Chapter XXI: Part II (3)

He and his wig wid the curls so carroty,
Aigle eye, and complexion clarety:
Here's to his health,
Honor and wealth!
Hip, hip, hooray! wid all hilarity,
Hip, hip, hooray! That's the way,
All at once, widout disparity!
One more cheer
For our docther dear,
The king of his kind and the crame of all charity.
Hip, hip, hooray!

_Alfred Perceval Graves._

FATHER O'FLYNN

Of priests we can offer a charmin' variety, Far renowned for larnin' and piety; Still, I'd advance ye, widout impropriety, Father O'Flynn as the flower of them all.

|Chorus|

_Here's a health to you, Father O'Flynn,
Slainté, and slainté, and slainté agin;
Powerfulest preacher, and
Tenderest teacher, and
Kindliest creature in ould Donegal._

Don't talk of your Provost and Fellows of Trinity,
Famous for ever at Greek and Latinity,
Dad and the divels and all at Divinity,
Father O'Flynn 'd make hares of them all!
Come, I venture to give you my word,
Never the likes of his logic was heard,
Down from Mythology
Into Thayology,
Troth! and Conchology if he'd the call.

_Chorus._

Och! Father O'Flynn, you've the wonderful way wid you,
All ould sinners are wishful to pray wid you,
All the young childer are wild for to play wid you,
You've such a way wid you, Father avick!
Still for all you've so gentle a soul,
Gad, you've your flock in the grandest control;
Checking the crazy ones,
Coaxin' onaisy ones,
Liftin' the lazy ones on wid the stick.

_Chorus._

And though quite avoidin' all foolish frivolity, Still at all seasons of innocent jollity, Where was the play-boy could claim an equality At comicality, Father, wid you? Once the Bishop looked grave at your jest, Till this remark set him off wid the rest: "Is it lave gaiety All to the laity? Cannot the clargy he Irishmen too?"

_Chorus._

_Alfred Perceval Graves._

THE BALD-HEADED TYRANT

O the quietest home in earth had I, No thought of trouble, no hint of care; Like a dream of pleasure the days fled by, And Peace had folded her pinions there. But one day there joined in our household band A bald-headed tyrant from No-man's-land.

Oh, the despot came in the dead of night, And no one ventured to ask him why; Like slaves we trembled before his might, Our hearts stood still when we heard him cry; For never a soul could his power withstand, That bald-headed tyrant from No-man's-land.

He ordered us here, and he sent us there-- Though never a word could his small lips speak-- With his toothless gums and his vacant stare, And his helpless limbs so frail and weak, Till I cried, in a voice of stern command, "Go up, thou bald-head from No-man's-land!"

But his abject slaves they turned on me; Like the bears in Scripture, they'd rend me there, The while they worshiped with bended knee This ruthless wretch with the missing hair; For he rules them all with relentless hand, This bald-headed tyrant from No-man's-land.

Then I searched for help in every clime, For peace had fled from my dwelling now, Till I finally thought of old Father Time, And low before him I made my bow. "Wilt thou deliver me out of his hand, This bald-headed tyrant from No-man's-land?"

Old Time he looked with a puzzled stare, And a smile came over his features grim. "I'll take the tyrant under my care: Watch what my hour-glass does to him. The veriest humbug that ever was planned Is this same bald-head from No-man's-land."

Old Time is doing his work full well-- Much less of might does the tyrant wield; But, ah! with sorrow my heart will swell, And sad tears fall as I see him yield. Could I stay the touch of that shriveled hand, I would keep the bald-head from No-man's-land.

For the loss of peace I have ceased to care; Like other vassals, I've learned, forsooth, To love the wretch who forgot his hair And hurried along without a tooth, And he rules me too with his tiny hand, This bald-headed tyrant from No-man's-land.

_Mary E. Vandyne._

BARNEY McGEE

Barney McGee, there's no end of good luck in you, Will-o'-the-wisp, with a flicker of Puck in you, Wild as a bull-pup, and all of his pluck in you-- Let a man tread on your coat and he'll see! Eyes like the lakes of Killarney for clarity, Nose that turns up without any vulgarity, Smile like a cherub, and hair that is carroty-- Whoop, you're a rarity, Barney McGee! Mellow as Tarragon, Prouder than Aragon-- Hardly a paragon, You will agree-- Here's all that's fine to you! Books and old wine to you! Girls be divine to you, Barney McGee!

Lucky the day when I met you unwittingly, Dining where vagabonds came and went flittingly. Here's some _Barbera_ to drink it befittingly, That day at Silvio's, Barney McGee! Many's the time we have quaffed our Chianti there, Listened to Silvio quoting us Dante there-- Once more to drink Nebiolo Spumante there, How we'd pitch Pommery into the sea! There where the gang of us Met ere Rome rang of us, They had the hang of us To a degree. How they would trust to you! That was but just to you. Here's o'er their dust to you, Barney McGee!

Barney McGee, when you're sober you scintillate, But when you're in drink you're the pride of the intellect; Divil a one of us ever came in till late, Once at the bar where you happened to be-- Every eye there like a spoke in you centering, You with your eloquence, blarney, and bantering-- All Vagabondia shouts at your entering, King of the Tenderloin, Barney McGee! There's no satiety In your society With the variety Of your _esprit_. Here's a long purse to you, And a great thirst to you! Fate be no worse to you, Barney McGee!

Och, and the girls whose poor hearts you deracinate, Whirl and bewilder and flutter and fascinate! Faith, it's so killing you are, you assassinate-- Murder's the word for you, Barney McGee! Bold when they're sunny, and smooth when they're showery-- Oh, but the style of you, fluent and flowery! Chesterfield's way, with a touch of the Bowery! How, would they silence you, Barney machree? Naught can your gab allay, Learned as Rabelais (You in his abbey lay Once on the spree). Here's to the smile of you, (Oh, but the guile of you!) And a long while of you, Barney McGee!

Facile with phrases of length and Latinity, Like honorificabilitudinity, Where is the maid could resist your vicinity, Wiled by the impudent grace of your plea? Then your vivacity and pertinacity Carry the day with the divil's audacity; No mere veracity robs your sagacity Of perspicacity, Barney McGee. When all is new to them, What will you do to them? Will you be true to them? Who shall decree? Here's a fair strife to you! Health and long life to you! And a great wife to you, Barney McGee!

