[Spoken in the character of Nancy Lake, a girl eight years of age, who is drawn upon the stage in a child's chaise by Samuel Hughes, her uncle's porter.]
[Spoken in the character of Nancy Lake, a girl eight years of age, who is drawn upon the stage in a child's chaise by Samuel Hughes, her uncle's porter.]
My brother Jack was nine in May,And I was eight on New-year's-day;So in Kate Wilson's shopPapa (he's my papa and Jack's)Bought me, last week, a doll of wax,And brother Jack a top.Jack's in the pouts, and this it is—He thinks mine came to more than his;So to my drawer he goes,Takes out the doll, and, O, my stars!He pokes her head between the bars,And melts off half her nose!Quite cross, a bit of string I beg,And tie it to his peg-top's peg,And bang, with might and main,Its head against the parlor-door:Off flies the head, and hits the floor,And breaks a window-pane.This made him cry with rage and spite:Well, let him cry, it serves him right.A pretty thing, forsooth!If he's to melt, all scalding hot,Half my doll's nose, and I am notTo draw his peg-top's tooth!Aunt Hannah heard the window break,And cried, "O naughty Nancy Lake,Thus to distress your aunt:No Drury Lane for you to-day!"And while papa said, "Pooh, she may!"Mamma said, "No, she sha'n't!"Well, after many a sad reproach,They got into a hackney-coach,And trotted down the street.I saw them go: one horse was blind,The tails of both hung down behind,Their shoes were on their feet.The chaise in which poor brother BillUsed to be drawn to Pentonville,Stood in the lumber-room:I wiped the dust from off the top,While Molly mopped it with a mop,And brushed it with a broom.My uncle's porter, Samuel Hughes,Came in at six to black the shoes,(I always talk to Sam:)So what does he, but takes, and dragsMe in the chaise along the flags,And leaves me where I am.My father's walls are made of brick,But not so tall and not so thickAs these; and, goodness me!My father's beams are made of wood,But never, never half so goodAs those that now I see.What a large floor! 'tis like a town!The carpet, when they lay it down,Won't hide it, I'll be bound;And there's a row of lamps!—my eye!How they do blaze! I wonder whyThey keep them on the ground.At first I caught hold of the wing,And kept away; but Mr. Thing-umbob, the prompter man,Gave with his hand my chaise a shove,And said, "Go on, my pretty love;Speak to 'em little Nan."You've only got to curtsy, whisp-er, hold your chin up, laugh and lisp,And then you're sure to take:I've known the day when brats, not quiteThirteen, got fifty pounds a night;Then why not Nancy Lake?"But while I'm speaking, where's papa?And where's my aunt? and where's mamma?Where's Jack? O there they sit!They smile, they nod; I'll go my ways,And order round poor Billy's chaise,To join them in the pit.And now, good gentlefolks, I goTo join mamma, and see the show;So, bidding you adieu,I curtsy like a pretty miss,And if you'll blow to me a kiss,I'll blow a kiss to you.[Blows a kiss, and exit.]
James Smith.
[1]"The author does not, in this instance, attempt to copy any of the higher attributes of Mr. Wordsworth's poetry; but has succeeded perfectly in the imitation of his mawkish affectations of childish simplicity and nursery stammering. We hope it will make him ashamed of hisAlice Fell, and the greater part of his last volumes—of which it is by no means a parody, but a very fair, and indeed we think a flattering, imitation."—Edinburg Review.
[1]"The author does not, in this instance, attempt to copy any of the higher attributes of Mr. Wordsworth's poetry; but has succeeded perfectly in the imitation of his mawkish affectations of childish simplicity and nursery stammering. We hope it will make him ashamed of hisAlice Fell, and the greater part of his last volumes—of which it is by no means a parody, but a very fair, and indeed we think a flattering, imitation."—Edinburg Review.
