Chapter XXIII: Part II (5)

I said, "This horse, sir, will you shoe?"
And soon the horse was shod.
I said, "This deed, sir, will you do?"
And soon the deed was dod!

I said, "This stick, sir, will you break?"
At once the stick he broke.
I said, "This coat, sir, will you make?"
And soon the coat he moke!

_Unknown._

LOGIC

I have a copper penny and another copper penny,
Well, then, of course, I have two copper pence;
I have a cousin Jenny and another cousin Jenny,
Well, pray, then, do I have two cousin Jence?

_Unknown._

THE CAREFUL PENMAN

A Persian penman named Aziz,
Remarked, "I think I know my biz.
For when I write my name as is,
It is Aziz as is Aziz."

_Unknown._

QUESTIONS WITH ANSWERS

What is earth, sexton?--A place to dig graves; What is earth, rich men?--A place to work slaves, What is earth, grey-beard?--A place to grow old; What is earth, miser?--A place to dig gold; What is earth, school-boy?--A place for my play; What is earth, maiden?--A place to be gay; What is earth, seamstress?--A place where I weep; What is earth, sluggard?--A good place to sleep; What is earth, soldier?--A place for a battle; What is earth, herdsman?--A place to raise cattle; What is earth, widow?--A place of true sorrow; What is earth, tradesman?--I'll tell you to-morrow; What is earth, sick man?--'Tis nothing to me; What is earth, sailor?--My home is the sea; What is earth, statesman?--A place to win fame; What is earth, author?--I'll write there my name; What is earth, monarch?--For my realm 'tis given; What is earth, Christian?--The gateway of heaven.

_Unknown._

CONJUGAL CONJUGATIONS

Dear maid, let me speak
What I never yet spoke:
You have made my heart squeak
As it never yet squoke,
And for sight of you, both my eyes ache as they ne'er before oak.

With your voice my ears ring,
And a sweeter ne'er rung,
Like a bird's on the wing
When at morn it has wung.
And gladness to me it doth bring, such as never voice brung.

My feelings I'd write,
But they cannot be wrote,
And who can indite
What was never indote!
And my love I hasten to plight--the first that I plote.

Yes, you would I choose,
Whom I long ago chose,
And my fond spirit sues
As it never yet sose,
And ever on you do I muse, as never man mose.

The house where you bide
Is a blessed abode;
Sure, my hopes I can't hide,
For they will not be hode,
And no person living has sighed, as, darling, I've sode.

Your glances they shine
As no others have shone,
And all else I'd resign
That a man could resone,
And surely no other could pine as I lately have pone.

And don't you forget
You will ne'er be forgot,
You never should fret
As at times you have frot,
I would chase all the cares that beset, if they ever besot.

For you I would weave
Songs that never were wove,
And deeds I'd achieve
Which no man yet achove,
And for me you never should grieve, as for you I have grove.

I'm as worthy a catch
As ever, was caught.
O, your answer I watch
As a man never waught,
And we'd make the most elegant match as ever was maught.

Let my longings not sink;
I would die if they sunk.
O, I ask you to think
As you never have thunk,
And our fortunes and lives let us link, as no lives could be lunk.

_A. W. Bellow._

LOVE'S MOODS AND SENSES

Sally Salter, she was a young lady who taught, And her friend Charley Church was a preacher who praught! Though his enemies called him a screecher who scraught.

His heart when he saw her kept sinking and sunk, And his eye, meeting hers, began winking and wunk; While she in her turn fell to thinking, and thunk.

He hastened to woo her, and sweetly he wooed, For his love grew until to a mountain it grewed, And what he was longing to do then he doed.

In secret he wanted to speak, and he spoke, To seek with his lips what his heart long had soke; So he managed to let the truth leak, and it loke.

He asked her to ride to the church, and they rode, They so sweetly did glide, that they both thought they glode, And they came to the place to be tied, and were tode.

Then, "homeward" he said, "let us drive" and they drove, And soon as they wished to arrive, they arrove; For whatever he couldn't contrive she controve.

The kiss he was dying to steal, then he stole: At the feet where he wanted to kneel, then he knole, And said, "I feel better than ever I fole."

So they to each other kept clinging, and clung; While time his swift circuit was winging, and wung; And this was the thing he was bringing, and brung:

The man Sally wanted to catch, and had caught-- That she wanted from others to snatch, and had snaught-- Was the one that she now liked to scratch and she scraught.

And Charley's warm love began freezing and froze, While he took to teasing, and cruelly toze The girl he had wished to be squeezing and squoze.

"Wretch!" he cried, when she threatened to leave him, and left, "How could you deceive me, as you have deceft?" And she answered, "I promised to cleave, and I've cleft!"

_Unknown._

THE SIEGE OF BELGRADE

An Austrian army, awfully array'd, Boldly by battery besiege Belgrade; Cossack commanders cannonading come, Deal devastation's dire destructive doom; Ev'ry endeavour engineers essay, For fame, for freedom, fight, fierce furious fray. Gen'rals 'gainst gen'rals grapple,--gracious God! How honors Heav'n heroic hardihood! Infuriate, indiscriminate in ill, Just Jesus, instant innocence instill! Kinsmen kill kinsmen, kindred kindred kill. Labour low levels longest, loftiest lines; Men march 'midst mounds, motes, mountains, murd'rous mines. Now noisy, noxious numbers notice nought, Of outward obstacles o'ercoming ought; Poor patriots perish, persecution's pest! Quite quiet Quakers "Quarter, quarter," quest; Reason returns, religion, right, redounds, Suwarow stop such sanguinary sounds! Truce to thee, Turkey, terror to thy train! Unwise, unjust, unmerciful Ukraine! Vanish vile vengeance, vanish victory vain! Why wish we warfare? wherefore welcome won Xerxes, Nantippus, Navier, Xenophon? Yield, ye young Yaghier yeomen, yield your yell! Zimmerman's, Zoroaster's, Zeno's zeal Again attract; arts against arms appeal. All, all ambitious aims, avaunt, away! Et cetera, et cetera, et ceterae.

_Unknown._

THE HAPPY MAN

La Galisse now I wish to touch;
Droll air! if I can strike it,
I'm sure the song will please you much;
That is, if you should like it.

La Galisse was, indeed, I grant,
Not used to any dainty,
When he was born; but could not want
As long as he had plenty.

Instructed with the greatest care,
He always was well bred,
And never used a hat to wear
But when 'twas on his head.

