A PARODY ANTHOLOGY

Shakespeare, with the exception of one or two of his most hackneyed speeches, is rarely parodied; doubtless owing to the fact that his harmonious work shows no incongruities of matter or manner, and strikes no false notes for the parodists to catch at.

The extent of the domain of parody is vastly larger than is imagined by the average reader, and its already published bibliographies show thousands of collected parodies of varying degrees of merit.

Of all the poets Tennyson has probably been parodied the most; followed closely in this respect by Edgar Allan Poe. After these, Browning, Swinburne, and Walt Whitman; then Moore, Wordsworth, Longfellow, and Thomas Campbell.

Of single poems the one showing the greatest number of parodies is “My Mother," by Ann Taylor; after this those most used for the purpose have been “The Raven," Gray's “Elegy," “The Song of the Shirt," “The May Queen," “LocksleyHall," “The Burial of Sir John Moore," and Kingsley's “Three Fishers."

Parody, then, is a tribute to popularity, and consequently to merit of one sort or another, and in the hands of the initiate may be considered a touch-stone that proves true worth.

WAKE! for the sun has driven in equal flightThe stars before him from the Tee of Night,And holed them every one without a Miss,Swinging at ease his gold-shod Shaft of Light.Now, the fresh Year reviving old Desires,The thoughtful Soul to Solitude retires,Pores on this Club and That with anxious eye,And dreams of Rounds beyond the Rounds of Liars.Come, choose your Ball, and in the fire of Spring,Your Red Coat and your wooden Putter fling;The Club of Time has but a little whileTo waggle, and the Club is on the swing.A Bag of Clubs, a Silver Town or two,A Flask of Scotch, a Pipe of Shag, and ThouBeside me caddying in the Wilderness—Ah, Wilderness were Paradise enow.Myself, when young, did eagerly frequentJamie and His, and heard great argumentOf Grip, and Stance, and Swing; but evermoreFound at the Exit but a Dollar spent.With them the seed of Wisdom did I sow,And with mine own hand sought to make it grow;And this was all the Harvest that I reap'd;“You hold it in this Way, and you swing it So."The swinging Brassie strikes; and, having struck,Moves on; nor all your Wit or future LuckShall lure it back to cancel half a Stroke,Nor from the Card a single Seven pluck.No hope by Club or Ball to win the Prize;The batter'd, blacken'd Remade sweetly flies,Swept cleanly from the Tee; this is the TruthNine-tenths is Skill, and all the rest is Lies.And that inverted Ball they call the High,By which the Duffer thinks to live or die,Lift not your hands to It for help, for itAs impotently froths as you or I.Yon rising Moon that leads us home again,How oft hereafter will she wax and wane;How oft hereafter rising, wait for usAt this same Turning—and for One in vain.And when, like her, my Golfer, I have beenAnd am no more above the pleasant Green,And you in your mild Journey pass the HoleI made in One—ah, pay my Forfeit then!H. W. Boynton.

WAKE! for the sun has driven in equal flightThe stars before him from the Tee of Night,And holed them every one without a Miss,Swinging at ease his gold-shod Shaft of Light.

WAKE! for the sun has driven in equal flight

The stars before him from the Tee of Night,

And holed them every one without a Miss,

Swinging at ease his gold-shod Shaft of Light.

Now, the fresh Year reviving old Desires,The thoughtful Soul to Solitude retires,Pores on this Club and That with anxious eye,And dreams of Rounds beyond the Rounds of Liars.

Now, the fresh Year reviving old Desires,

The thoughtful Soul to Solitude retires,

Pores on this Club and That with anxious eye,

And dreams of Rounds beyond the Rounds of Liars.

Come, choose your Ball, and in the fire of Spring,Your Red Coat and your wooden Putter fling;The Club of Time has but a little whileTo waggle, and the Club is on the swing.

Come, choose your Ball, and in the fire of Spring,

Your Red Coat and your wooden Putter fling;

The Club of Time has but a little while

To waggle, and the Club is on the swing.

A Bag of Clubs, a Silver Town or two,A Flask of Scotch, a Pipe of Shag, and ThouBeside me caddying in the Wilderness—Ah, Wilderness were Paradise enow.

A Bag of Clubs, a Silver Town or two,

A Flask of Scotch, a Pipe of Shag, and Thou

Beside me caddying in the Wilderness—

Ah, Wilderness were Paradise enow.

Myself, when young, did eagerly frequentJamie and His, and heard great argumentOf Grip, and Stance, and Swing; but evermoreFound at the Exit but a Dollar spent.

Myself, when young, did eagerly frequent

Jamie and His, and heard great argument

Of Grip, and Stance, and Swing; but evermore

Found at the Exit but a Dollar spent.

With them the seed of Wisdom did I sow,And with mine own hand sought to make it grow;And this was all the Harvest that I reap'd;“You hold it in this Way, and you swing it So."

With them the seed of Wisdom did I sow,

And with mine own hand sought to make it grow;

And this was all the Harvest that I reap'd;

“You hold it in this Way, and you swing it So."

The swinging Brassie strikes; and, having struck,Moves on; nor all your Wit or future LuckShall lure it back to cancel half a Stroke,Nor from the Card a single Seven pluck.

The swinging Brassie strikes; and, having struck,

Moves on; nor all your Wit or future Luck

Shall lure it back to cancel half a Stroke,

Nor from the Card a single Seven pluck.

No hope by Club or Ball to win the Prize;The batter'd, blacken'd Remade sweetly flies,Swept cleanly from the Tee; this is the TruthNine-tenths is Skill, and all the rest is Lies.

No hope by Club or Ball to win the Prize;

The batter'd, blacken'd Remade sweetly flies,

Swept cleanly from the Tee; this is the Truth

Nine-tenths is Skill, and all the rest is Lies.

And that inverted Ball they call the High,By which the Duffer thinks to live or die,Lift not your hands to It for help, for itAs impotently froths as you or I.

And that inverted Ball they call the High,

By which the Duffer thinks to live or die,

Lift not your hands to It for help, for it

As impotently froths as you or I.

Yon rising Moon that leads us home again,How oft hereafter will she wax and wane;How oft hereafter rising, wait for usAt this same Turning—and for One in vain.

Yon rising Moon that leads us home again,

How oft hereafter will she wax and wane;

How oft hereafter rising, wait for us

At this same Turning—and for One in vain.

And when, like her, my Golfer, I have beenAnd am no more above the pleasant Green,And you in your mild Journey pass the HoleI made in One—ah, pay my Forfeit then!H. W. Boynton.

And when, like her, my Golfer, I have been

And am no more above the pleasant Green,

And you in your mild Journey pass the Hole

I made in One—ah, pay my Forfeit then!

