SAME OLD STORY

History, and nature, too, repeat themselves, they say;Men are only habit's slaves; we see it every day.Life has done its best for me—I find it tiresome still;For nothing's everything at all, and everything is nil.Same old get-up, dress, and tub;Same old breakfast; same old club;Same old feeling; same old blue;Same old story—nothing new!Life consists of paying bills as long as you have health;Woman? She'll be true to you—as long as you have wealth;Think sometimes of marriage, if the right girl I could strike;But the more I see of girls, the more they are alike.Same old giggles, smiles, and eyes;Same old kisses; same old sighs;Same old chaff you; same adieu;Same old story—nothing new!Go to theatres sometimes to see the latest plays;Same old plots I played with in my happy childhood's days;Hero, same; same villain; and same heroine in tears,Starving, homeless, in the snow—with diamonds in her ears.Same stern father making "bluffs";Leading man all teeth and cuffs;Same soubrettes, still twenty-two;Same old story—nothing new!Friend of mine got married; in a year or so, a boy!Father really foolish in his fond paternal joy;Talked about that "kiddy," and became a dreadful bore—Just as if a baby never had been born before.Same old crying, only more;Same old business, walking floor;Same old "kitchy—coochy—coo!"Same old baby—nothing new!

Harry B. Smith.

Men, dying, make their wills, but wivesEscape a work so sad;Why should they make what all their livesThe gentle dames have had?

John G. Saxe.

You wrote a line too much, my sage,Of seers the first, and first of sayers;For only half the world's a stage,And only all the women players.

James Kenneth Stephen.

Ah! Matt, old age has brought to meThy wisdom, less thy certainty;The world's a jest, and joy's a trinket;I knew that once,—but now I think it.

James Kenneth Stephen.

You beat your pate, and fancy wit will come:Knock as you please, there's nobody at home.

Alexander Pope.

Sir, I admit your general rule,That every poet is a fool,But you yourself may serve to show it,That every fool is not a poet.

Alexander Pope.

Jem writes his verses with more speedThan the printer's boy can set 'em;Quite as fast as we can read,And only not so fast as we forget 'em.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge.

What? rise again withallone's bones,Quoth Giles, I hope you fib:I trusted, when I went to Heaven,To go without my rib.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge.

In Köln, a town of monks and bones,And pavements fanged with murderous stones,And rags, and hags, and hideous wenches,I counted two-and-seventy stenches,All well defined, and separate stinks!Ye nymphs that reign o'er sewers and sinks,The river Rhine, it is well known,Doth wash your city of Cologne;But tell me, nymphs, what power divineShall henceforth wash the river Rhine?

Samuel Taylor Coleridge.

Your poem musteternalbe,Dear sir, it can not fail,For 'tis incomprehensible,And wants bothheadandtail.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge.

Swans sing before they die:—'twere no bad thing,Should certain persons die before they sing.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge.

Sly Beelzebub took all occasionsTo try Job's constancy and patience.He took his honor, took his health;He took his children, took his wealth,His servants, horses, oxen, cows,—But cunning Satan didnottake his spouse.But Heaven, that brings out good from evil,And loves to disappoint the devil,Had predetermined to restoreTwofoldall he had before;His servants, horses, oxen, cows—Short-sighted devil,notto take his spouse!

Samuel Taylor Coleridge.

If all be true that I do think,There are five reasons we should drink;Good wine—a friend—or being dry—Or lest we should be by and by—Or any other reason why.

Dr. Henry Aldrich.

All smatterers are more brisk and pertThan those that understand an art;As little sparkles shine more brightThan glowing coals, that give them light.

Samuel Butler.

Hypocrisy will serve as wellTo propagate a church, as zeal;As persecution and promotionDo equally advance devotion:So round white stones will serve, they say,As well as eggs to make hens lay.

Samuel Butler.

When men a dangerous disease did 'scape,Of old, they gave a cock to Æsculape;Let me give two, that doubly am got free;From my disease's danger, and from thee.

Ben Jonson.

I sent for Ratcliffe; was so ill,That other doctors gave me over:He felt my pulse, prescribed his pill,And I was likely to recover.But when the wit began to wheeze,And wine had warm'd the politician,Cured yesterday of my disease,I died last night of my physician.

