LYING

[Weeps, and pulls out a blue kerchief, with which he wipes his eyes; gazing tenderly at it, he proceeds—

Sweet kerchief, check'd with heavenly blue,Which once my love sat knotting in!—Alas! Matildathenwas true!At least I thought so at the University of Gottingen,niversity of Gottingen.

[At the repetition of this line he clanks his chains in cadence.

III

Barbs! Barbs! alas! how swift you flew,Her neat post-wagon trotting in!Ye bore Matilda from my view;Forlorn I languish'd at the University of Gottingen,niversity of Gottingen.

This faded form! this pallid hue!This blood my veins is clotting in,My years are many—they were fewWhen first I entered at the University of Gottingen,niversity of Gottingen.

There first for thee my passion grew,Sweet, sweet Matilda Pottengen!Thou wast the daughter of my tutor, law professor at the University of Gottingen,niversity of Gottingen.

Sun, moon and thou, vain world, adieu,That kings and priests are plotting in;Here doom'd to starve on water gruel, never shall I see the University of Gottingen,niversity of Gottingen.

[During the last stanza he dashes his head repeatedly against the walls of his prison; and, finally, so hard as to produce a visible contusion; he then throws himself on the floor in an agony. The curtain drops; the music still continuing to play till it is wholly fallen.

George Canning.

I do confess, in many a sigh,My lips have breath'd you many a lie,And who, with such delights in view,Would lose them for a lie or two?Nay—look not thus, with brow reproving:Lies are, my dear, the soul of loving!If half we tell the girls were true,If half we swear to think and do,Were aught but lying's bright illusion,The world would be in strange confusion!If ladies' eyes were, every one,As lovers swear, a radiant sun,Astronomy should leave the skies,To learn her lore in ladies' eyes!Oh no!—believe me, lovely girl,When nature turns your teeth to pearl,Your neck to snow, your eyes to fire,Your yellow locks to golden wire,Then, only then, can heaven decree,That you should live for only me,Or I for you, as night and morn,We've swearing kiss'd, and kissing sworn.And now, my gentle hints to clear,For once, I'll tell you truth, my dear!Whenever you may chance to meetA loving youth, whose love is sweet,Long as you're false and he believes you,Long as you trust and he deceives you,So long the blissful bond endures;And while he lies, his heart is yours:But, oh! you've wholly lost the youthThe instant that he tells you truth!

Thomas Moore.

The Antiseptic Baby and the Prophylactic PupWere playing in the garden when the Bunny gamboled up;They looked upon the Creature with a loathing undisguised;—It wasn't Disinfected and it wasn't Sterilized.They said it was a Microbe and a Hotbed of Disease;They steamed it in a vapor of a thousand-odd degrees;They froze it in a freezer that was cold as Banished HopeAnd washed it in permanganate with carbolated soap.In sulphureted hydrogen they steeped its wiggly ears;They trimmed its frisky whiskers with a pair of hard-boiled shears;They donned their rubber mittens and they took it by the handAnd 'lected it a member of the Fumigated Band.There's not a Micrococcus in the garden where they play;They bathe in pure iodoform a dozen times a day;And each imbibes his rations from a Hygienic Cup—The Bunny and the Baby and the Prophylactic Pup.

Arthur Guiterman.

Air—"The days we went a-gipsying."

I would all womankind were dead,Or banished o'er the sea;For they have been a bitter plagueThese last six weeks to me:It is not that I'm touched myself,For that I do not fear;No female face hath shown me graceFor many a bygone year.But 'tis the most infernal bore,Of all the bores I know,To have a friend who's lost his heartA short time ago.Whene'er we steam it to Blackwall,Or down to Greenwich run,To quaff the pleasant cider cup,And feed on fish and fun;Or climb the slopes of Richmond Hill,To catch a breath of air:Then, for my sins, he straight beginsTo rave about his fair.Oh, 'tis the most tremendous bore,Of all the bores I know,To have a friend who's lost his heartA short time ago.In vain you pour into his earYour own confiding grief;In vain you claim his sympathy,In vain you ask relief;In vain you try to rouse him byJoke, repartee, or quiz;His sole reply's a burning sigh,And "What a mind it is!"O Lord! it is the greatest bore,Of all the bores I know,To have a friend who's lost his heartA short time ago.

