Chapter 1
She sat with her hands 'neath her dimpled cheeks, (_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese_) And spake not a word. While a lady speaks There is hope, but she didn't even sneeze.
She sat, with her hands 'neath her crimson cheeks; (_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese_) She gave up mending her father's breeks, And let the cat roll in her new chemise.
She sat with her hands 'neath her burning cheeks, (_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese_) And gazed at the piper for thirteen weeks; Then she follow'd him o'er the misty leas.
Her sheep follow'd her, as their tails did them, (_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese_) And this song is consider'd a perfect gem, And as to the meaning, it's what you please.
_Charles Stuart Calverley._
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 Stuart Calverley._
WORDSWORTHIAN REMINISCENCE
I walked and came upon a picket fence, And every picket went straight up and down, And all at even intervals were placed, All painted green, all pointed at the top, And every one inextricably nailed Unto two several cross-beams, which did go, Not as the pickets, but quite otherwise, And they two crossed, but back of all were posts.
O beauteous picket fence, can I not draw Instruction from thee? Yea, for thou dost teach, That even as the pickets are made fast To that which seems all at cross purposes, So are our human lives, to the Divine, But, oh! not purposeless, for even as they Do keep stray cows from trespass, we, no doubt, Together guard some plan of Deity.
Thus did I moralise. And from the beams And pickets drew a lesson to myself,-- But where the posts came in, I could not tell.
_Unknown._
INSPECT US
Out of the clothes that cover me Tight as the skin is on the grape, I thank whatever gods may be For my unconquerable shape.
In the fell clutch of bone and steel I have not whined nor cried aloud; Whatever else I may conceal, I show my thoughts unshamed and proud.
The forms of other actorines I put away into the shade; All of them flossy near-blondines Find and shall find me unafraid.
It matters not how straight the tape, How cold the weather is, or warm-- I am the mistress of my shape-- I am the captain of my form.
_Edith Daniell._
THE MESSED DAMOZEL
AT THE CUBIST EXHIBITION
The Messed Damozel leaned out From the gold cube of Heav'n; There were three cubes within her hands, And the cubes in her hair were seven; I looked, and looked, and looked, and looked-- I could not see her, even.
Her robe, a cube from clasp to hem, Was moderately clear; Methought I saw two cubic eyes, When I had looked a year; But when I turned to tell the world, Those eyes did disappear!
It was the rampart of some house That she was standing on; That much, at least, was plain to me As her I gazed upon; But even as I gazed, alas! The rampart, too, was gone!
(I saw her smile!) Oh, no, I didn't, Though long mine eyes did stare; The cubes closed down and shut her out; I wept in deep despair; But this I know, and know full well-- _She simply wasn't there!_
_Charles Hanson Towne._
A MELTON MOWBRAY PORK-PIE
Strange pie that is almost a passion, O passion immoral for pie! Unknown are the ways that they fashion, Unknown and unseen of the eye. The pie that is marbled and mottled, The pie that digests with a sigh: For all is not Bass that is bottled, And all is not pork that is pie.
_Richard Le Gallienne._
ISRAFIDDLESTRINGS
In heaven a Spirit doth dwell Whose heart strings are a fiddle, (The reason he sings so well-- This fiddler Israfel), And the giddy stars (will any one tell Why giddy?) to attend his spell Cease their hymns in the middle.
On the height of her go Totters the Moon, and blushes As the song of that fiddle rushes Across her bow. The red Lightning stands to listen, And the eyes of the Pleiads glisten As each of the seven puts its fist in Its eye, for the mist in.
And they say--it's a riddle-- That all these listening things, That stop in the middle For the heart-strung fiddle With such the Spirit sings, Are held as on the griddle By these unusual strings.
Wherefore thou art not wrong, Israfel! in that thou boastest Fiddlestrings uncommon strong; To thee the fiddlestrings belong With which thou toastest Other hearts as on a prong.
Yes! heaven is thine, but this Is a world of sours and sweets, Where cold meats are cold meats, And the eater's most perfect bliss Is the shadow of him who treats.
If I could griddle As Israfiddle Has griddled--he fiddle as I,-- He might not fiddle so wild a riddle As this mad melody, While the Pleiads all would leave off in the middle Hearing my griddle-cry.
_Unknown._
AFTER DILETTANTE CONCETTI
"Why do you wear your hair like a man, Sister Helen? This week is the third since you began." "I'm writing a ballad; be still if you can, Little brother. (O Mother Carey, mother! What chickens are these between sea and heaven?)"
"But why does your figure appear so lean, Sister Helen? And why do you dress in sage, sage green?" "Children should never be heard, if seen, Little brother? (O Mother Carey, mother! What fowls are a-wing in the stormy heaven!)"
"But why is your face so yellowy white, Sister Helen? And why are your skirts so funnily tight?" "Be quiet, you torment, or how can I write, Little brother? (O Mother Carey, mother! How gathers thy train to the sea from the heaven!)"
"And who's Mother Carey, and what is her train, Sister Helen? And why do you call her again and again?" "You troublesome boy, why that's the refrain, Little brother. (O Mother Carey, mother! What work is toward in the startled heaven?)"
"And what's a refrain? What a curious word, Sister Helen! Is the ballad you're writing about a sea-bird?" "Not at all; why should it be? Don't be absurd, Little brother. (O Mother Carey, mother! Thy brood flies lower as lowers the heaven.)"
(A big brother speaketh:) "The refrain you've studied a meaning had, Sister Helen! It gave strange force to a weird ballad. But refrains have become a ridiculous 'fad,' Little brother. And Mother Carey, mother, Has a bearing on nothing in earth or heaven.
"But the finical fashion has had its day, Sister Helen. And let's try in the style of a different lay To bid it adieu in poetical way, Little brother. So, Mother Carey, mother! Collect your chickens and go to--heaven."
(_A pause. Then the big brother singeth, accompanying himself in a plaintive wise on the triangle._)
"Look in my face. My name is Used-to-was; I am also called Played-out, and Done to Death, And It-will-wash-no-more. Awakeneth Slowly but sure awakening it has, The common-sense of man; and I, alas! The ballad-burden trick, now known too well, And turned to scorn, and grown contemptible-- A too transparent artifice to pass.
"What a cheap dodge I am! The cats who dart Tin-kettled through the streets in wild surprise Assail judicious ears not otherwise; And yet no critics praise the urchin's 'art,' Who to the wretched creature's caudal part Its foolish empty-jingling 'burden' ties."
_H. D. Traill._
WHENCENESS OF THE WHICH
SOME DISTANCE AFTER TENNYSON
Come into the Whenceness Which, For the fierce Because has flown: Come into the Whenceness Which, I am here by the Where alone; And the Whereas odors are wafted abroad Till I hold my nose and groan.
Queen Which of the Whichbud garden of What's Come hither the jig is done. In gloss of Isness and shimmer of Was, Queen Thisness and Which in one; Shine out, little Which, sunning over the bangs, To the Nowness, and be its sun.
There has fallen a splendid tear From the Is flower at the fence; She is coming, my Which, my dear, And as she Whistles a song of the Whence, The Nowness cries, "She is near, she is near." And the Thingness howls, "Alas!" The Whoness murmurs, "Well, I should smile," And the Whatlet sobs, "I pass."
_Unknown._
THE LITTLE STAR
Scintillate, scintillate, globule orific, Fain would I fathom thy nature's specific. Loftily poised in ether capacious, Strongly resembling a gem carbonaceous.
When torrid Ph[oe]bus refuses his presence And ceases to lamp with fierce incandescence, Then you illumine the regions supernal, Scintillate, scintillate, semper nocturnal.
Then the victim of hospiceless peregrination Gratefully hails your minute coruscation. He could not determine his journey's direction But for your bright scintillating protection.
_Unknown._
THE ORIGINAL LAMB
Oh, Mary had a little Lamb, regarding whose cuticular The fluff exterior was white and kinked in each particular. On each occasion when the lass was seen perambulating, The little quadruped likewise was there a gallivating.
One day it did accompany her to the knowledge dispensary, Which to every rule and precedent was recklessly contrary. Immediately whereupon the pedagogue superior, Exasperated, did eject the lamb from the interior.
Then Mary, on beholding such performance arbitrary, Suffused her eyes with saline drops from glands called lachrymary, And all the pupils grew thereat tumultuously hilarious, And speculated on the case with wild conjectures various.
"What makes the lamb love Mary so?" the scholars asked the teacher. He paused a moment, then he tried to diagnose the creature. "Oh pecus amorem Mary habit omnia temporum." "Thanks, teacher dear," the scholars cried, and awe crept darkly o'er 'em.
_Unknown._
SAINTE MARGÉRIE
Slim feet than lilies tenderer,-- _Margérie!_ That scarce upbore the body of her, Naked upon the stones they were;-- _C'est ça Sainte Margérie!_
White as a shroud the silken gown,-- _Margérie!_ That flowed from shoulder to ankle down, With clear blue shadows along it thrown; _C'est ça Sainte Margérie!_
On back and bosom withouten braid,-- _Margérie!_ In crispèd glory of darkling red, Round creamy temples her hair was shed;-- _C'est ça Sainte Margérie!_
Eyes, like a dim sea, viewed from far,-- _Margérie!_ Lips that no earthly love shall mar, More sweet that lips of mortals are;-- _C'est ça Sainte Margérie!_
The chamber walls are cracked and bare;-- _Margérie!_ Without the gossips stood astare At men her bed away that bare;-- _C'est ça Sainte Margérie!_
Five pennies lay her hand within,-- _Margérie!_ So she her fair soul's weal might win, Little she reck'd of dule or teen;-- _C'est ça Sainte Margérie!_
Dank straw from dunghill gathered,-- _Margérie!_ Where fragrant swine have made their bed, Thereon her body shall be laid;-- _C'est ça Sainte Margérie!_
Three pennies to the poor in dole,-- _Margérie!_ One to the clerk her knell shall toll, And one to masses for her soul;-- _C'est ça Sainte Margérie!_
_Unknown._
ROBERT FROST
RELATES THE DEATH OF THE TIRED MAN
There were two of us left in the berry-patch; Bryan O'Lin and Jack had gone to Norwich.-- They called him Jack a' Nory, half in fun And half because it seemed to anger him.-- So there we stood and let the berries go, Talking of men we knew and had forgotten. A sprawling, humpbacked mountain frowned on us And blotted out a smouldering sunset cloud That broke in fiery ashes. "Well," he said, "Old Adam Brown is dead and gone; you'll never See him any more. He used to wear A long, brown coat that buttoned down before. That's all I ever knew of him; I guess that's all That anyone remembers. Eh?" he said, And then, without a pause to let me answer, He went right on. "How about Dr. Foster?" "Well, how _about_ him?" I managed to reply. He glared at me for having interrupted. And stopped to pick his words before he spoke; Like one who turns all personal remarks Into a general survey of the world. Choosing his phrases with a finicky care So they might fit some vague opinions, Taken, third-hand, from last year's _New York Times_ And jumbled all together into a thing He thought was his philosophy. "Never mind; There's more in Foster than you'd understand. But," he continued, darkly as before, "What do you make of Solomon Grundy's case? You know the gossip when he first came here. Folks said he'd gone to smash in Lunenburg, And four years in the State Asylum here Had almost finished him. It was Sanders' job That put new life in him. A clear, cool day; The second Monday in July it was. 'Born on a Monday,' that is what they said. Remember the next few days? I guess you don't; That was before your time. Well, Tuesday night He said he'd go to church; and just before the prayer He blurts right out, 'I've come here to get christened. If I am going to have a brand new life I'll have a new name, too.' Well, sure enough They christened him, though I've forgotten what; And Etta Stark, (you know, the pastor's girl) Her head upset by what she called romance, She went and married him on Wednesday noon. Thursday the sun or something in the air Got in his blood and right off he took sick. Friday the thing got worse, and so did he; And Saturday at four o'clock he died. Buried on Sunday with the town decked out As if it was a circus-day. And not a soul Knew why they went or what he meant to them Or what he died of. What would be _your_ guess?" "Well," I replied, "it seems to me that he, Just coming from a sedentary life, Felt a great wave of energy released, And tried to crowd too much in one short week. The laws of physics teach--" "No, not at all. He never knew 'em. He was just tired," he said.
_Louis Untermeyer._
OWEN SEAMAN
ESTABLISHES THE "ENTENTE CORDIALE" BY RECITING "THE SINGULAR STUPIDITY OF J. SPRATT, ESQ.," IN THE MANNER OF GUY WETMORE CARRYL.
Of all the mismated pairs ever created The worst of the lot were the Spratts. Their life was a series of quibbles and queries And quarrels and squabbles and spats. They argued at breakfast, they argued at tea, And they argued from midnight to quarter past three.
The family Spratt-head was rather a fat-head, And a bellicose body to boot. He was selfish and priggish and worse, he was piggish-- A regular beast of a brute. At table his acts were incredibly mean; He gave his wife fat--and _he_ gobbled the lean!
What's more, she was censured whenever she ventured To dare to object to her fare; He said "It ain't tasteful, but we can't be wasteful; And _someone_ must eat what is there!" But his coarseness exceeded all bounds of control When he laughed at her Art and the State of her Soul.
So what with his jeering and fleering and sneering, He plagued her from dawn until dark. He bellowed "I'll teach ye to read Shaw and Nietzsche"-- And he was as bad as his bark. "The place for a woman----" he'd start, very glib.... And so on, for two or three hours _ad lib_.
So very malignant became his indignant Remarks about "Culture" and "Cranks," That at last she revolted. She up and she bolted And entered the militant ranks.... When she died, after breaking nine-tenths of the laws, She left all her money and jewels to the Cause!
And _THE MORAL_ is this (though a bit abstruse): What's sauce for a more or less proper goose, When it rouses the violent, feminine dander, Is apt to be sauce for the propaganda.
_Louis Untermeyer._
THE MODERN HIAWATHA
He killed the noble Mudjokivis. Of the skin he made him mittens, Made them with the fur side inside Made them with the skin side outside. He, to get the warm side inside, Put the inside skin side outside; He, to get the cold side outside, Put the warm side fur side inside. That's why he put the fur side inside, Why he put the skin side outside. Why he turned them inside outside.
_Unknown._
SOMEWHERE-IN-EUROPE-WOCKY
'Twas brussels, and the loos liège Did meuse and arras in latour; All vimy were the metz maubege, And the tsing-tau namur.
"Beware the petrograd, my son-- The jaws that bite, the claws that plough! Beware the posen, and verdun The soldan mons glogau!"
He took his dixmude sword in hand; Long time his altkirch foe he sought; Then rested he 'neath the warsaw tree, And stood awhile in thought.
And as in danzig thought he stood The petrograd, with eyes of flame, Came ypring through the cracow wood, And longwied as it came.
One two! One two! and through and through The dixmude blade went snicker-snack; He left it dead, and with its head He gallipolied back.
"And hast thou slain the petrograd? Come to my arms, my krithnia boy! O chanak day! Artois! Grenay!" He woevred in his joy.
'Twas brussels, and the loos liège Did meuse and arras in latour; All vimy were the metz maubege, And the tsing-tau namur.
_F. G. Hartswick._
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._
A BALLAD OF HIGH ENDEAVOR
Ah Night! blind germ of days to be, Ah, me! ah me! (Sweet Venus, mother!) What wail of smitten strings hear we? (Ah me! ah me! _Hey diddle dee!_)
Ravished by clouds our Lady Moon, Ah me! ah me! (Sweet Venus, mother!) Sinks swooning in a lady-swoon (Ah me! ah me! _Dum diddle dee!_)
What profits it to rise i' the dark? Ah me! ah me! (Sweet Venus, mother!) If love but over-soar its mark (Ah me! ah me! _Hey diddle dee!_)
What boots to fall again forlorn? Ah me! ah me! (Sweet Venus, mother!) Scorned by the grinning hound of scorn, (Ah me! ah me! _Dum diddle dee!_)
Art thou not greater who art less? Ah me! ah me! (Sweet Venus, mother!) Low love fulfilled of low success? (Ah me! ah me! _Hey diddle dee!_)
_Unknown._
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 have 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 down-stairs!"
_Lewis Carroll._
THE POETS AT TEA
1--(_Macaulay, who made it_)
Pour, varlet, pour the water, The water steaming hot! A spoonful for each man of us, Another for the pot! We shall not drink from amber, Nor Capuan slave shall mix For us the snows of Athos With port at thirty-six; Whiter than snow the crystals, Grown sweet 'neath tropic fires, More rich the herbs of China's field, The pasture-lands more fragrance yield; For ever let Britannia wield The tea-pot of her sires!
2--(_Tennyson, who took it hot_)
I think that I am drawing to an end: For on a sudden came a gasp for breath, And stretching of the hands, and blinded eyes, And a great darkness falling on my soul. O Hallelujah!... Kindly pass the milk.
3--(_Swinburne, who let it get cold_)
As the sin that was sweet in the sinning Is foul in the ending thereof, As the heat of the summer's beginning Is past in the winter of love: O purity, painful and pleading! O coldness, ineffably gray! Oh, hear us, our handmaid unheeding. And take it away!
4--(_Cowper, who thoroughly enjoyed it_)
The cosy fire is bright and gay, The merry kettle boils away And hums a cheerful song. I sing the saucer and the cup; Pray, Mary, fill the tea-pot up, And do not make it strong.
5--(_Browning, who treated it allegorically_)
Tut! Bah! We take as another case-- Pass the bills on the pills on the window-sill; notice the capsule (A sick man's fancy, no doubt, but I place Reliance on trade-marks, Sir)--so perhaps you'll Excuse the digression--this cup which I hold Light-poised--Bah, it's spilt in the bed!--well, let's on go-- Hold Bohea and sugar, Sir; if you were told The sugar was salt, would the Bohea be Congo?
6--(_Wordsworth, who gave it away_)
"Come, little cottage girl, you seem To want my cup of tea; And will you take a little cream? Now tell the truth to me."
She had a rustic, woodland grin, Her cheek was soft as silk, And she replied, "Sir, please put in A little drop of milk."
"Why, what put milk into your head? 'Tis cream my cows supply;" And five times to the child I said, "Why, pig-head, tell me, why?"
"You call me pig-head," she replied; "My proper name is Ruth. I called that milk"--she blushed with pride-- "You bade me speak the truth."
7--(_Poe, who got excited over it_)
Here's a mellow cup of tea, golden tea! What a world of rapturous thought its fragrance brings to me! Oh, from out the silver cells How it wells! How it smells! Keeping tune, tune, tune To the tintinnabulation of the spoon. And the kettle on the fire Boils its spout off with desire, With a desperate desire And a crystalline endeavour Now, now to sit, or never, On the top of the pale-faced moon, But he always came home to tea, tea, tea, tea, tea, Tea to the n----th.
8--(_Rossetti, who took six cups of it_)
The lilies lie in my lady's bower (O weary mother, drive the cows to roost), They faintly droop for a little hour; My lady's head droops like a flower.
She took the porcelain in her hand (O weary mother, drive the cows to roost); She poured; I drank at her command; Drank deep, and now--you understand! (O weary mother, drive the cows to roost.)
9--(_Burns, who liked it adulterated_)
Weel, gin ye speir, I'm no inclined, Whusky or tay--to state my mind, Fore ane or ither; For, gin I tak the first, I'm fou, And gin the next, I'm dull as you, Mix a' thegither. 10--(_Walt Whitman, who didn't stay more than a minute_)
One cup for myself-hood, Many for you. Allons, camerados, we will drink together, O hand-in-hand! That tea-spoon, please, when you've done with it. What butter-colour'd hair you've got. I don't want to be personal. All right, then, you needn't. You're a stale-cadaver. Eighteen-pence if the bottles are returned. Allons, from all bat-eyed formula.
_Barry Pain._
HOW OFTEN
They stood on the bridge at midnight, In a park not far from the town; They stood on the bridge at midnight, Because they didn't sit down.
The moon rose o'er the city, Behind the dark church spire; The moon rose o'er the city And kept on rising higher.
How often, oh, how often! They whispered words so soft; How often, oh, how often; How often, oh, how oft!
_Ben King._
IF I SHOULD DIE TO-NIGHT
If I should die to-night And you should come to my cold corpse and say, Weeping and heartsick o'er my lifeless clay-- If I should die to-night, And you should come in deepest grief and woe-- And say: "Here's that ten dollars that I owe," I might arise in my large white cravat And say, "What's that?" If I should die to-night And you should come to my cold corpse and kneel, Clasping my bier to show the grief you feel, I say, if I should die to-night And you should come to me, and there and then Just even hint 'bout paying me that ten, I might arise the while, But I'd drop dead again.
_Ben King._
"THE DAY IS DONE"
The day is done, and darkness From the wing of night is loosed, As a feather is wafted downward, From a chicken going to roost.
I see the lights of the baker, Gleam through the rain and mist, And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me, That I cannot well resist.
A feeling of sadness and longing That is not like being sick, And resembles sorrow only As a brickbat resembles a brick.
Come, get for me some supper,-- A good and regular meal-- That shall soothe this restless feeling, And banish the pain I feel.
Not from the pastry bakers, Not from the shops for cake; I wouldn't give a farthing For all that they can make.
For, like the soup at dinner, Such things would but suggest Some dishes more substantial, And to-night I want the best.
Go to some honest butcher, Whose beef is fresh and nice, As any they have in the city And get a liberal slice.
Such things through days of labor, And nights devoid of ease, For sad and desperate feelings, Are wonderful remedies.
They have an astonishing power To aid and reinforce, And come like the "finally, brethren," That follows a long discourse.
Then get me a tender sirloin From off the bench or hook. And lend to its sterling goodness The science of the cook.
And the night shall be filled with comfort, And the cares with which it begun Shall fold up their blankets like Indians, And silently cut and run.
_Ph[oe]be Cary._
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!
_Ph[oe]be Cary._
BALLAD OF THE CANAL
We were crowded in the cabin, Not a soul had room to sleep; It was midnight on the waters, And the banks were very steep.
'Tis a fearful thing when sleeping, To be startled by the shock, And to hear the rattling trumpet Thunder, "Coming to a lock!"
So we shuddered there in silence, For the stoutest berth was shook, While the wooden gates were opened And the mate talked with the cook.
And as thus we lay in darkness, Each one wishing we were there, "We are through!" the captain shouted, And he sat down on a chair.
And his little daughter whispered, Thinking that he ought to know, "Isn't travelling by canal-boats Just as safe as it is slow?"
