Therewith in second sight he saw The place and the manner and time, In which this mortal story Would be put in immortal rhyme.

That it would happen when two poets Should on a time be met, In the town of Nether Stowey, In the shire of Somerset.

There while the one was shaving Would he the song begin; And the other when he heard it at breakfast, In ready accord join in.

So each would help the other, Two heads being better than one; And the phrase and conceit Would in unison meet, And so with glee the verse flow free, In ding-dong chime of sing-song rhyme, Till the whole were merrily done.

And because it was set to the razor, Not to the lute or harp, Therefore it was that the fancy Should be bright, and the wit be sharp. But, then, said Satan to himself, As for that said beginner, Against my infernal Majesty, There is no greater sinner.

He hath put me in ugly ballads With libelous pictures for sale; He hath scoff'd at my hoofs and my horns, And has made very free with my tail.

But this Mister Poet shall find I am not a safe subject for whim; For I'll set up a School of my own, And my Poets shall set upon him.

He went to a coffee-house to dine, And there he had soy in his dish; Having ordered some soles for his dinner, Because he was fond of flat fish.

They are much to my palate, thought he, And now guess the reason who can, Why no bait should be better than place, When I fish for a Parliament-man.

But the soles in the bill were ten shillings; Tell your master, quoth he, what I say; If he charges at this rate for all things, He must be in a pretty good way.

But mark ye, said he to the waiter, I'm a dealer myself in this line, And his business, between you and me, Nothing like so extensive as mine.

Now soles are exceedingly cheap, Which he will not attempt to deny, When I see him at my fish-market, I warrant him, by-and-by. As he went along the Strand Between three in the morning and four He observed a queer-looking person Who staggered from Perry's door.

And he thought that all the world over In vain for a man you might seek, Who could drink more like a Trojan Or talk more like a Greek.

The Devil then he prophesied It would one day he matter of talk, That with wine when smitten, And with wit moreover being happily bitten, The erudite bibber was he who had written The story of this walk.

A pretty mistake, quoth the Devil; A pretty mistake I opine! I have put many ill thoughts in his mouth, He will never put good ones in mine.

And whoever shall say that to Porson These best of all verses belong, He is an untruth-telling whore-son, And so shall be call'd in the song.

And if seeking an illicit connection with fame, Any one else should put in a claim, In this comical competition; That excellent poem will prove A man-trap for such foolish ambition, Where the silly rogue shall be caught by the leg, And exposed in a second edition.

Now the morning air was cold for him Who was used to a warm abode; And yet he did not immediately wish, To set out on his homeward road. For he had some morning calls to make Before he went back to Hell; So thought he I'll step into a gaming-house, And that will do as well; But just before he could get to the door A wonderful chance befell.

For all on a sudden, in a dark place, He came upon General ——'s burning face; And it struck him with such consternation, That home in a hurry his way did he take, Because he thought, by a slight mistake 'Twas the general conflagration.

Robert Southey.



FATHER MOLLOY

OR, THE CONFESSION

Paddy McCabe was dying one day, And Father Molloy he came to confess him; Paddy pray'd hard he would make no delay, But forgive him his sins and make haste for to bless him. "First tell me your sins," says Father Molloy, "For I'm thinking you've not been a very good boy." "Oh," says Paddy, "so late in the evenin', I fear, 'Twould throuble you such a long story to hear, For you've ten long miles o'er the mountains to go, While the road I've to travel's much longer, you know. So give us your blessin' and get in the saddle, To tell all my sins my poor brain it would addle; And the docther gave ordhers to keep me so quiet— 'Twould disturb me to tell all my sins, if I'd thry it, And your Reverence has towld us, unless we tell all, 'Tis worse than not makin' confession at all. So I'll say in a word I'm no very good boy— And, therefore, your blessin', sweet Father Molloy."

"Well, I'll read from a book," says Father Molloy, "The manifold sins that humanity's heir to; And when you hear those that your conscience annoy, You'll just squeeze my hand, as acknowledging thereto." Then the father began the dark roll of iniquity, And Paddy, thereat, felt his conscience grow rickety, And he gave such a squeeze that the priest gave a roar— "Oh, murdher," says Paddy, "don't read any more, For, if you keep readin', by all that is thrue, Your Reverence's fist will be soon black and blue; Besides, to be throubled my conscience begins, That your Reverence should have any hand in my sins, So you'd betther suppose I committed them all, For whether they're great ones, or whether they're small, Or if they're a dozen, or if they're fourscore, 'Tis your Reverence knows how to absolve them, asthore; So I'll say in a word, I'm no very good boy— And, therefore, your blessin', sweet Father Molloy."

"Well," says Father Molloy, "if your sins I forgive, So you must forgive all your enemies truly; And promise me also that, if you should live, You'll leave off your old tricks, and begin to live newly." "I forgive ev'rybody," says Pat, with a groan, "Except that big vagabone Micky Malone; And him I will murdher if ever I can—" "Tut, tut," says the priest, "you're a very bad man; For without your forgiveness, and also repentance, You'll ne'er go to Heaven, and that is my sentence." "Poo!" says Paddy McCabe, "that's a very hard case— With your Reverence and Heaven I'm content to make pace; But with Heaven and your Reverence I wondher—Och hone— You would think of comparin' that blackguard Malone— But since I'm hard press'd and that I must forgive, I forgive—if I die—but as sure as I live That ugly blackguard I will surely desthroy!— So, now for your blessin', sweet Father Molloy!"

