"If I have erred, I err in company with Abraham Lincoln."—Theodore Roosevelt.
"If I have erred, I err in company with Abraham Lincoln."—Theodore Roosevelt.
If e'er my rhyming be at fault,If e'er I chance to scribble dope,If that my metre ever halt,I err in company with Pope.An that my grammar go awry,An that my English be askew,Sooth, I can prove an alibi—The Bard of Avon did it too.If often toward the bottled grapeMy errant fancy fondly turns,Remember, leering jackanape,I err in company with Burns.If now and then I sigh "Mine own!"Unto another's wedded wife,Remember, I am not alone—Hast ever read Lord Byron's Life?If frequently I fret and fume,And absolutely will not smile,I err in company with Hume,Old Socrates and T. Carlyle.If e'er I fail in etiquette,And foozle on The Proper StuffRegarding manners, don't forgetA. Tennyson's were pretty tough.Eke if I err upon the sideOf talking overmuch of Me,I err, it cannot be denied,In most illustrious company.
Franklin P. Adams.
Why was Cupid a boy,And why a boy was he?He should have been a girl,For aught that I can see.For he shoots with his bow,And the girl shoots with her eye;And they both are merry and glad,And laugh when we do cry.Then to make Cupid a boyWas surely a woman's plan,For a boy never learns so muchTill he has become a man.And then he's so pierced with cares,And wounded with arrowy smarts,That the whole business of his lifeIs to pick out the heads of the darts.
William Blake.
Life would be an easy matterIf we didn't have to eat.If we never had to utter,"Won't you pass the bread and butter,Likewise push along that platterFull of meat?"Yes, if food were obsoleteLife would be a jolly treat,If we didn't—shine or shower,Old or young, 'bout every hour—Have to eat, eat, eat, eat, eat—'Twould be jolly if we didn't have to eat.We could save a lot of moneyIf we didn't have to eat.Could we cease our busy buying,Baking, broiling, brewing, frying,Life would then be oh, so sunnyAnd complete;And we wouldn't fear to greetEvery grocer in the streetIf we didn't—man and woman,Every hungry, helpless human—Have to eat, eat, eat, eat, eat—We'd save money if we didn't have to eat.All our worry would be overIf we didn't have to eat.Would the butcher, baker, grocerGet our hard-earned dollars? No, Sir!We would then be right in cloverCool and sweet.Want and hunger we could cheat,And we'd get there with both feet,If we didn't—poor or wealthy,Halt or nimble, sick or healthy—Have to eat, eat, eat, eat, eat,We could get there if we didn't have to eat.
Nixon Waterman.
To you, my purse, and to none other wight,Complain I, for ye be my lady dere;I am sorry now that ye be light,For, certes, ye now make me heavy chere;Me were as lefe be laid upon a bere,For which unto your mercy thus I crie,Be heavy againe, or els mote I die.Now vouchsafe this day or it be night,That I of you the blissful sowne may here,Or see your color like the sunne bright,That of yellowness had never pere;Ye are my life, ye be my hertes stere,Queen of comfort and of good companie,Be heavy againe, or els mote I die.Now purse, thou art to me my lives light,And saviour, as downe in this world here,Out of this towne helpe me by your might,Sith that you will not be my treasure,For I am slave as nere as any frere,But I pray unto your curtesie,Be heavy againe, or els mote I die.
Geoffrey Chaucer.
