The sun is in the sky, mother, the flowers are springing fair,And the melody of woodland birds is stirring in the air;The river, smiling to the sky, glides onward to the sea,And happiness is everywhere, oh, mother, but with me!They are going to the church, mother—I hear the marriage bellIt booms along the upland—oh! it haunts me like a knell;He leads her on his arm, mother, he cheers her faltering step,And closely to his side she clings—she does, the demirep!They are crossing by the stile, mother, where we so oft have stood,The stile beside the shady thorn, at the corner of the wood;And the boughs, that wont to murmur back the words that won my ear,Wave their silver branches o'er him, as he leads his bridal fere.He will pass beside the stream, mother, where first my hand he pressed,By the meadow where, with quivering lip, his passion he confessed;And down the hedgerows where we've strayed again and yet again;But he will not think of me, mother, his broken-hearted Jane!He said that I was proud, mother, that I looked for rank and gold,He said I did not love him—he said my words were cold;He said I kept him off and on, in hopes of higher game—And it may be that I did, mother; but who hasn't done the same.I did not know my heart, mother—I know it now too late;I thought that I without a pang could wed some nobler mate;But no nobler suitor sought me—and he has taken wing,And my heart is gone, and I am left a lone and blighted thing.You may lay me in my bed, mother—my head is throbbing sore;And, mother, prithee, let the sheets be duly aired before;And, if you'd please, my mother dear, your poor desponding child,Draw me a pot of beer, mother, and, mother, draw it mild!
William E. Aytoun.
"Wherefore starts my bosom's lord?Why this anguish in thine eye?Oh, it seems as thy heart's chordHad broken with that sigh!"Rest thee, my dear lord, I pray,Rest thee on my bosom now!And let me wipe the dews away,Are gathering on thy brow."There, again! that fevered start!What, love! husband! is thy pain?There is a sorrow in thy heart,A weight upon thy brain!"Nay, nay, that sickly smile can ne'erDeceive affection's searching eye;'Tis a wife's duty, love, to shareHer husband's agony."Since the dawn began to peep,Have I lain with stifled breath;Heard thee moaning in thy sleep,As thou wert at grips with death."Oh, what joy it was to seeMy gentle lord once more awake!Tell me, what is amiss with thee?Speak, or my heart will break!""Mary, thou angel of my life,Thou ever good and kind;'Tis not, believe me, my dear wife,The anguish of the mind!"It is not in my bosom, dear,No, nor in my brain, in sooth;But, Mary, oh, I feel it here,Here in my wisdom tooth!"Then give,—oh, first, best antidote,—Sweet partner of my bed!Give me thy flannel petticoatTo wrap around my head!"
William E. Aytoun.
Come hither, my heart's darling,Come, sit upon my knee,And listen, while I whisper,A boon I ask of thee.You need not pull my whiskersSo amorously, my dove;'Tis something quite apart fromThe gentle cares of love.I feel a bitter craving—A dark and deep desire,That glows beneath my bosomLike coals of kindled fire.The passion of the nightingale,When singing to the rose,Is feebler than the agonyThat murders my repose!Nay, dearest! do not doubt me,Though madly thus I speak—I feel thy arms about me,Thy tresses on my cheek:I know the sweet devotionThat links thy heart with mine—I know my soul's emotionIs doubly felt by thine:And deem not that a shadowHath fallen across my love:No, sweet, my love is shadowless,As yonder heaven above.These little taper fingers—Ah! Jane, how white they be!—Can well supply the cruel wantThat almost maddens me.Thou wilt not sure deny meMy first and fond request;I pray thee, by the memoryOf all we cherish best—By all the dear remembranceOf those delicious days,When, hand in hand, we wanderedAlong the summer braes:By all we felt, unspoken,When 'neath the early moon,We sat beside the rivulet,In the leafy month of June;And by the broken whisper,That fell upon my ear,More sweet than angel-music,When first I woo'd thee, dear!By that great vow which bound theeForever to my side,And by the ring that made theeMy darling and my bride!Thou wilt not fail nor falter,But bend thee to the task—A boiled sheep's head on SundayIs all the boon I ask.
William E. Aytoun.
Stiff are the warrior's muscles,Congeal'd, alas! his chyle;No more in hostile tusslesWill he excite his bile.Dry is the epidermis,A vein no longer bleeds—And the communis vermisUpon the warrior feeds.Compress'd, alas! the thorax,That throbbed with joy or pain;Not e'en a dose of boraxCould make it throb again.Dried up the warrior's throat is,All shatter'd too, his head:Still is the epiglottis—The warrior is dead.
Unknown.
I have watch'd thee with rapture, and dwelt on thy charms,As link'd in Love's fetters we wander'd each day;And each night I have sought a new life in thy arms,And sigh'd that our union could last not for aye.But thy life now depends on a frail silken thread,Which I even by kindness may cruelly sever,And I look to the moment of parting with dread,For I feel that in parting I lose thee forever.Sole being that cherish'd my poor troubled heart!Thou know'st all its secrets—each joy and each grief;And in sharing them all thou did'st ever impartTo its sorrows a gentle and soothing relief.The last of a long and affectionate race,As thy days are declining I love thee the more,For I feel that thy loss I can never replace—That thy death will but leave me to weep and deplore.Unchanged, thou shalt live in the mem'ry of years,I cannot—I will not—forget what thou wert!While the thoughts of thy love as they call forth my tears,In fancy will wash thee once more—MY LAST SHIRT.
