With many a winding and crook:
The one is the Skoodoowabskooksis;
The other, the Skoodoowabskook.
Ah, sweetest of haunts! though unmentioned
In geography, atlas, or book,
How fair is the Skoodoowabskooksis,
When joining the Skoodoowabskook!
Our cot shall be close by the waters,
Within that sequestrated nook,
Reflected by Skoodoowabskooksis,
And mirrored in Skoodoowabskook.
You shall sleep to the music of leaflets,
By zephyrs in wantonness shook,
To dream of the Skoodoowabskooksis,
And, perhaps, of the Skoodoowabskook.
Your food shall be fish from the waters,
Drawn forth on the point of a hook,
From murmuring Skoodoowabskooksis,
Or meandering Skoodoowabskook.
You shall quaff the most sparkling of waters,
Drawn forth from a silvery brook,
Which flows to the Skoodoowabskooksis,
And so to the Skoodoowabskook.
And you shall preside at the banquet,
And I shall wait on you as cook;
And we'll talk of the Skoodoowabskooksis,
And sing of the Skoodoowabskook.
Let others sing loudly of Saco,
Of Quoddy and Tattamagouche,
Of Kenebeccasis and Quaco,
Of Merigoniche and Buctouche,
Of Nashwaak and Magaguadavique,
Or Memmerimammericook:--
There's none like the Skoodoowabskooksis,
Excepting the Skoodoowabskook!
_Unknown._
TO MY NOSE
Knows he that never took a pinch,
Nosey, the pleasure thence which flows,
Knows he the titillating joys
Which my nose knows?
O Nose, I am as proud of thee
As any mountain of its snows,
I gaze on thee, and feel that pride
A Roman knows!
_Albert A. Forrester (Alfred Crowquill)._
A POLKA LYRIC
Qui nunc dancere vult modo,
Wants to dance in the fashion, oh!
Discere debet--ought to know,
Kickere floor cum heel and toe,
One, two, three,
Hop with me,
Whirligig, twirligig, rapide.
Polkam jungere, Virgo, vis,
Will you join the polka, miss?
Liberius--most willingly,
Sic agimus--then let us try:
Nunc vide,
Skip with me,
Whirlabout, roundabout, celere.
Tum læva cito, turn dextra,
First to the left, and then t'other way;
Aspice retro in vultu,
You look at her, and she looks at you.
Das palmam
Change hands, ma'am;
Celere--run away, just in sham.
_Barclay Philips._
A _CAT_ALECTIC MONODY!
A cat I sing, of famous memory,
Though _cat_achrestical my song may be;
In a small garden _cat_acomb she lies,
And _cat_aclysms fill her comrades' eyes;
Borne on the air, the _cat_acoustic song
Swells with her virtues' _cat_alogue along,
No _cat_aplasm could lengthen out her years,
Though mourning friends shed _cat_aracts of tears.
Once loud and strong her _cat_echist-like voice
It dwindled to a _cat_call's squeaking noise;
Most _cat_egorical her virtues shone,
By _cat_enation join'd each one to one;--
But a vile _cat_chpoll dog, with cruel bite,
Like _cat_ling's cut, her strength disabled quite;
Her _cat_erwauling pierced the heavy air,
As _cat_aphracts their arms through legions bear;
'Tis vain! as _cat_erpillars drag away
Their lengths, like _cat_tle after busy day,
She ling'ring died, nor left in kit _kat_ the
Embodyment of this _cat_astrophe.
_Cruikshank's Omnibus._
ODE FOR A SOCIAL MEETING
WITH SLIGHT ALTERATIONS BY A TEETOTALER
Come! fill a fresh bumper,--for why should we go
logwood
While the {nectar} still reddens our cups as they flow?
decoction
Pour out the {rich juices} still bright with the sun,
dye-stuff
Till o'er the brimmed crystal the {rubies} shall run.
half-ripened apples
The {purple-globed clusters} their life-dews have bled;
taste sugar of lead
How sweet is the {breath} of the {fragrance they shed}!
rank poisons _wines!!!_
For Summer's {last roses} lie hid in the {wines}
stable-boys smoking long-nines
That were garnered by {maidens who laughed through the vines},
scowl howl scoff sneer
Then a {smile}, and a {glass}, and a {toast}, and a {cheer},
strychnine and whiskey, and ratsbane and beer
For {all the good wine, and we've some of it here}!
In cellar, in pantry, in attic, in hall,
Down, down with the tyrant that masters us all!
{Long live the gay servant that laughs for us all!}
_Oliver Wendell Holmes._
[Transcriber's note: The words in {braces} are struck out in the
original text with alternatives above.]
THE JOVIAL PRIEST'S CONFESSION
TRANSLATED FROM THE LATIN OF WALTER DE MAPES, TIME OF HENRY II
I devise to end my days--in a tavern drinking,
May some Christian hold for me--the glass when I am shrinking,
That the cherubim may cry--when they see me sinking,
God be merciful to a soul--of this gentleman's way of thinking.
A glass of wine amazingly--enlighteneth one's internals;
'Tis wings bedewed with nectar--that fly up to supernals;
Bottles cracked in taverns--have much the sweeter kernels,
Than the sups allowed to us--in the college journals.
Every one by nature hath--a mold which he was cast in;
I happen to be one of those--who never could write fasting;
By a single little boy--I should be surpass'd in
Writing so: I'd just as lief--be buried; tomb'd and grass'd in.
Every one by nature hath--a gift too, a dotation:
I, when I make verses--do get the inspiration
Of the very best of wine--that comes into the nation:
It maketh sermons to astound--for edification.
Just as liquor floweth good--floweth forth my lay so;
But I must moreover eat--or I could not say so;
Naught it availeth inwardly--should I write all day so;
But with God's grace after meat--I beat Ovidius Naso.
Neither is there given to me--prophetic animation,
Unless when I have eat and drank--yea, ev'n to saturation,
Then in my upper story--hath Bacchus domination,
And Ph[oe]bus rushes into me, and beggareth all relation.
_Leigh Hunt._
LIMERICKS
There was an old man of Tobago,
Who lived upon rice, gruel and sago;
Till, much to his bliss,
His physician said this:
"To a leg, sir, of mutton, you may go."
There was an old soldier of Bister,
Went walking one day with his sister;
When a cow, at one poke,
Tossed her into an oak,
Before the old gentleman missed her.
There was a young man of St. Kitts
Who was very much troubled with fits;
The eclipse of the moon
Threw him into a swoon,
When he tumbled and broke into bits.
There was an old man who said, "Gee!
_I_ can't multiply seven by three!
Though fourteen seems plenty,
It _might_ come to twenty,--
I haven't the slightest idee!"
There was an old man in a pie,
Who said, "I must fly! I must fly!"
When they said, "You can't do it!"
He replied that he knew it,
But he _had_ to get out of that pie!
A Tutor who tooted the flute
Tried to teach two young tooters to toot;
Said the two to the Tutor,
"Is it harder to toot, or
To tutor two tooters to toot?"
_Carolyn Wells._
RECITED BY A CHINESE INFANT
If-itty-teshi-mow Jays
Haddee ny up-plo-now-shi-buh nays;
ha! ha!
He lote im aw dow,
Witty motti-fy flow;
A-flew-ty ho-lot-itty flays! Hee!
_Translation_
Infinitesimal James
Had nine unpronounceable names;
He wrote them all down,
With a mortified frown,
And threw the whole lot in the flames.
For beauty I am not a star,
There are others more handsome by far;
But my face I don't mind it,
For I am behind it,
It's the people in front that I jar.
There was a young lady of Oakham,
Who would steal your cigars and then soak 'em
In treacle and rum,
And then smear them with gum,
So it wasn't a pleasure to smoke 'em.
There was an Old Man in a tree
Who was horribly bored by a bee;
When they said, "Does it buzz?"
He replied, "Yes, it does!
It's a regular brute of a bee."
_Edward Lear._
There was an Old Man of St. Bees
Who was stung in the arm by a wasp.
When asked, "Does it hurt?"
He replied, "No, it doesn't,
But I thought all the while 'twas a hornet."
_W. S. Gilbert._
There was an old man of the Rhine,
When asked at what hour he would dine,
Replied, "At eleven,
Four, six, three and seven,
And eight and a quarter of nine."
There was a young man of Laconia,
Whose mother-in-law had pneumonia;
He hoped for the worst,
And after March first
They buried her 'neath a begonia.
There was a young man of the cape
Who always wore trousers of crêpe;
When asked, "Don't they tear?"
He replied, "Here and there;
But they keep such a beautiful shape."
There once were some learned M.D.'s,
Who captured some germs of disease,
And infected a train,
Which without causing pain,
Allowed one to catch it with ease.
_Oliver Herford._
There was a young lady of Lynn,
Who was deep in original sin;
When they said, "Do be good,"
She said, "Would if I could!"
And straightway went at it ag'in.
I'd rather have fingers than toes;
I'd rather have ears than a nose;
And as for my hair
I'm glad it's all there,
I'll be awfully sad when it goes.
_Gelett Burgess._
There was a young fellow named Clyde;
Who was once at a funeral spied.
When asked who was dead,
He smilingly said,
"_I_ don't know,--I just came for the ride!"
There was a young lady of Truro,
Who wished a mahogany bureau;
But her father said, "Dod!
All the men on Cape Cod
Couldn't buy a mahogany bureau!"
There was a young man of Ostend
Who vowed he'd hold out to the end,
But when halfway over
From Calais to Dover,
He done what he didn't intend--
There was a young man of Cohoes,
Wore tar on the end of his nose;
When asked why he done it,
He said for the fun it
Afforded the men of Cohoes.
_Robert J. Burdette._
There is a young artist called Whistler,
Who in every respect is a bristler;
A tube of white lead,
Or a punch on the head,
Come equally handy to Whistler.
_Dante Gabriel Rossetti._
There is a creator named God,
Whose doings are sometimes quite odd;
He made a painter named Val,
And I say and I shall,
That he does no great credit to God.
_J. M. Whistler._
There was a young lady of station,
"I love man!" was her sole exclamation;
But when men cried, "You flatter!"
She replied, "Oh, no matter!
Isle of Man, is the true explanation."
_Lewis Carroll._
There was a young lady of Twickenham,
Whose shoes were too tight to walk quick in 'em;
She came back from her walk,
Looking white as a chalk,
And took 'em both off and was sick in 'em.
_Oliver Herford._
"It's a very warm day," observed Billy.
"I hope that you won't think it silly
If I say that this heat
Makes me think 'twould be sweet
If one were a coolie in Chile!"
_Tudor Jenks._
There was a young man from Cornell,
Who said, "I'm aware of a smell,
But whether it's drains
Or human remains,
I'm really unable to tell."
There was a young lady from Joppa,
Whose friends all decided to drop her;
She went with a friend
On a trip to Ostend,--
And the rest of the story's improper.
There once was a sculptor named Phidias,
Whose statues by some were thought hideous;
He made Aphrodite
Without any nighty,
Which shocked all the ultra-fastidious.
John woke on Jan. first and felt queer;
Said, "Crackers I'll swear off this year!
For the lobster and wine
And the rabbit were fine,--
And it certainly wasn't the beer."
There was a young lady of Venice
Who used hard-boiled eggs to play tennis;
When they said, "You are wrong,"
She replied, "Go along!
You don't know how prolific my hen is!"
There was a young man of Fort Blainey,
Who proposed to his typist named Janey;
When his friends said, "Oh, dear!
She's so old and so queer!"
He replied, "But the day was so rainy!"
XIII
NONSENSE
LUNAR STANZAS
Night saw the crew like pedlers with their packs
Altho' it were too dear to pay for eggs;
Walk crank along with coffin on their backs
While in their arms they bow their weary legs.
And yet 'twas strange, and scarce can one suppose
That a brown buzzard-fly should steal and wear
His white jean breeches and black woollen hose,
But thence that flies have souls is very clear.
But, Holy Father! what shall save the soul,
When cobblers ask three dollars for their shoes?
When cooks their biscuits with a shot-tower roll,
And farmers rake their hay-cocks with their hoes.
Yet, 'twere profuse to see for pendant light,
A tea-pot dangle in a lady's ear;
And 'twere indelicate, although she might
Swallow two whales and yet the moon shine clear.
But what to me are woven clouds, or what,
If dames from spiders learn to warp their looms?
If coal-black ghosts turn soldiers for the State,
With wooden eyes, and lightning-rods for plumes?
Oh! too, too shocking! barbarous, savage taste!
To eat one's mother ere itself was born!
To gripe the tall town-steeple by the waste,
And scoop it out to be his drinking-horn.
No more: no more! I'm sick and dead and gone;
Boxed in a coffin, stifled six feet deep;
Thorns, fat and fearless, prick my skin and bone,
And revel o'er me, like a soulless sheep.