Then he kissed the little maiden, And with better cheer we spoke, And we trotted into Pittsburg, When the morn looked through the smoke.
_Ph[oe]be Cary._
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.
_Ph[oe]be Cary._
REUBEN
That very time I saw, (but thou couldst not), Walking between the garden and the barn, Reuben, all armed; a certain aim he took At a young chicken, standing by a post, And loosed his bullet smartly from his gun, As he would kill a hundred thousand hens. But I might see young Reuben's fiery shot Lodged in the chaste board of the garden fence, And the domesticated fowl passed on In henly meditation, bullet free.
_Ph[oe]be Cary._
THE WIFE
Her washing ended with the day, Yet lived she at its close, And passed the long, long night away In darning ragged hose.
But when the sun in all its state Illumed the Eastern skies, She passed about the kitchen grate And went to making pies.
_Ph[oe]be Cary._
WHEN LOVELY WOMAN
When lovely woman wants a favor, And finds, too late, that man won't bend, What earthly circumstance can save her From disappointment in the end?
The only way to bring him over, The last experiment to try, Whether a husband or a lover, If he have feeling is--to cry.
_Ph[oe]be Cary._
JOHN THOMPSON'S DAUGHTER
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_.
_Ph[oe]be Cary._
A PORTRAIT
He is to weet a melancholy carle: Thin in the waist, with bushy head of hair, As hath the seeded thistle, when a parle It holds with Zephyr, ere it sendeth fair Its light balloons into the summer air; Thereto his beard had not begun to bloom. No brush had touched his cheek, or razor sheer; No care had touched his cheek with mortal doom, But new he was and bright, as scarf from Persian loom.
Ne carèd he for wine, or half and half; Ne carèd he for fish, or flesh, or fowl; And sauces held he worthless as the chaff; He 'sdeigned the swine-head at the wassail-bowl: Ne with lewd ribbalds sat he cheek by jowl; Ne with sly lemans in the scorner's chair; But after water-brooks this pilgrim's soul Panted and all his food was woodland air; Though he would oft-times feast on gilliflowers rare.
The slang of cities in no wise he knew, _Tipping the wink_ to him was heathen Greek; He sipped no "olden Tom," or "ruin blue," Or Nantz, or cherry-brandy, drunk full meek By many a damsel brave and rouge of cheek; Nor did he know each aged watchman's beat, Nor in obscurèd purlieus would be seek For curlèd Jewesses, with ankles neat, Who, as they walk abroad, make tinkling with their feet.
_John Keats._
ANNABEL LEE
'Twas more than a million years ago, Or so it seems to me, That I used to prance around and beau The beautiful Annabel Lee. There were other girls in the neighborhood But none was a patch to she.
And this was the reason that long ago, My love fell out of a tree, And busted herself on a cruel rock; A solemn sight to see, For it spoiled the hat and gown and looks Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.
We loved with a love that was lovely love, I and my Annabel Lee, And we went one day to gather the nuts That men call hickoree. And I stayed below in the rosy glow While she shinned up the tree, But no sooner up than down kerslup Came the beautiful Annabel Lee.
And the pallid moon and the hectic noon Bring gleams of dreams for me, Of the desolate and desperate fate Of the beautiful Annabel Lee. And I often think as I sink on the brink Of slumber's sea, of the warm pink link That bound my soul to Annabel Lee; And it wasn't just best for her interest To climb that hickory tree, For had she stayed below with me, We'd had no hickory nuts maybe, But I should have had my Annabel Lee.
_Stanley Huntley._
HOME SWEET HOME WITH VARIATIONS
Being suggestions of the various styles in which an old theme might have been treated by certain metrical composers.
FANTASIA
I
_The original theme as John Howard Payne wrote it:_
'Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam, Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home! A charm from the skies seems to hallow it there, Which, seek through the world, is not met with elsewhere.
Home, home! Sweet, Sweet Home! There's no place like Home!
An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain! Oh, give me my lowly thatched cottage again! The birds singing gaily that came at my call! Give me them! and the peace of mind, dearer than all.
Home, home! Sweet, Sweet Home! There's no place like Home!
II
(_As Algernon Charles Swinburne might have wrapped it up in variations._)
('Mid pleasures and palaces--)
As sea-foam blown of the winds, as blossom of brine that is drifted Hither and yon on the barren breast of the breeze, Though we wander on gusts of a god's breath, shaken and shifted, The salt of us stings and is sore for the sobbing seas. For home's sake hungry at heart, we sicken in pillared porches Of bliss made sick for a life that is barren of bliss, For the place whereon is a light out of heaven that sears not nor scorches, Nor elsewhere than this.
(An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain--)
For here we know shall no gold thing glisten, No bright thing burn, and no sweet thing shine; Nor love lower never an ear to listen To words that work in the heart like wine. What time we are set from our land apart, For pain of passion and hunger of heart, Though we walk with exiles fame faints to christen, Or sing at the Cytherean's shrine.
(Variation: An exile from home--)
Whether with him whose head Of gods is honored, With song made splendent in the sight of men-- Whose heart most sweetly stout, From ravishing France cast out, Being firstly hers, was hers most wholly then-- Or where on shining seas like wine The dove's wings draw the drooping Erycine. (Give me my lowly thatched cottage--)
For Joy finds Love grow bitter, And spreads his wings to quit her, At thought of birds that twitter Beneath the roof-tree's straw-- Of birds that come for calling, No fear or fright appalling, When dews of dusk are falling, Or daylight's draperies draw.
(Give me them, and the peace of mind--)
Give me these things then back, though the giving Be at cost of earth's garner of gold; There is no life without these worth living, No treasure where these are not told. For the heart give the hope that it knows not, Give the balm for the burn of the breast-- For the soul and the mind that repose not, Oh, give us a rest!
III
(_As Mr. Francis Bret Harte might have woven it into a touching tale of a western gentleman in a red shirt._)
Brown o' San Juan, Stranger, I'm Brown. Come up this mornin' from 'Frisco-- Be'n a-saltin' my specie-stacks down.
Be'n a-knockin' around, Fer a man from San Juan, Putty consid'able frequent-- Jes' catch onter that streak o' the dawn!
Right thar lies my home-- Right thar in the red-- I could slop over, stranger, in po'try-- Would spread out old Shakspoke cold dead.
Stranger, you freeze to this: there ain't no kinder gin-palace, Nor no variety-show lays over a man's own rancho. Maybe it hain't no style, but the Queen in the Tower o' London, Ain't got naathin' I'd swop for that house over thar on the hill-side.
Thar is my ole gal, 'n' the kids, 'n' the rest o' my live-stock; Thar my Remington hangs, and thar there's a griddle-cake br'ilin'-- For the two of us, pard--and thar, I allow, the heavens Smile more friendly-like than on any other locality.
Stranger, nowhere else I don't take no satisfaction. Gimme my ranch, 'n' them friendly old Shanghai chickens-- I brung the original pair f'm the States in eighteen-'n'-fifty-- Gimme me them and the feelin' of solid domestic comfort.
Yer parding, young man-- But this landscape a kind Er flickers--I 'low 'twuz the po'try-- I thought that my eyes hed gone blind.
Take that pop from my belt! Hi, thar!--gimme yer han'-- Or I'll kill myself--Lizzie--she's left me-- Gone off with a purtier man!
Thar, I'll quit--the ole gal An' the kids--run away! I be derned! Howsomever, come in, pard-- The griddle-cake's thar, anyway.
IV
(_As Austin Dobson might have translated it from Horace, if it had ever occurred to Horace to write it._)
RONDEAU
At home alone, O Nomades, Although Mæcenas' marble frieze Stand not between you and the sky Nor Persian luxury supply Its rosy surfeit, find ye ease.
Tempt not the far Ægean breeze; With home-made wine and books that please, To duns and bores the door deny, At home, alone.
Strange joys may lure. Your deities Smile here alone. Oh, give me these: Low eaves, where birds familiar fly, And peace of mind, and, fluttering by, My Lydia's graceful draperies, At home, alone.
V
(_As it might have been constructed in 1744, Oliver Goldsmith, at 19, writing the first stanza, and Alexander Pope, at 52, the second._)
Home! at the word, what blissful visions rise, Lift us from earth, and draw us toward the skies; 'Mid mirag'd towers, or meretricious joys, Although we roam, one thought the mind employs: Or lowly hut, good friend, or loftiest dome, Earth knows no spot so holy as our Home. There, where affection warms the father's breast, There is the spot of heav'n most surely blest. Howe'er we search, though wandering with the wind Through frigid Zembla, or the heats of Ind, Not elsewhere may we seek, nor elsewhere know, The light of heaven upon our dark below.
When from our dearest hope and haven reft, Delight nor dazzles, nor is luxury left, We long, obedient to our nature's law, To see again our hovel thatched with straw: See birds that know our avenaceous store Stoop to our hand, and thence repleted soar: But, of all hopes the wanderer's soul that share, His pristine peace of mind's his final prayer.
VI
(_As Walt Whitman might have written all around it._)
I
You over there, young man with the guide-book, red-bound, covered flexibly with red linen, Come here, I want to talk with you; I, Walt, the Manhattanese, citizen of these States, call you. Yes, and the courier, too, smirking, smug-mouthed, with oil'd hair; a garlicky look about him generally; him, too, I take in, just as I would a coyote or a king, or a toad-stool, or a ham-sandwich, or anything, or anybody else in the world. Where are you going? You want to see Paris, to eat truffles, to have a good time; in Vienna, London, Florence, Monaco, to have a good time; you want to see Venice. Come with me. I will give you a good time; I will give you all the Venice you want, and most of the Paris. I, Walt, I call to you. I am all on deck! Come and loafe with me! Let me tote you around by your elbow and show you things. You listen to my ophicleide! Home! Home, I celebrate. I elevate my fog-whistle, inspir'd by the thought of home. Come in!--take a front seat; the jostle of the crowd not minding; there is room enough for all of you. This is my exhibition--it is the greatest show on earth--there is no charge for admission. All you have to pay me is to take in my romanza.
II
1. The brown-stone house; the father coming home worried from a bad day's business; the wife meets him in the marble pav'd vestibule; she throws her arms about him; she presses him close to her; she looks him full in the face with affectionate eyes; the frown from his brow disappearing.
Darling, she says, Johnny has fallen down and cut his head; the cook is going away, and the boiler leaks.
2. The mechanic's dark little third-story room, seen in a flash from the Elevated Railway train; the sewing-machine in a corner; the small cook-stove; the whole family eating cabbage around a kerosene lamp; of the clatter and roar and groaning wail of the Elevated train unconscious; of the smell of the cabbage unconscious.
Me, passant, in the train, of the cabbage not quite so unconscious.
3. The French Flat; the small rooms, all right-angles, un-individual; the narrow halls; the gaudy, cheap decorations everywhere.
The janitor and the cook exchanging compliments up and down the elevator-shaft; the refusal to send up more coal, the solid splash of the water upon his head, the language he sends up the shaft, the triumphant laughter of the cook, to her kitchen retiring.
4. The widow's small house in the suburbs of the city; the widow's boy coming home from his first day down town; he is flushed with happiness and pride; he is no longer a school-boy, he is earning money; he takes on the airs of a man and talks learnedly of business.
5. The room in the third-class boarding-house; the mean little hard-coal fire, the slovenly Irish servant-girl making it, the ashes on the hearth, the faded furniture, the private provender hid away in the closet, the dreary backyard out the window; the young girl at the glass, with her mouth full of hairpins, doing up her hair to go downstairs and flirt with the young fellows in the parlor.
6. The kitchen of the old farm-house; the young convict just returned from prison--it was his first offense, and the judges were lenient on him.
He is taking his first meal out of prison; he has been received back, kiss'd, encourag'd to start again; his lungs, his nostrils expand with the big breaths of free air; with shame, with wonderment, with a trembling joy, his heart too, expanding.
The old mother busies herself about the table; she has ready for him the dishes he us'd to like; the father sits with his back to them, reading the newspaper, the newspaper shaking and rustling much; the children hang wondering around the prodigal--they have been caution'd: Do not ask where our Jim has been; only say you are glad to see him.
The elder daughter is there, palefac'd, quiet; her young man went back on her four years ago; his folks would not let him marry a convict's sister. She sits by the window, sewing on the children's clothes, the clothes not only patching up; her hunger for children of her own invisibly patching up.
The brother looks up; he catches her eye, he fearful, apologetic; she smiles back at him, not reproachfully smiling, with loving pretence of hope smiling--it is too much for him; he buries his face in the folds of the mother's black gown.
7. The best room of the house, on the Sabbath only open'd; the smell of horse-hair furniture and mahogany varnish; the ornaments on the what-not in the corner; the wax fruit, dusty, sunken, sagged in, consumptive-looking, under a glass globe, the sealing-wax imitation of coral; the cigar boxes with shells plastered over, the perforated card-board motto.
The kitchen; the housewife sprinkling the clothes for the fine ironing to-morrow--it is the Third-day night, and the plain things are ready iron'd, now in cupboards, in drawers stowed away.
The wife waiting for the husband--he is at the tavern, jovial, carousing; she, alone in the kitchen sprinkling clothes--the little red wood clock with peaked top, with pendulum wagging behind a pane of gayly painted glass, strikes twelve.
The sound of the husband's voice on the still night air--he is singing: "We won't go home until morning!"--the wife arising, toward the wood-shed hastily going, stealthily entering, the voice all the time coming nearer, inebriate, chantant.
The husband passing the door of the wood-shed; the club over his head, now with his head in contact; the sudden cessation of the song; the benediction of peace over the domestic foyer temporarily resting.
I sing the soothing influences of home. You, young man, thoughtlessly wandering, with courier, with guide-book wandering, You hearken to the melody of my steam-calliope Yawp!
_H. C. Bunner._
AN OLD SONG BY NEW SINGERS
IN THE ORIGINAL
Mary had a little lamb, Its fleece was white as snow,-- And everywhere that Mary went The lamb was sure to go.
(_As Austin Dobson writes it._)
TRIOLET
A little lamb had Mary, sweet, With a fleece that shamed the driven snow. Not alone Mary went when she moved her feet (For a little lamb had Mary, sweet), And it tagged her 'round with a pensive bleat, And wherever she went it wanted to go; A little lamb had Mary, sweet, With a fleece that shamed the driven snow.
(_As Mr. Browning has it._)
You knew her?--Mary the small, How of a summer,--or, no, was it fall? You'd never have thought it, never believed, But the girl owned a lamb last fall.
Its wool was subtly, silky white, Color of lucent obliteration of night, Like the shimmering snow or--our Clothild's arm! You've seen her arm--her right, I mean-- The other she scalded a-washing, I ween-- How white it is and soft and warm?
Ah, there was soul's heart-love, deep, true, and tender, Wherever went Mary, the maiden so slender, There followed, his all-absorbed passion, inciting, That passionate lambkin--her soul's heart delighting-- Ay, every place that Mary sought in, That lamb was sure to soon be caught in.
(_As Longfellow might have done it._)
Fair the daughter known as Mary, Fair and full of fun and laughter, Owned a lamb, a little he-goat, Owned him all herself and solely. White the lamb's wool as the Gotchi-- The great Gotchi, driving snowstorm. Hither Mary went and thither, But went with her to all places, Sure as brook to run to river, Her pet lambkin following with her.
(_How Andrew Lang sings it._)
RONDEAU
A wonderful lass was Marie, petite, And she looked full fair and passing sweet-- And, oh! she owned--but cannot you guess What pet can a maiden so love and caress As a tiny lamb with a plaintive bleat
And mud upon his dainty feet And a gentle veally odour of meat, And a fleece to finger and kiss and press-- White as snow?
Wherever she wandered, in lane or street, As she sauntered on, there at her feet She would find that lambkin--bless The dear!--treading on her dainty dress, Her dainty dress, fresh and neat-- White as snow!
(_Mr. Algernon C. Swinburne's idea._)
VILLANELLE
Dewy-eyed with shimmering hair, Maiden and lamb were a sight to see, For her pet was white as she was fair.
And its lovely fleece was beyond compare, And dearly it loved its Mistress Marie, Dewy-eyed, with shimmering hair.
Its warpéd wool was an inwove snare, To tangle her fingers in, where they could be (For her pet was white as she was fair).
Lost from sight, both so snow-white were, And the lambkin adored the maiden wee, Dewy-eyed with shimmering hair.
Th' impassioned incarnation of rare, Of limpid-eyed, luscious-lipped, loved beauty, And her pet was white as she was fair.
Wherever she wandered, hither and there, Wildly that lambkin sought with her to be, With the dewy-eyed, with shimmering hair, And a pet as white as its mistress was fair.
_A. C. Wilkie._
MORE IMPRESSIONS
LA FUITE DES OIES
To outer senses they are geese, Dull drowsing by a weedy pool; But try the impression trick. Cool! Cool! Snow-slumbering sentinels of Peace!
Deep silence on the shadowy flood, Save rare sharp stridence (that means "quack"), Low amber light in Ariel track Athwart the dun (that means the mud).
And suddenly subsides the sun, Bulks mystic, ghostly, thrid the gloom (That means the white geese waddling home), And darkness reigns! (See how it's done?)
_Oscuro Wildgoose._
NURSERY RHYMES À LA MODE
(_Our nurseries will soon lie too cultured to admit the old rhymes in their Philistine and unæsthetic garb. They may be redressed somewhat on this model._)
Oh, but she was dark and shrill, (Hey-de-diddle and hey-de-dee!) The cat that (on the first April) Played the fiddle on the lea. Oh, and the moon was wan and bright, (Hey-de-diddle and hey-de-dee!) The Cow she looked nor left nor right, But took it straight at a jump, pardie! The hound did laugh to see this thing, (Hey-de-diddle and hey-de-dee!) As it was parlous wantoning, (Ah, good my gentles, laugh not ye,) And underneath a dreesome moon Two lovers fled right piteouslie; A spooney plate with a plated spoon, (Hey-de-diddle and hey-de-dee!)
POSTSCRIPT
Then blame me not, altho' my verse Sounds like an echo of C. S. C. Since still they make ballads that worse and worse Savor of diddle and hey-de-dee.
_Unknown._
A MAUDLE-IN BALLAD
TO HIS LILY
My lank limp lily, my long lithe lily, My languid lily-love fragile and thin, With dank leaves dangling and flower-flap chilly. That shines like the shin of a Highland gilly! Mottled and moist as a cold toad's skin! Lustrous and leper-white, splendid and splay! Art thou not Utter and wholly akin To my own wan soul and my own wan chin, And my own wan nose-tip, tilted to sway The peacock's feather, _sweeter than sin_, That I bought for a halfpenny yesterday?
My long lithe lily, my languid lily, My lank limp lily-love, how shall I win-- Woo thee to wink at me? Silver lily, How shall I sing to thee, softly or shrilly? What shall I weave for thee--what shall I spin-- Rondel, or rondeau, or virelai? Shall I buzz like a bee with my face thrust in Thy choice, chaste chalice, or choose me a tin Trumpet, or touchingly, tenderly play On the weird bird-whistle, _sweeter than sin_, That I bought for a halfpenny yesterday. My languid lily, my lank limp lily, My long lithe lily-love, men may grin-- Say that I'm soft and supremely silly-- What care I while you whisper stilly; What care I while you smile? Not a pin! While you smile, you whisper--'Tis sweet to decay?
I have watered with chlorodine, tears of chagrin, The churchyard mould I have planted thee in, Upside down in an intense way, In a rough red flower-pot, _sweeter than sin_, That I bought for a halfpenny yesterday.
_Unknown._
GILLIAN
Jack and Jille I have made me an end of the moods of maidens, I have loosed me, and leapt from the links of love; From the kiss that cloys and desire that deadens, The woes that madden, the words that move. In the dim last days of a spent September, When fruits are fallen, and flies are fain; Before you forget, and while I remember, I cry as I shall cry never again.
Went up a hylle Where the strong fell faints in the lazy levels Of misty meadows, and streams that stray; We raised us at eve from our rosy revels, With the faces aflame for the death of the day; With pale lips parted, and sighs that shiver, Low lids that cling to the last of love: We left the levels, we left the river, And turned us and toiled to the air above.
To fetch a paile of water, By the sad sweet springs that have salved our sorrow, The fates that haunt us, the grief that grips-- Where we walk not to-day nor shall walk not tomorrow The wells of Lethe for wearied lips. With souls nor shaken with tears nor laughter, With limp knees loosed as of priests that pray, We bowed us and bent to the white well-water, We dipped and we drank it and bore away.
Jack felle downe The low light trembled on languid lashes, The haze of your hair on my mouth was blown, Our love flashed fierce from its fading ashes, As night's dim net on the day was thrown. What was it meant for, or made for, that minute, But that our lives in delight should be dipt? Was it yours, or my fault, or fate's, that in it Our frail feet faltered, our steep steps slipt.
And brake his crowne, and Jille came tumblynge after. Our linked hands loosened and lapsed in sunder, Love from our limbs as a shift was shed, But paused a moment, to watch with wonder The pale pained body, the bursten head. While our sad souls still with regrets are riven, While the blood burns bright on our bruised brows, I have set you free, and I stand forgiven-- And now I had better go call my cows.
_Unknown._
EXTRACTS FKOM THE RUBAIYAT OF OMAR CAYENNE
Wake! for the Hack can scatter into flight Shakespeare and Dante in a single Night! The Penny-a-Liner is Abroad, and strikes Our Modern Literature with blithering Blight.
Before Historical Romances died, Methought a Voice from Art's Olympus cried, "When all Dumas and Scott is still for Sale, Why nod o'er drowsy Tales, by Tyros tried?"
A Book of Limericks--Nonsense, anyhow-- Alice in Wonderland, the Purple Cow Beside me singing on Fifth Avenue-- Ah, this were Modern Literature enow!
Ah, my Beloved, write the Book that clears |To-Day| of dreary Debt and sad Arrears; To-morrow!--Why, To-Morrow I may see My Nonsense popular as Edward Lear's.
And we, that now within the Editor's Room Make merry while we have our little Boom, Ourselves must we give way to next month's Set-- Girls with Three Names, who know not Who from Whom!
As then the Poet for his morning Sup Fills with a Metaphor his mental Cup, Do you devoutly read your Manuscripts That Someone may, before you burn them up!
And if the Bosh you write, the Trash you read, End in the Garbage-Barrel--take no Heed; Think that you are no worse than other Scribes, Who scribble Stuff to meet the Public Need.
