Une petite pêche dans un orchard fleurit,
Attendez à mon narration triste!
Une petite pêche verdante fleurit.
Grâce à chaleur de soleil, et moisture de miste.
Il fleurit, il fleurit,
Attendez à mon narration triste!
Signes dures pour les deux,
Petit Jean et sa soeur Sue,
Et la pêche d'une verdante hue,
Qui fleurit, qui fleurit,
Attendez a mon narration triste!
_Anonymous_.
_MONSIEUR McGINTÉ_
Monsieur McGinté allait en has jusqu'an fond du mer,
Ils ne l'ont pas encore trouvé
Je crois qu'il est certainement mouillé.
Monsieur McGinté, je le repéte, allait jusqu'au fond du mer,
Habillé dans sa meilleure costume.
_Anonymous_.
_YE LAYE OF YE WOODPECKORE_
_Picus Erythrocephalus_:
O whither goest thou, pale studént
Within the wood so fur?
Art on the chokesome cherry bent?
Dost seek the chestnut burr?
_Pale Studént_:
O it is not for the mellow chestnut
That I so far am come,
Nor yet for puckery cherries, but
For Cypripediúm.
A blossom hangs the choke-cherry
And eke the chestnut burr,
And thou a silly fowl must be,
Thou red-head wood-peckére.
_Picas Erythrocephalus_:
Turn back, turn back, thou pale studént,
Nor in the forest go;
There lurks beneath his bosky tent
The deadly mosquitó,
And there the wooden-chuck doth tread,
And from the oak-tree's top
The red, red squirrels on thy head
The frequent acorn drop.
_Pale Studént_:
The wooden-chuck is next of kin
Unto the wood-peckére:
I fear not thine ill-boding din,
And why should I fear her?
What though a score of acorns drop
And squirrels' fur be red!
'Tis not so ruddy as thy top--
So scarlet as thy head.
O rarely blooms the Cypripe-
diúm upon its stalk;
And like a torch it shines to me
Adown the dark wood-walk.
O joy to pluck it from the ground,
To view the purple sac,
To touch the sessile stigma's round--
And shall I then turn back?
_Picus Erytbrocephalus_:
O black and shining is the log
That feeds the sumptuous weed,
Nor stone is found nor bedded log
Where foot may well proceed.
Midmost it glimmers in the mire
Like Jack o' Lanthorn's spark,
Lighting, with phosphorescent fire,
The green umbrageous dark.
There while thy thirsty glances drink
The fair and baneful plant,
Thy shoon within the ooze shall sink
And eke thine either pant.
_Pale Studént_:
Give o'er, give o'er, thou wood-peckóre;
The bark upon the tree,
Thou, at thy will, mayst peck and bore
But peck and bore not me.
Full two long hours I've searched about
And 't would in sooth be rum,
If I should now go back without
The Cypripediúm.
_Picus Erythrocephalus_:
Farewell! Farewell! But this I tell
To thee, thou pale studént,
Ere dews have fell, thou'lt rue it well
That woodward thou didst went:
Then whilst thou blows the drooping nose
And wip'st the pensive eye--
There where the sad _symplocarpus foetidus_ grows,
Then think--O think of I!
Loud flouted there that student wight
Solche warnynge for to hear;
"I scorn, old hen, thy threats of might,
And eke thine ill grammére."
"Go peck the lice (or green or red)
That swarm the bass-wood tree,
But wag no more thine addled head
Nor clack thy tongue at me."
The wood-peck turned to whet her beak,
The student heard her drum,
As through the wood he went to seek
The Cypripediúm.
Alas! and for that pale studént:
The evening bell did ring,
And down the walk the Freshmen went
Unto the prayer-meetíng;
Upon the fence loud rose the song,
The weak, weak tea was o'er--
Ha! who is he that sneaks along
Into South Middle's door?
The mud was on his shoon, and O!
The briar was in his thumb,
His staff was in his hand but no--
No Cypripediúm.
_Henry A. Beers_.
_COLLUSION BETWEEN A ALEGAITER AND A WATER-SNAIK_
There is a niland on a river lying,
Which runs into Gautimaly, a warm country,
Lying near the Tropicks, covered with sand;
Hear and their a symptum of a Wilow,
Hanging of its umberagious limbs & branches
Over the clear streme meandering far below.
This was the home of the now silent Alegaiter,
When not in his other element confine'd:
Here he wood set upon his eggs asleep
With 1 ey observant of flis and other passing
Objects: a while it kept a going on so:
Fereles of danger was the happy Alegaiter!
But a las! in a nevil our he was fourced to
Wake! that dreme of Blis was two sweet for him.
1 morning the sun arose with unusool splender
Whitch allso did our Alegaiter, coming from the water,
His scails a flinging of the rais of the son back,
To the fountain-head which tha originly sprung from,
But having not had nothing to eat for some time, he
Was slepy and gap'd, in a short time, widely.
Unfoalding soon a welth of perl-white teth,
The rais of the son soon shet his sinister ey
Because of their mutool splendor and warmth.
