We rode the tawny Texan hills,A bearded cattle man and I;Below us laughed the blossomed rills,Above the dappled clouds blew by.We talked. The topic? Guess. Why, sir,Three-fourths of man's whole time he keepsTo talk, to think, tobeofHER;The other fourth he sleeps.To learn what he might know of love,I laughed all constancy to scorn."Behold yon happy, changeful dove!Behold this day, all storm at morn,Yet now 't is changed to cloud and sun.Yea, all things change—the heart, the head,Behold on earth there is not oneThat changeth not," I said.He drew a glass as if to scanThe plain for steers; raised it and sighed.He craned his neck, this cattle man,Then drove the cork home and replied:"For twenty years (forgive these tears)—For twenty years no word of strife—I have not known for twenty yearsOne folly from my wife."I looked that Texan in the face—That dark-browed, bearded cattle man,He pulled his beard, then dropped in placeA broad right hand, all scarred and tan,And toyed with something shining thereFrom out his holster, keen and small.I was convinced. I did not careTo argue it at all.But rest I could not. Know I mustThe story of my Texan guide;His dauntless love, enduring trust;His blessed, immortal bride.I wondered, marvelled, marvelled much.Was she of Texan growth? Was sheOf Saxon blood, that boasted suchEternal constancy?I could not rest until I knew—"Now twenty years, my man," said I,"Is a long time." He turned and drewA pistol forth, also a sigh."'Tis twenty years or more," said he,"Nay, nay, my honest man, I vowI do not doubt that this may be;But tell, oh! tell me how."'Twould make a poem true and grand;All time should note it near and far;And thy fair, virgin Texan landShould stand out like a Winter star.America should heed. And thenThe doubtful French beyond the sea—'T would make them truer, nobler men.To know how this may be.""It's twenty years or more," urged he,"Nay, that I know, good guide of mine;But lead me where this wife may be,And I a pilgrim at a shrine.And kneeling, as a pilgrim true"—He, scowling, shouted in my ear;"I cannot show my wife to you;She's dead this twenty year."
Joaquin Miller.
The mountain and the squirrelHad a quarrel,And the former called the latter "Little Prig";Bun replied,"You are doubtless very big;But all sorts of things and weatherMust be taken in together,To make up a yearAnd a sphere,And I think it no disgraceTo occupy my place.If I'm not so large as you,You are not so small as I,And not half so spry.I'll not deny you makeA very pretty squirrel track;Talents differ; all is well and wisely put;If I cannot carry forests on my back,Neither can you crack a nut."
Ralph Waldo Emerson.
Der Kaiser of dis FaterlandUnd Gott on high all dings command,Ve two—ach! Don't you understand?Myself—und Gott.Vile some men sing der power divine,Mine soldiers sing, "Der Wacht am Rhine,"Und drink der health in Rhenish wineOf Me—und Gott.Dere's France, she swaggers all aroundt;She's ausgespield, of no account,To much we think she don't amount;Myself—und Gott.She vill not dare to fight again,But if she shouldt, I'll show her blainDot Elsass und (in French) LorraineAre mein—by Gott!Dere's grandma dinks she's nicht small beer,Mit Boers und such she interfere;She'll learn none owns dis hemisphereBut me—und Gott!She dinks, good frau, fine ships she's gotAnd soldiers mit der scarlet goat.Ach! We could knock them! Pouf! Like dot,Myself—mit Gott!In dimes of peace, brebare for wars,I bear the spear and helm of Mars,Und care not for a thousand Czars,Myself—mit Gott!In fact, I humor efery whim,With aspect dark and visage grim;Gott pulls mit Me, and I mit him,Myself—und Gott!
Rodney Blake.
Gineral B. is a sensible man;He stays to his home an' looks arter his folks;He draws his furrer ez straight ez he can,An' into nobody's tater-patch pokes;But John P.Robinson, heSez he wunt vote for Gineral B.My! ain't it terrible? Wut shall we do?We can't never choose him, o' course—that's flat:Guess we shall hev to come round (don't you?),An' go in for thunder an' guns, an' all that;Fer John P.Robinson, heSez he wunt vote for Gineral B.Gineral C. is a dreffle smart man:He's been on all sides that give places or pelf;But consistency still was a part of his plan—He's been true to'oneparty, and that is himself;So John P.Robinson, heSez he shall vote fer Gineral C.Gineral C. goes in for the war;He don't vally principle mor'n an old cud;What did God make us raytional creeturs fer,But glory an' gunpowder, plunder an' blood?So John P.Robinson, heSez he shall vote fer Gineral C.We're gettin' on nicely up here to our village,With good old idees o' wut's right an' wut ain't;We o' thought Christ went against war and pillage,An' that eppyletts worn't the best mark of a saint;But John P.Robinson, heSez this kind o' thing's an exploded idee.The side of our country must ollers be took,An' President Pulk, you know,heis our country;An' the angel that writes all our sins in a book,Puts thedebitto him, an' to us theper contry;An' John P.Robinson, heSez this is his view o' the thing to a T.Parson Wilbur he calls all these arguments lies;Sez they're nothin' on airth but jestfee, faw, fum;An' that all this big talk of our destiniesIs half on it ignorance, an' t'other half rum;But John P.Robinson, heSez it ain't no such thing; an', of course, so must we.Parson Wilbur sezhenever heered in his lifeThet the Apostles rigg'd out in their swallow-tail coats,An' marched round in front of a drum an' a fife,To git some on 'em office, an' some on 'em votes;But John P.Robinson, heSez they didn't know everythin' down in Judee.Wal, it's a marcy we're gut folks to tell usThe rights an' the wrongs o' these matters, I vow—God sends country lawyers an' other wise fellersTo drive the world's team wen it gits in a slough;For John P.Robinson, heSez the world'll go right, ef he hollers out Gee!