Barney McGee, you're the pick of gentility; Nothing can phase you, you've such a facility; Nobody ever yet found your utility There is the charm of you, Barney McGee; Under conditions that others would stammer in, Still unperturbed as a cat or a Cameron, Polished as somebody in the Decameron, Putting the glamour on price or Pawnee. In your meanderin', Love and philanderin', Calm as a mandarin Sipping his tea! Under the art of you, Parcel and part of you, Here's to the heart of you, Barney McGee!

You who were ever alert to befriend a man, You who were ever the first to defend a man, You who had always the money to lend a man, Down on his luck and hard up for a V! Sure, you'll be playing a harp in beatitude (And a quare sight you will be in that attitude)-- Some day, where gratitude seems but a platitude, You'll find your latitude, Barney McGee. That's no flim-flam at all, Frivol or sham at all, Just the plain--Damn it all, Have one with me! Here's one and more to you! Friends by the score to you, True to the core to you, Barney MeGee!

_Richard Hovey._

ADDRESS TO THE TOOTHACHE

My curse upon your venom'd stang, That shoots my tortur'd gooms alang; An' thro' my lug gies monie a twang, Wi' gnawing vengeance, Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang, Like racking engines!

A' down my beard the slavers trickle! I throw the wee stools o'er the mickle, While round the fire the giglets keckle To see me loup; An', raving mad, I wish a heckle Were i' their doup!

When fevers burn, or ague freezes, Rheumatics gnaw, or colic squeezes, Our neebors sympathize to ease us Wi' pitying moan; But thee!--thou hell o' a' diseases, They mock our groan!

Of a' the num'rous human dools, Ill-hairsts, daft bargains, cutty-stools, Or worthy frien's laid i' the mools, Sad sight to see! The tricks o' knaves, or fash o' fools, Thou bear'st the gree!

Whare'er that place be priests ca' hell, Whare a' the tones o' misery yell, An' rankèd plagues their numbers tell In dreadfu' raw, Thou, Toothache, surely bear'st the bell Amang them a'!

O thou grim, mischief-making chiel, That gars the notes o' discord squeel, 'Till humankind aft dance a reel In gore a shoe-thick;-- Gie a' the faes o' Scotland's weal A towmond's toothache!

_Robert Burns._

A FAREWELL TO TOBACCO

May the Babylonish curse Straight confound my stammering verse, If I can a passage see In this word-perplexity, Or a fit expression find, Or a language to my mind, (Still the phrase is wide or scant) To take leave of thee, _great plant_!

Or in any terms relate Half my love, or half my hate: For I hate, yet love thee so, That, whichever thing I show, The plain truth will seem to be A contrain'd hyperbole, And the passion to proceed More from a mistress than a weed.

Sooty retainer to the vine, Bacchus' black servant, negro fine; Sorcerer, that mak'st us dote upon Thy begrimed complexion, And, for thy pernicious sake, More and greater oaths to break Than reclaimèd lovers take 'Gainst women: thou thy siege dost lay Much too in the female way, While thou suck'st the laboring breath Faster than kisses or than death.

Thou in such a cloud dost bind us That our worst foes cannot find us, And ill-fortune, that would thwart us, Shoots at rovers, shooting at us; While each man, through thy height'ning steam, Does like a smoking Etna seem, And all about us does express (Fancy and wit in richest dress) A Sicilian fruitfulness.

Thou through such a mist dost show us That our best friends do not know us, And, for those allowèd features, Due to reasonable creatures, Liken'st us to fell Chimeras, Monsters,--that who see us, fear us; Worse than Cerberus or Geryon, Or, who first loved a cloud, Ixion.

Bacchus we know, and we allow His tipsy rites. But what art thou That but by reflex canst show What his deity can do, As the false Egyptian spell Aped the true Hebrew miracle? Some few vapors thou may'st raise, The weak brain may serve to amaze, But to the reins and nobler heart Canst nor life nor heat impart.

Brother of Bacchus, later born, The old world was sure forlorn Wanting thee, that aidest more The god's victories than, before, All his panthers, and the brawls Of his piping Bacchanals. These, as stale, we disallow, Or judge of _thee_ meant: only thou His true Indian conquest art; And, for ivy round his dart, The reformèd god now weaves A finer thyrsus of thy leaves.

Scent to match thy rich perfume Chemic art did ne'er presume Through her quaint alembic strain, None so sov'reign to the brain; Nature, that did in thee excel, Framed again no second smell, Roses, violets, but toys For the smaller sort of boys, Or for greener damsels meant; Thou art the only manly scent.

Stinkingest of the stinking kind! Filth of the mouth and fog of the mind! Africa, that brags her foison, Breeds no such prodigious poison! Henbane, nightshade, both together, Hemlock, aconite--

Nay, rather, Plant divine, of rarest virtue; Blisters on the tongue would hurt you! 'Twas but in a sort I blamed thee; None e'er prosper'd who defamed thee; Irony all, and feign'd abuse, Such as perplex'd lovers use, At a need, when, in despair To paint forth their fairest fair, Or in part but to express That exceeding comeliness Which their fancies doth so strike, They borrow language of dislike; And, instead of Dearest Miss, Jewel, Honey, Sweetheart, Bliss, And those forms of old admiring, Call her Cockatrice and Siren, Basilisk, and all that's evil, Witch, Hyena, Mermaid, Devil, Ethiop, Wench, and Blackamoor, Monkey, Ape, and twenty more; Friendly Trait'ress, loving Foe-- Not that she is truly so, But no other way they know A contentment to express, Borders so upon excess, That they do not rightly wot Whether it be from pain or not.

Or, as men constrain'd to part With what's nearest to their heart, While their sorrow's at the height, Lose discrimination quite, And their hasty wrath let fall, To appease their frantic gall, On the darling thing whatever, Whence they feel it death to sever Though it be, as they, perforce, Guiltless of the sad divorce.

