Chapter X: Introduction (10)

The thing we like about that poem is its recognition of all the sorrow there is in the universe ... its _unflinching_ recognition, we might say, if we were not afraid of praising our own work too highly ... combined with its happy ending.

One feels, upon reading it, that, although everything everywhere is very sad, and all wrong, one has only to have patience and after a while everything everywhere will be quite right and very sweet.

No matter how interested one may be in these literary problems, one must cease discussing them at times or one will be late to one's meals.

_Don Marquis._

A LITTLE SWIRL OF VERS LIBRE

NOT COVERED, STRANGE TO SAY, BY THE PENAL CODE

I am numb from world-pain-- I sway most violently as the thoughts course through me, And athwart me, And up and down me-- Thoughts of cosmic matters, Of the mergings of worlds within worlds, And unutterabilities And room-rent, And other tremendously alarming phenomena, Which stab me, Rip me most outrageously; (Without a semblance, mind you, of respect for the Hague Convention's rules governing soul-slitting.) Aye, as with the poniard of the Finite pricking the rainbow-bubble of the Infinite! (Some figure, that!) (Some little rush of syllables, that!)-- And make me--(are you still whirling at my coat-tails, reader?) Make me--ahem, where was I?--oh, yes--make me, In a sudden, overwhelming gust of soul-shattering rebellion, Fall flat on my face!

_Thomas R. Ybarra._

YOUNG LOCHINVAR

THE TRUE STORY IN BLANK VERSE

Oh! young Lochinvar has come out of the West, Thro' all the wide border his horse has no equal, Having cost him forty-five dollars at the market, Where good nags, fresh from the country, With burrs still in their tails are selling For a song; and save his good broad sword He weapon had none, except a seven-shooter Or two, a pair of brass knuckles, and an Arkansaw

Toothpick in his boot, so, comparatively speaking, He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone, Because there was no one going his way. He stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for Toll-gates; he swam the Eske River where ford There was none, and saved fifteen cents In ferriage, but lost his pocket-book, containing Seventeen dollars and a half, by the operation. Ere he alighted at the Netherby mansion He stopped to borrow a dry suit of clothes, And this delayed him considerably, so when He arrived the bride had consented--the gallant Came late--for a laggard in love and a dastard in war Was to wed the fair Ellen, and the guests had assembled.

So, boldly he entered the Netherby Hall Among bridesmen and kinsmen and brothers and Brothers-in-law and forty or fifty cousins; Then spake the bride's father, his hand on his sword (For the poor craven bridegroom ne'er opened his head)

"Oh, come ye in peace here, or come ye in anger, Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?" "I long wooed your daughter, and she will tell you I have the inside track in the free-for-all For her affections! my suit you denied; but let That pass, while I tell you, old fellow, that love Swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide, And now I am come with this lost love of mine To lead but one measure, drink one glass of beer; There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far That would gladly be bride to yours very truly."

The bride kissed the goblet, the knight took it up, He quaffed off the nectar and threw down the mug, Smashing it into a million pieces, while He remarked that he was the son of a gun From Seven-up and run the Number Nine. She looked down to blush, but she looked up again For she well understood the wink in his eye; He took her soft hand ere her mother could Interfere, "Now tread we a measure; first four Half right and left; swing," cried young Lochinvar.

One touch to her hand and one word in her ear, When they reached the hall door and the charger Stood near on three legs eating post hay; So light to the croup the fair lady he swung, Then leaped to the saddle before her. "She is won! we are gone! over bank, bush, and spar, They'll have swift steeds that follow"--but in the

Excitement of the moment he had forgotten To untie the horse, and the poor brute could Only gallop in a little circus around the Hitching-post; so the old gent collared The youth and gave him the awfullest lambasting That was ever heard of on Canobie Lee; So dauntless in war and so daring in love, Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?

_Unknown._

IMAGISTE LOVE LINES

I love my lady with a deep purple love; She fascinates me like a fly Struggling in a pot of glue. Her eyes are grey, like twin ash-cans, Just emptied, about which still hovers A dainty mist. Her disposition is as bright as a ten-cent shine, Yet her kisses are tender and goulashy. I love my lady with a deep purple love.

_Unknown._

BYGONES

Or ever a lick of Art was done,
Or ever a one to care,
I was a Purple Polygon,
And you were a Sky-Blue Square.

You yearned for me across a void,
For I lay in a different plane,
I'd set my heart on a Red Rhom_boid_,
And your sighing was in vain.

You pined for me as well I knew,
And you faded day by day,
Until the Square that was heavenly Blue,
Had paled to an ashen grey.

A myriad years or less or more,
Have softly fluttered by,
Matters are much as they were before,
Except 'tis I that sigh.

I yearn for you, but I have no chance,
You lie in a different plane,
I break my heart for a single glance,
And I break said heart in vain.

And ever I grow more pale and wan,
And taste your old despair,
When I was a Purple Polygon,
And you were a Sky-Blue Square.

_Bert Leston Taylor._

JUSTICE TO SCOTLAND

AN UNPUBLISHED POEM BY BURNS

O mickle yeuks the keckle doup,
An' a' unsicker girns the graith,
For wae and wae! the crowdies loup
O'er jouk an' hallan, braw an' baith
Where ance the coggie hirpled fair,
And blithesome poortith toomed the loof,
There's nae a burnie giglet rare
But blaws in ilka jinking coof.

The routhie bield that gars the gear
Is gone where glint the pawky een.
And aye the stound is birkin lear
Where sconnered yowies wheeped yestreen,
The creeshie rax wi' skelpin' kaes
Nae mair the howdie bicker whangs,
Nor weanies in their wee bit claes
Glour light as lammies wi' their sangs.