H. W. Boynton.

ONE for her Club and her own Latch-key fights,Another wastes in Study her good Nights.Ah, take the Clothes and let the Culture go,Nor heed the grumble of the Women's Rights!Look at the Shop-girl all about us—“Lo,The Wages of a month," she says, “I blowInto a Hat, and when my hair is waved,Doubtless my Friend will take me to the Show."And she who saved her coin for Flannels red,And she who caught Pneumonia instead,Will both be Underground in Fifty Years,And Prudence pays no Premium to the dead.Th' exclusive Style you set your heart uponGets to the Bargain counters—and anonLike monograms on a Saleslady's tieCheers but a moment—soon for you 'tis gone.Think, on the sad Four Hundred's gilded halls,Whose endless Leisure ev'n themselves appalls,How Ping-pong raged so high—then faded outTo those far Suburbs that still chase its Balls.They say Sixth Avenue and the Bowery keepThedernier crithat once was far from cheap;Green Veils, one season chic—Department storesMark down in vain—no profit shall they reap.I sometimes think that never lasts so longThe Style as when it starts a bit too strong;That all the Pompadours the parterre boastsSome Chorus-girl began, with Dance and Song.And this Revival of the Chignon lowThat fills the most of us with helpless Woe,Ah, criticise it Softly! for who knowsWhat long-necked Peeress had to wear it so!Ah, my beloved, try each Style you meet;To-day brooks no loose ends, you must be neat.To-morrow! why, to-morrow you may beWearing it down your back like Marguerite!For some we once admired, the Very BestThat ever a French hand-boned Corset prest,Wore what they used to call Prunella Boots,And put on Nightcaps ere they went to rest.And we that now make fun of WaterfallsThey wore, and whom their Crinoline appalls,Ourselves shall from old dusty Fashion platesAssist our Children in their Costume balls.Ah, make the most of what we yet may wear,Before we grow so old that we don't care!Before we have our Hats made all alike,Sans Plumes, sans Wings, sans Chiffon, and—sans Hair!Josephine Daskam Bacon.

ONE for her Club and her own Latch-key fights,Another wastes in Study her good Nights.Ah, take the Clothes and let the Culture go,Nor heed the grumble of the Women's Rights!

ONE for her Club and her own Latch-key fights,

Another wastes in Study her good Nights.

Ah, take the Clothes and let the Culture go,

Nor heed the grumble of the Women's Rights!

Look at the Shop-girl all about us—“Lo,The Wages of a month," she says, “I blowInto a Hat, and when my hair is waved,Doubtless my Friend will take me to the Show."

Look at the Shop-girl all about us—“Lo,

The Wages of a month," she says, “I blow

Into a Hat, and when my hair is waved,

Doubtless my Friend will take me to the Show."

And she who saved her coin for Flannels red,And she who caught Pneumonia instead,Will both be Underground in Fifty Years,And Prudence pays no Premium to the dead.

And she who saved her coin for Flannels red,

And she who caught Pneumonia instead,

Will both be Underground in Fifty Years,

And Prudence pays no Premium to the dead.

Th' exclusive Style you set your heart uponGets to the Bargain counters—and anonLike monograms on a Saleslady's tieCheers but a moment—soon for you 'tis gone.

Th' exclusive Style you set your heart upon

Gets to the Bargain counters—and anon

Like monograms on a Saleslady's tie

Cheers but a moment—soon for you 'tis gone.

Think, on the sad Four Hundred's gilded halls,Whose endless Leisure ev'n themselves appalls,How Ping-pong raged so high—then faded outTo those far Suburbs that still chase its Balls.They say Sixth Avenue and the Bowery keepThedernier crithat once was far from cheap;Green Veils, one season chic—Department storesMark down in vain—no profit shall they reap.

Think, on the sad Four Hundred's gilded halls,

Whose endless Leisure ev'n themselves appalls,

How Ping-pong raged so high—then faded out

To those far Suburbs that still chase its Balls.

They say Sixth Avenue and the Bowery keep

Thedernier crithat once was far from cheap;

Green Veils, one season chic—Department stores

Mark down in vain—no profit shall they reap.

I sometimes think that never lasts so longThe Style as when it starts a bit too strong;That all the Pompadours the parterre boastsSome Chorus-girl began, with Dance and Song.

I sometimes think that never lasts so long

The Style as when it starts a bit too strong;

That all the Pompadours the parterre boasts

Some Chorus-girl began, with Dance and Song.

And this Revival of the Chignon lowThat fills the most of us with helpless Woe,Ah, criticise it Softly! for who knowsWhat long-necked Peeress had to wear it so!

And this Revival of the Chignon low

That fills the most of us with helpless Woe,

Ah, criticise it Softly! for who knows

What long-necked Peeress had to wear it so!

Ah, my beloved, try each Style you meet;To-day brooks no loose ends, you must be neat.To-morrow! why, to-morrow you may beWearing it down your back like Marguerite!

Ah, my beloved, try each Style you meet;

To-day brooks no loose ends, you must be neat.

To-morrow! why, to-morrow you may be

Wearing it down your back like Marguerite!

For some we once admired, the Very BestThat ever a French hand-boned Corset prest,Wore what they used to call Prunella Boots,And put on Nightcaps ere they went to rest.

For some we once admired, the Very Best

That ever a French hand-boned Corset prest,

Wore what they used to call Prunella Boots,

And put on Nightcaps ere they went to rest.

And we that now make fun of WaterfallsThey wore, and whom their Crinoline appalls,Ourselves shall from old dusty Fashion platesAssist our Children in their Costume balls.

And we that now make fun of Waterfalls

They wore, and whom their Crinoline appalls,

Ourselves shall from old dusty Fashion plates

Assist our Children in their Costume balls.

Ah, make the most of what we yet may wear,Before we grow so old that we don't care!Before we have our Hats made all alike,Sans Plumes, sans Wings, sans Chiffon, and—sans Hair!Josephine Daskam Bacon.

Ah, make the most of what we yet may wear,

Before we grow so old that we don't care!

Before we have our Hats made all alike,

Sans Plumes, sans Wings, sans Chiffon, and—sans Hair!

Josephine Daskam Bacon.

FOOTNOTE:[A]Copyright, 1903, by Harper & Brothers.

[A]Copyright, 1903, by Harper & Brothers.

(Dobley's Version)

