SLEEP ON

I’LL sing you a song, not very long,But the story somewhat newOf William Kidd, who, whatever he did,To his Poll was always true.He sailed away in a galliant shipFrom the port of old Bristol,And the last words he uttered,As his hankercher he fluttered,Were, “My heart is true to Poll.”His heart was true to Poll,His heart was true to Poll.It’s no matter what you doIf your heart be only true:And his heartwastrue to Poll.’Twas a wreck. William, on shore he swam,And looked about for an inn;When a noble savage lady, of a colour rather shady,Came up with a kind of grin:“Oh, marryme, and a king you’ll be,And in a palace loll;Or we’ll eat you willy-nilly.”So he gave hishand, did Billy,But hisheartwas true to Poll.Away a twelvemonth sped, and a happy life he ledAs the King of the Kikeryboos;His paint was red and yellar, and he used a big umbrella,And he wore a pair of over-shoes;He’d corals and knives, and twenty-six wives,Whose beauties I cannot here extol;One day they all revolted,So he back to Bristol bolted,For hisheartwas true to Poll.His heart was true to Poll,His heart was true to Poll.It’s no matter what you do,If your heart be only true:And his heartwastrue to Poll.Frank C. Burnand.

I’LL sing you a song, not very long,

But the story somewhat new

Of William Kidd, who, whatever he did,

To his Poll was always true.

He sailed away in a galliant ship

From the port of old Bristol,

And the last words he uttered,

As his hankercher he fluttered,

Were, “My heart is true to Poll.”

His heart was true to Poll,

His heart was true to Poll.

It’s no matter what you do

If your heart be only true:

And his heartwastrue to Poll.

’Twas a wreck. William, on shore he swam,And looked about for an inn;When a noble savage lady, of a colour rather shady,Came up with a kind of grin:“Oh, marryme, and a king you’ll be,And in a palace loll;Or we’ll eat you willy-nilly.”So he gave hishand, did Billy,But hisheartwas true to Poll.

’Twas a wreck. William, on shore he swam,

And looked about for an inn;

When a noble savage lady, of a colour rather shady,

Came up with a kind of grin:

“Oh, marryme, and a king you’ll be,

And in a palace loll;

Or we’ll eat you willy-nilly.”

So he gave hishand, did Billy,

But hisheartwas true to Poll.

Away a twelvemonth sped, and a happy life he ledAs the King of the Kikeryboos;His paint was red and yellar, and he used a big umbrella,And he wore a pair of over-shoes;He’d corals and knives, and twenty-six wives,Whose beauties I cannot here extol;One day they all revolted,So he back to Bristol bolted,For hisheartwas true to Poll.

Away a twelvemonth sped, and a happy life he led

As the King of the Kikeryboos;

His paint was red and yellar, and he used a big umbrella,

And he wore a pair of over-shoes;

He’d corals and knives, and twenty-six wives,

Whose beauties I cannot here extol;

One day they all revolted,

So he back to Bristol bolted,

For hisheartwas true to Poll.

His heart was true to Poll,His heart was true to Poll.It’s no matter what you do,If your heart be only true:And his heartwastrue to Poll.Frank C. Burnand.

His heart was true to Poll,

His heart was true to Poll.

It’s no matter what you do,

If your heart be only true:

And his heartwastrue to Poll.

Frank C. Burnand.

FEAR no unlicensed entry,Heed no bombastic talk,While guards the British sentryPall Mall and Birdcage Walk.Let European thundersOccasion no alarms,Though diplomatic blundersMay cause a cry, “To arms!”Sleep on, ye pale civilians;All thunder-clouds defy;On Europe’s countless millionsThe sentry keeps his eye!Should foreign-born rapscallionsIn London dare to showTheir overgrown battalions,Be sure I’ll let you know.Should Russians or NorwegiansPollute our favoured climeWith rough barbaric legions,I’ll mention it in time.So sleep in peace, civilians,The Continent defy;While on its countless millionsThe sentry keeps his eye!W. S. Gilbert.

FEAR no unlicensed entry,

Heed no bombastic talk,

While guards the British sentry

Pall Mall and Birdcage Walk.

Let European thunders

Occasion no alarms,

Though diplomatic blunders

May cause a cry, “To arms!”

Sleep on, ye pale civilians;

All thunder-clouds defy;

On Europe’s countless millions

The sentry keeps his eye!

Should foreign-born rapscallionsIn London dare to showTheir overgrown battalions,Be sure I’ll let you know.Should Russians or NorwegiansPollute our favoured climeWith rough barbaric legions,I’ll mention it in time.So sleep in peace, civilians,The Continent defy;While on its countless millionsThe sentry keeps his eye!W. S. Gilbert.

Should foreign-born rapscallions

In London dare to show

Their overgrown battalions,

Be sure I’ll let you know.

Should Russians or Norwegians

Pollute our favoured clime

With rough barbaric legions,

I’ll mention it in time.

So sleep in peace, civilians,

The Continent defy;

While on its countless millions

The sentry keeps his eye!

W. S. Gilbert.

BY A MISERABLE WRETCH

ROLL on, thou ball, roll on!Through pathless realms of spaceRoll on!What though I’m in a sorry case?What though I cannot meet my bills?What though I suffer toothache’s ills?What though I swallow countless pills?Neveryoumind!Roll on!Roll on, thou ball, roll on!Through seas of inky airRoll on!It’s true I’ve got no shirts to wear;It’s true my butcher’s bill is due;It’s true my prospects all look blue;But don’t let that unsettle you.Neveryoumind!Roll on!(It rolls on.)W. S. Gilbert.

ROLL on, thou ball, roll on!

Through pathless realms of space

Roll on!

What though I’m in a sorry case?

What though I cannot meet my bills?

What though I suffer toothache’s ills?

What though I swallow countless pills?

Neveryoumind!

Roll on!

Roll on, thou ball, roll on!Through seas of inky airRoll on!It’s true I’ve got no shirts to wear;It’s true my butcher’s bill is due;It’s true my prospects all look blue;But don’t let that unsettle you.Neveryoumind!Roll on!(It rolls on.)W. S. Gilbert.

Roll on, thou ball, roll on!

Through seas of inky air

Roll on!

It’s true I’ve got no shirts to wear;

It’s true my butcher’s bill is due;

It’s true my prospects all look blue;

But don’t let that unsettle you.

Neveryoumind!

Roll on!

(It rolls on.)

W. S. Gilbert.

ALADY fair, of lineage high,Was loved by an ape, in the days gone by;The maid was radiant as the sun;The ape was a most unsightly one.So it would not do—His scheme fell through;For the maid, when his love took formal shape,Expressed such terrorAt his monstrous error,That he stammered an apology and made his ’scape,The picture of a disconcerted ape.With a view to rise in the social scale,He shaved his bristles and he docked his tail;He grew mustachios, and he took his tub,And he paid a guinea to a toilet club.But it would not do—The scheme fell through;For the maid was Beauty’s fairest queen,With golden tresses,Like a real princess’s,While the ape, despite his razor keen,Was the apiest ape that ever was seen!He bought white ties, and he bought dress suits;He crammed his feet into bright, tight boots;And to start his life on a brand-new plan,He christened himself Darwinian man!But it would not do—The scheme fell through;For the maiden fair, whom the monkey craved,Was a radiant being,With a brain far-seeing;While a man, however well behaved,At best is only a monkey shaved!W. S. Gilbert.

ALADY fair, of lineage high,

Was loved by an ape, in the days gone by;

The maid was radiant as the sun;

The ape was a most unsightly one.

