Chapter XXII: Part II (4)

Interred beneath this marble stone Lie sauntering Jack and idle Joan. While rolling threescore years and one Did round this globe their courses run. If human things went ill or well, If changing empires rose or fell, The morning past, the evening came, And found this couple just the same. They walked and ate, good folks. What then? Why, then they walked and ate again; They soundly slept the night away; They did just nothing all the day, Nor sister either had, nor brother; They seemed just tallied for each other. Their moral and economy Most perfectly they made agree; Each virtue kept its proper bound, Nor trespassed on the other's ground. Nor fame nor censure they regarded; They neither punished nor rewarded. He cared not what the footman did; Her maids she neither praised nor chid; So every servant took his course, And, bad at first, they all grew worse; Slothful disorder filled his stable, And sluttish plenty decked her table. Their beer was strong, their wine was port; Their meal was large, their grace was short. They gave the poor the remnant meat, Just when it grew not fit to eat. They paid the church and parish rate, And took, but read not, the receipt; For which they claimed their Sunday's due Of slumbering in an upper pew. No man's defects sought they to know, So never made themselves a foe. No man's good deeds did they commend, So never raised themselves a friend. Nor cherished they relations poor, That might decrease their present store; Nor barn nor house did they repair, That might oblige their future heir. They neither added nor confounded; They neither wanted nor abounded. Nor tear nor smile did they employ At news of grief or public joy When bells were rung and bonfires made, If asked, they ne'er denied their aid; Their jug was to the ringers carried, Whoever either died or married. Their billet at the fire was found, Whoever was deposed or crowned. Nor good, nor bad, nor fools, nor wise; They would not learn, nor could advise; Without love, hatred, joy, or fear, They led--a kind of--as it were; Nor wished, nor cared, nor laughed, nor cried. And so they lived, and so they died.

_Matthew Prior._

OLD GRIMES

Old Grimes is dead; that good old man
We never shall see more:
He used to wear a long, black coat,
All button'd down before.

His heart was open as the day,
His feelings all were true;
His hair was some inclined to gray--
He wore it in a queue.

Whene'er he heard the voice of pain,
His breast with pity burn'd;
The large, round head upon his cane
From ivory was turn'd.

Kind words he ever had for all;
He knew no base design:
His eyes were dark and rather small,
His nose was aquiline.

He lived at peace with all mankind,
In friendship he was true:
His coat had pocket-holes behind,
His pantaloons were blue.

Unharm'd, the sin which earth pollutes
He pass'd securely o'er,
And never wore a pair of boots
For thirty years or more.

But good old Grimes is now at rest,
Nor fears misfortune's frown:
He wore a double-breasted vest--
The stripes ran up and down.

He modest merit sought to find,
Any pay it its desert:
He had no malice in his mind,
No ruffles on his shirt.

His neighbors he did not abuse--
Was sociable and gay:
He wore large buckles on his shoes,
And changed them every day.

His knowledge, hid from public gaze,
He did not bring to view,
Nor made a noise, town-meeting days,
As many people do.

His worldly goods he never threw
In trust to fortune's chances,
But lived (as all his brothers do)
In easy circumstances.

Thus undisturb'd by anxious cares,
His peaceful moments ran;
And everybody said he was
A fine old gentleman.

_Albert Gorton Greene._

THE ENDLESS SONG

Oh, I used to sing a song, An' dey said it was too long, So I cut it off de en' To accommodate a frien' Nex' do', nex' do'-- To accommodate a frien' nex' do'.

But it made de matter wuss Dan it had been at de fus, 'Ca'ze de en' was gone, an' den Co'se it didn't have no en' Any mo', any mo'-- Oh, it didn't have no en' any mo'!

So, to save my frien' from sinnin', I cut off de song's beginnin'; Still he cusses right along Whilst I sings _about_ my song Jes so, jes so-- Whilst I sings _about_ my song _jes so_.

How to please 'im is my riddle, So I'll fall back on my fiddle; For I'd stan' myself on en' To accommodate a frien' Nex' do', nex' do'-- To accommodate a frien' nex' do'.

_Ruth McEnery Stuart._

THE HUNDRED BEST BOOKS

First there's the Bible,
And then the Koran,
Odgers on Libel,
Pope's Essay on Man,
Confessions of Rousseau,
The Essays of Lamb,
Robinson Crusoe
And Omar Khayyam,
Volumes of Shelley
And Venerable Bede,
Machiavelli
And Captain Mayne Reid,
Fox upon Martyrs
And Liddell and Scott,
Stubbs on the Charters,
The works of La Motte,
The Seasons by Thomson,
And Paul de Verlaine,
Theodore Mommsen
And Clemens (Mark Twain),
The Rocks of Hugh Miller,
The Mill on the Floss,
The Poems of Schiller,
The Iliados,
Don Quixote (Cervantes),
La Pucelle by Voltaire,
Inferno (that's Dante's),
And Vanity Fair,
Conybeare-Howson,
Brillat-Savarin,
And Baron Munchausen,
Mademoiselle De Maupin,
The Dramas of Marlowe,
The Three Musketeers,
Clarissa Harlowe,
And the Pioneers,
Sterne's Tristram Shandy,
The Ring and the Book,
And Handy Andy,
And Captain Cook,
The Plato of Jowett,
And Mill's Pol. Econ.,
The Haunts of Howitt,
The Encheiridion,
Lothair by Disraeli,
And Boccaccio,
The Student's Paley,
And Westward Ho!
The Pharmacop[oe]ia,
Macaulay's Lays,
Of course The Medea,
And Sheridan's Plays,
The Odes of Horace,
And Verdant Green,
The Poems of Morris,
The Faery Queen,
The Stones of Venice,
Natural History (White's),
And then Pendennis,
The Arabian Nights,
Cicero's Orations,
Plain Tales from the Hills,
The Wealth of Nations,
And Byles on Bills,
As in a Glass Darkly,
Demosthenes' Crown,
The Treatise of Berkeley,
Tom Hughes's Tom Brown,
The Mahabharata,
The Humour of Hook,
The Kreutzer Sonata,
And Lalla Rookh,
Great Battles by Creasy,
And Hudibras,
And Midshipman Easy,
And Rasselas,
Shakespeare _in extenso_
And the Æneid,
And Euclid (Colenso),
The Woman who Did,
Poe's Tales of Mystery,
Then Rabelais,
Guizot's French History,
And Men of the Day,
Rienzi, by Lytton,
The Poems of Burns,
The Story of Britain,
The Journey (that's Sterne's),
The House of Seven Gables,
Carroll's Looking-glass,
Æsop his Fables,
And Leaves of Grass,
Departmental Ditties,
The Woman in White,
The Tale of Two Cities,
Ships that Pass in the Night,
Meredith's Feverel,
Gibbon's Decline,
Walter Scott's Peveril,
And--some verses of mine.

