Chapter IX: Introduction (9)

"'Ites them clouds in the sky," Says I. "Don't like 'em at all," I says, "that's flat-- Black as your boots and sorter thick'nin'." "If it's wet," says she, "it _will_ be sick'nin'. I wish as I'd brought my other 'at." "You thinks too much of your finery," Says I.

"Keep them sanwidjus dry," Says I. When the rine came down in a reggiler sheet. But what can yo do with one umbrella, And a damp gel strung on the arm of a fella? "Well, rined-on 'am ain't pleasant to eat, If yer don't believe it, just go an try," Says I.

"There is some gels whort cry," Says I. "And there is some don't shed a tear, But just get tempers, and when they has'em Reaches a pint in their sarcasem, As on'y a dorg could bear to 'ear." This unto Nancy by-and-by, Says I.

All's hover now. And why, Says I. But why did I wear them boots, that vest? The bloom is off 'em; they're sad to see; And hev'rythin's off twixt Nancy and me; And my trousers is off and gone to be pressed-- And ain't this a blimed bangkolidye? Says I.

_Barry Pain._

PENSÉES DE NOËL

When the landlord wants the rent Of your humble tenement; When the Christmas bills begin Daily, hourly pouring in; When you pay your gas and poor rate Tip the rector, fee the curate, Let this thought your spirit cheer-- Christmas comes but once a year.

When the man who brings the coal Claims his customary dole: When the postman rings and knocks For his usual Christmas-box: When you're dunned by half the town With demands for half-a-crown,-- Think, although they cost you dear, Christmas comes but once a year.

When you roam from shop to shop, Seeking, till you nearly drop, Christmas cards and small donations For the maw of your relations, Questing vainly 'mid the heap For a thing that's nice, and cheap: Think, and check the rising tear, Christmas comes but once a year.

Though for three successive days Business quits her usual ways; Though the milkman's voice be dumb; Though the paper doesn't come; Though you want tobacco, but Find that all the shops are shut: Bravely still your sorrows bear-- Christmas comes but once a year.

When mince-pies you can't digest Join with waits to break your rest: When, oh when, to crown your woe, Persons who might better know Think it needful that you should Don a gay convivial mood:-- Bear with fortitude and patience These afflicting dispensations: Man was born to suffer here: Christmas comes but once a year.

_A. D. Godley._

A BALLADE OF AN ANTI-PURITAN

They spoke of Progress spiring round, Of Light and Mrs. Humphry Ward-- It is not true to say I frowned, Or ran about the room and roared; I might have simply sat and snored-- I rose politely in the club And said, "I feel a little bored; Will someone take me to a pub?"

The new world's wisest did surround Me; and it pains me to record I did not think their views profound, Or their conclusions well assured; The simple life I can't afford, Besides, I do not like the grub-- I want a mash and sausage, "scored"-- Will someone take me to a pub?

I know where Men can still be found, Anger and clamorous accord, And virtues growing from the ground, And fellowship of beer and board, And song, that is a sturdy cord, And hope, that is a hardy shrub, And goodness, that is God's last word-- Will someone take me to a pub?

ENVOI

Prince, Bayard would have smashed his sword To see the sort of knights you dub-- Is that the last of them--O Lord! Will someone take me to a pub?

_G. K. Chesterton._

PESSIMISM

In the age that was golden, the halcyon time, All the billows were balmy and breezes were bland. Then the poet was never hard up for a rhyme, Then the milk and the honey flew free and were prime, And the voice of the turtle was heard in the land.

In the times that are guilty the winds are perverse, Blowing fair for the sharper and foul for the dupe. Now the poet's condition could scarcely be worse, Now the milk and the honey are strained through the purse, And the voice of the turtle is dead in the soup.

_Newton Mackintosh._

CYNICAL ODE TO AN ULTRA-CYNICAL PUBLIC

You prefer a buffoon to a scholar, A harlequin to a teacher, A jester to a statesman, An Anonyma flaring on horseback To a modest and spotless woman-- Brute of a public!

You think that to sneer shows wisdom, That a gibe outvalues a reason, That slang, such as thieves delight in, Is fit for the lips of the gentle, And rather a grace than a blemish, Thick-headed public!

You think that if merit's exalted 'Tis excellent sport to decry it, And trail its good name in the gutter; And that cynics, white-gloved and cravatted, Are the cream and quintessence of all things, Ass of a public!

You think that success must be merit, That honour and virtue and courage Are all very well in their places, But that money's a thousand times better; Detestable, stupid, degraded Pig of a public!

_Charles Mackay._

YOUTH AND ART

It once might have been, once only:
We lodged in a street together.
You, a sparrow on the house-top lonely,
I, a lone she-bird of his feather.

Your trade was with sticks and clay,
You thumbed, thrust, patted and polished,
Then laughed, "They will see some day
Smith made, and Gibson demolished."

My business was song, song, song;
I chirped, cheeped, trilled and twittered,
"Kate Brown's on the boards ere long,
And Grisi's existence embittered!"

I earned no more by a warble
Than you by a sketch in plaster;
You wanted a piece of marble,
I needed a music-master.

We studied hard in our styles,
Chipped each at a crust like Hindoos,
For air, looked out on the tiles,
For fun watched each other's windows.

You lounged, like a boy of the South,
Cap and blouse--nay, a bit of beard too;
Or you got it rubbing your mouth
With fingers the clay adhered to.

And I--soon managed to find
Weak points in the flower-fence facing,
Was forced to put up a blind
And be safe in my corset-lacing.

No harm! It was not my fault
If you never turned your eyes' tail up,
As I shook upon E _in alt._,
Or ran the chromatic scale up:

For spring bade the sparrows pair,
And the boys and girls gave guesses,
And stalls in our streets looked rare
With bulrush and watercresses.

Why did not you pinch a flower
In a pellet of clay and fling it?
Why did I not put a power
Of thanks in a look, or sing it?

I did look, sharp as a lynx,
(And yet the memory rankles,)
When models arrived, some minx
Tripped up-stairs, she and her ankles.

But I think I gave you as good!
"That foreign fellow--who can know
How she pays, in a playful mood,
For his tuning her that piano?"

Could you say so, and never say,
"Suppose we join hands and fortunes,
And I fetch her from over the way,
Her, piano, and long tunes and short tunes?"

