Part 4

An’ when wi’ Eve he’ll had a crack, He’ll teuk his sneeshin’ horn, An’ on the tap ye’ll well mitch mark A pony praw Cairngorm. The sneeshin’ mull is fine, my friens— The sneeshin’ mull is gran’; We’ll teukta hearty sneesh, my friens, And pass frae han’ to han’.

When man first fan the want o’ claes, The wind an’ cauld to fleg. He twisted roon’ about his waist The tartan philabeg. An’ music first on earth was heard In Gaelic accents deep, When Jubal in his oxter squeezed The blether o’ a sheep.

The praw bagpipes is gran’, my friens, The praw bagpipes is fine; We’ll teukta nother pibroch yet, For the days o’ auld lang syne! _Anonymous._

MY FOE

JOHN ALCOHOL, my foe, John, When we were first acquaint, I’d siller in my pockets, John, Which noo, ye ken, I want; I spent it all in treating, John, Because I loved you so; But mark ye, how you’ve treated me, John Alcohol, my foe.

John Alcohol, my foe, John, We’ve been ower lang together, Sae ye maun tak’ ae road, John, And I will take anither; Foe we maun tumble down, John, If hand in hand we go; And I shall hae the bill to pay, John Alcohol, my foe.

John Alcohol, my foe, John, Ye’ve blear’d out a’ my een, And lighted up my nose, John, A fiery sign atween! My hands wi’ palsy shake, John, My locks are like the snow; Ye’ll surely be the death of me, John Alcohol, my foe.

John Alcohol, my foe, John, ’Twas love to you, I ween, That gart me rise sae ear’, John, And sit sae late at e’en; The best o’ friens maun part, John, It grieves me sair, ye know; But “we’ll nae mair to yon town,” John Alcohol, my foe.

John Alcohol, my foe, John, Ye’ve wrought me muckle skaith, And yet to part wi’ you, John, I own I’m unko’ laith; But I’ll join the temperance ranks, John, Ye needna say me no; It’s better late than ne’er do weel, John Alcohol, my foe. _Anonymous._

RIGID BODY SINGS

GIN a body meet a body Flyin’ through the air, Gin a body hit a body, Will it fly? and where? Ilka impact has its measure, Ne’er a’ ane hae I, Yet a’ the lads they measure me, Or, at least, they try.

Gin a body meet a body Altogether free, How they travel afterwards We do not always see. Ilka problem has its method By analytics high; For me, I ken na ane o’ them, But what the waur am I? _J. C. Maxwell._

AFTER CATHERINE FANSHAWE

COCKNEY ENIGMA ON THE LETTER H

I DWELLS in the Herth and I breathes in the Hair; If you searches the Hocean you’ll find that I’m there; The first of all Hangels in Holympus am Hi, Yet I’m banished from ’Eaven, expelled from on ’Igh. But tho’ on this Horb I am destined to grovel, I’m ne’er seen in an ’Ouse, in an ’Ut, nor an ’Ovel; Not an ’Oss nor an ’Unter e’er bears me, alas! But often I’m found on the top of a Hass. I resides in a Hattic and loves not to roam, And yet I’m invariably habsent from ’Ome. Tho’ ’ushed in the ’Urricane, of the Hatmosphere part, I enters no ’Ed, I creeps into no ’Art, But look and you’ll see in the Heye I appear. Only ’ark and you’ll ’ear me just breathe in the Hear; Tho’ in sex not an ’E, I am (strange paradox!), Not a bit of an ’Effer, but partly a Hox. Of Heternity Hi’m the beginning! and mark, Tho’ I goes not with Noar, I’m the first in the Hark. I’m never in ’Elth—have with Fysic no power; I dies in a Month, but comes back in a Hour. _Horace Mayhew._

AFTER WORDSWORTH

ON WORDSWORTH

HE lived amidst th’ untrodden ways To Rydal Lake that lead; A bard whom there was none to praise And very few to read.

Behind a cloud his mystic sense, Deep hidden, who can spy? Bright as the night when not a star Is shining in the sky.