James Russell Lowell.
I du believe in Freedom's cause,Ez fur away ez Paris is;I love to see her stick her clawsIn them infarnal Pharisees;It's wal enough agin a kingTo dror resolves and triggers,—But libbaty's a kind o' thingThet don't agree with niggers.I du believe the people wantA tax on teas and coffees,Thet nothin' ain't extravygunt,—Purvidin' I'm in office;For I hev loved my country senceMy eye-teeth filled their sockets,An' Uncle Sam I reverence,Partic'larly his pockets.I du believe inanyplanO' levyin' the taxes,Ez long ez, like a lumberman,I git jest wut I axes:I go free-trade thru thick an' thin,Because it kind o' rousesThe folks to vote—and keep us inOur quiet custom-houses.I du believe it's wise an' goodTo sen' out furrin missions,Thet is, on sartin understoodAn' orthydox conditions;—I mean nine thousan' dolls, per ann.,Nine thousan' more fer outfit,An' me to recommend a manThe place 'ould jest about fit.I du believe in special waysO' prayin' an' convartin';The bread comes back in many days,An' buttered, tu, fer sartin;—I mean in preyin' till one bustsOn wut the party chooses,An' in convartin' public trustsTo very privit uses.I do believe hard coin the stuffFer 'lectioneers to spout on;The people's ollers soft enoughTo make hard money out on;Dear Uncle Sam pervides fer his,An' gives a good-sized junk to all—I don't carehowhard money is,Ez long ez mine's paid punctooal.I du believe with all my soulIn the gret Press's freedom,To pint the people to the goalAn' in the traces lead 'em:Palsied the arm thet forges yokesAt my fat contracts squintin',An' withered be the nose thet pokesInter the gov'ment printin'!I du believe thet I should giveWut's his'n unto Cæsar,Fer it's by him I move an' live,From him my bread an' cheese air.I du believe thet all o' meDoth bear his souperscription,—Will, conscience, honor, honesty,An' things o' thet description.I du believe in prayer an' praiseTo him thet hez the grantin'O' jobs—in every thin' thet pays,But most of all inCantin';This doth my cup with marcies fill,This lays all thought o' sin to rest—Idon'tbelieve in princerple,But, O, Iduin interest.I du believe in bein' thisOr thet, ez it may happenOne way, or t' other hendiest isTo ketch the people nappin';It ain't by princerples nor menMy preudent course is steadied—I scent wich pays the best, an' thenGo into it baldheaded.I du believe thet holdin' slavesComes nat'ral tu a President,Let 'lone the rowdedow it savesTo have a wal-broke precedunt;Fer any office, small or gret,I couldn't ax with no face,Without I'd been, thru dry an' wet,The unrizziest kind o' doughface.I du believe wutever trash'll keep the people in blindness,—Thet we the Mexicans can thrashRight inter brotherly kindness—Thet bombshells, grape, an' powder 'n' ballAir good-will's strongest magnets—Thet peace, to make it stick at all,Must be druv in with bagnets.In short, I firmly du believeIn Humbug generally,Fer it's a thing thet I perceiveTo hev a solid vally;This heth my faithful shepherd ben,In pastures sweet heth led me,An' this'll keep the people greenTo feed ez they have fed me.
James Russell Lowell.