HARK! for the message cometh from the King!Winter, thy doom is spoke; thy dirges ring,Thy time is o'er—and through the Palace doorEnter the Princess! Hail the new-crowned Spring!Comes she all rose-crowned, glowing with the JoyOf Laughter and of Cupid, the God-Boy;Buds bursting on the bough in welcomingTo Her we Love, whose loving will not cloy!List! from the organ rippling in the StreetCome sounds rejoicing, glad Her reign to greet.The Shad is smiling in the Market PlaceAnd eke the Little Neck! Ah—Life is Sweet!Come, let us lilt a Merry Little SongAnd in an Automobile glide alongInto the glory of the Year's new Birth.Hasten! Oh, haste! For this is Spring, I Think!Come where the Bonnets bloom within the GroveAnd let us pluck them for the One we Love;Violets and Things and chiffon-nested Birds.Tell me—didst ever see a Glass-Eyed Dove?Think you how many Springs will go and comeWhen We are Dead Ones—and the busy HumOf life will never reach us—Nothing DoneAnd Nothing Doing in the Silence Glum!Listen! the cable car's Gay Gong has rang,The Elevated on its perch, A-clangLike to a District Messenger astir.Thought you, it was a Nightingale that sang?Ah! my Beloved, when it's Really SpringWe know it by the Buds a-blossoming,Signals from earth to sky—Tremendous SoundsThat might to Some mean any Ancient Thing!Then let us to the Caravan at Once,The Sawdust where the Peanut hauntsThe air with strange sweet OdorsAnd the Elephant does Wild and Woolly Stunts!Asparagus is glowing on the Stall,The Spring lamb cavorts on the Menu tall;Strawberries ripe—a Dollar for the Box:Wouldn't it jar You somehow, After all?A Book of Coon Songs underneath the Bough,A Jug of Wine, a Dozen Buns, and ThouBeside me singing rag-time? I don't know?I wonder would a dozen be enow?I sent my soul afling through Joy and PainFor Information that the Winds might deign.Softly the breezes pitched it, Russie-curved,And whispered slowly—sadly—“Guess Again."Sometimes I think the Glories that they SingAre like the grape-vine the Fox tried to cling;But take To-day—and make the Most of It,I think it's Just Too Sweet for anything!What of To-morrow—say you? Oh, my Friend—To-morrow's Not been Touched. It's yet to Spend.I often wonder if we should expireIf we could but Collect the Gold we Lend!Ah, Love! could Thou and I Creation run,How Different our Scheme! The Summer's sunWould see another Springtime blossoming,Another Summer's Rose to Follow On!And Leaning from the Sky a Little StarWould Tell Us from the Canopy afarWhat now we Grope for in the Dinky-dink,And wonder blindly, vaguely, What we Are!And when Alone you dream your fancies ripe,Thyself all Hasheesh-fed—My Prototype!Smoke Up—and when you gather with the GroupWhere I made One—Turn Down an Empty Pipe!Kate Masterson

HARK! for the message cometh from the King!Winter, thy doom is spoke; thy dirges ring,Thy time is o'er—and through the Palace doorEnter the Princess! Hail the new-crowned Spring!

HARK! for the message cometh from the King!

Winter, thy doom is spoke; thy dirges ring,

Thy time is o'er—and through the Palace door

Enter the Princess! Hail the new-crowned Spring!

Comes she all rose-crowned, glowing with the JoyOf Laughter and of Cupid, the God-Boy;Buds bursting on the bough in welcomingTo Her we Love, whose loving will not cloy!

Comes she all rose-crowned, glowing with the Joy

Of Laughter and of Cupid, the God-Boy;

Buds bursting on the bough in welcoming

To Her we Love, whose loving will not cloy!

List! from the organ rippling in the StreetCome sounds rejoicing, glad Her reign to greet.The Shad is smiling in the Market PlaceAnd eke the Little Neck! Ah—Life is Sweet!

List! from the organ rippling in the Street

Come sounds rejoicing, glad Her reign to greet.

The Shad is smiling in the Market Place

And eke the Little Neck! Ah—Life is Sweet!

Come, let us lilt a Merry Little SongAnd in an Automobile glide alongInto the glory of the Year's new Birth.Hasten! Oh, haste! For this is Spring, I Think!

Come, let us lilt a Merry Little Song

And in an Automobile glide along

Into the glory of the Year's new Birth.

Hasten! Oh, haste! For this is Spring, I Think!

Come where the Bonnets bloom within the GroveAnd let us pluck them for the One we Love;Violets and Things and chiffon-nested Birds.Tell me—didst ever see a Glass-Eyed Dove?

Come where the Bonnets bloom within the Grove

And let us pluck them for the One we Love;

Violets and Things and chiffon-nested Birds.

Tell me—didst ever see a Glass-Eyed Dove?

Think you how many Springs will go and comeWhen We are Dead Ones—and the busy HumOf life will never reach us—Nothing DoneAnd Nothing Doing in the Silence Glum!

Think you how many Springs will go and come

When We are Dead Ones—and the busy Hum

Of life will never reach us—Nothing Done

And Nothing Doing in the Silence Glum!

Listen! the cable car's Gay Gong has rang,The Elevated on its perch, A-clangLike to a District Messenger astir.Thought you, it was a Nightingale that sang?

Listen! the cable car's Gay Gong has rang,

The Elevated on its perch, A-clang

Like to a District Messenger astir.

Thought you, it was a Nightingale that sang?

Ah! my Beloved, when it's Really SpringWe know it by the Buds a-blossoming,Signals from earth to sky—Tremendous SoundsThat might to Some mean any Ancient Thing!

Ah! my Beloved, when it's Really Spring

We know it by the Buds a-blossoming,

Signals from earth to sky—Tremendous Sounds

That might to Some mean any Ancient Thing!

Then let us to the Caravan at Once,The Sawdust where the Peanut hauntsThe air with strange sweet OdorsAnd the Elephant does Wild and Woolly Stunts!

Then let us to the Caravan at Once,

The Sawdust where the Peanut haunts

The air with strange sweet Odors

And the Elephant does Wild and Woolly Stunts!

Asparagus is glowing on the Stall,The Spring lamb cavorts on the Menu tall;Strawberries ripe—a Dollar for the Box:Wouldn't it jar You somehow, After all?

Asparagus is glowing on the Stall,

The Spring lamb cavorts on the Menu tall;

Strawberries ripe—a Dollar for the Box:

Wouldn't it jar You somehow, After all?

A Book of Coon Songs underneath the Bough,A Jug of Wine, a Dozen Buns, and ThouBeside me singing rag-time? I don't know?I wonder would a dozen be enow?

A Book of Coon Songs underneath the Bough,

A Jug of Wine, a Dozen Buns, and Thou

Beside me singing rag-time? I don't know?

I wonder would a dozen be enow?

I sent my soul afling through Joy and PainFor Information that the Winds might deign.Softly the breezes pitched it, Russie-curved,And whispered slowly—sadly—“Guess Again."

I sent my soul afling through Joy and Pain

For Information that the Winds might deign.

Softly the breezes pitched it, Russie-curved,

And whispered slowly—sadly—“Guess Again."

Sometimes I think the Glories that they SingAre like the grape-vine the Fox tried to cling;But take To-day—and make the Most of It,I think it's Just Too Sweet for anything!

Sometimes I think the Glories that they Sing

Are like the grape-vine the Fox tried to cling;

But take To-day—and make the Most of It,

I think it's Just Too Sweet for anything!

What of To-morrow—say you? Oh, my Friend—To-morrow's Not been Touched. It's yet to Spend.I often wonder if we should expireIf we could but Collect the Gold we Lend!

What of To-morrow—say you? Oh, my Friend—

To-morrow's Not been Touched. It's yet to Spend.

I often wonder if we should expire

If we could but Collect the Gold we Lend!

Ah, Love! could Thou and I Creation run,How Different our Scheme! The Summer's sunWould see another Springtime blossoming,Another Summer's Rose to Follow On!

Ah, Love! could Thou and I Creation run,

How Different our Scheme! The Summer's sun

Would see another Springtime blossoming,

Another Summer's Rose to Follow On!

And Leaning from the Sky a Little StarWould Tell Us from the Canopy afarWhat now we Grope for in the Dinky-dink,And wonder blindly, vaguely, What we Are!

