I have found out a sift for my fair;I know where the fossils abound,Where the footprints ofAvesdeclareThe birds that once walked on the ground;Oh, come, and—in technical speech—We'll walk this Devonian shore,Or on some Silurian beachWe'll wander, my love, evermore.I will show thee the sinuous trackBy the slow-moving annelid made,Or the Trilobite that, farther back,In the old Potsdam sandstone was laid;Thou shalt see, in his Jurassic tomb,The Plesiosaurus embalmed;In his Oolitic prime and his bloom,Iguanodon safe and unharmed!You wished—I remember it well,And I loved you the more for that wish—For a perfect cystedian shell,And awholeholocephalic fish.And oh, if Earth's strata containsIn its lowest Silurian drift,Or palæozoic remainsThe same,—'tis your lover's free gift!Than come, love, and never say nay,But calm all your maidenly fears;We'll note, love, in one summer's dayThe record of millions of years;And though the Darwinian planYour sensitive feelings may shock,We'll find the beginning of man,—Our fossil ancestors, in rock!
I have found out a sift for my fair;I know where the fossils abound,Where the footprints ofAvesdeclareThe birds that once walked on the ground;Oh, come, and—in technical speech—We'll walk this Devonian shore,Or on some Silurian beachWe'll wander, my love, evermore.I will show thee the sinuous trackBy the slow-moving annelid made,Or the Trilobite that, farther back,In the old Potsdam sandstone was laid;Thou shalt see, in his Jurassic tomb,The Plesiosaurus embalmed;In his Oolitic prime and his bloom,Iguanodon safe and unharmed!You wished—I remember it well,And I loved you the more for that wish—For a perfect cystedian shell,And awholeholocephalic fish.And oh, if Earth's strata containsIn its lowest Silurian drift,Or palæozoic remainsThe same,—'tis your lover's free gift!Than come, love, and never say nay,But calm all your maidenly fears;We'll note, love, in one summer's dayThe record of millions of years;And though the Darwinian planYour sensitive feelings may shock,We'll find the beginning of man,—Our fossil ancestors, in rock!
I have found out a sift for my fair;I know where the fossils abound,Where the footprints ofAvesdeclareThe birds that once walked on the ground;Oh, come, and—in technical speech—We'll walk this Devonian shore,Or on some Silurian beachWe'll wander, my love, evermore.
I have found out a sift for my fair;
I know where the fossils abound,
Where the footprints ofAvesdeclare
The birds that once walked on the ground;
Oh, come, and—in technical speech—
We'll walk this Devonian shore,
Or on some Silurian beach
We'll wander, my love, evermore.
I will show thee the sinuous trackBy the slow-moving annelid made,Or the Trilobite that, farther back,In the old Potsdam sandstone was laid;Thou shalt see, in his Jurassic tomb,The Plesiosaurus embalmed;In his Oolitic prime and his bloom,Iguanodon safe and unharmed!
I will show thee the sinuous track
By the slow-moving annelid made,
Or the Trilobite that, farther back,
In the old Potsdam sandstone was laid;
Thou shalt see, in his Jurassic tomb,
The Plesiosaurus embalmed;
In his Oolitic prime and his bloom,
Iguanodon safe and unharmed!
You wished—I remember it well,And I loved you the more for that wish—For a perfect cystedian shell,And awholeholocephalic fish.And oh, if Earth's strata containsIn its lowest Silurian drift,Or palæozoic remainsThe same,—'tis your lover's free gift!
You wished—I remember it well,
And I loved you the more for that wish—
For a perfect cystedian shell,
And awholeholocephalic fish.
And oh, if Earth's strata contains
In its lowest Silurian drift,
Or palæozoic remains
The same,—'tis your lover's free gift!
Than come, love, and never say nay,But calm all your maidenly fears;We'll note, love, in one summer's dayThe record of millions of years;And though the Darwinian planYour sensitive feelings may shock,We'll find the beginning of man,—Our fossil ancestors, in rock!
Than come, love, and never say nay,
But calm all your maidenly fears;
We'll note, love, in one summer's day
The record of millions of years;
And though the Darwinian plan
Your sensitive feelings may shock,
We'll find the beginning of man,—
Our fossil ancestors, in rock!
[Being the only genuine sequel to 'Maud Muller.']
