Being an Ode in further "Contribution to the Song of French History," dedicated, without malice or permission to Mr. George Meredith.
Being an Ode in further "Contribution to the Song of French History," dedicated, without malice or permission to Mr. George Meredith.
I
Rooster her sign,Rooster her pugnant note, she strutsEvocative, amazon spurs aprick at heel;Nid-nod the authentic stumpOf the once ensanguined comb vermeil as wine;With conspuent doodle-dooHails breach o' the hectic dawn of yon New Year,Last issue up to dateOf quiverful FateEvolved spontaneous; hails with tenant trumpThe spiriting prime o' the clashed carillon-peal;Ruffling her caudal plumes derisive of scuts;Inconscient how she stalks an immarcessibly absurdBird.
II
Mark where her Equatorial PioneerDelirant on the tramp goes littoralwise.His Flag at furl, portmanteaued; drains to the dregsThe penultimate brandy-bottle, coal-on-the-head-piece giftOf who avenged the Old Sea-Rover's smirch.Marchant he treads the all-along of inarable driftOn dubiously connivent legs,The facile prey of predatory flies;Panting for further; sworn to lurchEmpirical on to the Menelik-buffered, enhavened blue,Rhyming—see Cantique I.—with doodle-doo.
III
Infuriate she kicked against Imperial fact;Vulnant she feltWhat pin-stab should have stained Another's peltPuncture her own Colonial lung-balloon,Volant to nigh meridian. Whence rebuffed,The perjured Scythian she lackedAt need's pinch, sick with spleen of the rudely cuffedBelow her breath she cursed; she cursed the hourWhen on her spring for him the young Tyrannical brokeAmid the unhallowed wedlock's vodka-shower,She passionate, he dispassionate; trickedHer wits to eye-blind; borrowed the ready as for dower;Till from the trance of that Hymettus-moonShe woke,A nuptial-knotted derelict;Pensioned with Rescripts other aid declinedBy the plumped leech saturate urging PeaceIn guise of heavy-armed Gospeller to men,Tyrannical unto fraternal equal liberal, her. Not she;Not till Alsace her consanguineous findWhat red deteutonising artilleryShall shatter her beer-reek alien policeThe just-now pluripollent; not till then.
IV
More pungent yet the esoteric painSqueezing her pliable vitals nourishes feudInsanely grumous, grumously insane.For lo!Past common balmly on the Bordereau,Churns she the skim o' the gutter's crustWith Anti-Judaic various carmagnole,Whooped praise of the Anti-just;Her boulevard broodGyratory in convolvements militant-mad;Theatrical of faith in the Belliform,Her Og,Her Monstrous. Fled what force she hadTo buckle the jaw-gape, wide agogFor the Preconcerted One,The Anticipated, ripe to clinch the whole;Queen-bee to hive the hither and thither volant swarm.Bides she his coming; adumbrates the newExpurgatorial Divine,Her final effulgent Avatar,Postured outside a trampling mastodonBlack as her Baker's charger; towering; visibly gorgedWith blood of traitors. Knee-grip stiff,Spine straightened, on he rides;Embossed the Patriot's brow with hieroglyphOf martialdossiers, nothing forgedAbout him save his armour. So she bidesVoicing his advent indeterminably far,Rooster her sign,Rooster her conspuent doodle-doo.
V
Behold her, pranked with spurs for bloody sport,How she acclaims,A crapulous chanticleer,Breach of the hectic dawn of yon New Year.Not yet her fill of rumours sucked;Inebriate of honour; blushfully wroth;Tireless to play her old primeval games;Her plumage preened the yet unpluckedLike sails of a galleon, rudder hard amortWith crepitant mastFronting the hazard to dare of a dual blastThe intern and the extern, blizzards both.
Owen Seaman.
Spontaneous Us!
O my Camarados! I have no delicatesse as a diplomat, but I go blind on Libertad!
Give me the flap-flap of the soaring Eagle's pinions!
Give me the tail of the British lion tied in a knot inextricable, not to be solved anyhow!
Give me a standing army (I say "give me," because just at present we want one badly, armies being often useful in time of war).
I see our superb fleet (I take it that we are to have a superb fleet built almost immediately);
I observe the crews prospectively; they are constituted of various nationalities, not necessarily American;
I see them sling the slug and chew the plug;
I hear the drum begin to hum;
Both the above rhymes are purely accidental, and contrary to my principles.
We shall wipe the floor of the mill-pond with the scalps of able-bodied British tars!
I see Professor Edison about to arrange for us a torpedo-hose on wheels, likewise an infernal electro-semaphore;
I see Henry Irving dead sick and declining to play Corporal Brewster;
Cornell, I yell! I yell Cornell!
I note the Manhattan boss leaving his dry-goods store and investing in a small Gatling-gun and a ten-cent banner;
I further note the Identity evolved out of forty-four spacious and thoughtful States;
I note Canada as shortly to be merged in that Identity; similarly Van Diemen's Land, Gibraltar, and Stratford-on-Avon;
Briefly, I see creation whipped!
