HUMOROUS POEMS.
I. WOMAN. ———— WOMAN.
When Eve brought woe to all mankind Old Adam called her wo-man; But when she wooed with love so kind, He then pronounced her woo-man. But now, with folly and with pride, Their husbands' pockets trimming, The women are so full of whims That men pronounce them wimmen!
ANONYMOUS.
THE WOMEN FO'K. [2]
O, sairly may I rue the day I fancied first the womenkind; For aye sinsyne I ne'er can hae Ae quiet thought or peace o' mind! They hae plagued my heart an' pleased my e'e, An' teased an' flattered me at will, But aye for a' their witcherye, The pawky things I lo'e them still.
O the women fo'k! O the women fo'k! But they hae been the wreck o' me; O weary fa' the women fo'k, For they winna let a body be!
I hae thought an' thought, but darena tell, I've studied them wi' a' my skill, I've lo'd them better than mysell, I've tried again to like them ill. Wha sairest strives, will sairest rue, To comprehend what nae man can; When he has done what man can do, He'll end at last where he began. O the women fo'k, etc.
That they hae gentle forms an' meet, A man wi' half a look may see; An gracefu' airs, an' faces sweet, An' waving curls aboon the bree; An' smiles as soft as the young rosebud, And een sae pawky, bright, an' rare, Wad lure the laverock frae the cludd,— But, laddie, seek to ken nae mair! O the women fo'k, etc.
Even but this night nae farther gane, The date is neither lost nor lang, I tak ye witness ilka ane, How fell they fought, and fairly dang. Their point they've carried right or wrang, Without a reason, rhyme, or law, An' forced a man to sing a sang, That ne'er could sing a verse ava.
O the women fo'k! O the women fo'k! But they hae been the wreck o' me; O weary fa' the women fo'k, For they winna let a body be!
JAMES HOGG.
OF A CERTAINE MAN.
There was (not certaine when) a certaine preacher, That never learned, and yet became a teacher, Who having read in Latine thus a text Of erat quidam homo, much perplext, He seemed the same with studie great to scan, In English thus, There was a certaine man. But now (quoth he), good people, note you this, He saith there was, he doth not say there is; For in these daies of ours it is most plaine Of promise, oath, word, deed, no man's certaine; Yet by my text you see it comes to passe That surely once a certaine man there was: But yet, I think, in all your Bible no man Can finde this text, There was a certaine woman.
WOMEN'S CHORUS.
They're always abusing the women, As a terrible plague to men: They say we're the root of all evil, And repeat it again and again; Of war, and quarrels, and bloodshed, All mischief, be what it may! And pray, then, why do you marry us, If we're all the plagues you say? And why do you take such care of us, And keep us so safe at home, And are never easy a moment If ever we chance to roam? When you ought to be thanking heaven That your Plague is out of the way, You all keep fussing and fretting— "Where is my Plague to-day?" If a Plague peeps out of the window, Up go the eyes of men; If she hides, then they all keep staring Until she looks out again.
From the Greek of ARISTOPHANES. Translation of WILLIAM COLLINS.
THE WIVES OF WEINSBERG.
Which way to Weinsberg? neighbor, say! 'Tis sure a famous city: It must have cradled, in its day, Full many a maid of noble clay, And matrons wise and witty; And if ever marriage should happen to me, A Weinsberg dame my wife shall be.
King Conrad once, historians say, Fell out with this good city; So down he came, one luckless day,— Horse, foot, dragoons,—in stern array,— And cannon,—more's the pity! Around the walls the artillery roared, And bursting bombs their fury poured.
But naught the little town could scare; Then, red with indignation, He bade the herald straight repair Up to the gates, and thunder there The following proclamation:— "Rascals! when I your town do take, No living thing shall save its neck!"
Now, when the herald's trumpet sent These tidings through the city, To every house a death knell went; Such murder-cries the hot air rent Might move the stones to pity. Then bread grew dear, but good advice Could not be had for any price.
Then, "Woe is me!" "O misery!" What shrieks of lamentation! And "Kyrie Eleison!" cried The pastors, and the flock replied, "Lord! save us from starvation!" "Oh, woe is me, poor Corydon— My neck,—my neck! I'm gone,—I'm gone!"
Yet oft, when counsel, deed, and prayer Had all proved unavailing, When hope hung trembling on a hair, How oft has woman's wit been there!— A refuge never failing; For woman's wit and Papal fraud, Of olden time, were famed abroad.
A youthful dame, praised be her name!— Last night had seen her plighted,— Whether in waking hour or dream, Conceived a rare and novel scheme, Which all the town delighted; Which you, if you think otherwise, Have leave to laugh at and despise.
At midnight hour, when culverin And gun and bomb were sleeping, Before the camp with mournful mien, The loveliest embassy were seen, All kneeling low and weeping. So sweetly, plaintively they prayed, But no reply save this was made:—
"The women have free leave to go, Each with her choicest treasure; But let the knaves their husbands know That unto them the King will show The weight of his displeasure." With these sad terms the lovely train Stole weeping from the camp again.
But when the morning gilt the sky, What happened? Give attention:— The city gates wide open fly, And all the wives come trudging by, Each bearing—need I mention?— Her own dear husband on her back, All snugly seated in a sack!
Full many a sprig of court, the joke Not relishing, protested, And urged the King; but Conrad spoke:— "A monarch's word must not be broke!" And here the matter rested. "Bravo!" he cried, "Ha, ha! Bravo! Our lady guessed it would be so."
He pardoned all, and gave a ball That night at royal quarters. The fiddles squeaked, the trumpets blew, And up and down the dancers flew, Court sprigs with city daughters. The mayor's wife—O rarest sight!— Danced with the shoemaker that night!
Ah, where is Weinsberg, sir, I pray? 'Tis sure a famous city: It must have cradled in its day Full many a maid of noble clay, And matrons wise and witty; And if ever marriage should happen to me, A Weinsberg dame my wife shall be.
From the German of GOTTFRIED AUGÜST BÜRGER. Translation of CHARLES TIMOTHY BROOKS.
SORROWS OF WERTHER.
Werther had a love for Charlotte Such as words could never utter; Would you know how first he met her? She was cutting bread and butter.
Charlotte was a married lady, And a moral man was Werther, And for all the wealth of Indies Would do nothing for to hurt her.
So he sighed and pined and ogled, And his passion boiled and bubbled, Till he blew his silly brains out, And no more was by it troubled.
Charlotte, having seen his body Borne before her on a shutter, Like a well-conducted person, Went on cutting bread and butter.
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.
THE WELL OF ST. KEYNE.
"In the parish of St. Neots, Cornwall, is a well arched over with the robes of four kinds of trees,—withy, oak, elm, and ash,—and dedicated to St. Keyne. The reported virtue of the water is this, that, whether husband or wife first drink thereof, they get the mastery thereby."
—FULLER.
A well there is in the West country, And a clearer one never was seen; There is not a wife in the West country But has heard of the Well of St. Keyne.
An oak and an elm tree stand beside, And behind does an ash-tree grow, And a willow from the bank above Droops to the water below.
A traveller came to the Well of St. Keyne; Pleasant it was to his eye, For from cock-crow he had been travelling, And there was not a cloud in the sky.
He drank of the water so cool and clear, For thirsty and hot was he, And he sat down upon the bank, Under the willow-tree.
There came a man from the neighboring town At the well to fill his pail, On the well-side he rested it, And bade the stranger hail.
"Now art thou a bachelor, stranger?" quoth he, "For an if thou hast a wife, The happiest draught thou hast drank this day That ever thou didst in thy life.
"Or has your good woman, if one you have, In Cornwall ever been? For an if she have, I'll venture my life She has drunk of the Well of St. Keyne."
"I have left a good woman who never was here," The stranger he made reply; "But that my draught should be better for that, I pray you answer me why."
"St. Keyne," quoth the countryman, "many a time Drank of this crystal well, And before the angel summoned her She laid on the water a spell.
"If the husband of this gifted well Shall drink before his wife, A happy man thenceforth is he, For he shall be master for life.
"But if the wife should drink of it first, Heaven help the husband then!" The stranger stooped to the Well of St. Keyne, And drank of the waters again.
"You drank of the well, I warrant, betimes?" He to the countryman said. But the countryman smiled as the stranger spake, And sheepishly shook his head.
"I hastened, as soon as the wedding was done, And left my wife in the porch. But i' faith, she had been wiser than me, For she took a bottle to church."
BELLE OF THE BALL.
Years, years ago, ere yet my dreams Had been of being wise or witty, Ere I had done with writing themes, Or yawned o'er this infernal Chitty,— Years, years ago, while all my joys Were in my fowling-piece and filly; In short, while I was yet a boy, I fell in love with Laura Lilly.
I saw her at the county ball; There, when the sounds of flute and fiddle Gave signal sweet in that old hall Of hands across and down the middle, Hers was the subtlest spell by far Of all that sets young hearts romancing: She was our queen, our rose, our star; And then she danced,—O Heaven! her dancing.
Dark was her hair; her hand was white; Her voice was exquisitely tender; Her eyes were full of liquid light; I never saw a waist so slender; Her every look, her every smile, Shot right and left a score of arrows: I thought 'twas Venus from her isle, And wondered where she'd left her sparrows.
She talked of politics or prayers, Of Southey's prose or Wordsworth's sonnets, Of danglers or of dancing bears, Of battles or the last new bonnets; By candle-light, at twelve o'clock,— To me it mattered not a tittle,— If those bright lips had quoted Locke, I might have thought they murmured Little.
Through sunny May, through sultry June, I loved her with a love eternal; I spoke her praises to the moon, I wrote them to the Sunday Journal. My mother laughed; I soon found out That ancient ladies have no feeling: My father frowned; but how should gout See any happiness in kneeling?
She was the daughter of a dean,— Rich, fat, and rather apoplectic; She had one brother just thirteen, Whose color was extremely hectic; Her grandmother for many a year Had fed the parish with her bounty; Her second cousin was a peer, And lord-lieutenant of the county.
But titles and the three-per-cents, And mortgages, and great relations, And India bonds, and tithes and rents, O, what are they to love's sensations? Black eyes, fair forehead, clustering locks,— Such wealth, such honors Cupid chooses; He cares as little for the stocks As Baron Rothschild for the muses.
She sketched; the vale, the wood, the beach, Grew lovelier from her pencil's shading: She botanized; I envied each Young blossom in her boudoir fading: She warbled Handel; it was grand,— She made the Catilina jealous: She touched the organ; I could stand For hours and hours to blow the bellows.
She kept an album too, at home, Well filled with all an album's glories,— Paintings of butterflies and Rome, Patterns for trimmings, Persian stories, Soft songs to Julia's cockatoo, Fierce odes to famine and to slaughter, And autographs of Prince Leeboo, And recipes for elder-water.
And she was flattered, worshipped, bored; Her steps were watched, her dress was noted; Her poodle-dog was quite adored; Her sayings were extremely quoted. She laughed,—and every heart was glad, As if the taxes were abolished; She frowned,—and every look was sad, As if the opera were demolished.
She smiled on many just for fun,— I knew that there was nothing in it; I was the first, the only one, Her heart had thought of for a minute. I knew it, for she told me so, In phrase which was divinely moulded; She wrote a charming hand,—and O, How sweetly all her notes were folded!
Our love was most like other loves,— A little glow, a little shiver, A rosebud and a pair of gloves, And "Fly Not Yet," upon the river; Some jealousy of some one's heir, Some hopes of dying broken-hearted; A miniature, a lock of hair, The usual vows,—and then we parted.
We parted: months and years rolled by; We met again four summers after. Our parting was all sob and sigh, Our meeting was all mirth and laughter! For in my heart's most secret cell There had been many other lodgers; And she was not the ball-room's belle, But only Mrs.—Something—Rogers!
WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED.
ECHO AND THE LOVER.
Lover. Echo! mysterious nymph, declare Of what you're made, and what you are.
Echo. Air!
Lover. Mid airy cliffs and places high, Sweet Echo! listening love, you lie.
Echo. You lie!
Lover. Thou dost resuscitate dead sounds,— Hark! how my voice revives, resounds!
Lover. I'll question thee before I go,— Come, answer me more apropos!
Echo. Poh! poh!
Lover. Tell me, fair nymph, if e'er you saw So sweet a girl as Phœbe Shaw.
Echo. Pshaw!
Lover. Say, what will turn that frisking coney Into the toils of matrimony?
Echo. Money!
Lover. Has Phœbe not a heavenly brow? Is not her bosom white as snow?
Echo. Ass! No!
Lover. Her eyes! was ever such a pair? Are the stars brighter than they are?
Echo. They are!
Lover. Echo, thou liest, but can't deceive me.
Echo. Leave me!
Lover. But come, thou saucy, pert romancer, Who is as fair as Phœbe? Answer!
Echo. Ann, sir.
ECHO.
I asked of Echo, t' other day, (Whose words are few and often funny,) What to a novice she could say Of courtship, love, and matrimony. Quoth Echo, plainly,—"Matter-o'-money!"
Whom should I marry?—should it be A dashing damsel, gay and pert, A pattern of inconstancy; Or selfish, mercenary flirt? Quoth Echo, sharply,—"Nary flirt!"
What if, aweary of the strife That long has lured the dear deceiver, She promise to amend her life, And sin no more; can I believe her? Quoth Echo, very promptly,—"Leave her!"
But if some maiden with a heart On me should venture to bestow it, Pray, should I act the wiser part To take the treasure or forego it? Quoth Echo, with decision,—"Go it!"
But what if, seemingly afraid To bind her fate in Hymen's fetter, She vow she means to die a maid, In answer to my loving letter? Quoth Echo, rather coolly,—"Let her!"
What if, in spite of her disdain, I find my heart intwined about With Cupid's dear delicious chain So closely that I can't get out? Quoth Echo, laughingly,—"Get out!"
But if some maid with beauty blest, As pure and fair as Heaven can make her, Will share my labor and my rest Till envious Death shall overtake her? Quoth Echo (sotto voce),—"Take her!"
"NOTHING TO WEAR."
Miss Flora McFlimsey, of Madison Square, Has made three separate journeys to Paris, And her father assures me, each time she was there, That she and her friend Mrs. Harris (Not the lady whose name is so famous in history, But plain Mrs. H., without romance or mystery) Spent six consecutive weeks without stopping In one continuous round of shopping,— Shopping alone, and shopping together, At all hours of the day, and in all sorts of weather, For all manner of things that a woman can put On the crown of her head or the sole of her foot, Or wrap round her shoulders, or fit round her waist, Or that can be sewed on, or pinned on, or laced, Or tied on with a string, or stitched on with a bow, In front or behind, above or below; For bonnets, mantillas, capes, collars, and shawls; Dresses for breakfasts and dinners and balls; Dresses to sit in and stand in and walk in; Dresses to dance in and flirt in and talk in; Dresses in which to do nothing at all; Dresses for Winter, Spring, Summer, and Fall; All of them different in color and shape, Silk, muslin, and lace, velvet, satin, and crape, Brocade, and broadcloth, and other material, Quite as expensive and much more ethereal; In short, for all things that could ever be thought of, Or milliner, modiste, or tradesman be bought of, From ten-thousand-francs robe to twenty-sous frills; In all quarters of Paris, and to every store, While McFlimsey in vain stormed, scolded, and swore, They footed the streets, and he footed the bills!
The last trip, their goods shipped by the steamer Arago, Formed, McFlimsey declares, the bulk of her cargo, Not to mention a quantity kept from the rest, Sufficient to fill the largest-sized chest, Which did not appear on the ship's manifest, But for which the ladies themselves manifested Such particular interest, that they invested Their own proper persons in layers and rows Of muslins, embroideries, worked under-clothes, Gloves, handkerchiefs, scarfs, and such trifles as those; Then, wrapped in great shawls, like Circassian beauties, Gave good-bye to the ship, and go-by to the duties. Her relations at home all marvelled, no doubt, Miss Flora had grown so enormously stout For an actual belle and a possible bride; But the miracle ceased when she turned inside out, And the truth came to light, and the dry-goods beside, Which, in spite of Collector and Custom-House sentry, Had entered the port without any entry,
And yet, though scarce three months have passed since the day This merchandise went, on twelve carts, up Broadway, This same Miss McFlimsey, of Madison Square, The last time we met was in utter despair, Because she had nothing whatever to wear!
Nothing to wear! Now, as this is a true ditty, I do not assert—this, you know, is between us— That she's in a state of absolute nudity, Like Powers' Greek Slave, or the Medici Venus; But I do mean to say, I have heard her declare, When, at the same moment, she had on a dress Which cost five hundred dollars, and not a cent less, And jewelry worth ten times more, I should guess, That she had not a thing in the wide world to wear!
I should mention just here, that out of Miss Flora's Two hundred and fifty or sixty adorers, I had just been selected as he who should throw all The rest in the shade, by the gracious bestowal On myself after twenty or thirty rejections, Of those fossil remains which she called her "affections," And that rather decayed, but well-known work of art, Which Miss Flora persisted in styling her "heart." So we were engaged. Our troth had been plighted, Not by moonbeam or starbeam, by fountain or grove, But in a front parlor, most brilliantly lighted, Beneath the gas-fixtures we whispered our love, Without any romance or raptures or sighs, Without any tears in Miss Flora's blue eyes, Or blushes, or transports, or such silly actions, It was one of the quietest business transactions, With a very small sprinkling of sentiment, if any, And a very large diamond imported by Tiffany. On her virginal lips while I printed a kiss, She exclaimed, as a sort of parenthesis, And by way of putting me quite at my ease, "You know, I'm to polka as much as I please, And flirt when I like,—now, stop, don't you speak,— And you must not come here more than twice in the week, Or talk to me either at party or ball, But always be ready to come when I call; So don't prose to me about duty and stuff, If we don't break this off, there will be time enough For that sort of thing; but the bargain must be That, as long as I choose, I am perfectly free, For this is a kind of engagement, you see, Which is binding on you but not binding on me."
Well, having thus wooed Miss McFlimsey and gained her, With the silks, crinolines, and hoops that contained her, I had, as I thought, a contingent remainder At least in the property, and the best right To appear as its escort by day and by night; And it being the week of the Stuckups' grand ball,— Their cards had been out a fortnight or so, And set all the Avenue on the tiptoe,— I considered it only my duty to call, And see if Miss Flora intended to go. I found her,—as ladies are apt to be found, When the time intervening between the first sound Of the bell and the visitor's entry is shorter Than usual,—I found; I won't say—I caught her, Intent on the pier-glass, undoubtedly meaning To see if perhaps it didn't need cleaning. She turned as I entered,—"Why, Harry, you sinner, I thought that you went to the Flashers' to dinner!" "So I did," I replied; "but the dinner is swallowed And digested, I trust, for 'tis now nine and more, So being relieved from that duty, I followed Inclination, which led me, you see, to your door; And now will your ladyship so condescend As just to inform me if you intend Your beauty and graces and presence to lend (All of which, when I own, I hope no one will borrow) To the Stuckups, whose party, you know, is to-morrow?" The fair Flora looked up with a pitiful air, And answered quite promptly, "Why, Harry, mon cher, I should like above all things to go with you there, But really and truly—I've nothing to wear." "Nothing to wear! go just as you are; Wear the dress you have on, and you'll be by far, I engage, the most bright and particular star On the Stuckup horizon—" I stopped—for her eye, Notwithstanding this delicate onset of flattery, Opened on me at once a most terrible battery Of scorn and amazement. She made no reply, But gave a slight turn to the end of her nose— That pure Grecian feature—as much as to say, "How absurd that any sane man should suppose That a lady would go to a ball in the clothes, No matter how fine, that she wears every day!"
So I ventured again: "Wear your crimson brocade" (Second turn-up of nose)—"That's too dark by a shade." "Your blue silk"—"That's too heavy." "Your pink"— "That's too light." "Wear tulle over satin"—"I can't endure white." "Your rose-colored, then, the best of the batch"— "I haven't a thread of point-lace to match." "Your brown moire antique"—"Yes, and look like a Quaker." "The pearl-colored"—"I would, but that plaguey dressmaker Has had it a week." "Then that exquisite lilac In which you would melt the heart of a Shylock" (Here the nose took again the same elevation)— "I wouldn't wear that for the whole of creation." "Why not? It's my fancy, there's nothing could strike it As more comme il faut"—"Yes, but, dear me! that lean Sophronia Stuckup has got one just like it, And I won't appear dressed like a chit of sixteen." "Then that splendid purple, that sweet Mazarine, That superb point d'aiguille, that imperial green, That zephyr-like tarlatan, that rich grenadine"— "Not one of all which is fit to be seen," Said the lady, becoming excited and flushed. "Then wear," I exclaimed, in a tone which quite crushed Opposition, "that gorgeous toilette which you sported In Paris last spring, at the grand presentation, When you quite turned the head of the head of the nation; And by all the grand court were so very much courted." The end of the nose was portentously tipped up, And both the bright eyes shot forth indignation, As she burst upon me with the fierce exclamation, "I have worn it three times at the least calculation, And that and most of my dresses are ripped up!" Here I ripped out something, perhaps rather rash, Quite innocent, though; but, to use an expression More striking than classic, it "settled my hash," And proved very soon the last act of our session. "Fiddlesticks, is it, sir? I wonder the ceiling Doesn't fall down and crush you—you men have no feeling; You selfish, unnatural, illiberal creatures, Who set yourselves up as patterns and preachers, Your silly pretence—why, what a mere guess it is! Pray, what do you know of a woman's necessities? I have told you and showed you I've nothing to wear, And it's perfectly plain you not only don't care, But you do not believe me"—(here the nose went still higher)— I suppose, if you dared, you would call me a liar. Our engagement is ended, sir—yes, on the spot; You're a brute, and a monster, and—I don't know what." I mildly suggested the words—Hottentot, Pickpocket, and cannibal, Tartar, and thief, As gentle expletives which might give relief; But this only proved as a spark to the powder, And the storm I had raised came faster and louder; It blew and it rained, thundered, lightened, and hailed Interjections, verbs, pronouns, till language quite failed To express the abusive, and then its arrears Were brought up all at once by a torrent of tears, And my last faint, despairing attempt at an obs- Ervation was lost in a tempest of sobs.
Well, I felt for the lady, and felt for my hat, too, Improvised on the crown of the latter a tattoo, In lieu of expressing the feelings which lay Quite too deep for words, as Wordsworth would say; Then, without going through the form of a bow, Found myself in the entry—I hardly knew how,— On doorstep and sidewalk, past lamp-post and square, At home and up-stairs, in my own easy-chair; Poked my feet into slippers, my fire into blaze, And said to myself, as I lit my cigar, "Supposing a man had the wealth of the Czar Of the Russias to boot, for the rest of his days, On the whole, do you think he would have much to spare, If he married a woman with nothing to wear?"
Since that night, taking pains that it should not be bruited Abroad in society, I've instituted A course of inquiry, extensive and thorough, On this vital subject, and find, to my horror, That the fair Flora's case is by no means surprising, But that there exists the greatest distress In our female community, solely arising From this unsupplied destitution of dress, Whose unfortunate victims are filling the air With the pitiful wail of "Nothing to wear." Researches in some of the "Upper Ten" districts Reveal the most painful and startling statistics, Of which let me mention only a few: In one single house, on the Fifth Avenue, Three young ladies were found, all below twenty-two, Who have been three whole weeks without anything new In the way of flounced silks, and thus left in the lurch Are unable to go to ball, concert, or church. In another large mansion, near the same place, Was found a deplorable, heart-rending case Of entire destitution of Brussels point-lace. In a neighboring block there was found, in three calls, Total want, long continued, of camel's-hair shawls; And a suffering family, whose case exhibits The most pressing need of real ermine tippets; One deserving young lady almost unable To survive for the want of a new Russian sable; Still another, whose tortures have been most terrific Ever since the sad loss of the steamer Pacific, In which were engulfed, not friend or relation (For whose fate she perhaps might have found consolation, Or borne it, at least, with serene resignation), But the choicest assortment of French sleeves and collars Ever sent out from Paris, worth thousands of dollars, And all as to style most recherché and rare, The want of which leaves her with nothing to wear, And renders her life so drear and dyspeptic That she's quite a recluse, and almost a sceptic; For she touchingly says that this sort of grief Cannot find in Religion the slightest relief, And Philosophy has not a maxim to spare For the victim of such overwhelming despair. But the saddest by far of all these sad features Is the cruelty practised upon the poor creatures By husbands and fathers, real Bluebeards and Timons, Who resist the most touching appeals made for diamonds By their wives and their daughters, and leave them for days Unsupplied with new jewelry, fans, or bouquets, Even laugh at their miseries whenever they have a chance, And deride their demands as useless extravagance. One case of a bride was brought to my view, Too sad for belief, but, alas! 't was too true, Whose husband refused, as savage as Charon, To permit her to take more than ten trunks to Sharon. The consequence was, that when she got there, At the end of three weeks she had nothing to wear, And when she proposed to finish the season At Newport, the monster refused out and out, For his infamous conduct alleging no reason, Except that the waters were good for his gout; Such treatment as this was too shocking, of course, And proceedings are now going on for divorce.
But why harrow the feelings by lifting the curtain From these scenes of woe? Enough, it is certain Has here been disclosed to stir up the pity Of every benevolent heart in the city, And spur up Humanity into a canter To rush and relieve these sad cases instanter. Won't somebody, moved by this touching description, Come forward to-morrow and head a subscription? Won't some kind philanthropist, seeing that aid is So needed at once by these indigent ladies, Take charge of the matter? Or won't Peter Cooper The corner-stone lay of some new splendid super- Structure, like that which to-day links his name In the Union unending of Honor and Fame; And found a new charity just for the care Of these unhappy women with nothing to wear, Which, in view of the cash which would daily be claimed, The Laying-out Hospital well might be named? Won't Stewart, or some of our dry-goods importers, Take a contract for clothing our wives and our daughters? Or, to furnish the cash to supply these distresses, And life's pathway strew with shawls, collars, and dresses, For poor womankind, won't some venturesome lover A new California somewhere discover?
O ladies, dear ladies, the next sunny day Please trundle your hoops just out of Broadway, From its whirl and its bustle, its fashion and pride, And temples of Trade which tower on each side, To the alleys and lanes, where Misfortune and Guilt Their children have gathered, their city have built; Where Hunger and Vice, like twin beasts of prey, Have hunted their victims to gloom and despair; Raise the rich, dainty dress, and the fine broidered skirt, Pick your delicate way through the dampness and dirt, Grope through the dark dens, climb the rickety stair To the garret, where wretches, the young and the old, Half starved and half naked, lie crouched from the cold. See those skeleton limbs, those frost-bitten feet, All bleeding and bruised by the stones of the street; Hear the sharp cry of childhood, the deep groans that swell From the poor dying creature who writhes on the floor; Hear the curses that sound like the echoes of Hell, As you sicken and shudder and fly from the door; Then home to your wardrobes, and say, if you dare— Spoiled children of Fashion—you've nothing to wear!
And O, if perchance there should be a sphere Where all is made right which so puzzles us here, Where the glare and the glitter and tinsel of Time Fade and die in the light of that region sublime, Where the soul, disenchanted of flesh and of sense, Unscreened by its trappings and shows and pretence, Must be clothed for the life and the service above, With purity, truth, faith, meekness, and love; O daughters of Earth! foolish virgins, beware! Lest in that upper realm you have nothing to wear!
THE SEA.
She was rich and of high degree; A poor and unknown artist he. "Paint me," she said, "a view of the sea."
So he painted the sea as it looked the day That Aphroditè arose from its spray; And it broke, as she gazed on its face the while, Into its countless-dimpled smile. "What a poky, stupid picture!" said she: "I don't believe he can paint the sea!"
Then he painted a raging, tossing sea, Storming, with fierce and sudden shock, A towering, mighty fastness-rock;— In its sides, above those leaping crests, The thronging sea-birds built their nests. "What a disagreeable daub!" said she: "Why, it isn't anything like the sea!"