The evil Our (which I sed) was now come;
Evidently a good chans for a water-snaik
Of the large specie, which soon appeared
Into the horison, near the bank where reposed
Calmly in slepe the Alegaiter before spoken of.
About 60 feet was his Length (not the 'gaiter)
And he was aperiently a well-proportioned snaik.
When he was all ashore he glared upon
The iland with approval, but was soon
"Astonished with the view and lost to wonder" (from Wats)
(For jest then he began to see the Alegaiter)
Being a nateral enemy of his'n, he worked hisself
Into a fury, also a ni position.
Before the Alegaiter well could ope
His eye (in other words perceive his danger)
The Snaik had enveloped his body just 19
Times with "foalds voluminous and vast" (from Milton)
And had tore off several scails in the confusion,
Besides squeazing him awfully into his stomoc.
Just then, by a fortinate turn in his affairs,
He ceazed into his mouth the careless tale
Of the unreflecting water-snaik! Grown desperate
He, finding that his tale was fast squesed
Terrible while they roaled all over the iland.
It was a well-conduckted Affair; no noise
Disturbed the harmony of the seen, ecsept
Onct when a Willow was snaped into by the roaling.
Eeach of the combatence hadn't a minit for holering.
So the conflick was naterally tremenjous!
But soon by grate force the tail was bit complete-
Ly of; but the eggzeration was too much
For his delicate Constitootion; he felt a compression
Onto his chest and generally over his body;
When he ecspressed his breathing, it was with
Grate difficulty that he felt inspired again onct more.
Of course this state must suffer a revolootion.
So the alegaiter give but one yel, and egspired.
The water-snaik realed hisself off, & survay'd
For say 10 minits, the condition of
His fo: then wondering what made his tail hurt,
He slowly went off for to cool.
_J. W. Morris_.
_ODD TO A KROKIS_
Selestial apoley which Didest inspire.
the souls of burns and pop with sackred fir.
Kast thy Mantil over me When i shal sing,
the praiz Of A sweat flower who grows in spring
Which has of late kome under the Fokis.
of My eyes. It is called a krokis.
Sweat lovly prety littil sweat Thing,
you bloometh before The lairicks on High sing,
thy lefs are neithir Red Nor yelly.
but Just betwixt the two you hardy felly.
i fear youl yet be Nippit with the frost.
As Maney a one has known to there kost.
you should have not kome out in such a hurrey.
As this is only the Month of Febrywurrey.
and you may expick yet Much bad wethir.
when all your blads will krunkil up like Burnt leather.
alas. alas. theres Men which tries to rime,
who have like you kome out befor there time.
The Moril of My peese depend upon it.
is good so here i End my odd or sonit.
_Anonymous_.
_SOME VERSES TO SNAIX_
Prodiggus reptile! long and skaly kuss!
You are the dadrattedest biggest thing I ever
Seed that cud ty itself into a double bo-
Not, and cum all strate again in a
Minnit or so, without winkin or seemin
To experience any particular pane
In the diafram.
Stoopenjus inseck! marvelous annimile!
You are no doubt seven thousand yeres
Old, and hav a considerable of a
Family sneekin round thru the tall
Gras in Africa, a eetin up little greezy
Niggers, and wishin they was biggir.
I wonder how big yu was when yu
Was a inphant about 2 fete long. I
Expec yu was a purty good size, and
Lived on phrogs, and lizzerds, and polly-
Wogs and sutch things.
You are havin' a nice time now, ennyhow--
Don't have nothing to do but lay oph.
And etc kats and rabbits, and stic
Out yure tung and twist yur tale.
I wunder if yu ever swollered a man
Without takin oph his butes. If there was
Brass buttins on his kote, I spose
Yu had ter swaller a lot of buttin-
Wholes, and a shu--hamer to nock
The soals oph of the boots and drive in
The tax, so that they wouldn't kut yure
Inside. I wunder if vittles taste
Good all the way down. I expec so--
At leest, fur 6 or 7 fete.
You are so mighty long, I shud thynk
If your tale was kold, yure hed
Woodent no it till the next day,
But it's hard tu tell: snaix is snaix.
_Anonymous_.
_A GREAT MAN_
Ye muses, pour the pitying tear
For Pollio snatch'd away:
For had he liv'd another year!
--He had not dy'd to-day.
O, were he born to bless mankind,
In virtuous times of yore,
Heroes themselves had fallen behind!
--Whene'er he went before.
How sad the groves and plains appear,
And sympathetic sheep:
Even pitying hills would drop a tear!
--If hills could learn to weep.
His bounty in exalted strain
Each bard might well display:
Since none implor'd relief in vain!
--That went reliev'd away.
And hark! I hear the tuneful throng;
His obsequies forbid.
He still shall live, shall live as long
--As ever dead man did.
_Oliver Goldsmith_.
_AN ELEGY_
_On the Glory of her Sex, Mrs. Mary Blaize_
Good people all, with one accord,
Lament for Madam Blaize,
Who never wanted a good word--
From those who spoke her praise.
