EIGHTEEN HUNDRED;--it came and found

The Deacon's masterpiece strong and sound.

Eighteen hundred increased by ten;

"Hahnsum kerridge" they called it then.

Eighteen hundred and twenty came;--

Running as usual; much the same.

Thirty and Forty at last arrive,

And then come Fifty, and Fifty-Five.

Little of all we value here

Wakes on the morn of its hundredth year

Without both feeling and looking queer.

In fact, there's nothing that keeps its youth,

So far as I know, but a tree and truth.

(This is a moral that runs at large;

Take it.--You're welcome.--No extra charge.)

FIRST OF November,--the Earthquake-day,--

There are traces of age in the one-hoss shay.

A general flavor of mild decay,

But nothing local, as one may say.

There couldn't be,--for the Deacon's art

Had made it so like in every part

That there wasn't a chance for one to start.

For the wheels were just as strong as the thills,

And the floor was just as strong as the sills,

And the panels just as strong as the floor,

And the whipple-tree neither less nor more,

And the back-crossbar as strong as the fore,

And spring and axle and hub encore.

And yet, as a whole, it is past a doubt

In another hour it will be worn out!

First of November, Fifty-five!

This morning the parson takes a drive.

Now, small boys, get out of the way!

Here comes the wonderful one-hoss shay,

Drawn by a rat-railed, ewe-necked bay.

"Huddup!" said the parson.--Off went they.

The parson was working his Sunday's text,-

Had got to fifthly, and stopped perplexed

At what the--Moses--was coming next.

All at once the horse stood still,

Close by the meet'n'-house on the hill.

First a shiver, and then a thrill,

Then something decidedly like a spill,--

And the parson was sitting upon a rock,

At half past nine by the meet'n'-house clock,--

Just the hour of the Earthquake shock!

What do you think the parson found,

When he got up and stared around?

The poor old chaise in a heap or mound,

As if it had been to the mill and ground!

You see, of course, if you're not a dunce,

How it went to pieces all at once,--

All at once, and nothing first,--

Just as bubbles do when they burst.

End of the wonderful one-hoss shay.

Logic is logic. That's all I say.

Oliver Wendell Holmes [1809-1894]

BALLADE OF A FRIAR

After Clement Marot

Some ten or twenty times a day,

To bustle to the town with speed,

To dabble in what dirt he may,--

Le Frere Lubin's the man you need!

But any sober life to lead

Upon an exemplary plan,

Requires a Christian indeed,--

Le Frere Lubin is not the man!

Another's wealth on his to lay,

With all the craft of guile and greed,

To leave you bare of pence or pay,--

Le Frere Lubin's the man you need!

But watch him with the closest heed,

And dun him with what force you can,--

He'll not refund, howe'er you plead,--

Le Frere Lubin is not the man--

An honest girl to lead astray,

With subtle saw and promised meed,

Requires no cunning crone and gray,--

Le Frere Lubin's the man you need!

He preaches an ascetic creed,

But,--try him with the water can--

A dog will drink, whate'er his breed,--

Le Frere Lubin is not the man!

ENVOY

In good to fail, in ill succeed,

Le Frere Lubin's the man you need!

In honest works to lead the van,

Le Frere Lubin is not the man!

Andrew Lang [1844-1912]

THE CHAMELEON

Oft has it been my lot to mark

A proud, conceited, talking spark,

With eyes, that hardly served at most

To guard their master 'gainst a post,

Yet round the world the blade has been

To see whatever could be seen,

Returning from his finished tour,

Grown ten times perter than before;

Whatever word you chance to drop,

The traveled fool your mouth will stop;

"Sir, if my judgment you'll allow,

I've seen--and sure I ought to know,"

So begs you'd pay a due submission,

And acquiesce in his decision.

Two travelers of such a cast,

As o'er Arabia's wilds they passed,

And on their way in friendly chat,

Now talked of this, and then of that,

Discoursed awhile, 'mongst other matter,

Of the chameleon's form and nature.

"A stranger animal," cries one,

"Sure never lived beneath the sun.

A lizard's body, lean and long,

A fish's head, a serpent's tongue,

Its foot with triple claw disjoined;

And what a length of tail behind!

How slow its pace; and then its hue--

Who ever saw so fine a blue?"

"Hold, there," the other quick replies,

"'Tis green,--I saw it with these eyes,

As late with open mouth it lay,

And warmed it in the sunny ray:

Stretched at its ease, the beast I viewed

And saw it eat the air for food."

"I've seen it, sir, as well as you,

And must again affirm it blue;

At leisure I the beast surveyed,

Extended in the cooling shade."

"'Tis green, 'tis green, sir, I assure ye!"

"Green!" cries the other in a fury--

"Why, sir!--d'ye think I've lost my eyes?"

"'Twere no great loss," the friend replies,

"For, if they always serve you thus,

You'll find them of but little use."

So high at last the contest rose,

From words they almost came to blows:

When luckily came by a third--

To him the question they referred,

And begged he'd tell 'em, if he knew,

Whether the thing was green or blue.

"Sirs," cries the umpire, "cease your pother!

The creature's neither one or t'other.

I caught the animal last night,

And viewed it o'er by candlelight:

I marked it well--'t was black as jet--

You stare--but, sirs, I've got it yet,

And can produce it." "Pray, sir, do;

I'll lay my life the thing is blue."

"And I'll be sworn, that when you've seen

The reptile, you'll pronounce him green."

"Well, then, at once to ease the doubt,"

Replies the man, "I'll turn him out:

And when before your eyes I've set him,

If you don't find him black, I'll eat him."

He said: then full before their sight

Produced the beast, and lo!--'twas white.

Both stared, the man looked wondrous wise--

"My children," the chameleon cries,

(Then first the creature found a tongue),

"You all are right, and all are wrong:

When next you talk of what you view,

Think others see as well as you:

Nor wonder, if you find that none

Prefers your eyesight to his own."

After De La Motte, by James Merrick [1720-1769]

THE BLIND MEN AND THE ELEPHANT

A Hindoo Fable

It was six men of Indostan

To learning much inclined,

Who went to see the Elephant

(Though all of them were blind),

That each by observation

Might satisfy his mind.

The First approached the Elephant,

And happening to fall

Against his broad and sturdy side,

At once began to bawl:

"God bless me! but the Elephant

Is very like a wall!"

The Second, feeling of the tusk,

Cried, "Ho! what have we here

So very round and smooth and sharp?

To me 'tis mighty clear

This wonder of an Elephant

Is very like a spear!"

The Third approached the animal,

And happening to take

The squirming trunk within his hands,

Thus boldly up and spake:

"I see," quoth he, "the Elephant

Is very like a snake!"

The Fourth reached out an eager hand,

And felt about the knee.

"What most this wondrous beast is like

Is mighty plain," quoth he;

"'Tis clear enough the Elephant

Is very like a tree!"

The Fifth who chanced to touch the ear,

Said: "E'en the blindest man

Can tell what this resembles most;

Deny the fact who can,

This marvel of an Elephant

Is very like a fan!"

The Sixth no sooner had begun

About the beast to grope,

Than, seizing on the swinging tail

That fell within his scope,

"I see," quoth he, "the Elephant

Is very like a rope!"

And so these men of Indostan

Disputed loud and long,

Each in his own opinion

Exceeding stiff and strong,

Though each was partly in the right,

And all were in the wrong!

MORAL

So oft in theologic wars,

The disputants, I ween,

Rail on in utter ignorance

Of what each other mean,

And prate about an Elephant

Not one of them has seen!

John Godfrey Saxe [1816-1887]

THE PHILOSOPHER'S SCALES

A monk, when his rites sacerdotal were o'er,

In the depths of his cell with its stone-covered floor,

Resigning to thought his chimerical brain,

Once formed the contrivance we now shall explain;

But whether by magic's or alchemy's powers

We know not; indeed, 'tis no business of ours.

Perhaps it was only by patience and care,

At last, that he brought his invention to bear.

In youth 'twas projected, but years stole away,

And ere 'twas complete he was wrinkled and gray;

But success is secure, unless energy fails;

And at length he produced the Philosopher's Scales.

"What were they?" you ask. You shall presently see;

These scales were not made to weigh sugar and tea.

Oh no; for such properties wondrous had they,

That qualities, feelings, and thoughts they could weigh,

Together with articles small or immense,

From mountains or planets to atoms of sense.

Naught was there so bulky but there it would lay,

And naught so ethereal but there it would stay,

And naught so reluctant but in it must go:

All which some examples more clearly will show.

The first thing he weighed was the head of Voltaire,

Which retained all the wit that had ever been there;

As a weight, he threw in the torn scrap of a leaf

Containing the prayer of the penitent thief;

When the skull rose aloft with so sudden a spell

That it bounced like a ball on the roof of the cell.

One time he put in Alexander the Great,

With the garment that Dorcas had made, for a weight;

And though clad in armor from sandals to crown,

The hero rose up and the garment went down.

A long row of almshouses, amply endowed

By a well-esteemed Pharisee, busy and proud,

Next loaded one scale; while the other was pressed

By those mites the poor widow dropped into the chest:

Up flew the endowment, not weighing an ounce,

And down, down the farthing-worth came with a bounce.

By further experiments (no matter how)

He found that ten chariots weighed less than one plough;

A sword with gilt trappings rose up in the scale,

Though balanced by only a ten-penny nail;

A shield and a helmet, a buckler and spear,

Weighed less than a widow's uncrystallized tear.

A lord and a lady went up at full sail,

When a bee chanced to light on the opposite scale;

Ten doctors, ten lawyers, two courtiers, one earl,

Ten counsellors' wigs, full of powder and curl,

All heaped in one balance and swinging from thence,

Weighed less than a few grains of candor and sense;

A first-water diamond, with brilliants begirt,

Than one good potato just washed from the dirt;

Yet not mountains of silver and gold could suffice

One pearl to outweigh,--'twas the Pearl of Great Price.

Last of all, the whole world was bowled in at the grate,

With the soul of a beggar to serve for a weight,

When the former sprang up with so strong a rebuff

That it made a vast rent and escaped at the roof!

When balanced in air, it ascended on high,

And sailed up aloft, a balloon in the sky;

While the scale with the soul in't so mightily fell

That it jerked the philosopher out of his cell.

Jane Taylor [1783-1824]

THE MAIDEN AND THE LILY

A lily in my garden grew,

Amid the thyme and clover;

No fairer lily ever blew,

Search all the wide world over.

Its beauty passed into my heart:

I know 'twas very silly,

But I was then a foolish maid,

And it--a perfect lily.

One day a learned man came by,

With years of knowledge laden,

And him I questioned with a sigh,

Like any foolish maiden:--

"Wise sir, please tell me wherein lies--

I know the question's silly--

The something that my art defies,

And makes a perfect lily."

He smiled, then bending plucked the flower,

Then tore it, leaf and petal,

And talked to me for full an hour,

And thought the point to settle:--

"Therein it lies," at length he cries;

And I--I know 'twas silly--

Could only weep and say, "But where--

O doctor, where's my lily?"

John Fraser [1750-1811]

THE OWL-CRITIC

"Who stuffed that white owl? No one spoke in the shop:

The barber was busy, and he couldn't stop;

The customers, waiting their turns, were all reading

The Daily, the Herald, the Post, little heeding

The young man who blurted out such a blunt question;

Not one raised a head, or even made a suggestion;

And the barber kept on shaving.

"Don't you see, Mister Brown,"

Cried the youth with a frown,

"How wrong the whole thing is,

How preposterous each wing is,

How flattened the head is, how jammed down the neck is--

In short, the whole owl, what an ignorant wreck 'tis!

