I asked of Echo, t'other day(Whose words are often few and funny),What to a novice she could sayOf courtship, love, and matrimony.Quoth Echo plainly,—"Matter-o'-money!"Whom should I marry? Should it beA dashing damsel, gay and pert,A pattern of inconstancy;Or selfish, mercenary flirt?Quoth Echo, sharply,—"Nary flirt!"What if, aweary of the strifeThat long has lured the dear deceiver,She promise to amend her life,And sin no more; can I believe her?Quoth Echo, very promptly,—"Leave her!"But if some maiden with a heartOn me should venture to bestow it,Pray, should I act the wiser partTo take the treasure or forego it?Quoth Echo, with decision,—"Go it!"But what if, seemingly afraidTo bind her fate in Hymen's fetter,She vow she means to die a maid,In answer to my loving letter?Quoth Echo, rather coolly,—"Let her!"What if, in spite of her disdain,I find my heart intwined aboutWith Cupid's dear delicious chainSo closely that I can't get out?Quoth Echo, laughingly,—"Get out!"But if some maid with beauty blest,As pure and fair as Heaven can make her,Will share my labor and my restTill envious Death shall overtake her?Quoth Echo (sotto voce),—"Take her!"
John G. Saxe.
Echo, tell me, while I wanderO'er this fairy plain to prove him,If my shepherd still grows fonder,Ought I in return to love him?Echo: Love him, love him!If he loves, as is the fashion,Should I churlishly forsake him?Or in pity to his passion,Fondly to my bosom take him?Echo: Take him, take him!Thy advice then, I'll adhere to,Since in Cupid's chains I've led him;And with Henry shall not fear toMarry, if you answer, "Wed him!"Echo: Wed him, wed him!
Joseph Addison.
Shepherd.Echo, I ween, will in the woods reply,And quaintly answer questions: shall I try?Echo.Try.Shepherd.What must we do our passion to express?Echo.Press.Shepherd.How shall I please her, who ne'er loved before?Echo.Before.Shepherd.What most moves women when we them address?Echo.A dress.Shepherd.Say, what can keep her chaste whom I adore?Echo.A door.Shepherd.If music softens rocks, love tunes my lyre.Echo.Liar.Shepherd.Then teach me, Echo, how shall I come by her?Echo.Buy her.Shepherd.When bought, no question I shall be her dear?Echo.Her deer.Shepherd.But deer have horns: how must I keep her under?Echo.Keep her under.Shepherd.But what can glad me when she's laid on bier?Echo.Beer.Shepherd.What must I do so women will be kind?Echo.Be kind.Shepherd.What must I do when women will be cross?Echo.Be cross.Shepherd.Lord, what is she that can so turn and wind?Echo.Wind.Shepherd.If she be wind, what stills her when she blows?Echo.Blows.Shepherd.But if she bang again, still should I bang her?Echo.Bang her.Shepherd.Is there no way to moderate her anger?Echo.Hang her.Shepherd.Thanks, gentle Echo! right thy answers tellWhat woman is and how to guard her well.Echo.Guard her well.
Dean Swift.
Oh, the Roman was a rogue,He erat was, you bettum;He ran his automobilusAnd smoked his cigarettum.He wore a diamond studibusAnd elegant cravattum,A maxima cum laude shirtAnd such a stylish hattum!He loved the luscious hic-haec-hoc,And bet on games and equi;At times he won at others though,He got it in the nequi;He winked, (quo usque tandem?) atPuellas on the Forum,And sometimes, too, he even madeThose goo-goo oculorum!He frequently was seenAt combats gladiatorialAnd ate enough to feedTen boarders at Memorial;He often went on spreesAnd said, on starting homus,"Hic labour—opus est,Oh, where's my hic—hic—domus?"Although he lived in Rome,—Of all the arts the middle—He was, (excuse the phrase,)A horrid individ'l;Ah, what a different thingWas the homo (dative, hominy)Of far away B. C.From us of Anno Domini.
Thomas R. Ybarra.