O ye Colonels! I am with you (I too am a Colonel and on the pension-list);
I drink to the lot of you; to Colonels Cleveland, Hitt, Vanderbilt, Chauncey M. Depew, O'Donovan Rossa, and the late Colonel Monroe;
I drink an egg-flip, a morning-caress, an eye-opener, a maiden-bosom, a vermuth-cocktail, three sherry-cobblers, and a gin-sling!
Good old Eagle!
Owen Seaman.
When as to shoot my Julia goes,Then, then (methinks), how bravely showsThat rare arrangement of her clothes!So shod as when the Huntress MaidWith thumping buskin bruised the glade,She moveth, making earth afraid.Against the sting of random chaffHer leathern gaiters circle halfThe arduous crescent of her calf.Unto th' occasion timely fit,My love's attire doth show her wit,And of her legs a little bit.Sorely it sticketh in my throat,She having nowhere to bestow'tTo name the absent petticoat.In lieu whereof a wanton pairOf knickerbockers she doth wear,Full windy and with space to spare.Enlargèd by the bellying breeze,Lord! how they playfully do easeThe urgent knocking of her knees!Lengthways curtailèd to her tasteA tunic circumvents her waist,And soothly it is passing chaste.Upon her head she hath a gearEven such as wights of ruddy cheerDo use in stalking of the deer.Haply her truant tresses mockSome coronal of shapelier block,To wit, the bounding billy-cock.Withal she hath a loaded gun,Whereat the pheasants, as they run,Do make a fair diversiòn.For very awe, if so she shoots,My hair upriseth from the roots,And lo! I tremble in my boots!
Owen Seaman.
"Farewell!" Another gloomy wordAs ever into language crept.'Tis often written, never heard,ExceptIn playhouse. Ere the hero flits—In handcuffs—from our pitying view."Farewell!" he murmurs, then exitsR. U."Farewell" is much too sighful forAn age that has not time to sigh.We say, "I'll see you later," or"Good by!"When, warned by chanticleer, you goFrom her to whom you owe devoir,"Say not 'good by,'" she laughs, "but'Au Revoir!'"Thus from the garden are you sped;And Juliet were the first to tellYou, you were silly if you said"Farewell!""Farewell," meant long ago, beforeIt crept, tear-spattered, into song,"Safe voyage!" "Pleasant journey!" or"So long!"But gone its cheery, old-time ring;The poets made it rhyme with knell—Joined it became a dismal thing—"Farewell!""Farewell!" into the lover's soulYou see Fate plunge the fatal iron.All poets use it. It's the wholeOf Byron."I only feel—farewell!" said he;And always fearful was the telling—Lord Byron was eternallyFarewelling."Farewell!" A dismal word, 'tis true(And why not tell the truth about it!);But what on earth would poets doWithout it?
Bert Leston Taylor.
Here is the tale—and you must make the most of it!Here is the rhyme—ah, listen and attend!Backwards—forwards—read it all and boast of itIf you are anything the wiser at the end!
Now Jack looked up—it was time to sup, and the bucket was yet to fill,
And Jack looked round for a space and frowned, then beckoned his sister Jill,
And twice he pulled his sister's hair, and thrice he smote her side;
"Ha' done, ha' done with your impudent fun—ha' done with your games!" she cried;
"You have made mud-pies of a marvellous size—finger and face are black,
You have trodden the Way of the Mire and Clay—now up and wash you, Jack!
Or else, or ever we reach our home, there waiteth an angry dame—
Well you know the weight of her blow—the supperless open shame!
Wash, if you will, on yonder hill—wash, if you will, at the spring,—
Or keep your dirt, to your certain hurt, and an imminent walloping!"
"You must wash—you must scrub—you must scrape!" growled Jack, "you must traffic with cans and pails,
Nor keep the spoil of the good brown soil in the rim of your finger-nails!
The morning path you must tread to your bath—you must wash ere the night descends,
And all for the cause of conventional laws and the soap-makers' dividends!
But if 'tis sooth that our meal in truth depends on our washing, Jill,
By the sacred right of our appetite—haste—haste to the top of the hill!"
They have trodden the Way of the Mire and Clay, they have toiled and travelled far,
They have climbed to the brow of the hill-top now, where the bubbling fountains are,
They have taken the bucket and filled it up—yea, filled it up to the brim;
But Jack he sneered at his sister Jill, and Jill she jeered at him:
"What, blown already!" Jack cried out (and his was a biting mirth!)
"You boast indeed of your wonderful speed—but what is the boasting worth?
Now, if you can run as the antelope runs and if you can turn like a hare,
Come, race me, Jill, to the foot of the hill—and prove your boasting fair!"
"Race? What is a race" (and a mocking face had Jill as she spake the word)
"Unless for a prize the runner tries? The truth indeed ye heard,
For I can run as the antelope runs, and I can turn like a hare:—
The first one down wins half-a-crown—and I will race you there!"
"Yea, if for the lesson that you will learn (the lesson of humbled pride)
The price you fix at two-and-six, it shall not be denied;
Come, take your stand at my right hand, for here is the mark we toe:
Now, are you ready, and are you steady? Gird up your petticoats! Go!"
