OUR village, that’s to say, not Miss Mitford’s village, but our village of Bullock’s Smithy,Is come into by an avenue of trees, three oak pollards, two elders, and a withy;And in the middle there’s a green, of about not exceeding an acre and a half;It’s common to all and fed off by nineteen cows, six ponies, three horses, five asses, two foals, seven pigs and a calf!Besides a pond in the middle, as is held by a sort of common law lease,And contains twenty ducks, six drakes, three ganders, two dead dogs, four drowned kittens, and twelve geese.Of course the green’s cropt very close, and does famous for bowling when the little village boys play at cricket;Only some horse, or pig, or cow, or great jackass, is sure to come and stand right before the wicket.There’s fifty-five private houses, let alone barns and workshops, and pig-sties, and poultry huts, and such-like sheds,With plenty of public-houses—two Foxes, one Green Man, three Bunch of Grapes, one Crown, and six King’s Heads.The Green Man is reckoned the best, as the only one that for love or money can raiseA postillion, a blue jacket, two deplorable lame white horses, and a ramshackle “neat post-chaise!”There’s one parish church for all the people, whatsoever may be their ranks in life or their degrees,Except one very damp, small, dark, freezing cold, little Methodist Chapel of Ease;And close by the churchyard, there’s a stone-mason’s yard, that when the time is seasonableWill furnish with afflictions sore and marble urns and cherubims, very low and reasonable.There’s a cage comfortable enough; I’ve been in it with Old Jack Jeffery and Tom Pike;For the Green Man next door will send you in ale, gin, or anything else you like.I can’t speak of the stocks, as nothing remains of them but the upright post;But the pound is kept in repairs for the sake of Cob’s horse as is always there almost.There’s a smithy of course, where that queer sort of a chap in his way, Old Joe Bradley,Perpetually hammers and stammers, for he stutters and shoes horses very badly.There’s a shop of all sorts that sells everything, kept by the widow of Mr. Task;But when you go there it’s ten to one she’s out of everything you ask.You’ll know her house by the swarm of boys, like flies, about the old sugary cask:There are six empty houses and not so well papered inside as out.For bill-stickers won’t beware, but stick notices of sales and election placards all about.That’s the Doctor’s with a green door, where the garden pots in the window is seen;A weakly monthly rose that don’t blow, and a dead geranium, and a tea plant with five black leaves, and one green.As for hollyhocks at the cottage doors, and the honeysuckles and jasmines, you may go and whistle;But the Tailor’s front garden grows two cabbages, a dock, a ha’porth of pennyroyal, two dandelions, and a thistle!There are three small orchards—Mr. Busby’s the schoolmaster’s is the chief—With two pear trees that don’t bear; one plum, and an apple that every year is stripped by a thief.There’s another small day-school too, kept by the respectable Mrs. Gaby,A select establishment for six little boys, and one big, and four little girls and a baby;There’s a rectory with pointed gables and strange odd chimneys that never smokes,For the Rector don’t live on his living like other Christian sort of folks;There’s a barber once a week well filled with rough black-bearded, shock-headed churls,And a window with two feminine men’s heads, and two masculine ladies in false curls;There’s a butcher, and a carpenter’s, and a plumber, and a small green grocer’s, and a baker,But he won’t bake on a Sunday; and there’s a sexton that’s a coal merchant besides, and an undertaker;And a toy-shop, but not a whole one, for a village can’t compare with the London shops;One window sells drums, dolls, kites, carts, bats, Clout’s balls, and the other sells malt and hops.And Mrs. Brown, in domestic economy, not to be a bit behind her betters,Lets her house to a milliner, a watchmaker, a rat-catcher, a cobbler, lives in it herself, and it’s the post-office for letters.Now I’ve gone through all the village—ay, from end to end, save and except one more house,But I haven’t come to that—and I hope I never shall—and that’s the village Poor House!Thomas Hood.
OUR village, that’s to say, not Miss Mitford’s village, but our village of Bullock’s Smithy,Is come into by an avenue of trees, three oak pollards, two elders, and a withy;And in the middle there’s a green, of about not exceeding an acre and a half;It’s common to all and fed off by nineteen cows, six ponies, three horses, five asses, two foals, seven pigs and a calf!Besides a pond in the middle, as is held by a sort of common law lease,And contains twenty ducks, six drakes, three ganders, two dead dogs, four drowned kittens, and twelve geese.Of course the green’s cropt very close, and does famous for bowling when the little village boys play at cricket;Only some horse, or pig, or cow, or great jackass, is sure to come and stand right before the wicket.There’s fifty-five private houses, let alone barns and workshops, and pig-sties, and poultry huts, and such-like sheds,With plenty of public-houses—two Foxes, one Green Man, three Bunch of Grapes, one Crown, and six King’s Heads.The Green Man is reckoned the best, as the only one that for love or money can raiseA postillion, a blue jacket, two deplorable lame white horses, and a ramshackle “neat post-chaise!”There’s one parish church for all the people, whatsoever may be their ranks in life or their degrees,Except one very damp, small, dark, freezing cold, little Methodist Chapel of Ease;And close by the churchyard, there’s a stone-mason’s yard, that when the time is seasonableWill furnish with afflictions sore and marble urns and cherubims, very low and reasonable.There’s a cage comfortable enough; I’ve been in it with Old Jack Jeffery and Tom Pike;For the Green Man next door will send you in ale, gin, or anything else you like.I can’t speak of the stocks, as nothing remains of them but the upright post;But the pound is kept in repairs for the sake of Cob’s horse as is always there almost.There’s a smithy of course, where that queer sort of a chap in his way, Old Joe Bradley,Perpetually hammers and stammers, for he stutters and shoes horses very badly.There’s a shop of all sorts that sells everything, kept by the widow of Mr. Task;But when you go there it’s ten to one she’s out of everything you ask.You’ll know her house by the swarm of boys, like flies, about the old sugary cask:There are six empty houses and not so well papered inside as out.For bill-stickers won’t beware, but stick notices of sales and election placards all about.That’s the Doctor’s with a green door, where the garden pots in the window is seen;A weakly monthly rose that don’t blow, and a dead geranium, and a tea plant with five black leaves, and one green.As for hollyhocks at the cottage doors, and the honeysuckles and jasmines, you may go and whistle;But the Tailor’s front garden grows two cabbages, a dock, a ha’porth of pennyroyal, two dandelions, and a thistle!There are three small orchards—Mr. Busby’s the schoolmaster’s is the chief—With two pear trees that don’t bear; one plum, and an apple that every year is stripped by a thief.There’s another small day-school too, kept by the respectable Mrs. Gaby,A select establishment for six little boys, and one big, and four little girls and a baby;There’s a rectory with pointed gables and strange odd chimneys that never smokes,For the Rector don’t live on his living like other Christian sort of folks;There’s a barber once a week well filled with rough black-bearded, shock-headed churls,And a window with two feminine men’s heads, and two masculine ladies in false curls;There’s a butcher, and a carpenter’s, and a plumber, and a small green grocer’s, and a baker,But he won’t bake on a Sunday; and there’s a sexton that’s a coal merchant besides, and an undertaker;And a toy-shop, but not a whole one, for a village can’t compare with the London shops;One window sells drums, dolls, kites, carts, bats, Clout’s balls, and the other sells malt and hops.And Mrs. Brown, in domestic economy, not to be a bit behind her betters,Lets her house to a milliner, a watchmaker, a rat-catcher, a cobbler, lives in it herself, and it’s the post-office for letters.Now I’ve gone through all the village—ay, from end to end, save and except one more house,But I haven’t come to that—and I hope I never shall—and that’s the village Poor House!Thomas Hood.
OUR village, that’s to say, not Miss Mitford’s village, but our village of Bullock’s Smithy,Is come into by an avenue of trees, three oak pollards, two elders, and a withy;And in the middle there’s a green, of about not exceeding an acre and a half;It’s common to all and fed off by nineteen cows, six ponies, three horses, five asses, two foals, seven pigs and a calf!Besides a pond in the middle, as is held by a sort of common law lease,And contains twenty ducks, six drakes, three ganders, two dead dogs, four drowned kittens, and twelve geese.Of course the green’s cropt very close, and does famous for bowling when the little village boys play at cricket;Only some horse, or pig, or cow, or great jackass, is sure to come and stand right before the wicket.There’s fifty-five private houses, let alone barns and workshops, and pig-sties, and poultry huts, and such-like sheds,With plenty of public-houses—two Foxes, one Green Man, three Bunch of Grapes, one Crown, and six King’s Heads.The Green Man is reckoned the best, as the only one that for love or money can raiseA postillion, a blue jacket, two deplorable lame white horses, and a ramshackle “neat post-chaise!”There’s one parish church for all the people, whatsoever may be their ranks in life or their degrees,Except one very damp, small, dark, freezing cold, little Methodist Chapel of Ease;And close by the churchyard, there’s a stone-mason’s yard, that when the time is seasonableWill furnish with afflictions sore and marble urns and cherubims, very low and reasonable.There’s a cage comfortable enough; I’ve been in it with Old Jack Jeffery and Tom Pike;For the Green Man next door will send you in ale, gin, or anything else you like.I can’t speak of the stocks, as nothing remains of them but the upright post;But the pound is kept in repairs for the sake of Cob’s horse as is always there almost.There’s a smithy of course, where that queer sort of a chap in his way, Old Joe Bradley,Perpetually hammers and stammers, for he stutters and shoes horses very badly.There’s a shop of all sorts that sells everything, kept by the widow of Mr. Task;But when you go there it’s ten to one she’s out of everything you ask.You’ll know her house by the swarm of boys, like flies, about the old sugary cask:There are six empty houses and not so well papered inside as out.For bill-stickers won’t beware, but stick notices of sales and election placards all about.That’s the Doctor’s with a green door, where the garden pots in the window is seen;A weakly monthly rose that don’t blow, and a dead geranium, and a tea plant with five black leaves, and one green.As for hollyhocks at the cottage doors, and the honeysuckles and jasmines, you may go and whistle;But the Tailor’s front garden grows two cabbages, a dock, a ha’porth of pennyroyal, two dandelions, and a thistle!There are three small orchards—Mr. Busby’s the schoolmaster’s is the chief—With two pear trees that don’t bear; one plum, and an apple that every year is stripped by a thief.There’s another small day-school too, kept by the respectable Mrs. Gaby,A select establishment for six little boys, and one big, and four little girls and a baby;There’s a rectory with pointed gables and strange odd chimneys that never smokes,For the Rector don’t live on his living like other Christian sort of folks;There’s a barber once a week well filled with rough black-bearded, shock-headed churls,And a window with two feminine men’s heads, and two masculine ladies in false curls;There’s a butcher, and a carpenter’s, and a plumber, and a small green grocer’s, and a baker,But he won’t bake on a Sunday; and there’s a sexton that’s a coal merchant besides, and an undertaker;And a toy-shop, but not a whole one, for a village can’t compare with the London shops;One window sells drums, dolls, kites, carts, bats, Clout’s balls, and the other sells malt and hops.And Mrs. Brown, in domestic economy, not to be a bit behind her betters,Lets her house to a milliner, a watchmaker, a rat-catcher, a cobbler, lives in it herself, and it’s the post-office for letters.Now I’ve gone through all the village—ay, from end to end, save and except one more house,But I haven’t come to that—and I hope I never shall—and that’s the village Poor House!Thomas Hood.
OUR village, that’s to say, not Miss Mitford’s village, but our village of Bullock’s Smithy,
Is come into by an avenue of trees, three oak pollards, two elders, and a withy;
And in the middle there’s a green, of about not exceeding an acre and a half;
It’s common to all and fed off by nineteen cows, six ponies, three horses, five asses, two foals, seven pigs and a calf!
