In moss-prankt dells which the sunbeams flatter(And heaven it knoweth what that may mean;Meaning, however, is no great matter)Where woods are a-tremble with words a-tween;
Thro' God's own heather we wonned together,I and my Willie (O love my love):I need hardly remark it was glorious weather,And flitter-bats wavered alow, above:
Boats were curtseying, rising, bowing,(Boats in that climate are so polite,)And sands were a ribbon of green endowing,And O the sun-dazzle on bark and bight!
Thro' the rare red heather we danced together(O love my Willie,) and smelt for flowers:I must mention again it was glorious weather,Rhymes are so scarce in this world of ours:
By rises that flushed with their purple favors,Thro' becks that brattled o'er grasses sheen,We walked or waded, we two young shavers,Thanking our stars we were both so green.
We journeyed in parallels, I and Willie,In fortunate parallels! Butterflies,Hid in weltering shadows of daffodillyOr marjoram, kept making peacock eyes:
Song-birds darted about, some inkyAs coal, some snowy (I ween) as curds;Or rosy as pinks, or as roses pinky—They reek of no eerie To-come, those birds!
But they skim over bents which the mill-stream washes,Or hang in the lift 'neath a white cloud's hem;They need no parasols, no goloshes;And good Mrs. Trimmer she feedeth them.
Then we thrid God's cowslips (as erst his heather),That endowed the wan grass with their golden blooms;And snapt—(it was perfectly charming weather)—Our fingers at Fate and her goddess-glooms:
And Willie 'gan sing—(Oh, his notes were fluty;Wafts fluttered them out to the white-winged sea)—Something made up of rhymes that have done much duty,Rhymes (better to put it) of "ancientry":
Bowers of flowers encountered showersIn William's carol—(O love my Willie!)Then he bade sorrow borrow from blithe tomorrowI quite forget what—say a daffodilly.
A nest in a hollow, "with buds to follow,"I think occurred next in his nimble strain;And clay that was "kneaden" of course in Eden—A rhyme most novel I do maintain:
Mists, bones, the singer himself, love-stories,And all least furlable things got furled;Not with any design to conceal their glories,But simply and solely to rhyme with world.
O if billows and pillows and hours and flowers,And all the brave rhymes of an elder day,Could be furled together, this genial weather,And carted or carried on wafts away,
Nor ever again trotted out—ah me!How much fewer volumes of verse there'd be.
C.S. Calverley
There is a river clear and fair,'Tis neither broad nor narrow;It winds a little here and there—It winds about like any hare;And then it takes as straight a courseAs on the turnpike road a horse,Or through the air an arrow.
The trees that grow upon the shore,Have grown a hundred years or more;So long there is no knowing.Old Daniel Dobson does not knowWhen first these trees began to grow;But still they grew, and grew, and grew,As if they'd nothing else to do,But ever to be growing.
The impulses of air and skyHave rear'd their stately heads so high,And clothed their boughs with green;Their leaves the dews of evening quaff,—And when the wind blows loud and keen,I've seen the jolly timbers laugh,And shake their sides with merry glee—Wagging their heads in mockery.
Fix'd are their feet in solid earth,Where winds can never blow;But visitings of deeper birthHave reach'd their roots below.For they have gain'd the river's brink,And of the living waters drink.
There's little Will, a five years child—He is my youngest boy:To look on eyes so fair and wild,It is a very joy:—He hath conversed with sun and shower,And dwelt with every idle flower,As fresh and gay as them.He loiters with the briar rose,—The blue-belles are his play-fellows,That dance upon their slender stem.
And I have said, my little Will,Why should not he continue stillA thing of Nature's rearing?A thing beyond the world's control—A living vegetable soul,—No human sorrow fearing.
It were a blessed sight to seeThat child become a Willow-tree,His brother trees among.He'd be four times as tall as me,And live three times as long.
Catharine M. Fanshawe.
You may lift me up in your arms, lad, and turn my face to the sun,For a last look back at the dear old track where the Jubilee cupwas won;And draw your chair to my side, lad—no, thank ye, I feel no pain—For I'm going out with the tide, lad; but I'll tell you the taleagain.
I'm seventy-nine or nearly, and my head it has long turned gray,But it all comes back as clearly as though it was yesterday—The dust, and the bookies shouting around the clerk of the scales,And the clerk of the course, and the nobs in force, and 'Is'Ighness the Pr**ce of W*les.