Yet leeze me on my bonny byke!
My drappie aiblins blinks the noo,
An' leesome luve has lapt the dyke
Forgatherin' just a wee bit fou.
And Scotia! while thy rantin' lunt
Is mirk and moop with gowans fine,
I'll stowlins pit my unco brunt,
An' cleek my duds for auld lang syne.

_Unknown._

LAMENT OF THE SCOTCH-IRISH EXILE

Oh, I want to win me hame To my ain countrie, The land frae whence I came Far away across the sea; Bit I canna find it there, on the atlas anywhere, And I greet and wonder sair Where the deil it can be?

I hae never met a man, In a' the warld wide, Who has trod my native lan' Or its distant shores espied; But they tell me there's a place where my hypothetic race Its dim origin can trace-- Tipperary-on-the-Clyde.

But anither answers: "Nae, Ye are varra far frae richt; Glasgow town in Dublin Bay Is the spot we saw the licht." But I dinna find the maps bearing out these pawkie chaps, And I sometimes think perhaps It has vanished out o' sight.

Oh, I fain wad win me hame To that undiscovered lan' That has neither place nor name Where the Scoto-Irishman May behold the castles fair by his fathers builded there Many, many ages ere Ancient history began.

_James Jeffrey Roche._

A SONG OF SORROW

A LULLABYLET FOR A MAGAZINELET

Wan from the wild and woful West-- Sleep, little babe, sleep on! Mother will sing to--you know the rest-- Sleep, little babe, sleep on! Softly the sand steals slowly by, Cursed be the curlew's chittering cry; By-a-by, oh, by-a-by! Sleep, little babe, sleep on!

Rosy and sweet come the hush of night-- Sleep, little babe, sleep on! (Twig to the lilt, I have got it all right) Sleep, little babe, sleep on! Dark are the dark and darkling days Winding the webbed and winsome ways, Homeward she creeps in dim amaze-- Sleep, little babe, sleep on! (But it waked up, drat it!)

_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 Vikings and horsemen.

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

II

BY J-HN GR--NL--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 Preservèd Fish.

Preservèd 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 hist'ry 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 R-LPH 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-LL-IS

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 sunflow'r 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 sunflow'r, too,
And Maud with her snowy breast;
I love them all;--but I love--I love--
I love my country best.

_Robert H. Newell._

THE EDITOR'S WOOING

We love thee, Ann Maria Smith,
And in thy condescension
We see a future full of joys
Too numerous to mention.

There's Cupid's arrow in thy glance,
That by thy love's coercion
Has reached our melting heart of hearts,
And asked for one insertion.

With joy we feel the blissful smart;
And ere our passion ranges,
We freely place thy love upon
The list of our exchanges.

There's music in thy lowest tone,
And silver in thy laughter:
And truth--but we will give the full
Particulars hereafter.

Oh, we could tell thee of our plans
All obstacles to scatter;
But we are full just now, and have
A press of other matter.

Then let us marry, Queen of Smiths,
Without more hesitation:
The very thought doth give our blood
A larger circulation.

_Robert H. Newell._

THE BABY'S DÉBUT[1]

A BURLESQUE IMITATION OF WORDSWORTH--REJECTED ADDRESSES

[Spoken in the character of Nancy Lake, a girl eight years of age, who is drawn upon the stage in a child's chaise by Samuel Hughes, her uncle's porter.]

My brother Jack was nine in May, And I was eight on New-year's-day; So in Kate Wilson's shop Papa (he's my papa and Jack's) Bought me, last week, a doll of wax, And brother Jack a top. Jack's in the pouts, and this it is-- He thinks mine came to more than his;

So to my drawer he goes,
Takes out the doll, and, O, my stars!
He pokes her head between the bars,
And melts off half her nose!

Quite cross, a bit of string I beg, And tie it to his peg-top's peg, And bang, with might and main, Its head against the parlor-door: Off flies the head, and hits the floor, And breaks a window-pane.

This made him cry with rage and spite: Well, let him cry, it serves him right. A pretty thing, forsooth! If he's to melt, all scalding hot, Half my doll's nose, and I am not To draw his peg-top's tooth!

Aunt Hannah heard the window break, And cried, "O naughty Nancy Lake, Thus to distress your aunt: No Drury Lane for you to-day!" And while papa said, "Pooh, she may!" Mamma said, "No, she sha'n't!"

Well, after many a sad reproach, They got into a hackney-coach, And trotted down the street. I saw them go: one horse was blind, The tails of both hung down behind, Their shoes were on their feet.

The chaise in which poor brother Bill Used to be drawn to Pentonville, Stood in the lumber-room: I wiped the dust from off the top, While Molly mopped it with a mop, And brushed it with a broom.

My uncle's porter, Samuel Hughes, Came in at six to black the shoes, (I always talk to Sam:) So what does he, but takes, and drags Me in the chaise along the flags, And leaves me where I am.

My father's walls are made of brick, But not so tall and not so thick As these; and, goodness me! My father's beams are made of wood, But never, never half so good As those that now I see.

What a large floor! 'tis like a town! The carpet, when they lay it down, Won't hide it, I'll be bound; And there's a row of lamps!--my eye! How they do blaze! I wonder why They keep them on the ground.

At first I caught hold of the wing, And kept away; but Mr. Thing- umbob, the prompter man, Gave with his hand my chaise a shove, And said, "Go on, my pretty love; Speak to 'em little Nan.

"You've only got to curtsy, whisp- er, hold your chin up, laugh and lisp, And then you're sure to take: I've known the day when brats, not quite Thirteen, got fifty pounds a night; Then why not Nancy Lake?"