_Mostyn T. Pigott._

THE COSMIC EGG

Upon a rock, yet uncreate, Amid a chaos inchoate, An uncreated being sate; Beneath him, rock, Above him, cloud. And the cloud was rock, And the rock was cloud. The rock then growing soft and warm, The cloud began to take a form, A form chaotic, vast and vague, Which issued in the cosmic egg. Then the Being uncreate On the egg did incubate, And thus became the incubator; And of the egg did allegate, And thus became the alligator; And the incubator was potentate, But the alligator was potentator.

_Unknown._

FIVE WINES

Brisk methinks I am, and fine When I drink my cap'ring wine; Then to love I do incline, When I drink my wanton wine; And I wish all maidens mine, When I drink my sprightly wine; Well I sup and well I dine, When I drink my frolic wine; But I languish, lower, and pine, When I want my fragrant wine.

_Robert Herrick._

A RHYME FOR MUSICIANS

Händel, Bendel, Mendelssohn, Brendel, Wendel, Jadassohn, Müller, Hiller, Heller, Franz, Plothow, Flotow, Burto, Ganz.

Meyer, Geyer, Meyerbeer, Heyer, Weyer, Beyer, Beer, Lichner, Lachner, Schachner, Dietz, Hill, Will, Brüll, Grill, Drill, Reiss, Rietz.

Hansen, Jansen, Jensen, Kiehl, Siade, Gade, Laade, Stiehl, Naumann, Riemann, Diener, Wurst, Niemann, Kiemann, Diener, Furst.

Kochler, Dochler, Rubinstein, Himmel, Hummel, Rosenhain, Lauer, Bauer, Kleinecke, Homberg, Plomberg, Reinecke.

_E. Lemke._

MY MADELINE

SERENADE IN M FLAT

SUNG BY MAJOR MARMADUKE MUTTONHEAD TO MADEMOISELLE MADELINE MENDOZA

My Madeline! my Madeline!
Mark my melodious midnight moans;
Much may my melting music mean,
My modulated monotones.

My mandolin's mild minstrelsy,
My mental music magazine,
My mouth, my mind, my memory,
Must mingling murmur "Madeline!"

Muster 'mid midnight masquerades,
Mark Moorish maidens, matrons' mien;
'Mongst Murcia's most majestic maids,
Match me my matchless Madeline.

Mankind's malevolence may make
Much melancholy musing mine;
Many my motives may mistake,
My modest merits much malign.

My Madeline's most mirthful mood
Much mollifies my mind's machine,
My mournfulness's magnitude
Melts--make me merry, Madeline!

Match-making mas may machinate,
Man[oe]uvring misses me mis-ween;
Mere money may make many mate,
My magic motto's "Madeline!"

Melt, most mellifluous melody,
'Midst Murcia's misty mounts marine;
Meet me 'mid moonlight; marry me,
_Madonna mia_! my Madeline!

_Walter Parke._

SUSAN SIMPSON

Sudden swallows swiftly skimming,
Sunset's slowly spreading shade,
Silvery songsters sweetly singing,
Summer's soothing serenade.

Susan Simpson strolled sedately,
Stifling sobs, suppressing sighs.
Seeing Stephen Slocum, stately
She stopped, showing some surprise.

"Say," said Stephen, "sweetest sigher;
Say, shall Stephen spouseless stay?"
Susan, seeming somewhat shyer,
Showed submissiveness straightway.

Summer's season slowly stretches,
Susan Simpson Slocum she--
So she signed some simple sketches--
Soul sought soul successfully.

* * * * *

Six Septembers Susan swelters;
Six sharp seasons snow supplies;
Susan's satin sofa shelters
Six small Slocums side by side.

_Unknown._

THE MARCH TO MOSCOW

The Emperor Nap he would set off
On a summer excursion to Moscow;
The fields were green and the sky was blue,
Morbleu! Parbleu!
What a splendid excursion to Moscow!

Four hundred thousand men and more
Must go with him to Moscow:
There were Marshals by the dozen,
And Dukes by the score;
Princes a few, and Kings one or two;
While the fields are so green, and the sky so blue,
Morbleu! Parbleu!
What a pleasant excursion to Moscow!

There was Junot and Augereau,
Heigh-ho for Moscow!
Dombrowsky and Poniatowsky,
Marshall Ney, lack-a-day!
General Rapp, and the Emperor Nap;
Nothing would do,
While the fields were so green, and the sky so blue,
Morbleu! Parbleu!
Nothing would do
For the whole of his crew,
But they must be marching to Moscow.

The Emperor Nap he talk'd so big
That he frighten'd Mr. Roscoe.
John Bull, he cries, if you'll be wise,
Ask the Emperor Nap if he will please
To grant you peace upon your knees,
Because he is going to Moscow!
He'll make all the Poles come out of their holes,
And beat the Russians, and eat the Prussians;
For the fields are green, and the sky is blue,
Morbleu! Parbleu!
And he'll certainly march to Moscow!
And Counsellor Brougham was all in a fume
At the thought of the march to Moscow:
The Russians, he said, they were undone,
And the great Fee-Faw-Fum
Would presently come,
With a hop, step, and jump, unto London,
For, as for his conquering Russia,
However some persons might scoff it,
Do it he could, do it he would,
And from doing it nothing would come but good,
And nothing could call him off it.
Mr. Jeffrey said so, who must certainly know,
For he was the Edinburgh Prophet.
They all of them knew Mr. Jeffrey's Review,
Which with Holy Writ ought to be reckon'd:
It was, through thick and thin, to its party true,
Its back was buff, and its sides were blue,
Morbleu! Parbleu!
It served them for law and for gospel too.

