The gallows in my garden, people say,Is new and neat and adequately tall.I tie the noose on in a knowing wayAs one that knots his necktie for a ball;But just as all the neighbours—on the wall—Are drawing a long breath to shout "Hurray!"The strangest whim has seized me.... After allI think I will not hang myself to-day.To-morrow is the time I get my pay—My uncle's sword is hanging in the hall—I see a little cloud all pink and grey—Perhaps the rector's mother willnotcall—I fancy that I heard from Mr. GallThat mushrooms could be cooked another way—I never read the works of Juvenal—I think I will not hang myself to-day.The world will have another washing day;The decadents decay; the pedants pall;And H. G. Wells has found that children play,And Bernard Shaw discovered that they squall;Rationalists are growing rational—And through thick woods one finds a stream astray,So secret that the very sky seems small—I think I will not hang myself to-day.
ENVOI
Prince, I can hear the trump of Germinal,The tumbrils toiling up the terrible way;Even to-day your royal head may fall—I think I will not hang myself to-day.
G. K. Chesterton.
Superintendent wuz Flannigan;Boss av the siction wuz Finnigin;Whiniver the kyars got offen the thrack,An' muddled up things t' th' divil an' back,Finnigin writ it to Flannigan,Afther the wrick wuz all on ag'in;That is, this FinniginRepoorted to Flannigan.Whin Finnigin furst writ to Flannigan,He writed tin pages—did Finnigin,An' he tould jist how the smash occurred;Full minny a tajus, blunderin' wurrdDid Finnigin write to FlanniganAfther the cars had gone on ag'in.That wuz how FinniginRepoorted to Flannigan.Now Flannigan knowed more than Finnigin—He'd more idjucation, had Flannigan;An' it wore'm clane an' completely outTo tell what Finnigin writ aboutIn his writin' to Muster Flannigan.So he writed back to Finnigin:"Don't do sich a sin ag'in;Make 'em brief, Finnigin!"Whin Finnigin got this from Flannigan,He blushed rosy rid, did Finnigin;An' he said: "I'll gamble a whole month's pa-ayThat it will be minny an' minny a da-ayBefoore Sup'rintindint—that's Flannigan—Gits a whack at this very same sin ag'in.From Finnigin to FlanniganRepoorts won't be long ag'in."
Wan da-ay, on the siction av Finnigin,On the road sup'rintinded by Flannigan,A rail give way on a bit av a curve,An' some kyars went off as they made the swerve."There's nobody hurted," sez Finnigin,"But repoorts must be made to Flannigan."An' he winked at McGorrigan,As married a Finnigin.He wuz shantyin' thin, wuz Finnigin,As minny a railroader's been ag'in,An' the shmoky ol' lamp wuz burnin' brightIn Finnigin's shanty all that night—Bilin' down his repoort, was Finnigin!An' he writed this here: "Muster Flannigan:Off ag'in, on ag'in,Gone ag'in—Finnigin."
S. W. Gillinan.
Potiphar Gubbins, C. E.,Stands at the top of the tree;And I muse in my bed on the reasons that ledTo the hoisting of Potiphar G.Potiphar Gubbins, C. E.,Is seven years junior to Me;Each bridge that he makes either buckles or breaks,And his work is as rough as he.Potiphar Gubbins, C. E.,Is coarse as a chimpanzee;And I can't understand why you gave him your hand,Lovely Mehitabel Lee.Potiphar Gubbins, C. E.,Is dear to the Powers that Be;For they bow and They smile in an affable styleWhich is seldom accorded to Me.Potiphar Gubbins, C. E.,Is certain as certain can beOf a highly paid post which is claimed by a hostOf seniors—including Me.Careless and lazy is he,Greatly inferior to Me.What is the spell that you manage so well,Commonplace Potiphar G.?Lovely Mehitabel Lee,Let me inquire of thee,Should I have riz to what Potiphar is,Hadst thou been mated to Me?
Rudyard Kipling.
From the madding crowd they stand apart,The maidens four and the Work of Art;And none might tell from sight aloneIn which had culture ripest grown,—The Gotham Million fair to see,The Philadelphia Pedigree,The Boston Mind of azure hue,Or the soulful Soul from Kalamazoo,—For all loved Art in a seemly way,With an earnest soul and a capital A.
