AFTER POE

ASOLDIER of the RussiansLay japanned at Tschrtzvkjskivitch,There was lack of woman's nursingAnd other comforts whichMight add to his last momentsAnd smooth the final way;—But a comrade stood beside himTo hear what he might say.The japanned Russian falteredAs he took that comrade's hand,And he said: "I never more shall seeMy own, my native land;Take a message and a tokenTo some distant friends of mine,For I was born at Smnlxzrskgqrxzski,Fair Smnlxzrskgqrxzski on the Irkztrvzkimnov."W. J. Lampton.

ASOLDIER of the Russians

Lay japanned at Tschrtzvkjskivitch,

There was lack of woman's nursing

And other comforts which

Might add to his last moments

And smooth the final way;—

But a comrade stood beside him

To hear what he might say.

The japanned Russian faltered

As he took that comrade's hand,

And he said: "I never more shall see

My own, my native land;

Take a message and a token

To some distant friends of mine,

For I was born at Smnlxzrskgqrxzski,

Fair Smnlxzrskgqrxzski on the Irkztrvzkimnov."

W. J. Lampton.

COULD Poe walk again to-morrow, heavy with dyspeptic sorrow,While the darkness seemed to borrow darkness from the night before,From the hollow gloom abysmal, floating downward, grimly dismal,Like a pagan curse baptismal from the bust above the door,He would hear the Raven croaking from the dusk above the door,"Never, never, nevermore!"And, too angry to be civil, "Raven," Poe would cry "or devil,Tell me why you will persist in haunting Death's Plutonian shore?"Then would croak the Raven gladly, "I will tell you why so sadly,I so mournfully and madly, haunt you, taunt you, o'er and o'er,Why eternally I haunt you, daunt you, taunt you, o'er and o'er—Only this, and nothing more."Forty-eight long years I've pondered, forty-eight long years I've wondered,How a poet ever blundered into a mistake so sore.How could lamp-light from your table ever in the world be able,Frombelow, to throw my sable shadow 'streaming on the floor,'When I perched up here on Pallas, high above your chamber-door?Tell me that—if nothing more!"Then, like some wan, weeping willow, Poe would bend above his pillow,Seeking surcease in the billow where mad recollections drown,And in tearful tones replying, he would groan "There's no denyingEither I was blindly lying, or the world was upside down—Say, by Joe!—it was just midnight—so the worldwasupside down—Aye, the world was upside down!"John Bennett.

COULD Poe walk again to-morrow, heavy with dyspeptic sorrow,

While the darkness seemed to borrow darkness from the night before,

From the hollow gloom abysmal, floating downward, grimly dismal,

Like a pagan curse baptismal from the bust above the door,

He would hear the Raven croaking from the dusk above the door,

"Never, never, nevermore!"

And, too angry to be civil, "Raven," Poe would cry "or devil,Tell me why you will persist in haunting Death's Plutonian shore?"Then would croak the Raven gladly, "I will tell you why so sadly,I so mournfully and madly, haunt you, taunt you, o'er and o'er,Why eternally I haunt you, daunt you, taunt you, o'er and o'er—Only this, and nothing more.

And, too angry to be civil, "Raven," Poe would cry "or devil,

Tell me why you will persist in haunting Death's Plutonian shore?"

Then would croak the Raven gladly, "I will tell you why so sadly,

I so mournfully and madly, haunt you, taunt you, o'er and o'er,

Why eternally I haunt you, daunt you, taunt you, o'er and o'er—

Only this, and nothing more.

"Forty-eight long years I've pondered, forty-eight long years I've wondered,How a poet ever blundered into a mistake so sore.How could lamp-light from your table ever in the world be able,Frombelow, to throw my sable shadow 'streaming on the floor,'When I perched up here on Pallas, high above your chamber-door?Tell me that—if nothing more!"

"Forty-eight long years I've pondered, forty-eight long years I've wondered,

How a poet ever blundered into a mistake so sore.

How could lamp-light from your table ever in the world be able,

Frombelow, to throw my sable shadow 'streaming on the floor,'

When I perched up here on Pallas, high above your chamber-door?

Tell me that—if nothing more!"

Then, like some wan, weeping willow, Poe would bend above his pillow,Seeking surcease in the billow where mad recollections drown,And in tearful tones replying, he would groan "There's no denyingEither I was blindly lying, or the world was upside down—Say, by Joe!—it was just midnight—so the worldwasupside down—Aye, the world was upside down!"John Bennett.

Then, like some wan, weeping willow, Poe would bend above his pillow,

Seeking surcease in the billow where mad recollections drown,

And in tearful tones replying, he would groan "There's no denying

Either I was blindly lying, or the world was upside down—

Say, by Joe!—it was just midnight—so the worldwasupside down—

Aye, the world was upside down!"

John Bennett.

HEAR the fluter with his flute, Silver flute!Oh, what a world of wailing is awakened by its toot!How it demi-semi quaversOn the maddened air of night!And defieth all endeavorsTo escape the sound or sighOf the flute, flute, flute,With its tootle, tootle, toot;With reiterated tooteling of exasperating toots,The long protracted tootelings of agonizing tootsOf the flute, flute, flute, flute,Flute, flute, flute,And the wheezings and the spittings of its toots.Should he get that other flute,Golden flute,Oh, what a deeper anguish will his presence institoot!How his eyes to heaven he'll raise,As he plays,All the days!How he'll stop us on our waysWith its praise!And the people—oh, the people,That don't live up in the steeple,But inhabit Christian parlorsWhere he visiteth and plays,Where he plays, plays, playsIn the cruellest of ways,And thinks we ought to listen,And expects us to be mute,Who would rather have the earacheThan the music of his flute,Of his flute, flute, flute,And the tootings of his toot,Of the toots wherewith he tooteleth its agonizing toot,Of the flute, flewt, fluit, floot,Phlute, phlewt, phlewght,And the tootle, tootle, tooting of its toot.Anonymous.

HEAR the fluter with his flute, Silver flute!

Oh, what a world of wailing is awakened by its toot!

How it demi-semi quavers

On the maddened air of night!

And defieth all endeavors

To escape the sound or sigh

Of the flute, flute, flute,

With its tootle, tootle, toot;

With reiterated tooteling of exasperating toots,

The long protracted tootelings of agonizing toots

Of the flute, flute, flute, flute,

Flute, flute, flute,

And the wheezings and the spittings of its toots.

Should he get that other flute,

Golden flute,

Oh, what a deeper anguish will his presence institoot!

How his eyes to heaven he'll raise,

As he plays,

All the days!

How he'll stop us on our ways

With its praise!

