A Parody Anthology
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Title: A Parody Anthology
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A PARODY ANTHOLOGY ***
ANTHOLOGIES
BY CAROLYN WELLS
PUBLISHED BY CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS
A VERS DE SOCIÉTÉ ANTHOLOGY
A WHIMSEY ANTHOLOGY
A SATIRE ANTHOLOGY
A PARODY ANTHOLOGY
A NONSENSE ANTHOLOGY
Each 16mo, Cloth, $1.50 _net_
A Parody Anthology
BY
CAROLYN WELLS
AUTHOR OF “A NONSENSE ANTHOLOGY”
NEW YORK
CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS
1919
_Copyright, 1904_
BY CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS
Published, September, 1904
[Illustration]
TO
MRS. THEODORE ROOSEVELT
NOTE
ACKNOWLEDGMENT is hereby gratefully made to the publishers of the
various parodies for permission to include them in this compilation.
The parodies from “Diversions of the Echo Club,” by Bayard Taylor, and
Mary and Her Lamb, from “New Waggings of Old Tales,” by Frank Dempster
Sherman, are published by permission of Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin &
Company.
By the courtesy of John Lane are included the parodies of Anthony C.
Deane, from his volume “New Rhymes for Old;” and those of Owen Seaman,
from volumes “In Cap and Bells” and “The Battle of the Bays.”
Bed During Exams is from “Cap and Gown,” published by Messrs. L. C.
Page & Company.
The Golfer’s Rubaiyat, by H. C. Boynton, is from “A Book of American
Humorous Verse,” published by Messrs. Herbert S. Stone & Company.
Staccato to O Le Lupe is from “Last Scenes from Vagabondia,” by Bliss
Carman and Richard Hovey, published by Messrs. Small, Maynard & Company.
The two poems by Ben King are published by Forbes & Co.
The following are published by Charles Scribner’s Sons: Song, from “The
Book of Joyous Children,” by James Whitcomb Riley; Home Sweet Home,
and Imitation, from “Poems” of H. C. Bunner; and Song of a Heart, and
Godiva, from “Overheard in a Garden,” by Oliver Herford.
CONTENTS
AFTER OMAR KHAYYAM PAGE
The Golfer’s Rubaiyat _H. W. Boynton_ 3
An Omar for Ladies _Josephine Daskam Bacon_ 5
The Modern Rubaiyat _Kate Masterson_ 7
Lines Written by Request _Owen Seaman_ 10
The Baby’s Omar _Carolyn Wells_ 12
AFTER CHAUCER
Ye Clerke of ye Wethere _Anonymous_ 14
AFTER SPENSER
A Portrait _John Keats_ 15
AFTER SHAKESPEARE
The Bachelor’s Soliloquy _Anonymous_ 17
Poker _Anonymous_ 18
Toothache _Anonymous_ 19
A Dreary Song _Shirley Brooks_ 20
To the Stall-holders at a Fancy Fair _W. S. Gilbert_ 21
Song _J. W. Riley_ 22
The Whist Player’s Soliloquy _Carolyn Wells_ 23
AFTER WITHER
Answer to Master Wither’s Song _Ben Jonson_ 25
AFTER HERRICK
Song _Oliver Herford_ 27
To Julia Under Lock and Key _Owen Seaman_ 27
AFTER NURSERY RHYMES
An Idyll of Phatte and Leene _Anonymous_ 29
Nursery Song in Pidgin English _Anonymous_ 30
The House that Jack Built _Samuel Taylor Coleridge_ 31
Boston Nursery Rhymes _Rev. Joseph Cook_ 32
A Song of a Heart _Oliver Herford_ 33
The Domicile of John _A. Pope_ 34
Mary and the Lamb _Frank Dempster Sherman_ 37
AFTER WALLER
The Aesthete to the Rose _Punch_ 40
AFTER DRYDEN
Three Blessings _Anonymous_ 41
Oyster Crabs _Carolyn Wells_ 41
AFTER DR. WATTS
The Voice of the Lobster _Lewis Carroll_ 42
The Crocodile _Lewis Carroll_ 43
AFTER GOLDSMITH
When Lovely Woman _Phœbe Cary_ 44
AFTER BURNS
Gaelic Speech _Anonymous_ 45
My Foe _Anonymous_ 46
Rigid Body Sings _J. C. Maxwell_ 48
AFTER CATHERINE FANSHAWE
Cockney Enigma on the Letter H _Horace Mayhew_ 49
AFTER WORDSWORTH
On Wordsworth _Anonymous_ 51
Jacob _Phœbe Cary_ 51
Fragment _Catherine M. Fanshawe_ 52
Jane Smith _Rudyard Kipling_ 54
Only Seven _Henry S. Leigh_ 55
Lucy Lake _Newton Mackintosh_ 57
AFTER SIR WALTER SCOTT
Young Lochinvar _Anonymous_ 58
AFTER COLERIDGE
The Ancient Mariner _Anonymous_ 61
Striking _Charles S. Calverley_ 64
AFTER SOUTHEY
The Old Man’s Cold _Anonymous_ 66
Father William _Lewis Carroll_ 67
Lady Jane _A. T. Quiller-Couch_ 69
AFTER CAMPBELL
The New Arrival _George W. Cable_ 72
John Thompson’s Daughter _Phœbe Cary_ 73
AFTER THOMAS MOORE
The Last Cigar _Anonymous_ 76
’Twas Ever Thus _Anonymous_ 77
There’s a Bower of Bean-Vines _Phœbe Cary_ 78
Disaster _Charles S. Calverley_ 79
Sarah’s Halls _Judy_ 80
’Twas Ever Thus _Henry S. Leigh_ 81
AFTER JANE TAYLOR
The Bat _Lewis Carroll_ 82
AFTER BARRY CORNWALL
The Tea _Tom Hood, Jr._ 83
AFTER BYRON
The Rout of Belgravia _Jon Duan_ 84
A Grievance _J. K. Stephen_ 85
AFTER CHARLES WOLFE
The Burial of the Bachelor _Anonymous_ 88
Not a Sou had He Got _R. Harris Barham_ 89
The Marriage of Sir John Smith _Phœbe Cary_ 91
AFTER MRS. HEMANS
The Thyroid Gland _R. M._ 93
AFTER KEATS
Ode on a Jar of Pickles _Bayard Taylor_ 94
AFTER HEINE
Imitation _H. C. Bunner_ 96
Commonplaces _Rudyard Kipling_ 97
AFTER HOOD
The Dripping Sheet _Anonymous_ 98
I Remember, I Remember _Phœbe Cary_ 101
AFTER ALFRED BUNN
A Yule Tide Parody _Anonymous_ 103
Self-Evident _J. R. Planché_ 104
AFTER LORD MACAULAY
The Laureate’s Tourney _William Aytoun_ 105
AFTER EMERSON
Mutton _Anonymous_ 113
AFTER MARY HOWITT
The Lobster Quadrille _Lewis Carroll_ 114
AFTER MRS. BROWNING
In the Gloaming _Charles S. Calverley_ 116
Gwendoline _Bayard Taylor_ 118
AFTER LONGFELLOW
The Modern Hiawatha _Anonymous_ 120
Higher _Anonymous_ 120
Topside Galah _Anonymous_ 122
Excelsior _Anonymous_ 124
The Day is Done _Phœbe Cary_ 126
A Psalm of Life _Phœbe Cary_ 127
How Often _Ben King_ 129
Desolation _Thomas Masson_ 130
The Birds and the Pheasant _Punch_ 131
AFTER WHITTIER
Hiram Hover _Bayard Taylor_ 133
AFTER MRS. NORTON
The Horse and his Master _Philip F. Allen_ 136
The New Version _W. J. Lampton_ 138
AFTER POE
What Troubled Poe’s Raven _John Bennett_ 139
The Amateur Flute _Anonymous_ 140
Samuel Brown _Phœbe Cary_ 142
The Promissory Note _Bayard Taylor_ 143
The Cannibal Flea _Tom Hood, Jr._ 145
Annabel Lee _Stanley Huntley_ 147
The Bells _Judy_ 148
The Goblin Goose _Punch_ 150
AFTER LORD HOUGHTON
Love and Science _Anonymous_ 153
AFTER TENNYSON
The Bather’s Dirge _Tennyson Minor_ 155
Little Miss Muffet _Anonymous_ 156
The Musical Pitch _Anonymous_ 158
To an Importunate Host _Anonymous_ 158
The Village Choir _Anonymous_ 159
The Biter Bit _William Aytoun_ 161
The Laureate _William Aytoun_ 163
The Lay of the Lovelorn _William Aytoun_ 165
In Immemoriam _Cuthbert Bede_ 174
Sir Eggnogg _Bayard Taylor_ 175
Godiva _Oliver Herford_ 177
A Laureate’s Log _Punch_ 178
The Recognition _Wm. Sawyer_ 180
The Higher Pantheism in a Nutshell _A. C. Swinburne_ 180
Timbuctoo _W. M. Thackeray_ 183
AFTER TUPPER
Of Friendship _Charles S. Calverley_ 185
Of Reading _Charles S. Calverley_ 186
AFTER THACKERAY
The Willow-Tree _W. M. Thackeray_ 188
AFTER CHARLES DICKENS
Man’s Place in Nature _Anonymous_ 191
AFTER ROBERT BROWNING
Home Truths from Abroad _Anonymous_ 193
After Browning _Anonymous_ 194
The Cock and the Bull _Charles S. Calverley_ 195
A Staccato to O Le Lupe _Bliss Carman_ 200
By the Sea _Bayard Taylor_ 203
Angelo Orders his Dinner _Bayard Taylor_ 205
The Flight of the Bucket _Rudyard Kipling_ 206
The Jam Pot _Rudyard Kipling_ 210
Imitation of Robert Browning _J. K. Stephen_ 210
The Last Ride Together _J. K. Stephen_ 212
Up the Spout _A. C. Swinburne_ 215
AFTER WALT WHITMAN
An American, one of the Roughs,
a Kosmos _Anonymous_ 219
Camerados _Bayard Taylor_ 220
Imitation of Whitman _Judy_ 221
Imitation of Whitman _J. K. Stephen_ 224
The Poet and the Woodlouse _A. C. Swinburne_ 224
AFTER CHARLES KINGSLEY
Three Little Fishers _Frank H. Stauffer_ 229
The Three Poets _Lilian Whiting_ 230
AFTER MRS. R. H. STODDARD
The Nettle _Bayard Taylor_ 231
AFTER BAYARD TAYLOR
Hadramaut _Bayard Taylor_ 233
AFTER WILLIAM MORRIS
Estunt the Griff _Rudyard Kipling_ 235
AFTER ALFRED AUSTIN
An Ode _Anthony C. Deane_ 237
AFTER W. S. GILBERT
Ode to a London Fog _Anonymous_ 239
President Garfield _Anonymous_ 240
Propinquity Needed _Charles Battell Loomis_ 241
AFTER R. H. STODDARD
The Cantelope _Bayard Taylor_ 243
AFTER A. A. PROCTOR
The Lost Voice _A. H. S._ 244
The Lost Ape _J. W. G. W._ 245
The Lost Word _C. H. Webb_ 246
AFTER GEORGE MEREDITH
At the Sign of the Cock _Owen Seaman_ 248
AFTER D. G. ROSSETTI
A Christmas Wail _Anonymous_ 252
Ballad _Charles S. Calverley_ 253
Cimabuella _Bayard Taylor_ 255
The Poster Girl _Carolyn Wells_ 257
AFTER JEAN INGELOW
Lovers, and a Reflection _Charles S. Calverley_ 259
The Shrimp Gatherers _Bayard Taylor_ 261
AFTER CHRISTINA ROSSETTI
Remember _Judy_ 263
AFTER LEWIS CARROLL
Waggawocky _Shirley Brooks_ 264
The Vulture and the Husband-Man _A. C. Hilton_ 265
AFTER A. C. SWINBURNE
Gillian _Anonymous_ 268
Atalanta in Camden-town _Lewis Carroll_ 270
The Manlet _Lewis Carroll_ 272
If _Mortimer Collins_ 274
The Maid of the Meerschaum _Rudyard Kipling_ 275
Quaeritur _Rudyard Kipling_ 277
A Melton Mowbray Pork-pie _Richard Le Gallienne_ 278
Foam and Fangs _Walter Parke_ 278
A Song of Renunciation _Owen Seaman_ 279
Nephelidia _A. C. Swinburne_ 282
The Lay of Macaroni _Bayard Taylor_ 284
AFTER BRET HARTE
The Heathen Pass-ee _A. C. Hilton_ 286
De Tea Fabula _A. T. Quiller-Couch_ 289
AFTER AUSTIN DOBSON
The Prodigals _Anonymous_ 292
AFTER ANDREW LANG
Bo-Peep _Anthony C. Deane_ 294
AFTER W. E. HENLEY
Imitation _Anthony C. Deane_ 296
AFTER R. L. STEVENSON
Bed During Exams _Clara Warren Vail_ 298
AFTER OSCAR WILDE
More Impressions _Oscuro Wildgoose_ 299
Nursery Rhymes à la Mode _Anonymous_ 299
A Maudle-In Ballad _Punch_ 300
Quite the Cheese _H. C. Waring_ 302
AFTER WILLIAM WATSON
The Three Mice _Anthony C. Deane_ 304
AFTER KIPLING
Fuzzy Wuzzy Leaves Us _E. P. C._ 305
A Ballad _Guy Wetmore Carryl_ 307
Jack and Jill _Anthony C. Deane_ 309
The Legend of Realism _Hilda Johnson_ 313
AFTER STEPHEN PHILLIPS
Little Jack Horner _Anthony C. Deane_ 315
AFTER FIONA MCLEOD
The Cult of the Celtic _Anthony C. Deane_ 317
AFTER VARIOUS WRITERS OF VERS DE SOCIÉTÉ
Behold the Deeds _H. C. Bunner_ 319
Culture in the Slums _W. E. Henley_ 322
A Ballade of Ballade-Mongers _Augustus Moore_ 322
AFTER VARIOUS POPULAR SONGS
Beautiful Snow _Anonymous_ 324
The Newest Thing in Christmas Carols _Anonymous_ 325
The Tale of Lord Lovell _Anonymous_ 326
“Songs Without Words” _Robert J. Burdette_ 327
The Elderly Gentleman _George Canning_ 328
Turtle Soup _Lewis Carroll_ 329
Some Day _F. P. Doveton_ 329
If I Should Die To-night _Ben King_ 331
A Love Song _Dean Swift_ 331
Old Fashioned Fun _W. M. Thackeray_ 333
THEMES WITH VARIATIONS
Home Sweet Home with Variations _H. C. Bunner_ 334
MODERN VERSIFICATION ON ANCIENT THEMES
Goose à la Mode _E. Cavazza_ 346
Three Children Sliding 346
Jack and Jill _E. Cavazza_ 347
Jack and Jill _Charles Battell Loomis_ 348
The Rejected “National Hymns” _Robert Henry Newell_ 352
A Theme with Variations _Barry Pain_ 356
The Poets at Tea _Barry Pain_ 359
The Poets at a House Party _Carolyn Wells_ 363
An Old Song by New Singers _A. C. Wilkie_ 368
INDEX OF TITLES 375
INDEX OF AUTHORS 385
INDEX OF AUTHORS PARODIED 395
INTRODUCTION
PARODY AS A FINE ART
THE fact that parody has been ably defended by many of the world’s
best minds proves that it is an offensive measure, at least from some
viewpoints. But an analysis of the arguments for and against seems
to show that parody is a true and legitimate branch of art, whose
appreciation depends upon the mental bias of the individual.
To enjoy parody, one must have an intense sense of the humorous and
a humorous sense of the intense; and this, of course, presupposes a
mental attitude of wide tolerance and liberal judgments.
Parodies are not for those who cannot understand that parody is not
necessarily ridicule. Like most other forms of literature, unless the
intent of the writer be thoroughly understood and appreciated, the work
is of little value to the reader.
The defenders of parody have sometimes endeavored to prove that it has
an instructive value, and that it has acted as a reforming influence
against mannerisms and other glaring defects. One enthusiastic
partisan confidently remarks: “It may gently admonish the best and
most established writer, when, from haste, from carelessness, from
over-confidence, he is in danger of forfeiting his reputation; it may
gently lead the tyro, while there is yet time, from the wrong into the
right path.” But this ethical air-castle is rudely shattered by facts,
for what established writer ever changed his characteristic effects as
a result of the parodies upon his works, or what tyro was ever parodied?
It has been said, too, that a good parody makes us love the original
work better; but this statement seems to lack satisfactory proof
except, perhaps, on the principle that a good parody may lead us to
know the original work more thoroughly.
Perhaps the farthest fetched argument of the zealous advocates of
the moral virtues of parody is found in Lord Jeffrey’s review of the
well-known “Rejected Addresses,” where he says, “The imitation lets us
more completely into the secret of the original author, and enables us
to understand far more clearly in what the peculiarity of his manner
consists than most of us would ever have done without this assistance.”
If this be true at all, it is exemplified in very few instances, and
is one of the least of the minor reasons for the existence of a parody.
The main intent of the vast majority of parodies is simply to amuse;
but to amuse intelligently and cleverly. This aim is quite high
enough, and is in no way strengthened or improved by the bolstering up
qualities of avowed virtuous influences.
The requirements of the best parody are in a general way simply the
requirements of the best literature of any sort; but, specifically,
the true parodist requires an exact mental balance, a fine sense of
proportion and relative values, good-humor, refinement, and unerring
taste. Self-control and self-restraint are also needed; a parodist may
go to the very edge, but he must not fall over.
The fact that poor parodies outnumber the good ones in the ratio of
about ten to one (which is not an unusual percentage in any branch of
literature), is because a wide and generous sense of humor is so rarely
found in combination with the somewhat circumscribed quality of good
taste. It is, therefore, on account of the abuse of parody, and not the
use of it, that a defence of the art has been found necessary.
The parody has the sanction of antiquity, and though its absolute
origin is uncertain, and various “Fathers of Parody” have been named,
it is safe to assume that it began with the Greeks. The Romans, too,
indulged in it, and its continuance has been traced all through the
Middle Ages; but these ancient parodies, however acceptable in their
time, are of little interest to us now, save as heirlooms. Their wit
is coarse, their humor heavy; they are usually caustic and often
irreverent.
In the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries the art of parody began to
improve, and during the nineteenth it rose to a height that demanded
recognition from the literary world.
It is interesting to note that the age of English parody was ushered in
by such masterpieces as the “Rolliad” and the “Anti-Jacobin,” followed
by the “Rejected Addresses” and the “Bon Gaultier Ballads.” Later came
Thackeray, Calverley, Swinburne and Lewis Carroll, also Bayard Taylor,
Bret Harte, and Phœbe Cary. More modern still is the work of Rudyard
Kipling, Anthony C. Deane, H. C. Bunner, and Owen Seaman.
Though some of these are classed among the minor poets, they are all
major parodists and approach their work armed at all points.
The casual critic of parodies, as a rule, divides them into two
classes, which, though under various forms of terminology, resolve
themselves into parodies of sound and parodies of sense. But there are
really three great divisions, which may be called “word-rendering,”
“form-rendering,” and “sense-rendering.”
The first, mere word-rendering, is simply an imitation of the original,
and depends for its interest entirely upon the substitution of a
trivial or commonplace motive for a lofty one, and following as nearly
as possible the original words.
Form-rendering is the imitation of the style of an author, preferably
an author given to mannerisms or affectation of some sort. The third
division, sense-rendering, is by far the most meritorious, and utilizes
not only the original writer’s diction and style, but follows a train
of thought precisely along the lines that he would have pursued from
the given premises.
This class of parody is seen at its best in Catherine Fanshawe’s
“Imitation of Wordsworth,” and Calverley’s “The Cock and the Bull.”
But though parodies of this sort are of more serious worth, the other
classes show examples quite as good in their own way.
Lewis Carroll’s immortal parody of Southey’s “Father William” is merely
a burlesque of the word-rendering type, yet it is perfect of its kind
and defies adverse criticism.
Miss Cary was a pioneer of parody in America and one of the few women
writers who have done clever work of this sort. Miss Cary’s parodies
are numerous and uniformly first-class examples of their kind. They are
collected in a small book, now out of print, and are well worth reading.
Of course, parodies which burlesque the actual words of the original
are necessarily parodies of some particular poem, and often not so good
an imitation of the style of the author.
More difficult than the parody of a particular poem is the imitation
or burlesque of the literary style of an author. To accomplish this,
the parodist must be himself a master of style, a student of language,
and possessed of a power of mimicry with an instant appreciation of
opportunities.
“Diversions of the Echo Club,” by Bayard Taylor, are among the best of
this class of parodies. Aside from their cleverness they are marked by
good taste, fairness, justice, and a true poetic instinct.