My passion is as mustard strong;I sit all sober sad;Drunk as a piper all day long,Or like a March-hare mad.Round as a hoop the bumpers flow;I drink, yet can't forget her;For though as drunk as David's sowI love her still the better.Pert as a pear-monger I'd be,If Molly were but kind;Cool as a cucumber could seeThe rest of womankind.Like a stuck pig I gaping stare,And eye her o'er and o'er;Lean as a rake, with sighs and care,Sleek as a mouse before.Plump as a partridge was I known,And soft as silk my skin;My cheeks as fat as butter grown,But as a goat now thin!I melancholy as a cat,Am kept awake to weep;But she, insensible of that,Sound as a top can sleep.Hard is her heart as flint or stone,She laughs to see me pale;And merry as a grig is grown,And brisk as bottled ale.The god of Love at her approachIs busy as a bee;Hearts sound as any bell or roach,Are smit and sigh like me.Ah me! as thick as hops or hailThe fine men crowd about her;But soon as dead as a door-nailShall I be, if without her.Straight as my leg her shape appears,O were we join'd together!My heart would be scot-free from cares,And lighter than a feather.As fine as five-pence is her mien,No drum was ever tighter;Her glance is as the razor keen,And not the sun is brighter.As soft as pap her kisses are,Methinks I taste them yet;Brown as a berry is her hair,Her eyes as black as jet.As smooth as glass, as white as curdsHer pretty hand invites;Sharp as her needle are her words,Her wit like pepper bites.Brisk as a body-louse she trips,Clean as a penny drest;Sweet as a rose her breath and lips,Round as the globe her breast.Full as an egg was I with glee,And happy as a king:Good Lord! how all men envied me!She loved like any thing.But false as hell, she, like the wind,Chang'd, as her sex must do;Though seeming as the turtle kind,And like the gospel true.If I and Molly could agree,Let who would take Peru!Great as an Emperor should I be,And richer than a Jew.Till you grow tender as a chick,I'm dull as any post;Let us like burs together stick,And warm as any toast.You'll know me truer than a die,And wish me better sped;Flat as a flounder when I lie,And as a herring dead.Sure as a gun she'll drop a tearAnd sigh, perhaps, and wish,When I am rotten as a pear,And mute as any fish.
John Gay.
To Lake AghmoogenegamookAll in the State of Maine,A man from Wittequergaugaum cameOne evening in the rain."I am a traveller," said he,"Just started on a tour,And go to NomjamskillicookTo-morrow morn at four."He took a tavern-bed that night,And, with the morrow's sun,By way of Sekledobskus went,With carpet-bag and gun.A week passed on, and next we findOur native tourist comeTo that sequestered village calledGenasagarnagum.From thence he went to Absequoit,And there—quite tired of Maine—He sought the mountains of Vermont,Upon a railroad train.Dog Hollow, in the Green Mount State,Was his first stopping-place;And then Skunk's Misery displayedIts sweetness and its grace.By easy stages then he wentTo visit Devil's Den;And Scrabble Hollow, by the way,Did come within his ken.ThenviaNine Holes and Goose GreenHe travelled through the State;And to Virginia, finally,Was guided by his fate.Within the Old Dominion's bounds,He wandered up and down;To-day at Buzzard's Roost ensconced,To-morrow, at Hell Town.At Pole Cat, too, he spent a week,Till friends from Bull Ring came;And made him spend a day with themIn hunting forest-game.Then, with his carpet-bag in hand,To Dog Town next he went;Though stopping at Free Negro Town,Where half a day he spent.From thence, into NegationburgHis route of travel lay;Which having gained, he left the State,And took a southward way.North Carolina's friendly soilHe trod at fall of night,And, on a bed of softest down,He slept at Hell's Delight.Morn found him on the road again,To Lousy Level bound;At Bull's Tail, and Lick Lizard, too,Good provender he found.The country all about Pinch GutSo beautiful did seemThat the beholder thought it likeA picture in a dream.But the plantations near Burnt CoatWere even finer still,And made the wondering tourist feelA soft, delicious thrill.At Tear Shirt, too, the sceneryMost charming did appear,With Snatch It in the distance far,And Purgatory near.But, spite of all these pleasant scenes,The tourist stoutly sworeThat home is brightest, after all,And travel is a bore.So back he went to Maine, straightway;A little wife he took;And now is making nutmegs atMoosehicmagunticook.
Robert H. Newell.
A xylographer started to cross the seaBy means of a Xanthic Xebec;But, alas! he sighed for the Zuyder Zee,And feared he was in for a wreck.He tried to smile, but all in vain,Because of a Zygomatic pain;And as for singing, his cheeriest toneReminded him of a Xylophone—Or else, when the pain would sharper grow,His notes were as keen as a Zuffolo.And so it is likely he did not findOn board Xenodochy to his mind.The fare was poor, and he was sureXerofphagy he could not endure;Zoöphagous surely he was, I aver,This dainty and starving Xylographer.Xylophagous truly he could not be—No sickly vegetarian he!He'd have blubbered like any old ZeuglodonHad Xerophthalmia not come on.And the end of it was he never againIn a Xanthic Xebec went sailing the main.
Mary Mapes Dodge.
