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

W. S. Gilbert.



MIDSUMMER MADNESS

A SOLILOQUY

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

Unknown.



MAVRONE

ONE OF THOSE SAD IRISH POEMS, WITH NOTES

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

Arthur Guiterman.

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

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

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

[Footnote 4: The Shee (or "Sidhe," as I should properly spell it if you were not so ignorant) were, as everybody knows, the regular, stand-pat, organization fairies of Erin. The Crowdie was their annual convention, at which they made melancholy sounds. The Itt and Himm were the irregular, or insurgent, fairies. They never got any offices or patronage. See MacAlester, Polity of the Sidhe of West Meath, page 985.]

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

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

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



LILIES

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

Don Marquis.



FOR I AM SAD

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

The thing we like about that poem is its recognition of all the sorrow there is in the universe ... its unflinching recognition, we might say, if we were not afraid of praising our own work too highly ... combined with its happy ending.

One feels, upon reading it, that, although everything everywhere is very sad, and all wrong, one has only to have patience and after a while everything everywhere will be quite right and very sweet.

No matter how interested one may be in these literary problems, one must cease discussing them at times or one will be late to one's meals.

Don Marquis.



A LITTLE SWIRL OF VERS LIBRE

NOT COVERED, STRANGE TO SAY, BY THE PENAL CODE

I am numb from world-pain— I sway most violently as the thoughts course through me, And athwart me, And up and down me— Thoughts of cosmic matters, Of the mergings of worlds within worlds, And unutterabilities And room-rent, And other tremendously alarming phenomena, Which stab me, Rip me most outrageously; (Without a semblance, mind you, of respect for the Hague Convention's rules governing soul-slitting.) Aye, as with the poniard of the Finite pricking the rainbow-bubble of the Infinite! (Some figure, that!) (Some little rush of syllables, that!)— And make me—(are you still whirling at my coat-tails, reader?) Make me—ahem, where was I?—oh, yes—make me, In a sudden, overwhelming gust of soul-shattering rebellion, Fall flat on my face!

Thomas R. Ybarra.



YOUNG LOCHINVAR

THE TRUE STORY IN BLANK VERSE

Oh! young Lochinvar has come out of the West, Thro' all the wide border his horse has no equal, Having cost him forty-five dollars at the market, Where good nags, fresh from the country, With burrs still in their tails are selling For a song; and save his good broad sword He weapon had none, except a seven-shooter Or two, a pair of brass knuckles, and an Arkansaw

Toothpick in his boot, so, comparatively speaking, He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone, Because there was no one going his way. He stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for Toll-gates; he swam the Eske River where ford There was none, and saved fifteen cents In ferriage, but lost his pocket-book, containing Seventeen dollars and a half, by the operation. Ere he alighted at the Netherby mansion He stopped to borrow a dry suit of clothes, And this delayed him considerably, so when He arrived the bride had consented—the gallant Came late—for a laggard in love and a dastard in war Was to wed the fair Ellen, and the guests had assembled.

So, boldly he entered the Netherby Hall Among bridesmen and kinsmen and brothers and Brothers-in-law and forty or fifty cousins; Then spake the bride's father, his hand on his sword (For the poor craven bridegroom ne'er opened his head)

"Oh, come ye in peace here, or come ye in anger, Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?" "I long wooed your daughter, and she will tell you I have the inside track in the free-for-all For her affections! my suit you denied; but let That pass, while I tell you, old fellow, that love Swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide, And now I am come with this lost love of mine To lead but one measure, drink one glass of beer; There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far That would gladly be bride to yours very truly."

The bride kissed the goblet, the knight took it up, He quaffed off the nectar and threw down the mug, Smashing it into a million pieces, while He remarked that he was the son of a gun From Seven-up and run the Number Nine. She looked down to blush, but she looked up again For she well understood the wink in his eye; He took her soft hand ere her mother could Interfere, "Now tread we a measure; first four Half right and left; swing," cried young Lochinvar.

One touch to her hand and one word in her ear, When they reached the hall door and the charger Stood near on three legs eating post hay; So light to the croup the fair lady he swung, Then leaped to the saddle before her. "She is won! we are gone! over bank, bush, and spar, They'll have swift steeds that follow"—but in the

Excitement of the moment he had forgotten To untie the horse, and the poor brute could Only gallop in a little circus around the Hitching-post; so the old gent collared The youth and gave him the awfullest lambasting That was ever heard of on Canobie Lee; So dauntless in war and so daring in love, Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?

Unknown.



IMAGISTE LOVE LINES

I love my lady with a deep purple love; She fascinates me like a fly Struggling in a pot of glue. Her eyes are grey, like twin ash-cans, Just emptied, about which still hovers A dainty mist. Her disposition is as bright as a ten-cent shine, Yet her kisses are tender and goulashy. I love my lady with a deep purple love.

Unknown.



BYGONES

Or ever a lick of Art was done, Or ever a one to care, I was a Purple Polygon, And you were a Sky-Blue Square.

You yearned for me across a void, For I lay in a different plane, I'd set my heart on a Red Rhomboid, And your sighing was in vain.

You pined for me as well I knew, And you faded day by day, Until the Square that was heavenly Blue, Had paled to an ashen grey.

A myriad years or less or more, Have softly fluttered by, Matters are much as they were before, Except 'tis I that sigh.

I yearn for you, but I have no chance, You lie in a different plane, I break my heart for a single glance, And I break said heart in vain.

And ever I grow more pale and wan, And taste your old despair, When I was a Purple Polygon, And you were a Sky-Blue Square.

Bert Leston Taylor.



JUSTICE TO SCOTLAND

AN UNPUBLISHED POEM BY BURNS

O mickle yeuks the keckle doup, An' a' unsicker girns the graith, For wae and wae! the crowdies loup O'er jouk an' hallan, braw an' baith Where ance the coggie hirpled fair, And blithesome poortith toomed the loof, There's nae a burnie giglet rare But blaws in ilka jinking coof.

The routhie bield that gars the gear Is gone where glint the pawky een. And aye the stound is birkin lear Where sconnered yowies wheeped yestreen, The creeshie rax wi' skelpin' kaes Nae mair the howdie bicker whangs, Nor weanies in their wee bit claes Glour light as lammies wi' their sangs.

Yet leeze me on my bonny byke! My drappie aiblins blinks the noo, An' leesome luve has lapt the dyke Forgatherin' just a wee bit fou. And Scotia! while thy rantin' lunt Is mirk and moop with gowans fine, I'll stowlins pit my unco brunt, An' cleek my duds for auld lang syne.

Unknown.



LAMENT OF THE SCOTCH-IRISH EXILE

Oh, I want to win me hame To my ain countrie, The land frae whence I came Far away across the sea; Bit I canna find it there, on the atlas anywhere, And I greet and wonder sair Where the deil it can be?

I hae never met a man, In a' the warld wide, Who has trod my native lan' Or its distant shores espied; But they tell me there's a place where my hypothetic race Its dim origin can trace— Tipperary-on-the-Clyde.

But anither answers: "Nae, Ye are varra far frae richt; Glasgow town in Dublin Bay Is the spot we saw the licht." But I dinna find the maps bearing out these pawkie chaps, And I sometimes think perhaps It has vanished out o' sight.

Oh, I fain wad win me hame To that undiscovered lan' That has neither place nor name Where the Scoto-Irishman May behold the castles fair by his fathers builded there Many, many ages ere Ancient history began.

James Jeffrey Roche.



A SONG OF SORROW

A LULLABYLET FOR A MAGAZINELET

Wan from the wild and woful West— Sleep, little babe, sleep on! Mother will sing to—you know the rest— Sleep, little babe, sleep on! Softly the sand steals slowly by, Cursed be the curlew's chittering cry; By-a-by, oh, by-a-by! Sleep, little babe, sleep on!

Rosy and sweet come the hush of night— Sleep, little babe, sleep on! (Twig to the lilt, I have got it all right) Sleep, little babe, sleep on! Dark are the dark and darkling days Winding the webbed and winsome ways, Homeward she creeps in dim amaze— Sleep, little babe, sleep on! (But it waked up, drat it!)

Charles Battell Loomis.



THE REJECTED "NATIONAL HYMNS"

I

BY H—-Y W. L-NGF——W

Back in the years when Phlagstaff, the Dane, was monarch Over the sea-ribb'd land of the fleet-footed Norsemen, Once there went forth young Ursa to gaze at the heavens— Ursa—the noblest of all the Vikings and horsemen.

Musing, he sat in his stirrups and viewed the horizon, Where the Aurora lapt stars in a North-polar manner, Wildly he started,—for there in the heavens before him Flutter'd and flam'd the original Star Spangled Banner.

II

BY J-HN GR—NL—F WH—T—R

My Native Land, thy Puritanic stock Still finds its roots firm-bound in Plymouth Rock, And all thy sons unite in one grand wish— To keep the virtues of Preserved Fish.

Preserved Fish, the Deacon stern and true, Told our New England what her sons should do, And if they swerve from loyalty and right, Then the whole land is lost indeed in night.

III

BY DR. OL-V-R W-ND-L H-LMES

A diagnosis of our hist'ry proves Our native land a land its native loves; Its birth a deed obstetric without peer, Its growth a source of wonder far and near.

To love it more behold how foreign shores Sink into nothingness beside its stores; Hyde Park at best—though counted ultra-grand— The "Boston Common" of Victoria's land.

IV

BY R-LPH W-LDO EM-R—N

Source immaterial of material naught, Focus of light infinitesimal, Sum of all things by sleepless Nature wrought, Of which the normal man is decimal.

Refract, in prism immortal, from thy stars To the stars bent incipient on our flag, The beam translucent, neutrifying death, And raise to immortality the rag.

V

BY W-LL—M C-LL-N B-Y-NT

The sun sinks softly to his Ev'ning Post, The sun swells grandly to his morning crown; Yet not a star our Flag of Heav'n has lost, And not a sunset stripe with him goes down.

So thrones may fall, and from the dust of those New thrones may rise, to totter like the last; But still our Country's nobler planet glows While the eternal stars of Heaven are fast.

VI

BY N. P. W-LL-IS

One hue of our Flag is taken From the cheeks of my blushing Pet, And its stars beat time and sparkle Like the studs on her chemisette.

Its blue is the ocean shadow That hides in her dreamy eyes, It conquers all men, like her, And still for a Union flies.

VII

BY TH-M—S B-IL-Y ALD—CH

The little brown squirrel hops in the corn, The cricket quaintly sings, The emerald pigeon nods his head, And the shad in the river springs, The dainty sunflow'r hangs its head On the shore of the summer sea; And better far that I were dead, If Maud did not love me.