'Twas a nine-hole thresh to wind'ard (but none of us cared for that),With a straight run home to the service tee, and a finish alongthe flat,"Stiff?" ah, well you may say it! Spot barred, and at five stoneten!But at two and a bisque I'd ha' run the risk; for I was agreenhorn then.
So we stripped to the B. Race signal, the old red swallowtail—There was young Ben Bolt and the Portland Colt, and Aston Villa,and Yale;And W. G., and Steinitz, Leander and The Saint,And the G*rm*n Emp*r*r's Meteor, a-looking as fresh as paint;
John Roberts (scratch), and Safety Match, The Lascar, and LornaDoone,Oom Paul (a bye), and Romany Rye, and me upon Wooden Spoon;And some of us cut for partners, and some of us strung for baulk,And some of us tossed for stations—But there, what use to talk?
Three-quarter-back on the Kingsclere crack was station enough forme,With a fresh jackyarder blowing and the Vicarage goal a-lee!And I leaned and patted her centre-bit and eased the quid in hercheek,With a "Soh my lass!" and a "Woa you brute!"—for she could do allbut speak.
She was geared a thought too high perhaps; she was trained atrifle fine;But she had the grand reach forward! I never saw such a line!Smooth-bored, clean run, from her fiddle head with its dainty earhalf-cock,Hard-bit,pur sang, from her overhang to the heel of her offhind sock.
Sir Robert he walked beside me as I worked her down to the mark;"There's money on this, my lad," said he, "and most of 'em'srunning dark;But ease the sheet if you're bunkered, and pack the scrummagestight,And use your slide at the distance, and we'll drink to your healthto-night!"
But I bent and tightened my stretcher. Said I to myself, said I—"John Jones, this here is the Jubilee Cup, and you have to do ordie."And the words weren't hardly spoken when the umpire shouted"Play!"And we all kicked off from the Gasworks End with a "Yoicks!" and a"Gone Away!"
And at first I thought of nothing, as the clay flew by in lumps,But stuck to the old Ruy Lopez, and wondered who'd call for trumps,And luffed her close to the cushion, and watched each one as itbroke,And in triple file up the Rowley Mile we went like a trail of smoke.
The Lascar made the running but he didn't amount to much,For old Oom Paul was quick on the ball, and headed it back to touch;And the whole first flight led off with the right as The Sainttook up the pace,And drove it clean to the putting green and trumped it there withan ace.
John Roberts had given a miss in baulk, but Villa cleared with apunt;And keeping her service hard and low the Meteor forged to the front;With Romany Rye to windward at dormy and two to play,And Yale close up—but a Jubilee Cup isn't run for every day.
We laid our course for the Warner—I tell you the pace was hot!And again off Tattenham Corner a blanket covered the lot.Check side! Check side! now steer her wide! and barely an inch ofroom,With The Lascar's tail over our lee rail and brushing Leander'sboom.
We were running as strong as ever—eight knots—but it couldn'tlast;For the spray and the bails were flying, the whole field tailingfast;And the Portland Colt had shot his bolt, and Yale was bumped atthe Doves,And The Lascar resigned to Steinitz, stalemated in fifteen moves.
It was bellows to mend with Roberts—starred three for a penaltykick:But he chalked his cue and gave 'em the butt, and Oom Paul markedthe trick—"Offside—No Ball—and at fourteen all! Mark Cock! and two for hisnob!"When W.G. ran clean through his lee and beat him twice with a lob.
He yorked him twice on a crumbling pitch and wiped his eye with abrace,But his guy-rope split with the strain of it and he dropped backout of the race;And I drew a bead on the Meteor's lead, and challenging none toosoon,Bent over and patted her garboard strake, and called upon WoodenSpoon.
She was all of a shiver forward, the spoondrift thick on her flanks,But I'd brought her an easy gambit, and nursed her over the banks;She answered her helm—the darling! and woke up now with a rush,While the Meteor's jock, he sat like a rock—he knew we rode forhis brush!
There was no one else left in it. The Saint was using his whip,And Safety Match, with a lofting catch, was pocketed deep at slip;And young Ben Bolt with his niblick took miss at Leander's lunge,But topped the net with the ricochet, and Steinitz threw up thesponge.
But none of the lot could stop the rot—nay, don't askmeto stop!The villa had called for lemons, Oom Paul had taken his drop,And both were kicking the referee. Poor fellow! he done his best;But, being in doubt, he'd ruled them out—which he always did whenpressed.