So, when |Who's-Who| records your silly Name, You'll think that you have found the Road to Fame; And though ten thousand other Names are there, You'll fancy you're a Genius, just the Same!
Why, if an Author can fling Art aside, And in a Book of Balderdash take pride, Were't not a Shame--were't not a Shame for him A Conscientious Novel to have tried?
And fear not, if the Editor refuse Your work, he has no more from which to choose; The Literary Microbe shall bring forth Millions of Manuscripts too bad to use.
The Woman's Touch runs through our Magazines; For her the Home, and Mother-Tale, and Scenes Of Love-and-Action, Happy at the End-- The same old Plots, the same old Ways and Means.
But if, in spite of this, you build a Plot Which these immortal Elements has not, You gaze |To-Day| upon a Slip, which reads, "The Editor Regrets"--and such-like Rot.
Waste not your Ink, and don't attempt to use That subtle Touch which Editors refuse; Better be jocund at two cents a word, Than, starving, court an ill-requited Muse!
Strange--is it not?--that of the Authors who Publish in England, such a mighty Few Make a Success, though here they score a Hit? The British Public knows a Thing or Two!
The Scribe no question makes of Verse or Prose, But what the Editor demands, he shows; And he who buys three thousand words of Drool, He knows what People want--you Bet He knows!
Would but some wingèd Angel bring the News Of Critic who reads Books that he Reviews, And make the stern Reviewer do as well Himself, before he Meed of Praise refuse!
Ah, Love, could you and I perchance succeed In boiling down the Million Books we read Into One Book, and edit that a Bit-- There'd be a |World's Best Literature| indeed!
_Gelett Burgess._
DIVERSIONS OF THE RE-ECHO CLUB
It is with pleasure that we announce our ability to offer to the public the papers of the Re-Echo Club. This club, somewhat after the order of the Echo Club, late of Boston, takes pleasure in trying to better what is done. On the occasion of the meeting of which the following gems of poesy are the result, the several members of the club engaged to write up the well-known tradition of the Purple Cow in more elaborate form than the quatrain made famous by Mr. Gelett Burgess:
"I never saw a Purple Cow, I never hope to see one; But I can tell you, anyhow, I'd rather see than be one."
The first attempt here cited is the production of Mr. John Milton:
Hence, vain, deluding cows. The herd of folly, without colour bright, How little you delight, Or fill the Poet's mind, or songs arouse! But, hail! thou goddess gay of feature! Hail, divinest purple creature! Oh, Cow, thy visage is too bright To hit the sense of human sight. And though I'd like, just once, to see thee, I never, never, never'd be thee!
MR. P. BYSSHE SHELLEY:
Hail to thee, blithe spirit! Cow thou never wert; But in life to cheer it Playest thy full part In purple lines of unpremeditated art.
The pale purple colour Melts around thy sight Like a star, but duller, In the broad daylight. I'd see thee, but I would not be thee if I might.
We look before and after At cattle as they browse; Our most hearty laughter Something sad must rouse. Our sweetest songs are those that tell of Purple Cows.
MR. W. WORDSWORTH:
She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dee; A Cow whom there were few to praise And very few to see.
A violet by a mossy stone Greeting the smiling East Is not so purple, I must own, As that erratic beast. She lived unknown, that Cow, and so I never chanced to see; But if I had to be one, oh, The difference to me!
MR. T. GRAY:
The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea; I watched them slowly wend their weary way, But, ah, a Purple Cow I did not see. Full many a cow of purplest ray serene Is haply grazing where I may not see; Full many a donkey writes of her, I ween, But neither of these creatures would I be.
MR. J. W. RILEY:
There, little Cow, don't cry! You are brindle and brown, I know. And with wild, glad hues Of reds and blues, You never will gleam and glow. But though not pleasing to the eye, There, little Cow, don't cry, don't cry.
LORD A. TENNYSON:
Ask me no more. A cow I fain would see Of purple tint, like to a sun-soaked grape-- Of purple tint, like royal velvet cape-- But such a creature I would never be-- Ask me no more.
MR. R. BROWNING:
All that I know Of a certain Cow Is it can throw, Somewhere, somehow, Now a dart of red, Now a dart of blue (That makes purple, 'tis said). I would fain see, too. This Cow that darkles the red and the blue!
MR. J. KEATS:
A cow of purple is a joy forever. Its loveliness increases. I have never Seen this phenomenon. Yet ever keep A brave lookout; lest I should be asleep When she comes by. For, though I would not be one, I've oft imagined 'twould be joy to see one.
MR. D. G. ROSSETTI:
The Purple Cow strayed in the glade; (Oh, my soul! but the milk is blue!) She strayed and strayed and strayed and strayed (And I wail and I cry Wa-hoo!)
I've never seen her--nay, not I; (Oh, my soul! but the milk is blue!) Yet were I that Cow I should want to die. (And I wail and I cry Wa-hoo!) But in vain my tears I strew.
MR. T. ALDRICH:
Somewhere in some faked nature place, In Wonderland, in Nonsense Land, Two darkling shapes met face to face, And bade each other stand.
"And who are you?" said each to each; "Tell me your title, anyhow." One said, "I am the Papal Bull," "And I the Purple Cow."
MR. E. ALLAN POE:
Open then I flung a shutter, And, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a Purple Cow which gayly tripped around my floor. Not the least obeisance made she, Not a moment stopped or stayed she, But with mien of chorus lady perched herself above my door. On a dusty bust of Dante perched and sat above my door.
And that Purple Cow unflitting Still is sitting--still is sitting On that dusty bust of Dante just above my chamber door, And her horns have all the seeming Of a demon's that is screaming, And the arc-light o'er her streaming Casts her shadow on the floor. And my soul from out that pool of Purple shadow on the floor, Shall be lifted Nevermore!
MR. H. LONGFELLOW:
The day is done, and the darkness Falls from the wing of night As ballast is wafted downward From an air-ship in its flight.
I dream of a purple creature Which is not as kine are now; And resembles cattle only As Cowper resembles a cow.
Such cows have power to quiet Our restless thoughts and rude; They come like the Benedictine That follows after food.
MR. A. SWINBURNE:
Oh, Cow of rare rapturous vision, Oh, purple, impalpable Cow, Do you browse in a Dream Field Elysian, Are you purpling pleasantly now? By the side of wan waves do you languish? Or in the lithe lush of the grove? While vainly I search in my anguish, O Bovine of mauve!
Despair in my bosom is sighing, Hope's star has sunk sadly to rest; Though cows of rare sorts I am buying, Not one breathes a balm to my breast. Oh, rapturous rose-crowned occasion, When I such a glory might see! But a cow of a purple persuasion I never would be.
MR. A. DOBSON:
I'd love to see A Purple Cow, Oh, Goodness me! I'd love to see But not to be One. Anyhow, I'd love to see A Purple Cow.
MR. O. HERFORD:
Children, observe the Purple Cow, You cannot see her, anyhow; And, little ones, you need not hope Your eyes will e'er attain such scope. But if you ever have a choice To be, or see, lift up your voice And choose to see. For surely you Don't want to browse around and moo.
MR. H. C. BUNNER:
_Oh, what's the way to Arcady, Where all the cows are purple?_ Ah, woe is me! I never hope On such a sight my eyes to ope; But as I sing in merry glee Along the road to Arcady, Perchance full soon I may espy A Purple Cow come dancing by. Heigho! I then shall see one. Her horns bedecked with ribbons gay, And garlanded with rosy may,-- A tricksy sight. Still I must say I'd rather see than be one.
MR. A. SWINBURNE:
(Who was so enthused that he made a second attempt.)
Only in dim, drowsy depths of a dream do I dare to delight in deliciously dreaming Cows there may be of a passionate purple,--cows of a violent violet hue;
Ne'er have I seen such a sight, I am certain it is but a demi-delirious dreaming-- Ne'er may I happily harbour a hesitant hope in my heart that my dream may come true.
Sad is my soul, and my senses are sobbing so strong is my strenuous spirit to see one. Dolefully, drearily doomed to despair as warily wearily watching I wait;
Thoughts thickly thronging are thrilling and throbbing; to _see_ is a glorious gain--but to _be_ one! That were a darker and direfuller destiny, that were a fearfuller, frightfuller fate!
MR. R. KIPLING:
In the old ten-acre pasture, Lookin' eastward toward a tree, There's a Purple Cow a-settin' And I know she thinks of me. For the wind is in the gum-tree, And the hay is in the mow, And the cow-bells are a-calling "Come and see a Purple Cow!"
But I am not going now, Not at present, anyhow, For I am not fond of purple, and I can't abide a cow; No, I shall not go to-day, Where the Purple Cattle play. But I think I'd rather see one Than to be one, anyhow.
_Carolyn Wells._
STYX RIVER ANTHOLOGY
ALICE BEN BOLT
I couldn't help weeping with delight When the boys kissed me and called me sweet. It was foolish, I know, To weep when I was glad; But I was young and I wasn't very well. I was nervous, weak, anemic, A sort of human mimosa; and I hadn't much brains, And my mind wouldn't jell, anyhow. That's why I trembled with fear when they frowned. But they didn't frown often, For I was sweetly pretty and most pliable. But, oh, the grim joke of asking Ben Bolt if he remembered me! Me! Why, it was Ben Bolt who-- Well, never mind. He paid for this granite slab, And it's as stylish as any in the church yard. But I wish I had a more becoming shroud.
THE BLESSED DAMOZEL
I was one of those long, lanky, loose-jointed girls Who fool people into believing They are willowy and psychic and mysterious. I was always hungry; I never ate enough to satisfy me, For fear I'd get fat. Oh, how little the world knows of the bitterness of life To a woman who tries to keep thin! Many thought I died of a broken heart, But it was an empty stomach. Then Mr. Rossetti wrote about me. He described me all dolled up in some ladies' wearing apparel That I wore at a fancy ball. I had fasted all day, and had had my hair marcelled And my face corrected. And I _was_ a dream. But he seemed to think he really saw me, Seemed to think I appeared to him after my death. Oh, fudge! Those spiritualists are always seeing things!
ENOCH ARDEN
Yes, it was the eternal triangle, Only they didn't call it that then. Of course everybody thought I was all broken up When I found Annie wed to Philip, But, as a matter of fact, I didn't care so much; For she was one of those self-starting weepers, And a man can't stand blubbering all the time. And, then, of course, When I was off on that long sea trip-- Oh, well, you know what sailors are.
LITTLE EVA
To be honest, I didn't mind dying, For I had One of these here now Dressy deaths. It was staged, you know, And, like Samson, My death brought down the house. I was a smarty kid, And they were less frequent then than later. Oh, I was the Mary Pickford of my time, And I rest content With my notoriety.
LUCY
Yes, I am in my grave, And you bet it makes a difference to him! For we were to be married,--at least, I think we were, And he'd made me promise to deed him the house. But I had to go and get appendicitis, And they took me to the hospital. It was a nice hospital, clean, And Tables Reserved For Ladies. Well, my heart gave out. He came and stood over my grave, And registered deep concern. And now, he's going round with that Hen-minded Hetty What's-her-name! Her with her Whistler's Mother and her Baby Stuart On her best-room wall! And I hate her, and I'm glad she squints. Well, I suppose I lived my life, But it was Life in name only. And I'm mad at the whole world!
OPHELIA
No, it wasn't suicide, But I had heard so much of those mud baths, I thought I'd try one. Ugh! it was a mess! Weeds, slime, and tangled vines! Oh, me! Had I been Annette Kellerman Or even a real mermaid, I had lived to tell the tale. But I slid down and under, And so Will Shaxpur told it for me. Just as well. But I think my death scene is unexcelled By any in cold print. It beats that scrawny, red-headed old thing of Tom Hood's All hollow!
CASABLANCA
I played to the Grand Stand! Sure I did, And I made good. Ain't I in McGuffey's Third Reader? Don't they speak pieces about me Friday afternoons? Don't everybody know the first two lines of my story,-- And no more? Say, I was there with the goods, Wasn't I? And it paid. But I wish Movin' Pitchers had been invented then!
ANNABEL LEE
They may say all they like About germs and micro-crocuses,-- Or whatever they are! But my set opinion is,-- If you want to get a good, old-fashioned chills and fever, Just poke around In a damp, messy place by the sea, Without rubbers on. A good cold wind, Blowing out of a cloud, by night, Will give you a harder shaking ague Than all the bacilli in the Basilica. It did me.
ANGUS MCPHAIRSON
Oh, of course, It's always some dratted petticoat! Just because that little flibbertigibbet, Annie Laurie Had a white throat and a blue e'e, She played the very devil with my peace of mind. She'd dimple at me Till I was aboot crazy; And then laugh at me through her dimples! She was my bespoke. And I'd beg her to have the banns called,-- But there was no pinning her down. Well, she was so bonny That like a fool, I said I'd lay me doon And dee for her. And,--like a fool,-- I did.
_Carolyn Wells._
ANSWER TO MASTER WITHER'S SONG, "SHALL I, WASTING IN DESPAIR?"
Shall I, mine affections slack, 'Cause I see a woman's black? Or myself, with care cast down, 'Cause I see a woman brown? Be she blacker than the night, Or the blackest jet in sight! If she be not so to me, What care I how black she be?
Shall my foolish heart be burst, 'Cause I see a woman's curst? Or a thwarting hoggish nature Joinèd in as bad a feature? Be she curst or fiercer than Brutish beast, or savage man! If she be not so to me, What care I how curst she be?
Shall a woman's vices make Me her vices quite forsake? Or her faults to me made known, Make me think that I have none? Be she of the most accurst, And deserve the name of worst! If she be not so to me, What care I how bad she be?
'Cause her fortunes seem too low, Shall I therefore let her go? He that bears an humble mind And with riches can be kind, Think how kind a heart he'd have, If he were some servile slave! And if that same mind I see What care I how poor she be?
Poor, or bad, or curst, or black, I will ne'er the more be slack! If she hate me (then believe!) She shall die ere I will grieve! If she like me when I woo I can like and love her too! If that she be fit for me! What care I what others be?
_Ben Jonson._
SONG OF THE SPRINGTIDE
O Season supposed of all free flowers, Made lovely by light of the sun, Of garden, of field, and of tree-flowers, Thy singers are surely in fun! Or what is it wholly unsettles Thy sequence of shower and shine, And maketh thy pushings and petals To shrivel and pine?
Why is it that o'er the wild waters That beastly North-Easter still blows, Dust-dimming the eyes of our daughters, Blue-nipping each nice little nose? Why is it these sea-skirted islands Are plagued with perpetual chills, Driving men to Italian or Nile-lands From Albion's ills?
Happy he, O Springtide, who hath found thee, All sunlit, in luckier lands, With thy garment of greenery round thee, And belted with blossomy bands. From us by the blast thou art drifted, All brag of thy beauties is bosh; When the songs of thy singers are sifted, They simply won't wash.
What lunatic lune, what vain vision, Thy laureate, Springtide, may move To sing thee,--oh, bitter derision! A season of laughter and love? You make a man mad beyond measure, O Spring, and thy lauders like thee: Thy flowers, thy pastimes and pleasures, Are fiddlededee!
_Unknown._
THE VILLAGE CHOIR
Half a bar, half a bar, Half a bar onward! Into an awful ditch Choir and precentor hitch, Into a mess of pitch, They led the Old Hundred. Trebles to right of them, Tenors to left of them, Basses in front of them, Bellowed and thundered. Oh, that precentor's look, When the sopranos took Their own time and hook From the Old Hundred! Screeched all the trebles here, Boggled the tenors there, Raising the parson's hair, While his mind wandered; Theirs not to reason why This psalm was pitched too high: Theirs but to gasp and cry Out the Old Hundred. Trebles to right of them, Tenors to left of them, Basses in front of them, Bellowed and thundered.
Stormed they with shout and yell, Not wise they sang nor well, Drowning the sexton's bell, While all the church wondered.
Dire the percenter's glare, Flashed his pitchfork in air Sounding fresh keys to bear Out the Old Hundred. Swiftly he turned his back, Reached he his hat from rack, Then from the screaming pack, Himself he sundered. Tenors to right of him, Tenors to left of him, Discords behind him, Bellowed and thundered. Oh, the wild howls they wrought: Right to the end they fought! Some tune they sang, but not, Not the Old Hundred.
_Unknown._
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; For 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.
_Unknown._
NURSERY SONG IN PIDGIN ENGLISH
Singee a songee sick a pence, Pockee muchee lye; Dozen two time blackee bird Cookee in e pie. When him cutee topside Birdee bobbery sing; Himee tinkee nicey dish. Setee foree King! Kingee in a talkee loom Countee muchee money; Queeny in e kitchee, Chew-chee breadee honey. Servant galo shakee, Hangee washee clothes; Cho-chop comee blackie bird, Nipee off her nose!
_Unknown._
FATHER WILLIAM
"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."
_Unknown._
A POE-'EM OF PASSION
It was many and many a year ago, On an island near the sea, That a maiden lived whom you mightn't know By the name of Cannibalee; And this maiden she lived with no other thought Than a passionate fondness for me.
I was a child, and she was a child-- Tho' her tastes were adult Feejee-- But she loved with a love that was more than love, My yearning Cannibalee; With a love that could take me roast or fried Or raw, as the case might be.
And that is the reason that long ago, In that island near the sea, I had to turn the tables and eat My ardent Cannibalee-- Not really because I was fond of her, But to check her fondness for me.
But the stars never rise but I think of the size Of my hot-potted Cannibalee, And the moon never stares but it brings me nightmares Of my spare-rib Cannibalee; And all the night-tide she is restless inside, Is my still indigestible dinner-belle bride, In her pallid tomb, which is Me, In her solemn sepulcher, Me.
_C. F. Lummis._
HOW THE DAUGHTERS COME DOWN AT DUNOON
How do the daughters Come down at Dunoon? Daintily, Tenderly, Fairily, Gingerly, Glidingly, Slidingly, Slippingly, Skippingly, Trippingly, Clippingly, Bumpingly, Thumpingly, Stumpingly, Clumpingly, Starting and bolting, And darting and jolting, And tottering and staggering, And lumbering and slithering, And hurrying and scurrying, And worrying and flurrying, And rushing and leaping and crushing and creeping; Feathers a-flying all--bonnets untying all-- Petticoats rapping and flapping and slapping all, Crinolines flowing and blowing and showing all Balmorals, dancing and glancing, entrancing all; Feats of activity-- Nymphs on declivity-- Mothers in extacies-- Fathers in vextacies-- Lady-loves whisking and frisking and clinging on True-lovers puffing and blowing and springing on, Dashing and clashing and shying and flying on, Blushing and flushing and wriggling and giggling on, Teasing and pleasing and squeezing and wheezing on, Everlastingly falling and bawling and sprawling on, Tumbling and rumbling and grumbling and stumbling on, Any fine afternoon, About July or June-- That's just how the Daughters Come down at Dunoon!
_H. Cholmondeley Pennell._
TO AN IMPORTUNATE HOST
DURING DINNER AND AFTER TENNYSON
Ask me no more: I've had enough Chablis; The wine may come again, and take the shape, From glass to glass, of "Mountain" or of "Cape;" But, my dear boy, when I have answered thee, Ask me no more.
Ask me no more: what answer should I give, I love not pickled pork nor partridge pie; I feel if I took whisky I should die! Ask me no more--for I prefer to live: Ask me no more.
Ask me no more: unless my fate is sealed, And I have striven against you all in vain. Let your good butler bring me Hock again: Then rest, dear boy. If for this once I yield, Ask me no more!
_Unknown._
CREMATION
BY A BURNING ADMIRER OF SIR HENRY THOMPSON
To Urn, or not to Urn? that is the question: Whether 'tis nobler for our frames to suffer The shows and follies of outrageous custom, Or to take fire--against a sea of zealots And by consuming, end them? To Urn--to keep-- No more: and while we keep, to say we end Contagion and the thousand graveyard ills That flesh is heir to--'tis a consume-ation Devoutly to be wished! To burn--to keep-- To keep! Perchance to lose--aye, there's the rub: For in the course of things what duns may come, Or who may shuffle off our Dresden urn, Must give us pause. There's the respect That makes inter-i-ment of so long use. For who would have the pall and plumes of hire, The tradesman's prize--a proud man's obsequies, The chaffering for graves, the legal fee, The cemetery beadle and the rest, When he himself might his few ashes make With a mere furnace? Who would tombstones bear, And lie beneath a lying epitaph, But that the dread of simmering after death-- That uncongenial furnace from whose burn No incremate returns--weakens the will, And makes us rather bear the graves we have Than fly to ovens that we know not of? This, Thompson, does make cowards of us all. And thus the wisdom of incineration Is thick-laid o'er with the pale ghost of nought, And incremators of great pith and courage With this regard their faces turn awry, And shudder at cremation.
_William Sawyer._
AN 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 takes 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 these trees began to grow; But still they grew, and grew, and grew, As if they'd nothing else to do, But ever to be growing.
The impulses of air and sky Have rear'd 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.
Fix'd are their feet in solid earth, Where winds can never blow; But visitings of deeper birth Have reach'd their roots below. For they have gain'd 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-belles are his play-fellows, That dance upon their slender stem.
And I have said, my little Will, Why should not he 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.
_Catharine M. Fanshawe._
THE LAY OF THE LOVE-LORN
PARODY ON TENNYSON'S "LOCKSLEY HALL"
Comrades, you may pass the rosy. With permission of the chair, I shall leave you for a little, for I'd like to take the air.
Whether 'twas the sauce at dinner, or that glass of ginger-beer, Or these strong cheroots, I know not, but I feel a little queer.
Let me go. Now, Chuckster, blow me, 'pon my soul, this is too bad! When you want me, ask the waiter, he knows where I'm to be had!
Whew! This is a great relief now! Let me but undo my stock; Resting here beneath the porch, my nerves will steady like a rock.
In my ears I hear the singing of a lot of favourite tunes-- Bless my heart, how very odd! Why, surely, there's a brace of moons!
See--the stars! How bright they twinkle, winking with a frosty glare, Like my faithless cousin Amy when she drove me to despair.
Oh, my cousin, spider-hearted! Oh, my Amy! No, confound it! I must wear the mournful willow--all around my hat I've bound it.
Falser than the Bank of Fancy, frailer than a shilling glove, Puppet to a father's anger, minion to a nabob's love!
