THE WAKEFULPRINCESS

One time there lived (that is to say,If half a crust of bread a dayAnd sleeping on a bed of hayMay so be rated)A Gentle Youth who tuned his layTo all the Metres of the day,But was not, I regret to say,Appreciated.

One time there lived (that is to say,If half a crust of bread a dayAnd sleeping on a bed of hayMay so be rated)A Gentle Youth who tuned his layTo all the Metres of the day,But was not, I regret to say,Appreciated.

One time there lived (that is to say,If half a crust of bread a dayAnd sleeping on a bed of hayMay so be rated)A Gentle Youth who tuned his layTo all the Metres of the day,But was not, I regret to say,Appreciated.

One time there lived (that is to say,

If half a crust of bread a day

And sleeping on a bed of hay

May so be rated)

A Gentle Youth who tuned his lay

To all the Metres of the day,

But was not, I regret to say,

Appreciated.

In Market-place or Public WayHe read his ode or sang his lay,As was the custom of the day,But none suggestedA Laurel Wreath or Crown of Bay:Instead, one morn, to his dismay,While spouting forth a Tragic Play,He was arrested.In Irons he was led away,And, by a Justice stern and gray,For blocking up the Public WayHe was indicted.Then, since he had nowith to payThe Fine (a trifle anyway),To leave the town without delayHe was invited.There was no choice but to obey—He left the town at break of day,Yet still his heart was brave and gay;Fate could not queer him.For was it not the month of May,Were there not flowers beside the way,And little lambs to sport and play,And birds to cheer him?

In Market-place or Public WayHe read his ode or sang his lay,As was the custom of the day,But none suggestedA Laurel Wreath or Crown of Bay:Instead, one morn, to his dismay,While spouting forth a Tragic Play,He was arrested.In Irons he was led away,And, by a Justice stern and gray,For blocking up the Public WayHe was indicted.Then, since he had nowith to payThe Fine (a trifle anyway),To leave the town without delayHe was invited.There was no choice but to obey—He left the town at break of day,Yet still his heart was brave and gay;Fate could not queer him.For was it not the month of May,Were there not flowers beside the way,And little lambs to sport and play,And birds to cheer him?

In Market-place or Public WayHe read his ode or sang his lay,As was the custom of the day,But none suggestedA Laurel Wreath or Crown of Bay:Instead, one morn, to his dismay,While spouting forth a Tragic Play,He was arrested.

In Market-place or Public Way

He read his ode or sang his lay,

As was the custom of the day,

But none suggested

A Laurel Wreath or Crown of Bay:

Instead, one morn, to his dismay,

While spouting forth a Tragic Play,

He was arrested.

In Irons he was led away,And, by a Justice stern and gray,For blocking up the Public WayHe was indicted.Then, since he had nowith to payThe Fine (a trifle anyway),To leave the town without delayHe was invited.

In Irons he was led away,

And, by a Justice stern and gray,

For blocking up the Public Way

He was indicted.

Then, since he had nowith to pay

The Fine (a trifle anyway),

To leave the town without delay

He was invited.

There was no choice but to obey—He left the town at break of day,Yet still his heart was brave and gay;Fate could not queer him.For was it not the month of May,Were there not flowers beside the way,And little lambs to sport and play,And birds to cheer him?

There was no choice but to obey—

He left the town at break of day,

Yet still his heart was brave and gay;

Fate could not queer him.

For was it not the month of May,

Were there not flowers beside the way,

And little lambs to sport and play,

And birds to cheer him?

He journeyed on for many a day;The Peasants gave him Curds and Whey;For aught I know the Fairies maySome Food have found him.At night he slept beneath a BayOr Laurel Tree, and, I dare say,Dreamed he was Laureate, and theyWere twined around him.Indeed, his only trouble layIn this, that tho’ his spirits gayAnd gentle Heart and winning wayCharmed and delightedAll whom he met, yet, strange to say,To hear his verses none would stay—Even the Peasants ran awayWhen he recited.

He journeyed on for many a day;The Peasants gave him Curds and Whey;For aught I know the Fairies maySome Food have found him.At night he slept beneath a BayOr Laurel Tree, and, I dare say,Dreamed he was Laureate, and theyWere twined around him.Indeed, his only trouble layIn this, that tho’ his spirits gayAnd gentle Heart and winning wayCharmed and delightedAll whom he met, yet, strange to say,To hear his verses none would stay—Even the Peasants ran awayWhen he recited.

He journeyed on for many a day;The Peasants gave him Curds and Whey;For aught I know the Fairies maySome Food have found him.At night he slept beneath a BayOr Laurel Tree, and, I dare say,Dreamed he was Laureate, and theyWere twined around him.

He journeyed on for many a day;

The Peasants gave him Curds and Whey;

For aught I know the Fairies may

Some Food have found him.

At night he slept beneath a Bay

Or Laurel Tree, and, I dare say,

Dreamed he was Laureate, and they

Were twined around him.

Indeed, his only trouble layIn this, that tho’ his spirits gayAnd gentle Heart and winning wayCharmed and delightedAll whom he met, yet, strange to say,To hear his verses none would stay—Even the Peasants ran awayWhen he recited.

Indeed, his only trouble lay

In this, that tho’ his spirits gay

And gentle Heart and winning way

Charmed and delighted

All whom he met, yet, strange to say,

To hear his verses none would stay—

Even the Peasants ran away

When he recited.

But he was not the sort that say,“Oh, woe is mine—alack-a-day!”He lived for Hope, and in some wayWas bound to find it.“What matter! Let them go,” he’d say;“Each to his taste—henceforth I’ll playAnd sing to Birds alone, for theyDon’t seem to mind it.”And so he journeyed many a day,Till now at last his darkening wayLies thro’ a forest dim and gray;Yet, nothing daunted,Though hoary branches bar the way,And twisted roots his steps betray,And ghostly voices seem to sayThe place is haunted.Singing a Carol blithe and gay,He presses on, nor does he stay,Until at last the light of dayHis sight surprises.And now a little winding wayLeads, through a meadow pink with May,To where, not half a mile away,A Palace rises.He wandered on, his thoughts astray,Framing a little RoundelayAnd weaving garlands of the May(For whom not guessing),Until before him suddenlyThere loomed a gateway grim and gray,Whose dark doors yielded to the swayOf his light pressing.

But he was not the sort that say,“Oh, woe is mine—alack-a-day!”He lived for Hope, and in some wayWas bound to find it.“What matter! Let them go,” he’d say;“Each to his taste—henceforth I’ll playAnd sing to Birds alone, for theyDon’t seem to mind it.”And so he journeyed many a day,Till now at last his darkening wayLies thro’ a forest dim and gray;Yet, nothing daunted,Though hoary branches bar the way,And twisted roots his steps betray,And ghostly voices seem to sayThe place is haunted.Singing a Carol blithe and gay,He presses on, nor does he stay,Until at last the light of dayHis sight surprises.And now a little winding wayLeads, through a meadow pink with May,To where, not half a mile away,A Palace rises.He wandered on, his thoughts astray,Framing a little RoundelayAnd weaving garlands of the May(For whom not guessing),Until before him suddenlyThere loomed a gateway grim and gray,Whose dark doors yielded to the swayOf his light pressing.

But he was not the sort that say,“Oh, woe is mine—alack-a-day!”He lived for Hope, and in some wayWas bound to find it.“What matter! Let them go,” he’d say;“Each to his taste—henceforth I’ll playAnd sing to Birds alone, for theyDon’t seem to mind it.”

But he was not the sort that say,

“Oh, woe is mine—alack-a-day!”

He lived for Hope, and in some way

Was bound to find it.

“What matter! Let them go,” he’d say;

“Each to his taste—henceforth I’ll play

And sing to Birds alone, for they

Don’t seem to mind it.”

And so he journeyed many a day,Till now at last his darkening wayLies thro’ a forest dim and gray;Yet, nothing daunted,Though hoary branches bar the way,And twisted roots his steps betray,And ghostly voices seem to sayThe place is haunted.

