Chapter V: Introduction (5)

An' Deacon Tubbs--he all broke 'down,
As one might well suppose;
He took one look at Sister Brown,
And meekly scratched his nose.
He looked his hymn-book through and through,
And laid it on the seat,
And then a pensive sigh he drew,
And looked completely beat.
And when they took another bout,
He didn't even rise;
But drawed his red bandanner out,
An' wiped his weepin' eyes.

I've been a sister, good an' true,
For five-an'-thirty year;
I've done what seemed my part to do,
An' prayed my duty clear;
But Death will stop my voice, I know,
For he is on my track;
And some day I to church will go,
And nevermore come back;
And when the folks gets up to sing--
Whene'er that time shall be--
I do not want no _patent_ thing
A-squealin' over me!

_Will Carteton._

LARRIE O'DEE

Now the Widow McGee, And Larrie O'Dee, Had two little cottages out on the green, With just room enough for two pig-pens between. The widow was young and the widow was fair, With the brightest of eyes and the brownest of hair, And it frequently chanced, when she came in the morn, With the swill for her pig, Larrie came with the corn, And some of the ears that he tossed from his hand In the pen of the widow were certain to land.

One morning said he: "Och! Misthress McGee, It's a waste of good lumber, this runnin' two rigs, Wid a fancy purtition betwane our two pigs!" "Indade, sur, it is!" answered Widow McGee, With the sweetest of smiles upon Larrie O'Dee. "And thin, it looks kind o' hard-hearted and mane, Kapin' two friendly pigs so exsaidenly near That whiniver one grunts the other can hear, And yit kape a cruel purtition betwane."

"Shwate Widow McGee," Answered Larrie O'Dee, "If ye fale in your heart we are mane to the pigs, Ain't we mane to ourselves to be runnin' two rigs? Och! it made me heart ache when I paped through the cracks Of me shanty, lasht March, at yez shwingin' yer axe; An' a-bobbin' yer head an' a-shtompin' yer fate, Wid yer purty white hands jisht as red as a bate, A-shplittin' yer kindlin'-wood out in the shtorm, When one little shtove it would kape us both warm!"

"Now, piggy," says she, "Larrie's courtin' o' me, Wid his dilicate tinder allusions to you; So now yez must tell me jisht what I must do: For, if I'm to say yes, shtir the swill wid yer snout; But if I'm to say no, ye must kape yer nose out. Now Larrie, for shame! to be bribin' a pig By a-tossin' a handful of corn in its shwig!" "Me darlint, the piggy says yes," answered he. And that was the courtship of Larrie O'Dee.

_William W. Fink._

NO FAULT IN WOMEN

No fault in women, to refuse The offer which they most would choose. No fault in women to confess How tedious they are in their dress; No fault in women, to lay on The tincture of vermilion, And there to give the cheek a dye Of white, where Nature doth deny. No fault in women, to make show Of largeness, when they've nothing so; When, true it is, the outside swells With inward buckram, little else. No fault in women, though they be But seldom from suspicion free; No fault in womankind at all, If they but slip, and never fall.

_Robert Herrick._

A COSMOPOLITAN WOMAN

She went round and asked subscriptions For the heathen black Egyptians And the Terra del Fuegians, She did; For the tribes round Athabasca, And the men of Madagascar, And the poor souls of Alaska, So she did; She longed, she said, to buy Jelly, cake, and jam, and pie, For the Anthropophagi, So she did.

Her heart ached for the Australians And the Borriobooli-Ghalians, And the poor dear Amahagger, Yes, it did; And she loved the black Numidian, And the ebon Abyssinian, And the charcoal-coloured Guinean, Oh, she did! And she said she'd cross the seas With a ship of bread and cheese For those starving Chimpanzees, So she did.

How she loved the cold Norwegian And the poor half-melted Feejeean, And the dear Molucca Islander, She did: She sent tins of red tomato To the tribes beyond the Equator, But her husband ate potato, So he did; The poor helpless, homeless thing (My voice falters as I sing) Tied his clothes up with a string, Yes, he did.

_Unknown._

COURTING IN KENTUCKY.

When Mary Ann Dollinger got the skule daown thar on Injun Bay, I was glad, for I like ter see a gal makin' her honest way. I heerd some talk in the village abaout her flyin' high, Tew high for busy farmer folks with chores ter do ter fly; But I paid no sorter attention ter all the talk ontell She come in her reg'lar boardin' raound ter visit with us a spell. My Jake an' her had been cronies ever since they could walk, An' it tuk me aback to hear her kerrectin' him in his talk.

Jake ain't no hand at grammar, though he hain't his beat for work; But I sez ter myself, "Look out, my gal, yer a-foolin' with a Turk!" Jake bore it wonderful patient, an' said in a mournful way, He p'sumed he was behindhand with the doin's at Injun Bay. I remember once he was askin' for some o' my Injun buns, An' she said he should allus say, "them air," stid o' "them is" the ones. Wal, Mary Ann kep' at him stiddy mornin' an' evenin' long, Tell he dassent open his mouth for fear o' talkin' wrong.

One day I was pickin' currants daown by the old quince-tree, When I heerd Jake's voice a-saying', "Be yer willin' ter marry me?" An' Mary Ann kerrectin', 'Air ye willin' yeou sh'd say"; Our Jake he put his foot daown in a plum, decided way, "No wimmen-folks is a-goin' ter be rearrangin' me, Hereafter I says 'craps,' 'them is,' 'I calk'late,' an' 'I be.' Ef folks don't like my talk they needn't hark ter what I say:. But I ain't a-goin' to take no sass from folks from Injun Bay. I ask you free an' final, 'Be ye goin' ter marry me?'" An' Mary Ann says, tremblin, yet anxious-like, "I be."

_Florence E. Pratt._

ANY ONE WILL DO

A maiden once, of certain age, To catch a husband did engage; But, having passed the prime of life In striving to become a wife Without success, she thought it time To mend the follies of her prime.