Besides a pond in the middle, as is held by a sort of common law lease,
And contains twenty ducks, six drakes, three ganders, two dead dogs, four drowned kittens, and twelve geese.
Of course the green’s cropt very close, and does famous for bowling when the little village boys play at cricket;
Only some horse, or pig, or cow, or great jackass, is sure to come and stand right before the wicket.
There’s fifty-five private houses, let alone barns and workshops, and pig-sties, and poultry huts, and such-like sheds,
With plenty of public-houses—two Foxes, one Green Man, three Bunch of Grapes, one Crown, and six King’s Heads.
The Green Man is reckoned the best, as the only one that for love or money can raise
A postillion, a blue jacket, two deplorable lame white horses, and a ramshackle “neat post-chaise!”
There’s one parish church for all the people, whatsoever may be their ranks in life or their degrees,
Except one very damp, small, dark, freezing cold, little Methodist Chapel of Ease;
And close by the churchyard, there’s a stone-mason’s yard, that when the time is seasonable
Will furnish with afflictions sore and marble urns and cherubims, very low and reasonable.
There’s a cage comfortable enough; I’ve been in it with Old Jack Jeffery and Tom Pike;
For the Green Man next door will send you in ale, gin, or anything else you like.
I can’t speak of the stocks, as nothing remains of them but the upright post;
But the pound is kept in repairs for the sake of Cob’s horse as is always there almost.
There’s a smithy of course, where that queer sort of a chap in his way, Old Joe Bradley,
Perpetually hammers and stammers, for he stutters and shoes horses very badly.
There’s a shop of all sorts that sells everything, kept by the widow of Mr. Task;
But when you go there it’s ten to one she’s out of everything you ask.
You’ll know her house by the swarm of boys, like flies, about the old sugary cask:
There are six empty houses and not so well papered inside as out.
For bill-stickers won’t beware, but stick notices of sales and election placards all about.
That’s the Doctor’s with a green door, where the garden pots in the window is seen;
A weakly monthly rose that don’t blow, and a dead geranium, and a tea plant with five black leaves, and one green.
As for hollyhocks at the cottage doors, and the honeysuckles and jasmines, you may go and whistle;
But the Tailor’s front garden grows two cabbages, a dock, a ha’porth of pennyroyal, two dandelions, and a thistle!
There are three small orchards—Mr. Busby’s the schoolmaster’s is the chief—
With two pear trees that don’t bear; one plum, and an apple that every year is stripped by a thief.
There’s another small day-school too, kept by the respectable Mrs. Gaby,
A select establishment for six little boys, and one big, and four little girls and a baby;
There’s a rectory with pointed gables and strange odd chimneys that never smokes,
For the Rector don’t live on his living like other Christian sort of folks;
There’s a barber once a week well filled with rough black-bearded, shock-headed churls,
And a window with two feminine men’s heads, and two masculine ladies in false curls;
There’s a butcher, and a carpenter’s, and a plumber, and a small green grocer’s, and a baker,
But he won’t bake on a Sunday; and there’s a sexton that’s a coal merchant besides, and an undertaker;
And a toy-shop, but not a whole one, for a village can’t compare with the London shops;
One window sells drums, dolls, kites, carts, bats, Clout’s balls, and the other sells malt and hops.
And Mrs. Brown, in domestic economy, not to be a bit behind her betters,
Lets her house to a milliner, a watchmaker, a rat-catcher, a cobbler, lives in it herself, and it’s the post-office for letters.
Now I’ve gone through all the village—ay, from end to end, save and except one more house,
But I haven’t come to that—and I hope I never shall—and that’s the village Poor House!
Thomas Hood.
THE Devil sits in his easy chair,Sipping his sulphur tea,And gazing out, with a pensive air,O’er the broad bitumen sea;Lulled into sentimental moodBy the spirits’ far-off wail,That sweetly, o’er the burning flood,Floats on the brimstone gale!The Devil, who can be sad at times,In spite of all his mummery,And grave—though not so prosy quiteAs drawn by his friend Montgomery—The Devil to-day has a dreaming air,And his eye is raised, and his throat is bare;His musings are of many things,That, good or ill, befell,Since Adam’s sons macadamizedThe highways into hell:And the Devil—whose mirth isneverloud—Laughs with a quiet mirth,As he thinks how well his serpent-tricksHave been mimicked upon earth;Of Eden, and of England soiled,And darkened by the footOf those who preach with adder-tongues,And those who eat the fruit;Of creeping things, that drag their slimeInto God’s chosen places,And knowledge leading into crimeBefore the angels’ faces;Of lands, from Nineveh to Spain,That have bowed beneath his sway,And men who did his work, from CainTo Viscount Castlereagh!Thomas Kibble Hervey.From “The Devil’s Progress.”
THE Devil sits in his easy chair,Sipping his sulphur tea,And gazing out, with a pensive air,O’er the broad bitumen sea;Lulled into sentimental moodBy the spirits’ far-off wail,That sweetly, o’er the burning flood,Floats on the brimstone gale!The Devil, who can be sad at times,In spite of all his mummery,And grave—though not so prosy quiteAs drawn by his friend Montgomery—The Devil to-day has a dreaming air,And his eye is raised, and his throat is bare;His musings are of many things,That, good or ill, befell,Since Adam’s sons macadamizedThe highways into hell:And the Devil—whose mirth isneverloud—Laughs with a quiet mirth,As he thinks how well his serpent-tricksHave been mimicked upon earth;Of Eden, and of England soiled,And darkened by the footOf those who preach with adder-tongues,And those who eat the fruit;Of creeping things, that drag their slimeInto God’s chosen places,And knowledge leading into crimeBefore the angels’ faces;Of lands, from Nineveh to Spain,That have bowed beneath his sway,And men who did his work, from CainTo Viscount Castlereagh!Thomas Kibble Hervey.From “The Devil’s Progress.”
THE Devil sits in his easy chair,Sipping his sulphur tea,And gazing out, with a pensive air,O’er the broad bitumen sea;Lulled into sentimental moodBy the spirits’ far-off wail,That sweetly, o’er the burning flood,Floats on the brimstone gale!The Devil, who can be sad at times,In spite of all his mummery,And grave—though not so prosy quiteAs drawn by his friend Montgomery—The Devil to-day has a dreaming air,And his eye is raised, and his throat is bare;His musings are of many things,That, good or ill, befell,Since Adam’s sons macadamizedThe highways into hell:And the Devil—whose mirth isneverloud—Laughs with a quiet mirth,As he thinks how well his serpent-tricksHave been mimicked upon earth;Of Eden, and of England soiled,And darkened by the footOf those who preach with adder-tongues,And those who eat the fruit;Of creeping things, that drag their slimeInto God’s chosen places,And knowledge leading into crimeBefore the angels’ faces;Of lands, from Nineveh to Spain,That have bowed beneath his sway,And men who did his work, from CainTo Viscount Castlereagh!Thomas Kibble Hervey.From “The Devil’s Progress.”
THE Devil sits in his easy chair,
Sipping his sulphur tea,
And gazing out, with a pensive air,
O’er the broad bitumen sea;
Lulled into sentimental mood
By the spirits’ far-off wail,
That sweetly, o’er the burning flood,
Floats on the brimstone gale!
The Devil, who can be sad at times,
In spite of all his mummery,
And grave—though not so prosy quite
As drawn by his friend Montgomery—
The Devil to-day has a dreaming air,
And his eye is raised, and his throat is bare;
His musings are of many things,
That, good or ill, befell,
Since Adam’s sons macadamized
The highways into hell:
And the Devil—whose mirth isneverloud—
Laughs with a quiet mirth,
As he thinks how well his serpent-tricks
Have been mimicked upon earth;
Of Eden, and of England soiled,
And darkened by the foot
Of those who preach with adder-tongues,
And those who eat the fruit;
Of creeping things, that drag their slime
Into God’s chosen places,
And knowledge leading into crime
Before the angels’ faces;
Of lands, from Nineveh to Spain,
That have bowed beneath his sway,
And men who did his work, from Cain
To Viscount Castlereagh!
Thomas Kibble Hervey.From “The Devil’s Progress.”
TRY with me, and mix what will make a novel,All hearts to transfix in house or hall or hovel:Put the caldron on, set the bellows blowing;We’ll produce anon something worth the showing.Never mind your plot—’tisn’t worth the trouble;Throw into the pot what will boil and bubble.Character’s a jest—what’s the use of study?All will stand the test that’s black enough and bloody.Here’s theNewgate Guide, here’s theCauses Célèbres;Tumble in, besides, pistol, gun, and sabre;These police reports, those Old Bailey trials,Horrors of all sorts, to match the Seven Vials.Down into a well, lady, thrust your lover;Truth, as some folks tell, there he may discover;Step-dames, sure though slow, rivals of your daughters.Bring, as from below, Styx and all its waters.Crime that breaks all bounds, bigamy and arson,Poison, blood, and wounds, will carry well the farce on;Now it’s just in shape; yet, with fire and murder,Treason, too, and rape might help it all the further.Or, by way of change, in your wild narration,Choose adventures strange of fraud and personation;Make the job complete; let your vile assassinRob, and forge, and cheat, for his victim passin’.Tame is virtue’s school; paint, as more effective,Villain, knave, and fool, with always a detective;Hate for love may sit; gloom will do for gladness;Banish sense and wit, and dash in lots of madness.Stir the broth about, keep the furnace glowing;Soon we’ll pour it out, in three bright volumes flowing:Some may jeer and jibe; we know where the shop isReady to subscribe for a thousand copies.Lord Charles Neaves.
TRY with me, and mix what will make a novel,All hearts to transfix in house or hall or hovel:Put the caldron on, set the bellows blowing;We’ll produce anon something worth the showing.Never mind your plot—’tisn’t worth the trouble;Throw into the pot what will boil and bubble.Character’s a jest—what’s the use of study?All will stand the test that’s black enough and bloody.Here’s theNewgate Guide, here’s theCauses Célèbres;Tumble in, besides, pistol, gun, and sabre;These police reports, those Old Bailey trials,Horrors of all sorts, to match the Seven Vials.Down into a well, lady, thrust your lover;Truth, as some folks tell, there he may discover;Step-dames, sure though slow, rivals of your daughters.Bring, as from below, Styx and all its waters.Crime that breaks all bounds, bigamy and arson,Poison, blood, and wounds, will carry well the farce on;Now it’s just in shape; yet, with fire and murder,Treason, too, and rape might help it all the further.Or, by way of change, in your wild narration,Choose adventures strange of fraud and personation;Make the job complete; let your vile assassinRob, and forge, and cheat, for his victim passin’.Tame is virtue’s school; paint, as more effective,Villain, knave, and fool, with always a detective;Hate for love may sit; gloom will do for gladness;Banish sense and wit, and dash in lots of madness.Stir the broth about, keep the furnace glowing;Soon we’ll pour it out, in three bright volumes flowing:Some may jeer and jibe; we know where the shop isReady to subscribe for a thousand copies.Lord Charles Neaves.
TRY with me, and mix what will make a novel,All hearts to transfix in house or hall or hovel:Put the caldron on, set the bellows blowing;We’ll produce anon something worth the showing.
TRY with me, and mix what will make a novel,
All hearts to transfix in house or hall or hovel:
Put the caldron on, set the bellows blowing;
We’ll produce anon something worth the showing.
Never mind your plot—’tisn’t worth the trouble;Throw into the pot what will boil and bubble.Character’s a jest—what’s the use of study?All will stand the test that’s black enough and bloody.
Never mind your plot—’tisn’t worth the trouble;
Throw into the pot what will boil and bubble.
