They nearly strike me dumb,And I tremble when they comePit-a-pat:This palpitation meansThese boots are Geraldine's—Think of that!Oh, where did hunter winSo delectable a skinFor her feet?You lucky little kid,You perished, so you did,For my sweet!The faëry stitching gleamsOn the sides, and in the seams,And it showsThe Pixies were the wagsWho tipt those funny tagsAnd these toes.What soles to charm an elf!Had Crusoe, sick of self,Chanced to viewOneprinted near the tide,Oh, how hard he would have triedFor the two!For Gerry's debonairAnd innocent, and fairAs a rose;She's an angel in a frock,With a fascinating cockTo her nose.The simpletons who squeezeTheir extremities to pleaseMandarins,Would positively flinchFrom venturing to pinchGeraldine's.Cinderella'slefts and rights,To Geraldine's were frights;And I trow,The damsel, deftly shod,Has dutifully trodUntil now.Come, Gerry, since it suitsSuch a pretty Puss (in Boots)These to don;Set this dainty hand awhileOn my shoulder, dear, and I'llPut them on.
Frederick Locker-Lampson.
Last year I trod these fields with Di,Fields fresh with clover and with rye;They now seem arid!Then Di was fair and single; howUnfair it seems on me, for nowDi's fair—and married!A blissful swain—I scorn'd the songWhich says that though young Love is strong,The Fates are stronger;Breezes then blew a boon to men,The buttercups were bright, and thenThis grass was longer.That day I saw and much esteem'dDi's ankles, which the clover seem'dInclined to smother;It twitch'd, and soon untied (for fun)The ribbon of her shoes, first one,And then the other.I'm told that virgins augur someMisfortune if their shoe-strings comeTo grief on Friday:And so did Di, and then her prideDecreed that shoe-strings so untiedAre "so untidy!"Of course I knelt; with fingers deftI tied the right, and then the left;Says Di, "The stubbleIs very stupid!—as I live,I'm quite ashamed!—I'm shock'd to giveYou so much trouble!"For answer I was fain to sinkTo what we all would say and thinkWere Beauty present:"Don't mention such a simple act—A trouble? not the least! in factIt's rather pleasant!"I trust that Love will never teasePoor little Di, or prove that he'sA graceless rover.She's happy now asMrs. Smith—And less polite when walking withHer chosen lover!Heigh-ho! Although no moral clingsTo Di's blue eyes, and sandal strings,We've had our quarrels!—I think that Smith is thought an ass;I know that when they walk in grassShe wearsbalmorals.
Frederick Locker-Lampson.
I recollect a nurse call'd Ann,Who carried me about the grass,And one fine day a fine young manCame up, and kiss'd the pretty lass.She did not make the least objection!Thinks I, "Aha!When I can talk I'll tell Mamma"—And that's my earliest recollection.
Frederick Locker-Lampson.
He dropt a tear on Susan's bier,He seem'd a most despairing swain;But bluer sky brought newer tie,And—would he wish her back again?The moments fly, and when we die,Will Philly Thistletop complain?She'll cry and sigh, and—dry her eye,And let herself be woo'd again.
Frederick Locker-Lampson.
Perhaps you may a-noticed I been soht o' solemn lately,Haven't been a-lookin' quite so pleasant.Mabbe I have been a little bit too proud and stately;Dat's because I'se lonesome jes' at present.I an' him agreed to quit a week or so ago,Fo' now dat I am in de social swimI'se 'rived to de opinion dat he ain't my style o' beau,So I tole him dat my watch was fas' fo' him.
REFRAIN
Oh, I didn't like his clo'es,An' I didn't like his eyes,Nor his walk, nor his talk,Nor his ready-made neckties.I didn't like his name a bit,Jes' 'spise the name o' Jim;If dem ere reasons ain't enough,I didn't likeHim.Dimon' ring he give to me, an' said it was a fine stone.Guess it's only alum mixed wif camphor.Took it roun' to Eisenstein; he said it was a rhinestone,Kind, he said, he didn't give a dam fur.Sealskin sack he give to me it got me in a row.P'liceman called an' asked to see dat sack;Said another lady lost it. Course I don't know how;But I had to go to jail or give it back.
REFRAIN
Oh, I didn't like his trade;Trade dat kep' him out all night.He'd de look ob a crook,An' he owned a bull's-eye light.So when policemen come to askWhatIknow 'bout dat Jim,I come to de confusion datI didn't likeHim.
Harry B. Smith.