I love the squirrel that hops in the corn, And the cricket that quaintly sings; And the emerald pigeon that nods his head, And the shad that gaily springs. I love the dainty sunflow'r, too, And Maud with her snowy breast; I love them all;—but I love—I love— I love my country best.

Robert H. Newell.



THE EDITOR'S WOOING

We love thee, Ann Maria Smith, And in thy condescension We see a future full of joys Too numerous to mention.

There's Cupid's arrow in thy glance, That by thy love's coercion Has reached our melting heart of hearts, And asked for one insertion.

With joy we feel the blissful smart; And ere our passion ranges, We freely place thy love upon The list of our exchanges.

There's music in thy lowest tone, And silver in thy laughter: And truth—but we will give the full Particulars hereafter.

Oh, we could tell thee of our plans All obstacles to scatter; But we are full just now, and have A press of other matter.

Then let us marry, Queen of Smiths, Without more hesitation: The very thought doth give our blood A larger circulation.

Robert H. Newell.



THE BABY'S DEBUT[1]

A BURLESQUE IMITATION OF WORDSWORTH—REJECTED ADDRESSES

[Spoken in the character of Nancy Lake, a girl eight years of age, who is drawn upon the stage in a child's chaise by Samuel Hughes, her uncle's porter.]

My brother Jack was nine in May, And I was eight on New-year's-day; So in Kate Wilson's shop Papa (he's my papa and Jack's) Bought me, last week, a doll of wax, And brother Jack a top. Jack's in the pouts, and this it is— He thinks mine came to more than his;

So to my drawer he goes, Takes out the doll, and, O, my stars! He pokes her head between the bars, And melts off half her nose!

Quite cross, a bit of string I beg, And tie it to his peg-top's peg, And bang, with might and main, Its head against the parlor-door: Off flies the head, and hits the floor, And breaks a window-pane.

This made him cry with rage and spite: Well, let him cry, it serves him right. A pretty thing, forsooth! If he's to melt, all scalding hot, Half my doll's nose, and I am not To draw his peg-top's tooth!

Aunt Hannah heard the window break, And cried, "O naughty Nancy Lake, Thus to distress your aunt: No Drury Lane for you to-day!" And while papa said, "Pooh, she may!" Mamma said, "No, she sha'n't!"

Well, after many a sad reproach, They got into a hackney-coach, And trotted down the street. I saw them go: one horse was blind, The tails of both hung down behind, Their shoes were on their feet.

The chaise in which poor brother Bill Used to be drawn to Pentonville, Stood in the lumber-room: I wiped the dust from off the top, While Molly mopped it with a mop, And brushed it with a broom.

My uncle's porter, Samuel Hughes, Came in at six to black the shoes, (I always talk to Sam:) So what does he, but takes, and drags Me in the chaise along the flags, And leaves me where I am.

My father's walls are made of brick, But not so tall and not so thick As these; and, goodness me! My father's beams are made of wood, But never, never half so good As those that now I see.

What a large floor! 'tis like a town! The carpet, when they lay it down, Won't hide it, I'll be bound; And there's a row of lamps!—my eye! How they do blaze! I wonder why They keep them on the ground.

At first I caught hold of the wing, And kept away; but Mr. Thing- umbob, the prompter man, Gave with his hand my chaise a shove, And said, "Go on, my pretty love; Speak to 'em little Nan.

"You've only got to curtsy, whisp- er, hold your chin up, laugh and lisp, And then you're sure to take: I've known the day when brats, not quite Thirteen, got fifty pounds a night; Then why not Nancy Lake?"

But while I'm speaking, where's papa? And where's my aunt? and where's mamma? Where's Jack? O there they sit! They smile, they nod; I'll go my ways, And order round poor Billy's chaise, To join them in the pit.

And now, good gentlefolks, I go To join mamma, and see the show; So, bidding you adieu, I curtsy like a pretty miss, And if you'll blow to me a kiss, I'll blow a kiss to you. [Blows a kiss, and exit.]

James Smith.

[Footnote 1: "The author does not, in this instance, attempt to copy any of the higher attributes of Mr. Wordsworth's poetry; but has succeeded perfectly in the imitation of his mawkish affectations of childish simplicity and nursery stammering. We hope it will make him ashamed of his Alice Fell, and the greater part of his last volumes—of which it is by no means a parody, but a very fair, and indeed we think a flattering, imitation."—Edinburg Review.]



THE CANTELOPE

Side by side in the crowded streets, Amid its ebb and flow, We walked together one autumn morn; ('Twas many years ago!)

The markets blushed with fruits and flowers; (Both Memory and Hope!) You stopped and bought me at the stall, A spicy cantelope.

We drained together its honeyed wine, We cast the seeds away; I slipped and fell on the moony rinds, And you took me home on a dray!

The honeyed wine of your love is drained; I limp from the fall I had; The snow-flakes muffle the empty stall, And everything is sad.

The sky is an inkstand, upside down, It splashes the world with gloom; The earth is full of skeleton bones, And the sea is a wobbling tomb!

Bayard Taylor.



POPULAR BALLAD: "NEVER FORGET YOUR PARENTS"

A young man once was sitting Within a swell cafe, The music it was playing sweet— The people was quite gay. But he alone was silent, A tear was in his eye— A waitress she stepped up to him, and Asked him gently why.

(Change to Minor)

He turned to her in sorrow and At first he spoke no word, But soon he spoke unto her, for She was an honest girl. He rose up from the table In that elegant cafe, And in a voice replete with tears To her he then did say:

CHORUS

Never forget your father, Think all he done for you; A mother is a boy's best friend, So loving, kind, and true, If it were not for them, I'm sure I might be quite forlorn; And if your parents had not have lived You would not have been born.

A hush fell on the laughing throng, It made them feel quite bad, For most of them was people, and Some parents they had had. Both men and ladies did shed tears. The music it did cease, For all knew he had spoke the truth By looking at his face.

(Change to Minor)

The waitress she wept bitterly And others was in tears It made them think of the old home They had not saw in years. And while their hearts was heavy and Their eyes they was quite red. This brave and honest boy again To them these words he said:

CHORUS

Never forget your father, Think all he done for you; A mother is a boy's best friend, So loving, kind, and true, If it were not for them, I'm sure I might be quite forlorn; And if your parents had not have lived You would not have been born.

Franklin P. Adams.



HOW A GIRL WAS TOO RECKLESS OF GRAMMAR

Matilda Maud Mackenzie frankly hadn't any chin, Her hands were rough, her feet she turned invariably in; Her general form was German, By which I mean that you Her waist could not determine Within a foot or two. And not only did she stammer, But she used the kind of grammar That is called, for sake of euphony, askew.

From what I say about her, don't imagine I desire A prejudice against this worthy creature to inspire. She was willing, she was active, She was sober, she was kind, But she never looked attractive And she hadn't any mind. I knew her more than slightly, And I treated her politely When I met her, but of course I wasn't blind!

Matilda Maud Mackenzie had a habit that was droll, She spent her morning seated on a rock or on a knoll, And threw with, much, composure A smallish rubber ball At an inoffensive osier By a little waterfall; But Matilda's way of throwing Was like other people's mowing, And she never hit the willow-tree at all!

One day as Miss Mackenzie with uncommon ardour tried To hit the mark, the missile flew exceptionally wide. And, before her eyes astounded, On a fallen maple's trunk Ricochetted and rebounded In the rivulet, and sunk! Matilda, greatly frightened, In her grammar unenlightened, Remarked, "Well now I ast yer, who'd 'er thunk?"

But what a marvel followed! From the pool at once there rose A frog, the sphere of rubber balanced deftly on his nose. He beheld her fright and frenzy And, her panic to dispel, On his knee by Miss Mackenzie He obsequiously fell. With quite as much decorum As a speaker in a forum He started in his history to tell.

"Fair maid," he said, "I beg you do not hesitate or wince, If you'll promise that you'll wed me, I'll at once become a prince; For a fairy, old and vicious, An enchantment round me spun!" Then he looked up, unsuspicious, And he saw what he had won, And in terms of sad reproach, he Made some comments, sotto voce, (Which the publishers have bidden me to shun!)

Matilda Maud Mackenzie said, as if she meant to scold; "I never! Why, you forward thing! Now, ain't you awful bold!" Just a glance he paused to give her, And his head was seen to clutch, Then he darted to the river, And he dived to beat the Dutch! While the wrathful maiden panted "I don't think he was enchanted!" (And he really didn't look it overmuch!)

THE MORAL

In one's language one conservative should be; Speech is silver and it never should be free!

Guy Wetmore Carryl.



BEHOLD THE DEEDS!

CHANT ROYAL

(Being the Plaint of Adolphe Culpepper Ferguson, Salesman of Fancy Notions, held in durance of his Landlady for a failure to connect on Saturday night.)

I

I would that all men my hard case might know; How grievously I suffer for no sin: I, Adolphe Culpepper Ferguson, for lo! I, of my landlady am locked in. For being short on this sad Saturday, Nor having shekels of silver wherewith to pay, She has turned and is departed with my key; Wherefore, not even as other boarders free, I sing (as prisoners to their dungeon stones When for ten days they expiate a spree): Behold the deeds that are done of Mrs. Jones!

II

One night and one day have I wept my woe; Nor wot I when the morrow doth begin, If I shall have to write to Briggs & Co., To pray them to advance the requisite tin For ransom of their salesman, that he may Go forth as other boarders go alway— As those I hear now flocking from their tea, Led by the daughter of my landlady Pianoward. This day for all my moans, Dry bread and water have been served me. Behold the deeds that are done of Mrs. Jones!

III

Miss Amabel Jones is musical, and so The heart of the young he-boarder doth win, Playing "The Maiden's Prayer," adagio— That fetcheth him, as fetcheth the banco skin The innocent rustic. For my part, I pray: That Badarjewska maid may wait for aye Ere sits she with a lover, as did we Once sit together, Amabel! Can it be That all of that arduous wooing not atones For Saturday shortness of trade dollars three? Behold the deeds that are done of Mrs. Jones!

IV

Yea! she forgets the arm was wont to go Around her waist. She wears a buckle whose pin Galleth the crook of the young man's elbow; I forget not, for I that youth have been. Smith was aforetime the Lothario gay. Yet once, I mind me, Smith was forced to stay Close in his room. Not calm, as I, was he; But his noise brought no pleasaunce, verily. Small ease he gat of playing on the bones, Or hammering on his stove-pipe, that I see. Behold the deeds that are done of Mrs. Jones!