Naturally, parodies of literary style are founded on the works of those
authors whose individual characteristics invite imitation.
Parody is inevitable where sense is sacrificed to sound, where
affectations of speech are evident, or where unwarrantable extravagance
of any sort is indulged in. This explains the numerous (and usually
worthless) parodies of Walt Whitman.
Swinburne and Browning are often parodied for these (perhaps only
apparent) reasons, and the poets of the æsthetic school of course
offered especially fine opportunities.
Parodies of Rossetti and his followers are often exceedingly funny,
though not at all difficult to write, as the originals both in manner
and matter fairly invite absurd incongruities.
Nursery Rhymes seem to find favor with the parodists as themes to work
upon. A collection of Mother Goose’s Melodies as they have been reset
by clever pens, would be both large and interesting.
The masters of parody, however, are as a rule to be found among the
master poets. Thackeray turned his genius to imitative account;
Swinburne parodied himself as well as his fellow-poets; Rudyard
Kipling has done some of the best parodies in the language, and C. S.
Calverley’s burlesques are classics. The work of these writers may
be said to be in the third class; for not only do they preserve the
diction and style of the author imitated, but they seem to go beyond
that, and, assimilating for the moment his very mentality, caricature
not only his expressed thoughts but his abstract cerebrations.
It is easy to understand how Swinburne with his facile fancy and
wonderful command of words could be among the best parodists. In his
“Heptalogia” are long and careful parodies of no less than seven
prominent poets, each of which is a masterpiece, and the parody of
Browning is especially good. Browning, of course, has always been a
tempting mark for the parodists, but though it is easy to imitate his
eccentricities superficially, it is only the greater minds that have
parodied his subtler peculiarities. Among the best are Calverley’s and
Kipling’s.
Kipling’s parodies, written in his early days, and not often to be
found in editions of his collected works, rank with the highest. His
parody of Swinburne, while going to the very limit of legitimate
imitation, is restrained by a powerful hand, and so kept within
convincing bounds. The great fault with most parodies of Swinburne is
that exaggeration is given play too freely, and the result is merely a
meaningless mass of sound. Clever in a different way is Owen Seaman’s
parody of Swinburne. Mr. Seaman is one of the most brilliant of modern
parodists and his parodies, though long, are perfect in all respects.
Among the most exquisite parodies we have ever read must be counted
those of Anthony C. Deane, originally published in various London
papers, and Calverley’s works are too well known even to require
mention.
The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam is often parodied, but rarely worthily.
One reason for this lies in the fact that it is not Omar who is
parodied at all, but Fitzgerald; consequently, the imitation is merely
a form-rendering and more often only lines in the Rubaiyat metre.
Shakespeare, with the exception of one or two of his most hackneyed
speeches, is rarely parodied; doubtless owing to the fact that his
harmonious work shows no incongruities of matter or manner, and strikes
no false notes for the parodists to catch at.
The extent of the domain of parody is vastly larger than is imagined
by the average reader, and its already published bibliographies show
thousands of collected parodies of varying degrees of merit.
Of all the poets Tennyson has probably been parodied the most; followed
closely in this respect by Edgar Allan Poe. After these, Browning,
Swinburne, and Walt Whitman; then Moore, Wordsworth, Longfellow, and
Thomas Campbell.
Of single poems the one showing the greatest number of parodies is “My
Mother,” by Ann Taylor; after this those most used for the purpose
have been “The Raven,” Gray’s “Elegy,” “The Song of the Shirt,” “The
May Queen,” “Locksley Hall,” “The Burial of Sir John Moore,” and
Kingsley’s “Three Fishers.”
Parody, then, is a tribute to popularity, and consequently to merit of
one sort or another, and in the hands of the initiate may be considered
a touch-stone that proves true worth.
A PARODY ANTHOLOGY
_A Parody Anthology_
AFTER OMAR KHAYYAM
THE GOLFER’S RUBAIYAT
WAKE! for the sun has driven in equal flight
The stars before him from the Tee of Night,
And holed them every one without a Miss,
Swinging at ease his gold-shod Shaft of Light.
Now, the fresh Year reviving old Desires,
The thoughtful Soul to Solitude retires,
Pores on this Club and That with anxious eye,
And dreams of Rounds beyond the Rounds of Liars.
Come, choose your Ball, and in the fire of Spring,
Your Red Coat and your wooden Putter fling;
The Club of Time has but a little while
To waggle, and the Club is on the swing.
A Bag of Clubs, a Silver Town or two,
A Flask of Scotch, a Pipe of Shag, and Thou
Beside me caddying in the Wilderness—
Ah, Wilderness were Paradise enow.
Myself, when young, did eagerly frequent
Jamie and His, and heard great argument
Of Grip, and Stance, and Swing; but evermore
Found at the Exit but a Dollar spent.
With them the seed of Wisdom did I sow,
And with mine own hand sought to make it grow;
And this was all the Harvest that I reap’d;
“You hold it in this Way, and you swing it So.”
The swinging Brassie strikes; and, having struck,
Moves on; nor all your Wit or future Luck
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Stroke,
Nor from the Card a single Seven pluck.
No hope by Club or Ball to win the Prize;
The batter’d, blacken’d Remade sweetly flies,
Swept cleanly from the Tee; this is the Truth
Nine-tenths is Skill, and all the rest is Lies.
And that inverted Ball they call the High,
By which the Duffer thinks to live or die,
Lift not your hands to It for help, for it
As impotently froths as you or I.
Yon rising Moon that leads us home again,
How oft hereafter will she wax and wane;
How oft hereafter rising, wait for us
At this same Turning—and for One in vain.
And when, like her, my Golfer, I have been
And am no more above the pleasant Green,
And you in your mild Journey pass the Hole
I made in One—ah, pay my Forfeit then!
_H. W. Boynton._
AN OMAR FOR LADIES[A]
ONE for her Club and her own Latch-key fights,
Another wastes in Study her good Nights.
Ah, take the Clothes and let the Culture go,
Nor heed the grumble of the Women’s Rights!
Look at the Shop-girl all about us—“Lo,
The Wages of a month,” she says, “I blow
Into a Hat, and when my hair is waved,
Doubtless my Friend will take me to the Show.”
And she who saved her coin for Flannels red,
And she who caught Pneumonia instead,
Will both be Underground in Fifty Years,
And Prudence pays no Premium to the dead.
Th’ exclusive Style you set your heart upon
Gets to the Bargain counters—and anon
Like monograms on a Saleslady’s tie
Cheers but a moment—soon for you ’tis gone.
Think, on the sad Four Hundred’s gilded halls,
Whose endless Leisure ev’n themselves appalls,
How Ping-pong raged so high—then faded out
To those far Suburbs that still chase its Balls.
They say Sixth Avenue and the Bowery keep
The _dernier cri_ that once was far from cheap;
Green Veils, one season chic—Department stores
Mark down in vain—no profit shall they reap.
I sometimes think that never lasts so long
The Style as when it starts a bit too strong;
That all the Pompadours the parterre boasts
Some Chorus-girl began, with Dance and Song.
And this Revival of the Chignon low
That fills the most of us with helpless Woe,
Ah, criticise it Softly! for who knows
What long-necked Peeress had to wear it so!
Ah, my beloved, try each Style you meet;
To-day brooks no loose ends, you must be neat.
To-morrow! why, to-morrow you may be
Wearing it down your back like Marguerite!
For some we once admired, the Very Best
That ever a French hand-boned Corset prest,
Wore what they used to call Prunella Boots,
And put on Nightcaps ere they went to rest.
And we that now make fun of Waterfalls
They wore, and whom their Crinoline appalls,
Ourselves shall from old dusty Fashion plates
Assist our Children in their Costume balls.
Ah, make the most of what we yet may wear,
Before we grow so old that we don’t care!
Before we have our Hats made all alike,
Sans Plumes, sans Wings, sans Chiffon, and—sans Hair!
_Josephine Daskam Bacon._
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote A: Copyright, 1903, by Harper & Brothers.]
THE MODERN RUBAIYAT
(_Dobley’s Version_)
HARK! for the message cometh from the King!
Winter, thy doom is spoke; thy dirges ring,
Thy time is o’er—and through the Palace door
Enter the Princess! Hail the new-crowned Spring!
Comes she all rose-crowned, glowing with the Joy
Of Laughter and of Cupid, the God-Boy;
Buds bursting on the bough in welcoming
To Her we Love, whose loving will not cloy!
List! from the organ rippling in the Street
Come sounds rejoicing, glad Her reign to greet.
The Shad is smiling in the Market Place
And eke the Little Neck! Ah—Life is Sweet!
Come, let us lilt a Merry Little Song
And in an Automobile glide along
Into the glory of the Year’s new Birth.
Hasten! Oh, haste! For this is Spring, I Think!
Come where the Bonnets bloom within the Grove
And let us pluck them for the One we Love;
Violets and Things and chiffon-nested Birds.
Tell me—didst ever see a Glass-Eyed Dove?
Think you how many Springs will go and come
When We are Dead Ones—and the busy Hum
Of life will never reach us—Nothing Done
And Nothing Doing in the Silence Glum!
Listen! the cable car’s Gay Gong has rang,
The Elevated on its perch, A-clang
Like to a District Messenger astir.
Thought you, it was a Nightingale that sang?
Ah! my Beloved, when it’s Really Spring
We know it by the Buds a-blossoming,
Signals from earth to sky—Tremendous Sounds
That might to Some mean any Ancient Thing!
Then let us to the Caravan at Once,
The Sawdust where the Peanut haunts
The air with strange sweet Odors
And the Elephant does Wild and Woolly Stunts!
Asparagus is glowing on the Stall,
The Spring lamb cavorts on the Menu tall;
Strawberries ripe—a Dollar for the Box:
Wouldn’t it jar You somehow, After all?
A Book of Coon Songs underneath the Bough,
A Jug of Wine, a Dozen Buns, and Thou
Beside me singing rag-time? I don’t know?
I wonder would a dozen be enow?
I sent my soul afling through Joy and Pain
For Information that the Winds might deign.
Softly the breezes pitched it, Russie-curved,
And whispered slowly—sadly—“Guess Again.”
Sometimes I think the Glories that they Sing
Are like the grape-vine the Fox tried to cling;
But take To-day—and make the Most of It,
I think it’s Just Too Sweet for anything!
What of To-morrow—say you? Oh, my Friend—
To-morrow’s Not been Touched. It’s yet to Spend.
I often wonder if we should expire
If we could but Collect the Gold we Lend!
Ah, Love! could Thou and I Creation run,
How Different our Scheme! The Summer’s sun
Would see another Springtime blossoming,
Another Summer’s Rose to Follow On!
And Leaning from the Sky a Little Star
Would Tell Us from the Canopy afar
What now we Grope for in the Dinky-dink,
And wonder blindly, vaguely, What we Are!
And when Alone you dream your fancies ripe,
Thyself all Hasheesh-fed—My Prototype!
Smoke Up—and when you gather with the Group
Where I made One—Turn Down an Empty Pipe!
_Kate Masterson._
LINES WRITTEN (“BY REQUEST”) FOR A DINNER OF THE OMAR KHAYYAM CLUB
MASTER, in memory of that Verse of Thine,
And of Thy rather pretty taste in Wine,
We gather at this jaded Century’s end,
Our Cheeks, if so we may, to incarnadine.
Thou hast the kind of Halo which outstays
Most other Genii’s. Though a Laureate’s bays
Should slowly crumple up, Thou livest on,
Having survived a certain Paraphrase.
The Lion and the Alligator squat
In Dervish Courts—the Weather being hot—
Under Umbrellas. Where is Mahmud now?
Plucked by the Kitchener and gone to Pot!
Not so with thee; but in Thy place of Rest,
Where East is East and never can be West,
Thou art the enduring Theme of dining Bards;
O make allowances; they do their Best.
Our Health—Thy Prophet’s health—is but so-so;
Much marred by men of Abstinence who know
Of Thee and all Thy loving Tavern-lore
Nothing, nor care for it one paltry Blow.
Yea, we ourselves, who beam around Thy Bowl,
Somewhat to dull Convention bow the Soul,
We sit in sable Trouserings and Boots,
Nor do the Vine-leaves deck a single Poll.
How could they bloom in uncongenial air?
Nor, though they bloomed profusely, should we wear
Upon our Heads—so tight is Habit’s hold—
Aught else beside our own unaided Hair.
The Epoch curbs our Fancy. What is more
To BE, in any case, is now a Bore.
Even in Humor there is nothing new;
There is no Joke that was not made before.
But Thou! with what a fresh and poignant sting
Thy Muse remarked that Time was on the Wing!
Ah, Golden Age, when Virgin was the Soil,
And Decadence was deemed a newish Thing.
These picturesque departures now are stale;
The noblest Vices have their vogue and fail;
Through some inherent Taint or lack of Nerve
We cease to sin upon a generous scale.
This hour, though drinking at my Host’s expense,
I fear to use a fine Incontinence,
For terror of the Law and him that waits
Outside, the unknown X, to hale us hence.
For, should he make of us an ill Report
As pipkins of the more loquacious Sort,
We might be lodged, the Lord alone knows where,
Save Peace were purchased with a pewter Quart.
And yet, O Lover of the purple Vine,
Haply Thy Ghost is watching how we dine;
Ah, let the Whither go; we’ll take our chance
Of fourteen days with option of a Fine.
Master, if we, Thy Vessels, staunch and stout,
Should stagger, half-seas-over, blind with Doubt,
In sound of that dread moaning of the Bar,
Be near, be very near, to bail us out!
_Owen Seaman._
THE BABY’S OMAR
OMAR’S the fad! Well then, let us indite
The shape of verse old Omar used to write;
And Juveniles are up. So we opine
_A Baby’s Omar_ would be out of sight!
Methinks the stunt is easy. Stilted style,
A misplaced Capital once in a while,—
Other verse writers do it like a shot;
And can’t I do it too? Well, I should Smile!
But how I ramble on. I must dismiss
Dull Sloth, and set to Work at once, I wis;
I sometimes think there’s nothing quite so hard
As a Beginning. Say we start like this:
Indeed, indeed my apron oft before
I tore, but was I naughty when I tore?
And then, and then came Ma, and thread in hand
Repaired the rent in my small pinafore.
A Penny Trumpet underneath the Bough,
A Drum that’s big enough to make a Row;
A Toy Fire-Engine, and a squeaking Doll,
Oh, Life were Pandemonium enow.
Come, fill the Cup, then quickly on the floor
Your portion of the Porridge gaily pour.
The Nurse will Spank you, and she’ll be discharged,—
Ah, but of Nurses there be Plenty more.
Yes, I can do it! Now, if but my Purse
Some kindly Editor will reimburse,
I’ll write a Baby’s Omar; for I’m sure
These Sample Stanzas here are not so worse.
_Carolyn Wells._
AFTER CHAUCER
YE CLERKE OF YE WETHERE
A CLERKE there was, a puissant wight was hee,
Who of ye wethere hadde ye maisterie;
Alway it was his mirthe and his solace—
To put eche seson’s wethere oute of place.
Whanne that Aprille shoures wer our desyre,
He gad us Julye sonnes as hotte as fyre;
But sith ye summere togges we donned agayne,
Eftsoons ye wethere chaunged to cold and rayne.
Wo was that pilgrimme who fared forth a-foote,
Without ane gyngham that him list uppe-putte;
And gif no mackyntosches eke had hee,
A parlous state that wight befelle—pardie!
We wist not gif it nexte ben colde or hotte,
Cogswounds! ye barde a grewsome colde hath gotte!
Certes, that clerke’s ane mightie man withalle,
Let non don him offence, lest ille befalle.
_Anonymous._
AFTER SPENSER
A PORTRAIT
HE is to weet a melancholy carle:
Thin in the waist, with bushy head of hair,
As hath the seeded thistle, when a parle
It holds with Zephyr, ere it sendeth fair
Its light balloons into the summer air;
Thereto his beard had not begun to bloom.
No brush had touched his cheek, or razor sheer;
No care had touched his cheek with mortal doom,
But new he was and bright, as scarf from Persian loom.
Ne carèd he for wine, or half and half;
Ne carèd he for fish, or flesh, or fowl;
And sauces held he worthless as the chaff;
He ’sdeigned the swine-head at the wassail-bowl:
Ne with lewd ribbalds sat he cheek by jowl;
Ne with sly lemans in the scorner’s chair;
But after water-brooks this pilgrim’s soul
Panted and all his food was woodland air;
Though he would oft-times feast on gilliflowers rare
The slang of cities in no wise he knew,
_Tipping the wink_ to him was heathen Greek;
He sipped no “olden Tom,” or “ruin blue,”
Or Nantz, or cherry-brandy, drunk full meek
By many a damsel brave and rouge of cheek;
Nor did he know each aged watchman’s beat,
Nor in obscurèd purlieus would he seek
For curlèd Jewesses, with ankles neat,
Who, as they walk abroad, make tinkling with their feet.
_John Keats._
AFTER SHAKESPEARE
THE BACHELOR’S SOLILOQUY
TO wed, or not to wed? That is the question
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The pangs and arrows of outrageous love
Or to take arms against the powerful flame
And by oppressing quench it.
To wed—to marry—
And by a marriage say we end
The heartache and the thousand painful shocks
Love makes us heir to—’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished! to wed—to marry—
Perchance a scold! aye, there’s the rub!
For in that wedded life what ills may come
When we have shuffled off our single state
Must give us serious pause. There’s the respect
That makes us Bachelors a numerous race.
For who would bear the dull unsocial hours
Spent by unmarried men, cheered by no smile
To sit like hermit at a lonely board
In silence? Who would bear the cruel gibes
With which the Bachelor is daily teased
When he himself might end such heart-felt griefs
By wedding some fair maid? Oh, who would live
Yawning and staring sadly in the fire
Till celibacy becomes a weary life
But that the dread of something after wed-lock
(That undiscovered state from whose strong chains
No captive can get free) puzzles the will
And makes us rather choose those ills we have
Than fly to others which a wife may bring.
Thus caution doth make Bachelors of us all,
And thus our natural taste for matrimony
Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought.
And love adventures of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn away
And lose the name of Wedlock.
_Anonymous._
POKER
TO draw, or not to draw,—that is the question:—
Whether ’tis safer in the player to take
The awful risk of skinning for a straight,
Or, standing pat, to raise ’em all the limit
And thus, by bluffing, get in. To draw,—to skin;
No more—and by that skin to get a full,
Or two pairs, or the fattest bouncing kings
That luck is heir to—’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To draw—to skin;
To skin! perchance to burst—ay, there’s the rub!
For in the draw of three what cards may come,
When we have shuffled off th’ uncertain pack,
Must give us pause. There’s the respect
That makes calamity of a bobtail flush;
For who would bear the overwhelming blind,
The reckless straddle, the wait on the edge,
The insolence of pat hands and the lifts
That patient merit of the bluffer takes,
When he himself might be much better off
By simply passing? Who would trays uphold,
And go out on a small progressive raise,
But that the dread of something after call—
The undiscovered ace-full, to whose strength
Such hands must bow, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather keep the chips we have
Than be curious about the hands we know not of.
Thus bluffing does make cowards of us all:
And thus the native hue of a four-heart flush
Is sicklied with some dark and cussed club,
And speculators in a jack-pot’s wealth
With this regard their interest turn away
And lose the right to open.
_Anonymous._
TOOTHACHE
TO have it out or not. That is the question—
Whether ’tis better for the jaws to suffer
The pangs and torments of an aching tooth
Or to take steel against a host of troubles,
And, by extracting them, end them? To pull—to tug!—
No more: and by a tug to say we end
The toothache and a thousand natural ills
The jaw is heir to. ’Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished! To pull—to tug!—
To tug—perchance to break! Ay, there’s the rub,
For in that wrench what agonies may come
When we have half dislodged the stubborn foe,
Must give us pause. There’s the respect
That makes an aching tooth of so long life.
For who would bear the whips and stings of pain,
The old wife’s nostrum, dentist’s contumely;
The pangs of hope deferred, kind sleep’s delay;
The insolence of pity, and the spurns,
That patient sickness of the healthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
For one poor shilling? Who would fardels bear,
To groan and sink beneath a load of pain?—
But that the dread of something lodged within
The linen-twisted forceps, from whose pangs
No jaw at ease returns, puzzles the will,
And makes it rather bear the ills it has
Than fly to others that it knows not of.
Thus dentists do make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of fear;
And many a one, whose courage seeks the door,
With this regard his footsteps turns away,
Scared at the name of dentist.
_Anonymous._
A DREARY SONG
WELL, don’t cry, my little tiny boy,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain
Amuse yourself, and break some toy,
For the rain it raineth every day.
Alas, for the grass on Papa’s estate,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
He’ll have to buy hay at an awful rate,
For the rain it raineth every day.