I make no apology;

I've learned owl-eology.

I've passed days and nights in a hundred collections,

And cannot be blinded to any deflections

Arising from unskilful fingers that fail

To stuff a bird right, from his beak to his tail.

Mister Brown! Mister Brown!

Do take that bird down,

Or you'll soon be the laughing-stock all over town!"

And the barber kept on shaving.

"I've studied owls

And other night fowls,

And I tell you

What I know to be true:

An owl cannot roost

With his limbs so unloosed;

No owl in this world

Ever had his claws curled,

Ever had his legs slanted,

Ever had his bill canted,

Ever had his neck screwed

Into that attitude.

He can't do it, because

'Tis against all bird-laws.

Anatomy teaches,

Ornithology preaches

An owl has a toe

That can't turn out so!

I've made the white owl my study for years,

And to see such a job almost moves me to tears!

Mister Brown, I'm amazed

You should be so gone crazed

As to put up a bird

In that posture absurd!

To look at that owl really brings on a dizziness;

The man who stuffed him don't half know his business!"

And the barber kept on shaving.

"Examine those eyes.

I'm filled with surprise

Taxidermists should pass

Off on you such poor glass;

So unnatural they seem

They'd make Audubon scream,

And John Burroughs laugh

To encounter such chaff.

Do take that bird down;

Have him stuffed again, Brown!"

And the barber kept on shaving.

"With some sawdust and bark

I could stuff in the dark

An owl better than that.

I could make an old hat

Look more like an owl

Than that horrid fowl,

Stuck up there so stiff like a side of coarse leather.

In fact, about him there's not one natural feather."

Just then, with a wink and a sly normal lurch,

The owl, very gravely, got down from his perch,

Walked round, and regarded his fault-finding critic

(Who thought he was stuffed) with a glance analytic

And then fairly hooted, as if he would say:

"Your learning's at fault this time, any way;

Don't waste it again on a live bird, I pray.

I'm an owl; you're another. Sir Critic, good-day!"

And the barber kept on shaving.

James Thomas Fields [1816-1881]

THE BALLAD OF IMITATION

C'est imiter quelqu'un que de planter des choux.--Alfred De Musset

If they hint, O Musician, the piece that you played

Is naught but a copy of Chopin or Spohr;

That the ballad you sing is but merely "conveyed"

From the stock of the Ames and the Purcells of yore;

That there's nothing, in short, in the words or the score,

That is not as out-worn as the "Wandering Jew";

Make answer--Beethoven could scarcely do more--

That the man who plants cabbages imitates, too!

If they tell you, Sir Artist, your light and your shade

Are simply "adapted" from other men's lore;

That--plainly to speak of a "spade" as a "spade"--

You've "stolen" your grouping from three or from four;

That (however the writer the truth may deplore),

'Twas Gainsborough painted your "Little Boy Blue";

Smile only serenely--though cut to the core--

For the man who plants cabbages imitates, too!

And you too, my Poet, be never dismayed

If they whisper your Epic--"Sir Eperon d'Or"--

Is nothing but Tennyson thinly arrayed

In a tissue that's taken from Morris's store;

That no one, in fact, but a child could ignore

That you "lift" or "accommodate" all that you do;

Take heart--though your Pegasus' withers be sore--

For the man who plants cabbages imitates, too!

POSTCRIPTUM.--And you, whom we all so adore,

Dear Critics, whose verdicts are always so new!--

One word in your ear. There were Critics before....

And the man who plants cabbages imitates, too!

Austin Dobson [1840-1921]

THE CONUNDRUM OF THE WORKSHOPS

When the flush of a new-born sun fell first on Eden's green and gold,

Our father Adam sat under the Tree and scratched with a stick in

the mould;

And the first rude sketch that the world had seen was joy to

his mighty heart,

Till the Devil whispered behind the leaves: "It's pretty, but is it Art?"

Wherefore he called to his wife, and fled to fashion his work anew--

The first of his race who cared a fig for the first, most dread review;

And he left his lore to the use of his sons--and that was a glorious gain

When the Devil chuckled: "Is it Art?" in the ear of the branded Cain.

They builded a tower to shiver the sky and wrench the stars apart,

Till the Devil grunted behind the bricks: "It's striking, but is it Art?"

The stone was dropped at the quarry-side and the idle derrick swung,

While each man talked of the aims of Art, and each in an alien tongue.

They fought and they talked in the North and the South, they talked

and they fought in the West,

Till the waters rose on the pitiful land, and the poor Red Clay had rest--

Had rest till that dank, blank-canvas dawn when the dove was

preened to start,

And the Devil bubbled below the keel: "It's human, but is it Art?"

The tale is as old as the Eden Tree--and new as the new-cut tooth--

For each man knows ere his lip-thatch grows he is master

of Art and Truth;

And each man hears as the twilight nears, to the beat of his dying heart,

The Devil drum on the darkened pane: "You did it, but was it Art?"

We have learned to whittle the Eden Tree to the shape of a surplice-peg,

We have learned to bottle our-parents twain in the yelk of an addled egg,

We know that the tail must wag the dog, for the horse is drawn

by the cart;

But the Devil whoops, as he whooped of old: "It's clever, but is it Art?"

When the flicker of London sun falls faint on the clubroom's

green and gold,

The sons of Adam sit them down and scratch with their pens in the mould--

They scratch with their pens in the mould of their graves,

and the ink and the anguish start,

For the Devil mutters behind the leaves: "It's pretty, but is it Art?"

Now, if we could win to the Eden Tree where the Four Great Rivers flow,

And the Wreath of Eve is red on the turf as she left it long ago,

And if we could come when the sentry slept, and softly scurry through,

By the favor of God we might know as much--as our father Adam knew.

Rudyard Kipling [1865-1936]

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 worshipped; 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 home 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 charming vaws!"

Dies erit praegelida

Sinistra quum Bostonia.

James Jeffrey Roche [1847-1908]

HEM AND HAW

Hem and Haw were the sons of sin,

Created to shally and shirk;

Hem lay 'round and Haw looked on

While God did all the work.

Hem was a fogy, and Haw was a prig,

For both had the dull, dull mind;

And whenever they found a thing to do,

They yammered and went it blind.

Hem was the father of bigots and bores;

As the sands of the sea were they.

And Haw was the father of all the tribe

Who criticise to-day.

But God was an artist from the first,

And knew what he was about;

While over his shoulder sneered these two,

And advised him to rub it out.

They prophesied ruin ere man was made:

"Such folly must surely fail!"

And when he was done, "Do you think, my Lord,

He's better without a tail?"

And still in the honest working world,

With posture and hint and smirk,

These sons of the devil are standing by

While Man does all the work.

They balk endeavor and baffle reform,

In the sacred name of law;

And over the quavering voice of Hem,

Is the droning voice of Haw.

Bliss Carman [1861-1929]

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 medieval grace

Of iron clothing.

Miniver scorned the gold he sought,

But sore annoyed was he 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 [1869-1935]

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' clumb 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--everythin' went ag'in him,

The arrers er 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-clumb--

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' 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 [1858-1911]

A CONSERVATIVE

The garden beds I wandered by

One bright and cheerful morn,

When I found a new-fledged butterfly,

A-sitting on a thorn,

A black and crimson butterfly,

All doleful and forlorn.

I thought that life could have no sting

To infant butterflies,

So I gazed on this unhappy thing

With wonder and surprise,

While sadly with his waving wing

He wiped his weeping eyes.

Said I, "What can the matter be?

Why weepest thou so sore?

With garden fair and sunlight free

And flowers in goodly store:"--

But he only turned away from me

And burst into a roar.

Cried he, "My legs are thin and few

Where once I had a swarm!

Soft fuzzy fur--a joy to view--

Once kept my body warm,

Before these flapping wing-things grew,

To hamper and deform!"

At that outrageous bug I shot

The fury of mine eye;

Said I, in scorn all burning hot,

In rage and anger high,

"You ignominious idiot!

Those wings are made to fly!

'I do not want to fly," said he,

"I only want to squirm!"

And he drooped his wings dejectedly,

But still his voice was firm:

"I do not want to be a fly!

I want to be a worm!"

O yesterday of unknown lack!

To-day of unknown bliss!

I left my fool in red and black,

The last I saw was this,--

The creature madly climbing back

Into his chrysalis.

Charlotte Perkins Stetson Gilman [1860-1935]

SIMILAR CASES

There was once a little animal,

No bigger than a fox,

And on five toes he scampered

Over Tertiary rocks.

They called him Eohippus,

And they called him very small,

And they thought him of no value--

When they thought of him at all;

For the lumpish old Dinoceras

And Coryphodon so slow

Were the heavy aristocracy

In days of long ago.

Said the little Eohippus,

"I am going to be a horse!

And on my middle finger-nails

To run my earthly course!

I'm going to have a flowing tail!

I'm going to have a mane!

I'm going to stand fourteen hands high

On the psychozoic plain!"

The Coryphodon was horrified,

The Dinoceras was shocked;

And they chased young Eohippus,

But he skipped away and mocked.

And they laughed enormous laughter,

And they groaned enormous groans,

And they bade young Eohippus

Go view his father's bones.

Said they, "You always were as small

And mean as now we see,

And that's conclusive evidence

That you're always going to be.

What! Be a great, tall, handsome beast,

With hoofs to gallop on?

Why! You'd have to change your nature!"

Said the Loxolophodon.

They considered him disposed of,

And retired with gait serene;

That was the way they argued

In "the early Eocene."

There was once an Anthropoidal Ape,

Far smarter than the rest,

And everything that they could do

He always did the best;

So they naturally disliked him,

And they gave him shoulders cool,

And when they had to mention him

They said he was a fool.

Cried this pretentious Ape one day,

"I'm going to be a Man!

And stand upright, and hunt, and fight,

And conquer all I can!

I'm going to cut down forest trees,

To make my houses higher!

I'm going to kill the Mastodon!

I'm going to make a fire!"

Loud screamed the Anthropoidal Apes

With laughter wild and gay;

They tried to catch that boastful one,

But he always got away.

So they yelled at him in chorus,

Which he minded not a whit;

And they pelted him with cocoanuts,

Which didn't seem to hit.

And then they gave him reasons

Which they thought of much avail,

To prove how his preposterous

Attempt was sure to fail.

Said the sages, "In the first place,

The thing cannot be done!

And, second, if it could be,

It would not be any fun!

And, third, and most conclusive,

And admitting no reply,

You would have to change your nature!

We should like to see you try!"

They chuckled then triumphantly,

These lean and hairy shapes,

For these things passed as arguments

With the Anthropoidal Apes.

There was once a Neolithic Man,

An enterprising wight,

Who made his chopping implements

Unusually bright.

Unusually clever he,

Unusually brave,

And he drew delightful Mammoths

On the borders of his cave.

To his Neolithic neighbors,

Who were startled and surprised,

Said he, "My friends, in course of time,

We shall be civilized!

We are going to live in cities!

We are going to fight in wars!

We are going to eat three times a day

Without the natural cause!

We are going to turn life upside down

About a thing called gold!

We are going to want the earth, and take

As much as we can hold!

We are going to wear great piles of stuff

Outside our proper skins!

We are going to have diseases!

And Accomplishments!! And Sins!!!"

Then they all rose up in fury

Against their boastful friend,

For prehistoric patience

Cometh quickly to an end.

Said one, "This is chimerical!

Utopian! Absurd!"

Said another, "What a stupid life!

Too dull, upon my word!"