No, no; you would not be rash,
Nor I rasher and something over:
You've to settle yet Gibson's hash,
And Grisi yet lives in clover.

But you meet the Prince at the Board,
I'm queen myself at _bals-paré_,
I've married a rich old lord,
And you're dubbed knight and an R. A.

Each life's unfulfilled, you see;
It hangs still, patchy and scrappy:
We have not sighed deep, laughed free,
Starved, feasted, despaired--been happy.

And nobody calls you a dunce,
And people suppose me clever:
This could but have happened once,
And we missed it, lost it forever.

_Robert Browning._

BACHELOR'S DREAM

My pipe is lit, my grog is mixed, My curtains drawn and all is snug; Old Puss is in her elbow-chair, And Tray is sitting on the rug. Last night I had a curious dream, Miss Susan Bates was Mistress Mogg-- What d'ye think of that, my cat? What d'ye think of that, my dog?

She looked so fair, she sang so well, I could but woo and she was won; Myself in blue, the bride in white, The ring was placed, the deed was done! Away we went in chaise-and-four. As fast as grinning boys could flog-- What d'ye think of that, my cat? What d'ye think of that, my dog?

At times we had a spar, and then Mamma must mingle in the song-- The sister took a sister's part-- The maid declared her master wrong-- The parrot learned to call me "Fool!" My life was like a London fog-- What d'ye think of that, my cat? What d'ye think of that, my dog?

My Susan's taste was superfine, As proved by bills that had no end; _I_ never had a decent coat-- _I_ never had a coin to spend! She forced me to resign my club, Lay down my pipe, retrench my grog-- What d'ye think of that, my cat? What d'ye think of that, my dog?

Each Sunday night we gave a rout To fops and flirts, a pretty list; And when I tried to steal away, I found my study full of whist! Then, first to come, and last to go, There always was a Captain Hogg-- What d'ye think of that, my cat? What d'ye think of that, my dog?

Now was not that an awful dream For one who single is and snug-- With Pussy in the elbow chair, And Tray reposing on the rug?-- If I must totter down the hill, 'Tis safest done without a clog-- What d'ye think of that, my cat? What d'ye think of that, my dog?

_Thomas Hood._

ALL THINGS EXCEPT MYSELF I KNOW

I know when milk does flies contain;
I know men by their bravery;
I know fair days from storm and rain;
And what fruit apple-trees supply;
And from their gums the trees descry;
I know when all things smoothly flow;
I know who toil or idle lie;
All things except myself I know.

I know the doublet by the grain;
The monk beneath the hood can spy;
Master from man can ascertain;
I know the nun's veiled modesty;
I know when sportsmen fables ply;
Know fools who creams and dainties stow;
Wine from the butt I certify;
All things except myself I know.

Know horse from mule by tail and mane;
I know their worth or high or low;
Bell, Beatrice, I know the twain;
I know each chance of cards and dice;
I know what visions prophesy,
Bohemian heresies, I trow;
I know men of each quality;
All things except myself I know.

ENVOY

Prince, I know all things 'neath the sky,
Pale cheeks from those of rosy glow;
I know death whence can no man fly;
All things except myself I know.

_François Villon._

THE JOYS OF MARRIAGE

How uneasy is his life, Who is troubled with a wife! Be she ne'er so fair or comely, Be she ne'er so foul or homely, Be she ne'er so young and toward, Be she ne'er so old and froward, Be she kind, with arms enfolding, Be she cross, and always scolding, Be she blithe or melancholy, Have she wit, or have she folly, Be she wary, be she squandering, Be she staid, or be she wandering, Be she constant, be she fickle, Be she fire, or be she ickle; Be she pious or ungodly, Be she chaste, or what sounds oddly: Lastly, be she good or evil, Be she saint, or be she devil,-- Yet, uneasy is his life Who is married to a wife.

_Charles Cotton._

THE THIRD PROPOSITION

If I were thine, I'd fail not of endeavour The loftiest, To make thy daily life, now and forever, Supremely blest-- I'd watch thy moods, I'd toil and wait, with yearning, Incessant incense at thy dear shrine burning, If I were thine.

If thou wert mine, quite changed would be these features. Then, I suspect, Thou wouldst the humblest prove of loving creatures, And not object To do the very things I am declaring I'd undertake for _thee_, with selfless daring, If thou wert mine.

If we were ours? And now, here comes the riddle! How would that work? I'm sure _you'd_ never stoop to second fiddle, And--I might shirk The part of serf. And, likewise, each might neither Be willing slave or servitor of either, If we were ours!

_Madeline Bridges._

THE BALLAD OF CASSANDRA BROWN

Though I met her in the summer, when one's heart lies round at ease, As it were in tennis costume, and a man's not hard to please, Yet I think that any season to have met her was to love, While her tones, unspoiled, unstudied, had the softness of the dove.

At request she read us poems in a nook among the pines, And her artless voice lent music to the least melodious lines; Though she lowered her shadowing lashes, in an earnest reader's wise, Yet we caught blue, gracious glimpses of the heavens which were her eyes.

As in paradise I listened--ah, I did not understand That a little cloud, no larger than the average human hand, Might, as stated oft in fiction, spread into a sable pall, When she said that she should study Elocution in the fall!

I admit her earliest efforts were not in the Ercles vein; She began with "Little Maaybel, with her faayce against the payne And the beacon-light a-t-r-r-remble"--which, although it made me wince, Is a thing of cheerful nature to the things she's rendered since.

Having heard the Soulful Quiver, she acquired the Melting Mo-o-an, And the way she gave "Young Grayhead" would have liquefied a stone. Then the Sanguinary Tragic did her energies employ, And she tore my taste to tatters when she slew "The Polish Boy."

It's not pleasant for a fellow when the jewel of his soul Wades through slaughter on the carpet, while her orbs in frenzy roll; What was I that I should murmur? Yet it gave me grievous pain That she rose in social gatherings, and Searched among the Slain.

I was forced to look upon her in my desperation dumb, Knowing well that when her awful opportunity was come She would give us battle, murder, sudden death at very least, As a skeleton of warning, and a blight upon the feast.

Once, ah! once I fell a-dreaming; some one played a polonaise I associated strongly with those happier August days; And I mused, "I'll speak this evening," recent pangs forgotten quite-- Sudden shrilled a scream of anguish: "Curfew shall not ring to-night!"