I've heard her thoroughly describedA hundred times, I'm sure;And all the while I've tried to smile,And patiently endure;He waxes strong upon his pangs,And potters o'er his grog;And still I say, in a playful way—"Why you're a lucky dog!"But oh! it is the heaviest bore,Of all the bores I know,To have a friend who's lost his heartA short time ago.I really wish he'd do like meWhen I was young and strong;I formed a passion every week,But never kept it long.But he has not the sportive moodThat always rescued me,And so I would all women couldBe banished o'er the sea.For 'tis the most egregious bore,Of all the bores I know,To have a friend who's lost his heartA short time ago.

William E. Aytoun.

They told him gently he was madeOf nicely tempered mud,That man no lengthened part had playedAnterior to the Flood.'Twas all in vain; he heeded not,Referring plant and worm,Fish, reptile, ape, and Hottentot,To one primordial germ.

They asked him whether he could bearTo think his kind alliedTo all those brutal forms which wereIn structure Pithecoid;Whether he thought the apes and usHomologous in form;He said, "Homo and PithecusCame from one common germ."They called him "atheistical,""Sceptic," and "infidel."They swore his doctrines without failWould plunge him into hell.But he with proofs in no way lame,Made this deduction firm,That all organic beings cameFrom one primordial germ.That as for the Noachian flood,'Twas long ago disproved,That as for man being made of mud,All by whom truth is lovedAccept as fact what,malgréstrife,Research tends to confirm—That man, and everything with life,Came from one common germ.

Unknown.

A soldier of the RussiansLay japanned at Tschrtzvkjskivitch,There was lack of woman's nursingAnd other comforts whichMight add to his last momentsAnd smooth the final way;—But a comrade stood beside himTo hear what he might say.The japanned Russian falteredAs he took that comrade's hand,And he said: "I never more shall seeMy own, my native land;Take a message and a tokenTo some distant friends of mine,For I was born at Smnlxzrskgqrxzski,Fair Smnlxzrskgqrxzski on the Irkztrvzkimnov."

W. J. Lampton.

The Food Scientist tells us: "A deficiency of iron, phosphorus, potassium, calcium and the other mineral salts, colloids and vitamines of vegetable origin leads to numerous forms of physical disorder."

I yearn to bite on a ColloidWith phosphorus, iron and Beans;I want to be filled with Calcium, grilled,And Veg'table Vitamines!I yearn to bite on a Colloid(Though I don't know what it means)To line my inside with Potassium, fried,And Veg'table Vitamines.I would sate my soul with spinachAnd dandelion greens.No eggs, nor ham, nor hard-boiled clam,But Veg'table Vitamines.Hi, Waiter! Coddle the ColloidsWith phosphorus, iron and Beans;Though Mineral Salts may have some faults,Bring on the Vitamines.

Unknown.

It is told, in Buddhi-theosophic schools,There are rules.By observing which, when mundane labor irksOne can simulate quiescenceBy a timely evanescenceFrom his Active Mortal Essence,(Or his Works.)The particular procedure leaves researchIn the lurch,But, apparently, this matter-moulded formIs a kind of outer plaster,Which a well-instructed MasterCan remove without disasterWhen he's warm.And to such as mourn an Indian Solar ClimeAt its prime'Twere a thesis most immeasurably fit,So expansively elastic,And so plausibly fantastic,That one gets enthusiasticFor a bit.

Unknown.

Philosophy shows us 'twixt monkey and manOne simious line in unbroken extendage;Development only since first it began—And chiefly in losing the caudal appendage.Our ancestors' holding was whollyin tail,And the loss of this feature we claim as a merit;But though often at tale-bearing people we rail,'Tis rather a loss than a gain we inherit.

The tail was a rudder—a capital thingTo a man who was half—or a quarter—seas over;And as for a sailor, by that he could cling,And use for his hands and his feet both discover.In the Arts it would quickly have found out a place;The painter would use it to steady his pencil;In music, how handy to pound at the bass!And then one could write by its coilings prehensile.The Army had gained had the fashion endured—'Twould carry a sword, or be good in saluting;If the foe should turn tail, they'd be quickly secured;Or, used as a lasso, 'twould help in recruiting.To the Force 'twould add force—they could "run 'em in" soThat one to three culprits would find himself equal;He could collar the two, have the other in tow—A very good form of the Tale and its Sequel.In life many uses 'twould serve we should see—A man with no bed could hang cosily snoozing;'Twould hold an umbrella, hand cups round at tea,Or a candle support while our novel perusing.In fact, when one thinks of our loss from of old,It makes us regret that we can't go in for it, orWish, like the Dane, we atailcould unfold,Instead of remaining each one astumporator.

William Sawyer.

