In an ocean, 'way out yonder(As all sapient people know),Is the land of Wonder-Wander,Whither children love to go;It's their playing, romping, swinging,That give great joy to meWhile the Dinkey-Bird goes singingIn the Amfalula-tree!
There the gum-drops grow like cherries,And taffy's thick as peas,—Caramels you pick like berriesWhen, and where, and how you please:Big red sugar-plums are clingingTo the cliffs beside that seaWhere the Dinkey-Bird is singingIn the Amfalula-tree.
So when children shout and scamperAnd make merry all the day,When there's naught to put a damperTo the ardor of their play;When I hear their laughter ringing,Then I'm sure as sure can beThat the Dinkey-Bird is singingIn the Amfalula-tree.
For the Dinkey-Bird's bravurasAnd staccatos are so sweet—His roulades, appogiaturas,And robustos so complete,That the youth of every nation—Be they near or far away—Have especial delectationIn that gladsome roundelay.
Their eyes grow bright and brighter,Their lungs begin to crow,Their hearts get light and lighter,And their cheeks are all aglow;For an echo cometh bringingThe news to all and me.That the Dinkey-Bird is singingIn the Amfalula-tree.
I'm sure you'd like to go thereTo see your feathered friend—And so many goodies grow thereYou would like to comprehend!Speed, little dreams, your wingingTo that land across the seaWhere the Dickey-Bird is singingIn the Amfalula-Tree!
Eugene Field.
Said the Raggedy Man on a hot afternoon,"My!Sakes!What a lot o' mistakesSome little folks makes on the Man in the Moon!But people that's been up to see him like Me,And calls on him frequent and intimutly,Might drop a few hints that would interest youClean!Through!If you wanted 'em to—Some actual facts that might interest you!"
"O the Man in the Moon has a crick in his back;Whee!Whimm!Ain't you sorry for him?And a mole on his nose that is purple and black;And his eyes are so weak that they water and runIf he dares todreameven he looks at the sun,—So he jes' dreams of stars, as the doctors advise—My!Eyes!But isn't he wise—To jes' dream of stars, as the doctors advise?"
"And the Man in the Moon has a boil on his ear—Whee!Whing!What a singular thing!I know! but these facts are authentic, my dear,—There's a boil on his ear; and a corn on his chin,—He calls it a dimple,—but dimples stick in,—Yet it might be a dimple turned over, you know!Whang!Ho!Why certainly so!—It might be a dimple turned over, you know!"
"And the Man in the Moon has a rheumatic knee,Gee!Whizz!What a pity that is!And his toes have worked round where his heels ought to be.So whenever he wants to go North he goes South,And comes back with the porridge crumbs all round his mouth,And he brushes them off with a Japanese fan,Whing!Whann!What a marvellous man!What a very remarkably marvellous man!"
"And the Man in the Moon," sighed the Raggedy Man,"Gits!So!Sullonesome, you know!Up there by himself since creation began!—That when I call on him and then come away,He grabs me and holds me and begs me to stay,—Till—well, if it wasn't forJimmy-cum-Jim,Dadd!Limb!I'd go pardners with him!Jes' jump my bob here and be pardners with him!"
James Whitcomb Riley.
This is the Wild Huntsman that shoots the hares;With the grass-green coat he always wears;With game-bag, powder-horn and gun,He's going out to have some fun.He finds it hard without a pairOf spectacles, to shoot the hare.
He put his spectacles upon his nose, and said,"Now I will shoot the hares and kill them dead."The hare sits snug in leaves and grass,And laughs to see the green man pass.Now as the sun grew very hot,And he a heavy gun had got,He lay down underneath a treeAnd went to sleep as you may see.And, while he slept like any top,The little hare came, hop, hop, hop,—Took gun and spectacles, and thenSoftly on tiptoe went off again.The green man wakes, and sees her placeThe spectacles upon her face.She pointed the gun at the hunter's heart,Who jumped up at once with a start.He cries, and screams, and runs away."Help me, good people, help! I pray."At last he stumbled at the well,Head over ears, and in he fell.The hare stopped short, took aim, and hark!Bang went the gun!—she missed her mark!The poor man's wife was drinking upHer coffee in her coffee-cup;The gun shot cup and saucer through;"Oh dear!" cried she, "what shall I do?"Hiding close by the cottage there,Was the hare's own child, the little hare.When he heard the shot he quickly arose,And while he stood upon his toes,The coffee fell and burned his nose;"Oh dear," he cried, "what burns me so?"And held up the spoon with his little toe.
