Chapter VI: Introduction (6)

I didn't know how to begin, or where-- I couldn't speak--the words were always choking; I scarce could move--I seem'd tied to the chair-- I hardly breathed--'twas awfully provoking! The perspiration from each pore came oozing, My heart, and brain, and limbs their power seem'd losing.

At length I saw a brindle tabby cat Walk purring up, inviting me to pat her; An idea came, electric-like at that-- My doubts, like summer clouds, began to scatter, I seized on tabby, though a scratch she gave me, And said, "Come, Puss, ask Mary if she'll have me."

'Twas done at once--the murder now was out; The thing was all explain'd in half a minute. She blush'd, and, turning pussy-cat about, Said, "Pussy, tell him 'yes'"; her foot was in it! The cat had thus saved me my category, And here's the catastrophe of my story.

_Unknown._

LANTY LEARY

Lanty was in love, you see,
With lovely, lively Rosie Carey;
But her father can't agree
To give the girl to Lanty Leary.
Up to fun, "Away we'll run,"
Says she, "my father's so contrary.
Won't you follow me? Won't you follow me?"
"Faith, I will!" says Lanty Leary.

But her father died one day
(I hear 'twas not by dhrinkin' wather);
House and land and cash, they say,
He left, by will, to Rose, his daughter;
House and land and cash to seize,
Away she cut so light and airy.
"Won't you follow me? Won't you follow me?"
"Faith, I will!" says Lanty Leary.

Rose, herself, was taken bad;
The fayver worse each day was growin';
"Lanty, dear," says she, "'tis sad,
To th' other world I'm surely goin'.
You can't survive my loss, I know,
Nor long remain in Tipperary.
Won't you follow me? Won't you follow me?"
"Faith, I won't!" says Lanty Leary.

_Samuel Lover._

THE SECRET COMBINATION

Her heart she locked fast in her breast, Away from molestation; The lock was warranted the best-- A patent combination. She knew no simple lock and key Would serve to keep out Love and me.

But Love a clever cracksman is, And cannot be resisted; He likes such stubborn jobs as this, Complex and hard and twisted, And though we worked a many day, At last we bore her heart away.

For Love has learned full many tricks In his strange avocation; He knew the figures were but six In this, her combination; Nor did we for a minute rest Until we had unlocked her breast.

First, then, we turned the knob to "Sighs," Then back to "Words Sincerest," Then "Gazing Fondly in Her Eyes," Then "Softly Murmured 'Dearest;'" Then, next, "A Warm Embrace" we tried, And at "A Kiss" the door flew wide.

_Ellis Parker Butler._

FORTY YEARS AFTER

We climbed to the top of Goat Point hill,
Sweet Kitty, my sweetheart, and I;
And watched the moon make stars on the waves,
And the dim white ships go by,
While a throne we made on a rough stone wall,
And the king and the queen were we;
And I sat with my arm about Kitty,
And she with her arm about me.

The water was mad in the moonlight,
And the sand like gold where it shone,
And our hearts kept time to its music,
As we sat in the splendour alone.
And Kitty's dear eyes twinkled brightly,
And Kitty's brown hair blew so free,
While I sat with my arm about Kitty,
And she with her arm about me.

Last night we drove in our carriage,
To the wall at the top of the hill;
And though we're forty years older,
We're children and sweethearts still.
And we talked again of that moonlight
That danced so mad on the sea,
When I sat with my arm about Kitty,
And she with her arm about me.

The throne on the wall was still standing,
But we sat in the carriage last night,
For a wall is too high for old people
Whose foreheads have linings of white.
And Kitty's waist measure is forty,
While mine is full fifty and three,
So I can't get my arm about Kitty,
Nor can she get both hers around me.

_H. H. Porter._

CUPID

Beauties, have ye seen this toy, Calléd love, a little boy Almost naked, wanton, blind, Cruel now, and then as kind? If he be amongst ye, say! He is Venus' runaway.

He hath of marks about him plenty; Ye shall know him among twenty; All his body is a fire, And his breath a flame entire, That, being shot like lightning in, Wounds the heart, but not the skin.

He doth bear a golden bow, And a quiver, hanging low, Full of arrows, that outbrave Dian's shafts, where, if he have Any head more sharp than other, With that first he strikes his mother.

Trust him not: his words, though sweet, Seldom with his heart do meet; All his practice is deceit, Every gift is but a bait; Not a kiss but poison bears, And most treason in his tears.

If by these ye please to know him, Beauties, be not nice, but show him, Though ye had a will to hide him. Now, we hope, ye'll not abide him, Since ye hear his falser play, And that he's Venus' runaway.

_Ben Jonson._

PARING-TIME ANTICIPATED

I shall not ask Jean Jacques Rousseau If birds confabulate or no; 'Tis clear that they were always able To hold discourse, at least in fable; And e'en the child who knows no better Than to interpret, by the letter, A story of a cock and bull, Must have a most uncommon skull. It chanced, then, on a winter's day, But warm, and bright, and calm as May, The birds, conceiving a design To forestall sweet St. Valentine, In many an orchard, copse, and grove, Assembled on affairs of love, And, with much twitter and much chatter, Began to agitate the matter. At length a bullfinch, who could boast More years and wisdom than the most, Entreated, opening wide his beak, A moment's liberty to speak; And, silence publicly enjoin'd, Deliver'd briefly thus his mind: "My friends, be cautious how ye treat The subject upon which we meet; I fear we shall have winter yet." A finch, whose tongue knew no control, With golden wing and satin poll, A last year's bird, who ne'er had tried What marriage means, thus pert replied: "Methinks the gentleman," quoth she, "Opposite in the apple-tree, By his good-will would keep us single Till yonder heaven and earth shall mingle, Or--which is likelier to befall-- 'Til death exterminate us all. I marry without more ado. My dear Dick Redcap, what say you?" Dick heard, and tweedling, ogling, bridling, Turned short 'round, strutting, and sidling, Attested, glad, his approbation Of an immediate conjugation. Their sentiments, so well express'd, Influenced mightily the rest; All pair'd, and each pair built a nest. But, though the birds were thus in haste, The leaves came on not quite so fast, And destiny, that sometimes bears An aspect stern on man's affairs, Not altogether smiled on theirs. The wind, of late breathed gently forth, Now shifted east, and east by north; Bare trees and shrubs but ill, you know, Could shelter them from rain or snow. Stepping into their nests, they paddled, Themselves were chill'd, their eggs were addled. Soon every father bird and mother Grew quarrelsome, and peck'd each other, Parted without the least regret, Except that they had ever met, And learn'd in future to be wiser Than to neglect a good adviser.