And so he journeyed many a day,

Till now at last his darkening way

Lies thro’ a forest dim and gray;

Yet, nothing daunted,

Though hoary branches bar the way,

And twisted roots his steps betray,

And ghostly voices seem to say

The place is haunted.

Singing a Carol blithe and gay,He presses on, nor does he stay,Until at last the light of dayHis sight surprises.And now a little winding wayLeads, through a meadow pink with May,To where, not half a mile away,A Palace rises.

Singing a Carol blithe and gay,

He presses on, nor does he stay,

Until at last the light of day

His sight surprises.

And now a little winding way

Leads, through a meadow pink with May,

To where, not half a mile away,

A Palace rises.

He wandered on, his thoughts astray,Framing a little RoundelayAnd weaving garlands of the May(For whom not guessing),Until before him suddenlyThere loomed a gateway grim and gray,Whose dark doors yielded to the swayOf his light pressing.

He wandered on, his thoughts astray,

Framing a little Roundelay

And weaving garlands of the May

(For whom not guessing),

Until before him suddenly

There loomed a gateway grim and gray,

Whose dark doors yielded to the sway

Of his light pressing.

And lo! a garden gleaming, gayWith flowers in dazzling array,And fountains flashing silver spray,And bowers shady;And on an emerald bank there layA creature fairer than the day,Yet sadder than a moonlight ray—A wondrous lady.Abashed the Poet turned away,When a low voice entreated, “Stay!Read me that little RoundelayI heard you singing.”It was as though upon him layA spell that forced him to obey,And he recited it straightwayIn voice clear ringing.A dreamy, languid, far-awayExpression dims her eyes as they,Like violets at droop of day,Are closing—closing.The Poet ends his Roundelay,And turns to hear what she may say,And finds to his complete dismayThe Princess dozing.Then rose a cry: “She sleeps! Hurray!The Princess sleeps! Oh, joyful day!The spell is broken—Rise, I pray,Oh, sweet song-maker.”’Twas the King spoke, “Arise, I pray:I make you Laureate this day;My daughter’s hand, too, by the way,Is yours—don’t wake her.”

And lo! a garden gleaming, gayWith flowers in dazzling array,And fountains flashing silver spray,And bowers shady;And on an emerald bank there layA creature fairer than the day,Yet sadder than a moonlight ray—A wondrous lady.Abashed the Poet turned away,When a low voice entreated, “Stay!Read me that little RoundelayI heard you singing.”It was as though upon him layA spell that forced him to obey,And he recited it straightwayIn voice clear ringing.A dreamy, languid, far-awayExpression dims her eyes as they,Like violets at droop of day,Are closing—closing.The Poet ends his Roundelay,And turns to hear what she may say,And finds to his complete dismayThe Princess dozing.Then rose a cry: “She sleeps! Hurray!The Princess sleeps! Oh, joyful day!The spell is broken—Rise, I pray,Oh, sweet song-maker.”’Twas the King spoke, “Arise, I pray:I make you Laureate this day;My daughter’s hand, too, by the way,Is yours—don’t wake her.”

And lo! a garden gleaming, gayWith flowers in dazzling array,And fountains flashing silver spray,And bowers shady;And on an emerald bank there layA creature fairer than the day,Yet sadder than a moonlight ray—A wondrous lady.

And lo! a garden gleaming, gay

With flowers in dazzling array,

And fountains flashing silver spray,

And bowers shady;

And on an emerald bank there lay

A creature fairer than the day,

Yet sadder than a moonlight ray—

A wondrous lady.

Abashed the Poet turned away,When a low voice entreated, “Stay!Read me that little RoundelayI heard you singing.”It was as though upon him layA spell that forced him to obey,And he recited it straightwayIn voice clear ringing.

Abashed the Poet turned away,

When a low voice entreated, “Stay!

Read me that little Roundelay

I heard you singing.”

It was as though upon him lay

A spell that forced him to obey,

And he recited it straightway

In voice clear ringing.

A dreamy, languid, far-awayExpression dims her eyes as they,Like violets at droop of day,Are closing—closing.The Poet ends his Roundelay,And turns to hear what she may say,And finds to his complete dismayThe Princess dozing.

A dreamy, languid, far-away

Expression dims her eyes as they,

Like violets at droop of day,

Are closing—closing.

The Poet ends his Roundelay,

And turns to hear what she may say,

And finds to his complete dismay

The Princess dozing.

Then rose a cry: “She sleeps! Hurray!The Princess sleeps! Oh, joyful day!The spell is broken—Rise, I pray,Oh, sweet song-maker.”’Twas the King spoke, “Arise, I pray:I make you Laureate this day;My daughter’s hand, too, by the way,Is yours—don’t wake her.”

Then rose a cry: “She sleeps! Hurray!

The Princess sleeps! Oh, joyful day!

The spell is broken—Rise, I pray,

Oh, sweet song-maker.”

’Twas the King spoke, “Arise, I pray:

I make you Laureate this day;

My daughter’s hand, too, by the way,

Is yours—don’t wake her.”

Scene—On Manhattan Island.Time—To-day. Hour—Ten-thirty. Persons of the play:

Sibyl.A dream of beauty, half-awake,In filmy disarray—about to takeHer morning tub. In speech with her the whileIsRobert.He is dressed in riding style.

Sibyl.A dream of beauty, half-awake,In filmy disarray—about to takeHer morning tub. In speech with her the whileIsRobert.He is dressed in riding style.

Sibyl.A dream of beauty, half-awake,In filmy disarray—about to takeHer morning tub. In speech with her the whileIsRobert.He is dressed in riding style.

Sibyl.A dream of beauty, half-awake,

In filmy disarray—about to take

Her morning tub. In speech with her the while

IsRobert.He is dressed in riding style.

Sibyl—Why, Bob, it’syou! They got your name all wrong.I’m sorry that I made you wait so long.Bob—Only six minutes by my watch—it’s trueA minute seems a year, awaiting you!But Time is merciful and I rejoiceThat I am still alive to hear your voice.Sibyl—A very pretty speech, for you, indeed.But what extenuation can you pleadFor waking ladies at the break of dayFrom peaceful slumbers, sir!Bob—Oh, come, I say!It’s half past ten!Sibyl—Well, it was nearly threeBefore I got to bed!Bob—Good gracious me!I’m sure I’d no idea it was so late.Why, I was riding in the Park at eightAnd looked for you. I own I felt abused;Last night you said——Sibyl—I beg to be excusedFrom keeping foolish promises, when madeAt twoA.M., by moonlight. I’m afraidMy memory’s no better than a sieve.So you expected me? The Lord forgiveYour trusting soul!Bob—It is Hismétier!Sibyl—Don’t be outrageous, or I’ll run away.Bob—Ah, no; don’t go. I will be good, I swear!’Twas a quotation, Heine, or Voltaire,Or some fool cynic fellow. By the way,If you have nothing on, what do you sayTo breakfasting with Peg and me at noonAt the Casino?Sibyl—Well, that’s rather soon;I can’t be ready for an hour or more.Bob—Come as you are, you know that I adoreYour ladyship in any sort of gown;Besides, there’s not another soul in town.Come as you are; there’ll only be we three.Sibyl—Well, I like that! It’s fortunate for meThis is a telephone and not that newInvention one can talk andseethrough, too!What’s that you said?Bob—I didn’t speak at allI onlythought.Sibyl—Well,don’t! Suppose we callThe breakfast half past one instead of noon?Bob(joyously)—Then you will come?Sibyl—I swear!Bob—Not by the moon?Sibyl(laughing)—No, you may count on me. Now I must fly.One-thirty—don’t forget—Good-by!Bob—Good-by!(They ring off.)