Unknown.
Oh, solitude! thou wonder-working fay,Come nurse my feeble fancy in your arms,Though I, and thee, and fancy town-pent lay,Come, call around, a world of country charms.Let all this room, these walls dissolve away,And bring me Surrey's fields to take their place:This floor be grass, and draughts as breezes play;Yon curtains trees, to wave in summer's face;My ceiling, sky; my water-jug a stream;My bed, a bank, on which to muse and dream.The spell is wrought: imagination swellsMy sleeping-room to hills, and woods, and dells!I walk abroad, for naught my footsteps hinder,And fling my arms. Oh! mi! I've broke thewinder!
Unknown.
One, who is not, we see; but one, whom we see not, is;Surely, this is not that; but that is assuredly this.What, and wherefore, and whence: for under is over and under;If thunder could be without lightning, lightning could be without thunder.Doubt is faith in the main; but faith, on the whole, is doubt;We cannot believe by proof; but could we believe without?Why, and whither, and how? for barley and rye are not clover;Neither are straight lines curves; yet over is under and over.One and two are not one; but one and nothing is two;Truth can hardly be false, if falsehood cannot be true.Parallels all things are; yet many of these are askew;You are certainly I; but certainly I am not you.One, whom we see not, is; and one, who is not, we see;Fiddle, we know, is diddle; and diddle, we take it, is dee.
Algernon Charles Swinburne.
From the depth of the dreamy decline of the dawn through a notable nimbus of nebulous moonshine,
Pallid and pink as the palm of the flag-flower that flickers with fear of the flies as they float,
Are they looks of our lovers that lustrously lean from a marvel of mystic miraculous moonshine,
These that we feel in the blood of our blushes that thicken and threaten with throbs through the throat?
Thicken and thrill as a theatre thronged at appeal of an actor's appalled agitation,
Fainter with fear of the fires of the future than pale with the promise of pride in the past;
Flushed with the famishing fulness of fever that reddens with radiance of rathe recreation,
Gaunt as the ghastliest of glimpses that gleam through the gloom of the gloaming when ghosts go aghast?
Nay, for the nick of the tick of the time is a tremulous touch on the temples of terror,
Strained as the sinews yet strenuous with strife of the dead who is dumb as the dust-heaps of death;
Surely no soul is it, sweet as the spasm of erotic emotional exquisite error,
Bathed in the balms of beatified bliss, beatific itself by beatitude's breath.
Surely no spirit or sense of a soul that was soft to the spirit and soul of our senses
Sweetens the stress of surprising suspicion that sobs in the semblance and sound of a sigh;
Only this oracle opens Olympian, in mystical moods and triangular tenses,—
"Life is the lust of a lamp for the light that is dark till the dawn of the day when we die."
Mild is the mirk and monotonous music of memory, melodiously mute as it may be,
While the hope in the heart of a hero is bruised by the breach of men's rapiers, resigned to the rod;
Made meek as a mother whose bosom-beats bound with the bliss-bringing bulk of a balm-breathing baby,
As they grope through the grave-yard of creeds, under skies growing green at a groan for the grimness of God.
Blank is the book of his bounty beholden of old, and its binding is blacker than bluer:
Out of blue into black is the scheme of the skies, and their dews are the wine of the bloodshed of things:
Till the darkling desire of delight shall be free as a fawn that is freed from the fangs that pursue her,
Till the heart-beats of hell shall be hushed by a hymn from the hunt that has harried the kennel of kings.
Algernon Charles Swinburne.
I
Hi! Just you drop that! Stop, I say!Shirk work, think slink off, twist friend's wrist?Where that spined sand's lined band's the bay—Lined blind with true sea's blue, as due—Promising—not to pay?
II
For the sea's debt leaves wet the sand;Burst worst fate's weight's in one burst gun?A man's own yacht, blown—What? off land?Tack back, or veer round here, then—queer!Reef points, though—understand?
III
I'm blest if I do. Sigh? be blowed!Love's doves make break life's ropes, eh? Tropes!Faith's brig, baulked, sides caulked, rides at road;Hope's gropes befogged, storm-dogged and bogged—Clogged, water-logged, her load!
IV
Stowed, by Jove, right and tight, away.No show now how best plough sea's brow,Wrinkling—breeze quick, tease thick, ere day,Clear sheer wave's sheen of green, I mean,With twinkling wrinkles—eh?
V
Sea sprinkles wrinkles, tinkles lightShells' bells—boy's joys that hap to snap!It's just sea's fun, breeze done, to spiteGod's rods that scourge her surge, I'd urge—Not proper, is it—quite?
VI
See, fore and aft, life's craft undone!Crank plank, split spritsail—mark, sea's lark!That gray cold sea's old sprees, begunWhen men lay dark i' the ark, no spark,All water—just God's fun!