V

Thou, for whose fear the figurative crow I eat, accursed be thou and all thy kin! Thee will I show up—yea, up will I show Thy too thick buckwheats, and thy tea too thin. Ay! here I dare thee, ready for the fray! Thou dost not keep a first-class house, I say! It does not with the advertisements agree. Thou lodgest a Briton with a pugaree, And thou hast harbored Jacobses and Cohns, Also a Mulligan. Thus denounce I thee! Behold the deeds that are done of Mrs. Jones!

ENVOY

Boarders! the worst I have not told to ye: She hath stole my trousers, that I may not flee Privily by the window. Hence these groans, There is no fleeing in a robe de nuit. Behold the deeds that are done of Mrs. Jones!

H. C. Bunner.



VILLON'S STRAIGHT TIP TO ALL CROSS COVES

"Tout aux tavernes et aux fiells"

Suppose you screeve? or go cheap-jack? Or fake the broads? or fig a nag? Or thimble-rig? or knap a yack? Or pitch a snide? or smash a rag? Suppose you duff? or nose and lag? Or get the straight, and land your pot? How do you melt the multy swag? Booze and the blowens cop the lot.

Fiddle, or fence, or mace, or mack; Or moskeneer, or flash the drag; Dead-lurk a crib, or do a crack; Pad with a slang, or chuck a fag; Bonnet, or tout, or mump and gag; Rattle the tats, or mark the spot; You cannot bag a single stag; Booze and the blowens cop the lot.

Suppose you try a different tack, And on the square you flash your flag? At penny-a-lining make your whack, Or with the mummers mug and gag? For nix, for nix the dibbs you bag! At any graft, no matter what, Your merry goblins soon stravag: Booze and the blowens cop the lot.

THE MORAL

It's up the spout and Charley Wag With wipes and tickers and what not Until the squeezer nips your scrag, Booze and the blowens cop the lot.

William Ernest Henley.



CULTURE IN THE SLUMS

Inscribed to an Intense Poet

I. RONDEAU

"O crikey, Bill!" she ses to me, she ses. "Look sharp," ses she, "with them there sossiges. Yea! sharp with them there bags of mysteree! For lo!" she ses, "for lo! old pal," ses she, "I'm blooming peckish, neither more nor less."

Was it not prime—I leave you all to guess How prime!—to have a Jude in love's distress Come spooning round, and murmuring balmilee, "O crikey, Bill!" For in such rorty wise doth Love express His blooming views, and asks for your address, And makes it right, and does the gay and free. I kissed her—I did so! And her and me Was pals. And if that ain't good business, "O crikey, Bill!"

II. VILLANELLE

Now ain't they utterly too-too (She ses, my Missus mine, ses she), Them flymy little bits of Blue.

Joe, just you kool 'em—nice and skew Upon our old meogginee, Now ain't they utterly too-too?

They're better than a pot'n' a screw, They're equal to a Sunday spree, Them flymy little bits of Blue!

Suppose I put 'em up the flue, And booze the profits, Joe? Not me. Now ain't they utterly too-too?

I do the 'Igh Art fake, I do. Joe, I'm consummate; and I see Them flymy little bits of Blue.

Which Joe, is why I ses ter you— AEsthetic-like, and limp, and free— Now ain't they utterly too-too, Them flymy little bits of Blue?

III. BALLADE

I often does a quiet read At Booty Shelly's poetry; I thinks that Swinburne at a screed Is really almost too too fly; At Signor Vagna's harmony I likes a merry little flutter; I've had at Pater many a shy; In fact, my form's the Bloomin' Utter.

My mark's a tidy little feed, And 'Enery Irving's gallery, To see old 'Amlick do a bleed, And Ellen Terry on the die, Or Frankey's ghostes at hi-spy, And parties carried on a shutter. Them vulgar Coupeaus is my eye! In fact my form's the Bloomin' Utter.

The Grosvenor's nuts—it is, indeed! I goes for 'Olman 'Unt like pie. It's equal to a friendly lead To see B. Jones's judes go by. Stanhope he make me fit to cry. Whistler he makes me melt like butter. Strudwick he makes me flash my cly— In fact, my form's the Bloomin' Utter.

ENVOY

I'm on for any Art that's 'Igh; I talks as quiet as I can splutter; I keeps a Dado on the sly; In fact, my form's the Bloomin' Utter.

William Ernest Henley.



THE LAWYER'S INVOCATION TO SPRING

Whereas, on certain boughs and sprays Now divers birds are heard to sing, And sundry flowers their heads upraise, Hail to the coming on of Spring!

The songs of those said birds arouse The memory of our youthful hours, As green as those said sprays and boughs, As fresh and sweet as those said flowers.

The birds aforesaid—happy pairs— Love, 'mid the aforesaid boughs, inshrines In freehold nests; themselves their heirs, Administrators, and assigns.

O busiest term of Cupid's Court, Where tender plaintiffs actions bring,— Season of frolic and of sport, Hail, as aforesaid, coming Spring!

Henry Howard Brownell.



NORTH, EAST, SOUTH, AND WEST

AFTER R. K.

Oh! I have been North, and I have been South, and the East hath seen me pass, And the West hath cradled me on her breast, that is circled round with brass, And the world hath laugh'd at me, and I have laugh'd at the world alone, With a loud hee-haw till my hard-work'd jaw is stiff as a dead man's bone!

Oh! I have been up and I have been down and over the sounding sea, And the sea-birds cried as they dropp'd and died at the terrible sight of me, For my head was bound with a star, and crown'd with the fire of utmost hell, And I made this song with a brazen tongue and a more than fiendish yell:

"Oh! curse you all, for the sake of men who have liv'd and died for spite, And be doubly curst for the dark ye make where there ought to be but light, And be trebly curst by the deadly spell of a woman's lasting hate,— And drop ye down to the mouth of hell who would climb to the Golden Gate!"

Then the world grew green, and grim and grey at the horrible noise I made, And held up its hands in a pious way when I call'd a spade a spade; But I cared no whit for the blame of it, and nothing at all for its praise, And the whole consign'd with a tranquil mind to a sempiternal blaze!

All this have I sped, and have brought me back to work at the set of sun, And I set my seal to the thoughts I feel in the twilight one by one, For I speak but sooth in the name of Truth when I write such things as these;

And the whole I send to a critical friend who is learned in Kiplingese!

Unknown.



MARTIN LUTHER AT POTSDAM

What lightning shall light it? What thunder shall tell it? In the height of the height, in the depth of the deep? Shall the sea-storm declare it, or paint it, or smell it? Shall the price of a slave be its treasure to keep? When the night has grown near with the gems on her bosom, When the white of mine eyes is the whiteness of snow, When the cabman—in liquor—drives a blue roan, a kicker, Into the land of the dear long ago.

Ah!—Ah, again!—You will come to me, fall on me— You are so heavy, and I am so flat. And I? I shall not be at home when you call on me, But stray down the wind like a gentleman's hat: I shall list to the stars when the music is purple, Be drawn through a pipe, and exhaled into rings; Turn to sparks, and then straightway get stuck in the gateway That stands between speech and unspeakable things.

As I mentioned before, by what light is it lighted? Oh! Is it fourpence, or piebald, or gray? Is it a mayor that a mother has knighted Or is it a horse of the sun and the day? Is it a pony? If so, who will change it? O golfer, be quiet, and mark where it scuds, And think of its paces—of owners and races— Relinquish the links for the study of studs.

Not understood? Take me hence! Take me yonder! Take me away to the land of my rest— There where the Ganges and other gees wander, And uncles and antelopes act for the best, And all things are mixed and run into each other In a violet twilight of virtues and sins, With the church-spires below you and no one to show you Where the curate leaves off and the pew-rent begins!

In the black night through the rank grass the snakes peer— The cobs and the cobras are partial to grass— And a boy wanders out with a knowledge of Shakespeare That's not often found in a boy of his class, And a girl wanders out without any knowledge, And a bird wanders out, and a cow wanders out, Likewise one wether, and they wander together— There's a good deal of wandering lying about.

But its all for the best; I've been told by my friends, Sir, That in verses I'd written the meaning was slight; I've tried with no meaning—to make 'em amends, Sir— And find that this kind's still more easy to write. The title has nothing to do with the verses, But think of the millions—the laborers who In busy employment find deepest enjoyment, And yet, like my title, have nothing to do!

Barry Pain.



AN IDYLL OF PHATTE AND LEENE

The hale John Sprat—oft called for shortness, Jack— Had married—had, in fact, a wife—and she Did worship him with wifely reverence. He, who had loved her when she was a girl, Compass'd her too, with sweet observances; E'en at the dinner table did it shine. For he—liking no fat himself—he never did, With jealous care piled up her plate with lean, Not knowing that all lean was hateful to her. And day by day she thought to tell him o't, And watched the fat go out with envious eye, But could not speak for bashful delicacy.

At last it chanced that on a winter day, The beef—a prize joint!—little was but fat; So fat, that John had all his work cut out, To snip out lean fragments for his wife, Leaving, in very sooth, none for himself; Which seeing, she spoke courage to her soul, Took up her fork, and, pointing to the joint Where 'twas the fattest, piteously she said; "Oh, husband! full of love and tenderness! What is the cause that you so jealously Pick out the lean for me. I like it not! Nay, loathe it—'tis on the fat that I would feast; O me, I fear you do not like my taste!"

Then he, dropping his horny-handled carving knife, Sprinkling therewith the gravy o'er her gown, Answer'd, amazed: "What! you like fat, my wife! And never told me. Oh, this is not kind! Think what your reticence has wrought for us; How all the fat sent down unto the maidWho likes not fat—for such maids never do— Has been put in the waste-tub, sold for grease, And pocketed as servant's perquisite! Oh, wife! this news is good; for since, perforce, A joint must be not fat nor lean, but both; Our different tastes will serve our purpose well; For, while you eat the fat—the lean to me Falls as my cherished portion. Lo! 'tis good!" So henceforth—he that tells the tale relates— In John Sprat's household waste was quite unknown; For he the lean did eat, and she the fat, And thus the dinner-platter was all cleared.

Unknown.



THE HOUSE THAT JACK BUILT

And this reft house is that the which he built, Lamented Jack! and here his malt he piled. Cautious in vain! these rats that squeak so wild, Squeak not unconscious of their father's guilt. Did he not see her gleaming through the glade! Belike 'twas she, the maiden all forlorn. What though she milked no cow with crumpled horn, Yet, aye she haunts the dale where erst she strayed: And aye before her stalks her amorous knight! Still on his thighs their wonted brogues are worn, And through those brogues, still tattered and betorn, His hindward charms gleam an unearthly white.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge.