And Jill she ran like a winging bolt, a bolt from the bow released,
But Jack like a stream of the lightning gleam, with its pathway duly greased;
He ran down hill in front of Jill like a summer-lightning flash—
Till he suddenly tripped on a stone, or slipped, and fell to the earth with a crash.
Then straight did rise on his wondering eyes the constellations fair,
Arcturus and the Pleiades, the Greater and Lesser Bear,
The swirling rain of a comet's train he saw, as he swiftly fell—
And Jill came tumbling after him with a loud triumphant yell:
"You have won, you have won, the race is done! And as for the wager laid—
You have fallen down with a broken crown—the half-crown debt is paid!"
They have taken Jack to the room at the back where the family medicines are,
And he lies in bed with a broken head in a halo of vinegar;
While, in that Jill had laughed her fill as her brother fell to earth,
She had felt the sting of a walloping—she hath paid the price of her mirth!
Here is the tale—and now you have the whole of it,
Here is the story—well and wisely planned,
Beauty—Duty—these make up the soul of it—
But, ah, my little readers, will you mark and understand?
Anthony C. Deane.
The skies they were ashen and sober,The streets they were dirty and drear;It was night in the month of October,Of my most immemorial year;Like the skies I was perfectly sober,As I stopped at the mansion of Shear,—At the "Nightingale,"—perfectly sober,And the willowy woodland, down here.Here once in an alley TitanicOf Ten-pins,—I roamed with my soul,—Of Ten-pins,—with Mary, my soul;They were days when my heart was volcanic,And impelled me to frequently roll,And made me resistlessly roll,Till my ten-strikes created a panicIn the realms of the Boreal pole,Till my ten-strikes created a panicWith the monkey atop of his pole.I repeat, I was perfectly sober,But my thoughts they were palsied and sear,—My thoughts were decidedly queer;For I knew not the month was October,And I marked not the night of the year;I forgot that sweetmorçeauof AuberThat the band oft performèd down here;And I mixed the sweet music of AuberWith the Nightingale's music by Shear.And now as the night was senescent,And star-dials pointed to morn,And car-drivers hinted of morn,At the end of the path a liquescentAnd bibulous lustre was born:'Twas made by the bar-keeper present,Who mixèd a duplicate horn,—His two hands describing a crescentDistinct with a duplicate horn.And I said: "This looks perfectly regal;For it's warm, and I know I feel dry,—I am confident that I feel dry.We have come past the emeu and eagle,And watched the gay monkey on high;Let us drink to the emeu and eagle,—To the swan and the monkey on high—To the eagle and monkey on high;For this bar-keeper will not inveigle,—Bully boy with the vitreous eye;He surely would never inveigle,—Sweet youth with the crystalline eye."But Mary, uplifting her finger,Said, "Sadly this bar I mistrust,—I fear that this bar does not trust.Oh, hasten! oh, let us not linger!Oh, fly!—let us fly—ere we must!"In terror she cried, letting sink herParasol till it trailed in the dust,—In agony sobbed, letting sink herParasol till it trailed in the dust,—Till it sorrowfully trailed in the dust.Then I pacified Mary, and kissed her,And tempted her into the room,And conquer'd her scruples and gloom;And we passed to the end of the vista,But were stopped by the warning of doom—By some words that were warning of doom.And I said, "What is written, sweet sister,At the opposite end of the room?"She sobbed, as she answered, "All liquorsMust be paid for ere leaving the room."Then my heart it grew ashen and sober,As the streets were deserted and drear—For my pockets were empty and drear;And I cried, "It was surely October,On this very night of last year,That I journeyed—I journeyed down here—That I brought a fair maiden down here,On this night of all nights in the year.Ah! to me that inscription is clear:Well I know now I'm perfectly sober,Why no longer they credit me here,—Well I know now that music of Auber,And this Nightingale, kept by one Shear."
Bret Harte.
As I was walkin' the jungle round, a-killin' of tigers an' time;
I seed a kind of an author man a writin' a rousin' rhyme;
'E was writin' a mile a minute an' more, an' I sez to 'im, "'Oo are you?"
Sez 'e, "I'm a poet—'er majesty's poet—soldier an' sailor, too!"
An 'is poem began in Ispahan an' ended in Kalamazoo,
It 'ad army in it, an' navy in it, an' jungle sprinkled through,
For 'e was a poet—'er majesty's poet—soldier an' sailor, too!
An' after, I met 'im all over the world, a doin' of things a host;
'E 'ad one foot planted in Burmah, an' one on the Gloucester coast;
'Es 'alf a sailor an' 'alf a whaler, 'e's captain, cook and crew,
But most a poet—'er majesty's poet—soldier an' sailor too!
'E's often Scot an' 'e's often not, but 'is work is never through
For 'e laughs at blame, an' 'e writes for fame, an' a bit for revenoo,—
Bein' a poet—'er majesty's poet—soldier an' sailor too!
'E'll take you up to the Artic zone, 'e'll take you down to the Nile,
'E'll give you a barrack ballad in the Tommy Atkins style,
Or 'e'll sing you a Dipsy Chantey, as the bloomin' bo'suns do,
For 'e is a poet—'er majesty's poet—soldier an' sailor too.
