Who money has, well wages the campaign;Who money has, becomes of gentle strain;Who money has, to honor all accord:He is my lord.Who money has, the ladies ne'er disdain;Who money has, loud praises will attain;Who money has, in the world's heart is stored,The flower adored.O'er all mankind he holds his conquering track—They only are condemned who money lack.Who money has, will wisdom's credit gain;Who money has, all earth is his domain;Who money has, praise is his sure reward,Which all afford.Who money has, from nothing need refrain;.Who money has, on him is favor poured;And, in a word,Who money has, need never fear attack—They only are condemned who money lack.Who money has, in every heart does reign;Who money has, all to approach are fain;Who money has, of him no fault is told,Nor harm can hold.Who money has, none does his right restrain;Who money has, can whom he will maintain;Who money has, clerk, prior, by his gold,Is straight enrolled.Who money has, all raise, none hold him back—They only are condemned who money lack.
Jehan du Pontalais.
RHYME FOR A GEOLOGICAL BABY
Trilobite, Grapholite, Nautilus pie;Seas were calcareous, oceans were dry.Eocene, miocene, pliocene Tuff,Lias and Trias and that is enough.
RHYME FOR ASTRONOMICAL BABY
Bye Baby Bunting,Father's gone star-hunting;Mother's at the telescopeCasting baby's horoscope.Bye Baby Buntoid,Father's found an asteroid;Mother takes by calculationThe angle of its inclination.
RHYME FOR BOTANICAL BABY
Little bo-peepalsHas lost her sepals,And can't tell-where to find them;In the involucreBy hook or by crook orShe'll make up her mind not to mind them.
RHYME FOR A CHEMICAL BABY
Oh, sing a song of phosphates,Fibrine in a line,Four-and-twenty folliclesIn the van of time.When the phosphorescenceEvoluted brain,Superstition ended,Men began to reign.
Rev. Joseph Cook.
You Wi'yum, cum 'ere, suh, dis minute. Wut dat you got under dat box?
I don't want no foolin'—you hear me? Wut you say? Ain't nu'h'n butrocks?
'Peahs ter me you's owdashus perticler. S'posin' dey's uv a new kine.
I'll des take a look at dem rocks. Hi yi! der you think dat I's bline?
Icalls dat a plain water-million, you scamp, en I knows whah it growed;
It come fum de Jimmerson cawn fiel', dah on ter side er de road.
You stole it, you rascal—you stole it! I watched you fum down in de lot.
En time I gits th'ough wid you, nigger, you won't eb'n be a grease spot!
I'llfix you. Mirandy! Mirandy! go cut me a hick'ry—make 'ase!
En cut me de toughes' en keenes' you c'n fine anywhah on de place.
I'll larn you, Mr. Wi'yum Joe Vetters, ter steal en ter lie, you young sinner,
Disgracin' yo' ole Christian mammy, en makin' her leave cookin' dinner!
Now ain't you ashamed er yo'se'f, suh? I is. I's 'shamed you's my son!
En de holy accorjun angel he's 'shamed er wut you has done;
En he's tuk it down up yander in coal-black, blood-red letters—
"One water-million stoled by Wi'yum Josephus Vetters."
En wut you s'posin' Brer Bascom, yo' teacher at Sunday school,
'Ud say ef he knowed how you's broke de good Lawd's Gol'n Rule?
Boy, whah's de raisin' I give you? Is you boun' fuh ter be a black villiun?
I's s'prised dat a chile er yo' mammy 'ud steal any man's water-million.
En I's now gwiner cut it right open, en you shain't have narry bite,
Fuh a boy who'll steal water-millions—en dat in de day's broad light—
Ain't—Lawdy!it'sGREEN! Mirandy; Mi-ran-dy! come on wi' dat switch!
Well, stealin' a g-r-e-e-n water-million! who ever heered tell er des sich?
Cain't tell w'en dey's ripe? W'y, you thump 'um, en w'en dey go pank dey is green;
But when dey gopunk, now you mine me, dey's ripe—en dat's des wut I mean.
En nex' time you hook water-millions—youheered me, you ign'ant young hunk,
Ef you don't want a lickin' all over, be sho dat dey allers go "punk"!
Harrison Robertson.
John Grumlie swore by the light o' the moonAnd the green leaves on the tree,That he could do more work in a dayThan his wife could do in three.His wife rose up in the morningWi' cares and troubles enow—John Grumlie bide at hame, John,And I'll go haud the plow.First ye maun dress your children fair,And put them a' in their gear;And ye maun turn the malt, John,Or else ye'll spoil the beer;And ye maun reel the tweel, John,That I span yesterday;And ye maun ca' in the hens, John,Else they'll all lay away.O he did dress his children fair,And put them a' in their gear;But he forgot to turn the malt,And so he spoil'd the beer:And he sang loud as he reeled the tweelThat his wife span yesterday;But he forgot to put up the hens,And the hens all layed away.The hawket crummie loot down nae milk;He kirned, nor butter gat;And a' gade wrang, and nought gade right;He danced with rage, and grat;Then up he ran to the head o' the knoweWi' mony a wave and shout—She heard him as she heard him not,And steered the stots about.John Grumlie's wife cam hame at e'en,A weary wife and sad,And burst into a laughter loud,And laughed as she'd been mad:While John Grumlie swore by the light o' the moonAnd the green leaves on the tree,If my wife should na win a penny a dayShe's aye have her will for me.