Sibyl—Why, Bob, it’syou! They got your name all wrong.I’m sorry that I made you wait so long.Bob—Only six minutes by my watch—it’s trueA minute seems a year, awaiting you!But Time is merciful and I rejoiceThat I am still alive to hear your voice.Sibyl—A very pretty speech, for you, indeed.But what extenuation can you pleadFor waking ladies at the break of dayFrom peaceful slumbers, sir!Bob—Oh, come, I say!It’s half past ten!Sibyl—Well, it was nearly threeBefore I got to bed!Bob—Good gracious me!I’m sure I’d no idea it was so late.Why, I was riding in the Park at eightAnd looked for you. I own I felt abused;Last night you said——Sibyl—I beg to be excusedFrom keeping foolish promises, when madeAt twoA.M., by moonlight. I’m afraidMy memory’s no better than a sieve.So you expected me? The Lord forgiveYour trusting soul!Bob—It is Hismétier!Sibyl—Don’t be outrageous, or I’ll run away.Bob—Ah, no; don’t go. I will be good, I swear!’Twas a quotation, Heine, or Voltaire,Or some fool cynic fellow. By the way,If you have nothing on, what do you sayTo breakfasting with Peg and me at noonAt the Casino?Sibyl—Well, that’s rather soon;I can’t be ready for an hour or more.Bob—Come as you are, you know that I adoreYour ladyship in any sort of gown;Besides, there’s not another soul in town.Come as you are; there’ll only be we three.Sibyl—Well, I like that! It’s fortunate for meThis is a telephone and not that newInvention one can talk andseethrough, too!What’s that you said?Bob—I didn’t speak at allI onlythought.Sibyl—Well,don’t! Suppose we callThe breakfast half past one instead of noon?Bob(joyously)—Then you will come?Sibyl—I swear!Bob—Not by the moon?Sibyl(laughing)—No, you may count on me. Now I must fly.One-thirty—don’t forget—Good-by!Bob—Good-by!(They ring off.)

Sibyl—Why, Bob, it’syou! They got your name all wrong.I’m sorry that I made you wait so long.

Sibyl—Why, Bob, it’syou! They got your name all wrong.

I’m sorry that I made you wait so long.

Bob—Only six minutes by my watch—it’s trueA minute seems a year, awaiting you!But Time is merciful and I rejoiceThat I am still alive to hear your voice.

Bob—Only six minutes by my watch—it’s true

A minute seems a year, awaiting you!

But Time is merciful and I rejoice

That I am still alive to hear your voice.

Sibyl—A very pretty speech, for you, indeed.But what extenuation can you pleadFor waking ladies at the break of dayFrom peaceful slumbers, sir!

Sibyl—A very pretty speech, for you, indeed.

But what extenuation can you plead

For waking ladies at the break of day

From peaceful slumbers, sir!

Bob—Oh, come, I say!It’s half past ten!

Bob—Oh, come, I say!

It’s half past ten!

Sibyl—Well, it was nearly threeBefore I got to bed!

Sibyl—Well, it was nearly three

Before I got to bed!

Bob—Good gracious me!I’m sure I’d no idea it was so late.Why, I was riding in the Park at eightAnd looked for you. I own I felt abused;Last night you said——

Bob—Good gracious me!

I’m sure I’d no idea it was so late.

Why, I was riding in the Park at eight

And looked for you. I own I felt abused;

Last night you said——

Sibyl—I beg to be excusedFrom keeping foolish promises, when madeAt twoA.M., by moonlight. I’m afraidMy memory’s no better than a sieve.So you expected me? The Lord forgiveYour trusting soul!

Sibyl—I beg to be excused

From keeping foolish promises, when made

At twoA.M., by moonlight. I’m afraid

My memory’s no better than a sieve.

So you expected me? The Lord forgive

Your trusting soul!

Bob—It is Hismétier!

Bob—It is Hismétier!

Sibyl—Don’t be outrageous, or I’ll run away.

Sibyl—Don’t be outrageous, or I’ll run away.

Bob—Ah, no; don’t go. I will be good, I swear!’Twas a quotation, Heine, or Voltaire,Or some fool cynic fellow. By the way,If you have nothing on, what do you sayTo breakfasting with Peg and me at noonAt the Casino?

Bob—Ah, no; don’t go. I will be good, I swear!

’Twas a quotation, Heine, or Voltaire,

Or some fool cynic fellow. By the way,

If you have nothing on, what do you say

To breakfasting with Peg and me at noon

At the Casino?

Sibyl—Well, that’s rather soon;I can’t be ready for an hour or more.

Sibyl—Well, that’s rather soon;

I can’t be ready for an hour or more.

Bob—Come as you are, you know that I adoreYour ladyship in any sort of gown;Besides, there’s not another soul in town.Come as you are; there’ll only be we three.

Bob—Come as you are, you know that I adore

Your ladyship in any sort of gown;

Besides, there’s not another soul in town.

Come as you are; there’ll only be we three.

Sibyl—Well, I like that! It’s fortunate for meThis is a telephone and not that newInvention one can talk andseethrough, too!What’s that you said?

Sibyl—Well, I like that! It’s fortunate for me

This is a telephone and not that new

Invention one can talk andseethrough, too!

What’s that you said?

Bob—I didn’t speak at allI onlythought.

Bob—I didn’t speak at all

I onlythought.

Sibyl—Well,don’t! Suppose we callThe breakfast half past one instead of noon?

Sibyl—Well,don’t! Suppose we call

The breakfast half past one instead of noon?

Bob(joyously)—Then you will come?

Bob(joyously)—

Then you will come?

Sibyl—I swear!

Sibyl—I swear!

Bob—Not by the moon?

Bob—Not by the moon?

Sibyl(laughing)—No, you may count on me. Now I must fly.One-thirty—don’t forget—Good-by!

Sibyl(laughing)—

No, you may count on me. Now I must fly.

One-thirty—don’t forget—Good-by!

Bob—Good-by!

Bob—Good-by!

(They ring off.)

(They ring off.)

Now whither are you flyingAnd on what game intent,Cupid? There’s no denyingOn mischief you are bent.What is the use of tryingTo look so innocent?What means your empty quiver?Did heart of some coquetteYour golden arrows shiver?Or did you, boy, upsetYour darts in Lethe’s river,Or break them in a pet?What is it you’re concealing,My patience to annoy?A heart you have been stealing,Or some such foolish toy?Come, now—no double-dealing!Out with it—Cupid, boy!“I have,” quoth Cupid, shyly,“A thing wherewith to hewCold hearts” (he hinted slylyThat such a heart I knew).“’Tis recommended highly—An ice-pick—what say you?”Gravely I shake my fingerAt Cupid—“’Tis indeedThe very thing to bring herTo reason, boy, so speed!Fly, Cupid! Do not linger—Jove grant you may succeed!”

Now whither are you flyingAnd on what game intent,Cupid? There’s no denyingOn mischief you are bent.What is the use of tryingTo look so innocent?What means your empty quiver?Did heart of some coquetteYour golden arrows shiver?Or did you, boy, upsetYour darts in Lethe’s river,Or break them in a pet?What is it you’re concealing,My patience to annoy?A heart you have been stealing,Or some such foolish toy?Come, now—no double-dealing!Out with it—Cupid, boy!“I have,” quoth Cupid, shyly,“A thing wherewith to hewCold hearts” (he hinted slylyThat such a heart I knew).“’Tis recommended highly—An ice-pick—what say you?”Gravely I shake my fingerAt Cupid—“’Tis indeedThe very thing to bring herTo reason, boy, so speed!Fly, Cupid! Do not linger—Jove grant you may succeed!”

Now whither are you flyingAnd on what game intent,Cupid? There’s no denyingOn mischief you are bent.What is the use of tryingTo look so innocent?

Now whither are you flying

And on what game intent,

Cupid? There’s no denying

On mischief you are bent.

What is the use of trying

To look so innocent?

What means your empty quiver?Did heart of some coquetteYour golden arrows shiver?Or did you, boy, upsetYour darts in Lethe’s river,Or break them in a pet?