An' there isn't no room for others, an' there's nothin' left to do;
'E 'as sailed the main from the 'Orn to Spain, 'e 'as tramped the jungle through,
An' written up all there is to write—soldier an' sailor, too!
There are manners an' manners of writin', but 'is is theproperway,
An' it ain't so hard to be a bard if you'll imitate Rudyard K.;
But sea an' shore an' peace an' war, an' everything else in view—
'E 'as gobbled the lot!—'er majesty's poet—soldier an' sailor, too.
'E's not content with 'is Indian 'ome, 'e's looking for regions new,
In another year 'e'll ave swept 'em clear, an' what'll the rest of us do?
'E's crowdin' us out!—'er majesty's poet—soldier an' sailor too!
Guy Wetmore Carryl.
Being a lyric translation of Heine's "Du bist wie eine Blume," as it is usually done.
Being a lyric translation of Heine's "Du bist wie eine Blume," as it is usually done.
Thou art like unto a Flower,So pure and clean thou art;I view thee and much sadnessSteals to me in the heart.To me it seems my Hands IShould now impose on yourHead, praying God to keep youSo fine and clean and pure.
Franklin P. Adams.
Rain on the face of the sea,Rain on the sodden land,And the window-pane is blurred with rainAs I watch it, pen in hand.Mist on the face of the sea,Mist on the sodden land,Filling the vales as daylight fails,And blotting the desolate sand.Voices from out of the mist,Calling to one another:"Hath love an end, thou more than friend,Thou dearer than ever brother?"Voices from out of the mist,Calling and passing away;But I cannot speak, for my voice is weak,And ... this is the end of my lay.
Rudyard Kipling.
I, Angelo, obese, black-garmented,Respectable, much in demand, well fedWith mine own larder's dainties, where, indeed,Such cakes of myrrh or fine alyssum seed,Thin as a mallow-leaf, embrowned o' the top.Which, cracking, lets the ropy, trickling dropOf sweetness touch your tongue, or potted nestsWhich my recondite recipe investsWith cold conglomerate tidbits—ah, the bill!(You say), but given it were mine to fillMy chests, the case so put were yours, we'll say(This counter, here, your post, as mine to-day),And you've an eye to luxuries, what harmIn smoothing down your palate with the charmYourself concocted? There we issue take;And see! as thus across the rim I breakThis puffy paunch of glazed embroidered cake,So breaks, through use, the lust of watering chapsAnd craveth plainness: do I so? Perhaps;But that's my secret. Find me such a manAs Lippo yonder, built upon the planOf heavy storage, double-navelled, fatFrom his own giblet's oils, an AraratUplift o'er water, sucking rosy draughtsFrom Noah's vineyard,—crisp, enticing waftsYon kitchen now emits, which to your senseSomewhat abate the fear of old events,Qualms to the stomach,—I, you see, am slowUnnecessary duties to forego,—You understand? A venison haunch,haul gout.Ducks that in Cimbrian olives mildly stew.And sprigs of anise, might one's teeth provokeTo taste, and so we wear the complex yokeJust as it suits,—my liking, I confess,More to receive, and to partake no less,Still more obese, while through thick adiposeSensation shoots, from testing tongue to toesFar off, dim-conscious, at the body's verge,Where the froth-whispers of its waves emergeOn the untasting sand. Stay, now! a seatIs bare: I, Angelo, will sit and eat.
Bayard Taylor.
In the lonesome latter years(Fatal years!)To the dropping of my tearsDanced the mad and mystic spheresIn a rounded, reeling rune,'Neath the moon,To the dripping and the dropping of my tears.Ah, my soul is swathed in gloom,(Ulalume!)In a dim Titanic tomb,For my gaunt and gloomy soulPonders o'er the penal scroll,O'er the parchment (not a rhyme),Out of place,—out of time,—I am shredded, shorn, unshifty,(Oh, the fifty!)And the days have passed, the three,Over me!And the debit and the credit are as one to him and me!'Twas the random runes I wroteAt the bottom of the note,(Wrote and freelyGave to Greeley)In the middle of the night,In the mellow, moonless night,When the stars were out of sight,When my pulses, like a knell,(Israfel!)Danced with dim and dying faysO'er the ruins of my days,O'er the dimeless, timeless days,When the fifty, drawn at thirty,Seeming thrifty, yet the dirtyLucre of the market, was the most that I could raise!Fiends controlled it,(Let him hold it!)Devils held for me the inkstand and the pen;Now the days of grace are o'er,(Ah, Lenore!)I am but as other men;What is time, time, time,To my rare and runic rhyme,To my random, reeling rhyme,By the sands along the shore,Where the tempest whispers, "Pay him!" and I answer, "Nevermore!"
Bayard Taylor.
Everywhere, everywhere, following me;
Taking me by the buttonhole, pulling off my boots, hustling me with the elbows;
Sitting down with me to clams and the chowder-kettle;
Plunging naked at my side into the sleek, irascible surges;
Soothing me with the strain that I neither permit nor prohibit;
Flocking this way and that, reverent, eager, orotund, irrepressible;
Denser than sycamore leaves when the north-winds are scouring Paumanok;
What can I do to restrain them? Nothing, verily nothing,
Everywhere, everywhere, crying aloud for me;
Crying, I hear; and I satisfy them out of my nature;
And he that comes at the end of the feast shall find something over.