Long they worshiped; but no one brokeThe sacred stillness, until up spokeThe Western one from the nameless place,Who blushing said, "What a lovely vace!"Over three faces a sad smile flew,And they edged away from Kalamazoo.But Gotham's haughty soul was stirredTo crush the stranger with one small word.Deftly hiding reproof in praise,She cries, "'Tis, indeed, a lovely vaze!"But brief her unworthy triumph whenThe lofty one from the house of Penn,With the consciousness of two grandpapas,Exclaims, "It is quite a lovely vahs!"And glances round with an anxious thrill,Awaiting the word of Beacon Hill.But the Boston maid smiles courteouslee,And gently murmurs, "Oh, pardon me!"I did not catch your remark, becauseI was so entranced with that lovely vaws!"Dies erit praegelidaSinistra quum Bostonia.
James Jeffrey Roche.
Miniver Cheevy, child of scorn,Grew lean while he assailed the seasons;He wept that he was ever born,And he had reasons.Miniver loved the days of oldWhen swords were bright and steeds were prancing;The vision of a warrior boldWould set him dancing.Miniver sighed for what was not,And dreamed and rested from his labors;He dreamed of Thebes and CamelotAnd Priam's neighbors.Miniver mourned the ripe renownThat made so many a name so fragrant;He mourned Romance, now on the town,And Art, a vagrant.Miniver loved the Medici,Albeit he had never seen one;He would have sinned incessantlyCould he have been one.Miniver cursed the commonplace,And eyed a khaki suit with loathing;He missed the mediæval graceOf iron clothing.Miniver scorned the gold he sought,But sore annoyed he was without it;Miniver thought and thought and thoughtAnd thought about it.Miniver Cheevy, born too late,Scratched his head and kept on thinking;Miniver coughed, and called it fate,And kept on drinking.
Edwin Arlington Robinson.
Sez Corporal Madden to Private McFadden:"Bedad, yer a bad un!Now turn out yer toes!Yer belt is unhookit,Yer cap is on crookit,Ye may not be dhrunk,But, be jabers, ye look it!Wan—two!Wan—two!Ye monkey-faced divil, I'll jolly ye through!Wan—two!—Time! Mark!Ye march like the aigle in Cintheral Parrk!"Sez Corporal Madden to Private McFadden:"A saint it ud saddenTo dhrill such a mug!Eyes front!—ye baboon, ye!—Chin up!—ye gossoon, ye!Ye've jaws like a goat—Halt! ye leather-lipped loon, ye!Wan—two!Wan—two!Ye whiskered orang-outang, I'll fix you!Wan—two!—Time! Mark!Ye've eyes like a bat!—can ye see in the dark?"Sez Corporal Madden to Private McFadden:"Yer figger wants padd'n'—Sure, man, ye've no shape!Behind ye yer shouldersStick out like two boulders;Yer shins is as thinAs a pair of pen-holders!Wan—two!Wan—two!Yer belly belongs on yer back, ye Jew!Wan—two!—Time! Mark!I'm dhry as a dog—I can't shpake but I bark!"Sez Corporal Madden to Private McFadden:"Me heart it ud gladdenTo blacken your eye.Ye're gettin' too bold, yeCompel me to scold ye,—Tis halt! that I say,—Will ye heed what I told ye?Wan—two!Wan—two!Be jabers, I'm dhryer than Brian Boru!Wan—two!—Time! Mark!What's wur-ruk for chickens is sport for the lark!"Sez Corporal Madden to Private McFadden:"I'll not stay a gaddin',Wid dagoes like you!I'll travel no farther,I'm dyin' for—wather;—Come on, if ye like,—Can ye loan me a quather?Ya-as, you—What,—two?And ye'll pay the potheen? Ye're a daisy! Whurroo!You'll do!Whist! Mark!The Rigiment's flattered to own ye, me spark!"
Robert W. Chambers.
I
Sez Alderman GradyTo Officer Brady:"G'wan! Ye're no lady!Luk here what ye've done:Ye've run in Red Hogan,Ye've pulled Paddy Grogan,Ye've fanned Misther BroganAn' called him a 'gun'!"Way up in Tammany HallThey's a gintleman layin' f'r you!'An' what,' sez he, 't' 'ell,' sez he,'Does the villyun mane to do?Lock up the ass in his shtall!He'll rue the day I rue,F'r he's pulled the dive that kapes me alive,An' he'll go to the goats! Whurroo!'"
