Chapter III: Part 3

“Pack, pack, pack,
Whenever your spirit flags,
You’re doomed by hydropathic laws
To be packed in cold water rags;
Rolled up on bed or on floor,
Or sweated to death in a chair;
But my chairman’s rank—my shadow I’d thank
For taking my place in there.

“Slop, slop, slop,
Never a moment of time;
Slop, slop, slop,
Slackened like mason’s lime.
Stand and freeze and steam—
Steam or freeze and stand;
I wish those friends had their tongues benumbed,
That told me to leave dry land.

“Up, up, up,
In the morn before daylight,
The bathman cries ‘Get up,’
(I wish he were up for a fight).
While underneath the eaves,
The dry snug swallows cling;
But give them a cold wet sheet to their backs,
And see if they’ll come next spring.

“Oh! oh! it stops my breath,
(He calls it short and sweet),
Could they hear me underneath
I’ll shout them from the street!
He says that in half an hour
A different man I’ll feel;
That I’ll jump half over the moon and want
To walk into a meal!

“I feel more nerve and power,
And less of terror and grief;
I’m thinking now of love and hope—
And now of mutton and beef.
This glorious scene will rouse my heart,
Oh, who would lie in bed?
I cannot stop, but jump and hop,
Going like needle and thread.”

With buoyant spirit upborne,
With cheeks both healthy and red,
The same man ran up the Malvern Crags,
Pitying those in bed.
Trip, trip, trip,
Oh, life with health is sweet;
And still in a voice both strong and quick,
Would that its tones could reach the sick,
He sang the Song of the Sheet.
_Anonymous._

I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER

I REMEMBER, I remember,
The house where I was wed,
And the little room from which that night
My smiling bride was led.
She didn’t come a wink too soon,
Nor make too long a stay;
But now I often wish her folks
Had kept the girl away!

I remember, I remember,
Her dresses, red and white,
Her bonnets and her caps and cloaks,—
They cost an awful sight!
The “corner lot” on which I built,
And where my brother met
At first my wife, one washing-day,—
That man is single yet!

I remember, I remember,
Where I was used to court,
And thought that all of married life
Was just such pleasant sport:—
My spirit flew in feathers then,
No care was on my brow;
I scarce could wait to shut the gate,—
I’m not so anxious now!

I remember, I remember,
My dear one’s smile and sigh;
I used to think her tender heart
Was close against the sky.
It was a childish ignorance,
But now it soothes me not
To know I’m farther off from Heaven
Than when she wasn’t got!
_Phœbe Cary._

AFTER ALFRED BUNN

A YULE-TIDE PARODY

WHEN other wits and other bards,
Their tales at Christmas tell,
Or praise on cheap and colored cards
The time they love so well,
Secure from scorn and ridicule
I hope my verse may be,
If I can still remember Yule,
And Yule remember me.

The days are dark, the days are drear,
When dull December dies;
But, while we mourn an ended year,
Another’s star will rise.
I hail the season formed by rule
For merriment and glee;
So let me still remember Yule,
And Yule remember me.

The rich plum-pudding I enjoy,
I greet the pie of mince;
And loving both while yet a boy,
Have loved them ever since.
More dull were I than any mule
That eyes did ever see,
If I should not remember Yule,
And Yule remember me.
_Anonymous._

SELF-EVIDENT

WHEN other lips and other eyes
Their tales of love shall tell,
Which means the usual sort of lies
You’ve heard from many a swell;
When, bored with what you feel is bosh,
You’d give the world to see
A friend, whose love you know will wash,
Oh, then remember me!

When Signor Solo goes his tours,
And Captain Craft’s at Ryde,
And Lord Fitzpop is on the moors,
And Lord knows who besides;
When to exist you feel a task
Without a friend at tea,
At such a moment I but ask
That you’ll remember me.
_J. R. Planché._

AFTER LORD MACAULAY

THE LAUREATE’S TOURNEY

_By the Hon. T— B— M._

FYTTE THE FIRST

“WHAT news, what news, thou pilgrim gray, what news from the
southern land?
How fare the bold Conservatives, how is it with Ferrand?
How does the little Prince of Wales—how looks our lady Queen?
And tell me, is the monthly nurse once more at Windsor seen?”

“I bring no tidings from the Court, nor from St. Stephen’s hall;
I’ve heard the thundering tramp of horse, and the trumpet’s
battle-call;
And these old eyes have seen a fight, which England ne’er had seen,
Since fell King Richard sobbed his soul through blood on Bosworth
Green.

“‘He’s dead, he’s dead, the Laureate’s dead!’ ’Twas thus the cry
began,
And straightway every garret-roof gave up its minstrel man;
From Grub Street, and from Houndsditch, and from Farringdon Within,
The poets all towards Whitehall poured on with eldritch din.

“Loud yelled they for Sir James the Graham; but sore afraid was he;
A hardy knight were he that might face such a minstrelsie.
‘Now by St. Giles of Netherby, my patron Saint, I swear,
I’d rather by a thousand crowns Lord Palmerston were here!—

“‘What is’t ye seek, ye rebel knaves—what make you there beneath?’
‘The bays, the bays! we want the bays! we seek the laureate wreath!
We seek the butt of generous wine that cheers the son of song;
Choose thou among us all, Sir Knight—we may not tarry long!’

“Loud laughed the good Sir James in scorn ‘Rare jest it were, I
think,
But one poor butt of Xeres, and a thousand rogues to drink!
An’ if it flowed with wine or beer, ’tis easy to be seen,
That dry within the hour would be the well of Hippocrene.

“‘Tell me, if on Parnassus’ heights there grow a thousand sheaves;
Or has Apollo’s laurel bush yet borne ten hundred leaves?
Or if so many leaves were there, how long would they sustain
The ravage and the glutton bite of such a locust train?

“‘No! get ye back into your dens, take counsel for the night,
And choose me out two champions to meet in deadly fight;
To-morrow’s dawn shall see the lists marked out in Spitalfields,
And he who wins shall have the bays, and he shall die who yields!’

“Down went the window with a crash,—in silence and in fear
Each ragged bard looked anxiously upon his neighbor near;
Then up and spake young Tennyson—‘Who’s here that fears for death?
’Twere better one of us shall die, than England lose the wreath!

