Chapter 3

"Tell me, Henry Wadsworth, Alfred, Poet Close, or Mister Tupper, Do you write the bon-ton mottoes my Elvira pulls at supper?"

But Henry Wadsworth smiled, and said he had not had that honor; And Alfred, too, disclaimed the words that told so much upon her.

"Mister Martin Tupper, Poet Close, I beg of you inform us;" But my question seemed to throw them both into a rage enormous.

Mister Close expressed a wish that he could only get anigh to me; And Mister Martin Tupper sent the following reply to me:

"A fool is bent upon a twig, but wise men dread a bandit,"-- Which I know was very clever; but I didn't understand it.

Seven weary years I wandered--Patagonia, China, Norway, Till at last I sank exhausted at a pastrycook his doorway.

There were fuchsias and geraniums, and daffodils and myrtle; So I entered, and I ordered half a basin of mock turtle.

He was plump and he was chubby, he was smooth and he was rosy, And his little wife was pretty and particularly cosy.

And he chirped and sang, and skipped about, and laughed with laughter hearty-- He was wonderfully active for so very stout a party.

And I said, "O gentle pieman, why so very, very merry? Is it purity of conscience, or your one-and-seven sherry?"

But he answered, "I'm so happy--no profession could be dearer-- If I am not humming 'Tra la la' I'm singing 'Tirer, lirer!'

"First I go and make the patties, and the puddings, and the jellies, Then I make a sugar bird-cage, which upon a table swell is:

"Then I polish all the silver, which a supper-table lacquers: Then I write the pretty mottoes which you find inside the crackers--"

"Found at last!" I madly shouted. "Gentle pieman, you astound me!" Then I waved the turtle soup enthusiastically round me.

And I shouted and I danced until he'd quite a crowd around him, And I rushed away, exclaiming, "I have found him! I have found him!"

And I heard the gentle pieman in the road behind me trilling, "'Tira! lira!' stop him, stop him! 'Tra! la! la!' the soup's a shilling!"

But until I reached Elvira's home, I never, never waited, And Elvira to her Ferdinand's irrevocably mated!

_W. S. Gilbert._

GENTLE ALICE BROWN

It was a robber's daughter, and her name was Alice Brown. Her father was the terror of a small Italian town; Her mother was a foolish, weak, but amiable old thing; But it isn't of her parents that I'm going for to sing.

As Alice was a-sitting at her window-sill one day, A beautiful young gentleman he chanced to pass that way; She cast her eyes upon him, and he looked so good and true, That she thought, "I could be happy with a gentleman like you!"

And every morning passed her house that cream of gentlemen, She knew she might expect him at a quarter unto ten, A sorter in the Custom-house, it was his daily road (The Custom-house was fifteen minutes' walk from her abode.)

But Alice was a pious girl, who knew it wasn't wise To look at strange young sorters with expressive purpleeyes; So she sought the village priest to whom her family confessed, The priest by whom their little sins were carefully assessed.

"Oh, holy father," Alice said, "'twould grieve you, would it not? To discover that I was a most disreputable lot! Of all unhappy sinners I'm the most unhappy one!" The padre said, "Whatever have you been and gone and done?"

"I have helped mamma to steal a little kiddy from its dad, I've assisted dear papa in cutting up a little lad. I've planned a little burglary and forged a little cheque, And slain a little baby for the coral on its neck!"

The worthy pastor heaved a sigh, and dropped a silent tear-- And said, "You mustn't judge yourself too heavily, my dear-- It's wrong to murder babies, little corals for to fleece; But sins like these one expiates at half-a-crown apiece.

"Girls will be girls--you're very young, and flighty in your mind; Old heads upon young shoulders we must not expect to find: We mustn't be too hard upon these little girlish tricks-- Let's see--five crimes at half-a-crown--exactly twelve-and-six."

"Oh, father," little Alice cried, "your kindness makes me weep, You do these little things for me so singularly cheap-- Your thoughtful liberality I never can forget; But oh, there is another crime I haven't mentioned yet!

"A pleasant-looking gentleman, with pretty purple eyes, I've noticed at my window, as I've sat a-catching flies; He passes by it every day as certain as can be-- I blush to say I've winked at him and he has winked at me!"

"For shame," said Father Paul, "my erring daughter! On my word This is the most distressing news that I have ever heard. Why, naughty girl, your excellent papa has pledged your hand To a promising young robber, the lieutenant of his band!

"This dreadful piece of news will pain your worthy parents so! They are the most remunerative customers I know; For many many years they've kept starvation from my doors, I never knew so criminal a family as yours!

"The common country folk in this insipid neighborhood Have nothing to confess, they're so ridiculously good; And if you marry any one respectable at all, Why, you'll reform, and what will then become of Father Paul?"

The worthy priest, he up and drew his cowl upon his crown, And started off in haste to tell the news to Robber Brown; To tell him how his daughter, who was now for marriage fit, Had winked upon a sorter, who reciprocated it.

Good Robber Brown, he muffled up his anger pretty well, He said, "I have a notion, and that notion I will tell; I will nab this gay young sorter, terrify him into fits, And get my gentle wife to chop him into little bits.

"I've studied human nature, and I know a thing or two, Though a girl may fondly love a living gent, as many do-- A feeling of disgust upon her senses there will fall When she looks upon his body chopped particularly small."

He traced that gallant sorter to a still suburban square; He watched his opportunity and seized him unaware; He took a life-preserver and he hit him on the head, And Mrs. Brown dissected him before she went to bed.

And pretty little Alice grew more settled in her mind, She nevermore was guilty of a weakness of the kind, Until at length good Robber Brown bestowed her pretty hand On the promising young robber, the lieutenant of his band.

_W. S. Gilbert._

THE STORY OF PRINCE AGIB

Strike the concertina's melancholy string! Blow the spirit-stirring harp like anything! Let the piano's martial blast Rouse the Echoes of the Past, For of Agib, Prince of Tartary, I sing!

Of Agib, who, amid Tartaric scenes, Wrote a lot of ballet music in his teens: His gentle spirit rolls In the melody of souls-- Which is pretty, but I don't know what it means.

Of Agib, who could readily, at sight, Strum a march upon the loud Theodolite. He would diligently play On the Zoetrope all day, And blow the gay Pantechnicon all night.

One winter--I am shaky in my dates-- Came two starving Tartar minstrels to his gates; Oh, Allah be obeyed, How infernally they played! I remember that they called themselves the "Oüaits."

Oh! that day of sorrow, misery, and rage I shall carry to the Catacombs of Age, Photographically lined On the tablet of my mind, When a yesterday has faded from its page!

Alas! Prince Agib went and asked them in; Gave them beer, and eggs, and sweets, and scent, and tin. And when (as snobs would say) They had "put it all away," He requested them to tune up and begin.

Though its icy horror chill you to the core, I will tell you what I never told before,-- The consequences true Of that awful interview, _For I listened at the keyhole in the door!_

They played him a sonata--let me see! "_Medulla oblongata_"--key of G. Then they began to sing That extremely lovely thing, "_Scherzando! ma non troppo, ppp._"

He gave them money, more than they could count, Scent from a most ingenious little fount, More beer, in little kegs, Many dozen hard-boiled eggs, And goodies to a fabulous amount.

Now follows the dim horror of my tale And I feel I'm growing gradually pale, For, even at this day, Though its sting has passed away, When I venture to remember it, I quail!

The elder of the brothers gave a squeal, All-overish it made me for to feel; "Oh, Prince," he says, says he, "_If a Prince indeed you be_, I've a mystery I'm going to reveal!

"Oh, listen, if you'd shun a horrid death, To what the gent who's speaking to you saith: No 'Oüaits' in truth are we, As you fancy that we be; For (ter-remble!) I am Aleck--this is Beth!"

Said Agib, "Oh! accursed of your kind, I have heard that ye are men of evil mind!" Beth gave a fearful shriek-- But before he'd time to speak I was mercilessly collared from behind.

In number ten or twelve, or even more, They fastened me full length upon the floor. On my face extended flat, I was walloped with a cat For listening at the keyhole of a door.

Oh! the horror of that agonizing thrill! (I can feel the place in frosty weather still). For a week from ten to four I was fastened to the floor, While a mercenary wopped me with a will.

They branded me and broke me on a wheel, And they left me in an hospital to heal; And, upon my solemn word, I have never never heard What those Tartars had determined to reveal.

But that day of sorrow, misery, and rage, I shall carry to the Catacombs of Age, Photographically lined On the tablet of my mind, When a yesterday has faded from its page.

_W. S. Gilbert._

SIR GUY THE CRUSADER

Sir Guy was a doughty crusader, Amuscular knight, Ever ready to fight, A very determined invader, And Dickey de Lion's delight.

Lenore was a Saracen maiden, Brunette, statuesque, The reverse of grotesque; Her pa was a bagman from Aden, Her mother she played in burlesque.

A _coryphée_, pretty and loyal, In amber and red, The ballet she led; Her mother performed at the Royal, Lenore at the Saracen's Head.

Of face and of figure majestic, She dazzled the cits-- Ecstaticised pits;-- Her troubles were only domestic, But drove her half out of her wits.

Her father incessantly lashed her, On water and bread She was grudgingly fed; Whenever her father he thrashed her, Her mother sat down on her head.

Guy saw her, and loved her, with reason, For beauty so bright Sent him mad with delight; He purchased a stall for the season And sat in it every night.

His views were exceedingly proper, He wanted to wed, So he called at her shed And saw her progenitor whop her-- Her mother sit down on her head.

"So pretty," said he, "and so trusting! You brute of a dad, You unprincipled cad, Your conduct is really disgusting, Come, come, now admit it's too bad!

"You're a turbaned old Turk, and malignant-- Your daughter Lenore I intensely adore, And I cannot help feeling indignant, A fact that I hinted before;

To see a fond father employing A deuce of a knout For to bang her about, To a sensitive lover's annoying." Said the bagman, "Crusader, get out."

Says Guy, "Shall a warrior laden With a big spiky knob Sit in peace on his cob, While a beautiful Saracen maiden Is whipped by a Saracen snob?

"To London I'll go from my charmer." Which he did, with his loot (Seven hats and a flute), And was nabbed for his Sydenham armour At Mr. Ben-Samuel's suit.

Sir Guy he was lodged in the Compter; Her pa, in a rage, Died (don't know his age); His daughter she married the prompter, Grew bulky and quitted the stage.

_W. S. Gilbert._

KITTY WANTS TO WRITE

Kitty wants to write! Kitty intellectual! What has been effectual to turn her stockings blue? Kitty's seventh season has brought sufficient reason, She has done 'most everything that there is left to do! Half of them to laugh about and half of them to rue,-- Now we wait in terror for Kitty's wildest error. What has she to write about? Wheeeeeeeeew!

Kitty wants to write! Débutante was Kitty, Frivolous and witty as ever bud that blew. Kitty lacked sobriety, yet she ran society, A leader whom the chaperons indulged a year or two; Corner-men, eligibles, dancing-dolls she knew,-- Kitty then was slighted, ne'er again invited; What has she to write about? Wheeeeeeeeew!

Kitty wants to write! At the Social Settlement Girls of Kitty's mettle meant a mission for a few; Men to teach the classes, men to mould the masses, Men to follow Kitty to adventures strange and new. Some of her benevolence was hidden out of view!-- A patroness offended, Kitty's slumming ended. What is there to write about? Wheeeeeeeeew!

Kitty wants to write! Kitty was a mystic, Deep from cabalistic lore many hints she drew! Freaks of all description, Hindoo and Egyptian, Prattled in her parlor--such a wild and hairy crew! Many came for money, and one or two to woo-- Kitty's pet astrologer wanted to acknowledge her! What has she to write about? Wheeeeeeeeew!

Kitty wants to write! Kitty was a doctor; Nothing ever shocked her, though they hazed a little, too! Kitty learned of medicos how a heart unsteady goes, Besides a score of secrets that are secrets still to you. Kitty's course in medicine gave her many a clue-- Much of modern history now is less a mystery. What has she to write about? Wheeeeeeeeew!

Kitty wants to write! Everybody's writing! Won't it be exciting, the panic to ensue? We who all have known her, think what we have shown her! Read it in the magazines! Which half of _this_ is true? Where did she get _that_ idea? Is it him, or who?-- Kitty's wretched enemies now will learn what venom is! What has she to write about? Wheeeeeeeeew!

_Gelett Burgess._

DIGHTON IS ENGAGED!

Dighton is engaged! Think of it and tremble! Two-and-twenty ladies who have known him must dissemble; Two-and-twenty ladies in a panic must repeat, "Dighton is a gentleman; will Dighton be discreet?" All the merry maidens who have known him at his best Wonder what the girl is like, and if he has confessed. Dighton the philanderer, will he prove a slanderer? A man gets confidential ere the honeymoon has sped-- Dighton was a rover then, Dighton lived in clover then; Dighton is a gentleman--but Dighton is to wed!

Dighton is engaged! Think of it, Corinna! Watch and see his fiancée smile on you at dinner! Watch and hear his fiancée whisper, "_That's_ the one?" Try and raise a blush for what you said was "only fun." Long have you been wedded; have you then forgot? If you have, I'll venture that a certain man has not! Dighton had a way with him; did you ever play with him? Now that dream is over and the episode is dead. Dighton never harried you after Charlie married you; Dighton is a gentleman--but Dighton is to wed!

Dighton is engaged! Think of it, Bettina! Did you ever love him when the sport was rather keener? Did you ever kiss him as you sat upon the stairs? Did you ever tell him of your former love affairs? Think of it uneasily and wonder if his wife Soon will know the amatory secrets of your life! Dighton was impressible, you were quite accessible-- The bachelor who marries late is apt to lose his head. Dighton wouldn't hurt you; does it disconcert you? Dighton is a gentleman--but Dighton is to wed!

Dighton is engaged! Tremble, Mrs. Alice! When he comes no longer will you bear the lady malice? Now he comes to dinner, and he smokes cigars with Clint, But he never makes a blunder and he never drops a hint; He's a universal uncle, with a welcome everywhere, He adopts his sweetheart's children and he lets 'em pull his hair. Dighton has a memory bright and sharp as emery, He _could_ tell them fairy stories that would make you rather red! Dighton can be trusted, though; Dighton's readjusted, though! Dighton is a gentleman--but Dighton is to wed!

_Gelett Burgess._

PLAIN LANGUAGE FROM TRUTHFUL JAMES

TABLE MOUNTAIN, 1870

Which I wish to remark-- And my language is plain-- That for ways that are dark, And for tricks that are vain, The heathen Chinee is peculiar, Which the same I would rise to explain.

Ah Sin was his name; And I will not deny In regard to the same What that name might imply; But his smile it was pensive and childlike, As I frequent remarked to Bill Nye.

It was August the third; And quite soft was the skies: Which it might be inferred That Ah Sin was likewise; Yet he played it that day upon William And me in a way I despise.

Which we had a small game, And Ah Sin took a hand. It was Euchre. The same He did not understand; But he smiled as he sat by the table, With a smile that was childlike and bland.

Yet the cards they were stocked In a way that I grieve, And my feelings were shocked At the state of Nye's sleeve: Which was stuffed full of aces and bowers, And the same with intent to deceive.

But the hands that were played By that heathen Chinee, And the points that he made, Were quite frightful to see-- Till at last he put down a right bower, Which the same Nye had dealt unto me.

Then I looked up at Nye, And he gazed upon me; And he rose with a sigh, And said, "Can this be? We are ruined by Chinese cheap labour--" And he went for that heathen Chinee.

In the scene that ensued I did not take a hand; But the floor it was strewed Like the leaves on the strand With the cards that Ah Sin had been hiding, In the game "he did not understand."

In his sleeves, which were long, He had twenty-four packs-- Which was coming it strong, Yet I state but the facts; And we found on his nails, which were taper, What is frequent in tapers--that's wax.

Which is why I remark, And my language is plain, That for ways that are dark, And for tricks that are vain, The heathen Chinee is peculiar-- Which the same I am free to maintain.

_Bret Harte._

THE SOCIETY UPON THE STANISLAUS

I reside at Table Mountain, and my name is Truthful James; I am not up to small deceit, or any sinful games; And I'll tell in simple language what I know about the row That broke up our society upon the Stanislow.

But first I would remark, that it is not a proper plan For any scientific man to whale his fellow-man, And, if a member don't agree with his peculiar whim, To lay for that same member for to "put a head" on him.

Now, nothing could be finer or more beautiful to see Than the first six months' proceedings of that same society, Till Brown of Calaveras brought a lot of fossil bones That he found within a tunnel near the tenement of Jones.

Then Brown he read a paper, and he reconstructed there, From those same bones, an animal that was extremely rare; And Jones then asked the Chair for a suspension of the rules, Till he could prove that those same bones was one of his lost mules.

Then Brown he smiled a bitter smile and said he was at fault, It seemed he had been trespassing on Jones's family vault; He was a most sarcastic man, this quiet Mr. Brown, And on several occasions he had cleaned out the town.

Now, I hold it is not decent for a scientific gent To say another is an ass--at least, to all intent; Nor should the individual who happens to be meant Reply by heaving rocks at him to any great extent.

Then Abner Dean of Angel's raised a point of order, when A chunk of old red sandstone took him in the abdomen, And he smiled a kind of sickly smile, and curled up on the floor, And the subsequent proceedings interested him no more.

For, in less time than I write it, every member did engage In a warfare with the remnants of a palæozoic age; And the way they heaved those fossils in their anger was a sin, Till the skull of an old mammoth caved the head of Thompson in.

And this is all I have to say of these improper games For I live at Table Mountain, and my name is Truthful James; And I've told, in simple language, what I know about the row That broke up our society upon the Stanislow.

_Bret Harte._

"JIM"

Say there! P'r'aps Some on you chaps Might know Jim Wild! Well,--no offence: Thar ain't no sense In gittin' riled!

Jim was my chum Up on the Bar: That's why I come Down from up yar, Lookin' for Jim. Thank ye, sir! _you_ Ain't of that crew,-- Blest if you are!

Money?--Not much; That ain't my kind: I ain't no such. Rum?--I don't mind, Seein' it's you.

Well, this yer Jim, Did you know him?-- Jess 'bout your size; Same kind of eyes;--

Well, that is strange: Why, it's two year Since he came here, Sick, for a change. Well, here's to us: Eh? The h----, you say! Dead? That little cuss?

What makes you star,-- You over thar? Can't a man drop 's glass 'n yer shop But you must rar'? It wouldn't take D---- much to break You and your bar.

Dead! Poor--little--Jim! --Why, thar was me, Jones, and Bob Lee, Harry and Ben,-- No--account men: Then to take _him_!

Well, thar--Good-bye-- No more, sir,--I-- Eh? What's that you say?-- Why, dern it!--sho!-- No? Yes! By Jo!

Sold! Sold! Why, you limb! You ornery, Derned old Long-legged Jim!

_Bret Harte._

WILLIAM BROWN OF OREGON

They called him Bill, the hired man, But she, her name was Mary Jane, The Squire's daughter; and to reign The belle from Ber-she-be to Dan Her little game. How lovers rash Got mittens at the spelling school! How many a mute, inglorious fool Wrote rhymes and sighed and died--mustache!

This hired man had loved her long, Had loved her best and first and last, Her very garments as she passed For him had symphony and song. So when one day with sudden frown She called him "Bill," he raised his head, He caught her eye and, faltering, said, "I love you; and my name is Brown."

She fairly waltzed with rage; she wept; You would have thought the house on fire. She told her sire, the portly squire, Then smelt her smelling-salts, and slept. Poor William did what could be done; He swung a pistol on each hip, He gathered up a great ox-whip, And drove toward the setting sun.

He crossed the great back-bone of earth, He saw the snowy mountains rolled Like mighty billows; saw the gold Of awful sunsets; felt the birth Of sudden dawn that burst the night Like resurrection; saw the face Of God and named it boundless space Ringed round with room and shoreless light.

Her lovers passed. Wolves hunt in packs, They sought for bigger game; somehow They seemed to see above her brow The forky sign of turkey tracks. The teter-board of life goes up, The teter-board of life goes down, The sweetest face must learn to frown; The biggest dog has been a pup.

O maidens! pluck not at the air; The sweetest flowers I have found Grow rather close unto the ground, And highest places are most bare. Why, you had better win the grace Of our poor cussed Af-ri-can, Than win the eyes of every man In love alone with his own face.

At last she nursed her true desire. She sighed, she wept for William Brown, She watched the splendid sun go down Like some great sailing ship on fire, Then rose and checked her trunk right on; And in the cars she lunched and lunched, And had her ticket punched and punched, Until she came to Oregon.

She reached the limit of the lines, She wore blue specs upon her nose, Wore rather short and manly clothes, And so set out to reach the mines. Her pocket held a parasol Her right hand held a Testament, And thus equipped right on she went, Went water-proof and water-fall.

She saw a miner gazing down, Slow stirring something with a spoon; "O, tell me true and tell me soon, What has become of William Brown?" He looked askance beneath her specs, Then stirred his cocktail round and round. Then raised his head and sighed profound, And said, "He's handed in his checks."

Then care fed on her damaged cheek, And she grew faint, did Mary Jane, And smelt her smelling-salts in vain, She wandered, weary, worn, and weak. At last, upon a hill alone. She came, and there she sat her down; For on that hill there stood a stone, And, lo! that stone read, "William Brown."

"O William Brown! O William Brown! And here you rest at last," she said, "With this lone stone above your head, And forty miles from any town! I will plant cypress trees, I will, And I will build a fence around, And I will fertilise the ground With tears enough to turn a mill."

She went and got a hired man, She brought him forty miles from town, And in the tall grass squatted down And bade him build as she should plan. But cruel cow-boys with their bands They saw, and hurriedly they ran And told a bearded cattle man Somebody builded on his lands.

He took his rifle from the rack, He girt himself in battle pelt, He stuck two pistols in his belt, And, mounting on his horse's back, He plunged ahead. But when they showed A woman fair, about his eyes He pulled his hat, and he likewise Pulled at his beard, and chewed and chewed.

At last he gat him down and spake: "O lady dear, what do you here?" "I build a tomb unto my dear, I plant sweet flowers for his sake." The bearded man threw his two hands Above his head, then brought them down And cried, "Oh, I am William Brown, And this the corner-stone of my lands!"

_Joaquin Miller._

LITTLE BREECHES

I don't go much on religion, I never ain't had no show; But I've got a middlin' tight grip, sir, On a handful o' things I know. I don't pan out on the prophets And free-will and that sort of thing-- But I be'lieve in God and the angels, Ever sence one night last spring.

I come into town with some turnips, And my little Gabe come along-- No four-year-old in the county Could beat him for pretty and strong-- Peart and chipper and sassy, Always ready to swear and fight-- And I'd larnt him to chaw terbacker Jest to keep his milk-teeth white.

The snow come down like a blanket As I passed by Taggart's store; I went in for a jug of molasses And left the team at the door. They scared at something and started-- I heard one little squall, And hell-to-split over the prairie! Went team, Little Breeches, and all.

Hell-to-split over the prairie! I was almost froze with skeer; But we rousted up some torches, And sarched for 'em far and near. At last we struck hosses and wagon, Snowed under a soft white mound, Upsot, dead beat, but of little Gabe No hide nor hair was found.

And hero all hope soured on me Of my fellow-critter's aid; I jest flopped down on my marrow-bones, Crotch-deep in the snow, and prayed. * * * * * By this, the torches was played out, And me and Isrul Parr Went off for some wood to a sheepfold That he said was somewhar thar.

We found it at last, and a little shed Where they shut up the lambs at night; We looked in and seen them huddled thar, So warm and sleepy and white; And thar sot Little Breeches and chirped, As peart as ever you see, "I want a chaw of terbacker, And that's what's the matter of me."

How did he git thar? Angels. He could never have walked in that storm: They jest scooped down and toted him To whar it was safe and warm. And I think that saving a little child, And fotching him to his own, Is a derned sight better business Than loafing around the Throne.

_John Hay._

THE ENCHANTED SHIRT

The King was sick. His cheek was red, And his eye was clear and bright; He ate and drank with a kingly zest, And peacefully snored at night.

But he said he was sick, and a king should know, And doctors came by the score. They did not cure him. He cut off their heads, And sent to the schools for more.

At last two famous doctors came, And one was as poor as a rat,-- He had passed his life in studious toil, And never found time to grow fat.

The other had never looked in a book; His patients gave him no trouble: If they recovered, they paid him well; If they died, their heirs paid double.

Together they looked at the royal tongue, As the King on his couch reclined; In succession they thumped his august chest, But no trace of disease could find.

The old sage said, "You're as sound as a nut." "Hang him up," roared the King in a gale-- In a ten-knot gale of royal rage; The other leech grew a shade pale;

But he pensively rubbed his sagacious nose, And thus his prescription ran-- _The King will be well, if he sleeps one night In the Shirt of a Happy Man_.

* * * * *

Wide o'er the realm the couriers rode, And fast their horses ran, And many they saw, and to many they spoke, But they found no Happy Man.

They found poor men who would fain be rich, And rich who thought they were poor; And men who twisted their waist in stays, And women that shorthose wore.

They saw two men by the roadside sit, And both bemoaned their lot; For one had buried his wife, he said, And the other one had not.

At last they came to a village gate, A beggar lay whistling there; He whistled, and sang, and laughed, and rolled, On the grass in the soft June air.

The weary couriers paused and looked At the scamp so blithe and gay; And one of them said, "Heaven save you, friend! You seem to be happy to-day."

"O yes, fair sirs," the rascal laughed, And his voice rang free and glad; "An idle man has so much to do That he never has time to be sad."

"This is our man," the courier said; "Our luck has lead us aright. I will give you a hundred ducats, friend, For the loan of your shirt to-night."

The merry blackguard lay back on the grass, And laughed till his face was black; "I would do it, God wot," and he roared with the fun, "But I haven't a shirt to my back."

* * * * *

Each day to the King the reports came in Of his unsuccessful spies, And the sad panorama of human woes Passed daily under his eyes.

And he grew ashamed of his useless life, And his maladies hatched in gloom; He opened his windows and let the air Of the free heaven into his room.

And out he went in the world, and toiled In his own appointed way; And the people blessed him, the land was glad, And the King was well and gay.

_John Hay._

JIM BLUDSO

Wal, no! I can't tell whar he lives, Because he don't live, you see; Leastways, he's got out of the habit Of livin' like you and me. Whar have you been for the last three years That you haven't heard folks tell How Jemmy Bludso passed-in his checks, The night of the Prairie Belle?

He weren't no saint--them engineers Is all pretty much alike-- One wife in Natchez-under-the-Hill, And another one here in Pike. A keerless man in his talk was Jim, And an awkward man in a row-- But he never flunked, and he never lied; I reckon he never knowed how.

And this was all the religion he had-- To treat his engines well; Never be passed on the river; To mind the pilot's bell; And if ever the Prairie Belle took fire, A thousand times he swore, He'd hold her nozzle agin the bank Till the last soul got ashore.

All boats have their day on the Mississip, And her day come at last. The Movastar was a better boat, But the Belle she wouldn't be passed; And so come tearin' along that night,-- The oldest craft on the line, With a nigger squat on her safety valve, And her furnace crammed, rosin and pine.

The fire bust out as she clared the bar, And burnt a hole in the night, And quick as a flash she turned, and made To that willer-bank on the right. There was runnin' and cursin', but Jim yelled out Over all the infernal roar, "I'll hold her nozzle agin the bank Till the last galoot's ashore."

Through the hot black breath of the burnin' boat Jim Bludso's voice was heard, And they all had trust in his cussedness, And know he would keep his word. And, sure's you're born, they all got off Afore the smokestacks fell,-- And Bludso's ghost went up alone In the smoke of the Prairie Belle.

He weren't no saint--but at jedgment I'd run my chance with Jim, 'Longside of some pious gentlemen That wouldn't shook hands with him. He'd seen his duty, a dead-sure thing-- And went for it thar and then: And Christ ain't a going to be too hard On a man that died for men.

_John Hay._

WRECK OF THE "JULIE PLANTE"

On wan dark night on Lac St. Pierre, De win' she blow, blow, blow, An' de crew of de wood scow "Julie Plante" Got scar't an' run below; For de win' she blow lak hurricane, Bimeby she blow some more, An' de scow bus' up on Lac St. Pierre, Wan arpent from de shore.

De Captinne walk on de fronte deck, An' walk de hin' deck, too-- He call de crew from up de hole He call de cook also. De cook she's name was Rosie, She come from Montreal, Was chambre maid on lumber barge, On de Grande Lachine Canal.

De win' she blow from nor'--eas'--wes' De sout' win' she blow, too, W'en Rosie cry "Mon cher Captinne, Mon cher, w'at I shall do?" Den de Captinne t'row de big ankerre, But still de scow she dreef, De crew he can't pass on de shore, Becos' he los' hees skeef.

De night was dark, lak' one black cat, De wave run high an' fas', Wen de Captinne tak' de Rosie girl An' tie her to de mas'. Den he also tak' de life preserve, An' jomp off on de lak', An' say, "Goa Rosie dear, I go drown for your sak'."

Nex' morning very early, 'Bout ha'f-pas' two--t'ree--four-- De Captinne, scow, an' de poor Rosie Was corpses on de shore; For he win' she blow lak' hurricane Bimeby she blow some more, An' de scow bus' up on Lac St. Pierre, Wan arpent from de shore.

MORAL

Now, all good wood scow sailor man Tak' warning by dat storm, An' go an' marry some nice French girl An' leev on wan beeg farm; De win' can blow lak' hurricane, An' s'pose she blow some more, You can't get drown on Lac St. Pierre, So long you stay on shore.

_William Henry Drummond._

THE ALARMED SKIPPER

"IT WAS AN ANCIENT MARINER"

Many a long, long year ago, Nantucket skippers had a plan Of finding out, though "lying low," How near New York their schooners ran.

They greased the lead before it fell, And then, by sounding through the night, Knowing the soil that stuck, so well, They always guessed their reckoning right.

A skipper gray, whose eyes were dim, Could tell, by _tasting_, just the spot, And so below he'd "dowse the glim"-- After, of course, his "something hot."

Snug in his berth, at eight o'clock, This ancient skipper might be found; No matter how his craft would rock, He slept--for skippers' naps are sound!

The watch on deck would now and then Run down and wake him, with the lead; He'd up, and taste, and tell the men How many miles they went ahead.

One night, 'twas Jotham Marden's watch, A curious wag--the peddler's son-- And so he mused (the wanton wretch), "To-night I'll have a grain of fun.

"We're all a set of stupid fools To think the skipper knows by _tasting_ What ground he's on--Nantucket schools Don't teach such stuff, with all their basting!"

And so he took the well-greased lead And rubbed it o'er a box of earth That stood on deck--a parsnip-bed-- And then he sought the skipper's berth.

"Where are we now, sir? Please to taste." The skipper yawned, put out his tongue, Then ope'd his eyes in wondrous haste, And then upon the floor he sprung!

The skipper stormed and tore his hair, Thrust on his boots, and roared to Marden, "_Nantucket's sunk, and here we are Right over old Marm Hackett's garden!_"

_James Thomas Fields._

THE ELDERLY GENTLEMAN

By the side of a murmuring stream an elderly gentleman sat. On the top of his head was a wig, and a-top of his wig was his hat.

The wind it blew high and blew strong, as the elderly gentleman sat; And bore from his head in a trice, and plunged in the river his hat.

The gentleman then took his cane which lay by his side as he sat; And he dropped in the river his wig, in attempting to get out his hat.

His breast it grew cold with despair, and full in his eye madness sat; So he flung in the river his cane to swim with his wig, and his hat.

Cool reflection at last came across while this elderly gentleman sat; So he thought he would follow the stream and look for his cane, wig, and hat.

His head being thicker than common, o'er-balanced the rest of his fat; And in plumped this son of a woman to follow his wig, cane, and hat.

_George Canning._

SAYING NOT MEANING

Two gentlemen their appetite had fed, When opening his toothpick-case, one said, "It was not until lately that I knew That _anchovies_ on _terrâ firmâ_ grew." "Grow!" cried the other, "yes, they _grow_, indeed, Like other fish, but not upon the land; You might as well say grapes grow on a reed, Or in the Strand!"

"Why, sir," returned the irritated other, "My brother, When at Calcutta Beheld them _bonâ fide_ growing; He wouldn't utter A lie for love or money, sir; so in This matter you are thoroughly mistaken." "Nonsense, sir! nonsense! I can give no credit To the assertion--none e'er saw or read it; Your brother, like his evidence, should be shaken."

"Be shaken, sir! let me observe, you are Perverse--in short--" "Sir," said the other, sucking his cigar, And then his port-- "If you will say impossibles are true, You may affirm just anything you please-- That swans are quadrupeds, and lions blue, And elephants inhabit Stilton cheese! Only you must not _force_ me to believe What's propagated merely to deceive."

"Then you force me to say, sir, you're a fool," Return'd the bragger. Language like this no man can suffer cool: It made the listener stagger; So, thunder-stricken, he at once replied, "The traveler _lied_ Who had the impudence to tell it you;" "Zounds! then d'ye mean to swear before my face That anchovies _don't_ grow like cloves and mace?" "I _do_!"

Disputants often after hot debates Leave the contention as they found it--bone, And take to duelling or thumping _têtes_; Thinking by strength of artery to atone For strength of argument; and he who winces From force of words, with force of arms convinces!

With pistols, powder, bullets, surgeons, lint, Seconds, and smelling-bottles, and foreboding, Our friends advanced; and now portentous loading (Their hearts already loaded) serv'd to show It might be better they shook hands--but no; When each opines himself, though frighten'd, right, Each is, in courtesy, oblig'd to fight! And they _did_ fight: from six full measured paces The unbeliever pulled his trigger first; And fearing, from the braggart's ugly faces, The whizzing lead had whizz'd its very worst, Ran up, and with a _duelistic_ fear (His ire evanishing like morning vapors), Found him possess'd of one remaining ear, Who in a manner sudden and uncouth, Had given, not lent, the other ear to truth; For while the surgeon was applying lint, He, wriggling, cried--"The deuce is in't-- Sir, I _meant_--|CAPERS|!"

_William Basil Wake._

HANS BREITMANN'S PARTY

Hans Breitmann gife a barty; Dey had biano-blayin': I felled in lofe mit a Merican frau, Her name was Madilda Yane. She hat haar as prown ash a pretzel, Her eyes vas himmel-plue, Und ven dey looket indo mine, Dey shplit mine heart in two.

Hans Breitmann gife a barty: I vent dere, you'll pe pound. I valtzet mit Madilda Yane Und vent shpinnen round und round. De pootiest Fräulein in de house, She vayed 'pout dwo hoondred pound, Und efery dime she gife a shoomp She make de vindows sound.

Hans Breitmann gife a barty: I dells you it cost him dear. Dey rolled in more ash sefen kecks Of foost-rate Lager Beer, Und venefer dey knocks de shpicket in De Deutschers gifes a cheer. I dinks dat so vine a barty Nefer coom to a het dis year.

Hans Breitmann gife a barty; Dere all vas Souse und Brouse; Ven de sooper comed in, de gompany Did make demselfs to house. Dey ate das Brot und Gensy broost, De Bratwurst und Braten fine, Und vash der Abendessen down Mit four parrels of Neckarwein.

Hans Breitmann gife a barty. We all cot troonk ash bigs. I poot mine mout to a parrel of bier, Und emptied it oop mit a schwigs. Und denn I gissed Madilda Yane Und she shlog me on de kop, Und de gompany fited mit daple-lecks Dill be coonshtable made oos shtop.

Hans Breitmann gife a barty-- Where ish dat barty now! Where ish de lofely golden cloud Dat float on de moundain's prow? Where ish de himmelstrablende Stern-- De shtar of de shpirit's light? All goned afay mit de Lager Beer-- Afay in de Ewigkeit!

_Charles Godfrey Leland._

BALLAD BY HANS BREITMANN

Der noble Ritter Hugo Von Schwillensaufenstein Rode out mit shpeer and helmet, Und he coom to de panks of de Rhine.

Und oop dere rose a meermaid, Fot hadn't got nodings on, Und she say, "Oh, Ritter Hugo, Vhere you goes mit yourself alone?"

And he says, "I ride in de creenwood, Mit helmet und mit shpeer, Till I cooms into em Gasthaus, Und dere I trinks some beer."

Und den outshpoke the maiden Vot hadn't got nodings on: "I ton't tink mooch of beoplesh Dat goes mit demselfs alone.

"You'd petter coom down in de wasser, Vhere deres heaps of dings to see, Und hafe a shplendid tinner Und drafel along mit me.

"Dere you sees de fisch a schwimmin', Und you catches dem efery von:"-- So sang dis wasser maiden, Vot hadn't got nodings on.

"Dere ish drunks all full mit money In ships dat vent down of old; Und you helpsh yourself, by dunder! To shimmerin' crowns of gold.

"Shoost look at these shpoons and vatches! Shoost see dese diamant rings! Coom down and fill your pockets, And I'll giss you like efery dings.

"Vot you vanst mit your schnapps and lager? Come down into der Rhine! Der ish pottles de Kaiser Charlemagne Vonce filled mit gold-red wine!"

_Dat_ fetched him--she shtood all shpell-pound; She pooled his coat-tails down; She drawed him oonder der wasser, De maiden mit nodings on.

_Charles Godfrey Leland._

GRAMPY SINGS A SONG

Row-diddy, dow de, my little sis, Hush up your teasin' and listen to this: 'Tain't much of a jingle, 'tain't much of a tune, But it's spang-fired truth about Chester Cahoon. The thund'rinest fireman Lord ever made Was Chester Cahoon of the Tuttsville Brigade. He was boss of the tub and the foreman of hose; When the 'larm rung he'd start, sis, a-sheddin' his clothes, --Slung cote and slung wes'cote and kicked off his shoes, A-runnin' like fun, for he'd no time to lose. And he'd howl down the ro'd in a big cloud of dust, For he made it his brag he was allus there fust. --Allus there fust, with a whoop and a shout, And he never shut up till the fire was out. And he'd knock out the winders and save all the doors, And tear off the clapboards, and rip up the floors, For he allus allowed 'twas a tarnation sin To 'low 'em to burn, for you'd want 'em agin. He gen'rally stirred up the most of his touse In hustling to save the outside of the house. And after he'd wrassled and hollered and pried, He'd let up and tackle the stuff 'twas inside. To see him you'd think he was daft as a loon, But that was jest habit with Chester Cahoon.

Row diddy-iddy, my little sis, Now see what ye think of a doin' like this: The time of the fire at Jenkins' old place It got a big start--was a desprit case; The fambly they didn't know which way to turn. And by gracious, it looked like it all was to burn. But Chester Cahoon--oh, that Chester Cahoon, He sailed to the roof like a reg'lar balloon; Donno how he done it, but done it he did, --Went down through the scuttle and shet down the lid. And five minutes later that critter he came To the second floor winder surrounded by flame. He lugged in his arms, sis, a stove and a bed, And balanced a bureau right square on his head. His hands they was loaded with crockery stuff, China and glass; as if that warn't enough, He'd rolls of big quilts round his neck like a wreath, And carried Mis' Jenkins' old aunt with his teeth. You're right--gospel right, little sis,--didn't seem The critter'd git down, but he called for the stream, And when it come strong and big round as my wrist; He stuck out his legs, sis, and give 'em a twist; And he hooked round the water jes' if 'twas a rope, And down he come easin' himself on the slope, --So almighty spry that he made that 'ere stream As fit for his pupp'us' as if 'twas a beam. Oh, the thund'rinest fireman Lord ever made Was Chester Cahoon of the Tuttsville Brigade.

_Holman F. Day._

THE FIRST BANJO

Go 'way, fiddle; folks is tired o' hearin' you a-squawkin'-- Keep silence fur yo' betters!--don't you heah de banjo talkin'? About de 'possum's tail she's gwine to lecter--ladies, listen!-- About de ha'r whut isn't dar, an' why de ha'r is missin':

"Dar's gwine to be a' oberflow," said Noah, lookin' solemn-- Fur Noah tuk the "_Herald_," an' he read de ribber column-- An' so he sot his hands to wuk a-cl'arin' timber-patches, An' 'lowed he's gwine to build a boat to beat de steamah _Natchez_.

Ol' Noah kep' a-nailin' an' a-chippin' an' a-sawin'; An' all de wicked neighbours kep' a-laughin' an' a-pshawin'; But Noah didn't min' 'em, knowin' whut wuz gwine to happen: An' forty days an' forty nights de rain it kep' a-drappin'.

Now, Noah had done cotched a lot ob ebry sort o' beas'es-- Ob all de shows a-trabbelin', it beat 'em all to pieces! He had a Morgan colt an' sebral head o' Jarsey cattle-- An' druv 'em 'board de Ark as soon's he heered de thunder rattle.

Den sech anoder fall ob rain!--it come so awful hebby, De ribber riz immejitly, an' busted troo de lebbee; De people all wuz drownded out--'cep' Noah an' de critters, An' men he'd hired to work de boat--an' one to mix de bitters.

De Ark she kep' a-sailin' an' a-sailin', _an'_ a-sailin'; De lion got his dander up, an' like to bruk de palin'; De sarpints hissed; de painters yelled; tell, whut wid all de fussin', You c'u'dn't hardly heah de mate a-bossin' round' an' cussin'.

Now, Ham, he only nigger whut wuz runnin' on de packet, Got lonesome in de barber-shop, and c'u'dn't stan' de racket; An' so, fur to amuse he-se'f, he steamed some wood an' bent it, An' soon he had a banjo made--de fust dat wuz invented.

He wet de ledder, stretched it on; made bridge an' screws an aprin; An' fitted in a proper neck--'twas berry long and tap'rin'; He tuk some tin, an' twisted him a thimble fur to ring it; An' den de mighty question riz: how wuz he gwine to string it?

De 'possum had as fine a tail as dis dat I's a-singin'; De ha'r's so long an' thick an' strong,--des fit fur banjo-stringin'; Dat nigger shaved 'em off as short as wash-day-dinner graces; An' sorted ob 'em by de size, f'om little E's to basses.

He strung her, tuned her, struck a jig,--'twus "Nebber min' de wedder,"-- She soun' like forty-lebben bands a-playin' all togedder; Some went to pattin'; some to dancin': Noah called de figgers; An' Ham he sot an' knocked de tune, de happiest ob niggers!

Now, sence dat time--it's mighty strange--dere's not de slightes' showin' Ob any ha'r at all upon de 'possum's tail a-growin'; An' curi's, too, dat nigger's ways: his people nebber los' 'em-- Fur whar you finds de nigger--dar's de banjo an' de 'possum!

_Irwin Russell._

THE ROMANCE OF THE CARPET

Basking in peace in the warm spring sun, South Hill smiled upon Burlington.

The breath of May! and the day was fair, And the bright motes danced in the balmy air.

And the sunlight gleamed where the restless breeze Kissed the fragrant blooms on the apple-trees.

His beardless cheek with a smile was spanned, As he stood with a carriage whip in his hand.

And he laughed as he doffed his bobtail coat, And the echoing folds of the carpet smote.

And she smiled as she leaned on her busy mop, And said she'd tell him when to stop.

So he pounded away till the dinner-bell Gave him a little breathing spell.

But he sighed when the kitchen clock struck one, And she said the carpet wasn't done.

But he lovingly put in his biggest licks, And he pounded like mad till the clock struck six.

And she said, in a dubious sort of way, That she guessed he could finish it up next day.

Then all that day, and the next day, too, That fuzz from the dirtless carpet flew.

And she'd give it a look at eventide, And say, "Now beat on the other side."

And the new days came as the old days went, And the landlord came for his regular rent.

And the neighbors laughed at the tireless broom, And his face was shadowed with clouds of gloom.

Till at last, one cheerless winter day, He kicked at the carpet and slid away.

Over the fence and down the street, Speeding away with footsteps fleet.

And never again the morning sun Smiled on him beating his carpet-drum.

And South Hill often said with a yawn, "Where's the carpet-martyr gone?"

Years twice twenty had come and passed And the carpet swayed in the autumn blast.

For never yet, since that bright spring-time, Had it ever been taken down from the line.

Over the fence a gray-haired man Cautiously clim, clome, clem, clum, clamb.

He found him a stick in the old woodpile, And he gathered it up with a sad, grim smile,

A flush passed over his face forlorn As he gazed at the carpet, tattered and torn.

And he hit it a most resounding thwack, Till the startled air gave his echoes back.

And out of the window a white face leaned, And a palsied hand the pale face screened.

She knew his face; she gasped, and sighed, "A little more on the other side."

Right down on the ground his stick he throwed, And he shivered and said, "Well, I am blowed!"

And he turned away, with a heart full sore, And he never was seen not more, not more.

_Robert J. Burdette._

THE HUNTING OF THE SNARK

"Come, listen, my men, while I tell you again The five unmistakable marks By which you may know, wheresoever you go, The warranted genuine Snarks.

"Let us take them in order. The first is the taste, Which is meagre and hollow, but crisp: Like a coat that is rather too tight in the waist, With a flavor of Will-o'-the-wisp.

"Its habit of getting up late you'll agree That it carries too far when I say That it frequently breakfasts at five-o'clock tea, And dines on the following day.

* * * * *

"The fourth is its fondness for bathing-machines, Which it constantly carries about, And believes that they add to the beauty of scenes-- A sentiment open to doubt.

"The fifth is ambition. It next will be right To describe each particular batch; Distinguishing those that have feathers, and bite, From those that have whiskers, and scratch.

"For, although common Snarks do no manner of harm, Yet I feel it my duty to say Some are Boojums--" The Bellman broke off in alarm, For the Baker had fainted away.

They roused him with muffins--they roused him with ice-- They roused him with mustard and cress-- They roused him with jam and judicious advice-- They set him conundrums to guess. When at length he sat up and was able to speak, His sad story he offered to tell; And the Bellman cried "Silence! Not even a shriek!" And excitedly tingled his bell.

There was silence supreme! Not a shriek, not a scream, Scarcely even a howl or a groan, As the man they called "Ho!" told his story of woe. In an antediluvian tone.

"My father and mother were honest, though poor--" "Skip all that!" cried the Bellman in haste, "If it once becomes dark, there's no chance of a Snark, We have hardly a minute to waste!"

"I skip forty years," said the Baker, in tears, "And proceed without further remark To the day when you took me aboard of your ship To help you in hunting the Snark.

"A dear uncle of mine (after whom I was named) Remarked, when I bade him farewell--" "Oh, skip your dear uncle," the Bellman exclaimed, As he angrily tingled his bell.

"He remarked to me then," said that mildest of men, "'If your Snark be a Snark, that is right; Fetch it home by all means--you may serve it with greens And it's handy for striking a light.

"'You may seek it with thimbles--and seek it with care; You may hunt it with forks and hope; You may threaten its life with a railway-share; You may charm it with smiles and soap--

"'But oh, beamish nephew, beware of the day, If your Snark be a Boojum! For then You will softly and suddenly vanish away And never be met with again!'

"It is this, it is this that oppresses my soul, When I think of my uncle's last words: And my heart is like nothing so much as a bowl Brimming over with quivering curds!

"I engage with the Snark--every night after dark-- In a dreamy delirious fight: I serve it with greens in those shadowy scenes, And I use it for striking a light:

"But if ever I meet with a Boojum, that day, In a moment (of this I am sure), I shall softly and suddenly vanish away-- And the notion I cannot endure!"

_Lewis Carroll._

THE OLD MAN AND JIM

Old man never had much to say-- 'Ceptin' to Jim,-- And Jim was the wildest boy he had-- And the Old man jes' wrapped up in him! Never heerd him speak but once Er twice in my life,--and first time was When the army broke out, and Jim he went, The Old man backin' him, fer three months.-- And all 'at I heerd the Old man say Was, jes' as we turned to start away,-- "Well; good-bye, Jim: Take keer of yourse'f!"

'Peard-like, he was more satisfied Jes' _lookin'_ at Jim, And likin' him all to hisse'f-like, see?-- 'Cause he was jes' wrapped up in him! And over and over I mind the day The Old man come and stood round in the way While we was drillin', a-watchin' Jim-- And down at the deepot a-heerin' him say,-- "Well; good-bye, Jim: Take keer of yourse'f!"

Never was nothin' about the farm Disting'ished Jim;-- Neighbours all ust to wonder why The Old man 'peared wrapped up in him: But when Cap. Biggler, he writ back, 'At Jim was the bravest boy we had In the whole dern rigiment, white er black, And his fightin' good as his farmin' bad-- 'At he had led, with a bullet clean Bored through his thigh, and carried the flag Through the bloodiest battle you ever seen,-- The Old man wound up a letter to him 'At Cap. read to us, 'at said,--"Tell Jim Good-bye; And take keer of hisse'f."

Jim come back jes' long enough To take the whim 'At he'd like to go back in the cavelry-- And the Old man jes' wrapped up in him!-- Jim 'lowed 'at he'd had sich luck afore, Guessed he'd tackle her three years more. And the Old man give him a colt he'd raised And follered him over to Camp Ben Wade, And laid around fer a week er so, Watchin' Jim on dress-parade-- Tel finally he rid away, And last he heerd was the Old man say,-- "Well; good-bye, Jim: Take keer of yourse'f!"

Tuk the papers, the Old man did, A-watchin' fer Jim-- Fully believin' he'd make his mark _Some_ way--jes' wrapped up in him!-- And many a time the word 'u'd come 'At stirred him up like the tap of a drum-- At Petersburg, fer instance, where Jim rid right into their cannons there, And tuk 'em, and p'inted 'em t'other way, And socked it home to the boys in grey, As they skooted fer timber, and on and on-- Jim a lieutenant and one arm gone, And the Old man's words in his mind all day,-- "Well; good-bye, Jim: Take keer of yourse'f!"

Think of a private, now, perhaps, We'll say like Jim, 'At's clumb clean up to the shoulder-straps-- And the Old man jes' wrapped up in him! Think of him--with the war plum' through, And the glorious old Red-White-and-Blue A-laughin' the news down over Jim, And the Old man, bendin' over him-- The surgeon turnin' away with tears 'At hadn't leaked fer years and years-- As the hand of the dyin' boy clung to His father's, the old voice in his ears,-- "Well; good-bye, Jim: Take keer of yourse'f!"

_James Whitcomb Riley._

A SAILOR'S YARN

_This is the tale that was told to me, By a battered and shattered son of the sea-- To me and my messmate, Silas Green, When I was a guileless young marine._

"'Twas the good ship _Gyascutus_, All in the China seas, With the wind a-lee and the capstan free To catch the summer breeze.

"'Twas Captain Porgie on the deck, To his mate in the mizzen hatch, While the boatswain bold, in the forward hold, Was winding the larboard watch.

"'Oh, how does our good ship head to-night! How heads our gallant craft?' 'Oh, she heads to the E. S. W. by N., And the binnacle lies abaft!'

"'Oh, what does the quadrant indicate, And how does the sextant stand?' 'Oh, the sextant's down to the freezing point, And the quadrant's lost a hand!'

"'Oh, and if the quadrant has lost a hand, And the sextant falls so low, It's our bodies and bones to Davy Jones This night are bound to go!

"'Oh, fly aloft to the garboard strake! And reef the spanker boom; Bend a studding sail on the martingale, To give her weather room.

"'Oh, boatswain, down in the for'ard hold What water do you find?' 'Four foot and a half by the royal gaff And rather more behind!'

"'Oh, sailors, collar your marline spikes And each belaying pin; Come stir your stumps, and spike the pumps, Or more will be coming in!'

"They stirred their stumps, they spiked the pumps, They spliced the mizzen brace; Aloft and alow they worked, but oh! The water gained apace.

"They bored a hole above the keel To let the water out; But, strange to say, to their dismay, The water in did spout.

"Then up spoke the Cook, of our gallant ship, And he was a lubber brave: 'I have several wives in various ports, And my life I'd orter save.'

"Then up spoke the Captain of Marines, Who dearly loved his prog: 'It's awful to die, and it's worse to be dry, And I move we pipe to grog.'

"Oh, then 'twas the noble second mate What filled them all with awe; The second mate, as bad men hate, And cruel skipper's jaw.

"He took the anchor on his back, And leaped into the main; Through foam and spray he clove his way, And sunk and rose again!

"Through foam and spray, a league away The anchor stout he bore; Till, safe at last, he made it fast And warped the ship ashore!

"'Taint much of a job to talk about, But a ticklish thing to see, And suth'in to do, if I say it, too, For that second mate was me!"

_Such was the tale that was told to me By that modest and truthful son of the sea, And I envy the life of a second mate, Though captains curse him and sailors hate, For he ain't like some of the swabs I've seen, As would go and lie to a poor marine._

_James Jeffrey Roche._

THE CONVERTED CANNIBALS

Upon an island, all alone, They lived, in the Pacific; Somewhere within the Torrid Zone, Where heat is quite terrific. 'Twould shock you were I to declare The many things they did not wear, Altho' no doubt One's best without Such things in heat terrific.

Though cannibals by birth were they, Yet, since they'd first existed, Their simple menu day by day Of such-like things consisted: Omelets of turtle's eggs, and yams, And stews from freshly-gathered clams, Such things as these Were,--if you please,-- Of what their fare consisted.

But after dinner they'd converse, Nor did their topic vary; Wild tales of gore they would rehearse, And talk of _missionary_. They'd gaze upon each other's joints, And indicate the tender points. Said one: "For us 'Tis dangerous To _think_ of _missionary_."

Well, on a day, upon the shore, As flotsam, or as jetsam, Some wooden cases,--ten, or more,-- Were cast up. "Let us get some, And see, my friend, what they contain; The chance may not occur again," Said good Who-zoo. Said Tum-tum, "Do; We'll both wade out and get some."

The cases held,--what do you think?-- "|Prime Missionary--tinned.|" Nay! gentle reader, do not shrink-- The man who made it sinned: He thus had labelled bloater-paste To captivate the native taste. He hoped, of course, This fraud to force On them. In this he sinned.

Our simple friends knew naught of sin; They thought that this confection _Was_ missionary in a tin According to direction. For very joy they shed salt tears. "'Tis what we've waited for, for years," Said they. "Hooray! We'll feast to-day According to direction."