PALABRAS GRANDIOSAS

AFTER T—— B—— A——

I lay i' the bosom of the sun, Under the roses dappled and dun. I thought of the Sultan Gingerbeer, In his palace beside the Bendemeer, With his Afghan guards and his eunuchs blind, And the harem that stretched for a league behind. The tulips bent i' the summer breeze, Under the broad chrysanthemum-trees, And the minstrel, playing his culverin, Made for mine ears a merry din, If I were the Sultan, and he were I, Here i' the grass he should loafing lie, And I should bestride my zebra steed, And ride to the hunt of the centipede: While the pet of the harem, Dandeline, Should fill me a crystal bucket of wine, And the kislar aga, Up-to-Snuff, Should wipe my mouth when I sighed, "Enough!" And the gay court poet, Fearfulbore, Should sit in the hall when the hunt was o'er, And chant me songs of silvery tone, Not from Hafiz, but—mine own!

Ah, wee sweet love, beside me here, I am not the Sultan Gingerbeer, Nor you the odalisque Dandeline, Yet I am yourn, and you are mine!

Bayard Taylor.



A LOVE PLAYNT—1370

To yow, my Purse, and to noon other wighte, Complayne I, for ye be my lady dere! I am so sorry now that ye been lyghte, For, certes, yf ye make me hevy chere, Me were as leef be layde upon my beere. For whiche unto your mercie thus I crye, Beethe hevy ageyne, or elles mote I die!

Now voucheth sauf this day, or hyt be nighte, That I of yow the blissful soun may here, Or see your colour lyke the sunne brighte, That of yellownesse hadde never pere. Ye be my lyf! ye be myn herty's stere! Quene of comfort and good companye! Beethe hevy ageyne, or elles mote I die!

Now, Purse! that ben to me my lyve's lyghte, And surety as doune in this world here, Out of this toune helpe me through your myghte, Syn that you wole not bene my tresorere; For I am shave as nigh as is a frere. But I pray unto your curtesye, Beethe hevy ageyne, or elles mote I die!

Godfrey Turner.



DARWINITY

Power to thine elbow, thou newest of sciences, All the old landmarks are ripe for decay; Wars are but shadows, and so are alliances, Darwin the great is the man of the day.

All other 'ologies want an apology; Bread's a mistake—Science offers a stone; Nothing is true but Anthropobiology— Darwin the great understands it alone.

Mighty the great evolutionist teacher is Licking Morphology clean into shape; Lord! what an ape the Professor or Preacher is Ever to doubt his descent from an ape.

Man's an Anthropoid—he cannot help that, you know— First evoluted from Pongos of old; He's but a branch of the catarrhine cat, you know— Monkey I mean—that's an ape with a cold.

Fast dying out are man's later Appearances, Cataclysmitic Geologies gone; Now of Creation completed the clearance is, Darwin alone you must anchor upon.

Primitive Life—Organisms were chemical, Busting spontaneous under the sea; Purely subaqueous, panaquademical, Was the original Crystal of Me.

I'm the Apostle of mighty Darwinity, Stands for Divinity—sounds much the same— Apo-theistico-Pan-Asininity Only can doubt whence the lot of us came.

Down on your knees, Superstition and Flunkeydom! Won't you accept such plain doctrines instead? What is so simple as primitive Monkeydom Born in the sea with a cold in its head?

Herman C. Merivale.



SELECT PASSAGES FROM A COMING PORT

DISENCHANTMENT

My Love has sicklied unto Loath, And foul seems all that fair I fancied— The lily's sheen's a leprous growth, The very buttercups are rancid.

ABASEMENT

With matted head a-dabble in the dust, And eyes tear-sealed in a saline crust I lie all loathly in my rags and rust— Yet learn that strange delight may lurk in self-disgust.

STANZA WRITTEN IN DEPRESSION NEAR DULWICH

The lark soars up in the air; The toad sits tight in his hole; And I would I were certain which of the pair Were the truer type of my soul!

TO MY LADY

Twine, lanken fingers, lily-lithe, Gleam, slanted eyes, all beryl-green, Pout, blood-red lips that burst a-writhe, Then—kiss me, Lady Grisoline!

THE MONSTER

Uprears the monster now his slobberous head, Its filamentous chaps her ankles brushing; Her twice-five roseal toes are cramped in dread, Each maidly instep mauven-pink is flushing.

A TRUMPET BLAST

Pale Patricians, sunk in self-indulgence, Blink your bleared eyes. Behold the Sun— Burst proclaim in purpurate effulgence, Demos dawning, and the Darkness done!

F. Anstey.



THE ROMAUNT OF HUMPTY DUMPTY

'Tis midnight, and the moonbeam sleeps Upon the garden sward; My lady in yon turret keeps Her tearful watch and ward. "Beshrew me!" mutters, turning pale, The stalwart seneschal; "What's he, that sitteth, clad in mail Upon our castle wall?"

"Arouse thee, friar of orders grey; What ho! bring book and bell! Ban yonder ghastly thing, I say; And, look ye, ban it well! By cock and pye, the Humpty's face!" The form turned quickly round; Then totter'd from its resting-place—

* * * * *

That night the corse was found.

The king, with hosts of fighting men Rode forth at break of day; Ah! never gleamed the sun till then On such a proud array. But all that army, horse and foot, Attempted, quite in vain, Upon the castle wall to put The Humpty up again.

Henry S. Leigh.



THE WEDDING

Lady Clara Vere de Vere! I hardly know what I must say, But I'm to be Queen of the May, mother, I'm to be Queen of the May! I am half-crazed; I don't feel grave, Let me rave!

Whole weeks and months, early and late, To win his love I lay in wait. Oh, the Earl was fair to see, As fair as any man could be;— The wind is howling in turret and tree!

We two shall be wed tomorrow morn, And I shall be the Lady Clare, And when my marriage morn shall fall, I hardly know what I shall wear. But I shan't say "my life is dreary," And sadly hang my head, With the remark, "I'm very weary, And wish that I were dead."

But on my husband's arm I'll lean, And roundly waste his plenteous gold, Passing the honeymoon serene In that new world which is the old. For down we'll go and take the boat Beside St. Katherine's docks afloat, Which round about its prow has wrote— "The Lady of Shalotter" (Mondays and Thursdays,—Captain Foat), Bound for the Dam of Rotter.

Thomas Hood, Jr.



IN MEMORIAM TECHNICAM

I count it true which sages teach— That passion sways not with repose, That love, confounding these with those, Is ever welding each with each.

And so when time has ebbed away, Like childish wreaths too lightly held, The song of immemorial eld Shall moan about the belted bay.

Where slant Orion slopes his star, To swelter in the rolling seas, Till slowly widening by degrees The grey climbs upward from afar.

And golden youth and passion stray Along the ridges of the strand,— Not far apart, but hand in hand,— With all the darkness danced away!

Thomas Hood, Jr.



"SONGS WITHOUT WORDS"

I cannot sing the old songs, Though well I know the tune, Familiar as a cradle-song With sleep-compelling croon; Yet though I'm filled with music As choirs of summer birds "I cannot sing the old songs"— I do not know the words.

I start on "Hail Columbia," And get to "heav'n-born band," And there I strike an up-grade With neither steam nor sand; "Star Spangled Banner" downs me Right in my wildest screaming, I start all right, but dumbly come To voiceless wreck at "streaming."

So, when I sing the old songs, Don't murmur or complain If "Ti, diddy ah da, tum dum," Should fill the sweetest strain. I love "Tolly um dum di do," And the "trilla-la yeep da" birds, But "I cannot sing the old songs"— I do not know the words.

Robert J. Burdette.



AT THE SIGN OF THE COCK

FRENCH STYLE, 1898

Being an Ode in further "Contribution to the Song of French History," dedicated, without malice or permission to Mr. George Meredith.

I

Rooster her sign, Rooster her pugnant note, she struts Evocative, amazon spurs aprick at heel; Nid-nod the authentic stump Of the once ensanguined comb vermeil as wine; With conspuent doodle-doo Hails breach o' the hectic dawn of yon New Year, Last issue up to date Of quiverful Fate Evolved spontaneous; hails with tenant trump The spiriting prime o' the clashed carillon-peal; Ruffling her caudal plumes derisive of scuts; Inconscient how she stalks an immarcessibly absurd Bird.

II

Mark where her Equatorial Pioneer Delirant on the tramp goes littoralwise. His Flag at furl, portmanteaued; drains to the dregs The penultimate brandy-bottle, coal-on-the-head-piece gift Of who avenged the Old Sea-Rover's smirch. Marchant he treads the all-along of inarable drift On dubiously connivent legs, The facile prey of predatory flies; Panting for further; sworn to lurch Empirical on to the Menelik-buffered, enhavened blue, Rhyming—see Cantique I.—with doodle-doo.

III

Infuriate she kicked against Imperial fact; Vulnant she felt What pin-stab should have stained Another's pelt Puncture her own Colonial lung-balloon, Volant to nigh meridian. Whence rebuffed, The perjured Scythian she lacked At need's pinch, sick with spleen of the rudely cuffed Below her breath she cursed; she cursed the hour When on her spring for him the young Tyrannical broke Amid the unhallowed wedlock's vodka-shower, She passionate, he dispassionate; tricked Her wits to eye-blind; borrowed the ready as for dower; Till from the trance of that Hymettus-moon She woke, A nuptial-knotted derelict; Pensioned with Rescripts other aid declined By the plumped leech saturate urging Peace In guise of heavy-armed Gospeller to men, Tyrannical unto fraternal equal liberal, her. Not she; Not till Alsace her consanguineous find What red deteutonising artillery Shall shatter her beer-reek alien police The just-now pluripollent; not till then.

IV

More pungent yet the esoteric pain Squeezing her pliable vitals nourishes feud Insanely grumous, grumously insane. For lo! Past common balmly on the Bordereau, Churns she the skim o' the gutter's crust With Anti-Judaic various carmagnole, Whooped praise of the Anti-just; Her boulevard brood Gyratory in convolvements militant-mad; Theatrical of faith in the Belliform, Her Og, Her Monstrous. Fled what force she had To buckle the jaw-gape, wide agog For the Preconcerted One, The Anticipated, ripe to clinch the whole; Queen-bee to hive the hither and thither volant swarm.

Bides she his coming; adumbrates the new Expurgatorial Divine, Her final effulgent Avatar, Postured outside a trampling mastodon Black as her Baker's charger; towering; visibly gorged With blood of traitors. Knee-grip stiff, Spine straightened, on he rides; Embossed the Patriot's brow with hieroglyph Of martial dossiers, nothing forged About him save his armour. So she bides Voicing his advent indeterminably far, Rooster her sign, Rooster her conspuent doodle-doo.

