Our Chloe, fresh from London town,To country B——y comes down.Furnished with half-a-thousand gracesOf silks, brocades, and hoops, and laces;And tired of winning coxcombs' hearts,On simple bumpkins tries her arts.Behold her ambling down the streetOn her white palfrey, sleek and neat.(Though rumor talks of gaming-tables,And says 'twas won from C——'s stables.And that, when duns demand their bill,She satisfies them at quadrille.)Her fingers are encased with rings,Although she vows she hates the things.("Oh, la! Why ever did you buy it?Well—it's a pretty gem—I'll try it.")The fine French fashions all combineTo make folk stare, and Chloe shine,From ribbon'd hat with monstrous feather,To bells upon her under-leather.Now Chloe, why, do you suppose,You wear those bells about your toes?Is it, your feet with bells you deckFor want of bows about your neck?
Our Chloe, fresh from London town,To country B——y comes down.Furnished with half-a-thousand gracesOf silks, brocades, and hoops, and laces;And tired of winning coxcombs' hearts,On simple bumpkins tries her arts.Behold her ambling down the streetOn her white palfrey, sleek and neat.(Though rumor talks of gaming-tables,And says 'twas won from C——'s stables.And that, when duns demand their bill,She satisfies them at quadrille.)Her fingers are encased with rings,Although she vows she hates the things.("Oh, la! Why ever did you buy it?Well—it's a pretty gem—I'll try it.")The fine French fashions all combineTo make folk stare, and Chloe shine,From ribbon'd hat with monstrous feather,To bells upon her under-leather.Now Chloe, why, do you suppose,You wear those bells about your toes?Is it, your feet with bells you deckFor want of bows about your neck?
Our Chloe, fresh from London town,To country B——y comes down.Furnished with half-a-thousand gracesOf silks, brocades, and hoops, and laces;And tired of winning coxcombs' hearts,On simple bumpkins tries her arts.Behold her ambling down the streetOn her white palfrey, sleek and neat.(Though rumor talks of gaming-tables,And says 'twas won from C——'s stables.And that, when duns demand their bill,She satisfies them at quadrille.)Her fingers are encased with rings,Although she vows she hates the things.("Oh, la! Why ever did you buy it?Well—it's a pretty gem—I'll try it.")The fine French fashions all combineTo make folk stare, and Chloe shine,From ribbon'd hat with monstrous feather,To bells upon her under-leather.Now Chloe, why, do you suppose,You wear those bells about your toes?Is it, your feet with bells you deckFor want of bows about your neck?
Our Chloe, fresh from London town,
To country B——y comes down.
Furnished with half-a-thousand graces
Of silks, brocades, and hoops, and laces;
And tired of winning coxcombs' hearts,
On simple bumpkins tries her arts.
Behold her ambling down the street
On her white palfrey, sleek and neat.
(Though rumor talks of gaming-tables,
And says 'twas won from C——'s stables.
And that, when duns demand their bill,
She satisfies them at quadrille.)
Her fingers are encased with rings,
Although she vows she hates the things.
("Oh, la! Why ever did you buy it?
Well—it's a pretty gem—I'll try it.")
The fine French fashions all combine
To make folk stare, and Chloe shine,
From ribbon'd hat with monstrous feather,
To bells upon her under-leather.
Now Chloe, why, do you suppose,
You wear those bells about your toes?
Is it, your feet with bells you deck
For want of bows about your neck?
(Variation III—Sir Walter ScottFrom "The Lady of the Cake")
"Who is this maid in wild array,And riding in that curious way?What mean the bells that jingle freeAbout her as in revelry?""'Tis Madge of Banbury," Roderick said."And she's a trifle off her head,'Twas on her bridal morn, I ween,When she to Graeme had wedded been,The man who undertook to bakeNever sent home the wedding cake!Since then she wears those bells and rings,Since then she rides—but, hush, she sings."She sung! The voice in other daysIt had been difficult to praise,And now it every sweetness lacked,And voice and singer both were cracked.
"Who is this maid in wild array,And riding in that curious way?What mean the bells that jingle freeAbout her as in revelry?""'Tis Madge of Banbury," Roderick said."And she's a trifle off her head,'Twas on her bridal morn, I ween,When she to Graeme had wedded been,The man who undertook to bakeNever sent home the wedding cake!Since then she wears those bells and rings,Since then she rides—but, hush, she sings."She sung! The voice in other daysIt had been difficult to praise,And now it every sweetness lacked,And voice and singer both were cracked.
"Who is this maid in wild array,And riding in that curious way?What mean the bells that jingle freeAbout her as in revelry?""'Tis Madge of Banbury," Roderick said."And she's a trifle off her head,'Twas on her bridal morn, I ween,When she to Graeme had wedded been,The man who undertook to bakeNever sent home the wedding cake!Since then she wears those bells and rings,Since then she rides—but, hush, she sings."She sung! The voice in other daysIt had been difficult to praise,And now it every sweetness lacked,And voice and singer both were cracked.
"Who is this maid in wild array,
And riding in that curious way?
What mean the bells that jingle free
About her as in revelry?"
"'Tis Madge of Banbury," Roderick said.
"And she's a trifle off her head,
'Twas on her bridal morn, I ween,
When she to Graeme had wedded been,
The man who undertook to bake
Never sent home the wedding cake!
Since then she wears those bells and rings,
Since then she rides—but, hush, she sings."
She sung! The voice in other days
It had been difficult to praise,
And now it every sweetness lacked,
And voice and singer both were cracked.
They bid me ride the other way,They say my brain is warp'd and wrung,But, oh! the bridal bells are gayThat I about my feet have strung!And when I face the horse's tailI see once more in Banbury's valeMy Graeme's white plume before me wave,So thus I'll ride until the grave.They say that this is not my home,'Mid Scotland's moors and Scotland's brakes.But, oh! 'tis love that makes me roamForever in the land of cakes!And woe betide the baker's guile,Whose blight destroyed the maiden's smile!O woe the day, and woe the deed,And woa—gee woa—my bonnie steed!Barry Pain.