"'Tis very tough," said one, for he The tin and all had eaten. "Too salt," the other said, "for me; The flavour might be beaten." It was enough. Soon each one swore He'd missionary eat no more: Their tastes were cured, They felt assured This flavour might be beaten.

And, should a missionary call To-day, he'd find them gentle, With no perverted tastes at all, And manners ornamental; He'd be received, I'm bound to say, In courteous and proper way; Nor need he fear To taste their cheer However ornamental.

_G. E. Farrow._

THE RETIRED PORK-BUTCHER AND THE SPOOK

I may as well Proceed to tell About a Mister Higgs, Who grew quite rich In trade--the which Was selling pork and pigs.

From trade retired, He much desired To rank with gentlefolk, So bought a place He called "The Chase," And furnished it--old oak.

Ancestors got (Twelve pounds the lot, In Tottenham Court Road); A pedigree-- For nine pounds three,-- The Heralds' Court bestowed.

Within the hall, And on the wall, Hung armour bright and strong. "To Ethelbred"-- The label read-- "De Higgs, this did belong."

'Twas _quite_ complete, This country seat, Yet neighbours stayed away. Nobody called,-- Higgs was blackballed,-- Which caused him great dismay.

"Why _can_ it be?" One night said he When thinking of it o'er. There came a knock ('Twas twelve o'clock) Upon his chamber door.

Higgs cried, "Come in!" A vapour thin The keyhole wandered through. Higgs rubbed his eyes In mild surprise: A ghost appeared in view.

"I beg," said he, "You'll pardon me, In calling rather late. A family ghost, I seek a post, With wage commensurate.

"I'll serve you well; My 'fiendish yell' Is certain sure to please. 'Sepulchral tones,' And 'rattling bones,' I'm _very_ good at these.

"Five bob I charge To roam at large, With 'clanking chains' _ad lib._; I do such things As 'gibberings' At one-and-three per gib.

"Or, by the week, I merely seek Two pounds--which is not dear; Because I need, Of course, _no_ feed, _No_ washing, and _no_ beer."

Higgs thought it o'er A bit, before He hired the family ghost, But, finally, He did agree To give to him the post.

It got about-- You know, no doubt, How quickly such news flies-- Throughout the place, From "Higgses Chase" Proceeded ghostly cries.

The rumour spread, Folks shook their head, But dropped in one by one. A bishop came (Forget his name), And then the thing was done.

For afterwards _All_ left their cards, "Because," said they, "you see, One who can boast A family ghost Respectable _must_ be."

When it was due, The "ghostes's" screw Higgs raised--as was but right-- They often play, In friendly way, A game of cards at night.

_G. E. Farrow._

SKIPPER IRESON'S RIDE

Of all the rides since the birth of time, Told in story or sung in rhyme,-- On Apuleius's Golden Ass, Or one-eyed Calendar's horse of brass, Witch astride of a human back, Islam's prophet on Al-Borak,-- The strangest ride that ever was sped Was Ireson's, out from Marblehead! Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart By the women of Marblehead!

Body of turkey, head of owl, Wings a-droop like a rained-on fowl, Feathered and ruffled in every part, Skipper Ireson stood in the cart. Scores of women, old and young, Strong of muscle, and glib of tongue, Pushed and pulled up the rocky lane, Shouting and singing the shrill refrain: "Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt, Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt By the women o' Morble'ead!"

Wrinkled scolds with hands on hips, Girls in bloom of cheek and lips, Wild-eyed, free-limbed, such as chase Bacchus round some antique vase, Brief of skirt, with ankles bare, Loose of kerchief and loose of hair, With conch-shells blowing and fish-horns' twang, Over and over the Mænads sang: "Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt, Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt By the women o' Morble'ead!"

Small pity for him!--He sailed away From a leaking ship, in Chaleur Bay,-- Sailed away from a sinking wreck, With his own town's-people on her deck! "Lay by! lay by!" they called to him. Back he answered, "Sink or swim! Brag of your catch of fish again!" And off he sailed through the fog and rain! Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart By the women of Marblehead!

Fathoms deep in dark Chaleur That wreck shall lie forevermore. Mother and sister, wife and maid, Looked from the rocks of Marblehead Over the moaning and rainy sea,-- Looked for the coming that might not be! What did the winds and the sea-birds say Of the cruel captain who sailed away?-- Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart By the women of Marblehead!

Through the street, on either side, Up flew windows, doors swung wide; Sharp-tongued spinsters, old wives gray, Treble lent the fish-horn's bray. Sea-worn grandsires, cripple-bound, Hulks of old sailors run aground, Shook head, and fist, and hat, and cane, And cracked with curses the hoarse refrain: "Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt, Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt By the women o' Morble'ead!"

Sweetly along the Salem road Bloom of orchard and lilac showed. Little the wicked skipper knew Of the fields so green and the sky so blue. Riding there in his sorry trim, Like an Indian idol glum and grim, Scarcely he seemed the sound to hear Of voices shouting, far and near: "Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt, Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt By the women o' Morble'ead!"

"Hear me, neighbors!" at last he cried,-- "What to me is this noisy ride? What is the shame that clothes the skin To the nameless horror that lives within? Waking or sleeping, I see a wreck, And hear a cry from a reeling deck! Hate me and curse me,--I only dread The hand of God and the face of the dead!" Said old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart By the women of Marblehead!

Then the wife of the skipper lost at sea Said, "God has touched him! Why should we?" Said an old wife, mourning her only son: "Cut the rogue's tether and let him run!" So with soft relentings and rude excuse, Half scorn, half pity, they cut him loose, And gave him a cloak to hide him in, And left him alone with his shame and sin. Poor Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart By the women of Marblehead!

_J. G. Whittier._

DARIUS GREEN AND HIS FLYING-MACHINE

If ever there lived a Yankee lad, Wise or otherwise, good or bad, Who, seeing the birds fly, didn't jump With flapping arms from stake or stump, Or, spreading the tail Of his coat for a sail, Take a soaring leap from post or rail, And wonder why He couldn't fly, And flap and flutter and wish and try-- If ever you knew a country dunce Who didn't try that as often as once, All I can say is, that's a sign He never would do for a hero of mine.

An aspiring genius was D. Green: The son of a farmer, age fourteen; His body was long and lank and lean-- Just right for flying, as will be seen; He had two eyes as bright as a bean, And a freckled nose that grew between, A little awry--for I must mention That he had riveted his attention Upon his wonderful invention, Twisting his tongue as he twisted the strings, And working his face as he worked the wings, And with every turn of gimlet and screw Turning and screwing his mouth round too, Till his nose seemed bent To catch the scent, Around some corner, of new-baked pies, And his wrinkled cheeks and his squinting eyes Grew puckered into a queer grimace, That made him look very droll in the face, And also very wise. And wise he must have been, to do more Than ever a genius did before, Excepting Dædalus of yore And his son Icarus, who wore Upon their backs Those wings of wax He had read of in the old almanacs. Darius was clearly of the opinion That the air is also man's dominion, And that, with paddle or fin or pinion, We soon or late shall navigate The azure as now we sail the sea.

The thing looks simple enough to me; And if you doubt it, Hear how Darius reasoned about it. "The birds can fly an' why can't I? Must we give in," says he with a grin. "That the bluebird an' ph[oe]be Are smarter'n we be? Jest fold our hands an' see the swaller An' blackbird an' catbird beat us holler? Doos the little chatterin', sassy wren, No bigger'n my thumb, know more than men? Just show me that! Ur prove 't the bat Hez got more brains than's in my hat. An' I'll back down, an' not till then!" He argued further: "Nur I can't see What's th' use o' wings to a bumble-bee, Fur to git a livin' with, more'n to me;-- Ain't my business Important's his'n is? That Icarus Made a perty muss-- Him an' his daddy Dædalus They might 'a' knowed wings made o' wax Wouldn't stand sun-heat an' hard whacks. I'll make mine o' luther, Ur suthin' ur other."

And he said to himself, as he tinkered and planned: "But I ain't goin' to show my hand To mummies that never can understand The fust idee that's big an' grand." So he kept his secret from all the rest, Safely buttoned within his vest; And in the loft above the shed Himself he locks, with thimble and thread And wax and hammer and buckles and screws And all such things as geniuses use;-- Two bats for patterns, curious fellows! A charcoal-pot and a pair of bellows;

Some wire, and several old umbrellas; A carriage-cover, for tail and wings; A piece of harness; and straps and strings; And a big strong box, In which he locks These and a hundred other things. His grinning brothers, Reuben and Burke And Nathan and Jotham and Solomon, lurk Around the corner to see him work-- Sitting cross-legged, like a Turk, Drawing the waxed-end through with a jerk, And boring the holes with a comical quirk Of his wise old head, and a knowing smirk. But vainly they mounted each other's backs, And poked through knot-holes and pried through cracks; With wood from the pile and straw from the stacks He plugged the knot-holes and caulked the cracks; And a dipper of water, which one would think He had brought up into the loft to drink When he chanced to be dry, Stood always nigh, For Darius was sly! And whenever at work he happened to spy At chink or crevice a blinking eye, He let the dipper of water fly. "Take that! an' ef ever ye git a peep, Guess ye'll ketch a weasel asleep!" And he sings as he locks His big strong box:--

"The weasel's head is small an' trim, An' he is little an' long an' slim, An' quick of motion an' nimble of limb An' ef you'll be Advised by me, Keep wide awake when ye're ketchin' him!"

So day after day He stitched and tinkered and hammered away, Till at last 'twas done-- The greatest invention under the sun! "An' now," says Darius, "hooray fur some fun!"

'Twas the Fourth of July, And the weather was dry, And not a cloud was on all the sky, Save a few light fleeces, which here and there Half mist, half air, Like foam on the ocean went floating by-- Just as lovely a morning as ever was seen For a nice little trip in a flying-machine. Thought cunning Darius: "Now I shan't go Along 'ith the fellers to see the show. I'll say I've got sich a terrible cough! An' then, when the folks 'ave all gone off, I'll hev full swing fur to try the thing, An' practise a little on the wing." "Ain't goin' to see the celebration?" Says brother Nate. "No; botheration! I've got sich a cold--a toothache--I-- My gracious!--feel's though I should fly!" Said Jotham, "Sho! Guess ye better go." But Darius said, "No! Shouldn't wonder 'f you might see me, though, 'Long 'bout noon, ef I git red O' this jumpin', thumpin' pain 'n my head." For all the while to himself he said:--

"I tell ye what! I'll fly a few times around the lot, To see how 't seems, then soon's I've got The hang o' the thing, ez likely's not, I'll astonish the nation, An' all creation, By flyin' over the celebration! Over their heads I'll sail like an eagle; I'll balance myself on my wings like a sea-gull: I'll dance on the chimbleys; I'll stand on the steeple; I'll flop up to winders an' scare the people! I'll light on the liberty-pole, an' crow; An' I'll say to the gawpin' fools below, 'What world's this 'ere That I've come near?' Fur I'll make 'em b'lieve I'm a chap f'm the moon; An' I'll try to race 'ith their ol' balloon!" He crept from his bed; And, seeing the others were gone, he said, "I'm gittin' over the cold 'n my head." And away he sped, To open the wonderful box in the shed.

His brothers had walked but a little way, When Jotham to Nathan chanced to say, "What is the feller up to, hey!" "Don'o'--the 's suthin' ur other to pay, Ur he wouldn't 'a' stayed tu hum to-day." Says Burke, "His toothache's all 'n his eye! _He_ never 'd missed a Fo'th-o'-July, Ef he hedn't got some machine to try." Then Sol, the little one, spoke: "By darn! Le's hurry back an' hide 'n the barn, An' pay him fur tellin' us that yarn!" "Agreed!" Through the orchard they creep back Along by the fences, behind the stack, And one by one, through a hole in the wall, In under the dusty barn they crawl, Dressed in their Sunday garments all; And a very astonishing sight was that, When each in his cobwebbed coat and hat Came up through the floor like an ancient rat And there they hid; And Reuben slid The fastenings back, and the door undid. "Keep dark!" said he, "While I squint an' see what the' is to see."

As knights of old put on their mail-- From head to foot an iron suit, Iron jacket and iron boot, Iron breeches, and on the head No hat, but an iron pot instead, And under the chin the bail, (I believe they called the thing a helm,) Then sallied forth to overwhelm The dragons and pagans that plagued the earth So this _modern_ knight Prepared for flight, Put on his wings and strapped them tight Jointed and jaunty, strong and light-- Buckled them fast to shoulder and hip; Ten feet they measured from tip to tip And a helm had he, but that he wore, Not on his head, like those of yore, But more like the helm of a ship.

"Hush!" Reuben said, "He's up in the shed! He's opened the winder--I see his head! He stretches it out, an' pokes it about, Lookin' to see 'f the coast is clear, An' nobody near;-- Guess he don' o' who's hid in here! He's riggin' a spring-board over the sill! Stop laffin', Solomon! Burke, keep still! He's a climbin' out now--Of all the things! What's he got on? I vum, it's wings! An' that 'tother thing? I vum, it's a tail! An' there he sits like a hawk on a rail! Steppin' careful, he travels the length Of his spring-board, and teeters to try its strength. Now he stretches his wings, like a monstrous bat; Peeks over his shoulder; this way an' that, Fur to see 'f the' 's any one passin' by; But the' 's on'y a caf an' goslin nigh. _They_ turn up aderin' eye, To see-- The dragon! he's goin' to fly! Away he goes! Jimminy! what a jump! Flop--flop--an' plump To the ground with a thump! Flutt'rin' an' flound'rin' all 'n a lump!"

As a demon is hurled by an angel's spear, Heels over head, to his proper sphere-- Heels over head, and head over heels, Dizzily down the abyss he wheels

So fell Darius. Upon his crown, In the midst of the barn-yard, he came down, In a wonderful whirl of tangled strings, Broken braces and broken springs. Broken tail and broken wings, Shooting-stars, and various things; Barn-yard litter of straw and chaff, And much that wasn't so sweet by half. Away with a bellow fled the calf, And what was that? Did the gosling laugh? 'Tis a merry roar from the old barn-door, And he hears the voice of Jotham crying, "Say, D'rius! how do you like flyin'?" Slowly, ruefully, where he lay, Darius just turned and looked that way, As he stanched his sorrowful nose with his cuff. "Wal, I like flyin' well enough," He said; "but the' ain't such a thunderin' sight O' fun in 't when ye come to light."

I just have room for the |MORAL| here: And this is the moral--Stick to your sphere. Or if you insist, as you have the right, On spreading your wings for a loftier flight, The moral is--Take care how you light.

_John Townsend Trowbridge._

A GREAT FIGHT

"There was a man in Arkansaw As let his passions rise, And not unfrequently picked out Some other varmint's eyes.

"His name was Tuscaloosa Sam And often he would say, 'There's not a cuss in Arkansaw I can't whip any day.'

"One morn, a stranger passin' by, Heard Sammy talkin' so, And down he scrambled from his hoss, And off his coat did go.

"He sorter kinder shut one eye, And spit into his hand, And put his ugly head one side, And twitched his trowsers' band.

"'My boy,' says he, 'it's my belief, Whomever you may be, That I kin make you screech, and smell Pertiklor agony.'

"I'm thar,' said Tuscaloosa Sam, And chucked his hat away; 'I'm thar,' says he, and buttoned up As far as buttons may.

"He thundered on the stranger's mug, The stranger pounded he; And oh! the way them critters fit Was beautiful to see.

"They clinched like two rampageous bears, And then went down a bit; They swore a stream of six-inch oaths And fit, and fit, and fit.

"When Sam would try to work away, And on his pegs to git, The stranger'd pull him back; and so, They fit, and fit, and fit!

"Then like a pair of lobsters, both Upon the ground were knit, And yet the varmints used their teeth, And fit, and fit, and fit!!

"The sun of noon was high above, And hot enough to split, But only riled the fellers more, That fit, and fit, and fit!!!

"The stranger snapped at Samy's nose, And shortened it a bit; And then they both swore awful hard, And fit, and fit, and fit!!!!

"The mud it flew, the sky grew dark, And all the litenins lit; But still them critters rolled about, And fit, and fit, and fit!!!!!

"First Sam on top, then t'other chap; When one would make a hit, The other'd smell the grass; and so They fit, and fit, and fit!!!!!!

"The night came on, the stars shone out As bright as wimmen's wit; And still them fellers swore and gouged, And fit, and fit, and fit!!!!!!!

"The neighbours heard the noise they made, And thought an earthquake lit; Yet all the while 'twas him and Sam As fit, and fit, and fit!!!!!!!!

"For miles around the noise was heard; Folks couldn't sleep a bit, Because them two rantankerous chaps Still fit, and fit, and fit!!!!!!!!!

"But jist at cock-crow, suddenly, There came an awful pause, And I and my old man run out To ascertain the cause.

"The sun was rising in the yeast, And lit the hull concern; But not a sign of either chap Was found at any turn.

"Yet, in the region where they fit, We found, to our surprise, One pint of buttons, two big knives, Some whiskers, and four, eyes!"

_Robert Henry Newell._

THE DONNYBROOK JIG

Oh! 'twas Dermot O'Nolan M'Figg, That could properly handle a twig, He wint to the fair, and kicked up a dust there, In dancing a Donnybrook jig--with his twig. Oh! my blessing to Dermot M'Figg.

Whin he came to the midst of the fair, He was all in a paugh for fresh air, For the fair very soon, was as full--as the moon, Such mobs upon mobs as were there, oh rare! So more luck to sweet Donnybrook Fair.

But Dermot, his mind on love bent, In search of his sweetheart he went, Peep'd in here and there, as he walked through the fair, And took a small drop in each tent--as he went,-- Oh! on whisky and love he was bent.

And who should he spy in a jig, With a meal-man so tall and so big, But his own darling Kate, so gay and so nate? Faith! her partner he hit him a dig--the pig, He beat the meal out of his wig.

The piper, to keep him in tune, Struck up a gay lilt very soon; Until an arch wag cut a hole in the bag, And at once put an end to the tune--too soon-- Och! the music flew up to the moon.

The meal-man he looked very shy, While a great big tear stood in his eye, He cried, "Lord, how I'm kilt, all alone for that jilt; With her may the devil fly high in the sky, For I'm murdered, and don't know for why."

"Oh!" says Dermot, and he in the dance, Whilst a step to'ards his foe did advance, "By the Father of Men, say but that word again, And I'll soon knock you back in a trance--to your dance, For with me you'd have but small chance."

"But," says Kitty, the darlint, says she, "If you'll only just listen to me, It's myself that will show that he can't be your foe, Though he fought for his cousin--that's me," says she, "For sure Billy's related to me.

"For my own cousin-jarmin, Anne Wild, Stood for Biddy Mulroony's first child; And Biddy's step-son, sure he married Bess Dunn, Who was gossip to Jenny, as mild a child As ever at mother's breast smiled.

"And may be you don't know Jane Brown, Who served goat's-whey in Dundrum's sweet town? 'Twas her uncle's half-brother, who married my mother, And bought me this new yellow gown, to go down When the marriage was held in Milltown."

"By the powers, then," says Dermot, "'tis plain, Like the son of that rapscallion Cain, My best friend I have kilt, though no blood is spilt, But the devil a harm did I mane--that's plain; And by me he'll be ne'er kilt again."

_Viscount Dillon._

UNFORTUNATE MISS BAILEY

A captain bold from Halifax who dwelt in country quarters, Betrayed a maid who hanged herself one morning in her Garters. His wicked conscience smited him, he lost his Stomach daily, And took to drinking Ratafia while thinking of Miss Bailey.

One night betimes he went to bed, for he had caught a Fever; Says he, "I am a handsome man, but I'm a gay Deceiver." His candle just at twelve o'clock began to burn quite palely, A Ghost stepped up to his bedside and said "Behold Miss Bailey!"

"Avaunt, Miss Bailey!" then he cries, "your Face looks white and mealy." "Dear Captain Smith," the ghost replied, "you've used me ungenteelly; The Crowner's 'Quest goes hard with me because I've acted frailly, And Parson Biggs won't bury me though I am dead Miss Bailey."

"Dear Corpse!" said he, "since you and I accounts must once for all close, There really is a one pound note in my regimental Smallclothes; I'll bribe the sexton for your grave." The ghost then vanished gaily Crying "Bless you, Wicked Captain Smith, Remember poor Miss Bailey."

_Unknown._

THE LAIRD O' COCKPEN

The last two stanzas were added by Miss Ferrier.

The Laird o' Cockpen, he's proud and he's great; His mind is ta'en up wi' the things o' the state; He wanted a wife his braw house to keep; But favour wi' wooin' was fashious to seek.

Doun by the dyke-side a lady did dwell, At his table-head he thought she'd look well M'Clish's ae daughter o' Claverse-ha' Lee-- A pennyless lass wi' a lang pedigree.

His wig was well-pouther'd, as guid as when new, His waistcoat was white, his coat it was blue: He put on a ring, a sword, and cock'd hat-- And wha could refuse the Laird wi' a' that?

He took the grey mare, and rade cannilie-- And rapped at the yett o' Claverse-ha' Lee; "Gae tell mistress Jean to come speedily ben: She's wanted to speak wi' the Laird o' Cockpen."

Mistress Jean she was makin' the elder-flower wine; "And what brings the Laird at sic a like time?" She put off her apron, and on her silk gown, Her mutch wi' red ribbons, and gaed awa' down.

And when she cam' ben, he boued fu' low; And what was his errand he soon let her know, Amazed was the Laird when the lady said, Na, And wi' a laigh curtsie she turned awa'.

Dumfounder'd he was, but nae sigh did he gi'e; He mounted his mare, and rade cannilie; And aften he thought, as he gaed through the glen, "She's daft to refuse the Laird o' Cockpen."

And now that the Laird his exit had made, Mistress Jean she reflected on what she had said; "Oh! for ane I'll get better, it's waur I'll get ten-- I was daft to refuse the Laird o' Cockpen."

Neist time that the Laird and the Lady were seen, They were gaun arm and arm to the kirk on the green; Now she sits in the ha' like a weel-tappit hen, But as yet there's nae chickens appeared at Cockpen.

_Lady Nairne._

A WEDDING

I tell thee, Dick, where I have been; Where I the rarest things have seen; Oh, things without compare! Such sights again can not be found In any place on English ground, Be it at wake or fair.

At Charing Cross, hard by the way Where we (thou know'st) do sell our hay, There is a house with stairs; And there did I see coming down Such folks as are not in our town; Vorty at least, in pairs.

Amongst the rest one pest'lent fine (His beard no bigger tho' than thine) Walk'd on before the rest; Our landlord looks like nothing to him; The King (God bless him!) 'twould undo him Should he go still so drest.

At Course-a-park, without all doubt, He should have first been taken out By all the maids i' th' town: Though lusty Roger there had been, Or little George upon the green, Or Vincent of the crown.

But wot you what? The youth was going To make an end of all his woing; The parson for him staid: Yet by his leave, for all his haste, He did not so much wish all past, Perchance as did the maid.

The maid (and thereby hangs a tale) For such a maid no Whitson-ale Could ever yet produce; No grape that's kindly ripe, could be So round, so plump, so soft, as she Nor half so full of juyce.

Her finger was so small, the ring Would not stay on which they did bring; It was too wide a peck: And, to say truth (for out it must), It look'd like the great collar (just) About our young colt's neck.

Her feet beneath her petticoat, Like little mice, stole in and out, As if they fear'd the light: But oh! she dances such a way; No sun upon an Easter day Is half so fine a sight.

Her cheeks so rare a white was on, No daisie makes comparison (Who sees them is undone); For streaks of red were mingled there, Such as are on a Cath'rine pear, The side that's next the Sun.

Her lips were red; and one was thin, Compared to that was next her chin (Some bee had stung it newly); But, Dick, her eyes so guard her face, I durst no more upon them gaze, Than on a Sun in July.

Her mouth so small, when she does speak, Thou'dst swear her teeth her words did break, That they might passage get; But she so handled still the matter, They came as good as ours, or better, And are not spent a whit.

Passion, oh me! how I run on! There's that that would be thought upon, I trow, besides the bride. The business of the kitchen's great; For it is fit that men should eat, Nor was it there denied.

Just in the nick the Cook knock'd thrice, And all the waiters in a trice His summons did obey; Each serving man, with dish in hand, March'd boldly up like our train'd band, Presented, and away.

When all the meat was on the table, What man of knife, or teeth, was able To stay to be entreated? And this the very reason was, Before the parson could say grace The company was seated.

Now hats fly off, and youths carouse; Healths first go round, and then the house, The bride's came thick and thick; And when 'twas named another's health, Perhaps he made it hers by stealth, (And who could help it, Dick?)

O' th' sudden, up they rise and dance; Then sit again, and sigh, and glance: Then dance again, and kiss: Thus sev'ral ways the time did pass, Till ev'ry woman wish'd her place, And ev'ry man wish'd his.

By this time all were stol'n aside To counsel and undress the bride; But that he must not know: But yet 'twas thought he guest her mind, And did not mean to stay behind Above an hour or so.

_Sir John Suckling._

XI

TRIBUTE

THE AHKOND OF SWAT

Who, or why, or which, or _what_, Is the Ahkond of Swat?

Is he tall or short, or dark or fair? Does he sit on a stool or sofa or chair, or Squat, The Ahkond of Swat?

Is he wise or foolish, young or old? Does he drink his soup and his coffee cold, or Hot, The Ahkond of Swat?

Does he sing or whistle, jabber or talk, And when riding abroad does he gallop or walk, or Trot, The Ahkond of Swat?

Does he wear a turban, a fez, or a hat? Does he sleep on a mattress, a bed or a mat, or a Cot, The Ahkond of Swat?

When he writes a copy in round-hand size, Does he cross his t's and finish his i's with a Dot, The Ahkond of Swat?

Can he write a letter concisely clear, Without a speck or a smudge or smear or a Blot, The Ahkond of Swat?

Do his people like him extremely well? Or do they, whenever they can, rebel, or Plot, The Ahkond of Swat?

If he catches them then, either old or young, Does he have them chopped in pieces or hung, or Shot, The Ahkond of Swat?

Do his people prig in the lanes or park? Or even at times, when days are dark, Garotte? Oh, the Ahkond of Swat?

Does he study the wants of his own dominion? Or doesn't he care for public opinion a Jot, The Ahkond of Swat?

To amuse his mind do his people show him Pictures, or any one's last new poem, or What, The Ahkond of Swat?

At night if he suddenly screams and wakes, Do they bring him only a few small cakes, or a Lot, For the Ahkond of Swat?

Does he live on turnips, tea or tripe, Does he like his shawl to be marked with a stripe or a Dot, The Ahkond of Swat?

Does he like to lie on his back in a boat Like the lady who lived in that isle remote, Shalott. The Ahkond of Swat?

Is he quiet, or always making a fuss? Is his steward a Swiss or a Swede or a Russ, or a Scot, The Ahkond of Swat?

Does he like to sit by the calm blue wave? Or to sleep and snore in a dark green cave, or a Grott, The Ahkond of Swat?

Does he drink small beer from a silver jug? Or a bowl? or a glass? or a cup? or a mug? or a Pot, The Ahkond of Swat?

Does he beat his wife with a gold-topped pipe, When she lets the gooseberries grow too ripe, or Rot, The Ahkond of Swat?

Does he wear a white tie when he dines with his friends, And tie it neat in a bow with ends, or a Knot, The Ahkond of Swat?

Does he like new cream, and hate mince-pies? When he looks at the sun does he wink his eyes, or Not, The Ahkond of Swat?

Does he teach his subjects to roast and bake? Does he sail about on an inland lake, in a Yacht, The Ahkond of Swat?

Some one, or nobody knows I wot Who or which or why or what The Ahkond of Swat?

_Edward Lear._

THE AHKOOND OF SWAT

"The Ahkoond of Swat is dead."--London Papers of Jan. 22, 1878.

What, what, what, What's the news from Swat? Sad news, Bad news, Comes by the cable led Through the Indian Ocean's bed, Through the Persian Gulf, the Red Sea and the Med- Iterranean--he's dead; The Ahkoond is dead!

For the Ahkoond I mourn, Who wouldn't? He strove to disregard the message stern, But he Ahkoodn't. Dead, dead, dead: (Sorrow, Swats!) Swats wha hae wi' Ahkoond bled, Swats whom he hath often led Onward to a gory bed, Or to victory, As the case might be. Sorrow, Swats! Tears shed, Shed tears like water. Your great Ahkoond is dead! That Swats the matter!

Mourn, city of Swat, Your great Ahkoond is not, But laid 'mid worms to rot. His mortal part alone, his soul was caught (Because he was a good Ahkoond) Up to the bosom of Mahound. Though earthly walls his frame surround (Forever hallowed by the ground!)

And skeptics mock the lowly mound And say "He's now of no Ahkoond!" His soul is in the skies-- The azure skies that bend above his loved Metropolis of Swat. He sees with larger, other eyes, Athwart all earthly mysteries-- He knows what's Swat. Let Swat bury the great Ahkoond With a noise of mourning and of lamentation! Let Swat bury the great Ahkoond With the noise of the mourning of the Swattish nation! Fallen is at length Its tower of strength; Its sun is dimmed ere it had nooned; Dead lies the great Ahkoond, The great Ahkoond of Swat Is not!

_George Thomas Lanigan._

DIRGE OF THE MOOLLA OF KOTAL,

RIVAL OF THE AKHOOND OF SWAT

I

Alas, unhappy land; ill-fated spot Kotal--though where or what On earth Kotal is, the bard has forgot; Further than this indeed he knoweth not-- It borders upon Swat!

II

When sorrows come, they come not single spies, But in battal- Ions: the gloom that lay on Swat now lies Upon Kotal, On sad Kotal whose people ululate For their loved Moolla late. Put away his little turban, And his narghileh embrowned, The lord of Kotal--rural urban-- 'S gone unto his last Akhoond, 'S gone to meet his rival Swattan, 'S gone, indeed, but not forgotten.

III

His rival, but in what? Wherein did the deceased Akhoond of Swat Kotal's lamented Moolla late, As it were, emulate? Was it in the tented field With crash of sword on shield, While backward meaner champions reeled And loud the tom-tom pealed? Did they barter gash for scar With the Persian scimetar Or the Afghanistee tulwar, While loud the tom-tom pealed-- While loud the tom-tom pealed, And the jim-jam squealed, And champions less well heeled Their war-horses wheeled And fled the presence of these mortal big bugs o' the field? Was Kotal's proud citadel-- Bastioned, walled, and demi-luned, Beaten down with shot and shell By the guns of the Akhoond? Or were wails despairing caught, as The burghers pale of Swat Cried in panic, "Moolla ad Portas?" --Or what? Or made each in the cabinet his mark Kotalese Gortschakoff, Swattish Bismarck? Did they explain and render hazier The policies of Central Asia? Did they with speeches from the throne, Wars dynastic, _Entents cordiales_, Between Swat and Kotal; Holy alliances, And other appliances Of statesmen with morals and consciences plastic Come by much more than their own? Made they mots, as "There to-day is No more Himalayehs," Or, if you prefer it, "There to-day are No more Himalaya?" Or, said the Akhoond, "Sah, L'Etat de Swat c'est moi?" Khabu, did there come great fear On thy Khabuldozed Ameer Ali Shere? Or did the Khan of far Kashgar Tremble at the menace hot Of the Moolla of Kotal, "I will extirpate thee, pal Of my foe the Akhoond of Swat?" Who knows Of Moolla and Akhoond aught more than I did? Namely, in life they rivals were, or foes, And in their deaths not very much divided? If any one knows it, Let him disclose it!

_George Thomas Lanigan._

THE BALLAD OF BOUILLABAISSE

A street there is in Paris famous, For which no rhyme our language yields, Rue Neuve des Petits Champs its name is-- The New Street of the Little Fields. And here's an inn, not rich and splendid, But still in comfortable case; The which in youth I oft attended, To eat a bowl of Bouillabaisse.

This Bouillabaisse a noble dish is-- A sort of soup, or broth, or brew, Or hotchpotch of all sorts of fishes, That Greenwich never could outdo: Green herbs, red peppers, mussels, saffron, Soles, onions, garlic, roach, and dace: All these you eat at Terré's tavern In that one dish of Bouillabaisse.

Indeed, a rich and savoury stew 'tis; And true philosophers, methinks, Who love all sorts of natural beauties, Should love good victuals and good drinks. And Cordelier or Benedictine Might gladly, sure, his lot embrace, Nor find a fast-day too afflicting, Which served him up a Bouillabaisse.

I wonder if the house still there is? Yes, here the lamp is, as before; The smiling red-cheeked _écaillère_ is Still opening oysters at the door. Is Terré still alive and able? I recollect his droll grimace: He'd come and smile before your table, And hope you liked your Bouillabaisse.

We enter--nothing's changed or older. "How's Monsieur Terré, waiter, pray?" The waiter stares, and shrugs his shoulder-- "Monsieur is dead this many a day." "It is the lot of saint and sinner, So honest Terré's run his race." "What will Monsieur require for dinner?" "Say, do you still cook Bouillabaisse?"

"Oh, oui, Monsieur," 's the waiter's answer; "Quel vin Monsieur désire-t-il?" "Tell me a good one."--"That I can, Sir: The Chambertin with yellow seal." "So Terré's gone," I say, and sink in My old accustom'd corner-place; "He's done with feasting and with drinking, With Burgundy and with Bouillabaisse."

My old accustom'd corner here is, The table still is in the nook; Ah! vanished many a busy year is This well-known chair since last I took. When first I saw ye, _cari luoghi_, I'd scarce a beard upon my face, And now a grizzled, grim old fogy, I sit and wait for Bouillabaisse.

Where are you, old companions trusty Of early days here met to dine? Come, waiter! quick, a flagon crusty-- I'll pledge them in the good old wine. The kind old voices and old faces My memory can quick retrace; Around the board they take their places, And share the wine and Bouillabaisse.

There's Jack has made a wondrous marriage; There's laughing Tom is laughing yet; There's brave Augustus drives his carriage; There's poor old Fred in the _Gazette_; On James's head the grass is growing: Good Lord! the world has wagged apace Since here we set the claret flowing, And drank, and ate the Bouillabaisse.

Ah me! how quick the days are flitting! I mind me of a time that's gone, When here I'd sit, as now I'm sitting, In this same place--but not alone. A fair young form was nestled near me, A dear dear face looked fondly up, And sweetly spoke and smiled to cheer me --There's no one now to share my cup.

* * * * *

I drink it as the Fates ordain it. Come, fill it, and have done with rhymes: Fill up the lonely glass, and drain it In memory of dear old times. Welcome the wine, whate'er the seal is; And sit you down and say your grace With thankful heart, whate'er the meal is. --Here comes the smoking Bouillabaisse!

_W. M. Thackeray._

OULD DOCTOR MACK

Ye may tramp the world over From Delhi to Dover, And sail the salt say from Archangel to Arragon, Circumvint back Through the whole Zodiack, But to ould Docther Mack ye can't furnish a paragon. Have ye the dropsy, The gout, the autopsy? Fresh livers and limbs instantaneous he'll shape yez, No ways infarior In skill, but suparior, And lineal postarior to Ould Aysculapius.

_Chorus_

He and his wig wid the curls so carroty, Aigle eye, and complexion clarety: Here's to his health, Honor and wealth, The king of his kind and the crame of all charity!

How the rich and the poor, To consult for a cure, Crowd on to his doore in their carts and their carriages, Showin' their tongues Or unlacin' their lungs, For divle one symptom the docther disparages. Troth, an' he'll tumble, For high or for humble, From his warm feather-bed wid no cross contrariety; Makin' as light Of nursin' all night The beggar in rags as the belle of society.

_Chorus_--He and his wig, etc.

And as if by a meracle, Ailments hysterical, Dad, wid one dose of bread-pills he can smother, And quench the love-sickness Wid wonderful quickness, By prescribin' the right boys and girls to aich other. And the sufferin' childer-- Your eyes 'twould bewilder To see the wee craythurs his coat-tails unravellin', And aich of them fast On some treasure at last, Well knowin' ould Mack's just a toy-shop out travellin'.

_Chorus_--He and his wig, etc.

Thin, his doctherin' done, In a rollickin' run Wid the rod or the gun, he's the foremost to figure. By Jupiter Ammon, What jack-snipe or salmon E'er rose to backgammon his tail-fly or trigger! And hark! the view-hollo! 'Tis Mack in full follow On black "Faugh-a-ballagh" the country-side sailin'. Och, but you'd think 'Twas old Nimrod in pink, Wid his spurs cryin' chink over park-wall and palin'.

_Chorus_

He and his wig wid the curls so carroty, Aigle eye, and complexion clarety: Here's to his health, Honor and wealth! Hip, hip, hooray! wid all hilarity, Hip, hip, hooray! That's the way, All at once, widout disparity! One more cheer For our docther dear, The king of his kind and the crame of all charity. Hip, hip, hooray!

_Alfred Perceval Graves._

FATHER O'FLYNN

Of priests we can offer a charmin' variety, Far renowned for larnin' and piety; Still, I'd advance ye, widout impropriety, Father O'Flynn as the flower of them all.

|Chorus|

_Here's a health to you, Father O'Flynn, Slainté, and slainté, and slainté agin; Powerfulest preacher, and Tenderest teacher, and Kindliest creature in ould Donegal._

Don't talk of your Provost and Fellows of Trinity, Famous for ever at Greek and Latinity, Dad and the divels and all at Divinity, Father O'Flynn 'd make hares of them all! Come, I venture to give you my word, Never the likes of his logic was heard, Down from Mythology Into Thayology, Troth! and Conchology if he'd the call.

_Chorus._

Och! Father O'Flynn, you've the wonderful way wid you, All ould sinners are wishful to pray wid you, All the young childer are wild for to play wid you, You've such a way wid you, Father avick! Still for all you've so gentle a soul, Gad, you've your flock in the grandest control; Checking the crazy ones, Coaxin' onaisy ones, Liftin' the lazy ones on wid the stick.

_Chorus._

And though quite avoidin' all foolish frivolity, Still at all seasons of innocent jollity, Where was the play-boy could claim an equality At comicality, Father, wid you? Once the Bishop looked grave at your jest, Till this remark set him off wid the rest: "Is it lave gaiety All to the laity? Cannot the clargy he Irishmen too?"

_Chorus._

_Alfred Perceval Graves._

THE BALD-HEADED TYRANT

O the quietest home in earth had I, No thought of trouble, no hint of care; Like a dream of pleasure the days fled by, And Peace had folded her pinions there. But one day there joined in our household band A bald-headed tyrant from No-man's-land.

Oh, the despot came in the dead of night, And no one ventured to ask him why; Like slaves we trembled before his might, Our hearts stood still when we heard him cry; For never a soul could his power withstand, That bald-headed tyrant from No-man's-land.

He ordered us here, and he sent us there-- Though never a word could his small lips speak-- With his toothless gums and his vacant stare, And his helpless limbs so frail and weak, Till I cried, in a voice of stern command, "Go up, thou bald-head from No-man's-land!"

But his abject slaves they turned on me; Like the bears in Scripture, they'd rend me there, The while they worshiped with bended knee This ruthless wretch with the missing hair; For he rules them all with relentless hand, This bald-headed tyrant from No-man's-land.

Then I searched for help in every clime, For peace had fled from my dwelling now, Till I finally thought of old Father Time, And low before him I made my bow. "Wilt thou deliver me out of his hand, This bald-headed tyrant from No-man's-land?"

Old Time he looked with a puzzled stare, And a smile came over his features grim. "I'll take the tyrant under my care: Watch what my hour-glass does to him. The veriest humbug that ever was planned Is this same bald-head from No-man's-land."

Old Time is doing his work full well-- Much less of might does the tyrant wield; But, ah! with sorrow my heart will swell, And sad tears fall as I see him yield. Could I stay the touch of that shriveled hand, I would keep the bald-head from No-man's-land.

For the loss of peace I have ceased to care; Like other vassals, I've learned, forsooth, To love the wretch who forgot his hair And hurried along without a tooth, And he rules me too with his tiny hand, This bald-headed tyrant from No-man's-land.

_Mary E. Vandyne._

BARNEY McGEE

Barney McGee, there's no end of good luck in you, Will-o'-the-wisp, with a flicker of Puck in you, Wild as a bull-pup, and all of his pluck in you-- Let a man tread on your coat and he'll see! Eyes like the lakes of Killarney for clarity, Nose that turns up without any vulgarity, Smile like a cherub, and hair that is carroty-- Whoop, you're a rarity, Barney McGee! Mellow as Tarragon, Prouder than Aragon-- Hardly a paragon, You will agree-- Here's all that's fine to you! Books and old wine to you! Girls be divine to you, Barney McGee!

Lucky the day when I met you unwittingly, Dining where vagabonds came and went flittingly. Here's some _Barbera_ to drink it befittingly, That day at Silvio's, Barney McGee! Many's the time we have quaffed our Chianti there, Listened to Silvio quoting us Dante there-- Once more to drink Nebiolo Spumante there, How we'd pitch Pommery into the sea! There where the gang of us Met ere Rome rang of us, They had the hang of us To a degree. How they would trust to you! That was but just to you. Here's o'er their dust to you, Barney McGee!

Barney McGee, when you're sober you scintillate, But when you're in drink you're the pride of the intellect; Divil a one of us ever came in till late, Once at the bar where you happened to be-- Every eye there like a spoke in you centering, You with your eloquence, blarney, and bantering-- All Vagabondia shouts at your entering, King of the Tenderloin, Barney McGee! There's no satiety In your society With the variety Of your _esprit_. Here's a long purse to you, And a great thirst to you! Fate be no worse to you, Barney McGee!

Och, and the girls whose poor hearts you deracinate, Whirl and bewilder and flutter and fascinate! Faith, it's so killing you are, you assassinate-- Murder's the word for you, Barney McGee! Bold when they're sunny, and smooth when they're showery-- Oh, but the style of you, fluent and flowery! Chesterfield's way, with a touch of the Bowery! How, would they silence you, Barney machree? Naught can your gab allay, Learned as Rabelais (You in his abbey lay Once on the spree). Here's to the smile of you, (Oh, but the guile of you!) And a long while of you, Barney McGee!

Facile with phrases of length and Latinity, Like honorificabilitudinity, Where is the maid could resist your vicinity, Wiled by the impudent grace of your plea? Then your vivacity and pertinacity Carry the day with the divil's audacity; No mere veracity robs your sagacity Of perspicacity, Barney McGee. When all is new to them, What will you do to them? Will you be true to them? Who shall decree? Here's a fair strife to you! Health and long life to you! And a great wife to you, Barney McGee!

Barney McGee, you're the pick of gentility; Nothing can phase you, you've such a facility; Nobody ever yet found your utility There is the charm of you, Barney McGee; Under conditions that others would stammer in, Still unperturbed as a cat or a Cameron, Polished as somebody in the Decameron, Putting the glamour on price or Pawnee. In your meanderin', Love and philanderin', Calm as a mandarin Sipping his tea! Under the art of you, Parcel and part of you, Here's to the heart of you, Barney McGee!

You who were ever alert to befriend a man, You who were ever the first to defend a man, You who had always the money to lend a man, Down on his luck and hard up for a V! Sure, you'll be playing a harp in beatitude (And a quare sight you will be in that attitude)-- Some day, where gratitude seems but a platitude, You'll find your latitude, Barney McGee. That's no flim-flam at all, Frivol or sham at all, Just the plain--Damn it all, Have one with me! Here's one and more to you! Friends by the score to you, True to the core to you, Barney MeGee!

_Richard Hovey._

ADDRESS TO THE TOOTHACHE

My curse upon your venom'd stang, That shoots my tortur'd gooms alang; An' thro' my lug gies monie a twang, Wi' gnawing vengeance, Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang, Like racking engines!

A' down my beard the slavers trickle! I throw the wee stools o'er the mickle, While round the fire the giglets keckle To see me loup; An', raving mad, I wish a heckle Were i' their doup!

When fevers burn, or ague freezes, Rheumatics gnaw, or colic squeezes, Our neebors sympathize to ease us Wi' pitying moan; But thee!--thou hell o' a' diseases, They mock our groan!

Of a' the num'rous human dools, Ill-hairsts, daft bargains, cutty-stools, Or worthy frien's laid i' the mools, Sad sight to see! The tricks o' knaves, or fash o' fools, Thou bear'st the gree!

Whare'er that place be priests ca' hell, Whare a' the tones o' misery yell, An' rankèd plagues their numbers tell In dreadfu' raw, Thou, Toothache, surely bear'st the bell Amang them a'!

O thou grim, mischief-making chiel, That gars the notes o' discord squeel, 'Till humankind aft dance a reel In gore a shoe-thick;-- Gie a' the faes o' Scotland's weal A towmond's toothache!

_Robert Burns._

A FAREWELL TO TOBACCO

May the Babylonish curse Straight confound my stammering verse, If I can a passage see In this word-perplexity, Or a fit expression find, Or a language to my mind, (Still the phrase is wide or scant) To take leave of thee, _great plant_!

Or in any terms relate Half my love, or half my hate: For I hate, yet love thee so, That, whichever thing I show, The plain truth will seem to be A contrain'd hyperbole, And the passion to proceed More from a mistress than a weed.

Sooty retainer to the vine, Bacchus' black servant, negro fine; Sorcerer, that mak'st us dote upon Thy begrimed complexion, And, for thy pernicious sake, More and greater oaths to break Than reclaimèd lovers take 'Gainst women: thou thy siege dost lay Much too in the female way, While thou suck'st the laboring breath Faster than kisses or than death.

Thou in such a cloud dost bind us That our worst foes cannot find us, And ill-fortune, that would thwart us, Shoots at rovers, shooting at us; While each man, through thy height'ning steam, Does like a smoking Etna seem, And all about us does express (Fancy and wit in richest dress) A Sicilian fruitfulness.

Thou through such a mist dost show us That our best friends do not know us, And, for those allowèd features, Due to reasonable creatures, Liken'st us to fell Chimeras, Monsters,--that who see us, fear us; Worse than Cerberus or Geryon, Or, who first loved a cloud, Ixion.

Bacchus we know, and we allow His tipsy rites. But what art thou That but by reflex canst show What his deity can do, As the false Egyptian spell Aped the true Hebrew miracle? Some few vapors thou may'st raise, The weak brain may serve to amaze, But to the reins and nobler heart Canst nor life nor heat impart.

Brother of Bacchus, later born, The old world was sure forlorn Wanting thee, that aidest more The god's victories than, before, All his panthers, and the brawls Of his piping Bacchanals. These, as stale, we disallow, Or judge of _thee_ meant: only thou His true Indian conquest art; And, for ivy round his dart, The reformèd god now weaves A finer thyrsus of thy leaves.

Scent to match thy rich perfume Chemic art did ne'er presume Through her quaint alembic strain, None so sov'reign to the brain; Nature, that did in thee excel, Framed again no second smell, Roses, violets, but toys For the smaller sort of boys, Or for greener damsels meant; Thou art the only manly scent.

Stinkingest of the stinking kind! Filth of the mouth and fog of the mind! Africa, that brags her foison, Breeds no such prodigious poison! Henbane, nightshade, both together, Hemlock, aconite--

Nay, rather, Plant divine, of rarest virtue; Blisters on the tongue would hurt you! 'Twas but in a sort I blamed thee; None e'er prosper'd who defamed thee; Irony all, and feign'd abuse, Such as perplex'd lovers use, At a need, when, in despair To paint forth their fairest fair, Or in part but to express That exceeding comeliness Which their fancies doth so strike, They borrow language of dislike; And, instead of Dearest Miss, Jewel, Honey, Sweetheart, Bliss, And those forms of old admiring, Call her Cockatrice and Siren, Basilisk, and all that's evil, Witch, Hyena, Mermaid, Devil, Ethiop, Wench, and Blackamoor, Monkey, Ape, and twenty more; Friendly Trait'ress, loving Foe-- Not that she is truly so, But no other way they know A contentment to express, Borders so upon excess, That they do not rightly wot Whether it be from pain or not.

Or, as men constrain'd to part With what's nearest to their heart, While their sorrow's at the height, Lose discrimination quite, And their hasty wrath let fall, To appease their frantic gall, On the darling thing whatever, Whence they feel it death to sever Though it be, as they, perforce, Guiltless of the sad divorce.

For I must (nor let it grieve thee, Friendliest of plants, that I must) leave thee. For thy sake, |TOBACCO|, I Would do anything but die, And but seek to extend my days Long enough to sing thy praise. But, as she who once hath been A king's consort is a queen Ever after, nor will bate Any tittle of her state Though a widow, or divorced, So I, from thy converse forced, The old name and style retain, A right Katherine of Spain; And a seat, too, 'mongst the joys Of the blest Tobacco Boys; Where, though I, by sour physician, Am debarr'd the full fruition Of thy favors, I may catch Some collateral sweets, and snatch Sidelong odors, that give life Like glances from a neighbor's wife; And still live in the by-places And the suburbs of thy graces; And in thy borders take delight, An unconquer'd Canaanite.

_Charles Lamb._

JOHN BARLEYCORN

There were three kings into the east, Three kings both great and high; And they hae sworn a solemn oath John Barleycorn should die.

They took a plough and plough'd him down, Put clods upon his head; And they hae sworn a solemn oath John Barleycorn was dead.

But the cheerful spring came kindly on, And showers began to fall: John Barleycorn got up again, And sore surprised them all.

The sultry suns of summer came, And he grew thick and strong; His head weel arm'd wi' pointed spears, That no one should him wrong.

The sober autumn enter'd mild, When he grew wan and pale; His bending joints and drooping head Show'd he began to fail.

His colour sicken'd more and more, He faded into age; And then his enemies began To show their deadly rage.

They've ta'en a weapon, long and sharp, And cut him by the knee; Then tied him fast upon a cart, Like a rogue for forgerie.

They laid him down upon his back, And cudgell'd him full sore; They hung him up before the storm, And turn'd him o'er and o'er.

They fillèd up a darksome pit With water to the brim: They heavèd in John Barleycorn, There let him sink or swim.

They laid him out upon the floor, To work him further woe: And still, as signs of life appear'd, They toss'd him to and fro.

They wasted o'er a scorching flame The marrow of his bones; But a miller used him worst of all-- He crush'd him 'tween two stones.

And they hae ta'en his very heart's blood, And drank it round and round, And still the more and more they drank, Their joy did more abound.

John Barleycorn was a hero bold, Of noble enterprise; For if you do but taste his blood, 'Twill make your courage rise.

'Twill make a man forget his woe; 'Twill heighten all his joy: 'Twill make the widow's heart to sing, Though the tear were in her eye.

Then let us toast John Barleycorn, Each man a glass in hand; And may his great posterity Ne'er fail in old Scotland!

_Robert Burns._

STANZAS TO PALE ALE

Oh! I have loved thee fondly, ever Preferr'd thee to the choicest wine; From thee my lips they could not sever By saying thou contain'dst strychnine. Did I believe the slander? Never! I held thee still to be divine.

For me thy color hath a charm, Although 'tis true they call thee Pale; And be thou cold when I am warm, As late I've been--so high the scale Of |Fahrenheit|--and febrile harm Allay, refrigerating Ale!

How sweet thou art!--yet bitter, too And sparkling, like satiric fun; But how much better thee to brew, Than a conundrum or a pun, It is, in every point of view, Must be allow'd by every one.

Refresh my heart and cool my throat, Light, airy child of malt and hops! That dost not stuff, engross, and bloat The skin, the sides, the chin, the chops, And burst the buttons off the coat, Like stout and porter--fattening slops!

_Unknown._

ODE TO TOBACCO

Thou who, when fears attack, Bidst them avaunt, and Black Care, at the horseman's back Perching, unseatest; Sweet, when the morn is gray; Sweet, when they've cleared away Lunch; and at close of day Possibly sweetest:

I have a liking old For thee, though manifold Stories, I know, are told, Not to thy credit; How one (or two at most) Drops make a cat a ghost-- Useless, except to roast-- Doctors have said it:

How they who use fusees All grow by slow degrees Brainless as chimpanzees, Meagre as lizards; Go mad, and beat their wives; Plunge (after shocking lives) Razors and carving knives Into their gizzards.

Confound such knavish tricks! Yet know I five or six Smokers who freely mix Still with their neighbors; Jones--(who, I'm glad to say, Asked leave of Mrs. J.)-- Daily absorbs a clay After his labors.

Cats may have had their goose Cooked by tobacco-juice; Still why deny its use Thoughtfully taken? We're not as tabbies are: Smith, take a fresh cigar! Jones, the tobacco-jar! Here's to thee, Bacon!

_Charles Stuart Calverley._

SONNET TO A CLAM

DUM TACENT CLAIMANT

Inglorious friend! most confident I am Thy life is one of very little ease; Albeit men mock thee with their similes And prate of being "happy as a clam!" What though thy shell protects thy fragile head From the sharp bailiffs of the briny sea? Thy valves are, sure, no safety-valves to thee, While rakes are free to desecrate thy bed, And bear thee off--as foemen take their spoil-- Far from thy friends and family to roam; Forced, like a Hessian, from thy native home, To meet destruction in a foreign broil! Though thou art tender yet thy humble bard Declares, O clam! thy case is shocking hard!

_John G. Saxe._

TO A FLY

TAKEN OUT OF A BOWL Of PUNCH

Ah! poor intoxicated little knave, Now senseless, floating on the fragrant wave; Why not content the cakes alone to munch? Dearly thou pay'st for buzzing round the bowl; Lost to the world, thou busy sweet-lipped soul-- Thus Death, as well as Pleasure, dwells with Punch.

Now let me take thee out, and moralize-- Thus 'tis with mortals, as it is with flies, Forever hankering after Pleasure's cup: Though Fate, with all his legions, be at hand, The beasts, the draught of Circe can't withstand, But in goes every nose--they must, will sup.

Mad are the passions, as a colt untamed! When Prudence mounts their backs to ride them mild. They fling, they snort, they foam, they rise inflamed, Insisting on their own sole will so wild.

Gadsbud! my buzzing friend, thou art not dead; The Fates, so kind, have not yet snapped thy thread; By heavens, thou mov'st a leg, and now its brother. And kicking, lo, again, thou mov'st another!

