The Project Gutenberg eBook ofA Nonsense AnthologyThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: A Nonsense AnthologyCompiler: Carolyn WellsRelease date: November 1, 2005 [eBook #9380]Most recently updated: January 2, 2021Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Robert Prince and PG Distributed Proofreaders*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A NONSENSE ANTHOLOGY ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: A Nonsense AnthologyCompiler: Carolyn WellsRelease date: November 1, 2005 [eBook #9380]Most recently updated: January 2, 2021Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Robert Prince and PG Distributed Proofreaders
Title: A Nonsense Anthology
Compiler: Carolyn Wells
Compiler: Carolyn Wells
Release date: November 1, 2005 [eBook #9380]Most recently updated: January 2, 2021
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Robert Prince and PG Distributed Proofreaders
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A NONSENSE ANTHOLOGY ***
Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Robert Prince and PG Distributed Proofreaders
He must be a fool indeed who cannot at times play the fool; and he who does not enjoy nonsense must be lacking in sense.
A Nonsense Anthology
Collected by Carolyn Wells
1910
INTRODUCTIONJABBERWOCKY Lewis CarrollMORS IABROCHII AnonymousTHE NYUM-NYUM AnonymousUFFIA Harriet R. WhiteSPIRK TROLL-DERISIVE James Whitcomb RileyTHE WHANGO TREE 1840SING FOR THE GARISH EYE W.S. GilbertTHE CRUISE OF THE "P.C." AnonymousTO MARIE AnonymousLUNAR STANZAS Henry Coggswell KnightNONSENSE Anonymous, 1617SONNET FOUND IN A DESERTED MAD HOUSE AnonymousTHE OCEAN WANDERER AnonymousSHE'S ALL MY FANCY PAINTED HIM Lewis CarrollMY RECOLLECTEST THOUGHTS Charles E. CarrylFATHER WILLIAM AnonymousIN THE GLOAMING James C. BaylesBALLAD OF BEDLAM Punch'TIS SWEET TO ROAM AnonymousHYMN TO THE SUNRISE AnonymousTHE MOON IS UP Anonymous'T IS MIDNIGHT AnonymousUPRISING SEE THE FITFUL LARK AnonymousLIKE TO THE THUNDERING TONE Bishop CorbetMY DREAM AnonymousMY HOME AnonymousIN IMMEMORIAM Cuthbert BedeTHE HIGHER PANTHEISM IN A NUTSHELL A. C. SwinburneDARWINITY Herman MerivaleSONG OF THE SCREW AnonymousMOORLANDS OF THE NOT AnonymousMETAPHYSICS Oliver HerfordABSTROSOPHY Gelett BurgessABSTEMIA Gelett BurgessPSYCHOLOPHON Gelett BurgessTIMON OF ARCHIMEDES Charles Battell LoomisALONE AnonymousLINES BY A MEDIUM AnonymousTRANSCENDENTALISM From the Times of IndiaINDIFFERENCE AnonymousQUATRAIN AnonymousCOSSIMBAZAR Henry S. LeighTHE PERSONIFIED SENTIMENTAL Bret HarteA CLASSIC ODE Charles Battell LoomisWHERE AVALANCHES WAIL AnonymousBLUE MOONSHINE Francis G. StokesNONSENSE Thomas MooreSUPERIOR NONSENSE VERSES AnonymousWHEN MOONLIKE ORE THE HAZURE SEAS W.M. ThackerayLINES BY A PERSON OF QUALITY Alexander PopeFRANGIPANNI AnonymousLINES BY A FOND LOVER AnonymousFORCING A WAY AnonymousTHY HEART AnonymousA LOVE-SONG BY A LUNATIC AnonymousTHE PARTERRE E.H. PalmerTO MOLLIDUSTA PlanchéJOHN JONES A.C. SwinburneTHE OWL AND THE PUSSYCAT Edward LearA BALLADE OF THE NURSERIE John TwigA BALLAD OF HIGH ENDEAVOR AnonymousTHE LUGUBRIOUS WHINGWHANG James Whitcomb RileyOH! WEARY MOTHER Barry PainSWISS AIR Bret HarteTHE BULBUL Owen SeamanBALLAD AnonymousOH, MY GERALDINE F.C. BurnandBUZ, QUOTH THE BLUE FLY Ben JonsonA SONG ON KING WILLIAM III AnonymousTHERE WAS A MONKEY Anonymous, 1626THE GUINEA PIG AnonymousTHREE CHILDREN London, 1662IF AnonymousA RIDDLE AnonymousTHREE JOVIAL HUNTSMEN AnonymousTHREE ACRES OF LAND AnonymousMASTER AND MAN AnonymousHYDER IDDLE AnonymousKING ARTHUR AnonymousIN THE DUMPS AnonymousTWEEDLE-DUM AND TWEE-DLE-DEE AnonymousMARTIN TO HIS MAN From DeuteromeliaTHE YONGHY-BONGHY-BO Edward LearTHE POBBLE WHO HAS NO TOES Edward LearTHE JUMBLIES Edward LearINCIDENTS IN THE LIFE OF MY UNCLE ARLYEdward LearLINES TO A YOUNG LADY Edward LearWAYS AND MEANS Lewis CarrollTHE WALRUS AND THE CARPENTER Lewis CarrollTHE HUNTING OF THE SNARK Lewis CarrollSYLVIE AND BRUNO Lewis CarrollGENTLE ALICE BROWN W.S. GilbertTHE STORY OF PRINCE AGIB W.S. GilbertFERDINANDO AND ELVIRA, OR THE GENTLE PIEMANW.S. GilbertGENERAL JOHN W. S. GilbertLITTLE BILLEE W. M. ThackerayTHE WRECK OF THE "JULIE PLANTE" William H. DrummondTHE SHIPWRECK E. H. PalmerA SAILOR'S YARN J. J. RocheTHE WALLOPING WINDOW-BLIND Charles E. CarrylTHE ROLLICKING MASTODON Arthur MacyTHE