But the Russians stoutly they turned to
Upon the road to Moscow.
Nap had to fight his way all through;
They could fight, though they could not parlez-vous;
But the fields were green, and the sky was blue,
Morbleu! Parbleu!
And so he got to Moscow.

He found the place too warm for him,
For they set fire to Moscow.
To get there had cost him much ado,
And then no better course he knew
While the fields were green, and the sky was blue,
Morbleu! Parbleu!
But to march back again from Moscow.

The Russians they stuck close to him
All on the road from Moscow.
There was Tormazow and Jemalow,
And all the others that end in ow;
Milarodovitch and Jaladovitch,
And Karatschkowitch,
And all the others that end in itch;
Schamscheff, Souchosaneff,
And Schepaleff,
And all the others that end in eff:
Wasiltschikoff, Kotsomaroff,
And Tchoglokoff,
And all the others that end in off;
Rajeffsky, and Novereffsky,
And Rieffsky,
And all the others that end in effsky;
Oscharoffsky and Rostoffsky,
And all the others that end in offsky;
And Platoff he play'd them off,
And Shouvaloff he shovell'd them off,
And Markoff he mark'd them off,
And Krosnoff he cross'd them off,
And Touchkoff he touch'd them off,
And Boroskoff he bored them off,
And Kutousoff he cut them off,
And Parenzoff he pared them off,
And Worronzoff he worried them off,
And Doctoroff he doctor'd them off,
And Rodinoff he flogg'd them off.
And, last of all, an Admiral came,
A terrible man with a terrible name,
A name which you all know by sight very well,
But which no one can speak, and no one can spell.
They stuck close to Nap with all their might;
They were on the left and on the right
Behind and before, and by day and by night;
He would rather parlez-vous than fight;
But he look'd white, and he look'd blue.
Morbleu! Parbleu!
When parlez-vous no more would do.
For they remember'd Moscow.

And then came on the frost and snow All on the road from Moscow. The wind and the weather he found, in that hour, Cared nothing for him, nor for all his power; For him who, while Europe crouch'd under his rod, Put his trust in his Fortune, and not in his God. Worse and worse every day the elements grew, The fields were so white and the sky was so blue, Sacrebleu! Ventrebleu! What a horrible journey from Moscow!

What then thought the Emperor Nap
Upon the road from Moscow?
Why, I ween he thought it small delight
To fight all day, and to freeze all night;
And he was besides in a very great fright,
For a whole skin he liked to be in;
And so not knowing what else to do,
When the fields were so white, and the sky so blue,
Morbleu! Parbleu!
He stole away,--I tell you true,--
Upon the road from Moscow.
'Tis myself, quoth he, I must mind most;
So the devil may take the hindmost.

Too cold upon the road was he;
Too hot had he been at Moscow;
But colder and hotter he may be,
For the grave is colder than Moscovy;
And a place there is to be kept in view,
Where the fire is red, and the brimstone blue,
Morbleu! Parbleu!
Which he must go to,
If the Pope say true,
If he does not in time look about him;
Where his namesake almost
He may have for his Host;
He has reckon'd too long without him;
If that Host get him in Purgatory,
He won't leave him there alone with his glory;
But there he must stay for a very long day,
For from thence there is no stealing away,
As there was on the road from Moscow.

_Robert Southey._

HALF HOURS WITH THE CLASSICS

Ah, those hours when by-gone sages Led our thoughts through Learning's ways, When the wit of sunnier ages, Called once more to Earth the days When rang through Athens' vine-hung lanes Thy wild, wild laugh, Aristophanes!

Pensive through the land of Lotus, Sauntered we by Nilus' side; Garrulous old Herodotus Still our mentor, still our guide, Prating of the mystic bliss Of Isis and of Osiris.

All the learn'd ones trooped before us, All the wise of Hellas' land, Down from mythic Pythagoras, To the hemlock drinker grand. Dark the hour that closed the gates Of gloomy Dis on thee, Socrates.

Ah, those hours of tend'rest study, When Electra's poet told Of Love's cheek once warm and ruddy, Pale with grief, with death chill cold! Sobbing low like summer tides Flow thy verses, Euripides!

High our hearts beat when Cicero Shook the Capitolian dome; How we shuddered, watching Nero 'Mid the glare of blazing Rome! How those records still affright us On thy gloomy page, Tacitus!

Back to youth I seem to glide, as
I recall those by-gone scenes,
When we conned o'er Thucydides,
Or recited Demosthenes.

L'ENVOI

Ancient sages, pardon these Somewhat doubtful quantities.

_H. I. DeBurgh._

ON THE OXFORD CARRIER

Here lieth one, who did most truly prove That he could never die while he could move; So hung his destiny never to rot While he might still jog on and keep his trot; Made of sphere metal, never to decay Until his revolution was at stay. Time numbers motion, yet (without a crime 'Gainst old truth) motion number'd out his time And like an engine moved with wheel and weight, His principles being ceased, he ended straight. Rest, that gives all men life, gave him his death, And too much breathing put him out of breath; Nor were it contradiction to affirm, Too long vacation hasten'd on his term. Merely to drive the time away he sicken'd, Fainted, and died, nor would with ale be quicken'd; "Nay," quoth he, on his swooning bed outstretch'd, "If I mayn't carry, sure I'll ne'er be fetch'd, But vow, though the cross doctors all stood hearers, For one carrier put down to make six bearers." Ease was his chief disease; and to judge right, He died for heaviness that his cart went light: His leisure told him that his time was come. And lack of load made his life burdensome. That even to his last breath (there be that say't), As he were press'd to death, he cried, "More weight;" But, had his doings lasted as they were, He had been an immortal carrier. Obedient to the moon he spent his date In course reciprocal, and had his fate Link'd to the mutual flowing of the seas, Yet (strange to think) his wane was his increase: His letters are deliver'd all, and gone, Only remains the superscription.

_John Milton._

NINETY-NINE IN THE SHADE

O for a lodge in a garden of cucumbers!
O for an iceberg or two at control!
O for a vale which at mid-day the dew cumbers!
O for a pleasure-trip up to the pole!