And now thy little drunken eyes unclose, And now thou feelest for thy little nose, And, finding it, thou rubbest thy two hands Much as to say, "I'm glad I'm here again." And well mayest thou rejoice--'tis very plain, That near wert thou to Death's unsocial lands.

And now thou rollest on thy back about, Happy to find thyself alive, no doubt-- Now turnest--on the table making rings, Now crawling, forming a wet track, Now shaking the rich liquor from thy back, Now fluttering nectar from thy silken wings.

Now standing on thy head, thy strength to find, And poking out thy small, long legs behind; And now thy pinions dost thou briskly ply; Preparing now to leave me--farewell, fly!

Go, join thy brothers on yon sunny board, And rapture to thy family afford-- There wilt thou meet a mistress, or a wife, That saw thee drunk, drop senseless in the stream. Who gave, perhaps, the wide-resounding scream, And now sits groaning for thy precious life.

Yes, go and carry comfort to thy friends, And wisely tell them thy imprudence ends. Let buns and sugar for the future charm; These will delight, and feed, and work no harm While Punch, the grinning, merry imp of sin, Invites th' unwary wanderer to a kiss, Smiles in his face, as though he meant him bliss, Then, like an alligator, drags him in.

_John Wolcot._

ODE TO A BOBTAILED CAT

Felis Infelix! Cat unfortunate, With nary narrative! Canst thou no tail relate Of how (Miaow!) Thy tail end came to terminate so bluntly Didst wear it off by Sedentary habits As do the rabbits?

Didst go a Fishing with it, Wishing with it To "bob" for catfish, And get bobbed thyself? Curses on that fish!

Didst lose it in kittenhood, Hungrily chawing it? Or, gaily pursuing it, Did it make tangent From thy swift circuit?

Did some brother Greyback-- Yowling And howling In nocturnal strife, Spitting and staring Cursing and swearing, Ripping and tearing, Calling thee "Sausagetail," Abbreviate thy suffix? Or did thy jealous wife Detect yer In some sly flirtation, And, after caudal lecture, Bite off thy termination? And sarve yer right!

Did some mischievous boy, Some barbarous boy, Eliminate thy finis? (Probably!) The wretch! The villain! Cruelly spillin' Thy innocent blood!

Furiously scratch him Where'er yer may catch him!

Well, Bob, this course now is left, Since thus of your tail you're bereft: Tell your friend that by letter From Paris You have learned the style there is To wear the tail short, And the briefer the better; Such is the passion, That every Grimalkin will Follow your fashion.

_Unknown._

A DIRGE

CONCERNING THE LATE LAMENTED KING OF THE CANNIBAL ISLANDS

And so our royal relative is dead! And so he rests from gustatory labors! The white man was his choice, but when he fed He'd sometimes entertain his tawny neighbors. He worshipped, as he said, his "Fe-fo-fum," The goddess of the epigastrium.

And missionaries graced his festive board, Solemn and succulent, in twos and dozens, And smoked before their hospitable lord, Welcome as if they'd been his second cousins. When cold, he warmed them as he would his kin-- They came as strangers, and he took them in.

And generous!--oh, wasn't he? I have known him Exhibit a celestial amiability:-- He'd eat an enemy, and then would own him Of flavor excellent, despite hostility. The crudest captain of the Turkish navy He buried in an honorable grave--y.

He had a hundred wives. To make things pleasant They found it quite judicious to adore him;-- And when he dined, the nymphs were always present-- Sometimes beside him and sometimes--before him. When he was tired of one, he called her "sweet," And told her she was "good enough to eat."

He was a man of taste--and justice, too; He opened his mouth for e'en the humblest sinner, And three weeks stall-fed an emaciate Jew Before they brought him to the royal dinner. With preacher-men he shared his board and wallet And let them nightly occupy his palate!

We grow like what we eat. Bad food depresses; Good food exalts us like an inspiration, And missionary on the _menu_ blesses And elevates the Feejee population. A people who for years, saints, bairns, and women ate Must soon their vilest qualities eliminate.

But the deceased could never hold a candle To those prim, pale-faced people of propriety Who gloat o'er gossip and get fat on scandal-- The cannibals of civilized society; They drink the blood of brothers with their rations, And crunch the bones of living reputations.

They kill the soul; he only claimed the dwelling. They take the sharpened scalpel of surmises And cleave the sinews when the heart is swelling, And slaughter Fame and Honor for their prizes. They make the spirit in the body quiver; They quench the Light! He only took the--Liver!

I've known some hardened customers, I wot, A few tough fellows--pagans beyond question-- I wish had got into his dinner-pot; Although I'm certain they'd defy digestion, And break his jaw, and ruin his esophagus, Were he the chief of beings anthropophagous!

How fond he was of children! To his breast The tenderest nurslings gained a free admission. Rank he despised, nor, if they came well dressed, Cared if they were plebeian or patrician. Shade of Leigh Hunt! Oh, guide this laggard pen To write of one who loved his fellow men!

_William Augustus Croffut._

XII

WHIMSEY

AN ELEGY

ON THE GLORY OF HER SEX, MRS. MARY BLAIZE

Good people all, with one accord, Lament for Madam Blaize, Who never wanted a good word-- From those who spoke her praise.

The needy seldom pass'd her door, And always found her kind; She freely lent to all the poor-- Who left a pledge behind.

She strove the neighborhood to please With manners wondrous winning; And never follow'd wicked ways-- Unless when she was sinning.

At church, in silks and satins new, With hoop of monstrous size, She never slumber'd in her pew-- But when she shut her eyes.

Her love was sought, I do aver, By twenty beaux and more; The King himself has follow'd her-- When she has walk'd before.

But now, her wealth and finery fled, Her hangers-on cut short all; The doctors found, when she was dead-- Her last disorder mortal.

Let us lament, in sorrow sore, For Kent Street well may say, That had she lived a twelvemonth more She had not died to-day.

_Oliver Goldsmith._

PARSON GRAY

A quiet home had Parson Gray, Secluded in a vale; His daughters all were feminine, And all his sons were male.

How faithfully did Parson Gray The bread of life dispense-- Well "posted" in theology, And post and rail his fence.

'Gainst all the vices of the age He manfully did battle; His chickens were a biped breed, And quadruped his cattle.

No clock more punctually went, He ne'er delayed a minute-- Nor ever empty was his purse, When he had money in it.

His piety was ne'er denied; His truths hit saint and sinner; At morn he always breakfasted; He always dined at dinner.

He ne'er by any luck was grieved, By any care perplexed-- No filcher he, though when he preached, He always "took" a text.

As faithful characters he drew As mortal ever saw; But ah! poor parson! when he died, His breath he could not draw!

_Oliver Goldsmith._

THE IRISHMAN AND THE LADY

There was a lady liv'd at Leith, A lady very stylish, man; And yet, in spite of all her teeth, She fell in love with an Irishman-- A nasty, ugly Irishman, A wild, tremendous Irishman, A tearing, swearing, thumping, bumping, ranting, roaring Irishman.

His face was no ways beautiful, For with small-pox 'twas scarr'd across; And the shoulders of the ugly dog Were almost double a yard across. Oh, the lump of an Irishman, The whiskey-devouring Irishman, The great he-rogue with his wonderful brogue--the fighting, rioting Irishman!

One of his eyes was bottle-green, And the other eye was out, my dear; And the calves of his wicked-looking legs Were more than two feet about, my dear. Oh, the great big Irishman, The rattling, battling Irishman-- The stamping, ramping, swaggering, staggering, leathering swash of an Irishman!

He took so much of Lundy-foot That he used to snort and snuffle--O! And in shape and size the fellow's neck Was as bad as the neck of a buffalo. Oh, the horrible Irishman, The thundering, blundering Irishman-- The slashing, dashing, smashing, lashing, thrashing, hashing Irishman!

His name was a terrible name, indeed, Being Timothy Thady Mulligan; And whenever he emptied his tumbler of punch He'd not rest till he fill'd it full again. The boosing, bruising Irishman, The 'toxicated Irishman-- The whiskey, frisky, rummy, gummy, brandy, no dandy Irishman!

This was the lad the lady lov'd, Like all the girls of quality; And he broke the skulls of the men of Leith, Just by the way of jollity. Oh, the leathering Irishman, The barbarous, savage Irishman-- The hearts of the maids, and the gentlemen's heads, were bothered, I'm sure, by this Irishman!

_William Maginn._

THE CATARACT OF LODORE

"How does the water Come down at Lodore?" My little boy asked me Thus, once on a time; And moreover he tasked me To tell him in rhyme. Anon at the word, There first came one daughter, And then came another, To second and third The request of their brother, And to hear how the water Comes down at Lodore, With its rush and its roar, As many a time They had seen it before. So I told them in rhyme, For of rhymes I had store; And 'twas in my vocation For their recreation That so I should sing; Because I was Laureate To them and the King.

From its sources which well In the tarn on the fell; From its fountains In the mountains, Its rills and its gills; Through moss and through brake, It runs and it creeps For a while till it sleeps In its own little lake. And thence at departing, Awakening and starting, It runs through the reeds, And away it proceeds, Through meadow and glade, In sun and in shade, And through the wood-shelter, Among crags in its flurry, Helter-skelter, Hurry-skurry, Here it comes sparkling, And there it lies darkling; Now smoking and frothing Its tumult and wrath in, Till, in this rapid race On which it is bent, It reaches the place Of its steep descent.

The cataract strong Then plunges along, Striking and raging As if a war waging Its caverns and rocks among; Rising and leaping, Sinking and creeping, Swelling and sweeping, Showering and springing, Flying and flinging, Writhing and wringing, Eddying and whisking, Spouting and frisking, Turning and twisting Around and around With endless rebound: Smiting and fighting, A sight to delight in; Confounding, astounding, Dizzying and deafening the ear with its sound.

Collecting, projecting, Receding and speeding, And shocking and rocking, And darting and parting, And threading and spreading, And whizzing and hissing, And dripping and skipping, And hitting and splitting, And shining and twining, And rattling and battling, And shaking and quaking, And pouring and roaring, And waving and raving, And tossing and crossing, And flowing and going, And running and stunning, And foaming and roaming, And dinning and spinning, And dropping and hopping, And working and jerking, And guggling and struggling, And heaving and cleaving, And moaning and groaning; And glittering and frittering, And gathering and feathering, And whitening and brightening, And quivering and shivering, And hurrying and skurrying, And thundering and floundering;

Dividing and gliding and sliding, And falling and brawling and sprawling, And driving and riving and striving, And sprinkling and twinkling and wrinkling, And sounding and bounding and rounding, And bubbling and troubling and doubling, And grumbling and rumbling and tumbling, And clattering and battering and shattering;

Retreating and beating and meeting and sheeting, Delaying and straying and playing and spraying. Advancing and prancing and glancing and dancing, Recoiling, turmoiling and toiling and boiling, And gleaming and streaming and steaming and beaming, And rushing and flushing and brushing and gushing, And flapping and rapping and clapping and slapping, And curling and whirling and purling and twirling, And thumping and plumping and bumping and jumping, And dashing and flashing and splashing and clashing; And so never ending, but always descending, Sounds and motions forever and ever are blending, All at once and all o'er, with a mighty uproar,-- And this way the water comes down at Lodore.

_Robert Southey._

LAY OF THE DESERTED INFLUENZAED

Doe, doe! I shall dever see her bore! Dever bore our feet shall rove The beadows as of yore! Dever bore with byrtle boughs Her tresses shall I twide-- Dever bore her bellow voice Bake bellody with bide! Dever shall we lidger bore, Abid the flow'rs at dood, Dever shall we gaze at dight Upon the tedtder bood! Ho, doe, doe! Those berry tibes have flowd, Ad I shall dever see her bore, By beautiful! by owd! Ho, doe, doe! I shall dever see her bore, She will forget be id a bonth, (Bost probably before)-- She will forget the byrtle boughs, The flow'rs we plucked at dood, Our beetigs by the tedtder stars. Our gazigs at the bood. Ad I shall dever see agaid The Lily and the Rose; The dabask cheek! the sdowy brow! The perfect bouth ad dose! Ho, doe, doe! Those berry tibes have flowd-- Ad I shall dever see her bore, By beautiful! by owd!!

_H. Cholmondeley-Pennell._

BELAGCHOLLY DAYS

Chilly Dovebber with his boadigg blast Dow cubs add strips the beddow add the lawd, Eved October's suddy days are past-- Add Subber's gawd!

I kdow dot what it is to which I cligg That stirs to sogg add sorrow, yet I trust That still I sigg, but as the liddets sigg-- Because I bust.

Add dow, farewell to roses add to birds, To larded fields and tigkligg streablets eke; Farewell to all articulated words I faid would speak.

Farewell, by cherished strolliggs od the sward, Greed glades add forest shades, farewell to you; With sorrowing heart I, wretched add forlord, Bid you--achew!!!

_Unknown._

RHYME OF THE RAIL

Singing through the forests, Rattling over ridges, Shooting under arches, Rumbling over bridges, Whizzing through the mountains, Buzzing o'er the vale-- Bless me! this is pleasant, Riding on the Rail!

Men of different "stations" In the eye of Fame Here are very quickly Coming to the same. High and lowly people, Birds of every feather, On a common level Travelling together.

Gentleman in shorts, Looming very tall; Gentleman at large, Talking very small; Gentleman in tights, With a loose-ish mien; Gentleman in grey, Looking rather green;

Gentleman quite old, Asking for the news; Gentleman in black, In a fit of blues; Gentleman in claret, Sober as a vicar; Gentleman in tweed, Dreadfully in liquor!

Stranger on the right, Looking very sunny, Obviously reading Something very funny. Now the smiles are thicker, Wonder what they mean? Faith, he's got the |Knicker- Bocker| Magazine!

Stranger on the left, Closing up his peepers; Now he snores again, Like the Seven Sleepers; At his feet a volume Gives the explanation, How the man grew stupid From "Association."

Ancient maiden lady Anxiously remarks, That there must be peril 'Mong so many sparks; Roguish-looking fellow, Turning to the stranger, Says it's his opinion _She_ is out of danger!

Woman with her baby, Sitting _vis-à-vis_, Baby keeps a-squalling, Woman looks at me; Asks about the distance, Says it's tiresome talking, Noises of the cars Are so very shocking!

Market-woman, careful Of the precious casket, Knowing eggs are eggs, Tightly holds her basket; Feeling that a smash, If it came, would surely Send her eggs to pot Rather prematurely.

Singing through the forests, Rattling over ridges, Shooting under arches, Rumbling over bridges, Whizzing through the mountains, Buzzing o'er the vale; Bless me! this is pleasant, Riding on the Rail!

_John G. Saxe._

ECHO

I asked of Echo, t'other day (Whose words are often few and funny), What to a novice she could say Of courtship, love, and matrimony. Quoth Echo plainly,--"Matter-o'-money!"

Whom should I marry? Should it be A dashing damsel, gay and pert, A pattern of inconstancy; Or selfish, mercenary flirt? Quoth Echo, sharply,--"Nary flirt!"

What if, aweary of the strife That long has lured the dear deceiver, She promise to amend her life, And sin no more; can I believe her? Quoth Echo, very promptly,--"Leave her!"

But if some maiden with a heart On me should venture to bestow it, Pray, should I act the wiser part To take the treasure or forego it? Quoth Echo, with decision,--"Go it!"

But what if, seemingly afraid To bind her fate in Hymen's fetter, She vow she means to die a maid, In answer to my loving letter? Quoth Echo, rather coolly,--"Let her!"

What if, in spite of her disdain, I find my heart intwined about With Cupid's dear delicious chain So closely that I can't get out? Quoth Echo, laughingly,--"Get out!"

But if some maid with beauty blest, As pure and fair as Heaven can make her, Will share my labor and my rest Till envious Death shall overtake her? Quoth Echo (sotto voce),--"Take her!"

_John G. Saxe._

SONG

Echo, tell me, while I wander O'er this fairy plain to prove him, If my shepherd still grows fonder, Ought I in return to love him? Echo: Love him, love him!

If he loves, as is the fashion, Should I churlishly forsake him? Or in pity to his passion, Fondly to my bosom take him? Echo: Take him, take him!

Thy advice then, I'll adhere to, Since in Cupid's chains I've led him; And with Henry shall not fear to Marry, if you answer, "Wed him!" Echo: Wed him, wed him!

_Joseph Addison._

A GENTLE ECHO ON WOMAN

IN THE DORIC MANNER

_Shepherd._ Echo, I ween, will in the woods reply, And quaintly answer questions: shall I try? _Echo._ Try. _Shepherd._ What must we do our passion to express? _Echo._ Press. _Shepherd._ How shall I please her, who ne'er loved before? _Echo._ Before. _Shepherd._ What most moves women when we them address? _Echo._ A dress. _Shepherd._ Say, what can keep her chaste whom I adore? _Echo._ A door. _Shepherd._ If music softens rocks, love tunes my lyre. _Echo._ Liar. _Shepherd._ Then teach me, Echo, how shall I come by her? _Echo._ Buy her. _Shepherd._ When bought, no question I shall be her dear? _Echo._ Her deer. _Shepherd._ But deer have horns: how must I keep her under? _Echo._ Keep her under. _Shepherd._ But what can glad me when she's laid on bier? _Echo._ Beer. _Shepherd._ What must I do so women will be kind? _Echo._ Be kind. _Shepherd._ What must I do when women will be cross? _Echo._ Be cross. _Shepherd._ Lord, what is she that can so turn and wind? _Echo._ Wind. _Shepherd._ If she be wind, what stills her when she blows? _Echo._ Blows. _Shepherd._ But if she bang again, still should I bang her? _Echo._ Bang her. _Shepherd._ Is there no way to moderate her anger? _Echo._ Hang her. _Shepherd._ Thanks, gentle Echo! right thy answers tell What woman is and how to guard her well. _Echo._ Guard her well.

_Dean Swift._

LAY OF ANCIENT ROME

Oh, the Roman was a rogue, He erat was, you bettum; He ran his automobilus And smoked his cigarettum. He wore a diamond studibus And elegant cravattum, A maxima cum laude shirt And such a stylish hattum!

He loved the luscious hic-haec-hoc, And bet on games and equi; At times he won at others though, He got it in the nequi; He winked, (quo usque tandem?) at Puellas on the Forum, And sometimes, too, he even made Those goo-goo oculorum!

He frequently was seen At combats gladiatorial And ate enough to feed Ten boarders at Memorial; He often went on sprees And said, on starting homus, "Hic labour--opus est, Oh, where's my hic--hic--domus?"

Although he lived in Rome,-- Of all the arts the middle-- He was, (excuse the phrase,) A horrid individ'l; Ah, what a different thing Was the homo (dative, hominy) Of far away B. C. From us of Anno Domini.

_Thomas R. Ybarra._

A NEW SONG

OF NEW SIMILES

My passion is as mustard strong; I sit all sober sad; Drunk as a piper all day long, Or like a March-hare mad.

Round as a hoop the bumpers flow; I drink, yet can't forget her; For though as drunk as David's sow I love her still the better.

Pert as a pear-monger I'd be, If Molly were but kind; Cool as a cucumber could see The rest of womankind.

Like a stuck pig I gaping stare, And eye her o'er and o'er; Lean as a rake, with sighs and care, Sleek as a mouse before.

Plump as a partridge was I known, And soft as silk my skin; My cheeks as fat as butter grown, But as a goat now thin!

I melancholy as a cat, Am kept awake to weep; But she, insensible of that, Sound as a top can sleep.

Hard is her heart as flint or stone, She laughs to see me pale; And merry as a grig is grown, And brisk as bottled ale.

The god of Love at her approach Is busy as a bee; Hearts sound as any bell or roach, Are smit and sigh like me.

Ah me! as thick as hops or hail The fine men crowd about her; But soon as dead as a door-nail Shall I be, if without her.

Straight as my leg her shape appears, O were we join'd together! My heart would be scot-free from cares, And lighter than a feather.

As fine as five-pence is her mien, No drum was ever tighter; Her glance is as the razor keen, And not the sun is brighter.

As soft as pap her kisses are, Methinks I taste them yet; Brown as a berry is her hair, Her eyes as black as jet.

As smooth as glass, as white as curds Her pretty hand invites; Sharp as her needle are her words, Her wit like pepper bites.

Brisk as a body-louse she trips, Clean as a penny drest; Sweet as a rose her breath and lips, Round as the globe her breast.

Full as an egg was I with glee, And happy as a king: Good Lord! how all men envied me! She loved like any thing.

But false as hell, she, like the wind, Chang'd, as her sex must do; Though seeming as the turtle kind, And like the gospel true.

If I and Molly could agree, Let who would take Peru! Great as an Emperor should I be, And richer than a Jew.

Till you grow tender as a chick, I'm dull as any post; Let us like burs together stick, And warm as any toast.

You'll know me truer than a die, And wish me better sped; Flat as a flounder when I lie, And as a herring dead.

Sure as a gun she'll drop a tear And sigh, perhaps, and wish, When I am rotten as a pear, And mute as any fish.

_John Gay._

THE AMERICAN TRAVELLER

To Lake Aghmoogenegamook All in the State of Maine, A man from Wittequergaugaum came One evening in the rain.

"I am a traveller," said he, "Just started on a tour, And go to Nomjamskillicook To-morrow morn at four."

He took a tavern-bed that night, And, with the morrow's sun, By way of Sekledobskus went, With carpet-bag and gun.

A week passed on, and next we find Our native tourist come To that sequestered village called Genasagarnagum.

From thence he went to Absequoit, And there--quite tired of Maine-- He sought the mountains of Vermont, Upon a railroad train.

Dog Hollow, in the Green Mount State, Was his first stopping-place; And then Skunk's Misery displayed Its sweetness and its grace.

By easy stages then he went To visit Devil's Den; And Scrabble Hollow, by the way, Did come within his ken.

Then _via_ Nine Holes and Goose Green He travelled through the State; And to Virginia, finally, Was guided by his fate.

Within the Old Dominion's bounds, He wandered up and down; To-day at Buzzard's Roost ensconced, To-morrow, at Hell Town.

At Pole Cat, too, he spent a week, Till friends from Bull Ring came; And made him spend a day with them In hunting forest-game.

Then, with his carpet-bag in hand, To Dog Town next he went; Though stopping at Free Negro Town, Where half a day he spent.

From thence, into Negationburg His route of travel lay; Which having gained, he left the State, And took a southward way.

North Carolina's friendly soil He trod at fall of night, And, on a bed of softest down, He slept at Hell's Delight.

Morn found him on the road again, To Lousy Level bound; At Bull's Tail, and Lick Lizard, too, Good provender he found.

The country all about Pinch Gut So beautiful did seem That the beholder thought it like A picture in a dream.

But the plantations near Burnt Coat Were even finer still, And made the wondering tourist feel A soft, delicious thrill.

At Tear Shirt, too, the scenery Most charming did appear, With Snatch It in the distance far, And Purgatory near.

But, spite of all these pleasant scenes, The tourist stoutly swore That home is brightest, after all, And travel is a bore.

So back he went to Maine, straightway; A little wife he took; And now is making nutmegs at Moosehicmagunticook.

_Robert H. Newell._

THE ZEALLESS XYLOGRAPHER

DEDICATED TO THE END OF THE DICTIONARY

A xylographer started to cross the sea By means of a Xanthic Xebec; But, alas! he sighed for the Zuyder Zee, And feared he was in for a wreck. He tried to smile, but all in vain, Because of a Zygomatic pain; And as for singing, his cheeriest tone Reminded him of a Xylophone-- Or else, when the pain would sharper grow, His notes were as keen as a Zuffolo. And so it is likely he did not find On board Xenodochy to his mind. The fare was poor, and he was sure Xerofphagy he could not endure; Zoöphagous surely he was, I aver, This dainty and starving Xylographer. Xylophagous truly he could not be-- No sickly vegetarian he! He'd have blubbered like any old Zeuglodon Had Xerophthalmia not come on. And the end of it was he never again In a Xanthic Xebec went sailing the main.

_Mary Mapes Dodge._

THE OLD LINE FENCE

Zig-zagging it went On the line of the farm, And the trouble it caused Was often quite warm, |The old line fence|. It was changed every year By decree of the court, To which, when worn out, Our sires would resort |With the old line fence|. In hoeing their corn, When the sun, too, was hot, They surely would jaw, Punch or claw, when they got |To the old line fence|. In dividing the lands It fulfilled no desires, But answered quite well In "dividing" our sires, |This old line fence|. Though sometimes in this It would happen to fail, When, with top rail in hand, One would flare up and scale |The old line fence|! Then the conflict was sharp On debatable ground, And the fertile soil there Would be mussed far around |The old line fence|. It was shifted so oft That no flowers there grew. What frownings and clods, And what words were shot through |The old line fence|! Our sires through the day There would quarrel or fight, With a vigour and vim, But 'twas different at night |By the old line fence|. The fairest maid there You would have descried That ever leaned soft On the opposite side |Of an old line fence|. Where our fathers built hate There we builded our love, Breathed our vows to be true With our hands raised above |The old line fence|. Its place might be changed, But there we would meet, With our heads through the rails, And with kisses most sweet, |At the old line fence|. It was love made the change, And the clasping of hands Ending ages of hate, And between us now stands |Not a sign of line fence|. No debatable ground Now enkindles alarms. I've the girl I met there, And, well, both of the farms, |And no line fence|.

_A. W. Bellow._

O-U-G-H

|a fresh hack at an old knot|

I'm taught p-l-o-u-g-h S'all be pronouncé "plow." "Zat's easy w'en you know," I say, "Mon Anglais, I'll get through!"

My teacher say zat in zat case, O-u-g-h is "oo." And zen I laugh and say to him, "Zees Anglais make me cough."

He say "Not 'coo,' but in zat word, O-u-g-h is 'off,'" Oh, Sacre bleu! such varied sounds Of words makes me hiccough!

He say, "Again mon frien' ees wrong; O-u-g-h is 'up' In hiccough." Zen I cry, "No more, You make my t'roat feel rough."

"Non, non!" he cry, "you are not right; O-u-g-h is 'uff.'" I say, "I try to spik your words, I cannot spik zem though!"

"In time you'll learn, but now you're wrong! O-u-g-h is 'owe.'" "I'll try no more, I s'all go mad, I'll drown me in ze lough!"

"But ere you drown yourself," said he, "O-u-g-h is 'ock.'" He taught no more, I held him fast, And killed him wiz a rough.

_Charles Battell Loomis._

ENIGMA ON THE LETTER H

'Twas whispered in heaven, 'twas muttered in hell, And echo caught faintly the sound as it fell; On the confines of earth 'twas permitted to rest, And the depths of the ocean its presence confessed; 'Twill be found in the sphere when 'tis riven asunder, Be seen in the lightning, and heard in the thunder. 'Twas allotted to man with his earliest breath, It assists at his birth and attends him in death, Presides o'er his happiness, honor, and health, Is the prop of his house and the end of his wealth, In the heaps of the miser is hoarded with care, But is sure to be lost in his prodigal heir. It begins every hope, every wish it must bound, It prays with the hermit, with monarchs is crowned; Without it the soldier, the sailor, may roam, But woe to the wretch who expels it from home. In the whisper of conscience 'tis sure to be found, Nor e'en in the whirlwind of passion is drowned; 'Twill soften the heart, but, though deaf to the ear, It will make it acutely and instantly hear; But, in short, let it rest like a delicate flower; Oh, breathe on it softly, it dies in an hour.

_Catherine Fanshawe._

TRAVESTY OF MISS FANSHAWE'S ENIGMA

I dwells in the Hearth, and I breathes in the Hair; If you searches the Hocean, you'll find that I'm there. The first of all Hangels in Holympus am Hi, Yet I'm banished from 'Eaven, expelled from on 'igh. But, though on this Horb I'm destined to grovel, I'm ne'er seen in an 'Ouse, in an 'Ut, nor an 'Ovel. Not an 'Orse, not an 'Unter e'er bears me, alas! But often I'm found on the top of a Hass. I resides in a Hattic, and loves not to roam, And yet I'm invariably absent from 'Ome. Though 'Ushed in the 'Urricane, of the Hatmosphere part, I enters no 'Ed, I creeps into no 'Art. Only look, and you'll see in the Heye Hi appear; Only 'Ark, and you'll 'Ear me just breathe in the Hear. Though in sex not an 'E, I am (strange paradox) Not a bit of an 'Effer, but partly a Hox. Of Heternity I'm the beginning! and, mark, Though I goes not with Noar, I'm first in the Hark. I'm never in 'Ealth; have with Fysic no power, I dies in a month, but comes back in a Hour.

_Horace Mayhew._

AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG

Good people all, of every sort, Give ear unto my song; And if you find it wondrous short,-- It cannot hold you long.

In Islington there was a man, Of whom the world might say That still a godly race he ran,-- Whene'er he went to pray.

A kind and gentle heart he had, To comfort friends and foes; The naked every day he clad,-- When he put on his clothes.

And in that town a dog was found, As many dogs there be, Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound, And curs of low degree.

The dog and man at first were friends; But when a pique began, The dog, to gain some private ends, Went mad, and bit the man.

Around from all the neighboring streets, The wondering neighbors ran, And swore the dog had lost his wits To bite so good a man.

The wound it seemed both sore and sad To every Christian eye; And while they swore the dog was mad They swore the man would die.

But soon a wonder came to light, That showed the rogues they lied; The man recovered of the bite, The dog it was that died.

_Oliver Goldsmith._

AN EPITAPH

Interred beneath this marble stone Lie sauntering Jack and idle Joan. While rolling threescore years and one Did round this globe their courses run. If human things went ill or well, If changing empires rose or fell, The morning past, the evening came, And found this couple just the same. They walked and ate, good folks. What then? Why, then they walked and ate again; They soundly slept the night away; They did just nothing all the day, Nor sister either had, nor brother; They seemed just tallied for each other. Their moral and economy Most perfectly they made agree; Each virtue kept its proper bound, Nor trespassed on the other's ground. Nor fame nor censure they regarded; They neither punished nor rewarded. He cared not what the footman did; Her maids she neither praised nor chid; So every servant took his course, And, bad at first, they all grew worse; Slothful disorder filled his stable, And sluttish plenty decked her table. Their beer was strong, their wine was port; Their meal was large, their grace was short. They gave the poor the remnant meat, Just when it grew not fit to eat. They paid the church and parish rate, And took, but read not, the receipt; For which they claimed their Sunday's due Of slumbering in an upper pew. No man's defects sought they to know, So never made themselves a foe. No man's good deeds did they commend, So never raised themselves a friend. Nor cherished they relations poor, That might decrease their present store; Nor barn nor house did they repair, That might oblige their future heir. They neither added nor confounded; They neither wanted nor abounded. Nor tear nor smile did they employ At news of grief or public joy When bells were rung and bonfires made, If asked, they ne'er denied their aid; Their jug was to the ringers carried, Whoever either died or married. Their billet at the fire was found, Whoever was deposed or crowned. Nor good, nor bad, nor fools, nor wise; They would not learn, nor could advise; Without love, hatred, joy, or fear, They led--a kind of--as it were; Nor wished, nor cared, nor laughed, nor cried. And so they lived, and so they died.

_Matthew Prior._

OLD GRIMES

Old Grimes is dead; that good old man We never shall see more: He used to wear a long, black coat, All button'd down before.

His heart was open as the day, His feelings all were true; His hair was some inclined to gray-- He wore it in a queue.

Whene'er he heard the voice of pain, His breast with pity burn'd; The large, round head upon his cane From ivory was turn'd.

Kind words he ever had for all; He knew no base design: His eyes were dark and rather small, His nose was aquiline.

He lived at peace with all mankind, In friendship he was true: His coat had pocket-holes behind, His pantaloons were blue.

Unharm'd, the sin which earth pollutes He pass'd securely o'er, And never wore a pair of boots For thirty years or more.

But good old Grimes is now at rest, Nor fears misfortune's frown: He wore a double-breasted vest-- The stripes ran up and down.

He modest merit sought to find, Any pay it its desert: He had no malice in his mind, No ruffles on his shirt.

His neighbors he did not abuse-- Was sociable and gay: He wore large buckles on his shoes, And changed them every day.

His knowledge, hid from public gaze, He did not bring to view, Nor made a noise, town-meeting days, As many people do.

His worldly goods he never threw In trust to fortune's chances, But lived (as all his brothers do) In easy circumstances.

Thus undisturb'd by anxious cares, His peaceful moments ran; And everybody said he was A fine old gentleman.

_Albert Gorton Greene._

THE ENDLESS SONG

Oh, I used to sing a song, An' dey said it was too long, So I cut it off de en' To accommodate a frien' Nex' do', nex' do'-- To accommodate a frien' nex' do'.

But it made de matter wuss Dan it had been at de fus, 'Ca'ze de en' was gone, an' den Co'se it didn't have no en' Any mo', any mo'-- Oh, it didn't have no en' any mo'!

So, to save my frien' from sinnin', I cut off de song's beginnin'; Still he cusses right along Whilst I sings _about_ my song Jes so, jes so-- Whilst I sings _about_ my song _jes so_.

How to please 'im is my riddle, So I'll fall back on my fiddle; For I'd stan' myself on en' To accommodate a frien' Nex' do', nex' do'-- To accommodate a frien' nex' do'.

_Ruth McEnery Stuart._

THE HUNDRED BEST BOOKS

First there's the Bible, And then the Koran, Odgers on Libel, Pope's Essay on Man, Confessions of Rousseau, The Essays of Lamb, Robinson Crusoe And Omar Khayyam, Volumes of Shelley And Venerable Bede, Machiavelli And Captain Mayne Reid, Fox upon Martyrs And Liddell and Scott, Stubbs on the Charters, The works of La Motte, The Seasons by Thomson, And Paul de Verlaine, Theodore Mommsen And Clemens (Mark Twain), The Rocks of Hugh Miller, The Mill on the Floss, The Poems of Schiller, The Iliados, Don Quixote (Cervantes), La Pucelle by Voltaire, Inferno (that's Dante's), And Vanity Fair, Conybeare-Howson, Brillat-Savarin, And Baron Munchausen, Mademoiselle De Maupin, The Dramas of Marlowe, The Three Musketeers, Clarissa Harlowe, And the Pioneers, Sterne's Tristram Shandy, The Ring and the Book, And Handy Andy, And Captain Cook, The Plato of Jowett, And Mill's Pol. Econ., The Haunts of Howitt, The Encheiridion, Lothair by Disraeli, And Boccaccio, The Student's Paley, And Westward Ho! The Pharmacop[oe]ia, Macaulay's Lays, Of course The Medea, And Sheridan's Plays, The Odes of Horace, And Verdant Green, The Poems of Morris, The Faery Queen, The Stones of Venice, Natural History (White's), And then Pendennis, The Arabian Nights, Cicero's Orations, Plain Tales from the Hills, The Wealth of Nations, And Byles on Bills, As in a Glass Darkly, Demosthenes' Crown, The Treatise of Berkeley, Tom Hughes's Tom Brown, The Mahabharata, The Humour of Hook, The Kreutzer Sonata, And Lalla Rookh, Great Battles by Creasy, And Hudibras, And Midshipman Easy, And Rasselas, Shakespeare _in extenso_ And the Æneid, And Euclid (Colenso), The Woman who Did, Poe's Tales of Mystery, Then Rabelais, Guizot's French History, And Men of the Day, Rienzi, by Lytton, The Poems of Burns, The Story of Britain, The Journey (that's Sterne's), The House of Seven Gables, Carroll's Looking-glass, Æsop his Fables, And Leaves of Grass, Departmental Ditties, The Woman in White, The Tale of Two Cities, Ships that Pass in the Night, Meredith's Feverel, Gibbon's Decline, Walter Scott's Peveril, And--some verses of mine.

_Mostyn T. Pigott._

THE COSMIC EGG

Upon a rock, yet uncreate, Amid a chaos inchoate, An uncreated being sate; Beneath him, rock, Above him, cloud. And the cloud was rock, And the rock was cloud. The rock then growing soft and warm, The cloud began to take a form, A form chaotic, vast and vague, Which issued in the cosmic egg. Then the Being uncreate On the egg did incubate, And thus became the incubator; And of the egg did allegate, And thus became the alligator; And the incubator was potentate, But the alligator was potentator.

_Unknown._

FIVE WINES

Brisk methinks I am, and fine When I drink my cap'ring wine; Then to love I do incline, When I drink my wanton wine; And I wish all maidens mine, When I drink my sprightly wine; Well I sup and well I dine, When I drink my frolic wine; But I languish, lower, and pine, When I want my fragrant wine.

_Robert Herrick._

A RHYME FOR MUSICIANS

Händel, Bendel, Mendelssohn, Brendel, Wendel, Jadassohn, Müller, Hiller, Heller, Franz, Plothow, Flotow, Burto, Ganz.

Meyer, Geyer, Meyerbeer, Heyer, Weyer, Beyer, Beer, Lichner, Lachner, Schachner, Dietz, Hill, Will, Brüll, Grill, Drill, Reiss, Rietz.

Hansen, Jansen, Jensen, Kiehl, Siade, Gade, Laade, Stiehl, Naumann, Riemann, Diener, Wurst, Niemann, Kiemann, Diener, Furst.

Kochler, Dochler, Rubinstein, Himmel, Hummel, Rosenhain, Lauer, Bauer, Kleinecke, Homberg, Plomberg, Reinecke.

_E. Lemke._

MY MADELINE

SERENADE IN M FLAT

SUNG BY MAJOR MARMADUKE MUTTONHEAD TO MADEMOISELLE MADELINE MENDOZA

My Madeline! my Madeline! Mark my melodious midnight moans; Much may my melting music mean, My modulated monotones.

My mandolin's mild minstrelsy, My mental music magazine, My mouth, my mind, my memory, Must mingling murmur "Madeline!"

Muster 'mid midnight masquerades, Mark Moorish maidens, matrons' mien; 'Mongst Murcia's most majestic maids, Match me my matchless Madeline.

Mankind's malevolence may make Much melancholy musing mine; Many my motives may mistake, My modest merits much malign.

My Madeline's most mirthful mood Much mollifies my mind's machine, My mournfulness's magnitude Melts--make me merry, Madeline!

Match-making mas may machinate, Man[oe]uvring misses me mis-ween; Mere money may make many mate, My magic motto's "Madeline!"

Melt, most mellifluous melody, 'Midst Murcia's misty mounts marine; Meet me 'mid moonlight; marry me, _Madonna mia_! my Madeline!

_Walter Parke._

SUSAN SIMPSON

Sudden swallows swiftly skimming, Sunset's slowly spreading shade, Silvery songsters sweetly singing, Summer's soothing serenade.

Susan Simpson strolled sedately, Stifling sobs, suppressing sighs. Seeing Stephen Slocum, stately She stopped, showing some surprise.

"Say," said Stephen, "sweetest sigher; Say, shall Stephen spouseless stay?" Susan, seeming somewhat shyer, Showed submissiveness straightway.

Summer's season slowly stretches, Susan Simpson Slocum she-- So she signed some simple sketches-- Soul sought soul successfully.

* * * * *

Six Septembers Susan swelters; Six sharp seasons snow supplies; Susan's satin sofa shelters Six small Slocums side by side.

_Unknown._

THE MARCH TO MOSCOW

The Emperor Nap he would set off On a summer excursion to Moscow; The fields were green and the sky was blue, Morbleu! Parbleu! What a splendid excursion to Moscow!

Four hundred thousand men and more Must go with him to Moscow: There were Marshals by the dozen, And Dukes by the score; Princes a few, and Kings one or two; While the fields are so green, and the sky so blue, Morbleu! Parbleu! What a pleasant excursion to Moscow!

There was Junot and Augereau, Heigh-ho for Moscow! Dombrowsky and Poniatowsky, Marshall Ney, lack-a-day! General Rapp, and the Emperor Nap; Nothing would do, While the fields were so green, and the sky so blue, Morbleu! Parbleu! Nothing would do For the whole of his crew, But they must be marching to Moscow.

The Emperor Nap he talk'd so big That he frighten'd Mr. Roscoe. John Bull, he cries, if you'll be wise, Ask the Emperor Nap if he will please To grant you peace upon your knees, Because he is going to Moscow! He'll make all the Poles come out of their holes, And beat the Russians, and eat the Prussians; For the fields are green, and the sky is blue, Morbleu! Parbleu! And he'll certainly march to Moscow! And Counsellor Brougham was all in a fume At the thought of the march to Moscow: The Russians, he said, they were undone, And the great Fee-Faw-Fum Would presently come, With a hop, step, and jump, unto London, For, as for his conquering Russia, However some persons might scoff it, Do it he could, do it he would, And from doing it nothing would come but good, And nothing could call him off it. Mr. Jeffrey said so, who must certainly know, For he was the Edinburgh Prophet. They all of them knew Mr. Jeffrey's Review, Which with Holy Writ ought to be reckon'd: It was, through thick and thin, to its party true, Its back was buff, and its sides were blue, Morbleu! Parbleu! It served them for law and for gospel too.

But the Russians stoutly they turned to Upon the road to Moscow. Nap had to fight his way all through; They could fight, though they could not parlez-vous; But the fields were green, and the sky was blue, Morbleu! Parbleu! And so he got to Moscow.

He found the place too warm for him, For they set fire to Moscow. To get there had cost him much ado, And then no better course he knew While the fields were green, and the sky was blue, Morbleu! Parbleu! But to march back again from Moscow.

The Russians they stuck close to him All on the road from Moscow. There was Tormazow and Jemalow, And all the others that end in ow; Milarodovitch and Jaladovitch, And Karatschkowitch, And all the others that end in itch; Schamscheff, Souchosaneff, And Schepaleff, And all the others that end in eff: Wasiltschikoff, Kotsomaroff, And Tchoglokoff, And all the others that end in off; Rajeffsky, and Novereffsky, And Rieffsky, And all the others that end in effsky; Oscharoffsky and Rostoffsky, And all the others that end in offsky; And Platoff he play'd them off, And Shouvaloff he shovell'd them off, And Markoff he mark'd them off, And Krosnoff he cross'd them off, And Touchkoff he touch'd them off, And Boroskoff he bored them off, And Kutousoff he cut them off, And Parenzoff he pared them off, And Worronzoff he worried them off, And Doctoroff he doctor'd them off, And Rodinoff he flogg'd them off. And, last of all, an Admiral came, A terrible man with a terrible name, A name which you all know by sight very well, But which no one can speak, and no one can spell. They stuck close to Nap with all their might; They were on the left and on the right Behind and before, and by day and by night; He would rather parlez-vous than fight; But he look'd white, and he look'd blue. Morbleu! Parbleu! When parlez-vous no more would do. For they remember'd Moscow.

And then came on the frost and snow All on the road from Moscow. The wind and the weather he found, in that hour, Cared nothing for him, nor for all his power; For him who, while Europe crouch'd under his rod, Put his trust in his Fortune, and not in his God. Worse and worse every day the elements grew, The fields were so white and the sky was so blue, Sacrebleu! Ventrebleu! What a horrible journey from Moscow!

What then thought the Emperor Nap Upon the road from Moscow? Why, I ween he thought it small delight To fight all day, and to freeze all night; And he was besides in a very great fright, For a whole skin he liked to be in; And so not knowing what else to do, When the fields were so white, and the sky so blue, Morbleu! Parbleu! He stole away,--I tell you true,-- Upon the road from Moscow. 'Tis myself, quoth he, I must mind most; So the devil may take the hindmost.

Too cold upon the road was he; Too hot had he been at Moscow; But colder and hotter he may be, For the grave is colder than Moscovy; And a place there is to be kept in view, Where the fire is red, and the brimstone blue, Morbleu! Parbleu! Which he must go to, If the Pope say true, If he does not in time look about him; Where his namesake almost He may have for his Host; He has reckon'd too long without him; If that Host get him in Purgatory, He won't leave him there alone with his glory; But there he must stay for a very long day, For from thence there is no stealing away, As there was on the road from Moscow.

_Robert Southey._

HALF HOURS WITH THE CLASSICS

Ah, those hours when by-gone sages Led our thoughts through Learning's ways, When the wit of sunnier ages, Called once more to Earth the days When rang through Athens' vine-hung lanes Thy wild, wild laugh, Aristophanes!

Pensive through the land of Lotus, Sauntered we by Nilus' side; Garrulous old Herodotus Still our mentor, still our guide, Prating of the mystic bliss Of Isis and of Osiris.

All the learn'd ones trooped before us, All the wise of Hellas' land, Down from mythic Pythagoras, To the hemlock drinker grand. Dark the hour that closed the gates Of gloomy Dis on thee, Socrates.

Ah, those hours of tend'rest study, When Electra's poet told Of Love's cheek once warm and ruddy, Pale with grief, with death chill cold! Sobbing low like summer tides Flow thy verses, Euripides!

High our hearts beat when Cicero Shook the Capitolian dome; How we shuddered, watching Nero 'Mid the glare of blazing Rome! How those records still affright us On thy gloomy page, Tacitus!

Back to youth I seem to glide, as I recall those by-gone scenes, When we conned o'er Thucydides, Or recited Demosthenes.

L'ENVOI

Ancient sages, pardon these Somewhat doubtful quantities.

_H. I. DeBurgh._

ON THE OXFORD CARRIER

Here lieth one, who did most truly prove That he could never die while he could move; So hung his destiny never to rot While he might still jog on and keep his trot; Made of sphere metal, never to decay Until his revolution was at stay. Time numbers motion, yet (without a crime 'Gainst old truth) motion number'd out his time And like an engine moved with wheel and weight, His principles being ceased, he ended straight. Rest, that gives all men life, gave him his death, And too much breathing put him out of breath; Nor were it contradiction to affirm, Too long vacation hasten'd on his term. Merely to drive the time away he sicken'd, Fainted, and died, nor would with ale be quicken'd; "Nay," quoth he, on his swooning bed outstretch'd, "If I mayn't carry, sure I'll ne'er be fetch'd, But vow, though the cross doctors all stood hearers, For one carrier put down to make six bearers." Ease was his chief disease; and to judge right, He died for heaviness that his cart went light: His leisure told him that his time was come. And lack of load made his life burdensome. That even to his last breath (there be that say't), As he were press'd to death, he cried, "More weight;" But, had his doings lasted as they were, He had been an immortal carrier. Obedient to the moon he spent his date In course reciprocal, and had his fate Link'd to the mutual flowing of the seas, Yet (strange to think) his wane was his increase: His letters are deliver'd all, and gone, Only remains the superscription.

_John Milton._

NINETY-NINE IN THE SHADE

O for a lodge in a garden of cucumbers! O for an iceberg or two at control! O for a vale which at mid-day the dew cumbers! O for a pleasure-trip up to the pole!

O for a little one-story thermometer, With nothing but zeroes all ranged in a row! O for a big double-barreled hygrometer, To measure this moisture that rolls from my brow!

O that this cold world were twenty times colder! (That's irony red-hot it seemeth to me); O for a turn of its dreaded cold shoulder! O what a comfort an ague would be!

O for a grotto frost-lined and rill-riven, Scooped in the rock under cataract vast! O for a winter of discontent even! O for wet blankets judiciously cast!

O for a soda-fount spouting up boldly From every hot lamp-post against the hot sky! O for proud maiden to look on me coldly, Freezing my soul with a glance of her eye!

Then O for a draught from a cup of cold pizen, And O for a resting-place in the cold grave! With a bath in the Styx where the thick shadow lies on And deepens the chill of its dark-running wave.

_Rossiter Johnson._

THE TRIOLET

Easy is the triolet, If you really learn to make it! Once a neat refrain you get, Easy is the triolet. As you see!--I pay my debt With another rhyme. Deuce take it, Easy is the triolet, If you really learn to make it!

_William Ernest Henley._

THE RONDEAU

You bid me try, Blue-eyes, to write A Rondeau. What! forthwith?--to-night? Reflect? Some skill I have, 'tis true; But thirteen lines!--and rhymed on two!-- "Refrain," as well. Ah, hapless plight!

Still there are five lines--ranged aright. These Gallic bonds, I feared, would fright My easy Muse. They did, till you-- You bid me try!

That makes them eight.--The port's in sight; 'Tis all because your eyes are bright! Now just a pair to end in "oo,"-- When maids command, what can't we do? Behold! The Rondeau--tasteful, light-- You bid me try!

_Austin Dobson._

LIFE[1]

1. Why all this toil for triumphs of an hour? 2. Life's a short summer, man a flower. 3. By turns we catch the vital breath and die-- 4. The cradle and the tomb, alas! so nigh. 5. To be, is better far than not to be. 6. Though all man's life may seem a tragedy; 7. But light cares speak when mighty griefs are dumb, 8. The bottom is but shallow whence they come. 9. Your fate is but the common lot of all: 10. Unmingled joys here to no man befall, 11. Nature to each allots his proper sphere; 12. Fortune makes folly her peculiar care; 13. Custom does often reason overrule, 14. And throw a cruel sunshine on a fool. 15. Live well; how long or short, permit to Heaven; 16. They who forgive most, shall be most forgiven. 17. Sin may be clasped so close we cannot see its face-- 18. Vile intercourse where virtue has no place. 19. Then keep each passion down, however dear; 20. Thou pendulum betwixt a smile and tear. 21. Her sensual snares, let faithless pleasure lay, 22. With craft and skill, to ruin and betray; 23. Soar not too high to fall, but stoop to rise. 24. We masters grow of all that we despise. 25. Oh, then, renounce that impious self-esteem; 26. Riches have wings, and grandeur is a dream. 27. Think not ambition wise because 'tis brave, 28. The paths of glory lead but to the grave. 29. What is ambition?--'tis a glorious cheat!-- 30. Only destructive to the brave and great. 31. What's all the gaudy glitter of a crown? 32. The way to bliss lies not on beds of down. 33. How long we live, not years but actions tell; 34. That man lives twice who lives the first life well. 35. Make, then, while yet ye may, your God your friend, 36. Whom Christians worship yet not comprehend. 37. The trust that's given guard, and to yourself be just; 38. For, live we how we can, yet die we must.

_Unknown._

[Footnote 1: 1. Young; 2. Dr. Johnson; 3. Pope; 4. Prior; 5. Sewell; 6. Spenser; 7. Daniell; 8. Sir Walter Raleigh; 9. Longfellow; 10. Southwell; 11. Congreve; 12. Churchill; 13. Rochester; 14. Armstrong; 15. Milton; 16. Bailey; 17. Trench; 18. Somerville; 19. Thomson; 20. Byron; 21. Smollett; 22. Crabbe; 23. Massinger; 24. Cowley; 25. Beattie; 26. Cowper; 27. Sir Walter Davenant; 28. Gray; 29. Willis; 30. Addison; 31. Dryden; 32. Francis Quarles; 33. Watkins; 34. Herrick; 35. William Mason; 36. Hill; 37. Dana; 38. Shakespeare.]

ODE TO THE HUMAN HEART

Blind Thamyris, and blind Mæonides, Pursue the triumph and partake the gale! Drop tears as fast as the Arabian trees, To point a moral or adorn a tale.

Full many a gem of purest ray serene, Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears, Like angels' visits, few and far between, Deck the long vista of departed years.

Man never is, but always to be bless'd; The tenth transmitter of a foolish face, Like Aaron's serpent, swallows up the rest, And makes a sunshine in the shady place.

For man the hermit sigh'd, till woman smiled, To waft a feather or to drown a fly, (In wit a man, simplicity a child,) With silent finger pointing to the sky.

But fools rush in where angels fear to tread Far out amid the melancholy main; As when a vulture on Imaus bred, Dies of a rose in aromatic pain.

_Laman Blanchard._

A STRIKE AMONG THE POETS

In his chamber, weak and dying, While the Norman Baron lay, Loud, without, his men were crying, "Shorter hours and better pay."

Know you why the ploughman, fretting, Homeward plods his weary way Ere his time? He's after getting Shorter hours and better pay.

See! the _Hesperus_ is swinging Idle in the wintry bay, And the skipper's daughter's singing, "Shorter hours and better pay."

Where's the minstrel boy? I've found him Joining in the labour fray With his placards slung around him, "Shorter hours and better pay."

Oh, young Lochinvar is coming; Though his hair is getting grey, Yet I'm glad to hear him humming, "Shorter hours and, better pay."

E'en the boy upon the burning Deck has got a word to say, Something rather cross concerning Shorter hours and better pay.

Lives of great men all remind us We can make as much as they, Work no more, until they find us Shorter hours and better pay.

Hail to thee, blithe spirit! (Shelley) Wilt thou be a blackleg? Nay. Soaring, sing above the mélée, "Shorter hours and better pay."

_Unknown._

WHATEVER IS, IS RIGHT

Lives there a man with soul so dead Who never to himself has said, "Shoot folly as it flies"? Oh! more than tears of blood can tell, Are in that word, farewell, farewell! 'Tis folly to be wise.

And what is friendship but a name, That boils on Etna's breast of flame? Thus runs the world away, Sweet is the ship that's under sail To where yon taper cheers the vale, With hospitable ray!

Drink to me only with thine eyes Through cloudless climes and starry skies! My native land, good night! Adieu, adieu, my native shore; 'Tis Greece, but living Greece no more-- Whatever is, is right!

_Laman Blanchard._

NOTHING

Mysterious Nothing! how shall I define Thy shapeless, baseless, placeless emptiness? Nor form, nor colour, sound, nor size is thine, Nor words nor fingers can thy voice express; But though we cannot thee to aught compare, A thousand things to thee may likened be, And though thou art with nobody nowhere, Yet half mankind devote themselves to thee. How many books thy history contain; How many heads thy mighty plans pursue; What labouring hands thy portion only gain; What busy bodies thy doings only do! To thee the great, the proud, the giddy bend, And--like my sonnet--all in nothing end.

_Richard Porson._

DIRGE

To the memory of Miss Ellen Gee, of Kew, who died in consequence of being stung in the eye.

Peerless yet hapless maid of Q! Accomplish'd LN G! Never again shall I and U Together sip our T.

For, ah! the Fates I know not Y, Sent 'midst the flowers a B, Which ven'mous stung her in the I, So that she could not C.

