OTHER VERSES

A MADRIGAL

How can I choose but love you,Maid of the witching smile?Your eyes are as blue as the skies above you;How can I choose but love you, love you,You and your witching smile?For the red of your lips is the red of the rose,And the white of your brows is the white of the snows,And the gold of your hair is the splendor that glowsWhen the sun gilds the east at morn.And the blue of your eyesIs the blue of the skiesOf an orient day new-born;And your smile has a charm that is balm to the soul,And your pa has a bar'l and a many-plunk roll,So how can I choose but love you, love you,Love you, love you, love you?

How can I choose but love you,

Maid of the witching smile?

Your eyes are as blue as the skies above you;

How can I choose but love you, love you,

You and your witching smile?

For the red of your lips is the red of the rose,

And the white of your brows is the white of the snows,

And the gold of your hair is the splendor that glows

When the sun gilds the east at morn.

And the blue of your eyes

Is the blue of the skies

Of an orient day new-born;

And your smile has a charm that is balm to the soul,

And your pa has a bar'l and a many-plunk roll,

So how can I choose but love you, love you,

Love you, love you, love you?

A BALLAD OF LOOKING

He looked into her eyes, and there he sawNo trace of that bright gleam which poets sayComes from the faery orb of love's sweet day,No blushing coyness causes her to withdrawHer gaze from his. He looked and yet he knewNo joy, no whirling numbness of the brain,No quickening heart-beat. Then he looked again,And once again, unblushing, she looked too.He looked into her eyes—with interest heStared at them through a magnifying prism.For he was but an oculist, and sheWas being treated for astigmatism.

He looked into her eyes, and there he saw

No trace of that bright gleam which poets say

Comes from the faery orb of love's sweet day,

No blushing coyness causes her to withdraw

Her gaze from his. He looked and yet he knew

No joy, no whirling numbness of the brain,

No quickening heart-beat. Then he looked again,

And once again, unblushing, she looked too.

He looked into her eyes—with interest heStared at them through a magnifying prism.For he was but an oculist, and sheWas being treated for astigmatism.

He looked into her eyes—with interest he

Stared at them through a magnifying prism.

For he was but an oculist, and she

Was being treated for astigmatism.

A maiden's heart,And sighs profuse,A father's foot,And—what's the use?

A maiden's heart,

And sighs profuse,

A father's foot,

And—what's the use?

A PARADOX

Dan Cupyd drewe hys lyttle bowe,And strayght ye arrowe from it flewe,Although its course was rather lowe,I thought 'twould pass above my heade—In stature I am shorte, you knowe.But soone upon my breast a stayneOf blood appeared, and showed ye markeWhereat ye boy god tooke hys aime;I staggered, groaned and then—I smyled!Egad! it was a pleasante payne!

Dan Cupyd drewe hys lyttle bowe,And strayght ye arrowe from it flewe,Although its course was rather lowe,I thought 'twould pass above my heade—In stature I am shorte, you knowe.

Dan Cupyd drewe hys lyttle bowe,

And strayght ye arrowe from it flewe,

Although its course was rather lowe,

I thought 'twould pass above my heade—

In stature I am shorte, you knowe.

But soone upon my breast a stayneOf blood appeared, and showed ye markeWhereat ye boy god tooke hys aime;I staggered, groaned and then—I smyled!Egad! it was a pleasante payne!

But soone upon my breast a stayne

Of blood appeared, and showed ye marke

Whereat ye boy god tooke hys aime;

I staggered, groaned and then—I smyled!

Egad! it was a pleasante payne!

THE SONG OF THE SLAPSTICK

Why is a hen? (Kerflop!) Haw, haw!Toot, goes the slide trombone;Why is a hen? (And a swat in the jaw!)And the ushers laugh alone.Why is a—(Bang!)—is a—(Biff!) Ho, ho!Boom! goes the sad French horn;Why is a hen? (Kerflop!) Do you know?—And the paid admissions mourn!Vhy iss a hen? Yes? No? (Kerflop?)Bang! goes the man at the drum;Vhy iss a hen? (And a knock at the top!)And the press agent's stricken dumb;Vhy iss a—(Thud!)—iss a—(Flop!)—iss a hen?Hark! how the supers laugh!Vhy iss a—(Bing! Bang! Boom!)—and thenThe slapstick's bust in half!(Curtain)

Why is a hen? (Kerflop!) Haw, haw!