Side by side in the crowded streets,Amid its ebb and flow,We walked together one autumn morn;('Twas many years ago!)The markets blushed with fruits and flowers;(Both Memory and Hope!)You stopped and bought me at the stall,A spicy cantelope.We drained together its honeyed wine,We cast the seeds away;I slipped and fell on the moony rinds,And you took me home on a dray!The honeyed wine of your love is drained;I limp from the fall I had;The snow-flakes muffle the empty stall,And everything is sad.The sky is an inkstand, upside down,It splashes the world with gloom;The earth is full of skeleton bones,And the sea is a wobbling tomb!
Bayard Taylor.
A young man once was sittingWithin a swell café,The music it was playing sweet—The people was quite gay.But he alone was silent,A tear was in his eye—A waitress she stepped up to him, andAsked him gently why.
(Change to Minor)
He turned to her in sorrow andAt first he spoke no word,But soon he spoke unto her, forShe was an honest girl.He rose up from the tableIn that elegant café,And in a voice replete with tearsTo her he then did say:
CHORUS
Never forget your father,Think all he done for you;A mother is a boy's best friend,So loving, kind, and true,If it were not for them, I'm sureI might be quite forlorn;And if your parents had not have livedYou would not have been born.A hush fell on the laughing throng,It made them feel quite bad,For most of them was people, andSome parents they had had.Both men and ladies did shed tears.The music it did cease,For all knew he had spoke the truthBy looking at his face.
(Change to Minor)
The waitress she wept bitterlyAnd others was in tearsIt made them think of the old homeThey had not saw in years.And while their hearts was heavy andTheir eyes they was quite red.This brave and honest boy againTo them these words he said:
CHORUS
Never forget your father,Think all he done for you;A mother is a boy's best friend,So loving, kind, and true,If it were not for them, I'm sureI might be quite forlorn;And if your parents had not have livedYou would not have been born.
Franklin P. Adams.
Matilda Maud Mackenzie frankly hadn't any chin,Her hands were rough, her feet she turned invariably in;Her general form was German,By which I mean that youHer waist could not determineWithin a foot or two.And not only did she stammer,But she used the kind of grammarThat is called, for sake of euphony, askew.From what I say about her, don't imagine I desireA prejudice against this worthy creature to inspire.She was willing, she was active,She was sober, she was kind,But sheneverlooked attractiveAnd shehadn'tany mind.I knew her more than slightly,And I treated her politelyWhen I met her, but of course I wasn't blind!Matilda Maud Mackenzie had a habit that was droll,She spent her morning seated on a rock or on a knoll,And threw with, much, composureA smallish rubber ballAt an inoffensive osierBy a little waterfall;But Matilda's way of throwingWas like other people's mowing,And she never hit the willow-tree at all!One day as Miss Mackenzie with uncommon ardour triedTo hit the mark, the missile flew exceptionally wide.And, before her eyes astounded,On a fallen maple's trunkRicochetted and reboundedIn the rivulet, and sunk!Matilda, greatly frightened,In her grammar unenlightened,Remarked, "Well now I ast yer, who'd 'er thunk?"But what a marvel followed! From the pool at once there roseA frog, the sphere of rubber balanced deftly on his nose.He beheld her fright and frenzyAnd, her panic to dispel,On his knee by Miss MackenzieHe obsequiously fell.With quite as much decorumAs a speaker in a forumHe started in his history to tell."Fair maid," he said, "I beg you do not hesitate or wince,If you'll promise that you'll wed me, I'll at once become a prince;For a fairy, old and vicious,An enchantment round me spun!"Then he looked up, unsuspicious,And he saw what he had won,And in terms of sad reproach, heMade some comments,sotto voce,(Which the publishers have bidden me to shun!)Matilda Maud Mackenzie said, as if she meant to scold;"Inever! Why, you forward thing! Now, ain't you awful bold!"Just a glance he paused to give her,And his head was seen to clutch,Then he darted to the river,And he dived to beat the Dutch!While the wrathful maiden panted"I don't think he was enchanted!"(And he really didn't look it overmuch!)
THE MORAL
In one's language one conservative should be;Speech is silver and it never should be free!