Allan Cunningham.
Lady, I loved you all last year,How honestly and well—Alas! would weary you to hear,And torture me to tell;I raved beneath the midnight sky,I sang beneath the limes—Orlando in my lunacy,And Petrarch in my rhymes.But all is over! When the sunDries up the boundless main,When black is white, false-hearted one,I may be yours again!When passion's early hopes and fearsAre not derided things;When truth is found in falling tears,Or faith in golden rings;When the dark Fates that rule our wayInstruct me where they hideOne woman that would ne'er betray,One friend that never lied;When summer shines without a cloud,And bliss without a pain;When worth is noticed in a crowd,I may be yours again!When science pours the light of dayUpon the lords of lands;When Huskisson is heard to sayThat Lethbridge understands;When wrinkles work their way in youth,Or Eldon's in a hurry;When lawyers represent the truth,Or Mr. Sumner Surrey;When aldermen taste eloquenceOr bricklayers champagne;When common law is common sense,I may be yours again!When learned judges play the beau,Or learned pigs the tabor;When traveller Bankes beats Cicero,Or Mr. Bishop Weber;When sinking funds discharge a debt,Or female hands a bomb;When bankrupts study theGazette,Or collegesTom Thumb;When little fishes learn to speak,Or poets not to feign;When Dr. Geldart construes Greek,I may be yours again!When Pole and Thornton honour cheques,Or Mr. Const a rogue;When Jericho's in Middlesex,Or minuets in vogue;When Highgate goes to Devonport,Or fashion to Guildhall;When argument is heard at Court,Or Mr. Wynn at all;When Sydney Smith forgets to jest,Or farmers to complain;When kings that are are not the best,I may be yours again!When peers from telling money shrink,Or monks from telling lies;When hydrogen begins to sink,Or Grecian scrip to rise;When German poets cease to dream,Americans to guess;When Freedom sheds her holy beamOn Negroes, and the Press;When there is any fear of Rome,Or any hope of Spain;When Ireland is a happy home,I may be yours again!When you can cancel what has been,Or alter what must be,Or bring once more that vanished scene,Those withered joys to me;When you can tune the broken lute,Or deck the blighted wreath,Or rear the garden's richest fruit,Upon a blasted heath;When you can lure the wolf at bayBack to his shattered chain,To-day may then be yesterday—I may be yours again!
Winthrop Mackworth Praed.
Go and catch a falling star,Get with child a mandrake root;Tell me where all past years are,Or who cleft the Devil's foot;Teach me to hear Mermaids singing,—Or to keep off envy's stinging,And findWhat windServes to advance an honest mind.If thou beest born to strange sights,Things invisible to see,Ride ten thousand days and nights,Till age snow white hairs on thee;Thou, when thou return'st, wilt tell meAll strange wonders that befell thee,And swearNowhereLives a woman true and fair.If thou find'st one, let me know;Such a pilgrimage were sweet.Yet do not; I would not go,Though at next door we might meet.Though she were true when you met her,And last till you write your letter,Yet sheWill beFalse, ere I come, to two or three.
John Donne.
It was an hairy oubit, sae proud he crept alang;A feckless hairy oubit, and merrily he sang:"My Minnie bade me bide at home until I won my wings,I shew her soon my soul's aboon the warks o' creeping things."This feckless hairy oubit cam' hirpling by the linn,A swirl o' wind cam' doun the glen, and blew that oubit in.Oh, when he took the water, the saumon fry they rose,And tigg'd him a' to pieces sma', by head and tail and toes.Tak' warning then, young poets a', by this poor oubit's shame;Though Pegasus may nicher loud, keep Pegasus at hame.O haud your hands frae inkhorns, though a' the Muses woo;For critics lie, like saumon fry, to mak' their meals o' you.
Charles Kingsley.
He lived in a cave by the seas,He lived upon oysters and foes,But his list of forbidden degreesAn extensive morality shows;Geological evidence goesTo prove he had never a pan,But he shaved with a shell when he chose,—'Twas the manner of Primitive Man.He worshipp'd the rain and the breeze,He worshipp'd the river that flows,And the Dawn, and the Moon, and the treesAnd bogies, and serpents, and crows;He buried his dead with their toesTucked-up, an original plan,Till their knees came right under their nose,—'Twas the manner of Primitive Man.His communal wives, at his ease,He would curb with occasional blowsOr his State had a queen, like the bees(As another philosopher trows):When he spoke, it was never in prose,But he sang in a strain that would scan,For (to doubt it, perchance, were morose)'Twas the manner of Primitive Man!On the coasts that incessantly freeze,With his stones, and his bones, and his bows,On luxuriant tropical leas,Where the summer eternally glows,He is found, and his habits disclose(Let theology say what she can)That he lived in the long, long agos,Twas the manner of Primitive Man!From a status like that of the CreesOur society's fabric arose,—Develop'd, evolved, if you please,But deluded chronologists chose,In a fancied accordance with Moses, 4000B.C.for the spanWhen he rushed on the world and its woes,—'Twas the manner of Primitive Man.But the mild anthropologist—he'sNotrecentinclined to supposeFlints Palæolithic like these,Quaternary bones such as those!In Rhinoceros, Mammoth and Co.'sFirst epoch the Human beganTheologians all to expose,—'Tis themissionof Primitive Man.