Toot, goes the slide trombone;

Why is a hen? (And a swat in the jaw!)

And the ushers laugh alone.

Why is a—(Bang!)—is a—(Biff!) Ho, ho!

Boom! goes the sad French horn;

Why is a hen? (Kerflop!) Do you know?—

And the paid admissions mourn!

Vhy iss a hen? Yes? No? (Kerflop?)Bang! goes the man at the drum;Vhy iss a hen? (And a knock at the top!)And the press agent's stricken dumb;Vhy iss a—(Thud!)—iss a—(Flop!)—iss a hen?Hark! how the supers laugh!Vhy iss a—(Bing! Bang! Boom!)—and thenThe slapstick's bust in half!(Curtain)

Vhy iss a hen? Yes? No? (Kerflop?)

Bang! goes the man at the drum;

Vhy iss a hen? (And a knock at the top!)

And the press agent's stricken dumb;

Vhy iss a—(Thud!)—iss a—(Flop!)—iss a hen?

Hark! how the supers laugh!

Vhy iss a—(Bing! Bang! Boom!)—and then

The slapstick's bust in half!

(Curtain)

IL PENSEROSO

Love's song is sung in ragtime nowAnd kisses sweet are syncopated joys,The tender sign, the melancholy moan,The soft reproach and yearning up-turned gazeHave passed into the caves without the gatesAnd in their place, to serve love's purposes,Bold profanations from the music hallsAre working overtime.In days of old the amorous swain would sighAnd say unto his lady love the whileHe pressed her to his heaving low-cut vest,“Dost love me, sweet?” And she, with many a blush,Would softly answer, “Yes, my cavalier!”Now to his girl the ragtime lover says,The while he strums his marked-down mandolin“Is you ma lady love?” and she, his girl,Makes answer thus: “Ah is!”Gadzooks! it makes me sad! I see the doomOf Cupid, and upon the battered airI hear a rumor floating. It is this:That when the boy god shuffles to the grave'Tis Syncopated Sambo that will getHis job!* * * * *Ah, me! What sadness resteth on my soul!

Love's song is sung in ragtime now

And kisses sweet are syncopated joys,

The tender sign, the melancholy moan,

The soft reproach and yearning up-turned gaze

Have passed into the caves without the gates

And in their place, to serve love's purposes,

Bold profanations from the music halls

Are working overtime.

In days of old the amorous swain would sighAnd say unto his lady love the whileHe pressed her to his heaving low-cut vest,“Dost love me, sweet?” And she, with many a blush,Would softly answer, “Yes, my cavalier!”Now to his girl the ragtime lover says,The while he strums his marked-down mandolin“Is you ma lady love?” and she, his girl,Makes answer thus: “Ah is!”

In days of old the amorous swain would sigh

And say unto his lady love the while

He pressed her to his heaving low-cut vest,

“Dost love me, sweet?” And she, with many a blush,

Would softly answer, “Yes, my cavalier!”

Now to his girl the ragtime lover says,

The while he strums his marked-down mandolin

“Is you ma lady love?” and she, his girl,

Makes answer thus: “Ah is!”

Gadzooks! it makes me sad! I see the doomOf Cupid, and upon the battered airI hear a rumor floating. It is this:That when the boy god shuffles to the grave'Tis Syncopated Sambo that will getHis job!

Gadzooks! it makes me sad! I see the doom

Of Cupid, and upon the battered air

I hear a rumor floating. It is this:

That when the boy god shuffles to the grave

'Tis Syncopated Sambo that will get

His job!

* * * * *

Ah, me! What sadness resteth on my soul!

