, a pretty list; And when I tried to steal away, I found my study full of whist! Then, first to come, and last to go, There always was a Captain Hogg-- What d'ye think of that, my cat? What d'ye think of that, my dog? Now was not that an awful dream For one who single is and snug-- With Pussy in the elbow chair, And Tray reposing on the rug?-- If I must totter down the hill, 'Tis safest done without a clog-- What d'ye think of that, my cat? What d'ye think of that, my dog? _Thomas Hood._ ALL THINGS EXCEPT MYSELF I KNOW I know when milk does flies contain; I know men by their bravery; I know fair days from storm and rain; And what fruit apple-trees supply; And from their gums the trees descry; I know when all things smoothly flow; I know who toil or idle lie; All things except myself I know. I know the doublet by the grain; The monk beneath the hood can spy; Master from man can ascertain; I know the nun's veiled modesty; I know when sportsmen fables ply; Know fools who creams and dainties stow; Wine from the butt I certify; All things except myself I know. Know horse from mule by tail and mane; I know their worth or high or low; Bell, Beatrice, I know the twain; I know each chance of cards and dice; I know what visions prophesy, Bohemian heresies, I trow; I know men of each quality; All things except myself I know. ENVOY Prince, I know all things 'neath the sky, Pale cheeks from those of rosy glow; I know death whence can no man fly; All things except myself I know. _François Villon._ THE JOYS OF MARRIAGE How uneasy is his life, Who is troubled with a wife! Be she ne'er so fair or comely, Be she ne'er so foul or homely, Be she ne'er so young and toward, Be she ne'er so old and froward, Be she kind, with arms enfolding, Be she cross, and always scolding, Be she blithe or melancholy, Have she wit, or have she folly, Be she wary, be she squandering, Be she staid, or be she wandering, Be she constant, be she fickle, Be she fire, or be she ickle; Be she pious or ungodly, Be she chaste, or what sounds oddly: Lastly, be she good or evil, Be she saint, or be she devil,-- Yet, uneasy is his life Who is married to a wife. _Charles Cotton._ THE THIRD PROPOSITION If I were thine, I'd fail not of endeavour The loftiest, To make thy daily life, now and forever, Supremely blest-- I'd watch thy moods, I'd toil and wait, with yearning, Incessant incense at thy dear shrine burning, If I were thine. If thou wert mine, quite changed would be these features. Then, I suspect, Thou wouldst the humblest prove of loving creatures, And not object To do the very things I am declaring I'd undertake for _thee_, with selfless daring, If thou wert mine. If we were ours? And now, here comes the riddle! How would that work? I'm sure _you'd_ never stoop to second fiddle, And--I might shirk The part of serf. And, likewise, each might neither Be willing slave or servitor of either, If we were ours! _Madeline Bridges._ THE BALLAD OF CASSANDRA BROWN Though I met her in the summer, when one's heart lies round at ease, As it were in tennis costume, and a man's not hard to please, Yet I think that any season to have met her was to love, While her tones, unspoiled, unstudied, had the softness of the dove. At request she read us poems in a nook among the pines, And her artless voice lent music to the least melodious lines; Though she lowered her shadowing lashes, in an earnest reader's wise, Yet we caught blue, gracious glimpses of the heavens which were her eyes. As in paradise I listened--ah, I did not understand That a little cloud, no larger than the average human hand, Might, as stated oft in fiction, spread into a sable pall, When she said that she should study Elocution in the fall! I admit her earliest efforts were not in the Ercles vein; She began with "Little Maaybel, with her faayce against the payne And the beacon-light a-t-r-r-remble"--which, although it made me wince, Is a thing of cheerful nature to the things she's rendered since. Having heard the Soulful Quiver, she acquired the Melting Mo-o-an, And the way she gave "Young Grayhead" would have liquefied a stone. Then the Sanguinary Tragic did her energies employ, And she tore my taste to tatters when she slew "The Polish Boy." It's not pleasant for a fellow when the jewel of his soul Wades through slaughter on the carpet, while her orbs in frenzy roll; What was I that I should murmur? Yet it gave me grievous pain That she rose in social gatherings, and Searched among the Slain. I was forced to look upon her in my desperation dumb, Knowing well that when her awful opportunity was come She would give us battle, murder, sudden death at very least, As a skeleton of warning, and a blight upon the feast. Once, ah! once I fell a-dreaming; some one played a polonaise I associated strongly with those happier August days; And I mused, "I'll speak this evening," recent pangs forgotten quite-- Sudden shrilled a scream of anguish: "Curfew shall not ring to-night!" Ah, that sound was as a curfew, quenching rosy, warm romance-- Were it safe to wed a woman one so oft would wish in France? Oh, as she "cul-limbed" that ladder, swift my mounting hope came down, I am still a single cynic; she is still Cassandra Brown! _Helen Gray Cone._ WHAT'S IN A NAME? In letters large upon the frame, That visitors might see, The painter placed his humble name: _O'Callaghan McGee_. And from Beersheba unto Dan, The critics with a nod Exclaimed: "This painting Irishman Adores his native sod. "His stout heart's patriotic flame There's naught on earth can quell; He takes no wild romantic name To make his pictures sell!" Then poets praise in sonnets neat His stroke so bold and free; No parlour wall was thought complete That hadn't a McGee. All patriots before McGee Threw lavishly their gold; His works in the Academy Were very quickly sold. His "Digging Clams at Barnegat," His "When the Morning smiled," His "Seven Miles from Ararat," His "Portrait of a Child," Were purchased in a single day And lauded as divine.