SILVER QUESTION Oliver HerfordTHE SINGULAR SANGFROID OF BABY BUNTINGGuy Wetmore CarrylFAITHLESS NELLY GRAY Thomas HoodTHE ELDERLY GENTLEMAN George CanningMALUM OPUS James Appleton MorganÆSTIVATION O. W. HolmesA HOLIDAY TASK Gilbert Abbott à BecketPUER EX JERSEY AnonymousTHE LITTLE PEACH AnonymousMONSIEUR McGINTÉ AnonymousYE LAYE OF YE WOODPECKORE Henry A. BeersCOLLUSION BETWEEN A ALEGAITER AND A WATER-SNAIKJ. W. MorrisODD TO A KROKIS AnonymousSOME VERSES TO SNAIX AnonymousA GREAT MAN Oliver GoldsmithAN ELEGY Oliver GoldsmithPARSON GRAY Oliver GoldsmithAN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG Oliver GoldsmithTHE WONDERFUL OLD MAN AnonymousA CHRONICLE AnonymousON THE OXFORD CARRIER John MiltonNEPHELIDIA A. C. SwinburneMARTIN LUTHER AT POTSDAM Barry PainCOMPANIONS C. S. CalverleyTHE COCK AND THE BULL C. S. CalverleyLOVERS AND A REFLECTION C. S. CalverleyAN IMITATION OF WORDSWORTH Catharine M. Fanshawe.THE FAMOUS BALLAD OF THE JUBILEE CUP Arthur T. Quiller-CouchA SONG OF IMPOSSIBILITIES W. M. PraedTRUST IN WOMEN AnonymousHERE IS THE TALE Anthony C. DeaneTHE AULD WIFE C. S. CalverleyNOT I R. L. StevensonMINNIE AND WINNIE Lord TennysonTHE MAYOR OF SCUTTLETON Mary Mapes DodgeTHE PURPLE COW Gelett BurgessTHE INVISIBLE BRIDGE Gelett BurgessTHE LAZY ROOF Gelett BurgessMY FEET Gelett BurgessTHE HEN Oliver HerfordTHE COW Oliver HerfordTHE CHIMPANZEE Oliver HerfordTHE HIPPOPOTAMUS Oliver HerfordTHE PLATYPUS Oliver HerfordSOME GEESE Oliver HerfordTHE FLAMINGO Lewis Gaylord ClarkKINDNESS TO ANIMALS J. Ashby-SterrySAGE COUNSEL A. T. Quiller-CouchOF BAITING THE LION Owen SeamanTHE FROG Hilaire BellocTHE YAK Hilaire BellocTHE PYTHON Hilaire BellocTHE BISON Hilaire BellocTHE PANTHER AnonymousTHE MONKEY'S GLUE Goldwin GoldsmithTHERE WAS A FROG Christ Church MS.THE BLOATED BIGGABOON H. Cholmondeley-PennellWILD FLOWERS Peter NewellTIMID HORTENSE Peter NewellHER POLKA DOTS Peter NewellHER DAIRY Peter NewellTURVEY TOP AnonymousWHAT THE PRINCE OF I DREAMT H. Cholmondeley-PennellTHE DINKEY-BIRD Eugene FieldTHE MAN IN THE MOON James Whitcomb RileyTHE STORY OF THE WILD HUNTSMAN Dr. Heinrich HoffmanTHE STORY OF PYRAMID THOTHMES AnonymousTHE STORY OF CRUEL PSAMTEK AnonymousTHE CUMBERBUNCE Paul WestTHE AHKOND OF SWAT Edward LearA THRENODY George Thomas LaniganDIRGE OF THE MOOLLA OF KOTAL George Thomas LaniganRUSSIAN AND TURK AnonymousLINES TO MISS FLORENCE HUNTINGDON AnonymousCOBBE'S PROPHECIES 1614AN UNSUSPECTED FACT Edward CannonTHE SORROWS OF WERTHER W. M. ThackerayNONSENSE VERSES Charles LambTHE NOBLE TUCK-MAN Jean IngelowTHE PESSIMIST Ben KingTHE MODERN HIAWATHA AnonymousON THE ROAD Tudor JenksUNCLE SIMON AND UNCLE JIM Artemus WardPOOR DEAR GRANDPAPA D'Arcy W. ThompsonTHE SEA-SERPENT PlancheMELANCHOLIA AnonymousTHE MONKEY'S WEDDING AnonymousMR. FINNEY'S TURNIP AnonymousTHE SUN J. DavisTHE AUTUMN LEAVES AnonymousIN THE NIGHT AnonymousPOOR BROTHER AnonymousTHE BOY Eugene FieldTHE SEA AnonymousTHERE WAS A LITTLE GIRL H. W. LongfellowFIN DE SIÈCLE Newton MackintoshMARY JANE AnonymousTENDER-HEARTEDNESS Col. D. StreamerIMPETUOUS SAMUEL Col. D. StreamerMISFORTUNES NEVER COME SINGLY Col. D. StreamerAUNT ELIZA Col. D. StreamerSUSAN AnonymousBABY AND MARY AnonymousTHE SUNBEAM AnonymousLITTLE WILLIE AnonymousMARY AMES AnonymousMUDDLED METAPHORS Tom Hood, Jr.VILLON'S STRAIGHT TIP TO ALL CROSS COVESW. E. HenleyODE TO THE HUMAN HEART Laman BlanchardLIMERICKS Edward LearAnonymousCosmo MonkhouseWalter ParkeGeorge du MaurierRobert J. BurdetteGelett BurgessBruce PorterNewton MackintoshAnonymousAnonymousAnonymous
On a topographical map of Literature Nonsense would be represented by a small and sparsely settled country, neglected by the average tourist, but affording keen delight to the few enlightened travellers who sojourn within its borders. It is a field which has been neglected by anthologists and essayists; one of its few serious recognitions being in a certain "Treatise of Figurative Language," which says: "Nonsense; shall we dignify that with a place on our list? Assuredly will vote for doing so every one who hath at all duly noticed what admirable and wise uses it can be, and often is, put to, though never before in rhetoric has it been so highly honored. How deeply does clever or quaint nonsense abide in the memory, and for how many a decade—from earliest youth to age's most venerable years."