O for a little one-story thermometer,
With nothing but zeroes all ranged in a row!
O for a big double-barreled hygrometer,
To measure this moisture that rolls from my brow!

O that this cold world were twenty times colder!
(That's irony red-hot it seemeth to me);
O for a turn of its dreaded cold shoulder!
O what a comfort an ague would be!

O for a grotto frost-lined and rill-riven,
Scooped in the rock under cataract vast!
O for a winter of discontent even!
O for wet blankets judiciously cast!

O for a soda-fount spouting up boldly
From every hot lamp-post against the hot sky!
O for proud maiden to look on me coldly,
Freezing my soul with a glance of her eye!

Then O for a draught from a cup of cold pizen,
And O for a resting-place in the cold grave!
With a bath in the Styx where the thick shadow lies on
And deepens the chill of its dark-running wave.

_Rossiter Johnson._

THE TRIOLET

Easy is the triolet, If you really learn to make it! Once a neat refrain you get, Easy is the triolet. As you see!--I pay my debt With another rhyme. Deuce take it, Easy is the triolet, If you really learn to make it!

_William Ernest Henley._

THE RONDEAU

You bid me try, Blue-eyes, to write A Rondeau. What! forthwith?--to-night? Reflect? Some skill I have, 'tis true; But thirteen lines!--and rhymed on two!-- "Refrain," as well. Ah, hapless plight!

Still there are five lines--ranged aright.
These Gallic bonds, I feared, would fright
My easy Muse. They did, till you--
You bid me try!

That makes them eight.--The port's in sight;
'Tis all because your eyes are bright!
Now just a pair to end in "oo,"--
When maids command, what can't we do?
Behold! The Rondeau--tasteful, light--
You bid me try!

_Austin Dobson._

LIFE[1]

1. Why all this toil for triumphs of an hour? 2. Life's a short summer, man a flower. 3. By turns we catch the vital breath and die-- 4. The cradle and the tomb, alas! so nigh. 5. To be, is better far than not to be. 6. Though all man's life may seem a tragedy; 7. But light cares speak when mighty griefs are dumb, 8. The bottom is but shallow whence they come. 9. Your fate is but the common lot of all: 10. Unmingled joys here to no man befall, 11. Nature to each allots his proper sphere; 12. Fortune makes folly her peculiar care; 13. Custom does often reason overrule, 14. And throw a cruel sunshine on a fool. 15. Live well; how long or short, permit to Heaven; 16. They who forgive most, shall be most forgiven. 17. Sin may be clasped so close we cannot see its face-- 18. Vile intercourse where virtue has no place. 19. Then keep each passion down, however dear; 20. Thou pendulum betwixt a smile and tear. 21. Her sensual snares, let faithless pleasure lay, 22. With craft and skill, to ruin and betray; 23. Soar not too high to fall, but stoop to rise. 24. We masters grow of all that we despise. 25. Oh, then, renounce that impious self-esteem; 26. Riches have wings, and grandeur is a dream. 27. Think not ambition wise because 'tis brave, 28. The paths of glory lead but to the grave. 29. What is ambition?--'tis a glorious cheat!-- 30. Only destructive to the brave and great. 31. What's all the gaudy glitter of a crown? 32. The way to bliss lies not on beds of down. 33. How long we live, not years but actions tell; 34. That man lives twice who lives the first life well. 35. Make, then, while yet ye may, your God your friend, 36. Whom Christians worship yet not comprehend. 37. The trust that's given guard, and to yourself be just; 38. For, live we how we can, yet die we must.

_Unknown._

[Footnote 1: 1. Young; 2. Dr. Johnson; 3. Pope; 4. Prior; 5. Sewell; 6. Spenser; 7. Daniell; 8. Sir Walter Raleigh; 9. Longfellow; 10. Southwell; 11. Congreve; 12. Churchill; 13. Rochester; 14. Armstrong; 15. Milton; 16. Bailey; 17. Trench; 18. Somerville; 19. Thomson; 20. Byron; 21. Smollett; 22. Crabbe; 23. Massinger; 24. Cowley; 25. Beattie; 26. Cowper; 27. Sir Walter Davenant; 28. Gray; 29. Willis; 30. Addison; 31. Dryden; 32. Francis Quarles; 33. Watkins; 34. Herrick; 35. William Mason; 36. Hill; 37. Dana; 38. Shakespeare.]

ODE TO THE HUMAN HEART

Blind Thamyris, and blind Mæonides,
Pursue the triumph and partake the gale!
Drop tears as fast as the Arabian trees,
To point a moral or adorn a tale.

Full many a gem of purest ray serene,
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears,
Like angels' visits, few and far between,
Deck the long vista of departed years.

Man never is, but always to be bless'd;
The tenth transmitter of a foolish face,
Like Aaron's serpent, swallows up the rest,
And makes a sunshine in the shady place.

For man the hermit sigh'd, till woman smiled,
To waft a feather or to drown a fly,
(In wit a man, simplicity a child,)
With silent finger pointing to the sky.

But fools rush in where angels fear to tread
Far out amid the melancholy main;
As when a vulture on Imaus bred,
Dies of a rose in aromatic pain.

_Laman Blanchard._

A STRIKE AMONG THE POETS

In his chamber, weak and dying,
While the Norman Baron lay,
Loud, without, his men were crying,
"Shorter hours and better pay."

Know you why the ploughman, fretting,
Homeward plods his weary way
Ere his time? He's after getting
Shorter hours and better pay.

See! the _Hesperus_ is swinging
Idle in the wintry bay,
And the skipper's daughter's singing,
"Shorter hours and better pay."

Where's the minstrel boy? I've found him
Joining in the labour fray
With his placards slung around him,
"Shorter hours and better pay."

Oh, young Lochinvar is coming;
Though his hair is getting grey,
Yet I'm glad to hear him humming,
"Shorter hours and, better pay."

E'en the boy upon the burning
Deck has got a word to say,
Something rather cross concerning
Shorter hours and better pay.

Lives of great men all remind us
We can make as much as they,
Work no more, until they find us
Shorter hours and better pay.

Hail to thee, blithe spirit! (Shelley)
Wilt thou be a blackleg? Nay.
Soaring, sing above the mélée,
"Shorter hours and better pay."

