Chapter XIV: Part II (2)

My long lithe lily, my languid lily, My lank limp lily-love, how shall I win-- Woo thee to wink at me? Silver lily, How shall I sing to thee, softly or shrilly? What shall I weave for thee--what shall I spin-- Rondel, or rondeau, or virelai? Shall I buzz like a bee with my face thrust in Thy choice, chaste chalice, or choose me a tin Trumpet, or touchingly, tenderly play On the weird bird-whistle, _sweeter than sin_, That I bought for a halfpenny yesterday. My languid lily, my lank limp lily, My long lithe lily-love, men may grin-- Say that I'm soft and supremely silly-- What care I while you whisper stilly; What care I while you smile? Not a pin! While you smile, you whisper--'Tis sweet to decay?

I have watered with chlorodine, tears of chagrin, The churchyard mould I have planted thee in, Upside down in an intense way, In a rough red flower-pot, _sweeter than sin_, That I bought for a halfpenny yesterday.

_Unknown._

GILLIAN

Jack and Jille
I have made me an end of the moods of maidens,
I have loosed me, and leapt from the links of love;
From the kiss that cloys and desire that deadens,
The woes that madden, the words that move.
In the dim last days of a spent September,
When fruits are fallen, and flies are fain;
Before you forget, and while I remember,
I cry as I shall cry never again.

Went up a hylle
Where the strong fell faints in the lazy levels
Of misty meadows, and streams that stray;
We raised us at eve from our rosy revels,
With the faces aflame for the death of the day;
With pale lips parted, and sighs that shiver,
Low lids that cling to the last of love:
We left the levels, we left the river,
And turned us and toiled to the air above.

To fetch a paile of water,
By the sad sweet springs that have salved our sorrow,
The fates that haunt us, the grief that grips--
Where we walk not to-day nor shall walk not tomorrow
The wells of Lethe for wearied lips.
With souls nor shaken with tears nor laughter,
With limp knees loosed as of priests that pray,
We bowed us and bent to the white well-water,
We dipped and we drank it and bore away.

Jack felle downe
The low light trembled on languid lashes,
The haze of your hair on my mouth was blown,
Our love flashed fierce from its fading ashes,
As night's dim net on the day was thrown.
What was it meant for, or made for, that minute,
But that our lives in delight should be dipt?
Was it yours, or my fault, or fate's, that in it
Our frail feet faltered, our steep steps slipt.

And brake his crowne, and Jille came tumblynge after.
Our linked hands loosened and lapsed in sunder,
Love from our limbs as a shift was shed,
But paused a moment, to watch with wonder
The pale pained body, the bursten head.
While our sad souls still with regrets are riven,
While the blood burns bright on our bruised brows,
I have set you free, and I stand forgiven--
And now I had better go call my cows.

_Unknown._

EXTRACTS FKOM THE RUBAIYAT OF OMAR CAYENNE

Wake! for the Hack can scatter into flight Shakespeare and Dante in a single Night! The Penny-a-Liner is Abroad, and strikes Our Modern Literature with blithering Blight.

Before Historical Romances died, Methought a Voice from Art's Olympus cried, "When all Dumas and Scott is still for Sale, Why nod o'er drowsy Tales, by Tyros tried?"

A Book of Limericks--Nonsense, anyhow-- Alice in Wonderland, the Purple Cow Beside me singing on Fifth Avenue-- Ah, this were Modern Literature enow!

Ah, my Beloved, write the Book that clears |To-Day| of dreary Debt and sad Arrears; To-morrow!--Why, To-Morrow I may see My Nonsense popular as Edward Lear's.

And we, that now within the Editor's Room Make merry while we have our little Boom, Ourselves must we give way to next month's Set-- Girls with Three Names, who know not Who from Whom!

As then the Poet for his morning Sup Fills with a Metaphor his mental Cup, Do you devoutly read your Manuscripts That Someone may, before you burn them up!

And if the Bosh you write, the Trash you read, End in the Garbage-Barrel--take no Heed; Think that you are no worse than other Scribes, Who scribble Stuff to meet the Public Need.

So, when |Who's-Who| records your silly Name, You'll think that you have found the Road to Fame; And though ten thousand other Names are there, You'll fancy you're a Genius, just the Same!

Why, if an Author can fling Art aside, And in a Book of Balderdash take pride, Were't not a Shame--were't not a Shame for him A Conscientious Novel to have tried?

And fear not, if the Editor refuse Your work, he has no more from which to choose; The Literary Microbe shall bring forth Millions of Manuscripts too bad to use.

The Woman's Touch runs through our Magazines; For her the Home, and Mother-Tale, and Scenes Of Love-and-Action, Happy at the End-- The same old Plots, the same old Ways and Means.

But if, in spite of this, you build a Plot Which these immortal Elements has not, You gaze |To-Day| upon a Slip, which reads, "The Editor Regrets"--and such-like Rot.

Waste not your Ink, and don't attempt to use That subtle Touch which Editors refuse; Better be jocund at two cents a word, Than, starving, court an ill-requited Muse!

Strange--is it not?--that of the Authors who Publish in England, such a mighty Few Make a Success, though here they score a Hit? The British Public knows a Thing or Two!

The Scribe no question makes of Verse or Prose, But what the Editor demands, he shows; And he who buys three thousand words of Drool, He knows what People want--you Bet He knows!

Would but some wingèd Angel bring the News Of Critic who reads Books that he Reviews, And make the stern Reviewer do as well Himself, before he Meed of Praise refuse!

Ah, Love, could you and I perchance succeed In boiling down the Million Books we read Into One Book, and edit that a Bit-- There'd be a |World's Best Literature| indeed!