And the people—oh, the people,

That don't live up in the steeple,

But inhabit Christian parlors

Where he visiteth and plays,

Where he plays, plays, plays

In the cruellest of ways,

And thinks we ought to listen,

And expects us to be mute,

Who would rather have the earache

Than the music of his flute,

Of his flute, flute, flute,

And the tootings of his toot,

Of the toots wherewith he tooteleth its agonizing toot,

Of the flute, flewt, fluit, floot,

Phlute, phlewt, phlewght,

And the tootle, tootle, tooting of its toot.

Anonymous.

IT was many and many a year ago,In a dwelling down in town,That a fellow there lived whom you may know,By the name of Samuel Brown;And this fellow he lived with no other thoughtThan to our house to come down.I was a child, and he was a child,In that dwelling down in town,But we loved with a love that was more than love,I and my Samuel Brown,—With a love that the ladies coveted,Me and Samuel Brown.And this was the reason that, long ago,To that dwelling down in town,A girl came out of her carriage, courtingMy beautiful Samuel Brown;So that her high-bred kinsmen came,And bore away Samuel Brown,And shut him up in a dwelling house,In a street quite up in the town.The ladies not half so happy up there,Went envying me and Brown;Yes! that was the reason (as all men know,In this dwelling down in town),That the girl came out of the carriage by night,Coquetting and getting my Samuel Brown.But our love is more artful by far than the loveOf those who are older than we,—Of many far wiser than we,—And neither the girls that are living above,Nor the girls that are down in town,Can ever dissever my soul from the soulOf the beautiful Samuel Brown.For the morn never shines, without bringing me lines,From my beautiful Samuel Brown;And the night's never dark, but I sit in the parkWith my beautiful Samuel Brown.And often by day, I walk down in Broadway,With my darling, my darling, my life and my stay,To our dwelling down in town,To our house in the street down town.Phœbe Cary.

IT was many and many a year ago,

In a dwelling down in town,

That a fellow there lived whom you may know,

By the name of Samuel Brown;

And this fellow he lived with no other thought

Than to our house to come down.

I was a child, and he was a child,In that dwelling down in town,But we loved with a love that was more than love,I and my Samuel Brown,—With a love that the ladies coveted,Me and Samuel Brown.

I was a child, and he was a child,

In that dwelling down in town,

But we loved with a love that was more than love,

I and my Samuel Brown,—

With a love that the ladies coveted,

Me and Samuel Brown.

And this was the reason that, long ago,To that dwelling down in town,A girl came out of her carriage, courtingMy beautiful Samuel Brown;So that her high-bred kinsmen came,And bore away Samuel Brown,And shut him up in a dwelling house,In a street quite up in the town.

And this was the reason that, long ago,

To that dwelling down in town,

A girl came out of her carriage, courting

My beautiful Samuel Brown;

So that her high-bred kinsmen came,

And bore away Samuel Brown,

And shut him up in a dwelling house,

In a street quite up in the town.

The ladies not half so happy up there,Went envying me and Brown;Yes! that was the reason (as all men know,In this dwelling down in town),That the girl came out of the carriage by night,Coquetting and getting my Samuel Brown.

The ladies not half so happy up there,

Went envying me and Brown;

Yes! that was the reason (as all men know,

In this dwelling down in town),

That the girl came out of the carriage by night,

Coquetting and getting my Samuel Brown.

But our love is more artful by far than the loveOf those who are older than we,—Of many far wiser than we,—And neither the girls that are living above,Nor the girls that are down in town,Can ever dissever my soul from the soulOf the beautiful Samuel Brown.

But our love is more artful by far than the love

Of those who are older than we,—

Of many far wiser than we,—

And neither the girls that are living above,

Nor the girls that are down in town,

Can ever dissever my soul from the soul

Of the beautiful Samuel Brown.

For the morn never shines, without bringing me lines,From my beautiful Samuel Brown;And the night's never dark, but I sit in the parkWith my beautiful Samuel Brown.And often by day, I walk down in Broadway,With my darling, my darling, my life and my stay,To our dwelling down in town,To our house in the street down town.Phœbe Cary.

For the morn never shines, without bringing me lines,

From my beautiful Samuel Brown;

And the night's never dark, but I sit in the park

With my beautiful Samuel Brown.

And often by day, I walk down in Broadway,

With my darling, my darling, my life and my stay,

To our dwelling down in town,

To our house in the street down town.

Phœbe Cary.

IN the lonesome latter years(Fatal years!)To the dropping of my tearsDanced the mad and mystic spheresIn a rounded, reeling rune,'Neath the moon,To the dripping and the dropping of my tears.Ah, my soul is swathed in gloom,(Ulalume!)In a dim Titanic tomb,For my gaunt and gloomy soulPonders o'er the penal scroll,O'er the parchment (not a rhyme),Out of place,—out of time,—I am shredded, shorn, unshifty,(Oh, the fifty!)And the days have passed, the three,Over me!And the debit and the credit are as one to him and me!'Twas the random runes I wroteAt the bottom of the note,(Wrote and freelyGave to Greeley)In the middle of the night,In the mellow, moonless night,When the stars were out of sight,When my pulses, like a knell,(Israfel!)Danced with dim and dying faysO'er the ruins of my days,O'er the dimeless, timeless days,When the fifty, drawn at thirty,Seeming thrifty, yet the dirtyLucre of the market, was the most that I could raise!Fiends controlled it,(Let him hold it!)Devils held for me the inkstand and the pen;Now the days of grace are o'er,(Ah, Lenore!)I am but as other men;What is time, time, time,To my rare and runic rhyme,To my random, reeling rhyme,By the sands along the shore,Where the tempest whispers, "Pay him!" and I answer, "Nevermore!"Bayard Taylor.

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

IN the lonesome latter years

(Fatal years!)

To the dropping of my tears

Danced the mad and mystic spheres

In a rounded, reeling rune,

'Neath the moon,

To the dripping and the dropping of my tears.

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

Ah, my soul is swathed in gloom,

(Ulalume!)

In a dim Titanic tomb,

For my gaunt and gloomy soul

Ponders o'er the penal scroll,

O'er the parchment (not a rhyme),

Out of place,—out of time,—

I am shredded, shorn, unshifty,

(Oh, the fifty!)

And the days have passed, the three,

Over me!

And the debit and the credit are as one to him and me!

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

'Twas the random runes I wrote

At the bottom of the note,

(Wrote and freely

Gave to Greeley)

In the middle of the night,

In the mellow, moonless night,

When the stars were out of sight,

When my pulses, like a knell,

(Israfel!)

Danced with dim and dying fays

O'er the ruins of my days,

O'er the dimeless, timeless days,

When the fifty, drawn at thirty,

Seeming thrifty, yet the dirty

Lucre of the market, was the most that I could raise!