Guy Wetmore Carryl.
(Being the Plaint of Adolphe Culpepper Ferguson, Salesman of Fancy Notions, held in durance of his Landlady for a failure to connect on Saturday night.)
I
I would that all men my hard case might know;How grievously I suffer for no sin:I, Adolphe Culpepper Ferguson, for lo!I, of my landlady am lockèd in.For being short on this sad Saturday,Nor having shekels of silver wherewith to pay,She has turned and is departed with my key;Wherefore, not even as other boarders free,I sing (as prisoners to their dungeon stonesWhen for ten days they expiate a spree):Behold the deeds that are done of Mrs. Jones!
II
One night and one day have I wept my woe;Nor wot I when the morrow doth begin,If I shall have to write to Briggs & Co.,To pray them to advance the requisite tinFor ransom of their salesman, that he mayGo forth as other boarders go alway—As those I hear now flocking from their tea,Led by the daughter of my landladyPianoward. This day for all my moans,Dry bread and water have been servèd me.Behold the deeds that are done of Mrs. Jones!
III
Miss Amabel Jones is musical, and soThe heart of the young he-boarder doth win,Playing "The Maiden's Prayer," adagio—That fetcheth him, as fetcheth the banco skinThe innocent rustic. For my part, I pray:That Badarjewska maid may wait for ayeEre sits she with a lover, as did weOnce sit together, Amabel! Can it beThat all of that arduous wooing not atonesFor Saturday shortness of trade dollars three?Behold the deeds that are done of Mrs. Jones!
IV
Yea! she forgets the arm was wont to goAround her waist. She wears a buckle whose pinGalleth the crook of the young man's elbow;I forget not, for I that youth have been.Smith was aforetime the Lothario gay.Yet once, I mind me, Smith was forced to stayClose in his room. Not calm, as I, was he;But his noise brought no pleasaunce, verily.Small ease he gat of playing on the bones,Or hammering on his stove-pipe, that I see.Behold the deeds that are done of Mrs. Jones!
V
Thou, for whose fear the figurative crowI eat, accursed be thou and all thy kin!Thee will I show up—yea, up will I showThy too thick buckwheats, and thy tea too thin.Ay! here I dare thee, ready for the fray!Thou dost not keep a first-class house, I say!It does not with the advertisements agree.Thou lodgest a Briton with a pugaree,And thou hast harbored Jacobses and Cohns,Also a Mulligan. Thus denounce I thee!Behold the deeds that are done of Mrs. Jones!
ENVOY
Boarders! the worst I have not told to ye:She hath stole my trousers, that I may not fleePrivily by the window. Hence these groans,There is no fleeing in arobe de nuit.Behold the deeds that are done of Mrs. Jones!
H. C. Bunner.
"Tout aux tavernes et aux fiells"
Suppose you screeve? or go cheap-jack?Or fake the broads? or fig a nag?Or thimble-rig? or knap a yack?Or pitch a snide? or smash a rag?Suppose you duff? or nose and lag?Or get the straight, and land your pot?How do you melt the multy swag?Booze and the blowens cop the lot.Fiddle, or fence, or mace, or mack;Or moskeneer, or flash the drag;Dead-lurk a crib, or do a crack;Pad with a slang, or chuck a fag;Bonnet, or tout, or mump and gag;Rattle the tats, or mark the spot;You cannot bag a single stag;Booze and the blowens cop the lot.Suppose you try a different tack,And on the square you flash your flag?At penny-a-lining make your whack,Or with the mummers mug and gag?For nix, for nix the dibbs you bag!At any graft, no matter what,Your merry goblins soon stravag:Booze and the blowens cop the lot.
THE MORAL
It's up the spout and Charley WagWith wipes and tickers and what notUntil the squeezer nips your scrag,Booze and the blowens cop the lot.
William Ernest Henley.
