Chapter VII: Part 7

When from our dearest hope and haven reft,
Delight nor dazzles, nor is luxury left,
We long, obedient to our nature’s law,
To see again our hovel thatched with straw:
See birds that know our avenaceous store
Stoop to our hand, and thence repleted soar:
But, of all hopes the wanderer’s soul that share,
His pristine peace of mind’s his final prayer.

VI

(_As Walt Whitman might have written all around it_)

I

You over there, young man with the guide-book,
red-bound, covered flexibly with red linen,

Come here, I want to talk with you; I, Walt, the
Manhattanese, citizen of these States, call you.

Yes, and the courier, too, smirking, smug-mouthed, with
oil’d hair; a garlicky look about him generally; him,
too, I take in, just as I would a coyote or a king,
or a toad-stool, or a ham-sandwich, or anything, or
anybody else in the world.

Where are you going?

You want to see Paris, to eat truffles, to have a good
time; in Vienna, London, Florence, Monaco, to have a
good time; you want to see Venice.

Come with me. I will give you a good time; I will give
you all the Venice you want, and most of the Paris.

I, Walt, I call to you. I am all on deck! Come and
loafe with me! Let me tote you around by your elbow and
show you things.

You listen to my ophicleide!

Home!

Home, I celebrate. I elevate my fog-whistle, inspir’d
by the thought of home.

Come in!—take a front seat; the jostle of the crowd
not minding; there is room enough for all of you.

This is my exhibition—it is the greatest show on
earth—there is no charge for admission.

All you have to pay me is to take in my romanza.

II

1. The brown-stone house; the father coming home
worried from a bad day’s business; the wife meets him
in the marble pav’d vestibule; she throws her arms
about him; she presses him close to her; she looks him
full in the face with affectionate eyes; the frown from
his brow disappearing.

Darling, she says, Johnny has fallen down and cut his
head; the cook is going away, and the boiler leaks.

2. The mechanic’s dark little third-story room, seen
in a flash from the Elevated Railway train; the
sewing-machine in a corner; the small cook-stove; the
whole family eating cabbage around a kerosene lamp;
of the clatter and roar and groaning wail of the
Elevated train unconscious; of the smell of the cabbage
unconscious.

Me, passant, in the train, of the cabbage not quite so
unconscious.

3. The French Flat; the small rooms, all right-angles,
unindividual; the narrow halls; the gaudy, cheap
decorations everywhere.

The janitor and the cook exchanging compliments up and
down the elevator-shaft; the refusal to send up more
coal, the solid splash of the water upon his head, the
language he sends up the shaft, the triumphant laughter
of the cook, to her kitchen retiring.

4. The widow’s small house in the suburbs of the city;
the widow’s boy coming home from his first day down
town; he is flushed with happiness and pride; he is no
longer a school-boy, he is earning money; he takes on
the airs of a man and talks learnedly of business.

5. The room in the third-class boarding-house; the
mean little hard-coal fire, the slovenly Irish
servant-girl making it, the ashes on the hearth, the
faded furniture, the private provender hid away in the
closet, the dreary backyard out the window; the young
girl at the glass, with her mouth full of hairpins,
doing up her hair to go downstairs and flirt with the
young fellows in the parlor.

6. The kitchen of the old farm-house; the young convict
just returned from prison—it was his first offense,
and the judges were lenient on him.

He is taking his first meal out of prison; he has been
received back, kiss’d, encourag’d to start again; his
lungs, his nostrils expand with the big breaths of free
air; with shame, with wonderment, with a trembling
joy, his heart too, expanding.

The old mother busies herself about the table; she has
ready for him the dishes he us’d to like; the father
sits with his back to them, reading the newspaper,
the newspaper shaking and rustling much; the children
hang wondering around the prodigal—they have been
caution’d: Do not ask where our Jim has been; only say
you are glad to see him.

The elder daughter is there, palefac’d, quiet; her
young man went back on her four years ago; his folks
would not let him marry a convict’s sister. She sits
by the window, sewing on the children’s clothes, the
clothes not only patching up; her hunger for children
of her own invisibly patching up.

The brother looks up; he catches her eye, he fearful,
apologetic; she smiles back at him, not reproachfully
smiling, with loving pretence of hope smiling—it is
too much for him; he buries his face in the folds of
the mother’s black gown.

7. The best room of the house, on the Sabbath only
open’d; the smell of horse-hair furniture and
mahogany varnish; the ornaments on the what-not in
the corner; the wax fruit, dusty, sunken, sagged
in, consumptive-looking, under a glass globe, the
sealing-wax imitation of coral; the cigar boxes with
shells plastered over, the perforated card-board motto.

The kitchen; the housewife sprinkling the clothes
for the fine ironing to-morrow—it is the Third-day
night, and the plain things are ready iron’d, now in
cupboards, in drawers stowed away.

The wife waiting for the husband—he is at the tavern,
jovial, carousing; she, alone in the kitchen sprinkling
clothes—the little red wood clock with peaked top,
with pendulum wagging behind a pane of gayly painted
glass, strikes twelve.

The sound of the husband’s voice on the still
night air—he is singing: “We won’t go home until
morning!”—the wife arising, toward the wood-shed
hastily going, stealthily entering, the voice all the
time coming nearer, inebriate, chantant.

The husband passing the door of the wood-shed; the club
over his head, now with his head in contact; the sudden
cessation of the song; the benediction of peace over
the domestic foyer temporarily resting.

I sing the soothing influences of home.
You, young man, thoughtlessly wandering, with courier, with
guide-book wandering,
You hearken to the melody of my steam-calliope
Yawp!
_Henry Cuyler Bunner._

MODERN VERSIFICATION ON ANCIENT THEMES

GOOSE À LA MODE

—Mary, Mary, quite contrary,
How does your garden grow?

WITHIN the garden’s deepness filled of light
Stood Mary, and upon her fair green gown
Fell glory of gold hair, a stern sweet frown
Was on her forehead, slim cold hands and white
Made ending of her long pale arms’ delight.
And questioning, I—“How does your garden grow?”
Then she—“With bells that ring, and shells that sing
Of strange gray seas, with fair, strong hands that cling
Together, stand tall damozels a-row.”
_Elizabeth Cavazza._

THREE CHILDREN SLIDING

—Three children sliding on the ice
All on a summer’s day.

