The Project Gutenberg eBook ofTobogganing on ParnassusThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Tobogganing on ParnassusAuthor: Franklin P. AdamsRelease date: July 1, 2004 [eBook #6122]Most recently updated: December 29, 2020Language: EnglishCredits: Juliet Sutherland, Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TOBOGGANING ON PARNASSUS ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: Tobogganing on ParnassusAuthor: Franklin P. AdamsRelease date: July 1, 2004 [eBook #6122]Most recently updated: December 29, 2020Language: EnglishCredits: Juliet Sutherland, Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
Title: Tobogganing on Parnassus
Author: Franklin P. Adams
Author: Franklin P. Adams
Release date: July 1, 2004 [eBook #6122]Most recently updated: December 29, 2020
Language: English
Credits: Juliet Sutherland, Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TOBOGGANING ON PARNASSUS ***
Juliet Sutherland, Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading
Team.
By FRANKLIN P. ADAMS
_If that these vagrant verses makeOne heart more glad; if they but bringA single smile, for that One's sakeI should be satisfied to sing.As Locker said, in phrasing fitter,Pleased if but One should like the twitter.
If I have eased one heart of pain;If I have made one throb or thrill;My labour has not been in vain.My work has not been all for nil,If only One, from Maine to Kansas,Shall say "I like his simple stanzas."
If but a solitary voiceShould say "These verses polyglotAre not so bad," I should rejoice;But oh, my publishers would not!* * * * *And I, though shy and unanointed,Should be a little disappointed._
Us PoetsRubber-Stamp HumourThe Simple Stuff"Carpe Diem" or Cop The DayThat for Money!Xanthias JolliedHorace the WiseJealousyTo Be Quite FrankR. S. V. P.AdviceWhen Horace "Came Back"Nix on the Fluffy StuffCatullus, Considerable KisserV. Catullus ExplainsThe Rich ManTo-nightThose Two BoysHelp! The Passionate Householder to His LoveThe ServantsOur Dum'd AnimalsA Soft SusurrusA Summer SummaryA QuatrainTo a Light HousekeeperHow?Ballade of the Breakfast TableOrnithologyTo Alice-Sit-By-the-HourTo Alice-Sit-By-the-Hour (Second Idyl)NotionsMy Ladye's EyenTo a Lady"A Perfect Woman Nobly Planned"An Ultimatum to MyrtillaLove GustatoryShe Is Not FairTo Myrtilla, AgainMyrtilla's Third DegreeTo Myrtilla ComplainingChristmas Cards - To the Grocery BoyTo the JanitorTo the WaiterTo the Apartment House Telephone GirlTo the BarberTo the Hall and Elevator BoyBallade of a Hardy AnnualA PleaFootlight Motifs—Mrs. FiskeFootlight Motifs—Olga NethersoleBallade of the Average ReaderPoesy's GuerdonSignal ServiceSporadic FictionPopular Ballad; "Never Forget Your Parents"Ballade to a Lady (To Annabelle)To a ThesaurusThe Ancient LaysErring in CompanyThe LimitChorus for Mixed VoicesThe Translated Way"And Yet It Is a Gentle Art."OccasionallyJim and BillWhen Nobody ListensOffice MottoesMetaphysicsHeads and TailsAn Election Night PantoumI Can Not Pay That PremiumThree AuthorsTo QuotationMelodramaA Poor Excuse, but Our OwnMonotonous VarietyThe Amateur BotanistA Word for ItThe Poem SpeaksBedbooksA New York Child's Garden of VersesDownward, Come DownwardSpeaking of HuntingThe Flat Hunter's WayBirds and BardsA Wish—An Apartmental DittyThe Monument of Q. H. F.
Us Poets
Wordsworth wrote some tawdry stuff;Much of Moore I have forgotten;Parts of Tennyson are guff;Bits of Byron, too, are rotten.
All of Browning isn't great;There are slipshod lines in Shelley;Every one knows Homer's fate;Some of Keats is vermicelli.
Sometimes Shakespeare hit the slide,Not to mention Pope or Milton;Some of Southey's stuff is snide.Some of Spenser's simply Stilton.
When one has to boil the pot,One can't always watch the kittle.You may credit it or not—Now and thenIslump a little!
Rubber-Stamp Humour
If couples mated but for love;If women all were perfect cooks;If Hoosier authors wrote no books;If horses always won;If people in the flat aboveWere silent as the very grave;If foreign counts were prone to save;If tailors did not dun—
If automobiles always ranAs advertised in catalogues;If tramps were not afraid of dogs;If servants never left;If comic songs would always scan;If Alfred Austin were sublime;If poetry would always rhyme;If authors all were deft—
If office boys were not all cranksOn base-ball; if the selling priceOf meat and coal and eggs and iceWould stop its mad increase;If women started saying "Thanks"When men gave up their seats in cars;If there were none but good cigars,And better yet police—
If there were no such thing as booze;If wifey's mother never cameTo visit; if a foot-ball gameWere mild and harmless sport;If all the Presidential newsWere colourless; if there were menAt every mountain, sea-side, glen,River and lake resort—
If every girl were fair of face;If women did not fear to getTheir suits for so-called bathing wet—If all these things were true,This earth would be a pleasant place.But where would people get their laughs?And whence would spring the paragraphs?And what would jokers do?
The Simple Stuff
Horace: Book I, Ode 32.
"Persicos odi, puer, apparatus."