Inscribed to an Intense Poet
I. RONDEAU
"O crikey, Bill!" she ses to me, she ses."Look sharp," ses she, "with them there sossiges.Yea! sharp with them there bags of mysteree!For lo!" she ses, "for lo! old pal," ses she,"I'm blooming peckish, neither more nor less."Was it not prime—I leave you all to guessHow prime!—to have a Jude in love's distressCome spooning round, and murmuring balmilee,"O crikey, Bill!"For in such rorty wise doth Love expressHis blooming views, and asks for your address,And makes it right, and does the gay and free.I kissed her—I did so! And her and meWas pals. And if that ain't good business,"O crikey, Bill!"
II. VILLANELLE
Now ain't they utterly too-too(She ses, my Missus mine, ses she),Them flymy little bits of Blue.Joe, just you kool 'em—nice and skewUpon our old meogginee,Now ain't they utterly too-too?They're better than a pot'n' a screw,They're equal to a Sunday spree,Them flymy little bits of Blue!Suppose I put 'em up the flue,And booze the profits, Joe? Not me.Now ain't they utterly too-too?I do the 'Igh Art fake, I do.Joe, I'm consummate; and IseeThem flymy little bits of Blue.Which Joe, is why I ses ter you—Æsthetic-like, and limp, and free—Nowain'tthey utterly too-too,Them flymy little bits of Blue?
III. BALLADE
I often does a quiet readAt Booty Shelly's poetry;I thinks that Swinburne at a screedIs really almost too too fly;At Signor Vagna's harmonyI likes a merry little flutter;I've had at Pater many a shy;In fact, my form's the Bloomin' Utter.My mark's a tidy little feed,And 'Enery Irving's gallery,To see old 'Amlick do a bleed,And Ellen Terry on the die,Or Frankey's ghostes at hi-spy,And parties carried on a shutter.Them vulgar Coupeaus is my eye!In fact my form's the Bloomin' Utter.The Grosvenor's nuts—it is, indeed!I goes for 'Olman 'Unt like pie.It's equal to a friendly leadTo see B. Jones's judes go by.Stanhope he make me fit to cry.Whistler he makes me melt like butter.Strudwick he makes me flash my cly—In fact, my form's the Bloomin' Utter.
ENVOY
I'm on for any Art that's 'Igh;I talks as quiet as I can splutter;I keeps a Dado on the sly;In fact, my form's the Bloomin' Utter.
William Ernest Henley.
Whereas, on certain boughs and spraysNow divers birds are heard to sing,And sundry flowers their heads upraise,Hail to the coming on of Spring!The songs of those said birds arouseThe memory of our youthful hours,As green as those said sprays and boughs,As fresh and sweet as those said flowers.The birds aforesaid—happy pairs—Love, 'mid the aforesaid boughs, inshrinesIn freehold nests; themselves their heirs,Administrators, and assigns.O busiest term of Cupid's Court,Where tender plaintiffs actions bring,—Season of frolic and of sport,Hail, as aforesaid, coming Spring!
Henry Howard Brownell.
Oh! I have been North, and I have been South, and the East hath seen me pass,
And the West hath cradled me on her breast, that is circled round with brass,
And the world hath laugh'd at me, and I have laugh'd at the world alone,
With a loud hee-haw till my hard-work'd jaw is stiff as a dead man's bone!
Oh! I have been up and I have been down and over the sounding sea,
And the sea-birds cried as they dropp'd and died at the terrible sight of me,
For my head was bound with a star, and crown'd with the fire of utmost hell,
And I made this song with a brazen tongue and a more than fiendish yell:
"Oh! curse you all, for the sake of men who have liv'd and died for spite,
And be doubly curst for the dark ye make where there ought to be but light,
And be trebly curst by the deadly spell of a woman's lasting hate,—
And drop ye down to the mouth of hell who would climb to the Golden Gate!"
Then the world grew green, and grim and grey at the horrible noise I made,
And held up its hands in a pious way when I call'd a spade a spade;
But I cared no whit for the blame of it, and nothing at all for its praise,
And the whole consign'd with a tranquil mind to a sempiternal blaze!