Samuel Lover.



THE OWL-CRITIC

"Who stuffed that white owl?" No one spoke in the shop, The barber was busy, and he couldn't stop; The customers, waiting their turns, were all reading The "Daily," the "Herald," the "Post," little heeding The young man who blurted out such a blunt question; Not one raised a head, or even made a suggestion; And the barber kept on shaving.

"Don't you see, Mr. Brown," Cried the youth, with a frown, "How wrong the whole thing is, How preposterous each wing is How flattened the head is, how jammed down the neck is— In short, the whole owl, what an ignorant wreck 't is! I make no apology; I've learned owl-eology.

I've passed days and nights in a hundred collections, And cannot be blinded to any deflections Arising from unskilful fingers that fail To stuff a bird right, from his beak to his tail. Mister Brown! Mister Brown! Do take that bird down, Or you'll soon be the laughing-stock all over town!" And the barber kept on shaving.

"I've studied owls, And other night-fowls, And I tell you What I know to be true; An owl cannot roost With his limbs so unloosed; No owl in this world Ever had his claws curled, Ever had his legs slanted, Ever had his bill canted, Ever had his neck screwed Into that attitude. He can't do it, because 'Tis against all bird-laws.

Anatomy teaches, Ornithology preaches, An owl has a toe That can't turn out so! I've made the white owl my study for years, And to see such a job almost moves me to tears! Mr. Brown, I'm amazed You should be so gone crazed As to put up a bird In that posture absurd! To look at that owl really brings on a dizziness; The man who stuffed him don't half know his business!" And the barber kept on shaving.

"Examine those eyes. I'm filled with surprise Taxidermists should pass Off on you such poor glass; So unnatural they seem They'd make Audubon scream, And John Burroughs laugh To encounter such chaff. Do take that bird down; Have him stuffed again, Brown!" And the barber kept on shaving.

"With some sawdust and bark I could stuff in the dark An owl better than that. I could make an old hat Look more like an owl Than that horrid fowl, Stuck up there so stiff like a side of coarse leather. In fact, about him there's not one natural feather."

Just then, with a wink and a sly normal lurch, The owl, very gravely, got down from his perch, Walked round, and regarded his fault-finding critic (Who thought he was stuffed) with a glance analytic, And then fairly hooted, as if he should say: "Your learning's at fault this time, anyway; Don't waste it again on a live bird, I pray. I'm an owl; you're another. Sir Critic, good day!" And the barber kept on shaving.

James Thomas Fields.



WHAT WILL WE DO?

What will we do when the good days come— When the prima donna's lips are dumb, And the man who reads us his "little things" Has lost his voice like the girl who sings; When stilled is the breath of the cornet-man, And the shrilling chords of the quartette clan; When our neighbours' children have lost their drums— Oh, what will we do when the good time comes? Oh, what will we do in that good, blithe time, When the tramp will work—oh, thing sublime! And the scornful dame who stands on your feet Will "Thank you, sir," for the proffered seat; And the man you hire to work by the day, Will allow you to do his work your way; And the cook who trieth your appetite Will steal no more than she thinks is right; When the boy you hire will call you "Sir," Instead of "Say" and "Guverner"; When the funny man is humorsome— How can we stand the millennium?

Robert J. Burdette.



LIFE IN LACONICS

Given a roof, and a taste for rations, And you have the key to the "wealth of nations."

Given a boy, a tree, and a hatchet, And virtue strives in vain to match it.

Given a pair, a snake, and an apple, You make the whole world need a chapel.

Given "no cards," broad views, and a hovel, You have a realistic novel.

Given symptoms and doctors with potion and pill, And your heirs will ere long be contesting your will.

That good leads to evil there's no denying: If it were not for truth there would be no lying.

"I'm nobody!" should have a hearse; But then, "I'm somebody!" is worse.

"Folks say," et cetera! Well, they shouldn't, And if they knew you well, they wouldn't.

When you coddle your life, all its vigor and grace Shrink away with the whisper, "We're in the wrong place."

Mary Mapes Dodge.



ON KNOWING WHEN TO STOP

The woodchuck told it all about. "I'm going to build a dwelling Six stories high, up to the sky!" He never tired of telling.

He dug the cellar smooth and well But made no more advances; That lovely hole so pleased his soul And satisfied his fancies.

L. J. Bridgman.



REV. GABE TUCKER'S REMARKS

You may notch it on de palin's as a mighty resky plan To make your judgment by de clo'es dat kivers up a man; For I hardly needs to tell you how you often come across A fifty-dollar saddle on a twenty-dollar hoss; An', wukin' in de low-groun's, you diskiver, as you go, Dat de fines' shuck may hide de meanes' nubbin in a row.

I think a man has got a mighty slender chance for heben Dat holds on to his piety but one day out o' seben; Dat talks about de sinners wid a heap o' solemn chat, And nebber draps a nickel in de missionary hat; Dat's foremost in de meetin'-house for raisin' all de chunes, But lays aside his 'ligion wid his Sunday pantaloons.

I nebber judge o' people dat I meets along de way By de places whar dey come fum an' de houses whar dey stay; For de bantam chicken's awful fond o' roostin' pretty high, An' de turkey buzzard sails above de eagle in de sky; Dey ketches little minners in de middle ob de sea, An' you finds de smalles' possum up de bigges' kind o' tree!