And yet Hazlitt's "Studies in Jocular Literature" mentions six divisions of the Jest, and omits Nonsense!
Perhaps, partly because of such neglect, the work of the best nonsense writers is less widely known than it might be.
But a more probable reason is that the majority of the reading world does not appreciate or enjoy real nonsense, and this, again, is consequent upon their inability to discriminate between nonsense of integral merit and simple chaff.
A jest's prosperity lies in the earOf him that hears it. Never in the tongueOf him that makes it,
and a sense of nonsense is as distinct a part of our mentality as a sense of humor, being by no means identical therewith.
It is a fad at present for a man to relate a nonsensical story, and then, if his hearer does not laugh, say gravely: "You have no sense of humor. That is a test story, and only a true humorist laughs at it." Now, the hearer may have an exquisite sense of humor, but he may be lacking in a sense of nonsense, and so the story gives him no pleasure. De Quincey said, "None but a man of extraordinary talent can write first-rate nonsense." Only a short study of the subject is required to convince us that De Quincey was right; and he might have added, none but a man of extraordinary taste can appreciate first-rate nonsense. As an instance of this, we may remember that Edward Lear, "the parent of modern nonsense-writers," was a talented author and artist, and a prime favorite of such men as Tennyson and the Earls of Derby; and John Ruskin placed Lear's name at the head of his list of the best hundred authors.
"Don't tell me," said William Pitt, "of a man's being able to talk sense; every one can talk sense. Can he talk nonsense?"
The sense of nonsense enables us not only to discern pure nonsense, but to consider intelligently nonsense of various degrees of purity. Absence of sense is not necessarily nonsense, any more than absence of justice is injustice.
Etymologically speaking, nonsense may be either words without meaning, or words conveying absurd or ridiculous ideas. It is the second definition which expresses the great mass of nonsense literature, but there is a small proportion of written nonsense which comes under the head of language without meaning.
Again, there are verses composed entirely of meaningless words, which are not nonsense literature, because they are written with some other intent.
The nursery rhyme, of which there are almost as many versions as there are nurseries,
Eena, meena, mona, mi,Bassalona, bona, stri,Hare, ware, frown, whack,Halico balico, we, wi, we, wack,
is not strictly a nonsense verse, because it was invented and used for "counting out," and the arbitrary words simply take the place of the numbers 1, 2, 3, etc.
Also, the nonsense verses with which students of Latin composition are sometimes taught to begin their efforts, where words are used with no relative meaning, simply to familiarize the pupil with the mechanical values of quantity and metre, are not nonsense. It is only nonsense for nonsense' sake that is now under our consideration.
Doubtless the best and best-known example of versified words without meaning is "Jabberwocky." Although (notwithstanding Lewis Carroll's explanations) the coined words are absolutely without meaning, the rhythm is perfect and the poetic quality decidedly apparent, and the poem appeals to the nonsense lover as a work of pure genius. Bayard Taylor is said to have recited "Jabberwocky" aloud for his own delectation until he was forced to stop by uncontrollable laughter. To us who know ourAliceit would seem unnecessary to quote this poem, but it is a fact that among the general reading community the appreciators of Lewis Carroll are surprisingly few. An editor of a leading literary review, when asked recently if he had read "Alice in Wonderland," replied, "No, but I mean to. It is by the author of 'As in a looking-Glass,' is it not?"
But of far greater interest and merit than nonsense of words, is nonsense of ideas. Here, again, we distinguish between nonsense and no sense. Ideas conveying no sense are often intensely funny, and this type is seen in some of the best of our nonsense literature.
A perfect specimen is the bit of evidence read by the White Rabbit at the Trial of the Knave of Hearts.[1] One charm of these verses is the serious air of legal directness which pervades their ambiguity, and another is the precision with which the metrical accent coincides exactly with the natural emphasis. They are marked, too, by the liquid euphony that always distinguishes Lewis Carroll's poetry.
A different type is found in verses that refer to objects in terms the opposite of true, thereby suggesting ludicrous incongruity, and there is also the nonsense verse that uses word effects which have been confiscated by the poets and tacitly given over to them.
