Chapter I: Part 1

ANTHOLOGIES

BY CAROLYN WELLS

PUBLISHED BY CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS

A VERS DE SOCIÉTÉ ANTHOLOGY
A WHIMSEY ANTHOLOGY
A SATIRE ANTHOLOGY
A PARODY ANTHOLOGY
A NONSENSE ANTHOLOGY

Each 16mo, Cloth, $1.50 _net_

A Parody Anthology

BY
CAROLYN WELLS
AUTHOR OF “A NONSENSE ANTHOLOGY”

NEW YORK
CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS
1919

_Copyright, 1904_
BY CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS

Published, September, 1904

TO
MRS. THEODORE ROOSEVELT

NOTE

ACKNOWLEDGMENT is hereby gratefully made to the publishers of the various parodies for permission to include them in this compilation.

The parodies from “Diversions of the Echo Club,” by Bayard Taylor, and Mary and Her Lamb, from “New Waggings of Old Tales,” by Frank Dempster Sherman, are published by permission of Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin & Company.

By the courtesy of John Lane are included the parodies of Anthony C. Deane, from his volume “New Rhymes for Old;” and those of Owen Seaman, from volumes “In Cap and Bells” and “The Battle of the Bays.”

Bed During Exams is from “Cap and Gown,” published by Messrs. L. C. Page & Company.

The Golfer’s Rubaiyat, by H. C. Boynton, is from “A Book of American Humorous Verse,” published by Messrs. Herbert S. Stone & Company.

Staccato to O Le Lupe is from “Last Scenes from Vagabondia,” by Bliss Carman and Richard Hovey, published by Messrs. Small, Maynard & Company.

The two poems by Ben King are published by Forbes & Co.

The following are published by Charles Scribner’s Sons: Song, from “The Book of Joyous Children,” by James Whitcomb Riley; Home Sweet Home, and Imitation, from “Poems” of H. C. Bunner; and Song of a Heart, and Godiva, from “Overheard in a Garden,” by Oliver Herford.

CONTENTS

AFTER OMAR KHAYYAM PAGE
The Golfer’s Rubaiyat _H. W. Boynton_ 3
An Omar for Ladies _Josephine Daskam Bacon_ 5
The Modern Rubaiyat _Kate Masterson_ 7
Lines Written by Request _Owen Seaman_ 10
The Baby’s Omar _Carolyn Wells_ 12

AFTER CHAUCER
Ye Clerke of ye Wethere _Anonymous_ 14

AFTER SPENSER
A Portrait _John Keats_ 15

AFTER SHAKESPEARE
The Bachelor’s Soliloquy _Anonymous_ 17
Poker _Anonymous_ 18
Toothache _Anonymous_ 19
A Dreary Song _Shirley Brooks_ 20
To the Stall-holders at a Fancy Fair _W. S. Gilbert_ 21
Song _J. W. Riley_ 22
The Whist Player’s Soliloquy _Carolyn Wells_ 23

AFTER WITHER
Answer to Master Wither’s Song _Ben Jonson_ 25

AFTER HERRICK
Song _Oliver Herford_ 27
To Julia Under Lock and Key _Owen Seaman_ 27

AFTER NURSERY RHYMES
An Idyll of Phatte and Leene _Anonymous_ 29
Nursery Song in Pidgin English _Anonymous_ 30
The House that Jack Built _Samuel Taylor Coleridge_ 31
Boston Nursery Rhymes _Rev. Joseph Cook_ 32
A Song of a Heart _Oliver Herford_ 33
The Domicile of John _A. Pope_ 34
Mary and the Lamb _Frank Dempster Sherman_ 37

AFTER WALLER
The Aesthete to the Rose _Punch_ 40

AFTER DRYDEN
Three Blessings _Anonymous_ 41
Oyster Crabs _Carolyn Wells_ 41

AFTER DR. WATTS
The Voice of the Lobster _Lewis Carroll_ 42
The Crocodile _Lewis Carroll_ 43

AFTER GOLDSMITH
When Lovely Woman _Phœbe Cary_ 44

AFTER BURNS
Gaelic Speech _Anonymous_ 45
My Foe _Anonymous_ 46
Rigid Body Sings _J. C. Maxwell_ 48

AFTER CATHERINE FANSHAWE
Cockney Enigma on the Letter H _Horace Mayhew_ 49

AFTER WORDSWORTH
On Wordsworth _Anonymous_ 51
Jacob _Phœbe Cary_ 51
Fragment _Catherine M. Fanshawe_ 52
Jane Smith _Rudyard Kipling_ 54
Only Seven _Henry S. Leigh_ 55
Lucy Lake _Newton Mackintosh_ 57

AFTER SIR WALTER SCOTT
Young Lochinvar _Anonymous_ 58

AFTER COLERIDGE
The Ancient Mariner _Anonymous_ 61
Striking _Charles S. Calverley_ 64

AFTER SOUTHEY
The Old Man’s Cold _Anonymous_ 66
Father William _Lewis Carroll_ 67
Lady Jane _A. T. Quiller-Couch_ 69

AFTER CAMPBELL
The New Arrival _George W. Cable_ 72
John Thompson’s Daughter _Phœbe Cary_ 73

AFTER THOMAS MOORE
The Last Cigar _Anonymous_ 76
’Twas Ever Thus _Anonymous_ 77
There’s a Bower of Bean-Vines _Phœbe Cary_ 78
Disaster _Charles S. Calverley_ 79
Sarah’s Halls _Judy_ 80
’Twas Ever Thus _Henry S. Leigh_ 81

AFTER JANE TAYLOR
The Bat _Lewis Carroll_ 82

AFTER BARRY CORNWALL
The Tea _Tom Hood, Jr._ 83

AFTER BYRON
The Rout of Belgravia _Jon Duan_ 84
A Grievance _J. K. Stephen_ 85

AFTER CHARLES WOLFE
The Burial of the Bachelor _Anonymous_ 88
Not a Sou had He Got _R. Harris Barham_ 89
The Marriage of Sir John Smith _Phœbe Cary_ 91

AFTER MRS. HEMANS
The Thyroid Gland _R. M._ 93

AFTER KEATS
Ode on a Jar of Pickles _Bayard Taylor_ 94

AFTER HEINE
Imitation _H. C. Bunner_ 96
Commonplaces _Rudyard Kipling_ 97

AFTER HOOD
The Dripping Sheet _Anonymous_ 98
I Remember, I Remember _Phœbe Cary_ 101

AFTER ALFRED BUNN
A Yule Tide Parody _Anonymous_ 103
Self-Evident _J. R. Planché_ 104

AFTER LORD MACAULAY
The Laureate’s Tourney _William Aytoun_ 105

AFTER EMERSON
Mutton _Anonymous_ 113

AFTER MARY HOWITT
The Lobster Quadrille _Lewis Carroll_ 114

AFTER MRS. BROWNING
In the Gloaming _Charles S. Calverley_ 116
Gwendoline _Bayard Taylor_ 118