The needy seldom pass'd her door,
And always found her kind;
She freely lent to all the poor--
Who left a pledge behind.
She strove the neighborhood to please
With manners wondrous winning;
And never follow'd wicked ways--
Unless when she was sinning.
At church, in silks and satins new,
With hoop of monstrous size,
She never slumber'd in her pew--
But when she shut her eyes.
Her love was sought, I do aver,
By twenty beaux and more;
The King himself has follow'd her--
When she has walk'd before.
But now, her wealth and finery fled,
Her hangers-on cut short all;
The doctors found, when she was dead--
Her last disorder mortal.
Let us lament, in sorrow sore,
For Kent Street well may say,
That had she lived a twelvemonth more--
She had not died to-day.
_Oliver Goldsmith_.
_PARSON GRAY_
A quiet home had Parson Gray,
Secluded in a vale;
His daughters all were feminine,
And all his sons were male.
How faithfully did Parson Gray
The bread of life dispense--
Well "posted" in theology,
And post and rail his fence.
'Gainst all the vices of the age
He manfully did battle;
His chickens were a biped breed,
And quadruped his cattle.
No clock more punctually went,
He ne'er delayed a minute--
Nor ever empty was his purse,
When he had money in it.
His piety was ne'er denied;
His truths hit saint and sinner;
At morn he always breakfasted;
He always dined at dinner.
He ne'er by any luck was grieved,
By any care perplexed--
No filcher he, though when he preached,
He always "took" a text.
As faithful characters he drew
As mortal ever saw;
But ah! poor parson! when he died,
His breath he could not draw!
_Oliver Goldsmith_.
_AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG_
Good people all, of every sort,
Give ear unto my song;
And if you find it wondrous short,--
It cannot hold you long.
In Islington there was a man,
Of whom the world might say
That still a godly race he ran,--
Whene'er he went to pray.
A kind and gentle heart he had,
To comfort friends and foes;
The naked every day he clad,--
When he put on his clothes.
And in that town a dog was found,
As many dogs there be,
Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound,
And curs of low degree.
The dog and man at first were friends;
But when a pique began,
The dog, to gain some private ends,
Went mad, and bit the man.
Around from all the neighboring streets,
The wondering neighbors ran,
And swore the dog had lost his wits
To bite so good a man.
The wound it seemed both sore and sad
To every Christian eye;
And while they swore the dog was mad
They swore the man would die.
But soon a wonder came to light,
That showed the rogues they lied;
The man recovered of the bite,
The dog it was that died.
_Oliver Goldsmith_.
_THE WONDERFUL OLD MAN_
There was an old man
Who lived on a common
And, if fame speaks true,
He was born of a woman.
Perhaps you will laugh,
But for truth I've been told
He once was an infant
Tho' age made him old.
Whene'er he was hungry
He longed for some meat;
And if he could get it
'T was said he would eat.
When thirsty he'd drink
If you gave him a pot,
And what he drank mostly
Ran down his throat.
He seldom or never
Could see without light,
And yet I've been told he
Could hear in the night.
He has oft been awake
In the daytime, 't is said,
And has fallen asleep
As he lay in his bed.
'T is reported his tongue
Always moved when he talk'd,
And he stirred both his arms
And his legs when he walk'd;
And his gait was so odd
Had you seen him you 'd burst,
For one leg or t' other
Would always be first.
His face was the drollest
That ever was seen,
For if 't was not washed
It seldom was clean;
His teeth he expos'd when
He happened to grin,
And his mouth stood across
'Twixt his nose and his chin.
When this whimsical chap
Had a river to pass,
If he couldn't get over
He stayed where he was.
'T is said he ne'er ventured
To quit the dry ground,
Yet so great was his luck
He never was drowned.
At last he fell sick,
As old chronicles tell,
And then, as folks say,
He was not very well.
But what was as strange
In so weak a condition,
As he could not give fees
He could get no physician.
What wonder he died!
Yet 't is said that his death
Was occasioned at last
By the loss of his breath.
But peace to his bones
Which in ashes now moulder.
Had he lived a day longer
He'd have been a day older.
_Anonymous_
_A CHRONICLE_
Once--but no matter when--
There lived--no matter where--
A man, whose name--but then
I need not that declare.
He--well, he had been born,
And so he was alive;
His age--I details scorn--
Was somethingty and five.
He lived--how many years
I truly can't decide;
But this one fact appears
He lived--until he died.
"He died," I have averred,
But cannot prove 't was so,
But that he was interred,
At any rate, I know.
I fancy he'd a son,
I hear he had a wife:
Perhaps he'd more than one,
I know not, on my life!
But whether he was rich,
Or whether he was poor,
Or neither--both--or which,
I cannot say, I'm sure.
I can't recall his name,
Or what he used to do:
But then--well, such is fame!
'T will so serve me and you.
And that is why I thus,
About this unknown man
Would fain create a fuss,
To rescue, if I can.
From dark oblivion's blow,
Some record of his lot:
But, ah! I do not know
Who--where--when--why--or what.