MORAL

Misses, the tale that I relate
This lesson seems to carry:
Choose not alone a proper mate,
But proper time to marry.

_William Cowper._

WHY

Do you know why the rabbits are caught in the snare
Or the tabby cat's shot on the tiles?
Why the tigers and lions creep out of their lair?
Why an ostrich will travel for miles?
Do you know why a sane man will whimper and cry
And weep o'er a ribbon or glove?
Why a cook will put sugar for salt in a pie?
Do you know? Well, I'll tell you--it's Love.

_H. P. Stevens._

THE SABINE FARMER'S SERENADE

I

'Twas on a windy night,
At two o'clock in the morning,
An Irish lad so tight,
All wind and weather scorning,
At Judy Callaghan's door.
Sitting upon the palings,
His love-tale he did pour,
And this was part of his wailings:--
_Only say
You'll be Mrs. Brallaghan;
Don't say nay,
Charming Judy Callaghan_.

II

Oh! list to what I say,
Charms you've got like Venus;
Own your love you may,
There's but the wall between us.
You lie fast asleep
Snug in bed and snoring;
Round the house I creep,
Your hard heart imploring.
_Only say
You'll have Mr. Brallaghan;
Don't say nay,
Charming Judy Callaghan._

III

I've got a pig and a sow,
I've got a sty to sleep 'em
A calf and a brindled cow,
And a cabin too, to keep 'em;
Sunday hat and coat,
An old grey mare to ride on,
Saddle and bridle to boot,
Which you may ride astride on.
_Only say
You'll be Mrs. Brallaghan;
Don't say nay,
Charming Judy Callaghan._

IV

I've got an acre of ground,
I've got it set with praties;
I've got of 'baccy a pound,
I've got some tea for the ladies;
I've got the ring to wed,
Some whisky to make us gaily;
I've got a feather bed
And a handsome new shillelagh.
_Only say
You'll have Mr. Brallaghan;
Don't say nay,
Charming Judy Callaghan._

V

You've got a charming eye,
You've got some spelling and reading
You've got, and so have I,
A taste for genteel breeding;
You're rich, and fair, and young,
As everybody's knowing;
You've got a decent tongue
Whene'er 'tis set a-going.
_Only say
You'll be Mrs. Brallaghan;
Don't say nay,
Charming Judy Callaghan._

VI

For a wife till death
I am willing to take ye;
But, och! I waste my breath,
The devil himself can't wake ye.
'Tis just beginning to rain,
So I'll get under cover;
To-morrow I'll come again,
And be your constant lover.
_Only say
You'll be Mrs. Brallaghan;
Don't say nay,
Charming Judy Callaghan._

_Father Prout._

I HAE LAID A HERRING IN SAUT

I hae laid a herring in saut--
Lass, gin ye lo'e me, tell me now;
I hae brew'd a forpit o' maut,
And I canna come ilka day to woo:

I hae a calf that will soon be a cow--
Lass, gin ye lo'e me, tell me now;
I hae a stook, and I'll soon hae a mowe,
And I canna come ilka day to woo:

I hae a house upon yon moor--
Lass, gin ye lo'e me, tell me now;
Three sparrows may dance upon the floor,
And I canna come ilka day to woo:

I hae a but, and I hae a ben--
Lass, gin ye lo'e me, tell me now;
A penny to keep, and a penny to spen',
And I canna come ilka day to woo:

I hae a hen wi' a happitie leg--
Lass, gin ye lo'e me, tell me now;
That ilka day lays me an egg,
And I canna come ilka day to woo:

I hae a cheese upon my skelf--
Lass, gin ye lo'e me, tell me now;
And soon wi' mites 'twill rin itself,
And I canna come ilka day to woo.

_James Tytler._

THE CLOWN'S COURTSHIP

Quoth John to Joan, will thou have me; I prithee now, wilt? and I'll marry thee, My cow, my calf, my house, my rents, And all my lands and tenements: Oh, say, my Joan, will not that do? I cannot come every day to woo.

I've corn and hay in the barn hardby, And three fat hogs pent up in the sty, I have a mare and she is coal black, I ride on her tail to save my back. Then say, etc.

I have a cheese upon the shelf, And I cannot eat it all myself; I've three good marks that lie in a rag, In a nook of the chimney, instead of a bag. Then say, etc.

To marry I would have thy consent, But faith I never could compliment; I can say nought but "Hoy, gee ho!" Words that belong to the cart and the plough. So say, my Joan, will not that do, I cannot come every day to woo.

_Unknown._

OUT UPON IT

Out upon it, I have loved
Three whole days together;
And am like to love three more,
If it prove fair weather.

Time shall moult away his wings,
Ere he shall discover
In the whole wide world again
Such a constant Lover.

But the spite on't is, no praise
Is due at all to me:
Love with me had made no stays,
Had it any been but she.

Had it any been but she,
And that very face,
There had been at least ere this
A dozen dozen in her place.

_Sir John Suckling._

LOVE IS LIKE A DIZZINESS

I lately lived in quiet case,
An' ne'er wish'd to marry, O!
But when I saw my Peggy's face,
I felt a sad quandary, O!
Though wild as ony Athol deer,
She has trepann'd me fairly, O!
Her cherry cheeks an' een sae clear
Torment me late an' early O!
O, love, love, love!
Love is like a dizziness;
It winna let a poor body
Gang about his biziness!

To tell my feats this single week
Wad mak a daft-like diary, O!
I drave my cart out ow'r a dike,
My horses in a miry, O!
I wear my stockings white an' blue,
My love's sae fierce an' fiery, O!
I drill the land that I should pleugh,
An' pleugh the drills entirely, O!
O, love, love, love! etc.

Ae morning, by the dawn o' day,
I rase to theek the stable, O!
I keust my coat, and plied away
As fast as I was able, O!
I wrought that morning out an' out,
As I'd been redding fire, O!
When I had done an look'd about,
Gudefaith, it was the byre, O!
O, love, love, love! etc.