Then he painted a stretch of hot brown sand, With a big hotel on either hand, And a handsome pavilion for the band;— Not a sign of water to be seen, Except one faint little streak of green. "What a perfectly exquisite picture!" said she: "It's the very image of the sea!"
THE PROUD MISS MACBRIDE. A LEGEND OF GOTHAM.
O, terribly proud was Miss MacBride, The very personification of pride, As she minced along in fashion's tide, Adown Broadway—on the proper side— When the golden sun was setting; There was pride in the head she carried so high, Pride in her lip, and pride in her eye, And a world of pride in the very sigh That her stately bosom was fretting!
O, terribly proud was Miss MacBride, Proud of her beauty, and proud of her pride, And proud of fifty matters beside— That wouldn't have borne dissection; Proud of her wit, and proud of her walk, Proud of her teeth, and proud of her talk, Proud of "knowing cheese from chalk," On a very slight inspection!
Proud abroad, and proud at home, Proud wherever she chanced to come— When she was glad, and when she was glum; Proud as the head of a Saracen Over the door of a tippling-shop!— Proud as a duchess, proud as a fop, "Proud as a boy with a brand-new top," Proud beyond comparison!
It seems a singular thing to say, But her very senses led her astray Respecting all humility; In sooth, her dull auricular drum Could find in humble only a "hum," And heard no sound of "gentle" come, In talking about gentility.
What lowly meant she didn't know, For she always avoided "everything low," With care the most punctilious; And, queerer still, the audible sound Of "super-silly" she never had found In the adjective supercilious!
The meaning of meek she never knew, But imagined the phrase had something to do With "Moses," a peddling German Jew, Who, like all hawkers, the country through, Was "a person of no position;" And it seemed to her exceedingly plain, If the word was really known to pertain To a vulgar German, it wasn't germane To a lady of high condition!
Even her graces—not her grace— For that was in the "vocative case"— Chilled with the touch of her icy face, Sat very stiffly upon her! She never confessed a favor aloud, Like one of the simple, common crowd— But coldly smiled, and faintly bowed, As who should say, "You do me proud, And do yourself an honor!"
And yet the pride of Miss MacBride, Although it had fifty hobbies to ride, Had really no foundation; But, like the fabrics that gossips devise— Those single stories that often arise And grow till they reach a four-story size— Was merely a fancy creation!
Her birth, indeed, was uncommonly high— For Miss MacBride first opened her eye Through a skylight dim, on the light of the sky; But pride is a curious passion— And in talking about her wealth and worth, She always forgot to mention her birth To people of rank and fashion!
Of all the notable things on earth, The queerest one is pride of birth Among our "fierce democracie"! A bridge across a hundred years, Without a prop to save it from sneers,— Not even a couple of rotten peers,— A thing for laughter, fleers, and jeers, Is American aristocracy!
English and Irish, French and Spanish, German, Italian, Dutch and Danish, Crossing their veins until they vanish In one conglomeration! So subtle a tangle of blood, indeed, No Heraldry Harvey will ever succeed In finding the circulation.
Depend upon it, my snobbish friend, Your family thread you can't ascend, Without good reason to apprehend You may find it waxed, at the farther end, By some plebeian vocation! Or, worse than that, your boasted line May end in a loop of stronger twine, That plagued some worthy relation!
But Miss MacBride had something beside Her lofty birth to nourish her pride— For rich was the old paternal MacBride, According to public rumor; And he lived "up town," in a splendid square, And kept his daughter on dainty fare, And gave her gems that were rich and rare, And the finest rings and things to wear, And feathers enough to plume her.
A thriving tailor begged her hand, But she gave "the fellow" to understand, By a violent manual action, She perfectly scorned the best of his clan, And reckoned the ninth of any man An exceedingly vulgar fraction!
Another, whose sign was a golden boot, Was mortified with a bootless suit, In a way that was quite appalling; For, though a regular sutor by trade, He wasn't a suitor to suit the maid, Who cut him off with a saw—and bade "The cobbler keep to his calling!"
A rich tobacconist comes and sues, And, thinking the lady would scarce refuse A man of his wealth, and liberal views, Began, at once, with "If you choose— And could you really love him—" But the lady spoiled his speech in a huff, With an answer rough and ready enough, To let him know she was up to snuff, And altogether above him!
A young attorney, of winning grace, Was scarce allowed to "open his face," Ere Miss MacBride had closed his case With true judicial celerity; For the lawyer was poor, and "seedy" to boot, And to say the lady discarded his suit, Is merely a double verity!
The last of those who came to court, Was a lively beau, of the dapper sort, "Without any visible means of support," A crime by no means flagrant In one who wears an elegant coat, But the very point on which they vote A ragged fellow "a vagrant!"
Now dapper Jim his courtship plied (I wish the fact could be denied) With an eye to the purse of the old MacBride, And really "nothing shorter!" For he said to himself, in his greedy lust, "Whenever he dies—as die he must— And yields to Heaven his vital trust, He's very sure to 'come down with his dust,' In behalf of his only daughter."
And the very magnificent Miss MacBride, Half in love, and half in pride, Quite graciously relented; And, tossing her head, and turning her back, No token of proper pride to lack— To be a bride, without the "Mac," With much disdain, consented!
Old John MacBride, one fatal day, Became the unresisting prey Of fortune's undertakers; And staking all on a single die, His foundered bark went high and dry Among the brokers and breakers!
But, alas, for the haughty Miss MacBride, 'T was such a shock to her precious pride! She couldn't recover, although she tried Her jaded spirits to rally; 'T was a dreadful change in human affairs, From a place "up town" to a nook "up stairs," From an avenue down to an alley!
'T was little condolence she had, God wot, From her "troops of friends," who hadn't forgot The airs she used to borrow! They had civil phrases enough, but yet 'T was plain to see that their "deepest regret" Was a different thing from sorrow!
And one of those chaps who make a pun, As if it were quite legitimate fun To be blazing away at every one With a regular, double-loaded gun— Remarked that moral transgression Always brings retributive stings To candle-makers as well as kings; For "making light of cereous things" Was a very wick-ed profession!
And vulgar people—the saucy churls— Inquired about "the price of pearls," And mocked at her situation: "She wasn't ruined—they ventured to hope— Because she was poor, she needn't mope; Few people were better off for soap, And that was a consolation!"
And to make her cup of woe run over, Her elegant, ardent plighted lover Was the very first to forsake her; "He quite regretted the step, 't was true— The lady had pride enough 'for two,' But that alone would never do To quiet the butcher and baker!"
And now the unhappy Miss MacBride— The merest ghost of her early pride— Bewails her lonely position; Cramped in the very narrowest niche, Above the poor, and below the rich— Was ever a worse condition!
Because you flourish in worldly affairs, Don't be haughty, and put on airs, With insolent pride of station! Don't be proud, and turn up your nose At poorer people in plainer clothes, But learn, for the sake of your mind's repose, That wealth 's a bubble that comes—and goes! And that all proud flesh, wherever it grows, Is subject to irritation!
JOHN GODFREY SAXE.
ON AN OLD MUFF.
Time has a magic wand! What is this meets my hand, Moth-eaten, mouldy, and Covered with fluff, Faded and stiff and scant? Can it be? no, it can't,— Yes,—I declare 't is Aunt Prudence's Muff!
Years ago—twenty-three! Old Uncle Barnaby Gave it to Aunty P., Laughing and teasing,— "Pru. of the breezy curls, Whisper these solemn churls, What holds a pretty girl's Hand without squeezing?"
Uncle was then a lad, Gay, but, I grieve to add, Gone to what's called "the bad,"— Smoking,—and worse! Sleek sable then was this Muff, lined with pinkiness,— Bloom to which beauty is Seldom averse.
I see in retrospect Aunt, in her best bedecked, Gliding, with mien erect, Gravely to meeting: Psalm-book, and kerchief new, Peeped from the Muff of Pru., Young men—and pious, too— Giving her greeting.
Pure was the life she led Then: from her Muff, 't is said, Tracts she distributed;— Scapegraces many, Seeing the grace they lacked, Followed her; one attacked Prudence, and got his tract, Oftener than any!
Love has a potent spell! Soon this bold ne'er-do-well, Aunt's sweet susceptible Heart undermining, Slipped, so the scandal runs, Notes in the pretty nun's Muff,—triple-cornered ones,— Pink as its lining!
Worse, even, soon the jade Fled (to oblige her blade!) Whilst her friends thought that they 'd Locked her up tightly: After such shocking games, Aunt is of wedded dames Gayest,—and now her name's Mrs. Golightly.
In female conduct flaw Sadder I never saw, Still I've faith in the law Of compensation. Once uncle went astray,— Smoked, joked, and swore away; Sworn by, he 's now, by a Large congregation!
Changed is the child of sin; Now he 's (he once was thin) Grave, with a double chin,— Blest be his fat form! Changed is the garb he wore: Preacher was never more Prized than is uncle for Pulpit or platform.
If all's as best befits Mortals of slender wits, Then beg this Muff, and its Fair owner pardon; All's for the best,—indeed, Such is my simple creed; Still I must go and weed Hard in my garden.
FREDERICK LOCKER-LAMPSON.
HOW PADDY GOT "UNDER GOVERNMENT."
A place under Government Was all that Paddy wanted. He married soon a scolding wife, And thus his wish was granted.
II.
MISCELLANEOUS. ————
SAINT ANTHONY'S SERMON
TO THE FISHES.
Saint Anthony at church Was left in the lurch, So he went to the ditches And preached to the fishes; They wriggled their tails, In the sun glanced their scales.
The carps, with their spawn, Are all hither drawn; Have opened their jaws, Eager for each clause. No sermon beside Had the carps so edified.
Sharp-snouted pikes, Who keep fighting like tikes, Now swam up harmonious To hear Saint Antonius. No sermon beside Had the pikes so edified.
And that very odd fish, Who loves fast-days, the cod-fish,— The stock-fish, I mean,— At the sermon was seen. No sermon beside Had the cods so edified.
Good eels and sturgeon, Which aldermen gorge on, Went out of their way To hear preaching that day. No sermon beside Had the eels so edified.
Crabs and turtles also, Who always move slow, Made haste from the bottom, As if the Devil had got 'em. No sermon beside Had the crabs so edified.
Fish great and fish small, Lords, lackeys, and all, Each looked at the preacher Like a reasonable creature: At God's word, They Anthony heard.
The sermon now ended, Each turned and descended; The pikes went on stealing, The eels went on eeling: Much delighted were they, But preferred the old way.
The crabs are backsliders, The stock-fish thick-siders, The carps are sharp-set; All the sermon forget: Much delighted were they, But preferred the old way.
ANONYMOUS.
KING JOHN AND THE ABBOT OF CANTERBURY. FROM "PERCY'S RELIQUES."
An ancient story I'll tell you anon Of a notable prince that was called King John; And he ruled England with main and with might, For he did great wrong, and maintained little right.
And I'll tell you a story, a story so merry, Concerning the Abbot of Canterbury; How for his house-keeping and high renowne, They rode poste for him to fair London towne.
An hundred men the king did heare say, The abbot kept in his house every day; And fifty golde chaynes without any doubt, In velvet coates waited the abbot about.
"How now, father abbot, I hear it of thee, Thou keepest a farre better house than mee; And for thy house-keeping and high renowne, I feare thou work'st treason against my crowne."
"My liege," quo' the abbot, "I would it were knowne I never spend nothing, but what is my owne; And I trust your grace will doe me no deere, For spending of my owne true-gotten geere."
"Yes, yes, father abbot, thy fault it is highe, And now for the same thou needest must dye; For except thou canst answer me questions three, Thy head shall be smitten from thy bodie.
"And first," quo' the king, "when I'm in this stead, With my crowne of golde so faire on my head, Among all my liege-men so noble of birthe, Thou must tell me to one penny what I am worthe.
"Secondly, tell me, without any doubt, How soone I may ride the whole world about; And at the third question thou must not shrink, But tell me here truly what I do think."
"O these are hard questions for my shallow witt. Nor I cannot answer your grace as yet: But if you will give me but three weeks' space, Ile do my endeavor to answer your grace."
"Now three weeks' space to thee will I give, And that is the longest time thou hast to live; For if thou dost not answer my questions three, Thy lands and the livings are forfeit to mee."
Away rode the abbot all sad at that word, And he rode to Cambridge, and Oxenford; But never a doctor there was so wise, That could with his learning an answer devise.
Then home rode the abbot of comfort so cold, And he met his shepheard a-going to fold: "How now, my lord abbot, you are welcome home; What news do you bring us from good King John?"
"Sad news, sad news, shepheard, I must give, That I have but three days more to live; For if I do not answer him questions three, My head will be smitten from my bodie.
"The first is to tell him, there in that stead, With his crowne of golde so fair on his head, Among all his liege-men so noble of birth, To within one penny of what he is worth.
"The seconde, to tell him without any doubt, How soone he may ride this whole world about; And at the third question I must not shrinke, But tell him there truly what he does thinke."
"Now cheare up, sire abbot, did you never hear yet, That a fool he may learne a wise man witt? Lend me horse, and serving-men, and your apparel, And He ride to London to answere youre quarrel.
"Nay, frowne not, if it hath bin told unto me, I am like your lordship, as ever may be; And if you will but lend me your gowne, There is none shall know us at fair London towne."
"Now horses and serving-men thou shalt have. With sumptuous array most gallant and brave, With crozier, and mitre, and rochet, and cope, Fit to appear 'fore our fader the pope."
"Now welcome, sire abbot," the king he did say, "'T is well thou'rt come back to keepe thy day: For and if thou canst answer my questions three, Thy life and thy living both saved shall be.
"And first, when thou seest me here in this stead, With my crowne of golde so fair on my head, Among all my liege-men so noble of birthe, Tell me to one penny what I am worthe."
"For thirty pence our Saviour was sold Among the false Jews, as I have bin told, And twenty-nine is the worth of thee, For I thinke thou art one penny worser than he."
The king he laughed, and swore by Saint Bittel, "I did not think I had been worth so littel! —Now secondly tell me, without any doubt, How soone I may ride this whole world about."
"You must rise with the sun, and ride with the same Until the next morning he riseth againe; And then your grace need not make any doubt But in twenty-four hours you'll ride it about."
The king he laughed, and swore by Saint Jone, "I did not think it could be gone so soone! —Now from the third question thou must not shrinke, But tell me here truly what I do thinke."
"Yea, that shall I do, and make your grace merry; You thinke I'm the Abbot of Canterbury; But I'm his poor shepheard, as plain you may see, That am come to beg pardon for him and for me."
The king he laughed, and swore by the Masse, "Ile make thee lord abbot this day in his place!" "Now naye, my liege, be not in such speede, For alacke I can neither write ne reade."
"Four nobles a week then I will give thee, For this merry jest thou hast showne unto me; And tell the old abbot when thou comest home, Thou hast brought him a pardon from good King John."
ANONYMOUS.
GLUGGITY GLUG. FROM "THE MYRTLE AND THE VINE."
A jolly fat friar loved liquor good store, And he had drunk stoutly at supper; He mounted his horse in the night at the door, And sat with his face to the crupper: "Some rogue," quoth the friar, "quite dead to remorse, Some thief, whom a halter will throttle, Some scoundrel has cut off the head of my horse, While I was engaged at the bottle, Which went gluggity, gluggity—glug—glug—glug."
The tail of the steed pointed south on the dale, 'Twas the friar's road home, straight and level; But, when spurred, a horse follows his nose, not his tail, So he scampered due north, like a devil: "This new mode of docking," the friar then said, "I perceive doesn't make a horse trot ill; And 't is cheap,—for he never can eat off his head While I am engaged at the bottle, Which goes gluggity, gluggity—glug—glug—glug."
The steed made a stop,—in a pond he had got, He was rather for drinking than grazing; Quoth the friar, "'Tis strange headless horses should trot, But to drink with their tails is amazing!" Turning round to see whence this phenomenon rose, In the pond fell this son of a pottle; Quoth he, "The head's found, for I'm under his nose,— I wish I were over a bottle, Which goes gluggity, gluggity—glug—glug—glug!"
I AM A FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY. FROM THE OPERA OF "ROBIN HOOD."
I am a friar of orders gray, And down in the valleys I take my way; I pull not blackberry, haw, or hip,— Good store of venison fills my scrip; My long bead-roll I merrily chant; Where'er I walk no money I want; And why I'm so plump the reason I tell,— Who leads a good life is sure to live well. What baron or squire, Or knight of the shire, Lives half so well as a holy friar?
After supper of heaven I dream, But that is a pullet and clouted cream; Myself, by denial, I mortify— With a dainty bit of a warden-pie; I'm clothed in sackcloth for my sin,— With old sack wine I'm lined within; A chirping cup is my matin song, And the vesper's bell is my bowl, ding dong. What baron or squire, Or knight of the shire, Lives half so well as a holy friar?
GOOD ALE.
I cannot eat but little meat,— My stomach is not good; But, sure, I think that I can drink With him that wears a hood. Though I go bare, take ye no care; I nothing am a-cold,— I stuff my skin so full within Of jolly good ale and old. Back and side go bare, go bare; Both foot and hand go cold; But, belly, God send thee good ale enough, Whether it be new or old!
I love no roast but a nut-brown toast, And a crab laid in the fire; A little bread shall do me stead,— Much bread I not desire. No frost, nor snow, nor wind, I trow, Can hurt me if I wold,— I am so wrapt, and thorowly lapt Of jolly good ale and old. Back and side, etc.
And Tyb, my wife, that as her life Loveth well good ale to seek, Full oft drinks she, till you may see The tears run down her cheek; Then doth she trowl to me the bowl, Even as a malt-worm should; And saith, "Sweetheart, I took my part Of this jolly good ale and old." Back and side, etc.
Now let them drink till they nod and wink, Even as good fellows should do; They shall not miss to have the bliss Good ale doth bring men to; And all poor souls that have scoured bowls, Or have them lustily trowled, God save the lives of them and their wives, Whether they be young or old! Back and side go bare, go bare; Both foot and hand go cold; But, belly, God send thee good ale enough, Whether it be new or old!
JOHN STILL.
THE PILGRIMS AND THE PEAS.
A brace of sinners, for no good, Were ordered to the Virgin Mary's shrine, Who at Loretto dwelt, in wax, stone, wood, And in a fair white wig looked wondrous fine. Fifty long miles had those sad rogues to travel, With something in their shoes much worse than gravel; In short, their toes so gentle to amuse, The priest had ordered peas into their shoes: A nostrum famous in old popish times For purifying souls that stunk of crimes: A sort of apostolic salt, Which popish parsons for its powers exalt, For keeping souls of sinners sweet, Just as our kitchen salt keeps meat.
The knaves set off on the same day, Peas in their shoes, to go and pray; But very different was their speed, I wot: One of the sinners galloped on, Swift as a bullet from a gun; The other limped, as if he had been shot. One saw the Virgin soon, Peccavi cried, Had his soul whitewashed all so clever; Then home again he nimbly hied, Made fit with saints above to live forever.
In coming back, however, let me say, He met his brother rogue about half-way,— Hobbling, with outstretched arms and bended knees, Cursing the souls and bodies of the peas; His eyes in tears, his cheeks and brow in sweat, Deep sympathizing with his groaning feet.
"How now," the light-toed, whitewashed pilgrim broke, "You lazy lubber!" "Ods curse it!" cried the other, "'t is no joke; My feet, once hard as any rock, Are now as soft as blubber.
"Excuse me, Virgin Mary, that I swear, As for Loretto, I shall not get there; No, to the devil my sinful soul must go, For damme if I ha'n't lost every toe. But, brother sinner, pray explain How 't is that you are not in pain. What power hath worked a wonder for your toes, Whilst I just like a snail am crawling, Now swearing, now on saints devoutly bawling, Whilst not a rascal comes to ease my woes?
"How is 't that you can like a greyhound go, Merry as if that naught had happened, burn ye!" "Why," cried the other, grinning, "you must know, That just before I ventured on my journey, To walk a little more at ease, I took the liberty to boil my peas."
DR. JOHN WOLCOTT. (Peter Pindar).
THE VICAR OF BRAY [3]
In good King Charles's golden days, When loyalty no harm meant, A zealous high-churchman was I, And so I got preferment.
To teach my flock I never missed: Kings were by God appointed, And lost are those that dare resist Or touch the Lord's anointed. And this is law that I 'll maintain Until my dying day, sir, That whatsoever king shall reign, Still I 'll be the Vicar of Bray, sir.
When royal James possessed the crown, And popery came in fashion, The penal laws I hooted down, And read the Declaration; The Church of Rome I found would fit Full well my constitution; And I had been a Jesuit But for the Revolution. And this is law, etc.
When William was our king declared, To ease the nation's grievance; With this new wind about I steered, And swore to him allegiance; Old principles I did revoke, Set conscience at a distance; Passive obedience was a joke, A jest was non-resistance. And this is law, etc.
When royal Anne became our queen, The Church of England's glory, Another face of things was seen, And I became a Tory; Occasional conformists base, I blamed their moderation; And thought the Church in danger was, By such prevarication. And this is law, etc.
When George in pudding-time came o'er, And moderate men looked big, sir, My principles I changed once more, And so became a Whig, sir; And thus preferment I procured From our new faith's-defender, And almost every day adjured The Pope and the Pretender. And this is law, etc.
The illustrious house of Hanover, And Protestant succession, To these I do allegiance swear— While they can keep possession: For in my faith and loyalty I nevermore will falter, And George my lawful king shall be— Until the times do alter. And this is law that I 'll maintain Until my dying day, sir, That whatsoever king shall reign, Still I 'll be the Vicar of Bray, sir.
HUDIBRAS' SWORD AND DAGGER. FROM "HUDIBRAS," PART I.
His puissant sword unto his side Near his undaunted heart was tied, With basket hilt that would hold broth, And serve for fight and dinner both. In it he melted lead for bullets To shoot at foes, and sometimes pullets, To whom he bore so fell a grutch He ne'er gave quarter to any such. The trenchant blade, Toledo trusty, For want of fighting was grown rusty, And ate into itself, for lack Of somebody to hew and hack. The peaceful scabbard, where it dwelt, The rancor of its edge had felt; For of the lower end two handful It had devoured, it was so manful; And so much scorned to lurk in case, As if it durst not show its face.
————
This sword a dagger had, his page, That was but little for his age, And therefore waited on him so As dwarfs unto knight-errants do. It was a serviceable dudgeon, Either for fighting or for drudging. When it had stabbed or broke a head, It would scrape trenchers or chip bread, Toast cheese or bacon, though it were To bait a mouse-trap 't would not care; 'T would make clean shoes, and in the earth Set leeks and onions, and so forth: It had been 'prentice to a brewer, Where this and more it did endure; But left the trade, as many more Have lately done on the same score.
DR. SAMUEL BUTLER.
THE FINE OLD ENGLISH GENTLEMAN. [4]
I'll sing you a good old song, Made by a good old pate, Of a fine old English gentleman Who had an old estate, And who kept up his old mansion At a bountiful old rate; With a good old porter to relieve The old poor at his gate, Like a fine old English gentleman All of the olden time.
His hall so old was hung around With pikes and guns and bows, And swords, and good old bucklers, That had stood some tough old blows; 'T was there "his worship" held his state In doublet and trunk hose, And quaffed his cup of good old sack, To warm his good old nose, Like a fine, etc.
When winter's cold brought frost and snow, He opened house to all; And though threescore and ten his years, He featly led the ball; Nor was the houseless wanderer E'er driven from his hall; For while he feasted all the great, He ne'er forgot the small; Like a fine, etc.
But time, though old, is strong in flight, And years rolled swiftly by; And Autumn's falling leaves proclaimed This good old man must die! He laid him down right tranquilly, Gave up life's latest sigh; And mournful stillness reigned around, And tears bedewed each eye, For this good, etc.
Now surely this is better far Than all the new parade Of theatres and fancy balls, "At home" and masquerade: And much more economical, For all his bills were paid. Then leave your new vagaries quite, And take up the old trade Of a fine old English gentleman, All of the olden time.
ANONYMOUS.
Alas! what pity 't is that regularity, Like Isaac Shove's, is such a rarity! But there are swilling wights in London town, Termed jolly dogs, choice spirits, alias swine, Who pour, in midnight revel, bumpers down, Making their throats a thoroughfare for wine.
These spendthrifts, who life's pleasures thus run on, Dozing with headaches till the afternoon, Lose half men's regular estate of sun, By borrowing too largely of the moon.
One of this kidney—Toby Tosspot hight— Was coming from the Bedford late at night; And being Bacchi plenus, full of wine, Although he had a tolerable notion Of aiming at progressive motion, 'T wasn't direct,—'t was serpentine. He worked with sinuosities, along, Like Monsieur Corkscrew, worming through a cork, Not straight, like Corkscrew's proxy, stiff Don Prong,—a fork.
At length, with near four bottles in his pate, He saw the moon shining on Shove's brass plate, When reading, "Please to ring the bell," And being civil beyond measure,
"Ring it!" says Toby,—"very well; I'll ring it with a deal of pleasure." Toby, the kindest soul in all the town, Gave it a jerk that almost jerked it down.
He waited full two minutes,—no one came; He waited full two minutes more;—and then Says Toby, "If he's deaf, I'm not to blame; I'll pull it for the gentleman again."
But the first peal woke Isaac in a fright, Who, quick as lightning, popping up his head, Sat on his head's antipodes, in bed, Pale as a parsnip,—bolt upright.
At length he wisely to himself doth say, calming his fears.— "Tush! 't is some fool has rung and run away;" When peal the second rattled in his ears.
Shove jumped into the middle of the floor; And, trembling at each breath of air that stirred, He groped down stairs, and opened the street door, While Toby was performing peal the third.
Isaac eyed Toby, fearfully askant, And saw he was a strapper, stout and tall; Then put this question, "Pray, sir, what d'ye want?" Says Toby, "I want nothing sir, at all."
"Want nothing! Sir, you've pulled my bell, I vow, As if you'd jerk it off the wire." Quoth Toby, gravely making him a bow, "I pulled it, sir, at your desire."
"At mine?" "Yes, yours; I hope I've done it well. High time for bed, sir; I was hastening to it; But if you write up, 'Please to ring the bell,' Common politeness makes me stop and do it."
GEORGE COLMAN THE YOUNGER.
THE MILKMAID.
A milkmaid, who poised a full pail on her head, Thus mused on her prospects in life, it is said: "Let me see,—I should think that this milk will procure One hundred good eggs, or fourscore, to be sure.
"Well then,—stop a bit,—it must not be forgotten, Some of these may be broken, and some may be rotten; But if twenty for accident should be detached, It will leave me just sixty sound eggs to be hatched.
"Well, sixty sound eggs,—no, sound chickens, I mean: Of these some may die,—we'll suppose seventeen, Seventeen! not so many—say ten at the most, Which will leave fifty chickens to boil or to roast.
"But then there's their barley: how much will they need? Why, they take but one grain at a time when they feed,— So that's a mere trifle; now then, let us see, At a fair market price how much money there'll be.
"Six shillings a pair—five—four—three-and-six. To prevent all mistakes, that low price I will fix; Now what will that make? fifty chickens, I said,— Fifty times three-and-sixpence—I'll ask Brother Ned.
"O, but stop,—three-and-sixpence a pair I must sell 'em; Well, a pair is a couple,—now then let us tell 'em; A couple in fifty will go (my poor brain!) Why, just a score times and five pair will remain.
"Twenty-five pair of fowls—now how tiresome it is That I can't reckon up so much money as this! Well, there's no use in trying, so let's give a guess,— I'll say twenty pounds, and it can't be no less.
"Twenty pounds, I am certain, will buy me a cow, Thirty geese and two turkeys,—eight pigs and a sow; Now if these turn out well, at the end of a year, I shall fill both my pockets with guineas, 't is clear."