Dr. Heinrich Hoffman.
Thothmes, who loved a pyramid,And dreamed of wonders that it hid,Took up again one afternoon,His longest staff, his sandal shoon,His evening meal, his pilgrim flask,And set himself at length the task,Scorning the smaller and the small,To climb the highest one of all.
The sun was very hot indeed,Yet Thothmes never slacked his speedUntil upon the topmost stoneHe lightly sat him down aloneTo make himself some pleasant cheerAnd turned to take his flask of beer,For he was weary and athirst.Forth from the neck the stopper burstAnd rudely waked the sleeping dead.In terror guilty Thothmes fledAs rose majestic, wroth and slow,The Pharaoh's Ka of long ago."Help! help!" he cried, "or I am lost!Oh! save me from old Pharaoh's ghost!"
Till, uttering one fearful yell,He stumbled at the base and fellWhere Anubis was at his side,And, by the god of death, he died.
The wife of Thothmes learned his taleFirst from the "Memphis Evening Mail,"And called her son, and told their woe;"Alas!" said she, "I told him so!Oh, think upon these awful thingsAnd mount not on the graves of kings!A pyramid is strange to see,Though only at its base you be."
Anonymous.
Here is cruel Psamtek, see.Such a wicked boy was he!Chased the ibis round about,Plucked its longest feathers out,Stamped upon the sacred scarabLike an unbelieving Arab,Put the dog and cat to pain,Making them to howl again.Only think what he would do—Tease the awful Apis too!Basking by the sacred NileLay the trusting crocodile;Cruel Psamtek crept around him,Laughed to think how he had found him,With his pincers seized his tail,Made the holy one to wail;Till a priest of Isis came,Called the wicked boy by name,Shut him in a pyramid,Where his punishment was hid.—But the crocodile the whileBore the pincers up the Nile—Here the scribe who taught him letters,And respect for all his betters,Gave him many a heavy task,Horrid medicines from a flask,While on bread and water, too,Bitter penance must he do.
The Crocodile is blythe and gay,With friends and family at play,And cries, "O blessed Land of Nile,Where sacred is the crocodile,Where no ill deed unpunished goes,And man himself rewards our foes!"
Anonymous.
I strolled beside the shining sea,I was as lonely as could be;No one to cheer me in my walkBut stones and sand, which cannot talk—Sand and stones and bits of shell,Which never have a thing to tell.
But as I sauntered by the tideI saw a something at my side,A something green, and blue, and pink,And brown, and purple, too, I think.I would not say how large it was;I would not venture that, becauseIt took me rather by surprise,And I have not the best of eyes.
Should you compare it to a cat,I'd say it was as large as that;Or should you ask me if the thingWas smaller than a sparrow's wing,I should be apt to think you knew,And simply answer, "Very true!"
Well, as I looked upon the thing,It murmured, "Please, sir, can I sing?"And then I knew its name at once—It plainly was a Cumberbunce.
You are amazed that I could tellThe creature's name so quickly? Well,I knew it was not a paper-doll,A pencil or a parasol,A tennis-racket or a cheese,And, as it was not one of these,And I am not a perfect dunce—It had to be a Cumberbunce!
With pleading voice and tearful eyeIt seemed as though about to cry.It looked so pitiful and sadIt made me feel extremely bad.My heart was softened to the thingThat asked me if it, please, could sing.Its little hand I longed to shake,But, oh, it had no hand to take!I bent and drew the creature near,And whispered in its pale blue ear,"What! Sing, my Cumberbunce? You can!Sing on, sing loudly, little man!"
The Cumberbunce, without ado,Gazed sadly on the ocean blue,And, lifting up its little head,In tones of awful longing, said:
"Oh, I would sing of mackerel skies,And why the sea is wet,Of jelly-fish and conger-eels,And things that I forget.And I would hum a plaintive tuneOf why the waves are hotAs water boiling on a stove,Excepting that they're not!"
"And I would sing of hooks and eyes,And why the sea is slant,And gayly tips the little ships,Excepting that I can't!I never sang a single song,I never hummed a note.There is in me no melody,No music in my throat."