Character’s a jest—what’s the use of study?
All will stand the test that’s black enough and bloody.
Here’s theNewgate Guide, here’s theCauses Célèbres;Tumble in, besides, pistol, gun, and sabre;These police reports, those Old Bailey trials,Horrors of all sorts, to match the Seven Vials.
Here’s theNewgate Guide, here’s theCauses Célèbres;
Tumble in, besides, pistol, gun, and sabre;
These police reports, those Old Bailey trials,
Horrors of all sorts, to match the Seven Vials.
Down into a well, lady, thrust your lover;Truth, as some folks tell, there he may discover;Step-dames, sure though slow, rivals of your daughters.Bring, as from below, Styx and all its waters.Crime that breaks all bounds, bigamy and arson,Poison, blood, and wounds, will carry well the farce on;Now it’s just in shape; yet, with fire and murder,Treason, too, and rape might help it all the further.
Down into a well, lady, thrust your lover;
Truth, as some folks tell, there he may discover;
Step-dames, sure though slow, rivals of your daughters.
Bring, as from below, Styx and all its waters.
Crime that breaks all bounds, bigamy and arson,
Poison, blood, and wounds, will carry well the farce on;
Now it’s just in shape; yet, with fire and murder,
Treason, too, and rape might help it all the further.
Or, by way of change, in your wild narration,Choose adventures strange of fraud and personation;Make the job complete; let your vile assassinRob, and forge, and cheat, for his victim passin’.
Or, by way of change, in your wild narration,
Choose adventures strange of fraud and personation;
Make the job complete; let your vile assassin
Rob, and forge, and cheat, for his victim passin’.
Tame is virtue’s school; paint, as more effective,Villain, knave, and fool, with always a detective;Hate for love may sit; gloom will do for gladness;Banish sense and wit, and dash in lots of madness.
Tame is virtue’s school; paint, as more effective,
Villain, knave, and fool, with always a detective;
Hate for love may sit; gloom will do for gladness;
Banish sense and wit, and dash in lots of madness.
Stir the broth about, keep the furnace glowing;Soon we’ll pour it out, in three bright volumes flowing:Some may jeer and jibe; we know where the shop isReady to subscribe for a thousand copies.Lord Charles Neaves.
Stir the broth about, keep the furnace glowing;
Soon we’ll pour it out, in three bright volumes flowing:
Some may jeer and jibe; we know where the shop is
Ready to subscribe for a thousand copies.
Lord Charles Neaves.
THAN Lord de Vaux there’s no man sooner seesWhatever at a glance is visible;What is not, he can never see at all.Quick-witted is he, versatile, seizing points,He’ll see them all successively, distinctly,But never solving questions. Vain he is;It is his pride to see things on all sides;Which best to do he sets them on their corners.Present before him arguments by scores,Bearing diversely on the affair in hand,Yet never two of them can see together,Or gather, blend, and balance what he seesTo make up one account; a mind it isAccessible to reason’s subtlest rays,And many enter there, but none converge;It is an army with no general,An arch without a key-stone. Then the other,Good Martin Blondel-Vatre: he is richIn nothing else but difficulties and doubts.You shall be told the evil of your scheme,But not the scheme that’s better. He forgetsThat policy, expecting not clear gain,Deals ever in alternatives. He’s wiseIn negatives, is skilful at erasures,Expert in stepping backward, an adeptAt auguring eclipses. But admitHis apprehensions, and demand, what then?And you shall find you’ve turned the blank leaf over.Henry Taylor.
THAN Lord de Vaux there’s no man sooner seesWhatever at a glance is visible;What is not, he can never see at all.Quick-witted is he, versatile, seizing points,He’ll see them all successively, distinctly,But never solving questions. Vain he is;It is his pride to see things on all sides;Which best to do he sets them on their corners.Present before him arguments by scores,Bearing diversely on the affair in hand,Yet never two of them can see together,Or gather, blend, and balance what he seesTo make up one account; a mind it isAccessible to reason’s subtlest rays,And many enter there, but none converge;It is an army with no general,An arch without a key-stone. Then the other,Good Martin Blondel-Vatre: he is richIn nothing else but difficulties and doubts.You shall be told the evil of your scheme,But not the scheme that’s better. He forgetsThat policy, expecting not clear gain,Deals ever in alternatives. He’s wiseIn negatives, is skilful at erasures,Expert in stepping backward, an adeptAt auguring eclipses. But admitHis apprehensions, and demand, what then?And you shall find you’ve turned the blank leaf over.Henry Taylor.
THAN Lord de Vaux there’s no man sooner seesWhatever at a glance is visible;What is not, he can never see at all.Quick-witted is he, versatile, seizing points,He’ll see them all successively, distinctly,But never solving questions. Vain he is;It is his pride to see things on all sides;Which best to do he sets them on their corners.Present before him arguments by scores,Bearing diversely on the affair in hand,Yet never two of them can see together,Or gather, blend, and balance what he seesTo make up one account; a mind it isAccessible to reason’s subtlest rays,And many enter there, but none converge;It is an army with no general,An arch without a key-stone. Then the other,Good Martin Blondel-Vatre: he is richIn nothing else but difficulties and doubts.You shall be told the evil of your scheme,But not the scheme that’s better. He forgetsThat policy, expecting not clear gain,Deals ever in alternatives. He’s wiseIn negatives, is skilful at erasures,Expert in stepping backward, an adeptAt auguring eclipses. But admitHis apprehensions, and demand, what then?And you shall find you’ve turned the blank leaf over.Henry Taylor.
THAN Lord de Vaux there’s no man sooner sees
Whatever at a glance is visible;
What is not, he can never see at all.
Quick-witted is he, versatile, seizing points,
He’ll see them all successively, distinctly,
But never solving questions. Vain he is;
It is his pride to see things on all sides;
Which best to do he sets them on their corners.
Present before him arguments by scores,
Bearing diversely on the affair in hand,
Yet never two of them can see together,
Or gather, blend, and balance what he sees
To make up one account; a mind it is
Accessible to reason’s subtlest rays,
And many enter there, but none converge;
It is an army with no general,
An arch without a key-stone. Then the other,
Good Martin Blondel-Vatre: he is rich
In nothing else but difficulties and doubts.
You shall be told the evil of your scheme,
But not the scheme that’s better. He forgets
That policy, expecting not clear gain,
Deals ever in alternatives. He’s wise
In negatives, is skilful at erasures,
Expert in stepping backward, an adept
At auguring eclipses. But admit
His apprehensions, and demand, what then?
And you shall find you’ve turned the blank leaf over.
Henry Taylor.
ONE night came on a hurricane,The sea was mountains rolling,When Barney Buntline turned his quid,And said to Billy Bowling:“A strong nor’-wester’s blowing, Bill—Hark! don’t ye hear it roar now?Lord help ’em! how I pities allUnhappy folks on shore now!“Foolhardy chaps who live in town—What danger they are all in,And now are quaking in their beds,For fear the roof should fall in.Poor creatures! how they envies us,And wishes, I’ve a notion,For our good luck, in such a stormTo be upon the ocean.“But as for them who’re out all day,On business from their houses,And late at night are coming home,To cheer the babes and spouses,While you and I, Bill, on the deckAre comfortably lying,My eyes! what tiles and chimney-potsAbout their heads are flying!“And very often have we heardHow men are killed and undoneBy overturns of carriages,By thieves and fires in London.We know what risks all landsmen run,From noblemen to tailors;Then, Bill, let us thank ProvidenceThat you and I are sailors!”William Pitt.
ONE night came on a hurricane,The sea was mountains rolling,When Barney Buntline turned his quid,And said to Billy Bowling:“A strong nor’-wester’s blowing, Bill—Hark! don’t ye hear it roar now?Lord help ’em! how I pities allUnhappy folks on shore now!“Foolhardy chaps who live in town—What danger they are all in,And now are quaking in their beds,For fear the roof should fall in.Poor creatures! how they envies us,And wishes, I’ve a notion,For our good luck, in such a stormTo be upon the ocean.“But as for them who’re out all day,On business from their houses,And late at night are coming home,To cheer the babes and spouses,While you and I, Bill, on the deckAre comfortably lying,My eyes! what tiles and chimney-potsAbout their heads are flying!“And very often have we heardHow men are killed and undoneBy overturns of carriages,By thieves and fires in London.We know what risks all landsmen run,From noblemen to tailors;Then, Bill, let us thank ProvidenceThat you and I are sailors!”William Pitt.
ONE night came on a hurricane,The sea was mountains rolling,When Barney Buntline turned his quid,And said to Billy Bowling:“A strong nor’-wester’s blowing, Bill—Hark! don’t ye hear it roar now?Lord help ’em! how I pities allUnhappy folks on shore now!
ONE night came on a hurricane,
The sea was mountains rolling,
When Barney Buntline turned his quid,
And said to Billy Bowling:
“A strong nor’-wester’s blowing, Bill—
Hark! don’t ye hear it roar now?
Lord help ’em! how I pities all
Unhappy folks on shore now!
“Foolhardy chaps who live in town—What danger they are all in,And now are quaking in their beds,For fear the roof should fall in.Poor creatures! how they envies us,And wishes, I’ve a notion,For our good luck, in such a stormTo be upon the ocean.
“Foolhardy chaps who live in town—
What danger they are all in,
And now are quaking in their beds,
For fear the roof should fall in.
Poor creatures! how they envies us,
And wishes, I’ve a notion,
For our good luck, in such a storm
To be upon the ocean.
“But as for them who’re out all day,On business from their houses,And late at night are coming home,To cheer the babes and spouses,While you and I, Bill, on the deckAre comfortably lying,My eyes! what tiles and chimney-potsAbout their heads are flying!
“But as for them who’re out all day,
On business from their houses,
And late at night are coming home,
To cheer the babes and spouses,
While you and I, Bill, on the deck
Are comfortably lying,
My eyes! what tiles and chimney-pots
About their heads are flying!
“And very often have we heardHow men are killed and undoneBy overturns of carriages,By thieves and fires in London.We know what risks all landsmen run,From noblemen to tailors;Then, Bill, let us thank ProvidenceThat you and I are sailors!”William Pitt.
“And very often have we heard
How men are killed and undone
By overturns of carriages,
By thieves and fires in London.
We know what risks all landsmen run,
From noblemen to tailors;
Then, Bill, let us thank Providence
That you and I are sailors!”
William Pitt.
SLEEP, Mr. Speaker; ’tis surely fair,If you mayn’t in your bed, that you shouldin your chair;Louder and longer still they grow,Tory and Radical, Aye and No;Talking by night and talking by day.Sleep, Mr. Speaker—sleep while you may!Sleep, Mr. Speaker; slumber liesLight and brief on a Speaker’s eyes;Fielden or Finn in a minute or twoSome disorderly thing will do;Riot will chase repose away.Sleep, Mr. Speaker—sleep while you may!Sleep, Mr. Speaker; Sweet to menIs the sleep that cometh but now and then;Sweet to the weary, sweet to the ill,Sweet to the children that work in the mill.You have more need of repose than they.Sleep, Mr. Speaker—sleep while you may!Sleep, Mr. Speaker; Harvey will soonMove to abolish the sun and the moon;Hume will no doubt be taking the senseOf the House on a question of sixteen pence;Statesmen will howl, and patriots bray.Sleep, Mr. Speaker—sleep while you may!Sleep, Mr. Speaker, and dream of the time,When loyalty was not quite a crime;When Grant was a pupil in Canning’s school,And Palmerston fancied Wood a fool.Lord, how principles pass away!Sleep, Mr. Speaker—sleep while you may!Winthrop M. Praed.
