Ananias
WHEN Golf was in its childhood still,And not the sport that now it is;When no-one knew of Bunker Hill,Or spoke of Boston tee-parties;One man there was who played the game,And Ananias was his name.But little else of him we know,Save that his grasp of facts was slack,And yet, as circumstances show,He was a golfomaniac,And thus biographers relateThe story of his tragic fate:—He occupied his final scene,(In golfing parlance so 'tis said),In "practising upon thegreen,"And, after a "bad lie," "lay dead;"Then came Sapphira,—she, poor soul,After a worse "lie," "halved the hole."
Nero
THE portrait that I seek to paintIs of no ordinary hero,No customary plaster saint,—For nothing of the sort was Nero.(He was an Emperor, but thenHe had his faults like other men.)And first, (a foolish thing to do),He turned his hand to matricide,And straight his agéd mother slew,The poor old lady promptly died!('Tis surely wrong to kill one's mother,Since one can hardly get another.)He was a hearty feeder too,And onto his digestion thrustAll kinds of fatty foods, and grewRobust—with accent on theBust.("Sweets are"—I quote from memory—"The Uses of Obesity!")He married twice; two ladies fairAgreed in turn to be his wife,To board his slender barque and shareHis fate upon the stream of Life.(Forgive me if I mention thisAs being true Canoebial bliss!)His talent on the violinHe was for ever proud of showing;The tone that he produced was thin,Nor could one loudly praise his "bowing;"But persons whom he played beforeWere almost sure to ask for more.For he decreed that any whoDid not encore him or applaud,Should be beheaded, cut in two,Hanged, flayed alive, and sent abroad.(So it was natural that theyWho "came to cough remained to pray.")He felt no sympathy for thoseWho had not lots to drink and eat,Who wore unfashionable clothes,And strove to make the two ends meet;(They drew no tears, "the short and sim-Ple flannels of the Poor," from him.)To Christians he was far from kind,They met with his disapprobation;The choicest tortures he designedFor folks of their denomination.(And all Historians insistThat he was no philanthropist.)To lamp-posts he would oft attachA Jew, immersed in paraffine,Apply a patent safety match,And smile as he surveyed the scene.('Twas possible in Rome at nightTo read a book by Israelight.)And when occurred the famous fire,Of which some say he was the starter,He roused the Corporation's ireBy playing Braga's "Serenata";('Tis said that, when he changed to Handel,The "play was hardly worth the scandal."[A])He crowned his long career at lastBy one supreme and final action,Which, after such a lurid past,Gave universal satisfaction;And not one poor relation criedWhen he committed suicide.
Aftword
THE feast is ended! (As we've seen.)'Tis time the vacant board to quit.By "vacant bored" I do not meanMy host of readers, not a bit!For they, the mentally élite,Are stimulated and replete.The fare that I provide is light,But don't, I pray, look down upon it!Such verse is just as hard to writeAs any sentimental sonnet.It looks a simple task, maybe,—Well—try your hand at it, and see!Don't fancy too that I dispenseWith study, or eschew research;Sufficient books of referenceI have, to fill the highest church.I've no dislike of work, I swear,—It'sdoing itthat I can't bear!Abuse or praise me, as you choose,There is no limit to my patience;My verse theLondon Daily NewsOnce styled "Mephitic exhalations"!I lived that down,—(don't ask me how,)—And nothing really hurts me now.For while my stricken soul survived,With wounded pride and dulled ambition,My humble book of verses thrivedAnd quite outgrew the old edition!So now I have exhaled some more,—Mephitically, as before!
Postlude
THE book is finished! With a sigh,My pen upon the desk I lay;The weary task is o'er, and IAm off upon a holiday,To Paris, lovely Paris, whereI have a littleventr'-à-terre.[B]And tho' my verses may be weak,And call for your severest strictures,The illustrations are unique,—I really never saw such pictures!(At times, in my unthinking way,I almost hope I never may.)
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