So it would not do—

His scheme fell through;

For the maid, when his love took formal shape,

Expressed such terror

At his monstrous error,

That he stammered an apology and made his ’scape,

The picture of a disconcerted ape.

With a view to rise in the social scale,He shaved his bristles and he docked his tail;He grew mustachios, and he took his tub,And he paid a guinea to a toilet club.But it would not do—The scheme fell through;For the maid was Beauty’s fairest queen,With golden tresses,Like a real princess’s,While the ape, despite his razor keen,Was the apiest ape that ever was seen!

With a view to rise in the social scale,

He shaved his bristles and he docked his tail;

He grew mustachios, and he took his tub,

And he paid a guinea to a toilet club.

But it would not do—

The scheme fell through;

For the maid was Beauty’s fairest queen,

With golden tresses,

Like a real princess’s,

While the ape, despite his razor keen,

Was the apiest ape that ever was seen!

He bought white ties, and he bought dress suits;He crammed his feet into bright, tight boots;And to start his life on a brand-new plan,He christened himself Darwinian man!But it would not do—The scheme fell through;For the maiden fair, whom the monkey craved,Was a radiant being,With a brain far-seeing;While a man, however well behaved,At best is only a monkey shaved!W. S. Gilbert.

He bought white ties, and he bought dress suits;

He crammed his feet into bright, tight boots;

And to start his life on a brand-new plan,

He christened himself Darwinian man!

But it would not do—

The scheme fell through;

For the maiden fair, whom the monkey craved,

Was a radiant being,

With a brain far-seeing;

While a man, however well behaved,

At best is only a monkey shaved!

W. S. Gilbert.

SOCIETY has quite forsaken all her wicked courses,Which empties our police courts, and abolishes divorces.(Divorce is nearly obsolete in England.)No tolerance we show to undeserving rank and splendour,For the higher his position is, the greater the offender.(That’s a maxim that is prevalent in England.)No peeress at our drawing-room before the Presence passesWho wouldn’t be accepted by the lower-middle classes.Each shady dame, whatever be her rank, is bowed out neatly;In short, this happy country has been Anglicised completely!It really is surprisingWhat a thorough AnglicisingWe’ve brought about—Utopia’s quite another land;In her enterprising movements,She is England, with improvements,Which we dutifully offer to our mother-land!Our city we have beautified—we’ve done it willy-nilly—And all that isn’t Belgrave Square is Strand and Piccadilly.(They haven’t any slummeries in England.)We have solved the labour question with discrimination polished,So poverty is obsolete, and hunger is abolished.(They are going to abolish it in England.)The Chamberlain our native stage has purged, beyond a question,Of “risky situation and indelicate suggestion”;No piece is tolerated if it’s costumed indiscreetly—In short, this happy country has been Anglicised completely!It really is surprisingWhat a thorough AnglicisingWe’ve brought about—Utopia’s quite another land;In her enterprising movements,She is England, with improvements,Which we dutifully offer to our mother-land!Our peerage we’ve remodelled on an intellectual basis,Which certainly is rough on our hereditary races.(They are going to remodel it in England.)The brewers and the cotton lords no longer seek admission,And literary merit meets with proper recognition—(As literary merit does in England!)Who knows but we may count among our intellectual chickensLike them an Earl of Thackeray, and p’r’aps a Duke of Dickens—Lord Fildes and Viscount Millais (when they come) we’ll welcome sweetly,And then this happy country will be Anglicised completely!It really is surprisingWhat a thorough AnglicisingWe’ve brought about—Utopia’s quite another land;In her enterprising movements,She is England, with improvements,Which we dutifully offer to our mother-land!W. S. Gilbert.

SOCIETY has quite forsaken all her wicked courses,

Which empties our police courts, and abolishes divorces.

(Divorce is nearly obsolete in England.)

No tolerance we show to undeserving rank and splendour,

For the higher his position is, the greater the offender.

(That’s a maxim that is prevalent in England.)

No peeress at our drawing-room before the Presence passes

Who wouldn’t be accepted by the lower-middle classes.

Each shady dame, whatever be her rank, is bowed out neatly;

In short, this happy country has been Anglicised completely!

It really is surprising

What a thorough Anglicising

We’ve brought about—Utopia’s quite another land;

In her enterprising movements,

She is England, with improvements,

Which we dutifully offer to our mother-land!

Our city we have beautified—we’ve done it willy-nilly—And all that isn’t Belgrave Square is Strand and Piccadilly.(They haven’t any slummeries in England.)We have solved the labour question with discrimination polished,So poverty is obsolete, and hunger is abolished.(They are going to abolish it in England.)The Chamberlain our native stage has purged, beyond a question,Of “risky situation and indelicate suggestion”;No piece is tolerated if it’s costumed indiscreetly—In short, this happy country has been Anglicised completely!It really is surprisingWhat a thorough AnglicisingWe’ve brought about—Utopia’s quite another land;In her enterprising movements,She is England, with improvements,Which we dutifully offer to our mother-land!

Our city we have beautified—we’ve done it willy-nilly—

And all that isn’t Belgrave Square is Strand and Piccadilly.

(They haven’t any slummeries in England.)

We have solved the labour question with discrimination polished,

So poverty is obsolete, and hunger is abolished.

(They are going to abolish it in England.)

The Chamberlain our native stage has purged, beyond a question,

Of “risky situation and indelicate suggestion”;

No piece is tolerated if it’s costumed indiscreetly—

In short, this happy country has been Anglicised completely!

It really is surprising

What a thorough Anglicising

We’ve brought about—Utopia’s quite another land;

In her enterprising movements,

She is England, with improvements,

Which we dutifully offer to our mother-land!

Our peerage we’ve remodelled on an intellectual basis,Which certainly is rough on our hereditary races.(They are going to remodel it in England.)The brewers and the cotton lords no longer seek admission,And literary merit meets with proper recognition—(As literary merit does in England!)Who knows but we may count among our intellectual chickensLike them an Earl of Thackeray, and p’r’aps a Duke of Dickens—Lord Fildes and Viscount Millais (when they come) we’ll welcome sweetly,And then this happy country will be Anglicised completely!It really is surprisingWhat a thorough AnglicisingWe’ve brought about—Utopia’s quite another land;In her enterprising movements,She is England, with improvements,Which we dutifully offer to our mother-land!W. S. Gilbert.

Our peerage we’ve remodelled on an intellectual basis,

Which certainly is rough on our hereditary races.

(They are going to remodel it in England.)

The brewers and the cotton lords no longer seek admission,

And literary merit meets with proper recognition—

(As literary merit does in England!)

Who knows but we may count among our intellectual chickens

Like them an Earl of Thackeray, and p’r’aps a Duke of Dickens—

Lord Fildes and Viscount Millais (when they come) we’ll welcome sweetly,

And then this happy country will be Anglicised completely!

It really is surprising

What a thorough Anglicising

We’ve brought about—Utopia’s quite another land;

In her enterprising movements,

She is England, with improvements,

Which we dutifully offer to our mother-land!