LN exclaim'd, "Vile spiteful B! If ever I catch U On jess'mine, rosebud, or sweet P, I'll change your singing Q.

"I'll send you like a lamb or U Across th' Atlantic C. From our delightful village Q To distant O Y E.

"A stream runs from my wounded I, Salt as the briny C As rapid as the X or Y, The OIO or D.

"Then fare thee ill, insensate B! Who stung, nor yet knew Y, Since not for wealthy Durham's C Would I have lost my I."

They bear with tears fair LN G In funeral R A, A clay-cold corse now doom'd to B Whilst I mourn her DK. Ye nymphs of Q, then shun each B, List to the reason Y; For should A B C U at T, He'll surely sting your I.

Now in a grave L deep in Q, She's cold as cold can B, Whilst robins sing upon A U Her dirge and LEG.

_Unknown._

O D V

CONTAINING A FULL, TRUE, AND PARTICULAR ACCOUNT OF THE TERRIBLE FATE OF ABRAHAM ISAACS, OF IVY LANE

"True 'tis P T, and P T 'tis, 'tis true."

In I V Lane, of C T fame, There lived a man D C, And A B I 6 was his name, Now mark his history.

Long time his conduct free from blame Did merit L O G, Until an evil spirit came In the shape of O D V.

"O! that a man into his mouth Should put an N M E To steal away his brains"--no drouth Such course from sin may free.

Well, A B drank, the O T loon! And learned to swear, sans ruth; And then he gamed, and U Z soon To D V 8 from truth.

An hourly glass with him was play, He'd swallow that with phlegm; Judge what he'd M T in a day, "X P D _Herculem_."

Of virtue none to sots, I trow, With F E K C prate; And O of N R G could now From A B M N 8.

Who on strong liquor badly dote, Soon poverty must know; Thus A B in a C D coat Was shortly forced to go.

From poverty D C T he caught, And cheated not A F U, For what he purchased paying O, Or but an "I O U."

Or else when he had tried B 4, To shirk a debt, his wits, He'd cry, "You shan't wait N E more, I'll W or quits."

So lost did I 6 now A P R, That said his wife, said she, "F U act so, your fate quite clear Is for 1 2 4 C."

His inside soon was out and out More fiery than K N; And while his state was thereabout A cough C V R came.

He I P K Q N A tried, And linseed T and rue; But O could save him, so he died As every 1 must 2.

Poor wight! till black in' the face he raved, 'Twas P T S 2 C His latest spirit "spirit" craved-- His last words, "O D V."

MORAL

I'll not S A to preach and prate, But tell U if U do Drink O D V at such R 8, Death will 4 stall U 2.

O U then who A Y Z have, Shun O D V as a wraith, For 'tis a bonus to the grave, An S A unto death.

_Unknown._

A MAN OF WORDS

A man of words and not of deeds, Is like a garden full of weeds; And when the weeds begin to grow, It's like a garden full of snow; And when the snow begins to fall, It's like a bird upon the wall; And when the bird away does fly, It's like an eagle in the sky; And when the sky begins to roar, It's like a lion at the door; And when the door begins to crack, It's like a stick across your back; And when your back begins to smart, It's like a penknife in your heart; And when your heart begins to bleed, You're dead, and dead, and dead indeed.

_Unknown._

SIMILES

As wet as a fish--as dry as a bone; As live as a bird--as dead as a stone; As plump as a partridge--as poor as a rat; As strong as a horse--as weak as a cat; As hard as a flint--as soft as a mole; As white as a lily--as black as a coal; As plain as a pike-staff--as rough as a bear; As light as a drum--as free as the air; As heavy as lead--as light as a feather; As steady as time--uncertain as weather; As hot as an oven--as cold as a frog; As gay as a lark--as sick as a dog; As slow as the tortoise--as swift as the wind; As true as the Gospel--as false as mankind; As thin as a herring--as fat as a pig; As proud as a peacock--as blithe as a grig; As savage as tigers--as mild as a dove; As stiff as a poker--as limp as a glove; As blind as a bat--as deaf as a post; As cool as a cucumber--as warm as a toast; As flat as a flounder--as round as a ball; As blunt as a hammer--as sharp as an awl; As red as a ferret--as safe as the stocks; As bold as a thief--as sly as a fox; As straight as an arrow--as crook'd as a bow; As yellow as saffron--as black as a sloe; As brittle as glass--as tough as gristle; As neat as my nail--as clean as a whistle; As good as a feast--as had as a witch; As light as is day--as dark as is pitch; As brisk as a bee--as dull as an ass; As full as a tick--as solid as brass.

_Unknown._

NO!

No sun--no moon! No morn--no noon-- No dawn--no dusk--no proper time of day-- No sky--no earthly view-- No distance looking blue-- No road--no street--no "t'other side the way"-- No end to any Row-- No indications where the Crescents go-- No top to any steeple-- No recognitions of familiar people-- No courtesies for showing 'em-- No knowing 'em! No travelling at all--no locomotion, No inkling of the way--no notion-- "No go"--by land or ocean-- No mail--no post-- No news from any foreign coast-- No park--no ring--no afternoon gentility-- No company--no nobility-- No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease, No comfortable feel in any member-- No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees, No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds, November!

_Thomas Hood._

FAITHLESS SALLY BROWN

Young Ben he was a nice young man, A carpenter by trade; And he fell in love with Sally Brown, That was a lady's maid.

But as they fetched a walk one day, They met a press-gang crew; And Sally she did faint away, Whilst Ben he was brought to.

The boatswain swore with wicked words, Enough to shock a saint, That though she did seem in a fit, 'Twas nothing but a feint.

"Come, girl," said he, "hold up your head, He'll be as good as me; For when your swain is in our boat, A boatswain he will be."

So when they'd made their game of her, And taken off her elf, She roused, and found she only was A coming to herself.

"And is he gone, and is he gone?" She cried, and wept outright: "Then I will to the water side, And see him out of sight."

A waterman came up to her,-- "Now, young woman," said he, "If you weep on so, you will make Eye-water in the sea."

"Alas! they've taken my beau, Ben, To sail with old Benbow;" And her woe began to run afresh, As if she'd said, "Gee woe!"

Says he, "They've only taken him To the Tender-ship, you see;" "The Tender-ship," cried Sally Brown, "What a hard-ship that must be!

"O! would I were a mermaid now, For then I'd follow him; But, O!--I'm not a fish-woman, And so I cannot swim.

"Alas! I was not born beneath The virgin and the scales, So I must curse my cruel stars, And walk about in Wales."

Now Ben had sailed to many a place That's underneath the world; But in two years the ship came home, And all her sails were furled.

But when he called on Sally Brown, To see how she got on, He found she'd got another Ben, Whose Christian name was John.

"O, Sally Brown, O, Sally Brown, How could you serve me so? I've met with many a breeze before, But never such a blow!"

Then reading on his 'bacco-box, He heaved a heavy sigh, And then began to eye his pipe, And then to pipe his eye.

And then he tried to sing "All's Well," But could not, though he tried; His head was turned, and so he chewed His pigtail till he died.

His death, which happened in his berth, At forty-odd befell: They went and told the sexton, and The sexton tolled the bell.

_Thomas Hood._

TIM TURPIN

Tim Turpin he was gravel blind, And ne'er had seen the skies: For Nature, when his head was made, Forgot to dot his eyes.

So, like a Christmas pedagogue, Poor Tim was forced to do,-- Look out for pupils, for he had A vacancy for two.

There's some have specs to help their sight Of objects dim and small; But Tim had _specks_ within his eyes, And could not see at all.

Now Tim he wooed a servant maid, And took her to his arms; For he, like Pyramus, had cast A wall-eye on her charms.

By day she led him up and down Where'er he wished to jog, A happy wife, although she led The life of any dog.

But just when Tim had lived a month In honey with his wife, A surgeon oped his Milton eyes, Like oysters, with a knife.

But when his eyes were opened thus, He wished them dark again; For when he looked upon his wife, He saw her very plain.

Her face was bad, her figure worse, He couldn't bear to eat; For she was anything but like A Grace before his meat.

Now Tim he was a feeling man: For when his sight was thick, It made him feel for everything,-- But that was with a stick.

So, with a cudgel in his hand,-- It was not light or slim,-- He knocked at his wife's head until It opened unto him.

And when the corpse was stiff and cold, He took his slaughtered spouse, And laid her in a heap with all The ashes of her house.

But, like a wicked murderer, He lived in constant fear From day to day, and so he cut His throat from ear to ear.

The neighbors fetched a doctor in: Said he, "This wound I dread Can hardly be sewed up,--his life Is hanging on a thread."

But when another week was gone, He gave him stronger hope,-- Instead of hanging on a thread, Of hanging on a rope.

Ah! when he hid his bloody work, In ashes round about, How little he supposed the truth Would soon be sifted out!

But when the parish dustman came, His rubbish to withdraw, He found more dust within the heap Than he contracted for!

A dozen men to try the fact, Were sworn that very day; But though they all were jurors, yet No conjurors were they.

Said Tim unto those jurymen, "You need not waste your breath, For I confess myself, at once, The author of her death.

"And O, when I reflect upon The blood that I have spilt, Just like a button is my soul, Inscribed with double _guilt_!"

Then turning round his head again He saw before his eyes A great judge, and a little judge, The judges of a-size!

The great judge took his judgment-cap, And put it on his head, And sentenced Tim by law to hang Till he was three times dead.

So he was tried, and he was hung (Fit punishment for such) On Horsham drop, and none can say It was a drop too much.

_Thomas Hood._

FAITHLESS NELLY GRAY

Ben Battle was a soldier bold, And used to war's alarms: But a cannon-ball took off his legs, So he laid down his arms!

Now, as they bore him off the field, Said he, "Let others shoot, For here I leave my second leg, And the Forty-second Foot!"

The army surgeons made him limbs: Said he, "They're only pegs; But there's as wooden members quite, As represent my legs!"

Now Ben he loved a pretty maid, Her name was Nelly Gray; So he went to pay her his devours When he'd devoured his pay!

But when he called on Nelly Gray, She made him quite a scoff; And when she saw his wooden legs, Began to take them off!

"O Nelly Gray! O Nelly Gray! Is this your love so warm? The love that loves a scarlet coat, Should be more uniform!"

Said she, "I loved a soldier once, For he was blithe and brave; But I will never have a man With both legs in the grave!

"Before you had those timber toes, Your love I did allow, But then you know, you stand upon Another footing now!"

"O Nelly Gray! O Nelly Gray! For all your jeering speeches, At duty's call I left my legs In Badajos's breaches!"

"Why, then," said she, "you've lost the feet Of legs in war's alarms, And now you cannot wear your shoes Upon your feats of arms!"

"Oh, false and fickle Nelly Gray; I know why you refuse: Though I've no feet--some other man Is standing in my shoes!

"I wish I ne'er had seen your face; But now a long farewell! For you will be my death--alas! You will not be my Nell!"

Now, when he went from Nelly Gray, His heart so heavy got-- And life was such a burden grown, It made him take a knot!

So round his melancholy neck A rope he did entwine, And, for his second time in life Enlisted in the Line!

One end he tied around a beam, And then removed his pegs, And as his legs were off,--of course, He soon was off his legs!

And there he hung till he was dead As any nail in town,-- For though distress had cut him up, It could not cut him down!

A dozen men sat on his corpse, To find out why he died-- And they buried Ben in four cross-roads, With a stake in his inside!

_Thomas Hood._

SALLY SIMPKIN'S LAMENT

"Oh! what is that comes gliding in, And quite in middling haste? It is the picture of my Jones, And painted to the waist.

"It is not painted to the life, For where's the trousers blue? O Jones, my dear!--Oh, dear! my Jones, What is become of you?"

"O Sally, dear, it is too true,-- The half that you remark Is come to say my other half Is bit off by a shark!

"O Sally, sharks do things by halves, Yet most completely do! A bite in one place seems enough, But I've been bit in two.

"You know I once was all your own, But now a shark must share! But let that pass--for now to you I'm neither here nor there.

"Alas! death has a strange divorce Effected in the sea, It has divided me from you, And even me from me!

"Don't fear my ghost will walk o' nights To haunt, as people say; My ghost _can't_ walk, for, oh! my legs Are many leagues away!

"Lord! think when I am swimming round, And looking where the boat is, A shark just snaps away a _half,_ Without 'a _quarter's notice_.'

"One half is here, the other half Is near Columbia placed; O Sally, I have got the whole Atlantic for my waist.

"But now, adieu--a long adieu! I've solved death's awful riddle, And would say more, but I am doomed To break off in the middle!"

_Thomas Hood._

DEATH'S RAMBLE

One day the dreary old King of Death Inclined for some sport with the carnal, So he tied a pack of darts on his back, And quietly stole from his charnel.

His head was bald of flesh and of hair, His body was lean and lank; His joints at each stir made a crack, and the cur Took a gnaw, by the way, at his shank.

And what did he do with his deadly darts, This goblin of grisly bone? He dabbled and spilled man's blood, and he killed Like a butcher that kills his own.

The first he slaughtered it made him laugh (For the man was a coffin-maker), To think how the mutes, and men in black suits, Would mourn for an undertaker.

Death saw two Quakers sitting at church; Quoth he, "We shall not differ." And he let them alone, like figures of stone, For he could not make them stiffer.

He saw two duellists going to fight, In fear they could not smother; And he shot one through at once--for he knew They never would shoot each other.

He saw a watchman fast in his box, And he gave a snore infernal; Said Death, "He may keep his breath, for his sleep Can never be more eternal."

He met a coachman driving a coach So slow that his fare grew sick; But he let him stray on his tedious way, For Death only wars on the _quick_.

Death saw a tollman taking a toll, In the spirit of his fraternity; But he knew that sort of man would extort, Though summoned to all eternity.

He found an author writing his life, But he let him write no further; For Death, who strikes whenever he likes, Is jealous of all self-murther!

Death saw a patient that pulled out his purse, And a doctor that took the sum; But he let them be--for he knew that the "fee" Was a prelude to "faw" and "fum."

He met a dustman ringing a bell, And he gave him a mortal thrust; For himself, by law, since Adam's flaw, Is contractor for all our dust.

He saw a sailor mixing his grog, And he marked him out for slaughter; For on water he scarcely had cared for death, And never on rum-and-water.

Death saw two players playing at cards, But the game wasn't worth a dump, For he quickly laid them flat with a spade, To wait for the final trump!

_Thomas Hood._

PANEGYRIC ON THE LADIES

READ ALTERNATE LINES

That man must lead a happy life Who's free from matrimonial chains, Who is directed by a wife Is sure to suffer for his pains.

Adam could find no solid peace When Eve was given for a mate; Until he saw a woman's face Adam was in a happy state.

In all the female race appear Hypocrisy, deceit, and pride; Truth, darling of a heart sincere, In woman never did reside.

What tongue is able to unfold The failings that in woman dwell? The worth in woman we behold Is almost imperceptible.

Confusion take the man, I say, Who changes from his singleness, Who will not yield to woman's sway Is sure of earthly blessedness.

_Unknown._

AMBIGUOUS LINES

READ WITH A COMMA AFTER THE FIRST NOUN IN EACH LINE

I saw a peacock with a fiery tail I saw a blazing comet pour down hail I saw a cloud all wrapt with ivy round I saw a lofty oak creep on the ground I saw a beetle swallow up a whale I saw a foaming sea brimful of ale I saw a pewter cup sixteen feet deep I saw a well full of men's tears that weep I saw wet eyes in flames of living fire I saw a house as high as the moon and higher I saw the glorious sun at deep midnight I saw the man who saw this wondrous sight.

I saw a pack of cards gnawing a bone I saw a dog seated on Britain's throne I saw King George shut up within a box I saw an orange driving a fat ox I saw a butcher not a twelvemonth old I saw a great-coat all of solid gold I saw two buttons telling of their dreams I saw my friends who wished I'd quit these themes.

_Unknown._

SURNAMES

Men once were surnamed for their shape or estate (You all may from history worm it), There was Louis the bulky, and Henry the Great, John Lackland, and Peter the Hermit: But now, when the doorplates of misters and dames Are read, each so constantly varies; From the owner's trade, figure, and calling, surnames Seem given by the rule of contraries.

Mr. Wise is a dunce, Mr. King is a whig, Mr. Coffin's uncommonly sprightly, And huge Mr. Little broke down in a gig While driving fat Mrs. Golightly. At Bath, where the feeble go more than the stout (A conduct well worthy of Nero), Over poor Mr. Lightfoot, confined with the gout, Mr. Heavyside danced a bolero.

Miss Joy, wretched maid, when she chose Mr. Love, Found nothing but sorrow await her; She now holds in wedlock, as true as a dove, That fondest of mates, Mr. Hayter. Mr. Oldcastle dwells in a modern-built hut; Miss Sage is of madcaps the archest; Of all the queer bachelors Cupid e'er cut, Old Mr. Younghusband's the starchest.

Mr. Child, in a passion, knock'd down Mr. Rock; Mr. Stone like an aspen-leaf shivers; Miss Pool used to dance, but she stands like a stock Ever since she became Mrs. Rivers. Mr. Swift hobbles onward, no mortal knows how, He moves as though cords had entwined him; Mr. Metcalf ran off upon meeting a cow, With pale Mr. Turnbull behind him.

Mr. Barker's as mute as a fish in the sea, Mr. Miles never moves on a journey, Mr. Gotobed sits up till half after three, Mr. Makepeace was bred an attorney. Mr. Gardener can't tell a flower from a root, Mr. Wild with timidity draws back, Mr. Ryder performs all his journeys on foot, Mr. Foot all his journeys on horseback.

Mr. Penny, whose father was rolling in wealth, Consumed all the fortune his dad won; Large Mr. Le Fever's the picture of health; Mr. Goodenough is but a bad one; Mr. Cruikshank stept into three thousand a year By showing his leg to an heiress: Now I hope you'll acknowledge I've made it quite clear Surnames ever go by contraries.

_James Smith._

A TERNARY OF LITTLES, UPON A PIPKIN OF JELLY SENT TO A LADY

A little saint best fits a little shrine, A little prop best fits a little vine; As my small cruse best fits my little wine.

A little seed best fits a little soil, A little trade best fits a little toil; As my small jar best fits my little oil.

A little bin best fits a little bread, A little garland fits a little head; As my small stuff best fits my little shed.

A little hearth best fits a little fire, A little chapel fits a little choir; As my small bell best fits my little spire.

A little stream best fits a little boat, A little lead best fits a little float; As my small pipe best fits my little note.

A little meat best fits a little belly, As sweetly, lady, give me leave to tell ye, This little pipkin fits this little jelly.

_Robert Herrick._

A CARMAN'S ACCOUNT OF A LAW-SUIT

Marry, I lent my gossip my mare, to fetch home coals, And he her drownéd into the quarry holes; And I ran to the Consistory, for to 'plain, And there I happened among a greedy meine. They gave me first a thing they call Citandum; Within eight days, I got but Libellandum; Within a month, I got Ad oppenendum; In half a year, I got Interloquendum; And then I got--how call ye it?--Ad replicandum. But I could never one word yet understand them; And then, they caused me cast out many placks, And made me pay for four-and-twenty acts. But, ere they came half gait to Concludendum, The fiend one plack was left for to defend him. Thus they postponed me two years, with their train, Then, hodie ad octo, bade me come again, And then, these rooks, they roupit wonder fast, For sentence silver, they criéd at the last. Of Pronunciandum they made me wonder fain; But I got never my good grey mare again.

_Sir David Lindesay._

OUT OF SIGHT, OUT OF MIND

The oft'ner seen, the more I lust, The more I lust, the more I smart, The more I smart, the more I trust, The more I trust, the heavier heart, The heavy heart breeds mine unrest, Thy absence therefore I like best.

The rarer seen, the less in mind, The less in mind, the lesser pain, The lesser pain, less grief I find, The lesser grief, the greater gain, The greater gain, the merrier I, Therefore I wish thy sight to fly.

The further off, the more I joy, The more I joy, the happier life, The happier life, less hurts annoy, The lesser hurts, pleasure most rife, Such pleasures rife shall I obtain When distance doth depart us train.

_Barnaby Googe._

NONGTONGPAW

John Bull for pastime took a prance, Some time ago, to peep at France; To talk of sciences and arts, And knowledge gain'd in foreign parts. Monsieur, obsequious, heard him speak, And answer'd John in heathen Greek: To all he ask'd, 'bout all he saw, 'Twas, _Monsieur, je vous n'entends pas_.

John, to the Palais-Royal come, Its splendor almost struck him dumb. "I say, whose house is that there here?" "House! _Je vous n'entends pas, Monsieur._" "What, Nongtongpaw again!" cries John; "This fellow is some mighty Don: No doubt he's plenty for the maw, I'll breakfast with this Nongtongpaw."

John saw Versailles from Marli's height, And cried, astonish'd at the sight, "Whose fine estate is that there here?" "State! _Je vous n'entends pas, Monsieur._" "His? what! the land and houses, too? The fellow's richer than a Jew: On _everything_ he lays his claw! I'd like to dine with Nongtongpaw."

Next tripping came a courtly fair, John cried, enchanted with her air, "What lovely wench is that there here?" "Ventch! _Je vous n'entends pas, Monsieur._" "What, he again? Upon, my life! A palace, lands, and then a wife Sir Joshua might delight to draw! I'd like to sup with Nongtongpaw."

"But hold! whose funeral's that?" cries John. "_Je vous n'entends pas._"--"What! is he gone? Wealth, fame, and beauty could not save Poor Nongtongpaw then from the grave! His race is run, his game is up,-- I'd with him breakfast, dine, and sup; But since he chooses to withdraw, Good night t'ye, Mounseer Nongtongpaw!"

_Charles Dibdin._

LOGICAL ENGLISH

I said, "This horse, sir, will you shoe?" And soon the horse was shod. I said, "This deed, sir, will you do?" And soon the deed was dod!

I said, "This stick, sir, will you break?" At once the stick he broke. I said, "This coat, sir, will you make?" And soon the coat he moke!

_Unknown._

LOGIC

I have a copper penny and another copper penny, Well, then, of course, I have two copper pence; I have a cousin Jenny and another cousin Jenny, Well, pray, then, do I have two cousin Jence?

_Unknown._

THE CAREFUL PENMAN

A Persian penman named Aziz, Remarked, "I think I know my biz. For when I write my name as is, It is Aziz as is Aziz."

_Unknown._

QUESTIONS WITH ANSWERS

What is earth, sexton?--A place to dig graves; What is earth, rich men?--A place to work slaves, What is earth, grey-beard?--A place to grow old; What is earth, miser?--A place to dig gold; What is earth, school-boy?--A place for my play; What is earth, maiden?--A place to be gay; What is earth, seamstress?--A place where I weep; What is earth, sluggard?--A good place to sleep; What is earth, soldier?--A place for a battle; What is earth, herdsman?--A place to raise cattle; What is earth, widow?--A place of true sorrow; What is earth, tradesman?--I'll tell you to-morrow; What is earth, sick man?--'Tis nothing to me; What is earth, sailor?--My home is the sea; What is earth, statesman?--A place to win fame; What is earth, author?--I'll write there my name; What is earth, monarch?--For my realm 'tis given; What is earth, Christian?--The gateway of heaven.

_Unknown._

CONJUGAL CONJUGATIONS

Dear maid, let me speak What I never yet spoke: You have made my heart squeak As it never yet squoke, And for sight of you, both my eyes ache as they ne'er before oak.

With your voice my ears ring, And a sweeter ne'er rung, Like a bird's on the wing When at morn it has wung. And gladness to me it doth bring, such as never voice brung.

My feelings I'd write, But they cannot be wrote, And who can indite What was never indote! And my love I hasten to plight--the first that I plote.

Yes, you would I choose, Whom I long ago chose, And my fond spirit sues As it never yet sose, And ever on you do I muse, as never man mose.

The house where you bide Is a blessed abode; Sure, my hopes I can't hide, For they will not be hode, And no person living has sighed, as, darling, I've sode.

Your glances they shine As no others have shone, And all else I'd resign That a man could resone, And surely no other could pine as I lately have pone.

And don't you forget You will ne'er be forgot, You never should fret As at times you have frot, I would chase all the cares that beset, if they ever besot.

For you I would weave Songs that never were wove, And deeds I'd achieve Which no man yet achove, And for me you never should grieve, as for you I have grove.

I'm as worthy a catch As ever, was caught. O, your answer I watch As a man never waught, And we'd make the most elegant match as ever was maught.

Let my longings not sink; I would die if they sunk. O, I ask you to think As you never have thunk, And our fortunes and lives let us link, as no lives could be lunk.

_A. W. Bellow._

LOVE'S MOODS AND SENSES

Sally Salter, she was a young lady who taught, And her friend Charley Church was a preacher who praught! Though his enemies called him a screecher who scraught.

His heart when he saw her kept sinking and sunk, And his eye, meeting hers, began winking and wunk; While she in her turn fell to thinking, and thunk.

He hastened to woo her, and sweetly he wooed, For his love grew until to a mountain it grewed, And what he was longing to do then he doed.

In secret he wanted to speak, and he spoke, To seek with his lips what his heart long had soke; So he managed to let the truth leak, and it loke.

He asked her to ride to the church, and they rode, They so sweetly did glide, that they both thought they glode, And they came to the place to be tied, and were tode.

Then, "homeward" he said, "let us drive" and they drove, And soon as they wished to arrive, they arrove; For whatever he couldn't contrive she controve.

The kiss he was dying to steal, then he stole: At the feet where he wanted to kneel, then he knole, And said, "I feel better than ever I fole."

So they to each other kept clinging, and clung; While time his swift circuit was winging, and wung; And this was the thing he was bringing, and brung:

The man Sally wanted to catch, and had caught-- That she wanted from others to snatch, and had snaught-- Was the one that she now liked to scratch and she scraught.

And Charley's warm love began freezing and froze, While he took to teasing, and cruelly toze The girl he had wished to be squeezing and squoze.

"Wretch!" he cried, when she threatened to leave him, and left, "How could you deceive me, as you have deceft?" And she answered, "I promised to cleave, and I've cleft!"

_Unknown._

THE SIEGE OF BELGRADE

An Austrian army, awfully array'd, Boldly by battery besiege Belgrade; Cossack commanders cannonading come, Deal devastation's dire destructive doom; Ev'ry endeavour engineers essay, For fame, for freedom, fight, fierce furious fray. Gen'rals 'gainst gen'rals grapple,--gracious God! How honors Heav'n heroic hardihood! Infuriate, indiscriminate in ill, Just Jesus, instant innocence instill! Kinsmen kill kinsmen, kindred kindred kill. Labour low levels longest, loftiest lines; Men march 'midst mounds, motes, mountains, murd'rous mines. Now noisy, noxious numbers notice nought, Of outward obstacles o'ercoming ought; Poor patriots perish, persecution's pest! Quite quiet Quakers "Quarter, quarter," quest; Reason returns, religion, right, redounds, Suwarow stop such sanguinary sounds! Truce to thee, Turkey, terror to thy train! Unwise, unjust, unmerciful Ukraine! Vanish vile vengeance, vanish victory vain! Why wish we warfare? wherefore welcome won Xerxes, Nantippus, Navier, Xenophon? Yield, ye young Yaghier yeomen, yield your yell! Zimmerman's, Zoroaster's, Zeno's zeal Again attract; arts against arms appeal. All, all ambitious aims, avaunt, away! Et cetera, et cetera, et ceterae.

_Unknown._

THE HAPPY MAN

La Galisse now I wish to touch; Droll air! if I can strike it, I'm sure the song will please you much; That is, if you should like it.

La Galisse was, indeed, I grant, Not used to any dainty, When he was born; but could not want As long as he had plenty.

Instructed with the greatest care, He always was well bred, And never used a hat to wear But when 'twas on his head.

His temper was exceeding good, Just of his father's fashion; And never quarrels boiled his blood Except when in a passion.

His mind was on devotion bent; He kept with care each high day, And Holy Thursday always spent The day before Good Friday.

He liked good claret very well, I just presume to think it; For ere its flavour he could tell He thought it best to drink it.

Than doctors more he loved the cook, Though food would make him gross, And never any physic took But when he took a dose.

Oh, happy, happy is the swain The ladies so adore; For many followed in his train Whene'er he walked before.

Bright as the sun his flowing hair In golden ringlets shone; And no one could with him compare, If he had been alone.

His talents I cannot rehearse, But every one allows That whatsoe'er he wrote in verse, No one could call it prose.

He argued with precision nice, The learned all declare; And it was his decision wise, No horse could be a mare.

His powerful logic would surprise, Amaze, and much delight: He proved that dimness of the eyes Was hurtful to the sight.

They liked him much--so it appears Most plainly--who preferred him; And those did never want their ears Who any time had heard him.

He was not always right, 'tis true, And then he must be wrong; But none had found it out, he knew, If he had held his tongue.

Whene'er a tender tear he shed, 'Twas certain that he wept; And he would lie awake in bed, Unless, indeed, he slept.

In tilting everybody knew His very high renown; Yet no opponents he o'erthrew But those that he knocked down.

At last they smote him in the head,-- What hero ever fought all? And when they saw that he was dead, They knew the wound was mortal.

And when at last he lost his breath, It closed his every strife; For that sad day that sealed his death Deprived him of his life.

_Gilles Ménage._

THE BELLS

Oh, it's H-A-P-P-Y I am, and it's F-R-double-E, And it's G-L-O-R-Y to know that I'm S-A-V-E-D. Once I was B-O-U-N-D by the chains of S-I-N And it's L-U-C-K-Y I am that all is well again.

Oh, the bells of Hell go ting-a-ling-a-ling For you, but not for me. The bells of Heaven go sing-a-ling-a-ling For there I soon shall be. Oh, Death, where is thy sting-a-ling-a-ling Oh, Grave, thy victorie-e. No Ting-a-ling-a-ling, no sting-a-ling-a-ling But sing-a-ling-a-ling for me.

_Unknown._

TAKINGS

He took her fancy when he came, He took her hand, he took a kiss, He took no notice of the shame That glowed her happy cheek at this.

He took to come of afternoons, He took an oath he'd ne'er deceive, He took her master's silver spoons, And after that he took his leave.

_Thomas Hood, Jr._

A BACHELOR'S MONO-RHYME

Do you think I'd marry a woman That can neither cook nor sew, Nor mend a rent in her gloves Or a tuck in her furbelow; Who spends her time in reading The novels that come and go; Who tortures heavenly music, And makes it a thing of woe; Who deems three-fourths of my income Too little, by half, to show What a figure she'd make, if I'd let her, 'Mid the belles of Rotten Row; Who has not a thought in her head Where thoughts are expected to grow, Except of trumpery scandals Too small for a man to know? Do you think I'd wed with _that_, Because both high and low Are charmed by her youthful graces And her shoulders white as snow? Ah no! I've a wish to be happy, I've a thousand a year or so, 'Tis all I can expect That fortune will bestow! So, pretty one, idle one, stupid one! You're not for me, I trow, To-day, nor yet to-morrow, No, no! decidedly no!

_Charlts Mackay._

THE ART OF BOOK-KEEPING

How hard, when those who do not wish To lend, that's lose, their books, Are snared by anglers--folks that fish With literary hooks;

Who call and take some favourite tome, But never read it through; They thus complete their set at home, By making one at you.

Behold the bookshelf of a dunce Who borrows--never lends; Yon work, in twenty volumes, once Belonged to twenty friends.

New tales and novels you may shut From view--'tis all in vain; They're gone--and though the leaves are "cut" They never "come again."

For pamphlets lent I look around, For tracts my tears are spilt; But when they take a book that's bound, 'Tis surely extra guilt.

A circulating library Is mine--my birds are flown; There's one odd volume left, to be Like all the rest, a-lone.

I, of my "Spenser" quite bereft, Last winter sore was shaken; Of "Lamb" I've but a quarter left, Nor could I save my "Bacon."

My "Hall" and "Hill" were levelled flat, But "Moore" was still the cry; And then, although I threw them "Sprat," They swallowed up my "Pye."

O'er everything, however slight, They seized some airy trammel; They snatched my "Hogg" and "Fox" one night, And pocketed my "Campbell."

And then I saw my "Crabbe" at last, Like Hamlet's, backward go; And as my tide was ebbing fast, Of course I lost my "Rowe."

I wondered into what balloon My books their course had bent; And yet, with all my marvelling, soon I found my "Marvell" went.

My "Mallet" served to knock me down, Which makes me thus a talker; And once, while I was out of town, My "Johnson" proved a "Walker."

While studying o'er the fire one day My "Hobbes" amidst the smoke; They bore my "Colman" clean away, And carried off my "Coke."

They picked my "Locke," to me far more Than Bramah's patent's worth; And now my losses I deplore, Without a "Home" on earth.

If once a book you let them lift, Another they conceal, For though I caught them stealing "Swift," As swiftly went my "Steele."

"Hope" is not now upon my shelf, Where late he stood elated; But, what is strange, my "Pope" himself Is excommunicated.

My little "Suckling" in the grave Is sunk, to swell the ravage; And what 'twas Crusoe's fate to save 'Twas mine to lose--a "Savage."

Even "Glover's" works I cannot put My frozen hands upon; Though ever since I lost my "Foote," My "Bunyan" has been gone.

My "Hoyle" with "Cotton" went; oppressed, My "Taylor" too must fail; To save my "Goldsmith" from arrest, In vain I offered "Bayle."

I "Prior," sought, but could not see The "Hood" so late in front; And when I turned to hunt for "Lee," Oh! where was my "Leigh Hunt!"

I tried to laugh, old care to tickle, Yet could not "Tickell" touch; And then, alas! I missed my "Mickle," And surely mickle's much.

'Tis quite enough my griefs to feed, My sorrows to excuse, To think I cannot read my "Reid," Nor even use my "Hughes."

To "West," to "South," I turn my head, Exposed alike to odd jeers; For since my "Roger Ascham's" fled, I ask 'em for my "Rogers."

They took my "Horne"--and "Horne Tooke" too, And thus my treasures flit; I feel when I would "Hazlitt" view, The flames that it has lit.

My word's worth little, "Wordsworth" gone, If I survive its doom; How many a bard I doted on Was swept off--with my "Broome."

My classics would not quiet lie, A thing so fondly hoped; Like Dr. Primrose, I may cry, "My 'Livy' has eloped!"

My life is wasting fast away-- I suffer from these shocks; And though I fixed a lock on "Grey" There's grey upon my locks.

I'm far from young--am growing pale-- I see my "Butter" fly; And when they ask about my _ail_, 'Tis "Burton" I reply.

They still have made me slight returns, And thus my griefs divide; For oh! they've cured me of my "Burns," And eased my "Akenside."

But all I think I shall not say, Nor let my anger burn; For as they never found me "Gay," They have not left me "Sterne."

_Laman Blanchard._

AN INVITATION TO THE ZOOLOGICAL GARDENS

BY A STUTTERING LOVER

I have found out a gig-gig-gift for my fuf-fuf-fair, I have found where the rattlesnakes bub-bub-breed; Will you co-co-come, and I'll show you the bub-bub-bear, And the lions and tit-tit-tigers at fuf-fuf-feed.

I know where the co-co-cockatoo's song Makes mum-mum-melody through the sweet vale; Where the mum-monkeys gig-gig-grin all the day long, Or gracefully swing by the tit-tit-tit-tail.

You shall pip-play, dear, some did-did-delicate joke With the bub-bub-bear on the tit-tit-top of his pip-pip-pip-pole; But observe, 'tis forbidden to pip-pip-poke At the bub-bub-bear with your pip-pip-pink pip-pip-pip-pip-parasol!

You shall see the huge elephant pip-pip-play, You shall gig-gig-gaze on the stit-stit-stately raccoon; And then, did-did-dear, together we'll stray To the cage of the bub-bub-blue-faced bab-bab-boon.

You wished (I r-r-remember it well, And I lul-lul-loved you the m-m-more for the wish) To witness the bub-bub-beautiful pip-pip-pelican swallow the l-l-live little fuf-fuf-fish!

_Unknown._

A NOCTURNAL SKETCH

Even is come; and from the dark Park, hark, The signal of the setting sun--one gun! And six is sounding from the chime, prime time To go and see the Drury-Lane, Dane slain,-- Or hear Othello's jealous doubt spout out,-- Or Macbeth raving at that shade-made blade, Denying to his frantic clutch much touch;-- Or else to see Ducrow with wide stride ride Four horses as no other man can span; Or in the small Olympic Pit, sit split Laughing at Liston, while you quiz his phiz. Anon Night comes, and with her wings brings things Such as, with his poetic tongue, Young sung; The gas up-blazes with its bright white light, And paralytic watchmen prowl, howl, growl, About the streets and take up Pall-Mall Sal, Who, hasting to her nightly jobs, robs fobs.

Now thieves to enter for your cash, smash, crash, Past drowsy Charley, in a deep sleep, creep, But frightened by Policeman B 3, flee, And while they're going, whisper low, "No go!" Now puss, while folks are in their beds, treads leads. And sleepers waking, grumble--"Drat that cat!" Who in the gutter caterwauls, squalls, mauls Some feline foe, and screams in shrill ill-will.

Now Bulls of Bashan, of a prize size, rise In childish dreams, and with a roar gore poor Georgy, or Charley, or Billy, willy-nilly;-- But Nursemaid, in a nightmare rest, chest-pressed, Dreameth of one of her old flames, James Games, And that she hears--what faith is man's!--Ann's banns And his, from Reverend Mr. Rice, twice, thrice: White ribbons flourish, and a stout shout out, That upward goes, shows Rose knows those bows' woes!

_Thomas Hood._

LOVELILTS

Thine eyes, dear one, dot dot, are like, dash, what? They, pure as sacred oils, bless and anoint My sin-swamped soul which at thy feet sobs out, O exclamation point, O point, O point!

Ah, had I words, blank blank, which, dot, I've not, I'd swoon in songs which should'st illume the dark With light of thee. Ah, God (it's _strong_ to swear) Why, why, interrogation mark, why, mark?

Dot dot dot dot. And so, dash, yet, but nay! My tongue takes pause; some words must not be said, For fear the world, cold hyphen-eyed, austere, Should'st shake thee by the throat till reason fled.

One hour of love we've had. Dost thou recall Dot dot dash blank interrogation mark? The night was ours, blue heaven over all Dash, God! dot stars, keep thou our secret dark!

_Marion Hill._

JOCOSA LYRA

In our hearts is the Great One of Avon Engraven, And we climb the cold summits once built on By Milton.

But at times not the air that is rarest Is fairest, And we long in the valley to follow Apollo.

Then we drop from the heights atmospheric To Herrick, Or we pour the Greek honey, grown blander, Of Landor;

Or our cosiest nook in the shade is Where Praed is, Or we toss the light bells of the mocker With Locker.

Oh, the song where not one of the Graces Tight-laces,-- Where we woo the sweet Muses not starchly But archly,--

Where the verse, like a piper a-Maying, Comes playing,-- And the rhyme is as gay as a dancer In answer,--

It will last till men weary of pleasure In measure! It will last till men weary of laughter ... And after!

_Austin Dobson._

TO A THESAURUS

O precious code, volume, tome, Book, writing, compilation, work Attend the while I pen a pome, A jest, a jape, a quip, a quirk.

For I would pen, engross, indite, Transcribe, set forth, compose, address, Record, submit--yea, even write An ode, an elegy to bless--

To bless, set store by, celebrate, Approve, esteem, endow with soul, Commend, acclaim, appreciate, Immortalize, laud, praise, extol.

Thy merit, goodness, value, worth, Experience, utility-- O manna, honey, salt of earth, I sing, I chant, I worship thee!

How could I manage, live, exist, Obtain, produce, be real, prevail, Be present in the flesh, subsist, Have place, become, breathe or inhale.

Without thy help, recruit, support, Opitulation, furtherance, Assistance, rescue, aid, resort, Favour, sustention and advance?

Alack! Alack! and well-a-day! My case would then be dour and sad, Likewise distressing, dismal, gray, Pathetic, mournful, dreary, bad.

* * * * *

Though I could keep this up all day, This lyric, elegiac, song, Meseems hath come the time to say Farewell! Adieu! Good-by! So long!

_Franklin P. Adams._

THE FUTURE OF THE CLASSICS

No longer, O scholars, shall Plautus Be taught us. No more shall professors be partial To Martial. No ninny Will stop playing "shinney" For Pliny. Not even the veriest Mexican Greaser Will stop to read Cæsar. No true son of Erin will leave his potato To list to the love-lore of Ovid or Plato. Old Homer, That hapless old roamer, Will ne'er find a rest 'neath collegiate dome or Anywhere else. As to Seneca, Any cur Safely may snub him, or urge ill Effects from the reading of Virgil. Cornelius Nepos Wont keep us Much longer from pleasure's light errands-- Nor Terence. The irreverent now may all scoff in ease At the shade of poor old Aristophanes. And moderns it now doth behoove in all Ways to despise poor old Juvenal; And to chivvy Livy. The class-room hereafter will miss a row Of eager young students of Cicero. The 'longshoreman--yes, and the dock-rat, he's Down upon Socrates. And what'll Induce us to read Aristotle? We shall fail in Our duty to Galen. No tutor henceforward shall rack us To construe old Horatius Flaccus. We have but a wretched opinion Of Mr. Justinian. In our classical pabulum mix we've no wee sop Of Æsop. Our balance of intellect asks for no ballast From Sallust. With feminine scorn no fair Vassar-bred lass at us Shall smile if we own that we cannot read Tacitus. No admirer shall ever now weathe with begonias The bust of Suetonius. And so, if you follow me, We'll have to cut Ptolemy. Besides, it would just be considered facetious To look at Lucretius. And you can Not go in Society if 'you read Lucan, And we cannot have any fun Out of Xenophon.

_Unknown._

CAUTIONARY VERSES

My little dears, who learn to read, pray early, learn to shun That very silly thing indeed which people call a pun; Read Entick's rules, and 'twill be found how simple an offence It is to make the selfsame sound afford a double sense.

For instance, ale may make you ail, your aunt an ant may kill, You in a vale may buy a veil and Bill may pay the bill. Or if to France your bark you steer, at Dover it may be A peer appears upon the pier, who blind, still goes to sea.

Thus, one might say, when, to a treat, good friends accept our greeting, 'Tis meet that men who meet to eat should eat their meat when meeting; Brawn on the board's no bore indeed, although from boar prepared; Nor can the fowl on which we feed, foul feeding be declared.

Thus one ripe fruit may be a pear, and yet be pared again, And still be one, which seemeth rare until we do explain. It therefore should be all your aim to speak with ample care, For who, however fond of game, would choose to swallow hair?

A fat man's gait may make us smile, who have no gate to close; The farmer sitting on his stile no stylish person knows. Perfumers men of scents must be; some Scilly men are bright; A brown man oft deep read we see, a black a wicked wight.

Most wealthy men good manors have, however vulgar they; And actors still the harder slave the oftener they play; So poets can't the baize obtain, unless their tailors choose; While grooms and coachmen, not in vain, each evening seek the Mews.

The dyer, who by dyeing lives, a dire life maintains; The glazier, it is known, receives his profits for his panes; By gardeners thyme is tied, 'tis true, when spring is in its prime, But time or tide won't wait for you if you are tied for time.

Then now you see, my little dears, the way to make a pun; A trick which you, through coming years, should sedulously shun; The fault admits of no defence; for wheresoe'er 'tis found, You sacrifice for sound the sense; the sense is never sound.

So let your words and actions too, one single meaning prove, And, just in all you say or do, you'll gain esteem and love; In mirth and play no harm you'll know when duty's task is done, But parents ne'er should let you go unpunished for a pun!

_Theodore Hook._

THE WAR: A-Z

An Austrian Archduke, assaulted and assailed, Broke Belgium's barriers, by Britain bewailed, Causing consternation, confused chaotic crises; Diffusing destructive, death dealing devices. England engaged earnestly, eager every ear, France fought furiously, forsaking foolish fear, Great German garrisons grappled Gallic guard, Hohenzollern Hussars hammered, heavy, hard. Infantry, Imperial, Indian, Irish, intermingling, Jackets jaunty, joking, jesting, jostling, jingling. Kinetic, Kruppised Kaiser, kingdom's killing knight, Laid Louvain lamenting, London lacking light, Mobilising millions, marvellous mobility, Numberless nonentities, numerous nobility. Oligarchies olden opposed olive offering, Prussia pressed Paris, Polish protection proffering, Quaint Quebec quickly quartered quotidian quota, Renascent Russia, resonant, reported regal rota. Scotch soldiers, sterling, songs stalwart sung, "Tipperary" thundered through titanic tongue. United States urging unarmament, unwanted, Visualised victory vociferously vaunted, Wilson's warnings wasted, world war wild, Xenian Nanthochroi Nantippically X-iled. Yorkshire's young yeomen yelling youthfully, "Zigzag Zeppelins, Zuyder Zee."

_John R. Edwards._

LINES TO MISS FLORENCE HUNTINGDON

Sweet maiden of Passamaquoddy Shall we seek for communion of souls Where the deep Mississippi meanders Or the distant Saskatchewan rolls?

Ah, no!--for in Maine I will find thee A sweetly sequestrated nook, Where the far-winding Skoodoowabskooksis Conjoins with the Skoodoowabskook.

There wander two beautiful rivers, With many a winding and crook: The one is the Skoodoowabskooksis; The other, the Skoodoowabskook.

Ah, sweetest of haunts! though unmentioned In geography, atlas, or book, How fair is the Skoodoowabskooksis, When joining the Skoodoowabskook!

Our cot shall be close by the waters, Within that sequestrated nook, Reflected by Skoodoowabskooksis, And mirrored in Skoodoowabskook.

You shall sleep to the music of leaflets, By zephyrs in wantonness shook, To dream of the Skoodoowabskooksis, And, perhaps, of the Skoodoowabskook.

Your food shall be fish from the waters, Drawn forth on the point of a hook, From murmuring Skoodoowabskooksis, Or meandering Skoodoowabskook.

You shall quaff the most sparkling of waters, Drawn forth from a silvery brook, Which flows to the Skoodoowabskooksis, And so to the Skoodoowabskook.

And you shall preside at the banquet, And I shall wait on you as cook; And we'll talk of the Skoodoowabskooksis, And sing of the Skoodoowabskook.

Let others sing loudly of Saco, Of Quoddy and Tattamagouche, Of Kenebeccasis and Quaco, Of Merigoniche and Buctouche,

Of Nashwaak and Magaguadavique, Or Memmerimammericook:-- There's none like the Skoodoowabskooksis, Excepting the Skoodoowabskook!

_Unknown._

TO MY NOSE

Knows he that never took a pinch, Nosey, the pleasure thence which flows, Knows he the titillating joys Which my nose knows? O Nose, I am as proud of thee As any mountain of its snows, I gaze on thee, and feel that pride A Roman knows!

_Albert A. Forrester (Alfred Crowquill)._

A POLKA LYRIC

Qui nunc dancere vult modo, Wants to dance in the fashion, oh! Discere debet--ought to know, Kickere floor cum heel and toe, One, two, three, Hop with me, Whirligig, twirligig, rapide.

Polkam jungere, Virgo, vis, Will you join the polka, miss? Liberius--most willingly, Sic agimus--then let us try: Nunc vide, Skip with me, Whirlabout, roundabout, celere.

Tum læva cito, turn dextra, First to the left, and then t'other way; Aspice retro in vultu, You look at her, and she looks at you. Das palmam Change hands, ma'am; Celere--run away, just in sham.

_Barclay Philips._

A _CAT_ALECTIC MONODY!

A cat I sing, of famous memory, Though _cat_achrestical my song may be; In a small garden _cat_acomb she lies, And _cat_aclysms fill her comrades' eyes; Borne on the air, the _cat_acoustic song Swells with her virtues' _cat_alogue along, No _cat_aplasm could lengthen out her years, Though mourning friends shed _cat_aracts of tears. Once loud and strong her _cat_echist-like voice It dwindled to a _cat_call's squeaking noise; Most _cat_egorical her virtues shone, By _cat_enation join'd each one to one;-- But a vile _cat_chpoll dog, with cruel bite, Like _cat_ling's cut, her strength disabled quite; Her _cat_erwauling pierced the heavy air, As _cat_aphracts their arms through legions bear; 'Tis vain! as _cat_erpillars drag away Their lengths, like _cat_tle after busy day, She ling'ring died, nor left in kit _kat_ the Embodyment of this _cat_astrophe.

_Cruikshank's Omnibus._

ODE FOR A SOCIAL MEETING

WITH SLIGHT ALTERATIONS BY A TEETOTALER

Come! fill a fresh bumper,--for why should we go logwood While the {nectar} still reddens our cups as they flow? decoction Pour out the {rich juices} still bright with the sun, dye-stuff Till o'er the brimmed crystal the {rubies} shall run. half-ripened apples The {purple-globed clusters} their life-dews have bled; taste sugar of lead How sweet is the {breath} of the {fragrance they shed}! rank poisons _wines!!!_ For Summer's {last roses} lie hid in the {wines} stable-boys smoking long-nines That were garnered by {maidens who laughed through the vines}, scowl howl scoff sneer Then a {smile}, and a {glass}, and a {toast}, and a {cheer}, strychnine and whiskey, and ratsbane and beer For {all the good wine, and we've some of it here}!

In cellar, in pantry, in attic, in hall, Down, down with the tyrant that masters us all! {Long live the gay servant that laughs for us all!}

_Oliver Wendell Holmes._

[Transcriber's note: The words in {braces} are struck out in the original text with alternatives above.]

THE JOVIAL PRIEST'S CONFESSION

TRANSLATED FROM THE LATIN OF WALTER DE MAPES, TIME OF HENRY II

I devise to end my days--in a tavern drinking, May some Christian hold for me--the glass when I am shrinking, That the cherubim may cry--when they see me sinking, God be merciful to a soul--of this gentleman's way of thinking.

A glass of wine amazingly--enlighteneth one's internals; 'Tis wings bedewed with nectar--that fly up to supernals; Bottles cracked in taverns--have much the sweeter kernels, Than the sups allowed to us--in the college journals.

Every one by nature hath--a mold which he was cast in; I happen to be one of those--who never could write fasting; By a single little boy--I should be surpass'd in Writing so: I'd just as lief--be buried; tomb'd and grass'd in.

Every one by nature hath--a gift too, a dotation: I, when I make verses--do get the inspiration Of the very best of wine--that comes into the nation: It maketh sermons to astound--for edification.

Just as liquor floweth good--floweth forth my lay so; But I must moreover eat--or I could not say so; Naught it availeth inwardly--should I write all day so; But with God's grace after meat--I beat Ovidius Naso.

Neither is there given to me--prophetic animation, Unless when I have eat and drank--yea, ev'n to saturation, Then in my upper story--hath Bacchus domination, And Ph[oe]bus rushes into me, and beggareth all relation.

_Leigh Hunt._

LIMERICKS

There was an old man of Tobago, Who lived upon rice, gruel and sago; Till, much to his bliss, His physician said this: "To a leg, sir, of mutton, you may go."

There was an old soldier of Bister, Went walking one day with his sister; When a cow, at one poke, Tossed her into an oak, Before the old gentleman missed her.

There was a young man of St. Kitts Who was very much troubled with fits; The eclipse of the moon Threw him into a swoon, When he tumbled and broke into bits.

There was an old man who said, "Gee! _I_ can't multiply seven by three! Though fourteen seems plenty, It _might_ come to twenty,-- I haven't the slightest idee!"

There was an old man in a pie, Who said, "I must fly! I must fly!" When they said, "You can't do it!" He replied that he knew it, But he _had_ to get out of that pie!

A Tutor who tooted the flute Tried to teach two young tooters to toot; Said the two to the Tutor, "Is it harder to toot, or To tutor two tooters to toot?"

_Carolyn Wells._

RECITED BY A CHINESE INFANT

If-itty-teshi-mow Jays Haddee ny up-plo-now-shi-buh nays; ha! ha! He lote im aw dow, Witty motti-fy flow; A-flew-ty ho-lot-itty flays! Hee!

_Translation_

Infinitesimal James Had nine unpronounceable names; He wrote them all down, With a mortified frown, And threw the whole lot in the flames.

For beauty I am not a star, There are others more handsome by far; But my face I don't mind it, For I am behind it, It's the people in front that I jar.

There was a young lady of Oakham, Who would steal your cigars and then soak 'em In treacle and rum, And then smear them with gum, So it wasn't a pleasure to smoke 'em.

There was an Old Man in a tree Who was horribly bored by a bee; When they said, "Does it buzz?" He replied, "Yes, it does! It's a regular brute of a bee."

_Edward Lear._

There was an Old Man of St. Bees Who was stung in the arm by a wasp. When asked, "Does it hurt?" He replied, "No, it doesn't, But I thought all the while 'twas a hornet."

_W. S. Gilbert._

There was an old man of the Rhine, When asked at what hour he would dine, Replied, "At eleven, Four, six, three and seven, And eight and a quarter of nine."

There was a young man of Laconia, Whose mother-in-law had pneumonia; He hoped for the worst, And after March first They buried her 'neath a begonia.

There was a young man of the cape Who always wore trousers of crêpe; When asked, "Don't they tear?" He replied, "Here and there; But they keep such a beautiful shape."

There once were some learned M.D.'s, Who captured some germs of disease, And infected a train, Which without causing pain, Allowed one to catch it with ease.

_Oliver Herford._

There was a young lady of Lynn, Who was deep in original sin; When they said, "Do be good," She said, "Would if I could!" And straightway went at it ag'in.

I'd rather have fingers than toes; I'd rather have ears than a nose; And as for my hair I'm glad it's all there, I'll be awfully sad when it goes.

_Gelett Burgess._

There was a young fellow named Clyde; Who was once at a funeral spied. When asked who was dead, He smilingly said, "_I_ don't know,--I just came for the ride!"

There was a young lady of Truro, Who wished a mahogany bureau; But her father said, "Dod! All the men on Cape Cod Couldn't buy a mahogany bureau!"

There was a young man of Ostend Who vowed he'd hold out to the end, But when halfway over From Calais to Dover, He done what he didn't intend--

There was a young man of Cohoes, Wore tar on the end of his nose; When asked why he done it, He said for the fun it Afforded the men of Cohoes.