Her wily glance I'll ne'er forget,
The dear, the lovely blinkin o't
Has pierced me through an' through the heart,
An' plagues me wi' the prinking o't.
I tried to sing, I tried to pray,
I tried to drown't wi' drinkin' o't,
I tried with sport to drive't away,
But ne'er can sleep for thinkin' o't.
O, love, love, love! etc.

Nae man can tell what pains I prove,
Or how severe my pliskie, O!
I swear I'm sairer drunk wi' love
Than ever I was wi' whiskey, O!
For love has raked me fore an' aft,
I scarce can lift a leggie, O!
I first grew dizzy, then gaed daft,
An' soon I'll dee for Peggy, O!
O, love, love, love!
Love is like a dizziness;
It winna let a poor body
Gang about his biziness!

_James Hogg._

THE KITCHEN CLOCK

Knitting is the maid o' the kitchen, Milly, Doing nothing sits the chore boy, Billy: "Seconds reckoned, Seconds reckoned; Every minute, Sixty in it. Milly, Billy, Billy, Milly, Tick-tock, tock-tick, Nick-knock, knock-nick, Knockety-nick, nickety-knock,"-- Goes the kitchen clock.

Closer to the fire is rosy Milly, Every whit as close and cosy, Billy: "Time's a-flying, Worth your trying; Pretty Milly-- Kiss her, Billy! Milly, Billy, Billy, Milly, Tick-tock, tock-tick, Now--now, quick--quick! Knockety-nick, nickety-knock,"-- Goes the kitchen clock.

Something's happened, very red is Milly, Billy boy is looking very silly; "Pretty misses, Plenty kisses; Make it twenty, Take a plenty. Billy, Milly, Milly, Billy, Right--left, left--right, That's right, all right, Knockety-nick, nickety-knock,"-- Goes the kitchen clock.

Weeks gone, still they're sitting, Milly, Billy; O, the winter winds are wondrous chilly! "Winter weather, Close together; Wouldn't tarry, Better marry. Milly, Billy, Billy, Milly, Two--one, one--two, Don't wait, 'twon't do, Knockety-nick, nickety-knock,"-- Goes the kitchen clock.

Winters two have gone, and where is Milly? Spring has come again, and where is Billy? "Give me credit, For I did it; Treat me kindly, Mind you wind me. Mister Billy, Mistress Milly, My--O, O--my, By-by, by-by, Nickety-knock, cradle rock,"-- Goes the kitchen clock.

_John Vance Cheney._

LADY MINE

Lady mine, most fair thou art
With youth's gold and white and red;
'Tis a pity that thy heart
Is so much harder than thy head.

This has stayed my kisses oft,
This from all thy charms debarr'd,
That thy head is strangely soft,
While thy heart is strangely hard.

Nothing had kept us apart--
I had loved thee, I had wed--
Hadst thou had a softer heart
Or a harder head.

But I think I'll bear Love's smart
Till the wound has healed and fled,
Or thy head is like thy heart,
Or thy heart is like thy head.

_H. E. Clarke._

BALLADE OF THE GOLFER IN LOVE

In the "foursome" some would fain
Find nepenthe for their woe;
Following through shine or rain
Where the "greens" like satin show;
But I vote such sport as "slow"--
Find it rather glum and gruesome;
With a little maid I know
I would play a quiet "twosome"!

In the "threesome," some maintain,
Lies excitement's gayest glow--
Strife that mounts unto the brain
Like the sparkling _Veuve Clicquot_;
My opinion? Nay, not so!
Noon or eve or morning dewsome
With a little maid I know
I would play a quiet "twosome"!

Bays of glory some would gain
With grim "Bogey" for their foe;
(He's a bogey who's not slain
Save one smite with canny blow!)
Yet I hold this tame, and though
My refrain seems trite, 'tis truesome;
With a little maid I know
I would play a quiet "twosome"!

|envoy|

Comrades all who golfing go,
Happiness--if you would view some--
With a little maid _you_ know,
Haste and play a quiet "twosome"!

_Clinton Scollard._

BALLADE OF FORGOTTEN LOVES

Some poets sing of sweethearts dead,
Some sing of true loves far away;
Some sing of those that others wed,
And some of idols turned to clay.
I sing a pensive roundelay
To sweethearts of a doubtful lot,
The passions vanished in a day--
The little loves that I've forgot.

For, as the happy years have sped,
And golden dreams have changed to gray,
How oft the flame of love was fed
By glance, or smile, from Maud or May,
When wayward Cupid was at play;
Mere fancies, formed of who knows what,
But still my debt I ne'er can pay--
The little loves that I've forgot.

O joyous hours forever fled!
O sudden hopes that would not stay!
Held only by the slender thread
Of memory that's all astray.
Their very names I cannot say.
Time's will is done, I know them not;
But blessings on them all, I pray--
The little loves that I've forgot.

|envoi|

Sweetheart, why foolish fears betray?
Ours is the one true lovers' knot;
Note well the burden of my lay--
The little loves that I've forgot.

_Arthur Grissom._

IV

SATIRE

A BALLADE OF SUICIDE

The gallows in my garden, people say, Is new and neat and adequately tall. I tie the noose on in a knowing way As one that knots his necktie for a ball; But just as all the neighbours--on the wall-- Are drawing a long breath to shout "Hurray!" The strangest whim has seized me.... After all I think I will not hang myself to-day.

To-morrow is the time I get my pay-- My uncle's sword is hanging in the hall-- I see a little cloud all pink and grey-- Perhaps the rector's mother will _not_ call-- I fancy that I heard from Mr. Gall That mushrooms could be cooked another way-- I never read the works of Juvenal-- I think I will not hang myself to-day.

The world will have another washing day; The decadents decay; the pedants pall; And H. G. Wells has found that children play, And Bernard Shaw discovered that they squall; Rationalists are growing rational-- And through thick woods one finds a stream astray, So secret that the very sky seems small-- I think I will not hang myself to-day.

|Envoi|

Prince, I can hear the trump of Germinal, The tumbrils toiling up the terrible way; Even to-day your royal head may fall-- I think I will not hang myself to-day.

