Chapter 3

"You are old, Father William," the young man said, "And your nose has a look of surprise; Your eyes have turned round to the back of your head, And you live upon cucumber pies."

"I know it, I know it," the old man replied, "And it comes from employing a quack, Who said if I laughed when the crocodile died I should never have pains in my back."

"You are old, Father William," the young man said, "And your legs always get in your way; You use too much mortar in mixing your bread, And you try to drink timothy hay."

"Very true, very true," said the wretched old man, "Every word that you tell me is true; And it's caused by my having my kerosene can Painted red where it ought to be blue."

"You are old, Father William," the young man said, "And your teeth are beginning to freeze, Your favorite daughter has wheels in her head, And the chickens are eating your knees."

"You are right," said the old man, "I cannot deny, That my troubles are many and great, But I'll butter my ears on the Fourth of July, And then I'll be able to skate."

_Anonymous_.

IN THE GLOAMING

The twilight twiles in the vernal vale, In adumbration of azure awe, And I listlessly list in my swallow-tail To the limpet licking his limber jaw. And it's O for the sound of the daffodil, For the dry distillings of prawn and prout, When hope hops high and a heather hill Is a dear delight and a darksome doubt. The snagwap sits in the bosky brae And sings to the gumplet in accents sweet; The gibwink hasn't a word to say, But pensively smiles at the fair keeweet.

And it's O for the jungles of Boorabul. For the jingling jungles to jangle in, With a moony maze of mellado mull, And a protoplasm for next of kin. O, sweet is the note of the shagreen shard And mellow the mew of the mastodon, When the soboliferous Somminard Is scenting the shadows at set of sun. And it's O for the timorous tamarind In the murky meadows of Mariboo, For the suave sirocco of Sazerkind, And the pimpernell pellets of Pangipoo.

_James C. Bayles_.

BALLAD OF BEDLAM

Oh, lady, wake! the azure moon Is rippling in the verdant skies, The owl is warbling his soft tune, Awaiting but thy snowy eyes.

The joys of future years are past, To-morrow's hopes have fled away; Still let us love, and e'en at last We shall be happy yesterday.

The early beam of rosy night Drives off the ebon morn afar, While through the murmur of the light The huntsman winds his mad guitar.

Then, lady, wake! my brigantine Pants, neighs, and prances to be free; Till the creation I am thine, To some rich desert fly with me.

_Punch_.

'TIS SWEET TO ROAM

'Tis sweet to roam when morning's light Resounds across the deep; And the crystal song of the woodbine bright Hushes the rocks to sleep, And the blood-red moon in the blaze of noon Is bathed in a crumbling dew, And the wolf rings out with a glittering shout, To-whit, to-whit, to-whoo!

_Anonymous_.

HYMN TO THE SUNRISE

The dreamy crags with raucous voices croon Across the zephyr's heliotrope career; I sit contentedly upon the moon And watch the sunlight trickle round the sphere.

The shiny trill of jagged, feathered rocks I hear with glee as swift I fly away; And over waves of subtle, woolly flocks Crashes the breaking day!

_Anonymous_.

THE MOON IS UP

The moon is up, the moon is up! The larks begin to fly, And, like a drowsy buttercup, Dark Phoebus skims the sky, The elephant, with cheerful voice, Sings blithely on the spray; The bats and beetles all rejoice, Then let me, too, be gay.

I would I were a porcupine, And wore a peacock's tail; To-morrow, if the moon but shine, Perchance I'll be a whale. Then let me, like the cauliflower, Be merry while I may, And, ere there comes a sunny hour To cloud my heart, be gay!

_Anonymous_.

'TIS MIDNIGHT

'Tis midnight, and the setting sun Is slowly rising in the west; The rapid rivers slowly run, The frog is on his downy nest. The pensive goat and sportive cow, Hilarious, leap from bough to bough.

_Anonymous_.

UPRISING SEE THE FITFUL LARK

Uprising see the fitful lark Unfold his pinion to the stream; The pensive watch-dog's mellow bark O'ershades yon cottage like a dream: The playful duck and warbling bee Hop gayly on, from tree to tree!