They bid me ride the other way,They say my brain is warp'd and wrung,But, oh! the bridal bells are gayThat I about my feet have strung!And when I face the horse's tailI see once more in Banbury's valeMy Graeme's white plume before me wave,So thus I'll ride until the grave.They say that this is not my home,'Mid Scotland's moors and Scotland's brakes.But, oh! 'tis love that makes me roamForever in the land of cakes!And woe betide the baker's guile,Whose blight destroyed the maiden's smile!O woe the day, and woe the deed,And woa—gee woa—my bonnie steed!Barry Pain.
They bid me ride the other way,They say my brain is warp'd and wrung,But, oh! the bridal bells are gayThat I about my feet have strung!And when I face the horse's tailI see once more in Banbury's valeMy Graeme's white plume before me wave,So thus I'll ride until the grave.They say that this is not my home,'Mid Scotland's moors and Scotland's brakes.But, oh! 'tis love that makes me roamForever in the land of cakes!And woe betide the baker's guile,Whose blight destroyed the maiden's smile!O woe the day, and woe the deed,And woa—gee woa—my bonnie steed!Barry Pain.
They bid me ride the other way,
They say my brain is warp'd and wrung,
But, oh! the bridal bells are gay
That I about my feet have strung!
And when I face the horse's tail
I see once more in Banbury's vale
My Graeme's white plume before me wave,
So thus I'll ride until the grave.
They say that this is not my home,
'Mid Scotland's moors and Scotland's brakes.
But, oh! 'tis love that makes me roam
Forever in the land of cakes!
And woe betide the baker's guile,
Whose blight destroyed the maiden's smile!
O woe the day, and woe the deed,
And woa—gee woa—my bonnie steed!
Barry Pain.
1.—(Macaulay, who made it)
POUR, varlet, pour the water,The water steaming hot!A spoonful for each man of us,Another for the pot!We shall not drink from amber,Nor Capuan slave shall mixFor us the snows of AthosWith port at thirty-six;Whiter than snow the crystals,Grown sweet 'neath tropic fires,More rich the herbs of China's field,The pasture-lands more fragrance yield;For ever let Britannia wieldThe tea-pot of her sires!
POUR, varlet, pour the water,The water steaming hot!A spoonful for each man of us,Another for the pot!We shall not drink from amber,Nor Capuan slave shall mixFor us the snows of AthosWith port at thirty-six;Whiter than snow the crystals,Grown sweet 'neath tropic fires,More rich the herbs of China's field,The pasture-lands more fragrance yield;For ever let Britannia wieldThe tea-pot of her sires!
POUR, varlet, pour the water,The water steaming hot!A spoonful for each man of us,Another for the pot!We shall not drink from amber,Nor Capuan slave shall mixFor us the snows of AthosWith port at thirty-six;Whiter than snow the crystals,Grown sweet 'neath tropic fires,More rich the herbs of China's field,The pasture-lands more fragrance yield;For ever let Britannia wieldThe tea-pot of her sires!
POUR, varlet, pour the water,
The water steaming hot!
A spoonful for each man of us,
Another for the pot!
We shall not drink from amber,
Nor Capuan slave shall mix
For us the snows of Athos
With port at thirty-six;
Whiter than snow the crystals,
Grown sweet 'neath tropic fires,
More rich the herbs of China's field,
The pasture-lands more fragrance yield;
For ever let Britannia wield
The tea-pot of her sires!
2.—(Tennyson, who took it hot)
I think that I am drawing to an end:For on a sudden came a gasp for breath,And stretching of the hands, and blinded eyes,And a great darkness falling on my soul.O Hallelujah! . . . Kindly pass the milk.
I think that I am drawing to an end:For on a sudden came a gasp for breath,And stretching of the hands, and blinded eyes,And a great darkness falling on my soul.O Hallelujah! . . . Kindly pass the milk.
I think that I am drawing to an end:For on a sudden came a gasp for breath,And stretching of the hands, and blinded eyes,And a great darkness falling on my soul.O Hallelujah! . . . Kindly pass the milk.
I think that I am drawing to an end:
For on a sudden came a gasp for breath,
And stretching of the hands, and blinded eyes,
And a great darkness falling on my soul.
O Hallelujah! . . . Kindly pass the milk.
3.—(Swinburne, who let it get cold)
As the sin that was sweet in the sinningIs foul in the ending thereof,As the heat of the summer's beginningIs past in the winter of love:O purity, painful and pleading!O coldness, ineffably gray!Oh, hear us, our handmaid unheeding,And take it away!
As the sin that was sweet in the sinningIs foul in the ending thereof,As the heat of the summer's beginningIs past in the winter of love:O purity, painful and pleading!O coldness, ineffably gray!Oh, hear us, our handmaid unheeding,And take it away!
As the sin that was sweet in the sinningIs foul in the ending thereof,As the heat of the summer's beginningIs past in the winter of love:O purity, painful and pleading!O coldness, ineffably gray!Oh, hear us, our handmaid unheeding,And take it away!
As the sin that was sweet in the sinning
Is foul in the ending thereof,
As the heat of the summer's beginning
Is past in the winter of love:
O purity, painful and pleading!
O coldness, ineffably gray!
Oh, hear us, our handmaid unheeding,
And take it away!
4.—(Cowper, who thoroughly enjoyed it)
The cosy fire is bright and gay,The merry kettle boils awayAnd hums a cheerful song.I sing the saucer and the cup;Pray, Mary, fill the tea-pot up,And do not make it strong.
The cosy fire is bright and gay,The merry kettle boils awayAnd hums a cheerful song.I sing the saucer and the cup;Pray, Mary, fill the tea-pot up,And do not make it strong.
The cosy fire is bright and gay,The merry kettle boils awayAnd hums a cheerful song.I sing the saucer and the cup;Pray, Mary, fill the tea-pot up,And do not make it strong.
The cosy fire is bright and gay,
The merry kettle boils away
And hums a cheerful song.
I sing the saucer and the cup;
Pray, Mary, fill the tea-pot up,
And do not make it strong.
5.—(Browning, who treated it allegorically)
Tut! Bah! We take as another case—Pass the bills on the pills on the window-sill; notice the capsule(A sick man's fancy, no doubt, but I placeReliance on trade-marks, Sir)—so perhaps you'llExcuse the digression—this cup which I holdLight-poised—Bah, it's spilt in the bed!—well, let's on go—Hold Bohea and sugar, Sir; if you were toldThe sugar was salt, would the Bohea be Congo?