_G. K. Chesterton._

FINNIGIN TO FLANNIGAN

Superintendent wuz Flannigan; Boss av the siction wuz Finnigin; Whiniver the kyars got offen the thrack, An' muddled up things t' th' divil an' back, Finnigin writ it to Flannigan, Afther the wrick wuz all on ag'in; That is, this Finnigin Repoorted to Flannigan.

Whin Finnigin furst writ to Flannigan, He writed tin pages--did Finnigin, An' he tould jist how the smash occurred; Full minny a tajus, blunderin' wurrd Did Finnigin write to Flannigan Afther the cars had gone on ag'in. That wuz how Finnigin Repoorted to Flannigan.

Now Flannigan knowed more than Finnigin-- He'd more idjucation, had Flannigan; An' it wore'm clane an' completely out To tell what Finnigin writ about In his writin' to Muster Flannigan. So he writed back to Finnigin: "Don't do sich a sin ag'in; Make 'em brief, Finnigin!"

Whin Finnigin got this from Flannigan, He blushed rosy rid, did Finnigin; An' he said: "I'll gamble a whole month's pa-ay That it will be minny an' minny a da-ay Befoore Sup'rintindint--that's Flannigan-- Gits a whack at this very same sin ag'in. From Finnigin to Flannigan Repoorts won't be long ag'in."

* * * * *

Wan da-ay, on the siction av Finnigin, On the road sup'rintinded by Flannigan, A rail give way on a bit av a curve, An' some kyars went off as they made the swerve. "There's nobody hurted," sez Finnigin, "But repoorts must be made to Flannigan." An' he winked at McGorrigan, As married a Finnigin.

He wuz shantyin' thin, wuz Finnigin, As minny a railroader's been ag'in, An' the shmoky ol' lamp wuz burnin' bright In Finnigin's shanty all that night-- Bilin' down his repoort, was Finnigin! An' he writed this here: "Muster Flannigan: Off ag'in, on ag'in, Gone ag'in--Finnigin."

_S. W. Gillinan._

STUDY OF AN ELEVATION, IN INDIAN INK

Potiphar Gubbins, C. E.,
Stands at the top of the tree;
And I muse in my bed on the reasons that led
To the hoisting of Potiphar G.

Potiphar Gubbins, C. E.,
Is seven years junior to Me;
Each bridge that he makes either buckles or breaks,
And his work is as rough as he.

Potiphar Gubbins, C. E.,
Is coarse as a chimpanzee;
And I can't understand why you gave him your hand,
Lovely Mehitabel Lee.

Potiphar Gubbins, C. E.,
Is dear to the Powers that Be;
For they bow and They smile in an affable style
Which is seldom accorded to Me.

Potiphar Gubbins, C. E.,
Is certain as certain can be
Of a highly paid post which is claimed by a host
Of seniors--including Me.

Careless and lazy is he,
Greatly inferior to Me.
What is the spell that you manage so well,
Commonplace Potiphar G.?

Lovely Mehitabel Lee,
Let me inquire of thee,
Should I have riz to what Potiphar is,
Hadst thou been mated to Me?

_Rudyard Kipling._

THE V-A-S-E

From the madding crowd they stand apart, The maidens four and the Work of Art;

And none might tell from sight alone In which had culture ripest grown,--

The Gotham Million fair to see, The Philadelphia Pedigree,

The Boston Mind of azure hue, Or the soulful Soul from Kalamazoo,

For all loved Art in a seemly way, With an earnest soul and a capital A.

* * * * *

Long they worshiped; but no one broke The sacred stillness, until up spoke

The Western one from the nameless place, Who blushing said, "What a lovely vace!"

Over three faces a sad smile flew, And they edged away from Kalamazoo.

But Gotham's haughty soul was stirred To crush the stranger with one small word.

Deftly hiding reproof in praise, She cries, "'Tis, indeed, a lovely vaze!"

But brief her unworthy triumph when The lofty one from the house of Penn,

With the consciousness of two grandpapas, Exclaims, "It is quite a lovely vahs!"

And glances round with an anxious thrill, Awaiting the word of Beacon Hill.

But the Boston maid smiles courteouslee, And gently murmurs, "Oh, pardon me!

"I did not catch your remark, because I was so entranced with that lovely vaws!"

_Dies erit praegelida
Sinistra quum Bostonia._

_James Jeffrey Roche._

MINIVER CHEEVY

Miniver Cheevy, child of scorn,
Grew lean while he assailed the seasons;
He wept that he was ever born,
And he had reasons.

Miniver loved the days of old
When swords were bright and steeds were prancing;
The vision of a warrior bold
Would set him dancing.

Miniver sighed for what was not,
And dreamed and rested from his labors;
He dreamed of Thebes and Camelot
And Priam's neighbors.

Miniver mourned the ripe renown
That made so many a name so fragrant;
He mourned Romance, now on the town,
And Art, a vagrant.

Miniver loved the Medici,
Albeit he had never seen one;
He would have sinned incessantly
Could he have been one.

Miniver cursed the commonplace,
And eyed a khaki suit with loathing;
He missed the mediæval grace
Of iron clothing.

Miniver scorned the gold he sought,
But sore annoyed he was without it;
Miniver thought and thought and thought
And thought about it.

Miniver Cheevy, born too late,
Scratched his head and kept on thinking;
Miniver coughed, and called it fate,
And kept on drinking.

_Edwin Arlington Robinson._

THE RECRUIT

Sez Corporal Madden to Private McFadden:
"Bedad, yer a bad un!
Now turn out yer toes!
Yer belt is unhookit,
Yer cap is on crookit,
Ye may not be dhrunk,
But, be jabers, ye look it!
Wan--two!
Wan--two!
Ye monkey-faced divil, I'll jolly ye through!
Wan--two!--
Time! Mark!
Ye march like the aigle in Cintheral Parrk!"

Sez Corporal Madden to Private McFadden:
"A saint it ud sadden
To dhrill such a mug!
Eyes front!--ye baboon, ye!--
Chin up!--ye gossoon, ye!
Ye've jaws like a goat--
Halt! ye leather-lipped loon, ye!
Wan--two!
Wan--two!
Ye whiskered orang-outang, I'll fix you!
Wan--two!--
Time! Mark!
Ye've eyes like a bat!--can ye see in the dark?"