On the eighth day of March it was, some people say,That Saint Pathrick at midnight he first saw the day;While others declare 'twas the ninth he was born,And 'twas all a mistake between midnight and morn;For mistakeswilloccur in a hurry and shock,And some blam'd the baby—and some blam'd the clock—Till with all their cross-questions sure no one could know,If the child was too fast—or the clock was too slow.Now the first faction fight in ould Ireland, they say,Was all on account of Saint Pathrick's birthday,Some fought for the eighth—for the ninth more would die.And who wouldn't see right, sure they blacken'd his eye!At last,boththe factions so positive grew,Thateachkept a birthday, so Pat then hadtwo,Till Father Mulcahy, who showed them their sins,Said, "No one could have two birthdays but atwins."Says he, "Boys, don't be fightin' for eight or for nine,Don't be always dividin'—but sometimes combine;Combine eight with nine, and seventeen is the mark,So let that be his birthday."—"Amen," says the clerk."If he wasn't atwins, sure our hist'ry will show—That, at least, he's worth anytwosaints that we know!"Then they all got blind dhrunk—which complated their bliss,And we keep up the practice from that day to this.
Samuel Lover.
Her little feet! ... Beneath us ranged the sea,She sat, from sun and wind umbrella-shaded,One shoe above the other danglingly,And lo! a Something exquisitely graded,Brown rings and white, distracting—to the knee!The band was loud. A wild waltz melodyFlowed rhythmic forth. The nobodies paraded.And thro' my dream went pulsing fast and free:Her little feet.Till she made room for some one. It was He!A port-wine flavored He, a He who traded,Rich, rosy, round, obese to a degree!A sense of injury overmastered me.Quite bulbously his ample boots upbraidedHer little feet.
William Ernest Henley.
If there is a vile, pernicious,Wicked and degraded rule,Tending to debase the vicious,And corrupt the harmless fool;If there is a hateful habitMaking man a senseless tool,With the feelings of a rabbitAnd the wisdom of a mule;It's the rule which inculcates,It's the habit which dictatesThe wrong and sinful practice of going into school.If there's anything improvingTo an erring sinner's state,Which is useful in removingAll the ills of human fate;If there's any glorious customWhich our faults can dissipate,And can casually thrust 'emOut of sight and make us great;It's the plan by which we shirkHalf our matu-ti-nal work,The glorious institution of always being late.
James Kenneth Stephen.
As long I dwell on some stupendousAnd tremendous (Heaven defend us!)Monstr'-inform'-ingens-horrendousDemoniaco-seraphicPenman's latest piece of graphic.
—Robert Browning.
Will there never come a seasonWhich shall rid us from the curseOf a prose which knows no reasonAnd an unmelodious verse:When the world shall cease to wonderAt the genius of an Ass,And a boy's eccentric blunderShall not bring success to pass:When mankind shall be deliveredFrom the clash of magazines,And the inkstand shall be shiveredInto countless smithereens:When there stands a muzzled stripling,Mute, beside a muzzled bore:When the Rudyards cease from KiplingAnd the Haggards Ride no more?
James Kenneth Stephen.
A speech, both pithy and concise,Marks a mind acute and wise;What speech, my friend, say, do you know,Can stand before "Exactly so?"I have a dear and witty friendWho turns this phrase to every end;None can deny that "Yes" or "No"Is meant in this "Exactly so."Or when a bore his ear assails,Good-humour in his bosom fails,No response from his lips will flow,Save, now and then, "Exactly so."Is there remark on matters graveThat he may wish perchance to waive,Or thinks perhaps is rather slow,He stops it by "Exactly so."It saves the trouble of a thought—No sour dispute can thence be sought;It leaves the thing instatu quo,This beautiful "Exactly so."It has another charm, this phrase,For it implies the speaker's praiseOf what has just been said—ergo—It pleases, this "Exactly so."Nor need the conscience feel distress,By answ'ring wrongly "No" or "Yes;"It 'scapes a falsehood, which is low,And substitutes "Exactly so."Each mortal loves to think he's right,That his opinion, too, is bright;Then, Christian, you may soothe your foeBy chiming in "Exactly so."Whoe'er these lines may chance peruse,Of this famed word will see the use,And mention where'er he may go,The praises of "Exactly so."Of this more could my muse relate,But you, kind reader, I'll not sate;For if I did you'd cry "Hallo!I've heard enough"—"Exactly so."
Lady T. Hastings.