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

Fiends controlled it,

(Let him hold it!)

Devils held for me the inkstand and the pen;

Now the days of grace are o'er,

(Ah, Lenore!)

I am but as other men;

What is time, time, time,

To my rare and runic rhyme,

To my random, reeling rhyme,

By the sands along the shore,

Where the tempest whispers, "Pay him!" and I answer, "Nevermore!"

Bayard Taylor.

IT was many and many a year agoIn a District called E. C.,That a Monster dwelt whom I came to knowBy the name of Cannibal Flea,And the brute was possessed with no other thoughtThan to live—and to live on me!I was in bed, and he was in bedIn the District named E. C.,When first in his thirst so accurst he burstUpon me, the Cannibal Flea,With a bite that felt as if some one had drivenA bayonet into me.And this was the reason why long agoIn that District named E. C.I tumbled out of my bed, willingTo capture the Cannibal Flea,Who all the night until morning cameKept boring into me!It wore me down to a skeletonIn the District hight E. C.From that hour I sought my bed—eleven—Till daylight he tortured me.Yes!—that was the reason (as all men knowIn that District named E. C.)I so often jumped out of my bed by nightWilling the killing of Cannibal Flea.But his hops they were longer by far than the hopsOf creatures much larger than he—Of parties more long-legged than he;And neither the powder nor turpentine drops,Nor the persons engaged by me,Were so clever as ever to stop me the hopOf the terrible Cannibal Flea.For at night with a scream, I am waked from my dreamBy the terrible Cannibal Flea;And at morn I ne'er rise without bites—of such size!—From the terrible Cannibal Flea.So I'm forced to decide I'll no longer resideIn the District—the District—where he doth abide,The locality known as E. C.That is postally known as E. C.Tom Hood, Jr.

IT was many and many a year ago

In a District called E. C.,

That a Monster dwelt whom I came to know

By the name of Cannibal Flea,

And the brute was possessed with no other thought

Than to live—and to live on me!

I was in bed, and he was in bedIn the District named E. C.,When first in his thirst so accurst he burstUpon me, the Cannibal Flea,With a bite that felt as if some one had drivenA bayonet into me.

I was in bed, and he was in bed

In the District named E. C.,

When first in his thirst so accurst he burst

Upon me, the Cannibal Flea,

With a bite that felt as if some one had driven

A bayonet into me.

And this was the reason why long agoIn that District named E. C.I tumbled out of my bed, willingTo capture the Cannibal Flea,Who all the night until morning cameKept boring into me!It wore me down to a skeletonIn the District hight E. C.

And this was the reason why long ago

In that District named E. C.

I tumbled out of my bed, willing

To capture the Cannibal Flea,

Who all the night until morning came

Kept boring into me!

It wore me down to a skeleton

In the District hight E. C.

From that hour I sought my bed—eleven—Till daylight he tortured me.Yes!—that was the reason (as all men knowIn that District named E. C.)I so often jumped out of my bed by nightWilling the killing of Cannibal Flea.

From that hour I sought my bed—eleven—

Till daylight he tortured me.

Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know

In that District named E. C.)

I so often jumped out of my bed by night

Willing the killing of Cannibal Flea.

But his hops they were longer by far than the hopsOf creatures much larger than he—Of parties more long-legged than he;And neither the powder nor turpentine drops,Nor the persons engaged by me,Were so clever as ever to stop me the hopOf the terrible Cannibal Flea.

But his hops they were longer by far than the hops

Of creatures much larger than he—

Of parties more long-legged than he;

And neither the powder nor turpentine drops,

Nor the persons engaged by me,

Were so clever as ever to stop me the hop

Of the terrible Cannibal Flea.

For at night with a scream, I am waked from my dreamBy the terrible Cannibal Flea;And at morn I ne'er rise without bites—of such size!—From the terrible Cannibal Flea.So I'm forced to decide I'll no longer resideIn the District—the District—where he doth abide,The locality known as E. C.That is postally known as E. C.Tom Hood, Jr.

For at night with a scream, I am waked from my dream

By the terrible Cannibal Flea;

And at morn I ne'er rise without bites—of such size!—

From the terrible Cannibal Flea.

So I'm forced to decide I'll no longer reside

In the District—the District—where he doth abide,

The locality known as E. C.

That is postally known as E. C.

Tom Hood, Jr.

'TWAS more than a million years ago,Or so it seems to me,That I used to prance around and beauThe beautiful Annabel Lee.There were other girls in the neighborhoodBut none was a patch to she.And this was the reason that long ago,My love fell out of a tree,And busted herself on a cruel rock;A solemn sight to see,For it spoiled the hat and gown and looksOf the beautiful Annabel Lee.We loved with a love that was lovely love,I and my Annabel Lee,And we went one day to gather the nutsThat men call hickoree.And I stayed below in the rosy glowWhile she shinned up the tree,But no sooner up than down kerslupCame the beautiful Annabel Lee.And the pallid moon and the hectic noonBring gleams of dreams for me,Of the desolate and desperate fateOf the beautiful Annabel Lee.And I often think as I sink on the brinkOf slumber's sea, of the warm pink linkThat bound my soul to Annabel Lee;And it wasn't just best for her interestTo climb that hickory tree,For had she stayed below with me,We'd had no hickory nuts maybe,But I should have had my Annabel Lee.Stanley Huntley.

'TWAS more than a million years ago,Or so it seems to me,That I used to prance around and beauThe beautiful Annabel Lee.There were other girls in the neighborhoodBut none was a patch to she.

'TWAS more than a million years ago,

Or so it seems to me,

That I used to prance around and beau

The beautiful Annabel Lee.

There were other girls in the neighborhood

But none was a patch to she.

And this was the reason that long ago,My love fell out of a tree,And busted herself on a cruel rock;A solemn sight to see,For it spoiled the hat and gown and looksOf the beautiful Annabel Lee.

And this was the reason that long ago,

My love fell out of a tree,

And busted herself on a cruel rock;

A solemn sight to see,

For it spoiled the hat and gown and looks

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

We loved with a love that was lovely love,I and my Annabel Lee,And we went one day to gather the nutsThat men call hickoree.And I stayed below in the rosy glowWhile she shinned up the tree,But no sooner up than down kerslupCame the beautiful Annabel Lee.

We loved with a love that was lovely love,

I and my Annabel Lee,

And we went one day to gather the nuts

That men call hickoree.

And I stayed below in the rosy glow

While she shinned up the tree,

But no sooner up than down kerslup

Came the beautiful Annabel Lee.