Tut! Bah! We take as another case—Pass the bills on the pills on the window-sill; notice the capsule(A sick man's fancy, no doubt, but I placeReliance on trade-marks, Sir)—so perhaps you'llExcuse the digression—this cup which I holdLight-poised—Bah, it's spilt in the bed!—well, let's on go—Hold Bohea and sugar, Sir; if you were toldThe sugar was salt, would the Bohea be Congo?
Tut! Bah! We take as another case—Pass the bills on the pills on the window-sill; notice the capsule(A sick man's fancy, no doubt, but I placeReliance on trade-marks, Sir)—so perhaps you'llExcuse the digression—this cup which I holdLight-poised—Bah, it's spilt in the bed!—well, let's on go—Hold Bohea and sugar, Sir; if you were toldThe sugar was salt, would the Bohea be Congo?
Tut! Bah! We take as another case—
Pass the bills on the pills on the window-sill; notice the capsule
(A sick man's fancy, no doubt, but I place
Reliance on trade-marks, Sir)—so perhaps you'll
Excuse the digression—this cup which I hold
Light-poised—Bah, it's spilt in the bed!—well, let's on go—
Hold Bohea and sugar, Sir; if you were told
The sugar was salt, would the Bohea be Congo?
6.—(Wordsworth, who gave it away)
"Come, little cottage girl, you seemTo want my cup of tea;And will you take a little cream?Now tell the truth to me."She had a rustic, woodland grin,Her cheek was soft as silk,And she replied, "Sir, please put inA little drop of milk.""Why, what put milk into your head?'Tis cream my cows supply;"And five times to the child I said,"Why, pig-head, tell me, why?""You call me pig-head," she replied;"My proper name is Ruth.I called that milk"—she blushed with pride—"You bade me speak the truth."
"Come, little cottage girl, you seemTo want my cup of tea;And will you take a little cream?Now tell the truth to me."She had a rustic, woodland grin,Her cheek was soft as silk,And she replied, "Sir, please put inA little drop of milk.""Why, what put milk into your head?'Tis cream my cows supply;"And five times to the child I said,"Why, pig-head, tell me, why?""You call me pig-head," she replied;"My proper name is Ruth.I called that milk"—she blushed with pride—"You bade me speak the truth."
"Come, little cottage girl, you seemTo want my cup of tea;And will you take a little cream?Now tell the truth to me."
"Come, little cottage girl, you seem
To want my cup of tea;
And will you take a little cream?
Now tell the truth to me."
She had a rustic, woodland grin,Her cheek was soft as silk,And she replied, "Sir, please put inA little drop of milk."
She had a rustic, woodland grin,
Her cheek was soft as silk,
And she replied, "Sir, please put in
A little drop of milk."
"Why, what put milk into your head?'Tis cream my cows supply;"And five times to the child I said,"Why, pig-head, tell me, why?"
"Why, what put milk into your head?
'Tis cream my cows supply;"
And five times to the child I said,
"Why, pig-head, tell me, why?"
"You call me pig-head," she replied;"My proper name is Ruth.I called that milk"—she blushed with pride—"You bade me speak the truth."
"You call me pig-head," she replied;
"My proper name is Ruth.
I called that milk"—she blushed with pride—
"You bade me speak the truth."
7.—(Poe, who got excited over it)
Here's a mellow cup of tea, golden tea!What a world of rapturous thought its fragrance brings to me!Oh, from out the silver cellsHow it wells!How it smells!Keeping tune, tune, tuneTo the tintinnabulation of the spoon.And the kettle on the fireBoils its spout off with desire,With a desperate desireAnd a crystalline endeavourNow, now to sit, or never,On the top of the pale-faced moon,But he always came home to tea, tea, tea, tea, tea,Tea to the n—th.
Here's a mellow cup of tea, golden tea!What a world of rapturous thought its fragrance brings to me!Oh, from out the silver cellsHow it wells!How it smells!Keeping tune, tune, tuneTo the tintinnabulation of the spoon.And the kettle on the fireBoils its spout off with desire,With a desperate desireAnd a crystalline endeavourNow, now to sit, or never,On the top of the pale-faced moon,But he always came home to tea, tea, tea, tea, tea,Tea to the n—th.
Here's a mellow cup of tea, golden tea!What a world of rapturous thought its fragrance brings to me!Oh, from out the silver cellsHow it wells!How it smells!Keeping tune, tune, tuneTo the tintinnabulation of the spoon.And the kettle on the fireBoils its spout off with desire,With a desperate desireAnd a crystalline endeavourNow, now to sit, or never,On the top of the pale-faced moon,But he always came home to tea, tea, tea, tea, tea,Tea to the n—th.
Here's a mellow cup of tea, golden tea!
What a world of rapturous thought its fragrance brings to me!
Oh, from out the silver cells
How it wells!
How it smells!
Keeping tune, tune, tune
To the tintinnabulation of the spoon.
And the kettle on the fire
Boils its spout off with desire,
With a desperate desire
And a crystalline endeavour
Now, now to sit, or never,
On the top of the pale-faced moon,
But he always came home to tea, tea, tea, tea, tea,
Tea to the n—th.
8.—(Rossetti, who took six cups of it)
The lilies lie in my lady's bower(O weary mother, drive the cows to roost),They faintly droop for a little hour;My lady's head droops like a flower.She took the porcelain in her hand(O weary mother, drive the cows to roost);She poured; I drank at her command;Drank deep, and now—you understand!(O weary mother, drive the cows to roost.)
The lilies lie in my lady's bower(O weary mother, drive the cows to roost),They faintly droop for a little hour;My lady's head droops like a flower.She took the porcelain in her hand(O weary mother, drive the cows to roost);She poured; I drank at her command;Drank deep, and now—you understand!(O weary mother, drive the cows to roost.)
The lilies lie in my lady's bower(O weary mother, drive the cows to roost),They faintly droop for a little hour;My lady's head droops like a flower.
The lilies lie in my lady's bower
(O weary mother, drive the cows to roost),
They faintly droop for a little hour;
My lady's head droops like a flower.
She took the porcelain in her hand(O weary mother, drive the cows to roost);She poured; I drank at her command;Drank deep, and now—you understand!(O weary mother, drive the cows to roost.)
She took the porcelain in her hand
(O weary mother, drive the cows to roost);
She poured; I drank at her command;
Drank deep, and now—you understand!