Nix on the Persian pretence!Myrtle for Quintus H. Flaccus!Wreaths of the linden tree, hence!Nix on the Persian pretence!Waiter, here's seventy cents—Come, let me celebrate Bacchus!Nix on the Persian pretence!Myrtle for Quintus H. Flaccus.
"Carpe Diem," or Cop the Day
Horace: Book I, Ode 13.
"Tu ne quoesieris, scire nefas—"
It is not right for you to know, so do not ask,Leuconoe,How long a life the gods may give or ever weare gone away;Try not to read the Final Page, the endingcolophonian,Trust not the gypsy's tea-leaves, nor theprophets Babylonian.Better to have what is to come enshroudedin obscurityThan to be certain of the sort and length ofour futurity.Why, even as I monologue on wisdom andlongevityHow Time has flown! Spear some of it!The longest life is brevity.
That For Money!
Horace: Book II, Ode 2
"Nellus argento color est avaris."
Sallust, I know you of old,How you hate the sight of gold—"Idle ingots that encumberMother Earth"—I've got your number.
Why is Proculeius knownFrom Elmira to Malone?For his money? Don't upset me!For his love of folks—you get me?
Choke the Rockefeller yenFor the clink of iron men!Happiness it will not mint us,Take it from your Uncle Quintus.
Fancy food and wealthy drinkRaise Gehenna with a gink;Pastry, terrapin, and cheesesBring on gout and swell diseases.
Phraates upon the throneOld King Cyrus used to ownFails to hoodwink or deceive me,Cyrus was some king, believe me!
Get me right: a man's-size princeKnows that money is a quince.When they see the Yellow Taffy,Reg'lar Princes don't go daffy.
Xanthias Jollied
Horace: Book II, Ode 4.
"Ne sit ancillae tibi amor pudori."
Nay, Xanthias, feel unashamedThat she you love is but a servant.Remember, lovers far more famedWere just as fervent.
Achilles loved the pretty slaveBriseis for her fair complexion;And to Tecmessa Ajax gaveHis young affection.
Why, Agamemnon at the heightOf feasting, triumph, and anointment,Left everything to keep, one night,A small appointment.
And are you sure the girl you love—This maid on whom you have your heart setIs lowly—that she is not ofThe Roman smart set?
A maiden modest as is she,So full of sweetness and forbearance,Must be all right; her folks must beDelightful parents.
Her arms and face I can commend,And, as the writer of a poem,I fain would compliment, old friend,The limbs below 'em.
Nay, be not jealous. Stop your fears.My tendencies are far from sporty.Besides, the number of my yearsIs over forty.
Horace the Wise
Horace: Book I, Ode 5.
"Quis multa gracilis te puer in rosa"
What lady-like youth in his wild aberrationsIs putting cologne on his brow?For whom are the puffs and the blond transformations?I wonder who's kissing you now.[Footnote: Paraphraser's note: Horace beat the modern songwriters to this. The translation is literalenough—"Quis…gracilis te puer…urget?".]
Tee hee! I must laugh when I think of his finish,Not wise to your ways and your rep.Ha! ha! how his fancy for you will diminish!I know, for I'm Jonathan Hep.
Jealousy
Horace: Book I., Ode 13.
"Quem tu, Lydia, Telephi Cervicem roseam, cerea Telephi—"
What time thou yearnest for the armsOf Telephus, I fain would twist 'em;When thou dost praise his other charmsIt just upsets my well-known system;My brain is like a three-ring circus,In short, it gets mycapra hircus.
My reason reels, my cheeks grow pale,My heart becomes unduly spiteful,My verses in theEvening MailAre far from snappy and delightful.I put a civil question, Lyddy:Is that a way to treat one's stiddy?
What mean those marks upon thee, girl?Those prints of brutal osculation?Great grief! that lowlife and that churl!That Telephus abomination!Can him, O votary of Venus,Else everything is off between us.
O triply beatific thoseWhose state is classified as married,Untroubled by the green-eyed woes,By such upheavals never harried.Ay, three times happy are the wed ones,Who cleave together till they're dead ones.
To Be Quite Frank
Horace: Book III, Ode 15.
"Uxor pauperis Ibyci—"
Your conduct, naughty Chloris, isNot just exactly Horace'sIdeal of a ladyAt the shadyTime of life;You mustn't throw your soul awayOn foolishness, like Pholoe—Her days are folly-laden—She's a maiden,You're a wife.
Your daughter, with propriety,May look for male society,Do one thing and anotherIn which motherShouldn't mix;But revels BacchanalianAre—or should be—quite alienTo you a married person,Something worse'nForty-six!
Yes, Chloris, you cut up too much,You love the dance and cup too much,Your years are quickly flitting—To your knitting,Right about!Forget the incidental thingsThat keep you from parental things—The World, the Flesh, the Devil,On the level,Cut 'em out!
Horace: Book IV Ode II
"Est mihi nonum superantis annum"
Phyllis, I've a keg of fine fermented grape juice,Alban wine that's been nine years in the cellar.Ivy chaplets? Sure. Also, in the garden,Plenty of parsley.
See my little shack—why, you'd hardly know it.All the rooms are swept, Sunday-like and shiny;Flowers all around, altar simply famished—Hungry for lamb stew.
Neighbours all are coming over to the party,All the busy boys, all the giggling girlies,Whiffs of certain things wafted from the kitchen—Simply delicious.
Oh, of course. You ask why the fancy fireworks,Why the awning out, why the stylish doings.Well, I'll tell you why. It's Maecenas' birthday13th of April.
Telephus? Oh, tush! Pass him up completely!Telly's such a swell; Telly doesn't love you;Telly is a trifler; Telly's running round withSome other fairy.