All this have I sped, and have brought me back to work at the set of sun,
And I set my seal to the thoughts I feel in the twilight one by one,
For I speak but sooth in the name of Truth when I write such things as these;
And the whole I send to a critical friend who is learnèd in Kiplingese!
Unknown.
What lightning shall light it? What thunder shall tell it?In the height of the height, in the depth of the deep?Shall the sea-storm declare it, or paint it, or smell it?Shall the price of a slave be its treasure to keep?When the night has grown near with the gems on her bosom,When the white of mine eyes is the whiteness of snow,When the cabman—in liquor—drives a blue roan, a kicker,Into the land of the dear long ago.Ah!—Ah, again!—You will come to me, fall on me—You aresoheavy, and I amsoflat.And I? I shall not be at home when you call on me,But stray down the wind like a gentleman's hat:I shall list to the stars when the music is purple,Be drawn through a pipe, and exhaled into rings;Turn to sparks, and then straightway get stuck in the gatewayThat stands between speech and unspeakable things.As I mentioned before, by what light is it lighted?Oh! Is it fourpence, or piebald, or gray?Is it a mayor that a mother has knightedOr is it a horse of the sun and the day?Is it a pony? If so, who will change it?O golfer, be quiet, and mark where it scuds,And think of its paces—of owners and races—Relinquish the links for the study of studs.Not understood? Take me hence! Take me yonder!Take me away to the land of my rest—There where the Ganges and other gees wander,And uncles and antelopes act for the best,And all things are mixed and run into each otherIn a violet twilight of virtues and sins,With the church-spires below you and no one to show youWhere the curate leaves off and the pew-rent begins!In the black night through the rank grass the snakes peer—The cobs and the cobras are partial to grass—And a boy wanders out with a knowledge of ShakespeareThat's not often found in a boy of his class,And a girl wanders out without any knowledge,And a bird wanders out, and a cow wanders out,Likewise one wether, and they wander together—There's a good deal of wandering lying about.But its all for the best; I've been told by my friends, Sir,That in verses I'd written the meaning was slight;I've tried with no meaning—to make 'em amends, Sir—And find that this kind's still more easy to write.The title has nothing to do with the verses,But think of the millions—the laborers whoIn busy employment find deepest enjoyment,And yet, like my title, have nothing to do!
Barry Pain.
The hale John Sprat—oft called for shortness, Jack—Had married—had, in fact, a wife—and sheDid worship him with wifely reverence.He, who had loved her when she was a girl,Compass'd her too, with sweet observances;E'en at the dinner table did it shine.For he—liking no fat himself—he never did,With jealous care piled up her plate with lean,Not knowing that all lean was hateful to her.And day by day she thought to tell him o't,And watched the fat go out with envious eye,But could not speak for bashful delicacy.At last it chanced that on a winter day,The beef—a prize joint!—little was but fat;So fat, that John had all his work cut out,To snip out lean fragments for his wife,Leaving, in very sooth, none for himself;Which seeing, she spoke courage to her soul,Took up her fork, and, pointing to the jointWhere 'twas the fattest, piteously she said;"Oh, husband! full of love and tenderness!What is the cause that you so jealouslyPick out the lean for me. I like it not!Nay, loathe it—'tis on the fat that I would feast;O me, I fear you do not like my taste!"Then he, dropping his horny-handled carving knife,Sprinkling therewith the gravy o'er her gown,Answer'd, amazed: "What! you like fat, my wife!And never told me. Oh, this is not kind!Think what your reticence has wrought for us;How all the fat sent down unto the maid—Who likes not fat—for such maids never do—Has been put in the waste-tub, sold for grease,And pocketed as servant's perquisite!Oh, wife! this news is good; for since, perforce,A joint must be not fat nor lean, but both;Our different tastes will serve our purpose well;For, while you eat the fat—the lean to meFalls as my cherished portion. Lo! 'tis good!"So henceforth—he that tells the tale relates—In John Sprat's household waste was quite unknown;For he the lean did eat, and she the fat,And thus the dinner-platter was all cleared.