What means your empty quiver?

Did heart of some coquette

Your golden arrows shiver?

Or did you, boy, upset

Your darts in Lethe’s river,

Or break them in a pet?

What is it you’re concealing,My patience to annoy?A heart you have been stealing,Or some such foolish toy?Come, now—no double-dealing!Out with it—Cupid, boy!

What is it you’re concealing,

My patience to annoy?

A heart you have been stealing,

Or some such foolish toy?

Come, now—no double-dealing!

Out with it—Cupid, boy!

“I have,” quoth Cupid, shyly,“A thing wherewith to hewCold hearts” (he hinted slylyThat such a heart I knew).“’Tis recommended highly—An ice-pick—what say you?”

“I have,” quoth Cupid, shyly,

“A thing wherewith to hew

Cold hearts” (he hinted slyly

That such a heart I knew).

“’Tis recommended highly—

An ice-pick—what say you?”

Gravely I shake my fingerAt Cupid—“’Tis indeedThe very thing to bring herTo reason, boy, so speed!Fly, Cupid! Do not linger—Jove grant you may succeed!”

Gravely I shake my finger

At Cupid—“’Tis indeed

The very thing to bring her

To reason, boy, so speed!

Fly, Cupid! Do not linger—

Jove grant you may succeed!”

THE JUDGEMENT OF ST. VALENTINE

THE JUDGEMENT OF ST. VALENTINE

One tyme a Youthe of faire degreeDidde looke upon a Mayde. Ah me,She was as coye as anye flow’r,She stole hys harte in thatte sayme how’r.Alle vainlie he to Love didde calle,Ye blinde Godde holp hym notte atte alle.To Bishop Valentine thenne hiesYe Youthe, ye Damosel likewyse,Ande each ’gan tell hys tayle of griefe.Each sayd ye other was ye thiefe.“Zounds!” cried ye Sainte, “this brawle must cease.I’ll binde ye bothe to keepe ye peace.”Whereat ye twain in nowyse loath,“Pray then wyth one bond binde us bothe.”Loude laughed ye Sainte, “Perdi! ’Tis done!”And made ye Youthe and Mayden one.Lady, anent this suit of mineIn search of precedents, I wadedThrough ancient lore, and found this fineOld Judgment, in a parchment faded.If you will ponder the last lineAnd be by wise example aided,We, too, will make Saint ValentineOur Judge, and—compromise, as they did.

One tyme a Youthe of faire degreeDidde looke upon a Mayde. Ah me,She was as coye as anye flow’r,She stole hys harte in thatte sayme how’r.Alle vainlie he to Love didde calle,Ye blinde Godde holp hym notte atte alle.To Bishop Valentine thenne hiesYe Youthe, ye Damosel likewyse,Ande each ’gan tell hys tayle of griefe.Each sayd ye other was ye thiefe.“Zounds!” cried ye Sainte, “this brawle must cease.I’ll binde ye bothe to keepe ye peace.”Whereat ye twain in nowyse loath,“Pray then wyth one bond binde us bothe.”Loude laughed ye Sainte, “Perdi! ’Tis done!”And made ye Youthe and Mayden one.Lady, anent this suit of mineIn search of precedents, I wadedThrough ancient lore, and found this fineOld Judgment, in a parchment faded.If you will ponder the last lineAnd be by wise example aided,We, too, will make Saint ValentineOur Judge, and—compromise, as they did.

One tyme a Youthe of faire degreeDidde looke upon a Mayde. Ah me,She was as coye as anye flow’r,She stole hys harte in thatte sayme how’r.Alle vainlie he to Love didde calle,Ye blinde Godde holp hym notte atte alle.To Bishop Valentine thenne hiesYe Youthe, ye Damosel likewyse,Ande each ’gan tell hys tayle of griefe.Each sayd ye other was ye thiefe.“Zounds!” cried ye Sainte, “this brawle must cease.I’ll binde ye bothe to keepe ye peace.”Whereat ye twain in nowyse loath,“Pray then wyth one bond binde us bothe.”Loude laughed ye Sainte, “Perdi! ’Tis done!”And made ye Youthe and Mayden one.

One tyme a Youthe of faire degree

Didde looke upon a Mayde. Ah me,

She was as coye as anye flow’r,

She stole hys harte in thatte sayme how’r.

Alle vainlie he to Love didde calle,

Ye blinde Godde holp hym notte atte alle.

To Bishop Valentine thenne hies

Ye Youthe, ye Damosel likewyse,

Ande each ’gan tell hys tayle of griefe.

Each sayd ye other was ye thiefe.

“Zounds!” cried ye Sainte, “this brawle must cease.

I’ll binde ye bothe to keepe ye peace.”

Whereat ye twain in nowyse loath,

“Pray then wyth one bond binde us bothe.”

Loude laughed ye Sainte, “Perdi! ’Tis done!”

And made ye Youthe and Mayden one.

Lady, anent this suit of mineIn search of precedents, I wadedThrough ancient lore, and found this fineOld Judgment, in a parchment faded.If you will ponder the last lineAnd be by wise example aided,We, too, will make Saint ValentineOur Judge, and—compromise, as they did.

Lady, anent this suit of mine

In search of precedents, I waded

Through ancient lore, and found this fine

Old Judgment, in a parchment faded.

If you will ponder the last line

And be by wise example aided,

We, too, will make Saint Valentine

Our Judge, and—compromise, as they did.

Here’s to the Bachelor GirlWho fain her charms would cloister.She is a precious pearlThat will not leave the oyster.She is a proud sweet-peaThat scorns to be a vine,And lean upon a treeOr round a stick entwine.“What! lean upon a stick!Oh, no! I’m not that sort—I will grow branches thickAnd be my own support!”Beware, O pearl of price,Lest you be cast to swine;O proud sweet-pea, think twiceEre you refuse to twine!O Bachelor Girl, we drinkConfusion to your plan;Beware, lest Fate shall linkYou to a Spinster Man!O change, ere ’tis too late,The choker tall and silly,The tweeds—the hat we hate,For something soft and frilly!Take off the stockings blue,(We will avert our gaze),Then will we drink to youLong life—and happy days!

Here’s to the Bachelor GirlWho fain her charms would cloister.She is a precious pearlThat will not leave the oyster.She is a proud sweet-peaThat scorns to be a vine,And lean upon a treeOr round a stick entwine.“What! lean upon a stick!Oh, no! I’m not that sort—I will grow branches thickAnd be my own support!”Beware, O pearl of price,Lest you be cast to swine;O proud sweet-pea, think twiceEre you refuse to twine!O Bachelor Girl, we drinkConfusion to your plan;Beware, lest Fate shall linkYou to a Spinster Man!O change, ere ’tis too late,The choker tall and silly,The tweeds—the hat we hate,For something soft and frilly!Take off the stockings blue,(We will avert our gaze),Then will we drink to youLong life—and happy days!

Here’s to the Bachelor GirlWho fain her charms would cloister.She is a precious pearlThat will not leave the oyster.She is a proud sweet-peaThat scorns to be a vine,And lean upon a treeOr round a stick entwine.“What! lean upon a stick!Oh, no! I’m not that sort—I will grow branches thickAnd be my own support!”Beware, O pearl of price,Lest you be cast to swine;O proud sweet-pea, think twiceEre you refuse to twine!O Bachelor Girl, we drinkConfusion to your plan;Beware, lest Fate shall linkYou to a Spinster Man!O change, ere ’tis too late,The choker tall and silly,The tweeds—the hat we hate,For something soft and frilly!Take off the stockings blue,(We will avert our gaze),Then will we drink to youLong life—and happy days!

Here’s to the Bachelor Girl

Who fain her charms would cloister.

She is a precious pearl

That will not leave the oyster.

She is a proud sweet-pea

That scorns to be a vine,

And lean upon a tree

Or round a stick entwine.

“What! lean upon a stick!

Oh, no! I’m not that sort—

I will grow branches thick

And be my own support!”