Departing from the usual course Of paint and such like for resource, With all her might this ancient maid Beneath an oak-tree knelt and prayed; Unconscious that a grave old owl Was perched above--the mousing fowl!

"Oh, give! a husband give!" she cried, "While yet I may become a bride; Soon will my day of grace be o'er, And then, like many maids before, I'll die without an early Jove, And none to meet me there above!

"Oh, 'tis a fate too hard to bear! Then answer this my humble prayer, And oh, a husband give to me!" Just then the owl from out the tree, In deep bass tones cried, "Who--who--who!" "Who, Lord? And dost Thou ask me who? Why, any one, good Lord, will do."

_Unknown._

A BIRD IN THE HAND

There were three young maids of Lee;
They were fair as fair can be,
And they had lovers three times three,
For they were fair as fair can be,
These three young maids of Lee.
But these young maids they cannot find
A lover each to suit her mind;
The plain-spoke lad is far too rough,
The rich young lord is not rich enough,
The one is too poor, and one is too tall,
And one just an inch too short for them all.
"Others pick and choose, and why not we?
We can very well wait," said the maids of Lee.
There were three young maids of Lee;
They were fair as fair can be,
And they had lovers three times three
For they were fair as fair can be,
These three young maids of Lee.

There are three old maids of Lee,
And they are old as old can be,
And one is deaf, and one cannot see,
And they are all as cross as a gallows-tree,
These three old maids of Lee.
Now, if any one chanced--'tis a chance remote--
One single charm in these maids to note,
He need not a poet nor handsome be,
For one is deaf and one cannot see;
He need not woo on his bended knee,
For they all are willing as willing can be.
He may take the one, or the two, or the three,
If he'll only take them away from Lee.
There are three old maids at Lee;
They are cross as cross can be;
And there they are, and there they'll be
To the end of the chapter, one, two, three,
These three old maids of Lee.

_Frederic E. Weatherly._

THE BELLE OF THE BALL

Years--years ago,--ere yet my dreams
Had been of being wise and witty,--
Ere I had done with writing themes,
Or yawn'd o'er this infernal Chitty;--
Years, years ago, while all my joy
Was in my fowling-piece and filly:
In short, while I was yet a boy,
I fell in love with Laura Lily.

I saw her at the county ball;
There, when the sounds of flute and fiddle
Gave signal sweet in that old hall
Of hands across and down the middle,
Hers was the subtlest spell by far
Of all that set young hearts romancing:
She was our queen, our rose, our star;
And when she danced--O Heaven, her dancing!

Dark was her hair, her hand was white;
Her voice was exquisitely tender,
Her eyes were full of liquid light;
I never saw a waist so slender;
Her every look, her every smile,
Shot right and left a score of arrows;
I thought 'twas Venus from her isle,
And wonder'd where she'd left her sparrows.

She talk'd,--of politics or prayers;
Of Southey's prose, or Wordsworth's sonnets;
Of daggers or of dancing bears,
Of battles, or the last new bonnets;
By candle-light, at twelve o'clock,
To me it matter'd not a tittle,
If those bright lips had quoted Locke,
I might have thought they murmur'd Little.

Through sunny May, through sultry June,
I loved her with a love eternal;
I spoke her praises to the moon,
I wrote them for the _Sunday Journal_.
My mother laugh'd; I soon found out
That ancient ladies have no feeling;
My father frown'd; but how should gout
See any happiness in kneeling?

She was the daughter of a Dean,
Rich, fat, and rather apoplectic;
She had one brother, just thirteen,
Whose color was extremely hectic;
Her grandmother for many a year
Had fed the parish with her bounty;
Her second cousin was a peer,
And lord lieutenant of the county.

But titles and the three per cents,
And mortgages, and great relations,
And India bonds, and tithes and rents,
Oh! what are they to love's sensations?
Black eyes, fair forehead, clustering locks,
Such wealth, such honors, Cupid chooses;
He cares as little for the stocks,
As Baron Rothschild for the Muses.

She sketch'd; the vale, the wood, the beach,
Grew lovelier from her pencil's shading;
She botanized; I envied each
Young blossom in her boudoir fading;
She warbled Handel; it was grand--
She made the Catalani jealous;
She touch'd the organ; I could stand
For hours and hours to blow the bellows.

She kept an album, too, at home,
Well fill'd with all an album's glories;
Paintings of butterflies, and Rome,
Patterns for trimming, Persian stories;
Soft songs to Julia's cockatoo,
Fierce odes to Famine and to Slaughter;
And autographs of Prince Leboo,
And recipes for elder water.

And she was flatter'd, worshipp'd, bored;
Her steps were watch'd, her dress was noted;
Her poodle dog was quite adored,
Her sayings were extremely quoted.
She laugh'd, and every heart was glad,
As if the taxes were abolish'd;
She frown'd, and every look was sad,
As if the Opera were demolished.

She smil'd on many just for fun--
I knew that there was nothing in it;
I was the first--the only one
Her heart had thought of for a minute;
I knew it, for she told me so,
In phrase which was divinely moulded;
She wrote a charming hand,--and oh!
How sweetly all her notes were folded!

Our love was like most other loves--
A little glow, a little shiver;
A rosebud and a pair of gloves,
And "Fly Not Yet," upon the river;
Some jealousy of some one's heir,
Some hopes of dying broken-hearted,
A miniature, a lock of hair,
The usual vows--and then we parted.

We parted;--months and years roll'd by;
We met again four summers after;
Our parting was all sob and sigh---
Our meeting was all mirth and laughter;
For in my heart's most secret cell,
There had been many other lodgers;
And she was not the ballroom belle,
But only--Mrs. Something Rogers.

_Winthrop Mackworth Praed._

THE RETORT

Old Nick, who taught the village school,
Wedded a maid of homespun habit;
He was as stubborn as a mule,
She was as playful as a rabbit.

Poor Jane had scarce become a wife,
Before her husband sought to make her
The pink of country-polished life,
And prim and formal as a Quaker.

One day the tutor went abroad,
And simple Jenny sadly missed him;
When he returned, behind her lord
She slyly stole, and fondly kissed him!