She kept her secret well, oh, yes,Her hideous secret well.We together were cast, I knew not her past;For how was I to tell?I married her, guileless lamb I was;I'd have died for her sweet sake.How could I have known that my AngelineHad been a Human Snake?Ah, we had been wed but a week or twoWhen I found her quite a wreck:Her limbs were tied in a double bow-knotAt the back of her swan-like neck.No curse there sprang to my pallid lips,Nor did I reproach her then;I calmly untied my bonny brideAnd straightened her out again.
Refrain
My Angeline! My Angeline!Why didst disturb my mind serene?My well-belovèd circus queen,My Human Snake, my Angeline!At night I'd wake at the midnight hour,With a weird and haunted feeling,And there she'd be, in herrobe de nuit,A-walking upon the ceiling.She said she was being "the human fly,"And she'd lift me up from beneathBy a section slight of my garb of night,Which she held in her pearly teeth.For the sweet, sweet sake of the Human SnakeI'd have stood this conduct shady;But she skipped in the end with an old, old friend,An eminent bearded lady.But, oh, at night, when my slumber's light,Regret comes o'er me stealing;For I miss the sound of those little feet,As they pattered along the ceiling.
Refrain
My Angeline! My Angeline!Why didst disturb my mind serene?My well-belovèd circus queen,My Human Snake, my Angeline!
Harry B. Smith.
Hear what Highland Nora said,—"The Earlie's son I will not wed,Should all the race of nature die,And none be left but he and I.For all the gold, for all the gear,And all the lands both far and near,That ever valour lost or won,I would not wed the Earlie's son.""A maiden's vows," old Callum spoke,"Are lightly made and lightly broke,The heather on the mountain's heightBegins to bloom in purple light;The frost-wind soon shall sweep awayThat lustre deep from glen and brae;Yet Nora, ere its bloom be gone,May blithely wed the Earlie's son.""The swan," she said, "the lake's clear breastMay barter for the eagle's nest;The Awe's fierce stream may backward turn,Ben-Cruaichan fall, and crush Kilchurn;Our kilted clans, when blood is high,Before their foes may turn and fly;But I, were all these marvels done,Would never wed the Earlie's son."Still in the water-lily's shadeHer wonted nest the wild swan made;Ben-Cruaichan stands as fast as ever,Still downward foams the Awe's fierce river;To shun the clash of foeman's steel,No Highland brogue has turn'd the heel;But Nora's heart is lost and won,—She's wedded to the Earlie's son!
Sir Walter Scott.
O'er the men of Ethiopia she would pour her cornucopia,
And shower wealth and plenty on the people of Japan,
Send down jelly cake and candies to the Indians of the Andes,
And a cargo of plum pudding to the men of Hindoostan;
And she said she loved 'em so,
Bushman, Finn, and Eskimo.
If she had the wings of eagles to their succour she would fly
Loaded down with jam and jelly,
Succotash and vermicelli,
Prunes, pomegranates, plums and pudding, peaches, pineapples, and pie.
She would fly with speedy succour to the natives of Molucca
With whole loads of quail and salmon, and with tons of fricassee
And give cake in fullest measure
To the men of Australasia
And all the Archipelagoes that dot the southern sea;
And the Anthropophagi,
All their lives deprived of pie,
She would satiate and satisfy with custards, cream, and mince;
And those miserable Australians
And the Borrioboolighalians,
She would gorge with choicest jelly, raspberry, currant, grape, and quince.
But like old war-time hardtackers, her poor husband lived on crackers,
Bought at wholesale from a baker, eaten from the mantelshelf;
If the men of Madagascar,
And the natives of Alaska,
Had enough to sate their hunger, let him look out for himself.
And his coat had but one tail
And he used a shingle nail
To fasten up his galluses when he went out to his work;
And she used to spend his money
To buy sugar-plums and honey
For the Terra del Fuegian and the Turcoman and Turk.
Sam Walter Foss.
'Twas a pretty little maidenIn a garden gray and old,Where the apple trees were ladenWith the magic fruit of gold;But she strayed beyond the portalOf the garden of the Sun,And she flirted with a mortal,Which she oughtn't to have done!For a giant was her father and a goddess was her mother,She was Merope or Sterope—the one or else the other;And the man was not the equal, though presentable and rich,Of Merope or Sterope—I don't remember which!Now the giant's daughters seven,She among them, if you please,Were translated to the heavenAs the starry Pleiades!But amid their constellationOne alone was always dark,For she shrank from observationOr censorious remark.She had yielded to a mortal when he came to flirt and flatter.She was Merope or Sterope—the former or the latter;So the planets all ignored her, and the comets wouldn't callOn Merope or Sterope—I am not sure at all!But the Dog-star, brightly shiningIn the hottest of July,Saw the pretty Pleiad piningIn the shadow of the sky,And he courted her and kissed herTill she kindled into light;And the Pleiads' erring sisterWas the lady of the night!So her former indiscretion as a fault was never reckoned,To Merope or Sterope—the first or else the second,And you'll never see so rigidly respectable a dameAs Merope or Sterope—I can't recall her name!