And Leaning from the Sky a Little Star

Would Tell Us from the Canopy afar

What now we Grope for in the Dinky-dink,

And wonder blindly, vaguely, What we Are!

And when Alone you dream your fancies ripe,Thyself all Hasheesh-fed—My Prototype!Smoke Up—and when you gather with the GroupWhere I made One—Turn Down an Empty Pipe!Kate Masterson

And when Alone you dream your fancies ripe,

Thyself all Hasheesh-fed—My Prototype!

Smoke Up—and when you gather with the Group

Where I made One—Turn Down an Empty Pipe!

Kate Masterson

MASTER, in memory of that Verse of Thine,And of Thy rather pretty taste in Wine,We gather at this jaded Century's end,Our Cheeks, if so we may, to incarnadine.Thou hast the kind of Halo which outstaysMost other Genii's. Though a Laureate's baysShould slowly crumple up, Thou livest on,Having survived a certain Paraphrase.The Lion and the Alligator squatIn Dervish Courts—the Weather being hot—Under Umbrellas. Where is Mahmud now?Plucked by the Kitchener and gone to Pot!Not so with thee; but in Thy place of Rest,Where East is East and never can be West,Thou art the enduring Theme of dining Bards;O make allowances; they do their Best.Our Health—Thy Prophet's health—is but so-so;Much marred by men of Abstinence who knowOf Thee and all Thy loving Tavern-loreNothing, nor care for it one paltry Blow.Yea, we ourselves, who beam around Thy Bowl,Somewhat to dull Convention bow the Soul,We sit in sable Trouserings and Boots,Nor do the Vine-leaves deck a single Poll.How could they bloom in uncongenial air?Nor, though they bloomed profusely, should we wearUpon our Heads—so tight is Habit's hold—Aught else beside our own unaided Hair.The Epoch curbs our Fancy. What is moreToBE, in any case, is now a Bore.Even in Humor there is nothing new;There is no Joke that was not made before.But Thou! with what a fresh and poignant stingThy Muse remarked that Time was on the Wing!Ah, Golden Age, when Virgin was the Soil,And Decadence was deemed a newish Thing.These picturesque departures now are stale;The noblest Vices have their vogue and fail;Through some inherent Taint or lack of NerveWe cease to sin upon a generous scale.This hour, though drinking at my Host's expense,I fear to use a fine Incontinence,For terror of the Law and him that waitsOutside, the unknown X, to hale us hence.For, should he make of us an ill ReportAs pipkins of the more loquacious Sort,We might be lodged, the Lord alone knows where,Save Peace were purchased with a pewter Quart.And yet, O Lover of the purple Vine,Haply Thy Ghost is watching how we dine;Ah, let the Whither go; we'll take our chanceOf fourteen days with option of a Fine.Master, if we, Thy Vessels, staunch and stout,Should stagger, half-seas-over, blind with Doubt,In sound of that dread moaning of the Bar,Be near, be very near, to bail us out!Owen Seaman.

MASTER, in memory of that Verse of Thine,And of Thy rather pretty taste in Wine,We gather at this jaded Century's end,Our Cheeks, if so we may, to incarnadine.

MASTER, in memory of that Verse of Thine,

And of Thy rather pretty taste in Wine,

We gather at this jaded Century's end,

Our Cheeks, if so we may, to incarnadine.

Thou hast the kind of Halo which outstaysMost other Genii's. Though a Laureate's baysShould slowly crumple up, Thou livest on,Having survived a certain Paraphrase.

Thou hast the kind of Halo which outstays

Most other Genii's. Though a Laureate's bays

Should slowly crumple up, Thou livest on,

Having survived a certain Paraphrase.

The Lion and the Alligator squatIn Dervish Courts—the Weather being hot—Under Umbrellas. Where is Mahmud now?Plucked by the Kitchener and gone to Pot!

The Lion and the Alligator squat

In Dervish Courts—the Weather being hot—

Under Umbrellas. Where is Mahmud now?

Plucked by the Kitchener and gone to Pot!

Not so with thee; but in Thy place of Rest,Where East is East and never can be West,Thou art the enduring Theme of dining Bards;O make allowances; they do their Best.

Not so with thee; but in Thy place of Rest,

Where East is East and never can be West,

Thou art the enduring Theme of dining Bards;

O make allowances; they do their Best.

Our Health—Thy Prophet's health—is but so-so;Much marred by men of Abstinence who knowOf Thee and all Thy loving Tavern-loreNothing, nor care for it one paltry Blow.

Our Health—Thy Prophet's health—is but so-so;

Much marred by men of Abstinence who know

Of Thee and all Thy loving Tavern-lore

Nothing, nor care for it one paltry Blow.

Yea, we ourselves, who beam around Thy Bowl,Somewhat to dull Convention bow the Soul,We sit in sable Trouserings and Boots,Nor do the Vine-leaves deck a single Poll.

Yea, we ourselves, who beam around Thy Bowl,

Somewhat to dull Convention bow the Soul,

We sit in sable Trouserings and Boots,

Nor do the Vine-leaves deck a single Poll.

How could they bloom in uncongenial air?Nor, though they bloomed profusely, should we wearUpon our Heads—so tight is Habit's hold—Aught else beside our own unaided Hair.

How could they bloom in uncongenial air?

Nor, though they bloomed profusely, should we wear

Upon our Heads—so tight is Habit's hold—

Aught else beside our own unaided Hair.

The Epoch curbs our Fancy. What is moreToBE, in any case, is now a Bore.Even in Humor there is nothing new;There is no Joke that was not made before.

The Epoch curbs our Fancy. What is more

ToBE, in any case, is now a Bore.

Even in Humor there is nothing new;

There is no Joke that was not made before.

But Thou! with what a fresh and poignant stingThy Muse remarked that Time was on the Wing!Ah, Golden Age, when Virgin was the Soil,And Decadence was deemed a newish Thing.

But Thou! with what a fresh and poignant sting

Thy Muse remarked that Time was on the Wing!

Ah, Golden Age, when Virgin was the Soil,

And Decadence was deemed a newish Thing.

These picturesque departures now are stale;The noblest Vices have their vogue and fail;Through some inherent Taint or lack of NerveWe cease to sin upon a generous scale.

These picturesque departures now are stale;

The noblest Vices have their vogue and fail;

Through some inherent Taint or lack of Nerve

We cease to sin upon a generous scale.

This hour, though drinking at my Host's expense,I fear to use a fine Incontinence,For terror of the Law and him that waitsOutside, the unknown X, to hale us hence.

This hour, though drinking at my Host's expense,

I fear to use a fine Incontinence,

For terror of the Law and him that waits

Outside, the unknown X, to hale us hence.

For, should he make of us an ill ReportAs pipkins of the more loquacious Sort,We might be lodged, the Lord alone knows where,Save Peace were purchased with a pewter Quart.

For, should he make of us an ill Report

As pipkins of the more loquacious Sort,

We might be lodged, the Lord alone knows where,

Save Peace were purchased with a pewter Quart.

And yet, O Lover of the purple Vine,Haply Thy Ghost is watching how we dine;Ah, let the Whither go; we'll take our chanceOf fourteen days with option of a Fine.