To make this condiment, your poet begsThe pounded yellow of two hard-boiled eggs;Two boiled potatoes, passed through kitchen-sieve,Smoothness and softness to the salad give;Let onion atoms lurk within the bowl,And, half-suspected, animate the whole.Of mordant mustard add a single spoon,Distrust the condiment that bites so soon;But deem it not, thou man of herbs, a fault,To add a double quantity of salt.And, lastly, o'er the flavored compound tossA magic soup-spoon of anchovy sauce.Oh, green and glorious! Oh, herbaceous treat!'Twould tempt the dying anchorite to eat;Back to the world he'd turn his fleeting soul,And plunge his fingers in the salad bowl!Serenely full, the epicure would say,Fate can not harm me, I have dined to-day!

Sydney Smith.

The man who invented the women's waists that button down behind,

And the man who invented the cans with keys and the strips that will never wind,

Were put to sea in a leaky boat and with never a bite to eat

But a couple of dozen of patent cans in which was their only meat.

And they sailed and sailed o'er the ocean wide and never they had a taste

Of aught to eat, for the cans stayed shut, and a peek-a-boo shirtwaist

Was all they had to bale the brine that came in the leaky boat;

And their tongues were thick and their throats were dry, and they barely kept afloat.

They came at last to an island fair, and a man stood on the shore.

So they flew a signal of distress and their hopes rose high once more,

And they called to him to fetch a boat, for their craft was sinking fast,

And a couple of hours at best they knew was all their boat would last.

So he called to them a cheery call and he said he would make haste,

But first he must go back to his wife and button up her waist,

Which would only take him an hour or so and then he would fetch a boat.

And the man who invented the backstairs waist, he groaned in his swollen throat.

The hours passed by on leaden wings and they saw another man

In the window of a bungalow, and he held a tin meat can

In his bleeding hands, and they called to him, not once but twice and thrice,

And he said: "Just wait till I open this and I'll be there in a trice!"

And the man who invented the patent cans he knew what the promise meant,

So he leaped in air with a horrid cry and into the sea he went,

And the bubbles rose where he sank and sank and a groan choked in the throat

Of the man who invented the backstairs waist and he sank with the leaky boat!

J. W. Foley.

Mona Lisa, Mona Lisa!Have you gone? Great Julius Cæsar!Who's the Chap so bold and pincheyThus to swipe the great da Vinci,Taking France's first Chef d'oeuvreSquarely from old Mr. Louvre,Easy as some pocket-pickerWould remove our handkerchickerAs we ride in careless follyOn some gaily bounding trolley?

Mona Lisa, Mona Lisa,Who's your Captor? Doubtless he's aCrafty sort of treasure-seeker—Ne'er a Turpin e'er was sleeker—But, alas, if he can win youEasily as I could chin you,What is safe in all the nationsFrom his dreadful depredations?He's the style of Chap, I'm thinkin',Who will drive us all to drinkin'!Mona Lisa, Mona Lisa,Next he'll swipe the Tower of Pisa,Pulling it from out its socketFor to hide it in his pocket;Or perhaps he'll up and steal, O,Madame Venus, late of Milo;Or maybe while on the grab heWill annex Westminster Abbey,And elope with that distinguishedHeap of Ashes long extinguished.Maybe too, O Mona Lisa,He will come across the seas a—Searching for the style of treasureThat we have in richest measure.Sunset Cox's brazen statue,Have a care lest he shall catch you!Or maybe he'll set his eye onHammerstein's, or the Flatiron,Or some bit of White Wash doneBy those lads at Washington—Truly he's a crafty geezer,Is your Captor, Mona Lisa!

John Kendrick Bangs.

Before a Turkish townThe Russians came.And with huge cannonDid bombard the same.

They got up closeAnd rained fat bombshells down,And blew out everyVowel in the town.And then the Turks,Becoming somewhat sad,Surrendered everyConsonant they had.

Eugene Fitch Ware.

The poet is, or ought to be, a hater of the city,And so, when happiness is mine, and Maud becomes my wife,We'll look on town inhabitants with sympathetic pity,For we shall lead a peaceful and serene Arcadian life.Then shall I sing in eloquent and most effective phrases,The grandeur of geraniums and the beauty of the rose;Immortalise in deathless strains the buttercups and daisies—For even I can hardly be mistaken as to those.The music of the nightingale will ring from leafy hollow,And fill us with a rapture indescribable in words;And we shall also listen to the robin and the swallow(I wonder if a swallow sings?) and ... well, the other birds.Too long I dwelt in ignorance of all the countless treasuresWhich dwellers in the country have in such abundant store;To give a single instance of the multitude of pleasures—The music of the nighting—oh, I mentioned that before.And shall I prune potato-trees and artichokes, I wonder,And cultivate the silo-plant, which springs (I hope it springs?)In graceful foliage overhead?—Excuse me if I blunder,It's really inconvenient not to know the name of things!

