Part 5

A FELLOW near Kentucky’s clime Cries, “Boatman, do not tarry, And I’ll give thee a silver dime To row us o’er the ferry.”

“Now, who would cross the Ohio, This dark and stormy water?” “O, I am this young lady’s beau, And she, John Thompson’s daughter.

“We’ve fled before her father’s spite With great precipitation; And should he find us here to-night, I’d lose my reputation.

“They’ve missed the girl and purse beside, His horsemen hard have pressed me; And who will cheer my bonny bride, If yet they shall arrest me?”

Out spoke the boatman then in time, “You shall not fail, don’t fear it; I’ll go, not for your silver dime, But for your manly spirit.

“And by my word, the bonny bird In danger shall not tarry; For though a storm is coming on, I’ll row you o’er the ferry.”

By this the wind more fiercely rose, The boat was at the landing; And with the drenching rain their clothes Grew wet where they were standing.

But still, as wilder rose the wind, And as the night grew drearer; Just back a piece came the police, Their tramping sounded nearer.

“Oh, haste thee, haste!” the lady cries, “It’s anything but funny; I’ll leave the light of loving eyes, But not my father’s money!”

And still they hurried in the face Of wind and rain unsparing; John Thompson reached the landing place— His wrath was turned to swearing.

For by the lightning’s angry flash, His child he did discover; One lovely hand held all the cash, And one was round her lover!

“Come back, come back!” he cried in woe, Across the stormy water; “But leave the purse, and you may go, My daughter, oh, my daughter!”

’Twas vain; they reached the other shore (Such doom the Fates assign us); The gold he piled went with his child, And he was left there _minus_. _Phœbe Cary._

AFTER THOMAS MOORE

THE LAST CIGAR

’TIS a last choice Havana I hold here alone; All its fragrant companions In perfume have flown. No more of its kindred To gladden the eye, So my empty cigar case I close with a sigh.

I’ll not leave thee, thou lone one, To pine; but the stem I’ll bite off and light thee To waft thee to them. And gently I’ll scatter The ashes you shed, As your soul joins its mates in A cloud overhead.

All pleasure is fleeting, It blooms to decay; From the weeds’ glowing circle The ash drops away. A last whiff is taken, The butt-end is thrown, And with empty cigar-case, I sit all alone. _Anonymous._

’TWAS EVER THUS

I NEVER bought a young gazelle, To glad me with its soft black eye, But, when it came to know me well, ’Twas sure to butt me on the sly.

I never drilled a cockatoo, To speak with almost human lip, But, when a pretty phrase it knew, ’Twas sure to give some friend a nip.

I never trained a collie hound To be affectionate and mild, But, when I thought a prize I’d found, ’Twas sure to bite my youngest child.

I never kept a tabby kit To cheer my leisure with its tricks, But, when we all grew fond of it, ’Twas sure to catch the neighbor’s chicks.

I never reared a turtle-dove, To coo all day with gentle breath, But, when its life seemed one of love, ’Twas sure to peck its mate to death.

I never—well I never yet— And I have spent no end of pelf— Invested money in a pet That didn’t misconduct itself. _Anonymous._

“THERE’S A BOWER OF BEAN-VINES”

There’s a bower of bean-vines in Benjamin’s yard, And the cabbages grow round it, planted for greens; In the time of my childhood ’twas terribly hard To bend down the bean-poles, and pick off the beans.

That bower and its products I never forget, But oft, when my landlady presses me hard, I think, are the cabbages growing there yet, Are the bean-vines still bearing in Benjamin’s yard?

No, the bean-vines soon withered that once used to wave, But some beans had been gathered, the last that hung on; And a soup was distilled in a kettle, that gave All the fragrance of summer when summer was gone.

Thus memory draws from delight, ere it dies, An essence that breathes of it awfully hard; As thus good to my taste as ’twas then to my eyes, Is that bower of bean-vines in Benjamin’s yard. _Phœbe Cary._

DISASTER

’TWAS ever thus from childhood’s hour! My fondest hopes would not decay; I never loved a tree or flower Which was the first to fade away! The garden, where I used to delve Short-frock’d, still yields me pinks in plenty; The pear-tree that I climbed at twelve I see still blossoming, at twenty.