II
Sez Alderman GradyTo Officer Brady:"Ye pinched young MulladyF'r crackin' a safe!An' Sinitor MoranAn' Alderman DoranIs inside, a-roarin'F'r justice, ye thafe!"'Way up in Tammany HallThey's a gintleman layin' f'r you!'What's this,' sez he, 'I hear?' sez he—An' the air, bedad, grew blue!'Well, I nivver did hear av such gall!But if phwat ye say is thrue,He's pulled a fri'nd av a fri'nd av me fri'nd,An' he'll go to the goats! Whurroo!"
III
Sez Alderman GradyTo Officer Brady:"Here's Sullivan's ladyCavoortin' an' riled;She lifted a locketFrom Casey's coat pocket,An' it goes to the docket,An' Sullivan's wild!"'Way up in Tammany HallThey's a gintleman layin' f'r you!''Tis a shame,' sez he, 'f'r to blame,' sez he,'A lady so fair an' thrue,An' so divinely tall'—'Tis po'ms he talked, ye Jew!An' ye've cooked yer goose, an' now ye're looseF'r to folly the goats! Whurroo!"
IV
Sez Alderman GradyTo Officer Brady:"Where's Katie Macready,The Confidence Queen?She's niece to O'Lafferty'sCousins, the Caffertys—Sinitor Rafferty'sSteady colleen!"'Way up in Tammany HallThey's a gintleman layin' f'r you!'He's pinched,' sez he, 'an' cinched,' sez he,'A lady tray comme eel foo!Go dangle th' tillyphone call,An' gimme La Mulberry Roo,F'r the town is too warrm f'r this gendarme,An' he'll go to the goats, mon Dieu!'"
V
Sez Alderman GradyTo Officer Brady:"McCabe is afraid heCan't open to-night,F'r throuble's a-brewin',An' mischief's a-stewin',Wid nothin' a-doin'An' everything tight!There's Register Ronnell,Commissioner Donnell,An' Congressman ConnellPreparin' f'r flight;The Dhistrict AttorneyTold Magistrate KearnyThat Captain McBurneyWas dyin' o' fright!"Oh!'Way up in Tammany HallThey's a gintleman lookin' f'r you!'Bedad,' sez he, 'he's mad,' sez he.'So turrn on the screw f'r Bellevue,An' chain 'im ag'in' the wall,An' lather 'im wan or two,An' tether 'im out on the Bloomin'dale routeLike a loonytick goat! Whurroo!'"
Robert W. Chambers.
I cannot tell you how I loveThe canvases of Mr. Dove,Which Saturday I went to seeIn Mr. Thurber's gallery.At first you fancy they are builtAs patterns for a crazy quilt,But soon you see that they expressAn ambient simultaneousness.This thing which you would almost betPortrays a Spanish omelette,Depicts instead, with wondrous skill,A horse and cart upon a hill.Now, Mr. Dove has too much artTo show the horse or show the cart;Instead, he paints thecreakandstrain,Get it? No pike is half as plain.This thing which would appear to showA fancy vest scenario,Is really quite another thing,A flock of pigeons on the wing.But Mr. Dove is much too keenTo let a single bird be seen;To show the pigeons would not doAnd so he simply paints thecoo.It's all as simple as can be;He paints the things you cannot see,Just as composers please the earWith "programme" things you cannot hear.Dove is the cleverest of chaps;And, gazing at his rhythmic maps,I wondered (and I'm wondering yet)Whether he did them on a bet.
Bert Leston Taylor.
It may be so—perhaps thou hastA warm and loving heart;I will not blame thee for thy face,Poor devil as thou art.That thing, thou fondly deem'st a nose,Unsightly though it be,—In spite of all the cold world's scorn,It may be much to thee.Those eyes,—among thine elder friendsPerhaps they pass for blue;—No matter,—if a man can see,What more have eyes to do?Thy mouth—that fissure in thy faceBy something like a chin,—May be a very useful placeTo put thy victual in.I know thou hast a wife at home,I know thou hast a child,By that subdued, domestic smileUpon thy features mild.That wife sits fearless by thy side,That cherub on thy knee;They do not shudder at thy looks,They do not shrink from thee.Above thy mantel is a hook,—A portrait once was there;It was thine only ornament,—Alas! that hook is bare.She begged thee not to let it go,She begged thee all in vain:She wept,—and breathed a trembling prayerTo meet it safe again.It was a bitter sight to seeThat picture torn away;It was a solemn thought to thinkWhat all her friends would say!And often in her calmer hours,And in her happy dreams,Upon its long-deserted hookThe absent portrait seems.Thy wretched infant turns his headIn melancholy wise,And looks to meet the placid stareOf those unbending eyes.I never saw thee, lovely one,—Perchance I never may;It is not often that we crossSuch people in our way;But if we meet in distant years,Or on some foreign shore,Sure I can take my Bible oathI've seen that face before.