Matthew Prior.

Lord Erskine, at women presuming to rail,Calls a wife "a tin canister tied to one's tail";And fair Lady Anne, while the subject he carries on,Seems hurt at his Lordship's degrading comparison.But wherefore degrading? consider'd aright,A canister's useful, and polish'd, and bright:And should dirt its original purity hide,That's the fault of the puppy to whom it is tied.

Richard Brinsley Sheridan.

The honey-moon is very strange.Unlike all other moons the changeShe regularly undergoes.She rises at the full; then losesMuch of her brightness; then reposesFaintly; and then ... has naught to lose.

Walter Savage Landor.

When Dido found Æneas would not come,She mourn'd in silence, and wasDi-do-dum(b).

Richard Parson.

A lovely young lady I mourn in my rhymes:She was pleasant, good-natured, and civil sometimes.Her figure was good: she had very fine eyes,And her talk was a mixture of foolish and wise.Her adorers were many, and one of them said,"She waltzed rather well! It's a pity she's dead!"

George John Cayley.

"Come, come," said Tom's father, "at your time of life,There's no longer excuse for thus playing the rake.—It is time you should think, boy, of taking a wife."—"Why, so it is, father,—whose wife shall I take?"

Thomas Moore.

Between Adam and me the great difference is,Though a paradise each has been forced to resign,That he never wore breeches till turn'd out of his,While, for want of my breeches, I'm banish'd from mine.

Thomas Moore.

Some ladies now make pretty songs,And some make pretty nurses;Some men are great at righting wrongsAnd some at writing verses.

Frederick Locker-Lampson.

He cannot be complete in aughtWho is not humorously prone;A man without a merry thoughtCan hardly have a funny-bone.

Frederick Locker-Lampson.

I cannot praise the Doctor's eyes;I never saw his glance divine;He always shuts them when he prays,And when he preaches he shuts mine.

George Outram.

Here lies my wife: here let her lie!Now she's at rest, and so am I.

John Dryden.

In all thy humors, whether grave or mellow,Thou 'rt such a touchy, testy, pleasant fellow;Hast so much wit, and mirth, and spleen about thee,There is no living with thee, nor without thee.

Joseph Addison.

"God bless the King! God bless the faith's defender!God bless—no harm in blessing—the Pretender.But who pretender is, and who is king,God bless us all, that's quite another thing."

John Byrom.

"Immortal Newton never spokeMore truth than here you'll find;Nor Pope himself e'er penn'd a jokeMore cruel on mankind."The picture placed the busts between,Gives satire all its strength;Wisdom and Wit are little seen—But Folly at full length."

Lord Chesterfield.

"Had Cain been Scot, God would have changed his doom;Nor forced him wander, but confined him home."

Cleveland.

See yonder goes old Mendax, telling liesTo that good easy man with whom he's walking;How know I that? you ask, with some surprise;Why, don't you see, my friend, the fellow's talking.

Lessing.

So slowly you walk, and so quickly you eat,You should march with your mouth, and devour with your feet.

Lessing.

Quest.—Why is a Pump like Viscount Castlereagh?Answ.—Because it is a slender thing of wood,That up and down its awkward arm doth sway,And coolly spout, and spout, and spout away,In one weak, washy, everlasting flood!

Thomas Moore.

Of all the men one meets about,There's none like Jack—he's everywhere:At church—park—auction—dinner—rout—Go when and where you will, he's there.Try the West End, he's at your back—Meets you, like Eurus, in the East—You're call'd upon for "How do, Jack?"One hundred times a day, at least.A friend of his one evening said,As home he took his pensive way,"Upon my soul, I fear Jack's dead—I've seen him but three times to-day!"

Thomas Moore.

While Butler, needy wretch, was yet alive,No generous patron would a dinner give.See him, when starved to death and turn'd to dust,Presented with a monumental bust.The poet's fate is here in emblem shown—He ask'd forbread, and he received astone.

Rev. Samuel Wesley.

Which is of greater value, prythee, say,The Bride or Bridegroom?—must the truth be told?Alas, it must! The Bride is given away—The Bridegroom's often regularly sold.

Unknown.