Zig-zagging it wentOn the line of the farm,And the trouble it causedWas often quite warm,The old line fence.It was changed every yearBy decree of the court,To which, when worn out,Our sires would resortWith the old line fence.In hoeing their corn,When the sun, too, was hot,They surely would jaw,Punch or claw, when they gotTo the old line fence.In dividing the landsIt fulfilled no desires,But answered quite wellIn "dividing" our sires,This old line fence.Though sometimes in thisIt would happen to fail,When, with top rail in hand,One would flare up and scaleThe old line fence!Then the conflict was sharpOn debatable ground,And the fertile soil thereWould be mussed far aroundThe old line fence.It was shifted so oftThat no flowers there grew.What frownings and clods,And what words were shot throughThe old line fence!Our sires through the dayThere would quarrel or fight,With a vigour and vim,But 'twas different at nightBy the old line fence.The fairest maid thereYou would have descriedThat ever leaned softOn the opposite sideOf an old line fence.Where our fathers built hateThere we builded our love,Breathed our vows to be trueWith our hands raised aboveThe old line fence.Its place might be changed,But there we would meet,With our heads through the rails,And with kisses most sweet,At the old line fence.It was love made the change,And the clasping of handsEnding ages of hate,And between us now standsNot a sign of line fence.No debatable groundNow enkindles alarms.I've the girl I met there,And, well, both of the farms,And no line fence.
A. W. Bellow.
I'm taught p-l-o-u-g-hS'all be pronouncé "plow.""Zat's easy w'en you know," I say,"Mon Anglais, I'll get through!"My teacher say zat in zat case,O-u-g-h is "oo."And zen I laugh and say to him,"Zees Anglais make me cough."He say "Not 'coo,' but in zat word,O-u-g-h is 'off,'"Oh, Sacre bleu! such varied soundsOf words makes me hiccough!He say, "Again mon frien' ees wrong;O-u-g-h is 'up'In hiccough." Zen I cry, "No more,You make my t'roat feel rough.""Non, non!" he cry, "you are not right;O-u-g-h is 'uff.'"I say, "I try to spik your words,I cannot spik zem though!""In time you'll learn, but now you're wrong!O-u-g-h is 'owe.'""I'll try no more, I s'all go mad,I'll drown me in ze lough!""But ere you drown yourself," said he,"O-u-g-h is 'ock.'"He taught no more, I held him fast,And killed him wiz a rough.
Charles Battell Loomis.
'Twas whispered in heaven, 'twas muttered in hell,And echo caught faintly the sound as it fell;On the confines of earth 'twas permitted to rest,And the depths of the ocean its presence confessed;'Twill be found in the sphere when 'tis riven asunder,Be seen in the lightning, and heard in the thunder.'Twas allotted to man with his earliest breath,It assists at his birth and attends him in death,Presides o'er his happiness, honor, and health,Is the prop of his house and the end of his wealth,In the heaps of the miser is hoarded with care,But is sure to be lost in his prodigal heir.It begins every hope, every wish it must bound,It prays with the hermit, with monarchs is crowned;Without it the soldier, the sailor, may roam,But woe to the wretch who expels it from home.In the whisper of conscience 'tis sure to be found,Nor e'en in the whirlwind of passion is drowned;'Twill soften the heart, but, though deaf to the ear,It will make it acutely and instantly hear;But, in short, let it rest like a delicate flower;Oh, breathe on it softly, it dies in an hour.
Catherine Fanshawe.
I dwells in the Hearth, and I breathes in the Hair;If you searches the Hocean, you'll find that I'm there.The first of all Hangels in Holympus am Hi,Yet I'm banished from 'Eaven, expelled from on 'igh.But, though on this Horb I'm destined to grovel,I'm ne'er seen in an 'Ouse, in an 'Ut, nor an 'Ovel.Not an 'Orse, not an 'Unter e'er bears me, alas!But often I'm found on the top of a Hass.I resides in a Hattic, and loves not to roam,And yet I'm invariably absent from 'Ome.Though 'Ushed in the 'Urricane, of the Hatmosphere part,I enters no 'Ed, I creeps into no 'Art.Only look, and you'll see in the Heye Hi appear;Only 'Ark, and you'll 'Ear me just breathe in the Hear.Though in sex not an 'E, I am (strange paradox)Not a bit of an 'Effer, but partly a Hox.Of Heternity I'm the beginning! and, mark,Though I goes not with Noar, I'm first in the Hark.I'm never in 'Ealth; have with Fysic no power,I dies in a month, but comes back in a Hour.
Horace Mayhew.