_Unknown._

WHATEVER IS, IS RIGHT

Lives there a man with soul so dead Who never to himself has said, "Shoot folly as it flies"? Oh! more than tears of blood can tell, Are in that word, farewell, farewell! 'Tis folly to be wise.

And what is friendship but a name, That boils on Etna's breast of flame? Thus runs the world away, Sweet is the ship that's under sail To where yon taper cheers the vale, With hospitable ray!

Drink to me only with thine eyes Through cloudless climes and starry skies! My native land, good night! Adieu, adieu, my native shore; 'Tis Greece, but living Greece no more-- Whatever is, is right!

_Laman Blanchard._

NOTHING

Mysterious Nothing! how shall I define Thy shapeless, baseless, placeless emptiness? Nor form, nor colour, sound, nor size is thine, Nor words nor fingers can thy voice express; But though we cannot thee to aught compare, A thousand things to thee may likened be, And though thou art with nobody nowhere, Yet half mankind devote themselves to thee. How many books thy history contain; How many heads thy mighty plans pursue; What labouring hands thy portion only gain; What busy bodies thy doings only do! To thee the great, the proud, the giddy bend, And--like my sonnet--all in nothing end.

_Richard Porson._

DIRGE

To the memory of Miss Ellen Gee, of Kew, who died in consequence of being stung in the eye.

Peerless yet hapless maid of Q!
Accomplish'd LN G!
Never again shall I and U
Together sip our T.

For, ah! the Fates I know not Y,
Sent 'midst the flowers a B,
Which ven'mous stung her in the I,
So that she could not C.

LN exclaim'd, "Vile spiteful B!
If ever I catch U
On jess'mine, rosebud, or sweet P,
I'll change your singing Q.

"I'll send you like a lamb or U
Across th' Atlantic C.
From our delightful village Q
To distant O Y E.

"A stream runs from my wounded I,
Salt as the briny C
As rapid as the X or Y,
The OIO or D.

"Then fare thee ill, insensate B!
Who stung, nor yet knew Y,
Since not for wealthy Durham's C
Would I have lost my I."

They bear with tears fair LN G
In funeral R A,
A clay-cold corse now doom'd to B
Whilst I mourn her DK.
Ye nymphs of Q, then shun each B,
List to the reason Y;
For should A B C U at T,
He'll surely sting your I.

Now in a grave L deep in Q,
She's cold as cold can B,
Whilst robins sing upon A U
Her dirge and LEG.

_Unknown._

O D V

CONTAINING A FULL, TRUE, AND PARTICULAR ACCOUNT OF THE TERRIBLE FATE OF ABRAHAM ISAACS, OF IVY LANE

"True 'tis P T, and P T 'tis, 'tis true."

In I V Lane, of C T fame,
There lived a man D C,
And A B I 6 was his name,
Now mark his history.

Long time his conduct free from blame
Did merit L O G,
Until an evil spirit came
In the shape of O D V.

"O! that a man into his mouth
Should put an N M E
To steal away his brains"--no drouth
Such course from sin may free.

Well, A B drank, the O T loon!
And learned to swear, sans ruth;
And then he gamed, and U Z soon
To D V 8 from truth.

An hourly glass with him was play,
He'd swallow that with phlegm;
Judge what he'd M T in a day,
"X P D _Herculem_."

Of virtue none to sots, I trow,
With F E K C prate;
And O of N R G could now
From A B M N 8.

Who on strong liquor badly dote,
Soon poverty must know;
Thus A B in a C D coat
Was shortly forced to go.

From poverty D C T he caught,
And cheated not A F U,
For what he purchased paying O,
Or but an "I O U."

Or else when he had tried B 4,
To shirk a debt, his wits,
He'd cry, "You shan't wait N E more,
I'll W or quits."

So lost did I 6 now A P R,
That said his wife, said she,
"F U act so, your fate quite clear
Is for 1 2 4 C."

His inside soon was out and out
More fiery than K N;
And while his state was thereabout
A cough C V R came.

He I P K Q N A tried,
And linseed T and rue;
But O could save him, so he died
As every 1 must 2.

Poor wight! till black in' the face he raved,
'Twas P T S 2 C
His latest spirit "spirit" craved--
His last words, "O D V."

MORAL

I'll not S A to preach and prate,
But tell U if U do
Drink O D V at such R 8,
Death will 4 stall U 2.

O U then who A Y Z have,
Shun O D V as a wraith,
For 'tis a bonus to the grave,
An S A unto death.

_Unknown._

A MAN OF WORDS

A man of words and not of deeds, Is like a garden full of weeds; And when the weeds begin to grow, It's like a garden full of snow; And when the snow begins to fall, It's like a bird upon the wall; And when the bird away does fly, It's like an eagle in the sky; And when the sky begins to roar, It's like a lion at the door; And when the door begins to crack, It's like a stick across your back; And when your back begins to smart, It's like a penknife in your heart; And when your heart begins to bleed, You're dead, and dead, and dead indeed.

_Unknown._

SIMILES

As wet as a fish--as dry as a bone; As live as a bird--as dead as a stone; As plump as a partridge--as poor as a rat; As strong as a horse--as weak as a cat; As hard as a flint--as soft as a mole; As white as a lily--as black as a coal; As plain as a pike-staff--as rough as a bear; As light as a drum--as free as the air; As heavy as lead--as light as a feather; As steady as time--uncertain as weather; As hot as an oven--as cold as a frog; As gay as a lark--as sick as a dog; As slow as the tortoise--as swift as the wind; As true as the Gospel--as false as mankind; As thin as a herring--as fat as a pig; As proud as a peacock--as blithe as a grig; As savage as tigers--as mild as a dove; As stiff as a poker--as limp as a glove; As blind as a bat--as deaf as a post; As cool as a cucumber--as warm as a toast; As flat as a flounder--as round as a ball; As blunt as a hammer--as sharp as an awl; As red as a ferret--as safe as the stocks; As bold as a thief--as sly as a fox; As straight as an arrow--as crook'd as a bow; As yellow as saffron--as black as a sloe; As brittle as glass--as tough as gristle; As neat as my nail--as clean as a whistle; As good as a feast--as had as a witch; As light as is day--as dark as is pitch; As brisk as a bee--as dull as an ass; As full as a tick--as solid as brass.

