Part 2
Oh, Dolly is my treasury— What more of wealth could I desire? Her lips are rubies set for me, And there between (sweet property!) A string of pearls to smiles conspire; With Dolly as my treasury, What more of wealth could I desire?
And when have men of alchemy Yet dreamed of gems like those I see In Dolly's eyes, as flashing fire, They bid the envious world admire?— Oh, Dolly is my treasury! What more of wealth could I desire?
And then her hair!—there cannot be Such gold beyond the Purple Sea As this of mine—unpriced and free! Oh, Dolly is my treasury, My sweetheart and my heart's desire!
A FEW LINES
Few roses like your cheeks are red, Few lilies like your brow are fair; Few vassals like your slave are led, Few roses like your cheeks are red, Few dangers like your frown I dread; Few rubies to your lips compare, Few roses like your cheeks are red, Few lilies like your brow are fair.
A RONDEAU OF TWO HOURS
“It's a cinch.”—_Plato._
From four to six milady fair Is chic and sweet and debonair, For then it is, with smiles and tea, She fills the chappy mob with glee (The jays but come to drink and stare).
A rose is nestled in her hair, Like Cupid lurking in his lair— Few of the jays remain heart free From four to six.
Oh let them come—I would not care If all the men on earth were there; For when they go she smiles on me, And, just because she loves me, she Makes all the ringers take their share From four to six.
AN ANTE-CHRISTMAS RONDEAU
“'Tis a sad story, mates.”—_Marie Corelli._
It's up to me—the winds are chill And snow clouds drift from o'er the hill, At dawn the rime is on the grass, At five o'clock we light the gas, And long gone is the daffodil.
Jack Frost draws flowers upon the glass And blasts the growing ones—alas! Whene'er he comes to scar and kill, It's up to me.
I run not in the croaker class, But when I see the autumn pass, Of crushing woes I have my fill— To buy a Christmas gift for Jill A horde of gold I must amass— It's up to me.
ROUNDEL
If love were all and we could cheat All gods but Cupid of their due, Our joy in life would be complete.
We'd only live that we might woo, (Instead, as now, that we might eat,) And ev'ry lover would be true,— If love were all.
Yet, if we found our bread and meat In kisses it would please but few, Soon life would grow a cloying sweet, If love were all.
IN VAUDEVILLE
In vaudeville the elder jest Remains the one that's loved the best; For 'tis the custom of the stage To venerate and honor age And look upon the old as blest.
Originality's a pest That artist's labor hard to best— Conservatism is the rage In vaudeville.
The artist's arms are here expressed: A slapstick argent as a crest (It is an ancient heritage), A seltzer siphon gules—the wage Of newness is a lengthy rest In vaudeville.
THE RONDEAU OF RICHES
If I were rich and had a store Of gold doubloons and louis d'or— A treasure for a pirate crew— Then I would spend it all for you— My heart's delight and conqueror!
About your feet upon the floor, Ten thousand rubies I would pour— Regardless of expense, I'd woo If I were rich.
But as I'm not, I can but soar Mid fancy's heights and ponder o'er The things that I would like to do; And as I pass them in review It strikes me that you'd love me more If I were rich.
IN EATING SOUP
In eating soup, it's always well To make an effort to excel The unregenerate who sop With bread the last surviving drop As if to them but one befell.
And if it burn you do not yell, Or stamp or storm or say “Oh!——well!”— From social grandeur you may flop In eating soup.
And if the appetizing smell Upon you cast a witch's spell, To drain your plate pray do not stop, And please, I pray you, do not slop! A gurgling sound's a social knell In eating soup.
LOVE AND THE ROSE
The thorn lives but to shield the rose; Coquetry may but shelter love! (This consolation Hope bestows). The thorn lives but to shield the rose; Though blood from many a thorn wound flows I'll pluck the rose that blows above— The thorn lives but to shield the rose, Coquetry may but shelter love!
Love me more or not at all, Half a rose is less than none; Hear the wretch you hold in thrall! Love me more or not at all! Dilletante love will pall, I would have you wholly won;— Love me more or not at all; Half a rose is less than none!