No matter; in the future, when I celebrate the beautyOf country life in glowing terms, and "build the lofty rhyme"Aware that every Englishman is bound to do his duty,I'll learn to give the stupid things their proper names in time!Meanwhile, you needn't wonder at the view I've indicated,The country life appears to me indubitably blest,For, even if its other charms are somewhat overstated,As long as Maud is there, you see,—what matters all the rest?

Anthony C. Deane.

'Twas raw, and chill, and cold outside,With a boisterous wind untamed,But I was sitting snug within,Where my good log-fire flamed.As my clock ticked,My cat purred,And my kettle sang.I read me a tale of war and love,Brave knights and their ladies fair;And I brewed a brew of stiff hot-scotchTo drive away dull care.As my clock ticked,My cat purred,And my kettle sang.At last the candles sputtered out,But the embers still were bright,When I turned my tumbler upside down,An' bade m'self g' night!As th' ket'l t-hic-ked,The clock purred,And the cat (hic) sang!

Tudor Jenks.

Three score and ten by common calculationThe years of man amount to; but we'll sayHe turns four-score, yet, in my estimation,In all those years he has not lived a day.Out of the eighty you must first rememberThe hours of night you pass asleep in bed;And, counting from December to December,Just half your life you'll find you have been dead.To forty years at once by this reductionWe come; and sure, the first five from your birth,While cutting teeth and living upon suction,You're not alive to what this life is worth.From thirty-five next take for educationFifteen at least at college and at school;When, notwithstanding all your application,The chances are you may turn out a fool.Still twenty we have left us to dispose of,But during them your fortune you've to make;And granting, with the luck of some one knows of,'Tis made in ten—that's ten from life to take.Out of the ten yet left you must allow forThe time for shaving, tooth and other aches,Say four—and that leaves, six, too short, I vow, forRegretting past and making fresh mistakes.Meanwhile each hour dispels some fond illusion;Until at length, sans eyes, sans teeth, you mayHave scarcely sense to come to this conclusion—You've reached four-score, but haven't lived a day!

J. R. Planché.

He girded on his shining sword,He clad him in his suit of mail,He gave his friends the parting word,With high resolve his face was pale.They said, "You've kissed the Papal Toe,To great Moguls you've made your bow,Why will you thus world-wandering go?""I never saw a purple cow!""I never saw a purple cow!Oh, hinder not my wild emprise—Let me depart! For even nowPerhaps, before some yokel's eyesThe purpling creature dashes by,Bending its noble, hornèd brow.They see its glowing charms, but I—I never saw a purple cow!""But other cows there be," they said,"Both cows of high and low degree,Suffolk and Devon, brown, black, red,The Ayrshire and the Alderney.Content yourself with these." "No, no,"He cried, "Not these! Not these! For howCan common kine bring comfort? Oh!I never saw a purple cow!"He flung him to his charger's back,He left his kindred limp and weak,They cried: "He goes, alack! alack!The unattainable to seek."But westward still he rode—pardee!The West! Where such freaks be; I vow,I'd not be much surprised if heShould some day seeAPurpleCow!

Hilda Johnson.

A fig for St. Denis of France—He's a trumpery fellow to brag on;A fig for St. George and his lance,Which spitted a heathenish dragon;And the saints of the Welshman or ScotAre a couple of pitiful pipers,Both of whom may just travel to pot,Compared with that patron of swipers—St. Patrick of Ireland, my dear!He came to the Emerald IsleOn a lump of a paving-stone mounted;The steamboat he beat by a mile,Which mighty good sailing was counted.Says he, "The salt water, I think,Has made me most bloodily thirsty;So bring me a flagon of drinkTo keep down the mulligrubs, burst ye!Of drink that is fit for a saint!"He preached, then, with wonderful force,The ignorant natives a-teaching;With a pint he washed down his discourse,"For," says he, "I detest your dry preaching."The people, with wonderment struckAt a pastor so pious and civil,Exclaimed—"We're for you, my old buck!And we pitch our blind gods to the devil,Who dwells in hot water below!"This ended, our worshipful spoonWent to visit an elegant fellow,Whose practice, each cool afternoon,Was to get most delightfully mellow.That day with a black-jack of beer,It chanced he was treating a party;Says the saint—"This good day, do you hear,I drank nothing to speak of, my hearty!So give me a pull at the pot!"The pewter he lifted in sport(Believe me, I tell you no fable);A gallon he drank from the quart,And then placed it full on the table."A miracle!" every one said—And they all took a haul at the stingo;They were capital hands at the trade,And drank till they fell; yet, by jingo,The pot still frothed over the brim.Next day, quoth his host, "'Tis a fast,And I've nought in my larder but mutton;And on Fridays who'd made such repast,Except an unchristian-like glutton?"Says Pat, "Cease your nonsense, I beg—What you tell me is nothing but gammon;Take my compliments down to the leg,And bid it come hither a salmon!"And the leg most politely complied.You've heard, I suppose, long ago,How the snakes, in a manner most antic,He marched to the county Mayo,And trundled them into th' Atlantic.Hence, not to use water for drink,The people of Ireland determine—With mighty good reason, I think,Since St. Patrick has filled it with verminAnd vipers, and other such stuff!Oh, he was an elegant bladeAs you'd meet from Fairhead to Kilcrumper;And though under the sod he is laid,Yet here goes his health in a bumper!I wish he was here, that my glassHe might by art magic replenish;But since he is not—why, alas!My ditty must come to a finish,—Because all the liquor is out!