A fellow in a market town,Most musical, cried razors up and down,And offered twelve for eighteen-pence;Which certainly seemed wondrous cheap,And for the money quite a heap,As every man would buy, with cash and sense.A country bumpkin the great offer heard:Poor Hodge, who suffered by a broad black beard,That seemed a shoe-brush stuck beneath his noseWith cheerfulness the eighteen-pence he paid,And proudly to himself, in whispers, said,"This rascal stole the razors, I suppose."No matter if the fellowbea knave,Provided that the razorsshave;It certainly will be a monstrous prize."So home the clown, with his good fortune, went,Smiling in heart and soul, content,And quickly soaped himself to ears and eyes.Being well lathered from a dish or tub,Hodge now began with grinning pain to grub,Just like a hedger cutting furze:'Twas a vile razor!—then the rest he tried—All were imposters—"Ah," Hodge sighed!"I wish my eighteen-pence within my purse."In vain to chase his beard, and bring the graces,He cut, and dug, and winced, and stamped, and swore,Brought blood, and danced, blasphemed, and made wry faces,And cursed each razor's body o'er and o'er:His muzzle, formed ofoppositionstuff,Firm as a Foxite, would not lose its ruff!So kept it—laughing at the steel and suds:Hodge, in a passion, stretched his angry jaws,Vowing the direst vengeance, with clenched claws,On the vile cheat that sold the goods."Razors; a damned, confounded dog,Not fit to scrape a hog!"Hodge sought the fellow—found him—and begun:"P'rhaps, Master Razor rogue, to you 'tis fun,That people flay themselves out of their lives:You rascal! for an hour have I been grubbing,Giving my crying whiskers here a scrubbing,With razors just like oyster knives.Sirrah! I tell you, you're a knave,To cry up razors that can'tshave.""Friend," quoth the razor-man, "I'm not a knave.As for the razors you have bought,Upon my soul I never thoughtThat they wouldshave.""Not think they'dshave!" quoth Hodge, with wond'ring eyes,And voice not much unlike an Indian yell;"What were they made for then, you dog?" he cries:"Made!" quoth the fellow, with a smile—"tosell."
John Wolcot.
From his brimstone bed at break of dayA walking the Devil is gone,To look at his snug little farm of the World,And see how his stock went on.Over the hill and over the dale,And he went over the plain;And backward and forward he swish'd his tailAs a gentleman swishes a cane.How then was the Devil drest?Oh, he was in his Sunday's bestHis coat was red and his breeches were blue,And there was a hole where his tail came through.A lady drove by in her pride,In whose face an expression he spiedFor which he could have kiss'd her;Such a flourishing, fine, clever woman was she,With an eye as wicked as wicked can be,I should take her for my Aunt, thought he,If my dam had had a sister.He met a lord of high degree,No matter what was his name;Whose face with his own when he came to compareThe expression, the look, and the air,And the character, too, as it seem'd to a hair—Such a twin-likeness there was in the pairThat it made the Devil start and stareFor he thought there was surely a looking-glass there,But he could not see the frame.He saw a Lawyer killing a viper,On a dung-hill beside his stable;Ha! quoth he, thou put'st me in mindOf the story of Cain and Abel.An Apothecary on a white horseRode by on his vocation;And the Devil thought of his old friendDeath in the Revelation.He pass'd a cottage with a double coach-house,A cottage of gentility,And he own'd with a grinThat his favorite sin,Is pride that apes humility.He saw a pig rapidlyDown a river float;The pig swam well, but every strokeWas cutting his own throat;And Satan gave thereat his tailA twirl of admiration;For he thought of his daughter War,And her suckling babe Taxation.Well enough, in sooth, he liked that truthAnd nothing the worse for the jest;But this was only a first thoughtAnd in this he did not rest:Another came presently into his head,And here it proved, as has often been saidThat second thoughts are best.For as Piggy plied with wind and tide,His way with such celerity,And at every stroke the water dyedWith his own red blood, the Devil cried,Behold a swinish nation's prideIn cotton-spun prosperity.He walk'd into London leisurely,The streets were dirty and dim:But there he saw Brothers the Prophet,And Brothers the Prophet saw him.He entered a thriving bookseller's shop;Quoth he, we are both of one college,For I myself sate like a Cormorant onceUpon the Tree of Knowledge.As he passed through Cold-Bath Fields he look'dAt a solitary cell;And he was well-pleased, for it gave him a hintFor improving the prisons of Hell.He saw a turnkey tie a thief's handsWith a cordial tug and jerk;Nimbly, quoth he, a man's fingers moveWhen his heart is in his work.He saw the same turnkey unfettering a manWith little expedition;And he chuckled to think of his dear slave-trade,And the long debates and delays that were made,Concerning its abolition.He met one of his favorite daughtersBy an Evangelical Meeting:And forgetting himself for joy at her sight,He would have accosted her outright,And given her a fatherly greeting.But she tipt him the wink, drew back, and cried,Avaunt! my name's Religion!And then she turn'd to the preacherAnd leer'd like a love-sick pigeon.A fine man and a famous Professor was he,As the great Alexander now may be,Whose fame not yet o'erpast is:Or that new Scotch performerWho is fiercer and warmer,The great Sir Arch-Bombastes.With throbs and throes, and ah's and oh's.Far famed his flock for frightning;And thundering with his voice, the whileHis eyes zigzag like lightning.This Scotch phenomenon, I trow,Beats Alexander hollow;Even when most tameHe breathes more flameThen ten Fire-Kings could swallow.Another daughter he presently met;With music of fife and drum,And a consecrated flag,And shout of tag and rag,And march of rank and file,Which had fill'd the crowded aisleOf the venerable pile,From church he saw her come.He call'd her aside, and began to chide,For what dost thou here? said he,My