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.
Little I ask; my wants are few;I only wish a hut of stone(A very plain brone stone will do)That I may call my own;And close at hand is such a one,In yonder street that fronts the sun.Plain food is quite enough for me;Three courses are as good as ten;If Nature can subsist on three,Thank Heaven for three—Amen!I always thought cold victual nice—My choice would be vanilla-ice.I care not much for gold or land;Give me a mortgage here and there,Some good bank-stock, some note of hand,Or trifling railroad share.I only ask that Fortune sendA little more than I shall spend.Jewels are baubles; 'tis a sinTo care for such unfruitful things;One good-sized diamond in a pin,Some,not so large, in rings.A ruby, and a pearl, or so,Will do for me—I laugh at show.My dame should dress in cheap attire(Good, heavy silks are never dear);I own perhaps ImightdesireSome shawls of true Cashmere—Some marrowy crapes of China silk,Like wrinkled skins on scalded milk.I would not have the horse I driveSo fast that folks must stop and stare;An easy gait—two, forty-five—Suits me; I do not care;Perhaps, for just asingle spurt,Some seconds less would do no hurt.Of pictures, I should like to ownTitians and Raphaels three or four—I love so much their style and tone—One Turner, and no more.(A landscape, foreground golden dirt,The sunshine painted with a squirt).Of books but few—some fifty scoreFor daily use, and bound for wear;The rest upon an upper floor;SomelittleluxurythereOf red morocco's gilded gleam,And vellum rich as country cream.Busts, cameos, gems—such things as these,Which others often show for pride,Ivalue for their power to please,And selfish churls deride;OneStradivarius, I confess,TwoMeerschaums, I would fain possess.Wealth's wasteful tricks I will not learn,Nor ape the glittering upstart fool;Shall not carved tables serve my turn,Butallmust be of buhl?Give grasping pomp its double share—I ask butonerecumbent chair.Thus humble let me live and die,Nor long for Midas' golden touch;If Heaven more generous gifts deny,I shall not miss themmuch—Too grateful for the blessing lentOf simple tastes and mind content!
Oliver Wendell Holmes.
Baby's brain is tired of thinkingOn the Wherefore and the Whence;Baby's precious eyes are blinkingWith incipient somnolence.Little hands are weary turningHeavy leaves of lexicon;Little nose is fretted learningHow to keep its glasses on.Baby knows the laws of natureAre beneficent and wise;His medulla oblongataBids my darling close his eyes.And his pneumogastrics tell himQuietude is always bestWhen his little cerebellumNeeds recuperative rest.Baby must have relaxation,Let the world go wrong or right.Sleep, my darling—leave CreationTo its chances for the night.
James Jeffrey Roche.
Of all the wimming doubly blestThe sailor's wife's the happiest,For all she does is stay to homeAnd knit and darn—and let 'im roam.Of all the husbands on the earthThe sailor has the finest berth,For in 'is cabin he can sitAnd sail and sail—and let 'er knit.
Wallace Irwin.
Why should you swear I am forsworn,Since thine I vowed to be?Lady, it is already morn,And 'twas last night I swore to theeThat fond impossibility.Have I not loved thee much and long,A tedious twelve hours' space?I must all other beauties wrong,And rob thee of a new embrace,Could I still dote upon thy face.Not but all joy in thy brown hairBy others may be found;But I must search the black and fair,Like skilful mineralists that soundFor treasure in unploughed-up ground.Then, if when I have loved my round,Thou prov'st the pleasant she;With spoils of meaner beauties crownedI laden will return to thee,Even sated with variety.
Richard Lovelace.