FOUR are the names of the seasons—spring, summer, autumn, and winter.
Summer is hot and winter is cold, while the others partake in
Greater or less degree of cold and caloric commingled.
Surely, I think, it is well to be good, and my mind is astonished
At the exceeding sin of sinfulness, whereof the perils
Shown in my verse are apparent. Three rosy children were sliding
Over the ice in summer and—fate so decreeing, it happened—
Fell through the ice and were drowned. Had these children in winter
been sliding
On the bare earth, or had they, by the peaceful fireside sitting,
Studied their catechism, it were strange—so the novel thought
strikes me—
Even in summer’s heat had the ice broken suddenly under
Avoirdupois of these babes, and diluted the well-springs of
pleasure.

JACK AND JILL

—Jack and Jill went up a hill
To draw a pail of water.

WHAT moan is made of the mountain, what sob of the hillside,
Why a lament of the south wind, and rainfall as tears?
Brother and sister, once bodies and spirits together,
Fell as fair ghosts down the sad swift slope of the years.

Where is the fount on the mount where the thrill of water
Sang as a siren its song to the steep beneath?
Where are the feet of the son and the fair-eyed daughter,
Feet drawn aside of Fate, and set in the pathway of Death!

Ah cruel earth and hard, ah, pitiless laughter
Made of the waters, when, shattered his golden crown,
Fell the fair boy as a star, and his sister after,
To the field of the dead, to its cold and the darkness unknown!
_Elizabeth Cavazza._

JACK AND JILL

(_As Austin Dobson might have written it_)

THEIR pail they must fill
In a crystalline springlet,
Brave Jack and fair Jill.
Their pail they must fill
At the top of the hill,
Then she gives him a ringlet.
Their pail they must fill
In a crystalline springlet.

They stumbled and fell,
And poor Jack broke his forehead,
Oh, how he did yell!
They stumbled and fell,
And went down pell-mell—
By Jove! it was horrid.
They stumbled and fell,
And poor Jack broke his forehead.

(_As Swinburne might have written it_)

The shudd’ring sheet of rain athwart the trees!
The crashing kiss of lightning on the seas!
The moaning of the night wind on the wold,
That erstwhile was a gentle, murm’ring breeze!

On such a night as this went Jill and Jack
With strong and sturdy strides through dampness black
To find the hill’s high top and water cold,
Then toiling through the town to bear it back.

The water drawn, they rest awhile. Sweet sips
Of nectar then for Jack from Jill’s red lips,
And then with arms entwined they homeward go;
Till mid the mad mud’s moistened mush Jack slips.

Sweet Heaven, draw a veil on this sad plight,
His crazéd cries and cranium cracked; the fright
Of gentle Jill, her wretchedness and wo!
Kind Phœbus, drive thy steeds and end this night!

(_As Walt Whitman might have written it_)

I celebrate the personality of Jack!
I love his dirty hands, his tangled hair, his locomotion blundering.
Each wart upon his hands I sing,
Pæans I chant to his hulking shoulder blades.
Also Jill!
Her I celebrate.
I, Walt, of unbridled thought and tongue,
Whoop her up!
What’s the matter with Jill?
Oh, she’s all right!
Who’s all right?
Jill.
Her golden hair, her sun-struck face, her hard and reddened hands;
So, too, her feet, hefty, shambling.
I see them in the evening, when the sun empurples the horizon, and
through the darkening forest aisles are heard the sounds
of myriad creatures of the night.
I see them climb the steep ascent in quest of water for their mother.
Oh, speaking of her, I could celebrate the old lady if I had time.
She is simply immense!

But Jack and Jill are walking up the hill.
(I didn’t mean that rhyme.)
I must watch them.
I love to watch their walk,
And wonder as I watch;
He, stoop-shouldered, clumsy, hide-bound,
Yet lusty,
Bearing his share of the 1-lb bucket as though it were a paperweight.
She, erect, standing, her head uplifting,
Holding, but bearing not the bucket.
They have reached the spring.
They have filled the bucket.
Have you heard the “Old Oaken Bucket”?
I will sing it:—

Of what countless patches is the bed-quilt of life composed!
Here is a piece of lace. A babe is born.
The father is happy, the mother is happy.
Next black crêpe. A beldame “shuffles off this mortal coil.”
Now brocaded satin with orange blossoms,
Mendelssohn’s “Wedding March,” an old shoe missile,
A broken carriage window, the bride in the Bellevue sleeping.
Here’s a large piece of black cloth!
“Have you any last words to say?”
“No.”
“Sheriff, do your work!”
Thus it is: from “grave to gay, from lively to severe.”

I mourn the downfall of my Jack and Jill.
I see them descending, obstacles not heeding.
I see them pitching headlong, the water from the pail outpouring,
a noise from leathern lungs out-belching.
The shadows of the night descend on Jack, recumbent, bellowing, his
pate with gore besmeared.
I love his cowardice, because it is an attribute, just like
Job’s patience or Solomon’s wisdom, and I love attributes.
Whoop!!!
_Charles Battell Loomis._

THE REJECTED “NATIONAL HYMNS”

I

BY H—Y W. L—NGF—W

BACK in the years when Phlagstaff, the Dane, was monarch
Over the sea-ribb’d land of the fleet-footed Norsemen,
Once there went forth young Ursa to gaze at the heavens—
Ursa—the noblest of all the kings and horsemen.

Musing, he sat in his stirrups and viewed the horizon,
Where the Aurora lapt stars in a North-polar manner,
Wildly he stared,—for there in the heavens before him
Fluttered and flam’d the original Star Spangled Banner.

II

BY J-HN GR—N—F WH—T—R

My Native Land, thy Puritanic stock
Still finds its roots firm-bound in Plymouth Rock,
And all thy sons unite in one grand wish—
To keep the virtues of Preservéd Fish.

Preservéd Fish, the Deacon stern and true
Told our New England what her sons should do,
And if they swerve from loyalty and right,
Then the whole land is lost indeed in night.

III

BY DR. OL—V—R W—ND——L H—LMES

A diagnosis of our history proves
Our native land a land its native loves;
Its birth a deed obstetric without peer,
Its growth a source of wonder far and near.