For I must (nor let it grieve thee, Friendliest of plants, that I must) leave thee. For thy sake, |TOBACCO|, I Would do anything but die, And but seek to extend my days Long enough to sing thy praise. But, as she who once hath been A king's consort is a queen Ever after, nor will bate Any tittle of her state Though a widow, or divorced, So I, from thy converse forced, The old name and style retain, A right Katherine of Spain; And a seat, too, 'mongst the joys Of the blest Tobacco Boys; Where, though I, by sour physician, Am debarr'd the full fruition Of thy favors, I may catch Some collateral sweets, and snatch Sidelong odors, that give life Like glances from a neighbor's wife; And still live in the by-places And the suburbs of thy graces; And in thy borders take delight, An unconquer'd Canaanite.

_Charles Lamb._

JOHN BARLEYCORN

There were three kings into the east,
Three kings both great and high;
And they hae sworn a solemn oath
John Barleycorn should die.

They took a plough and plough'd him down,
Put clods upon his head;
And they hae sworn a solemn oath
John Barleycorn was dead.

But the cheerful spring came kindly on,
And showers began to fall:
John Barleycorn got up again,
And sore surprised them all.

The sultry suns of summer came,
And he grew thick and strong;
His head weel arm'd wi' pointed spears,
That no one should him wrong.

The sober autumn enter'd mild,
When he grew wan and pale;
His bending joints and drooping head
Show'd he began to fail.

His colour sicken'd more and more,
He faded into age;
And then his enemies began
To show their deadly rage.

They've ta'en a weapon, long and sharp,
And cut him by the knee;
Then tied him fast upon a cart,
Like a rogue for forgerie.

They laid him down upon his back,
And cudgell'd him full sore;
They hung him up before the storm,
And turn'd him o'er and o'er.

They fillèd up a darksome pit
With water to the brim:
They heavèd in John Barleycorn,
There let him sink or swim.

They laid him out upon the floor,
To work him further woe:
And still, as signs of life appear'd,
They toss'd him to and fro.

They wasted o'er a scorching flame
The marrow of his bones;
But a miller used him worst of all--
He crush'd him 'tween two stones.

And they hae ta'en his very heart's blood,
And drank it round and round,
And still the more and more they drank,
Their joy did more abound.

John Barleycorn was a hero bold,
Of noble enterprise;
For if you do but taste his blood,
'Twill make your courage rise.

'Twill make a man forget his woe;
'Twill heighten all his joy:
'Twill make the widow's heart to sing,
Though the tear were in her eye.

Then let us toast John Barleycorn,
Each man a glass in hand;
And may his great posterity
Ne'er fail in old Scotland!

_Robert Burns._

STANZAS TO PALE ALE

Oh! I have loved thee fondly, ever
Preferr'd thee to the choicest wine;
From thee my lips they could not sever
By saying thou contain'dst strychnine.
Did I believe the slander? Never!
I held thee still to be divine.

For me thy color hath a charm,
Although 'tis true they call thee Pale;
And be thou cold when I am warm,
As late I've been--so high the scale
Of |Fahrenheit|--and febrile harm
Allay, refrigerating Ale!

How sweet thou art!--yet bitter, too
And sparkling, like satiric fun;
But how much better thee to brew,
Than a conundrum or a pun,
It is, in every point of view,
Must be allow'd by every one.

Refresh my heart and cool my throat,
Light, airy child of malt and hops!
That dost not stuff, engross, and bloat
The skin, the sides, the chin, the chops,
And burst the buttons off the coat,
Like stout and porter--fattening slops!

_Unknown._

ODE TO TOBACCO

Thou who, when fears attack, Bidst them avaunt, and Black Care, at the horseman's back Perching, unseatest; Sweet, when the morn is gray; Sweet, when they've cleared away Lunch; and at close of day Possibly sweetest:

I have a liking old For thee, though manifold Stories, I know, are told, Not to thy credit; How one (or two at most) Drops make a cat a ghost-- Useless, except to roast-- Doctors have said it:

How they who use fusees All grow by slow degrees Brainless as chimpanzees, Meagre as lizards; Go mad, and beat their wives; Plunge (after shocking lives) Razors and carving knives Into their gizzards.

Confound such knavish tricks! Yet know I five or six Smokers who freely mix Still with their neighbors; Jones--(who, I'm glad to say, Asked leave of Mrs. J.)-- Daily absorbs a clay After his labors.

Cats may have had their goose Cooked by tobacco-juice; Still why deny its use Thoughtfully taken? We're not as tabbies are: Smith, take a fresh cigar! Jones, the tobacco-jar! Here's to thee, Bacon!

_Charles Stuart Calverley._

SONNET TO A CLAM

DUM TACENT CLAIMANT

Inglorious friend! most confident I am
Thy life is one of very little ease;
Albeit men mock thee with their similes
And prate of being "happy as a clam!"
What though thy shell protects thy fragile head
From the sharp bailiffs of the briny sea?
Thy valves are, sure, no safety-valves to thee,
While rakes are free to desecrate thy bed,
And bear thee off--as foemen take their spoil--
Far from thy friends and family to roam;
Forced, like a Hessian, from thy native home,
To meet destruction in a foreign broil!
Though thou art tender yet thy humble bard
Declares, O clam! thy case is shocking hard!

_John G. Saxe._

TO A FLY

TAKEN OUT OF A BOWL Of PUNCH

Ah! poor intoxicated little knave, Now senseless, floating on the fragrant wave; Why not content the cakes alone to munch? Dearly thou pay'st for buzzing round the bowl; Lost to the world, thou busy sweet-lipped soul-- Thus Death, as well as Pleasure, dwells with Punch.

Now let me take thee out, and moralize-- Thus 'tis with mortals, as it is with flies, Forever hankering after Pleasure's cup: Though Fate, with all his legions, be at hand, The beasts, the draught of Circe can't withstand, But in goes every nose--they must, will sup.

Mad are the passions, as a colt untamed!
When Prudence mounts their backs to ride them mild.
They fling, they snort, they foam, they rise inflamed,
Insisting on their own sole will so wild.

Gadsbud! my buzzing friend, thou art not dead; The Fates, so kind, have not yet snapped thy thread; By heavens, thou mov'st a leg, and now its brother. And kicking, lo, again, thou mov'st another!

And now thy little drunken eyes unclose, And now thou feelest for thy little nose, And, finding it, thou rubbest thy two hands Much as to say, "I'm glad I'm here again." And well mayest thou rejoice--'tis very plain, That near wert thou to Death's unsocial lands.