W. S. Gilbert.

THEBallyshannonfoundered off the coast of Cariboo,And down in fathoms many went the captain and the crew;Down went the owners—greedy men whom hope of gain allured:Oh, dry the starting tear, for they were heavily insured.Besides the captain and the mate, the owners and the crew,The passengers were also drowned excepting only two:Young Peter Gray, who tasted teas for Baker, Croop, and Co.,And Somers, who from Eastern shores imported indigo.These passengers, by reason of their clinging to a mast,Upon a desert island were eventually cast.They hunted for their meals, as Alexander Selkirk used,But they couldn’t chat together—they had not been introduced.For Peter Gray, and Somers, too, though certainly in trade,Were properly particular about the friends they made;And somehow thus they settled it, without a word of mouth,That Gray should take the northern half, while Somers took the south.On Peter’s portion oysters grew—a delicacy rare,But oysters were a delicacy Peter couldn’t bear.On Somer’s side was turtle, on the shingle lying thick,Which Somers couldn’t eat, because it always made him sick.Gray gnashed his teeth with envy as he saw a mighty storeOf turtle unmolested on his fellow-creature’s shore.The oysters at his feet aside impatiently he shoved,For turtle and his mother were the only things he loved.And Somers sighed in sorrow as he settled in the south,For the thought of Peter’s oysters brought the water to his mouth.He longed to lay him down upon the shelly bed, and stuff:He had often eaten oysters, but had never had enough.How they wished an introduction to each other they had hadWhen on board theBallyshannon! And it drove them nearly madTo think how very friendly with each other they might get,If it wasn’t for the arbitrary rule of etiquette!One day, when out a-hunting for themus ridiculus,Gray overheard his fellow-man soliloquising thus:“I wonder how the playmates of my youth are getting on,M’Connell, S. B. Walters, Paddy Byles, and Robinson?”These simple words made Peter as delighted as could be;Old chummies at the Charterhouse were Robinson and he.He walked straight up to Somers, then he turned extremely red,Hesitated, hummed and hawed a bit, then cleared his throat, and said:“I beg your pardon—pray forgive me if I seem too bold,But you have breathed a name I knew familiarly of old.You spoke aloud of Robinson—I happened to be by.You know him?” “Yes, extremely well.” “Allow me, so do I.”It was enough: they felt they could more pleasantly get on,For (ah, the magic of the fact!) they each knew Robinson!And Mr. Somers’ turtle was at Peter’s service quite,And Mr. Somers punished Peter’s oyster-beds all night.They soon became like brothers from community of wrongs;They wrote each other little odes and sang each other songs;They told each other anecdotes disparaging their wives;On several occasions, too, they saved each other’s lives.They felt quite melancholy when they parted for the night,And got up in the morning soon as ever it was light;Each other’s pleasant company they reckoned so upon,And all because it happened that they both knew Robinson!They lived for many years on that inhospitable shore,And day by day they learned to love each other more and more.At last, to their astonishment, on getting up one day,They saw a frigate anchored in the offing of the bay.To Peter an idea occurred. “Suppose we cross the main?So good an opportunity may not be found again.”And Somers thought a minute, then ejaculated, “Done!I wonder how my business in the City’s getting on?”“But stay,” said Mr. Peter; “when in England, as you know,I earned a living tasting teas for Baker, Croop, and Co.,I may be superseded—my employers think me dead!”“Then come with me,” said Somers, “and taste indigo instead.”But all their plans were scattered in a moment when they foundThe vessel was a convict ship from Portland outward bound;When a boat came off to fetch them, though they felt it very kind,To go on board they firmly but respectfully declined.As both the happy settlers roared with laughter at the joke,They recognized a gentlemanly fellow pulling stroke:’Twas Robinson—a convict, in an unbecoming frock!Condemned to seven years for misappropriating stock!!!They laughed no more, for Somers thought he had been rather rashIn knowing one whose friend had misappropriated cash;And Peter thought a foolish tack he must have gone uponIn making the acquaintance of a friend of Robinson.At first they didn’t quarrel very openly, I’ve heard;They nodded when they met, and now and then exchanged a word:The word grew rare, and rarer still the nodding of the head,And when they meet each other now, they cut each other dead.To allocate the island they agreed by word of mouth,And Peter takes the north again, and Somers takes the south;And Peter has the oysters, which he hates, in layers thick,And Somers has the turtle—turtle always makes him sick.W. S. Gilbert.

THEBallyshannonfoundered off the coast of Cariboo,

And down in fathoms many went the captain and the crew;

Down went the owners—greedy men whom hope of gain allured:

Oh, dry the starting tear, for they were heavily insured.

Besides the captain and the mate, the owners and the crew,The passengers were also drowned excepting only two:Young Peter Gray, who tasted teas for Baker, Croop, and Co.,And Somers, who from Eastern shores imported indigo.

Besides the captain and the mate, the owners and the crew,

The passengers were also drowned excepting only two:

Young Peter Gray, who tasted teas for Baker, Croop, and Co.,

And Somers, who from Eastern shores imported indigo.

These passengers, by reason of their clinging to a mast,Upon a desert island were eventually cast.They hunted for their meals, as Alexander Selkirk used,But they couldn’t chat together—they had not been introduced.

These passengers, by reason of their clinging to a mast,

Upon a desert island were eventually cast.

They hunted for their meals, as Alexander Selkirk used,

But they couldn’t chat together—they had not been introduced.

For Peter Gray, and Somers, too, though certainly in trade,Were properly particular about the friends they made;And somehow thus they settled it, without a word of mouth,That Gray should take the northern half, while Somers took the south.

For Peter Gray, and Somers, too, though certainly in trade,

Were properly particular about the friends they made;

And somehow thus they settled it, without a word of mouth,

That Gray should take the northern half, while Somers took the south.

On Peter’s portion oysters grew—a delicacy rare,But oysters were a delicacy Peter couldn’t bear.On Somer’s side was turtle, on the shingle lying thick,Which Somers couldn’t eat, because it always made him sick.

On Peter’s portion oysters grew—a delicacy rare,

But oysters were a delicacy Peter couldn’t bear.

On Somer’s side was turtle, on the shingle lying thick,

Which Somers couldn’t eat, because it always made him sick.

Gray gnashed his teeth with envy as he saw a mighty storeOf turtle unmolested on his fellow-creature’s shore.The oysters at his feet aside impatiently he shoved,For turtle and his mother were the only things he loved.

Gray gnashed his teeth with envy as he saw a mighty store

Of turtle unmolested on his fellow-creature’s shore.

The oysters at his feet aside impatiently he shoved,

For turtle and his mother were the only things he loved.

And Somers sighed in sorrow as he settled in the south,For the thought of Peter’s oysters brought the water to his mouth.He longed to lay him down upon the shelly bed, and stuff:He had often eaten oysters, but had never had enough.

And Somers sighed in sorrow as he settled in the south,

For the thought of Peter’s oysters brought the water to his mouth.

He longed to lay him down upon the shelly bed, and stuff:

He had often eaten oysters, but had never had enough.

How they wished an introduction to each other they had hadWhen on board theBallyshannon! And it drove them nearly madTo think how very friendly with each other they might get,If it wasn’t for the arbitrary rule of etiquette!

How they wished an introduction to each other they had had

When on board theBallyshannon! And it drove them nearly mad

To think how very friendly with each other they might get,

If it wasn’t for the arbitrary rule of etiquette!

One day, when out a-hunting for themus ridiculus,Gray overheard his fellow-man soliloquising thus:“I wonder how the playmates of my youth are getting on,M’Connell, S. B. Walters, Paddy Byles, and Robinson?”

One day, when out a-hunting for themus ridiculus,

Gray overheard his fellow-man soliloquising thus:

“I wonder how the playmates of my youth are getting on,

M’Connell, S. B. Walters, Paddy Byles, and Robinson?”

These simple words made Peter as delighted as could be;Old chummies at the Charterhouse were Robinson and he.He walked straight up to Somers, then he turned extremely red,Hesitated, hummed and hawed a bit, then cleared his throat, and said:

These simple words made Peter as delighted as could be;

Old chummies at the Charterhouse were Robinson and he.