Phyllie, don't mismate; those that do regret it.Phaeton—you know his unhappy story;Poor Bellerophon, too, you must remember,Pegasus shook him.
If these few remarks, rather aptly chosen,Make a hit with you, come, don't make me jealous.Let me sing you songs of my own composing,Oh, come on over!
Advice
Horace: Book I, Ode 22.
"Integer vitae sclerisque purus"—
Take it from me: A guy who's square,His chances always are the best.I'm in the know, for I've been there,And that's no ancient Roman jest.
What time he hits the hay to restThere's nothing on his mind but hair,No javelin upon his chest—Take it from me, a guy who's square.
There's nothing that can throw a scareInto the contents of his vest;His name is Eva I-Don't-Care;His chances always are the best.
Why, once, when I was way out West,Singing to Lalage, a bearCame up, and I was some distressed—I'm in the know, for I've been there.
But back he went into his lair,(Cage, corner, den, retreat, nook, nest),And left me to "The Maiden's Prayer"—And that's no ancient Roman jest.
In Newtonville or Cedar Crest,In Cincinnati or Eau Claire,I'll warble till I am a pest,"My Lalage"—no matter where—Take it from me!
Fuscus, my friend, take it from me—I know the world and what it's made of—One on the square has naught to beAfraid of.
The Moorish bows and javelins? Nope.Such deadly things need not alarm him.Why, even arrows dipped in dopeCan't harm him!
He's safe in any clime or land,Desert or river, hill or valley;Safe in all places on the Rand-McNally.
Why, one day in my Sabine grot,I sang for Lalage to hear me;A wolf came in and he did notCome near me!
Ah, set me on the sunless plain,In China, Norway, or Matanzas,Ay, place me anywhere from MaineTo Kansas.
Still of my Lalage I'll sing,Where'er the Fates may chance to drop me;And nobody nor anythingShall stop me.
When Horace "Came Back"
Horace: Book III, Ode 9.
"Donec gratus eram tibi—"
When I was your stiddy, my loveliest Lyddy,And you my embraceable she,In joys and diversions, the king of the PersiansHad nothing on me.
When I was the person you penned all that verse on,Ere Chloe had caused you to sigh,Not she whose cognomen is Ilia the RomanWas happier than I.
Ah, Chloe the Thracian—whose sweet modulationOf voice as she lilts to the lyreIs sweeter and fairer? Would but the Fates spare herI'd love to expire.
Tush! Calais claims me and wholly inflames me,He pesters me never with rhymes;If they should spare Cally, I'd perish to_tal_lyA couple of times.
Suppose my affection in Lyddy's directionReturned; that I gave the good-byTo Chloe the golden, and back to the olden?—I pause for reply.
Cheer up, mine ensnarer! Be Calais fairerThan stars, be you blustery and base,I'll love you, adore you; in brief, I am for youAll over the place.
What time I was your one best betAnd no one passed the wire before me,Dear Lyddy, I cannot forgetHow you would—yes, you would—adore me.To others you would tie the can;You thought of me with no aversion.In those days I was happier thanA Persian.
Correct. As long as you were notSo nuts about this Chloe person,Your flame for me burned pretty hot—Mine was the door you pinned your verse on.Your favourite name began with L,While I thought you surpassed by no man—Gladder than Ilia, the well-Known Roman.
On Chloe? Yes, I've got a case;Her voice is such a sweet soprano;Her people come from Northern Thrace;You ought to hear her play piano.If she would like my suicide—If she'd want me a dead and dumb thing,Me for a glass of cyanide,Or something.
Now Calais, the handsome sonOf old Ornitus, hasmegoing;He says I am his honey bun,He's mine, however winds are blowing;I think that he is awful nice,And, if the gods the signal gave him,I'd just as lieve die once or twiceTo save him.
Suppose I'm gone on you again,Suppose I've got ingrown affectionFor you; I sort of wonder, then,If you'd have any great objection.Suppose I pass this Chloe upAnd say:"Go roll your hoop, I'm rid o' ye!"Would that drop sweetness in your cup?Eh, Lydia?
Why, say—though he's fair as a star,And you are like a cork, erraticAnd light—and though I know you areAs blustery as the Adriatic,I think I'd rather live with youOr die with you, I swear to gracious.So I will be your Mrs. Q.Horatius.
Nix On the Fluffy Stuff
Propertius: Book I, Elegy 2.
"Quid iuvat ornato procedere, vita, capilloEt tenues Coa veste movere sinus?"
Why, my love, the yellow trinketsIn your tresses' purer gold?Why the Syrian perfume? Think it'sNice to be thus aureoled?Why the silken robes that rustle?Why the pigment on the map?Think you all that fume and fuss'llEver charm a chap?
Mother Earth is unaffected—Is her beauty therefore less?Is she gray or ill-complected?I should call her some success.Soft the murmur of the river,Bright the shore that lines the sea—Is the universe a flivver?No, take it from me.
Castor loved the lady PhoebeFor no bought or borrowed wile;Hillaira—wasn't she be-Loved without excessive style?Hippodamia slaved no fashions—All that braver, elder timeIs replete with simple passionsDifficult to rhyme.
Nay, my Cynthia, sweet and smile-ish,Take it from your own Propert,Don't essay to be so stylish,Don't attempt the harem skirt.I am ever Yours Sincerely,Past the shadow of a doubt,Yours Forever, if you'll merelyCut the frivol out.
Catullus, Considerable Kisser
(A Pasteurization of Ode VII.)