And now thou rollest on thy back about, Happy to find thyself alive, no doubt-- Now turnest--on the table making rings, Now crawling, forming a wet track, Now shaking the rich liquor from thy back, Now fluttering nectar from thy silken wings.

Now standing on thy head, thy strength to find, And poking out thy small, long legs behind; And now thy pinions dost thou briskly ply; Preparing now to leave me--farewell, fly!

Go, join thy brothers on yon sunny board, And rapture to thy family afford-- There wilt thou meet a mistress, or a wife, That saw thee drunk, drop senseless in the stream. Who gave, perhaps, the wide-resounding scream, And now sits groaning for thy precious life.

Yes, go and carry comfort to thy friends, And wisely tell them thy imprudence ends. Let buns and sugar for the future charm; These will delight, and feed, and work no harm While Punch, the grinning, merry imp of sin, Invites th' unwary wanderer to a kiss, Smiles in his face, as though he meant him bliss, Then, like an alligator, drags him in.

_John Wolcot._

ODE TO A BOBTAILED CAT

Felis Infelix! Cat unfortunate,
With nary narrative!
Canst thou no tail relate
Of how
(Miaow!)
Thy tail end came to terminate so bluntly
Didst wear it off by
Sedentary habits
As do the rabbits?

Didst go a
Fishing with it,
Wishing with it
To "bob" for catfish,
And get bobbed thyself?
Curses on that fish!

Didst lose it in kittenhood,
Hungrily chawing it?
Or, gaily pursuing it,
Did it make tangent
From thy swift circuit?

Did some brother Greyback--
Yowling
And howling
In nocturnal strife,
Spitting and staring
Cursing and swearing,
Ripping and tearing,
Calling thee "Sausagetail,"
Abbreviate thy suffix?
Or did thy jealous wife
Detect yer
In some sly flirtation,
And, after caudal lecture,
Bite off thy termination?
And sarve yer right!

Did some mischievous boy,
Some barbarous boy,
Eliminate thy finis?
(Probably!)
The wretch!
The villain!
Cruelly spillin'
Thy innocent blood!

Furiously scratch him
Where'er yer may catch him!

Well, Bob, this course now is left,
Since thus of your tail you're bereft:
Tell your friend that by letter
From Paris
You have learned the style there is
To wear the tail short,
And the briefer the better;
Such is the passion,
That every Grimalkin will
Follow your fashion.

_Unknown._

A DIRGE

CONCERNING THE LATE LAMENTED KING OF THE CANNIBAL ISLANDS

And so our royal relative is dead! And so he rests from gustatory labors! The white man was his choice, but when he fed He'd sometimes entertain his tawny neighbors. He worshipped, as he said, his "Fe-fo-fum," The goddess of the epigastrium.

And missionaries graced his festive board, Solemn and succulent, in twos and dozens, And smoked before their hospitable lord, Welcome as if they'd been his second cousins. When cold, he warmed them as he would his kin-- They came as strangers, and he took them in.

And generous!--oh, wasn't he? I have known him Exhibit a celestial amiability:-- He'd eat an enemy, and then would own him Of flavor excellent, despite hostility. The crudest captain of the Turkish navy He buried in an honorable grave--y.

He had a hundred wives. To make things pleasant They found it quite judicious to adore him;-- And when he dined, the nymphs were always present-- Sometimes beside him and sometimes--before him. When he was tired of one, he called her "sweet," And told her she was "good enough to eat."

He was a man of taste--and justice, too; He opened his mouth for e'en the humblest sinner, And three weeks stall-fed an emaciate Jew Before they brought him to the royal dinner. With preacher-men he shared his board and wallet And let them nightly occupy his palate!

We grow like what we eat. Bad food depresses; Good food exalts us like an inspiration, And missionary on the _menu_ blesses And elevates the Feejee population. A people who for years, saints, bairns, and women ate Must soon their vilest qualities eliminate.

But the deceased could never hold a candle To those prim, pale-faced people of propriety Who gloat o'er gossip and get fat on scandal-- The cannibals of civilized society; They drink the blood of brothers with their rations, And crunch the bones of living reputations.

They kill the soul; he only claimed the dwelling. They take the sharpened scalpel of surmises And cleave the sinews when the heart is swelling, And slaughter Fame and Honor for their prizes. They make the spirit in the body quiver; They quench the Light! He only took the--Liver!

I've known some hardened customers, I wot, A few tough fellows--pagans beyond question-- I wish had got into his dinner-pot; Although I'm certain they'd defy digestion, And break his jaw, and ruin his esophagus, Were he the chief of beings anthropophagous!

How fond he was of children! To his breast The tenderest nurslings gained a free admission. Rank he despised, nor, if they came well dressed, Cared if they were plebeian or patrician. Shade of Leigh Hunt! Oh, guide this laggard pen To write of one who loved his fellow men!

_William Augustus Croffut._

XII

WHIMSEY

AN ELEGY

ON THE GLORY OF HER SEX, MRS. MARY BLAIZE

Good people all, with one accord,
Lament for Madam Blaize,
Who never wanted a good word--
From those who spoke her praise.

The needy seldom pass'd her door,
And always found her kind;
She freely lent to all the poor--
Who left a pledge behind.

She strove the neighborhood to please
With manners wondrous winning;
And never follow'd wicked ways--
Unless when she was sinning.

At church, in silks and satins new,
With hoop of monstrous size,
She never slumber'd in her pew--
But when she shut her eyes.

Her love was sought, I do aver,
By twenty beaux and more;
The King himself has follow'd her--
When she has walk'd before.

But now, her wealth and finery fled,
Her hangers-on cut short all;
The doctors found, when she was dead--
Her last disorder mortal.

Let us lament, in sorrow sore,
For Kent Street well may say,
That had she lived a twelvemonth more
She had not died to-day.

_Oliver Goldsmith._

PARSON GRAY

A quiet home had Parson Gray,
Secluded in a vale;
His daughters all were feminine,
And all his sons were male.

How faithfully did Parson Gray
The bread of life dispense--
Well "posted" in theology,
And post and rail his fence.

'Gainst all the vices of the age
He manfully did battle;
His chickens were a biped breed,
And quadruped his cattle.

No clock more punctually went,
He ne'er delayed a minute--
Nor ever empty was his purse,
When he had money in it.

His piety was ne'er denied;
His truths hit saint and sinner;
At morn he always breakfasted;
He always dined at dinner.