And the pallid moon and the hectic noonBring gleams of dreams for me,Of the desolate and desperate fateOf the beautiful Annabel Lee.And I often think as I sink on the brinkOf slumber's sea, of the warm pink linkThat bound my soul to Annabel Lee;And it wasn't just best for her interestTo climb that hickory tree,For had she stayed below with me,We'd had no hickory nuts maybe,But I should have had my Annabel Lee.Stanley Huntley.

And the pallid moon and the hectic noon

Bring gleams of dreams for me,

Of the desolate and desperate fate

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

And I often think as I sink on the brink

Of slumber's sea, of the warm pink link

That bound my soul to Annabel Lee;

And it wasn't just best for her interest

To climb that hickory tree,

For had she stayed below with me,

We'd had no hickory nuts maybe,

But I should have had my Annabel Lee.

Stanley Huntley.

HEAR a voice announcingIrvingin The Bells—sledge's bells!What a scene of wild excitement the advertisement foretells!See the rush upon the pay-hole—People stand a night and day wholeTo secure a little corner for The Bells!To look ghastly pale and shudder, every man and "every brudder"Feels that nothing can be equal to The Bells!Bells! Bells! Bells! Bells!Too horrified to cheer,Folk will testify by fearHow appalled they are byIrvingin The Bells;While great beads of perspiration will appear,For in conscience-stricken terrors he excels!Gloomy Bells!Pit and gallery will glory in the weird and frightful story,Which may even thrill the bosom of the swells,For every Yankee "dude"Unquestionably shouldHave nightmare after witnessing The Bells!Will our cousins all go frantic from Pacific to Atlantic, or condemn as childish anticIrving's dancing, and his gasping, and his yells!There's a certain admiration which the strange impersonationStill compels,E'en from those who can't see beauty in The Bells—In the play thatMr. Lewiscalls The Bells!Wondrous Bells!You first made Henry famous, so the stage historian tells.Will the scene be now repeated which in London always greetedHis performance of Mathias in The Bells?Or will every sneering Yankee,In his nasal tones, say "Thankee,I guess this is just another of your mighty British 'sells'"?Let the thought for ever perish, that the actor whom we cherishCould fail to lick creation in The Bells!But if there are detractorsOf this foremost of our actors,Of the gentlemanlyIrving—friend of Toole's—"They are neither man nor woman, they are neither brute nor human,"They are fools!Judy.

HEAR a voice announcingIrvingin The Bells—sledge's bells!

What a scene of wild excitement the advertisement foretells!

See the rush upon the pay-hole—

People stand a night and day whole

To secure a little corner for The Bells!

To look ghastly pale and shudder, every man and "every brudder"

Feels that nothing can be equal to The Bells!

Bells! Bells! Bells! Bells!

Too horrified to cheer,

Folk will testify by fear

How appalled they are byIrvingin The Bells;

While great beads of perspiration will appear,

For in conscience-stricken terrors he excels!

Gloomy Bells!

Pit and gallery will glory in the weird and frightful story,

Which may even thrill the bosom of the swells,

For every Yankee "dude"

Unquestionably should

Have nightmare after witnessing The Bells!

Will our cousins all go frantic from Pacific to Atlantic, or condemn as childish antic

Irving's dancing, and his gasping, and his yells!

There's a certain admiration which the strange impersonation

Still compels,

E'en from those who can't see beauty in The Bells—

In the play thatMr. Lewiscalls The Bells!

Wondrous Bells!

You first made Henry famous, so the stage historian tells.

Will the scene be now repeated which in London always greeted

His performance of Mathias in The Bells?

Or will every sneering Yankee,

In his nasal tones, say "Thankee,

I guess this is just another of your mighty British 'sells'"?

Let the thought for ever perish, that the actor whom we cherish

Could fail to lick creation in The Bells!

But if there are detractors

Of this foremost of our actors,

Of the gentlemanlyIrving—friend of Toole's—

"They are neither man nor woman, they are neither brute nor human,"

They are fools!

Judy.

ONCE it happened I'd been dining, on my couch I slept reclining,And awoke with moonlight shining brightly on my bedroom floor,It was in the bleak December, Christmas night as I remember,But I had no dying ember, as Poe had, when near the door,Like a gastronomic goblin just beside my chamber doorStood a bird,—and nothing more.And I said, for I'm no craven, "Are you Edgar's famous raven,Seeking as with him a haven—were you mixed up with Lenore?"Then the bird uprose and fluttered, and this sentence strange he uttered,"Hang Lenore," he mildly muttered; "you have seen me once before,Seen me on this festive Christmas, seen me surely once before,I'm the Goose—and nothing more."Then he murmured, "Are you ready?" and with motion slow and steady,Straight he leapt upon my bed; he simply gave a stifled roar;And I cried, "As I'm a sinner, at a Goose-Club I was winner,'Tis a memory of my dinner, which I ate at half-past four,Goose well-stuffed with sage and onions, which I ate at half-past four."Quoth he hoarsely, "Eat no more!"Said I, "I've enjoyed your juices, breast and back; but tell me, Goose, isThis revenge, and what the use is of your being such a bore?For Goose-flesh I will no more ax, if you'll not sit on my thorax,Go try honey mixed with borax, for I hear your throat is sore,You speak gruffly, though too plainly, and I'm sure your throat is sore."Quoth the nightmare, "Eat no more!""Goose!" I shrieked out, "leave, oh, leave me, surely you don't mean to grieve me,You are heavy, pray reprieve me, now my penance must be o'er;Though to-night you've brought me sorrow, comfort surely comes to-morrow,Some relief from those I'd borrow at my doctor's ample store."Quoth the goblin, "Eat no more!"And that fat Goose, never flitting, like a nightmare still is sittingWith me all the night emitting words that thrill my bosom's core,Now throughout the Christmas season, while I lie and gasp and wheeze, onMe he sits until my reason nothing surely can restore,While that Goose says, "Eat no more!"Punch.

ONCE it happened I'd been dining, on my couch I slept reclining,

And awoke with moonlight shining brightly on my bedroom floor,

It was in the bleak December, Christmas night as I remember,

But I had no dying ember, as Poe had, when near the door,

Like a gastronomic goblin just beside my chamber door

Stood a bird,—and nothing more.

And I said, for I'm no craven, "Are you Edgar's famous raven,Seeking as with him a haven—were you mixed up with Lenore?"Then the bird uprose and fluttered, and this sentence strange he uttered,"Hang Lenore," he mildly muttered; "you have seen me once before,Seen me on this festive Christmas, seen me surely once before,I'm the Goose—and nothing more."

And I said, for I'm no craven, "Are you Edgar's famous raven,

Seeking as with him a haven—were you mixed up with Lenore?"