(O weary mother, drive the cows to roost.)
9.—(Burns, who liked it adulterated)
Weel, gin ye speir, I'm no inclined,Whusky or tay—to state my mind,Fore ane or ither;For, gin I tak the first, I'm fou,And gin the next, I'm dull as you,Mix a' thegither.
Weel, gin ye speir, I'm no inclined,Whusky or tay—to state my mind,Fore ane or ither;For, gin I tak the first, I'm fou,And gin the next, I'm dull as you,Mix a' thegither.
Weel, gin ye speir, I'm no inclined,Whusky or tay—to state my mind,Fore ane or ither;For, gin I tak the first, I'm fou,And gin the next, I'm dull as you,Mix a' thegither.
Weel, gin ye speir, I'm no inclined,
Whusky or tay—to state my mind,
Fore ane or ither;
For, gin I tak the first, I'm fou,
And gin the next, I'm dull as you,
Mix a' thegither.
10.—(Walt Whitman, who didn't stay more than a minute)
One cup for my self-hood,Many for you. Allons, camerados, we will drink together,O hand-in-hand! That tea-spoon, please, when you've done with it.What butter-colour'd hair you've got. I don't want to be personal.All right, then, you needn't. You're a stale-cadaver.Eighteen-pence if the bottles are returned.Allons, from all bat-eyed formula.Barry Pain.
One cup for my self-hood,Many for you. Allons, camerados, we will drink together,O hand-in-hand! That tea-spoon, please, when you've done with it.What butter-colour'd hair you've got. I don't want to be personal.All right, then, you needn't. You're a stale-cadaver.Eighteen-pence if the bottles are returned.Allons, from all bat-eyed formula.Barry Pain.
One cup for my self-hood,Many for you. Allons, camerados, we will drink together,O hand-in-hand! That tea-spoon, please, when you've done with it.What butter-colour'd hair you've got. I don't want to be personal.All right, then, you needn't. You're a stale-cadaver.Eighteen-pence if the bottles are returned.Allons, from all bat-eyed formula.Barry Pain.
One cup for my self-hood,
Many for you. Allons, camerados, we will drink together,
O hand-in-hand! That tea-spoon, please, when you've done with it.
What butter-colour'd hair you've got. I don't want to be personal.
All right, then, you needn't. You're a stale-cadaver.
Eighteen-pence if the bottles are returned.
Allons, from all bat-eyed formula.
Barry Pain.
(A modern mortal having inadvertently stumbled in upon a house-party of poets given on Mount Olympus, being called upon to justify his presence there by writinga poem, offered a Limerick. Whereupon each poet scoffed, and the mortal, offended, challenged them to do better with the same theme)
ASCHOLARLY person named FinckWent mad in the effort to thinkWhich were graver misplaced,To dip pen in his paste,Or dip his paste-brush in the ink.
ASCHOLARLY person named FinckWent mad in the effort to thinkWhich were graver misplaced,To dip pen in his paste,Or dip his paste-brush in the ink.
ASCHOLARLY person named FinckWent mad in the effort to thinkWhich were graver misplaced,To dip pen in his paste,Or dip his paste-brush in the ink.
ASCHOLARLY person named Finck
Went mad in the effort to think
Which were graver misplaced,
To dip pen in his paste,
Or dip his paste-brush in the ink.
(Omar Khayyam's version)
Stay, fellow-traveler, let us stop and think,Pause and reflect on the abysmal brink;Say, would you rather thrust your pen in paste,Or dip your paste-brush carelessly in ink?
Stay, fellow-traveler, let us stop and think,Pause and reflect on the abysmal brink;Say, would you rather thrust your pen in paste,Or dip your paste-brush carelessly in ink?
Stay, fellow-traveler, let us stop and think,Pause and reflect on the abysmal brink;Say, would you rather thrust your pen in paste,Or dip your paste-brush carelessly in ink?
Stay, fellow-traveler, let us stop and think,
Pause and reflect on the abysmal brink;
Say, would you rather thrust your pen in paste,
Or dip your paste-brush carelessly in ink?
(Rudyard Kipling's version)
Here is a theme that is worthy of our cognizance,A theme of great importance and a question for your ken;Would you rather—stop and think well—Dip your paste-brush in your ink-well,Or in your pesky pasting-pot immerse your ink pen?
Here is a theme that is worthy of our cognizance,A theme of great importance and a question for your ken;Would you rather—stop and think well—Dip your paste-brush in your ink-well,Or in your pesky pasting-pot immerse your ink pen?
Here is a theme that is worthy of our cognizance,A theme of great importance and a question for your ken;Would you rather—stop and think well—Dip your paste-brush in your ink-well,Or in your pesky pasting-pot immerse your ink pen?
Here is a theme that is worthy of our cognizance,
A theme of great importance and a question for your ken;
Would you rather—stop and think well—
Dip your paste-brush in your ink-well,
Or in your pesky pasting-pot immerse your ink pen?
(Walt Whitman's version)
Hail, Camerados!I salute you,Also I salute the sewing-machine, and the flour-barrel, and the feather-duster.What is an aborigine, anyhow?I see a paste-pot.Ay, and a well of ink.Well, well!Which shall I do?Ah, the immortal fog.What am I myselfBut a meteorIn the fog?
Hail, Camerados!I salute you,Also I salute the sewing-machine, and the flour-barrel, and the feather-duster.What is an aborigine, anyhow?I see a paste-pot.Ay, and a well of ink.Well, well!Which shall I do?Ah, the immortal fog.What am I myselfBut a meteorIn the fog?
Hail, Camerados!I salute you,Also I salute the sewing-machine, and the flour-barrel, and the feather-duster.What is an aborigine, anyhow?I see a paste-pot.Ay, and a well of ink.Well, well!Which shall I do?Ah, the immortal fog.What am I myselfBut a meteorIn the fog?
Hail, Camerados!
I salute you,
Also I salute the sewing-machine, and the flour-barrel, and the feather-duster.
What is an aborigine, anyhow?
I see a paste-pot.
Ay, and a well of ink.
Well, well!
Which shall I do?
Ah, the immortal fog.
What am I myself
But a meteor
In the fog?