His temper was exceeding good,
Just of his father's fashion;
And never quarrels boiled his blood
Except when in a passion.

His mind was on devotion bent;
He kept with care each high day,
And Holy Thursday always spent
The day before Good Friday.

He liked good claret very well,
I just presume to think it;
For ere its flavour he could tell
He thought it best to drink it.

Than doctors more he loved the cook,
Though food would make him gross,
And never any physic took
But when he took a dose.

Oh, happy, happy is the swain
The ladies so adore;
For many followed in his train
Whene'er he walked before.

Bright as the sun his flowing hair
In golden ringlets shone;
And no one could with him compare,
If he had been alone.

His talents I cannot rehearse,
But every one allows
That whatsoe'er he wrote in verse,
No one could call it prose.

He argued with precision nice,
The learned all declare;
And it was his decision wise,
No horse could be a mare.

His powerful logic would surprise,
Amaze, and much delight:
He proved that dimness of the eyes
Was hurtful to the sight.

They liked him much--so it appears
Most plainly--who preferred him;
And those did never want their ears
Who any time had heard him.

He was not always right, 'tis true,
And then he must be wrong;
But none had found it out, he knew,
If he had held his tongue.

Whene'er a tender tear he shed,
'Twas certain that he wept;
And he would lie awake in bed,
Unless, indeed, he slept.

In tilting everybody knew
His very high renown;
Yet no opponents he o'erthrew
But those that he knocked down.

At last they smote him in the head,--
What hero ever fought all?
And when they saw that he was dead,
They knew the wound was mortal.

And when at last he lost his breath,
It closed his every strife;
For that sad day that sealed his death
Deprived him of his life.

_Gilles Ménage._

THE BELLS

Oh, it's H-A-P-P-Y I am, and it's F-R-double-E, And it's G-L-O-R-Y to know that I'm S-A-V-E-D. Once I was B-O-U-N-D by the chains of S-I-N And it's L-U-C-K-Y I am that all is well again.

Oh, the bells of Hell go ting-a-ling-a-ling
For you, but not for me.
The bells of Heaven go sing-a-ling-a-ling
For there I soon shall be.
Oh, Death, where is thy sting-a-ling-a-ling
Oh, Grave, thy victorie-e.
No Ting-a-ling-a-ling, no sting-a-ling-a-ling
But sing-a-ling-a-ling for me.

_Unknown._

TAKINGS

He took her fancy when he came,
He took her hand, he took a kiss,
He took no notice of the shame
That glowed her happy cheek at this.

He took to come of afternoons,
He took an oath he'd ne'er deceive,
He took her master's silver spoons,
And after that he took his leave.

_Thomas Hood, Jr._

A BACHELOR'S MONO-RHYME

Do you think I'd marry a woman
That can neither cook nor sew,
Nor mend a rent in her gloves
Or a tuck in her furbelow;
Who spends her time in reading
The novels that come and go;
Who tortures heavenly music,
And makes it a thing of woe;
Who deems three-fourths of my income
Too little, by half, to show
What a figure she'd make, if I'd let her,
'Mid the belles of Rotten Row;
Who has not a thought in her head
Where thoughts are expected to grow,
Except of trumpery scandals
Too small for a man to know?
Do you think I'd wed with _that_,
Because both high and low
Are charmed by her youthful graces
And her shoulders white as snow?
Ah no! I've a wish to be happy,
I've a thousand a year or so,
'Tis all I can expect
That fortune will bestow!
So, pretty one, idle one, stupid one!
You're not for me, I trow,
To-day, nor yet to-morrow,
No, no! decidedly no!

_Charlts Mackay._

THE ART OF BOOK-KEEPING

How hard, when those who do not wish
To lend, that's lose, their books,
Are snared by anglers--folks that fish
With literary hooks;

Who call and take some favourite tome,
But never read it through;
They thus complete their set at home,
By making one at you.

Behold the bookshelf of a dunce
Who borrows--never lends;
Yon work, in twenty volumes, once
Belonged to twenty friends.

New tales and novels you may shut
From view--'tis all in vain;
They're gone--and though the leaves are "cut"
They never "come again."

For pamphlets lent I look around,
For tracts my tears are spilt;
But when they take a book that's bound,
'Tis surely extra guilt.

A circulating library
Is mine--my birds are flown;
There's one odd volume left, to be
Like all the rest, a-lone.

I, of my "Spenser" quite bereft,
Last winter sore was shaken;
Of "Lamb" I've but a quarter left,
Nor could I save my "Bacon."

My "Hall" and "Hill" were levelled flat,
But "Moore" was still the cry;
And then, although I threw them "Sprat,"
They swallowed up my "Pye."

O'er everything, however slight,
They seized some airy trammel;
They snatched my "Hogg" and "Fox" one night,
And pocketed my "Campbell."

And then I saw my "Crabbe" at last,
Like Hamlet's, backward go;
And as my tide was ebbing fast,
Of course I lost my "Rowe."

I wondered into what balloon
My books their course had bent;
And yet, with all my marvelling, soon
I found my "Marvell" went.

My "Mallet" served to knock me down,
Which makes me thus a talker;
And once, while I was out of town,
My "Johnson" proved a "Walker."

While studying o'er the fire one day
My "Hobbes" amidst the smoke;
They bore my "Colman" clean away,
And carried off my "Coke."

They picked my "Locke," to me far more
Than Bramah's patent's worth;
And now my losses I deplore,
Without a "Home" on earth.

If once a book you let them lift,
Another they conceal,
For though I caught them stealing "Swift,"
As swiftly went my "Steele."

"Hope" is not now upon my shelf,
Where late he stood elated;
But, what is strange, my "Pope" himself
Is excommunicated.

My little "Suckling" in the grave
Is sunk, to swell the ravage;
And what 'twas Crusoe's fate to save
'Twas mine to lose--a "Savage."

Even "Glover's" works I cannot put
My frozen hands upon;
Though ever since I lost my "Foote,"
My "Bunyan" has been gone.

My "Hoyle" with "Cotton" went; oppressed,
My "Taylor" too must fail;
To save my "Goldsmith" from arrest,
In vain I offered "Bayle."

I "Prior," sought, but could not see
The "Hood" so late in front;
And when I turned to hunt for "Lee,"
Oh! where was my "Leigh Hunt!"