Sez Corporal Madden to Private McFadden:
"Yer figger wants padd'n'--
Sure, man, ye've no shape!
Behind ye yer shoulders
Stick out like two boulders;
Yer shins is as thin
As a pair of pen-holders!
Wan--two!
Wan--two!
Yer belly belongs on yer back, ye Jew!
Wan--two!--
Time! Mark!
I'm dhry as a dog--I can't shpake but I bark!"

Sez Corporal Madden to Private McFadden:
"Me heart it ud gladden
To blacken your eye.
Ye're gettin' too bold, ye
Compel me to scold ye,--
Tis halt! that I say,--
Will ye heed what I told ye?
Wan--two!
Wan--two!
Be jabers, I'm dhryer than Brian Boru!
Wan--two!--
Time! Mark!
What's wur-ruk for chickens is sport for the lark!"

Sez Corporal Madden to Private McFadden:
"I'll not stay a gaddin',
Wid dagoes like you!
I'll travel no farther,
I'm dyin' for--wather;--
Come on, if ye like,--
Can ye loan me a quather?
Ya-as, you--
What,--two?
And ye'll pay the potheen? Ye're a daisy! Whurroo!
You'll do!
Whist! Mark!
The Rigiment's flattered to own ye, me spark!"

_Robert W. Chambers._

OFFICER BRADY

THE MODERN RECRUIT

I

Sez Alderman Grady
To Officer Brady:
"G'wan! Ye're no lady!
Luk here what ye've done:
Ye've run in Red Hogan,
Ye've pulled Paddy Grogan,
Ye've fanned Misther Brogan
An' called him a 'gun'!

"Way up in Tammany Hall They's a gintleman layin' f'r you! 'An' what,' sez he, 't' 'ell,' sez he, 'Does the villyun mane to do? Lock up the ass in his shtall! He'll rue the day I rue, F'r he's pulled the dive that kapes me alive, An' he'll go to the goats! Whurroo!'"

II

Sez Alderman Grady
To Officer Brady:
"Ye pinched young Mullady
F'r crackin' a safe!
An' Sinitor Moran
An' Alderman Doran
Is inside, a-roarin'
F'r justice, ye thafe!

"'Way up in Tammany Hall They's a gintleman layin' f'r you! 'What's this,' sez he, 'I hear?' sez he-- An' the air, bedad, grew blue! 'Well, I nivver did hear av such gall! But if phwat ye say is thrue, He's pulled a fri'nd av a fri'nd av me fri'nd, An' he'll go to the goats! Whurroo!"

III

Sez Alderman Grady
To Officer Brady:
"Here's Sullivan's lady
Cavoortin' an' riled;
She lifted a locket
From Casey's coat pocket,
An' it goes to the docket,
An' Sullivan's wild!

"'Way up in Tammany Hall They's a gintleman layin' f'r you! ''Tis a shame,' sez he, 'f'r to blame,' sez he, 'A lady so fair an' thrue, An' so divinely tall'-- 'Tis po'ms he talked, ye Jew! An' ye've cooked yer goose, an' now ye're loose F'r to folly the goats! Whurroo!"

IV

Sez Alderman Grady
To Officer Brady:
"Where's Katie Macready,
The Confidence Queen?
She's niece to O'Lafferty's
Cousins, the Caffertys--
Sinitor Rafferty's
Steady colleen!

"'Way up in Tammany Hall They's a gintleman layin' f'r you! 'He's pinched,' sez he, 'an' cinched,' sez he, 'A lady tray comme eel foo! Go dangle th' tillyphone call, An' gimme La Mulberry Roo, F'r the town is too warrm f'r this gendarme, An' he'll go to the goats, mon Dieu!'"

V

Sez Alderman Grady
To Officer Brady:
"McCabe is afraid he
Can't open to-night,
F'r throuble's a-brewin',
An' mischief's a-stewin',
Wid nothin' a-doin'
An' everything tight!
There's Register Ronnell,
Commissioner Donnell,
An' Congressman Connell
Preparin' f'r flight;
The Dhistrict Attorney
Told Magistrate Kearny
That Captain McBurney
Was dyin' o' fright!

"Oh! 'Way up in Tammany Hall They's a gintleman lookin' f'r you! 'Bedad,' sez he, 'he's mad,' sez he. 'So turrn on the screw f'r Bellevue, An' chain 'im ag'in' the wall, An' lather 'im wan or two, An' tether 'im out on the Bloomin'dale route Like a loonytick goat! Whurroo!'"

_Robert W. Chambers._

POST-IMPRESSIONISM

I cannot tell you how I love The canvases of Mr. Dove, Which Saturday I went to see In Mr. Thurber's gallery.

At first you fancy they are built As patterns for a crazy quilt, But soon you see that they express An ambient simultaneousness.

This thing which you would almost bet Portrays a Spanish omelette, Depicts instead, with wondrous skill, A horse and cart upon a hill.

Now, Mr. Dove has too much art To show the horse or show the cart; Instead, he paints the _creak_ and _strain_, Get it? No pike is half as plain.

This thing which would appear to show A fancy vest scenario, Is really quite another thing, A flock of pigeons on the wing.

But Mr. Dove is much too keen To let a single bird be seen; To show the pigeons would not do And so he simply paints the _coo_.

It's all as simple as can be; He paints the things you cannot see, Just as composers please the ear With "programme" things you cannot hear.

Dove is the cleverest of chaps; And, gazing at his rhythmic maps, I wondered (and I'm wondering yet) Whether he did them on a bet.

_Bert Leston Taylor._

TO THE PORTRAIT OF "A GENTLEMAN,"

IN THE ATHENÆUM GALLERY

It may be so--perhaps thou hast
A warm and loving heart;
I will not blame thee for thy face,
Poor devil as thou art.

That thing, thou fondly deem'st a nose,
Unsightly though it be,--
In spite of all the cold world's scorn,
It may be much to thee.

Those eyes,--among thine elder friends
Perhaps they pass for blue;--
No matter,--if a man can see,
What more have eyes to do?

Thy mouth--that fissure in thy face
By something like a chin,--
May be a very useful place
To put thy victual in.

