Part 2
A Common Councilman, with lordly air, One day went strolling down through Copley Square. Within his breast there beat a spotless heart; His taste was pure, his soul was steeped in art. For he had worshiped oft at Cass's shrine, Had daily knelt at Cogswell's fount divine, And chaste surroundings of the City Hall Had taught him much, and so he knew it all. Proud, in a sack coat and a high silk hat, Content in knowing just "where he was at," He wandered on, till gazing toward the skies, A nameless horror met his modest eyes; For where the artist's chisel had engrossed An emblem fit on Boston's proudest boast, There stood aloft, with graceful equipoise, Two very small, unexpurgated boys. Filled with solicitude for city youth, Whose morals suffer when they're told the truth, Whose ethic standards high and higher rise, When taught that God and nature are but lies, In haste he to the council chamber hied, His startled fellow-members called aside, His fearful secret whispering disclosed, Till all their separate joints were ankylosed. Appalling was the silence at his tale; Democrats turned red, Republicans turned pale. What mugwumps turned 'tis difficult to think, But probably they compromised on pink.
When these stern moralists had their breaths regained, And told how deeply they were shocked and pained, They then resolved how wrong our children are, Said, "Boys should be contented with a scar," Rebuked Dame Nature for her deadly sins, And damned trustees who foster "Heavenly Twins."
O Councilmen, if it were left for you To say what art is false and what is true, What strange anomalies would the world behold! Dolls would be angels, dross would count for gold; Vice would be virtue, virtues would be taints; Gods would be devils, Councilmen be saints; And this sage law by your wise minds be built: "No boy shall live if born without a kilt." Then you'd resolve, to soothe all moral aches, "We're always right, but God has made mistakes."
THE BOOK HUNTER
I've spent all my money in chasing For books that are costly and rare; I've made myself bankrupt in tracing Each prize to its ultimate lair. And now I'm a ruined collector, Impoverished, ragged, and thin, Reduced to a vanishing spectre, Because of my prodigal sin.
How often I've called upon Foley, The man who's a friend of the cranks; Knows books that are witty or holy, And whether they're prizes or blanks. For volumes on paper or vellum He has a most accurate eye, And always is willing to sell 'em To dreamers like me who will buy.
My purse requires fences and hedges, Alas! it will never stay shut; My coat-sleeves now have deckle edges, My hair is unkempt and "uncut." My coat is a true first edition, And rusty from shoulder to waist; My trousers are out of condition, Their "colophon" worn and defaced.
My shoes have been long out of fashion, "Crushed leather" they both seem to be; My hat is a thing for compassion, The kind that is labelled "n. d." My vest from its binding is broken, It's what the French call a _relique_; What I think of it cannot be spoken, Its catalogue mark is "unique."
I'm a book that is thumbed and untidy, The only one left of the set; I'm sure I was issued on Friday, For fate is unkind to me yet. My text has been cruelly garbled By a destiny harder than flint; But I wait for my grave to be "marbled," And then I shall be out of print.
THE THREE VOICES
There once was a man who asked for pie, In a piping voice up high, up high; And when he asked for a salmon roe, He spoke in a voice down low, down low; But when he said he had no choice, He always spoke in a medium voice.
I cannot tell the reason why He sometimes spoke up high, up high; And why he sometimes spoke down low, I do not know, I do not know; And why he spoke in the medium way, Don't ask me, for I cannot say.
EASY KNOWLEDGE
How nice 'twould be if knowledge grew On bushes, as the berries do! Then we could plant our spelling seed, And gather all the words we need. The sums from off our slates we'd wipe, And wait for figures to be ripe, And go into the fields, and pick Whole bushels of arithmetic; Or if we wished to learn Chinese, We'd just go out and shake the trees; And grammar then, in all the towns, Would grow with proper verbs and nouns; And in the gardens there would be Great bunches of geography; And all the passers-by would stop, And marvel at the knowledge crop; And I my pen would cease to push, And pluck my verses from a bush!
SUSAN SCUPPERNONG
Silly Susan Scuppernong Cried so hard and cried so long, People asked her what was wrong.