Cried all, "Before such things can come,

You idiotic child,

You must alter Human Nature!"

And they all sat back and smiled.

Thought they, "An answer to that last

It will be hard to find!"

It was a clinching argument

To the Neolithic Mind!

Charlotte Perkins Stetson Gilman [1860-1935]

MAN AND THE ASCIDIAN

A Morality

"The Ancestor remote of Man,"

Says Darwin, "is the Ascidian,"

A scanty sort of water-beast

That, ninety million years at least

Before Gorillas came to be,

Went swimming up and down the sea.

Their ancestors the pious praise,

And like to imitate their ways;

How, then, does our first parent live,

What lesson has his life to give?

The Ascidian tadpole, young and gay,

Doth Life with one bright eye survey,

His consciousness has easy play.

He's sensitive to grief and pain,

Has tail, a spine, and bears a brain,

And everything that fits the state

Of creatures we call vertebrate.

But age comes on; with sudden shock

He sticks his head against a rock!

His tail drops off, his eye drops in,

His brain's absorbed into his skin;

He does not move, nor feel, nor know

The tidal water's ebb and flow,

But still abides, unstirred, alone,

A sucker sticking to a stone.

And we, his children, truly we

In youth are, like the Tadpole, free.

And where we would we blithely go,

Have brains and hearts, and feel and know.

Then Age comes on! To Habit we

Affix ourselves and are not free;

The Ascidian's rooted to a rock,

And we are bond-slaves of the clock;

Our rocks are Medicine--Letters--Law,

From these our heads we cannot draw:

Our loves drop off, our hearts drop in,

And daily thicker grows our skin.

Ah, scarce we live, we scarcely know

The wide world's moving ebb and flow,

The clanging currents ring and shock,

But we are rooted to the rock.

And thus at ending of his span,

Blind, deaf, and indolent, does Man

Revert to the Ascidian.

Andrew Lang [1844-1912]

THE CALF-PATH

One day, through the primeval wood,

A calf walked home, as good calves should;

But made a trail all bent askew,

A crooked trail as all calves do.

Since then two hundred years have fled,

And, I infer, the calf is dead.

But still he left behind his trail,

And thereby hangs my moral tale.

The trail was taken up next day

By a lone dog that passed that way;

And then a wise bell-wether sheep

Pursued the trail o'er vale and steep,

And drew the flock behind him, too,

As good bell-wethers always do.

And from that day, o'er hill and glade,

Through those old woods a path was made;

And many men wound in and out,

And dodged, and turned, and bent about

And uttered words of righteous wrath

Because 'twas such a crooked path.

But still they followed--do not laugh--

The first migrations of that calf,

And through this winding wood-way stalked,

Because he wobbled when he walked.

This forest path became a lane,

That bent, and turned, and turned again;

This crooked lane became a road,

Where many a poor horse with his load

Toiled on beneath the burning sun,

And traveled some three miles in one.

And thus a century and a half

They trod the footsteps of that calf.

The years passed on in swiftness fleet,

The road became a village street;

And this, before men were aware,

A city's crowded thoroughfare;

And soon the central street was this

Of a renowned metropolis;

And men two centuries and a half

Trod in the footsteps of that calf.

Each day a hundred thousand rout

Followed the zigzag calf about;

And o'er his crooked journey went

The traffic of a continent.

A hundred thousand men were led

By one calf near three centuries dead.

They followed still his crooked way,

And lost one hundred years a day;

For thus such reverence is lent

To well-established precedent.

A moral lesson this might teach,

Were I ordained and called to preach;

For men are prone to go it blind

Along the calf-paths of the mind,

And work away from sun to sun

To do what other men have done.

They follow in the beaten track,

And out and in, and forth and back,

And still their devious course pursue,

To keep the path that others do.

But how the wise old wood-gods laugh,

Who saw the first primeval calf!

Ah! many things this tale might teach,--

But I am not ordained to preach.

Sam Walter Foss [1858-1911]

WEDDED BLISS

"O come and be my mate!" said the Eagle to the Hen;

"I love to soar, but then

I want my mate to rest

Forever in the nest!"

Said the Hen, I cannot fly,

I have no wish to try,

But I joy to see my mate careering through the sky!"

They wed, and cried, "Ah, this is Love, my own!"

And the Hen sat, and the Eagle soared, alone.

"O come and be my mate!" said the Lion to the Sheep;

"My love for you is deep!

I slay,--a Lion should,--

But you are mild and good!"

Said the Sheep, "I do no ill--

Could not, had I the will--

But I joy to see my mate pursue, devour and kill."

They wed, and cried, "Ah, this is Love, my own!"

And the Sheep browsed, the Lion prowled, alone.

"O come and be my mate!" said the Salmon to the Clam;

"You are not wise, but I am.

I know the sea and stream as well;

You know nothing but your shell."

Said the Clam, "I'm slow of motion,

But my love is all devotion,

And I joy to have my mate traverse lake and stream and ocean!"

They wed, and cried, "Ah, this is Love, my own!"

And the Clam sucked, the Salmon swam, alone.

Charlotte Perkins Stetson Gilman [1860-1935}

PARADISE: A HINDOO LEGEND

A Hindoo died; a happy thing to do,

When fifty years united to a shrew.

Released, he hopefully for entrance cries

Before the gates of Brahma's paradise.

"Hast been through purgatory?" Brahma said.

"I have been married!" and he hung his head.

"Come in! come in! and welcome, too, my son!

Marriage and purgatory are as one."

In bliss extreme he entered heaven's door,

And knew the peace he ne'er had known before.

He scarce had entered in the gardens fair,

Another Hindoo asked admission there.

The self-same question Brahma asked again:

"Hast been through purgatory?" "No; what then?"

"Thou canst not enter!" did the god reply.

"He who went in was there no more than I."

"All that is true, but he has married been,

And so on earth has suffered for all his sin."

"Married? Tis well, for I've been married twice."

"Begone! We'll have no fools, in paradise!"

George Birdseye [1844-1919]

AD CHLOEN, M. A.

(Fresh From Her Cambridge Examination)

Lady, very fair are you,

And your eyes are very blue,

And your hose;

And your brow is like the snow,

And the various things you know

Goodness knows.

And the rose-flush on your cheek,

And your algebra and Greek

Perfect are;

And that loving lustrous eye

Recognizes in the sky

Every star.

You have pouting piquant lips,

You can doubtless an eclipse

Calculate;

But for your cerulean hue,

I had certainly from you

Met my fate.

If by an arrangement dual

I were Adams mixed with Whewell,

Then some day

I, as wooer, perhaps might come

To so sweet an Artium

Magistra.

Mortimer Collins [1827-1876]

"AS LIKE THE WOMAN AS YOU CAN"

"As like the Woman as you can"--

(Thus the New Adam was beguiled)--

"So shall you touch the Perfect Man"--

(God in the Garden heard and smiled).

"Your father perished with his day:

A clot of passions fierce and blind,

He fought, he hacked, he crushed his way:

Your muscles, Child, must be of mind.

"The Brute that lurks and irks within,

How, till you have him gagged and bound,

Escape the foulest form of Sin?"

(God in the Garden laughed and frowned).

"So vile, so rank, the bestial mood

In which the race is bid to be,

It wrecks the Rarer Womanhood:

Live, therefore, you, for Purity!

"Take for your mate no gallant croup,

No girl all grace and natural will:

To work her mission were to stoop,

Maybe to lapse, from Well to Ill.

Choose one of whom your grosser make"--

(God in the Garden laughed outright)--

"The true refining touch may take,

Till both attain to Life's last height.

"There, equal, purged of soul and sense,

Beneficent, high-thinking, just,

Beyond the appeal of Violence,

Incapable of common Lust,

In mental Marriage still prevail"--

(God in the Garden hid His face)--

"Till you achieve that Female-Male

In which shall culminate the race."

William Ernest Henley [1849-1903]

"NO FAULT IN WOMEN"

No fault in women to refuse

The offer which they most would choose:

No fault in women to confess

How tedious they are in their dress:

No fault in women to lay on

The tincture of vermilion,

And there to give the cheek a dye

Of white, where Nature doth deny:

No fault in women to make show

Of largeness, when they're nothing so;

When, true it is, the outside swells

With inward buckram, little else:

No fault in women, though they be

But seldom from suspicion free:

No fault in womankind at all,

If they but slip, and never fall.

Robert Herrick [1591-1674]

"ARE WOMEN FAIR?"

"Are women fair?" Ay! wondrous fair to see too.

"Are women sweet?" Yea, passing sweet they be too;

Most fair and sweet to them that only love them;

Chaste and discreet to all save those that prove them.

"Are women wise?" Not wise, but they be witty.

"Are women witty?" Yea, the more the pity;

They are so witty, and in wit so wily,

That be you ne'er so wise, they will beguile ye.

"Are women fools?" Not fools, but fondlings many.

"Can women found be faithful unto any?"

When snow-white swans do turn to color sable,

Then women fond will be both firm and stable.

"Are women saints?" No saints, nor yet no devils.

"Are women good?" Not good, but needful evils;

So Angel-like, that devils I do not doubt them;

So needful evils, that few can live without them.

"Are women proud?" Ay! passing proud, and praise them.

"Are women kind?" Ay! wondrous kind and please them,

Or so imperious, no man can endure them,

Or so kind-hearted, any may procure them.

Francis Davison (?) [fl. 1602]

A STRONG HAND

Tender-handed stroke a nettle,

And it stings you for your pains;

Grasp it like a lad of mettle,

And it soft as silk remains:

So it is with these fair creatures,

Use them kindly, they rebel;

But be rough as nutmeg graters,

And the rogues obey you well.

Aaron Hill [1685-1750]

WOMEN'S LONGING

From "Women Pleased"

Tell me what is that only thing

For which all women long;

Yet, having what they most desire,

To have it does them wrong?

'Tis not to be chaste, nor fair,

(Such gifts malice may impair),

Richly trimmed, to walk or ride,

Or to wanton unespied,

To preserve an honest name

And so to give it up to fame--

These are toys. In good or ill

They desire to have their will:

Yet, when they have it, they abuse it,

For they know not how to use it.

John Fletcher [1579-1625]

TRIOLET

All women born are so perverse

No man need boast their love possessing.

If naught seem better, nothing's worse:

All women born are so perverse.

From Adam's wife, that proved a curse,

Though God had made her for a blessing,

All women born are so perverse

No man need boast their love possessing.

Robert Bridges [1844-1930]

THE FAIR CIRCASSIAN

Forty Viziers saw I go

Up to the Seraglio,

Burning, each and every man,

For the fair Circassian.

Ere the morn had disappeared,

Every Vizier wore a beard;

Ere the afternoon was born,

Every Vizier came back shorn.

"Let the man that woos to win

Woo with an unhairy chin;"

Thus she said, and as she bid

Each devoted Vizier did.

From the beards a cord she made,

Looped it to the balustrade,

Glided down and went away

To her own Circassia.

When the Sultan heard, waxed he

Somewhat wroth, and presently

In the noose themselves did lend

Every Vizier did suspend.

Sages all, this rhyme who read,

Guard your beards with prudent heed,

And beware the wily plans

Of the fair Circassians.

Richard Garnett [1835-1906]

THE FEMALE PHAETON

Thus Kitty, beautiful and young,

And wild as colt untamed,

Bespoke the fair from whence she sprung,

With little rage inflamed:

Inflamed with rage at sad restraint,

Which wise mamma ordained;

And sorely vexed to play the saint,

Whilst wit and beauty reigned:

"Shall I thumb holy books, confined

With Abigails, forsaken?