Mamma, she can’t go out for a drive,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
How cross she gets about four or five,
For the rain it raineth every day.
If I were you I’d be off to bed,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
Or the damp will give you a cold in the head,
For the rain it raineth every day.
A great while ago this song was done,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
And I, for one, cannot see it’s fun,
But the Dyces and the Colliers can—they say.
_Shirley Brooks._
TO THE STALL-HOLDERS AT A FANCY FAIR
WITH pretty speech accost both old and young,
And speak it trippingly upon the tongue;
But if you mouth it with a hoyden laugh,
With clumsy ogling and uncomely chaff—
As I have oft seen done at fancy fairs,
I had as lief a huckster sold my wares,
Avoid all so-called beautifying, dear.
Oh! it offends me to the soul to hear
The things that men among themselves will say
Of some _soi-disant_ “beauty of the day,”
Whose face, when she with cosmetics has cloyed it,
Out-Rachels Rachel! pray you, girls, avoid it.
Neither be you too tame—but, ere you go,
Provide yourselves with sprigs of mistletoe;
Offer them coyly to the Roman herd—
But don’t you suit “the action to the word,”
For in that very torrent of your passion
Remember modesty is still in fashion.
Oh, there be ladies whom I’ve seen hold stalls—
Ladies of rank, my dear—to whom befalls
Neither the accent nor the gait of ladies;
So clumsily made up with Bloom of Cadiz,
Powder-rouge—lip-salve—that I’ve fancied then
They were the work of Nature’s journeymen.
_W. S. Gilbert._
SONG
WITH a hey! and a hi! and a hey-ho rhyme!
Oh, the shepherd lad
He is ne’er so glad
As when he pipes, in the blossom-time,
So rare!
While Kate picks by, yet looks not there.
So rare! so rare!
With a hey! and a hi! and a ho!
The grasses curdle where the daisies blow!
With a hey! and a hi! and a hey-ho vow!
Then he sips her face
At the sweetest place—
And ho! how white is the hawthorn now!—
So rare!—
And the daisied world rocks round them there.
So rare! so rare!
With a hey! and a hi! and a ho!
The grasses curdle where the daisies blow!
_James Whitcomb Riley._
THE WHIST-PLAYER’S SOLILOQUY
TO trump, or not to trump,—that is the question:
Whether ’t is better in this case to notice
The leads and signals of outraged opponents,
Or to force trumps against a suit of diamonds,
And by opposing end them? To trump,—to take,—
No more; and by that trick to win the lead
And after that, return my partner’s spades
For which he signalled,—’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To trump—to take,—
To take! perchance to win! Ay, there’s the rub;
For if we win this game, what hands may come
When we have shuffled up these cards again.
Play to the score? ah! yes, there’s the defect
That makes this Duplicate Whist so much like work.
For who would heed the theories of Hoyle,
The laws of Pole, the books of Cavendish,
The Short-Suit system, Leads American,
The Eleven Rule Finesse, The Fourth-best play,
The Influence of signals on The Ruff,
When he himself this doubtful trick might take
With a small two-spot? Who would hesitate,
But that the dread of something afterwards,
An undiscovered discard or forced lead
When playing the return, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather lose the tricks we have
To win the others that we know not of?
Thus Duplicate Whist makes cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of Bumblepuppy
Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought.
And good whist-players of great skill and judgment,
With this regard their formulas defy,
And lose the game by ruffing.
_Carolyn Wells._
AFTER WITHER
ANSWER TO MASTER WITHERS SONG, “SHALL I, WASTING IN DESPAIR?”
SHALL I, mine affections slack,
’Cause I see a woman’s black?
Or myself, with care cast down,
’Cause I see a woman brown?
Be she blacker than the night,
Or the blackest jet in sight!
If she be not so to me,
What care I how black she be?
Shall my foolish heart be burst,
’Cause I see a woman’s curst?
Or a thwarting hoggish nature
Joinèd in as bad a feature?
Be she curst or fiercer than
Brutish beast, or savage man!
If she be not so to me,
What care I how curst she be?
Shall a woman’s vices make
Me her vices quite forsake?
Or her faults to me made known,
Make me think that I have none?
Be she of the most accurst,
And deserve the name of worst!
If she be not so to me,
What care I how bad she be?
’Cause her fortunes seem too low,
Shall I therefore let her go?
He that bears an humble mind
And with riches can be kind,
Think how kind a heart he’d have,
If he were some servile slave!
And if that same mind I see
What care I how poor she be?
Poor, or bad, or curst, or black,
I will ne’er the more be slack!
If she hate me (then believe!)
She shall die ere I will grieve!
If she like me when I woo
I can like and love her too!
If that she be fit for me!
What care I what others be?
_Ben Jonson._
AFTER HERRICK
SONG
GATHER Kittens while you may,
Time brings only Sorrow;
And the Kittens of To-day
Will be Old Cats To-morrow.
_Oliver Herford._
TO JULIA UNDER LOCK AND KEY
(_A form of betrothal gift in America is an anklet
secured by a padlock, of which the other party keeps
the key_)
WHEN like a bud my Julia blows
In lattice-work of silken hose,
Pleasant I deem it is to note
How, ’neath the nimble petticoat,
Above her fairy shoe is set
The circumvolving zonulet.
And soothly for the lover’s ear
A perfect bliss it is to hear
About her limb so lithe and lank
My Julia’s ankle-bangle clank.
Not rudely tight, for ’twere a sin
To corrugate her dainty skin;
Nor yet so large that it might fare
Over her foot at unaware;
But fashioned nicely with a view
To let her airy stocking through:
So as, when Julia goes to bed,
Of all her gear disburdenèd,
This ring at least she shall not doff
Because she cannot take it off.
And since thereof I hold the key,
She may not taste of liberty,
Not though she suffer from the gout,
Unless I choose to let her out.
_Owen Seaman._
AFTER NURSERY RHYMES
AN IDYLL OF PHATTE AND LEENE
THE hale John Sprat—oft called for shortness, Jack—
Had married—had, in fact, a wife—and she
Did worship him with wifely reverence.
He, who had loved her when she was a girl,
Compass’d her, too, with sweet observances;
E’en at the dinner table did it shine.
For he—liking no fat himself—he never did,
With jealous care piled up her plate with lean,
Not knowing that all lean was hateful to her.
And day by day she thought to tell him o ’t,
And watched the fat go out with envious eye,
But could not speak for bashful delicacy.
At last it chanced that on a winter day,
The beef—a prize joint!—little was but fat;
So fat, that John had all his work cut out,
To snip out lean fragments for his wife,
Leaving, in very sooth, none for himself;
Which seeing, she spoke courage to her soul,
Took up her fork, and, pointing to the joint
Where ’twas the fattest, piteously she said;
“Oh, husband! full of love and tenderness!
What is the cause that you so jealously
Pick out the lean for me. I like it not!
Nay, loathe it—’tis on the fat that I would feast;
O me, I fear you do not like my taste!”
Then he, dropping his horny-handled carving knife,
Sprinkling therewith the gravy o’er her gown,
Answer’d, amazed: “What! you like fat, my wife!
And never told me. Oh, this is not kind!
Think what your reticence has wrought for us;
How all the fat sent down unto the maid—
Who likes not fat—for such maids never do—
Has been put in the waste-tub, sold for grease,
And pocketed as servant’s perquisite!
Oh, wife! this news is good; for since, perforce,
A joint must be not fat nor lean, but both;
Our different tastes will serve our purpose well;
For, while you eat the fat—the lean to me
Falls as my cherished portion. Lo! ’tis good!”
So henceforth—he that tells the tale relates—
In John Sprat’s household waste was quite unknown;
For he the lean did eat, and she the fat,
And thus the dinner-platter was all cleared.
_Anonymous._
NURSERY SONG IN PIDGIN ENGLISH
SINGEE a songee sick a pence,
Pockee muchee lye;
Dozen two time blackee bird
Cookee in e pie.
When him cutee topside
Birdee bobbery sing;
Himee tinkee nicey dish
Setee foree King!
Kingee in a talkee loom
Countee muchee money;
Queeny in e kitchee,
Chew-chee breadee honey.
Servant galo shakee,
Hangee washee clothes;
Cho-chop comee blackie bird,
Nipee off her nose!
_Anonymous._
THE HOUSE THAT JACK BUILT
AND this reft house is that the which he built,
Lamented Jack! and here his malt he piled.
Cautious in vain! these rats that squeak so wild,
Squeak not unconscious of their father’s guilt.
Did he not see her gleaming through the glade!
Belike ’twas she, the maiden all forlorn.
What though she milked no cow with crumpled horn,
Yet, aye she haunts the dale where erst she strayed:
And aye before her stalks her amorous knight!
Still on his thighs their wonted brogues are worn,
And through those brogues, still tattered and betorn,
His hindward charms gleam an unearthly white.
_Samuel Taylor Coleridge._
_BOSTON NURSERY RHYMES_
RHYME FOR A GEOLOGICAL BABY
TRILOBITE, Graptolite, Nautilus pie;
Seas were calcareous, oceans were dry.
Eocene, miocene, pliocene Tuff,
Lias and Trias and that is enough.
RHYME FOR ASTRONOMICAL BABY
BYE Baby Bunting,
Father’s gone star-hunting;
Mother’s at the telescope
Casting baby’s horoscope.
Bye Baby Buntoid,
Father’s found an asteroid;
Mother takes by calculation
The angle of its inclination.
RHYME FOR BOTANICAL BABY
LITTLE bo-peepals
Has lost her sepals,
And can’t tell where to find them;
In the involucre
By hook or by crook or
She’ll make up her mind not to mind them.
RHYME FOR A CHEMICAL BABY
OH, sing a song of phosphates,
Fibrine in a line,
Four-and-twenty follicles
In the van of time.
When the phosphorescence
Evoluted brain,
Superstition ended,
Men began to reign.
_Rev. Joseph Cook._
A SONG OF A HEART
UPON a time I had a Heart,
And it was bright and gay;
And I gave it to a Lady fair
To have and keep alway.
She soothed it and she smoothed it
And she stabbed it till it bled;
She brightened it and lightened it
And she weighed it down with lead.
She flattered it and battered it
And she filled it full of gall;
Yet had I Twenty Hundred Hearts,
Still should she have them all.
_Oliver Herford._
THE DOMICILE OF JOHN
BEHOLD the mansion reared by Daedal Jack!
See the malt stored in many a plethoric sack,
In the proud cirque of Ivan’s Bivouac!
Mark how the rat’s felonious fangs invade
The golden stores in John’s pavilion laid!
Anon, with velvet foot and Tarquin strides,
Subtle Grimalkin to his quarry glides;
Grimalkin grim, that slew the fierce rodent,
Whose tooth insidious Johann’s sackcloth rent!
Lo! Now the deep-mouthed canine foe’s assault!
That vexed the avenger of the stolen malt,
Stored in the hallowed precincts of that hall,
That rose complete at Jack’s creative call.
Here stalks the impetuous cow with the crumpled horn,
Whereon the exacerbating hound was torn
Who bayed the feline slaughter-beast that slew
The rat predaceous, whose keen fangs ran through
The textile fibres that involved the grain
That lay in Hans’ inviolate domain.
Here walks forlorn the damsel crowned with rue,
Lactiferous spoils from vaccine dugs who drew
Of that corniculate beast whose tortuous horn
Tossed to the clouds, in fierce vindictive scorn,
The baying hound whose braggart bark and stir
Arched the lithe spine and reared the indignant fur
Of puss, that, with verminicidal claw,
Struck the weird rat, in whose insatiate maw
Lay reeking malt, that erst in Juan’s courts we saw.
Robed in senescent garb, that seems, in sooth,
Too long a prey to Chronos’ iron tooth,
Behold the man whose amorous lips incline
Full with young Eros’ osculative sign,
To the lorn maiden whose lactalbic hands
Drew albulactic wealth from lacteal glands
Of that immortal bovine, by whose horn
Distort, to realms ethereal was borne
The beast catulean, vexer of that sly
Ulysses quadrupedal, who made die
The old mordaceous rat that dared devour
Antecedaneous ale in John’s domestic bower.
Lo! Here, with hirsute honors doffed, succinct
Of saponaceous locks, the priest who linked
In Hymen’s golden bands the man unthrift
Whose means exiguous stared from many a rift,
E’en as he kissed the virgin all forlorn
Who milked the cow with implicated horn,
Who in fierce wrath the canine torturer skied,
That dared to vex the insidious muricide,
Who let auroral effluence through the pelt
Of that sly rat that robbed the palace that Jack built.
The loud cantankerous Shanghai comes at last,
Whose shouts aroused the shorn ecclesiast,
Who sealed the vows of Hymen’s sacrament
To him who, robed in garments indigent,
Exosculates the damsel lachrymose,
The emulgator of the horned brute morose
That on gyrated horn, to heaven’s high vault
Hurled up, with many a tortuous somersault,
The low bone-cruncher, whose hot wrath pursued
The scratching sneak, that waged eternal feud
With long-tailed burglar, who his lips would smack
On farinaceous wealth, that filled the halls of Jack.
Vast limbed and broad the farmer comes at length,
Whose cereal care supplied the vital strength
Of chanticleer, whose matutinal cry
Roused the quiescent form and ope’d the eye
Of razor-loving cleric, who in bands
Connubial linked the intermixed hands
Of him, whose rent apparel gaped apart,
And the lorn maiden with lugubrious heart,
Her who extraught the exuberant lactic flow
Of nutriment from that cornigerent cow,
Eumenidal executor of fate,
That to sidereal altitudes elate
Cerberus, who erst with fang lethiferous
Left lacerate Grimalkin latebrose—
That killed the rat
That ate the malt
That lay in the house that Jack built.
_A. Pope._
MARY AND THE LAMB
MARY,—what melodies mingle
To murmur her musical name!
It makes all one’s finger-tips tingle
Like fagots, the food of the flame;
About her an ancient tradition
A romance delightfully deep
Has woven in juxtaposition
With one little sheep,—
One dear little lamb that would follow
Her footsteps, unwearily fain.
Down dale, over hill, over hollow,
To school and to hamlet again;
A gentle companion, whose beauty
Consisted in snow-driven fleece,
And whose most imperative duty
Was keeping the peace.
His eyes were as beads made of glassware,
His lips were coquettishly curled,
His capers made many a lass swear
His caper-sauce baffled the world;
His tail had a wag when it relished
A sip of the milk in the pail,—
And this fact has largely embellished
The wag of this tale.
One calm summer day when the sun was
A great golden globe in the sky,
One mild summer morn when the fun was
Unspeakably clear in his eye,
He tagged after exquisite Mary,
And over the threshold of school
He tripped in a temper contrary,
And splintered the rule.
A great consternation was kindled
Among all the scholars, and some
Confessed their affection had dwindled
For lamby, and looked rather glum;
But Mary’s schoolmistress quick beckoned
The children away from the jam,
And said, _sotto voce_, she reckoned
That Mame loved the lamb.
Then all up the spine of the rafter
There ran a most risible shock,
And sorrow was sweetened with laughter
At this little lamb of the flock;
And out spoke the schoolmistress Yankee,
With rather a New Hampshire whine,
“Dear pupils, sing Moody and Sankey,
Hymn ’Ninety and Nine.’”
Now after this music had finished,
And silence again was restored,
The ardor of lamby diminished,
His quips for a moment were floored
Then cried he, “Bah-ed children, you blundered
When singing that psalmistry, quite.
I’m labelled by Mary, ’Old Hundred,’
And I’m labelled right.”
Then vanished the lambkin in glory,
A halo of books round his head:
What furthermore happened the story,
Alackaday! cannot be said.
And Mary, the musical maid, is
To-day but a shadow in time;
Her epitaph, too, I’m afraid is
Writ only in rhyme.
She’s sung by the cook at her ladle
That stirs up the capering sauce;
She’s sung by the nurse at the cradle
When ba-ba is restless and cross;
And lamby, whose virtues were legion,
Dwells ever in songs that we sing,
He makes a nice dish in this region
To eat in the spring!
_Frank Dempster Sherman._
AFTER WALLER
THE AESTHETE TO THE ROSE
Go, flaunting Rose!
Tell her that wastes her love on thee,
That she nought knows
Of the New Cult, Intensity,
If sweet and fair to her you be.
Tell her that’s young,
Or who in health and bloom takes pride,
That bards have sung
Of a new youth—at whose sad side
Sickness and pallor aye abide.
Small is the worth
Of Beauty in crude charms attired.
She must shun mirth,
Have suffered, fruitlessly desired,
And wear no flush by hope inspired.
Then die, that she
May learn that Death is passing fair;
May read in thee
How little of Art’s praise they share,
Who are not sallow, sick, and spare!
_Punch._
AFTER DRYDEN
THREE BLESSINGS
THREE brightest blessings of this thirsty race,
(Whence sprung and when I don’t propose to trace);
Pale brandy, potent spirit of the night,
Brisk soda, welcome when the morn is bright;
To make the third, combine the other two,
The force of nature can no further go.
_Anonymous._
OYSTER-CRABS
THREE viands in three different courses served,
Received the commendation they deserved.
The first in succulence all else surpassed;
The next in flavor; and in both, the last.
For Nature’s forces could no further go;
To make the third, she joined the other two.
_Carolyn Wells._
AFTER DR. WATTS
THE VOICE OF THE LOBSTER
“’TIS the voice of the Lobster: I heard him declare
‘You have baked me too brown, I must sugar my hair.’
As a duck with its eyelids, so he with his nose
Trims his belt and his buttons, and turns out his toes.
When the sands are all dry, he is gay as a lark,
And will talk in contemptuous tones of the Shark:
But, when the tide rises and sharks are around,
His voice has a timid and tremulous sound.
“I passed by his garden, and marked, with one eye,
How the Owl and the Panther were sharing a pie;
The Panther took pie-crust, and gravy, and meat,
While the Owl had the dish as its share of the treat.
When the pie was all finished, the Owl, as a boon,
Was kindly permitted to pocket the spoon;
While the Panther received knife and fork with a growl,
And concluded the banquet by ——”
_Lewis Carroll._
THE CROCODILE
HOW doth the little crocodile
Improve his shining tail,
And pour the waters of the Nile
On every golden scale!
How cheerfully he seems to grin,
How neatly spreads his claws,
And welcomes little fishes in,
With gently smiling jaws!
_Lewis Carroll._
AFTER GOLDSMITH
WHEN LOVELY WOMAN
WHEN lovely woman wants a favor,
And finds, too late, that man won’t bend,
What earthly circumstance can save her
From disappointment in the end?
The only way to bring him over,
The last experiment to try,
Whether a husband or a lover,
If he have feeling is—to cry.
_Phœbe Cary._
AFTER BURNS
GAELIC SPEECH; OR, “AULD LANG SYNE” DONE UP IN TARTAN
SHOULD Gaelic speech be e’er forgot,
And never brocht to min’,
For she’ll be spoke in Paradise
In the days of auld lang syne.
When Eve, all fresh in beauty’s charms,
First met fond Adam’s view,
The first word that he’ll spoke till her
Was, “_cumar achum dhu_.”
And Adam in his garden fair,
Whene’er the day did close,
The dish that he’ll to supper teuk
Was always Athole brose.
When Adam from his leafy bower
Cam oot at broke o’ day,
He’ll always for his morning teuk
A quaich o’ usquebae.
An’ when wi’ Eve he’ll had a crack,
He’ll teuk his sneeshin’ horn,
An’ on the tap ye’ll well mitch mark
A pony praw Cairngorm.
The sneeshin’ mull is fine, my friens—
The sneeshin’ mull is gran’;
We’ll teukta hearty sneesh, my friens,
And pass frae han’ to han’.
When man first fan the want o’ claes,
The wind an’ cauld to fleg.
He twisted roon’ about his waist
The tartan philabeg.
An’ music first on earth was heard
In Gaelic accents deep,
When Jubal in his oxter squeezed
The blether o’ a sheep.
The praw bagpipes is gran’, my friens,
The praw bagpipes is fine;
We’ll teukta nother pibroch yet,
For the days o’ auld lang syne!
_Anonymous._
MY FOE
JOHN ALCOHOL, my foe, John,
When we were first acquaint,
I’d siller in my pockets, John,
Which noo, ye ken, I want;
I spent it all in treating, John,
Because I loved you so;
But mark ye, how you’ve treated me,
John Alcohol, my foe.
John Alcohol, my foe, John,
We’ve been ower lang together,
Sae ye maun tak’ ae road, John,
And I will take anither;
Foe we maun tumble down, John,
If hand in hand we go;
And I shall hae the bill to pay,
John Alcohol, my foe.
John Alcohol, my foe, John,
Ye’ve blear’d out a’ my een,
And lighted up my nose, John,
A fiery sign atween!