_Henry Coggswell Knight._
THE WHANGO TREE
The woggly bird sat on the whango tree,
Nooping the rinkum corn,
And graper and graper, alas! grew he,
And cursed the day he was born.
His crute was clum and his voice was rum,
As curiously thus sang he,
"Oh, would I'd been rammed and eternally clammed
Ere I perched on this whango tree."
Now the whango tree had a bubbly thorn,
As sharp as a nootie's bill,
And it stuck in the woggly bird's umptum lorn
And weepadge, the smart did thrill.
He fumbled and cursed, but that wasn't the worst,
For he couldn't at all get free,
And he cried, "I am gammed, and injustibly nammed
On the luggardly whango tree."
And there he sits still, with no worm in his bill,
Nor no guggledom in his nest;
He is hungry and bare, and gobliddered with care,
And his grabbles give him no rest;
He is weary and sore and his tugmut is soar,
And nothing to nob has he,
As he chirps, "I am blammed and corruptibly jammed,
In this cuggerdom whango tree."
_Unknown._
THREE CHILDREN
Three children sliding on the ice
Upon a summer's day,
As it fell out they all fell in,
The rest they ran away.
Now, had these children been at home,
Or sliding on dry ground,
Ten thousand pounds to one penny
They had not all been drowned.
You parents all that children have,
And you too that have none,
If you would have them safe abroad
Pray keep them safe at home.
_Unknown._
'TIS MIDNIGHT
'Tis midnight, and the setting sun
Is slowly rising in the west;
The rapid rivers slowly run,
The frog is on his downy nest.
The pensive goat and sportive cow,
Hilarious, leap from bough to bough.
_Unknown._
COSSIMBAZAR
Come fleetly, come fleetly, my hookabadar,
For the sound of the tam-tam is heard from afar.
"Banoolah! Banoolah!" The Brahmins are nigh,
And the depths of the jungle re-echo their cry.
_Pestonjee Bomanjee!_
Smite the guitar;
Join in the chorus, my hookabadar.
Heed not the blast of the deadly monsoon,
Nor the blue Brahmaputra that gleams in the moon
Stick to thy music, and oh, let the sound
Be heard with distinctness a mile or two round.
_Jamsetjee, Jeejeebhoy!_
Sweep the guitar.
Join in the chorus, my hookabadar.
Art thou a Buddhist, or dost thou indeed
Put faith in the monstrous Mohammedan creed?
Art thou a Ghebir--a blinded Parsee?
Not that it matters an atom to me.
_Cursetjee Bomanjee!_
Twang the guitar
Join in the chorus, my hookabadar.
_Henry S. Leigh._
AN UNSUSPECTED FACT
If down his throat a man should choose
In fun, to jump or slide,
He'd scrape his shoes against his teeth,
Nor dirt his own inside.
But if his teeth were lost and gone,
And not a stump to scrape upon,
He'd see at once how very pat
His tongue lay there by way of mat,
And he would wipe his feet on _that_!
_Edward Cannon._
THE CUMBERBUNCE
I strolled beside the shining sea,
I was as lonely as could be;
No one to cheer me in my walk
But stones and sand, which cannot talk--
Sand and stones and bits of shell,
Which never have a thing to tell.
But as I sauntered by the tide
I saw a something at my side,
A something green, and blue, and pink,
And brown, and purple, too, I think.
I would not say how large it was;
I would not venture that, because
It took me rather by surprise,
And I have not the best of eyes.
Should you compare it to a cat,
I'd say it was as large as that;
Or should you ask me if the thing
Was smaller than a sparrow's wing,
I should be apt to think you knew,
And simply answer, "Very true!"
Well, as I looked upon the thing,
It murmured, "Please, sir, can I sing?"
And then I knew its name at once--
It plainly was a Cumberbunce.
You are amazed that I could tell
The creature's name so quickly? Well,
I knew it was not a paper-doll,
A pencil or a parasol,
A tennis-racket or a cheese,
And, as it was not one of these,
And I am not a perfect dunce--
It had to be a Cumberbunce!
With pleading voice and tearful eye
It seemed as though about to cry.
It looked so pitiful and sad
It made me feel extremely bad.
My heart was softened to the thing
That asked me if it, please, could sing.
Its little hand I longed to shake,
But, oh, it had no hand to take!
I bent and drew the creature near,
And whispered in its pale blue ear,
"What! Sing, my Cumberbunce? You can!
Sing on, sing loudly, little man!"
The Cumberbunce, without ado,
Gazed sadly on the ocean blue,
And, lifting up its little head,
In tones of awful longing, said:
"Oh, I would sing of mackerel skies,
And why the sea is wet,
Of jelly-fish and conger-eels,
And things that I forget.
And I would hum a plaintive tune
Of why the waves are hot
As water boiling on a stove,
Excepting that they're not!
"And I would sing of hooks and eyes,
And why the sea is slant,
And gayly tips the little ships,
Excepting that I can't!
I never sang a single song,
I never hummed a note.
There is in me no melody,
No music in my throat.
"So that is why I do not sing
Of sharks, or whales, or anything!"
I looked in innocent surprise,
My wonder showing in my eyes,
"Then why, O, Cumberbunce," I cried,
"Did you come walking at my side
And ask me if you, please, might sing,
When you could not warble anything?"
"I did not ask permission, sir,
I really did not, I aver.
You, sir, misunderstood me, quite.
I did not ask you if I _might_.
Had you correctly understood,
You'd know I asked you if I _could_.
So, as I cannot sing a song,
Your answer, it is plain, was wrong.
The fact I could not sing I knew,
But wanted your opinion, too."
A voice came softly o'er the lea.
"Farewell! my mate is calling me!"
I saw the creature disappear,
Its voice, in parting, smote my ear--
"I thought all people understood
The difference 'twixt 'might' and 'could'!"
_Paul West._
MR. FINNEY'S TURNIP
Mr. Finney had a turnip
And it grew and it grew;
And it grew behind the barn,
And that turnip did no harm.
There it grew and it grew
Till it could grow no longer;
Then his daughter Lizzie picked it
And put it in the cellar.
There it lay and it lay
Till it began to rot;
And his daughter Susie took it
And put it in the pot.
And they boiled it and boiled it
As long as they were able,
And then his daughters took it,
And put it on the table.
Mr. Finney and his wife
They sat down to sup;
And they ate and they ate
And they ate that turnip up.
_Unknown._
NONSENSE VERSES
Lazy-bones, lazy-bones, wake up and peep!
The cat's in the cupboard, your mother's asleep.
There you sit snoring, forgetting her ills;
Who is to give her her Bolus and Pills?
Twenty fine Angels must come into town,
All for to help you to make your new gown:
Dainty aerial Spinsters and Singers;
Aren't you ashamed to employ such white fingers?
Delicate hands, unaccustom'd to reels,
To set 'em working a poor body's wheels?
Why they came down is to me all a riddle,
And left Hallelujah broke off in the middle:
Jove's Court, and the Presence angelical, cut--
To eke out the work of a lazy young slut.
Angel-duck, Angel-duck, winged and silly,
Pouring a watering-pot over a lily,
Gardener gratuitous, careless of pelf,
Leave her to water her lily herself,
Or to neglect it to death if she chuse it:
Remember the loss is her own if she lose it.
_Charles Lamb._
LIKE TO THE THUNDERING TONE
Like to the thundering tone of unspoke speeches,
Or like a lobster clad in logic breeches,
Or like the gray fur of a crimson cat,
Or like the mooncalf in a slipshod hat;
E'en such is he who never was begotten
Until his children were both dead and rotten.
Like to the fiery tombstone of a cabbage,
Or like a crab-louse with its bag and baggage,
Or like the four square circle of a ring,
Or like to hey ding, ding-a, ding-a, ding;
E'en such is he who spake, and yet, no doubt,
Spake to small purpose, when his tongue was out.
Like to a fair, fresh, fading, wither'd rose,
Or like to rhyming verse that runs in prose,
Or like the stumbles of a tinder-box,
Or like a man that's sound yet sickness mocks;
E'en such is he who died and yet did laugh
To see these lines writ for his epitaph.
_Bishop Corbet in 17th century._
ÆSTIVATION
In candent ire the solar splendour flames;
The foles, languescent, pend from arid rames;
His humid front the cive, anheling, wipes,
And dreams of erring on ventiferous ripes.
How dolce to vive occult to mortal eyes,
Dorm on the herb with none to supervise,
Carp the suave berries from the crescent vine,
And bibe the flow from longicaudate kine!
To me, alas! no verdurous visions come,
Save yon exiguous pool's conferva-scum--
No concave vast repeats the tender hue
That laves my milk-jug with celestial blue.
Me wretched! let me curr to quercine shades!
Effund your albid hausts, lactiferous maids!
Oh, might I vole to some umbrageous clump,--
Depart--be off,--excede,--evade,--crump!
_Oliver Wendell Holmes._
UNCLE SIMON AND UNCLE JIM
Uncle Simon he
Clumb up a tree
To see
What he could see,
When presentlee
Uncle Jim
Clumb up beside of him
And squatted down by he.
_Charles Farrar Browne_ (Artemus Ward).
A TRAGIC STORY
There lived a sage in days of yore,
And he a handsome pigtail wore;
But wondered much and sorrowed more,
Because it hung behind him.
He mused upon this curious case,
And swore he'd change the pigtail's place,
And have it hanging at his face,
Not dangling there behind him.
Says he, "The mystery I've found,--
I'll turn me round,"--he turned him round;
But still it hung behind him.
Then round and round, and out and in,
All day the puzzled sage did spin;
In vain--it mattered not a pin,--
The pigtail hung behind him.
And right and left, and round about,
And up and down, and in and out,
He turned; but still the pigtail stout
Hung steadily behind him.
And though his efforts never slack,
And though he twist and twirl and tack,
Alas! still faithful to his back,
The pigtail hangs behind him.
_W. M. Thackeray._
SONNET FOUND IN A DESERTED MAD HOUSE
Oh that my soul a marrow-bone might seize!
For the old egg of my desire is broken,
Spilled is the pearly white and spilled the yolk, and
As the mild melancholy contents grease
My path the shorn lamb baas like bumblebees.
Time's trashy purse is as a taken token
Or like a thrilling recitation, spoken
By mournful mouths filled full of mirth and cheese.
And yet, why should I clasp the earthful urn?
Or find the frittered fig that felt the fast?
Or choose to chase the cheese around the churn?
Or swallow any pill from out the past?
Ah, no Love, not while your hot kisses burn
Like a potato riding on the blast.
_Unknown._
THE JIM-JAM KING OF THE JOU-JOUS
AN ARABIAN LEGEND
Translated from the Arabic
Far off in the waste of desert sand,
The Jim-jam rules in the Jou-jou land:
He sits on a throne of red-hot rocks,
And moccasin snakes are his curling locks;
And the Jou-jous have the conniption fits
In the far-off land where the Jim-jam sits--
If things are now as things were then.
Allah il Allah! Oo-aye! Amen!
The country's so dry in Jou-jou land
You could wet it down with Sahara sand,
And over its boundaries the air
Is hotter than 'tis--no matter where:
A camel drops down completely tanned
When he crosses the line in Jou-jou land--
If things are now as things were then.
Allah il Allah! Oo-aye! Amen!
A traveller once got stuck in the sand
On the fiery edge of Jou-jou land;
The Jou-jous they confiscated him,
And the Jim-jam tore him limb from limb;
But, dying, he said: "If eaten I am,
I'll disagree with this Dam-jim-jam!
He'll think his stomach's a Hoodoo's den!"
Allah il Allah! Oo-aye! Amen!
Then the Jim-jam felt so bad inside,
It just about humbled his royal pride.
He decided to physic himself with sand,
And throw up his job in the Jou-jou land.
He descended his throne of red-hot rocks,
And hired a barber to cut his locks:
The barber died of the got-'em-again.
Allah il Allah! Oo-aye! Amen!
And now let every good Mussulman
Get all the good from this tale he can.
If you wander off on a Jamboree,
Across the stretch of the desert sea,
Look out that right at the height of your booze
You don't get caught by the Jou-jou-jous!
You may, for the Jim-jam's at it again.
Allah il Allah! Oo-aye! Amen!
_Alaric Bertrand Stuart._
TO MARIE
When the breeze from the bluebottle's blustering blim
Twirls the toads in a tooroomaloo,
And the whiskery whine of the wheedlesome whim
Drowns the roll of the rattatattoo,
Then I dream in the shade of the shally-go-shee,
And the voice of the bally-molay
Brings the smell of stale poppy-cods blummered in blee
From the willy-wad over the way.
Ah, the shuddering shoo and the blinketty-blanks
When the yungalung falls from the bough
In the blast of a hurricane's hicketty-hanks
On the hills of the hocketty-how!
Give the rigamarole to the clangery-whang,
If they care for such fiddlededee;
But the thingumbob kiss of the whangery-bang
Keeps the higgledy-piggle for me.