Kitty's for other things designed,

Or I am much mistaken.

"Must Lady Jenny frisk about,

And visit with her cousins?

At balls must she make all the rout,

And bring home hearts by dozens?

"What has she better, pray, than I,

What hidden charms to boast,

That all mankind for her should die,

Whilst I am scarce a toast?

"Dearest mamma! for once let me,

Unchained, my fortune try;

I'll have my earl as well as she,

Or know the reason why.

"I'll soon with Jenny's pride quit score,

Make all her lovers fall:

They'll grieve I was not loosed before;

She, I was loosed at all."

Fondness prevailed, mamma gave way;

Kitty, at heart's desire,

Obtained the chariot for a day,

And set the world on fire.

Matthew Prior [1664-1721]

THE LURE

"What bait do you use," said a Saint to the Devil,

"When you fish where the souls of men abound?"

"Well, for special tastes," said the King of Evil,

"Gold and Fame are the best I've found."

"But for general use?" asked the Saint. "Ah, then,"

Said the Demon, "I angle for Man, not men,

And a thing I hate

Is to change my bait,

So I fish with a woman the whole year round."

John Boyle O'Reilly [1844-1890]

THE FEMALE OF THE SPECIES

When the Himalayan peasant meets the he-bear in his pride,

He shouts to scare the monster, who will often turn aside;

But the she-bear thus accosted rends the peasant tooth and nail,

For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

When Nag, the wayside cobra, hears the careless foot of man,

He will sometimes wriggle sideways and avoid it if he can;

But his mate makes no such motion where she camps beside the trail,

For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

When the early Jesuit fathers preached to Hurons and Choctaws,

They prayed to be delivered from the vengeance of the squaws.

'Twas the women, not the warriors, turned those stark enthusiasts pale,

For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

Man's timid heart is bursting with the things he must not say,

For the Woman that God gave him isn't his to give away;

But when hunter meets with husband, each confirms the other's tale--

The female of the species is more deadly than the male.

Man, a bear in most relations--worm and savage otherwise,--

Man propounds negotiations, Man accepts the compromise.

Very rarely will he squarely push the logic of a fact

To its ultimate conclusion in unmitigated act.

Fear, or foolishness, impels him, ere he lay the wicked low,

To concede some form of trial even to his fiercest foe.

Mirth obscene diverts his anger--Doubt and Pity oft perplex

Him in dealing with an issue--to the scandal of The Sex!

But the Woman that God gave him, every fibre of her frame

Proves her launched for one sole issue, armed and engined for the same;

And to serve that single issue, lest the generations fail,

The female of the species must be deadlier than the male.

She who faces Death by torture for each life beneath her breast

May not deal in doubt or pity--must not swerve for fact or jest.

These be purely male diversions--not in these her honor dwells.

She, the Other Law we live by, is that Law and nothing else.

She can bring no more to living than the powers that make her great

As the Mother of the Infant and the Mistress of the Mate;

And when Babe and Man are lacking and she strides unclaimed to claim

Her right as femme (and baron), her equipment is the same.

She is wedded to convictions--in default of grosser ties;

Her contentions are her children, Heaven help him who denies!--

He will meet no cool discussion, but the instant, white-hot, wild,

Wakened female of the species warring as for spouse and child.

Unprovoked and awful charges--even so the she-bear fights;

Speech that drips, corrodes, and poisons--even so the cobra bites;

Scientific vivisection of one nerve till it is raw

And the victim writhes in anguish--like the Jesuit with the squaw!

So it comes that Man, the coward, when he gathers to confer

With his fellow-braves in council, dare not leave a place for her

Where, at war with Life and Conscience, he uplifts his erring hands

To some God of Abstract Justice--which no woman understands.

And Man knows it! Knows, moreover, that the Woman that God gave him

Must command but may not govern--shall enthral but not enslave him.

And She knows, because She warns him, and Her instincts never fail,

That the Female of Her Species is more deadly than the Male.

Rudyard Kipling [1865-1936]

THE WOMAN WITH THE SERPENT'S TONGUE

She is not old, she is not young,

The woman with the Serpent's Tongue,

The haggard cheek, the hungering eye,

The poisoned words that wildly fly,

The famished face, the fevered hand,--

Who slights the worthiest in the land,

Sneers at the just, contemns the brave,

And blackens goodness in its grave.

In truthful numbers be she sung,

The Woman with the Serpent's Tongue;

Concerning whom, Fame hints at things

Told but in shrugs and whisperings:

Ambitious from her natal hour,

And scheming all her life for power;

With little left of seemly pride;

With venomed fangs she cannot hide;

Who half makes love to you to-day,

To-morrow gives her guest away.

Burnt up within by that strange soul

She cannot slake, or yet control:

Malignant-lipped, unkind, unsweet;

Past all example indiscreet;

Hectic, and always overstrung,--

The Woman with the Serpent's Tongue.

To think that such as she can mar

Names that among the noblest are!

That hands like hers can touch the springs

That move who knows what men and things?

That on her will their fates have hung!--

The Woman with the Serpent's Tongue.

William Watson [1858-1935]

SUPPOSE

How sad if, by some strange new law,

All kisses scarred!

For she who is most beautiful

Would be most marred.

And we might be surprised to see

Some lovely wife

Smooth-visaged, while a seeming prude

Was marked for life.

Anne Reeve Aldrich [1866-1892]

TOO CANDID BY HALF

As Tom and his wife were discoursing one day

Of their several faults in a bantering way,

Said she, "Though my wit you disparage,

I'm sure, my dear husband, our friends will attest

This much, at the least, that my judgment is best."

Quoth Tom, "So they said at our marriage."

John Godfrey Saxe [1816-1887]

FABLE

The mountain and the squirrel

Had a quarrel,

And the former called the latter "Little Prig;"

Bun replied,

"You are doubtless very big;

But all sorts of things and weather

Must be taken in together,

To make up a year

And a sphere.

And I think it no disgrace

To occupy my place.

If I'm not so large as you,

You are not so small as I,

And not half so spry.

I'll not deny you make

A very pretty squirrel track;

Talents differ; all is well and wisely put;

If I cannot carry forests on thy back,

Neither can you crack a nut.

Ralph Waldo Emerson [1803-1882]

WOMAN'S WILL

That man's a fool who tries by art and skill

To stem the torrent of a woman's will:

For if she will, she will; you may depend on't--

And if she won't, she won't--and there's an end on't.

Unknown

WOMAN'S WILL

Men, dying, make their wills, but wives

Escape a task so sad;

Why should they make what all their lives

The gentle dames have had?

John Godfrey Saxe [1816-1887]

PLAYS

Alas, how soon the hours are over

Counted us out to play the lover!

And how much narrower is the stage

Allotted us to play the sage!

But when we play the fool, how wide

The theatre expands! beside,

How long the audience sits before us!

How many prompters! what a chorus!

Walter Savage Landor [1775-1864]

THE 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 warmed the politician,

Cured yesterday of my disease,

I died last night of my physician.

Matthew Prior [1664-1721]

THE NET OF LAW

The net of law is spread so wide,

No sinner from its sweep may hide.

Its meshes are so fine and strong,

They take in every child of wrong.

O wondrous web of mystery!

Big fish alone escape from thee!

James Jeffrey Roche [1847-1908]

COLOGNE

In Koln, 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 several 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 [1772-1834]

EPITAPH ON CHARLES II

Here lies our Sovereign Lord the King,

Whose word no man relies on,

Who never said a foolish thing,

Nor ever did a wise one.

John Wilmot [1647-1680]

CERTAIN MAXIMS OF HAFIZ

I

If It be pleasant to look on, stalled in the packed serai,

Does not the Young Man try Its temper and pace ere he buy?

If She be pleasant to look on, what does the Young Man say?

"Lo! She is pleasant to look on, give Her to me today!"

II

Yea, though a Kaffir die, to him is remitted Jehannum

If he borrowed in life from a native at sixty per cent per annum.

III

Blister we not for bursati? So when the heart is vexed,

The pain of one maiden's refusal is drowned in the pain of the next.

IV

The temper of chums, the love of your wife, and a new piano's tune--

Which of the three will you trust at the end of an Indian June?

V

Who are the rulers of Ind--to whom shall we bow the knee?

Make your peace with the women, and men will make you L. G.

VI

Does the woodpecker flit round the young ferash?

Does the grass clothe a new-built wall?

Is she under thirty, the woman who holds a boy in her thrall?

VI

If She grow suddenly gracious--reflect. Is it all for thee?

The black-buck is stalked through the bullock, and Man through jealousy.

VIII

Seek not for favor of women. So shall you find it indeed.

Does not the boar break cover just when you're lighting a weed?

IX

If He play, being young and unskilful, for shekels of silver and gold,

Take His money, my son, praising Allah. The kid was ordained to be sold.

X

With a "weed" among men or horses verily this is the best,

That you work him in office or dog-cart lightly--but give him no rest.

XI

Pleasant the snaffle of Courtship, improving the manners and carriage;

But the colt who is wise will abstain from the terrible thornbit

of Marriage.

XII

As the thriftless gold of the babul, so is the gold that we spend

On a Derby Sweep, or our neighbor's wife, or the horse that we buy

from a friend.

XIII

The ways of a man with a maid be strange, yet simple and tame

To the ways of a man with a horse, when selling or racing that same.

XIV

In public Her face turneth to thee, and pleasant Her smile when ye meet.

It is ill. The cold rocks of El-Gidar smile thus on the waves at

their feet.

In public Her face is averted, with anger She nameth thy name.

It is well. Was there ever a loser content with the loss of the game?

XV

If She have spoken a word, remember thy lips are sealed,

And the Brand of the Dog is upon him by whom is the secret revealed.

If She have written a letter, delay not an instant, but burn it.

Tear it in pieces, O Fool, and the wind to her mate shall return it!

If there be trouble to Herward, and a lie of the blackest can clear,

Lie, while thy lips can move or a man is alive to hear.

XVI

My Son, if a maiden deny thee and scufflingly bid thee give o'er,

Yet lip meets with lip at the lastward--get out!

She has been there before.

They are pecked on the ear and the chin and the nose

who are lacking in lore.

XVII

If we fall in the race, though we win, the hoof-slide is scarred

on the course.

Though Allah and Earth pardon Sin, remaineth forever Remorse.

XVIII

"By all I am misunderstood!" if the Matron shall say, or the Maid:--

"Alas! I do not understand," my son, be thou nowise afraid.

In vain in the sight of the Bird is the net of the Fowler displayed.

XIX

My Son, if I, Hafiz, thy father, take hold of thy knees in my pain,

Demanding thy name on stamped paper, one day or one hour--refrain.

Are the links of thy fetters so light that thou cravest

another man's chain?

Rudyard Kipling [1865-1936]

A BAKER'S DUZZEN UV WIZE SAWZ

Them ez wants, must choose.

Them ez hez, must lose.

Them ez knows, won't blab.

Them ez guesses, will gab.

Them ez borrows, sorrows.

Them ez lends, spends.

Them ez gives, lives.

Them ez keeps dark, is deep.

Them ez kin earn; kin keep.

Them ez aims, hits.

Them ez hez, gits.

Them ez waits, win.

Them ez will, kin.

Edward Rowland Sill [1841-1887]

EPIGRAMS

What is an epigram? a dwarfish whole,

Its body brevity, and wit its soul.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge [1772-1834]

---------------

As in smooth oil the razor best is whet,

So wit is by politeness sharpest set;

Their want of edge from their offence is seen,

Both pain the heart when exquisitely keen.