To love it more, behold how foreign shores
Sink into nothingness beside its stores;
Hyde Park at best—though counted ultra-grand—
The “Boston Common” of Victoria’s land.

IV

BY RALPH W—LDO EM—R——N

Source immaterial of material naught,
Focus of light infinitesimal,
Sum of all things by sleepless Nature wrought,
Of which the normal man is decimal.

Refract, in Prism immortal, from thy stars
To the stars bent incipient on our flag,
The beam translucent, neutrifying death,
And raise to immortality the rag.

V

BY W—LL——M C—LL—N B—Y—NT

The sun sinks softly to his Ev’ning Post,
The sun swells grandly to his morning crown;
Yet not a star our Flag of Heav’n has lost,
And not a sunset stripe with him goes down.

So thrones may fall, and from the dust of those,
New thrones may rise, to totter like the last;
But still our Country’s nobler planet glows
While the eternal stars of Heaven are fast.

VI

BY N. P. W—LLIS

One hue of our Flag is taken
From the cheeks of my blushing Pet,
And its stars beat time, and sparkle
Like the studs on her chemisette.

Its blue is the ocean shadow
That hides in her dreamy eyes,
It conquers all men, like her,
And still for a Union flies.

VII

BY TH—M—S B—IL—Y ALD——CH

The little brown squirrel hops in the corn,
The cricket quaintly sings,
The emerald pigeon nods his head,
And the shad in the river springs,
The dainty sunflower hangs its head
On the shore of the summer sea;
And better far that I were dead,
If Maud did not love me.

I love the squirrel that hops in the corn,
And the cricket that quaintly sings;
And the emerald pigeon that nods his head,
And the shad that gaily springs.
I love the dainty sunflower too,
And Maud with her snowy breast;
I love them all; but I love—I love—
I love my country best.
_Robert Henry Newell._
(“_Orpheus C. Kerr._”)

A THEME WITH VARIATIONS

THEME

RIDE a cock-horse to Banbury Cross,
To see a fine lady ride on a white horse;
With rings on her fingers, and bells on her toes,
She shall have music wherever she goes.

(_Variation I.—Edmund Spenser_)

So on he pricked, and loe, he gan espy,
A market and a crosse of glist’ning stone,
And eke a merrie rablement thereby,
That with the musik of the strong trombone,
And shaumes, and trompets made most dyvillish mone.
And in their midst he saw a lady sweet,
That rode upon a milk white steed alone,
In scarlet robe ycladd and wimple meet,
Bedight with rings of gold, and bells about her feet.

Whereat the knight empassioned was so deepe,
His heart was perst with very agony.
Certes (said he) I will not eat, ne sleepe,
Till I have seen the royall maid more ny;
Then will I holde her in fast fealtie,
Whom then a carle adviséd, louting low,
That little neede there was for him to die,
Sithens in yon pavilion was the show,
Where she did ride, and he for two-and-six mote go.

(_Variation II.—Dr. Jonathan Swift_)

Our Chloe, fresh from London town,
To country B——y comes down.
Furnished with half-a-thousand graces
Of silks, brocades, and hoops, and laces;
And tired of winning coxcombs’ hearts,
On simple bumpkins tries her arts.
Behold her ambling down the street
On her white palfrey, sleek and neat.
(Though rumor talks of gaming-tables,
And says ’twas won from C——’s stables.
And that, when duns demand their bill,
She satisfies them at quadrille.)
Her fingers are encased with rings,
Although she vows she hates the things.
(“Oh, la! Why ever did you buy it?
Well—it’s a pretty gem—I’ll try it.”)
The fine French fashions all combine
To make folk stare, and Chloe shine,
From ribbon’d hat with monstrous feather,
To bells upon her under-leather.
Now Chloe, why, do you suppose,
You wear those bells about your toes?
Is it, your feet with bells you deck
For want of bows about your neck?

(_Variation III—Sir Walter Scott_

_From “The Lady of the Cake”_)

“Who is this maid in wild array,
And riding in that curious way?
What mean the bells that jingle free
About her as in revelry?”
“’Tis Madge of Banbury,” Roderick said.
“And she’s a trifle off her head,
’Twas on her bridal morn, I ween,
When she to Graeme had wedded been,
The man who undertook to bake
Never sent home the wedding cake!
Since then she wears those bells and rings,
Since then she rides—but, hush, she sings.”
She sung! The voice in other days
It had been difficult to praise,
And now it every sweetness lacked,
And voice and singer both were cracked.

SONG

They bid me ride the other way,
They say my brain is warp’d and wrung,
But, oh! the bridal bells are gay
That I about my feet have strung!
And when I face the horse’s tail
I see once more in Banbury’s vale
My Graeme’s white plume before me wave,
So thus I’ll ride until the grave.
They say that this is not my home,
’Mid Scotland’s moors and Scotland’s brakes.
But, oh! ’tis love that makes me roam
Forever in the land of cakes!
And woe betide the baker’s guile,
Whose blight destroyed the maiden’s smile!
O woe the day, and woe the deed,
And woa—gee woa—my bonnie steed!
_Barry Pain._

THE POETS AT TEA

1.—(_Macaulay, who made it_)

POUR, varlet, pour the water,
The water steaming hot!
A spoonful for each man of us,
Another for the pot!
We shall not drink from amber,
Nor Capuan slave shall mix
For us the snows of Athos
With port at thirty-six;
Whiter than snow the crystals,
Grown sweet ’neath tropic fires,
More rich the herbs of China’s field,
The pasture-lands more fragrance yield;
For ever let Britannia wield
The tea-pot of her sires!

2.—(_Tennyson, who took it hot_)

I think that I am drawing to an end:
For on a sudden came a gasp for breath,
And stretching of the hands, and blinded eyes,
And a great darkness falling on my soul.
O Hallelujah!... Kindly pass the milk.

3.—(_Swinburne, who let it get cold_)

As the sin that was sweet in the sinning
Is foul in the ending thereof,
As the heat of the summer’s beginning
Is past in the winter of love:
O purity, painful and pleading!
O coldness, ineffably gray!
Oh, hear us, our handmaid unheeding,
And take it away!