She replied, "I do not know Any reason for my woe-- I just feel like feeling so."
THE HATBAND
My hatband goes around my hat, And while there's nothing strange in that, It seems just like a lazy man Who leaves off where he first began.
But then this fact is always true, The band does what it ought to do, And is more useful than the man, Because it does the best it can.
THE OYSTER
Two halves of an oyster shell, each a shallow cup; Here once lived an oyster before they ate him up. Oyster shells are smooth inside; outside very rough; Very little room to spare, but he had enough. Bedroom, parlor, kitchen, or cellar there was none; Just one room in all the house--oysters need but one. And he was never troubled by wind or rain or snow, For he had a roof above, another one below. I wonder if they fried him, or cooked him in a stew, And sold him at a fair, and passed him off for two. I wonder if the oysters all have names like us, And did he have a name like "John" or "Romulus"? I wonder if his parents wept to see him go; I wonder who can tell; perhaps the mermaids know. I wonder if our sleep the most of us would dread, If we slept like oysters, a million in a bed!
WIND AND RAIN
The rain came down on Boston Town, And the people said, "Oh, dear! It's early yet for our annual wet,-- 'Twas dry this time last year."
In heavy suits and rubber boots They went to the weather man, And said, "Dear friend, do you intend To change your present plan?"
In tones of scorn, he said, "Begone! I've ordered a week of rain. Away! disperse! or I'll do worse, And order a hurricane!"
They sneered, "Oh, oh!" and they laughed, "Ho, ho!" And they said, "You surely jest. Your threats are vain, for a hurricane Is the thing that we like best.
"Our throats are tinned, and a sharp east wind We really couldn't do without; But we complain of too much rain, And we think we'd like a drought."
So the weather man took a palm-leaf fan And he waved it up on high, And he swept away the clouds so gray, And the sun shone out in the sky.
And the sun shines down on Boston Town, And the weather still is clear; And they set their clocks by the equinox, And never the east wind fear.
THE FLAG
Here comes The Flag! Hail it! Who dares to drag Or trail it? Give it hurrahs,-- Three for the stars, Three for the bars. Uncover your head to it! The soldiers who tread to it Shout at the sight of it, The justice and right of it, The unsullied white of it, The blue and red of it, And tyranny's dread of it!
Here comes The Flag! Cheer it! Valley and crag Shall hear it. Fathers shall bless it, Children caress it. All shall maintain it. No one shall stain it, Cheers for the sailors that fought on the wave for it, Cheers for the soldiers that always were brave for it, Tears for the men that went down to the grave for it! Here comes The Flag!
MY MASTERPIECE
I wrote the truest, tend'rest song The world had ever heard; And clear, melodious, and strong, And sweet was every word. The flowing numbers came to me Unbidden from the heart; So pure the strain, that poesy Seemed something more than art.
No doubtful cadence marred a line, So tunefully it flowed, And through the measure, all divine The fire of genius glowed. So deftly were the verses wrought, So fair the legend told, That every word revealed a thought, And every thought was gold.
Mine was the charm, the power, the skill, The wisdom of the years; 'Twas mine to move the world at will To laughter or to tears. For subtile pleasantry was there, And brilliant flash of wit; Now, pleading eyes were raised in prayer, And now with smiles were lit.
I sang of hours when youth was king, And of one happy spot Where life and love were everything, And time was half forgot. Of gracious days in woodland ways, When every flower and tree Seemed echoing the sweetest phrase From lips in Arcadie.
Of sagas old and Norseman bands That sailed o'er northern seas; Enchanting tales of fairy lands And strange philosophies. I sang of Egypt's fairest queen, With passion's fatal curse; Of that pale, sad-faced Florentine, As deathless as his verse.
Of time of the Arcadian Pan, When dryads thronged the trees-- When Atalanta swiftly ran With fleet Hippomenes. Brave stories, too, did I relate Of battle-flags unfurled; Of glorious days when Greece was great-- When Rome was all the world!