Then the bird uprose and fluttered, and this sentence strange he uttered,

"Hang Lenore," he mildly muttered; "you have seen me once before,

Seen me on this festive Christmas, seen me surely once before,

I'm the Goose—and nothing more."

Then he murmured, "Are you ready?" and with motion slow and steady,Straight he leapt upon my bed; he simply gave a stifled roar;And I cried, "As I'm a sinner, at a Goose-Club I was winner,'Tis a memory of my dinner, which I ate at half-past four,Goose well-stuffed with sage and onions, which I ate at half-past four."Quoth he hoarsely, "Eat no more!"

Then he murmured, "Are you ready?" and with motion slow and steady,

Straight he leapt upon my bed; he simply gave a stifled roar;

And I cried, "As I'm a sinner, at a Goose-Club I was winner,

'Tis a memory of my dinner, which I ate at half-past four,

Goose well-stuffed with sage and onions, which I ate at half-past four."

Quoth he hoarsely, "Eat no more!"

Said I, "I've enjoyed your juices, breast and back; but tell me, Goose, isThis revenge, and what the use is of your being such a bore?For Goose-flesh I will no more ax, if you'll not sit on my thorax,Go try honey mixed with borax, for I hear your throat is sore,You speak gruffly, though too plainly, and I'm sure your throat is sore."Quoth the nightmare, "Eat no more!"

Said I, "I've enjoyed your juices, breast and back; but tell me, Goose, is

This revenge, and what the use is of your being such a bore?

For Goose-flesh I will no more ax, if you'll not sit on my thorax,

Go try honey mixed with borax, for I hear your throat is sore,

You speak gruffly, though too plainly, and I'm sure your throat is sore."

Quoth the nightmare, "Eat no more!"

"Goose!" I shrieked out, "leave, oh, leave me, surely you don't mean to grieve me,You are heavy, pray reprieve me, now my penance must be o'er;Though to-night you've brought me sorrow, comfort surely comes to-morrow,Some relief from those I'd borrow at my doctor's ample store."Quoth the goblin, "Eat no more!"

"Goose!" I shrieked out, "leave, oh, leave me, surely you don't mean to grieve me,

You are heavy, pray reprieve me, now my penance must be o'er;

Though to-night you've brought me sorrow, comfort surely comes to-morrow,

Some relief from those I'd borrow at my doctor's ample store."

Quoth the goblin, "Eat no more!"

And that fat Goose, never flitting, like a nightmare still is sittingWith me all the night emitting words that thrill my bosom's core,Now throughout the Christmas season, while I lie and gasp and wheeze, onMe he sits until my reason nothing surely can restore,While that Goose says, "Eat no more!"Punch.

And that fat Goose, never flitting, like a nightmare still is sitting

With me all the night emitting words that thrill my bosom's core,

Now throughout the Christmas season, while I lie and gasp and wheeze, on

Me he sits until my reason nothing surely can restore,

While that Goose says, "Eat no more!"

Punch.

(The Sphygmophon is an apparatus connected with the telephone, by the help of which the movements of the pulse and heart may be rendered audible)

IWANDERED by the brookside,I wandered by the mill;The Sphygmophon was fixed there,Its wires ran past the hill.I heeded not the grasshopper,Nor chirp of any bird,For the beating of my own heartWas all the sound I heard.To test his apparatus,One end I closely press'd,The other at a distance,I hoped was next his chest.I listened for his footfall,I listened for his word,Still the bumping of my own heartWas all the sound I heard.He came not, no he came not,The night came on alone;And thinking he had tricked me,I loosed the Sphygmophon.The evening air passed by my cheek,The leaves above were stirred,When—the thumping of his own heartWas all the sound I heard.With joy I grasped the magnet,When some one stood behind,His hand was on my shoulder(But that I did not mind).Each spoke then—nearer—nearer,We shouted every word;But the booming of our own heartsWas all the sound we heard.Anonymous.

IWANDERED by the brookside,

I wandered by the mill;

The Sphygmophon was fixed there,

Its wires ran past the hill.

I heeded not the grasshopper,

Nor chirp of any bird,

For the beating of my own heart

Was all the sound I heard.

To test his apparatus,One end I closely press'd,The other at a distance,I hoped was next his chest.I listened for his footfall,I listened for his word,Still the bumping of my own heartWas all the sound I heard.

To test his apparatus,

One end I closely press'd,

The other at a distance,

I hoped was next his chest.

I listened for his footfall,

I listened for his word,

Still the bumping of my own heart

Was all the sound I heard.

He came not, no he came not,The night came on alone;And thinking he had tricked me,I loosed the Sphygmophon.The evening air passed by my cheek,The leaves above were stirred,When—the thumping of his own heartWas all the sound I heard.

He came not, no he came not,

The night came on alone;

And thinking he had tricked me,

I loosed the Sphygmophon.

The evening air passed by my cheek,

The leaves above were stirred,

When—the thumping of his own heart

Was all the sound I heard.

With joy I grasped the magnet,When some one stood behind,His hand was on my shoulder(But that I did not mind).Each spoke then—nearer—nearer,We shouted every word;But the booming of our own heartsWas all the sound we heard.Anonymous.

With joy I grasped the magnet,

When some one stood behind,

His hand was on my shoulder

(But that I did not mind).

Each spoke then—nearer—nearer,

We shouted every word;

But the booming of our own hearts

Was all the sound we heard.

Anonymous.

BREAK, break, break,On thy cold, hard stones, O sea!And I hope that my tongue won't utterThe curses that rise in me.Oh, well for the fisherman's boy,If he likes to be soused with the spray!Oh, well for the sailor lad,As he paddles about in the bay!And the ships swim happily on,To their haven under the hill;But O for a clutch of that vanished hand,And a kick—for I'm catching a chill!Break, break, break,At my poor bare feet, O sea!But the artful scamp who has collar'd my clothesWill never come back to me.Tennyson Minor.

BREAK, break, break,On thy cold, hard stones, O sea!And I hope that my tongue won't utterThe curses that rise in me.

BREAK, break, break,

On thy cold, hard stones, O sea!

And I hope that my tongue won't utter

The curses that rise in me.

Oh, well for the fisherman's boy,If he likes to be soused with the spray!Oh, well for the sailor lad,As he paddles about in the bay!

Oh, well for the fisherman's boy,

If he likes to be soused with the spray!

Oh, well for the sailor lad,

As he paddles about in the bay!

And the ships swim happily on,To their haven under the hill;But O for a clutch of that vanished hand,And a kick—for I'm catching a chill!