A refrain of nonsense words is a favorite diversion of many otherwise serious poets.
With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,
is one of Shakespeare's many musical nonsense refrains.
[Footnote 1: "She's all my Fancy painted him," page 20.]
Burns gives us:
Ken ye aught o' Captain Grose?Igo and ago,If he's 'mang his freens or foes?Iram, coram, dago.Is he slain by Highlan' bodies?Igo and ago;And eaten like a weather haggis?Iram, coram, dago.
Another very old refrain runs thus:
Forum, corum, sunt di-vorum,Harum, scarum, divo;Tag-rag, merry-derry, periwig and hat-band,Hic, hoc, horum, genitivo.
An old ballad written before the Reformation has for a refrain:
Sing go trix,Trim go trix,Under the greenwood tree.
While a celebrated political ballad is known by its nonsense chorus,
Lilliburlero bullin a-la.
Mother Goose rhymes abound in these nonsense refrains, and they are often fine examples of onomatopoeia.
By far the most meritorious and most interesting kind of nonsense is that which embodies an absurd or ridiculous idea, and treats it with elaborate seriousness. The greatest masters of this art are undoubtedly Edward Lear and Lewis Carroll. These Englishmen were men of genius, deep thinkers, and hard workers.
Lear was an artist draughtsman, his subjects being mainly ornithological and zoological. Lewis Carroll (Charles L. Dodgson) was an expert in mathematics and a lecturer on that science in Christ Church, Oxford.
Both these men numbered among their friends many of the greatest Englishmen of the day. Tennyson was a warm friend and admirer of each, as was also John Ruskin.
Lear's first nonsense verses, published in 1846, are written in the form of the well-known stanza beginning:
There was an old man of Tobago.
This type of stanza, known as the "Limerick," is said by a gentleman who speaks with authority to have flourished in the reign of William IV. This is one of several he remembers as current at his public school in 1834:
There was a young man at St. KittsWho was very much troubled with fits;The eclipse of the moonThrew him into a swoon,When he tumbled and broke into bits.
Lear distinctly asserts that this form of verse was not invented by him, but was suggested by a friend as a useful model for amusing rhymes. It proved so in his case, for he published no less than two hundred and twelve of these "Limericks."
In regard to his verses, Lear asserted that "nonsense, pure and absolute," was his aim throughout; and remarked, further, that to have been the means of administering innocent mirth to thousands was surely a just excuse for satisfaction. He pursued his aim with scrupulous consistency, and his absurd conceits are fantastic and ridiculous, but never cheaply or vulgarly funny.
Twenty-five years after his first book came out, Lear published other books of nonsense verse and prose, with pictures which are irresistibly mirth-provoking. Lear's nonsense songs, while retaining all the ludicrous merriment of his Limericks, have an added quality of poetic harmony. They are distinctlysingable, and many of them have been set to music by talented composers. Perhaps the best-known songs are "The Owl and the Pussy-Cat" and "The Daddy-Long-Legs and the Fly."
Lear himself composed airs for "The Pelican Chorus" and "The Yonghy-Bonghy Bo," which were arranged for the piano by Professor Pomè, of San Remo, Italy.
Although like Lear's in some respects, Lewis Carroll's nonsense is perhaps of a more refined type. There is less of the grotesque and more poetic imagery. But though Carroll was more of a poet than Lear, both had the true sense of nonsense. Both assumed the most absurd conditions, and proceeded to detail their consequences with a simple seriousness that convulses appreciative readers, and we find ourselves uncertain whether it is the manner or the matter that is more amusing.
Lewis Carroll was a man of intellect and education; his funniest sayings are often based on profound knowledge or deep thought. Like Lear, he never spoiled his quaint fancies by over-exaggerating their quaintness or their fancifulness, and his ridiculous plots are as carefully conceived, constructed, and elaborated as though they embodied the soundest facts. No funny detail is ever allowed to becometoofunny; and it is in this judicious economy of extravagance that his genius is shown. As he remarks in one of his own poems:
Then, fourthly, there are epithetsThat suit with any word—As well as Harvey's Reading SauceWith fish, or flesh, or bird.Such epithets, like pepper,Give zest to what you write;And, if you strew them sparely,They whet the appetite;But if you lay them on too thick,You spoil the matter quite!
Both Lear and Carroll suffered from the undiscerning critics who persisted in seeing in their nonsense a hidden meaning, a cynical, political, or other intent, veiled under the apparent foolery. Lear takes occasion to deny this in the preface to one of his books, and asserts not only that his rhymes and pictures have no symbolical meaning, but that he "took more care than might be supposed to make the subjects incapable of such misinterpretation."
Likewise, "Jabberwocky" was declared by one critic to be a translation from the German, and by others its originality was doubted. The truth is, that it was written by Lewis Carroll at an evening party; it was quite impromptu, and no ulterior meaning was intended. "The Hunting of the Snark" was also regarded by some as an allegory, or, perhaps, a burlesque on a celebrated case, in which theSnarkwas used as a personification of popularity, but Lewis Carroll protested that the poem had no meaning at all.
A favorite trick of the Nonsensists is the coining of words to suit their needs, and Lear and Carroll are especially happy in their inventions of this kind.
Lear gives us such gems as scroobious, meloobious, ombliferous, borascible, slobaciously, himmeltanious, flumpetty, and mumbian; while the best of Lewis Carroll's coined words are those found in "Jabberwocky."