I tried to laugh, old care to tickle,
Yet could not "Tickell" touch;
And then, alas! I missed my "Mickle,"
And surely mickle's much.

'Tis quite enough my griefs to feed,
My sorrows to excuse,
To think I cannot read my "Reid,"
Nor even use my "Hughes."

To "West," to "South," I turn my head,
Exposed alike to odd jeers;
For since my "Roger Ascham's" fled,
I ask 'em for my "Rogers."

They took my "Horne"--and "Horne Tooke" too,
And thus my treasures flit;
I feel when I would "Hazlitt" view,
The flames that it has lit.

My word's worth little, "Wordsworth" gone,
If I survive its doom;
How many a bard I doted on
Was swept off--with my "Broome."

My classics would not quiet lie,
A thing so fondly hoped;
Like Dr. Primrose, I may cry,
"My 'Livy' has eloped!"

My life is wasting fast away--
I suffer from these shocks;
And though I fixed a lock on "Grey"
There's grey upon my locks.

I'm far from young--am growing pale--
I see my "Butter" fly;
And when they ask about my _ail_,
'Tis "Burton" I reply.

They still have made me slight returns,
And thus my griefs divide;
For oh! they've cured me of my "Burns,"
And eased my "Akenside."

But all I think I shall not say,
Nor let my anger burn;
For as they never found me "Gay,"
They have not left me "Sterne."

_Laman Blanchard._

AN INVITATION TO THE ZOOLOGICAL GARDENS

BY A STUTTERING LOVER

I have found out a gig-gig-gift for my fuf-fuf-fair,
I have found where the rattlesnakes bub-bub-breed;
Will you co-co-come, and I'll show you the bub-bub-bear,
And the lions and tit-tit-tigers at fuf-fuf-feed.

I know where the co-co-cockatoo's song
Makes mum-mum-melody through the sweet vale;
Where the mum-monkeys gig-gig-grin all the day long,
Or gracefully swing by the tit-tit-tit-tail.

You shall pip-play, dear, some did-did-delicate joke
With the bub-bub-bear on the tit-tit-top of his pip-pip-pip-pole;
But observe, 'tis forbidden to pip-pip-poke
At the bub-bub-bear with your pip-pip-pink pip-pip-pip-pip-parasol!

You shall see the huge elephant pip-pip-play,
You shall gig-gig-gaze on the stit-stit-stately raccoon;
And then, did-did-dear, together we'll stray
To the cage of the bub-bub-blue-faced bab-bab-boon.

You wished (I r-r-remember it well,
And I lul-lul-loved you the m-m-more for the wish)
To witness the bub-bub-beautiful pip-pip-pelican
swallow the l-l-live little fuf-fuf-fish!

_Unknown._

A NOCTURNAL SKETCH

Even is come; and from the dark Park, hark, The signal of the setting sun--one gun! And six is sounding from the chime, prime time To go and see the Drury-Lane, Dane slain,-- Or hear Othello's jealous doubt spout out,-- Or Macbeth raving at that shade-made blade, Denying to his frantic clutch much touch;-- Or else to see Ducrow with wide stride ride Four horses as no other man can span; Or in the small Olympic Pit, sit split Laughing at Liston, while you quiz his phiz. Anon Night comes, and with her wings brings things Such as, with his poetic tongue, Young sung; The gas up-blazes with its bright white light, And paralytic watchmen prowl, howl, growl, About the streets and take up Pall-Mall Sal, Who, hasting to her nightly jobs, robs fobs.

Now thieves to enter for your cash, smash, crash, Past drowsy Charley, in a deep sleep, creep, But frightened by Policeman B 3, flee, And while they're going, whisper low, "No go!" Now puss, while folks are in their beds, treads leads. And sleepers waking, grumble--"Drat that cat!" Who in the gutter caterwauls, squalls, mauls Some feline foe, and screams in shrill ill-will.

Now Bulls of Bashan, of a prize size, rise In childish dreams, and with a roar gore poor Georgy, or Charley, or Billy, willy-nilly;-- But Nursemaid, in a nightmare rest, chest-pressed, Dreameth of one of her old flames, James Games, And that she hears--what faith is man's!--Ann's banns And his, from Reverend Mr. Rice, twice, thrice: White ribbons flourish, and a stout shout out, That upward goes, shows Rose knows those bows' woes!

_Thomas Hood._

LOVELILTS

Thine eyes, dear one, dot dot, are like, dash, what? They, pure as sacred oils, bless and anoint My sin-swamped soul which at thy feet sobs out, O exclamation point, O point, O point!

Ah, had I words, blank blank, which, dot, I've not, I'd swoon in songs which should'st illume the dark With light of thee. Ah, God (it's _strong_ to swear) Why, why, interrogation mark, why, mark?

Dot dot dot dot. And so, dash, yet, but nay! My tongue takes pause; some words must not be said, For fear the world, cold hyphen-eyed, austere, Should'st shake thee by the throat till reason fled.

One hour of love we've had. Dost thou recall Dot dot dash blank interrogation mark? The night was ours, blue heaven over all Dash, God! dot stars, keep thou our secret dark!

_Marion Hill._

JOCOSA LYRA

In our hearts is the Great One of Avon
Engraven,
And we climb the cold summits once built on
By Milton.

But at times not the air that is rarest
Is fairest,
And we long in the valley to follow
Apollo.

Then we drop from the heights atmospheric
To Herrick,
Or we pour the Greek honey, grown blander,
Of Landor;

Or our cosiest nook in the shade is
Where Praed is,
Or we toss the light bells of the mocker
With Locker.

Oh, the song where not one of the Graces
Tight-laces,--
Where we woo the sweet Muses not starchly
But archly,--

Where the verse, like a piper a-Maying,
Comes playing,--
And the rhyme is as gay as a dancer
In answer,--

It will last till men weary of pleasure
In measure!
It will last till men weary of laughter ...
And after!

_Austin Dobson._

TO A THESAURUS

O precious code, volume, tome,
Book, writing, compilation, work
Attend the while I pen a pome,
A jest, a jape, a quip, a quirk.

For I would pen, engross, indite,
Transcribe, set forth, compose, address,
Record, submit--yea, even write
An ode, an elegy to bless--

To bless, set store by, celebrate,
Approve, esteem, endow with soul,
Commend, acclaim, appreciate,
Immortalize, laud, praise, extol.

Thy merit, goodness, value, worth,
Experience, utility--
O manna, honey, salt of earth,
I sing, I chant, I worship thee!