L'ENVOI
It is pilly-po-doddle and aligobung
When the lollypop covers the ground,
Yet the poldiddle perishes punketty-pung
When the heart jimmy-coggles around.
If the soul cannot snoop at the giggle-some cart,
Seeking surcease in gluggety-glug,
It is useless to say to the pulsating heart,
"Panky-doodle ker-chuggetty-chug!"
_John Bennett._
MY DREAM
I dreamed a dream next Tuesday week,
Beneath the apple-trees;
I thought my eyes were big pork-pies,
And my nose was Stilton cheese.
The clock struck twenty minutes to six,
When a frog sat on my knee;
I asked him to lend me eighteenpence,
But he borrowed a shilling of me.
_Unknown._
THE ROLLICKING MASTODON
A rollicking Mastodon lived in Spain,
In the trunk of a Tranquil Tree.
His face was plain, but his jocular vein
Was a burst of the wildest glee.
His voice was strong and his laugh so long
That people came many a mile,
And offered to pay a guinea a day
For the fractional part of a smile.
The Rollicking Mastodon's laugh was wide--
Indeed, 'twas a matter of family pride;
And oh! so proud of his jocular vein
Was the Rollicking Mastodon over in Spain.
The Rollicking Mastodon said one day,
"I feel that I need some air,
For a little ozone's a tonic for bones,
As well as a gloss for the hair."
So he skipped along and warbled a song
In his own triumphulant way.
His smile was bright and his skip was light
As he chirruped his roundelay.
The Rollicking Mastodon tripped along,
And sang what Mastodons call a song;
But every note of it seemed to pain
The Rollicking Mastodon over in Spain.
A Little Peetookle came over the hill,
Dressed up in a bollitant coat;
And he said, "You need some harroway seed,
And a little advice for your throat."
The Mastodon smiled and said, "My child,
There's a chance for your taste to grow.
If you polish your mind, you'll certainly find
How little, how little you know."
The Little Peetookle, his teeth he ground
At the Mastodon's singular sense of sound;
For he felt it a sort of a musical stain
On the Rollicking Mastodon over in Spain.
"Alas! and alas! has it come to this pass?"
Said the Little Peetookle. "Dear me!
It certainly seems your horrible screams
Intended for music must be!"
The Mastodon stopped, his ditty he dropped,
And murmured, "Good morning, my dear!
I never will sing to a sensitive thing
That shatters a song with a sneer!"
The Rollicking Mastodon bade him "adieu."
Of course 'twas a sensible thing to do;
For Little Peetookle is spared the strain
Of the Rollicking Mastodon over in Spain.
_Arthur Macy._
_NONSENSE VERSES_
THE INVISIBLE BRIDGE
I'd Never Dare to Walk across
A Bridge I Could Not See;
For Quite afraid of Falling off,
I fear that I Should Be!
THE LAZY ROOF
The Roof it has a Lazy Time
A-lying in the Sun;
The Walls they have to Hold Him Up;
They do Not Have Much Fun!
MY FEET
My feet, they haul me Round the House,
They Hoist me up the Stairs;
I only have to Steer them and
They Ride me Everywheres.
_Gelett Burgess._
SPIRK TROLL-DERISIVE
The Crankadox leaned o'er the edge of the moon,
And wistfully gazed on the sea
Where the Gryxabodill madly whistled a tune
To the air of "Ti-fol-de-ding-dee."
The quavering shriek of the Fliupthecreek
Was fitfully wafted afar
To the Queen of the Wunks as she powdered her cheek
With the pulverized rays of a star.
The Gool closed his ear on the voice of the Grig,
And his heart it grew heavy as lead
As he marked the Baldekin adjusting his wig
On the opposite side of his head;
And the air it grew chill as the Gryxabodill
Raised his dank, dripping fins to the skies
To plead with the Plunk for the use of her bill
To pick the tears out of his eyes.
The ghost of the Zhack flitted by in a trance;
And the Squidjum hid under a tub
As he heard the loud hooves of the Hooken advance
With a rub-a-dub-dub-a-dub dub!
And the Crankadox cried as he laid down and died,
"My fate there is none to bewail!"
While the Queen of the Wunks drifted over the tide
With a long piece of crape to her tail.
_James Whitcomb Riley._
THE MAN IN THE MOON
Said the Raggedy Man on a hot afternoon,
"My!
Sakes!
What a lot o' mistakes
Some little folks makes on the Man in the Moon
But people that's been up to see him like Me,
And calls on him frequent and intimutly,
Might drop a few hints that would interest you
Clean!
Through!
If you wanted 'em to--
Some actual facts that might interest you!
"O the Man in the Moon has a crick in his back
Whee!
Whimm!
Ain't you sorry for him?
And a mole on his nose that is purple and black;
And his eyes are so weak that they water and run
If he dares to _dream_ even he looks at the sun,--
So he jes' dreams of stars, as the doctor's advise--
My!
Eyes!
But isn't he wise--
To jes' dream of stars, as the doctors advise?
"And the Man in the Moon has a boil on his ear--
Whee!
Whing!
What a singular thing!
I know! but these facts are authentic, my dear,--
There's a boil on his ear; and a corn on his chin,--
He calls it a dimple,--but dimples stick in,--
Yet it might be a dimple turned over, you know!
Whang!
Ho!
Why certainly so!--
It might be a dimple turned over, you know!
"And the Man in the Moon has a rheumatic knee,
Gee!
Whizz!
What a pity that is!
And his toes have worked round where his heels ought to be.
So whenever he wants to go North he goes South,
And comes back with porridge crumbs all round his mouth,
And he brushes them off with a Japanese fan,
Whing!
Whann!
What a marvellous man!
What a very remarkably marvellous man!
"And the Man in the Moon," sighed the Raggedy Man,
"Gits!
So!
Sullonesome, you know!
Up there by himself since creation began!--
That when I call on him and then come away,
He grabs me and holds me and begs me to stay,--
Till--well, if it wasn't for _Jimmy-cum-Jim_,
Dadd!
Limb!
I'd go pardners with him!
Jes' jump my bob here and be pardners with him!"
_James Whitcomb Riley._
THE LUGUBRIOUS WHING-WHANG
Out on the margin of moonshine land,
Tickle me, love, in these lonesome ribs,
Out where the whing-whang loves to stand
Writing his name with his tail on the sand,
And wiping it out with his oogerish hand;
Tickle me, love, in these lonesome ribs.
Is it the gibber of gungs and keeks?
Tickle me, love, in these lonesome ribs,
Or what _is_ the sound the whing-whang seeks,
Crouching low by the winding creeks,
And holding his breath for weeks and weeks?
Tickle me, love, in these lonesome ribs.
Aroint him the wraithest of wraithly things!
Tickle me, love, in these lonesome ribs,
'Tis a fair whing-whangess with phosphor rings,
And bridal jewels of fangs and stings,
And she sits and as sadly and softly sings
As the mildewed whir of her own dead wings;
Tickle me, dear; tickle me here;
Tickle me, love, in these lonesome ribs.
_James Whitcomb Riley._
THE YONGHY-BONGHY-BO
I
On the Coast of Coromandel
Where the early pumpkins blow,
In the middle of the woods
Lived the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.
Two old chairs, and half a candle,
One old jug without a handle,--
These were all his worldly goods:
In the middle of the woods,
These were all the worldly goods
Of the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo,
Of the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.
II
Once, among the Bong-trees walking
Where the early pumpkins blow,
To a little heap of stones
Came the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.
There he heard a Lady talking,
To some milk-white Hens of Dorking,
"'Tis the Lady Jingly Jones!
On that little heap of stones
Sits the Lady Jingly Jones!"
Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo,
Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.
III
"Lady Jingly! Lady Jingly!
Sitting where the pumpkins blow,
Will you come and be my wife?"
Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo,
"I am tired of living singly,--
On this coast so wild and shingly,--
I'm a-weary of my life;
If you'll come and be my wife,
Quite serene would be my life!"
Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo,
Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.
IV
"On this Coast of Coromandel
Shrimps and watercresses grow,
Prawns are plentiful and cheap,"
Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.
"You shall have my chairs and candle,
And my jug without a handle!
Gaze upon the rolling deep
(Fish is plentiful and cheap):
As the sea, my love is deep!"
Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo,
Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.
V
Lady Jingly answered sadly,
And her tears began to flow,--
"Your proposal comes too late,
Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo!
I would be your wife most gladly!"
(Here she twirled her fingers madly,)
"But in England I've a mate!
Yes! you've asked me far too late,
For in England I've a mate,
Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo!
Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo!
VI
"Mr. Jones (his name is Handel,--
Handel Jones, Esquire & Co.)
Dorking fowls delights to send,
Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo!
Keep, oh, keep your chairs and candle,
And your jug without a handle,--
I can merely be your friend!
Should my Jones more Dorkings send,
I will give you three, my friend!
Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo!
Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo!
VII
"Though you've such a tiny body,
And your head so large doth grow,--
Though your hat may blow away,
Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo!
Though you're such a Hoddy Doddy,
Yet I wish that I could modi-
fy the words I needs must say!
Will you please to go away?
That is all I have to say,
Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo!
Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo!"
VIII
Down the slippery slopes of Myrtle,
Where the early pumpkins blow,
To the calm and silent sea
Fled the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.
There, beyond the Bay of Gurtle,
Lay a large and lively Turtle.
"You're the Cove," he said, "for me:
On your back beyond the sea,
Turtle, you shall carry me!"
Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo,
Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.
IX
Through the silent roaring ocean
Did the Turtle swiftly go;
Holding fast upon his shell
Rode the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.
With a sad primæval motion
Toward the sunset isles of Boshen
Still the Turtle bore him well,
Holding fast upon his shell.
"Lady Jingly Jones, farewell!"
Sang the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo,
Sang the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.
X
From the Coast of Coromandel
Did that Lady never go,
On that heap of stones she mourns
For the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.
On that Coast of Coromandel,
In his jug without a handle
Still she weeps, and daily moans;
On the little heap of stones
To her Dorking Hens she moans,
For the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo,
For the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.
_Edward Lear._
THE JUMBLIES
I
They went to sea in a sieve, they did;
In a sieve they went to sea:
In spite of all their friends could say,
On a winter's morn, on a stormy day,
In a sieve they went to sea.
And when the sieve turned round and round,
And every one cried, "You'll all be drowned!"
They called aloud, "Our sieve ain't big;
But we don't care a button, we don't care a fig:
In a sieve we'll go to sea!"
Far and few, far and few,
Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
Their heads are green, and their hands are blue;
And they went to sea in a sieve.
II
They sailed away in a sieve, they did,
In a sieve they sailed so fast,
With only a beautiful pea-green veil
Tied with a ribbon by way of a sail,
To a small tobacco-pipe mast.
And every one said who saw them go,
"Oh! won't they soon be upset, you know?
For the sky is dark and the voyage is long,
And, happen what may, it's extremely wrong
In a sieve to sail so fast."
Far and few, far and few,
Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
Their heads are green and their hands are blue;
And they went to sea in a sieve.
III
The water it soon came in, it did;
The water it soon came in:
So, to keep them dry, they wrapped their feet
In a pinky paper all folded neat;
And they fastened it down with a pin.
And they passed the night in a crockery-jar;
And each of them said, "How wise we are!
Though the sky be dark, and the voyage be long,
Yet we never can think we were rash or wrong,
While round in our sieve we spin."
Far and few, far and few,
Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
Their heads are green and their hands are blue;
And they went to sea in a sieve.
IV
And all night long they sailed away;
And when the sun went down,
They whistled and warbled a moony song
To the echoing sound of a coppery gong,
In the shade of the mountains brown.
"O Timballoo! How happy we are
When we live in a sieve and a crockery-jar!
And all night long, in the moonlight pale,
We sail away with a pea-green sail
In the shade of the mountains brown."
Far and few, far and few,
Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
Their heads are green, and their hands are blue;
And they went to sea in a sieve.
V
They sailed to the Western Sea, they did,--
To a land all covered with trees;
And they bought an owl and a useful cart,
And a pound of rice, and a cranberry-tart,
And a hive of silvery bees;
And they bought a pig, and some green jackdaws,
And a lovely monkey with lollipop paws,
And forty bottles of ring-bo-ree,
And no end of Stilton cheese.
Far and few, far and few,
Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
Their heads are green, and their hands are blue;
And they went to sea in a sieve.
VI
And in twenty years they all came back,--
In twenty years or more;
And every one said, "How tall they've grown!
For they've been to the Lakes, and the Torrible Zone,
And the hills of the Chankly Bore."
And they drank their health, and gave them a feast--
Of dumplings made of beautiful yeast;
And every one said, "If we only live,
We, too, will go to sea in a sieve,
To the hills of the Chankly Bore."
Far and few, far and few,
Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
Their heads are green, and their hands are blue;
And they went to sea in a sieve.
_Edward Lear._
THE POBBLE WHO HAS NO TOES
The Pobble who has no toes
Had once as many as we;
When they said, "Some day you may lose them all,"
He replied, "Fish fiddle de-dee!"