Ah, that sound was as a curfew, quenching rosy, warm romance-- Were it safe to wed a woman one so oft would wish in France? Oh, as she "cul-limbed" that ladder, swift my mounting hope came down, I am still a single cynic; she is still Cassandra Brown!

_Helen Gray Cone._

WHAT'S IN A NAME?

In letters large upon the frame,
That visitors might see,
The painter placed his humble name:
_O'Callaghan McGee_.

And from Beersheba unto Dan,
The critics with a nod
Exclaimed: "This painting Irishman
Adores his native sod.

"His stout heart's patriotic flame
There's naught on earth can quell;
He takes no wild romantic name
To make his pictures sell!"

Then poets praise in sonnets neat
His stroke so bold and free;
No parlour wall was thought complete
That hadn't a McGee.

All patriots before McGee
Threw lavishly their gold;
His works in the Academy
Were very quickly sold.

His "Digging Clams at Barnegat,"
His "When the Morning smiled,"
His "Seven Miles from Ararat,"
His "Portrait of a Child,"

Were purchased in a single day
And lauded as divine.--

* * * * *

That night as in his _atelier_
The artist sipped his wine,

And looked upon his gilded frames,
He grinned from ear to ear:--
"They little think my _real_ name's
V. Stuyvesant De Vere!"

_R. K. Munkittrick._

TOO LATE

"_Ah! si la jeunesse savait_,--_si la vieillesse pouvait_!"

There sat an old man on a rock,
And unceasing bewailed him of Fate,--
That concern where we all must take stock,
Though our vote has no hearing or weight;
And the old man sang him an old, old song,--
Never sang voice so clear and strong
That it could drown the old man's for long,
For he sang the song "Too late! too late!"

When we want, we have for our pains
The promise that if we but wait
Till the want has burned out of our brains,
Every means shall be present to state;
While we send for the napkin the soup gets cold,
While the bonnet is trimming the face grows old,
When we've matched our buttons the pattern is sold
And everything comes too late,--too late!

"When strawberries seemed like red heavens,--
Terrapin stew a wild dream,--
When my brain was at sixes and sevens,
If my mother had 'folks' and ice cream,
Then I gazed with a lickerish hunger
At the restaurant man and fruit-monger,--
But oh! how I wished I were younger
When the goodies all came in a stream! in a stream!

"I've a splendid blood horse, and--a liver
That it jars into torture to trot;
My row-boat's the gem of the river,--
Gout makes every knuckle a knot!
I can buy boundless credits on Paris and Rome,
But no palate for _ménus_,--no eyes for a dome,--
_Those_ belonged to the youth who must tarry at home,
When no home but an attic he'd got,--he'd got!

"How I longed, in that lonest of garrets,
Where the tiles baked my brains all July,
For ground to grow two pecks of carrots,
Two pigs of my own in a sty,
A rosebush,--a little thatched cottage,--
Two spoons--love--a basin of pottage!--
Now in freestone I sit,--and my dotage,--
With a woman's chair empty close by, close by!

"Ah! now, though I sit on a rock,
I have shared one seat with the great;
I have sat--knowing naught of the clock--
On love's high throne of state;
But the lips that kissed, and the arms that caressed,
To a mouth grown stern with delay were pressed,
And circled a breast that their clasp had blessed,
Had they only not come too late,--too late!"

_Fitz Hugh Ludlow._

THE ANNUITY

I gaed to spend a week in Fife-- An unco week it proved to be-- For there I met a waesome wife Lamentin' her viduity. Her grief brak out sae fierce and fell, I thought her heart wad burst the shell; And,--I was sae left to mysel',-- I sell't her an annuity.

The bargain lookit fair eneugh-- She just was turned o' saxty-three-- I couldna guessed she'd prove sae teugh, By human ingenuity. But years have come, and years have gane, And there she's yet as stieve as stane-- The limmer's growin' young again, Since she got her annuity.

She's crined' awa' to bane and skin, But that, it seems, is nought to me; She's like to live--although she's in The last stage o' tenuity. She munches wi' her wizen'd gums, An' stumps about on legs o' thrums; But comes, as sure as Christmas comes, To ca' for her annuity.

I read the tables drawn wi' care For an insurance company; Her chance o' life was stated there, Wi' perfect perspicuity. But tables here or tables there, She's lived ten years beyond her share, An' 's like to live a dozen mair, To ca' for her annuity.

Last Yule she had a fearfu' host, I thought a kink might set me free-- I led her out, 'mang snaw and frost, Wi' constant assiduity. But deil ma' care--the blast gaed by, And miss'd the auld anatomy-- It just cost me a tooth, for bye Discharging her annuity.

If there's a' sough o' cholera, Or typhus,--wha sae gleg as she? She buys up baths, an' drugs, an' a', In siccan superfluity! She doesna need--she's fever proof-- The pest walked o'er her very roof-- She tauld me sae--an' then her loof Held out for her annuity.

Ae day she fell, her arm she brak-- A compound fracture as could be-- Nae leech the cure wad undertake, Whate'er was the gratuity. It's cured! She handles 't like a flail-- It does as weel in bits as hale-- But I'm a broken man mysel' Wi' her and her annuity.

Her broozled flesh and broken banes Are weel as flesh and banes can be. She beats the taeds that live in stanes, An' fatten in vacuity! They die when they're exposed to air-- They canna thole the atmosphere; But her!--expose her onywhere-- She lives for her annuity.

If mortal means could nick her thread, Sma' crime it wad appear to me; Ca't murder, or ca't homicide, I'd justify 't--an' do it tae. But how to fell a withered wife That's carved out o' the tree o' life-- The timmer limmer daurs the knife To settle her annuity.

I'd try a shot: but whar's the mark?-- Her vital parts are hid frae me; Her backbane wanders through her sark In an unkenn'd corkscrewity. She's palsified--an shakes her head Sae fast about, ye scarce can see; It's past the power o' steel or lead To settle her annuity.

She might be drowned--but go she'll not Within a mile o' loch or sea; Or hanged--if cord could grip a throat O' siccan exiguity. It's fitter far to hang the rope-- It draws out like a telescope; 'Twad tak a dreadfu' length o' drop To settle her annuity.