My hands wi’ palsy shake, John,
My locks are like the snow;
Ye’ll surely be the death of me,
John Alcohol, my foe.
John Alcohol, my foe, John,
’Twas love to you, I ween,
That gart me rise sae ear’, John,
And sit sae late at e’en;
The best o’ friens maun part, John,
It grieves me sair, ye know;
But “we’ll nae mair to yon town,”
John Alcohol, my foe.
John Alcohol, my foe, John,
Ye’ve wrought me muckle skaith,
And yet to part wi’ you, John,
I own I’m unko’ laith;
But I’ll join the temperance ranks, John,
Ye needna say me no;
It’s better late than ne’er do weel,
John Alcohol, my foe.
_Anonymous._
RIGID BODY SINGS
GIN a body meet a body
Flyin’ through the air,
Gin a body hit a body,
Will it fly? and where?
Ilka impact has its measure,
Ne’er a’ ane hae I,
Yet a’ the lads they measure me,
Or, at least, they try.
Gin a body meet a body
Altogether free,
How they travel afterwards
We do not always see.
Ilka problem has its method
By analytics high;
For me, I ken na ane o’ them,
But what the waur am I?
_J. C. Maxwell._
AFTER CATHERINE FANSHAWE
COCKNEY ENIGMA ON THE LETTER H
I DWELLS in the Herth and I breathes in the Hair;
If you searches the Hocean you’ll find that I’m there;
The first of all Hangels in Holympus am Hi,
Yet I’m banished from ’Eaven, expelled from on ’Igh.
But tho’ on this Horb I am destined to grovel,
I’m ne’er seen in an ’Ouse, in an ’Ut, nor an ’Ovel;
Not an ’Oss nor an ’Unter e’er bears me, alas!
But often I’m found on the top of a Hass.
I resides in a Hattic and loves not to roam,
And yet I’m invariably habsent from ’Ome.
Tho’ ’ushed in the ’Urricane, of the Hatmosphere part,
I enters no ’Ed, I creeps into no ’Art,
But look and you’ll see in the Heye I appear.
Only ’ark and you’ll ’ear me just breathe in the Hear;
Tho’ in sex not an ’E, I am (strange paradox!),
Not a bit of an ’Effer, but partly a Hox.
Of Heternity Hi’m the beginning! and mark,
Tho’ I goes not with Noar, I’m the first in the Hark.
I’m never in ’Elth—have with Fysic no power;
I dies in a Month, but comes back in a Hour.
_Horace Mayhew._
AFTER WORDSWORTH
ON WORDSWORTH
HE lived amidst th’ untrodden ways
To Rydal Lake that lead;
A bard whom there was none to praise
And very few to read.
Behind a cloud his mystic sense,
Deep hidden, who can spy?
Bright as the night when not a star
Is shining in the sky.
Unread his works—his “Milk White Doe”
With dust is dark and dim;
It’s still in Longmans’ shop, and oh!
The difference to him.
_Anonymous._
JACOB
HE dwelt among “Apartments let,”
About five stories high;
A man, I thought, that none would get,
And very few would try.
A boulder, by a larger stone
Half hidden in the mud,
Fair as a man when only one
Is in the neighborhood.
He lived unknown, and few could tell
When Jacob was not free;
But he has got a wife—and O!
The difference to me!
_Phœbe Cary._
FRAGMENT IN IMITATION OF WORDSWORTH
THERE is a river clear and fair,
’Tis neither broad nor narrow;
It winds a little here and there—
It winds about like any hare;
And then it holds as straight a course
As, on the turnpike road, a horse,
Or, through the air, an arrow.
The trees that grow upon the shore
Have grown a hundred years or more;
So long there is no knowing:
Old Daniel Dobson does not know
When first those trees began to grow;
But still they grew, and grew, and grew,
As if they’d nothing else to do,
But ever must be growing.
The impulses of air and sky
Have reared their stately heads so high,
And clothed their boughs with green;
Their leaves the dews of evening quaff,—
And when the wind blows loud and keen,
I’ve seen the jolly timbers laugh,
And shake their sides with merry glee—
Wagging their heads in mockery.
Fixed are their feet in solid earth
Where winds can never blow;
But visitings of deeper birth
Have reached their roots below.
For they have gained the river’s brink,
And of the living waters drink.
There’s little Will, a five years’ child—
He is my youngest boy;
To look on eyes so fair and wild,
It is a very joy.
He hath conversed with sun and shower,
And dwelt with every idle flower,
As fresh and gay as them.
He loiters with the briar-rose,—
The blue-bells are his play-fellows,
That dance upon their slender stem.
And I have said, my little Will,
Why should he not continue still
A thing of Nature’s rearing?
A thing beyond the world’s control—
A living vegetable soul,—
No human sorrow fearing.
It were a blessed sight to see
That child become a willow-tree,
His brother trees among.
He’d be four times as tall as me,
And live three times as long.
_Catherine M. Fanshawe._
JANE SMITH
I JOURNEYED, on a winter’s day,
Across the lonely wold;
No bird did sing upon the spray,
And it was very cold.
I had a coach with horses four,
Three white (though one was black),
And on they went the common o’er,
Nor swiftness did they lack.
A little girl ran by the side,
And she was pinched and thin.
“Oh, please, sir, do give me a ride!
I’m fetching mother’s gin.”
“Enter my coach, sweet child,” said I,
“For you shall ride with me;
And I will get you your supply
Of mother’s eau-de-vie.”
The publican was stern and cold,
And said: “Her mother’s score
Is writ, as you shall soon behold,
Behind the bar-room door!”
I blotted out the score with tears,
And paid the money down;
And took the maid of thirteen years
Back to her mother’s town.
And though the past with surges wild
Fond memories may sever,
The vision of that happy child
Will leave my spirits never!
_Rudyard Kipling._
ONLY SEVEN
(_A Pastoral Story after Wordsworth_)
I MARVELLED why a simple child,
That lightly draws its breath,
Should utter groans so very wild,
And look as pale as Death.
Adopting a parental tone,
I ask’d her why she cried;
The damsel answered with a groan,
“I’ve got a pain inside!
“I thought it would have sent me mad
Last night about eleven.”
Said I, “What is it makes you bad?
How many apples have you had?”
She answered, “Only seven!”
“And are you sure you took no more,
My little maid?” quoth I;
“Oh, please, sir, mother gave me four,
But they were in a pie!”
“If that’s the case,” I stammer’d out,
“Of course you’ve had eleven.”
The maiden answered with a pout,
“I ain’t had more nor seven!”
I wonder’d hugely what she meant,
And said, “I’m bad at riddles;
But I know where little girls are sent
For telling taradiddles.
“Now, if you won’t reform,” said I,
“You’ll never go to Heaven.”
But all in vain; each time I try,
That little idiot makes reply,
“I ain’t had more nor seven!”
POSTSCRIPT
To borrow Wordsworth’s name was wrong,
Or slightly misapplied;
And so I’d better call my song,
“Lines after Ache-Inside.”
_Henry S. Leigh._
LUCY LAKE
POOR Lucy Lake was overgrown,
But somewhat underbrained.
She did not know enough, I own,
To go in when it rained.
Yet Lucy was constrained to go;
Green bedding,—you infer.
Few people knew she died, but oh,
The difference to her!
_Newton Mackintosh._
AFTER SIR WALTER SCOTT
YOUNG LOCHINVAR
(_The true story in blank verse_)
OH! young Lochinvar has come out of the West,
Thro’ all the wide border his horse has no equal,
Having cost him forty-five dollars at the market,
Where good nags, fresh from the country,
With burrs still in their tails are selling
For a song; and save his good broadsword
He weapon had none, except a seven shooter
Or two, a pair of brass knuckles, and an Arkansaw
Toothpick in his boot, so, comparatively speaking,
He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone,
Because there was no one going his way.
He stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for
Toll-gates; he swam the Eske River where ford
There was none, and saved fifteen cents
In ferriage, but lost his pocket-book, containing
Seventeen dollars and a half, by the operation.
Ere he alighted at the Netherby mansion
He stopped to borrow a dry suit of clothes,
And this delayed him considerably, so when
He arrived the bride had consented—the gallant
Came late—for a laggard in love and a dastard in war
Was to wed the fair Ellen, and the guests had assembled.
So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall
Among bridesmen and kinsmen and brothers and
Brothers-in-law and forty or fifty cousins;
Then spake the bride’s father, his hand on his sword
(For the poor craven bridegroom ne’er opened his head):
“Oh, come ye in peace here, or come ye in anger,
Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?”
“I long wooed your daughter, and she will tell you
I have the inside track in the free-for-all
For her affections! My suit you denied; but let
That pass, while I tell you, old fellow, that love
Swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide,
And now I am come with this lost love of mine
To lead but one measure, drink one glass of beer;
There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far
That would gladly be bride to yours very truly.”
The bride kissed the goblet, the knight took it up,
He quaffed off the nectar and threw down the mug,
Smashing it into a million pieces, while
He remarked that he was the son of a gun
From Seven-up and run the Number Nine.
She looked down to blush, but she looked up again
For she well understood the wink in his eye;
He took her soft hand ere her mother could
Interfere, “Now tread we a measure; first four
Half right and left; swing,” cried young Lochinvar.
One touch to her hand and one word in her ear,
When they reached the hall-door and the charger
Stood near on three legs eating post-hay;
So light to the croup the fair lady he swung,
Then leaped to the saddle before her.
“She is won! we are gone! over bank! bush, and spar,
They’ll have swift steeds that follow”—but in the
Excitement of the moment he had forgotten
To untie the horse, and the poor brute could
Only gallop in a little circus around the
Hitching-post; so the old gent collared
The youth and gave him the awfullest lambasting
That was ever heard of on Canobie Lee;
So dauntless in war and so daring in love,
Have ye e’er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?
_Anonymous._
AFTER COLERIDGE
THE ANCIENT MARINER
(_The Wedding Guest’s Version of the Affair from His Point of View_)
IT is an Ancient Mariner,
And he stoppeth one of three—
In fact he coolly took my arm—
“There was a ship,” quoth he.
“Bother your ships!” said I, “is this
The time a yarn to spin?
This is a wedding, don’t you see,
And I am next of kin.
“The wedding breakfast has begun,
We’re hungry as can be—
Hold off! Unhand me, longshore man!”
With that his hand dropt he.
But there was something in his eye,
That made me sick and ill,
Yet forced to listen to his yarn—
The Mariner’d had his will.
While Tom and Harry went their way
I sat upon a stone—
So queer on Fanny’s wedding day
Me sitting there alone!
Then he began, that Mariner,
To rove from pole to pole,
In one long-winded, lengthened-out,
Eternal rigmarole,
About a ship in which he’d sailed,
Though whither, goodness knows,
Where “ice will split with a thunder-fit,”
And every day it snows.
And then about a precious bird
Of some sort or another,
That—was such nonsense ever heard?—
Used to control the weather!
Now, at this bird the Mariner
Resolved to have a shy,
And laid it low with his cross-bow—
And then the larks! My eye!
For loss of that uncommon fowl,
They couldn’t get a breeze;
And there they stuck, all out of luck,
And rotted on the seas.
The crew all died, or seemed to die,
And he was left alone
With that queer bird. You never heard
What games were carried on!
At last one day he stood and watched
The fishes in the sea,
And said, “I’m blest!” and so the ship
Was from the spell set free.
And it began to rain and blow,
And as it rained and blew,
The dead got up and worked the ship—
That was a likely crew!
However, somehow he escaped,
And got again to land,
But mad as any hatter, say,
From Cornhill to the Strand.
For he believes that certain folks
Are singled out by fate,
To whom this cock-and-bull affair
Of his he must relate.
Describing all the incidents,
And painting all the scenes,
As sailors will do in the tales
They tell to the Marines.
Confound the Ancient Mariner!
I knew I should be late;
And so it was; the wedding guests
Had all declined to wait.
Another had my place, and gave
My toast; and sister Fan
Said “’Twas a shame. What could you want
With that seafaring man?”
I felt like one that had been stunned
Through all this wrong and scorn;
A sadder and a later man
I rose the morrow morn.
_Anonymous_
STRIKING
IT was a railway passenger,
And he lept out jauntilie.
“Now up and bear, thou stout portèr,
My two chattèls to me.
“Bring hither, bring hither my bag so red,
And portmanteau so brown;
(They lie in the van, for a trusty man
He labelled them London town:)
“And fetch me eke a cabman bold,
That I may be his fare, his fare;
And he shall have a good shilling,
If by two of the clock he do me bring
To the Terminus, Euston Square.”
“Now,—so to thee the saints alway,
Good gentleman, give luck,—
As never a cab may I find this day,
For the cabman wights have struck.
And now, I wis, at the Red Post Inn,
Or else at the Dog and Duck,
Or at Unicorn Blue, or at Green Griffin,
The nut-brown ale and the fine old gin
Right pleasantly they do suck.“
“Now rede me aright, thou stout portèr,
What were it best that I should do:
For woe is me, an’ I reach not there
Or ever the clock strike two.”
“I have a son, a lytel son;
Fleet is his foot as the wild roebuck’s:
Give him a shilling, and eke a brown,
And he shall carry thy fardels down
To Euston, or half over London town,
On one of the station trucks.”
Then forth in a hurry did they twain fare,
The gent and the son of the stout portèr,
Who fled like an arrow, nor turned a hair,
Through all the mire and muck:
“A ticket, a ticket, sir clerk, I pray:
For by two of the clock must I needs away.”
“That may hardly be,” the clerk did say,
“For indeed—the clocks have struck.”
_Charles S. Calverley._
AFTER SOUTHEY
THE OLD MAN’S COLD AND HOW HE GOT IT
(_By Northey-Southey-Eastey-Westey_)
“YOU are cold, Father William,” the young man cried,
“You shake and you shiver, I say;
You’ve a cold, Father William, your nose it is red,
Now tell me the reason, I pray.”
“In the days of my youth,” Father William replied—
(He was a dissembling old man)
“I put lumps of ice in my grandpapa’s boots,
And snowballed my Aunt Mary Ann.”
“Go along, Father William,” the young man cried,
“You are trying it on, sir, to-day;
What makes your teeth chatter like bone castanets?
Come tell me the reason, I pray.”
“In the days of my youth,” Father William replied,
“I went to the North Pole with Parry;
And now, my sweet boy, the Arc-tic doloreaux
Plays with this old man the Old Harry.”
“Get out! Father William,” the young man cried.
“Come, you shouldn’t go on in this way;
You are funny, but still you’ve a frightful bad cold—
Now tell me the reason, I pray.”
“I am cold, then, dear youth,” Father William replied;
“I’ve a cold, my impertinent son,
Because for some weeks my coals have been bought
At forty-eight shillings a ton!”
FATHER WILLIAM
“YOU are old, Father William,” the young man said,
“And your hair has become very white;
And yet you incessantly stand on your head—
Do you think, at your age, it is right?”
“In my youth,” Father William replied to his son,
“I feared it might injure the brain;
But now that I’m perfectly sure I have none,
Why, I do it again and again.”
“You are old,” said the youth, “as I mentioned before,
And grown most uncommonly fat;
Yet you turned a back-somersault in at the door—
Pray what is the reason of that?”
“In my youth,” said the sage, as he shook his gray locks,
“I kept all my limbs very supple
By the use of this ointment—one shilling the box—
Allow me to sell you a couple.”
“You are old,” said the youth, “and your jaws are too weak
For anything tougher than suet;
Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak;
Pray, how did you manage to do it?”
“In my youth,” said his father, “I took to the law,
And argued each case with my wife;
And the muscular strength which it gave to my jaw,
Has lasted the rest of my life.”
“You are old,” said the youth, “one would hardly suppose
That your eye was as steady as ever;
Yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose—
What made you so awfully clever?”
“I have answered three questions and that is enough,”
Said his father; “don’t give yourself airs!
Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff?
Be off, or I’ll kick you downstairs!”
_Lewis Carroll_
LADY JANE
(_Sapphics_)
DOWN the green hill-side fro’ the castle window
Lady Jane spied Bill Amaranth a-workin’;
Day by day watched him go about his ample
Nursery garden.
Cabbages thriv’d there, wi’ a mort o’ green-stuff—
Kidney beans, broad beans, onions, tomatoes,
Artichokes, seakale, vegetable marrows,
Early potatoes.
Lady Jane cared not very much for all these:
What she cared much for was a glimpse o’ Willum
Strippin’ his brown arms wi’ a view to horti-
Cultural effort.
Little guessed Willum, never extra-vain, that
Up the green hill-side, i’ the gloomy castle,
Feminine eyes could so delight to view his
Noble proportions.
Only one day while, in an innocent mood,
Moppin’ his brow (cos ’twas a trifle sweaty)
With a blue kerchief—lo, he spies a white un
Coyly responding.
Oh, delightsome Love! Not a jot do _you_ care
For the restrictions set on human inter-
Course by cold-blooded social refiners;
Nor do I, neither.
Day by day, peepin’ fro’ behind the bean-sticks,
Willum observed that scrap o’ white a-wavin’,
Till his hot sighs out-growin’ all repression
Busted his weskit.
Lady Jane’s guardian was a haughty Peer, who
Clung to old creeds and had a nasty temper;
Can we blame Willum that he hardly cared to
Risk a refusal?
Year by year found him busy ’mid the bean-sticks,
Wholly uncertain how on earth to take steps.
Thus for eighteen years he beheld the maiden
Wave fro’ her window.
But the nineteenth spring, i’ the castle post-bag,
Came by book-post Bill’s catalogue o’ seedlings
Mark’d wi’ blue ink at “Paragraphs relatin’
Mainly to Pumpkins.”
“W. A. can,” so the Lady Jane read,
“Strongly commend that very noble Gourd, the
_Lady Jane_, first-class medal, ornamental;
Grows to a great height.”
Scarce a year arter, by the scented hedgerows—
Down the mown hill-side, fro’ the castle gateway—
Came a long train and, i’ the midst, a black bier,
Easily shouldered.
“Whose is yon corse that, thus adorned wi’ gourd leaves
Forth ye bear with slow step?” A mourner answer’d,
“’Tis the poor clay-cold body Lady Jane grew
Tired to abide in.”
“Delve my grave quick, then, for I die to-morrow.
Delve it one furlong fro’ the kidney bean-sticks,
Where I may dream she’s goin’ on precisely
As she was used to.”
Hardly died Bill when, fro’ the Lady Jane’s grave,
Crept to his white death-bed a lovely pumpkin:
Climb’d the house wall and over-arched his head wi’
Billowy verdure.
Simple this tale!—but delicately perfumed
As the sweet roadside honeysuckle. That’s why,
Difficult though its metre was to tackle,
I’m glad I wrote it.
_A. T. Quiller-Couch._
AFTER CAMPBELL
THE NEW ARRIVAL
THERE came to port last Sunday night
The queerest little craft,
Without an inch of rigging on;
I looked and looked—and laughed!
It seemed so curious that she
Should cross the Unknown water,
And moor herself within my room—
My daughter! Oh, my daughter!
Yet by these presents witness all
She’s welcome fifty times,
And comes consigned in hope and love—
And common-metre rhymes.
She has no manifest but this,
No flag floats o’er the water;
She’s too new for the British Lloyds—
My daughter! Oh, my daughter!
Ring out, wild bells—and tame ones too,
Ring out the lover’s moon;
Ring in the little worsted socks,
Ring in the bib and spoon.
Ring out the muse, ring in the nurse,
Ring in the milk and water;
Away with paper, pen, and ink—
My daughter! Oh, my daughter!
_George Washington Cable._
JOHN THOMPSON’S DAUGHTER
A FELLOW near Kentucky’s clime
Cries, “Boatman, do not tarry,
And I’ll give thee a silver dime
To row us o’er the ferry.”
“Now, who would cross the Ohio,
This dark and stormy water?”
“O, I am this young lady’s beau,
And she, John Thompson’s daughter.
“We’ve fled before her father’s spite
With great precipitation;
And should he find us here to-night,
I’d lose my reputation.
“They’ve missed the girl and purse beside,
His horsemen hard have pressed me;
And who will cheer my bonny bride,
If yet they shall arrest me?”
Out spoke the boatman then in time,
“You shall not fail, don’t fear it;
I’ll go, not for your silver dime,
But for your manly spirit.
“And by my word, the bonny bird
In danger shall not tarry;
For though a storm is coming on,
I’ll row you o’er the ferry.”
By this the wind more fiercely rose,
The boat was at the landing;
And with the drenching rain their clothes
Grew wet where they were standing.
But still, as wilder rose the wind,
And as the night grew drearer;
Just back a piece came the police,
Their tramping sounded nearer.
“Oh, haste thee, haste!” the lady cries,
“It’s anything but funny;
I’ll leave the light of loving eyes,
But not my father’s money!”