Good people all, of every sort,Give ear unto my song;And if you find it wondrous short,—It cannot hold you long.In Islington there was a man,Of whom the world might sayThat still a godly race he ran,—Whene'er he went to pray.A kind and gentle heart he had,To comfort friends and foes;The naked every day he clad,—When he put on his clothes.And in that town a dog was found,As many dogs there be,Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound,And curs of low degree.The dog and man at first were friends;But when a pique began,The dog, to gain some private ends,Went mad, and bit the man.Around from all the neighboring streets,The wondering neighbors ran,And swore the dog had lost his witsTo bite so good a man.The wound it seemed both sore and sadTo every Christian eye;And while they swore the dog was madThey swore the man would die.But soon a wonder came to light,That showed the rogues they lied;The man recovered of the bite,The dog it was that died.
Oliver Goldsmith.
Interred beneath this marble stoneLie sauntering Jack and idle Joan.While rolling threescore years and oneDid round this globe their courses run.If human things went ill or well,If changing empires rose or fell,The morning past, the evening came,And found this couple just the same.They walked and ate, good folks. What then?Why, then they walked and ate again;They soundly slept the night away;They did just nothing all the day,Nor sister either had, nor brother;They seemed just tallied for each other.Their moral and economyMost perfectly they made agree;Each virtue kept its proper bound,Nor trespassed on the other's ground.Nor fame nor censure they regarded;They neither punished nor rewarded.He cared not what the footman did;Her maids she neither praised nor chid;So every servant took his course,And, bad at first, they all grew worse;Slothful disorder filled his stable,And sluttish plenty decked her table.Their beer was strong, their wine was port;Their meal was large, their grace was short.They gave the poor the remnant meat,Just when it grew not fit to eat.They paid the church and parish rate,And took, but read not, the receipt;For which they claimed their Sunday's dueOf slumbering in an upper pew.No man's defects sought they to know,So never made themselves a foe.No man's good deeds did they commend,So never raised themselves a friend.Nor cherished they relations poor,That might decrease their present store;Nor barn nor house did they repair,That might oblige their future heir.They neither added nor confounded;They neither wanted nor abounded.Nor tear nor smile did they employAt news of grief or public joyWhen bells were rung and bonfires made,If asked, they ne'er denied their aid;Their jug was to the ringers carried,Whoever either died or married.Their billet at the fire was found,Whoever was deposed or crowned.Nor good, nor bad, nor fools, nor wise;They would not learn, nor could advise;Without love, hatred, joy, or fear,They led—a kind of—as it were;Nor wished, nor cared, nor laughed, nor cried.And so they lived, and so they died.
Matthew Prior.
Old Grimes is dead; that good old manWe never shall see more:He used to wear a long, black coat,All button'd down before.His heart was open as the day,His feelings all were true;His hair was some inclined to gray—He wore it in a queue.Whene'er he heard the voice of pain,His breast with pity burn'd;The large, round head upon his caneFrom ivory was turn'd.Kind words he ever had for all;He knew no base design:His eyes were dark and rather small,His nose was aquiline.He lived at peace with all mankind,In friendship he was true:His coat had pocket-holes behind,His pantaloons were blue.Unharm'd, the sin which earth pollutesHe pass'd securely o'er,And never wore a pair of bootsFor thirty years or more.But good old Grimes is now at rest,Nor fears misfortune's frown:He wore a double-breasted vest—The stripes ran up and down.He modest merit sought to find,Any pay it its desert:He had no malice in his mind,No ruffles on his shirt.His neighbors he did not abuse—Was sociable and gay:He wore large buckles on his shoes,And changed them every day.His knowledge, hid from public gaze,He did not bring to view,Nor made a noise, town-meeting days,As many people do.His worldly goods he never threwIn trust to fortune's chances,But lived (as all his brothers do)In easy circumstances.Thus undisturb'd by anxious cares,His peaceful moments ran;And everybody said he wasA fine old gentleman.
Albert Gorton Greene.
Oh, I used to sing a song,An' dey said it was too long,So I cut it off de en'To accommodate a frien'Nex' do', nex' do'—To accommodate a frien' nex' do'.But it made de matter wussDan it had been at de fus,'Ca'ze de en' was gone, an' denCo'se it didn't have no en'Any mo', any mo'—Oh, it didn't have no en' any mo'!So, to save my frien' from sinnin',I cut off de song's beginnin';Still he cusses right alongWhilst I singsaboutmy songJes so, jes so—Whilst I singsaboutmy songjes so.How to please 'im is my riddle,So I'll fall back on my fiddle;For I'd stan' myself on en'To accommodate a frien'Nex' do', nex' do'—To accommodate a frien' nex' do'.