"So that is why I do not singOf sharks, or whales, or anything!"
I looked in innocent surprise,My wonder showing in my eyes."Then why, O, Cumberbunce," I cried,"Did you come walking at my sideAnd ask me if you, please, might sing,When you could not warble anything?"
"I did not ask permission, sir,I really did not, I aver.You, sir, misunderstood me, quite.I did not ask you if Imight.Had you correctly understood,You'd know I asked you if Icould.So, as I cannot sing a song,Your answer, it is plain, was wrong.The fact I could not sing I knew,But wanted your opinion, too."
A voice came softly o'er the lea."Farewell! my mate is calling me!"
I saw the creature disappear,Its voice, in parting, smote my ear—
"I thought all people understoodThe difference 'twixt 'might' and 'could'!"
Paul West.
Who, or why, or which, orwhat,Is the Ahkond of Swat?
Is he tall or short, or dark or fair?Does he sit on a stool or sofa or chair,or Squat,The Ahkond of Swat?
Is he wise or foolish, young or old?Does he drink his soup and his coffee cold,or Hot,The Ahkond of Swat?
Does he sing or whistle, jabber or talk,And when riding abroad does he gallop or walk,or Trot,The Ahkond of Swat?
Does he wear a turban, a fez or a hat?Does he sleep on a mattress, a bed or a mat,or a Cot,The Ahkond of Swat?
When he writes a copy in round-hand size,Does he cross his t's and finish his i'swith a Dot,The Ahkond of Swat?
Can he write a letter concisely clear,Without a speck or a smudge or smearor Blot,The Ahkond of Swat?
Do his people like him extremely well?Or do they, whenever they can, rebel,or Plot,At the Ahkond of Swat?
If he catches them then, either old or young,Does he have them chopped in pieces or hung,or Shot,The Ahkond of Swat?
Do his people prig in the lanes or park?Or even at times, when days are dark,Garotte?Oh, the Ahkond of Swat?
Does he study the wants of his own dominion?Or doesn't he care for public opiniona Jot,The Ahkond of Swat?
To amuse his mind do his people show himPictures, or any one's last new poem,or What,For the Ahkond of Swat?
At night if he suddenly screams and wakes,Do they bring him only a few small cakes,or a Lot,For the Ahkond of Swat?
Does he live on turnips, tea or tripe,Does he like his shawl to be marked with a stripeor a Dot,The Ahkond of Swat?
Does he like to lie on his back in a boatLike the lady who lived in that isle remote,Shalott.The Ahkond of Swat?
Is he quiet, or always making a fuss?Is his steward a Swiss or a Swede or a Russ,or a Scot,The Ahkond of Swat?
Does he like to sit by the calm blue wave?Or to sleep and snore in a dark green cave,or a Grott,The Ahkond of Swat?
Does he drink small beer from a silver jug?Or a bowl? or a glass? or a cup? or a mug?or a Pot,The Ahkond of Swat?
Does he beat his wife with a gold-topped pipe,When she lets the gooseberries grow too ripe,or Rot,The Ahkond of Swat?
Does he wear a white tie when he dines with his friends,And tie it neat in a bow with ends,or a Knot,The Ahkond of Swat?
Does he like new cream, and hate mince-pies?When he looks at the sun does he wink his eyes,or Not,The Ahkond of Swat?
Does he teach his subjects to roast and bake?Does he sail about on an inland lake,in a Yacht,The Ahkond of Swat?
Some one, or nobody knows I wotWho or which or why or whatIs the Ahkond of Swat!
Edward Lear.
What, what, what,What's the news from Swat?Sad news,Bad news,Comes by the cable ledThrough the Indian Ocean's bed,Through the Persian Gulf, the RedSea and the Med-Iterranean—he's dead;The Ahkoond is dead!
For the Ahkoond I mourn,Who wouldn't?He strove to disregard the message stern,But he Ahkoodn't.Dead, dead, dead;(Sorrow Swats!)Swats wha hae wi' Ahkoond bled,Swats whom he hath often ledOnward to a gory bed,Or to Victory,As the case might be,Sorrow Swats!Tears shed,Tears shed like water,Your great Ahkoond is dead!That Swats the matter!