Forgetting her burden, when this she had said, The maid superciliously tossed up her head; When, alas for her prospects! her milk-pail descended, And so all her schemes for the future were ended.
This moral, I think, may be safely attached,— "Reckon not on your chickens before they are hatched."
JEFFREYS TAYLOR.
MORNING MEDITATIONS.
Let Taylor preach, upon a morning breezy, How well to rise while nights and larks are flying,— For my part, getting up seems not so easy By half as lying.
What if the lark does carol in the sky, Soaring beyond the sight to find him out,— Wherefore am I to rise at such a fly? I'm not a trout.
Talk not to me of bees and such-like hums, The smell of sweet herbs at the morning prime,— Only lie long enough, and bed becomes A bed of time.
To me Dan Phœbus and his car are naught, His steeds that paw impatiently about,— Let them enjoy, say I, as horses ought, The first turn-out!
Right beautiful the dewy meads appear Besprinkled by the rosy-fingered girl; What then,—if I prefer my pillow-beer To early pearl?
My stomach is not ruled by other men's, And, grumbling for a reason, quaintly begs Wherefore should master rise before the hens Have laid their eggs?
Why from a comfortable pillow start To see faint flushes in the east awaken? A fig, say I, for any streaky part, Excepting bacon.
An early riser Mr. Gray has drawn, Who used to haste the dewy grass among, "To meet the sun upon the upland lawn,"— Well,—he died young.
With charwomen such early hours agree, And sweeps that earn betimes their bit and sup; But I'm no climbing boy, and need not be All up,—all up!
So here I lie, my morning calls deferring, Till something nearer to the stroke of noon;— A man that's fond precociously of stirring Must be a spoon.
ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG.
Good people all, of every sort, Give ear unto my song; And if you find it wondrous short, It cannot hold you long.
In Islington there was a man Of whom the world might say, That still a godly race he ran— Whene'er he went to pray.
A kind and gentle heart he had, To comfort friends and foes: The naked every day he clad— When he put on his clothes.
And in that town a dog was found, As many dogs there be, Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound, And curs of low degree.
This dog and man at first were friends; But when a pique began, The dog to gain his private ends, Went mad, and bit the man.
Around from all the neighboring streets The wondering neighbors ran, And swore the dog had lost his wits, To bite so good a man!
The wound it seemed both sore and sad To every Christian eye: And while they swore the dog was mad, They swore the man would die.
But soon a wonder came to light, That showed the rogues they lied:— The man recovered of the bite. The dog it was that died!
OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
OLD GRIMES.
Old Grimes is dead, that good old man,— We ne'er shall see him more; He used to wear a long black coat, All buttoned down before.
His heart was open as the day, His feelings all were true; His hair was some inclined to gray,— He wore it in a queue.
Whene'er he heard the voice of pain, His breast with pity burned; The large round head upon his cane From ivory was turned.
Kind words he ever had for all; He knew no base design; His eyes were dark and rather small, His nose was aquiline.
He lived at peace with all mankind, In friendship he was true; His coat had pocket-holes behind, His pantaloons were blue.
Unharmed, the sin which earth pollutes He passed securely o'er,— And never wore a pair of boots For thirty years or more.
But good Old Grimes is now at rest, Nor fears misfortune's frown; He wore a double-breasted vest,— The stripes ran up and down.
He modest merit sought to find, And pay it its desert; He had no malice in his mind, No ruffles on his shirt.
His neighbors he did not abuse,— Was sociable and gay; He wore large buckles on his shoes, And changed them every day.
His knowledge, hid from public gaze, He did not bring to view, Nor make a noise, town-meeting days, As many people do.
His worldly goods he never threw In trust to fortune's chances, But lived (as all his brothers do) In easy circumstances.
Thus undisturbed by anxious cares His peaceful moments ran; And everybody said he was A fine old gentleman.
ALBERT G. GREENE.
ELEGY ON MADAM BLAIZE.
Good people all, with one accord, Lament for Madam Blaize; Who never wanted a good word— From those who spoke her praise.
The needy seldom passed her door, And always found her kind; She freely lent to all the poor— Who left a pledge behind.
She strove the neighborhood to please, With manner wondrous winning; She never followed wicked ways— Unless when she was sinning.
At church, in silk and satins new, With hoop of monstrous size, She never slumbered in her pew— But when she shut her eyes.
Her love was sought, I do aver, By twenty beaux, or more; The king himself has followed her— When she has walked before.
But now her wealth and finery fled, Her hangers-on cut short all, Her doctors found, when she was dead— Her last disorder mortal.
Let us lament, in sorrow sore; For Kent Street well may say, That, had she lived a twelvemonth more— She had not died to-day.
OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
THE GRAVE-YARD. FROM "A FABLE FOR CRITICS."
Let us glance for a moment, 't is well worth the pains, And note what an average grave-yard contains; There lie levellers levelled, duns done up themselves, There are booksellers finally laid on their shelves, Horizontally there lie upright politicians, Dose-a-dose with their patients sleep faultless physicians, There are slave-drivers quietly whipt under-ground, There bookbinders, done up in boards, are fast bound, There card-players wait till the last trump be played, There all the choice spirits get finally laid, There the babe that's unborn is supplied with a berth, There men without legs get their six feet of earth, There lawyers repose, each wrapt up in his case, There seekers of office are sure of a place, There defendant and plaintiff get equally cast, There shoemakers quietly stick to the last, There brokers at length become silent as stocks, There stage-drivers sleep without quitting their box, And so forth and so forth and so forth and so on, With this kind of stuff one might endlessly go on; To come to the point, I may safely assert you Will find in each yard every cardinal virtue; (And at this just conclusion will surely arrive, That the goodness of earth is more dead than alive).
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.
FAITHLESS NELLY GRAY. A PATHETIC BALLAD.
Ben Battle was a soldier bold, And used to war's alarms; But a cannon-ball took off his legs, So he laid down his arms.
Now as they bore him off the field, Said he, "Let others shoot; For here I leave my second leg, And the Forty-second Foot."
The army-surgeons made him limbs: Said he, "They're only pegs; But there's as wooden members quite As represent my legs."
Now Ben he loved a pretty maid,— Her name was Nelly Gray; So he went to pay her his devours, When he devoured his pay.
But when he called on Nelly Gray, She made him quite a scoff; And when she saw his wooden legs, Began to take them off.
"O Nelly Gray! O Nelly Gray! Is this your love so warm? The love that loves a scarlet coat Should be more uniform."
Said she, "I loved a soldier once, For he was blithe and brave; But I will never have a man With both legs in the grave.
"Before you had those timber toes Your love I did allow; But then, you know, you stand upon Another footing now."
"O Nelly Gray! O Nelly Gray! For all your jeering speeches, At duty's call I left my legs In Badajos's breaches."
"Why, then," said she, "you've lost the feet Of legs in war's alarms, And now you cannot wear your shoes Upon your feats of arms!"
"O false and fickle Nelly Gray! I know why you refuse: Though I've no feet, some other man Is standing in my shoes.
"I wish I ne'er had seen your face; But, now a long farewell! For you will be my death;—alas! You will not be my Nell!"
Now when he went from Nelly Gray His heart so heavy got, And life was such a burden grown, It made him take a knot.
So round his melancholy neck A rope he did intwine, And, for his second time in life, Enlisted in the Line.
One end he tied around a beam, And then removed his pegs; And as his legs were off,—of course He soon was off his legs.
And there he hung till he was dead As any nail in town; For, though distress had cut him up, It could not cut him down.
A dozen men sat on his corpse, To find out why he died,— And they buried Ben in four cross-roads, With a stake in his inside.
THE PRESS-GANG.
"But as they fetched a walk one day, They met a press-gang crew; And Sally she did faint away, Whilst Ben he was brought to."
—THOMAS HOOD.
From an engraving after painting by Alexander Johnston.
FAITHLESS SALLY BROWN.
Young Ben he was a nice young man, A carpenter by trade; And he fell in love with Sally Brown, That was a lady's maid.
But as they fetched a walk one day, They met a press-gang crew; And Sally she did faint away, Whilst Ben he was brought to.
The boatswain swore with wicked words Enough to shock a saint, That, though she did seem in a fit, 'T was nothing but a feint.
"Come, girl," said he, "hold up your head, He'll be as good as me; For when your swain is in our boat A boatswain he will be."
So when they'd made their game of her, And taken off her elf, She roused, and found she only was A coming to herself.
"And is he gone, and is he gone?" She cried and wept outright; "Then I will to the water-side, And see him out of sight."
A waterman came up to her; "Now, young woman," said he, "If you weep on so, you will make Eye-water in the sea."
"Alas! they've taken my beau, Ben, To sail with old Benbow;" And her woe began to run afresh, As if she'd said, Gee woe!
Says he, "They've only taken him To the tender-ship, you see." "The tender-ship," cried Sally Brown,— "What a hard-ship that must be!"
"O, would I were a mermaid now, For then I'd follow him! But O, I'm not a fish-woman, And so I cannot swim.
"Alas! I was not born beneath The Virgin and the Scales, So I must curse my cruel stars, And walk about in Wales."
Now Ben had sailed to many a place That's underneath the world; But in two years the ship came home, And all her sails were furled.
But when he called on Sally Brown, To see how she got on, He found she'd got another Ben, Whose Christian-name was John.
"O Sally Brown! O Sally Brown! How could you serve me so? I've met with many a breeze before, But never such a blow!"
Then, reading on his 'bacco box, He heaved a heavy sigh, And then began to eye his pipe, And then to pipe his eye.
And then he tried to sing, "All's Well!" But could not, though he tried; His head was turned,—and so he chewed His pigtail till he died.
His death, which happened in his berth, At forty-odd befell; They went and told the sexton, and The sexton tolled the bell.
THOMAS HOOD..
ORATOR PUFF.
Mr. Orator Puff had two tones in his voice, The one squeaking thus, and the other down so; In each sentence he uttered he gave you your choice, For one half was B alt, and the rest G below. O! O! Orator Puff, One voice for an orator's surely enough.
But he still talked away, spite of coughs and of frowns, So distracting all ears with his ups and his downs, That a wag once, on hearing the orator say, "My voice is for war!" asked, "Which of them, pray?" O! O! Orator Puff, etc.
Reeling homeward one evening, top-heavy with gin, And rehearsing his speech on the weight of the crown, He tripped near a saw-pit, and tumbled right in, "Sinking fund" the last words as his noddle came down. O! O! Orator Puff, etc.
"Good Lord!" he exclaimed, in his he-and-she tones, "Help me out! Help me out! I have broken my bones!" "Help you out?" said a Paddy who passed, "what a bother! Why, there's two of you there—can't you help one another?" O! O! Orator Puff, One voice for an orator's surely enough.
THE GOUTY MERCHANT AND THE STRANGER.
In Broad Street building (on a winter night), Snug by his parlor-fire, a gouty wight Sat all alone, with one hand rubbing His feet rolled up in fleecy hose: With t' other he'd beneath his nose The Public Ledger, in whose columns grubbing, He noted all the sales of hops, Ships, shops, and slops; Gum, galls, and groceries; ginger, gin, Tar, tallow, turmeric, turpentine, and tin; When lo! a decent personage in black Entered and most politely said,— "Your footman, sir, has gone his nightly track To the King's Head, And left your door ajar; which I Observed in passing by, And thought it neighborly to give you notice." "Ten thousand thanks; how very few get, In time of danger, Such kind attention from a stranger! Assuredly, that fellow's throat is Doomed to a final drop at Newgate: He knows, too, (the unconscionable elf!) That there's no soul at home except myself." "Indeed," replied the stranger (looking grave), "Then he's a double knave; He knows that rogues and thieves by scores Nightly beset unguarded doors: And see, how easily might one Of these domestic foes, Even beneath your very nose, Perform his knavish tricks; Enter your room, as I have done, Blow out your candles—thus—and thus— Pocket your silver candlesticks, And—walk off—thus"— So said, so done; he made no more remark Nor waited for replies, But marched off with his prize, Leaving the gouty merchant in the dark.
HORACE SMITH.
THE DIVERTING HISTORY OF JOHN GILPIN. SHOWING HOW HE WENT FARTHER THAN HE INTENDED, AND CAME SAFE HOME AGAIN.
John Gilpin was a citizen Of credit and renown, A trainband captain eke was he Of famous London town.
John Gilpin's spouse said to her dear— "Though wedded we have been These twice ten tedious years, yet we No holiday have seen.
"To morrow is our wedding-day, And we will then repair Unto the Bell at Edmonton All in a chaise and pair.
"My sister and my sister's child, Myself and children three, Will fill the chaise; so you must ride On horseback after we."
He soon replied, "I do admire Of womankind but one, And you are she, my dearest dear: Therefore it shall be done.
"I am a linendraper bold, As all the world doth know, And my good friend the calender Will lend his horse to go."
Quoth Mrs. Gilpin, "That's well said; And for that wine is dear, We will be furnished with our own, Which is both bright and clear."
John Gilpin kissed his loving wife; O'erjoyed was he to find, That, though on pleasure she was bent, She had a frugal mind.
The morning came, the chaise was brought, But yet was not allowed To drive up to the door, lest all Should say that she was proud.
So three doors off the chaise was stayed, Where they did all get in; Six precious souls, and all agog To dash through thick and thin.
Smack went the whip, round went the wheels. Were never folks so glad; The stones did rattle underneath, As if Cheapside were mad.
John Gilpin at his horse's side Seized fast the flowing mane, And up he got in haste to ride. But soon came down again;
For saddle-tree scarce reached had he, His journey to begin, When, turning round his head, he saw Three customers come in.
So down he came; for loss of time, Although it grieved him sore, Yet loss of pence, full well he knew, Would trouble him much more.
'T was long before the customers Were suited to their mind, When Betty screaming came down stairs, "The wine is left behind!"
"Good lack!" quoth he, "yet bring it me, My leathern belt likewise, In which I bear my trusty sword When I do exercise."
Now Mistress Gilpin (careful soul!) Had two stone bottles found, To hold the liquor that she loved, And keep it safe and sound.
Each bottle had a curling ear, Through which the belt he drew, And hung a bottle on each side, To make his balance true.
Then over all, that he might be Equipped from top to toe, His long red cloak, well brushed and neat, He manfully did throw.
Now see him mounted once again Upon his nimble steed, Full slowly pacing o'er the stones, With caution and good heed.
But finding soon a smoother road Beneath his well-shod feet, The snorting beast began to trot, Which galled him in his seat.
"So, fair and softly," John he cried, But John he cried in vain; That trot became a gallop soon, In spite of curb and rein.
So stooping down, as needs he must Who cannot sit upright, He grasped the mane with both his hands, And eke with all his might.
His horse, who never in that sort Had handled been before. What thing upon his back had got Did wonder more and more.
Away went Gilpin, neck or naught; Away went hat and wig; He little dreamt, when he set out, Of running such a rig.
The wind did blow, the cloak did fly, Like streamer long and gay, Till, loop and button failing both, At last it flew away.
Then might all people well discern The bottles he had slung; A bottle swinging at each side, As hath been said or sung.
The dogs did bark, the children screamed, Up flew the windows all; And every soul cried out, "Well done!" As loud as he could bawl.
Away went Gilpin,—who but he? His fame soon spread around, "He carries weight! he rides a race! 'T is for a thousand pound!"
And still as fast as he drew near, 'T was wonderful to view, How in a trice the turnpike men Their gates wide open threw.
And now, as he went bowing down His reeking head full low, The bottles twain behind his back Were shattered at a blow.
Down ran the wine into the road, Most piteous to be seen, Which made his horse's flanks to smoke As they had basted been.
But still he seemed to carry weight, With leathern girdle braced; For all might see the bottle necks Still dangling at his waist.
Thus all through merry Islington These gambols did he play, Until he came unto the Wash Of Edmonton so gay;
And there he threw the wash about On both sides of the way, Just like unto a trundling mop, Or a wild goose at play.
At Edmonton his loving wife From the balcony spied Her tender husband, wondering much To see how he did ride.
"Stop, stop, John Gilpin!—Here's the house," They all at once did cry; "The dinner waits, and we are tired." Said Gilpin, "So am I!"
But yet his horse was not a whit Inclined to tarry there; For why?—his owner had a house Pull ten miles off, at Ware.
So like an arrow swift he flew, Shot by an archer strong; So did he fly—which brings me to The middle of my song.
Away went Gilpin out of breath, And sore against his will. Till at his friend the calender's His horse at last stood still.
The calender, amazed to see His neighbor in such trim, Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate, And thus accosted him:
"What news? what news? your tidings tell; Tell me you must and shall,— Say why bareheaded you are come, Or why you come at all?"
Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit, And loved a timely joke; And thus unto the calender In merry guise he spoke:
"I came because your horse would come; And, if I well forebode, My hat and wig will soon be here, They are upon the road."
The calender, right glad to find His friend in merry pin, Returned him not a single word, But to the house went in;
Whence straight he came with hat and wig; A wig that flowed behind, A hat not much the worse for wear, Each comely in its kind.
He held them up, and in his turn Thus showed his ready wit, "My head is twice as big as yours, They therefore needs must fit.
"But let me scrape the dirt away That hangs upon your face; And stop and eat, for well you may Be in a hungry case."
Said John, "It is my wedding-day, And all the world would stare, If wife should dine at Edmonton, And I should dine at Ware."
So turning to his horse, he said, "I am in haste to dine; 'T was for your pleasure you came here, You shall go back for mine."
Ah, luckless speech, and bootless boast! For which he paid full dear; For, while he spake, a braying ass Did sing most loud and clear;
Whereat his horse did snort, as he Had heard a lion roar, And galloped off with all his might, As he had done before.
Away went Gilpin, and away Went Gilpin's hat and wig: He lost them sooner than at first, For why?—they were too big.
Now Mistress Gilpin, when she saw Her husband posting down Into the country far away, She pulled out half a crown;
And thus unto the youth she said, That drove them to the Bell, "This shall be yours when you bring back My husband safe and well."
The youth did ride, and soon did meet John coming back amain; Whom in a trice he tried to stop By catching at his rein;
But not performing what he meant, And gladly would have done, The frightened steed he frightened more, And made him faster run.
Away went Gilpin, and away Went postboy at his heels, The postboy's horse right glad to miss The lumbering of the wheels.
Six gentlemen upon the road, Thus seeing Gilpin fly, With postboy scampering in the rear, They raised the hue and cry:—
"Stop thief! stop thief!—a highwayman!" Not one of them was mute; And all and each that passed that way Did join in the pursuit.
And now the turnpike-gates again Flew open in short space; The toll-man thinking, as before, That Gilpin rode a race.
And so he did, and won it too, For he got first to town; Nor stopped till where he had got up He did again get down.
Now let us sing, "Long live the king, And Gilpin, long live he; And when he next doth ride abroad, May I be there to see!"
WILLIAM COWPER.
EPIGRAMS BY S. T. COLERIDGE. COLOGNE.
In Köln, a town of monks and bones, And pavements fanged with murderous stones, And rags, and hags, and hideous wenches,— I counted two-and-seventy stenches, All well-defined and several stinks! Ye nymphs that reign o'er sewers and sinks, The river Rhine, it is well known, Doth wash your city of Cologne; But tell me, nymphs! what power divine Shall henceforth wash the river Rhine?
————
Sly Beelzebub took all occasions To try Job's constancy and patience. He took his honor, took his health; He took his children, took his wealth, His servants, oxen, horses, cows— But cunning Satan did not take his spouse.
But Heaven, that brings out good from evil, And loves to disappoint the devil, Had predetermined to restore Twofold all he had before; His servants, horses, oxen, cows— Short-sighted devil, not to take his spouse!
————
Hoarse Mævius reads his hobbling verse To all, and at all times, And finds them both divinely smooth, His voice as well as rhymes.
Yet folks say Mævius is no ass; But Mævius makes it clear That he's a monster of an ass,— An ass without an ear!
————
Swans sing before they die,—'t were no bad thing Did certain persons die before they sing.
————
THE RAZOR-SELLER.
A fellow in a market-town, Most musical, cried razors up and down, And offered twelve for eighteen pence; Which certainly seemed wondrous cheap, And, for the money, quite a heap, As every man would buy, with cash and sense.
A country bumpkin the great offer heard,— Poor Hodge, who suffered by a broad black beard, That seemed a shoe-brush stuck beneath his nose: With cheerfulness the eighteen pence he paid, And proudly to himself in whispers said, "This rascal stole the razors, I suppose.
"No matter if the fellow be a knave. Provided that the razors shave; It certainly will be a monstrous prize." So home the clown, with his good fortune, went, Smiling in heart and soul content, And quickly soaped himself to ears and eyes.
Being well lathered from a dish or tub, Hodge now began with grinning pain to grub, Just like a hedger cutting furze; 'T was a vile razor!—then the rest he tried,— All were impostors. "Ah!" Hodge sighed, "I wish my eighteen pence within my purse."
In vain to chase his beard, and bring the graces, He cut, and dug, and winced, and stamped, and swore; Brought blood, and danced, blasphemed, and made wry faces, And cursed each razor's body o'er and o'er:
His muzzle formed of opposition stuff, Firm as a Foxite, would not lose its ruff; So kept it,—laughing at the steel and suds. Hodge, in a passion, stretched his angry jaws, Vowing the direst vengeance with clenched claws, On the vile cheat that sold the goods. "Razors! a mean, confounded dog, Not fit to scrape a hog!"
Hodge sought the fellow,—found him,—and begun: "P'rhaps, Master Razor-rogue, to you 't is fun, That people flay themselves out of their lives. You rascal; for an hour have I been grubbing, Giving my crying whiskers here a scrubbing, With razors just like oyster-knives. Sirrah! I tell you you're a knave, To cry up razors that can't shave!"
"Friend," quoth the razor-man, "I'm not a knave; As for the razors you have bought, Upon my soul, I never thought That they would shave." "Not think they'd shave!" quoth Hodge, with wondering eyes, And voice not much unlike an Indian yell; "What were they made for, then, you dog?" he cries. "Made," quoth the fellow with a smile,—"to sell."
DR. JOHN WOLCOTT. (Peter Pindar)
PAPER. A CONVERSATIONAL PLEASANTRY.
Some wit of old—such wits of old there were, Whose hints showed meaning, whose allusions care— By one brave stroke to mark all human kind, Called clear, blank paper every infant mind: Where still, as opening sense her dictates wrote, Fair virtue put a seal, or vice a blot.
The thought was happy, pertinent, and true; Methinks a genius might the plan pursue. I (can you pardon my presumption?)—I, No wit, no genius, yet for once will try.
Various the paper various wants produce,— The wants of fashion, elegance, and use. Men are as various; and, if right I scan, Each sort of paper represents some man.
Pray note the fop, half powder and half lace; Nice, as a bandbox were his dwelling-place; He's the gilt-paper, which apart you store, And lock from vulgar hands in the 'scrutoire.
Mechanics, servants, farmers, and so forth Are copy-paper of inferior worth; Less prized, more useful, for your desk decreed; Free to all pens, and prompt at every need.
The wretch whom avarice bids to pinch and spare, Starve, cheat, and pilfer, to enrich an heir, Is coarse brown paper, such as pedlers choose To wrap up wares, which better men will use.
Take next the miser's contrast, who destroys Health, fame, and fortune in a round of joys; Will any paper match him? Yes, throughout; He's a true sinking-paper, past all doubt. The retail politician's anxious thought Deems this side always right, and that stark naught; He foams with censure; with applause he raves; A dupe to rumors and a tool of knaves; He'll want no type, his weakness to proclaim, While such a thing as foolscap has a name.
The hasty gentleman, whose blood runs high, Who picks a quarrel, if you step awry, Who can't a jest, a hint, or look endure,— What is he?—what? Touch-paper, to be sure.
What are our poets, take them as they fall, Good, bad, rich, poor, much read, not read at all? They and their works in the same class you'll find; They are the mere waste-paper of mankind.
Observe the maiden, innocently sweet! She's fair, white paper, an unsullied sheet; On which the happy man whom fate ordains May write his name, and take her for his pains.
One instance more, and only one I'll bring; 'T is the great man who scorns a little thing; Whose thoughts, whose deeds, whose maxims, are his own, Formed on the feelings of his heart alone, True, genuine, royal paper is his breast; Of all the kinds most precious, purest, best.
EPITAPH FOR THE TOMBSTONE ERECTED OVER THE MARQUIS OF ANGLESEA'S LEG, LOST AT WATERLOO.
Here rests, and let no saucy knave Presume to sneer and laugh, To learn that moldering in the grave Is laid a British Calf.
For he who writes these lines is sure, That those who read the whole Will find such laugh was premature, For here, too, lies a sole.
And here five little ones repose, Twin born with other five, Unheeded by their brother toes, Who all are now alive.
A leg and foot to speak more plain, Rests here of one commanding; Who though his wits he might retain, Lost half his understanding.
And when the guns, with thunder fraught, Poured bullets thick as hail, Could only in this way be taught To give the foe leg-bail.
And now in England, just as gay As in the battle brave, Goes to a rout, review, or play, With one foot in the grave.
Fortune in vain here showed her spite, For he will still be found, Should England's sons engage in fight, Resolved to stand his ground.
But Fortune's pardon I must beg; She meant not to disarm, For when she lopped the hero's leg, She did not seek his harm.
And but indulged a harmless whim; Since he could walk with one, She saw two legs were lost on him, Who never meant to run.
GEORGE CANNING.
RUDOLPH THE HEADSMAN. FROM "THIS IS IT."
Rudolph, professor of the headsman's trade, Alike was famous for his arm and blade. One day a prisoner Justice had to kill Knelt at the block to test the artist's skill. Bare-armed, swart-visaged, gaunt, and shaggy-browed, Rudolph the headsman rose above the crowd. His falchion lightened with a sudden gleam, As the pike's armor flashes in the stream. He sheathed his blade; he turned as if to go; The victim knelt, still waiting for the blow. "Why strikest not? Perform thy murderous act," The prisoner said. (His voice was slightly cracked.) "Friend, I have struck," the artist straight replied; "Wait but one moment, and yourself decide." He held his snuff-box,—"Now then, if you please!" The prisoner sniffed, and, with a crashing sneeze, Off his head tumbled, bowled along the floor, Bounced down the steps;—the prisoner said no more.
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
SONG OF ONE ELEVEN YEARS IN PRISON
Whene'er with haggard eyes I view This dungeon that I 'm rotting in, I think of those companions true Who studied with me at the U— niversity of Gottingen, niversity of Gottingen.
[Weeps and pulls out a blue kerchief, with which he wipes his eyes; gazing tenderly at it, he proceeds:]
Sweet kerchief, checked with heavenly blue, Which once my love sat knotting in— Alas, Matilda then was true! At least I thought so at the U— niversity of Gottingen, niversity of Gottingen.
[At the repetition of this line he clanks his chains in cadence.]
Barbs! barbs! alas! how swift you flew, Her neat post-wagon trotting in! Ye bore Matilda from my view; Folorn I languished at the U— niversity of Gottingen, niversity of Gottingen.
This faded form! this pallid hue! This blood my veins is clotting in! My years are many—they were few When first I entered at the U— niversity of Gottingen, niversity of Gottingen.
There first for thee my passion grew, Sweet, sweet Matilda Pottingen! Thou wert the daughter of my tu- tor, law-professor at the U— niversity of Gottingen, niversity of Gottingen.
Sun, moon, and thou, vain world, adieu, That kings and priests are plotting in; Here doomed to starve on water gru- el, never shall I see the U— niversity of Gottingen, niversity of Gottingen.
[During the last stanza he dashes his head repeatedly against the walls of his prison, and finally so hard as to produce a visible contusion. He then throws himself on the floor in an agony. The curtain drops, the music still continuingto play till it is wholly fallen.]
GEORGE CANNING.
LITTLE BILLEE.