Unknown.



THURSDAY

The sun was setting, and vespers done; From chapel the monks came one by one, And down they went thro' the garden trim, In cassock and cowl, to the river's brim. Ev'ry brother his rod he took; Ev'ry rod had a line and a hook; Ev'ry hook had a bait so fine, And thus they sang in the even shine: "Oh, to-morrow will be Friday, so we'll fish the stream to-day! Oh, to-morrow will be Friday, so we'll fish the stream to-day! Benedicite!"

So down they sate by the river's brim, And fish'd till the light was growing dim; They fish'd the stream till the moon was high, But never a fish came wand'ring by. They fish'd the stream in the bright moonshine, But not one fish would he come to dine. And the Abbot said, "It seems to me These rascally fish are all gone to sea. And to-morrow will be Friday, but we've caught no fish to-day; Oh, to-morrow will be Friday, but we've caught no fish to-day! Maledicite!"

So back they went to the convent gate, Abbot and monks disconsolate; For they thought of the morrow with faces white, Saying, "Oh, we must curb our appetite! But down in the depths of the vault below There's Malvoisie for a world of woe!" So they quaff their wine, and all declare That fish, after all, is but gruesome fare. "Oh, to-morrow will be Friday, so we'll warm our souls to-day! Oh, to-morrow will be Friday, so we'll warm our souls to-day! Benedicite!"

Frederick E. Weatherly.



SKY-MAKING

TO PROFESSOR TYNDALL

Just take a trifling handful, O philosopher, Of magic matter, give it a slight toss over The ambient ether, and I don't see why You shouldn't make a sky.

O hours Utopian which we may anticipate! Thick London fog how easy 'tis to dissipate, And make the most pea-soupy day as clear As Bass's brightest beer!

Poet-professor! now my brain thou kindlest; I am become a most determined Tyndallist. If it is known a fellow can make skies, Why not make bright blue eyes?

This to deny, the folly of a dunce it is; Surely a girl as easy as a sunset is. If you can make a halo or eclipse, Why not two laughing lips?

The creed of Archimedes, erst of Sicily, And of D'Israeli ... forti nil difficile, Is likewise mine. Pygmalion was a fool Who should have gone to school.

Why should an author scribble rhymes or articles? Bring me a dozen tiny Tyndall particles; Therefrom I'll coin a dinner, Nash's wine, And a nice girl to dine.

Mortimer Collins.



THE POSITIVISTS

Life and the Universe show spontaneity: Down with ridiculous notions of Deity! Churches and creeds are all lost in the mists; Truth must be sought with the Positivists.

Wise are their teachers beyond all comparison, Comte, Huxley, Tyndall, Mill, Morley, and Harrison; Who will adventure to enter the lists With such a squadron of Positivists?

Social arrangements are awful miscarriages; Cause of all crime is our system of marriages. Poets with sonnets, and lovers with trysts, Kindle the ire of the Positivists.

Husbands and wives should be all one community, Exquisite freedom with absolute unity. Wedding-rings worse are than manacled wrists— Such is the creed of the Positivists.

There was an ape in the days that were earlier; Centuries passed, and his hair became curlier; Centuries more gave a thumb to his wrist— Then he was Man, and a Positivist.

If you are pious (mild form of insanity) Bow down and worship the mass of humanity. Other religions are buried in mists; We're our own Gods, say the Positivists.

Mortimer Collins.



MARTIAL IN LONDON

Exquisite wines and comestibles, From Slater, and Fortnum and Mason; Billiard, ecarte, and chess tables; Water in vast marble basin; Luminous books (not voluminous) To read under beech-trees cacuminous; One friend, who is fond of a distich, And doesn't get too syllogistic; A valet, who knows the complete art Of service—a maiden, his sweetheart: Give me these, in some rural pavilion, And I'll envy no Rothschild his million.

Mortimer Collins.



THE SPLENDID SHILLING

"... Sing, heavenly Muse! Things unattempted yet, in prose or rhyme," A shilling, breeches, and chimeras dire.