He walked straight up to Somers, then he turned extremely red,

Hesitated, hummed and hawed a bit, then cleared his throat, and said:

“I beg your pardon—pray forgive me if I seem too bold,But you have breathed a name I knew familiarly of old.You spoke aloud of Robinson—I happened to be by.You know him?” “Yes, extremely well.” “Allow me, so do I.”

“I beg your pardon—pray forgive me if I seem too bold,

But you have breathed a name I knew familiarly of old.

You spoke aloud of Robinson—I happened to be by.

You know him?” “Yes, extremely well.” “Allow me, so do I.”

It was enough: they felt they could more pleasantly get on,For (ah, the magic of the fact!) they each knew Robinson!And Mr. Somers’ turtle was at Peter’s service quite,And Mr. Somers punished Peter’s oyster-beds all night.

It was enough: they felt they could more pleasantly get on,

For (ah, the magic of the fact!) they each knew Robinson!

And Mr. Somers’ turtle was at Peter’s service quite,

And Mr. Somers punished Peter’s oyster-beds all night.

They soon became like brothers from community of wrongs;They wrote each other little odes and sang each other songs;They told each other anecdotes disparaging their wives;On several occasions, too, they saved each other’s lives.

They soon became like brothers from community of wrongs;

They wrote each other little odes and sang each other songs;

They told each other anecdotes disparaging their wives;

On several occasions, too, they saved each other’s lives.

They felt quite melancholy when they parted for the night,And got up in the morning soon as ever it was light;Each other’s pleasant company they reckoned so upon,And all because it happened that they both knew Robinson!

They felt quite melancholy when they parted for the night,

And got up in the morning soon as ever it was light;

Each other’s pleasant company they reckoned so upon,

And all because it happened that they both knew Robinson!

They lived for many years on that inhospitable shore,And day by day they learned to love each other more and more.At last, to their astonishment, on getting up one day,They saw a frigate anchored in the offing of the bay.

They lived for many years on that inhospitable shore,

And day by day they learned to love each other more and more.

At last, to their astonishment, on getting up one day,

They saw a frigate anchored in the offing of the bay.

To Peter an idea occurred. “Suppose we cross the main?So good an opportunity may not be found again.”And Somers thought a minute, then ejaculated, “Done!I wonder how my business in the City’s getting on?”

To Peter an idea occurred. “Suppose we cross the main?

So good an opportunity may not be found again.”

And Somers thought a minute, then ejaculated, “Done!

I wonder how my business in the City’s getting on?”

“But stay,” said Mr. Peter; “when in England, as you know,I earned a living tasting teas for Baker, Croop, and Co.,I may be superseded—my employers think me dead!”“Then come with me,” said Somers, “and taste indigo instead.”

“But stay,” said Mr. Peter; “when in England, as you know,

I earned a living tasting teas for Baker, Croop, and Co.,

I may be superseded—my employers think me dead!”

“Then come with me,” said Somers, “and taste indigo instead.”

But all their plans were scattered in a moment when they foundThe vessel was a convict ship from Portland outward bound;When a boat came off to fetch them, though they felt it very kind,To go on board they firmly but respectfully declined.

But all their plans were scattered in a moment when they found

The vessel was a convict ship from Portland outward bound;

When a boat came off to fetch them, though they felt it very kind,

To go on board they firmly but respectfully declined.

As both the happy settlers roared with laughter at the joke,They recognized a gentlemanly fellow pulling stroke:’Twas Robinson—a convict, in an unbecoming frock!Condemned to seven years for misappropriating stock!!!

As both the happy settlers roared with laughter at the joke,

They recognized a gentlemanly fellow pulling stroke:

’Twas Robinson—a convict, in an unbecoming frock!

Condemned to seven years for misappropriating stock!!!

They laughed no more, for Somers thought he had been rather rashIn knowing one whose friend had misappropriated cash;And Peter thought a foolish tack he must have gone uponIn making the acquaintance of a friend of Robinson.

They laughed no more, for Somers thought he had been rather rash

In knowing one whose friend had misappropriated cash;

And Peter thought a foolish tack he must have gone upon

In making the acquaintance of a friend of Robinson.

At first they didn’t quarrel very openly, I’ve heard;They nodded when they met, and now and then exchanged a word:The word grew rare, and rarer still the nodding of the head,And when they meet each other now, they cut each other dead.

At first they didn’t quarrel very openly, I’ve heard;

They nodded when they met, and now and then exchanged a word:

The word grew rare, and rarer still the nodding of the head,

And when they meet each other now, they cut each other dead.

To allocate the island they agreed by word of mouth,And Peter takes the north again, and Somers takes the south;And Peter has the oysters, which he hates, in layers thick,And Somers has the turtle—turtle always makes him sick.W. S. Gilbert.

To allocate the island they agreed by word of mouth,

And Peter takes the north again, and Somers takes the south;

And Peter has the oysters, which he hates, in layers thick,

And Somers has the turtle—turtle always makes him sick.

W. S. Gilbert.

IF you’re anxious for to shine in the high æsthetic line, as a man of culture rare,You must get up all the germs of the transcendental terms, and plant them everywhere;You must lie upon the daisies, and discourse in novel phrases of your complicated state of mind(The meaning doesn’t matter, if it’s only idle chatter of a transcendental kind).And every one will say,As you walk your mystic way,“If this young man expresses himself in terms too deep for me,Why, what a very singularly deep young man this deep young man must be!”Be eloquent in praise of the very dull old days which have long since passed away,And convince ’em, if you can, that the reign of good Queen Anne was Culture’s palmiest day.Of course you will pooh-pooh whatever’s fresh and new, and declare it’s crude and mean,And that Art stopped short in the cultivated court of the Empress Josephine.And every one will say,As you walk your mystic way,“If that’s not good enough for him which is good enough for me,Why, what a very cultivated kind of youth this kind of youth must be!”Then a sentimental passion of a vegetable fashion must excite your languid spleen,An attachmentà la Platofor a bashful young potato, or a not-too-French French bean.Though the Philistines may jostle, you will rank as an apostle in the high æsthetic band,If you walk down Piccadilly with a poppy or a lily in your mediæval hand.And every one will say,As you walk your flowery way,“If he’s content with a vegetable love, which would certainly not suit me,Why, what a most particularly pure young man this pure young man must be!”W. S. Gilbert.

IF you’re anxious for to shine in the high æsthetic line, as a man of culture rare,

You must get up all the germs of the transcendental terms, and plant them everywhere;

You must lie upon the daisies, and discourse in novel phrases of your complicated state of mind

(The meaning doesn’t matter, if it’s only idle chatter of a transcendental kind).

And every one will say,

As you walk your mystic way,

“If this young man expresses himself in terms too deep for me,

Why, what a very singularly deep young man this deep young man must be!”

Be eloquent in praise of the very dull old days which have long since passed away,And convince ’em, if you can, that the reign of good Queen Anne was Culture’s palmiest day.Of course you will pooh-pooh whatever’s fresh and new, and declare it’s crude and mean,And that Art stopped short in the cultivated court of the Empress Josephine.And every one will say,As you walk your mystic way,“If that’s not good enough for him which is good enough for me,Why, what a very cultivated kind of youth this kind of youth must be!”Then a sentimental passion of a vegetable fashion must excite your languid spleen,An attachmentà la Platofor a bashful young potato, or a not-too-French French bean.Though the Philistines may jostle, you will rank as an apostle in the high æsthetic band,If you walk down Piccadilly with a poppy or a lily in your mediæval hand.And every one will say,As you walk your flowery way,“If he’s content with a vegetable love, which would certainly not suit me,Why, what a most particularly pure young man this pure young man must be!”W. S. Gilbert.