Unknown

---------------

"I hardly ever ope my lips," one cries;

"Simonides, what think you of my rule?"

"If you're a fool, I think you're very wise;

If you are wise, I think you are a fool."

Richard Garnett [1835-1906]

---------------

Philosopher, whom dost thou most affect,

Stoics austere, or Epicurus' sect?

Friend, 'tis my grave infrangible design

With those to study, and with these to dine.

Richard Garnett [1835-1906]

---------------

Joy is the blossom, sorrow is the fruit,

Of human life; and worms are at the root.

Walter Savage Landor [1775-1864]

---------------

No truer word, save God's, was ever spoken,

Than that the largest heart is soonest broken.

Walter Savage Landor [1775-1864]

---------------

This house, where once a lawyer dwelt,

Is now a smith's. Alas!

How rapidly the iron age

Succeeds the age of brass!

William Erskine [1769-1822]

---------------

"I would," says Fox, "a tax devise

That shall not fall on me."

"Then tax receipts," Lord North replies,

"For those you never see."

Richard Brinsley Sheridan [1751-1816]

---------------

You beat your pate, and fancy wit will come.

Knock as you please,--there's nobody at home.

Alexander Pope [1688-1744]

---------------

If a man who turnips cries

Cry not when his father dies,

'Tis a proof that he would rather

Have a turnip than a father.

Samuel Johnson [1709-1784]

---------------

Life is a jest, and all things show it;

I said so once, and now I know it.

John Gay [1685-1732]

---------------

I am his Highness' dog at Kew.

Pray, sir, tell me,--whose dog are you?

Alexander Pope [1688-1744]

---------------

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.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge [1772-1834]

---------------

Damis, an author cold and weak,

Thinks as a critic he's divine;

Likely enough; we often make

Good vinegar of sorry wine.

Unknown

---------------

Swans sing before they die--'twere no bad thing

Did certain persons die before they sing.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge [1772-1834]

---------------

He who in his pocket hath no money

Should, in his mouth, be never without honey.

Unknown

---------------

Nobles and heralds, by your leave,

Here lies what once was Matthew Prior,

The son of Adam and of Eve;

Can Bourbon or Nassau claim higher?

Matthew Prior [1664-1721]

---------------

Here lie I, Martin Elginbrodde;

Hae mercy o' my soul, Lord God,

As I wad do were I Lord God,

And ye were Martin Elginbrodde.

George Macdonald [1824-1905]

---------------

Who killed Kildare? Who dared Kildare to kill?

Death killed Kildare--who dare kill whom he will.

Jonathan Swift [1667-1745]

---------------

With death doomed to grapple,

Beneath the cold slab he

Who lied in the chapel

Now lies in the abbey.

Byron's epitaph for Pitt

---------------

When doctrines meet with general approbation,

It is not heresy, but reformation.

David Garrick [1717-1779]

---------------

Treason doth never prosper; what's the reason?

Why, if it prosper, none dare call it treason.

John Harington [1561-1612]

---------------

God bless the King--I mean the faith's defender!

God bless (no harm in blessing!) the Pretender!

But who pretender is, or who is King--

God bless us all!--that's quite another thing.

John Byrom [1692-1763]

---------------

'Tis highly rational, we can't dispute,

The Love, being naked, should promote a suit:

But doth not oddity to him attach

Whose fire's so oft extinguished by a match?

Richard Garnett [1835-1906]

---------------

"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 [1779-1852]

---------------

When Eve upon the first of men

The apple pressed with specious cant,

O, what a thousand pities then

That Adam was not Adam-ant!

Thomas Moore [1779-1852]

---------------

Whilst Adam slept, Eve from his side arose:

Strange! his first sleep should be his last repose!

Unknown

---------------

"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 [1772-1834]

---------------

Here lies my wife: here let her lie!

Now she's at rest, and so am I.

John Dryden [1631-1700]

---------------

After such years of dissension and strife,

Some wonder that Peter should weep for his wife;

But his tears on her grave are nothing surprising,--

He's laying her dust, for fear of its rising.

Thomas Hood [1799-1845]

WRITTEN ON A LOOKING-GLASS

I change, and so do women too;

But I reflect, which women never do.

Unknown

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 THE ARISTOCRACY OF HARVARD

And this is good old Boston,

The home of the bean and the cod,

Where the Lowells talk to the Cabots

And the Cabots talk only to God.

John Collins Bossidy [1860-1928]

ON THE DEMOCRACY OF YALE

Here's to the town of New Haven,

The home of the Truth and the Light,

Where God talks to Jones in the very same tones

That He uses with Hadley and Dwight!

Frederick Scheetz Jones [1862-

A GENERAL SUMMARY

We are very slightly changed

From the semi-apes who ranged

India's prehistoric clay;

Whoso drew the longest bow,

Ran his brother down, you know,

As we run men down to-day.

"Dowb," the first of all his race,

Met the Mammoth face to face

On the lake or in the cave,

Stole the steadiest canoe,

Ate the quarry others slew,

Died--and took the finest grave.

When they scratched the reindeer-bone,

Someone made the sketch his own,

Filched it from the artist--then,

Even in those early days,

Won a simple Viceroy's praise

Through the toil of other men.

Ere they hewed the Sphinx's visage,

Favoritism governed kissage,

Even as it does in this age.

Who shall doubt "the secret hid

Under Cheops' pyramid"

Was that the contractor did

Cheops out of several millions?

Or that Joseph's sudden rise

To Comptroller of Supplies

Was a fraud of monstrous size

On King Pharaoh's swart Civilians?

Thus, the artless songs I sing

Do not deal with anything

New or never said before.

As it was in the beginning,

Is to-day official sinning,

And shall be for evermore!

Rudyard Kipling [1865-1936]

THE MIMICS

AN OMAR FOR LADIES

I

One for her Club and her own Latch-key fights,

Another wastes in Study her good Nights.

Ah, take the Clothes and let the Culture go,

Nor heed the grumble of the Women's Rights!

Look at the Shop-girl all about us--"Lo,

The Wages of a month," she says, "I blow

Into a Hat, and when my hair is waved,

Doubtless my Friend will take me to the Show."

And she who saved her coin for Flannels red,

And she who caught Pneumonia instead,

Will both be Underground in Fifty Years,

And Prudence pays no Premium to the dead.

Th' exclusive Style you set your heart upon

Gets to the Bargain counters--and anon,

Like monograms on a Saleslady's tie,

Cheers but a moment--soon for you 'tis gone.

Think, in the sad Four Hundred's gilded halls,

Whose endless Leisure ev'n themselves appalls,

How Ping-pong raged so high--then faded out

To those far Suburbs that still chase its Balls.

They say Sixth Avenue and the Bowery keep

The dernier cri that once was far from cheap;

Green veils, one season chic--Department stores

Mark down in vain--no profit shall they reap.

II

I sometimes think that never lasts so long

The Style as when it starts a bit too strong;

That all the Pompadours the parterre boasts

Some Chorus-girl began, with Dance and Song.

And this Revival of the Chignon low

That fills the most of us with helpless Woe,

Ah, criticise it Softly! for who knows

What long-necked Peeress had to wear it so!

Ah, my beloved, try each Style you meet;

To-day brooks no loose ends, you must be neat.

Tomorrow! why tomorrow you may be

Wearing it down your back like Marguerite!

For some we once admired, the Very Best

That ever a French hand-boned Corset prest,

Wore what they used to call Prunella Boots,

And put on Nightcaps ere they went to rest.

And we that now make fun of Waterfalls

They wore, and whom their Crinoline appalls,

Ourselves shall from old dusty Fashion plates

Assist our Children in their Costume balls.

Ah, make the most of what we yet may wear,

Before we grow so old that we don't care!

Before we have our Hats made all alike,

Sans Plumes, sans Wings, sans Chiffon, and--sans Hair!

III

Alike to her who Dines both Loud and Long,

Or her who Banting shuns the Dinner-gong,

Some Doctor from his Office chair will shout,

"It makes no Difference--both of you are Wrong!"

Why, all the Health-Reformers who discussed

High Heels and Corsets learnedly are thrust

Square-toed and Waistless forth; their Duds are scorned,

And Venus might as well have been a Bust.

Myself when slim did eagerly frequent

Delsarte and Ling, and heard great Argument

Of muscles trained to Hold me up, but still

Spent on my Modiste what I'd always spent!

With walking Clubs I did the best I could;

With my own Feet I tramped my Ten Miles, good;

And this was All that I got out of it--

I ate much more for Dinner than I should.

......

And fear not lest your Rheumatism seize

The Joy of Life from other people's Sprees;

The Art will not have Perished--au contraire,

Posterity will practise it with Ease!

When you and I have ceased Champagne to Sup,

Be sure there will be More to Keep it Up;

And while we pat Old Tabby by the fire,

Full many a Girl will lead her Brindled Pup.

Josephine Daskam Bacon [1876-

"WHEN LOVELY WOMAN"

After Goldsmith

When lovely woman wants a favor,

And finds, too late, that man won't bend,

What earthly circumstance can save her

From disappointment in the end?

The only way to bring him over,

The last experiment to try,

Whether a husband or a lover,

If he have feeling is--to cry.

Phoebe Cary [1824-1871]

FRAGMENT IN IMITATION OF WORDSWORTH

There is a river clear and fair,

'Tis neither broad nor narrow;

It winds a little here and there--

It winds about like any hare;

And then it holds as straight a course

As, on the turnpike road, a horse,

Or, through the air, an arrow.

The trees that grow upon the shore

Have grown a hundred years or more;

So long there is no knowing:

Old Daniel Dobson does not know

When first those trees began to grow;

But still they grew, and grew, and grew,

As if they'd nothing else to do,

But ever must be growing.

The impulses of air and sky

Have reared their stately heads so high,

And clothed their boughs with green;

Their leaves the dews of evening quaff,--

And when the wind blows loud and keen,

I've seen the jolly timbers laugh,

And shake their sides with merry glee--

Wagging their heads in mockery.

Fixed are their feet in solid earth

Where winds can never blow;

But visitings of deeper birth

Have reached their roots below.

For they have gained the river's brink

And of the living waters drink.

There's little Will, a five years' child--

He is my youngest boy;

To look on eyes so fair and wild,

It is a very joy.

He hath conversed with sun and shower,

And dwelt with every idle flower,

As fresh and gay as them.

He loiters with the briar-rose,--

The blue-bells are his playfellows,

That dance upon their slender stem.

And I have said, my little Will,

Why should he not continue still

A thing of Nature's rearing?

A thing beyond the world's control--

A living vegetable soul,--

No human sorrow fearing.

It were a blessed sight to see

That child become a willow-tree,

His brother trees among.

He'd be four times as tall as me,

And live three times as long.

Catherine M. Fanshawe [1765-1834]

ONLY SEVEN

After Wordsworth

I marvelled why a simple child,

That lightly draws its breath,

Should utter groans so very wild,

And look as pale as death.

Adopting a parental tone,

I asked her why she cried;

The damsel answered with a groan,

"I've got a pain inside!

"I thought it would have sent me mad

Last night about eleven."

Said I, "What is it makes you bad?

How many apples have you had?"

She answered, "Only seven!"

"And are you sure you took no more,

My little maid?" quoth I;

"Oh, please, sir, mother gave me four,

But they were in a pie!"

"If that's the case," I stammered out,

"Of course you've had eleven."

The maiden answered with a pout,

"I ain't had more nor seven!"

