Quixotic is his enterprise and hopeless his adventure is,Who seeks for jocularities that haven't yet been said;The world has joked incessantly for over fifty centuries,And every joke that's possible has long ago been made.I started as a humourist with lots of mental fizziness,But humour is a drug which it's the fashion to abuse;For my stock-in-trade, my fixtures and the good-will of the businessNo reasonable offer I am likely to refuse.And if anybody chooseHe may circulate the newsThat no reasonable offer I am likely to refuse.Oh, happy was that humourist—the first that made a pun at all—Who when a joke occurred to him, however poor and mean,Was absolutely certain that it never had been done at all—How popular at dinners must that humourist have been!Oh, the days when some step-father for a query held a handle out,—The door-mat from the scraper, is it distant very far?And when no one knew where Moses was when Aaron put the candle out,And no one had discovered that a door could be a-jar!But your modern hearers areIn their tastes particular,And they sneer if you inform them that a door can be a jar!In search of quip and quiddity I've sat all day alone, apart—And all that I could hit on as a problem was—to findAnalogy between a scrag of mutton and a Bony-part,Which offers slight employment to the speculative mind.For you cannot call it very good, however great your charity—It's not the sort of humour that is greeted with a shout—And I've come to the conclusion that my mine of jocularity,In present Anno Domini is worked completely out!Though the notion you may scout,I can prove beyond a doubtThat my mine of jocularity is worked completely out!
W. S. Gilbert.
Oh, what a fund of joy jocund lies hid in harmless hoaxes!
What keen enjoyment springs
From cheap and simple things!
What deep delight from sources trite inventive humour coaxes,
That pain and trouble brew
For every one but you!
Gunpowder placed inside its waist improves a mild Havana,
Its unexpected flash
Burns eyebrows and moustache.
When people dine no kind of wine beats ipecacuanha,
But common sense suggests
You keep it for your guests—
Then naught annoys the organ boys like throwing red hot coppers.
And much amusement bides
In common butter slides;
And stringy snares across the stairs cause unexpected croppers.
Coal scuttles, recollect,
Produce the same effect.
A man possessed
Of common sense
Need not invest
At great expense—
It does not call
For pocket deep,
These jokes are all
Extremely cheap.
If you commence with eighteenpence—it's all you'll have to pay;
You may command a pleasant and a most instructive day.
A good spring gun breeds endless fun, and makes men jump like rockets—
And turnip heads on posts
Make very decent ghosts.
Then hornets sting like anything, when placed in waistcoat pockets—
Burnt cork and walnut juice
Are not without their use.
No fun compares with easy chairs whose seats are stuffed with needles—
Live shrimps their patience tax
When put down people's backs.
Surprising, too, what one can do with a pint of fat black beetles—
And treacle on a chair
Will make a Quaker swear!
Then sharp tin tacks
And pocket squirts—
And cobbler's wax
For ladies' skirts—
And slimy slugs
On bedroom floors—
And water jugs
On open doors—
Prepared with these cheap properties, amusing tricks to play
Upon a friend a man may spend a most delightful day.
W. S. Gilbert.
"Gentle, modest little flower,Sweet epitome of May,Love me but for half an hour,Love me, love me, little fay."Sentences so fiercely flamingIn your tiny, shell-like ear,I should always be exclaimingIf I loved you, Phœbe dear."Smiles that thrill from any distanceShed upon me while I sing!Please ecstaticize existence,Love me, oh, thou fairy thing!"Words like these, outpouring sadly,You'd perpetually hear,If I loved you fondly, madly;—But I do not, Phœbe dear.
W. S. Gilbert.
Malbrouck, the prince of commanders,Is gone to the war in Flanders;His fame is like Alexander's;But when will he come home?Perhaps at Trinity Feast, orPerhaps he may come at Easter.Egad! he had better make haste, orWe fear he may never come.For Trinity Feast is over,And has brought no news from Dover;And Easter is past, moreover,And Malbrouck still delays.Milady in her watch-towerSpends many a pensive hour,Not well knowing why or how herDear lord from England stays.While sitting quite forlorn inThat tower, she spies returningA page clad in deep mourning,With fainting steps and slow."O page, prithee, come faster!What news do you bring of your master?I fear there is some disaster,Your looks are so full of woe.""The news I bring, fair lady,"With sorrowful accent said he,"Is one you are not readySo soon, alas! to hear."But since to speak I'm hurried,"Added this page, quite flurried,"Malbrouck is dead and buried!"(And here he shed a tear.)"He's dead! he's dead as a herring!For I beheld his 'berring,'And four officers transferringHis corpse away from the field."One officer carried his sabre,And he carried it not without labour,Much envying his next neighbour,Who only bore a shield."The third was helmet-bearer—That helmet which on its wearerFilled all who saw with terror,And covered a hero's brains."Now, having got so far, IFind that (by the Lord Harry!)The fourth is left nothing to carry;So there the thing remains."