In moss-prankt dells which the sunbeams flatter(And heaven it knoweth what that may mean;Meaning, however, is no great matter)Where woods are a-tremble with words a-tween;Thro' God's own heather we wonned together,I and my Willie (O love my love):I need hardly remark it was glorious weather,And flitter-bats wavered alow, above:Boats were curtseying, rising, bowing,(Boats in that climate are so polite,)And sands were a ribbon of green endowing,And O the sun-dazzle on bark and bight!Thro' the rare red heather we danced together(O love my Willie,) and smelt for flowers:I must mention again it was glorious weather,Rhymes are so scarce in this world of ours:By rises that flushed with their purple favors,Thro' becks that brattled o'er grasses sheen,We walked or waded, we two young shavers,Thanking our stars we were both so green.We journeyed in parallels, I and Willie,In fortunate parallels! Butterflies,Hid in weltering shadows of daffodillyOr Marjoram, kept making peacock eyes:Song-birds darted about, some inkyAs coal, some snowy (I ween) as curds;Or rosy as pinks, or as roses pinky—They reck of no eerie To-come, those birds!But they skim over bents which the mill-stream washes,Or hang in the lift 'neath a white cloud's hem;They need no parasols, no goloshes;And good Mrs. Trimmer she feedeth them.Then we thrid God's cowslips (as erst his heather),That endowed the wan grass with their golden blooms;And snapt—(it was perfectly charming weather)—Our fingers at Fate and her goddess-glooms:And Willie 'gan sing—(Oh, his notes were fluty;Wafts fluttered them out to the white-winged sea)—Something made up of rhymes that have done much duty,Rhymes (better to put it) of "ancientry":Bowers of flowers encountered showersIn William's carol—(O love my Willie!)Then he bade sorrow borrow from blithe to-morrowI quite forget what—say a daffodilly.A nest in a hollow, "with buds to follow,"I think occurred next in his nimble strain;And clay that was "kneaden" of course in Eden—A rhyme most novel I do maintain:Mists, bones, the singer himself, love-stories,And all least furlable things got furled;Not with any design to conceal their glories,But simply and solely to rhyme with world.O if billows and pillows and hours and flowers,And all the brave rhymes of an elder day,Could be furled together, this genial weather,And carted or carried on wafts away,Nor ever again trotted out—ah me!How much fewer volumes of verse there'd be.

Charles Stuart Calverley.

At morning's callThe small-voiced pug dog welcomes in the sun,And flea-bit mongrels wakening one by one,Give answer all.When evening dimDraws rounds us, then the lovely caterwaul,Tart solo, sour duet and general squall,These are our hymn.

Oliver Wendell Holmes.

A Russian sailed over the blue Black SeaJust when the war was growing hot,And he shouted, "I'm Tjalikavakeree—Karindabrolikanavandorot—Schipkadirova—Ivandiszstova—Sanilik—Danilik—Varagobhot!"A Turk was standing upon the shoreRight where the terrible Russian crossed;And he cried, "Bismillah! I'm Abd el Kor—Bazaroukilgonautoskobrosk—Getzinpravadi—Kilgekosladji—Grivido—Blivido—Jenikodosk!"So they stood like brave men, long and well,And they called each other their proper names,Till the lockjaw seized them, and where they fellThey buried them both by the Irdosholames—Kalatalustchuk—Mischaribustchup—Bulgari—Dulgari—Sagharimainz.

Robert J. Burdette.

Calm and implacable,Eying disdainfully the world beneath,Sat Humpty-Dumpty on his mural eminenceIn solemn state:And I relate his storyIn verse unfettered by the bothering restrictions of rhyme or metre,In verse (or "rhythm," as I prefer to call it)Which, consequently, is far from difficult to write.He sat. And at his feetThe world passed on—the surging crowdOf men and women, passionate, turgid, dense,Keenly alert, lethargic, or obese.(Those two lines scan!)Among the restHe noted Jones; Jones with his Roman nose,His eyebrows—the left one streaked with a dash of gray—And yellow boots.Not that JonesHas anything in particular to do with the story;But a descriptive phraseLike the above shows that the writer isA Master of Realism.Let us proceed. Suddenly from his seatDid Humpty-Dumpty slip. Vainly he clutchedThe impalpable air. Down and down,Right to the foot of the wall,Right on to the horribly hard pavement that ran beneath it,Humpty-Dumpty, the unfortunate Humpty-Dumpty,Fell.And him, alas! no equine agency,Him no power of regal battalions—Resourceful, eager, strenuous—Could ever restore to the lofty eminenceWhich once was his.Still he lies on the very identicalSpot where he fell—lies, as I said on the ground,Shamefully and conspicuously abased!