“Let’s cast the lot among us now, which two shall fight to-morrow;
For armor bright we’ll club our mite, and horses we can borrow;
’T were shame that bards of France should sneer, and German Dichters
too,
If none of British song might dare a deed of derringdo!’

“‘The lists of Love are mine,’ said Moore, ‘and not the lists of
Mars;’
Said Hunt, ‘I seek the jars of wine, but shun the combat’s jars!’
‘I’m old,’ quoth Samuel Rogers.—‘Faith,’ says Campbell, ‘so am I!’
‘And I’m in holy orders, sir!’ quoth Tom of Ingoldsby.

“‘Now out upon ye, craven loons,’ cried Moxon, good at need;
‘Bide, if ye will, secure at home, and sleep while others bleed.
I second Alfred’s motion, boys,—let’s try the chance of lot;
And monks shall sing, and bells shall ring, for him that goes to
pot.’

“Eight hundred minstrels slunk away—two hundred stayed to draw;
Now Heaven protect the daring wight that pulls the longest straw!
’Tis done! ’tis done! And who hath won? Keep silence one and all,—
The first is William Wordsworth hight, the second Ned Fitzball!”

FYTTE THE SECOND

OH, bright and gay hath dawned the day on lordly Spitalfields,—
How flash the rays with ardent blaze from polished helms and shields!
On either side the chivalry of England throng the green,
And in the middle balcony appears our gracious Queen.

With iron fists, to keep the lists, two valiant knights appear,
The Marquis Hal of Waterford, and stout Sir Aubrey Vere.
“What ho! there, herald, blow the trump! Let’s see who comes to claim
The butt of golden Xeres, and the Laureate’s honored name!”

That instant dashed into the lists, all armed from head to heel,
On courser brown, with vizor down, a warrior sheathed in steel;
Then said our Queen—“Was ever seen so stout a knight and tall?
His name—his race?”—“An’t please your grace, it is the brave
Fitzball.

“Oft in the Melodrama line his prowess hath been shown,
And well throughout the Surrey side his thirst for blood is known.
But see, the other champion comes!”—Then rang the startled air
With shouts of “Wordsworth, Wordsworth, ho! the bard of Rydal’s
there.”

And lo! upon a little steed, unmeet for such a course,
Appeared the honored veteran; but weak seemed man and horse.
Then shook their ears the sapient peers,—“That joust will soon be
done:
My Lord of Brougham, I’ll back Fitzball, and give you two to one!”

“Done,” quoth the Brougham,—“And done with you!” “Now minstrels,
are you ready?”
Exclaimed the Lord of Waterford,—“You’d better both sit steady.
Blow, trumpets, blow the note of charge! and forward to the fight!”
“Amen!” said good Sir Aubrey Vere; “Saint Schism defend the right!”

As sweeps the blast against the mast when blows the furious squall,
So started at the trumpet’s sound the terrible Fitzball;
His lance he bore his breast before,—Saint George protect the just!
Or Wordsworth’s hoary head must roll along the shameful dust!

“Who threw that calthrop? Seize the knave!” Alas! the deed is done;
Down went the steed, and o’er his head flew bright Apollo’s son.
“Undo his helmet! cut the lace! pour water on his head!”
“It ain’t no use at all, my lord; ’cos vy? the covey’s dead!”

Above him stood the Rydal bard—his face was full of woe.
“Now there thou liest, stiff and stark, who never feared a foe:
A braver knight, or more renowned in tourney and in hall,
Ne’er brought the upper gallery down than terrible Fitzball!”

They led our Wordsworth to the Queen—she crowned him with the bays
And wished him many happy years, and many quarter-days;
And if you’d have the story told by abler lips than mine,
You’ve but to call at Rydal Mount, and taste the Laureate’s wine!
_William Aytoun._

AFTER EMERSON

MUTTON

IF the fat butcher thinks he slays,
Or he—the mutton—thinks he’s slain,
Why, “troth is truth,” the eater says—
“I’ll come, and cut and come again.”

To hungry wolves that on him leer
Mutton is cheap, and sheep the same,
No famished god would at him sneer—
To famine, chops are more than fame.

Who hiss at him, him but assures
That they are geese, but wanting wings—
Your coat is his whose life is yours,
And baa! the hymn the mutton sings.

Ye curs, and gods of grander blood,
And you, ye Paddies fresh from Cork,
Come taste, ye lovers of the good—
Eat! Stuff! and turn your back on pork.
_Anonymous._

AFTER MARY HOWITT

THE LOBSTER QUADRILLE

“WILL you walk a little faster?” said a whiting to a snail,
“There’s a porpoise close behind us, and he’s treading on my tail.
See how eagerly the lobsters and the turtles all advance!
They are waiting on the shingle—will you come and join the dance?
Will you, won’t you, will you, won’t you, will you join the dance?
Will you, won’t you, will you, won’t you, won’t you join the dance?

“You can really have no notion how delightful it will be
When they take us up and throw us, with the lobsters, out to sea!”
But the snail replied “Too far, too far!” and gave a look askance—
Said he thanked the whiting kindly, but he would not join the dance.
Would not, could not, would not, could not, would not join the dance.
Would not, could not, would not, could not, could not join the dance.

“What matters it how far we go?” his scaly friend replied.
“There is another shore, you know, upon the other side.
The further off from England the nearer is to France—
Then turn not pale, beloved snail, but come and join the dance.
Will you, won’t you, will you, won’t you, will you join the dance?
Will you, won’t you, will you, won’t you, won’t you join the dance?”
_Lewis Carroll._

AFTER MRS. BROWNING

IN THE GLOAMING

IN the gloaming to be roaming, where the crested waves are foaming,
And the shy mermaidens combing locks that ripple to their feet;
When the gloaming is, I never made the ghost of an endeavor
To discover—but whatever were the hour, it would be sweet.

“To their feet,” I say, for Leech’s sketch indisputably teaches
That the mermaids of our beaches do not end in ugly tails,
Nor have homes among the corals; but are shod with neat balmorals,
An arrangement no one quarrels with, as many might with scales.