SLEEP, Mr. Speaker; ’tis surely fair,If you mayn’t in your bed, that you shouldin your chair;Louder and longer still they grow,Tory and Radical, Aye and No;Talking by night and talking by day.Sleep, Mr. Speaker—sleep while you may!Sleep, Mr. Speaker; slumber liesLight and brief on a Speaker’s eyes;Fielden or Finn in a minute or twoSome disorderly thing will do;Riot will chase repose away.Sleep, Mr. Speaker—sleep while you may!Sleep, Mr. Speaker; Sweet to menIs the sleep that cometh but now and then;Sweet to the weary, sweet to the ill,Sweet to the children that work in the mill.You have more need of repose than they.Sleep, Mr. Speaker—sleep while you may!Sleep, Mr. Speaker; Harvey will soonMove to abolish the sun and the moon;Hume will no doubt be taking the senseOf the House on a question of sixteen pence;Statesmen will howl, and patriots bray.Sleep, Mr. Speaker—sleep while you may!Sleep, Mr. Speaker, and dream of the time,When loyalty was not quite a crime;When Grant was a pupil in Canning’s school,And Palmerston fancied Wood a fool.Lord, how principles pass away!Sleep, Mr. Speaker—sleep while you may!Winthrop M. Praed.
SLEEP, Mr. Speaker; ’tis surely fair,If you mayn’t in your bed, that you shouldin your chair;Louder and longer still they grow,Tory and Radical, Aye and No;Talking by night and talking by day.Sleep, Mr. Speaker—sleep while you may!
SLEEP, Mr. Speaker; ’tis surely fair,
If you mayn’t in your bed, that you should
in your chair;
Louder and longer still they grow,
Tory and Radical, Aye and No;
Talking by night and talking by day.
Sleep, Mr. Speaker—sleep while you may!
Sleep, Mr. Speaker; slumber liesLight and brief on a Speaker’s eyes;Fielden or Finn in a minute or twoSome disorderly thing will do;Riot will chase repose away.Sleep, Mr. Speaker—sleep while you may!
Sleep, Mr. Speaker; slumber lies
Light and brief on a Speaker’s eyes;
Fielden or Finn in a minute or two
Some disorderly thing will do;
Riot will chase repose away.
Sleep, Mr. Speaker—sleep while you may!
Sleep, Mr. Speaker; Sweet to menIs the sleep that cometh but now and then;Sweet to the weary, sweet to the ill,Sweet to the children that work in the mill.You have more need of repose than they.Sleep, Mr. Speaker—sleep while you may!
Sleep, Mr. Speaker; Sweet to men
Is the sleep that cometh but now and then;
Sweet to the weary, sweet to the ill,
Sweet to the children that work in the mill.
You have more need of repose than they.
Sleep, Mr. Speaker—sleep while you may!
Sleep, Mr. Speaker; Harvey will soonMove to abolish the sun and the moon;Hume will no doubt be taking the senseOf the House on a question of sixteen pence;Statesmen will howl, and patriots bray.Sleep, Mr. Speaker—sleep while you may!
Sleep, Mr. Speaker; Harvey will soon
Move to abolish the sun and the moon;
Hume will no doubt be taking the sense
Of the House on a question of sixteen pence;
Statesmen will howl, and patriots bray.
Sleep, Mr. Speaker—sleep while you may!
Sleep, Mr. Speaker, and dream of the time,When loyalty was not quite a crime;When Grant was a pupil in Canning’s school,And Palmerston fancied Wood a fool.Lord, how principles pass away!Sleep, Mr. Speaker—sleep while you may!Winthrop M. Praed.
Sleep, Mr. Speaker, and dream of the time,
When loyalty was not quite a crime;
When Grant was a pupil in Canning’s school,
And Palmerston fancied Wood a fool.
Lord, how principles pass away!
Sleep, Mr. Speaker—sleep while you may!
Winthrop M. Praed.
ASHOAL of idlers, from a merchant craftAnchor’d off Alexandria, went ashore,And mounting asses in their headlong glee,Round Pompey’s Pillar rode with hoots and taunts,As men oft say, “What art thou more than we?”Next in a boat they floated up the Nile,Singing and drinking, swearing senseless oaths,Shouting, and laughing most derisivelyAt all majestic scenes. A bank they reach’d,And clambering up, play’d gambols among tombs;And in portentous ruins (through whose depths,The nightly twilight of departed gods,Both sun and moon glanced furtive, as in awe)They hid, and whoop’d, and spat on sacred things.At length, beneath the blazing sun they loungedNear a great Pyramid. Awhile they stoodWith stupid stare, until resentment grew,In the recoil of meanness from the vast;And gathering stones, they with coarse oaths and gibes(As they would say, “What art thou more than we?”)Pelted the Pyramid! But soon these men,Hot and exhausted, sat them down to drink—Wrangled, smok’d, spat, and laugh’d, and drowsilyCurs’d the bald Pyramid, and fell asleep.Night came. A little sand went drifting by,And morn again was in the soft blue heavens.The broad slopes of the shining PyramidLook’d down in their austere simplicityUpon the glistening silence of the sands,Whereon no trace of mortal dust was seen.Richard Hengist Horne.
ASHOAL of idlers, from a merchant craftAnchor’d off Alexandria, went ashore,And mounting asses in their headlong glee,Round Pompey’s Pillar rode with hoots and taunts,As men oft say, “What art thou more than we?”Next in a boat they floated up the Nile,Singing and drinking, swearing senseless oaths,Shouting, and laughing most derisivelyAt all majestic scenes. A bank they reach’d,And clambering up, play’d gambols among tombs;And in portentous ruins (through whose depths,The nightly twilight of departed gods,Both sun and moon glanced furtive, as in awe)They hid, and whoop’d, and spat on sacred things.At length, beneath the blazing sun they loungedNear a great Pyramid. Awhile they stoodWith stupid stare, until resentment grew,In the recoil of meanness from the vast;And gathering stones, they with coarse oaths and gibes(As they would say, “What art thou more than we?”)Pelted the Pyramid! But soon these men,Hot and exhausted, sat them down to drink—Wrangled, smok’d, spat, and laugh’d, and drowsilyCurs’d the bald Pyramid, and fell asleep.Night came. A little sand went drifting by,And morn again was in the soft blue heavens.The broad slopes of the shining PyramidLook’d down in their austere simplicityUpon the glistening silence of the sands,Whereon no trace of mortal dust was seen.Richard Hengist Horne.
ASHOAL of idlers, from a merchant craftAnchor’d off Alexandria, went ashore,And mounting asses in their headlong glee,Round Pompey’s Pillar rode with hoots and taunts,As men oft say, “What art thou more than we?”Next in a boat they floated up the Nile,Singing and drinking, swearing senseless oaths,Shouting, and laughing most derisivelyAt all majestic scenes. A bank they reach’d,And clambering up, play’d gambols among tombs;And in portentous ruins (through whose depths,The nightly twilight of departed gods,Both sun and moon glanced furtive, as in awe)They hid, and whoop’d, and spat on sacred things.
ASHOAL of idlers, from a merchant craft
Anchor’d off Alexandria, went ashore,
And mounting asses in their headlong glee,
Round Pompey’s Pillar rode with hoots and taunts,
As men oft say, “What art thou more than we?”
Next in a boat they floated up the Nile,
Singing and drinking, swearing senseless oaths,
Shouting, and laughing most derisively
At all majestic scenes. A bank they reach’d,
And clambering up, play’d gambols among tombs;
And in portentous ruins (through whose depths,
The nightly twilight of departed gods,
Both sun and moon glanced furtive, as in awe)
They hid, and whoop’d, and spat on sacred things.
At length, beneath the blazing sun they loungedNear a great Pyramid. Awhile they stoodWith stupid stare, until resentment grew,In the recoil of meanness from the vast;And gathering stones, they with coarse oaths and gibes(As they would say, “What art thou more than we?”)Pelted the Pyramid! But soon these men,Hot and exhausted, sat them down to drink—Wrangled, smok’d, spat, and laugh’d, and drowsilyCurs’d the bald Pyramid, and fell asleep.
At length, beneath the blazing sun they lounged
Near a great Pyramid. Awhile they stood
With stupid stare, until resentment grew,
In the recoil of meanness from the vast;
And gathering stones, they with coarse oaths and gibes
(As they would say, “What art thou more than we?”)
Pelted the Pyramid! But soon these men,
Hot and exhausted, sat them down to drink—
Wrangled, smok’d, spat, and laugh’d, and drowsily
Curs’d the bald Pyramid, and fell asleep.
Night came. A little sand went drifting by,And morn again was in the soft blue heavens.The broad slopes of the shining PyramidLook’d down in their austere simplicityUpon the glistening silence of the sands,Whereon no trace of mortal dust was seen.Richard Hengist Horne.
Night came. A little sand went drifting by,
And morn again was in the soft blue heavens.
The broad slopes of the shining Pyramid
Look’d down in their austere simplicity
Upon the glistening silence of the sands,
Whereon no trace of mortal dust was seen.
Richard Hengist Horne.
IGAED to spend a week in Fife;An unco week it proved to be,For there I met a waesome wifeLamentin’ her viduity.Her grief brak out sae fierce and fell,I thought her heart wad burst the shell;And—I was sae left to mysel’—I sell’t her an annuity.The bargain lookit fair eneugh—She just was turned o’ saxty-three.I couldna guessed she’d prove sae teugh,By human ingenuity.But years have come, and years have gane,And there she’s yet, as stieve as stane;The limmer’s growin’ young again,Since she got her annuity.She’s crined awa’ to bane and skin,But that, it seems, is naught to me;She’s like to live, although she’s inThe last stage o’ tenuity.She munches wi’ her wizen’d gums,An’ stumps about on legs o’ thrums,But comes, as sure as Christmas comes,To ca’ for her annuity.I read the tables drawn wi’ careFor an insurance company;Her chance o’ life was stated thereWi’ perfect perspicuity.But tables here, or tables there,She’s lived ten years beyond her share,An’ ’s like to live a dozen mair,To ca’ for her annuity.Last Yule she had a fearfu’ host;I thought a kink might set me free;I led her out, ’mang snaw and frost,Wi’ constant assiduity.But deil ma’ care—the blast gaed by,And miss’d the auld anatomy—It just cost me a tooth, forbyeDischarging her annuity.If there’s a sough o’ cholera,Or typhus, wha sae gleg as she?She buys up baths, an’ drugs, an’ a’,In siccan superfluity,She doesna need—she’s fever-proof;The pest walked o’er her very roof—She tauld me sae; an’ then her loofHeld out for her annuity.Ae day she fell, her arm she brak—A compound fracture as could be;Nae leech the cure wad undertake,Whate’er was the gratuity.It’s cured! she handles ’t like a flail—It does as weel in bits as hale;But I’m a broken man mysel’,Wi’ her and her annuity.Her broozled flesh and broken banesAre weel as flesh and banes can be;She beats the toads that live in stanesAn’ fatten in vacuity!They die when they’re exposed to air—They canna thole the atmosphere;But her! expose her onywhere,She lives for her annuity.If mortal means could nick her thread,Sma’ crime it wad appear to me;Ca’t murder—or ca’t homicide,I’d justify ’t, an’ do it tae.But how to fell a withered wifeThat’s carved out o’ the tree of life,The timmer limmer dares the knifeTo settle her annuity.I’d try a shot—but whar’s the mark?Her vital parts are hid frae me;Her backbone wanders through her sarkIn an unkenn’d corkscrewity.She’s palsified, an’ shakes her headSae fast about, ye scarce can see ’t;It’s past the power o’ steel or leadTo settle her annuity.She might be drowned, but go she’ll notWithin a mile o’ loch or sea;Or hanged, if cord could grip a throatO’ siccan exiguity.It’s fitter far to hang the rope—It draws out like a telescope;’Twad tak’ a dreadfu’ length o’ dropTo settle her annuity.Will poison do it? It has been tried,But be ’t in hash or fricassee,That’s just the dish she can’t abide,Whatever kind o’ gout it hae.It’s needless to assail her doubts;She gangs by instinct, like the brutes,An’ only eats an’ drinks what suitsHersel’ and her annuity.The Bible says the age o’ manThreescore and ten, perchance, may be;She’s ninety-four. Let them who can,Explain the incongruity.She should hae lived afore the flood;She’s come o’ patriarchal blood;She’s some auld Pagan mummified,Alive for her annuity.She’s been embalmed inside and oot;She’s sauted to the last degree;There’s pickle in her very snoot,Sae caper-like an’ cruety.Lot’s wife was fresh compared to her;They’ve kyanized the useless knir;She canna decompose—nae mairThan her accurs’d annuity.The water-drop wears out the rock,As this eternal jaud wears me;I could withstand the single shock,But not the continuity.It’s pay me here, an’ pay me there,An’ pay me, pay me, evermair.I’ll gang demented wi’ despair—I’m charged for her annuity.George Outram.