Will puzion do't?--It has been tried; But, be't in hash or fricassee, That's just the dish she can't abide, Whatever kind o' gout it hae. It's needless to assail her doubts, She gangs by instinct, like the brutes, An' only eats an' drinks what suits Hersel' and her annuity.

The Bible says the age o' man Threescore and ten, perchance, may be; She's ninety-four. Let them who can, Explain the incongruity. She should hae lived afore the flood-- She's come o' patriarchal blood, She's some auld Pagan mummified Alive for her annuity.

She's been embalmed inside and oot-- She's sauted to the last degree-- There's pickle in her very snoot Sae caper-like an' cruety. Lot's wife was fresh compared to her-- They've kyanized the useless knir, She canna decompose--nae mair Than her accursed annuity.

The water-drop wears out the rock, As this eternal jaud wears me; I could withstand the single shock, But not the continuity. It's pay me here, an' pay me there, An' pay me, pay me, evermair-- I'll gang demented wi' despair-- I'm charged for her annuity.

_George Outram._

K. K.--CAN'T CALCULATE

What poor short-sighted worms we be;
For we can't calculate,
With any sort of sartintee,
What is to be our fate.

These words Prissilla's heart did reach,
And caused her tears to flow,
When first she heard the Elder preach,
About six months ago.

How true it is what he did state,
And thus affected her,
That nobody can't calculate
What is a-gwine to occur.

When we retire, can't calculate
But what afore the morn
Our housen will conflaggerate,
And we be left forlorn.

Can't calculate when we come in
From any neighborin' place,
Whether we'll ever go out agin
To look on natur's face.

Can't calculate upon the weather,
It always changes so;
Hain't got no means of telling whether
It's gwine to rain or snow.

Can't calculate with no precision
On naught beneath the sky;
And so I've come to the decision
That't ain't worth while to try.

_Frances M. Whitcher._

NORTHERN FARMER

NEW STYLE

Dosn't thou 'ear my 'erse's legs, as they canters awaäy? Proputty, proputty, proputty--that's what I 'ears 'em saäy. Proputty, proputty, proputty--Sam, thou's an ass for thy paaïns: Theer's moor sense i' one o' 'is legs nor in all thy braaïns.

Woä--theer's a craw to pluck wi' tha, Sam: yon's parson's 'ouse-- Dosn't thou knaw that a man mun be eäther a man or a mouse? Time to think on it, then; for thou'll be twenty to weeäk. Proputty, proputty--woä then, woä--let ma 'ear mysén speäk.

Me an' thy muther, Sammy, 'as beän a-talkin' o' thee; Thou's been talkin' to muther, an' she beän a-tellin' it me. Thou'll not marry for munny--thou's sweet upo' parson's lass-- Noä--thou'll marry for luvv--an' we boäth of us thinks tha an ass.

Seeä'd her to-daäy goä by--Saäint's-daäy--they was ringing the bells. She's a beauty, thou thinks--an' soä is scoors o' gells. Them as 'as munny an' all--wot's a beauty?--the flower as blaws. But proputty, proputty sticks, an' proputty, proputty graws.

Do'ant be stunt: taäke time: I knaws what maäkes tha sa mad. Warn't I craäzed fur the lasses mysén when I wur a lad? But I knaw'd a Quaäker feller as often 'as towd ma this: "Do'ant thou marry for munny, but goä wheer munny is!"

An' I went wheer munny war: an' thy mother coom to 'and, Wi' lots o' munny laaïd by, an' a nicetish hit o' land. Maäybe she warn't a beauty: I niver giv it a thowt-- But warn't she as good to cuddle an' kiss as a lass as 'ant nowt?

Parson's lass 'ant nowt, an' she weänt 'a nowt when 'e's deäd, Mun be a guvness, lad, or summut, and addle her breäd: Why? fur 'e's nobbut a curate, an' weänt niver git naw 'igher; An' 'e's maäde the bed as 'e ligs on afoor 'e coom'd to the shire.

An' thin 'e coom'd to the parish wi' lots o' 'Varsity debt, Stook to his taäil they did, an' 'e 'ant got shut on 'em yet. An' 'e ligs on 'is back i' the grip, wi noän to lend 'im a shove, Woorse nor a far-welter'd yowe: fur, Sammy, 'e married fur luvv.

Luvv? what's luvv? thou can luvv thy lass an' 'er munny too, Maäkin' 'em goä togither, as they've good right to do. Couldn't I luvv thy muther by cause o' 'er munny laaïd by? Naäy--for I luvv'd her a vast sight moor fur it: reäson why.

Ay, an' thy muther says thou wants to marry the lass, Cooms of a gentleman burn; an' we boäth on us thinks tha an ass. Woä then, proputty, wiltha?--an ass as near as mays nowt-- Woä then, wiltha? dangtha!--the bees is as fell as owt.

Breäk me a bit o' the esh for his 'eäd, lad, out o' the fence! Gentleman burn! What's gentleman burn? Is it shillins an' pence? Proputty, proputty's ivrything 'ere, an', Sammy, I'm blest If it isn't the saäme oop yonder, fur them as 'as it's the best.

'Tisn' them as 'as munny as breäks into 'ouses an' steäls, Them as 'as coöts to their backs an 'taäkes their regular meäls. Noä, but it's them as niver knaws wheer a meäl's to be 'ad. Taäke my word for it, Sammy, the poor in a loomp is bad.

Them or thir feythers, tha sees, mun 'a beän a laäzy lot. Fur work mun 'a gone to the gittin' whiniver munny was got. Feyther 'ad ammost nowt; leästways 'is munny was 'id. But 's tued an' moil'd 'issén deäd, an' 'e died a good un, 'e did.

Looök thou theer wheer Wrigglesby beck cooms out by the 'ill! Feyther run oop to the farm, an' I runs oop to the mill; An' I'll run oop to the brig, an' that thou'll live to see; And if thou marries a good un I'll leäve the land to thee.

Thim's my noätions, Sammy, wheerby I meäns to stick; But if 'thou marries a bad un, I'll leäve the land to Dick.-- Coom oop, proputty, proputty--that's what I 'ears 'im saäy-- Proputty, proputty, proputty--canter an' canter awaäy.

_Lord Tennyson._

FIN DE SIÉCLE

Life is a gift that most of us hold dear:
I never asked the spiteful gods to grant it;
Held it a bore--in short; and now it's here,
I do not want it.