Zack Bumstead useter flosserfizeAbout the ocean an' the skies;An' gab an' gas f'um morn till noonAbout the other side the moon;An' 'bout the natur of the placeTen miles beyend the end of space.An' if his wife she'd ask the crankEf he wouldn't kinder try to yankHisself out-doors an' git some woodTo make her kitchen fire good,So she c'd bake her beans an' pies,He'd say, "I've gotter flosserfize."An' then he'd set an' flosserfizeAbout the natur an' the sizeOf angels' wings, an' think, and gawp,An' wonder how they make 'em flop.He'd calkerlate how long a skid'Twould take to move the sun, he did;An' if the skid was strong an' prime,It couldn't be moved to supper-time.An' w'en his wife 'd ask the loutEf he wouldn't kinder waltz aboutAn' take a rag an' shoo the flies,He'd say, "I've gotter flosserfize."An' then he'd set an' flosserfize'Bout schemes for fencing in the skies,Then lettin' out the lots to rent,So's he could make an honest cent.An' if he'd find it pooty toughTo borry cash fer fencin'-stuff;An' if 'twere best to take his wealthAn' go to Europe for his health,Or save his cash till he'd enoughTo buy some more of fencin'-stuff;Then, ef his wife she'd ask the gumpEf he wouldn't kinder try to humpHisself to t'other side the door,So she c'd come an' sweep the floor,He'd look at her with mournful eyes,An' say, "I've gotter flosserfize."An' so he'd set an' flosserfize'Bout what it wuz held up the skies,An' how God made this earthly ballJest simply out er nawthin' 'tall,An' 'bout the natur, shape, an' formOf nawthin' that he made it from.Then, ef his wife sh'd ask the freakEf he wouldn't kinder try to sneakOut to the barn an' find some aigs,He'd never move, nor lift his laigs;He'd never stir, nor try to rise,But say, "I've gotter flosserfize."An' so he'd set an' flosserfizeAbout the earth, an' sea, an' skies,An' scratch his head, an' ask the causeOf w'at there wuz before time wuz,An' w'at the universe 'd doBimeby w'en time hed all got through;An' jest how fur we'd have to climbEf we sh'd travel out er time;An' ef we'd need, w'en we got there,To keep our watches in repair.Then, ef his wife she'd ask the gawkEf he wouldn't kinder try to walkTo where she had the table spread,An' kinder git his stomach fed,He'd leap for that ar kitchen door,An' say, "W'y didn't you speak afore?"An' when he'd got his supper et,He'd set, an' set, an' set, an' set,An' fold his arms, an' shet his eyes,An' set, an' set, an' flosserfize.
Sam Walter Foss.
I
He was the Chairman of the GuildOf Early Pleiocene Patriarchs;He was chief Mentor of the LodgeOf the Oracular Oligarchs;He was the Lord High AutocratAnd Vizier of the Sons of Light,And Sultan and Grand MandarinOf the Millennial Men of Might.He was Grand Totem and High PriestOf the Independent Potentates;Grand Mogul of the GalaxyOf the Illustrious Stay-out-lates;The President of the Dandydudes,The Treasurer of the Sons of Glee;The Leader of the Clubtown BandAnd Architects of Melody.
II
She was Grand Worthy ProphetessOf the Illustrious Maids of Mark;Of Vestals of the Third DegreeShe was Most Potent Matriarch;She was High Priestess of the ShrineOf Clubtown's Culture Coterie,And First Vice-President of the LeagueOf the illustrious G. A. B.She was the First Dame of the ClubFor teaching Patagonians Greek;She was Chief Clerk and AuditorOf Clubtown's Anti-Bachelor Clique;She was High Treasurer of the FundFor Borrioboolighalians,And the Fund for Sending Browning's PoemsTo Native-born Australians.
III
Once to a crowded social fêteBoth these much-titled people came,And each perceived, when introduced,They had the selfsame name.Their hostess said, when first they met:"Permit me now to introduceMy good friend Mr. ClabberhuseTo Mrs. Clabberhuse.""'Tis very strange," said she to him,"Such an unusual name!—A name so very seldom heard,That we should bear the same.""Indeed, 'tis wonderful," said he,"And I'm surprised the more,Because I never heard the nameOutside my home before."But now I come to look at you,"Said he, "upon my life,If I am not indeed deceived,You are—you are—my wife."She gazed into his searching faceAnd seemed to look him through;"Indeed," said she, "it seems to meYou are my husband, too."I've been so busy with my clubsAnd in my various spheresI have not seen you now," she said,"For over fourteen years.""That's just the way it's been with me,These clubs demand a sight"—And then they both politely bowed,And sweetly said "Good night."
Sam Walter Foss.