The husband's anger rose!--and red
And white his face alternate grew!
"Less freedom, ma'am!" Jane sighed and said,
"_Oh, dear! I didn't know 'twas you_!"

_George Pope Morris._

BEHAVE YOURSEL' BEFORE FOLK

Behave yoursel' before folk,
Behave yoursel' before folk,
And dinna be sae rude to me,
As kiss me sae before folk.

It wadna gi'e me meikle pain,
Gin we were seen and heard by nane,
To tak' a kiss, or grant you ane;
But guidsake! no before folk.
Behave yoursel' before folk,
Behave yoursel' before folk;
Whate'er ye do, when out o' view,
Be cautious aye before folk.

Consider, lad, how folk will crack,
And what a great affair they'll mak'
O' naething but a simple smack,
That's gi'en or ta'en before folk.
Behave yoursel' before folk,
Behave yoursel' before folk;
Nor gi'e the tongue o' auld or young
Occasion to come o'er folk.

It's no through hatred o' a kiss,
That I sae plainly tell you this;
But, losh! I tak' it sair amiss
To be sae teazed before folk.
Behave yoursel' before folk,
Behave yoursel' before folk;
When we're our lane ye may tak' ane,
But fient a ane before folk.

I'm sure wi' you I've been as free
As ony modest lass should be;
But yet it doesna do to see
Sic freedom used before folk.
Behave yoursel' before folk,
Behave yoursel' before folk;
I'll ne'er submit again to it--
So mind you that--before folk.

Ye tell me that my face is fair;
It may be sae--I dinna care--
But ne'er again gar't blush sae sair
As ye ha'e done before folk.
Behave yoursel' before folk,
Behave yoursel' before folk;
Nor heat my cheeks wi' your mad freaks,
But aye de douce before folk.

Ye tell me that my lips are sweet,
Sic tales, I doubt, are a' deceit;
At ony rate, it's hardly meet
To pree their sweets before folk.
Behave yoursel' before folk,
Behave yoursel' before folk;
Gin that's the case, there's time, and place,
But surely no before folk.

But, gin you really do insist
That I should suffer to be kiss'd,
Gae, get a license frae the priest,
And mak' me yours before folk.
Behave yoursel' before folk,
Behave yoursel' before folk;
And when we're ane, baith flesh and bane,
Ye may tak' ten--before folk.

_Alexander Rodger._

THE CHRONICLE: A BALLAD

Margarita first possess'd, If I remember well, my breast, Margarita, first of all; But when a while the wanton maid With my restless heart had play'd, Martha took the flying ball.

Martha soon did it resign To the beauteous Catharine. Beauteous Catharine gave place (Though loth and angry she to part With the possession of my heart) To Eliza's conquering face.

Eliza till this hour might reign, Had she not evil counsel ta'en: Fundamental laws she broke, And still new favourites she chose, Till up in arms my passions rose, And cast away her yoke.

Mary then and gentle Anne, Both to reign at once began, Alternately they swayed: And sometimes Mary was the fair, And sometimes Anne the crown did wear, And sometimes both I obey'd.

Another Mary then arose, And did rigorous laws impose; A mighty tyrant she! Long, alas, should I have been Under that iron-scepter'd queen, Had not Rebecca set me free.

When fair Rebecca set me free, 'Twas then a golden time with me, But soon those pleasures fled; For the gracious princess died In her youth and beauty's pride, And Judith reigned in her stead.

One month, three days, and half an hour, Judith held the sovereign power, Wondrous beautiful her face; But so weak and small her wit, That she to govern was unfit, And so Susanna took her place.

But when Isabella came, Arm'd with a resistless flame, And th' artillery of her eye; Whilst she proudly march'd about Greater conquests to find out: She beat out Susan by the bye.

But in her place I then obey'd Black-ey'd Bess, her viceroy maid, To whom ensued a vacancy: Thousand worse passions then possess'd The interregnum of my breast; Bless me from such an anarchy.

Gentle Henrietta then, And a third Mary next began; Then Joan, and Jane, and Andria: And then a pretty Thomasine, And then another Catharine, And then a long et cætera.

But should I now to you relate The strength and riches of their state, The powder, patches, and the pins, The ribbons, jewels, and the rings, The lace, the paint, and warlike things, That make up all their magazines:

If I should tell the politic arts To take and keep men's hearts; The letters, embassies, and spies, The frowns, and smiles, and flatteries, The quarrels, tears, and perjuries, Numberless, nameless, mysteries!

And all the little lime-twigs laid By Machiavel, the waiting maid; I more voluminous should grow (Chiefly if I, like them, should tell All change of weather that befel) Than Holinshed or Stow.

But I will briefer with them be, Since few of them were long with me: An higher and a nobler strain My present empress does claim, Eleonora, first o' th' name, Whom God grant long to reign.

_Abraham Cowley._

BUXOM JOAN

A soldier and a sailor, A tinker and a tailor, Had once a doubtful strife, sir, To make a maid a wife, sir, Whose name was Buxom Joan. For now the time was ended, When she no more intended To lick her lips at men, sir, And gnaw the sheets in vain, sir, And lie o' nights alone.

The soldier swore like thunder, He loved her more than plunder; And showed her many a scar, sir, That he had brought from far, sir, With fighting for her sake. The tailor thought to please her, With offering her his measure. The tinker too with mettle, Said he could mend her kettle, And stop up every leak.

But while these three were prating, The sailor slily waiting, Thought if it came about, sir, That they should all fall out, sir, He then might play his part. And just e'en as he meant, sir, To loggerheads they went, sir, And then he let fly at her A shot 'twixt wind and water, That won this fair maid's heart.

_William Congreve._

OH, MY GERALDINE

Oh, my Geraldine,
No flow'r was ever seen so toodle um.
You are my lum ti toodle lay,
Pretty, pretty queen,
Is rum ti Geraldine and something teen,
More sweet than tiddle lum in May.
Like the star so bright
That somethings all the night,
My Geraldine!
You're fair as the rum ti lum ti sheen,
Hark! there is what--ho!
From something--um, you know,
Dear, what I mean.
Oh I rum! tum!! tum!!! my Geraldine.