How could I manage, live, exist,
Obtain, produce, be real, prevail,
Be present in the flesh, subsist,
Have place, become, breathe or inhale.

Without thy help, recruit, support,
Opitulation, furtherance,
Assistance, rescue, aid, resort,
Favour, sustention and advance?

Alack! Alack! and well-a-day!
My case would then be dour and sad,
Likewise distressing, dismal, gray,
Pathetic, mournful, dreary, bad.

* * * * *

Though I could keep this up all day,
This lyric, elegiac, song,
Meseems hath come the time to say
Farewell! Adieu! Good-by! So long!

_Franklin P. Adams._

THE FUTURE OF THE CLASSICS

No longer, O scholars, shall Plautus
Be taught us.
No more shall professors be partial
To Martial.
No ninny
Will stop playing "shinney"
For Pliny.
Not even the veriest Mexican Greaser
Will stop to read Cæsar.
No true son of Erin will leave his potato
To list to the love-lore of Ovid or Plato.
Old Homer,
That hapless old roamer,
Will ne'er find a rest 'neath collegiate dome or
Anywhere else. As to Seneca,
Any cur
Safely may snub him, or urge ill
Effects from the reading of Virgil.
Cornelius Nepos
Wont keep us
Much longer from pleasure's light errands--
Nor Terence.
The irreverent now may all scoff in ease
At the shade of poor old Aristophanes.
And moderns it now doth behoove in all
Ways to despise poor old Juvenal;
And to chivvy
Livy.
The class-room hereafter will miss a row
Of eager young students of Cicero.
The 'longshoreman--yes, and the dock-rat, he's
Down upon Socrates.
And what'll
Induce us to read Aristotle?
We shall fail in
Our duty to Galen.
No tutor henceforward shall rack us
To construe old Horatius Flaccus.
We have but a wretched opinion
Of Mr. Justinian.
In our classical pabulum mix we've no wee sop
Of Æsop.
Our balance of intellect asks for no ballast
From Sallust.
With feminine scorn no fair Vassar-bred lass at us
Shall smile if we own that we cannot read Tacitus.
No admirer shall ever now weathe with begonias
The bust of Suetonius.
And so, if you follow me,
We'll have to cut Ptolemy.
Besides, it would just be considered facetious
To look at Lucretius.
And you can
Not go in Society if 'you read Lucan,
And we cannot have any fun
Out of Xenophon.

_Unknown._

CAUTIONARY VERSES

My little dears, who learn to read, pray early, learn to shun That very silly thing indeed which people call a pun; Read Entick's rules, and 'twill be found how simple an offence It is to make the selfsame sound afford a double sense.

For instance, ale may make you ail, your aunt an ant may kill, You in a vale may buy a veil and Bill may pay the bill. Or if to France your bark you steer, at Dover it may be A peer appears upon the pier, who blind, still goes to sea.

Thus, one might say, when, to a treat, good friends accept our greeting, 'Tis meet that men who meet to eat should eat their meat when meeting; Brawn on the board's no bore indeed, although from boar prepared; Nor can the fowl on which we feed, foul feeding be declared.

Thus one ripe fruit may be a pear, and yet be pared again, And still be one, which seemeth rare until we do explain. It therefore should be all your aim to speak with ample care, For who, however fond of game, would choose to swallow hair?

A fat man's gait may make us smile, who have no gate to close; The farmer sitting on his stile no stylish person knows. Perfumers men of scents must be; some Scilly men are bright; A brown man oft deep read we see, a black a wicked wight.

Most wealthy men good manors have, however vulgar they; And actors still the harder slave the oftener they play; So poets can't the baize obtain, unless their tailors choose; While grooms and coachmen, not in vain, each evening seek the Mews.

The dyer, who by dyeing lives, a dire life maintains; The glazier, it is known, receives his profits for his panes; By gardeners thyme is tied, 'tis true, when spring is in its prime, But time or tide won't wait for you if you are tied for time.

Then now you see, my little dears, the way to make a pun; A trick which you, through coming years, should sedulously shun; The fault admits of no defence; for wheresoe'er 'tis found, You sacrifice for sound the sense; the sense is never sound.

So let your words and actions too, one single meaning prove, And, just in all you say or do, you'll gain esteem and love; In mirth and play no harm you'll know when duty's task is done, But parents ne'er should let you go unpunished for a pun!

_Theodore Hook._

THE WAR: A-Z

An Austrian Archduke, assaulted and assailed, Broke Belgium's barriers, by Britain bewailed, Causing consternation, confused chaotic crises; Diffusing destructive, death dealing devices. England engaged earnestly, eager every ear, France fought furiously, forsaking foolish fear, Great German garrisons grappled Gallic guard, Hohenzollern Hussars hammered, heavy, hard. Infantry, Imperial, Indian, Irish, intermingling, Jackets jaunty, joking, jesting, jostling, jingling. Kinetic, Kruppised Kaiser, kingdom's killing knight, Laid Louvain lamenting, London lacking light, Mobilising millions, marvellous mobility, Numberless nonentities, numerous nobility. Oligarchies olden opposed olive offering, Prussia pressed Paris, Polish protection proffering, Quaint Quebec quickly quartered quotidian quota, Renascent Russia, resonant, reported regal rota. Scotch soldiers, sterling, songs stalwart sung, "Tipperary" thundered through titanic tongue. United States urging unarmament, unwanted, Visualised victory vociferously vaunted, Wilson's warnings wasted, world war wild, Xenian Nanthochroi Nantippically X-iled. Yorkshire's young yeomen yelling youthfully, "Zigzag Zeppelins, Zuyder Zee."

_John R. Edwards._

LINES TO MISS FLORENCE HUNTINGDON

Sweet maiden of Passamaquoddy
Shall we seek for communion of souls
Where the deep Mississippi meanders
Or the distant Saskatchewan rolls?

Ah, no!--for in Maine I will find thee
A sweetly sequestrated nook,
Where the far-winding Skoodoowabskooksis
Conjoins with the Skoodoowabskook.

There wander two beautiful rivers,
With many a winding and crook:
The one is the Skoodoowabskooksis;
The other, the Skoodoowabskook.

Ah, sweetest of haunts! though unmentioned
In geography, atlas, or book,
How fair is the Skoodoowabskooksis,
When joining the Skoodoowabskook!