Happy the man, who, void of cares and strife, In silken or in leather purse retains A Splendid Shilling: he nor hears with pain New oysters cried, nor sighs for cheerful ale; But with his friends, when nightly mists arise, To Juniper's Magpie, or Town-hall repairs: Where, mindful of the nymph, whose wanton eye Transfix'd his soul, and kindled amorous flames, Chloe, or Phillis, he each circling glass Wisheth her health, and joy, and equal love. Meanwhile, he smokes, and laughs at merry tale, Or pun ambiguous, or conundrum quaint. But I, whom griping penury surrounds, And Hunger, sure attendant upon Want, With scanty offals, and small acid tiff, (Wretched repast!) my meagre corpse sustain: Then solitary walk, or doze at home In garret vile, and with a warming puff Regale chill'd fingers: or from tube as black As winter-chimney, or well-polish'd jet, Exhale mundungus, ill-perfuming scent: Not blacker tube, nor of a shorter size, Smokes Cambro-Briton (vers'd in pedigree, Sprung from Cadwallador and Arthur, kings Full famous in romantic tale) when he, O'er many a craggy hill and barren cliff, Upon a cargo of fam'd Cestrian cheese, High over-shadowing rides, with a design To vend his wares, or at th' Avonian mart, Or Maridunum, or the ancient town Yelep'd Brechinia, or where Vaga's stream Encircles Ariconium, fruitful soil! Whence flow nectareous wines, that well may vie With Massic, Setin, or renown'd Falern. Thus while my joyless minutes tedious flow, With looks demure, and silent pace, a Dun, Horrible monster! hated by gods and men, To my aerial citadel ascends, With vocal heel thrice thundering at my gate, With hideous accent thrice he calls; I know The voice ill-boding, and the solemn sound. What should I do? or whither turn? Amaz'd, Confounded, to the dark recess I fly Of wood-hole; straight my bristling hairs erect Through sudden fear; a chilly sweat bedews My shuddering limbs, and (wonderful to tell!) My tongue forgets her faculty of speech; So horrible he seems! His faded brow, Intrench'd with many a frown, and conic beard, And spreading band, admir'd by modern saints, Disastrous acts forbode; in his right hand Long scrolls of paper solemnly he waves, With characters and figures dire inscrib'd, Grievous to mortal eyes; (ye gods, avert Such plagues from righteous men!) Behind him stalks Another monster, not unlike himself, Sullen of aspect, by the vulgar call'd A catchpole, whose polluted hands the gods, With force incredible, and magic charms, First have endued: if he his ample palm Should haply on ill-fated shoulder lay Of debtor, straight his body, to the touch Obsequious (as whilom knights were wont,) To some enchanted castle is convey'd, Where gates impregnable, and coercive chains, In durance strict detain him, till, in form Of money, Pallas sets the captive free. Beware, ye debtors! when ye walk, beware, Be circumspect; oft with insidious ken The caitiff eyes your steps aloof, and oft Lies perdu in a nook or gloomy cave, Prompt to enchant some inadvertent wretch With his unhallowed touch. So, (poets sing) Grimalkin, to domestic vermin sworn An everlasting foe, with watchful eye Lies nightly brooding o'er a chinky gap, Portending her fell claws, to thoughtless mice Sure ruin. So her disembowell'd web Arachne, in a hall or kitchen, spreads Obvious to vagrant flies: she secret stands Within her woven cell: the humming prey, Regardless of their fate, rush on the toils Inextricable, nor will aught avail Their arts, or arms, or shapes of lovely hue; The wasp insidious, and the buzzing drone, And butterfly, proud of expanded wings Distinct with gold, entangled in her snares, Useless resistance make; with eager strides, She towering flies to her expected spoils; Then, with envenomed jaws, the vital blood Drinks of reluctant foes, and to her cave Their bulky carcasses triumphant drags. So pass my days. But when nocturnal shades This world envelop, and th' inclement air Persuades men to repel benumbing frosts With pleasant wines, and crackling blaze of wood; Me, lonely sitting, nor the glimmering light Of make-weight candle, nor the joyous talk Of loving friend, delights: distress'd, forlorn, Amidst the horrors of the tedious night, Darkling I sigh, and feed with dismal thoughts My anxious mind: or sometimes mournful verse Indite, and sing of groves and myrtle shades, Or desperate lady near a purling stream, Or lover pendent on a willow tree. Meanwhile I labor with eternal drought, And restless wish, and rave; my parched throat Finds no relief, nor heavy eyes repose: But if a slumber haply does invade My weary limbs, my fancy's still awake, Thoughtful of drink, and eager, in a dream, Tipples imaginary pots of ale, In vain; awake I find the settled thirst Still gnawing, and the pleasant phantom curse. Thus do I live, from pleasure quite debarred, Nor taste the fruits that the sun's genial rays Mature, john-apple, nor the downy peach, Nor walnut in rough-furrow'd coat secure, Nor medlar, fruit delicious in decay; Afflictions great! yet greater still remain: My galligaskins, that have long withstood The winter's fury, and encroaching frosts, By time subdued (what will not time subdue!) An horrid chasm disclos'd with orifice Wide, discontinuous; at which the winds Eurus and Auster, and the dreadful force Of Boreas, that congeals the Cronian waves, Tumultuous enter with dire chilling blasts, Portending agues. Thus a well-fraught ship, Long sail'd secure, or through th' AEgean deep, Or the Ionian, till cruising near The Lilybean shore, with hideous crush On Scylla, or Charybdis (dangerous rocks!) She strikes rebounding; whence the shatter'd oak, So fierce a shock unable to withstand, Admits the sea: in at the gaping side The crowding waves gush with impetuous rage Resistless, overwhelming; horrors seize The mariners; Death in their eyes appears, They stare, they lave, they pump, they swear, they pray (Vain efforts!) still the battering waves rush in, Implacable, till, delug'd by the foam, The ship sinks foundering in the vast abyss.

John Philips.



AFTER HORACE

What asks the Bard? He prays for nought But what the truly virtuous crave: That is, the things he plainly ought To have.

'Tis not for wealth, with all the shocks That vex distracted millionaires, Plagued by their fluctuating stocks And shares:

While plutocrats their millions new Expend upon each costly whim, A great deal less than theirs will do For him:

The simple incomes of the poor His meek poetic soul content: Say, L30,000 at four Per cent.!

His taste in residence is plain: No palaces his heart rejoice: A cottage in a lane (Park Lane For choice)

Here be his days in quiet spent: Here let him meditate the Muse: Baronial Halls were only meant For Jews,

And lands that stretch with endless span From east to west, from south to north, Are often much more trouble than They're worth!