Anthony C. Deane.

Come mighty Must!Inevitable Shall!In thee I trust.Time weaves my coronal!Go mocking Is!Go disappointing Was!That I am thisYe are the cursed cause!Yet humble second shall be first,I ween;And dead and buried be the curstHas Been!Oh weak Might Be!Oh, May, Might, Could, Would, Should!How powerless yeFor evil or for good!In every senseYour moods I cheerless call,Whate'er your tenseYe are imperfect, all!Ye have deceived the trust I've shownIn ye!Away! The Mighty Must aloneShall be!

W. S. Gilbert.

I am a hearthrug—Yes, a rug—Though I cannot describe myself as snug;Yet I know that for me they paid a priceFor a Turkey carpet that would suffice(But we live in an age of rascal vice).Why was I ever woven,For a clumsy lout, with a wooden leg,To come with his endless Peg! Peg!Peg! Peg!With a wooden leg,Till countless holes I'm drove in.("Drove," I have said, and it should be "driven";A hearthrug's blunders should be forgiven,For wretched scribblers have exercisedSuch endless bosh and clamour,So improvidently have improvised,That they've utterly ungrammaticisedOur ungrammatical grammar).And the coalsBurn holes,Or make spots like moles,And my lily-white tints, as black as your hat turn,And the housemaid (a matricide, will-forging slattern),RollsThe rollsFrom the plate, in shoals,When they're put to warm in front of the coals;And no one with me condoles,For the butter stains on my beautiful pattern.But the coals and rolls, and sometimes soles,Dropp'd from the frying-pan out of the fire.Are nothing to raise my indignant ire,Like the Peg! Peg!Of that horrible man with the wooden leg.This moral spread from me,Sing it, ring it, yelp it—Never a hearthrug be,That is if you can help it.

Unknown.

From Arranmore the weary miles I've come;An' all the way I've heardA Shrawn[1]that's kep' me silent, speechless, dumb,Not sayin' any word.An' was it then the Shrawn of Eire,[2]you'll say,For him that died the death on Carrisbool?It was not that; nor was it, by the way,The Sons of Garnim[3]blitherin' their drool;Nor was it any Crowdie of the Shee,[4]Or Itt, or Himm, nor wail of Barryhoo[5]For Barrywhich that stilled the tongue of me.'Twas but my own heart cryin' out for youMagraw![6]Bulleen, shinnanigan, Boru,Aroon, Machree, Aboo![7]

Arthur Guiterman.

[1]A Shrawn is a pure Gaelic noise, something like a groan, more like a shriek, and most like a sigh of longing.

[2]Eire was daughter of Carne, King of Connaught. Her lover, Murdh of the Open Hand, was captured by Greatcoat Mackintosh, King of Ulster, on the plain of Carrisbool, and made into soup. Eire's grief on this sad occasion has become proverbial.

[3]Garnim was second cousin to Manannan MacLir. His sons were always sad about something. There were twenty-two of them, and they were all unfortunate in love at the same time, just like a chorus at the opera. "Blitherin' their drool" is about the same as "dreeing their weird."

[4]The Shee (or "Sidhe," as I should properly spell it if you were not so ignorant) were, as everybody knows, the regular, stand-pat, organization fairies of Erin. The Crowdie was their annual convention, at which they made melancholy sounds. The Itt and Himm were the irregular, or insurgent, fairies. Theynevergot any offices or patronage. See MacAlester,Polity of the Sidhe of West Meath, page 985.

[5]The Barryhoo is an ancient Celtic bird about the size of a Mavis, with lavender eyes and a black-crape tail. It continually mourns its mate (Barrywhich, feminine form), which has an hereditary predisposition to an early and tragic demise and invariably dies first.

[6]Magraw, a Gaelic term of endearment, often heard on the baseball fields of Donnybrook.