I wondered hugely what she meant,

And said, "I'm bad at riddles;

But I know where little girls are sent

For telling taradiddles.

"Now, if you don't reform," said I,

"You'll never go to heaven."

But all in vain; each time I try,

That little idiot makes reply,

"I ain't had more nor seven!"

POSTSCRIPT:

To borrow Wordsworth's name was wrong,

Or slightly misapplied;

And so I'd better call my song

"Lines after Ache-inside."

Henry Sambrooke Leigh [1837-1883]

LUCY LAKE

After Wordsworth

Poor Lucy Lake was overgrown,

But somewhat underbrained.

She did not know enough, I own,

To go in when it rained.

Yet Lucy was constrained to go;

Green bedding,--you infer.

Few people knew she died, but oh,

The difference to her!

Newton Mackintosh [1858-

JANE SMITH

After Wordsworth

I journeyed, on a winter's day,

Across the lonely wold;

No bird did sing upon the spray,

And it was very cold.

I had a coach with horses four,

Three white (though one was black),

And on they went the common o'er,

Nor swiftness did they lack.

A little girl ran by my side,

And she was pinched and thin.

"Oh, please, sir, do give me a ride!

I'm fetching mother's gin."

"Enter my coach, sweet child," said I,

"For you shall ride with me;

And I will get you your supply

Of mother's eau-de-vie."

The publican was stern and cold,

And said: "Her mother's score

Is writ, as you shall soon behold,

Behind the bar-room door!"

I blotted out the score with tears,

And paid the money down;

And took the maid of thirteen years

Back to her mother's town.

And though the past with surges wild

Fond memories may sever,

The vision of that happy child

Will leave my spirits never!

Rudyard Kipling [1865-1936]

FATHER WILLIAM

From "Alice in Wonderland"

After Southey

"You are old, Father William," the young man said,

"And your hair has become very white;

And yet you incessantly stand on your head--

Do you think, at your age, it is right?"

"In my youth," Father William replied to his son,

"I feared it might injure the brain;

But, now that I'm perfectly sure I have none,

Why, I do it again and again."

"You are old," said the youth, "as I mentioned before,

And have grown most uncommonly fat;

Yet you turned a back-somersault in at the door--

Pray, what is the reason of that?"

"In my youth," said the sage, as he shook his gray locks,

"I kept all my limbs very supple

By the use of this ointment--one shilling the box--

Allow me to sell you a couple?"

"You are old," said the youth, "and your jaws are too weak

For anything tougher than suet;

Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak--

Pray, how did you manage to do it?"

"In my youth," said his father, "I took to the law,

And argued each case with my wife;

And the muscular strength which it gave to my jaw,

Has lasted the rest of my life."

"You are old," said the youth, "one would hardly suppose

That your eye was as steady as ever;

Yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose--

What made you so awfully clever?"

"I have answered three questions and that is enough,"

Said his father; "don't give yourself airs!

Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff?

Be off, or I'll kick you downstairs!"

Lewis Carroll [1832-1898]

THE NEW ARRIVAL

After Campbell

There came to port last Sunday night

The queerest little craft,

Without an inch of rigging on;

I looked and looked--and laughed!

It seemed so curious that she

Should cross the Unknown water,

And moor herself within my room--

My daughter! O, my daughter!

Yet by these presents witness all

She's welcome fifty times,

And comes consigned in hope and love--

And common-metre rhymes.

She has no manifest but this;

No flag floats o'er the water;

She's too new for the British Lloyds--

My daughter! O, my daughter!

Ring out, wild bells--and tame ones too;

Ring out the lover's moon.

Ring in the little worsted socks,

Ring in the bib and spoon.

Ring out the muse, ring in the nurse,

Ring in the milk and water.

Away with paper, pen, and ink--

My daughter! O, my daughter!

George Washington Cable [1844-1925]

DISASTER

After Moore

'Twas ever thus from childhood's hour

My fondest hopes would not decay:

I never loved a tree or flower

Which was the first to fade away!

The garden, where I used to delve

Short-frocked, still yields me pinks in plenty;

The pear-tree that I climbed at twelve,

I see still blossoming, at twenty.

I never nursed a dear gazelle.

But I was given a paroquet--

How I did nurse him if unwell!

He's imbecile, but lingers yet.

He's green, with an enchanting tuft;

He melts me with his small black eye:

He'd look inimitable stuffed,

And knows it--but he will not die!

I had a kitten--I was rich

In pets--but all too soon my kitten

Became a full-sized cat, by which

I've more than once been scratched and bitten;

And when for sleep her limbs she curled

One day beside her untouched plateful,

And glided calmly from the world,

I freely own that I was grateful.

And then I bought a dog--a queen!

Ah, Tiny, dear departing pug!

She lives, but she is past sixteen,

And scarce can crawl across the rug.

I loved her beautiful and kind;

Delighted in her pert Bow-wow:

But now she snaps if you don't mind;

'Twere lunacy to love her now.

I used to think, should e'er mishap

Betide my crumple-visaged Ti,

In shape of prowling thief, or trap,

Or coarse bull-terrier--I should die.

But ah! disasters have their use;

And life might e'en be too sunshiny:

Nor would I make myself a goose,

If some big dog should swallow Tiny.

Charles Stuart Calverley [1831-1884]

'TWAS EVER THUS

After Moore

I never reared a young gazelle,

(Because, you see, I never tried);

But had it known and loved me well,

No doubt the creature would have died.

My rich and aged Uncle John

Has known me long and loves me well

But still persists in living on--

I would he were a young gazelle.

I never loved a tree or flower;

But, if I had, I beg to say

The blight, the wind, the sun, or shower

Would soon have withered it away.

I've dearly loved my Uncle John,

From childhood to the present hour,

And yet he will go living on--

I would he were a tree or flower!

Henry Sambrooke Leigh [1837-1883]

A GRIEVANCE

After Byron

Dear Mr. Editor: I wish to say--

If you will not be angry at my, writing it--

But I've been used, since childhood's happy day,

When I have thought of something, to inditing it;

I seldom think of things; and, by the way,

Although this meter may not be exciting, it

Enables one to be extremely terse,

Which is not what one always is in verse.

I used to know a man,--such things befall

The observant wayfarer through Fate's domain--

He was a man, take him for all in all,

We shall not look upon his like again;

I know that statement's not original;

What statement is, since Shakespeare? or, since Cain,

What murder? I believe 'twas Shakespeare said it, or

Perhaps it may have been your Fighting Editor.

Though why an Editor should fight, or why

A Fighter should abase himself to edit,

Are problems far too difficult and high

For me to solve with any sort of credit.

Some greatly more accomplished man than I

Must tackle them: let's say then Shakespeare said it;

And, if he did not, Lewis Morris may

(Or even if he did). Some other day,

When I have nothing pressing to impart,

I should not mind dilating on this matter.

I feel its import both in head and heart,

And always did,--especially the latter.

I could discuss it in the busy mart

Or on the lonely housetop; hold! this chatter

Diverts me from my purpose. To the point:

The time, as Hamlet said, is out of joint,

And perhaps I was born to set it right,--

A fact I greet with perfect equanimity.

I do not put it down to "cursed spite,"

I don't see any cause for cursing in it. I

Have always taken very great delight

In such pursuits since first I read divinity.

Whoever will may write a nation's songs

As long as I'm allowed to right its wrongs.

What's Eton but a nursery of wrong-righters,

A mighty mother of effective men;

A training ground for amateur reciters,

A sharpener of the sword as of the pen;

A factory of orators and fighters,

A forcing-house of genius? Now and then

The world at large shrinks back, abashed and beaten,

Unable to endure the glare of Eton.

I think I said I knew a man: what then?

I don't suppose such knowledge is forbid.

We nearly all do, more or less, know men,--

Or think we do; nor will a man get rid

Of that delusion while he wields a pen.

But who this man was, what, if aught, he did,

Nor why I mentioned him, I do not know,

Nor what I "wished to say" a while ago.

James Kenneth Stephen [1859-1892]

"NOT A SOU HAD HE GOT"

After Charles Wolfe

Not a sou had he got--not a guinea or note--

And he looked confoundedly flurried,

As he bolted away without paying his shot,

And the landlady after him hurried.

We saw him again at dead of night,

When home from the club returning;

We twigged the doctor beneath the light

Of the gas-lamp brilliantly burning.

All bare and exposed to the midnight dews,

Reclined in a gutter we found him;

And he looked like a gentleman taking a snooze

With his Marshall cloak around him.

"The doctor's as drunk as the devil," we said,

And we managed a shutter to borrow;

We raised him; and sighed at the thought that his head

Would consumedly ache on the morrow.

We bore him home, and we put him to bed,

And we told his wife and his daughter

To give him next morning a couple of red-

Herrings, with soda-water.

Loudly they talked of his money that's gone,

And his lady began to upbraid him;

But little he recked, so they let him snore on

'Neath the counterpane, just as we laid him.

We tucked him in, and had hardly done,

When, beneath the window calling,

We heard the rough voice of a son of a gun

Of a watchman "One o'clock!" bawling.

Slowly and sadly we all walked down

From his room on the uppermost story;

A rushlight we placed on the cold hearth-stone,

And we left him alone in his glory.

Richard Harris Barham [1788-1845]

THE WHITING AND THE SNAIL

From "Alice in Wonderland"

After Mary Howitt

"Will you walk a little faster?" said a whiting to a snail,

"There's a porpoise close behind us, and he's treading on my tail,

See bow eagerly the lobsters and the turtles all advance!

They are waiting on the shingle--will you come and join the dance?

Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the dance?

Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, won't you join the dance?

"You can really have no notion how delightful it will be

When they take us up and throw us, with the lobsters, out to sea!"

But the snail replied, "Too far, too far!" and gave a look askance--

Said he thanked the whiting kindly, but he would not join the dance.

Would not, could not, would not, could not, would not join the dance.

Would not, could not, would not, could not, could not join the dance.

"What matters it how far we go?" his scaly friend replied.

"There is another shore, you know, upon the other side.

The further off from England the nearer is to France--

Then turn not pale, beloved snail, but come and join the dance.

Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the dance?

Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, won't you join the dance?"

Lewis Carroll [1832-1898]

THE RECOGNITION

After Tennyson

Home they brought her sailor son,

Grown a man across the sea,

Tall and broad and black of beard,

And hoarse of voice as man may be.

Hand to shake and mouth to kiss,

Both he offered ere he spoke;

But she said, "What man is this

Comes to play a sorry joke?"

Then they praised him--called him "smart,"

"Tightest lad that ever stept;"

But her son she did not know,

And she neither smiled nor wept.

Rose, a nurse of ninety years,

Set a pigeon-pie in sight;

She saw him eat:--"'Tis he! 'tis he!"

She knew him--by his appetite!

Frederick William Sawyer [1810-1875]

THE HIGHER PANTHEISM IN A NUTSHELL

After Tennyson

One, who is not, we see: but one, whom we see not, is;

Surely this is not that: but that is assuredly this.

What, and wherefore, and whence? for under is over and under;

If thunder could be without lightning, lightning could be without thunder.

Doubt is faith in the main: but faith, on the whole, is doubt;

We cannot believe by proof: but could we believe without?

Why, and whither, and how? for barley and rye are not clover;

Neither are straight lines curves: yet over is under and over.

Two and two may be four: but four and four are not eight;

Fate and God may be twain: but God is the same thing as fate.

Ask a man what he thinks, and get from a man what he feels;

God, once caught in the fact, shows you a fair pair of heels.

Body and spirit are twins: God only knows which is which;

The soul squats down in the flesh, like a tinker drunk in a ditch.