ENVOY
Max, proudly your Aryans pose,But their rigs they undoubtedly ran,For, as every Darwinian knows,'Twas the manner of Primitive Man!
Andrew Lang.
How old may Phillis be, you ask,Whose beauty thus all hearts engages?To answer is no easy task:For she has really two ages.Stiff in brocade, and pinch'd in stays,Her patches, paint, and jewels on;All day let envy view her face,And Phillis is but twenty-one.Paint, patches, jewels laid aside,At night astronomers agree,The evening has the day belied;And Phillis is some forty-three.
Matthew Prior.
Good Luck is the gayest of all gay girls;Long in one place she will not stay:Back from your brow she strokes the curls,Kisses you quick and flies away.But Madame Bad Luck soberly comesAnd stays—no fancy has she for flitting;Snatches of true-love songs she hums,And sits by your bed, and brings her knitting.
John Hay.
"Gimme my scarlet tie,"Says I."Gimme my brownest boots and hat,Gimme a vest with a pattern fancy,Gimme a gel with some style, like Nancy,And then—well, it's gimes as I'll be at,Seein' as its bangkolidye,"Says I."May miss it, but we'll try,"Says I.Nancy ran like a frightened 'enHup the steps of the bloomin' styeshun.Bookin'-orfus at last! Salvyeshun!An' the two returns was five-and-ten."An' travellin' mikes your money fly,"Says I."This atmosphere is 'igh,"Says I.Twelve in a carriage is pretty thick,When 'ite of the twelve is a sittin', smokin';Nancy started 'er lawkin, and jokin',Syin' she 'oped as we shouldn't be sick;"Don't go on, or you'll mike me die!"Says I."Three styeshuns we've porst by,"Says I."So hout we get at the next, my gel."When we got hout, she wer pale and saint-like,White in the gills, and sorter faint-like,An' said my cigaw 'ad a powerful smell,"Well, it's the sime as I always buy,"Says I."'Ites them clouds in the sky,"Says I."Don't like 'em at all," I says, "that's flat—Black as your boots and sorter thick'nin'.""If it's wet," says she, "itwillbe sick'nin'.I wish as I'd brought my other 'at.""You thinks too much of your finery,"Says I."Keep them sanwidjus dry,"Says I.When the rine came down in a reggiler sheet.But what can yo do with one umbrella,And a damp gel strung on the arm of a fella?"Well, rined-on 'am ain't pleasant to eat,If yer don't believe it, just go an try,"Says I."There is some gels whort cry,"Says I."And there is some don't shed a tear,But just get tempers, and when they has'emReaches a pint in their sarcasem,As on'y a dorg could bear to 'ear."This unto Nancy by-and-by,Says I.All's hover now. And why,Says I.But why did I wear them boots, that vest?The bloom is off 'em; they're sad to see;And hev'rythin's off twixt Nancy and me;And my trousers is off and gone to be pressed—And ain't this a blimed bangkolidye?Says I.
Barry Pain.
When the landlord wants the rentOf your humble tenement;When the Christmas bills beginDaily, hourly pouring in;When you pay your gas and poor rateTip the rector, fee the curate,Let this thought your spirit cheer—Christmas comes but once a year.When the man who brings the coalClaims his customary dole:When the postman rings and knocksFor his usual Christmas-box:When you're dunned by half the townWith demands for half-a-crown,—Think, although they cost you dear,Christmas comes but once a year.When you roam from shop to shop,Seeking, till you nearly drop,Christmas cards and small donationsFor the maw of your relations,Questing vainly 'mid the heapFor a thing that's nice, and cheap:Think, and check the rising tear,Christmas comes but once a year.Though for three successive daysBusiness quits her usual ways;Though the milkman's voice be dumb;Though the paper doesn't come;Though you want tobacco, butFind that all the shops are shut:Bravely still your sorrows bear—Christmas comes but once a year.When mince-pies you can't digestJoin with waits to break your rest:When, oh when, to crown your woe,Persons who might better knowThink it needful that you shouldDon a gay convivial mood:—Bear with fortitude and patienceThese afflicting dispensations:Man was born to suffer here:Christmas comes but once a year.