Beware, O pearl of price,

Lest you be cast to swine;

O proud sweet-pea, think twice

Ere you refuse to twine!

O Bachelor Girl, we drink

Confusion to your plan;

Beware, lest Fate shall link

You to a Spinster Man!

O change, ere ’tis too late,

The choker tall and silly,

The tweeds—the hat we hate,

For something soft and frilly!

Take off the stockings blue,

(We will avert our gaze),

Then will we drink to you

Long life—and happy days!

We’ve drunk to everything we know,From Lang Syne to The Ladies;Now, one more Toast before we go—Mephisto, Prince of Hades!When sober we are wont, ’tis true,To bury, not to praise him;But let us give the De’il his due,And toast him while we raise him.For tho’ his company we’re taughtTo shun, there’s no denyingMephisto never yet was caughtBeneath false colors flying.He wears his coat and plume of redWith candor so unswervingWe must applaud, although ’tis saidHe took some points from Irving.Think of the Stage, think of the Church,Without their villain ruddy,If Old Nick left them in the lurchWithout an understudy!As well “Othello” played withoutThe Gentleman of Color,Or “Hamlet” with the Prince left out:Could anything be duller?A world from all temptation freeWould sadly lack in flavor;And what would Untried Virtue beBut Salt without its savor?To pawn his soul the sinner goesMore than half-way to meet him,Yet when Mephisto would forecloseHe does his best to cheat him.In Church to-day we sound his Knell,To-morrow at a revelWe fall to raising him—and—well,We treat him like the Devil.So let us toast our Foe of Foes,Long may we live to rout him.Here’s to Mephisto! Goodness knowsWhat would we do without him.And, good Mephisto, do not spurnOur Toast with mocking laughter,Nor yet the compliment return—By Toastingushereafter!

We’ve drunk to everything we know,From Lang Syne to The Ladies;Now, one more Toast before we go—Mephisto, Prince of Hades!When sober we are wont, ’tis true,To bury, not to praise him;But let us give the De’il his due,And toast him while we raise him.For tho’ his company we’re taughtTo shun, there’s no denyingMephisto never yet was caughtBeneath false colors flying.He wears his coat and plume of redWith candor so unswervingWe must applaud, although ’tis saidHe took some points from Irving.Think of the Stage, think of the Church,Without their villain ruddy,If Old Nick left them in the lurchWithout an understudy!As well “Othello” played withoutThe Gentleman of Color,Or “Hamlet” with the Prince left out:Could anything be duller?A world from all temptation freeWould sadly lack in flavor;And what would Untried Virtue beBut Salt without its savor?To pawn his soul the sinner goesMore than half-way to meet him,Yet when Mephisto would forecloseHe does his best to cheat him.In Church to-day we sound his Knell,To-morrow at a revelWe fall to raising him—and—well,We treat him like the Devil.So let us toast our Foe of Foes,Long may we live to rout him.Here’s to Mephisto! Goodness knowsWhat would we do without him.And, good Mephisto, do not spurnOur Toast with mocking laughter,Nor yet the compliment return—By Toastingushereafter!

We’ve drunk to everything we know,From Lang Syne to The Ladies;Now, one more Toast before we go—Mephisto, Prince of Hades!When sober we are wont, ’tis true,To bury, not to praise him;But let us give the De’il his due,And toast him while we raise him.For tho’ his company we’re taughtTo shun, there’s no denyingMephisto never yet was caughtBeneath false colors flying.He wears his coat and plume of redWith candor so unswervingWe must applaud, although ’tis saidHe took some points from Irving.Think of the Stage, think of the Church,Without their villain ruddy,If Old Nick left them in the lurchWithout an understudy!As well “Othello” played withoutThe Gentleman of Color,Or “Hamlet” with the Prince left out:Could anything be duller?A world from all temptation freeWould sadly lack in flavor;And what would Untried Virtue beBut Salt without its savor?To pawn his soul the sinner goesMore than half-way to meet him,Yet when Mephisto would forecloseHe does his best to cheat him.In Church to-day we sound his Knell,To-morrow at a revelWe fall to raising him—and—well,We treat him like the Devil.So let us toast our Foe of Foes,Long may we live to rout him.Here’s to Mephisto! Goodness knowsWhat would we do without him.And, good Mephisto, do not spurnOur Toast with mocking laughter,Nor yet the compliment return—By Toastingushereafter!

We’ve drunk to everything we know,

From Lang Syne to The Ladies;

Now, one more Toast before we go—

Mephisto, Prince of Hades!

When sober we are wont, ’tis true,

To bury, not to praise him;

But let us give the De’il his due,

And toast him while we raise him.

For tho’ his company we’re taught

To shun, there’s no denying

Mephisto never yet was caught

Beneath false colors flying.

He wears his coat and plume of red

With candor so unswerving

We must applaud, although ’tis said

He took some points from Irving.

Think of the Stage, think of the Church,

Without their villain ruddy,

If Old Nick left them in the lurch

Without an understudy!

As well “Othello” played without

The Gentleman of Color,

Or “Hamlet” with the Prince left out:

Could anything be duller?

A world from all temptation free

Would sadly lack in flavor;

And what would Untried Virtue be

But Salt without its savor?

To pawn his soul the sinner goes

More than half-way to meet him,

Yet when Mephisto would foreclose

He does his best to cheat him.

In Church to-day we sound his Knell,

To-morrow at a revel

We fall to raising him—and—well,

We treat him like the Devil.

So let us toast our Foe of Foes,

Long may we live to rout him.

Here’s to Mephisto! Goodness knows

What would we do without him.

And, good Mephisto, do not spurn

Our Toast with mocking laughter,

Nor yet the compliment return—

By Toastingushereafter!

Once on a time when Men were BoldAnd Women Fair—to be precise—A Princess lived whose Hair was GoldBeyond the Dreams of Avarice;

Once on a time when Men were BoldAnd Women Fair—to be precise—A Princess lived whose Hair was GoldBeyond the Dreams of Avarice;

Once on a time when Men were BoldAnd Women Fair—to be precise—A Princess lived whose Hair was GoldBeyond the Dreams of Avarice;

Once on a time when Men were Bold

And Women Fair—to be precise—

A Princess lived whose Hair was Gold

Beyond the Dreams of Avarice;

Beauty she had and Wealth untold,Besides a Fabulous AmountOf Jewels rare and Crowns of Gold,And Suitors more than she could count.Such Suitors! Tho’ her Fingers FairHad been as leaves upon the TreesThey still were far too few to wearThe Rings they offered, on their Knees.

Beauty she had and Wealth untold,Besides a Fabulous AmountOf Jewels rare and Crowns of Gold,And Suitors more than she could count.Such Suitors! Tho’ her Fingers FairHad been as leaves upon the TreesThey still were far too few to wearThe Rings they offered, on their Knees.

Beauty she had and Wealth untold,Besides a Fabulous AmountOf Jewels rare and Crowns of Gold,And Suitors more than she could count.

Beauty she had and Wealth untold,

Besides a Fabulous Amount

Of Jewels rare and Crowns of Gold,

And Suitors more than she could count.

Such Suitors! Tho’ her Fingers FairHad been as leaves upon the TreesThey still were far too few to wearThe Rings they offered, on their Knees.

Such Suitors! Tho’ her Fingers Fair

Had been as leaves upon the Trees

They still were far too few to wear

The Rings they offered, on their Knees.

In Coaches, Caravans, and ShipsThe Suitors came in Flocks untold,Happy to kiss her Finger-tipsAnd beg from her a Lock of Gold.For tho’ she seemed to Cupid’s DartImpervious, and would not shareThe smallest atom of her Heart,She was most lavish with her Hair.

In Coaches, Caravans, and ShipsThe Suitors came in Flocks untold,Happy to kiss her Finger-tipsAnd beg from her a Lock of Gold.For tho’ she seemed to Cupid’s DartImpervious, and would not shareThe smallest atom of her Heart,She was most lavish with her Hair.