Of noble deeds for noble creeds, Of woman's sacrifice-- The mother's stricken heart that bleeds For souls in Paradise. Anon I told a tale of shame, And while in tears I slept, Behold! a white-robed angel came And read the words and wept!
And so I wrote my perfect song, In such a wondrous key, I heard the plaudits of the throng, And fame awaited me. Alas! the sullen morning broke, And came the tempest's roar: 'Mid discord trembling I awoke, And lo! my dream was o'er!
Yet often in the quiet night My song returns to me; I seize the pen, and fain would write My long lost melody. But dreaming o'er the words, ere long Comes vague remembering, And fades away the sweetest song That man can ever sing!
A BALLADE OF MONTAIGNE
I sit before the firelight's glow With all the world in apogee, And con good Master Florio With pipe a-light; and as I see Queen Bess herself with book a-knee, Reading it o'er and o'er again, Here, 'neath my cosy mantel-tree, I smoke my pipe and read Montaigne.
Now howls the wind and drives the snow; The traveler shivers on the lea; While, with my precious folio, Behold a happy devotee To book and warmth and reverie! The blast upon the window-pane Disturbs me not, as trouble-free, I smoke my pipe and read Montaigne.
I am content, and thus I know A mind as calm as summer sea,-- A heart that stranger is to woe. To happiness I hold the key In this rare, sweet philosophy; And while the Fates so fair ordain, Well pleased with Destiny's decree, I smoke my pipe and read Montaigne.
ENVOY
Dear Prince! aye, more than prince to me, Thou monarch of immortal reign! Always thy subject I would be, And smoke my pipe and read Montaigne!
THE CRIMINAL
Crime flourishes throughout the land, And bids defiance to the law, And wicked deeds on every hand O'erwhelm our souls with awe!
I know one hardened criminal Whose maidenhood with crime begins; Who, safe behind a prison wall, Should expiate her sins.
She is a thief whene'er she smiles, For then she steals my heart from me, And keeps it with a maiden's wiles, And never sets it free.
She plunders sighs from humankind, She pilfers tears I would not weep, She robs me of my peace of mind, And she purloins my sleep.
Of lawless ways she stands confessed, And is a burglar bold whene'er She finds a weakness in my breast, And slyly enters there.
A gambler she, whose arts entrance, Whose victims yield without demur; Content to play Love's game of chance And lose their hearts to her.
A graver crime is hers; for, when Her matchless beauty I admire, Of arson she is guilty then, And sets my heart on fire.
A bandit, preying on mankind, Her captives by the score increase; No hand can e'er their chains unbind, No ransom bring release.
She is a cruel murderess Whene'er her eyes send forth a dart, And as she holds me in duress It stabs me to the heart.
Crime flourishes throughout the land, And bids defiance to the law, And wicked deeds on every hand O'erwhelm our souls with awe!
A BIT OF COLOR
[PARIS, 1896]
Oh, damsel fair at the Porte Maillot, With the soft blue eyes that haunt me so, Pray what should I do When a girl like you Bestows her smile, her glance, and her sigh On the first fond fool that is passing by, Who listens and longs as the sweet words flow From her pretty red lips at the Porte Maillot?
There were lips as red ere you were born, Now wreathed in smiles, now curled in scorn, And other bright eyes With their truth and lies, That broke the heart and turned the brain Of many a tender, lovelorn swain; But never, I ween, brought half the woe That comes from the lips at the Porte Maillot.
A charming picture, there you stand, A perfect work from a master's hand! With your face so fair And your wondrous hair, Your glorious color, your light and shade, And your classic head that the gods have made, Your cheeks with crimson all aglow, As you wait for a lover at the Porte Maillot.
There are gorgeous tints in the jeweled crown, There are brilliant shades when the sun goes down; But your lips vie With the western sky, And give to the world so rare a hue That the painter must learn his art anew, And the sunset borrow a brighter glow From the lips of the girl at the Porte Maillot.
Come, tell me truly, fair-haired youth, Do her eyes flash love, her lips speak truth? Or does she beguile With her glance and smile, And burn you, spurn you all day long With a Circe's art and a Siren's song? Ah! would that your foolish heart might know The lie in the heart at the Porte Maillot!