Thrust into life, I eat, smoke, drink, and sleep,
My mind's a blank I seldom care to question;
The only faculty I active keep
Is my digestion.

Like oyster on his rock, I sit and jest
At others' dreams of love or fame or pelf,
Discovering but a languid interest
Even in myself.

An oyster: ah! beneath the quiet sea
To know no care, no change, no joy, no pain,
The warm salt water gurgling into me
And out again.

While some in life's old roadside inns at ease
Sit careless, all unthinking of the score
Mine host chalks up in swift unseen increase
Behind the door;

Bound like Ixion on life's torture-wheel,
I whirl inert in pitiless gyration,
Loathing it all; the one desire I feel,
Annihilation!

_Unknown._

THEN AG'IN

Jim Bowker, he said, ef he'd had a fair show,
And a big enough town for his talents to grow,
And the least bit assistance in hoein' his row,
Jim Bowker, he said,
He'd filled the world full of the sound of his name,
An' clim the top round in the ladder of fame.
It may have been so;
I dunno;
Jest so, it might been,
Then ag'in--

But he had tarnal luck--eyerythin' went ag'in him,
The arrers of fortune they allus' 'ud pin him;
So he didn't get no chance to show off what was in him.
Jim Bowker, he said,
Ef he'd had a fair show, you couldn't tell where he'd come,
An' the feats he'd a-done, an' the heights he'd a-clum--
It may have been so;
I dunno;
Jest so, it might been,
Then ag'in--

But we're all like Jim Bowker, thinks I, more or less--
Charge fate for our bad luck, ourselves for success,
An' give fortune the blame for all our distress,
As Jim Bowker, he said,
Ef it hadn't been for luck an' misfortune an' sich,
We might a-been famous, an' might a-been rich.
It might be jest so;
I dunno;
Jest so, it might been,
Then ag'in--

_Sam Walter Foss._

THE PESSIMIST

Nothing to do but work,
Nothing to eat but food,
Nothing to wear but clothes,
To keep one from going nude.

Nothing to breathe but air,
Quick as a flash 't is gone;
Nowhere to fall but off,
Nowhere to stand but on.

Nothing to comb but hair,
Nowhere to sleep but in bed,
Nothing to weep but tears,
Nothing to bury but dead.

Nothing to sing but songs,
Ah, well, alas! alack!
Nowhere to go but out,
Nowhere to come but back.

Nothing to see but sights,
Nothing to quench but thirst,
Nothing to have but what we've got
Thus through life we are cursed.

Nothing to strike but a gait;
Everything moves that goes.
Nothing at all but common sense
Can ever withstand these woes.

_Ben King._

WITHOUT AND WITHIN

My coachman, in the moonlight there,
Looks through the side-light of the door;
I hear him with his brethren swear,
As I could do,--but only more.

Flattening his nose against the pane,
He envies me my brilliant lot,
Breathes on his aching fist in vain,
And dooms me to a place more hot.

He sees me in to supper go,
A silken wonder by my side,
Bare arms, bare shoulders, and a row
Of flounces, for the door too wide.

He thinks how happy is my arm,
'Neath its white-gloved and jewelled load;
And wishes me some dreadful harm,
Hearing the merry corks explode.

Meanwhile I inly curse the bore
Of hunting still the same old coon,
And envy him, outside the door,
The golden quiet of the moon.

The winter wind is not so cold
As the bright smile he sees me win,
Nor the host's oldest wine so old
As our poor gabble, sour and thin.

I envy him the rugged prance
By which his freezing feet he warms,
And drag my lady's chains, and dance,
The galley-slave of dreary forms.

Oh, could he have my share of din,
And I his quiet--past a doubt
'Twould still be one man bored within,
And just another bored without.

_James Russell Lowell._

SAME OLD STORY

History, and nature, too, repeat themselves, they say;
Men are only habit's slaves; we see it every day.
Life has done its best for me--I find it tiresome still;
For nothing's everything at all, and everything is nil.
Same old get-up, dress, and tub;
Same old breakfast; same old club;
Same old feeling; same old blue;
Same old story--nothing new!

Life consists of paying bills as long as you have health;
Woman? She'll be true to you--as long as you have wealth;
Think sometimes of marriage, if the right girl I could strike;
But the more I see of girls, the more they are alike.
Same old giggles, smiles, and eyes;
Same old kisses; same old sighs;
Same old chaff you; same adieu;
Same old story--nothing new!

Go to theatres sometimes to see the latest plays;
Same old plots I played with in my happy childhood's days;
Hero, same; same villain; and same heroine in tears,
Starving, homeless, in the snow--with diamonds in her ears.
Same stern father making "bluffs";
Leading man all teeth and cuffs;
Same soubrettes, still twenty-two;
Same old story--nothing new!

Friend of mine got married; in a year or so, a boy!
Father really foolish in his fond paternal joy;
Talked about that "kiddy," and became a dreadful bore--
Just as if a baby never had been born before.
Same old crying, only more;
Same old business, walking floor;
Same old "kitchy--coochy--coo!"
Same old baby--nothing new!

_Harry B. Smith._

VI

EPIGRAMS

WOMAN'S WILL

Men, dying, make their wills, but wives
Escape a work so sad;
Why should they make what all their lives
The gentle dames have had?

_John G. Saxe._

CYNICUS TO W. SHAKESPEARE

You wrote a line too much, my sage,
Of seers the first, and first of sayers;
For only half the world's a stage,
And only all the women players.

_James Kenneth Stephen._

SENEX TO MATT. PRIOR

Ah! Matt, old age has brought to me Thy wisdom, less thy certainty; The world's a jest, and joy's a trinket; I knew that once,--but now I think it.

_James Kenneth Stephen._

TO A BLOCKHEAD

You beat your pate, and fancy wit will come: Knock as you please, there's nobody at home.

_Alexander Pope._

THE FOOL AND THE POET

Sir, I admit your general rule, That every poet is a fool, But you yourself may serve to show it, That every fool is not a poet.

_Alexander Pope._

A RHYMESTER

Jem writes his verses with more speed
Than the printer's boy can set 'em;
Quite as fast as we can read,
And only not so fast as we forget 'em.