Whatever they want I give; though it be something else, they shall have it.
Drunkard, leper, Tammanyite, small-pox and cholera patient, shoddy and codfish millionnaire,
And the beautiful young men, and the beautiful young women, all the same,
Crowding, hundreds of thousands, cosmical multitudes,
Buss me and hang on my hips and lean up to my shoulders,
Everywhere listening to my yawp and glad whenever they hear it;
Everywhere saying, say it, Walt, we believe it:
Everywhere, everywhere.
Bayard Taylor.
When I had firmly answered "No,"And he allowed that that was so,I really thought I should be freeFor good and all from Mr. B.,And that he would soberly acquiesce.I said that it would be discreetThat for awhile we should not meet;I promised that I would always feelA kindly interest in his weal;I thanked him for his amorous zeal;In short, I said all I could but "yes."I said what I'm accustomed to;I acted as I always do.I promised he should find in meA friend,—a sister, if that might be;But he was still dissatisfied.He certainly was most polite;He said exactly what was right,He acted very properly,Except indeed for this, that heInsisted on inviting meTo come with him for "one more last ride."A little while in doubt I stood:A ride, no doubt, would do me good;I had a habit and a hatExtremely well worth looking at;The weather was distinctly fine.My horse, too, wanted exercise,And time, when one is riding, flies;Besides, it really seemed, you see,The only way of ridding meOf pertinacious Mr. B.;So my head I graciously incline.I won't say much of what happened next;I own I was extremely vexed.Indeed I should have been aghastIf any one had seen what passed;But nobody need ever knowThat, as I leaned forward to stir the fire,He advanced before I could well retire;And I suddenly felt, to my great alarm,The grasp of a warm, unlicensed arm,An embrace in which I found no charm;I was awfully glad when he let me go.Then we began to ride; my steedWas rather fresh, too fresh indeed,And at first I thought of little, saveThe way to escape an early grave,As the dust rose up on either side.My stern companion jogged alongOn a brown old cob both broad and strong.He looked as he does when he's writing verse,Or endeavoring not to swear and curse,Or wondering Where he has left his purse;Indeed it was a sombre ride.I spoke of the weather to Mr. B.,But he neither listened nor spoke to me.I praised his horse, and I smiled the smileWhich was wont to move him once in a while.I said I was wearing his favorite flowers,But I wasted my words on the desert air,For he rode with a fixed and gloomy stare.I wonder what he was thinking about.As I don't read verse, I shan't find out.It was something subtle and deep, no doubt,A theme to detain a man for hours.Ah! there was the corner where Mr. S.So nearly induced me to whisper "yes";And here it was that the next but oneProposed on horseback, or would have done,Had his horse not most opportunely shied;Which perhaps was due to the unseen flickHe received from my whip; 'twas a scurvy trick,But I never could do with that young man,—I hope his present young woman can.Well, I must say, never, since time began,Did I go for a duller or longer ride.He never smiles and he never speaks;He might go on like this for weeks;He rolls a slightly frenzied eyeTowards the blue and burning sky,And the cob bounds on with tireless stride.If we aren't home for lunch at twoI don't know what papa will do;But I know full well he will say to me,"I never approved of Mr. B.;It's the very devil that you and heRide, ride together, forever ride."
James Kenneth Stephen.
Who am I?
I have been reading Walt Whitman, and know not whether he be me, or me he;—
Or otherwise!
Oh, blue skies! oh, rugged mountains! oh, mighty, rolling Niagara!
O, chaos and everlasting bosh!
I am a poet; I swear it! If you do not believe it you are a dolt, a fool, an idiot!
Milton, Shakespere, Dante, Tommy Moore, Pope, never, but Byron, too, perhaps, and last, not least, Me, and the Poet Close.
We send our resonance echoing down the adamantine cañons of the future!
We live forever! The worms who criticise us (asses!) laugh, scoff, jeer, and babble—die!
Serve them right.
What is the difference between Judy, the pride of Fleet Street, the glory of Shoe Lane, and Walt Whitman?
Start not! 'Tis no end of a minstrel show who perpends this query;
'Tis no brain-racking puzzle from an inner page of the Family Herald,
No charade, acrostic (double or single), conundrum, riddle, rebus, anagram, or other guess-work.
I answer thus: We both write truths—great, stern, solemn, unquenchable truths—couched in more or less ridiculous language.
I, as a rule use rhyme, he does not; therefore, I am his Superior (which is also a lake in his great and glorious country).
I scorn, with the unutterable scorn of the despiser of pettiness, to take a mean advantage of him.
He writes, he sells, he is read (more or less); why then should I rack my brains and my rhyming dictionary? I will see the public hanged first!
I sing of America, of the United States, of the stars and stripes of Oskhosh, of Kalamazoo, and of Salt Lake City.