In Coaches, Caravans, and ShipsThe Suitors came in Flocks untold,Happy to kiss her Finger-tipsAnd beg from her a Lock of Gold.

In Coaches, Caravans, and Ships

The Suitors came in Flocks untold,

Happy to kiss her Finger-tips

And beg from her a Lock of Gold.

For tho’ she seemed to Cupid’s DartImpervious, and would not shareThe smallest atom of her Heart,She was most lavish with her Hair.

For tho’ she seemed to Cupid’s Dart

Impervious, and would not share

The smallest atom of her Heart,

She was most lavish with her Hair.

To all who craved the Golden BoonShe gave, until one Night her MaidExclaimed, “Alas! Your Highness soonWill not have Hair enough to braid!”Next day the Court was in a state,The usual audience was refused,A Notice hung upon the Gate—“The Princess begs to be Excused.”Daily the Throng of Suitors grewAnd clamored madly at the door,Until at length they formed a queueExtending for a mile or more.The Chancellor was in despair.“Princess, it comes to this,” he said,“That either you must lose your hairOr I must surely lose my head!”The Princess turned away her face.“Oh, dear,” she cried, “this grieves me sore;It will be hard to fill your place—You were a first-rate Chancellor!“But do not grieve—I have a planTo keep your head and save my Pride.”Then to the marble gate she ran,Unloosed her hair, stepped forth, and cried:“Brave Suitors, look upon this Gold,This mint of Curls—lo, I presentA share to each of you—beholdMy Notes of Curl—at five per cent!”A cheer rose from a Thousand Throats;The panic passed—and months flew by.The Princess issued Tons of Notes,When lo!—a Bolt from out the Sky—

To all who craved the Golden BoonShe gave, until one Night her MaidExclaimed, “Alas! Your Highness soonWill not have Hair enough to braid!”Next day the Court was in a state,The usual audience was refused,A Notice hung upon the Gate—“The Princess begs to be Excused.”Daily the Throng of Suitors grewAnd clamored madly at the door,Until at length they formed a queueExtending for a mile or more.The Chancellor was in despair.“Princess, it comes to this,” he said,“That either you must lose your hairOr I must surely lose my head!”The Princess turned away her face.“Oh, dear,” she cried, “this grieves me sore;It will be hard to fill your place—You were a first-rate Chancellor!“But do not grieve—I have a planTo keep your head and save my Pride.”Then to the marble gate she ran,Unloosed her hair, stepped forth, and cried:“Brave Suitors, look upon this Gold,This mint of Curls—lo, I presentA share to each of you—beholdMy Notes of Curl—at five per cent!”A cheer rose from a Thousand Throats;The panic passed—and months flew by.The Princess issued Tons of Notes,When lo!—a Bolt from out the Sky—

To all who craved the Golden BoonShe gave, until one Night her MaidExclaimed, “Alas! Your Highness soonWill not have Hair enough to braid!”

To all who craved the Golden Boon

She gave, until one Night her Maid

Exclaimed, “Alas! Your Highness soon

Will not have Hair enough to braid!”

Next day the Court was in a state,The usual audience was refused,A Notice hung upon the Gate—“The Princess begs to be Excused.”

Next day the Court was in a state,

The usual audience was refused,

A Notice hung upon the Gate—

“The Princess begs to be Excused.”

Daily the Throng of Suitors grewAnd clamored madly at the door,Until at length they formed a queueExtending for a mile or more.

Daily the Throng of Suitors grew

And clamored madly at the door,

Until at length they formed a queue

Extending for a mile or more.

The Chancellor was in despair.“Princess, it comes to this,” he said,“That either you must lose your hairOr I must surely lose my head!”

The Chancellor was in despair.

“Princess, it comes to this,” he said,

“That either you must lose your hair

Or I must surely lose my head!”

The Princess turned away her face.“Oh, dear,” she cried, “this grieves me sore;It will be hard to fill your place—You were a first-rate Chancellor!

The Princess turned away her face.

“Oh, dear,” she cried, “this grieves me sore;

It will be hard to fill your place—

You were a first-rate Chancellor!

“But do not grieve—I have a planTo keep your head and save my Pride.”Then to the marble gate she ran,Unloosed her hair, stepped forth, and cried:

“But do not grieve—I have a plan

To keep your head and save my Pride.”

Then to the marble gate she ran,

Unloosed her hair, stepped forth, and cried:

“Brave Suitors, look upon this Gold,This mint of Curls—lo, I presentA share to each of you—beholdMy Notes of Curl—at five per cent!”

“Brave Suitors, look upon this Gold,

This mint of Curls—lo, I present

A share to each of you—behold

My Notes of Curl—at five per cent!”

A cheer rose from a Thousand Throats;The panic passed—and months flew by.The Princess issued Tons of Notes,When lo!—a Bolt from out the Sky—

A cheer rose from a Thousand Throats;

The panic passed—and months flew by.

The Princess issued Tons of Notes,

When lo!—a Bolt from out the Sky—

A message came, brought by a Churl:“Pont Morgan, Sultan of Peru,Has bought up all your Notes of Curl,And all your Notes are falling Due!”The Princess grew distraught with fearsBy Day. At night she tossed in Bed,Dreaming an Awful Pair of ShearsHung by a Hair above her Head.

A message came, brought by a Churl:“Pont Morgan, Sultan of Peru,Has bought up all your Notes of Curl,And all your Notes are falling Due!”The Princess grew distraught with fearsBy Day. At night she tossed in Bed,Dreaming an Awful Pair of ShearsHung by a Hair above her Head.

A message came, brought by a Churl:“Pont Morgan, Sultan of Peru,Has bought up all your Notes of Curl,And all your Notes are falling Due!”

A message came, brought by a Churl:

“Pont Morgan, Sultan of Peru,

Has bought up all your Notes of Curl,

And all your Notes are falling Due!”

The Princess grew distraught with fearsBy Day. At night she tossed in Bed,Dreaming an Awful Pair of ShearsHung by a Hair above her Head.

The Princess grew distraught with fears

By Day. At night she tossed in Bed,

Dreaming an Awful Pair of Shears

Hung by a Hair above her Head.

At last the Fatal Morning came,And with it came Pont Morgan, too,With Awful Shears to press his claim,And an Enormous Retinue.“The Law is Just!” the People cried;“And She the Penalty must pay!”The Shears their Awful Jaws spread wide,When suddenly a Voice cried, “Stay!”

At last the Fatal Morning came,And with it came Pont Morgan, too,With Awful Shears to press his claim,And an Enormous Retinue.“The Law is Just!” the People cried;“And She the Penalty must pay!”The Shears their Awful Jaws spread wide,When suddenly a Voice cried, “Stay!”

At last the Fatal Morning came,And with it came Pont Morgan, too,With Awful Shears to press his claim,And an Enormous Retinue.

At last the Fatal Morning came,

And with it came Pont Morgan, too,

With Awful Shears to press his claim,

And an Enormous Retinue.

“The Law is Just!” the People cried;“And She the Penalty must pay!”The Shears their Awful Jaws spread wide,When suddenly a Voice cried, “Stay!”

“The Law is Just!” the People cried;

“And She the Penalty must pay!”

The Shears their Awful Jaws spread wide,

When suddenly a Voice cried, “Stay!”

An Unknown Damsel, Pale and Proud,And clad in Silken Cap and Gown,Strode swiftly through the gaping crowd,And struck the Awful Scissors down.“Beware!” she cried, “Proud Sultan, ereYou touch a Hair of that Fair Head;For know you not that Every HairIs numbered—as the Prophet said?“Show me the Notes—see, here is writA number plain across each Bond,And you may only draw for itThe numbered Hair to correspond.“So pause, Pont Morgan, ere you drawA Single Hair from that Gold Head;If it be wrong—then by the LawYour Life and Lands are forfeited!”