V

Behold her, pranked with spurs for bloody sport, How she acclaims, A crapulous chanticleer, Breach of the hectic dawn of yon New Year. Not yet her fill of rumours sucked; Inebriate of honour; blushfully wroth; Tireless to play her old primeval games; Her plumage preened the yet unplucked Like sails of a galleon, rudder hard amort With crepitant mast Fronting the hazard to dare of a dual blast The intern and the extern, blizzards both.

Owen Seaman.



PRESTO FURIOSO

AFTER WALT WHITMAN

Spontaneous Us! O my Camarados! I have no delicatesse as a diplomat, but I go blind on Libertad! Give me the flap-flap of the soaring Eagle's pinions! Give me the tail of the British lion tied in a knot inextricable, not to be solved anyhow! Give me a standing army (I say "give me," because just at present we want one badly, armies being often useful in time of war).

I see our superb fleet (I take it that we are to have a superb fleet built almost immediately); I observe the crews prospectively; they are constituted of various nationalities, not necessarily American; I see them sling the slug and chew the plug; I hear the drum begin to hum;

Both the above rhymes are purely accidental, and contrary to my principles. We shall wipe the floor of the mill-pond with the scalps of able-bodied British tars! I see Professor Edison about to arrange for us a torpedo-hose on wheels, likewise an infernal electro-semaphore; I see Henry Irving dead sick and declining to play Corporal Brewster; Cornell, I yell! I yell Cornell!

I note the Manhattan boss leaving his dry-goods store and investing in a small Gatling-gun and a ten-cent banner; I further note the Identity evolved out of forty-four spacious and thoughtful States; I note Canada as shortly to be merged in that Identity; similarly Van Diemen's Land, Gibraltar, and Stratford-on-Avon; Briefly, I see creation whipped!

O ye Colonels! I am with you (I too am a Colonel and on the pension-list); I drink to the lot of you; to Colonels Cleveland, Hitt, Vanderbilt, Chauncey M. Depew, O'Donovan Rossa, and the late Colonel Monroe; I drink an egg-flip, a morning-caress, an eye-opener, a maiden-bosom, a vermuth-cocktail, three sherry-cobblers, and a gin-sling! Good old Eagle!

Owen Seaman.



TO JULIA IN SHOOTING TOGS AND A HERRICKOSE VEIN

When as to shoot my Julia goes, Then, then (methinks), how bravely shows That rare arrangement of her clothes!

So shod as when the Huntress Maid With thumping buskin bruised the glade, She moveth, making earth afraid.

Against the sting of random chaff Her leathern gaiters circle half The arduous crescent of her calf.

Unto th' occasion timely fit, My love's attire doth show her wit, And of her legs a little bit.

Sorely it sticketh in my throat, She having nowhere to bestow't To name the absent petticoat.

In lieu whereof a wanton pair Of knickerbockers she doth wear, Full windy and with space to spare.

Enlarged by the bellying breeze, Lord! how they playfully do ease The urgent knocking of her knees!

Lengthways curtailed to her taste A tunic circumvents her waist, And soothly it is passing chaste.

Upon her head she hath a gear Even such as wights of ruddy cheer Do use in stalking of the deer.

Haply her truant tresses mock Some coronal of shapelier block, To wit, the bounding billy-cock.

Withal she hath a loaded gun, Whereat the pheasants, as they run, Do make a fair diversion.

For very awe, if so she shoots, My hair upriseth from the roots, And lo! I tremble in my boots!

Owen Seaman.



FAREWELL

PROVOKED BY CALVERLEY's "FOREVER"

"Farewell!" Another gloomy word As ever into language crept. 'Tis often written, never heard, Except

In playhouse. Ere the hero flits— In handcuffs—from our pitying view. "Farewell!" he murmurs, then exits R. U.

"Farewell" is much too sighful for An age that has not time to sigh. We say, "I'll see you later," or "Good by!"

When, warned by chanticleer, you go From her to whom you owe devoir, "Say not 'good by,'" she laughs, "but 'Au Revoir!'"

Thus from the garden are you sped; And Juliet were the first to tell You, you were silly if you said "Farewell!"

"Farewell," meant long ago, before It crept, tear-spattered, into song, "Safe voyage!" "Pleasant journey!" or "So long!"

But gone its cheery, old-time ring; The poets made it rhyme with knell— Joined it became a dismal thing— "Farewell!"

"Farewell!" into the lover's soul You see Fate plunge the fatal iron. All poets use it. It's the whole Of Byron.

"I only feel—farewell!" said he; And always fearful was the telling— Lord Byron was eternally Farewelling.

"Farewell!" A dismal word, 'tis true (And why not tell the truth about it!); But what on earth would poets do Without it?

Bert Leston Taylor.



HERE IS THE TALE

AFTER RUDYARD KIPLING

Here is the tale—and you must make the most of it! Here is the rhyme—ah, listen and attend! Backwards—forwards—read it all and boast of it If you are anything the wiser at the end!

Now Jack looked up—it was time to sup, and the bucket was yet to fill, And Jack looked round for a space and frowned, then beckoned his sister Jill, And twice he pulled his sister's hair, and thrice he smote her side; "Ha' done, ha' done with your impudent fun—ha' done with your games!" she cried; "You have made mud-pies of a marvellous size—finger and face are black, You have trodden the Way of the Mire and Clay—now up and wash you, Jack! Or else, or ever we reach our home, there waiteth an angry dame— Well you know the weight of her blow—the supperless open shame! Wash, if you will, on yonder hill—wash, if you will, at the spring,— Or keep your dirt, to your certain hurt, and an imminent walloping!"

"You must wash—you must scrub—you must scrape!" growled Jack, "you must traffic with cans and pails, Nor keep the spoil of the good brown soil in the rim of your finger-nails! The morning path you must tread to your bath—you must wash ere the night descends, And all for the cause of conventional laws and the soap-makers' dividends! But if 'tis sooth that our meal in truth depends on our washing, Jill, By the sacred right of our appetite—haste—haste to the top of the hill!"

They have trodden the Way of the Mire and Clay, they have toiled and travelled far, They have climbed to the brow of the hill-top now, where the bubbling fountains are, They have taken the bucket and filled it up—yea, filled it up to the brim; But Jack he sneered at his sister Jill, and Jill she jeered at him: "What, blown already!" Jack cried out (and his was a biting mirth!) "You boast indeed of your wonderful speed—but what is the boasting worth? Now, if you can run as the antelope runs and if you can turn like a hare, Come, race me, Jill, to the foot of the hill—and prove your boasting fair!" "Race? What is a race" (and a mocking face had Jill as she spake the word) "Unless for a prize the runner tries? The truth indeed ye heard, For I can run as the antelope runs, and I can turn like a hare:— The first one down wins half-a-crown—and I will race you there!" "Yea, if for the lesson that you will learn (the lesson of humbled pride) The price you fix at two-and-six, it shall not be denied; Come, take your stand at my right hand, for here is the mark we toe: Now, are you ready, and are you steady? Gird up your petticoats! Go!" And Jill she ran like a winging bolt, a bolt from the bow released, But Jack like a stream of the lightning gleam, with its pathway duly greased; He ran down hill in front of Jill like a summer-lightning flash— Till he suddenly tripped on a stone, or slipped, and fell to the earth with a crash. Then straight did rise on his wondering eyes the constellations fair, Arcturus and the Pleiades, the Greater and Lesser Bear, The swirling rain of a comet's train he saw, as he swiftly fell— And Jill came tumbling after him with a loud triumphant yell: "You have won, you have won, the race is done! And as for the wager laid— You have fallen down with a broken crown—the half-crown debt is paid!"

They have taken Jack to the room at the back where the family medicines are, And he lies in bed with a broken head in a halo of vinegar; While, in that Jill had laughed her fill as her brother fell to earth, She had felt the sting of a walloping—she hath paid the price of her mirth!

Here is the tale—and now you have the whole of it, Here is the story—well and wisely planned, Beauty—Duty—these make up the soul of it— But, ah, my little readers, will you mark and understand?

Anthony C. Deane.



THE WILLOWS

The skies they were ashen and sober, The streets they were dirty and drear; It was night in the month of October, Of my most immemorial year; Like the skies I was perfectly sober, As I stopped at the mansion of Shear,— At the "Nightingale,"—perfectly sober, And the willowy woodland, down here.

Here once in an alley Titanic Of Ten-pins,—I roamed with my soul,— Of Ten-pins,—with Mary, my soul; They were days when my heart was volcanic, And impelled me to frequently roll, And made me resistlessly roll, Till my ten-strikes created a panic In the realms of the Boreal pole, Till my ten-strikes created a panic With the monkey atop of his pole.

I repeat, I was perfectly sober, But my thoughts they were palsied and sear,— My thoughts were decidedly queer; For I knew not the month was October, And I marked not the night of the year; I forgot that sweet morceau of Auber That the band oft performed down here; And I mixed the sweet music of Auber With the Nightingale's music by Shear.

And now as the night was senescent, And star-dials pointed to morn, And car-drivers hinted of morn, At the end of the path a liquescent And bibulous lustre was born: 'Twas made by the bar-keeper present, Who mixed a duplicate horn,— His two hands describing a crescent Distinct with a duplicate horn.

And I said: "This looks perfectly regal; For it's warm, and I know I feel dry,— I am confident that I feel dry. We have come past the emeu and eagle, And watched the gay monkey on high; Let us drink to the emeu and eagle,— To the swan and the monkey on high— To the eagle and monkey on high; For this bar-keeper will not inveigle,— Bully boy with the vitreous eye; He surely would never inveigle,— Sweet youth with the crystalline eye."

But Mary, uplifting her finger, Said, "Sadly this bar I mistrust,— I fear that this bar does not trust. Oh, hasten! oh, let us not linger! Oh, fly!—let us fly—ere we must!" In terror she cried, letting sink her Parasol till it trailed in the dust,— In agony sobbed, letting sink her Parasol till it trailed in the dust,— Till it sorrowfully trailed in the dust.

Then I pacified Mary, and kissed her, And tempted her into the room, And conquer'd her scruples and gloom; And we passed to the end of the vista, But were stopped by the warning of doom— By some words that were warning of doom. And I said, "What is written, sweet sister, At the opposite end of the room?" She sobbed, as she answered, "All liquors Must be paid for ere leaving the room."