_Samuel Taylor Coleridge._

GILES'S HOPE

What? rise again with _all_ one's bones,
Quoth Giles, I hope you fib:
I trusted, when I went to Heaven,
To go without my rib.

_Samuel Taylor Coleridge._

COLOGNE

In Köln, a town of monks and bones, And pavements fanged with murderous stones, And rags, and hags, and hideous wenches, I counted two-and-seventy stenches, All well defined, and separate stinks! Ye nymphs that reign o'er sewers and sinks, The river Rhine, it is well known, Doth wash your city of Cologne; But tell me, nymphs, what power divine Shall henceforth wash the river Rhine?

_Samuel Taylor Coleridge._

AN ETERNAL POEM

Your poem must _eternal_ be, Dear sir, it can not fail, For 'tis incomprehensible, And wants both _head_ and _tail_.

_Samuel Taylor Coleridge._

ON A BAD SINGER

Swans sing before they die:--'twere no bad thing, Should certain persons die before they sing.

_Samuel Taylor Coleridge._

JOB

Sly Beelzebub took all occasions To try Job's constancy and patience. He took his honor, took his health; He took his children, took his wealth, His servants, horses, oxen, cows,-- But cunning Satan did _not_ take his spouse.

But Heaven, that brings out good from evil, And loves to disappoint the devil, Had predetermined to restore _Twofold_ all he had before; His servants, horses, oxen, cows-- Short-sighted devil, _not_ to take his spouse!

_Samuel Taylor Coleridge._

REASONS FOR DRINKING

If all be true that I do think, There are five reasons we should drink; Good wine--a friend--or being dry-- Or lest we should be by and by-- Or any other reason why.

_Dr. Henry Aldrich._

SMATTERERS

All smatterers are more brisk and pert Than those that understand an art; As little sparkles shine more bright Than glowing coals, that give them light.

_Samuel Butler._

HYPOCRISY

Hypocrisy will serve as well To propagate a church, as zeal; As persecution and promotion Do equally advance devotion: So round white stones will serve, they say, As well as eggs to make hens lay.

_Samuel Butler._

TO DOCTOR EMPIRIC

When men a dangerous disease did 'scape, Of old, they gave a cock to Æsculape; Let me give two, that doubly am got free; From my disease's danger, and from thee.

_Ben Jonson._

A REMEDY WORSE THAN THE DISEASE

I sent for Ratcliffe; was so ill,
That other doctors gave me over:
He felt my pulse, prescribed his pill,
And I was likely to recover.

But when the wit began to wheeze,
And wine had warm'd the politician,
Cured yesterday of my disease,
I died last night of my physician.

_Matthew Prior._

A WIFE

Lord Erskine, at women presuming to rail, Calls a wife "a tin canister tied to one's tail"; And fair Lady Anne, while the subject he carries on, Seems hurt at his Lordship's degrading comparison. But wherefore degrading? consider'd aright, A canister's useful, and polish'd, and bright: And should dirt its original purity hide, That's the fault of the puppy to whom it is tied.

_Richard Brinsley Sheridan._

THE HONEY-MOON

The honey-moon is very strange. Unlike all other moons the change She regularly undergoes. She rises at the full; then loses Much of her brightness; then reposes Faintly; and then ... has naught to lose.

_Walter Savage Landor._

DIDO

IMPROMPTU EPIGRAM ON THE LATIN GERUNDS

When Dido found Æneas would not come, She mourn'd in silence, and was _Di-do-dum(b)_.

_Richard Parson._

AN EPITAPH

A lovely young lady I mourn in my rhymes: She was pleasant, good-natured, and civil sometimes. Her figure was good: she had very fine eyes, And her talk was a mixture of foolish and wise. Her adorers were many, and one of them said, "She waltzed rather well! It's a pity she's dead!"

_George John Cayley._

ON TAKING A WIFE

"Come, come," said Tom's father, "at your time of life,
There's no longer excuse for thus playing the rake.--
It is time you should think, boy, of taking a wife."--
"Why, so it is, father,--whose wife shall I take?"

_Thomas Moore._

UPON BEING OBLIGED TO LEAVE A PLEASANT PARTY FROM THE WANT OF A PAIR OF
BREECHES TO DRESS FOR DINNER IN

Between Adam and me the great difference is,
Though a paradise each has been forced to resign,
That he never wore breeches till turn'd out of his,
While, for want of my breeches, I'm banish'd from mine.

_Thomas Moore._

SOME LADIES

Some ladies now make pretty songs,
And some make pretty nurses;
Some men are great at righting wrongs
And some at writing verses.

_Frederick Locker-Lampson._

ON A SENSE OF HUMOUR

He cannot be complete in aught
Who is not humorously prone;
A man without a merry thought
Can hardly have a funny-bone.

_Frederick Locker-Lampson._

ON HEARING A LADY PRAISE A CERTAIN REV. DOCTOR'S EYES

I cannot praise the Doctor's eyes;
I never saw his glance divine;
He always shuts them when he prays,
And when he preaches he shuts mine.

_George Outram._

EPITAPH INTENDED FOR HIS WIFE

Here lies my wife: here let her lie! Now she's at rest, and so am I.

_John Dryden._

TO A CAPRICIOUS FRIEND

IMITATED FROM MARTIAL

In all thy humors, whether grave or mellow, Thou 'rt such a touchy, testy, pleasant fellow; Hast so much wit, and mirth, and spleen about thee, There is no living with thee, nor without thee.

_Joseph Addison._

WHICH IS WHICH

"God bless the King! God bless the faith's defender! God bless--no harm in blessing--the Pretender. But who pretender is, and who is king, God bless us all, that's quite another thing."

_John Byrom._

ON A FULL-LENGTH PORTRAIT OF BEAU MARSH PLACED BETWEEN THE BUSTS OF
NEWTON AND POPE

"Immortal Newton never spoke
More truth than here you'll find;
Nor Pope himself e'er penn'd a joke
More cruel on mankind.

"The picture placed the busts between,
Gives satire all its strength;
Wisdom and Wit are little seen--
But Folly at full length."

_Lord Chesterfield._

ON SCOTLAND

"Had Cain been Scot, God would have changed his doom; Nor forced him wander, but confined him home."

_Cleveland._

MENDAX

See yonder goes old Mendax, telling lies To that good easy man with whom he's walking; How know I that? you ask, with some surprise; Why, don't you see, my friend, the fellow's talking.