Sweet to roam beneath a shady cliff, of course with some young lady,
Lalage, Nærea, Haidee, or Elaine, or Mary Ann:
Love, you dear delusive dream, you! Very sweet your victims deem you,
When, heard only by the seamew, they talk all the stuff one can.

Sweet to haste, a licensed lover, to Miss Pinkerton, the glover;
Having managed to discover what is dear Nærea’s “size”:
P’raps to touch that wrist so slender, as your tiny gift you tender,
And to read you’re no offender, in those laughing hazel eyes.

Then to hear her call you “Harry,” when she makes you fetch and
carry—
O young men about to marry, what a blessed thing it is!
To be photograph’d—together—cased in pretty Russia leather—
Hear her gravely doubting whether they have spoilt your honest phiz!

Then to bring your plighted fair one first a ring—a rich and rare
one—
Next a bracelet, if she’ll wear one, and a heap of things beside;
And serenely bending o’er her, to inquire if it would bore her
To say when her own adorer may aspire to call her bride!

Then, the days of courtship over, with your WIFE to start for Dover
Or Dieppe—and live in clover evermore, what e’er befalls;
For I’ve read in many a novel that, unless they’ve souls that grovel
Folks _prefer_ in fact a hovel to your dreary marble halls.

To sit, happy married lovers; Phillis trifling with a plover’s
Egg, while Corydon uncovers with a grace the Sally Lunn,
Or dissects the lucky pheasant—that, I think, were passing pleasant,
As I sit alone at present, dreaming darkly of a Dun.
_C. S. Calverley._

GWENDOLINE

’TWAS not the brown of chestnut boughs
That shadowed her so finely;
It was the hair that swept her brows,
And framed her face divinely;
Her tawny hair, her purple eyes,
The spirit was ensphered in,
That took you with such swift surprise,
Provided you had peered in.

Her velvet foot amid the moss
And on the daisies patted,
As, querulous with sense of loss,
It tore the herbage matted.
“And come he early, come he late,”
She saith, “it will undo me;
The sharp fore-speeded shaft of fate
Already quivers through me.

“When I beheld his red-roan steed,
I knew what aim impelled it.
And that dim scarf of silver brede,
I guessed for whom he held it.
I recked not, while he flaunted by,
Of Love’s relentless vi’lence
Yet o’er me crashed the summer sky,
In thunders of blue silence.

“His hoof-prints crumbled down the dale,
But left behind their lava;
What should have been my woman’s mail
Grew jellied as guava.
I looked him proud, but ’neath my pride
I felt a boneless tremor;
He was the Beér, I descried,
And I was but the Seemer!

“Ah, how to be what then I seemed,
And bid him seem that is so!
We always tangle threads we dreamed,
And contravene our bliss so,
I see the red-roan steed again!
He looks as something sought he;
Why, hoity-toity!—_he_ is fain,
So _I_’ll be cold and haughty!”
_Bayard Taylor._

AFTER LONGFELLOW

THE MODERN HIAWATHA

HE killed the noble Mudjokivis.
Of the skin he made him mittens,
Made them with the fur side inside,
Made them with the skin side outside.
He, to get the warm side inside,
Put the inside skin side outside;
He, to get the cold side outside,
Put the warm side fur side inside.
That’s why he put the fur side inside,
Why he put the skin side outside,
Why he turned them inside outside.
_Anonymous._

HIGHER

THE shadows of night were a-comin’ down swift,
And the dazzlin’ snow lay drift on drift,
As thro’ a village a youth did go,
A-carryin’ a flag with this motto,—
Higher!

O’er a forehead high curled copious hair,
His nose a Roman, complexion fair,
O’er an eagle eye an auburn lash,
And he never stopped shoutin’ thro’ his moustache!
“Higher!”

He saw thro’ the windows as he kept gettin’ upper
A number of families sittin’ at supper,
But he eyes the slippery rocks very keen
And fled as he cried, and cried while a fleein’—
“Higher!”

“Take care you there!” said an old woman; “stop!
It’s blowing gales up there on top—
You’ll tumble off on t’other side!”
But the hurryin’ stranger loud replied,
“Higher!”

“Oh! don’t you go up such a shocking night,
Come sleep on my lap,” said a maiden bright.
On his Roman nose a tear-drop come,
But still he remarked, as he upward clomb,
“Higher!”

“Look out for the branch of that sycamore-tree!
Dodge rolling stones, if any you see!”
Sayin’ which the farmer went home to bed
And the singular voice replied overhead,
“Higher!”

About quarter past six the next afternoon,
A man accidentally goin’ up soon,
Heard spoken above him as often as twice
The very same word in a very weak voice,
“Higher!”

And not far, I believe, from quarter of seven—
He was slow gettin’ up, the road bein’ uneven—
Found the stranger dead in the drifted snow,
Still clutchin’ the flag with the motto—
Higher!

Yes! lifeless, defunct, without any doubt,
The lamp of life being decidedly out,
On the dreary hillside the youth was a layin’!
And there was no more use for him to be sayin’
“Higher!”
_Anonymous._

TOPSIDE GALAH!

THAT nightee teem he come chop, chop,
One young man walkee, no can stop,
Colo makee; icee makee;
He got flag; chop b’long welly culio, see—
Topside Galah!

He too muchee folly; one piecee eye
Lookee sharp—so fashion—alla same mi;
He talkee largee, talkee stlong,
To muchee culio; alla same gong—
Topside Galah!

Inside any house he can see light;
Any piecee loom got fire all light;
He lookee see plenty ice more high,
Inside he mouf he plenty cly—
Topside Galah!

“No can walkee!” olo man speakee he;
“Bimeby lain come, no can see;
Hab got water welly wide!”
Maskee, mi must go topside—
Topside Galah!

“Man-man,” one galo talkee he,
“What for you go topside look see?”
“Nother teem,” he makee plenty cly,
Maskee, alla teem walkee plenty high—
Topside Galah!

“Take care that spilum tlee, young man;
Take care that icee!” he no man-man
That coolie chin-chin he good-night;
He talkee “mi can go all light”—
Topside Galah!

Joss pidgin man chop-chop begin,
Morning teem that Joss chin-chin,
No see any man, he plenty fear,
Cause some man talkee, he can hear—
Topside Galah!