4.—(_Cowper, who thoroughly enjoyed it_)

The cosy fire is bright and gay,
The merry kettle boils away
And hums a cheerful song.
I sing the saucer and the cup;
Pray, Mary, fill the tea-pot up,
And do not make it strong.

5.—(_Browning, who treated it allegorically_)

Tut! Bah! We take as another case—
Pass the bills on the pills on the window-sill; notice the capsule
(A sick man’s fancy, no doubt, but I place
Reliance on trade-marks, Sir)—so perhaps you’ll
Excuse the digression—this cup which I hold
Light-poised—Bah, it’s spilt in the bed!—well, let’s on go—
Hold Bohea and sugar, Sir; if you were told
The sugar was salt, would the Bohea be Congo?

6.—(_Wordsworth, who gave it away_)

“Come, little cottage girl, you seem
To want my cup of tea;
And will you take a little cream?
Now tell the truth to me.”

She had a rustic, woodland grin,
Her cheek was soft as silk,
And she replied, “Sir, please put in
A little drop of milk.”

“Why, what put milk into your head?
’Tis cream my cows supply;”
And five times to the child I said,
“Why, pig-head, tell me, why?”

“You call me pig-head,” she replied;
“My proper name is Ruth.
I called that milk”—she blushed with pride—
“You bade me speak the truth.”

7.—(_Poe, who got excited over it_)

Here’s a mellow cup of tea, golden tea!
What a world of rapturous thought its fragrance brings to me!
Oh, from out the silver cells
How it wells!
How it smells!
Keeping tune, tune, tune
To the tintinnabulation of the spoon.
And the kettle on the fire
Boils its spout off with desire,
With a desperate desire
And a crystalline endeavour
Now, now to sit, or never,
On the top of the pale-faced moon,
But he always came home to tea, tea, tea, tea, tea,
Tea to the n—th.

8.—(_Rossetti, who took six cups of it_)

The lilies lie in my lady’s bower
(O weary mother, drive the cows to roost),
They faintly droop for a little hour;
My lady’s head droops like a flower.

She took the porcelain in her hand
(O weary mother, drive the cows to roost);
She poured; I drank at her command;
Drank deep, and now—you understand!
(O weary mother, drive the cows to roost.)

9.—(_Burns, who liked it adulterated_)

Weel, gin ye speir, I’m no inclined,
Whusky or tay—to state my mind,
Fore ane or ither;
For, gin I tak the first, I’m fou,
And gin the next, I’m dull as you,
Mix a’ thegither.

10.—(_Walt Whitman, who didn’t stay more than a minute_)

One cup for my self-hood,
Many for you. Allons, camerados, we will drink together,
O hand-in-hand! That tea-spoon, please, when you’ve done with it.
What butter-colour’d hair you’ve got. I don’t want to be personal.
All right, then, you needn’t. You’re a stale-cadaver.
Eighteen-pence if the bottles are returned.
Allons, from all bat-eyed formula.
_Barry Pain._

THE POETS AT A HOUSE-PARTY

(_A modern mortal having inadvertently stumbled in upon a house-party of poets given on Mount Olympus, being called upon to justify his presence there by writing a poem, offered a Limerick. Whereupon each poet scoffed, and the mortal, offended, challenged them to do better with the same theme_)

_The Limerick_

A SCHOLARLY person named Finck
Went mad in the effort to think
Which were graver misplaced,
To dip pen in his paste,
Or dip his paste-brush in the ink.

(_Omar Khayyam’s version_)

Stay, fellow-traveler, let us stop and think,
Pause and reflect on the abysmal brink;
Say, would you rather thrust your pen in paste,
Or dip your paste-brush carelessly in ink?

(_Rudyard Kipling’s version_)

Here is a theme that is worthy of our cognizance,
A theme of great importance and a question for your ken;
Would you rather—stop and think well—
Dip your paste-brush in your ink-well,
Or in your pesky pasting-pot immerse your ink pen?

(_Walt Whitman’s version_)

Hail, Camerados!
I salute you,
Also I salute the sewing-machine, and the flour-barrel, and the
feather-duster.
What is an aborigine, anyhow?
I see a paste-pot.
Ay, and a well of ink.
Well, well!
Which shall I do?
Ah, the immortal fog.
What am I myself
But a meteor
In the fog?

(_Chaucer’s version_)

A mayde ther ben, a wordy one and wyse,
Who wore a paire of gogles on her eyes.
O’er theemes of depest thogt her braine she werked,
Nor ever any knoty problemme sherked.
Yette when they askt her if she’d rather sinke
Her penne in payste, or eke her brushe in inke,
“Ah,” quo’ the canny mayde, “now wit ye wel,
I’m wyse enow to know—too wyse to tel.”

(_Henry James’ version_)

She luminously wavered, and I tentatively inferred that she would soon perfectly reconsider her not altogether unobvious course. Furiously, though with a tender, ebbing similitude, across her mental consciousness stole a re-culmination of all the truths she had ever known concerning, or even remotely relating to, the not-easily fathomed qualities of paste and ink. So she stood, focused in an intensity of soul-quivers, and I, all unrelenting, waited, though of a dim uncertainty whether, after all, it might not be only a dubitant problem.

(_Swinburne’s version_)

Shall I dip, shall I dip it, Dolores,
This luminous paste-brush of thine?
Shall I sully its white-breasted glories,
Its fair, foam-flecked figure divine?
Or shall I—abstracted, unheeding—
Swish swirling this pen in my haste,
And, deaf to thy pitiful pleading,
Just jab it in paste?

(_Eugene Field’s version_)

See the Ink Bottle on the Desk! It is full of Nice Black Ink. Why, the Paste-Pot is there, Too! Let us watch Papa as he sits down to write. Oh, he is going to paste a Second-hand Stamp on a Letter. See, he has dipped his Brush in the Ink by Mistake. Oh, what a Funny Mistake! Now, although it is Winter, we may have to Endure the Heated Term.

(_Stephen Crane’s version_)

I stood upon a church spire,
A slender, pointed spire,
And I saw
Ranged in solemn row before me,
A paste-pot and an ink-pot.
I held in my either hand
A pen and a brush.
Ay, a pen and a brush.
Now this is the strange part;
I stood upon a church spire,
A slender, pointed spire,
Glad, exultant,
Because
The choice was mine!
Ay, mine!
As I stood upon a church spire,
A slender, pointed spire.