I sing of the railroad cars, of the hotels, of the breakfasts, the lunches, the dinners, and the suppers;
Of the soup, the fish, the entrées, the joints, the game, the puddings and the ice-cream.
I sing all—I eat all—I sing in turn of Dr. Bluffem's Anti-bilious Pills.
No subject is too small, too insignificant, for Nature's poet.
I sing of the cocktail, a new song for every cocktail, hundreds of songs, hundreds of cocktails.
It is a great and a glorious land! The Mississippi, the Missouri, and a million other torrents roll their waters to the ocean.
It is a great and glorious land! The Alleghanies, the Catskills, the Rockies (see atlas for other mountain ranges too numerous to mention) pierce the clouds!
And the greatest and most glorious product of this great and glorious land is Walt Whitman;
This must be so, for he says it himself.
There is but one greater than he between the rising and the setting sun.
There is but one before whom he meekly bows his humbled head.
Oh, great and glorious land, teeming producer of all things, creator of Niagara, and inventor of Walt Whitman,
Erase your national advertisements of liver pads and cures for rheumatism from your public monuments, and inscribe thereon in letters of gold the nameJudy.
Unknown.
O cool in the summer is salad,And warm in the winter is love;And a poet shall sing you a balladDelicious thereon and thereof.A singer am I, if no sinner,My muse has a marvellous wing,And I willingly worship at dinnerThe Sirens of Spring.Take endive—like love it is bitter,Take beet—for like love it is red;Crisp leaf of the lettuce shall glitter,And cress from the rivulet's bed;Anchovies, foam-born, like the ladyWhose beauty has maddened this bard;And olives, from groves that are shady;And eggs—boil 'em hard.
Mortimer Collins.
If life were never bitter,And love were always sweet,Then who would care to borrowA moral from to-morrow—If Thames would always glitter,And joy would ne'er retreat,If life were never bitter,And love were always sweet!If care were not the waiterBehind a fellow's chair,When easy-going sinnersSit down to Richmond dinners,And life's swift stream flows straighter,By Jove, it would be rare,If care were not the waiterBehind a fellow's chair.If wit were always radiant,And wine were always iced,And bores were kicked out straightwayThrough a convenient gateway;Then down the year's long gradient'Twere sad to be enticed,If wit were always radiant,And wine were always iced.
Mortimer Collins.
'Twas gilbert. The kchestertonDid locke and bennett in the reed.All meredith was the nicholson,And harrison outqueed.Beware the see-enn-william, son,The londonjack with call that's wild.Beware the gertroo dathertonAnd richardwashburnchild.He took his brady blade in hand;Long time the partridge foe he sought.Then stood a time by the oppenheimIn deep mcnaughton thought.In warwick deeping thought he stood—He poised on edithwharton brink;He cried, "Ohbernardshaw! I couldIf basilking would kink."Rexbeach! rexbeach!—and each on eachO. Henry's mantles ferber fell.It was the same'sif henryjamesHad wally eaton well."And hast thou writ the greatest book?Come to thy birmingham, my boy!Oh, beresford way! Oh, holman day!"He kiplinged in his joy.'Twas gilbert. The kchestertonDid locke and bennett in the reed.All meredith was the nicholson,And harrison outqueed.
Harry Persons Taber.
The town of Nice! the town of Nice!Where once mosquitoes buzzed and stung,And never gave me any peace,The whole year round when I was young!Eternal winter chills it yet,It's always cold, and mostly wet.Lord Brougham sate on the rocky brow,Which looks on sea-girt Cannes, I wis,But wouldn't like to sit there now,Unless 'twere warmer than it is;I went to Cannes the other day,But found it much too damp to stay.The mountains look on Monaco,And Monaco looks on the sea;And, playing there some hours ago,I meant to win enormously;But, tho' my need of coin was badI lost the little that I had.Ye have the southern charges yet—Where is the southern climate gone?Of two such blessings, why forgetThe cheaper and the seemlier one?My weekly bill my wrath inspires;Think ye I meant to pay for fires?Why should I stay? No worse art thou,My country! on thy genial shoreThe local east-winds whistle now,The local fogs spread more and more;But in the sunny south, the weatherBeats all you know of put together.I cannot eat—I cannot sleep—The waves are not so blue as I;Indeed, the waters of the deepAre dirty-brown, and so's the sky:I get dyspepsia when I dine—Oh, dash that pint of country-wine!
Herman C. Merivale.
Long by the willow-treesVainly they sought her,Wild rang the mother's screamsO'er the gray water:Where is my lovely one?Where is my daughter?"Rouse thee, Sir Constable—Rouse thee and look;Fisherman, bring your net,Boatman, your hook.Beat in the lily-beds,Dive in the brook!"Vainly the constableShouted and called her;Vainly the fishermanBeat the green alder;Vainly he flung the net,Never it hauled her!Mother beside the fireSat, her nightcap in;Father, in easy chair,Gloomily napping,When at the window-sillCame a light tapping!And a pale countenanceLooked through the casement,Loud beat the mother's heart,Sick with amazement,And at the vision whichCame to surprise her,Shrieked in an agony—"Lor'! it's Elizar!"Yes, 'twas Elizabeth—Yes, 'twas their girl;Pale was her cheek, and herHair out of curl."Mother," the loving one,Blushing exclaimed,"Let not your innocentLizzy be blamed."Yesterday, going to AuntJones's to tea,Mother, dear mother, IForgot the door-key!And as the night was coldAnd the way steep,Mrs. Jones kept me toBreakfast and sleep."Whether her Pa and MaFully believed her,That we shall never know,Stern they received her;And for the work of thatCruel, though short, nightSent her to bed withoutTea for a fortnight.