_Gelett Burgess._

DIVERSIONS OF THE RE-ECHO CLUB

It is with pleasure that we announce our ability to offer to the public the papers of the Re-Echo Club. This club, somewhat after the order of the Echo Club, late of Boston, takes pleasure in trying to better what is done. On the occasion of the meeting of which the following gems of poesy are the result, the several members of the club engaged to write up the well-known tradition of the Purple Cow in more elaborate form than the quatrain made famous by Mr. Gelett Burgess:

"I never saw a Purple Cow,
I never hope to see one;
But I can tell you, anyhow,
I'd rather see than be one."

The first attempt here cited is the production of Mr. John Milton:

Hence, vain, deluding cows.
The herd of folly, without colour bright,
How little you delight,
Or fill the Poet's mind, or songs arouse!
But, hail! thou goddess gay of feature!
Hail, divinest purple creature!
Oh, Cow, thy visage is too bright
To hit the sense of human sight.
And though I'd like, just once, to see thee,
I never, never, never'd be thee!

MR. P. BYSSHE SHELLEY:

Hail to thee, blithe spirit!
Cow thou never wert;
But in life to cheer it
Playest thy full part
In purple lines of unpremeditated art.

The pale purple colour
Melts around thy sight
Like a star, but duller,
In the broad daylight.
I'd see thee, but I would not be thee if I might.

We look before and after
At cattle as they browse;
Our most hearty laughter
Something sad must rouse.
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of Purple Cows.

MR. W. WORDSWORTH:

She dwelt among the untrodden ways
Beside the springs of Dee;
A Cow whom there were few to praise
And very few to see.

A violet by a mossy stone
Greeting the smiling East
Is not so purple, I must own,
As that erratic beast.
She lived unknown, that Cow, and so
I never chanced to see;
But if I had to be one, oh,
The difference to me!

MR. T. GRAY:

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea;
I watched them slowly wend their weary way,
But, ah, a Purple Cow I did not see.
Full many a cow of purplest ray serene
Is haply grazing where I may not see;
Full many a donkey writes of her, I ween,
But neither of these creatures would I be.

MR. J. W. RILEY:

There, little Cow, don't cry!
You are brindle and brown, I know.
And with wild, glad hues
Of reds and blues,
You never will gleam and glow.
But though not pleasing to the eye,
There, little Cow, don't cry, don't cry.

LORD A. TENNYSON:

Ask me no more. A cow I fain would see
Of purple tint, like to a sun-soaked grape--
Of purple tint, like royal velvet cape--
But such a creature I would never be--
Ask me no more.

MR. R. BROWNING:

All that I know
Of a certain Cow
Is it can throw,
Somewhere, somehow,
Now a dart of red,
Now a dart of blue
(That makes purple, 'tis said).
I would fain see, too.
This Cow that darkles the red and the blue!

MR. J. KEATS:

A cow of purple is a joy forever. Its loveliness increases. I have never Seen this phenomenon. Yet ever keep A brave lookout; lest I should be asleep When she comes by. For, though I would not be one, I've oft imagined 'twould be joy to see one.

MR. D. G. ROSSETTI:

The Purple Cow strayed in the glade;
(Oh, my soul! but the milk is blue!)
She strayed and strayed and strayed and strayed
(And I wail and I cry Wa-hoo!)

I've never seen her--nay, not I;
(Oh, my soul! but the milk is blue!)
Yet were I that Cow I should want to die.
(And I wail and I cry Wa-hoo!)
But in vain my tears I strew.

MR. T. ALDRICH:

Somewhere in some faked nature place,
In Wonderland, in Nonsense Land,
Two darkling shapes met face to face,
And bade each other stand.

"And who are you?" said each to each;
"Tell me your title, anyhow."
One said, "I am the Papal Bull,"
"And I the Purple Cow."

MR. E. ALLAN POE:

Open then I flung a shutter,
And, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a Purple Cow which gayly tripped around my floor.
Not the least obeisance made she,
Not a moment stopped or stayed she,
But with mien of chorus lady perched herself above my door.
On a dusty bust of Dante perched and sat above my door.

And that Purple Cow unflitting
Still is sitting--still is sitting
On that dusty bust of Dante just above my chamber door,
And her horns have all the seeming
Of a demon's that is screaming,
And the arc-light o'er her streaming
Casts her shadow on the floor.
And my soul from out that pool of Purple shadow on the floor,
Shall be lifted Nevermore!

MR. H. LONGFELLOW:

The day is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wing of night
As ballast is wafted downward
From an air-ship in its flight.

I dream of a purple creature
Which is not as kine are now;
And resembles cattle only
As Cowper resembles a cow.

Such cows have power to quiet
Our restless thoughts and rude;
They come like the Benedictine
That follows after food.

MR. A. SWINBURNE:

Oh, Cow of rare rapturous vision,
Oh, purple, impalpable Cow,
Do you browse in a Dream Field Elysian,
Are you purpling pleasantly now?
By the side of wan waves do you languish?
Or in the lithe lush of the grove?
While vainly I search in my anguish,
O Bovine of mauve!

Despair in my bosom is sighing,
Hope's star has sunk sadly to rest;
Though cows of rare sorts I am buying,
Not one breathes a balm to my breast.
Oh, rapturous rose-crowned occasion,
When I such a glory might see!
But a cow of a purple persuasion
I never would be.

MR. A. DOBSON:

I'd love to see
A Purple Cow,
Oh, Goodness me!
I'd love to see
But not to be
One. Anyhow,
I'd love to see
A Purple Cow.

MR. O. HERFORD:

Children, observe the Purple Cow, You cannot see her, anyhow; And, little ones, you need not hope Your eyes will e'er attain such scope. But if you ever have a choice To be, or see, lift up your voice And choose to see. For surely you Don't want to browse around and moo.