A RONDEAU OF STATESMANSHIP
In politics it's funny how A man may tell you one thing now And say tomorrow that he meant To voice a different sentiment And vow a very different vow.
The writ and spoken laws allow Each individual to endow His words with underground intent In politics.
Thus he who leads in verbal prow- Ness sports the laurel on his brow— So if you wish to represent The acme of the eminent, Learning lying ere you make your bow In politics.
SONGS _of_ THE CITY
SONGS OF THE CITY
I—_Auroral_[5]
Another day comes journeying with the sun, The east grows ghastly with the dawning's gleam, And e'er the dark has flown and night is done The alley pavements with their many teem.
Another day of toil and grief and pain; Life surely seems not sweet to such as these! Yet they live toiling that they may but gain The right to life and all life's miseries.
II—_Madrigal_
Ah! what were all the running brooks From ocean-side to ocean-side, And what were all the chattering wrens That wake the wood with song, And what were all the roses red In all the flowery meadows wide, And what were all the fairy clouds That 'cross the heavens throng— And what were all the joys that bide In meadow, wood and down, To me, if I were at your side Within the joyless town?
III—_Within the City Gates_
We can but dream of murmuring rills Mad racing down the wooded hills, Of meadow flowers and balmy days When robin sings his amorous lays; And lost among the city's ways, To us it is not given to gaze In wonder as the morning haze Lifts from the sea of daffodils,— Of all but those on window-sills We can but dream.
IV—_April_
At dawn a gay gallant comes to the eaves And trills a song unto his lady fair, And then, above the reach of boyish thieves, A building nest sways in the balmy air; One day a flower upon a window sill Puts forth a bud, and as its beauty grows The sun—gay prodigal!—with life-light glows, The while he reads the doom of storms and snows; And then—and then—there comes the springtime's thrill!
V—_The Coming of Winter_
A chill, damp west wind and a heavy sky, With clouds that merge in one gray, darkling sea, The last red leaves of autumn flutter by, Wrest from the dead twigs of the street-side tree; And then there comes an eddying cloud of white, First dim, then blotting everything below; Up to the eaves the sparrows haste in flight— And thus upon the town descends the snow.
VI—_The Snow_
A song of birds adown a mine's dark galleries, A scent of roses 'mid a waste of moor and fen, A gush of sparkling waters from the desert sands,— So comes the snow upon the town, an alien.
VII—_Nocturne_
How like a warrior on the battlefield The city sleeps, with brain awake, and eyes That know no closing. Ere the first star dies It rises from its slumber, and with shield In hand, full ready for the fray, Goes forth to meet the day.
Footnote 5:
Copyright, 1899, by Warren F. Kellogg.
OTHER VERSES
A MADRIGAL
How can I choose but love you, Maid of the witching smile? Your eyes are as blue as the skies above you; How can I choose but love you, love you, You and your witching smile? For the red of your lips is the red of the rose, And the white of your brows is the white of the snows, And the gold of your hair is the splendor that glows When the sun gilds the east at morn. And the blue of your eyes Is the blue of the skies Of an orient day new-born; And your smile has a charm that is balm to the soul, And your pa has a bar'l and a many-plunk roll, So how can I choose but love you, love you, Love you, love you, love you?
A BALLAD OF LOOKING
He looked into her eyes, and there he saw No trace of that bright gleam which poets say Comes from the faery orb of love's sweet day, No blushing coyness causes her to withdraw Her gaze from his. He looked and yet he knew No joy, no whirling numbness of the brain, No quickening heart-beat. Then he looked again, And once again, unblushing, she looked too.
He looked into her eyes—with interest he Stared at them through a magnifying prism. For he was but an oculist, and she Was being treated for astigmatism.
WHEN THE PIPE GOES OUT
A maiden's heart, And sighs profuse, A father's foot, And—what's the use?
A PARADOX
Dan Cupyd drewe hys lyttle bowe, And strayght ye arrowe from it flewe, Although its course was rather lowe, I thought 'twould pass above my heade— In stature I am shorte, you knowe.