IGAED to spend a week in Fife;An unco week it proved to be,For there I met a waesome wifeLamentin’ her viduity.Her grief brak out sae fierce and fell,I thought her heart wad burst the shell;And—I was sae left to mysel’—I sell’t her an annuity.The bargain lookit fair eneugh—She just was turned o’ saxty-three.I couldna guessed she’d prove sae teugh,By human ingenuity.But years have come, and years have gane,And there she’s yet, as stieve as stane;The limmer’s growin’ young again,Since she got her annuity.She’s crined awa’ to bane and skin,But that, it seems, is naught to me;She’s like to live, although she’s inThe last stage o’ tenuity.She munches wi’ her wizen’d gums,An’ stumps about on legs o’ thrums,But comes, as sure as Christmas comes,To ca’ for her annuity.I read the tables drawn wi’ careFor an insurance company;Her chance o’ life was stated thereWi’ perfect perspicuity.But tables here, or tables there,She’s lived ten years beyond her share,An’ ’s like to live a dozen mair,To ca’ for her annuity.Last Yule she had a fearfu’ host;I thought a kink might set me free;I led her out, ’mang snaw and frost,Wi’ constant assiduity.But deil ma’ care—the blast gaed by,And miss’d the auld anatomy—It just cost me a tooth, forbyeDischarging her annuity.If there’s a sough o’ cholera,Or typhus, wha sae gleg as she?She buys up baths, an’ drugs, an’ a’,In siccan superfluity,She doesna need—she’s fever-proof;The pest walked o’er her very roof—She tauld me sae; an’ then her loofHeld out for her annuity.Ae day she fell, her arm she brak—A compound fracture as could be;Nae leech the cure wad undertake,Whate’er was the gratuity.It’s cured! she handles ’t like a flail—It does as weel in bits as hale;But I’m a broken man mysel’,Wi’ her and her annuity.Her broozled flesh and broken banesAre weel as flesh and banes can be;She beats the toads that live in stanesAn’ fatten in vacuity!They die when they’re exposed to air—They canna thole the atmosphere;But her! expose her onywhere,She lives for her annuity.If mortal means could nick her thread,Sma’ crime it wad appear to me;Ca’t murder—or ca’t homicide,I’d justify ’t, an’ do it tae.But how to fell a withered wifeThat’s carved out o’ the tree of life,The timmer limmer dares the knifeTo settle her annuity.I’d try a shot—but whar’s the mark?Her vital parts are hid frae me;Her backbone wanders through her sarkIn an unkenn’d corkscrewity.She’s palsified, an’ shakes her headSae fast about, ye scarce can see ’t;It’s past the power o’ steel or leadTo settle her annuity.She might be drowned, but go she’ll notWithin a mile o’ loch or sea;Or hanged, if cord could grip a throatO’ siccan exiguity.It’s fitter far to hang the rope—It draws out like a telescope;’Twad tak’ a dreadfu’ length o’ dropTo settle her annuity.Will poison do it? It has been tried,But be ’t in hash or fricassee,That’s just the dish she can’t abide,Whatever kind o’ gout it hae.It’s needless to assail her doubts;She gangs by instinct, like the brutes,An’ only eats an’ drinks what suitsHersel’ and her annuity.The Bible says the age o’ manThreescore and ten, perchance, may be;She’s ninety-four. Let them who can,Explain the incongruity.She should hae lived afore the flood;She’s come o’ patriarchal blood;She’s some auld Pagan mummified,Alive for her annuity.She’s been embalmed inside and oot;She’s sauted to the last degree;There’s pickle in her very snoot,Sae caper-like an’ cruety.Lot’s wife was fresh compared to her;They’ve kyanized the useless knir;She canna decompose—nae mairThan her accurs’d annuity.The water-drop wears out the rock,As this eternal jaud wears me;I could withstand the single shock,But not the continuity.It’s pay me here, an’ pay me there,An’ pay me, pay me, evermair.I’ll gang demented wi’ despair—I’m charged for her annuity.George Outram.
IGAED to spend a week in Fife;An unco week it proved to be,For there I met a waesome wifeLamentin’ her viduity.Her grief brak out sae fierce and fell,I thought her heart wad burst the shell;And—I was sae left to mysel’—I sell’t her an annuity.
IGAED to spend a week in Fife;
An unco week it proved to be,
For there I met a waesome wife
Lamentin’ her viduity.
Her grief brak out sae fierce and fell,
I thought her heart wad burst the shell;
And—I was sae left to mysel’—
I sell’t her an annuity.
The bargain lookit fair eneugh—She just was turned o’ saxty-three.I couldna guessed she’d prove sae teugh,By human ingenuity.But years have come, and years have gane,And there she’s yet, as stieve as stane;The limmer’s growin’ young again,Since she got her annuity.
The bargain lookit fair eneugh—
She just was turned o’ saxty-three.
I couldna guessed she’d prove sae teugh,
By human ingenuity.
But years have come, and years have gane,
And there she’s yet, as stieve as stane;
The limmer’s growin’ young again,
Since she got her annuity.
She’s crined awa’ to bane and skin,But that, it seems, is naught to me;She’s like to live, although she’s inThe last stage o’ tenuity.She munches wi’ her wizen’d gums,An’ stumps about on legs o’ thrums,But comes, as sure as Christmas comes,To ca’ for her annuity.
She’s crined awa’ to bane and skin,
But that, it seems, is naught to me;
She’s like to live, although she’s in
The last stage o’ tenuity.
She munches wi’ her wizen’d gums,
An’ stumps about on legs o’ thrums,
But comes, as sure as Christmas comes,
To ca’ for her annuity.
I read the tables drawn wi’ careFor an insurance company;Her chance o’ life was stated thereWi’ perfect perspicuity.But tables here, or tables there,She’s lived ten years beyond her share,An’ ’s like to live a dozen mair,To ca’ for her annuity.
I read the tables drawn wi’ care
For an insurance company;
Her chance o’ life was stated there
Wi’ perfect perspicuity.
But tables here, or tables there,
She’s lived ten years beyond her share,
An’ ’s like to live a dozen mair,
To ca’ for her annuity.
Last Yule she had a fearfu’ host;I thought a kink might set me free;I led her out, ’mang snaw and frost,Wi’ constant assiduity.But deil ma’ care—the blast gaed by,And miss’d the auld anatomy—It just cost me a tooth, forbyeDischarging her annuity.
Last Yule she had a fearfu’ host;
I thought a kink might set me free;
I led her out, ’mang snaw and frost,
Wi’ constant assiduity.
But deil ma’ care—the blast gaed by,
And miss’d the auld anatomy—
It just cost me a tooth, forbye
Discharging her annuity.
If there’s a sough o’ cholera,Or typhus, wha sae gleg as she?She buys up baths, an’ drugs, an’ a’,In siccan superfluity,She doesna need—she’s fever-proof;The pest walked o’er her very roof—She tauld me sae; an’ then her loofHeld out for her annuity.
If there’s a sough o’ cholera,
Or typhus, wha sae gleg as she?
She buys up baths, an’ drugs, an’ a’,
In siccan superfluity,
She doesna need—she’s fever-proof;
The pest walked o’er her very roof—
She tauld me sae; an’ then her loof
Held out for her annuity.
Ae day she fell, her arm she brak—A compound fracture as could be;Nae leech the cure wad undertake,Whate’er was the gratuity.It’s cured! she handles ’t like a flail—It does as weel in bits as hale;But I’m a broken man mysel’,Wi’ her and her annuity.
Ae day she fell, her arm she brak—
A compound fracture as could be;
Nae leech the cure wad undertake,
Whate’er was the gratuity.
It’s cured! she handles ’t like a flail—
It does as weel in bits as hale;
But I’m a broken man mysel’,
Wi’ her and her annuity.
Her broozled flesh and broken banesAre weel as flesh and banes can be;She beats the toads that live in stanesAn’ fatten in vacuity!They die when they’re exposed to air—They canna thole the atmosphere;But her! expose her onywhere,She lives for her annuity.
Her broozled flesh and broken banes
Are weel as flesh and banes can be;
She beats the toads that live in stanes
An’ fatten in vacuity!
They die when they’re exposed to air—
They canna thole the atmosphere;
But her! expose her onywhere,
She lives for her annuity.
If mortal means could nick her thread,Sma’ crime it wad appear to me;Ca’t murder—or ca’t homicide,I’d justify ’t, an’ do it tae.But how to fell a withered wifeThat’s carved out o’ the tree of life,The timmer limmer dares the knifeTo settle her annuity.
If mortal means could nick her thread,
Sma’ crime it wad appear to me;
Ca’t murder—or ca’t homicide,
I’d justify ’t, an’ do it tae.
But how to fell a withered wife
That’s carved out o’ the tree of life,
The timmer limmer dares the knife
To settle her annuity.
I’d try a shot—but whar’s the mark?Her vital parts are hid frae me;Her backbone wanders through her sarkIn an unkenn’d corkscrewity.She’s palsified, an’ shakes her headSae fast about, ye scarce can see ’t;It’s past the power o’ steel or leadTo settle her annuity.
I’d try a shot—but whar’s the mark?
Her vital parts are hid frae me;
Her backbone wanders through her sark
In an unkenn’d corkscrewity.
She’s palsified, an’ shakes her head
Sae fast about, ye scarce can see ’t;
It’s past the power o’ steel or lead
To settle her annuity.
She might be drowned, but go she’ll notWithin a mile o’ loch or sea;Or hanged, if cord could grip a throatO’ siccan exiguity.It’s fitter far to hang the rope—It draws out like a telescope;’Twad tak’ a dreadfu’ length o’ dropTo settle her annuity.
She might be drowned, but go she’ll not
Within a mile o’ loch or sea;
Or hanged, if cord could grip a throat
O’ siccan exiguity.
It’s fitter far to hang the rope—
It draws out like a telescope;
’Twad tak’ a dreadfu’ length o’ drop
To settle her annuity.
Will poison do it? It has been tried,But be ’t in hash or fricassee,That’s just the dish she can’t abide,Whatever kind o’ gout it hae.It’s needless to assail her doubts;She gangs by instinct, like the brutes,An’ only eats an’ drinks what suitsHersel’ and her annuity.
Will poison do it? It has been tried,
But be ’t in hash or fricassee,
That’s just the dish she can’t abide,
Whatever kind o’ gout it hae.
It’s needless to assail her doubts;
She gangs by instinct, like the brutes,
An’ only eats an’ drinks what suits
Hersel’ and her annuity.