So, inch by inch, I tightened the winch, and chucked the sandbagsout—I heard the nursery cannons pop, I heard the bookies shout:"The Meteor wins!" "No, Wooden Spoon!" "Check!" "Vantage!""Leg Before!""Last Lap!" "Pass Nap!" At his saddle-flap I put up the helm andwore.
You may overlap at the saddle-flap, and yet be loo'd on the tape:And it all depends upon changing ends, how a seven-year-old willshape;It was tack and tack to the Lepe and back—a fair ding-dong to theRidge,And he led by his forward canvas yet as we shot 'neath HammersmithBridge.
He led by his forward canvas—he led from his strongest suit—But along we went on a roaring scent, and at Fawley I gained a foot.He fisted off with his jigger, and gave me his wash—too late!Deuce—Vantage—Check! By neck and neck we rounded into thestraight.
I could hear the "Conquering 'Ero" a-crashing on Godfrey's band,And my hopes fell sudden to zero, just there, with the race inhand—In sight of the Turf's Blue Ribbon, in sight of the umpire's tape,As I felt the tack of her spinnaker c-rack! as I heard the steamescape!
Had I lost at that awful juncture my presence of mind? … but no!I leaned and felt for the puncture, and plugged it there with mytoe….Hand over hand by the Members' Stand I lifted and eased her up,Shot—clean and fair—to the crossbar there, and landed theJubilee Cup!
"The odd by a head, and leg before," so the Judge he gave the word:And the umpire shouted "Over!" but I neither spoke nor stirred.They crowded round: for there on the ground I lay in a dead-coldswoon,Pitched neck and crop on the turf atop of my beautiful Wooden Spoon.
Her dewlap tire was punctured, her bearings all red hot;She'd a lolling tongue, and her bowsprit sprung, and her runninggear in a knot;And amid the sobs of her backers, Sir Robert loosened her girthAnd led her away to the knacker's. She had raced her last on earth!
But I mind me well of the tear that fell from the eye of our noblePr*nce,And the things he said as he tucked me in bed—and I 've lainthere ever since;Tho' it all gets mixed up queerly that happened before my spill,—But I draw my thousand yearly: it 'll pay for the doctor's bill.
I'm going out with the tide, lad—you 'll dig me a numble grave,And whiles you will bring your bride, lad, and your sons, if sonsyou have,And there when the dews are weeping, and the echoes murmur"Peace!"And the salt, salt tide comes creeping and covers thepopping-crease;
In the hour when the ducks deposit their eggs with a boasted force,They'll look and whisper "How was it?" and you'll take them overthe course,And your voice will break as you try to speak of the gloriousfirst of June,When the Jubilee Cup, with John Jones up, was won upon Wooden Spoon.
Arthur T. Quiller-Couch.
Lady, I loved you all last year,How honestly and well—Alas! would weary you to hear,And torture me to tell;I raved beneath the midnight sky,I sang beneath the limes—Orlando in my lunacy,And Petrarch in my rhymes.But all is over! When the sunDries up the boundless main,When black is white, false-hearted one,I may be yours again!
When passion's early hopes and fearsAre not derided things;When truth is found in falling tears,Or faith in golden rings;When the dark Fates that rule our wayInstruct me where they hideOne woman that would ne'er betray,One friend that never lied;When summer shines without a cloud,And bliss without a pain;When worth is noticed in a crowd,I may be yours again!
When science pours the light of dayUpon the lords of lands;When Huskisson is heard to sayThat Lethbridge understands;When wrinkles work their way in youth,Or Eldon's in a hurry;When lawyers represent the truth,Or Mr. Sumner Surrey;When aldermen taste eloquenceOr bricklayers champagne;When common law is common sense,I may be yours again!
When learned judges play the beau,Or learned pigs the tabor;When traveller Bankes beats Cicero,Or Mr. Bishop Weber;When sinking funds discharge a debt,Or female hands a bomb;When bankrupts study theGazette,Or collegesTom Thumb;When little fishes learn to speak,Or poets not to feign;When Dr. Geldart construes Greek,I may be yours again!
When Pole and Thornton honor cheques,Or Mr. Const a rogue;When Jericho's in Middlesex,Or minuets in vogue;When Highgate goes to Devonport,Or fashion to Guildhall;When argument is heard at Court,Or Mr. Wynn at all;When Sydney Smith forgets to jest,Or farmers to complain;When kings that are are not the best,I may be yours again!