city of Rome is thy proper home,And there's work enough there for thee.Thou hast confessions to listen,And bells to christen,And altars and dolls to dress;And fools to coax,And sinners to hoax,And beads and bones to bless;And great pardons to sellFor those who pay well,And small ones for those who pay less.Nay, Father, I boast, that this is my post,She answered; and thou wilt allow,That the great Harlot,Who is clothed in scarlet,Can very well spare me now.Upon her business I am come here,That we may extend our powers:Whatever lets down this church that we hate,Is something in favor of ours.You will not think, great Cosmocrat!That I spend my time in fooling;Many irons, my sire, have we in the fire,And I must leave none of them cooling;For you must know state-councils here,Are held which I bear rule in.When my liberal notions,Produce mischievous motions,There's many a man of good intent,In either house of Parliament,Whom I shall find a tool in;And I have hopeful pupils tooWho all this while are schooling.Fine progress they make in our liberal opinions,My Utilitarians,My all sorts of—iniansAnd all sorts of—arians;My all sorts of—ists,And my Prigs and my WhigsWho have all sorts of twistsTrain'd in the very way, I know,Father, you would have them go;High and low,Wise and foolish, great and small,March-of-Intellect-Boys all.Well pleased wilt thou be at no very far dayWhen the caldron of mischief boils,And I bring them forth in battle arrayAnd bid them suspend their broils,That they may unite and fall on the prey,For which we are spreading our toils.How the nice boys all will give mouth at the call,Hark away! hark away to the spoils!My Macs and my Quacks and my lawless-Jacks,My Shiels and O'Connells, my pious Mac-Donnells,My joke-smith Sydney, and all of his kidney,My Humes and my Broughams,My merry old Jerry,My Lord Kings, and my Doctor Doyles!At this good news, so greatThe Devil's pleasure grew,That with a joyful swish he rentThe hole where his tail came through.His countenance fell for a momentWhen he felt the stitches go;Ah! thought he, there's a job nowThat I've made for my tailor below.Great news! bloody news! cried a newsman;The Devil said, Stop, let me see!Great news? bloody news? thought the Devil,The bloodier the better for me.So he bought the newspaper, and no newsAt all for his money he had.Lying varlet, thought he, thus to take in old Nick!But it's some satisfaction, my lad,To know thou art paid beforehand for the trick,For the sixpence I gave thee is bad.And then it came into his headBy oracular inspiration,That what he had seen and what he had saidIn the course of this visitation,Would be published in the Morning PostFor all this reading nation.Therewith in second sight he sawThe place and the manner and time,In which this mortal storyWould be put in immortal rhyme.That it would happen when two poetsShould on a time be met,In the town of Nether Stowey,In the shire of Somerset.There while the one was shavingWould he the song begin;And the other when he heard it at breakfast,In ready accord join in.So each would help the other,Two heads being better than one;And the phrase and conceitWould in unison meet,And so with glee the verse flow free,In ding-dong chime of sing-song rhyme,Till the whole were merrily done.And because it was set to the razor,Not to the lute or harp,Therefore it was that the fancyShould be bright, and the wit be sharp.But, then, said Satan to himself,As for that said beginner,Against my infernal Majesty,There is no greater sinner.He hath put me in ugly balladsWith libelous pictures for sale;He hath scoff'd at my hoofs and my horns,And has made very free with my tail.But this Mister Poet shall findI am not a safe subject for whim;For I'll set up a School of my own,And my Poets shall set upon him.He went to a coffee-house to dine,And there he had soy in his dish;Having ordered some soles for his dinner,Because he was fond of flat fish.They are much to my palate, thought he,And now guess the reason who can,Why no bait should be better than place,When I fish for a Parliament-man.But the soles in the bill were ten shillings;Tell your master, quoth he, what I say;If he charges at this rate for all things,He must be in a pretty good way.But mark ye, said he to the waiter,I'm a dealer myself in this line,And his business, between you and me,Nothing like so extensive as mine.Now soles are exceedingly cheap,Which he will not attempt to deny,When I see him at my fish-market,I warrant him, by-and-by.As he went along the StrandBetween three in the morning and fourHe observed a queer-looking personWho staggered from Perry's door.And he thought that all the world overIn vain for a man you might seek,Who could drink more like a TrojanOr talk more like a Greek.The Devil then he prophesiedIt would one day he matter of talk,That with wine when smitten,And with wit moreover being happily bitten,The erudite bibber was he who had writtenThe story of this walk.A pretty mistake, quoth the Devil;A pretty mistake I opine!I have put many ill thoughts in his mouth,He will never put good ones in mine.And whoever shall say that to PorsonThese best of all verses belong,He is an untruth-telling whore-son,And so shall be call'd in the song.And if seeking an illicit connection with fame,Any one else should put in a claim,In this comical competition;That excellent poem will proveA man-trap for such foolish ambition,Where the silly rogue shall be caught by the leg,And exposed in a second edition.Now the morning air was cold for himWho was used to a warm abode;And yet he did not immediately wish,To set out on his homeward road.For he had some morning calls to makeBefore he went back to Hell;So thought he I'll step into a gaming-house,And that will do as well;But just before he could get to the doorA wonderful chance befell.For all on a sudden, in a dark place,He came upon General ——'s burning face;And it struck him with such consternation,That home in a hurry his way did he take,Because he thought, by a slight mistake'Twas the general conflagration.