AFTER LONGFELLOW
The Modern Hiawatha _Anonymous_ 120
Higher _Anonymous_ 120
Topside Galah _Anonymous_ 122
Excelsior _Anonymous_ 124
The Day is Done _Phœbe Cary_ 126
A Psalm of Life _Phœbe Cary_ 127
How Often _Ben King_ 129
Desolation _Thomas Masson_ 130
The Birds and the Pheasant _Punch_ 131

AFTER WHITTIER
Hiram Hover _Bayard Taylor_ 133

AFTER MRS. NORTON
The Horse and his Master _Philip F. Allen_ 136
The New Version _W. J. Lampton_ 138

AFTER POE
What Troubled Poe’s Raven _John Bennett_ 139
The Amateur Flute _Anonymous_ 140
Samuel Brown _Phœbe Cary_ 142
The Promissory Note _Bayard Taylor_ 143
The Cannibal Flea _Tom Hood, Jr._ 145
Annabel Lee _Stanley Huntley_ 147
The Bells _Judy_ 148
The Goblin Goose _Punch_ 150

AFTER LORD HOUGHTON
Love and Science _Anonymous_ 153

AFTER TENNYSON
The Bather’s Dirge _Tennyson Minor_ 155
Little Miss Muffet _Anonymous_ 156
The Musical Pitch _Anonymous_ 158
To an Importunate Host _Anonymous_ 158
The Village Choir _Anonymous_ 159
The Biter Bit _William Aytoun_ 161
The Laureate _William Aytoun_ 163
The Lay of the Lovelorn _William Aytoun_ 165
In Immemoriam _Cuthbert Bede_ 174
Sir Eggnogg _Bayard Taylor_ 175
Godiva _Oliver Herford_ 177
A Laureate’s Log _Punch_ 178
The Recognition _Wm. Sawyer_ 180
The Higher Pantheism in a Nutshell _A. C. Swinburne_ 180
Timbuctoo _W. M. Thackeray_ 183

AFTER TUPPER
Of Friendship _Charles S. Calverley_ 185
Of Reading _Charles S. Calverley_ 186

AFTER THACKERAY
The Willow-Tree _W. M. Thackeray_ 188

AFTER CHARLES DICKENS
Man’s Place in Nature _Anonymous_ 191

AFTER ROBERT BROWNING
Home Truths from Abroad _Anonymous_ 193
After Browning _Anonymous_ 194
The Cock and the Bull _Charles S. Calverley_ 195
A Staccato to O Le Lupe _Bliss Carman_ 200
By the Sea _Bayard Taylor_ 203
Angelo Orders his Dinner _Bayard Taylor_ 205
The Flight of the Bucket _Rudyard Kipling_ 206
The Jam Pot _Rudyard Kipling_ 210
Imitation of Robert Browning _J. K. Stephen_ 210
The Last Ride Together _J. K. Stephen_ 212
Up the Spout _A. C. Swinburne_ 215

AFTER WALT WHITMAN
An American, one of the Roughs,
a Kosmos _Anonymous_ 219
Camerados _Bayard Taylor_ 220
Imitation of Whitman _Judy_ 221
Imitation of Whitman _J. K. Stephen_ 224
The Poet and the Woodlouse _A. C. Swinburne_ 224

AFTER CHARLES KINGSLEY
Three Little Fishers _Frank H. Stauffer_ 229
The Three Poets _Lilian Whiting_ 230

AFTER MRS. R. H. STODDARD
The Nettle _Bayard Taylor_ 231

AFTER BAYARD TAYLOR
Hadramaut _Bayard Taylor_ 233

AFTER WILLIAM MORRIS
Estunt the Griff _Rudyard Kipling_ 235

AFTER ALFRED AUSTIN
An Ode _Anthony C. Deane_ 237

AFTER W. S. GILBERT
Ode to a London Fog _Anonymous_ 239
President Garfield _Anonymous_ 240
Propinquity Needed _Charles Battell Loomis_ 241

AFTER R. H. STODDARD
The Cantelope _Bayard Taylor_ 243

AFTER A. A. PROCTOR
The Lost Voice _A. H. S._ 244
The Lost Ape _J. W. G. W._ 245
The Lost Word _C. H. Webb_ 246

AFTER GEORGE MEREDITH
At the Sign of the Cock _Owen Seaman_ 248

AFTER D. G. ROSSETTI
A Christmas Wail _Anonymous_ 252
Ballad _Charles S. Calverley_ 253
Cimabuella _Bayard Taylor_ 255
The Poster Girl _Carolyn Wells_ 257

AFTER JEAN INGELOW
Lovers, and a Reflection _Charles S. Calverley_ 259
The Shrimp Gatherers _Bayard Taylor_ 261

AFTER CHRISTINA ROSSETTI
Remember _Judy_ 263

AFTER LEWIS CARROLL
Waggawocky _Shirley Brooks_ 264
The Vulture and the Husband-Man _A. C. Hilton_ 265

AFTER A. C. SWINBURNE
Gillian _Anonymous_ 268
Atalanta in Camden-town _Lewis Carroll_ 270
The Manlet _Lewis Carroll_ 272
If _Mortimer Collins_ 274
The Maid of the Meerschaum _Rudyard Kipling_ 275
Quaeritur _Rudyard Kipling_ 277
A Melton Mowbray Pork-pie _Richard Le Gallienne_ 278
Foam and Fangs _Walter Parke_ 278
A Song of Renunciation _Owen Seaman_ 279
Nephelidia _A. C. Swinburne_ 282
The Lay of Macaroni _Bayard Taylor_ 284

AFTER BRET HARTE
The Heathen Pass-ee _A. C. Hilton_ 286
De Tea Fabula _A. T. Quiller-Couch_ 289

AFTER AUSTIN DOBSON
The Prodigals _Anonymous_ 292

AFTER ANDREW LANG
Bo-Peep _Anthony C. Deane_ 294

AFTER W. E. HENLEY
Imitation _Anthony C. Deane_ 296

AFTER R. L. STEVENSON
Bed During Exams _Clara Warren Vail_ 298

AFTER OSCAR WILDE
More Impressions _Oscuro Wildgoose_ 299
Nursery Rhymes à la Mode _Anonymous_ 299
A Maudle-In Ballad _Punch_ 300
Quite the Cheese _H. C. Waring_ 302

AFTER WILLIAM WATSON
The Three Mice _Anthony C. Deane_ 304

AFTER KIPLING
Fuzzy Wuzzy Leaves Us _E. P. C._ 305
A Ballad _Guy Wetmore Carryl_ 307
Jack and Jill _Anthony C. Deane_ 309
The Legend of Realism _Hilda Johnson_ 313