I never nursed a dear gazelle; But I was given a parroquet— (How I did nurse him if unwell!) He’s imbecile, but lingers yet. He’s green, with an enchanting tuft; He melts me with his small black eye; He’d look inimitable stuffed, And knows it—but he will not die!

I had a kitten—I was rich In pets—but all too soon my kitten Became a full-sized cat, by which I’ve more than once been scratched and bitten. And when for sleep her limbs she curl’d One day beside her untouch’d plateful, And glided calmly from the world, I freely own that I was grateful.

And then I bought a dog—a queen! Ah, Tiny, dear departing pug! She lives, but she is past sixteen And scarce can crawl across the rug. I loved her beautiful and kind; Delighted in her pert bow-wow; But now she snaps if you don’t mind; ’Twere lunacy to love her now.

I used to think, should e’er mishap Betide my crumple-visaged Ti, In shape of prowling thief, or trap, Or coarse bull-terrier—I should die. But ah! disasters have their use, And life might e’en be too sunshiny; Nor would I make myself a goose, If some big dog should swallow Tiny. _Charles S. Calverley._

SARAH’S HALLS

THE broom that once through Sarah’s halls, In hole and corner sped, Now useless leans ’gainst Sarah’s walls And gathers dust instead. So sweeps the slavey now-a-days So work is shifted o’er, And maids that once gained honest praise Now earn that praise no more! No more the cobweb from its height The broom of Sarah fells; The fly alone unlucky wight Invades the spider’s cells. Thus energy so seldom wakes, All sign that Sarah gives Is when some dish or platter breaks, To show that still she lives. _Judy._

’TWAS EVER THUS

I NEVER rear’d a young gazelle, (Because, you see, I never tried); But had it known and loved me well, No doubt the creature would have died. My rich and aged Uncle John Has known me long and loves me well But still persists in living on— I would he were a young gazelle.

I never loved a tree or flower; But, if I had, I beg to say The blight, the wind, the sun, or shower Would soon have withered it away. I’ve dearly loved my Uncle John, From childhood to the present hour, And yet he will go living on on— I would he were a tree or flower! _Henry S. Leigh._

AFTER JANE TAYLOR

THE BAT

TWINKLE, twinkle, little bat! How I wonder what you’re at!

Up above the world you fly, Like a tea-tray in the sky. _Lewis Carroll._

AFTER BARRY CORNWALL

THE TEA

THE tea! The tea! The beef, beef-tea! The brew from gravy-beef for me! Without a doubt, as I’ll be bound, The best for an invalid ’tis found; It’s better than gruel; with sago vies; Or with the cradled babe’s supplies.

I like beef-tea! I like beef-tea, I’m satisfied, and aye shall be, With the brew I love, and the brew I know, And take it wheresoe’er I go. If the price should rise, or meat be cheap, No matter. I’ll to beef-tea keep.

I love—oh, how I love to guide The strong beef-tea to its place inside, When round and round you stir the spoon Or whistle thereon to cool it soon. Because one knoweth—or ought to know, That things get cool whereon you blow.

I never have drunk the dull souchong, But I for my loved beef-tea did long, And inly yearned for that bountiful zest, Like a bird. As a child on that I messed— And a mother it was and is to me, For I was weaned on the beef—beef-tea! _Tom Hood, Jr._

AFTER BYRON

THE ROUT OF BELGRAVIA

THE Belgravians came down on the Queen in her hold, And their costumes were gleaming with purple and gold, And the sheen of their jewels was like stars on the sea, As their chariots rolled proudly down Piccadill-ee.

Like the leaves of _Le Follet_ when summer is green, That host in its glory at noontide was seen; Like the leaves of a toy-book all thumb-marked and worn, That host four hours later was tattered and torn.