The Bible says the age o’ manThreescore and ten, perchance, may be;She’s ninety-four. Let them who can,Explain the incongruity.She should hae lived afore the flood;She’s come o’ patriarchal blood;She’s some auld Pagan mummified,Alive for her annuity.
The Bible says the age o’ man
Threescore and ten, perchance, may be;
She’s ninety-four. Let them who can,
Explain the incongruity.
She should hae lived afore the flood;
She’s come o’ patriarchal blood;
She’s some auld Pagan mummified,
Alive for her annuity.
She’s been embalmed inside and oot;She’s sauted to the last degree;There’s pickle in her very snoot,Sae caper-like an’ cruety.Lot’s wife was fresh compared to her;They’ve kyanized the useless knir;She canna decompose—nae mairThan her accurs’d annuity.
She’s been embalmed inside and oot;
She’s sauted to the last degree;
There’s pickle in her very snoot,
Sae caper-like an’ cruety.
Lot’s wife was fresh compared to her;
They’ve kyanized the useless knir;
She canna decompose—nae mair
Than her accurs’d annuity.
The water-drop wears out the rock,As this eternal jaud wears me;I could withstand the single shock,But not the continuity.It’s pay me here, an’ pay me there,An’ pay me, pay me, evermair.I’ll gang demented wi’ despair—I’m charged for her annuity.George Outram.
The water-drop wears out the rock,
As this eternal jaud wears me;
I could withstand the single shock,
But not the continuity.
It’s pay me here, an’ pay me there,
An’ pay me, pay me, evermair.
I’ll gang demented wi’ despair—
I’m charged for her annuity.
George Outram.
MALBROUCK, the prince of commanders,Is gone to the war in Flanders;His fame is like Alexander’s;But when will he come home?Perhaps at Trinity Feast, orPerhaps he may come at Easter.Egad! he had better make haste, orWe fear he may never come.For Trinity Feast is over,And has brought no news from Dover;And Easter is past, moreover,And Malbrouck still delays.Milady in her watch-towerSpends many a pensive hour,Not well knowing why or how herDear lord from England stays.While sitting quite forlorn inThat tower, she spies returningA page clad in deep mourning,With fainting steps and slow.“O page, prithee, come faster!What news do you bring of your master?I fear there is some disaster,Your looks are so full of woe.”“The news I bring, fair lady,”With sorrowful accent said he,“Is one you are not readySo soon, alas! to hear.“But since to speak I’m hurried,”Added this page, quite flurried,“Malbrouck is dead and buried!”(And here he shed a tear.)“He’s dead! he’s dead as a herring!For I beheld his ‘berring,’And four officers transferringHis corpse away from the field.“One officer carried his sabre,And he carried it not without labour,Much envying his next neighbour,Who only bore a shield.“The third was helmet-bearer—That helmet which on its wearerFilled all who saw with terror,And covered a hero’s brains.“Now, having got so far, IFind that (by the Lord Harry!)The fourth is left nothing to carry;So there the thing remains.”Translated by Father Prout.
MALBROUCK, the prince of commanders,Is gone to the war in Flanders;His fame is like Alexander’s;But when will he come home?Perhaps at Trinity Feast, orPerhaps he may come at Easter.Egad! he had better make haste, orWe fear he may never come.For Trinity Feast is over,And has brought no news from Dover;And Easter is past, moreover,And Malbrouck still delays.Milady in her watch-towerSpends many a pensive hour,Not well knowing why or how herDear lord from England stays.While sitting quite forlorn inThat tower, she spies returningA page clad in deep mourning,With fainting steps and slow.“O page, prithee, come faster!What news do you bring of your master?I fear there is some disaster,Your looks are so full of woe.”“The news I bring, fair lady,”With sorrowful accent said he,“Is one you are not readySo soon, alas! to hear.“But since to speak I’m hurried,”Added this page, quite flurried,“Malbrouck is dead and buried!”(And here he shed a tear.)“He’s dead! he’s dead as a herring!For I beheld his ‘berring,’And four officers transferringHis corpse away from the field.“One officer carried his sabre,And he carried it not without labour,Much envying his next neighbour,Who only bore a shield.“The third was helmet-bearer—That helmet which on its wearerFilled all who saw with terror,And covered a hero’s brains.“Now, having got so far, IFind that (by the Lord Harry!)The fourth is left nothing to carry;So there the thing remains.”Translated by Father Prout.
MALBROUCK, the prince of commanders,Is gone to the war in Flanders;His fame is like Alexander’s;But when will he come home?
MALBROUCK, the prince of commanders,
Is gone to the war in Flanders;
His fame is like Alexander’s;
But when will he come home?
Perhaps at Trinity Feast, orPerhaps he may come at Easter.Egad! he had better make haste, orWe fear he may never come.
Perhaps at Trinity Feast, or
Perhaps he may come at Easter.
Egad! he had better make haste, or
We fear he may never come.
For Trinity Feast is over,And has brought no news from Dover;And Easter is past, moreover,And Malbrouck still delays.
For Trinity Feast is over,
And has brought no news from Dover;
And Easter is past, moreover,
And Malbrouck still delays.
Milady in her watch-towerSpends many a pensive hour,Not well knowing why or how herDear lord from England stays.
Milady in her watch-tower
Spends many a pensive hour,
Not well knowing why or how her
Dear lord from England stays.
While sitting quite forlorn inThat tower, she spies returningA page clad in deep mourning,With fainting steps and slow.
While sitting quite forlorn in
That tower, she spies returning
A page clad in deep mourning,
With fainting steps and slow.
“O page, prithee, come faster!What news do you bring of your master?I fear there is some disaster,Your looks are so full of woe.”
“O page, prithee, come faster!
What news do you bring of your master?
I fear there is some disaster,
Your looks are so full of woe.”
“The news I bring, fair lady,”With sorrowful accent said he,“Is one you are not readySo soon, alas! to hear.
“The news I bring, fair lady,”
With sorrowful accent said he,
“Is one you are not ready
So soon, alas! to hear.
“But since to speak I’m hurried,”Added this page, quite flurried,“Malbrouck is dead and buried!”(And here he shed a tear.)
“But since to speak I’m hurried,”
Added this page, quite flurried,
“Malbrouck is dead and buried!”
(And here he shed a tear.)
“He’s dead! he’s dead as a herring!For I beheld his ‘berring,’And four officers transferringHis corpse away from the field.
“He’s dead! he’s dead as a herring!
For I beheld his ‘berring,’
And four officers transferring
His corpse away from the field.
“One officer carried his sabre,And he carried it not without labour,Much envying his next neighbour,Who only bore a shield.
“One officer carried his sabre,
And he carried it not without labour,
Much envying his next neighbour,
Who only bore a shield.
“The third was helmet-bearer—That helmet which on its wearerFilled all who saw with terror,And covered a hero’s brains.
“The third was helmet-bearer—
That helmet which on its wearer
Filled all who saw with terror,
And covered a hero’s brains.
“Now, having got so far, IFind that (by the Lord Harry!)The fourth is left nothing to carry;So there the thing remains.”Translated by Father Prout.
“Now, having got so far, I
Find that (by the Lord Harry!)
The fourth is left nothing to carry;
So there the thing remains.”
Translated by Father Prout.
LOVE me, sweet, with all thou art,Feeling, thinking, seeing;Love me in the lightest part,Love me in full being.Love me with thine open youthIn its frank surrender;With the vowing of thy mouth,With its silence tender.Love me with thine azure eyes,Made for earnest granting;Taking colour from the skies—Can Heaven’s truth be wanting?Love me with their lids, that fallSnow-like at first meeting;Love me with thine heart, that allNeighbours then see beating.Love me with thine hand, stretched outFreely, open-minded:Love me with thy loitering foot—Hearing one behind it.Love me with thy voice, that turnsSudden faint above me;Love me with thy blush, that burnsWhen I murmur,Love me!Love me with thy thinking soul,Break it to love-sighing;Love me with thy thoughts, that rollOn through living, dying.Love me in thy gorgeous airs,When the world has crown’d thee;Love me, kneeling at thy prayers,With the angels round thee.Love me pure, as musers do,Up the woodlands shady;Love me gayly, fast and true,As a winsome lady.Though all hopes that keep us brave,Further off or nigher,Love me for the house and grave,And for something higher.Thus, if thou wilt prove me, dear,Woman’s love no fable,Iwill lovethee—half a year,As a man is able.Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
LOVE me, sweet, with all thou art,Feeling, thinking, seeing;Love me in the lightest part,Love me in full being.Love me with thine open youthIn its frank surrender;With the vowing of thy mouth,With its silence tender.Love me with thine azure eyes,Made for earnest granting;Taking colour from the skies—Can Heaven’s truth be wanting?Love me with their lids, that fallSnow-like at first meeting;Love me with thine heart, that allNeighbours then see beating.Love me with thine hand, stretched outFreely, open-minded:Love me with thy loitering foot—Hearing one behind it.Love me with thy voice, that turnsSudden faint above me;Love me with thy blush, that burnsWhen I murmur,Love me!Love me with thy thinking soul,Break it to love-sighing;Love me with thy thoughts, that rollOn through living, dying.Love me in thy gorgeous airs,When the world has crown’d thee;Love me, kneeling at thy prayers,With the angels round thee.Love me pure, as musers do,Up the woodlands shady;Love me gayly, fast and true,As a winsome lady.Though all hopes that keep us brave,Further off or nigher,Love me for the house and grave,And for something higher.Thus, if thou wilt prove me, dear,Woman’s love no fable,Iwill lovethee—half a year,As a man is able.Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
LOVE me, sweet, with all thou art,Feeling, thinking, seeing;Love me in the lightest part,Love me in full being.
LOVE me, sweet, with all thou art,
Feeling, thinking, seeing;
Love me in the lightest part,
Love me in full being.
Love me with thine open youthIn its frank surrender;With the vowing of thy mouth,With its silence tender.
Love me with thine open youth
In its frank surrender;
With the vowing of thy mouth,
With its silence tender.
Love me with thine azure eyes,Made for earnest granting;Taking colour from the skies—Can Heaven’s truth be wanting?
Love me with thine azure eyes,
Made for earnest granting;
Taking colour from the skies—
Can Heaven’s truth be wanting?
Love me with their lids, that fallSnow-like at first meeting;Love me with thine heart, that allNeighbours then see beating.
Love me with their lids, that fall
Snow-like at first meeting;
Love me with thine heart, that all
Neighbours then see beating.
Love me with thine hand, stretched outFreely, open-minded:Love me with thy loitering foot—Hearing one behind it.
Love me with thine hand, stretched out
Freely, open-minded:
Love me with thy loitering foot—
Hearing one behind it.
Love me with thy voice, that turnsSudden faint above me;Love me with thy blush, that burnsWhen I murmur,Love me!
Love me with thy voice, that turns
Sudden faint above me;
Love me with thy blush, that burns
When I murmur,Love me!
Love me with thy thinking soul,Break it to love-sighing;Love me with thy thoughts, that rollOn through living, dying.
Love me with thy thinking soul,
Break it to love-sighing;
Love me with thy thoughts, that roll
On through living, dying.
Love me in thy gorgeous airs,When the world has crown’d thee;Love me, kneeling at thy prayers,With the angels round thee.
Love me in thy gorgeous airs,
When the world has crown’d thee;
Love me, kneeling at thy prayers,
With the angels round thee.
Love me pure, as musers do,Up the woodlands shady;Love me gayly, fast and true,As a winsome lady.
Love me pure, as musers do,
Up the woodlands shady;
Love me gayly, fast and true,
As a winsome lady.
Though all hopes that keep us brave,Further off or nigher,Love me for the house and grave,And for something higher.