VII
Not bright, at best, his jest to theseSeemed—screamed, shrieked, wreaked on kin for sin!When for mirth's yell earth's knell seemed pleaseSome dumb new grim great whim in himMade Jews take chalk for cheese.
VIII
Could God's rods bruise God's Jews? Their jowlsBobbed, sobbed, gaped, aped, the plaice in face!None heard, 'tis odds, his—God's—folk's howls.Now, how must I apply, to tryThis hookiest-beaked of owls?
IX
Well, I suppose God knows—I don't.Time's crimes mark dark men's types, in stripesBroad as fen's lands men's hands were wontLeave grieve unploughed, though proud and loudWith birds' words—No! he won't!
X
One never should think good impossible.Eh? say I'd hide this Jew's oil's cruse—His shop might hold bright gold, engrossibleBy spy—spring's air takes there no careTo wave the heath-flower's glossy bell!
XI
But gold bells chime in time there, coined—Gold! Old Sphinx winks there—"Read my screed!"Doctrine Jews learn, use, burn for, joined(Through new craft's stealth) with health and wealth—At once all three purloined!
XII
I rose with dawn, to pawn, no doubt,(Miss this chance, glance untried aside?)John's shirt, my—no! Ay, so—the lout!Let yet the door gape, store on floorAnd not a soul about?
XIII
Such men lay traps, perhaps—and I'mWeak—meek—mild—child of woe, you know!But theft, I doubt, my lout calls crime.Shrink? Think! Love's dawn in pawn—you spawnOf Jewry! Just in time!
Algernon Charles Swinburne.
We seek to know, and knowing seek;We seek, we know, and every senseIs trembling with the great IntenseAnd vibrating to what we speak.We ask too much, we seek too oft,We know enough, and should no more;And yet we skim through Fancy's loreAnd look to earth and not aloft.A something comes from out the gloom;I know it not, nor seek to know;I only see it swell and grow,And more than this world would presume.Meseems, a circling void I fill,And I, unchanged where all is changed;It seems unreal; I own it strange,Yet nurse the thoughts I cannot kill.I hear the ocean's surging tide,Raise quiring on its carol-tune;I watch the golden-sickled moon,And clearer voices call beside.O Sea! whose ancient ripples lieOn red-ribbed sands where seaweeds shone;O Moon! whose golden sickle's gone;O Voices all! like ye I die!
Cuthbert Bede.
Poor Lucy Lake was overgrown,But somewhat underbrained.She did not know enough, I own,To go in when it rained.Yet Lucy was constrained to go;Green bedding,—you infer.Few people knew she died, but oh,The difference to her!
Newton Mackintosh.
You see this pebble-stone? It's a thing I boughtOf a bit of a chit of a boy i' the mid o' the day—I like to dock the smaller parts-o'-speech,As we curtail the already cur-tailed cur(You catch the paronomasia, play 'po' words?)Did, rather, i' the pre-Landseerian days.Well, to my muttons. I purchased the concern,And clapt it i' my poke, having given for sameBy way o' chop, swop, barter or exchange—"Chop" was my snickering dandiprat's own term—One shilling and fourpence, current coin o' the realm.O-n-e one and f-o-u-r fourPence, one and fourpence—you are with me, sir?—What hour it skills not: ten or eleven o' the clock,One day (and what a roaring day it wasGo shop or sight-see—bar a spit o' rain!)In February, eighteen sixty nine,Alexandrina Victoria, Fidei,Hm—hm—how runs the jargon? being on the throne.Such, sir, are all the facts, succinctly put,The basis or substratum—what you will—Of the impending eighty thousand lines."Not much in 'em either," quoth perhaps simple Hodge.But there's a superstructure. Wait a bit.Mark first the rationale of the thing:Hear logic rivel and levigate the deed.That shilling—and for matter o' that, the pence—I had o' course upo' me—wi' me say—(Mecum'sthe Latin, make a note o' that)When I popp'd pen i' stand, scratched ear, wiped snout,(Let everybody wipe his own himself)Sniff'd—tch!—at snuffbox; tumbled up, he-heed,Haw-haw'd (not he-haw'd, that's another guess thing):Then fumbled at, and stumbled out of, door,I shoved the timber ope wi' my omoplat;Andin vestibulo, i' the lobby to-wit,(Iacobi Facciolati's rendering, sir,)Donned galligaskins, antigropeloes,And so forth; and, complete with hat and gloves,One on and one a-dangle i' in my hand,And ombrifuge (Lord love you!) cas o' rain,I flopped forth, 'sbuddikins! on my own ten toes,(I do assure you there be ten of them)And went clump-clumping up hill and down daleTo find myself o' the sudden i' front o' the boy.Put case I hadn't 'em on me, could I ha' boughtThis sort-o'-kind-o'-what-you-might-call-toy,This pebble-thing, o' the boy-thing? Q. E. D.That's proven without aid for mumping Pope,Sleek porporate or bloated cardinal.