And still they hurried in the face
Of wind and rain unsparing;
John Thompson reached the landing place—
His wrath was turned to swearing.
For by the lightning’s angry flash,
His child he did discover;
One lovely hand held all the cash,
And one was round her lover!
“Come back, come back!” he cried in woe,
Across the stormy water;
“But leave the purse, and you may go,
My daughter, oh, my daughter!”
’Twas vain; they reached the other shore
(Such doom the Fates assign us);
The gold he piled went with his child,
And he was left there _minus_.
_Phœbe Cary._
AFTER THOMAS MOORE
THE LAST CIGAR
’TIS a last choice Havana
I hold here alone;
All its fragrant companions
In perfume have flown.
No more of its kindred
To gladden the eye,
So my empty cigar case
I close with a sigh.
I’ll not leave thee, thou lone one,
To pine; but the stem
I’ll bite off and light thee
To waft thee to them.
And gently I’ll scatter
The ashes you shed,
As your soul joins its mates in
A cloud overhead.
All pleasure is fleeting,
It blooms to decay;
From the weeds’ glowing circle
The ash drops away.
A last whiff is taken,
The butt-end is thrown,
And with empty cigar-case,
I sit all alone.
_Anonymous._
’TWAS EVER THUS
I NEVER bought a young gazelle,
To glad me with its soft black eye,
But, when it came to know me well,
’Twas sure to butt me on the sly.
I never drilled a cockatoo,
To speak with almost human lip,
But, when a pretty phrase it knew,
’Twas sure to give some friend a nip.
I never trained a collie hound
To be affectionate and mild,
But, when I thought a prize I’d found,
’Twas sure to bite my youngest child.
I never kept a tabby kit
To cheer my leisure with its tricks,
But, when we all grew fond of it,
’Twas sure to catch the neighbor’s chicks.
I never reared a turtle-dove,
To coo all day with gentle breath,
But, when its life seemed one of love,
’Twas sure to peck its mate to death.
I never—well I never yet—
And I have spent no end of pelf—
Invested money in a pet
That didn’t misconduct itself.
_Anonymous._
“THERE’S A BOWER OF BEAN-VINES”
There’s a bower of bean-vines in Benjamin’s yard,
And the cabbages grow round it, planted for greens;
In the time of my childhood ’twas terribly hard
To bend down the bean-poles, and pick off the beans.
That bower and its products I never forget,
But oft, when my landlady presses me hard,
I think, are the cabbages growing there yet,
Are the bean-vines still bearing in Benjamin’s yard?
No, the bean-vines soon withered that once used to wave,
But some beans had been gathered, the last that hung on;
And a soup was distilled in a kettle, that gave
All the fragrance of summer when summer was gone.
Thus memory draws from delight, ere it dies,
An essence that breathes of it awfully hard;
As thus good to my taste as ’twas then to my eyes,
Is that bower of bean-vines in Benjamin’s yard.
_Phœbe Cary._
DISASTER
’TWAS ever thus from childhood’s hour!
My fondest hopes would not decay;
I never loved a tree or flower
Which was the first to fade away!
The garden, where I used to delve
Short-frock’d, still yields me pinks in plenty;
The pear-tree that I climbed at twelve
I see still blossoming, at twenty.
I never nursed a dear gazelle;
But I was given a parroquet—
(How I did nurse him if unwell!)
He’s imbecile, but lingers yet.
He’s green, with an enchanting tuft;
He melts me with his small black eye;
He’d look inimitable stuffed,
And knows it—but he will not die!
I had a kitten—I was rich
In pets—but all too soon my kitten
Became a full-sized cat, by which
I’ve more than once been scratched and bitten.
And when for sleep her limbs she curl’d
One day beside her untouch’d plateful,
And glided calmly from the world,
I freely own that I was grateful.
And then I bought a dog—a queen!
Ah, Tiny, dear departing pug!
She lives, but she is past sixteen
And scarce can crawl across the rug.
I loved her beautiful and kind;
Delighted in her pert bow-wow;
But now she snaps if you don’t mind;
’Twere lunacy to love her now.
I used to think, should e’er mishap
Betide my crumple-visaged Ti,
In shape of prowling thief, or trap,
Or coarse bull-terrier—I should die.
But ah! disasters have their use,
And life might e’en be too sunshiny;
Nor would I make myself a goose,
If some big dog should swallow Tiny.
_Charles S. Calverley._
SARAH’S HALLS
THE broom that once through Sarah’s halls,
In hole and corner sped,
Now useless leans ’gainst Sarah’s walls
And gathers dust instead.
So sweeps the slavey now-a-days
So work is shifted o’er,
And maids that once gained honest praise
Now earn that praise no more!
No more the cobweb from its height
The broom of Sarah fells;
The fly alone unlucky wight
Invades the spider’s cells.
Thus energy so seldom wakes,
All sign that Sarah gives
Is when some dish or platter breaks,
To show that still she lives.
_Judy._
’TWAS EVER THUS
I NEVER rear’d a young gazelle,
(Because, you see, I never tried);
But had it known and loved me well,
No doubt the creature would have died.
My rich and aged Uncle John
Has known me long and loves me well
But still persists in living on—
I would he were a young gazelle.
I never loved a tree or flower;
But, if I had, I beg to say
The blight, the wind, the sun, or shower
Would soon have withered it away.
I’ve dearly loved my Uncle John,
From childhood to the present hour,
And yet he will go living on on—
I would he were a tree or flower!
_Henry S. Leigh._
AFTER JANE TAYLOR
THE BAT
TWINKLE, twinkle, little bat!
How I wonder what you’re at!
Up above the world you fly,
Like a tea-tray in the sky.
_Lewis Carroll._
AFTER BARRY CORNWALL
THE TEA
THE tea! The tea! The beef, beef-tea!
The brew from gravy-beef for me!
Without a doubt, as I’ll be bound,
The best for an invalid ’tis found;
It’s better than gruel; with sago vies;
Or with the cradled babe’s supplies.
I like beef-tea! I like beef-tea,
I’m satisfied, and aye shall be,
With the brew I love, and the brew I know,
And take it wheresoe’er I go.
If the price should rise, or meat be cheap,
No matter. I’ll to beef-tea keep.
I love—oh, how I love to guide
The strong beef-tea to its place inside,
When round and round you stir the spoon
Or whistle thereon to cool it soon.
Because one knoweth—or ought to know,
That things get cool whereon you blow.
I never have drunk the dull souchong,
But I for my loved beef-tea did long,
And inly yearned for that bountiful zest,
Like a bird. As a child on that I messed—
And a mother it was and is to me,
For I was weaned on the beef—beef-tea!
_Tom Hood, Jr._
AFTER BYRON
THE ROUT OF BELGRAVIA
THE Belgravians came down on the Queen in her hold,
And their costumes were gleaming with purple and gold,
And the sheen of their jewels was like stars on the sea,
As their chariots rolled proudly down Piccadill-ee.
Like the leaves of _Le Follet_ when summer is green,
That host in its glory at noontide was seen;
Like the leaves of a toy-book all thumb-marked and worn,
That host four hours later was tattered and torn.
For the rush of the crowd, which was eager and vast,
Had rumpled and ruined and wrecked as it passed;
And the eyes of the wearer waxed angry in haste,
As a dress but once worn was dragged out at the waist.
And there lay the feather and fan side by side,
But no longer they nodded or waved in their pride;
And there lay lace flounces and ruching in slips,
And spur-torn material in plentiful strips.
And there were odd gauntlets and pieces of hair;
And fragments of back-combs and slippers were there;
And the gay were all silent, their mirth was all hushed,
Whilst the dewdrops stood out on the brows of the crushed.
And the dames of Belgravia were loud in their wail,
And the matrons of Mayfair all took up the tale;
And they vow as they hurry unnerved from the scene,
That it’s no trifling matter to call on the Queen.
_Jon Duan._
A GRIEVANCE
DEAR Mr. Editor: I wish to say—
If you will not be angry at my writing it—
But I’ve been used, since childhood’s happy day,
When I have thought of something, to inditing it;
I seldom think of things; and, by the way,
Although this metre may not be exciting, it
Enables one to be extremely terse,
Which is not what one always is in verse.
I used to know a man, such things befall
The observant wayfarer through Fate’s domain
He was a man, take him for all in all,
We shall not look upon his like again;
I know that statement’s not original;
What statement is, since Shakespere? or, since Cain,
What murder? I believe ’twas Shakespere said it, or
Perhaps it may have been your Fighting Editor.
Though why an Editor should fight, or why
A Fighter should abase himself to edit,
Are problems far too difficult and high
For me to solve with any sort of credit.
Some greatly more accomplished man than I
Must tackle them: let’s say then Shakespere said it;
And, if he did not, Lewis Morris may
(Or even if he did). Some other day,
When I have nothing pressing to impart,
I should not mind dilating on this matter.
I feel its import both in head and heart,
And always did,—especially the latter.
I could discuss it in the busy mart
Or on the lonely housetop; hold! this chatter
Diverts me from my purpose. To the point:
The time, as Hamlet said, is out of joint,
And perhaps I was born to set it right,—
A fact I greet with perfect equanimity.
I do not put it down to “cursed spite,”
I don’t see any cause for cursing in it. I
Have always taken very great delight
In such pursuits since first I read divinity.
Whoever will may write a nation’s songs
As long as I’m allowed to right its wrongs.
What’s Eton but a nursery of wrong-righters,
A mighty mother of effective men;
A training ground for amateur reciters,
A sharpener of the sword as of the pen;
A factory of orators and fighters,
A forcing-house of genius? Now and then
The world at large shrinks back, abashed and beaten,
Unable to endure the glare of Eton.
I think I said I knew a man: what then?
I don’t suppose such knowledge is forbid.
We nearly all do, more or less, know men,—
Or think we do; nor will a man get rid
Of that delusion, while he wields a pen.
But who this man was, what, if aught, he did,
Nor why I mentioned him, I do not know;
Nor what I “wished to say” a while ago.
_J. K. Stephen._
AFTER CHARLES WOLFE
THE BURIAL OF THE BACHELOR
NOT a laugh was heard, not a frivolous note,
As the groom to the wedding we carried;
Not a jester discharged his farewell shot
As the bachelor went to be married.
We married him quickly that morning bright,
The leaves of our prayer-books turning,
In the chancel’s dimly religious light,
And tears in our eyelids burning.
No useless nosegay adorned his chest,
Not in chains but in laws we bound him;
And he looked like a bridegroom trying his best
To look used to the scene around him.
Few and small were the fees it cost,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow,
But we silently gazed on the face of the lost
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
We thought as we hurried him home to be fed,
And tried our low spirits to rally,
That the weather looked very like squalls overhead
For the passage from Dover to Calais.
Lightly they’ll talk of the bachelor gone,
And o’er his frail fondness upbraid him;
But little he’ll reck if they let him alone,
With his wife that the parson hath made him.
But half of our heavy task was done,
When the clock struck the hour for retiring;
And we judged by the knocks which had now begun
That their cabby was rapidly tiring.
Slowly and sadly we led them down,
From the scene of his lame oratory;
We told the four-wheeler to drive them to town,
And we left them alone in their glory.
_Anonymous._
NOT A SOU HAD HE GOT
NOT a sou had he got—not a guinea or note,
And he looked confoundedly flurried
As he bolted away without paying his shot,
And the Landlady after him hurried.
We saw him again at dead of night,
When home from the club returning;
We twigged the Doctor beneath the light
Of the gas-lamp brilliantly burning.
All bare and exposed to the midnight dews,
Reclined in the gutter we found him;
And he look’d like a gentleman taking a snooze,
With his Marshal cloak around him.
“The Doctor’s as drunk as the d——,” we said,
And we managed a shutter to borrow;
We raised him, and sighed at the thought that his head
Would “consumedly ache” on the morrow.
We bore him home, and we put him to bed,
And we told his wife and his daughter
To give him, next morning, a couple of red
Herrings, with soda-water.
Loudly they talked of his money that’s gone
And his lady began to upbraid him;
But little he reck’d, so they let him snore on
’Neath the counterpane just as we laid him.
We tucked him in, and had hardly done
When, beneath the window calling,
We heard the rough voice of a son of a gun
Of a watchman “One o’clock!” bawling.
Slowly and sadly we all walk’d down
From his room in the uppermost story;
A rushlight was placed on the cold hearth-stone,
And we left him alone in his glory!
_R. Harris Barham._
THE MARRIAGE OF SIR JOHN SMITH
NOT a sigh was heard, nor a funeral tone,
As the man to his bridal we hurried;
Not a woman discharged her farewell groan,
On the spot where the fellow was married.
We married him just about eight at night,
Our faces paler turning,
By the struggling moonbeam’s misty light,
And the gas-lamp’s steady burning.
No useless watch-chain covered his vest,
Nor over-dressed we found him;
But he looked like a gentleman wearing his best,
With a few of his friends around him.
Few and short were the things we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow,
But we silently gazed on the man that was wed,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
We thought, as we silently stood about,
With spite and anger dying,
How the merest stranger had cut us out,
With only half our trying.
Lightly we’ll talk of the fellow that’s gone,
And oft for the past upbraid him;
But little he’ll reck if we let him live on,
In the house where his wife conveyed him.
But our heavy task at length was done,
When the clock struck the hour for retiring;
And we heard the spiteful squib and pun
The girls were sullenly firing.
Slowly and sadly we turned to go,—
We had struggled, and we were human;
We shed not a tear, and we spoke not our woe,
But we left him alone with his woman.
_Phœbe Cary._
AFTER MRS. HEMANS
THE THYROID GLAND
“WE hear thee speak of the thyroid gland,
But what thou say’st we don’t understand;
Professor, where does the acinus dwell?
We hashed our dissection and can’t quite tell.
Is it where the mascula lutea flows,
And the suprachordial tissue grows?”
“Not there, not there, my class!”
“Is it far away where the bronchi part
And the pneumogastric controls the heart?
Where endothelium encardium lines,
And a subpericardial nerve intertwines?
Where the subpleural plexus of lymphatics expand?
Is it there, Professor, that gruesome gland?”
“Not there, not there, my class!”
“I have not seen it, my gentle youths,
My myxoedemia, I’m told, it soothes.
Landois says stolidly ‘functions unknown;’
Foster adopts an enquiring tone.
Duct does not lead to its strange recess,
Far below the vertex, above the pes,
It is there, I am told, my class!”
_R. M._
AFTER KEATS
I.
ODE ON A JAR OF PICKLES
A SWEET, acidulous, down-reaching thrill
Pervades my sense. I seem to see or hear
The lushy garden-grounds of Greenwich Hill
In autumn, where the crispy leaves are sere;
And odors haunt me of remotest spice
From the Levant or musky-aired Cathay,
Or from the saffron-fields of Jericho,
Where everything is nice.
The more I sniff, the more I swoon away,
And what else mortal palate craves, forego.
II.
ODORS unsmelled are keen, but those I smell
Are keener; wherefore let me sniff again!
Enticing walnuts, I have known ye well
In youth, when pickles were a passing pain;
Unwitting youth, that craves the candy stem,
And sugar plums to olives doth prefer,
And even licks the pots of marmalade
When sweetness clings to them.
But now I dream of ambergris and myrrh,
Tasting these walnuts in the poplar shade.
III.
LO! hoarded coolness in the heart of noon,
Plucked with its dew, the cucumber is here,
As to the Dryad’s parching lips a boon,
And crescent bean-pods, unto Bacchus dear;
And, last of all, the pepper’s pungent globe,
The scarlet dwelling of the sylph of fire,
Provoking purple draughts; and, surfeited,
I cast my trailing robe
O’er my pale feet, touch up my tuneless lyre,
And twist the Delphic wreath to suit my head.
IV.
HERE shall my tongue in otherwise be soured
Than fretful men’s in parched and palsied days;
And, by the mid-May’s dusky leaves embowered,
Forget the fruitful blame, the scanty praise.
No sweets to them who sweet themselves were born,
Whose natures ooze with lucent saccharine;
Who, with sad repetition soothly cloyed,
The lemon-tinted morn
Enjoy, and find acetic twilight fine.
Wake I, or sleep? The pickle-jar is void.
_Bayard Taylor._
AFTER HEINE
IMITATION
MY love she leans from the window
Afar in a rosy land;
And red as a rose are her blushes,
And white as a rose her hand.
And the roses cluster around her,
And mimic her tender grace;
And nothing but roses can blossom
Wherever she shows her face.
I dwell in a land of winter,
From my love a world apart,—
But the snow blooms over with roses
At the thought of her in my heart.
This German style of poem
Is uncommonly popular now;
For the worst of us poets can do it—
Since Heine showed us how.
_H. C. Bunner._
COMMONPLACES
RAIN on the face of the sea,
Rain on the sodden land,
And the window-pane is blurred with rain
As I watch it, pen in hand.
Mist on the face of the sea,
Mist on the sodden land,
Filling the vales as daylight fails,
And blotting the desolate sand.
Voices from out of the mist,
Calling to one another:
“Hath love an end, thou more than friend,
Thou dearer than ever brother?”
Voices from out of the mist,
Calling and passing away;
But I cannot speak, for my voice is weak,
And ... this is the end of my lay.
_Rudyard Kipling._
AFTER HOOD
SONG OF THE SHEET
THE DRIPPING SHEET
_This sheet wrung out of cold or tepid water is thrown
around the body. Quick rubbing follows, succeeded by
the same operation with a dry sheet. Its operation is
truly shocking. Dress after to prevent remarks._
WITH nerves all shattered and worn,
With shouts terrific and loud,
A patient stood in a cold wet sheet—
A Grindrod’s patent shroud.
Wet, wet, wet,
In douche and spray and sleet,
And still, with a voice I shall never forget,
He sang the song of the sheet.
“Drip, drip, drip,
Dashing, and splashing, and dipping;
And drip, drip, drip,
Till your fat all melts to dripping.
It’s oh, for dry deserts afar,
Or let me rather endure
Curing with salt in a family jar,
If this is the water cure.
“Rub, rub, rub,
He’ll rub away life and limb;
Rub, rub, rub
It seems to be fun for him.
Sheeted from head to foot,
I’d rather be covered with dirt;
I’ll give you the sheet and the blankets to boot,
If you’ll only give me my shirt.
“Oh, men, with arms and hands,
Oh, men, with legs and shins,
It is not the sheet you’re wearing out,
But human creatures’ skins.
Rub, rub, rub,
Body, and legs, and feet;
Rubbing at once with a double rub,
A skin as well as a sheet.
“My wife will see me no more—
She’ll see the bone of her bone,
But never will see the flesh of her flesh,
For I’ll have no flesh of my own.
The little that was my own,
They won’t allow me to keep;
It’s a pity that flesh should be so dear,
And water so very cheap.
“Pack, pack, pack,
Whenever your spirit flags,
You’re doomed by hydropathic laws
To be packed in cold water rags;
Rolled up on bed or on floor,
Or sweated to death in a chair;
But my chairman’s rank—my shadow I’d thank
For taking my place in there.
“Slop, slop, slop,
Never a moment of time;
Slop, slop, slop,
Slackened like mason’s lime.
Stand and freeze and steam—
Steam or freeze and stand;
I wish those friends had their tongues benumbed,
That told me to leave dry land.
“Up, up, up,
In the morn before daylight,
The bathman cries ‘Get up,’
(I wish he were up for a fight).
While underneath the eaves,
The dry snug swallows cling;
But give them a cold wet sheet to their backs,
And see if they’ll come next spring.
“Oh! oh! it stops my breath,
(He calls it short and sweet),
Could they hear me underneath
I’ll shout them from the street!
He says that in half an hour
A different man I’ll feel;
That I’ll jump half over the moon and want
To walk into a meal!
“I feel more nerve and power,
And less of terror and grief;
I’m thinking now of love and hope—
And now of mutton and beef.
This glorious scene will rouse my heart,
Oh, who would lie in bed?
I cannot stop, but jump and hop,
Going like needle and thread.”
With buoyant spirit upborne,
With cheeks both healthy and red,
The same man ran up the Malvern Crags,
Pitying those in bed.
Trip, trip, trip,
Oh, life with health is sweet;
And still in a voice both strong and quick,
Would that its tones could reach the sick,
He sang the Song of the Sheet.
_Anonymous._
I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER
I REMEMBER, I remember,
The house where I was wed,
And the little room from which that night
My smiling bride was led.
She didn’t come a wink too soon,
Nor make too long a stay;
But now I often wish her folks
Had kept the girl away!
I remember, I remember,
Her dresses, red and white,
Her bonnets and her caps and cloaks,—
They cost an awful sight!
The “corner lot” on which I built,
And where my brother met
At first my wife, one washing-day,—
That man is single yet!