AFTER STEPHEN PHILLIPS
Little Jack Horner _Anthony C. Deane_ 315

AFTER FIONA MCLEOD
The Cult of the Celtic _Anthony C. Deane_ 317

AFTER VARIOUS WRITERS OF VERS DE SOCIÉTÉ
Behold the Deeds _H. C. Bunner_ 319
Culture in the Slums _W. E. Henley_ 322
A Ballade of Ballade-Mongers _Augustus Moore_ 322

AFTER VARIOUS POPULAR SONGS
Beautiful Snow _Anonymous_ 324
The Newest Thing in Christmas Carols _Anonymous_ 325
The Tale of Lord Lovell _Anonymous_ 326
“Songs Without Words” _Robert J. Burdette_ 327
The Elderly Gentleman _George Canning_ 328
Turtle Soup _Lewis Carroll_ 329
Some Day _F. P. Doveton_ 329
If I Should Die To-night _Ben King_ 331
A Love Song _Dean Swift_ 331
Old Fashioned Fun _W. M. Thackeray_ 333

THEMES WITH VARIATIONS
Home Sweet Home with Variations _H. C. Bunner_ 334

MODERN VERSIFICATION ON ANCIENT THEMES
Goose à la Mode _E. Cavazza_ 346
Three Children Sliding 346
Jack and Jill _E. Cavazza_ 347
Jack and Jill _Charles Battell Loomis_ 348
The Rejected “National Hymns” _Robert Henry Newell_ 352
A Theme with Variations _Barry Pain_ 356
The Poets at Tea _Barry Pain_ 359
The Poets at a House Party _Carolyn Wells_ 363
An Old Song by New Singers _A. C. Wilkie_ 368

INDEX OF TITLES 375

INDEX OF AUTHORS 385

INDEX OF AUTHORS PARODIED 395

INTRODUCTION

PARODY AS A FINE ART

THE fact that parody has been ably defended by many of the world’s best minds proves that it is an offensive measure, at least from some viewpoints. But an analysis of the arguments for and against seems to show that parody is a true and legitimate branch of art, whose appreciation depends upon the mental bias of the individual.

To enjoy parody, one must have an intense sense of the humorous and a humorous sense of the intense; and this, of course, presupposes a mental attitude of wide tolerance and liberal judgments.

Parodies are not for those who cannot understand that parody is not necessarily ridicule. Like most other forms of literature, unless the intent of the writer be thoroughly understood and appreciated, the work is of little value to the reader.

The defenders of parody have sometimes endeavored to prove that it has an instructive value, and that it has acted as a reforming influence against mannerisms and other glaring defects. One enthusiastic partisan confidently remarks: “It may gently admonish the best and most established writer, when, from haste, from carelessness, from over-confidence, he is in danger of forfeiting his reputation; it may gently lead the tyro, while there is yet time, from the wrong into the right path.” But this ethical air-castle is rudely shattered by facts, for what established writer ever changed his characteristic effects as a result of the parodies upon his works, or what tyro was ever parodied?

It has been said, too, that a good parody makes us love the original work better; but this statement seems to lack satisfactory proof except, perhaps, on the principle that a good parody may lead us to know the original work more thoroughly.

Perhaps the farthest fetched argument of the zealous advocates of the moral virtues of parody is found in Lord Jeffrey’s review of the well-known “Rejected Addresses,” where he says, “The imitation lets us more completely into the secret of the original author, and enables us to understand far more clearly in what the peculiarity of his manner consists than most of us would ever have done without this assistance.” If this be true at all, it is exemplified in very few instances, and is one of the least of the minor reasons for the existence of a parody.

The main intent of the vast majority of parodies is simply to amuse; but to amuse intelligently and cleverly. This aim is quite high enough, and is in no way strengthened or improved by the bolstering up qualities of avowed virtuous influences.

The requirements of the best parody are in a general way simply the requirements of the best literature of any sort; but, specifically, the true parodist requires an exact mental balance, a fine sense of proportion and relative values, good-humor, refinement, and unerring taste. Self-control and self-restraint are also needed; a parodist may go to the very edge, but he must not fall over.

The fact that poor parodies outnumber the good ones in the ratio of about ten to one (which is not an unusual percentage in any branch of literature), is because a wide and generous sense of humor is so rarely found in combination with the somewhat circumscribed quality of good taste. It is, therefore, on account of the abuse of parody, and not the use of it, that a defence of the art has been found necessary.

The parody has the sanction of antiquity, and though its absolute origin is uncertain, and various “Fathers of Parody” have been named, it is safe to assume that it began with the Greeks. The Romans, too, indulged in it, and its continuance has been traced all through the Middle Ages; but these ancient parodies, however acceptable in their time, are of little interest to us now, save as heirlooms. Their wit is coarse, their humor heavy; they are usually caustic and often irreverent.

In the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries the art of parody began to improve, and during the nineteenth it rose to a height that demanded recognition from the literary world.

It is interesting to note that the age of English parody was ushered in by such masterpieces as the “Rolliad” and the “Anti-Jacobin,” followed by the “Rejected Addresses” and the “Bon Gaultier Ballads.” Later came Thackeray, Calverley, Swinburne and Lewis Carroll, also Bayard Taylor, Bret Harte, and Phœbe Cary. More modern still is the work of Rudyard Kipling, Anthony C. Deane, H. C. Bunner, and Owen Seaman.

Though some of these are classed among the minor poets, they are all major parodists and approach their work armed at all points.

The casual critic of parodies, as a rule, divides them into two classes, which, though under various forms of terminology, resolve themselves into parodies of sound and parodies of sense. But there are really three great divisions, which may be called “word-rendering,” “form-rendering,” and “sense-rendering.”

The first, mere word-rendering, is simply an imitation of the original, and depends for its interest entirely upon the substitution of a trivial or commonplace motive for a lofty one, and following as nearly as possible the original words.

Form-rendering is the imitation of the style of an author, preferably an author given to mannerisms or affectation of some sort. The third division, sense-rendering, is by far the most meritorious, and utilizes not only the original writer’s diction and style, but follows a train of thought precisely along the lines that he would have pursued from the given premises.

This class of parody is seen at its best in Catherine Fanshawe’s “Imitation of Wordsworth,” and Calverley’s “The Cock and the Bull.”

But though parodies of this sort are of more serious worth, the other classes show examples quite as good in their own way.

Lewis Carroll’s immortal parody of Southey’s “Father William” is merely a burlesque of the word-rendering type, yet it is perfect of its kind and defies adverse criticism.

Miss Cary was a pioneer of parody in America and one of the few women writers who have done clever work of this sort. Miss Cary’s parodies are numerous and uniformly first-class examples of their kind. They are collected in a small book, now out of print, and are well worth reading.