_F. C. Burnand._

THE PARTERRE

I don't know any greatest treat
As sit him in a gay parterre,
And sniff one up the perfume sweet
Of every roses buttoning there.

It only want my charming miss
Who make to blush the self red rose;
Oh! I have envy of to kiss
The end's tip of her splendid nose.

Oh! I have envy of to be
What grass 'neath her pantoffle push,
And too much happy seemeth me
The margaret which her vestige crush.

But I will meet her nose at nose,
And take occasion for her hairs,
And indicate her all my woes,
That she in fine agree my prayers.

|The Envoy|

I don't know any greatest treat
As sit him in a gay parterre,
With Madame who is too more sweet
Than every roses buttoning there.

_E. H. Palmer._

HOW TO ASK AND HAVE

"Oh, 'tis time I should talk to your mother,
Sweet Mary," says I;
"Oh, don't talk to my mother," says Mary,
Beginning to cry:
"For my mother says men are decaivers,
And never, I know, will consent;
She says girls in a hurry to marry,
At leisure repent."

"Then, suppose I should talk to your father,
Sweet Mary," says I;
"Oh, don't talk to my father," says Mary,
Beginning to cry:
"For my father he loves me so dearly,
He'll never consent I should go;--
If you talk to my father," says Mary,
"He'll surely say 'No.'"

"Then how shall I get you, my jewel,
Sweet Mary?" says I;
"If your father and mother's so cruel,
Most surely I'll die!"
"Oh, never say die, dear," says Mary;
"A way now to save you I see:
Since my parents are both so conthrairy,
You'd better ask _me_."

_Samuel Lover._

SALLY IN OUR ALLEY

Of all the girls that are so smart,
There's none like Pretty Sally;
She is the darling of my heart,
And lives in our alley.
There's ne'er a lady in the land
That's half so sweet as Sally;
She is the darling of my heart,
And lives in our alley.

Her father he makes cabbage-nets,
And through the streets does cry them;
Her mother she sells laces long
To such as please to buy them:
But sure such folk can have no part
In such a girl as Sally;
She is the darling of my heart,
And lives in our alley.

When she is by, I leave my work,
I love her so sincerely;
My master comes, like any Turk,
And bangs me most severely:
But let him bang, long as he will,
I'll bear it all for Sally;
She is the darling of my heart,
And lives in our alley.

Of all the days are in the week,
I dearly love but one day,
And that's the day that comes betwixt
A Saturday and Monday;
For then I'm dressed, all in my best,
To walk abroad with Sally;
She is the darling of my heart,
And lives in our alley.

My master carries me to church,
And often am I blamed,
Because I leave him in the lurch,
Soon as the text is named:
I leave the church in sermon time,
And slink away to Sally;
She is the darling of my heart,
And lives in our alley.

When Christmas comes about again,
Oh, then I shall have money;
I'll hoard it up and, box and all,
I'll give it to my honey;
Oh, would it were ten thousand pounds,
I'd give it all to Sally;
For she's the darling of my heart,
And lives in our alley.

My master, and the neighbors all,
Make game of me and Sally,
And but for her I'd better be
A slave, and row a galley:
But when my seven long years are out,
Oh, then I'll marry Sally,
And then how happily we'll live--
But not in our alley.

_Henry Carey._

FALSE LOVE AND TRUE LOGIC

THE DISCONSOLATE

My heart will break--I'm sure it will:
My lover, yes, my favorite--he
Who seemed my own through good and ill--
Has basely turned his back on me.

THE COMFORTER

Ah! silly sorrower, weep no more;
Your lover's turned his back, we see;
But you had turned his head before,
And now he's as he ought to be.

_Laman Blanchard._

PET'S PUNISHMENT

O, if my love offended me,
And we had words together,
To show her I would master be,
I'd whip her with a feather!

If then she, like a naughty girl,
Would tyranny declare it,
I'd give my pet a cross of pearl,
And make her always bear it.

If still she tried to sulk and sigh,
And threw away my posies,
I'd catch my darling on the sly,
And smother her with roses.

But should she clench her dimpled fists,
Or contradict her betters,
I'd manacle her tiny wrists
With dainty jewelled fetters.

And if she dared her lips to pout,
Like many pert young misses,
I'd wind my arm her waist about,
And punish her--with kisses!

_J. Ashby-Sterry._

AD CHLOEN, M.A.

FRESH FROM HER CAMBRIDGE EXAMINATION

Lady, very fair are you, And your eyes are very blue, And your hose; And your brow is like the snow, And the various things you know, Goodness knows.

And the rose-flush on your cheek, And your Algebra and Greek Perfect are; And that loving lustrous eye Recognizes in the sky Every star.

You have pouting piquant lips, You can doubtless an eclipse Calculate; But for your cerulean hue, I had certainly from you Met my fate.

If by some arrangement dual I were Adams mixed with Whewell, Then some day I, as wooer, perhaps might come To so sweet an Artium Magistra.

_Mortimer Collins._

CHLOE, M.A.

AD AMANTEM SUAM

Careless rhymer, it is true, That my favourite colour's blue: But am I To be made a victim, sir, If to puddings I prefer Cambridge [pi]?

If with giddier girls I play Croquet through the summer day On the turf, Then at night ('tis no great boon) Let me study how the moon Sways the surf.

Tennyson's idyllic verse Surely suits me none the worse If I seek Old Sicilian birds and bees-- Music of sweet Sophocles-- Golden Greek.

You have said my eyes are blue; There may be a fairer hue, Perhaps--and yet It is surely not a sin If I keep my secrets in Violet.

_Mortimer Collins._

THE FAIR MILLINGER

By the Watertown Horse-Car Conductor

It was a millinger most gay,
As sat within her shop;
A student came along that way,
And in he straight did pop.
Clean shaven he, of massive mould,
He thought his looks was killing her;
So lots of stuff to him she sold:
"Thanks!" says the millinger.