(_Mr. Dooley’s version_)

“I see by th’ pa-apers, Hennessy,” said Mr. Dooley, “that they’se a question up for dee-bate.”

“What’s a dee-bate?” asked Mr. Hennessy.

“Well, it’s different from a fish-bait,” returned Mr. Dooley, “an’ it’s like this, if I can bate it into the thick head of ye. A lot of people argyfies an’ argyfies to decide, as in the prisint instance, whether a man’d rayther shtick his pastin’-brush in his ink-shtand, or if he’d like it betther to be afther dippin’ his pen in his pashte-pot.”

“Thot,” said Mr. Hennessy, “is a foolish question, an’ only fools wud argyfy about such a thing as thot.”

“That’s what makes it a dee-bate,” said Mr. Dooley.

_Carolyn Wells._

AN OLD SONG BY NEW SINGERS

(_In the original_)

MARY had a little lamb,
Its fleece was white as snow,—
And everywhere that Mary went
The lamb was sure to go.

(_As Austin Dobson writes it_)

TRIOLET

A little lamb had Mary, sweet,
With a fleece that shamed the driven snow.
Not alone Mary went when she moved her feet
(For a little lamb had Mary, sweet),
And it tagged her ’round with a pensive bleat,
And wherever she went it wanted to go;
A little lamb had Mary, sweet,
With a fleece that shamed the driven snow.

(_As Mr. Browning has it_)

You knew her?—Mary the small,
How of a summer,—or, no, was it fall?
You’d never have thought it, never believed,
But the girl owned a lamb last fall.

Its wool was subtly, silky white,
Color of lucent obliteration of night,
Like the shimmering snow or—our Clothild’s arm!
You’ve seen her arm—her right, I mean—
The other she scalded a-washing, I ween—
How white it is and soft and warm?

Ah, there was soul’s heart-love, deep, true, and tender,
Wherever went Mary, the maiden so slender,
There followed, his all-absorbed passion, inciting,
That passionate lambkin—her soul’s heart delighting—
Ay, every place that Mary sought in,
That lamb was sure to soon be caught in.

(_As Longfellow might have done it_)

Fair the daughter known as Mary,
Fair and full of fun and laughter,
Owned a lamb, a little he-goat,
Owned him all herself and solely.
White the lamb’s wool as the Gotchi—
The great Gotchi, driving snowstorm.
Hither Mary went and thither,
But went with her to all places,
Sure as brook to run to river,
Her pet lambkin following with her.

(_How Andrew Lang sings it_)

RONDEAU

A wonderful lass was Marie, petite,
And she looked full fair and passing sweet—
And, oh! she owned—but cannot you guess
What pet can a maiden so love and caress
As a tiny lamb with a plaintive bleat,
And mud upon his dainty feet,
And a gentle veally odour of meat,
And a fleece to finger and kiss and press—
White as snow?

Wherever she wandered, in lane or street,
As she sauntered on, there at her feet
She would find that lambkin—bless
The dear!—treading on her dainty dress,
Her dainty dress, fresh and neat—
White as snow!

(_Mr. Algernon C. Swinburne’s idea_)

VILLANELLE

Dewy-eyed with shimmering hair,
Maiden and lamb were a sight to see,
For her pet was white as she was fair.

And its lovely fleece was beyond compare,
And dearly it loved its Mistress Marie,
Dewy-eyed, with shimmering hair.

Its warpéd wool was an inwove snare,
To tangle her fingers in, where they could be
(For her pet was white as she was fair).

Lost from sight, both so snow-white were,
And the lambkin adored the maiden wee,
Dewy-eyed with shimmering hair.

Th’ impassioned incarnation of rare,
Of limpid-eyed, luscious-lipped, loved beauty,
And her pet was white as she was fair.

Wherever she wandered, hither and there,
Wildly that lambkin sought with her to be,
With the dewy-eyed, with shimmering hair,
And a pet as white as its mistress was fair.
_A. C. Wilkie._

INDEX OF TITLES

AESTHETE TO THE ROSE, THE _Punch_ 40
After Browning 194
Amateur Flute, The 140
American, One of the Roughs,
A Kosmos, An 219
Ancient Mariner, The 61
Angelo Orders His Dinner _Bayard Taylor_ 205
Annabel Lee _Stanley Huntley_ 147
Answer to Master Wither’s
Song, “Shall I, Wasting
in Despair?” _Ben Jonson_ 25
Atalanta in Camden-Town _Lewis Carroll_ 270
At the Sign of the Cock _Owen Seaman_ 248

BABY’S OMAR, THE _Carolyn Wells_ 12
Bachelor’s Soliloquy, The 17
Ballad _Charles S. Calverley_ 253
Ballad, A _Guy Wetmore Carryl_ 307
Ballade of Ballade-Mongers, A _Augustus M. Moore_ 322
Bat, The _Lewis Carroll_ 82
Bather’s Dirge, The _Tennyson Minor_ 155
Beautiful Snow 324
Bed During Exams _Clara Warren Vail_ 298
Behold the Deeds! _H. C. Bunner_ 319
Bells, The _Judy_ 148
Birds and the Pheasant, The _Punch_ 131
Biter Bit, The _William Aytoun_ 161
Bo-Peep _Anthony C. Deane_ 294
Boston Nursery Rhymes _Rev. Joseph Cook_ 32
Burial of the Bachelor, The 88
By the Sea _Bayard Taylor_ 203

CAMERADOS _Bayard Taylor_ 220
Cannibal Flea, The _Tom Hood, Jr._ 145
Cantelope, The _Bayard Taylor_ 243
Christmas Wail, A 252
Cimabuella _Bayard Taylor_ 255
Cock and the Bull, The _Charles S. Calverley_ 195
Cockney Enigma on the Letter H _Horace Mayhew_ 49
Commonplaces _Rudyard Kipling_ 97
Crocodile, The _Lewis Carroll_ 43
Cult of the Celtic, The _Anthony C. Deane_ 317
Culture in the Slums _W. E. Henley_ 322