And his Aunt Jobiska made him drink
Lavender water tinged with pink;
For she said, "The World in general knows
There's nothing so good for a Pobble's toes!"
The Pobble who has no toes
Swam across the Bristol Channel;
But before he set out he wrapped his nose
In a piece of scarlet flannel.
For his Aunt Jobiska said, "No harm
Can came to his toes if his nose is warm;
And it's perfectly known that a Pobble's toes
Are safe--provided he minds his nose."
The Pobble swam fast and well,
And when boats or ships came near him,
He tinkledy-binkledy-winkled a bell
So that all the world could hear him.
And all the Sailors and Admirals cried,
When they saw him nearing the farther side,
"He has gone to fish for his Aunt Jobiska's
Runcible Cat with crimson whiskers!"
But before he touched the shore--
The shore of the Bristol Channel,
A sea-green Porpoise carried away
His wrapper of scarlet flannel.
And when he came to observe his feet,
Formerly garnished with toes so neat,
His face at once became forlorn
On perceiving that all his toes were gone!
And nobody ever knew,
From that dark day to the present,
Whoso had taken the Pobble's toes,
In a manner so far from pleasant.
Whether the shrimps or crawfish gray,
Or crafty mermaids stole them away,
Nobody knew; and nobody knows
How the Pobble was robbed of his twice five toes!
The Pobble who has no toes
Was placed in a friendly Bark,
And they rowed him back and carried him up
To his Aunt Jobiska's Park.
And she made him a feast at his earnest wish,
Of eggs and buttercups fried with fish;
And she said, "It's a fact the whole world knows,
That Pobbles are happier without their toes."
_Edward Lear._
THE NEW VESTMENTS
There lived an old man in the kingdom of Tess,
Who invented a purely original dress;
And when it was perfectly made and complete,
He opened the door and walked into the street.
By way of a hat he'd a loaf of Brown Bread,
In the middle of which he inserted his head;
His Shirt was made up of no end of dead Mice,
The warmth of whose skins was quite fluffy and nice;
His Drawers were of Rabbit-skins, so were his Shoes,
His Stockings were skins, but it is not known whose;
His Waistcoat and Trowsers were made of Pork Chops;
His Buttons were Jujubes and Chocolate Drops.
His Coat was all Pancakes with Jam for a border,
And a girdle of Biscuits to keep it in order.
And he wore over all, as a screen from bad weather,
A Cloak of green Cabbage leaves, stitched all together.
He had walked a short way, when he heard a great noise
Of all sorts of Beasticles, Birdlings and Boys;
And from every long street and dark lane in the town
Beasts, Birdies and Boys in a tumult rushed down.
Two Cows and a Calf ate his Cabbage leaf Cloak;
Four Apes seized his girdle which vanished like smoke;
Three Kids ate up half of his Pancaky Coat,
And the tails were devoured by an ancient He Goat.
An army of Dogs in a twinkling tore _up_ his
Pork Waistcoat and Trowsers to give to their Puppies;
And while they were growling and mumbling the Chops
Ten Boys prigged the Jujubes and Chocolate Drops.
He tried to run back to his house, but in vain,
For scores of fat Pigs came again and again;
They rushed out of stables and hovels and doors,
They tore off his Stockings, his Shoes and his Drawers.
And now from the housetops with screechings descend
Striped, spotted, white, black and grey Cats without end;
They jumped on his shoulders and knocked off his hat,
When Crows, Ducks and Hens made a mincemeat of that.
They speedily flew at his sleeves in a trice
And utterly tore up his Shirt of dead Mice;
They swallowed the last of his Shirt with a squall,--
Whereon he ran home with no clothes on at all.
And he said to himself as he bolted the door,
"I will not wear a similar dress any more,
Any more, any more, any more, nevermore!"
_Edward Lear._
THE TWO OLD BACHELORS
Two old Bachelors were living in one house;
One caught a Muffin, the other caught a Mouse.
Said he who caught the Muffin to him who caught the Mouse,
"This happens just in time, for we've nothing in the house,
Save a tiny slice of lemon and a teaspoonful of honey,
And what to do for dinner,--since we haven't any money?
And what can we expect if we haven't any dinner
But to lose our teeth and eyelashes and keep on growing thinner?"
Said he who caught the Mouse to him who caught the Muffin,
"We might cook this little Mouse if we only had some Stuffin'!
If we had but Sage and Onions we could do extremely well,
But how to get that Stuffin' it is difficult to tell!"
And then those two old Bachelors ran quickly to the town
And asked for Sage and Onions as they wandered up an down;
They borrowed two large Onions, but no Sage was to be found
In the Shops or in the Market or in all the Gardens round.
But some one said, "A hill there is, a little to the north,
And to its purpledicular top a narrow way leads forth;
And there among the rugged rocks abides an ancient Sage,--
An earnest Man, who reads all day a most perplexing page.
Climb up and seize him by the toes,--all studious as he sits,--
And pull him down, and chop him into endless little bits!
Then mix him with your Onion (cut up likewise into scraps),
And your Stuffin' will be ready, and very good--perhaps."
And then those two old Bachelors, without loss of time,
The nearly purpledicular crags at once began to climb;
And at the top among the rocks, all seated in a nook,
They saw that Sage a-reading of a most enormous book.
"You earnest Sage!" aloud they cried, "your book you've read enough in!
We wish to chop you into bits and mix you into Stuffin'!"
But that old Sage looked calmly up, and with his awful book
At those two Bachelors' bald heads a certain aim he took;
And over crag and precipice they rolled promiscuous down,--
At once they rolled, and never stopped in lane or field or town;
And when they reached their house, they found (besides their want of
Stuffin')
The Mouse had fled--and previously had eaten up the Muffin.
They left their home in silence by the once convivial door;
And from that hour those Bachelors were never heard of more.
_Edward Lear._
JABBERWOCKY
'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!"
He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought.
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.
And as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!
One, two! One, two! And through, and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.
"And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
Oh, frabjous day! Callooh! callay!"
He chortled in his joy.
'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves
And the mome raths outgrabe.
_Lewis Carroll._
WAYS AND MEANS
I'll tell thee everything I can;
There's little to relate.
I saw an aged aged man,
A-sitting on a gate.
"Who are you, aged man?" I said,
"And how is it you live?"
His answer trickled through my head
Like water through a sieve.
He said, "I look for butterflies
That sleep among the wheat:
I make them into mutton-pies,
And sell them in the street.
I sell them unto men," he said,
"Who sail on stormy seas;
And that's the way I get my bread--
A trifle, if you please."
But I was thinking of a plan
To dye one's whiskers green,
And always use so large a fan
That they could not be seen.
So, having no reply to give
To what the old man said,
I cried, "Come, tell me how you live!"
And thumped him on the head.
His accents mild took up the tale;
He said, "I go my ways
And when I find a mountain-rill
I set it in a blaze;
And thence they make a stuff they call
Rowland's Macassar Oil--
Yet twopence-halfpenny is all
They give me for my toil."
But I was thinking of a way
To feed oneself on batter,
And so go on from day to day
Getting a little fatter.
I shook him well from side to side,
Until his face was blue;
"Come, tell me how you live," I cried,
"And what it is you do!"
He said, "I hunt for haddock's eyes
Among the heather bright,
And work them into waistcoat-buttons
In the silent night.
And these I do not sell for gold
Or coin of silvery shine,
But for a copper halfpenny
And that will purchase nine.
"I sometimes dig for buttered rolls,
Or set limed twigs for crabs;
I sometimes search the grassy knolls
For wheels of Hansom cabs.
And that's the way" (he gave a wink)
"By which I get my wealth--
And very gladly will I drink
Your Honor's noble health."
I heard him then, for I had just
Completed my design
To keep the Menai Bridge from rust
By boiling it in wine.
I thanked him much for telling me
The way he got his wealth,
But chiefly for his wish that he
Might drink my noble health.
And now if e'er by chance I put
My fingers into glue,
Or madly squeeze a right-hand foot
Into a left-hand shoe,
Or if I drop upon my toe
A very heavy weight,
I weep, for it reminds me so
Of that old man I used to know--
Whose look was mild, whose speech was slow,
Whose hair was whiter than the snow,
Whose face was very like a crow,
With eyes, like cinders, all aglow,
Who seemed distracted with his woe,
Who rocked his body to and fro,
And muttered mumblingly, and low,
As if his mouth were full of dough,
Who snorted like a buffalo--
That summer evening, long ago,
A-sitting on a gate.
_Lewis Carroll._
HUMPTY DUMPTY'S RECITATION
"In winter, when the fields are white,
I sing this song for your delight----
"In spring, when woods are getting green,
I'll try and tell you what I mean:"
"In summer, when the days are long,
Perhaps you'll understand the song:
In autumn, when the leaves are brown,
Take pen and ink, and write it down."
"I sent a message to the fish:
I told them 'This is what I wish.'
The little fishes of the sea,
They sent an answer back to me.
The little fishes' answer was,
'We cannot do it, Sir, because----'"
"I sent to them again to say
'It will be better to obey.'
The fishes answered, with a grin,
'Why, what a temper you are in!'
I told them once, I told them twice:
They would not listen to advice.
I took a kettle large and new,
Fit for the deed I had to do.
My heart went hop, my heart went thump:
I filled the kettle at the pump.
Then some one came to me and said,
'The little fishes are in bed.'
I said to him, I said it plain,
'Then you must wake them up again.'
I said it very loud and clear:
I went and shouted in his ear.
But he was very stiff and proud:
He said, 'You needn't shout so loud!'
And he was very proud and stiff:
He said, 'I'd go and wake them, if----'
I took a corkscrew from the shelf:
I went to wake them up myself.
And when I found the door was locked,
I pulled and pushed and kicked and knocked.
And when I found the door was shut,
I tried to turn the handle, but----"
_Lewis Carroll._
SOME HALLUCINATIONS
He thought he saw an Elephant,
That practised on a fife:
He looked again, and found it was
A letter from his wife.
"At length I realise," he said,
"The bitterness of Life!"
He thought he saw a Buffalo
Upon the chimney-piece:
He looked again, and found it was
His Sister's Husband's Niece.
"Unless you leave this house," he said,
"I'll send for the Police!"
He thought he saw a Rattlesnake
That questioned him in Greek:
He looked again, and found it was
The Middle of Next Week.
"The one thing I regret," he said,
"Is that it cannot speak!"
He thought he saw a Banker's Clerk
Descending from the 'bus:
He looked again, and found it was
A Hippopotamus:
"If this should stay to dine," he said,
"There won't be much for us!"
He thought he saw an Albatross
That fluttered round the lamp:
He looked again, and found it was
A Penny-Postage-Stamp.
"You'd best be getting home," he said;
"The nights are very damp!"
He thought he saw a Coach-and-Four
That stood beside his bed:
He looked again, and found it was
A Bear without a Head.
"Poor thing," he said, "poor silly thing!
It's waiting to be fed!"
He thought he saw a Kangaroo
That worked a coffee-mill:
He looked again, and found it was
A Vegetable-Pill.
"Were I to swallow this," he said,
"I should be very ill!"
_Lewis Carroll._
SING FOR THE GARISH EYE
Sing for the garish eye,
When moonless brandlings cling!
Let the froddering crooner cry,
And the braddled sapster sing.
For never, and never again,
Will the tottering beechlings play,
For bratticed wrackers are singing aloud,
And the throngers croon in May!
The wracking globe unstrung,
Unstrung in the frittering light
Of a moon that knows no day,
Of a day that knows no night!
Diving away in the crowd
Of sparkling frets in spray,
The bratticed wrackers are singing aloud,
And the throngers croon in May!
Hasten, O hapful blue,
Blue, of the shimmering brow,
Hasten the deed to do
That shall roddle the welkin now!
For never again shall a cloud
Out-thribble the babbling day,
When bratticed wrackers are singing aloud,
And the throngers croon in May!
_W. S. Gilbert._
THE SHIPWRECK
Upon the poop the captain stands,
As starboard as may be;
And pipes on deck the topsail hands
To reef the topsail-gallant strands
Across the briny sea.
"Ho! splice the anchor under-weigh!"
The captain loudly cried;
"Ho! lubbers brave, belay! belay!
For we must luff for Falmouth Bay
Before to-morrow's tide."
The good ship was a racing yawl,
A spare-rigged schooner sloop,
Athwart the bows the taffrails all
In grummets gay appeared to fall,
To deck the mainsail poop.
But ere they made the Foreland Light,
And Deal was left behind,
The wind it blew great gales that night,
And blew the doughty captain tight,
Full three sheets in the wind.
And right across the tiller head
The horse it ran apace,
Whereon a traveller hitched and sped
Along the jib and vanished
To heave the trysail brace.
What ship could live in such a sea?
What vessel bear the shock?
"Ho! starboard port your helm-a-lee!