Our cot shall be close by the waters,
Within that sequestrated nook,
Reflected by Skoodoowabskooksis,
And mirrored in Skoodoowabskook.

You shall sleep to the music of leaflets,
By zephyrs in wantonness shook,
To dream of the Skoodoowabskooksis,
And, perhaps, of the Skoodoowabskook.

Your food shall be fish from the waters,
Drawn forth on the point of a hook,
From murmuring Skoodoowabskooksis,
Or meandering Skoodoowabskook.

You shall quaff the most sparkling of waters,
Drawn forth from a silvery brook,
Which flows to the Skoodoowabskooksis,
And so to the Skoodoowabskook.

And you shall preside at the banquet,
And I shall wait on you as cook;
And we'll talk of the Skoodoowabskooksis,
And sing of the Skoodoowabskook.

Let others sing loudly of Saco,
Of Quoddy and Tattamagouche,
Of Kenebeccasis and Quaco,
Of Merigoniche and Buctouche,

Of Nashwaak and Magaguadavique,
Or Memmerimammericook:--
There's none like the Skoodoowabskooksis,
Excepting the Skoodoowabskook!

_Unknown._

TO MY NOSE

Knows he that never took a pinch, Nosey, the pleasure thence which flows, Knows he the titillating joys Which my nose knows? O Nose, I am as proud of thee As any mountain of its snows, I gaze on thee, and feel that pride A Roman knows!

_Albert A. Forrester (Alfred Crowquill)._

A POLKA LYRIC

Qui nunc dancere vult modo, Wants to dance in the fashion, oh! Discere debet--ought to know, Kickere floor cum heel and toe, One, two, three, Hop with me, Whirligig, twirligig, rapide.

Polkam jungere, Virgo, vis, Will you join the polka, miss? Liberius--most willingly, Sic agimus--then let us try: Nunc vide, Skip with me, Whirlabout, roundabout, celere.

Tum læva cito, turn dextra, First to the left, and then t'other way; Aspice retro in vultu, You look at her, and she looks at you. Das palmam Change hands, ma'am; Celere--run away, just in sham.

_Barclay Philips._

A _CAT_ALECTIC MONODY!

A cat I sing, of famous memory, Though _cat_achrestical my song may be; In a small garden _cat_acomb she lies, And _cat_aclysms fill her comrades' eyes; Borne on the air, the _cat_acoustic song Swells with her virtues' _cat_alogue along, No _cat_aplasm could lengthen out her years, Though mourning friends shed _cat_aracts of tears. Once loud and strong her _cat_echist-like voice It dwindled to a _cat_call's squeaking noise; Most _cat_egorical her virtues shone, By _cat_enation join'd each one to one;-- But a vile _cat_chpoll dog, with cruel bite, Like _cat_ling's cut, her strength disabled quite; Her _cat_erwauling pierced the heavy air, As _cat_aphracts their arms through legions bear; 'Tis vain! as _cat_erpillars drag away Their lengths, like _cat_tle after busy day, She ling'ring died, nor left in kit _kat_ the Embodyment of this _cat_astrophe.

_Cruikshank's Omnibus._

ODE FOR A SOCIAL MEETING

WITH SLIGHT ALTERATIONS BY A TEETOTALER

Come! fill a fresh bumper,--for why should we go logwood While the {nectar} still reddens our cups as they flow? decoction Pour out the {rich juices} still bright with the sun, dye-stuff Till o'er the brimmed crystal the {rubies} shall run. half-ripened apples The {purple-globed clusters} their life-dews have bled; taste sugar of lead How sweet is the {breath} of the {fragrance they shed}! rank poisons _wines!!!_ For Summer's {last roses} lie hid in the {wines} stable-boys smoking long-nines That were garnered by {maidens who laughed through the vines}, scowl howl scoff sneer Then a {smile}, and a {glass}, and a {toast}, and a {cheer}, strychnine and whiskey, and ratsbane and beer For {all the good wine, and we've some of it here}!

In cellar, in pantry, in attic, in hall, Down, down with the tyrant that masters us all! {Long live the gay servant that laughs for us all!}

_Oliver Wendell Holmes._

[Transcriber's note: The words in {braces} are struck out in the original text with alternatives above.]

THE JOVIAL PRIEST'S CONFESSION

TRANSLATED FROM THE LATIN OF WALTER DE MAPES, TIME OF HENRY II

I devise to end my days--in a tavern drinking, May some Christian hold for me--the glass when I am shrinking, That the cherubim may cry--when they see me sinking, God be merciful to a soul--of this gentleman's way of thinking.

A glass of wine amazingly--enlighteneth one's internals; 'Tis wings bedewed with nectar--that fly up to supernals; Bottles cracked in taverns--have much the sweeter kernels, Than the sups allowed to us--in the college journals.

Every one by nature hath--a mold which he was cast in; I happen to be one of those--who never could write fasting; By a single little boy--I should be surpass'd in Writing so: I'd just as lief--be buried; tomb'd and grass'd in.

Every one by nature hath--a gift too, a dotation: I, when I make verses--do get the inspiration Of the very best of wine--that comes into the nation: It maketh sermons to astound--for edification.

Just as liquor floweth good--floweth forth my lay so; But I must moreover eat--or I could not say so; Naught it availeth inwardly--should I write all day so; But with God's grace after meat--I beat Ovidius Naso.

Neither is there given to me--prophetic animation, Unless when I have eat and drank--yea, ev'n to saturation, Then in my upper story--hath Bacchus domination, And Ph[oe]bus rushes into me, and beggareth all relation.

_Leigh Hunt._

LIMERICKS

There was an old man of Tobago, Who lived upon rice, gruel and sago; Till, much to his bliss, His physician said this: "To a leg, sir, of mutton, you may go."

There was an old soldier of Bister, Went walking one day with his sister; When a cow, at one poke, Tossed her into an oak, Before the old gentleman missed her.

There was a young man of St. Kitts Who was very much troubled with fits; The eclipse of the moon Threw him into a swoon, When he tumbled and broke into bits.

There was an old man who said, "Gee! _I_ can't multiply seven by three! Though fourteen seems plenty, It _might_ come to twenty,-- I haven't the slightest idee!"

There was an old man in a pie, Who said, "I must fly! I must fly!" When they said, "You can't do it!" He replied that he knew it, But he _had_ to get out of that pie!

A Tutor who tooted the flute Tried to teach two young tooters to toot; Said the two to the Tutor, "Is it harder to toot, or To tutor two tooters to toot?"