(Isn't it, old Fatchops? You're in Euclid now.)So, having the shilling—having i' fact a lot—And pence and halfpence, ever so many o' them,I purchased, as I think I said before,The pebble (lapis,lapidis,di,dem,de—What nouns 'crease short i' the genitive, Fatchops, eh?)O, the boy, a bare-legg'd beggarly son of a gun,For one-and-fourpence. Here we are again.Now Law steps in, bewigged, voluminous-jaw'd;Investigates and re-investigates.Was the transaction illegal? Law shakes head.Perpend, sir, all the bearings of the case.At first the coin was mine, the chattel his.But now (by virtue of the said exchangeAnd barter)vice versaall the coin,Rer juris operationem, vestsI' the boy and his assigns till ding o' doom;In sæcula sæculo-o-orum;(I think I hear the Abate mouth out that.)To have and hold the same to him and them ...Confer some idiot on Conveyancing.Whereas the pebble and every part thereof,And all that appertaineth thereunto,Quodcunque pertinet ad em rem,(I fancy, sir, my Latin's rather pat)Or shall, will, may, might, can, could, would, or should,Subaudi cætera—clap we to the close—For what's the good of law in such a case o' the kindIs mine to all intents and purposes.This settled, I resume the thread o' the tale.Now for a touch o' the vendor's quality.He says a gen'lman bought a pebble of him,(This pebble i' sooth, sir, which I hold i' my hand)—And paid for 't,likea gen'lman, on the nail."Did I o'ercharge him a ha'penny? Devil a bit.Fiddlepin's end! Get out, you blazing ass!Gabble o' the goose. Don't bugaboo-babyme!Go double or quits? Yah! tittup! what's the odds?"—There's the transaction viewed in the vendor's light.Next ask that dumpled hag, stood snuffling by,With her three frowsy blowsy brats o' babes,The scum o' the Kennel, cream o' the filth-heap—Faugh!Aie, aie, aie, aie! [Greek: otototototoi],('Stead which we blurt out, Hoighty toighty now)—And the baker and candlestick maker, and Jack and Gill.Blear'd Goody this and queasy Gaffer that,Ask the Schoolmaster, Take Schoolmaster first.He saw a gentleman purchase of a ladA stone, and pay for itriteon the square,And carry it offper saltum, jauntilyPropria quæ maribus, gentleman's property now(Agreeable to the law explained above).In proprium usum, for his private ends,The boy he chucked a brown i' the air, and bitI' the face the shilling; heaved a thumping stoneAt a lean hen that ran cluck-clucking by,(And hit her, dead as nail i' post o' door,)Thenabiit—What's the Ciceronian phrase?Excessit,evasit,erupit—off slogs boy;Off like bird,avi similis—(you observedThe dative? Pretty i' the Mantuan!)—AngliceOff in three flea skips.Hactenus, so far,So good,tam bene. Bene, satis, male,—Where was I with my trope 'bout one in a quag?I did once hitch the Syntax into verseVerbum personale, a verb personal,Concordat—ay, "agrees," old Fatchops—cumNominativo, with its nominative,Genere, i' point of gender,numero,O' number,et persona, and person.Ut,Instance:Sol ruit, down flops sun,etand,Montes umbrantur, out flounce mountains. Pah!Excuse me, sir, I think I'm going mad.You see the trick on't, though, and can yourselfContinue the discoursead libitum.It takes up about eighty thousand lines,A thing imagination boggles at;And might, odds-bobs, sir! in judicious handsExtend from here to Mesopotamy.
Charles Stuart Calverley.
The auld wife sat at her ivied door,(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)A thing she had frequently done before;And her spectacles lay on her apron'd knees.The piper he piped on the hilltop high,(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)Till the cow said "I die," and the goose asked "Why?"And the dog said nothing, but search'd for fleas.The farmer he strode through the square farmyard;(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)His last brew of ale was a trifle hard—The connection of which the plot one sees.The farmer's daughter hath frank blue eyes;(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)She hears the rooks caw in the windy skies,As she sits at her lattice and shells her peas.The farmer's daughter hath ripe red lips;(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)If you try to approach her, away she skipsOver tables and chairs with apparent ease.The farmer's daughter hath soft brown hair;(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)And I met with a ballad, I can't say where,Which wholly consisted of lines like these.
PART II
She sat with her hands 'neath her dimpled cheeks,(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)And spake not a word. While a lady speaksThere is hope, but she didn't even sneeze.She sat, with her hands 'neath her crimson cheeks;(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)She gave up mending her father's breeks,And let the cat roll in her new chemise.She sat with her hands 'neath her burning cheeks,(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)And gazed at the piper for thirteen weeks;Then she follow'd him o'er the misty leas.Her sheep follow'd her, as their tails did them,(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)And this song is consider'd a perfect gem,And as to the meaning, it's what you please.
Charles Stuart Calverley.