And the ships swim happily on,

To their haven under the hill;

But O for a clutch of that vanished hand,

And a kick—for I'm catching a chill!

Break, break, break,At my poor bare feet, O sea!But the artful scamp who has collar'd my clothesWill never come back to me.Tennyson Minor.

Break, break, break,

At my poor bare feet, O sea!

But the artful scamp who has collar'd my clothes

Will never come back to me.

Tennyson Minor.

(Reset as an Arthurian Idyl)

UPON a tuffet of most soft and verdant moss,Beneath the spreading branches of an ancient oak,Miss Muffet sat, and upward gazed,To where a linnet perched and sung,And rocked him gently, to and fro.Soft blew the breezeAnd mildly swayed the bough,Loud sung the bird,And sweetly dreamed the maid;Dreamed brightly of the days to come—The golden days, with her fair future blent.When one—some wondrous stately knight—Of our great Arthur's "Table Round;"One, brave as Launcelot, andSpotless as the pure Sir Galahad,Should come, and coming, choose herFor his love, and in her name,And for the sake of her fair eyes,Should do most knightly deeds.And as she dreamed and softly sighed,She pensively began to stir,With a tiny golden spoonWithin an antique dish upon her lap,Some snow-white milky curds;Soft were they, full of cream and rich,And floated in translucent whey;And as she stirred, she smiled,Then gently tasted them.And smiling, ate, nor sighed no more.Lo! as she ate—nor harbored thought of ill—Near and nearer yet, there to her crept,A monster great and terrible,With huge, misshapen body—leaden eyes—Full many a long and hairy leg,And soft and stealthy footstep.Nearer still he came—Miss Muffet yet,All unwitting his dread neighborhood,Did eat her curds and dream.Blithe, on the bough, the linnet sung—All terrestrial natures, sleeping, wraptIn a most sweet tranquillity.Closer still the spider drew, and—Paused beside her—lifted up his headAnd gazed into her face.Miss Muffet then, her consciousness aliveTo his dread eyes upon her fixed,Turned and beheld him.Loud screamed she, frightened and amazed,And straightway sprung upon her feet,And, letting fall her dish and spoon,She—shrieking—turned and fled.Anonymous.

UPON a tuffet of most soft and verdant moss,

Beneath the spreading branches of an ancient oak,

Miss Muffet sat, and upward gazed,

To where a linnet perched and sung,

And rocked him gently, to and fro.

Soft blew the breeze

And mildly swayed the bough,

Loud sung the bird,

And sweetly dreamed the maid;

Dreamed brightly of the days to come—

The golden days, with her fair future blent.

When one—some wondrous stately knight—

Of our great Arthur's "Table Round;"

One, brave as Launcelot, and

Spotless as the pure Sir Galahad,

Should come, and coming, choose her

For his love, and in her name,

And for the sake of her fair eyes,

Should do most knightly deeds.

And as she dreamed and softly sighed,

She pensively began to stir,

With a tiny golden spoon

Within an antique dish upon her lap,

Some snow-white milky curds;

Soft were they, full of cream and rich,

And floated in translucent whey;

And as she stirred, she smiled,

Then gently tasted them.

And smiling, ate, nor sighed no more.

Lo! as she ate—nor harbored thought of ill—

Near and nearer yet, there to her crept,

A monster great and terrible,

With huge, misshapen body—leaden eyes—

Full many a long and hairy leg,

And soft and stealthy footstep.

Nearer still he came—Miss Muffet yet,

All unwitting his dread neighborhood,

Did eat her curds and dream.

Blithe, on the bough, the linnet sung—

All terrestrial natures, sleeping, wrapt

In a most sweet tranquillity.

Closer still the spider drew, and—

Paused beside her—lifted up his head

And gazed into her face.

Miss Muffet then, her consciousness alive

To his dread eyes upon her fixed,

Turned and beheld him.

Loud screamed she, frightened and amazed,

And straightway sprung upon her feet,

And, letting fall her dish and spoon,

She—shrieking—turned and fled.

Anonymous.

BREAK, break, break,O voice!—let me urge thy plea!Oh, lower the Pitch, lest utterDespair be the end of me!'Tis well for the fiddles to squeak,The bassoon to grunt in its play;'Twere well had I lungs of brass,Or that nothing but strings give way!Break, break, break,O voice! I must urge thy plea,For the tender skin of my larynx is torn,And I fail in my upper G!Anonymous.

BREAK, break, break,O voice!—let me urge thy plea!Oh, lower the Pitch, lest utterDespair be the end of me!

BREAK, break, break,

O voice!—let me urge thy plea!

Oh, lower the Pitch, lest utter

Despair be the end of me!

'Tis well for the fiddles to squeak,The bassoon to grunt in its play;'Twere well had I lungs of brass,Or that nothing but strings give way!

'Tis well for the fiddles to squeak,

The bassoon to grunt in its play;

'Twere well had I lungs of brass,

Or that nothing but strings give way!

Break, break, break,O voice! I must urge thy plea,For the tender skin of my larynx is torn,And I fail in my upper G!Anonymous.

Break, break, break,

O voice! I must urge thy plea,

For the tender skin of my larynx is torn,

And I fail in my upper G!

Anonymous.

(During dinner and after Tennyson)

ASK me no more: I've had enough Chablis;The wine may come again and take the shapeFrom glass to glass of "Mountain" or of "Cape,"But my dear boy, when I have answered thee,Ask me no more.Ask me no more: what answer should I give,I love not pickled pork, nor partridge pie;I feel if I took whiskey I should die!Ask me no more—for I prefer to live:Ask me no more.Ask me no more: unless my fate is sealed,And I have striven against you all in vain.Let your good butler bring me "Hock" again;Then rest, dear boy. If for this once I yield,Ask me no more.Anonymous.

ASK me no more: I've had enough Chablis;The wine may come again and take the shapeFrom glass to glass of "Mountain" or of "Cape,"But my dear boy, when I have answered thee,Ask me no more.

ASK me no more: I've had enough Chablis;

The wine may come again and take the shape

From glass to glass of "Mountain" or of "Cape,"

But my dear boy, when I have answered thee,

Ask me no more.

Ask me no more: what answer should I give,I love not pickled pork, nor partridge pie;I feel if I took whiskey I should die!Ask me no more—for I prefer to live:Ask me no more.

Ask me no more: what answer should I give,

I love not pickled pork, nor partridge pie;

I feel if I took whiskey I should die!

Ask me no more—for I prefer to live:

Ask me no more.

Ask me no more: unless my fate is sealed,And I have striven against you all in vain.Let your good butler bring me "Hock" again;Then rest, dear boy. If for this once I yield,Ask me no more.Anonymous.