Ruth McEnery Stuart.
First there's the Bible,And then the Koran,Odgers on Libel,Pope's Essay on Man,Confessions of Rousseau,The Essays of Lamb,Robinson CrusoeAnd Omar Khayyam,Volumes of ShelleyAnd Venerable Bede,MachiavelliAnd Captain Mayne Reid,Fox upon MartyrsAnd Liddell and Scott,Stubbs on the Charters,The works of La Motte,The Seasons by Thomson,And Paul de Verlaine,Theodore MommsenAnd Clemens (Mark Twain),The Rocks of Hugh Miller,The Mill on the Floss,The Poems of Schiller,The Iliados,Don Quixote (Cervantes),La Pucelle by Voltaire,Inferno (that's Dante's),And Vanity Fair,Conybeare-Howson,Brillat-Savarin,And Baron Munchausen,Mademoiselle De Maupin,The Dramas of Marlowe,The Three Musketeers,Clarissa Harlowe,And the Pioneers,Sterne's Tristram Shandy,The Ring and the Book,And Handy Andy,And Captain Cook,The Plato of Jowett,And Mill's Pol. Econ.,The Haunts of Howitt,The Encheiridion,Lothair by Disraeli,And Boccaccio,The Student's Paley,And Westward Ho!The Pharmacopœia,Macaulay's Lays,Of course The Medea,And Sheridan's Plays,The Odes of Horace,And Verdant Green,The Poems of Morris,The Faery Queen,The Stones of Venice,Natural History (White's),And then Pendennis,The Arabian Nights,Cicero's Orations,Plain Tales from the Hills,The Wealth of Nations,And Byles on Bills,As in a Glass Darkly,Demosthenes' Crown,The Treatise of Berkeley,Tom Hughes's Tom Brown,The Mahabharata,The Humour of Hook,The Kreutzer Sonata,And Lalla Rookh,Great Battles by Creasy,And Hudibras,And Midshipman Easy,And Rasselas,Shakespearein extensoAnd the Æneid,And Euclid (Colenso),The Woman who Did,Poe's Tales of Mystery,Then Rabelais,Guizot's French History,And Men of the Day,Rienzi, by Lytton,The Poems of Burns,The Story of Britain,The Journey (that's Sterne's),The House of Seven Gables,Carroll's Looking-glass,Æsop his Fables,And Leaves of Grass,Departmental Ditties,The Woman in White,The Tale of Two Cities,Ships that Pass in the Night,Meredith's Feverel,Gibbon's Decline,Walter Scott's Peveril,And—some verses of mine.
Mostyn T. Pigott.
Upon a rock, yet uncreate,Amid a chaos inchoate,An uncreated being sate;Beneath him, rock,Above him, cloud.And the cloud was rock,And the rock was cloud.The rock then growing soft and warm,The cloud began to take a form,A form chaotic, vast and vague,Which issued in the cosmic egg.Then the Being uncreateOn the egg did incubate,And thus became the incubator;And of the egg did allegate,And thus became the alligator;And the incubator was potentate,But the alligator was potentator.
Unknown.
Brisk methinks I am, and fineWhen I drink my cap'ring wine;Then to love I do incline,When I drink my wanton wine;And I wish all maidens mine,When I drink my sprightly wine;Well I sup and well I dine,When I drink my frolic wine;But I languish, lower, and pine,When I want my fragrant wine.
Robert Herrick.
Händel, Bendel, Mendelssohn,Brendel, Wendel, Jadassohn,Müller, Hiller, Heller, Franz,Plothow, Flotow, Burto, Ganz.Meyer, Geyer, Meyerbeer,Heyer, Weyer, Beyer, Beer,Lichner, Lachner, Schachner, Dietz,Hill, Will, Brüll, Grill, Drill, Reiss, Rietz.Hansen, Jansen, Jensen, Kiehl,Siade, Gade, Laade, Stiehl,Naumann, Riemann, Diener, Wurst,Niemann, Kiemann, Diener, Furst.Kochler, Dochler, Rubinstein,Himmel, Hummel, Rosenhain,Lauer, Bauer, Kleinecke,Homberg, Plomberg, Reinecke.
