Part 3
Mrs. Mulligatawny said, "Now two and two are three." Mr. Mulligatawny said, "I'm sure they ought to be." William Mulligatawny said, "Arithmetic is wrong." Mary Mulligatawny said, "It's been so all along." Now two and two do not make three, and three they never were; But Mrs. Mulligatawny said 'twas near enough for her. 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.
Mrs. Mulligatawny fell out of the world one day. Mr. Mulligatawny said, "I don't know what to say." William Mulligatawny said, "I don't know what to do." Mary Mulligatawny said, "I feel the same as you." Mrs. Mulligatawny left the family sitting there. They couldn't think, they couldn't move, because they didn't dare; For Mrs. Mulligatawny had always thought for them, And all the Mulligatawnys thought the same as Mrs. M., And did, whenever they were bid, As Mrs. Mulligatawny did, And tried to think, as they were taught, As Mrs. Mulligatawny thought.
EUTHANASIA
[To E. C.]
Oh, drop your eyelids down, my lady; Oh, drop your eyelids down. 'Twere well to keep your bright eyes shady For pity of the town! But should there any glances be, I pray you give them all to me; For though my life be lost thereby, It were the sweetest death to die!
DAINTY LITTLE LOVE
Dainty little Love came tripping Down the hill, Smiling as he thought of sipping Sweets at will. SHE said, "No, Love must go." Dainty little Love came tripping Down the hill.
Dainty little Love went sighing Up the hill, All his little hopes were dying-- Love was ill. Vain he tried Tears to hide. Dainty little Love went sighing Up the hill.
TO M.
Sweet visions came to me in sleep, Ah! wondrous fair to see; And in my mind I strove to keep The dream to tell to thee.
But morning broke with golden gleam, And shone upon thy face, And life was lovelier than a dream, And dreams had lost their grace.
THE SONG
I heard an old, familiar air Strummed idly by a careless hand, Yet in the melody were rare, Sweet echoings from childhood land.
The well-remembered mother touch, The wise denials and consents, The trivial sorrows that were much, Small pleasures that were large events;
The fancies, dreams, strange wonderings, The daily problems unexplained, Momentous as the cares of kings That on unhappy thrones have reigned,
Came back with each unstudied tone; And came that song remembered best, Which, with a sweetness all its own, Once lulled the play-worn child to rest.
And there, secure as Tarik's height, He slumbered, shielded from alarms, Safe from the mystery of night, Close folded in the mother's arms.
Then Israel's mighty songs of old, And all the modern masters' art, Were less than simple lays that told The secret of the mother's heart.
The sweetest melody that flows From lips that win the world's applause Charms not like that which childhood knows, Unfettered by the curb of laws.
For though we rise to nobler themes, To grander harmonies attain, Their lives not in the academes The magic of the simpler strain.
And we may spurn the cruder song, Or name it anything we will, Denounce the artifice as wrong, Yet to the child 'tis music still.
Thus, list'ning to an idle air, Struck lightly by a careless hand, I heard, amid the cadence there, The sweetest song of childhood land.
AT TWILIGHT TIME
At twilight time when tolls the chime, And saddest notes are falling, A lonely bird with plaintive word Across the dusk is calling. Vain doth it wait for one dear mate, That ne'er shall know the morrow; Then sinks to rest with drooping crest In one long dream of sorrow.
Dearest, when night is here, To thee I'm calling, Sadly as tear on tear Is slowly falling, Oh, fold me near, more near-- In love enthralling! Here on thy breast, While life shall last, With thee I stay. Here will I rest Till night is past, And comes the day!
CÉLESTE
Of sweethearts I have had a score, And time may bring as many more; Tho' I remember all the rest, Just now I worship dear Céleste; Hers may not be the greatest love, But ah! it is the latest love.
For little Cupid's never stupid, As I've found out; And love is truest when 'tis newest, Beyond a doubt, beyond a doubt.
Of sweethearts I have had a score, Céleste says I deserve no more; I take revenge on dear Céleste, By telling her I love her best; Hers may not be the greatest love, But ah! it is the latest love.