Robert Southey.
Paddy McCabe was dying one day,And Father Molloy he came to confess him;Paddy pray'd hard he would make no delay,But forgive him his sins and make haste for to bless him."First tell me your sins," says Father Molloy,"For I'm thinking you've not been a very good boy.""Oh," says Paddy, "so late in the evenin', I fear,'Twould throuble you such a long story to hear,For you've ten long miles o'er the mountains to go,While the roadI'veto travel's much longer, you know.So give us your blessin' and get in the saddle,To tell all my sins my poor brain it would addle;And the docther gave ordhers to keep me so quiet—'Twould disturb me to tell all my sins, if I'd thry it,And your Reverence has towld us, unless we tellall,'Tis worse than not makin' confession at all.So I'll say in a word I'm no very good boy—And, therefore, your blessin', sweet Father Molloy.""Well, I'll read from a book," says Father Molloy,"The manifold sins that humanity's heir to;And when you hear those that your conscience annoy,You'll just squeeze my hand, as acknowledging thereto."Then the father began the dark roll of iniquity,And Paddy, thereat, felt his conscience grow rickety,And he gave such a squeeze that the priest gave a roar—"Oh, murdher," says Paddy, "don't read any more,For, if you keep readin', by all that is thrue,Your Reverence's fist will be soon black and blue;Besides, to be throubled my conscience begins,That your Reverence should have any hand in my sins,So you'd betther suppose I committed them all,For whether they're great ones, or whether they're small,Or if they're a dozen, or if they're fourscore,'Tis your Reverence knows how to absolve them, asthore;So I'll say in a word, I'm no very good boy—And, therefore, your blessin', sweet Father Molloy.""Well," says Father Molloy, "if your sins I forgive,So you must forgive all your enemies truly;And promise me also that, if you should live,You'll leave off your old tricks, and begin to live newly.""I forgive ev'rybody," says Pat, with a groan,"Except that big vagabone Micky Malone;And him I will murdher if ever I can—""Tut, tut," says the priest, "you're a very bad man;For without your forgiveness, and also repentance,You'll ne'er go to Heaven, and that is my sentence.""Poo!" says Paddy McCabe, "that's a very hard case—With your Reverence and Heaven I'm content to make pace;But with Heaven and your Reverence I wondher—Och hone—You would think of comparin' that blackguard Malone—But since I'm hard press'd and that Imustforgive,I forgive—if I die—but as sure as I liveThat ugly blackguard I will surely desthroy!—So,nowfor your blessin', sweet Father Molloy!"
Samuel Lover.
"Who stuffed that white owl?" No one spoke in the shop,The barber was busy, and he couldn't stop;The customers, waiting their turns, were all readingThe "Daily," the "Herald," the "Post," little heedingThe young man who blurted out such a blunt question;Not one raised a head, or even made a suggestion;And the barber kept on shaving."Don't you see, Mr. Brown,"Cried the youth, with a frown,"How wrong the whole thing is,How preposterous each wing isHow flattened the head is, how jammed down the neck is—In short, the whole owl, what an ignorant wreck 't is!I make no apology;I've learned owl-eology.I've passed days and nights in a hundred collections,And cannot be blinded to any deflectionsArising from unskilful fingers that failTo stuff a bird right, from his beak to his tail.Mister Brown! Mister Brown!Do take that bird down,Or you'll soon be the laughing-stock all over town!"And the barber kept on shaving."I'vestudiedowls,And other night-fowls,And I tell youWhat I know to be true;An owl cannot roostWith his limbs so unloosed;No owl in this worldEver had his claws curled,Ever had his legs slanted,Ever had his bill canted,Ever had his neck screwedInto that attitude.He can'tdoit, because'Tis against all bird-laws.Anatomy teaches,Ornithology preaches,An owl has a toeThatcan'tturn out so!I've made the white owl my study for years,And to see such a job almost moves me to tears!Mr. Brown, I'm amazedYou should be so gone crazedAs to put up a birdIn that posture absurd!Tolookat that owl really brings on a dizziness;The man who stuffedhimdon't half know his business!"And the barber kept on shaving."Examine those eyes.I'm filled with surpriseTaxidermists should passOff on you such poor glass;So unnatural they seemThey'd make Audubon scream,And John Burroughs laughTo encounter such chaff.Do take that bird down;Have him stuffed again, Brown!"And the barber kept on shaving."With some sawdust and barkI could stuff in the darkAn owl better than that.I could make an old hatLook more like an owlThan that horrid fowl,Stuck up there so stiff like a side of coarse leather.In fact, abouthimthere's not one natural feather."Just then, with a wink and a sly normal lurch,The owl, very gravely, got down from his perch,Walked round, and regarded his fault-finding critic(Who thought he was stuffed) with a glance analytic,And then fairly hooted, as if he should say:"Your learning's at faultthistime, anyway;Don't waste it again on a live bird, I pray.I'm an owl; you're another. Sir Critic, good day!"And the barber kept on shaving.
James Thomas Fields.