E. Lemke.
My Madeline! my Madeline!Mark my melodious midnight moans;Much may my melting music mean,My modulated monotones.My mandolin's mild minstrelsy,My mental music magazine,My mouth, my mind, my memory,Must mingling murmur "Madeline!"Muster 'mid midnight masquerades,Mark Moorish maidens, matrons' mien;'Mongst Murcia's most majestic maids,Match me my matchless Madeline.Mankind's malevolence may makeMuch melancholy musing mine;Many my motives may mistake,My modest merits much malign.My Madeline's most mirthful moodMuch mollifies my mind's machine,My mournfulness's magnitudeMelts—make me merry, Madeline!Match-making mas may machinate,Manœuvring misses me mis-ween;Mere money may make many mate,My magic motto's "Madeline!"Melt, most mellifluous melody,'Midst Murcia's misty mounts marine;Meet me 'mid moonlight; marry me,Madonna mia! my Madeline!
Walter Parke.
Sudden swallows swiftly skimming,Sunset's slowly spreading shade,Silvery songsters sweetly singing,Summer's soothing serenade.Susan Simpson strolled sedately,Stifling sobs, suppressing sighs.Seeing Stephen Slocum, statelyShe stopped, showing some surprise."Say," said Stephen, "sweetest sigher;Say, shall Stephen spouseless stay?"Susan, seeming somewhat shyer,Showed submissiveness straightway.Summer's season slowly stretches,Susan Simpson Slocum she—So she signed some simple sketches—Soul sought soul successfully.
Six Septembers Susan swelters;Six sharp seasons snow supplies;Susan's satin sofa sheltersSix small Slocums side by side.
Unknown.
The Emperor Nap he would set offOn a summer excursion to Moscow;The fields were green and the sky was blue,Morbleu! Parbleu!What a splendid excursion to Moscow!Four hundred thousand men and moreMust go with him to Moscow:There were Marshals by the dozen,And Dukes by the score;Princes a few, and Kings one or two;While the fields are so green, and the sky so blue,Morbleu! Parbleu!What a pleasant excursion to Moscow!There was Junot and Augereau,Heigh-ho for Moscow!Dombrowsky and Poniatowsky,Marshall Ney, lack-a-day!General Rapp, and the Emperor Nap;Nothing would do,While the fields were so green, and the sky so blue,Morbleu! Parbleu!Nothing would doFor the whole of his crew,But they must be marching to Moscow.The Emperor Nap he talk'd so bigThat he frighten'd Mr. Roscoe.John Bull, he cries, if you'll be wise,Ask the Emperor Nap if he will pleaseTo grant you peace upon your knees,Because he is going to Moscow!He'll make all the Poles come out of their holes,And beat the Russians, and eat the Prussians;For the fields are green, and the sky is blue,Morbleu! Parbleu!And he'll certainly march to Moscow!And Counsellor Brougham was all in a fumeAt the thought of the march to Moscow:The Russians, he said, they were undone,And the great Fee-Faw-FumWould presently come,With a hop, step, and jump, unto London,For, as for his conquering Russia,However some persons might scoff it,Do it he could, do it he would,And from doing it nothing would come but good,And nothing could call him off it.Mr. Jeffrey said so, who must certainly know,For he was the Edinburgh Prophet.They all of them knew Mr. Jeffrey's Review,Which with Holy Writ ought to be reckon'd:It was, through thick and thin, to its party true,Its back was buff, and its sides were blue,Morbleu! Parbleu!It served them for law and for gospel too.But the Russians stoutly they turned toUpon the road to Moscow.Nap had to fight his way all through;They could fight, though they could not parlez-vous;But the fields were green, and the sky was blue,Morbleu! Parbleu!And so he got to Moscow.He found the place too warm for him,For they set fire to Moscow.To get there had cost him much ado,And then no better course he knewWhile the fields were green, and the sky was blue,Morbleu! Parbleu!But to march back again from Moscow.The Russians they stuck close to himAll on the road from Moscow.There was Tormazow and Jemalow,And all the others that end in ow;Milarodovitch and Jaladovitch,And Karatschkowitch,And all the others that end in itch;Schamscheff, Souchosaneff,And Schepaleff,And all the others that end in eff:Wasiltschikoff, Kotsomaroff,And Tchoglokoff,And all the others that end in off;Rajeffsky, and Novereffsky,And Rieffsky,And all the others that end in effsky;Oscharoffsky and Rostoffsky,And all the others that end in offsky;And Platoff he play'd them off,And Shouvaloff he shovell'd them off,And Markoff he mark'd them off,And Krosnoff he cross'd them off,And Touchkoff he touch'd them off,And Boroskoff he bored them off,And Kutousoff he cut them off,And Parenzoff he pared them off,And Worronzoff he worried them