Well I recall how first I metMark Twain—an infant barely threeRolling a tiny cigaretteWhile cooing on his nurse's knee.Since then in every sort of placeI've met with Mark and heard him joke,Yet how can I describe his face?I never saw it for the smoke.At school he won asmokership,At Harvard College (Cambridge, Mass.)His name was soon on every lip,They made him "smoker" of his class.Who will forget his smoking boutWith Mount Vesuvius—our cheers—When Mount Vesuvius went outAnd didn't smoke again for years?The news was flashed to England's King,Who begged Mark Twain to come and stay,Offered him dukedoms—anythingTo smoke the London fog away.But Mark was firm. "I bow," said he,"To no imperial command,No ducal coronet for me,My smoke is for my native land!"For Mark there waits a brighter crown!When Peter comes his card to read—He'll take the sign "No Smoking" down,Then Heaven will be Heaven indeed.
Oliver Herford.
In days of peace my fellow-menRightly regarded me as more likeA Bishop than a Major-Gen.,And nothing since has made me warlike;But when this age-long struggle endsAnd I have seen the Allies dish upThe goose of Hindenburg—oh, friends!I shall out-bish the mildest Bishop.When the War is over and the Kaiser's out of printI'm going to buy some tortoises and watch the beggars sprint;When the War is over and the sword at last we sheatheI'm going to keep a jelly-fish and listen to it breathe.I never really longed for gore,And any taste for red corpusclesThat lingered with me left beforeThe German troops had entered Brussels.In early days the Colonel's "'Shun!"Froze me; and as the war grew olderThe noise of some one else's gunLeft me considerably colder.When the War is over and the battle has been wonI'm going to buy a barnacle and take it for a run;When the War is over and the German fleet we sinkI'm going to keep a silkworm's egg and listen to it think.The Captains and the Kings depart—It may be so, but not lieutenants;Dawn after weary dawn I startThe never ending round of penance;One rock amid the welter standsOn which my gaze is fixed intently:An after-life in quiet landsLived very lazily and gently.When the War is over and we've done the Belgians proudI'm going to keep a chrysalis and read to it aloud;When the War is over and we've finished up the showI'm going to plant a lemon pip and listen to it grow.Oh, I'm tired of the noise and turmoil of battle,And I'm even upset by the lowing of cattle,And the clang of the bluebells is death to my liver,And the roar of the dandelion gives me a shiver,And a glacier, in movement, is much too exciting,And I'm nervous, when standing on one, of alighting—Give me Peace; that is all, that is all that I seek....Say, starting on Saturday week.
A. A. Milne.
I have felt the thrill of passion in the poet's mystic bookAnd I've lingered in delight to catch the rhythm of the brook;I've felt the ecstasy that comes when prima donnas reachFor upper C and hold it in a long, melodious screech.And yet the charm of all these blissful memories fades awayAs I think upon the fortune that befell the other day,As I bring to recollection, with a joyous, wistful sigh,That I woke and felt the need of extra covers in July.Oh, eerie hour of drowsiness—'twas like a fairy spell,That respite from the terrors we have known, alas, so well,The malevolent mosquito, with a limp and idle bill,Hung supinely from the ceiling, all exhausted by his chill.And the early morning sunbeam lost his customary leerAnd brought a gracious greeting and a prophecy of cheer;A generous affability reached up from earth to sky,When I woke and felt the need of extra covers in July.In every life there comes a time of happiness supreme,When joy becomes reality and not a glittering dream.'Tis less appreciated, but it's worth a great deal moreThan tides which taken at their flood lead on to fortune's shore.How vain is Art's illusion, and how potent Nature's swayWhen once in kindly mood she deigns to waft our woes away!And the memory will cheer me, though all other pleasures fly,Of how I woke and needed extra covers in July.
Unknown.