He loafed around and seemed to try
On all things to converse;
The millinger did mind her eye,
But also mound his purse.
He tried, then, with his flattering tongue,
With nonsense to be filling her;
But she was sharp, though she was young:
"Thanks," said the millinger.

He asked her to the theatre,
They got into my car;
Our steeds were tired, could hardly stir,
He thought the way not far.
A pretty pict-i-ure she made,
No doctors had been pilling her;
Fairly the fair one's fare he paid:
"Thanks!" said the millinger.

When we arrived in Bowdoin Square,
A female to them ran;
Then says that millinger so fair:
"O, thank you, Mary Ann!
She's going with us, she is," says she,
"She only is fulfilling her
Duty in looking after me:
Thanks!" said that millinger.

"Why," says that student chap to her,
"I've but two seats to hand."
"Too bad," replied that millinger,
"Then you will have to stand."
"I won't stand this," says he, "I own
The joke which you've been drilling her;
Here, take the seats and go alone!"
"Thanks!" says the millinger.

That ere much-taken-down young man
Stepped back into my car.
We got fresh horses, off they ran;
He thought the distance far.
And now she is my better half,
And oft, when coo-and-billing her,
I think about that chap and laugh:
"Thanks!" says my millinger.

_Fred W. Loring._

TWO FISHERS

One morning when Spring was in her teens--
A morn to a poet's wishing,
All tinted in delicate pinks and greens--
Miss Bessie and I went fishing.

I in my rough and easy clothes,
With my face at the sun-tan's mercy;
She with her hat tipped down to her nose,
And her nose tipped--_vice versa_.

I with my rod, my reel, and my hooks,
And a hamper for lunching recesses;
She with the bait of her comely looks,
And the seine of her golden tresses.

So we sat us down on the sunny dike,
Where the white pond-lilies teeter,
And I went to fishing like quaint old Ike,
And she like Simon Peter.

All the noon I lay in the light of her eyes,
And dreamily watched and waited,
But the fish were cunning and would not rise,
And the baiter alone was baited.

And when the time of departure came,
My bag hung flat as a flounder;
But Bessie had neatly hooked her game--
A hundred-and-fifty-pounder.

_Unknown._

MAUD

Nay, I cannot come into the garden just now,
Tho' it vexes me much to refuse:
But I _must_ have the next set of waltzes, I vow,
With Lieutenant de Boots of the Blues.

I am sure you'll be heartily pleas'd when you hear
That our ball has been quite a success.
As for _me_--I've been looking a monster, my dear.
In that old-fashion'd guy of a dress.

You had better at once hurry home, dear, to bed;
It is getting so dreadfully late.
You may catch the bronchitis or cold in the head
If you linger so long at our gate.

Don't be obstinate, Alfy; come, take my advice--
For I know you're in want of repose:
Take a basin of gruel (you'll find it so nice),
And remember to tallow your nose.

No, I tell you I can't and I shan't get away,
For De Boots has implor'd me to sing.
As to _you_--if you like it, of course you can stay,
You were always an obstinate thing.

If you feel it a pleasure to talk to the flow'rs
About "babble and revel and wine,"
When you might have been snoring for two or three hours,
Why, it's not the least business of mine.

_Henry S. Leigh._

ARE WOMEN FAIR?

"Are women fair?" Ay, wondrous fair to see, too. "Are women sweet?" Yea, passing sweet they be, too. Most fair and sweet to them that only love them; Chaste and discreet to all save them that prove them.

"Are women wise?" Not wise, but they be witty; "Are women witty?" Yea, the more the pity; They are so witty, and in wit so wily, Though ye be ne'er so wise, they will beguile ye.

"Are women fools?" Not fools, but fondlings many; "Can women fond be faithful unto any?" When snow-white swans do turn to colour sable, Then women fond will be both firm and stable.

"Are women saints?" No saints, nor yet no devils; "Are women good?" Not good, but needful evils. So Angel-like, that devils I do not doubt them, So needful evils that few can live without them.

"Are women proud?" Ay! passing proud, an praise them. "Are women kind?" Ay! wondrous kind, an please them. Or so imperious, no man can endure them, Or so kind-hearted, any may procure them.

_Francis Davison._

THE PLAIDIE

Upon ane stormy Sunday,
Coming adoon the lane,
Were a score of bonnie lassies--
And the sweetest I maintain
Was Caddie,
That I took unneath my plaidie,
To shield her from the rain.

She said that the daisies blushed
For the kiss that I had ta'en;
I wadna hae thought the lassie
Wad sae of a kiss complain:
"Now, laddie!
I winna stay under your plaidie,
If I gang hame in the rain!"

But, on an after Sunday,
When cloud there was not ane,
This selfsame winsome lassie
(We chanced to meet in the lane),
Said, "Laddie,
Why dinna ye wear your plaidie?
Wha kens but it may rain?"

_Charles Sibley._

FEMININE ARITHMETIC

LAURA
On me he shall ne'er put a ring,
So, mamma, 'tis in vain to take trouble--
For I was but eighteen in spring
While his age exactly is double.

MAMMA
He's but in his thirty-sixth year,
Tall, handsome, good-natured and witty,
And should you refuse him, my dear,
May you die an old maid without pity!

LAURA
His figure, I grant you, will pass,
And at present he's young enough plenty;
But when I am sixty, alas!
Will not he be a hundred and twenty?

_Charles Graham Halpine._

LORD GUY

When swallows Northward flew
Forth from his home did fare
Guy, Lord of Lanturlaire
And Lanturlu.

Swore he to cross the brine,
Pausing not, night nor day,
That he might Paynims slay
In Palestine.

Half a league on his way
Met he a shepherdess
Beaming with loveliness--
Fair as Young Day.

Gazed he in eyes of blue--
Saw love in hiding there
Guy, Lord of Lanturlaire
And Lanturlu.

"Let the foul Paynim wait!"
Plead Love, "and stay with me.
Cruel and cold the sea--
Here's brighter fate."