_Lessing._

TO A SLOW WALKER AND QUICK EATER

So slowly you walk, and so quickly you eat, You should march with your mouth, and devour with your feet.

_Lessing._

WHAT'S MY THOUGHT LIKE?

_Quest._--Why is a Pump like Viscount Castlereagh? _Answ._--Because it is a slender thing of wood, That up and down its awkward arm doth sway, And coolly spout, and spout, and spout away, In one weak, washy, everlasting flood!

_Thomas Moore._

OF ALL THE MEN

Of all the men one meets about,
There's none like Jack--he's everywhere:
At church--park--auction--dinner--rout--
Go when and where you will, he's there.
Try the West End, he's at your back--
Meets you, like Eurus, in the East--
You're call'd upon for "How do, Jack?"
One hundred times a day, at least.
A friend of his one evening said,
As home he took his pensive way,
"Upon my soul, I fear Jack's dead--
I've seen him but three times to-day!"

_Thomas Moore._

ON BUTLER'S MONUMENT

While Butler, needy wretch, was yet alive, No generous patron would a dinner give. See him, when starved to death and turn'd to dust, Presented with a monumental bust. The poet's fate is here in emblem shown-- He ask'd for _bread_, and he received a _stone_.

_Rev. Samuel Wesley._

A CONJUGAL CONUNDRUM

Which is of greater value, prythee, say,
The Bride or Bridegroom?--must the truth be told?
Alas, it must! The Bride is given away--
The Bridegroom's often regularly sold.

_Unknown._

VII

BURLESQUE

LOVERS AND A REFLECTION

In moss-prankt dells which the sunbeams flatter
(And heaven it knoweth what that may mean;
Meaning, however, is no great matter)
Where woods are a-tremble with words a-tween;

Thro' God's own heather we wonned together,
I and my Willie (O love my love):
I need hardly remark it was glorious weather,
And flitter-bats wavered alow, above:

Boats were curtseying, rising, bowing,
(Boats in that climate are so polite,)
And sands were a ribbon of green endowing,
And O the sun-dazzle on bark and bight!

Thro' the rare red heather we danced together
(O love my Willie,) and smelt for flowers:
I must mention again it was glorious weather,
Rhymes are so scarce in this world of ours:

By rises that flushed with their purple favors,
Thro' becks that brattled o'er grasses sheen,
We walked or waded, we two young shavers,
Thanking our stars we were both so green.

We journeyed in parallels, I and Willie,
In fortunate parallels! Butterflies,
Hid in weltering shadows of daffodilly
Or Marjoram, kept making peacock eyes:

Song-birds darted about, some inky
As coal, some snowy (I ween) as curds;
Or rosy as pinks, or as roses pinky--
They reck of no eerie To-come, those birds!

But they skim over bents which the mill-stream washes,
Or hang in the lift 'neath a white cloud's hem;
They need no parasols, no goloshes;
And good Mrs. Trimmer she feedeth them.

Then we thrid God's cowslips (as erst his heather),
That endowed the wan grass with their golden blooms;
And snapt--(it was perfectly charming weather)--
Our fingers at Fate and her goddess-glooms:

And Willie 'gan sing--(Oh, his notes were fluty;
Wafts fluttered them out to the white-winged sea)--
Something made up of rhymes that have done much duty,
Rhymes (better to put it) of "ancientry":

Bowers of flowers encountered showers
In William's carol--(O love my Willie!)
Then he bade sorrow borrow from blithe to-morrow
I quite forget what--say a daffodilly.

A nest in a hollow, "with buds to follow,"
I think occurred next in his nimble strain;
And clay that was "kneaden" of course in Eden--
A rhyme most novel I do maintain:

Mists, bones, the singer himself, love-stories,
And all least furlable things got furled;
Not with any design to conceal their glories,
But simply and solely to rhyme with world.

O if billows and pillows and hours and flowers, And all the brave rhymes of an elder day, Could be furled together, this genial weather, And carted or carried on wafts away, Nor ever again trotted out--ah me! How much fewer volumes of verse there'd be.

_Charles Stuart Calverley._

OUR HYMN

At morning's call The small-voiced pug dog welcomes in the sun, And flea-bit mongrels wakening one by one, Give answer all.

When evening dim Draws rounds us, then the lovely caterwaul, Tart solo, sour duet and general squall, These are our hymn.

_Oliver Wendell Holmes._

"SOLDIER, REST!"

A Russian sailed over the blue Black Sea
Just when the war was growing hot,
And he shouted, "I'm Tjalikavakeree--
Karindabrolikanavandorot--
Schipkadirova--
Ivandiszstova--
Sanilik--
Danilik--
Varagobhot!"

A Turk was standing upon the shore
Right where the terrible Russian crossed;
And he cried, "Bismillah! I'm Abd el Kor--
Bazaroukilgonautoskobrosk--
Getzinpravadi--
Kilgekosladji--
Grivido--
Blivido--
Jenikodosk!"

So they stood like brave men, long and well,
And they called each other their proper names,
Till the lockjaw seized them, and where they fell
They buried them both by the Irdosholames--
Kalatalustchuk--
Mischaribustchup--
Bulgari--
Dulgari--
Sagharimainz.

_Robert J. Burdette._

IMITATION

Calm and implacable, Eying disdainfully the world beneath, Sat Humpty-Dumpty on his mural eminence In solemn state: And I relate his story In verse unfettered by the bothering restrictions of rhyme or metre, In verse (or "rhythm," as I prefer to call it) Which, consequently, is far from difficult to write.

He sat. And at his feet The world passed on--the surging crowd Of men and women, passionate, turgid, dense, Keenly alert, lethargic, or obese. (Those two lines scan!)

Among the rest He noted Jones; Jones with his Roman nose, His eyebrows--the left one streaked with a dash of gray-- And yellow boots. Not that Jones Has anything in particular to do with the story; But a descriptive phrase Like the above shows that the writer is A Master of Realism.

Let us proceed. Suddenly from his seat Did Humpty-Dumpty slip. Vainly he clutched The impalpable air. Down and down, Right to the foot of the wall, Right on to the horribly hard pavement that ran beneath it, Humpty-Dumpty, the unfortunate Humpty-Dumpty, Fell.