One and two are not one: but one and nothing is two;

Truth can hardly be false, if falsehood cannot be true.

Once the mastodon was: pterodactyls were common as cocks;

Then the mammoth was God; now is He a prize ox.

Parallels all things are: yet many of these are askew.

You are certainly I: but certainly I am not you.

Springs the rock from the plain, shoots the stream from the rock;

Cocks exist for the hen: but hens exist for the cock.

God, whom we see not, is: and God, who is not, we see;

Fiddle, we know, is diddle; and diddle, we take it, is dee.

Algernon Charles Swinburne [1837-1909]

THE WILLOW-TREE

After Hood

Long by the willow-trees

Vainly they sought her,

Wild rang the mother's screams

O'er the gray water:

"Where is my lovely one?

Where is my daughter?

"Rouse thee, Sir Constable--

Rouse thee and look;

Fisherman, bring your net,

Boatman, your hook.

Beat in the lily-beds,

Dive in the brook!"

Vainly the constable

Shouted and called her;

Vainly the fisherman

Beat the green alder;

Vainly he flung the net,

Never it hauled her!

Mother beside the fire

Sat, her nightcap in;

Father, in easy chair,

Gloomily napping,

When at the window-sill

Came a light tapping!

And a pale countenance

Looked through the casement.

Loud beat the mother's heart,

Sick with amazement,

And at the vision which

Came to surprise her,

Shrieked in an agony--

"Lor'! it's Elizar!"

Yes, 'twas Elizabeth--

Yes, 'twas their girl;

Pale was her cheek, and her

Hair out of curl.

"Mother," the loving one,

Blushing exclaimed,

"Let not your innocent

Lizzy be blamed.

"Yesterday, going to Aunt

Jones's to tea,

Mother, dear mother, I

Forgot the door-key!

And as the night was cold

And the way steep,

Mrs. Jones kept me to

Breakfast and sleep."

Whether her Pa and Ma

Fully believed her,

That we shall never know,

Stern they received her;

And for the work of that

Cruel, though short, night

Sent her to bed without

Tea for a fortnight.

MORAL

Hey diddle diddlety,

Cat and the fiddlety,

Maidens of England, take caution by she!

Let love and suicide

Never tempt you aside,

And always remember to take the door-key.

William Makepeace Thackeray [1811-1863]

POETS AND LINNETS

After Robert Browning

Where'er there's a thistle to feed a linnet

And linnets are plenty, thistles rife--

Or an acorn-cup to catch dew-drops in it

There's ample promise of further life.

Now, mark how we begin it.

For linnets will follow, if linnets are minded,

As blows the white-feather parachute;

And ships will reel by the tempest blinded--

Aye, ships and shiploads of men to boot!

How deep whole fleets you'll find hid.

And we blow the thistle-down hither and thither

Forgetful of linnets, and men, and God.

The dew! for its want an oak will wither--

By the dull hoof into the dust is trod,

And then who strikes the cither?

But thistles were only for donkeys intended,

And that donkeys are common enough is clear,

And that drop! what a vessel it might have befriended,

Does it add any flavor to Glugabib's beer?

Well, there's my musing ended.

Tom Hood [1835-1874]

THE JAM-POT

The Jam-pot--tender thought!

I grabbed it--so did you.

"What wonder while we fought

Together that it flew

In shivers?" you retort.

You should have loosed your hold

One moment--checked your fist.

But, as it was, too bold

You grappled and you missed.

More plainly--you were sold.

"Well, neither of us shared

The dainty." That your plea?

"Well, neither of us cared,"

I answer.... "Let me see.

How have your trousers fared?"

Rudyard Kipling [1865-1936]

BALLAD

After William Morris

Part I

The auld wife sat at her ivied door,

(Butler and eggs and a pound of cheese)

A thing she had frequently done before;

And her spectacles lay on her aproned knees.

The piper he piped on the hill-top high,

(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)

Till the cow said "I die," and the goose asked "Why?"

And the dog said nothing, but searched for fleas.

The farmer he strode through the square farmyard;

(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)

His last brew of ale was a trifle hard--

The connection of which with the plot one sees.

The farmer's daughter hath frank blue eyes;

(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)

She hears the rooks caw in the windy skies,

As she sits at her lattice and shells her peas.

The farmer's daughter hath ripe red lips;

(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)

If you try to approach her, away she skips

Over tables and chairs with apparent ease.

The farmer's daughter hath soft brown hair;

(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)

And I met with a ballad, I can't say where,

Which wholly consisted of lines like these.

Part II

She sat, with her hands 'neath her dimpled cheeks,

(Butler and eggs and a pound of cheese)

And spake not a word. While a lady speaks

There is hope, but she didn't even sneeze.

She sat, with her hands 'neath her crimson cheeks,

(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)

She gave up mending her father's breeks,

And let the cat roll in her new chemise.

She sat, with her hands 'neath her burning cheeks,

(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)

And gazed at the piper for thirteen weeks;

Then she followed him out o'er the misty leas.

Her sheep followed her, as their tails did them.

(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)

And this song is considered a perfect gem,

And as to the meaning, it's what you please.

Charles Stuart Calverley [1831-1884]

THE POSTER-GIRL

After Dante Gabriel Rossetti

The blessed Poster-girl leaned out

From a pinky-purple heaven;

One eye was red and one was green;

Her bang was cut uneven;

She had three fingers on her hand,

And the hairs on her head were seven.

Her robe, ungirt from clasp to hem,

No sunflowers did adorn,

But a heavy Turkish portiere

Was very neatly worn;

And the hat that lay along her back

Was yellow like canned corn.

It was a kind of wobbly wave

That she was standing on,

And high aloft she flung a scarf

That must have weighed a ton;

And she was rather tall--at least

She reached up to the sun.

She curved and writhed, and then she said,

Less green of speech than blue:

"Perhaps I am absurd--perhaps

I don't appeal to you;

But my artistic worth depends

Upon the point of view."

I saw her smile, although her eyes

Were only smudgy smears;

And then she swished her swirling arms,

And wagged her gorgeous ears,

She sobbed a blue-and-green-checked sob,

And wept some purple tears.

Carolyn Wells [186?--

AFTER DILETTANTE CONCETTI

After Dante Gabriel Rossetti

"Why do you wear your hair like a man,

Sister Helen?

This week is the third since you began."

"I'm writing a ballad; be still if you can,

Little brother.

(O Mother Carey, mother!

What chickens are these between sea and heaven?)"

"But why does your figure appear so lean,

Sister Helen?

And why do you dress in sage, sage green?"

"Children should never be heard, if seen,

Little brother!

(O Mother Carey, mother!

What fowls are a-wing in the stormy heaven!)"

"But why is your face so yellowy white,

Sister Helen?

And why are your skirts so funnily tight?"

"Be quiet, you torment, or how can I write,

Little brother?

(O Mother Carey, mother!

How gathers thy train to the sea from the heaven!)"

"And who's Mother Carey, and what is her train,

Sister Helen?

And why do you call her again and again?"

"You troublesome boy, why that's the refrain,

Little brother.

(O Mother Carey, mother!

What work is toward in the startled heaven?)"

"And what's a refrain? What a curious word,

Sister Helen!

Is the ballad you're writing about a sea-bird?"

"Not at all; why should it be? Don't be absurd,

Little brother.

(O Mother Carey, mother!

Thy brood flies lower as lowers the heaven.)"

(A big brother speaketh:)

"The refrain you've studied a meaning had,

Sister Helen!

It gave strange force to a weird ballad.

But refrains have become a ridiculous 'fad',

Little brother.

And Mother Carey, mother,

Has a bearing on nothing in earth or heaven.

"But the finical fashion has had its day,

Sister Helen.

And let's try in the style of a different lay

To bid it adieu in poetical way,

Little brother.

So, Mother Carey, mother!

Collect your chickens and go to--heaven."

(A pause. Then the big brother singeth, accompanying himself

in a plaintive wise on the triangle:)

"Look in my face. My name is Used-to-was,

I am also called Played-out and Done-to-death,

And It-will-wash-no-more. Awakeneth

Slowly, but sure awakening it has,

The common-sense of man; and I, alas!

The ballad-burden trick, now known too well,

Am turned to scorn, and grown contemptible--

A too transparent artifice to pass.

"What a cheap dodge I am! The cats who dart

Tin-kettled through the streets in wild surprise

Assail judicious ears not otherwise;

And yet no critics praise the urchin's 'art',

Who to the wretched creature's caudal part

Its foolish empty-jingling 'burden' ties."

Henry Duff Traill [1842-1900]

IF

After Swinburne

If life were never bitter,

And love were always sweet,

Then who would care to borrow

A moral from to-morrow--

If Thames would always glitter,

And joy would ne'er retreat,

If life were never bitter,

And love were always sweet!

If care were not the waiter

Behind a fellow's chair,

When easy-going sinners

Sit down to Richmond dinners,

And life's swift stream flows straighter,

By Jove, it would be rare,

If care were not the waiter

Behind a fellow's chair.

If wit were always radiant,

And wine were always iced,

And bores were kicked out straightway

Through a convenient gateway;

Then down the year's long gradient

'Twere sad to be enticed,

If wit were always radiant,

And wine were always iced.

Mortimer Collins [1827-1876]

NEPHELIDIA

After Swinburne

From the depth of the dreamy decline of the dawn through

a notable nimbus of nebulous noonshine,

Pallid and pink as the palm of the flag-flower that flickers

with fear of the flies as they float,

Are the looks of our lovers that lustrously lean from a marvel of

mystic, miraculous moonshine,

These that we feel in the blood of our blushes that thicken and

threaten with throbs through the throat?

Thicken and thrill as a theatre thronged at appeal of an actor's

appalled agitation,

Fainter with fear of the fires of the future than pale with the

promise of pride in the past;

Flushed with the famishing fulness of fever that reddens with

radiance of rathe recreation,

Gaunt as the ghastliest of glimpses that gleam through the gloom

of the gloaming when ghosts go aghast?

Nay, for the nick of the tick of the time is a tremulous touch on

the temples of terror,

Strained as the sinews yet strenuous with strife of the dead who

is dumb as the dust-heaps of death;

Surely no soul is it, sweet as the spasm of erotic, emotional,

exquisite error,

Bathed in the balms of beatified bliss, beatific itself by

beatitude's breath.

Surely no spirit or sense of a soul that was soft to the spirit

and soul of our senses

Sweetens the stress of suspiring suspicion that sobs in the

semblance and sound of a sigh;

Only this oracle opens Olympian in mystical moods and triangular tenses,--

"Life is the lust of a lamp for the light that is dark till the dawn

of the day when we die."

Mild is the mirk and monotonous music of memory, melodiously mute

as it may be,

While the hope in the heart of a hero is bruised by the breach of

men's rapiers, resigned to the rod;

Made meek as a mother whose bosom-beats bound with the bliss-bringing

bulk of a balm-breathing baby,

As they grope through the graveyard of creeds under skies growing

green at a groan for the grimness of God.

Blank is the book of his bounty beholden of old, and its binding

is blacker than bluer:

Out of blue into black is the scheme of the skies, and their dews

are the wine of the blood-shed of things;

Till the darkling desire of delight shall be free as a fawn that

is freed from the fangs that pursue her,

Till the heart-beats of hell shall be hushed by a hymn from the

hunt that has harried the kennel of kings.

Algernon Charles Swinburne [1837-1909]

COMMONPLACES

After Heine

Rain on the face of the sea,

Rain on the sodden land,

And the window-pane is blurred with rain

As I watch it, pen in hand.