_Unknown._

NO!

No sun--no moon!
No morn--no noon--
No dawn--no dusk--no proper time of day--
No sky--no earthly view--
No distance looking blue--
No road--no street--no "t'other side the way"--
No end to any Row--
No indications where the Crescents go--
No top to any steeple--
No recognitions of familiar people--
No courtesies for showing 'em--
No knowing 'em!
No travelling at all--no locomotion,
No inkling of the way--no notion--
"No go"--by land or ocean--
No mail--no post--
No news from any foreign coast--
No park--no ring--no afternoon gentility--
No company--no nobility--
No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease,
No comfortable feel in any member--
No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees,
No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds, November!

_Thomas Hood._

FAITHLESS SALLY BROWN

Young Ben he was a nice young man,
A carpenter by trade;
And he fell in love with Sally Brown,
That was a lady's maid.

But as they fetched a walk one day,
They met a press-gang crew;
And Sally she did faint away,
Whilst Ben he was brought to.

The boatswain swore with wicked words,
Enough to shock a saint,
That though she did seem in a fit,
'Twas nothing but a feint.

"Come, girl," said he, "hold up your head,
He'll be as good as me;
For when your swain is in our boat,
A boatswain he will be."

So when they'd made their game of her,
And taken off her elf,
She roused, and found she only was
A coming to herself.

"And is he gone, and is he gone?"
She cried, and wept outright:
"Then I will to the water side,
And see him out of sight."

A waterman came up to her,--
"Now, young woman," said he,
"If you weep on so, you will make
Eye-water in the sea."

"Alas! they've taken my beau, Ben,
To sail with old Benbow;"
And her woe began to run afresh,
As if she'd said, "Gee woe!"

Says he, "They've only taken him
To the Tender-ship, you see;"
"The Tender-ship," cried Sally Brown,
"What a hard-ship that must be!

"O! would I were a mermaid now,
For then I'd follow him;
But, O!--I'm not a fish-woman,
And so I cannot swim.

"Alas! I was not born beneath
The virgin and the scales,
So I must curse my cruel stars,
And walk about in Wales."

Now Ben had sailed to many a place
That's underneath the world;
But in two years the ship came home,
And all her sails were furled.

But when he called on Sally Brown,
To see how she got on,
He found she'd got another Ben,
Whose Christian name was John.

"O, Sally Brown, O, Sally Brown,
How could you serve me so?
I've met with many a breeze before,
But never such a blow!"

Then reading on his 'bacco-box,
He heaved a heavy sigh,
And then began to eye his pipe,
And then to pipe his eye.

And then he tried to sing "All's Well,"
But could not, though he tried;
His head was turned, and so he chewed
His pigtail till he died.

His death, which happened in his berth,
At forty-odd befell:
They went and told the sexton, and
The sexton tolled the bell.

_Thomas Hood._

TIM TURPIN

Tim Turpin he was gravel blind,
And ne'er had seen the skies:
For Nature, when his head was made,
Forgot to dot his eyes.

So, like a Christmas pedagogue,
Poor Tim was forced to do,--
Look out for pupils, for he had
A vacancy for two.

There's some have specs to help their sight
Of objects dim and small;
But Tim had _specks_ within his eyes,
And could not see at all.

Now Tim he wooed a servant maid,
And took her to his arms;
For he, like Pyramus, had cast
A wall-eye on her charms.

By day she led him up and down
Where'er he wished to jog,
A happy wife, although she led
The life of any dog.

But just when Tim had lived a month
In honey with his wife,
A surgeon oped his Milton eyes,
Like oysters, with a knife.

But when his eyes were opened thus,
He wished them dark again;
For when he looked upon his wife,
He saw her very plain.

Her face was bad, her figure worse,
He couldn't bear to eat;
For she was anything but like
A Grace before his meat.

Now Tim he was a feeling man:
For when his sight was thick,
It made him feel for everything,--
But that was with a stick.

So, with a cudgel in his hand,--
It was not light or slim,--
He knocked at his wife's head until
It opened unto him.

And when the corpse was stiff and cold,
He took his slaughtered spouse,
And laid her in a heap with all
The ashes of her house.

But, like a wicked murderer,
He lived in constant fear
From day to day, and so he cut
His throat from ear to ear.

The neighbors fetched a doctor in:
Said he, "This wound I dread
Can hardly be sewed up,--his life
Is hanging on a thread."

But when another week was gone,
He gave him stronger hope,--
Instead of hanging on a thread,
Of hanging on a rope.

Ah! when he hid his bloody work,
In ashes round about,
How little he supposed the truth
Would soon be sifted out!

But when the parish dustman came,
His rubbish to withdraw,
He found more dust within the heap
Than he contracted for!

A dozen men to try the fact,
Were sworn that very day;
But though they all were jurors, yet
No conjurors were they.

Said Tim unto those jurymen,
"You need not waste your breath,
For I confess myself, at once,
The author of her death.

"And O, when I reflect upon
The blood that I have spilt,
Just like a button is my soul,
Inscribed with double _guilt_!"

Then turning round his head again
He saw before his eyes
A great judge, and a little judge,
The judges of a-size!

The great judge took his judgment-cap,
And put it on his head,
And sentenced Tim by law to hang
Till he was three times dead.

So he was tried, and he was hung
(Fit punishment for such)
On Horsham drop, and none can say
It was a drop too much.

_Thomas Hood._

FAITHLESS NELLY GRAY

Ben Battle was a soldier bold,
And used to war's alarms:
But a cannon-ball took off his legs,
So he laid down his arms!

Now, as they bore him off the field,
Said he, "Let others shoot,
For here I leave my second leg,
And the Forty-second Foot!"

The army surgeons made him limbs:
Said he, "They're only pegs;
But there's as wooden members quite,
As represent my legs!"

Now Ben he loved a pretty maid,
Her name was Nelly Gray;
So he went to pay her his devours
When he'd devoured his pay!

But when he called on Nelly Gray,
She made him quite a scoff;
And when she saw his wooden legs,
Began to take them off!