_Robert J. Burdette._

There is a young artist called Whistler, Who in every respect is a bristler; A tube of white lead, Or a punch on the head, Come equally handy to Whistler.

_Dante Gabriel Rossetti._

There is a creator named God, Whose doings are sometimes quite odd; He made a painter named Val, And I say and I shall, That he does no great credit to God.

_J. M. Whistler._

There was a young lady of station, "I love man!" was her sole exclamation; But when men cried, "You flatter!" She replied, "Oh, no matter! Isle of Man, is the true explanation."

_Lewis Carroll._

There was a young lady of Twickenham, Whose shoes were too tight to walk quick in 'em; She came back from her walk, Looking white as a chalk, And took 'em both off and was sick in 'em.

_Oliver Herford._

"It's a very warm day," observed Billy. "I hope that you won't think it silly If I say that this heat Makes me think 'twould be sweet If one were a coolie in Chile!"

_Tudor Jenks._

There was a young man from Cornell, Who said, "I'm aware of a smell, But whether it's drains Or human remains, I'm really unable to tell."

There was a young lady from Joppa, Whose friends all decided to drop her; She went with a friend On a trip to Ostend,-- And the rest of the story's improper.

There once was a sculptor named Phidias, Whose statues by some were thought hideous; He made Aphrodite Without any nighty, Which shocked all the ultra-fastidious.

John woke on Jan. first and felt queer; Said, "Crackers I'll swear off this year! For the lobster and wine And the rabbit were fine,-- And it certainly wasn't the beer."

There was a young lady of Venice Who used hard-boiled eggs to play tennis; When they said, "You are wrong," She replied, "Go along! You don't know how prolific my hen is!"

There was a young man of Fort Blainey, Who proposed to his typist named Janey; When his friends said, "Oh, dear! She's so old and so queer!" He replied, "But the day was so rainy!"

XIII

NONSENSE

LUNAR STANZAS

Night saw the crew like pedlers with their packs Altho' it were too dear to pay for eggs; Walk crank along with coffin on their backs While in their arms they bow their weary legs.

And yet 'twas strange, and scarce can one suppose That a brown buzzard-fly should steal and wear His white jean breeches and black woollen hose, But thence that flies have souls is very clear.

But, Holy Father! what shall save the soul, When cobblers ask three dollars for their shoes? When cooks their biscuits with a shot-tower roll, And farmers rake their hay-cocks with their hoes.

Yet, 'twere profuse to see for pendant light, A tea-pot dangle in a lady's ear; And 'twere indelicate, although she might Swallow two whales and yet the moon shine clear.

But what to me are woven clouds, or what, If dames from spiders learn to warp their looms? If coal-black ghosts turn soldiers for the State, With wooden eyes, and lightning-rods for plumes?

Oh! too, too shocking! barbarous, savage taste! To eat one's mother ere itself was born! To gripe the tall town-steeple by the waste, And scoop it out to be his drinking-horn.

No more: no more! I'm sick and dead and gone; Boxed in a coffin, stifled six feet deep; Thorns, fat and fearless, prick my skin and bone, And revel o'er me, like a soulless sheep.

_Henry Coggswell Knight._

THE WHANGO TREE

The woggly bird sat on the whango tree, Nooping the rinkum corn, And graper and graper, alas! grew he, And cursed the day he was born. His crute was clum and his voice was rum, As curiously thus sang he, "Oh, would I'd been rammed and eternally clammed Ere I perched on this whango tree."

Now the whango tree had a bubbly thorn, As sharp as a nootie's bill, And it stuck in the woggly bird's umptum lorn And weepadge, the smart did thrill. He fumbled and cursed, but that wasn't the worst, For he couldn't at all get free, And he cried, "I am gammed, and injustibly nammed On the luggardly whango tree."

And there he sits still, with no worm in his bill, Nor no guggledom in his nest; He is hungry and bare, and gobliddered with care, And his grabbles give him no rest; He is weary and sore and his tugmut is soar, And nothing to nob has he, As he chirps, "I am blammed and corruptibly jammed, In this cuggerdom whango tree."

_Unknown._

THREE CHILDREN

Three children sliding on the ice Upon a summer's day, As it fell out they all fell in, The rest they ran away.

Now, had these children been at home, Or sliding on dry ground, Ten thousand pounds to one penny They had not all been drowned.

You parents all that children have, And you too that have none, If you would have them safe abroad Pray keep them safe at home.

_Unknown._

'TIS MIDNIGHT

'Tis midnight, and the setting sun Is slowly rising in the west; The rapid rivers slowly run, The frog is on his downy nest. The pensive goat and sportive cow, Hilarious, leap from bough to bough.

_Unknown._

COSSIMBAZAR

Come fleetly, come fleetly, my hookabadar, For the sound of the tam-tam is heard from afar. "Banoolah! Banoolah!" The Brahmins are nigh, And the depths of the jungle re-echo their cry. _Pestonjee Bomanjee!_ Smite the guitar;

Join in the chorus, my hookabadar. Heed not the blast of the deadly monsoon, Nor the blue Brahmaputra that gleams in the moon Stick to thy music, and oh, let the sound Be heard with distinctness a mile or two round. _Jamsetjee, Jeejeebhoy!_ Sweep the guitar. Join in the chorus, my hookabadar.

Art thou a Buddhist, or dost thou indeed Put faith in the monstrous Mohammedan creed? Art thou a Ghebir--a blinded Parsee? Not that it matters an atom to me. _Cursetjee Bomanjee!_ Twang the guitar Join in the chorus, my hookabadar.

_Henry S. Leigh._

AN UNSUSPECTED FACT

If down his throat a man should choose In fun, to jump or slide, He'd scrape his shoes against his teeth, Nor dirt his own inside. But if his teeth were lost and gone, And not a stump to scrape upon, He'd see at once how very pat His tongue lay there by way of mat, And he would wipe his feet on _that_!

_Edward Cannon._

THE CUMBERBUNCE

I strolled beside the shining sea, I was as lonely as could be; No one to cheer me in my walk But stones and sand, which cannot talk-- Sand and stones and bits of shell, Which never have a thing to tell.

But as I sauntered by the tide I saw a something at my side, A something green, and blue, and pink, And brown, and purple, too, I think. I would not say how large it was; I would not venture that, because It took me rather by surprise, And I have not the best of eyes.

Should you compare it to a cat, I'd say it was as large as that; Or should you ask me if the thing Was smaller than a sparrow's wing, I should be apt to think you knew, And simply answer, "Very true!"

Well, as I looked upon the thing, It murmured, "Please, sir, can I sing?" And then I knew its name at once-- It plainly was a Cumberbunce.

You are amazed that I could tell The creature's name so quickly? Well, I knew it was not a paper-doll, A pencil or a parasol, A tennis-racket or a cheese, And, as it was not one of these, And I am not a perfect dunce-- It had to be a Cumberbunce!

With pleading voice and tearful eye It seemed as though about to cry. It looked so pitiful and sad It made me feel extremely bad. My heart was softened to the thing That asked me if it, please, could sing. Its little hand I longed to shake, But, oh, it had no hand to take! I bent and drew the creature near, And whispered in its pale blue ear, "What! Sing, my Cumberbunce? You can! Sing on, sing loudly, little man!"

The Cumberbunce, without ado, Gazed sadly on the ocean blue, And, lifting up its little head, In tones of awful longing, said:

"Oh, I would sing of mackerel skies, And why the sea is wet, Of jelly-fish and conger-eels, And things that I forget. And I would hum a plaintive tune Of why the waves are hot As water boiling on a stove, Excepting that they're not!

"And I would sing of hooks and eyes, And why the sea is slant, And gayly tips the little ships, Excepting that I can't! I never sang a single song, I never hummed a note. There is in me no melody, No music in my throat.

"So that is why I do not sing Of sharks, or whales, or anything!"

I looked in innocent surprise, My wonder showing in my eyes, "Then why, O, Cumberbunce," I cried, "Did you come walking at my side And ask me if you, please, might sing, When you could not warble anything?"

"I did not ask permission, sir, I really did not, I aver. You, sir, misunderstood me, quite. I did not ask you if I _might_. Had you correctly understood, You'd know I asked you if I _could_. So, as I cannot sing a song, Your answer, it is plain, was wrong. The fact I could not sing I knew, But wanted your opinion, too."

A voice came softly o'er the lea. "Farewell! my mate is calling me!"

I saw the creature disappear, Its voice, in parting, smote my ear-- "I thought all people understood The difference 'twixt 'might' and 'could'!"

_Paul West._

MR. FINNEY'S TURNIP

Mr. Finney had a turnip And it grew and it grew; And it grew behind the barn, And that turnip did no harm.

There it grew and it grew Till it could grow no longer; Then his daughter Lizzie picked it And put it in the cellar.

There it lay and it lay Till it began to rot; And his daughter Susie took it And put it in the pot.

And they boiled it and boiled it As long as they were able, And then his daughters took it, And put it on the table.

Mr. Finney and his wife They sat down to sup; And they ate and they ate And they ate that turnip up.

_Unknown._

NONSENSE VERSES

Lazy-bones, lazy-bones, wake up and peep! The cat's in the cupboard, your mother's asleep. There you sit snoring, forgetting her ills; Who is to give her her Bolus and Pills? Twenty fine Angels must come into town, All for to help you to make your new gown: Dainty aerial Spinsters and Singers; Aren't you ashamed to employ such white fingers? Delicate hands, unaccustom'd to reels, To set 'em working a poor body's wheels? Why they came down is to me all a riddle, And left Hallelujah broke off in the middle: Jove's Court, and the Presence angelical, cut-- To eke out the work of a lazy young slut. Angel-duck, Angel-duck, winged and silly, Pouring a watering-pot over a lily, Gardener gratuitous, careless of pelf, Leave her to water her lily herself, Or to neglect it to death if she chuse it: Remember the loss is her own if she lose it.

_Charles Lamb._

LIKE TO THE THUNDERING TONE

Like to the thundering tone of unspoke speeches, Or like a lobster clad in logic breeches, Or like the gray fur of a crimson cat, Or like the mooncalf in a slipshod hat; E'en such is he who never was begotten Until his children were both dead and rotten.

Like to the fiery tombstone of a cabbage, Or like a crab-louse with its bag and baggage, Or like the four square circle of a ring, Or like to hey ding, ding-a, ding-a, ding; E'en such is he who spake, and yet, no doubt, Spake to small purpose, when his tongue was out.

Like to a fair, fresh, fading, wither'd rose, Or like to rhyming verse that runs in prose, Or like the stumbles of a tinder-box, Or like a man that's sound yet sickness mocks; E'en such is he who died and yet did laugh To see these lines writ for his epitaph.

_Bishop Corbet in 17th century._

ÆSTIVATION

In candent ire the solar splendour flames; The foles, languescent, pend from arid rames; His humid front the cive, anheling, wipes, And dreams of erring on ventiferous ripes.

How dolce to vive occult to mortal eyes, Dorm on the herb with none to supervise, Carp the suave berries from the crescent vine, And bibe the flow from longicaudate kine!

To me, alas! no verdurous visions come, Save yon exiguous pool's conferva-scum-- No concave vast repeats the tender hue That laves my milk-jug with celestial blue.

Me wretched! let me curr to quercine shades! Effund your albid hausts, lactiferous maids! Oh, might I vole to some umbrageous clump,-- Depart--be off,--excede,--evade,--crump!

_Oliver Wendell Holmes._

UNCLE SIMON AND UNCLE JIM

Uncle Simon he Clumb up a tree To see What he could see, When presentlee Uncle Jim Clumb up beside of him And squatted down by he.

_Charles Farrar Browne_ (Artemus Ward).

A TRAGIC STORY

There lived a sage in days of yore, And he a handsome pigtail wore; But wondered much and sorrowed more, Because it hung behind him.

He mused upon this curious case, And swore he'd change the pigtail's place, And have it hanging at his face, Not dangling there behind him.

Says he, "The mystery I've found,-- I'll turn me round,"--he turned him round; But still it hung behind him.

Then round and round, and out and in, All day the puzzled sage did spin; In vain--it mattered not a pin,-- The pigtail hung behind him.

And right and left, and round about, And up and down, and in and out, He turned; but still the pigtail stout Hung steadily behind him.

And though his efforts never slack, And though he twist and twirl and tack, Alas! still faithful to his back, The pigtail hangs behind him.

_W. M. Thackeray._

SONNET FOUND IN A DESERTED MAD HOUSE

Oh that my soul a marrow-bone might seize! For the old egg of my desire is broken, Spilled is the pearly white and spilled the yolk, and As the mild melancholy contents grease My path the shorn lamb baas like bumblebees. Time's trashy purse is as a taken token Or like a thrilling recitation, spoken By mournful mouths filled full of mirth and cheese.

And yet, why should I clasp the earthful urn? Or find the frittered fig that felt the fast? Or choose to chase the cheese around the churn? Or swallow any pill from out the past? Ah, no Love, not while your hot kisses burn Like a potato riding on the blast.

_Unknown._

THE JIM-JAM KING OF THE JOU-JOUS

AN ARABIAN LEGEND

Translated from the Arabic

Far off in the waste of desert sand, The Jim-jam rules in the Jou-jou land: He sits on a throne of red-hot rocks, And moccasin snakes are his curling locks; And the Jou-jous have the conniption fits In the far-off land where the Jim-jam sits-- If things are now as things were then. Allah il Allah! Oo-aye! Amen!

The country's so dry in Jou-jou land You could wet it down with Sahara sand, And over its boundaries the air Is hotter than 'tis--no matter where: A camel drops down completely tanned When he crosses the line in Jou-jou land-- If things are now as things were then. Allah il Allah! Oo-aye! Amen!

A traveller once got stuck in the sand On the fiery edge of Jou-jou land; The Jou-jous they confiscated him, And the Jim-jam tore him limb from limb; But, dying, he said: "If eaten I am, I'll disagree with this Dam-jim-jam! He'll think his stomach's a Hoodoo's den!" Allah il Allah! Oo-aye! Amen!

Then the Jim-jam felt so bad inside, It just about humbled his royal pride. He decided to physic himself with sand, And throw up his job in the Jou-jou land. He descended his throne of red-hot rocks, And hired a barber to cut his locks: The barber died of the got-'em-again. Allah il Allah! Oo-aye! Amen!

And now let every good Mussulman Get all the good from this tale he can. If you wander off on a Jamboree, Across the stretch of the desert sea, Look out that right at the height of your booze You don't get caught by the Jou-jou-jous! You may, for the Jim-jam's at it again. Allah il Allah! Oo-aye! Amen!

_Alaric Bertrand Stuart._

TO MARIE

When the breeze from the bluebottle's blustering blim Twirls the toads in a tooroomaloo, And the whiskery whine of the wheedlesome whim Drowns the roll of the rattatattoo, Then I dream in the shade of the shally-go-shee, And the voice of the bally-molay Brings the smell of stale poppy-cods blummered in blee From the willy-wad over the way. Ah, the shuddering shoo and the blinketty-blanks When the yungalung falls from the bough In the blast of a hurricane's hicketty-hanks On the hills of the hocketty-how! Give the rigamarole to the clangery-whang, If they care for such fiddlededee; But the thingumbob kiss of the whangery-bang Keeps the higgledy-piggle for me.

L'ENVOI

It is pilly-po-doddle and aligobung When the lollypop covers the ground, Yet the poldiddle perishes punketty-pung When the heart jimmy-coggles around. If the soul cannot snoop at the giggle-some cart, Seeking surcease in gluggety-glug, It is useless to say to the pulsating heart, "Panky-doodle ker-chuggetty-chug!"

_John Bennett._

MY DREAM

I dreamed a dream next Tuesday week, Beneath the apple-trees; I thought my eyes were big pork-pies, And my nose was Stilton cheese. The clock struck twenty minutes to six, When a frog sat on my knee; I asked him to lend me eighteenpence, But he borrowed a shilling of me.

_Unknown._

THE ROLLICKING MASTODON

A rollicking Mastodon lived in Spain, In the trunk of a Tranquil Tree. His face was plain, but his jocular vein Was a burst of the wildest glee. His voice was strong and his laugh so long That people came many a mile, And offered to pay a guinea a day For the fractional part of a smile.

The Rollicking Mastodon's laugh was wide-- Indeed, 'twas a matter of family pride; And oh! so proud of his jocular vein Was the Rollicking Mastodon over in Spain.

The Rollicking Mastodon said one day, "I feel that I need some air, For a little ozone's a tonic for bones, As well as a gloss for the hair." So he skipped along and warbled a song In his own triumphulant way. His smile was bright and his skip was light As he chirruped his roundelay.

The Rollicking Mastodon tripped along, And sang what Mastodons call a song; But every note of it seemed to pain The Rollicking Mastodon over in Spain.

A Little Peetookle came over the hill, Dressed up in a bollitant coat; And he said, "You need some harroway seed, And a little advice for your throat." The Mastodon smiled and said, "My child, There's a chance for your taste to grow. If you polish your mind, you'll certainly find How little, how little you know."

The Little Peetookle, his teeth he ground At the Mastodon's singular sense of sound; For he felt it a sort of a musical stain On the Rollicking Mastodon over in Spain.

"Alas! and alas! has it come to this pass?" Said the Little Peetookle. "Dear me! It certainly seems your horrible screams Intended for music must be!" The Mastodon stopped, his ditty he dropped, And murmured, "Good morning, my dear! I never will sing to a sensitive thing That shatters a song with a sneer!"

The Rollicking Mastodon bade him "adieu." Of course 'twas a sensible thing to do; For Little Peetookle is spared the strain Of the Rollicking Mastodon over in Spain.

_Arthur Macy._

_NONSENSE VERSES_

THE INVISIBLE BRIDGE

I'd Never Dare to Walk across A Bridge I Could Not See; For Quite afraid of Falling off, I fear that I Should Be!

THE LAZY ROOF

The Roof it has a Lazy Time A-lying in the Sun; The Walls they have to Hold Him Up; They do Not Have Much Fun!

MY FEET

My feet, they haul me Round the House, They Hoist me up the Stairs; I only have to Steer them and They Ride me Everywheres.

_Gelett Burgess._

SPIRK TROLL-DERISIVE

The Crankadox leaned o'er the edge of the moon, And wistfully gazed on the sea Where the Gryxabodill madly whistled a tune To the air of "Ti-fol-de-ding-dee." The quavering shriek of the Fliupthecreek Was fitfully wafted afar To the Queen of the Wunks as she powdered her cheek With the pulverized rays of a star.

The Gool closed his ear on the voice of the Grig, And his heart it grew heavy as lead As he marked the Baldekin adjusting his wig On the opposite side of his head; And the air it grew chill as the Gryxabodill Raised his dank, dripping fins to the skies To plead with the Plunk for the use of her bill To pick the tears out of his eyes.

The ghost of the Zhack flitted by in a trance; And the Squidjum hid under a tub As he heard the loud hooves of the Hooken advance With a rub-a-dub-dub-a-dub dub! And the Crankadox cried as he laid down and died, "My fate there is none to bewail!" While the Queen of the Wunks drifted over the tide With a long piece of crape to her tail.

_James Whitcomb Riley._

THE MAN IN THE MOON

Said the Raggedy Man on a hot afternoon, "My! Sakes! What a lot o' mistakes Some little folks makes on the Man in the Moon But people that's been up to see him like Me, And calls on him frequent and intimutly, Might drop a few hints that would interest you Clean! Through! If you wanted 'em to-- Some actual facts that might interest you!

"O the Man in the Moon has a crick in his back Whee! Whimm! Ain't you sorry for him? And a mole on his nose that is purple and black; And his eyes are so weak that they water and run If he dares to _dream_ even he looks at the sun,-- So he jes' dreams of stars, as the doctor's advise-- My! Eyes! But isn't he wise-- To jes' dream of stars, as the doctors advise?

"And the Man in the Moon has a boil on his ear-- Whee! Whing! What a singular thing! I know! but these facts are authentic, my dear,-- There's a boil on his ear; and a corn on his chin,-- He calls it a dimple,--but dimples stick in,-- Yet it might be a dimple turned over, you know! Whang! Ho! Why certainly so!-- It might be a dimple turned over, you know!

"And the Man in the Moon has a rheumatic knee, Gee! Whizz! What a pity that is! And his toes have worked round where his heels ought to be. So whenever he wants to go North he goes South, And comes back with porridge crumbs all round his mouth, And he brushes them off with a Japanese fan, Whing! Whann! What a marvellous man! What a very remarkably marvellous man!

"And the Man in the Moon," sighed the Raggedy Man, "Gits! So! Sullonesome, you know! Up there by himself since creation began!-- That when I call on him and then come away, He grabs me and holds me and begs me to stay,-- Till--well, if it wasn't for _Jimmy-cum-Jim_, Dadd! Limb! I'd go pardners with him! Jes' jump my bob here and be pardners with him!"

_James Whitcomb Riley._

THE LUGUBRIOUS WHING-WHANG

Out on the margin of moonshine land, Tickle me, love, in these lonesome ribs, Out where the whing-whang loves to stand Writing his name with his tail on the sand, And wiping it out with his oogerish hand; Tickle me, love, in these lonesome ribs.

Is it the gibber of gungs and keeks? Tickle me, love, in these lonesome ribs, Or what _is_ the sound the whing-whang seeks, Crouching low by the winding creeks, And holding his breath for weeks and weeks? Tickle me, love, in these lonesome ribs.

Aroint him the wraithest of wraithly things! Tickle me, love, in these lonesome ribs, 'Tis a fair whing-whangess with phosphor rings, And bridal jewels of fangs and stings, And she sits and as sadly and softly sings As the mildewed whir of her own dead wings; Tickle me, dear; tickle me here; Tickle me, love, in these lonesome ribs.

_James Whitcomb Riley._

THE YONGHY-BONGHY-BO

I

On the Coast of Coromandel Where the early pumpkins blow, In the middle of the woods Lived the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo. Two old chairs, and half a candle, One old jug without a handle,-- These were all his worldly goods: In the middle of the woods, These were all the worldly goods Of the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo, Of the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.

II

Once, among the Bong-trees walking Where the early pumpkins blow, To a little heap of stones Came the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo. There he heard a Lady talking, To some milk-white Hens of Dorking, "'Tis the Lady Jingly Jones! On that little heap of stones Sits the Lady Jingly Jones!" Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo, Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.

III

"Lady Jingly! Lady Jingly! Sitting where the pumpkins blow, Will you come and be my wife?" Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo, "I am tired of living singly,-- On this coast so wild and shingly,-- I'm a-weary of my life; If you'll come and be my wife, Quite serene would be my life!" Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo, Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.

IV

"On this Coast of Coromandel Shrimps and watercresses grow, Prawns are plentiful and cheap," Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo. "You shall have my chairs and candle, And my jug without a handle! Gaze upon the rolling deep (Fish is plentiful and cheap): As the sea, my love is deep!" Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo, Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.

V

Lady Jingly answered sadly, And her tears began to flow,-- "Your proposal comes too late, Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo! I would be your wife most gladly!" (Here she twirled her fingers madly,) "But in England I've a mate! Yes! you've asked me far too late, For in England I've a mate, Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo! Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo!

VI

"Mr. Jones (his name is Handel,-- Handel Jones, Esquire & Co.) Dorking fowls delights to send, Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo! Keep, oh, keep your chairs and candle, And your jug without a handle,-- I can merely be your friend! Should my Jones more Dorkings send, I will give you three, my friend! Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo! Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo!

VII

"Though you've such a tiny body, And your head so large doth grow,-- Though your hat may blow away, Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo! Though you're such a Hoddy Doddy, Yet I wish that I could modi- fy the words I needs must say! Will you please to go away? That is all I have to say, Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo! Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo!"

VIII

Down the slippery slopes of Myrtle, Where the early pumpkins blow, To the calm and silent sea Fled the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo. There, beyond the Bay of Gurtle, Lay a large and lively Turtle. "You're the Cove," he said, "for me: On your back beyond the sea, Turtle, you shall carry me!" Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo, Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.

IX

Through the silent roaring ocean Did the Turtle swiftly go; Holding fast upon his shell Rode the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo. With a sad primæval motion Toward the sunset isles of Boshen Still the Turtle bore him well, Holding fast upon his shell. "Lady Jingly Jones, farewell!" Sang the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo, Sang the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.

X

From the Coast of Coromandel Did that Lady never go, On that heap of stones she mourns For the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo. On that Coast of Coromandel, In his jug without a handle Still she weeps, and daily moans; On the little heap of stones To her Dorking Hens she moans, For the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo, For the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.

_Edward Lear._

THE JUMBLIES

I

They went to sea in a sieve, they did; In a sieve they went to sea: In spite of all their friends could say, On a winter's morn, on a stormy day, In a sieve they went to sea. And when the sieve turned round and round, And every one cried, "You'll all be drowned!" They called aloud, "Our sieve ain't big; But we don't care a button, we don't care a fig: In a sieve we'll go to sea!" Far and few, far and few, Are the lands where the Jumblies live; Their heads are green, and their hands are blue; And they went to sea in a sieve.

II

They sailed away in a sieve, they did, In a sieve they sailed so fast, With only a beautiful pea-green veil Tied with a ribbon by way of a sail, To a small tobacco-pipe mast. And every one said who saw them go, "Oh! won't they soon be upset, you know? For the sky is dark and the voyage is long, And, happen what may, it's extremely wrong In a sieve to sail so fast." Far and few, far and few, Are the lands where the Jumblies live; Their heads are green and their hands are blue; And they went to sea in a sieve.

III

The water it soon came in, it did; The water it soon came in: So, to keep them dry, they wrapped their feet In a pinky paper all folded neat; And they fastened it down with a pin. And they passed the night in a crockery-jar; And each of them said, "How wise we are! Though the sky be dark, and the voyage be long, Yet we never can think we were rash or wrong, While round in our sieve we spin." Far and few, far and few, Are the lands where the Jumblies live; Their heads are green and their hands are blue; And they went to sea in a sieve.

IV

And all night long they sailed away; And when the sun went down, They whistled and warbled a moony song To the echoing sound of a coppery gong, In the shade of the mountains brown. "O Timballoo! How happy we are When we live in a sieve and a crockery-jar! And all night long, in the moonlight pale, We sail away with a pea-green sail In the shade of the mountains brown." Far and few, far and few, Are the lands where the Jumblies live; Their heads are green, and their hands are blue; And they went to sea in a sieve.

V

They sailed to the Western Sea, they did,-- To a land all covered with trees; And they bought an owl and a useful cart, And a pound of rice, and a cranberry-tart, And a hive of silvery bees; And they bought a pig, and some green jackdaws, And a lovely monkey with lollipop paws, And forty bottles of ring-bo-ree, And no end of Stilton cheese. Far and few, far and few, Are the lands where the Jumblies live; Their heads are green, and their hands are blue; And they went to sea in a sieve.

VI

And in twenty years they all came back,-- In twenty years or more; And every one said, "How tall they've grown! For they've been to the Lakes, and the Torrible Zone, And the hills of the Chankly Bore." And they drank their health, and gave them a feast-- Of dumplings made of beautiful yeast; And every one said, "If we only live, We, too, will go to sea in a sieve, To the hills of the Chankly Bore." Far and few, far and few, Are the lands where the Jumblies live; Their heads are green, and their hands are blue; And they went to sea in a sieve.

_Edward Lear._

THE POBBLE WHO HAS NO TOES

The Pobble who has no toes Had once as many as we; When they said, "Some day you may lose them all," He replied, "Fish fiddle de-dee!" And his Aunt Jobiska made him drink Lavender water tinged with pink; For she said, "The World in general knows There's nothing so good for a Pobble's toes!"

The Pobble who has no toes Swam across the Bristol Channel; But before he set out he wrapped his nose In a piece of scarlet flannel. For his Aunt Jobiska said, "No harm Can came to his toes if his nose is warm; And it's perfectly known that a Pobble's toes Are safe--provided he minds his nose."

The Pobble swam fast and well, And when boats or ships came near him, He tinkledy-binkledy-winkled a bell So that all the world could hear him. And all the Sailors and Admirals cried, When they saw him nearing the farther side, "He has gone to fish for his Aunt Jobiska's Runcible Cat with crimson whiskers!"

But before he touched the shore-- The shore of the Bristol Channel, A sea-green Porpoise carried away His wrapper of scarlet flannel. And when he came to observe his feet, Formerly garnished with toes so neat, His face at once became forlorn On perceiving that all his toes were gone!

And nobody ever knew, From that dark day to the present, Whoso had taken the Pobble's toes, In a manner so far from pleasant. Whether the shrimps or crawfish gray, Or crafty mermaids stole them away, Nobody knew; and nobody knows How the Pobble was robbed of his twice five toes!

The Pobble who has no toes Was placed in a friendly Bark, And they rowed him back and carried him up To his Aunt Jobiska's Park. And she made him a feast at his earnest wish, Of eggs and buttercups fried with fish; And she said, "It's a fact the whole world knows, That Pobbles are happier without their toes."

_Edward Lear._

THE NEW VESTMENTS

There lived an old man in the kingdom of Tess, Who invented a purely original dress; And when it was perfectly made and complete, He opened the door and walked into the street.

By way of a hat he'd a loaf of Brown Bread, In the middle of which he inserted his head; His Shirt was made up of no end of dead Mice, The warmth of whose skins was quite fluffy and nice; His Drawers were of Rabbit-skins, so were his Shoes, His Stockings were skins, but it is not known whose; His Waistcoat and Trowsers were made of Pork Chops; His Buttons were Jujubes and Chocolate Drops.

His Coat was all Pancakes with Jam for a border, And a girdle of Biscuits to keep it in order. And he wore over all, as a screen from bad weather, A Cloak of green Cabbage leaves, stitched all together.

He had walked a short way, when he heard a great noise Of all sorts of Beasticles, Birdlings and Boys; And from every long street and dark lane in the town Beasts, Birdies and Boys in a tumult rushed down. Two Cows and a Calf ate his Cabbage leaf Cloak; Four Apes seized his girdle which vanished like smoke; Three Kids ate up half of his Pancaky Coat, And the tails were devoured by an ancient He Goat. An army of Dogs in a twinkling tore _up_ his Pork Waistcoat and Trowsers to give to their Puppies; And while they were growling and mumbling the Chops Ten Boys prigged the Jujubes and Chocolate Drops. He tried to run back to his house, but in vain, For scores of fat Pigs came again and again; They rushed out of stables and hovels and doors, They tore off his Stockings, his Shoes and his Drawers. And now from the housetops with screechings descend Striped, spotted, white, black and grey Cats without end; They jumped on his shoulders and knocked off his hat, When Crows, Ducks and Hens made a mincemeat of that. They speedily flew at his sleeves in a trice And utterly tore up his Shirt of dead Mice; They swallowed the last of his Shirt with a squall,-- Whereon he ran home with no clothes on at all. And he said to himself as he bolted the door, "I will not wear a similar dress any more, Any more, any more, any more, nevermore!"

_Edward Lear._

THE TWO OLD BACHELORS

Two old Bachelors were living in one house; One caught a Muffin, the other caught a Mouse. Said he who caught the Muffin to him who caught the Mouse, "This happens just in time, for we've nothing in the house, Save a tiny slice of lemon and a teaspoonful of honey, And what to do for dinner,--since we haven't any money? And what can we expect if we haven't any dinner But to lose our teeth and eyelashes and keep on growing thinner?"

Said he who caught the Mouse to him who caught the Muffin, "We might cook this little Mouse if we only had some Stuffin'! If we had but Sage and Onions we could do extremely well, But how to get that Stuffin' it is difficult to tell!"

And then those two old Bachelors ran quickly to the town And asked for Sage and Onions as they wandered up an down; They borrowed two large Onions, but no Sage was to be found In the Shops or in the Market or in all the Gardens round.

But some one said, "A hill there is, a little to the north, And to its purpledicular top a narrow way leads forth; And there among the rugged rocks abides an ancient Sage,-- An earnest Man, who reads all day a most perplexing page. Climb up and seize him by the toes,--all studious as he sits,-- And pull him down, and chop him into endless little bits! Then mix him with your Onion (cut up likewise into scraps), And your Stuffin' will be ready, and very good--perhaps."

And then those two old Bachelors, without loss of time, The nearly purpledicular crags at once began to climb; And at the top among the rocks, all seated in a nook, They saw that Sage a-reading of a most enormous book. "You earnest Sage!" aloud they cried, "your book you've read enough in! We wish to chop you into bits and mix you into Stuffin'!"

But that old Sage looked calmly up, and with his awful book At those two Bachelors' bald heads a certain aim he took; And over crag and precipice they rolled promiscuous down,-- At once they rolled, and never stopped in lane or field or town; And when they reached their house, they found (besides their want of Stuffin') The Mouse had fled--and previously had eaten up the Muffin.

They left their home in silence by the once convivial door; And from that hour those Bachelors were never heard of more.

_Edward Lear._

JABBERWOCKY

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe; All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe.

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son! The jaws that bite, the claws that catch! Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun The frumious Bandersnatch!"

He took his vorpal sword in hand: Long time the manxome foe he sought. So rested he by the Tumtum tree, And stood awhile in thought.

And as in uffish thought he stood, The Jabberwock with eyes of flame, Came whiffling through the tulgey wood, And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through, and through The vorpal blade went snicker-snack! He left it dead, and with its head He went galumphing back.

"And hast thou slain the Jabberwock? Come to my arms, my beamish boy! Oh, frabjous day! Callooh! callay!" He chortled in his joy.

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe; All mimsy were the borogoves And the mome raths outgrabe.

_Lewis Carroll._

WAYS AND MEANS

I'll tell thee everything I can; There's little to relate. I saw an aged aged man, A-sitting on a gate. "Who are you, aged man?" I said, "And how is it you live?" His answer trickled through my head Like water through a sieve.

He said, "I look for butterflies That sleep among the wheat: I make them into mutton-pies, And sell them in the street. I sell them unto men," he said, "Who sail on stormy seas; And that's the way I get my bread-- A trifle, if you please."

But I was thinking of a plan To dye one's whiskers green, And always use so large a fan That they could not be seen. So, having no reply to give To what the old man said, I cried, "Come, tell me how you live!" And thumped him on the head.

His accents mild took up the tale; He said, "I go my ways And when I find a mountain-rill I set it in a blaze; And thence they make a stuff they call Rowland's Macassar Oil-- Yet twopence-halfpenny is all They give me for my toil."

But I was thinking of a way To feed oneself on batter, And so go on from day to day Getting a little fatter. I shook him well from side to side, Until his face was blue; "Come, tell me how you live," I cried, "And what it is you do!"

He said, "I hunt for haddock's eyes Among the heather bright, And work them into waistcoat-buttons In the silent night. And these I do not sell for gold Or coin of silvery shine, But for a copper halfpenny And that will purchase nine.

"I sometimes dig for buttered rolls, Or set limed twigs for crabs; I sometimes search the grassy knolls For wheels of Hansom cabs. And that's the way" (he gave a wink) "By which I get my wealth-- And very gladly will I drink Your Honor's noble health."

I heard him then, for I had just Completed my design To keep the Menai Bridge from rust By boiling it in wine. I thanked him much for telling me The way he got his wealth, But chiefly for his wish that he Might drink my noble health.

And now if e'er by chance I put My fingers into glue, Or madly squeeze a right-hand foot Into a left-hand shoe, Or if I drop upon my toe A very heavy weight, I weep, for it reminds me so Of that old man I used to know-- Whose look was mild, whose speech was slow, Whose hair was whiter than the snow, Whose face was very like a crow, With eyes, like cinders, all aglow, Who seemed distracted with his woe, Who rocked his body to and fro, And muttered mumblingly, and low, As if his mouth were full of dough, Who snorted like a buffalo-- That summer evening, long ago, A-sitting on a gate.

_Lewis Carroll._

HUMPTY DUMPTY'S RECITATION

"In winter, when the fields are white, I sing this song for your delight----

"In spring, when woods are getting green, I'll try and tell you what I mean:"

"In summer, when the days are long, Perhaps you'll understand the song:

In autumn, when the leaves are brown, Take pen and ink, and write it down."

"I sent a message to the fish: I told them 'This is what I wish.'

The little fishes of the sea, They sent an answer back to me.

The little fishes' answer was, 'We cannot do it, Sir, because----'"

"I sent to them again to say 'It will be better to obey.'

The fishes answered, with a grin, 'Why, what a temper you are in!'

I told them once, I told them twice: They would not listen to advice.

I took a kettle large and new, Fit for the deed I had to do.

My heart went hop, my heart went thump: I filled the kettle at the pump.

Then some one came to me and said, 'The little fishes are in bed.'

I said to him, I said it plain, 'Then you must wake them up again.'

I said it very loud and clear: I went and shouted in his ear.

But he was very stiff and proud: He said, 'You needn't shout so loud!'

And he was very proud and stiff: He said, 'I'd go and wake them, if----'

I took a corkscrew from the shelf: I went to wake them up myself.

And when I found the door was locked, I pulled and pushed and kicked and knocked.

And when I found the door was shut, I tried to turn the handle, but----"

_Lewis Carroll._

SOME HALLUCINATIONS

He thought he saw an Elephant, That practised on a fife: He looked again, and found it was A letter from his wife. "At length I realise," he said, "The bitterness of Life!"

He thought he saw a Buffalo Upon the chimney-piece: He looked again, and found it was His Sister's Husband's Niece. "Unless you leave this house," he said, "I'll send for the Police!"

He thought he saw a Rattlesnake That questioned him in Greek: He looked again, and found it was The Middle of Next Week. "The one thing I regret," he said, "Is that it cannot speak!"

He thought he saw a Banker's Clerk Descending from the 'bus: He looked again, and found it was A Hippopotamus: "If this should stay to dine," he said, "There won't be much for us!"

He thought he saw an Albatross That fluttered round the lamp: He looked again, and found it was A Penny-Postage-Stamp. "You'd best be getting home," he said; "The nights are very damp!"

He thought he saw a Coach-and-Four That stood beside his bed: He looked again, and found it was A Bear without a Head. "Poor thing," he said, "poor silly thing! It's waiting to be fed!"

He thought he saw a Kangaroo That worked a coffee-mill: He looked again, and found it was A Vegetable-Pill. "Were I to swallow this," he said, "I should be very ill!"

_Lewis Carroll._

SING FOR THE GARISH EYE

Sing for the garish eye, When moonless brandlings cling! Let the froddering crooner cry, And the braddled sapster sing. For never, and never again, Will the tottering beechlings play, For bratticed wrackers are singing aloud, And the throngers croon in May!

The wracking globe unstrung, Unstrung in the frittering light Of a moon that knows no day, Of a day that knows no night! Diving away in the crowd Of sparkling frets in spray, The bratticed wrackers are singing aloud, And the throngers croon in May!

Hasten, O hapful blue, Blue, of the shimmering brow, Hasten the deed to do That shall roddle the welkin now! For never again shall a cloud Out-thribble the babbling day, When bratticed wrackers are singing aloud, And the throngers croon in May!

_W. S. Gilbert._

THE SHIPWRECK

Upon the poop the captain stands, As starboard as may be; And pipes on deck the topsail hands To reef the topsail-gallant strands Across the briny sea.

"Ho! splice the anchor under-weigh!" The captain loudly cried; "Ho! lubbers brave, belay! belay! For we must luff for Falmouth Bay Before to-morrow's tide."

The good ship was a racing yawl, A spare-rigged schooner sloop, Athwart the bows the taffrails all In grummets gay appeared to fall, To deck the mainsail poop.

But ere they made the Foreland Light, And Deal was left behind, The wind it blew great gales that night, And blew the doughty captain tight, Full three sheets in the wind.

And right across the tiller head The horse it ran apace, Whereon a traveller hitched and sped Along the jib and vanished To heave the trysail brace.

What ship could live in such a sea? What vessel bear the shock? "Ho! starboard port your helm-a-lee! Ho! reef the maintop-gallant-tree, With many a running block!"

And right upon the Scilly Isles The ship had run aground; When lo! the stalwart Captain Giles Mounts up upon the gaff and smiles, And slews the compass round.

"Saved! saved!" with joy the sailors cry, And scandalize the skiff; As taut and hoisted high and dry They see the ship unstoppered lie Upon the sea-girt cliff.

And since that day in Falmouth Bay, As herring-fishers trawl, The younkers hear the boatswains say How Captain Giles that awful day Preserved the sinking yawl.

_E. H. Palmer._

UFFIA

When sporgles spanned the floreate mead And cogwogs gleet upon the lea, Uffia gopped to meet her love Who smeeged upon the equat sea.

Dately she walked aglost the sand; The boreal wind seet in her face; The moggling waves yalped at her feet; Pangwangling was her pace.

_Harriet R. White._

'TIS SWEET TO ROAM

'Tis sweet to roam when morning's light Resounds across the deep; And the crystal song of the woodbine bright Hushes the rocks to sleep, And the blood-red moon in the blaze of noon Is bathed in a crumbling dew, And the wolf rings out with a glittering shout, To-whit, to-whit, to-whoo!

_Unknown._

THREE JOVIAL HUNTSMEN

There were three jovial huntsmen, As I have heard them say, And they would go a-hunting All on a summer's day.

All the day they hunted, And nothing could they find But a ship a-sailing, A-sailing with the wind.

One said it was a ship, The other said Nay; The third said it was a house With the chimney blown away.

And all the night they hunted, And nothing could they find; But the moon a-gliding, A-gliding with the wind.

One said it was the moon, The other said Nay; The third said it was a cheese, And half o't cut away.

_Unknown._

KING ARTHUR

When good King Arthur ruled the land, He was a goodly king: He stole three pecks of barley meal, To make a bag-pudding.

A bag-pudding the king did make, And stuffed it well with plums; And in it put great lumps of fat, As big as my two thumbs.

The king and queen did eat thereof, And noblemen beside; And what they could not eat that night, The queen next morning fried.

_Unknown._

HYDER IDDLE

Hyder iddle diddle dell, A yard of pudding is not an ell; Not forgetting tweedle-dye, A tailor's goose will never fly.

_Unknown._

THE OCEAN WANDERER

Bright breaks the warrior o'er the ocean wave Through realms that rove not, clouds that cannot save, Sinks in the sunshine; dazzles o'er the tomb And mocks the mutiny of Memory's gloom. Oh! who can feel the crimson ecstasy That soothes with bickering jar the Glorious Tree? O'er the high rock the foam of gladness throws, While star-beams lull Vesuvius to repose: Girds the white spray, and in the blue lagoon, Weeps like a walrus o'er the waning moon? Who can declare?--not thou, pervading boy Whom pibrochs pierce not, crystals cannot cloy;-- Not thou soft Architect of silvery gleams, Whose soul would simmer in Hesperian streams, Th' exhaustless fire--the bosom's azure bliss, That hurtles, life-like, o'er a scene like this;-- Defies the distant agony of Day-- And sweeps o'er hecatombs--away! away! Say shall Destruction's lava load the gale, The furnace quiver and the mountain quail? Say shall the son of Sympathy pretend His cedar fragrance with our Chief's to blend? There, where the gnarled monuments of sand Howl their dark whirlwinds to the levin brand; Conclusive tenderness; fraternal grog, Tidy conjunction; adamantine bog, Impetuous arrant toadstool; Thundering quince, Repentant dog-star, inessential Prince, Expound. Pre-Adamite eventful gun, Crush retribution, currant-jelly, pun, Oh! eligible Darkness, fender, sting, Heav'n-born Insanity, courageous thing. Intending, bending, scouring, piercing all, Death like pomatum, tea, and crabs must fall.

_Unknown._

SCIENTIFIC PROOF

If we square a lump of pemmican And cube a pot of tea, Divide a musk ox by the span From noon to half-past three; If we calculate the Eskimo By solar parallax, Divide the sextant by a floe And multiply the cracks By nth-powered igloos, we may prove All correlated facts.

If we prolongate the parallel Indefinitely forth, And cube a sledge till we can tell The real square root of North; Bisect a seal and bifurcate The tangent with a pack Of Polar ice, we get the rate Along the Polar track, And proof of corollary things Which otherwise we lack.

If we multiply the Arctic night By X times ox times moose, And build an igloo on the site Of its hypotenuse; If we circumscribe an arc about An Arctic dog and weigh A segment of it, every doubt Is made as clear as day. We also get the price of ice F. O. B. Baffin's Bay.

If we amplify the Arctic breeze By logarithmic signs, And run through the isosceles Imaginary lines, We find that twice the half of one Is equal to the whole. Which, when the calculus is done, Quite demonstrates the Pole. It also gives its length and breadth And what's the price of coal.

_J. W. Foley._

THE THINGUMBOB

A PASTEL

The Thingumbob sat at eventide, On the shore of a shoreless sea, Expecting an unexpected attack From something it could not foresee.

A still calm rests on the angry waves, The low wind whistles a mournful tune, And the Thingumbob sighs to himself, "Alas, I've had no supper now since noon."

_Unknown._

WONDERS OF NATURE

Ah! who has seen the mailèd lobster rise, Clap her broad wings, and, soaring, claim the skies? When did the owl, descending from her bower, Crop, 'midst the fleecy flocks, the tender flower; Or the young heifer plunge, with pliant limb, In the salt wave, and, fish-like, try to swim? The same with plants, potatoes 'tatoes breed, The costly cabbage springs from cabbage-seed; Lettuce to lettuce, leeks to leeks succeed; Nor e'er did cooling cucumbers presume To flower like myrtle, or like violets bloom.

_The Anti-Jacobin._

LINES BY AN OLD FOGY

I'm thankful that the sun and moon Are both hung up so high, That no presumptuous hand can stretch And pull them from the sky. If they were not, I have no doubt But some reforming ass Would recommend to take them down And light the world with gas.

_Unknown._

A COUNTRY SUMMER PASTORAL

As written by a learned scholar of the city from knowledge derived from etymological deductions rather than from actual experience.

I would flee from the city's rule and law, From its fashion and form cut loose, And go where the strawberry grows on its straw, And the gooseberry on its goose; Where the catnip tree is climbed by the cat As she crouches for her prey-- The guileless and unsuspecting rat On the rattan bush at play.

I will watch at ease for the saffron cow And the cowlet in their glee, As they leap in joy from bough to bough On the top of the cowslip tree; Where the musical partridge drums on his drum, And the dog devours the dogwood plum And the wood chuck chucks his wood, In the primitive solitude.

And then to the whitewashed dairy I'll turn, Where the dairymaid hastening hies, Her ruddy and golden-haired butter to churn From the milk of her butterflies; And I'll rise at morn with the early bird, To the fragrant farm-yard pass, When the farmer turns his beautiful herd Of grasshoppers out to grass.

_Unknown._

TURVEY TOP

'Twas after a supper of Norfolk brawn That into a doze I chanced to drop, And thence awoke in the grey of dawn, In the wonder-land of Turvey Top.

A land so strange I never had seen, And could not choose but look and laugh-- A land where the small the great includes, And the whole is less than the half!

A land where the circles were not lines Round central points, as schoolmen show, And the parallels met whenever they chose, And went playing at touch-and-go!

There--except that every round was square, And save that all the squares were rounds-- No surface had limits anywhere, So they never could beat the bounds.

In their gardens, fruit before blossom came, And the trees diminished as they grew; And you never went out to walk a mile, It was the mile that walked to you.

The people there are not tall or short, Heavy or light, or stout or thin, And their lives begin where they should leave off, Or leave off where they should begin.

There childhood, with naught of childish glee, Looks on the world with thoughtful brow; 'Tis only the aged who laugh and crow, And cry "We have done with it now!";

A singular race! what lives they spent! Got up before they went to bed! And never a man said what he meant, Or a woman meant what she said.

They blended colours that will not blend, All hideous contrasts voted sweet; In yellow and red their Quakers dress'd, And considered it rather neat.

They didn't believe in the wise and good, Said the best were worst, the wisest fools; And 'twas only to have their teachers taught That they founded national schools.

They read in "books that are no books," Their classics--chess-boards neatly bound; Those their greatest authors who never wrote, And their deepest the least profound.

Now, such were the folks of that wonder-land, A curious people, as you will own; But are there none of the race abroad, Are no specimens elsewhere known?

Well, I think that he whose views of life Are crooked, wrong, perverse, and odd, Who looks upon all with jaundiced eyes-- Sees himself and believes it God,

Who sneers at the good, and makes the ill, Curses a world he cannot mend; Who measures life by the rule of wrong And abuses its aim and end,

The man who stays when he ought to move, And only goes when he ought to stop-- Is strangely like the folk in my dream, And would flourish in Turvey Top.

_William Sawyer._

A BALLAD OF BEDLAM

O lady wake!--the azure moon Is rippling in the verdant skies, The owl is warbling his soft tune, Awaiting but thy snowy eyes. The joys of future years are past, To-morrow's hopes have fled away; Still let us love, and e'en at last, We shall be happy yesterday.

The early beam of rosy night Drives off the ebon morn afar, While through the murmur of the light The huntsman winds his mad guitar. Then, lady, wake! my brigantine Pants, neighs, and prances to be free; Till the creation I am thine. To some rich desert fly with me.

_Unknown._

XIV

NATURAL HISTORY

THE FASTIDIOUS SERPENT

There was a snake that dwelt in Skye, Over the misty sea, oh; He lived upon nothing but gooseberry pie For breakfast, dinner and tea, oh.

Now gooseberry pie--as is very well known,-- Over the misty sea, oh, Is not to be found under every stone, Nor yet upon every tree, oh.

And being so ill to please with his meat, Over the misty sea, oh; The snake had sometimes nothing to eat, And an angry snake was he, oh.

Then he'd flick his tongue and his head he'd shake, Over the misty sea, oh, Crying, "Gooseberry pie! For goodness' sake, Some gooseberry pie for me, oh."

And if gooseberry pie was not to be had, Over the misty sea, oh, He'd twine and twist like an eel gone mad, Or a worm just stung by a bee, oh.

But though he might shout and wriggle about, Over the misty sea, oh, The snake had often to go without His breakfast, dinner and tea, oh.

_Henry Johnstone._

THE LEGEND OF THE FIRST CAM-U-EL

AN ARABIAN APOLOGUE

Across the sands of Syria, Or, possibly, Algeria, Or some benighted neighbourhood of barrenness and drouth, There came the Prophet Sam-u-el Upon the Only Cam-u-el-- A bumpy, grumpy Quadruped of discontented mouth.

The atmosphere was glutinous; The Cam-u-el was mutinous; He dumped the pack from off his back; with horrid grunts and squeals He made the desert hideous; With strategy perfidious He tied his neck in curlicues, he kicked his paddy heels.

Then quoth the gentle Sam-u-el, "You rogue, I ought to lam you well! Though zealously I've shielded you from every grief and woe, It seems, to voice a platitude, You haven't any gratitude. I'd like to hear what cause you have for doing thus and so!"

To him replied the Cam-u-el, "I beg your pardon, Sam-u-el. I know that I'm a Reprobate, I know that I'm a Freak; But, oh! this utter loneliness! My too-distinguished Onliness! Were there but other Cam-u-els I wouldn't be Unique."

The Prophet beamed beguilingly. "Aha," he answered, smilingly, "You feel the need of company? I clearly understand. We'll speedily create for you The corresponding mate for you-- Ho! presto, change-o, dinglebat!"--he waved a potent hand,

And, lo! from out Vacuity A second Incongruity, To wit, a Lady Cam-u-el was born through magic art. Her structure anatomical, Her form and face were comical; She was, in short, a Cam-u-el, the other's counterpart.

As Spaniards gaze on Aragon, Upon that Female Paragon So gazed the Prophet's Cam-u-el, that primal Desert Ship. A connoisseur meticulous, He found her that ridiculous He grinned from ear to auricle _until he split his lip_!

Because of his temerity That Cam-u-el's posterity Must wear divided upper lips through all their solemn lives! A prodigy astonishing Reproachfully admonishing Those, wicked, heartless married men who ridicule their wives.

_Arthur Guiterman._

UNSATISFIED YEARNING

Down in the silent hallway Scampers the dog about, And whines, and barks, and scratches, In order to get out.

Once in the glittering starlight, He straightway doth begin To set up a doleful howling In order to get in.

_R. K. Munkittrick._

KINDLY ADVICE

Be kind to the panther! for when thou wert young, In thy country far over the sea, 'Twas a panther ate up thy papa and mama, And had several mouthfuls of thee!

Be kind to the badger! for who shall decide The depth of his badgery soul? And think of the tapir, when flashes the lamp O'er the fast and the free flowing bowl.

Be kind to the camel! nor let word of thine Ever put up his bactrian back; And cherish the she-kangaroo with her bag, Nor venture to give her the sack.

Be kind to the ostrich! for how canst thou hope To have such a stomach as it? And when the proud day of your "bridal" shall come, Do give the poor birdie a "bit."

Be kind to the walrus! nor ever forget To have it on Tuesday to tea; But butter the crumpets on only one side, Save such as are eaten by thee.

Be kind to the bison! and let the jackal In the light of thy love have a share; And coax the ichneumon to grow a new tail, And have lots of larks in its lair!

Be kind to the bustard, that genial bird, And humour its wishes and ways; And when the poor elephant suffers from bile, Then tenderly lace up his stays!

_Unknown._

KINDNESS TO ANIMALS

Speak gently to the herring and kindly to the calf, Be blithesome with the bunny, at barnacles don't laugh! Give nuts unto the monkey, and buns unto the bear, Ne'er hint at currant jelly if you chance to see a hare! Oh, little girls, pray hide your combs when tortoises draw nigh, And never in the hearing of a pigeon whisper Pie! But give the stranded jelly-fish a shove into the sea,-- Be always kind to animals wherever you may be!

Oh, make not game of sparrows, nor faces at the ram, And ne'er allude to mint sauce when calling on a lamb. Don't beard the thoughtful oyster, don't dare the cod to crimp, Don't cheat the pike, or ever try to pot the playful shrimp. Tread lightly on the turning worm, don't bruise the butterfly, Don't ridicule the wry-neck, nor sneer at salmon-fry; Oh, ne'er delight to make dogs fight, nor bantams disagree,-- Be always kind to animals wherever you may be!