I know not of what we ponder'dOr made pretty pretence to talk,As, her hand within mine, we wander'dTow'rd the pool by the lime-tree walk,While the dew fell in showers from the passion flowersAnd the blush-rose bent on her stalk.I cannot recall her figure:Was it regal as Juno's own?Or only a trifle biggerThan the elves who surround the throneOf the Faëry Queen, and are seen, I ween,By mortals in dreams alone?What her eyes were like, I know not:Perhaps they were blurr'd with tears;And perhaps in your skies there glow not(On the contrary) clearer spheres.No! as to her eyes I am just as wiseAs you or the cat, my dears.Her teeth, I presume, were "pearly":But which was she, brunette or blonde?Her hair, was it quaintly curly,Or as straight as a beadle's wand?That I fail'd to remark;—it was rather darkAnd shadowy round the pond.Then the hand that reposed so snuglyIn mine,—was it plump or spare?Was the countenance fair or ugly?Nay, children, you have me there!Myeyes were p'r'aps blurr'd; and besides I'd heardThat it's horribly rude to stare.And I—was I brusque and surly?Or oppressively bland and fond?Was I partial to rising early?Or why did we twain abscond,All breakfastless, too, from the public view,To prowl by a misty pond?What pass'd, what was felt or spoken—Whether anything pass'd at all—And whether the heart was brokenThat beat under that shelt'ring shawl—(If shawl she had on, which I doubt)—has gone,Yes, gone from me past recall.Was I haply the lady's suitor?Or her uncle? I can't make out—Ask your governess, dears, or tutor.For myself, I'm in hopeless doubtAs to why we were there, who on earth we were,And, what this is all about.
Charles Stuart Calverley.
O what harper could worthily harp it,Mine Edward! this wide-stretching wold(Look outwold) with its wonderful carpetOf emerald, purple and gold!Look well at it—also look sharp, itIs getting so cold.The purple is heather (erica);The yellow, gorse—call'd sometimes "whin."Cruel boys on its prickles might spike aGreen beetle as if on a pin.You may roll in it, if you would like aFew holes in your skin.You wouldn't? Then think of how kind youShould be to the insects who craveYour compassion—and then, look behind youAt yon barley-ears! Don't they look braveAs they undulate—(undulate, mind you,Fromunda, a wave).The noise of those sheep-bells, how faint itSounds here—(on account of our height)!And this hillock itself—who could paint it,With its changes of shadow and light?Is it not—(never, Eddy, say "ain't it")—A marvelous sight?Then yon desolate eerie morasses.The haunts of the snipe and the hern—(I shall question the two upper classesOnaquatiles, when we return)—Why, I see on them absolute massesOffilixor fern.How it interests e'en a beginner(Ortiro) like dear little Ned!Is he listening? As I am a sinnerHe's asleep—he is wagging his head.Wake up! I'll go home to my dinner,And you to your bed.The boundless ineffable prairie;The splendor of mountain and lakeWith their hues that seem ever to vary;The mighty pine forests which shakeIn the wind, and in which the unwaryMay tread on a snake;And this wold with its heathery garment—Are themes undeniably great.But—although there is not any harm in't—It's perhaps little good to dilateOn their charms to a dull little varmintOf seven or eight.
Charles Stuart Calverley.