When that old joke was new,It was not hard to joke,And puns we now pooh-pooh,Great laughter would provoke.True wit was seldom heard,And humor shown by few,When reign'd King George the Third,And that old joke was new.It passed indeed for wit,Did this achievement rare,When down your friend would sit,To steal away his chair.You brought him to the floor,You bruised him black and blue,And this would cause a roar,When your old joke was new.
W. M. Thackeray.
When moonlike ore the hazure seasIn soft effulgence swells,When silver jews and balmy breazeBend down the Lily's bells;When calm and deap, the rosy sleapHas lapt your soal in dreems,R Hangeline! R lady mine!Dost thou remember Jeames?I mark thee in the Marble all,Where England's loveliest shine—I say the fairest of them hallIs Lady Hangeline.My soul, in desolate eclipse,With recollection teems—And then I hask, with weeping lips,Dost thou remember Jeames?Away! I may not tell thee hallThis soughring heart endures—There is a lonely sperrit-callThat Sorrow never cures;There is a little, little Star,That still above me beams;It is the Star of Hope—but ar!Dost thou remember Jeames?
W. M. Thackeray.
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock,And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin' turkey-cock,And the clackin' of the guineys, and the cluckin' of the hens,And the rooster's hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence;O it's then's the times a feller is a-feelin' at his best,With the risin' sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest,As he leaves the house, bare-headed, and goes out to feed the stock,When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.They's something kindo' hearty-like about the atmosphere,When the heat of summer's over and the coolin' fall is here—Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossoms on the trees,And the mumble of the hummin'-birds and buzzin' of the bees;But the air's so appetisin'; and the landscape through the hazeOf a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn daysIs a pictur that no painter has the colorin' to mock—When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.The husky, rusty rustle of the tossels of the corn,And the raspin' of the tangled leaves, as golden as the morn;The stubble in the furries—kindo' lonesome-like, but stillA-preachin' sermons to us of the barns they growed to fill;The strawstack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed;The hosses in theyr stalls below—the clover overhead!—O, it sets my heart a-clickin' like the tickin' of a clock,When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock!
James Whitcomb Riley.
There be two men of all mankindThat I should like to know about;But search and question where I will,I cannot ever find them out.Melchizedek he praised the Lord,And gave some wine to Abraham;But who can tell what else he didMust be more learned than I am.Ucalegon he lost his houseWhen Agamemnon came to Troy;But who can tell me who he was—I'll pray the gods to give him joy.There be two men of all mankindThat I'm forever thinking on;They chase me everywhere I go,—Melchizedek, Ucalegon.
Edwin Arlington Robinson.
Yes, write if you want to—there's nothing like trying;Who knows what a treasure your casket may hold?I'll show you that rhyming's as easy as lying,If you'll listen to me while the art I unfold.Here's a book full of words: one can choose as he fancies,As a painter his tint, as a workman his tool;Just think! all the poems and plays and romancesWere drawn out of this, like the fish from a pool!You can wander at will through its syllabled mazes,And take all you want—not a copper they cost;What is there to hinder your picking out phrasesFor an epic as clever as "Paradise Lost"?Don't mind if the index of sense is at zero;Use words that run smoothly, whatever they mean;Leander and Lillian and LillibulleroAre much the same thing in the rhyming machine.There are words so delicious their sweetness will smotherThat boarding-school flavour of which we're afraid;There is "lush" is a good one and "swirl" is another;Put both in one stanza, its fortune is made.With musical murmurs and rhythmical closesYou can cheat us of smiles when you've nothing to tell;You hand us a nosegay of milliner's roses,And we cry with delight, "Oh, how sweet they do smell!"Perhaps you will answer all needful conditionsFor winning the laurels to which you aspire,By docking the tails of the two prepositionsI' the style o' the bards you so greatly admire.As for subjects of verse, they are only too plentyFor ringing the changes on metrical chimes;A maiden, a moonbeam, a lover of twenty,Have filled that great basket with bushels of rhymes.Let me show you a picture—'tis far from irrelevant—By a famous old hand in the arts of design;'Tis only a photographed sketch of an elephant;The name of the draughtsman was Rembrandt of Rhine.How easy! no troublesome colours to lay on;It can't have fatigued him, no, not in the least;A dash here and there with a haphazard crayon,And there stands the wrinkled-skinned, baggy-limbed