Arthur Reed Ropes.
They've got a brand-new organ, Sue,For all their fuss and search;They've done just as they said they'd do,And fetched it into church.They're bound the critter shall be seen,And on the preacher's rightThey've hoisted up their new machineIn everybody's sight.They've got a chorister and choir,Ag'in'myvoice and vote;For it was nevermydesireTo praise the Lord by note.I've been a sister good an' trueFor five-an'-thirty year;I've done what seemed my part to do,An' prayed my duty clear;I've sung the hymns both slow and quick,Just as the preacher read,And twice, when Deacon Tubbs was sick,I took the fork an' led;And now, their bold, new-fangled waysIs comin' all about;And I, right in my latter days,Am fairly crowded out!To-day the preacher, good old dear,With tears all in his eyes,Read, "I can read my title clearTo mansions in the skies."I al'ays liked that blessed hymn—I s'pose I al'ays will—It somehow gratifiesmywhim,In good old Ortonville;But when that choir got up to sing,I couldn't catch a word;They sung the most dog-gondest thingA body ever heard!Some worldly chaps was standin' near;An' when I see them grin,I bid farewell to every fear,And boldly waded in.I thought I'd chase their tune along,An' tried with all my might;But though my voice was good an' strong,I couldn't steer it right.When they was high, then I was low,An' also contrawise;An' I too fast, or they too slow,To "mansions in the skies."An' after every verse, you knowThey play a little tune;I didn't understand, and soI started in too soon.I pitched it pretty middlin' high,I fetched a lusty tone,But oh, alas! I found that IWas singin' there alone!They laughed a little, I am told;But I had done my best;And not a wave of trouble rolledAcross my peaceful breast.And Sister Brown—I could but look—She sits right front of me;She never was no singin'-book,An' never went to be;But then she al'ays tried to doThe best she could, she said;She understood the time right through,An' kep' it with her head;But when she tried this mornin', oh,I had to laugh, or cough!It kep' her head a-bobbin' so,It e'en a'most came off.An' Deacon Tubbs—he all broke 'down,As one might well suppose;He took one look at Sister Brown,And meekly scratched his nose.He looked his hymn-book through and through,And laid it on the seat,And then a pensive sigh he drew,And looked completely beat.And when they took another bout,He didn't even rise;But drawed his red bandanner out,An' wiped his weepin' eyes.I've been a sister, good an' true,For five-an'-thirty year;I've done what seemed my part to do,An' prayed my duty clear;But Death will stop my voice, I know,For he is on my track;And some day I to church will go,And nevermore come back;And when the folks gets up to sing—Whene'er that time shall be—I do not want nopatentthingA-squealin' over me!
Will Carteton.
Now the Widow McGee,And Larrie O'Dee,Had two little cottages out on the green,With just room enough for two pig-pens between.The widow was young and the widow was fair,With the brightest of eyes and the brownest of hair,And it frequently chanced, when she came in the morn,With the swill for her pig, Larrie came with the corn,And some of the ears that he tossed from his handIn the pen of the widow were certain to land.One morning said he:"Och! Misthress McGee,It's a waste of good lumber, this runnin' two rigs,Wid a fancy purtition betwane our two pigs!""Indade, sur, it is!" answered Widow McGee,With the sweetest of smiles upon Larrie O'Dee."And thin, it looks kind o' hard-hearted and mane,Kapin' two friendly pigs so exsaidenly nearThat whiniver one grunts the other can hear,And yit kape a cruel purtition betwane.""Shwate Widow McGee,"Answered Larrie O'Dee,"If ye fale in your heart we are mane to the pigs,Ain't we mane to ourselves to be runnin' two rigs?Och! it made me heart ache when I paped through the cracksOf me shanty, lasht March, at yez shwingin' yer axe;An' a-bobbin' yer head an' a-shtompin' yer fate,Wid yer purty white hands jisht as red as a bate,A-shplittin' yer kindlin'-wood out in the shtorm,When one little shtove it would kape us both warm!""Now, piggy," says she,"Larrie's courtin' o' me,Wid his dilicate tinder allusions to you;So now yez must tell me jisht what I must do:For, if I'm to say yes, shtir the swill wid yer snout;But if I'm to say no, ye must kape yer nose out.Now Larrie, for shame! to be bribin' a pigBy a-tossin' a handful of corn in its shwig!""Me darlint, the piggy says yes," answered he.And that was the courtship of Larrie O'Dee.