Be eloquent in praise of the very dull old days which have long since passed away,

And convince ’em, if you can, that the reign of good Queen Anne was Culture’s palmiest day.

Of course you will pooh-pooh whatever’s fresh and new, and declare it’s crude and mean,

And that Art stopped short in the cultivated court of the Empress Josephine.

And every one will say,

As you walk your mystic way,

“If that’s not good enough for him which is good enough for me,

Why, what a very cultivated kind of youth this kind of youth must be!”

Then a sentimental passion of a vegetable fashion must excite your languid spleen,

An attachmentà la Platofor a bashful young potato, or a not-too-French French bean.

Though the Philistines may jostle, you will rank as an apostle in the high æsthetic band,

If you walk down Piccadilly with a poppy or a lily in your mediæval hand.

And every one will say,

As you walk your flowery way,

“If he’s content with a vegetable love, which would certainly not suit me,

Why, what a most particularly pure young man this pure young man must be!”

W. S. Gilbert.

“Ah! si la jeunesse savait,—si la vieillesse pouvait!”

THERE sat an old man on a rock,And unceasing bewailed him of Fate,That concern where we all must take stock,Though our vote has no hearing or weight;And the old man sang him an old, old song—Never sang voice so clear and strongThat it could drown the old man’s for long,For he sang the song, “Too late! too late!”When we want, we have for our painsThe promise that if we but waitTill the want has burned out of our brains,Every means shall be present to state;While we send for the napkins, the soup gets cold;While the bonnet is trimming, the face grows old;When we’ve matched our buttons, the pattern is sold,And everything comes too late—too late!“When strawberries seemed like red heavens,Terrapin stew a wild dream,When my brain was at sixes and sevens,If my mother had ‘folks’ and ice-cream,Then I gazed with a lickerish hungerAt the restaurant-man and fruit-monger—But oh! how I wished I were younger,When the goodies all came in a stream—in a stream!“I’ve a splendid blood-horse, and—a liverThat it jars into torture to trot;My row-boat’s the gem of the river—Gout makes every knuckle a knot!I can buy boundless credits on Paris and Rome,But no palate forménus, no eyes for a dome—Thosebelonged to the youth who must tarry at home,When no home but an attic he’d got—he’d got!“How I longed, in that lonest of garrets,Where the tiles baked my brains all July,For ground to grow two pecks of carrots,Two pigs of my own in a sty,A rosebush, a little thatched cottage,Two spoons, love, a basin of pottage!Now in freestone I sit, and my dotage,With a woman’s chair empty close by—close by!“Ah, now, though I sit on a rock,I have shared one seat with the great;I have sat—knowing naught of the clock—On love’s high throne of state;But the lips that kissed, and the arms that caressed,To a mouth grown stern with delay were pressed,And circled a breast that their clasp had blessed,Had they only not come too late—too late!”Fitz-Hugh Ludlow.

THERE sat an old man on a rock,

And unceasing bewailed him of Fate,

That concern where we all must take stock,

Though our vote has no hearing or weight;

And the old man sang him an old, old song—

Never sang voice so clear and strong

That it could drown the old man’s for long,

For he sang the song, “Too late! too late!”

When we want, we have for our painsThe promise that if we but waitTill the want has burned out of our brains,Every means shall be present to state;While we send for the napkins, the soup gets cold;While the bonnet is trimming, the face grows old;When we’ve matched our buttons, the pattern is sold,And everything comes too late—too late!

When we want, we have for our pains

The promise that if we but wait

Till the want has burned out of our brains,

Every means shall be present to state;

While we send for the napkins, the soup gets cold;

While the bonnet is trimming, the face grows old;

When we’ve matched our buttons, the pattern is sold,

And everything comes too late—too late!

“When strawberries seemed like red heavens,Terrapin stew a wild dream,When my brain was at sixes and sevens,If my mother had ‘folks’ and ice-cream,Then I gazed with a lickerish hungerAt the restaurant-man and fruit-monger—But oh! how I wished I were younger,When the goodies all came in a stream—in a stream!

“When strawberries seemed like red heavens,

Terrapin stew a wild dream,

When my brain was at sixes and sevens,

If my mother had ‘folks’ and ice-cream,

Then I gazed with a lickerish hunger

At the restaurant-man and fruit-monger—

But oh! how I wished I were younger,

When the goodies all came in a stream—in a stream!

“I’ve a splendid blood-horse, and—a liverThat it jars into torture to trot;My row-boat’s the gem of the river—Gout makes every knuckle a knot!I can buy boundless credits on Paris and Rome,But no palate forménus, no eyes for a dome—Thosebelonged to the youth who must tarry at home,When no home but an attic he’d got—he’d got!

“I’ve a splendid blood-horse, and—a liver

That it jars into torture to trot;

My row-boat’s the gem of the river—

Gout makes every knuckle a knot!

I can buy boundless credits on Paris and Rome,

But no palate forménus, no eyes for a dome—

Thosebelonged to the youth who must tarry at home,

When no home but an attic he’d got—he’d got!

“How I longed, in that lonest of garrets,Where the tiles baked my brains all July,For ground to grow two pecks of carrots,Two pigs of my own in a sty,A rosebush, a little thatched cottage,Two spoons, love, a basin of pottage!Now in freestone I sit, and my dotage,With a woman’s chair empty close by—close by!

“How I longed, in that lonest of garrets,

Where the tiles baked my brains all July,

For ground to grow two pecks of carrots,

Two pigs of my own in a sty,

A rosebush, a little thatched cottage,

Two spoons, love, a basin of pottage!

Now in freestone I sit, and my dotage,

With a woman’s chair empty close by—close by!

“Ah, now, though I sit on a rock,I have shared one seat with the great;I have sat—knowing naught of the clock—On love’s high throne of state;But the lips that kissed, and the arms that caressed,To a mouth grown stern with delay were pressed,And circled a breast that their clasp had blessed,Had they only not come too late—too late!”Fitz-Hugh Ludlow.

“Ah, now, though I sit on a rock,

I have shared one seat with the great;

I have sat—knowing naught of the clock—

On love’s high throne of state;

But the lips that kissed, and the arms that caressed,

To a mouth grown stern with delay were pressed,

And circled a breast that their clasp had blessed,

Had they only not come too late—too late!”

Fitz-Hugh Ludlow.

GIVEN a roof, and a taste for rations,And you have the key to the “wealth of nations.”Given a boy, a tree, and a hatchet,And virtue strives in vain to match it.Given a pair, a snake, and an apple,You make the whole world need a chapel.Given “no cards,” broad views, and a hovel,You have a realistic novel.Given symptoms and doctors with potion and pill,And your heirs will ere long be contesting your will.That good leads to evil there’s no denying:If it were not fortruththere would be nolying.“I’m nobody!” should have a hearse;But then, “I’m somebody!” is worse.“Folks say,”et cetera! Well, they shouldn’t,And if they knew you well, they wouldn’t.When you coddle your life, all its vigor and graceShrink away with the whisper, “We’re in the wrong place.”Mary Mapes Dodge.

GIVEN a roof, and a taste for rations,And you have the key to the “wealth of nations.”

GIVEN a roof, and a taste for rations,

And you have the key to the “wealth of nations.”

Given a boy, a tree, and a hatchet,And virtue strives in vain to match it.

Given a boy, a tree, and a hatchet,

And virtue strives in vain to match it.

Given a pair, a snake, and an apple,You make the whole world need a chapel.

Given a pair, a snake, and an apple,

You make the whole world need a chapel.

Given “no cards,” broad views, and a hovel,You have a realistic novel.