For little Cupid's never stupid, As I've found out; And love is truest when 'tis newest, Beyond a doubt, beyond a doubt.
THISTLE-DOWN
The thistle-down floats on the air, the air, Whenever the soft wind blows, And the wind can tell just where, just where The feathery thistle-down goes. And it tells the bird in a single word, Who whispers it low to the bee; And they try to keep the mystery deep, And none of them tell it to me. But I know well, though they never will tell, Where the thistle-down goes when it says "Farewell," It floats and floats away on the air, And goes where the wind goes--everywhere!
SLUMBER SONG
Gently fall the shadows gray, Daylight softly veiling; Now to Dreamland we'll away, Sailing, sailing, sailing.
Little eyes were made for sleeping, Little heads were made for rest, Golden locks were made for keeping Close to mother's breast; Little hands were made for folding, Little lips should never sigh; What dear mother's arms are holding, Love alone can buy.
Gently fall the shadows gray, Daylight softly veiling; Now to Dreamland we'll away, Sailing, sailing, sailing.
THOU ART TO ME
Thou art to me As are soft breezes to a summer sea; As stars unto the night; Or when the day is born, As sunrise to the morn; As peace unto the fading of the light.
Thou art to me As one sweet flower upon a barren lea; As rest to toiling hands; As one clear spring amid the desert sands; As smiles to maidens' lips; As hope to friends that wait for absent ships; As happiness to youth; As purity to truth; As sweetest dreams to sleep; As balm to wounded hearts that weep. All, all that I would have thee be Thou art to me.
LOVE
[TRIO]
Oh, love hits all humanity, humanity, my dear; But after all it's vanity, a vanity, I fear; And sometimes 'tis insanity, insanity, so queer; Humanity, yes, a vanity, yes, insanity so queer. And love is often curious, so curious to see, And oftentimes is spurious, so spurious, ah, me! And surely 'tis injurious, injurious when free, So curious, yes, and spurious, yes, injurious when free.
Oh, love brings much anxiety, anxiety and grief, But seasoned with propriety, propriety, relief, It's mixed with joy and piety, but piety is brief; Anxiety, yes, propriety, yes, but piety is brief. Oh, young love's all timidity, timidity, I'm told, Gains courage with rapidity, rapidity, so bold, With traces of acidity, acidity, when old; Timidity, yes, rapidity, yes, acidity, when old.
THE STRANGER-MAN
"Now what is that, my daughter dear, upon thy cheek so fair?" "'Tis but a kiss, my mother dear--kind fortune sent it there. It was a courteous stranger-man that gave it unto me, And it is passing red because it was the last of three."
"A kiss indeed! my daughter dear; I marvel in surprise! Such conduct with a stranger-man I fear me was not wise." "Methought the same, my mother dear, and so at three forbore, Although the courteous stranger-man vowed he had many more."
"Now prithee, daughter, quickly go, and bring the stranger here, And bid him hie and bid him fly to me, my daughter dear; For times be very, very hard, and blessings eke so rare, I fain would meet a stranger-man that hath a kiss to spare."
THE HONEYSUCKLE VINE
'Twas a tender little honeysuckle vine That smiled and danced in the warm sunshine, And spied a maid as fair as all maids be, Who said, "Little honeysuckle, come up to me." So it climbed and climbed in the sun and the shade, And all summer long at her window stayed; For that is the way that honeysuckles go, And that is the way that true loves grow.
Then the loving little honeysuckle vine Kissed the little maid in the warm sunshine; But the winter came with an angry frown, And the false little maid shut the window down; And the sorrowing vine on the wintry side Mourned and mourned for the love that died, And faded away in the wind and snow,-- And that is the way that some loves go.
SAINT BOTOLPH
Saint Botolph flourished in the olden time, In the days when the saints were in their prime. Oh, his feet were bare and bruised and cold, But his heart was warm and as pure as gold. And the kind old saint with his gown and his hood Was loved by the sinners and loved by the good, For he made the sinners as pure as the snow, And the good men needed him to keep them so.