off,And Doctoroff he doctor'd them off,And Rodinoff he flogg'd them off.And, last of all, an Admiral came,A terrible man with a terrible name,A name which you all know by sight very well,But which no one can speak, and no one can spell.They stuck close to Nap with all their might;They were on the left and on the rightBehind and before, and by day and by night;He would rather parlez-vous than fight;But he look'd white, and he look'd blue.Morbleu! Parbleu!When parlez-vous no more would do.For they remember'd Moscow.And then came on the frost and snowAll on the road from Moscow.The wind and the weather he found, in that hour,Cared nothing for him, nor for all his power;For him who, while Europe crouch'd under his rod,Put his trust in his Fortune, and not in his God.Worse and worse every day the elements grew,The fields were so white and the sky was so blue,Sacrebleu! Ventrebleu!What a horrible journey from Moscow!What then thought the Emperor NapUpon the road from Moscow?Why, I ween he thought it small delightTo fight all day, and to freeze all night;And he was besides in a very great fright,For a whole skin he liked to be in;And so not knowing what else to do,When the fields were so white, and the sky so blue,Morbleu! Parbleu!He stole away,—I tell you true,—Upon the road from Moscow.'Tis myself, quoth he, I must mind most;So the devil may take the hindmost.Too cold upon the road was he;Too hot had he been at Moscow;But colder and hotter he may be,For the grave is colder than Moscovy;And a place there is to be kept in view,Where the fire is red, and the brimstone blue,Morbleu! Parbleu!Which he must go to,If the Pope say true,If he does not in time look about him;Where his namesake almostHe may have for his Host;He has reckon'd too long without him;If that Host get him in Purgatory,He won't leave him there alone with his glory;But there he must stay for a very long day,For from thence there is no stealing away,As there was on the road from Moscow.
Robert Southey.
Ah, those hours when by-gone sagesLed our thoughts through Learning's ways,When the wit of sunnier ages,Called once more to Earth the daysWhen rang through Athens' vine-hung lanesThy wild, wild laugh, Aristophanes!Pensive through the land of Lotus,Sauntered we by Nilus' side;Garrulous old HerodotusStill our mentor, still our guide,Prating of the mystic blissOf Isis and of Osiris.All the learn'd ones trooped before us,All the wise of Hellas' land,Down from mythic Pythagoras,To the hemlock drinker grand.Dark the hour that closed the gatesOf gloomy Dis on thee, Socrates.Ah, those hours of tend'rest study,When Electra's poet toldOf Love's cheek once warm and ruddy,Pale with grief, with death chill cold!Sobbing low like summer tidesFlow thy verses, Euripides!High our hearts beat when CiceroShook the Capitolian dome;How we shuddered, watching Nero'Mid the glare of blazing Rome!How those records still affright usOn thy gloomy page, Tacitus!Back to youth I seem to glide, asI recall those by-gone scenes,When we conned o'er Thucydides,Or recited Demosthenes.
L'ENVOI
Ancient sages, pardon theseSomewhat doubtful quantities.
H. I. DeBurgh.
Here lieth one, who did most truly proveThat he could never die while he could move;So hung his destiny never to rotWhile he might still jog on and keep his trot;Made of sphere metal, never to decayUntil his revolution was at stay.Time numbers motion, yet (without a crime'Gainst old truth) motion number'd out his timeAnd like an engine moved with wheel and weight,His principles being ceased, he ended straight.Rest, that gives all men life, gave him his death,And too much breathing put him out of breath;Nor were it contradiction to affirm,Too long vacation hasten'd on his term.Merely to drive the time away he sicken'd,Fainted, and died, nor would with ale be quicken'd;"Nay," quoth he, on his swooning bed outstretch'd,"If I mayn't carry, sure I'll ne'er be fetch'd,But vow, though the cross doctors all stood hearers,For one carrier put down to make six bearers."Ease was his chief disease; and to judge right,He died for heaviness that his cart went light:His leisure told him that his time was come.And lack of load made his life burdensome.That even to his last breath (there be that say't),As he were press'd to death, he cried, "More weight;"But, had his doings lasted as they were,He had been an immortal carrier.Obedient to the moon he spent his dateIn course reciprocal, and had his fateLink'd to the mutual flowing of the seas,Yet (strange to think) his wane was his increase:His letters are deliver'd all, and gone,Only remains the superscription.
John Milton.