Maud Muller all that summer dayRaked the meadows sweet with hay;Yet, looking down the distant lane,She hoped the judge would come again.But when he came, with smile and bow,Maud only blushed, and stammered, 'Ha-ow?'And spoke of her 'pa,' and wondered whetherHe'd give consent they should wed together.Old Muller burst in tears, and thenBegged that the judge would lend him 'ten';For trade was dull, and wages low,And the 'craps' this year were somewhat slow.And ere the languid summer died,Sweet Maud became the judge's bride.But on the day that they were matedMaud's brother Bob was intoxicated;And Maud's relations, twelve in all,Were very drunk at the judge's hall.And when the summer came again,The young bride bore him babies twain.And the judge was blest, but thought it strangeThat bearing children made such a change:For Maud grew broad and red and stout:And the waist that his arm once clasped aboutWas more than he now could span; and heSighed as he pondered, ruefully,How that which in Maud was native graceIn Mrs. Jenkins was out of place;And thought of the twins, and wished that theyLooked less like the man who raked the hayOn Muller's farm, and dreamed with painOf the day he wandered down the lane,And, looking down that dreary track,He half regretted that he came back.For, had he waited, he might have wedSome maiden fair and thoroughbred;For there be women fair as she,Whose verbs and nouns do more agree.Alas for maiden! alas for judge!And the sentimental,—that's one-half 'fudge';For Maud soon thought the judge a bore,With all his learning and all his lore.And the judge would have bartered Maud's fair faceFor more refinement and social grace.If, of all words of tongue and pen,The saddest are, 'It might have been,'More sad are these we daily see:'It is, but hadn't ought to be.'
Maud Muller all that summer dayRaked the meadows sweet with hay;Yet, looking down the distant lane,She hoped the judge would come again.But when he came, with smile and bow,Maud only blushed, and stammered, 'Ha-ow?'And spoke of her 'pa,' and wondered whetherHe'd give consent they should wed together.Old Muller burst in tears, and thenBegged that the judge would lend him 'ten';For trade was dull, and wages low,And the 'craps' this year were somewhat slow.And ere the languid summer died,Sweet Maud became the judge's bride.But on the day that they were matedMaud's brother Bob was intoxicated;And Maud's relations, twelve in all,Were very drunk at the judge's hall.And when the summer came again,The young bride bore him babies twain.And the judge was blest, but thought it strangeThat bearing children made such a change:For Maud grew broad and red and stout:And the waist that his arm once clasped aboutWas more than he now could span; and heSighed as he pondered, ruefully,How that which in Maud was native graceIn Mrs. Jenkins was out of place;And thought of the twins, and wished that theyLooked less like the man who raked the hayOn Muller's farm, and dreamed with painOf the day he wandered down the lane,And, looking down that dreary track,He half regretted that he came back.For, had he waited, he might have wedSome maiden fair and thoroughbred;For there be women fair as she,Whose verbs and nouns do more agree.Alas for maiden! alas for judge!And the sentimental,—that's one-half 'fudge';For Maud soon thought the judge a bore,With all his learning and all his lore.And the judge would have bartered Maud's fair faceFor more refinement and social grace.If, of all words of tongue and pen,The saddest are, 'It might have been,'More sad are these we daily see:'It is, but hadn't ought to be.'
Maud Muller all that summer dayRaked the meadows sweet with hay;
Maud Muller all that summer day
Raked the meadows sweet with hay;
Yet, looking down the distant lane,She hoped the judge would come again.
Yet, looking down the distant lane,
She hoped the judge would come again.
But when he came, with smile and bow,Maud only blushed, and stammered, 'Ha-ow?'
But when he came, with smile and bow,
Maud only blushed, and stammered, 'Ha-ow?'
And spoke of her 'pa,' and wondered whetherHe'd give consent they should wed together.
And spoke of her 'pa,' and wondered whether
He'd give consent they should wed together.
Old Muller burst in tears, and thenBegged that the judge would lend him 'ten';
Old Muller burst in tears, and then
Begged that the judge would lend him 'ten';
For trade was dull, and wages low,And the 'craps' this year were somewhat slow.
For trade was dull, and wages low,
And the 'craps' this year were somewhat slow.
And ere the languid summer died,Sweet Maud became the judge's bride.
And ere the languid summer died,
Sweet Maud became the judge's bride.
But on the day that they were matedMaud's brother Bob was intoxicated;
But on the day that they were mated
Maud's brother Bob was intoxicated;
And Maud's relations, twelve in all,Were very drunk at the judge's hall.
And Maud's relations, twelve in all,
Were very drunk at the judge's hall.
And when the summer came again,The young bride bore him babies twain.
And when the summer came again,
The young bride bore him babies twain.
And the judge was blest, but thought it strangeThat bearing children made such a change:
And the judge was blest, but thought it strange
That bearing children made such a change:
For Maud grew broad and red and stout:And the waist that his arm once clasped about
For Maud grew broad and red and stout:
And the waist that his arm once clasped about
Was more than he now could span; and heSighed as he pondered, ruefully,
Was more than he now could span; and he
Sighed as he pondered, ruefully,
How that which in Maud was native graceIn Mrs. Jenkins was out of place;
How that which in Maud was native grace
In Mrs. Jenkins was out of place;
And thought of the twins, and wished that theyLooked less like the man who raked the hay
And thought of the twins, and wished that they
Looked less like the man who raked the hay
On Muller's farm, and dreamed with painOf the day he wandered down the lane,
On Muller's farm, and dreamed with pain
Of the day he wandered down the lane,
And, looking down that dreary track,He half regretted that he came back.