How many kisses, Lesbia, miss, you ask wouldbe enough for me?I cannot sum the total number; nay, that weretoo tough for me.The sands that o'er Cyrene's shore lie sweetlyodoriferous,The stars that sprent the firmament whenoverly stelliferous—Come, Lezzy, please add all of these, until thewhole amount of 'emWill sorely vex the rubbernecks attemptingto keep count of 'em.
V. Catullus Explains
Hark thou, my Lesbia, there be none existentCan truly say she hath been loved by meAs thou hast been. No faith is more consistentThan that which V. Catullus gives to thee.
How reasonless the state of an emotion!For wert thou faultless, perfect, and sublime,I could not like thee; nor would my devotionAnd love be less wert thou the Queen of Crime.
The Rich Man
The rich man has his motor-car,His country and his town estate.He smokes a fifty-cent cigarAnd jeers at Fate.
He frivols through the livelong day,He knows not Poverty her pinch.His lot seems light, his heart seems gay,He has a cinch.
Yet though my lamp burns low and dim,Though I must slave for livelihood—Think you that I would change with him?You bet I would!
To-night
_Love me to-night! Fold your dear arms around me—Hurt me—I do but glory in your might!Tho' your fierce strength absorb, engulf, and drown me,Love me to-night!
The world's wild stress sounds less than our own heart-beatIts puny nothingness sinks out of sight.Just you and I and Love alone are left, sweet—Love me to-night!
Love me to-night! I care not for to-morrow—Look in my eyes, aglow with Love's own light:Full soon enough will come daylight, and sorrow—Love me to-night!_—BEATRICE M. BARRY, in theBanquet Table.
We can't to-night! We're overworked and busy;We've got a lot of paragraphs to write;Although your invitation drives us dizzy,We can't to-night!
But, Trixie, we admit we're greatly smit withThe heart you picture—incandescent, white.We must confess that you have made a hit withUs here to-night.
O Beatrice! O Tempora! O Heaven!List to our lyre the while the strings we smite;Where shall you be at—well, say half-past sevenTo-morrow night?
Those Two Boys
When Bill was a lad he was terribly bad.He worried his parents a lot;He'd lie and he'd swear and pull little girls' hair;His boyhood was naught but a blot.
At play and in school he would fracture each rule—In mischief from autumn to spring;And the villagers knew when to manhood he grewHe would never amount to a thing.
When Jim was a child he was not very wild;He was known as a good little boy;He was honest and bright and the teacher's delight—To his mother and father a joy.
All the neighbours were sure that his virtue'd endure,That his life would be free of a spot;They were certain that Jim had a great head on himAnd that Jim would amount to a lot.
And Jim grew to manhood and honour and fameAnd bears a good name;While Bill is shut up in a dark prison cell—You never can tell.
Help
The Passionate Householder to his Love
Come, live with us and be our cook,And we will all the whimsies brookThat German, Irish, Swede, and SlavAnd all the dear domestics have.
And you shall sit upon the stoopWhat time we go and cook the soup,And you shall hear, both night and day,Melodious pianolas play.
And we will make the beds, of course,You'll have two autos and a horse,A lady to Marcel your tresses,And all the madame's half-worn dresses.
Your gowns shall be of lace and silk,Your laving shall be done in milk.Two trained physicians when you cough,And Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays off.
When you are mashing Irish spudsYou'll wear the very finest duds.If good to you these prospects look,Come, live with us and be our cook.
On callers we have put no stops,We love the iceman and the cops,And no alarm clock with its ticksAnd bell to ring at half-past six.
O Gretchen, Bridget, Hulda, Mary,Come, be our genius culinary.If good to you these prospects look,Come, live with us and be our cook.
The Servants
With genuflexions to Kipling's"The Ladies"
We've taken our cooks where we've found 'em;We've answered many an ad;We've had our pickin' o' servants,And most of the lot was bad.Some was Norahs an' Bridgets;Tillie she came last fall;Claras and Fannies and Lenas and Annies,And now we've got none at all.
Now, we don't know much about servants,For, takin' 'em all along,You never can tell till you've tried 'em,And then you are like to be wrong.There's times when you'll think that they're perfect;There's times when you'll think that they're bum,But the things you'll learn from those that have goneMay help you with those to come.
Norah, she landed from Dublin,Green as acushla machree;Norah was willing and anxiousTo learn what a servant should be.We told Mrs. Kirk all about her—She offered her seven more per—Now Norah she works, as you know, for the Kirks—And we learned about servants from her.
Lena we got from an "office";Lena was saving and Dutch—Thought that our bills were enormous,And told us we spent far too much.Lena decamped with some silver,Jewelry, laces and fur—She was loving and kind, with a Socialist mind—And we learned about servants from her.
Tillie blew in from the Indies,Black as the middle of night—Cooked like a regular Savarin—Kitchen was shiny an' bright.Everything ran along lovelyUntil—it was bound to occur—She ran away with a porter one day—But we learned about servants from her.
We've taken our cooks where we've found them,Yellow and black and white;Some was better than others,But none of the lot was right.And the end of it's only worryAnd trouble and bother and fuss—When you answer an ad., think of those we have hadAnd learn about servants from us.
Our Dum'd Animals
What time I seek my virtuous couch to stealSome surcease from the labours of the day,Ere silence like a poultice comes to heal—In short, when I prepare to hit the hay;Ere slumber's chains (I quote from Moore) have bound me,I hear a lot of noises all around me.