For the rush of the crowd, which was eager and vast, Had rumpled and ruined and wrecked as it passed; And the eyes of the wearer waxed angry in haste, As a dress but once worn was dragged out at the waist.

And there lay the feather and fan side by side, But no longer they nodded or waved in their pride; And there lay lace flounces and ruching in slips, And spur-torn material in plentiful strips.

And there were odd gauntlets and pieces of hair; And fragments of back-combs and slippers were there; And the gay were all silent, their mirth was all hushed, Whilst the dewdrops stood out on the brows of the crushed.

And the dames of Belgravia were loud in their wail, And the matrons of Mayfair all took up the tale; And they vow as they hurry unnerved from the scene, That it’s no trifling matter to call on the Queen. _Jon Duan._

A GRIEVANCE

DEAR Mr. Editor: I wish to say— If you will not be angry at my writing it— But I’ve been used, since childhood’s happy day, When I have thought of something, to inditing it; I seldom think of things; and, by the way, Although this metre may not be exciting, it Enables one to be extremely terse, Which is not what one always is in verse.

I used to know a man, such things befall The observant wayfarer through Fate’s domain He was a man, take him for all in all, We shall not look upon his like again; I know that statement’s not original; What statement is, since Shakespere? or, since Cain, What murder? I believe ’twas Shakespere said it, or Perhaps it may have been your Fighting Editor.

Though why an Editor should fight, or why A Fighter should abase himself to edit, Are problems far too difficult and high For me to solve with any sort of credit. Some greatly more accomplished man than I Must tackle them: let’s say then Shakespere said it; And, if he did not, Lewis Morris may (Or even if he did). Some other day,

When I have nothing pressing to impart, I should not mind dilating on this matter. I feel its import both in head and heart, And always did,—especially the latter. I could discuss it in the busy mart Or on the lonely housetop; hold! this chatter Diverts me from my purpose. To the point: The time, as Hamlet said, is out of joint,

And perhaps I was born to set it right,— A fact I greet with perfect equanimity. I do not put it down to “cursed spite,” I don’t see any cause for cursing in it. I Have always taken very great delight In such pursuits since first I read divinity. Whoever will may write a nation’s songs As long as I’m allowed to right its wrongs.

What’s Eton but a nursery of wrong-righters, A mighty mother of effective men; A training ground for amateur reciters, A sharpener of the sword as of the pen; A factory of orators and fighters, A forcing-house of genius? Now and then The world at large shrinks back, abashed and beaten, Unable to endure the glare of Eton.

I think I said I knew a man: what then? I don’t suppose such knowledge is forbid. We nearly all do, more or less, know men,— Or think we do; nor will a man get rid Of that delusion, while he wields a pen. But who this man was, what, if aught, he did, Nor why I mentioned him, I do not know; Nor what I “wished to say” a while ago. _J. K. Stephen._

AFTER CHARLES WOLFE

THE BURIAL OF THE BACHELOR

NOT a laugh was heard, not a frivolous note, As the groom to the wedding we carried; Not a jester discharged his farewell shot As the bachelor went to be married.

We married him quickly that morning bright, The leaves of our prayer-books turning, In the chancel’s dimly religious light, And tears in our eyelids burning.

No useless nosegay adorned his chest, Not in chains but in laws we bound him; And he looked like a bridegroom trying his best To look used to the scene around him.

Few and small were the fees it cost, And we spoke not a word of sorrow, But we silently gazed on the face of the lost And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought as we hurried him home to be fed, And tried our low spirits to rally, That the weather looked very like squalls overhead For the passage from Dover to Calais.

Lightly they’ll talk of the bachelor gone, And o’er his frail fondness upbraid him; But little he’ll reck if they let him alone, With his wife that the parson hath made him.

But half of our heavy task was done, When the clock struck the hour for retiring; And we judged by the knocks which had now begun That their cabby was rapidly tiring.