Is it well to wish thee happy? Having known me, could you ever Stoop to marry half a heart, and little more than half a liver?
Happy! Damme! Thou shalt lower to his level day by day, Changing from the best of ehina to the commonest of clay.
As the husband is, the wife is. He is stomach-plagued and old, And his curry soups will make thy cheek the colour of his gold.
When his feeble love is sated, he will hold thee surely then Something lower than his hookah, something less than his cayenne.
What is this? His eyes are pinky. Was't the claret? Oh, no, no-- Bless your soul, it was the salmon--salmon always makes him so.
Take him to thy dainty chamber, soothe him with thy lightest fancies, He will understand thee, won't he--pay thee with a lover's glances?
Louder than the loudest trumpet, harsh as harshest ophicleide, Nasal respirations answer the endearments of his bride.
Sweet response, delightful music! Gaze upon thy noble charge Till the spirit fill thy bosom that inspired the meek Lafarge.
Better thou wert dead before me, better, better that I stood Looking on thy murdered body, like the injured Daniel Good!
Better thou and I were lying, cold and limber-stiff and dead, With a pan of burning charcoal underneath our nuptial bed!
Cursed be the Bank of England's notes, that tempt the soul to sin! Cursed be the want of acres--doubly cursed the want of tin!
Cursed be the marriage contract, that enslaved thy soul to greed! Cursed be the sallow lawyer, that prepared and drew the deed!
Cursed be his foul apprentice, who the loathsome fees did earn! Cursed be the clerk and parson--cursed be the whole concern!
Oh, 'tis well that I should bluster; much I'm like to make of that. Better comfort have I found in singing "All Around My Hat."
But that song, so wildly plaintive, palls upon my British ears. 'Twill not do to pine for ever: I am getting up in years.
Can't I turn the honest penny, scribbling for the weekly press, And in writing Sunday libels drown my private wretchedness?
Oh, to feel the wild pulsation that in manhood's dawn I knew, When my days were all before me, and my years were twenty-two;
When I smoked my independent pipe along the Quadrant wide, With the many larks of London flaring up on every side;
When I went the pace so wildly, caring little what might come, Coffee-milling care and sorrow, with a nose-adapted thumb;
Felt the exquisite enjoyment, tossing nightly off, oh, heavens! Brandy at the Cider Cellars, kidneys smoking-hot at Evans';
Or in the Adelphi sitting, half in rapture, half in tears, Saw the glorious melodrama conjure up the shades of years--
Saw Jack Sheppard, noble stripling, act his wondrous feats again, Snapping Newgate's bars of iron, like an infant's daisy chain;
Might was right, and all the terrors which had held the world in awe Were despised and prigging prospered, spite of Laurie, spite of law.
In such scenes as these I triumphed, ere my passion's edge was rusted, And my cousin's cold refusal left me very much disgusted!
Since, my heart is sore and withered, and I do not care a curse Whether worse shall be the better, or the better be the worse.
Hark! my merry comrades call me, bawling for another jorum; They would mock me in derision, should I thus appear before 'em.
Womankind no more shall vex me, such, at least, as go arrayed In the most expensive satins, and the newest silk brocade.
I'll to Afric, lion-haunted, where the giant forest yields Rarer robes and finer tissue than are sold at Spitalfields.
Or to burst all chains of habit, flinging habit's self aside, I shall walk the tangled jungle in mankind's primeval pride;
Feeding on the luscious berries and the rich casava root, Lots of dates and lots of guavas, clusters of forbidden fruit.
Never comes the trader thither, never o'er the purple main Sounds the oath of British commerce, or the accents of Cockaigne.
There, methinks, would be enjoyment, where no envious rule prevents; Sink the steamboats! Cuss the railways! Rot, oh, rot the Three per Cents!
There the passions, cramped no longer, shall have space to breathe, my cousin! I will take some savage woman--nay, I'll take at least a dozen.
There I'll rear my young mulattoes, as no Bond Street brats are reared: They shall dive for alligators, catch the wild goats by the beard,
Whistle to the cockatoos, and mock the hairy-faced baboon, Worship mighty Mumbo Jumbo, in the mountains of the Moon.
I, myself, in far Timbuctoo, leopard's blood will daily quaff, Ride a-tiger-hunting, mounted on a thorough-bred giraffe.
Fiercely shall I shout the war-whoop, as some sullen stream he crosses, Startling from their noon-day slumbers iron-bound rhinoceroses.
Fool! Again, the dream, the fancy! But I know my words are mad, For I hold the gray barbarian lower than the Christian cad.
I, the swell, the city dandy! I to seek such horrid places, I to haunt with squalid Negroes, blubber-lips, and monkey faces!
I to wed with Coromantees! I, who managed--very near-- To secure the heart and fortune of the widow Shillibeer!
Stuff and nonsense! Let me never fling a single chance away. Maids ere now, I know, have loved me, and another maiden may.
_Morning Post_ (_The Times_ won't trust me), help me, as I know you can; I will pen an advertisement--that's a never-failing plan:
"|Wanted|--By a bard in wedlock, some young interesting woman. Looks are not so much an object, if the shiners be forthcoming!
"Hymen's chains, the advertiser vows, shall be but silken fetters. Please address to A. T., Chelsea. N.B.--You must pay the letters."
That's the sort of thing to do it. Now I'll go and taste the balmy. Rest thee with thy yellow nabob, spider-hearted cousin Amy!
_Aytoun_ and _Martin._
ONLY SEVEN.
A PASTORAL STORY AFTER WORDSWORTH
I marvell'd 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 answer'd 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._
'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-- I would he were a tree or flower!
_Henry S. Leigh._
FOAM AND FANGS
O nymph with the nicest of noses; And finest and fairest of forms; Lips ruddy and ripe as the roses That sway and that surge in the storms; O buoyant and blooming Bacchante, Of fairer than feminine face, Rush, raging as demon of Dante-- To this, my embrace!
The foam and the fangs and the flowers, The raving and ravenous rage Of a poet as pinion'd in powers As a condor confined in a cage! My heart in a haystack I've hidden, As loving and longing I lie, Kiss open thine eyelids unbidden-- I gaze and I die!
I've wander'd the wild waste of slaughter, I've sniffed up the sepulchre's scent, I've doated on devilry's daughter, And murmur'd much more than I meant; I've paused at Penelope's portal, So strange are the sights that I've seen, And mighty's the mind of the mortal Who knows what I mean.
_Walter Parke._
X
NARRATIVE
LITTLE BILLEE
There were three sailors of Bristol City Who took a boat and went to sea, But first with beef and captain's biscuits, And pickled pork they loaded she.
There was gorging Jack, and guzzling Jimmy, And the youngest he was little Billee. Now when they'd got as far as the Equator They'd nothing left but one split pea.
Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy, "I am extremely hungaree." To gorging Jack says guzzling Jimmy, "We've nothing left, us must eat we."
Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy, "With one another we shouldn't agree! There's little Bill, he's young and tender, "We're old and tough, so let's eat he."
"O Billy! we're going to kill and eat you, So undo the button of your chemie." When Bill received this information, He used his pocket-handkerchie.
"First let me say my catechism, Which my poor mother taught to me." "Make haste! make haste!" says guzzling Jimmy, While Jack pulled out his snicker-snee.
Then Bill went up to the main-top-gallant-mast, And down he fell on his bended knee, He scarce had come to the Twelfth Commandment When up he jumps--"There's land I see!"
"Jerusalem and Madagascar, And North and South Amerikee, There's the British flag a-riding at anchor, With Sir Admiral Napier, K.C.B."
So when they got aboard of the Admiral's, He hanged fat Jack and flogged Jimmee, But as for little Bill, he made him The captain of a Seventy-three.
_W. M. Thackeray._
THE CRYSTAL PALACE
With ganial foire Thransfuse me loyre, Ye sacred nymphs of Pindus, The whoile I sing That wondthrous thing, The Palace made o' windows!
Say, Paxton, truth, Thou wondthrous youth, What sthroke of art celistial, What power was lint You to invint This combineetion cristial.
O would before That Thomas Moore, Likewoise the late Lord Boyron, Thim aigles sthrong Of godlike song, Cast oi on that cast oiron!
And saw thim walls, And glittering halls, Thim rising slendther columns, Which I, poor pote, Could not denote, No, not in twinty vollums.
My Muse's words Is like the bird's That roosts beneath the panes there; Her wings she spoils 'Gainst them bright toiles, And cracks her silly brains there.
This Palace tall, This Cristial Hall, Which Imperors might covet, Stands in High Park Like Noah's Ark, A rainbow bint above it.
The towers and fanes, In other scaynes, The fame of this will undo, Saint Paul's big doom, Saint Payther's, Room. And Dublin's proud Rotundo.
'Tis here that roams, As well becomes Her dignitee and stations, Victoria Great, And houlds in state The Congress of the Nations.
Her subjects pours From distant shores, Her Injians and Canajians, And also we, Her kingdoms three, Attind with our allagiance.
Here come likewise Her bould allies, Both Asian and Europian; From East and West They send their best To fill her Coornucopean.
I seen (thank Grace!) This wondthrous place (His Noble Honour Misther H. Cole it was That gave the pass, And let me see what is there).
With conscious proide I stud insoide And look'd the World's Great Fair in, Until me sight Was dazzled quite, And couldn't see for staring.
There's holy saints And window paints, By maydiayval Pugin; Alhamborough Jones Did paint the tones, Of yellow and gambouge in.
There's fountains there And crosses fair; There's water-gods with urrns; There's organs three, To play, d'ye see, "God save the Queen," by turrns.
There's statues bright Of marble white, Of silver, and of copper; And some in zinc, And some, I think, That isn't over proper.
There's staym injynes, That stands in lines, Enormous and amazing, That squeal and snort Like whales in sport, Or elephants a-grazing.
There's carts and gigs, And pins for pigs, There's dibblers and there's harrows, And ploughs like toys For little boys, And illigant wheelbarrows.
For thim genteels Who ride on wheels, There's plenty to indulge 'em: There's droskys snug From Paytersbug, And vayhycles from Bulgium.
There's cabs on stands And shandthrydanns; There's wagons from New York here; There's Lapland sleighs Have cross'd the seas, And jaunting cyars from Cork here.
Amazed I pass From glass to glass, Deloighted I survey 'em; Fresh wondthers grows Before me nose In this sublime Musayum!
Look, here's a fan From far Japan, A sabre from Damasco: There's shawls ye get From far Thibet, And cotton prints from Glasgow.
There's German flutes, Marocky boots, And Naples macaronies; Bohaymia Has sent Behay; Polonia her polonies.
There's granite flints That's quite imminse, There's sacks of coals and fuels, There's swords and guns, And soap in tuns, And gingerbread and jewels.
There's taypots there, And cannons rare; There's coffins fill'd with roses; There's canvas tints, Teeth insthrumints, And shuits of clothes by Moses.
There's lashins more Of things in store, But thim I don't remimber; Nor could disclose Did I compose From May time to Novimber!
Ah, Judy thru! With eyes so blue, That you were here to view it! And could I screw But tu pound tu, 'Tis I would thrait you to it!
So let us raise Victoria's praise, And Albert's proud condition That takes his ayse As he surveys This Cristial Exhibition.
_W. M. Thackeray._
THE WOFLE NEW BALLAD OF JANE RONEY AND MARY BROWN
An igstrawnary tail I vill tell you this veek-- I stood in the Court of A'Beckett the Beak, Vere Mrs. Jane Roney, a vidow, I see, Who charged Mary Brown with a robbin' of she.
This Mary was pore and in misery once, And she came to Mrs. Roney it's more than twelve monce She adn't got no bed, nor no dinner, nor no tea, And kind Mrs. Roney gave Mary all three.
Mrs. Roney kep Mary for ever so many veeks (Her conduct disgusted the best of all Beax), She kept her for nothink, as kind as could be, Never thinking that this Mary was a traitor to she.
"Mrs. Roney, O Mrs. Roney, I feel very ill; Will you jest step to the doctor's for to fetch me a pill?" "That I will, my pore Mary," Mrs. Roney says she: And she goes off to the doctor's as quickly as may be.
No sooner on this message Mrs. Roney was sped, Than hup gits vicked Mary, and jumps out a bed; She hopens all the trunks without never a key-- She bustes all the boxes, and vith them makes free.
Mrs. Roney's best linning gownds, petticoats, and close, Her children's little coats and things, her boots and her hose, She packed them, and she stole 'em, and avay vith them did flee Mrs. Roney's situation--you may think vat it vould be!
Of Mary, ungrateful, who had served her this vay, Mrs. Roney heard nothink for a long year and a day, Till last Thursday, in Lambeth, ven whom should she see? But this Mary, as had acted so ungrateful to she.
She was leaning on the helbo of a worthy young man; They were going to be married, and were walkin hand in hand; And the church-bells was a ringing for Mary and he, And the parson was ready, and a waitin' for his fee.
When up comes Mrs. Roney, and faces Mary Brown, Who trembles, and castes her eyes upon the ground. She calls a jolly pleaseman, it happens to be me; I charge this young woman, Mr. Pleaseman, says she.
Mrs. Roney, o, Mrs. Roney, o, do let me go, I acted most ungrateful I own, and I know, But the marriage bell is ringin, and the ring you may see, And this young man is a waitin, says Mary, says she.
I don't care three fardens for the parson and clark, And the bell may keep ringing from noon day to dark. Mary Brown, Mary Brown, you must come along with me. And I think this young man is lucky to be free.
So, in spite of the tears which bejewed Mary's cheek, I took that young gurl to A'Beckett the Beak; That exlent justice demanded her plea-- But never a sullable said Mary said she.
On account of her conduck so base and so vile, That wicked young gurl is committed for trile, And if she's transpawted beyond the salt sea, It's a proper reward for such willians as she.
Now, you young gurls of Southwark for Mary who veep, From pickin and stealin your ands you must keep, Or it may be my dooty, as it was Thursday veek To pull you all hup to A'Beckett the Beak.
_W. M. Thackeray._
KING JOHN AND THE ABBOT
An ancient story Ile tell you anon Of a notable prince, that was called King John; And he ruled England with maine and with might, For he did great wrong, and maintein'd little right.
And Ile tell you a story, a story so merrye, Concerning the Abbot of Canterbùrye; How for his house-keeping, and high renowne, They rode poste for him to fair London towne.
An hundred men, the king did heare say, The abbot kept in his house every day; And fifty golde chaynes, without any doubt, In velvet coates waited the abbot about.
How now, father abbot, I heare it of thee, Thou keepest a farre better house than mee, And for thy house-keeping and high renowne, I feare thou work'st treason against my crown.
My liege, quo' the abbot, I would it were knowne, I never spend nothing but what is my owne; And I trust your grace will doe me no deere For spending of my owne true-gotten geere.
Yes, yes, father abbot, thy fault it is highe, And now for the same thou needest must dye; For except thou canst answer me questions three, Thy head shall be smitten from thy bodie.
And first, quo' the king, when I'm in this stead, With my crowne of golde so faire on my head, Among all my liege-men, so noble of birthe, Thou must tell me to one penny what I am worthe.
Secondlye, tell me, without any doubt, How soone I may ride the whole world about, And at the third question thou must not shrink, But tell me here truly what I do think.
O, these are hard questions for my shallow witt, Nor I cannot answer your grace as yet; But if you will give me but three weekes space, Ile do my endeavour to answer your grace.
Now three weeks space to thee will I give. And that is the longest time thou hast to live; For if thou dost not answer my questions three, Thy lands and thy livings are forfeit to mee.
Away rode the abbot, all sad at that word, And he rode to Cambridge and Oxenford; But never a doctor there was so wise, That could with his learning an answer devise.
Then home rode the abbot, of comfort so cold, And he mett his shepheard agoing to fold: How now, my lord abbot, you are welcome home What newes do you bring us from good King John?
Sad newes, sad newes, shepheard, I must give: That I have but three days more to live; For if I do not answer him questions three, My head will be smitten from my bodie.
The first is to tell him there in that stead, With his crowne of golde so fair on his head Among all his liege-men so noble of birth, To within one penny of what he is worth.
The seconde, to tell him, without any doubt, How soone he may ride this whole world about: And at the third question I must not shrinke, But tell him there truly what he does thinke.
Now cheare up, sire abbot, did you never hear yet, That a fool he may learne a wise man witt? Lend me horse, and serving-men, and your apparel, And I'll ride to London to answere your quarrel.
Nay frowne not, if it hath bin told unto mee, I am like your lordship, as ever may bee: And if you will but lend me your gowne, There is none shall knowe us in fair London towne.
Now horses and serving-men thou shalt have, With sumptuous array most gallant and brave; With crozier, and miter, and rochet, and cope, Fit to appears 'fore our fader the pope.
Now welcome, sire abbot, the king he did say, 'Tis well thou'rt come back to keepe thy day; For and if thou canst answer my questions three, Thy life and thy living both saved shall bee.
And first, when thou seest me here in this stead, With my crown of golde so fair on my head, Among all my liege-men so noble of birthe, Tell me to one penny what I am worth.
For thirty pence our Saviour was sold Among the false Jewes, as I have bin told: And twenty-nine is the worth of thee, For I thinke, thou art one penny worser than hee.
The king he laughed, and swore by St. Bittel, I did not think I had been worth so littel! --Now secondly tell me, without any doubt, How soone I may ride this whole world about.
You must rise with the sun, and ride with the same, Until the next morning he riseth againe; And then your grace need not make any doubt But in twenty-four hours you'll ride it about.
The king he laughed, and swore by St. Jone, I did not think it could be gone so soone! --Now from the third question thou must not shrinke, But tell me here truly what I do thinke.
Yea, that shall I do, and make your grace merry: You thinke I'm the abbot of Canterbùry; But I'm his poor shepheard, as plain you may see, That am come to beg pardon for him and for mee.
The king he laughed, and swore by the masse, Ile make thee lord abbot this day in his place! Now naye, my liege, be not in such speede, For alacke I can neither write, ne reade.
Four nobles a week, then, I will give thee, For this merry jest thou hast showne unto mee: And tell the old abbot, when thou comest home, Thou hast brought him a pardon from good King John.
From _Percy's Reliques._
ON THE DEATH OF A FAVORITE CAT,
DROWNED IN A TUB OF GOLDFISHES
'Twas on a lofty vase's side, Where China's gayest art had dyed The azure flowers that blow, Demurest of the tabby kind, The pensive Selima, reclined, Gazed on the lake below.
Her conscious tail her joy declared; The fair round face, the snowy beard, The velvet of her paws, Her coat that with the tortoise vies, Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes, She saw, and purred applause.
Still had she gaz'd, but, 'midst the tide, Two angel forms were seen to glide, The Genii of the stream: Their scaly armor's Tyrian hue, Through richest purple, to the view Betrayed a golden gleam.
The hapless nymph with wonder saw: A whisker first, and then a claw, With many an ardent wish, She stretched in vain to reach the prize: What female heart can gold despise? What Cat's averse to fish?
Presumptuous maid! with looks intent, Again she stretched, again she bent, Nor knew the gulf between: (Malignant Fate sat by and smiled) The slippery verge her feet beguiled; She tumbled headlong in.
Eight times emerging from the flood, She mewed to every watery god Some speedy aid to send. No Dolphin came, no Nereid stirred, Nor cruel Tom or Susan heard: A fav'rite has no friend!
From hence, ye Beauties! undeceived, Know one false step is ne'er retrieved, And be with caution bold: Not all that tempts your wandering eyes, And heedless hearts, is lawful prize, Nor all that glistens gold.
_Thomas Gray._
MISADVENTURES AT MARGATE
A LEGEND OF JARVIS'S JETTY
MR. SIMPKINSON (_loquitur_)
I was in Margate last July, I walk'd upon the pier, I saw a little vulgar Boy--I said "What make you here?-- The gloom upon your youthful cheek speaks any thing but joy;" Again I said, "What make you here, you little vulgar Boy?"
He frown'd, that little vulgar Boy--he deem'd I meant to scoff: And when the little heart is big, a little "sets it off"; He put his finger in his mouth, his little bosom rose,-- He had no little handkerchief to wipe his little nose!
"Hark! don't you hear, my little man?--it's striking nine," I said, "An hour when all good little boys and girls should be in bed. Run home and get your supper, else your Ma' will scold--Oh! fie!-- It's very wrong indeed for little boys to stand and cry!"
The tear-drop in his little eye again began to spring, His bosom throbb'd with agony--he cried like any thing! I stoop'd, and thus amidst his sobs I heard him murmur--"Ah I haven't got no supper! and I haven't got no Ma'!!--
"My father, he is on the seas,--my mother's dead and gone! And I am here, on this here pier, to roam the world alone; I have not had, this live-long day, one drop to cheer my heart, Nor '_brown_' to buy a bit of bread with,--let alone a tart.
"If there's a soul will give me food, or find me in employ, By day or night, then blow me tight!" (he was a vulgar Boy); "And now I'm here, from this here pier it is my fixed intent To jump, as Mr. Levi did from off the Monu-ment!"
"Cheer up! cheer up! my little man--cheer up!" I kindly said. "You are a naughty boy to take such things into your head: If you should jump from off the pier, you'd surely break your legs, Perhaps your neck--then Bogey'd have you, sure as eggs are eggs!
"Come home with me, my little man, come home with me and sup; My landlady is Mrs. Jones--we must not keep her up-- There's roast potatoes on the fire,--enough for me and you-- Come home,--you little vulgar Boy--I lodge at Number 2."
I took him home to Number 2, the house beside "The Foy," I bade him wipe his dirty shoes,--that little vulgar Boy,-- And then I said to Mistress Jones, the kindest of her sex, "Pray be so good as go and fetch a pint of double X!"
But Mrs. Jones was rather cross, she made a little noise, She said she "did not like to wait on little vulgar Boys." She with her apron wiped the plates, and, as she rubb'd the delf, Said I might "go to Jericho, and fetch my beer myself!"
I did not go to Jericho--I went to Mr. Cobb-- I changed a shilling--(which in town the people call "a Bob")-- It was not so much for myself as for that vulgar child-- And I said, "A pint of double X, and please to draw it mild!"
When I came back I gazed about--I gazed on stool and chair-- I could not see my little friend--because he was not there! I peep'd beneath the table-cloth--beneath the sofa too-- I said "You little vulgar Boy! why what's become of you?"
I could not see my table-spoons--I look'd, but could not see The little fiddle-pattern'd ones I use when I'm at tea; --I could not see my sugar-tongs--my silver watch--oh, dear! I know 'twas on the mantle-piece when I went out for beer.