DESOLATION _Tom Masson_ 130
De Tea Fabula _A. T. Quiller-Couch_ 289
Disaster _Charles S. Calverley_ 79
Domicile of John, The _A. Pope_ 34
Dreary Song, A _Shirley Brooks_ 20

ELDERLY GENTLEMAN, THE _George Canning_ 328
Estunt the Griff _Rudyard Kipling_ 235
Excelsior 124

FATHER WILLIAM _Lewis Carroll_ 67
Flight of the Bucket, The _Rudyard Kipling_ 206
Foam and Fangs _Walter Parke_ 278
Fragment in Imitation of
Wordsworth _C. M. Fanshawe_ 52
Fuzzy Wuzzy Leaves us _E. P. C._ 305

GAELIC SPEECH; or “Auld Lang
Syne” Done Up in Tartan 45
Gillian 268
Goblin Goose, The _Punch_ 150
Godiva _Oliver Herford_ 177
Golfer’s Rubaiyat, The _H. W. Boynton_ 3
Grievance, A _J. K. Stephen_ 85
Gwendoline _Bayard Taylor_ 118

HADRAMAUT _Bayard Taylor_ 233
Heathen Pass-ee, The _A. C. Hilton_ 286
Higher 120
Higher Pantheism in a Nutshell,
The _Algernon C. Swinburne_ 180
Hiram Hover _Bayard Taylor_ 133
Horse and His Master, The _Philip F. Allen_ 136
Home Sweet Home with Variations _Henry C. Bunner_ 334
Home Truths from Abroad 193
House that Jack Built, The _Samuel T. Coleridge_ 31
How Often _Ben King_ 129

IDYLL OF PHATTE AND LEENE, AN 29
If! _Mortimer Collins_ 274
If I Should Die To-Night _Ben King_ 331
Imitation _Henry C. Bunner_ 96
Imitation of Robert Browning _J. K. Stephen_ 210
Imitation of Walt Whitman _Judy_ 221
Imitation of Walt Whitman _J. K. Stephen_ 224
Imitation _Anthony C. Deane_ 296
In Immemoriam _Cuthbert Bede_ 174
In the Gloaming _Charles S. Calverley_ 116
I Remember, I Remember _Phœbe Cary_ 101

JACK AND JILL _Anthony C. Deane_ 309
Jack and Jill _Charles Battell Loomis_ 348
Jacob _Phœbe Cary_ 51
Jam-Pot, The _Rudyard Kipling_ 210
Jane Smith _Rudyard Kipling_ 54
John Thompson’s Daughter _Phœbe Cary_ 73

LADY JANE _A. T. Quiller-Couch_ 69
Last Cigar, The 76
Last Ride Together, The _J. K. Stephen_ 212
Laureate, The _William Aytoun_ 163
Laureate’s Log, A _Punch_ 178
Laureate’s Tourney, The _William Aytoun_ 105
Lay of Macaroni, The _Bayard Taylor_ 284
Lay of the Lovelorn, The _William Aytoun_ 165
Legend of Realism, The _Hilda Johnson_ 313
Lines Written (“By Request”)
for a Dinner of the Omar
Khayyam Club _Owen Seaman_ 10
Little Jack Horner _Anthony C. Deane_ 315
Little Miss Muffet 156
Lobster Quadrille, The _Lewis Carroll_ 114
Lost Ape, The _J. W. G. W._ 245
Lost Voice, The _A. H. S._ 244
Lost Word, The _C. H. Webb_ 246
Love and Science 153
Lovers, and a Reflection _Charles S. Calverley_ 259
Love Song, A _Dean Swift_ 331
Lucy Lake _Newton Mackintosh_ 57

MAID OF THE MEERSCHAUM, THE _Rudyard Kipling_ 275
Manlet, The _Lewis Carroll_ 272
Man’s Place in Nature 191
Marriage of Sir John Smith, The _Phœbe Cary_ 91
Mary and the Lamb _Frank D. Sherman_ 37
Maudle-in Ballad, A _Punch_ 300
Melton Mowbray Pork-Pie, A _Richard Le Gallienne_ 278
Modern Hiawatha, The 120
Modern Rubaiyat, The _Kate Masterson_ 7
Modern Versification on
Ancient Themes _Elizabeth Cavazza_ 346
More Impressions _Oscuro Wildgoose_ 299
Musical Pitch, The 158
Mutton 113
My Foe 46

NEPHELIDIA _A. C. Swinburne_ 282
Nettle, The _Bayard Taylor_ 231
New Arrival, The _George W. Cable_ 72
Newest Thing in Christmas
Carols, The 325
New Version, The _W. J. Lampton_ 138
Not a Sou had he Got _R. Harris Barham_ 89
Nursery Rhymes à la Mode 299
Nursery Song in Pidgin English 30

ODE, AN _Anthony C. Deane_ 237
Ode on a Jar of Pickles _Bayard Taylor_ 94
Ode to a London Fog 239
Of Friendship _Charles S. Calverley_ 185
Of Reading _Charles S. Calverley_ 186
Old Fashioned Fun _W. M. Thackeray_ 333
Old Man’s Cold and How He Got
It, The 66
Old Song by New Singers, An _A. C. Wilkie_ 368
Omar for Ladies, An _Josephine D. Bacon_ 5
Only Seven _Henry S. Leigh_ 55
On Wordsworth 51
Oyster-Crabs _Carolyn Wells_ 41

POET AND THE WOODLOUSE, THE _A. C. Swinburne_ 224
Poets at a House-Party _Carolyn Wells_ 363
Poets at Tea, The _Barry Pain_ 359
Poker 18
Portrait, A _John Keats_ 15
Poster Girl, The _Carolyn Wells_ 257
President Garfield 240
Prodigals, The 292
Promissory Note, The _Bayard Taylor_ 143
Propinquity Needed _Charles B. Loomis_ 241
Psalm of Life, A _Phœbe Cary_ 127

QUAERITUR _Rudyard Kipling_ 277
Quite the Cheese _H. C. Waring_ 302

RECOGNITION, THE _William Sawyer_ 180
Rejected “National Hymns,” The _Robert H. Newell_ 352
Remember _Judy_ 263
Rigid Body Sings _J. C. Maxwell_ 48
Rout of Belgravia, The _Jon Duan_ 84