Ask me no more: unless my fate is sealed,

And I have striven against you all in vain.

Let your good butler bring me "Hock" again;

Then rest, dear boy. If for this once I yield,

Ask me no more.

Anonymous.

HALF a bar, half a bar,Half a bar onward!Into an awful ditchChoir and precentor hitch,Into a mess of pitch,They led the Old Hundred.Trebles to right of them,Tenors to left of them,Basses in front of them,Bellowed and thundered.Oh, that precentor's look,When the sopranos tookTheir own time and hookFrom the Old Hundred!Screeched all the trebles here,Boggled the tenors there,Raising the parson's hair,While his mind wandered;Theirs not to reason whyThis psalm was pitched too high:Theirs but to gasp and cryOut the Old Hundred.Trebles to right of them,Tenors to left of them,Basses in front of them,Bellowed and thundered.Stormed they with shout and yell,Not wise they sang nor well,Drowning the sexton's bell,While all the church wondered.Dire the precentor's glare,Flashed his pitchfork in airSounding fresh keys to bearOut the Old Hundred.Swiftly he turned his back,Reached he his hat from rack,Then from the screaming pack,Himself he sundered.Tenors to right of him,Tenors to left of him,Discords behind him,Bellowed and thundered.Oh, the wild howls they wrought:Right to the end they fought!Some tune they sang, but not,Not the Old Hundred.Anonymous.

HALF a bar, half a bar,

Half a bar onward!

Into an awful ditch

Choir and precentor hitch,

Into a mess of pitch,

They led the Old Hundred.

Trebles to right of them,

Tenors to left of them,

Basses in front of them,

Bellowed and thundered.

Oh, that precentor's look,

When the sopranos took

Their own time and hook

From the Old Hundred!

Screeched all the trebles here,Boggled the tenors there,Raising the parson's hair,While his mind wandered;Theirs not to reason whyThis psalm was pitched too high:Theirs but to gasp and cryOut the Old Hundred.Trebles to right of them,Tenors to left of them,Basses in front of them,Bellowed and thundered.Stormed they with shout and yell,Not wise they sang nor well,Drowning the sexton's bell,While all the church wondered.

Screeched all the trebles here,

Boggled the tenors there,

Raising the parson's hair,

While his mind wandered;

Theirs not to reason why

This psalm was pitched too high:

Theirs but to gasp and cry

Out the Old Hundred.

Trebles to right of them,

Tenors to left of them,

Basses in front of them,

Bellowed and thundered.

Stormed they with shout and yell,

Not wise they sang nor well,

Drowning the sexton's bell,

While all the church wondered.

Dire the precentor's glare,Flashed his pitchfork in airSounding fresh keys to bearOut the Old Hundred.Swiftly he turned his back,Reached he his hat from rack,Then from the screaming pack,Himself he sundered.Tenors to right of him,Tenors to left of him,Discords behind him,Bellowed and thundered.Oh, the wild howls they wrought:Right to the end they fought!Some tune they sang, but not,Not the Old Hundred.Anonymous.

Dire the precentor's glare,

Flashed his pitchfork in air

Sounding fresh keys to bear

Out the Old Hundred.

Swiftly he turned his back,

Reached he his hat from rack,

Then from the screaming pack,

Himself he sundered.

Tenors to right of him,

Tenors to left of him,

Discords behind him,

Bellowed and thundered.

Oh, the wild howls they wrought:

Right to the end they fought!

Some tune they sang, but not,

Not the Old Hundred.

Anonymous.

THE sun is in the sky, mother, the flowers are springing fair;And the melody of woodland birds is stirring in the air;The river, smiling to the sky, glides onward to the sea,And happiness is everywhere, oh, mother, but with me!They are going to the church, mother—I hear the marriage bellIt booms along the upland—Oh! it haunts me like a knell;He leads her on his arm, mother, he cheers her faltering step,And closely to his side she clings—she does, the demirep!They are crossing by the stile, mother, where we so oft have stood,The stile beside the shady thorn, at the corner of the wood;And the boughs, that wont to murmur back the words that won my ear,Wave their silver branches o'er him, as he leads his bridal fere.He will pass beside the stream, mother, where first my hand he pressed,By the meadow where, with quivering lip, his passion he confessed;And down the hedgerows where we've strayed again and yet again;But he will not think of me, mother, his broken-hearted Jane!He said that I was proud, mother, that I looked for rank and gold,He said I did not love him—he said my words were cold;He said I kept him off and on, in hopes of higher game—And it may be that I did, mother; who hasn't done the same?I did not know my heart, mother—I know it now too late;I thought that I without a pang could wed some nobler mate;But no nobler suitor sought me—and he has taken wing,And my heart is gone, and I am left a lone and blighted thing.You may lay me in my bed, mother—my head is throbbing sore;And, mother, prithee, let the sheets be duly aired before;And, if you'd please, my mother dear, your poor desponding child,Draw me a pot of beer, mother, and mother, draw it mild!William Aytoun.

THE sun is in the sky, mother, the flowers are springing fair;

And the melody of woodland birds is stirring in the air;

The river, smiling to the sky, glides onward to the sea,

And happiness is everywhere, oh, mother, but with me!

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

They are going to the church, mother—I hear the marriage bell

It booms along the upland—Oh! it haunts me like a knell;

He leads her on his arm, mother, he cheers her faltering step,

And closely to his side she clings—she does, the demirep!

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

They are crossing by the stile, mother, where we so oft have stood,

The stile beside the shady thorn, at the corner of the wood;

And the boughs, that wont to murmur back the words that won my ear,

Wave their silver branches o'er him, as he leads his bridal fere.

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

He will pass beside the stream, mother, where first my hand he pressed,

By the meadow where, with quivering lip, his passion he confessed;

And down the hedgerows where we've strayed again and yet again;

But he will not think of me, mother, his broken-hearted Jane!

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

He said that I was proud, mother, that I looked for rank and gold,

He said I did not love him—he said my words were cold;

He said I kept him off and on, in hopes of higher game—

And it may be that I did, mother; who hasn't done the same?

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

I did not know my heart, mother—I know it now too late;

I thought that I without a pang could wed some nobler mate;

But no nobler suitor sought me—and he has taken wing,

And my heart is gone, and I am left a lone and blighted thing.

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

You may lay me in my bed, mother—my head is throbbing sore;

And, mother, prithee, let the sheets be duly aired before;

And, if you'd please, my mother dear, your poor desponding child,

Draw me a pot of beer, mother, and mother, draw it mild!

William Aytoun.