Of course, parodies which burlesque the actual words of the original are necessarily parodies of some particular poem, and often not so good an imitation of the style of the author.

More difficult than the parody of a particular poem is the imitation or burlesque of the literary style of an author. To accomplish this, the parodist must be himself a master of style, a student of language, and possessed of a power of mimicry with an instant appreciation of opportunities.

“Diversions of the Echo Club,” by Bayard Taylor, are among the best of this class of parodies. Aside from their cleverness they are marked by good taste, fairness, justice, and a true poetic instinct.

Naturally, parodies of literary style are founded on the works of those authors whose individual characteristics invite imitation.

Parody is inevitable where sense is sacrificed to sound, where affectations of speech are evident, or where unwarrantable extravagance of any sort is indulged in. This explains the numerous (and usually worthless) parodies of Walt Whitman.

Swinburne and Browning are often parodied for these (perhaps only apparent) reasons, and the poets of the æsthetic school of course offered especially fine opportunities.

Parodies of Rossetti and his followers are often exceedingly funny, though not at all difficult to write, as the originals both in manner and matter fairly invite absurd incongruities.

Nursery Rhymes seem to find favor with the parodists as themes to work upon. A collection of Mother Goose’s Melodies as they have been reset by clever pens, would be both large and interesting.

The masters of parody, however, are as a rule to be found among the master poets. Thackeray turned his genius to imitative account; Swinburne parodied himself as well as his fellow-poets; Rudyard Kipling has done some of the best parodies in the language, and C. S. Calverley’s burlesques are classics. The work of these writers may be said to be in the third class; for not only do they preserve the diction and style of the author imitated, but they seem to go beyond that, and, assimilating for the moment his very mentality, caricature not only his expressed thoughts but his abstract cerebrations.

It is easy to understand how Swinburne with his facile fancy and wonderful command of words could be among the best parodists. In his “Heptalogia” are long and careful parodies of no less than seven prominent poets, each of which is a masterpiece, and the parody of Browning is especially good. Browning, of course, has always been a tempting mark for the parodists, but though it is easy to imitate his eccentricities superficially, it is only the greater minds that have parodied his subtler peculiarities. Among the best are Calverley’s and Kipling’s.

Kipling’s parodies, written in his early days, and not often to be found in editions of his collected works, rank with the highest. His parody of Swinburne, while going to the very limit of legitimate imitation, is restrained by a powerful hand, and so kept within convincing bounds. The great fault with most parodies of Swinburne is that exaggeration is given play too freely, and the result is merely a meaningless mass of sound. Clever in a different way is Owen Seaman’s parody of Swinburne. Mr. Seaman is one of the most brilliant of modern parodists and his parodies, though long, are perfect in all respects.

Among the most exquisite parodies we have ever read must be counted those of Anthony C. Deane, originally published in various London papers, and Calverley’s works are too well known even to require mention.

The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam is often parodied, but rarely worthily. One reason for this lies in the fact that it is not Omar who is parodied at all, but Fitzgerald; consequently, the imitation is merely a form-rendering and more often only lines in the Rubaiyat metre.

Shakespeare, with the exception of one or two of his most hackneyed speeches, is rarely parodied; doubtless owing to the fact that his harmonious work shows no incongruities of matter or manner, and strikes no false notes for the parodists to catch at.

The extent of the domain of parody is vastly larger than is imagined by the average reader, and its already published bibliographies show thousands of collected parodies of varying degrees of merit.

Of all the poets Tennyson has probably been parodied the most; followed closely in this respect by Edgar Allan Poe. After these, Browning, Swinburne, and Walt Whitman; then Moore, Wordsworth, Longfellow, and Thomas Campbell.

Of single poems the one showing the greatest number of parodies is “My Mother,” by Ann Taylor; after this those most used for the purpose have been “The Raven,” Gray’s “Elegy,” “The Song of the Shirt,” “The May Queen,” “Locksley Hall,” “The Burial of Sir John Moore,” and Kingsley’s “Three Fishers.”

Parody, then, is a tribute to popularity, and consequently to merit of one sort or another, and in the hands of the initiate may be considered a touch-stone that proves true worth.

A PARODY ANTHOLOGY

_A Parody Anthology_

AFTER OMAR KHAYYAM

THE GOLFER’S RUBAIYAT

WAKE! for the sun has driven in equal flight
The stars before him from the Tee of Night,
And holed them every one without a Miss,
Swinging at ease his gold-shod Shaft of Light.

Now, the fresh Year reviving old Desires,
The thoughtful Soul to Solitude retires,
Pores on this Club and That with anxious eye,
And dreams of Rounds beyond the Rounds of Liars.

Come, choose your Ball, and in the fire of Spring,
Your Red Coat and your wooden Putter fling;
The Club of Time has but a little while
To waggle, and the Club is on the swing.

A Bag of Clubs, a Silver Town or two,
A Flask of Scotch, a Pipe of Shag, and Thou
Beside me caddying in the Wilderness—
Ah, Wilderness were Paradise enow.

Myself, when young, did eagerly frequent
Jamie and His, and heard great argument
Of Grip, and Stance, and Swing; but evermore
Found at the Exit but a Dollar spent.

With them the seed of Wisdom did I sow,
And with mine own hand sought to make it grow;
And this was all the Harvest that I reap’d;
“You hold it in this Way, and you swing it So.”

The swinging Brassie strikes; and, having struck,
Moves on; nor all your Wit or future Luck
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Stroke,
Nor from the Card a single Seven pluck.

No hope by Club or Ball to win the Prize;
The batter’d, blacken’d Remade sweetly flies,
Swept cleanly from the Tee; this is the Truth
Nine-tenths is Skill, and all the rest is Lies.

And that inverted Ball they call the High,
By which the Duffer thinks to live or die,
Lift not your hands to It for help, for it
As impotently froths as you or I.

Yon rising Moon that leads us home again,
How oft hereafter will she wax and wane;
How oft hereafter rising, wait for us
At this same Turning—and for One in vain.

And when, like her, my Golfer, I have been
And am no more above the pleasant Green,
And you in your mild Journey pass the Hole
I made in One—ah, pay my Forfeit then!
_H. W. Boynton._

AN OMAR FOR LADIES[A]

ONE for her Club and her own Latch-key fights,
Another wastes in Study her good Nights.
Ah, take the Clothes and let the Culture go,
Nor heed the grumble of the Women’s Rights!

Look at the Shop-girl all about us—“Lo,
The Wages of a month,” she says, “I blow
Into a Hat, and when my hair is waved,
Doubtless my Friend will take me to the Show.”

And she who saved her coin for Flannels red,
And she who caught Pneumonia instead,
Will both be Underground in Fifty Years,
And Prudence pays no Premium to the dead.