Be lenient with lobsters, and ever kind to crabs, And be not disrespectful to cuttle-fish or dabs; Chase not the Cochin-China, chaff not the ox obese, And babble not of feather-beds in company with geese. Be tender with the tadpole, and let the limpet thrive, Be merciful to mussels, don't skin your eels alive; When talking to a turtle don't mention calipee-- Be always kind to animals wherever you may be.

_J. Ashby-Sterry._

TO BE OR NOT TO BE

I

I sometimes think I'd rather crow And be a rooster than to roost And be a crow. But I dunno.

II

A rooster he can roost also, Which don't seem fair when crows can't crow. Which may help some. Still I dunno.

III

Crows should be glad of one thing, though; Nobody thinks of eating crow, While roosters they are good enough For anyone unless they're tough.

IV

There are lots of tough old roosters, though, And anyway a crow can't crow, So mebby roosters stand more show. It looks that way. But I dunno.

_Unknown._

THE HEN

Was once a hen of wit not small (In fact, 'twas not amazing), And apt at laying eggs withal, Who, when she'd done, would scream and bawl, As if the house were blazing. A turkey-cock, of age mature, Felt thereat indignation; 'Twas quite improper, he was sure-- He would no more the thing endure; So, after cogitation, He to the lady straight repaired, And thus his business he declared: "Madam, pray, what's the matter, That always, when you've laid an egg, You make so great a clatter? I wish you'd do the thing in quiet. Do be advised by me, and try it." "Advised by you!" the lady cried, And tossed her head with proper pride; "And what do you know, now I pray, Of the fashion of the present day, You creature ignorant and low? However, if you want to know, This is the reason why I do it: I lay my egg, and then review it!"

_Matthew Claudius._

OF BAITING THE LION

Remembering his taste for blood You'd better bait him with a cow; Persuade the brute to chew the cud Her tail suspended from a bough; It thrills the lion through and through To hear the milky creature moo.

Having arranged this simple ruse, Yourself you climb a neighboring tree; See to it that the spot you choose Commands the coming tragedy; Take up a smallish Maxim gun, A search-light, whisky, and a bun.

It's safer, too, to have your bike Standing immediately below, In case your piece should fail to strike, Or deal an ineffective blow; The Lion moves with perfect grace, But cannot go the scorcher's pace.

Keep open ear for subtle signs; Thus, when the cow profusely moans, That means to say, the Lion dines. The crunching sound, of course, is bones; Silence resumes her ancient reign-- This shows the cow is out of pain.

But when a fat and torpid hum Escapes the eater's unctuous nose, Turn up the light and let it come Full on his innocent repose; Then pour your shot between his eyes, And go on pouring till he dies.

Play, even so, discretion's part; Descend with stealth; bring on your gun; Then lay your hand above his heart To see if he is really done; Don't skin him till you know he's dead Or you may perish in his stead!

* * * * *

Years hence, at home, when talk is tall, You'll set the gun-room wide agape, Describing how with just a small Pea-rifle, going after ape You met a Lion unaware, And felled him flying through the air.

_Owen Seaman._

THE FLAMINGO

Inspired by reading a chorus of spirits in a German play

|First Voice| Oh! tell me have you ever seen a red, long-leg'd Flamingo? Oh! tell me have you ever yet seen him the water in go?

|Second voice| Oh! yes at Bowling-Green I've seen a red long-leg'd Flamingo, Oh! yes at Bowling-Green I've there seen him the water in go.

|First Voice| Oh! tell me did you ever see a bird so funny stand-o When forth he from the water comes and gets upon the land-o?

|Second Voice| No! in my life I ne'er did see a bird so funny stand-o When forth he from the water comes and gets upon the land-o.

|First Voice| He has a leg some three feet long, or near it, so they say, Sir. Stiff upon one alone he stands, t'other he stows away, Sir.

|Second Voice| And what an ugly head he's got! I wonder that he'd wear it. But rather _more_ I wonder that his long, thin neck can bear it.

|First voice| And think, this length of neck and legs (no doubt they have their uses) Are members of a little frame, much smaller than a goose's!

|Both| Oh! isn't he a curious bird, that red, long-leg'd Flamingo? A water bird, a gawky bird, a sing'lar bird, by jingo!

_Lewis Gaylord Clark._

WHY DOTH A PUSSY CAT?

Why doth a pussy cat prefer, When dozing, drowsy, on the sill, To purr and purr and purr and purr Instead of merely keeping still? With nodding head and folded paws, She keeps it up without a cause.

Why doth she flaunt her lofty tail In such a stiff right-angled pose? If lax and limp she let it trail 'Twould seem more restful, Goodness knows! When strolling 'neath the chairs or bed, She lets it bump above her head.

Why doth she suddenly refrain From anything she's busied in And start to wash, with might and main, Most any place upon her skin? Why doth she pick that special spot, Not seeing if it's soiled or not?

Why doth she never seem to care To come directly when you call, But makes approach from here and there, Or sidles half around the wall? Though doors are opened at her mew, You often have to push her through.

Why doth she this? Why doth she that? I seek for cause--I yearn for clews; The subject of the pussy cat Doth endlessly inspire the mews. Why doth a pussy cat? Ah, me, I haven't got the least idee.

_Burges Johnson._

THE WALRUS AND THE CARPENTER

The sun was shining on the sea, Shining with all his might: He did his very best to make The billows smooth and bright-- And this was odd, because it was The middle of the night.

The moon was shining sulkily, Because she thought the sun Had got no business to be there After the day was done-- "It's very rude of him," she said, "To come and spoil the fun!"

The sea was wet as wet could be, The sands were dry as dry. You could not see a cloud, because No cloud was in the sky: No birds were flying overhead-- There were no birds to fly.

The Walrus and the Carpenter Were walking close at hand; They wept like anything to see Such quantities of sand: "If this were only cleared away," They said, "it would be grand!"

"If seven maids with seven mops Swept it for half a year, Do you suppose," the Walrus said, "That they could get it clear?" "I doubt it," said the Carpenter, And shed a bitter tear.

"O Oysters come and walk with us!" The Walrus did beseech. "A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk, Along the briny beach: We cannot do with more than four, To give a hand to each."

The eldest Oyster looked at him, But not a word he said: The eldest Oyster winked his eye, And shook his heavy head-- Meaning to say he did not choose To leave the oyster-bed.

But four young Oysters hurried up, All eager for the treat: Their coats were brushed, their faces washed, Their shoes were clean and neat-- And this was odd, because, you know, They hadn't any feet.

Four other Oysters followed them, And yet another four; And thick and fast they came at last, And more, and more, and more-- All hopping through the frothy waves, And scrambling to the shore.

The Walrus and the Carpenter Walked on a mile or so, And then they rested on a rock, Conveniently low: And all the little Oysters stood And waited in a row.

"The time has come," the Walrus said, "To talk of many things: Of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax-- Of cabbages--and kings-- And why the sea is boiling hot-- And whether pigs have wings."

"But wait a bit," the Oysters cried, "Before we have our chat; For some of us are out of breath, And all of us are fat!" "No hurry!" said the Carpenter. They thanked him much for that.

"A loaf of bread," the Walrus said, "Is what we chiefly need; Pepper and vinegar besides Are very good indeed-- Now, if you're ready, Oysters dear, We can begin to feed."

"But not on us," the Oysters cried, Turning a little blue. "After such kindness that would be A dismal thing to do!" "The night is fine," the Walrus said, "Do you admire the view?"

"It was so kind of you to come, And you are very nice!" The Carpenter said nothing but, "Cut us another slice. I wish you were not quite so deaf-- I've had to ask you twice!"

"It seems a shame," the Walrus said, "To play them such a trick. After we've brought them out so far And made them trot so quick!" The Carpenter said nothing but, "The butter's spread too thick!"

"I weep for you," the Walrus said, "I deeply sympathize." With sobs and tears he sorted out Those of the largest size, Holding his pocket-handkerchief Before his streaming eyes.

"O Oysters," said the Carpenter, "You've had a pleasant run! Shall we be trotting home again?" But answer came there none-- And this was scarcely odd, because They'd eaten every one.

_Lewis Carroll._

NIRVANA

I am A Clam! Come learn of me Unclouded peace and calm content, Serene, supreme tranquillity, Where thoughtless dreams and dreamless thoughts are blent.

When the salt tide is rising to the flood, In billows blue my placid pulp I lave; And when it ebbs I slumber in the mud, Content alike with ooze or crystal wave.

I do not shudder when in chowder stewed, Nor when the Coney Islander engulfs me raw. When in the church soup's dreary solitude Alone I wander, do I shudder? Naw!

If jarring tempests beat upon my bed, Or summer peace there be, I do not care: as I have said, All's one to me; A Clam I am.

_Unknown._

THE CATFISH

The saddest fish that swims the briny ocean, The Catfish I bewail. I cannot even think without emotion Of his distressful tail. When with my pencil once I tried to draw one, (I dare not show it here) Mayhap it is because I never saw one, The picture looked so queer. I vision him half feline and half fishy, A paradox in twins, Unmixable as vitriol and vichy-- A thing of fur and fins. A feline Tantalus, forever chasing His fishy self to rend; His finny self forever self-effacing In circles without end. This tale may have a Moral running through it As Æsop had in his; If so, dear reader, you are welcome to it, If you know what it is!

_Oliver Herford._

WAR RELIEF

"Can you spare a Threepenny bit, Dear Miss Turkey," said Sir Mouse, "For Job's Turkey's benefit? I've engaged the Opera House!"

"Alas! I've naught to spare!" Said Miss Turkey, "save advice, I am getting up a Fair, To relieve the Poor Church Mice."

_Oliver Herford._

THE OWL AND THE PUSSY-CAT

The Owl and the Pussy-Cat went to sea In a beautiful pea-green boat: They took some honey, and plenty of money Wrapped up in a five-pound note. The Owl looked up to the stars above, And sang to a small guitar, "Oh, lovely Pussy, oh, Pussy, my love, What a beautiful Pussy you are, You are, You are! What a beautiful Pussy you are!"

Pussy said to the Owl, "You elegant fowl, How charmingly sweet you sing! Oh, let us be married; too long we have tarried: But what shall we do for a ring?" They sailed away for a year and a day, To the land where the bong-tree grows; And there in the wood a Piggy-wig stood, With a ring at the end of his nose, His nose, His nose, With a ring at the end of his nose.

"Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling Your ring?" Said the Piggy, "I will." So they took it away and were married next day By the Turkey who lives on the hill. They dined on mince and slices of quince, Which they ate with a runcible spoon; And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand, They danced by the light of the moon, The moon, The moon, They danced by the light of the moon.

_Edward Lear._

MEXICAN SERENADE

When the little armadillo With his head upon his pillow Sweetly rests, And the parrakeet and lindo Flitting past my cabin window Seek their nests,--

When the mists of even settle Over Popocatapetl, Dropping dew,-- Like the condor, over yonder, Still I ponder, ever fonder, Dear, of You!

May no revolution shock you, May the earthquake gently rock you To repose, While the sentimental panthers Sniff the pollen-laden anthers Of the rose!

While the pelican is pining, While the moon is softly shining On the stream, May the song that I am singing Send a tender cadence winging Through your dream!

I have just one wish to utter-- That you twinkle through your shutter Like a star, While, according to convention, I shall cas-u-ally mention My guitar.

Señorita Maraquita, Muy bonita, pobracita!-- Hear me weep!-- But the night is growing wetter, So I guess that you had better Go to sleep.

_Arthur Guiterman._

ORPHAN BORN

I am a lone, unfathered chick, Of artificial hatching, A pilgrim in a desert wild, By happier, mothered chicks reviled, From all relationships exiled, To do my own lone scratching.

Fair science smiled upon my birth One raw and gusty morning; But ah, the sounds of barnyard mirth To lonely me have little worth; Alone am I in all the earth-- An orphan without borning.

Seek I my mother? I would find A heartless personator; A thing brass-feathered, man-designed, With steam-pipe arteries intermined, And pulseless cotton-batting lined-- A patent incubator.

It wearies me to think, you see-- Death would be better, rather-- Should downy chicks be hatched of me, By fate's most pitiless decree, My piping pullets still would be With never a grandfather.

And when to earth I bid adieu To seek a planet greater, I will not do as others do, Who fly to join the ancestral crew, For I will just be gathered to My incubator.

_Robert J. Burdette._

DIVIDED DESTINIES

It was an artless Bandar, and he danced upon a pine, And much I wondered how he lived, and where the beast might dine, And many, many other things, till, o'er my morning smoke, I slept the sleep of idleness and dreamed that Bandar spoke.

He said: "Oh, man of many clothes! sad crawler on the Hills! Observe, I know not Ranken's shop, nor Ranken's monthly bills! I take no heed to trousers or the coats that you call dress; Nor am I plagued with little cards for little drinks at Mess.

"I steal the bunnia's grain at morn, at noon and eventide (For he is fat and I am spare), I roam the mountainside, I follow no man's carriage, and no, never in my life Have I flirted at Peliti's with another Bandar's wife.

"Oh, man of futile fopperies--unnecessary wraps; I own no ponies in the Hills, I drive no tall-wheeled traps; I buy me not twelve-button gloves, 'short-sixes' eke, or rings, Nor do I waste at Hamilton's my wealth on pretty things.

"I quarrel with my wife at home, we never fight abroad; But Mrs. B. has grasped the fact I am her only lord. I never heard of fever--dumps nor debts depress my soul; And I pity and despise you!" Here he pouched my breakfast-roll.

His hide was very mangy and his face was very red, And undisguisedly he scratched with energy his head. His manners were not always nice, but how my spirit cried To be an artless Bandar loose upon the mountainside!

So I answered: "Gentle Bandar, an inscrutable Decree Makes thee a gleesome, fleasome Thou, and me a wretched Me. Go! Depart in peace, my brother, to thy home amid the pine; Yet forget not once a mortal wished to change his lot with thine."

_Rudyard Kipling._

THE VIPER

Yet another great truth I record in my verse, That some Vipers are venomous, some the reverse; A fact you may prove if you try, By procuring two Vipers and letting them bite; With the first you are only the worse for a fright, But after the second you die.

_Hilaire Belloc._

THE LLAMA

The Llama is a woolly sort of fleecy, hairy goat, With an indolent expression and an undulating throat, Like an unsuccessful literary man. And I know the place he lives in (or at least I think I do) It is Ecuador, Brazil or Chile--possibly Peru; You must find it in the Atlas if you can.

The Llama of the Pampases you never should confound (In spite of a deceptive similarity of sound), With the Lhama who is Lord of Turkestan. For the former is a beautiful and valuable beast, But the latter is not lovable nor useful in the least; And the Ruminant is preferable surely to the Priest Who battens on the woful superstitions of the East, The Mongol of the Monastery of Shan.

_Hilaire Belloc._

THE YAK

As a friend to the children commend me the yak, You will find it exactly the thing: It will carry and fetch, you can ride on its back, Or lead it about with a string.

A Tartar who dwells on the plains of Thibet (A desolate region of snow) Has for centuries made it a nursery pet, And surely the Tartar should know!

Then tell your papa where the Yak can be got, And if he is awfully rich, He will buy you the creature--or else he will not, (I cannot be positive which).

THE FROG

Be kind and tender to the Frog, And do not call him names, As "Slimy-Skin," or "Polly-wog," Or likewise, "Uncle James," Or "Gape-a-grin," or "Toad-gone-wrong," Or, "Billy-Bandy-knees;" The Frog is justly sensitive To epithets like these.

No animal will more repay A treatment kind and fair, At least, so lonely people say Who keep a frog (and, by the way, They are extremely rare).

_Hilaire Belloc._

THE MICROBE

The Microbe is so very small You cannot make him out at all, But many sanguine people hope To see him through a microscope. His jointed tongue that lies beneath A hundred curious rows of teeth; His seven tufted tails with lots Of lovely pink and purple spots

On each of which a pattern stands, Composed of forty separate bands; His eyebrows of a tender green; All these have never yet been seen-- But Scientists, who ought to know, Assure us that they must be so.... Oh! let us never, never doubt What nobody is sure about!

_Hilaire Belloc._

THE GREAT BLACK CROW

The crow--the crow! the great black crow! He cares not to meet us wherever we go; He cares not for man, beast, friend, nor foe, For nothing will eat him he well doth know. Know--know! you great black crow! It's a comfort to feel like a great black crow!

The crow--the crow! the great black crow! He loves the fat meadow--his taste is low; He loves the fat worms, and he dines in a row With fifty fine cousins all black as a sloe. Sloe--sloe! you great black crow! But it's jolly to fare like a great black crow!

The crow--the crow! the great black crow! He never gets drunk on the rain or snow; He never gets drunk, but he never says no! If you press him to tipple ever so. So--so! you great black crow! It's an honour to soak like a great black crow!

The crow--the crow! the great black crow! He lives for a hundred year and mo'; He lives till he dies, and he dies as slow As the morning mists down the hill that go. Go--go! you great black crow! But it's fine to live and die like a great black crow!

_Philip James Bailey._

THE COLUBRIAD

Close by the threshold of a door nailed fast, Three kittens sat; each kitten looked aghast. I, passing swift and inattentive by, At the three kittens cast a careless eye; Not much concerned to know what they did there; Not deeming kittens worth a poet's care. But presently, a loud and furious hiss Caused me to stop, and to exclaim, "What's this?" When lo! upon the threshold met my view, With head erect, and eyes of fiery hue, A viper long as Count de Grasse's queue. Forth from his head his forked tongue he throws, Darting it full against a kitten's nose; Who, having never seen, in field or house, The like, sat still and silent as a mouse; Only projecting, with attention due, Her whiskered face, she asked him, "Who are you?" On to the hall went I, with pace not slow, But swift as lightning, for a long Dutch hoe: With which well armed, I hastened to the spot To find the viper--but I found him not. And, turning up the leaves and shrubs around, Found only that he was not to be found; But still the kittens, sitting as before, Sat watching close the bottom of the door. "I hope," said I, "the villain I would kill Has slipped between the door and the door-sill; And if I make despatch, and follow hard, No doubt but I shall find him in the yard:" (For long ere now it should have been rehearsed, 'Twas in the garden that I found him first.) E'en there I found him: there the full-grown cat His head, with velvet paw, did gently pat; As curious as the kittens erst had been To learn what this phenomenon might mean. Filled with heroic ardour at the sight, And fearing every moment he would bite, And rob our household of our only cat That was of age to combat with a rat; With outstretched hoe I slew him at the door, And taught him never to come there no more!

_William Cowper._

THE RETIRED CAT

A Poet's Cat, sedate and grave As poet well could wish to have, Was much addicted to inquire For nooks to which she might retire, And where, secure as mouse in chink, She might repose, or sit and think. I know not where she caught the trick; Nature perhaps herself had cast her In such a mold |philosophique|, Or else she learned it of her master. Sometimes ascending, debonair, An apple-tree, or lofty pear, Lodged with convenience in the fork, She watched the gardener at his work; Sometimes her ease and solace sought In an old empty watering-pot, There wanting nothing, save a fan, To seem some nymph in her sedan, Appareled in exactest sort, And ready to be borne to court.

But love of change it seems has place Not only in our wiser race; Cats also feel, as well as we, That passion's force, and so did she. Her climbing, she began to find, Exposed her too much to the wind, And the old utensil of tin Was cold and comfortless within: She therefore wished, instead of those, Some place of more serene repose, Where neither cold might come, nor air Too rudely wanton in her hair, And sought it in the likeliest mode Within her master's snug abode.

A drawer, it chanced, at bottom lined With linen of the softest kind, With such as merchants introduce From India, for the ladies' use; A drawer, impending o'er the rest, Half open, in the topmost chest, Of depth enough, and none to spare, Invited her to slumber there; Puss with delight beyond expression, Surveyed the scene and took possession. Recumbent at her ease, ere long, And lulled by her own humdrum song, She left the cares of life behind, And slept as she would sleep her last, When in came, housewifely inclined, The chambermaid, and shut it fast, By no malignity impelled, But all unconscious whom it held.

Awakened by the shock (cried puss) "Was ever cat attended thus! The open drawer was left, I see, Merely to prove a nest for me, For soon as I was well composed, Then came the maid, and it was closed. How smooth those 'kerchiefs, and how sweet Oh what a delicate retreat! I will resign myself to rest Till Sol declining in the west, Shall call to supper, when, no doubt, Susan will come, and let me out."

The evening came, the sun descended, And puss remained still unattended. The night rolled tardily away (With her indeed 'twas never day), The sprightly morn her course renewed, The evening gray again ensued, And puss came into mind no more Than if entombed the day before; With hunger pinched, and pinched for room, She now presaged approaching doom. Nor slept a single wink, nor purred, Conscious of jeopardy incurred.

That night, by chance, the poet, watching, Heard an inexplicable scratching; His noble heart went pit-a-pat, And to himself he said--"What's that?" He drew the curtain at his side, And forth he peeped, but nothing spied. Yet, by his ear directed, guessed Something imprisoned in the chest; And, doubtful what, with prudent care Resolved it should continue there. At length a voice which well he knew, A long and melancholy mew, Saluting his poetic ears, Consoled him, and dispelled his fears; He left his bed, he trod the floor, He 'gan in haste the drawers explore, The lowest first, and without stop The next in order to the top. For 'tis a truth well known to most, That whatsoever thing is lost, We seek it, ere it come to light, In every cranny but the right. Forth skipped the cat, not now replete As erst with airy self-conceit, Nor in her own fond comprehension, A theme for all the world's attention, But modest, sober, cured of all Her notions hyperbolical, And wishing for a place of rest, Any thing rather than a chest. Then stepped the poet into bed With this reflection in his head:

MORAL

Beware of too sublime a sense Of your own worth and consequence. The man who dreams himself so great, And his importance of such weight, That all around in all that's done Must move and act for him alone, Will learn in school of tribulation The folly of his expectation.

_William Cowper._

A DARWINIAN BALLAD

Oh, many have told of the monkeys of old, What a pleasant race they were, And it seems most true that I and you Are derived from an apish pair. They all had nails, and some had tails, And some--no "accounts in arrear"; They climbed up the trees, and they scratched out the--these Of course I will not mention here.

They slept in a wood, or wherever they could, For they didn't know how to make beds; They hadn't got huts; they dined upon nuts, Which they cracked upon each other's heads. They hadn't much scope, for a comb, brush or soap, Or towels, or kettle or fire. They had no coats nor capes, for ne'er did these apes Invent what they didn't require.

The sharpest baboon never used fork or spoon, Nor made any boots for his toes, Nor could any thief steal a silk handker-chief, For no ape thought much of his nose; They had cold collations; they ate poor relations: Provided for thus, by-the-bye. No Ou-rang-ou-tang a song ever sang-- He couldn't, and so didn't try.

From these though descended our manners are mended, Though still we can grin and backbite! We cut up each other, be he friend or brother, And tales are the fashion--at night. This origination is all speculation-- We gamble in various shapes; So Mr. Darwin may speculate in Our ancestors having been apes.

_Unknown._

THE PIG

A COLLOQUIAL POEM

Jacob! I do not like to see thy nose Turn'd up in scornful curve at yonder pig, It would be well, my friend, if we like him, Were perfect in our kind!... And why despise The sow-born grunter?... He is obstinate, Thou answerest; ugly, and the filthiest beast That banquets upon offal.... Now I pray you Hear the pig's counsel. Is he obstinate? We must not, Jacob, be deceived by words; We must not take them as unheeding hands Receive base money at the current worth But with a just suspicion try their sound, And in the even balance weight them well See now to what this obstinacy comes: A poor, mistreated, democratic beast, He knows that his unmerciful drivers seek Their profit, and not his. He hath not learned That pigs were made for man,... born to be brawn'd And baconized: that he must please to give Just what his gracious masters please to take; Perhaps his tusks, the weapons Nature gave For self-defense, the general privilege; Perhaps,... hark, Jacob! dost thou hear that horn? Woe to the young posterity of Pork! Their enemy is at hand. Again. Thou say'st The pig is ugly. Jacob, look at him! Those eyes have taught the lover flattery. His face,... nay, Jacob! Jacob! were it fair To judge a lady in her dishabille? Fancy it dressed, and with saltpeter rouged. Behold his tail, my friend; with curls like that The wanton hop marries her stately spouse: So crisp in beauty Amoretta's hair Rings round her lover's soul the chains of love. And what is beauty, but the aptitude Of parts harmonious? Give thy fancy scope, And thou wilt find that no imagined change Can beautify this beast. Place at his end The starry glories of the peacock's pride, Give him the swan's white breast; for his horn-hoofs Shape such a foot and ankle as the waves Crowded in eager rivalry to kiss When Venus from the enamor'd sea arose;... Jacob, thou canst but make a monster of him! An alteration man could think, would mar His pig-perfection. The last charge,... he lives A dirty life. Here I could shelter him With noble and right-reverend precedents. And show by sanction of authority That 'tis a very honorable thing To thrive by dirty ways. But let me rest On better ground the unanswerable defense. The pig is a philosopher, who knows No prejudice. Dirt?... Jacob, what is dirt? If matter,... why the delicate dish that tempts An o'ergorged epicure to the last morsel That stuffs him to the throat-gates, is no more. If matter be not, but as sages say, Spirit is all, and all things visible Are one, the infinitely modified, Think, Jacob, what that pig is, and the mire Wherein he stands knee-deep! And there! the breeze Pleads with me, and has won thee to a smile That speaks conviction. O'er yon blossom'd field Of beans it came, and thoughts of bacon rise.

_Robert Southey._

A FISH STORY

A whale of great porosity And small specific gravity, Dived down with much velocity Beneath the sea's concavity.

But soon the weight of water Squeezed in his fat immensity, Which varied--as it ought to-- Inversely as his density.

It would have moved to pity An Ogre or a Hessian, To see poor Spermaceti Thus suffering compression.

The while he lay a-roaring In agonies gigantic, The lamp-oil out came pouring, And greased the wide Atlantic.

(Would we'd been in the Navy, And cruising there! Imagine us All in a sea of gravy, With billow oleaginous!)

At length old million-pounder, Low on a bed of coral, Gave his last dying flounder, Whereto I pen this moral.

MORAL

O, let this tale dramatic, Anent the whale Norwegian And pressure hydrostatic, Warn you, my young collegian,

That down-compelling forces Increase as you get deeper; The lower down your course is, The upward path's the steeper.

_Henry A. Beers._

THE CAMERONIAN CAT

There was a Cameronian cat Was hunting for a prey, And in the house she catched a mouse Upon the Sabbath-day.

The Whig, being offended At such an act profane, Laid by his book, the cat he took, And bound her in a chain.

"Thou damned, thou cursed creature! This deed so dark with thee! Think'st thou to bring to hell below My holy wife and me?

"Assure thyself that for the deed Thou blood for blood shalt pay, For killing of the Lord's own mouse Upon the Sabbath-day."

The presbyter laid by the book, And earnestly he prayed That the great sin the cat had done Might not on him be laid.

And straight to execution Poor pussy she was drawn, And high hanged up upon a tree-- The preacher sung a psalm.

And, when the work was ended, They thought the cat near dead; She gave a paw, and then a mew, And stretchèd out her head.

"Thy name," said he, "shall certainly A beacon still remain, A terror unto evil ones For evermore, Amen."

_Unknown._

THE YOUNG GAZELLE

A MOORE-ISH TALE

In early youth, as you may guess, I revelled in poetic lore, And while my schoolmates studied less, I resolutely studied _Moore_.

Those touching lines from "Lalla Rookh,"-- "Ah, ever thus--" you know them well, Such root within my bosom took, I wished _I_ had a young Gazelle.

Oh, yes! a sweet, a sweet Gazelle, "To charm me with its soft black eye," So soft, so liquid, that a spell Seems in that gem-like orb to lie.

Years, childhood passed, youth fled away, My vain desire I'd learned to quell, Till came that most auspicious day When _some one gave me a Gazelle_.

With care, and trouble, and expense, 'Twas brought from Afric's northern cape; It seemed of great intelligence, And oh! so beautiful a shape.

Its lustrous, liquid eye was bent With special lovingness on me; No gift that mortal could present More welcome to my heart could be.

I brought him food with fond caress, Built him a hut, snug, neat, and warm; I called him "Selim," to express The marked _s(e)lim_ness of his form.

The little creature grew so tame, He "learned to know (the neighbors) well;" And then the ladies, when they came, Oh! how they "nursed that dear Gazelle."

But, woe is me! on earthly ground Some ill with every blessing dwells; And soon to my dismay I found That this applies to young Gazelles.

When free allowed to roam indoors, The mischief that he did was great; The walls, the furniture, the floors, He made in a terrific state.

He nibbled at the table-cloth, And trod the carpet into holes, And in his gambols, nothing loth, Kicked over scuttles full of coals.

To view his image in the glass, He reared upon his hinder legs; And thus one morn I found, alas! Two porcelain vases smashed like eggs.

Whatever did his fancy catch By way of food, he would not wait To be invited, but would snatch It from one's table, hand, or plate.

He riled the dog, annoyed the cat, And scared the goldfish into fits; He butted through my newest hat, And tore my manuscript to bits.

'Twas strange, so light his hooflets weighed, His limbs as slender as a hare's, The noise my little Selim made In trotting up and down the stairs.

To tie him up I thought was wise, But loss of freedom gave him pain; I could not stand those pleading eyes, And so I let him go again.

How sweet to see him skip and prance Upon the gravel or the lawn; More light in step than fairies' dance, More graceful than an English fawn.

But then he spoilt the garden so, Trod down the beds, raked up the seeds, And ate the plants--nor did he show The least compunction for his deeds.

He trespassed on the neighbors' ground, And broke two costly melon frames, With other damages--a pound To pay, resulted from his games.

In short, the mischief was immense That from his gamesome pranks befel, And, truly, in a double sense, He proved a _very_ "dear Gazelle."

At length I sighed--"Ah, ever thus Doth disappointment mock each hope; But 'tis in vain to make a fuss; You'll have to go, my antelope."

The chance I wished for did occur; A lady going to the East Was willing; so I gave to her That little antelopian beast.

I said, "This antler'd desert child In Turkish palaces may roam, But he is much too free and wild To keep in any English home."

Yes, tho' I gave him up with tears, Experience had broke the spell, And if I live a thousand years, I'll never have a young Gazelle.

_Walter Parke._

THE BALLAD OF THE EMEU

O say, have you seen at the Willows so green-- So charming and rurally true-- A Singular bird; with a manner absurd, Which they call the Australian Emeu? Have you? Ever seen this Australian Emeu?

It trots all around with its head on the ground, Or erects it quite out of your view; And the ladies all cry, when its figure they spy, "O, what a sweet pretty Emeu! Oh! do Just look at that lovely Emeu!"

One day to this spot, when the weather was hot, Came Matilda Hortense Fortescue; And beside her there came a youth of high name Augustus Florell Montague: The two Both loved that wild foreign Emeu.

With two loaves of bread then they fed it, instead Of the flesh of the white cockatoo, Which once was its food in that wild neighbourhood Where ranges the sweet kangaroo That, too, Is game for the famous Emeu!

Old saws and gimlets but its appetite whet Like the world famous bark of Peru; There's nothing so hard that the bird will discard, And nothing its taste will eschew, That you Can give that long-legged Emeu!

The time slipped away in this innocent play, When up jumped the bold Montague: "Where's that specimen pin that I gaily did win In raffle, and gave unto you, Fortescue?" No word spoke the guilty Emeu!

"Quick! tell me his name whom thou gavest that same, Ere these hands in thy blood I imbrue!" "Nay, dearest," she cried as she clung to his side, "I'm innocent as that Emeu!" "Adieu!" He replied, "Miss M. H. Fortescue!"

Down she dropped at his feet, all as white as a sheet, As wildly he fled from her view; He thought 'twas her sin--for he knew not the pin Had been gobbled up by the Emeu; All through "I'm innocent as that Emeu!"

_Bret Harte._

THE TURTLE AND FLAMINGO

A lively young turtle lived down by the banks Of a dark rolling stream called the Jingo; And one summer day, as he went out to play, Fell in love with a charming flamingo-- An enormously genteel flamingo! An expansively crimson flamingo! A beautiful, bouncing flamingo!

Spake the turtle, in tones like a delicate wheeze: "To the water I've oft seen you in go, And your form has impressed itself deep on my shell, You perfectly modelled flamingo! You tremendously A-1 flamingo! You in-ex-press-_i_-ble flamingo!

"To be sure, I'm a turtle, and you are a belle, And my language is not your fine lingo; But smile on me, tall one, and be my bright flame, You miraculous, wondrous flamingo! You blazingly beauteous flamingo! You turtle-absorbing flamingo! You inflammably gorgeous flamingo!"

Then the proud bird blushed redder than ever before, And that was quite un-nec-es-_sa_-ry, And she stood on one leg and looked out of one eye, The position of things for to vary,-- This aquatical, musing flamingo! This dreamy, uncertain flamingo! This embarrasing, harassing flamingo!

Then she cried to the quadruped, greatly amazed: "Why your passion toward _me_ do you hurtle? I'm an ornithological wonder of grace, And you're an illogical turtle,-- A waddling, impossible turtle! A low-minded, grass-eating turtle! A highly improbable turtle!"

Then the turtle sneaked off with his nose to the ground And never more looked at the lasses; And falling asleep, while indulging his grief, Was gobbled up whole by Agassiz,-- The peripatetic Agassiz! The turtle-dissecting Agassiz! The illustrious, industrious Agassiz!

Go with me to Cambridge some cool, pleasant day, And the skeleton lover I'll show you; He's in a hard case, but he'll look in your face, Pretending (the rogue!) he don't know you! Oh, the deeply deceptive young turtle! The double-faced, glassy-cased turtle! The _green_ but a very _mock_ turtle!

_James Thomas Fields._

XV

JUNIORS

PRIOR TO MISS BELLE'S APPEARANCE

What makes you come _here_ fer, Mister, So much to _our_ house?--_Say_? Come to see our big sister!-- An' Charley he says 'at you kissed her An' he ketched you, thuther day!-- Didn' you, Charley?--But we p'omised Belle And crossed our heart to never to tell-- 'Cause _she_ gived us some o' them-er Chawk'lut-drops 'at you bringed to her!

Charley he's my little b'uther-- An' we has a-mostest fun, Don't we, Charley?--Our Muther, Whenever we whips one-anuther, Tries to whip _us_--an' we _run_-- Don't we, Charley?--An' nen, bime-by, Nen she gives us cake--an' pie-- Don't she, Charley?--when we come in An' p'omise never to do it agin!

_He's_ named Charley.--I'm _Willie_-- An' I'm got the purtiest name! But Uncle Bob _he_ calls me "Billy"-- Don't he, Charley?--'Nour filly We named "Billy," the same Ist like me! An' our Ma said 'At "Bob put foolishnuss into our head!"-- Didn' she, Charley?--An' _she_ don't know Much about _boys_!--'Cause Bob said so!

Baby's a funniest feller! Naint no hair on his head-- _Is_ they, Charley? It's meller Wite up there! An' ef Belle er Us ask wuz _we_ that way, Ma said,-- "Yes; an' yer _Pa's_ head wuz soft as that, An' it's that way yet!"--An' Pa grabs his hat An' says, "Yes, childern, she's right about Pa-- 'Cause that's the reason he married yer Ma!"

An' our Ma says 'at "Belle couldn' Ketch nothin 'at all but ist _'bows!'_" An' _Pa_ says 'at "you're soft as puddun!"-- An _Uncle Bob_ says "you're a good-un-- 'Cause he can tell by yer nose!"-- Didn' he, Charley? And when Belle'll play In the poller on th' pianer, some day, Bob makes up funny songs about you, Till she gits mad--like he wants her to!

Our sister _Fanny_, she's _'leven_ Years old. 'At's mucher 'an _I_-- Ain't it, Charley?... I'm seven!-- But our sister Fanny's in _Heaven_! Nere's where you go ef you die!-- Don't you, Charley? Nen you has _wings_-- _Ist like Fanny_!--an' _purtiest things_!-- Don't you, Charley? An' nen you can _fly_-- Ist fly--an' _ever'_thing!... Wisht _I'd_ die!

_James Whitcomb Riley._

THERE WAS A LITTLE GIRL

There was a little girl, And she had a little curl Right in the middle of her forehead. When she was good She was very, very good, And when she was bad she was horrid.

One day she went upstairs, When her parents, unawares, In the kitchen were occupied with meals And she stood upon her head In her little trundle-bed, And then began hooraying with her heels.

Her mother heard the noise, And she thought it was the boys A-playing at a combat in the attic; But when she climbed the stair, And found Jemima there, She took and she did spank her most emphatic.

_Unknown._

THE NAUGHTY DARKEY BOY

There was a cruel darkey boy, Who sat upon the shore, A catching little fishes by The dozen and the score.

And as they squirmed and wriggled there, He shouted loud with glee, "You surely cannot want to live, You're little-er dan me."

Just then with a malicious leer, And a capacious smile, Before him from the water deep There rose a crocodile.

He eyed the little darkey boy, Then heaved a blubbering sigh, And said, "You cannot want to live, You're little-er than I."

The fishes squirm and wriggle still, Beside that sandy shore, The cruel little darkey boy, Was never heard of more.

_Unknown._

DUTCH LULLABY

Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night Sailed off in a wooden shoe,-- Sailed on a river of misty light Into a sea of dew. "Where are you going, and what do you wish?" The old moon asked the three. "We have come to fish for the herring-fish That live in this beautiful sea; Nets of silver and gold have we," Said Wynken, Blynken, And Nod.

The old moon laughed and sung a song, As they rocked in the wooden shoe; And the wind that sped them all night long Ruffled the waves of dew; The little stars were the herring-fish That lived in the beautiful sea. "Now cast your nets wherever you wish, But never afeard are we!" So cried the stars to the fishermen three, Wynken, Blynken, And Nod.

All night long their nets they threw For the fish in the twinkling foam, Then down from the sky came the wooden shoe, Bringing the fishermen home; 'Twas all so pretty a sail, it seemed As if it could not be; And some folk thought 'twas a dream they'd dreamed Of sailing that beautiful sea; But I shall name you the fishermen three: Wynken, Blynken, And Nod.

Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes, And Nod is a little head, And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies Is a wee one's trundle-bed; So shut your eyes while Mother sings Of wonderful sights that be, And you shall see the beautiful things As you rock on the misty sea Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three, Wynken, Blynken, And Nod.

_Eugene Field._

THE DINKEY-BIRD

In an ocean, 'way out yonder (As all sapient people know), Is the land of Wonder-Wander, Whither children love to go; It's their playing, romping, swinging, That give great joy to me While the Dinkey-Bird goes singing In the Amfalula-tree!

There the gum-drops grow like cherries, And taffy's thick as peas,-- Caramels you pick like berries When, and where, and how you please Big red sugar-plums are clinging To the cliffs beside that sea Where the Dinkey-Bird is singing In the Amfalula-tree.

So when children shout and scamper And make merry all the day, When there's naught to put a damper To the ardor of their play; When I hear their laughter ringing, Then I'm sure as sure can be That the Dinkey-Bird is singing In the Amfalula-tree.

For the Dinkey-Bird's bravuras And staccatos are so sweet-- His roulades, appogiaturas, And robustos so complete, That the youth of every nation-- Be they near or far away-- Have especial delectation In that gladsome roundelay.

Their eyes grow bright and brighter, Their lungs begin to crow, Their hearts get light and lighter, And their cheeks are all aglow; For an echo cometh bringing The news to all and me That the Dinkey-Bird is singing In the Amfalula-tree.

I'm sure you'd like to go there To see your feathered friend-- And so many goodies grow there You would like to comprehend! _Speed, little dreams, your winging To that land across the sea Where the Dinkey-Bird is singing In the Amfalula-Tree!_

_Eugene Field._

THE LITTLE PEACH

A little peach in the orchard grew, A little peach of emerald hue: Warmed by the sun, and wet by the dew, It grew.

One day, walking the orchard through, That little peach dawned on the view Of Johnny Jones and his sister Sue-- Those two.

Up at the peach a club they threw: Down from the limb on which it grew, Fell the little peach of emerald hue-- Too true!

John took a bite, and Sue took a chew, And then the trouble began to brew,-- Trouble the doctor couldn't subdue,-- Paregoric too.

Under the turf where the daisies grew, They planted John and his sister Sue; And their little souls to the angels flew-- Boo-hoo!

But what of the peach of emerald hue, Warmed by the sun, and wet by the dew? Ah, well! its mission on earth is through-- Adieu!

_Eugene Field._

COUNSEL TO THOSE THAT EAT

With chocolate-cream that you buy in the cake Large mouthfuls and hurry are quite a mistake.

Wise persons prolong it as long as they can But putting in practice this excellent plan.

The cream from the chocolate lining they dig With a Runaway match or a clean little twig.

Many hundreds,--nay, thousands--of scoopings they make Before they've exhausted a twopenny cake.

With ices 'tis equally wrongful to haste; You ought to go slowly and dwell on each taste.

Large mouthfuls are painful, as well as unwise, For they lead to an ache at the back of the eyes.

And the delicate sip is e'en better, one finds, If the ice is a mixture of different kinds.

_Unknown._

HOME AND MOTHER

Sleep, my own darling, By, baby, by; Mother is with thee, By, baby, by. There, baby. (Oh, how the wild winds wail!) Hush, baby. (Turning to sleet and hail; Ah, how the pine-tree moans and mutters!-- I wonder if Ellen will think of the shutters?)

Sleep, my own darling, By, baby, by; Mother is with thee, By, baby, by. Rest thee. (She couldn't have left the blower Down in the parlor? There's so much to show her!) By-by, my sweetest. (Now the rain's pouring! Is it wind or the dining-room fire that's roaring?)

Sleep, my own darling, By, baby, by; Mother is with thee, By, baby, by. How lovely his forehead!--my own blessed pet! He's nearly asleep. (Now I mustn't forget That pork in the brine, and the stair-rods to-morrow.) Heaven shield him forever from trouble and sorrow!

Sleep, my own darling, By, baby, by; Mother is with thee, By, baby, by. Those dear little ringlets, so silky and bright! (I do hope the muffins will be nice and light.) How lovely he is! (Yes, she said she could fry.) Oh, what would I do if my baby should die!

Sleep, my own darling, By, baby, by; Mother is with thee, By, baby, by. That sweet little hand, and the soft, dimpled cheek! Sleep, darling. (I'll have his clothes shortened this week. How tightly he's holding my dress; I'm afraid He'll wake when I move. There! his bed isn't made!)

Sleep, my own darling, By, baby, by; In thy soft cradle Peacefully lie. (He's settled at last. But I can't leave him so, Though I ought to be going this instant, I know. There's everything standing and waiting down-stairs. Ah me, but a mother is cumbered with cares!)

_Mary Mapes Dodge._

LITTLE ORPHANT ANNIE

Little Orphant Annie's come to our house to stay, An' wash the cups and saucers up, an' brush the crumbs away, An' shoo the chickens off the porch, an' dust the hearth, an' sweep, An' make the fire, an' bake the bread, an' earn her board-an'-keep; An' all us other children, when the supper things is done, We set around the kitchen fire an' has the mostest fun A-list'nin' to the witch-tales 'at Annie tells about, An' the Gobble-uns 'at gits you Ef you Don't Watch Out!

Onc't there was a little boy wouldn't say his pray'rs-- An' when he went to bed at night, away up stairs, His mammy heerd him holler, an' his daddy heerd him bawl, An' when they turn't the kivvers down, he wasn't there at all! An' they seeked him in the rafter-room, an' cubby-hole, an' press, An' seeked him up the chimbly-flue, an' ever'wheres, I guess; But all they ever found was thist his pants an' roundabout! An' the Gobble-uns'll git you Ef you Don't Watch Out!

An' one time a little girl 'ud allus laugh an' grin, An' make fun of ever' one, an' all her blood-an'-kin; An' onc't when they was "company," an' ole folks was there, She mocked 'em an' shocked 'em, an' said she didn't care! An' thist as she kicked her heels, an' turn't to run an' hide, They was two great big Black Things a-standin' by her side, An' they snatched her through the ceilin' 'fore she knowed what she's about! An' the Gobble-uns'll git you Ef you Don't Watch Out!

An' little Orphant Annie says, when the blaze is blue, An' the lampwick sputters, an' the wind goes woo-oo! An' you hear the crickets quit, an' the moon is gray, An' the lightnin'-bugs in dew is all squenched away,-- You better mind yer parents, and yer teachers fond and dear, An' churish them 'at loves you, an' dry the orphant's tear, An' he'p the pore an' needy ones 'at clusters all about, Er the Gobble-uns'll git you Ef you Don't Watch Out!

_James Whitcomb Riley._

A VISIT FROM ST. NICHOLAS

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse; The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there; The children were nestled all snug in their beds, While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads; And mamma in her kerchief, and I in my cap, Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap, When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter. Away to the window I flew like a flash, Tore open the shutters, and threw up the sash. The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow Gave a luster of mid-day to objects below, When, what to my wondering eyes should appear, But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer, With a little old driver, so lively and quick, I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick. More rapid than eagles his coursers they came, And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name; "Now, _Dasher_! now, _Dancer_! now, _Prancer_ and _Vixen_! On, _Comet_! on, _Cupid_! on, _Dunder_ and _Blitzen_! To the top of the porch! To the top of the wall! Now, dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!" As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly, When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky; So up to the housetop the coursers they flew, With the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas, too. And then in a twinkling, I heard on the roof The prancing and pawing of each little hoof. As I drew in my head, and was turning around, Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound. He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot, And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot; A bundle of toys he had flung on his back, And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack. His eyes--how they twinkled!--his dimples how merry! His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry! His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow, And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow; The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth, And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath; He had a broad face and a round little belly, That shook when he laughed like a bowlful of jelly. He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf, And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself; A wink of his eye and a twist of his head, Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread; He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work, And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk, And laying his finger aside of his nose, And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose; He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle, And away they all flew like the down of a thistle; But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight, "_Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night_!"

_Clement Clarke Moore._

A NURSERY LEGEND

Oh! listen, little children, to a proper little song Of a naughty little urchin who was always doing wrong: He disobey'd his mammy, and he disobey'd his dad, And he disobey'd his uncle, which was very near as bad. He wouldn't learn to cipher, and he wouldn't learn to write, But he _would_ tear up his copy-books to fabricate a kite; And he used his slate and pencil in so barbarous a way, That the grinders of his governess got looser ev'ry day.

At last he grew so obstinate that no one could contrive To cure him of a theory that two and two made five And, when they taught him how to spell, he show'd his wicked whims By mutilating Pinnock and mislaying Watts's Hymns. Instead of all such pretty books, (which _must_ improve the mind,) He cultivated volumes of a most improper kind; Directories and almanacks he studied on the sly, And gloated over Bradshaw's Guide when nobody was by.

From such a course of reading you can easily divine The condition of his morals at the age of eight or nine. His tone of conversation kept becoming worse and worse, Till it scandalised his governess and horrified his nurse. He quoted bits of Bradshaw that were quite unfit to hear, And recited from the Almanack, no matter who was near: He talked of Reigate Junction and of trains both up and down, And referr'd to men who call'd themselves Jones, Robinson, and Brown.

But when this naughty boy grew up he found the proverb true, That Fate one day makes people pay for all the wrong they do. He was cheated out of money by a man whose name was Brown, And got crippled in a railway smash while coming up to town. So, little boys and little girls, take warning while you can, And profit by the history of this unhappy man. Read Dr. Watts and Pinnock, dears; and when you learn to spell, Shun Railway Guides, Directories, and Almanacks as well!

_Henry S. Leigh._

A LITTLE GOOSE

The chill November day was done, The working world home faring; The wind came roaring through the streets And set the gas-lights flaring; And hopelessly and aimlessly The scared old leaves were flying; When, mingled with the sighing wind, I heard a small voice crying.

And shivering on the corner stood A child of four, or over; No cloak or hat her small, soft arms, And wind blown curls to cover. Her dimpled face was stained with tears; Her round blue eyes ran over; She cherished in her wee, cold hand, A bunch of faded clover.

And one hand round her treasure while She slipped in mine the other: Half scared, half confidential, said, "Oh! please, I want my mother!" "Tell me your street and number, pet: Don't cry, I'll take you to it." Sobbing she answered, "I forget: The organ made me do it.

"He came and played at Milly's steps, The monkey took the money; And so I followed down the street, The monkey was so funny. I've walked about a hundred hours, From one street to another: The monkey's gone, I've spoiled my flowers, Oh! please, I want my mother."

"But what's your mother's name? and what The street? Now think a minute." "My mother's name is mamma dear-- The street--I can't begin it." "But what is strange about the house, Or new--not like the others?" "I guess you mean my trundle-bed, Mine and my little brother's.

"Oh dear! I ought to be at home To help him say his prayers,-- He's such a baby he forgets; And we are both such players;-- And there's a bar to keep us both From pitching on each other, For Harry rolls when he's asleep: Oh dear! I want my mother."

The sky grew stormy; people passed All muffled, homeward faring: "You'll have to spend the night with me," I said at last, despairing, I tied a kerchief round her neck-- "What ribbon's this, my blossom?" "Why don't you know!" she smiling, said, And drew it from her bosom.

A card with number, street, and name; My eyes astonished met it; "For," said the little one, "you see I might sometimes forget it: And so I wear a little thing That tells you all about it; For mother says she's very sure I should get lost without it."

_Eliza Sproat Turner._

LEEDLE YAWCOB STRAUSS

I haf von funny leedle poy, Vot comes schust to mine knee; Der queerest schap, der createst rogue, As efer you dit see. He runs, und schumps, und schmashes dings In all barts off der house: But vot off dot? He vas mine son, Mine leedle Yawcob Strauss.

He get der measles und der mumbs And eferyding dot's oudt; He sbills mine glass off lager bier, Poots schnuff indo mine kraut. He fills mine pipe mit Limburg cheese-- Dot vas der roughest chouse; I'd dake dot vrom no oder poy But leedle Yawcob Strauss.

He dakes der milk-ban for a dhrum, Und cuts mine cane in dwo, To make der schticks to beat it mit-- Mine cracious, dot vas drue! I dinks mine hed vas schplit abart, He kicks oup sooch a touse: But nefer mind; der poys vas few Like dot young Yawcob Strauss.

He asks me questions sooch as dese: Who baints mine nose so red? Who vas it cuts dot schmoodth blace oudt Vrom der hair ubon mine hed? Und vere dere plaze goes vrom her lamp Vene'er der glim I douse. How gan I all dose dings eggsblain To dot schmall Yawcob Strauss?

I somedimes dink I schall go vild Mit sooch a grazy poy, Und vish vonce more I gould haf rest, Und beaceful dimes enshoy; But ven he vas aschleep in ped So guiet as a mouse, I prays der Lord, "Dake anyding, But leaf dot Yawcob Strauss."

_Charles Follen Adams._

A PARENTAL ODE TO MY SON, AGED THREE YEARS AND FIVE MONTHS

Thou happy, happy elf! (But stop,--first let me kiss away that tear)-- Thou tiny image of myself! (My love, he's poking peas into his ear!) Thou merry, laughing sprite! With spirits feather-light, Untouched by sorrow, and unsoiled by sin-- (Good Heavens! the child is swallowing a pin!)

Thou little tricksy Puck! With antic toys so funnily bestuck, Light as the singing bird that wings the air-- (The door! the door! he'll tumble down the stair!) Thou darling of thy sire! (Why, Jane, he'll set his pinafore afire!) Thou imp of mirth and joy! In love's dear chain, so strong and bright a link, Thou idol of thy parents--(Drat the boy! There goes my ink!)

Thou cherub--but of earth; Fit playfellow for Fays, by moonlight pale, In harmless sport and mirth, (That dog will bite him if he pulls its tail!) Thou human humming-bee, extracting honey From every blossom in the world that blows, Singing in youth's elysium ever sunny, (Another tumble!--that's his precious nose!)

Thy father's pride and hope! (He'll break the mirror with that skipping-rope!) With pure heart newly stamped from Nature's mint-- (Where _did_ he learn that squint?) Thou young domestic dove! (He'll have that jug off with another shove!) Dear nursling of the Hymeneal nest! (Are those torn clothes his best?) Little epitome of man! (He'll climb upon the table, that's his plan!) Touched with the beauteous tints of dawning life (He's got a knife!)

Thou enviable being! No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky foreseeing, Play on, play on, My elfin John! Toss the light ball--bestride the stick-- (I knew so many cakes would make him sick!) With fancies, buoyant as the thistle-down, Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk, With many a lamb-like frisk, (He's got the scissors, snipping at your gown!) Thou pretty opening rose! (Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose!) Balmy and breathing music like the South, (He really brings my heart into my mouth!) Fresh as the morn, and brilliant as its star,-- (I wish that window had an iron bar!) Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove,-- (I'll tell you what, my love, I cannot write unless he's sent above!)

_Thomas Hood._

LITTLE MAMMA

Why is it the children don't love me As they do Mamma? That they put her ever above me-- "Little Mamma?" I'm sure I do all that I can do, What more can a rather big man do, Who can't be Mamma-- Little Mamma?

Any game that the tyrants suggest, "Logomachy,"--which I detest,-- Doll-babies, hop-scotch, or baseball, I'm always on hand at the call. When Noah and the others embark, I'm the elephant saved in the ark. I creep, and I climb, and I crawl-- By turns am the animals all. For the show on the stair I'm always the bear, Chimpanzee, camel, or kangaroo. It is never, "Mamma,-- _Little_ Mamma,-- Won't _you_?"

My umbrella's the pony, if any-- None ride on Mamma's parasol: I'm supposed to have always the penny For bonbons, and beggars, and all. My room is the one where they clatter-- Am I reading, or writing, what matter! My knee is the one for a trot, My foot is the stirrup for Dot. If his fractions get into a snarl Who straightens the tangles for Karl? Who bounds Massachusetts and Maine, And tries to bound flimsy old Spain? Why, It is _I_, Papa,-- Not Little Mamma!