"O Nelly Gray! O Nelly Gray!
Is this your love so warm?
The love that loves a scarlet coat,
Should be more uniform!"

Said she, "I loved a soldier once,
For he was blithe and brave;
But I will never have a man
With both legs in the grave!

"Before you had those timber toes,
Your love I did allow,
But then you know, you stand upon
Another footing now!"

"O Nelly Gray! O Nelly Gray!
For all your jeering speeches,
At duty's call I left my legs
In Badajos's breaches!"

"Why, then," said she, "you've lost the feet
Of legs in war's alarms,
And now you cannot wear your shoes
Upon your feats of arms!"

"Oh, false and fickle Nelly Gray;
I know why you refuse:
Though I've no feet--some other man
Is standing in my shoes!

"I wish I ne'er had seen your face;
But now a long farewell!
For you will be my death--alas!
You will not be my Nell!"

Now, when he went from Nelly Gray,
His heart so heavy got--
And life was such a burden grown,
It made him take a knot!

So round his melancholy neck
A rope he did entwine,
And, for his second time in life
Enlisted in the Line!

One end he tied around a beam,
And then removed his pegs,
And as his legs were off,--of course,
He soon was off his legs!

And there he hung till he was dead
As any nail in town,--
For though distress had cut him up,
It could not cut him down!

A dozen men sat on his corpse,
To find out why he died--
And they buried Ben in four cross-roads,
With a stake in his inside!

_Thomas Hood._

SALLY SIMPKIN'S LAMENT

"Oh! what is that comes gliding in,
And quite in middling haste?
It is the picture of my Jones,
And painted to the waist.

"It is not painted to the life,
For where's the trousers blue?
O Jones, my dear!--Oh, dear! my Jones,
What is become of you?"

"O Sally, dear, it is too true,--
The half that you remark
Is come to say my other half
Is bit off by a shark!

"O Sally, sharks do things by halves,
Yet most completely do!
A bite in one place seems enough,
But I've been bit in two.

"You know I once was all your own,
But now a shark must share!
But let that pass--for now to you
I'm neither here nor there.

"Alas! death has a strange divorce
Effected in the sea,
It has divided me from you,
And even me from me!

"Don't fear my ghost will walk o' nights
To haunt, as people say;
My ghost _can't_ walk, for, oh! my legs
Are many leagues away!

"Lord! think when I am swimming round,
And looking where the boat is,
A shark just snaps away a _half,_
Without 'a _quarter's notice_.'

"One half is here, the other half
Is near Columbia placed;
O Sally, I have got the whole
Atlantic for my waist.

"But now, adieu--a long adieu!
I've solved death's awful riddle,
And would say more, but I am doomed
To break off in the middle!"

_Thomas Hood._

DEATH'S RAMBLE

One day the dreary old King of Death
Inclined for some sport with the carnal,
So he tied a pack of darts on his back,
And quietly stole from his charnel.

His head was bald of flesh and of hair,
His body was lean and lank;
His joints at each stir made a crack, and the cur
Took a gnaw, by the way, at his shank.

And what did he do with his deadly darts,
This goblin of grisly bone?
He dabbled and spilled man's blood, and he killed
Like a butcher that kills his own.

The first he slaughtered it made him laugh
(For the man was a coffin-maker),
To think how the mutes, and men in black suits,
Would mourn for an undertaker.

Death saw two Quakers sitting at church;
Quoth he, "We shall not differ."
And he let them alone, like figures of stone,
For he could not make them stiffer.

He saw two duellists going to fight,
In fear they could not smother;
And he shot one through at once--for he knew
They never would shoot each other.

He saw a watchman fast in his box,
And he gave a snore infernal;
Said Death, "He may keep his breath, for his sleep
Can never be more eternal."

He met a coachman driving a coach
So slow that his fare grew sick;
But he let him stray on his tedious way,
For Death only wars on the _quick_.

Death saw a tollman taking a toll,
In the spirit of his fraternity;
But he knew that sort of man would extort,
Though summoned to all eternity.

He found an author writing his life,
But he let him write no further;
For Death, who strikes whenever he likes,
Is jealous of all self-murther!

Death saw a patient that pulled out his purse,
And a doctor that took the sum;
But he let them be--for he knew that the "fee"
Was a prelude to "faw" and "fum."

He met a dustman ringing a bell,
And he gave him a mortal thrust;
For himself, by law, since Adam's flaw,
Is contractor for all our dust.

He saw a sailor mixing his grog,
And he marked him out for slaughter;
For on water he scarcely had cared for death,
And never on rum-and-water.

Death saw two players playing at cards,
But the game wasn't worth a dump,
For he quickly laid them flat with a spade,
To wait for the final trump!

_Thomas Hood._

PANEGYRIC ON THE LADIES

READ ALTERNATE LINES

That man must lead a happy life
Who's free from matrimonial chains,
Who is directed by a wife
Is sure to suffer for his pains.

Adam could find no solid peace
When Eve was given for a mate;
Until he saw a woman's face
Adam was in a happy state.

In all the female race appear
Hypocrisy, deceit, and pride;
Truth, darling of a heart sincere,
In woman never did reside.

What tongue is able to unfold
The failings that in woman dwell?
The worth in woman we behold
Is almost imperceptible.

Confusion take the man, I say,
Who changes from his singleness,
Who will not yield to woman's sway
Is sure of earthly blessedness.

_Unknown._

AMBIGUOUS LINES

READ WITH A COMMA AFTER THE FIRST NOUN IN EACH LINE

I saw a peacock with a fiery tail I saw a blazing comet pour down hail I saw a cloud all wrapt with ivy round I saw a lofty oak creep on the ground I saw a beetle swallow up a whale I saw a foaming sea brimful of ale I saw a pewter cup sixteen feet deep I saw a well full of men's tears that weep I saw wet eyes in flames of living fire I saw a house as high as the moon and higher I saw the glorious sun at deep midnight I saw the man who saw this wondrous sight.

I saw a pack of cards gnawing a bone I saw a dog seated on Britain's throne I saw King George shut up within a box I saw an orange driving a fat ox I saw a butcher not a twelvemonth old I saw a great-coat all of solid gold I saw two buttons telling of their dreams I saw my friends who wished I'd quit these themes.