WHO would not beThe Laureate bold,With his butt of sherryTo keep him merry,And nothing to do but to pocket his gold?'Tis I would be the Laureate bold!When the days are hot, and the sun is strong,I'd lounge in the gateway all the day longWith her Majesty's footmen in crimson and gold.I'd care not a pin for the waiting-lord,But I'd lie on my back on the smooth greenswardWith a straw in my mouth, and an open vest,And the cool wind blowing upon my breast,And I'd vacantly stare at the clear blue sky,And watch the clouds that are listless as I,Lazily, lazily!And I'd pick the moss and the daisies white,And chew their stalks with a nibbling bite;And I'd let my fancies roam abroadIn search of a hint for a birthday ode,Crazily, crazily!Oh, that would be the life for me,With plenty to get and nothing to do,But to deck a pet poodle with ribbons of blue,And whistle all day to the Queen's cockatoo,Trance-somely, trance-somely!Then the chambermaids, that clean the rooms,Would come to the windows and rest on their brooms,With their saucy caps and their crispéd hair,And they'd toss their heads in the fragrant air,And say to each other—"Just look down there,At the nice young man, so tidy and small,Who is paid for writing on nothing at all,Handsomely, handsomely!"They would pelt me with matches and sweet pastilles,And crumpled-up balls of the royal bills,Giggling and laughing, and screaming with fun,As they'd see me start, with a leap and a run,From the broad of my back to the points of my toes,When a pellet of paper hit my nose,Teasingly, sneezingly!Then I'd fling them bunches of garden flowers,And hyacinths plucked from the Castle bowers;And I'd challenge them all to come down to me,And I'd kiss them all till they kissed me,Laughingly, laughingly.Oh, would not that be a merry life,Apart from care and apart from strife,With the Laureate's wine, and the Laureate's pay,And no deductions at quarter-day?Oh, that would be the post for me!With plenty to get and nothing to do,But to deck a pet poodle with ribbons of blue,And whistle a tune to the Queen's cockatoo,And scribble of verses remarkably few,And empty at evening a bottle or two,Quaffingly, quaffingly!'Tis I would beThe Laureate bold,With my butt of sherryTo keep me merry,And nothing to do but to pocket my gold!William Aytoun.

WHO would not beThe Laureate bold,With his butt of sherryTo keep him merry,And nothing to do but to pocket his gold?

WHO would not be

The Laureate bold,

With his butt of sherry

To keep him merry,

And nothing to do but to pocket his gold?

'Tis I would be the Laureate bold!When the days are hot, and the sun is strong,I'd lounge in the gateway all the day longWith her Majesty's footmen in crimson and gold.I'd care not a pin for the waiting-lord,But I'd lie on my back on the smooth greenswardWith a straw in my mouth, and an open vest,And the cool wind blowing upon my breast,And I'd vacantly stare at the clear blue sky,And watch the clouds that are listless as I,Lazily, lazily!And I'd pick the moss and the daisies white,And chew their stalks with a nibbling bite;And I'd let my fancies roam abroadIn search of a hint for a birthday ode,Crazily, crazily!Oh, that would be the life for me,With plenty to get and nothing to do,But to deck a pet poodle with ribbons of blue,And whistle all day to the Queen's cockatoo,Trance-somely, trance-somely!Then the chambermaids, that clean the rooms,Would come to the windows and rest on their brooms,

'Tis I would be the Laureate bold!

When the days are hot, and the sun is strong,

I'd lounge in the gateway all the day long

With her Majesty's footmen in crimson and gold.

I'd care not a pin for the waiting-lord,

But I'd lie on my back on the smooth greensward

With a straw in my mouth, and an open vest,

And the cool wind blowing upon my breast,

And I'd vacantly stare at the clear blue sky,

And watch the clouds that are listless as I,

Lazily, lazily!

And I'd pick the moss and the daisies white,

And chew their stalks with a nibbling bite;

And I'd let my fancies roam abroad

In search of a hint for a birthday ode,

Crazily, crazily!

Oh, that would be the life for me,

With plenty to get and nothing to do,

But to deck a pet poodle with ribbons of blue,

And whistle all day to the Queen's cockatoo,

Trance-somely, trance-somely!

Then the chambermaids, that clean the rooms,

Would come to the windows and rest on their brooms,

With their saucy caps and their crispéd hair,And they'd toss their heads in the fragrant air,And say to each other—"Just look down there,At the nice young man, so tidy and small,Who is paid for writing on nothing at all,Handsomely, handsomely!"

With their saucy caps and their crispéd hair,

And they'd toss their heads in the fragrant air,

And say to each other—"Just look down there,

At the nice young man, so tidy and small,

Who is paid for writing on nothing at all,

Handsomely, handsomely!"

They would pelt me with matches and sweet pastilles,And crumpled-up balls of the royal bills,Giggling and laughing, and screaming with fun,As they'd see me start, with a leap and a run,From the broad of my back to the points of my toes,When a pellet of paper hit my nose,Teasingly, sneezingly!

They would pelt me with matches and sweet pastilles,

And crumpled-up balls of the royal bills,

Giggling and laughing, and screaming with fun,

As they'd see me start, with a leap and a run,

From the broad of my back to the points of my toes,

When a pellet of paper hit my nose,

Teasingly, sneezingly!

Then I'd fling them bunches of garden flowers,And hyacinths plucked from the Castle bowers;And I'd challenge them all to come down to me,And I'd kiss them all till they kissed me,Laughingly, laughingly.

Then I'd fling them bunches of garden flowers,

And hyacinths plucked from the Castle bowers;

And I'd challenge them all to come down to me,

And I'd kiss them all till they kissed me,

Laughingly, laughingly.

Oh, would not that be a merry life,Apart from care and apart from strife,With the Laureate's wine, and the Laureate's pay,And no deductions at quarter-day?Oh, that would be the post for me!With plenty to get and nothing to do,But to deck a pet poodle with ribbons of blue,And whistle a tune to the Queen's cockatoo,And scribble of verses remarkably few,And empty at evening a bottle or two,Quaffingly, quaffingly!

Oh, would not that be a merry life,

Apart from care and apart from strife,

With the Laureate's wine, and the Laureate's pay,

And no deductions at quarter-day?

Oh, that would be the post for me!

With plenty to get and nothing to do,

But to deck a pet poodle with ribbons of blue,

And whistle a tune to the Queen's cockatoo,

And scribble of verses remarkably few,

And empty at evening a bottle or two,

Quaffingly, quaffingly!

'Tis I would beThe Laureate bold,With my butt of sherryTo keep me merry,And nothing to do but to pocket my gold!William Aytoun.

'Tis I would be

The Laureate bold,

With my butt of sherry

To keep me merry,

And nothing to do but to pocket my gold!

William Aytoun.

Back to Index Next