That the youngsters are ingrates don't say. I think they love me--in a way-- As one does the old clock on the stair,-- Any curious, cumbrous affair That one's used to having about, And would feel rather lonely without. I think that they love me, I say, In a sort of a tolerant way; But it's plain that Papa Isn't Little Mamma.

Thus when twilight comes stealing anear, When things in the firelight look queer; And shadows the playroom enwrap, They never climb into my lap And toy with _my_ head, smooth and bare, As they do with Mamma's shining hair; Nor feel round my throat and my chin For dimples to put fingers in; Nor lock my neck in a loving vise, And say they're "mousies"--that's mice-- And will nibble my ears, Will nibble and bite With their little mice-teeth, so sharp and so white, If I do not kiss them this very minute-- Don't-wait-a-bit-but-at-once-begin-it-- Dear little Papa! That's what they say and do to Mamma.

If, mildly hinting, I quietly say that Kissing's a game that more can play at, They turn up at once those innocent eyes, And I suddenly learn to my great surprise That my face has "prickles"-- My moustache tickles. If, storming their camp, I seize a pert shaver, And take as a right what was asked as a favor, It is, "Oh, Papa, How horrid you are-- You taste exactly like a cigar!"

But though the rebels protest and pout, And make a pretence of driving me out, I hold, after all, the main redoubt,-- Not by force of arms nor the force of will, But the power of love, which is mightier still. And very deep in their hearts, I know, Under the saucy and petulant "Oh," The doubtful "Yes," or the naughty "No," They love Papa.

And down in the heart that no one sees, Where I hold my feasts and my jubilees, I know that I would not abate one jot Of the love that is held by my little Dot Or my great big boy for their little Mamma, Though out in the cold it crowded Papa. I would not abate it the tiniest whit, And I am not jealous the least little bit; For I'll tell you a secret: Come, my dears, And I'll whisper it--right-into-your-ears-- I, too, love Mamma, Little Mamma!

_Charles Henry Webb._

THE COMICAL GIRL

There was a child, as I have been told, Who when she was young didn't look very old. Another thing, too, some people have said, At the top of her body there grew out a head; And what perhaps might make some people stare Her little bald pate was all covered with hair. Another strange thing which made gossipers talk, Was that she often attempted to walk. And then, do you know, she occasioned much fun By moving so fast as sometimes to run. Nay, indeed, I have heard that some people say She often would smile and often would play. And what is a fact, though it seems very odd, She had monstrous dislike to the feel of a rod. This strange little child sometimes hungry would be And then she delighted her victuals to see. Even drink she would swallow, and though strange it appears Whenever she listened it was with her ears. With her eyes she could see, and strange to relate Her peepers were placed in front of her pate. There, too, was her mouth and also her nose, And on her two feet were placed her ten toes. Her teeth, I've been told, were fixed in her gums, And beside having fingers she also had thumbs. A droll child she therefore most surely must be, For not being blind she was able to see. One circumstance more had slipped from my mind Which is when not cross she always was kind. And, strangest of any that yet I have said, She every night went to sleep on her bed. And, what may occasion you no small surprise, When napping, she always shut close up her eyes.

_M. Pelham._

BUNCHES OF GRAPES

"Bunches of grapes," says Timothy, "Pomegrantes pink," says Elaine; "A junket of cream and a cranberry tart For me," says Jane.

"Love-in-a-mist," says Timothy, "Primroses pale," says Elaine; "A nosegay of pinks and mignonette For me," says Jane.

"Chariots of gold," says Timothy, "Silvery wings," says Elaine; "A bumpety ride in a waggon of hay For me," says Jane.

_Walter Ramal._

XVI

IMMORTAL STANZAS

THE PURPLE COW

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.

_Gelett Burgess._

THE YOUNG LADY OF NIGER

There was a young lady of Niger Who smiled as she rode on a Tiger; They came back from the ride With the lady inside, And the smile on the face of the Tiger.

_Unknown._

THE LAUGHING WILLOW

To see the Kaiser's epitaph Would make a weeping willow laugh.

_Oliver Herford._

SAID OPIE READ

Said Opie Read to E. P. Roe, "How do you like Gaboriau?" "I like him very much indeed!" Said E. P. Roe to Opie Read.

_Julian Street_ and _James Montgomery Flagg._

MANILA

Oh, dewy was the morning, upon the first of May, And Dewey was the admiral, down in Manila Bay; And dewy were the Regent's eyes, them royal orbs of blue, And do we feel discouraged? We do not think we do!

_Eugene F. Ware._

ON THE ARISTOCRACY OF HARVARD

I come from good old Boston, The home of the bean and the cod; Where the Cabots speak only to Lowells, And the Lowells speak only to God!

_Dr. Samuel G. Bushnell._

ON THE DEMOCRACY OF YALE

Here's to the town of New Haven, The home of the truth and the light; Where God speaks to Jones in the very same tones, That he uses with Hadley and Dwight!

_Dean Jones._

THE HERRING

"The Herring he loves the merry moonlight And the Mackerel loves the wind, But the Oyster loves the dredging song For he comes of a gentler kind."

_Sir Walter Scott._

IF THE MAN

If the man who turnips cries, Cry not when his father dies, 'Tis a proof that he had rather Have a turnip than his father.

_Samuel Johnson._

THE KILKENNY CATS

There wanst was two cats of Kilkenny, Each thought there was one cat too many, So they quarrell'd and fit, They scratch'd and they bit, Till, barrin' their nails, And the tips of their tails, Instead of two cats, there warnt any.

_Unknown._

POOR DEAR GRANDPAPA

What is the matter with Grandpapa? What can the matter be? He's broken his leg in trying to spell Tommy without a T.

_D'Arcy W. Thompson._

MORE WALKS

Whene'er I take my walks abroad, How many rich I see; There's A. and B. and C. and D. All better off than me!

_Richard Harris Barham._

INDIFFERENCE

The cat is in the parlour, The dog is in the lake; The cow is in the hammock,-- What difference does it make?

MADAME SANS SOUCI

"Bon jour, Madame Sans Souci; Combien coûtent ces soucis ci?" "Six sous." "Six sous ces soucis ci! C'est trop cher, Madame Sans Souci!"

A RIDDLE

The man in the wilderness asked of me How many strawberries grew in the sea. I answered him as I thought good, As many as red herrings grow in the wood.

IF

If all the land were apple-pie, And all the sea were ink; And all the trees were bread and cheese, What should we do for drink?

THE END

INDICES

INDEX OF AUTHORS

|page| |Authors Unknown| All's Well That Ends Well 264 Amazing Facts About Food 91 Ambiguous Lines 804 Any One Will Do 169 As To The Weather 107 Ballad of Bedlam, A 886 Ballad of High Endeavor, A 484 Bellagcholly Days 747 Bells, The 816 Cameronian Cat, The 917 Careful Penman, The 810 Catalectic Monody, A 833 Categorical Courtship 207 Chemist to His Love, A 206 Christmas Chimes 284 Clown's Courtship, The 217 Conjugal Conundrum, A 371 Cosmic Egg, The 771 Cosmopolitan Woman, A 167 Counsel to Those That Eat 932 Country Summer Pastoral, A 883 Cupid's Darts 67 Darwinian Ballad 913 Dirge 787 Father William 531 Fin de Siècle 357 Fragment, A 450 Future of the Classics, The 826 Gillian 511 Hom[oe]opathic Soup 76 Hyder Iddle 879 Idyll of Phatte and Leene, An 406 If 951 Imagiste Love Lines 383 Imaginative Crisis, The 451 Imitations of Walt Whitman 434 Indifference 950 Invitation to the Zoological Gardens, An 822 Israfiddlestrings 472 Justice to Scotland 384 Kilkenny Cats, The 950 Kindly Advice 890 King John and the Abbot 554 King Arthur 879 Learned Negro, The 274 Life 783 Lines 456 Lines by an Old Fogy 882 Lines to Miss Florence Huntingdon 830 Lines Written After a Battle 456 Little Star, The 476 Logic 809 Logical English 809 Lost Spectacles, The 287 Love's Moods and Tenses 812 Man of Words, A 790 Man's Place in Nature 89 Maudle-in-Ballad, A 510 Midsummer Madness 377 Minguillo's Kiss 122 Mme. Sans Souci 951 Modern Hiawatha, The 482 Mr. Finney's Turnip 847 My Dream 853 My Foe 529 Naughty Darkey Boy, The 927 Nirvana 900 North, East, South and West 403 Nursery Rhymes à la Mode 509 Nursery Song in Pidgin English 530 Ocean Wanderer, The 879 Ode to a Bobtailed Cat 736 Odv 788 On a Deaf Housekeeper 76 Origin of Ireland, The 106 Original Lamb, The 477 Panegyric on the Ladies 803 Questions with Answers 810 Rev. Gabe Tucker's Remarks 312 Riddle, A 951 Rural Raptures 450 Sainte Margérie 477 Siege of Belgrade, The 813 Similes 791 Song of the Springtide 527 Sonnet Found in a Deserted Mad House 851 Stanzas to Pale Ale 732 Strike Among the Poets, A 785 Susan Simpson 774 There was a Little Girl 926 Thingumbob, The 882 Three Children 843 Three Jovial Huntsmen 878 'Tis Midnight 843 'Tis Sweet to Roam 878 To an Importunate Host 534 To Be or Not To Be 891 Transcendentalism 92 Trust in Women 276 Two Fishers 188 Ultimate Joy, The 32 Unfortunate Miss-Bailey 702 Village Choir, The 528 Whango Tree, The 842 What is a Woman Like? 118 Whenceness of the Which 476 Whistler, The 133 Wonders of Nature 882 Wordsworthian Reminiscence 470 Young Lady of Niger, The 948 Young Lochinvar 381

|Adams, Charles Follen| Leedle Yawcob Strauss 940

|Adams, Franklin P.| Erring in Company 55 Popular Ballad: "Never Forget Your Parents" 394 To a Thesaurus 825 Translated Way 427

|Addison, Joseph| Song 751 To a Capricious Friend 368

|Aldrich, Dr. Henry| Reasons for Drinking 364

|Anstey, F.| Select Passages from a Coming Poet 410

|Aristophanes| Chorus of Women 126

|Ashby-Sterry, J.| Kindness to Animals 891 Pet's Punishment 184

|Atwell, Roy| Some Little Bug 77

|Aytoun, William E.| Bitter Bit, The 451 Broken Pitcher, The 196 Comfort in Affliction 453 Husband's Petition, The 454 Lay of the Lover's Friend, The 88

|Aytoun, William E.|, _and_ |Martin| Lay of the Love Lorn, The 537

|Bailey, Philip James| Great Black Crow, The 908

|Ballard, Harlan Hoge| In the Catacombs 52

|Bangs, John Kendrick| "Mona Lisa" 95

|Barham, Richard Harris| [|Thomas Ingoldsby|] Confession, The 443 Forlorn One, The 449 Jackdaw of Rheims, The 586 Knight and the Lady, The 590 Misadventures at Margate 558 More Walks 950

|Bayly, Thomas Haynes| Why Don't the Men Propose? 130

|Bede, Cuthbert| In Memoriam 463

|Beers, Henry A.| Fish Story, A 916

|Bellaw, A. W.| Conjugal Conjugations 810 Old Line Fence, The 760

|Belloc, Hilaire| Frog, The 907 Llama, The 906 Microbe, The 907 Viper, The 906 Yak, The 906

|Bennett, John| To Marie 852

|Birdseye, George| Paradise 281

|Blake, Rodney| Hoch! der Kaiser 291

|Blake, William| Cupid 56 Little Vagabond, The 269

|Blanchard, Laman| Art of Book-Keeping, The 818 False Love and True Logic 183 Ode to a Human Heart 784 Whatever is, is Right 786

|Bridges, Madeline| Third Proposition, The 345

|Bridgman, L. J.| On Knowing When to Stop 312

|Browne, Charles Farrar| [|Artemus Ward|] Uncle Simon and Uncle Jim 849

|Brownell, Henry Howard| Lawyer's Invocation to Spring, The 402

|Browning, Robert| Pied Piper of Hamelin, The 603 Pope and the Net, The 286 Youth and Art 339

|Bunner, H. C.| Behold the Deeds 397 Home Sweet Home with Variations 498 Shake, Mulleary and Go-Ethe 40 Way to Arcady, The 201

|Burdette, Robert J.| Orphan Born 903 Romance of the Carpet, The 674 "Soldier, Rest!" 374 "Songs without Words" 413 What Will We Do? 311

|Burgess, Gelett| Dighton is Engaged 647 Extracts from the Rubaiyat of Omar Cayenne 512 Invisible Bridge, The 855 Kitty Wants to Write 646 Lazy Roof, The 855 My Feet 855 Purple Cow, The 948 Villanelle of Things Amusing 73

|Burnand, F. C.| Fisherman's Chant, The 81 Oh, My Geraldine 180 True to Poll 275

|Burns, Robert| Address to the Toothache 724 Holy Willie's Prayer 272 John Barleycorn 730 Tam O'Shanter 623

|Bushnell, Dr. Samuel G.| On the Aristocracy of Harvard 949

|Butler, Ellis Parker| Secret Combination, The 209

|Butler, Samuel| Hypocrisy 365 Religion of Hudibras, The 271 Smatterers 365

|Butler, William Allen| Nothing to Wear 148

|Byron, John| Three Black Crows 254 Which is Which 368

|Byron, Lord| Written After Swimming from Sestos to Abydos 80

|Calverley, Charles Stuart| Ballad 467 Cock and the Bull, The 464 Companions 63 Disaster 469 First Love 116 Lovers and a Reflection 372 Ode to Tobacco 732 Schoolmaster, The 64

|Cannan, Edward| Unexpected Fact, An 844

|Canning, George| Elderly Gentlemen, The 665 Knife-grinder, The 249 Song 84

|Carey, Henry| Sally in Our Alley 182

|Carleton, Will| New Church Organ, The 162

|Carroll, Lewis| Father William 485 Humpty Dumpty's Recitation 872 Hunting of the Snark, The 676 Jabberwocky 869 Some Hallucinations 874 Walrus and the Carpenter, The 896 Ways and Means 870

|Carryl, Charles E.| Post Captain, The 615 Robinson Crusoe's Story 617

|Carryl, Guy Wetmore| Ballad, A 426 Girl was too Reckless of Grammar, A 395

|Cary, Phoebe| Ballad of the Canal 492 "The Day is Done" 490 Jacob 491 John Thomson's Daughter 494 There's a Bower of Bean-vines 493 Reuben 493 When Lovely Woman 494 Wife, The 494

|Cayley, George John| Epitaph, An 366

|Chambers, Robert W.| Officer Brady 232 Recruit, The 230

|Chaucer, Geoffrey| To My Empty Purse 58

|Cheney, John Vance| Kitchen Clock, The 220

|Chesterfield, Lord| On a Full-length Portrait of Beau Marsh 369

|Chesterton, G. K.| Ballade of an Anti-Puritan, A 337 Ballade of Suicide, A 224

|Cholmondeley-Pennell, H.| How the Daughters Come Down At Dunoon 533 Lay of the Deserted Influenzaed 746 Our Traveller 445

|Clarke, H. E.| Lady Mine 221

|Clarke, Lewis Gaylord| Flamingo, The 894

|Claudius, Matthew| Hen, The 892

|Cleveland| On Scotland 369

|Clough, Arthur Hugh| Latest Decalogue, The 261

|Coleridge, Samuel Taylor| Cologne 363 Eternal Poem, An 364 Giles's Hope 363 House that Jack Built, The 407 Job 364 On a Bad Singer 364 Rhymester, A 363

|Collins, Mortimer| Ad Chloen, M.A. 184 Chloe, M.A. 185 If 436 Martial in London 316 My Aunt's Spectre 600 Positivists, The 315 Salad 436 Sky-Making 314

|Cone, Helen Gray| Ballad of Cassandra Brown, The 345

|Congreve, William| Buxom Joan 179

|Cook, Rev. Joseph| Boston Nursery Rhymes 324

|Corbet, Bishop| Like to the Thundering Tone 848

|Cotton, Charles| Joys of Marriage, The 344

|Cowley, Abraham| Chronicle: A Ballad, The 176

|Cowper, William| Colubriad, The 909 Diverting History of John Gilpin, The 564 Pairing-Time Anticipated 212 Report of an Adjudged Case 82 Retired Cat, The 910

|Crane, Stephen| Man, The 248

|Croffut, William Augustus| Dirge, A 737

|Cunningham, Allan| John Grumlie 326

|Daniell, Edith| Inspect Us 471

|Davison, Francis| Are Women Fair? 189

|Day, Holman F.| Grampy Sings a Song 670

|Deane, Anthony C.| Here is the Tale 421 Imitation 375 Rural Bliss 97

|DeBurgh, H. J.| Half Hours with the Classics 779

|Denison, J. P.| Wing Tee Wee 139

|Dibdin, Charles| Nongtongpaw 808

|Dillon, Viscount| Donnybrook Jig, The 700

|Dobson, Austin| Dialogue From Plato, A 142 Dora Versus Rose 144 Jocosa Lyra 824 Rondeau, The 782 Tu Quoque 146

|Dodge, H. C.| If 268 Splendid Fellow, A 267

|Dodge, Mary Mapes| Home and Mother 932 Life in Laconics 311 Over the Way 125 Zealless Xylographer, The 759

|Dole, Nathan Haskell| Our Native Birds 53

|Donne, John| Song 330

|Drummond, William Henry| Wreck of the "Julie Plante" 662

|Dreyden, John| Epitaph Intended for His Wife 368

|Edwards, John R.| War: A-Z, The 829

|Emerson, Ralph Waldo| Fable 290

|Fanshawe, Catherine M.| Enigma on the Letter H 762 Imitation of Wordsworth, An 535

|Farrow, G. E.| Converted Cannibals, The 683 Retired Pork-Butcher and the Spook, The 685

|Field, Eugene| Dinkey Bird, The 929 Dutch Lullaby 928 Little Peach, The 931 Truth About Horace, The 50

|Fields, James Thomas| Alarmed Skipper, The 664 Owl-Critic, The 309 Turtle and the Flamingo, The 923

|Fink, William W.| Larrie O'Dee 165

|Flagg, James Montgomery| [_with_ |Julian Street|] Said Opie Reed 948

|Foley, J. W.| Nemesis 94 Scientific Proof 880

|Forrester, Alfred A.| [|Alfred Croquill|] To My Nose 832

|Foss, Sam Walter| Husband and Heather 160 Ideal Husband to His Wife, The 246 Meeting of the Clabberhuses, The 244 A Philosopher 242 Prayer of Cyrus Brown, The 54 Then Ag'in 357

|Gallienne, Richard Le| Melton Mowbray Pork-Pie, A 472

|Gay, John| New Song, A 754

|Gilbert, Paul T.| Triolet 120

|Gilbert, W. S.| Etiquette 256 Ferdinando and Elvira 635 Gentle Alice Brown 639 Mighty Must, The 376 Played-Out Humorist, The 25 Practical Joker, The 26 Sing for the Garish Eye 875 Sir Guy the Crusader 644 Story of Prince Agib, The 641 To Phoebe 28 To the Terrestrial Globe 256 Yarn of the "Nancy Bell" 632

|Gillinan, S. W.| Finnigin to Flannigan 225

|Godley, A. D.| After Horace 320 Pensées de Noël 336

|Goldsmith, Oliver| Elegy, An 740 Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog, An 764 Parson Gray 741

|Googe, Barnaby| Out of Sight, Out of Mind 807

|Graves, Alfred Perceval| Father O'Flynn 719 Ould Doctor Macke 717

|Gray, Thomas| On the Death of a Favorite Cat 557

|Greene, Albert Gorton| Old Grimes 766

|Grissom, Arthur| Ballade of Forgotten Loves 223

|Guiterman, Arthur| Elegy 445 Legend of the First Cam-u-el, The 888 Mavrone 378 Mexican Serenade 902 Sketch from the Life, A 121 Strictly Germ Proof 87

|Halpine, Charles Graham| Feminine Arithmetic 191

|Harrington, Sir John| Of a Certain Man 282 Of a Precise Tailor 322

|Harte, Bret| Ballad of the Emeu, The 921 "Jim" 652 Plain Language from Truthful James 648 Society Upon the Stanislaus, The 650 To the Pliocene Skull 46 Willows, The 423

|Hartswick, F. G.| Somewhere-in-Europe-Wodky 482

|Hastings, Lady T.| "Exactly So" 61

|Hay, John| Distichs 247 Enchanted Shirt, The 658 Good and Bad Luck 334 Jim Bludso 661 Little Breeches 657

|Hazzard, John Edward| Ain't It Awful, Mabel? 137

|Heber, Reginald| Sympathy 270

|Henley, William Ernest| Culture in the Slums 400 Her Little Feet 59 Triolet, The 782 Villon's Straight Tip to All Cross Coves 399

|Herford, Oliver| Catfish, The 900 Cloud, The 134 Laughing Willow, The 948 Mark Twain: A Pipe Dream 30 Phyllis Lee 139 War Relief 901

|Herrick, Robert| Five Wives 772 No Fault in Women 166 Ternary of Littles Upon a Pipkin of Jelly Sent to a Lady, A 806

|Hill, Marion| Lovelilts 824

|Hogg, James| Love is Like a Dizziness 218

|Holmes, Oliver Wendell| [OE]stivation 849 Ballad of the Oysterman, The 583 Cacoethes Scribendi 238 Contentment 238 The Deacon's Masterpiece 580 Familiar Letter to Several Correspondents, A 36 Height of the Ridiculous, The 38 Ode for a Social Meeting 833 Our Hymn 374 To the Portrait of "A Gentleman" 236

|Hood, Thomas| Bachelor's Dream, The 342 Ben Bluff 619 Death's Ramble 801 Faithless Nellie Gray 797 Faithless Sally Brown 792 No! 792 Nocturnal Sketch, A 823 Parental Ode to my Son Aged Three Years and Five Months, A 941 Sally Simpkin's Lament 800 Tim Turpin 795 To Minerva 49

|Hood, Thomas,| _Jr._ In Memoriam Technicam 413 Takings 817 Wedding, The 412

|Hook, Theodore| Cautionary Verses 828

|Hovey, Richard| Barney McGee 721

|Hunt, Leigh| Jovial Priest's Confession, The 834 Nun, The 206

|Huntley, Stanley| Annabel Lee 497

|Ingoldsby, Thomas| [_See_ |Richard Harris Barham|]

|Irwin, Wallace| Blow Me Eyes! 115 Constant Cannibal Maiden, The 194 Grain of Salt, A 241

|Jenks, Tudor| Old Bachelor, An 98

|Johnson, Burges| Why Doth a Pussy Cat? 895

|Johnson, Hilda| Quest of the Purple Cow, The 100

|Johnson, Rossiter| Ninety-nine in the Shade 781

|Johnson, Samuel| If the Man 949

|Johnston, William| On the Downtown Side of an Uptown Street 79

|Johnstone, Henry| Fastidious Serpent, The 887

|Jones, Dean| On the Democracy of Yale 949

|Jonson, Ben| Answer to Master Wither's Song, "Shall I, Wasting in Despair?" 526 Cupid 211 To Doctor Empiric 365

|Keats, John| Portrait, A 496

|Kerr, Orpheus| [_See_ |Robert H. Newell|]

|King, Ben| How Often 489 If I Should Die To-night 489 Pessimist, The 358

|Kingsley, Charles| Oubit, The 330

|Kipling, Rudyard| Commonplaces 427 Divided Destinies 904 Study of an Elevation, in Indian Ink 226

|Knight, Henry Coggswell| Lunar Stanzas 841

|Lamb, Charles| Farewell to Tobacco, A 726 Nonsense Verses 848

|Lampton, W. J.| New Persion, The 90

|Landor, Walter Savage| Honey-moon, The 366 Gifts Returned 198

|Lang, Andrew| Ballad of the Primitive Jest 72 Double Ballad of Primitive Man 331

|Langbridge, Frederick| Quite By Chance 205

|Lanigan, George Thomas| Ahkoond of Swat, The 710 Dirge of the Moolla of Kotal 712

|Lear, Edward| Ahkoond of Swat, The 708 Jumbles, The 862 New Vestments, The 866 Owl and the Pussy Cat, The 901 Pobble Who Has No Toes, The 865 Two Old Bachelors, The 868 Yongby-Bonghy-Bo, The 859

|Leigh, Henry S.| Cossimbazar 843 Maud 188 My Love and My Heart 204 Nursery Legend, A 937 Only Seven 543 Romanunt of Humpty Dumpty, The 411 'Twas Ever Thus 544 Twins, The 108

|Leland, Charles Godfrey| Ballad of Charity, A 613 Ballad of Hans Breitmann 669 Hans Breitmann's Party 668 Legend of Heinz Von Stein, The 49

|Lemke, E.| Rhyme of Musicians, A 772

|Lemon, Mark| How to Make a Man of Consequence 280

|Lessing| Mendax 369 To a Slow Walker and Quick Eater 369

|Lever, Charles| Pope, The 70 Widow Malone, The 126

|Lindesay, Sir David| Carman's Account of a Law Suit, A 807

|Locker-Lampson, Frederick| Circumstance 444 Mrs. Smith 155 My Mistress's Boots 153 On a Sense of Humor 367 Some Ladies 367 Susan 157 Terrible Infant, A 156

|Loines, Russell Hilliard| On a Magazine Sonnet 281

|Loomis, Charles Battell| O-u-g-h 761 Propinquity Needed 51 Song of Sorrow, A 386

|Loring, Fred W.| Fair Millinger, The 186

|Lovelace, Richard| Song 241

|Lover, Samuel| Birth of Saint Patrick, The 58 Father Malloy 307 How to Ask and Have 181 Lanty Leary 208 Paddy O'Rafther 571 Quaker's Meeting, The 576 Rory O'More; or, Good Omens 141

|Lowell, James Russell| Candidate's Creed, The 294 Courtin', The 110 What Mr. Robinson Thinks 292 Without and Within 359

|Ludlow, Fitz Hugh| Too Late 348

|Lummis, C. F.| Poe-'em of Passion, A 532

|Lysaght, Edward| Kitty of Coleraine 130

|Mackay, Charles| Bachelor's Mono-Rhyme, A 817 Cynical Ode to an Ultra-Cynical Public 339

|Mackintosh, Newton| Lucy Lake 463 Optimism 445 Pessimism 338

|Macy, Arthur| Rollicking Mastodon, The 853

|Maginn, William| Irishman and the Lady, The 742 St. Patrick, of Ireland, My Dear! 101

|Marquis, Don| For I Am Sad 379 Lilies 379

|Marriott, John| Devonshire Lane, The 266

|Masson, Tom| Kiss, The 109

|Maxwell, J. C.| Rigid Body Sings 483

|Mayhew, Horace| Travesty of Miss Fanshawe's Enigma 763

|Ménage, Gilles| Happy Man, The 814

|Merivale, Herman C.| Darwinity 409 Town of Nice, The 438

|Miller, Alice Duer| If They Meant All They Said 247

|Miller, Joaquin| That Gentle Man From Boston Town 629 That Texan Cattle Man 288 William Brown of Oregon 653

|Milne, A. A.| From a Full Heart 31

|Milton, John| On the Oxford Carrier 780

|Mix, Parmenas| Accepted and Will Appear 268 He Came to Pay 447

|Moore, Augustus M.| Ballade of Ballade-Mongers, A 441

|Moore, Clement Clarke| Visit from St. Nicholas, A 935

|Moore, Thomas| If you Have Seen 444 Lying 86 Of All the Men 370 On Taking a Wife 367 Upon Being Obliged to Leave a Pleasant Party 367 What's My Thought Like? 370

|Morgan, Bessie| 'Späcially Jim 129

|Morris, Captain C.| Contrast, The 265

|Morris, George Pope| Retort, The 174

|Motteux, Peter A.| Rondelay, A 41

|Moxon, Frederick| All at Sea 70

|Munkittrick, R. K.| Unsatisfied Yearning 889 What's in a Name? 347 Winter Dusk 42

|Nack, James| Here She Goes and There She Goes 572

|Nairne, Lady| The Laird o' Cockpen 703

|Newell, Robert H.| [|Orpheus C. Kerr|] American Traveller, The 757 Editor's Wooing, The 389 Great Fight, A 697 Rejected "National Hymns," The 387

|O'Keefe, John| Friar of Orders Gray, The 282

|O'Leary, Cormac| Reflections on Cleopathera's Needle 105

|O'Reilly, John Boyle| Constancy 137

|Osborn, Selleck| Modest Wit, A 260

|Outram, George| Annuity, The 350 On Hearing a Lady Praise a Certain Rev. Doctor's Eyes 368

|Pain, Barry| Bangkolidye 334 Martin Luther at Potsdam 404 Oh! Weary Mother 000 Poets at Tea, The 486

|Paine, Albert Bigelow| Mis' Smith 119 Sary "Fixes Up" Things 192

|Palmer, E. H.| Parterre, The 180 Shipwreck, The 876

|Palmer, William Pitt| Smack in School, The 128

|Parke, Walter| Foam and Fangs 544 His Mother-in-Law 75 My Madeline 773 Vague Story, A 74 Young Gazelle 918

|Paull, H. M.| Eastern Question, An 598

|Peck, Samuel Minturn| Bessie Brown, M.D. 120 Kiss in the Rain, A 123

|Pelham, M.| Comical Girl, The 946

|Perry, Nora| Love Knot, The 124

|Philips, Barclay| Polka Lyric, A 832

|Philips, John| Splendid Shilling, The 316

|Piggot, Mostyn T.| Hundred Best Books, The 769

|Planché, J. R.| Song 99

|Pontalais, Jehan Du| Money 323

|Pope, Alexander| Fool and the Poet, The 363 Ruling Passion, The 285 To a Blockhead 362

|Porson, Richard| Dido 366 Nothing 786

|Porter, H. H.| Forty Years After 210

|Praed, Winthrop Mackworth| Belle of the Ball, The 171 Song of Impossibilities, A 327

|Pratt, Florence E.| Courting in Kentucky 168

|Prior, Matthew| Epitaph, An 765 Phillis's Age 332 Remedy Worse Than the Disease, A 365 Simile, A 262

|Proudfit, David Law| Prehistoric Smith 83

|Prout, Father| Malbrouck 28 Sabine Farmer's Serenade, The 214

|Ramal, Walter| Bunches of Grapes 947

|Rands, W. B.| Clean Clara 283

|Riley, James Whitcomb| Little Orphant Annie 934 Lugubrious Whing-Whang, The 858 Man in the Moon, The 856 Old Man and Jim, The 678 Prior to Miss Belle's Appearance 925 Spirk Throll-Derisive 855 When the Frost Is on the Punkin 34

|Robertson, Harrison| Kentucky Philosophy 325

|Robinson, Edwin Arlington| Miniver Cheevy 229 Two Men 35

|Roche, James Jeffrey| Boston Lullaby, A 240 Lament of the Scotch Irish Exile 385 Sailor's Yarn, A 680 V-A-S-E, The 227

|Rodger, Alexander| Behave Yoursel' Before Folk 174

|Romaine, Harry| Unattainable, The 141

|Ropes, Arthur Reed| Lost Pleiad, The 161

|Russell, Irwin| First Banjo, The 672

|Sancta-Clara, á Abraham| St. Anthony's Sermon to the Fishes 251

|Saxe, John G.| Comic Miseries 42 Early Rising 44 Echo 750 Rhyme of the Rail 748 Sonnet to a Clam 734 Woman's Will 362

|Sawyer, William| "Caudal" Lecture, A 92 Cremation 534 Turvey Top 884

|Scollard, Clinton| Ballade of the Golfer in Love 222 Noureddin, the Son of the Shah 199

|Scott, Sir Walter| Herring, The 949 Nora's Vow 159

|Seaman, Owen| At the Sign of the Cock 414 Of Baiting the Lion 893 Plea for Trigamy, A 68 Presto Furioso 417 To Julia in Shooting Togs 418

|Sheridan, Richard Brinsley| Literary Lady, The 278 Wife, A 366

|Shults, George Francis| Under the Mistletoe 196

|Sibley, Charles| Plaidie, The 190

|Sidney, James A.| Irish Schoolmaster, The 103

|Sims, George R.| By Parcels Post 262

|Smith, Harry B.| "I Didn't Like Him" 157 My Angeline 158 Same Old Story 360

|Smith, Horace| Gouty Merchant and the Stranger, The 563 Jester Condemned to Death, The 378

|Smith, James| Baby's Début, The 390 Surnames 804

|Smith, Sydney| Salad 93

|Southey, Robert| Battle of Blenheim, The 252 Cataract of Lodore, The 743 Devil's Walk on Earth, The 298 March to Moscow, The 775 Pig, The 914 Well of St. Keyne, The 584

|Stanton, Frank Libby| How to Eat Watermelons 73

|Stephen, James Kenneth| Cynicus to W. Shakespeare 362 Last Ride Together, The 431 Millennium, The 60 School 60 Senex to Matt. Prior 362 Thought, A 248

|Stevens, H. P.| Why 214

|Street, Julian| [_with_ |James Montgomery Flagg|] Said Opie Reed 948

|Stuart, Alaric Bertrand| Jim-Jam King of the Jou-jous, The 851

|Stuart, Ruth McEnery| Endless Song, The 768 Hen-Roost Man, The 247

|Suckling, Sir John| Out Upon It 218 Wedding, A 704

|Swift, Dean| Gentle Echo On Woman, A 752 Twelve Articles 279

|Swinburne, Algernon Charles| Higher Pantheism in a Nutshell, The 458 Nephelidia 459 Up the Spout 460

|Taber, Harry Parsons| Jaberwocky of Authors, The 437

|Taylor, Bayard| Angelo Orders His Dinner 428 Camerados 430 Cantelope, The 393 Hiram Hover 113 Palabras Grandiosas 407 Promissory Note, The 429

|Taylor, Bert Leston| Bygones 383 Farewell 419 Old Stuff 48 Post-Impressionism 235

|Tennyson, Lord| Goose, The 611 Northern Farmer 354

|Thackeray, W. M.| Ballad of Bouillabaisse, The 714 Crystal Palace, The 547 Little Billee 546 Old Fashioned Fun 33 Sorrows of Werther, The 140 Tragic Story, A 850 When Moonlike Ore the Hazure Seas 34 Willow-Tree, The 439 Wofle New Ballad of Jane Roney and Mary Brown, The 552

|Thayer, Ernest Lawrence| Casey at the Bat 601

|Thompson, D'Arcy W.| Poor Dear Grandpapa 950

|Towne, Charles Hanson| Messed Damozel, The 471

|Traill, H. D.| After Dilettante Concetti 474

|Trowbridge, John Townsend| Darius Green and His Flying-Machine 690

|Turner, Eliza Sproat| Little Goose, A 938

|Turner, Godfrey| Love Playnt, A 408

|Tytler, James| I Hae Laid a Herring in Saut 216

|Untermeyer, Louis| Owen Seaman 480 Robert Frost 479

|Vandyne, Mary E.| The Bald-headed Tyrant 720

|Villon, François| All Things Except Myself I Know 343

|Wake, William Basil| Saying Not Meaning 666

|Ward, Artemus| [_See_ |Charles Farrar Browne|]

|Ware, Eugene Fitch| He and She 109 Manila 949 Siege of Djklxprwbz, The 96

|Warren, George F.| Lord Guy 191

|Waterman, Nixon| If We Didn't Have to Eat 57

|Weatherly, Frederic E.| Bird in the Hand, A 170 Thursday 313 Usual Way, The 200

|Webb, Charles Henry| Little Mamma 943

|Wells, Carolyn| Diversions of the Re-Echo Club 515 Limericks 835 Styx River Anthology 521

|West, Paul| Cumberbunce, The 844

|Wesley, Rev. Samuel| On Butler's Monument 370

|Witcher, Frances M.| K. K.--Can't Calculate 353 Widow Bedott to Elder Sniffles 195

|White, Harriet R.| Uffia 877

|Whittier, John Greenleaf| Skipper Ireson's Ride 688

|Wilcox, Ella Wheeler| Pin, A 132

|Wildgoose, Oscuro| More Impressions 509

|Wilkie, A. C.| Old Song By New Singers, An 506

|Willis, N. P.| Declaration, The 446

|Willson, Arabella| Appeal for Are to the Sextant of the Old Brick Meetinouse, A 66

|Wolcot, John| Actor, The 287 Pilgrims and the Peas, The 621 Razor Seller, The 297 To a Fly 734

|Yates, Edmund| All-Saints 280

|Ybarra, Thomas R.| Lay of Ancient Rome 753 Little Swirl of Vers Libre, A 380 Ode to Work in Springtime 47

|Yriarte, Tomaso de| Musical Ass, The 249

INDEX OF FIRST LINES

|page| A brace of sinners, for no good 621 A brow austere, a circumspective eye 280 A captain bold from Halifax who dwelt in country quarters 702 A cat I sing, of famous memory 833 A country curate visiting his flock 287 A district school, not far away 128 A fellow in a market town 297 A fellow near Kentuck's clime 494 A fig for St. Denis of France 101 A friend of mine was married to a scold 264 A hindoo died--a happy thing to do 281 A knight and a lady once met in a grove 270 A little peach in the orchard grew 931 A little saint best fits a little shrine 806 A lively young turtle lived down by the banks 923 A lovely young lady I mourn in my rhymes 366 A maiden once, of certain age 169 A man of words and not of deeds 790 A man said to the universe 248 A man sat on a rock and sought 83 A Persian penman named Aziz 810 A Poet's Cat, sedate and grave 910 A quiet home had Parson Gray 741 A rollicking Mastodon lived in Spain 853 A Russian sailed over the blue Black Sea 374 A shabby fellow chanced one day to meet 287 A soldier and a sailor 179 A soldier of the Russians 90 A speech, both pithy and concise 61 A street there is in Paris famous 714 A supercilious nabob of the East 260 A tailor, a man of an upright dealing 322 A traveller wended the wilds among 576 A well there is in the west country 584 A whale of great porosity 916 A woman is like to--but stay 118 A xylographer started to cross the sea 759 A young man once was sitting 394 Across the sands of Syria 888 Ah! Matt, old age has brought to me 362 Ah, Night! blind germ of days to be 484 Ah! poor intoxicated little knave 734 Ah, those hours when by-gone sages 779 Ah! who has seen the mailed lobster rise 882 Ah! why those piteous sounds of woe 449 Alas, unhappy land; ill-fated spot 712 All day she hurried to get through 119 All smatterers are more brisk and pert 365 Alone I sit at eventide 53 An ancient story I'll tell you anon 554 An Austrian Archduke, assaulted and assailed 829 An Austrian army, awfully array'd 813 An igstrawnary tail I vill tell you this week 552 And so our royal relative was dead! 737 And this reft house is that the which he built 407 "Are women fair?" Ay, wondrous fair to see, too 189 As a friend to the children commend me the yak 906 As beautiful Kitty one morning was tripping 130 As I was walkin' the jungle round, a-killin' of tigers an' time 426 As long as I dwell on some stupendous 60 As wet as a fish--as dry as a bone 791 Ask me no more: I've had enough Chablis 534 At a pleasant evening party I had taken down to supper 635 At morning's call 374 Baby's brain is tired of thinking 240 Back in the years when Phlagstaff, the Dane, was monarch 387 Barney McGee, there's no end of good luck in you 721 Basking in peace in the warm spring sun 674 Be brave, faint heart 445 Be kind and tender to the Frog 907 Be kind to the panther! for when thou wert young 890 Beauties, have ye seen this toy 211 Before a Turkish town 96 Behave yoursel' before folk 174 Ben Battle was a soldier bold 797 Ben Bluff was a whaler, and many a day 619 Beside a Primrose 'broider'd Rill 139 Between Adam and me the great difference is 367 Between Nose and Eyes a strange contest arose 82 Blind Thamyris, and blind Maeonides 784 "Bon jour, Madame Sans Souci 950 Bright breaks the warrior o'er the ocean wave 879 Brisk methinks I am, and fine 772 "Bunches of grapes," says Timothy 947 By the side of a murmuring stream an elderly gentleman sat 665 Bye Baby Bunting 324 Calm and implacable 375 "Can you spare a Threepenny bit 901 Careless rhymer, it is true 185 Celestine Silvousplait Justine de Mouton Rosalie 51 Charm is a woman's strongest arm 247 Chilly Dovebber with his boadigg blast 747 Close by the threshold of a door nailed fast 909 "Come, come," said Tom's father, "at your time of life 367 Come! fill a fresh bumper,--for why should we go 833 Come fleetly, come fleetly, my hooksbadar 843 "Come here, my boy; hould up your head 103 Come hither, my heart's darling 454 Come into the Whenceness Which 476 "Come, listen, my men, while I tell you again 676 Come mighty Must! 376 Comrades, you may pass the rosy. With permission of the chair 537 De Hen-roost Man he'll preach about Paul 247 Dear maid, let me speak 810 Dear mother, dear mother, the Church is cold 269 Dear Thomas, didst thou never pop 262 Delmonico's is where he dines 267 Der Kaiser of dis Faterland 291 Der noble Ritter Hugo 669 Did you hear of the Widow Malone 126 Dighton is engaged! Think of it and tremble! 647 Do not worry if I scurry from the grill room in a hurry 67 Do you know why the rabbits are caught in the snare 214 Do you think I'll marry a woman 817 Doe, doe! 746 Dosn't thou 'ear my 'erse's legs, as they canters awaäy? 354 Down in the silent hallway 889 Easy is the triolet 782 Echo, tell me, while I wander 751 Even is come; and from the dark Park, hark 823 Everywhere, everywhere, following me 430 Exquisite wines and comestibles 316 Far off in the waste of desert sand 851 Far, oh, far is the Mango island 194 "Farewell!" Another gloomy word 419 Felis Infelix Cat unfortunate 736 First there's the Bible 769 For his religion it was fit 271 From Arranmore the weary miles I've come 378 From his brimstone bed at break of day 298 From the depth of the dreamy decline of the dawn through 459 From the madding crowd they stand apart 227 From the tragic-est novels at Mudie's 144 "Gentle, modest little flower 28 "Gimme my scarlet tie," 334 Gin a body meet a body 483 Gineral B. is a sensible man 292 Given a roof, and a taste for rations 311 Go and catch a falling star 330 Go 'way, fiddle; folks is tired o' hearin' you a-squawkin' 672 "God bless the King! God bless the faith's defender! 368 "God bless the man who first invented sleep!" 44 God makes sech nights, all white an' still 110 Good Luck is the gayest of all gay girls 334 Good people all, of every sort 764 Good people all, with one accord 740 Good reader! if you e'er have seen 444 "Had Cain been Scot, God would have changed his doom 369 Half a bar, half a bar 528 Hamelin Town's in Brunswick 603 Handel, Bendel, Mendelssohn 772 Hans Breitmann gife a barty 668 Happy the man, who, void of cares and strife 316 Have you heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay 580 He cannot be complete in aught 367 He dropt a tear on Susan's bier 157 He dwelt among "Apartments let," 491 He girded on his shining sword 100 He is too weet a melancholy carle 496 He killed the noble Mudjokivis 482 He lived in a cave by the seas 331 He stood on his head by the wild seashore 75 He thought he saw an Elephant 874 He took her fancy when he came 817 He was the chairman of the Guild 244 Hear what Highland Nora said 159 Her heart she locked fast in her breast 209 Her little feet! Beneath us ranged the sea 59 Her washing ended with the day 494 Here lies my wife: here let her lie! 368 Here lieth one, who did not most truly prove 780 Here's to the town of New Haven 949 Hi! Just you drop that! Stop, I say! 460 His eye was stern and wild--his cheek was pale and cold as clay 450 History, and nature, too, repeat themselves, they say 360 How do the daughters 533 "How does the water 743 How hard, when those who do not wish 818 How old may Philis be, you ask 332 How uneasy is his life 344 Hyder iddle didle dell 879 Hypocrisy will serve as well 365 I am 900 I am a friar of orders gray 282 I am an ancient Jest! 72 I come from good old Boston 949 I am a hearthrug 377 I am a lone, unfeathered chick 903 I am numb from world-pain 380 I, Angelo, obese, black-garmented 428 I asked of Echo, t'other day 750 I cannot praise the doctor's eyes 368 I cannot sing the old songs 413 I cannot tell you how I love 235 I couldn't help weeping with delight 521 I count it true which sages teach 413 I devise to end my days--in a tavern drinking 834 I du believe in Freedom's cause 294 I do confess, in many a sigh 86 I don't go much on religion 657 I don't know any greatest treat 180 I dreamed a dream next Tuesday week 853 I dwells in the Hearth, and I breathes in the Hair 763 I gaed to spend a week in Fife 350 I hae laid a herring in saut 216 I haf von funny leedle poy 940 I have a bookcase, which is what 40 I have a copper penny and another copper penny 809 I have felt the thrill of passion in the poet's mystic book 32 I have found out a gig-gig-gift for my fuf-fuf-fair 822 I have made me an end of the moods of maidens 511 I have watch'd thee with rapture, and dwelt on thy charms 456 I knew an old wife lean and poor 611 I know not of what we ponder'd 63 I know when milk does flies contain 343 I lately lived in quiet ease 218 I lay i' the bosom of the sun 407 I love my lady with a deep purple love 383 I love thee, Mary, and thou lovest me 206 "I love you, my lord!" 120 I marvell'd why a simple child 543 I may as well 685 I never rear'd a young gazelle 544 I never saw a Purple Cow 948 "I never saw a purple cow 515 I recollect a nurse call'd Ann 156 I remember, I remember 107 I reside at Table Mountain, and my name is Truthful James 650 I said, "This horse, sir, will you shoe?" 809 I sat one night beside a blue-eyed girl 207 I saw a certain sailorman who sat beside the sea 70 I saw a peacock with a fiery tail 804 I sent for Ratcliffe; was so ill 365 I sent my love a parcel 262 I shall not ask Jean Jacques Rousseau 212 I sometimes think I'd rather crow 891 I strolled beside the shining sea 844 I tell thee, Dick, where I have been 704 I walked and came upon a picket fence 470 I was in Margate last July. I walk'd upon the pier 558 I wonder what your thoughts are, little cloud 134 I would all womankind were dead 88 I would flee from the city's rule and law 883 I would that all men my hard case might know 397 I wrote some lines once on a time 38 I wus mighty good-lookin' when I was young 129 I yearn to bite on a Colloid 91 I'd Never Dare to Walk across 855 I'd read three hours. Both notes and text 142 If all be true that I do think 364 If all the harm women have done 248 If all the land were apple-pie 951 If all the trees in all the woods were men 238 If down his throat a man should choose 844 If e'er my rhyming be at fault 55 If ever there lived a Yankee lad 690 If I go to see the play 48 If I should die to-night 489 If I were thine, I'd fail not of endeavour 345 If I were you, when ladies at the play, Sir 146 If, in the month of dark December 80 If life were never bitter 436 If the man who turnips cries 949 If there is a vile, pernicious 60 If thou wouldst stand on Etna's burning brow 445 If we square a lump of pemmican 880 If you become a nun, dear 206 I'll sing you a song, not very long 275 I'll tell thee everything I can 870 I'm taught p-l-o-u-g-h 761 I'm thankful that the sun and moon 882 "Immortal Newton never spoke 369 In a church which is furnish'd with mullion and gable, I 280 In a Devonshire lane as I trotted along 266 In all thy humors, whether grave or mellow 368 In an ocean, 'way out yonder 929 In Ballades things always contrive to get lost 441 In Broad Street Buildings on a winter night 563 In candent ire the solar splendour flames 849 In days of peace my fellow-men 31 In early youth, as you may guess 918 In form and feature, face and limb 108 In heaven a spirit doth dwell 472 In his chamber, weak and dying 785 In Köln, a town of monks and bones 363 In letters large upon the frame 347 In London I never know what I'd be at 265 In our hearts is the Great One of Avon 824 In the age that was golden, the halcyon time 338 In the "Foursome" some would fain 222 In the lonesome latter years 429 In these days of indigestion 77 "In winter, when the fields are white 872 Inglorious friend! most confident I am 734 Interred beneath this marble stone 765 Is moss-prankt dells which the sunbeams flatter 372 It is told, on Buddhi-theosophic schools 92 It is very aggravating 50 It looked extremely rocky for the Mudville nine that day 601 It may be so--perhaps thou hast 236 It once might have been, once only 339 It was a millinger most gay 186 It was a Moorish maiden was sitting by the well 196 It was a robber's daughter, and her name was Alice Brown 639 It was a summer's evening 252 It was a tall young oysterman lived by the river-side 583 It was an artless Bandar, and he danced upon a pine 904 It was a hairy oubit, sac proud he crept alabg 330 It was in a pleasant deepô, sequestered from the rain 613 It was many and many a year ago 532 It ripen'd by the river banks 444 It worries me to beat the band 137 Its eyes are gray 121 I've been trying to fashion a wifely ideal 68 Jacob! I do not like to see thy nose 914 Jem writes his verses with more speed 363 Jim Bowker, he said, if he'd had a fair show 357 John Alcohol, my foe, John 529 John Bull for pastime took a prance 808 John Gilpin was a citizen of credit and renown 564 John Grumlie Swore by the light o' the moon 326 Just take a trifling handful, O philosopher 314 Kitty wants to write! Kitty intellectual! 646 Knitting is the maid o' the kitchen, Milly 220 Knows he that never took a pinch 832 La Galisse now I wish to touch 814 Lady Clara Vere de Vere! 412 Lady, I loved you all last year 327 Lady mine, most fair thou art 221 Lady, very fair are you 184 Lanty was in love, you see 208 Last year I trod these fields with Di 155 Lazy-bones, lazy-bones, wake up and peep! 848 Lest it may more quarrels breed 279 Life and the Universe show spontaneity 315 Life is a gift that most of us hold dear 357 Life would be an easy matter 57 Lilies, lilies, white lilies and yellow 379 Like to the thundering tone of unspoke speeches 848 Little bopeepals 324 Little I ask; my wants are few 238 Little Orphant Annie's come to our house to stay 934 Little Penelope Socrates 284 Lives there a man with a soul so dead 786 Long by the willow-trees 439 Lord Erskine, at women presuming to rail 366 Malbrouck, the prince of commanders 28 Man is for woman made 41 Many a long, long year ago 664 Margarita first possess'd 176 Marry, I lent my gossip my mare, to fetch home coals 807 Mary had a little lamb 506 Matilda Maud Mackenzie frankly hadn't any chin 395 May the Babylonish curse 726 Men, Dying, make their wills, but wives 362 Men once were surnamed for their shape or estate 804 'Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam 498 Miniver Cheevy, child of scorn 229 Mona Lisa, Mona Lisa! 95 Miss Flora McFlimsey, of Madison Square 148 Mr. Finney had a turnip 847 My brother Jack was nine in May 390 My coachman, in the moonlight there 359 My curse upon you venom'd stang 724 My dear young friend, whose shining wit 42 My feet, they haul me Round the House 855 My Heart will break--I'm sure it will 183 My lank limp lily, my long lithe lily 510 My little dears, who learn to read, pray early, learn to shun 828 My Love has sicklied unto Loath 410 My Madeline! my Madeline! 773 My passion is as mustard strong 754 My pipe is lit, my grog is mixed 342 My temples throb, my pulses boil 49 My William was a soldier, and he says to me, says he 598 Mysterious Nothing! how shall I define 786 Nay, I cannot come into the garden just now 188 "Needy Knife-grinder! whither are you going? 249 Night saw the crew like pedlars with their packs 841 No fault in women, to refuse 166 No longer, O scholars, shall Platus 826 No sun--no moon! 792 No usual words can bear the woe I feel 379 Nothing to do but work 358 Now Jake looked up--it was time to sup, and the buckets was yet to fill 421 Now the Widow Mcgee 165 O cool in the summer is salad 436 "O Crikey, Bill!" she ses to me, she ses 400 O for a lodge in a garden of cucumbers! 781 O, if my love offended me 184 O lady wake!--the azure moon 886 O mickle yeuks the keckle doup 384 O my earliest love, who, ere I number'd 116 O nymph with the nicest of noses 544 O precious code, volume, tome 825 O reverend sir, I do declare 195 O say, have you seen at the willows so green 921 O Season supposed of all free flowers 527 O the quietest home on earth had I 720 O thou wha in the heavens dost dwell 272 O what harper could worthily harp it 64 O'er the men of Ethiopia she would pour her cornucopia 160 Of all life's plagues I recommend to no man 76 Of all the girls that are so smart 182 Of all the mismated pairs ever created 480 Of all the men one meets about 370 Of all the rides since the birth of time 688 Of all the wimming doubly blest 241 Of priests we can offer a charmin' variety 719 Oh, but she was dark and shrill 509 Oh, dewy was the morning, upon the first of May 949 Oh, I have been North, and I have been South, and the East hath seen me pass 403 Oh! I have loved thee fondly, ever 732 Oh, I know a certain woman who is reckoned with the good 132 Oh, I used to sing a song 768 Oh, I want to win me hame 385 Oh listen, little children, to a proper little song 937 Oh, many have told of the monkeys of old 913 Oh, Mary had a little lamb, regarding whose cuticular 477 Oh, my Geraldine 180 Oh, sing a song of phosphates 324 Oh, solitude thou wonder-working fay 457 Oh, tell me have you ever seen a red, long-leg'd Flamingo? 894 Oh that my soul a marrow-bone might seize! 851 Oh, the days were ever shiny 204 Oh, the fisherman is a happy wight! 81 Oh, the Roman was a rogue 753 "Oh, 'tis time I should talk to your mother 181 Oh, 'twas O'Nolan M'Figg 700 Oh, what a fund of joy jocund lies hid in harmless hoaxes! 26 "Oh! what is that comes gliding in 800 Oh, what's the way to Arcady? 201 Oh, Wing Tee Wee 139 Oh, would that working I might shun 47 Oh, yes, we've be'n fixin' some sence we sold that piece o' groun' 192 Oh! young Lochinvar has come out of the West 381 Old Grimes is dead; that good old man 766 Old man never had much to say 678 Old Nick, who taught the village school 174 On wan dark night on Lac St. Pierre 662 On me he shall ne'er put a ring 191 On the Coast of Goromandel 859 On the downtown side of an uptown street 79 On the eighth day of March it was, some people say 58 One day the dreary old King of death 801 One evening while reclining 268 One morning when Spring was in her teens 188 One of the kings of Scanderoon 578 One stormy morn I chanced to meet 123 One, who is not, we see; but one, whom we see not, is 458 Or ever a lick of Art was done 383 Out of the clothes that cover me 471 Out on the margin of moonshine land 858 Out rode from his wild, dark castle 49 Out upon it, I have loved 218 Over the way, over the way 125 Paddy, in want of a dinner one day 571 Paddy McCabe was dying one day 307 Peerless yet hapless maid of Q! 787 Perchance it was her eyes of blue 74 Perhaps you may a-noticed I been soht o' solemn lately 157 Philosophy shows us 'twixt monkey and man 92 Ph, it's H-A-P-P-Y I am, and it's F-R-double-E 816 Poor Lucy Lake was overgrown 463 Potiphar Gubbins, C.E. 226 Pour varlet, pour the water 486 Power to thine elbow, thou newest of sciences 409 Quest.--Why is a pump like Viscount Castlereagh? 370 Qui nune dancere vult modo 832 Quixotic is his enterprise and hopeless his adventure is 25 Quoth John to Joan, will thou have me 217 Rain on the face of the sea 427 Remembering his taste for blood 893 Roll on, thou ball, roll on! 256 Rooster her sign 414 Row-diddy, dow de, my little sis 670 Said Opie Read to E. P. Roe 948 Said the Raggedy Man on a hot afternoon 856 Saint Anthony at church 251 Sally Salter, she was a young lady who taught 812 Sam Brown was a fellow from way down East 52 Say there! P'r'aps 652 Scintillate scintillate, globule orific 476 "Scorn not the sonnet," though its strength be sapped 281 See yonder goes old Mendax, telling lies 369 Sez Alderman Grady 232 Sez Corporal Madden to Private McFadden 230 Shall I, mine affections slack 526 She flung the parlour window wide 205 Shepherd. Echo, I wean, will in the woods reply 752 She kept her secret well, oh, yes 158 She stood beneath the mistletoe 196 She went around and asked subscriptions 167 Side by side in the crowded streets 393 Sin, I admit your general rule 363 Since for kissing thee, Minguillo 122 Sing for the garish eye 875 Singee a songee sick a pence 530 Singing through the forests 748 Sir Guy was a doughty crusader 644 Sleep, my own darling 932 Slim feet than lilies tenderer 477 Sly Beelzebub took all occasions 364 So slowly you walk, and so quickly you eat 369 So that's Cleopathera's Needle, bedad 105 Some ladies now make pretty songs 367 Some poets sing of sweethearts dead 223 Speak gently to the herring and kindly to the calf 891 "Speak, O man less recent! 46 Spontaneous Us! 417 Stiff are the warrior's muscles 456 Strange pie that is almost a passion 472 Strike the concertina's melancholy string! 641 Sudden swallows swiftly skimming 774 Superintendent wuz Flannigan 225 Suppose you screeve? or go cheap-jack? 399 Swans sing before they die:--'twere no bad thing 364 Sweet maiden of Passamaquoddy 830 Take a robin's leg 76 That man must lead a happy life 803 That very time I saw, (but thou couldst not) 493 The Antiseptic Baby and the Prophylactic Pup 87 The auld wife sat at her ivied door 467 The Ballyshannon foundered off the coast of Cariboo 256 The cat is in the parlour 950 The chill November day was done 938 The Crankadox leaned o'er the edge of the moon 855 The crow--the crow! the great black crow! 908 The day was done, and darkness 490 The editor sat with his head in his hands 447 The Emperor Nap he would set off 775 The fable which I now present 249 The frugal crone, whom praying priest attend 285 The gallows in my garden, people say 224 The hale John Spratt--oft called for shortness, Jack 406 "The Herring he loves the merry moonlight 949 The honey-moon is very strange 366 The jackals prowl, the serpents hiss 445 The Jackdaw sat on the Cardinal's chair! 586 The King was sick. His cheek was red 658 The Lady Jane was tall and slim 590 The Laird o' Cockpen, he's proud and he's great 703 The Llama is a woolly sort of fleecy, hairy goat 906 The man in the wilderness asked of me 951 The man who invented women's waists that button down behind 94 The Messed Damozel leaned out 471 The Microbe is so very small 907 The mountain and the squirrel 290 The night was thick and hazy 617 The oft'ner seen, the more I lust 807 The Owl and the Pussy-Cat went to sea 901 The Pobble who has no toes 865 The poet is, or ought to be, a hater of the city 97 The Pope he leads a happy life 70 "The proper way for a man to pray," 54 The prospect is bare and white 42 The Roof it has a Lazy Time 855 The saddest fish that swims the briny ocean 900 The sextant of the meetinouse, which sweeps 66 The skies they were ashen and sober 423 The sun is in the sky, mother, the flowers are springing fair 451 The sun was setting, and vespers done 313 The sun was shining on the sea 896 The Thingumbob sat at eventide 882 The town of Nice! the town of Nice! 438 The woggly bird sat on the whango tree 842 The woodchuck told it all about 312 There be two men of all mankind 35 There is a river clear and fair 535 There lived an old man in the kingdom of Tess 866 There lived a sage in days of yore 850 There once was a Shah had a second son 199 There sat an old man on a rock 348 There's a bower of bean-vines in Benjamin's yard 493 There's somewhat on my breast, father 443 There wanst was two cats at Kilkenny 950 There was a Cameronian cat 917 There was a child, as I have been told 946 There was a cruel darkey boy 927 There was a lady liv'd at Leith 742 There was a little girl 926 There was a man in Arkansaw 697 There was a negro preacher, I have heard 274 There was an old man of Tobago 835 There was a snake that dwelt in Skye 887 There was a young lady of Niger 948 There was (not a certain when) a certain preacher 282 There was once a little man, and his rod and line he took 200 There were three jovial huntsmen 878 There were three kings into the east 730 There were three young maids of Lee 170 There were three sailors of Bristol City 546 There were two of us left in the berry-patch 479 These are the things that make me laugh 73 They called him Bill, the hired man 653 They nearly strike me dumb 153 They're always abusing the women 126 They spoke of Progress spiring round 337 They stood on the bridge at midnight 489 They tell me (but I really can't 600 They told hum gently he was made 89 They've got a brand-new organ, Sue 162 They went to sea in a sieve, they did 862 Thine eyes, dear ones, dot dot, are like, dash, what? 824 This is the tale that was told to me 680 Thou art like unto a Flower 427 Thou happy, happy elf! 941 Thou shall have one God only, who 261 Thou who, when fears attack 732 Though I met her in the summer, when one's heart lies round at east 345 Three children sliding on the ice 843 Three score and ten by common calculation 99 Tim Turpin he was gravel blind 795 'Tis midnight and the moonbeam sleeps 411 'Tis midnight, and the setting sun 843 'Tis sweet at dewy eve to rove 450 'Tis sweet to roam when morning's light 878 To Lake Aghmoogenegamook 757 To make this condiment, your poet begs 93 The outer senses they are geese 509 To see the Kaiser's epitaph 948 To Urn, or not to Urn? that is the question 534 To you, my purse, and to none other wight 58 Tom's album was filled with the pictures of belles 141 Trilobite, Graphtolite, Nautilus pie 324 "True 'tis a P T, and P T 'tis, 'tis true" 788 'Twas a pretty little maiden 161 'Twas after supper of Norfolk brawn 884 'Twas April when she came to town 120 'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves 869 'Twas brussels, and the loose liege 482 'Twas ever thus from childhood's hour! 469 'Twas gilbert. The kchesterton 437 'Twas late, and the gay company was gone 446 'Twas more than a million years ago 497 'Twas on a lofty vase's side 557 'Twas on a windy night 214 'Twas on the shores that round our coast 632 'Twas raw, and chill, and cold outside 98 'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house 935 'Twas whispered in heaven, 'twas muttered in hell 762 Two gentlemen their appetite had fed 666 Two honest tradesmen meeting in the Strand 254 Two old Bachelors were living in one house 868 Two webfoot brothers loved a fair 629 Two Yankee wags, one summer day 572 Tying her bonnet under her chin 124 Uncle Simon he 849 Upon a rock, yet uncreate 771 Upon an island, all alone 683 Upon ane stormy Sunday 190 Upon the poop the captain stands 876 Wake! for the Hack can scatter into flight 512 Wal, no! I can't tell whar he lives 661 Wan from the wild and woful West 386 Was once a hen of wit not small 892 We climbed to the top of Goat Point hill 210 We love thee Ann Maria Smith 389 We rode the tawny Texan hills 288 We seek to know, and knowing seek 463 We were crowded in the cabin 492 We've lived for forty years, dear wife 246 Well I recall how first I met 30 Werther had a love for Charlotte 140 What asks the Bard? He prays for nought 320 What, he on whom our voices unanimously ran 286 What is Earth, sexton--A place to dig graves 810 What is the matter with Grandpapa? 950 What lightning shall light it? What thunder shall tell it? 404 What makes you come here fer, Mister 925 What motley cares Corilla's mind perplex 278 What! not know our Clean Clara? 283 "What other men have dared, I dare." 109 What poor short-sighted worms we be 353 What? rise again with all one's bones 363 What, what, what 710 What will we do when the good days come 311 Whenas to shoot my Julia goes 418 When Chapman billies leave the street 623 When dido found Aeneas would not come 366 When good King Arthur ruled the land 879 When I am dead you'll find it hard 109 When I had firmly answered "no," 431 When I was young and full o' pride 115 When lovely woman wants a favor 494 When Mary Ann Dollinger got the skule daown thar on Injun Bay 168 When men a dangerous disease did 'scape 365 When moonlike ore the hazure seas 34 When nettles in winter bring forth roses red 276 When sporgles spanned the floreate mead 877 When swallows Northward flew 191 When that old joke was new 33 When the breeze from the bluebottle's blustering blim 852 When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock 34 When the landlord wants the rent 336 When the little armadillo 902 When they heard the Captain humming and beheld the dancing crew 615 When you slice a Georgy melon you mus' know what you is at 73 Whene'er I take my walks abroad 950 Whene'er with haggard eyes I view 84 Where the Moosatockmaguntic 113 Whereas, on certain boughs and sprays 402 "Wherefore starts my bosom's lord? 453 Which I wish to remark 648 Which is of greater value, prythee, say 371 While Butler, needy wretch, was yet alive 370 Who am I? 434 Who money hast, well wages the campaign 323 Who, or why, or which, or what 708 "Who stuffed that white owl?" No one spoke in the shop 309 1. Why all this toil for triumphs of an hour? 783 "Why do you wear your hair like a man 474 Why don't the men propose, mamma? 130 Why doth the pussy cat prefer 895 Why is it the children don't love me 943 Why should you swear I am forsworn 241 Why was Cupid a boy 56 Wisely a woman prefers to a lover a man who neglects her 247 With chocolate-cream that you buy in the cake 932 With due condescension, I'd call your attention 106 With ganial foire 547 Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night 928 Ye may tramp the world over 717 Years--years ago--ere yet my dreams 171 Yes, write if you want to--there's nothing like trying 36 Yet another great truth I record in my verse 906 "You are old, Father William," the young man said 485 "You are old, Father William," the young man said 531 You beat your pate, and fancy wit will come 362 You bid me try, Blue-eyes, to write 782 "You gave me the key of your heart, my love 137 "You have heard," said a youth to his sweetheart, who stood 133 You may notch it on the palin's as a mighty resky plan 312 "You must give back," her mother said 198 You prefer a buffoon to a scholar 339 You see this pebble-stone? It's a thing I bought 464 You Wi'yum, sir, dis minute. Wut dat you got 325 You wrote a line too much, my sage 362 Young Ben he was a nice young man 792 Young Rory O'More courted Kathleen Bawn 141 Your poem must eternal be 364 Zack Bumstead useter flosserfize 242 Zig-zagging it went 760