Unread his works—his “Milk White Doe” With dust is dark and dim; It’s still in Longmans’ shop, and oh! The difference to him. _Anonymous._

JACOB

HE dwelt among “Apartments let,” About five stories high; A man, I thought, that none would get, And very few would try.

A boulder, by a larger stone Half hidden in the mud, Fair as a man when only one Is in the neighborhood.

He lived unknown, and few could tell When Jacob was not free; But he has got a wife—and O! The difference to me! _Phœbe Cary._

FRAGMENT IN IMITATION OF WORDSWORTH

THERE is a river clear and fair, ’Tis neither broad nor narrow; It winds a little here and there— It winds about like any hare; And then it holds as straight a course As, on the turnpike road, a horse, Or, through the air, an arrow.

The trees that grow upon the shore Have grown a hundred years or more; So long there is no knowing: Old Daniel Dobson does not know When first those trees began to grow; But still they grew, and grew, and grew, As if they’d nothing else to do, But ever must be growing.

The impulses of air and sky Have reared their stately heads so high, And clothed their boughs with green; Their leaves the dews of evening quaff,— And when the wind blows loud and keen, I’ve seen the jolly timbers laugh, And shake their sides with merry glee— Wagging their heads in mockery.

Fixed are their feet in solid earth Where winds can never blow; But visitings of deeper birth Have reached their roots below. For they have gained the river’s brink, And of the living waters drink.

There’s little Will, a five years’ child— He is my youngest boy; To look on eyes so fair and wild, It is a very joy. He hath conversed with sun and shower, And dwelt with every idle flower, As fresh and gay as them. He loiters with the briar-rose,— The blue-bells are his play-fellows, That dance upon their slender stem.

And I have said, my little Will, Why should he not continue still A thing of Nature’s rearing? A thing beyond the world’s control— A living vegetable soul,— No human sorrow fearing. It were a blessed sight to see That child become a willow-tree, His brother trees among. He’d be four times as tall as me, And live three times as long. _Catherine M. Fanshawe._

JANE SMITH

I JOURNEYED, on a winter’s day, Across the lonely wold; No bird did sing upon the spray, And it was very cold.

I had a coach with horses four, Three white (though one was black), And on they went the common o’er, Nor swiftness did they lack.

A little girl ran by the side, And she was pinched and thin. “Oh, please, sir, do give me a ride! I’m fetching mother’s gin.”

“Enter my coach, sweet child,” said I, “For you shall ride with me; And I will get you your supply Of mother’s eau-de-vie.”

The publican was stern and cold, And said: “Her mother’s score Is writ, as you shall soon behold, Behind the bar-room door!”

I blotted out the score with tears, And paid the money down; And took the maid of thirteen years Back to her mother’s town.

And though the past with surges wild Fond memories may sever, The vision of that happy child Will leave my spirits never! _Rudyard Kipling._

ONLY SEVEN

(_A Pastoral Story after Wordsworth_)

I MARVELLED why a simple child, That lightly draws its breath, Should utter groans so very wild, And look as pale as Death.

Adopting a parental tone, I ask’d her why she cried; The damsel answered with a groan, “I’ve got a pain inside!

“I thought it would have sent me mad Last night about eleven.” Said I, “What is it makes you bad? How many apples have you had?” She answered, “Only seven!”

“And are you sure you took no more, My little maid?” quoth I; “Oh, please, sir, mother gave me four, But they were in a pie!”

“If that’s the case,” I stammer’d out, “Of course you’ve had eleven.” The maiden answered with a pout, “I ain’t had more nor seven!”

I wonder’d hugely what she meant, And said, “I’m bad at riddles; But I know where little girls are sent For telling taradiddles.

“Now, if you won’t reform,” said I, “You’ll never go to Heaven.” But all in vain; each time I try, That little idiot makes reply, “I ain’t had more nor seven!”

POSTSCRIPT

To borrow Wordsworth’s name was wrong, Or slightly misapplied; And so I’d better call my song, “Lines after Ache-Inside.” _Henry S. Leigh._

LUCY LAKE

POOR Lucy Lake was overgrown, But somewhat underbrained. She did not know enough, I own, To go in when it rained.