Time was when falling off the well-known logWere harder far than falling off to sleep;But that was ere my neighbour's gentle dogBegan to think he was defending sheep.From twelve to two his barking and his howlingAccompanies two torn cats' nightly yowling.
At two-ten sharp the parrot in the flatAcross the way his monologue essays.At three, again, as Gilbert says, the cat;At four a milkman's horse, exulted, neighs.At six-fifteen, nor does it ever vary,I hear the dulcet tones of a canary.
Each living thing I love; I love the birds;The beasts in field and forest, too, I love,But I have writ these poor, if metric words,To query which, by all the pow'rs above,Of all the animals—pray tell me, some one—Is called by any courtesy a dumb one?
A Soft Susurrus
A soft susurrus in the night,A song whose singer is unseen—'Twere poetry itself to write"A soft susurrus in the night!"I know, as those mosquitos bite,That I forgot to fix that screen,"A soft susurrus in the night!"A song whose singer is unseen.
A Summer Summary
Shall I, lying in a grot,Die because the day is hot?Or declare I can't endureSuch a torrid temperature?Be it hotter than the flamesSouth Gehenna Junction claims,If it be not so to me,What care I how hot it be?
Shall I say I love the townPraised by Robinson and Browne?Shall I say, "In summer heatOld Manhattan can't be beat?"Be it luring as a bar,Or my neighbour's motor-car,If I think it is pazzizWhat care I how fine it is?
Shall I prate of rural joysFar from civic smoke and noise?Shall I, like the others, drool"But the nights are always cool?"If I hate to rise at sixShall I praise the suburbs? Nix!If the country's not for me,What care I how good it be?
Town or country, cool or hot,Differs nothing, matters not;For to quote that Roman cuss,Why dispute "de gustibus?"If to this or that one shouldTake a fancy, it is good.If these rhymes look good to me,What care I how bad they be?
A Quatrain
A quatrain fills a little space,Although it's pretty small,And oftentimes, as in this case,It has no point at all.
To a Light Housekeeper
(Who hitches laundering articles to the curtain string and pastes them on the pane.)
Lady, thou that livestJust across the way,If a hang thou givestWhat the people say,If a cuss thou carestWhat a poet thinks—Hearken, if thou darest,Most immodest minx!
Though thy gloves thou tiest,To the curtain string,Though the things thou driestGird me while I sing,Hankies and inventionsOf the lacy tribe—Things I may not mention,Let alone describe.
These I mutely stand forThough the sight offend,THIS I reprimand for;Take it from a friend:
Cease to pin thy tressesTo the window sill,Or I'll tell the presses—Honestly, I will.
How?
How can I work when you play the piano,Feminine person above?How can I think, with your ceaseless sopranoSinging: "Ah, Love—"?
How can I dream of a subject aesthetic,Far from the purlieus of prose?How, with the call of the peripatetic"High! High cash clo'es!"?
How can I write when the children are crying?How can I poetize—how?How can I help imper_fect_ versifying?(There is some now.)
How can I bathe in the thought—waves ofbeauty?How, with my nerves on the slant,Can I perform my poetical duty?Frankly, I can't.
Ballade of the Breakfast Table
When the Festal Board, as the papers say,Groans 'neath the weight of a lot to eat,At breakfast, Fruhstuck or dejeuner,(As a bard tri-lingual I'm rather neat)At breakfast, then, if I may repeat,This is what gets me into a huff,This is a query I cannot beat:Why don't they ever have spoons enough?
I've broken my fast with the grave and gay,With hoi polloi and with the elite;I've been all over the U. S. A.From Dorchester Crossing to Kearney Street.But aye when I sit in the morning seatComes to my notice the self-same bluff,Plenty of food, but in this they cheat:Why don't they ever have spoons enough?
Take it at breakfast, only to-day:This was the layout, fresh and sweet:Canteloupe, sweet as the new-mown hay;[Footnote: And about as edible.]Cereal—one of the brands[Footnote: To advertisers: This space for sale.]of wheat;Soft—boiled eggs (we've cut out the meat);Coffee (a claro—manila—buff);Napery, china, and glasses complete—Why don't they ever have spoons enough?
Autocratesses, forgive my heat,But isn't it time to change that stuff?Small is the benison I entreat—Why don't they ever have spoons enough?
Ornithology
Unlearned I in ornithology—All I know about the birdsIs a bunch of etymology,Just a lot of high—flown words.Is the curlew an uxorialBird? The Latin name for crow?Is the bulfinch grallatorial?I dunno.
O'er my head no golden glorioleEver shall be proudly setFor my knowledge of the oriole,Eagle, ibis, or egrette.I know less about the tanagerAnd its hopes and fears and aimsThan a busy Broadway managerDoes of James.
But, despite my incapacityOn the birdies of the air,I am not without sagacity,Be it ne'er so small a share.This I know, though ye be scorning atWhat I know not, though ye mock,Birdies wake me every morning atFour o'clock.
To Alice—Sit—By—The—Hour
Lady in the blue kimono, you that live across the way,One may see you gazing, gazing, gazing all the livelong day,Idly looking out your window from your vantage point above.Are you convalescent, lady? Are you worse? Are you in love?
Ever gazing, as you hang there on the little window seat,Into flats across the way or down upon the prosy street.Can't you rent a pianola? Can't you iron, sew, or cook?Write a letter, bake a pudding, make a bed or read a book?
Tell me of the fascination you indubitably findIn the "High Cash Cloe's!" man's holler, in the hurdy—gurdy grind.Are your Spanish castles blue prints? Are you waiting for a knightTo descend upon your fastness and to save you from your plight?