INDEX OF TITLES

|page| A Accepted and Will Appear _Parmenas Mix_ 268 Actor, An _John Wolcot_ 287 Ad Chloen, M. A. _Mortimer Collins_ 184 Address to the Toothache _Robert Burns_ 724 Æstivation _Oliver Wendell Holmes_ 849 After Dilettante Concetti _H. D. Traill_ 474 After Horace _A. D. Godley_ 320 Ahkoond of Swat, The _George Thomas Lanigan_ 710 Ahkond of Swat, The _Edward Lear_ 708 Ain't It Awful, Mabel? _John Edward Hazzard_ 137 Alarmed Skipper, The _James Thomas Fields_ 664 All at Sea _Frederick Moxon_ 70 All-Saints _Edmund Yates_ 280 All's Well That Ends Well _Unknown_ 264 All Things Except Myself I Know _François Villon_ 343 Amazing Facts About Food _Unknown_ 91 Ambiguous Lines _Unknown_ 804 American Traveller, The _Robert H. Newell_ (_Orpheus C. Kerr_) 751 Angelo Orders His Dinner _Bayard Taylor_ 428 Annabel Lee _Stanley Huntley_ 497 Annuity, The _George Outram_ 350 Answer to Master Wither's Song, "Shall I, Wasting in Despair?" _Ben Jonson_ 526 Any One Will Do _Unknown_ 169 Appeal for Are to the Sextant of the Old Brick Meetinouse, A _Arabella Willson_ 66 Are Women Fair? _Francis Davison_ 189 Art of Book-keeping, The _Laman Blanchard_ 818 As to the Weather _Unknown_ 107 At the Sign of the Cock _Owen Seaman_ 414

B Baby's Début, The _James Smith_ 390 Bachelor's Dream, The _Thomas Hood_ 342 Bachelor's Mono-Rhyme, A _Charles Mackay_ 817 Bald-headed Tyrant, The _Mary E. Vandyne_ 720 Ballad _Charles Stuart Calverley_ 467 Ballad, A _Guy Wetmore Carryl_ 426 Ballade of An Anti-Puritan, A _G. K. Chesterton_ 337 Ballade of Ballade-Mongers, A _Augustus M. Moore_ 441 Ballad of Bedlam, A _Unknown_ 886 Ballad of Bouillabaisse, The _W. M. Thackeray_ 714 Ballad of the Canal _Ph[oe]be Cary_ 492 Ballad of Cassandra Brown, The _Helen Gray Cone_ 345 Ballad of Charity, A _Charles Godfrey Leland_ 613 Ballad of the Emeu, The _Bret Harte_ 921 Ballade of Forgotten Loves _Arthur Grissom_ 223 Ballade of the Golfer in Love _Clinton Scollard_ 222 Ballad of Hans Breitmann _Charles Godfrey Leland_ 669 Ballad of High Endeavor, A _Unknown_ 484 Ballad of the Oysterman, The _Oliver Wendell Holmes_ 583 Ballad of the Primitive Jest _Andrew Lang_ 72 Ballade of Suicide, A _G. K. Chesterton_ 224 Bangkolidye _Barry Pain_ 334 Barney McGee _Richard Hovey_ 721 Battle of Blenheim, The _Robert Southey_ 252 Behave Yoursel' Before Folk _Alexander Rodger_ 174 Behold the Deeds _H. C. Bunner_ 397 Bellancholly Days _Unknown_ 747 Belle of the Ball, The _Winthrop Mackworth Praed_ 171 Bells, The _Unknown_ 816 Ben Bluff _Thomas Hood_ 619 Bessie Brown, M. D. _Samuel Minturn Peck_ 120 Bird in the Hand, A _Frederic E. Weatherly_ 170 Birth of Saint Patrick, The _Samuel Lover_ 58 Bitter Bit, The _William E. Aytoun_ 451 Blow Me Eyes! _Wallace Irwin_ 115 Boston Lullaby, A _James Jeffrey Roche_ 240 Boston Nursery Rhymes _Rev. Joseph Cook_ 324 Broken Pitcher, The _William E. Aytoun_ 86 Bunches of Grapes _Walter Ramal_ 947 Buxom Joan _William Congreve_ 179 Bygones _Bert Leston Taylor_ 383 By Parcels Post _George R. Sims_ 262

C Cacoethes Scribendi _Oliver Wendell Holmes_ 238 Camerados _Bayard Taylor_ 430 Cameronian Cat, The _Unknown_ 917 Candidate's Creed, The _James Russell Lowell_ 294 Cantelope, The _Bayard Taylor_ 393 Careful Penman, The _Unknown_ 810 Carman's Account of a Law Suit, A _Sir David Lindesay_ 807 Casey at the Bat _Ernest Lawrence Thayer_ 601 Catalectic Monody, A _Unknown_ 833 Cataract of Lodore, The _Robert Southey_ 743 Categorical Courtship _Unknown_ 207 Catfish, The _Oliver Herford_ 900 "Caudal" Lecture, A _William Sawyer_ 92 Cautionary Verses _Theodore Hook_ 828 Chemist to His Love, The _Unknown_ 206 Chloe, M. A. _Mortimer Collins_ 185 Chorus of Women _Aristophanes_ 126 Christmas Chimes _Unknown_ 284 Chronicle: A Ballad, The _Abraham Cowley_ 176 Circumstance _Frederick Locker-Lampson_ 444 Clean Clara _W. B. Rands_ 283 Cloud, The _Oliver Herford_ 134 Clown's Courtship, The _Unknown_ 217 Cock and the Bull, The _Charles Stuart Calverley_ 464 Cologne _Samuel Taylor Coleridge_ 363 Colubriad, The _William Cowper_ 909 Comfort in Affliction _William E. Aytoun_ 453 Comic Miseries _John G. Saxe_ 42 Comical Girl, The _M. Pelham_ 946 Commonplaces _Rudyard Kipling_ 427 Companions _Charles Stuart Calverley_ 63 Confession, The _Richard Harris Barham_ (_Thomas Ingoldsby_) 443 Conjugal Conjugations _A. W. Bellaw_ 810 Conjugal Conundrum, A _Unknown_ 371 Constancy _John Boyle O'Reilly_ 137 Constant Cannibal Maiden, The _Wallace Irwin_ 194 Contentment _Oliver Wendell Holmes_ 238 Contrast, The _Captain C. Morris_ 265 Converted Cannibals, The _G. E. Farrow_ 683 Cosmic Egg, The _Unknown_ 771 Cosmopolitan Woman, A _Unknown_ 167 Cossimbazar _Henry S. Leigh_ 843 Counsel to Those That Eat _Unknown_ 932 Country Summer Pastoral, A _Unknown_ 883 Courtin', The _James Russell Lowell_ 110 Courting in Kentucky _Florence E. Pratt_ 168 Cremation _William Sawyer_ 534 Crystal Palace, The _W. M. Thackeray_ 547 Culture in the Slums _William Ernest Henley_ 400 Cumberbunce, The _Paul West_ 844 Cupid _William Blake_ 56 Cupid _Ben Jonson_ 211 Cupid's Darts _Unknown_ 67 Cynical Ode to An Ultra-Cynical Public _Charles Mackay_ 339 Cynicus to W. Shakespeare _James Kenneth Stephen_ 362

D Darius Green and His Flying-Machine _John Townsend Trowbridge_ 690 Darwinian Ballad _Unknown_ 913 Darwinity _Herman C. Merivale_ 409 Day Is Done," "The _Ph[oe] be Cary_ 490 Deacon's Masterpiece, The _Oliver Wendell Holmes_ 580 Death's Ramble _Thomas Hood_ 801 Declaration, The _N. P. Willis_ 446 Devil's Walk on Earth, The _Robert Southey_ 298 Devonshire Lane, The _John Marriott_ 266 Dialogue from Plato, A _Austin Dobson_ 142 Dido _Richard Porson_ 366 Dighton Is Engaged _Gelett Burgess_ 647 Dinkey-Bird, The _Eugene Field_ 929 Dirge _Unknown_ 787 Dirge, A _William Augustus Croffut_ 737 Dirge of the Moolla of Kotal _George T. Lanigan_ 712 Disaster _Charles Stuart Calverley_ 469 Distichs _John Hay_ 247 Diversions of the Re-Echo Club _Carolyn Wells_ 515 Diverting History of John Gilpin, The _William Cowper_ 564 Divided Destinies _Rudyard Kipling_ 704 Donnybrook Jig, The _Viscount Dillon_ 700 Dora Versus Rose _Austin Dobson_ 144 Double Ballade of Primitive Man _Andrew Lang_ 331 Dutch Lullaby _Eugene Field_ 928

E Early Rising _J. G. Saxe_ 44 Eastern Question, An _H. M. Paull_ 598 Echo _J. G. Saxe_ 750 Editor's Wooing, The _Robert H. Newell_ (_Orpheus C. Kerr_) 389 Elderly Gentleman, The _George Canning_ 665 Elegy _Arthur Guiterman_ 445 Elegy, An _Oliver Goldsmith_ 740 Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog, An _Oliver Goldsmith_ 764 Enchanted Shirt, The _John Hay_ 658 Endless Song, The _Ruth McEnery Stuart_ 968 Enigma on the Letter H _Catherine Fanshawe_ 762 Epitaph, An _George John Cayley_ 366 Epitaph, An _Matthew Prior_ 765 Epitaph Intended for His Wife _John Dryden_ 368 Erring in Company _Franklin P. Adams_ 55 Eternal Poem, An _Samuel Taylor Coleridge_ 364 Etiquette _W. S. Gilbert_ 256 "Exactly So" _Lady T. Hastings_ 61 Extracts from the Rubaiyat of Omar Cayenne _Gelett Burgess_ 512

F Fable, _Ralph Waldo Emerson_ 290 Fair Millinger, The _Fred W. Loring_ 186 Faithless Nellie Gray _Thomas Hood_ 797 Faithless Sally Brown _Thomas Hood_ 792 False Love and True Logic _Laman Blanchard_ 183 Familiar Letter to Several Correspondents, A _Oliver Wendell Holmes_ 36 Farewell _Bert Leston Taylor_ 419 Farewell to Tobacco, A _Charles Lamb_ 726 Fastidious Serpent, The _Henry Johnstons_ 887 Father Molloy. _Samuel Lover_ 307 Father O'Flynn _Alfred Perceval Graves_ 719 Father William _Lewis Carroll_ 485 Father William _Unknown_ 531 Feminine Arithmetic _Charles Graham Halpine_ 191 Fernando and Elvira _W. S. Gilbert_ 635 Fin de Siècle _Unknown_ 357 Finnigin to Flannigan _S. W. Gillinan_ 225 First Banjo, The _Irwin Russell_ 672 First Love _Charles Stuart Calverley_ 116 Fish Story, A _Henry A. Beers_ 916 Fisherman's Chant, The _F. C. Burnand_ 81 Five Wives _Robert Herrick_ 772 Flamingo, The _Lewis Gaylord Clark_ 894 Foam and Fangs _Walter Parke_ 544 Fool and the Poet, The _Alexander Pope_ 363 For I Am Sad _Don Marquis_ 379 Forlorn One, The _Richard Harris Barham_ (_Thomas Ingoldsby_) 449 Forty Years After _H. H. Porter_ 210 Fragment, A _Unknown_ 450 Friar of Orders Gray, The _John O'Keefe_ 282 Frog, The _Hilaire Belloc_ 907 From a Full Heart _A. A. Milne_ 31 Future of the Classics, The _Anonymous_ 826

G Gentle Alice Brown _W. S. Gilbert_ 639 Gentle Echo on Woman, A _Dean Swift_ 752 Gifts Returned _Walter Savage Landor_ 198 Giles's Hope _Samuel Taylor Coleridge_ 363 Girl Was Too Reckless of Grammar, A _Guy Wetmore Carryl_ 395 Good and Bad Luck _John Hay_ 334 Goose, The _Lord Tennyson_ 611 Gouty Marchant and the Stranger, The _Horace Smith_ 563 Grain of Salt, A _Wallace Irwin_ 241 Grampy Sings a Song _Holman F. Day_ 670 Great Black Crow, The _Philip James Bailey_ 908 Great Fight, A _Robert H. Newell_ (_Orpheus C. Kerr_) 697

H Half Hours with the Classics _H. J. DeBurgh_ 779 Hans Breitmann's Party _Charles Godfrey Leland_ 668 Happy Man, The _Gilles Ménage_ 814 He and She _Eugene Fitch Ware_ 109 He Came to Pay _Parmenas Mix_ 447 Height of the Ridiculous, The _Oliver Wendell Holmes_ 38 Hen, The _Matthew Claudius_ 892 Hen-Roost Man, The _Ruth McEnery Stuart_ 247 Here Is the Tale _Anthony C. Deane_ 421 Here She Goes and There She Goes _James Nack_ 572 Her Little Feet _William Ernest Henley_ 59 Herring, The _Sir Walter Scott_ 949 Higher Pantheism in a Nutshell, The _Algernon Charles Swinburne_ 458 Hiram Hover _Bayard Taylor_ 113 His Mother-in-Law _Walter Parke_ 75 Hoch! Der Kaiser _Rodney Blake_ 291 Holy Willie's Prayer _Robert Burns_ 272 Home and Mother _Mary Mapes Dodge_ 932 Hom[oe]opathic Soup _Unknown_ 76 Home Sweet Home with Variations _H. C. Bunner_ 498 Honey-Moon, The _Walter Savage Landor_ 366 House That Jack Built, The _Samuel Taylor Coleridge_ 407 How the Daughters Come Down at Dunoon _H. Chalmondeley-Pennell_ 533 How Often _Ben King_ 489 How to Ask and Have _Samuel Lover_ 181 How to Eat Watermelons _Frank Libby Stanton_ 73 How to Make a Man of Consequence _Mark Lemon_ 280 Humpty Dumpty's Recitations _Lewis Carroll_ 872 Hundred Best Books, The _Mostyn T. Pigott_ 769 Hunting of the Snark, The _Lewis Carroll_ 676 Husband and Heathen Sam _Walter Foss_ 160 Husband's Petition, The _William B. Aytoun_ 454 Hyder Iddle _Unknown_ 879 Hypocrisy _Samuel Butler_ 365

I Ideal Husband to His Wife, The _Sam Walter Foss_ 246 "I Didn't Like Him" _Harry B. Smith_ 157 Idyll of Phatte and Leene, An _Unknown_ 406 If _Unknown_ 951 If _Mortimer Collins_ 436 If _H. C. Dodge_ 268 If I Should Die To-night _Ben King_ 489 If the Man _Samuel Johnson_ 949 If They Meant All They Said _Alice Duer Miller_ 247 If We Didn't Have to Eat _Nixon Waterman_ 57 If You Have Seen _Thomas Moore_ 444 I Hae Laid a Herring in Saut _James Tytler_ 216 Imaginative Crisis, The _Unknown_ 457 Imagiste Love Lines _Unknown_ 383 Imitation _Anthony C. Deane_ 375 Imitation of Walt Whitman _Unknown_ 434 Imitation of Wordsworth, An _Catherine M. Fanshawe_ 535 Indifference _Unknown_ 950 In Memoriam _Cuthbert Bede_ 463 In Memoriam Technicam _Thomas Hood, Jr._ 413 Invisible Bridge, The _Gelett Burgess_ 855 Invitation to the Zoölogical Gardens, An _Unknown_ 822 Inspect Us _Edith Daniell_ 471 In the Catacombs _Harlan Hoge Ballard_ 52 Irishman and the Lady, The _William Maginn_ 742 Irish Schoolmaster, The _James A. Sidey_ 103 Israfiddlestrings _Unknown_ 472

J Jabberwocky _Lewis Carroll_ 869 Jabberwocky of Authors, The _Harry Parsons Taber_ 437 Jackdaw of Rheims, The _Richard Harris Barham_ (_Thomas Ingoldsby_) 586 Jacob _Ph[oe]be Cary_ 491 Jester Condemned to Death, The _Horace Smith_ 578 "Jim" _Bret Harte_ 652 Jim Bludso _John Hay_ 661 Jim-Jam King of the Jou-Jous _Alaric Bertrand Stuart_ 851 Job _Samuel Taylor Coleridge_ 364 Jocosa Lyra _Austin Dobson_ 824 John Barleycorn _Robert Burns_ 730 John Grumlie _Allen Cunningham_ 326 John Thompson's Daughter _Ph[oe]be Cary_ 494 Jovial Priest's Confession, The _Leigh Hunt_ 834 Joys of Marriage, The _Charles Cotton_ 344 Jumbles, The _Edward Lear_ 862 Justice to Scotland _Unknown_ 384

K K. K.--Can't Calculate _Frances M. Whitcher_ 353 Kentucky Philosophy _Harrison Robertson_ 325 Kindly Advice _Unknown_ 890 Kindness to Animals _J. Ashby-Sterry_ 891 King Arthur _Unknown_ 879 King John and the Abbot _Unknown_ 554 Kilkenny Cats, The _Unknown_ 950 Kiss, The _Tom Masson_ 109 Kiss in the Rain, A _Samuel Minturn Peck_ 123 Kitchen Clock, The _John Vance Cheney_ 220 Kitty of Coleraine _Edward Lysaght_ 130 Kitty Wants to Write _Gelett Burgess_ 646 K. K.--Can't Calculate _F. M. Witcher_ 354 Knife-Grinder, The _George Canning_ 249 Knight and the Lady, The _Richard Harris Barham_ (_Thomas Ingoldsby_) 590

L Lady Mine _H. E. Clarke_ 221 Laird O'Cockpen, The _Lady Nairne_ 703 Lament of the Scotch Irish Exile _James Jeffrey Roche_ 385 Lanty Leary _Samuel Lover_ 208 Larrie O'Dee, _William W. Fink_ 165 Last Ride Together, The _James Kenneth Stephen_ 431 Latest Decalogue, The _Arthur Hugh Clough_ 261 Laughing Willow, The _Oliver Herford_ 948 Lawyer's Invocation to Spring, The _Henry Howard Brownell_ 402 Lay of Ancient Rome _Thomas R. Ybarra_ 753 Lay of the Deserted Influenzaed _N. Cholmondeley-Pennell_ 746 Lay of the Love Lorn, The _Aytoun, William E._, and _Martin_ 537 Lay of the Lover's Friend, The _William E. Aytoun_ 88 Lazy Roof, The _Gelett Burgess_ 855 Learned Negro, The _Unknown_ 274 Leedle Yawcob Straus _Charles Follen Adams_ 940 Legend of the First Cam-u-el, The _Arthur Guiterman_ 888 Legend of Heinz von Stein, The _Charles Godfrey Leland_ 49 Life _Unknown_ 783 Life in Laconics _Mary Mapes Dodge_ 311 Like to the Thundering Tone _Bishop Corbet_ 848 Lilies _Don Marquis_ 379 Limericks _Carolyn Wells_ 835 Lines _Unknown_ 456 Lines by an Old Fogy _Unknown_ 882 Lines to Miss Florence Huntingdon _Unknown_ 830 Lines Written After a Battle _Unknown_ 456 Literary Lady, The _Richard Brinsley Sheridan_ 278 Little Billee _W. M. Thackeray_ 546 Little Breeches _John Hay_ 657 Little Goose, A _Eliza Sproat Turner_ 938 Little Mamma _Charles Henry Webb_ 943 Little Orphant Annie _James Whitcomb Riley_ 934 Little Peach, The _Eugene Field_ 931 Little Star, The _Unknown_ 476 Little Swirl of Vers Libre, A _Thomas R. Ybarra_ 380 Little Vagabond, The _William Blake_ 269 Llama, The _Hilaire Belloc_ 906 Logic _Unknown_ 809 Logical English _Unknown_ 809 Lord Guy _George F. Warren_ 191 Lost Pleiad, The _Arthur Reed Ropes_ 161 Lost Spectacles, The _Unknown_ 287 Love is Like a Dizziness _James Hogg_ 218 Lovers and a Reflection _Charles Stuart Calverley_ 372 Love Knot, The _Nora Perry_ 124 Lovelilts _Marion Hill_ 824 Love Playnt, A _Godfrey Turner_ 408 Love's Moods and Tenses _Unknown_ 812 Lucy Lake _Newton Mackintosh_ 463 Lugubrious Whing-Whang, The _James Whitcomb Riley_ 858 Lunar Stanzas _Henry Coggswell Knight_ 841 Lying _Thomas Moore_ 86

M Madame Sans Souci _Unknown_ 951 Malbrouck _Father Prout_ 28 Man, The _Stephen Crane_ 248 Man in the Moon, The _James Whitcomb Riley_ 856 Man of Words, A _Unknown_ 790 Man's Place in Nature _Unknown_ 89 Manila _Eugene Fitch Ware_ 949 March to Moscow, The _Robert Southey_ 775 Mark Twain: A Pipe Dream _Oliver Herford_ 30 Martial in London _Mortimer Collins_ 316 Martin Luther at Potsdam _Barry Pain_ 404 Maud _Henry S. Leigh_ 188 Maudle-in-Ballad _Unknown_ 510 Mavrone _Arthur Guiterman_ 378 Meeting of the Clabberhuses, The _Sam Walter Foss_ 244 Melton Mowbray Pork-Pie, A _Richard le Gallienne_ 472 Mendax _Lessing_ 369 Messed Damozel, The _Charles Hanson Towne_ 471 Mexican Serenade _Arthur Guiterman_ 902 Microbe, The _Hilaire Belloc_ 907 Midsummer Madness _Unknown_ 377 Mighty Must, The _W. S. Gilbert_ 376 Millennuim, The _Robert Browning_ 60 Minguillo's Kiss _Unknown_ 122 Miniver Cheevy _Edward Arlington Robinson_ 229 Misadventures at Margate _Richard Harris Barham_ (_Thomas Ingoldsby_) 558 Mis' Smith _Albert Bigelow Paine_ 119 Modern Hiawatha, The _Unknown_ 482 Modest Wit, A _Selleck Osborn_ 260 "Mona Lisa" _John Kendrick Bangs_ 95 Money _Jehan du Pontalais_ 323 More Impressions _Oscuro Wildgoose_ 509 More Walks _Richard Harris Barham_ (_Thomas Ingoldsby_) 950 Mr. Finney's Turnip _Unknown_ 847 Mrs. Smith _Frederick Locker-Lampson_ 155 Musical Ass, The _Tomaso de Yriarte_ 249 My Angeline _Harry B. Smith_ 158 My Aunt's Spectre _Mortimer Collins_ 600 My Dream _Unknown_ 853 My Feet _Gelett Burgess_ 855 My Foe _Unknown_ 529 My Love and My Heart _Henry S. Leigh_ 204 My Madeline _Walter Parke_ 773 My Mistress's Boots _Frederick Locker-Lampson_ 153

N Naughty Darkey Boy, The _Unknown_ 927 Nemesis _J. W. Foley_ 94 Nephelidia _Algernon Charles Swinburne_ 459 "Never Forget Your Parents" _Franklin P. Adams_ 394 New Church Organ, The _Will Carleton_ 162 New Song, A _John Gay_ 754 New Version, The _W. J. Lampton_ 90 New Vestments _Edward Lear_ 866 Ninety-Nine in the Shade _Rossiter Johnson_ 781 Nirvana _Unknown_ 900 No! _Thomas Hood_ 792 No Fault in Women _Robert Herrick_ 166 Nocturnal Sketch, A _Thomas Hood_ 823 Nongtongpaw _Charles Dibdin_ 808 Nonsense Verses _Charles Lamb_ 848 Nora's Vow _Sir Walter Scott_ 159 Northern Farmer _Lord Tennyson_ 354 North, East, South and West _Unknown_ 403 Nothing _Richard Porson_ 786 Nothing to Wear _William Allen Butler_ 148 Noureddin, The Son of the Shah _Clinton Scollard_ 199 Nun, The _Leigh Hunt_ 206 Nursery Legend, A _Henry S. Leigh_ 937 Nursery Rhymes à la Mode _Unknown_ 509 Nursery Song in Pidgin English _Unknown_ 530

O Ocean Wanderer, The _Unknown_ 879 Ode for a Social Meeting _Oliver Wendell Holmes_ 833 Ode for a Social Meeting _Leigh Hunt_ 834 Ode to a Bobtailed Cat _Unknown_ 936 Ode to the Human Heart _Laman Blanchard_ 784 Ode to Tobacco _Charles Stuart Calverley_ 732 Ode to Work in Springtime _Thomas R. Ybarra_ 47 O D V _Unknown_ 788 Of a Certain Man _Sir John Harrington_ 282 Of All the Men _Thomas Moore_ 370 Of a Precise Tailor _Sir John Harrington_ 322 Of Baiting the Lion _Owen Seaman_ 893 Officer Brady _Robert W. Chambers_ 232 Oh, My Geraldine _F. C. Burnand_ 180 Old Bachelor, An _Tudor Jenks_ 98 Old Fashioned Fun _W. M. Thackery_ 33 Old Grimes _Albert Gorton Greene_ 766 Old Line Fence, The _A. W. Bellaw_ 760 Old Man and Jim, The _James Whitcomb Riley_ 678 Old Song by New Singers, An _A. C. Wilkie_ 506 Old Stuff _Bert Leston Taylor_ 48 On the Aristocracy of Harvard _Dr. Samuel G. Bushnell_ 949 On a Bad Singer _Samuel Taylor Coleridge_ 364 On Butler's Monument _Rev. Samuel Wesley_ 370 On a Deaf Housekeeper _Unknown_ 76 On the Death of a Favorite Cat _Thomas Gray_ 557 On the Democracy of Yale _Dean Jones_ 949 On the Downtown Side of an Uptown Street _William Johnstone_ 79 On a Full-Length Portrait of Beau Marsh _Lord Chesterfield_ 369 On Hearing a Lady Praise a Certain Rev. Doctor's Eyes _George Outram_ 368 On Knowing When to Stop _L. J. Bridgman_ 312 On a Magazine Sonnet _Russell Hilliard Loines_ 281 On the Oxford Carrier _John Milton_ 780 On Scotland _Cleveland_ 369 On a Sense of Humor _Frederick Locker-Lampson_ 367 On Taking a Wife _Thomas Moore_ 367 Only Seven _Henry S. Leigh_ 543 Optimism _Newton Mackintosh_ 445 Origin of Ireland, The _Unknown_ 106 Original Lamb, The _Unknown_ 477 Orphan Born _Robert J. Burdette_ 903 Oubit, The _Charles Kingsley_ 330 O-u-g-h _Charles Battell Loomis_ 761 Ould Doctor Mack _Alfred Perceval Graves_ 717 Our Hymn _Oliver Wendell Holmes_ 374 Our Native Birds _Nathan Haskell Dole_ 53 Our Traveller _Henry Cholmondeley-Pennell_ 445 Out of Sight, Out of Mind _Barnaby Googe_ 807 Out Upon it _Sir John Suckling_ 218 Over the Way _Mary Mapes Dodge_ 125 Owen Seaman _Louis Untermeyer_ 480 Owl and the Pussy Cat, The _Edward Lear_ 901 Owl-Critic, The _James Thomas Fields_ 309

P Paddy O'Rafther _Samuel Lover_ 571 Pairing-Time Anticipated _William Cowper_ 212 Palabras Grandiosas _Bayard Taylor_ 407 Panegyric on the Ladies _Unknown_ 803 Paradise _George Birdseye_ 281 Parental Ode to My Son, Aged Three Years and Five Months, A _Thomas Hood_ 941 Parson Gray _Oliver Goldsmith_ 741 Parterre, The _E. H. Palmer_ 180 Pensées de Noël _A. D. Godley_ 336 Pessimism _Newton Mackintosh_ 338 Pessimist, The _Ben King_ 358 Pet's Punishment _J. Ashby-Sterry_ 184 Phillis's Age _Matthew Prior_ 332 Philosopher, A _Sam Walter Foss_ 242 Phyllis Lee _Oliver Herford_ 139 Pied Piper of Hamelin, The _Robert Browning_ 603 Pig, The _Robert Southey_ 914 Pilgrims and the Peas, The _John Wolcot_ 621 Pin, A _Ella Wheeler Wilcox_ 132 Plaidie, The _Charles Sibley_ 190 Plain Language from Truthful James _Bret Harte_ 648 Played-Out Humorist, The _W. S. Gilbert_ 25 Plea for Trigamy, A _Owen Seaman_ 68 Pobble Who Has No Toes, The _Edward Lear_ 865 Poe-'em of Passion, A _C. F. Lummis_ 532 Poets at Tea, The _Barry Pain_ 486 Polka Lyric, A _Barclay Philips_ 832 Poor Dear Grandpapa _D'Arcy W. Thompson_ 950 Pope, The _Chas. Lever_ 70 Pope and the Net, The _Robert Browning_ 286 Portrait, A _John Keats_ 496 Positivists, The _Mortimer Collins_ 315 Post Captain, The _Charles E. Carryl_ 615 Post-Impressionism _Bert Leston Taylor_ 235 Practical Joker, The _W. S. Gilbert_ 26 Prayer of Cyrus Brown, The _Sam Walter Foss_ 54 Prehistoric Smith _David Law Proudfit_ 83 Presto Furioso _Owen Seaman_ 417 Prior to Miss Belle's Appearance _James Whitcomb Riley_ 925 Promissory Note, The _Bayard Taylor_ 429 Propinquity Needed _Charles Battell Loomis_ 51 Purple Cow, The _Gelett Burgess_ 948

Q Quaker's Meeting, The _Samuel Lover_ 576 Quest of the Purple Cow, The _Hilda Johnson_ 100 Questions with Answers _Unknown_ 810 Quite by Chance _Frederick Langbridge_ 205

R Razor Seller, The _John Wolcot_ 297 Reasons for Drinking _Dr. Henry Aldrich_ 364 Recruit, The _Robert W. Chambers_ 230 Reflections on Cleopathera's Needle _Cormac O'Leary_ 105 Rejected "National Hymns," The _Robert H. Newell_ (_Orpheus C. Kerr_) 387 Religion of Hudibras, The _Samuel Butler_ 271 Remedy Worse than the Disease, A _Matthew Prior_ 365 Report of an Adjudged Case _William Cowper_ 82 Retired Cat, The _William Cowper_ 910 Retired Pork-Butcher and the Spook _G. E. Farrow_ 685 Retort, The _George Pope Morris_ 174 Rev. Gabe Tucker's Remarks _Unknown_ 312 Reuben _Ph[oe]be Cary_ 493 Rhyme for Musicians, A _E. Lemke_ 772 Rhyme of the Rail _John G. Saxe_ 748 Rhymester, A _Samuel Taylor Coleridge_ 363 Riddle, A _Unknown_ 951 Rigid Body Sings _J. C. Maxwell_ 483 Robert Frost _Louis Untermeyer_ 479 Robinson Crusoe's Story _Charles E. Carryl_ 617 Rollicking Mastodon, The _Arthur Macy_ 853 Romance of the Carpet, The _Robert J. Burdette_ 674 Romaunt of Humpty Dumpty The _Henry S. Leigh_ 411 Rondeau, The _Austin Dobson_ 782 Rondelay, A _Peter A. Motteux_ 41 Rory O'More; or, Good Omens _Samuel Lover_ 141 Ruling Passion, The _Alexander Pope_ 285 Rural Bliss _Anthony C. Deane_ 97 Rural Raptures _Unknown_ 450

S Sabine Farmer's Serenade, The _Father Prout_ 214 Said Opie Reed _Julian Street_ and _Montgomery Flagg_ 948 Sailor's Yarn, A _James Jeffrey Roche_ 680 Sainte Margerie _Unknown_ 477 Salad _Mortimer Collins_ 436 Salad _Sydney Smith_ 93 Sally in Our Alley _Henry Carey_ 182 Sally Simkin's Lament _Thomas Hood_ 800 Same Old Story _Harry B. Smith_ 360 Sary "Fixes Up" Things _Albert Bigelow Paine_ 192 Saying, Not Meaning _William Basil Wake_ 666 School _James Kenneth Stephen_ 60 Schoolmaster, The _Charles Stuart Calverley_ 64 Scientific Proof _J. W. Foley_ 880 Secret Combination, The _Ellis Parker Butler_ 209 Select Passages from a Coming Poet _F. Anstey_ 410 Senex to Matt. Prior _James Kenneth Stephen_ 362 Shake, Mulleary and Go-ethe _H. C. Bunner_ 40 Shipwreck, The _H. Palmer_ 876 Siege of Belgrade, The _Unknown_ 813 Siege of Djklxprwbz, The _Eugene Fitch Ware_ 96 Similes _Unknown_ 791 Simile, A _Matthew Prior_ 262 Sing for the Garish Eye _W. S. Gilbert_ 875 Sir Guy the Crusader _W. S. Gilbert_ 644 Sketch from the Life, A _Arthur Guiterman_ 121 Skipper Treson's Ride _John Greenleat Whittier_ 688 Sky-Making _Mortimer Collins_ 314 Smack in School, The _William Pitt Palmer_ 128 Smatterers _Samuel Butler_ 365 Society upon the Stanislaus The _Bret Harte_ 650 "Soldier, Rest!" _Robert J. Burdette_ 374 Some Hallucinations _Lewis Carroll_ 874 Some Ladies _Frederick Locker-Lampson_ 367 Some Little Bug _Roy Atwell_ 77 Somewhere-in-Europe-Wocky _F. G. Hartswick_ 482 Song _Joseph Addison_ 751 Song _George Canning_ 84 Song _John Donne_ 330 Song _Richard Lovelace_ 241 Song _J. R. Ptanche_ 99 Song of Impossibilities, A _Winthrop Mackintosh Praed_ 327 Song of Sorrow, A _Charles Battell Loomis_ 386 Song of the Springtide _Unknown_ 527 "Songs Without Words" _Robert J. Burdette_ 413 Sonnet Found in a Deserted Mad House _Unknown_ 851 Sonnet to a Clam _John G. Saxe_ 734 Sorrows of Werther, The _W. M. Thackeray_ 140 'Spacially Jim _Bessie Morgan_ 129 Spirk Throll-Derisiye _James Whitcomb Riley_ 855 Splendid Fellow, A _H. C. Dodge_ 267 Splendid Shilling, The _John Philips_ 316 St. Anthony's Sermon to the Fishes _Abraham á Sancta-Clara_ 251 Stanzas to Pale Ale _Unknown_ 732 St. Patrick of Ireland, My Dear! _William Maginn_ 101 Story of Prince Agib, The _W. S. Gilbert_ 641 Strictly Germ-Proof _Arthur Guiterman_ 87 Strike Among the Poets, A _Unknown_ 785 Study of an Elevation, in Indian Ink _Rudyard Kipling_ 226 Styx River Anthology _Carolyn Wells_ 521 Surnames _James Smith_ 804 Susan _Frederick Locker-Lampson_ 157 Susan Simpson _Unknown_ 774 Sympathy _Reginald Heber_ 270

T Takings _Thomas Hood, Jr._ 817 Tam o' Shanter _Robert Burns_ 623 Ternary of Littles, Upon a Pipkin of Jelly Sent to a Lady, A _Robert Herrick_ 806 Terrible Infant, A _Frederick Locker-Lampson_ 156 'Tis Midnight _Unknown_ 843 'Tis Sweet to Roam _Unknown_ 878 That Gentle Man from Boston Town _Joaquin Miller_ 629 That Texan Cattle Man _Joaquin Miller_ 288 Thingumbob, The _Unknown_ 882 Then Ag'in _Sam Walter Foss_ 357 "There's a Bower of Bean-vines" _Ph[oe]be Cary_ 493 There Was a Little Girl _Unknown_ 926 Third Proposition, The _Madeline Bridges_ 345 Thought, A _James Kenneth Stephen_ 248 Three Black Crows, The _John Byrom_ 254 Three Children _Unknown_ 843 Three Jovial Huntsmen _Unknown_ 878 Thursday _Frederick E. Weatherly_ 313 Tim Turpin _Thomas Hood_ 795 To a Blockhead _Alexander Pope_ 362 To a Capricious Friend _Joseph Addison_ 368 To a Fly _John Wolcot_ 734 To an Importunate Host _Unknown_ 534 To a Slow Walker and Quick Eater _Lessing_ 369 To a Thesaurus _Franklin P. Adams_ 825 To Be or Not To Be _Unknown_ 891 To Doctor Empiric _Ben Jonson_ 365 To Julia in Shooting Togs _Owen Seaman_ 418 To Marie _John Bennett_ 852 To Minerva _Thomas Hood_ 49 To My Empty Purse _Geoffrey Chaucer_ 58 To My Nose _Alfred A. Forrester_ (_Alfred Croquill_) 832 Too Late _Fitz Hugh Ludlow_ 348 To Ph[oe]be _W. S. Gilbert_ 28 To the Pliocene Skull _Bret Harte_ 46 To the Portrait of "A Gentleman" _Oliver Wendell Holmes_ 236 To the Terrestrial Globe _W. S. Gilbert_ 256 Town of Nice, The _Herman C. Merivale_ 438 Tragic Story, A _W. M. Thackeray_ 850 Transcendentalism _Unknown_ 92 Translated Way _Franklin P. Adams_ 427 Travesty of Miss Fanshawe's Enigma _Horace Mayhew_ 763 Triolet _Paul T. Gilbert_ 120 Triolet, The _William Ernest Henley_ 782 True to Poll _F. C. Burnand_ 275 Trust in Women _Unknown_ 276 Truth About Horace, The _Eugene Field_ 50 Tu Quoque _Austin Dobson_ 146 Turtle and the Flamingo, The _James Thomas Fields_ 923 Turvey Top _William Sawyer_ 884 'Twas Ever Thus _Henry S. Leigh_ 544 Twelve Articles _Dean Swift_ 279 Twins, The _Henry S. Leigh_ 108 Two Fishes _Unknown_ 188 Two Men _Edwin Arlington Robinson_ 35 Two Old Bachelors, The _Edward Lear_ 868

U Uffia _Harriet R. White_ 877 Ultimate Joy, The _Unknown_ 32 Unattainable, The _Harry Romaine_ 141 Uncle Simon and Uncle Jim _Charles Farrar Browne_ (_Artemus Ward_) 849 Under the Mistletoe _George Francis Schults_ 196 Unexpected Fact, An _Edward Cannon_ 844 Unfortunate Miss Bailey _Unknown_ 702 Unsatisfied Yearning _R. K. Munkittrick_ 889 Upon Being Obliged to Leave a Pleasant Party _Thomas Moore_ 367 Up the Spout _Algernon Charles Swinburne_ 460 Usual Way, The _Frederick E. Weatherly_ 200

V Vague Story, A _Walter Parke_ 74 V-A-S-E, The _James Jeffrey Roche_ 227 Village Choir, The _Unknown_ 528 Villanelle of Things Amusing _Gelett Burgess_ 73 Villon's Straight Tip to All Cross Coves _William Ernest Henley_ 399 Viper, The _Hilaire Belloc_ 906 Visit from St. Nicholas, A _Clement Clarke Moore_ 935

W Walrus and the Carpenter, The _Lewis Carroll_ 896 The Whango Tree _Unknown_ 842 War: A-Z, The _John R. Edwards_ 829 War Relief _Oliver Herford_ 901 Ways and Means _Lewis Carroll_ 870 Way to Arcady, The _H. C. Bunner_ 201 Wedding, A _Sir John Suckling_ 704 Wedding, The _Thomas Hood, Jr._ 412 Well of St. Keyne, The _Robert Southey_ 584 What is a Woman Like? _Unknown_ 118 What's In a Name? _R. K. Munkittrick_ 347 What's My Thought Like? _Thomas Moore_ 370 What Will We Do? _Robert J. Burdette_ 311 Whatever Is, Is Right _Laman Blanchard_ 786 What Mr. Robinson Thinks _James Russell Lowell_ 292 Whenceness of the Which _Unknown_ 476 When Lovely Woman _Phoebe Cary_ 494 When Moonlike Ore the Hazure Seas _W. M. Thackeray_ 34 When the Frost Is on the Punkin _James Whitcomb Riley_ 34 Which Is Which _John Byrom_ 368 Whistler, The _Unknown_ 133 Why? _H. P. Stevens_ 214 Why Don't the Men Propose? _Thomas Haynes Bayly_ 131 Why Doth a Pussy Cat? _Surges Johnson_ 895 Widow Bedott to Elder Sniffles _Frances M. Whicher_ 195 Widow Malone, The _Charles Lever_ 126 Wife, A _Richard Brinsley Sheridan_ 366 Wife, The _Phoebe Cary_ 494 William Brown of Oregon _Joaquin Miller_ 653 Willows, The _Bret Harte_ 423 Willow-Tree, The _W. M. Thackeray_ 439 Wing Tee Wee _J. P. Denison_ 139 Winter Dusk _R. K. Munkittrick_ 42 Within and Without _James Russell Lowell_ 359 Wofle New Ballad of Jane Roney and Mary Brown, The _W. M. Thackeray_ 552 Woman's Will _John G. Saxe_ 362 Wonders of Nature _Unknown_ 470 Wordsworthian Reminiscence _Unknown_ 470 Wreck of the "Julie Plante" _William Henry Drummond_ 662 Written After Swimming from Sestos to Abydos _Lord Byron_ 80

Y Yak, The _Hilaire Belloc_ 906 Yarn of the "Nancy Bell" _W. S. Gilbert_ 632 Yonghy-Bonghy Ho, The _Edward Lear_ 859 Young Gazelle _Walter Parke_ 918 Young Lady of Niger, The _Unknown_ 948 Young Lochinvar _Unknown_ 381 Youth and Art _Robert Browning_ 339

Z Zealless Nylographer, The _Mary Mapes Dodge_ 759

* * * * *

Transcriber's Notes

Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

It is not always obvious if verses in the original have been split through pagination; if there is doubt the split has been retained.

'Ode for a Social Meeting' has some words struck out and replaced above with alternatives. This has been represented with the struck-out words underlined in red and the alternate words in boxes above. The font has been switched to monospaced to accurately align the two.

Both "Geoffrey" and "Goeffrey" are used as spellings for Geoffrey Chaucer's name without obvious reason. The spelling has been standardised here to the more commonly accepted (today) version "Geoffrey".

The title of "Spirk, Troll-Derisive" uses both "Troll" and "Throll" throughout the original text. The spelling has been standardised here to "Troll".

"There is no poem in the original beginning 'Oh! Weary mother' and it appears to have been an error. The page reference, '000,' is from the original."