Given “no cards,” broad views, and a hovel,

You have a realistic novel.

Given symptoms and doctors with potion and pill,And your heirs will ere long be contesting your will.

Given symptoms and doctors with potion and pill,

And your heirs will ere long be contesting your will.

That good leads to evil there’s no denying:If it were not fortruththere would be nolying.

That good leads to evil there’s no denying:

If it were not fortruththere would be nolying.

“I’m nobody!” should have a hearse;But then, “I’m somebody!” is worse.

“I’m nobody!” should have a hearse;

But then, “I’m somebody!” is worse.

“Folks say,”et cetera! Well, they shouldn’t,And if they knew you well, they wouldn’t.

“Folks say,”et cetera! Well, they shouldn’t,

And if they knew you well, they wouldn’t.

When you coddle your life, all its vigor and graceShrink away with the whisper, “We’re in the wrong place.”Mary Mapes Dodge.

When you coddle your life, all its vigor and grace

Shrink away with the whisper, “We’re in the wrong place.”

Mary Mapes Dodge.

WISELY a woman prefers to a lover a man who neglects her.This one may love her some day; some day the lover will not.There are three species of creatures who, when they seem coming, are going;When they seem going, they come: Diplomats, women, and crabs.As the meek beasts in the Garden came flocking for Adam to name them,Men for a title to-day crawl to the feet of a king.What is a first love worth except to prepare for a second?What does the second love bring? Only regret for the first.John Hay.

WISELY a woman prefers to a lover a man who neglects her.This one may love her some day; some day the lover will not.

WISELY a woman prefers to a lover a man who neglects her.

This one may love her some day; some day the lover will not.

There are three species of creatures who, when they seem coming, are going;When they seem going, they come: Diplomats, women, and crabs.

There are three species of creatures who, when they seem coming, are going;

When they seem going, they come: Diplomats, women, and crabs.

As the meek beasts in the Garden came flocking for Adam to name them,Men for a title to-day crawl to the feet of a king.

As the meek beasts in the Garden came flocking for Adam to name them,

Men for a title to-day crawl to the feet of a king.

What is a first love worth except to prepare for a second?What does the second love bring? Only regret for the first.John Hay.

What is a first love worth except to prepare for a second?

What does the second love bring? Only regret for the first.

John Hay.

IF those who wield the rod forget,’Tis truly,Quis custodiet?A certain bard (as bards will do)Dressed up his poems for review.His type was plain, his title clear,His frontispiece by Fourdrinier.Moreover, he had on the backA sort of sheepskin zodiac—A mask, a harp, an owl—in fine,A neat and “classical” design.But thein-side? Well, good or bad,The inside was the best he had.Much memory, more imitation,Some accidents of inspiration,Some essays in that finer fashionWhere fancy takes the place of passion;And some (of course) more roughly wroughtTo catch the advocates of thought.In the less-crowded age of Anne,Our bard had been a favoured man;Fortune, more chary with the sickle,Had ranked him next to Garth or Tickell;He might have even dared to hopeA line’s malignity from Pope!But now, when folks are hard to please,And poets are as thick as—peas,The Fates are not so prone to flatter,Unless, indeed, a friend. . . . No matter.The book, then, had a minor credit.The critics took, and doubtless read it.Said A.: “These little songs displayNo lyric gift, but still a ray,A promise. They will do no harm.”’Twas kindly, if notverywarm.Said B.: “The author may, in time,Acquire the rudiments of rhyme;His efforts now are scarcely verse.”This, certainly, could not be worse.Sorely discomfited, our bardWorked for another ten years—hard.Meanwhile the world, unmoved, went on;New stars shot up, shone out, were gone;Before his second volume came,His critics had forgot his name:And who, forsooth, is bound to knowEach laureatein embryo!They tried and tested him, no less,The pure assayers of the Press.Said A.: “The author may, in time. . . .”Or much what B. had said of rhyme.Then B.: “These little songs display. . . .”And so forth, in the sense of A.Over the bard I throw a veil.There is no moral to this tale.Austin Dobson.

IF those who wield the rod forget,’Tis truly,Quis custodiet?

IF those who wield the rod forget,

’Tis truly,Quis custodiet?

A certain bard (as bards will do)Dressed up his poems for review.His type was plain, his title clear,His frontispiece by Fourdrinier.Moreover, he had on the backA sort of sheepskin zodiac—A mask, a harp, an owl—in fine,A neat and “classical” design.But thein-side? Well, good or bad,The inside was the best he had.Much memory, more imitation,Some accidents of inspiration,Some essays in that finer fashionWhere fancy takes the place of passion;And some (of course) more roughly wroughtTo catch the advocates of thought.

A certain bard (as bards will do)

Dressed up his poems for review.

His type was plain, his title clear,

His frontispiece by Fourdrinier.

Moreover, he had on the back

A sort of sheepskin zodiac—

A mask, a harp, an owl—in fine,

A neat and “classical” design.

But thein-side? Well, good or bad,

The inside was the best he had.

Much memory, more imitation,

Some accidents of inspiration,

Some essays in that finer fashion

Where fancy takes the place of passion;

And some (of course) more roughly wrought

To catch the advocates of thought.

In the less-crowded age of Anne,Our bard had been a favoured man;Fortune, more chary with the sickle,Had ranked him next to Garth or Tickell;He might have even dared to hopeA line’s malignity from Pope!But now, when folks are hard to please,And poets are as thick as—peas,The Fates are not so prone to flatter,Unless, indeed, a friend. . . . No matter.

In the less-crowded age of Anne,

Our bard had been a favoured man;

Fortune, more chary with the sickle,

Had ranked him next to Garth or Tickell;

He might have even dared to hope

A line’s malignity from Pope!

But now, when folks are hard to please,

And poets are as thick as—peas,

The Fates are not so prone to flatter,

Unless, indeed, a friend. . . . No matter.

The book, then, had a minor credit.The critics took, and doubtless read it.Said A.: “These little songs displayNo lyric gift, but still a ray,A promise. They will do no harm.”’Twas kindly, if notverywarm.Said B.: “The author may, in time,Acquire the rudiments of rhyme;His efforts now are scarcely verse.”This, certainly, could not be worse.

The book, then, had a minor credit.

The critics took, and doubtless read it.

Said A.: “These little songs display

No lyric gift, but still a ray,

A promise. They will do no harm.”

’Twas kindly, if notverywarm.

Said B.: “The author may, in time,

Acquire the rudiments of rhyme;

His efforts now are scarcely verse.”

This, certainly, could not be worse.

Sorely discomfited, our bardWorked for another ten years—hard.Meanwhile the world, unmoved, went on;New stars shot up, shone out, were gone;Before his second volume came,His critics had forgot his name:And who, forsooth, is bound to knowEach laureatein embryo!They tried and tested him, no less,The pure assayers of the Press.Said A.: “The author may, in time. . . .”Or much what B. had said of rhyme.Then B.: “These little songs display. . . .”And so forth, in the sense of A.Over the bard I throw a veil.

Sorely discomfited, our bard

Worked for another ten years—hard.

Meanwhile the world, unmoved, went on;

New stars shot up, shone out, were gone;

Before his second volume came,

His critics had forgot his name:

And who, forsooth, is bound to know

Each laureatein embryo!

They tried and tested him, no less,

The pure assayers of the Press.

Said A.: “The author may, in time. . . .”

Or much what B. had said of rhyme.

Then B.: “These little songs display. . . .”

And so forth, in the sense of A.

Over the bard I throw a veil.

There is no moral to this tale.Austin Dobson.

There is no moral to this tale.

Austin Dobson.