(Chaucer's version)
A mayde ther ben, a wordy one and wyse,Who wore a paire of gogles on her eyes.O'er theemes of depest thogt her braine she werked,Nor ever any knoty problemme sherked.Yette when they askt her if she'd rather sinkeHer penne in payste, or eke her brushe in inke,"Ah," quo' the canny mayde, "now wit ye wel,I'm wyse enow to know—too wyse to tel."
A mayde ther ben, a wordy one and wyse,Who wore a paire of gogles on her eyes.O'er theemes of depest thogt her braine she werked,Nor ever any knoty problemme sherked.Yette when they askt her if she'd rather sinkeHer penne in payste, or eke her brushe in inke,"Ah," quo' the canny mayde, "now wit ye wel,I'm wyse enow to know—too wyse to tel."
A mayde ther ben, a wordy one and wyse,Who wore a paire of gogles on her eyes.O'er theemes of depest thogt her braine she werked,Nor ever any knoty problemme sherked.Yette when they askt her if she'd rather sinkeHer penne in payste, or eke her brushe in inke,"Ah," quo' the canny mayde, "now wit ye wel,I'm wyse enow to know—too wyse to tel."
A mayde ther ben, a wordy one and wyse,
Who wore a paire of gogles on her eyes.
O'er theemes of depest thogt her braine she werked,
Nor ever any knoty problemme sherked.
Yette when they askt her if she'd rather sinke
Her penne in payste, or eke her brushe in inke,
"Ah," quo' the canny mayde, "now wit ye wel,
I'm wyse enow to know—too wyse to tel."
(Henry James' version)
She luminously wavered, and I tentatively inferred that she would soon perfectly reconsider her not altogether unobvious course. Furiously, though with a tender, ebbing similitude, across her mental consciousness stole a re-culmination of all the truths she had ever known concerning, or even remotely relating to, the not-easily fathomed qualities of paste and ink. So she stood, focused in an intensity of soul-quivers, and I, all unrelenting, waited, though of a dim uncertainty whether, after all, it might not be only a dubitant problem.
(Swinburne's version)
Shall I dip, shall I dip it, Dolores,This luminous paste-brush of thine?Shall I sully its white-breasted glories,Its fair, foam-flecked figure divine?Or shall I—abstracted, unheeding—Swish swirling this pen in my haste,And, deaf to thy pitiful pleading,Just jab it in paste?
Shall I dip, shall I dip it, Dolores,This luminous paste-brush of thine?Shall I sully its white-breasted glories,Its fair, foam-flecked figure divine?Or shall I—abstracted, unheeding—Swish swirling this pen in my haste,And, deaf to thy pitiful pleading,Just jab it in paste?
Shall I dip, shall I dip it, Dolores,This luminous paste-brush of thine?Shall I sully its white-breasted glories,Its fair, foam-flecked figure divine?Or shall I—abstracted, unheeding—Swish swirling this pen in my haste,And, deaf to thy pitiful pleading,Just jab it in paste?
Shall I dip, shall I dip it, Dolores,
This luminous paste-brush of thine?
Shall I sully its white-breasted glories,
Its fair, foam-flecked figure divine?
Or shall I—abstracted, unheeding—
Swish swirling this pen in my haste,
And, deaf to thy pitiful pleading,
Just jab it in paste?
(Eugene Field's version)
See the Ink Bottle on the Desk! It is full of Nice Black Ink. Why, the Paste-Pot is there, Too! Let us watch Papa as he sits down to write. Oh, he is going to paste a Second-hand Stamp on a Letter. See, he has dipped his Brush in the Ink by Mistake. Oh, what a Funny Mistake! Now, although it is Winter, we may have to Endure the Heated Term.
(Stephen Crane's version)
I stood upon a church spire,A slender, pointed spire,And I sawRanged in solemn row before me,A paste-pot and an ink-pot.I held in my either handA pen and a brush.Ay, a pen and a brush.Now this is the strange part;I stood upon a church spire,A slender, pointed spire,Glad, exultant,BecauseThe choice was mine!Ay, mine!As I stood upon a church spire,A slender, pointed spire.
I stood upon a church spire,A slender, pointed spire,And I sawRanged in solemn row before me,A paste-pot and an ink-pot.I held in my either handA pen and a brush.Ay, a pen and a brush.Now this is the strange part;I stood upon a church spire,A slender, pointed spire,Glad, exultant,BecauseThe choice was mine!Ay, mine!As I stood upon a church spire,A slender, pointed spire.
I stood upon a church spire,A slender, pointed spire,And I sawRanged in solemn row before me,A paste-pot and an ink-pot.I held in my either handA pen and a brush.Ay, a pen and a brush.Now this is the strange part;I stood upon a church spire,A slender, pointed spire,Glad, exultant,BecauseThe choice was mine!Ay, mine!As I stood upon a church spire,A slender, pointed spire.
I stood upon a church spire,
A slender, pointed spire,
And I saw
Ranged in solemn row before me,
A paste-pot and an ink-pot.
I held in my either hand
A pen and a brush.
Ay, a pen and a brush.
Now this is the strange part;
I stood upon a church spire,
A slender, pointed spire,
Glad, exultant,
Because
The choice was mine!
Ay, mine!
As I stood upon a church spire,
A slender, pointed spire.
(Mr. Dooley's version)
"I see by th' pa-apers, Hennessy," said Mr. Dooley, "that they'se a question up for dee-bate."
"What's a dee-bate?" asked Mr. Hennessy.
"Well, it's different from a fish-bait," returned Mr. Dooley, "an' it's like this, if I can bate it into the thick head of ye. A lot of people argyfies an' argyfies to decide, as in the prisint instance, whether a man'd rayther shtick his pastin'-brush in his ink-shtand, or if he'd like it betther to be afther dippin' his pen in his pashte-pot."
"Thot," said Mr. Hennessy, "is a foolish question, an' only fools wud argyfy about such a thing as thot."
"That's what makes it a dee-bate," said Mr. Dooley.
Carolyn Wells.
(In the original)
MARY had a little lamb,Its fleece was white as snow,—And everywhere that Mary wentThe lamb was sure to go.
MARY had a little lamb,Its fleece was white as snow,—And everywhere that Mary wentThe lamb was sure to go.
MARY had a little lamb,Its fleece was white as snow,—And everywhere that Mary wentThe lamb was sure to go.
MARY had a little lamb,
Its fleece was white as snow,—
And everywhere that Mary went
The lamb was sure to go.