William W. Fink.
No fault in women, to refuseThe offer which they most would choose.No fault in women to confessHow tedious they are in their dress;No fault in women, to lay onThe tincture of vermilion,And there to give the cheek a dyeOf white, where Nature doth deny.No fault in women, to make showOf largeness, when they've nothing so;When, true it is, the outside swellsWith inward buckram, little else.No fault in women, though they beBut seldom from suspicion free;No fault in womankind at all,If they but slip, and never fall.
Robert Herrick.
She went round and asked subscriptionsFor the heathen black EgyptiansAnd the Terra del Fuegians,She did;For the tribes round Athabasca,And the men of Madagascar,And the poor souls of Alaska,So she did;She longed, she said, to buyJelly, cake, and jam, and pie,For the Anthropophagi,So she did.Her heart ached for the AustraliansAnd the Borriobooli-Ghalians,And the poor dear Amahagger,Yes, it did;And she loved the black Numidian,And the ebon Abyssinian,And the charcoal-coloured Guinean,Oh, she did!And she said she'd cross the seasWith a ship of bread and cheeseFor those starving Chimpanzees,So she did.How she loved the cold NorwegianAnd the poor half-melted Feejeean,And the dear Molucca Islander,She did:She sent tins of red tomatoTo the tribes beyond the Equator,But her husband ate potato,So he did;The poor helpless, homeless thing(My voice falters as I sing)Tied his clothes up with a string,Yes, he did.
Unknown.
When Mary Ann Dollinger got the skule daown thar on Injun Bay,
I was glad, for I like ter see a gal makin' her honest way.
I heerd some talk in the village abaout her flyin' high,
Tew high for busy farmer folks with chores ter do ter fly;
But I paid no sorter attention ter all the talk ontell
She come in her reg'lar boardin' raound ter visit with us a spell.
My Jake an' her had been cronies ever since they could walk,
An' it tuk me aback to hear her kerrectin' him in his talk.
Jake ain't no hand at grammar, though he hain't his beat for work;
But I sez ter myself, "Look out, my gal, yer a-foolin' with a Turk!"
Jake bore it wonderful patient, an' said in a mournful way,
He p'sumed he was behindhand with the doin's at Injun Bay.
I remember once he was askin' for some o' my Injun buns,
An' she said he should allus say, "them air," stid o' "them is" the ones.
Wal, Mary Ann kep' at him stiddy mornin' an' evenin' long,
Tell he dassent open his mouth for fear o' talkin' wrong.
One day I was pickin' currants daown by the old quince-tree,
When I heerd Jake's voice a-saying', "Be yer willin' ter marry me?"
An' Mary Ann kerrectin', 'Air ye willin' yeou sh'd say";
Our Jake he put his foot daown in a plum, decided way,
"No wimmen-folks is a-goin' ter be rearrangin' me,
Hereafter I says 'craps,' 'them is,' 'I calk'late,' an' 'I be.'
Ef folks don't like my talk they needn't hark ter what I say:.
But I ain't a-goin' to take no sass from folks from Injun Bay.
I ask you free an' final, 'Be ye goin' ter marry me?'"
An' Mary Ann says, tremblin, yet anxious-like, "I be."
Florence E. Pratt.
A maiden once, of certain age,To catch a husband did engage;But, having passed the prime of lifeIn striving to become a wifeWithout success, she thought it timeTo mend the follies of her prime.Departing from the usual courseOf paint and such like for resource,With all her might this ancient maidBeneath an oak-tree knelt and prayed;Unconscious that a grave old owlWas perched above—the mousing fowl!"Oh, give! a husband give!" she cried,"While yet I may become a bride;Soon will my day of grace be o'er,And then, like many maids before,I'll die without an early Jove,And none to meet me there above!"Oh, 'tis a fate too hard to bear!Then answer this my humble prayer,And oh, a husband give to me!"Just then the owl from out the tree,In deep bass tones cried, "Who—who—who!""Who, Lord? And dost Thou ask me who?Why, any one, good Lord, will do."
Unknown.