A. D. Godley.
They spoke of Progress spiring round,Of Light and Mrs. Humphry Ward—It is not true to say I frowned,Or ran about the room and roared;I might have simply sat and snored—I rose politely in the clubAnd said, "I feel a little bored;Will someone take me to a pub?"The new world's wisest did surroundMe; and it pains me to recordI did not think their views profound,Or their conclusions well assured;The simple life I can't afford,Besides, I do not like the grub—I want a mash and sausage, "scored"—Will someone take me to a pub?I know where Men can still be found,Anger and clamorous accord,And virtues growing from the ground,And fellowship of beer and board,And song, that is a sturdy cord,And hope, that is a hardy shrub,And goodness, that is God's last word—Will someone take me to a pub?
ENVOI
Prince, Bayard would have smashed his swordTo see the sort of knights you dub—Is that the last of them—O Lord!Will someone take me to a pub?
G. K. Chesterton.
In the age that was golden, the halcyon time,All the billows were balmy and breezes were bland.Then the poet was never hard up for a rhyme,Then the milk and the honey flew free and were prime,And the voice of the turtle was heard in the land.In the times that are guilty the winds are perverse,Blowing fair for the sharper and foul for the dupe.Now the poet's condition could scarcely be worse,Now the milk and the honey are strained through the purse,And the voice of the turtle is dead in the soup.
Newton Mackintosh.
You prefer a buffoon to a scholar,A harlequin to a teacher,A jester to a statesman,An Anonyma flaring on horsebackTo a modest and spotless woman—Brute of a public!You think that to sneer shows wisdom,That a gibe outvalues a reason,That slang, such as thieves delight in,Is fit for the lips of the gentle,And rather a grace than a blemish,Thick-headed public!You think that if merit's exalted'Tis excellent sport to decry it,And trail its good name in the gutter;And that cynics, white-gloved and cravatted,Are the cream and quintessence of all things,Ass of a public!You think that success must be merit,That honour and virtue and courageAre all very well in their places,But that money's a thousand times better;Detestable, stupid, degradedPig of a public!
Charles Mackay.
It once might have been, once only:We lodged in a street together.You, a sparrow on the house-top lonely,I, a lone she-bird of his feather.Your trade was with sticks and clay,You thumbed, thrust, patted and polished,Then laughed, "They will see some daySmith made, and Gibson demolished."My business was song, song, song;I chirped, cheeped, trilled and twittered,"Kate Brown's on the boards ere long,And Grisi's existence embittered!"I earned no more by a warbleThan you by a sketch in plaster;You wanted a piece of marble,I needed a music-master.We studied hard in our styles,Chipped each at a crust like Hindoos,For air, looked out on the tiles,For fun watched each other's windows.You lounged, like a boy of the South,Cap and blouse—nay, a bit of beard too;Or you got it rubbing your mouthWith fingers the clay adhered to.And I—soon managed to findWeak points in the flower-fence facing,Was forced to put up a blindAnd be safe in my corset-lacing.No harm! It was not my faultIf you never turned your eyes' tail up,As I shook upon Ein alt.,Or ran the chromatic scale up:For spring bade the sparrows pair,And the boys and girls gave guesses,And stalls in our streets looked rareWith bulrush and watercresses.Why did not you pinch a flowerIn a pellet of clay and fling it?Why did I not put a powerOf thanks in a look, or sing it?I did look, sharp as a lynx,(And yet the memory rankles,)When models arrived, some minxTripped up-stairs, she and her ankles.But I think I gave you as good!"That foreign fellow—who can knowHow she pays, in a playful mood,For his tuning her that piano?"Could you say so, and never say,"Suppose we join hands and fortunes,And I fetch her from over the way,Her, piano, and long tunes and short tunes?"No, no; you would not be rash,Nor I rasher and something over:You've to settle yet Gibson's hash,And Grisi yet lives in clover.But you meet the Prince at the Board,I'm queen myself atbals-paré,I've married a rich old lord,And you're dubbed knight and an R. A.Each life's unfulfilled, you see;It hangs still, patchy and scrappy:We have not sighed deep, laughed free,Starved, feasted, despaired—been happy.And nobody calls you a dunce,And people suppose me clever:This could but have happened once,And we missed it, lost it forever.
Robert Browning.
My pipe is lit, my grog is mixed,My curtains drawn and all is snug;Old Puss is in her elbow-chair,And Tray is sitting on the rug.Last night I had a curious dream,Miss Susan Bates was Mistress Mogg—What d'ye think of that, my cat?What d'ye think of that, my dog?She looked so fair, she sang so well,I could but woo and she was won;Myself in blue, the bride in white,The ring was placed, the deed was done!Away we went in chaise-and-four.As fast as grinning boys could flog—What d'ye think of that, my cat?What d'ye think of that, my dog?At times we had a spar, and thenMamma must mingle in the song—The sister took a sister's part—The maid declared her master wrong—The parrot learned to call me "Fool!"My life was like a London fog—What d'ye think of that, my cat?What d'ye think of that, my dog?My Susan's taste was superfine,As proved by bills that had no end;Inever had a decent coat—Inever had a coin to spend!She forced me to resign my club,Lay down my pipe, retrench my grog—What d'ye think of that, my cat?What d'ye think of that, my dog?Each Sunday night we gave a routTo fops and flirts, a pretty list;And when I tried to steal away,I found my study full of whist!Then, first to come, and last to go,There always was a Captain Hogg—What d'ye think of that, my cat?What d'ye think of that, my dog?Now was not that an awful dreamFor one who single is and snug—With Pussy in the elbow chair,And Tray reposing on the rug?—If I must totter down the hill,'Tis safest done without a clog—What d'ye think of that, my cat?What d'ye think of that, my dog?