When swallows Southward flew
Back to his home did fare
Guy, Lord of Lanturlaire
And Lanturlu.

Led he his charger gay
Bearing a shepherdess
Beaming with happiness--
Fair as Young Day.

White lambs, be-ribboned blue--
Tends now with anxious care,
Guy, Lord of Lanturlaire
And Lanturlu.

_George F. Warren._

SARY "FIXES UP" THINGS

Oh, yes, we've be'n fixin' up some sence we sold that piece o' groun' Fer a place to put a golf-lynx to them crazy dudes from town. (Anyway, they laughed like crazy when I had it specified, Ef they put a golf-lynx on it, thet they'd haf to keep him tied.) But they paid the price all reg'lar, an' then Sary says to me, "Now we're goin' to fix the parlor up, an' settin'-room," says she. Fer she 'lowed she'd been a-scrimpin' an' a-scrapin' all her life, An' she meant fer once to have things good as Cousin Ed'ard's wife.

Well, we went down to the city, an' she bought the blamedest mess; An' them clerks there must 'a' took her fer a' Astoroid, I guess; Fer they showed her fancy bureaus which they said was shiffoneers, An' some more they said was dressers, an' some curtains called porteers. An' she looked at that there furnicher, an' felt them curtains' heft; Then she sailed in like a cyclone an' she bought 'em right an' left; An' she picked a Bress'ls carpet thet was flowered like Cousin Ed's, But she drawed the line com-pletely when we got to foldin'-beds.

Course, she said, 't 'u'd make the parlor lots more roomier, she s'posed; But she 'lowed she'd have a bedstid thet was shore to stay un-closed; An' she stopped right there an' told us sev'ral tales of folks she'd read Bein' overtook in slumber by the "fatal foldin'-bed." "Not ef it wuz set in di'mon's! Nary foldin'-bed fer me! I ain't goin' to start fer glory in a rabbit-trap!" says she. "When the time comes I'll be ready an' a-waitin'; but ez yet, I shan't go to sleep a-thinkin' that I've got the triggers set."

Well, sir, shore as yo''re a-livin', after all thet Sary said, 'Fore we started home that evenin' she hed bought a foldin'-bed; An' she's put it in the parlor, where it adds a heap o' style; An' we're sleepin' in the settin'-room at present fer a while. Sary still maintains it's han'some, "an' them city folks'll see That we're posted on the fashions when they visit us," says she; But it plagues her some to tell her, ef it ain't no other use, We can set it fer the golf-lynx ef he ever sh'u'd get loose.

_Albert Bigelow Paine._

THE CONSTANT CANNIBAL MAIDEN

Far, oh, far is the Mango island,
Far, oh, far is the tropical sea--
Palms a-slant and the hills a-smile, and
A cannibal maiden a-waiting for me.

I've been deceived by a damsel Spanish,
And Indian maidens both red and brown,
A black-eyed Turk and a blue-eyed Danish,
And a Puritan lassie of Salem town.

For the Puritan Prue she sets in the offing,
A-castin' 'er eyes at a tall marine,
And the Spanish minx is the wust at scoffing
Of all of the wimming I ever seen.

But the cannibal maid is a simple creetur,
With a habit of gazin' over the sea,
A-hopin' in vain for the day I'll meet 'er,
And constant and faithful a-yearnin' for me.

Me Turkish sweetheart she played me double--
Eloped with the Sultan Harum In-Deed,
And the Danish damsel she made me trouble
When she ups and married an oblong Swede.
But there's truth in the heart of the maid o' Mango,
Though her cheeks is black like the kiln-baked cork,
As she sets in the shade o' the whingo-whango,
A-waitin' for me--with a knife and fork.

_Wallace Irwin._

WIDOW BEDOTT TO ELDER SNIFFLES

O reverend sir, I do declare
It drives me most to frenzy,
To think of you a-lying there
Down sick with influenzy.

A body'd thought it was enough
To mourn your wife's departer,
Without sich trouble as this ere
To come a-follerin' arter.

But sickness and affliction
Are sent by a wise creation,
And always ought to be underwent
By patience and resignation.

O, I could to your bedside fly,
And wipe your weeping eyes,
And do my best to cure you up,
If 'twouldn't create surprise.

It's a world of trouble we tarry in,
But, Elder, don't despair;
That you may soon be movin' again
Is constantly my prayer.

Both sick and well, you may depend
You'll never be forgot
By your faithful and affectionate friend,
|Priscilla Pool Bedott|.

_Frances Miriam Whitcher._

UNDER THE MISTLETOE

She stood beneath the mistletoe That hung above the door, Quite conscious of the sprig above, Revered by maids of yore. A timid longing filled her heart; Her pulses throbbed with heat; He sprang to where the fair girl stood. "May I--just one--my sweet?" He asked his love, who tossed her head, "Just do it--if--you dare!" she said.

He sat before the fireplace Down at the club that night. "She loves me not," he hotly said, "Therefore she did but right!" She sat alone within her room, And with her finger-tips She held his picture to her heart, Then pressed it to her lips. "My loved one!" sobbed she, "if you--cared You surely would have--would have--dared."

_George Francis Shults._

THE BROKEN PITCHER

It was a Moorish maiden was sitting by a well, And what the maiden thought of I cannot, cannot tell. When by there rode a valiant knight from the town of Oviedo-- Alphonso Guzman was he hight, the Count of Desparedo.

"Oh, maiden, Moorish maiden! why sitt'st thou by the spring? Say, dost thou seek a lover, or any other thing? Why gazest thou upon me, with eyes so large and wide, And wherefore doth the pitcher lie broken by thy side?"

"I do not seek a lover, thou Christian knight so gay, Because an article like that hath never come my way; And why I gaze upon you, I cannot, cannot tell, Except that in your iron hose you look uncommon swell.

"My pitcher it is broken, and this the reason is,-- A shepherd came behind me, and tried to snatch a kiss; I would not stand his nonsense, so ne'er a word I spoke, But scored him on the costard, and so the jug was broke.