The sextant of the meetinouse, which sweepsAnd dusts, or is supposed too! and makes fiers,And lites the gas and sometimes leaves a screw loose,in which case it smells orful—worse than lampile;And wrings the Bel and toles it when men dyesto the grief of survivin pardners, and sweeps pathes;And for the servases gits $100 per annum,Which them that thinks deer, let em try it;Getting up be foar star-lite in all weathers andKindlin-fires when the wether it is coldAs zero, and like as not green wood for kindlers;I wouldn't be hired to do it for no some—But o sextant! there are 1 kermoddityWhich's more than gold, wich doant cost nothin,Worth more than anything exsep the Sole of Man.i mean pewer Are, sextent, i mean pewer are!O it is plenty out o dores, so plenty it doant noWhat on airth to dew with itself, but flys aboutScaterin levs and bloin of men's hatts;in short, jest "fre as are" out dores.But o sextant, in our church its scarce as piety,scarce as bank bills wen agints beg for mischuns,Wich some say purty often (taint nothin to me,Wat I give aint nothin to nobody), but o sextant,u shut 500 mens wimmen and children,Speshally the latter, up in a tite place,Some has bad breths, none aint 2 swete,some is fevery, some is scrofilus, some has bad teeth,And some haint none, and some aint over clean;But every 1 on em breethes in and out and out and in,Say 50 times a minit, or 1 million and a half breths an our,Now how long will a church ful of are last at that rate,I ask you, say 15 minutes, and then wats to be did?Why then they must brethe it all over agin.And then agin, and so on, till each has took it down,At least ten times, and let it up again, and wats moreThe same individible don't have the privilegeof brethen his own are, and no one's else;Each one mus take whatever comes to him,O sextant, don't you know our lungs is bellusses,To blo the fier of life, and keep it fromgoin out; and how can bellusses blow without wind,And aint windare? i put it to your conscens.Are is the same to us as milk to babes,Or water to fish, or pendlums to clox—Or roots and airbs unto an injun Doctor,Or little pils to an omepath,Or boys to gurls. Are is for us to brethe,Wat signifies who preeches if i cant brethe?Wats Pol? Wats Pollus? to sinners who are ded?Ded for want of breth? why sextant, when we dieIts only coz we cant brethe no more—that's all.And now, O sextant, let me beg of you2 let a little are into our church.(Pewer are is sertin proper for the pews)And do it weak days and Sundays tew—It aint much trouble—only make a holeAnd the are will come in itself;(It luvs to come in whare it can git warm):And o how it will rouse the people upAnd sperrit up the preacher, and stop garbs,And yawns and figgits as effectooalAs wind on the dry Boans the Profit tells of.
Arabella Willson.
Do not worry if I scurry from the grill room in a hurry,Dropping hastily my curry and retiring into balk;Do not let it cause you wonder if, by some mischance or blunder,We encounter on the Underground and I get out and walk.If I double as a cub'll when you meet him in the stubble,Do not think I am in trouble or attempt to make a fuss;Do not judge me melancholy or attribute it to follyIf I leave the Metropolitan and travel 'n a bus.Do not quiet your anxiety by giving me a diet,Or by base resort tovi et armisfold me to your arms,And let no suspicious tremor violate your wonted phlegm orAny fear that Harold's memory is faithless to your charms.For my passion as I dash on in that disconcerting fashionIs as ardently irrational as when we forged the linkWhen you gave your little hand away to me, my own AmandaAs we sat 'n the veranda till the stars began to wink.And I am in such a famine when your beauty I examineThat it lures me as the jam invites a hungry little brat;But I fancy that, at any rate, I'd rather waste a pennyThen be spitted by the many pins that bristle from your hat.
Unknown.
I've been trying to fashion a wifely ideal,And find that my tastes are so far from conciseThat, to marry completely, no fewer than three'llSufficeI've subjected my views to severe atmosphericCompression, but still, in defiance of force,They distinctly fall under three heads, like a clericDiscourse.Myfirstmust be fashion's own fancy-bred daughter,Proud, peerless, and perfect—in fact,comme il faut;A waltzer and wit of the very first water—Forshow.But these beauties that serve to make all the men jealous,Once face them alone in the family cot,Heaven's angels incarnate (the novelists tell us)They'renot.But so much for appearances. Now for mysecond,My lover, the wife of my home and my heart:Of all fortune and fate of my life to be reckon'dA part.She must know all the needs of a rational being,Be skilled to keep counsel, to comfort, to coax;And, above all things else, be accomplished at seeingMy jokes.I complete the ménage by including the otherWith all the domestic prestige of a hen:As my housekeeper, nurse, or it may be, a motherOf men.Totalthree!and the virtues all well represented;With fewer than this such a thing can't be done;Though I've known married men who declare they're contentedWith one.Would you hunt during harvest, or hay-make in winter?And how can one woman expect to combineCertain qualifications essentially inter-necine?You may say that my prospects are (legally) sunless;I state that I find them as clear as can be:—I will marrynowife, since I can't do with one lessThan three.