He ne'er by any luck was grieved,
By any care perplexed--
No filcher he, though when he preached,
He always "took" a text.

As faithful characters he drew
As mortal ever saw;
But ah! poor parson! when he died,
His breath he could not draw!

_Oliver Goldsmith._

THE IRISHMAN AND THE LADY

There was a lady liv'd at Leith,
A lady very stylish, man;
And yet, in spite of all her teeth,
She fell in love with an Irishman--
A nasty, ugly Irishman,
A wild, tremendous Irishman,
A tearing, swearing, thumping, bumping, ranting, roaring Irishman.

His face was no ways beautiful,
For with small-pox 'twas scarr'd across;
And the shoulders of the ugly dog
Were almost double a yard across.
Oh, the lump of an Irishman,
The whiskey-devouring Irishman,
The great he-rogue with his wonderful brogue--the fighting, rioting
Irishman!

One of his eyes was bottle-green,
And the other eye was out, my dear;
And the calves of his wicked-looking legs
Were more than two feet about, my dear.
Oh, the great big Irishman,
The rattling, battling Irishman--
The stamping, ramping, swaggering, staggering, leathering swash of an
Irishman!

He took so much of Lundy-foot
That he used to snort and snuffle--O!
And in shape and size the fellow's neck
Was as bad as the neck of a buffalo.
Oh, the horrible Irishman,
The thundering, blundering Irishman--
The slashing, dashing, smashing, lashing, thrashing, hashing Irishman!

His name was a terrible name, indeed,
Being Timothy Thady Mulligan;
And whenever he emptied his tumbler of punch
He'd not rest till he fill'd it full again.
The boosing, bruising Irishman,
The 'toxicated Irishman--
The whiskey, frisky, rummy, gummy, brandy, no dandy Irishman!

This was the lad the lady lov'd,
Like all the girls of quality;
And he broke the skulls of the men of Leith,
Just by the way of jollity.
Oh, the leathering Irishman,
The barbarous, savage Irishman--
The hearts of the maids, and the gentlemen's heads, were bothered, I'm
sure, by this Irishman!

_William Maginn._

THE CATARACT OF LODORE

"How does the water
Come down at Lodore?"
My little boy asked me
Thus, once on a time;
And moreover he tasked me
To tell him in rhyme.
Anon at the word,
There first came one daughter,
And then came another,
To second and third
The request of their brother,
And to hear how the water
Comes down at Lodore,
With its rush and its roar,
As many a time
They had seen it before.
So I told them in rhyme,
For of rhymes I had store;
And 'twas in my vocation
For their recreation
That so I should sing;
Because I was Laureate
To them and the King.

From its sources which well
In the tarn on the fell;
From its fountains
In the mountains,
Its rills and its gills;
Through moss and through brake,
It runs and it creeps
For a while till it sleeps
In its own little lake.
And thence at departing,
Awakening and starting,
It runs through the reeds,
And away it proceeds,
Through meadow and glade,
In sun and in shade,
And through the wood-shelter,
Among crags in its flurry,
Helter-skelter,
Hurry-skurry,
Here it comes sparkling,
And there it lies darkling;
Now smoking and frothing
Its tumult and wrath in,
Till, in this rapid race
On which it is bent,
It reaches the place
Of its steep descent.

The cataract strong
Then plunges along,
Striking and raging
As if a war waging
Its caverns and rocks among;
Rising and leaping,
Sinking and creeping,
Swelling and sweeping,
Showering and springing,
Flying and flinging,
Writhing and wringing,
Eddying and whisking,
Spouting and frisking,
Turning and twisting
Around and around
With endless rebound:
Smiting and fighting,
A sight to delight in;
Confounding, astounding,
Dizzying and deafening the ear with its sound.

Collecting, projecting,
Receding and speeding,
And shocking and rocking,
And darting and parting,
And threading and spreading,
And whizzing and hissing,
And dripping and skipping,
And hitting and splitting,
And shining and twining,
And rattling and battling,
And shaking and quaking,
And pouring and roaring,
And waving and raving,
And tossing and crossing,
And flowing and going,
And running and stunning,
And foaming and roaming,
And dinning and spinning,
And dropping and hopping,
And working and jerking,
And guggling and struggling,
And heaving and cleaving,
And moaning and groaning;
And glittering and frittering,
And gathering and feathering,
And whitening and brightening,
And quivering and shivering,
And hurrying and skurrying,
And thundering and floundering;

Dividing and gliding and sliding,
And falling and brawling and sprawling,
And driving and riving and striving,
And sprinkling and twinkling and wrinkling,
And sounding and bounding and rounding,
And bubbling and troubling and doubling,
And grumbling and rumbling and tumbling,
And clattering and battering and shattering;

Retreating and beating and meeting and sheeting, Delaying and straying and playing and spraying. Advancing and prancing and glancing and dancing, Recoiling, turmoiling and toiling and boiling, And gleaming and streaming and steaming and beaming, And rushing and flushing and brushing and gushing, And flapping and rapping and clapping and slapping, And curling and whirling and purling and twirling, And thumping and plumping and bumping and jumping, And dashing and flashing and splashing and clashing; And so never ending, but always descending, Sounds and motions forever and ever are blending, All at once and all o'er, with a mighty uproar,-- And this way the water comes down at Lodore.

_Robert Southey._

LAY OF THE DESERTED INFLUENZAED

Doe, doe!
I shall dever see her bore!
Dever bore our feet shall rove
The beadows as of yore!
Dever bore with byrtle boughs
Her tresses shall I twide--
Dever bore her bellow voice
Bake bellody with bide!
Dever shall we lidger bore,
Abid the flow'rs at dood,
Dever shall we gaze at dight
Upon the tedtder bood!
Ho, doe, doe!
Those berry tibes have flowd,
Ad I shall dever see her bore,
By beautiful! by owd!
Ho, doe, doe!
I shall dever see her bore,
She will forget be id a bonth,
(Bost probably before)--
She will forget the byrtle boughs,
The flow'rs we plucked at dood,
Our beetigs by the tedtder stars.
Our gazigs at the bood.
Ad I shall dever see agaid
The Lily and the Rose;
The dabask cheek! the sdowy brow!
The perfect bouth ad dose!
Ho, doe, doe!
Those berry tibes have flowd--
Ad I shall dever see her bore,
By beautiful! by owd!!