Thomas Hood.
I know when milk does flies contain;I know men by their bravery;I know fair days from storm and rain;And what fruit apple-trees supply;And from their gums the trees descry;I know when all things smoothly flow;I know who toil or idle lie;All things except myself I know.I know the doublet by the grain;The monk beneath the hood can spy;Master from man can ascertain;I know the nun's veiled modesty;I know when sportsmen fables ply;Know fools who creams and dainties stow;Wine from the butt I certify;All things except myself I know.Know horse from mule by tail and mane;I know their worth or high or low;Bell, Beatrice, I know the twain;I know each chance of cards and dice;I know what visions prophesy,Bohemian heresies, I trow;I know men of each quality;All things except myself I know.
ENVOY
Prince, I know all things 'neath the sky,Pale cheeks from those of rosy glow;I know death whence can no man fly;All things except myself I know.
François Villon.
How uneasy is his life,Who is troubled with a wife!Be she ne'er so fair or comely,Be she ne'er so foul or homely,Be she ne'er so young and toward,Be she ne'er so old and froward,Be she kind, with arms enfolding,Be she cross, and always scolding,Be she blithe or melancholy,Have she wit, or have she folly,Be she wary, be she squandering,Be she staid, or be she wandering,Be she constant, be she fickle,Be she fire, or be she ickle;Be she pious or ungodly,Be she chaste, or what sounds oddly:Lastly, be she good or evil,Be she saint, or be she devil,—Yet, uneasy is his lifeWho is married to a wife.
Charles Cotton.
If I were thine, I'd fail not of endeavourThe loftiest,To make thy daily life, now and forever,Supremely blest—I'd watch thy moods, I'd toil and wait, with yearning,Incessant incense at thy dear shrine burning,If I were thine.If thou wert mine, quite changed would be these features.Then, I suspect,Thou wouldst the humblest prove of loving creatures,And not objectTo do the very things I am declaringI'd undertake forthee, with selfless daring,If thou wert mine.If we were ours? And now, here comes the riddle!How would that work?I'm sureyou'dnever stoop to second fiddle,And—I might shirkThe part of serf. And, likewise, each might neitherBe willing slave or servitor of either,If we were ours!
Madeline Bridges.
Though I met her in the summer, when one's heart lies round at ease,
As it were in tennis costume, and a man's not hard to please,
Yet I think that any season to have met her was to love,
While her tones, unspoiled, unstudied, had the softness of the dove.
At request she read us poems in a nook among the pines,
And her artless voice lent music to the least melodious lines;
Though she lowered her shadowing lashes, in an earnest reader's wise,
Yet we caught blue, gracious glimpses of the heavens which were her eyes.
As in paradise I listened—ah, I did not understand
That a little cloud, no larger than the average human hand,
Might, as stated oft in fiction, spread into a sable pall,
When she said that she should study Elocution in the fall!
I admit her earliest efforts were not in the Ercles vein;
She began with "Little Maaybel, with her faayce against the payne
And the beacon-light a-t-r-r-remble"—which, although it made me wince,
Is a thing of cheerful nature to the things she's rendered since.
Having heard the Soulful Quiver, she acquired the Melting Mo-o-an,
And the way she gave "Young Grayhead" would have liquefied a stone.
Then the Sanguinary Tragic did her energies employ,
And she tore my taste to tatters when she slew "The Polish Boy."
It's not pleasant for a fellow when the jewel of his soul
Wades through slaughter on the carpet, while her orbs in frenzy roll;
What was I that I should murmur? Yet it gave me grievous pain
That she rose in social gatherings, and Searched among the Slain.
I was forced to look upon her in my desperation dumb,
Knowing well that when her awful opportunity was come
She would give us battle, murder, sudden death at very least,
As a skeleton of warning, and a blight upon the feast.
Once, ah! once I fell a-dreaming; some one played a polonaise
I associated strongly with those happier August days;
And I mused, "I'll speak this evening," recent pangs forgotten quite—
Sudden shrilled a scream of anguish: "Curfew shall not ring to-night!"
Ah, that sound was as a curfew, quenching rosy, warm romance—
Were it safe to wed a woman one so oft would wish in France?
Oh, as she "cul-limbed" that ladder, swift my mounting hope came down,
I am still a single cynic; she is still Cassandra Brown!
Helen Gray Cone.