I know thou hast a wife at home,
I know thou hast a child,
By that subdued, domestic smile
Upon thy features mild.

That wife sits fearless by thy side,
That cherub on thy knee;
They do not shudder at thy looks,
They do not shrink from thee.

Above thy mantel is a hook,--
A portrait once was there;
It was thine only ornament,--
Alas! that hook is bare.

She begged thee not to let it go,
She begged thee all in vain:
She wept,--and breathed a trembling prayer
To meet it safe again.

It was a bitter sight to see
That picture torn away;
It was a solemn thought to think
What all her friends would say!

And often in her calmer hours,
And in her happy dreams,
Upon its long-deserted hook
The absent portrait seems.

Thy wretched infant turns his head
In melancholy wise,
And looks to meet the placid stare
Of those unbending eyes.

I never saw thee, lovely one,--
Perchance I never may;
It is not often that we cross
Such people in our way;

But if we meet in distant years,
Or on some foreign shore,
Sure I can take my Bible oath
I've seen that face before.

_Oliver Wendell Holmes._

CACOËTHES SCRIBENDI

If all the trees in all the woods were men, And each and every blade of grass a pen; If every leaf on every shrub and tree Turned to a sheet of foolscap; every sea Were changed to ink, and all earth's living tribes Had nothing else to do but act as scribes, And for ten thousand ages, day and night, The human race should write, and write, and write, Till all the pens and paper were used up, And the huge inkstand was an empty cup, Still would the scribblers clustered round its brink Call for more pens, more paper, and more ink.

_Oliver Wendell Holmes._

CONTENTMENT

"MAN WANTS BUT LITTLE HERE BELOW"

Little I ask; my wants are few; I only wish a hut of stone (A very plain brone stone will do) That I may call my own; And close at hand is such a one, In yonder street that fronts the sun.

Plain food is quite enough for me; Three courses are as good as ten; If Nature can subsist on three, Thank Heaven for three--Amen! I always thought cold victual nice-- My choice would be vanilla-ice.

I care not much for gold or land; Give me a mortgage here and there, Some good bank-stock, some note of hand, Or trifling railroad share. I only ask that Fortune send A little more than I shall spend.

Jewels are baubles; 'tis a sin To care for such unfruitful things; One good-sized diamond in a pin, Some, _not so large_, in rings. A ruby, and a pearl, or so, Will do for me--I laugh at show.

My dame should dress in cheap attire (Good, heavy silks are never dear); I own perhaps I _might_ desire Some shawls of true Cashmere-- Some marrowy crapes of China silk, Like wrinkled skins on scalded milk.

I would not have the horse I drive So fast that folks must stop and stare; An easy gait--two, forty-five-- Suits me; I do not care; Perhaps, for just a _single spurt_, Some seconds less would do no hurt.

Of pictures, I should like to own Titians and Raphaels three or four-- I love so much their style and tone-- One Turner, and no more. (A landscape, foreground golden dirt, The sunshine painted with a squirt).

Of books but few--some fifty score For daily use, and bound for wear; The rest upon an upper floor; Some _little_ luxury _there_ Of red morocco's gilded gleam, And vellum rich as country cream.

Busts, cameos, gems--such things as these, Which others often show for pride, _I_ value for their power to please, And selfish churls deride; _One_ Stradivarius, I confess, _Two_ Meerschaums, I would fain possess.

Wealth's wasteful tricks I will not learn, Nor ape the glittering upstart fool; Shall not carved tables serve my turn, But _all_ must be of buhl? Give grasping pomp its double share-- I ask but _one_ recumbent chair.

Thus humble let me live and die, Nor long for Midas' golden touch; If Heaven more generous gifts deny, I shall not miss them _much_-- Too grateful for the blessing lent Of simple tastes and mind content!

_Oliver Wendell Holmes._

A BOSTON LULLABY

Baby's brain is tired of thinking
On the Wherefore and the Whence;
Baby's precious eyes are blinking
With incipient somnolence.

Little hands are weary turning
Heavy leaves of lexicon;
Little nose is fretted learning
How to keep its glasses on.

Baby knows the laws of nature
Are beneficent and wise;
His medulla oblongata
Bids my darling close his eyes.

And his pneumogastrics tell him
Quietude is always best
When his little cerebellum
Needs recuperative rest.

Baby must have relaxation,
Let the world go wrong or right.
Sleep, my darling--leave Creation
To its chances for the night.

_James Jeffrey Roche._

A GRAIN OF SALT

Of all the wimming doubly blest The sailor's wife's the happiest, For all she does is stay to home And knit and darn--and let 'im roam.

Of all the husbands on the earth The sailor has the finest berth, For in 'is cabin he can sit And sail and sail--and let 'er knit.

_Wallace Irwin._

SONG

Why should you swear I am forsworn,
Since thine I vowed to be?
Lady, it is already morn,
And 'twas last night I swore to thee
That fond impossibility.

Have I not loved thee much and long,
A tedious twelve hours' space?
I must all other beauties wrong,
And rob thee of a new embrace,
Could I still dote upon thy face.

Not but all joy in thy brown hair
By others may be found;
But I must search the black and fair,
Like skilful mineralists that sound
For treasure in unploughed-up ground.

Then, if when I have loved my round,
Thou prov'st the pleasant she;
With spoils of meaner beauties crowned
I laden will return to thee,
Even sated with variety.

_Richard Lovelace._

A PHILOSOPHER

Zack Bumstead useter flosserfize About the ocean an' the skies; An' gab an' gas f'um morn till noon About the other side the moon; An' 'bout the natur of the place Ten miles beyend the end of space. An' if his wife she'd ask the crank Ef he wouldn't kinder try to yank Hisself out-doors an' git some wood To make her kitchen fire good, So she c'd bake her beans an' pies, He'd say, "I've gotter flosserfize."

An' then he'd set an' flosserfize About the natur an' the size Of angels' wings, an' think, and gawp, An' wonder how they make 'em flop. He'd calkerlate how long a skid 'Twould take to move the sun, he did; An' if the skid was strong an' prime, It couldn't be moved to supper-time. An' w'en his wife 'd ask the lout Ef he wouldn't kinder waltz about An' take a rag an' shoo the flies, He'd say, "I've gotter flosserfize."