But while I'm speaking, where's papa? And where's my aunt? and where's mamma? Where's Jack? O there they sit! They smile, they nod; I'll go my ways, And order round poor Billy's chaise, To join them in the pit.

And now, good gentlefolks, I go To join mamma, and see the show; So, bidding you adieu, I curtsy like a pretty miss, And if you'll blow to me a kiss, I'll blow a kiss to you. [Blows a kiss, and exit.]

_James Smith._

[Footnote 1: "The author does not, in this instance, attempt to copy any of the higher attributes of Mr. Wordsworth's poetry; but has succeeded perfectly in the imitation of his mawkish affectations of childish simplicity and nursery stammering. We hope it will make him ashamed of his _Alice Fell_, and the greater part of his last volumes--of which it is by no means a parody, but a very fair, and indeed we think a flattering, imitation."--_Edinburg Review._]

THE CANTELOPE

Side by side in the crowded streets,
Amid its ebb and flow,
We walked together one autumn morn;
('Twas many years ago!)

The markets blushed with fruits and flowers;
(Both Memory and Hope!)
You stopped and bought me at the stall,
A spicy cantelope.

We drained together its honeyed wine,
We cast the seeds away;
I slipped and fell on the moony rinds,
And you took me home on a dray!

The honeyed wine of your love is drained;
I limp from the fall I had;
The snow-flakes muffle the empty stall,
And everything is sad.

The sky is an inkstand, upside down,
It splashes the world with gloom;
The earth is full of skeleton bones,
And the sea is a wobbling tomb!

_Bayard Taylor._

POPULAR BALLAD: "NEVER FORGET YOUR PARENTS"

A young man once was sitting
Within a swell café,
The music it was playing sweet--
The people was quite gay.
But he alone was silent,
A tear was in his eye--
A waitress she stepped up to him, and
Asked him gently why.

(Change to Minor)

He turned to her in sorrow and
At first he spoke no word,
But soon he spoke unto her, for
She was an honest girl.
He rose up from the table
In that elegant café,
And in a voice replete with tears
To her he then did say:

CHORUS

Never forget your father,
Think all he done for you;
A mother is a boy's best friend,
So loving, kind, and true,
If it were not for them, I'm sure
I might be quite forlorn;
And if your parents had not have lived
You would not have been born.

A hush fell on the laughing throng,
It made them feel quite bad,
For most of them was people, and
Some parents they had had.
Both men and ladies did shed tears.
The music it did cease,
For all knew he had spoke the truth
By looking at his face.

(Change to Minor)

The waitress she wept bitterly
And others was in tears
It made them think of the old home
They had not saw in years.
And while their hearts was heavy and
Their eyes they was quite red.
This brave and honest boy again
To them these words he said:

CHORUS

Never forget your father,
Think all he done for you;
A mother is a boy's best friend,
So loving, kind, and true,
If it were not for them, I'm sure
I might be quite forlorn;
And if your parents had not have lived
You would not have been born.

_Franklin P. Adams._

HOW A GIRL WAS TOO RECKLESS OF GRAMMAR

Matilda Maud Mackenzie frankly hadn't any chin,
Her hands were rough, her feet she turned invariably in;
Her general form was German,
By which I mean that you
Her waist could not determine
Within a foot or two.
And not only did she stammer,
But she used the kind of grammar
That is called, for sake of euphony, askew.

From what I say about her, don't imagine I desire
A prejudice against this worthy creature to inspire.
She was willing, she was active,
She was sober, she was kind,
But she _never_ looked attractive
And she _hadn't_ any mind.
I knew her more than slightly,
And I treated her politely
When I met her, but of course I wasn't blind!

Matilda Maud Mackenzie had a habit that was droll,
She spent her morning seated on a rock or on a knoll,
And threw with, much, composure
A smallish rubber ball
At an inoffensive osier
By a little waterfall;
But Matilda's way of throwing
Was like other people's mowing,
And she never hit the willow-tree at all!

One day as Miss Mackenzie with uncommon ardour tried
To hit the mark, the missile flew exceptionally wide.
And, before her eyes astounded,
On a fallen maple's trunk
Ricochetted and rebounded
In the rivulet, and sunk!
Matilda, greatly frightened,
In her grammar unenlightened,
Remarked, "Well now I ast yer, who'd 'er thunk?"

But what a marvel followed! From the pool at once there rose
A frog, the sphere of rubber balanced deftly on his nose.
He beheld her fright and frenzy
And, her panic to dispel,
On his knee by Miss Mackenzie
He obsequiously fell.
With quite as much decorum
As a speaker in a forum
He started in his history to tell.

"Fair maid," he said, "I beg you do not hesitate or wince,
If you'll promise that you'll wed me, I'll at once become a prince;
For a fairy, old and vicious,
An enchantment round me spun!"
Then he looked up, unsuspicious,
And he saw what he had won,
And in terms of sad reproach, he
Made some comments, _sotto voce_,
(Which the publishers have bidden me to shun!)

Matilda Maud Mackenzie said, as if she meant to scold;
"I _never_! Why, you forward thing! Now, ain't you awful bold!"
Just a glance he paused to give her,
And his head was seen to clutch,
Then he darted to the river,
And he dived to beat the Dutch!
While the wrathful maiden panted
"I don't think he was enchanted!"
(And he really didn't look it overmuch!)

THE MORAL

In one's language one conservative should be;
Speech is silver and it never should be free!

_Guy Wetmore Carryl._

BEHOLD THE DEEDS!

CHANT ROYAL

(Being the Plaint of Adolphe Culpepper Ferguson, Salesman of Fancy Notions, held in durance of his Landlady for a failure to connect on Saturday night.)