beast.Just so with your verse—'tis as easy as sketching;You can reel off a song without knitting your brow,As lightly as Rembrandt a drawing or etching;It is nothing at all, if you only know how.Well, imagine you've printed your volume of verses;Your forehead is wreathed with the garland of fame;Your poem the eloquent school-boy rehearses;Her album the school-girl presents for your name.Each morning the post brings you autograph letters;You'll answer them promptly—an hour isn't muchFor the honour of sharing a page with your betters,With magistrates, members of Congress, and such.Of course you're delighted to serve the committeesThat come with requests from the country all round;You would grace the occasion with poems and dittiesWhen they've got a new school-house, or poor-house, or pound.With a hymn for the saints, and a song for the sinners,You go and are welcome wherever you please;You're a privileged guest at all manner of dinners;You've a seat on the platform among the grandees.At length your mere presence becomes a sensation;Your cup of enjoyment is filled to its brimWith the pleasure Horatian of digitmonstration,As the whisper runs round of "That's he!" or "That's him!"But, remember, O dealer in phrases sonorous,So daintily chosen, so tunefully matched,Though you soar with the wings of the cherubim o'er us,The ovum was human from which you were hatched.No will of your own, with its puny compulsion,Can summon the spirit that quickens the lyre;It comes, if at all, like the sibyl's convulsion,And touches the brain with a finger of fire.So, perhaps, after all, it's as well to be quiet,If you've nothing you think is worth saying in prose,As to furnish a meal of their cannibal dietTo the critics, by publishing, as you propose.But it's all of no use, and I'm sorry I've written;I shall see your thin volume some day on my shelf;For the rhyming tarantula surely has bitten,And music must cure you, so pipe it yourself.
Oliver Wendell Holmes.
I wrote some lines once on a timeIn wondrous merry mood,And thought, as usual, men would sayThey were exceeding good.They were so queer, so very queer,I laughed as I would die;Albeit, in the general way,A sober man am I.I called my servant, and he came;How kind it was of him,To mind a slender man like me,He of the mighty limb!"These to the printer," I exclaimed,And, in my humorous way,I added (as a trifling jest),"There'll be the devil to pay."He took the paper, and I watched,And saw him peep within;At the first line he read, his faceWas all upon a grin.He read the next, the grin grew broad,And shot from ear to ear;He read the third, a chuckling noiseI now began to hear.The fourth, he broke into a roar;The fifth, his waistband split;The sixth, he burst five buttons off,And tumbled in a fit.Ten days and nights, with sleepless eye,I watched that wretched man,And since, I never dare to writeAs funny as I can.
Oliver Wendell Holmes.
I
I have a bookcase, which is whatMany much better men have not.There are no books inside, for books,I am afraid, might spoil its looks.But I've three busts, all second-hand,Upon the top. You understandI could not put them underneath—Shake, Mulleary and Go-ethe.
II
Shake was a dramatist of note;He lived by writing things to quote,He long ago put on his shroud:Some of his works are rather loud.His bald-spot's dusty, I suppose.I know there's dust upon his nose.I'll have to give each nose a sheath—Shake, Mulleary and Go-ethe.
III
Mulleary's line was quite the same;He has more hair, but far less fame.I would not from that fame retrench—But he is foreign, being French.Yet high his haughty head he heaves,The only one done up in leaves,They're rather limited on wreath—Shake, Mulleary and Go-ethe.
IV
Go-ethe wrote in the German tongue:He must have learned it very young.His nose is quite a butt for scoff,Although an inch of it is off.He did quite nicely for the Dutch;But here he doesn't count for much.They all are off their native heath—Shake, Mulleary and Go-ethe.
V
They sit there, on their chests, as blandAs if they were not second-hand.I do not know of what they think,Nor why they never frown or wink,But why from smiling they refrainI think I clearly can explain:They none of them could show much teeth—Shake, Mulleary and Go-ethe.
H. C. Bunner.
Man is for woman made,And woman made for man:As the spur is for the jade,As the scabbard for the blade,As for liquor is the can,So man's for woman made,And woman made for man.As the sceptre to be sway'd,As to night the serenade,As for pudding is the pan,As to cool us is the fan,So man's for woman made,And woman made for man.Be she widow, wife, or maid,Be she wanton, be she staid,Be she well or ill array'd,So man's for woman made,And woman made for man.
Peter A. Motteux.
The prospect is bare and white,And the air is crisp and chill;While the ebon wings of nightAre spread on the distant hill.The roar of the stormy seaSeem the dirges shrill and sharpThat winter plays on the tree—His wild Æolian harp.In the pool that darkly creepsIn ripples before the gale,A star like a lily sleepsAnd wiggles its silver tail.