Yet Lucy was constrained to go; Green bedding,—you infer. Few people knew she died, but oh, The difference to her! _Newton Mackintosh._

AFTER SIR WALTER SCOTT

YOUNG LOCHINVAR

(_The true story in blank verse_)

OH! young Lochinvar has come out of the West, Thro’ all the wide border his horse has no equal, Having cost him forty-five dollars at the market, Where good nags, fresh from the country, With burrs still in their tails are selling For a song; and save his good broadsword He weapon had none, except a seven shooter Or two, a pair of brass knuckles, and an Arkansaw

Toothpick in his boot, so, comparatively speaking, He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone, Because there was no one going his way. He stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for Toll-gates; he swam the Eske River where ford There was none, and saved fifteen cents In ferriage, but lost his pocket-book, containing Seventeen dollars and a half, by the operation.

Ere he alighted at the Netherby mansion He stopped to borrow a dry suit of clothes, And this delayed him considerably, so when He arrived the bride had consented—the gallant Came late—for a laggard in love and a dastard in war Was to wed the fair Ellen, and the guests had assembled.

So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall Among bridesmen and kinsmen and brothers and Brothers-in-law and forty or fifty cousins; Then spake the bride’s father, his hand on his sword (For the poor craven bridegroom ne’er opened his head):

“Oh, come ye in peace here, or come ye in anger, Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?” “I long wooed your daughter, and she will tell you I have the inside track in the free-for-all For her affections! My suit you denied; but let That pass, while I tell you, old fellow, that love Swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide, And now I am come with this lost love of mine To lead but one measure, drink one glass of beer; There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far That would gladly be bride to yours very truly.”

The bride kissed the goblet, the knight took it up, He quaffed off the nectar and threw down the mug, Smashing it into a million pieces, while He remarked that he was the son of a gun From Seven-up and run the Number Nine. She looked down to blush, but she looked up again For she well understood the wink in his eye; He took her soft hand ere her mother could Interfere, “Now tread we a measure; first four Half right and left; swing,” cried young Lochinvar.

One touch to her hand and one word in her ear, When they reached the hall-door and the charger Stood near on three legs eating post-hay; So light to the croup the fair lady he swung, Then leaped to the saddle before her. “She is won! we are gone! over bank! bush, and spar, They’ll have swift steeds that follow”—but in the

Excitement of the moment he had forgotten To untie the horse, and the poor brute could Only gallop in a little circus around the Hitching-post; so the old gent collared The youth and gave him the awfullest lambasting That was ever heard of on Canobie Lee; So dauntless in war and so daring in love, Have ye e’er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar? _Anonymous._

AFTER COLERIDGE

THE ANCIENT MARINER

(_The Wedding Guest’s Version of the Affair from His Point of View_)

IT is an Ancient Mariner, And he stoppeth one of three— In fact he coolly took my arm— “There was a ship,” quoth he.

“Bother your ships!” said I, “is this The time a yarn to spin? This is a wedding, don’t you see, And I am next of kin.

“The wedding breakfast has begun, We’re hungry as can be— Hold off! Unhand me, longshore man!” With that his hand dropt he.

But there was something in his eye, That made me sick and ill, Yet forced to listen to his yarn— The Mariner’d had his will.

While Tom and Harry went their way I sat upon a stone— So queer on Fanny’s wedding day Me sitting there alone!

Then he began, that Mariner, To rove from pole to pole, In one long-winded, lengthened-out, Eternal rigmarole,

About a ship in which he’d sailed, Though whither, goodness knows, Where “ice will split with a thunder-fit,” And every day it snows.

And then about a precious bird Of some sort or another, That—was such nonsense ever heard?— Used to control the weather!

Now, at this bird the Mariner Resolved to have a shy, And laid it low with his cross-bow— And then the larks! My eye!

For loss of that uncommon fowl, They couldn’t get a breeze; And there they stuck, all out of luck, And rotted on the seas.

The crew all died, or seemed to die, And he was left alone With that queer bird. You never heard What games were carried on!

At last one day he stood and watched The fishes in the sea, And said, “I’m blest!” and so the ship Was from the spell set free.