Mourn, city of Swat!Your great Ahkoond is not,But lain 'mid worms to rot.His mortal part alone, his soul was caught(Because he was a good Ahkoond)Up to the bosom of Mahound.Though earthly walls his frame surround(Forever hallowed be the ground!)And sceptics mock the lowly moundAnd say "He's now of no Ahkoond!"His soul is in the skies—The azure skies that bend above his lovedMetropolis of Swat.He sees with larger, other eyes,Athwart all earthly mysteries—He knows what's Swat.
Let Swat bury the great AhkoondWith a noise of mourning and of lamentation!Let Swat bury the great AhkoondWith the noise of the mourning of the Swattish nation!Fallen is at lengthIts tower of strength,Its sun is dimmed ere it had nooned;Dead lies the great Ahkoond,The great Ahkoond of SwatIs not!
George Thomas Lanigan.
Rival of the Akhoond of Swat
Alas, unhappy land; ill-fated spotKotal—though where or whatOn earth Kotal is, the bard has forgot;Further than this indeed he knoweth not—It borders upon Swat!
When sorrows come, they come not single spies,But in battal-Ions: the gloom that lay on Swat now liesUpon Kotal,On sad Kotal, whose people ululateFor their loved Moolla late.Put away his little turban,And his narghileh embrowned,The lord of Kotal—rural urban—'S gone unto his last Akhoond,'S gone to meet his rival Swattan,'S gone, indeed, but not forgotten.
His rival, but in what?Wherein did the deceased Akhoond of SwatKotal's lamented Moolla late,As it were, emulate?Was it in the tented fieldWith crash of sword on shield,While backward meaner champions reeledAnd loud the tom-tom pealed?Did they barter gash for scarWith the Persian scimetarOr the Afghanistee tulwar,While loud the tom-tom pealed—While loud the tom-tom pealed,And the jim-jam squealed,And champions less well heeledTheir war-horses wheeledAnd fled the presence of these mortal big bugs o'the field?Was Kotal's proud citadel—Bastioned, and demi-luned,Beaten down with shot and shellBy the guns of the Akhoond?Or were wails despairing caught, asThe burghers pale of SwatCried in panic, "Moolla ad Portas"?—Or what?Or made each in the cabinet his markKotalese Gortschakoff, Swattish Bismarck?Did they explain and render hazierThe policies of Central Asia?Did they with speeches from the throne,Wars dynastic,Ententes cordiales,Between Swat and Kotal;Holy alliances,And other appliancesOf statesmen with morals and consciencesplasticCome by much more than their own?Made they mots, as "There to-day areNo more Himalayehs,"Or, if you prefer it, "There to-day areNo more Himalaya"?Oi, said the Akhoond, "Sah,L'État de Swat c'est moi"?Khabu, did there come great fearOn thy Khabuldozed AmeerAli Shere?
Or did the Khan of farKashgarTremble at the menace hotOf the Moolla of Kotal,"I will extirpate thee, palOf my foe the Akhoond of Swat"?Who knowsOf Moolla and Akhoond aught more than I did?Namely, in life they rivals were, or foes,And in their deaths not very much divided?If any one knows it,Let him disclose it!
George Thomas Lanigan.
There was a Russian came over the sea,Just when the war was growing hot;And his name it was Tjalikavakaree-Karindobrolikanahudarot-Shibkadirova-IvarditztovaSanilikDanerikVaragobhot.
A Turk was standing upon the shore—Right where the terrible Russian crossed,And he cried: "Bismillah! I'm Ab-El Kor-Bazarou-Kilgonautosgobross-Getfinpravadi-KligekoladjiGrivinoBlivido-Jenikodosk!"
So they stood like brave men long and well;And they called each other their proper names,Till the lockjaw seized them, and where they fellThey buried them both by the IrdesholmmesKalatalustchukMischtaribusiclup-Bulgari-Dulbary-Sagharimsing.
Anonymous.
Sweet maiden of Passamaquoddy,Shall we seek for communion of soulsWhere the deep Mississippi meanders,Or the distant Saskatchewan rolls?
Ah no,—for in Maine I will find theeA sweetly sequestrated nook,Where the far-winding SkoodoowabskooksisConjoins with the Skoodoowabskook.
There wander two beautiful rivers,With many a winding and crook;The one is the Skoodoowabskooksis,The other—the Skoodoowabskook.