_Carolyn Wells._

RECITED BY A CHINESE INFANT

If-itty-teshi-mow Jays
Haddee ny up-plo-now-shi-buh nays;
ha! ha!
He lote im aw dow,
Witty motti-fy flow;
A-flew-ty ho-lot-itty flays! Hee!

_Translation_

Infinitesimal James Had nine unpronounceable names; He wrote them all down, With a mortified frown, And threw the whole lot in the flames.

For beauty I am not a star, There are others more handsome by far; But my face I don't mind it, For I am behind it, It's the people in front that I jar.

There was a young lady of Oakham, Who would steal your cigars and then soak 'em In treacle and rum, And then smear them with gum, So it wasn't a pleasure to smoke 'em.

There was an Old Man in a tree Who was horribly bored by a bee; When they said, "Does it buzz?" He replied, "Yes, it does! It's a regular brute of a bee."

_Edward Lear._

There was an Old Man of St. Bees Who was stung in the arm by a wasp. When asked, "Does it hurt?" He replied, "No, it doesn't, But I thought all the while 'twas a hornet."

_W. S. Gilbert._

There was an old man of the Rhine, When asked at what hour he would dine, Replied, "At eleven, Four, six, three and seven, And eight and a quarter of nine."

There was a young man of Laconia, Whose mother-in-law had pneumonia; He hoped for the worst, And after March first They buried her 'neath a begonia.

There was a young man of the cape Who always wore trousers of crêpe; When asked, "Don't they tear?" He replied, "Here and there; But they keep such a beautiful shape."

There once were some learned M.D.'s, Who captured some germs of disease, And infected a train, Which without causing pain, Allowed one to catch it with ease.

_Oliver Herford._

There was a young lady of Lynn, Who was deep in original sin; When they said, "Do be good," She said, "Would if I could!" And straightway went at it ag'in.

I'd rather have fingers than toes; I'd rather have ears than a nose; And as for my hair I'm glad it's all there, I'll be awfully sad when it goes.

_Gelett Burgess._

There was a young fellow named Clyde; Who was once at a funeral spied. When asked who was dead, He smilingly said, "_I_ don't know,--I just came for the ride!"

There was a young lady of Truro, Who wished a mahogany bureau; But her father said, "Dod! All the men on Cape Cod Couldn't buy a mahogany bureau!"

There was a young man of Ostend Who vowed he'd hold out to the end, But when halfway over From Calais to Dover, He done what he didn't intend--

There was a young man of Cohoes, Wore tar on the end of his nose; When asked why he done it, He said for the fun it Afforded the men of Cohoes.

_Robert J. Burdette._

There is a young artist called Whistler, Who in every respect is a bristler; A tube of white lead, Or a punch on the head, Come equally handy to Whistler.

_Dante Gabriel Rossetti._

There is a creator named God, Whose doings are sometimes quite odd; He made a painter named Val, And I say and I shall, That he does no great credit to God.

_J. M. Whistler._

There was a young lady of station, "I love man!" was her sole exclamation; But when men cried, "You flatter!" She replied, "Oh, no matter! Isle of Man, is the true explanation."

_Lewis Carroll._

There was a young lady of Twickenham, Whose shoes were too tight to walk quick in 'em; She came back from her walk, Looking white as a chalk, And took 'em both off and was sick in 'em.

_Oliver Herford._

"It's a very warm day," observed Billy. "I hope that you won't think it silly If I say that this heat Makes me think 'twould be sweet If one were a coolie in Chile!"

_Tudor Jenks._

There was a young man from Cornell, Who said, "I'm aware of a smell, But whether it's drains Or human remains, I'm really unable to tell."

There was a young lady from Joppa, Whose friends all decided to drop her; She went with a friend On a trip to Ostend,-- And the rest of the story's improper.

There once was a sculptor named Phidias, Whose statues by some were thought hideous; He made Aphrodite Without any nighty, Which shocked all the ultra-fastidious.

John woke on Jan. first and felt queer; Said, "Crackers I'll swear off this year! For the lobster and wine And the rabbit were fine,-- And it certainly wasn't the beer."

There was a young lady of Venice Who used hard-boiled eggs to play tennis; When they said, "You are wrong," She replied, "Go along! You don't know how prolific my hen is!"

There was a young man of Fort Blainey, Who proposed to his typist named Janey; When his friends said, "Oh, dear! She's so old and so queer!" He replied, "But the day was so rainy!"

XIII

NONSENSE

LUNAR STANZAS

Night saw the crew like pedlers with their packs
Altho' it were too dear to pay for eggs;
Walk crank along with coffin on their backs
While in their arms they bow their weary legs.

And yet 'twas strange, and scarce can one suppose
That a brown buzzard-fly should steal and wear
His white jean breeches and black woollen hose,
But thence that flies have souls is very clear.

But, Holy Father! what shall save the soul,
When cobblers ask three dollars for their shoes?
When cooks their biscuits with a shot-tower roll,
And farmers rake their hay-cocks with their hoes.

Yet, 'twere profuse to see for pendant light,
A tea-pot dangle in a lady's ear;
And 'twere indelicate, although she might
Swallow two whales and yet the moon shine clear.

But what to me are woven clouds, or what,
If dames from spiders learn to warp their looms?
If coal-black ghosts turn soldiers for the State,
With wooden eyes, and lightning-rods for plumes?

Oh! too, too shocking! barbarous, savage taste!
To eat one's mother ere itself was born!
To gripe the tall town-steeple by the waste,
And scoop it out to be his drinking-horn.

No more: no more! I'm sick and dead and gone;
Boxed in a coffin, stifled six feet deep;
Thorns, fat and fearless, prick my skin and bone,
And revel o'er me, like a soulless sheep.

_Henry Coggswell Knight._

THE WHANGO TREE

The woggly bird sat on the whango tree,
Nooping the rinkum corn,
And graper and graper, alas! grew he,
And cursed the day he was born.
His crute was clum and his voice was rum,
As curiously thus sang he,
"Oh, would I'd been rammed and eternally clammed
Ere I perched on this whango tree."

Now the whango tree had a bubbly thorn,
As sharp as a nootie's bill,
And it stuck in the woggly bird's umptum lorn
And weepadge, the smart did thrill.
He fumbled and cursed, but that wasn't the worst,
For he couldn't at all get free,
And he cried, "I am gammed, and injustibly nammed
On the luggardly whango tree."