Lady in the blue kimono, idle, mollycoddle dame,Does your doing nothing never make you feel the blush of shame?As you sit and stare and ditto, not a single thing to do,Lady in the blue kimono, lady, how I envy you!
To Alice—Sit—By—The—Hour
(Being the second idyl to an idle idol.)
Lady in the blue kimono,May we write of you again?Do not hand us out a "No! no!"Do not dam the flowing pen.Once again a poem at youCrave we leave of you to write—Lady idle as a statue,Lady silent as the night!
Lady in the blue kimono,Heavy is our heart and dumb,Though we weep no tear nor show noSign of sadness, we are glum;For that wrapper, silk or cotton,You eternally had on—It is gone, but not forgotten.Still the fact is, it is gone.
Lady in the blue kimono,Although deadly hot the day,Don't you think—(alas! we know noWay to put what we would say!)
Er—although your smile is pleasant,Wondrous fair, and all that stuff—Do you really think, at present,It is—er—ahem—enough?
Notions
Myrtie, my notion of no one to write aboutSeems to be any one other than you;Therefore, Myrtilla, I'm penning to-night aboutTwelve anapestic good verses and true.
Eke my conception of no girl to gaze upon,O my Myrtilla, includes all the rest,Saving the one that I'm spilling this praise upon—You, as it isn't unlikely you've guessed.
Also my notion of nowhere to be at all—Pardon, Myrtilla, my lack of restraint—Notion of mapless location is——d. it all—Anywhere you simultaneous ain't.
My Ladye's Eyen
Poets ther ben in plenteous line yt take ye auncient themeOf singing to a ladye's eyen whiche maken them to dreme,And through ye blessed hours of slepe—thilk eyen or browne or blueDoe soothe ye poet's slumbers deep: by goddiswoundes thaie doe!
O gentil reder, wit ye well, yt mony soche ther bee,And whan an eyefulle damosel hath made a hitte wyth mee,Hir eyen ben soe o'erpassing bright yt holden mee in thrall,I tosse about ye livelong night, nor can ne slepe atte all.
To a Lady
Ah, Lady, if these verses glowedWarmer than chill appreciation—If they should lengthen to an "OdeOn Fascination—"
If I should cast this cold restraint,Nor dam this pen's o'ereager flowing—If but your portrait I should paintIn colours glowing—
Assuming I should write such dope—If, haply, you can but conceive it—As Fahrenheit as Laurence Hope—You'd not believe it.
YOU'D not; but, oh, Another would!For, by and large and altogether,Us potes must be misunderstood.* * *What lovely weather!
"A Perfect Woman Nobly Planned"
(The man who wants the perfect wife should marry a "stock-size." She comes cheaper.—London Chronicle.)
Ah, Myrtilla, woe and dear me!Lackadaydee and alas!What is this, I greatly fear me,That has come to pass?
Craving, as I do, perfection,Loathing anything like flaws,I must raise a slight objectionTo your building laws.
You are five one-and-a-quarter,And your girth is thirty-three—Myrtie, you're a little shorterThan you ought to be.
It is far from my intentionsYour proportions to describe,Briefly, Myrtie, your dimensionsDo not seem to jibe.
Farewell, Myrt, for EthelisaSeems to be my certain fate,Stupid? Silly? Sure, but she's aPerfect thirty-eight.
An Ultimatum to Myrtilla
(Inspired by the shameless styles in hair.)
Ah, Myrtilla mine, you said—And your tone was earnest, very—You would never deck your headWith this vernal millinery.
Myrt, to mince no words, you lied;Oh, that I should live to know it!You that are my nearly-bride;I that am your nearly-poet!
For I saw the awful lidYou had on at 10 this morning;Myrt, it was a merrywid,Spite of my decisive warning.
Still, I can forgive you that;Though the thing look ne'er so silly;I will overlook the hatIf you promise this, Myrtillie:
Wear your lacebelows and fluffs;Wear the awfullest creations—But—omit the stylish puffsAnd the vogueish transformations.
Myrt, if you inflate your hairI shall—well—excoriate you,And, I positively swear,Loathe, despise, detest, and hate you.
Love Gustatory
Myrtilla, I have seen you eat—Have heard you drink, to be precise—Your soup, and, notwithstanding, sweet,The gurgitation wasn't nice,I overlooked a tiny faultLike that with just a grain of salt.
And, sweetest maid in all New York,When all ungracefully you pierceThe toothsome oyster with your forkI realize you're pretty fierce;But such a feat, be't understood,Nor Venus nor Diana could.
I've seen you hang, high in the air,A stalk of fresh asparagus,Guiding its succulence to whereIt ought to go. I did not cuss.You had it hot and vinaigrette,Myrtilla, and I loved you yet.
Myrt, I have stood for a good deal,As one will in this Cupid game,But now I know I'll never feelToward you, dear Tillie, quite the sameSince I have seen you on the jobOf eating corn—corn on the cob.
She Is Not Fair
"She is not fair to outward view";No beauty hers of form or faceShe hath no witchery, 'tis true,No grace.
Nor pretty wit, nor well-stored mind,Nor azure eyes, nor golden hairHath she. She is—I am not blind—Not fair.
What makes me love her, then? say you,For such a maid is not my wont.Love her! What makes you think I do?I don't.
To Myrtilla Again
Myrtilla, when the thought of youObstructs my cold, unbiased view,And keeps me fromMy hard though hum-Ble task,I do not murmur nor complainI do not ululate nor feignA love forvinOr what is inA flask.