How calmly could my spirit rest Beneath yon primrose bell so blue, And watch those airy oxen drest In every tint of pearling hue! As on they hurl the gladsome plough, While fairy zephyrs deck each brow!

_Anonymous_.

LIKE TO THE THUNDERING TONE

Like to the thundering tone of unspoke speeches, Or like a lobster clad in logic breeches, Or like the gray fur of a crimson cat, Or like the mooncalf in a slipshod hat; E'en such is he who never was begotten Until his children were both dead and rotten.

Like to the fiery tombstone of a cabbage, Or like a crab-louse with its bag and baggage, Or like the four square circle of a ring, Or like to hey ding, ding-a, ding-a, ding; E'en such is he who spake, and yet, no doubt, Spake to small purpose, when his tongue was out.

Like to a fair, fresh, fading, wither'd rose, Or like to rhyming verse that runs in prose, Or like the stumbles of a tinder-box, Or like a man that's sound yet sickness mocks; E'en such is he who died and yet did laugh To see these lines writ for his epitaph.

_Bishop Corbet in 17th century_.

MY DREAM

I dreamed a dream next Tuesday week, Beneath the apple-trees; I thought my eyes were big pork-pies, And my nose was Stilton cheese. The clock struck twenty minutes to six, When a frog sat on my knee; I asked him to lend me eighteenpence, But he borrowed a shilling of me.

_Anonymous_.

MY HOME

My home is on the rolling deep, I spend my time a-feeding sheep; And when the waves on high are running, I take my gun and go a-gunning. I shoot wild ducks down deep snake-holes, And drink gin-sling from two-quart bowls.

_Anonymous_.

IN IMMEMORIAM

We seek to know, and knowing seek; We seek, we know, and every sense Is trembling with the great intense, And vibrating to what we speak.

We ask too much, we seek too oft; We know enough and should no more; And yet we skim through Fancy's lore, And look to earth and not aloft.

* * * * *

O Sea! whose ancient ripples lie On red-ribbed sands where seaweeds shone; O moon! whose golden sickle's gone, O voices all! like you I die!

_Cuthbert Bede_.

THE HIGHER PANTHEISM IN A NUTSHELL

One, who is not, we see; but one, whom we see not, is; Surely, this is not that; but that is assuredly this.

What, and wherefore, and whence: for under is over and under; If thunder could be without lightning, lightning could be without thunder.

Doubt is faith in the main; but faith, on the whole, is doubt; We cannot believe by proof; but could we believe without?

Why, and whither, and how? for barley and rye are not clover; Neither are straight lines curves; yet over is under and over.

One and two are not one; but one and nothing is two; Truth can hardly be false, if falsehood cannot be true.

Parallels all things are; yet many of these are askew; You are certainly I; but certainly I am not you.

One, whom we see not, is; and one, who is not, we see; Fiddle, we know, is diddle; and diddle, we take it, is dee.

_A.C. Swinburne_.

DARWINITY

Power to thine elbow, thou newest of sciences, All the old landmarks are ripe for decay; Wars are but shadows, and so are alliances, Darwin the great is the man of the day.

All other 'ologies want an apology; Bread's a mistake--Science offers a stone; Nothing is true but Anthropobiology-- Darwin the great understands it alone.

Mighty the great evolutionist teacher is, Licking Morphology clean into shape; Lord! what an ape the Professor or Preacher is, Ever to doubt his descent from an ape.

Man's an Anthropoid--he cannot help that, you know-- First evoluted from Pongos of old; He's but a branch of the _catarrhine_ cat, you know-- Monkey I mean--that's an ape with a cold.

Fast dying out are man's later Appearances, Cataclysmitic Geologies gone; Now of Creation completed the clearance is, Darwin alone you must anchor upon.

Primitive Life--Organisms were chemical, Busting spontaneous under the sea; Purely subaqueous, panaquademical, Was the original Crystal of Me.

I'm the Apostle of mighty Darwinity, Stands for Divinity--sounds much the same-- Apo-theistico-Pan-Asininity Only can doubt whence the lot of us came.

Down on your knees, Superstition and Flunkeydom! Won't you accept such plain doctrines instead? What is so simple as primitive Monkeydom Born in the sea with a cold in its head?

_Herman Merivale_.