Ah, sweetest of haunts! though unmentionedIn geography, atlas, or book,How fair is the Skoodoowabskooksis,When joining the Skoodoowabskook!
Our cot shall be close by the watersWithin that sequestrated nook—Reflected in SkoodoowabskooksisAnd mirrored in Skoodoowabskook.
You shall sleep to the music of leaflets,By zephyrs in wantonness shook,And dream of the Skoodoowabskooksis,And, perhaps, of the Skoodoowabskook.
When awaked by the hens and the roosters,Each morn, you shall joyously lookOn the junction of SkoodoowabskooksisWith the soft gliding Skoodoowabskook.
Your food shall be fish from the waters,Drawn forth on the point of a hook,From murmuring Skoodoowabskooksis,Or wandering Skoodoowabskook!
You shall quaff the most sparkling of water,Drawn forth from a silvery brookWhich flows to the Skoodoowabskooksis,And then to the Skoodoowabskook!
And you shall preside at the banquet,And I will wait on thee as cook;And we'll talk of the Skoodoowabskooksis,And sing of the Skoodoowabskook!
Let others sing loudly of Saco,Of Quoddy, and Tattamagouche,Of Kennebeccasis, and Quaco,Of Merigonishe, and Buctouche,
Of Nashwaak, and Magaguadavique,Or Memmerimammericook,—There's none like the Skoodoowabskooksis,Excepting the Skoodoowabskook!
Anonymous.
When the day and the night do meeteAnd the houses are even with the streete:And the fire and the water agree,And blinde men have power to see:When the Wolf and the Lambe lie down togither,And the blasted trees will not wither:When the flood and the ebbe run one way,And the Sunne and the Moone are at a stay;When Age and Youth are all one,And the Miller creepes through the Mill-stone:When the Ram butts the Butcher on the head,And the living are buried with the dead.When the Cobler doth worke without his ends,And the Cutpurse and the Hangman are friends:Strange things will then be to see,But I think it will never be!
—1614.
If down his throat a man should chooseIn fun, to jump or slide,He'd scrape his shoes against his teeth,Nor dirt his own inside.But if his teeth were lost and gone,And not a stump to scrape upon,He'd see at once how very patHis tongue lay there by way of mat,And he would wipe his feet onthat!
Edward Cannon.
Werther had a love for CharlotteSuch as words could never utter;Would you know how first he met her?She was cutting bread and butter.
Charlotte was a married lady,And a moral man was Werther,And for all the wealth of Indies,Would do nothing for to hurt her.
So he sigh'd and pined and ogled,And his passion boil'd and bubbled,Till he blew his silly brains out,And no more was by it troubled.
Charlotte, having seen his bodyBorne before her on a shutter,Like a well-conducted person,Went on cutting bread and butter.
W.M. Thackeray.
Lazy-bones, lazy-bones, wake up and peep!The cat's in the cupboard, your mother's asleep.There you sit snoring, forgetting her ills;Who is to give her her Bolus and Pills?Twenty fine Angels must come into town,All for to help you to make your new gown:Dainty aerial Spinsters and Singers;Aren't you ashamed to employ such white fingers?Delicate hands, unaccustom'd to reels,To set 'em working a poor body's wheels?Why they came down is to me all a riddle,And left Hallelujah broke off in the middle:Jove's Court, and the Presence angelical, cut—To eke out the work of a lazy young slut.Angel-duck, Angel-duck, winged and silly,Pouring a watering-pot over a lily,Gardener gratuitous, careless of pelf,Leave her to water her lily herself,Or to neglect it to death if she chuse it:Remember the loss is her own if she lose it.
Charles Lamb.
Americus, as he did wendWith A. J. Mortimer, his chum,The two were greeted by a friend,"And how are you, boys, Hi, Ho, Hum?"
He spread a note so crisp, so neat(Ho, and Hi, and tender Hum),"If you of this a fifth can eatI'll give you the remainder. Come!"
To the tuck-shop three repair,(Ho, and Hum, and pensive Hi),One looks on to see all's fair,Two call out for hot mince-pie.
Thirteen tarts, a few Bath buns(Hi, and Hum, and gorgeous Ho),Lobster cakes (the butter'd ones),All at once they cry, "No go."
Then doth tuck-man smile. "Them there(Ho, and Hi, and futile Hum)Jellies three and sixpence air,Use of spoons an equal sum."