There were three young maids of Lee;They were fair as fair can be,And they had lovers three times three,For they were fair as fair can be,These three young maids of Lee.But these young maids they cannot findA lover each to suit her mind;The plain-spoke lad is far too rough,The rich young lord is not rich enough,The one is too poor, and one is too tall,And one just an inch too short for them all."Others pick and choose, and why not we?We can very well wait," said the maids of Lee.There were three young maids of Lee;They were fair as fair can be,And they had lovers three times threeFor they were fair as fair can be,These three young maids of Lee.There are three old maids of Lee,And they are old as old can be,And one is deaf, and one cannot see,And they are all as cross as a gallows-tree,These three old maids of Lee.Now, if any one chanced—'tis a chance remote—One single charm in these maids to note,He need not a poet nor handsome be,For one is deaf and one cannot see;He need not woo on his bended knee,For they all are willing as willing can be.He may take the one, or the two, or the three,If he'll only take them away from Lee.There are three old maids at Lee;They are cross as cross can be;And there they are, and there they'll beTo the end of the chapter, one, two, three,These three old maids of Lee.
Frederic E. Weatherly.
Years—years ago,—ere yet my dreamsHad been of being wise and witty,—Ere I had done with writing themes,Or yawn'd o'er this infernal Chitty;—Years, years ago, while all my joyWas in my fowling-piece and filly:In short, while I was yet a boy,I fell in love with Laura Lily.I saw her at the county ball;There, when the sounds of flute and fiddleGave signal sweet in that old hallOf hands across and down the middle,Hers was the subtlest spell by farOf all that set young hearts romancing:She was our queen, our rose, our star;And when she danced—O Heaven, her dancing!Dark was her hair, her hand was white;Her voice was exquisitely tender,Her eyes were full of liquid light;I never saw a waist so slender;Her every look, her every smile,Shot right and left a score of arrows;I thought 'twas Venus from her isle,And wonder'd where she'd left her sparrows.She talk'd,—of politics or prayers;Of Southey's prose, or Wordsworth's sonnets;Of daggers or of dancing bears,Of battles, or the last new bonnets;By candle-light, at twelve o'clock,To me it matter'd not a tittle,If those bright lips had quoted Locke,I might have thought they murmur'd Little.Through sunny May, through sultry June,I loved her with a love eternal;I spoke her praises to the moon,I wrote them for theSunday Journal.My mother laugh'd; I soon found outThat ancient ladies have no feeling;My father frown'd; but how should goutSee any happiness in kneeling?She was the daughter of a Dean,Rich, fat, and rather apoplectic;She had one brother, just thirteen,Whose color was extremely hectic;Her grandmother for many a yearHad fed the parish with her bounty;Her second cousin was a peer,And lord lieutenant of the county.But titles and the three per cents,And mortgages, and great relations,And India bonds, and tithes and rents,Oh! what are they to love's sensations?Black eyes, fair forehead, clustering locks,Such wealth, such honors, Cupid chooses;He cares as little for the stocks,As Baron Rothschild for the Muses.She sketch'd; the vale, the wood, the beach,Grew lovelier from her pencil's shading;She botanized; I envied eachYoung blossom in her boudoir fading;She warbled Handel; it was grand—She made the Catalani jealous;She touch'd the organ; I could standFor hours and hours to blow the bellows.She kept an album, too, at home,Well fill'd with all an album's glories;Paintings of butterflies, and Rome,Patterns for trimming, Persian stories;Soft songs to Julia's cockatoo,Fierce odes to Famine and to Slaughter;And autographs of Prince Leboo,And recipes for elder water.And she was flatter'd, worshipp'd, bored;Her steps were watch'd, her dress was noted;Her poodle dog was quite adored,Her sayings were extremely quoted.She laugh'd, and every heart was glad,As if the taxes were abolish'd;She frown'd, and every look was sad,As if the Opera were demolished.She smil'd on many just for fun—I knew that there was nothing in it;I was the first—the only oneHer heart had thought of for a minute;I knew it, for she told me so,In phrase which was divinely moulded;She wrote a charming hand,—and oh!How sweetly all her notes were folded!Our love was like most other loves—A little glow, a little shiver;A rosebud and a pair of gloves,And "Fly Not Yet," upon the river;Some jealousy of some one's heir,Some hopes of dying broken-hearted,A miniature, a lock of hair,The usual vows—and then we parted.We parted;—months and years roll'd by;We met again four summers after;Our parting was all sob and sigh—-Our meeting was all mirth and laughter;For in my heart's most secret cell,There had been many other lodgers;And she was not the ballroom belle,But only—Mrs. Something Rogers.