CHORUS
Then drink, brave gentlemen, drink with me To the Lincolnshire saint by the old North Sea. A glass and a toast and a song and a rhyme To the barefooted saint of the olden time.
He loved a friend and a flagon of wine, When the friend was true and the bottle was fine. He would raise his glass with a knowing wink, And this was the toast he would always drink:--
"Oh, here's to the good and the bad men too, For without them saints would have nothing to do. Oh, I love them both and I love them well, But which I love better, I never can tell."
CHORUS
Then drink, brave gentlemen, drink with me To the Lincolnshire saint by the old North Sea. A glass and a toast and a song and a rhyme To the barefooted saint of the olden time.
As he journeyed along on the king's highway He gave all the boys and the girls "Good-day," And never a child saw the hood and gown But ran to the father of Botolph's Town. He'd a word for the wicked, and he called them kin, And he said, "I am certain that there must be sin While a few get the loaves and many get the crumbs, And some are born fingers and some born thumbs."
CHORUS
Then drink, brave gentlemen, drink with me To the Lincolnshire saint by the old North Sea. A glass and a toast and a song and a rhyme To the barefooted saint of the olden time.
But the saint grew old, and sorry the day When his life went out with the tide in the bay; But he left a name and he left a creed Of the cheerful life and the kindly deed. Then remember the man of the days of old Whose heart was warm and as pure as gold, And remember the tears and the prayers he gave For any poor devil with a soul to save.
CHORUS
Then drink, brave gentlemen, drink with me To the Lincolnshire saint by the old North Sea. A glass and a toast and a song and a rhyme To the barefooted saint of the olden time.
THE GURGLING IMPS
The Gurgling Imps of Mummery Mum Lived in the Land of the Crimson Plum, And a language very strange had they, 'Twas merely a chattering ricochet.
The Gurgling Imps of Mummery Mum Caught hummingbirds for the sake of the hum, Their cheeks were flushed with a sable tinge, Their eyelids hung on a silver hinge.
The Gurgling Imps of Mummery Mum Called each other "My charming chum," And floated in tears of joy to see Their relatives hung in a cranberry tree.
The Gurgling Imps of Mummery Mum Stole the whole of a half of a crumb, And a wind arose and blew the Imps Way off to the Land of the Lazy Limps.
THE WORM WILL TURN
I'm a gentle, meek, and patient human worm; Unattractive, Rather active, With a sense of right, original but firm. I was taught to be forgiving, For my enemies to pray; But what's the use of living If you never can repay All the little animosities that in your bosom burn-- Oh, it's pleasant to remember that "the worm will turn."
I'm so gentle and so patient and so meek, Unpretending, Unoffending. But if, perchance, you smite me on the cheek, I will never turn the other, As I was taught to do By a puritanic mother, Whose theology was blue. Your experience will widen when explicitly you learn How a modest, mild, submissive little worm will turn.
I'm so subtle and so crafty and so sly. I am humble, But I "tumble" To the slightest oscillation of the eye. When others think they're winning A fabulous amount, Then I do a little sinning On my personal account, And in my quiet, simple way a modest stipend earn As they slowly grasp the bitter fact that worms will turn.
Oh, human worms are curious little things; Inoffensive, Rather pensive Till it comes to using little human stings. Oh, then avoid intrusion If you would be discreet, And cultivate seclusion In an underground retreat. And whenever you are tempted the lowly worm to spurn, Just bear in mind that little line, "The worm will turn."
THE BOSTON CATS
A Little Cat played on a silver flute, And a Big Cat sat and listened; The Little Cat's strains gave the Big Cat pains, And a tear on his eyelid glistened.
Then the Big Cat said, "Oh, rest awhile;" But the Little Cat said, "No, no; For I get pay for the tunes I play;" And the Big Cat answered, "Oh!
If you get pay for the tunes you play, I'm afraid you'll play till you drop; You'll spoil your health in the race for wealth, So I'll give you more to stop."