_H. Cholmondeley-Pennell._

BELAGCHOLLY DAYS

Chilly Dovebber with his boadigg blast
Dow cubs add strips the beddow add the lawd,
Eved October's suddy days are past--
Add Subber's gawd!

I kdow dot what it is to which I cligg
That stirs to sogg add sorrow, yet I trust
That still I sigg, but as the liddets sigg--
Because I bust.

Add dow, farewell to roses add to birds,
To larded fields and tigkligg streablets eke;
Farewell to all articulated words
I faid would speak.

Farewell, by cherished strolliggs od the sward,
Greed glades add forest shades, farewell to you;
With sorrowing heart I, wretched add forlord,
Bid you--achew!!!

_Unknown._

RHYME OF THE RAIL

Singing through the forests,
Rattling over ridges,
Shooting under arches,
Rumbling over bridges,
Whizzing through the mountains,
Buzzing o'er the vale--
Bless me! this is pleasant,
Riding on the Rail!

Men of different "stations"
In the eye of Fame
Here are very quickly
Coming to the same.
High and lowly people,
Birds of every feather,
On a common level
Travelling together.

Gentleman in shorts,
Looming very tall;
Gentleman at large,
Talking very small;
Gentleman in tights,
With a loose-ish mien;
Gentleman in grey,
Looking rather green;

Gentleman quite old,
Asking for the news;
Gentleman in black,
In a fit of blues;
Gentleman in claret,
Sober as a vicar;
Gentleman in tweed,
Dreadfully in liquor!

Stranger on the right,
Looking very sunny,
Obviously reading
Something very funny.
Now the smiles are thicker,
Wonder what they mean?
Faith, he's got the |Knicker-
Bocker| Magazine!

Stranger on the left,
Closing up his peepers;
Now he snores again,
Like the Seven Sleepers;
At his feet a volume
Gives the explanation,
How the man grew stupid
From "Association."

Ancient maiden lady
Anxiously remarks,
That there must be peril
'Mong so many sparks;
Roguish-looking fellow,
Turning to the stranger,
Says it's his opinion
_She_ is out of danger!

Woman with her baby,
Sitting _vis-à-vis_,
Baby keeps a-squalling,
Woman looks at me;
Asks about the distance,
Says it's tiresome talking,
Noises of the cars
Are so very shocking!

Market-woman, careful
Of the precious casket,
Knowing eggs are eggs,
Tightly holds her basket;
Feeling that a smash,
If it came, would surely
Send her eggs to pot
Rather prematurely.

Singing through the forests,
Rattling over ridges,
Shooting under arches,
Rumbling over bridges,
Whizzing through the mountains,
Buzzing o'er the vale;
Bless me! this is pleasant,
Riding on the Rail!

_John G. Saxe._

ECHO

I asked of Echo, t'other day
(Whose words are often few and funny),
What to a novice she could say
Of courtship, love, and matrimony.
Quoth Echo plainly,--"Matter-o'-money!"

Whom should I marry? Should it be
A dashing damsel, gay and pert,
A pattern of inconstancy;
Or selfish, mercenary flirt?
Quoth Echo, sharply,--"Nary flirt!"

What if, aweary of the strife
That long has lured the dear deceiver,
She promise to amend her life,
And sin no more; can I believe her?
Quoth Echo, very promptly,--"Leave her!"

But if some maiden with a heart
On me should venture to bestow it,
Pray, should I act the wiser part
To take the treasure or forego it?
Quoth Echo, with decision,--"Go it!"

But what if, seemingly afraid
To bind her fate in Hymen's fetter,
She vow she means to die a maid,
In answer to my loving letter?
Quoth Echo, rather coolly,--"Let her!"

What if, in spite of her disdain,
I find my heart intwined about
With Cupid's dear delicious chain
So closely that I can't get out?
Quoth Echo, laughingly,--"Get out!"

But if some maid with beauty blest,
As pure and fair as Heaven can make her,
Will share my labor and my rest
Till envious Death shall overtake her?
Quoth Echo (sotto voce),--"Take her!"

_John G. Saxe._

SONG

Echo, tell me, while I wander
O'er this fairy plain to prove him,
If my shepherd still grows fonder,
Ought I in return to love him?
Echo: Love him, love him!

If he loves, as is the fashion,
Should I churlishly forsake him?
Or in pity to his passion,
Fondly to my bosom take him?
Echo: Take him, take him!

Thy advice then, I'll adhere to,
Since in Cupid's chains I've led him;
And with Henry shall not fear to
Marry, if you answer, "Wed him!"
Echo: Wed him, wed him!

_Joseph Addison._

A GENTLE ECHO ON WOMAN

IN THE DORIC MANNER

_Shepherd._ Echo, I ween, will in the woods reply, And quaintly answer questions: shall I try? _Echo._ Try. _Shepherd._ What must we do our passion to express? _Echo._ Press. _Shepherd._ How shall I please her, who ne'er loved before? _Echo._ Before. _Shepherd._ What most moves women when we them address? _Echo._ A dress. _Shepherd._ Say, what can keep her chaste whom I adore? _Echo._ A door. _Shepherd._ If music softens rocks, love tunes my lyre. _Echo._ Liar. _Shepherd._ Then teach me, Echo, how shall I come by her? _Echo._ Buy her. _Shepherd._ When bought, no question I shall be her dear? _Echo._ Her deer. _Shepherd._ But deer have horns: how must I keep her under? _Echo._ Keep her under. _Shepherd._ But what can glad me when she's laid on bier? _Echo._ Beer. _Shepherd._ What must I do so women will be kind? _Echo._ Be kind. _Shepherd._ What must I do when women will be cross? _Echo._ Be cross. _Shepherd._ Lord, what is she that can so turn and wind? _Echo._ Wind. _Shepherd._ If she be wind, what stills her when she blows? _Echo._ Blows. _Shepherd._ But if she bang again, still should I bang her? _Echo._ Bang her. _Shepherd._ Is there no way to moderate her anger? _Echo._ Hang her. _Shepherd._ Thanks, gentle Echo! right thy answers tell What woman is and how to guard her well. _Echo._ Guard her well.