Winthrop Mackworth Praed.
Old Nick, who taught the village school,Wedded a maid of homespun habit;He was as stubborn as a mule,She was as playful as a rabbit.Poor Jane had scarce become a wife,Before her husband sought to make herThe pink of country-polished life,And prim and formal as a Quaker.One day the tutor went abroad,And simple Jenny sadly missed him;When he returned, behind her lordShe slyly stole, and fondly kissed him!The husband's anger rose!—and redAnd white his face alternate grew!"Less freedom, ma'am!" Jane sighed and said,"Oh, dear! I didn't know 'twas you!"
George Pope Morris.
Behave yoursel' before folk,Behave yoursel' before folk,And dinna be sae rude to me,As kiss me sae before folk.It wadna gi'e me meikle pain,Gin we were seen and heard by nane,To tak' a kiss, or grant you ane;But guidsake! no before folk.Behave yoursel' before folk,Behave yoursel' before folk;Whate'er ye do, when out o' view,Be cautious aye before folk.Consider, lad, how folk will crack,And what a great affair they'll mak'O' naething but a simple smack,That's gi'en or ta'en before folk.Behave yoursel' before folk,Behave yoursel' before folk;Nor gi'e the tongue o' auld or youngOccasion to come o'er folk.It's no through hatred o' a kiss,That I sae plainly tell you this;But, losh! I tak' it sair amissTo be sae teazed before folk.Behave yoursel' before folk,Behave yoursel' before folk;When we're our lane ye may tak' ane,But fient a ane before folk.I'm sure wi' you I've been as freeAs ony modest lass should be;But yet it doesna do to seeSic freedom used before folk.Behave yoursel' before folk,Behave yoursel' before folk;I'll ne'er submit again to it—So mind you that—before folk.Ye tell me that my face is fair;It may be sae—I dinna care—But ne'er again gar't blush sae sairAs ye ha'e done before folk.Behave yoursel' before folk,Behave yoursel' before folk;Nor heat my cheeks wi' your mad freaks,But aye de douce before folk.Ye tell me that my lips are sweet,Sic tales, I doubt, are a' deceit;At ony rate, it's hardly meetTo pree their sweets before folk.Behave yoursel' before folk,Behave yoursel' before folk;Gin that's the case, there's time, and place,But surely no before folk.But, gin you really do insistThat I should suffer to be kiss'd,Gae, get a license frae the priest,And mak' me yours before folk.Behave yoursel' before folk,Behave yoursel' before folk;And when we're ane, baith flesh and bane,Ye may tak' ten—before folk.
Alexander Rodger.
Margarita first possess'd,If I remember well, my breast,Margarita, first of all;But when a while the wanton maidWith my restless heart had play'd,Martha took the flying ball.Martha soon did it resignTo the beauteous Catharine.Beauteous Catharine gave place(Though loth and angry she to partWith the possession of my heart)To Eliza's conquering face.Eliza till this hour might reign,Had she not evil counsel ta'en:Fundamental laws she broke,And still new favourites she chose,Till up in arms my passions rose,And cast away her yoke.Mary then and gentle Anne,Both to reign at once began,Alternately they swayed:And sometimes Mary was the fair,And sometimes Anne the crown did wear,And sometimes both I obey'd.Another Mary then arose,And did rigorous laws impose;A mighty tyrant she!Long, alas, should I have beenUnder that iron-scepter'd queen,Had not Rebecca set me free.When fair Rebecca set me free,'Twas then a golden time with me,But soon those pleasures fled;For the gracious princess diedIn her youth and beauty's pride,And Judith reigned in her stead.One month, three days, and half an hour,Judith held the sovereign power,Wondrous beautiful her face;But so weak and small her wit,That she to govern was unfit,And so Susanna took her place.But when Isabella came,Arm'd with a resistless flame,And th' artillery of her eye;Whilst she proudly march'd aboutGreater conquests to find out:She beat out Susan by the bye.But in her place I then obey'dBlack-ey'd Bess, her viceroy maid,To whom ensued a vacancy:Thousand worse passions then possess'dThe interregnum of my breast;Bless me from such an anarchy.Gentle Henrietta then,And a third Mary next began;Then Joan, and Jane, and Andria:And then a pretty Thomasine,And then another Catharine,And then a long et cætera.But should I now to you relateThe strength and riches of their state,The powder, patches, and the pins,The ribbons, jewels, and the rings,The lace, the paint, and warlike things,That make up all their magazines:If I should tell the politic artsTo take and keep men's hearts;The letters, embassies, and spies,The frowns, and smiles, and flatteries,The quarrels, tears, and perjuries,Numberless, nameless, mysteries!And all the little lime-twigs laidBy Machiavel, the waiting maid;I more voluminous should grow(Chiefly if I, like them, should tellAll change of weather that befel)Than Holinshed or Stow.But I will briefer with them be,Since few of them were long with me:An higher and a nobler strainMy present empress does claim,Eleonora, first o' th' name,Whom God grant long to reign.