“J’ai vu les mœurs de mon temps, et j’ai publié cette lettre.”—La Nouvelle Héloise.

IF this should fail, why, then I scarcely knowWhat could succeed. Here’s brilliancy (and banter),Byronad lib., a chapter of Rousseau;If this should fail, thentempora mutantur;Style’s out of date, and love, as a profession,Acquires no aid from beauty of expression.“The men who think as I, I fear, are few”(Cynics would say ’twere well if they were fewer);“I am not what I seem”—(indeed, ’tis true;Though, as a sentiment, it might be newer);“Mine is a soul whose deeper feelings lieMore deep than words”—(as these exemplify).“I will not say when first your beauty’s sunIllumed my life”—(it needs imagination);“For me to see you and to love were one”—(This will account for some precipitation);“Let it suffice that worship more devotedNe’er throbbed,”et cetera. The rest is quoted.“If Love can look with all-prophetic eye”—(Ah, if he could, how many would be single!)“If truly spirit unto spirit cry”—(The ears of some most terribly must tingle!)“Then I have dreamed you will not turn your face.”This next, I think, is more than commonplace.“Why should we speak, if Love, interpreting,Forestall the speech with favour found before?Why should we plead? it were an idle thing,If Love himself be Love’s ambassador!”Blot, as I live! Shall we erase it? No;’Twill show we writecurrente calamo.“My fate, my fortune, I commit to you”—(In point of fact, the latter’s not extensive);“Without you I am poor indeed” (strike through—’Tis true, but crude; ’twould make her apprehensive);“My life is yours—I lay it at your feet”(Having no choice but Hymen or the Fleet).“Give me the right to stand within the shrineWhere never yet my faltering feet intruded;Give me the right to call you wholly mine”—(That is, consols and three-per-cents. included);“To guard your rest from every care that cankers—To keep your life”—(and balance at your banker’s).“Compel me not to long for your reply;Suspense makes havoc with the mind”—(and muscles);“Winged Hope takes flight” (which means that I must fly,Default of funds, to Paris or to Brussels);“I cannot wait! My own, my queen—Priscilla!Write by return.” Andnowfor a manilla!“Miss Blank,” at “Blank.” Jemima, let it go;And I, meanwhile, will idle with “Sir Walter.”Stay, let me keep the first rough copy, though—’Twill serve again. There’s but the name to alter,And Love, that starves, must knock at every portal,In forma pauperis. We are but mortal!Austin Dobson.

IF this should fail, why, then I scarcely know

What could succeed. Here’s brilliancy (and banter),

Byronad lib., a chapter of Rousseau;

If this should fail, thentempora mutantur;

Style’s out of date, and love, as a profession,

Acquires no aid from beauty of expression.

“The men who think as I, I fear, are few”(Cynics would say ’twere well if they were fewer);“I am not what I seem”—(indeed, ’tis true;Though, as a sentiment, it might be newer);“Mine is a soul whose deeper feelings lieMore deep than words”—(as these exemplify).

“The men who think as I, I fear, are few”

(Cynics would say ’twere well if they were fewer);

“I am not what I seem”—(indeed, ’tis true;

Though, as a sentiment, it might be newer);

“Mine is a soul whose deeper feelings lie

More deep than words”—(as these exemplify).

“I will not say when first your beauty’s sunIllumed my life”—(it needs imagination);“For me to see you and to love were one”—(This will account for some precipitation);“Let it suffice that worship more devotedNe’er throbbed,”et cetera. The rest is quoted.

“I will not say when first your beauty’s sun

Illumed my life”—(it needs imagination);

“For me to see you and to love were one”—

(This will account for some precipitation);

“Let it suffice that worship more devoted

Ne’er throbbed,”et cetera. The rest is quoted.

“If Love can look with all-prophetic eye”—(Ah, if he could, how many would be single!)“If truly spirit unto spirit cry”—(The ears of some most terribly must tingle!)“Then I have dreamed you will not turn your face.”This next, I think, is more than commonplace.

“If Love can look with all-prophetic eye”—

(Ah, if he could, how many would be single!)

“If truly spirit unto spirit cry”—

(The ears of some most terribly must tingle!)

“Then I have dreamed you will not turn your face.”

This next, I think, is more than commonplace.

“Why should we speak, if Love, interpreting,Forestall the speech with favour found before?Why should we plead? it were an idle thing,If Love himself be Love’s ambassador!”Blot, as I live! Shall we erase it? No;’Twill show we writecurrente calamo.

“Why should we speak, if Love, interpreting,

Forestall the speech with favour found before?

Why should we plead? it were an idle thing,

If Love himself be Love’s ambassador!”

Blot, as I live! Shall we erase it? No;

’Twill show we writecurrente calamo.

“My fate, my fortune, I commit to you”—(In point of fact, the latter’s not extensive);“Without you I am poor indeed” (strike through—’Tis true, but crude; ’twould make her apprehensive);“My life is yours—I lay it at your feet”(Having no choice but Hymen or the Fleet).

“My fate, my fortune, I commit to you”—

(In point of fact, the latter’s not extensive);

“Without you I am poor indeed” (strike through—

’Tis true, but crude; ’twould make her apprehensive);

“My life is yours—I lay it at your feet”

(Having no choice but Hymen or the Fleet).

“Give me the right to stand within the shrineWhere never yet my faltering feet intruded;Give me the right to call you wholly mine”—(That is, consols and three-per-cents. included);“To guard your rest from every care that cankers—To keep your life”—(and balance at your banker’s).

“Give me the right to stand within the shrine

Where never yet my faltering feet intruded;

Give me the right to call you wholly mine”—

(That is, consols and three-per-cents. included);

“To guard your rest from every care that cankers—

To keep your life”—(and balance at your banker’s).

“Compel me not to long for your reply;Suspense makes havoc with the mind”—(and muscles);“Winged Hope takes flight” (which means that I must fly,Default of funds, to Paris or to Brussels);“I cannot wait! My own, my queen—Priscilla!Write by return.” Andnowfor a manilla!

“Compel me not to long for your reply;

Suspense makes havoc with the mind”—(and muscles);

“Winged Hope takes flight” (which means that I must fly,

Default of funds, to Paris or to Brussels);

“I cannot wait! My own, my queen—Priscilla!

Write by return.” Andnowfor a manilla!

“Miss Blank,” at “Blank.” Jemima, let it go;And I, meanwhile, will idle with “Sir Walter.”Stay, let me keep the first rough copy, though—’Twill serve again. There’s but the name to alter,And Love, that starves, must knock at every portal,In forma pauperis. We are but mortal!Austin Dobson.

“Miss Blank,” at “Blank.” Jemima, let it go;

And I, meanwhile, will idle with “Sir Walter.”

Stay, let me keep the first rough copy, though—

’Twill serve again. There’s but the name to alter,

And Love, that starves, must knock at every portal,

In forma pauperis. We are but mortal!

Austin Dobson.

ALL over the world we sing of Fame,Bright as a bubble, and hollow;With a breath men make it and give it a name;All over the world they sing the same,And the beautiful bubble follow.Its rounded, splendid, gossamer wallsHide more than our fairy fancies:For here, in the vaulted, antique halls,’Mid oriel splendours, a light foot falls,And a fairy figure dances.And men will do for a glancing eye,And foot that tarries never,More, far more than look and sigh;For men will fight, and man will die,But follow it on for ever.James Herbert Morse.

ALL over the world we sing of Fame,Bright as a bubble, and hollow;With a breath men make it and give it a name;All over the world they sing the same,And the beautiful bubble follow.