But soone upon my breast a stayne Of blood appeared, and showed ye marke Whereat ye boy god tooke hys aime; I staggered, groaned and then—I smyled! Egad! it was a pleasante payne!
THE SONG OF THE SLAPSTICK
Why is a hen? (Kerflop!) Haw, haw! Toot, goes the slide trombone; Why is a hen? (And a swat in the jaw!) And the ushers laugh alone. Why is a—(Bang!)—is a—(Biff!) Ho, ho! Boom! goes the sad French horn; Why is a hen? (Kerflop!) Do you know?— And the paid admissions mourn!
Vhy iss a hen? Yes? No? (Kerflop?) Bang! goes the man at the drum; Vhy iss a hen? (And a knock at the top!) And the press agent's stricken dumb; Vhy iss a—(Thud!)—iss a—(Flop!)—iss a hen? Hark! how the supers laugh! Vhy iss a—(Bing! Bang! Boom!)—and then The slapstick's bust in half! (Curtain)
IL PENSEROSO
Love's song is sung in ragtime now And kisses sweet are syncopated joys, The tender sign, the melancholy moan, The soft reproach and yearning up-turned gaze Have passed into the caves without the gates And in their place, to serve love's purposes, Bold profanations from the music halls Are working overtime.
In days of old the amorous swain would sigh And say unto his lady love the while He pressed her to his heaving low-cut vest, “Dost love me, sweet?” And she, with many a blush, Would softly answer, “Yes, my cavalier!” Now to his girl the ragtime lover says, The while he strums his marked-down mandolin “Is you ma lady love?” and she, his girl, Makes answer thus: “Ah is!”
Gadzooks! it makes me sad! I see the doom Of Cupid, and upon the battered air I hear a rumor floating. It is this: That when the boy god shuffles to the grave 'Tis Syncopated Sambo that will get His job!
* * * * *
Ah, me! What sadness resteth on my soul!
FINIS
There was a man that delved in the earth For glittering gems and gold, And whatever lay hidden that seemed of worth He carefully seized and sold; So his days were long and his store was great, And ever for more he sighed, 'Till kings bowed down and he ruled in state— And after awhile he died.
_Oh, blithesome and shrill the wails resound! Oh, gaily his children moan! And the end of it all was a hole in the ground And a scratch on a crumbling stone._
There was a man that fought for the right, And never a friend had he, 'Till after the dark there dawned the light And the world could know and see; Oh, long was the fight and comfortless, But great was the fighter's pride, And a victor he rose from the storm and stress— And after awhile he died.
_Oh, great was the fame but newly found Of the man that fought alone! And the end of it all was a hole in the ground And a scratch on a crumbling stone._
There was a man that dreamed a dream, And his pen it served his brain; And great was his art and great his theme And long was his laurelled reign; But after awhile the world forgot And his work was pushed aside, (For to serve and wait is the mortal lot) And then, in the end, he died.
_Oh! brown on his brow were the bays that bound And far was his glory flown! And the end of it all was a hole in the ground And a scratch on a crumbling stone._
DONE INTO TYPE AND PRINTED BY MARSHALL, BEEK & GORDON IN THE CITY OF BALTIMORE AND ON THE THIRD FLOOR OF THE TELEGRAM BUILDING, NORTH AND BALTIMORE STREET CROSSING ♣ ANNO DOMINI MCMIII
250 Copies Of This Facsimile Edition Of Ventures Into Verse Have Been Printed For Smith's Book Store Baltimore 1, Maryland This Is Copy No. _247_
TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES
1. Added Table of Contents on p. 3. 2. Corrected Isaaih to Isaiah on p. 11. 3. Silently corrected typographical errors. 4. Retained anachronistic and non-standard spellings as printed. 5. Substituted ✿ symbol for evergreen tree like symbol. 6. Substituted ♣ symbol for fallen leaf like symbol. 7. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.
End of Project Gutenberg's Ventures Into Verse, by H. L. (Henry Louis) Mencken