Th’ exclusive Style you set your heart upon
Gets to the Bargain counters—and anon
Like monograms on a Saleslady’s tie
Cheers but a moment—soon for you ’tis gone.

Think, on the sad Four Hundred’s gilded halls,
Whose endless Leisure ev’n themselves appalls,
How Ping-pong raged so high—then faded out
To those far Suburbs that still chase its Balls.

They say Sixth Avenue and the Bowery keep
The _dernier cri_ that once was far from cheap;
Green Veils, one season chic—Department stores
Mark down in vain—no profit shall they reap.

I sometimes think that never lasts so long
The Style as when it starts a bit too strong;
That all the Pompadours the parterre boasts
Some Chorus-girl began, with Dance and Song.

And this Revival of the Chignon low
That fills the most of us with helpless Woe,
Ah, criticise it Softly! for who knows
What long-necked Peeress had to wear it so!

Ah, my beloved, try each Style you meet;
To-day brooks no loose ends, you must be neat.
To-morrow! why, to-morrow you may be
Wearing it down your back like Marguerite!

For some we once admired, the Very Best
That ever a French hand-boned Corset prest,
Wore what they used to call Prunella Boots,
And put on Nightcaps ere they went to rest.

And we that now make fun of Waterfalls
They wore, and whom their Crinoline appalls,
Ourselves shall from old dusty Fashion plates
Assist our Children in their Costume balls.

Ah, make the most of what we yet may wear,
Before we grow so old that we don’t care!
Before we have our Hats made all alike,
Sans Plumes, sans Wings, sans Chiffon, and—sans Hair!
_Josephine Daskam Bacon._

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote A: Copyright, 1903, by Harper & Brothers.]

THE MODERN RUBAIYAT

(_Dobley’s Version_)

HARK! for the message cometh from the King!
Winter, thy doom is spoke; thy dirges ring,
Thy time is o’er—and through the Palace door
Enter the Princess! Hail the new-crowned Spring!

Comes she all rose-crowned, glowing with the Joy
Of Laughter and of Cupid, the God-Boy;
Buds bursting on the bough in welcoming
To Her we Love, whose loving will not cloy!

List! from the organ rippling in the Street
Come sounds rejoicing, glad Her reign to greet.
The Shad is smiling in the Market Place
And eke the Little Neck! Ah—Life is Sweet!

Come, let us lilt a Merry Little Song
And in an Automobile glide along
Into the glory of the Year’s new Birth.
Hasten! Oh, haste! For this is Spring, I Think!

Come where the Bonnets bloom within the Grove
And let us pluck them for the One we Love;
Violets and Things and chiffon-nested Birds.
Tell me—didst ever see a Glass-Eyed Dove?

Think you how many Springs will go and come
When We are Dead Ones—and the busy Hum
Of life will never reach us—Nothing Done
And Nothing Doing in the Silence Glum!

Listen! the cable car’s Gay Gong has rang,
The Elevated on its perch, A-clang
Like to a District Messenger astir.
Thought you, it was a Nightingale that sang?

Ah! my Beloved, when it’s Really Spring
We know it by the Buds a-blossoming,
Signals from earth to sky—Tremendous Sounds
That might to Some mean any Ancient Thing!

Then let us to the Caravan at Once,
The Sawdust where the Peanut haunts
The air with strange sweet Odors
And the Elephant does Wild and Woolly Stunts!

Asparagus is glowing on the Stall,
The Spring lamb cavorts on the Menu tall;
Strawberries ripe—a Dollar for the Box:
Wouldn’t it jar You somehow, After all?

A Book of Coon Songs underneath the Bough,
A Jug of Wine, a Dozen Buns, and Thou
Beside me singing rag-time? I don’t know?
I wonder would a dozen be enow?

I sent my soul afling through Joy and Pain
For Information that the Winds might deign.
Softly the breezes pitched it, Russie-curved,
And whispered slowly—sadly—“Guess Again.”

Sometimes I think the Glories that they Sing
Are like the grape-vine the Fox tried to cling;
But take To-day—and make the Most of It,
I think it’s Just Too Sweet for anything!

What of To-morrow—say you? Oh, my Friend—
To-morrow’s Not been Touched. It’s yet to Spend.
I often wonder if we should expire
If we could but Collect the Gold we Lend!

Ah, Love! could Thou and I Creation run,
How Different our Scheme! The Summer’s sun
Would see another Springtime blossoming,
Another Summer’s Rose to Follow On!

And Leaning from the Sky a Little Star
Would Tell Us from the Canopy afar
What now we Grope for in the Dinky-dink,
And wonder blindly, vaguely, What we Are!

And when Alone you dream your fancies ripe,
Thyself all Hasheesh-fed—My Prototype!
Smoke Up—and when you gather with the Group
Where I made One—Turn Down an Empty Pipe!
_Kate Masterson._

LINES WRITTEN (“BY REQUEST”) FOR A DINNER OF THE OMAR KHAYYAM CLUB

MASTER, in memory of that Verse of Thine,
And of Thy rather pretty taste in Wine,
We gather at this jaded Century’s end,
Our Cheeks, if so we may, to incarnadine.

Thou hast the kind of Halo which outstays
Most other Genii’s. Though a Laureate’s bays
Should slowly crumple up, Thou livest on,
Having survived a certain Paraphrase.

The Lion and the Alligator squat
In Dervish Courts—the Weather being hot—
Under Umbrellas. Where is Mahmud now?
Plucked by the Kitchener and gone to Pot!

Not so with thee; but in Thy place of Rest,
Where East is East and never can be West,
Thou art the enduring Theme of dining Bards;
O make allowances; they do their Best.

Our Health—Thy Prophet’s health—is but so-so;
Much marred by men of Abstinence who know
Of Thee and all Thy loving Tavern-lore
Nothing, nor care for it one paltry Blow.

Yea, we ourselves, who beam around Thy Bowl,
Somewhat to dull Convention bow the Soul,
We sit in sable Trouserings and Boots,
Nor do the Vine-leaves deck a single Poll.

How could they bloom in uncongenial air?
Nor, though they bloomed profusely, should we wear
Upon our Heads—so tight is Habit’s hold—
Aught else beside our own unaided Hair.

The Epoch curbs our Fancy. What is more
To BE, in any case, is now a Bore.
Even in Humor there is nothing new;
There is no Joke that was not made before.

But Thou! with what a fresh and poignant sting
Thy Muse remarked that Time was on the Wing!
Ah, Golden Age, when Virgin was the Soil,
And Decadence was deemed a newish Thing.

These picturesque departures now are stale;
The noblest Vices have their vogue and fail;
Through some inherent Taint or lack of Nerve
We cease to sin upon a generous scale.

This hour, though drinking at my Host’s expense,
I fear to use a fine Incontinence,
For terror of the Law and him that waits
Outside, the unknown X, to hale us hence.