William Maginn.

"Come here, my boy; hould up your head,And look like a jintlemàn, Sir;Jist tell me who King David was—Now tell me if you can, Sir.""King David was a mighty man,And he was King of Spain, Sir;His eldest daughter 'Jessie' wasThe 'Flower of Dunblane,' Sir.""You're right, my boy; hould up your head,And look like a jintlemàn, Sir;Sir Isaac Newton—who was he?Now tell me if you can, Sir.""Sir Isaac Newton was the boyThat climbed the apple-tree, Sir;He then fell down and broke his crown,And lost his gravity, Sir.""You're right, my boy; hould up your head,And look like a jintlemàn, Sir;Jist tell me who ould Marmion was—Now tell me if you can, Sir.""Ould Marmion was a soldier bold,But he went all to pot, Sir;He was hanged upon the gallows tree,For killing Sir Walter Scott, Sir.""You're right, my boy; hould up your head,And look like a jintlemàn, Sir;Jist tell me who Sir Rob Roy was;Now tell me if you can, Sir.""Sir Rob Roy was a tailor toThe King of the Cannibal Islands;He spoiled a pair of breeches, andWas banished to the Highlands."

"You're right, my boy; hould up your head,And look like a jintlemàn, Sir;Then, Bonaparte—say, who was he?Now tell me if you can, Sir.""Ould Bonaparte was King of FranceBefore the Revolution;But he was kilt at Waterloo,Which ruined his constitution.""You're right, my boy; hould up your head,And look like a jintlemàn, Sir;Jist tell me who King Jonah was;Now tell me if you can, Sir.""King Jonah was the strangest manThat ever wore a crown, Sir;For though the whale did swallow him,It couldn't keep him down, Sir.""You're right, my boy; hould up your head,And look like a jintlemàn, Sir;Jist tell me who that Moses was;Now tell me if you can, Sir.""Shure Moses was the Christian nameOf good King Pharaoh's daughter;She was a milkmaid, and she tookAprofitfrom the water.""You're right, my boy; hould up your head,And look like a jintlemàn, Sir;Jist tell me now where Dublin is;Now tell me if you can, Sir.""Och, Dublin is a town in Cork,And built on the equator;It's close to Mount Vesuvius,And watered by the 'craythur.'""You're right, my boy; hould up your head,And look like a jintlemàn, Sir;Jist tell me now where London is;Now tell me if you can, Sir.""Och, London is a town in Spain;'Twas lost in the earthquake, Sir;The cockneys murther English there,Whenever they do spake, Sir.""You're right, my boy; hould up your head,Ye're now a jintlemàn, Sir;For in history and geographyI've taught you all I can, Sir.And if any one should ask you now,Where you got all your knowledge,Jist tell them 'twas from Paddy Blake,Of Bally Blarney College."

James A. Sidey.