I remember, I remember,
Where I was used to court,
And thought that all of married life
Was just such pleasant sport:—
My spirit flew in feathers then,
No care was on my brow;
I scarce could wait to shut the gate,—
I’m not so anxious now!
I remember, I remember,
My dear one’s smile and sigh;
I used to think her tender heart
Was close against the sky.
It was a childish ignorance,
But now it soothes me not
To know I’m farther off from Heaven
Than when she wasn’t got!
_Phœbe Cary._
AFTER ALFRED BUNN
A YULE-TIDE PARODY
WHEN other wits and other bards,
Their tales at Christmas tell,
Or praise on cheap and colored cards
The time they love so well,
Secure from scorn and ridicule
I hope my verse may be,
If I can still remember Yule,
And Yule remember me.
The days are dark, the days are drear,
When dull December dies;
But, while we mourn an ended year,
Another’s star will rise.
I hail the season formed by rule
For merriment and glee;
So let me still remember Yule,
And Yule remember me.
The rich plum-pudding I enjoy,
I greet the pie of mince;
And loving both while yet a boy,
Have loved them ever since.
More dull were I than any mule
That eyes did ever see,
If I should not remember Yule,
And Yule remember me.
_Anonymous._
SELF-EVIDENT
WHEN other lips and other eyes
Their tales of love shall tell,
Which means the usual sort of lies
You’ve heard from many a swell;
When, bored with what you feel is bosh,
You’d give the world to see
A friend, whose love you know will wash,
Oh, then remember me!
When Signor Solo goes his tours,
And Captain Craft’s at Ryde,
And Lord Fitzpop is on the moors,
And Lord knows who besides;
When to exist you feel a task
Without a friend at tea,
At such a moment I but ask
That you’ll remember me.
_J. R. Planché._
AFTER LORD MACAULAY
THE LAUREATE’S TOURNEY
_By the Hon. T— B— M._
FYTTE THE FIRST
“WHAT news, what news, thou pilgrim gray, what news from the
southern land?
How fare the bold Conservatives, how is it with Ferrand?
How does the little Prince of Wales—how looks our lady Queen?
And tell me, is the monthly nurse once more at Windsor seen?”
“I bring no tidings from the Court, nor from St. Stephen’s hall;
I’ve heard the thundering tramp of horse, and the trumpet’s
battle-call;
And these old eyes have seen a fight, which England ne’er had seen,
Since fell King Richard sobbed his soul through blood on Bosworth
Green.
“‘He’s dead, he’s dead, the Laureate’s dead!’ ’Twas thus the cry
began,
And straightway every garret-roof gave up its minstrel man;
From Grub Street, and from Houndsditch, and from Farringdon Within,
The poets all towards Whitehall poured on with eldritch din.
“Loud yelled they for Sir James the Graham; but sore afraid was he;
A hardy knight were he that might face such a minstrelsie.
‘Now by St. Giles of Netherby, my patron Saint, I swear,
I’d rather by a thousand crowns Lord Palmerston were here!—
“‘What is’t ye seek, ye rebel knaves—what make you there beneath?’
‘The bays, the bays! we want the bays! we seek the laureate wreath!
We seek the butt of generous wine that cheers the son of song;
Choose thou among us all, Sir Knight—we may not tarry long!’
“Loud laughed the good Sir James in scorn ‘Rare jest it were, I
think,
But one poor butt of Xeres, and a thousand rogues to drink!
An’ if it flowed with wine or beer, ’tis easy to be seen,
That dry within the hour would be the well of Hippocrene.
“‘Tell me, if on Parnassus’ heights there grow a thousand sheaves;
Or has Apollo’s laurel bush yet borne ten hundred leaves?
Or if so many leaves were there, how long would they sustain
The ravage and the glutton bite of such a locust train?
“‘No! get ye back into your dens, take counsel for the night,
And choose me out two champions to meet in deadly fight;
To-morrow’s dawn shall see the lists marked out in Spitalfields,
And he who wins shall have the bays, and he shall die who yields!’
“Down went the window with a crash,—in silence and in fear
Each ragged bard looked anxiously upon his neighbor near;
Then up and spake young Tennyson—‘Who’s here that fears for death?
’Twere better one of us shall die, than England lose the wreath!
“Let’s cast the lot among us now, which two shall fight to-morrow;
For armor bright we’ll club our mite, and horses we can borrow;
’T were shame that bards of France should sneer, and German Dichters
too,
If none of British song might dare a deed of derringdo!’
“‘The lists of Love are mine,’ said Moore, ‘and not the lists of
Mars;’
Said Hunt, ‘I seek the jars of wine, but shun the combat’s jars!’
‘I’m old,’ quoth Samuel Rogers.—‘Faith,’ says Campbell, ‘so am I!’
‘And I’m in holy orders, sir!’ quoth Tom of Ingoldsby.
“‘Now out upon ye, craven loons,’ cried Moxon, good at need;
‘Bide, if ye will, secure at home, and sleep while others bleed.
I second Alfred’s motion, boys,—let’s try the chance of lot;
And monks shall sing, and bells shall ring, for him that goes to
pot.’
“Eight hundred minstrels slunk away—two hundred stayed to draw;
Now Heaven protect the daring wight that pulls the longest straw!
’Tis done! ’tis done! And who hath won? Keep silence one and all,—
The first is William Wordsworth hight, the second Ned Fitzball!”
FYTTE THE SECOND
OH, bright and gay hath dawned the day on lordly Spitalfields,—
How flash the rays with ardent blaze from polished helms and shields!
On either side the chivalry of England throng the green,
And in the middle balcony appears our gracious Queen.
With iron fists, to keep the lists, two valiant knights appear,
The Marquis Hal of Waterford, and stout Sir Aubrey Vere.
“What ho! there, herald, blow the trump! Let’s see who comes to claim
The butt of golden Xeres, and the Laureate’s honored name!”
That instant dashed into the lists, all armed from head to heel,
On courser brown, with vizor down, a warrior sheathed in steel;
Then said our Queen—“Was ever seen so stout a knight and tall?
His name—his race?”—“An’t please your grace, it is the brave
Fitzball.
“Oft in the Melodrama line his prowess hath been shown,
And well throughout the Surrey side his thirst for blood is known.
But see, the other champion comes!”—Then rang the startled air
With shouts of “Wordsworth, Wordsworth, ho! the bard of Rydal’s
there.”
And lo! upon a little steed, unmeet for such a course,
Appeared the honored veteran; but weak seemed man and horse.
Then shook their ears the sapient peers,—“That joust will soon be
done:
My Lord of Brougham, I’ll back Fitzball, and give you two to one!”
“Done,” quoth the Brougham,—“And done with you!” “Now minstrels,
are you ready?”
Exclaimed the Lord of Waterford,—“You’d better both sit steady.
Blow, trumpets, blow the note of charge! and forward to the fight!”
“Amen!” said good Sir Aubrey Vere; “Saint Schism defend the right!”
As sweeps the blast against the mast when blows the furious squall,
So started at the trumpet’s sound the terrible Fitzball;
His lance he bore his breast before,—Saint George protect the just!
Or Wordsworth’s hoary head must roll along the shameful dust!
“Who threw that calthrop? Seize the knave!” Alas! the deed is done;
Down went the steed, and o’er his head flew bright Apollo’s son.
“Undo his helmet! cut the lace! pour water on his head!”
“It ain’t no use at all, my lord; ’cos vy? the covey’s dead!”
Above him stood the Rydal bard—his face was full of woe.
“Now there thou liest, stiff and stark, who never feared a foe:
A braver knight, or more renowned in tourney and in hall,
Ne’er brought the upper gallery down than terrible Fitzball!”
They led our Wordsworth to the Queen—she crowned him with the bays
And wished him many happy years, and many quarter-days;
And if you’d have the story told by abler lips than mine,
You’ve but to call at Rydal Mount, and taste the Laureate’s wine!
_William Aytoun._
AFTER EMERSON
MUTTON
IF the fat butcher thinks he slays,
Or he—the mutton—thinks he’s slain,
Why, “troth is truth,” the eater says—
“I’ll come, and cut and come again.”
To hungry wolves that on him leer
Mutton is cheap, and sheep the same,
No famished god would at him sneer—
To famine, chops are more than fame.
Who hiss at him, him but assures
That they are geese, but wanting wings—
Your coat is his whose life is yours,
And baa! the hymn the mutton sings.
Ye curs, and gods of grander blood,
And you, ye Paddies fresh from Cork,
Come taste, ye lovers of the good—
Eat! Stuff! and turn your back on pork.
_Anonymous._
AFTER MARY HOWITT
THE LOBSTER QUADRILLE
“WILL you walk a little faster?” said a whiting to a snail,
“There’s a porpoise close behind us, and he’s treading on my tail.
See how eagerly the lobsters and the turtles all advance!
They are waiting on the shingle—will you come and join the dance?
Will you, won’t you, will you, won’t you, will you join the dance?
Will you, won’t you, will you, won’t you, won’t you join the dance?
“You can really have no notion how delightful it will be
When they take us up and throw us, with the lobsters, out to sea!”
But the snail replied “Too far, too far!” and gave a look askance—
Said he thanked the whiting kindly, but he would not join the dance.
Would not, could not, would not, could not, would not join the dance.
Would not, could not, would not, could not, could not join the dance.
“What matters it how far we go?” his scaly friend replied.
“There is another shore, you know, upon the other side.
The further off from England the nearer is to France—
Then turn not pale, beloved snail, but come and join the dance.
Will you, won’t you, will you, won’t you, will you join the dance?
Will you, won’t you, will you, won’t you, won’t you join the dance?”
_Lewis Carroll._
AFTER MRS. BROWNING
IN THE GLOAMING
IN the gloaming to be roaming, where the crested waves are foaming,
And the shy mermaidens combing locks that ripple to their feet;
When the gloaming is, I never made the ghost of an endeavor
To discover—but whatever were the hour, it would be sweet.
“To their feet,” I say, for Leech’s sketch indisputably teaches
That the mermaids of our beaches do not end in ugly tails,
Nor have homes among the corals; but are shod with neat balmorals,
An arrangement no one quarrels with, as many might with scales.
Sweet to roam beneath a shady cliff, of course with some young lady,
Lalage, Nærea, Haidee, or Elaine, or Mary Ann:
Love, you dear delusive dream, you! Very sweet your victims deem you,
When, heard only by the seamew, they talk all the stuff one can.
Sweet to haste, a licensed lover, to Miss Pinkerton, the glover;
Having managed to discover what is dear Nærea’s “size”:
P’raps to touch that wrist so slender, as your tiny gift you tender,
And to read you’re no offender, in those laughing hazel eyes.
Then to hear her call you “Harry,” when she makes you fetch and
carry—
O young men about to marry, what a blessed thing it is!
To be photograph’d—together—cased in pretty Russia leather—
Hear her gravely doubting whether they have spoilt your honest phiz!
Then to bring your plighted fair one first a ring—a rich and rare
one—
Next a bracelet, if she’ll wear one, and a heap of things beside;
And serenely bending o’er her, to inquire if it would bore her
To say when her own adorer may aspire to call her bride!
Then, the days of courtship over, with your WIFE to start for Dover
Or Dieppe—and live in clover evermore, what e’er befalls;
For I’ve read in many a novel that, unless they’ve souls that grovel
Folks _prefer_ in fact a hovel to your dreary marble halls.
To sit, happy married lovers; Phillis trifling with a plover’s
Egg, while Corydon uncovers with a grace the Sally Lunn,
Or dissects the lucky pheasant—that, I think, were passing pleasant,
As I sit alone at present, dreaming darkly of a Dun.
_C. S. Calverley._
GWENDOLINE
’TWAS not the brown of chestnut boughs
That shadowed her so finely;
It was the hair that swept her brows,
And framed her face divinely;
Her tawny hair, her purple eyes,
The spirit was ensphered in,
That took you with such swift surprise,
Provided you had peered in.
Her velvet foot amid the moss
And on the daisies patted,
As, querulous with sense of loss,
It tore the herbage matted.
“And come he early, come he late,”
She saith, “it will undo me;
The sharp fore-speeded shaft of fate
Already quivers through me.
“When I beheld his red-roan steed,
I knew what aim impelled it.
And that dim scarf of silver brede,
I guessed for whom he held it.
I recked not, while he flaunted by,
Of Love’s relentless vi’lence
Yet o’er me crashed the summer sky,
In thunders of blue silence.
“His hoof-prints crumbled down the dale,
But left behind their lava;
What should have been my woman’s mail
Grew jellied as guava.
I looked him proud, but ’neath my pride
I felt a boneless tremor;
He was the Beér, I descried,
And I was but the Seemer!
“Ah, how to be what then I seemed,
And bid him seem that is so!
We always tangle threads we dreamed,
And contravene our bliss so,
I see the red-roan steed again!
He looks as something sought he;
Why, hoity-toity!—_he_ is fain,
So _I_’ll be cold and haughty!”
_Bayard Taylor._
AFTER LONGFELLOW
THE MODERN HIAWATHA
HE killed the noble Mudjokivis.
Of the skin he made him mittens,
Made them with the fur side inside,
Made them with the skin side outside.
He, to get the warm side inside,
Put the inside skin side outside;
He, to get the cold side outside,
Put the warm side fur side inside.
That’s why he put the fur side inside,
Why he put the skin side outside,
Why he turned them inside outside.
_Anonymous._
HIGHER
THE shadows of night were a-comin’ down swift,
And the dazzlin’ snow lay drift on drift,
As thro’ a village a youth did go,
A-carryin’ a flag with this motto,—
Higher!
O’er a forehead high curled copious hair,
His nose a Roman, complexion fair,
O’er an eagle eye an auburn lash,
And he never stopped shoutin’ thro’ his moustache!
“Higher!”
He saw thro’ the windows as he kept gettin’ upper
A number of families sittin’ at supper,
But he eyes the slippery rocks very keen
And fled as he cried, and cried while a fleein’—
“Higher!”
“Take care you there!” said an old woman; “stop!
It’s blowing gales up there on top—
You’ll tumble off on t’other side!”
But the hurryin’ stranger loud replied,
“Higher!”
“Oh! don’t you go up such a shocking night,
Come sleep on my lap,” said a maiden bright.
On his Roman nose a tear-drop come,
But still he remarked, as he upward clomb,
“Higher!”
“Look out for the branch of that sycamore-tree!
Dodge rolling stones, if any you see!”
Sayin’ which the farmer went home to bed
And the singular voice replied overhead,
“Higher!”
About quarter past six the next afternoon,
A man accidentally goin’ up soon,
Heard spoken above him as often as twice
The very same word in a very weak voice,
“Higher!”
And not far, I believe, from quarter of seven—
He was slow gettin’ up, the road bein’ uneven—
Found the stranger dead in the drifted snow,
Still clutchin’ the flag with the motto—
Higher!
Yes! lifeless, defunct, without any doubt,
The lamp of life being decidedly out,
On the dreary hillside the youth was a layin’!
And there was no more use for him to be sayin’
“Higher!”
_Anonymous._
TOPSIDE GALAH!
THAT nightee teem he come chop, chop,
One young man walkee, no can stop,
Colo makee; icee makee;
He got flag; chop b’long welly culio, see—
Topside Galah!
He too muchee folly; one piecee eye
Lookee sharp—so fashion—alla same mi;
He talkee largee, talkee stlong,
To muchee culio; alla same gong—
Topside Galah!
Inside any house he can see light;
Any piecee loom got fire all light;
He lookee see plenty ice more high,
Inside he mouf he plenty cly—
Topside Galah!
“No can walkee!” olo man speakee he;
“Bimeby lain come, no can see;
Hab got water welly wide!”
Maskee, mi must go topside—
Topside Galah!
“Man-man,” one galo talkee he,
“What for you go topside look see?”
“Nother teem,” he makee plenty cly,
Maskee, alla teem walkee plenty high—
Topside Galah!
“Take care that spilum tlee, young man;
Take care that icee!” he no man-man
That coolie chin-chin he good-night;
He talkee “mi can go all light”—
Topside Galah!
Joss pidgin man chop-chop begin,
Morning teem that Joss chin-chin,
No see any man, he plenty fear,
Cause some man talkee, he can hear—
Topside Galah!
Young man makee die; one largee dog see
Too muchee bobbery, findee he.
Hand too muchee colo, inside can stop
Alla same piecee flag, got culio chop—
Topside Galah!
_Anonymous._
EXCELSIOR
THE swampy State of Illinois
Contained a greenish sort of boy,
Who read with idiotic joy—
“Excelsior!”
He tarried not to eat or drink,
But put a flag of lightish pink,
And traced on it in violet ink—
Excelsior!
Though what he meant by that absurd,
Uncouth, and stupid, senseless word,
Has not been placed upon record—
Excelsior!
The characters were very plain,
In German text, yet he was fain
With greater clearness to explain—
Excelsior!
And so he ran, this stupid wight,
And hollered out with all his might,
(As to a person out of sight)—
“Excelsior!”
And everybody thought the lad
Within an ace of being mad,
Who cried in accents stern and sad—
“Excelsior!”
“Come to my arms,” the maiden cried;
The youth grinned sheepishly, and sighed,
And then appropriately replied—
“Excelsior!”
The evening sun is in the sky,
But still the creature mounts on high
And shouts (nor gives a reason why)
“Excelsior!”
And ere he gains the topmost crag
His feeble legs begin to lag;
Unsteadily he holds the flag—
Excelsior!
Now P. C. Nab is on his track!
He puts him in an empty sack,
And brings him home upon his back—
Excelsior!
Nab takes him to a lumber store,
They toss him in and lock the door,
Which only makes him bawl the more—
“Excelsior!”
_Anonymous._
“THE DAY IS DONE”
THE day is done, and darkness
From the wing of night is loosed,
As a feather is wafted downward,
From a chicken going to roost.
I see the lights of the baker,
Gleam through the rain and mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o’er me,
That I cannot well resist.
A feeling of sadness and longing
That is not like being sick,
And resembles sorrow only
As a brickbat resembles a brick.
Come, get for me some supper,—
A good and regular meal—
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
And banish the pain I feel.
Not from the pastry bakers,
Not from the shops for cake;
I wouldn’t give a farthing
For all that they can make.
For, like the soup at dinner,
Such things would but suggest
Some dishes more substantial,
And to-night I want the best.
Go to some honest butcher,
Whose beef is fresh and nice,
As any they have in the city,
And get a liberal slice.
Such things through days of labor,
And nights devoid of ease,
For sad and desperate feelings,
Are wonderful remedies.
They have an astonishing power
To aid and reinforce,
And come like the “finally, brethren,”
That follows a long discourse.
Then get me a tender sirloin
From off the bench or hook.
And lend to its sterling goodness
The science of the cook.
And the night shall be filled with comfort,
And the cares with which it begun
Shall fold up their blankets like Indians,
And silently cut and run.
_Phœbe Cary._
A PSALM OF LIFE
TELL me not, in idle jingle,
Marriage is an empty dream,
For the girl is dead that’s single,
And things are not what they seem.
Married life is real, earnest,
Single blessedness a fib,
Taken from man, to man returnest,
Has been spoken of the rib.
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Nearer brings the wedding-day.
Life is long, and youth is fleeting,
And our hearts, if there we search,
Still like steady drums are beating
Anxious marches to the Church.
In the world’s broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle;
Be a woman, be a wife!
Trust no Future, howe’er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act—act in the living Present.
Heart within, and Man ahead!
Lives of married folks remind us
We can live our lives as well,
And, departing, leave behind us;—
Such examples as will tell;—
Such examples, that another,
Sailing far from Hymen’s port,
A forlorn, unmarried brother,
Seeing, shall take heart, and court.
Let us then be up and doing,
With the heart and head begin;
Still achieving, still pursùing,
Learn to labor, and to win!
_Phœbe Cary._
HOW OFTEN
THEY stood on the bridge at midnight,
In a park not far from the town;
They stood on the bridge at midnight,
Because they didn’t sit down.
The moon rose o’er the city,
Behind the dark church spire;
The moon rose o’er the city
And kept on rising higher.
How often, oh, how often!
They whispered words so soft;
How often, oh, how often;
How often, oh, how oft!
_Ben King._
DESOLATION
SOMEWHAT back from the village street
Stands the old fashioned country seat.
Across its antique portico
Tall poplar trees their shadows throw.
And there throughout the livelong day,
Jemima plays the pi-a-na.
Do, re, mi,
Mi, re, do.
In the front parlor there it stands,
And there Jemima plies her hands,
While her papa, beneath his cloak,
Mutters and groans: “This is no joke!”
And swears to himself and sighs, alas!
With sorrowful voice to all who pass.
Do, re, mi,
Mi, re, do.
Through days of death and days of birth
She plays as if she owned the earth.
Through every swift vicissitude
She drums as if it did her good,
And still she sits from morn till night
And plunks away with main and might
Do, re, mi,
Mi, re, do.