For, should he make of us an ill Report
As pipkins of the more loquacious Sort,
We might be lodged, the Lord alone knows where,
Save Peace were purchased with a pewter Quart.

And yet, O Lover of the purple Vine,
Haply Thy Ghost is watching how we dine;
Ah, let the Whither go; we’ll take our chance
Of fourteen days with option of a Fine.

Master, if we, Thy Vessels, staunch and stout,
Should stagger, half-seas-over, blind with Doubt,
In sound of that dread moaning of the Bar,
Be near, be very near, to bail us out!
_Owen Seaman._

THE BABY’S OMAR

OMAR’S the fad! Well then, let us indite
The shape of verse old Omar used to write;
And Juveniles are up. So we opine
_A Baby’s Omar_ would be out of sight!

Methinks the stunt is easy. Stilted style,
A misplaced Capital once in a while,—
Other verse writers do it like a shot;
And can’t I do it too? Well, I should Smile!

But how I ramble on. I must dismiss
Dull Sloth, and set to Work at once, I wis;
I sometimes think there’s nothing quite so hard
As a Beginning. Say we start like this:

Indeed, indeed my apron oft before
I tore, but was I naughty when I tore?
And then, and then came Ma, and thread in hand
Repaired the rent in my small pinafore.

A Penny Trumpet underneath the Bough,
A Drum that’s big enough to make a Row;
A Toy Fire-Engine, and a squeaking Doll,
Oh, Life were Pandemonium enow.

Come, fill the Cup, then quickly on the floor
Your portion of the Porridge gaily pour.
The Nurse will Spank you, and she’ll be discharged,—
Ah, but of Nurses there be Plenty more.

Yes, I can do it! Now, if but my Purse
Some kindly Editor will reimburse,
I’ll write a Baby’s Omar; for I’m sure
These Sample Stanzas here are not so worse.
_Carolyn Wells._

AFTER CHAUCER

YE CLERKE OF YE WETHERE

A CLERKE there was, a puissant wight was hee,
Who of ye wethere hadde ye maisterie;
Alway it was his mirthe and his solace—
To put eche seson’s wethere oute of place.

Whanne that Aprille shoures wer our desyre,
He gad us Julye sonnes as hotte as fyre;
But sith ye summere togges we donned agayne,
Eftsoons ye wethere chaunged to cold and rayne.

Wo was that pilgrimme who fared forth a-foote,
Without ane gyngham that him list uppe-putte;
And gif no mackyntosches eke had hee,
A parlous state that wight befelle—pardie!

We wist not gif it nexte ben colde or hotte,
Cogswounds! ye barde a grewsome colde hath gotte!
Certes, that clerke’s ane mightie man withalle,
Let non don him offence, lest ille befalle.
_Anonymous._

AFTER SPENSER

A PORTRAIT

HE is to weet a melancholy carle:
Thin in the waist, with bushy head of hair,
As hath the seeded thistle, when a parle
It holds with Zephyr, ere it sendeth fair
Its light balloons into the summer air;
Thereto his beard had not begun to bloom.
No brush had touched his cheek, or razor sheer;
No care had touched his cheek with mortal doom,
But new he was and bright, as scarf from Persian loom.

Ne carèd he for wine, or half and half;
Ne carèd he for fish, or flesh, or fowl;
And sauces held he worthless as the chaff;
He ’sdeigned the swine-head at the wassail-bowl:
Ne with lewd ribbalds sat he cheek by jowl;
Ne with sly lemans in the scorner’s chair;
But after water-brooks this pilgrim’s soul
Panted and all his food was woodland air;
Though he would oft-times feast on gilliflowers rare

The slang of cities in no wise he knew,
_Tipping the wink_ to him was heathen Greek;
He sipped no “olden Tom,” or “ruin blue,”
Or Nantz, or cherry-brandy, drunk full meek
By many a damsel brave and rouge of cheek;
Nor did he know each aged watchman’s beat,
Nor in obscurèd purlieus would he seek
For curlèd Jewesses, with ankles neat,
Who, as they walk abroad, make tinkling with their feet.
_John Keats._

AFTER SHAKESPEARE

THE BACHELOR’S SOLILOQUY

TO wed, or not to wed? That is the question
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The pangs and arrows of outrageous love
Or to take arms against the powerful flame
And by oppressing quench it.
To wed—to marry—
And by a marriage say we end
The heartache and the thousand painful shocks
Love makes us heir to—’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished! to wed—to marry—
Perchance a scold! aye, there’s the rub!
For in that wedded life what ills may come
When we have shuffled off our single state
Must give us serious pause. There’s the respect
That makes us Bachelors a numerous race.
For who would bear the dull unsocial hours
Spent by unmarried men, cheered by no smile
To sit like hermit at a lonely board
In silence? Who would bear the cruel gibes
With which the Bachelor is daily teased
When he himself might end such heart-felt griefs
By wedding some fair maid? Oh, who would live
Yawning and staring sadly in the fire
Till celibacy becomes a weary life
But that the dread of something after wed-lock
(That undiscovered state from whose strong chains
No captive can get free) puzzles the will
And makes us rather choose those ills we have
Than fly to others which a wife may bring.
Thus caution doth make Bachelors of us all,
And thus our natural taste for matrimony
Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought.
And love adventures of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn away
And lose the name of Wedlock.
_Anonymous._

POKER

TO draw, or not to draw,—that is the question:—
Whether ’tis safer in the player to take
The awful risk of skinning for a straight,
Or, standing pat, to raise ’em all the limit
And thus, by bluffing, get in. To draw,—to skin;
No more—and by that skin to get a full,
Or two pairs, or the fattest bouncing kings
That luck is heir to—’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To draw—to skin;
To skin! perchance to burst—ay, there’s the rub!
For in the draw of three what cards may come,
When we have shuffled off th’ uncertain pack,
Must give us pause. There’s the respect
That makes calamity of a bobtail flush;
For who would bear the overwhelming blind,
The reckless straddle, the wait on the edge,
The insolence of pat hands and the lifts
That patient merit of the bluffer takes,
When he himself might be much better off
By simply passing? Who would trays uphold,
And go out on a small progressive raise,
But that the dread of something after call—
The undiscovered ace-full, to whose strength
Such hands must bow, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather keep the chips we have
Than be curious about the hands we know not of.
Thus bluffing does make cowards of us all:
And thus the native hue of a four-heart flush
Is sicklied with some dark and cussed club,
And speculators in a jack-pot’s wealth
With this regard their interest turn away
And lose the right to open.
_Anonymous._