-- * * * * * That night as in his _atelier_ The artist sipped his wine, And looked upon his gilded frames, He grinned from ear to ear:-- "They little think my _real_ name's V. Stuyvesant De Vere!" _R. K. Munkittrick._ TOO LATE "_Ah! si la jeunesse savait_,--_si la vieillesse pouvait_!" There sat an old man on a rock, And unceasing bewailed him of Fate,-- That concern where we all must take stock, Though our vote has no hearing or weight; And the old man sang him an old, old song,-- Never sang voice so clear and strong That it could drown the old man's for long, For he sang the song "Too late! too late!" When we want, we have for our pains The promise that if we but wait Till the want has burned out of our brains, Every means shall be present to state; While we send for the napkin the soup gets cold, While the bonnet is trimming the face grows old, When we've matched our buttons the pattern is sold And everything comes too late,--too late! "When strawberries seemed like red heavens,-- Terrapin stew a wild dream,-- When my brain was at sixes and sevens, If my mother had 'folks' and ice cream, Then I gazed with a lickerish hunger At the restaurant man and fruit-monger,-- But oh! how I wished I were younger When the goodies all came in a stream! in a stream! "I've a splendid blood horse, and--a liver That it jars into torture to trot; My row-boat's the gem of the river,-- Gout makes every knuckle a knot! I can buy boundless credits on Paris and Rome, But no palate for _ménus_,--no eyes for a dome,-- _Those_ belonged to the youth who must tarry at home, When no home but an attic he'd got,--he'd got! "How I longed, in that lonest of garrets, Where the tiles baked my brains all July, For ground to grow two pecks of carrots, Two pigs of my own in a sty, A rosebush,--a little thatched cottage,-- Two spoons--love--a basin of pottage!-- Now in freestone I sit,--and my dotage,-- With a woman's chair empty close by, close by! "Ah! now, though I sit on a rock, I have shared one seat with the great; I have sat--knowing naught of the clock-- On love's high throne of state; But the lips that kissed, and the arms that caressed, To a mouth grown stern with delay were pressed, And circled a breast that their clasp had blessed, Had they only not come too late,--too late!" _Fitz Hugh Ludlow._ THE ANNUITY I gaed to spend a week in Fife-- An unco week it proved to be-- For there I met a waesome wife Lamentin' her viduity. Her grief brak out sae fierce and fell, I thought her heart wad burst the shell; And,--I was sae left to mysel',-- I sell't her an annuity. The bargain lookit fair eneugh-- She just was turned o' saxty-three-- I couldna guessed she'd prove sae teugh, By human ingenuity. But years have come, and years have gane, And there she's yet as stieve as stane-- The limmer's growin' young again, Since she got her annuity. She's crined' awa' to bane and skin, But that, it seems, is nought to me; She's like to live--although she's in The last stage o' tenuity. She munches wi' her wizen'd gums, An' stumps about on legs o' thrums; But comes, as sure as Christmas comes, To ca' for her annuity. I read the tables drawn wi' care For an insurance company; Her chance o' life was stated there, Wi' perfect perspicuity. But tables here or tables there, She's lived ten years beyond her share, An' 's like to live a dozen mair, To ca' for her annuity. Last Yule she had a fearfu' host, I thought a kink might set me free-- I led her out, 'mang snaw and frost, Wi' constant assiduity. But deil ma' care--the blast gaed by, And miss'd the auld anatomy-- It just cost me a tooth, for bye Discharging her annuity. If there's a' sough o' cholera, Or typhus,--wha sae gleg as she? She buys up baths, an' drugs, an' a', In siccan superfluity! She doesna need--she's fever proof-- The pest walked o'er her very roof-- She tauld me sae--an' then her loof Held out for her annuity. Ae day she fell, her arm she brak-- A compound fracture as could be-- Nae leech the cure wad undertake, Whate'er was the gratuity. It's cured! She handles 't like a flail-- It does as weel in bits as hale-- But I'm a broken man mysel' Wi' her and her annuity. Her broozled flesh and broken banes Are weel as flesh and banes can be. She beats the taeds that live in stanes, An' fatten in vacuity! They die when they're exposed to air-- They canna thole the atmosphere; But her!--expose her onywhere-- She lives for her annuity. If mortal means could nick her thread, Sma' crime it wad appear to me; Ca't murder, or ca't homicide, I'd justify 't--an' do it tae. But how to fell a withered wife That's carved out o' the tree o' life-- The timmer limmer daurs the knife To settle her annuity. I'd try a shot: but whar's the mark?-- Her vital parts are hid frae me; Her backbane wanders through her sark In an unkenn'd corkscrewity. She's palsified--an shakes her head Sae fast about, ye scarce can see; It's past the power o' steel or lead To settle her annuity. She might be drowned--but go she'll not Within a mile o' loch or sea; Or hanged--if cord could grip a throat O' siccan exiguity. It's fitter far to hang the rope-- It draws out like a telescope; 'Twad tak a dreadfu' length o' drop To settle her annuity. Will puzion do't?--It has been tried; But, be't in hash or fricassee, That's just the dish she can't abide, Whatever kind o' gout it hae. It's needless to assail her doubts, She gangs by instinct, like the brutes, An' only eats an' drinks what suits Hersel' and her annuity. The Bible says the age o' man Threescore and ten, perchance, may be; She's ninety-four. Let them who can, Explain the incongruity. She should hae lived afore the flood-- She's come o' patriarchal blood, She's some auld Pagan mummified Alive for her annuity. She's been embalmed inside and oot-- She's sauted to the last degree-- There's pickle in her very snoot Sae caper-like an' cruety. Lot's wife was fresh compared to her-- They've kyanized the useless knir, She canna decompose--nae mair Than her accursed annuity. The water-drop wears out the rock, As this eternal jaud wears me; I could withstand the single shock, But not the continuity. It's pay me here, an' pay me there, An' pay me, pay me, evermair-- I'll gang demented wi' despair-- I'm charged for her annuity. _George Outram._ K. K.