Though all hopes that keep us brave,
Further off or nigher,
Love me for the house and grave,
And for something higher.
Thus, if thou wilt prove me, dear,Woman’s love no fable,Iwill lovethee—half a year,As a man is able.Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
Thus, if thou wilt prove me, dear,
Woman’s love no fable,
Iwill lovethee—half a year,
As a man is able.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
MY critic Hammond flatters prettily,And wants another volume like the last.My critic Belfair wants another bookEntirely different, which will sell (and live?)—A striking book, yet not a startling book.The public blames originalities(You must not pump spring water unawaresUpon a gracious public, full of nerves),Good things, not subtle, new, yet orthodox,As easy reading as the dog-eared pageThat’s fingered by said public fifty years,Since first taught spelling by its grandmother,And yet a revelation in some sort;That’s hard, my critic Belfair! So, what next?My critic Stokes objects to abstract thoughts;“Call a man John, a woman, Joan,” says he,“And do not prate so of humanities;”Whereat I call my critic simply Stokes.My critic Johnson recommends more mirth,Because a cheerful genius suits the times,And all true poets laugh unquenchably,Like Shakespeare and the gods. That’s very hard.The gods may laugh, and Shakespeare; Dante smiledWith such a needy heart on two pale lips,We cry, “Weep, rather, Dante.” Poems areMen, if true poems; and who dares exclaimAt any man’s door, “Here, ’tis understoodThe thunder fell last week and killed a wife,And scared a sickly husband—what of that?Get up, be merry, shout, and clap your hands,Because a cheerful genius suits the times?”None says so to the man—and why, indeed,Should any to the poem?Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
MY critic Hammond flatters prettily,And wants another volume like the last.My critic Belfair wants another bookEntirely different, which will sell (and live?)—A striking book, yet not a startling book.The public blames originalities(You must not pump spring water unawaresUpon a gracious public, full of nerves),Good things, not subtle, new, yet orthodox,As easy reading as the dog-eared pageThat’s fingered by said public fifty years,Since first taught spelling by its grandmother,And yet a revelation in some sort;That’s hard, my critic Belfair! So, what next?My critic Stokes objects to abstract thoughts;“Call a man John, a woman, Joan,” says he,“And do not prate so of humanities;”Whereat I call my critic simply Stokes.My critic Johnson recommends more mirth,Because a cheerful genius suits the times,And all true poets laugh unquenchably,Like Shakespeare and the gods. That’s very hard.The gods may laugh, and Shakespeare; Dante smiledWith such a needy heart on two pale lips,We cry, “Weep, rather, Dante.” Poems areMen, if true poems; and who dares exclaimAt any man’s door, “Here, ’tis understoodThe thunder fell last week and killed a wife,And scared a sickly husband—what of that?Get up, be merry, shout, and clap your hands,Because a cheerful genius suits the times?”None says so to the man—and why, indeed,Should any to the poem?Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
MY critic Hammond flatters prettily,And wants another volume like the last.My critic Belfair wants another bookEntirely different, which will sell (and live?)—A striking book, yet not a startling book.The public blames originalities(You must not pump spring water unawaresUpon a gracious public, full of nerves),Good things, not subtle, new, yet orthodox,As easy reading as the dog-eared pageThat’s fingered by said public fifty years,Since first taught spelling by its grandmother,And yet a revelation in some sort;That’s hard, my critic Belfair! So, what next?My critic Stokes objects to abstract thoughts;“Call a man John, a woman, Joan,” says he,“And do not prate so of humanities;”Whereat I call my critic simply Stokes.My critic Johnson recommends more mirth,Because a cheerful genius suits the times,And all true poets laugh unquenchably,Like Shakespeare and the gods. That’s very hard.The gods may laugh, and Shakespeare; Dante smiledWith such a needy heart on two pale lips,We cry, “Weep, rather, Dante.” Poems areMen, if true poems; and who dares exclaimAt any man’s door, “Here, ’tis understoodThe thunder fell last week and killed a wife,And scared a sickly husband—what of that?Get up, be merry, shout, and clap your hands,Because a cheerful genius suits the times?”None says so to the man—and why, indeed,Should any to the poem?Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
MY critic Hammond flatters prettily,
And wants another volume like the last.
My critic Belfair wants another book
Entirely different, which will sell (and live?)—
A striking book, yet not a startling book.
The public blames originalities
(You must not pump spring water unawares
Upon a gracious public, full of nerves),
Good things, not subtle, new, yet orthodox,
As easy reading as the dog-eared page
That’s fingered by said public fifty years,
Since first taught spelling by its grandmother,
And yet a revelation in some sort;
That’s hard, my critic Belfair! So, what next?
My critic Stokes objects to abstract thoughts;
“Call a man John, a woman, Joan,” says he,
“And do not prate so of humanities;”
Whereat I call my critic simply Stokes.
My critic Johnson recommends more mirth,
Because a cheerful genius suits the times,
And all true poets laugh unquenchably,
Like Shakespeare and the gods. That’s very hard.
The gods may laugh, and Shakespeare; Dante smiled
With such a needy heart on two pale lips,
We cry, “Weep, rather, Dante.” Poems are
Men, if true poems; and who dares exclaim
At any man’s door, “Here, ’tis understood
The thunder fell last week and killed a wife,
And scared a sickly husband—what of that?
Get up, be merry, shout, and clap your hands,
Because a cheerful genius suits the times?”
None says so to the man—and why, indeed,
Should any to the poem?
Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
AFELLOW all his life lived hoarding gold,And, dying, hoarded left it. And behold,One night his son saw peering through the houseA man, with yet the semblance of a mouse,Watching a crevice in the wall, and cried,“My father?” “Yes,” the Mussulman replied,“Thy father!” “But why watching thus?” “For fearLest any smell my treasure buried here.”“But wherefore, sir, so metamousified?”“Because, my son, such is the true outsideOf the inner soul by which I lived and died.”Edward Fitzgerald.
AFELLOW all his life lived hoarding gold,And, dying, hoarded left it. And behold,One night his son saw peering through the houseA man, with yet the semblance of a mouse,Watching a crevice in the wall, and cried,“My father?” “Yes,” the Mussulman replied,“Thy father!” “But why watching thus?” “For fearLest any smell my treasure buried here.”“But wherefore, sir, so metamousified?”“Because, my son, such is the true outsideOf the inner soul by which I lived and died.”Edward Fitzgerald.
AFELLOW all his life lived hoarding gold,And, dying, hoarded left it. And behold,One night his son saw peering through the houseA man, with yet the semblance of a mouse,Watching a crevice in the wall, and cried,“My father?” “Yes,” the Mussulman replied,“Thy father!” “But why watching thus?” “For fearLest any smell my treasure buried here.”“But wherefore, sir, so metamousified?”“Because, my son, such is the true outsideOf the inner soul by which I lived and died.”Edward Fitzgerald.
AFELLOW all his life lived hoarding gold,
And, dying, hoarded left it. And behold,
One night his son saw peering through the house
A man, with yet the semblance of a mouse,
Watching a crevice in the wall, and cried,
“My father?” “Yes,” the Mussulman replied,
“Thy father!” “But why watching thus?” “For fear
Lest any smell my treasure buried here.”
“But wherefore, sir, so metamousified?”
“Because, my son, such is the true outside
Of the inner soul by which I lived and died.”
Edward Fitzgerald.
IF all the trees in all the woods were men,And each and every blade of grass a pen;If every leaf on every shrub and treeTurned to a sheet of foolscap; every seaWere changed to ink, and all earth’s living tribesHad nothing else to do but act as scribes,And for ten thousand ages, day and night,The human race should write, and write, and write,Till all the pens and paper were used up,And the huge inkstand was an empty cup,Still would the scribblers clustered round its brinkCall for more pens, more paper, and more ink.Oliver Wendell Holmes.
IF all the trees in all the woods were men,And each and every blade of grass a pen;If every leaf on every shrub and treeTurned to a sheet of foolscap; every seaWere changed to ink, and all earth’s living tribesHad nothing else to do but act as scribes,And for ten thousand ages, day and night,The human race should write, and write, and write,Till all the pens and paper were used up,And the huge inkstand was an empty cup,Still would the scribblers clustered round its brinkCall for more pens, more paper, and more ink.Oliver Wendell Holmes.
IF all the trees in all the woods were men,And each and every blade of grass a pen;If every leaf on every shrub and treeTurned to a sheet of foolscap; every seaWere changed to ink, and all earth’s living tribesHad nothing else to do but act as scribes,And for ten thousand ages, day and night,The human race should write, and write, and write,Till all the pens and paper were used up,And the huge inkstand was an empty cup,Still would the scribblers clustered round its brinkCall for more pens, more paper, and more ink.Oliver Wendell Holmes.
IF all the trees in all the woods were men,
And each and every blade of grass a pen;
If every leaf on every shrub and tree
Turned to a sheet of foolscap; every sea
Were changed to ink, and all earth’s living tribes
Had nothing else to do but act as scribes,
And for ten thousand ages, day and night,
The human race should write, and write, and write,
Till all the pens and paper were used up,
And the huge inkstand was an empty cup,
Still would the scribblers clustered round its brink
Call for more pens, more paper, and more ink.
Oliver Wendell Holmes.
YES, write if you want to—there’s nothing like trying;Who knows what a treasure your casket may hold?I’ll show you that rhyming’s as easy as lying,If you’ll listen to me while the art I unfold.Here’s a book full of words: one can choose as he fancies,As a painter his tint, as a workman his tool;Just think! all the poems and plays and romancesWere drawn out of this, like the fish from a pool!You can wander at will through its syllabled mazes,And take all you want—not a copper they cost;What is there to hinder your picking out phrasesFor an epic as clever as “Paradise Lost”?Don’t mind if the index of sense is at zero;Use words that run smoothly, whatever they mean;Leander and Lillian and LillibulleroAre much the same thing in the rhyming machine.There are words so delicious their sweetness will smotherThat boarding-school flavour of which we’re afraid;There is “lush” is a good one, and “swirl” is another;Put both in one stanza, its fortune is made.With musical murmurs and rhythmical closesYou can cheat us of smiles when you’ve nothing to tell;You hand us a nosegay of milliner’s roses,And we cry with delight, “Oh, how sweet they do smell!”Perhaps you will answer all needful conditionsFor winning the laurels to which you aspire,By docking the tails of the two prepositionsI’ the style o’ the bards you so greatly admire.As for subjects of verse, they are only too plentyFor ringing the changes on metrical chimes;A maiden, a moonbeam, a lover of twenty,Have filled that great basket with bushels of rhymes.Let me show you a picture—’tis far from irrelevant—By a famous old hand in the arts of design;’Tis only a photographed sketch of an elephant;The name of the draughtsman was Rembrandt of Rhine.How easy! no troublesome colours to lay on;It can’t have fatigued him, no, not in the least;A dash here and there with a haphazard crayon,And there stands the wrinkled-skinned, baggy-limbed beast.Just so with your verse—’tis as easy as sketching;You can reel off a song without knitting your brow,As lightly as Rembrandt a drawing or etching;It is nothing at all, if you only know how.Well, imagine you’ve printed your volume of verses;Your forehead is wreathed with the garland of fame;Your poem the eloquent school-boy rehearses;Her album the school-girl presents for your name.Each morning the post brings you autograph letters;You’ll answer them promptly—an hour isn’t muchFor the honour of sharing a page with your betters,With magistrates, members of Congress, and such.Of course you’re delighted to serve the committeesThat come with requests from the country all round;You would grace the occasion with poems and dittiesWhen they’ve got a new school-house, or poor-house, or pound.With a hymn for the saints, and a song for the sinners,You go and are welcome wherever you please;You’re a privileged guest at all manner of dinners;You’ve a seat on the platform among the grandees.At length your mere presence becomes a sensation;Your cup of enjoyment is filled to its brimWith the pleasure Horatian of digitmonstration,As the whisper runs round of “That’s he!” or “That’s him!”But, remember, O dealer in phrases sonorous,So daintily chosen, so tunefully matched,Though you soar with the wings of the cherubim o’er us,The ovum was human from which you were hatched.No will of your own, with its puny compulsion,Can summon the spirit that quickens the lyre;It comes, if at all, like the sibyl’s convulsion,And touches the brain with a finger of fire.So, perhaps, after all, it’s as well to be quiet,If you’ve nothing you think is worth saying in prose,As to furnish a meal of their cannibal dietTo the critics, by publishing, as you propose.But it’s all of no use, and I’m sorry I’ve written;I shall see your thin volume some day on my shelf;For the rhyming tarantula surely has bitten,And music must cure you, so pipe it yourself.Oliver Wendell Holmes.