DINNER FAVORS
TO S.
I fill my goblet to the brim And clink the glasses rim to rim. Across the board I waft a kiss With thanks for such an hour as this, And clasping joy, bid sorrow flee, And welcome you my vis-à-vis.
TO A. R. C.
Of all the joys on earth that be There is no sweeter one to me Than sitting with a merry lass From consommé to demi-tasse.
And yet a golden hour I'd steal, Reverse the order of the meal, And countermarching, backward stray From demi-tasse to consommé.
TO S. B. F.
Give me but a bit to eat, And an hour or two, Just a salad and a sweet, And a chat with you. Give me table full or bare, Crust or rich ragout; But whatever be the fare, Always give me you.
THE HOST
Between the two perplexed I go, A shuttlecock, tossed to and fro. I gaze on one, and know that she Is all that womankind can be; I seek the other, and she seems The perfect idol of my dreams; And so between the charming pair My heart is ever in the air. And yet, although it be my fate To hover indeterminate, I rest content, nor ask for more Than this sweet game of battledore.
THE MOPER
The Moper mopeth all the day; He mopeth eke at night; And never is the Moper gay, But, grim and serious alway, He is a sorry sight.
He liketh not the merry quip; He hateth other men; Escheweth he companionship, Nor doth he e'er essay to trip The light fantastic ten.
He seeketh not where murm'ring brooks With rippling music flow. He seeth naught in woman's looks, And never readeth he in books Except they tell of woe.
He e'en forgetteth that the sun, Likewise God's balmy air, Were made to gladden every one; But he preferreth both to shun, And taketh not his share.
He careth not for merry wights Who drink Château Yquem, But he would set the world to rights By peopling it with eremites-- And very few of them.
When children sport with merry glee, He thinketh they are wild, And with them doth so disagree It seemeth verily that he Hath never been a child.
He thinketh that it is not right Rare dishes to discuss, And knoweth not the keen delight Of one that hath an appetite Yclepèd ravenous.
Of goodly raiment he hath none, He calleth it "display;" Wherefore the urchin poketh fun, Because he looketh like that one Unholy men call "jay."
And so we see this foolish man All pleasant things doth scorn. Good folk, pray God to change his plan, And cheer the Moper if He can, Or let no more be born!
VARIOUS VALENTINES
I
FROM A BIBLIOPHILE
Lyke some choise booke thou arte toe mee, Bound all so daintilie; And 'neath the covers faire Are contents true and rare. Ne wolde I looke Ne reade inne any other booke If I belyke could find therein the charte And indice to thy hearte. The Great Wise Authour made but one Of this edition, then was don; And were this onlie copie mine, Then wolde I write therein, "My Valentyne."
II
FROM AN INCONSTANT-CONSTANT
(_After Henri Murger_)
Though I love many maidens fair As fondly as a heart may dare, Yet still are you the only one True goddess of my pantheon.
And though my life is like a song, Each maid a stanza, clear and strong, Yet always I return again To you who are the sweet refrain.
III
FROM A COMMERCIAL LOVER
If I were but a syndicate, And love were merchandise, I'd buy it at the market rate, And hold it for a rise.
And should the price of all this love Bound upward like a ball, And reach 1000 or above, Still you should have it all.
IV
FROM AN UNCERTAIN MARKSMAN
I send you two kisses Wrapped up in a rhyme; From Love's warm abysses I send you two kisses; If one of them misses Please wait till next time, And I'll send you _three_ kisses Wrapped up in a rhyme.
V
FROM A CONCHOLOGIST
Were I a murm'ring ocean shell Pressed close against your ear, My constant whisperings would tell A story sweet to hear. I'd make the message from the sea Love's tidings on the shore, And I would woo with words so true That you could ask no more.
So if some silvern nautilus Lay close beside your cheek, And you should hear a language dear Unto the heart I seek, You'll know within the simple shell That murmurs o'er and o'er I send to you a love more true Than e'er was breathed before.