Owen Seaman.
The Pope he leads a happy life,He fears not married care nor strife.He drinks the best of Rhenish wine,—I would the Pope's gay lot were mine.But yet all happy's not his life,He has no maid, nor blooming wife;No child has he to raise his hope,—I would not wish to be the Pope.The Sultan better pleases me,His is a life of jollity;He's wives as many as he will,—I would the Sultan's throne then fill.But even he's a wretched man,He must obey the Alcoran;He dare not drink one drop of wine—I would not change his lot for mine.So here I'll take my lowly stand,I'll drink my own, my native land;I'll kiss my maiden fair and fine,And drink the best of Rhenish wine.And when my maiden kisses meI'll think that I the Sultan be;And when my cheery glass I tope,I'll fancy then I am the Pope.
Charles Lever.
I saw a certain sailorman who sat beside the sea,And in the manner of his tribe he yawned this yarn to me:"'Twere back in eighteen-fifty-three, or mebbe fifty-four,I skipped the farm,—no, 't were the shop,—an' went to Baltimore.I shipped aboard theLizzie—or she might ha' bin theJane;Them wimmin names are mixey, so I don't remember plain;But anyhow, she were a craft that carried schooner rig,(Although Sam Swab, the bo'sun, allus swore she were a brig);We sailed away from Salem Town,—no, lemme think;—'t wereLynn,—An' steered a course for Africa (or Greece, it might ha' bin);But anyway, we tacked an' backed an' weathered many a storm—Oh, no,—as I recall it now, that week was fine an' warm!Who did I say the cap'n was? Ididn'tsay at all?Wa-a-ll now, his name were 'Lijah Bell—or was it Eli Ball?I kinder guess 't were Eli. He'd a big, red, bushy beard—No-o-o, come to think, he allus kepthiswhiskers nicely sheared.But anyhow, that voyage was the first I'd ever took,An' all I had to do was cut up cabbage for the cook;But come to talk o' cabbage just reminds me,—that there tripWould prob'ly be mythirdone, on a Hong Kong clipper-ship.The crew they were a jolly lot, an' used to sing 'Avast,'I think it were, or else 'Ahoy,' while bailing out the mast.And as I recollect it now,—"But here I cut him short,And said: "It's time to tack again, and bring your wits to port;I came to get a story both adventurous andtrue,And here is how I started out to write the interview:'I saw acertainsailorman,' but you turn out to beThe mostun-certain sailorman that ever sailed the sea!"He puffed his pipe, and answered, "Wa-a-ll, Ithought'twere mine, but still,I must ha' told the one belongs to my twin brother Bill!"
Frederick Moxon.
I am an ancient Jest!Paleolithic manIn his arboreal nestThe sparks of fun would fan;My outline did he plan,And laughed like one possessed,'Twas thus my course began,I am a Merry Jest.I am an early Jest!Man delved and built and span;Then wandered South and WestThe peoples Aryan,Ijourneyed in their van;The Semites, too, confessed,—From Beersheba to Dan,—I am a Merry Jest.I am an ancient Jest,Through all the human clan,Red, black, white, free, oppressed,Hilarious I ran!I'm found in Lucian,In Poggio, and the rest,I'm dear to Moll and Nan!I am a Merry Jest!
ENVOY:
Prince, you may storm and ban—Joe Millersarea pest,Suppress me if you can!I am a Merry Jest!
Andrew Lang.