So that's Cleopathera's Needle, bedad,An' a quare lookin' needle it is, I'll be bound;What a powerful muscle the queen must have hadThat could grasp such a weapon an' wind it around!Imagine her sittin' there stitchin' like madWid a needle like that in her hand! I declareIt's as big as the Round Tower of Slane, an', bedad,It would pass for a round tower, only it's square!The taste of her, ordherin' a needle of granite!Begorra, the sight of it sthrikes me quite dumb!An' look at the quare sort of figures upon it;I wondher can these be the thracks of her thumb!I once was astonished to hear of the fasteCleopathera made upon pearls; but nowI declare, I would not be surprised in the lasteIf ye told me the woman had swallowed a cow!It's aisy to see why bould Cæsar should quailIn her presence, an' meekly submit to her rule;Wid a weapon like that in her fist I'll go bailShe could frighten the sowl out of big Finn MacCool!But, Lord, what poor pigmies the women are now,Compared with the monsthers they must have been then!Whin the darlin's in those days would kick up a row,Holy smoke, but it must have been hot for the men!Just think how a chap that goes courtin' would startIf his girl was to prod him wid that in the shins!I have often seen needles, but bouldly assartThat the needle in front of me there takes the pins!O, sweet Cleopathera! I'm sorry you're dead;An' whin lavin' this wondherful needle behindHad ye thought of bequathin' a spool of your threadAn' yer thimble an' scissors, it would have been kind.But pace to your ashes, ye plague of great men,Yer strength is departed, yer glory is past;Ye'll never wield sceptre or needle again,An' a poor little asp did yer bizzness at last!

Cormac O'Leary.

With due condescension, I'd call your attentionTo what I shall mention of Erin so green,And without hesitation I will show how that nationBecame of creation the gem and the queen.'Twas early one morning, without any warning,That Vanus was born in the beautiful say,And by the same token, and sure 'twas provoking,Her pinions were soaking and wouldn't give play.Old Neptune, who knew her, began to pursue her,In order to woo her—the wicked old Jew—And almost had caught her atop of the water—Great Jupiter's daughter!—which never would do.

But Jove, the great janius, looked down and saw Vanus,And Neptune so heinous pursuing her wild,And he spoke out in thunder, he'd rend him asunder—And sure 'twas no wonder—for tazing his child.A star that was flying hard by him espying,He caught with small trying, and down let it snap;It fell quick as winking, on Neptune a-sinking,And gave him, I'm thinking, a bit of a rap.That star it was dry land, both low land and high land,And formed a sweet island, the land of my birth;Thus plain is the story, that sent down from glory,Old Erin asthore as the gem of the earth!Upon Erin nately jumped Vanus so stately,But fainted, kase lately so hard she was pressed—Which much did bewilder, but ere it had killed herHer father distilled her a drop of the best.That sup was victorious, it made her feel glorious—A little uproarious, I fear it might prove—So how can you blame us that Ireland's so famousFor drinking and beauty, for fighting and love?

Unknown.

I remember, I remember,Ere my childhood flitted by,It was cold then in December,And was warmer in July.In the winter there were freezings—In the summer there were thaws;But the weather isn't now at allLike what it used to was!

Unknown.

In form and feature, face and limb,I grew so like my brother,That folks got taking me for him,And each for one another.It puzzled all our kith and kin,It reach'd an awful pitch;For one of us was born a twin,Yet not a soul knew which.One day (to make the matter worse),Before our names were fix'd,As we were being wash'd by nurseWe got completely mix'd;And thus, you see, by Fate's decree,(Or rather nurse's whim),My brother John got christen'dme,And I got christen'dhim.This fatal likeness even dogg'dMy footsteps when at school,And I was always getting flogg'd,For John turned out a fool.I put this question hopelesslyTo every one I knew—Whatwouldyou do, if you were me,To prove that you wereyou?Our close resemblance turn'd the tideOf my domestic life;For somehow my intended brideBecame my brother's wife.In short, year after year the sameAbsurd mistakes went on;And when I died—the neighbors cameAnd buried brother John!

Henry S. Leigh.

When I am dead you'll find it hard,Said he,To ever find another manLike me.What makes you think, as I supposeYou do,I'd ever want another manLike you?

Eugene Fitch Ware.

"What other men have dared, I dare,"He said. "I'm daring, too:And tho' they told me to beware,One kiss I'll take from you."Did I say one? Forgive me, dear;That was a grave mistake,For when I've taken one, I fear,One hundred more I'll take."'Tis sweet one kiss from you to win,But to stop there? Oh, no!One kiss is only to begin;There is no end, you know."The maiden rose from where she satAnd gently raised her head:"No man has ever talked like that—You may begin," she said.

Tom Masson.