_Dean Swift._

LAY OF ANCIENT ROME

Oh, the Roman was a rogue,
He erat was, you bettum;
He ran his automobilus
And smoked his cigarettum.
He wore a diamond studibus
And elegant cravattum,
A maxima cum laude shirt
And such a stylish hattum!

He loved the luscious hic-haec-hoc,
And bet on games and equi;
At times he won at others though,
He got it in the nequi;
He winked, (quo usque tandem?) at
Puellas on the Forum,
And sometimes, too, he even made
Those goo-goo oculorum!

He frequently was seen
At combats gladiatorial
And ate enough to feed
Ten boarders at Memorial;
He often went on sprees
And said, on starting homus,
"Hic labour--opus est,
Oh, where's my hic--hic--domus?"

Although he lived in Rome,--
Of all the arts the middle--
He was, (excuse the phrase,)
A horrid individ'l;
Ah, what a different thing
Was the homo (dative, hominy)
Of far away B. C.
From us of Anno Domini.

_Thomas R. Ybarra._

A NEW SONG

OF NEW SIMILES

My passion is as mustard strong;
I sit all sober sad;
Drunk as a piper all day long,
Or like a March-hare mad.

Round as a hoop the bumpers flow;
I drink, yet can't forget her;
For though as drunk as David's sow
I love her still the better.

Pert as a pear-monger I'd be,
If Molly were but kind;
Cool as a cucumber could see
The rest of womankind.

Like a stuck pig I gaping stare,
And eye her o'er and o'er;
Lean as a rake, with sighs and care,
Sleek as a mouse before.

Plump as a partridge was I known,
And soft as silk my skin;
My cheeks as fat as butter grown,
But as a goat now thin!

I melancholy as a cat,
Am kept awake to weep;
But she, insensible of that,
Sound as a top can sleep.

Hard is her heart as flint or stone,
She laughs to see me pale;
And merry as a grig is grown,
And brisk as bottled ale.

The god of Love at her approach
Is busy as a bee;
Hearts sound as any bell or roach,
Are smit and sigh like me.

Ah me! as thick as hops or hail
The fine men crowd about her;
But soon as dead as a door-nail
Shall I be, if without her.

Straight as my leg her shape appears,
O were we join'd together!
My heart would be scot-free from cares,
And lighter than a feather.

As fine as five-pence is her mien,
No drum was ever tighter;
Her glance is as the razor keen,
And not the sun is brighter.

As soft as pap her kisses are,
Methinks I taste them yet;
Brown as a berry is her hair,
Her eyes as black as jet.

As smooth as glass, as white as curds
Her pretty hand invites;
Sharp as her needle are her words,
Her wit like pepper bites.

Brisk as a body-louse she trips,
Clean as a penny drest;
Sweet as a rose her breath and lips,
Round as the globe her breast.

Full as an egg was I with glee,
And happy as a king:
Good Lord! how all men envied me!
She loved like any thing.

But false as hell, she, like the wind,
Chang'd, as her sex must do;
Though seeming as the turtle kind,
And like the gospel true.

If I and Molly could agree,
Let who would take Peru!
Great as an Emperor should I be,
And richer than a Jew.

Till you grow tender as a chick,
I'm dull as any post;
Let us like burs together stick,
And warm as any toast.

You'll know me truer than a die,
And wish me better sped;
Flat as a flounder when I lie,
And as a herring dead.

Sure as a gun she'll drop a tear
And sigh, perhaps, and wish,
When I am rotten as a pear,
And mute as any fish.

_John Gay._

THE AMERICAN TRAVELLER

To Lake Aghmoogenegamook
All in the State of Maine,
A man from Wittequergaugaum came
One evening in the rain.

"I am a traveller," said he,
"Just started on a tour,
And go to Nomjamskillicook
To-morrow morn at four."

He took a tavern-bed that night,
And, with the morrow's sun,
By way of Sekledobskus went,
With carpet-bag and gun.

A week passed on, and next we find
Our native tourist come
To that sequestered village called
Genasagarnagum.

From thence he went to Absequoit,
And there--quite tired of Maine--
He sought the mountains of Vermont,
Upon a railroad train.

Dog Hollow, in the Green Mount State,
Was his first stopping-place;
And then Skunk's Misery displayed
Its sweetness and its grace.

By easy stages then he went
To visit Devil's Den;
And Scrabble Hollow, by the way,
Did come within his ken.

Then _via_ Nine Holes and Goose Green
He travelled through the State;
And to Virginia, finally,
Was guided by his fate.

Within the Old Dominion's bounds,
He wandered up and down;
To-day at Buzzard's Roost ensconced,
To-morrow, at Hell Town.

At Pole Cat, too, he spent a week,
Till friends from Bull Ring came;
And made him spend a day with them
In hunting forest-game.

Then, with his carpet-bag in hand,
To Dog Town next he went;
Though stopping at Free Negro Town,
Where half a day he spent.

From thence, into Negationburg
His route of travel lay;
Which having gained, he left the State,
And took a southward way.

North Carolina's friendly soil
He trod at fall of night,
And, on a bed of softest down,
He slept at Hell's Delight.

Morn found him on the road again,
To Lousy Level bound;
At Bull's Tail, and Lick Lizard, too,
Good provender he found.

The country all about Pinch Gut
So beautiful did seem
That the beholder thought it like
A picture in a dream.

But the plantations near Burnt Coat
Were even finer still,
And made the wondering tourist feel
A soft, delicious thrill.

At Tear Shirt, too, the scenery
Most charming did appear,
With Snatch It in the distance far,
And Purgatory near.

But, spite of all these pleasant scenes,
The tourist stoutly swore
That home is brightest, after all,
And travel is a bore.

So back he went to Maine, straightway;
A little wife he took;
And now is making nutmegs at
Moosehicmagunticook.

_Robert H. Newell._

THE ZEALLESS XYLOGRAPHER

DEDICATED TO THE END OF THE DICTIONARY

A xylographer started to cross the sea
By means of a Xanthic Xebec;
But, alas! he sighed for the Zuyder Zee,
And feared he was in for a wreck.
He tried to smile, but all in vain,
Because of a Zygomatic pain;
And as for singing, his cheeriest tone
Reminded him of a Xylophone--
Or else, when the pain would sharper grow,
His notes were as keen as a Zuffolo.
And so it is likely he did not find
On board Xenodochy to his mind.
The fare was poor, and he was sure
Xerofphagy he could not endure;
Zoöphagous surely he was, I aver,
This dainty and starving Xylographer.
Xylophagous truly he could not be--
No sickly vegetarian he!
He'd have blubbered like any old Zeuglodon
Had Xerophthalmia not come on.
And the end of it was he never again
In a Xanthic Xebec went sailing the main.