SAMUEL BROWN _Phœbe Cary_ 142
Sarah’s Halls _Judy_ 80
Self-Evident _J. R. Planché_ 104
_Shrimp-Gatherers, The_ _Bayard Taylor_ 261
Sir Eggnogg _Bayard Taylor_ 175
Some Day _F. P. Doveton_ 329
Song _Oliver Herford_ 27
Song _James Whitcomb Riley_ 22
Song of a Heart, A _Oliver Herford_ 33
Song of Renunciation, A _Owen Seaman_ 279
Song of the Sheet 98
“Songs Without Words” _Robert J. Burdette_ 327
Staccato to O Le Lupe, A _Bliss Carman_ 200
Striking _Charles S. Calverley_ 64

TALE OF LORD LOVELL, THE 326
Tea, The _Tom Hood, Jr._ 82
“The Day is Done” _Phœbe Cary_ 126
Theme with Variations, A _Barry Pain_ 356
“There’s a Bower of Bean-Vines” _Phœbe Cary_ 78
Three Blessings 41
Three Little Fishers _Frank H. Stauffer_ 229
Three Mice, The _Anthony C. Deane_ 304
Three Poets, The _Lilian Whiting_ 230
Thyroid Gland, The _R. M._ 93
Timbuctoo.—Part I. _W. M. Thackeray_ 183
To an Importunate Host 158
To Julia Under Lock and Key _Owen Seaman_ 27
Toothache 19
Topside Galah! 122
To the Stall-Holders at a
Fancy Fair _W. S. Gilbert_ 21
Turtle Soup _Lewis Carroll_ 329
’T was Ever Thus _Henry S. Leigh_ 81
’T was Ever Thus 77

UP THE SPOUT _A. C. Swinburne_ 215

VILLAGE CHOIR, THE 159
Voice of the Lobster, The _Lewis Carroll_ 42
Vulture and the Husbandman, The _A. C Hilton_ 265

WAGGAWOCKY _Shirley Brooks_ 264
What Troubled Poe’s Raven _John Bennett_ 139
When Lovely Woman _Phœbe Cary_ 44
Whist-Player’s Soliloquy, The _Carolyn Wells_ 23
Willow-Tree, The _W. M. Thackeray_ 188

YE CLERKE OF YE WETHERE 14
Young Lochinvar 58
Yule-Tide Parody, A 103

INDEX OF AUTHORS

ALLEN, PHILIP F.
The Horse and His Master 136

AYTOUN, WILLIAM
The Laureate’s Tourney 105
The Biter Bit 161
The Laureate 163
The Lay of the Lovelorn 165

BACON, JOSEPHINE DASKAM
An Omar for Ladies 5

BARHAM, R. HARRIS
Not a Sou Had He Got 89

BEDE, CUTHBERT
In Immemoriam 174

BENNETT, JOHN
What Troubled Poe’s Raven 139

BOYNTON, H. W.
The Golfer’s Rubaiyat 3

BROOKS, SHIRLEY
A Dreary Song 20
Waggawocky 264

BUNNER, HENRY CUYLER
Imitation 96
Behold the Deeds! 319
Home Sweet Home with Variations 334

BURDETTE, ROBERT J.
“Songs Without Words” 327

CABLE, GEORGE WASHINGTON
The New Arrival 72

CALVERLEY, CHARLES S.
Striking 64
Disaster 79
In the Gloaming 116
Of Friendship 185
Of Reading 186
The Cock and the Bull 195
Ballad 253
Lovers, and a Reflection 259

CANNING, GEORGE
The Elderly Gentleman 328

CARMAN, BLISS
A Staccato to O Le Lupe 200

CARROLL, LEWIS
The Voice of the Lobster 42
The Crocodile 43
Father William 67
The Bat 82
The Lobster Quadrille 114
Atalanta in Camden-Town 270
The Manlet 272
Turtle Soup 329

CARRYL, GUY WETMORE
A Ballad 307

CARY, PHŒBE
When Lovely Woman 44
Jacob 51
John Thompson’s Daughter 73
“There’s a Bower of Bean-Vines” 78
The Marriage of Sir John Smith 91
I Remember, I Remember 101
“The Day is Done” 126
A Psalm of Life 127
Samuel Brown 142

CAVAZZA, ELIZABETH
Modern Versification on Ancient Themes 346

COLERIDGE, SAMUEL TAYLOR
The House That Jack Built 31

COLLINS, MORTIMER
If! 274

COOK, REV. JOSEPH
Boston Nursery Rhymes 32

DEANE, ANTHONY C.
An Ode 237
Bo-Peep 294
Imitation 296
The Three Mice 304
Jack and Jill 309
Little Jack Horner 315
The Cult of the Celtic 317

DOVETON, F. P.
Some Day 329

DUAN, JON
The Rout of Belgravia 84

FANSHAWE, CATHERINE M.
Fragment in Imitation of Wordsworth 52

GILBERT, W. S.
To the Stall-Holders at a Fancy Fair 21

HENLEY, W. E.
Culture in the Slums 322

HERFORD, OLIVER
Song 27
A Song of a Heart 33
Godiva 177

HILTON, A. C.
The Heathen Pass-ee 286
The Vulture and the Husbandman 265

HOOD, TOM, JR.
The Tea 82
The Cannibal Flea 145

HUNTLEY, STANLEY
Annabel Lee 147

JOHNSON, HILDA
The Legend of Realism 313

JONSON, BEN
Answer to Master Wither’s Song, “Shall I,
Wasting in Despair?” 25

JUDY
Sarah’s Halls 80
The Bells 148
Imitation of Walt Whitman 221
Remember 263

KEATS, JOHN
A Portrait 15

KING, BEN
How Often 129
If I Should Die To-Night 331

KIPLING, RUDYARD
Jane Smith 54
Commonplaces 97
The Flight of the Bucket 206
The Jam-Pot 210
Estunt the Griff 235
The Maid of the Meerschaum 275
Quaeritur 277