(As Austin Dobson writes it)
A little lamb had Mary, sweet,With a fleece that shamed the driven snow.Not alone Mary went when she moved her feet(For a little lamb had Mary, sweet),And it tagged her 'round with a pensive bleat,And wherever she went it wanted to go;A little lamb had Mary, sweet,With a fleece that shamed the driven snow.
A little lamb had Mary, sweet,With a fleece that shamed the driven snow.Not alone Mary went when she moved her feet(For a little lamb had Mary, sweet),And it tagged her 'round with a pensive bleat,And wherever she went it wanted to go;A little lamb had Mary, sweet,With a fleece that shamed the driven snow.
A little lamb had Mary, sweet,With a fleece that shamed the driven snow.Not alone Mary went when she moved her feet(For a little lamb had Mary, sweet),And it tagged her 'round with a pensive bleat,And wherever she went it wanted to go;A little lamb had Mary, sweet,With a fleece that shamed the driven snow.
A little lamb had Mary, sweet,
With a fleece that shamed the driven snow.
Not alone Mary went when she moved her feet
(For a little lamb had Mary, sweet),
And it tagged her 'round with a pensive bleat,
And wherever she went it wanted to go;
A little lamb had Mary, sweet,
With a fleece that shamed the driven snow.
(As Mr. Browning has it)
You knew her?—Mary the small,How of a summer,—or, no, was it fall?You'd never have thought it, never believed,But the girl owned a lamb last fall.Its wool was subtly, silky white,Color of lucent obliteration of night,Like the shimmering snow or—our Clothild's arm!You've seen her arm—her right, I mean—The other she scalded a-washing, I ween—How white it is and soft and warm?Ah, there was soul's heart-love, deep, true, and tender,Wherever went Mary, the maiden so slender,There followed, his all-absorbed passion, inciting,That passionate lambkin—her soul's heart delighting—Ay, every place that Mary sought in,That lamb was sure to soon be caught in.
You knew her?—Mary the small,How of a summer,—or, no, was it fall?You'd never have thought it, never believed,But the girl owned a lamb last fall.Its wool was subtly, silky white,Color of lucent obliteration of night,Like the shimmering snow or—our Clothild's arm!You've seen her arm—her right, I mean—The other she scalded a-washing, I ween—How white it is and soft and warm?Ah, there was soul's heart-love, deep, true, and tender,Wherever went Mary, the maiden so slender,There followed, his all-absorbed passion, inciting,That passionate lambkin—her soul's heart delighting—Ay, every place that Mary sought in,That lamb was sure to soon be caught in.
You knew her?—Mary the small,How of a summer,—or, no, was it fall?You'd never have thought it, never believed,But the girl owned a lamb last fall.Its wool was subtly, silky white,Color of lucent obliteration of night,Like the shimmering snow or—our Clothild's arm!You've seen her arm—her right, I mean—The other she scalded a-washing, I ween—How white it is and soft and warm?
You knew her?—Mary the small,
How of a summer,—or, no, was it fall?
You'd never have thought it, never believed,
But the girl owned a lamb last fall.
Its wool was subtly, silky white,
Color of lucent obliteration of night,
Like the shimmering snow or—our Clothild's arm!
You've seen her arm—her right, I mean—
The other she scalded a-washing, I ween—
How white it is and soft and warm?
Ah, there was soul's heart-love, deep, true, and tender,Wherever went Mary, the maiden so slender,There followed, his all-absorbed passion, inciting,That passionate lambkin—her soul's heart delighting—Ay, every place that Mary sought in,That lamb was sure to soon be caught in.
Ah, there was soul's heart-love, deep, true, and tender,
Wherever went Mary, the maiden so slender,
There followed, his all-absorbed passion, inciting,
That passionate lambkin—her soul's heart delighting—
Ay, every place that Mary sought in,
That lamb was sure to soon be caught in.
(As Longfellow might have done it)
Fair the daughter known as Mary,Fair and full of fun and laughter,Owned a lamb, a little he-goat,Owned him all herself and solely.White the lamb's wool as the Gotchi—The great Gotchi, driving snowstorm.Hither Mary went and thither,But went with her to all places,Sure as brook to run to river,Her pet lambkin following with her.
Fair the daughter known as Mary,Fair and full of fun and laughter,Owned a lamb, a little he-goat,Owned him all herself and solely.White the lamb's wool as the Gotchi—The great Gotchi, driving snowstorm.Hither Mary went and thither,But went with her to all places,Sure as brook to run to river,Her pet lambkin following with her.
Fair the daughter known as Mary,Fair and full of fun and laughter,Owned a lamb, a little he-goat,Owned him all herself and solely.White the lamb's wool as the Gotchi—The great Gotchi, driving snowstorm.Hither Mary went and thither,But went with her to all places,Sure as brook to run to river,Her pet lambkin following with her.
Fair the daughter known as Mary,
Fair and full of fun and laughter,
Owned a lamb, a little he-goat,
Owned him all herself and solely.
White the lamb's wool as the Gotchi—
The great Gotchi, driving snowstorm.
Hither Mary went and thither,
But went with her to all places,
Sure as brook to run to river,
Her pet lambkin following with her.
(How Andrew Lang sings it)
A wonderful lass was Marie, petite,And she looked full fair and passing sweet—And, oh! she owned—but cannot you guessWhat pet can a maiden so love and caressAs a tiny lamb with a plaintive bleat,And mud upon his dainty feet,And a gentle veally odour of meat,And a fleece to finger and kiss and press—White as snow?Wherever she wandered, in lane or street,As she sauntered on, there at her feetShe would find that lambkin—blessThe dear!—treading on her dainty dress,Her dainty dress, fresh and neat—White as snow!
A wonderful lass was Marie, petite,And she looked full fair and passing sweet—And, oh! she owned—but cannot you guessWhat pet can a maiden so love and caressAs a tiny lamb with a plaintive bleat,And mud upon his dainty feet,And a gentle veally odour of meat,And a fleece to finger and kiss and press—White as snow?Wherever she wandered, in lane or street,As she sauntered on, there at her feetShe would find that lambkin—blessThe dear!—treading on her dainty dress,Her dainty dress, fresh and neat—White as snow!