Let epicures who eat too much Become uncomfortably stout: Let gourmets feel th' approaching touch Of gout,—

The Bard subsists on simpler food: A dinner, not severely plain, A pint or so of really good Champagne—

Grant him but these, no care he'll take Though Laureates bask in Fortune's smile, Though Kiplings and Corellis make Their pile:

Contented with a scantier dole His humble Muse serenely jogs, Remote from scenes where authors roll Their logs:

Far from the madding crowd she lurks, And really cares no single jot Whether the public read her works Or not!

A. D. Godley.



OF A PRECISE TAILOR

A tailor, a man of an upright dealing, True but for lying, honest but for stealing, Did fall one day extremely sick by chance, And on the sudden was in wondrous trance. The Fiends of hell, mustering in fearful manner, Of sundry-coloured silks displayed a banner, Which he had stol'n; and wished, as they did tell, That one day he might find it all in hell. The man, affrighted at this apparition, Upon recovery grew a great precisian. He bought a Bible of the new translation, And in his life he showed great reformation. He walked mannerly and talked meekly; He heard three lectures and two sermons weekly; He vowed to shun all companies unruly, And in his speech he used no oath but "truly": And, zealously to keep the Sabbath's rest, His meat for that day on the even was dressed. And, lest the custom that he had to steal Might cause him sometime to forget his zeal, He gives his journeyman a special charge That, if the stuff allowed fell out too large, And that to filch his fingers were inclined, He then should put the Banner in his mind. This done, I scant the rest can tell for laughter. A Captain of a ship came three days after, And bought three yards of velvet and three quarters, To make Venetians down below the garters. He, that precisely knew what was enough, Soon slipped away three quarters of the stuff. His man, espying it, said in derision, "Remember, Master, how you saw the vision!" "Peace, knave," quoth he; "I did not see one rag Of such-a-coloured silk in all the flag."

Sir John Harrington.



MONEY

Who money has, well wages the campaign; Who money has, becomes of gentle strain; Who money has, to honor all accord: He is my lord. Who money has, the ladies ne'er disdain; Who money has, loud praises will attain; Who money has, in the world's heart is stored, The flower adored. O'er all mankind he holds his conquering track— They only are condemned who money lack.

Who money has, will wisdom's credit gain; Who money has, all earth is his domain; Who money has, praise is his sure reward, Which all afford. Who money has, from nothing need refrain;. Who money has, on him is favor poured; And, in a word, Who money has, need never fear attack— They only are condemned who money lack.

Who money has, in every heart does reign; Who money has, all to approach are fain; Who money has, of him no fault is told, Nor harm can hold. Who money has, none does his right restrain; Who money has, can whom he will maintain; Who money has, clerk, prior, by his gold, Is straight enrolled. Who money has, all raise, none hold him back— They only are condemned who money lack.

Jehan du Pontalais.



BOSTON NURSERY RHYMES

RHYME FOR A GEOLOGICAL BABY

Trilobite, Grapholite, Nautilus pie; Seas were calcareous, oceans were dry. Eocene, miocene, pliocene Tuff, Lias and Trias and that is enough.

RHYME FOR ASTRONOMICAL BABY

Bye Baby Bunting, Father's gone star-hunting; Mother's at the telescope Casting baby's horoscope. Bye Baby Buntoid, Father's found an asteroid; Mother takes by calculation The angle of its inclination.

RHYME FOR BOTANICAL BABY

Little bo-peepals Has lost her sepals, And can't tell-where to find them; In the involucre By hook or by crook or She'll make up her mind not to mind them.

RHYME FOR A CHEMICAL BABY

Oh, sing a song of phosphates, Fibrine in a line, Four-and-twenty follicles In the van of time.

When the phosphorescence Evoluted brain, Superstition ended, Men began to reign.

Rev. Joseph Cook.



KENTUCKY PHILOSOPHY

You Wi'yum, cum 'ere, suh, dis minute. Wut dat you got under dat box? I don't want no foolin'—you hear me? Wut you say? Ain't nu'h'n but rocks? 'Peahs ter me you's owdashus perticler. S'posin' dey's uv a new kine. I'll des take a look at dem rocks. Hi yi! der you think dat I's bline?

I calls dat a plain water-million, you scamp, en I knows whah it growed; It come fum de Jimmerson cawn fiel', dah on ter side er de road. You stole it, you rascal—you stole it! I watched you fum down in de lot. En time I gits th'ough wid you, nigger, you won't eb'n be a grease spot!

I'll fix you. Mirandy! Mirandy! go cut me a hick'ry—make 'ase! En cut me de toughes' en keenes' you c'n fine anywhah on de place. I'll larn you, Mr. Wi'yum Joe Vetters, ter steal en ter lie, you young sinner, Disgracin' yo' ole Christian mammy, en makin' her leave cookin' dinner!

Now ain't you ashamed er yo'se'f, suh? I is. I's 'shamed you's my son! En de holy accorjun angel he's 'shamed er wut you has done; En he's tuk it down up yander in coal-black, blood-red letters— "One water-million stoled by Wi'yum Josephus Vetters."

En wut you s'posin' Brer Bascom, yo' teacher at Sunday school, 'Ud say ef he knowed how you's broke de good Lawd's Gol'n Rule? Boy, whah's de raisin' I give you? Is you boun' fuh ter be a black villiun? I's s'prised dat a chile er yo' mammy 'ud steal any man's water-million.