[7]These last six words are all that tradition has preserved of the original incantation by means of which Irish rats were rhymed to death. Thereby hangs a good Celtic tale, which I should be glad to tell you in this note; but the publishers say that being prosed to death is as bad as being rhymed to death, and that the readers won't stand for any more.

Lilies, lilies, white lilies and yellow—

Lilies, lilies, purple lilies and golden—

Calla lilies, tiger lilies, lilies of the valley—

Lilies, lilies, lilies—

Bulb, bud and blossom—

What made them lilies?

If they were not lilies they would have to be something else, would they not?

What was it that made them lilies instead of making them violets or roses or geraniums or petunias?

What was it that made you yourself and me myself? What?

Alas! I do not know!

Don Marquis.

No usual words can bear the woe I feel,No tralatitions trite give me relief!O Webster! lend me words to voice my griefBitter as quassia, quass or kumquat peel!For I am sad ... bound on the cosmic wheel,What mad chthonophagy bids slave and chiefThrough endless cycles bite the earth like beef,By turns each cannibal and each the meal?Turn we to nature Webster, and we seeYour whidah bird refuse all strobile fruit,Your tragacanth in tears ooze from the tree ...We hear your flammulated owlets hoot!Turn we to nature, Webster, and we findFew creatures have a quite contented mind.Your koulan there, with dyslogistic snort,Will leave his phacoid food on worts to browse,While glactophorous Himalayan cowsThe knurled kohl-rabi spurn in uncouth sport;No margay climbs margosa trees; the shortGray mullet drink no mulse, nor houseIn pibcorns when the youth of Wales carouse ...No tournure doth the toucan's tail contort ...So I am sad! ... and yet, on Summer eves,When xebecs search the whishing scree for whelk,And the sharp sorrel lifts obcordate leaves,And cryptogamous plants fulfil the elk,I see the octopus play with his feet,And find within this sadness something sweet.

The thing we like about that poem is its recognition of all the sorrow there is in the universe ... itsunflinchingrecognition, we might say, if we were not afraid of praising our own work too highly ... combined with its happy ending.One feels, upon reading it, that, although everything everywhere is very sad, and all wrong, one has only to have patience and after a while everything everywhere will be quite right and very sweet.No matter how interested one may be in these literary problems, one must cease discussing them at times or one will be late to one's meals.Don Marquis.

One feels, upon reading it, that, although everything everywhere is very sad, and all wrong, one has only to have patience and after a while everything everywhere will be quite right and very sweet.

No matter how interested one may be in these literary problems, one must cease discussing them at times or one will be late to one's meals.

Don Marquis.

I am numb from world-pain—

I sway most violently as the thoughts course through me,

And athwart me,

And up and down me—

Thoughts of cosmic matters,

Of the mergings of worlds within worlds,

And unutterabilities

And room-rent,

And other tremendously alarming phenomena,

Which stab me,

Rip me most outrageously;

(Without a semblance, mind you, of respect for the Hague Convention's rules governing soul-slitting.)

Aye, as with the poniard of the Finite pricking the rainbow-bubble of the Infinite!

(Some figure, that!)

(Some little rush of syllables, that!)—

And make me—(are you still whirling at my coat-tails, reader?)

Make me—ahem, where was I?—oh, yes—make me,

In a sudden, overwhelming gust of soul-shattering rebellion,

Fall flat on my face!

Thomas R. Ybarra.