--CAN'T CALCULATE What poor short-sighted worms we be; For we can't calculate, With any sort of sartintee, What is to be our fate. These words Prissilla's heart did reach, And caused her tears to flow, When first she heard the Elder preach, About six months ago. How true it is what he did state, And thus affected her, That nobody can't calculate What is a-gwine to occur. When we retire, can't calculate But what afore the morn Our housen will conflaggerate, And we be left forlorn. Can't calculate when we come in From any neighborin' place, Whether we'll ever go out agin To look on natur's face. Can't calculate upon the weather, It always changes so; Hain't got no means of telling whether It's gwine to rain or snow. Can't calculate with no precision On naught beneath the sky; And so I've come to the decision That't ain't worth while to try. _Frances M. Whitcher._ NORTHERN FARMER NEW STYLE Dosn't thou 'ear my 'erse's legs, as they canters awaäy? Proputty, proputty, proputty--that's what I 'ears 'em saäy. Proputty, proputty, proputty--Sam, thou's an ass for thy paaïns: Theer's moor sense i' one o' 'is legs nor in all thy braaïns. Woä--theer's a craw to pluck wi' tha, Sam: yon's parson's 'ouse-- Dosn't thou knaw that a man mun be eäther a man or a mouse? Time to think on it, then; for thou'll be twenty to weeäk. Proputty, proputty--woä then, woä--let ma 'ear mysén speäk. Me an' thy muther, Sammy, 'as beän a-talkin' o' thee; Thou's been talkin' to muther, an' she beän a-tellin' it me. Thou'll not marry for munny--thou's sweet upo' parson's lass-- Noä--thou'll marry for luvv--an' we boäth of us thinks tha an ass. Seeä'd her to-daäy goä by--Saäint's-daäy--they was ringing the bells. She's a beauty, thou thinks--an' soä is scoors o' gells. Them as 'as munny an' all--wot's a beauty?--the flower as blaws. But proputty, proputty sticks, an' proputty, proputty graws. Do'ant be stunt: taäke time: I knaws what maäkes tha sa mad. Warn't I craäzed fur the lasses mysén when I wur a lad? But I knaw'd a Quaäker feller as often 'as towd ma this: "Do'ant thou marry for munny, but goä wheer munny is!" An' I went wheer munny war: an' thy mother coom to 'and, Wi' lots o' munny laaïd by, an' a nicetish hit o' land. Maäybe she warn't a beauty: I niver giv it a thowt-- But warn't she as good to cuddle an' kiss as a lass as 'ant nowt? Parson's lass 'ant nowt, an' she weänt 'a nowt when 'e's deäd, Mun be a guvness, lad, or summut, and addle her breäd: Why? fur 'e's nobbut a curate, an' weänt niver git naw 'igher; An' 'e's maäde the bed as 'e ligs on afoor 'e coom'd to the shire. An' thin 'e coom'd to the parish wi' lots o' 'Varsity debt, Stook to his taäil they did, an' 'e 'ant got shut on 'em yet. An' 'e ligs on 'is back i' the grip, wi noän to lend 'im a shove, Woorse nor a far-welter'd yowe: fur, Sammy, 'e married fur luvv. Luvv? what's luvv? thou can luvv thy lass an' 'er munny too, Maäkin' 'em goä togither, as they've good right to do. Couldn't I luvv thy muther by cause o' 'er munny laaïd by? Naäy--for I luvv'd her a vast sight moor fur it: reäson why. Ay, an' thy muther says thou wants to marry the lass, Cooms of a gentleman burn; an' we boäth on us thinks tha an ass. Woä then, proputty, wiltha?--an ass as near as mays nowt-- Woä then, wiltha? dangtha!--the bees is as fell as owt. Breäk me a bit o' the esh for his 'eäd, lad, out o' the fence! Gentleman burn! What's gentleman burn? Is it shillins an' pence? Proputty, proputty's ivrything 'ere, an', Sammy, I'm blest If it isn't the saäme oop yonder, fur them as 'as it's the best. 'Tisn' them as 'as munny as breäks into 'ouses an' steäls, Them as 'as coöts to their backs an 'taäkes their regular meäls. Noä, but it's them as niver knaws wheer a meäl's to be 'ad. Taäke my word for it, Sammy, the poor in a loomp is bad. Them or thir feythers, tha sees, mun 'a beän a laäzy lot. Fur work mun 'a gone to the gittin' whiniver munny was got. Feyther 'ad ammost nowt; leästways 'is munny was 'id. But 's tued an' moil'd 'issén deäd, an' 'e died a good un, 'e did. Looök thou theer wheer Wrigglesby beck cooms out by the 'ill! Feyther run oop to the farm, an' I runs oop to the mill; An' I'll run oop to the brig, an' that thou'll live to see; And if thou marries a good un I'll leäve the land to thee. Thim's my noätions, Sammy, wheerby I meäns to stick; But if 'thou marries a bad un, I'll leäve the land to Dick.-- Coom oop, proputty, proputty--that's what I 'ears 'im saäy-- Proputty, proputty, proputty--canter an' canter awaäy. _Lord Tennyson._ FIN DE SIÉCLE Life is a gift that most of us hold dear: I never asked the spiteful gods to grant it; Held it a bore--in short; and now it's here, I do not want it. Thrust into life, I eat, smoke, drink, and sleep, My mind's a blank I seldom care to question; The only faculty I active keep Is my digestion. Like oyster on his rock, I sit and jest At others' dreams of love or fame or pelf, Discovering but a languid interest Even in myself. An oyster: ah! beneath the quiet sea To know no care, no change, no joy, no pain, The warm salt water gurgling into me And out again. While some in life's old roadside inns at ease Sit careless, all unthinking of the score Mine host chalks up in swift unseen increase Behind the door; Bound like Ixion on life's torture-wheel, I whirl inert in pitiless gyration, Loathing it all; the one desire I feel, Annihilation! _Unknown._ THEN AG'IN Jim Bowker, he said, ef he'd had a fair show, And a big enough town for his talents to grow, And the least bit assistance in hoein' his row, Jim Bowker, he said, He'd filled the world full of the sound of his