When peers from telling money shrink,Or monks from telling lies;When hydrogen begins to sink,Or Grecian scrip to rise;When German poets cease to dream,Americans to guess;When Freedom sheds her holy beamOn Negroes, and the Press;When there is any fear of Rome,Or any hope of Spain;When Ireland is a happy home,I may be yours again!
When you can cancel what has been,Or alter what must be,Or bring once more that vanished scene,Those withered joys to me;When you can tune the broken lute,Or deck the blighted wreath,Or rear the garden's richest fruit,Upon a blasted heath;When you can lure the wolf at bayBack to his shattered chain,To-day may then be yesterday—I may be yours again!
W.M. Praed.
When these things following be done to our intent,Then put women in trust and confident.
When nettles in winter bring forth roses red,And all manner of thorn trees bear figs naturally,And geese bear pearls in every mead,And laurel bear cherries abundantly,And oaks bear dates very plenteously,And kisks give of honey superfluence,Then put women in trust and confidence.
When box bear paper in every land and town,And thistles bear berries in every place,And pikes have naturally feathers in their crown,And bulls of the sea sing a good bass,And men be the ships fishes trace,And in women be found no insipience,Then put them in trust and confidence.
When whitings do walk forests to chase harts,And herrings their horns in forests boldly blow,And marmsets mourn in moors and lakes,And gurnards shoot rooks out of a crossbow,And goslings hunt the wolf to overthrow,And sprats bear spears in armes of defence,Then put women in trust and confidence.
When swine be cunning in all points of music,And asses be doctors of every science,And cats do heal men by practising of physic,And buzzards to scripture give any credence,And merchants buy with horn, instead of groats and pence,And pyes be made poets for their eloquence,Then put women in trust and confidence.
When sparrows build churches on a height,And wrens carry sacks unto the mill,And curlews carry timber houses to dight,And fomalls bear butter to market to sell,And woodcocks bear woodknives cranes to kill,And greenfinches to goslings do obedience,Then put women in trust and confidence.
When crows take salmon in woods and parks,And be take with swifts and snails,And camels in the air take swallows and larks,And mice move mountains by wagging of their tails,And shipmen take a ride instead of sails,And when wives to their husbands do no offence,Then put women in trust and confidence.
When antelopes surmount eagles in flight,And swans be swifter than hawks of the tower,And wrens set gos-hawks by force and might,And muskets make verjuice of crabbes sour,And ships sail on dry land, silt give flower,And apes in Westminster give judgment and sentence,Then put women in trust and confidence.
Anonymous.
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 itIf you are anything the wiser at the end!
Now Jack looked up—it was time to sup, and the bucket was yet tofill,And Jack looked round for a space and frowned, then beckoned hissister 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 yourgames!" she cried;"You have made mud-pies of a marvellous size—finger and face areblack,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 yourfinger-nails!The morning path you must tread to your bath—you must wash erethe night descends,And all for the cause of conventional laws and the soapmakers'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 ofthe hill!"
They have trodden the Way of the Mire and Clay, they have toiledand travelled far,They have climbed to the brow of the hill-top now, where thebubbling fountains are,They have taken the bucket and filled it up—yea, filled it up tothe 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 theboasting worth?Now, if you can run as the antelope runs, and if you can turn likea hare,Come, race me, Jill, to the foot of the hill—and prove yourboasting fair!"
"Race? What is a race" (and a mocking face had Jill as she spakethe 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 humbledpride)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 pathwayduly 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 theearth with a crash.Then straight did rise on his wondering eyes the constellationsfair,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 thewager laid—You have fallen down with a broken crown—the half-crown debt ispaid!"
They have taken Jack to the room at the back where the familymedicines 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 toearth,She had felt the sting of a walloping—she hath paid the price ofher 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 auld wife sat at her ivied door,(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)A thing she had frequently done before;And her spectacles lay on her aproned knees.
The piper he piped on the hill-top high,(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)Till the cow said "I die" and the goose asked "Why;"And the dog said nothing, but searched for fleas.
The farmer he strode through the square farmyard;(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)His last brew of ale was a trifle hard,The connection of which with the plot one sees.
The farmer's daughter hath frank blue eyes,(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)She hears the rooks caw in the windy skies,As she sits at her lattice and shells her peas.
The farmer's daughter hath ripe red lips;(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)If you try to approach her, away she skipsOver tables and chairs with apparent ease.
The farmer's daughter hath soft brown hair;(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)And I met with a ballad, I can't say where,Which wholly consisted of lines like these.