Three are rich. Sweet task 'tis o'er,"Tuckman, you're a brick," they cry,Wildly then shake hands all four(Hum and Ho, the end is Hi).
Jean Ingelow.
Nothing to do but work,Nothing to eat but food,Nothing to wear but clothesTo keep one from going nude.
Nothing to breathe but air,Quick as a flash 'tis gone;Nowhere to fall but off,Nowhere to stand but on.
Nothing to comb but hair,Nowhere to sleep but in bed,Nothing to weep but tears,Nothing to bury but dead.
Nothing to sing but songs,Ah, well, alas! alack!Nowhere to go but out,Nowhere to come but back.
Nothing to see but sights,Nothing to quench but thirst,Nothing to have but what we've got;Thus thro' life we are cursed.
Nothing to strike but a gait;Everything moves that goes.Nothing at all but common senseCan ever withstand these woes.
Ben King.
He killed the noble Mudjokivis.Of the skin he made him mittens,Made them with the fur side inside,Made them with the skin side outside.He, to get the warm side inside,Put the inside skin side outside;He, to get the cold side outside,Put the warm side fur side inside.That's why he put the fur side inside,Why he put the skin side outside,Why he turned them inside outside.
Anonymous.
Said Folly to Wisdom,"Pray, where are we going?"Said Wisdom to Folly,"There's no way of knowing."
Said Folly to Wisdom,"Then what shall we do?"Said Wisdom to Folly,"I thought to ask you."
Tudor Jenks.
Uncle Simon heClum up a treeTo see what he could seeWhen presentleeUncle JimClum up beside of himAnd squatted down by he.
Artemus Ward.
What is the matter with Grandpapa?What can the matter be?He's broken his leg in trying to spellTommy without a T.
D' Arcy W. Thompson.
All bones but yours will rattle when I sayI'm the sea-serpent from America.Mayhap you've heard that I've been round the world;I guess I'm round it now, Mister, twice curled.Of all the monsters through the deep that splash,I'm "number one" to all immortal smash.When I lie down and would my length unroll,There ar'n't half room enough 'twixt pole and pole.In short, I grow so long that I've a notionI must be measured soon for a new ocean.
Planché.
I am a peevish student, I;My star is gone from yonder sky.I think it went so high at firstThat it just went and gone and burst.
Anonymous.
The monkey married the Baboon's sister,Smacked his lips and then he kissed her,He kissed so hard he raised a blister.She set up a yell.The bridesmaid stuck on some court plaster,It stuck so fast it couldn't stick faster,Surely 't was a sad disaster,But it soon got well.
What do you think the bride was dressed in?White gauze veil and a green glass breast-pin,Red kid shoes—she was quite interesting,She was quite a belle.The bridegroom swell'd with a blue shirt collar,Black silk stock that cost a dollar,Large false whiskers the fashion to follow;He cut a monstrous swell.
What do you think they had for supper?Black-eyed peas and bread and butter,Ducks in the duck-house all in a flutter,Pickled oysters too.Chestnuts raw and boil'd and roasted,Apples sliced and onions toasted,Music in the corner posted,Waiting for the cue.
What do you think was the tune they danced to?"The drunken Sailor"—sometimes "Jim Crow,"Tails in the way—and some got pinched, too,'Cause they were too long.What do you think they had for a fiddle?An old Banjo with a hole in the middle,A Tambourine made out of a riddle,And that's the end of my song.
Anonymous.
Mr. Finney had a turnipAnd it grew and it grew,And it grew behind the barn,And that turnip did no harm.
There it grew and it grewTill it could grow no longer;Then his daughter Lizzie picked itAnd put it in the cellar.
There it lay and it layTill it began to rot;And his daughter Susie took itAnd put it in the pot.
And they boiled it and boiled itAs long as they were able,And then his daughters took itAnd put it on the table.
Mr. Finney and his wifeThey sat down to sup;And they ate and they ateAnd they ate that turnip up.
Anonymous..
The Sun, yon glorious orb of day,Ninety-four million miles away,Will keep revolving in its orbitTill heat and motion reabsorb it.
J. Davis.
The Autumn leaves are falling,Are falling here and there.They're falling through the atmosphereAnd also through the air.
Anonymous.
The night was growing oldAs she trudged through snow and sleet;Her nose was long and cold,And her shoes were full of feet.