Ho! reef the maintop-gallant-tree,
With many a running block!"
And right upon the Scilly Isles
The ship had run aground;
When lo! the stalwart Captain Giles
Mounts up upon the gaff and smiles,
And slews the compass round.
"Saved! saved!" with joy the sailors cry,
And scandalize the skiff;
As taut and hoisted high and dry
They see the ship unstoppered lie
Upon the sea-girt cliff.
And since that day in Falmouth Bay,
As herring-fishers trawl,
The younkers hear the boatswains say
How Captain Giles that awful day
Preserved the sinking yawl.
_E. H. Palmer._
UFFIA
When sporgles spanned the floreate mead
And cogwogs gleet upon the lea,
Uffia gopped to meet her love
Who smeeged upon the equat sea.
Dately she walked aglost the sand;
The boreal wind seet in her face;
The moggling waves yalped at her feet;
Pangwangling was her pace.
_Harriet R. White._
'TIS SWEET TO ROAM
'Tis sweet to roam when morning's light
Resounds across the deep;
And the crystal song of the woodbine bright
Hushes the rocks to sleep,
And the blood-red moon in the blaze of noon
Is bathed in a crumbling dew,
And the wolf rings out with a glittering shout,
To-whit, to-whit, to-whoo!
_Unknown._
THREE JOVIAL HUNTSMEN
There were three jovial huntsmen,
As I have heard them say,
And they would go a-hunting
All on a summer's day.
All the day they hunted,
And nothing could they find
But a ship a-sailing,
A-sailing with the wind.
One said it was a ship,
The other said Nay;
The third said it was a house
With the chimney blown away.
And all the night they hunted,
And nothing could they find;
But the moon a-gliding,
A-gliding with the wind.
One said it was the moon,
The other said Nay;
The third said it was a cheese,
And half o't cut away.
_Unknown._
KING ARTHUR
When good King Arthur ruled the land,
He was a goodly king:
He stole three pecks of barley meal,
To make a bag-pudding.
A bag-pudding the king did make,
And stuffed it well with plums;
And in it put great lumps of fat,
As big as my two thumbs.
The king and queen did eat thereof,
And noblemen beside;
And what they could not eat that night,
The queen next morning fried.
_Unknown._
HYDER IDDLE
Hyder iddle diddle dell,
A yard of pudding is not an ell;
Not forgetting tweedle-dye,
A tailor's goose will never fly.
_Unknown._
THE OCEAN WANDERER
Bright breaks the warrior o'er the ocean wave
Through realms that rove not, clouds that cannot save,
Sinks in the sunshine; dazzles o'er the tomb
And mocks the mutiny of Memory's gloom.
Oh! who can feel the crimson ecstasy
That soothes with bickering jar the Glorious Tree?
O'er the high rock the foam of gladness throws,
While star-beams lull Vesuvius to repose:
Girds the white spray, and in the blue lagoon,
Weeps like a walrus o'er the waning moon?
Who can declare?--not thou, pervading boy
Whom pibrochs pierce not, crystals cannot cloy;--
Not thou soft Architect of silvery gleams,
Whose soul would simmer in Hesperian streams,
Th' exhaustless fire--the bosom's azure bliss,
That hurtles, life-like, o'er a scene like this;--
Defies the distant agony of Day--
And sweeps o'er hecatombs--away! away!
Say shall Destruction's lava load the gale,
The furnace quiver and the mountain quail?
Say shall the son of Sympathy pretend
His cedar fragrance with our Chief's to blend?
There, where the gnarled monuments of sand
Howl their dark whirlwinds to the levin brand;
Conclusive tenderness; fraternal grog,
Tidy conjunction; adamantine bog,
Impetuous arrant toadstool; Thundering quince,
Repentant dog-star, inessential Prince,
Expound. Pre-Adamite eventful gun,
Crush retribution, currant-jelly, pun,
Oh! eligible Darkness, fender, sting,
Heav'n-born Insanity, courageous thing.
Intending, bending, scouring, piercing all,
Death like pomatum, tea, and crabs must fall.
_Unknown._
SCIENTIFIC PROOF
If we square a lump of pemmican
And cube a pot of tea,
Divide a musk ox by the span
From noon to half-past three;
If we calculate the Eskimo
By solar parallax,
Divide the sextant by a floe
And multiply the cracks
By nth-powered igloos, we may prove
All correlated facts.
If we prolongate the parallel
Indefinitely forth,
And cube a sledge till we can tell
The real square root of North;
Bisect a seal and bifurcate
The tangent with a pack
Of Polar ice, we get the rate
Along the Polar track,
And proof of corollary things
Which otherwise we lack.
If we multiply the Arctic night
By X times ox times moose,
And build an igloo on the site
Of its hypotenuse;
If we circumscribe an arc about
An Arctic dog and weigh
A segment of it, every doubt
Is made as clear as day.
We also get the price of ice
F. O. B. Baffin's Bay.
If we amplify the Arctic breeze
By logarithmic signs,
And run through the isosceles
Imaginary lines,
We find that twice the half of one
Is equal to the whole.
Which, when the calculus is done,
Quite demonstrates the Pole.
It also gives its length and breadth
And what's the price of coal.
_J. W. Foley._
THE THINGUMBOB
A PASTEL
The Thingumbob sat at eventide,
On the shore of a shoreless sea,
Expecting an unexpected attack
From something it could not foresee.
A still calm rests on the angry waves,
The low wind whistles a mournful tune,
And the Thingumbob sighs to himself, "Alas,
I've had no supper now since noon."
_Unknown._
WONDERS OF NATURE
Ah! who has seen the mailèd lobster rise,
Clap her broad wings, and, soaring, claim the skies?
When did the owl, descending from her bower,
Crop, 'midst the fleecy flocks, the tender flower;
Or the young heifer plunge, with pliant limb,
In the salt wave, and, fish-like, try to swim?
The same with plants, potatoes 'tatoes breed,
The costly cabbage springs from cabbage-seed;
Lettuce to lettuce, leeks to leeks succeed;
Nor e'er did cooling cucumbers presume
To flower like myrtle, or like violets bloom.
_The Anti-Jacobin._
LINES BY AN OLD FOGY
I'm thankful that the sun and moon
Are both hung up so high,
That no presumptuous hand can stretch
And pull them from the sky.
If they were not, I have no doubt
But some reforming ass
Would recommend to take them down
And light the world with gas.
_Unknown._
A COUNTRY SUMMER PASTORAL
As written by a learned scholar of the city from knowledge derived from
etymological deductions rather than from actual experience.
I would flee from the city's rule and law,
From its fashion and form cut loose,
And go where the strawberry grows on its straw,
And the gooseberry on its goose;
Where the catnip tree is climbed by the cat
As she crouches for her prey--
The guileless and unsuspecting rat
On the rattan bush at play.
I will watch at ease for the saffron cow
And the cowlet in their glee,
As they leap in joy from bough to bough
On the top of the cowslip tree;
Where the musical partridge drums on his drum,
And the dog devours the dogwood plum
And the wood chuck chucks his wood,
In the primitive solitude.
And then to the whitewashed dairy I'll turn,
Where the dairymaid hastening hies,
Her ruddy and golden-haired butter to churn
From the milk of her butterflies;
And I'll rise at morn with the early bird,
To the fragrant farm-yard pass,
When the farmer turns his beautiful herd
Of grasshoppers out to grass.
_Unknown._
TURVEY TOP
'Twas after a supper of Norfolk brawn
That into a doze I chanced to drop,
And thence awoke in the grey of dawn,
In the wonder-land of Turvey Top.
A land so strange I never had seen,
And could not choose but look and laugh--
A land where the small the great includes,
And the whole is less than the half!
A land where the circles were not lines
Round central points, as schoolmen show,
And the parallels met whenever they chose,
And went playing at touch-and-go!
There--except that every round was square,
And save that all the squares were rounds--
No surface had limits anywhere,
So they never could beat the bounds.
In their gardens, fruit before blossom came,
And the trees diminished as they grew;
And you never went out to walk a mile,
It was the mile that walked to you.
The people there are not tall or short,
Heavy or light, or stout or thin,
And their lives begin where they should leave off,
Or leave off where they should begin.
There childhood, with naught of childish glee,
Looks on the world with thoughtful brow;
'Tis only the aged who laugh and crow,
And cry "We have done with it now!";
A singular race! what lives they spent!
Got up before they went to bed!
And never a man said what he meant,
Or a woman meant what she said.
They blended colours that will not blend,
All hideous contrasts voted sweet;
In yellow and red their Quakers dress'd,
And considered it rather neat.
They didn't believe in the wise and good,
Said the best were worst, the wisest fools;
And 'twas only to have their teachers taught
That they founded national schools.
They read in "books that are no books,"
Their classics--chess-boards neatly bound;
Those their greatest authors who never wrote,
And their deepest the least profound.
Now, such were the folks of that wonder-land,
A curious people, as you will own;
But are there none of the race abroad,
Are no specimens elsewhere known?
Well, I think that he whose views of life
Are crooked, wrong, perverse, and odd,
Who looks upon all with jaundiced eyes--
Sees himself and believes it God,
Who sneers at the good, and makes the ill,
Curses a world he cannot mend;
Who measures life by the rule of wrong
And abuses its aim and end,
The man who stays when he ought to move,
And only goes when he ought to stop--
Is strangely like the folk in my dream,
And would flourish in Turvey Top.
_William Sawyer._
A BALLAD OF BEDLAM
O lady wake!--the azure moon
Is rippling in the verdant skies,
The owl is warbling his soft tune,
Awaiting but thy snowy eyes.
The joys of future years are past,
To-morrow's hopes have fled away;
Still let us love, and e'en at last,
We shall be happy yesterday.
The early beam of rosy night
Drives off the ebon morn afar,
While through the murmur of the light
The huntsman winds his mad guitar.
Then, lady, wake! my brigantine
Pants, neighs, and prances to be free;
Till the creation I am thine.
To some rich desert fly with me.
_Unknown._
XIV
NATURAL HISTORY
THE FASTIDIOUS SERPENT
There was a snake that dwelt in Skye,
Over the misty sea, oh;
He lived upon nothing but gooseberry pie
For breakfast, dinner and tea, oh.
Now gooseberry pie--as is very well known,--
Over the misty sea, oh,
Is not to be found under every stone,
Nor yet upon every tree, oh.
And being so ill to please with his meat,
Over the misty sea, oh;
The snake had sometimes nothing to eat,
And an angry snake was he, oh.
Then he'd flick his tongue and his head he'd shake,
Over the misty sea, oh,
Crying, "Gooseberry pie! For goodness' sake,
Some gooseberry pie for me, oh."
And if gooseberry pie was not to be had,
Over the misty sea, oh,
He'd twine and twist like an eel gone mad,
Or a worm just stung by a bee, oh.
But though he might shout and wriggle about,
Over the misty sea, oh,
The snake had often to go without
His breakfast, dinner and tea, oh.
_Henry Johnstone._
THE LEGEND OF THE FIRST CAM-U-EL
AN ARABIAN APOLOGUE
Across the sands of Syria,
Or, possibly, Algeria,
Or some benighted neighbourhood of barrenness and drouth,
There came the Prophet Sam-u-el
Upon the Only Cam-u-el--
A bumpy, grumpy Quadruped of discontented mouth.
The atmosphere was glutinous;
The Cam-u-el was mutinous;
He dumped the pack from off his back; with horrid grunts and squeals
He made the desert hideous;
With strategy perfidious
He tied his neck in curlicues, he kicked his paddy heels.
Then quoth the gentle Sam-u-el,
"You rogue, I ought to lam you well!
Though zealously I've shielded you from every grief and woe,
It seems, to voice a platitude,
You haven't any gratitude.
I'd like to hear what cause you have for doing thus and so!"
To him replied the Cam-u-el,
"I beg your pardon, Sam-u-el.
I know that I'm a Reprobate, I know that I'm a Freak;
But, oh! this utter loneliness!
My too-distinguished Onliness!
Were there but other Cam-u-els I wouldn't be Unique."
The Prophet beamed beguilingly.
"Aha," he answered, smilingly,
"You feel the need of company? I clearly understand.
We'll speedily create for you
The corresponding mate for you--
Ho! presto, change-o, dinglebat!"--he waved a potent hand,
And, lo! from out Vacuity
A second Incongruity,
To wit, a Lady Cam-u-el was born through magic art.
Her structure anatomical,
Her form and face were comical;
She was, in short, a Cam-u-el, the other's counterpart.
As Spaniards gaze on Aragon,
Upon that Female Paragon
So gazed the Prophet's Cam-u-el, that primal Desert Ship.
A connoisseur meticulous,
He found her that ridiculous
He grinned from ear to auricle _until he split his lip_!
Because of his temerity
That Cam-u-el's posterity
Must wear divided upper lips through all their solemn lives!
A prodigy astonishing
Reproachfully admonishing
Those, wicked, heartless married men who ridicule their wives.