Abraham Cowley.
A soldier and a sailor,A tinker and a tailor,Had once a doubtful strife, sir,To make a maid a wife, sir,Whose name was Buxom Joan.For now the time was ended,When she no more intendedTo lick her lips at men, sir,And gnaw the sheets in vain, sir,And lie o' nights alone.The soldier swore like thunder,He loved her more than plunder;And showed her many a scar, sir,That he had brought from far, sir,With fighting for her sake.The tailor thought to please her,With offering her his measure.The tinker too with mettle,Said he could mend her kettle,And stop up every leak.But while these three were prating,The sailor slily waiting,Thought if it came about, sir,That they should all fall out, sir,He then might play his part.And just e'en as he meant, sir,To loggerheads they went, sir,And then he let fly at herA shot 'twixt wind and water,That won this fair maid's heart.
William Congreve.
Oh, my Geraldine,No flow'r was ever seen so toodle um.You are my lum ti toodle lay,Pretty, pretty queen,Is rum ti Geraldine and something teen,More sweet than tiddle lum in May.Like the star so brightThat somethings all the night,My Geraldine!You're fair as the rum ti lum ti sheen,Hark! there is what—ho!From something—um, you know,Dear, what I mean.Oh I rum! tum!! tum!!! my Geraldine.
F. C. Burnand.
I don't know any greatest treatAs sit him in a gay parterre,And sniff one up the perfume sweetOf every roses buttoning there.It only want my charming missWho make to blush the self red rose;Oh! I have envy of to kissThe end's tip of her splendid nose.Oh! I have envy of to beWhat grass 'neath her pantoffle push,And too much happy seemeth meThe margaret which her vestige crush.But I will meet her nose at nose,And take occasion for her hairs,And indicate her all my woes,That she in fine agree my prayers.
The Envoy
I don't know any greatest treatAs sit him in a gay parterre,With Madame who is too more sweetThan every roses buttoning there.
E. H. Palmer.
"Oh, 'tis time I should talk to your mother,Sweet Mary," says I;"Oh, don't talk to my mother," says Mary,Beginning to cry:"For my mother says men are decaivers,And never, I know, will consent;She says girls in a hurry to marry,At leisure repent.""Then, suppose I should talk to your father,Sweet Mary," says I;"Oh, don't talk to my father," says Mary,Beginning to cry:"For my father he loves me so dearly,He'll never consent I should go;—If you talk to my father," says Mary,"He'll surely say 'No.'""Then how shall I get you, my jewel,Sweet Mary?" says I;"If your father and mother's so cruel,Most surely I'll die!""Oh, never say die, dear," says Mary;"A way now to save you I see:Since my parents are both so conthrairy,You'd better askme."
Samuel Lover.
Of all the girls that are so smart,There's none like Pretty Sally;She is the darling of my heart,And lives in our alley.There's ne'er a lady in the landThat's half so sweet as Sally;She is the darling of my heart,And lives in our alley.Her father he makes cabbage-nets,And through the streets does cry them;Her mother she sells laces longTo such as please to buy them:But sure such folk can have no partIn such a girl as Sally;She is the darling of my heart,And lives in our alley.When she is by, I leave my work,I love her so sincerely;My master comes, like any Turk,And bangs me most severely:But let him bang, long as he will,I'll bear it all for Sally;She is the darling of my heart,And lives in our alley.Of all the days are in the week,I dearly love but one day,And that's the day that comes betwixtA Saturday and Monday;For then I'm dressed, all in my best,To walk abroad with Sally;She is the darling of my heart,And lives in our alley.My master carries me to church,And often am I blamed,Because I leave him in the lurch,Soon as the text is named:I leave the church in sermon time,And slink away to Sally;She is the darling of my heart,And lives in our alley.When Christmas comes about again,Oh, then I shall have money;I'll hoard it up and, box and all,I'll give it to my honey;Oh, would it were ten thousand pounds,I'd give it all to Sally;For she's the darling of my heart,And lives in our alley.My master, and the neighbors all,Make game of me and Sally,And but for her I'd better beA slave, and row a galley:But when my seven long years are out,Oh, then I'll marry Sally,And then how happily we'll live—But not in our alley.