God makes sech nights, all white an' stillFur 'z you can look or listen,Moonshine an' snow on field an' hill,All silence an' all glisten.Zekle crep' up quite unbeknownAn' peeked in thru' the winder,An' there sot Huldy all alone,'Ith no one nigh to hender.A fireplace filled the room's one sideWith half a cord o' wood in—There warn't no stoves (tell comfort died)To bake ye to a puddin'.The wa'nut logs shot sparkles outTowards the pootiest, bless her,An' leetle flames danced all aboutThe chiny on the dresser.Agin the chimbley crook-necks hung,An' in amongst 'em rustedThe ole queen's-arm that Gran'ther YoungFetched back f'om Concord busted.The very room, coz she was in,Seemed warm f'om floor to ceilin',An' she looked full ez rosy aginEz the apples she was peelin'.'Twas kin' o' kingdom-come to lookOn sech a blessed cretur;A dogrose blushin' to a brookAin't modester nor sweeter.He was six foot o' man, A 1,Clear grit an' human natur';None couldn't quicker pitch a tonNor dror a furrer straighter.He'd sparked it with full twenty gals,He'd squired 'em, danced 'em, druv 'em,Fust this one, an' then thet, by spells—All is, he couldn't love 'em.But long o' her his veins 'ould runAll crinkly like curled maple;The side she breshed felt full o' sunEz a south slope in Ap'il.She thought no v'ice hed sech a swingEz hisn in the choir;My! when he made Ole Hunderd ring,Sheknowedthe Lord was nigher.An' she'd blush scarlit, right in prayer,When her new meetin'-bunnetFelt somehow thru its crown a pairO' blue eyes sot upun it.Thet night, I tell ye, she lookedsome!She seemed to 've gut a new soul,For she felt sartin-sure he'd come,Down to her very shoe-sole.She heered a foot, an' knowed it tu,A-raspin' on the scraper—All ways to once her feelins flewLike sparks in burnt-up paper.He kin' o' l'itered on the mat,Some doubtfle o' the sekle;His heart kep' goin' pity-pat,But hern went pity Zekle.An' yit she gin her cheer a jerkEz though she wished him furder,An' on her apples kep' to work,Parin' away like murder."You want to see my Pa, I s'pose?""Wal ... no ... I come dasignin'—""To see my Ma? She's sprinklin' clo'esAgin to-morrer's i'nin'."To say why gals act so or so,Or don't, 'ould be presumin';Mebbe to meanyesan' saynoComes nateral to women.He stood a spell on one foot fust,Then stood a spell on t'other,An' on which one he felt the wustHe couldn't ha' told ye nuther.Says he, "I'd better call agin";Says she, "Think likely, Mister";Thet last word pricked him like a pin,An' ... Wal, he up an' kist her.When Ma bimeby upon 'em slips,Huldy sot pale ez ashes,All kin' o' smily roun' the lipsAn' teary roun' the lashes.For she was jes' the quiet kindWhose naturs never vary,Like streams that keep a summer mindSnowhid in Jenooary.The blood clost roun' her heart felt gluedToo tight for all expressin',Tell mother see how metters stood,An' gin 'em both her blessin'.Then her red come back like the tideDown to the Bay o' Fundy,An' all I know is they was criedIn meetin' come nex' Sunday.

James Russell Lowell.

Where the MoosatockmagunticPours its waters in the Skuntic,Met, along the forest sideHiram Hover, Huldah Hyde.She, a maiden fair and dapper,He, a red-haired, stalwart trapper,Hunting beaver, mink, and skunkIn the woodlands of Squeedunk.She, Pentucket's pensive daughter,Walked beside the Skuntic waterGathering, in her apron wet,Snake-root, mint, and bouncing-bet."Why," he murmured, loth to leave her,"Gather yarbs for chills and fever,When a lovyer bold and true,Only waits to gather you?""Go," she answered, "I'm not hasty,I prefer a man more tasty;Leastways, one to please me wellShould not have a beasty smell.""Haughty Huldah!" Hiram answered,"Mind and heart alike are cancered;Jest look here! these peltries giveCash, wherefrom a pair may live."I, you think, am but a vagrant,Trapping beasts by no means fragrant;Yet, I'm sure it's worth a thank—I've a handsome sum in bank."Turned and vanished Hiram Hover,And, before the year was over,Huldah, with the yarbs she sold,Bought a cape, against the cold.Black and thick the furry cape was,Of a stylish cut the shape was;And the girls, in all the town,Envied Huldah up and down.Then at last, one winter morning,Hiram came without a warning."Either," said he, "you are blind,Huldah, or you've changed your mind."Me you snub for trapping varmints,Yet you take the skins for garments;Since you wear the skunk and mink,There's no harm in me, I think.""Well," said she, "we will not quarrel,Hiram; I accept the moral,Now the fashion's so I guessI can't hardly do no less."Thus the trouble all was overOf the love of Hiram Hover.Thus he made sweet Huldah HydeHuldah Hover as his bride.Love employs, with equal favor,Things of good and evil savor;That which first appeared to part,Warmed, at last, the maiden's heart.Under one impartial banner,Life, the hunter, Love the tanner,Draw, from every beast they snare,Comfort for a wedded pair!