MR. H. C. BUNNER:

_Oh, what's the way to Arcady, Where all the cows are purple?_ Ah, woe is me! I never hope On such a sight my eyes to ope; But as I sing in merry glee Along the road to Arcady, Perchance full soon I may espy A Purple Cow come dancing by. Heigho! I then shall see one. Her horns bedecked with ribbons gay, And garlanded with rosy may,-- A tricksy sight. Still I must say I'd rather see than be one.

MR. A. SWINBURNE:

(Who was so enthused that he made a second attempt.)

Only in dim, drowsy depths of a dream do I dare to delight in deliciously dreaming Cows there may be of a passionate purple,--cows of a violent violet hue;

Ne'er have I seen such a sight, I am certain it is but a demi-delirious
dreaming--
Ne'er may I happily harbour a hesitant hope in my heart that my dream
may come true.

Sad is my soul, and my senses are sobbing so strong is my strenuous spirit to see one. Dolefully, drearily doomed to despair as warily wearily watching I wait;

Thoughts thickly thronging are thrilling and throbbing; to _see_ is a
glorious gain--but to _be_ one!
That were a darker and direfuller destiny, that were a fearfuller,
frightfuller fate!

MR. R. KIPLING:

In the old ten-acre pasture,
Lookin' eastward toward a tree,
There's a Purple Cow a-settin'
And I know she thinks of me.
For the wind is in the gum-tree,
And the hay is in the mow,
And the cow-bells are a-calling
"Come and see a Purple Cow!"

But I am not going now,
Not at present, anyhow,
For I am not fond of purple, and
I can't abide a cow;
No, I shall not go to-day,
Where the Purple Cattle play.
But I think I'd rather see one
Than to be one, anyhow.

_Carolyn Wells._

STYX RIVER ANTHOLOGY

ALICE BEN BOLT

I couldn't help weeping with delight When the boys kissed me and called me sweet. It was foolish, I know, To weep when I was glad; But I was young and I wasn't very well. I was nervous, weak, anemic, A sort of human mimosa; and I hadn't much brains, And my mind wouldn't jell, anyhow. That's why I trembled with fear when they frowned. But they didn't frown often, For I was sweetly pretty and most pliable. But, oh, the grim joke of asking Ben Bolt if he remembered me! Me! Why, it was Ben Bolt who-- Well, never mind. He paid for this granite slab, And it's as stylish as any in the church yard. But I wish I had a more becoming shroud.

THE BLESSED DAMOZEL

I was one of those long, lanky, loose-jointed girls Who fool people into believing They are willowy and psychic and mysterious. I was always hungry; I never ate enough to satisfy me, For fear I'd get fat. Oh, how little the world knows of the bitterness of life To a woman who tries to keep thin! Many thought I died of a broken heart, But it was an empty stomach. Then Mr. Rossetti wrote about me. He described me all dolled up in some ladies' wearing apparel That I wore at a fancy ball. I had fasted all day, and had had my hair marcelled And my face corrected. And I _was_ a dream. But he seemed to think he really saw me, Seemed to think I appeared to him after my death. Oh, fudge! Those spiritualists are always seeing things!

ENOCH ARDEN

Yes, it was the eternal triangle, Only they didn't call it that then. Of course everybody thought I was all broken up When I found Annie wed to Philip, But, as a matter of fact, I didn't care so much; For she was one of those self-starting weepers, And a man can't stand blubbering all the time. And, then, of course, When I was off on that long sea trip-- Oh, well, you know what sailors are.

LITTLE EVA

To be honest, I didn't mind dying, For I had One of these here now Dressy deaths. It was staged, you know, And, like Samson, My death brought down the house. I was a smarty kid, And they were less frequent then than later. Oh, I was the Mary Pickford of my time, And I rest content With my notoriety.

LUCY

Yes, I am in my grave, And you bet it makes a difference to him! For we were to be married,--at least, I think we were, And he'd made me promise to deed him the house. But I had to go and get appendicitis, And they took me to the hospital. It was a nice hospital, clean, And Tables Reserved For Ladies. Well, my heart gave out. He came and stood over my grave, And registered deep concern. And now, he's going round with that Hen-minded Hetty What's-her-name! Her with her Whistler's Mother and her Baby Stuart On her best-room wall! And I hate her, and I'm glad she squints. Well, I suppose I lived my life, But it was Life in name only. And I'm mad at the whole world!

OPHELIA

No, it wasn't suicide, But I had heard so much of those mud baths, I thought I'd try one. Ugh! it was a mess! Weeds, slime, and tangled vines! Oh, me! Had I been Annette Kellerman Or even a real mermaid, I had lived to tell the tale. But I slid down and under, And so Will Shaxpur told it for me. Just as well. But I think my death scene is unexcelled By any in cold print. It beats that scrawny, red-headed old thing of Tom Hood's All hollow!

CASABLANCA

I played to the Grand Stand! Sure I did, And I made good. Ain't I in McGuffey's Third Reader? Don't they speak pieces about me Friday afternoons? Don't everybody know the first two lines of my story,-- And no more? Say, I was there with the goods, Wasn't I? And it paid. But I wish Movin' Pitchers had been invented then!

ANNABEL LEE

They may say all they like About germs and micro-crocuses,-- Or whatever they are! But my set opinion is,-- If you want to get a good, old-fashioned chills and fever, Just poke around In a damp, messy place by the sea, Without rubbers on. A good cold wind, Blowing out of a cloud, by night, Will give you a harder shaking ague Than all the bacilli in the Basilica. It did me.