I could not see my Mackintosh!--it was not to be seen! Nor yet my best white beaver hat, broad-brimm'd and lined with green; My carpet-bag--my cruet-stand, that holds my sauce and soy,--
My roast potatoes!--all are gone!--and so's that vulgar Boy! I rang the bell for Mrs. Jones, for she was down below, "--Oh, Mrs. Jones! what _do_ you think?--ain't this a pretty go? --That horrid little vulgar Boy whom I brought here to-night, --He's stolen my things and run away!!"--Says she, "And sarve you right!!"
* * * * *
Next morning I was up betimes--I sent the Crier round, All with his bell and gold-laced hat, to say I'd give a pound To find that little vulgar Boy, who'd gone and used me so; But when the Crier cried "O Yes!" the people cried, "O No!"
I went to "Jarvis' Landing-place," the glory of the town, There was a common sailor-man a-walking up and down; I told my tale--he seem'd to think I'd not been treated well, And called me "Poor old Buffer!" what that means I cannot tell.
That sailor-man, he said he'd seen that morning on the shore, A son of--something--'twas a name I'd never heard before, A little "gallows-looking chap"--dear me; what could he mean? With a "carpet-swab" and "muckingtogs," and a hat turned up with green.
He spoke about his "precious eyes," and said he'd seen him "sheer," --It's very odd that sailor-men should talk so very queer-- And then he hitch'd his trowsers up, as is, I'm told, their use, --It's very odd that sailor-men should wear those things so loose.
I did not understand him well, but think he meant to say He'd seen that little vulgar Boy, that morning swim away In Captain Large's Royal George about an hour before, And they were now, as he supposed, "some_wheres_" about the Nore.
A landsman said, "I _twig_ the chap--he's been upon the Mill-- And 'cause he _gammons_ so the flats, ve calls him Veeping Bill!" He said "he'd done me wery brown," and "nicely _stow'd_ the _swag_." --That's French, I fancy, for a hat--or else a carpet-bag.
I went and told the constable my property to track; He asked me if "I did not wish that I might get it back?" I answered, "To be sure I do!--it's what I come about." He smiled and said, "Sir, does your mother know that you are out?"
Not knowing what to do, I thought I'd hasten back to town, And beg our own Lord Mayor to catch the Boy who'd "done me brown." His Lordship very kindly said he'd try and find him out, But he "rather thought that there were several vulgar boys about."
He sent for Mr. Whithair then, and I described "the swag," My Mackintosh, my sugar-tongs, my spoons, and carpet-bag; He promised that the New Police should all their powers employ; But never to this hour have I beheld that vulgar Boy!
MORAL
Remember, then, what when a boy I've heard my Grandma' tell, "|Be warn'd in time by others' harm, and you shall do full well!|" Don't link yourself with vulgar folks, who've got no fix'd abode, Tell lies, use naughty words, and say they "wish they may be blow'd!"
Don't take too much of double X!--and don't at night go out To fetch your beer yourself, but make the pot-boy bring your stout! And when you go to Margate next, just stop and ring the bell, Give my respects to Mrs. Jones, and say I'm pretty well!
_Richard Harris Barham._
THE GOUTY MERCHANT AND THE STRANGER
In Broad Street Buildings on a winter night, Snug by his parlor-fire a gouty wight Sat all alone, with one hand rubbing His feet, rolled up in fleecy hose: While t'other held beneath his nose The _Public Ledger_, in whose columns grubbing, He noted all the sales of hops, Ships, shops, and slops; Gum, galls, and groceries; ginger, gin, Tar, tallow, turmeric, turpentine, and tin; When lo! a decent personage in black Entered and most politely said: "Your footman, sir, has gone his nightly track To the King's Head, And left your door ajar; which I Observed in passing by, And thought it neighborly to give you notice." "Ten thousand thanks; how very few get, In time of danger, Such kind attentions from a stranger! Assuredly, that fellow's throat is Doomed to a final drop at Newgate: He knows, too (the unconscionable elf!), That there's no soul at home except myself." "Indeed," replied the stranger (looking grave), "Then he's a double knave; He knows that rogues and thieves by scores Nightly beset unguarded doors: And see, how easily might one Of these domestic foes, Even beneath your very nose, Perform his knavish tricks; Enter your room, as I have done, Blow out your candles--_thus_--and _thus_-- Pocket your silver candlesticks, And--walk off--_thus_!"-- So said, so done; he made no more remark Nor waited for replies, But marched off with his prize, Leaving the gouty merchant in the dark.
_Horace Smith._
THE DIVERTING HISTORY OF JOHN GILPIN
SHOWING HOW HE WENT FARTHER THAN HE INTENDED AND CAME SAFE HOME AGAIN
John Gilpin was a citizen of credit and renown; A train-band captain eke was he, of famous London town.
John Gilpin's spouse said to her dear--"Though wedded we have been These twice ten tedious years, yet we no holiday have seen.
"To-morrow is our wedding-day, and we will then repair Unto the Bell at Edmonton all in a chaise and pair.
"My sister, and my sister's child, myself, and children three, Will fill the chaise; so you must ride on horseback after we."
He soon replied, "I do admire of womankind but one, And you are she, my dearest dear; therefore it shall be done.
"I am a linendraper bold, as all the world doth know; And my good friend, the calender, will lend his horse to go."
Quoth Mrs. Gilpin, "That's well said; and, for that wine is dear, We will be furnished with our own, which is both bright and clear."
John Gilpin kissed his loving wife; o'erjoyed was he to find That, though on pleasure she was bent, she had a frugal mind.
The morning came, the chaise was brought, but yet was not allowed To drive up to the door, lest all should say that she was proud.
So three doors off the chaise was stayed, where they did all get in-- Six precious souls, and all agog to dash through thick and thin.
Smack went the whip, round went the wheels--were never folks so glad; The stones did rattle underneath, as if Cheapside were mad.
John Gilpin at his horse's side seized fast the flowing mane, And up he got, in haste to ride--but soon came down again:
For saddletree scarce reached had he, his journey to begin, When, turning round his head, he saw three customers come in.
So down he came: for loss of time, although it grieved him sore, Yet loss of pence, full well he knew, would trouble him much more.
'Twas long before the customers were suited to their mind; When Betty, screaming, came down-stairs--"The wine is left behind!"
"Good lack!" quoth he--"yet bring it me, my leathern belt likewise, In which I wear my trusty sword when I do exercise."
Now Mistress Gilpin (careful soul!) had two stone bottles found, To hold the liquor that she loved, and keep it safe and sound.
Each bottle had a curling ear, through which the belt he drew, And hung a bottle on each side to make his balance true.
Then over all, that he might be equipped from top to toe, His long red cloak, well brushed and neat, he manfully did throw.
Now see him mounted once again upon his nimble steed, Full slowly pacing o'er the stones, with caution and good heed.
But finding soon a smoother road beneath his well-shod feet, The snorting beast began to trot, which galled him in his seat.
So, "Fair and softly," John he cried, but John he cried in vain; That trot became a gallop soon, in spite of curb and rein.
So stooping down, as needs he must who cannot sit upright, He grasped the mane with both his hands, and eke with all his might.
His horse, who never in that sort had handled been before, What thing upon his back had got did wonder more and more.
Away went Gilpin, neck or nought; away went hat and wig; He little dreamt, when he set out, of running such a rig.
The wind did blow--the cloak did fly, like streamer long and gay; Till, loop and button failing both, at last it flew away.
Then might all people well discern the bottles he had slung-- A bottle swinging at each side, as hath been said or sung.
The dogs did bark, the children screamed, up flew the windows all; And every soul cried out, "Well done!" as loud as he could bawl.
Away went Gilpin--who but he? His fame soon spread around-- "He carries weight! he rides a race! 'Tis for a thousand pound!"
And still as fast as he drew near, 'twas wonderful to view How in a trice the turnpike men their gates wide open threw.
And now, as he went bowing down his reeking head full low, The bottles twain behind his back were shattered at a blow.
Down ran the wine into the road, most piteous to be seen, Which made his horse's flanks to smoke as they had basted been.
But still he seemed to carry weight, with leathern girdle braced; For all might see the bottle necks still dangling at his waist.
Thus all through merry Islington these gambols did he play, Until he came unto the Wash of Edmonton so gay;
And there he threw the wash about on both sides of the way, Just like unto a trundling mop, or a wild goose at play.
At Edmonton his loving wife from the balcony spied Her tender husband, wondering much to see how he did ride.
"Stop, stop, John Gilpin! here's the house," they all at once did cry; "The dinner waits, and we are tired." Said Gilpin--"So am I!"
But yet his horse was not a whit inclined to tarry there; For why?--his owner had a house full ten miles off, at Ware.
So like an arrow swift he flew, shot by an archer strong: So did he fly--which brings me to the middle of my song.
Away went Gilpin out of breath, and sore against his will, Till at his friend the calender's his horse at last stood still.
The calender, amazed to see his neighbor in such trim, Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate, and thus accosted him:
"What news? what news? your tidings tell; tell me you must and shall-- Say why bareheaded you are come, or why you come at all?"
Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit, and loved a timely joke; And thus unto the calender in merry guise he spoke:
"I came because your horse would come; and, if I well forebode, My hat and wig will soon be here, they are upon the road."
The calender, right glad to find his friend in merry pin, Returned him not a single word, but to the house went in;
Whence straight he came with hat and wig: a wig that flowed behind, A hat not much the worse for wear--each comedy in its kind.
He held them up, and in his turn thus showed his ready wit-- "My head is twice as big as yours, they therefore needs must fit.
"But let me scrape the dirt away that hangs upon your face, And stop and eat, for well you may be in a hungry case."
Said John, "It is my wedding-day, and all the world would stare, If wife should dine at Edmonton, and I should dine at Ware."
So, turning to his horse, he said, "I am in haste to dine; 'Twas for your pleasure you came here--you shall go back for mine."
Ah, luckless speech, and bootless boast, for which he paid full dear! For, while he spake, a braying ass did sing most loud and clear;
Whereat his horse did snort, as he had heard a lion roar, And galloped off with all his might, as he had done before.
Away went Gilpin, and away went Gilpin's hat and wig: He lost them sooner than at first, for why?--they were too big.
Now Mistress Gilpin, when she saw her husband posting down Into the country far away, she pulled out half a crown;
And thus unto the youth she said, that drove them to the Bell, "This shall be yours when you bring back my husband safe and well."
The youth did ride, and soon did meet John coming back amain-- Whom in a trice he tried to stop, by catching at his rein;
But not performing what he meant, and gladly would have done, The frighted steed he frighted more, and made him faster run.
Away went Gilpin, and away went post-boy at his heels, The post-boy's horse right glad to miss the lumbering of the wheels.
Six gentlemen upon the road, thus seeing Gilpin fly, With post-boy scampering in the rear, they raised the hue and cry:
"Stop thief! stop thief!--a highwayman!" Not one of them was mute; And all and each that passed that way did join in the pursuit.
And now the turnpike gates again flew open in short space; The tollmen thinking, as before, that Gilpin rode a race.
And so he did, and won it, too, for he got first to town; Nor stopped till where he had got up he did again get down.
Now let us sing, long live the king! and Gilpin, long live he; And when he next doth ride abroad, may I be there to see!
_William Cowper._
PADDY O'RAFTHER
Paddy, in want of a dinner one day, Credit all gone, and no money to pay, Stole from a priest a fat pullet, they say, And went to confession just afther; "Your riv'rince," says Paddy, "I stole this fat hen." "What, what!" says the priest, "at your ould thricks again? Faith, you'd rather be staalin' than sayin' _amen_, Paddy O'Rafther!"
"Sure, you wouldn't be angry," says Pat, "if you knew That the best of intintions I had in my view-- For I stole it to make it a present to you, And you can absolve me afther." "Do you think," says the priest, "I'd partake of your theft? Of your seven small senses you must be bereft-- You're the biggest blackguard that I know, right and left, Paddy O'Rafther."
"Then what shall I do with the pullet," says Pat, "If your riv'rince won't take it? By this and by that I don't know no more than a dog or a cat What your riv'rince would have me be afther." "Why, then," says his rev'rence, "you sin-blinded owl, Give back to the man that you stole from his fowl: For if you do not, 'twill be worse for your sowl, Paddy O'Rafther."
Says Paddy, "I ask'd him to take it--'tis thrue As this minit I'm talkin', your riv'rince, to you; But he wouldn't resaive it--so what can I do?" Says Paddy, nigh choken with laughter. "By my throth," says the priest, "but the case is absthruse; If he won't take his hen, why the man is a goose: 'Tis not the first time my advice was no use, Paddy O'Rafther."
"But, for sake of your sowl, I would sthrongly advise To some one in want you would give your supplies-- Some widow, or orphan, with tears in their eyes; And _then_ you may come to _me_ afther." So Paddy went off to the brisk Widow Hoy, And the pullet between them was eaten with joy, And, says she, "'Pon my word you're the cleverest boy, Paddy O'Rafther."
Then Paddy went back to the priest the next day, And told him the fowl he had given away To a poor lonely widow, in want and dismay, The loss of her spouse weeping afther. "Well, now," says the priest, "I'll absolve you, my lad, For repentantly making the best of the bad, In feeding the hungry and cheering the sad, Paddy O'Rafther!"
_Samuel Lover._
HERE SHE GOES, AND THERE SHE GOES
Two Yankee wags, one summer day, Stopped at a tavern on their way, Supped, frolicked, late retired to rest, And woke to breakfast on the best. The breakfast over, Tom and Will Sent for the landlord and the bill; Will looked it over:--"Very right-- But hold! what wonder meets my sight? Tom, the surprise is quite a shock!" "What wonder? where?" "The clock, the clock!"
Tom and the landlord in amaze Stared at the clock with stupid gaze, And for a moment neither spoke; At last the landlord silence broke,-- "You mean the clock that's ticking there? I see no wonder, I declare! Though maybe, if the truth were told, 'Tis rather ugly, somewhat old; Yet time it keeps to half a minute; But, if you please, what wonder's in it?"
"Tom, don't you recollect," said Will, "The clock at Jersey, near the mill, The very image of this present, With which I won the wager pleasant?" Will ended with a knowing wink; Tom scratched his head and tried to think. "Sir, begging pardon for inquiring," The landlord said, with grin admiring, "What wager was it?"
"You remember It happened, Tom, in last December: In sport I bet a Jersey Blue That it was more than he could do To make his finger go and come In keeping with the pendulum, Repeating, till the hour should close, Still,--'_Here she goes, and there she goes_.' He lost the bet in half a minute."
"Well, if I would, the deuce is in it!" Exclaimed the landlord; "try me yet, And fifty dollars be the bet." "Agreed, but we will play some trick, To make you of the bargain sick!" "I'm up to that!"
"Don't make us wait,-- Begin,--the clock is striking eight." He seats himself, and left and right His finger wags with all its might, And hoarse his voice and hoarser grows, With--"_Here she goes, and there she goes_!" "Hold!" said the Yankee, "Plank the ready!" The landlord wagged his finger steady, While his left hand, as well as able, Conveyed a purse upon the table. "Tom! with the money let's be off!" This made the landlord only scoff.
He heard them running down the stair, But was not tempted from his chair; Thought he, "The fools! I'll bite them yet! So poor a trick sha'n't win the bet." And loud and long the chorus rose Of--_"Here she goes, and there she goes!"_ While right and left his finger swung, In keeping to his clock and tongue.
His mother happened in to see Her daughter: "Where is Mrs. B----?" "When will she come, do you suppose? Son!"-- _"Here she goes, and there she goes!"_ "Here!--where?"--the lady in surprise His finger followed with her eyes: "Son! why that steady gaze and sad? Those words,--that motion,--are you mad? But here's your wife, perhaps she knows, And--" _"Here she goes, and there she goes!"_
His wife surveyed him with alarm, And rushed to him, and seized his arm; He shook her off, and to and fro His finger persevered to go; While curled his very nose with ire That _she_ against him should conspire; And with more furious tone arose The--_"Here she goes, and there she goes!"_
"Lawks!" screamed the wife, "I'm in a whirl! Run down and bring the little girl; She is his darling, and who knows But--"
_"Here she goes, and there she goes!"_
"Lawks! he is mad! What made him thus? Good Lord! what will become of us? Run for a doctor,--run, run, run,-- For Doctor Brown and Doctor Dun, And Doctor Black and Doctor White, And Doctor Gray, with all your might!"
The doctors came, and looked, and wondered, And shook their heads, and paused and pondered. Then one proposed he should be bled,-- "No, leeched you mean," the other said, "Clap on a blister!" roared another,-- "No! cup him,"--"No, trepan him, brother." A sixth would recommend a purge, The next would an emetic urge; The last produced a box of pills, A certain cure for earthly ills: "I had a patient yesternight," Quoth he, "and wretched was her plight, And as the only means to save her, Three dozen patent pills I gave her; And by to-morrow I suppose That--"
_"Here she goes, and there she goes!"_
"You are all fools!" the lady said,-- "The way is just to shave his head. Run! bid the barber come anon." "Thanks, mother!" thought her clever son; "You help the knaves that would have bit me, But all creation sha'n't outwit me!" Thus to himself while to and fro His finger perseveres to go, And from his lips no accent flows But,--_"Here she goes, and there she goes!"_ The barber came--"Lord help him! what A queerish customer I've got; But we must do our best to save him,-- So hold him, gemmen, while I shave him!" But here the doctors interpose,-- "A woman never--"
_"There she goes!"_
"A woman is no judge of physic, Not even when her baby is sick. He must be bled,"--"No, cup him,"--"Pills!" And all the house the uproar fills.
What means that smile? what means that shiver? The landlord's limbs with rapture quiver, And triumph brightens up his face, His finger yet will win the race; The clock is on the stroke of nine, And up he starts,--"'Tis mine! 'tis mine!" "What do you mean?" "I mean the fifty; I never spent an hour so thrifty. But you who tried to make me lose, Go, burst with envy, if you choose! But how is this? where are they?" "Who?" "The gentlemen,--I mean the two Came yesterday,--are they below?" "They galloped off an hour ago." "Oh, dose me! blister! shave and bleed! For, hang the knaves, I'm mad indeed!"
_James Nack._
THE QUAKER'S MEETING
A traveller wended the wilds among, With a purse of gold and a silver tongue; His hat it was broad, and all drab were his clothes, For he hated high colors--except on his nose, And he met with a lady, the story goes. Heigho! _yea_ thee and _nay_ thee.
The damsel she cast him a merry blink, And the traveller nothing was loth, I think, Her merry black eye beamed her bonnet beneath, And the Quaker, he grinned, for he'd very good teeth, And he asked, "Art thee going to ride on the heath?"
"I hope you'll protect me, kind sir," said the maid, "As to ride this heath over, I'm sadly afraid; For robbers, they say, here in numbers abound, And I wouldn't for anything I should be found, For, between you and me, I have five hundred pound."
"If that is thee own, dear," the Quaker, he said, "I ne'er saw a maiden I sooner would wed; And I have another five hundred just now, In the padding that's under my saddle-bow, And I'll settle it all upon thee, I vow!"
The maiden she smil'd, and her rein she drew, "Your offer I'll take, but I'll not take you," A pistol she held at the Quaker's head-- "Now give me your gold, or I'll give you my lead, 'Tis under the saddle, I think you said."
The damsel she ripped up the saddle-bow, And the Quaker was never a quaker till now! And he saw, by the fair one he wished for a bride, His purse borne away with a swaggering stride, And the eye that shamm'd tender, now only defied.
"The spirit doth move me, friend Broadbrim," quoth she, "To take all this filthy temptation from thee, For Mammon deceiveth, and beauty is fleeting, Accept from thy maiden this right-loving greeting, For much doth she profit by this Quaker's meeting!
"And hark! jolly Quaker, so rosy and sly, Have righteousness, more than a wench, in thine eye; Don't go again peeping girls' bonnets beneath, Remember the one that you met on the heath, Her name's Jimmy Barlow, I tell to your teeth."
"Friend James," quoth the Quaker, "pray listen to me, For thou canst confer a great favor, d'ye see; The gold thou hast taken is not mine, my friend, But my master's; and truly on thee I depend, To make it appear I my trust did defend.
"So fire a few shots thro' my clothes, here and there, To make it appear 'twas a desp'rate affair." So Jim he popp'd first through the skirt of his coat, And then through his collar--quite close to his throat; "Now one thro' my broadbrim," quoth Ephraim, "I vote."
"I have but a brace," said bold Jim, "and they're spent, And I won't load again for a make-believe rent."-- "Then!"--said Ephraim, producing his pistols, "just give My five hundred pounds back, or, as sure as you live, I'll make of your body a riddle or sieve."
Jim Barlow was diddled--and, tho' he was game, He saw Ephraim's pistol so deadly in aim, That he gave up the gold, and he took to his scrapers, And when the whole story got into the papers, They said that "_the thieves were no match for the Quakers_." Heigho! _yea_ thee and _nay_ thee.
_Samuel Lover._
THE JESTER CONDEMNED TO DEATH
One of the Kings of Scanderoon, A royal jester Had in his train, a gross buffoon, Who used to pester The court with tricks inopportune, Venting on the highest folks his Scurvy pleasantries and hoaxes.
It needs some sense to play the fool, Which wholesome rule Occurred not to our jackanapes, Who consequently found his freaks Lead to innumerable scrapes, And quite as many tricks and tweaks, Which only seemed to make him faster Try the patience of his master.
Some sin, at last, beyond all measure Incurred the desperate displeasure Of his Serene and raging Highness: Whether he twitched his most revered And sacred beard, Or had intruded on the shyness Of the seraglio, or let fly An epigram at royalty, None knows: his sin was an occult one, But records tell us that the Sultan, Meaning to terrify the knave, Exclaimed, "'Tis time to stop that breath; Thy doom is sealed, presumptuous slave! Thou stand'st condemned to certain death:
"Silence, base rebel! no replying! But such is my indulgence still, That, of my own free grace and will, I leave to thee the mode of dying," "Thy royal will be done--'tis just," Replied the wretch, and kissed the dust. "Since my last moment to assuage, Your majesty's humane decree Has deigned to leave the choice to me, I'll die, so please you, of old age!"