Oh! young Lochinvar has come out of the West,Thro' all the wide border his horse has no equal,Having cost him forty-five dollars at the market,Where good nags, fresh from the country,With burrs still in their tails are sellingFor a song; and save his good broad swordHe weapon had none, except a seven-shooterOr two, a pair of brass knuckles, and an ArkansawToothpick in his boot, so, comparatively speaking,He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone,Because there was no one going his way.He stayed not for brake, and he stopped not forToll-gates; he swam the Eske River where fordThere was none, and saved fifteen centsIn ferriage, but lost his pocket-book, containingSeventeen dollars and a half, by the operation.Ere he alighted at the Netherby mansionHe stopped to borrow a dry suit of clothes,And this delayed him considerably, so whenHe arrived the bride had consented—the gallantCame late—for a laggard in love and a dastard in warWas to wed the fair Ellen, and the guests had assembled.So, boldly he entered the Netherby HallAmong bridesmen and kinsmen and brothers andBrothers-in-law and forty or fifty cousins;Then spake the bride's father, his hand on his sword(For the poor craven bridegroom ne'er opened his head)"Oh, come ye in peace here, or come ye in anger,Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?""I long wooed your daughter, and she will tell youI have the inside track in the free-for-allFor her affections! my suit you denied; but letThat pass, while I tell you, old fellow, that loveSwells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide,And now I am come with this lost love of mineTo lead but one measure, drink one glass of beer;There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by farThat would gladly be bride to yours very truly."The bride kissed the goblet, the knight took it up,He quaffed off the nectar and threw down the mug,Smashing it into a million pieces, whileHe remarked that he was the son of a gunFrom Seven-up and run the Number Nine.She looked down to blush, but she looked up againFor she well understood the wink in his eye;He took her soft hand ere her mother couldInterfere, "Now tread we a measure; first fourHalf right and left; swing," cried young Lochinvar.One touch to her hand and one word in her ear,When they reached the hall door and the chargerStood near on three legs eating post hay;So light to the croup the fair lady he swung,Then leaped to the saddle before her."She is won! we are gone! over bank, bush, and spar,They'll have swift steeds that follow"—but in theExcitement of the moment he had forgottenTo untie the horse, and the poor brute couldOnly gallop in a little circus around theHitching-post; so the old gent collaredThe youth and gave him the awfullest lambastingThat was ever heard of on Canobie Lee;So dauntless in war and so daring in love,Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?

Unknown.

I love my lady with a deep purple love;She fascinates me like a flyStruggling in a pot of glue.Her eyes are grey, like twin ash-cans,Just emptied, about which still hoversA dainty mist.Her disposition is as bright as a ten-cent shine,Yet her kisses are tender and goulashy.I love my lady with a deep purple love.

Unknown.

Or ever a lick of Art was done,Or ever a one to care,I was a Purple Polygon,And you were a Sky-Blue Square.You yearned for me across a void,For I lay in a different plane,I'd set my heart on a Red Rhomboid,And your sighing was in vain.You pined for me as well I knew,And you faded day by day,Until the Square that was heavenly Blue,Had paled to an ashen grey.A myriad years or less or more,Have softly fluttered by,Matters are much as they were before,Except 'tis I that sigh.I yearn for you, but I have no chance,You lie in a different plane,I break my heart for a single glance,And I break said heart in vain.And ever I grow more pale and wan,And taste your old despair,When I was a Purple Polygon,And you were a Sky-Blue Square.

Bert Leston Taylor.

O mickle yeuks the keckle doup,An' a' unsicker girns the graith,For wae and wae! the crowdies loupO'er jouk an' hallan, braw an' baithWhere ance the coggie hirpled fair,And blithesome poortith toomed the loof,There's nae a burnie giglet rareBut blaws in ilka jinking coof.The routhie bield that gars the gearIs gone where glint the pawky een.And aye the stound is birkin learWhere sconnered yowies wheeped yestreen,The creeshie rax wi' skelpin' kaesNae mair the howdie bicker whangs,Nor weanies in their wee bit claesGlour light as lammies wi' their sangs.Yet leeze me on my bonny byke!My drappie aiblins blinks the noo,An' leesome luve has lapt the dykeForgatherin' just a wee bit fou.And Scotia! while thy rantin' luntIs mirk and moop with gowans fine,I'll stowlins pit my unco brunt,An' cleek my duds for auld lang syne.

Unknown.

Oh, I want to win me hameTo my ain countrie,The land frae whence I cameFar away across the sea;Bit I canna find it there, on the atlas anywhere,And I greet and wonder sairWhere the deil it can be?I hae never met a man,In a' the warld wide,Who has trod my native lan'Or its distant shores espied;But they tell me there's a place where my hypothetic raceIts dim origin can trace—Tipperary-on-the-Clyde.But anither answers: "Nae,Ye are varra far frae richt;Glasgow town in Dublin BayIs the spot we saw the licht."But I dinna find the maps bearing out these pawkie chaps,And I sometimes think perhapsIt has vanished out o' sight.Oh, I fain wad win me hameTo that undiscovered lan'That has neither place nor nameWhere the Scoto-IrishmanMay behold the castles fair by his fathers builded thereMany, many ages ereAncient history began.