R. K. Munkittrick.
My dear young friend, whose shining witSets all the room a-blaze,Don't think yourself a "happy dog,"For all your merry ways;But learn to wear a sober phiz,Be stupid, if you can,It's such a very serious thingTo be a funny man!You're at an evening party, withA group of pleasant folks,—You venture quietly to crackThe least of little jokes,—A lady doesn't catch the point,And begs you to explain—Alas for one that drops a jestAnd takes it up again!You're talking deep philosophyWith very special force,To edify a clergymanWith suitable discourse,—You think you've got him—when he callsA friend across the way,And begs you'll say that funny thingYou said the other day!You drop a prettyjeu-de-motInto a neighbor's ears,Who likes to give you credit forThe clever thing he hears,And so he hawks your jest about,The old authentic one,Just breaking off the point of it,And leaving out the pun!By sudden change in politics,Or sadder change in Polly,You, lose your love, or loaves, and fallA prey to melancholy,While everybody marvels whyYour mirth is under ban,—They think your very grief "a joke,"You're such a funny man!You follow up a stylish cardThat bids you come and dine,And bring along your freshest wit(To pay for musty wine),You're looking very dismal, whenMy lady bounces in,And wonders what you're thinking ofAnd why you don't begin!You're telling to a knot of friendsA fancy-tale of woesThat cloud your matrimonial sky,And banish all repose—A solemn lady overhearsThe story of your strife,And tells the town the pleasant news:You quarrel with your wife!My dear young friend, whose shining witSets all the room a-blaze,Don't think yourself "a happy dog,"For all your merry ways;But learn to wear a sober phiz,Be stupid, if you can,It's such a very serious thingTo be a funny man!
John G. Saxe.
"God bless the man who first invented sleep!"So Sancho Panza said, and so say I:And bless him, also, that he didn't keepHis great discovery to himself; nor tryTo make it—as the lucky fellow might—A close monopoly by patent-right!Yes—bless the man who first invented sleep,(I really can't avoid the iteration;)But blast the man, with curses loud and deep,Whate'er the rascal's name, or age, or station,Who first invented, and went round advising,That artificial cut-off—Early Rising!"Rise with the lark, and with the lark to bed,"Observes some solemn, sentimental owl;Maxims like these are very cheaply said;But, ere you make yourself a fool or fowl,Pray just inquire about his rise and fall,And whether larks have any beds at all!The time for honest folks to be a-bedIs in the morning, if I reason right;And he who cannot keep his precious headUpon his pillow till it's fairly light,And so enjoy his forty morning winks,Is up to knavery; or else—he drinks!Thompson, who sung about the "Seasons," saidIt was a glorious thing torisein season;But then he said it—lying—in his bed,At ten o'clockA.M.,—the very reasonHe wrote so charmingly. The simple fact isHis preaching wasn't sanctioned by his practice.'Tis, doubtless, well to be sometimes awake,—Awake to duty, and awake to truth,—But when, alas! a nice review we takeOf our best deeds and days, we find, in sooth,The hours that leave the slightest cause to weepAre those we passed in childhood or asleep!'Tis beautiful to leave the world awhileFor the soft visions of the gentle night;And free, at last, from mortal care or guile,To live as only in the angel's sight,In sleep's sweet realm so cosily shut in,Where, at the worst, we onlydreamof sin!So let us sleep, and give the Maker praise.I like the lad who, when his father thoughtTo clip his morning nap by hackneyed phraseOf vagrant worm by early songster caught,Cried, "Served him right!—it's not at all surprising;The worm was punished, sir, for early rising!"
John G. Saxe.