'Twas ever thus from childhood's hour!My fondest hopes would not decay;I never loved a tree or flowerWhich was the first to fade away!The garden, where I used to delveShort-frock'd, still yields me pinks in plenty;The pear-tree that I climbed at twelveI see still blossoming, at twenty.I never nursed a dear gazelle;But I was given a parroquet—(How I did nurse him if unwell!)He's imbecile, but lingers yet.He's green, with an enchanting tuft;He melts me with his small black eye;He'd look inimitable stuffed,And knows it—but he will not die!I had a kitten—I was richIn pets—but all too soon my kittenBecame a full-sized cat, by whichI've more than once been scratched and bittenAnd when for sleep her limbs she curl'dOne day beside her untouch'd plateful,And glided calmly from the world,I freely own that I was grateful.And then I bought a dog—a queen!Ah, Tiny, dear departing pug!She lives, but she is past sixteenAnd scarce can crawl across the rug.I loved her beautiful and kind;Delighted in her pert bow-wow;But now she snaps if you don't mind;'Twere lunacy to love her now.I used to think, should e'er mishapBetide my crumple-visaged Ti,In shape of prowling thief, or trap,Or coarse bull-terrier—I should die.But ah! disasters have their use,And life might e'en be too sunshiny;Nor would I make myself a goose,If some big dog should swallow Tiny.
Charles Stuart Calverley.
I walked and came upon a picket fence,And every picket went straight up and down,And all at even intervals were placed,All painted green, all pointed at the top,And every one inextricably nailedUnto two several cross-beams, which did go,Not as the pickets, but quite otherwise,And they two crossed, but back of all were posts.O beauteous picket fence, can I not drawInstruction from thee? Yea, for thou dost teach,That even as the pickets are made fastTo that which seems all at cross purposes,So are our human lives, to the Divine,But, oh! not purposeless, for even as theyDo keep stray cows from trespass, we, no doubt,Together guard some plan of Deity.Thus did I moralise. And from the beamsAnd pickets drew a lesson to myself,—But where the posts came in, I could not tell.
Unknown.
Out of the clothes that cover meTight as the skin is on the grape,I thank whatever gods may beFor my unconquerable shape.In the fell clutch of bone and steelI have not whined nor cried aloud;Whatever else I may conceal,I show my thoughts unshamed and proud.The forms of other actorinesI put away into the shade;All of them flossy near-blondinesFind and shall find me unafraid.It matters not how straight the tape,How cold the weather is, or warm—I am the mistress of my shape—I am the captain of my form.
Edith Daniell.
The Messed Damozel leaned outFrom the gold cube of Heav'n;There were three cubes within her hands,And the cubes in her hair were seven;I looked, and looked, and looked, and looked—I could not see her, even.Her robe, a cube from clasp to hem,Was moderately clear;Methought I saw two cubic eyes,When I had looked a year;But when I turned to tell the world,Those eyes did disappear!It was the rampart of some houseThat she was standing on;That much, at least, was plain to meAs her I gazed upon;But even as I gazed, alas!The rampart, too, was gone!(I saw her smile!) Oh, no, I didn't,Though long mine eyes did stare;The cubes closed down and shut her out;I wept in deep despair;But this I know, and know full well—She simply wasn't there!
Charles Hanson Towne.
Strange pie that is almost a passion,O passion immoral for pie!Unknown are the ways that they fashion,Unknown and unseen of the eye.The pie that is marbled and mottled,The pie that digests with a sigh:For all is not Bass that is bottled,And all is not pork that is pie.
Richard Le Gallienne.
In heaven a Spirit doth dwellWhose heart strings are a fiddle,(The reason he sings so well—This fiddler Israfel),And the giddy stars (will any one tellWhy giddy?) to attend his spellCease their hymns in the middle.On the height of her goTotters the Moon, and blushesAs the song of that fiddle rushesAcross her bow.The red Lightning stands to listen,And the eyes of the Pleiads glistenAs each of the seven puts its fist inIts eye, for the mist in.And they say—it's a riddle—That all these listening things,That stop in the middleFor the heart-strung fiddleWith such the Spirit sings,Are held as on the griddleBy these unusual strings.Wherefore thou art not wrong,Israfel! in that thou boastestFiddlestrings uncommon strong;To thee the fiddlestrings belongWith which thou toastestOther hearts as on a prong.Yes! heaven is thine, but thisIs a world of sours and sweets,Where cold meats are cold meats,And the eater's most perfect blissIs the shadow of him who treats.If I could griddleAs IsrafiddleHas griddled—he fiddle as I,—He might not fiddle so wild a riddleAs this mad melody,While the Pleiads all would leave off in the middleHearing my griddle-cry.
Unknown.
"Why do you wear your hair like a man,Sister Helen?This week is the third since you began.""I'm writing a ballad; be still if you can,Little brother.(O Mother Carey, mother!What chickens are these between sea and heaven?)""But why does your figure appear so lean,Sister Helen?And why do you dress in sage, sage green?""Children should never be heard, if seen,Little brother?(O Mother Carey, mother!What fowls are a-wing in the stormy heaven!)""But why is your face so yellowy white,Sister Helen?And why are your skirts so funnily tight?""Be quiet, you torment, or how can I write,Little brother?(O Mother Carey, mother!How gathers thy train to the sea from the heaven!)""And who's Mother Carey, and what is her train,Sister Helen?And why do you call her again and again?""You troublesome boy, why that's the refrain,Little brother.(O Mother Carey, mother!What work is toward in the startled heaven?)""And what's a refrain? What a curious word,Sister Helen!Is the ballad you're writing about a sea-bird?""Not at all; why should it be? Don't be absurd,Little brother.(O Mother Carey, mother!Thy brood flies lower as lowers the heaven.)"(A big brother speaketh:)"The refrain you've studied a meaning had,Sister Helen!It gave strange force to a weird ballad.But refrains have become a ridiculous 'fad,'Little brother.And Mother Carey, mother,Has a bearing on nothing in earth or heaven."But the finical fashion has had its day,Sister Helen.And let's try in the style of a different layTo bid it adieu in poetical way,Little brother.So, Mother Carey, mother!Collect your chickens and go to—heaven."