"My uncle, the Alcaydè, he waits for me at home, And will not take his tumbler until Zorayda come. I cannot bring him water--the pitcher is in pieces-- And so I'm sure to catch it, 'cos he wallops all his nieces."

"Oh, maiden, Moorish maiden! wilt thou be ruled by me! So wipe thine eyes and rosy lips, and give me kisses three; And I'll give thee my helmet, thou kind and courteous lady, To carry home the water to thy uncle, the Alcaydè."

He lighted down from off his steed--he tied him to a tree-- He bowed him to the maiden, and took his kisses three: "To wrong thee, sweet Zorayda, I swear would be a sin!" He knelt him at the fountain, and he dipped his helmet in.

Up rose the Moorish maiden--behind the knight she steals, And caught Alphonso Guzman up tightly by the heels; She tipped him in, and held him down beneath the bubbling water,-- "Now, take thou that for venturing to kiss Al Hamet's daughter!"

A Christian maid is weeping in the town of Oviedo; She waits the coming of her love, the Count of Desparedo. I pray you all in charity, that you will never tell, How he met the Moorish maiden beside the lonely well.

_William E. Aytoun._

GIFTS RETURNED

"You must give back," her mother said,
To a poor sobbing little maid,
"All the young man has given you,
Hard as it now may seem to do."
"'Tis done already, mother dear!"
Said the sweet girl, "So never fear."
_Mother_. Are you quite certain? Come, recount
(There was not much) the whole amount.
_Girl_. The locket; the kid gloves.
_Mother_. Go on.
_Girl_. Of the kid gloves I found but one.
_Mother_. Never mind that. What else? Proceed.
You gave back all his trash?
_Girl_. Indeed.
_Mother_. And was there nothing you would save?
_Girl_. Everything I could give I gave.
_Mother_. To the last tittle?
_Girl_. Even to that.
_Mother_. Freely?
_Girl_. My heart went pit-a-pat
At giving up ... ah me! ah me!
I cry so I can hardly see ...
All the fond looks and words that past,
And all the kisses, to the last.

_Walter Savage Landor._

III

LOVE AND COURTSHIP

NOUREDDIN, THE SON OF THE SHAH

There once was a Shah had a second son Who was very unlike his elder one, For he went about on his own affairs, And scorned the mosque and the daily prayers; When his sire frowned fierce, then he cried, "Ha, ha!" Noureddin, the son of the Shah.

But worst of all of the pranks he played Was to fall in love with a Christian maid,-- An Armenian maid who wore no veil, Nor behind a lattice grew thin and pale; At his sire's dark threats laughed the youth, "Ha, ha!" Noureddin, the son of the Shah.

"I will shut him close in an iron cage," The monarch said, in a fuming rage; But the prince slipped out by a postern door, And away to the mountains his loved one bore; Loud his glee rang back on the winds, "Ha, ha!" Noureddin, the son of the Shah.

And still in the town of Teheran, When a youth and a maid adopt this plan,-- All frowns and threats with a laugh defy, And away from the mosques to the mountains fly,-- Folk meet and greet with a gay "_Ha, ha!" Noureddin, the son of the Shah_.

_Clinton Scollard._

THE USUAL WAY

There was once a little man, and his rod and line he took, For he said, "I'll go a-fishing in the neighboring brook." And it chanced a little maiden was walking out that day, And they met--in the usual way.

Then he sat him down beside her, and an hour or two went by, But still upon the grassy brink his rod and line did lie; "I thought," she shyly whispered, "you'd be fishing all the day!" And he was--in the usual way.

So he gravely took his rod in hand, and threw the line about, But the fish perceived distinctly that he was not looking out; And he said, "Sweetheart, I love you!" but she said she could not stay: But she did--in the usual way.

Then the stars came out above them, and she gave a little sigh, As they watched the silver ripples, like the moments, running by; "We must say good-by," she whispered, by the alders old and gray, And they did--in the usual way.

And day by day beside the stream they wandered to and fro, And day by day the fishes swam securely down below; Till this little story ended, as such little stories may, Very much--in the usual way.

And now that they are married, do they always bill and coo? Do they never fret and quarrel as other couples do? Does he cherish her and love her? Does she honor and obey? Well--they do--in the usual way.

_Frederic E. Weatherly._

THE WAY TO ARCADY

Oh, _what's the way to Arcady,
To Arcady, to Arcady;
Oh, what's the way to Arcady,
Where all the leaves are merry_?

Oh, what's the way to Arcady? The spring is rustling in the tree-- The tree the wind is blowing through-- It sets the blossoms flickering white. I knew not skies could burn so blue Nor any breezes blow so light. They blow an old-time way for me, Across the world to Arcady.

Oh, what's the way to Arcady? Sir Poet, with the rusty coat, Quit mocking of the song-bird's note. How have you heart for any tune, You with the wayworn russet shoon? Your scrip, a-swinging by your side, Gapes with a gaunt mouth hungry-wide. I'll brim it well with pieces red, If you will tell the way to tread.

_Oh, I am bound for Arcady, And if you but keep pace with me You tread the way to Arcady._

And where away lies Arcady, And how long yet may the journey be?

_Ah, that_ (quoth he) _I do not know_-- _Across the clover and the snow_-- _Across the frost, across the flowers_-- _Through summer seconds and winter hours_ _I've trod the way my whole life long_, _And know not now where it may be_; _My guide is but the stir to song_, _That tells me I cannot go wrong_, _Or clear or dark the pathway be_ _Upon the road to Arcady_.

But how shall I do who cannot sing?
I was wont to sing, once on a time--
There is never an echo now to ring
Remembrance back to the trick of rhyme.

_'Tis strange you cannot sing_ (quoth he), _The folk all sing in Arcady_.

But how may he find Arcady Who hath not youth nor melody?

_What, know you not, old man_ (quoth he)-- _Your hair is white, your face is wise_-- _That Love must kiss that Mortal's eyes_ _Who hopes to see fair Arcady_? _No gold can buy you entrance there_; _But beggared Love may go all bare_-- _No wisdom won with weariness_; _But Love goes in with Folly's dress_-- _No fame that wit could ever win_; _But only Love may lead Love in_ _To Arcady, to Arcady_.