VI
FROM A HYPERBOLIST
Take all the love that e'er was told Since first the world began, Increase it twenty thousand-fold (If mathematics can), Add all the love the world shall see Till Gabriel's final call, And when compared with mine 'twill be Infinitesimal.
WERE ALL THE WORLD LIKE YOU
Were all the world like you, my dear, Were all the world like you, Oh, there'd be darts in all our hearts From sunset to the dew. For life would be Love's jubilee Where all were two and two, And lovers' rhyme the only crime, Were all the world like you, my dear, Were all the world like you.
Were all the world like you, my dear, Were all the world like you, There'd be no pain nor clouds nor rain, No kisses overdue; But sweetest sighs and pleading eyes, Where Cupid's arrow flew, And lovers' rhyme the only crime, Were all the world like you, my dear, Were all the world like you.
HERE AND THERE
Sweet Phyllis went a-rambling here and there, Here and there. Her eyes were blue and golden was her hair. She said, "Oh, life is strange; I'm sure I need a change; 'Tis sad for _one_ to ramble here and there, Here and there."
Young Strephon went a-rambling here and there, Here and there. He sighed, "It needs but two to make a pair. If I should meet a maid Not in the least afraid, How happy we'd go rambling here and there, Here and there."
As youth and maid went rambling here and there, Here and there, They met, and loved at sight, for both were fair; And neither youth nor maid Was in the least afraid, And hand in hand they ramble here and there, Here and there.
UNCLE JOGALONG
My dear old Uncle Jogalong Was very slow, was very slow, And said he thought that folks were wrong To hurry so, to hurry so.
When he walked out upon the street To take the air, to take the air, It seemed almost as if his feet Were fastened there, were fastened there.
He thought that traveling by rail Was hurrying and scurrying, But said the slow and creeping snail Was just the thing, was just the thing.
He thought a hasty appetite An awful crime, an awful crime, So never finished breakfast, quite, Till dinner time, till dinner time.
He said the world turned round so fast He could not stay, he could not stay, And so he said "Good-by" at last, And went away, and went away.
THE INDIFFERENT MARINER
I'm a tough old salt, and it's never I care A penny which way the wind is, Or whether I sight Cape Finisterre, Or make a port at the Indies.
Some folks steer for a port to trade, And some steer north for the whaling; Yet never I care a damn just where I sail, so long's I'm sailing.
You never can stop the wind when it blows, And you can't stop the rain from raining; Then why, oh, why, go a-piping of your eye When there's no sort o' use in complaining?
My face is browned and my lungs are sound, And my hands they are big and calloused. I've a little brown jug I sometimes hug, And a little bread and meat for ballast.
But I keep no log of my daily grog, For what's the use o' being bothered? I drink a little more when the wind's offshore, And most when the wind's from the no'th'ard.
Of course with a chill if I'm took quite ill, And my legs get weak and toddly, At the jug I pull, and turn in full, And sleep the sleep of the godly.
But whether I do or whether I don't, Or whether the jug's my failing, It's never I care a damn just where I sail, so long's I'm sailing.
ON A LIBRARY WALL
When faltering fingers bid me cease to write, And, laying down the pen, I seek the Night, May those, to whom the Daylight still is sweet, With loving lips my name ofttimes repeat. And should Belshazzar's spirit hither stray, And linger o'er the lines I write to-day, May he, who wept for Babylonia's fall, Look kindly at _this_ "writing on the wall"!
MRS. MULLIGATAWNY
Mrs. Mulligatawny said, "I'm sure it's going to rain." Mr. Mulligatawny said, "To me it's very plain." William Mulligatawny said, "It must rain, anyhow." Mary Mulligatawny said, "I feel it raining now." And yet there were no clouds in sight, and 'twas a pleasant day, But Mrs. Mulligatawny always liked to have her way. With Mrs. Mulligatawny the family all agreed, For all the Mulligatawnys feared her very much indeed, And did, whenever they were bid, As Mrs. Mulligatawny did, And tried to think, as they were taught, As Mrs. Mulligatawny thought.