_Arthur Guiterman._
UNSATISFIED YEARNING
Down in the silent hallway
Scampers the dog about,
And whines, and barks, and scratches,
In order to get out.
Once in the glittering starlight,
He straightway doth begin
To set up a doleful howling
In order to get in.
_R. K. Munkittrick._
KINDLY ADVICE
Be kind to the panther! for when thou wert young,
In thy country far over the sea,
'Twas a panther ate up thy papa and mama,
And had several mouthfuls of thee!
Be kind to the badger! for who shall decide
The depth of his badgery soul?
And think of the tapir, when flashes the lamp
O'er the fast and the free flowing bowl.
Be kind to the camel! nor let word of thine
Ever put up his bactrian back;
And cherish the she-kangaroo with her bag,
Nor venture to give her the sack.
Be kind to the ostrich! for how canst thou hope
To have such a stomach as it?
And when the proud day of your "bridal" shall come,
Do give the poor birdie a "bit."
Be kind to the walrus! nor ever forget
To have it on Tuesday to tea;
But butter the crumpets on only one side,
Save such as are eaten by thee.
Be kind to the bison! and let the jackal
In the light of thy love have a share;
And coax the ichneumon to grow a new tail,
And have lots of larks in its lair!
Be kind to the bustard, that genial bird,
And humour its wishes and ways;
And when the poor elephant suffers from bile,
Then tenderly lace up his stays!
_Unknown._
KINDNESS TO ANIMALS
Speak gently to the herring and kindly to the calf,
Be blithesome with the bunny, at barnacles don't laugh!
Give nuts unto the monkey, and buns unto the bear,
Ne'er hint at currant jelly if you chance to see a hare!
Oh, little girls, pray hide your combs when tortoises draw nigh,
And never in the hearing of a pigeon whisper Pie!
But give the stranded jelly-fish a shove into the sea,--
Be always kind to animals wherever you may be!
Oh, make not game of sparrows, nor faces at the ram,
And ne'er allude to mint sauce when calling on a lamb.
Don't beard the thoughtful oyster, don't dare the cod to crimp,
Don't cheat the pike, or ever try to pot the playful shrimp.
Tread lightly on the turning worm, don't bruise the butterfly,
Don't ridicule the wry-neck, nor sneer at salmon-fry;
Oh, ne'er delight to make dogs fight, nor bantams disagree,--
Be always kind to animals wherever you may be!
Be lenient with lobsters, and ever kind to crabs,
And be not disrespectful to cuttle-fish or dabs;
Chase not the Cochin-China, chaff not the ox obese,
And babble not of feather-beds in company with geese.
Be tender with the tadpole, and let the limpet thrive,
Be merciful to mussels, don't skin your eels alive;
When talking to a turtle don't mention calipee--
Be always kind to animals wherever you may be.
_J. Ashby-Sterry._
TO BE OR NOT TO BE
I
I sometimes think I'd rather crow
And be a rooster than to roost
And be a crow. But I dunno.
II
A rooster he can roost also,
Which don't seem fair when crows can't crow.
Which may help some. Still I dunno.
III
Crows should be glad of one thing, though;
Nobody thinks of eating crow,
While roosters they are good enough
For anyone unless they're tough.
IV
There are lots of tough old roosters, though,
And anyway a crow can't crow,
So mebby roosters stand more show.
It looks that way. But I dunno.
_Unknown._
THE HEN
Was once a hen of wit not small
(In fact, 'twas not amazing),
And apt at laying eggs withal,
Who, when she'd done, would scream and bawl,
As if the house were blazing.
A turkey-cock, of age mature,
Felt thereat indignation;
'Twas quite improper, he was sure--
He would no more the thing endure;
So, after cogitation,
He to the lady straight repaired,
And thus his business he declared:
"Madam, pray, what's the matter,
That always, when you've laid an egg,
You make so great a clatter?
I wish you'd do the thing in quiet.
Do be advised by me, and try it."
"Advised by you!" the lady cried,
And tossed her head with proper pride;
"And what do you know, now I pray,
Of the fashion of the present day,
You creature ignorant and low?
However, if you want to know,
This is the reason why I do it:
I lay my egg, and then review it!"
_Matthew Claudius._
OF BAITING THE LION
Remembering his taste for blood
You'd better bait him with a cow;
Persuade the brute to chew the cud
Her tail suspended from a bough;
It thrills the lion through and through
To hear the milky creature moo.
Having arranged this simple ruse,
Yourself you climb a neighboring tree;
See to it that the spot you choose
Commands the coming tragedy;
Take up a smallish Maxim gun,
A search-light, whisky, and a bun.
It's safer, too, to have your bike
Standing immediately below,
In case your piece should fail to strike,
Or deal an ineffective blow;
The Lion moves with perfect grace,
But cannot go the scorcher's pace.
Keep open ear for subtle signs;
Thus, when the cow profusely moans,
That means to say, the Lion dines.
The crunching sound, of course, is bones;
Silence resumes her ancient reign--
This shows the cow is out of pain.
But when a fat and torpid hum
Escapes the eater's unctuous nose,
Turn up the light and let it come
Full on his innocent repose;
Then pour your shot between his eyes,
And go on pouring till he dies.
Play, even so, discretion's part;
Descend with stealth; bring on your gun;
Then lay your hand above his heart
To see if he is really done;
Don't skin him till you know he's dead
Or you may perish in his stead!
* * * * *
Years hence, at home, when talk is tall,
You'll set the gun-room wide agape,
Describing how with just a small
Pea-rifle, going after ape
You met a Lion unaware,
And felled him flying through the air.
_Owen Seaman._
THE FLAMINGO
Inspired by reading a chorus of spirits in a German play
|First Voice|
Oh! tell me have you ever seen a red, long-leg'd Flamingo?
Oh! tell me have you ever yet seen him the water in go?
|Second voice|
Oh! yes at Bowling-Green I've seen a red long-leg'd Flamingo,
Oh! yes at Bowling-Green I've there seen him the water in go.
|First Voice|
Oh! tell me did you ever see a bird so funny stand-o
When forth he from the water comes and gets upon the land-o?
|Second Voice|
No! in my life I ne'er did see a bird so funny stand-o
When forth he from the water comes and gets upon the land-o.
|First Voice|
He has a leg some three feet long, or near it, so they say, Sir.
Stiff upon one alone he stands, t'other he stows away, Sir.
|Second Voice|
And what an ugly head he's got! I wonder that he'd wear it.
But rather _more_ I wonder that his long, thin neck can bear it.
|First voice|
And think, this length of neck and legs (no doubt they have their uses)
Are members of a little frame, much smaller than a goose's!
|Both|
Oh! isn't he a curious bird, that red, long-leg'd Flamingo?
A water bird, a gawky bird, a sing'lar bird, by jingo!
_Lewis Gaylord Clark._
WHY DOTH A PUSSY CAT?
Why doth a pussy cat prefer,
When dozing, drowsy, on the sill,
To purr and purr and purr and purr
Instead of merely keeping still?
With nodding head and folded paws,
She keeps it up without a cause.
Why doth she flaunt her lofty tail
In such a stiff right-angled pose?
If lax and limp she let it trail
'Twould seem more restful, Goodness knows!
When strolling 'neath the chairs or bed,
She lets it bump above her head.
Why doth she suddenly refrain
From anything she's busied in
And start to wash, with might and main,
Most any place upon her skin?
Why doth she pick that special spot,
Not seeing if it's soiled or not?
Why doth she never seem to care
To come directly when you call,
But makes approach from here and there,
Or sidles half around the wall?
Though doors are opened at her mew,
You often have to push her through.
Why doth she this? Why doth she that?
I seek for cause--I yearn for clews;
The subject of the pussy cat
Doth endlessly inspire the mews.
Why doth a pussy cat? Ah, me,
I haven't got the least idee.
_Burges Johnson._
THE WALRUS AND THE CARPENTER
The sun was shining on the sea,
Shining with all his might:
He did his very best to make
The billows smooth and bright--
And this was odd, because it was
The middle of the night.
The moon was shining sulkily,
Because she thought the sun
Had got no business to be there
After the day was done--
"It's very rude of him," she said,
"To come and spoil the fun!"
The sea was wet as wet could be,
The sands were dry as dry.
You could not see a cloud, because
No cloud was in the sky:
No birds were flying overhead--
There were no birds to fly.
The Walrus and the Carpenter
Were walking close at hand;
They wept like anything to see
Such quantities of sand:
"If this were only cleared away,"
They said, "it would be grand!"
"If seven maids with seven mops
Swept it for half a year,
Do you suppose," the Walrus said,
"That they could get it clear?"
"I doubt it," said the Carpenter,
And shed a bitter tear.
"O Oysters come and walk with us!"
The Walrus did beseech.
"A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk,
Along the briny beach:
We cannot do with more than four,
To give a hand to each."
The eldest Oyster looked at him,
But not a word he said:
The eldest Oyster winked his eye,
And shook his heavy head--
Meaning to say he did not choose
To leave the oyster-bed.
But four young Oysters hurried up,
All eager for the treat:
Their coats were brushed, their faces washed,
Their shoes were clean and neat--
And this was odd, because, you know,
They hadn't any feet.
Four other Oysters followed them,
And yet another four;
And thick and fast they came at last,
And more, and more, and more--
All hopping through the frothy waves,
And scrambling to the shore.
The Walrus and the Carpenter
Walked on a mile or so,
And then they rested on a rock,
Conveniently low:
And all the little Oysters stood
And waited in a row.
"The time has come," the Walrus said,
"To talk of many things:
Of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax--
Of cabbages--and kings--
And why the sea is boiling hot--
And whether pigs have wings."
"But wait a bit," the Oysters cried,
"Before we have our chat;
For some of us are out of breath,
And all of us are fat!"
"No hurry!" said the Carpenter.
They thanked him much for that.
"A loaf of bread," the Walrus said,
"Is what we chiefly need;
Pepper and vinegar besides
Are very good indeed--
Now, if you're ready, Oysters dear,
We can begin to feed."
"But not on us," the Oysters cried,
Turning a little blue.
"After such kindness that would be
A dismal thing to do!"
"The night is fine," the Walrus said,
"Do you admire the view?"
"It was so kind of you to come,
And you are very nice!"
The Carpenter said nothing but,
"Cut us another slice.
I wish you were not quite so deaf--
I've had to ask you twice!"
"It seems a shame," the Walrus said,
"To play them such a trick.
After we've brought them out so far
And made them trot so quick!"
The Carpenter said nothing but,
"The butter's spread too thick!"
"I weep for you," the Walrus said,
"I deeply sympathize."
With sobs and tears he sorted out
Those of the largest size,
Holding his pocket-handkerchief
Before his streaming eyes.
"O Oysters," said the Carpenter,
"You've had a pleasant run!
Shall we be trotting home again?"
But answer came there none--
And this was scarcely odd, because
They'd eaten every one.
_Lewis Carroll._
NIRVANA
I am
A Clam!
Come learn of me
Unclouded peace and calm content,
Serene, supreme tranquillity,
Where thoughtless dreams and dreamless thoughts are blent.
When the salt tide is rising to the flood,
In billows blue my placid pulp I lave;
And when it ebbs I slumber in the mud,
Content alike with ooze or crystal wave.
I do not shudder when in chowder stewed,
Nor when the Coney Islander engulfs me raw.
When in the church soup's dreary solitude
Alone I wander, do I shudder? Naw!
If jarring tempests beat upon my bed,
Or summer peace there be,
I do not care: as I have said,
All's one to me;
A Clam
I am.
_Unknown._
THE CATFISH
The saddest fish that swims the briny ocean,
The Catfish I bewail.
I cannot even think without emotion
Of his distressful tail.
When with my pencil once I tried to draw one,
(I dare not show it here)
Mayhap it is because I never saw one,
The picture looked so queer.
I vision him half feline and half fishy,
A paradox in twins,
Unmixable as vitriol and vichy--
A thing of fur and fins.
A feline Tantalus, forever chasing
His fishy self to rend;
His finny self forever self-effacing
In circles without end.
This tale may have a Moral running through it
As Æsop had in his;
If so, dear reader, you are welcome to it,
If you know what it is!
_Oliver Herford._
WAR RELIEF
"Can you spare a Threepenny bit,
Dear Miss Turkey," said Sir Mouse,
"For Job's Turkey's benefit?
I've engaged the Opera House!"
"Alas! I've naught to spare!"
Said Miss Turkey, "save advice,
I am getting up a Fair,
To relieve the Poor Church Mice."
_Oliver Herford._
THE OWL AND THE PUSSY-CAT
The Owl and the Pussy-Cat went to sea
In a beautiful pea-green boat:
They took some honey, and plenty of money
Wrapped up in a five-pound note.
The Owl looked up to the stars above,
And sang to a small guitar,
"Oh, lovely Pussy, oh, Pussy, my love,
What a beautiful Pussy you are,
You are,
You are!