There were three sailors of Bristol City Who took a boat and went to sea, But first with beef and captain's biscuits And pickled pork they loaded she.
There was gorging Jack, and guzzling Jimmy, And the youngster he was little Billee; Now when they'd got as far as the Equator, They'd nothing left but one split pea.
Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy, "I am extremely hungaree." To gorging Jack says guzzling Jimmy, "We've nothing left, us must eat we."
Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy, "With one another we shouldn't agree! There's little Bill, he's young and tender, We're old and tough, so let's eat he."
"O Billy! we're going to kill and eat you, So undo the button of your chemie." When Bill received this information, He used his pocket-handkerchie.
"First let me say my catechism Which my poor mother taught to me." "Make haste! make haste!" says guzzling Jimmy, While Jack pulled out his snickersnee.
Billy went up to the main-top-gallant mast, And down he fell on his bended knee, He scarce had come to the Twelfth Commandment When up he jumps—"There's land I see!
"Jerusalem and Madagascar And North and South Amerikee, There's the British flag a-riding at anchor, With Admiral Napier, K. C. B."
So when they got aboard of the Admiral's, He hanged fat Jack and flogged Jimmee, But as for little Bill he made him The Captain of a Seventy-three.
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.
CAPTAIN REECE. [5]
Of all the ships upon the blue, No ship contained a better crew Than that of worthy Captain Reece, Commanding of The Mantelpiece.
He was adored by all his men, For worthy Captain Reece, R. N., Did all that lay within him to Promote the comfort of his crew.
If ever they were dull or sad, Their captain danced to them like mad, Or told, to make the time pass by, Droll legends of his infancy.
A feather-bed had every man, Warm slippers and hot-water can, Brown windsor from the captain's store, A valet, too, to every four.
Did they with thirst in summer burn, Lo, seltzogenes at every turn, And on all very sultry days Cream ices handed round on trays.
Then currant wine and ginger pops Stood handily on all the "tops:" And, also, with amusement rife, A "Zoetrope, or Wheel of Life."
New volumes came across the sea From Mister Mudie's libraree; The Times and Saturday Review Beguiled the leisure of the crew.
Kind-hearted Captain Reece. R. N., Was quite devoted to his men; In point of fact, good Captain Reece Beatified The Mantelpiece.
One summer eve, at half past ten, He said (addressing all his men), "Come, tell me, please, what I can do, To please and gratify my crew.
"By any reasonable plan I'll make you happy if I can; My own convenience count as nil; It is my duty, and I will."
Then up and answered William Lee (The kind captain's coxswain he, A nervous, shy, low-spoken man); He cleared his throat and thus began:
"You have a daughter, Captain Reece, Ten female cousins and a niece, A ma, if what I'm told is true, Six sisters, and an aunt or two.
"Now, somehow, sir, it seems to me, More friendly-like we all should be, If you united of 'em to Unmarried members of the crew.
"If you'd ameliorate our life, Let each select from them a wife; And as for nervous me, old pal, Give me your own enchanting gal!"
Good Captain Reece, that worthy man, Debated on his coxswain's plan: "I quite agree," he said, "O Bill; It is my duty, and I will.
"My daughter, that enchanting gurl, Has just been promised to an earl, And all my other familee To peers of various degree.
"But what are dukes and viscounts to The happiness of all my crew? The word I gave you I'll fulfil; It is my duty, and I will.
"As you desire it shall befall, I 'll settle thousands on you all, And I shall be, despite my hoard, The only bachelor on board."
The boatswain of The Mantelpiece, He blushed and spoke to Captain Reece: "I beg your honor's leave," he said, "If you would wish to go and wed.
"I have a widowed mother who Would be the very thing for you— She long has loved you from afar, She washes for you, Captain R."
The captain saw the dame that day— Addressed her in his playful way— "And did it want a wedding-ring? It was a tempting ickle sing!
"Well, well, the chaplain I will seek, We'll all be married this day week At yonder church upon the hill; It is my duty, and I will!"
The sisters, cousins, aunts, and niece, And widowed ma of Captain Reece, Attended there as they were bid; It was their duty, and they did.
WILLIAM SCHWENCK GILBERT.
THE YARN OF THE "NANCY BELL." FROM "THE BAB BALLADS."
'T was on the shores that round our coast From Deal to Ramsgate span, That I found alone, on a piece of stone, An elderly naval man.
His hair was weedy, his beard was long, And weedy and long was he; And I heard this wight on the shore recite, In a singular minor key:—
"O, I am a cook and a captain bold, And the mate of the Nancy brig, And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite, And the crew of the captain's gig."
And he shook his fist and he tore his hair, Till I really felt afraid, For I couldn't help thinking the man had been drinking, And so I simply said:—
"O elderly man, it 's little I know Of the duties of men of the sea, And I'll eat my hand if I understand How you can possibly be
"At once a cook and a captain bold, And the mate of the Nancy brig, And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite, And the crew of the captain's gig!"
Then he gave a hitch to his trousers, which Is a trick all seamen larn, And having got rid of a thumping quid He spun this painful yarn:—
"'T was in the good ship Nancy Bell That we sailed to the Indian sea, And there on a reef we come to grief, Which has often occurred to me.
"And pretty nigh all o' the crew was drowned (There was seventy-seven o' soul); And only ten of the Nancy's men Said 'Here' to the muster-roll.
"There was me, and the cook, and the captain bold, And the mate of the Nancy brig, And the bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite, And the crew of the captain's gig.
"For a month we 'd neither wittles nor drink, Till a-hungry we did feel, So we drawed a lot, and accordin', shot The captain for our meal.
"The next lot fell to the Nancy's mate, And a delicate dish he made; Then our appetite with the midshipmite We seven survivors stayed.
"And then we murdered the bo'sun tight, And he much resembled pig; Then we wittled free, did the cook and me, On the crew of the captain's gig.
"Then only the cook and me was left, And the delicate question, 'Which Of us two goes to the kettle?' arose, And we argued it out as sich.
"For I loved that cook as a brother, I did, And the cook he worshipped me; But we 'd both be blowed if we 'd either be stowed In the other chap's hold, you see.
"I 'll be eat if you dines off me,' says Tom. 'Yes, that,' says I, 'you 'll be. I 'm boiled if I die, my friend,' quoth I; And 'Exactly so,' quoth he.
"Says he: 'Dear James, to murder me Were a foolish thing to do, For don't you see that you can't cook me, While I can—and will—cook you!'
"So he boils the water, and takes the salt And the pepper in portions true (Which he never forgot), and some chopped shalot, And some sage and parsley too.
"'Come here,' says he, with a proper pride, Which his smiling features tell; "'T will soothing be if I let you see How extremely nice you 'll smell."
"And he stirred it round, and round, and round, And he sniffed at the foaming froth; When I ups with his heels, and smothers his squeals In the scum of the boiling broth.
"And I eat that cook in a week or less, And as I eating be The last of his chops, why I almost drops, For a wessel in sight I see.
————
"And I never larf, and I never smile, And I never lark nor play; But I sit and croak, and a single joke I have—which is to say:
"O, I am a cook and a captain bold And the mate of the Nancy brig, And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite, And the crew of the captain's gig!"
THE ART OF BOOK-KEEPING.
How hard, when those who do not wish To lend, thus lose, their books, Are snared by anglers—folks that fish With literary hooks— Who call and take some favorite tome, But never read it through; They thus complete their set at home By making one at you.
I, of my "Spenser" quite bereft, Last winter sore was shaken; Of "Lamb" I 've but a quarter left, Nor could I save my "Bacon"; And then I saw my "Crabbe" at last, Like Hamlet, backward go, And, as the tide was ebbing fast, Of course I lost my "Rowe."
My "Mallet" served to knock me down, Which makes me thus a talker, And once, when I was out of town, My "Johnson" proved a "Walker." While studying o'er the fire one day My "Hobbes" amidst the smoke, They bore my "Colman" clean away, And carried off my "Coke."
They picked my "Locke," to me far more Than Bramah's patent worth, And now my losses I deplore, Without a "Home" on earth. If once a book you let them lift, Another they conceal, For though I caught them stealing "Swift," As swiftly went my "Steele."
"Hope" is not now upon my shelf, Where late he stood elated, But, what is strange, my "Pope" himself Is excommunicated. My little "Suckling" in the grave Is sunk to swell the ravage, And what was Crusoe's fate to save, 'T was mine to lose—a "Savage."
Even "Glover's" works I cannot put My frozen hands upon, Though ever since I lost my "Foote" My "Bunyan" has been gone. My "Hoyle" with "Cotton" went oppressed, My "Taylor," too, must fail, To save my "Goldsmith" from arrest, In vain I offered "Bayle."
I "Prior" sought, but could not see The "Hood" so late in front, And when I turned to hunt for "Lee," O, where was my "Leigh Hunt"? I tried to laugh, old Care to tickle, Yet could not "Tickell" touch, And then, alack! I missed my "Mickle," And surely mickle's much.
'T is quite enough my griefs to feed, My sorrows to excuse, To think I cannot read my "Reid," Nor even use my "Hughes." My classics would not quiet lie,— A thing so fondly hoped; Like Dr. Primrose, I may cry, My "Livy" has eloped.
My life is ebbing fast away; I suffer from these shocks; And though I fixed a lock on "Gray," There's gray upon my locks. I 'm far from "Young," am growing pale, I see my "Butler" fly, And when they ask about my ail, 'T is "Burton" I reply.
They still have made me slight returns, And thus my griefs divide; For O, they cured me of my "Burns," And eased my "Akenside." But all I think I shall not say, Nor let my anger burn, For, as they never found me "Gay," They have not left me "Sterne."
THOMAS HOOD.
ADDRESS TO THE TOOTHACHE.
My curse upon thy venomed stang, That shoots my tortured gums alang; An' through my lugs gies mony a twang, Wi' gnawing vengeance! Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang, Like racking engines.
When fevers burn, or ague freezes, Rheumatics gnaw, or cholic squeezes; Our neighbor's sympathy may ease us, Wi' pitying moan; But thee,—thou hell o' a' diseases, Aye mocks our groan.
Adown my beard the slavers trickle; I throw the wee stools o'er the mickle, As round the fire the giglets keckle To see me loup; While, raving mad, I wish a heckle Were in their doup.
O' a' the numerous human dools, Ill har'sts, daft bargains, cutty-stools, Or worthy friends raked i' the mools, Sad sight to see! The tricks o' knaves or fash o' fools, Thou bear'st the gree.
Where'er that place be priests ca' hell, Whence a' the tones o' mis'ry yell, And rankèd plagues their numbers tell, In dreadfu' raw, Thou, Toothache, surely bear'st the bell, Among them a';
O thou grim mischief-making chiel, And surely mickle 's much. Till daft mankind aft dance a reel In gore a shoe-thick!— Gie a' the faes o' Scotland's weal A fowmond's Toothache!
ROBERT BURNS.
TO THE TERRESTRIAL GLOBE. BY A MISERABLE WRETCH.
Roll on, thou ball, roll on! Through pathless realms of space Roll on! What though I 'm in a sorry case? What though I cannot meet my bills? What though I suffer toothache's ills? What though I swallow countless pills? Never you mind! Roll on!
Roll on, thou ball, roll on! Through seas of inky air Roll on! It 's true I 've got no shirts to wear, It 's true my butcher's bill is due, It 's true my prospects all look blue,— But don't let that unsettle you! Never you mind! Roll on! [It rolls on.
THE NOSE AND THE EYES.
Between Nose and Eyes a strange contest arose; The spectacles set them, unhappily, wrong; The point in dispute was, as all the world knows, To whom the said spectacles ought to belong.
So Tongue was the lawyer, and argued the cause, With a great deal of skill, and a wig full of learning, While chief baron Ear sat to balance the laws,— So famed for his talent in nicely discerning.
"In behalf of the Nose, it will quickly appear (And your lordship," he said, "will undoubtedly find) That the Nose has the spectacles always to wear, Which amounts to possession, time out of mind."
Then, holding the spectacles up to the court, "Your lordship observes, they are made with a straddle. As wide as the ridge of the Nose is; in short, Designed to sit close to it, just like a saddle.
"Again, would your lordship a moment suppose ('T is a case that has happened, and may happen again) That the visage or countenance had not a Nose, Pray, who would, or who could, wear spectacles then?
"On the whole, it appears, and my argument shows, With a reasoning the court will never condemn, That the spectacles, plainly, were made for the Nose, And the Nose was, as plainly, intended for them."
Then shifting his side (as a lawyer knows how), He pleaded again in behalf of the Eyes: But what were his arguments, few people know, For the court did not think them equally wise.
So his lordship decreed, with a grave, solemn tone, Decisive and clear, without one if or but, That whenever the Nose put his spectacles on, By daylight or candlelight,—Eyes should be shut.
WILLIAM COWPER.
THE VOWELS: AN ENIGMA.
We are little airy creatures, All of different voice and features; One of us in glass is set, One of us you 'll find in jet, T'other you may see in tin, And the fourth a box within; If the fifth you should pursue, It can never fly from you.
ALNWICK CASTLE.
Home of the Percys' high-born race, Home of their beautiful and brave, Alike their birth and burial place, Their cradle and their grave! Still sternly o'er the castle gate Their house's Lion stands in state, As in his proud departed hours; And warriors frown in stone on high, And feudal banners "flout the sky" Above his princely towers.
A gentle hill its side inclines, Lovely in England's fadeless green, To meet the quiet stream which winds Through this romantic scene As silently and sweetly still As when, at evening, on that hill, While summer's wind blew soft and low, Seated by gallant Hotspur's side, His Katherine was a happy bride, A thousand years ago.
I wandered through the lofty halls Trod by the Percys of old fame, And traced upon the chapel walls Each high, heroic name, From him who once his standard set Where now, o'er mosque and minaret, Glitter the Sultan's crescent moons, To him who, when a younger son, Fought for King George at Lexington, A major of dragoons.
That last half-stanza,—it has dashed From my warm lips the sparkling cup; The light that o'er my eyebeam flashed, The power that bore my spirit up Above this bank-note world, is gone; And Alnwick's but a market town, And this, alas! its market day, And beasts and borderers throng the way; Oxen and bleating lambs in lots, Northumbrian boors and plaided Scots, Men in the coal and cattle line; From Teviot's bard and hero land, From royal Berwick's beach of sand, From Wooller, Morpeth, Hexham, and Newcastle-upon-Tyne.
These are not the romantic times So beautiful in Spenser's rhymes, So dazzling to the dreaming boy; Ours are the days of fact, not fable, Of knights, but not of the round table, Of Bailie Jarvie, not Rob Roy; 'T is what "Our President," Monroe, Has called "the era of good feeling;" The Highlander, the bitterest foe To modern laws, has felt their blow, Consented to be taxed, and vote, And put on pantaloons and coat, And leave off cattle-stealing: Lord Stafford mines for coal and salt, The Duke of Norfolk deals in malt, The Douglas in red herrings; And noble name and cultured land, Palace, and park, and vassal band, Are powerless to the notes of hand Of Rothschilds or the Barings.
The age of bargaining, said Burke, Has come: to-day the turbaned Turk (Sleep, Richard of the lion heart! Sleep on, nor from your cerements start) Is England's friend and fast ally; The Moslem tramples on the Greek, And on the Cross and altar-stone, And Christendom looks tamely on, And hears the Christian maiden shriek, And sees the Christian father die; And not a sabre-blow is given For Greece and fame, for faith and heaven, By Europe's craven chivalry.
You'll ask if yet the Percy lives In the armed pomp of feudal state. The present representatives Of Hotspur and his "gentle Kate," Are some half-dozen serving-men In the drab coat of William Penn; A chambermaid, whose lip and eye, And cheek, and brown hair, bright and curling, Spoke nature's aristocracy; And one, half groom, half seneschal, Who bowed me through court, bower, and hall, From donjon keep to turret wall, For ten-and-six-pence sterling.
FITZ-GREENE HALLECK.
THE LATEST DECALOGUE.
Thou shalt have one God only: who Would be at the expense of two? No graven images may be Worshipped, save in the currency. Swear not at all; since for thy curse Thine enemy is none the worse. At church on Sunday to attend Will serve to keep the world thy friend: Honor thy parents; that is, all From whom advancement may befall. Thou shalt not kill; but need'st not strive Officiously to keep alive. Adultery it is not fit Or safe (for woman) to commit. Thou shalt not steal: an empty feat, When 't is as lucrative to cheat. Bear not false witness: let the lie Have time on its own wings to fly. Thou shalt not covet; but tradition Approves all forms of competition.
THE NEW CHURCH ORGAN
They've got a bran new organ, Sue, For all their fuss and search; They 've done just as they said they 'd do, And fetched it into church. They 're bound the critter shall be seen, And on the preacher's right, They 've hoisted up their new machine In everybody's sight. They 've got a chorister and choir, Ag'in my voice and vote; For it was never my desire To praise the Lord by note!
I've been a sister good an' true, For five an' thirty year; I've done what seemed my part to do, An' prayed my duty clear; I've sung the hymns both slow and quick, Just as the preacher read; And twice, when Deacon Tubbs was sick, I took the fork an' led! An' now, their bold, new-fangled ways Is comin' all about; And I, right in my latter days, Am fairly crowded out!
To-day, the preacher, good old dear, With tears all in his eyes, Read—"I can read my title clear To mansions in the skies."— I al'ays liked that blessèd hymn— I s'pose I al'ays will; It somehow gratifies my whim, In good old Ortonville; But when that choir got up to sing, I couldn't catch a word; They sung the most dog-gonedest thing A body ever heard!
Some worldly chaps was standin' near, An' when I see them grin, I bid farewell to every fear, And boldly waded in. I thought I 'd chase the tune along, An' tried with all my might; But though my voice is good an' strong, I couldn't steer it right. When they was high, then I was low, An' also contra'wise; And I too fast, or they too slow, To "mansions in the skies."
An' after every verse, you know, They played a little tune; I didn't understand, an' so I started in too soon. I pitched it purty middlin' high, And fetched a lusty tone, But O, alas! I found that I Was singin' there alone! They laughed a little, I am told; But I had done my best; And not a wave of trouble rolled Across my peaceful breast.
And Sister Brown,—I could but look,— She sits right front of me; She never was no singin' book, An' never went to be; But then she al'ays tried to do The best she could, she said; She understood the time, right through, An' kep' it with her head; But when she tried this mornin', O, I had to laugh, or cough! It kep' her head a bobbin' so, It e'en a'most come off!
An' Deacon Tubbs,—he all broke down, As one might well suppose; He took one look at Sister Brown, And meekly scratched his nose. He looked his hymn-book through and through, And laid it on the seat, And then a pensive sigh he drew, And looked completely beat. An' when they took another bout, He didn't even rise; But drawed his red bandanner out, An' wiped his weepin' eyes.
I've been a sister, good an' true, For five an' thirty year; I've done what seemed my part to do, An' prayed my duty clear; But death will stop my voice, I know, For he is on my track; And some day, I 'll to meetin' go, And nevermore come back. And when the folks get up to sing— Whene'er that time shall be— I do not want no patent thing A squealin' over me!
WILL CARLETON.
TONIS AD RESTO MARE. Air: "O Mary, heave a sigh for me."
O mare æva si forme; Forme ure tonitru; Iambicum as amandum, Olet Hymen promptu; Mihi is vetas an ne se, As humano erebi; Olet mecum marito te, Or eta beta pi.
Alas, plano more meretrix, Mi ardor vel uno; Inferiam ure artis base, Tolerat me urebo. Ah me ve ara silicet, Vi laudu vimin thus? Hiatus as arandum sex— Illuc Ionicus.
Heu sed heu vix en imago, My missis mare sta; O cantu redit in mihi Hibernas arida? A veri vafer heri si, Mihi resolves indu: Totius olet Hymen cum— Accepta tonitru.
THE IRISHMAN AND THE LADY.
There was a lady lived at Leith, A lady very stylish, man; And yet, in spite of all her teeth, She fell in love with an Irishman— A nasty, ugly Irishman, A wild, tremendous Irishman, A tearing, swearing, thumping, bumping, ranting, roaring Irishman.
His face was no ways beautiful, For with small-pox 't was scarred across; And the shoulders of the ugly dog Were almost double a yard across. Oh, the lump of an Irishman, The whiskey-devouring Irishman, The great he-rogue with his wonderful brogue— the fighting, rioting Irishman.
One of his eyes was bottle-green, And the other eye was out, my dear; And the calves of his wicked-looking legs Were more than two feet about, my dear. Oh, the great big Irishman, The rattling, battling Irishman— The stamping, ramping, swaggering, staggering, leathering swash of an Irishman.
He took so much of Lundy-foot That he used to snort and snuffle—O! And in shape and size the fellow's neck Was as bad as the neck of a buffalo. Oh, the horrible Irishman, The thundering, blundering Irishman— The slashing, dashing, smashing, lashing, thrashing, hashing Irishman.
His name was a terrible name, indeed, Being Timothy Thady Mulligan; And whenever he emptied his tumbler of punch He'd not rest till he filled it full again. The boozing, bruising Irishman, The 'toxicated Irishman— The whiskey, frisky, rummy, gummy, brandy, no dandy Irishman.
This was the lad the lady loved, Like all the girls of quality; And he broke the skulls of the men of Leith, Just by the way of jollity. Oh, the leathering Irishman, The barbarous, savage Irishman— The hearts of the maids, and the gentlemen's heads, were bothered I'm sure by this Irishman.
THE RECRUIT.
Sez Corporal Madden to Private McFadden: "Bedad, yer a bad 'un! Now turn out yer toes! Yer belt is unhookit, Yer cap is on crookit, Ye may not be dhrunk, But, be jabers, ye look it! Wan—two! Wan—two! Ye monkey-faced divil, I'll jolly ye through! Wan—two!— Time! Mark! Ye march like the aigle in Cintheral Parrk!"
Sez Corporal Madden to Private McFadden: "A saint it ud sadden To dhrill such a mug! Eyes front!—ye baboon, ye!— Chin up!—ye gossoon, ye! Ye've jaws like a goat— Halt! ye leather-lipped loon, ye! Wan—two! Wan—two! Ye whiskered orang-outang, I'll fix you! Wan—two!— Time! Mark! Ye've eyes like a bat!—can ye see in the dark?"
Sez Corporal Madden to Private McFadden: "Yer figger wants padd'n'— Sure, man, ye've no shape! Behind ye yer shoulders Stick out like two bowlders; Yer shins is as thin As a pair of pen-holders! Wan—two! Wan—two! Yer belly belongs on yer back, ye Jew! Wan—two!— Time! Mark! I'm dhry as a dog—I can't shpake but I bark!"
Sez Corporal Madden to Private McFadden: "Me heart it ud gladden To blacken yer eye. Ye're gettin' too bold, ye Compel me to scold ye,— 'Tis halt! that I say,— Will ye heed what I told ye? Wan—two! Wan—two! Be jabers, I'm dhryer than Brian Boru! Wan—two!— Time! Mark! What's wur-ruk for chickens is sport for the lark!"
Sez Corporal Madden to Private McFadden: "I'll not stay a gadd'n Wid dagoes like you! I'll travel no farther, I'm dyin' for—wather;— Come on, if ye like,— Can ye loan me a quather? Ya-as, you, What,—two? And ye'll pay the potheen? Ye're a daisy! Whurroo! You'll do! Whist! Mark! The Rigiment's flatthered to own ye, me spark!"
RITTER HUGO.
Der noble Ritter Hugo Von Schwillensanfenstein Rode out mit shpeer und helmet, Und he coom to de panks of de Rhine.
Und oop dere rose a meermaid, Vot hadn't got nodings on, Und she say, "O, Ritter Hugo, Vare you goes mit yourself alone?"
Und he says, "I ride in de creen-wood, Mit helmet and mit shpeer, Till I cooms into ein Gasthaus, Und dere I drinks some peer."
Und den outshpoke de maiden, Vot hadn't got nodings on, "I ton't dink mooch of beebles Dat goes mit demselfs alone.
"You'd petter come down in de wasser, Vare dere's heaps of dings to see, Und hafe a shplendid dinner, Und trafel along mit me.
"Dare you sees de fish a schwimmin, Und you catches dem efery one." So sang dis wasser maiden, Vot hadn't got nodings on.
"Dare is drunks all full mit money, In ships dat vent down of old; Und you helpsh yourself, by dunder! To shimmerin crowns of gold.
"Shoost look at dese shpoons und vatches! Shoost look at dese diamond rings! Come down und fill your bockets, Und I'll kiss you like eferydings!
"Vot you vantsh mit your schnapps und your lager? Coom down into der Rhine! Dere ish pottles der Kaiser Charlemagne, Vonce filled mit gold-red vine!"
Dat fetched him,—he shtood all shpell-pound, She pulled his coat-tails down, She drawed him under de wasser, Dis maid mit nodings on.
CHARLES GODFREY LELAND.
HANS BREITMANN'S PARTY.
Hans Breitmann gife a barty, Dey had biano-blayin; I felled in lofe mit a Merican frau, Her name was Madilda Yane. She had haar as prown ash a pretzel, Her eyes vas himmel-plue, Und ven dey looket indo mine, Dey shplit mine heart in two.
Hans Breitmann gife a barty, I vent dere you'll pe pound. I valtzet mit Madilda Yane Und vent shpinnen round und round. De pootiest Frauelein in de house, She vayed 'pout dwo hoondred pound, Und efery dime she gife a shoomp She make de vindows sound.
Hans Breitmann gife a barty; I dells you it cost him dear. Dey rolled in more as sefen kecks Of foost-rate Lager Beer. Und venefer dey knocks de shpicket in De Deutschers gifes a cheer. I dinks dat so vine a barty Nefer coom to a het dis year.
Hans Breitmann gife a barty; Dere all vas Souse und Brouse. Ven de sooper comed in, de gompany Did make demselfs to house; Dey ate das Brot und Gensy broost, De Bratwurst und Braten vine, Und vash der Abendessen down Mit four parrels of Neckarwein.
Hans Breitmann gife a barty; We all cot troonk ash bigs. I poot mine mout to a parrel of bier, Und emptied it oop mit a schwigs. Und denn I gissed Madilda Yane Und she shlog me on de kop, Und de gompany fited mit daple-lecks Dill de coonshtable made oos shtop.
Hans Breitmann gife a barty— Where ish dat barty now? Where ish de lofely golden cloud Dat float on de moundain's prow? Where ish de himmelstrahlende Stern— De shtar of de shpirit's light? All goned afay mit de Lager Beer— Afay in de Ewigkeit!
CHARLES GODFREY LELAND.
LEEDLE YAWCOB STRAUSS.
I haf von funny leedle poy, Vot gomes schust to mine knee; Der queerest chap, der createst rogue, As efer you dit see. He runs und schumps und schmashes dings In all barts off der house; But vot off dot? he vas mine son, Mine leedle Yawcob Strauss.
He get der measles und der mumbs, Und efferyding dot's oudt; He sbills mine glass off lager-bier, Poots snoof indo mine kraut; He fills mine pipe mit Limberg cheese— Dot vas der roughest chouse; I'd take dot from no oder poy But little Yawcob Strauss.
He dakes der milk-ban for a dhrum Und cuts mine cane in two To make der schticks to beat it mit— Mine cracious! dot vas drue. I dinks mine hed vas schplit abart, He kicks oup sooch a touse; But neffer mind—der poys vas few Like dot young Yawcob Strauss.
He ask me questions sooch as dose: Who baints mine nose so red? Who vas it cuts dot schmoodth blace oudt Vrom der hair upon mine hed? Und vhere der plaze goes vrom der lamp Vene'er der glim I douse; How gan I all dose dings eggsblain To dot schmall Yawcob Strauss?
I somedimes dink I shall go vild Mit sooch a grazy poy, Und vish vonce more I gould haf rest, Und beaceful dimes enshoy; But ven he vas ashleep in ped, So guiet as a mouse, I brays der Lord, "Dake anydings, But leaf dot Yawcob Strauss."