Then my heart it grew ashen and sober, As the streets were deserted and drear— For my pockets were empty and drear; And I cried, "It was surely October, On this very night of last year, That I journeyed—I journeyed down here— That I brought a fair maiden down here, On this night of all nights in the year. Ah! to me that inscription is clear: Well I know now I'm perfectly sober, Why no longer they credit me here,— Well I know now that music of Auber, And this Nightingale, kept by one Shear."

Bret Harte.



A BALLAD

IN THE MANNER OF R-DY-RD K-PL-NG

As I was walkin' the jungle round, a-killin' of tigers an' time; I seed a kind of an author man a writin' a rousin' rhyme; 'E was writin' a mile a minute an' more, an' I sez to 'im, "'Oo are you?" Sez 'e, "I'm a poet—'er majesty's poet—soldier an' sailor, too!" An 'is poem began in Ispahan an' ended in Kalamazoo, It 'ad army in it, an' navy in it, an' jungle sprinkled through, For 'e was a poet—'er majesty's poet—soldier an' sailor, too!

An' after, I met 'im all over the world, a doin' of things a host; 'E 'ad one foot planted in Burmah, an' one on the Gloucester coast; 'Es 'alf a sailor an' 'alf a whaler, 'e's captain, cook and crew, But most a poet—'er majesty's poet—soldier an' sailor too! 'E's often Scot an' 'e's often not, but 'is work is never through For 'e laughs at blame, an' 'e writes for fame, an' a bit for revenoo,— Bein' a poet—'er majesty's poet—soldier an' sailor too!

'E'll take you up to the Artic zone, 'e'll take you down to the Nile, 'E'll give you a barrack ballad in the Tommy Atkins style, Or 'e'll sing you a Dipsy Chantey, as the bloomin' bo'suns do, For 'e is a poet—'er majesty's poet—soldier an' sailor too. An' there isn't no room for others, an' there's nothin' left to do; 'E 'as sailed the main from the 'Orn to Spain, 'e 'as tramped the jungle through, An' written up all there is to write—soldier an' sailor, too!

There are manners an' manners of writin', but 'is is the proper way, An' it ain't so hard to be a bard if you'll imitate Rudyard K.; But sea an' shore an' peace an' war, an' everything else in view— 'E 'as gobbled the lot!—'er majesty's poet—soldier an' sailor, too. 'E's not content with 'is Indian 'ome, 'e's looking for regions new, In another year 'e'll ave swept 'em clear, an' what'll the rest of us do? 'E's crowdin' us out!—'er majesty's poet—soldier an' sailor too!

Guy Wetmore Carryl.



THE TRANSLATED WAY

Being a lyric translation of Heine's "Du bist wie eine Blume," as it is usually done.

Thou art like unto a Flower, So pure and clean thou art; I view thee and much sadness Steals to me in the heart.

To me it seems my Hands I Should now impose on your Head, praying God to keep you So fine and clean and pure.

Franklin P. Adams.



COMMONPLACES

Rain on the face of the sea, Rain on the sodden land, And the window-pane is blurred with rain As I watch it, pen in hand.

Mist on the face of the sea, Mist on the sodden land, Filling the vales as daylight fails, And blotting the desolate sand.

Voices from out of the mist, Calling to one another: "Hath love an end, thou more than friend, Thou dearer than ever brother?"

Voices from out of the mist, Calling and passing away; But I cannot speak, for my voice is weak, And ... this is the end of my lay.

Rudyard Kipling.



ANGELO ORDERS HIS DINNER

I, Angelo, obese, black-garmented, Respectable, much in demand, well fed With mine own larder's dainties, where, indeed, Such cakes of myrrh or fine alyssum seed, Thin as a mallow-leaf, embrowned o' the top. Which, cracking, lets the ropy, trickling drop Of sweetness touch your tongue, or potted nests Which my recondite recipe invests With cold conglomerate tidbits—ah, the bill! (You say), but given it were mine to fill My chests, the case so put were yours, we'll say (This counter, here, your post, as mine to-day), And you've an eye to luxuries, what harm In smoothing down your palate with the charm Yourself concocted? There we issue take; And see! as thus across the rim I break This puffy paunch of glazed embroidered cake, So breaks, through use, the lust of watering chaps And craveth plainness: do I so? Perhaps; But that's my secret. Find me such a man As Lippo yonder, built upon the plan Of heavy storage, double-navelled, fat From his own giblet's oils, an Ararat Uplift o'er water, sucking rosy draughts From Noah's vineyard,—crisp, enticing wafts Yon kitchen now emits, which to your sense Somewhat abate the fear of old events, Qualms to the stomach,—I, you see, am slow Unnecessary duties to forego,— You understand? A venison haunch, haul gout. Ducks that in Cimbrian olives mildly stew. And sprigs of anise, might one's teeth provoke To taste, and so we wear the complex yoke Just as it suits,—my liking, I confess, More to receive, and to partake no less, Still more obese, while through thick adipose Sensation shoots, from testing tongue to toes Far off, dim-conscious, at the body's verge, Where the froth-whispers of its waves emerge On the untasting sand. Stay, now! a seat Is bare: I, Angelo, will sit and eat.

Bayard Taylor.



THE PROMISSORY NOTE

In the lonesome latter years (Fatal years!) To the dropping of my tears Danced the mad and mystic spheres In a rounded, reeling rune, 'Neath the moon, To the dripping and the dropping of my tears.

Ah, my soul is swathed in gloom, (Ulalume!) In a dim Titanic tomb, For my gaunt and gloomy soul Ponders o'er the penal scroll, O'er the parchment (not a rhyme), Out of place,—out of time,— I am shredded, shorn, unshifty, (Oh, the fifty!) And the days have passed, the three, Over me! And the debit and the credit are as one to him and me!

'Twas the random runes I wrote At the bottom of the note, (Wrote and freely Gave to Greeley) In the middle of the night, In the mellow, moonless night, When the stars were out of sight, When my pulses, like a knell, (Israfel!) Danced with dim and dying fays O'er the ruins of my days, O'er the dimeless, timeless days, When the fifty, drawn at thirty, Seeming thrifty, yet the dirty Lucre of the market, was the most that I could raise!

Fiends controlled it, (Let him hold it!) Devils held for me the inkstand and the pen; Now the days of grace are o'er, (Ah, Lenore!) I am but as other men; What is time, time, time, To my rare and runic rhyme, To my random, reeling rhyme, By the sands along the shore, Where the tempest whispers, "Pay him!" and I answer, "Nevermore!"

Bayard Taylor.



CAMERADOS

Everywhere, everywhere, following me; Taking me by the buttonhole, pulling off my boots, hustling me with the elbows; Sitting down with me to clams and the chowder-kettle; Plunging naked at my side into the sleek, irascible surges; Soothing me with the strain that I neither permit nor prohibit; Flocking this way and that, reverent, eager, orotund, irrepressible; Denser than sycamore leaves when the north-winds are scouring Paumanok; What can I do to restrain them? Nothing, verily nothing, Everywhere, everywhere, crying aloud for me; Crying, I hear; and I satisfy them out of my nature; And he that comes at the end of the feast shall find something over. Whatever they want I give; though it be something else, they shall have it. Drunkard, leper, Tammanyite, small-pox and cholera patient, shoddy and codfish millionnaire, And the beautiful young men, and the beautiful young women, all the same, Crowding, hundreds of thousands, cosmical multitudes, Buss me and hang on my hips and lean up to my shoulders, Everywhere listening to my yawp and glad whenever they hear it; Everywhere saying, say it, Walt, we believe it: Everywhere, everywhere.

Bayard Taylor.



THE LAST RIDE TOGETHER

FROM HER POINT OF VIEW

When I had firmly answered "No," And he allowed that that was so, I really thought I should be free For good and all from Mr. B., And that he would soberly acquiesce. I said that it would be discreet That for awhile we should not meet; I promised that I would always feel A kindly interest in his weal; I thanked him for his amorous zeal; In short, I said all I could but "yes."

I said what I'm accustomed to; I acted as I always do. I promised he should find in me A friend,—a sister, if that might be; But he was still dissatisfied. He certainly was most polite; He said exactly what was right, He acted very properly, Except indeed for this, that he Insisted on inviting me To come with him for "one more last ride."

A little while in doubt I stood: A ride, no doubt, would do me good; I had a habit and a hat Extremely well worth looking at; The weather was distinctly fine. My horse, too, wanted exercise, And time, when one is riding, flies; Besides, it really seemed, you see, The only way of ridding me Of pertinacious Mr. B.; So my head I graciously incline.

I won't say much of what happened next; I own I was extremely vexed. Indeed I should have been aghast If any one had seen what passed; But nobody need ever know That, as I leaned forward to stir the fire, He advanced before I could well retire; And I suddenly felt, to my great alarm, The grasp of a warm, unlicensed arm, An embrace in which I found no charm; I was awfully glad when he let me go.

Then we began to ride; my steed Was rather fresh, too fresh indeed, And at first I thought of little, save The way to escape an early grave, As the dust rose up on either side. My stern companion jogged along On a brown old cob both broad and strong. He looked as he does when he's writing verse, Or endeavoring not to swear and curse, Or wondering Where he has left his purse; Indeed it was a sombre ride.

I spoke of the weather to Mr. B., But he neither listened nor spoke to me. I praised his horse, and I smiled the smile Which was wont to move him once in a while. I said I was wearing his favorite flowers, But I wasted my words on the desert air, For he rode with a fixed and gloomy stare. I wonder what he was thinking about. As I don't read verse, I shan't find out. It was something subtle and deep, no doubt, A theme to detain a man for hours.

Ah! there was the corner where Mr. S. So nearly induced me to whisper "yes"; And here it was that the next but one Proposed on horseback, or would have done, Had his horse not most opportunely shied; Which perhaps was due to the unseen flick He received from my whip; 'twas a scurvy trick, But I never could do with that young man,— I hope his present young woman can. Well, I must say, never, since time began, Did I go for a duller or longer ride.

He never smiles and he never speaks; He might go on like this for weeks; He rolls a slightly frenzied eye Towards the blue and burning sky, And the cob bounds on with tireless stride. If we aren't home for lunch at two I don't know what papa will do; But I know full well he will say to me, "I never approved of Mr. B.; It's the very devil that you and he Ride, ride together, forever ride."

James Kenneth Stephen.