Ah, woe is me, through all my days Wisdom and wealth I both have got, And fame and name, and great men's praise; But Love, ah, Love! I have it not. There was a time, when life was new-- But far away, and half forgot-- I only know her eyes were blue; But Love--I fear I knew it not. We did not wed, for lack of gold, And she is dead, and I am old. All things have come since then to me, Save Love, ah, Love! and Arcady. _Ah, then I fear we part_ (quoth he), _My way's for Love and Arcady._

But you, you fare alone, like me;
The gray is likewise in your hair.
What love have you to lead you there,
To Arcady, to Arcady?

_Ah, no, not lonely do I fare; My true companion's Memory. With Love he fills the Spring-time air; With Love he clothes the Winter tree. Oh, past this poor horizon's bound My song goes straight to one who stands-- Her face all gladdening at the sound-- To lead me to the Spring-green lands, To wander with enlacing hands. The songs within my breast that stir Are all of her, are all of her. My maid is dead long years_ (quoth he), _She waits for me in Arcady_.

_Oh, yon's the way to Arcady,
To Arcady, to Arcady;
Oh, yon's the way to Arcady,
Where all the leaves are merry._

_H. C. Bunner._

MY LOVE AND MY HEART

Oh, the days were ever shiny
When I ran to meet my love;
When I press'd her hand so tiny
Through her tiny tiny glove.
Was I very deeply smitten?
Oh, I loved like _anything_!
But my love she is a kitten,
And my heart's a ball of string.

She was pleasingly poetic,
And she loved my little rhymes;
For our tastes were sympathetic,
In the old and happy times.
Oh, the ballads I have written,
And have taught my love to sing!
But my love she is a kitten,
And my heart's a ball of string.

Would she listen to my offer,
On my knees I would impart
A sincere and ready proffer
Of my hand and of my heart.
And below her dainty mitten
I would fix a wedding ring--
But my love she is a kitten,
And my heart's a ball of string.

Take a warning, happy lover,
From the moral that I show;
Or too late you may discover
What I learn'd a month ago.
We are scratch'd or we are bitten
By the pets to whom we cling.
Oh, my love she is a kitten,
And my heart's a ball of string.

_Henry S. Leigh._

QUITE BY CHANCE

She flung the parlour window wide
One eve of mid-July,
And he, as fate would have it tide,
That moment sauntered by.
His eyes were blue and hers were brown,
With drooping fringe of jet;
And he looked up as she looked down,
And so their glances met.
_Things as strange, I dare to say,
Happen somewhere every day._

A mile beyond the straggling street,
A quiet pathway goes;
And lovers here are wont to meet,
As all the country knows.
Now she one night at half-past eight
Had sought that lonely lane,
When _he_ came up, by will of fate,
And so they met again.
_Things as strange, I dare to say,
Happen somewhere every day._

The parish church, so old and gray,
Is quite a sight to see;
And he was there at ten one day,
And so, it chanced, was she.
And while they stood, with cheeks aflame,
And neighbours liked the fun,
In stole and hood the parson came,
And made the couple one.
_Things as strange, I dare to say,
Happen somewhere every day._

_Frederick Langbridge._

THE NUN

SUGGESTED BY PART OF THE ITALIAN SONG, BEGINNING "SE MONECA TI FAI."

I

If you become a nun, dear, A friar I will be; In any cell you run, dear, Pray look behind for me. The roses all turn pale, too; The doves all take the veil, too; The blind will see the show: What! you become a nun, my dear! I'll not believe it, no.

II

If you become a nun, dear, The bishop Love will be; The Cupids every one, dear, Will chaunt "We trust in thee"; The incense will go sighing, The candles fall a dying, The water turn to wine: What! you go take the vows, my dear! You may--but they'll be mine.

_Leigh Hunt._

THE CHEMIST TO HIS LOVE

I love thee, Mary, and thou lovest me-- Our mutual flame is like th' affinity That doth exist between two simple bodies: I am Potassium to thine Oxygen. 'Tis little that the holy marriage vow Shall shortly make us one. That unity Is, after all, but metaphysical. Oh, would that I, my Mary, were an acid, A living acid; thou an alkali Endow'd with human sense, that, brought together, We both might coalesce into one salt, One homogeneous crystal. Oh, that thou Wert Carbon, and myself were Hydrogen; We would unite to form olefiant gas, Or common coal, or naphtha--would to heaven That I were Phosphorus, and thou wert Lime! And we of Lime composed a Phosphuret. I'd be content to be Sulphuric Acid, So that thou might be Soda. In that case We should be Glauber's Salt. Wert thou Magnesia Instead we'd form the salt that's named from Epsom. Couldst thou Potassa be, I Aqua-fortis, Our happy union should that compound form, Nitrate of Potash--otherwise Saltpetre. And thus our several natures sweetly blent, We'd live and love together, until death Should decompose the fleshly _tertium quid_, Leaving our souls to all eternity Amalgamated. Sweet, thy name is Briggs And mine is Johnson. Wherefore should not we Agree to form a Johnsonate of Briggs?

_Unknown._

CATEGORICAL COURTSHIP

I sat one night beside a blue-eyed girl-- The fire was out, and so, too, was her mother; A feeble flame around the lamp did curl, Making faint shadows, blending in each other: 'Twas nearly twelve o'clock, too, in November; She had a shawl on, also, I remember.

Well, I had been to see her every night For thirteen days, and had a sneaking notion To pop the question, thinking all was right, And once or twice had make an awkward motion To take her hand, and stammer'd, cough'd, and stutter'd, But, somehow, nothing to the point had utter'd.

I thought this chance too good now to be lost; I hitched my chair up pretty close beside her, Drew a long breath, and then my legs I cross'd, Bent over, sighed, and for five minutes eyed her: She looked as if she knew what next was coming, And with her feet upon the floor was drumming.