Slowly and sadly we led them down, From the scene of his lame oratory; We told the four-wheeler to drive them to town, And we left them alone in their glory. _Anonymous._

NOT A SOU HAD HE GOT

NOT a sou had he got—not a guinea or note, And he looked confoundedly flurried As he bolted away without paying his shot, And the Landlady after him hurried.

We saw him again at dead of night, When home from the club returning; We twigged the Doctor beneath the light Of the gas-lamp brilliantly burning.

All bare and exposed to the midnight dews, Reclined in the gutter we found him; And he look’d like a gentleman taking a snooze, With his Marshal cloak around him.

“The Doctor’s as drunk as the d——,” we said, And we managed a shutter to borrow; We raised him, and sighed at the thought that his head Would “consumedly ache” on the morrow.

We bore him home, and we put him to bed, And we told his wife and his daughter To give him, next morning, a couple of red Herrings, with soda-water.

Loudly they talked of his money that’s gone And his lady began to upbraid him; But little he reck’d, so they let him snore on ’Neath the counterpane just as we laid him.

We tucked him in, and had hardly done When, beneath the window calling, We heard the rough voice of a son of a gun Of a watchman “One o’clock!” bawling.

Slowly and sadly we all walk’d down From his room in the uppermost story; A rushlight was placed on the cold hearth-stone, And we left him alone in his glory! _R. Harris Barham._

THE MARRIAGE OF SIR JOHN SMITH

NOT a sigh was heard, nor a funeral tone, As the man to his bridal we hurried; Not a woman discharged her farewell groan, On the spot where the fellow was married.

We married him just about eight at night, Our faces paler turning, By the struggling moonbeam’s misty light, And the gas-lamp’s steady burning.

No useless watch-chain covered his vest, Nor over-dressed we found him; But he looked like a gentleman wearing his best, With a few of his friends around him.

Few and short were the things we said, And we spoke not a word of sorrow, But we silently gazed on the man that was wed, And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we silently stood about, With spite and anger dying, How the merest stranger had cut us out, With only half our trying.

Lightly we’ll talk of the fellow that’s gone, And oft for the past upbraid him; But little he’ll reck if we let him live on, In the house where his wife conveyed him.

But our heavy task at length was done, When the clock struck the hour for retiring; And we heard the spiteful squib and pun The girls were sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we turned to go,— We had struggled, and we were human; We shed not a tear, and we spoke not our woe, But we left him alone with his woman. _Phœbe Cary._

AFTER MRS. HEMANS

THE THYROID GLAND

“WE hear thee speak of the thyroid gland, But what thou say’st we don’t understand; Professor, where does the acinus dwell? We hashed our dissection and can’t quite tell. Is it where the mascula lutea flows, And the suprachordial tissue grows?” “Not there, not there, my class!”

“Is it far away where the bronchi part And the pneumogastric controls the heart? Where endothelium encardium lines, And a subpericardial nerve intertwines? Where the subpleural plexus of lymphatics expand? Is it there, Professor, that gruesome gland?” “Not there, not there, my class!”

“I have not seen it, my gentle youths, My myxoedemia, I’m told, it soothes. Landois says stolidly ‘functions unknown;’ Foster adopts an enquiring tone. Duct does not lead to its strange recess, Far below the vertex, above the pes, It is there, I am told, my class!” _R. M._

AFTER KEATS

I.

ODE ON A JAR OF PICKLES

A SWEET, acidulous, down-reaching thrill Pervades my sense. I seem to see or hear The lushy garden-grounds of Greenwich Hill In autumn, where the crispy leaves are sere; And odors haunt me of remotest spice From the Levant or musky-aired Cathay, Or from the saffron-fields of Jericho, Where everything is nice. The more I sniff, the more I swoon away, And what else mortal palate craves, forego.

II.

ODORS unsmelled are keen, but those I smell Are keener; wherefore let me sniff again! Enticing walnuts, I have known ye well In youth, when pickles were a passing pain; Unwitting youth, that craves the candy stem, And sugar plums to olives doth prefer, And even licks the pots of marmalade When sweetness clings to them. But now I dream of ambergris and myrrh, Tasting these walnuts in the poplar shade.