I

I would that all men my hard case might know; How grievously I suffer for no sin: I, Adolphe Culpepper Ferguson, for lo! I, of my landlady am lockèd in. For being short on this sad Saturday, Nor having shekels of silver wherewith to pay, She has turned and is departed with my key; Wherefore, not even as other boarders free, I sing (as prisoners to their dungeon stones When for ten days they expiate a spree): Behold the deeds that are done of Mrs. Jones!

II

One night and one day have I wept my woe; Nor wot I when the morrow doth begin, If I shall have to write to Briggs & Co., To pray them to advance the requisite tin For ransom of their salesman, that he may Go forth as other boarders go alway-- As those I hear now flocking from their tea, Led by the daughter of my landlady Pianoward. This day for all my moans, Dry bread and water have been servèd me. Behold the deeds that are done of Mrs. Jones!

III

Miss Amabel Jones is musical, and so The heart of the young he-boarder doth win, Playing "The Maiden's Prayer," adagio-- That fetcheth him, as fetcheth the banco skin The innocent rustic. For my part, I pray: That Badarjewska maid may wait for aye Ere sits she with a lover, as did we Once sit together, Amabel! Can it be That all of that arduous wooing not atones For Saturday shortness of trade dollars three? Behold the deeds that are done of Mrs. Jones!

IV

Yea! she forgets the arm was wont to go Around her waist. She wears a buckle whose pin Galleth the crook of the young man's elbow; I forget not, for I that youth have been. Smith was aforetime the Lothario gay. Yet once, I mind me, Smith was forced to stay Close in his room. Not calm, as I, was he; But his noise brought no pleasaunce, verily. Small ease he gat of playing on the bones, Or hammering on his stove-pipe, that I see. Behold the deeds that are done of Mrs. Jones!

V

Thou, for whose fear the figurative crow I eat, accursed be thou and all thy kin! Thee will I show up--yea, up will I show Thy too thick buckwheats, and thy tea too thin. Ay! here I dare thee, ready for the fray! Thou dost not keep a first-class house, I say! It does not with the advertisements agree. Thou lodgest a Briton with a pugaree, And thou hast harbored Jacobses and Cohns, Also a Mulligan. Thus denounce I thee! Behold the deeds that are done of Mrs. Jones!

ENVOY

Boarders! the worst I have not told to ye: She hath stole my trousers, that I may not flee Privily by the window. Hence these groans, There is no fleeing in a _robe de nuit_. Behold the deeds that are done of Mrs. Jones!

_H. C. Bunner._

VILLON'S STRAIGHT TIP TO ALL CROSS COVES

"_Tout aux tavernes et aux fiells_"

Suppose you screeve? or go cheap-jack?
Or fake the broads? or fig a nag?
Or thimble-rig? or knap a yack?
Or pitch a snide? or smash a rag?
Suppose you duff? or nose and lag?
Or get the straight, and land your pot?
How do you melt the multy swag?
Booze and the blowens cop the lot.

Fiddle, or fence, or mace, or mack;
Or moskeneer, or flash the drag;
Dead-lurk a crib, or do a crack;
Pad with a slang, or chuck a fag;
Bonnet, or tout, or mump and gag;
Rattle the tats, or mark the spot;
You cannot bag a single stag;
Booze and the blowens cop the lot.

Suppose you try a different tack,
And on the square you flash your flag?
At penny-a-lining make your whack,
Or with the mummers mug and gag?
For nix, for nix the dibbs you bag!
At any graft, no matter what,
Your merry goblins soon stravag:
Booze and the blowens cop the lot.

THE MORAL

It's up the spout and Charley Wag
With wipes and tickers and what not
Until the squeezer nips your scrag,
Booze and the blowens cop the lot.

_William Ernest Henley._

CULTURE IN THE SLUMS

Inscribed to an Intense Poet

I. RONDEAU

"O crikey, Bill!" she ses to me, she ses. "Look sharp," ses she, "with them there sossiges. Yea! sharp with them there bags of mysteree! For lo!" she ses, "for lo! old pal," ses she, "I'm blooming peckish, neither more nor less."

Was it not prime--I leave you all to guess
How prime!--to have a Jude in love's distress
Come spooning round, and murmuring balmilee,
"O crikey, Bill!"
For in such rorty wise doth Love express
His blooming views, and asks for your address,
And makes it right, and does the gay and free.
I kissed her--I did so! And her and me
Was pals. And if that ain't good business,
"O crikey, Bill!"

II. VILLANELLE

Now ain't they utterly too-too (She ses, my Missus mine, ses she), Them flymy little bits of Blue.

Joe, just you kool 'em--nice and skew Upon our old meogginee, Now ain't they utterly too-too?

They're better than a pot'n' a screw, They're equal to a Sunday spree, Them flymy little bits of Blue!

Suppose I put 'em up the flue, And booze the profits, Joe? Not me. Now ain't they utterly too-too?

I do the 'Igh Art fake, I do. Joe, I'm consummate; and I _see_ Them flymy little bits of Blue.

Which Joe, is why I ses ter you-- Æsthetic-like, and limp, and free-- Now _ain't_ they utterly too-too, Them flymy little bits of Blue?

III. BALLADE

I often does a quiet read
At Booty Shelly's poetry;
I thinks that Swinburne at a screed
Is really almost too too fly;
At Signor Vagna's harmony
I likes a merry little flutter;
I've had at Pater many a shy;
In fact, my form's the Bloomin' Utter.