And there he sits still, with no worm in his bill,
Nor no guggledom in his nest;
He is hungry and bare, and gobliddered with care,
And his grabbles give him no rest;
He is weary and sore and his tugmut is soar,
And nothing to nob has he,
As he chirps, "I am blammed and corruptibly jammed,
In this cuggerdom whango tree."

_Unknown._

THREE CHILDREN

Three children sliding on the ice
Upon a summer's day,
As it fell out they all fell in,
The rest they ran away.

Now, had these children been at home,
Or sliding on dry ground,
Ten thousand pounds to one penny
They had not all been drowned.

You parents all that children have,
And you too that have none,
If you would have them safe abroad
Pray keep them safe at home.

_Unknown._

'TIS MIDNIGHT

'Tis midnight, and the setting sun Is slowly rising in the west; The rapid rivers slowly run, The frog is on his downy nest. The pensive goat and sportive cow, Hilarious, leap from bough to bough.

_Unknown._

COSSIMBAZAR

Come fleetly, come fleetly, my hookabadar, For the sound of the tam-tam is heard from afar. "Banoolah! Banoolah!" The Brahmins are nigh, And the depths of the jungle re-echo their cry. _Pestonjee Bomanjee!_ Smite the guitar;

Join in the chorus, my hookabadar. Heed not the blast of the deadly monsoon, Nor the blue Brahmaputra that gleams in the moon Stick to thy music, and oh, let the sound Be heard with distinctness a mile or two round. _Jamsetjee, Jeejeebhoy!_ Sweep the guitar. Join in the chorus, my hookabadar.

Art thou a Buddhist, or dost thou indeed Put faith in the monstrous Mohammedan creed? Art thou a Ghebir--a blinded Parsee? Not that it matters an atom to me. _Cursetjee Bomanjee!_ Twang the guitar Join in the chorus, my hookabadar.

_Henry S. Leigh._

AN UNSUSPECTED FACT

If down his throat a man should choose In fun, to jump or slide, He'd scrape his shoes against his teeth, Nor dirt his own inside. But if his teeth were lost and gone, And not a stump to scrape upon, He'd see at once how very pat His tongue lay there by way of mat, And he would wipe his feet on _that_!

_Edward Cannon._

THE CUMBERBUNCE

I strolled beside the shining sea, I was as lonely as could be; No one to cheer me in my walk But stones and sand, which cannot talk-- Sand and stones and bits of shell, Which never have a thing to tell.

But as I sauntered by the tide I saw a something at my side, A something green, and blue, and pink, And brown, and purple, too, I think. I would not say how large it was; I would not venture that, because It took me rather by surprise, And I have not the best of eyes.

Should you compare it to a cat, I'd say it was as large as that; Or should you ask me if the thing Was smaller than a sparrow's wing, I should be apt to think you knew, And simply answer, "Very true!"

Well, as I looked upon the thing, It murmured, "Please, sir, can I sing?" And then I knew its name at once-- It plainly was a Cumberbunce.

You are amazed that I could tell The creature's name so quickly? Well, I knew it was not a paper-doll, A pencil or a parasol, A tennis-racket or a cheese, And, as it was not one of these, And I am not a perfect dunce-- It had to be a Cumberbunce!

With pleading voice and tearful eye It seemed as though about to cry. It looked so pitiful and sad It made me feel extremely bad. My heart was softened to the thing That asked me if it, please, could sing. Its little hand I longed to shake, But, oh, it had no hand to take! I bent and drew the creature near, And whispered in its pale blue ear, "What! Sing, my Cumberbunce? You can! Sing on, sing loudly, little man!"

The Cumberbunce, without ado, Gazed sadly on the ocean blue, And, lifting up its little head, In tones of awful longing, said:

"Oh, I would sing of mackerel skies,
And why the sea is wet,
Of jelly-fish and conger-eels,
And things that I forget.
And I would hum a plaintive tune
Of why the waves are hot
As water boiling on a stove,
Excepting that they're not!

"And I would sing of hooks and eyes,
And why the sea is slant,
And gayly tips the little ships,
Excepting that I can't!
I never sang a single song,
I never hummed a note.
There is in me no melody,
No music in my throat.

"So that is why I do not sing
Of sharks, or whales, or anything!"

I looked in innocent surprise, My wonder showing in my eyes, "Then why, O, Cumberbunce," I cried, "Did you come walking at my side And ask me if you, please, might sing, When you could not warble anything?"

"I did not ask permission, sir, I really did not, I aver. You, sir, misunderstood me, quite. I did not ask you if I _might_. Had you correctly understood, You'd know I asked you if I _could_. So, as I cannot sing a song, Your answer, it is plain, was wrong. The fact I could not sing I knew, But wanted your opinion, too."

A voice came softly o'er the lea.
"Farewell! my mate is calling me!"

I saw the creature disappear, Its voice, in parting, smote my ear-- "I thought all people understood The difference 'twixt 'might' and 'could'!"

_Paul West._

MR. FINNEY'S TURNIP

Mr. Finney had a turnip
And it grew and it grew;
And it grew behind the barn,
And that turnip did no harm.

There it grew and it grew
Till it could grow no longer;
Then his daughter Lizzie picked it
And put it in the cellar.

There it lay and it lay
Till it began to rot;
And his daughter Susie took it
And put it in the pot.

And they boiled it and boiled it
As long as they were able,
And then his daughters took it,
And put it on the table.

Mr. Finney and his wife
They sat down to sup;
And they ate and they ate
And they ate that turnip up.

_Unknown._

NONSENSE VERSES

Lazy-bones, lazy-bones, wake up and peep! The cat's in the cupboard, your mother's asleep. There you sit snoring, forgetting her ills; Who is to give her her Bolus and Pills? Twenty fine Angels must come into town, All for to help you to make your new gown: Dainty aerial Spinsters and Singers; Aren't you ashamed to employ such white fingers? Delicate hands, unaccustom'd to reels, To set 'em working a poor body's wheels? Why they came down is to me all a riddle, And left Hallelujah broke off in the middle: Jove's Court, and the Presence angelical, cut-- To eke out the work of a lazy young slut. Angel-duck, Angel-duck, winged and silly, Pouring a watering-pot over a lily, Gardener gratuitous, careless of pelf, Leave her to water her lily herself, Or to neglect it to death if she chuse it: Remember the loss is her own if she lose it.