ANGUS MCPHAIRSON

Oh, of course, It's always some dratted petticoat! Just because that little flibbertigibbet, Annie Laurie Had a white throat and a blue e'e, She played the very devil with my peace of mind. She'd dimple at me Till I was aboot crazy; And then laugh at me through her dimples! She was my bespoke. And I'd beg her to have the banns called,-- But there was no pinning her down. Well, she was so bonny That like a fool, I said I'd lay me doon And dee for her. And,--like a fool,-- I did.

_Carolyn Wells._

ANSWER TO MASTER WITHER'S SONG, "SHALL I, WASTING IN DESPAIR?"

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

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

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

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

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

_Ben Jonson._

SONG OF THE SPRINGTIDE

O Season supposed of all free flowers,
Made lovely by light of the sun,
Of garden, of field, and of tree-flowers,
Thy singers are surely in fun!
Or what is it wholly unsettles
Thy sequence of shower and shine,
And maketh thy pushings and petals
To shrivel and pine?

Why is it that o'er the wild waters
That beastly North-Easter still blows,
Dust-dimming the eyes of our daughters,
Blue-nipping each nice little nose?
Why is it these sea-skirted islands
Are plagued with perpetual chills,
Driving men to Italian or Nile-lands
From Albion's ills?

Happy he, O Springtide, who hath found thee,
All sunlit, in luckier lands,
With thy garment of greenery round thee,
And belted with blossomy bands.
From us by the blast thou art drifted,
All brag of thy beauties is bosh;
When the songs of thy singers are sifted,
They simply won't wash.

What lunatic lune, what vain vision,
Thy laureate, Springtide, may move
To sing thee,--oh, bitter derision!
A season of laughter and love?
You make a man mad beyond measure,
O Spring, and thy lauders like thee:
Thy flowers, thy pastimes and pleasures,
Are fiddlededee!

_Unknown._

THE VILLAGE CHOIR

Half a bar, half a bar, Half a bar onward! Into an awful ditch Choir and precentor hitch, Into a mess of pitch, They led the Old Hundred. Trebles to right of them, Tenors to left of them, Basses in front of them, Bellowed and thundered. Oh, that precentor's look, When the sopranos took Their own time and hook From the Old Hundred! Screeched all the trebles here, Boggled the tenors there, Raising the parson's hair, While his mind wandered; Theirs not to reason why This psalm was pitched too high: Theirs but to gasp and cry Out the Old Hundred. Trebles to right of them, Tenors to left of them, Basses in front of them, Bellowed and thundered.

Stormed they with shout and yell, Not wise they sang nor well, Drowning the sexton's bell, While all the church wondered.

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

_Unknown._

MY FOE

John Alcohol, my foe, John,
When we were first acquaint,
I'd siller in my pockets, John,
Which noo, ye ken, I want;
I spent it all in treating, John,
Because I loved you so;
But mark ye, how you've treated me,
John Alcohol, my foe.

John Alcohol, my foe, John,
We've been ower lang together,
Sae ye maun tak' ae road, John,
And I will take anither;
For we maun tumble down, John,
If hand in hand we go;
And I shall hae the bill to pay,
John Alcohol, my foe.

John Alcohol, my foe, John,
Ye've blear'd out a' my een,
And lighted up my nose, John,
A fiery sign atween!
My hands wi' palsy shake, John,
My locks are like the snow;
Ye'll surely be the death of me,
John Alcohol, my foe.

John Alcohol, my foe, John,
'Twas love to you, I ween,
That gart me rise sae ear', John,
And sit sae late at e'en;
The best o' friens maun part, John,
It grieves me sair, ye know;
But "we'll nae mair to yon town,"
John Alcohol, my foe.

John Alcohol, my foe, John,
Ye've wrought me muckle skaith;
And yet to part wi' you, John,
I own I'm unko' laith;
But I'll join the temperance ranks, John,
Ye needna say me no;
It's better late than ne'er do weel,
John Alcohol, my foe.

_Unknown._

NURSERY SONG IN PIDGIN ENGLISH

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

_Unknown._

FATHER WILLIAM

"You are old, Father William," the young man said,
"And your nose has a look of surprise;
Your eyes have turned round to the back of your head,
And you live upon cucumber pies."
"I know it, I know it," the old man replied,
"And it comes from employing a quack,
Who said if I laughed when the crocodile died
I should never have pains in my back."

"You are old, Father William," the young man said,
"And your legs always get in your way;
You use too much mortar in mixing your bread,
And you try to drink timothy hay."
"Very true, very true," said the wretched old man,
"Every word that you tell me is true;
And it's caused by my having my kerosene can
Painted red where it ought to be blue."

"You are old, Father William," the young man said,
"And your teeth are beginning to freeze,
Your favorite daughter has wheels in her head,
And the chickens are eating your knees."
"You are right," said the old man, "I cannot deny,
That my troubles are many and great,
But I'll butter my ears on the Fourth of July,
And then I'll be able to skate."

_Unknown._

A POE-'EM OF PASSION

It was many and many a year ago,
On an island near the sea,
That a maiden lived whom you mightn't know
By the name of Cannibalee;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than a passionate fondness for me.

I was a child, and she was a child--
Tho' her tastes were adult Feejee--
But she loved with a love that was more than love,
My yearning Cannibalee;
With a love that could take me roast or fried
Or raw, as the case might be.

And that is the reason that long ago,
In that island near the sea,
I had to turn the tables and eat
My ardent Cannibalee--
Not really because I was fond of her,
But to check her fondness for me.

But the stars never rise but I think of the size Of my hot-potted Cannibalee, And the moon never stares but it brings me nightmares Of my spare-rib Cannibalee; And all the night-tide she is restless inside, Is my still indigestible dinner-belle bride, In her pallid tomb, which is Me, In her solemn sepulcher, Me.