My mark's a tidy little feed,
And 'Enery Irving's gallery,
To see old 'Amlick do a bleed,
And Ellen Terry on the die,
Or Frankey's ghostes at hi-spy,
And parties carried on a shutter.
Them vulgar Coupeaus is my eye!
In fact my form's the Bloomin' Utter.

The Grosvenor's nuts--it is, indeed!
I goes for 'Olman 'Unt like pie.
It's equal to a friendly lead
To see B. Jones's judes go by.
Stanhope he make me fit to cry.
Whistler he makes me melt like butter.
Strudwick he makes me flash my cly--
In fact, my form's the Bloomin' Utter.

ENVOY

I'm on for any Art that's 'Igh;
I talks as quiet as I can splutter;
I keeps a Dado on the sly;
In fact, my form's the Bloomin' Utter.

_William Ernest Henley._

THE LAWYER'S INVOCATION TO SPRING

Whereas, on certain boughs and sprays
Now divers birds are heard to sing,
And sundry flowers their heads upraise,
Hail to the coming on of Spring!

The songs of those said birds arouse
The memory of our youthful hours,
As green as those said sprays and boughs,
As fresh and sweet as those said flowers.

The birds aforesaid--happy pairs--
Love, 'mid the aforesaid boughs, inshrines
In freehold nests; themselves their heirs,
Administrators, and assigns.

O busiest term of Cupid's Court,
Where tender plaintiffs actions bring,--
Season of frolic and of sport,
Hail, as aforesaid, coming Spring!

_Henry Howard Brownell._

NORTH, EAST, SOUTH, AND WEST

AFTER R. K.

Oh! I have been North, and I have been South, and the East hath seen me pass, And the West hath cradled me on her breast, that is circled round with brass, And the world hath laugh'd at me, and I have laugh'd at the world alone, With a loud hee-haw till my hard-work'd jaw is stiff as a dead man's bone!

Oh! I have been up and I have been down and over the sounding sea, And the sea-birds cried as they dropp'd and died at the terrible sight of me, For my head was bound with a star, and crown'd with the fire of utmost hell, And I made this song with a brazen tongue and a more than fiendish yell:

"Oh! curse you all, for the sake of men who have liv'd and died for spite, And be doubly curst for the dark ye make where there ought to be but light, And be trebly curst by the deadly spell of a woman's lasting hate,-- And drop ye down to the mouth of hell who would climb to the Golden Gate!"

Then the world grew green, and grim and grey at the horrible noise I made, And held up its hands in a pious way when I call'd a spade a spade; But I cared no whit for the blame of it, and nothing at all for its praise, And the whole consign'd with a tranquil mind to a sempiternal blaze!

All this have I sped, and have brought me back to work at the set of sun, And I set my seal to the thoughts I feel in the twilight one by one, For I speak but sooth in the name of Truth when I write such things as these;

And the whole I send to a critical friend who is learnèd in Kiplingese!

_Unknown._

MARTIN LUTHER AT POTSDAM

What lightning shall light it? What thunder shall tell it?
In the height of the height, in the depth of the deep?
Shall the sea-storm declare it, or paint it, or smell it?
Shall the price of a slave be its treasure to keep?
When the night has grown near with the gems on her bosom,
When the white of mine eyes is the whiteness of snow,
When the cabman--in liquor--drives a blue roan, a kicker,
Into the land of the dear long ago.

Ah!--Ah, again!--You will come to me, fall on me--
You are _so_ heavy, and I am _so_ flat.
And I? I shall not be at home when you call on me,
But stray down the wind like a gentleman's hat:
I shall list to the stars when the music is purple,
Be drawn through a pipe, and exhaled into rings;
Turn to sparks, and then straightway get stuck in the gateway
That stands between speech and unspeakable things.

As I mentioned before, by what light is it lighted?
Oh! Is it fourpence, or piebald, or gray?
Is it a mayor that a mother has knighted
Or is it a horse of the sun and the day?
Is it a pony? If so, who will change it?
O golfer, be quiet, and mark where it scuds,
And think of its paces--of owners and races--
Relinquish the links for the study of studs.

Not understood? Take me hence! Take me yonder!
Take me away to the land of my rest--
There where the Ganges and other gees wander,
And uncles and antelopes act for the best,
And all things are mixed and run into each other
In a violet twilight of virtues and sins,
With the church-spires below you and no one to show you
Where the curate leaves off and the pew-rent begins!

In the black night through the rank grass the snakes peer--
The cobs and the cobras are partial to grass--
And a boy wanders out with a knowledge of Shakespeare
That's not often found in a boy of his class,
And a girl wanders out without any knowledge,
And a bird wanders out, and a cow wanders out,
Likewise one wether, and they wander together--
There's a good deal of wandering lying about.

But its all for the best; I've been told by my friends, Sir,
That in verses I'd written the meaning was slight;
I've tried with no meaning--to make 'em amends, Sir--
And find that this kind's still more easy to write.
The title has nothing to do with the verses,
But think of the millions--the laborers who
In busy employment find deepest enjoyment,
And yet, like my title, have nothing to do!

_Barry Pain._

AN IDYLL OF PHATTE AND LEENE

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

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

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

_Unknown._

THE HOUSE THAT JACK BUILT

And this reft house is that the which he built, Lamented Jack! and here his malt he piled. Cautious in vain! these rats that squeak so wild, Squeak not unconscious of their father's guilt. Did he not see her gleaming through the glade! Belike 'twas she, the maiden all forlorn. What though she milked no cow with crumpled horn, Yet, aye she haunts the dale where erst she strayed: And aye before her stalks her amorous knight! Still on his thighs their wonted brogues are worn, And through those brogues, still tattered and betorn, His hindward charms gleam an unearthly white.