En I's now gwiner cut it right open, en you shain't have narry bite, Fuh a boy who'll steal water-millions en dat in de day's broad light Ain't Lawdy! it's GREEN ! Mirandy; Mi-ran-dy! come on wi' dat switch! Well, stealin' a g-r-e-e-n water-million! who ever heered tell er des sich?

Cain't tell w'en dey's ripe? W'y, you thump 'um, en w'en dey go pank dey is green; But when dey go punk, now you mine me, dey's ripe—en dat's des wut I mean. En nex' time you hook water-millions—you heered me, you ign'ant young hunk, Ef you don't want a lickin' all over, be sho dat dey allers go "punk"!

Harrison Robertson.



JOHN GRUMLIE

John Grumlie swore by the light o' the moon And the green leaves on the tree, That he could do more work in a day Than his wife could do in three. His wife rose up in the morning Wi' cares and troubles enow— John Grumlie bide at hame, John, And I'll go haud the plow.

First ye maun dress your children fair, And put them a' in their gear; And ye maun turn the malt, John, Or else ye'll spoil the beer; And ye maun reel the tweel, John, That I span yesterday; And ye maun ca' in the hens, John, Else they'll all lay away.

O he did dress his children fair, And put them a' in their gear; But he forgot to turn the malt, And so he spoil'd the beer: And he sang loud as he reeled the tweel That his wife span yesterday; But he forgot to put up the hens, And the hens all layed away.

The hawket crummie loot down nae milk; He kirned, nor butter gat; And a' gade wrang, and nought gade right; He danced with rage, and grat; Then up he ran to the head o' the knowe Wi' mony a wave and shout— She heard him as she heard him not, And steered the stots about.

John Grumlie's wife cam hame at e'en, A weary wife and sad, And burst into a laughter loud, And laughed as she'd been mad: While John Grumlie swore by the light o' the moon And the green leaves on the tree, If my wife should na win a penny a day She's aye have her will for me.

Allan Cunningham.



A SONG OF IMPOSSIBILITIES

Lady, I loved you all last year, How honestly and well— Alas! would weary you to hear, And torture me to tell; I raved beneath the midnight sky, I sang beneath the limes— Orlando in my lunacy, And Petrarch in my rhymes. But all is over! When the sun Dries up the boundless main, When black is white, false-hearted one, I may be yours again!

When passion's early hopes and fears Are not derided things; When truth is found in falling tears, Or faith in golden rings; When the dark Fates that rule our way Instruct me where they hide One woman that would ne'er betray, One friend that never lied; When summer shines without a cloud, And bliss without a pain; When worth is noticed in a crowd, I may be yours again!

When science pours the light of day Upon the lords of lands; When Huskisson is heard to say That Lethbridge understands; When wrinkles work their way in youth, Or Eldon's in a hurry; When lawyers represent the truth, Or Mr. Sumner Surrey; When aldermen taste eloquence Or bricklayers champagne; When common law is common sense, I may be yours again!

When learned judges play the beau, Or learned pigs the tabor; When traveller Bankes beats Cicero, Or Mr. Bishop Weber; When sinking funds discharge a debt, Or female hands a bomb; When bankrupts study the Gazette, Or colleges Tom Thumb; When little fishes learn to speak, Or poets not to feign; When Dr. Geldart construes Greek, I may be yours again!

When Pole and Thornton honour cheques, Or Mr. Const a rogue; When Jericho's in Middlesex, Or minuets in vogue; When Highgate goes to Devonport, Or fashion to Guildhall; When argument is heard at Court, Or Mr. Wynn at all; When Sydney Smith forgets to jest, Or farmers to complain; When kings that are are not the best, I may be yours again!

When peers from telling money shrink, Or monks from telling lies; When hydrogen begins to sink, Or Grecian scrip to rise; When German poets cease to dream, Americans to guess; When Freedom sheds her holy beam On Negroes, and the Press; When there is any fear of Rome, Or any hope of Spain; When Ireland is a happy home, I may be yours again!

When you can cancel what has been, Or alter what must be, Or bring once more that vanished scene, Those withered joys to me; When you can tune the broken lute, Or deck the blighted wreath, Or rear the garden's richest fruit, Upon a blasted heath; When you can lure the wolf at bay Back to his shattered chain, To-day may then be yesterday— I may be yours again!

Winthrop Mackworth Praed.



SONG

Go and catch a falling star, Get with child a mandrake root; Tell me where all past years are, Or who cleft the Devil's foot; Teach me to hear Mermaids singing,— Or to keep off envy's stinging, And find What wind Serves to advance an honest mind.

If thou beest born to strange sights, Things invisible to see, Ride ten thousand days and nights, Till age snow white hairs on thee; Thou, when thou return'st, wilt tell me All strange wonders that befell thee, And swear Nowhere Lives a woman true and fair.

If thou find'st one, let me know; Such a pilgrimage were sweet. Yet do not; I would not go, Though at next door we might meet. Though she were true when you met her, And last till you write your letter, Yet she Will be False, ere I come, to two or three.

John Donne.



THE OUBIT

It was an hairy oubit, sae proud he crept alang; A feckless hairy oubit, and merrily he sang: "My Minnie bade me bide at home until I won my wings, I shew her soon my soul's aboon the warks o' creeping things."