name, An' clim the top round in the ladder of fame. It may have been so; I dunno; Jest so, it might been, Then ag'in-- But he had tarnal luck--eyerythin' went ag'in him, The arrers of fortune they allus' 'ud pin him; So he didn't get no chance to show off what was in him. Jim Bowker, he said, Ef he'd had a fair show, you couldn't tell where he'd come, An' the feats he'd a-done, an' the heights he'd a-clum-- It may have been so; I dunno; Jest so, it might been, Then ag'in-- But we're all like Jim Bowker, thinks I, more or less-- Charge fate for our bad luck, ourselves for success, An' give fortune the blame for all our distress, As Jim Bowker, he said, Ef it hadn't been for luck an' misfortune an' sich, We might a-been famous, an' might a-been rich. It might be jest so; I dunno; Jest so, it might been, Then ag'in-- _Sam Walter Foss._ THE PESSIMIST Nothing to do but work, Nothing to eat but food, Nothing to wear but clothes, To keep one from going nude. Nothing to breathe but air, Quick as a flash 't is gone; Nowhere to fall but off, Nowhere to stand but on. Nothing to comb but hair, Nowhere to sleep but in bed, Nothing to weep but tears, Nothing to bury but dead. Nothing to sing but songs, Ah, well, alas! alack! Nowhere to go but out, Nowhere to come but back. Nothing to see but sights, Nothing to quench but thirst, Nothing to have but what we've got Thus through life we are cursed. Nothing to strike but a gait; Everything moves that goes. Nothing at all but common sense Can ever withstand these woes. _Ben King._ WITHOUT AND WITHIN My coachman, in the moonlight there, Looks through the side-light of the door; I hear him with his brethren swear, As I could do,--but only more. Flattening his nose against the pane, He envies me my brilliant lot, Breathes on his aching fist in vain, And dooms me to a place more hot. He sees me in to supper go, A silken wonder by my side, Bare arms, bare shoulders, and a row Of flounces, for the door too wide. He thinks how happy is my arm, 'Neath its white-gloved and jewelled load; And wishes me some dreadful harm, Hearing the merry corks explode. Meanwhile I inly curse the bore Of hunting still the same old coon, And envy him, outside the door, The golden quiet of the moon. The winter wind is not so cold As the bright smile he sees me win, Nor the host's oldest wine so old As our poor gabble, sour and thin. I envy him the rugged prance By which his freezing feet he warms, And drag my lady's chains, and dance, The galley-slave of dreary forms. Oh, could he have my share of din, And I his quiet--past a doubt 'Twould still be one man bored within, And just another bored without. _James Russell Lowell._ SAME OLD STORY History, and nature, too, repeat themselves, they say; Men are only habit's slaves; we see it every day. Life has done its best for me--I find it tiresome still; For nothing's everything at all, and everything is nil. Same old get-up, dress, and tub; Same old breakfast; same old club; Same old feeling; same old blue; Same old story--nothing new! Life consists of paying bills as long as you have health; Woman? She'll be true to you--as long as you have wealth; Think sometimes of marriage, if the right girl I could strike; But the more I see of girls, the more they are alike. Same old giggles, smiles, and eyes; Same old kisses; same old sighs; Same old chaff you; same adieu; Same old story--nothing new! Go to theatres sometimes to see the latest plays; Same old plots I played with in my happy childhood's days; Hero, same; same villain; and same heroine in tears, Starving, homeless, in the snow--with diamonds in her ears. Same stern father making "bluffs"; Leading man all teeth and cuffs; Same soubrettes, still twenty-two; Same old story--nothing new! Friend of mine got married; in a year or so, a boy! Father really foolish in his fond paternal joy; Talked about that "kiddy," and became a dreadful bore-- Just as if a baby never had been born before. Same old crying, only more; Same old business, walking floor; Same old "kitchy--coochy--coo!" Same old baby--nothing new! _Harry B. Smith._ VI EPIGRAMS WOMAN'S WILL Men, dying, make their wills, but wives Escape a work so sad; Why should they make what all their lives The gentle dames have had? _John G. Saxe._ CYNICUS TO W. SHAKESPEARE You wrote a line too much, my sage, Of seers the first, and first of sayers; For only half the world's a stage, And only all the women players. _James Kenneth Stephen._ SENEX TO MATT. PRIOR Ah! Matt, old age has brought to me Thy wisdom, less thy certainty; The world's a jest, and joy's a trinket; I knew that once,--but now I think it. _James Kenneth Stephen._ TO A BLOCKHEAD You beat your pate, and fancy wit will come: Knock as you please, there's nobody at home. _Alexander Pope._ THE FOOL AND THE POET Sir, I admit your general rule, That every poet is a fool, But you yourself may serve to show it, That every fool is not a poet. _Alexander Pope._ A RHYMESTER Jem writes his verses with more speed Than the printer's boy can set 'em; Quite as fast as we can read, And only not so fast as we forget 'em. _Samuel Taylor Coleridge._ GILES'S HOPE What? rise again with _all_ one's bones, Quoth Giles, I hope you fib: I trusted, when I went to Heaven, To go without my rib. _Samuel Taylor Coleridge._ COLOGNE In Köln, a town of monks and bones, And pavements fanged with murderous stones, And rags, and hags, and hideous wenches, I counted two-and-seventy stenches, All well defined, and separate stinks! Ye nymphs that reign o'er sewers and sinks, The river Rhine, it is well known, Doth wash your city of Cologne; But tell me, nymphs, what power divine Shall henceforth wash the river Rhine? _Samuel Taylor Coleridge._ AN ETERNAL POEM Your poem must _eternal_ be, Dear sir, it can not fail, For 'tis incomprehensible, And wants both _head_ and _tail_. _Samuel Taylor Coleridge._ ON A BAD SINGER Swans sing before they die:--'twere no bad thing, Should certain persons die before