These are the things that make me laugh—Life's a preposterous farce, say I!And I've missed of too many jokes by half.The high-heeled antics of colt and calf,The men who think they can act, and try—These are the things that make me laugh.The hard-boiled poses in photograph,The groom still wearing his wedding tie—And I've missed of too many jokes by half!These are the bubbles I gayly quaffWith the rank conceit of the new-born fly—These are the things that make me laugh!For, Heaven help me! I needs must chaff,And people will tickle me till I die—And I've missed of too many jokes by half!So write me down in my epitaphAs one too fond of his health to cry—These are the things that make me laugh,And I've missed of too many jokes by half!
Gelett Burgess.
When you slice a Georgy melon you mus' know what you is atAn' look out how de knife is gwine in.Put one-half on dis side er you—de yuther half on dat,En' den you gits betwixt 'em, en begin!Oh, melons!Honey good ter see;But we'en it comes ter sweetness,De melon make fer me!En den you puts yo' knife up, en you sorter licks de blade,En never stop fer sayin' any grace;But eat ontell you satisfy—roll over in de shade,En sleep ontell de sun shine in yo' face!Oh, melons!Honey good ter see;But we'en it comes ter sweetness,De melon make fer me!
Frank Libby Stanton.
Perchance it was her eyes of blue,Her cheeks that might the rose have shamed,Her figure in proportion trueTo all the rules by artists framed;Perhaps it was her mental worthThat made her lover love her so,Perhaps her name, or wealth, or birth—I cannot tell—I do not know.He may have had a rival, whoDid fiercely gage him to a duel,And, being luckier of the two,Defeated him with triumph cruel;Thenshemay have proved false, and turnedTo welcome to her arms his foe,Lefthimdespairing, conquered, spurned—I cannot tell—I do not know.So oft such woes will counteractThe thousand ecstacies of love,That you may fix on base of factThe story hinted at above;But all on earth so doubtful is,Manknowsso little here below,That, if you ask for proof of this,I cannot tell—I do not know.
Walter Parke.
He stood on his head by the wild seashore,And danced on his hands a jig;In all his emotions, as never before,A wildly hilarious grig.And why? In that ship just crossing the bayHis mother-in-law had sailedFor a tropical country far away,Where tigers and fever prevailed.Oh, now he might hope for a peaceful lifeAnd even be happy yet,Though owning no end of neuralgic wife,And up to his collar in debt.He had borne the old lady through thick and thin,And she lectured him out of breath;And now as he looked at the ship she was inHe howled for her violent death.He watched as the good ship cut the sea,And bumpishly up-and-downed,And thought if already she qualmish might be,He'd consider his happiness crowned.He watched till beneath the horizon's edgeThe ship was passing from view;And he sprang to the top of a rocky ledgeAnd pranced like a kangaroo.He watched till the vessel became a speckThat was lost in the wandering sea;And then, at the risk of breaking his neck,Turned somersaults home to tea.
Walter Parke.
Of all life's plagues I recommend to no manTo hire as a domestic a deaf woman.I've got one who my orders does not hear,Mishears them rather, and keeps blundering near.Thirsty and hot, I asked her for adrink;She bustled out, and brought me back someink.Eating a good rump-steak, I called formustard;Away she went, and whipped me up acustard.I wanted with my chicken to haveham;Blundering once more, she brought a pot ofjam.I wished in season for a cut ofsalmon;And what she brought me was a huge fatgammon.I can't my voice raise higher and still higher,As if I were a herald or town-crier.'T would better be if she were deaf outright;But anyhow she quits my house this night.
Unknown.