And yet, O Lover of the purple Vine,

Haply Thy Ghost is watching how we dine;

Ah, let the Whither go; we'll take our chance

Of fourteen days with option of a Fine.

Master, if we, Thy Vessels, staunch and stout,Should stagger, half-seas-over, blind with Doubt,In sound of that dread moaning of the Bar,Be near, be very near, to bail us out!Owen Seaman.

Master, if we, Thy Vessels, staunch and stout,

Should stagger, half-seas-over, blind with Doubt,

In sound of that dread moaning of the Bar,

Be near, be very near, to bail us out!

Owen Seaman.

OMAR'S the fad! Well then, let us inditeThe shape of verse old Omar used to write;And Juveniles are up. So we opineA Baby's Omarwould be out of sight!Methinks the stunt is easy. Stilted style,A misplaced Capital once in a while,—Other verse writers do it like a shot;And can't I do it too? Well, I should Smile!But how I ramble on. I must dismissDull Sloth, and set to Work at once, I wis;I sometimes think there's nothing quite so hardAs a Beginning. Say we start like this:Indeed, indeed my apron oft beforeI tore, but was I naughty when I tore?And then, and then came Ma, and thread in handRepaired the rent in my small pinafore.A Penny Trumpet underneath the Bough,A Drum that's big enough to make a Row;A Toy Fire-Engine, and a squeaking Doll,Oh, Life were Pandemonium enow.Come, fill the Cup, then quickly on the floorYour portion of the Porridge gaily pour.The Nurse will Spank you, and she'll be discharged,—Ah, but of Nurses there be Plenty more.Yes, I can do it! Now, if but my PurseSome kindly Editor will reimburse,I'll write a Baby's Omar; for I'm sureThese Sample Stanzas here are not so worse.Carolyn Wells.

OMAR'S the fad! Well then, let us inditeThe shape of verse old Omar used to write;And Juveniles are up. So we opineA Baby's Omarwould be out of sight!

OMAR'S the fad! Well then, let us indite

The shape of verse old Omar used to write;

And Juveniles are up. So we opine

A Baby's Omarwould be out of sight!

Methinks the stunt is easy. Stilted style,A misplaced Capital once in a while,—Other verse writers do it like a shot;And can't I do it too? Well, I should Smile!

Methinks the stunt is easy. Stilted style,

A misplaced Capital once in a while,—

Other verse writers do it like a shot;

And can't I do it too? Well, I should Smile!

But how I ramble on. I must dismissDull Sloth, and set to Work at once, I wis;I sometimes think there's nothing quite so hardAs a Beginning. Say we start like this:

But how I ramble on. I must dismiss

Dull Sloth, and set to Work at once, I wis;

I sometimes think there's nothing quite so hard

As a Beginning. Say we start like this:

Indeed, indeed my apron oft beforeI tore, but was I naughty when I tore?And then, and then came Ma, and thread in handRepaired the rent in my small pinafore.

Indeed, indeed my apron oft before

I tore, but was I naughty when I tore?

And then, and then came Ma, and thread in hand

Repaired the rent in my small pinafore.

A Penny Trumpet underneath the Bough,A Drum that's big enough to make a Row;A Toy Fire-Engine, and a squeaking Doll,Oh, Life were Pandemonium enow.

A Penny Trumpet underneath the Bough,

A Drum that's big enough to make a Row;

A Toy Fire-Engine, and a squeaking Doll,

Oh, Life were Pandemonium enow.

Come, fill the Cup, then quickly on the floorYour portion of the Porridge gaily pour.The Nurse will Spank you, and she'll be discharged,—Ah, but of Nurses there be Plenty more.

Come, fill the Cup, then quickly on the floor

Your portion of the Porridge gaily pour.

The Nurse will Spank you, and she'll be discharged,—

Ah, but of Nurses there be Plenty more.

Yes, I can do it! Now, if but my PurseSome kindly Editor will reimburse,I'll write a Baby's Omar; for I'm sureThese Sample Stanzas here are not so worse.Carolyn Wells.

Yes, I can do it! Now, if but my Purse

Some kindly Editor will reimburse,

I'll write a Baby's Omar; for I'm sure

These Sample Stanzas here are not so worse.

Carolyn Wells.

ACLERKE there was, a puissant wight was hee,Who of ye wethere hadde ye maisterie;Alway it was his mirthe and his solace—To put eche seson's wethere oute of place.Whanne that Aprille shoures wer our desyre,He gad us Julye sonnes as hotte as fyre;But sith ye summere togges we donned agayne,Eftsoons ye wethere chaunged to cold and rayne.Wo was that pilgrimme who fared forth a-foote,Without ane gyngham that him list uppe-putte;And gif no mackyntosches eke had hee,A parlous state that wight befelle—pardie!We wist not gif it nexte ben colde or hotte,Cogswounds! ye barde a grewsome colde hath gotte!Certes, that clerke's ane mightie man withalle,Let non don him offence, lest ille befalle.Anonymous.

ACLERKE there was, a puissant wight was hee,Who of ye wethere hadde ye maisterie;Alway it was his mirthe and his solace—To put eche seson's wethere oute of place.

ACLERKE there was, a puissant wight was hee,

Who of ye wethere hadde ye maisterie;

Alway it was his mirthe and his solace—

To put eche seson's wethere oute of place.

Whanne that Aprille shoures wer our desyre,He gad us Julye sonnes as hotte as fyre;But sith ye summere togges we donned agayne,Eftsoons ye wethere chaunged to cold and rayne.

Whanne that Aprille shoures wer our desyre,

He gad us Julye sonnes as hotte as fyre;

But sith ye summere togges we donned agayne,

Eftsoons ye wethere chaunged to cold and rayne.

Wo was that pilgrimme who fared forth a-foote,Without ane gyngham that him list uppe-putte;And gif no mackyntosches eke had hee,A parlous state that wight befelle—pardie!

Wo was that pilgrimme who fared forth a-foote,

Without ane gyngham that him list uppe-putte;

And gif no mackyntosches eke had hee,

A parlous state that wight befelle—pardie!

We wist not gif it nexte ben colde or hotte,Cogswounds! ye barde a grewsome colde hath gotte!Certes, that clerke's ane mightie man withalle,Let non don him offence, lest ille befalle.Anonymous.

We wist not gif it nexte ben colde or hotte,

Cogswounds! ye barde a grewsome colde hath gotte!

Certes, that clerke's ane mightie man withalle,

Let non don him offence, lest ille befalle.

Anonymous.

HE is to weet a melancholy carle:Thin in the waist, with bushy head of hair,As hath the seeded thistle, when a parleIt holds with Zephyr, ere it sendeth fairIts light balloons into the summer air;Thereto his beard had not begun to bloom.No brush had touched his cheek, or razor sheer;No care had touched his cheek with mortal doom,But new he was and bright, as scarf from Persian loom.Ne carèd he for wine, or half and half;Ne carèd he for fish, or flesh, or fowl;And sauces held he worthless as the chaff;He 'sdeigned the swine-head at the wassail-bowl:Ne with lewd ribbalds sat he cheek by jowl;Ne with sly lemans in the scorner's chair;But after water-brooks this pilgrim's soulPanted and all his food was woodland air;Though he would oft-times feast on gilliflowers rareThe slang of cities in no wise he knew,Tipping the winkto him was heathen Greek;He sipped no “olden Tom," or “ruin blue,"Or Nantz, or cherry-brandy, drunk full meekBy many a damsel brave and rouge of cheek;Nor did he know each aged watchman's beat,Nor in obscurèd purlieus would he seekFor curlèd Jewesses, with ankles neat,Who, as they walk abroad, make tinkling with their feet.John Keats.