Said the Little Cat, "Hush! you make me blush; Your offer is unusually kind; Though it's very, very hard to leave the back yard, I'll accept if you don't mind."
So the Big Cat gave him a thousand pounds And a silver brush and a comb, And a country seat on Beacon Street, Right under the State House dome.
And the Little Cat sits with other little kits, And watches the bright sun rise; And the voice of the flute is long since mute, And the Big Cat dries his eyes.
THE JONQUIL MAID
A little Maid sat in a Jonquil Tree, Singing alone, In a low love-tone, And the wind swept by with a wistful moan; For he longed to stay With the Maid all day; But he knew As he blew It was true That the dew Would never, never dry If the wind should die; So he hurried away where the rosebuds grew. And while to the Land of the Rose went he, Singing alone, In a low love-tone, A Little Maid sat in a Jonquil Tree.
The Little Maid's eyes had a rainbow hue, And her sunset hair Was woven with care In a knot that was fit for a Psyche to wear; And she pressed her lips With her finger tips, Threw a sly Kiss to try If he'd sigh In reply, And said with a laugh, "Oh, it's not one half As sweet as I give when there's Some One nigh." And while to the Rosebud Land went he, Singing alone, In a low love-tone, A Little Maid sat in a Jonquil Tree.
The wind swept back to the Jonquil Tree At the close of day, In the twilight gray; But the sweet Little Maid had stolen away; And whither she's flown Will never be known Till the Rose As it blows Shall disclose All it knows Of the Maid so fair With the sunset hair. And the sad wind comes and sighs and goes, And dreams of the day when he blew so free, When singing alone, In a low love-tone, A Little Maid sat in a Jonquil Tree.
THE ROLLICKING MASTODON
A Rollicking Mastodon lived in Spain, In the trunk of a Tranquil Tree. His face was plain, but his jocular vein Was a burst of the wildest glee. His voice was strong and his laugh so long That people came many a mile, And offered to pay a guinea a day For the fractional part of a smile. The Rollicking Mastodon's laugh was wide-- Indeed, 'twas a matter of family pride; And oh! so proud of his jocular vein Was the Rollicking Mastodon over in Spain.
The Rollicking Mastodon said one day, "I feel that I need some air, For a little ozone's a tonic for bones, As well as a gloss for the hair." So he skipped along and warbled a song In his own triumphulant way. His smile was bright and his skip was light As he chirruped his roundelay. The Rollicking Mastodon tripped along, And sang what Mastodons call a song; But every note of it seemed to pain The Rollicking Mastodon over in Spain.
A Little Peetookle came over the hill, Dressed up in a bollitant coat; And he said, "You need some harroway seed, And a little advice for your throat." The Mastodon smiled and said, "My child, There's a chance for your taste to grow. If you polish your mind, you'll certainly find How little, how little you know." The Little Peetookle, his teeth he ground At the Mastodon's singular sense of sound; For he felt it a sort of musical stain On the Rollicking Mastodon over in Spain.
"Alas! and alas! has it come to this pass?" Said the Little Peetookle: "Dear me! It certainly seems your horrible screams Intended for music must be." The Mastodon stopped; his ditty he dropped, And murmured, "Good-morning, my dear! I never will sing to a sensitive thing That shatters a song with a sneer!" The Rollicking Mastodon bade him "adieu." Of course, 'twas a sensible thing to do; For Little Peetookle is spared the strain Of the Rollicking Mastodon over in Spain.
THE FIVE SENSES
Oh, why do men their glasses clink When good old honest wine they drink?
Wine is so excellent a thing To lowest subject, or to highest king, That every sense alike should share The pleasure that can banish care. Thus may each merry eye _behold_ The sparkle of the red or gold. Our lips may _feel_ the goblet's edge And _taste_ the loving cup we pledge. While from each foaming glass escape The precious _perfumes_ of the grape. But ah, we _hear_ it not, and so We give the _touch_ that all men know. And thus do all the senses share The pleasure that can banish care.