_Samuel Taylor Coleridge._

PALABRAS GRANDIOSAS

AFTER T---- B---- A----

I lay i' the bosom of the sun, Under the roses dappled and dun. I thought of the Sultan Gingerbeer, In his palace beside the Bendemeer, With his Afghan guards and his eunuchs blind, And the harem that stretched for a league behind. The tulips bent i' the summer breeze, Under the broad chrysanthemum-trees, And the minstrel, playing his culverin, Made for mine ears a merry din, If I were the Sultan, and he were I, Here i' the grass he should loafing lie, And I should bestride my zebra steed, And ride to the hunt of the centipede: While the pet of the harem, Dandeline, Should fill me a crystal bucket of wine, And the kislar aga, Up-to-Snuff, Should wipe my mouth when I sighed, "Enough!" And the gay court poet, Fearfulbore, Should sit in the hall when the hunt was o'er, And chant me songs of silvery tone, Not from Hafiz, but--mine own!

Ah, wee sweet love, beside me here, I am not the Sultan Gingerbeer, Nor you the odalisque Dandeline, Yet I am yourn, and you are mine!

_Bayard Taylor._

A LOVE PLAYNT--1370

To yow, my Purse, and to noon other wighte, Complayne I, for ye be my lady dere! I am so sorry now that ye been lyghte, For, certes, yf ye make me hevy chere, Me were as leef be layde upon my beere. For whiche unto your mercie thus I crye, Beethe hevy ageyne, or elles mote I die!

Now voucheth sauf this day, or hyt be nighte, That I of yow the blissful soun may here, Or see your colour lyke the sunnè brighte, That of yellòwnesse haddè never pere. Ye be my lyf! ye be myn herty's stere! Quenè of comfort and good companye! Beethe hevy ageyne, or elles mote I die!

Now, Purse! that ben to me my lyve's lyghte, And surety as doune in this world here, Out of this toune helpè me through your myghte, Syn that you wole not bene my tresorere; For I am shave as nigh as is a frere. But I pray unto your curtesye, Beethe hevy ageyne, or elles mote I die!

_Godfrey Turner._

DARWINITY

Power to thine elbow, thou newest of sciences,
All the old landmarks are ripe for decay;
Wars are but shadows, and so are alliances,
Darwin the great is the man of the day.

All other 'ologies want an apology;
Bread's a mistake--Science offers a stone;
Nothing is true but Anthropobiology--
Darwin the great understands it alone.

Mighty the great evolutionist teacher is
Licking Morphology clean into shape;
Lord! what an ape the Professor or Preacher is
Ever to doubt his descent from an ape.

Man's an Anthropoid--he cannot help that, you know--
First evoluted from Pongos of old;
He's but a branch of the _catarrhine_ cat, you know--
Monkey I mean--that's an ape with a cold.

Fast dying out are man's later Appearances,
Cataclysmitic Geologies gone;
Now of Creation completed the clearance is,
Darwin alone you must anchor upon.

Primitive Life--Organisms were chemical,
Busting spontaneous under the sea;
Purely subaqueous, panaquademical,
Was the original Crystal of Me.

I'm the Apostle of mighty Darwinity,
Stands for Divinity--sounds much the same--
Apo-theistico-Pan-Asininity
Only can doubt whence the lot of us came.

Down on your knees, Superstition and Flunkeydom!
Won't you accept such plain doctrines instead?
What is so simple as primitive Monkeydom
Born in the sea with a cold in its head?

_Herman C. Merivale._

SELECT PASSAGES FROM A COMING PORT

DISENCHANTMENT

My Love has sicklied unto Loath,
And foul seems all that fair I fancied--
The lily's sheen's a leprous growth,
The very buttercups are rancid.

ABASEMENT

With matted head a-dabble in the dust, And eyes tear-sealèd in a saline crust I lie all loathly in my rags and rust-- Yet learn that strange delight may lurk in self-disgust.

STANZA WRITTEN IN DEPRESSION NEAR DULWICH

The lark soars up in the air;
The toad sits tight in his hole;
And I would I were certain which of the pair
Were the truer type of my soul!

TO MY LADY

Twine, lanken fingers, lily-lithe,
Gleam, slanted eyes, all beryl-green,
Pout, blood-red lips that burst a-writhe,
Then--kiss me, Lady Grisoline!

THE MONSTER

Uprears the monster now his slobberous head,
Its filamentous chaps her ankles brushing;
Her twice-five roseal toes are cramped in dread,
Each maidly instep mauven-pink is flushing.

A TRUMPET BLAST

Pale Patricians, sunk in self-indulgence,
Blink your blearèd eyes. Behold the Sun--
Burst proclaim in purpurate effulgence,
Demos dawning, and the Darkness done!

_F. Anstey._

THE ROMAUNT OF HUMPTY DUMPTY

'Tis midnight, and the moonbeam sleeps
Upon the garden sward;
My lady in yon turret keeps
Her tearful watch and ward.
"Beshrew me!" mutters, turning pale,
The stalwart seneschal;
"What's he, that sitteth, clad in mail
Upon our castle wall?"

"Arouse thee, friar of orders grey; What ho! bring book and bell! Ban yonder ghastly thing, I say; And, look ye, ban it well! By cock and pye, the Humpty's face!" The form turned quickly round; Then totter'd from its resting-place--

* * * * *

That night the corse was found.

The king, with hosts of fighting men
Rode forth at break of day;
Ah! never gleamed the sun till then
On such a proud array.
But all that army, horse and foot,
Attempted, quite in vain,
Upon the castle wall to put
The Humpty up again.