IMITATION OF WALT WHITMAN

Who am I? I have been reading Walt Whitman, and know not whether he be me, or me he;— Or otherwise! Oh, blue skies! oh, rugged mountains! oh, mighty, rolling Niagara! O, chaos and everlasting bosh! I am a poet; I swear it! If you do not believe it you are a dolt, a fool, an idiot! Milton, Shakespere, Dante, Tommy Moore, Pope, never, but Byron, too, perhaps, and last, not least, Me, and the Poet Close. We send our resonance echoing down the adamantine canyons of the future! We live forever! The worms who criticise us (asses!) laugh, scoff, jeer, and babble—die! Serve them right. What is the difference between Judy, the pride of Fleet Street, the glory of Shoe Lane, and Walt Whitman? Start not! 'Tis no end of a minstrel show who perpends this query; 'Tis no brain-racking puzzle from an inner page of the Family Herald, No charade, acrostic (double or single), conundrum, riddle, rebus, anagram, or other guess-work. I answer thus: We both write truths—great, stern, solemn, unquenchable truths—couched in more or less ridiculous language. I, as a rule use rhyme, he does not; therefore, I am his Superior (which is also a lake in his great and glorious country). I scorn, with the unutterable scorn of the despiser of pettiness, to take a mean advantage of him. He writes, he sells, he is read (more or less); why then should I rack my brains and my rhyming dictionary? I will see the public hanged first! I sing of America, of the United States, of the stars and stripes of Oskhosh, of Kalamazoo, and of Salt Lake City. I sing of the railroad cars, of the hotels, of the breakfasts, the lunches, the dinners, and the suppers; Of the soup, the fish, the entrees, the joints, the game, the puddings and the ice-cream. I sing all—I eat all—I sing in turn of Dr. Bluffem's Anti-bilious Pills. No subject is too small, too insignificant, for Nature's poet. I sing of the cocktail, a new song for every cocktail, hundreds of songs, hundreds of cocktails. It is a great and a glorious land! The Mississippi, the Missouri, and a million other torrents roll their waters to the ocean. It is a great and glorious land! The Alleghanies, the Catskills, the Rockies (see atlas for other mountain ranges too numerous to mention) pierce the clouds! And the greatest and most glorious product of this great and glorious land is Walt Whitman; This must be so, for he says it himself. There is but one greater than he between the rising and the setting sun. There is but one before whom he meekly bows his humbled head. Oh, great and glorious land, teeming producer of all things, creator of Niagara, and inventor of Walt Whitman, Erase your national advertisements of liver pads and cures for rheumatism from your public monuments, and inscribe thereon in letters of gold the name Judy.

Unknown.



SALAD

O cool in the summer is salad, And warm in the winter is love; And a poet shall sing you a ballad Delicious thereon and thereof. A singer am I, if no sinner, My muse has a marvellous wing, And I willingly worship at dinner The Sirens of Spring.

Take endive—like love it is bitter, Take beet—for like love it is red; Crisp leaf of the lettuce shall glitter, And cress from the rivulet's bed; Anchovies, foam-born, like the lady Whose beauty has maddened this bard; And olives, from groves that are shady; And eggs—boil 'em hard.

Mortimer Collins.



IF

If life were never bitter, And love were always sweet, Then who would care to borrow A moral from to-morrow— If Thames would always glitter, And joy would ne'er retreat, If life were never bitter, And love were always sweet!

If care were not the waiter Behind a fellow's chair, When easy-going sinners Sit down to Richmond dinners, And life's swift stream flows straighter, By Jove, it would be rare, If care were not the waiter Behind a fellow's chair.

If wit were always radiant, And wine were always iced, And bores were kicked out straightway Through a convenient gateway; Then down the year's long gradient 'Twere sad to be enticed, If wit were always radiant, And wine were always iced.

Mortimer Collins.



THE JABBERWOCKY OF AUTHORS

'Twas gilbert. The kchesterton Did locke and bennett in the reed. All meredith was the nicholson, And harrison outqueed.

Beware the see-enn-william, son, The londonjack with call that's wild. Beware the gertroo datherton And richardwashburnchild.

He took his brady blade in hand; Long time the partridge foe he sought. Then stood a time by the oppenheim In deep mcnaughton thought.

In warwick deeping thought he stood— He poised on edithwharton brink; He cried, "Ohbernardshaw! I could If basilking would kink."

Rexbeach! rexbeach!—and each on each O. Henry's mantles ferber fell. It was the same'sif henryjames Had wally eaton well.

"And hast thou writ the greatest book? Come to thy birmingham, my boy! Oh, beresford way! Oh, holman day!" He kiplinged in his joy.

'Twas gilbert. The kchesterton Did locke and bennett in the reed. All meredith was the nicholson, And harrison outqueed.

Harry Persons Taber.



THE TOWN OF NICE

MAY, 1874

The town of Nice! the town of Nice! Where once mosquitoes buzzed and stung, And never gave me any peace, The whole year round when I was young! Eternal winter chills it yet, It's always cold, and mostly wet.

Lord Brougham sate on the rocky brow, Which looks on sea-girt Cannes, I wis, But wouldn't like to sit there now, Unless 'twere warmer than it is; I went to Cannes the other day, But found it much too damp to stay.

The mountains look on Monaco, And Monaco looks on the sea; And, playing there some hours ago, I meant to win enormously; But, tho' my need of coin was bad I lost the little that I had.

Ye have the southern charges yet— Where is the southern climate gone? Of two such blessings, why forget The cheaper and the seemlier one? My weekly bill my wrath inspires; Think ye I meant to pay for fires?

Why should I stay? No worse art thou, My country! on thy genial shore The local east-winds whistle now, The local fogs spread more and more; But in the sunny south, the weather Beats all you know of put together.

I cannot eat—I cannot sleep— The waves are not so blue as I; Indeed, the waters of the deep Are dirty-brown, and so's the sky: I get dyspepsia when I dine— Oh, dash that pint of country-wine!

Herman C. Merivale.



THE WILLOW-TREE

ANOTHER VERSION

Long by the willow-trees Vainly they sought her, Wild rang the mother's screams O'er the gray water: Where is my lovely one? Where is my daughter?

"Rouse thee, Sir Constable— Rouse thee and look; Fisherman, bring your net, Boatman, your hook. Beat in the lily-beds, Dive in the brook!"

Vainly the constable Shouted and called her; Vainly the fisherman Beat the green alder; Vainly he flung the net, Never it hauled her!

Mother beside the fire Sat, her nightcap in; Father, in easy chair, Gloomily napping, When at the window-sill Came a light tapping!

And a pale countenance Looked through the casement, Loud beat the mother's heart, Sick with amazement, And at the vision which Came to surprise her, Shrieked in an agony— "Lor'! it's Elizar!"

Yes, 'twas Elizabeth— Yes, 'twas their girl; Pale was her cheek, and her Hair out of curl. "Mother," the loving one, Blushing exclaimed, "Let not your innocent Lizzy be blamed.

"Yesterday, going to Aunt Jones's to tea, Mother, dear mother, I Forgot the door-key! And as the night was cold And the way steep, Mrs. Jones kept me to Breakfast and sleep."

Whether her Pa and Ma Fully believed her, That we shall never know, Stern they received her; And for the work of that Cruel, though short, night Sent her to bed without Tea for a fortnight.

MORAL

Hey diddle diddlety, Cat and the fiddlety, Maidens of England, take caution by she! Let love and suicide Never tempt you aside, And always remember to take the door-key.

W. M. Thackeray.



A BALLADE OF BALLADE-MONGERS

AFTER THE MANNER OF MASTER FRANCOIS VILLON OF PARIS

In Ballades things always contrive to get lost, And Echo is constantly asking where Are last year's roses and last year's frost? And where are the fashions we used to wear? And what is a "gentleman," and what is a "player"? Irrelevant questions I like to ask: Can you reap the tret as well as the tare? And who was the Man in the Iron Mask?

What has become of the ring I tossed In the lap of my mistress false and fair? Her grave is green and her tombstone mossed; But who is to be the next Lord Mayor? And where is King William, of Leicester Square? And who has emptied my hunting flask? And who is possessed of Stella's hair? And who was the Man in the Iron Mask?

And what became of the knee I crossed, And the rod and the child they would not spare? And what will a dozen herring cost When herring are sold at three halfpence a pair? And what in the world is the Golden Stair? Did Diogenes die in a tub or cask, Like Clarence, for love of liquor there? And who was the Man in the Iron Mask?

ENVOY

Poets, your readers have much to bear, For Ballade-making is no great task, If you do not remember, I don't much care Who was the man in the Iron Mask.

Augustus M. Moore.



VIII

BATHOS



THE CONFESSION

There's somewhat on my breast, father, There's somewhat on my breast! The livelong day I sigh, father, And at night I cannot rest. I cannot take my rest, father, Though I would fain do so; A weary weight oppresseth me— This weary weight of woe!

'Tis not the lack of gold, father, Nor want of worldly gear; My lands are broad, and fair to see, My friends are kind and dear. My kin are leal and true, father, They mourn to see my grief; But, oh! 'tis not a kinsman's hand Can give my heart relief!

'Tis not that Janet's false, father, 'Tis not that she's unkind; Though busy flatterers swarm around, I know her constant mind. 'Tis not her coldness, father, That chills my laboring breast; It's that confounded cucumber I ate, and can't digest.

Richard Harris Barham.



IF YOU HAVE SEEN

Good reader! if you e'er have seen, When Ph[oe]bus hastens to his pillow, The mermaids, with their tresses green, Dancing upon the western billow: If you have seen, at twilight dim, When the lone spirit's vesper hymn Floats wild along the winding shore: If you have seen, through mist of eve, The fairy train their ringlets weave, Glancing along the spangled green;— If you have seen all this and more, God bless me! what a deal you've seen!

Thomas Moore.



CIRCUMSTANCE

THE ORANGE

It ripen'd by the river banks, Where, mask and moonlight aiding, Dons Blas and Juan play their pranks, Dark Donnas serenading.

By Moorish damsel it was pluck'd, Beneath the golden day there; By swain 'twas then in London suck'd— Who flung the peel away there.

He could not know in Pimlico, As little she in Seville, That I should reel upon that peel, And—wish them at the devil!

Frederick Locker-Lampson.



ELEGY

The jackals prowl, the serpents hiss In what was once Persepolis. Proud Babylon is but a trace Upon the desert's dusty face. The topless towers of Ilium Are ashes. Judah's harp is dumb. The fleets of Nineveh and Tyre Are down with Davy Jones, Esquire And all the oligarchies, kings, And potentates that ruled these things Are gone! But cheer up; don't be sad; Think what a lovely time they had!

Arthur Guiterman.