A wonderful lass was Marie, petite,And she looked full fair and passing sweet—And, oh! she owned—but cannot you guessWhat pet can a maiden so love and caressAs a tiny lamb with a plaintive bleat,And mud upon his dainty feet,And a gentle veally odour of meat,And a fleece to finger and kiss and press—White as snow?
A wonderful lass was Marie, petite,
And she looked full fair and passing sweet—
And, oh! she owned—but cannot you guess
What pet can a maiden so love and caress
As a tiny lamb with a plaintive bleat,
And mud upon his dainty feet,
And a gentle veally odour of meat,
And a fleece to finger and kiss and press—
White as snow?
Wherever she wandered, in lane or street,As she sauntered on, there at her feetShe would find that lambkin—blessThe dear!—treading on her dainty dress,Her dainty dress, fresh and neat—White as snow!
Wherever she wandered, in lane or street,
As she sauntered on, there at her feet
She would find that lambkin—bless
The dear!—treading on her dainty dress,
Her dainty dress, fresh and neat—
White as snow!
(Mr. Algernon C. Swinburne's idea)
Dewy-eyed with shimmering hair,Maiden and lamb were a sight to see,For her pet was white as she was fair.And its lovely fleece was beyond compare,And dearly it loved its Mistress Marie,Dewy-eyed, with shimmering hair.Its warpéd wool was an inwove snare,To tangle her fingers in, where they could be(For her pet was white as she was fair).Lost from sight, both so snow-white were,And the lambkin adored the maiden wee,Dewy-eyed with shimmering hair.Th' impassioned incarnation of rare,Of limpid-eyed, luscious-lipped, loved beauty,And her pet was white as she was fair.Wherever she wandered, hither and there,Wildly that lambkin sought with her to be,With the dewy-eyed, with shimmering hair,And a pet as white as its mistress was fair.A. C. Wilkie.
Dewy-eyed with shimmering hair,Maiden and lamb were a sight to see,For her pet was white as she was fair.And its lovely fleece was beyond compare,And dearly it loved its Mistress Marie,Dewy-eyed, with shimmering hair.Its warpéd wool was an inwove snare,To tangle her fingers in, where they could be(For her pet was white as she was fair).Lost from sight, both so snow-white were,And the lambkin adored the maiden wee,Dewy-eyed with shimmering hair.Th' impassioned incarnation of rare,Of limpid-eyed, luscious-lipped, loved beauty,And her pet was white as she was fair.Wherever she wandered, hither and there,Wildly that lambkin sought with her to be,With the dewy-eyed, with shimmering hair,And a pet as white as its mistress was fair.A. C. Wilkie.
Dewy-eyed with shimmering hair,Maiden and lamb were a sight to see,For her pet was white as she was fair.
Dewy-eyed with shimmering hair,
Maiden and lamb were a sight to see,
For her pet was white as she was fair.
And its lovely fleece was beyond compare,And dearly it loved its Mistress Marie,Dewy-eyed, with shimmering hair.
And its lovely fleece was beyond compare,
And dearly it loved its Mistress Marie,
Dewy-eyed, with shimmering hair.
Its warpéd wool was an inwove snare,To tangle her fingers in, where they could be(For her pet was white as she was fair).
Its warpéd wool was an inwove snare,
To tangle her fingers in, where they could be
(For her pet was white as she was fair).
Lost from sight, both so snow-white were,And the lambkin adored the maiden wee,Dewy-eyed with shimmering hair.
Lost from sight, both so snow-white were,
And the lambkin adored the maiden wee,
Dewy-eyed with shimmering hair.
Th' impassioned incarnation of rare,Of limpid-eyed, luscious-lipped, loved beauty,And her pet was white as she was fair.
Th' impassioned incarnation of rare,
Of limpid-eyed, luscious-lipped, loved beauty,
And her pet was white as she was fair.
Wherever she wandered, hither and there,Wildly that lambkin sought with her to be,With the dewy-eyed, with shimmering hair,And a pet as white as its mistress was fair.A. C. Wilkie.
Wherever she wandered, hither and there,
Wildly that lambkin sought with her to be,
With the dewy-eyed, with shimmering hair,
And a pet as white as its mistress was fair.
A. C. Wilkie.
Aesthere to the Rose, ThePunch40After Browning194Amateur Flute, The140American, One of the Roughs, A Kosmos, An219Ancient Mariner, The61Angelo Orders His DinnerBayard Taylor205Annabel LeeStanley Huntley147Answer to Master Wither's Song, "Shall I,Wasting in Despair?"Ben Jonson25Atalanta in Camden-TownLewis Carroll270At the Sign of the CockOwen Seaman248Baby's Omar, TheCarolyn Wells12Bachelor's Soliloquy, The17BalladCharles S. Calverley253Ballad, AGuy Wetmore Carryl307Ballade of Ballade-Mongers, AAugustus M. Moore322Bat, TheLewis Carroll82Bather's Dirge, TheTennyson Minor155Beautiful Snow324Bed During ExamsClara Warren Vail298Behold the Deeds!H. C. Bunner319Bells, TheJudy148Birds and the Pheasant, ThePunch131Biter Bit, TheWilliam Aytoun161Bo-PeepAnthony C. Deane294Boston Nursery RhymesRev. Joseph Cook32Burial of the Bachelor, The88By the SeaBayard Taylor203CameradosBayard Taylor220Cannibal Flea, TheTom Hood, Jr.145Cantelope, TheBayard Taylor243Christmas Wail, A252CimabuellaBayard Taylor255Cock and the Bull, TheCharles S. Calverley195Cockney Enigma on the Letter HHorace Mayhew49CommonplacesRudyard Kipling97Crocodile, TheLewis Carroll43Cult of the Celtic, TheAnthony C. Deane317Culture in the