(A pause. Then the big brother singeth, accompanying himself in a plaintive wise on the triangle.)
"Look in my face. My name is Used-to-was;I am also called Played-out, and Done to Death,And It-will-wash-no-more. AwakenethSlowly but sure awakening it has,The common-sense of man; and I, alas!The ballad-burden trick, now known too well,And turned to scorn, and grown contemptible—A too transparent artifice to pass."What a cheap dodge I am! The cats who dartTin-kettled through the streets in wild surpriseAssail judicious ears not otherwise;And yet no critics praise the urchin's 'art,'Who to the wretched creature's caudal partIts foolish empty-jingling 'burden' ties."
H. D. Traill.
Come into the Whenceness Which,For the fierce Because has flown:Come into the Whenceness Which,I am here by the Where alone;And the Whereas odors are wafted abroadTill I hold my nose and groan.Queen Which of the Whichbud garden of What'sCome hither the jig is done.In gloss of Isness and shimmer of Was,Queen Thisness and Which in one;Shine out, little Which, sunning over the bangs,To the Nowness, and be its sun.There has fallen a splendid tearFrom the Is flower at the fence;She is coming, my Which, my dear,And as she Whistles a song of the Whence,The Nowness cries, "She is near, she is near."And the Thingness howls, "Alas!"The Whoness murmurs, "Well, I should smile,"And the Whatlet sobs, "I pass."
Unknown.
Scintillate, scintillate, globule orific,Fain would I fathom thy nature's specific.Loftily poised in ether capacious,Strongly resembling a gem carbonaceous.When torrid Phœbus refuses his presenceAnd ceases to lamp with fierce incandescence,Then you illumine the regions supernal,Scintillate, scintillate, semper nocturnal.Then the victim of hospiceless peregrinationGratefully hails your minute coruscation.He could not determine his journey's directionBut for your bright scintillating protection.
Unknown.
Oh, Mary had a little Lamb, regarding whose cuticularThe fluff exterior was white and kinked in each particular.On each occasion when the lass was seen perambulating,The little quadruped likewise was there a gallivating.One day it did accompany her to the knowledge dispensary,Which to every rule and precedent was recklessly contrary.Immediately whereupon the pedagogue superior,Exasperated, did eject the lamb from the interior.Then Mary, on beholding such performance arbitrary,Suffused her eyes with saline drops from glands called lachrymary,And all the pupils grew thereat tumultuously hilarious,And speculated on the case with wild conjectures various."What makes the lamb love Mary so?" the scholars asked the teacher.He paused a moment, then he tried to diagnose the creature."Oh pecus amorem Mary habit omnia temporum.""Thanks, teacher dear," the scholars cried, and awe crept darkly o'er 'em.
Unknown.
Slim feet than lilies tenderer,—Margérie!That scarce upbore the body of her,Naked upon the stones they were;—C'est ça Sainte Margérie!White as a shroud the silken gown,—Margérie!That flowed from shoulder to ankle down,With clear blue shadows along it thrown;C'est ça Sainte Margérie!On back and bosom withouten braid,—Margérie!In crispèd glory of darkling red,Round creamy temples her hair was shed;—C'est ça Sainte Margérie!Eyes, like a dim sea, viewed from far,—Margérie!Lips that no earthly love shall mar,More sweet that lips of mortals are;—C'est ça Sainte Margérie!The chamber walls are cracked and bare;—Margérie!Without the gossips stood astareAt men her bed away that bare;—C'est ça Sainte Margérie!Five pennies lay her hand within,—Margérie!So she her fair soul's weal might win,Little she reck'd of dule or teen;—C'est ça Sainte Margérie!Dank straw from dunghill gathered,—Margérie!Where fragrant swine have made their bed,Thereon her body shall be laid;—C'est ça Sainte Margérie!Three pennies to the poor in dole,—Margérie!One to the clerk her knell shall toll,And one to masses for her soul;—C'est ça Sainte Margérie!
Unknown.