What will we do when the good days come—When the prima donna's lips are dumb,And the man who reads us his "little things"Has lost his voice like the girl who sings;When stilled is the breath of the cornet-man,And the shrilling chords of the quartette clan;When our neighbours' children have lost their drums—Oh, what will we do when the good time comes?Oh, what will we do in that good, blithe time,When the tramp will work—oh, thing sublime!And the scornful dame who stands on your feetWill "Thank you, sir," for the proffered seat;And the man you hire to work by the day,Will allow you to do his work your way;And the cook who trieth your appetiteWill steal no more than she thinks is right;When the boy you hire will call you "Sir,"Instead of "Say" and "Guverner";When the funny man is humorsome—How can we stand the millennium?
Robert J. Burdette.
Given a roof, and a taste for rations,And you have the key to the "wealth of nations."Given a boy, a tree, and a hatchet,And virtue strives in vain to match it.Given a pair, a snake, and an apple,You make the whole world need a chapel.Given "no cards," broad views, and a hovel,You have a realistic novel.Given symptoms and doctors with potion and pill,And your heirs will ere long be contesting your will.That good leads to evil there's no denying:If it were not fortruththere would be nolying."I'm nobody!" should have a hearse;But then, "I'm somebody!" is worse."Folks say,"et cetera! Well, they shouldn't,And if they knew you well, they wouldn't.When you coddle your life, all its vigor and graceShrink away with the whisper, "We're in the wrong place."
Mary Mapes Dodge.
The woodchuck told it all about."I'm going to build a dwellingSix stories high, up to the sky!"He never tired of telling.He dug the cellar smooth and wellBut made no more advances;That lovely hole so pleased his soulAnd satisfied his fancies.
L. J. Bridgman.
You may notch it on de palin's as a mighty resky planTo make your judgment by de clo'es dat kivers up a man;For I hardly needs to tell you how you often come acrossA fifty-dollar saddle on a twenty-dollar hoss;An', wukin' in de low-groun's, you diskiver, as you go,Dat de fines' shuck may hide de meanes' nubbin in a row.I think a man has got a mighty slender chance for hebenDat holds on to his piety but one day out o' seben;Dat talks about de sinners wid a heap o' solemn chat,And nebber draps a nickel in de missionary hat;Dat's foremost in de meetin'-house for raisin' all de chunes,But lays aside his 'ligion wid his Sunday pantaloons.I nebber judge o' people dat I meets along de wayBy de places whar dey come fum an' de houses whar dey stay;For de bantam chicken's awful fond o' roostin' pretty high,An' de turkey buzzard sails above de eagle in de sky;Dey ketches little minners in de middle ob de sea,An' you finds de smalles' possum up de bigges' kind o' tree!
Unknown.
The sun was setting, and vespers done;From chapel the monks came one by one,And down they went thro' the garden trim,In cassock and cowl, to the river's brim.Ev'ry brother his rod he took;Ev'ry rod had a line and a hook;Ev'ry hook had a bait so fine,And thus they sang in the even shine:"Oh, to-morrow will be Friday, so we'll fish the stream to-day!Oh, to-morrow will be Friday, so we'll fish the stream to-day!Benedicite!"So down they sate by the river's brim,And fish'd till the light was growing dim;They fish'd the stream till the moon was high,But never a fish came wand'ring by.They fish'd the stream in the bright moonshine,But not one fish would he come to dine.And the Abbot said, "It seems to meThese rascally fish are all gone to sea.And to-morrow will be Friday, but we've caught no fish to-day;Oh, to-morrow will be Friday, but we've caught no fish to-day!Maledicite!"So back they went to the convent gate,Abbot and monks disconsolate;For they thought of the morrow with faces white,Saying, "Oh, we must curb our appetite!But down in the depths of the vault belowThere's Malvoisie for a world of woe!"So they quaff their wine, and all declareThat fish, after all, is but gruesome fare."Oh, to-morrow will be Friday, so we'll warm our souls to-day!Oh, to-morrow will be Friday, so we'll warm our souls to-day!Benedicite!"
Frederick E. Weatherly.
Just take a trifling handful, O philosopher,Of magic matter, give it a slight toss overThe ambient ether, and I don't see whyYou shouldn't make a sky.O hours Utopian which we may anticipate!Thick London fog how easy 'tis to dissipate,And make the most pea-soupy day as clearAs Bass's brightest beer!Poet-professor! now my brain thou kindlest;I am become a most determined Tyndallist.If it is known a fellow can make skies,Why not make bright blue eyes?This to deny, the folly of a dunce it is;Surely a girl as easy as a sunset is.If you can make a halo or eclipse,Why not two laughing lips?The creed of Archimedes, erst of Sicily,And of D'Israeli ...forti nil difficile,Is likewise mine. Pygmalion was a foolWho should have gone to school.Why should an author scribble rhymes or articles?Bring me a dozen tiny Tyndall particles;Therefrom I'll coin a dinner, Nash's wine,And a nice girl to dine.
Mortimer Collins.