Young man makee die; one largee dog see
Too muchee bobbery, findee he.
Hand too muchee colo, inside can stop
Alla same piecee flag, got culio chop—
Topside Galah!
_Anonymous._

EXCELSIOR

THE swampy State of Illinois
Contained a greenish sort of boy,
Who read with idiotic joy—
“Excelsior!”

He tarried not to eat or drink,
But put a flag of lightish pink,
And traced on it in violet ink—
Excelsior!

Though what he meant by that absurd,
Uncouth, and stupid, senseless word,
Has not been placed upon record—
Excelsior!

The characters were very plain,
In German text, yet he was fain
With greater clearness to explain—
Excelsior!

And so he ran, this stupid wight,
And hollered out with all his might,
(As to a person out of sight)—
“Excelsior!”

And everybody thought the lad
Within an ace of being mad,
Who cried in accents stern and sad—
“Excelsior!”

“Come to my arms,” the maiden cried;
The youth grinned sheepishly, and sighed,
And then appropriately replied—
“Excelsior!”

The evening sun is in the sky,
But still the creature mounts on high
And shouts (nor gives a reason why)
“Excelsior!”

And ere he gains the topmost crag
His feeble legs begin to lag;
Unsteadily he holds the flag—
Excelsior!

Now P. C. Nab is on his track!
He puts him in an empty sack,
And brings him home upon his back—
Excelsior!

Nab takes him to a lumber store,
They toss him in and lock the door,
Which only makes him bawl the more—
“Excelsior!”
_Anonymous._

“THE DAY IS DONE”

THE day is done, and darkness
From the wing of night is loosed,
As a feather is wafted downward,
From a chicken going to roost.

I see the lights of the baker,
Gleam through the rain and mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o’er me,
That I cannot well resist.

A feeling of sadness and longing
That is not like being sick,
And resembles sorrow only
As a brickbat resembles a brick.

Come, get for me some supper,—
A good and regular meal—
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
And banish the pain I feel.

Not from the pastry bakers,
Not from the shops for cake;
I wouldn’t give a farthing
For all that they can make.

For, like the soup at dinner,
Such things would but suggest
Some dishes more substantial,
And to-night I want the best.

Go to some honest butcher,
Whose beef is fresh and nice,
As any they have in the city,
And get a liberal slice.

Such things through days of labor,
And nights devoid of ease,
For sad and desperate feelings,
Are wonderful remedies.

They have an astonishing power
To aid and reinforce,
And come like the “finally, brethren,”
That follows a long discourse.

Then get me a tender sirloin
From off the bench or hook.
And lend to its sterling goodness
The science of the cook.

And the night shall be filled with comfort,
And the cares with which it begun
Shall fold up their blankets like Indians,
And silently cut and run.
_Phœbe Cary._

A PSALM OF LIFE

TELL me not, in idle jingle,
Marriage is an empty dream,
For the girl is dead that’s single,
And things are not what they seem.

Married life is real, earnest,
Single blessedness a fib,
Taken from man, to man returnest,
Has been spoken of the rib.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Nearer brings the wedding-day.

Life is long, and youth is fleeting,
And our hearts, if there we search,
Still like steady drums are beating
Anxious marches to the Church.

In the world’s broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle;
Be a woman, be a wife!

Trust no Future, howe’er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act—act in the living Present.
Heart within, and Man ahead!

Lives of married folks remind us
We can live our lives as well,
And, departing, leave behind us;—
Such examples as will tell;—

Such examples, that another,
Sailing far from Hymen’s port,
A forlorn, unmarried brother,
Seeing, shall take heart, and court.

Let us then be up and doing,
With the heart and head begin;
Still achieving, still pursùing,
Learn to labor, and to win!
_Phœbe Cary._

HOW OFTEN

THEY stood on the bridge at midnight,
In a park not far from the town;
They stood on the bridge at midnight,
Because they didn’t sit down.

The moon rose o’er the city,
Behind the dark church spire;
The moon rose o’er the city
And kept on rising higher.

How often, oh, how often!
They whispered words so soft;
How often, oh, how often;
How often, oh, how oft!
_Ben King._

DESOLATION

SOMEWHAT back from the village street
Stands the old fashioned country seat.
Across its antique portico
Tall poplar trees their shadows throw.
And there throughout the livelong day,
Jemima plays the pi-a-na.
Do, re, mi,
Mi, re, do.

In the front parlor there it stands,
And there Jemima plies her hands,
While her papa, beneath his cloak,
Mutters and groans: “This is no joke!”
And swears to himself and sighs, alas!
With sorrowful voice to all who pass.
Do, re, mi,
Mi, re, do.

Through days of death and days of birth
She plays as if she owned the earth.
Through every swift vicissitude
She drums as if it did her good,
And still she sits from morn till night
And plunks away with main and might
Do, re, mi,
Mi, re, do.

In that mansion used to be
Free-hearted hospitality;
But that was many years before
Jemima dallied with the score.
When she began her daily plunk,
Into their graves the neighbors sunk.
Do, re, mi,
Mi, re, do.

To other worlds they’ve long since fled,
All thankful that they’re safely dead.
They stood the racket while alive
Until Jemima rose at five.
And then they laid their burdens down,
And one and all they skipped the town.
Do, re, mi,
Mi, re, do.
_Tom Masson._

THE BIRDS AND THE PHEASANT

I SHOT a partridge in the air,
It fell in turnips, “Don” knew where;
For just as it dropped, with my right
I stopped another in its flight.

I killed a pheasant in the copse,
It fell amongst the fir-tree tops;
For though a pheasant’s flight is strong,
A cock, hard hit, cannot fly long.

Soon, soon afterwards, in a pie,
I found the birds in jelly lie;
And the pheasant at a fortnight’s end,
I found again in the carte of a friend.
_Punch._

AFTER WHITTIER

HIRAM HOVER

(_A Ballad of New England life_)

WHERE the Moosatockmaguntic
Pours its waters in the Skuntic,
Met, along the forest side
Hiram Hover, Huldah Hyde.

She, a maiden fair and dapper,
He, a red-haired, stalwart trapper,
Hunting beaver, mink, and skunk
In the woodlands of Squeedunk.