An' then he'd set an' flosserfize 'Bout schemes for fencing in the skies, Then lettin' out the lots to rent, So's he could make an honest cent. An' if he'd find it pooty tough To borry cash fer fencin'-stuff; An' if 'twere best to take his wealth An' go to Europe for his health, Or save his cash till he'd enough To buy some more of fencin'-stuff; Then, ef his wife she'd ask the gump Ef he wouldn't kinder try to hump Hisself to t'other side the door, So she c'd come an' sweep the floor, He'd look at her with mournful eyes, An' say, "I've gotter flosserfize."

An' so he'd set an' flosserfize 'Bout what it wuz held up the skies, An' how God made this earthly ball Jest simply out er nawthin' 'tall, An' 'bout the natur, shape, an' form Of nawthin' that he made it from. Then, ef his wife sh'd ask the freak Ef he wouldn't kinder try to sneak Out to the barn an' find some aigs, He'd never move, nor lift his laigs; He'd never stir, nor try to rise, But say, "I've gotter flosserfize."

An' so he'd set an' flosserfize About the earth, an' sea, an' skies, An' scratch his head, an' ask the cause Of w'at there wuz before time wuz, An' w'at the universe 'd do Bimeby w'en time hed all got through; An' jest how fur we'd have to climb Ef we sh'd travel out er time; An' ef we'd need, w'en we got there, To keep our watches in repair. Then, ef his wife she'd ask the gawk Ef he wouldn't kinder try to walk To where she had the table spread, An' kinder git his stomach fed, He'd leap for that ar kitchen door, An' say, "W'y didn't you speak afore?" An' when he'd got his supper et, He'd set, an' set, an' set, an' set, An' fold his arms, an' shet his eyes, An' set, an' set, an' flosserfize.

_Sam Walter Foss._

THE MEETING OF THE CLABBERHUSES

I

He was the Chairman of the Guild
Of Early Pleiocene Patriarchs;
He was chief Mentor of the Lodge
Of the Oracular Oligarchs;
He was the Lord High Autocrat
And Vizier of the Sons of Light,
And Sultan and Grand Mandarin
Of the Millennial Men of Might.

He was Grand Totem and High Priest
Of the Independent Potentates;
Grand Mogul of the Galaxy
Of the Illustrious Stay-out-lates;
The President of the Dandydudes,
The Treasurer of the Sons of Glee;
The Leader of the Clubtown Band
And Architects of Melody.

II

She was Grand Worthy Prophetess
Of the Illustrious Maids of Mark;
Of Vestals of the Third Degree
She was Most Potent Matriarch;
She was High Priestess of the Shrine
Of Clubtown's Culture Coterie,
And First Vice-President of the League
Of the illustrious G. A. B.

She was the First Dame of the Club
For teaching Patagonians Greek;
She was Chief Clerk and Auditor
Of Clubtown's Anti-Bachelor Clique;
She was High Treasurer of the Fund
For Borrioboolighalians,
And the Fund for Sending Browning's Poems
To Native-born Australians.

III

Once to a crowded social fête
Both these much-titled people came,
And each perceived, when introduced,
They had the selfsame name.
Their hostess said, when first they met:
"Permit me now to introduce
My good friend Mr. Clabberhuse
To Mrs. Clabberhuse."

"'Tis very strange," said she to him,
"Such an unusual name!--
A name so very seldom heard,
That we should bear the same."
"Indeed, 'tis wonderful," said he,
"And I'm surprised the more,
Because I never heard the name
Outside my home before.

"But now I come to look at you,"
Said he, "upon my life,
If I am not indeed deceived,
You are--you are--my wife."
She gazed into his searching face
And seemed to look him through;
"Indeed," said she, "it seems to me
You are my husband, too.

"I've been so busy with my clubs
And in my various spheres
I have not seen you now," she said,
"For over fourteen years."
"That's just the way it's been with me,
These clubs demand a sight"--
And then they both politely bowed,
And sweetly said "Good night."

_Sam Walter Foss._

THE IDEAL HUSBAND TO HIS WIFE

We've lived for forty years, dear wife,
And walked together side by side,
And you to-day are just as dear
As when you were my bride.
I've tried to make life glad for you,
One long, sweet honeymoon of joy,
A dream of marital content,
Without the least alloy.
I've smoothed all boulders from our path,
That we in peace might toil along,
By always hastening to admit
That I was right and you were wrong.

No mad diversity of creed
Has ever sundered me from thee;
For I permit you evermore
To borrow your ideas of me.
And thus it is, through weal or woe,
Our love forevermore endures;
For I permit that you should take
My views and creeds, and make them yours.
And thus I let you have my way,
And thus in peace we toil along,
For I am willing to admit
That I am right and you are wrong.

And when our matrimonial skiff
Strikes snags in love's meandering stream,
I lift our shallop from the rocks,
And float as in a placid dream.
And well I know our marriage bliss
While life shall last will never cease;
For I shall always let thee do,
In generous love, just what I please.
Peace comes, and discord flies away,
Love's bright day follows hatred's night;
For I am ready to admit
That you are wrong and I am right.

_Sam Walter Foss._

DISTICHS

Wisely a woman prefers to a lover a man who neglects her. This one may love her some day; some day the lover will not.

There are three species of creatures who when they seem coming are going, When they seem going they come: Diplomats, women, and crabs.

As the meek beasts in the Garden came flocking for Adam to name them, Men for a title to-day crawl to the feet of a king.

What is a first love worth except to prepare for a second? What does the second love bring? Only regret for the first.

_John Hay._

THE HEN-ROOST MAN

De Hen-roost Man he'll preach about Paul, An' James an' John, an' Herod, an' all, But nuver a word about Peter, oh, no! He's afeard he'll hear dat rooster crow. An' he ain't by 'isself in dat, in dat-- An' he ain't by 'isself in dat.

_Ruth McEnery Stuart._

IF THEY MEANT ALL THEY SAID

Charm is a woman's strongest arm; My charwoman is full of charm; I chose her, not for strength of arm But for her strange, elusive charm.

And how tears heighten woman's powers! My typist weeps for hours and hours: I took her for her weeping powers-- They so delight my business hours.

A woman lives by intuition. Though my accountant shuns addition She has the rarest intuition. (And I myself can do addition.)