SONG OF THE SCREW

A moving form or rigid mass, Under whate'er conditions Along successive screws must pass Between each two positions. It turns around and slides along-- This is the burden of my song.

The pitch of screw, if multiplied By angle of rotation, Will give the distance it must glide In motion of translation. Infinite pitch means pure translation, And zero pitch means pure rotation.

Two motions on two given screws, With amplitudes at pleasure, Into a third screw-motion fuse; Whose amplitude we measure By parallelogram construction (A very obvious deduction.)

Its axis cuts the nodal line Which to both screws is normal, And generates a form divine, Whose name, in language formal, Is "surface-ruled of third degree." Cylindroid is the name for me.

Rotation round a given line Is like a force along. If to say couple you incline, You're clearly in the wrong;-- 'Tis obvious, upon reflection, A line is not a mere direction.

So couples with translations too In all respects agree; And thus there centres in the screw A wondrous harmony Of Kinematics and of Statics,-- The sweetest thing in mathematics.

The forces on one given screw, With motion on a second, In general some work will do, Whose magnitude is reckoned By angle, force, and what we call The coefficient virtual.

Rotation now to force convert, And force into rotation; Unchanged the work, we can assert, In spite of transformation. And if two screws no work can claim, Reciprocal will be their name.

Five numbers will a screw define, A screwing motion, six; For four will give the axial line, One more the pitch will fix; And hence we always can contrive One screw reciprocal to five.

Screws--two, three, four or five, combined (No question here of six), Yield other screws which are confined Within one screw complex. Thus we obtain the clearest notion Of freedom and constraint of motion.

In complex III., three several screws At every point you find, Or if you one direction choose, One screw is to your mind; And complexes of order III. Their own reciprocals may be.

In IV., wherever you arrive, You find of screws a cone, On every line in complex V. There is precisely one; At each point of this complex rich, A plane of screws have given pitch.

But time would fail me to discourse Of Order and Degree; Of Impulse, Energy and Force, And Reciprocity. All these and more, for motions small, Have been discussed by Dr. Ball.

_Anonymous_.

MOORLANDS OF THE NOT

Across the moorlands of the Not We chase the gruesome When; And hunt the Itness of the What Through forests of the Then. Into the Inner Consciousness We track the crafty Where; We spear the Ego tough, and beard The Selfhood in his lair.

With lassos of the brain we catch The Isness of the Was; And in the copses of the Whence We hear the think bees buzz. We climb the slippery Whichbark tree To watch the Thusness roll And pause betimes in gnostic rimes To woo the Over Soul.

_Anonymous_.

METAPHYSICS

Why and Wherefore set out one day To hunt for a wild Negation. They agreed to meet at a cool retreat On the Point of Interrogation.

But the night was dark and they missed their mark, And, driven well-nigh to distraction, They lost their ways in a murky maze Of utter abstruse abstraction.

Then they took a boat and were soon afloat On a sea of Speculation, But the sea grew rough, and their boat, though tough, Was split into an Equation.

As they floundered about in the waves of doubt Rose a fearful Hypothesis, Who gibbered with glee as they sank in the sea, And the last they saw was this:

On a rock-bound reef of Unbelief There sat the wild Negation; Then they sank once more and were washed ashore At the Point of Interrogation.

_Oliver Herford_.

ABSTROSOPHY

If echoes from the fitful past Could rise to mental view, Would all their fancied radiance last Or would some odors from the blast, Untouched by Time, accrue?

Is present pain a future bliss, Or is it something worse? For instance, take a case like this: Is fancied kick a real kiss, Or rather the reverse?

Is plenitude of passion palled By poverty of scorn? Does Fiction mend where Fact has mauled? Has Death its wisest victims called When idiots are born?

_Gelett Burgess_.

ABSTEMIA

_In Mystic_ Argot _often Confounded with Farrago_

If aught that stumbles in my speech Or stutters in my pen, Or, claiming tribute, each to each, Rise, not to fall again, Let something lowlier far, for me, Through evanescent shades-- Than which my spirit might not be Nourished in fitful ecstasy Not less to know but more to see Where that great Bliss pervades.

_Gelett Burgess_.

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! Sounds make the song, not sense, Thus I inhibit!