III.

LO! hoarded coolness in the heart of noon, Plucked with its dew, the cucumber is here, As to the Dryad’s parching lips a boon, And crescent bean-pods, unto Bacchus dear; And, last of all, the pepper’s pungent globe, The scarlet dwelling of the sylph of fire, Provoking purple draughts; and, surfeited, I cast my trailing robe O’er my pale feet, touch up my tuneless lyre, And twist the Delphic wreath to suit my head.

IV.

HERE shall my tongue in otherwise be soured Than fretful men’s in parched and palsied days; And, by the mid-May’s dusky leaves embowered, Forget the fruitful blame, the scanty praise. No sweets to them who sweet themselves were born, Whose natures ooze with lucent saccharine; Who, with sad repetition soothly cloyed, The lemon-tinted morn Enjoy, and find acetic twilight fine. Wake I, or sleep? The pickle-jar is void. _Bayard Taylor._

AFTER HEINE

IMITATION

MY love she leans from the window Afar in a rosy land; And red as a rose are her blushes, And white as a rose her hand.

And the roses cluster around her, And mimic her tender grace; And nothing but roses can blossom Wherever she shows her face.

I dwell in a land of winter, From my love a world apart,— But the snow blooms over with roses At the thought of her in my heart.

This German style of poem Is uncommonly popular now; For the worst of us poets can do it— Since Heine showed us how. _H. C. Bunner._

COMMONPLACES

RAIN on the face of the sea, Rain on the sodden land, And the window-pane is blurred with rain As I watch it, pen in hand.

Mist on the face of the sea, Mist on the sodden land, Filling the vales as daylight fails, And blotting the desolate sand.

Voices from out of the mist, Calling to one another: “Hath love an end, thou more than friend, Thou dearer than ever brother?”

Voices from out of the mist, Calling and passing away; But I cannot speak, for my voice is weak, And ... this is the end of my lay. _Rudyard Kipling._

AFTER HOOD

SONG OF THE SHEET

THE DRIPPING SHEET

_This sheet wrung out of cold or tepid water is thrown around the body. Quick rubbing follows, succeeded by the same operation with a dry sheet. Its operation is truly shocking. Dress after to prevent remarks._

WITH nerves all shattered and worn, With shouts terrific and loud, A patient stood in a cold wet sheet— A Grindrod’s patent shroud. Wet, wet, wet, In douche and spray and sleet, And still, with a voice I shall never forget, He sang the song of the sheet.

“Drip, drip, drip, Dashing, and splashing, and dipping; And drip, drip, drip, Till your fat all melts to dripping. It’s oh, for dry deserts afar, Or let me rather endure Curing with salt in a family jar, If this is the water cure.

“Rub, rub, rub, He’ll rub away life and limb; Rub, rub, rub It seems to be fun for him. Sheeted from head to foot, I’d rather be covered with dirt; I’ll give you the sheet and the blankets to boot, If you’ll only give me my shirt.

“Oh, men, with arms and hands, Oh, men, with legs and shins, It is not the sheet you’re wearing out, But human creatures’ skins. Rub, rub, rub, Body, and legs, and feet; Rubbing at once with a double rub, A skin as well as a sheet.

“My wife will see me no more— She’ll see the bone of her bone, But never will see the flesh of her flesh, For I’ll have no flesh of my own. The little that was my own, They won’t allow me to keep; It’s a pity that flesh should be so dear, And water so very cheap.

“Pack, pack, pack, Whenever your spirit flags, You’re doomed by hydropathic laws To be packed in cold water rags; Rolled up on bed or on floor, Or sweated to death in a chair; But my chairman’s rank—my shadow I’d thank For taking my place in there.

“Slop, slop, slop, Never a moment of time; Slop, slop, slop, Slackened like mason’s lime. Stand and freeze and steam— Steam or freeze and stand; I wish those friends had their tongues benumbed, That told me to leave dry land.