HE is to weet a melancholy carle:

Thin in the waist, with bushy head of hair,

As hath the seeded thistle, when a parle

It holds with Zephyr, ere it sendeth fair

Its light balloons into the summer air;

Thereto his beard had not begun to bloom.

No brush had touched his cheek, or razor sheer;

No care had touched his cheek with mortal doom,

But new he was and bright, as scarf from Persian loom.

Ne carèd he for wine, or half and half;Ne carèd he for fish, or flesh, or fowl;And sauces held he worthless as the chaff;He 'sdeigned the swine-head at the wassail-bowl:Ne with lewd ribbalds sat he cheek by jowl;Ne with sly lemans in the scorner's chair;But after water-brooks this pilgrim's soulPanted and all his food was woodland air;Though he would oft-times feast on gilliflowers rare

Ne carèd he for wine, or half and half;

Ne carèd he for fish, or flesh, or fowl;

And sauces held he worthless as the chaff;

He 'sdeigned the swine-head at the wassail-bowl:

Ne with lewd ribbalds sat he cheek by jowl;

Ne with sly lemans in the scorner's chair;

But after water-brooks this pilgrim's soul

Panted and all his food was woodland air;

Though he would oft-times feast on gilliflowers rare

The slang of cities in no wise he knew,Tipping the winkto him was heathen Greek;He sipped no “olden Tom," or “ruin blue,"Or Nantz, or cherry-brandy, drunk full meekBy many a damsel brave and rouge of cheek;Nor did he know each aged watchman's beat,Nor in obscurèd purlieus would he seekFor curlèd Jewesses, with ankles neat,Who, as they walk abroad, make tinkling with their feet.John Keats.

The slang of cities in no wise he knew,

Tipping the winkto him was heathen Greek;

He sipped no “olden Tom," or “ruin blue,"

Or Nantz, or cherry-brandy, drunk full meek

By many a damsel brave and rouge of cheek;

Nor did he know each aged watchman's beat,

Nor in obscurèd purlieus would he seek

For curlèd Jewesses, with ankles neat,

Who, as they walk abroad, make tinkling with their feet.

John Keats.

TO wed, or not to wed? That is the questionWhether 'tis nobler in the mind to sufferThe pangs and arrows of outrageous loveOr to take arms against the powerful flameAnd by oppressing quench it.To wed—to marry—And by a marriage say we endThe heartache and the thousand painful shocksLove makes us heir to—'tis a consummationDevoutly to be wished! to wed—to marry—Perchance a scold! aye, there's the rub!For in that wedded life what ills may comeWhen we have shuffled off our single stateMust give us serious pause. There's the respectThat makes us Bachelors a numerous race.For who would bear the dull unsocial hoursSpent by unmarried men, cheered by no smileTo sit like hermit at a lonely boardIn silence? Who would bear the cruel gibesWith which the Bachelor is daily teasedWhen he himself might end such heart-felt griefsBy wedding some fair maid? Oh, who would liveYawning and staring sadly in the fireTill celibacy becomes a weary lifeBut that the dread of something after wed-lock(That undiscovered state from whose strong chainsNo captive can get free) puzzles the willAnd makes us rather choose those ills we haveThan fly to others which a wife may bring.Thus caution doth make Bachelors of us all,And thus our natural taste for matrimonyIs sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought.And love adventures of great pith and momentWith this regard their currents turn awayAnd lose the name of Wedlock.Anonymous.

TO wed, or not to wed? That is the question

Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer

The pangs and arrows of outrageous love

Or to take arms against the powerful flame

And by oppressing quench it.

To wed—to marry—

And by a marriage say we end

The heartache and the thousand painful shocks

Love makes us heir to—'tis a consummation

Devoutly to be wished! to wed—to marry—

Perchance a scold! aye, there's the rub!

For in that wedded life what ills may come

When we have shuffled off our single state

Must give us serious pause. There's the respect

That makes us Bachelors a numerous race.

For who would bear the dull unsocial hours

Spent by unmarried men, cheered by no smile

To sit like hermit at a lonely board

In silence? Who would bear the cruel gibes

With which the Bachelor is daily teased

When he himself might end such heart-felt griefs

By wedding some fair maid? Oh, who would live

Yawning and staring sadly in the fire

Till celibacy becomes a weary life

But that the dread of something after wed-lock

(That undiscovered state from whose strong chains

No captive can get free) puzzles the will

And makes us rather choose those ills we have

Than fly to others which a wife may bring.

Thus caution doth make Bachelors of us all,

And thus our natural taste for matrimony

Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought.

And love adventures of great pith and moment

With this regard their currents turn away

And lose the name of Wedlock.

Anonymous.

TO draw, or not to draw,—that is the question:—Whether 'tis safer in the player to takeThe awful risk of skinning for a straight,Or, standing pat, to raise 'em all the limitAnd thus, by bluffing, get in. To draw,—to skin;No more—and by that skin to get a full,Or two pairs, or the fattest bouncing kingsThat luck is heir to—'tis a consummationDevoutly to be wished. To draw—to skin;To skin! perchance to burst—ay, there's the rub!For in the draw of three what cards may come,When we have shuffled off th' uncertain pack,Must give us pause. There's the respectThat makes calamity of a bobtail flush;For who would bear the overwhelming blind,The reckless straddle, the wait on the edge,The insolence of pat hands and the liftsThat patient merit of the bluffer takes,When he himself might be much better offBy simply passing? Who would trays uphold,And go out on a small progressive raise,But that the dread of something after call—The undiscovered ace-full, to whose strengthSuch hands must bow, puzzles the will,And makes us rather keep the chips we haveThan be curious about the hands we know not of.Thus bluffing does make cowards of us all:And thus the native hue of a four-heart flushIs sicklied with some dark and cussed club,And speculators in a jack-pot's wealthWith this regard their interest turn awayAnd lose the right to open.Anonymous.

TO draw, or not to draw,—that is the question:—

Whether 'tis safer in the player to take

The awful risk of skinning for a straight,

Or, standing pat, to raise 'em all the limit

And thus, by bluffing, get in. To draw,—to skin;

No more—and by that skin to get a full,

Or two pairs, or the fattest bouncing kings

That luck is heir to—'tis a consummation

Devoutly to be wished. To draw—to skin;

To skin! perchance to burst—ay, there's the rub!