And that is why the glasses clink When good old honest wine we drink.
ECONOMY
[A VALENTINE]
I send, O sweetest friend, A kiss; Such as fair ladies gave Of old, when knights were brave, And smiles were won Through foes undone. And this will be For you to give again to me; And then, its present errand o'er, I'll give it unto you once more, Ere briefest time elapse, With interest, perhaps. Its mission spent, Again to me it may be lent. And thus, day after day, As we a simple law obey, Forever, to and fro, The selfsame kiss will go; A busy shuttle that shall weave A web of love, to soften and relieve Our daily care. And so, As thus we share, With lip to lip, Our frugal partnership, One kiss will always do For two. And, oh, how easy it will be To practice this economy!
IDYLETTES OF THE QUEEN
I.--SHE
I fain would write on pleasant themes; So let me prate Awhile of Kate; And if my rhyming effort seems Uncouth or rough, At any rate, She's Kate, And that's enough.
II.--HER EYES
Her eyes are bright-- I cannot say "like stars at night," Nor can I say "Like the Orb of Day," Because such phrases are archaic. And if I swear That they compare With diamonds rare, That's too prosaic.
I've hunted my thesaurus through, "The Century" and "Webster," too, But all in vain; 'Tis therefore plain That they who made these books so wise Had never seen her eyes!
III.--HER GOWN
When Kate puts on her Sunday gown And goes to church all in her best, The watchful gargoyles looking down Relax their most forbidding frown, And smile with kindly interest.
Discerning gargoyles! could I be One of your number looking down, With you I surely would agree And share your amiability At sight of Kate and Sunday gown.
IV.--HER KNOWLEDGE
How much she knows no one can tell; But she can read and write and spell, Divide and multiply and add, And name the apples Thomas had When John enticed him five to sell.
For "jelly" she does not say "jell," Nor horrify us with "umbrell," For all of which we're very glad-- How much she knows!
She knows the oyster by his shell, Detects the newsboy by his yell, Enumerates the bones in shad, And thinks my poetry is bad. Well! well! well! well! well! well! well! well! How much she knows!
V.--HER SIGH
When she utters a sigh 'Tis a breath from the roses, And a-hovering nigh, When she utters a sigh, The bees wonder why No garden discloses. When she utters a sigh 'Tis a breath from the roses.
VI.--HER RING
Her ring goes round her finger. Oh, foolish thing! Were I a ring, I'd not "go round"--I'd linger!
VII.--HER FAULTS
Of faults she has but one, And that is, she has none.
VIII.--HER VOICE
Sweet and soothing, rhythmic, tuneful, Dulcet, mellow, _un_bassoonful, Zither, 'cello, lute, guitar, And there you are!
IX.--HER LOVE
Do you love me? R. S. V. P.
TO M. E.
We keep in step as years roll by; You march behind and I before:-- The path is new to you; but I Have passed the ground you're walking o'er. Yet I march on with measured tread, And looking back, I smile and greet you:-- I fear the order, "Halt!" Instead, Would I might countermarch and meet you.
BON VOYAGE
[TO O. R.]
Out from the Land of the Future, into the Land of the Past A comrade sails to the East, the sport of the wave and the blast. Oh, billow and breeze, be kind, and temper your strength to your guest, Kind for the sake of the friend,--for the sake of the hands he pressed.
Oh, tenderest billow and breeze, welcome him even as we Would welcome if you were the friend and we were the wind and the sea! Welcome, protect him, and waft him westward and homeward at last Into the Land of the Future, out from the Land of the Past!
THE BOOK OF LIFE
Whoso his book of life doth con From title-leaf to colophon May read, if he but wrongly look, Some sorry pages in his book.
But if he read aright each line, Interpreting the scheme divine, 'Twill be most fair to look upon From title-leaf to colophon.
The Riverside Press
_Electrotyped and printed by H. O. Houghton & Co._ _Cambridge, Mass., U. S. A._
TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES:
Text in italics is surrounded with underscores: _italics_.