Anonymous.
How very sad it is to thinkOur poor benighted brotherShould have his head upon one end,His feet upon the other.
Anonymous.
Down through the snow-drifts in the streetWith blustering joy he steers;His rubber boots are full of feetAnd his tippet full of ears.
Eugene Field.
Behold the wonders of the mighty deep,Where crabs and lobsters learn to creep,And little fishes learn to swim,And clumsy sailors tumble in.
Anonymous.
There was a little girl,And she had a little curlRight in the middle of her forehead.When she was goodShe was very, very good,And when she was bad she was horrid.
One day she went upstairs,When her parents, unawares,In the kitchen were occupied with mealsAnd she stood upon her headIn her little trundle-bed,And then began hooraying with her heels.
Her mother heard the noise,And she thought it was the boysA-playing at a combat in the attic;But when she climbed the stair,And found Jemima there,She took and she did spank her most emphatic.
H. W. Longfellow.
The sorry world is sighing now;_La Grippe _is at the door;And many folks are dying nowWho never died before.
Newton Mackintosh.
Mary Jane was a farmer's daughter,Mary Jane did what she oughter.She fell in love—but all in vain;Oh, poor Mary! oh, poor Jane!
Anonymous.
Little Willie, in the best of sashes,Fell in the fire and was burned to ashes.By and by the room grew chilly,But no one liked to poke up Willie.
Col. D. Streamer.
Sam had spirits naught could check,And to-day, at breakfast, heBroke his baby sister's neck,So he sha'n't have jam for tea!
Col. D. Streamer.
Making toast at the fireside,Nurse fell in the grate and died;And, what makes it ten times worse,All the toast was burned with Nurse.
Col. D. Streamer.
In the drinking-well(Which the plumber built her)Aunt Eliza fell,—We must buy a filter.
Col. D. Streamer.
Susan poisoned her grandmother's tea;Grandmamma died in agonee.Susan's papa was greatly vexed,And he said to Susan, "My dear, what next?"
Anonymous.
Baby sat on the window-seat;Mary pushed Baby into the street;Baby's brains were dashed out in the "arey";And mother held up her forefinger at Mary.
Anonymous.
I dined with a friend in the East, one day,Who had no window-sashes;A sunbeam through the window cameAnd burnt his wife to ashes."John, sweep your mistress away," said he,"And bring fresh wine for my friend and me."
Anonymous.
Little Willie hung his sister,She was dead before we missed her."Willie's always up to tricks!Ain't he cute? He's only six!"
Anonymous.
Pity now poor Mary Ames,Blinded by her brother James;Red-hot nails in her eyes he poked,—I never saw Mary more provoked.
Anonymous.
By a Moore-ose Melodist
Oh, ever thus from childhood's hour,I've seen my fondest hopes recede!I never loved a tree or flowerThat didn't trump its partner's lead.
I never nursed a dear gazelle,To glad me with its dappled hide,But when it came to know me well,It fell upon the buttered side.
I never taught a cockatooTo whistle comic songs profound,But, just when "Jolly Dogs" it knew,It failed for ninepence in the pound.
I never reared a walrus cubIn my aquarium to plunge,But, when it learned to love its tub,It placidly threw up the sponge!
I never strove a metaphorTo every bosom home to bringBut—just as it had reached the door—It went and cut a pigeon's wing!
Tom Hood, Jr.
"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.
It's up the spout and Charley WagWith wipes and tickers and what notUntil the squeezer nips your scrag,Booze and the blowens cop the lot.
W. E. Henley.
Blind Thamyris, and blind M. æonides,Pursue the triumph and partake the gale!Drop tears as fast as the Arabian trees,To point a moral or adorn a tale.
Full many a gem of purest ray serene,Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears,Like angels' visits, few and far between,Deck the long vista of departed years.
Man never is, but always to be bless'd;The tenth transmitter of a foolish face,Like Aaron's serpent, swallows up the rest,And makes a sunshine in the shady place.
For man the hermit sigh'd, till woman smiled,To waft a feather or to drown a fly,(In wit a man, simplicity a child,)With silent finger pointing to the sky.
But fools rush in where angels fear to tread,Far out amid the melancholy main;As when a vulture on Imaus bred,Dies of a rose in aromatic pain.
Laman Blanchard.