Bayard Taylor.

When I was young and full o' pride,A-standin' on the grassAnd gazin' o'er the water-side,I seen a fisher lass."O, fisher lass, be kind awhile,"I asks 'er quite unbid."Please look into me face and smile"—And, blow me eyes, she did!O, blow me light and blow me blow,I didn't think she'd charm me so—But, blow me eyes, she did!She seemed so young and beautifulIhadto speak perlite,(The afternoon was long and dull,But she was short and bright)."This ain't no place," I says, "to stand—Let's take a walk instid,Each holdin' of the other's hand"—And, blow me eyes, she did!O, blow me light and blow me blow,I sort o' thunk she wouldn't go—But, blow me eyes, she did!And as we walked along a laneWith no one else to see,Me heart was filled with sudden pain,And so I says to she:"If you would have me actions speakThe words what can't be hid,You'd sort o' let me kiss yer cheek"—And, blow me eyes, she did!O, blow me light and blow me blow,How sweet she was I didn't know—But, blow me eyes,shedid!But pretty soon me shipmate JimCame strollin' down the beach,And she began a-oglin' himAs pretty as a peach."O, fickle maid o' false intent,"Impulsively I chid,"Why don't you go and wed that gent?"And, blow me eyes, she did!O, blow me light and blow me blow,I didn't think she'd treat me so—But, blow me eyes, she did!

Wallace Irwin.

O my earliest love, who, ere I number'dTen sweet summers, made my bosom thrill!Will a swallow—or a swift, or some bird—Fly to her and say, I love her still?Say my life's a desert drear and arid,To its one green spot I aye recur:Never, never—although three times married—Have I cared a jot for aught but her.No, mine own! though early forced to leave you,Still my heart was there where first we met;In those "Lodgings with an ample sea-view,"Which were, forty years ago, "To Let."There I saw her first, our landlord's oldestLittle daughter. On a thing so fairThou, O Sun,—who (so they say) beholdestEverything,—hast gazed, I tell thee, ne'er.There she sat—so near me, yet remoterThan a star—a blue-eyed, bashful imp:On her lap she held a happy bloater,'Twixt her lips a yet more happy shrimp.And I loved her, and our troth we plightedOn the morrow by the shingly shore:In a fortnight to be disunitedBy a bitter fate forevermore.O my own, my beautiful, my blue-eyed!To be young once more, and bite my thumbAt the world and all its cares with you, I'dGive no inconsiderable sum.Hand in hand we tramp'd the golden seaweed,Soon as o'er the gray cliff peep'd the dawn:Side by side, when came the hour for tea, we'dCrunch the mottled shrimp and hairy prawn:—Has she wedded some gigantic shrimper,That sweet mite with whom I loved to play?Is she girt with babes that whine and whimper,That bright being who was always gay?Yes—she has at least a dozen wee things!Yes—I see her darning corduroys,Scouring floors, and setting out the tea-things,For a howling herd of hungry boys,In a home that reeks of tar and sperm-oil!But at intervals she thinks, I know,Of those days which we, afar from turmoil,Spent together forty years ago.O my earliest love, still unforgotten,With your downcast eyes of dreamy blue!Never, somehow, could I seem to cottonTo another as I did to you!

Charles Stuart Calverley.

A woman is like to—but stay—What a woman is like, who can say?There is no living with or without one.Love bites like a fly,Now an ear, now an eye,Buzz, buzz, always buzzing about one.When she's tender and kindShe is like to my mind,(And Fanny was so, I remember).She's like to—Oh, dear!She's as good, very near,As a ripe, melting peach in September.If she laugh, and she chat,Play, joke, and all that,And with smiles and good humor she meet me,She's like a rich dishOf venison or fish,That cries from the table, Come eat me!But she'll plague you and vex you,Distract and perplex you;False-hearted and ranging,Unsettled and changing,What then do you think, she is like?Like sand? Like a rock?Like a wheel? Like a clock?Ay, a clock that is always at strike.Her head's like the island folks tell on,Which nothing but monkeys can dwell on;Her heart's like a lemon—so niceShe carves for each lover a slice;In truth she's to me,Like the wind, like the sea,Whose raging will hearken to no man;Like a mill, like a pill,Like a flail, like a whale,Like an ass, like a glassWhose image is constant to no man;Like a shower, like a flower,Like a fly, like a pie,Like a pea, like a flea,Like a thief, like—in brief,She's like nothing on earth—but a woman!

Unknown.

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