An Unknown Damsel, Pale and Proud,And clad in Silken Cap and Gown,Strode swiftly through the gaping crowd,And struck the Awful Scissors down.“Beware!” she cried, “Proud Sultan, ereYou touch a Hair of that Fair Head;For know you not that Every HairIs numbered—as the Prophet said?“Show me the Notes—see, here is writA number plain across each Bond,And you may only draw for itThe numbered Hair to correspond.“So pause, Pont Morgan, ere you drawA Single Hair from that Gold Head;If it be wrong—then by the LawYour Life and Lands are forfeited!”

An Unknown Damsel, Pale and Proud,And clad in Silken Cap and Gown,Strode swiftly through the gaping crowd,And struck the Awful Scissors down.

An Unknown Damsel, Pale and Proud,

And clad in Silken Cap and Gown,

Strode swiftly through the gaping crowd,

And struck the Awful Scissors down.

“Beware!” she cried, “Proud Sultan, ereYou touch a Hair of that Fair Head;For know you not that Every HairIs numbered—as the Prophet said?

“Beware!” she cried, “Proud Sultan, ere

You touch a Hair of that Fair Head;

For know you not that Every Hair

Is numbered—as the Prophet said?

“Show me the Notes—see, here is writA number plain across each Bond,And you may only draw for itThe numbered Hair to correspond.

“Show me the Notes—see, here is writ

A number plain across each Bond,

And you may only draw for it

The numbered Hair to correspond.

“So pause, Pont Morgan, ere you drawA Single Hair from that Gold Head;If it be wrong—then by the LawYour Life and Lands are forfeited!”

“So pause, Pont Morgan, ere you draw

A Single Hair from that Gold Head;

If it be wrong—then by the Law

Your Life and Lands are forfeited!”

“Hurray! Hurray! The Maid is Right!”The People cried with mad uproar.The Sultan turned a deadly white,And fell in Fits upon the Floor.“O Lady, whosoe’er you be,Claim what you will in all my Land!”The Princess cried. “I am,” said he,“Not Maid, but Man—I claim your Hand.”“’Tis yours! Right gladly will I beYour Bride—for in Creation’s PlanI never dreamed to find,” said she,“A Portia’s Logic in a Man!”

“Hurray! Hurray! The Maid is Right!”The People cried with mad uproar.The Sultan turned a deadly white,And fell in Fits upon the Floor.“O Lady, whosoe’er you be,Claim what you will in all my Land!”The Princess cried. “I am,” said he,“Not Maid, but Man—I claim your Hand.”“’Tis yours! Right gladly will I beYour Bride—for in Creation’s PlanI never dreamed to find,” said she,“A Portia’s Logic in a Man!”

“Hurray! Hurray! The Maid is Right!”The People cried with mad uproar.The Sultan turned a deadly white,And fell in Fits upon the Floor.

“Hurray! Hurray! The Maid is Right!”

The People cried with mad uproar.

The Sultan turned a deadly white,

And fell in Fits upon the Floor.

“O Lady, whosoe’er you be,Claim what you will in all my Land!”The Princess cried. “I am,” said he,“Not Maid, but Man—I claim your Hand.”

“O Lady, whosoe’er you be,

Claim what you will in all my Land!”

The Princess cried. “I am,” said he,

“Not Maid, but Man—I claim your Hand.”

“’Tis yours! Right gladly will I beYour Bride—for in Creation’s PlanI never dreamed to find,” said she,“A Portia’s Logic in a Man!”

“’Tis yours! Right gladly will I be

Your Bride—for in Creation’s Plan

I never dreamed to find,” said she,

“A Portia’s Logic in a Man!”

Being an epistle to Paul. From Temperance

It comes! The monster rearing high,Against the lurid western sky,Its horrid, hissing Hydrant Heads,While o’er the shuddering land it shedsA dreary pall of waste and woeAnd chilling streams ofH2O.Now saints defend us, one and all,And most especially Saint Paul,Thou patron saint of Honest FightingAnd Common Sense and Letterwriting,Who one time, for his “stomach’s sake,”Bade Timothy the wine cup take;Stay now this Water Fiend’s advanceAnd save thy servant Temperance,Ere Abstinence, that glum wet-nurseOf Dire Dyspepsia, Chills, and worse,Blow out the Lights of Love and Mirth,And so asphyxiate the Earth.

It comes! The monster rearing high,Against the lurid western sky,Its horrid, hissing Hydrant Heads,While o’er the shuddering land it shedsA dreary pall of waste and woeAnd chilling streams ofH2O.Now saints defend us, one and all,And most especially Saint Paul,Thou patron saint of Honest FightingAnd Common Sense and Letterwriting,Who one time, for his “stomach’s sake,”Bade Timothy the wine cup take;Stay now this Water Fiend’s advanceAnd save thy servant Temperance,Ere Abstinence, that glum wet-nurseOf Dire Dyspepsia, Chills, and worse,Blow out the Lights of Love and Mirth,And so asphyxiate the Earth.

It comes! The monster rearing high,Against the lurid western sky,Its horrid, hissing Hydrant Heads,While o’er the shuddering land it shedsA dreary pall of waste and woeAnd chilling streams ofH2O.Now saints defend us, one and all,And most especially Saint Paul,Thou patron saint of Honest FightingAnd Common Sense and Letterwriting,Who one time, for his “stomach’s sake,”Bade Timothy the wine cup take;Stay now this Water Fiend’s advanceAnd save thy servant Temperance,Ere Abstinence, that glum wet-nurseOf Dire Dyspepsia, Chills, and worse,Blow out the Lights of Love and Mirth,And so asphyxiate the Earth.

It comes! The monster rearing high,

Against the lurid western sky,

Its horrid, hissing Hydrant Heads,

While o’er the shuddering land it sheds

A dreary pall of waste and woe

And chilling streams ofH2O.

Now saints defend us, one and all,

And most especially Saint Paul,

Thou patron saint of Honest Fighting

And Common Sense and Letterwriting,

Who one time, for his “stomach’s sake,”

Bade Timothy the wine cup take;

Stay now this Water Fiend’s advance

And save thy servant Temperance,

Ere Abstinence, that glum wet-nurse

Of Dire Dyspepsia, Chills, and worse,

Blow out the Lights of Love and Mirth,

And so asphyxiate the Earth.

Wee saffron sage,Wee saffron sage,Make-believe bird, fluffy, absurd,In mimic cageThrough beady eyes you scrutinizeA Noisy Age.

Wee saffron sage,Wee saffron sage,Make-believe bird, fluffy, absurd,In mimic cageThrough beady eyes you scrutinizeA Noisy Age.

Wee saffron sage,

Wee saffron sage,

Make-believe bird, fluffy, absurd,

In mimic cage

Through beady eyes you scrutinize

A Noisy Age.

You boast no “Tree,”No painted shell your Natal Cell,Your Pedigree,Neatly displayed, reads simply, “MadeIn Germany.”What do I careTho’ to fresh seed you pay no heed—Since on Plain AirYou gayly feast? Of that at leastI have to spare.You do not pourFrom your wide bill a gladsome trill,Thanks be, therefore!The best of tune, repeated, soonBecomes a bore!You simply stareWhen I exclaim “Wilhelm” (your name);You do not careFor William Hohenzollern, tho’His name you bear.What would you sayIf William the Unsilent, heShould come your way?And fume, and pout, and storm—and shout,“Lèse-Majesté!”’Twould vex his prideTo see you hold that Gift of GoldTo him denied—“Silence,” the sole and only rôleHe has not tried.Fear not his grim,Imperial ire; no torture dire,No dungeon dim,Your fate shall be: This land is free—At least from him.