_Horace Smith._
THE DEACON'S MASTERPIECE;
OR, THE WONDERFUL "ONE-HOSS SHAY"
_A Logical Story_
Have you heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay, That was built in such a logical way, It ran a hundred years to a day, And then, of a sudden, it--ah, but stay, I'll tell you what happened without delay,-- Scaring the parson into fits, Frightening the people out of their wits-- Have you ever heard of that, I say?
Seventeen hundred and fifty-five, _Georgius Secundus_ was then alive-- Stuffy old drone from the German hive. That was the year when Lisbon-town Saw the earth open and gulp her down, And Braddock's army was done so brown, Left without a scalp to its crown. It was on the terrible earthquake-day That the Deacon finished his one-hoss shay.
Now in building of chaises, I'll tell you what, There is always _somewhere_ a weakest spot-- In hub, tire, or felloe, in spring or thill, In panel, or crossbar, or floor, or sill, In screw, bolt, thorough brace--lurking still, Find it somewhere you must and will-- Above or below, or within or without-- And that's the reason, beyond a doubt, A chaise _breaks down_, but doesn't _wear out_.
But the Deacon swore (as Deacons do, With an "I dew vam" or an "I tell _yeou_"), He would build one shay to beat the taown 'n' the keounty 'n' all the kentry raoun'; It should be so built that it _couldna'_ break daown; --"Fur," said the Deacon, "'t's mighty plain That the weakes' place mus' stan' the strain; 'n' the way t' fix it, uz I maintain, Is only jest T' make that place uz strong uz the rest."
So the deacon inquired of the village folk Where he could find the strongest oak, That couldn't be split nor bent nor broke-- That was for spokes and floor and sills; He sent for lancewood to make the thills; The cross-bars were ash, from the straightest trees; The panels of white-wood, that cuts like cheese, But lasts like iron for things like these; The hubs of logs from the "Settler's ellum"-- Last of its timber--they couldn't sell 'em,
Never an axe had seen their chips, And the wedges flew from between their lips; Their blunt ends frizzled like celery-tips; Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw, Spring, tire, axle, and linch-pin too, Steel of the finest, bright and blue; Thorough-broke bison-skin, thick and wide; Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hide Found in the pit when the tanner died. That was the way he "put her through"-- "There!" said the deacon, "naow she'll dew!"
Do! I tell you, I rather guess She was a wonder, and nothing less. Colts grew horses, beards turned gray, Deacon and deaconess dropped away, Children and grandchildren--where were they! But there stood the stout old one-hoss shay As fresh as on Lisbon earthquake-day!
|Eighteen hundred|;--it came and found The deacon's masterpiece strong and sound. Eighteen hundred increased by ten;-- "Hahnsum kerridge" they called it then. Eighteen hundred and twenty came;-- Running as usual; much the same. Thirty and forty at last arrive, And then came fifty and |fifty-five|.
Little of all we value here Wakes on the morn of its hundredth year Without both feeling and looking queer. In fact, there's nothing that keeps its youth, So far as I know but a tree and truth. (That is a moral that runs at large; Take it--you're welcome.--No extra charge.)
|First of November|--The Earthquake-day-- There are traces of age in the one-hoss shay, A general flavour of mild decay, But nothing local, as one may say. There couldn't be--for the deacon's art Had made it so like in every part That there wasn't a chance for one to start. For the wheels were just as strong as the thills, And the floor was just as strong as the sills, And the panels just as strong as the floor, And the whippletree neither less nor more, And the back-crossbar as strong as the fore, And spring and axle and hub _encore_. And yet, _as a whole_ it is past a doubt In another hour it will be _worn out_!
First of November, 'Fifty-five! This morning the parson takes a drive. Now, small boys, get out of the way! Here comes the wonderful one-hoss shay, Drawn by a rat-tailed, ewe-necked bay, "Huddup!" said the parson.--Off went they.
The parson was working his Sunday's text-- Had got to _fifthly_, and stopped perplexed At what the--Moses--was coming next. All at once the horse stood still, Close by the meet'n'-house on the hill. --First a shiver, and then a thrill, Then something decidedly like a spill-- And the parson was sitting upon a rock At half-past nine by the meet'n'-house clock-- Just the hour of the earthquake shock! --What do you think the parson found, When he got up and stared around? The poor old chaise in a heap or mound, As if it had been to the mill and ground! You see, of course, if you're not a dunce, How it went to pieces all at once,-- All at once and nothing first-- Just as bubbles do when they burst.
End of the wonderful one-hoss shay. Logic is logic. That's all I say.
_Oliver Wendell Holmes._
THE BALLAD OF THE OYSTERMAN
It was a tall young oysterman lived by the river-side; His shop was just upon the bank, his boat was on the tide. The daughter of a fisherman, that was so straight and slim, Lived over on the other bank, right opposite to him.
It was the pensive oysterman that saw a lovely maid, Upon a moonlight evening, a-sitting in the shade; He saw her wave her handkerchief, as much as if to say, "I'm wide awake, young oysterman, and all the folks away."
Then up arose the oysterman, and to himself said he, "I guess I'll leave the skiff at home, for fear that folks should see; I read it in the story-book, that, for to kiss his dear, Leander swam the Hellespont--and I will swim this here."
And he has leaped into the waves, and crossed the shining stream, And he has clambered up the bank, all in the moonlight gleam; O there were kisses sweet as dew, and words as soft as rain-- But they have heard her father's step, and in he leaps again!
Out spoke the ancient fisherman--"O what was that, my daughter?" "'Twas nothing but a pebble, sir, I threw into the water." "And what is that, pray tell me, love, that paddles off so fast?" "It's nothing but a porpoise, sir, that's been a-swimming past."
Out spoke the ancient fisherman--"Now bring me my harpoon! I'll get into my fishing-boat, and fix the fellow soon." Down fell that pretty innocent, as falls a snow-white lamb; Her hair drooped round her pallid cheeks, like sea-weed on a clam.
Alas for those two loving ones! she waked not from her swound, And he was taken with the cramp, and in, the waves was drowned; But Fate has metamorphosed them, in pity of their wo, And now they keep an oyster-shop for mermaids down below.
_Oliver Wendell Holmes._
THE WELL OF ST. KEYNE
A well there is in the west country, And a clearer one never was seen; There is not a wife in the west country But has heard of the Well of St. Keyne.
An oak and an elm-tree stand beside, And behind doth an ash-tree grow, And a willow from the bank above Droops to the water below.
A traveller came to the Well of St. Keyne, Joyfully he drew nigh, For from cock-crow he had been travelling, And there was not a cloud in the sky.
He drank of the water so cool and clear, For thirsty and hot was he; And he sat down upon the bank Under the willow-tree.
There came a man from the house hard by At the well to fill his pail; On the well-side he rested it, And he bade the stranger hail.
"Now art thou a bachelor, stranger?" quoth he, "For an if thou hast a wife, The happiest draught thou hast drank this day That ever thou didst in thy life.
"Or hast thy good woman, if one thou hast, Ever here in Cornwall been? For an if she have, I'll venture my life She has drank of the Well of St. Keyne."
"I have left a good woman who never was here," The stranger he made reply; "But that my draught should be the better for that I pray you answer me why?"
"St. Keyne," quoth the Cornishman, "many a time Drank of this crystal well, And before the angels summon'd her, She laid on the water a spell.
"If the husband of this gifted well Shall drink before his wife, A happy man thenceforth is he, For he shall be master for life.
"But if the wife should drink of it first, God help the husband then!" The stranger stooped to the Well of St. Keyne, And drank of the water again.
"You drank of the well, I warrant, betimes?" He to the Cornishman said: But the Cornishman smiled as the stranger spake, And sheepishly shook his head.
"I hasten'd as soon as the wedding was done, And left my wife in the porch; But i' faith she had been wiser than me, For she took a bottle to church."
_Robert Southey._
THE JACKDAW OF RHEIMS
The Jackdaw sat on the Cardinal's chair! Bishop, and Abbot, and Prior were there; Many a monk, and many a friar, Many a knight and many a squire, With a great many more of lesser degree-- In sooth, a goodly company; And they served the Lord Primate on bended knee, Never, I ween, Was a prouder seen, Read of in books, or dreamt of in dreams, Than the Cardinal Lord Archbishop of Rheims!
In and out Through the motley rout, That little Jackdaw kept hopping about; Here and there, Like a dog in a fair, Over comfits and cates, And dishes and plates, Cowl and cope, and rochet and pall, Mitre and crosier, he hopped upon all! With saucy air, He perched on the chair Where, in state, the great Lord Cardinal sat In the great Lord Cardinal's great red hat;
And he peered in the face Of his Lordship's grace, With a satisfied look, as if he would say, "We two are the greatest folks here to-day!" And the priests, with awe, As such freaks they saw, Said, "The devil must be in that little Jackdaw!"
The feast was over, the board was cleared, The flawns and the custards had all disappeared, And six little singing-boys--dear little souls! In nice clean faces, and nice white stoles, Came, in order due, Two by two, Marching that grand refectory through!
A nice little boy held a golden ewer, Embossed and filled with water, as pure As any that flows between Rheims and Namur, Which a nice little boy stood ready to catch In a fine golden hand-basin made to match. Two nice little boys, rather more grown, Carried lavender-water and eau-de-Cologne; And a nice little boy had a nice cake of soap, Worthy of washing the hands of the Pope. One little boy more A napkin bore, Of the best white diaper, fringed with pink, And a cardinal's hat marked in "permanent ink."
The great Lord Cardinal turns at the sight Of these nice little boys dressed all in white: From his finger he draws His costly turquoise, And, not thinking at all about little Jackdaws, Deposits it straight By the side of his plate, While the nice little boys on his Eminence wait; Till, when nobody's dreaming of any such thing, That little Jackdaw hops off with the ring!
There's a cry and a shout, And a deuce of a rout, And nobody seems to know what they're about, But the monks have their pockets all turned inside out; The friars are kneeling, And hunting and feeling The carpet, the floor, and the walls, and the ceiling. The Cardinal drew Off each plum-coloured shoe, And left his red stockings exposed to the view; He peeps and he feels, In the toes and the heels; They turn up the dishes, they turn up the plates, They take up the poker and poke out the grates, They turn up the rugs, They examine the mugs-- But no! no such thing; They can't find |THE RING|! And the Abbot declared that "when nobody twigged it, Some rascal or other had popped in and prigged it."
The Cardinal rose with a dignified look, He called for his candle, his bell, and his book! In holy anger and pious grief, He solemnly cursed that rascally thief! He cursed him at board, he cursed him in bed; From the sole of his foot to the crown of his head; He cursed him in sleeping, that every night He should dream of the devil, and wake in a fright; He cursed him in eating, he cursed him in drinking, He cursed him in coughing, in sneezing, in winking; He cursed him in sitting, in standing, in lying; He cursed him in walking, in riding, in flying; He cursed him in living, he cursed him in dying!-- Never was heard such a terrible curse! But, what gave rise To no little surprise, Nobody seemed one penny the worse!
The day was gone, The night came on, The monks and the friars they searched till dawn; When the Sacristan saw, On crumpled claw, Come limping a poor little lame Jackdaw; No longer gay, As on yesterday; His feathers all seemed to be turned the wrong way; His pinions drooped, he could hardly stand, His head was as bald as the palm of your hand; His eye so dim, So wasted each limb, That, heedless of grammar, they all cried "|That's him|! That's the scamp that has done this scandalous thing! That's the thief that has got my Lord Cardinal's ring!"
The poor little Jackdaw, When the monks he saw, Feebly gave vent to the ghost of a caw, And turned his bald head, as much as to say, "Pray be so good as to walk this way!" Slower and slower He limped on before, Till they came to the back of the belfry door, Where the first thing they saw, Midst the sticks and the straw, Was the |RING| in the nest of that little Jackdaw!
Then the great Lord Cardinal called for his book, And off that terrible curse he took; The mute expression Served in lieu of confession, And, being thus coupled with full restitution, The Jackdaw got plenary absolution! When these words were heard, That poor little bird Was so changed in a moment, 'twas really absurd; He grew sleek and fat; In addition to that, A fresh crop of feathers came thick as a mat! His tail waggled more Even than before; But no longer it wagged with an impudent air, No longer he perched on the Cardinal's chair, He hopped now about With a gait devout; At matins, at vespers, he never was out; And, so far from any more pilfering deeds, He always seemed telling the Confessor's beads.
If any one lied, or if any one swore, Or slumbered in prayer-time and happened to snore, That good Jackdaw Would give a great "Caw!" As much as to say, "Don't do so any more!" While many remarked, as his manners they saw, That they "never had known such a pious Jackdaw!" He long lived the pride Of that country side, And at last in the odour of sanctity died; When, as words were too faint His merits to paint, The Conclave determined to make him a Saint; And on newly-made Saints and Popes, as you know, It's the custom, at Rome, new names to bestow, So they canonised him by the name of Jim Crow!
_Richard Harris Barham._
THE KNIGHT AND THE LADY
The Lady Jane was tall and slim, The Lady Jane was fair And Sir Thomas, her lord, was stout of limb, And his cough was short, and his eyes were dim, And he wore green "specs" with a tortoise shell rim, And his hat was remarkably broad in the brim, And she was uncommonly fond of him-- And they were a loving pair! And wherever they went, or wherever they came, Every one hailed them with loudest acclaim; Far and wide, The people cried, All sorts of pleasure, and no sort of pain, To Sir Thomas the good, and the fair Lady Janel
Now Sir Thomas the good, be it well understood, Was a man of very contemplative mood-- He would pour by the hour, o'er a weed or a flower, Or the slugs, that came crawling out after a shower; Black beetles, bumble-bees, blue-bottle flies, And moths, were of no small account in his eyes; An "industrious flea," he'd by no means despise, While an "old daddy long-legs," whose long legs and thighs Passed the common in shape, or in color, or size, He was wont to consider an absolute prize. Giving up, in short, both business and sport, he Abandoned himself, _tout entier_, to philosophy.
Now as Lady Jane was tall and slim, And Lady Jane was fair. And a good many years the junior of him, There are some might be found entertaining a notion, That such an entire, and exclusive devotion, To that part of science, folks style entomology, Was a positive shame, And, to such a fair dame, Really demanded some sort of apology; Ever poking his nose into this, and to that-- At a gnat, or a bat, or a cat, or a rat, At great ugly things, all legs and wings, With nasty long tails, armed with nasty long stings And eternally thinking, and blinking, and winking, At grubs--when he ought of _her_ to be thinking. But no! ah no! 'twas by no means so With the fair Lady Jane, _Tout au contraire_, no lady so fair, Was e'er known to wear more contented an air; And--let who would call--every day she was there Propounding receipts for some delicate fare, Some toothsome conserve, of quince, apple or pear Or distilling strong waters--or potting a hare-- Or counting her spoons, and her crockery ware; Enough to make less gifted visitors stare.
Nay more; don't suppose With such doings as those This account of her merits must come to a close; No!--examine her conduct more closely, you'll find She by no means neglected improving her mind; For there all the while with an air quite bewitching She sat herring-boning, tambouring, or stitching, Or having an eye to affairs of the kitchen. Close by her side, Sat her kinsman, MacBride-- Captain Dugald MacBride, Royal Scots Fusiliers;-- And I doubt if you'd find, in the whole of his clan, A more highly intelligent, worthy young man; And there he'd be sitting, While she was a-knitting, Reading aloud, with a very grave look, Some very "wise saw," from some very good book-- No matter who came, It was always the same, The Captain was reading aloud to the dame, Till, from having gone through half the books on the shelf, They were _almost_ as wise as Sir Thomas himself.
Well it happened one day-- I really can't say The particular month;--but I _think_ 'twas in May, 'Twas I _know_ in the spring-time, when "nature looks gay," As the poet observes--and on tree-top and spray, The dear little dickey birds carol away, That the whole of the house was thrown into affright, For no soul could conceive what was gone with the Knight.
It seems he had taken A light breakfast--bacon, An egg, a little broiled haddock--at most A round and a half of some hot buttered toast, With a slice of cold sirloin from yesterday's roast. And then, let me see,-- He had two,--perhaps three Cups, with sugar and cream, of strong gunpowder tea,-- But no matter for that-- He had called for his hat, With the brim that I've said was so broad and so flat, And his "specs" with the tortoise-shell rim, and his cane. With the crutch-handled top, which he used to sustain His steps in his walk, or to poke in the shrubs Or the grass, when unearthing his worms or his grubs; Thus armed he set out on a ramble--a-lack! He _set out_, poor dear soul!--but he never came back! "First dinner bell" rang Out its euphonous clang At five--folks kept early hours then--and the "last" Ding-donged, as it ever was wont, at half-past. Still the master was absent--the cook came and said, he Feared dinner would spoil, having been so long ready, That the puddings her ladyship thought such a treat He was morally sure, would be scarce fit to eat! Said the lady, "Dish up! Let the meal be served straight, And let two or three slices be put on a plate, And kept hot for Sir Thomas."--Captain Dugald said grace, Then set himself down in Sir Thomas' place.
Wearily, wearily, all that night, That live-long night did the hours go by; And the Lady Jane, In grief and pain, She sat herself down to cry! And Captain MacBride, Who sat by her side, Though I really can't say that he actually cried, At least had a tear in his eye! As much as can well be expected, perhaps, From "very young fellows," for very "old chaps." And if he had said What he'd got in his head, 'Twould have been, "Poor old Duffer, he's certainly dead!" The morning dawned--and the next--and the next And all in the mansion were still perplexed; No knocker fell, His approach to tell; Not so much as a runaway ring at the bell.
Yet the sun shone bright upon tower and tree, And the meads smiled green as green may be, And the dear little dickey birds caroled with glee, And the lambs in the park skipped merry and free.-- Without, all was joy and harmony!
And thus 'twill be--nor long the day-- Ere we, like him, shall pass away! Yon sun that now our bosoms warms, Shall shine--but shine on other forms; Yon grove, whose choir so sweetly cheers Us now, shall sound on other ears; The joyous lambs, as now, shall play, But other eyes its sports survey; The stream we loved shall roll as fair, The flowery sweets, the trim parterre, Shall scent, as now, the ambient air; The tree whose bending branches bear The one loved name--shall yet be there-- But where the hand that carved it? Where?
These were hinted to me as the very ideas Which passed through the mind of the fair Lady Jane, As she walked on the esplanade to and again, With Captain MacBride, Of course at her side, Who could not look _quite_ so forlorn--though he tried, An "idea" in fact, had got into _his_ head, That if "poor dear Sir Thomas" should really be dead, It might be no bad "spec" to be there in his stead, And by simply contriving, in due time, to wed A lady who was young and fair, A lady slim and tall, To set himself down in comfort there, The lord of Tapton Hall.
Thinks he, "We have sent Half over Kent, And nobody knows how much money's been spent, Yet no one's been found to say which way he went! Here's a fortnight and more has gone by, and we've tried Every plan we could hit on--and had him well cried '|Missing|!! _Stolen or Strayed_, _Lost or Mislaid_, |A Gentleman|;--middle-aged, sober and staid; Stoops slightly;--and when he left home was arrayed In a sad-colored suit, somewhat dingy and frayed; Had spectacles on with a tortoise-shell rim, And a hat rather low crowned, and broad in the brim. Whoe'er shall bear, Or send him with care, (Right side uppermost) home; or shall give notice where Said middle-aged |Gentleman| is; or shall state Any fact, that may tend to throw light on his fate, To the man at the turnpike, called _Tappington Gate_, Shall receive a reward of _Five Pounds_ for his trouble. N.B. If defunct, the _Reward_ will be double!!'
"Had he been above ground, He _must_ have been found. No; doubtless he's shot--or he's hanged--or he's drowned! Then his widow--ay! ay! But what will folks say?-- To address her at once, at so early a day. Well--what then--who cares!--let 'em say what they may." When a man has decided As Captain MacBride did, And once fully made up his mind on the matter, he Can't be too prompt in unmasking his battery. He began on the instant, and vowed that her eyes Far exceeded in brilliance the stars in the skies; That her lips were like roses, her cheeks were like lilies; Her breath had the odor of daffadowndillies!-- With a thousand more compliments, equally true, Expressed in similitudes equally new! Then his left arm he placed Round her jimp, taper waist--
Ere she fixed to repulse or return his embrace, Up came running a man at a deuce of a pace, With that very peculiar expression of face Which always betokens dismay or disaster, Crying out--'twas the gard'ner--"Oh, ma'am! we've found master!!" "Where! where?" screamed the lady; and echo screamed, "Where?" The man couldn't say "there!" He had no breath to spare, But gasping for breath he could only respond By pointing--be pointed, alas! |TO THE POND|. 'Twas e'en so; poor dear Knight, with his "specs" and his hat, He'd gone poking his nose into this and to that; When close to the side of the bank, he espied An uncommon fine tadpole, remarkably fat! He stooped;--and he thought her His own;--he had caught her! Got hold of her tail--and to land almost brought her, When--he plumped head and heels into fifteen feet water!
The Lady Jane was tall and slim, The Lady Jane was fair, Alas! for Sir Thomas!--she grieved for him, As she saw two serving men sturdy of limb, His body between them bear; She sobbed and she sighed, she lamented and cried, For of sorrow brimful was her cup; She swooned, and I think she'd have fallen down and died, If Captain MacBride Hadn't been by her side With the gardener;--they both their assistance supplied, And managed to hold her up. But when she "comes to," Oh! 'tis shocking to view The sight which the corpse reveals! Sir Thomas' body, It looked so odd--he Was half eaten up by the eels!
His waistcoat and hose, And the rest of his clothes, Were all gnawed through and through; And out of each shoe, An eel they drew; And from each of his pockets they pulled out two! And the gardener himself had secreted a few, As well might be supposed he'd do, For, when he came running to give the alarm, He had six in the basket that hung on his arm.
Good Father John was summoned anon; Holy water was sprinkled and little bells tinkled, And tapers were lighted, And incense ignited, And masses were sung, and masses were said, All day, for the quiet repose of the dead, And all night no one thought about going to bed.
But Lady Jane was tall and slim, And Lady Jane was fair, And ere morning came, that winsome dame Had made up her mind, or--what's much the same-- Had _thought about_, once more "changing her name," And she said with a pensive air, To Thompson the valet, while taking away, When supper was over, the cloth and the tray, "Eels a many I've ate; but any So good ne'er tasted before!-- They're a fish too, of which I'm remarkably fond-- Go--pop Sir Thomas again in the pond-- Poor dear!--_he'll catch us some more_."