And it began to rain and blow, And as it rained and blew, The dead got up and worked the ship— That was a likely crew!

However, somehow he escaped, And got again to land, But mad as any hatter, say, From Cornhill to the Strand.

For he believes that certain folks Are singled out by fate, To whom this cock-and-bull affair Of his he must relate.

Describing all the incidents, And painting all the scenes, As sailors will do in the tales They tell to the Marines.

Confound the Ancient Mariner! I knew I should be late; And so it was; the wedding guests Had all declined to wait.

Another had my place, and gave My toast; and sister Fan Said “’Twas a shame. What could you want With that seafaring man?”

I felt like one that had been stunned Through all this wrong and scorn; A sadder and a later man I rose the morrow morn. _Anonymous_

STRIKING

IT was a railway passenger, And he lept out jauntilie. “Now up and bear, thou stout portèr, My two chattèls to me.

“Bring hither, bring hither my bag so red, And portmanteau so brown; (They lie in the van, for a trusty man He labelled them London town:)

“And fetch me eke a cabman bold, That I may be his fare, his fare; And he shall have a good shilling, If by two of the clock he do me bring To the Terminus, Euston Square.”

“Now,—so to thee the saints alway, Good gentleman, give luck,— As never a cab may I find this day, For the cabman wights have struck.

And now, I wis, at the Red Post Inn, Or else at the Dog and Duck, Or at Unicorn Blue, or at Green Griffin, The nut-brown ale and the fine old gin Right pleasantly they do suck.“

“Now rede me aright, thou stout portèr, What were it best that I should do: For woe is me, an’ I reach not there Or ever the clock strike two.”

“I have a son, a lytel son; Fleet is his foot as the wild roebuck’s: Give him a shilling, and eke a brown, And he shall carry thy fardels down To Euston, or half over London town, On one of the station trucks.”

Then forth in a hurry did they twain fare, The gent and the son of the stout portèr, Who fled like an arrow, nor turned a hair, Through all the mire and muck: “A ticket, a ticket, sir clerk, I pray: For by two of the clock must I needs away.” “That may hardly be,” the clerk did say, “For indeed—the clocks have struck.” _Charles S. Calverley._

AFTER SOUTHEY

THE OLD MAN’S COLD AND HOW HE GOT IT

(_By Northey-Southey-Eastey-Westey_)

“YOU are cold, Father William,” the young man cried, “You shake and you shiver, I say; You’ve a cold, Father William, your nose it is red, Now tell me the reason, I pray.”

“In the days of my youth,” Father William replied— (He was a dissembling old man) “I put lumps of ice in my grandpapa’s boots, And snowballed my Aunt Mary Ann.”

“Go along, Father William,” the young man cried, “You are trying it on, sir, to-day; What makes your teeth chatter like bone castanets? Come tell me the reason, I pray.”

“In the days of my youth,” Father William replied, “I went to the North Pole with Parry; And now, my sweet boy, the Arc-tic doloreaux Plays with this old man the Old Harry.”

“Get out! Father William,” the young man cried. “Come, you shouldn’t go on in this way; You are funny, but still you’ve a frightful bad cold— Now tell me the reason, I pray.”

“I am cold, then, dear youth,” Father William replied; “I’ve a cold, my impertinent son, Because for some weeks my coals have been bought At forty-eight shillings a ton!”

FATHER WILLIAM

“YOU are old, Father William,” the young man said, “And your hair has become very white; And yet you incessantly stand on your head— Do you think, at your age, it is right?”

“In my youth,” Father William replied to his son, “I feared it might injure the brain; But now that I’m perfectly sure I have none, Why, I do it again and again.”

“You are old,” said the youth, “as I mentioned before, And grown most uncommonly fat; Yet you turned a back-somersault in at the door— Pray what is the reason of that?”

“In my youth,” said the sage, as he shook his gray locks, “I kept all my limbs very supple By the use of this ointment—one shilling the box— Allow me to sell you a couple.”

“You are old,” said the youth, “and your jaws are too weak For anything tougher than suet; Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak; Pray, how did you manage to do it?”