OUR TRAVELLER

If thou would'st stand on Etna's burning brow, With smoke above, and roaring flame below; And gaze adown that molten gulf reveal'd, Till thy soul shudder'd and thy senses reel'd: If thou wouldst beard Niag'ra in his pride, Or stem the billows of Propontic tide; Scale all alone some dizzy Alpine haut, And shriek "Excelsior!" among the snow: Would'st tempt all deaths, all dangers that may be— Perils by land, and perils on the sea; This vast round world, I say, if thou wouldst view it— Then, why the dickens don't you go and do it?

Henry Cholmondeley-Pennell.



OPTIMISM

Be brave, faint heart, The dough shall yet be cake; Be strong, weak heart, The butter is to come. Some cheerful chance will right the apple-cart, The devious pig will gain the lucky mart, Loquacity be dumb,— Collapsed the fake. Be brave, faint heart!

Be strong, weak heart, The path will be made plain; Be brave, faint heart, The bore will crawl away. The upside down will turn to right side up, The stiffened lip compel that slipping cup, The doldrums of the day Be not in vain. Be strong, weak heart!

Be brave, faint heart, The jelly means to jell; Be strong, weak heart, The hopes are in the malt. The wrong side in will yet turn right side out, The long-time lost come down yon cormorant spout. Life still is worth her salt: What ends well's well. Be brave, faint heart!

Newton Mackintosh.



THE DECLARATION

Twas late, and the gay company was gone, And light lay soft on the deserted room From alabaster vases, and a scent Of orange-leaves, and sweet verbena came Through the unshutter'd window on the air. And the rich pictures with their dark old tints Hung like a twilight landscape, and all things Seem'd hush'd into a slumber. Isabel, The dark-eyed, spiritual Isabel Was leaning on her harp, and I had stay'd To whisper what I could not when the crowd Hung on her look like worshipers. I knelt, And with the fervor of a lip unused To the cool breath of reason, told my love. There was no answer, and I took the hand That rested on the strings, and press'd a kiss Upon it unforbidden—and again Besought her, that this silent evidence That I was not indifferent to her heart, Might have the seal of one sweet syllable. I kiss'd the small white fingers as I spoke, And she withdrew them gently, and upraised Her forehead from its resting-place, and look'd Earnestly on me—She had been asleep!

N. P. Willis.



HE CAME TO PAY

The editor sat with his head in his hands And his elbows at rest on his knees; He was tired of the ever-increasing demands On his time, and he panted for ease. The clamor for copy was scorned with a sneer, And he sighed in the lowest of tones: "Won't somebody come with a dollar to cheer The heart of Emanuel Jones?"

Just then on the stairway a footstep was heard And a rap-a-tap loud at the door, And the flickering hope that had been long deferred Blazed up like a beacon once more; And there entered a man with a cynical smile That was fringed with a stubble of red, Who remarked, as he tilted a sorry old tile To the back of an average head:

"I have come here to pay"—Here the editor cried: "You're as welcome as flowers in spring! Sit down in this easy armchair by my side, And excuse me awhile till I bring A lemonade dashed with a little old wine And a dozen cigars of the best.... Ah! Here we are! This, I assure you, is fine; Help yourself, most desirable guest."

The visitor drank with a relish, and smoked Till his face wore a satisfied glow, And the editor, beaming with merriment, joked In a joyous, spontaneous flow; And then, when the stock of refreshments was gone, His guest took occasion to say, In accents distorted somewhat by a yawn, "My errand up here is to pay—"

But the generous scribe, with a wave of his hand, Put a stop to the speech of his guest, And brought in a melon, the finest the land Ever bore on its generous breast; And the visitor, wearing a singular grin, Seized the heaviest half of the fruit, And the juice, as it ran in a stream from his chin, Washed the mud of the pike from his boot.

Then, mopping his face on a favorite sheet Which the scribe had laid carefully by, The visitor lazily rose to his feet With the dreariest kind of a sigh, And he said, as the editor sought his address, In his books to discover his due: "I came here to pay—my respects to the press, And to borrow a dollar of you!"

Parmenas Mix.



THE FORLORN ONE

Ah! why those piteous sounds of woe, Lone wanderer of the dreary night? Thy gushing tears in torrents flow, Thy bosom pants in wild affright!

And thou, within whose iron breast Those frowns austere too truly tell, Mild pity, heaven-descended guest, Hath never, never deign'd to dwell.

"That rude, uncivil touch forego," Stern despot of a fleeting hour! Nor "make the angels weep" to know The fond "fantastic tricks" of power!

Know'st thou not "mercy is not strain'd, But droppeth as the gentle dew," And while it blesseth him who gain'd, It blesseth him who gave it, too?

Say, what art thou? and what is he, Pale victim of despair and pain, Whose streaming eyes and bended knee Sue to thee thus—and sue in vain?

Cold callous man!—he scorns to yield, Or aught relax his felon gripe, But answers, "I'm Inspector Field And this here warment's prigg'd your wipe."

Richard Harris Barham.



RURAL RAPTURES

'Tis sweet at dewy eve to rove When softly sighs the western breeze, And wandering 'mid the starlit grove To take a pinch of snuff and sneeze.

'Tis sweet to see in daisied field The flocks and herds their pleasure take; But sweeter are the joys they yield In tender chop and juicy steak.

'Tis sweet to hear the murmurous sound That from the vocal woods doth rise, To mark the pigeons wheeling round, And think how nice they'd be in pies.

When nightingales pour from their throats Their gushing melody, 'tis sweet; Yet sweeter 'tis to catch the notes That issue from Threadneedle Street.

Unknown.



A FRAGMENT

His eye was stern and wild—his cheek was pale and cold as clay; Upon his tightened lip a smile of fearful meaning lay. He mused awhile—but not in doubt—no trace of doubt was there; It was the steady solemn pause of resolute despair. Once more he looked upon the scroll—once more its words he read— Then calmly, with unflinching hand, its folds before him spread. I saw him bare his throat, and seize the blue-cold gleaming steel, And grimly try the tempered edge he was so soon to feel! A sickness crept upon my heart, and dizzy swam my headI could not stir—I could not cry—I felt benumbed and dead; Black icy horrors struck me dumb, and froze my senses o'er; I closed my eyes in utter fear, and strove to think no more.

Again I looked: a fearful change across his face had passed— He seemed to rave—on cheek and lip a flaky foam was cast; He raised on high the glittering blade—then first I found a tongue— "Hold, madman! stay thy frantic deed!" I cried, and forth I sprung; He heard me, but he heeded not; one glance around he gave, And ere I could arrest his hands, he had—begun to shave!

Unknown.



THE BITER BIT

The sun is in the sky, mother, the flowers are springing fair, And the melody of woodland birds is stirring in the air; The river, smiling to the sky, glides onward to the sea, And happiness is everywhere, oh, mother, but with me!

They are going to the church, mother—I hear the marriage bell It booms along the upland—oh! it haunts me like a knell; He leads her on his arm, mother, he cheers her faltering step, And closely to his side she clings—she does, the demirep!

They are crossing by the stile, mother, where we so oft have stood, The stile beside the shady thorn, at the corner of the wood; And the boughs, that wont to murmur back the words that won my ear, Wave their silver branches o'er him, as he leads his bridal fere.

He will pass beside the stream, mother, where first my hand he pressed, By the meadow where, with quivering lip, his passion he confessed; And down the hedgerows where we've strayed again and yet again; But he will not think of me, mother, his broken-hearted Jane!

He said that I was proud, mother, that I looked for rank and gold, He said I did not love him—he said my words were cold; He said I kept him off and on, in hopes of higher game— And it may be that I did, mother; but who hasn't done the same.

I did not know my heart, mother—I know it now too late; I thought that I without a pang could wed some nobler mate; But no nobler suitor sought me—and he has taken wing, And my heart is gone, and I am left a lone and blighted thing.

You may lay me in my bed, mother—my head is throbbing sore; And, mother, prithee, let the sheets be duly aired before; And, if you'd please, my mother dear, your poor desponding child, Draw me a pot of beer, mother, and, mother, draw it mild!

William E. Aytoun.



COMFORT IN AFFLICTION

"Wherefore starts my bosom's lord? Why this anguish in thine eye? Oh, it seems as thy heart's chord Had broken with that sigh!

"Rest thee, my dear lord, I pray, Rest thee on my bosom now! And let me wipe the dews away, Are gathering on thy brow.

"There, again! that fevered start! What, love! husband! is thy pain? There is a sorrow in thy heart, A weight upon thy brain!

"Nay, nay, that sickly smile can ne'er Deceive affection's searching eye; 'Tis a wife's duty, love, to share Her husband's agony.

"Since the dawn began to peep, Have I lain with stifled breath; Heard thee moaning in thy sleep, As thou wert at grips with death.

"Oh, what joy it was to see My gentle lord once more awake! Tell me, what is amiss with thee? Speak, or my heart will break!"

"Mary, thou angel of my life, Thou ever good and kind; 'Tis not, believe me, my dear wife, The anguish of the mind!

"It is not in my bosom, dear, No, nor in my brain, in sooth; But, Mary, oh, I feel it here, Here in my wisdom tooth!

"Then give,—oh, first, best antidote,— Sweet partner of my bed! Give me thy flannel petticoat To wrap around my head!"

William E. Aytoun.



THE HUSBAND'S PETITION

Come hither, my heart's darling, Come, sit upon my knee, And listen, while I whisper, A boon I ask of thee. You need not pull my whiskers So amorously, my dove; 'Tis something quite apart from The gentle cares of love.

I feel a bitter craving— A dark and deep desire, That glows beneath my bosom Like coals of kindled fire. The passion of the nightingale, When singing to the rose, Is feebler than the agony That murders my repose!

Nay, dearest! do not doubt me, Though madly thus I speak— I feel thy arms about me, Thy tresses on my cheek: I know the sweet devotion That links thy heart with mine— I know my soul's emotion Is doubly felt by thine:

And deem not that a shadow Hath fallen across my love: No, sweet, my love is shadowless, As yonder heaven above. These little taper fingers— Ah! Jane, how white they be!— Can well supply the cruel want That almost maddens me.

Thou wilt not sure deny me My first and fond request; I pray thee, by the memory Of all we cherish best— By all the dear remembrance Of those delicious days, When, hand in hand, we wandered Along the summer braes:

By all we felt, unspoken, When 'neath the early moon, We sat beside the rivulet, In the leafy month of June; And by the broken whisper, That fell upon my ear, More sweet than angel-music, When first I woo'd thee, dear!

By that great vow which bound thee Forever to my side, And by the ring that made thee My darling and my bride! Thou wilt not fail nor falter, But bend thee to the task A boiled sheep's head on Sunday Is all the boon I ask.