CHARLES FOLLEN ADAMS.
DOT LONG-HANDLED DIPPER.
Der boet may sing off "Der Oldt Oaken Bookit," Und in schveetest langvitch its virtues may tell; Und how, ven a poy, he mit eggsdasy dook it, Vhen dripping mit coolness it rose vrom der vell. I don'd take some schtock in dot manner off trinking! It vas too mooch like horses und cattle, I dink. Dhere vas more sadisfactions, in my vay of dinking, Mit dot long-handled dipper dot hangs by der sink.
"How schveet from der green mossy brim to receive it"— Dot vould soundt pooty goot—eef it only vas drue— Der vater schbills ofer, you petter pelieve it! Und runs down your schleeve and schlops into your shoe. Dhen down on your nose comes dot oldt iron handle, Und makes your eyes vater so gvick as a vink. I dells you dot bookit don'd hold a candle To dot long-handled dipper dot hangs py der sink.
How nice it musd been in der rough vinter veddher, Vhen it settles righdt down to a cold, freezing rain, To haf dot rope coom oup so light as a feddher, Und findt dot der bookit vas proke off der chain. Dhen down in der vell mit a pole you go fishing, Vhile indo your back cooms an oldt-fashioned kink; I pet you mine life all der time you vas vishing For dot long-handled dipper dot hangs by der sink.
How handy it vas schust to turn on der faucet, Vhere der vater flows down vrom der schpring on der hill! I schust vas der schap dot vill alvays indorse it, Oxsbecially nighds vhen der veddher vas chill. Vhen Pfeiffer's oldt vell mit der schnow vas all cofered, Und he vades droo der schnow drift to get him a trink, I schlips vrom der hearth vhere der schiltren vas hofered, To dot long-handled dipper dot hangs by der sink.
Dhen gife oup der bookits und pails to der horses; Off mikerobes und tadpoles schust gif dhem dheir fill! Gife me dot pure vater dot all der time courses Droo dhose pipes dot run down vrom der schpring on der hill. Und eef der goot dings of dis vorld I gets rich in, Und frendts all aroundt me dheir glasses schall clink, I schtill vill rememper dot oldt coundtry kitchen, Und dot long-handled dipper dot hangs by der sink.
THE JACKDAW OF RHEIMS.
The Jackdaw sat on the Cardinal's chair! Bishop and abbot and prior were there; Many a monk, and many a friar, Many a knight, and many a squire, With a great many more of lesser degree,— In sooth, a goodly company; And they served the Lord Primate on bended knee. Never, I ween, Was a prouder seen, Read of in books, or dreamt of in dreams, Than the Cardinal Lord Archbishop of Rheims! In and out, Through the motley rout, That little Jackdaw kept hopping about: Here and there, Like a dog in a fair, Over comfits and cates, And dishes and plates, Cowl and cope, and rochet and pall, Mitre and crosier, he hopped upon all. With a saucy air, He perched on the chair Where, in state, the great Lord Cardinal sat, In the great Lord Cardinal's great red hat; And he peered in the face Of his Lordship's Grace, With a satisfied look, as if he would say, "We two are the greatest folks here to-day!" And the priests, with awe, As such freaks they saw, Said, "The Devil must be in that Little Jackdaw!" The feast was over, the board was cleared, The flawns and the custards had all disappeared, And six little Singing-boys,—dear little souls In nice clean faces, and nice white stoles,— Came, in order due, Two by two, Marching that grand refectory through! A nice little boy held a golden ewer, Embossed and filled with water, as pure As any that flows between Rheims and Namur. Which a nice little boy stood ready to catch In a fine golden hand-basin made to match. Two nice little boys, rather more grown, Carried lavender-water and eau-de-Cologne; And a nice little boy had a nice cake of soap, Worthy of washing the hands of the Pope! One little boy more A napkin bore, Of the best white diaper, fringed with pink, And a cardinal's hat marked in "permanent ink."
The great Lord Cardinal turns at the sight Of these nice little boys dressed all in white; From his finger he draws His costly turquoise: And, not thinking at all about little Jackdaws, Deposits it straight By the side of his plate, While the nice little boys on his Eminence wait: Till, when nobody's dreaming of any such thing, That little Jackdaw hops off with the ring!
————
There's a cry and a shout, And a deuce of a rout, And nobody seems to know what they're about, But the monks have their pockets all turned inside out; The friars are kneeling, And hunting and feeling The carpet, the floor, and the walls, and the ceiling. The Cardinal drew Off each plum-colored shoe, And left his red stockings exposed to the view; He peeps, and he feels In the toes and the heels. They turn up the dishes,—they turn up the plates,— They take up the poker and poke out the grates, —They turn up the rugs, They examine the mugs; But, no!—no such thing,— They can't find the ring! And the Abbot declared that "when nobody twigged it, Some rascal or other had popped in and prigged it!"
The Cardinal rose with a dignified look, He called for his candle, his bell, and his book! In holy anger and pious grief He solemnly cursed that rascally thief! He cursed him at board, he cursed him in bed; From the sole of his foot to the crown of his head; He cursed him in sleeping, that every night He should dream of the Devil, and wake in a fright. He cursed him in eating, he cursed him in drinking, He cursed him in coughing, in sneezing, in winking; He cursed him in sitting, in standing, in lying; He cursed him in walking, in riding, in flying; He cursed him living, he cursed him dying!— Never was heard such a terrible curse! But what gave rise To no little surprise, Nobody seemed one penny the worse!
The day was gone, The night came on, The monks and the friars they searched till dawn; When the sacristan saw, On crumpled claw, Come limping a poor little lame Jackdaw! No longer gay, As on yesterday; His feathers all seemed to be turned the wrong way;— His pinions drooped,—he could hardly stand,— His head was as bald as the palm of your hand; His eye so dim, So wasted each limb, That, heedless of grammar, they all cried,"That's him!— That's the scamp that has done this scandalous thing, That's the thief that has got my Lord Cardinal's Ring!" The poor little Jackdaw, When the monks he saw, Feebly gave vent to the ghost of a caw; And turned his bald head as much as to say, "Pray be so good as to walk this way!" Slower and slower He limped on before, Till they came to the back of the belfry-door, Where the first thing they saw, Midst the sticks and the straw, Was the RING, in the nest of that little Jackdaw!
Then the great Lord Cardinal called for his book, And off that terrible curse he took: The mute expression Served in lieu of confession, And, being thus coupled with full restitution, The Jackdaw got plenary absolution! —When those words were heard, That poor little bird Was so changed in a moment, 't was really absurd: He grew sleek and fat; In addition to that, A fresh crop of feathers came thick as a mat! His tail waggled more Even than before; But no longer it wagged with an impudent air, No longer he perched on the Cardinal's chair: He hopped now about With a gait devout; At Matins, at Vespers, he never was out; And, so far from any more pilfering deeds, He always seemed telling the Confessor's beads. If any one lied, or if any one swore, Or slumbered in prayer-time and happened to snore, That good Jackdaw Would give a great "Caw!" As much as to say, "Don't do so any more!" While many remarked, as his manners they saw, That they "never had known such a pious Jackdaw!" He long lived the pride Of that country side, And at last in the odor of sanctity died; When, as words were too faint His merits to paint, The Conclave determined to make him a Saint. And on newly made Saints and Popes, as you know, It is the custom of Rome new names to bestow, So they canonized him by the name of Jem Crow!
RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM. (Thomas Ingoldsby, Esq.)
AMERICA. FROM "A FABLE FOR CRITICS".
There are truths you Americans need to be told, And it never'll refute them to swagger and scold; John Bull, looking o'er the Atlantic, in choler, At your aptness for trade, says you worship the dollar; But to scorn i-dollar-try's what very few do, And John goes to that church as often as you do. No matter what John says, don't try to outcrow him, 'Tis enough to go quietly on and outgrow him; Like most fathers, Bull hates to see Number One Displacing himself in the mind of his son, And detests the same faults in himself he'd neglected When he sees them again in his child's glass reflected; To love one another you're too like by half, If he is a bull, you're a pretty stout calf, And tear your own pasture for naught but to show What a nice pair of horns you're beginning to grow.
There are one or two things I should just like to hint, For you don't often get the truth told you in print; The most of you (this is what strikes all beholders) Have a mental and physical stoop in the shoulders; Though you ought to be free as the winds and the waves, You've the gait and the manner of runaway slaves; Though you brag of your New World, you don't half believe in it; And as much of the Old as is possible weave in it; Your goddess of freedom, a tight, buxom girl, With lips like a cherry and teeth like a pearl, With eyes bold as Herë's, and hair floating free, And full of the sun as the spray of the sea, Who can sing at a husking or romp at a shearing, Who can trip through the forests alone without fearing, Who can drive home the cows with a song through the grass, Keeps glancing aside into Europe's cracked glass, Hides her red hands in gloves, pinches up her lithe waist, And makes herself wretched with transmarine taste; She loses her fresh country charm when she takes Any mirror except her own rivers and lakes.
WHAT MR. ROBINSON THINKS. [6] FROM "THE BIGLOW PAPERS," NO. III.
Guvener B. is a sensible man; He stays to his home an' looks arter his folks; He draws his furrer ez straight ez he can, An' into nobody's tater-patch pokes;— But John P. Robinson he Sez he wunt vote for Guvener B.
My! ain't it terrible? Wut shall we du? We can't never choose him o' course,—thet's flat; Guess we shall hev to come round, (don't you?) An' go in fer thunder an' guns, an' all that; Fer John P. Robinson he Sez he wunt vote for Guvener B.
Gineral C. is a dreffle smart man: He's ben on all sides thet give places or pelf; But consistency still wuz a part of his plan,— He's ben true to one party,—an' thet is himself;— So John P. Robinson he Sez he shall vote for Gineral C.
Gineral C, has gone in fer the war; He don't vally principle more'n an old cud; Wut did God make us raytional creeturs fer, But glory an' gunpowder, plunder an' blood? So John P. Robinson he Sez he shall vote for Gineral C.
We were gittin' on nicely up here to our village, With good old idees o' wut's right an' wut ain't. We kind o' thought Christ went agin war an' pillage, An' thet eppylets worn't the best mark of a saint; But John P. Robinson he Sez this kind o' thing 's an exploded idee.
The side of our country must ollers be took, An' President Polk, you know, he is our country; An' the angel thet writes all our sins in a book Puts the debit to him, an' to us the per contry; An' John P. Robinson he Sez this is his view o' the thing to a T.
Parson Wilbur he calls all these argimunts lies; Sez they're nothin' on airth but jest fee, faw, fum: And thet all this big talk of our destinies Is half ov it ign'ance, an' t' other half rum; But John P. Robinson he Sez it ain't no sech thing; an', of course, so must we.
Parson Wilbur sez he never heerd in his life Thet th' Apostles rigged out in their swallertail coats, An' marched round in front of a drum an' a fife, To git some on 'em office, an' some on 'em votes; But John P. Robinson he Sez they didn't know everythin' down in Judee.
Wal, it's a marcy we've gut folks to tell us The rights an' the wrongs o' these matters, I vow,— God sends country lawyers, an' other wise fellers, To drive the world's team wen it gits in a slough; Fer John P. Robinson he Sez the world'll go right, ef he hollers out Gee!
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.
SWELL'S SOLILOQUY.
I don't appwove this hawid waw; Those dweadful bannahs hawt my eyes; And guns and dwums are such a baw,— Why don't the pawties compwamise?
Of cawce, the twoilet has its chawms; But why must all the vulgah cwowd Pawsist in spawting unifawms, In cullahs so extwemely loud?
And then the ladies, pwecious deahs!— I mawk the change on ev'wy bwow; Bai Jove! I weally have my feahs They wathah like the hawid wow!
To heah the chawming cweatures talk, Like patwons of the bloody wing, Of waw and all its dawty wawk,— It doesn't seem a pwappah thing!
I called at Mrs. Gweene's last night, To see her niece, Miss Mawy Hertz, And found her making—cwushing sight!— The weddest kind of flannel shirts!
Of cawce, I wose, and sought the daw, With fawyah flashing from my eyes! I can't appwove this hawid waw;— Why don't the pawties compwamise?
ANONYMOUS.
THE COMPLIMENT.
Arrayed in snow-white pants and vest, And other raiment fair to view, I stood before my sweetheart Sue— The charming creature I love best. "Tell me and does my costume suit?" I asked that apple of my eye— And then the charmer made reply, "Oh, yes, you do look awful cute!" Although I frequently had heard My sweetheart vent her pleasure so, I must confess I did not know The meaning of that favorite word.
But presently at window side We stood and watched the passing throng, And soon a donkey passed along With ears like wings extended wide. And gazing at the doleful brute My sweetheart gave a merry cry— I quote her language with a sigh— "O Charlie, ain't he awful cute?"
EUGENE FIELD.
THE NANTUCKET SKIPPER.
Many a long, long year ago, Nantucket skippers had a plan Of finding out, though "lying low," How near New York their schooners ran.
They greased the lead before it fell, And then by sounding through the night, Knowing the soil that stuck so well, They always guessed their reckoning right.
A skipper gray, whose eyes were dim, Could tell, by tasting, just the spot, And so below he'd "douse the glim,"— After, of course, his "something hot."
Snug in his berth at eight o'clock, This ancient skipper might be found; No matter how his craft would rock, He slept,—for skippers' naps are sound.
The watch on deck would now and then Run down and wake him, with the lead; He'd up, and taste, and tell the men How many miles they went ahead.
One night 'twas Jotham Marden's watch, A curious wag,—the pedler's son; And so he mused, (the wanton wretch!) "To-night I'll have a grain of fun.
"We're all a set of stupid fools, To think the skipper knows, by tasting, What ground he's on; Nantucket schools Don't teach such stuff, with all their basting!"
And so he took the well-greased lead, And rubbed it o'er a box of earth That stood on deck,—a parsnip-bed,— And then he sought the skipper's berth.
"Where are we now, sir? Please to taste." The skipper yawned, put out his tongue, Opened his eyes in wondrous haste, And then upon the floor he sprung!
The skipper stormed, and tore his hair, Hauled on his boots, and roared to Marden, "Nantucket's sunk, and here we are Right over old Marm Hackett's garden!"
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
After a photogravure from life-photograph.
THE ONE-HOSS SHAY; OR, THE DEACON'S MASTERPIECE. A LOGICAL STORY.
Have you heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay, That was built in such a logical way It ran a hundred years to a day, And then of a sudden, it—ah, but stay, I'll tell you what happened without delay, Scaring the parson into fits, Frightening people out of their wits,— Have you ever heard of that, I say?
Seventeen hundred and fifty-five. Georgius Secundus was then alive,— Snuffy old drone from the German hive. That was the year when Lisbon-town Saw the earth open and gulp her down, And Braddock's army was done so brown, Left without a scalp to its crown. It was on the terrible Earthquake-day That the deacon finished the one-hoss shay.
Now in the building of chaises, I tell you what, There is always somewhere a weakest spot,— In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill, In panel, or crossbar, or floor, or sill, In screw, bolt, thoroughbrace,—lurking still, Find it somewhere you must and will,— Above or below, or within or without,— And that's the reason, beyond a doubt, A chaise breaks down, but doesn't wear out. But the Deacon swore (as Deacons do, With an "I dew vum," or an "I tell yeou,") He would build one shay to beat the taown 'n' the keounty 'n' all the kentry raoun'; It should be so built that it couldn't break daown; —"Fur," said the Deacon, "'t's mighty plain Thut the weakes' place mus' stan' the strain; 'n' the way t' fix it, uz I maintain, Is only jest T' make that place uz strong uz the rest."
So the Deacon inquired of the village folk Where he could find the strongest oak, That couldn't be split nor bent nor broke,— That was for spokes and door and sills; He sent for lancewood to make the thills; The crossbars were ash, from the straightest trees; The panels of whitewood, that cuts like cheese, But lasts like iron for things like these; The hubs of logs from the "Settler's ellum,"— Last of its timber,—they couldn't sell 'em, Never an axe had seen their chips, And the wedges flew from between their lips, Their blunt ends frizzled like celery-tips; Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw, Spring, tire, axle, and linchpin too, Steel of the finest, bright and blue; Thoroughbrace bison-skin, thick and wide; Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hide Found in the pit when the tanner died. That was the way he "put her through." "There!" said the Deacon, "naow she'll dew!" Do! I tell you, I rather guess She was a wonder, and nothing less! Colts grew horses, beards turned gray, Deacon and deaconess dropped away, Children and grandchildren,—where were they? But there stood the stout old one-hoss shay As fresh as on Lisbon-earthquake-day!
Eighteen hundred;—it came and found The Deacon's masterpiece strong and sound. Eighteen hundred increased by ten;— "Hahnsum kerridge" they called it then. Eighteen hundred and twenty came;— Running as usual; much the same. Thirty and forty at last arrive, And then came fifty, and FIFTY-FIVE.
Little of all we value here Wakes on the morn of its hundredth year Without both feeling and looking queer. In fact, there's nothing that keeps its youth, So far as I know, but a tree and truth. (This is a moral that runs at large; Take it.—You're welcome.—No extra charge.)
First of November,—the Earthquake-day.— There are traces of age in the one-hoss shay, A general flavor of mild decay, But nothing local as one may say. There couldn't be,—for the Deacon's art Had made it so like in every part That there wasn't a chance for one to start, For the wheels were just as strong as the thills, And the floor was just as strong as the sills, And the panels just as strong as the floor, And the whippletree neither less nor more, And the back-crossbar as strong as the fore, And spring and axle and hub encore. And yet, as a whole, it is past a doubt In another hour it will be worn out!
First of November, 'Fifty-five! This morning the parson takes a drive. Now, small boys, get out of the way! Here comes the wonderful one-hoss shay, Drawn by a rat-tailed, ewe-necked bay. "Huddup!" said the parson.—Off went they. The parson was working his Sunday's text,— Had got to fifthly, and stopped perplexed At what the—Moses—was coming next. All at once the horse stood still, Close by the meetin'-house on the hill. —First a shiver and then a thrill, Then something decidedly like a spill,— And the parson was sitting upon a rock, At half past nine by the meetin'-house clock,— Just the hour of the Earthquake shock! —What do you think the parson found, When he got up and stared around? The poor old chaise in a heap or mound, As if it had been to the mill and ground! You see, of course, if you're not a dunce, How it went to pieces all at once,— All at once, and nothing first,— Just as bubbles do when they burst.
End of the wonderful one-hoss shay. Logic is logic. That's all I say.
GRIGGSBY'S STATION.
Pap's got his patent right, and rich as all creation; But where's the peace and comfort that we all had before? Le's go a-visitin' back to Griggsby's Station— Back where we ust to be so happy and so pore!
The likes of us a-livin' here! It's just a mortal pity To see us in this great big house, with cyarpets on the stairs, And the pump right in the kitchen! And the city! city! city!— And nothin' but the city all around us ever' wheres!
Climb clean above the roof and look from the steeple, And never see a robin, nor a beech or ellum tree! And right here in ear-shot of at least a thousan' people, And none that neighbors with us, or we want to go and see!
Le's go a-visitin' back to Griggsby's Station— Back where the latch-string's a-hangin' from the door, And ever' neighbor 'round the place is dear as a relation— Back where we ust to be so happy and so pore!
I want to see the Wiggenses, the whole kit and bilin' A-drivin' up from Shallor Ford to stay the Sunday through; And I want to see 'em hitchin' at their son-in-law's and pilin' Out there at 'Lizy Ellen's like they ust to do!
I want to see the piece-quilts the Jones girls is makin'; And I want to pester Laury 'bout their freckled hired hand, And joke her 'bout the widower she come purt' nigh a-takin', Till her pap got his pension 'lowed in time to save his land.
Le's go a-visitin' back to Griggsby's station— Back where they's nothin' aggervatin' anymore; Shet away safe in the woods around the old location— Back where we ust to be so happy and so pore!
I want to see Marindy and he'p her with her sewin', And hear her talk so lovin' of her man that's dead and gone, And stand up with Emanuel to show me how he's growin', And smile as I have saw her 'fore she put her mournin' on.
And I want to see the Samples, on the old lower eighty— Where John our oldest boy, he was tuk and buried—for His own sake and Katy's—and I want to cry with Katy As she reads all his letters over, writ from The War.
What's all this grand life and high situation, And nary pink nor hollyhawk bloomin' at the door?— Le's go a-visitin' back to Griggsby's Station— Back where we ust to be so happy and so pore!
JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY.
HE'D HAD NO SHOW.
Joe Beall 'ud set upon a keg Down to the groc'ry store, an' throw One leg right over t'other leg An' swear he'd never had no show, "O, no," said Joe, "Hain't hed no show," Then shift his quid to t'other jaw, An' chaw, an' chaw, an' chaw, an' chaw.
He said he got no start in life, Didn't get no money from his dad, The washin' took in by his wife Earned all the funds he ever had. "O, no," said Joe, "Hain't hed no show," An' then he'd look up at the clock An' talk, an' talk, an' talk, an' talk.
"I've waited twenty year—let's see— Yes, twenty-four, an' never struck, Altho, I've sot roun' patiently, The fust tarnation streak er luck. O, no," said Joe, "Hain't hed no show," Then stuck like mucilage to the spot, An' sot, an' sot, an' sot, an' sot.
"I've come down regerlar every day For twenty years to Piper's store. I've sot here in a patient way, Say, hain't I, Piper?" Piper swore. "I tell ye, Joe, Yer hain't no show; Yer too dern patient"—ther hull raft Jest laffed, an' laffed, an' laffed, an' laffed.
SAM WALTER FOSS.
THE MYSTIFIED QUAKER IN NEW YORK.
Respected Wife: By these few lines my whereabouts thee'll learn: Moreover, I impart to thee my serious concern. The language of this people is a riddle unto me; For words with them are figments of a reckless mockery. For instance, as I left the cars, a youth with smutty face Said, "Shine?" "Nay I'll not shine," I said, "except with inward grace." "What's inward grace?" said this young Turk; "A liquid or a paste? Hi, daddy, how does the old thing work?" I then said to a jehu, whose breath suggested gin, "Friend, can thee take me to a reputable inn?" But this man's gross irrelevance I shall not soon forget; Instead of simply Yea or Nay, he gruffly said, "You bet!" "Nay, nay, I will not bet," I said, "for that would be a sin. Why dost not answer plainly? can thee take me to an inn? Thy vehicle is doubtless made to carry folks about in; Why then prevaricate?" Said he, "Aha! well now, you're shoutin'!" "I did not shout," I said, "my friend; surely my speech is mild: But thine (I grieve to say it) with falsehood is defiled. Thee ought to be admonished to rid thy heart of guile." "Look here, my lovely moke," said he, "you sling on too much style." "I've had these plain drab garments twenty years or more," said I; "And when thee says I 'sling on style' thee tells a wilful lie." With that he pranced about as tho' a bee were in his bonnet, And with hostile demonstrations inquired if I was "on it." "On what? Till thee explain, I cannot tell," I said; But he swore that something was "too thin," moreover it was "played." But all his antics were surpassed in wild absurdity By threats, profanely emphasized, to "put a head" on me. "No son of Belial," I said, "that miracle can do." With that he fell upon me with blows and curses too; But failed to work that miracle, if such was his design; Instead of putting on a head, he strove to smite off mine. Thee knows that I profess the peaceful precepts of our sect, But this man's acts worked on me to a curious effect; And when he knocked my broad-brim off, and said, "How's that for high!" It roused the Adam in me, and I smote him hip and thigh. This was a signal for the crowd, for calumny broke loose; They said I'd "snatched him bald-headed," and likewise "cooked his goose." But yet I do affirm, that I had not pulled his hair; Nor had I cooked his poultry, for he had no poultry there. They called me "bully boy," though I have seen full three-score year; And they said that I was "lightning when I got upon my ear." And when I asked if lightning climbed its ear, and dressed in drab, "You know how 'tis yourself," said one insolent young blab. So I left them in disgust: plain-spoken men like me With such perverters of our tongue can have no unity.
ANONYMOUS.
TO THE "SEXTANT".
O Sextant of the meetin house, wich sweeps And dusts, or is supposed to! and makes fires, And lites the gass, and sumtimes leaves a screw loose, in wich case it smells orful, worse than lamp ile; And wrings the Bel and toles it when men dyes, to the grief of survivin pardners, and sweeps paths And for the servusses gets $100 per annum, Wich them that thinks deer, let 'em try it; Gettin up before starlite in all wethers and Kindlin fires when the wether is as cold As zero, and like as not green wood for kindlin, i wouldn't be hired to do it for no sum. But O Sextant! there are 1 kermoddity Wich's more than gold, wich doant cost nothin, Worth more than anything except the sole of man! i mean pewer Are, Sextant, i mean pewer are! O it is plenty out of doors, so plenty it doant no What on airth to dew with itself, but flys about Scatterin leaves and bloin off men's hatts! in short, it's jest as "fre as are" out dores, But O Sextant, in our church its scarce as buty, Scarce as bank bills, when agints begs for mischuns, Wich some say is purty offten (taint nothin to me, wat I give aint nothin to nobody) but O Sextant U shet 500 men, wimmin, and children, Speshally the latter, up in a tite place, And every 1 on em brethes in and out, and out and in, Say 50 times a minnit, or 1 million and a half breths an our. Now how long will a church ful of are last at that rate, I ask you—say 15 minits—and then wats to be did? Why then they must brethe it all over agin, And then agin, and so on till each has took it down At least 10 times, and let it up agin, and wats more The same individoal don't have the priviledge of brethin his own are, and no ones else, Each one must take whatever comes to him. O Sextant, doant you no our lungs is bellusses, To blo the fier of life, and keep it from goin out; and how can bellusses blo without wind And aint wind are? i put it to your conschens. Are is the same to us as milk to babies, Or water is to fish, or pendlums to clox, Or roots and airbs unto an injun doctor, Or little pills unto an omepath, Or boys to gurls. Are is for us to brethe, What signifies who preaches if i cant brethe? Wats Pol? Wats Pollus to sinners who are ded? Ded for want of breth, why Sextant, when we dy Its only coz we can't brethe no more, thats all. And now O Sextant, let me beg of you To let a little are into our church. (Pewer are is sertain proper for the pews) And do it weak days, and Sundays tew, It aint much trouble, only make a hole And the are will come of itself; (It luvs to come in where it can git warm) And O how it will rouze the people up, And sperrit up the preacher, and stop garps, And yawns and figgits, as effectooal As wind on the dry boans the Profit tells of.
JIM BLUDSO OF THE PRAIRIE BELLE. PIKE COUNTY BALLADS.
Wall, no! I can't tell whar he lives, Becase he don't live, you see; Leastways, he's got out of the habit Of livin' like you and me. Whar have you been for the last three year That you haven't heard folks tell How Jimmy Bludso passed in his checks The night of the Prairie Belle?
He weren't no saint,—them engineers Is all pretty much alike,— One wife in Natchez-under-the-Hill And another one here, in Pike; A keerless man in his talk was Jim, And an awkward hand in a row, But he never flunked, and he never lied,— I reckon he never knowed how.
And this was all the religion he had,— To treat his engine well; Never be passed on the river; To mind the pilot's bell; And if ever the Prairie Belle took fire,— A thousand times he swore He 'd hold her nozzle agin the bank Till the last soul got ashore.
All boats has their day on the Mississip, And her day come at last,— The Movastar was a better boat, But the Belle she wouldn't be passed. And so she come tearin' along that night— The oldest craft on the line— With a nigger squat on her safety-valve, And her furnace crammed, rosin and pine.
The fire bust out as she clared the bar, And burnt a hole in the night, And quick as a flash she turned, and made For that willer-bank on the right. There was runnin' and cursin', but Jim yelled out, Over all the infernal roar, "I'll hold her nozzle agin the bank Till the last galoot 's ashore."