TOOTHACHE

TO have it out or not. That is the question—
Whether ’tis better for the jaws to suffer
The pangs and torments of an aching tooth
Or to take steel against a host of troubles,
And, by extracting them, end them? To pull—to tug!—
No more: and by a tug to say we end
The toothache and a thousand natural ills
The jaw is heir to. ’Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished! To pull—to tug!—
To tug—perchance to break! Ay, there’s the rub,
For in that wrench what agonies may come
When we have half dislodged the stubborn foe,
Must give us pause. There’s the respect
That makes an aching tooth of so long life.
For who would bear the whips and stings of pain,
The old wife’s nostrum, dentist’s contumely;
The pangs of hope deferred, kind sleep’s delay;
The insolence of pity, and the spurns,
That patient sickness of the healthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
For one poor shilling? Who would fardels bear,
To groan and sink beneath a load of pain?—
But that the dread of something lodged within
The linen-twisted forceps, from whose pangs
No jaw at ease returns, puzzles the will,
And makes it rather bear the ills it has
Than fly to others that it knows not of.
Thus dentists do make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of fear;
And many a one, whose courage seeks the door,
With this regard his footsteps turns away,
Scared at the name of dentist.
_Anonymous._

A DREARY SONG

WELL, don’t cry, my little tiny boy,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain
Amuse yourself, and break some toy,
For the rain it raineth every day.

Alas, for the grass on Papa’s estate,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
He’ll have to buy hay at an awful rate,
For the rain it raineth every day.

Mamma, she can’t go out for a drive,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
How cross she gets about four or five,
For the rain it raineth every day.

If I were you I’d be off to bed,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
Or the damp will give you a cold in the head,
For the rain it raineth every day.

A great while ago this song was done,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
And I, for one, cannot see it’s fun,
But the Dyces and the Colliers can—they say.
_Shirley Brooks._

TO THE STALL-HOLDERS AT A FANCY FAIR

WITH pretty speech accost both old and young,
And speak it trippingly upon the tongue;
But if you mouth it with a hoyden laugh,
With clumsy ogling and uncomely chaff—
As I have oft seen done at fancy fairs,
I had as lief a huckster sold my wares,
Avoid all so-called beautifying, dear.
Oh! it offends me to the soul to hear
The things that men among themselves will say
Of some _soi-disant_ “beauty of the day,”
Whose face, when she with cosmetics has cloyed it,
Out-Rachels Rachel! pray you, girls, avoid it.
Neither be you too tame—but, ere you go,
Provide yourselves with sprigs of mistletoe;
Offer them coyly to the Roman herd—
But don’t you suit “the action to the word,”
For in that very torrent of your passion
Remember modesty is still in fashion.
Oh, there be ladies whom I’ve seen hold stalls—
Ladies of rank, my dear—to whom befalls
Neither the accent nor the gait of ladies;
So clumsily made up with Bloom of Cadiz,
Powder-rouge—lip-salve—that I’ve fancied then
They were the work of Nature’s journeymen.
_W. S. Gilbert._

SONG

WITH a hey! and a hi! and a hey-ho rhyme!
Oh, the shepherd lad
He is ne’er so glad
As when he pipes, in the blossom-time,
So rare!
While Kate picks by, yet looks not there.
So rare! so rare!
With a hey! and a hi! and a ho!
The grasses curdle where the daisies blow!
With a hey! and a hi! and a hey-ho vow!
Then he sips her face
At the sweetest place—
And ho! how white is the hawthorn now!—
So rare!—
And the daisied world rocks round them there.
So rare! so rare!
With a hey! and a hi! and a ho!
The grasses curdle where the daisies blow!
_James Whitcomb Riley._

THE WHIST-PLAYER’S SOLILOQUY

TO trump, or not to trump,—that is the question:
Whether ’t is better in this case to notice
The leads and signals of outraged opponents,
Or to force trumps against a suit of diamonds,
And by opposing end them? To trump,—to take,—
No more; and by that trick to win the lead
And after that, return my partner’s spades
For which he signalled,—’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To trump—to take,—
To take! perchance to win! Ay, there’s the rub;
For if we win this game, what hands may come
When we have shuffled up these cards again.
Play to the score? ah! yes, there’s the defect
That makes this Duplicate Whist so much like work.
For who would heed the theories of Hoyle,
The laws of Pole, the books of Cavendish,
The Short-Suit system, Leads American,
The Eleven Rule Finesse, The Fourth-best play,
The Influence of signals on The Ruff,
When he himself this doubtful trick might take
With a small two-spot? Who would hesitate,
But that the dread of something afterwards,
An undiscovered discard or forced lead
When playing the return, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather lose the tricks we have
To win the others that we know not of?
Thus Duplicate Whist makes cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of Bumblepuppy
Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought.
And good whist-players of great skill and judgment,
With this regard their formulas defy,
And lose the game by ruffing.
_Carolyn Wells._

AFTER WITHER

ANSWER TO MASTER WITHERS SONG, “SHALL I, WASTING IN DESPAIR?”

SHALL I, mine affections slack,
’Cause I see a woman’s black?
Or myself, with care cast down,
’Cause I see a woman brown?
Be she blacker than the night,
Or the blackest jet in sight!
If she be not so to me,
What care I how black she be?

Shall my foolish heart be burst,
’Cause I see a woman’s curst?
Or a thwarting hoggish nature
Joinèd in as bad a feature?
Be she curst or fiercer than
Brutish beast, or savage man!
If she be not so to me,
What care I how curst she be?

Shall a woman’s vices make
Me her vices quite forsake?
Or her faults to me made known,
Make me think that I have none?
Be she of the most accurst,
And deserve the name of worst!
If she be not so to me,
What care I how bad she be?

’Cause her fortunes seem too low,
Shall I therefore let her go?
He that bears an humble mind
And with riches can be kind,
Think how kind a heart he’d have,
If he were some servile slave!
And if that same mind I see
What care I how poor she be?

Poor, or bad, or curst, or black,
I will ne’er the more be slack!
If she hate me (then believe!)
She shall die ere I will grieve!
If she like me when I woo
I can like and love her too!
If that she be fit for me!
What care I what others be?
_Ben Jonson._

AFTER HERRICK

SONG

GATHER Kittens while you may,
Time brings only Sorrow;
And the Kittens of To-day
Will be Old Cats To-morrow.
_Oliver Herford._

TO JULIA UNDER LOCK AND KEY

(_A form of betrothal gift in America is an anklet
secured by a padlock, of which the other party keeps
the key_)

WHEN like a bud my Julia blows
In lattice-work of silken hose,
Pleasant I deem it is to note
How, ’neath the nimble petticoat,
Above her fairy shoe is set
The circumvolving zonulet.
And soothly for the lover’s ear
A perfect bliss it is to hear
About her limb so lithe and lank
My Julia’s ankle-bangle clank.
Not rudely tight, for ’twere a sin
To corrugate her dainty skin;
Nor yet so large that it might fare
Over her foot at unaware;
But fashioned nicely with a view
To let her airy stocking through:
So as, when Julia goes to bed,
Of all her gear disburdenèd,
This ring at least she shall not doff
Because she cannot take it off.
And since thereof I hold the key,
She may not taste of liberty,
Not though she suffer from the gout,
Unless I choose to let her out.
_Owen Seaman._

AFTER NURSERY RHYMES

AN IDYLL OF PHATTE AND LEENE

THE hale John Sprat—oft called for shortness, Jack—
Had married—had, in fact, a wife—and she
Did worship him with wifely reverence.
He, who had loved her when she was a girl,
Compass’d her, too, with sweet observances;
E’en at the dinner table did it shine.
For he—liking no fat himself—he never did,
With jealous care piled up her plate with lean,
Not knowing that all lean was hateful to her.
And day by day she thought to tell him o ’t,
And watched the fat go out with envious eye,
But could not speak for bashful delicacy.