they sing. _Samuel Taylor Coleridge._ JOB Sly Beelzebub took all occasions To try Job's constancy and patience. He took his honor, took his health; He took his children, took his wealth, His servants, horses, oxen, cows,-- But cunning Satan did _not_ take his spouse. But Heaven, that brings out good from evil, And loves to disappoint the devil, Had predetermined to restore _Twofold_ all he had before; His servants, horses, oxen, cows-- Short-sighted devil, _not_ to take his spouse! _Samuel Taylor Coleridge._ REASONS FOR DRINKING If all be true that I do think, There are five reasons we should drink; Good wine--a friend--or being dry-- Or lest we should be by and by-- Or any other reason why. _Dr. Henry Aldrich._ SMATTERERS All smatterers are more brisk and pert Than those that understand an art; As little sparkles shine more bright Than glowing coals, that give them light. _Samuel Butler._ HYPOCRISY Hypocrisy will serve as well To propagate a church, as zeal; As persecution and promotion Do equally advance devotion: So round white stones will serve, they say, As well as eggs to make hens lay. _Samuel Butler._ TO DOCTOR EMPIRIC When men a dangerous disease did 'scape, Of old, they gave a cock to Æsculape; Let me give two, that doubly am got free; From my disease's danger, and from thee. _Ben Jonson._ A REMEDY WORSE THAN THE DISEASE I sent for Ratcliffe; was so ill, That other doctors gave me over: He felt my pulse, prescribed his pill, And I was likely to recover. But when the wit began to wheeze, And wine had warm'd the politician, Cured yesterday of my disease, I died last night of my physician. _Matthew Prior._ A WIFE Lord Erskine, at women presuming to rail, Calls a wife "a tin canister tied to one's tail"; And fair Lady Anne, while the subject he carries on, Seems hurt at his Lordship's degrading comparison. But wherefore degrading? consider'd aright, A canister's useful, and polish'd, and bright: And should dirt its original purity hide, That's the fault of the puppy to whom it is tied. _Richard Brinsley Sheridan._ THE HONEY-MOON The honey-moon is very strange. Unlike all other moons the change She regularly undergoes. She rises at the full; then loses Much of her brightness; then reposes Faintly; and then ... has naught to lose. _Walter Savage Landor._ DIDO IMPROMPTU EPIGRAM ON THE LATIN GERUNDS When Dido found Æneas would not come, She mourn'd in silence, and was _Di-do-dum(b)_. _Richard Parson._ AN EPITAPH A lovely young lady I mourn in my rhymes: She was pleasant, good-natured, and civil sometimes. Her figure was good: she had very fine eyes, And her talk was a mixture of foolish and wise. Her adorers were many, and one of them said, "She waltzed rather well! It's a pity she's dead!" _George John Cayley._ ON TAKING A WIFE "Come, come," said Tom's father, "at your time of life, There's no longer excuse for thus playing the rake.-- It is time you should think, boy, of taking a wife."-- "Why, so it is, father,--whose wife shall I take?" _Thomas Moore._ UPON BEING OBLIGED TO LEAVE A PLEASANT PARTY FROM THE WANT OF A PAIR OF BREECHES TO DRESS FOR DINNER IN Between Adam and me the great difference is, Though a paradise each has been forced to resign, That he never wore breeches till turn'd out of his, While, for want of my breeches, I'm banish'd from mine. _Thomas Moore._ SOME LADIES Some ladies now make pretty songs, And some make pretty nurses; Some men are great at righting wrongs And some at writing verses. _Frederick Locker-Lampson._ ON A SENSE OF HUMOUR He cannot be complete in aught Who is not humorously prone; A man without a merry thought Can hardly have a funny-bone. _Frederick Locker-Lampson._ ON HEARING A LADY PRAISE A CERTAIN REV. DOCTOR'S EYES I cannot praise the Doctor's eyes; I never saw his glance divine; He always shuts them when he prays, And when he preaches he shuts mine. _George Outram._ EPITAPH INTENDED FOR HIS WIFE Here lies my wife: here let her lie! Now she's at rest, and so am I. _John Dryden._ TO A CAPRICIOUS FRIEND IMITATED FROM MARTIAL In all thy humors, whether grave or mellow, Thou 'rt such a touchy, testy, pleasant fellow; Hast so much wit, and mirth, and spleen about thee, There is no living with thee, nor without thee. _Joseph Addison._ WHICH IS WHICH "God bless the King! God bless the faith's defender! God bless--no harm in blessing--the Pretender. But who pretender is, and who is king, God bless us all, that's quite another thing." _John Byrom._ ON A FULL-LENGTH PORTRAIT OF BEAU MARSH PLACED BETWEEN THE BUSTS OF NEWTON AND POPE "Immortal Newton never spoke More truth than here you'll find; Nor Pope himself e'er penn'd a joke More cruel on mankind. "The picture placed the busts between, Gives satire all its strength; Wisdom and Wit are little seen-- But Folly at full length." _Lord Chesterfield._ ON SCOTLAND "Had Cain been Scot, God would have changed his doom; Nor forced him wander, but confined him home." _Cleveland._ MENDAX See yonder goes old Mendax, telling lies To that good easy man with whom he's walking; How know I that? you ask, with some surprise; Why, don't you see, my friend, the fellow's talking. _Lessing._ TO A SLOW WALKER AND QUICK EATER So slowly you walk, and so quickly you eat, You should march with your mouth, and devour with your feet. _Lessing._ WHAT'S MY THOUGHT LIKE? _Quest._--Why is a Pump like Viscount Castlereagh? _Answ._--Because it is a slender thing of wood, That up and down its awkward arm doth sway, And coolly spout, and spout, and spout away, In one weak, washy, everlasting flood! _Thomas Moore._ OF ALL THE MEN Of all the men one meets about, There's none like Jack--he's everywhere: At church--park--auction--dinner--rout-- Go when and where you will, he's there. Try the West End, he's at your back-- Meets you, like Eurus, in the East-- You're call'd upon for "How do, Jack?" One hundred times a day, at least. A friend of his one evening said, As home he took his pensive way, "Upon my soul, I fear Jack's dead-- I've seen him but three times to-day!" _Thomas Moore._ ON BUTLER'S MONUMENT While Butler, needy wretch, was yet alive, No generous patron would a dinner give. See him, when starved to death and turn'd to dust, Presented with a monumental bust. The poet's fate is here in emblem shown-- He ask'd for _bread_, and he received a _stone_. _Rev. Samuel Wesley._ A CONJUGAL CONUNDRUM Which is of greater value, prythee, say, The Bride or Bridegroom?