Another of the great Nonsensists is W. S. Gilbert. Unlike Lear or Carroll, his work is not characterized by absurd words or phrases; he prefers a still wider scope, and invents a ridiculous plot. The "Bab Ballads," as well as Mr. Gilbert's comic opera librettos, hinge upon schemes of ludicrous impossibility, which are treated as the most natural proceedings in the world. The best known of the "Bab Ballads" is no doubt "The Yarn of the 'Nancy Bell,'" which was long since set to music and is still a popular song. In addition to his talent for nonsense, Mr. Gilbert possesses a wonderful rhyming facility, and juggles cleverly with difficult and unusual metres.
In regard to his "Bab Ballads," Mr. Gilbert gravely says that "they are not, as a rule, founded on fact," and, remembering their gory and often cannibalistic tendencies, we are grateful for this assurance. An instance of Gilbert's appreciation of other people's nonsense is his parody of Lear's verse:
There was an old man in a treeWho was horribly bored by a bee;When they said, "Does it buzz?"He replied, "Yes, it does!It's a regular brute of a bee!"
The parody attributed to Gilbert is called "A Nonsense Rhyme inBlank Verse":
There was an old man of St. Bees,Who was stung in the arm by a wasp;When they asked, "Does it hurt?"He replied, "No, it doesn't,But I thought all the while 'twas a Hornet!"
Thackeray wrote spirited nonsense, but much of it had an under-meaning, political or otherwise, which bars it from the field of sheer nonsense.
The sense of nonsense is no respecter of persons; even staid old Dr. Johnson possessed it, though his nonsense verses are marked by credible fact and irrefutable logic. Witness these two examples:
As with my hat upon my headI walked along the Strand,I there did meet another manWith his hat in his hand.
The tender infant, meek and mild,Fell down upon the stone;The nurse took up the squealing child,But still the child squealed on.
The Doctor is also responsible for
If a man who turnips cries,Cry not when his father dies,'Tis a proof that he would ratherHave a turnip than a father.
And indeed, among our best writers there are few who have not dropped into nonsense or semi-nonsense at one time or another.
A familiar bit of nonsense prose is by S. Foote, and it is said thatCharles Macklin used to recite it with great gusto:
"She went into the garden to cut a cabbage-leaf to makean apple-pie, and at the same time a great she-bear comingup the street, pops its head into the shop. 'What, nosoap?' so he died. She imprudently married the barber,and there were present the Pickaninnies, the Joblilies, theGayrulies, and the Grand Panjandrum himself with the littleround button on top, and they all fell to playingcatch-as-catch-cantill the gunpowder ran out at the heels of theirboots."
[Transcriber's note: The above paragraph is not an excerpt from a longer work, but is complete as it stands.]
An old nonsense verse attributed to an Oxford student, is the well known:
A centipede was happy quite,Until a frog in funSaid, "Pray, which leg comes after which?"This raised her mind to such a pitch,She lay distracted in the ditchConsidering how to run.
So far as we know, Kipling has never printed anything which can be called nonsense verse, but it is doubtless only a question of time when that branch shall be added to his versatility. His "Just So" stories are capital nonsense prose, and the following rhyme proves him guilty of at least one Limerick:
There was a small boy of Quebec,Who was buried in snow to his neck;When they said, "Are you friz?"He replied, "Yes, I is—But we don't call this cold in Quebec."
Among living authors, one who has written a great amount of good nonsense is Mr. Gelett Burgess, late editor ofThe Lark.
According to Mr. Burgess' own statement, the test of nonsense is its quotability, and his work stands this test admirably, for what absurd rhyme ever attained such popularity as his "Purple Cow"? This was first printed inThe Lark, a paper published in San Francisco for two years, the only periodical of any merit that has ever made intelligent nonsense its special feature.
Another of the most talented nonsense writers of to-day is Mr. Oliver Herford. It is a pity, however, to reproduce his verse without his illustrations, for as nonsense these are as admirable as the text. But the greater part of Mr. Herford's work belongs to the realm of pure fancy, and though of a whimsical delicacy often equal to Lewis Carroll's, it is rarely sheer nonsense.
As a proof that good nonsense is by no means an easy achievement, attention is called to a recent competition inaugurated by the LondonAcademy.
Nonsense rhymes similar to those quoted fromThe Larkwere asked for, and though many were received, it is stated that no brilliant results were among them.
The prize was awarded to this weak and uninteresting specimen:
"If half the road was made of jam,The other half of bread,How very nice my walks would be,"The greedy infant said.
These two were also offered by competitors:
I love to stand upon my headAnd think of things sublimeUntil my mother interruptsAnd says it's dinner-time.
A lobster wooed a lady crab,And kissed her lovely face."Upon my sole," the crabbess cried,"I wish you'd mind your plaice!"
Let us, then, give Nonsense its place among the divisions of Humor, and though we cannot reduce it to an exact science, let us acknowledge it as a fine art.
'Twas brillig, and the slithy tovesDid gyre and gimble in the wabe;All mimsy were the borogoves,And the mome raths outgrabe.
"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!Beware the Jubjub bird, and shunThe frumious Bandersnatch!"
He took his vorpal sword in hand:Long time the manxome foe he sought.So rested he by the Tumtum tree,And stood awhile in thought.
And as in uffish thought he stood,The Jabberwock with eyes of flame,Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,And burbled as it came!
One, two! One, two! And through, and throughThe vorpal blade went snicker-snack!He left it dead, and with its headHe went galumphing back.