_Henry S. Leigh._

THE WEDDING

Lady Clara Vere de Vere! I hardly know what I must say, But I'm to be Queen of the May, mother, I'm to be Queen of the May! I am half-crazed; I don't feel grave, Let me rave!

Whole weeks and months, early and late,
To win his love I lay in wait.
Oh, the Earl was fair to see,
As fair as any man could be;--
The wind is howling in turret and tree!

We two shall be wed tomorrow morn,
And I shall be the Lady Clare,
And when my marriage morn shall fall,
I hardly know what I shall wear.
But I shan't say "my life is dreary,"
And sadly hang my head,
With the remark, "I'm very weary,
And wish that I were dead."

But on my husband's arm I'll lean, And roundly waste his plenteous gold, Passing the honeymoon serene In that new world which is the old. For down we'll go and take the boat Beside St. Katherine's docks afloat, Which round about its prow has wrote-- "The Lady of Shalotter" (Mondays and Thursdays,--Captain Foat), Bound for the Dam of Rotter.

_Thomas Hood, Jr._

IN MEMORIAM TECHNICAM

I count it true which sages teach--
That passion sways not with repose,
That love, confounding these with those,
Is ever welding each with each.

And so when time has ebbed away,
Like childish wreaths too lightly held,
The song of immemorial eld
Shall moan about the belted bay.

Where slant Orion slopes his star,
To swelter in the rolling seas,
Till slowly widening by degrees
The grey climbs upward from afar.

And golden youth and passion stray
Along the ridges of the strand,--
Not far apart, but hand in hand,--
With all the darkness danced away!

_Thomas Hood, Jr._

"SONGS WITHOUT WORDS"

I cannot sing the old songs,
Though well I know the tune,
Familiar as a cradle-song
With sleep-compelling croon;
Yet though I'm filled with music
As choirs of summer birds
"I cannot sing the old songs"--
I do not know the words.

I start on "Hail Columbia,"
And get to "heav'n-born band,"
And there I strike an up-grade
With neither steam nor sand;
"Star Spangled Banner" downs me
Right in my wildest screaming,
I start all right, but dumbly come
To voiceless wreck at "streaming."

So, when I sing the old songs,
Don't murmur or complain
If "Ti, diddy ah da, tum dum,"
Should fill the sweetest strain.
I love "Tolly um dum di do,"
And the "trilla-la yeep da" birds,
But "I cannot sing the old songs"--
I do not know the words.

_Robert J. Burdette._

AT THE SIGN OF THE COCK

FRENCH STYLE, 1898

Being an Ode in further "Contribution to the Song of French History," dedicated, without malice or permission to Mr. George Meredith.

I

Rooster her sign, Rooster her pugnant note, she struts Evocative, amazon spurs aprick at heel; Nid-nod the authentic stump Of the once ensanguined comb vermeil as wine; With conspuent doodle-doo Hails breach o' the hectic dawn of yon New Year, Last issue up to date Of quiverful Fate Evolved spontaneous; hails with tenant trump The spiriting prime o' the clashed carillon-peal; Ruffling her caudal plumes derisive of scuts; Inconscient how she stalks an immarcessibly absurd Bird.

II

Mark where her Equatorial Pioneer Delirant on the tramp goes littoralwise. His Flag at furl, portmanteaued; drains to the dregs The penultimate brandy-bottle, coal-on-the-head-piece gift Of who avenged the Old Sea-Rover's smirch. Marchant he treads the all-along of inarable drift On dubiously connivent legs, The facile prey of predatory flies; Panting for further; sworn to lurch Empirical on to the Menelik-buffered, enhavened blue, Rhyming--see Cantique I.--with doodle-doo.

III

Infuriate she kicked against Imperial fact; Vulnant she felt What pin-stab should have stained Another's pelt Puncture her own Colonial lung-balloon, Volant to nigh meridian. Whence rebuffed, The perjured Scythian she lacked At need's pinch, sick with spleen of the rudely cuffed Below her breath she cursed; she cursed the hour When on her spring for him the young Tyrannical broke Amid the unhallowed wedlock's vodka-shower, She passionate, he dispassionate; tricked Her wits to eye-blind; borrowed the ready as for dower; Till from the trance of that Hymettus-moon She woke, A nuptial-knotted derelict; Pensioned with Rescripts other aid declined By the plumped leech saturate urging Peace In guise of heavy-armed Gospeller to men, Tyrannical unto fraternal equal liberal, her. Not she; Not till Alsace her consanguineous find What red deteutonising artillery Shall shatter her beer-reek alien police The just-now pluripollent; not till then.

IV

More pungent yet the esoteric pain Squeezing her pliable vitals nourishes feud Insanely grumous, grumously insane. For lo! Past common balmly on the Bordereau, Churns she the skim o' the gutter's crust With Anti-Judaic various carmagnole, Whooped praise of the Anti-just; Her boulevard brood Gyratory in convolvements militant-mad; Theatrical of faith in the Belliform, Her Og, Her Monstrous. Fled what force she had To buckle the jaw-gape, wide agog For the Preconcerted One, The Anticipated, ripe to clinch the whole; Queen-bee to hive the hither and thither volant swarm.

Bides she his coming; adumbrates the new Expurgatorial Divine, Her final effulgent Avatar, Postured outside a trampling mastodon Black as her Baker's charger; towering; visibly gorged With blood of traitors. Knee-grip stiff, Spine straightened, on he rides; Embossed the Patriot's brow with hieroglyph Of martial _dossiers_, nothing forged About him save his armour. So she bides Voicing his advent indeterminably far, Rooster her sign, Rooster her conspuent doodle-doo.