MORAL
All middle-aged gentlemen let me advise, If you're married, and hav'n't got very good eyes, Don't go poking about after blue-bottle flies. If you've spectacles, don't have a tortoise-shell rim, And don't go near the water--unless you can swim. Married ladies, especially such as are fair, Tall and slim, I would next recommend to beware, How, on losing one spouse, they give way to despair, But let them reflect, there are fish, and no doubt on't, As good _in_ the river, as ever came _out_ on't.
_Richard Harris Barham._
AN EASTERN QUESTION
My William was a soldier, and he says to me, says he, "My Susan, I must sail across the South Pacific sea; For we've got to go to Egypt for to fight the old Khedive; But when he's dead I'll marry you, as sure as I'm alive!"
'Twere hard for me to part with him; he couldn't read nor write, So I never had love letters for to keep my memory bright; But Jim, who is our footman, took the _Daily Telegraph_, And told me William's reg-i-ment mowed down the foe like chaff.
So every day Jim come to me to read the Eastern news, And used to bring me bouquets, which I scarcely could refuse; Till one fine day it happened--_how_ it happened, goodness knows,-- He put his arm around me and he started to propose.
I put his hand from off me, and I said in thrilling tones, "I like you, Jim, but _never_ will I give up William Jones; It ain't no good your talking, for my heart is firm and fixed, For William is engaged to me, and naught shall come betwixt."
So Jim he turned a ghastly pale to find there was no hope; And made remarks about a pond, and razors, and a rope; The other servants pitied him, and Rosie said as much; But Rosie was too flighty, and he didn't care for such.
The weeks and months passed slowly, till I heard the Eastern war Was over, and my William would soon be home once more; And I was proud and happy for I knew that I could say I'd been true to my sweet William all the years he'd been away.
Says Jim to me, "I love you, Sue, you know full well I do, And evermore whilst I draw breath I vow I will be true; But my feelings are too sensitive, I really couldn't stand A-seeing of that soldier taking hold your little hand.
"So I've made my mind up finally to throw myself away; There's Rosie loves me truly, and no more I'll say her nay; I've bought a hat on purpose, and I'm going to hire a ring, And I've borrowed father's wedding suit that looks the very thing."
So Jim he married Rosie, just the very day before My William's reg-i-ment was due to reach their native shore; I was there to see him landed and to give him welcome home, And take him to my arms from which he never more should roam.
But I couldn't see my William, for the men were all alike, With their red coats and their rifles, and their helmets with a spike; So I curtseys to a sergeant who was smiling very kind, "Where's William Jones?" I asks him, "if so be you wouldn't mind?"
Then he calls a gawky, red-haired chap, that stood good six-feet two: "Here, Jones," he cries, "this lady here's enquiring after you." "Not me!" I says, "I want a man who 'listed from our Square; With a small moustache, but growing fast, and bright brown curly hair."
The sergeant wiped his eye, and took his helmet from his head, "I'm very sorry, ma'am," he said, "_that_ William Jones is dead; He died from getting sunstroke, and we envied him his lot, For we were melted to our bones, the climate was that hot!"
So that's how 'tis that I'm condemned to lead a single life, For the sergeant, who was struck with me, already had a wife; And Jim is tied to Rosie, and can't get himself untied, Whilst the man that I was faithful to has been and gone and died!
_H. M. Paull._
MY AUNT'S SPECTRE
They tell me (but I really can't Imagine such a rum thing), |It| is the phantom of my Aunt, Who ran away--or something.
|It| is the very worst of bores: (My Aunt was most delightful). |It| prowls about the corridors, And utters noises frightful.
At midnight through the rooms |It| glides, Behaving very coolly, Our hearts all throb against our sides-- The lights are burning bluely.
The lady, in her living hours, Was the most charming vixen That ever this poor sex of ours Delighted to play tricks on.
Yes, that's her portrait on the wall, In quaint old-fangled bodice: Her eyes are blue--her waist is small-- A ghost! Pooh, pooh,--a goddess! A fine patrician shape, to suit My dear old father's sister-- Lips softly curved, a dainty foot: Happy the man that kissed her!
Light hair of crisp irregular curl Over fair shoulders scattered-- Egad, she was a pretty girl, Unless Sir Thomas flattered!
And who the deuce, in these bright days, Could possibly expect her To take to dissipated ways, And plague us as a spectre?
_Mortimer Collins._
CASEY AT THE BAT
It looked extremely rocky for the Mudville nine that day, The score stood four to six with but an inning left to play. And so, when Cooney died at first, and Burrows did the same, A pallor wreathed the features of the patrons of the game. A straggling few got up to go, leaving there the rest, With that hope which springs eternal within the human breast. For they thought if only Casey could get a whack at that, They'd put up even money with Casey at the bat. But Flynn preceded Casey, and likewise so did Blake, And the former was a pudding and the latter was a fake; So on that stricken multitude a death-like silence sat, For there seemed but little chance of Casey's getting to the bat. But Flynn let drive a single to the wonderment of all, And the much despisèd Blakey tore the cover off the ball, And when the dust had lifted and they saw what had occurred, There was Blakey safe on second, and Flynn a-hugging third. Then from the gladdened multitude went up a joyous yell, It bounded from the mountain top and rattled in the dell, It struck upon the hillside, and rebounded on the flat, For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat. There was ease in Casey's manner as he stepped into his place, There was pride in Casey's bearing and a smile on Casey's face, And when responding to the cheers he lightly doffed his hat, No stranger in the crowd could doubt, 'twas Casey at the bat. Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt, Five thousand tongues applauded as he wiped them on his shirt; And while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip-- Defiance gleamed from Casey's eye--a sneer curled Casey's lip. And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air, And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there; Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped-- "That hain't my style," said Casey--"Strike one," the Umpire said. From the bleachers black with people there rose a sullen roar, Like the beating of the storm waves on a stern and distant shore, "Kill him! kill the Umpire!" shouted some one from the stand-- And it's likely they'd have done it had not Casey raised his hand. With a smile of Christian charity great Casey's visage shone, He stilled the rising tumult and he bade the game go on; He signalled to the pitcher and again the spheroid flew, But Casey still ignored it and the Umpire said "Strike two." "Fraud!" yelled the maddened thousands, and the echo answered "Fraud," But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed; They saw his face grow stern and cold; they saw his muscles strain, And they knew that Casey would not let that ball go by again. The sneer is gone from Casey's lip; his teeth are clenched with hate, He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate; And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go, And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey's blow. Oh! somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright, The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light, And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout; But there is no joy in Mudville--mighty Casey has "Struck Out."
_Ernest Lawrence Thayer._
THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN
Hamelin Town's in Brunswick, By famous Hanover City; The river Weser, deep and wide, Washes its wall on the southern side; A pleasanter spot you never spied; But when begins my ditty, Almost five hundred years ago, To see the townsfolk suffer so From vermin was a pity.
Rats! They fought the dogs, and killed the cats, And bit the babies in the cradles, And ate the cheeses out of the vats, And licked the soup from the cook's own ladles, Split open the kegs of salted sprats, Made nests inside men's Sunday hats, And even spoiled the women's chats, By drowning their speaking With shrieking and squeaking In fifty different sharps and flats.
At last the people in a body To the Town Hall came flocking: "Tis clear," cried they, "our Mayor's a noddy; And as for our Corporation--shocking To think we buy gowns lined with ermine For dolts that can't or won't determine What's best to rid us of our vermin! You hope, because you're old and obese, To find in the furry civic robe ease? Rouse up, Sirs! Give your brains a racking To find the remedy we're lacking, Or, sure as fate, we'll send you packing!" At this the Mayor and Corporation Quaked with a mighty consternation.
An hour they sate in council, At length the Mayor broke silence: "For a guilder I'd my ermine gown sell! I wish I were a mile hence! It's easy to bid one rack one's brain-- I'm sure my poor head aches again I've scratched it so, and all in vain. Oh, for a trap, a trap, a trap!"
Just as he said this, what should hap At the chamber door but a gentle tap? "Bless us," cried the Mayor, "what's that?" (With the Corporation as he sat, Looking little though wondrous fat; Nor brighter was his eye, nor moister, Than a too-long-opened oyster, Save when at noon his paunch grew mutinous For a plate of turtle green and glutinous), "Only a scraping of shoes on the mat? Anything like the sound of a rat Makes my heart go pit-a-pat!"
"Come in!"--the Mayor cried, looking bigger: And in did come the strangest figure. His queer long coat from heel to head Was half of yellow and half of red; And he himself was tall and thin, With sharp blue eyes, each like a pin, And light loose hair, yet swarthy skin, No tuft on cheek nor beard on chin, But lips where smiles went out and in; There was no guessing his kith and kin: And nobody could enough admire The tall man and his quaint attire. Quoth one: "It's as my great grandsire, Starting up at the Trump of Doom's tone, Had walked this way from his painted tombstone!"
He advanced to the council-table; And, "Please your honours," said he, "I'm able, By means of a secret charm, to draw All creatures living beneath the sun, That creep or swim or fly or run, After me so as you never saw! And I chiefly use my charm On creatures that do people harm, The mole and toad and newt and viper; And people call me the Pied Piper." (And here they noticed round his neck A scarf of red and yellow stripe, To match with his coat of the selfsame cheque; And at the scarf's end hung a pipe; And his fingers, they noticed, were ever straying As if impatient to be playing Upon this pipe, as low it dangled Over his vesture so old-fangled.) "Yet," said he, "poor piper as I am, In Tartary I freed the Cham, Last June, from his huge swarms of gnats; I eased in Asia the Nizam Of a monstrous brood of vampyre bats: And as for what your brain bewilders, If I can rid your town of rats, Will you give me a thousand guilders?" "One? fifty thousand!" was the exclamation Of the astonished Mayor and Corporation.
Into the street the Piper stept, Smiling first a little smile, As if he knew what magic slept In his quiet pipe the while; Then, like a musical adept, To blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled, And green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled Like a candle flame where salt is sprinkled; And ere three shrill notes the pipe uttered, You heard as if an army muttered; And the muttering grew to a grumbling; And the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling; And out of the house the rats came tumbling. Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats, Brown rats, black rats, grey rats, tawny rats, Grave old plodders, gay young friskers, Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins, Cocking tails and pricking whiskers, Families by tens and dozens, Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives-- Followed the Piper for their lives. From street to street he piped advancing, And step by step they followed dancing, Until they came to the river Weser Wherein all plunged and perished --Save one, who, stout as Julius Cæsar, Swam across and lived to carry (As he the manuscript he cherished) To Rat-land home his commentary, Which was, "At the first shrill notes of the pipe, I heard a sound as of scraping tripe, And putting apples wondrous ripe, Into a cider-press's gripe: And a moving away of pickle-tub boards, And a leaving ajar of conserve cupboards, And a drawing the corks of train-oil-flasks, And a breaking the hoops of butter-casks:
And it seemed as if a voice (Sweeter far than by harp or by psaltery Is breathed) called out, Oh rats, rejoice! The world is grown to one vast drysaltery! So munch on, crunch on, take your nuncheon, Breakfast, supper, dinner, luncheon! And just as a bulky sugar puncheon, All ready staved, like a great sun shone Glorious scarce an inch before me, Just as methought it said, Come, bore me! --I found the Weser rolling o'er me."
You should have heard the Hamelin people Ringing the bells till they rocked the steeple. "Go," cried the Mayor, "and get long poles! Poke out the nests and block up the holes! Consult with carpenters and builders, And leave in our town not even a trace Of the rats!"--when suddenly, up the face Of the piper perked in the market-place, With a "First, if you please, my thousand guilders!"
A thousand guilders! The Mayor looked blue; So did the Corporation too. For council dinners made rare havock With Claret, Moselle, Vin-de-Grave, Hock; And half the money would replenish Their cellar's biggest butt with Rhenish. To pay this sum to a wandering fellow With a gipsy coat of red and yellow! "Beside," quoth the Mayor with a knowing wink, "Our business was done at the river's brink; We saw with our eyes the vermin sink, And what's dead can't come to life, I think. So, friend, we're not the folks to shrink From the duty of giving you something to drink, And a matter of money to put in your poke; But as for the guilders, what we spoke Of them, as you very well know, was in joke; Beside, our losses have made us thrifty: A thousand guilders! Come, take fifty!"
The Piper's face fell, and he cried, "No trifling! I can't wait, beside! I've promised to visit by dinner time Bagdad, and accept the prime Of the Head Cook's pottage, all he's rich in, For having left in the Caliph's kitchen, Of a nest of scorpions no survivor: With him I proved no bargain-driver, With you, don't think I'll bate a stiver! And folks who put me in a passion May find me pipe after another fashion."
"How?" cried the Mayor, "d'ye think I'll brook Being worse treated than a Cook? Insulted by a lazy ribald With idle pipe and vesture piebald? You threaten us, fellow? Do your worst, Blow your pipe there till you burst!"
Once more he stept into the street; And to his lips again Laid his long pipe of smooth straight cane; And ere he blew three notes (such sweet Soft notes as yet musician's cunning Never gave the enraptured air), There was a rustling, that seemed like a bustling Of merry crowds justling at pitching and hustling, Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering, Little hands clapping and little tongues chattering, And, like fowls in a farmyard when barley is scattering, Out came the children running. All the little boys and girls, With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls, Tripping and skipping, ran merrily after The wonderful music with shouting and laughter.
The Mayor was dumb, and the Council stood As if they were changed into blocks of wood, Unable to move a step, or cry To the children merrily skipping by, And could only follow with the eye
That joyous crowd at the Piper's back. But how the Mayor was on the rack, And the wretched Council's bosoms beat, As the Piper turned from the High Street To where the Weser rolled its waters Right in the way of their sons and daughters! However he turned from South to West, And to Koppelberg Hill his steps addressed, And after him the children pressed; Great was the joy in every breast. "He never can cross that mighty top! He's forced to let the piping drop, And we shall see our children stop!" When, lo, as they reached the mountain's side, A wondrous portal opened wide, As if a cavern were suddenly hollowed; And the Piper advanced and the children followed, And when all were in to the very last, The door in the mountain-side shut fast. Did I say--all? No! one was lame, And could not dance the whole of the way; And in after years, if you would blame His sadness, he was used to say,-- "It's dull in our town since my playmates left; I can't forget that I'm bereft Of all the pleasant sights they see, Which the Piper also promised me; For he led us, he said, to a joyous land, Joining the town and just at hand, Where waters gushed and fruit-trees grew, And flowers put forth a fairer hue, And everything was strange and new; The sparrows were brighter than peacocks here, And their dogs outran our fallow deer, And honey-bees had lost their stings; And horses were born with eagle's wings; And just as I became assured My lame foot would be speedily cured, The music stopped, and I stood still, And found myself outside the Hill, Left alone against my will, To go now limping as before, And never hear of that country more!"
Alas, alas, for Hamelin! There came into many a burgher's pate A text which says, that Heaven's Gate Opes to the Rich at as easy rate As the needle's eye takes a camel in! The Mayor sent East, West, North, and South, To offer the Piper by word of mouth, Wherever it was men's lot to find him, Silver and gold to his heart's content, If he'd only return the way he went, And bring the children all behind him. But when they saw 'twas a lost endeavour, And Piper and dancers were gone for ever, They made a decree that lawyers never Should think their records dated duly If, after the day of the month and year, These words did not as well appear, "And so long after what happened here On the twenty-second of July, Thirteen hundred and seventy-six:" And the better in memory to fix The place of the Children's last retreat, They called it the Pied Piper's Street-- Where any one playing on pipe or tabor Was sure for the future to lose his labour. Nor suffered they hostelry or tavern To shock with mirth a street so solemn; But opposite the place of the cavern They wrote the story on a column. And on the great Church Window painted The same, to make the world acquainted How their children were stolen away, And there it stands to this very day. And I must not omit to say That in Transylvania there's a tribe Of alien people that ascribe The outlandish ways and dress, On which their neighbours lay such stress, To their fathers and mothers having risen Out of some subterraneous prison, Into which they were trepanned Long time ago in a mighty band Out of Hamelin town in Brunswick Land, But how or why, they don't understand.
So, Willy, let me and you be wipers Of scores out with all men--especially pipers; And, whether they pipe us free from rats or from mice, If we've promised them aught, let us keep our promise.
_Robert Browning._
THE GOOSE
I knew an old wife lean and poor, Her rags scarce held together; There strode a stranger to the door, And it was windy weather.
He held a goose upon his arm, He utter'd rhyme and reason, "Here, take the goose, and keep you warm, It is a stormy season."
She caught the white goose by the leg, A goose--'twas no great matter. The goose let fall a golden egg With cackle and with clatter.
She dropt the goose, and caught the pelf, And ran to tell her neighbours; And bless'd herself, and cursed herself, And rested from her labours.
And feeding high, and living soft, Grew plump and able-bodied; Until the grave churchwarden doff'd, The parson smirk'd and nodded.
So sitting, served by man and maid, She felt her heart grow prouder: But, ah! the more the white goose laid It clack'd and cackled louder.
It clutter'd here, it chuckled there; It stirr'd the old wife's mettle: She shifted in her elbow-chair, And hurl'd the pan and kettle.
"A quinsy choke thy cursed note!" Then wax'd her anger stronger. "Go, take the goose, and wring her throat, I will not bear it longer."
Then yelp'd the cur, and yawl'd the cat; Ran Gaffer, stumbled Gammer. The goose flew this way and flew that, And fill'd the house with clamour.
As head and heels upon the floor They flounder'd all together, There strode a stranger to the door, And it was windy weather:
He took the goose upon his arm, He utter'd words of scorning; "So keep you cold, or keep you warm, It is a stormy morning."
The wild wind rang from park and plain, And round the attics rumbled, Till all the tables danced again, And half the chimneys tumbled.
The glass blew in, the fire blew out, The blast was hard and harder. Her cap blew off, her gown blew up, And a whirlwind clear'd the larder:
And while on all sides breaking loose Her household fled the danger, Quoth she, "The Devil take the goose, And God forget the stranger!"
_Lord Tennyson._
THE BALLAD OF CHARITY
It was in a pleasant deepô, sequestered from the rain, That many weary passengers were waitin' for the train; Piles of quite expensive baggage, many a gorgeous portmantó, Ivory-handled umberellas made a most touristic show.
Whereunto there came a person, very humble was his mien, Who took an observation of the interestin' scene; Closely scanned the umberellas, watched with joy the mighty trunks, And observed that all the people were securin' Pullman bunks:
Who was followed shortly after by a most unhappy tramp, Upon whose features poverty had jounced her iron stamp; And to make a clear impression as bees sting you while they buzz, She had hit him rather harder than she generally does.
For he was so awful ragged, and in parts so awful bare, That the folks were quite repulsioned to behold him begging there; And instead of drawing currency from out their pocket-books, They drew themselves asunder with aversionary looks.
Sternly gazed the first newcomer on the unindulgent crowd, Then in tones which pierced the deepô he solilicussed aloud:-- "I hev trevelled o'er this cont'nent from Quebec to Bogotáw, But sech a set of scallawags as these I never saw.
"Ye are wealthy, ye are gifted, ye have house and lands and rent, Yet unto a suff'rin' mortal ye will not donate a cent; Ye expend your missionaries to the heathen and the Jew, But there isn't any heathen that is half as small as you.
"Ye are lucky--ye hev cheque-books and deeposits in the bank, And ye squanderate your money on the titled folks of rank; The onyx and the sardonyx upon your garments shine, An' ye drink at every dinner p'r'aps a dollar's wuth of wine.
"Ye are goin' for the summer to the islands by the sea, Where it costs four dollars daily--setch is not for setch as me; Iv'ry-handled umberellas do not come into my plan, But I kin give a dollar to this sufl'rin' fellow-man.
"Hand-bags made of Rooshy leather are not truly at my call, Yet in the eyes of Mussy I am richer 'en you all, For I kin give a dollar wher' you dare not stand a dime, And never miss it nother, nor regret it ary time."
Sayin' this he drew a wallet from the inner of his vest, And gave the tramp a daddy, which it was his level best; Other people havin' heard him soon to charity inclined-- One giver soon makes twenty if you only get their wind.
The first who gave the dollar led the other one about, And at every contribution he a-raised a joyful shout, Exclaimin' how 'twas noble to relieviate distress, And remarkin' that our duty is our present happiness.
Thirty dollars altogether were collected by the tramp, When he bid 'em all good evenin' and went out into the damp, And was followed briefly after by the one who made the speech, And who showed by good example how to practise as to preach.
Which soon around the corner the couple quickly met, And the tramp produced the specie for to liquidate his debt; And the man who did the preachin' took his twenty of the sum, Which you see that out of thirty left a tenner for the bum.
And the couple passed the summer at Bar Harbor with the rest, Greatly changed in their appearance and most elegently dressed. Any fowl with change of feathers may a brilliant bird become: Oh, how hard is life for many! oh, how sweet it is for some!
_Charles Godfrey Leland._
THE POST CAPTAIN
When they heard the Captain humming and beheld the dancing crew, On the "Royal Biddy" frigate was Sir Peter Bombazoo; His mind was full of music and his head was full of tunes, And he cheerfully exhibited on pleasant afternoons.
He could whistle, on his fingers, an invigorating reel, And could imitate a piper on the handles of the wheel; He could play in double octaves, too, all up and down the rail, Or rattle off a rondo on the bottom of a pail.
Then porters with their packages and bakers with their buns, And countesses in carriages and grenadiers with guns, And admirals and commodores arrived from near and far, To listen to the music of this entertaining tar.
When they heard the Captain humming and beheld the dancing crew. The commodores severely said, "Why, this will never do!" And the admirals all hurried home, remarking, "This is most Extraordinary conduct for a captain at his post."
Then they sent some sailing-orders to Sir Peter, in a boat, And he did a little fifing on the edges of the note; But he read the sailing orders, as of course he had to do, And removed the "Royal Biddy" to the Bay of Boohgabooh.
Now, Sir Peter took it kindly, but it's proper to explain He was sent to catch a pirate out upon the Spanish Main. And he played, with variations, an imaginary tune On the buttons of his waistcoat, like a jocular bassoon.
Then a topman saw the pirate come a-sailing in the bay, And reported to the Captain in the ordinary way. "I'll receive him," said Sir Peter, "with a musical salute," And he gave some imitations of a double-jointed flute.
Then the Pirate cried derisively, "I've heard it done before!" And he hoisted up a banner emblematical of gore. But Sir Peter said serenely, "You may double-shot the guns While I sing my little ballad of 'The Butter on the Buns.'"