_Gelett Burgess_.

TIMON OF ARCHIMEDES

As one who cleaves the circumambient air Seeking in azure what it lacks in space, And sees a young and finely chiselled face Filled with foretastes of wisdom yet more rare; Touching and yet untouched--unmeasured grace! A breathing credo and a living prayer-- Yet of the earth, still earthy; debonair The while in heaven it seeketh for a place.

So thy dear eyes and thy kind lips but say-- Ere from his cerements Timon seems to flit: "What of the reaper grim with sickle keen?" And then the sunlight ushers in new day And for our tasks our bodies seem more fit-- "Might of the night, unfleeing, sight unseen."

_Charles Battell Loomis_.

ALONE

Alone! Alone! I sit in the solitudes of the moonshades, Soul-hungering in the moonshade solitudes sit I-- My heart-lifts beaten down in the wild wind-path. Oppressed, and scourged and beaten down are my heart-lifts. I fix my gaze on the eye-star, and the eye-star flings its dart upon me. I wonder why my soul is lost in wonder why I am, And why the eye-star mocks me, Why the wild wind beats down my heart-lifts; Why I am stricken here in the moonshade solitudes. Oh! why am I what I am, And why am I anything? Am I not as wild as the wind and more crazy? Why do I sit in the moonshade, while the eye-star mocks me while I ask what I am?

Why? Why?

_Anonymous_.

LINES BY A MEDIUM

I might not, if I could; I should not, if I might; Yet if I should I would, And, shoulding, I should quite!

I must not, yet I may; I can, and still I must; But ah! I cannot--nay, To must I may not, just!

I shall, although I will, But be it understood, If I may, can, shall--still I might, could, would, or should!

_Anonymous_.

TRANSCENDENTALISM

It is told, in Buddhi-theosophic schools, There are rules, By observing which, when mundane labor irks One can simulate quiescence By a timely evanescence From his Active Mortal Essence, (Or his Works.)

The particular procedure leaves research In the lurch, But, apparently, this matter-moulded form Is a kind of outer plaster, Which a well-instructed Master Can remove without disaster When he's warm.

And to such as mourn an Indian Solar Clime At its prime 'Twere a thesis most immeasurably fit, So expansively elastic, And so plausibly fantastic, That one gets enthusiastic For a bit.

_From the Times of India_.

INDIFFERENCE

In loopy links the canker crawls, Tads twiddle in their 'polian glee, Yet sinks my heart as water falls. The loon that laughs, the babe that bawls, The wedding wear, the funeral palls, Are neither here nor there to me. Of life the mingled wine and brine I sit and sip pipslipsily.

_Anonymous_.

HEART-FOAM

Oh! to be wafted away From this black Aceldama of sorrow, Where the dust of an earthy to-day Makes the earth of a dusty to-morrow.

_W.S. Gilbert_.

COSSIMBAZAR

Come fleetly, come fleetly, my hookabadar, For the sound of the tam-tam is heard from afar. "Banoolah! Banoolah!" The Brahmins are nigh, And the depths of the jungle re-echo their cry. _Pestonjee Bomanjee_! Smite the guitar; Join in the chorus, my hookabadar.

Heed not the blast of the deadly monsoon, Nor the blue Brahmaputra that gleams in the moon. Stick to thy music, and oh, let the sound Be heard with distinctness a mile or two round. _Famsetjee, Feejeebhoy_! Sweep the guitar. Join in the chorus, my hookabadar.

Art thou a Buddhist, or dost thou indeed Put faith in the monstrous Mohammedan creed? Art thou a Ghebir--a blinded Parsee? Not that it matters an atom to me. _Cursetjee Bomanjee_! Twang the guitar Join in the chorus, my hookabadar.

_Henry S. Leigh_.

_THE PERSONIFIED SENTIMENTAL_

Affection's charm no longer gilds The idol of the shrine; But cold Oblivion seeks to fill Regret's ambrosial wine. Though Friendship's offering buried lies 'Neath cold Aversion's snow, Regard and Faith will ever bloom Perpetually below.

I see thee whirl in marble halls, In Pleasure's giddy train, Remorse is never on that brow, Nor Sorrow's mark of pain. Deceit has marked thee for her own; Inconstancy the same; And Ruin wildly sheds its gleam Athwart thy path of shame.