"And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?Come to my arms, my beamish boy!Oh, frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!"He chortled in his joy.
'T was brillig, and the slithy tovesDid gyre and gimble in the wabe;All mimsy were the borogovesAnd the mome raths outgrabe.
Lewis Carroll.
Coesper[1] erat: tunc lubriciles[2] ultravia circumUrgebant gyros gimbiculosque tophi;Moestenui visae borogovides ire meatu;Et profugi gemitus exgrabuêre rathae.
O fuge Iabrochium, sanguis meus![3] Ille recurvisUnguibus, estque avidis dentibus ille minax.Ububae fuge cautus avis vim, gnate! Neque unquamFaederpax contra te frumiosus eat!
Vorpali gladio juvenis succingitur: hostisManxumus ad medium quaeritur usque diem:Jamque viâ fesso, sed plurima mente prementi,Tumtumiae frondis suaserat umbra moram.
Consilia interdum stetit egnia[4] mene revolvens;At gravis in densa fronde susuffrus[5] erat,Spiculaque[6] ex oculis jacientis flammea, tulseamPer silvam venit burbur[7] labrochii!
Vorpali, semel atque iterum collectus in ictum,Persnicuit gladis persnacuitque puer:Deinde galumphatus, spernens informe Cadaver,Horrendum monstri rettulit ipse caput.
Victor Iabrochii, spoliis insignis opimis,Rursus in amplexus, o radiose, meos!O frabiose dies! CALLO clamateque CALLA!Vix potuit lastus chorticulare pater.
Coesper erat: tune lubriciles ultravia circumUrgebant gyros gimbiculosque tophi;Moestenui visæ borogovides ire meatu;Et profugi gemitus exgrabuêre rathæ.
Anonymous.
[Footnote 1:CoesperfromCoenaandvesper.]
[Footnote 2:lubricilesfromlubricusandgraciles. See the Commentary in Humpty Dumpty's square, which will also explainultravia, and—if it requires explanation—moestenui.]
[Footnote 3:Sanguis meus: cf. Verg. Aen. 6. 836, "Projice tela manu, sanguis meus!"]
[Footnote 4:egnia: "muffish" = segnis; … "uffish" = egnis.This is a conjectural analogy, but I can suggest no better solution.]
[Footnote 5:susuffrus: "whiffling" ::susurrus: "whistling."]
[Footnote 6:spicula: see the picture.]
[Footnote 7:burbur: apparently a labial variation ofmurmur, stronger but more dissonant.]
The Nyum-Nyum chortled by the sea,And sipped the wavelets green:He wondered how the sky could beSo very nice and clean;
He wondered if the chambermaidHad swept the dust away,And if the scrumptious JabberwockHad mopped it up that day.
And then in sadness to his loveThe Nyum-Nyum weeping said,I know no reason why the seaShould not be white or red.
I know no reason why the seaShould not be red, I say;And why the slithy BandersnatchHas not been round to-day.
He swore he'd call at two o'clock,And now it's half-past four."Stay," said the Nyum-Nyum's love, "I thinkI hear him at the door."
In twenty minutes in there cameA creature black as ink,Which put its feet upon a chairAnd called for beer to drink.
They gave him porter in a tub,But, "Give me more!" he cried;And then he drew a heavy sigh,And laid him down, and died.
He died, and in the Nyum-Nyum's caveA cry of mourning rose;The Nyum-Nyum sobbed a gentle sob,And slily blew his nose.
The Nyum-Nyum's love, we need not state,Was overwhelmed and sad;She said, "Oh, take the corpse away,Or you will drive me mad!"
The Nyum-Nyum in his supple armsTook up the gruesome weight,And, with a cry of bitter fear,He threw it at his mate.
And then he wept, and tore his hair,And threw it in the sea,And loudly sobbed with streaming eyesThat such a thing could be.
The ox, that mumbled in his stall,Perspired and gently sighed,And then, in sympathy, it fellUpon its back and died.
The hen that sat upon her eggs,With high ambition fired,Arose in simple majesty,And, with a cluck, expired.
The jubejube bird, that carolled there,Sat down upon a post,And with a reverential caw,Gave up its little ghost.
And ere its kind and loving lifeEternally had ceased,The donkey, in the ancient barn,In agony deceased.
The raven, perched upon the elm,Gave forth a scraping note,And ere the sound had died away,Had cut its tuneful throat.
The Nyum-Nyum's love was sorrowful;And, after she had cried,She, with a brand-new carving-knife,Committed suicide.
"Alas!" the Nyum-Nyum said, "alas!With thee I will not part,"And straightway seized a rolling-pinAnd drove it through his heart.
The mourners came and gathered upThe bits that lay about;But why the massacre had been,They could not quite make out.
One said there was a mysteryConnected with the deaths;But others thought the silent onesPerhaps had lost their breaths.
The doctor soon arrived, and viewedThe corpses as they lay;He could not give them life again,So he was heard to say.
But, oh! it was a horrid sight;It made the blood run cold,To see the bodies carried offAnd covered up with mould.
The Toves across the briny seaWept buckets-full of tears;They were relations of the dead,And had been friends for years.
The Jabberwock upon the hillGave forth a gloomy wail,When in his airy seat he sat,And told the awful tale.
And who can wonder that it madeThat loving creature cry?For he had done the dreadful workAnd caused the things to die.
That Jabberwock was passing bad—That Jabberwock was wrong,And with this verdict I concludeOne portion of my song.