Through the hot, black breath of the burnin' boat Jim Bludso's voice was heard, And they all had trust in his cussedness, And knowed he would keep his word. And, sure 's you're born, they all got off Afore the smokestacks fell,— And Bludso's ghost went up alone In the smoke of the Prairie Belle.
He weren't no saint,—but at jedgment I'd run my chance with Jim, 'Longside of some pious gentlemen That wouldn't shook hands with him. He seen his duty, a dead-sure thing,— And went for it thar and then; And Christ ain't a going to be too hard On a man that died for men.
TO THE PLIOCENE SKULL. A GEOLOGICAL ADDRESS..
"A human skull has been found in California, in the pliocene formation. This skull is the remnant, not only of the earliest pioneer of this State, but the oldest known human being.... The skull was found in a shaft one hundred and fifty feet deep, two miles from Angel's, in Calaveras County, by a miner named James Matson, who gave it to Mr. Scribner, a merchant, and he gave it to Dr. Jones, who sent it to the State Geological Survey.... The published volume of the State Survey on the Geology of California states that man existed contemporaneously with the mastodon, but this fossil proves that he was here before the mastodon was known to exist."—Daily Paper.
"Speak, O man, less recent! Fragmentary fossil! Primal pioneer of pliocene formation, Hid in lowest drifts below the earliest stratum Of Volcanic tufa!
"Older than the beasts, the oldest Palæotherium; Older than the trees, the oldest Cryptogamia; Older than the hills, those infantile eruptions Of earth's epidermis!
"Eo—Mio—Plio—whatsoe'er the 'cene' was That those vacant sockets filled with awe and wonder,— Whether shores Devonian or Silurian beaches,— Tell us thy strange story!
"Or has the Professor slightly antedated By some thousand years thy advent on this planet, Giving thee an air that's somewhat better fitted For cold-blooded creatures?
"Wert thou true spectator of that mighty forest, When above thy head the stately Sigillaria Reared its columned trunks in that remote and distant Carboniferous epoch?
"Tell us of that scene,—the dim and watery woodland, Songless, silent, hushed, with never bird or insect, Veiled with spreading fronds and screened with tall club-mosses, Lycopodiacea—
"When beside thee walked the solemn Plesiosaurus, And around thee crept the festive Ichthyosaurus, While from time to time above thee flew and circled Cheerful Pterodactyls.
"Tell us of thy food,—those half-marine refections, Crinoids on the shell, and Brachipods au naturel,— Cuttle-fish to which the pieuvre of Victor Hugo Seems a periwinkle.
"Speak, thou awful vestige of the earth's creation,— Solitary fragment of remains organic! Tell the wondrous secrets of thy past existence,— Speak! thou oldest primate!"
Even as I gazed, a thrill of the maxilla And a lateral movement of the condyloid process, With post-pliocene sounds of healthy mastication, Ground the teeth together;
And from that imperfect dental exhibition, Stained with expressed juices of the weed Nicotian, Came these hollow accents, blent with softer murmurs Of expectoration:
"Which my name is Bowers, and my crust was busted Falling down a shaft, in Calaveras County, But I'd take it kindly if you'd send the pieces Home to old Missouri!"
BRET HARTE.
LITTLE BREECHES. A PIKE COUNTY VIEW. OF SPECIAL PROVIDENCE..
I don't go much on religion, I never ain't had no show; But I've got a middlin' tight grip, sir, On the handful o' things I know. I don't pan out on the prophets And free-will, and that sort o' thing,— But believe in God and the angels, Ever sence one night last spring.
I come into town with some turnips, And my little Gabe come along,— No four-year-old in the county Could beat him for pretty and strong, Peart and chipper and sassy, Always ready to swear and fight,— And I'd learnt him ter chaw terbacker, Jest to keep his milk-teeth white.
The snow come down like a blanket As I passed by Taggart's store; I went in for a jug of molasses And left the team at the door. They scared at something and started,— I heard one little squall, And hell-to-split over the prairie Went team, Little Breeches and all.
Hell-to-split over the prairie! I was almost froze with skeer; But we rousted up some torches, And sarched for 'em far and near. At last we struck hosses and wagon, Snowed under a soft white mound, Upsot, dead beat,—but of little Gabe No hide nor hair was found.
And here all hope soured on me Of my fellow-critter's aid,— I jest flopped down on my marrow-bones, Crotch-deep in the snow, and prayed.
————
By this, the torches was played out, And me and Isrul Parr Went off for some wood to a sheepfold That he said was somewhar thar.
We found it at last, and a little shed Where they shut up the lambs at night. We looked in, and seen them huddled thar, So warm and sleepy and white; And THAR sot Little Breeches and chirped, As pert as ever you see, "I want a chaw of terbacker, And that's what's the matter of me."
How did he git thar? Angels. He could never have walked in that storm. They just scooped down and toted him To whar it was safe and warm. And I think that saving a little child, And bringing him to his own, Is a derned sight better business Than loafing around the Throne.
JOHN HAY.
JIM
Say there! P'r'aps Some on you chaps Might know Jim Wild? Well,—no offence: Thar ain't no sense In gettin' riled!
Jim was my chum Up on the Bar: That's why I come Down from up thar, Lookin' for Jim. Thank ye, sir! you Ain't of that crew,— Blest if you are!
Money?—Not much: That ain't my kind; I an't no such. Rum?—I don't mind, Seein' it's you.
Well, this yer Jim, Did you know him?— Jess 'bout your size; Same kind of eyes?— Well, that is strange: Why, it's two year Since he come here, Sick, for a change.
Well, here's to us; Eh? The deuce you say! Dead?— That little cuss?
What makes you star,— You over thar? Can't a man drop 's glass in yer shop
But you must rar'? It wouldn't take Derned much to break You and your bar.
Dead! Poor—little—Jim! —Why, there was me, Jones, and Bob Lee, Harry and Ben,— No-account men: Then to take him!
Well, thar—Good-bye,— No more, sir,—I— Eh? What's that you say?— Why, dern it!—sho!— No? Yes! By Jo! Sold! Sold! Why you limb, You ornery, Derned old Long-leggèd Jim!
BRET HARTE.
BANTY TIM.
[Remarks of Sergeant Tilmon Joy to the
White Man's Committee of Spunky Point, Illinois.]
I reckon I git your drift, gents— You 'low the boy sha'n't stay; This is a white man's country: You're Dimocrats, you say: And whereas, and seein', and wherefore, The times bein' all out o' jint, The nigger has got to mosey From the limits o' Spunky P'int!
Let's reason the thing a minute; I'm an old-fashioned Dimocrat, too, Though I laid my politics out o' the way For to keep till the war was through. But I come back here allowin' To vote as I used to do, Though it gravels me like the devil to train Along o' sich fools as you.
Now dog my cats if I kin see In all the light of the day, What you've got to do with the question Ef Tim shall go or stay. And furder than that I give notice, Ef one of you tetches the boy, He kin check his trunks to a warmer clime Than he'll find in Illanoy.
Why, blame your hearts, jist hear me! You know that ungodly day When our left struck Vicksburg Heights, how ripped And torn and tattered we lay. When the rest retreated, I stayed behind, Fur reasons sufficient to me,— With a rib caved in, and a leg on a strike, I sprawled on that cursed glacee.
Lord! how the hot sun went for us, And broiled and blistered and burned! How the rebel bullets whizzed round us When a cuss in his death-grip turned! Till along toward dusk I seen a thing I couldn't believe for a spell: That nigger—that Tim—was a-crawlin' to me Through that fire-proof, gilt-edged hell!
The rebels seen him as quick as me, And the bullets buzzed like bees; But he jumped for me, and shouldered me, Though a shot brought him once to his knees; But he staggered up, and packed me off, With a dozen stumbles and falls, Till safe in our lines he drapped us both, His black hide riddled with balls.
So, my gentle gazelles, thar's my answer, And here stays Banty Tim: He trumped Death's ace for me that day, And I 'm not goin' back on him! You may rezoloot till the cows come home, But ef one of you tetches the boy, He 'll wrastle his hash to-night in hell, Or my name's not Tilmon Joy!
JOHN HAY.
DOW'S FLAT. 1856.
Dow's flat. That's its name. And I reckon that you Are a stranger? The same? Well, I thought it was true, For thar isn't a man on the river as can't spot the place at first view.
It was called after Dow,— Which the same was an ass; And as to the how Thet the thing kem to pass,— Just tie up your hoss to that buckeye, and sit ye down here in the grass.
You see this yer Dow Hed the worst kind of luck; He slipped up somehow On each thing thet he struck. Why, ef he'd straddled thet fence-rail the derned thing 'ed get up and buck.
He mined on the bar Till he couldn't pay rates; He was smashed by a car When he tunnelled with Bates; And right on top of his trouble kem his wife and five kids from the States.
It was rough,—mighty rough; But the boys they stood by, And they brought him the stuff For a house, on the sly; And the old woman,—well, she did washing, and took on when no one was nigh.
But this yer luck of Dow's Was so powerful mean That the spring near his house Dried right up on the green; And he sunk forty feet down for water, but nary a drop to be seen.
Then the bar petered out, And the boys wouldn't stay; And the chills got about, And his wife fell away; But Dow, in his well, kept a peggin' in his usual ridikilous way.
One day,—it was June,— And a year ago, jest,— This Dow kem at noon To his work like the rest, With a shovel and pick on his shoulder, and a derringer hid in his breast.
He goes to the well, And he stands on the brink, And stops for a spell Jest to listen and think: For the sun in his eyes, (jest like this, sir!) you see, kinder made the cuss blink.
His two ragged gals In the gulch were at play, And a gownd that was Sal's Kinder flapped on a bay: Not much for a man to be leavin', but his all,— as I've heer'd the folks say.
And—that's a peart hoss Thet you've got—ain't it now? What might be her cost? Eh? Oh!—Well then, Dow— Let's see,—well, that forty-foot grave wasn't his, sir, that day, anyhow.
For a blow of his pick Sorter caved in the side, And he looked and turned sick, Then he trembled and cried. For you see the dern cuss had struck—"Water?" —beg your parding, young man, there you lied!
It was gold,—in the quartz, And it ran all alike; And I reckon five oughts Was the worth of that strike; And that house with coopilow's his'n,—which the same isn't bad for a Pike.
Thet's why it's Dow's Flat; And the thing of it is That he kinder got that Through sheer contrairiness: For 't was water the derned cuss was seekin', and his luck made him certain to miss.
Thet's so. Thar's your way To the left of yon tree; But—a—look h'yur, say, Won't you come up to tea? No? Well, then the next time you're passin'; and ask after Dow,—and thet's me.
THE SOCIETY UPON THE STANISLAUS.
I reside at Table Mountain, and my name is Truthful James: I am not up to small deceit or any sinful games; And I'll tell in simple language what I know about the row That broke up our Society upon the Stanislow.
But first I would remark, that 'tis not a proper plan For any scientific gent to whale his fellow-man; And, if a member don't agree with his peculiar whim, To lay for that same member for to "put a head" on him.
Now, nothing could be finer, or more beautiful to see, Than the first six months' proceedings of that same society; Till Brown of Calaveras brought a lot of fossil bones That he found within a tunnel near the tenement of Jones.
Then Brown he read a paper, and he reconstructed there, From those same bones, an animal that was extremely rare; And Jones then asked the Chair for a suspension of the rules, Till he could prove that those same bones was one of his lost mules.
Then Brown he smiled a bitter smile, and said he was at fault; It seemed he had been trespassing on Jones's family vault; He was a most sarcastic man this quiet Mr. Brown, And on several occasions he had cleaned out the town.
Now I hold it is not decent for a scientific gent To say another is an ass,—at least, to all intent; Nor should the individual who happens to be meant Reply by heaving rocks at him to any great extent.
Then Abner Dean of Angel's raised a point of order, when A chunk of old red sandstone took him in the abdomen; And he smiled a kind of sickly smile, and curled upon the floor, And the subsequent proceedings interested him no more.
For in less time than I write it, every member did engage In a warfare with the remnants of a palæozoic age; And the way they heaved those fossils in their anger was a sin, Till the skull of an old mammoth caved the head of Thompson in.
And this is all I have to say of these improper games, For I live at Table Mountain and my name is Truthful James, And I've told in simple language what I know about the row That broke up our Society upon the Stanislow.
BRET HARTE.
PLAIN LANGUAGE FROM TRUTHFUL JAMES. POPULARLY KNOWN AS "THE HEATHEN CHINEE."
Which I wish to remark— And my language is plain— That for ways that are dark And for tricks that are vain, The heathen Chinee is peculiar: Which the same I would rise to explain.
Ah Sin was his name; And I shall not deny In regard to the same What that name might imply; But his smile it was pensive and childlike, As I frequent remarked to Bill Nye.
BRET HARTE.
From a photogravure after the original portrait by J. Pettie.
It was August the third, And quite soft was the skies, Which it might be inferred That Ah Sin was likewise; Yet he played it that day upon William And me in a way I despise.
Which we had a small game, And Ah Sin took a hand: It was euchre. The same He did not understand, But he smiled, as he sat by the table, With the smile that was childlike and bland.
Yet the cards they were stocked In a way that I grieve, And my feelings were shocked At the state of Nye's sleeve, Which was stuffed full of aces and bowers, And the same with intent to deceive.
But the hands that were played By that heathen Chinee, And the points that he made, Were quite frightful to see,— Till at last he put down a right bower, Which the same Nye had dealt unto me.
Then I looked up at Nye, And he gazed upon me; And he rose with a sigh, And said, "Can this be? We are ruined by Chinese cheap labor,"— And he went for that heathen Chinee. In the scene that ensued I did not take a hand, But the floor it was strewed, Like the leaves on the strand, With the cards that Ah Sin had been hiding In the game "he did not understand."
In his sleeves, which were long, He had twenty-four jacks,— Which was coming it strong, Yet I state but the facts. And we found on his nails, which were taper,— What is frequent in tapers,—that's wax.
Which is why I remark, And my language is plain, That for ways that are dark, And for tricks that are vain, The heathen Chinee is peculiar,— Which the same I am free to maintain.
BRET HARTE.
A PLANTATION DITTY.
De gray owl sing fum de chimbly top: "Who—who—is—you-oo?" En I say: "Good Lawd, hit's des po' me, En I ain't quite ready fer de Jasper Sea; I'm po' en sinful, en you 'lowed I'd be; Oh, wait, good Lawd, 'twell ter-morror!"
De gray owl sing fum de cypress tree: "Who—who—is—you-oo?" En I say: "Good Lawd, ef you look you'll see Hit ain't nobody but des po' me, En I like ter stay 'twell my time is free; Oh, wait, good Lawd, 'twell ter-morror!"
FRANK LEBBY STANTON.
DE FUST BANJO.
Go 'way, fiddle! folks is tired o' hearin' you a-squawkin'. Keep silence fur yo' betters!—don't you hear de banjo talkin'? About de 'possum's tail she's gwine to lecter—ladies, listen!— About de ha'r whut isn't dar, an' why de ha'r is missin':
"Dar's gwine to be a' oberflow," said Noah, lookin' solemn— Fur Noah tuk the "Herald," an' he read de ribber column— An' so he sot his hands to wuk a-cl'arin' timber-patches, An' lowed he's gwine to build a boat to beat the steamah Natchez.
Ol' Noah kep' a-nailin' an' a-chippin' an' a-sawin'; An' all de wicked neighbors kep' a-laughin' an' a-pshawin'; But Noah didn't min' 'em, knowin' whut wuz gwine to happen: An' forty days an' forty nights de rain it kep' a-drappin'.
Now, Noah had done cotched a lot ob ebry sort o' beas'es— Ob all de shows a-trabbelin', it beat 'em all to pieces! He had a Morgan colt an' sebral head o' Jarsey cattle— An' druv 'em 'board de Ark as soon 's he heered de thunder rattle.
Den sech anoder fall ob rain!—it come so awful hebby, De ribber riz immejitly, an' busted troo de lebbee; De people all wuz drowned out—'cep' Noah an' de critters, An' men he'd hired to work de boat—an' one to mix de bitters.
De Ark she kep' a-sailin' an' a-sailin' an' a-sailin'; De lion got his dander up, an' like to bruk de palin'; De sarpints hissed; de painters yelled; tell, whut wid all de fussin', You c'u'dn't hardly heah de mate a-bossin' 'roun' an' cussin'.
Now Ham, de only nigger whut wuz runnin' on de packet, Got lonesome in de barber-shop, an' c'u'dn't stan' de racket; An' so, fur to amuse he-se'f, he steamed some wood an' bent it, An' soon he had a banjo made—de fust dat wuz invented.
He wet de ledder, stretched it on; made bridge an' screws an' aprin; An' fitted in a proper neck—'t wuz berry long an' tap'rin'; He tuk some tin an' twisted him a thimble fur to ring it; An' den de mighty question riz: how wuz he gwine to string it?
De 'possum had as fine a tail as dis dat I's a-singin'; De ha'rs so long an' thick an' strong,—des fit fur banjo-stringin'; Dat nigger shaved 'em off as short as washday-dinner graces; An' sorted ob 'em by de size, f'om little E's to basses.
He strung her, tuned her, struck a jig,—'t wuz "Nebber min' de wedder,"— She soun' like forty-lebben bands a-playin' all togedder; Some went to pattin'; some to dancin': Noah called de figgers; An' Ham he sot an' knocked de tune, de happiest ob niggers!
Now, sence dat time—it's mighty strange—der 's not de slightes' showin' Ob any ha'r at all upon de 'possum's tail a-growin'; An' curi's, too, dat nigger's ways: his people nebber los' 'em— Fur whar you finds de nigger—dar's de banjo an' an' de 'possum!
IRWIN RUSSELL.
PERILS OF THINKING.
A centipede was happy quite, Until a frog in fun Said, "Pray, which leg comes after which?" This raised her mind to such a pitch, She lay distracted in the ditch Considering how to run.
ANONYMOUS.
NEBUCHADNEZZAR.
You, Nebuchadnezzah, whoa, sah! Whar is you tryin' to go, sah? I'd hab you fur to know, sah, I's a-holdin' ob de lines. You better stop dat prancin', You's paw'ful fond ob dancin', But I'll bet my yeah's advancin' Dat I'll cure you ob yo' shines.
Look heah, mule! Better min' out; Fus' t'ing you know you'll fin' out How quick I'll wear dis line out On your ugly, stubbo'n back. You needn't try to steal up; An' lif' dat precious heel up; You's got to plough dis fiel' up, You has, sah, fur a fac'.
Dar, dat's de way to do it; He's comin' right down to it; Jes watch him ploughin' troo it! Dis nigger ain't no fool. Some folks dey would 'a' beat him; Now, dat would only heat him— I know just how to treat him: You mus' reason wid a mule.
He minds me like a nigger. If he wuz only bigger He'd fotch a mighty figger, He would, I tell you! Yes, sah! See how he keeps a-clickin'! He's as gentle as a chicken, And nebber thinks o' kickin'— Whoa dar! Nebuchadnezzah!
Is this heah me, or not me? Or is de debbil got me? Wuz dat a cannon shot me? Hab I laid heah more 'n a week? Dat mule do kick amazin'! De beast was sp'iled in raisin'; But now I spect he's grazin' On de oder side de creek.
A LIFE'S LOVE.
I loved him in my dawning years— Far years, divinely dim; My blithest smiles, my saddest tears, Were evermore for him. My dreaming when the day began, The latest thought I had, Was still some little loving plan To make my darling glad.
They deemed he lacked the conquering wiles, That other children wear; To me his face, in frowns or smiles, Was never aught but fair. They said that self was all his goal, He knew no thought beyond; To me, I know, no living soul Was half so true and fond.
In love's eclipse, in friendship's dearth, In grief and feud and bale, My heart has learnt the sacred worth Of one that cannot fail; And come what must, and come what may. Nor power, nor praise, nor pelf, Shall lure my faith from thee to stray. My sweet, my own—Myself.
DARWIN.
There was an ape in the days that were earlier; Centuries passed, and his hair grew curlier; Centuries more gave a thumb to his wrist, Then he was a Man and a Positivist.
MORTIMER COLLINS.
ODE FOR A SOCIAL MEETING. WITH SLIGHT ALTERATIONS BY A TEETOTALLER.
Come! fill a fresh bumper,—for why should we go
logwood While the nectar still reddens our cups as they flow?
decoction Pour out the rich juices still bright with the sun,
dye-stuff Till o'er the brimmed crystal the rubies shall run.
half-ripened apples The purple-globed clusters their life-dews have bled;
taste sugar of lead How sweet is the breath of the fragrance they shed!
rank-poisons wines!!! For summer's last roses lie hid in the wines
stable-boys smoking long-nines That were garnered by maidens who laughed through the vines.
scowl howl scoff sneer Then a smile, and a glass, and a toast, and a cheer,
strychnine and whiskey, and ratsbane and beer For all the good wine, and we 've some of it here!
In cellar, in pantry, in attic, in hall,
Down, down with the tyrant that masters us all! Long live the gay servant that laughs for us all!
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
HOLLOW HOSPITALITY. FROM "SATIRES" BOOK III. SAT. 3.
The courteous citizen bade me to his feast With hollow words, and overly [7] request: "Come, will ye dine with me this holiday?" I yielded, though he hoped I would say nay: For I had maidened it, as many use; Loath for to grant, but loather to refuse. "Alack, sir, I were loath—another day,— I should but trouble you;—pardon me, if you may." No pardon should I need; for, to depart He gives me leave, and thanks too, in his heart. Two words for money, Darbyshirian wise: (That's one too many) is a naughty guise. Who looks for double biddings to a feast, May dine at home for an importune guest. I went, then saw, and found the great expense; The face and fashions of our citizens. Oh, Cleopatrical! what wanteth there For curious cost, and wondrous choice of cheer? Beef, that erst Hercules held for finest fare; Pork, for the fat Bœotian, or the hare For Martial; fish for the Venetian; Goose-liver for the licorous Roman; Th' Athenian's goat; quail, Iolaus' cheer; The hen for Esculape, and the Parthian deer; Grapes for Arcesilas, figs for Pluto's mouth, And chestnuts fair for Amarillis' tooth. Hadst thou such cheer? wert thou ever there before? Never,—I thought so: nor come there no more. Come there no more; for so meant all that cost: Never hence take me for thy second host. For whom he means to make an often guest, One dish shall serve; and welcome make the rest.
DR. JOSEPH HALL.
A RECIPE. ROASTED SUCKING-PIG. Air.—"Scots wha hae."
Cooks who'd roast a sucking-pig, Purchase one not over big; Coarse ones are not worth a fig; So a young one buy. See that he is scalded well (That is done by those who sell, Therefore on that point to dwell Were absurdity).
Sage and bread, mix just enough, Salt and pepper quantum suff., And the pig's interior stuff, With the whole combined. To a fire that 's rather high, Lay it till completely dry; Then to every part apply Cloth, with butter lined.
Dredge with flour o'er and o'er, Till the pig will hold no more; Then do nothing else before 'T is for serving fit. Then scrape off the flour with care; Then a buttered cloth prepare; Rub it well; then cut—not tear— Off the head of it.
Then take out and mix the brains With the gravy it contains; While it on the spit remains, Cut the pig in two. Chop the sage and chop the bread Fine as very finest shred; O'er it melted butter spread,— Stinginess won't do.
When it in the dish appears, Garnish with the jaws and ears; And when dinner-hour nears, Ready let it be. Who can offer such a dish May dispense with fowl and fish; And if he a guest should wish, Let him send for me!
PUNCH'S Poetical Cookery Book.
A RECIPE FOR SALAD.
To make this condiment your poet begs The pounded yellow of two hard boiled eggs; Two boiled potatoes, passed through kitchen sieve, Smoothness and softness to the salad give; Let onion atoms lurk within the bowl, And, half suspected, animate the whole; Of mordant mustard add a single spoon, Distrust the condiment that bites so soon; But deem it not, thou man of herbs, a fault To add a double quantity of salt; Four times the spoon with oil from Lucca crown, And twice with vinegar, procured from town; And lastly, o'er the flavored compound toss A magic soupçon of anchovy sauce. O green and glorious! O herbaceous treat! 'T would tempt the dying anchorite to eat; Back to the world he'd turn his fleeting soul, And plunge his fingers in the salad-bowl; Serenely full, the epicure would say, "Fate cannot harm me,—I have dined to-day."
SYDNEY SMITH.
ODE TO TOBACCO.
Thou who, when fears attack, Bid'st them avaunt, and Black Care, at the horseman's back Perching, unseatest; Sweet when the morn is gray; Sweet, when they 've cleared away Lunch; and at close of day Possibly sweetest:
I have a liking old For thee, though manifold Stories, I know, are told, Not to thy credit; How one (or two at most) Drops make a cat a ghost— Useless, except to roast— Doctors have said it:
How they who use fusees All grow by slow degrees Brainless as chimpanzees, Meagre as lizards; Go mad, and beat their wives; Plunge (after shocking lives) Razors and carving-knives Into their gizzards.
Confound such knavish tricks! Yet know I five or six Smokers who freely mix Still with their neighbors; Jones—(who, I 'm glad to say, Asked leave of Mrs. J.)— Daily absorbs a clay After his labors.
Cats may have had their goose Cooked by tobacco-juice; Still why deny its use Thoughtfully taken? We're not as tabbies are: Smith, take a fresh cigar! Jones, the tobacco-jar! Here's to thee, Bacon!
CHARLES S. CALVERLEY.
A FAREWELL TO TOBACCO.
May the Babylonish curse Straight confound my stammering verse, If I can a passage see In this word-perplexity, Or a fit expression find, Or a language to my mind (Still the phrase is wide or scant), To take leave of thee, GREAT PLANT! Or in any terms relate Half my love, or half my hate; For I hate, yet love, thee so, That, whichever thing I show, The plain truth will seem to be A constrained hyperbole, And the passion to proceed More from a mistress than a weed.
Sooty retainer to the vine! Bacchus' black servant, negro fine! Sorcerer! that mak'st us dote upon Thy begrimed complexion, And, for thy pernicious sake, More and greater oaths to break Than reclaimèd lovers take 'Gainst women! Thou thy siege dost lay Much, too, in the female way, While thou suck'st the laboring breath Faster than kisses, or than death.
Thou in such a cloud dost bind us That our worst foes cannot find us, And ill fortune, that would thwart us, Shoots at rovers, shooting at us; While each man, through thy heightening steam, Does like a smoking Etna seem; And all about us does express (Fancy and wit in richest dress) A Sicilian fruitfulness.
Thou through such a mist dost show us That our best friends do not know us, And, for those allowèd features Due to reasonable creatures, Liken'st us to fell chimeras, Monsters,—that who see us, fear us; Worse than Cerberus or Geryon, Or, who first loved a cloud, Ixion.
Bacchus we know, and we allow His tipsy rites. But what art thou, That but by reflex canst show What his deity can do,— As the false Egyptian spell Aped the true Hebrew miracle? Some few vapors thou mayst raise The weak brain may serve to amaze; But to the reins and nobler heart Canst nor life nor heat impart.
Brother of Bacchus, later born! The old world was sure forlorn, Wanting thee, that aidest more The god's victories than, before, All his panthers, and the brawls Of his piping Bacchanals. These, as stale, we disallow, Or judge of thee meant: only thou His true Indian conquest art; And, for ivy round his dart, The reformèd god now weaves A finer thyrsus of thy leaves.
Scent to match thy rich perfume Chemic art did ne'er presume, Through her quaint alembic strain, None so sovereign to the brain. Nature, that did in thee excel, Framed again no second smell. Roses, violets, but toys For the smaller sort of boys, Or for greener damsels meant; Thou art the only manly scent.