_C. F. Lummis._

HOW THE DAUGHTERS COME DOWN AT DUNOON

How do the daughters
Come down at Dunoon?
Daintily,
Tenderly,
Fairily,
Gingerly,
Glidingly,
Slidingly,
Slippingly,
Skippingly,
Trippingly,
Clippingly,
Bumpingly,
Thumpingly,
Stumpingly,
Clumpingly,
Starting and bolting,
And darting and jolting,
And tottering and staggering,
And lumbering and slithering,
And hurrying and scurrying,
And worrying and flurrying,
And rushing and leaping and crushing and creeping;
Feathers a-flying all--bonnets untying all--
Petticoats rapping and flapping and slapping all,
Crinolines flowing and blowing and showing all
Balmorals, dancing and glancing, entrancing all;
Feats of activity--
Nymphs on declivity--
Mothers in extacies--
Fathers in vextacies--
Lady-loves whisking and frisking and clinging on
True-lovers puffing and blowing and springing on,
Dashing and clashing and shying and flying on,
Blushing and flushing and wriggling and giggling on,
Teasing and pleasing and squeezing and wheezing on,
Everlastingly falling and bawling and sprawling on,
Tumbling and rumbling and grumbling and stumbling on,
Any fine afternoon,
About July or June--
That's just how the Daughters
Come down at Dunoon!

_H. Cholmondeley Pennell._

TO AN IMPORTUNATE HOST

DURING DINNER AND AFTER TENNYSON

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

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

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

_Unknown._

CREMATION

BY A BURNING ADMIRER OF SIR HENRY THOMPSON

To Urn, or not to Urn? that is the question: Whether 'tis nobler for our frames to suffer The shows and follies of outrageous custom, Or to take fire--against a sea of zealots And by consuming, end them? To Urn--to keep-- No more: and while we keep, to say we end Contagion and the thousand graveyard ills That flesh is heir to--'tis a consume-ation Devoutly to be wished! To burn--to keep-- To keep! Perchance to lose--aye, there's the rub: For in the course of things what duns may come, Or who may shuffle off our Dresden urn, Must give us pause. There's the respect That makes inter-i-ment of so long use. For who would have the pall and plumes of hire, The tradesman's prize--a proud man's obsequies, The chaffering for graves, the legal fee, The cemetery beadle and the rest, When he himself might his few ashes make With a mere furnace? Who would tombstones bear, And lie beneath a lying epitaph, But that the dread of simmering after death-- That uncongenial furnace from whose burn No incremate returns--weakens the will, And makes us rather bear the graves we have Than fly to ovens that we know not of? This, Thompson, does make cowards of us all. And thus the wisdom of incineration Is thick-laid o'er with the pale ghost of nought, And incremators of great pith and courage With this regard their faces turn awry, And shudder at cremation.

_William Sawyer._

AN IMITATION OF WORDSWORTH

There is a river clear and fair, 'Tis neither broad nor narrow; It winds a little here and there-- It winds about like any hare; And then it takes as straight a course As on the turnpike road a horse, Or through the air an arrow.

The trees that grow upon the shore, Have grown a hundred years or more; So long there is no knowing. Old Daniel Dobson does not know When first these trees began to grow; But still they grew, and grew, and grew, As if they'd nothing else to do, But ever to be growing.

The impulses of air and sky Have rear'd their stately heads so high, And clothed their boughs with green; Their leaves the dews of evening quaff,-- And when the wind blows loud and keen, I've seen the jolly timbers laugh, And shake their sides with merry glee-- Wagging their heads in mockery.

Fix'd are their feet in solid earth, Where winds can never blow; But visitings of deeper birth Have reach'd their roots below. For they have gain'd the river's brink, And of the living waters drink.

There's little Will, a five years child-- He is my youngest boy: To look on eyes so fair and wild, It is a very joy:-- He hath conversed with sun and shower And dwelt with every idle flower, As fresh and gay as them. He loiters with the briar rose,-- The blue-belles are his play-fellows, That dance upon their slender stem.

And I have said, my little Will, Why should not he continue still A thing of Nature's rearing? A thing beyond the world's control-- A living vegetable soul,-- No human sorrow fearing.

It were a blessed sight to see That child become a Willow-tree, His brother trees among. He'd be four times as tall as me, And live three times as long.

_Catharine M. Fanshawe._

THE LAY OF THE LOVE-LORN

PARODY ON TENNYSON'S "LOCKSLEY HALL"

Comrades, you may pass the rosy. With permission of the chair, I shall leave you for a little, for I'd like to take the air.

Whether 'twas the sauce at dinner, or that glass of ginger-beer, Or these strong cheroots, I know not, but I feel a little queer.

Let me go. Now, Chuckster, blow me, 'pon my soul, this is too bad! When you want me, ask the waiter, he knows where I'm to be had!

Whew! This is a great relief now! Let me but undo my stock; Resting here beneath the porch, my nerves will steady like a rock.

In my ears I hear the singing of a lot of favourite tunes-- Bless my heart, how very odd! Why, surely, there's a brace of moons!

See--the stars! How bright they twinkle, winking with a frosty glare, Like my faithless cousin Amy when she drove me to despair.

Oh, my cousin, spider-hearted! Oh, my Amy! No, confound it! I must wear the mournful willow--all around my hat I've bound it.

Falser than the Bank of Fancy, frailer than a shilling glove, Puppet to a father's anger, minion to a nabob's love!

Is it well to wish thee happy? Having known me, could you ever Stoop to marry half a heart, and little more than half a liver?

Happy! Damme! Thou shalt lower to his level day by day, Changing from the best of ehina to the commonest of clay.

As the husband is, the wife is. He is stomach-plagued and old, And his curry soups will make thy cheek the colour of his gold.

When his feeble love is sated, he will hold thee surely then Something lower than his hookah, something less than his cayenne.