SlumsW. E. Henley322DesolationTom Masson130De Tea FabulaA. T. Quiller-Couch289DisasterCharles S. Calverley79Domicile of John, TheA. Pope34Dreary Song, AShirley Brooks20Elderly Gentleman, TheGeorge Canning328Estunt the GriffRudyard Kipling235Excelsior124Father WilliamLewis Carroll67Flight of the Bucket, TheRudyard Kipling206Foam and FangsWalter Parke278Fragment in Imitation of WordsworthC. M. Fanshawe52Fuzzy Wuzzy Leaves usE. P. C.305Gaelic Speech; or "Auld Lang Syne"Done Up in Tartan45Gillian268Goblin Goose, ThePunch150GodivaOliver Herford177Golfer's Rubaiyat, TheH. W. Boynton3Grievance, AJ. K. Stephen85GwendolineBayard Taylor118HadramautBayard Taylor233Heathen Pass-ee, TheA. C. Hilton286Higher120Higher Pantheism in a Nutshell, TheAlgernon C. Swinburne180Hiram HoverBayard Taylor133Horse and His Master, ThePhilip F. Allen136Home Sweet Home with VariationsHenry C. Bunner334Home Truths from Abroad193House that Jack Built, TheSamuel T. Coleridge31How OftenBen King129Idyll of Phatte and Leene, An29If!Mortimer Collins274If I Should Die To-NightBen King331ImitationHenry C. Bunner96Imitation of Robert BrowningJ. K. Stephen210Imitation of Walt WhitmanJudy221Imitation of Walt WhitmanJ. K. Stephen224ImitationAnthony C. Deane296In ImmemoriamCuthbert Bede174In the GloamingCharles S. Calverley116I Remember, I RememberPhœbe Cary101Jack and JillAnthony C. Deane309Jack and JillCharles Battell Loomis348JacobPhœbe Cary51Jam-Pot, TheRudyard Kipling210Jane SmithRudyard Kipling54John Thompson's DaughterPhœbe Cary73Lady JaneA. T. Quiller-Couch69Last Cigar, The76Last Ride Together, TheJ. K. Stephen212Laureate, TheWilliam Aytoun163Laureate's Log, APunch178Laureate's Tourney, TheWilliam Aytoun105Lay of Macaroni, TheBayard Taylor284Lay of the Lovelorn, TheWilliam Aytoun165Legend of Realism, TheHilda Johnson313Lines Written ("By Request") for a Dinnerof the Omar Khayyam ClubOwen Seaman10Little Jack HornerAnthony C. Deane315Little Miss Muffet156Lobster Quadrille, TheLewis Carroll114Lost Ape, TheJ. W. G. W.245Lost Voice, TheA. H. S.244Lost Word, TheC. H. Webb246Love and Science153Lovers, and a ReflectionCharles S. Calverley259Love Song, ADean Swift331Lucy LakeNewton Mackintosh57Maid of the Meerschaum, TheRudyard Kipling275Manlet, TheLewis Carroll272Man's Place in Nature191Marriage of Sir John Smith, ThePhœbe Cary91Mary and the LambFrank D. Sherman37Maudle-in Ballad, APunch300Melton Mowbray Pork-Pie, ARichard Le Gallienne278Modern Hiawatha, The120Modern Rubaiyat, TheKate Masterson7Modern Versification on Ancient ThemesElizabeth Cavazza346More ImpressionsOscuro Wildgoose299Musical Pitch, The158Mutton113My Foe46NephelidiaA. C. Swinburne282Nettle, TheBayard Taylor231New Arrival, TheGeorge W. Cable72Newest Thing in Christmas Carols, The325New Version, TheW. J. Lampton138Not a Sou had he GotR. Harris Barham89Nursery Rhymes à la Mode299Nursery Song in Pidgin English30Ode, AnAnthony C. Deane237Ode on a Jar of PicklesBayard Taylor94Ode to a London Fog239Of FriendshipCharles S. Calverley185Of ReadingCharles S. Calverley186Old Fashioned FunW. M. Thackeray333Old Man's Cold and How He Got It, The66Old Song by New Singers, AnA. C. Wilkie368Omar for Ladies, AnJosephine D. Bacon5Only SevenHenry S. Leigh55On Wordsworth51Oyster-CrabsCarolyn Wells41Poet and the Woodlouse, TheA. C. Swinburne224Poets at a House-PartyCarolyn Wells363Poets at Tea, TheBarry Pain359Poker18Portrait, AJohn Keats15Poster Girl, TheCarolyn Wells257President Garfield240Prodigals, The292Promissory Note, TheBayard Taylor143Propinquity NeededCharles B. Loomis241Psalm of Life, APhœbe Cary127QuaeriturRudyard Kipling277Quite the CheeseH. C. Waring302Recognition, TheWilliam Sawyer180Rejected "National Hymns," TheRobert H. Newell352RememberJudy263Rigid Body SingsJ. C. Maxwell48Rout of Belgravia, TheJon Duan, 84Samuel BrownPhœbe Cary142Sarah's HallsJudy80Self-EvidentJ. R. Planché104Shrimp-Gatherers, TheBayard Taylor261Sir EggnoggBayard Taylor175Some DayF. P. Doveton329SongOliver Herford27SongJames Whitcomb Riley22Song of a Heart, AOliver Herford33Song of Renunciation, AOwen Seaman279Song of the Sheet98"Songs Without Words"Robert J. Burdette327Staccato to O Le Lupe, ABliss Carman200StrikingCharles S. Calverley64Tale of Lord Lovell, The326Tea, TheTom Hood, Jr.82"The Day is Done"Phœbe Cary126Theme with Variations, ABarry Pain356"There's a Bower of Bean-Vines"Phœbe Cary78Three Blessings41Three Little FishersFrank H. Stauffer229Three Mice, TheAnthony C. Deane304Three Poets, TheLilian Whiting230Thyroid Gland, TheR. M.93Timbuctoo.—Part I.W. M. Thackeray183To an Importunate Host158To Julia Under Lock and KeyOwen Seaman27Toothache19Topside Galah!122To the Stall-Holders at a Fancy FairW. S. Gilbert21Turtle SoupLewis Carroll329'T was Ever ThusHenry S. Leigh81'T was Ever Thus77Up the SpoutA. C. Swinburne215Village Choir, The159Voice of the Lobster, TheLewis Carroll42Vulture and the Husbandman, TheA. C Hilton265WaggawockyShirley Brooks264What Troubled Poe's RavenJohn Bennett139When Lovely WomanPhœbe Cary44Whist-Player's Soliloquy, TheCarolyn Wells23Willow-Tree, TheW. M. Thackeray188Ye Clerke of Ye Wethere14Young Lochinvar58Yule-Tide Parody, A103
Answer to Master Wither's Song, "Shall I,Wasting in Despair?"
Gaelic Speech; or "Auld Lang Syne"Done Up in Tartan
Lines Written ("By Request") for a Dinnerof the Omar Khayyam Club