For in the draw of three what cards may come,

When we have shuffled off th' uncertain pack,

Must give us pause. There's the respect

That makes calamity of a bobtail flush;

For who would bear the overwhelming blind,

The reckless straddle, the wait on the edge,

The insolence of pat hands and the lifts

That patient merit of the bluffer takes,

When he himself might be much better off

By simply passing? Who would trays uphold,

And go out on a small progressive raise,

But that the dread of something after call—

The undiscovered ace-full, to whose strength

Such hands must bow, puzzles the will,

And makes us rather keep the chips we have

Than be curious about the hands we know not of.

Thus bluffing does make cowards of us all:

And thus the native hue of a four-heart flush

Is sicklied with some dark and cussed club,

And speculators in a jack-pot's wealth

With this regard their interest turn away

And lose the right to open.

Anonymous.

TO have it out or not. That is the question—Whether 'tis better for the jaws to sufferThe pangs and torments of an aching toothOr to take steel against a host of troubles,And, by extracting them, end them? To pull—to tug!—No more: and by a tug to say we endThe toothache and a thousand natural illsThe jaw is heir to. 'Tis a consummationDevoutly to be wished! To pull—to tug!—To tug—perchance to break! Ay, there's the rub,For in that wrench what agonies may comeWhen we have half dislodged the stubborn foe,Must give us pause. There's the respectThat makes an aching tooth of so long life.For who would bear the whips and stings of pain,The old wife's nostrum, dentist's contumely;The pangs of hope deferred, kind sleep's delay;The insolence of pity, and the spurns,That patient sickness of the healthy takes,When he himself might his quietus makeFor one poor shilling? Who would fardels bear,To groan and sink beneath a load of pain?—But that the dread of something lodged withinThe linen-twisted forceps, from whose pangsNo jaw at ease returns, puzzles the will,And makes it rather bear the ills it hasThan fly to others that it knows not of.Thus dentists do make cowards of us all,And thus the native hue of resolutionIs sicklied o'er with the pale cast of fear;And many a one, whose courage seeks the door,With this regard his footsteps turns away,Scared at the name of dentist.Anonymous.

TO have it out or not. That is the question—

Whether 'tis better for the jaws to suffer

The pangs and torments of an aching tooth

Or to take steel against a host of troubles,

And, by extracting them, end them? To pull—to tug!—

No more: and by a tug to say we end

The toothache and a thousand natural ills

The jaw is heir to. 'Tis a consummation

Devoutly to be wished! To pull—to tug!—

To tug—perchance to break! Ay, there's the rub,

For in that wrench what agonies may come

When we have half dislodged the stubborn foe,

Must give us pause. There's the respect

That makes an aching tooth of so long life.

For who would bear the whips and stings of pain,

The old wife's nostrum, dentist's contumely;

The pangs of hope deferred, kind sleep's delay;

The insolence of pity, and the spurns,

That patient sickness of the healthy takes,

When he himself might his quietus make

For one poor shilling? Who would fardels bear,

To groan and sink beneath a load of pain?—

But that the dread of something lodged within

The linen-twisted forceps, from whose pangs

No jaw at ease returns, puzzles the will,

And makes it rather bear the ills it has

Than fly to others that it knows not of.

Thus dentists do make cowards of us all,

And thus the native hue of resolution

Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of fear;

And many a one, whose courage seeks the door,

With this regard his footsteps turns away,

Scared at the name of dentist.

Anonymous.

WELL, don't cry, my little tiny boy,With hey, ho, the wind and the rainAmuse yourself, and break some toy,For the rain it raineth every day.Alas, for the grass on Papa's estate,With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,He'll have to buy hay at an awful rate,For the rain it raineth every day.Mamma, she can't go out for a drive,With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,How cross she gets about four or five,For the rain it raineth every day.If I were you I'd be off to bed,With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,Or the damp will give you a cold in the head,For the rain it raineth every day.A great while ago this song was done,With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,And I, for one, cannot see it's fun,But the Dyces and the Colliers can—they say.Shirley Brooks.

WELL, don't cry, my little tiny boy,With hey, ho, the wind and the rainAmuse yourself, and break some toy,For the rain it raineth every day.

WELL, don't cry, my little tiny boy,

With hey, ho, the wind and the rain

Amuse yourself, and break some toy,

For the rain it raineth every day.

Alas, for the grass on Papa's estate,With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,He'll have to buy hay at an awful rate,For the rain it raineth every day.

Alas, for the grass on Papa's estate,

With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,

He'll have to buy hay at an awful rate,

For the rain it raineth every day.

Mamma, she can't go out for a drive,With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,How cross she gets about four or five,For the rain it raineth every day.

Mamma, she can't go out for a drive,

With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,

How cross she gets about four or five,

For the rain it raineth every day.

If I were you I'd be off to bed,With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,Or the damp will give you a cold in the head,For the rain it raineth every day.

If I were you I'd be off to bed,

With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,

Or the damp will give you a cold in the head,

For the rain it raineth every day.

A great while ago this song was done,With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,And I, for one, cannot see it's fun,But the Dyces and the Colliers can—they say.Shirley Brooks.

A great while ago this song was done,

With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,

And I, for one, cannot see it's fun,

But the Dyces and the Colliers can—they say.

Shirley Brooks.

WITH pretty speech accost both old and young,And speak it trippingly upon the tongue;But if you mouth it with a hoyden laugh,With clumsy ogling and uncomely chaff—As I have oft seen done at fancy fairs,I had as lief a huckster sold my wares,Avoid all so-called beautifying, dear.Oh! it offends me to the soul to hearThe things that men among themselves will sayOf somesoi-disant“beauty of the day,"Whose face, when she with cosmetics has cloyed it,Out-Rachels Rachel! pray you, girls, avoid it.Neither be you too tame—but, ere you go,Provide yourselves with sprigs of mistletoe;Offer them coyly to the Roman herd—But don't you suit “the action to the word,"For in that very torrent of your passionRemember modesty is still in fashion.Oh, there be ladies whom I've seen hold stalls—Ladies of rank, my dear—to whom befallsNeither the accent nor the gait of ladies;So clumsily made up with Bloom of Cadiz,Powder-rouge—lip-salve—that I've fancied thenThey were the work of Nature's journeymen.W. S. Gilbert.

WITH pretty speech accost both old and young,

And speak it trippingly upon the tongue;

But if you mouth it with a hoyden laugh,

With clumsy ogling and uncomely chaff—

As I have oft seen done at fancy fairs,

I had as lief a huckster sold my wares,

Avoid all so-called beautifying, dear.

Oh! it offends me to the soul to hear

The things that men among themselves will say

Of somesoi-disant“beauty of the day,"

Whose face, when she with cosmetics has cloyed it,

Out-Rachels Rachel! pray you, girls, avoid it.

Neither be you too tame—but, ere you go,

Provide yourselves with sprigs of mistletoe;

Offer them coyly to the Roman herd—

But don't you suit “the action to the word,"

For in that very torrent of your passion

Remember modesty is still in fashion.

Oh, there be ladies whom I've seen hold stalls—

Ladies of rank, my dear—to whom befalls

Neither the accent nor the gait of ladies;

So clumsily made up with Bloom of Cadiz,

Powder-rouge—lip-salve—that I've fancied then

They were the work of Nature's journeymen.