Then the Pirate banged Sir Peter and Sir Peter banged him back, And they banged away together as they took another tack. Then Sir Peter said, politely, "You may board him, if you like," And he played a little dirge upon the handle of a pike.
Then the "Biddies" poured like hornets down upon the Pirate's deck And Sir Peter caught the Pirate and he took him by the neck, And remarked, "You must excuse me, but you acted like a brute When I gave my imitation of that double-jointed flute."
So they took that wicked Pirate and they took his wicked crew, And tied them up with double knots in packages of two. And left them lying on their backs in rows upon the beach With a little bread and water within comfortable reach.
Now the Pirate had a treasure (mostly silverware and gold), And Sir Peter took and stowed it in the bottom of his hold; And said, "I will retire on this cargo of doubloons, And each of you, my gallant crew, may have some silver spoons."
Now commodores in coach-and-fours and corporals in cabs, And men with carts of pies and tarts and fishermen with crabs, And barristers with wigs, in gigs, still gather on the strand, But there isn't any music save a little German band.
_Charles E. Carryl._
ROBINSON CRUSOE'S STORY
The night was thick and hazy When the _Piccadilly Daisy_ Carried down the crew and captain in the sea; And I think the water drowned 'em, For they never, never found 'em, And I know they didn't come ashore with me.
Oh! 'twas very sad and lonely When I found myself the only Population on this cultivated shore; But I've made a little tavern In a rocky little cavern, And I sit and watch for people at the door.
I spent no time in looking For a girl to do my cooking, As I'm quite a clever hand at making stews; But I had that fellow Friday Just to keep the tavern tidy, And to put a Sunday polish on my shoes.
I have a little garden That I'm cultivating lard in, As the things I eat are rather tough and dry; For I live on toasted lizards, Prickly pears and parrot gizzards, And I'm really very fond of beetle pie.
The clothes I had were furry, And it made me fret and worry When I found the moths were eating off the hair; And I had to scrape and sand 'em, And I boiled 'em and I tanned 'em, Till I got the fine morocco suit I wear.
I sometimes seek diversion In a family excursion, With the few domestic animals you see; And we take along a carrot As refreshment for the parrot, And a little can of jungleberry tea.
Then we gather as we travel Bits of moss and dirty gravel, And we chip off little specimens of stone; And we carry home as prizes Funny bugs of handy sizes, Just to give the day a scientific tone.
If the roads are wet and muddy We remain at home and study,-- For the Goat is very clever at a sum,-- And the Dog, instead of fighting Studies ornamental writing, While the Cat is taking lessons on the drum.
We retire at eleven, And we rise again at seven; And I wish to call attention, as I close, To the fact that all the scholars Are correct about their collars, And particular in turning out their toes.
_Charles E. Carryl._
BEN BLUFF
Ben Bluff was a whaler, and many a day Had chased the huge fish about Baffin's old Bay; But time brought a change his diversion to spoil, And that was when Gas took the shine out of Oil.
He turned up his nose at the fumes of the coke, And swore the whole scheme was a bottle of smoke; As to London, he briefly delivered his mind, "Sparma-city," said he,--but the city declined.
So Ben cut his line in a sort of a huff, As soon as his whales had brought profits enough,-- And hard by the Docks settled down for his life, But, true to his text, went to Wales for a wife.
A big one she was, without figure or waist, More bulky than lovely, but that was his taste; In fat she was lapped from her sole to her crown, And, turned into oil, would have lighted a town.
But Ben, like a whaler, was charmed with the match, And thought, very truly, his spouse a great catch; A flesh-and-blood emblem of Plenty and Peace, And would not have changed her for Helen of Greece!
For Greenland was green in his memory still; He'd quitted his trade, but retained the good-will; And often when softened by bumbo and flip, Would cry till he blubbered about his old ship.
No craft like the _Grampus_ could work through a floe, What knots she could run, and what tons she could stow! And then that rich smell he preferred to the rose, By just nosing the hold without holding his nose.
Now Ben he resolved, one fine Saturday night, A snug arctic circle of friends to invite; Old tars in the trade, who related old tales, And drank, and blew clouds that were "very like whales."
Of course with their grog there was plenty of chat, Of canting, and flenching, and cutting up fat; And how gun-harpoons into fashion had got, And if they were meant for the gun-whale or not?
At last they retired, and left Ben to his rest, By fancies cetaceous and drink well possessed, When, lo! as he lay by his partner in bed, He heard something blow through two holes in its head!
"A start!" muttered Ben, in the _Grampus_ afloat, And made but one jump from the deck to the boat! "Huzza! pull away for the blubber and bone,-- I look on that whale as already my own!"
Then groping about by the light of the moon, He soon laid his hand on his trusty harpoon; A moment he poised it, to send it more pat, And then made a plunge to imbed it in fat!
"Starn all!" he sang out, "as you care for your lives,-- Starn all! as you hope to return to your wives,-- Stand by for the flurry! she throws up the foam! Well done, my old iron; I've sent you right home!"
And scarce had he spoken, when lo! bolt upright The leviathan rose in a great sheet of white, And swiftly advanced for a fathom or two, As only a fish out of water could do.
"Starn all!" echoed Ben, with a movement aback, But too slow to escape from the creature's attack; If flippers it had, they were furnished with nails,-- "You willin, I'll teach you that women ain't whales!"
"Avast!" shouted Ben, with a sort of a screech, "I've heard a whale spouting, but here is a speech!" "A-spouting, indeed!--very pretty," said she; "But it's you I'll blow up, not the froth of the sea!
"To go to pretend to take _me_ for a fish! You great polar bear--but I know what you wish; You're sick of a wife that your hankering balks, You want to go back to some young Esquimaux!"
"O dearest," cried Ben, frightened out of his life, "Don't think I would go for to murder a wife I must long have bewailed!" But she only cried, "Stuff!" Don't name it, you brute, you've _be-whaled_ me enough!"
"Lord, Polly!" said Ben, "such a deed could I do? I'd rather have murdered all Wapping than you! Come, forgive what is past." "O you monster!" she cried, "It was none of your fault that it passed off one side!"
However, at last she inclined to forgive; "But, Ben, take this warning as long as you live,-- If the love of harpooning so strong must prevail, Take a whale for a wife,--not a wife for a whale!"
_Thomas Hood._
THE PILGRIMS AND THE PEAS
A brace of sinners, for no good, Were order'd to the Virgin Mary's shrine, Who at Loretto dwelt, in wax, stone, wood, And in a fair white wig look'd wondrous fine.
Fifty long miles had those sad rogues to travel, With something in their shoes much worse than gravel; In short, their toes so gentle to amuse, The priest had order'd peas into their shoes:
A nostrum, famous in old popish times, For purifying souls that stunk with crimes; A sort of apostolic salt, Which popish parsons for its powers exalt, For keeping souls of sinners sweet, Just as our kitchen salt keeps meat.
The knaves set off on the same day, Peas in their shoes, to go and pray: But very different was their speed, I wot: One of the sinners gallop'd on, Swift as a bullet from a gun; The other limp'd, as if he had been shot.
One saw the Virgin soon--_peccavi_ cried-- Had his soul whitewash'd all so clever; Then home again he nimbly hied, Made fit with saints above to live forever.
In coming back, however, let me say, He met his brother rogue about half-way, Hobbling, with outstretch'd arms and bended knees, Damning the souls and bodies of the peas; His eyes in tears, his cheeks and brow in sweat, Deep sympathizing with his groaning feet.
"How now," the light-toed, white-wash'd pilgrim broke, "You lazy lubber!" "Odds curse it!" cried the other, "'tis no joke; My feet, once hard as any rock, Are now as soft as blubber.
"Excuse me, Virgin Mary, that I swear: As for Loretto, I shall not go there; No! to the Devil my sinful soul must go, For damme if I ha'n't lost every toe. But, brother sinner, pray explain How 'tis that you are not in pain? What power hath work'd a wonder for your toes? Whilst I, just like a snail, am crawling, Now swearing, now on saints devoutly bawling, Whilst not a rascal comes to ease my woes?
"How is't that _you_ can like a greyhound go, Merry as if that naught had happen'd, burn ye!" "Why," cried the other, grinning, "you must know, That, just before I ventured on my journey, To walk a little more at ease, I took the liberty to boil _my_ peas."
_John Wolcot._
TAM O'SHANTER
When chapman billies leave the street, And drouthy neibors neibors meet, As market days are wearin' late, And folk begin to tak the gate:
While we sit bousing at the nappy, And gettin' fou and unco happy, We thinkna on the lang Scots miles, The mosses, waters, slaps, and stiles, That lie between us and our hame, Whare sits our sulky sullen dame, Gathering her brows like gathering storm, Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.
This truth fand honest Tam o'Shanter, As he frae Ayr ae night did canter (Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses For honest men and bonny lasses).
O Tam! hadst thou but been sae wise As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice! She tauld thee weel thou wast a skellum, A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum; That frae November till October, Ae market day thou wasna sober; That ilka melder, wi' the miller Thou sat as lang as thou hadst siller; That every naig was ca'd a shoe on, The smith and thee gat roaring fou on; That at the Lord's house, even on Sunday, Thou drank wi' Kirkton Jean till Monday. She prophesied, that, late or soon, Thou wouldst be found deep drown'd in Doon! Or catch'd wi' warlocks i' the mirk, By Alloway's auld haunted kirk.
Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet To think how mony counsels sweet, How mony lengthen'd, sage advices, The husband frae the wife despises!
But to our tale:--Ae market night, Tam had got planted unco right, Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely, Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely; And at his elbow, Souter Johnny, His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony; Tam lo'ed him like a very brither-- They had been fou for weeks thegither! The night drave on wi' sangs and clatter, And aye the ale was growing better: The landlady and Tam grew gracious, Wi' favours secret, sweet, and precious The Souter tauld his queerest stories, The landlord's laugh was ready chorus: The storm without might rair and rustle-- Tam didna mind the storm a whistle.
Care, mad to see a man sae happy, E'en drown'd himsel' amang the nappy! As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure, The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure; Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious, O'er a' the ills o' life victorious!
But pleasures are like poppies spread, You seize the flower, its bloom is shed! Or like the snowfall in the river, A moment white--then melts for ever; Or like the borealis race, That flit ere you can point their place Or like the rainbow's lovely form, Evanishing amid the storm. Nae man can tether time or tide; The hour approaches Tam maun ride;
That hour, o' night's black arch the keystane, That dreary hour he mounts his beast in; And sic a night he taks the road in As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in.
The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last; The rattling showers rose on the blast; The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd; Loud, deep, and lang, the thunder bellow'd: That night, a child might understand The deil had business on his hand.
Weel mounted on his grey mare Meg, A better never lifted leg, Tam skelpit on through dub and mire, Despising wind, and rain, and fire; Whiles holding fast his guid blue bonnet, Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet; Whiles glowering round wi' prudent cares, Lest bogles catch him unawares: Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh, Whare ghaists and houlets nightly cry. By this time he was 'cross the foord, Whare in the snaw the chapman smoor'd; And past the birks and meikle stane Whare drunken Charlie brak's neck-bane: And through the whins, and by the cairn Whare hunters fand the murder'd bairn; And near the thorn, aboon the well, Whare Mungo's mither hang'd hersel'. Before him Doon pours a' his floods; The doubling storm roars through the woods; The lightnings flash frae pole to pole; Near and more near the thunders roll; When, glimmering through the groaning trees, Kirk-Alloway seem'd in a bleeze; Through ilka bore the beams were glancing, And loud resounded mirth and dancing.
Inspiring bold John Barleycorn! What dangers thou canst mak us scorn! Wi' tippenny, we fear nae evil; Wi' usquebae, we'll face the devil!-- The swats sae ream'd in Tammie's noddle, Fair play, he cared na deils a boddle. But Maggie stood right sair astonish'd, Till, by the heel and hand admonish'd, She ventured forward on the light; And, wow! Tam saw an unco sight! Warlocks and witches in a dance; Nae cotillon brent-new frae France, But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels, Put life and mettle i' their heels: At winnock-bunker, i' the east, There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast; A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large, To gie them music was his charge; He screw'd the pipes, and gart them skirl, Till roof and rafters a' did dirl. Coffins stood round, like open presses, That shaw'd the dead in their last dresses; And by some devilish cantrip slight Each in its cauld hand held a light,-- By which heroic Tam was able To note upon the haly table, A murderer's banes in gibbet airns; Twa span-lang, wee, unchristian bairns; A thief, new-cutted frae a rape, Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape; Five tomahawks, wi' bluid red-rusted; Five scimitars, wi' murder crusted; A garter, which a babe had strangled; A knife, a father's throat had mangled, Whom his ain son o' life bereft, The grey hairs yet stack to the heft: Wi' mair o' horrible and awfu', Which even to name wad be unlawfu'.
As Tammie glower'd, amazed and curious The mirth and fun grew fast and furious The piper loud and louder blew, The dancers quick and quicker flew; They reel'd, they set, they cross'd, they cleekit, Till ilka carlin swat and reekit, And coost her duddies to the wark, And linket at it in her sark. Now Tam! O Tam! had thae been queans, A' plump and strappin' in their teens, Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flannen, Been snaw-white seventeen-hunder linen! Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair, That ance were plush, o' guid blue hair, I wad hae gien them aff my hurdies, For ae blink o' the bonny burdies!
But wither'd beldams, auld and droll, Rigwoodie hags, wad spean a foal, Lowpin' and flingin' on a cummock, I wonder didna turn thy stomach.
But Tam kenn'd what was what fu' brawlie, "There was ae winsome wench and walie," That night enlisted in the core (Lang after kenn'd on Carrick shore; For mony a beast to dead she shot, And perish'd money a bonny boat, And shook baith meikle corn and bear, And kept the country-side in fear). Her cutty sark, o' Paisley harn, That, while a lassie, she had worn, In longitude though sorely scanty, It was her best, and she was vauntie.
Ah! little kenn'd thy reverend grannie, That sark she coft for her wee Nannie, Wi' twa pund Scots ('twas a' her riches), Wad ever graced a dance o' witches!
But here my Muse her wing maun core, Sic flights are far beyond her power; To sing how Nannie lap and flang (A souple jade she was, and strang), And how Tam stood, like ane bewitch'd, And thought, his very een enriched. Even Satan glower'd, and fidged fu' fain, And hotch'd and blew wi' might and main; Till first ae caper, syne anither, Tam tint his reason a' thegither, And roars out, "Weel done, Cutty-sark!" And in an instant a' was dark: And scarcely had he Maggie rallied, When out the hellish legion sallied. As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke, When plundering herds assail their byke, As open pussie's mortal foes, When, pop! she starts before their nose; As eager runs the market-crowd, When "Catch the thief!" resounds aloud; So Maggie runs, the witches follow, Wi' mony an eldritch screech and hollow.
Ah, Tam! ah, Tam! thou'lt get thy fairin'! In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin'! In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin'! Kate soon will be a woefu' woman! Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg, And win the keystane of the brig; There at them thou thy tail may toss, A running stream they darena cross; But ere the keystane she could make, The fient a tail she had to shake! For Nannie, far before the rest, Hard upon noble Maggie prest, And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle; But little wist she Maggie's mettle-- Ae spring brought off her master hale, But left behind her ain grey tail: The carlin caught her by the rump, And left poor Maggie scarce a stump. Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read, Ilk man and mother's son, take heed: Whane'er to drink you are inclined, Or cutty-sarks run in your mind, Think! ye may buy the joys ower dear-- Remember Tam o' Shanter's mare.
_Robert Burns._
THAT GENTLE MAN FROM BOSTON TOWN
AN IDYL OF OREGON
Two webfoot brothers loved a fair Young lady, rich and good to see; And oh, her black abundant hair! And oh, her wondrous witchery! Her father kept a cattle farm, These brothers kept her safe from harm:
From harm of cattle on the hill; From thick-necked bulls loud bellowing The livelong morning, loud and shrill, And lashing sides like anything; From roaring bulls that tossed the sand And pawed the lilies from the land.
There came a third young man. He came From far and famous Boston town. He was not handsome, was not "game," But he could "cook a goose" as brown As any man that set foot on The sunlit shores of Oregon.
This Boston man he taught the school, Taught gentleness and love alway, Said love and kindness, as a rule, Would ultimately "make it pay." He was so gentle, kind, that he Could make a noun and verb agree.
So when one day the brothers grew All jealous and did strip to fight, He gently stood between the two, And meekly told them 'twas not right. "I have a higher, better plan," Outspake this gentle Boston man.
"My plan is this: Forget this fray About that lily hand of hers; Go take your guns and hunt all day High up yon lofty hill of firs, And while you hunt, my loving doves, Why, I will learn which one she loves."
The brothers sat the windy hill, Their hair shone yellow, like spun gold, Their rifles crossed their laps, but still They sat and sighed and shook with cold. Their hearts lay bleeding far below; Above them gleamed white peaks of snow.
Their hounds lay couching, slim and neat; A spotted circle in the grass. The valley lay beneath their feet; They heard the wide-winged eagles pass. The eagles cleft the clouds above; Yet what could they but sigh and love?
"If I could die," the elder sighed, "My dear young brother here might wed." "Oh, would to Heaven I had died!" The younger sighed, with bended head. Then each looked each full in the face And each sprang up and stood in place.
"If I could die,"--the elder spake,-- "Die by your hand, the world would say 'Twas accident;--and for her sake, Dear brother, be it so, I pray." "Not that!" the younger nobly said; Then tossed his gun and turned his head.
And fifty paces back he paced! And as he paced he drew the ball; Then sudden stopped and wheeled and faced His brother to the death and fall! Two shots rang wild upon the air! But lo! the two stood harmless there!
An eagle poised high in the air; Far, far below the bellowing Of bullocks ceased, and everywhere Vast silence sat all questioning. The spotted hounds ran circling round Their red, wet noses to the ground.
And now each brother came to know That each had drawn the deadly ball; And for that fair girl far below Had sought in vain to silent fall. And then the two did gladly "shake," And thus the elder bravely spake:
"Now let us run right hastily And tell the kind schoolmaster all! Yea! yea! and if she choose not me, But all on you her favors fall, This valiant scene, till all life ends, Dear brother, binds us best of friends."
The hounds sped down, a spotted line, The bulls in tall, abundant grass, Shook back their horns from bloom and vine, And trumpeted to see them pass-- They loved so good, they loved so true, These brothers scarce knew what to do.
They sought the kind schoolmaster out As swift as sweeps the light of morn; They could but love, they could not doubt This man so gentle, "in a horn," They cried, "Now whose the lily hand-- That lady's of this webfoot land?"
They bowed before that big-nosed man, That long-nosed man from Boston town; They talked as only lovers can, They talked, but he could only frown; And still they talked, and still they plead; It was as pleading with the dead.
At last this Boston man did speak-- "Her father has a thousand ceows, An hundred bulls, all fat and sleek; He also had this ample heouse." The brothers' eyes stuck out thereat, So far you might have hung your hat.
"I liked the looks of this big heouse-- My lovely boys, won't you come in? Her father has a thousand ceows, He also had a heap of tin. The guirl? Oh yes, the guirl, you see-- The guirl, just neow she married me."
_Joaquin Miller._
THE YARN OF THE "NANCY BELL"
'Twas on the shores that round our coast From Deal to Ramsgate span, That I found alone on a piece of stone An elderly naval man.
His hair was weedy, his beard was long, And weedy and long was he, And I heard this wight on the shore recite, In a singular minor key:
"Oh, I am a cook and the captain bold, And the mate of the _Nancy_ brig, And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite, And the crew of the captain's gig."
And he shook his fists and he tore his hair, Till I really felt afraid, For I couldn't help thinking the man had been drinking, And so I simply said:
"Oh, elderly man, it's little I know Of the duties of men of the sea, And I'll eat my hand if I understand How you can possibly be
"At once a cook, and a captain bold, And the mate of the _Nancy_ brig, And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite, And the crew of the captain's gig."
Then he gave a hitch to his trousers, which Is a trick all seamen larn, And having got rid of a thumping quid, He spun this painful yarn:
"'Twas in the good ship _Nancy Bell_ That we sailed to the Indian Sea, And there on a reef we come to grief, Which has often occurred to me.
"And pretty nigh all the crew was drowned (There was seventy-seven o' soul), And only ten of the _Nancy's_ men Said 'here' to the muster-roll.
"There was me and the cook and the captain bold, And the mate of the _Nancy_ brig, And the bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite, And the crew of the captain's gig.
"For a month we'd neither wittles nor drink, Till a-hungry we did feel, So we drawed a lot, and accordin' shot The captain for our meal.
"The next lot fell to the _Nancy's_ mate, And a delicate dish he made; Then our appetite with the midshipmite We seven survivors stayed.
"And then we murdered the bos'un tight, And he much resembled pig; Then we wittled free, did the cook and me, On the crew of the captain's gig.
"Then only the cook and me was left, And the delicate question, 'Which Of us two goes to the kettle?' arose, And we argued it out as sich.
"For I loved that cook as a brother, I did, And the cook he worshipped me; But we'd both be blowed if we'd either be stowed In the other chap's hold, you see.
"'I'll be eat if you dines off me,' says Tom. 'Yes, that,' says I, 'you'll be,-- I'm boiled if I die, my friend,' quoth I. And 'Exactly so,' quoth he.
"Says he, 'Dear James, to murder me Were a foolish thing to do, For don't you see that you can't cook _me_, While I can--and will--cook _you_!'
"So he boils the water, and takes the salt And the pepper in portions true (Which he never forgot), and some chopped shalot, And some sage and parsley too.
"'Come here,' says he, with a proper pride, Which his smiling features tell, ''Twill soothing be if I let you see How extremely nice you'll smell.'
"And he stirred it round and round and round, And he sniffed at the foaming froth; When I ups with his heels, and smothers his squeals In the scum of the boiling broth.
"And I eat that cook in a week or less, And--as I eating be The last of his chops, why, I almost drops, For a vessel in sight I see.
* * * * *
"And I never larf, and I never smile, And I never lark or play, But sit and croak, and a single joke I have,--which is to say:
"Oh, I am a cook and a captain bold, And the mate of the _Nancy_ brig, And a bos'un tight, and a midshipmite, And the crew of the captain's gig."
_W. S. Gilbert._
FERDINANDO AND ELVIRA
OR, THE GENTLE PIEMAN