“In my youth,” said his father, “I took to the law, And argued each case with my wife; And the muscular strength which it gave to my jaw, Has lasted the rest of my life.”

“You are old,” said the youth, “one would hardly suppose That your eye was as steady as ever; Yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose— What made you so awfully clever?”

“I have answered three questions and that is enough,” Said his father; “don’t give yourself airs! Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff? Be off, or I’ll kick you downstairs!” _Lewis Carroll_

LADY JANE

(_Sapphics_)

DOWN the green hill-side fro’ the castle window Lady Jane spied Bill Amaranth a-workin’; Day by day watched him go about his ample Nursery garden.

Cabbages thriv’d there, wi’ a mort o’ green-stuff— Kidney beans, broad beans, onions, tomatoes, Artichokes, seakale, vegetable marrows, Early potatoes.

Lady Jane cared not very much for all these: What she cared much for was a glimpse o’ Willum Strippin’ his brown arms wi’ a view to horti- Cultural effort.

Little guessed Willum, never extra-vain, that Up the green hill-side, i’ the gloomy castle, Feminine eyes could so delight to view his Noble proportions.

Only one day while, in an innocent mood, Moppin’ his brow (cos ’twas a trifle sweaty) With a blue kerchief—lo, he spies a white un Coyly responding.

Oh, delightsome Love! Not a jot do _you_ care For the restrictions set on human inter- Course by cold-blooded social refiners; Nor do I, neither.

Day by day, peepin’ fro’ behind the bean-sticks, Willum observed that scrap o’ white a-wavin’, Till his hot sighs out-growin’ all repression Busted his weskit.

Lady Jane’s guardian was a haughty Peer, who Clung to old creeds and had a nasty temper; Can we blame Willum that he hardly cared to Risk a refusal?

Year by year found him busy ’mid the bean-sticks, Wholly uncertain how on earth to take steps. Thus for eighteen years he beheld the maiden Wave fro’ her window.

But the nineteenth spring, i’ the castle post-bag, Came by book-post Bill’s catalogue o’ seedlings Mark’d wi’ blue ink at “Paragraphs relatin’ Mainly to Pumpkins.”

“W. A. can,” so the Lady Jane read, “Strongly commend that very noble Gourd, the _Lady Jane_, first-class medal, ornamental; Grows to a great height.”

Scarce a year arter, by the scented hedgerows— Down the mown hill-side, fro’ the castle gateway— Came a long train and, i’ the midst, a black bier, Easily shouldered.

“Whose is yon corse that, thus adorned wi’ gourd leaves Forth ye bear with slow step?” A mourner answer’d, “’Tis the poor clay-cold body Lady Jane grew Tired to abide in.”

“Delve my grave quick, then, for I die to-morrow. Delve it one furlong fro’ the kidney bean-sticks, Where I may dream she’s goin’ on precisely As she was used to.”

Hardly died Bill when, fro’ the Lady Jane’s grave, Crept to his white death-bed a lovely pumpkin: Climb’d the house wall and over-arched his head wi’ Billowy verdure.

Simple this tale!—but delicately perfumed As the sweet roadside honeysuckle. That’s why, Difficult though its metre was to tackle, I’m glad I wrote it. _A. T. Quiller-Couch._

AFTER CAMPBELL

THE NEW ARRIVAL

THERE came to port last Sunday night The queerest little craft, Without an inch of rigging on; I looked and looked—and laughed! It seemed so curious that she Should cross the Unknown water, And moor herself within my room— My daughter! Oh, my daughter!

Yet by these presents witness all She’s welcome fifty times, And comes consigned in hope and love— And common-metre rhymes. She has no manifest but this, No flag floats o’er the water; She’s too new for the British Lloyds— My daughter! Oh, my daughter!

Ring out, wild bells—and tame ones too, Ring out the lover’s moon; Ring in the little worsted socks, Ring in the bib and spoon. Ring out the muse, ring in the nurse, Ring in the milk and water; Away with paper, pen, and ink— My daughter! Oh, my daughter! _George Washington Cable._

JOHN THOMPSON’S DAUGHTER