She sat with her hands 'neath her dimpled cheeks,(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)And spake not a word. While a lady speaksThere is hope, but she didn't even sneeze.
She sat with her hands 'neath her crimson cheeks;(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)She gave up mending her father's breeks,And let the cat roll in her best chemise.
She sat with her hands 'neath her burning cheeks(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese),And gazed at the piper for thirteen weeks;Then she followed him out o'er the misty leas.
Her sheep followed her as their tails did them(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese),And this song is considered a perfect gem,And as to the meaning, it's what you please.
Charles S. Calverley.
Some like drinkIn a pint pot,Some like to think,Some not.
Strong Dutch cheese,Old Kentucky Rye,Some like these;Not I.
Some like Poe,And others like Scott;Some like Mrs. Stowe,Some not.
Some like to laugh,Some like to cry,Some like to chaff;Not I.
R.L. Stevenson.
Minnie and WinnieSlept in a shell.Sleep, little ladies!And they slept well.
Pink was the shell within,Silver without;Sounds of the great seaWandered about.
Sleep little ladies!Wake not soon!Echo on echoDies to the moon.
Two bright starsPeep'd into the shell,What are they dreaming of?Who can tell?
Started a green linnetOut of the croft;Wake, little ladies,The sun is aloft!
Lord Tennyson.
The Mayor of Scuttleton burned his noseTrying to warm his copper toes;He lost his money and spoiled his willBy signing his name with an icicle quill;He went bareheaded, and held his breath,And frightened his grandame most to death;He loaded a shovel and tried to shoot,And killed the calf in the leg of his boot;
He melted a snowbird and formed the habitOf dancing jigs with a sad Welsh rabbit;He lived on taffy and taxed the town;And read his newspaper upside down;Then he sighed and hung his hat on a feather,And bade the townspeople come together;But the worst of it all was, nobody knewWhat the Mayor of Scuttleton next would do.
Mary Mapes Dodge.
I never saw a Purple Cow,I never hope to see one;But I can tell you, anyhow,I'd rather see than be one.
Ah yes, I wrote the Purple Cow,I'm sorry now I wrote it.But I can tell you anyhow,I'll kill you if you quote it.
Gelett Burgess.
I'd Never Dare to Walk acrossA Bridge I Could Not See;For Quite afraid of Falling off,I fear that I Should Be!
Gelett Burgess.
The Roof it has a Lazy TimeA-lying in the Sun;The Walls they have to Hold Him Up;They do Not Have Much Fun!
Gelett Burgess.
My feet, they haul me Round the House,They Hoist me up the Stairs;I only have to Steer them andThey Ride me Everywheres.
Gelett Burgess.
Alas! my Child, where is the PenThat can do Justice to the Hen?Like Royalty, She goes her way,Laying foundations every day,Though not for Public Buildings, yetFor Custard, Cake and Omelette.
Or if too Old for such a useThey have their Fling at some Abuse,As when to Censure Plays UnfitUpon the Stage they make a Hit,Or at elections Seal the FateOf an Obnoxious Candidate.No wonder, Child, we prize the Hen,Whose Egg is Mightier than the Pen.
Oliver Herford.
The Cow is too well known, I fear,To need an introduction here.If She should vanish from earth's faceIt would be hard to fill her place;For with the Cow would disappearSo much that every one holds Dear.Oh, think of all the Boots and Shoes,Milk Punches, Gladstone Bags and Stews,And Things too numerous to count,Of which, my child, she is the Fount.Let's hope, at least, the Fount may lastUntilourGeneration's past.
Oliver Herford.
Children, behold the Chimpanzee:He sits on the ancestral treeFrom which we sprang in ages gone.I'm glad we sprang: had we held on,We might, for aught that I can say,Be horrid Chimpanzees today.
Oliver Herford.
"Oh, say, what is this fearful, wild,Incorrigible cuss?""Thiscreature(don't say 'cuss,' my child;'Tis slang)—this creature fierce is styledThe Hippopotamus.His curious name derives its sourceFrom two Greek words:hippos—a horse,Potamos—river. See?The river's plain enough, of course;But why they calledthatthing ahorse,That's what is Greek to me."
Oliver Herford.
My child, the Duck-billed PlatypusA sad example sets for us:From him we learn how IndecisionOf character provokes Derision.
This vacillating Thing, you see,Could not decide which he would be,Fish, Flesh or Fowl, and chose all three.The scientists were sorely vexedTo classify him; so perplexedTheir brains, that they, with Rage at bay,Call him a horrid name one day,—A name that baffles, frights and shocks us,Ornithorhynchus Paradoxus.