O for a lodge in a garden of cucumbers!O for an iceberg or two at control!O for a vale which at mid-day the dew cumbers!O for a pleasure-trip up to the pole!O for a little one-story thermometer,With nothing but zeroes all ranged in a row!O for a big double-barreled hygrometer,To measure this moisture that rolls from my brow!O that this cold world were twenty times colder!(That's irony red-hot it seemeth to me);O for a turn of its dreaded cold shoulder!O what a comfort an ague would be!O for a grotto frost-lined and rill-riven,Scooped in the rock under cataract vast!O for a winter of discontent even!O for wet blankets judiciously cast!O for a soda-fount spouting up boldlyFrom every hot lamp-post against the hot sky!O for proud maiden to look on me coldly,Freezing my soul with a glance of her eye!Then O for a draught from a cup of cold pizen,And O for a resting-place in the cold grave!With a bath in the Styx where the thick shadow lies onAnd deepens the chill of its dark-running wave.
Rossiter Johnson.
Easy is the triolet,If you really learn to make it!Once a neat refrain you get,Easy is the triolet.As you see!—I pay my debtWith another rhyme. Deuce take it,Easy is the triolet,If you really learn to make it!
William Ernest Henley.
You bid me try, Blue-eyes, to writeA Rondeau. What! forthwith?—to-night?Reflect? Some skill I have, 'tis true;But thirteen lines!—and rhymed on two!—"Refrain," as well. Ah, hapless plight!Still there are five lines—ranged aright.These Gallic bonds, I feared, would frightMy easy Muse. They did, till you—You bid me try!That makes them eight.—The port's in sight;'Tis all because your eyes are bright!Now just a pair to end in "oo,"—When maids command, what can't we do?Behold! The Rondeau—tasteful, light—You bid me try!
Austin Dobson.
1. Why all this toil for triumphs of an hour?2. Life's a short summer, man a flower.3. By turns we catch the vital breath and die—4. The cradle and the tomb, alas! so nigh.5. To be, is better far than not to be.6. Though all man's life may seem a tragedy;7. But light cares speak when mighty griefs are dumb,8. The bottom is but shallow whence they come.9. Your fate is but the common lot of all:10. Unmingled joys here to no man befall,11. Nature to each allots his proper sphere;12. Fortune makes folly her peculiar care;13. Custom does often reason overrule,14. And throw a cruel sunshine on a fool.15. Live well; how long or short, permit to Heaven;16. They who forgive most, shall be most forgiven.17. Sin may be clasped so close we cannot see its face—18. Vile intercourse where virtue has no place.19. Then keep each passion down, however dear;20. Thou pendulum betwixt a smile and tear.21. Her sensual snares, let faithless pleasure lay,22. With craft and skill, to ruin and betray;23. Soar not too high to fall, but stoop to rise.24. We masters grow of all that we despise.25. Oh, then, renounce that impious self-esteem;26. Riches have wings, and grandeur is a dream.27. Think not ambition wise because 'tis brave,28. The paths of glory lead but to the grave.29. What is ambition?—'tis a glorious cheat!—30. Only destructive to the brave and great.31. What's all the gaudy glitter of a crown?32. The way to bliss lies not on beds of down.33. How long we live, not years but actions tell;34. That man lives twice who lives the first life well.35. Make, then, while yet ye may, your God your friend,36. Whom Christians worship yet not comprehend.37. The trust that's given guard, and to yourself be just;38. For, live we how we can, yet die we must.
Unknown.
[1]1. Young; 2. Dr. Johnson; 3. Pope; 4. Prior; 5. Sewell; 6. Spenser; 7. Daniell; 8. Sir Walter Raleigh; 9. Longfellow; 10. Southwell; 11. Congreve; 12. Churchill; 13. Rochester; 14. Armstrong; 15. Milton; 16. Bailey; 17. Trench; 18. Somerville; 19. Thomson; 20. Byron; 21. Smollett; 22. Crabbe; 23. Massinger; 24. Cowley; 25. Beattie; 26. Cowper; 27. Sir Walter Davenant; 28. Gray; 29. Willis; 30. Addison; 31. Dryden; 32. Francis Quarles; 33. Watkins; 34. Herrick; 35. William Mason; 36. Hill; 37. Dana; 38. Shakespeare.
[1]1. Young; 2. Dr. Johnson; 3. Pope; 4. Prior; 5. Sewell; 6. Spenser; 7. Daniell; 8. Sir Walter Raleigh; 9. Longfellow; 10. Southwell; 11. Congreve; 12. Churchill; 13. Rochester; 14. Armstrong; 15. Milton; 16. Bailey; 17. Trench; 18. Somerville; 19. Thomson; 20. Byron; 21. Smollett; 22. Crabbe; 23. Massinger; 24. Cowley; 25. Beattie; 26. Cowper; 27. Sir Walter Davenant; 28. Gray; 29. Willis; 30. Addison; 31. Dryden; 32. Francis Quarles; 33. Watkins; 34. Herrick; 35. William Mason; 36. Hill; 37. Dana; 38. Shakespeare.