What is this? His eyes are pinky. Was't the claret? Oh, no, no-- Bless your soul, it was the salmon--salmon always makes him so.

Take him to thy dainty chamber, soothe him with thy lightest fancies, He will understand thee, won't he--pay thee with a lover's glances?

Louder than the loudest trumpet, harsh as harshest ophicleide, Nasal respirations answer the endearments of his bride.

Sweet response, delightful music! Gaze upon thy noble charge Till the spirit fill thy bosom that inspired the meek Lafarge.

Better thou wert dead before me, better, better that I stood Looking on thy murdered body, like the injured Daniel Good!

Better thou and I were lying, cold and limber-stiff and dead, With a pan of burning charcoal underneath our nuptial bed!

Cursed be the Bank of England's notes, that tempt the soul to sin! Cursed be the want of acres--doubly cursed the want of tin!

Cursed be the marriage contract, that enslaved thy soul to greed! Cursed be the sallow lawyer, that prepared and drew the deed!

Cursed be his foul apprentice, who the loathsome fees did earn! Cursed be the clerk and parson--cursed be the whole concern!

Oh, 'tis well that I should bluster; much I'm like to make of that. Better comfort have I found in singing "All Around My Hat."

But that song, so wildly plaintive, palls upon my British ears. 'Twill not do to pine for ever: I am getting up in years.

Can't I turn the honest penny, scribbling for the weekly press, And in writing Sunday libels drown my private wretchedness?

Oh, to feel the wild pulsation that in manhood's dawn I knew, When my days were all before me, and my years were twenty-two;

When I smoked my independent pipe along the Quadrant wide, With the many larks of London flaring up on every side;

When I went the pace so wildly, caring little what might come, Coffee-milling care and sorrow, with a nose-adapted thumb;

Felt the exquisite enjoyment, tossing nightly off, oh, heavens! Brandy at the Cider Cellars, kidneys smoking-hot at Evans';

Or in the Adelphi sitting, half in rapture, half in tears, Saw the glorious melodrama conjure up the shades of years--

Saw Jack Sheppard, noble stripling, act his wondrous feats again, Snapping Newgate's bars of iron, like an infant's daisy chain;

Might was right, and all the terrors which had held the world in awe Were despised and prigging prospered, spite of Laurie, spite of law.

In such scenes as these I triumphed, ere my passion's edge was rusted, And my cousin's cold refusal left me very much disgusted!

Since, my heart is sore and withered, and I do not care a curse Whether worse shall be the better, or the better be the worse.

Hark! my merry comrades call me, bawling for another jorum; They would mock me in derision, should I thus appear before 'em.

Womankind no more shall vex me, such, at least, as go arrayed In the most expensive satins, and the newest silk brocade.

I'll to Afric, lion-haunted, where the giant forest yields Rarer robes and finer tissue than are sold at Spitalfields.

Or to burst all chains of habit, flinging habit's self aside, I shall walk the tangled jungle in mankind's primeval pride;

Feeding on the luscious berries and the rich casava root, Lots of dates and lots of guavas, clusters of forbidden fruit.

Never comes the trader thither, never o'er the purple main Sounds the oath of British commerce, or the accents of Cockaigne.

There, methinks, would be enjoyment, where no envious rule prevents; Sink the steamboats! Cuss the railways! Rot, oh, rot the Three per Cents!

There the passions, cramped no longer, shall have space to breathe, my cousin! I will take some savage woman--nay, I'll take at least a dozen.

There I'll rear my young mulattoes, as no Bond Street brats are reared: They shall dive for alligators, catch the wild goats by the beard,

Whistle to the cockatoos, and mock the hairy-faced baboon, Worship mighty Mumbo Jumbo, in the mountains of the Moon.

I, myself, in far Timbuctoo, leopard's blood will daily quaff, Ride a-tiger-hunting, mounted on a thorough-bred giraffe.

Fiercely shall I shout the war-whoop, as some sullen stream he crosses, Startling from their noon-day slumbers iron-bound rhinoceroses.

Fool! Again, the dream, the fancy! But I know my words are mad, For I hold the gray barbarian lower than the Christian cad.

I, the swell, the city dandy! I to seek such horrid places, I to haunt with squalid Negroes, blubber-lips, and monkey faces!

I to wed with Coromantees! I, who managed--very near-- To secure the heart and fortune of the widow Shillibeer!

Stuff and nonsense! Let me never fling a single chance away. Maids ere now, I know, have loved me, and another maiden may.

_Morning Post_ (_The Times_ won't trust me), help me, as I know you can; I will pen an advertisement--that's a never-failing plan:

"|Wanted|--By a bard in wedlock, some young interesting woman. Looks are not so much an object, if the shiners be forthcoming!

"Hymen's chains, the advertiser vows, shall be but silken fetters. Please address to A. T., Chelsea. N.B.--You must pay the letters."

That's the sort of thing to do it. Now I'll go and taste the balmy. Rest thee with thy yellow nabob, spider-hearted cousin Amy!

_Aytoun_ and _Martin._

ONLY SEVEN.

A PASTORAL STORY AFTER WORDSWORTH

I marvell'd why a simple child,
That lightly draws its breath,
Should utter groans so very wild,
And look as pale as Death.

Adopting a parental tone,
I ask'd her why she cried;
The damsel answered with a groan,
"I've got a pain inside!

"I thought it would have sent me mad Last night about eleven." Said I, "What is it makes you bad? How many apples have you had?" She answered, "Only seven!"

"And are you sure you took no more,
My little maid?" quoth I;
"Oh, please, sir, mother gave me four,
But _they_ were in a pie!"

"If that's the case," I stammer'd out,
"Of course you've had eleven."
The maiden answer'd with a pout,
"I ain't had more nor seven!"