LAMPTON, W. J.
The New Version 138

LE GALLIENNE, RICHARD
A Melton Mowbray Pork-Pie 278

LEIGH, HENRY S.
Only Seven 55
’Twas Ever Thus 81

LOOMIS, CHARLES BATTELL
Propinquity Needed 241
Jack and Jill 348

MACKINTOSH, NEWTON
Lucy Lake 57

MASSON, TOM
Desolation 130

MASTERSON, KATE
The Modern Rubaiyat 7

MAXWELL, J. C.
Rigid Body Sings 48

MAYHEW, HORACE
Cockney Enigma on the Letter H 49

MINOR, TENNYSON
The Bather’s Dirge 155

MOORE, AUGUSTUS M.
A Ballade of Ballade-Mongers 322

NEWELL, ROBERT HENRY
The Rejected “National Hymns” 352

PAIN, BARRY
A Theme with Variations 356
The Poets at Tea 359

PARKE, WALTER
Foam and Fangs 278

PLANCHÉ, J. R.
Self-Evident 104

POPE, A.
The Domicile of John 34

PUNCH
The Aesthete to the Rose 40
The Birds and the Pheasant 131
The Goblin Goose 150
A Laureate’s Log 178
A Maudle-in Ballad 300

QUILLER-COUCH, A. T.
Lady Jane 69
De Tea Fabula 289

RILEY, JAMES WHITCOMB
Song 22

SAWYER, WILLIAM
The Recognition 180

SEAMAN, OWEN
Lines Written (“By Request”) for a Dinner
of the Omar Khayyam Club 10
To Julia Under Lock and Key 27
At the Sign of the Cock 248
A Song of Renunciation 279

SHERMAN, FRANK DEMPSTER
Mary and the Lamb 37

STAUFFER, FRANK H.
Three Little Fishers 229

STEPHEN, J. K.
A Grievance 85
Imitation of Robert Browning 210
The Last Ride Together 212
Imitation of Walt Whitman 224

SWIFT, DEAN
A Love Song 331

SWINBURNE, ALGERNON CHARLES
The Higher Pantheism in a Nutshell 180
Up the Spout 215
The Poet and the Woodlouse 224
Nephelidia 282

TAYLOR, BAYARD
Ode on a Jar of Pickles 94
Gwendoline 118
Hiram Hover 133
The Promissory Note 143
Sir Eggnogg 175
By the Sea 203
Angelo Orders His Dinner 205
Camerados 220
The Nettle 231
Hadramaut 233
The Cantelope 243
Cimabuella 255
The Shrimp-Gatherers 261
The Lay of Macaroni 284

THACKERAY, W. M.
Timbuctoo.—Part I 183
The Willow-Tree 188
Old Fashioned Fun 333

VAIL, CLARA WARREN
Bed During Exams 298

WARING, H. C.
Quite the Cheese 302

WEBB, C. H.
The Lost Word 246

WELLS, CAROLYN
The Baby’s Omar 12
The Whist-Player’s Soliloquy 23
Oyster-Crabs 41
The Poster Girl 257
The Poets at a House-Party 363

WHITING, LILIAN
The Three Poets 230

WILDGOOSE, OSCURA
More Impressions 299

WILKIE, A. C.
An Old Song by New Singers 368

INDEX OF AUTHORS PARODIED

ALDRICH, THOMAS BAILEY 355
Austin, Alfred 237

BROWNING, MRS. 116
Browning, Robert 193, 360, 368
Bryant, William Cullen 354
Bunn, Alfred 103
Burns, Robert 45, 363
Byron 84

CAMPBELL, THOMAS 72
Carroll, Lewis 264
Chaucer 14, 365
Coleridge 61
Cornwall, Barry 83
Cowper 360
Crane, Stephen 366

DICKENS, CHARLES 191
Dobson, Austin 292, 339, 348, 368
Dooley, Mr. 367
Dryden 41

EMERSON 113, 354

FANSHAWE, CATHERINE 49
Field, Eugene 366

GILBERT, W. S. 239
Goldsmith, Oliver 44, 340

HARTE, BRET 286, 337
Heine 96
Hemans, Mrs. 93
Henley, W. E. 296
Herrick 27
Holmes, Dr. Oliver Wendell 353
Hood, Thomas 98
Horace 339
Houghton, Lord 153
Howitt, Mary 114

INGELOW, JEAN 259

JAMES, HENRY 365

KEATS 94
Khayyam, Omar 3, 364
Kingsley, Charles 229
Kipling, Rudyard 305, 364

LANG, ANDREW 294, 369
Longfellow, Henry W. 120, 352, 369

MACAULAY, LORD 105, 359
MacLeod, Fiona 317
Meredith, George 248
Moore, Thomas 76
Morris, William 235

NORTON, MRS. 136
Nursery Rhymes 29

OMAR KHAYYAM 3, 364

PHILLIPS, STEPHEN 315
Poe, Edgar Allan 139, 362
Pope, Alexander 340
Popular Songs 324
Procter, A. A. 244

ROSSETTI, CHRISTINA 263
Rossetti, D. G. 252, 362

SCOTT, SIR WALTER 58, 358
Shakespeare 17
Southey, Robert 66
Spenser, Edmund 15, 356
Stevenson, R. L. 298
Stoddard, Mrs. R. H. 231
Stoddard, R. H. 243
Swift, Dr. Jonathan 357
Swinburne, Algernon C. 268, 335, 349, 360, 366, 370

TAYLOR, BAYARD 233
Taylor, Jane 82
Tennyson 155, 359
Thackeray 188
Tupper 185

VERS DE SOCIÉTÉ 319

WALLER 40
Watson, William 304
Watts, Doctor 42
Whitman 219, 341, 349, 363, 364
Whittier 133, 353
Wilde, Oscar 299
Willis, N. P. 355
Wither 25
Wolfe, Charles 88
Wordsworth 51, 361

YEATS, W. B. 317

* * * * *

Transcriber’s Notes:

Obvious punctuation errors repaired.

Page xxviii, “peculiarites” changed to “peculiarities” (peculiarities. Among the)

Page 114, “lobters” changed to “lobsters” (with the lobsters)

Page 195, “Of” changed to “Off” (Off a bit of)

Page 223, “Oskhosh” changed to “Oshkosh” (stripes of Oshkosh, of Kalamazoo)

Page 252, “Rosetti” changed to “Rossetti” (Not by Dante Gabriel Rossetti)

Page 377, “Immemorian” changed to “Immemoriam” (In Immemoriam _Cuthbert Bede_)