Mist on the face of the sea,

Mist on the sodden land,

Filling the vales as daylight fails,

And blotting the desolate sand.

Voices from out of the mist,

Calling to one another:

"Hath love an end, thou more than friend,

Thou dearer than ever brother?"

Voices from out of the mist,

Calling and passing away;

But I cannot speak, for my voice is weak,

And.... this is the end of my lay.

Rudyard Kipling [1865-1936]

THE PROMISSORY NOTE

After Poe

In the lonesome latter years

(Fatal years!)

To the dropping of my tears

Danced the mad and mystic spheres

In a rounded, reeling rune,

'Neath the moon,

To the dripping and the dropping of my tears.

Ah, my soul is swathed in gloom,

(Ulalume!)

In a dim Titanic tomb,

For my gaunt and gloomy soul

Ponders o'er the penal scroll,

O'er the parchment (not a rhyme),

Out of place,--out of time,--

I am shredded, shorn, unshifty,

(Oh, the fifty!)

And the days have passed, the three,

Over me!

And the debit and the credit are as one to him and me!

'Twas the random runes I wrote

At the bottom of the note,

(Wrote and freely

Gave to Greeley)

In the middle of the night,

In the mellow, moonless night,

When the stars were out of sight,

When my pulses, like a knell,

(Israfel!)

Danced with dim and dying fays,

O'er the ruins of my days,

O'er the dimeless, timeless days,

When the fifty, drawn at thirty,

Seeming thrifty, yet the dirty

Lucre of the market, was the most that I could raise!

Fiends controlled it,

(Let him hold it!)

Devils held me for the inkstand and the pen;

Now the days of grace are o'er,

(Ah, Lenore!)

I am but as other men;

What is time, time, time,

To my rare and runic rhyme,

To my random, reeling rhyme,

By the sands along the shore,

Where the tempest whispers, "Pay him!" and I answer,

"Nevermore!"

Bayard Taylor [1825-1878]

MRS. JUDGE JENKINS

Being The Only Genuine Sequel To "Maud Muller"

After Whittier

Maud Muller all that summer day

Raked the meadow sweet with hay;

Yet, looking down the distant lane,

She hoped the Judge would come again.

But when he came, with smile and bow,

Maud only blushed, and stammered, "Ha-ow?"

And spoke of her "pa," and wondered whether

He'd give consent they should wed together.

Old Muller burst in tears, and then

Begged that the Judge would lend him "ten";

For trade was dull and wages low,

And the "craps," this year, were somewhat slow.

And ere the languid summer died,

Sweet Maud became the Judge's bride.

But on the day that they were mated,

Maud's brother Bob was intoxicated;

And Maud's relations, twelve in all,

Were very drunk at the Judge's hall;

And when the summer came again,

The young bride bore him babies twain;

And the Judge was blest, but thought it strange

That bearing children made such a change.

For Maud grew broad, and red, and stout,

And the waist that his arm once clasped about

Was more than he now could span; and he

Sighed as he pondered, ruefully,

How that which in Maud was native grace

In Mrs. Jenkins was out of place;

And thought of the twins, and wished that they

Looked less like the men who raked the hay

On Muller's farm, and dreamed with pain

Of the day he wandered down the lane.

And, looking down that dreary track,

He half regretted that he came back.

For, had he waited, he might have wed

Some maiden fair and thoroughbred;

For there be women as fair as she,

Whose verbs and nouns do more agree.

Alas for maiden! alas for judge!

And the sentimental,--that's one-half "fudge";

For Maud soon thought the Judge a bore,

With all his learning and all his lore;

And the Judge would have bartered Maud's fair face

For more refinement and social grace.

If, of all words of tongue and pen,

The saddest are, "It might have been,"

More sad are these we daily see:

"It is, but hadn't ought to be."

Bret Harte [1839-1902]

THE MODERN HIAWATHA

From "The Song of Milkanwatha"

He killed the noble Mudjokivis,

With the skin he made him mittens,

Made them with the fur side inside,

Made them with the skin side outside,

He, to get the warm side inside,

Put the inside skin side outside:

He, to get the cold side outside,

Put the warm side fur side inside:

That's why he put the fur side inside,

Why he put the skin side outside,

Why he turned them inside outside.

George A. Strong [1832-1912]

HOW OFTEN

After Longfellow

They stood on the bridge at midnight,

In a park not far from the town;

They stood on the bridge at midnight,

Because they didn't sit down.

The moon rose o'er the city,

Behind the dark church spire;

The moon rose o'er the city,

And kept on rising higher.

How often, oh! how often

They whispered words so soft;

How often, oh! how often,

How often, oh! how oft.

Ben King [1857-1894]

"IF I SHOULD DIE TO-NIGHT"

After Arabella Eugenia Smith

If I should die to-night

And you should come to my cold corpse and say,

Weeping and heartsick o'er my lifeless clay--

If I should die to-night,

And you should come in deepest grief and woe--

And say: "Here's that ten dollars that I owe,"

I might arise in my large white cravat

And say, "What's that?"

If I should die to-night

And you should come to my cold corpse and, kneel,

Clasping my bier to show the grief you feel,

I say, if I should die to-night

And you should come to me, and there and then

Just even hint at paying me that ten,

I might arise the while,

But I'd drop dead again.

Ben King [1857-1894]

SINCERE FLATTERY

Of W. W. (Americanus)

The clear cool note of the cuckoo which has ousted the legitimate

nest-holder,

The whistle of the railway guard dispatching the train to the

inevitable collision,

The maiden's monosyllabic reply to a polysyllabic proposal,

The fundamental note of the last trump, which is presumably D natural;

All of these are sounds to rejoice in, yea, to let your very ribs

re-echo with:

But better than all of them is the absolutely last chord of the

apparently inexhaustible pianoforte player.

James Kenneth Stephen [1859-1892]

CULTURE IN THE SLUMS

Inscribed To An Intense Poet

I. RONDEAU

"O crikey, Bill!" she ses to me, she ses.

"Look sharp," ses she, "with them there sossiges.

Yea! sharp with them there bags of mysteree!

For lo!" she ses, "for lo! old pal," ses she,

"I'm blooming peckish, neither more nor less."

Was it not prime--I leave you all to guess

How prime!--to have a Jude in love's distress

Come spooning round, and murmuring balmilee,

"O crikey, Bill!"

For in such rorty wise doth Love express

His blooming views, and asks for your address,

And makes it right, and does the gay and free.

I kissed her--I did so! And her and me

Was pals. And if that ain't good business,

"O crikey, Bill!"

II. VILLANELLE

Now ain't they utterly too-too

(She ses, my Missus mine, ses she),

Them flymy little bits of Blue.

Joe, just you kool 'em--nice and skew

Upon our old meogginee,

Now ain't they utterly too-too?

They're better than a pot'n' a screw,

They're equal to a Sunday spree,

Them flymy little bits of Blue!

Suppose I put 'em up the flue,

And booze the profits, Joe? Not me.

Now ain't they utterly too-too?

I do the 'Igh Art fake, I do.

Joe, I'm consummate; and I see

Them flymy little bits of Blue.

Which, Joe, is why I ses ter you--

Aesthetic-like, and limp, and free--

Now ain't they utterly too-too,

Them flymy little bits of Blue?

William Ernest Henley [1849-1903]

THE POETS AT TEA

I.--(Macaulay)

Pour, varlet, pour the water,

The water steaming hot!

A spoonful for each man of us,

Another for the pot!

We shall not drink from amber,

No Capuan slave shall mix

For us the snows of Athos

With port at thirty-six;

Whiter than snow the crystals

Grown sweet 'neath tropic fires,

More rich the herb of China's field,

The pasture-lands more fragrance yield;

Forever let Britannia wield

The teapot of her sires!

II.--(Tennyson)

I think that I am drawing to an end:

For on a sudden came a gasp for breath,

And stretching of the hands, and blinded eyes,

And a, great darkness falling on my soul.

O Hallelujah!... Kindly pass the milk.

III.--(Swinburne)

As the sin that was sweet in the sinning

Is foul in the ending thereof,

As the heat of the summer's beginning

Is past in the winter of love:

O purity, painful and pleading!

O coldness, ineffably gray!

O hear us, our handmaid unheeding,

And take it away!

IV.--(Cowper)

The cosy fire is bright and gay,

The merry kettle boils away

And hums a cheerful song.

I sing the saucer and the cup;

Pray, Mary, fill the teapot up,

And do not make it strong.

V.--(Browning)

Tut! Bah! We take as another case--

Pass the pills on the window-sill; notice the capsule

(A sick man's fancy, no doubt, but I place

Reliance on trade-marks, Sir)--so perhaps you'll

Excuse the digression--this cup which I hold

Light-poised--Bah, it's spilt in the bed--well, let's on go--

Hold Bohea and sugar, Sir; if you were told

The sugar was salt, would the Bohea be Congo?

VI.--(Wordsworth)

"Come, little cottage girl, you seem

To want my cup of tea;

And will you take a little cream?

Now tell the truth to me."

She had a rustic, woodland grin,

Her cheek was soft as silk,

And she replied, "Sir, please put in

A little drop of milk."

"Why, what put milk into your head?

'Tis cream my cows supply;"

And five times to the child I said,

"Why, pig-head, tell me, why?"

"You call me pig-head," she replied;

"My proper name is Ruth.

I called that milk"--she blushed with pride--

"You bade me speak the truth."

VII.--(Poe)

Here's a mellow cup of tea--golden tea!

What a world of rapturous thought its fragrance brings to me!

Oh, from out the silver cells

How it wells!

How it smells!

Keeping tune, tune, tune,

To the tintinnabulation of the spoon.

And the kettle on the fire

Boils its spout off with desire,

With a desperate desire

And a crystalline endeavor

Now, now to sit, or never,

On the top of the pale-faced moon,

But he always came home to tea, tea, tea, tea, tea,

Tea to the n-th.

VIII.--(Rossetti)

The lilies lie in my lady's bower,

(O weary mother, drive the cows to roost),

They faintly droop for a little hour;

My lady's head droops like a flower.

She took the porcelain in her hand

(O weary mother, drive the cows to roost);

She poured; I drank at her command;

Drank deep, and now--you understand!

(O weary mother, drive the cows to roost).

IX.--(Burns)

Weel, gin ye speir, I'm no inclined,

Whusky or tay--to state my mind

Fore ane or ither;

For, gin I tak the first, I'm fou,

And gin the next, I'm dull as you:

Mix a' thegither.

X.--(Walt Whitman)

One cup for my self-hood,

Many for you. Allons, camerados, we will drink together,

O hand-in-hand! That tea-spoon, please, when you've done with it.

What butter-colored hair you've got. I don't want to be personal.

All right, then, you needn't. You're a stale-cadaver.

Eighteen-pence if the bottles are returned.

Allons, from all bat-eyed formulas.

Barry Pain [1864-1928]

WORDSWORTH

Two voices are there: one is of the deep;

It learns the storm cloud's thunderous melody,

Now roars, now murmurs with the changing sea,

Now birdlike pipes, now closes soft in sleep;

And one is of an old half-witted sheep

Which bleats articulate monotony,

And indicates that two and one are three,

That grass is green, lakes damp, and mountains steep:

And, Wordsworth, both are thine: at certain times,

Forth from the heart of thy melodious rhymes

The form and pressure of high thoughts will burst;

At other times-good Lord! I'd rather be

Quite unacquainted with the A, B, C,

Than write such hopeless rubbish as thy worst.

James Kenneth Stephen [1859-1892]