She, Pentucket’s pensive daughter,
Walked beside the Skuntic water
Gathering, in her apron wet,
Snake-root, mint, and bouncing-bet.

“Why,” he murmured, loth to leave her,
“Gather yarbs for chills and fever,
When a lovyer bold and true,
Only waits to gather you?”

“Go,” she answered, “I’m not hasty,
I prefer a man more tasty;
Leastways, one to please me well
Should not have a beasty smell.”

“Haughty Huldah!” Hiram answered,
“Mind and heart alike are cancered;
Jest look here! these peltries give
Cash, wherefrom a pair may live.

“I, you think, am but a vagrant,
Trapping beasts by no means fragrant;
Yet, I’m sure it’s worth a thank—
I’ve a handsome sum in bank.”

Turned and vanished Hiram Hover,
And, before the year was over,
Huldah, with the yarbs she sold,
Bought a cape, against the cold.

Black and thick the furry cape was,
Of a stylish cut the shape was;
And the girls, in all the town,
Envied Huldah up and down.

Then at last, one winter morning,
Hiram came without a warning.
“Either,” said he, “you are blind,
Huldah, or you’ve changed your mind.

“Me you snub for trapping varmints,
Yet you take the skins for garments;
Since you wear the skunk and mink,
There’s no harm in me, I think.”

“Well,” said she, “we will not quarrel,
Hiram; I accept the moral,
Now the fashion’s so I guess
I can’t hardly do no less.”

Thus the trouble all was over
Of the love of Hiram Hover.
Thus he made sweet Huldah Hyde
Huldah Hover as his bride.

Love employs, with equal favor,
Things of good and evil savor;
That which first appeared to part,
Warmed, at last, the maiden’s heart.

Under one impartial banner,
Life, the hunter, Love the tanner,
Draw, from every beast they snare,
Comfort for a wedded pair!
_Bayard Taylor._

AFTER MRS. NORTON

THE HORSE AND HIS MASTER

(_A panegyric_)

My—anything but beautiful, that standest “knock-knee’d” by,
“Inverted arch” describes thy back, as “dismal” doth thine eye.
Fret not—go roam the commons now, limp there for want of speed;
I dare not mount on thee (’twere pain), thou bag of bones, indeed.
Fret not with that too patient hoof, puff not with wheezy wind;
The harder that thou roarest now the more we lag behind;
The stranger “had” thy master, brute, for twice ten pounds, all told;
I only wish he had thee back! Too late—I’m sold! I’m sold!

To-morrow’s sun will dawn again, but ah! no ride for me.
Can I gallop over Rotten Row astride on such as thee?
’Tis evening now, and getting dark, and blowing up for rain;
I’ll lead thee then, with slow, slow steps, to some “bait stables”
plain.
(When a horse dealer cheats, with eyes of clap-trap truth and tears,
A hack’s form for an instant like a thoroughbred’s appears.)
And sitting down, I’ll ponder well beside this water’s brink,
Here—what’s thy name? Come, Rosinante! Drink pretty (?) creature,
drink!

Drink on, inflate thy skin. Away! this wretched farce is o’er;
I could not live a day and know that we must meet once more.
I’ve tempted thee, in vain (though Sanger’s power be strong,
They could not tempt this beast to trot), oh, thou hast lived too
long!
Who says that I’ll give in? Come up! who says thou art not old?
Thy faults were faults, poor useless steed, I fear, when thou wert
foal’d.
Thus, thus I whack upon thy back; go, scour with might and main
The asphalt! Ha! who stops thee now may have thee for his gain.
_Philip F. Allen._

THE NEW VERSION

A SOLDIER of the Russians
Lay japanned at Tschrtzvkjskivitch,
There was lack of woman’s nursing
And other comforts which
Might add to his last moments
And smooth the final way;—
But a comrade stood beside him
To hear what he might say.
The japanned Russian faltered
As he took that comrade’s hand,
And he said: “I never more shall see
My own, my native land;
Take a message and a token
To some distant friends of mine,
For I was born at Smnlxzrskgqrxzski,
Fair Smnlxzrskgqrxzski on the Irkztrvzkimnov.”
_W. J. Lampton._

AFTER POE

WHAT TROUBLED POE’S RAVEN

COULD Poe walk again to-morrow, heavy with dyspeptic sorrow,
While the darkness seemed to borrow darkness from the night before,
From the hollow gloom abysmal, floating downward, grimly dismal,
Like a pagan curse baptismal from the bust above the door,
He would hear the Raven croaking from the dusk above the door,
“Never, never, nevermore!”

And, too angry to be civil, “Raven,” Poe would cry “or devil,
Tell me why you will persist in haunting Death’s Plutonian shore?”
Then would croak the Raven gladly, “I will tell you why so sadly,
I so mournfully and madly, haunt you, taunt you, o’er and o’er,
Why eternally I haunt you, daunt you, taunt you, o’er and o’er—
Only this, and nothing more.

“Forty-eight long years I’ve pondered, forty-eight long years I’ve
wondered,
How a poet ever blundered into a mistake so sore.
How could lamp-light from your table ever in the world be able,
From _below_, to throw my sable shadow ‘streaming on the floor,’
When I perched up here on Pallas, high above your chamber-door?
Tell me that—if nothing more!”

Then, like some wan, weeping willow, Poe would bend above his pillow,
Seeking surcease in the billow where mad recollections drown,
And in tearful tones replying, he would groan “There’s no denying
Either I was blindly lying, or the world was upside down—
Say, by Joe!—it was just midnight—so the world _was_ upside down—
Aye, the world was upside down!”
_John Bennett._

THE AMATEUR FLUTE

HEAR the fluter with his flute, Silver flute!
Oh, what a world of wailing is awakened by its toot!
How it demi-semi quavers
On the maddened air of night!
And defieth all endeavors
To escape the sound or sigh
Of the flute, flute, flute,
With its tootle, tootle, toot;
With reiterated tooteling of exasperating toots,
The long protracted tootelings of agonizing toots
Of the flute, flute, flute, flute,
Flute, flute, flute,
And the wheezings and the spittings of its toots.
Should he get that other flute,
Golden flute,
Oh, what a deeper anguish will his presence institoot!
How his eyes to heaven he’ll raise,
As he plays,
All the days!
How he’ll stop us on our ways
With its praise!
And the people—oh, the people,
That don’t live up in the steeple,
But inhabit Christian parlors
Where he visiteth and plays,
Where he plays, plays, plays
In the cruellest of ways,
And thinks we ought to listen,
And expects us to be mute,
Who would rather have the earache
Than the music of his flute,
Of his flute, flute, flute,
And the tootings of his toot,
Of the toots wherewith he tooteleth its agonizing toot,
Of the flute, flewt, fluit, floot,
Phlute, phlewt, phlewght,
And the tootle, tootle, tooting of its toot.
_Anonymous._

SAMUEL BROWN

IT was many and many a year ago,
In a dwelling down in town,
That a fellow there lived whom you may know,
By the name of Samuel Brown;
And this fellow he lived with no other thought
Than to our house to come down.