What a beautiful Pussy you are!"
Pussy said to the Owl, "You elegant fowl,
How charmingly sweet you sing!
Oh, let us be married; too long we have tarried:
But what shall we do for a ring?"
They sailed away for a year and a day,
To the land where the bong-tree grows;
And there in the wood a Piggy-wig stood,
With a ring at the end of his nose,
His nose,
His nose,
With a ring at the end of his nose.
"Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling
Your ring?" Said the Piggy, "I will."
So they took it away and were married next day
By the Turkey who lives on the hill.
They dined on mince and slices of quince,
Which they ate with a runcible spoon;
And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,
They danced by the light of the moon,
The moon,
The moon,
They danced by the light of the moon.
_Edward Lear._
MEXICAN SERENADE
When the little armadillo
With his head upon his pillow
Sweetly rests,
And the parrakeet and lindo
Flitting past my cabin window
Seek their nests,--
When the mists of even settle
Over Popocatapetl,
Dropping dew,--
Like the condor, over yonder,
Still I ponder, ever fonder,
Dear, of You!
May no revolution shock you,
May the earthquake gently rock you
To repose,
While the sentimental panthers
Sniff the pollen-laden anthers
Of the rose!
While the pelican is pining,
While the moon is softly shining
On the stream,
May the song that I am singing
Send a tender cadence winging
Through your dream!
I have just one wish to utter--
That you twinkle through your shutter
Like a star,
While, according to convention,
I shall cas-u-ally mention
My guitar.
Señorita Maraquita,
Muy bonita, pobracita!--
Hear me weep!--
But the night is growing wetter,
So I guess that you had better
Go to sleep.
_Arthur Guiterman._
ORPHAN BORN
I am a lone, unfathered chick,
Of artificial hatching,
A pilgrim in a desert wild,
By happier, mothered chicks reviled,
From all relationships exiled,
To do my own lone scratching.
Fair science smiled upon my birth
One raw and gusty morning;
But ah, the sounds of barnyard mirth
To lonely me have little worth;
Alone am I in all the earth--
An orphan without borning.
Seek I my mother? I would find
A heartless personator;
A thing brass-feathered, man-designed,
With steam-pipe arteries intermined,
And pulseless cotton-batting lined--
A patent incubator.
It wearies me to think, you see--
Death would be better, rather--
Should downy chicks be hatched of me,
By fate's most pitiless decree,
My piping pullets still would be
With never a grandfather.
And when to earth I bid adieu
To seek a planet greater,
I will not do as others do,
Who fly to join the ancestral crew,
For I will just be gathered to
My incubator.
_Robert J. Burdette._
DIVIDED DESTINIES
It was an artless Bandar, and he danced upon a pine,
And much I wondered how he lived, and where the beast might dine,
And many, many other things, till, o'er my morning smoke,
I slept the sleep of idleness and dreamed that Bandar spoke.
He said: "Oh, man of many clothes! sad crawler on the Hills!
Observe, I know not Ranken's shop, nor Ranken's monthly bills!
I take no heed to trousers or the coats that you call dress;
Nor am I plagued with little cards for little drinks at Mess.
"I steal the bunnia's grain at morn, at noon and eventide
(For he is fat and I am spare), I roam the mountainside,
I follow no man's carriage, and no, never in my life
Have I flirted at Peliti's with another Bandar's wife.
"Oh, man of futile fopperies--unnecessary wraps;
I own no ponies in the Hills, I drive no tall-wheeled traps;
I buy me not twelve-button gloves, 'short-sixes' eke, or rings,
Nor do I waste at Hamilton's my wealth on pretty things.
"I quarrel with my wife at home, we never fight abroad;
But Mrs. B. has grasped the fact I am her only lord.
I never heard of fever--dumps nor debts depress my soul;
And I pity and despise you!" Here he pouched my breakfast-roll.
His hide was very mangy and his face was very red,
And undisguisedly he scratched with energy his head.
His manners were not always nice, but how my spirit cried
To be an artless Bandar loose upon the mountainside!
So I answered: "Gentle Bandar, an inscrutable Decree
Makes thee a gleesome, fleasome Thou, and me a wretched Me.
Go! Depart in peace, my brother, to thy home amid the pine;
Yet forget not once a mortal wished to change his lot with thine."
_Rudyard Kipling._
THE VIPER
Yet another great truth I record in my verse,
That some Vipers are venomous, some the reverse;
A fact you may prove if you try,
By procuring two Vipers and letting them bite;
With the first you are only the worse for a fright,
But after the second you die.
_Hilaire Belloc._
THE LLAMA
The Llama is a woolly sort of fleecy, hairy goat,
With an indolent expression and an undulating throat,
Like an unsuccessful literary man.
And I know the place he lives in (or at least I think I do)
It is Ecuador, Brazil or Chile--possibly Peru;
You must find it in the Atlas if you can.
The Llama of the Pampases you never should confound
(In spite of a deceptive similarity of sound),
With the Lhama who is Lord of Turkestan.
For the former is a beautiful and valuable beast,
But the latter is not lovable nor useful in the least;
And the Ruminant is preferable surely to the Priest
Who battens on the woful superstitions of the East,
The Mongol of the Monastery of Shan.
_Hilaire Belloc._
THE YAK
As a friend to the children commend me the yak,
You will find it exactly the thing:
It will carry and fetch, you can ride on its back,
Or lead it about with a string.
A Tartar who dwells on the plains of Thibet
(A desolate region of snow)
Has for centuries made it a nursery pet,
And surely the Tartar should know!
Then tell your papa where the Yak can be got,
And if he is awfully rich,
He will buy you the creature--or else he will not,
(I cannot be positive which).
THE FROG
Be kind and tender to the Frog,
And do not call him names,
As "Slimy-Skin," or "Polly-wog,"
Or likewise, "Uncle James,"
Or "Gape-a-grin," or "Toad-gone-wrong,"
Or, "Billy-Bandy-knees;"
The Frog is justly sensitive
To epithets like these.
No animal will more repay
A treatment kind and fair,
At least, so lonely people say
Who keep a frog (and, by the way,
They are extremely rare).
_Hilaire Belloc._
THE MICROBE
The Microbe is so very small
You cannot make him out at all,
But many sanguine people hope
To see him through a microscope.
His jointed tongue that lies beneath
A hundred curious rows of teeth;
His seven tufted tails with lots
Of lovely pink and purple spots
On each of which a pattern stands,
Composed of forty separate bands;
His eyebrows of a tender green;
All these have never yet been seen--
But Scientists, who ought to know,
Assure us that they must be so....
Oh! let us never, never doubt
What nobody is sure about!
_Hilaire Belloc._
THE GREAT BLACK CROW
The crow--the crow! the great black crow!
He cares not to meet us wherever we go;
He cares not for man, beast, friend, nor foe,
For nothing will eat him he well doth know.
Know--know! you great black crow!
It's a comfort to feel like a great black crow!
The crow--the crow! the great black crow!
He loves the fat meadow--his taste is low;
He loves the fat worms, and he dines in a row
With fifty fine cousins all black as a sloe.
Sloe--sloe! you great black crow!
But it's jolly to fare like a great black crow!
The crow--the crow! the great black crow!
He never gets drunk on the rain or snow;
He never gets drunk, but he never says no!
If you press him to tipple ever so.
So--so! you great black crow!
It's an honour to soak like a great black crow!
The crow--the crow! the great black crow!
He lives for a hundred year and mo';
He lives till he dies, and he dies as slow
As the morning mists down the hill that go.
Go--go! you great black crow!
But it's fine to live and die like a great black crow!
_Philip James Bailey._
THE COLUBRIAD
Close by the threshold of a door nailed fast,
Three kittens sat; each kitten looked aghast.
I, passing swift and inattentive by,
At the three kittens cast a careless eye;
Not much concerned to know what they did there;
Not deeming kittens worth a poet's care.
But presently, a loud and furious hiss
Caused me to stop, and to exclaim, "What's this?"
When lo! upon the threshold met my view,
With head erect, and eyes of fiery hue,
A viper long as Count de Grasse's queue.
Forth from his head his forked tongue he throws,
Darting it full against a kitten's nose;
Who, having never seen, in field or house,
The like, sat still and silent as a mouse;
Only projecting, with attention due,
Her whiskered face, she asked him, "Who are you?"
On to the hall went I, with pace not slow,
But swift as lightning, for a long Dutch hoe:
With which well armed, I hastened to the spot
To find the viper--but I found him not.
And, turning up the leaves and shrubs around,
Found only that he was not to be found;
But still the kittens, sitting as before,
Sat watching close the bottom of the door.
"I hope," said I, "the villain I would kill
Has slipped between the door and the door-sill;
And if I make despatch, and follow hard,
No doubt but I shall find him in the yard:"
(For long ere now it should have been rehearsed,
'Twas in the garden that I found him first.)
E'en there I found him: there the full-grown cat
His head, with velvet paw, did gently pat;
As curious as the kittens erst had been
To learn what this phenomenon might mean.
Filled with heroic ardour at the sight,
And fearing every moment he would bite,
And rob our household of our only cat
That was of age to combat with a rat;
With outstretched hoe I slew him at the door,
And taught him never to come there no more!
_William Cowper._
THE RETIRED CAT
A Poet's Cat, sedate and grave
As poet well could wish to have,
Was much addicted to inquire
For nooks to which she might retire,
And where, secure as mouse in chink,
She might repose, or sit and think.
I know not where she caught the trick;
Nature perhaps herself had cast her
In such a mold |philosophique|,
Or else she learned it of her master.
Sometimes ascending, debonair,
An apple-tree, or lofty pear,
Lodged with convenience in the fork,
She watched the gardener at his work;
Sometimes her ease and solace sought
In an old empty watering-pot,
There wanting nothing, save a fan,
To seem some nymph in her sedan,
Appareled in exactest sort,
And ready to be borne to court.
But love of change it seems has place
Not only in our wiser race;
Cats also feel, as well as we,
That passion's force, and so did she.
Her climbing, she began to find,
Exposed her too much to the wind,
And the old utensil of tin
Was cold and comfortless within:
She therefore wished, instead of those,
Some place of more serene repose,
Where neither cold might come, nor air
Too rudely wanton in her hair,
And sought it in the likeliest mode
Within her master's snug abode.
A drawer, it chanced, at bottom lined
With linen of the softest kind,
With such as merchants introduce
From India, for the ladies' use;
A drawer, impending o'er the rest,
Half open, in the topmost chest,
Of depth enough, and none to spare,
Invited her to slumber there;
Puss with delight beyond expression,
Surveyed the scene and took possession.
Recumbent at her ease, ere long,
And lulled by her own humdrum song,
She left the cares of life behind,
And slept as she would sleep her last,
When in came, housewifely inclined,
The chambermaid, and shut it fast,
By no malignity impelled,
But all unconscious whom it held.
Awakened by the shock (cried puss)
"Was ever cat attended thus!
The open drawer was left, I see,
Merely to prove a nest for me,
For soon as I was well composed,
Then came the maid, and it was closed.
How smooth those 'kerchiefs, and how sweet
Oh what a delicate retreat!
I will resign myself to rest
Till Sol declining in the west,
Shall call to supper, when, no doubt,
Susan will come, and let me out."
The evening came, the sun descended,
And puss remained still unattended.
The night rolled tardily away
(With her indeed 'twas never day),
The sprightly morn her course renewed,
The evening gray again ensued,
And puss came into mind no more
Than if entombed the day before;
With hunger pinched, and pinched for room,
She now presaged approaching doom.
Nor slept a single wink, nor purred,
Conscious of jeopardy incurred.
That night, by chance, the poet, watching,
Heard an inexplicable scratching;
His noble heart went pit-a-pat,
And to himself he said--"What's that?"
He drew the curtain at his side,
And forth he peeped, but nothing spied.
Yet, by his ear directed, guessed
Something imprisoned in the chest;
And, doubtful what, with prudent care
Resolved it should continue there.
At length a voice which well he knew,
A long and melancholy mew,
Saluting his poetic ears,
Consoled him, and dispelled his fears;
He left his bed, he trod the floor,
He 'gan in haste the drawers explore,
The lowest first, and without stop
The next in order to the top.
For 'tis a truth well known to most,
That whatsoever thing is lost,
We seek it, ere it come to light,
In every cranny but the right.
Forth skipped the cat, not now replete
As erst with airy self-conceit,
Nor in her own fond comprehension,
A theme for all the world's attention,
But modest, sober, cured of all
Her notions hyperbolical,
And wishing for a place of rest,
Any thing rather than a chest.
Then stepped the poet into bed
With this reflection in his head:
MORAL
Beware of too sublime a sense
Of your own worth and consequence.
The man who dreams himself so great,
And his importance of such weight,
That all around in all that's done
Must move and act for him alone,
Will learn in school of tribulation
The folly of his expectation.