YES, write if you want to—there’s nothing like trying;Who knows what a treasure your casket may hold?I’ll show you that rhyming’s as easy as lying,If you’ll listen to me while the art I unfold.Here’s a book full of words: one can choose as he fancies,As a painter his tint, as a workman his tool;Just think! all the poems and plays and romancesWere drawn out of this, like the fish from a pool!You can wander at will through its syllabled mazes,And take all you want—not a copper they cost;What is there to hinder your picking out phrasesFor an epic as clever as “Paradise Lost”?Don’t mind if the index of sense is at zero;Use words that run smoothly, whatever they mean;Leander and Lillian and LillibulleroAre much the same thing in the rhyming machine.There are words so delicious their sweetness will smotherThat boarding-school flavour of which we’re afraid;There is “lush” is a good one, and “swirl” is another;Put both in one stanza, its fortune is made.With musical murmurs and rhythmical closesYou can cheat us of smiles when you’ve nothing to tell;You hand us a nosegay of milliner’s roses,And we cry with delight, “Oh, how sweet they do smell!”Perhaps you will answer all needful conditionsFor winning the laurels to which you aspire,By docking the tails of the two prepositionsI’ the style o’ the bards you so greatly admire.As for subjects of verse, they are only too plentyFor ringing the changes on metrical chimes;A maiden, a moonbeam, a lover of twenty,Have filled that great basket with bushels of rhymes.Let me show you a picture—’tis far from irrelevant—By a famous old hand in the arts of design;’Tis only a photographed sketch of an elephant;The name of the draughtsman was Rembrandt of Rhine.How easy! no troublesome colours to lay on;It can’t have fatigued him, no, not in the least;A dash here and there with a haphazard crayon,And there stands the wrinkled-skinned, baggy-limbed beast.Just so with your verse—’tis as easy as sketching;You can reel off a song without knitting your brow,As lightly as Rembrandt a drawing or etching;It is nothing at all, if you only know how.Well, imagine you’ve printed your volume of verses;Your forehead is wreathed with the garland of fame;Your poem the eloquent school-boy rehearses;Her album the school-girl presents for your name.Each morning the post brings you autograph letters;You’ll answer them promptly—an hour isn’t muchFor the honour of sharing a page with your betters,With magistrates, members of Congress, and such.Of course you’re delighted to serve the committeesThat come with requests from the country all round;You would grace the occasion with poems and dittiesWhen they’ve got a new school-house, or poor-house, or pound.With a hymn for the saints, and a song for the sinners,You go and are welcome wherever you please;You’re a privileged guest at all manner of dinners;You’ve a seat on the platform among the grandees.At length your mere presence becomes a sensation;Your cup of enjoyment is filled to its brimWith the pleasure Horatian of digitmonstration,As the whisper runs round of “That’s he!” or “That’s him!”But, remember, O dealer in phrases sonorous,So daintily chosen, so tunefully matched,Though you soar with the wings of the cherubim o’er us,The ovum was human from which you were hatched.No will of your own, with its puny compulsion,Can summon the spirit that quickens the lyre;It comes, if at all, like the sibyl’s convulsion,And touches the brain with a finger of fire.So, perhaps, after all, it’s as well to be quiet,If you’ve nothing you think is worth saying in prose,As to furnish a meal of their cannibal dietTo the critics, by publishing, as you propose.But it’s all of no use, and I’m sorry I’ve written;I shall see your thin volume some day on my shelf;For the rhyming tarantula surely has bitten,And music must cure you, so pipe it yourself.Oliver Wendell Holmes.
YES, write if you want to—there’s nothing like trying;Who knows what a treasure your casket may hold?I’ll show you that rhyming’s as easy as lying,If you’ll listen to me while the art I unfold.
YES, write if you want to—there’s nothing like trying;
Who knows what a treasure your casket may hold?
I’ll show you that rhyming’s as easy as lying,
If you’ll listen to me while the art I unfold.
Here’s a book full of words: one can choose as he fancies,As a painter his tint, as a workman his tool;Just think! all the poems and plays and romancesWere drawn out of this, like the fish from a pool!
Here’s a book full of words: one can choose as he fancies,
As a painter his tint, as a workman his tool;
Just think! all the poems and plays and romances
Were drawn out of this, like the fish from a pool!
You can wander at will through its syllabled mazes,And take all you want—not a copper they cost;What is there to hinder your picking out phrasesFor an epic as clever as “Paradise Lost”?
You can wander at will through its syllabled mazes,
And take all you want—not a copper they cost;
What is there to hinder your picking out phrases
For an epic as clever as “Paradise Lost”?
Don’t mind if the index of sense is at zero;Use words that run smoothly, whatever they mean;Leander and Lillian and LillibulleroAre much the same thing in the rhyming machine.
Don’t mind if the index of sense is at zero;
Use words that run smoothly, whatever they mean;
Leander and Lillian and Lillibullero
Are much the same thing in the rhyming machine.
There are words so delicious their sweetness will smotherThat boarding-school flavour of which we’re afraid;There is “lush” is a good one, and “swirl” is another;Put both in one stanza, its fortune is made.
There are words so delicious their sweetness will smother
That boarding-school flavour of which we’re afraid;
There is “lush” is a good one, and “swirl” is another;
Put both in one stanza, its fortune is made.
With musical murmurs and rhythmical closesYou can cheat us of smiles when you’ve nothing to tell;You hand us a nosegay of milliner’s roses,And we cry with delight, “Oh, how sweet they do smell!”
With musical murmurs and rhythmical closes
You can cheat us of smiles when you’ve nothing to tell;
You hand us a nosegay of milliner’s roses,
And we cry with delight, “Oh, how sweet they do smell!”
Perhaps you will answer all needful conditionsFor winning the laurels to which you aspire,By docking the tails of the two prepositionsI’ the style o’ the bards you so greatly admire.
Perhaps you will answer all needful conditions
For winning the laurels to which you aspire,
By docking the tails of the two prepositions
I’ the style o’ the bards you so greatly admire.
As for subjects of verse, they are only too plentyFor ringing the changes on metrical chimes;A maiden, a moonbeam, a lover of twenty,Have filled that great basket with bushels of rhymes.
As for subjects of verse, they are only too plenty
For ringing the changes on metrical chimes;
A maiden, a moonbeam, a lover of twenty,
Have filled that great basket with bushels of rhymes.
Let me show you a picture—’tis far from irrelevant—By a famous old hand in the arts of design;’Tis only a photographed sketch of an elephant;The name of the draughtsman was Rembrandt of Rhine.
Let me show you a picture—’tis far from irrelevant—
By a famous old hand in the arts of design;
’Tis only a photographed sketch of an elephant;
The name of the draughtsman was Rembrandt of Rhine.
How easy! no troublesome colours to lay on;It can’t have fatigued him, no, not in the least;A dash here and there with a haphazard crayon,And there stands the wrinkled-skinned, baggy-limbed beast.
How easy! no troublesome colours to lay on;
It can’t have fatigued him, no, not in the least;
A dash here and there with a haphazard crayon,
And there stands the wrinkled-skinned, baggy-limbed beast.
Just so with your verse—’tis as easy as sketching;You can reel off a song without knitting your brow,As lightly as Rembrandt a drawing or etching;It is nothing at all, if you only know how.
Just so with your verse—’tis as easy as sketching;
You can reel off a song without knitting your brow,
As lightly as Rembrandt a drawing or etching;
It is nothing at all, if you only know how.
Well, imagine you’ve printed your volume of verses;Your forehead is wreathed with the garland of fame;Your poem the eloquent school-boy rehearses;Her album the school-girl presents for your name.
Well, imagine you’ve printed your volume of verses;
Your forehead is wreathed with the garland of fame;
Your poem the eloquent school-boy rehearses;
Her album the school-girl presents for your name.
Each morning the post brings you autograph letters;You’ll answer them promptly—an hour isn’t muchFor the honour of sharing a page with your betters,With magistrates, members of Congress, and such.
Each morning the post brings you autograph letters;
You’ll answer them promptly—an hour isn’t much
For the honour of sharing a page with your betters,
With magistrates, members of Congress, and such.
Of course you’re delighted to serve the committeesThat come with requests from the country all round;You would grace the occasion with poems and dittiesWhen they’ve got a new school-house, or poor-house, or pound.
Of course you’re delighted to serve the committees
That come with requests from the country all round;
You would grace the occasion with poems and ditties
When they’ve got a new school-house, or poor-house, or pound.
With a hymn for the saints, and a song for the sinners,You go and are welcome wherever you please;You’re a privileged guest at all manner of dinners;You’ve a seat on the platform among the grandees.
With a hymn for the saints, and a song for the sinners,
You go and are welcome wherever you please;
You’re a privileged guest at all manner of dinners;
You’ve a seat on the platform among the grandees.
At length your mere presence becomes a sensation;Your cup of enjoyment is filled to its brimWith the pleasure Horatian of digitmonstration,As the whisper runs round of “That’s he!” or “That’s him!”
At length your mere presence becomes a sensation;
Your cup of enjoyment is filled to its brim
With the pleasure Horatian of digitmonstration,
As the whisper runs round of “That’s he!” or “That’s him!”
But, remember, O dealer in phrases sonorous,So daintily chosen, so tunefully matched,Though you soar with the wings of the cherubim o’er us,The ovum was human from which you were hatched.
But, remember, O dealer in phrases sonorous,
So daintily chosen, so tunefully matched,
Though you soar with the wings of the cherubim o’er us,
The ovum was human from which you were hatched.
No will of your own, with its puny compulsion,Can summon the spirit that quickens the lyre;It comes, if at all, like the sibyl’s convulsion,And touches the brain with a finger of fire.
No will of your own, with its puny compulsion,
Can summon the spirit that quickens the lyre;
It comes, if at all, like the sibyl’s convulsion,
And touches the brain with a finger of fire.
So, perhaps, after all, it’s as well to be quiet,If you’ve nothing you think is worth saying in prose,As to furnish a meal of their cannibal dietTo the critics, by publishing, as you propose.
So, perhaps, after all, it’s as well to be quiet,
If you’ve nothing you think is worth saying in prose,
As to furnish a meal of their cannibal diet
To the critics, by publishing, as you propose.
But it’s all of no use, and I’m sorry I’ve written;I shall see your thin volume some day on my shelf;For the rhyming tarantula surely has bitten,And music must cure you, so pipe it yourself.Oliver Wendell Holmes.
But it’s all of no use, and I’m sorry I’ve written;
I shall see your thin volume some day on my shelf;
For the rhyming tarantula surely has bitten,
And music must cure you, so pipe it yourself.
Oliver Wendell Holmes.
“MAN WANTS BUT LITTLE HERE BELOW”