You boast no “Tree,”No painted shell your Natal Cell,Your Pedigree,Neatly displayed, reads simply, “MadeIn Germany.”What do I careTho’ to fresh seed you pay no heed—Since on Plain AirYou gayly feast? Of that at leastI have to spare.You do not pourFrom your wide bill a gladsome trill,Thanks be, therefore!The best of tune, repeated, soonBecomes a bore!You simply stareWhen I exclaim “Wilhelm” (your name);You do not careFor William Hohenzollern, tho’His name you bear.What would you sayIf William the Unsilent, heShould come your way?And fume, and pout, and storm—and shout,“Lèse-Majesté!”’Twould vex his prideTo see you hold that Gift of GoldTo him denied—“Silence,” the sole and only rôleHe has not tried.Fear not his grim,Imperial ire; no torture dire,No dungeon dim,Your fate shall be: This land is free—At least from him.

You boast no “Tree,”No painted shell your Natal Cell,Your Pedigree,Neatly displayed, reads simply, “MadeIn Germany.”

You boast no “Tree,”

No painted shell your Natal Cell,

Your Pedigree,

Neatly displayed, reads simply, “Made

In Germany.”

What do I careTho’ to fresh seed you pay no heed—Since on Plain AirYou gayly feast? Of that at leastI have to spare.

What do I care

Tho’ to fresh seed you pay no heed—

Since on Plain Air

You gayly feast? Of that at least

I have to spare.

You do not pourFrom your wide bill a gladsome trill,Thanks be, therefore!The best of tune, repeated, soonBecomes a bore!

You do not pour

From your wide bill a gladsome trill,

Thanks be, therefore!

The best of tune, repeated, soon

Becomes a bore!

You simply stareWhen I exclaim “Wilhelm” (your name);You do not careFor William Hohenzollern, tho’His name you bear.

You simply stare

When I exclaim “Wilhelm” (your name);

You do not care

For William Hohenzollern, tho’

His name you bear.

What would you sayIf William the Unsilent, heShould come your way?And fume, and pout, and storm—and shout,“Lèse-Majesté!”

What would you say

If William the Unsilent, he

Should come your way?

And fume, and pout, and storm—and shout,

“Lèse-Majesté!”

’Twould vex his prideTo see you hold that Gift of GoldTo him denied—“Silence,” the sole and only rôleHe has not tried.

’Twould vex his pride

To see you hold that Gift of Gold

To him denied—

“Silence,” the sole and only rôle

He has not tried.

Fear not his grim,Imperial ire; no torture dire,No dungeon dim,Your fate shall be: This land is free—At least from him.

Fear not his grim,

Imperial ire; no torture dire,

No dungeon dim,

Your fate shall be: This land is free—

At least from him.

Wee saffron sage,Pipe all day long your silent songWhile by your cage,Musing, I let my soul forgetThe Noisy Age.

Wee saffron sage,Pipe all day long your silent songWhile by your cage,Musing, I let my soul forgetThe Noisy Age.

Wee saffron sage,Pipe all day long your silent songWhile by your cage,Musing, I let my soul forgetThe Noisy Age.

Wee saffron sage,

Pipe all day long your silent song

While by your cage,

Musing, I let my soul forget

The Noisy Age.

She dreams beneath lamplight pale,She dreams beneath lamplight pale,Like Beauty in the fairy-taleOf Messrs. Grimm.And as I gaze, behold, a Thing,A shape, a face white, menacing,Hangs o’er her ’mid a ghostly ringOf figures dim.

She dreams beneath lamplight pale,She dreams beneath lamplight pale,Like Beauty in the fairy-taleOf Messrs. Grimm.And as I gaze, behold, a Thing,A shape, a face white, menacing,Hangs o’er her ’mid a ghostly ringOf figures dim.

She dreams beneath lamplight pale,

She dreams beneath lamplight pale,

Like Beauty in the fairy-tale

Of Messrs. Grimm.

And as I gaze, behold, a Thing,

A shape, a face white, menacing,

Hangs o’er her ’mid a ghostly ring

Of figures dim.

Now o’er the figures dark I seeA hand which moves relentlessly,Remorseless, black.The hand of Time—and through me flitThe Solemn words by Omar writ,“Not all your piety nor witCan lure it back.”She sighs, she stirs, her lids uncloseLike petals of a pearly roseAfter the rain.And as she notes, with startled eye,The Station Clock, I hear her cry,“It’s twenty minutes past—oh, my!I’ve missed my train.”

Now o’er the figures dark I seeA hand which moves relentlessly,Remorseless, black.The hand of Time—and through me flitThe Solemn words by Omar writ,“Not all your piety nor witCan lure it back.”She sighs, she stirs, her lids uncloseLike petals of a pearly roseAfter the rain.And as she notes, with startled eye,The Station Clock, I hear her cry,“It’s twenty minutes past—oh, my!I’ve missed my train.”

Now o’er the figures dark I seeA hand which moves relentlessly,Remorseless, black.The hand of Time—and through me flitThe Solemn words by Omar writ,“Not all your piety nor witCan lure it back.”

Now o’er the figures dark I see

A hand which moves relentlessly,

Remorseless, black.

The hand of Time—and through me flit

The Solemn words by Omar writ,

“Not all your piety nor wit

Can lure it back.”

She sighs, she stirs, her lids uncloseLike petals of a pearly roseAfter the rain.And as she notes, with startled eye,The Station Clock, I hear her cry,“It’s twenty minutes past—oh, my!I’ve missed my train.”

She sighs, she stirs, her lids unclose

Like petals of a pearly rose

After the rain.

And as she notes, with startled eye,

The Station Clock, I hear her cry,

“It’s twenty minutes past—oh, my!

I’ve missed my train.”

“Oh, Winter, must you leave so soon?”Said Spring as Winter turned to go.“If only you could stay till June,And help to make my garden grow.”So back again that night he goesTo see the flowers, how they grow.Poor things, they looked so cold, he throwsO’er them a coverlet—of snow.Next morning Spring was full of woeTo find her flowers frozen—dead.“The Fool I never thought he’d goAnd take me at my word,” she said.

“Oh, Winter, must you leave so soon?”Said Spring as Winter turned to go.“If only you could stay till June,And help to make my garden grow.”So back again that night he goesTo see the flowers, how they grow.Poor things, they looked so cold, he throwsO’er them a coverlet—of snow.Next morning Spring was full of woeTo find her flowers frozen—dead.“The Fool I never thought he’d goAnd take me at my word,” she said.

“Oh, Winter, must you leave so soon?”Said Spring as Winter turned to go.“If only you could stay till June,And help to make my garden grow.”

“Oh, Winter, must you leave so soon?”

Said Spring as Winter turned to go.

“If only you could stay till June,

And help to make my garden grow.”

So back again that night he goesTo see the flowers, how they grow.Poor things, they looked so cold, he throwsO’er them a coverlet—of snow.

So back again that night he goes

To see the flowers, how they grow.

Poor things, they looked so cold, he throws

O’er them a coverlet—of snow.

Next morning Spring was full of woeTo find her flowers frozen—dead.“The Fool I never thought he’d goAnd take me at my word,” she said.

Next morning Spring was full of woe

To find her flowers frozen—dead.

“The Fool I never thought he’d go

And take me at my word,” she said.

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTEObvious typographical errors and punctuation errors have been corrected after careful comparison with other occurrences within the text and consultation of external sources.Except for those changes noted below, all misspellings in the text, and inconsistent or archaic usage, have been retained.Pg 9: ‘too and fro’ replaced by ‘to and fro’.Pg 24: ‘for Ade halloo’ has not been changed, but probably meant to be ‘for Aide halloo’.Pg 94: ‘H2O’ (with superscript) replaced by ‘H2O’ (subscript).

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE

Obvious typographical errors and punctuation errors have been corrected after careful comparison with other occurrences within the text and consultation of external sources.

Except for those changes noted below, all misspellings in the text, and inconsistent or archaic usage, have been retained.

Pg 9: ‘too and fro’ replaced by ‘to and fro’.Pg 24: ‘for Ade halloo’ has not been changed, but probably meant to be ‘for Aide halloo’.Pg 94: ‘H2O’ (with superscript) replaced by ‘H2O’ (subscript).

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