There were two of us left in the berry-patch;Bryan O'Lin and Jack had gone to Norwich.—They called him Jack a' Nory, half in funAnd half because it seemed to anger him.—So there we stood and let the berries go,Talking of men we knew and had forgotten.A sprawling, humpbacked mountain frowned on usAnd blotted out a smouldering sunset cloudThat broke in fiery ashes. "Well," he said,"Old Adam Brown is dead and gone; you'll neverSee him any more. He used to wearA long, brown coat that buttoned down before.That's all I ever knew of him; I guess that's allThat anyone remembers. Eh?" he said,And then, without a pause to let me answer,He went right on."How about Dr. Foster?""Well, howabouthim?" I managed to reply.He glared at me for having interrupted.And stopped to pick his words before he spoke;Like one who turns all personal remarksInto a general survey of the world.Choosing his phrases with a finicky careSo they might fit some vague opinions,Taken, third-hand, from last year'sNew York TimesAnd jumbled all together into a thingHe thought was his philosophy."Never mind;There's more in Foster than you'd understand.But," he continued, darkly as before,"What do you make of Solomon Grundy's case?You know the gossip when he first came here.Folks said he'd gone to smash in Lunenburg,And four years in the State Asylum hereHad almost finished him. It was Sanders' jobThat put new life in him. A clear, cool day;The second Monday in July it was.'Born on a Monday,' that is what they said.Remember the next few days? I guess you don't;That was before your time. Well, Tuesday nightHe said he'd go to church; and just before the prayerHe blurts right out, 'I've come here to get christened.If I am going to have a brand new lifeI'll have a new name, too.' Well, sure enoughThey christened him, though I've forgotten what;And Etta Stark, (you know, the pastor's girl)Her head upset by what she called romance,She went and married him on Wednesday noon.Thursday the sun or something in the airGot in his blood and right off he took sick.Friday the thing got worse, and so did he;And Saturday at four o'clock he died.Buried on Sunday with the town decked outAs if it was a circus-day. And not a soulKnew why they went or what he meant to themOr what he died of. What would beyourguess?""Well," I replied, "it seems to me that he,Just coming from a sedentary life,Felt a great wave of energy released,And tried to crowd too much in one short week.The laws of physics teach—""No, not at all.He never knew 'em. He was just tired," he said.
Louis Untermeyer.
Of all the mismated pairs ever createdThe worst of the lot were the Spratts.Their life was a series of quibbles and queriesAnd quarrels and squabbles and spats.They argued at breakfast, they argued at tea,And they argued from midnight to quarter past three.The family Spratt-head was rather a fat-head,And a bellicose body to boot.He was selfish and priggish and worse, he was piggish—A regular beast of a brute.At table his acts were incredibly mean;He gave his wife fat—andhegobbled the lean!What's more, she was censured whenever she venturedTo dare to object to her fare;He said "It ain't tasteful, but we can't be wasteful;Andsomeonemust eat what is there!"But his coarseness exceeded all bounds of controlWhen he laughed at her Art and the State of her Soul.So what with his jeering and fleering and sneering,He plagued her from dawn until dark.He bellowed "I'll teach ye to read Shaw and Nietzsche"—And he was as bad as his bark."The place for a woman——" he'd start, very glib....And so on, for two or three hoursad lib.So very malignant became his indignantRemarks about "Culture" and "Cranks,"That at last she revolted. She up and she boltedAnd entered the militant ranks....When she died, after breaking nine-tenths of the laws,She left all her money and jewels to the Cause!AndTHE MORALis this (though a bit abstruse):What's sauce for a more or less proper goose,When it rouses the violent, feminine dander,Is apt to be sauce for the propaganda.
Louis Untermeyer.
He killed the noble Mudjokivis.Of the skin he made him mittens,Made them with the fur side insideMade them with the skin side outside.He, to get the warm side inside,Put the inside skin side outside;He, to get the cold side outside,Put the warm side fur side inside.That's why he put the fur side inside,Why he put the skin side outside.Why he turned them inside outside.
Unknown.
'Twas brussels, and the loos liègeDid meuse and arras in latour;All vimy were the metz maubege,And the tsing-tau namur."Beware the petrograd, my son—The jaws that bite, the claws that plough!Beware the posen, and verdunThe soldan mons glogau!"He took his dixmude sword in hand;Long time his altkirch foe he sought;Then rested he 'neath the warsaw tree,And stood awhile in thought.And as in danzig thought he stoodThe petrograd, with eyes of flame,Came ypring through the cracow wood,And longwied as it came.One two! One two! and through and throughThe dixmude blade went snicker-snack;He left it dead, and with its headHe gallipolied back."And hast thou slain the petrograd?Come to my arms, my krithnia boy!O chanak day! Artois! Grenay!"He woevred in his joy.'Twas brussels, and the loos liègeDid meuse and arras in latour;All vimy were the metz maubege,And the tsing-tau namur.
F. G. Hartswick.
Gin a body meet a bodyFlyin' through the air,Gin a body hit a body,Will it fly? and where?Ilka impact has its measure,Ne'er a' ane hae I,Yet a' the lads they measure me,Or, at least, they try.Gin a body meet a bodyAltogether free,How they travel afterwardsWe do not always see.Ilka problem has its methodBy analytics high;For me, I ken na ane o' them,But what the waur am I?
J. C. Maxwell.
Ah Night! blind germ of days to be,Ah, me! ah me!(Sweet Venus, mother!)What wail of smitten strings hear we?(Ah me! ah me!Hey diddle dee!)Ravished by clouds our Lady Moon,Ah me! ah me!(Sweet Venus, mother!)Sinks swooning in a lady-swoon(Ah me! ah me!Dum diddle dee!)What profits it to rise i' the dark?Ah me! ah me!(Sweet Venus, mother!)If love but over-soar its mark(Ah me! ah me!Hey diddle dee!)What boots to fall again forlorn?Ah me! ah me!(Sweet Venus, mother!)Scorned by the grinning hound of scorn,(Ah me! ah me!Dum diddle dee!)Art thou not greater who art less?Ah me! ah me!(Sweet Venus, mother!)Low love fulfilled of low success?(Ah me! ah me!Hey diddle dee!)