Hey diddle diddlety,Cat and the fiddlety,Maidens of England, take caution by she!Let love and suicideNever tempt you aside,And always remember to take the door-key.
W. M. Thackeray.
In Ballades things always contrive to get lost,And Echo is constantly asking whereAre last year's roses and last year's frost?And where are the fashions we used to wear?And what is a "gentleman," and what is a "player"?Irrelevant questions I like to ask:Can you reap the tret as well as the tare?And who was the Man in the Iron Mask?What has become of the ring I tossedIn the lap of my mistress false and fair?Her grave is green and her tombstone mossed;But who is to be the next Lord Mayor?And where is King William, of Leicester Square?And who has emptied my hunting flask?And who is possessed of Stella's hair?And who was the Man in the Iron Mask?And what became of the knee I crossed,And the rod and the child they would not spare?And what will a dozen herring costWhen herring are sold at three halfpence a pair?And what in the world is the Golden Stair?Did Diogenes die in a tub or cask,Like Clarence, for love of liquor there?And who was the Man in the Iron Mask?
ENVOY
Poets, your readers have much to bear,For Ballade-making is no great task,If you do not remember, I don't much careWho was the man in the Iron Mask.
Augustus M. Moore.
There's somewhat on my breast, father,There's somewhat on my breast!The livelong day I sigh, father,And at night I cannot rest.I cannot take my rest, father,Though I would fain do so;A weary weight oppresseth me—This weary weight of woe!'Tis not the lack of gold, father,Nor want of worldly gear;My lands are broad, and fair to see,My friends are kind and dear.My kin are leal and true, father,They mourn to see my grief;But, oh! 'tis not a kinsman's handCan give my heart relief!'Tis not that Janet's false, father,'Tis not that she's unkind;Though busy flatterers swarm around,I know her constant mind.'Tis nothercoldness, father,That chills my laboring breast;It's that confounded cucumberI ate, and can't digest.
Richard Harris Barham.
Good reader! if you e'er have seen,When Phœbus hastens to his pillow,The mermaids, with their tresses green,Dancing upon the western billow:If you have seen, at twilight dim,When the lone spirit's vesper hymnFloats wild along the winding shore:If you have seen, through mist of eve,The fairy train their ringlets weave,Glancing along the spangled green;—If you have seen all this and more,God bless me! what a deal you've seen!
Thomas Moore.
It ripen'd by the river banks,Where, mask and moonlight aiding,Dons Blas and Juan play their pranks,Dark Donnas serenading.By Moorish damsel it was pluck'd,Beneath the golden day there;By swain 'twas then in London suck'd—Who flung the peel away there.He could not know in Pimlico,As little she in Seville,ThatIshould reel upon that peel,And—wish them at the devil!
Frederick Locker-Lampson.
The jackals prowl, the serpents hissIn what was once Persepolis.Proud Babylon is but a traceUpon the desert's dusty face.The topless towers of IliumAre ashes. Judah's harp is dumb.The fleets of Nineveh and TyreAre down with Davy Jones, EsquireAnd all the oligarchies, kings,And potentates that ruled these thingsAre gone! But cheer up; don't be sad;Think what a lovely time they had!
Arthur Guiterman.
If thou would'st stand on Etna's burning brow,With smoke above, and roaring flame below;And gaze adown that molten gulf reveal'd,Till thy soul shudder'd and thy senses reel'd:If thou wouldst beard Niag'ra in his pride,Or stem the billows of Propontic tide;Scale all alone some dizzy Alpinehaut,And shriek "Excelsior!" among the snow:Would'st tempt all deaths, all dangers that may be—Perils by land, and perils on the sea;This vast round world, I say, if thou wouldst view it—Then, why the dickens don't you go and do it?
Henry Cholmondeley-Pennell.
Be brave, faint heart,The dough shall yet be cake;Be strong, weak heart,The butter is to come.Some cheerful chance will right the apple-cart,The devious pig will gain the lucky mart,Loquacity be dumb,—Collapsed the fake.Be brave, faint heart!Be strong, weak heart,The path will be made plain;Be brave, faint heart,The bore will crawl away.The upside down will turn to right side up,The stiffened lip compel that slipping cup,The doldrums of the dayBe not in vain.Be strong, weak heart!Be brave, faint heart,The jelly means to jell;Be strong, weak heart,The hopes are in the malt.The wrong side in will yet turn right side out,The long-time lost come down yon cormorant spout.Life still is worth her salt:What ends well's well.Be brave, faint heart!
Newton Mackintosh.