Oliver Herford.
Ev-er-y child who has the useOf his sen-ses knows a goose.See them un-der-neath the treeGath-er round the goose-girl's knee,While she reads them by the hourFrom the works of Scho-pen-hau-er.
How pa-tient-ly the geese at-tend!But do they re-al-ly com-pre-hendWhat Scho-pen-hau-er's driv-ing at?Oh, not at all; but what of that?Nei-ther do I; nei-ther does she;And, for that mat-ter, nor does he.
Oliver Herford.
Inspired by reading a chorus of spirits in a German play
Oh! tell me have you ever seen a red, long-leg'd Flamingo?Oh! tell me have you ever yet seen him the water in go?
Oh! yes at Bowling-Green I've seen a red long-leg'd Flamingo,Oh! yes at Bowling-Green I've there seen him the water in go.
Oh! tell me did you ever see a bird so funny stand-oWhen forth he from the water comes and gets upon the land-o?
No! in my life I ne'er did see a bird so funny stand-oWhen forth he from the water comes and gets upon the land-o.
He has a leg some three feet long, or near it, so they say, Sir.Stiff upon one alone he stands, t'other he stows away, Sir.
And what an ugly head he's got! I wonder that he'd wear it.But rathermoreI wonder that his long, thin neck can bear it.
And think, this length of neck and legs (no doubt they have theiruses)Are members of a little frame, much smaller than a goose's!
Oh! isn't he a curious bird, that red, long-leg'd Flamingo?A water bird, a gawky bird, a sing'lar bird, by jingo!
Lewis Gaylord Clark.
Speak gently to the herring and kindly to the calf,Be blithesome with the bunny, at barnacles don't laugh!Give nuts unto the monkey, and buns unto the bear,Ne'er hint at currant jelly if you chance to see a hare!Oh, little girls, pray hide your combs when tortoises draw nigh,And never in the hearing of a pigeon whisper Pie!But give the stranded jelly-fish a shove into the sea,—Be always kind to animals wherever you may be!
Oh, make not game of sparrows, nor faces at the ram,And ne'er allude to mint sauce when calling on a lamb.Don't beard the thoughtful oyster, don't dare the cod to crimp,Don't cheat the pike, or ever try to pot the playful shrimp.Tread lightly on the turning worm, don't bruise the butterfly,Don't ridicule the wry-neck, nor sneer at salmon-fry;Oh, ne'er delight to make dogs fight, nor bantams disagree,—Be always kind to animals wherever you may be!
Be lenient with lobsters, and ever kind to crabs,And be not disrespectful to cuttle-fish or dabs;Chase not the Cochin-China, chaff not the ox obese,And babble not of feather-beds in company with geese.Be tender with the tadpole, and let the limpet thrive,Be merciful to mussels, don't skin your eels alive;When talking to a turtle don't mention calipee—Be always kind to animals wherever you may be.
J. Ashby-Sterry.
The lion is the beast to fight,He leaps along the plain,And if you run with all your might,He runs with all his mane.I'm glad I'm not a Hottentot,But if I were, with outward cal-lumI'd either faint upon the spotOr hie me up a leafy pal-lum.
The chamois is the beast to hunt;He's fleeter than the wind,And when the chamois is in front,The hunter is behind.The Tyrolese make famous cheeseAnd hunt the chamois o'er the chaz-zums;I'd choose the former if you please,For precipices give me spaz-zums.
The polar bear will make a rugAlmost as white as snow;But if he gets you in his hug,He rarely lets you go.And Polar ice looks very nice,With all the colors of a pris-sum;But, if you'll follow my advice,Stay home and learn your catechissum.
A.T. Quiller-Couch.
Remembering his taste for bloodYou'd better bait him with a cow;Persuade the brute to chew the cudHer tail suspended from a bough;It thrills the lion through and throughTo hear the milky creature moo.
Having arranged this simple ruse,Yourself you climb a neighboring tree;See to it that the spot you chooseCommands the coming tragedy;Take up a smallish Maxim gun,A search-light, whisky, and a bun.
It's safer, too, to have your bikeStanding immediately below,In case your piece should fail to strike,Or deal an ineffective blow;The Lion moves with perfect grace,But cannot go the scorcher's pace.
Keep open ear for subtle signs;Thus, when the cow profusely moans,That means to say, the Lion dines.The crunching sound, of course, is bones;Silence resumes her ancient reign—This shows the cow is out of pain.