When, as I said in stanza first,My mind is thoroughly immersedWith you untilMy pulses thrillAnd throb,I don't, in tones more picturesqueThan journalistic, slam my desk,And in a fitOf frenzy quitMy job.
When, as I may have said before,Your image I can not ignore,I do not tearMy thinning hairNor cuss;
I leave such sentimental showTo bards like Shelley, Keats, and PoeI merely spillSome ink, Myrtil-La, thus.
Myrtilla's Third Degree
(With deep bows to Adelaide Anne Proctor's heirs,administrators and assigns.)
Before I trust my Fate to thee,Or place my hand in thine—(This is an easy parody,Without a change of line.)Before I peril all for thee, question thy soul to-night for me.
Is there, within thy dimmest dreams,This dread ambition, Myrt?Hast thou the ghost of a desireTo wear a hobble[Footnote: "Harem," or whatever is to come in the future,may be substituted here.] skirt?If so, at any pain or cost, oh, tell me before all is lost.
Look deeper still. Dost underlineMost words in writing letters?Or "Local" write on envelopes?Say, ere I bind my fetters.Let no false pity spare the blow, but in true mercy tell me so.
Once more. Dost thou, in easy speech,Ever let fall "those kind"?Art thou to nutmeg in a pieUnalterably inclined?If aught of these, maid of my wooing, there's absolutely nothing doing.
To Myrtilla Complaining
Myrtie, you weep that the bard has neglected you,Passed you, forgotten you, let you alone.Bless you, Myrtilla, I never suspected youEver would speak to me, sweet, in that tone.
Myrtie, you say that my poems are penned to youOnly on days when I've nothing to do,Otherwise I have no time to attend to you,Others, you say, are more weighty than you.
Sweet, you allege I have not enough time for you,Yes, and you say that I hold you but light,Only when pressed do I reel off a rhyme for you
* * *
Lady Myrtilla, you've doped it out right.
Christmas Cards
Before you send me up that cardWith rime and diction far from subtle,Hear what a now rebellious bardSays in a quasi-pre-rebuttal.
"A nickel in a poor boy's hat!"You, minion of a grubbing grocer,You dare, indeed, to ask me that?Bold and relentless, say I, "No, sir!"
You who bring some one else's teaTo us, while ours goes to the neighbours,And yet you dare demand from meReward for inefficient labours!
You who but lately made me hitMy head upon the dum-dum waiter—From me you get no silver bit.Fie, out upon you, youthful traitor!
Hard is my heart and tight my purse;Deaf is my ear to all your suing.Except this little bit of verse,There's absolutely nothing doing.
Sullen, surly Scandinave,Smoking on a pipe,Valiantly I cast the glaveAt thee and thy type.
Person of the shakeless grouchTamperer with the cream,Idler, lounger, sloven, slouchDespot of the steam—
Thou who bangest garbage cansIn the hollow court,Thou whose children spin tin pansDeeming it is sport—
Tyrant of the tenement,Take thy card and flee!Not a nickel, not a centDost thou get from me.
O waiter, will you tell me whyYou think to get at Christmas timeA five-case note, for do not ISlip you each day a dime?
When as I crave Prime Ribs au Jus [Footnote: Well, how do you pronounce it,then?]And beg that you will bring them rare,They are well done. I fume and fussAnd yet you do not care.
Haply I order apple pie,But NOT your counsel or advice;You rub your hands and tell me: "Why,The mince is very nice."
You hide my hat, you hide my coat.Let others, if they care to, give,But as to this here gentle pote—Be glad he lets you live.
Proud, imperious female personThat presideth o'er my 'phone,Hearken while I do some verse onThee, and thee alone.
Puffed and pompadoured and ratted,ReadingMunsey'sall the day,Pony-coated, otter-hatted—Listen to my lay:
When I beg in desperation,"Eight O Seven Riverside,"Why do I get "Information"?Is it justified?
Why—I ask it with insistence—Why—prepare to be appalled—Why "$2.85 Long Distance"That I never called?
When I call thee, "They don't answer"Tells me Central. (Oh, the crime!)Then thou sayest, thou Romancer,"Been here all the time!"
Tyrant trim and telephonic,Christmas offerings to thee?Pardon if I seem laconic:Not a single c.
Prince of the parlour tonsorial,Knight of the razor and shears,Who have from time immemorialSnipped it too short round the ears—
You with your long academicalCauses for "thinning on top,"Selling me gallons of chemicalTonic, a brush, and a strop;
You with your sad comicality,You with your bum badinage—Confound your congeniality!Confound your "Facial Massage?"
Still, though you shave contragrainious,[Footnote: Well, there ought to be.]Healing the cut with a lime,Don't I, quite nice and spontaneous,Daily contribute a dime?
Mountain of foreign servility,Butcher of chin and of lip.Maugre your marked inability,Do I not fall for the tip?
Hope you at Christmas for currency,Fiend of tonsorial tricks?Never was greater aberrancy—Coarsely I say to you, "Nix!"
Lo, the West Indian! whose untutored mindTo Christmas giving makes me disinclined,Who tellest callers I have moved awayAnd mixest up the morning mail each day.When for thine elevator car I ringThou telephonest or some other thing;While, when I ask for Byrant Eighty-four,Thou'rt busy somewhere on the seventh floor—I wish thee from my soul all Christmas joy,But not a cent, O Elevator Boy!