Timidity in girls is nice. My cook is so afraid of mice. Now you'll admit it's very nice To feel your cook's afraid of mice.

_Alice Duer Miller._

THE MAN

A man said to the universe, "Sir, I exist!" "However," replied the universe, "The fact has not created in me A sense of obligation."

_Stephen Crane._

A THOUGHT

If all the harm that women have done
Were put in a bundle and rolled into one,
Earth would not hold it,
The sky could not enfold it,
It could not be lighted nor warmed by the sun;
Such masses of evil
Would puzzle the devil,
And keep him in fuel while Time's wheels run.

But if all the harm that's been done by men Were doubled, and doubled, and doubled again, And melted and fused into vapour, and then Were squared and raised to the power of ten, There wouldn't be nearly enough, not near, To keep a small girl for the tenth of a year.

_James Kenneth Stephen._

THE MUSICAL ASS

The fable which I now present, Occurred to me by accident: And whether bad or excellent, Is merely so by accident.

A stupid ass this morning went Into a field by accident: And cropped his food, and was content, Until he spied by accident A flute, which some oblivious gent Had left behind by accident; When, sniffling it with eager scent, He breathed on it by accident, And made the hollow instrument Emit a sound by accident. "Hurrah, hurrah!" exclaimed the brute, "How cleverly I play the flute!"

A fool, in spite of nature's bent, May shine for once,--by accident.

_Tomaso de Yriarte._

THE KNIFE-GRINDER

_Friend of Humanity_

"Needy Knife-grinder! whither are you going? Rough is the road--your wheel is out of order-- Bleak blows the blast; your hat has got a hole in't, So have your breeches!

"Weary Knife-grinder! little think the proud ones, Who in their coaches roll along the turnpike- Road, what hard work 'tis crying all day' Knives and Scissors to grind O!'

"Tell me, Knife-grinder, how you came to grind knives? Did some rich man tyrannically use you? Was it the squire? or parson of the parish? Or the attorney?

"Was it the squire, for killing of his game? or Covetous parson, for his tithes distraining? Or roguish lawyer, made you lose your little All in a law-suit?

"(Have you not read the Rights of Man, by Tom Paine?) Drops of compassion tremble on my eyelids, Ready to fall, as soon as you have told your Pitiful story."

_Knife-grinder_

"Story! God bless you! I have none to tell, sir, Only last night, a-drinking at the Chequers, This poor old hat and breeches, as you see, were Tom in a scuffle.

"Constables came up for to take me into Custody; they took me before the justice; Justice Oldmixon put me in the parish- Stocks for a vagrant.

"I should be glad to drink your Honour's health in A pot of beer, if you will give me sixpence; But for my part, I never love to meddle With politics, sir."

_Friend of Humanity_

"_I_ give thee sixpence! I will see thee damn'd first-- Wretch! whom no sense of wrongs can rouse to vengeance-- Sordid, unfeeling, reprobate, degraded, Spiritless outcast!"

[_Kicks the Knife-grinder, overturns his wheel, and exit in a transport of Republican enthusiasm and universal philanthropy._]

_George Canning._

ST. ANTHONY'S SERMON TO THE FISHES

Saint Anthony at church Was left in the lurch, So he went to the ditches And preached to the fishes. They wriggled their tails, In the sun glanced their scales.

The carps, with their spawn, Are all thither drawn; Have opened their jaws, Eager for each clause. No sermon beside Had the carps so edified.

Sharp-snouted pikes, Who keep fighting like tikes, Now swam up harmonious To hear Saint Antonius. No sermon beside Had the pikes so edified.

And that very odd fish, Who loves fast-days, the cod-fish,-- The stock-fish, I mean-- At the sermon was seen. No sermon beside Had the cods so edified.

Good eels and sturgeon, Which aldermen gorge on, Went out of their way To hear preaching that day. No sermon beside Had the eels so edified.

Crabs and turtles also, Who always move low, Made haste from the bottom As if the devil had got 'em. No sermon beside The crabs so edified.

Fish great and fish small, Lords, lackeys, and all, Each looked at the preacher Like a reasonable creature. At God's word, They Anthony heard.

The sermon now ended, Each turned and descended; The pikes went on stealing, The eels went on eeling. Much delighted were they, But preferred the old way.

The crabs are backsliders, The stock-fish thick-siders, The carps are sharp-set-- All the sermon forget. Much delighted were they, But preferred the old way.

_Abraham á Sancta-Clara._

THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM

It was a summer's evening; Old Casper's work was done, And he before his cottage-door Was sitting in the sun; And by him sported on the green His little grandchild Wilhelmine.

She saw her brother Peterkin Roll something large and round, That he beside the rivulet In playing there had found. He came to ask what he had found, That was so large, and smooth, and round.

Old Casper took it from the boy, Who stood expectant by; And then the old man shook his head, And with a natural sigh, "'Tis some poor fellow's skull," said he, "Who fell in the great victory.

"I find them in the garden, for There's many here about; And often, when I go to plough, The ploughshare turns them out; For many thousand men," said he, "Were slain in the great victory."

"Now tell us what 'twas all about," Young Peterkin he cries; And little Wilhelmine looks up, With wonder-waiting eyes: "Now tell us all about the war, And what they kill'd each other for."

"It was the English," Casper cried, "That put the French to rout; But what they kill'd each other for, I could not well make out; But everybody said," quoth he, "That 'twas a famous victory.

"My father lived at Blenheim then, Yon little stream hard by; They burnt his dwelling to the ground, And he was forced to fly; So with his wife and child he fled, Nor had he where to rest his head.

"With fire and sword the country round, Was wasted far and wide, And many a childing mother then And new-born infant died. But things like that, you know, must be At every famous victory.

"They say it was a shocking sight, After the field was won, For many a thousand bodies here Lay rotting in the sun. But things like that, you know, must be After a famous victory.

"Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won, And our good Prince Eugene." "Why, 'twas a very wicked thing!" Said little Wilhelmine. "Nay, nay, my little girl," quoth he, "It was a famous victory;

"And everybody praised the duke, Who such a fight did win." "But what good came of it at last?" Quoth little Peterkin. "Why, that I cannot tell," said he; "But 'twas a famous victory."

_Robert Southey._

THE THREE BLACK CROWS