I was a child, and he was a child,
In that dwelling down in town,
But we loved with a love that was more than love,
I and my Samuel Brown,—
With a love that the ladies coveted,
Me and Samuel Brown.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
To that dwelling down in town,
A girl came out of her carriage, courting
My beautiful Samuel Brown;
So that her high-bred kinsmen came,
And bore away Samuel Brown,
And shut him up in a dwelling house,
In a street quite up in the town.

The ladies not half so happy up there,
Went envying me and Brown;
Yes! that was the reason (as all men know,
In this dwelling down in town),
That the girl came out of the carriage by night,
Coquetting and getting my Samuel Brown.

But our love is more artful by far than the love
Of those who are older than we,—
Of many far wiser than we,—
And neither the girls that are living above,
Nor the girls that are down in town,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Samuel Brown.

For the morn never shines, without bringing me lines,
From my beautiful Samuel Brown;
And the night’s never dark, but I sit in the park
With my beautiful Samuel Brown.
And often by day, I walk down in Broadway,
With my darling, my darling, my life and my stay,
To our dwelling down in town,
To our house in the street down town.
_Phœbe Cary._

THE PROMISSORY NOTE

In the lonesome latter years
(Fatal years!)
To the dropping of my tears
Danced the mad and mystic spheres
In a rounded, reeling rune,
’Neath the moon,
To the dripping and the dropping of my tears.

Ah, my soul is swathed in gloom,
(Ulalume!)
In a dim Titanic tomb,
For my gaunt and gloomy soul
Ponders o’er the penal scroll,
O’er the parchment (not a rhyme),
Out of place,—out of time,—
I am shredded, shorn, unshifty,
(Oh, the fifty!)
And the days have passed, the three,
Over me!
And the debit and the credit are as one to him and me!

’Twas the random runes I wrote
At the bottom of the note,
(Wrote and freely
Gave to Greeley)
In the middle of the night,
In the mellow, moonless night,
When the stars were out of sight,
When my pulses, like a knell,
(Israfel!)
Danced with dim and dying fays
O’er the ruins of my days,
O’er the dimeless, timeless days,
When the fifty, drawn at thirty,
Seeming thrifty, yet the dirty
Lucre of the market, was the most that I could raise!
Fiends controlled it,
(Let him hold it!)
Devils held for me the inkstand and the pen;
Now the days of grace are o’er,
(Ah, Lenore!)
I am but as other men;
What is time, time, time,
To my rare and runic rhyme,
To my random, reeling rhyme,
By the sands along the shore,
Where the tempest whispers, “Pay him!” and I answer, “Nevermore!”
_Bayard Taylor._

THE CANNIBAL FLEA

IT was many and many a year ago
In a District called E. C.,
That a Monster dwelt whom I came to know
By the name of Cannibal Flea,
And the brute was possessed with no other thought
Than to live—and to live on me!

I was in bed, and he was in bed
In the District named E. C.,
When first in his thirst so accurst he burst
Upon me, the Cannibal Flea,
With a bite that felt as if some one had driven
A bayonet into me.

And this was the reason why long ago
In that District named E. C.
I tumbled out of my bed, willing
To capture the Cannibal Flea,
Who all the night until morning came
Kept boring into me!
It wore me down to a skeleton
In the District hight E. C.

From that hour I sought my bed—eleven—
Till daylight he tortured me.
Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know
In that District named E. C.)
I so often jumped out of my bed by night
Willing the killing of Cannibal Flea.

But his hops they were longer by far than the hops
Of creatures much larger than he—
Of parties more long-legged than he;
And neither the powder nor turpentine drops,
Nor the persons engaged by me,
Were so clever as ever to stop me the hop
Of the terrible Cannibal Flea.

For at night with a scream, I am waked from my dream
By the terrible Cannibal Flea;
And at morn I ne’er rise without bites—of such size!—
From the terrible Cannibal Flea.
So I’m forced to decide I’ll no longer reside
In the District—the District—where he doth abide,
The locality known as E. C.
That is postally known as E. C.
_Tom Hood, Jr._

ANNABEL LEE

’TWAS more than a million years ago,
Or so it seems to me,
That I used to prance around and beau
The beautiful Annabel Lee.
There were other girls in the neighborhood
But none was a patch to she.

And this was the reason that long ago,
My love fell out of a tree,
And busted herself on a cruel rock;
A solemn sight to see,
For it spoiled the hat and gown and looks
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

We loved with a love that was lovely love,
I and my Annabel Lee,
And we went one day to gather the nuts
That men call hickoree.
And I stayed below in the rosy glow
While she shinned up the tree,
But no sooner up than down kerslup
Came the beautiful Annabel Lee.