I wonder'd hugely what she meant,
And said, "I'm bad at riddles;
But I know where little girls are sent
For telling taradiddles.

"Now, if you won't reform," said I, "You'll never go to Heaven." But all in vain; each time I try, That little idiot makes reply, "I ain't had more nor seven!"

POSTSCRIPT

To borrow Wordsworth's name was wrong,
Or slightly misapplied;
And so I'd better call my song,
"Lines after Ache-Inside."

_Henry S. Leigh._

'TWAS EVER THUS

I never rear'd a young gazelle,
(Because, you see, I never tried);
But had it known and loved me well,
No doubt the creature would have died.
My rich and aged Uncle John
Has known me long and loves me well
But still persists in living on--
I would he were a young gazelle.

I never loved a tree or flower;
But, if I had, I beg to say
The blight, the wind, the sun, or shower
Would soon have withered it away.
I've dearly loved my Uncle John,
From childhood to the present hour,
And yet he will go living on--
I would he were a tree or flower!

_Henry S. Leigh._

FOAM AND FANGS

O nymph with the nicest of noses;
And finest and fairest of forms;
Lips ruddy and ripe as the roses
That sway and that surge in the storms;
O buoyant and blooming Bacchante,
Of fairer than feminine face,
Rush, raging as demon of Dante--
To this, my embrace!

The foam and the fangs and the flowers,
The raving and ravenous rage
Of a poet as pinion'd in powers
As a condor confined in a cage!
My heart in a haystack I've hidden,
As loving and longing I lie,
Kiss open thine eyelids unbidden--
I gaze and I die!

I've wander'd the wild waste of slaughter,
I've sniffed up the sepulchre's scent,
I've doated on devilry's daughter,
And murmur'd much more than I meant;
I've paused at Penelope's portal,
So strange are the sights that I've seen,
And mighty's the mind of the mortal
Who knows what I mean.

_Walter Parke._

X

NARRATIVE

LITTLE BILLEE

There were three sailors of Bristol City
Who took a boat and went to sea,
But first with beef and captain's biscuits,
And pickled pork they loaded she.

There was gorging Jack, and guzzling Jimmy,
And the youngest he was little Billee.
Now when they'd got as far as the Equator
They'd nothing left but one split pea.

Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy,
"I am extremely hungaree."
To gorging Jack says guzzling Jimmy,
"We've nothing left, us must eat we."

Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy,
"With one another we shouldn't agree!
There's little Bill, he's young and tender,
"We're old and tough, so let's eat he."

"O Billy! we're going to kill and eat you,
So undo the button of your chemie."
When Bill received this information,
He used his pocket-handkerchie.

"First let me say my catechism,
Which my poor mother taught to me."
"Make haste! make haste!" says guzzling Jimmy,
While Jack pulled out his snicker-snee.

Then Bill went up to the main-top-gallant-mast,
And down he fell on his bended knee,
He scarce had come to the Twelfth Commandment
When up he jumps--"There's land I see!"

"Jerusalem and Madagascar,
And North and South Amerikee,
There's the British flag a-riding at anchor,
With Sir Admiral Napier, K.C.B."

So when they got aboard of the Admiral's,
He hanged fat Jack and flogged Jimmee,
But as for little Bill, he made him
The captain of a Seventy-three.

_W. M. Thackeray._

THE CRYSTAL PALACE

With ganial foire
Thransfuse me loyre,
Ye sacred nymphs of Pindus,
The whoile I sing
That wondthrous thing,
The Palace made o' windows!

Say, Paxton, truth,
Thou wondthrous youth,
What sthroke of art celistial,
What power was lint
You to invint
This combineetion cristial.

O would before
That Thomas Moore,
Likewoise the late Lord Boyron,
Thim aigles sthrong
Of godlike song,
Cast oi on that cast oiron!

And saw thim walls,
And glittering halls,
Thim rising slendther columns,
Which I, poor pote,
Could not denote,
No, not in twinty vollums.

My Muse's words
Is like the bird's
That roosts beneath the panes there;
Her wings she spoils
'Gainst them bright toiles,
And cracks her silly brains there.

This Palace tall,
This Cristial Hall,
Which Imperors might covet,
Stands in High Park
Like Noah's Ark,
A rainbow bint above it.

The towers and fanes,
In other scaynes,
The fame of this will undo,
Saint Paul's big doom,
Saint Payther's, Room.
And Dublin's proud Rotundo.

'Tis here that roams,
As well becomes
Her dignitee and stations,
Victoria Great,
And houlds in state
The Congress of the Nations.

Her subjects pours
From distant shores,
Her Injians and Canajians,
And also we,
Her kingdoms three,
Attind with our allagiance.

Here come likewise
Her bould allies,
Both Asian and Europian;
From East and West
They send their best
To fill her Coornucopean.

I seen (thank Grace!)
This wondthrous place
(His Noble Honour Misther
H. Cole it was
That gave the pass,
And let me see what is there).

With conscious proide
I stud insoide
And look'd the World's Great Fair in,
Until me sight
Was dazzled quite,
And couldn't see for staring.

There's holy saints
And window paints,
By maydiayval Pugin;
Alhamborough Jones
Did paint the tones,
Of yellow and gambouge in.

There's fountains there
And crosses fair;
There's water-gods with urrns;
There's organs three,
To play, d'ye see,
"God save the Queen," by turrns.

There's statues bright
Of marble white,
Of silver, and of copper;
And some in zinc,
And some, I think,
That isn't over proper.

There's staym injynes,
That stands in lines,
Enormous and amazing,
That squeal and snort
Like whales in sport,
Or elephants a-grazing.

There's carts and gigs,
And pins for pigs,
There's dibblers and there's harrows,
And ploughs like toys
For little boys,
And illigant wheelbarrows.