In that mansion used to be
Free-hearted hospitality;
But that was many years before
Jemima dallied with the score.
When she began her daily plunk,
Into their graves the neighbors sunk.
Do, re, mi,
Mi, re, do.
To other worlds they’ve long since fled,
All thankful that they’re safely dead.
They stood the racket while alive
Until Jemima rose at five.
And then they laid their burdens down,
And one and all they skipped the town.
Do, re, mi,
Mi, re, do.
_Tom Masson._
THE BIRDS AND THE PHEASANT
I SHOT a partridge in the air,
It fell in turnips, “Don” knew where;
For just as it dropped, with my right
I stopped another in its flight.
I killed a pheasant in the copse,
It fell amongst the fir-tree tops;
For though a pheasant’s flight is strong,
A cock, hard hit, cannot fly long.
Soon, soon afterwards, in a pie,
I found the birds in jelly lie;
And the pheasant at a fortnight’s end,
I found again in the carte of a friend.
_Punch._
AFTER WHITTIER
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._
AFTER MRS. NORTON
THE HORSE AND HIS MASTER
(_A panegyric_)
My—anything but beautiful, that standest “knock-knee’d” by,
“Inverted arch” describes thy back, as “dismal” doth thine eye.
Fret not—go roam the commons now, limp there for want of speed;
I dare not mount on thee (’twere pain), thou bag of bones, indeed.
Fret not with that too patient hoof, puff not with wheezy wind;
The harder that thou roarest now the more we lag behind;
The stranger “had” thy master, brute, for twice ten pounds, all told;
I only wish he had thee back! Too late—I’m sold! I’m sold!
To-morrow’s sun will dawn again, but ah! no ride for me.
Can I gallop over Rotten Row astride on such as thee?
’Tis evening now, and getting dark, and blowing up for rain;
I’ll lead thee then, with slow, slow steps, to some “bait stables”
plain.
(When a horse dealer cheats, with eyes of clap-trap truth and tears,
A hack’s form for an instant like a thoroughbred’s appears.)
And sitting down, I’ll ponder well beside this water’s brink,
Here—what’s thy name? Come, Rosinante! Drink pretty (?) creature,
drink!
Drink on, inflate thy skin. Away! this wretched farce is o’er;
I could not live a day and know that we must meet once more.
I’ve tempted thee, in vain (though Sanger’s power be strong,
They could not tempt this beast to trot), oh, thou hast lived too
long!
Who says that I’ll give in? Come up! who says thou art not old?
Thy faults were faults, poor useless steed, I fear, when thou wert
foal’d.
Thus, thus I whack upon thy back; go, scour with might and main
The asphalt! Ha! who stops thee now may have thee for his gain.
_Philip F. Allen._
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._
AFTER POE
WHAT TROUBLED POE’S RAVEN
COULD Poe walk again to-morrow, heavy with dyspeptic sorrow,
While the darkness seemed to borrow darkness from the night before,
From the hollow gloom abysmal, floating downward, grimly dismal,
Like a pagan curse baptismal from the bust above the door,
He would hear the Raven croaking from the dusk above the door,
“Never, never, nevermore!”
And, too angry to be civil, “Raven,” Poe would cry “or devil,
Tell me why you will persist in haunting Death’s Plutonian shore?”
Then would croak the Raven gladly, “I will tell you why so sadly,
I so mournfully and madly, haunt you, taunt you, o’er and o’er,
Why eternally I haunt you, daunt you, taunt you, o’er and o’er—
Only this, and nothing more.
“Forty-eight long years I’ve pondered, forty-eight long years I’ve
wondered,
How a poet ever blundered into a mistake so sore.
How could lamp-light from your table ever in the world be able,
From _below_, to throw my sable shadow ‘streaming on the floor,’
When I perched up here on Pallas, high above your chamber-door?
Tell me that—if nothing more!”
Then, like some wan, weeping willow, Poe would bend above his pillow,
Seeking surcease in the billow where mad recollections drown,
And in tearful tones replying, he would groan “There’s no denying
Either I was blindly lying, or the world was upside down—
Say, by Joe!—it was just midnight—so the world _was_ upside down—
Aye, the world was upside down!”
_John Bennett._
THE AMATEUR FLUTE
HEAR the fluter with his flute, Silver flute!
Oh, what a world of wailing is awakened by its toot!
How it demi-semi quavers
On the maddened air of night!
And defieth all endeavors
To escape the sound or sigh
Of the flute, flute, flute,
With its tootle, tootle, toot;
With reiterated tooteling of exasperating toots,
The long protracted tootelings of agonizing toots
Of the flute, flute, flute, flute,
Flute, flute, flute,
And the wheezings and the spittings of its toots.
Should he get that other flute,
Golden flute,
Oh, what a deeper anguish will his presence institoot!
How his eyes to heaven he’ll raise,
As he plays,
All the days!
How he’ll stop us on our ways
With its praise!
And the people—oh, the people,
That don’t live up in the steeple,
But inhabit Christian parlors
Where he visiteth and plays,
Where he plays, plays, plays
In the cruellest of ways,
And thinks we ought to listen,
And expects us to be mute,
Who would rather have the earache
Than the music of his flute,
Of his flute, flute, flute,
And the tootings of his toot,
Of the toots wherewith he tooteleth its agonizing toot,
Of the flute, flewt, fluit, floot,
Phlute, phlewt, phlewght,
And the tootle, tootle, tooting of its toot.
_Anonymous._
SAMUEL BROWN
IT was many and many a year ago,
In a dwelling down in town,
That a fellow there lived whom you may know,
By the name of Samuel Brown;
And this fellow he lived with no other thought
Than to our house to come down.
I was a child, and he was a child,
In that dwelling down in town,
But we loved with a love that was more than love,
I and my Samuel Brown,—
With a love that the ladies coveted,
Me and Samuel Brown.
And this was the reason that, long ago,
To that dwelling down in town,
A girl came out of her carriage, courting
My beautiful Samuel Brown;
So that her high-bred kinsmen came,
And bore away Samuel Brown,
And shut him up in a dwelling house,
In a street quite up in the town.
The ladies not half so happy up there,
Went envying me and Brown;
Yes! that was the reason (as all men know,
In this dwelling down in town),
That the girl came out of the carriage by night,
Coquetting and getting my Samuel Brown.
But our love is more artful by far than the love
Of those who are older than we,—
Of many far wiser than we,—
And neither the girls that are living above,
Nor the girls that are down in town,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Samuel Brown.
For the morn never shines, without bringing me lines,
From my beautiful Samuel Brown;
And the night’s never dark, but I sit in the park
With my beautiful Samuel Brown.
And often by day, I walk down in Broadway,
With my darling, my darling, my life and my stay,
To our dwelling down in town,
To our house in the street down town.
_Phœbe Cary._
THE PROMISSORY NOTE
In the lonesome latter years
(Fatal years!)
To the dropping of my tears
Danced the mad and mystic spheres
In a rounded, reeling rune,
’Neath the moon,
To the dripping and the dropping of my tears.
Ah, my soul is swathed in gloom,
(Ulalume!)
In a dim Titanic tomb,
For my gaunt and gloomy soul
Ponders o’er the penal scroll,
O’er the parchment (not a rhyme),
Out of place,—out of time,—
I am shredded, shorn, unshifty,
(Oh, the fifty!)
And the days have passed, the three,
Over me!
And the debit and the credit are as one to him and me!
’Twas the random runes I wrote
At the bottom of the note,
(Wrote and freely
Gave to Greeley)
In the middle of the night,
In the mellow, moonless night,
When the stars were out of sight,
When my pulses, like a knell,
(Israfel!)
Danced with dim and dying fays
O’er the ruins of my days,
O’er the dimeless, timeless days,
When the fifty, drawn at thirty,
Seeming thrifty, yet the dirty
Lucre of the market, was the most that I could raise!
Fiends controlled it,
(Let him hold it!)
Devils held for me the inkstand and the pen;
Now the days of grace are o’er,
(Ah, Lenore!)
I am but as other men;
What is time, time, time,
To my rare and runic rhyme,
To my random, reeling rhyme,
By the sands along the shore,
Where the tempest whispers, “Pay him!” and I answer, “Nevermore!”
_Bayard Taylor._
THE CANNIBAL FLEA
IT was many and many a year ago
In a District called E. C.,
That a Monster dwelt whom I came to know
By the name of Cannibal Flea,
And the brute was possessed with no other thought
Than to live—and to live on me!
I was in bed, and he was in bed
In the District named E. C.,
When first in his thirst so accurst he burst
Upon me, the Cannibal Flea,
With a bite that felt as if some one had driven
A bayonet into me.
And this was the reason why long ago
In that District named E. C.
I tumbled out of my bed, willing
To capture the Cannibal Flea,
Who all the night until morning came
Kept boring into me!
It wore me down to a skeleton
In the District hight E. C.
From that hour I sought my bed—eleven—
Till daylight he tortured me.
Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know
In that District named E. C.)
I so often jumped out of my bed by night
Willing the killing of Cannibal Flea.
But his hops they were longer by far than the hops
Of creatures much larger than he—
Of parties more long-legged than he;
And neither the powder nor turpentine drops,
Nor the persons engaged by me,
Were so clever as ever to stop me the hop
Of the terrible Cannibal Flea.
For at night with a scream, I am waked from my dream
By the terrible Cannibal Flea;
And at morn I ne’er rise without bites—of such size!—
From the terrible Cannibal Flea.
So I’m forced to decide I’ll no longer reside
In the District—the District—where he doth abide,
The locality known as E. C.
That is postally known as E. C.
_Tom Hood, Jr._
ANNABEL LEE
’TWAS more than a million years ago,
Or so it seems to me,
That I used to prance around and beau
The beautiful Annabel Lee.
There were other girls in the neighborhood
But none was a patch to she.
And this was the reason that long ago,
My love fell out of a tree,
And busted herself on a cruel rock;
A solemn sight to see,
For it spoiled the hat and gown and looks
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.
We loved with a love that was lovely love,
I and my Annabel Lee,
And we went one day to gather the nuts
That men call hickoree.
And I stayed below in the rosy glow
While she shinned up the tree,
But no sooner up than down kerslup
Came the beautiful Annabel Lee.
And the pallid moon and the hectic noon
Bring gleams of dreams for me,
Of the desolate and desperate fate
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.
And I often think as I sink on the brink
Of slumber’s sea, of the warm pink link
That bound my soul to Annabel Lee;
And it wasn’t just best for her interest
To climb that hickory tree,
For had she stayed below with me,
We’d had no hickory nuts maybe,
But I should have had my Annabel Lee.
_Stanley Huntley._
THE BELLS
HEAR a voice announcing IRVING in The Bells—sledge’s bells!
What a scene of wild excitement the advertisement foretells!
See the rush upon the pay-hole—
People stand a night and day whole
To secure a little corner for The Bells!
To look ghastly pale and shudder, every man and “every brudder”
Feels that nothing can be equal to The Bells!
Bells! Bells! Bells! Bells!
Too horrified to cheer,
Folk will testify by fear
How appalled they are by IRVING in The Bells;
While great beads of perspiration will appear,
For in conscience-stricken terrors he excels!
Gloomy Bells!
Pit and gallery will glory in the weird and frightful story,
Which may even thrill the bosom of the swells,
For every Yankee “dude”
Unquestionably should
Have nightmare after witnessing The Bells!
Will our cousins all go frantic from Pacific to Atlantic, or
condemn as childish antic
IRVING’s dancing, and his gasping, and his yells!
There’s a certain admiration which the strange impersonation
Still compels,
E’en from those who can’t see beauty in The Bells—
In the play that MR. LEWIS calls The Bells!
Wondrous Bells!
You first made Henry famous, so the stage historian tells.
Will the scene be now repeated which in London always greeted
His performance of Mathias in The Bells?
Or will every sneering Yankee,
In his nasal tones, say “Thankee,
I guess this is just another of your mighty British ‘sells’”?
Let the thought for ever perish, that the actor whom we cherish
Could fail to lick creation in The Bells!
But if there are detractors
Of this foremost of our actors,
Of the gentlemanly IRVING—friend of Toole’s—
“They are neither man nor woman, they are neither brute nor human,”
They are fools!
_Judy._
THE GOBLIN GOOSE
ONCE it happened I’d been dining, on my couch I slept reclining,
And awoke with moonlight shining brightly on my bedroom floor,
It was in the bleak December, Christmas night as I remember,
But I had no dying ember, as Poe had, when near the door,
Like a gastronomic goblin just beside my chamber door
Stood a bird,—and nothing more.
And I said, for I’m no craven, “Are you Edgar’s famous raven,
Seeking as with him a haven—were you mixed up with Lenore?”
Then the bird uprose and fluttered, and this sentence strange he
uttered,
“Hang Lenore,” he mildly muttered; “you have seen me once before,
Seen me on this festive Christmas, seen me surely once before,
I’m the Goose—and nothing more.”
Then he murmured, “Are you ready?” and with motion slow and steady,
Straight he leapt upon my bed; he simply gave a stifled roar;
And I cried, “As I’m a sinner, at a Goose-Club I was winner,
’Tis a memory of my dinner, which I ate at half-past four,
Goose well-stuffed with sage and onions, which I ate at half-past
four.”
Quoth he hoarsely, “Eat no more!”
Said I, “I’ve enjoyed your juices, breast and back; but tell me,
Goose, is
This revenge, and what the use is of your being such a bore?
For Goose-flesh I will no more ax, if you’ll not sit on my thorax,
Go try honey mixed with borax, for I hear your throat is sore,
You speak gruffly, though too plainly, and I’m sure your throat is
sore.”
Quoth the nightmare, “Eat no more!”
“Goose!” I shrieked out, “leave, oh, leave me, surely you don’t mean
to grieve me,
You are heavy, pray reprieve me, now my penance must be o’er;
Though to-night you’ve brought me sorrow, comfort surely comes
to-morrow,
Some relief from those I’d borrow at my doctor’s ample store.”
Quoth the goblin, “Eat no more!”
And that fat Goose, never flitting, like a nightmare still is sitting
With me all the night emitting words that thrill my bosom’s core,
Now throughout the Christmas season, while I lie and gasp and wheeze,
on
Me he sits until my reason nothing surely can restore,
While that Goose says, “Eat no more!”
_Punch._
AFTER LORD HOUGHTON
LOVE AND SCIENCE
(_The Sphygmophon is an apparatus connected with the telephone, by the
help of which the movements of the pulse and heart may be rendered
audible_)
I WANDERED by the brookside,
I wandered by the mill;
The Sphygmophon was fixed there,
Its wires ran past the hill.
I heeded not the grasshopper,
Nor chirp of any bird,
For the beating of my own heart
Was all the sound I heard.
To test his apparatus,
One end I closely press’d,
The other at a distance,
I hoped was next his chest.
I listened for his footfall,
I listened for his word,
Still the bumping of my own heart
Was all the sound I heard.
He came not, no he came not,
The night came on alone;
And thinking he had tricked me,
I loosed the Sphygmophon.
The evening air passed by my cheek,
The leaves above were stirred,
When—the thumping of his own heart
Was all the sound I heard.
With joy I grasped the magnet,
When some one stood behind,
His hand was on my shoulder
(But that I did not mind).
Each spoke then—nearer—nearer,
We shouted every word;
But the booming of our own hearts
Was all the sound we heard.
_Anonymous._
AFTER TENNYSON
THE BATHER’S DIRGE
BREAK, break, break,
On thy cold, hard stones, O sea!
And I hope that my tongue won’t utter
The curses that rise in me.
Oh, well for the fisherman’s boy,
If he likes to be soused with the spray!
Oh, well for the sailor lad,
As he paddles about in the bay!
And the ships swim happily on,
To their haven under the hill;
But O for a clutch of that vanished hand,
And a kick—for I’m catching a chill!
Break, break, break,
At my poor bare feet, O sea!
But the artful scamp who has collar’d my clothes
Will never come back to me.
_Tennyson Minor._
LITTLE MISS MUFFET
(_Reset as an Arthurian Idyl_)
UPON a tuffet of most soft and verdant moss,
Beneath the spreading branches of an ancient oak,
Miss Muffet sat, and upward gazed,
To where a linnet perched and sung,
And rocked him gently, to and fro.
Soft blew the breeze
And mildly swayed the bough,
Loud sung the bird,
And sweetly dreamed the maid;
Dreamed brightly of the days to come—
The golden days, with her fair future blent.
When one—some wondrous stately knight—
Of our great Arthur’s “Table Round;”
One, brave as Launcelot, and
Spotless as the pure Sir Galahad,
Should come, and coming, choose her
For his love, and in her name,
And for the sake of her fair eyes,
Should do most knightly deeds.
And as she dreamed and softly sighed,
She pensively began to stir,
With a tiny golden spoon
Within an antique dish upon her lap,
Some snow-white milky curds;
Soft were they, full of cream and rich,
And floated in translucent whey;
And as she stirred, she smiled,
Then gently tasted them.
And smiling, ate, nor sighed no more.
Lo! as she ate—nor harbored thought of ill—
Near and nearer yet, there to her crept,
A monster great and terrible,
With huge, misshapen body—leaden eyes—
Full many a long and hairy leg,
And soft and stealthy footstep.
Nearer still he came—Miss Muffet yet,
All unwitting his dread neighborhood,
Did eat her curds and dream.
Blithe, on the bough, the linnet sung—
All terrestrial natures, sleeping, wrapt
In a most sweet tranquillity.
Closer still the spider drew, and—
Paused beside her—lifted up his head
And gazed into her face.
Miss Muffet then, her consciousness alive
To his dread eyes upon her fixed,
Turned and beheld him.
Loud screamed she, frightened and amazed,
And straightway sprung upon her feet,
And, letting fall her dish and spoon,
She—shrieking—turned and fled.
_Anonymous._
THE MUSICAL PITCH
BREAK, break, break,
O voice!—let me urge thy plea!
Oh, lower the Pitch, lest utter
Despair be the end of me!
’Tis well for the fiddles to squeak,
The bassoon to grunt in its play;
’Twere well had I lungs of brass,
Or that nothing but strings give way!
Break, break, break,
O voice! I must urge thy plea,
For the tender skin of my larynx is torn,
And I fail in my upper G!
_Anonymous._
TO AN IMPORTUNATE HOST
(_During dinner and after Tennyson_)
ASK me no more: I’ve had enough Chablis;
The wine may come again and take the shape
From glass to glass of “Mountain” or of “Cape,”
But my dear boy, when I have answered thee,
Ask me no more.
Ask me no more: what answer should I give,
I love not pickled pork, nor partridge pie;
I feel if I took whiskey I should die!
Ask me no more—for I prefer to live:
Ask me no more.
Ask me no more: unless my fate is sealed,
And I have striven against you all in vain.
Let your good butler bring me “Hock” again;
Then rest, dear boy. If for this once I yield,
Ask me no more.
_Anonymous._
THE VILLAGE CHOIR
HALF a bar, half a bar,
Half a bar onward!
Into an awful ditch
Choir and precentor hitch,
Into a mess of pitch,
They led the Old Hundred.
Trebles to right of them,
Tenors to left of them,
Basses in front of them,
Bellowed and thundered.
Oh, that precentor’s look,
When the sopranos took
Their own time and hook
From the Old Hundred!
Screeched all the trebles here,
Boggled the tenors there,
Raising the parson’s hair,
While his mind wandered;
Theirs not to reason why
This psalm was pitched too high:
Theirs but to gasp and cry
Out the Old Hundred.
Trebles to right of them,
Tenors to left of them,
Basses in front of them,
Bellowed and thundered.
Stormed they with shout and yell,
Not wise they sang nor well,
Drowning the sexton’s bell,
While all the church wondered.
Dire the precentor’s glare,
Flashed his pitchfork in air
Sounding fresh keys to bear
Out the Old Hundred.
Swiftly he turned his back,
Reached he his hat from rack,
Then from the screaming pack,
Himself he sundered.
Tenors to right of him,
Tenors to left of him,
Discords behind him,
Bellowed and thundered.
Oh, the wild howls they wrought:
Right to the end they fought!
Some tune they sang, but not,
Not the Old Hundred.
_Anonymous._
THE BITER BIT
THE sun is in the sky, mother, the flowers are springing fair;
And the melody of woodland birds is stirring in the air;
The river, smiling to the sky, glides onward to the sea,
And happiness is everywhere, oh, mother, but with me!
They are going to the church, mother—I hear the marriage bell
It booms along the upland—Oh! it haunts me like a knell;
He leads her on his arm, mother, he cheers her faltering step,
And closely to his side she clings—she does, the demirep!
They are crossing by the stile, mother, where we so oft have stood,
The stile beside the shady thorn, at the corner of the wood;
And the boughs, that wont to murmur back the words that won my ear,
Wave their silver branches o’er him, as he leads his bridal fere.