And the pallid moon and the hectic noon
Bring gleams of dreams for me,
Of the desolate and desperate fate
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.
And I often think as I sink on the brink
Of slumber’s sea, of the warm pink link
That bound my soul to Annabel Lee;
And it wasn’t just best for her interest
To climb that hickory tree,
For had she stayed below with me,
We’d had no hickory nuts maybe,
But I should have had my Annabel Lee.
_Stanley Huntley._

THE BELLS

HEAR a voice announcing IRVING in The Bells—sledge’s bells!
What a scene of wild excitement the advertisement foretells!
See the rush upon the pay-hole—
People stand a night and day whole
To secure a little corner for The Bells!
To look ghastly pale and shudder, every man and “every brudder”
Feels that nothing can be equal to The Bells!
Bells! Bells! Bells! Bells!
Too horrified to cheer,
Folk will testify by fear
How appalled they are by IRVING in The Bells;
While great beads of perspiration will appear,
For in conscience-stricken terrors he excels!
Gloomy Bells!
Pit and gallery will glory in the weird and frightful story,
Which may even thrill the bosom of the swells,
For every Yankee “dude”
Unquestionably should
Have nightmare after witnessing The Bells!
Will our cousins all go frantic from Pacific to Atlantic, or
condemn as childish antic
IRVING’s dancing, and his gasping, and his yells!
There’s a certain admiration which the strange impersonation
Still compels,
E’en from those who can’t see beauty in The Bells—
In the play that MR. LEWIS calls The Bells!
Wondrous Bells!
You first made Henry famous, so the stage historian tells.
Will the scene be now repeated which in London always greeted
His performance of Mathias in The Bells?
Or will every sneering Yankee,
In his nasal tones, say “Thankee,
I guess this is just another of your mighty British ‘sells’”?
Let the thought for ever perish, that the actor whom we cherish
Could fail to lick creation in The Bells!
But if there are detractors
Of this foremost of our actors,
Of the gentlemanly IRVING—friend of Toole’s—
“They are neither man nor woman, they are neither brute nor human,”
They are fools!
_Judy._

THE GOBLIN GOOSE

ONCE it happened I’d been dining, on my couch I slept reclining,
And awoke with moonlight shining brightly on my bedroom floor,
It was in the bleak December, Christmas night as I remember,
But I had no dying ember, as Poe had, when near the door,
Like a gastronomic goblin just beside my chamber door
Stood a bird,—and nothing more.

And I said, for I’m no craven, “Are you Edgar’s famous raven,
Seeking as with him a haven—were you mixed up with Lenore?”
Then the bird uprose and fluttered, and this sentence strange he
uttered,
“Hang Lenore,” he mildly muttered; “you have seen me once before,
Seen me on this festive Christmas, seen me surely once before,
I’m the Goose—and nothing more.”

Then he murmured, “Are you ready?” and with motion slow and steady,
Straight he leapt upon my bed; he simply gave a stifled roar;
And I cried, “As I’m a sinner, at a Goose-Club I was winner,
’Tis a memory of my dinner, which I ate at half-past four,
Goose well-stuffed with sage and onions, which I ate at half-past
four.”
Quoth he hoarsely, “Eat no more!”

Said I, “I’ve enjoyed your juices, breast and back; but tell me,
Goose, is
This revenge, and what the use is of your being such a bore?
For Goose-flesh I will no more ax, if you’ll not sit on my thorax,
Go try honey mixed with borax, for I hear your throat is sore,
You speak gruffly, though too plainly, and I’m sure your throat is
sore.”
Quoth the nightmare, “Eat no more!”

“Goose!” I shrieked out, “leave, oh, leave me, surely you don’t mean
to grieve me,
You are heavy, pray reprieve me, now my penance must be o’er;
Though to-night you’ve brought me sorrow, comfort surely comes
to-morrow,
Some relief from those I’d borrow at my doctor’s ample store.”
Quoth the goblin, “Eat no more!”

And that fat Goose, never flitting, like a nightmare still is sitting
With me all the night emitting words that thrill my bosom’s core,
Now throughout the Christmas season, while I lie and gasp and wheeze,
on
Me he sits until my reason nothing surely can restore,
While that Goose says, “Eat no more!”
_Punch._

AFTER LORD HOUGHTON

LOVE AND SCIENCE

(_The Sphygmophon is an apparatus connected with the telephone, by the help of which the movements of the pulse and heart may be rendered audible_)

I WANDERED by the brookside,
I wandered by the mill;
The Sphygmophon was fixed there,
Its wires ran past the hill.
I heeded not the grasshopper,
Nor chirp of any bird,
For the beating of my own heart
Was all the sound I heard.

To test his apparatus,
One end I closely press’d,
The other at a distance,
I hoped was next his chest.
I listened for his footfall,
I listened for his word,
Still the bumping of my own heart
Was all the sound I heard.

He came not, no he came not,
The night came on alone;
And thinking he had tricked me,
I loosed the Sphygmophon.
The evening air passed by my cheek,
The leaves above were stirred,
When—the thumping of his own heart
Was all the sound I heard.

With joy I grasped the magnet,
When some one stood behind,
His hand was on my shoulder
(But that I did not mind).
Each spoke then—nearer—nearer,
We shouted every word;
But the booming of our own hearts
Was all the sound we heard.
_Anonymous._

AFTER TENNYSON

THE BATHER’S DIRGE

BREAK, break, break,
On thy cold, hard stones, O sea!
And I hope that my tongue won’t utter
The curses that rise in me.

Oh, well for the fisherman’s boy,
If he likes to be soused with the spray!
Oh, well for the sailor lad,
As he paddles about in the bay!

And the ships swim happily on,
To their haven under the hill;
But O for a clutch of that vanished hand,
And a kick—for I’m catching a chill!

Break, break, break,
At my poor bare feet, O sea!
But the artful scamp who has collar’d my clothes
Will never come back to me.
_Tennyson Minor._

LITTLE MISS MUFFET

(_Reset as an Arthurian Idyl_)

UPON a tuffet of most soft and verdant moss,
Beneath the spreading branches of an ancient oak,
Miss Muffet sat, and upward gazed,
To where a linnet perched and sung,
And rocked him gently, to and fro.
Soft blew the breeze
And mildly swayed the bough,
Loud sung the bird,
And sweetly dreamed the maid;
Dreamed brightly of the days to come—
The golden days, with her fair future blent.
When one—some wondrous stately knight—
Of our great Arthur’s “Table Round;”
One, brave as Launcelot, and
Spotless as the pure Sir Galahad,
Should come, and coming, choose her
For his love, and in her name,
And for the sake of her fair eyes,
Should do most knightly deeds.
And as she dreamed and softly sighed,
She pensively began to stir,
With a tiny golden spoon
Within an antique dish upon her lap,
Some snow-white milky curds;
Soft were they, full of cream and rich,
And floated in translucent whey;
And as she stirred, she smiled,
Then gently tasted them.
And smiling, ate, nor sighed no more.
Lo! as she ate—nor harbored thought of ill—
Near and nearer yet, there to her crept,
A monster great and terrible,
With huge, misshapen body—leaden eyes—
Full many a long and hairy leg,
And soft and stealthy footstep.
Nearer still he came—Miss Muffet yet,
All unwitting his dread neighborhood,
Did eat her curds and dream.
Blithe, on the bough, the linnet sung—
All terrestrial natures, sleeping, wrapt
In a most sweet tranquillity.
Closer still the spider drew, and—
Paused beside her—lifted up his head
And gazed into her face.
Miss Muffet then, her consciousness alive
To his dread eyes upon her fixed,
Turned and beheld him.
Loud screamed she, frightened and amazed,
And straightway sprung upon her feet,
And, letting fall her dish and spoon,
She—shrieking—turned and fled.
_Anonymous._