Stinkingest of the stinking kind! Filth of the mouth and fog of the mind! Africa, that brags her foison, Breeds no such prodigious poison! Henbane, nightshade, both together, Hemlock, aconite— Nay rather, Plant divine, of rarest virtue; Blisters on the tongue would hurt you! 'T was but in a sort I blamed thee; None e'er prospered who defamed thee; Irony all, and feigned abuse, Such as perplexèd lovers use At a need, when, in despair To paint forth their fairest fair, Or in part but to express That exceeding comeliness Which their fancies doth so strike, They borrow language of dislike; And, instead of dearest Miss, Jewel, honey, sweetheart, bliss, And those forms of old admiring, Call her cockatrice and siren, Basilisk, and all that 's evil, Witch, hyena, mermaid, devil, Ethiop, wench, and blackamoor, Monkey, ape, and twenty more; Friendly trait'ress, loving foe,— Not that she is truly so, But no other way they know, A contentment to express Borders so upon excess That they do not rightly wot Whether it be from pain or not.
Or, as men, constrained to part With what 's nearest to their heart, While their sorrow 's at the height Lose discrimination quite, And their hasty wrath let fall, To appease their frantic gall, On the darling thing, whatever, Whence they feel it death to sever, Though it be, as they, perforce, Guiltless of the sad divorce.
For I must (nor let it grieve thee, Friendliest of plants, that I must) leave thee. Would do anything but die, And but seek to extend my days Long enough to sing thy praise. But, as she who once hath been A king's consort is a queen Ever after, nor will bate Any tittle of her state Though a widow, or divorced, So I, from thy converse forced, The old name and style retain, A right Katherine of Spain; And a seat, too, 'mongst the joys Of the blest Tobacco Boys; Where, though I, by sour physician, Am debarred the full fruition Of thy favors, I may catch Some collateral sweets, and snatch Sidelong odors, that give life Like glances from a neighbor's wife; And still live in the by-places And the suburbs of thy graces; And in thy borders take delight, An unconquered Canaanite.
TOO GREAT A SACRIFICE.
The maid, as by the papers doth appear, Whom fifty thousand dollars made so dear, To test Lothario's passion, simply said: "Forego the weed before we go to wed. For smoke take flame; I 'll be that flame's bright fanner: To have your Anna, give up your Havana." But he, when thus she brought him to the scratch, Lit his cigar and threw away his match.
ANONYMOUS.
FROM "LOVE SONNETS OF A HOODLUM."
PROLOGUE. Wouldn't it jar you, wouldn't it make you sore To see the poet, when the goods play out, Crawl off of poor old Pegasus and tout His skate to two-step sonnets off galore? Then, when the plug, a dead one, can no more Shake rag-time than a biscuit, right about The poem-butcher turns with gleeful shout And sends a batch of sonnets to the store.
The sonnet is a very easy mark, A James P. Dandy as a carry-all For brain-fag wrecks who want to keep it dark Just why their crop of thinks is running small. On the low down, dear Mame, my looty loo, That's why I've cooked this batch of rhymes for you.
EPILOGUE. To just one girl I've turned my sad bazoo, Stringing my pipe-dream off as it occurred, And as I've tipped the straight talk every word, If you don't like it you know what to do. Perhaps you think I've handed out to you An idle jest, a touch-me-not, absurd As any sky-blue-pink canary bird, Billed for a record season at the Zoo.
If that's your guess you'll have to guess again, For thus I fizzled in a burst of glory, And this rhythmatic side-show doth contain The sum and substance of my hard-luck story, Showing how Vanity is still on deck And Humble Virtue gets it in the neck.
WALLACE IRWIN.
A SADDENED TRAMP.
"Now unto yonder wood-pile go, Where toil till I return; And feel how proud a thing it is A livelihood to earn." A saddened look came o'er the tramp; He seemed like one bereft. He stowed away the victuals cold, He—saw the wood, and left.
III. PARODIES: IMITATIONS. ——————
THE MODERN HOUSE THAT JACK BUILT.
Behold the mansion reared by dædal 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 the 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 harrowing 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 Ivan's courts we saw.
Robed in senescent garb, that seemed, 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 lac-albic hands Drew albu-lactic wealth from lacteal glands Of the immortal bovine, by whose horn, Distort, to realm ethereal was borne The beast catulean, vexer of that sly Ulysses quadrupedal who made die The old mordacious 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 torn unthrift, Whose means exiguous stared from many a rift, Even as he kissed the virgin all forlorn, Who milked the cow with the implicated horn, Who in fine wrath the canine torturer skied, That dared to vex the insidious muricide, Who let auroral effluence through the pelt Of the sly rat that robbed the palace Jack had 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 that hornèd brute morose That tossed the dog that worried the cat that kilt The rat that ate the malt that lay in the house that Jack built.
ANONYMOUS.
THE FRIEND OF HUMANITY AND THE KNIFE-GRINDER. [8] FRIEND OF HUMANITY.
Needy knife-grinder! whither are you going? Rough is the road; your wheel is out of order. Bleak blows the blast;—your hat has got a hole in't; So have your breeches!
Weary knife-grinder! little think the proud ones, Who in their coaches roll along the turnpike- Road, what hard work 't is crying all day, "Knives and Scissors to grind O!"
Tell me, knife-grinder, how came you to grind knives? Did some rich man tyrannically use you? Was it the squire? or parson of the parish? Or the attorney?
Was it the squire for killing of his game? or Covetous parson for his tithes distraining? Or roguish lawyer made you lose your little All in a lawsuit?
(Have you not read the Rights of Man, by Tom Paine?) Drops of compassion tremble on my eyelids, Ready to fall as soon as you have told your Pitiful story.
KNIFE-GRINDER. Story! God bless you! I have none to tell, sir; Only, last night, a-drinking at the Chequers, This poor old hat and breeches, as you see, were Torn in a scuffle.
Constables came up for to take me into Custody; they took me before the justice; Justice Oldmixon put me into the parish Stocks for a vagrant.
I should be glad to drink your honor's health in A pot of beer, if you will give me sixpence; But for my part, I never love to meddle With politics, sir.
FRIEND OF HUMANITY. I give thee sixpence! I will see thee damned first,— Wretch! whom no sense of wrongs can rouse to vengeance,— Sordid, unfeeling, reprobate, degraded, Spiritless outcast!
(Kicks the knife-grinder, overturns his wheel, and exit in a transport of republican enthusiasm and universal philanthropy.)
GEORGE CANNING.
DEBORAH LEE [9]
'T is a dozen or so of years ago, Somewhere in the West countree, That a nice girl lived, as ye Hoosiers know By the name of Deborah Lee; Her sister was loved by Edgar Poe, But Deborah by me.
Now I was green, and she was green, As a summer's squash might be; And we loved as warmly as other folks,— I and my Deborah Lee,— With a love that the lasses of Hoosierdom Coveted her and me.
But somehow it happened a long time ago, In the aguish West countree, That chill March morning gave the shakes To my beautiful Deborah Lee; And the grim steam-doctor (drat him!) came, And bore her away from me,— The doctor and death, old partners they,— In the aguish West countree.
The angels wanted her in heaven (But they never asked for me), And that is the reason, I rather guess, In the aguish West countree, That the cold March wind, and the doctor, and death, Took off my Deborah Lee— My beautiful Deborah Lee— From the warm sunshine and the opening flowers, And bore her away from me.
Our love was as strong as a six-horse team, Or the love of folks older than we, Or possibly wiser than we; But death, with the aid of doctor and steam, Was rather too many for me: He closed the peepers and silenced the breath Of my sweetheart Deborah Lee, And her form lies cold in the prairie mold, Silent and cold,—ah me!
The foot of the hunter shall press her grave, And the prairie's sweet wild flowers In their odorous beauty around it wave Through all the sunny hours,— The still, bright summer hours; And the birds shall sing in the tufted grass And the nectar-laden bee, With his dreamy hum, on his gauze wings pass,— She wakes no more to me; Ah, nevermore to me! Though the wild birds sing and the wild flowers spring, She wakes no more to me.
Yet oft in the hush of the dim, still night, A vision of beauty I see Gliding soft to my bedside,—a phantom of light, Dear, beautiful Deborah Lee,— My bride that was to be; And I wake to mourn that the doctor, and death, And the cold March wind, should stop the breath Of my darling Deborah Lee,— Adorable Deborah Lee,— That angels should want her up in heaven Before they wanted me.
WILLIAM H. BURLEIGH.
THE COCK AND THE BULL. [10]
You see this pebble-stone? It's a thing I bought Of a bit of a chit of a boy i' the mid o' the day— I like to dock the smaller parts-o'-speech, As we curtail the already cur-tailed cur (You catch the paronomasia, play o' words?)— Did, rather, i' the pre-Landseerian days. Well, to my muttons. I purchased the concern, And clapt it i' my poke, and gave for same By way, to-wit, of barter or exchange— "Chop" was my snickering dandiprat's own term— One shilling and fourpence, current coin o' the realm. O-n-e one and f-o-u-r four Pence, one and fourpence—you are with me, sir?— What hour it skills not: ten or eleven o' the clock, One day (and what a roaring day it was!) In February, eighteen sixty-nine, Alexandrina Victoria, Fidei Hm—hm—how runs the jargon?—being on throne.
Such, sir, are all the facts, succinctly put, The basis or substratum—what you will— Of the impending eighty thousand lines. "Not much in 'em either," quoth perhaps simple Hodge. But there's a superstructure. Wait a bit.
Mark first the rationale of the thing: Hear logic rival and levigate the deed. That shilling—and for matter o' that, the pence— I had o' course upo' me—wi' me, say— (Mecum 's the Latin, make a note o' that) When I popped pen i' stand, blew snout, scratched ear, Sniffed—tch!—at snuff-box; tumbled up, he-heed, Haw-hawed (not hee-hawed, that's another guess thing:) Then fumbled at, and stumbled out of, door, I shoved the door ope wi' my omoplat; And in vestibulo, i' the entrance-hall, Donned galligaskins, antigropelos, And so forth; and, complete with hat and gloves, One on and one a-dangle i' my hand. And ombrifuge, (Lord love you!) case o' rain, I flopped forth, 's buddikins! on my own ten toes, (I do assure you there be ten of them.) And went clump-clumping up hill and down dale To find myself o' the sudden i' front o' the boy. Put case I hadn't 'em on me, could I ha' bought This sort-o'-kind-o'-what-you-might-call toy, This pebble-thing, o' the boy-thing? Q. E. D. That's proven without aid from mumping Pope, Sleek porporate or bloated Cardinal. (Isn't it, old Fatchaps? You 're in Euclid now.) So, having the shilling—having i' fact a lot— And pence and halfpence, ever so many o' them, I purchased, as I think I said before, The pebble (lapis, lapidis,—di,—dem.—de,— What nouns 'crease short i' the genitive, Fatchaps, eh?) O' the boy, a bare-legged beggarly son of a gun, For one and fourpence. Here we are again. Now Law steps in, big-wigged, voluminous-jawed; Investigates and re-investigates. Was the transaction illegal? Law shakes head. Perpend, sir, all the bearings of the case.
At first the coin was mine, the chattel his. But now (by virtue of the said exchange And barter) vice versa all the coin, Per juris operationem, vests I' the boy and his assigns till ding o' doom; (In sæcula sæculo-o-o-orum; I think I hear the Abbate mouth out that.) To have and hold the same to him and them ... Confer some idiot on Conveyancing, Whereas the pebble and every part thereof, And all that appertaineth thereunto, Or shall, will, may, might, can, could, would, or should, (Subandi cætera—clap me to the close— For what's the good of law in a case o' the kind?) Is mine to all intents and purposes. This settled, I resume the thread o' the tale.
Now for a touch o' the vendor's quality. He says a gen'lman bought a pebble of him, (This pebble i' sooth, sir, which I hold i' my hand)— And paid for 't, like a gen'lman, on the nail. "Did I o'ercharge him a ha'penny? Devil a bit. Fiddlestick's end! Get out, you blazing ass! Gabble o' the goose. Don't bugaboo-baby me! Go double or quits? Yah! tittup! what's the odds?" —There's the transaction viewed, i' the vendor's light.
Next ask that dumpled hag, stood snuffling by, With her three frowsy-browsy brats o' babes, The scum o' the kennel, cream o' the filth-heap—Faugh? Aie, aie, aie, aie! ὁτοτοτοτοτοἱ, ('Stead which we blurt out Hoighty-toighty now)— And the baker and candlestick-maker, and Jack and Gill, Bleared Goody this and queasy Gaffer that. Ask the schoolmaster. Take schoolmaster first.
He saw a gentleman purchase of a lad A stone, and pay for it rite, on the square, And carry it off per saltum, jauntily, Propria quæ maribus, gentleman's property now (Agreeable to the law explained above), In proprium usum, for his private ends. The boy he chucked a brown i' the air, and bit I' the face the shilling: heaved a thumping-stone At a lean hen that ran cluck-clucking by, (And hit her, dead as nail i' post o' door,) Then abiit—what's the Ciceronian phrase?— Excessit, evasit, erupit,—off slogs boy; Off in three flea-skips. Hactenus, so far, So good, tam bene. Bene, satis, male,— Where was I? who said what of one in a quag? I did once hitch the syntax into verse: Verbum personale, a verb personal, Concordat,—ay, "agrees," old Fatchaps—cum Nominativo, with its nominative, Genere, i' point o' gender, numero, O' number, et persona, and person. Ut, Instance: Sol ruit, down flops sun, et, and, Montes umbrantur, snuffs out mountains. Pah! Excuse me, sir, I think I'm going mad. You see the trick on 't though, and can yourself Continue the discourse ad libitum. It takes up about eighty thousand lines, A thing imagination boggles at: And might, odds-bobs, sir! in judicious hands, Extend from here to Mesopotamy.
CHARLES STUART CALVERLEY.
THE AULD WIFE. [11]
The auld wife sat at her ivied door, (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) A thing she had frequently done before; And her spectacles lay on her aproned knees.
The piper he piped on the hill-top high, (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) Till the cow said "I die" and the goose asked "Why;" And the dog said nothing but searched for fleas.
The farmer he strode through the square farmyard; (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) His last brew of ale was a trifle hard, The connection of which with the plot one sees.
The farmer's daughter hath frank blue eyes, (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) She hears the rooks caw in the windy skies, As she sits at her lattice and shells her peas.
The farmer's daughter hath ripe red lips; (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) If you try to approach her, away she skips Over tables and chairs with apparent ease.
The farmer's daughter hath soft brown hair; (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) And I met with a ballad, I can't say where, Which wholly consists of lines like these.
She sat with her hands 'neath her dimpled cheeks, (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) And spake not a word. While a lady speaks There is hope, but she didn't even sneeze.
She sat with her hands 'neath her crimson cheeks (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) She gave up mending her father's breeks, And let the cat roll in her best chemise.
She sat with her hands 'neath her crimson cheeks (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) And gazed at the piper for thirteen weeks; Then she followed him out o'er the misty leas.
Her sheep followed her as their tails did them (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) And this song is considered a perfect gem, And as to the meaning, it's what you please.
LOVERS, AND A REFLECTION. [12]
In moss-prankt dells which the sunbeams flatter (And heaven it knoweth what that may mean; Meaning, however, is no great matter) Where woods are a-tremble, with rifts atween;
Through God's own heather we wonned together, I and my Willie (O love my love): I need hardly remark it was glorious weather, And flitterbats waved alow, above:
Boats were curtseying, rising, bowing (Boats in that climate are so polite), And sands were a ribbon of green endowing, And O the sun-dazzle on bark and bight!
Through the rare red heather we danced together, (O love my Willie!) and smelt for flowers: I must mention again it was glorious weather, Rhymes are so scarce in this world of ours:—
By rises that flushed with their purple favors, Through becks that brattled o'er grasses sheen, We walked or waded, we two young shavers, Thanking our stars we were both so green.
We journeyed in parallels, I and Willie, In "fortunate parallels!" Butterflies, Hid in weltering shadows of daffodilly Or marjoram, kept making peacock's eyes:
Song-birds darted about, some inky As coal, some snowy (I ween) as curds; Or rosy as pinks, or as roses pinky— They reck of no eerie To-come, those birds!
But they skim over bents which the mill-stream washes, Or hang in the lift 'neath a white cloud's hem; They need no parasols, no galoshes; And good Mrs. Trimmer [13] she feedeth them.
Then we thrid God's cowslips (as erst his heather) That endowed the wan grass with their golden blooms; And snapt—(it was perfectly charming weather)— Our fingers at Fate and her goddess glooms:
And Willie 'gan sing—(O, his notes were fluty; Wafts fluttered them out to the white-winged sea)— Something made up of rhymes that have done much duty, Rhymes (better to put it) of "ancientry:"
Bowers of flowers encountered showers In William's carol (O love my Willie!) When he bade sorrow borrow from blithe Tomorrow I quite forget what—say a daffodilly:
A nest in a hollow, "with buds to follow," I think occurred next in his nimble strain; And clay that was "kneaden" of course in Eden— A rhyme most novel, I do maintain:
Mists, bones, the singer himself, love-stories, And all least furlable things got "furled;" Not with any design to conceal their glories, But simply and solely to rhyme with "world."
O, if billows and pillows and hours and flowers, And all the brave rhymes of an elder day, Could be furled together this genial weather, And carted, or carried on wafts away, Nor ever again trotted out—ay me! How much fewer volumes of verse there'd be!
CHARLES STUART CALVERLEY.
NEPHELIDIA.
From the depth of the dreamy decline of the dawn through a notable nimbus of nebulous noon-shine, Pallid and pink as the palm of the flag-flower that flickers with fear of the flies as they float, Are they looks of our lovers that lustrously lean from a marvel of mystic miraculous moon-shine, These that we feel in the blood of our blushes that thicken and threaten with sobs from the throat? Thicken and thrill as a theatre thronged at appeal of an actor's appalled agitation, Fainter with fear of the fires of the future than pale with the promise of pride in the past; Flushed with the famishing fulness of fever that reddens with radiance of rathe recreation, Gaunt as the ghastliest of glimpses that gleam through the gloom of the gloaming when ghosts go aghast? Nay, for the nick of the tick of the time is a tremulous touch on the temples of terror, Strained as the sinews yet strenuous with strife of the dead who is dumb as the dust-heaps of death: Surely no soul is it, sweet as the spasm of erotic emotional exquisite error, Bathed in the balms of beatified bliss, beatific itself by beatitude's breath. Surely no spirit or sense of a soul that was soft to the spirit and soul of our senses Sweetens the stress of suspiring suspicion that sobs in the semblance and sound of a sigh; Only this oracle opens Olympian, in mystical moods and triangular tenses— Life is the lust of a lamp for the light that is dark till the dawn of the day when we die. Mild is the mirk and monotonous music of memory, melodiously mute as it may be, While the hope in the heart of a hero is bruised by the breach of men's rapiers resigned to the rod; Made meek as a mother whose bosom-beats bound with the bliss-bringing bulk of a balm-breathing baby, As they grope through the grave-yards of creeds, under skies growing green at a groan for the grimness of God. Blank is the book of his bounty beholden of old and its binding is blacker than bluer: Out of blue into black is the scheme of the skies, and their dews are the wine of the blood-shed of things; Till the darkling desire of delight shall be free as a fawn that is freed from the fangs that pursue her, Till the heart-beats of hell shall be hushed by a hymn from the hunt that has harried the kernel of kings.
ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE.
THE ARAB.
On, on, my brown Arab, away, away! Thou hast trotted o'er many a mile to-day, And I trow right meagre hath been thy fare Since they roused thee at dawn from thy straw-piled lair, To tread with those echoless, unshod feet Yon weltering flats in the noontide heat, Where no palm-tree proffers a kindly shade, And the eye never rests on a cool grass blade; And lank is thy flank, and thy frequent cough, O, it goes to my heart—but away, friend, off!
And yet, ah! what sculptor who saw thee stand, As thou standest now, on thy native strand, With the wild wind ruffling thine uncombed hair, And thy nostril upturned to the odorous air, Would not woo thee to pause, till his skill might trace At leisure the lines of that eager face; The collarless neck and the coal-black paws And the bit grasped tight in the massive jaws; The delicate curve of the legs, that seem Too slight for their burden—and, O, the gleam Of that eye, so sombre and yet so gay! Still away, my lithe Arab, once more away!
Nay, tempt me not, Arab, again to stay; Since I crave neither Echo nor Fun to-day. For thy hand is not Echoless—there they are, Fun, Glowworm, and Echo, and Evening Star, And thou hintest withal that thou fain wouldst shine, As I read them, these bulgy old boots of mine. But I shrink from thee, Arab! Thou eatest eel-pie, Thou evermore hast at least one black eye; There is brass on thy brow, and thy swarthy hues Are due not to nature, but handling shoes; And the bit in thy mouth, I regret to see, Is a bit of tobacco-pipe—Flee, child, flee!
CHARLES STUART CALVERLEY.
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.
POEMS RECEIVED IN RESPONSE TO AN ADVERTISED CALL FOR A NATIONAL ANTHEM.
NATIONAL ANTHEM. BY H. W. L——, OF CAMBRIDGE.
Back in the years when Phlagstaff, the Dane, was monarch Over the sea-ribbed land of the fleet-footed Norsemen, Once there went forth young Ursa to gaze at the heavens,— Ursa, the noblest of all Vikings and horsemen.
Musing he sat in his stirrups and viewed the horizon, Where the Aurora lapt stars in a north-polar manner: Wildly he started,—for there in the heavens before him Fluttered and flew the original star-spangled banner.
Two objections are in the way of the acceptance of this anthem by the committee: in the first place, it is not an anthem at all; secondly, it is a gross plagiarism from an old Sclavonic war-song of the primeval ages.
Next we quote from a
NATIONAL ANTHEM. BY THE HON. EDWARD E—, OF BOSTON.
Ponderous projectiles, hurled by heavy hands, Fell on our Liberty's poor infant head, Ere she a stadium had well advanced On the great path that to her greatness led; Her temple's propylon, was shatter-ed; Yet, thanks to saving Grace and Washington, Her incubus was from her bosom hurled; And, rising like a cloud-dispelling sun, She took the oil with which her hair was curled To grease the "hub" round which revolves the world.
This fine production is rather heavy for an "anthem," and contains too much of Boston to be considered strictly national. To set such an "anthem" to music would require a Wagner; and even were it really accommodated to a tune, it could only be whistled by the populace.
We now come to a
NATIONAL ANTHEM. BY JOHN GREENLEAF W—.
My native land, thy Puritanic stock Still finds its roots firm bound in Plymouth Rock; And all thy sons unite in one grand wish,— To keep the virtues of Preserv-ed Fish.
Preserv-ed Fish, the Deacon stern and true, Told our New England what her sons should do; And, should they swerve from loyalty and right, Then the whole land were lost indeed in night.
The sectional bias of this "anthem" renders it unsuitable for use in that small margin of the world situated outside of New England. Hence the above must be rejected.
Here we have a very curious
NATIONAL ANTHEM. BY DR. OLIVER WENDELL H—.
A diagnosis of our history proves Our native land a land its native loves: Its birth a deed obstetric without peer, Its growth a source of wonder far and near.
To love it more, behold how foreign shores Sink into nothingness beside its stores. Hyde Park at best—though counted ultra grand— The "Boston Common" of Victoria's land—
The committee must not be blamed for rejecting the above after reading thus far, for such an "anthem" could only be sung by a college of surgeons or a Beacon Street tea-party.
Turn we now to a
NATIONAL ANTHEM. BY WILLIAM CULLEN B—.
The sun sinks softly to his evening post, The sun swells grandly to his morning crown; Yet not a star our flag of heaven has lost, And not a sunset stripe with him goes down.
So thrones may fall; and from the dust of those New thrones may rise, to totter like the last; But still our country's noble planet glows, While the eternal stars of Heaven are fast.
Upon finding that this does not go well to the air of "Yankee Doodle," the committee feel justified in declining it; it being furthermore prejudiced against it by a suspicion that the poet has crowded an advertisement of a paper which he edits into the first line.
Next we quote from a
NATIONAL ANTHEM. BY GENERAL GEORGE P. M—.
In the days that tried our fathers, Many years ago, Our fair land achieved her freedom Blood-bought, you know. Shall we not defend her ever, As we'd defend That fair maiden, kind and tender, Calling us friend?
Yes! Let all the echoes answer, From hill and vale; Yes! Let other nations hearing, Joy in the tale. Our Columbia is a lady, High born and fair, We have sworn allegiance to her,— Touch her who dare.
The tone of this "anthem" not being devotional enough to suit the committee, it should be printed on an edition of linen-cambric hankerchiefs for ladies especially.
Observe this
NATIONAL ANTHEM. BY N. P. W—.
One hue of our flag is taken From the cheeks of my blushing pet, And its stars beat time and sparkle Like the studs on her chemisette.
Its blue is the ocean shadow That hides in her dreamy eyes, And it conquers all men, like her, And still for a Union flies.
Several members of the committee find that this "anthem" has too much of the Anacreon spice to suit them.
We next peruse a
NATIONAL ANTHEM. THOMAS BAILEY A—.
The little brown squirrel hops in the corn, The cricket quaintly sings; The emerald pigeon nods his head, And the shad in the river springs; The dainty sunflower hangs its head On the shore of the summer sea; And better far that I were dead, If Maud did not love me.
I love the squirrel that hops in the corn, And the cricket that quaintly sings; And the emerald pigeon that nods his head, And the shad that gayly springs. I love the dainty sunflower, too, And Maud with her snowy breast; I love them all; but I love—I love— I love my country best.
This is certainly very beautiful, and sounds somewhat like Tennyson. Though it may be rejected by the committee, it can never lose its value as a piece of excellent reading for children. It is calculated to fill the youthful mind with patriotism and natural history, beside touching the youthful heart with an emotion palpitating for all.
ROBERT H. NEWELL (Orpheus C. Kerr).
——————
BELAGCHOLLY DAYS.
Chilly Dovebber with its boadigg blast Dow cubs add strips the beddow add the lawd, Eved October's suddy days are past— Add Subber's gawd!
I kdow dot what it is to which I cligg That stirs to sogg add sorrow, yet I trust That still I sigg, but as the liddets sigg— Because I bust.
Dear leaves that rustle sadly 'death by feet— By liggerigg feet—add fill by eyes with tears, Ye bake be sad, add oh! it gars be greet That ye are sear!
The sud id sulled skies too early sigks; Do trees are greed but evergreeds add ferds; Gawd are the orioles add bobligks— Those Robert Burds!
Add dow, farewell to roses add to birds, To larded fields and tigkligg streablets eke; Farewell to all articulated words I faid would speak.
Farewell, by cherished strolliggs od the sward, Greed glades add forest shades, farewell to you; With sorrowigg heart I, wretched add forlord, Bid you—achew!!!
ANONYMOUS.
SNEEZING.
What a moment, what a doubt! All my nose is inside out,— All my thrilling, tickling caustic, Pyramid rhinocerostic, Wants to sneeze and cannot do it! How it yearns me, thrills me, stings me, How with rapturous torment wrings me! Now says, "Sneeze, you fool,—get through it." Shee—shee—oh! 'tis most del-ishi— Ishi—ishi—most del-ishi! (Hang it, I shall sneeze till spring!) Snuff is a delicious thing.
LEIGH HUNT.
TO MY NOSE.
Knows he that never took a pinch, Nosey, the pleasure thence which flows? Knows he the titillating joys Which my nose knows? O nose, I am as proud of thee As any mountain of its snows; I gaze on thee, and feel that pride A Roman knows!
ALFRED A. FORRESTER (Alfred Crowquill).
LAPSUS CALAMI. TO R. K.
Will there never come a season Which shall rid us from the curse Of a prose which knows no reason And an unmelodious verse: When the world shall cease to wonder At the genius of an ass, And a boy's eccentric blunder Shall not bring success to pass:
When mankind shall be delivered From the clash of magazines, And the inkstand shall be shivered Into countless smithereens: When there stands a muzzled stripling, Mute, beside a muzzled bore: When the Rudyards cease from Kipling And the Haggards ride no more?