This feckless hairy oubit cam' hirpling by the linn, A swirl o' wind cam' doun the glen, and blew that oubit in. Oh, when he took the water, the saumon fry they rose, And tigg'd him a' to pieces sma', by head and tail and toes.

Tak' warning then, young poets a', by this poor oubit's shame; Though Pegasus may nicher loud, keep Pegasus at hame. O haud your hands frae inkhorns, though a' the Muses woo; For critics lie, like saumon fry, to mak' their meals o' you.

Charles Kingsley.



DOUBLE BALLADE OF PRIMITIVE MAN

He lived in a cave by the seas, He lived upon oysters and foes, But his list of forbidden degrees An extensive morality shows; Geological evidence goes To prove he had never a pan, But he shaved with a shell when he chose,— 'Twas the manner of Primitive Man.

He worshipp'd the rain and the breeze, He worshipp'd the river that flows, And the Dawn, and the Moon, and the trees And bogies, and serpents, and crows; He buried his dead with their toes Tucked-up, an original plan, Till their knees came right under their nose,— 'Twas the manner of Primitive Man.

His communal wives, at his ease, He would curb with occasional blows Or his State had a queen, like the bees (As another philosopher trows): When he spoke, it was never in prose, But he sang in a strain that would scan, For (to doubt it, perchance, were morose) 'Twas the manner of Primitive Man!

On the coasts that incessantly freeze, With his stones, and his bones, and his bows, On luxuriant tropical leas, Where the summer eternally glows, He is found, and his habits disclose (Let theology say what she can) That he lived in the long, long agos, Twas the manner of Primitive Man!

From a status like that of the Crees Our society's fabric arose, Develop'd, evolved, if you please, But deluded chronologists chose, In a fancied accordance with Mos es, 4000 B.C. for the span When he rushed on the world and its woes, 'Twas the manner of Primitive Man.

But the mild anthropologist—he's Not recent inclined to suppose Flints Palaeolithic like these, Quaternary bones such as those! In Rhinoceros, Mammoth and Co.'s First epoch the Human began Theologians all to expose,— 'Tis the mission of Primitive Man.

ENVOY

Max, proudly your Aryans pose, But their rigs they undoubtedly ran, For, as every Darwinian knows, 'Twas the manner of Primitive Man!

Andrew Lang.



PHILLIS'S AGE

How old may Phillis be, you ask, Whose beauty thus all hearts engages? To answer is no easy task: For she has really two ages.

Stiff in brocade, and pinch'd in stays, Her patches, paint, and jewels on; All day let envy view her face, And Phillis is but twenty-one.

Paint, patches, jewels laid aside, At night astronomers agree, The evening has the day belied; And Phillis is some forty-three.

Matthew Prior.



V

CYNICISM



GOOD AND BAD LUCK

Good Luck is the gayest of all gay girls; Long in one place she will not stay: Back from your brow she strokes the curls, Kisses you quick and flies away.

But Madame Bad Luck soberly comes And stays—no fancy has she for flitting; Snatches of true-love songs she hums, And sits by your bed, and brings her knitting.

John Hay.



BANGKOLIDYE

"Gimme my scarlet tie," Says I. "Gimme my brownest boots and hat, Gimme a vest with a pattern fancy, Gimme a gel with some style, like Nancy, And then—well, it's gimes as I'll be at, Seein' as its bangkolidye," Says I.

"May miss it, but we'll try," Says I. Nancy ran like a frightened 'en Hup the steps of the bloomin' styeshun. Bookin'-orfus at last! Salvyeshun! An' the two returns was five-and-ten. "An' travellin' mikes your money fly," Says I.

"This atmosphere is 'igh," Says I. Twelve in a carriage is pretty thick, When 'ite of the twelve is a sittin', smokin'; Nancy started 'er lawkin, and jokin', Syin' she 'oped as we shouldn't be sick; "Don't go on, or you'll mike me die!" Says I.

"Three styeshuns we've porst by," Says I. "So hout we get at the next, my gel." When we got hout, she wer pale and saint-like, White in the gills, and sorter faint-like, An' said my cigaw 'ad a powerful smell, "Well, it's the sime as I always buy," Says I.

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

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

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

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

Barry Pain.



PENSEES DE NOEL

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

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

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

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

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

A. D. Godley.



A BALLADE OF AN ANTI-PURITAN

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

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

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

ENVOI

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

G. K. Chesterton.



PESSIMISM

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

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

Newton Mackintosh.



CYNICAL ODE TO AN ULTRA-CYNICAL PUBLIC

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

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

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

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

Charles Mackay.



YOUTH AND ART

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Robert Browning.



BACHELOR'S DREAM

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thomas Hood.



ALL THINGS EXCEPT MYSELF I KNOW

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

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

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

ENVOY

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

Francois Villon.



THE JOYS OF MARRIAGE

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

Charles Cotton.



THE THIRD PROPOSITION

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

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

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

Madeline Bridges.



THE BALLAD OF CASSANDRA BROWN

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Helen Gray Cone.



WHAT'S IN A NAME?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

R. K. Munkittrick.



TOO LATE

"Ah! si la jeunesse savait,—si la vieillesse pouvait!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fitz Hugh Ludlow.



THE ANNUITY

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

George Outram.



K. K.—CAN'T CALCULATE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Frances M. Whitcher.



NORTHERN FARMER

NEW STYLE

Dosn't thou 'ear my 'erse's legs, as they canters awaaey? Proputty, proputty, proputty—that's what I 'ears 'em saaey. Proputty, proputty, proputty—Sam, thou's an ass for thy paains: Theer's moor sense i' one o' 'is legs nor in all thy braains.