FINIS

There was a man that delved in the earthFor glittering gems and gold,And whatever lay hidden that seemed of worthHe carefully seized and sold;So his days were long and his store was great,And ever for more he sighed,'Till kings bowed down and he ruled in state—And after awhile he died.Oh, blithesome and shrill the wails resound!Oh, gaily his children moan!And the end of it all was a hole in the groundAnd a scratch on a crumbling stone.There was a man that fought for the right,And never a friend had he,'Till after the dark there dawned the lightAnd the world could know and see;Oh, long was the fight and comfortless,But great was the fighter's pride,And a victor he rose from the storm and stress—And after awhile he died.Oh, great was the fame but newly foundOf the man that fought alone!And the end of it all was a hole in the groundAnd a scratch on a crumbling stone.There was a man that dreamed a dream,And his pen it served his brain;And great was his art and great his themeAnd long was his laurelled reign;But after awhile the world forgotAnd his work was pushed aside,(For to serve and wait is the mortal lot)And then, in the end, he died.Oh! brown on his brow were the bays that boundAnd far was his glory flown!And the end of it all was a hole in the groundAnd a scratch on a crumbling stone.

There was a man that delved in the earth

For glittering gems and gold,

And whatever lay hidden that seemed of worth

He carefully seized and sold;

So his days were long and his store was great,

And ever for more he sighed,

'Till kings bowed down and he ruled in state—

And after awhile he died.

Oh, blithesome and shrill the wails resound!Oh, gaily his children moan!And the end of it all was a hole in the groundAnd a scratch on a crumbling stone.

Oh, blithesome and shrill the wails resound!

Oh, gaily his children moan!

And the end of it all was a hole in the ground

And a scratch on a crumbling stone.

There was a man that fought for the right,And never a friend had he,'Till after the dark there dawned the lightAnd the world could know and see;Oh, long was the fight and comfortless,But great was the fighter's pride,And a victor he rose from the storm and stress—And after awhile he died.

There was a man that fought for the right,

And never a friend had he,

'Till after the dark there dawned the light

And the world could know and see;

Oh, long was the fight and comfortless,

But great was the fighter's pride,

And a victor he rose from the storm and stress—

And after awhile he died.

Oh, great was the fame but newly foundOf the man that fought alone!And the end of it all was a hole in the groundAnd a scratch on a crumbling stone.

Oh, great was the fame but newly found

Of the man that fought alone!

And the end of it all was a hole in the ground

And a scratch on a crumbling stone.

There was a man that dreamed a dream,And his pen it served his brain;And great was his art and great his themeAnd long was his laurelled reign;But after awhile the world forgotAnd his work was pushed aside,(For to serve and wait is the mortal lot)And then, in the end, he died.

There was a man that dreamed a dream,

And his pen it served his brain;

And great was his art and great his theme

And long was his laurelled reign;

But after awhile the world forgot

And his work was pushed aside,

(For to serve and wait is the mortal lot)

And then, in the end, he died.

Oh! brown on his brow were the bays that boundAnd far was his glory flown!And the end of it all was a hole in the groundAnd a scratch on a crumbling stone.

Oh! brown on his brow were the bays that bound

And far was his glory flown!

And the end of it all was a hole in the ground

And a scratch on a crumbling stone.

DONE INTO TYPE AND PRINTED BY MARSHALL, BEEK & GORDON IN THE CITY OF BALTIMORE AND ON THE THIRD FLOOR OF THE TELEGRAM BUILDING, NORTH AND BALTIMORE STREET CROSSINGANNO DOMINI MCMIII

250Copies Of ThisFacsimile Edition OfVentures Into VerseHave Been Printed ForSmith's Book StoreBaltimore 1, MarylandThis Is Copy No.247

250

Copies Of This

Facsimile Edition Of

Ventures Into Verse

Have Been Printed For

Smith's Book Store

Baltimore 1, Maryland

This Is Copy No.

247

TRANSCRIBER'S NOTESAdded Table of Contents on p.3.Corrected Isaaih to Isaiah on p.11.Silently corrected typographical errors.Retained anachronistic and non-standard spellings as printed.

TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES

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