We've lived for forty years, dear wife,And walked together side by side,And you to-day are just as dearAs when you were my bride.I've tried to make life glad for you,One long, sweet honeymoon of joy,A dream of marital content,Without the least alloy.I've smoothed all boulders from our path,That we in peace might toil along,By always hastening to admitThat I was right and you were wrong.No mad diversity of creedHas ever sundered me from thee;For I permit you evermoreTo borrow your ideas of me.And thus it is, through weal or woe,Our love forevermore endures;For I permit that you should takeMy views and creeds, and make them yours.And thus I let you have my way,And thus in peace we toil along,For I am willing to admitThat I am right and you are wrong.And when our matrimonial skiffStrikes snags in love's meandering stream,I lift our shallop from the rocks,And float as in a placid dream.And well I know our marriage blissWhile life shall last will never cease;For I shall always let thee do,In generous love, just what I please.Peace comes, and discord flies away,Love's bright day follows hatred's night;For I am ready to admitThat you are wrong and I am right.
Sam Walter Foss.
Wisely a woman prefers to a lover a man who neglects her.
This one may love her some day; some day the lover will not.
There are three species of creatures who when they seem coming are going,
When they seem going they come: Diplomats, women, and crabs.
As the meek beasts in the Garden came flocking for Adam to name them,
Men for a title to-day crawl to the feet of a king.
What is a first love worth except to prepare for a second?
What does the second love bring? Only regret for the first.
John Hay.
De Hen-roost Man he'll preach about Paul,An' James an' John, an' Herod, an' all,But nuver a word about Peter, oh, no!He's afeard he'll hear dat rooster crow.An' he ain't by 'isself in dat, in dat—An' he ain't by 'isself in dat.
Ruth McEnery Stuart.
Charm is a woman's strongest arm;My charwoman is full of charm;I chose her, not for strength of armBut for her strange, elusive charm.And how tears heighten woman's powers!My typist weeps for hours and hours:I took her for her weeping powers—They so delight my business hours.A woman lives by intuition.Though my accountant shuns additionShe has the rarest intuition.(And I myself can do addition.)Timidity in girls is nice.My cook is so afraid of mice.Now you'll admit it's very niceTo feel your cook's afraid of mice.
Alice Duer Miller.
A man said to the universe,"Sir, I exist!""However," replied the universe,"The fact has not created in meA sense of obligation."
Stephen Crane.
If all the harm that women have doneWere put in a bundle and rolled into one,Earth would not hold it,The sky could not enfold it,It could not be lighted nor warmed by the sun;Such masses of evilWould puzzle the devil,And keep him in fuel while Time's wheels run.But if all the harm that's been done by menWere doubled, and doubled, and doubled again,And melted and fused into vapour, and thenWere squared and raised to the power of ten,There wouldn't be nearly enough, not near,To keep a small girl for the tenth of a year.To keep a small girl for the tenth of a year.
The fable which I now present,Occurred to me by accident:And whether bad or excellent,Is merely so by accident.A stupid ass this morning wentInto a field by accident:And cropped his food, and was content,Until he spied by accidentA flute, which some oblivious gentHad left behind by accident;When, sniffling it with eager scent,He breathed on it by accident,And made the hollow instrumentEmit a sound by accident."Hurrah, hurrah!" exclaimed the brute,"How cleverly I play the flute!"A fool, in spite of nature's bent,May shine for once,—by accident.
Tomaso de Yriarte.
Friend of Humanity
"Needy Knife-grinder! whither are you going?Rough is the road—your wheel is out of order—Bleak blows the blast; your hat has got a hole in't,So have your breeches!"Weary Knife-grinder! little think the proud ones,Who in their coaches roll along the turnpike-Road, what hard work 'tis crying all day' Knives andScissors to grind O!'"Tell me, Knife-grinder, how you came to grind knives?Did some rich man tyrannically use you?Was it the squire? or parson of the parish?Or the attorney?"Was it the squire, for killing of his game? orCovetous parson, for his tithes distraining?Or roguish lawyer, made you lose your littleAll in a law-suit?"(Have you not read the Rights of Man, by Tom Paine?)Drops of compassion tremble on my eyelids,Ready to fall, as soon as you have told yourPitiful story."
Knife-grinder
"Story! God bless you! I have none to tell, sir,Only last night, a-drinking at the Chequers,This poor old hat and breeches, as you see, wereTom in a scuffle."Constables came up for to take me intoCustody; they took me before the justice;Justice Oldmixon put me in the parish-Stocks for a vagrant."I should be glad to drink your Honour's health inA pot of beer, if you will give me sixpence;But for my part, I never love to meddleWith politics, sir."
Friend of Humanity
"Igive thee sixpence! I will see thee damn'd first—Wretch! whom no sense of wrongs can rouse to vengeance—Sordid, unfeeling, reprobate, degraded,Spiritless outcast!"