Ballade of a Hardy Annual
Many a jest that refuses to dieBobs up again as the seasons appear;Deathless it hits us again in the eye—Changeless and dull as the calendar year.Musty and mouldy and yellow and sere,Stronger, withal, than the sturdiest oak;Ancient and solemn and deadly and drear—Down with the grandmother-funeral joke!
Soon as the snow has forgotten to fly,All through the day of the "leathery sphere,"Jokelets and pictures and verses we spyAll on the theme of the grandmother dear.Bonnets, umbrellas, and buckets of beerPlease us and tickle us quite to the choke.But—on this matter our attitude's clear—Down with the grandmother-funeral joke!
Giggle we can at a blueberry pie;Scream at a comedy king or ameer;Simply guffaw when the jestermen guyMarriage, a thing at which no one should jeer.Things that in others elicit a tearAll of our risibles simply unyoke;But from this stand we're unwilling to veer:Down with the grandmother-funeral joke!
Brothers in motley, the season is here;Small is the boon that we sadly invoke:Butcher it, murder it, jump on its ear!—Down with the grandmother-funeral joke!
A Plea
Writers of baseball, attention!When you're again on the job—When, in your rage for invention,You with the language play hob—Most of your dope we will pardon,Though of the moth ball it smack;But—cut out the "sinister garden,"Chop the "initial sack."
Rake poor old Roget's "Thesaurus"For phrases fantastic and queer;And though on occasions you bore us,We will refrain from a sneer.We will endeavour to hardenOurselves to the rest of your clack,If you'll cut out the "sinister garden"And chop the "initial sack."
Singers of words that are scrambled,Say, if you will, that he "died,"Write, if you must, that he "ambled"—We shall be last to deride.But us to the Forest of Arden,Along with the misanthrope Jaques,If you cling to the "sinister garden"And stick to "initial sack."
Speak of the "sphere's aberration,"Mention the "leathery globe,"Say he got "free transportation"—Though that try the patience of Job.But if you're wise you'll discard en-Cumbrances such as we thwack—Especially "sinister garden"And the "initial sack."
Footlight Motifs
Staccato, hurried, nervous, brisk,Cascading, intermittent, choppy,The brittle voice of Mrs. FiskeShall serve me now as copy.Assist me, O my Muse, what timeI pen a bit of Deathless Rhyme!
Time was, when first that voice I heard,Despite my close and tense endeavour,When many an important wordWas lost and gone forever;Though, unlike others at the play,I never whispered: "wha'd'd she say?"
Some words she runstogetherso;Some others are distinctly stated;Some cometoofast and s o m e t o o s l o wAnd some are syncopated.And yet no voice—I am sincere—Exists that I prefer to hear.
For what is called "intelligence"By every Mrs. Fiskeian criticAs usual is just a senseOf humour, analytic.So any time I'm glad to friskTwo bones to witness Mrs. Fiske.
Olga Nethersole
I like little Olga,Her plays are so warm;And if I don't see 'em,They'll do me no harm.
My Puritan trainingHas kept me from goingTo dramas in whichLittle Olga was showing.
But I like little Olga,Her art is so warm;And if I don't see herShe'll do me no harm.
Ballade of the Average Reader
I try to touch the public taste,For thus I earn my daily bread.I try to write what folks will pasteIn scrap books after I am dead.By Public Craving I am led.(I' sooth, a most despotic leader)Yet, though I write for Tom and Ned,I've never seen an average reader.
The Editor is good and chaste,But says: (Above the public's head;This istoogood; 'twill go to waste.Write something commonplacer—Ed.)Write for the average reader, fedBy pre-digested near-food's feeder,But though my high ideals have fled,I've neverseenan average reader.
How many lines have been erased!How many fancies have been shed!How many failures might be tracedTo this—this average-reader dread!I've seen an average single bed;I've seen an average garden-weeder;I've seen an average cotton thread—I'veneverseen an averagereader.
Most read of readers, if you've readThe works of any old succeeder,You know that he, too, must have said:"I've never seen an Average Reader."
Poesy's Guerdon
( * * * I do not believe a single modern English poet is living to-day on the current proceeds of his verse.—From "Literary Taste and How to Form it," by Arnold Bennett.)
What time I pen the Mighty LineSuffused with the spark divineAs who should say: "By George! That's fine!"
Indignantly do I denyThe words of Arnold Bennett. Why,Is this not English verse? say I.
And by the proceeds of that verse—Such as,e. g., these little terc-Ets—is not filled the family purse?
Do we not live on what I sell,Sonnet, ballade, and villanelle?
* * *
"We do," She says, "and none too well."
Signal Service
Time-table! Terrible and hardTo figure! At some station lonelyWe see this sign upon the card:[Footnote Asterisk: Train 20: Stops on signal only.]
We read thee wrong; the untrained eyeDoes not see always with precision.The train we thought to travel by[Footnote Dagger: Runs only on North-west division.]
Again, undaunted, we look atThe hieroglyphs, and as a rule aSmall double dagger shows us that[Footnote SmallDoubleDagger: Train does not stop at Ashtabula.]
And when we take a certain lineOn Tues., Wednes., Thurs., Fri., Sat., orMonday,We're certain to detect the sign:[Footnote SectionMark: $10 extra fare ex. Sunday. ]
Heck Junction—Here she comes! Fft! Whiz!A scurry—and the train has flitted!Again we look. We find it—viz.,[Footnote DoubleBar: Train does not stop where time omitted.]
Through hieroglyphic seas we wade—Print is so cold and so unfeeling.The train we wait at Neverglade[Footnote Paragraph: Connects with C. & A. at Wheeling.]