JAMES KENNETH STEPHEN.
A CONSERVATIVE.
The garden beds I wandered by One bright and cheerful morn, When I found a new-fledged butterfly, A-sitting on a thorn, A black and crimson butterfly, All doleful and forlorn.
I thought that life could have no sting, To infant butterflies, So I gazed on this unhappy thing With wonder and surprise, While sadly with his waving wing He wiped his weeping eyes.
Said I, "What can the matter be? Why weepest thou so sore? With garden fair and sunlight free And flowers in goodly store:"— But he only turned away from me And burst into a roar.
Cried he, "My legs are thin and few Where once I had a swarm! Soft fuzzy fur—a joy to view— Once kept my body warm, Before these flapping wing-things grew, To hamper and deform!"
At that outrageous bug I shot The fury of mine eye; Said I, in scorn all burning hot, In rage and anger high, "You ignominious idiot! Those wings are made to fly!"
"I do not want to fly," said he, "I only want to squirm!" And he drooped his wings dejectedly, But still his voice was firm: "I do not want to be a fly! I want to be a worm!"
O yesterday of unknown lack! To-day of unknown bliss! I left my fool in red and black, The last I saw was this,— The creature madly climbing back Into his chrysalis.
CHARLOTTE PERKINS GILMAN.
"FOREVER."
Forever! 'T is a single word! Our rude forefathers deemed it two; Can you imagine so absurd A view?
Forever! What abysms of woe The word reveals, what frenzy, what Despair! For ever (printed so) Did not.
It looks, ah me! how trite and tame; It fails to sadden or appall Or solace—it is not the same At all.
O thou to whom it first occurred To solder the disjoined, and dower Thy native language with a word Of power:
We bless thee! Whether far or near Thy dwelling, whether dark or fair Thy kingly brow, is neither here Nor there.
But in men's hearts shall be thy throne, While the great pulse of England beats: Thou coiner of a word unknown To Keats!
And nevermore must printer do As men did long ago; but run "For" into "ever," bidding two Be one.
Forever! passion-fraught, it throws O'er the dim page a gloom, a glamour: It's sweet, it's strange; and I suppose It's grammar.
Forever! 'T is a single word! And yet our fathers deemed it two: Nor am I confident they erred;— Are you?
IV. INGENUITIES: ODDITIES. ————
SIEGE OF BELGRADE.
An Austrian army, awfully arrayed, Boldly by battery besieged Belgrade. Cossack commanders cannonading come, Dealing destruction's devastating doom. Every endeavor engineers essay, For fame, for fortune fighting,—furious fray! Generals 'gainst generals grapple—gracious God! How honors Heaven heroic hardihood! Infuriate, indiscriminate in ill, Kindred kill kinsmen, kinsmen kindred kill. Labor low levels longest loftiest lines; Men march mid mounds, mid moles, mid murderous mines; Now noxious, noisy numbers nothing, naught Of outward obstacles, opposing ought; Poor patriots, partly purchased, partly pressed, Quite quaking, quickly "Quarter! Quarter!" quest. Reason returns, religious right redounds, Suwarrow stops such sanguinary sounds. Truce to thee, Turkey! Triumph to thy train, Unwise, unjust, unmerciful Ukraine! Vanish, vain victory! vanish, victory vain! Why wish we warfare? Wherefore welcome were Xerxes, Ximenes, Xanthus, Xavier? Yield, yield, ye youths! ye yeomen, yield your yell! Zeus's, Zarpater's, Zoroaster's zeal, Attracting all, arms against acts appeal!
ANONYMOUS.
METRICAL FEET.
Trochee trips from long to short; From long to long in solemn sort Slow Spondee stalks; strong foot! yet ill able Ever to come up with dactyl trisyllable. Iambics march from short to long;— With a leap and a bound the swift Anapæsts throng; One syllable long, with one short at each side, Amphibrachys hastes with a stately stride;— First and last being long, middle short, Amphimacer Strikes his thundering hoofs like a proud high-bred racer.
NOCTURNAL SKETCH. BLANK VERSE IN RHYME.
Even is come; and from the dark Park, hark, The signal of the setting sun—one gun! And six is sounding from the chime, prime time To go and see the Drury-Lane Dane slain,— Or hear Othello's jealous doubt spout out,— Or Macbeth raving at that shade-made blade, Denying to his frantic clutch much touch; Or else to see Ducrow with wide stride ride Four horses as no other man can span; Or in the small Olympic pit sit split Laughing at Liston, while you quiz his phiz.
Anon Night comes, and with her wings brings things Such as, with his poetic tongue, Young sung; The gas upblazes with its bright white light, And paralytic watchmen prowl, howl, growl About the streets, and take up Pall-Mall Sal, Who, hasting to her nightly jobs, robs fobs.
Now thieves to enter for your cash, smash, crash, Past drowsy Charley, in a deep sleep, creep, But, frightened by Policeman B. 3, flee, And while they're going, whisper low, "No go!"
Now puss, when folks are in their beds, treads leads, And sleepers, waking, grumble, "Drat that cat!" Who in the gutter caterwauls, squalls, mauls Some feline foe, and screams in shrill ill-will.
Now Bulls of Bashan, of a prize size, rise In childish dreams, and with a roar gore poor Georgy, or Charley, or Billy, willy-nilly;— But Nursemaid in a nightmare rest, chest-pressed, Dreameth of one of her old flames, James Games, And that she hears—what faith is man's!—Ann's banns And his, from Reverend Mr. Rice, twice, thrice; White ribbons flourish, and a stout shout out, That upward goes, shows Rose knows those bows' woes!
THOMAS HOOD.
RAILROAD RHYME.
Singing through the forests, Rattling over ridges; Shooting under arches, Rumbling over bridges; Whizzing through the mountains, Buzzing o'er the vale,— Bless me! this is pleasant, Riding on the rail!
Men of different "stations" In the eye of fame, Here are very quickly Coming to the same; High and lowly people, Birds of every feather, On a common level, Travelling together.
Gentleman in shorts, Looming very tall; Gentleman at large Talking very small; Gentleman in tights, With a loose-ish mien; Gentleman in gray, Looking rather green;
Gentleman quite old, Asking for the news, Gentleman in black, In a fit of blues; Gentleman in claret, Sober as a vicar; Gentleman in tweed, Dreadfully in liquor!
Stranger on the right Looking very sunny, Obviously reading Something rather funny. Now the smiles are thicker,— Wonder what they mean! Faith, he's got the Knicker- Bocker Magazine!
Stranger on the left Closing up his peepers; Now he snores amain, Like the Seven Sleepers; At his feet a volume Gives the explanation, How the man grew stupid From "Association"!
Ancient maiden lady Anxiously remarks, That there must be peril 'Mong so many sparks; Roguish-looking fellow, Turning to the stranger, Says it's his opinion She is out of danger!
Woman with her baby, Sitting vis-à-vis; Baby keeps a-squalling, Woman looks at me; Asks about the distance, Says it 's tiresome talking, Noises of the cars Are so very shocking!
Market-woman, careful Of the precious casket, Knowing eggs are eggs, Tightly holds her basket; Feeling that a smash, If it came, would surely Send her eggs to pot, Rather prematurely. Singing through the forests, Rattling over ridges; Shooting under arches, Rumbling over bridges; Whizzing through the mountains, Buzzing o'er the vale,— Bless me! this is pleasant, Riding on the rail!
JOHN GODFREY SAXE.
PHYSICS. (THE UNCONSCIOUS POETIZING OF A PHILOSOPHER.)
There is no force however great Can stretch a cord however fine Into a horizontal line That shall be accurately straight.
WILLIAM WHEWELL.
THE COLLEGIAN TO HIS BRIDE: BEING A MATHEMATICAL MADRIGAL IN THE SIMPLEST FORM.
Charmer, on a given straight line, And which we will call B C, Meeting at a common point A, Draw the lines A C, A B. But, my sweetest, so arrange it That they're equal, all the three; Then you'll find that, in the sequel, All their angles, too are equal. Equal angles, so to term them, Each one opposite its brother! Equal joys and equal sorrows, Equal hopes, 'twere sin to smother, Equal,—O, divine ecstatics,— Based on Hutton's mathematics!
PUNCH.
THE LAWYER'S INVOCATION TO SPRING
Whereas, on certain boughs and sprays Now divers birds are heard to sing, And sundry flowers their heads upraise, Hail to the coming on of spring!
The songs of those said birds arouse The memory of our youthful hours, As green as those said sprays and boughs, As fresh and sweet as those said flowers.
The birds aforesaid,—happy pairs,— Love, mid the aforesaid boughs, inshrines In freehold nests; themselves, their heirs, Administrators, and assigns.
O busiest term of Cupid's Court, Where tender plaintiffs actions bring,— Season of frolic and of sport, Hail, as aforesaid, coming spring!
THE COSMIC EGG.
Upon a rock yet uncreate, Amid a chaos inchoate, An uncreated being sate; Beneath him, rock, Above him, cloud. And the cloud was rock, And the rock was cloud. The rock then growing soft and warm, The cloud began to take a form, A form chaotic, vast, and vague, Which issued in the cosmic egg. Then the Being uncreate On the egg did incubate, And thus became the incubator; And of the egg did allegate, And thus became the alligator; And the incubator was potentate, But the alligator was potentator.
ANONYMOUS.
THE HEN.
A famous hen's my story's theme, Which ne'er was known to tire Of laying eggs, but then she'd scream So loud o'er every egg, 't would seem The house must be on fire. A turkey-cock, who ruled the walk, A wiser bird and older, Could bear 't no more, so off did stalk Right to the hen, and told her: "Madam, that scream, I apprehend, Adds nothing to the matter; It surely helps the egg no whit; Then lay your egg, and done with it! I pray you, madam, as a friend, Cease that superfluous clatter! You know not how 't goes through my head." "Humph! very likely!" madam said, Then proudly putting forth a leg,— "Uneducated barnyard fowl! You know, no more than any owl, The noble privilege and praise Of authorship in modern days— I'll tell you why I do it: First, you perceive, I lay the egg, And then—review it."
From the German of MATTHAIAS CLAUDIUS.
ODE—TO THE ROC.
O unhatched Bird, so high preferred, As porter of the Pole, Of beakless things, who have no wings, Exact no heavy toll. If this my song its theme should wrong, The theme itself is sweet; Let others rhyme the unborn time, I sing the Obsolete.
And first, I praise the nobler traits Of birds preceding Noah, The giant clan, whose meat was Man, Dinornis, Apteryx, Moa. These, by hints we get from prints Of feathers and of feet, Excelled in wits the later tits, And so are obsolete.
I sing each race whom we displace In their primeval woods, While Gospel Aid inspires Free-Trade To traffic with their goods. With Norman Dukes the still Sioux In breeding might compete; But where men talk the tomahawk Will soon grow obsolete.
I celebrate each perished State; Great cities ploughed to loam; Chaldæan kings; the Bulls with wings; Dead Greece, and dying Rome. The Druids' shrine may shelter swine, Or stack the farmer's peat; 'Tis thus mean moths treat finest cloths, Mean men the obsolete.
Shall nought be said of theories dead? The Ptolemaic system? Figure and phrase, that bent all ways Duns Scotus liked to twist 'em? Averrhoes' thought? and what was taught, In Salamanca's seat? Sihons and Ogs? and showers of frogs? Sea-serpents obsolete?
Pillion and pack have left their track; Dead is "the Tally-ho;" Steam rails cut down each festive crown Of the old world and slow; Jack-in-the-Green no more is seen, Nor Maypole in the street; No mummers play on Christmas-day; St. George is obsolete.
O fancy, why hast thou let die So many a frolic fashion? Doublet and hose, and powdered beaux? Where are thy songs whose passion Turned thought to fire in knight and squire, While hearts of ladies beat? Where thy sweet style, ours, ours erewhile? All this is obsolete.
In Auvergne low potatoes grow Upon volcanoes old; The moon, they say, had her young day, Though now her heart is cold; Even so our earth, sorrow and mirth, Seasons of snow and heat, Checked by her tides in silence glides To become obsolete.
The astrolabe of every babe Reads, in its fatal sky, "Man's largest room is the low tomb— Ye all are born to die." Therefore this theme, O Bird, I deem The noblest we may treat; The final cause of Nature's laws Is to grow obsolete.
WILLIAM JOHN COURTHOPE.
MOTHERHOOD.
She laid it where the sunbeams fall Unscanned upon the broken wall. Without a tear, without a groan, She laid it near a mighty stone, Which some rude swain had haply cast Thither in sport, long ages past, And time with mosses had o'erlaid, And fenced with many a tall grass-blade, And all about bid roses bloom And violets shed their soft perfume. There, in its cool and quiet bed, She set her burden down and fled: Nor flung, all eager to escape, One glance upon the perfect shape, That lay, still warm and fresh and fair, But motionless and soundless there. No human eye had marked her pass Across the linden-shadowed grass Ere yet the minster clock chimed seven: Only the innocent birds of heaven— The magpie, and the rook whose nest Swings as the elm-tree waves his crest— And the lithe cricket, and the hoar And huge-limbed hound that guards the door, Looked on when, as a summer wind That, passing, leaves no trace behind, All unapparelled, barefoot all, She ran to that old ruined wall, To leave upon the chill dank earth (For ah! she never knew its worth), Mid hemlock rank, and fern and ling, And dews of night, that precious thing! And then it might have lain forlorn From morn to eve, from eve to morn: But, that, by some wild impulse led, The mother, ere she turned and fled, One moment stood erect and high; Then poured into the silent sky A cry so jubilant, so strange, That Alice—as she strove to range Her rebel ringlets at her glass— Sprang up and gazed across the grass; Shook back those curls so fair to see, Clapped her soft hands in childish glee; And shrieked—her sweet face all aglow, Her very limbs with rapture shaking— "My hen has laid an egg, I know; And only hear the noise she's making!"
CHARLES STUART CALVERLEY.
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-frocked, 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 paroquet— 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 curled One day beside her untouched 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; 'T were 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 STUART CALVERLEY.
LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM.
[A farmers daughter, during the rage for albums, handed to the author an old account-book ruled for pounds, shillings, and pence, and requested a contribution.]
| £. | s. | d. | |
| This world's a scene as dark as Styx, | |||
| Where hope is scarce worth | 2 | 6 | |
| Our joys are borne so fleeting hence | |||
| That they are dear at | 18 | ||
| And yet to stay here most are willing, | |||
| Although they may not have | 1 | ||
| WILLIS GAYLORD |
ON THE BRINK.
I watched her as she stooped to pluck A wild flower in her hair to twine; And wished that it had been my luck To call her mine;
Anon I heard her rate with mad, Mad words her babe within its cot, And felt particularly glad That it had not.
I knew (such subtle brains have men!) That she was uttering what she shouldn't; And thought that I would chide, and then I thought I wouldn't.
Few could have gazed upon that face, Those pouting coral lips, and chided: A Rhadamanthus, in my place, Had done as I did.
For wrath with which our bosoms glow Is chained there oft by Beauty's spell; And, more than that, I did not know The widow well.
So the harsh phrase passed unreproved: Still mute—(O brothers, was it sin?)— I drank unutterably moved, Her beauty in.
And to myself I murmured low, As on her upturned face and dress The moonlight fell, "Would she say No,— By chance, or Yes?"
She stood so calm, so like a ghost, Betwixt me and that magic moon, That I already was almost A finished coon.
But when she caught adroitly up And soothed with smiles her little daughter; And gave it, if I'm right, a sup Of barley-water;
And, crooning still the strange, sweet lore Which only mothers' tongues can utter, Snowed with deft hand the sugar o'er Its bread-and-butter;
And kissed it clingingly (ah, why Don't women do these things in private?)— I felt that if I lost her, I Should not survive it.
And from my mouth the words nigh flew,— The past, the future, I forgat 'em,— "Oh, if you'd kiss me as you do That thankless atom!"
But this thought came ere yet I spake, And froze the sentence on my lips: "They err who marry wives that make Those little slips."
It came like some familiar rhyme, Some copy to my boyhood set; And that's perhaps the reason I'm Unmarried yet.
Would she have owned how pleased she was, And told her love with widow's pride? I never found out that, because I never tried.
Be kind to babes and beasts and birds, Hearts may be hard though lips are coral; And angry words are angry words: And that's the moral.
THE V-A-S-E.
From the maddening crowd they stand apart, The maidens four and the Work of Art;
And none might tell from sight alone In which had culture ripest grown,—
The Gotham Millions fair to see, The Philadelphia Pedigree,
The Boston Mind of azure hue, Or the soulful Soul from Kalamazoo,—
For all loved Art in a seemly way, With an earnest soul and a capital A.
————
Long they worshipped; but no one broke The sacred stillness, until up spoke
The Western one from the nameless place, Who blushingly said: "What a lovely vace!"
Over three faces a sad smile flew, And they edged away from Kalamazoo.
But Gotham's haughty soul was stirred To crush the stranger with one small word
Deftly hiding reproof in praise, She cries: "'T is, indeed, a lovely vaze!"
But brief her unworthy triumph when The lofty one from the home of Penn,
With the consciousness of two grand papas, Exclaims: "It is quite a lovely vahs!"
And glances round with an anxious thrill, Awaiting the word of Beacon Hill.
But the Boston maid smiles courteouslee, And gently murmurs: "Oh pardon me!
"I did not catch your remark, because I was so entranced with that charming vaws!"
Dies erit prægelida Sinistra quum Bostonia.
JAMES JEFFREY ROCHE.
LARKS AND NIGHTINGALES.
Alone I sit at eventide: The twilight glory pales, And o'er the meadows far and wide Chant pensive bobolinks. (One might say nightingales!)
Song-sparrows warble on the tree, I hear the purling brook, And from the old "manse o'er the lea" Flies slow the cawing crow. (In England 'twere a rook!)
The last faint golden beams of day Still glow on cottage panes, And on their lingering homeward way Walk weary laboring men. (Oh, would that we had swains!)
From farm-yards, down fair rural glades Come sounds of tinkling bells, And songs of merry brown milkmaids, Sweeter than oriole's. (Yes, thank you—Philomel's!)
I could sit here till morning came, All through the night hours dark, Until I saw the sun's bright flame And heard the chickadee. (Alas we have no lark!)
We have no leas, no larks, no rooks, No swains, no nightingales, No singing milkmaids (save in books): The poet does his best— It is the rhyme that fails!
NATHAN HASKELL DOLE.
OF BLUE CHINA.
There's a joy without canker or cark, There's a pleasure eternally new, 'T is to gloat on the glaze and the mark Of china that's ancient and blue; Unchipped, all the centuries through It has passed, since the chime of it rang, And they fashioned it, figure and hue, In the reign of the Emperor Hwang.
These dragons (their tails, you remark, Into bunches of gillyflowers grew),— When Noah came out of the ark, Did these lie in wait for his crew? They snorted, they snapped, and they slew, They were mighty of fin and of fang, And their portraits Celestials drew In the reign of the Emperor Hwang.
Here's a pot with a cot in a park, In a park where the peach-blossoms blew, Where the lovers eloped in the dark, Lived, died, and were changed into two Bright birds that eternally flew Through the boughs of the may, as they sang; 'T is a tale was undoubtedly true In the reign of the Emperor Hwang.
ENVOY Come, snarl at my ecstasies, do, Kind critic; your "tongue has a tang," But—a sage never heeded a shrew In the reign of the Emperor Hwang.
A RIDDLE. [14] THE LETTER "H".
'T was in heaven pronounced, and 't was muttered in hell, And echo caught faintly the sound as it fell; On the confines of earth 't was permitted to rest, And the depths of the ocean its presence confessed; 'T will be found in the sphere when 't is riven asunder, Be seen in the lightning and heard in the thunder. 'T was allotted to man with his earliest breath, Attends him at birth, and awaits him in death, Presides o'er his happiness, honor and health, Is the prop of his house, and the end of his wealth. In the heaps of the miser 't is hoarded with care, But is sure to be lost on his prodigal heir. It begins every hope, every wish it must bound, With the husbandman toils, and with monarchs is crowned. Without it the soldier, the seaman may roam, But woe to the wretch who expels it from home! In the whispers of conscience its voice will be found, Nor e'en in the whirlwind of passion be drowned. 'T will not soften the heart; but though deaf be the ear, It will make it acutely and instantly hear. Yet in shade let it rest, like a delicate flower, Ah, breathe on it softly,—it dies in an hour.
A THRENODY. "The Ahkoond of Swat is dead." —London Papers.
What, what, what, What's the news from Swat? Sad news, Bad news, Comes by the cable led Through the Indian Ocean's bed, Through the Persian Gulf, the Red Sea and the Med- Iterranean—he's dead; The Ahkoond is dead!
For the Ahkoond I mourn, Who wouldn't? He strove to disregard the message stern, But he Ahkoodn't. Dead, dead, dead; (Sorrow Swats!) Swats wha hae wi' Ahkoond bled, Swats whom he had often led Onward to a gory bed, Or to victory, As the case might be, Sorrow Swats! Tears shed, Shed tears like water, Your great Ahkoond is dead! That Swats the matter!
Mourn, city of Swat! Your great Ahkoond is not, But lain 'mid worms to rot. His mortal part alone, his soul was caught (Because he was a good Ahkoond) Up to the bosom of Mahound. Though earthy walls his frame surround (Forever hallowed be the ground!) And sceptics mock the lowly mound And say "He's now of no Ahkoond!" His soul is in the skies,— The azure skies that bend above his loved Metropolis of Swat. He sees with larger, other eyes, Athwart all earthly mysteries— He knows what's Swat.
Let Swat bury the great Ahkoond With a noise of mourning and of lamentation! Let Swat bury the great Ahkoond With the noise of the mourning of the Swattish nation!
Fallen is at length Its tower of strength, Its sun is dimmed ere it had nooned; Dead lies the great Ahkoond, The great Ahkoond of Swat Is not!
LINES TO MISS FLORENCE HUNTINGTON.
Sweet maiden of Passamaquoddy, Shall we seek for communion of souls Where the deep Mississippi meanders, Or the distant Saskatchewan rolls?
Ah no,—for in Maine I will find thee A sweetly sequestrated nook, Where the far winding Skoodoowabskooksis Conjoins with the Skoodoowabskook.
There wander two beautiful rivers, With many a winding and crook; The one is the Skoodoowabskooksis, The other—the Skoodoowabskook.
Ah, sweetest of haunts! though unmentioned In geography, atlas, or book, How fair is the Skoodoowabskooksis, When joining the Skoodoowabskook!
Our cot shall be close by the waters Within that sequestrated nook— Reflected in Skoodoowabskooksis And mirrored in Skoodoowabskook.
You shall sleep to the music of leaflets, By zephyrs in wantonness shook, And dream of the Skoodoowabskooksis, And, perhaps, of the Skoodoowabskook.
When awaked by the hens and the roosters, Each morn, you shall joyously look On the junction of Skoodoowabskooksis With the soft gliding Skoodoowabskook.
Your food shall be fish from the waters, Drawn forth on the point of a hook, From murmuring Skoodoowabskookis, Or wandering Skoodoowabskook!
You shall quaff the most sparkling of water, Drawn forth from a silvery brook Which flows to the Skoodoowabskooksis, And then to the Skoodoowabskook!
And you shall preside at the banquet, And I will wait on thee as cook; And we'll talk of the Skoodoowabskooksis, And sing of the Skoodoowabskook!
Let others sing loudly of Saco, Of Quoddy, and Tattamagouche, Of Kennebeccasis, and Quaco, Of Merigonishe, and Buctouche,
Of Nashwaak, and Magaguadavique, Or Memmerimammericook,— There's none like the Skoodoowabskooksis, Excepting the Skoodoowabskook!
V. NONSENSE. ————
NONSENSE.
Good reader, if you e'er have seen, When Phœbus hastens to his pillow, The mermaids with their tresses green Dancing upon the western billow; If you have seen at twilight dim, When the lone spirit's vesper hymn Floats wild along the winding shore, The fairy train their ringlets weave Glancing along the spangled green; I you have seen all this, and more— God bless me! what a deal you've seen!
THOMAS MOORE.
THE PURPLE COW.
I never saw a Purple Cow, I never hope to see one; But I can tell you, anyhow, I rather see than be one.
PSYCHOLOPHON. [Supposed to be translated from the Old Parsee.]
Twine then the rays Round her soft Theban tissues! All will be as She says, When that dead past reissues. Matters not what nor where, Hark, to the moon's dim cluster! How was her heavy hair Lithe as a feather duster! Matters not when nor whence; Flittertigibbet! Sound makes the song, not sense, Thus I inhibit!
GELETT BURGESS.
THE BAKER'S TALE. FROM "THE HUNTING OF THE SNARK"
They roused him with muffins—they roused him with ice— They roused him with mustard and cress— They roused him with jam and judicious advice— They set him conundrums to guess.
When at length he sat up and was able to speak, His sad story he offered to tell; And the Bellman cried "Silence! Not even a shriek!" And excitedly tingled his bell.
There was silence supreme! Not a shriek, not a scream, Scarcely even a howl or a groan, As the man they called "Ho!" told his story of woe In an antediluvian tone.
My father and mother were honest though poor—" "Skip all that!" cried the Bellman in haste. "If it once become dark, there's no chance of a Snark— We have hardly a minute to waste!"
"I skip forty years," said the Baker, in tears, "And proceed without further remark To the day when you took me aboard of your ship To help you in hunting the Snark.
"A dear uncle of mine (after whom I was named) Remarked, when I bade him farewell—" "Oh, skip your dear uncle!" the Bellman exclaimed, As he angrily tingled his bell.
"He remarked to me then," said that mildest of men, "'If your Snark be a Snark, that is right: Fetch it home by all means—you may serve it with greens, And it's handy for striking a light.
"'You may seek it with thimbles—and seek it with care; You may hunt it with forks and hope; You may threaten its life with a railway-share; You may charm it with smiles and soap—'"
("That's exactly the method," the Bellman bold In a hasty parenthesis cried, "That's exactly the way I have always been told That the capture of Snarks should be tried!")
"'But oh, beamish nephew, beware of the day, If your Snark be a Boojum! For then You will softly and suddenly vanish away, And never be met with again!'
"It is this, it is this that oppresses my soul, When I think of my uncle's last words: And my heart is like nothing so much as a bowl Brimming over with quivering curds!
"It is this, it is this—" "We have had that before!" The Bellman indignantly said. And the Baker replied, "Let me say it once more. It is this, it is this that I dread!
"I engage with the Snark—every night after dark— In a dreamy, delirious fight: I serve it with greens in those shadowy scenes, And I use it for striking a light:
"But if ever I meet with a Boojum, that day, In a moment (of this I am sure), I shall softly and suddenly vanish away— And the notion I cannot endure!"
CHARLES LUTWIDGE DODGSON (Lewis Carroll).
JABBERWOCKY.
'T was brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe; All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe.
"Beware the Jabberwock, my son! The jaws that bite, the claws that catch! Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun The frumious Bandersnatch!"
He took his vorpal sword in hand: Long time the manxome foe he sought— So rested he by the Tumtum tree, And stood awhile in thought.
And as in uffish thought he stood, The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame, Came whiffling through the tulgey wood, And burbled as it came!
One, two! One, two! And through and through The vorpal blade went snicker-snack! He left it dead, and with its head He went galumphing back.
"And hast thou slain the Jabberwock? Come to my arms, my beamish boy! O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!" He chortled in his joy.
'T was brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe; All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe.
CHARLES LUTWIDGE DODGSON (Lewis Carroll).
FOR A NOVEL OF HALL CAINE'S. AFTER KIPLING.
He sits in a sea-green grotto with a bucket of lurid paint, And draws the Thing as it isn't for the God of things as they ain't.
ROBERT BRIDGES (Droch).