Anonymous.
When sporgles spanned the floreate meadAnd cogwogs gleet upon the lea,Uffia gopped to meet her loveWho smeeged upon the equat sea.
Dately she walked aglost the sand;The boreal wind seet in her face;The moggling waves yalped at her feet;Pangwangling was her pace.
Harriet R. White.
The Crankadox leaned o'er the edge of the moon,And wistfully gazed on the seaWhere the Gryxabodill madly whistled a tuneTo the air of "Ti-fol-de-ding-dee."
The quavering shriek of the FliupthecreekWas fitfully wafted afarTo the Queen of the Wunks as she powdered her cheekWith the pulverized rays of a star.
The Gool closed his ear on the voice of the Grig,And his heart it grew heavy as leadAs he marked the Baldekin adjusting his wigOn the opposite side of his head;
And the air it grew chill as the GryxabodillRaised his dank, dripping fins to the skiesTo plead with the Plunk for the use of her billTo pick the tears out of his eyes.
The ghost of the Zhack flitted by in a trance;And the Squidjum hid under a tubAs he heard the loud hooves of the Hooken advanceWith a rub-a-dub-dub-a-dub dub!
And the Crankadox cried as he laid down and died,"My fate there is none to bewail!"While the Queen of the Wunks drifted over the tideWith a long piece of crape to her tail.
James Whitcomb Riley.
The woggly bird sat on the whango tree,Nooping the rinkum corn,And graper and graper, alas! grew he,And cursed the day he was born.His crute was clum and his voice was rum,As curiously thus sang he,"Oh, would I'd been rammed and eternally clammedEre I perched on this whango tree."
Now the whango tree had a bubbly thorn,As sharp as a nootie's bill,And it stuck in the woggly bird's umptum lornAnd weepadge, the smart did thrill.He fumbled and cursed, but that wasn't the worst,For he couldn't at all get free,And he cried, "I am gammed, and injustibly nammedOn the luggardly whango tree."
And there he sits still, with no worm in his bill,Nor no guggledom in his nest;He is hungry and bare, and gobliddered with care,And his grabbles give him no rest;He is weary and sore and his tugmut is soar,And nothing to nob has he,As he chirps, "I am blammed and corruptibly jammed,In this cuggerdom whango tree."
1840.
Sing for the garish eye,When moonless brandlings cling!Let the froddering crooner cry,And the braddled sapster sing,For never and never again,Will the tottering beechlings play,For bratticed wrackers are singing aloud,And the throngers croon in May!
W.S. Gilbert.
Across the swiffling waves they went,The gumly bark yoked to and fro:The jupple crew on pleasure bent,Galored, "This is a go!"
Beside the poo's'l stood the Gom,He chirked and murgled in his glee;While near him, in a grue jipon,The Bard was quite at sea.
"Gollop! Golloy! Thou scrumjous Bard!Take pen (thy stylo) and enditeA pome, my brain needs kurgling hard,And I will feast tonight."
That wansome Bard he took his pen,A flirgly look around he guv;He squoffled once, he squirled, and thenHe wrote what's writ above.
Anonymous.
When the breeze from the bluebottle's blustering blimTwirls the toads in a tooroomaloo,And the whiskery whine of the wheedlesome whimDrowns the roll of the rattatattoo,Then I dream in the shade of the shally-go-shee,And the voice of the bally-molayBrings the smell of stale poppy-cods blummered in bleeFrom the willy-wad over the way.
Ah, the shuddering shoo and the blinketty-blanksWhen the yungalung falls from the boughIn the blast of a hurricane's hicketty-hanksOn the hills of the hocketty-how!Give the rigamarole to the clangery-whang,If they care for such fiddlededee;But the thingumbob kiss of the whangery-bangKeeps the higgledy-piggle for me.
It is pilly-po-doddle and aligobungWhen the lollypop covers the ground,Yet the poldiddle perishes punketty-pungWhen the heart jimmy-coggles around.If the soul cannot snoop at the giggle-some cart,Seeking surcease in gluggety-glug,It is useless to say to the pulsating heart,"Panky-doodle ker-chuggetty-chug!"
John Bennett.
Night saw the crew like pedlers with their packsAltho' it were too dear to pay for eggs;Walk crank along with coffin on their backsWhile in their arms they bow their weary legs.
And yet 't was strange, and scarce can one supposeThat a brown buzzard-fly should steal and wearHis white jean breeches and black woollen hose,But thence that flies have souls is very clear.
But, Holy Father! what shall save the soul,When cobblers ask three dollars for their shoes?When cooks their biscuits with a shot-tower roll,And farmers rake their hay-cocks with their hoes.
Yet, 'twere profuse to see for pendant light,A tea-pot dangle in a lady's ear;And 'twere indelicate, although she mightSwallow two whales and yet the moon shine clear.
But what to me are woven clouds, or what,If dames from spiders learn to warp their looms?If coal-black ghosts turn soldiers for the State,With wooden eyes, and lightning-rods for plumes?
Oh! too, too shocking! barbarous, savage taste!To eat one's mother ere itself was born!To gripe the tall town-steeple by the waste,And scoop it out to be his drinking-horn.
No more: no more! I'm sick and dead and gone;Boxed in a coffin, stifled six feet deep;Thorns, fat and fearless, prick my skin and bone,And revel o'er me, like a soulless sheep.
Henry Coggswell Knight, 1815.