ALL over the world we sing of Fame,

Bright as a bubble, and hollow;

With a breath men make it and give it a name;

All over the world they sing the same,

And the beautiful bubble follow.

Its rounded, splendid, gossamer wallsHide more than our fairy fancies:For here, in the vaulted, antique halls,’Mid oriel splendours, a light foot falls,And a fairy figure dances.

Its rounded, splendid, gossamer walls

Hide more than our fairy fancies:

For here, in the vaulted, antique halls,

’Mid oriel splendours, a light foot falls,

And a fairy figure dances.

And men will do for a glancing eye,And foot that tarries never,More, far more than look and sigh;For men will fight, and man will die,But follow it on for ever.James Herbert Morse.

And men will do for a glancing eye,

And foot that tarries never,

More, far more than look and sigh;

For men will fight, and man will die,

But follow it on for ever.

James Herbert Morse.

FIVE mites of monads dwelt in a round dropThat twinkled on a leaf by a pool in the sun.To the naked eye they lived invisible;Specks, for a world of whom the empty shellOf a mustard-seed had been a hollow sky.One was a meditative monad, called a sage;And, shrinking all his mind within, he thought:“Tradition, handed down for hours and hours,Tells that our globe, this quivering crystal world,Is slowly dying. What if, seconds henceWhen I am very old, yon shimmering doomComes drawing down and down, till all things end?”Then with a wizen smirk he proudly feltNo other mote of God had ever gainedSuch giant grasp of universal truth.One was a transcendental monad; thinAnd long and slim of mind; and thus he mused:“Oh, vast, unfathomable monad-souls!Made in the image”—a horse frog croaks from the pool,“Hark! ’twas some god, voicing his glorious thoughtIn thunder-music. Yea, we hear their voice,And we may guess their minds from ours, their work.Some taste they have like ours, some tendencyTo wriggle about, and munch a trace of scum.”He floated up on a pin-point bubble of gas,That burst, pricked by the air, and he was gone.One was a barren-minded monad, calledA positivist, and he knew positively:“There was no world beyond this certain drop.Prove me another! Let the dreamers dreamOf their faint gleams, and noises from without,And higher and lower; life is life enough.”Then swaggering half a hair’s-breath hungrily,He seized upon an atom of bug, and fed.One was a tattered monad, called a poet,And with a shrill voice ecstatic thus he sang:“Oh, little female monad’s lips!Oh, little female monad’s eyes!Ah, the little, little, female, female monad!”The last was a strong-minded monadess,Who dashed amid the infusoria,Danced high and low, and wildly spun and dove,Till the dizzy others held their breath to see.But while they led their wondrous little lives,Æonian moments had gone wheeling by,The burning drop had shrunk with fearful speed;A glistening film—’twas gone; the leaf was dry.The little ghost of an inaudible squeakWas lost to the frog that goggled from his stone;Who, at the huge, slow tread of a thoughtful oxComing to drink, stirred sideways fatly, plunged,Launched backward twice, and all the pool was still.Edward Rowland Sill.

FIVE mites of monads dwelt in a round drop

That twinkled on a leaf by a pool in the sun.

To the naked eye they lived invisible;

Specks, for a world of whom the empty shell

Of a mustard-seed had been a hollow sky.

One was a meditative monad, called a sage;And, shrinking all his mind within, he thought:“Tradition, handed down for hours and hours,Tells that our globe, this quivering crystal world,Is slowly dying. What if, seconds henceWhen I am very old, yon shimmering doomComes drawing down and down, till all things end?”Then with a wizen smirk he proudly feltNo other mote of God had ever gainedSuch giant grasp of universal truth.

One was a meditative monad, called a sage;

And, shrinking all his mind within, he thought:

“Tradition, handed down for hours and hours,

Tells that our globe, this quivering crystal world,

Is slowly dying. What if, seconds hence

When I am very old, yon shimmering doom

Comes drawing down and down, till all things end?”

Then with a wizen smirk he proudly felt

No other mote of God had ever gained

Such giant grasp of universal truth.

One was a transcendental monad; thinAnd long and slim of mind; and thus he mused:“Oh, vast, unfathomable monad-souls!Made in the image”—a horse frog croaks from the pool,“Hark! ’twas some god, voicing his glorious thoughtIn thunder-music. Yea, we hear their voice,And we may guess their minds from ours, their work.Some taste they have like ours, some tendencyTo wriggle about, and munch a trace of scum.”He floated up on a pin-point bubble of gas,That burst, pricked by the air, and he was gone.

One was a transcendental monad; thin

And long and slim of mind; and thus he mused:

“Oh, vast, unfathomable monad-souls!

Made in the image”—a horse frog croaks from the pool,

“Hark! ’twas some god, voicing his glorious thought

In thunder-music. Yea, we hear their voice,

And we may guess their minds from ours, their work.

Some taste they have like ours, some tendency

To wriggle about, and munch a trace of scum.”

He floated up on a pin-point bubble of gas,

That burst, pricked by the air, and he was gone.

One was a barren-minded monad, calledA positivist, and he knew positively:“There was no world beyond this certain drop.Prove me another! Let the dreamers dreamOf their faint gleams, and noises from without,And higher and lower; life is life enough.”Then swaggering half a hair’s-breath hungrily,He seized upon an atom of bug, and fed.

One was a barren-minded monad, called

A positivist, and he knew positively:

“There was no world beyond this certain drop.

Prove me another! Let the dreamers dream

Of their faint gleams, and noises from without,

And higher and lower; life is life enough.”

Then swaggering half a hair’s-breath hungrily,

He seized upon an atom of bug, and fed.

One was a tattered monad, called a poet,And with a shrill voice ecstatic thus he sang:“Oh, little female monad’s lips!Oh, little female monad’s eyes!Ah, the little, little, female, female monad!”The last was a strong-minded monadess,Who dashed amid the infusoria,Danced high and low, and wildly spun and dove,Till the dizzy others held their breath to see.

One was a tattered monad, called a poet,

And with a shrill voice ecstatic thus he sang:

“Oh, little female monad’s lips!

Oh, little female monad’s eyes!

Ah, the little, little, female, female monad!”

The last was a strong-minded monadess,

Who dashed amid the infusoria,

Danced high and low, and wildly spun and dove,

Till the dizzy others held their breath to see.

But while they led their wondrous little lives,Æonian moments had gone wheeling by,The burning drop had shrunk with fearful speed;A glistening film—’twas gone; the leaf was dry.The little ghost of an inaudible squeakWas lost to the frog that goggled from his stone;Who, at the huge, slow tread of a thoughtful oxComing to drink, stirred sideways fatly, plunged,Launched backward twice, and all the pool was still.Edward Rowland Sill.

But while they led their wondrous little lives,

Æonian moments had gone wheeling by,

The burning drop had shrunk with fearful speed;

A glistening film—’twas gone; the leaf was dry.

The little ghost of an inaudible squeak

Was lost to the frog that goggled from his stone;

Who, at the huge, slow tread of a thoughtful ox

Coming to drink, stirred sideways fatly, plunged,

Launched backward twice, and all the pool was still.

Edward Rowland Sill.

WHEN I am dead you’ll find it hard,Said he,To ever find another manLike me.What makes you think, as I supposeYou do,I’d ever want another manLike you?Eugene Fitch Ware.

WHEN I am dead you’ll find it hard,Said he,To ever find another manLike me.

WHEN I am dead you’ll find it hard,

Said he,

To ever find another man

Like me.

What makes you think, as I supposeYou do,I’d ever want another manLike you?Eugene Fitch Ware.

What makes you think, as I suppose

You do,

I’d ever want another man

Like you?

Eugene Fitch Ware.

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