Unknown.
And this reft house is that the which he built,Lamented Jack! and here his malt he piled.Cautious in vain! these rats that squeak so wild,Squeak not unconscious of their father's guilt.Did he not see her gleaming through the glade!Belike 'twas she, the maiden all forlorn.What though she milked no cow with crumpled horn,Yet, aye she haunts the dale where erst she strayed:And aye before her stalks her amorous knight!Still on his thighs their wonted brogues are worn,And through those brogues, still tattered and betorn,His hindward charms gleam an unearthly white.
Samuel Taylor Coleridge.
I lay i' the bosom of the sun,Under the roses dappled and dun.I thought of the Sultan Gingerbeer,In his palace beside the Bendemeer,With his Afghan guards and his eunuchs blind,And the harem that stretched for a league behind.The tulips bent i' the summer breeze,Under the broad chrysanthemum-trees,And the minstrel, playing his culverin,Made for mine ears a merry din,If I were the Sultan, and he were I,Here i' the grass he should loafing lie,And I should bestride my zebra steed,And ride to the hunt of the centipede:While the pet of the harem, Dandeline,Should fill me a crystal bucket of wine,And the kislar aga, Up-to-Snuff,Should wipe my mouth when I sighed, "Enough!"And the gay court poet, Fearfulbore,Should sit in the hall when the hunt was o'er,And chant me songs of silvery tone,Not from Hafiz, but—mine own!Ah, wee sweet love, beside me here,I am not the Sultan Gingerbeer,Nor you the odalisque Dandeline,Yet I am yourn, and you are mine!
Bayard Taylor.
To yow, my Purse, and to noon other wighte,Complayne I, for ye be my lady dere!I am so sorry now that ye been lyghte,For, certes, yf ye make me hevy chere,Me were as leef be layde upon my beere.For whiche unto your mercie thus I crye,Beethe hevy ageyne, or elles mote I die!Now voucheth sauf this day, or hyt be nighte,That I of yow the blissful soun may here,Or see your colour lyke the sunnè brighte,That of yellòwnesse haddè never pere.Ye be my lyf! ye be myn herty's stere!Quenè of comfort and good companye!Beethe hevy ageyne, or elles mote I die!Now, Purse! that ben to me my lyve's lyghte,And surety as doune in this world here,Out of this toune helpè me through your myghte,Syn that you wole not bene my tresorere;For I am shave as nigh as is a frere.But I pray unto your curtesye,Beethe hevy ageyne, or elles mote I die!
Godfrey Turner.
Power to thine elbow, thou newest of sciences,All the old landmarks are ripe for decay;Wars are but shadows, and so are alliances,Darwin the great is the man of the day.All other 'ologies want an apology;Bread's a mistake—Science offers a stone;Nothing is true but Anthropobiology—Darwin the great understands it alone.Mighty the great evolutionist teacher isLicking Morphology clean into shape;Lord! what an ape the Professor or Preacher isEver to doubt his descent from an ape.Man's an Anthropoid—he cannot help that, you know—First evoluted from Pongos of old;He's but a branch of thecatarrhinecat, you know—Monkey I mean—that's an ape with a cold.Fast dying out are man's later Appearances,Cataclysmitic Geologies gone;Now of Creation completed the clearance is,Darwin alone you must anchor upon.Primitive Life—Organisms were chemical,Busting spontaneous under the sea;Purely subaqueous, panaquademical,Was the original Crystal of Me.I'm the Apostle of mighty Darwinity,Stands for Divinity—sounds much the same—Apo-theistico-Pan-AsininityOnly can doubt whence the lot of us came.Down on your knees, Superstition and Flunkeydom!Won't you accept such plain doctrines instead?What is so simple as primitive MonkeydomBorn in the sea with a cold in its head?
Herman C. Merivale.
DISENCHANTMENT
My Love has sicklied unto Loath,And foul seems all that fair I fancied—The lily's sheen's a leprous growth,The very buttercups are rancid.