Life and the Universe show spontaneity:Down with ridiculous notions of Deity!Churches and creeds are all lost in the mists;Truth must be sought with the Positivists.Wise are their teachers beyond all comparison,Comte, Huxley, Tyndall, Mill, Morley, and Harrison;Who will adventure to enter the listsWith such a squadron of Positivists?Social arrangements are awful miscarriages;Cause of all crime is our system of marriages.Poets with sonnets, and lovers with trysts,Kindle the ire of the Positivists.Husbands and wives should be all one community,Exquisite freedom with absolute unity.Wedding-rings worse are than manacled wrists—Such is the creed of the Positivists.There was an ape in the days that were earlier;Centuries passed, and his hair became curlier;Centuries more gave a thumb to his wrist—Then he was Man, and a Positivist.If you are pious (mild form of insanity)Bow down and worship the mass of humanity.Other religions are buried in mists;We're our own Gods, say the Positivists.
Mortimer Collins.
Exquisite wines and comestibles,From Slater, and Fortnum and Mason;Billiard, écarté, and chess tables;Water in vast marble basin;Luminous books (not voluminous)To read under beech-trees cacuminous;One friend, who is fond of a distich,And doesn't get too syllogistic;A valet, who knows the complete artOf service—a maiden, his sweetheart:Give me these, in some rural pavilion,And I'll envy no Rothschild his million.
Mortimer Collins.
"... Sing, heavenly Muse!Things unattempted yet, in prose or rhyme,"A shilling, breeches, and chimeras dire.
"... Sing, heavenly Muse!Things unattempted yet, in prose or rhyme,"A shilling, breeches, and chimeras dire.
Happy the man, who, void of cares and strife,In silken or in leather purse retainsA Splendid Shilling: he nor hears with painNew oysters cried, nor sighs for cheerful ale;But with his friends, when nightly mists arise,To Juniper's Magpie, or Town-hall repairs:Where, mindful of the nymph, whose wanton eyeTransfix'd his soul, and kindled amorous flames,Chloe, or Phillis, he each circling glassWisheth her health, and joy, and equal love.Meanwhile, he smokes, and laughs at merry tale,Or pun ambiguous, or conundrum quaint.But I, whom griping penury surrounds,And Hunger, sure attendant upon Want,With scanty offals, and small acid tiff,(Wretched repast!) my meagre corpse sustain:Then solitary walk, or doze at homeIn garret vile, and with a warming puffRegale chill'd fingers: or from tube as blackAs winter-chimney, or well-polish'd jet,Exhale mundungus, ill-perfuming scent:Not blacker tube, nor of a shorter size,Smokes Cambro-Briton (vers'd in pedigree,Sprung from Cadwallador and Arthur, kingsFull famous in romantic tale) when he,O'er many a craggy hill and barren cliff,Upon a cargo of fam'd Cestrian cheese,High over-shadowing rides, with a designTo vend his wares, or at th' Avonian mart,Or Maridunum, or the ancient townYelep'd Brechinia, or where Vaga's streamEncircles Ariconium, fruitful soil!Whence flow nectareous wines, that well may vieWith Massic, Setin, or renown'd Falern.Thus while my joyless minutes tedious flow,With looks demure, and silent pace, a Dun,Horrible monster! hated by gods and men,To my aërial citadel ascends,With vocal heel thrice thundering at my gate,With hideous accent thrice he calls; I knowThe voice ill-boding, and the solemn sound.What should I do? or whither turn? Amaz'd,Confounded, to the dark recess I flyOf wood-hole; straight my bristling hairs erectThrough sudden fear; a chilly sweat bedewsMy shuddering limbs, and (wonderful to tell!)My tongue forgets her faculty of speech;So horrible he seems! His faded brow,Intrench'd with many a frown, and conic beard,And spreading band, admir'd by modern saints,Disastrous acts forbode; in his right handLong scrolls of paper solemnly he waves,With characters and figures dire inscrib'd,Grievous to mortal eyes; (ye gods, avertSuch plagues from righteous men!) Behind him stalksAnother monster, not unlike himself,Sullen of aspect, by the vulgar call'dA catchpole, whose polluted hands the gods,With force incredible, and magic charms,First have endued: if he his ample palmShould haply on ill-fated shoulder layOf debtor, straight his body, to the touchObsequious (as whilom knights were wont,)To some enchanted castle is convey'd,Where gates impregnable, and coercive chains,In durance strict detain him, till, in formOf money, Pallas sets the captive free.Beware, ye debtors! when ye walk, beware,Be circumspect; oft with insidious kenThe caitiff eyes your steps aloof, and oftLies perdu in a nook or gloomy cave,Prompt to enchant some inadvertent wretchWith his unhallowed touch. So, (poets sing)Grimalkin, to domestic vermin swornAn everlasting foe, with watchful eyeLies nightly brooding o'er a chinky gap,Portending her fell claws, to thoughtless miceSure ruin. So her disembowell'd webArachne, in a hall or kitchen, spreadsObvious to vagrant flies: she secret standsWithin her woven cell: the humming prey,Regardless of their fate, rush on the toilsInextricable, nor will aught availTheir arts, or arms, or shapes of lovely hue;The wasp insidious, and the buzzing drone,And butterfly, proud of expanded wingsDistinct with