In letters large upon the frame,That visitors might see,The painter placed his humble name:O'Callaghan McGee.And from Beersheba unto Dan,The critics with a nodExclaimed: "This painting IrishmanAdores his native sod."His stout heart's patriotic flameThere's naught on earth can quell;He takes no wild romantic nameTo make his pictures sell!"Then poets praise in sonnets neatHis stroke so bold and free;No parlour wall was thought completeThat hadn't a McGee.All patriots before McGeeThrew lavishly their gold;His works in the AcademyWere very quickly sold.His "Digging Clams at Barnegat,"His "When the Morning smiled,"His "Seven Miles from Ararat,"His "Portrait of a Child,"Were purchased in a single dayAnd lauded as divine.—
That night as in hisatelierThe artist sipped his wine,And looked upon his gilded frames,He grinned from ear to ear:—"They little think myrealname'sV. Stuyvesant De Vere!"
R. K. Munkittrick.
"Ah! si la jeunesse savait,—si la vieillesse pouvait!"There sat an old man on a rock,And unceasing bewailed him of Fate,—That concern where we all must take stock,Though our vote has no hearing or weight;And the old man sang him an old, old song,—Never sang voice so clear and strongThat it could drown the old man's for long,For he sang the song "Too late! too late!"When we want, we have for our painsThe promise that if we but waitTill the want has burned out of our brains,Every means shall be present to state;While we send for the napkin the soup gets cold,While the bonnet is trimming the face grows old,When we've matched our buttons the pattern is soldAnd everything comes too late,—too late!"When strawberries seemed like red heavens,—Terrapin stew a wild dream,—When my brain was at sixes and sevens,If my mother had 'folks' and ice cream,Then I gazed with a lickerish hungerAt the restaurant man and fruit-monger,—But oh! how I wished I were youngerWhen the goodies all came in a stream! in a stream!"I've a splendid blood horse, and—a liverThat it jars into torture to trot;My row-boat's the gem of the river,—Gout makes every knuckle a knot!I can buy boundless credits on Paris and Rome,But no palate forménus,—no eyes for a dome,—Thosebelonged to the youth who must tarry at home,When no home but an attic he'd got,—he'd got!"How I longed, in that lonest of garrets,Where the tiles baked my brains all July,For ground to grow two pecks of carrots,Two pigs of my own in a sty,A rosebush,—a little thatched cottage,—Two spoons—love—a basin of pottage!—Now in freestone I sit,—and my dotage,—With a woman's chair empty close by, close by!"Ah! now, though I sit on a rock,I have shared one seat with the great;I have sat—knowing naught of the clock—On love's high throne of state;But the lips that kissed, and the arms that caressed,To a mouth grown stern with delay were pressed,And circled a breast that their clasp had blessed,Had they only not come too late,—too late!"
Fitz Hugh Ludlow.
I gaed to spend a week in Fife—An unco week it proved to be—For there I met a waesome wifeLamentin' her viduity.Her grief brak out sae fierce and fell,I thought her heart wad burst the shell;And,—I was sae left to mysel',—I sell't her an annuity.The bargain lookit fair eneugh—She just was turned o' saxty-three—I couldna guessed she'd prove sae teugh,By human ingenuity.But years have come, and years have gane,And there she's yet as stieve as stane—The limmer's growin' young again,Since she got her annuity.She's crined' awa' to bane and skin,But that, it seems, is nought to me;She's like to live—although she's inThe last stage o' tenuity.She munches wi' her wizen'd gums,An' stumps about on legs o' thrums;But comes, as sure as Christmas comes,To ca' for her annuity.I read the tables drawn wi' careFor an insurance company;Her chance o' life was stated there,Wi' perfect perspicuity.But tables here or tables there,She's lived ten years beyond her share,An' 's like to live a dozen mair,To ca' for her annuity.Last Yule she had a fearfu' host,I thought a kink might set me free—I led her out, 'mang snaw and frost,Wi' constant assiduity.But deil ma' care—the blast gaed by,And miss'd the auld anatomy—It just cost me a tooth, for byeDischarging her annuity.If there's a' sough o' cholera,Or typhus,—wha sae gleg as she?She buys up baths, an' drugs, an' a',In siccan superfluity!She doesna need—she's fever proof—The pest walked o'er her very roof—She tauld me sae—an' then her loofHeld out for her annuity.Ae day she fell, her arm she brak—A compound fracture as could be—Nae leech the cure wad undertake,Whate'er was the gratuity.It's cured! She handles 't like a flail—It does as weel in bits as hale—But I'm a broken man mysel'Wi' her and her annuity.Her broozled flesh and broken banesAre weel as flesh and banes can be.She beats the taeds that live in stanes,An' fatten in vacuity!They die when they're exposed to air—They canna thole the atmosphere;But her!—expose her onywhere—She lives for her annuity.If mortal means could nick her thread,Sma' crime it wad appear to me;Ca't murder, or ca't homicide,I'd justify 't—an' do it tae.But how to fell a withered wifeThat's carved out o' the tree o' life—The timmer limmer daurs the knifeTo settle her annuity.I'd try a shot: but whar's the mark?—Her vital parts are hid frae me;Her backbane wanders through her sarkIn an unkenn'd corkscrewity.She's palsified—an shakes her headSae fast about, ye scarce can see;It's past the power o' steel or leadTo settle her annuity.She might be drowned—but go she'll notWithin a mile o' loch or sea;Or hanged—if cord could grip a throatO' siccan exiguity.It's fitter far to hang the rope—It draws out like a telescope;'Twad tak a dreadfu' length o' dropTo settle her annuity.Will puzion do't?—It has been tried;But, be't in hash or fricassee,That's just the dish she can't abide,Whatever kind o' gout it hae.It's needless to assail her doubts,She gangs by instinct, like the brutes,An' only eats an' drinks what suitsHersel' and her annuity.The Bible says the age o' manThreescore and ten, perchance, may be;She's ninety-four. Let them who can,Explain the incongruity.She should hae lived afore the flood—She's come o' patriarchal blood,She's some auld Pagan mummifiedAlive for her annuity.She's been embalmed inside and oot—She's sauted to the last degree—There's pickle in her very snootSae caper-like an' cruety.Lot's wife was fresh compared to her—They've kyanized the useless knir,She canna decompose—nae mairThan her accursed annuity.The water-drop wears out the rock,As this eternal jaud wears me;I could withstand the single shock,But not the continuity.It's pay me here, an' pay me there,An' pay me, pay me, evermair—I'll gang demented wi' despair—I'm charged for her annuity.