THE MUSICAL PITCH

BREAK, break, break,
O voice!—let me urge thy plea!
Oh, lower the Pitch, lest utter
Despair be the end of me!

’Tis well for the fiddles to squeak,
The bassoon to grunt in its play;
’Twere well had I lungs of brass,
Or that nothing but strings give way!

Break, break, break,
O voice! I must urge thy plea,
For the tender skin of my larynx is torn,
And I fail in my upper G!
_Anonymous._

TO AN IMPORTUNATE HOST

(_During dinner and after Tennyson_)

ASK me no more: I’ve had enough Chablis;
The wine may come again and take the shape
From glass to glass of “Mountain” or of “Cape,”
But my dear boy, when I have answered thee,
Ask me no more.

Ask me no more: what answer should I give,
I love not pickled pork, nor partridge pie;
I feel if I took whiskey I should die!
Ask me no more—for I prefer to live:
Ask me no more.

Ask me no more: unless my fate is sealed,
And I have striven against you all in vain.
Let your good butler bring me “Hock” again;
Then rest, dear boy. If for this once I yield,
Ask me no more.
_Anonymous._

THE VILLAGE CHOIR

HALF a bar, half a bar,
Half a bar onward!
Into an awful ditch
Choir and precentor hitch,
Into a mess of pitch,
They led the Old Hundred.
Trebles to right of them,
Tenors to left of them,
Basses in front of them,
Bellowed and thundered.
Oh, that precentor’s look,
When the sopranos took
Their own time and hook
From the Old Hundred!

Screeched all the trebles here,
Boggled the tenors there,
Raising the parson’s hair,
While his mind wandered;
Theirs not to reason why
This psalm was pitched too high:
Theirs but to gasp and cry
Out the Old Hundred.
Trebles to right of them,
Tenors to left of them,
Basses in front of them,
Bellowed and thundered.
Stormed they with shout and yell,
Not wise they sang nor well,
Drowning the sexton’s bell,
While all the church wondered.

Dire the precentor’s glare,
Flashed his pitchfork in air
Sounding fresh keys to bear
Out the Old Hundred.
Swiftly he turned his back,
Reached he his hat from rack,
Then from the screaming pack,
Himself he sundered.
Tenors to right of him,
Tenors to left of him,
Discords behind him,
Bellowed and thundered.
Oh, the wild howls they wrought:
Right to the end they fought!
Some tune they sang, but not,
Not the Old Hundred.
_Anonymous._

THE BITER BIT

THE sun is in the sky, mother, the flowers are springing fair;
And the melody of woodland birds is stirring in the air;
The river, smiling to the sky, glides onward to the sea,
And happiness is everywhere, oh, mother, but with me!

They are going to the church, mother—I hear the marriage bell
It booms along the upland—Oh! it haunts me like a knell;
He leads her on his arm, mother, he cheers her faltering step,
And closely to his side she clings—she does, the demirep!

They are crossing by the stile, mother, where we so oft have stood,
The stile beside the shady thorn, at the corner of the wood;
And the boughs, that wont to murmur back the words that won my ear,
Wave their silver branches o’er him, as he leads his bridal fere.

He will pass beside the stream, mother, where first my hand he pressed,
By the meadow where, with quivering lip, his passion he confessed;
And down the hedgerows where we’ve strayed again and yet again;
But he will not think of me, mother, his broken-hearted Jane!

He said that I was proud, mother, that I looked for rank and gold,
He said I did not love him—he said my words were cold;
He said I kept him off and on, in hopes of higher game—
And it may be that I did, mother; who hasn’t done the same?

I did not know my heart, mother—I know it now too late;
I thought that I without a pang could wed some nobler mate;
But no nobler suitor sought me—and he has taken wing,
And my heart is gone, and I am left a lone and blighted thing.

You may lay me in my bed, mother—my head is throbbing sore;
And, mother, prithee, let the sheets be duly aired before;
And, if you’d please, my mother dear, your poor desponding child,
Draw me a pot of beer, mother, and mother, draw it mild!
_William Aytoun._

THE LAUREATE

WHO would not be
The Laureate bold,
With his butt of sherry
To keep him merry,
And nothing to do but to pocket his gold?

’Tis I would be the Laureate bold!
When the days are hot, and the sun is strong,
I’d lounge in the gateway all the day long
With her Majesty’s footmen in crimson and gold.
I’d care not a pin for the waiting-lord,
But I’d lie on my back on the smooth greensward
With a straw in my mouth, and an open vest,
And the cool wind blowing upon my breast,
And I’d vacantly stare at the clear blue sky,
And watch the clouds that are listless as I,
Lazily, lazily!
And I’d pick the moss and the daisies white,
And chew their stalks with a nibbling bite;
And I’d let my fancies roam abroad
In search of a hint for a birthday ode,
Crazily, crazily!
Oh, that would be the life for me,
With plenty to get and nothing to do,
But to deck a pet poodle with ribbons of blue,
And whistle all day to the Queen’s cockatoo,
Trance-somely, trance-somely!
Then the chambermaids, that clean the rooms,
Would come to the windows and rest on their brooms,

With their saucy caps and their crispéd hair,
And they’d toss their heads in the fragrant air,
And say to each other—“Just look down there,
At the nice young man, so tidy and small,
Who is paid for writing on nothing at all,
Handsomely, handsomely!”