Ah, jocund trifles writ in tears,
And merry stanzas steeped in rue!
When all the world in drab appears
The fool must still in motley woo.
Tho’ bitter be the cud he chew,
Still must he grind his foolish grist;
Still must he ply, the long day through,
The tragic trade of humorist!
Lady of Tears, what pains perdue
The heart and soul of him may twist
Who doth in cap and bells pursue
The glad sad trade of humorist!
GENTLE DOCTOR BROWN
It was a gentle sawbones and his name was Doctor Brown.
His auto was the terror of a small suburban town.
His practice, quite amazing for so trivial a place,
Consisted of the victims of his homicidal pace.
So constant was his practice and so high his motor’s gear
That at knocking down pedestrians he never had a peer;
But it must, in simple justice, be as truly written down
That no man could be more thoughtful than gentle Doctor Brown.
Whatever was the errand on which Doctor Brown was bent
He’d stop to patch a victim up and never charged a cent.
He’d always pause, whoever ’twas he happened to run down:
A humane and a thoughtful man was gentle Doctor Brown.
“How fortunate,” he would observe, “how fortunate ’twas I
That knocked you galley-west and heard your wild and wailing cry.
There are some heartless wretches who would leave you here alone,
Without a sympathetic ear to catch your dying moan.