James Jeffrey Roche.

Wan from the wild and woful West—Sleep, little babe, sleep on!Mother will sing to—you know the rest—Sleep, little babe, sleep on!Softly the sand steals slowly by,Cursed be the curlew's chittering cry;By-a-by, oh, by-a-by!Sleep, little babe, sleep on!Rosy and sweet come the hush of night—Sleep, little babe, sleep on!(Twig to the lilt, I have got it all right)Sleep, little babe, sleep on!Dark are the dark and darkling daysWinding the webbed and winsome ways,Homeward she creeps in dim amaze—Sleep, little babe, sleep on!(But it waked up, drat it!)

Charles Battell Loomis.

BY H—-Y W. L-NGF——W

Back in the years when Phlagstaff, the Dane, was monarchOver the sea-ribb'd land of the fleet-footed Norsemen,Once there went forth young Ursa to gaze at the heavens—Ursa—the noblest of all the Vikings and horsemen.Musing, he sat in his stirrups and viewed the horizon,Where the Aurora lapt stars in a North-polar manner,Wildly he started,—for there in the heavens before himFlutter'd and flam'd the original Star Spangled Banner.

BY J-HN GR—NL—F WH—T—R

My Native Land, thy Puritanic stockStill finds its roots firm-bound in Plymouth Rock,And all thy sons unite in one grand wish—To keep the virtues of Preservèd Fish.Preservèd Fish, the Deacon stern and true,Told our New England what her sons should do,And if they swerve from loyalty and right,Then the whole land is lost indeed in night.

III

BY DR. OL-V-R W-ND-L H-LMES

A diagnosis of our hist'ry provesOur native land a land its native loves;Its birth a deed obstetric without peer,Its growth a source of wonder far and near.To love it more behold how foreign shoresSink into nothingness beside its stores;Hyde Park at best—though counted ultra-grand—The "Boston Common" of Victoria's land.

BY R-LPH W-LDO EM-R—N

Source immaterial of material naught,Focus of light infinitesimal,Sum of all things by sleepless Nature wrought,Of which the normal man is decimal.Refract, in prism immortal, from thy starsTo the stars bent incipient on our flag,The beam translucent, neutrifying death,And raise to immortality the rag.

BY W-LL—M C-LL-N B-Y-NT

The sun sinks softly to his Ev'ning Post,The sun swells grandly to his morning crown;Yet not a star our Flag of Heav'n has lost,And not a sunset stripe with him goes down.So thrones may fall, and from the dust of thoseNew thrones may rise, to totter like the last;But still our Country's nobler planet glowsWhile the eternal stars of Heaven are fast.

BY N. P. W-LL-IS

One hue of our Flag is takenFrom the cheeks of my blushing Pet,And its stars beat time and sparkleLike the studs on her chemisette.Its blue is the ocean shadowThat hides in her dreamy eyes,It conquers all men, like her,And still for a Union flies.

VII

BY TH-M—S B-IL-Y ALD—CH

The little brown squirrel hops in the corn,The cricket quaintly sings,The emerald pigeon nods his head,And the shad in the river springs,The dainty sunflow'r hangs its headOn the shore of the summer sea;And better far that I were dead,If Maud did not love me.I love the squirrel that hops in the corn,And the cricket that quaintly sings;And the emerald pigeon that nods his head,And the shad that gaily springs.I love the dainty sunflow'r, too,And Maud with her snowy breast;I love them all;—but I love—I love—I love my country best.

Robert H. Newell.

We love thee, Ann Maria Smith,And in thy condescensionWe see a future full of joysToo numerous to mention.There's Cupid's arrow in thy glance,That by thy love's coercionHas reached our melting heart of hearts,And asked for one insertion.With joy we feel the blissful smart;And ere our passion ranges,We freely place thy love uponThe list of our exchanges.There's music in thy lowest tone,And silver in thy laughter:And truth—but we will give the fullParticulars hereafter.Oh, we could tell thee of our plansAll obstacles to scatter;But we are full just now, and haveA press of other matter.Then let us marry, Queen of Smiths,Without more hesitation:The very thought doth give our bloodA larger circulation.

Robert H. Newell.

Back to Index Next