--must the truth be told? Alas, it must! The Bride is given away-- The Bridegroom's often regularly sold. _Unknown._ VII BURLESQUE LOVERS AND A REFLECTION In moss-prankt dells which the sunbeams flatter (And heaven it knoweth what that may mean; Meaning, however, is no great matter) Where woods are a-tremble with words a-tween; Thro' God's own heather we wonned together, I and my Willie (O love my love): I need hardly remark it was glorious weather, And flitter-bats wavered alow, above: Boats were curtseying, rising, bowing, (Boats in that climate are so polite,) And sands were a ribbon of green endowing, And O the sun-dazzle on bark and bight! Thro' the rare red heather we danced together (O love my Willie,) and smelt for flowers: I must mention again it was glorious weather, Rhymes are so scarce in this world of ours: By rises that flushed with their purple favors, Thro' becks that brattled o'er grasses sheen, We walked or waded, we two young shavers, Thanking our stars we were both so green. We journeyed in parallels, I and Willie, In fortunate parallels! Butterflies, Hid in weltering shadows of daffodilly Or Marjoram, kept making peacock eyes: Song-birds darted about, some inky As coal, some snowy (I ween) as curds; Or rosy as pinks, or as roses pinky-- They reck of no eerie To-come, those birds! But they skim over bents which the mill-stream washes, Or hang in the lift 'neath a white cloud's hem; They need no parasols, no goloshes; And good Mrs. Trimmer she feedeth them. Then we thrid God's cowslips (as erst his heather), That endowed the wan grass with their golden blooms; And snapt--(it was perfectly charming weather)-- Our fingers at Fate and her goddess-glooms: And Willie 'gan sing--(Oh, his notes were fluty; Wafts fluttered them out to the white-winged sea)-- Something made up of rhymes that have done much duty, Rhymes (better to put it) of "ancientry": Bowers of flowers encountered showers In William's carol--(O love my Willie!) Then he bade sorrow borrow from blithe to-morrow I quite forget what--say a daffodilly. A nest in a hollow, "with buds to follow," I think occurred next in his nimble strain; And clay that was "kneaden" of course in Eden-- A rhyme most novel I do maintain: Mists, bones, the singer himself, love-stories, And all least furlable things got furled; Not with any design to conceal their glories, But simply and solely to rhyme with world. O if billows and pillows and hours and flowers, And all the brave rhymes of an elder day, Could be furled together, this genial weather, And carted or carried on wafts away, Nor ever again trotted out--ah me! How much fewer volumes of verse there'd be. _Charles Stuart Calverley._ OUR HYMN At morning's call The small-voiced pug dog welcomes in the sun, And flea-bit mongrels wakening one by one, Give answer all. When evening dim Draws rounds us, then the lovely caterwaul, Tart solo, sour duet and general squall, These are our hymn. _Oliver Wendell Holmes._ "SOLDIER, REST!" A Russian sailed over the blue Black Sea Just when the war was growing hot, And he shouted, "I'm Tjalikavakeree-- Karindabrolikanavandorot-- Schipkadirova-- Ivandiszstova-- Sanilik-- Danilik-- Varagobhot!" A Turk was standing upon the shore Right where the terrible Russian crossed; And he cried, "Bismillah! I'm Abd el Kor-- Bazaroukilgonautoskobrosk-- Getzinpravadi-- Kilgekosladji-- Grivido-- Blivido-- Jenikodosk!" So they stood like brave men, long and well, And they called each other their proper names, Till the lockjaw seized them, and where they fell They buried them both by the Irdosholames-- Kalatalustchuk-- Mischaribustchup-- Bulgari-- Dulgari-- Sagharimainz. _Robert J. Burdette._ IMITATION Calm and implacable, Eying disdainfully the world beneath, Sat Humpty-Dumpty on his mural eminence In solemn state: And I relate his story In verse unfettered by the bothering restrictions of rhyme or metre, In verse (or "rhythm," as I prefer to call it) Which, consequently, is far from difficult to write. He sat. And at his feet The world passed on--the surging crowd Of men and women, passionate, turgid, dense, Keenly alert, lethargic, or obese. (Those two lines scan!) Among the rest He noted Jones; Jones with his Roman nose, His eyebrows--the left one streaked with a dash of gray-- And yellow boots. Not that Jones Has anything in particular to do with the story; But a descriptive phrase Like the above shows that the writer is A Master of Realism. Let us proceed. Suddenly from his seat Did Humpty-Dumpty slip. Vainly he clutched The impalpable air. Down and down, Right to the foot of the wall, Right on to the horribly hard pavement that ran beneath it, Humpty-Dumpty, the unfortunate Humpty-Dumpty, Fell. And him, alas! no equine agency, Him no power of regal battalions-- Resourceful, eager, strenuous-- Could ever restore to the lofty eminence Which once was his. Still he lies on the very identical Spot where he fell--lies, as I said on the ground, Shamefully and conspicuously abased! _Anthony C. Deane._ THE MIGHTY MUST Come mighty Must! Inevitable Shall! In thee I trust. Time weaves my coronal! Go mocking Is! Go disappointing Was! That I am this Ye are the cursed cause! Yet humble second shall be first, I ween; And dead and buried be the curst Has Been! Oh weak Might Be! Oh, May, Might, Could, Would, Should! How powerless ye For evil or for good! In every sense Your moods I cheerless call, Whate'er your tense Ye are imperfect, all! Ye have deceived the trust I've shown In ye! Away! The