Take a robin's leg(Mind, the drumstick merely);Put it in a tubFilled with water nearly;Set it out of doors,In a place that's shady;Let it stand a week(Three days if for a lady);Drop a spoonful of itIn a five-pail kettle,Which may be made of tinOr any baser metal;Fill the kettle up,Set it on a boiling,Strain the liquor well,To prevent its oiling;One atom add of salt,For the thickening one rice kernel,And use to light the fire"The Homœopathic Journal."Let the liquor boilHalf an hour, no longer,(If 'tis for a manOf course you'll make it stronger).Should you now desireThat the soup be flavoury,Stir it once around,With a stalk of savoury.When the broth is made,Nothing can excell it:Then three times a dayLet the patientsmellit.If he chance to die,Say 'twas Nature did it:If he chance to live,Give the soup the credit.
Unknown.
In these days of indigestionIt is oftentimes a questionAs to what to eat and what to leave alone;For each microbe and bacillusHas a different way to kill us,And in time they always claim us for their own.There are germs of every kindIn any food that you can findIn the market or upon the bill of fare.Drinking water's just as riskyAs the so-called deadly whiskey,And it's often a mistake to breathe the air.Some little bug is going to find you some day,Some little bug will creep behind you some day,Then he'll send for his bug friendsAnd all your earthly trouble ends;Some little bug is going to find you some day.The inviting green cucumberGets most everybody's number,While the green corn has a system of its own;Though a radish seems nutritiousIts behaviour is quite vicious,And a doctor will be coming to your home.Eating lobster cooked or plainIs only flirting with ptomaine,While an oyster sometimes has a lot to say,But the clams we eat in chowderMake the angels chant the louder,For they know that we'll be with them right away.Take a slice of nice fried onionAnd you're fit for Dr. Munyon,Apple dumplings kill you quicker than a train.Chew a cheesy midnight "rabbit"And a grave you'll soon inhabit—Ah, to eat at all is such a foolish game.Eating huckleberry pieIs a pleasing way to die,While sauerkraut brings on softening of the brain.When you eat banana frittersEvery undertaker titters,And the casket makers nearly go insane.Some little bug is going to find you some day,Some little bug will creep behind you some day,With a nervous little quiverHe'll give cirrhosis of the liver;Some little bug is going to find you some day.When cold storage vaults I visitI can only say what is itMakes poor mortals fill their systems with such stuff?Now, for breakfast, prunes are dandyIf a stomach pump is handyAnd your doctor can be found quite soon enough.Eat a plate of fine pigs' knucklesAnd the headstone cutter chuckles,While the grave digger makes a note upon his cuff.Eat that lovely red bolognaAnd you'll wear a wooden kimona,As your relatives start scrappin 'bout your stuff.Some little bug is going to find you some day,Some little bug will creep behind you some day,Eating juicy sliced pineappleMakes the sexton dust the chapel;Some little bug is going to find you some day.All those crazy foods they mixWill float us 'cross the River Styx,Or they'll start us climbing up the milky way.And the meals we eat in coursesMean a hearse and two black horsesSo before a meal some people always pray.Luscious grapes breed 'pendicitis,And the juice leads to gastritis,So there's only death to greet us either way;And fried liver's nice, but, mind you,Friends will soon ride slow behind youAnd the papers then will have nice things to say.Some little bug is going to find you some day,Some little bug will creep behind you some dayEat some sauce, they call it chili,On your breast they'll place a lily;Some little bug is going to find you some day.
Roy Atwell.
On the downtown side of an uptown streetIs the home of a girl that I'd like to meet,But I'm on the uptown,And she's on the downtown,On the downtown side of an uptown street.On the uptown side of the crowded old "L,"I see her so often I know her quite well,But I'm on the downtownWhen she's on the uptown,On the uptown side of the crowded old "L."On the uptown side of a downtown streetThis girl is employed that I'd like to meet,But I work on the downtownAnd she on the uptown,The uptown side of a downtown street.On a downtown car of the Broadway lineOften I see her for whom I repine,But when I'm on a uptownShe's on a downtown,On a downtown car of the Broadway line.Oh, to be downtown when I am uptown,Oh, to be uptown when I am downtown,I work at night time,She in the daytime,Never the right time for us to meet,Uptown or downtown, in "L," car or street.
William Johnston.