He will pass beside the stream, mother, where first my hand he pressed,
By the meadow where, with quivering lip, his passion he confessed;
And down the hedgerows where we’ve strayed again and yet again;
But he will not think of me, mother, his broken-hearted Jane!
He said that I was proud, mother, that I looked for rank and gold,
He said I did not love him—he said my words were cold;
He said I kept him off and on, in hopes of higher game—
And it may be that I did, mother; who hasn’t done the same?
I did not know my heart, mother—I know it now too late;
I thought that I without a pang could wed some nobler mate;
But no nobler suitor sought me—and he has taken wing,
And my heart is gone, and I am left a lone and blighted thing.
You may lay me in my bed, mother—my head is throbbing sore;
And, mother, prithee, let the sheets be duly aired before;
And, if you’d please, my mother dear, your poor desponding child,
Draw me a pot of beer, mother, and mother, draw it mild!
_William Aytoun._
THE LAUREATE
WHO would not be
The Laureate bold,
With his butt of sherry
To keep him merry,
And nothing to do but to pocket his gold?
’Tis I would be the Laureate bold!
When the days are hot, and the sun is strong,
I’d lounge in the gateway all the day long
With her Majesty’s footmen in crimson and gold.
I’d care not a pin for the waiting-lord,
But I’d lie on my back on the smooth greensward
With a straw in my mouth, and an open vest,
And the cool wind blowing upon my breast,
And I’d vacantly stare at the clear blue sky,
And watch the clouds that are listless as I,
Lazily, lazily!
And I’d pick the moss and the daisies white,
And chew their stalks with a nibbling bite;
And I’d let my fancies roam abroad
In search of a hint for a birthday ode,
Crazily, crazily!
Oh, that would be the life for me,
With plenty to get and nothing to do,
But to deck a pet poodle with ribbons of blue,
And whistle all day to the Queen’s cockatoo,
Trance-somely, trance-somely!
Then the chambermaids, that clean the rooms,
Would come to the windows and rest on their brooms,
With their saucy caps and their crispéd hair,
And they’d toss their heads in the fragrant air,
And say to each other—“Just look down there,
At the nice young man, so tidy and small,
Who is paid for writing on nothing at all,
Handsomely, handsomely!”
They would pelt me with matches and sweet pastilles,
And crumpled-up balls of the royal bills,
Giggling and laughing, and screaming with fun,
As they’d see me start, with a leap and a run,
From the broad of my back to the points of my toes,
When a pellet of paper hit my nose,
Teasingly, sneezingly!
Then I’d fling them bunches of garden flowers,
And hyacinths plucked from the Castle bowers;
And I’d challenge them all to come down to me,
And I’d kiss them all till they kissed me,
Laughingly, laughingly.
Oh, would not that be a merry life,
Apart from care and apart from strife,
With the Laureate’s wine, and the Laureate’s pay,
And no deductions at quarter-day?
Oh, that would be the post for me!
With plenty to get and nothing to do,
But to deck a pet poodle with ribbons of blue,
And whistle a tune to the Queen’s cockatoo,
And scribble of verses remarkably few,
And empty at evening a bottle or two,
Quaffingly, quaffingly!
’Tis I would be
The Laureate bold,
With my butt of sherry
To keep me merry,
And nothing to do but to pocket my gold!
_William Aytoun._
THE LAY OF THE LOVELORN
COMRADES, you may pass the rosy. With permission of the chair,
I shall leave you for a little, for I’d like to take the air.
Whether ’twas the sauce at dinner, or that glass of ginger-beer,
Or these strong cheroots, I know not, but I feel a little queer.
Let me go. Nay, Chuckster, blow me, ’pon my soul, this is too bad!
When you want me, ask the waiter; he knows where I’m to be had.
Whew! This is a great relief now! Let me but undo my stock;
Resting here beneath the porch, my nerves will steady like a rock.
In my ears I hear the singing of a lot of favourite tunes—
Bless my heart, how very odd! Why surely there’s a brace of moons!
See! the stars! how bright they twinkle, winking with a frosty glare,
Like my faithless cousin Amy when she drove me to despair.
Oh, my cousin, spider-hearted! Oh, my Amy! No, confound it,
I must wear the mournful willow,—all around my heart I’ve bound it!
Falser than the bank of fancy, frailer than a shining glove,
Puppet to a father’s anger, minion to a nabob’s love!
Is it well to wish thee happy? Having known me, could you ever
Stoop to marry half a heart, and a little more than half a liver?
Happy! Damme! Thou shalt lower to his level day by day,
Changing from the best of china to the commonest of clay.
As the husband is, the wife is,—he is stomach-plagued and old;
And his curry soups will make thy cheek the color of his gold.
When his feeble love is sated, he will hold thee surely then
Something lower than his hookah,—something less than his cayenne.
What is this? His eyes are pinky. Was ’t the claret? Oh, no, no,—
Bless your soul! it was the salmon,—salmon always makes him so.
Take him to thy dainty chamber—soothe him with thy lightest fancies;
He will understand thee, won’t he?—pay thee with a lover’s glances?
Louder than the loudest trumpet, harsh as harshest ophicleide,
Nasal respirations answer the endearments of his bride.
Sweet repose, delightful music! Gaze upon thy noble charge,
Till the spirit fill thy bosom that inspired the meek Laffarge.
Better thou wert dead before me,—better, better that I stood,
Looking on thy murdered body, like the injured Daniel Good!
Better thou and I were lying, cold and timber-stiff and dead,
With a pan of burning charcoal underneath our nuptial bed!
Cursed be the Bank of England’s notes, that tempt the soul to sin!
Cursed be the wants of acres,—doubly cursed the want of tin!
Cursed be the marriage-contract, that enslaved thy soul to greed!
Cursed be the sallow lawyer that prepared and drew the deed!
Cursed be his foul apprentice, who the loathsome fees did earn!
Cursed be the clerk and parson,—cursed be the whole concern!
Oh, ’tis well that I should bluster,—much I’m like to make of that;
Better comfort have I found in singing “All Around my Hat.”
But that song, so wildly plaintive, palls upon my British ears.
’Twill not do to pine for ever,—I am getting up in years.
Can’t I turn the honest penny, scribbling for the weekly press,
And in writing Sunday libels drown my private wretchedness?
Oh, to feel the wild pulsation that in manhood’s dawn I knew,
When my days were all before me, and my years were twenty-two!
When I smoked my independent pipe along the Quadrant wide,
With the many larks of London flaring up on every side;
When I went the pace so wildly, caring little what might come;
Coffee-milling care and sorrow with a nose-adapted thumb;
Felt the exquisite enjoyment, tossing nightly off, oh, heavens!
Brandies at the Cider Cellars, kidneys smoking hot at Evans’!
Or in the Adelphi sitting, half in rapture, half in tears,
Saw the glorious melodrama conjure up the shades of years!
Saw Jack Sheppard, noble stripling, act his wondrous feats again,
Snapping Newgate’s bars of iron, like an infant’s daisy chain.
Might was right, and all the terrors, which had held the world in awe,
Were despised, and priggings prospered, spite of Laurie, spite of law.
In such scenes as these I triumphed, ere my passion’s edge was rusted,
And my cousin’s cold refusal left me very much disgusted!
Since, my heart is sere and withered, and I do not care a curse
Whether worse shall be the better, or the better be the worse.
Hark! my merry comrades call me, bawling for another jorum;
They would mock me in derision, should I thus appear before ’em.
Womankind shall no more vex me, such at least as go arrayed
In the most expensive satins and the newest silk brocade.
I’ll to Afric, lion-haunted, where the giant forest yields
Rarer robes and finer tissue than are sold at Spitalfields.
Or to burst all chains of habit, flinging habit’s self aside
I shall walk the tangled jungle in mankind’s primeval pride;
Feeding on the luscious berries and the rich cassava root,
Lots of dates and lots of guavas, clusters of forbidden fruit.
Never comes the trader thither, never o’er the purple main
Sounds the oath of British commerce, or the accent of Cockaigne.
There, methinks, would be enjoyment, where no envious rule prevents;
Sink the Steamboats! cuss the railways! rot, oh, rot the Three per
Cents!
There the passions, cramped no longer, shall have space to breathe,
my cousin!
I will wed some savage woman—nay, I’ll wed at least a dozen.
There I’ll rear my young mulattoes, as no Bond Street brats are
reared;
They shall dive for alligators, catch the wild goats by the beard—
Whistle to the cockatoos, and mock the hairy-faced baboon,
Worship mighty Mumbo Jumbo in the Mountains of the Moon.
I myself, in far Timbuctoo, leopard’s blood will daily quaff,
Ride a tiger-hunting, mounted on a thorough-bred giraffe.
Fiercely shall I shout the war-whoop, as some sullen stream he
crosses,
Startling from their noonday slumbers iron-bound rhinoceroses.
Fool! again the dream, the fancy! But I know my words are mad,
For I hold the gray barbarian lower than the Christian cad.
I the swell—the city dandy! I to seek such horrid places,—
I to haunt with squalid negroes, blubber-lips, and monkey-faces.
I to wed with Coromantees! I, who managed—very near—
To secure the heart and fortune of the widow Shillibeer!
Stuff and nonsense! let me never fling a single chance away;
Maids ere now, I know, have loved me, and another maiden may.
_Morning Post_ (_The Times_ won’t trust me) help me, as I know you
can;
I will pen an advertisement,—that’s a never failing plan.
“Wanted—by a bard, in wedlock, some young interesting woman;
Looks are not so much an object, if the shiners be forthcoming!
“Hymen’s chains the advertiser vows shall be but silken fetters;
Please address to A. T., Chelsea. N. B.—You must pay the letters.”
That’s the sort of thing to do it. Now I’ll go and taste the balmy,—
Rest thee with thy yellow nabob, spider-hearted Cousin Amy!
_William Aytoun._
IN IMMEMORIAM
WE seek to know, and knowing seek;
We seek, we know, and every sense
Is trembling with the great Intense
And vibrating to what we speak.
We ask too much, we seek too oft,
We know enough, and should no more;
And yet we skim through Fancy’s lore
And look to earth and not aloft.
A something comes from out the gloom;
I know it not, nor seek to know;
I only see it swell and grow,
And more than this world would presume.
Meseems, a circling void I fill,
And I, unchanged where all is changed;
It seems unreal; I own it strange,
Yet nurse the thoughts I cannot kill.
I hear the ocean’s surging tide,
Raise quiring on its carol-tune;
I watch the golden-sickled moon,
And clearer voices call besides.
O Sea! whose ancient ripples lie
On red-ribbed sands where seaweeds shone;
O Moon! whose golden sickle’s gone;
O Voices all! like ye I die!
_Cuthbert Bede._
SIR EGGNOGG
FORTH from the purple battlements he fared,
Sir Eggnogg of the Rampant Lily, named
From that embrasure of his argent shield
Given by a thousand leagues of heraldry
On snuffy parchments drawn. So forth he fared,
By bosky boles and autumn leaves he fared,
Where grew the juniper with berries black,
The sphery mansions of the future gin.
But naught of this decoyed his mind, so bent
On fair Miasma, Saxon-blooded girl,
Who laughed his loving lullabies to scorn,
And would have snatched his hero-sword to deck
Her haughty brow, or warm her hands withal,
So scornful she; and thence Sir Eggnogg cursed
Between his teeth, and chewed his iron boots
In spleen of love. But ere the morn was high
In the robustious heaven, the postern-tower
Clang to the harsh, discordant, slivering scream
Of the tire-woman, at the window bent
To dress her crispéd hair. She saw, ah, woe!
The fair Miasma, overbalanced, hurled
O’er the flamboyant parapet which ridged
The muffled coping of the castle’s peak,
Prone on the ivory pavement of the court,
Which caught and cleft her fairest skull, and sent
Her rosy brains to fleck the Orient floor.
This saw Sir Eggnogg, in his stirrups poised.
Saw he and cursed, with many a deep-mouthed oath,
And, finding nothing more could reunite
The splintered form of fair Miasma, rode
On his careering palfrey to the wars,
And there found death, another death than hers.
_Bayard Taylor._
GODIVA
“I waited for the Train at Coventry,”
The Train was several hundred years too late
(It had not been invented yet, you see);
Such is the Cold Cast Irony of Fate.
At last the Train arrived, and with it too
Your Book—a Precious Package marked “collect.”
Raptured I read it through and through, and through,
And then I paused in sadness to reflect—
How that same Book had been a priceless boon,
But for a little accident of Date;
If only I had not been born so soon,
Or if you had not gone to press so late.
O Book, if only you had come to me
Ere I rode forth upon that morning sad!
In naught but Faith and Hope and Charity,
And other Vague Abstractions thinly clad;
In whole Editions I would have invested
(I hope you get good Royalties therefrom),
To keep the naughty townfolk interested
And most Particularly, Peeping Tom.
_Oliver Herford._
A LAUREATE’S LOG
(_Rough-weather notes from the New Birthday-Book_)
MONDAY
IF you’re waking, please don’t call me, please don’t call me, Currie
dear,
For they tell me that to-morrow toward the open we’re to steer!
No doubt, for you and those aloft, the maddest merriest way,—
But I always feel best in a bay, Currie,
I always feel best in a bay.
TUESDAY
Take, take, take?
What will I take for tea?
The thinnest slice—no butter,
And that’s quite enough for me.
WEDNESDAY
It is the little roll within the berth
That, by and by, will put an end to mirth,
And, never ceasing, slowly prostrate all.
THURSDAY
Let me alone! What pleasure can you have
In chaffing evil? Tell me what’s the fun
Of ever climbing up the climbing wave?
All you, the rest, you know how to behave
In roughish weather! I, for one
Ask for the shore—or death, dark death,—
I am so done.
FRIDAY
Twelve knots an hour! But what am I?
A poet with no land in sight,
Insisting that he feels “all right,”
With half a smile and half a sigh.
SATURDAY
Comfort? Comfort scorned of lubbers! Hear this truth the Poet roar,
That a sorrow’s crown of sorrows is remembering days on shore.
Drug his soda lest he learn it when the foreland gleams a speck
In the dead unhappy night, when he can’t sit up on deck!
SUNDAY
Ah! you’ve called me nice and early, nice and early, Currie dear!
What? Really in? Well, come, the news I’m precious glad to hear;
For though in such good company I willingly would stay—
I’m glad to be back in the bay, Currie,
I’m glad to be back in the bay.
_Punch._
THE RECOGNITION
HOME they brought her sailor son,
Grown a man across the sea,
Tall and broad and black of beard,
And hoarse of voice as man may be.
Hand to shake and mouth to kiss,
Both he offered ere he spoke;
But she said—“What man is this
Comes to play a sorry joke?”
Then they praised him—call’d him “smart,”
“Tightest lad that ever stept;”
But her son she did not know,
And she neither smiled nor wept.
Rose, a nurse of ninety years,
Set a pigeon-pie in sight;
She saw him eat—“’Tis he! ’tis he!”
She knew him—by his appetite!
_William Sawyer._
THE HIGHER PANTHEISM IN A NUTSHELL
ONE, who is not, we see; but one, whom we see not, is;
Surely this is not that: but that is assuredly this.
What, and wherefore, and whence? for under is over and under;
If thunder could be without lightning, lightning could be without
thunder.
Doubt is faith in the main: but faith, on the whole, is doubt;
We cannot believe by proof: but could we believe without?
Why, and whither, and how? for barley and rye are not clover;
Neither are straight lines curves: yet over is under and over.
Two and two may be four: but four and four are not eight;
Fate and God may be twain: but God is the same thing as fate.
Ask a man what he thinks, and get from a man what he feels;
God, once caught in the fact, shews you a fair pair of heels.
Body and spirit are twins: God only knows which is which;
The soul squats down in the flesh, like a tinker drunk in a ditch.
One and two are not one: but one and nothing is two;
Truth can hardly be false, if falsehood cannot be true.
Once the mastodon was: pterodactyls were common as cocks;
Then the mammoth was God: now is He a prize ox.
Parallels all things are: yet many of these are askew.
You are certainly I: but certainly I am not you.
Springs the rock from the plain, shoots the stream from the rock;
Cocks exist for the hen: but hens exist for the cock.
God, whom we see not, is: and God, who is not, we see;
Fiddle, we know, is diddle: and diddle, we take it, is dee.
_Algernon Charles Swinburne._
TIMBUCTOO.—PART I.
_The situation._
IN Africa (a Quarter of the World), 1
Men’s skins are black, their hair is crisp and curl’d,
And somewhere there, unknown to public view,
A mighty city lies, called Timbuctoo.
_The natural history._
There stalks the tiger,—there the lion roars, 5
Who sometimes eats the luckless blackamoors;
All that he leaves of them the monster throws
To jackals, vultures, dogs, cats, kites, and crows;
His hunger thus the forest monster gluts,
And then lies down ’neath trees called cocoa-nuts. 10
_The lion hunt._
Quick issue out, with musket, torch, and brand,
The sturdy blackamoors, a dusky band!
The beast is found—pop goes the musketoons—
The lion falls covered with horrid wounds.
_Their lives at home._
At home their lives in pleasure always flow, 15
But many have a different lot to know!
_Abroad._
They’re often caught and sold as slaves, alas!
_Reflections on the foregoing._
Thus men from highest joy to sorrow pass;
Yet though thy monarch and thy nobles boil
Rack and molasses in Jamaica’s isle, 20
Desolate Africa! thou art lovely yet!
One heart yet beats which ne’er thee shall forget.
What though thy maidens are a blackish brown,
Does virtue dwell in whiter breasts alone?
Oh no, oh no, oh no, oh no, oh no! 25
It shall not, must not, cannot, e’er be so.
The day shall come when Albion’s self shall feel
Stern Afric’s wrath, and writhe ’neath Afric’s steel.
I see her tribes the hill of glory mount,
And sell their sugars on their own account; 30
While round her throne the prostrate nations come,
Sue for her rice, and barter for her rum!
Notes.—Lines 1 and 2.—See Guthrie’s Geography. The
site of Timbuctoo is doubtful; the author has neatly
expressed this in the poem, at the same time giving us
some slight hints relative to its situation.
Line 5.—So Horace: leonum arida nutrix.
Line 13.—“Pop goes the musketoons.” A learned friend
suggested “Bang” as a stronger expression, but as
African gunpowder is notoriously bad, the author
thought “Pop” the better word.
Lines 15-18.—A concise but affecting description is
here given of the domestic habits of the people. The
infamous manner in which they are entrapped and sold
as slaves is described, and the whole ends with an
appropriate moral sentiment. The enthusiasm the author
feels is beautifully expressed in lines 25 and 26.
_W. M. Thackeray._
AFTER TUPPER
OF FRIENDSHIP
CHOOSE judiciously thy friends; for to discard them is undesirable,
Yet it is better to drop thy friends, O my daughter, than to drop
thy H’s.
Dost thou know a wise woman? yea, wiser than the children of light?
Hath she a position? and a title? and are her parties in the _Morning
Post_?
If thou dost, cleave unto her, and give up unto her thy body and
mind;
Think with her ideas, and distribute thy smiles at her bidding:
So shalt thou become like unto her; and thy manners shall be
“formed,”
And thy name shall be a Sesame, at which the doors of the great shall
fly open:
Thou shalt know every Peer, his arms, and the date of his creation,
His pedigree and their intermarriages, and cousins to the sixth
remove:
Thou shalt kiss the hand of Royalty, and lo! in next morning’s
papers,
Side by side with rumors of wars, and stories of shipwrecks and
sieges,
Shall appear thy name, and the minutiæ of thy head-dress and
petticoat,
For an enraptured public to muse upon over their matutinal muffin.
_Charles S. Calverley._
OF READING
READ not Milton, for he is dry; nor Shakespeare, for he wrote of
common life;
Nor Scott, for his romances, though fascinating, are yet
intelligible;
Nor Thackeray, for he is a Hogarth, a photographer who flattereth
not;
Nor Kingsley, for he shall teach thee that thou shouldest not dream,
but do.
Read incessantly thy Burke; that Burke who, nobler than he of old,
Treateth of the Peer and Peeress, the truly Sublime and Beautiful;
Likewise study the “creations” of “the Prince of modern Romance;”
Sigh over Leonard the Martyr, and smile on Pelham the puppy;
Learn how “love is the dram-drinking of existence;”
And how we “invoke, in the Gadara of our still closets,
The beautiful ghost of the Ideal, with the simple wand of the pen.”
Listen how Maltravers and the orphan “forgot all but love,”
And how Devereux’s family chaplain “made and unmade kings;”
How Eugene Aram, though a thief, a liar, and a murderer,
Yet, being intellectual, was amongst the noblest of mankind;
So shalt thou live in a world peopled with heroes and maste
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