gold, entangled in her snares,Useless resistance make; with eager strides,She towering flies to her expected spoils;Then, with envenomed jaws, the vital bloodDrinks of reluctant foes, and to her caveTheir bulky carcasses triumphant drags.So pass my days. But when nocturnal shadesThis world envelop, and th' inclement airPersuades men to repel benumbing frostsWith pleasant wines, and crackling blaze of wood;Me, lonely sitting, nor the glimmering lightOf make-weight candle, nor the joyous talkOf loving friend, delights: distress'd, forlorn,Amidst the horrors of the tedious night,Darkling I sigh, and feed with dismal thoughtsMy anxious mind: or sometimes mournful verseIndite, and sing of groves and myrtle shades,Or desperate lady near a purling stream,Or lover pendent on a willow tree.Meanwhile I labor with eternal drought,And restless wish, and rave; my parched throatFinds no relief, nor heavy eyes repose:But if a slumber haply does invadeMy weary limbs, my fancy's still awake,Thoughtful of drink, and eager, in a dream,Tipples imaginary pots of ale,In vain; awake I find the settled thirstStill gnawing, and the pleasant phantom curse.Thus do I live, from pleasure quite debarred,Nor taste the fruits that the sun's genial raysMature, john-apple, nor the downy peach,Nor walnut in rough-furrow'd coat secure,Nor medlar, fruit delicious in decay;Afflictions great! yet greater still remain:My galligaskins, that have long withstoodThe winter's fury, and encroaching frosts,By time subdued (what will not time subdue!)An horrid chasm disclos'd with orificeWide, discontinuous; at which the windsEurus and Auster, and the dreadful forceOf Boreas, that congeals the Cronian waves,Tumultuous enter with dire chilling blasts,Portending agues. Thus a well-fraught ship,Long sail'd secure, or through th' Ægean deep,Or the Ionian, till cruising nearThe Lilybean shore, with hideous crushOn Scylla, or Charybdis (dangerous rocks!)She strikes rebounding; whence the shatter'd oak,So fierce a shock unable to withstand,Admits the sea: in at the gaping sideThe crowding waves gush with impetuous rageResistless, overwhelming; horrors seizeThe mariners; Death in their eyes appears,They stare, they lave, they pump, they swear, they pray(Vain efforts!) still the battering waves rush in,Implacable, till, delug'd by the foam,The ship sinks foundering in the vast abyss.
John Philips.
What asks the Bard? He prays for noughtBut what the truly virtuous crave:That is, the things he plainly oughtTo have.'Tis not for wealth, with all the shocksThat vex distracted millionaires,Plagued by their fluctuating stocksAnd shares:While plutocrats their millions newExpend upon each costly whim,A great deal less than theirs will doFor him:The simple incomes of the poorHis meek poetic soul content:Say, £30,000 at fourPer cent.!His taste in residence is plain:No palaces his heart rejoice:A cottage in a lane (Park LaneFor choice)—Here be his days in quiet spent:Here let him meditate the Muse:Baronial Halls were only meantFor Jews,And lands that stretch with endless spanFrom east to west, from south to north,Are often much more trouble thanThey're worth!Let epicures who eat too muchBecome uncomfortably stout:Let gourmets feel th' approaching touchOf gout,—The Bard subsists on simpler food:A dinner, not severely plain,A pint or so of really goodChampagne—Grant him but these, no care he'll takeThough Laureates bask in Fortune's smile,Though Kiplings and Corellis makeTheir pile:Contented with a scantier doleHis humble Muse serenely jogs,Remote from scenes where authors rollTheir logs:Far from the madding crowd she lurks,And really cares no single jotWhether the public read her worksOr not!
A. D. Godley.
A tailor, a man of an upright dealing,True but for lying, honest but for stealing,Did fall one day extremely sick by chance,And on the sudden was in wondrous trance.The Fiends of hell, mustering in fearful manner,Of sundry-coloured silks displayed a banner,Which he had stol'n; and wished, as they did tell,That one day he might find it all in hell.The man, affrighted at this apparition,Upon recovery grew a great precisian.He bought a Bible of the new translation,And in his life he showed great reformation.He walkèd mannerly and talkèd meekly;He heard three lectures and two sermons weekly;He vowed to shun all companies unruly,And in his speech he used no oath but "truly":And, zealously to keep the Sabbath's rest,His meat for that day on the even was dressed.And, lest the custom that he had to stealMight cause him sometime to forget his zeal,He gives his journeyman a special chargeThat, if the stuff allowed fell out too large,And that to filch his fingers were inclined,He then should put the Banner in his mind.This done, I scant the rest can tell for laughter.A Captain of a ship came three days after,And bought three yards of velvet and three quarters,To make Venetians down below the garters.He, that precisely knew what was enough,Soon slipped away three quarters of the stuff.His man, espying it, said in derision,"Remember, Master, how you saw the vision!""Peace, knave," quoth he; "I did not see one ragOf such-a-coloured silk in all the flag."
Sir John Harrington.