Henry Carey.
THE DISCONSOLATE
My heart will break—I'm sure it will:My lover, yes, my favorite—heWho seemed my own through good and ill—Has basely turned his back on me.
THE COMFORTER
Ah! silly sorrower, weep no more;Your lover's turned his back, we see;But you had turned his head before,And now he's as he ought to be.
Laman Blanchard.
O, if my love offended me,And we had words together,To show her I would master be,I'd whip her with a feather!If then she, like a naughty girl,Would tyranny declare it,I'd give my pet a cross of pearl,And make her always bear it.If still she tried to sulk and sigh,And threw away my posies,I'd catch my darling on the sly,And smother her with roses.But should she clench her dimpled fists,Or contradict her betters,I'd manacle her tiny wristsWith dainty jewelled fetters.And if she dared her lips to pout,Like many pert young misses,I'd wind my arm her waist about,And punish her—with kisses!
J. Ashby-Sterry.
Lady, very fair are you,And your eyes are very blue,And your hose;And your brow is like the snow,And the various things you know,Goodness knows.And the rose-flush on your cheek,And your Algebra and GreekPerfect are;And that loving lustrous eyeRecognizes in the skyEvery star.You have pouting piquant lips,You can doubtless an eclipseCalculate;But for your cerulean hue,I had certainly from youMet my fate.If by some arrangement dualI were Adams mixed with Whewell,Then some dayI, as wooer, perhaps might comeTo so sweet an ArtiumMagistra.
Mortimer Collins.
Careless rhymer, it is true,That my favourite colour's blue:But am ITo be made a victim, sir,If to puddings I preferCambridge [pi]?If with giddier girls I playCroquet through the summer dayOn the turf,Then at night ('tis no great boon)Let me study how the moonSways the surf.Tennyson's idyllic verseSurely suits me none the worseIf I seekOld Sicilian birds and bees—Music of sweet Sophocles—Golden Greek.You have said my eyes are blue;There may be a fairer hue,Perhaps—and yetIt is surely not a sinIf I keep my secrets inViolet.
Mortimer Collins.
It was a millinger most gay,As sat within her shop;A student came along that way,And in he straight did pop.Clean shaven he, of massive mould,He thought his looks was killing her;So lots of stuff to him she sold:"Thanks!" says the millinger.He loafed around and seemed to tryOn all things to converse;The millinger did mind her eye,But also mound his purse.He tried, then, with his flattering tongue,With nonsense to be filling her;But she was sharp, though she was young:"Thanks," said the millinger.He asked her to the theatre,They got into my car;Our steeds were tired, could hardly stir,He thought the way not far.A pretty pict-i-ure she made,No doctors had been pilling her;Fairly the fair one's fare he paid:"Thanks!" said the millinger.When we arrived in Bowdoin Square,A female to them ran;Then says that millinger so fair:"O, thank you, Mary Ann!She's going with us, she is," says she,"She only is fulfilling herDuty in looking after me:Thanks!" said that millinger."Why," says that student chap to her,"I've but two seats to hand.""Too bad," replied that millinger,"Then you will have to stand.""I won't stand this," says he, "I ownThe joke which you've been drilling her;Here, take the seats and go alone!""Thanks!" says the millinger.That ere much-taken-down young manStepped back into my car.We got fresh horses, off they ran;He thought the distance far.And now she is my better half,And oft, when coo-and-billing her,I think about that chap and laugh:"Thanks!" says my millinger.
Fred W. Loring.
One morning when Spring was in her teens—A morn to a poet's wishing,All tinted in delicate pinks and greens—Miss Bessie and I went fishing.I in my rough and easy clothes,With my face at the sun-tan's mercy;She with her hat tipped down to her nose,And her nose tipped—vice versa.I with my rod, my reel, and my hooks,And a hamper for lunching recesses;She with the bait of her comely looks,And the seine of her golden tresses.So we sat us down on the sunny dike,Where the white pond-lilies teeter,And I went to fishing like quaint old Ike,And she like Simon Peter.All the noon I lay in the light of her eyes,And dreamily watched and waited,But the fish were cunning and would not rise,And the baiter alone was baited.And when the time of departure came,My bag hung flat as a flounder;But Bessie had neatly hooked her game—A hundred-and-fifty-pounder.
Unknown.