W. S. Gilbert.

WITH a hey! and a hi! and a hey-ho rhyme!Oh, the shepherd ladHe is ne'er so gladAs when he pipes, in the blossom-time,So rare!While Kate picks by, yet looks not there.So rare! so rare!With a hey! and a hi! and a ho!The grasses curdle where the daisies blow!With a hey! and a hi! and a hey-ho vow!Then he sips her faceAt the sweetest place—And ho! how white is the hawthorn now!—So rare!—And the daisied world rocks round them there.So rare! so rare!With a hey! and a hi! and a ho!The grasses curdle where the daisies blow!James Whitcomb Riley.

WITH a hey! and a hi! and a hey-ho rhyme!

Oh, the shepherd lad

He is ne'er so glad

As when he pipes, in the blossom-time,

So rare!

While Kate picks by, yet looks not there.

So rare! so rare!

With a hey! and a hi! and a ho!

The grasses curdle where the daisies blow!

With a hey! and a hi! and a hey-ho vow!

Then he sips her face

At the sweetest place—

And ho! how white is the hawthorn now!—

So rare!—

And the daisied world rocks round them there.

So rare! so rare!

With a hey! and a hi! and a ho!

The grasses curdle where the daisies blow!

James Whitcomb Riley.

TO trump, or not to trump,—that is the question:Whether 't is better in this case to noticeThe leads and signals of outraged opponents,Or to force trumps against a suit of diamonds,And by opposing end them? To trump,—to take,—No more; and by that trick to win the leadAnd after that, return my partner's spadesFor which he signalled,—'tis a consummationDevoutly to be wished. To trump—to take,—To take! perchance to win! Ay, there's the rub;For if we win this game, what hands may comeWhen we have shuffled up these cards again.Play to the score? ah! yes, there's the defectThat makes this Duplicate Whist so much like work.For who would heed the theories of Hoyle,The laws of Pole, the books of Cavendish,The Short-Suit system, Leads American,The Eleven Rule Finesse, The Fourth-best play,The Influence of signals on The Ruff,When he himself this doubtful trick might takeWith a small two-spot? Who would hesitate,But that the dread of something afterwards,An undiscovered discard or forced leadWhen playing the return, puzzles the will,And makes us rather lose the tricks we haveTo win the others that we know not of?Thus Duplicate Whist makes cowards of us all;And thus the native hue of BumblepuppyIs sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought.And good whist-players of great skill and judgment,With this regard their formulas defy,And lose the game by ruffing.Carolyn Wells.

TO trump, or not to trump,—that is the question:

Whether 't is better in this case to notice

The leads and signals of outraged opponents,

Or to force trumps against a suit of diamonds,

And by opposing end them? To trump,—to take,—

No more; and by that trick to win the lead

And after that, return my partner's spades

For which he signalled,—'tis a consummation

Devoutly to be wished. To trump—to take,—

To take! perchance to win! Ay, there's the rub;

For if we win this game, what hands may come

When we have shuffled up these cards again.

Play to the score? ah! yes, there's the defect

That makes this Duplicate Whist so much like work.

For who would heed the theories of Hoyle,

The laws of Pole, the books of Cavendish,

The Short-Suit system, Leads American,

The Eleven Rule Finesse, The Fourth-best play,

The Influence of signals on The Ruff,

When he himself this doubtful trick might take

With a small two-spot? Who would hesitate,

But that the dread of something afterwards,

An undiscovered discard or forced lead

When playing the return, puzzles the will,

And makes us rather lose the tricks we have

To win the others that we know not of?

Thus Duplicate Whist makes cowards of us all;

And thus the native hue of Bumblepuppy

Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought.

And good whist-players of great skill and judgment,

With this regard their formulas defy,

And lose the game by ruffing.

Carolyn Wells.

SHALL I, mine affections slack,'Cause I see a woman's black?Or myself, with care cast down,'Cause I see a woman brown?Be she blacker than the night,Or the blackest jet in sight!If she be not so to me,What care I how black she be?Shall my foolish heart be burst,'Cause I see a woman's curst?Or a thwarting hoggish natureJoinèd in as bad a feature?Be she curst or fiercer thanBrutish beast, or savage man!If she be not so to me,What care I how curst she be?Shall a woman's vices makeMe her vices quite forsake?Or her faults to me made known,Make me think that I have none?Be she of the most accurst,And deserve the name of worst!If she be not so to me,What care I how bad she be?'Cause her fortunes seem too low,Shall I therefore let her go?He that bears an humble mindAnd with riches can be kind,Think how kind a heart he'd have,If he were some servile slave!And if that same mind I seeWhat care I how poor she be?Poor, or bad, or curst, or black,I will ne'er the more be slack!If she hate me (then believe!)She shall die ere I will grieve!If she like me when I wooI can like and love her too!If that she be fit for me!What care I what others be?Ben Jonson.

SHALL I, mine affections slack,

'Cause I see a woman's black?

Or myself, with care cast down,

'Cause I see a woman brown?

Be she blacker than the night,

Or the blackest jet in sight!

If she be not so to me,

What care I how black she be?

Shall my foolish heart be burst,'Cause I see a woman's curst?Or a thwarting hoggish natureJoinèd in as bad a feature?Be she curst or fiercer thanBrutish beast, or savage man!If she be not so to me,What care I how curst she be?

Shall my foolish heart be burst,

'Cause I see a woman's curst?

Or a thwarting hoggish nature

Joinèd in as bad a feature?

Be she curst or fiercer than

Brutish beast, or savage man!

If she be not so to me,

What care I how curst she be?

Shall a woman's vices makeMe her vices quite forsake?Or her faults to me made known,Make me think that I have none?Be she of the most accurst,And deserve the name of worst!If she be not so to me,What care I how bad she be?

Shall a woman's vices make

Me her vices quite forsake?

Or her faults to me made known,

Make me think that I have none?

Be she of the most accurst,

And deserve the name of worst!

If she be not so to me,

What care I how bad she be?

'Cause her fortunes seem too low,Shall I therefore let her go?He that bears an humble mindAnd with riches can be kind,Think how kind a heart he'd have,If he were some servile slave!And if that same mind I seeWhat care I how poor she be?

'Cause her fortunes seem too low,

Shall I therefore let her go?

He that bears an humble mind

And with riches can be kind,

Think how kind a heart he'd have,

If he were some servile slave!

And if that same mind I see

What care I how poor she be?

Poor, or bad, or curst, or black,I will ne'er the more be slack!If she hate me (then believe!)She shall die ere I will grieve!If she like me when I wooI can like and love her too!If that she be fit for me!What care I what others be?Ben Jonson.

Poor, or bad, or curst, or black,

I will ne'er the more be slack!

If she hate me (then believe!)

She shall die ere I will grieve!

If she like me when I woo

I can like and love her too!

If that she be fit for me!

What care I what others be?

Ben Jonson.

GATHER Kittens while you may,Time brings only Sorrow;And the Kittens of To-dayWill be Old Cats To-morrow.Oliver Herford.

GATHER Kittens while you may,

Time brings only Sorrow;

And the Kittens of To-day

Will be Old Cats To-morrow.

Oliver Herford.

(A form of betrothal gift in America is an anklet secured by a padlock, of which the other party keeps the key)

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