The Book of Humorous Verse
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Title: The Book of Humorous Verse
Editor: Carolyn Wells
Release date: December 22, 2007 [eBook #23972]
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/23972
Credits: E-text prepared by Hilary Caws-Elwitt, Huub Bakker, and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team
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E-text prepared by Hilary Caws-Elwitt, Huub Bakker, and the Project
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Transcriber's Note
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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?
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