George Outram.
What poor short-sighted worms we be;For we can't calculate,With any sort of sartintee,What is to be our fate.These words Prissilla's heart did reach,And caused her tears to flow,When first she heard the Elder preach,About six months ago.How true it is what he did state,And thus affected her,That nobody can't calculateWhat is a-gwine to occur.When we retire, can't calculateBut what afore the mornOur housen will conflaggerate,And we be left forlorn.Can't calculate when we come inFrom any neighborin' place,Whether we'll ever go out aginTo look on natur's face.Can't calculate upon the weather,It always changes so;Hain't got no means of telling whetherIt's gwine to rain or snow.Can't calculate with no precisionOn naught beneath the sky;And so I've come to the decisionThat't ain't worth while to try.
Frances M. Whitcher.
Dosn't thou 'ear my 'erse's legs, as they canters awaäy?Proputty, proputty, proputty—that's what I 'ears 'em saäy.Proputty, proputty, proputty—Sam, thou's an ass for thy paaïns:Theer's moor sense i' one o' 'is legs nor in all thy braaïns.Woä—theer's a craw to pluck wi' tha, Sam: yon's parson's 'ouse—Dosn't thou knaw that a man mun be eäther a man or a mouse?Time to think on it, then; for thou'll be twenty to weeäk.Proputty, proputty—woä then, woä—let ma 'ear mysén speäk.Me an' thy muther, Sammy, 'as beän a-talkin' o' thee;Thou's been talkin' to muther, an' she beän a-tellin' it me.Thou'll not marry for munny—thou's sweet upo' parson's lass—Noä—thou'll marry for luvv—an' we boäth of us thinks tha an ass.Seeä'd her to-daäy goä by—Saäint's-daäy—they was ringing the bells.She's a beauty, thou thinks—an' soä is scoors o' gells.Them as 'as munny an' all—wot's a beauty?—the flower as blaws.But proputty, proputty sticks, an' proputty, proputty graws.Do'ant be stunt: taäke time: I knaws what maäkes tha sa mad.Warn't I craäzed fur the lasses mysén when I wur a lad?But I knaw'd a Quaäker feller as often 'as towd ma this:"Do'ant thou marry for munny, but goä wheer munny is!"An' I went wheer munny war: an' thy mother coom to 'and,Wi' lots o' munny laaïd by, an' a nicetish hit o' land.Maäybe she warn't a beauty: I niver giv it a thowt—But warn't she as good to cuddle an' kiss as a lass as 'ant nowt?Parson's lass 'ant nowt, an' she weänt 'a nowt when 'e's deäd,Mun be a guvness, lad, or summut, and addle her breäd:Why? fur 'e's nobbut a curate, an' weänt niver git naw 'igher;An' 'e's maäde the bed as 'e ligs on afoor 'e coom'd to the shire.An' thin 'e coom'd to the parish wi' lots o' 'Varsity debt,Stook to his taäil they did, an' 'e 'ant got shut on 'em yet.An' 'e ligs on 'is back i' the grip, wi noän to lend 'im a shove,Woorse nor a far-welter'd yowe: fur, Sammy, 'e married fur luvv.Luvv? what's luvv? thou can luvv thy lass an' 'er munny too,Maäkin' 'em goä togither, as they've good right to do.Couldn't I luvv thy muther by cause o' 'er munny laaïd by?Naäy—for I luvv'd her a vast sight moor fur it: reäson why.Ay, an' thy muther says thou wants to marry the lass,Cooms of a gentleman burn; an' we boäth on us thinks tha an ass.Woä then, proputty, wiltha?—an ass as near as mays nowt—Woä then, wiltha? dangtha!—the bees is as fell as owt.Breäk me a bit o' the esh for his 'eäd, lad, out o' the fence!Gentleman burn! What's gentleman burn? Is it shillins an' pence?Proputty, proputty's ivrything 'ere, an', Sammy, I'm blestIf it isn't the saäme oop yonder, fur them as 'as it's the best.'Tisn' them as 'as munny as breäks into 'ouses an' steäls,Them as 'as coöts to their backs an 'taäkes their regular meäls.Noä, but it's them as niver knaws wheer a meäl's to be 'ad.Taäke my word for it, Sammy, the poor in a loomp is bad.Them or thir feythers, tha sees, mun 'a beän a laäzy lot.Fur work mun 'a gone to the gittin' whiniver munny was got.Feyther 'ad ammost nowt; leästways 'is munny was 'id.But 's tued an' moil'd 'issén deäd, an' 'e died a good un, 'e did.Looök thou theer wheer Wrigglesby beck cooms out by the 'ill!Feyther run oop to the farm, an' I runs oop to the mill;An' I'll run oop to the brig, an' that thou'll live to see;And if thou marries a good un I'll leäve the land to thee.Thim's my noätions, Sammy, wheerby I meäns to stick;But if 'thou marries a bad un, I'll leäve the land to Dick.—Coom oop, proputty, proputty—that's what I 'ears 'im saäy—Proputty, proputty, proputty—canter an' canter awaäy.