Mighty Must alone Shall be! _W. S. Gilbert._ MIDSUMMER MADNESS A SOLILOQUY I am a hearthrug-- Yes, a rug-- Though I cannot describe myself as snug; Yet I know that for me they paid a price For a Turkey carpet that would suffice (But we live in an age of rascal vice). Why was I ever woven, For a clumsy lout, with a wooden leg, To come with his endless Peg! Peg! Peg! Peg! With a wooden leg, Till countless holes I'm drove in. ("Drove," I have said, and it should be "driven"; A hearthrug's blunders should be forgiven, For wretched scribblers have exercised Such endless bosh and clamour, So improvidently have improvised, That they've utterly ungrammaticised Our ungrammatical grammar). And the coals Burn holes, Or make spots like moles, And my lily-white tints, as black as your hat turn, And the housemaid (a matricide, will-forging slattern), Rolls The rolls From the plate, in shoals, When they're put to warm in front of the coals; And no one with me condoles, For the butter stains on my beautiful pattern. But the coals and rolls, and sometimes soles, Dropp'd from the frying-pan out of the fire. Are nothing to raise my indignant ire, Like the Peg! Peg! Of that horrible man with the wooden leg. This moral spread from me, Sing it, ring it, yelp it-- Never a hearthrug be, That is if you can help it. _Unknown._ MAVRONE ONE OF THOSE SAD IRISH POEMS, WITH NOTES From Arranmore the weary miles I've come; An' all the way I've heard A Shrawn[1] that's kep' me silent, speechless, dumb, Not sayin' any word. An' was it then the Shrawn of Eire,[2] you'll say, For him that died the death on Carrisbool? It was not that; nor was it, by the way, The Sons of Garnim[3] blitherin' their drool; Nor was it any Crowdie of the Shee,[4] Or Itt, or Himm, nor wail of Barryhoo[5] For Barrywhich that stilled the tongue of me. 'Twas but my own heart cryin' out for you Magraw![6] Bulleen, shinnanigan, Boru, Aroon, Machree, Aboo![7] _Arthur Guiterman._ [Footnote 1: A Shrawn is a pure Gaelic noise, something like a groan, more like a shriek, and most like a sigh of longing.] [Footnote 2: Eire was daughter of Carne, King of Connaught. Her lover, Murdh of the Open Hand, was captured by Greatcoat Mackintosh, King of Ulster, on the plain of Carrisbool, and made into soup. Eire's grief on this sad occasion has become proverbial.] [Footnote 3: Garnim was second cousin to Manannan MacLir. His sons were always sad about something. There were twenty-two of them, and they were all unfortunate in love at the same time, just like a chorus at the opera. "Blitherin' their drool" is about the same as "dreeing their weird."] [Footnote 4: The Shee (or "Sidhe," as I should properly spell it if you were not so ignorant) were, as everybody knows, the regular, stand-pat, organization fairies of Erin. The Crowdie was their annual convention, at which they made melancholy sounds. The Itt and Himm were the irregular, or insurgent, fairies. They _never_ got any offices or patronage. See MacAlester, _Polity of the Sidhe of West Meath_, page 985.] [Footnote 5: The Barryhoo is an ancient Celtic bird about the size of a Mavis, with lavender eyes and a black-crape tail. It continually mourns its mate (Barrywhich, feminine form), which has an hereditary predisposition to an early and tragic demise and invariably dies first.] [Footnote 6: Magraw, a Gaelic term of endearment, often heard on the baseball fields of Donnybrook.] [Footnote 7: These last six words are all that tradition has preserved of the original incantation by means of which Irish rats were rhymed to death. Thereby hangs a good Celtic tale, which I should be glad to tell you in this note; but the publishers say that being prosed to death is as bad as being rhymed to death, and that the readers won't stand for any more.] LILIES Lilies, lilies, white lilies and yellow-- Lilies, lilies, purple lilies and golden-- Calla lilies, tiger lilies, lilies of the valley-- Lilies, lilies, lilies-- Bulb, bud and blossom-- What made them lilies? If they were not lilies they would have to be something else, would they not? What was it that made them lilies instead of making them violets or roses or geraniums or petunias? What was it that made you yourself and me myself? What? Alas! I do not know! _Don Marquis._ FOR I AM SAD No usual words can bear the woe I feel, No tralatitions trite give me relief! O Webster! lend me words to voice my grief Bitter as quassia, quass or kumquat peel! For I am sad ... bound on the cosmic wheel, What mad chthonophagy bids slave and chief Through endless cycles bite the earth like beef, By turns each cannibal and each the meal? Turn we to nature Webster, and we see Your whidah bird refuse all strobile fruit, Your tragacanth in tears ooze from the tree ... We hear your flammulated owlets hoot! Turn we to nature, Webster, and we find Few creatures have a quite contented mind. Your koulan there, with dyslogistic snort, Will leave his phacoid food on worts to browse, While glactophorous Himalayan cows The knurled kohl-rabi spurn in uncouth sport; No margay climbs margosa trees; the short Gray mullet drink no mulse, nor house In pibcorns when the youth of Wales carouse ... No tournure doth the toucan's tail contort ... So I am sad! ... and yet, on Summer eves, When xebecs search the whishing scree for whelk, And the sharp sorrel lifts obcordate leaves, And cryptogamous plants fulfil the elk, I see the octopus play with his feet, And find within this sadness something sweet. The thing we like about that poem is its recognition of all the sorrow there is in the universe ... its _unflinching_ recognition, we might say, if we were not afraid of praising our own work too highly ... combined with its happy ending. One feels, upon reading it, that, although everything everywhere is very sad, and all wrong, one has only to have patience and after a while everything everywhere will be quite right and very sweet. No matter how interested one may be in these literary problems, one must cease discussing them at times or one will be late to one's meals. _Don Marquis._ A LITTLE SWIRL OF VERS LIBRE NOT COVERED, STRANGE TO SAY, BY THE PENAL CODE I am numb from world-pain-- I sway most violently as the thoughts course through me, And athwart me, And up and down me-- Thoughts of cosmic matters, Of the mergings of worlds within worlds, And unutterabilities And room-rent, And other tremendously alarming phenomena, Which stab me, Rip me most outrageously; (Without a semblance, mind you, of respect for the Hague Convention's rules governing soul-slitting.) Aye, as with the poniard of the Finite pricking the rainbow-bubble of the Infinite! (Some figure, that!) (Some little rush of syllables, that!)