At last it chanced that on a winter day,
The beef—a prize joint!—little was but fat;
So fat, that John had all his work cut out,
To snip out lean fragments for his wife,
Leaving, in very sooth, none for himself;
Which seeing, she spoke courage to her soul,
Took up her fork, and, pointing to the joint
Where ’twas the fattest, piteously she said;
“Oh, husband! full of love and tenderness!
What is the cause that you so jealously
Pick out the lean for me. I like it not!
Nay, loathe it—’tis on the fat that I would feast;
O me, I fear you do not like my taste!”

Then he, dropping his horny-handled carving knife,
Sprinkling therewith the gravy o’er her gown,
Answer’d, amazed: “What! you like fat, my wife!
And never told me. Oh, this is not kind!
Think what your reticence has wrought for us;
How all the fat sent down unto the maid—
Who likes not fat—for such maids never do—
Has been put in the waste-tub, sold for grease,
And pocketed as servant’s perquisite!
Oh, wife! this news is good; for since, perforce,
A joint must be not fat nor lean, but both;
Our different tastes will serve our purpose well;
For, while you eat the fat—the lean to me
Falls as my cherished portion. Lo! ’tis good!”
So henceforth—he that tells the tale relates—
In John Sprat’s household waste was quite unknown;
For he the lean did eat, and she the fat,
And thus the dinner-platter was all cleared.
_Anonymous._

NURSERY SONG IN PIDGIN ENGLISH

SINGEE a songee sick a pence,
Pockee muchee lye;
Dozen two time blackee bird
Cookee in e pie.
When him cutee topside
Birdee bobbery sing;
Himee tinkee nicey dish
Setee foree King!
Kingee in a talkee loom
Countee muchee money;
Queeny in e kitchee,
Chew-chee breadee honey.
Servant galo shakee,
Hangee washee clothes;
Cho-chop comee blackie bird,
Nipee off her nose!
_Anonymous._

THE HOUSE THAT JACK BUILT

AND this reft house is that the which he built,
Lamented Jack! and here his malt he piled.
Cautious in vain! these rats that squeak so wild,

Squeak not unconscious of their father’s guilt.
Did he not see her gleaming through the glade!
Belike ’twas she, the maiden all forlorn.
What though she milked no cow with crumpled horn,

Yet, aye she haunts the dale where erst she strayed:
And aye before her stalks her amorous knight!
Still on his thighs their wonted brogues are worn,
And through those brogues, still tattered and betorn,
His hindward charms gleam an unearthly white.
_Samuel Taylor Coleridge._

_BOSTON NURSERY RHYMES_

RHYME FOR A GEOLOGICAL BABY

TRILOBITE, Graptolite, Nautilus pie;
Seas were calcareous, oceans were dry.
Eocene, miocene, pliocene Tuff,
Lias and Trias and that is enough.

RHYME FOR ASTRONOMICAL BABY

BYE Baby Bunting,
Father’s gone star-hunting;
Mother’s at the telescope
Casting baby’s horoscope.
Bye Baby Buntoid,
Father’s found an asteroid;
Mother takes by calculation
The angle of its inclination.

RHYME FOR BOTANICAL BABY

LITTLE bo-peepals
Has lost her sepals,
And can’t tell where to find them;
In the involucre
By hook or by crook or
She’ll make up her mind not to mind them.

RHYME FOR A CHEMICAL BABY

OH, sing a song of phosphates,
Fibrine in a line,
Four-and-twenty follicles
In the van of time.

When the phosphorescence
Evoluted brain,
Superstition ended,
Men began to reign.
_Rev. Joseph Cook._

A SONG OF A HEART

UPON a time I had a Heart,
And it was bright and gay;
And I gave it to a Lady fair
To have and keep alway.

She soothed it and she smoothed it
And she stabbed it till it bled;
She brightened it and lightened it
And she weighed it down with lead.

She flattered it and battered it
And she filled it full of gall;
Yet had I Twenty Hundred Hearts,
Still should she have them all.
_Oliver Herford._

THE DOMICILE OF JOHN

BEHOLD the mansion reared by Daedal Jack!
See the malt stored in many a plethoric sack,
In the proud cirque of Ivan’s Bivouac!

Mark how the rat’s felonious fangs invade
The golden stores in John’s pavilion laid!

Anon, with velvet foot and Tarquin strides,
Subtle Grimalkin to his quarry glides;
Grimalkin grim, that slew the fierce rodent,
Whose tooth insidious Johann’s sackcloth rent!

Lo! Now the deep-mouthed canine foe’s assault!
That vexed the avenger of the stolen malt,
Stored in the hallowed precincts of that hall,
That rose complete at Jack’s creative call.

Here stalks the impetuous cow with the crumpled horn,
Whereon the exacerbating hound was torn
Who bayed the feline slaughter-beast that slew
The rat predaceous, whose keen fangs ran through
The textile fibres that involved the grain
That lay in Hans’ inviolate domain.

Here walks forlorn the damsel crowned with rue,
Lactiferous spoils from vaccine dugs who drew
Of that corniculate beast whose tortuous horn
Tossed to the clouds, in fierce vindictive scorn,
The baying hound whose braggart bark and stir
Arched the lithe spine and reared the indignant fur
Of puss, that, with verminicidal claw,
Struck the weird rat, in whose insatiate maw
Lay reeking malt, that erst in Juan’s courts we saw.

Robed in senescent garb, that seems, in sooth,
Too long a prey to Chronos’ iron tooth,
Behold the man whose amorous lips incline
Full with young Eros’ osculative sign,
To the lorn maiden whose lactalbic hands
Drew albulactic wealth from lacteal glands
Of that immortal bovine, by whose horn
Distort, to realms ethereal was borne
The beast catulean, vexer of that sly
Ulysses quadrupedal, who made die
The old mordaceous rat that dared devour
Antecedaneous ale in John’s domestic bower.