_Mary Mapes Dodge._

THE OLD LINE FENCE

Zig-zagging it went
On the line of the farm,
And the trouble it caused
Was often quite warm,
|The old line fence|.
It was changed every year
By decree of the court,
To which, when worn out,
Our sires would resort
|With the old line fence|.
In hoeing their corn,
When the sun, too, was hot,
They surely would jaw,
Punch or claw, when they got
|To the old line fence|.
In dividing the lands
It fulfilled no desires,
But answered quite well
In "dividing" our sires,
|This old line fence|.
Though sometimes in this
It would happen to fail,
When, with top rail in hand,
One would flare up and scale
|The old line fence|!
Then the conflict was sharp
On debatable ground,
And the fertile soil there
Would be mussed far around
|The old line fence|.
It was shifted so oft
That no flowers there grew.
What frownings and clods,
And what words were shot through
|The old line fence|!
Our sires through the day
There would quarrel or fight,
With a vigour and vim,
But 'twas different at night
|By the old line fence|.
The fairest maid there
You would have descried
That ever leaned soft
On the opposite side
|Of an old line fence|.
Where our fathers built hate
There we builded our love,
Breathed our vows to be true
With our hands raised above
|The old line fence|.
Its place might be changed,
But there we would meet,
With our heads through the rails,
And with kisses most sweet,
|At the old line fence|.
It was love made the change,
And the clasping of hands
Ending ages of hate,
And between us now stands
|Not a sign of line fence|.
No debatable ground
Now enkindles alarms.
I've the girl I met there,
And, well, both of the farms,
|And no line fence|.

_A. W. Bellow._

O-U-G-H

|a fresh hack at an old knot|

I'm taught p-l-o-u-g-h
S'all be pronouncé "plow."
"Zat's easy w'en you know," I say,
"Mon Anglais, I'll get through!"

My teacher say zat in zat case,
O-u-g-h is "oo."
And zen I laugh and say to him,
"Zees Anglais make me cough."

He say "Not 'coo,' but in zat word,
O-u-g-h is 'off,'"
Oh, Sacre bleu! such varied sounds
Of words makes me hiccough!

He say, "Again mon frien' ees wrong;
O-u-g-h is 'up'
In hiccough." Zen I cry, "No more,
You make my t'roat feel rough."

"Non, non!" he cry, "you are not right;
O-u-g-h is 'uff.'"
I say, "I try to spik your words,
I cannot spik zem though!"

"In time you'll learn, but now you're wrong!
O-u-g-h is 'owe.'"
"I'll try no more, I s'all go mad,
I'll drown me in ze lough!"

"But ere you drown yourself," said he,
"O-u-g-h is 'ock.'"
He taught no more, I held him fast,
And killed him wiz a rough.

_Charles Battell Loomis._

ENIGMA ON THE LETTER H

'Twas whispered in heaven, 'twas muttered in hell, And echo caught faintly the sound as it fell; On the confines of earth 'twas permitted to rest, And the depths of the ocean its presence confessed; 'Twill be found in the sphere when 'tis riven asunder, Be seen in the lightning, and heard in the thunder. 'Twas allotted to man with his earliest breath, It assists at his birth and attends him in death, Presides o'er his happiness, honor, and health, Is the prop of his house and the end of his wealth, In the heaps of the miser is hoarded with care, But is sure to be lost in his prodigal heir. It begins every hope, every wish it must bound, It prays with the hermit, with monarchs is crowned; Without it the soldier, the sailor, may roam, But woe to the wretch who expels it from home. In the whisper of conscience 'tis sure to be found, Nor e'en in the whirlwind of passion is drowned; 'Twill soften the heart, but, though deaf to the ear, It will make it acutely and instantly hear; But, in short, let it rest like a delicate flower; Oh, breathe on it softly, it dies in an hour.

_Catherine Fanshawe._

TRAVESTY OF MISS FANSHAWE'S ENIGMA

I dwells in the Hearth, and I breathes in the Hair; If you searches the Hocean, you'll find that I'm there. The first of all Hangels in Holympus am Hi, Yet I'm banished from 'Eaven, expelled from on 'igh. But, though on this Horb I'm destined to grovel, I'm ne'er seen in an 'Ouse, in an 'Ut, nor an 'Ovel. Not an 'Orse, not an 'Unter e'er bears me, alas! But often I'm found on the top of a Hass. I resides in a Hattic, and loves not to roam, And yet I'm invariably absent from 'Ome. Though 'Ushed in the 'Urricane, of the Hatmosphere part, I enters no 'Ed, I creeps into no 'Art. Only look, and you'll see in the Heye Hi appear; Only 'Ark, and you'll 'Ear me just breathe in the Hear. Though in sex not an 'E, I am (strange paradox) Not a bit of an 'Effer, but partly a Hox. Of Heternity I'm the beginning! and, mark, Though I goes not with Noar, I'm first in the Hark. I'm never in 'Ealth; have with Fysic no power, I dies in a month, but comes back in a Hour.

_Horace Mayhew._

AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG

Good people all, of every sort,
Give ear unto my song;
And if you find it wondrous short,--
It cannot hold you long.

In Islington there was a man,
Of whom the world might say
That still a godly race he ran,--
Whene'er he went to pray.

A kind and gentle heart he had,
To comfort friends and foes;
The naked every day he clad,--
When he put on his clothes.

And in that town a dog was found,
As many dogs there be,
Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound,
And curs of low degree.

The dog and man at first were friends;
But when a pique began,
The dog, to gain some private ends,
Went mad, and bit the man.

Around from all the neighboring streets,
The wondering neighbors ran,
And swore the dog had lost his wits
To bite so good a man.

The wound it seemed both sore and sad
To every Christian eye;
And while they swore the dog was mad
They swore the man would die.

But soon a wonder came to light,
That showed the rogues they lied;
The man recovered of the bite,
The dog it was that died.

_Oliver Goldsmith._

AN EPITAPH