Lord Tennyson.
Life is a gift that most of us hold dear:I never asked the spiteful gods to grant it;Held it a bore—in short; and now it's here,I do not want it.Thrust into life, I eat, smoke, drink, and sleep,My mind's a blank I seldom care to question;The only faculty I active keepIs my digestion.Like oyster on his rock, I sit and jestAt others' dreams of love or fame or pelf,Discovering but a languid interestEven in myself.An oyster: ah! beneath the quiet seaTo know no care, no change, no joy, no pain,The warm salt water gurgling into meAnd out again.While some in life's old roadside inns at easeSit careless, all unthinking of the scoreMine host chalks up in swift unseen increaseBehind the door;Bound like Ixion on life's torture-wheel,I whirl inert in pitiless gyration,Loathing it all; the one desire I feel,Annihilation!
Unknown.
Jim Bowker, he said, ef he'd had a fair show,And a big enough town for his talents to grow,And the least bit assistance in hoein' his row,Jim Bowker, he said,He'd filled the world full of the sound of his name,An' clim the top round in the ladder of fame.It may have been so;I dunno;Jest so, it might been,Then ag'in—But he had tarnal luck—eyerythin' went ag'in him,The arrers of fortune they allus' 'ud pin him;So he didn't get no chance to show off what was in him.Jim Bowker, he said,Ef he'd had a fair show, you couldn't tell where he'd come,An' the feats he'd a-done, an' the heights he'd a-clum—It may have been so;I dunno;Jest so, it might been,Then ag'in—But we're all like Jim Bowker, thinks I, more or less—Charge fate for our bad luck, ourselves for success,An' give fortune the blame for all our distress,As Jim Bowker, he said,Ef it hadn't been for luck an' misfortune an' sich,We might a-been famous, an' might a-been rich.It might be jest so;I dunno;Jest so, it might been,Then ag'in—
Sam Walter Foss.
Nothing to do but work,Nothing to eat but food,Nothing to wear but clothes,To keep one from going nude.Nothing to breathe but air,Quick as a flash 't is gone;Nowhere to fall but off,Nowhere to stand but on.Nothing to comb but hair,Nowhere to sleep but in bed,Nothing to weep but tears,Nothing to bury but dead.Nothing to sing but songs,Ah, well, alas! alack!Nowhere to go but out,Nowhere to come but back.Nothing to see but sights,Nothing to quench but thirst,Nothing to have but what we've gotThus through life we are cursed.Nothing to strike but a gait;Everything moves that goes.Nothing at all but common senseCan ever withstand these woes.
Ben King.
My coachman, in the moonlight there,Looks through the side-light of the door;I hear him with his brethren swear,As I could do,—but only more.Flattening his nose against the pane,He envies me my brilliant lot,Breathes on his aching fist in vain,And dooms me to a place more hot.He sees me in to supper go,A silken wonder by my side,Bare arms, bare shoulders, and a rowOf flounces, for the door too wide.He thinks how happy is my arm,'Neath its white-gloved and jewelled load;And wishes me some dreadful harm,Hearing the merry corks explode.Meanwhile I inly curse the boreOf hunting still the same old coon,And envy him, outside the door,The golden quiet of the moon.The winter wind is not so coldAs the bright smile he sees me win,Nor the host's oldest wine so oldAs our poor gabble, sour and thin.I envy him the rugged pranceBy which his freezing feet he warms,And drag my lady's chains, and dance,The galley-slave of dreary forms.Oh, could he have my share of din,And I his quiet—past a doubt'Twould still be one man bored within,And just another bored without.
James Russell Lowell.