Unknown.
"You are old, Father William," the young man said,"And your hair has become very white;And yet you incessantly stand on your head—Do you think, at your age, it is right?""In my youth," Father William replied to his son,"I feared it might injure the brain;But now that I'm perfectly sure I have none,Why, I do it again and again.""You are old," said the youth, "as I mentioned before,And have grown most uncommonly fat;Yet you turned a back somersault in at the door—Pray, what is the reason of that?""In my youth," said the sage, as he shook his gray locks,"I kept all my limbs very suppleBy the use of this ointment—one shilling the box—Allow me to sell you a couple.""You are old," said the youth, "and your jaws are too weakFor anything tougher than suet;Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak;Pray, how did you manage to do it?""In my youth," said his father, "I took to the law,And argued each case with my wife;And the muscular strength which it gave to my jaw,Has lasted the rest of my life.""You are old," said the youth; "one would hardly supposeThat your eye was as steady as ever;Yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose—What made you so awfully clever?""I have answered three questions, and that is enough,"Said his father; "don't give yourself airs!Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff?Be off, or I'll kick you down-stairs!"
Lewis Carroll.
1—(Macaulay, who made it)
Pour, varlet, pour the water,The water steaming hot!A spoonful for each man of us,Another for the pot!We shall not drink from amber,Nor Capuan slave shall mixFor us the snows of AthosWith port at thirty-six;Whiter than snow the crystals,Grown sweet 'neath tropic fires,More rich the herbs of China's field,The pasture-lands more fragrance yield;For ever let Britannia wieldThe tea-pot of her sires!
2—(Tennyson, who took it hot)
I think that I am drawing to an end:For on a sudden came a gasp for breath,And stretching of the hands, and blinded eyes,And a great darkness falling on my soul.O Hallelujah!... Kindly pass the milk.
3—(Swinburne, who let it get cold)
As the sin that was sweet in the sinningIs foul in the ending thereof,As the heat of the summer's beginningIs past in the winter of love:O purity, painful and pleading!O coldness, ineffably gray!Oh, hear us, our handmaid unheeding.And take it away!
4—(Cowper, who thoroughly enjoyed it)
The cosy fire is bright and gay,The merry kettle boils awayAnd hums a cheerful song.I sing the saucer and the cup;Pray, Mary, fill the tea-pot up,And do not make it strong.
5—(Browning, who treated it allegorically)
Tut! Bah! We take as another case—Pass the bills on the pills on the window-sill; notice the capsule(A sick man's fancy, no doubt, but I placeReliance on trade-marks, Sir)—so perhaps you'llExcuse the digression—this cup which I holdLight-poised—Bah, it's spilt in the bed!—well, let's on go—Hold Bohea and sugar, Sir; if you were toldThe sugar was salt, would the Bohea be Congo?
6—(Wordsworth, who gave it away)
"Come, little cottage girl, you seemTo want my cup of tea;And will you take a little cream?Now tell the truth to me."She had a rustic, woodland grin,Her cheek was soft as silk,And she replied, "Sir, please put inA little drop of milk.""Why, what put milk into your head?'Tis cream my cows supply;"And five times to the child I said,"Why, pig-head, tell me, why?""You call me pig-head," she replied;"My proper name is Ruth.I called that milk"—she blushed with pride—"You bade me speak the truth."
7—(Poe, who got excited over it)
Here's a mellow cup of tea, golden tea!What a world of rapturous thought its fragrance brings to me!Oh, from out the silver cellsHow it wells!How it smells!Keeping tune, tune, tuneTo the tintinnabulation of the spoon.And the kettle on the fireBoils its spout off with desire,With a desperate desireAnd a crystalline endeavourNow, now to sit, or never,On the top of the pale-faced moon,But he always came home to tea, tea, tea, tea, tea,Tea to the n——th.
8—(Rossetti, who took six cups of it)
The lilies lie in my lady's bower(O weary mother drive the cows to roost),They faintly droop for a little hour;My lady's head droops like a flower.She took the porcelain in her hand(O weary mother, drive the cows to roost);She poured; I drank at her command;Drank deep, and now—you understand!(O weary mother, drive the cows to roost.)
9—(Burns, who liked it adulterated)
Weel, gin ye speir, I'm no inclined,Whusky or tay—to state my mind,Fore ane or ither;For, gin I tak the first, I'm fou,And gin the next, I'm dull as you,Mix a' thegither.
10—(Walt Whitman, who didn't stay more than a minute)
One cup for myself-hood,Many for you. Allons, camerados, we will drink together,O hand-in-hand! That tea-spoon, please, when you've done with it.What butter-colour'd hair you've got. I don't want to be personal.All right, then, you needn't. You're a stale-cadaver.Eighteen-pence if the bottles are returned.Allons, from all bat-eyed formula.
Barry Pain.