V

Behold her, pranked with spurs for bloody sport, How she acclaims, A crapulous chanticleer, Breach of the hectic dawn of yon New Year. Not yet her fill of rumours sucked; Inebriate of honour; blushfully wroth; Tireless to play her old primeval games; Her plumage preened the yet unplucked Like sails of a galleon, rudder hard amort With crepitant mast Fronting the hazard to dare of a dual blast The intern and the extern, blizzards both.

_Owen Seaman._

PRESTO FURIOSO

AFTER WALT WHITMAN

Spontaneous Us! O my Camarados! I have no delicatesse as a diplomat, but I go blind on Libertad! Give me the flap-flap of the soaring Eagle's pinions! Give me the tail of the British lion tied in a knot inextricable, not to be solved anyhow! Give me a standing army (I say "give me," because just at present we want one badly, armies being often useful in time of war).

I see our superb fleet (I take it that we are to have a superb fleet built almost immediately); I observe the crews prospectively; they are constituted of various nationalities, not necessarily American; I see them sling the slug and chew the plug; I hear the drum begin to hum;

Both the above rhymes are purely accidental, and contrary to my principles. We shall wipe the floor of the mill-pond with the scalps of able-bodied British tars! I see Professor Edison about to arrange for us a torpedo-hose on wheels, likewise an infernal electro-semaphore; I see Henry Irving dead sick and declining to play Corporal Brewster; Cornell, I yell! I yell Cornell!

I note the Manhattan boss leaving his dry-goods store and investing in a small Gatling-gun and a ten-cent banner; I further note the Identity evolved out of forty-four spacious and thoughtful States; I note Canada as shortly to be merged in that Identity; similarly Van Diemen's Land, Gibraltar, and Stratford-on-Avon; Briefly, I see creation whipped!

O ye Colonels! I am with you (I too am a Colonel and on the pension-list); I drink to the lot of you; to Colonels Cleveland, Hitt, Vanderbilt, Chauncey M. Depew, O'Donovan Rossa, and the late Colonel Monroe; I drink an egg-flip, a morning-caress, an eye-opener, a maiden-bosom, a vermuth-cocktail, three sherry-cobblers, and a gin-sling! Good old Eagle!

_Owen Seaman._

TO JULIA IN SHOOTING TOGS AND A HERRICKOSE VEIN

When as to shoot my Julia goes, Then, then (methinks), how bravely shows That rare arrangement of her clothes!

So shod as when the Huntress Maid With thumping buskin bruised the glade, She moveth, making earth afraid.

Against the sting of random chaff Her leathern gaiters circle half The arduous crescent of her calf.

Unto th' occasion timely fit, My love's attire doth show her wit, And of her legs a little bit.

Sorely it sticketh in my throat, She having nowhere to bestow't To name the absent petticoat.

In lieu whereof a wanton pair Of knickerbockers she doth wear, Full windy and with space to spare.

Enlargèd by the bellying breeze, Lord! how they playfully do ease The urgent knocking of her knees!

Lengthways curtailèd to her taste A tunic circumvents her waist, And soothly it is passing chaste.

Upon her head she hath a gear Even such as wights of ruddy cheer Do use in stalking of the deer.

Haply her truant tresses mock Some coronal of shapelier block, To wit, the bounding billy-cock.

Withal she hath a loaded gun, Whereat the pheasants, as they run, Do make a fair diversiòn.

For very awe, if so she shoots, My hair upriseth from the roots, And lo! I tremble in my boots!

_Owen Seaman._

FAREWELL

PROVOKED BY CALVERLEY's "FOREVER"

"Farewell!" Another gloomy word
As ever into language crept.
'Tis often written, never heard,
Except

In playhouse. Ere the hero flits--
In handcuffs--from our pitying view.
"Farewell!" he murmurs, then exits
R. U.

"Farewell" is much too sighful for
An age that has not time to sigh.
We say, "I'll see you later," or
"Good by!"

When, warned by chanticleer, you go
From her to whom you owe devoir,
"Say not 'good by,'" she laughs, "but
'Au Revoir!'"

Thus from the garden are you sped;
And Juliet were the first to tell
You, you were silly if you said
"Farewell!"

"Farewell," meant long ago, before
It crept, tear-spattered, into song,
"Safe voyage!" "Pleasant journey!" or
"So long!"

But gone its cheery, old-time ring;
The poets made it rhyme with knell--
Joined it became a dismal thing--
"Farewell!"

"Farewell!" into the lover's soul
You see Fate plunge the fatal iron.
All poets use it. It's the whole
Of Byron.

"I only feel--farewell!" said he;
And always fearful was the telling--
Lord Byron was eternally
Farewelling.

"Farewell!" A dismal word, 'tis true
(And why not tell the truth about it!);
But what on earth would poets do
Without it?

_Bert Leston Taylor._

HERE IS THE TALE

AFTER RUDYARD KIPLING

_Here is the tale--and you must make the most of it!
Here is the rhyme--ah, listen and attend!
Backwards--forwards--read it all and boast of it
If you are anything the wiser at the end!_

Now Jack looked up--it was time to sup, and the bucket was yet to fill, And Jack looked round for a space and frowned, then beckoned his sister Jill, And twice he pulled his sister's hair, and thrice he smote her side; "Ha' done, ha' done with your impudent fun--ha' done with your games!" she cried; "You have made mud-pies of a marvellous size--finger and face are black, You have trodden the Way of the Mire and Clay--now up and wash you, Jack! Or else, or ever we reach our home, there waiteth an angry dame-- Well you know the weight of her blow--the supperless open shame! Wash, if you will, on yonder hill--wash, if you will, at the spring,-- Or keep your dirt, to your certain hurt, and an imminent walloping!"