_Unknown._

SURNAMES

Men once were surnamed for their shape or estate
(You all may from history worm it),
There was Louis the bulky, and Henry the Great,
John Lackland, and Peter the Hermit:
But now, when the doorplates of misters and dames
Are read, each so constantly varies;
From the owner's trade, figure, and calling, surnames
Seem given by the rule of contraries.

Mr. Wise is a dunce, Mr. King is a whig,
Mr. Coffin's uncommonly sprightly,
And huge Mr. Little broke down in a gig
While driving fat Mrs. Golightly.
At Bath, where the feeble go more than the stout
(A conduct well worthy of Nero),
Over poor Mr. Lightfoot, confined with the gout,
Mr. Heavyside danced a bolero.

Miss Joy, wretched maid, when she chose Mr. Love,
Found nothing but sorrow await her;
She now holds in wedlock, as true as a dove,
That fondest of mates, Mr. Hayter.
Mr. Oldcastle dwells in a modern-built hut;
Miss Sage is of madcaps the archest;
Of all the queer bachelors Cupid e'er cut,
Old Mr. Younghusband's the starchest.

Mr. Child, in a passion, knock'd down Mr. Rock;
Mr. Stone like an aspen-leaf shivers;
Miss Pool used to dance, but she stands like a stock
Ever since she became Mrs. Rivers.
Mr. Swift hobbles onward, no mortal knows how,
He moves as though cords had entwined him;
Mr. Metcalf ran off upon meeting a cow,
With pale Mr. Turnbull behind him.

Mr. Barker's as mute as a fish in the sea,
Mr. Miles never moves on a journey,
Mr. Gotobed sits up till half after three,
Mr. Makepeace was bred an attorney.
Mr. Gardener can't tell a flower from a root,
Mr. Wild with timidity draws back,
Mr. Ryder performs all his journeys on foot,
Mr. Foot all his journeys on horseback.

Mr. Penny, whose father was rolling in wealth,
Consumed all the fortune his dad won;
Large Mr. Le Fever's the picture of health;
Mr. Goodenough is but a bad one;
Mr. Cruikshank stept into three thousand a year
By showing his leg to an heiress:
Now I hope you'll acknowledge I've made it quite clear
Surnames ever go by contraries.

_James Smith._

A TERNARY OF LITTLES, UPON A PIPKIN OF JELLY SENT TO A LADY

A little saint best fits a little shrine, A little prop best fits a little vine; As my small cruse best fits my little wine.

A little seed best fits a little soil, A little trade best fits a little toil; As my small jar best fits my little oil.

A little bin best fits a little bread, A little garland fits a little head; As my small stuff best fits my little shed.

A little hearth best fits a little fire, A little chapel fits a little choir; As my small bell best fits my little spire.

A little stream best fits a little boat, A little lead best fits a little float; As my small pipe best fits my little note.

A little meat best fits a little belly, As sweetly, lady, give me leave to tell ye, This little pipkin fits this little jelly.

_Robert Herrick._

A CARMAN'S ACCOUNT OF A LAW-SUIT

Marry, I lent my gossip my mare, to fetch home coals, And he her drownéd into the quarry holes; And I ran to the Consistory, for to 'plain, And there I happened among a greedy meine. They gave me first a thing they call Citandum; Within eight days, I got but Libellandum; Within a month, I got Ad oppenendum; In half a year, I got Interloquendum; And then I got--how call ye it?--Ad replicandum. But I could never one word yet understand them; And then, they caused me cast out many placks, And made me pay for four-and-twenty acts. But, ere they came half gait to Concludendum, The fiend one plack was left for to defend him. Thus they postponed me two years, with their train, Then, hodie ad octo, bade me come again, And then, these rooks, they roupit wonder fast, For sentence silver, they criéd at the last. Of Pronunciandum they made me wonder fain; But I got never my good grey mare again.

_Sir David Lindesay._

OUT OF SIGHT, OUT OF MIND

The oft'ner seen, the more I lust, The more I lust, the more I smart, The more I smart, the more I trust, The more I trust, the heavier heart, The heavy heart breeds mine unrest, Thy absence therefore I like best.

The rarer seen, the less in mind, The less in mind, the lesser pain, The lesser pain, less grief I find, The lesser grief, the greater gain, The greater gain, the merrier I, Therefore I wish thy sight to fly.

The further off, the more I joy, The more I joy, the happier life, The happier life, less hurts annoy, The lesser hurts, pleasure most rife, Such pleasures rife shall I obtain When distance doth depart us train.

_Barnaby Googe._

NONGTONGPAW

John Bull for pastime took a prance, Some time ago, to peep at France; To talk of sciences and arts, And knowledge gain'd in foreign parts. Monsieur, obsequious, heard him speak, And answer'd John in heathen Greek: To all he ask'd, 'bout all he saw, 'Twas, _Monsieur, je vous n'entends pas_.

John, to the Palais-Royal come, Its splendor almost struck him dumb. "I say, whose house is that there here?" "House! _Je vous n'entends pas, Monsieur._" "What, Nongtongpaw again!" cries John; "This fellow is some mighty Don: No doubt he's plenty for the maw, I'll breakfast with this Nongtongpaw."

John saw Versailles from Marli's height, And cried, astonish'd at the sight, "Whose fine estate is that there here?" "State! _Je vous n'entends pas, Monsieur._" "His? what! the land and houses, too? The fellow's richer than a Jew: On _everything_ he lays his claw! I'd like to dine with Nongtongpaw."

Next tripping came a courtly fair, John cried, enchanted with her air, "What lovely wench is that there here?" "Ventch! _Je vous n'entends pas, Monsieur._" "What, he again? Upon, my life! A palace, lands, and then a wife Sir Joshua might delight to draw! I'd like to sup with Nongtongpaw."

"But hold! whose funeral's that?" cries John. "_Je vous n'entends pas._"--"What! is he gone? Wealth, fame, and beauty could not save Poor Nongtongpaw then from the grave! His race is run, his game is up,-- I'd with him breakfast, dine, and sup; But since he chooses to withdraw, Good night t'ye, Mounseer Nongtongpaw!"

_Charles Dibdin._

LOGICAL ENGLISH