ABASEMENT
With matted head a-dabble in the dust,And eyes tear-sealèd in a saline crustI lie all loathly in my rags and rust—Yet learn that strange delight may lurk in self-disgust.
STANZA WRITTEN IN DEPRESSION NEAR DULWICH
The lark soars up in the air;The toad sits tight in his hole;And I would I were certain which of the pairWere the truer type of my soul!
TO MY LADY
Twine, lanken fingers, lily-lithe,Gleam, slanted eyes, all beryl-green,Pout, blood-red lips that burst a-writhe,Then—kiss me, Lady Grisoline!
THE MONSTER
Uprears the monster now his slobberous head,Its filamentous chaps her ankles brushing;Her twice-five roseal toes are cramped in dread,Each maidly instep mauven-pink is flushing.
A TRUMPET BLAST
Pale Patricians, sunk in self-indulgence,Blink your blearèd eyes. Behold the Sun—Burst proclaim in purpurate effulgence,Demos dawning, and the Darkness done!
F. Anstey.
'Tis midnight, and the moonbeam sleepsUpon the garden sward;My lady in yon turret keepsHer tearful watch and ward."Beshrew me!" mutters, turning pale,The stalwart seneschal;"What's he, that sitteth, clad in mailUpon our castle wall?""Arouse thee, friar of orders grey;What ho! bring book and bell!Ban yonder ghastly thing, I say;And, look ye, ban it well!By cock and pye, the Humpty's face!"The form turned quickly round;Then totter'd from its resting-place—
That night the corse was found.The king, with hosts of fighting menRode forth at break of day;Ah! never gleamed the sun till thenOn such a proud array.But all that army, horse and foot,Attempted, quite in vain,Upon the castle wall to putThe Humpty up again.
Henry S. Leigh.
Lady Clara Vere de Vere!I hardly know what I must say,But I'm to be Queen of the May, mother,I'm to be Queen of the May!I am half-crazed; I don't feel grave,Let me rave!Whole weeks and months, early and late,To win his love I lay in wait.Oh, the Earl was fair to see,As fair as any man could be;—The wind is howling in turret and tree!We two shall be wed tomorrow morn,And I shall be the Lady Clare,And when my marriage morn shall fall,I hardly know what I shall wear.But I shan't say "my life is dreary,"And sadly hang my head,With the remark, "I'm very weary,And wish that I were dead."But on my husband's arm I'll lean,And roundly waste his plenteous gold,Passing the honeymoon sereneIn that new world which is the old.For down we'll go and take the boatBeside St. Katherine's docks afloat,Which round about its prow has wrote—"The Lady of Shalotter"(Mondays and Thursdays,—Captain Foat),Bound for the Dam of Rotter.
Thomas Hood, Jr.
I count it true which sages teach—That passion sways not with repose,That love, confounding these with those,Is ever welding each with each.And so when time has ebbed away,Like childish wreaths too lightly held,The song of immemorial eldShall moan about the belted bay.Where slant Orion slopes his star,To swelter in the rolling seas,Till slowly widening by degreesThe grey climbs upward from afar.And golden youth and passion strayAlong the ridges of the strand,—Not far apart, but hand in hand,—With all the darkness danced away!
Thomas Hood, Jr.
I cannot sing the old songs,Though well I know the tune,Familiar as a cradle-songWith sleep-compelling croon;Yet though I'm filled with musicAs choirs of summer birds"I cannot sing the old songs"—I do not know the words.I start on "Hail Columbia,"And get to "heav'n-born band,"And there I strike an up-gradeWith neither steam nor sand;"Star Spangled Banner" downs meRight in my wildest screaming,I start all right, but dumbly comeTo voiceless wreck at "streaming."So, when I sing the old songs,Don't murmur or complainIf "Ti, diddy ah da, tum dum,"Should fill the sweetest strain.I love "Tolly um dum di do,"And the "trilla-la yeep da" birds,But "I cannot sing the old songs"—I do not know the words.
Robert J. Burdette.