-- And make me--(are you still whirling at my coat-tails, reader?) Make me--ahem, where was I?--oh, yes--make me, In a sudden, overwhelming gust of soul-shattering rebellion, Fall flat on my face! _Thomas R. Ybarra._ YOUNG LOCHINVAR THE TRUE STORY IN BLANK VERSE Oh! young Lochinvar has come out of the West, Thro' all the wide border his horse has no equal, Having cost him forty-five dollars at the market, Where good nags, fresh from the country, With burrs still in their tails are selling For a song; and save his good broad sword He weapon had none, except a seven-shooter Or two, a pair of brass knuckles, and an Arkansaw Toothpick in his boot, so, comparatively speaking, He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone, Because there was no one going his way. He stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for Toll-gates; he swam the Eske River where ford There was none, and saved fifteen cents In ferriage, but lost his pocket-book, containing Seventeen dollars and a half, by the operation. Ere he alighted at the Netherby mansion He stopped to borrow a dry suit of clothes, And this delayed him considerably, so when He arrived the bride had consented--the gallant Came late--for a laggard in love and a dastard in war Was to wed the fair Ellen, and the guests had assembled. So, boldly he entered the Netherby Hall Among bridesmen and kinsmen and brothers and Brothers-in-law and forty or fifty cousins; Then spake the bride's father, his hand on his sword (For the poor craven bridegroom ne'er opened his head) "Oh, come ye in peace here, or come ye in anger, Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?" "I long wooed your daughter, and she will tell you I have the inside track in the free-for-all For her affections! my suit you denied; but let That pass, while I tell you, old fellow, that love Swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide, And now I am come with this lost love of mine To lead but one measure, drink one glass of beer; There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far That would gladly be bride to yours very truly." The bride kissed the goblet, the knight took it up, He quaffed off the nectar and threw down the mug, Smashing it into a million pieces, while He remarked that he was the son of a gun From Seven-up and run the Number Nine. She looked down to blush, but she looked up again For she well understood the wink in his eye; He took her soft hand ere her mother could Interfere, "Now tread we a measure; first four Half right and left; swing," cried young Lochinvar. One touch to her hand and one word in her ear, When they reached the hall door and the charger Stood near on three legs eating post hay; So light to the croup the fair lady he swung, Then leaped to the saddle before her. "She is won! we are gone! over bank, bush, and spar, They'll have swift steeds that follow"--but in the Excitement of the moment he had forgotten To untie the horse, and the poor brute could Only gallop in a little circus around the Hitching-post; so the old gent collared The youth and gave him the awfullest lambasting That was ever heard of on Canobie Lee; So dauntless in war and so daring in love, Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar? _Unknown._ IMAGISTE LOVE LINES I love my lady with a deep purple love; She fascinates me like a fly Struggling in a pot of glue. Her eyes are grey, like twin ash-cans, Just emptied, about which still hovers A dainty mist. Her disposition is as bright as a ten-cent shine, Yet her kisses are tender and goulashy. I love my lady with a deep purple love. _Unknown._ BYGONES Or ever a lick of Art was done, Or ever a one to care, I was a Purple Polygon, And you were a Sky-Blue Square. You yearned for me across a void, For I lay in a different plane, I'd set my heart on a Red Rhom_boid_, And your sighing was in vain. You pined for me as well I knew, And you faded day by day, Until the Square that was heavenly Blue, Had paled to an ashen grey. A myriad years or less or more, Have softly fluttered by, Matters are much as they were before, Except 'tis I that sigh. I yearn for you, but I have no chance, You lie in a different plane, I break my heart for a single glance, And I break said heart in vain. And ever I grow more pale and wan, And taste your old despair, When I was a Purple Polygon, And you were a Sky-Blue Square. _Bert Leston Taylor._ JUSTICE TO SCOTLAND AN UNPUBLISHED POEM BY BURNS O mickle yeuks the keckle doup, An' a' unsicker girns the graith, For wae and wae! the crowdies loup O'er jouk an' hallan, braw an' baith Where ance the coggie hirpled fair, And blithesome poortith toomed the loof, There's nae a burnie giglet rare But blaws in ilka jinking coof. The routhie bield that gars the gear Is gone where glint the pawky een. And aye the stound is birkin lear Where sconnered yowies wheeped yestreen, The creeshie rax wi' skelpin' kaes Nae mair the howdie bicker whangs, Nor weanies in their wee bit claes Glour light as lammies wi' their sangs. Yet leeze me on my bonny byke! My drappie aiblins blinks the noo, An' leesome luve has lapt the dyke Forgatherin' just a wee bit fou. And Scotia! while thy rantin' lunt Is mirk and moop with gowans fine, I'll stowlins