Twas late, and the gay company was gone,And light lay soft on the deserted roomFrom alabaster vases, and a scentOf orange-leaves, and sweet verbena cameThrough the unshutter'd window on the air.And the rich pictures with their dark old tintsHung like a twilight landscape, and all thingsSeem'd hush'd into a slumber. Isabel,The dark-eyed, spiritual IsabelWas leaning on her harp, and I had stay'dTo whisper what I could not when the crowdHung on her look like worshipers. I knelt,And with the fervor of a lip unusedTo the cool breath of reason, told my love.There was no answer, and I took the handThat rested on the strings, and press'd a kissUpon it unforbidden—and againBesought her, that this silent evidenceThat I was not indifferent to her heart,Might have the seal of one sweet syllable.I kiss'd the small white fingers as I spoke,And she withdrew them gently, and upraisedHer forehead from its resting-place, and look'dEarnestly on me—She had been asleep!
N. P. Willis.
The editor sat with his head in his handsAnd his elbows at rest on his knees;He was tired of the ever-increasing demandsOn his time, and he panted for ease.The clamor for copy was scorned with a sneer,And he sighed in the lowest of tones:"Won't somebody come with a dollar to cheerThe heart of Emanuel Jones?"Just then on the stairway a footstep was heardAnd a rap-a-tap loud at the door,And the flickering hope that had been long deferredBlazed up like a beacon once more;And there entered a man with a cynical smileThat was fringed with a stubble of red,Who remarked, as he tilted a sorry old tileTo the back of an average head:"I have come here to pay"—Here the editor cried:"You're as welcome as flowers in spring!Sit down in this easy armchair by my side,And excuse me awhile till I bringA lemonade dashed with a little old wineAnd a dozen cigars of the best....Ah! Here we are! This, I assure you, is fine;Help yourself, most desirable guest."The visitor drank with a relish, and smokedTill his face wore a satisfied glow,And the editor, beaming with merriment, jokedIn a joyous, spontaneous flow;And then, when the stock of refreshments was gone,His guest took occasion to say,In accents distorted somewhat by a yawn,"My errand up here is to pay—"But the generous scribe, with a wave of his hand,Put a stop to the speech of his guest,And brought in a melon, the finest the landEver bore on its generous breast;And the visitor, wearing a singular grin,Seized the heaviest half of the fruit,And the juice, as it ran in a stream from his chin,Washed the mud of the pike from his boot.Then, mopping his face on a favorite sheetWhich the scribe had laid carefully by,The visitor lazily rose to his feetWith the dreariest kind of a sigh,And he said, as the editor sought his address,In his books to discover his due:"I came here to pay—my respects to the press,And to borrow a dollar of you!"
Parmenas Mix.
Ah! why those piteous sounds of woe,Lone wanderer of the dreary night?Thy gushing tears in torrents flow,Thy bosom pants in wild affright!And thou, within whose iron breastThose frowns austere too truly tell,Mild pity, heaven-descended guest,Hath never, never deign'd to dwell."That rude, uncivil touch forego,"Stern despot of a fleeting hour!Nor "make the angels weep" to knowThe fond "fantastic tricks" of power!Know'st thou not "mercy is not strain'd,But droppeth as the gentle dew,"And while it blesseth him who gain'd,It blesseth him who gave it, too?Say, what art thou? and what is he,Pale victim of despair and pain,Whose streaming eyes and bended kneeSue to thee thus—and sue in vain?Cold callous man!—he scorns to yield,Or aught relax his felon gripe,But answers, "I'm Inspector FieldAnd this here warment's prigg'd your wipe."
Richard Harris Barham.
'Tis sweet at dewy eve to roveWhen softly sighs the western breeze,And wandering 'mid the starlit groveTo take a pinch of snuff and sneeze.'Tis sweet to see in daisied fieldThe flocks and herds their pleasure take;But sweeter are the joys they yieldIn tender chop and juicy steak.'Tis sweet to hear the murmurous soundThat from the vocal woods doth rise,To mark the pigeons wheeling round,And think how nice they'd be in pies.When nightingales pour from their throatsTheir gushing melody, 'tis sweet;Yet sweeter 'tis to catch the notesThat issue from Threadneedle Street.
Unknown.
His eye was stern and wild—his cheek was pale and cold as clay;Upon his tightened lip a smile of fearful meaning lay.He mused awhile—but not in doubt—no trace of doubt was there;It was the steady solemn pause of resolute despair.Once more he looked upon the scroll—once more its words he read—Then calmly, with unflinching hand, its folds before him spread.I saw him bare his throat, and seize the blue-cold gleaming steel,And grimly try the tempered edge he was so soon to feel!A sickness crept upon my heart, and dizzy swam my head—I could not stir—I could not cry—I felt benumbed and dead;Black icy horrors struck me dumb, and froze my senses o'er;I closed my eyes in utter fear, and strove to think no more.Again I looked: a fearful change across his face had passed—He seemed to rave—on cheek and lip a flaky foam was cast;He raised on high the glittering blade—then first I found a tongue—"Hold, madman! stay thy frantic deed!" I cried, and forth I sprung;He heard me, but he heeded not; one glance around he gave,And ere I could arrest his hands, he had—begun toshave!
Unknown.