"Speak, O man less recent!Fragmentary fossil!Primal pioneer of pliocene formation,Hid in lowest drifts below the earliest stratumOf volcanic tufa!"Older than the beasts, the oldest Palæotherium;Older than the trees, the oldest Cryptogami;Older than the hills, those infantile eruptionsOf earth's epidermis!"Eo—Mio—Plio—whatsoe'er the 'cene' wasThat those vacant sockets filled with awe and wonder,—Whether shores Devonian or Silurian beaches,—Tell us thy strange story!"Or has the professor slightly antedatedBy some thousand years thy advent on this planet,Giving thee an air that's somewhat better fittedFor cold-blooded creatures?"Wert thou true spectator of that mighty forestWhen above thy head the stately SigillariaReared its columned trunks in that remote and distantCarboniferous epoch?"Tell us of that scene—the dim and watery woodland,Songless, silent, hushed, with never bird or insect,Veiled with spreading fronds and screened with tall club-mosses,Lycopodiacea,—"When beside thee walked the solemn Plesiosaurus,And all around thee crept the festive Ichthyosaurus,While from time to time above thee flew and circledCheerful Pterodactyls;—"Tell us of thy food,—those half-marine refections,Crinoids on the shell, and Brachipodsau naturel,—Cuttle-fish to which thepieuvreof Victor HugoSeems a periwinkle."Speak, thou awful vestige of the Earth's creation—Solitary fragment of remains organic!Tell the wondrous secret of thy past existence—Speak! thou oldest primate!"Even as I gazed, a thrill of the maxilla,And a lateral movement of the condyloid process,With post-pliocene sounds of healthy mastication,Ground the teeth together.And, from that imperfect dental exhibition,Stained with expressed juices of the weed Nicotian,Came these hollow accents, blent with softer murmursOf expectoration:"Which my name is Bowers, and my crust was bustedFalling down a shaft in Calaveras county,But I'd take it kindly if you'd send the piecesHome to old Missouri!"
Bret Harte.
Oh, would that working I might shun,From labour my connection sever,That I might do a bit—or noneWhatever!That I might wander over hills,Establish friendship with a daisy,O'er pretty things like daffodilsGo crazy!That I might at the heavens gaze,Concern myself with nothing weighty,Loaf, at a stretch, for seven days—Or eighty.Why can't I cease a slave to be,And taste existence beatificOn some fair island, hid in thePacific?Instead of sitting at a desk'Mid undone labours, grimly lurking—Oh, say, what is there picturesqueIn working?But no!—to loaf were misery!—I love to work! Hang isles of coral!(To end this otherwise would beImmoral!)
Thomas R. Ybarra.
If I go to see the play,Of the story I am certain;Promptly it gets under wayWith the lifting of the curtain.Builded all that's said and doneOn the ancient recipe—'Tis the same old Two and One:A and B in love with C.If I read the latest book,There's the mossy situation;One may confidently lookFor the trite triangulation.Old as time, but ever new,Seemingly, this tale of Three—Same old yarn of One and Two:A and C in love with B.If I cast my eyes around,Far and near and middle distance,Still the formula is foundIn our everyday existence.Everywhere I look I see—Fact or fiction, life or play—Still the little game of Three:B and C in love with A.While the ancient law fulfills,Myriad moons shall wane and wax.Jack must have his pair of Jills,Jill must have her pair of Jacks.
Bert Leston Taylor.
My temples throb, my pulses boil,I'm sick of Song and Ode and Ballad—So Thyrsis, take the midnight oil,And pour it on a lobster salad.My brain is dull, my sight is foul,I cannot write a verse, or read—Then Pallas, take away thine Owl,And let us have a Lark instead.
Thomas Hood.
Out rode from his wild, dark castleThe terrible Heinz von Stein;He came to the door of a tavernAnd gazed on its swinging sign.He sat himself down at a table,And growled for a bottle of wine;Up came with a flask and a corkscrewA maiden of beauty divine.Then, seized with a deep love-longing,He uttered, "O damosel mine,Suppose you just give a few kissesTo the valorous Ritter von Stein!"But she answered, "The kissing businessIs entirely out of my line;And I certainly will not begin itOn a countenance ugly as thine!"Oh, then the bold knight was angry,And cursed both coarse and fine;And asked, "How much is the swindleFor your sour and nasty wine?"And fiercely he rode to the castleAnd sat himself down to dine;And this is the dreadful legendOf the terrible Heinz von Stein.
Charles Godfrey Leland.
It is very aggravatingTo hear the solemn pratingOf the fossils who are statingThat old Horace was a prude;When we know that with the ladiesHe was always raising Hades,And with many an escapade hisBest productions are imbued.There's really not much harm in aLarge number of his carmina,But these people find alarm in aFew records of his acts;So they'd squelch the muse caloric,And to students sophomoricThey'd present as metaphoricWhat old Horace meant for facts.We have always thought 'em lazy;Now we adjudge 'em crazy!Why, Horace was a daisyThat was very much alive!And the wisest of us know himAs his Lydia verses show him,—Go, read that virile poem,—It is No. 25.He was a very owl, sir,And starting out to prowl, sir,You bet he made Rome howl, sir,Until he filled his date;With a massic-laden dittyAnd a classic maiden pretty,He painted up the city,And Mæcenas paid the freight!