_Charles Lamb._

LIKE TO THE THUNDERING TONE

Like to the thundering tone of unspoke speeches, Or like a lobster clad in logic breeches, Or like the gray fur of a crimson cat, Or like the mooncalf in a slipshod hat; E'en such is he who never was begotten Until his children were both dead and rotten.

Like to the fiery tombstone of a cabbage, Or like a crab-louse with its bag and baggage, Or like the four square circle of a ring, Or like to hey ding, ding-a, ding-a, ding; E'en such is he who spake, and yet, no doubt, Spake to small purpose, when his tongue was out.

Like to a fair, fresh, fading, wither'd rose, Or like to rhyming verse that runs in prose, Or like the stumbles of a tinder-box, Or like a man that's sound yet sickness mocks; E'en such is he who died and yet did laugh To see these lines writ for his epitaph.

_Bishop Corbet in 17th century._

ÆSTIVATION

In candent ire the solar splendour flames; The foles, languescent, pend from arid rames; His humid front the cive, anheling, wipes, And dreams of erring on ventiferous ripes.

How dolce to vive occult to mortal eyes, Dorm on the herb with none to supervise, Carp the suave berries from the crescent vine, And bibe the flow from longicaudate kine!

To me, alas! no verdurous visions come, Save yon exiguous pool's conferva-scum-- No concave vast repeats the tender hue That laves my milk-jug with celestial blue.

Me wretched! let me curr to quercine shades! Effund your albid hausts, lactiferous maids! Oh, might I vole to some umbrageous clump,-- Depart--be off,--excede,--evade,--crump!

_Oliver Wendell Holmes._

UNCLE SIMON AND UNCLE JIM

Uncle Simon he Clumb up a tree To see What he could see, When presentlee Uncle Jim Clumb up beside of him And squatted down by he.

_Charles Farrar Browne_ (Artemus Ward).

A TRAGIC STORY

There lived a sage in days of yore, And he a handsome pigtail wore; But wondered much and sorrowed more, Because it hung behind him.

He mused upon this curious case, And swore he'd change the pigtail's place, And have it hanging at his face, Not dangling there behind him.

Says he, "The mystery I've found,-- I'll turn me round,"--he turned him round; But still it hung behind him.

Then round and round, and out and in, All day the puzzled sage did spin; In vain--it mattered not a pin,-- The pigtail hung behind him.

And right and left, and round about, And up and down, and in and out, He turned; but still the pigtail stout Hung steadily behind him.

And though his efforts never slack, And though he twist and twirl and tack, Alas! still faithful to his back, The pigtail hangs behind him.

_W. M. Thackeray._

SONNET FOUND IN A DESERTED MAD HOUSE

Oh that my soul a marrow-bone might seize! For the old egg of my desire is broken, Spilled is the pearly white and spilled the yolk, and As the mild melancholy contents grease My path the shorn lamb baas like bumblebees. Time's trashy purse is as a taken token Or like a thrilling recitation, spoken By mournful mouths filled full of mirth and cheese.

And yet, why should I clasp the earthful urn? Or find the frittered fig that felt the fast? Or choose to chase the cheese around the churn? Or swallow any pill from out the past? Ah, no Love, not while your hot kisses burn Like a potato riding on the blast.

_Unknown._

THE JIM-JAM KING OF THE JOU-JOUS

AN ARABIAN LEGEND

Translated from the Arabic

Far off in the waste of desert sand, The Jim-jam rules in the Jou-jou land: He sits on a throne of red-hot rocks, And moccasin snakes are his curling locks; And the Jou-jous have the conniption fits In the far-off land where the Jim-jam sits-- If things are now as things were then. Allah il Allah! Oo-aye! Amen!

The country's so dry in Jou-jou land You could wet it down with Sahara sand, And over its boundaries the air Is hotter than 'tis--no matter where: A camel drops down completely tanned When he crosses the line in Jou-jou land-- If things are now as things were then. Allah il Allah! Oo-aye! Amen!

A traveller once got stuck in the sand On the fiery edge of Jou-jou land; The Jou-jous they confiscated him, And the Jim-jam tore him limb from limb; But, dying, he said: "If eaten I am, I'll disagree with this Dam-jim-jam! He'll think his stomach's a Hoodoo's den!" Allah il Allah! Oo-aye! Amen!

Then the Jim-jam felt so bad inside, It just about humbled his royal pride. He decided to physic himself with sand, And throw up his job in the Jou-jou land. He descended his throne of red-hot rocks, And hired a barber to cut his locks: The barber died of the got-'em-again. Allah il Allah! Oo-aye! Amen!

And now let every good Mussulman Get all the good from this tale he can. If you wander off on a Jamboree, Across the stretch of the desert sea, Look out that right at the height of your booze You don't get caught by the Jou-jou-jous! You may, for the Jim-jam's at it again. Allah il Allah! Oo-aye! Amen!

_Alaric Bertrand Stuart._

TO MARIE

When the breeze from the bluebottle's blustering blim
Twirls the toads in a tooroomaloo,
And the whiskery whine of the wheedlesome whim
Drowns the roll of the rattatattoo,
Then I dream in the shade of the shally-go-shee,
And the voice of the bally-molay
Brings the smell of stale poppy-cods blummered in blee
From the willy-wad over the way.
Ah, the shuddering shoo and the blinketty-blanks
When the yungalung falls from the bough
In the blast of a hurricane's hicketty-hanks
On the hills of the hocketty-how!
Give the rigamarole to the clangery-whang,
If they care for such fiddlededee;
But the thingumbob kiss of the whangery-bang
Keeps the higgledy-piggle for me.

L'ENVOI

It is pilly-po-doddle and aligobung
When the lollypop covers the ground,
Yet the poldiddle perishes punketty-pung
When the heart jimmy-coggles around.
If the soul cannot snoop at the giggle-some cart,
Seeking surcease in gluggety-glug,
It is useless to say to the pulsating heart,
"Panky-doodle ker-chuggetty-chug!"

_John Bennett._

MY DREAM

I dreamed a dream next Tuesday week,
Beneath the apple-trees;
I thought my eyes were big pork-pies,
And my nose was Stilton cheese.
The clock struck twenty minutes to six,
When a frog sat on my knee;
I asked him to lend me eighteenpence,
But he borrowed a shilling of me.

_Unknown._

THE ROLLICKING MASTODON