And him, alas! no equine agency, Him no power of regal battalions-- Resourceful, eager, strenuous-- Could ever restore to the lofty eminence Which once was his. Still he lies on the very identical Spot where he fell--lies, as I said on the ground, Shamefully and conspicuously abased!

_Anthony C. Deane._

THE MIGHTY MUST

Come mighty Must!
Inevitable Shall!
In thee I trust.
Time weaves my coronal!
Go mocking Is!
Go disappointing Was!
That I am this
Ye are the cursed cause!
Yet humble second shall be first,
I ween;
And dead and buried be the curst
Has Been!

Oh weak Might Be!
Oh, May, Might, Could, Would, Should!
How powerless ye
For evil or for good!
In every sense
Your moods I cheerless call,
Whate'er your tense
Ye are imperfect, all!
Ye have deceived the trust I've shown
In ye!
Away! The Mighty Must alone
Shall be!

_W. S. Gilbert._

MIDSUMMER MADNESS

A SOLILOQUY

I am a hearthrug-- Yes, a rug-- Though I cannot describe myself as snug; Yet I know that for me they paid a price For a Turkey carpet that would suffice (But we live in an age of rascal vice). Why was I ever woven, For a clumsy lout, with a wooden leg, To come with his endless Peg! Peg! Peg! Peg! With a wooden leg, Till countless holes I'm drove in. ("Drove," I have said, and it should be "driven"; A hearthrug's blunders should be forgiven, For wretched scribblers have exercised Such endless bosh and clamour, So improvidently have improvised, That they've utterly ungrammaticised Our ungrammatical grammar). And the coals Burn holes, Or make spots like moles, And my lily-white tints, as black as your hat turn, And the housemaid (a matricide, will-forging slattern), Rolls The rolls From the plate, in shoals, When they're put to warm in front of the coals; And no one with me condoles, For the butter stains on my beautiful pattern. But the coals and rolls, and sometimes soles, Dropp'd from the frying-pan out of the fire. Are nothing to raise my indignant ire, Like the Peg! Peg! Of that horrible man with the wooden leg. This moral spread from me, Sing it, ring it, yelp it-- Never a hearthrug be, That is if you can help it.

_Unknown._

MAVRONE

ONE OF THOSE SAD IRISH POEMS, WITH NOTES

From Arranmore the weary miles I've come; An' all the way I've heard A Shrawn[1] that's kep' me silent, speechless, dumb, Not sayin' any word. An' was it then the Shrawn of Eire,[2] you'll say, For him that died the death on Carrisbool? It was not that; nor was it, by the way, The Sons of Garnim[3] blitherin' their drool; Nor was it any Crowdie of the Shee,[4] Or Itt, or Himm, nor wail of Barryhoo[5] For Barrywhich that stilled the tongue of me. 'Twas but my own heart cryin' out for you Magraw![6] Bulleen, shinnanigan, Boru, Aroon, Machree, Aboo![7]

_Arthur Guiterman._

[Footnote 1: A Shrawn is a pure Gaelic noise, something like a groan, more like a shriek, and most like a sigh of longing.]

[Footnote 2: Eire was daughter of Carne, King of Connaught. Her lover, Murdh of the Open Hand, was captured by Greatcoat Mackintosh, King of Ulster, on the plain of Carrisbool, and made into soup. Eire's grief on this sad occasion has become proverbial.]

[Footnote 3: Garnim was second cousin to Manannan MacLir. His sons were always sad about something. There were twenty-two of them, and they were all unfortunate in love at the same time, just like a chorus at the opera. "Blitherin' their drool" is about the same as "dreeing their weird."]

[Footnote 4: The Shee (or "Sidhe," as I should properly spell it if you were not so ignorant) were, as everybody knows, the regular, stand-pat, organization fairies of Erin. The Crowdie was their annual convention, at which they made melancholy sounds. The Itt and Himm were the irregular, or insurgent, fairies. They _never_ got any offices or patronage. See MacAlester, _Polity of the Sidhe of West Meath_, page 985.]

[Footnote 5: The Barryhoo is an ancient Celtic bird about the size of a Mavis, with lavender eyes and a black-crape tail. It continually mourns its mate (Barrywhich, feminine form), which has an hereditary predisposition to an early and tragic demise and invariably dies first.]

[Footnote 6: Magraw, a Gaelic term of endearment, often heard on the baseball fields of Donnybrook.]

[Footnote 7: These last six words are all that tradition has preserved of the original incantation by means of which Irish rats were rhymed to death. Thereby hangs a good Celtic tale, which I should be glad to tell you in this note; but the publishers say that being prosed to death is as bad as being rhymed to death, and that the readers won't stand for any more.]

LILIES

Lilies, lilies, white lilies and yellow-- Lilies, lilies, purple lilies and golden-- Calla lilies, tiger lilies, lilies of the valley-- Lilies, lilies, lilies-- Bulb, bud and blossom-- What made them lilies? If they were not lilies they would have to be something else, would they not? What was it that made them lilies instead of making them violets or roses or geraniums or petunias? What was it that made you yourself and me myself? What? Alas! I do not know!

_Don Marquis._

FOR I AM SAD

No usual words can bear the woe I feel, No tralatitions trite give me relief! O Webster! lend me words to voice my grief Bitter as quassia, quass or kumquat peel! For I am sad ... bound on the cosmic wheel, What mad chthonophagy bids slave and chief Through endless cycles bite the earth like beef, By turns each cannibal and each the meal? Turn we to nature Webster, and we see Your whidah bird refuse all strobile fruit, Your tragacanth in tears ooze from the tree ... We hear your flammulated owlets hoot! Turn we to nature, Webster, and we find Few creatures have a quite contented mind. Your koulan there, with dyslogistic snort, Will leave his phacoid food on worts to browse, While glactophorous Himalayan cows The knurled kohl-rabi spurn in uncouth sport; No margay climbs margosa trees; the short Gray mullet drink no mulse, nor house In pibcorns when the youth of Wales carouse ... No tournure doth the toucan's tail contort ... So I am sad! ... and yet, on Summer eves, When xebecs search the whishing scree for whelk, And the sharp sorrel lifts obcordate leaves, And cryptogamous plants fulfil the elk, I see the octopus play with his feet, And find within this sadness something sweet.