But when a fat and torpid humEscapes the eater's unctuous nose,Turn up the light and let it comeFull on his innocent repose;Then pour your shot between his eyes,And go on pouring till he dies.
Play, even so, discretion's part;Descend with stealth; bring on your gun;Then lay your hand above his heartTo see if he is really done;Don't skin him till you know he's deadOr you may perish in his stead!
Years hence, at home, when talk is tall,You'll set the gun-room wide agape,Describing how with just a smallPea-rifle, going after apeYou met a Lion unaware,And felled him flying through the air.
Owen Seaman.
Be kind and tender to the Frog,And do not call him names,As "Slimy-Skin," or "Polly-wog,"Or likewise, "Uncle James,"Or "Gape-a-grin," or "Toad-gone-wrong,"Or "Billy-Bandy-knees;"The Frog is justly sensitiveTo epithets like these.
No animal will more repayA treatment kind and fair,At least, so lonely people sayWho keep a frog (and, by the way,They are extremely rare).
Hilaire Belloc.
As a friend to the children commend me the yak,You will find it exactly the thing:It will carry and fetch, you can ride on its back,Or lead it about with a string.
A Tartar who dwells on the plains of Thibet(A desolate region of snow)Has for centuries made it a nursery pet,And surely the Tartar should know!
Then tell your papa where the Yak can be got,And if he is awfully rich,He will buy you the creature—or else he will not,(I cannot be positive which).
Hilaire Belloc.
A python I should not advise,It needs a doctor for its eyes,And has the measles yearly.
However, if you feel inclinedTo get one (to improve your mind,And not from fashion merely),
Allow no music near its cage;And when it flies into a rageChastise it most severely.
I had an Aunt in YucatanWho bought a Python from a manAnd kept it for a pet.
She died because she never knewThese simple little rules and few;—The snake is living yet.
Hilaire Belloc.
The Bison is vain, and (I write it with pain)The Door-mat you see on his headIs not, as some learned professors maintain,The opulent growth of a genius' brain;But is sewn on with needle and thread.
Hilaire Belloc.
Be kind to the panther! for when thou wert young,In thy country far over the sea,'Twas a panther ate up thy papa and mamma,And had several mouthfuls of thee!
Be kind to the badger! for who shall decideThe depths of his badgerly soul?And think of the tapir when flashes the lampO'er the fast and the free-flowing bowl.
Be kind to the camel! nor let word of thineEver put up his bactrian back;And cherish the she-kangaroo with her bag,Nor venture to give her the sack.
Be kind to the ostrich! for how canst thou hopeTo have such a stomach as it?And when the proud day of your bridal shall come,Do give the poor birdie a bit.
Be kind to the walrus! nor ever forgetTo have it on Tuesday to tea;But butter the crumpets on only one side,Save such as are eaten by thee.
Be kind to the bison! and let the jackalIn the light of thy love have a share;And coax the ichneumon to grow a new tail,And have lots of larks in its lair.
Be kind to the bustard! that genial bird,And humor its wishes and ways;And when the poor elephant suffers from bile,Then tenderly lace up his stays!
Anonymous.
When the monkey in his madnessTook the glue to mend his voice,'Twas the crawfish showed his sadnessThat the bluebird could rejoice.
Then the perspicacious parrotSought to save the suicideBy administering carrot,But the monkey merely died.
So the crawfish and the parrotSauntered slowly toward the sea,While the bluebird stole the carrotAnd returned the glue to me.
Goldwin Goldsmith.
There was a frog swum in the lake,The crab came crawling by:"Wilt thou," coth the frog, "be my make?"Coth the crab, "No, not I.""My skin is sooth and dappled fine,I can leap far and nigh.Thy shell is hard: so is not mine."Coth the crab, "No, not I.""Tell me," then spake the crab, "therefore,Or else I thee defy:Give me thy claw, I ask no more."Coth the frog, "That will I."The crab bit off the frog's fore-feet;The frog then he must die.To woo a crab it is not meet:If any do, it is not I.
From Christ Church MS., I. 549.
The bloated BiggaboonWas so haughty, he would not reposeIn a house, or a hall, orces choses,But he slept his high sleep in his clothes—'Neath the moon.The bloated BiggaboonPour'd contempt upon waistcoat and skirt,Holding swallow-tails even as dirt—So he puff'd himself out in his shirt,Like a b'loon.