If, in the month of dark December,Leander, who was nightly wont(What maid will not the tale remember?)To cross thy stream broad Hellespont.If, when the wint'ry tempest roar'd,He sped to Hero nothing loth,And thus of old thy current pour'd,Fair Venus! how I pity both!Forme, degenerate, modern wretch,Though in the genial month of May,My dripping limbs I faintly stretch,And think I've done a feat to-day.But since he crossed the rapid tide,According to the doubtful story,To woo—and—Lord knows what beside,And swam for Love, as I for Glory;'T were hard to say who fared the best:Sad mortals! thus the gods still plague you!He lost his labor, I my jest;For he was drowned, and I've the ague.
Lord Byron.
Oh, the fisherman is a happy wight!He dibbles by day, and he sniggles by night.He trolls for fish, and he trolls his lay—He sniggles by night, and he dibbles by day.Oh, who so merry as he!On the river or the sea!Sniggling,WrigglingEels, and higglingOver the priceOf a niceSliceOf fish, twiceAs much as it ought to be.Oh, the fisherman is a happy man!He dibbles, and sniggles, and fills his can!With a sharpened hook, and a sharper eye,He sniggles and dibbles for what comes by,Oh, who so merry as he!On the river or the sea!DibblingNibblingChub, and quibblingOver the priceOf a niceSliceOf fish, twiceAs much as it ought to be.
F. C. Burnand.
Between Nose and Eyes a strange contest arose,The spectacles set them unhappily wrong;The point in dispute was, as all the world knows,To which the said spectacles ought to belong.So Tongue was the lawyer, and argued the causeWith a great deal of skill, and a wig full of learning;While chief baron Ear sat to balance the laws,So famed for his talent in nicely discerning.In behalf of the Nose it will quickly appear,And your lordship, he said, will undoubtedly find,That the Nose has had spectacles always to wear,Which amounts to possession time out of mind.Then holding the spectacles up to the court—Your lordship observes they are made with a straddleAs wide as the ridge of the Nose is; in short,Designed to sit close to it, just like a saddle.Again, would your lordship a moment suppose('Tis a case that has happened, and may be again)That the visage or countenance had not a nose,Pray who would, or who could, wear spectacles then!On the whole it appears, and my argument showsWith a reasoning the court will never condemn,That the spectacles plainly were made for the Nose,And the Nose was as plainly intended for them.Then shifting his side (as a lawyer knows how),He pleaded again in behalf of the Eyes;But what were his arguments few people know,For the court did not think they were equally wise.So his lordship decreed with a grave solemn tone,Decisive and clear, without oneiforbut—That, whenever the Nose put his spectacles on,By daylight or candlelight—Eyes should be shut!
William Cowper.
A man sat on a rock and soughtRefreshment from his thumb;A dinotherium wandered byAnd scared him some.His name was Smith. The kind of rockHe sat upon was shale.One feature quite distinguished him—He had a tail.The danger past, he fell intoA revery austere;While with his tail he whisked a flyFrom off his ear."Mankind deteriorates," he said,"Grows weak and incomplete;And each new generation seemsYet more effete.
"Nature abhors imperfect work,And on it lays her ban;And all creation must despiseA tailless man."But fashion's dictates rule supreme,Ignoring common sense;And fashion says, to dock your tailIs just immense."And children now come in the worldWith half a tail or less;Too stumpy to convey a thought,And meaningless."It kills expression. How can oneSet forth, in words that drag,The best emotions of the soul,Without a wag?"Sadly he mused upon the world,Its follies and its woes;Then wiped the moisture from his eyes,And blew his nose.But clothed in earrings, Mrs. SmithCame wandering down the dale;And, smiling, Mr. Smith arose,And wagged his tail.
David Law Proudfit.
I
Whene'er with haggard eyes I viewThis dungeon that I'm rotting in,I think of those companions trueWho studied with me at the University of Gottingen,niversity of Gottingen.