Woae—theer's a craw to pluck wi' tha, Sam: yon's parson's 'ouse— Dosn't thou knaw that a man mun be eaether a man or a mouse? Time to think on it, then; for thou'll be twenty to weeaek. Proputty, proputty—woae then, woae—let ma 'ear mysen speaek.

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

Seeae'd her to-daaey goae by—Saaeint's-daaey—they was ringing the bells. She's a beauty, thou thinks—an' soae is scoors o' gells. Them as 'as munny an' all—wot's a beauty?—the flower as blaws. But proputty, proputty sticks, an' proputty, proputty graws.

Do'ant be stunt: taaeke time: I knaws what maaekes tha sa mad. Warn't I craaezed fur the lasses mysen when I wur a lad? But I knaw'd a Quaaeker feller as often 'as towd ma this: "Do'ant thou marry for munny, but goae wheer munny is!"

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

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

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

Luvv? what's luvv? thou can luvv thy lass an' 'er munny too, Maaekin' 'em goae togither, as they've good right to do. Couldn't I luvv thy muther by cause o' 'er munny laaid by? Naaey—for I luvv'd her a vast sight moor fur it: reaeson why.

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

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

'Tisn' them as 'as munny as breaeks into 'ouses an' steaels, Them as 'as cooets to their backs an 'taaekes their regular meaels. Noae, but it's them as niver knaws wheer a meael's to be 'ad. Taaeke my word for it, Sammy, the poor in a loomp is bad.

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

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

Thim's my noaetions, Sammy, wheerby I meaens to stick; But if 'thou marries a bad un, I'll leaeve the land to Dick.— Coom oop, proputty, proputty—that's what I 'ears 'im saaey— Proputty, proputty, proputty—canter an' canter awaaey.

Lord Tennyson.



FIN DE SIECLE

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

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

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

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

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

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

Unknown.



THEN AG'IN

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

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

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

Sam Walter Foss.



THE PESSIMIST

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ben King.



WITHOUT AND WITHIN

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

James Russell Lowell.



SAME OLD STORY

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

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

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

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

Harry B. Smith.



VI

EPIGRAMS



WOMAN'S WILL

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

John G. Saxe.



CYNICUS TO W. SHAKESPEARE

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

James Kenneth Stephen.



SENEX TO MATT. PRIOR

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

James Kenneth Stephen.



TO A BLOCKHEAD

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

Alexander Pope.



THE FOOL AND THE POET

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

Alexander Pope.



A RHYMESTER

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

Samuel Taylor Coleridge.



GILES'S HOPE

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

Samuel Taylor Coleridge.



COLOGNE

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

Samuel Taylor Coleridge.



AN ETERNAL POEM

Your poem must eternal be, Dear sir, it can not fail, For 'tis incomprehensible, And wants both head and tail.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge.



ON A BAD SINGER

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

Samuel Taylor Coleridge.



JOB

Sly Beelzebub took all occasions To try Job's constancy and patience. He took his honor, took his health; He took his children, took his wealth, His servants, horses, oxen, cows,— But cunning Satan did not take his spouse.

But Heaven, that brings out good from evil, And loves to disappoint the devil, Had predetermined to restore Twofold all he had before; His servants, horses, oxen, cows— Short-sighted devil, not to take his spouse!

Samuel Taylor Coleridge.



REASONS FOR DRINKING

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

Dr. Henry Aldrich.



SMATTERERS

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

Samuel Butler.



HYPOCRISY

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

Samuel Butler.



TO DOCTOR EMPIRIC

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

Ben Jonson.



A REMEDY WORSE THAN THE DISEASE

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

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

Matthew Prior.



A WIFE

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

Richard Brinsley Sheridan.



THE HONEY-MOON

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

Walter Savage Landor.



DIDO

IMPROMPTU EPIGRAM ON THE LATIN GERUNDS

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

Richard Parson.



AN EPITAPH

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

George John Cayley.



ON TAKING A WIFE

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

Thomas Moore.



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

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

Thomas Moore.



SOME LADIES

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

Frederick Locker-Lampson.



ON A SENSE OF HUMOUR

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

Frederick Locker-Lampson.



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

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

George Outram.



EPITAPH INTENDED FOR HIS WIFE

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

John Dryden.



TO A CAPRICIOUS FRIEND

IMITATED FROM MARTIAL

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

Joseph Addison.



WHICH IS WHICH

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

John Byrom.



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

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

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

Lord Chesterfield.



ON SCOTLAND

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

Cleveland.



MENDAX

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

Lessing.



TO A SLOW WALKER AND QUICK EATER

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

Lessing.



WHAT'S MY THOUGHT LIKE?

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

Thomas Moore.



OF ALL THE MEN

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

Thomas Moore.



ON BUTLER'S MONUMENT

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

Rev. Samuel Wesley.



A CONJUGAL CONUNDRUM

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

Unknown.



VII

BURLESQUE



LOVERS AND A REFLECTION

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Charles Stuart Calverley.



OUR HYMN

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

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

Oliver Wendell Holmes.



"SOLDIER, REST!"

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

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

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

Robert J. Burdette.



IMITATION

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

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

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

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

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

Anthony C. Deane.



THE MIGHTY MUST

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