Oh that my Lungs could bleat like butter'd Pease;But bleating of my lungs hath Caught the itch,And are as mangy as the Irish SeasThat offer wary windmills to the Rich.
I grant that Rainbowes being lull'd asleep,Snort like a woodknife in a Lady's eyes;Which makes her grieve to see a pudding creep,For Creeping puddings only please the wise.
Not that a hard-row'd herring should presumeTo swing a tyth pig in a Cateskin purse;For fear the hailstons which did fall at Rome,By lesning of the fault should make it worse.
For 'tis most certain Winter woolsacks growFrom geese to swans if men could keep them so,Till that the sheep shorn Planets gave the hintTo pickle pancakes in Geneva print.
Some men there were that did suppose the skieWas made of Carbonado'd Antidotes;But my opinion is, a Whale's left eye,Need not be coyned all King Harry groates.
The reason's plain, for Charon's Westerne bargeRunning a tilt at the Subjunctive mood,Beckoned to Bednal Green, and gave him chargeTo fasten padlockes with Antartic food.
The End will be the Mill ponds must be laded,To fish for white pots in a Country dance;So they that suffered wrong and were upbradedShall be made friends in a left-handed trance.
Anonymous, 1617.
Oh that my soul a marrow-bone might seize!For the old egg of my desire is broken,Spilled is the pearly white and spilled the yolk, andAs the mild melancholy contents greaseMy path the shorn lamb baas like bumblebees.Time's trashy purse is as a taken tokenOr like a thrilling recitation, spokenBy mournful mouths filled full of mirth and cheese.
And yet, why should I clasp the earthful urn?Or find the frittered fig that felt the fast?Or choose to chase the cheese around the churn?Or swallow any pill from out the past?Ah, no Love, not while your hot kisses burnLike a potato riding on the blast.
Anonymous.
Bright breaks the warrior o'er the ocean waveThrough realms that rove not, clouds that cannot save,Sinks in the sunshine; dazzles o'er the tombAnd mocks the mutiny of Memory's gloom.Oh! who can feel the crimson ecstasyThat soothes with bickering jar the Glorious Tree?O'er the high rock the foam of gladness throws,While star-beams lull Vesuvius to repose:Girds the white spray, and in the blue lagoon,Weeps like a walrus o'er the waning moon?Who can declare?—not thou, pervading boyWhom pibrochs pierce not, crystals cannot cloy;—Not thou soft Architect of silvery gleams,Whose soul would simmer in Hesperian streams,Th' exhaustless fire—the bosom's azure bliss,That hurtles, life-like, o'er a scene like this;—Defies the distant agony of Day—And sweeps o'er hetacombs—away! away!Say shall Destruction's lava load the gale,The furnace quiver and the mountain quail?Say shall the son of Sympathy pretendHis cedar fragrance with our Chiefs to blend?There, where the gnarled monuments of sandHowl their dark whirlwinds to the levin brand;Conclusive tenderness; fraternal grog,Tidy conjunction; adamantine bog,Impetuous arrant toadstool; Thundering quince,Repentant dog-star, inessential Prince,Expound. Pre-Adamite eventful gun,Crush retribution, currant-jelly, pun,Oh! eligible Darkness, fender, sting,Heav'n-born Insanity, courageous thing.Intending, bending, scouring, piercing all,Death like pomatum, tea, and crabs must fall.
Anonymous.
She's all my fancy painted him,(I make no idle boast);If he or you had lost a limb,Which would have suffered most?
He said that you had been to her,And seen me here before:But, in another characterShe was the same of yore.
There was not one that spoke to us,Of all that thronged the street;So he sadly got into a 'bus,And pattered with his feet.
They told me you had been to her,And mentioned me to him;She gave me a good character,But said I could not swim.
He sent them word I had not gone(We know it to be true);If she should push the matter on,What would become of you?
I gave her one, they gave him two,You gave us three or more;They all returned from him to you,Though they were mine before.
If I or she should chance to beInvolved in this affair,He trusts to you to set them free,Exactly as we were.
My notion was that you had been(Before she had this fit)An obstacle that came betweenHim, and ourselves, and it.
Don't let him know she liked them best,For this must ever beA secret, kept from all the rest,Between yourself and me.
Lewis Carroll.
My recollectest thoughts are thoseWhich I remember yet;And bearing on, as you'd suppose,The things I don't forget.
But my resemblest thoughts are lessAlike than they should be;A state of things, as you'll confess,You very seldom see.
And yet the mostest thought I loveIs what no one believes—That I'm the sole survivor ofThe famous Forty Thieves!
Charles E. Carry.
"You are old, Father William," the young man said,"And your nose has a look of surprise;Your eyes have turned round to the back of your head,And you live upon cucumber pies."
"I know it, I know it," the old man replied,"And it comes from employing a quack,Who said if I laughed when the crocodile diedI should never have pains in my back."
"You are old, Father William," the young man said,"And your legs always get in your way;You use too much mortar in mixing your bread,And you try to drink timothy hay."
"Very true, very true," said the wretched old man,"Every word that you tell me is true;And it's caused by my having my kerosene canPainted red where it ought to be blue."
"You are old, Father William," the young man said,"And your teeth are beginning to freeze,Your favorite daughter has wheels in her head,And the chickens are eating your knees."
"You are right," said the old man, "I cannot deny,That my troubles are many and great,But I'll butter my ears on the Fourth of July,And then I'll be able to skate."
Anonymous.