_William Cowper._
A DARWINIAN BALLAD
Oh, many have told of the monkeys of old,
What a pleasant race they were,
And it seems most true that I and you
Are derived from an apish pair.
They all had nails, and some had tails,
And some--no "accounts in arrear";
They climbed up the trees, and they scratched out the--these
Of course I will not mention here.
They slept in a wood, or wherever they could,
For they didn't know how to make beds;
They hadn't got huts; they dined upon nuts,
Which they cracked upon each other's heads.
They hadn't much scope, for a comb, brush or soap,
Or towels, or kettle or fire.
They had no coats nor capes, for ne'er did these apes
Invent what they didn't require.
The sharpest baboon never used fork or spoon,
Nor made any boots for his toes,
Nor could any thief steal a silk handker-chief,
For no ape thought much of his nose;
They had cold collations; they ate poor relations:
Provided for thus, by-the-bye.
No Ou-rang-ou-tang a song ever sang--
He couldn't, and so didn't try.
From these though descended our manners are mended,
Though still we can grin and backbite!
We cut up each other, be he friend or brother,
And tales are the fashion--at night.
This origination is all speculation--
We gamble in various shapes;
So Mr. Darwin may speculate in
Our ancestors having been apes.
_Unknown._
THE PIG
A COLLOQUIAL POEM
Jacob! I do not like to see thy nose
Turn'd up in scornful curve at yonder pig,
It would be well, my friend, if we like him,
Were perfect in our kind!... And why despise
The sow-born grunter?... He is obstinate,
Thou answerest; ugly, and the filthiest beast
That banquets upon offal.... Now I pray you
Hear the pig's counsel.
Is he obstinate?
We must not, Jacob, be deceived by words;
We must not take them as unheeding hands
Receive base money at the current worth
But with a just suspicion try their sound,
And in the even balance weight them well
See now to what this obstinacy comes:
A poor, mistreated, democratic beast,
He knows that his unmerciful drivers seek
Their profit, and not his. He hath not learned
That pigs were made for man,... born to be brawn'd
And baconized: that he must please to give
Just what his gracious masters please to take;
Perhaps his tusks, the weapons Nature gave
For self-defense, the general privilege;
Perhaps,... hark, Jacob! dost thou hear that horn?
Woe to the young posterity of Pork!
Their enemy is at hand.
Again. Thou say'st
The pig is ugly. Jacob, look at him!
Those eyes have taught the lover flattery.
His face,... nay, Jacob! Jacob! were it fair
To judge a lady in her dishabille?
Fancy it dressed, and with saltpeter rouged.
Behold his tail, my friend; with curls like that
The wanton hop marries her stately spouse:
So crisp in beauty Amoretta's hair
Rings round her lover's soul the chains of love.
And what is beauty, but the aptitude
Of parts harmonious? Give thy fancy scope,
And thou wilt find that no imagined change
Can beautify this beast. Place at his end
The starry glories of the peacock's pride,
Give him the swan's white breast; for his horn-hoofs
Shape such a foot and ankle as the waves
Crowded in eager rivalry to kiss
When Venus from the enamor'd sea arose;...
Jacob, thou canst but make a monster of him!
An alteration man could think, would mar
His pig-perfection.
The last charge,... he lives
A dirty life. Here I could shelter him
With noble and right-reverend precedents.
And show by sanction of authority
That 'tis a very honorable thing
To thrive by dirty ways. But let me rest
On better ground the unanswerable defense.
The pig is a philosopher, who knows
No prejudice. Dirt?... Jacob, what is dirt?
If matter,... why the delicate dish that tempts
An o'ergorged epicure to the last morsel
That stuffs him to the throat-gates, is no more.
If matter be not, but as sages say,
Spirit is all, and all things visible
Are one, the infinitely modified,
Think, Jacob, what that pig is, and the mire
Wherein he stands knee-deep!
And there! the breeze
Pleads with me, and has won thee to a smile
That speaks conviction. O'er yon blossom'd field
Of beans it came, and thoughts of bacon rise.
_Robert Southey._
A FISH STORY
A whale of great porosity
And small specific gravity,
Dived down with much velocity
Beneath the sea's concavity.
But soon the weight of water
Squeezed in his fat immensity,
Which varied--as it ought to--
Inversely as his density.
It would have moved to pity
An Ogre or a Hessian,
To see poor Spermaceti
Thus suffering compression.
The while he lay a-roaring
In agonies gigantic,
The lamp-oil out came pouring,
And greased the wide Atlantic.
(Would we'd been in the Navy,
And cruising there! Imagine us
All in a sea of gravy,
With billow oleaginous!)
At length old million-pounder,
Low on a bed of coral,
Gave his last dying flounder,
Whereto I pen this moral.
MORAL
O, let this tale dramatic,
Anent the whale Norwegian
And pressure hydrostatic,
Warn you, my young collegian,
That down-compelling forces
Increase as you get deeper;
The lower down your course is,
The upward path's the steeper.
_Henry A. Beers._
THE CAMERONIAN CAT
There was a Cameronian cat
Was hunting for a prey,
And in the house she catched a mouse
Upon the Sabbath-day.
The Whig, being offended
At such an act profane,
Laid by his book, the cat he took,
And bound her in a chain.
"Thou damned, thou cursed creature!
This deed so dark with thee!
Think'st thou to bring to hell below
My holy wife and me?
"Assure thyself that for the deed
Thou blood for blood shalt pay,
For killing of the Lord's own mouse
Upon the Sabbath-day."
The presbyter laid by the book,
And earnestly he prayed
That the great sin the cat had done
Might not on him be laid.
And straight to execution
Poor pussy she was drawn,
And high hanged up upon a tree--
The preacher sung a psalm.
And, when the work was ended,
They thought the cat near dead;
She gave a paw, and then a mew,
And stretchèd out her head.
"Thy name," said he, "shall certainly
A beacon still remain,
A terror unto evil ones
For evermore, Amen."
_Unknown._
THE YOUNG GAZELLE
A MOORE-ISH TALE
In early youth, as you may guess,
I revelled in poetic lore,
And while my schoolmates studied less,
I resolutely studied _Moore_.
Those touching lines from "Lalla Rookh,"--
"Ah, ever thus--" you know them well,
Such root within my bosom took,
I wished _I_ had a young Gazelle.
Oh, yes! a sweet, a sweet Gazelle,
"To charm me with its soft black eye,"
So soft, so liquid, that a spell
Seems in that gem-like orb to lie.
Years, childhood passed, youth fled away,
My vain desire I'd learned to quell,
Till came that most auspicious day
When _some one gave me a Gazelle_.
With care, and trouble, and expense,
'Twas brought from Afric's northern cape;
It seemed of great intelligence,
And oh! so beautiful a shape.
Its lustrous, liquid eye was bent
With special lovingness on me;
No gift that mortal could present
More welcome to my heart could be.
I brought him food with fond caress,
Built him a hut, snug, neat, and warm;
I called him "Selim," to express
The marked _s(e)lim_ness of his form.
The little creature grew so tame,
He "learned to know (the neighbors) well;"
And then the ladies, when they came,
Oh! how they "nursed that dear Gazelle."
But, woe is me! on earthly ground
Some ill with every blessing dwells;
And soon to my dismay I found
That this applies to young Gazelles.
When free allowed to roam indoors,
The mischief that he did was great;
The walls, the furniture, the floors,
He made in a terrific state.
He nibbled at the table-cloth,
And trod the carpet into holes,
And in his gambols, nothing loth,
Kicked over scuttles full of coals.
To view his image in the glass,
He reared upon his hinder legs;
And thus one morn I found, alas!
Two porcelain vases smashed like eggs.
Whatever did his fancy catch
By way of food, he would not wait
To be invited, but would snatch
It from one's table, hand, or plate.
He riled the dog, annoyed the cat,
And scared the goldfish into fits;
He butted through my newest hat,
And tore my manuscript to bits.
'Twas strange, so light his hooflets weighed,
His limbs as slender as a hare's,
The noise my little Selim made
In trotting up and down the stairs.
To tie him up I thought was wise,
But loss of freedom gave him pain;
I could not stand those pleading eyes,
And so I let him go again.
How sweet to see him skip and prance
Upon the gravel or the lawn;
More light in step than fairies' dance,
More graceful than an English fawn.
But then he spoilt the garden so,
Trod down the beds, raked up the seeds,
And ate the plants--nor did he show
The least compunction for his deeds.
He trespassed on the neighbors' ground,
And broke two costly melon frames,
With other damages--a pound
To pay, resulted from his games.
In short, the mischief was immense
That from his gamesome pranks befel,
And, truly, in a double sense,
He proved a _very_ "dear Gazelle."
At length I sighed--"Ah, ever thus
Doth disappointment mock each hope;
But 'tis in vain to make a fuss;
You'll have to go, my antelope."
The chance I wished for did occur;
A lady going to the East
Was willing; so I gave to her
That little antelopian beast.
I said, "This antler'd desert child
In Turkish palaces may roam,
But he is much too free and wild
To keep in any English home."
Yes, tho' I gave him up with tears,
Experience had broke the spell,
And if I live a thousand years,
I'll never have a young Gazelle.
_Walter Parke._
THE BALLAD OF THE EMEU
O say, have you seen at the Willows so green--
So charming and rurally true--
A Singular bird; with a manner absurd,
Which they call the Australian Emeu?
Have you?
Ever seen this Australian Emeu?
It trots all around with its head on the ground,
Or erects it quite out of your view;
And the ladies all cry, when its figure they spy,
"O, what a sweet pretty Emeu!
Oh! do
Just look at that lovely Emeu!"
One day to this spot, when the weather was hot,
Came Matilda Hortense Fortescue;
And beside her there came a youth of high name
Augustus Florell Montague:
The two
Both loved that wild foreign Emeu.
With two loaves of bread then they fed it, instead
Of the flesh of the white cockatoo,
Which once was its food in that wild neighbourhood
Where ranges the sweet kangaroo
That, too,
Is game for the famous Emeu!
Old saws and gimlets but its appetite whet
Like the world famous bark of Peru;
There's nothing so hard that the bird will discard,
And nothing its taste will eschew,
That you
Can give that long-legged Emeu!
The time slipped away in this innocent play,
When up jumped the bold Montague:
"Where's that specimen pin that I gaily did win
In raffle, and gave unto you,
Fortescue?"
No word spoke the guilty Emeu!
"Quick! tell me his name whom thou gavest that same,
Ere these hands in thy blood I imbrue!"
"Nay, dearest," she cried as she clung to his side,
"I'm innocent as that Emeu!"
"Adieu!"
He replied, "Miss M. H. Fortescue!"
Down she dropped at his feet, all as white as a sheet,
As wildly he fled from her view;
He thought 'twas her sin--for he knew not the pin
Had been gobbled up by the Emeu;
All through
"I'm innocent as that Emeu!"
_Bret Harte._
THE TURTLE AND FLAMINGO
A lively young turtle lived down by the banks
Of a dark rolling stream called the Jingo;
And one summer day, as he went out to play,
Fell in love with a charming flamingo--
An enormously genteel flamingo!
An expansively crimson flamingo!
A beautiful, bouncing flamingo!
Spake the turtle, in tones like a delicate wheeze:
"To the water I've oft seen you in go,
And your form has impressed itself deep on my shell,
You perfectly modelled flamingo!
You tremendously A-1 flamingo!
You in-ex-press-_i_-ble flamingo!
"To be sure, I'm a turtle, and you are a belle,
And my language is not your fine lingo;
But smile on me, tall one, and be my bright flame,
You miraculous, wondrous flamingo!
You blazingly beauteous flamingo!
You turtle-absorbing flamingo!
You inflammably gorgeous flamingo!"
Then the proud bird blushed redder than ever before,
And that was quite un-nec-es-_sa_-ry,
And she stood on one leg and looked out of one eye,
The position of things for to vary,--
This aquatical, musing flamingo!
This dreamy, uncertain flamingo!
This embarrasing, harassing flamingo!
Then she cried to the quadruped, greatly amazed:
"Why your passion toward _me_ do you hurtle?
I'm an ornithological wonder of grace,
And you're an illogical turtle,--
A waddling, impossible turtle!
A low-minded, grass-eating turtle!
A highly improbable turtle!"
Then the turtle sneaked off with his nose to the ground
And never more looked at the lasses;
And falling asleep, while indulging his grief,
Was gobbled up whole by Agassiz,--
The peripatetic Agassiz!
The turtle-dissecting Agassiz!
The illustrious, industrious Agassiz!
Go with me to Cambridge some cool, pleasant day,
And the skeleton lover I'll show you;
He's in a hard case, but he'll look in your face,
Pretending (the rogue!) he don't know you!
Oh, the deeply deceptive young turtle!
The double-faced, glassy-cased turtle!
The _green_ but a very _mock_ turtle!
_James Thomas Fields._
XV
JUNIORS
PRIOR TO MISS BELLE'S APPEARANCE