For thim genteels
Who ride on wheels,
There's plenty to indulge 'em:
There's droskys snug
From Paytersbug,
And vayhycles from Bulgium.

There's cabs on stands
And shandthrydanns;
There's wagons from New York here;
There's Lapland sleighs
Have cross'd the seas,
And jaunting cyars from Cork here.

Amazed I pass
From glass to glass,
Deloighted I survey 'em;
Fresh wondthers grows
Before me nose
In this sublime Musayum!

Look, here's a fan
From far Japan,
A sabre from Damasco:
There's shawls ye get
From far Thibet,
And cotton prints from Glasgow.

There's German flutes,
Marocky boots,
And Naples macaronies;
Bohaymia
Has sent Behay;
Polonia her polonies.

There's granite flints
That's quite imminse,
There's sacks of coals and fuels,
There's swords and guns,
And soap in tuns,
And gingerbread and jewels.

There's taypots there,
And cannons rare;
There's coffins fill'd with roses;
There's canvas tints,
Teeth insthrumints,
And shuits of clothes by Moses.

There's lashins more
Of things in store,
But thim I don't remimber;
Nor could disclose
Did I compose
From May time to Novimber!

Ah, Judy thru!
With eyes so blue,
That you were here to view it!
And could I screw
But tu pound tu,
'Tis I would thrait you to it!

So let us raise
Victoria's praise,
And Albert's proud condition
That takes his ayse
As he surveys
This Cristial Exhibition.

_W. M. Thackeray._

THE WOFLE NEW BALLAD OF JANE RONEY AND MARY BROWN

An igstrawnary tail I vill tell you this veek-- I stood in the Court of A'Beckett the Beak, Vere Mrs. Jane Roney, a vidow, I see, Who charged Mary Brown with a robbin' of she.

This Mary was pore and in misery once, And she came to Mrs. Roney it's more than twelve monce She adn't got no bed, nor no dinner, nor no tea, And kind Mrs. Roney gave Mary all three.

Mrs. Roney kep Mary for ever so many veeks (Her conduct disgusted the best of all Beax), She kept her for nothink, as kind as could be, Never thinking that this Mary was a traitor to she.

"Mrs. Roney, O Mrs. Roney, I feel very ill; Will you jest step to the doctor's for to fetch me a pill?" "That I will, my pore Mary," Mrs. Roney says she: And she goes off to the doctor's as quickly as may be.

No sooner on this message Mrs. Roney was sped, Than hup gits vicked Mary, and jumps out a bed; She hopens all the trunks without never a key-- She bustes all the boxes, and vith them makes free.

Mrs. Roney's best linning gownds, petticoats, and close, Her children's little coats and things, her boots and her hose, She packed them, and she stole 'em, and avay vith them did flee Mrs. Roney's situation--you may think vat it vould be!

Of Mary, ungrateful, who had served her this vay, Mrs. Roney heard nothink for a long year and a day, Till last Thursday, in Lambeth, ven whom should she see? But this Mary, as had acted so ungrateful to she.

She was leaning on the helbo of a worthy young man; They were going to be married, and were walkin hand in hand; And the church-bells was a ringing for Mary and he, And the parson was ready, and a waitin' for his fee.

When up comes Mrs. Roney, and faces Mary Brown, Who trembles, and castes her eyes upon the ground. She calls a jolly pleaseman, it happens to be me; I charge this young woman, Mr. Pleaseman, says she.

Mrs. Roney, o, Mrs. Roney, o, do let me go, I acted most ungrateful I own, and I know, But the marriage bell is ringin, and the ring you may see, And this young man is a waitin, says Mary, says she.

I don't care three fardens for the parson and clark, And the bell may keep ringing from noon day to dark. Mary Brown, Mary Brown, you must come along with me. And I think this young man is lucky to be free.

So, in spite of the tears which bejewed Mary's cheek, I took that young gurl to A'Beckett the Beak; That exlent justice demanded her plea-- But never a sullable said Mary said she.

On account of her conduck so base and so vile, That wicked young gurl is committed for trile, And if she's transpawted beyond the salt sea, It's a proper reward for such willians as she.

Now, you young gurls of Southwark for Mary who veep, From pickin and stealin your ands you must keep, Or it may be my dooty, as it was Thursday veek To pull you all hup to A'Beckett the Beak.

_W. M. Thackeray._

KING JOHN AND THE ABBOT

An ancient story Ile tell you anon Of a notable prince, that was called King John; And he ruled England with maine and with might, For he did great wrong, and maintein'd little right.

And Ile tell you a story, a story so merrye, Concerning the Abbot of Canterbùrye; How for his house-keeping, and high renowne, They rode poste for him to fair London towne.

An hundred men, the king did heare say, The abbot kept in his house every day; And fifty golde chaynes, without any doubt, In velvet coates waited the abbot about.

How now, father abbot, I heare it of thee, Thou keepest a farre better house than mee, And for thy house-keeping and high renowne, I feare thou work'st treason against my crown.

My liege, quo' the abbot, I would it were knowne, I never spend nothing but what is my owne; And I trust your grace will doe me no deere For spending of my owne true-gotten geere.

Yes, yes, father abbot, thy fault it is highe, And now for the same thou needest must dye; For except thou canst answer me questions three, Thy head shall be smitten from thy bodie.

And first, quo' the king, when I'm in this stead, With my crowne of golde so faire on my head, Among all my liege-men, so noble of birthe, Thou must tell me to one penny what I am worthe.

Secondlye, tell me, without any doubt, How soone I may ride the whole world about, And at the third question thou must not shrink, But tell me here truly what I do think.

O, these are hard questions for my shallow witt, Nor I cannot answer your grace as yet; But if you will give me but three weekes space, Ile do my endeavour to answer your grace.