Eugene Field.
Celestine Silvousplait Justine de Mouton Rosalie,A coryphée who lived and danced in naughty, gay Paree,Was every bit as pretty as a French girl e'er can be(Which isn't saying much).Maurice Boulanger (there's a name that would adorn a king),But Morris Baker was the name they called the man I sing.He lived in New York City in the Street that's labeled Spring(Chosen because it rhymed).Now Baker was a lonesome youth and wanted to be wed,And for a wife, all over town he hunted, it is said;And up and down Fifth Avenue he ofttimes wanderéd(He was a peripatetic Baker, he was).And had he met Celestine, not a doubt but Cupid's dartsWould in a trice have wounded both of their fond, loving hearts;But he has never left New York to stray in foreign parts(Because he hasn't the price).And she has never left Paree and so, of course, you seeThere's not the slightest chance at all she'll marry Morris B.For love to get well started, really needs propinquity(Hence my title).
Charles Battell Loomis.
Sam Brown was a fellow from way down East,Who never was "staggered" in the least.No tale of marvellous beast or birdCould match the stories he had heard;No curious place or wondrous view"Was ekil to Podunk, I tell yu."If they told him of Italy's sunny clime,"Maine kin beat it, every time!"If they marvelled at Ætna's fount of fire,They roused his ire:With an injured airHe'd reply, "I swearI don't think much of a smokin' hill;We've got a moderate little rillKin make yer old volcaner still;Jes' pour old Kennebec down the crater,'N' I guess it'll cool her fiery nater!"They showed him a room where a queen had slept;"'Twan't up to the tavern daddy kept."They showed him Lucerne; but he had drunkFrom the beautiful Molechunkamunk.They took him at last to ancient Rome,And inveigled him into a catacomb:Here they plied him with draughts of wine,Though he vowed old cider was twice as fine,Till the fumes of Falernian filled his head,And he slept as sound as the silent dead;They removed a mummy to make him room,And laid him at length in the rocky tomb.They piled old skeletons round the stone,Set a "dip" in a candlestick of bone,And left him to slumber there alone;Then watched from a distance the taper's gleam,Waiting to jeer at his frightened scream,When he should wake from his drunken dream.After a time the Yankee woke,But instantly saw through the flimsy joke;So never a cry or shout he uttered,But solemnly rose, and slowly muttered:"I see how it is. It's the judgment day,We've all been dead and stowed away;All these stone furreners sleepin' yet,An' I'm the fust one up, you bet!Can't none o' you Romans start, I wonder?United States ahead, by thunder!"
Harlan Hoge Ballard.
Alone I sit at eventide;The twilight glory pales,And o'er the meadows far and wideI hear the bobolinks—(We have no nightingales!)Song-sparrows warble on the tree,I hear the purling brook,And from the old manse on the leaFlies slow the cawing crow—(In England 'twere a rook!)The last faint golden beams of dayStill glow on cottage panes,And on their lingering homeward wayWalk weary laboring men—(Alas! we have no swains!)From farmyards, down fair rural gladesCome sounds of tinkling bells,And songs of merry brown milkmaidsSweeter than catbird's strains—(I should say Philomel's!)I could sit here till morning came,All through the night hours dark,Until I saw the sun's bright flameAnd heard the oriole—(Alas! we have no lark!)We have no leas, no larks, no rooks,No swains, no nightingales,No singing milkmaids (save in books)The poet does his best:—It is the rhyme that fails.
Nathan Haskell Dole.
"The proper way for a man to pray,"Said Deacon Lemuel Keyes,"And the only proper attitudeIs down upon his knees.""No, I should say the way to pray,"Said Rev. Doctor Wise,"Is standing straight with outstretched armsAnd rapt and upturned eyes.""Oh, no; no, no," said Elder Slow,"Such posture is too proud:A man should pray with eyes fast closedAnd head contritely bowed.""It seems to me his hands should beAusterely clasped in front.With both thumbs pointing toward the ground,"Said Rev. Doctor Blunt."Las' year I fell in Hodgkin's wellHead first," said Cyrus Brown,"With both my heels a-stickin' up,My head a-pinting down;"An' I made a prayer right then an' there—Best prayer I ever said,The prayingest prayer I ever prayed,A-standing on my head."
Sam Walter Foss.