And, looking down that dreary track,
He half regretted that he came back.
For, had he waited, he might have wedSome maiden fair and thoroughbred;
For, had he waited, he might have wed
Some maiden fair and thoroughbred;
For there be women fair as she,Whose verbs and nouns do more agree.
For there be women fair as she,
Whose verbs and nouns do more agree.
Alas for maiden! alas for judge!And the sentimental,—that's one-half 'fudge';
Alas for maiden! alas for judge!
And the sentimental,—that's one-half 'fudge';
For Maud soon thought the judge a bore,With all his learning and all his lore.
For Maud soon thought the judge a bore,
With all his learning and all his lore.
And the judge would have bartered Maud's fair faceFor more refinement and social grace.
And the judge would have bartered Maud's fair face
For more refinement and social grace.
If, of all words of tongue and pen,The saddest are, 'It might have been,'
If, of all words of tongue and pen,
The saddest are, 'It might have been,'
More sad are these we daily see:'It is, but hadn't ought to be.'
More sad are these we daily see:
'It is, but hadn't ought to be.'
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 TitanicOf 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 make me resistlessly roll,Till my ten-strikes created a panicIn the realms of the Boreal pole,Till my ten-strikes created a panicWith the monkey atop of his pole.I repeat, I was perfectly sober,But my thoughts they were palsied and sere,—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 sweetmorceauof AuberThat the band oft performed down here,And I mixed the sweet music of AuberWith the Nightingale's music by Shear.And now as the night was senescent,And the star-dials pointed to morn,And car-drivers hinted of morn,At the end of the path a liquescentAnd bibulous lustre was born;'Twas made by the bar-keeper present,Who mixéd a duplicate horn,—His two hands describing a crescentDistinct 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 emu and eagle,And watched the gay monkey on high;Let us drink to the emu 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.O hasten! O let us not linger!O fly,—let us fly,—ere we must!'In terror she cried, letting sink herParasol till it trailed in the dust,—In agony sobbed, letting sink herParasol 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 conquered 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 liquorsMust 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.'
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 TitanicOf 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 make me resistlessly roll,Till my ten-strikes created a panicIn the realms of the Boreal pole,Till my ten-strikes created a panicWith the monkey atop of his pole.I repeat, I was perfectly sober,But my thoughts they were palsied and sere,—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 sweetmorceauof AuberThat the band oft performed down here,And I mixed the sweet music of AuberWith the Nightingale's music by Shear.And now as the night was senescent,And the star-dials pointed to morn,And car-drivers hinted of morn,At the end of the path a liquescentAnd bibulous lustre was born;'Twas made by the bar-keeper present,Who mixéd a duplicate horn,—His two hands describing a crescentDistinct 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 emu and eagle,And watched the gay monkey on high;Let us drink to the emu 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.O hasten! O let us not linger!O fly,—let us fly,—ere we must!'In terror she cried, letting sink herParasol till it trailed in the dust,—In agony sobbed, letting sink herParasol 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 conquered 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 liquorsMust 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.'
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.
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 TitanicOf 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 make me resistlessly roll,Till my ten-strikes created a panicIn the realms of the Boreal pole,Till my ten-strikes created a panicWith the monkey atop of his pole.
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 make 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 sere,—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 sweetmorceauof AuberThat the band oft performed down here,And I mixed the sweet music of AuberWith the Nightingale's music by Shear.
I repeat, I was perfectly sober,
But my thoughts they were palsied and sere,—
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 sweetmorceauof 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 the star-dials pointed to morn,And car-drivers hinted of morn,At the end of the path a liquescentAnd bibulous lustre was born;'Twas made by the bar-keeper present,Who mixéd a duplicate horn,—His two hands describing a crescentDistinct with a duplicate horn.
And now as the night was senescent,
And the 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 mixéd 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 emu and eagle,And watched the gay monkey on high;Let us drink to the emu 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.'
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 emu and eagle,
And watched the gay monkey on high;
Let us drink to the emu 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.O hasten! O let us not linger!O fly,—let us fly,—ere we must!'In terror she cried, letting sink herParasol till it trailed in the dust,—In agony sobbed, letting sink herParasol till it trailed in the dust,—Till it sorrowfully trailed in the dust.
But Mary, uplifting her finger,
Said, 'Sadly this bar I mistrust,—
I fear that this bar does not trust.
O hasten! O let us not linger!
O 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 conquered 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 liquorsMust be paid for ere leaving the room.'
Then I pacified Mary and kissed her,
And tempted her into the room,
And conquered 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.'
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.'