H. Cholmondeley-Pennell.
"Of what are you afraid, my child?" inquired the kindly teacher."Oh, sir! the flowers, they are wild," replied the timid creature.
Peter Newell.
"Now, if the fish will only bite, we'll have some royal fun.""And do fish bite? The horrid things! Indeed, I'll not catch one!"
Peter Newell.
She played upon her music-box a fancy air by chance,And straightway all her polka-dots began a lively dance.
Peter Newell.
"A milkweed, and a buttercup, and cowslip," said sweet Mary,"Are growing in my garden-plot, and this I call my dairy."
Peter Newell.
'Twas after a supper of Norfolk brawnThat into a doze I chanced to drop,And thence awoke in the gray of dawn,In the wonder-land of Turvey Top.
A land so strange I never had seen,And could not choose but look and laugh—A land where the small the great includes,And the whole is less than the half!
A land where the circles were not linesRound central points, as schoolmen show,And the parallels met whenever they chose,And went playing at touch-and-go!
There—except that every round was squareAnd save that all the squares were rounds—No surface had limits anywhere,So they never could beat the bounds.
In their gardens, fruit before blossom came,And the trees diminished as they grew;And you never went out to walk a mile,'Twas the mile that walked to you.
The people there are not tall or short,Heavy or light, or stout or thin,And their lives begin where they should leave off,Or leave off where they should begin.
There childhood, with naught of childish glee,Looks on the world with thoughtful brow;'Tis only the aged who laugh and crow,And cry, "We have done with it now!"
A singular race! what lives they spent!Got up before they went to bed!And never a man said what he meant,Or a woman meant what she said.
They blended colours that will not blend,All hideous contrasts voted sweet;In yellow and red their Quakers dress'd,And considered it rather neat.
They didn't believe in the wise and good,Said the best were worst, the wisest fools;And 'twas only to have their teachers taughtThat they founded national schools.
They read in "books that are no books,"Their classics—chess-boards neatly bound;Those their greatest authors who never wrote,And their deepest the least profound.
Now, such were the folks of that wonder-land,A curious people, as you will own;But are there none of the race abroad,Are no specimens elsewhere known?
Well, I think that he whose views of lifeAre crooked, wrong, perverse, and odd,Who looks upon all with jaundiced eyes—Sees himself and believes it God,
Who sneers at the good, and makes the ill,Curses a world he cannot mend;Who measures life by the rule of wrongAnd abuses its aim and end,
The man who stays when he ought to move,And only goes when he ought to stop—Is strangely like the folk in my dream,And would flourish in Turvey Top.
Anonymous.
I dreamt it! such a funny thing—And now it's taken wing;I s'pose no man before or sinceDreamt such a funny thing?
It had a Dragon; with a tail;A tail both long and slim,And ev'ry day he wagg'd at it—How good it was of him!
And so to him the tailestOf all three-tailed Bashaws,Suggested that for reasonsThe waggling should pause;
And held his tail—which, parting,Reversed that Bashaw, whichReversed that Dragon, who reversedHimself into a ditch.
* * * * *
It had a monkey—in a trap—Suspended by the tail:Oh! but that monkey look'd distress'd,And his countenance was pale.
And he had danced and dangled there;Till he grew very mad:For his tail it was a handsome tailAnd the trap had pinched it—bad.
The trapper sat below, and grinn'd;His victim's wrath wax'd hot:He bit his tail in two—and fell—And killed him on the spot.
* * * * *
It had a pig—a stately pig;With curly tail and quaint:And the Great Mogul had hold of thatTill he was like to faint.
So twenty thousand Chinamen,With three tails each at least,Came up to help the Great Mogul,And took him round the waist.
And so, the tail slipp'd through his hands;And so it came to pass,That twenty thousand ChinamenSat down upon the grass.
* * * * *
It had a Khan—a Tartar Khan—With tail superb, I wis;And that fell graceful down a backWhich was considered his.
Wherefore all sorts of boys that wereAccursed, swung by it;Till he grew savage in his mindAnd vex'd, above a bit:
And so he swept his tail, as oneAwak'ning from a dream;And those abominable onesFlew off into the stream.
Likewise they hobbled up and down,Like many apples there;Till they subsided—and becameAmongst the things that were.
* * * * *
And so it had a moral too,That would be bad to lose;"Whoever takes a Tail in handShould mind his p's and queues."
I dreamt it!—such a funny thing!And now it's taken wing;I s'pose no man before or sinceDreamt such a funny thing?
H. Cholmondeley-Pennell.