_Bret Harte_.

A CLASSIC ODE

Oh, limpid stream of Tyrus, now I hear The pulsing wings of Armageddon's host, Clear as a colcothar and yet more clear-- (Twin orbs, like those of which the Parsees boast;)

Down in thy pebbled deeps in early spring The dimpled naiads sport, as in the time When Ocidelus with untiring wing Drave teams of prancing tigers, 'mid the chime

Of all the bells of Phicol. Scarcely one Peristome veils its beauties now, but then-- Like nascent diamonds, sparkling in the sun, Or sainfoin, circinate, or moss in marshy fen.

Loud as the blasts of Tubal, loud and strong, Sweet as the songs of Sappho, aye more sweet; Long as the spear of Arnon, twice as long, What time he hurled it at King Pharaoh's feet.

_Charles Battell Loomis_.

WHERE AVALANCHES WAIL

Where avalanches wail, and green Distress Sweeps o'er the pallid beak of loveliness: Where melancholy Sulphur holds her sway: And cliffs of conscience tremble and obey;

And where Tartarean rattle snakes expire; Twisting like tendrils of a hero's pyre? No! dancing in the meteor's hall of power, See, Genius ponders o'er Affection's tower! A form of thund'ring import soars on high, Hark! 'tis the gore of infant melody: No more shall verdant Innocence amuse The lips that death-fraught Indignation glues;-- Tempests shall teach the trackless tide of thought. That undiminish'd senselessness is naught; Freedom shall glare; and oh! ye links divine, The Poet's heart shall quiver in the brine.

_Anonymous_

BLUE MOONSHINE

Mingled aye with fragrant yearnings, Throbbing in the mellow glow, Glint the silvery spirit-burnings, Pearly blandishments of woe.

Aye! forever and forever, Whilst the love-lorn censers sweep, Whilst the jasper winds dissever Amber-like the crystal deep,

Shall the soul's delirious slumber, Sea-green vengeance of a kiss, Teach despairing crags to number Blue infinities of bliss.

_Francis G. Stokes_.

NONSENSE

Good reader, if you e'er have seen, When Phoebus 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;-- If you have seen all this, and more, God bless me! what a deal you've seen!

_Thomas Moore_.

SUPERIOR NONSENSE VERSES

He comes with herald clouds of dust; Ecstatic frenzies rend his breast; A moment, and he graced the earth-- Now, seek him at the eagle's nest.

Hark! see'st thou not the torrent's flash Far shooting o'er the mountain height? Hear'st not the billow's solemn roar, That echoes through the vaults of night?

Anon the murky cloud is riven, The lightnings leap in sportive play, And through the clanging doors of heaven, In calm effulgence bursts the day.

Hope, peering from her fleecy car, Smiles welcome to the coming spring, And birds with blithesome songs of praise Make every grove and valley ring.

What though on pinions of the blast The sea-gulls sweep with leaden flight? What though the watery caverns deep Gleam ghostly on the wandering sight?

Is there no music in the trees To charm thee with its frolic mirth? Must Care's wan phantom still beguile And chain thee to the stubborn earth?

Lo! Fancy from her magic realm Pours Boreal gleams adown the pole. The tidal currents lift and swell-- Dead currents of the ocean's soul.

Yet never may their mystic streams Breathe whispers of the mournful past, Or Pallas wake her sounding lyre Mid Ether's columned temples vast.

Grave History walks again the earth As erst it did in days of eld, When seated on the golden throne Her hand a jewelled sceptre held.

The Delphian oracle is dumb, Dread Cumae wafts no words of fate, To fright the eager souls that press Through sullen Lethe's iron gate.

But deeper shadows gather o'er The vales that sever night and morn; And darkness folds with brooding wing The rustling fields of waving corn.

Then issuing from his bosky lair The crafty tiger crouches low, Or thunders from the frozen north The white bear lapped in Arctic snow.

Thus shift the scenes till high aloft The young moon sets her crescent horn, And in gray evening's emerald sea The beauteous Star of Love is born.

_Anonymous_.

WHEN MOONLIKE ORE THE HAZURE SEAS