Title: Tobogganing On Parnassus
Author: Franklin P. Adams
Edition: 10
Language: English
Juliet Sutherland, Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading
Team.
TOBOGGANING ON PARNASSUS
By FRANKLIN P. ADAMS
TO
BERT LESTON TAYLOR
GUIDE, PHILOSOPHER, BUT FRIEND
_If that these vagrant verses make
One heart more glad; if they but bring
A single smile, for that One's sake
I 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 voice
Should say "These verses polyglot
Are not so bad," I should rejoice;
But oh, my publishers would not!
* * * * *
And I, though shy and unanointed,
Should be a little disappointed._
CONTENTS
Us Poets
Rubber-Stamp Humour
The Simple Stuff
"Carpe Diem" or Cop The Day
That for Money!
Xanthias Jollied
Horace the Wise
Jealousy
To Be Quite Frank
R. S. V. P.
Advice
When Horace "Came Back"
Nix on the Fluffy Stuff
Catullus, Considerable Kisser
V. Catullus Explains
The Rich Man
To-night
Those Two Boys
Help! The Passionate Householder to His Love
The Servants
Our Dum'd Animals
A Soft Susurrus
A Summer Summary
A Quatrain
To a Light Housekeeper
How?
Ballade of the Breakfast Table
Ornithology
To Alice-Sit-By-the-Hour
To Alice-Sit-By-the-Hour (Second Idyl)
Notions
My Ladye's Eyen
To a Lady
"A Perfect Woman Nobly Planned"
An Ultimatum to Myrtilla
Love Gustatory
She Is Not Fair
To Myrtilla, Again
Myrtilla's Third Degree
To Myrtilla Complaining
Christmas Cards - To the Grocery Boy
To the Janitor
To the Waiter
To the Apartment House Telephone Girl
To the Barber
To the Hall and Elevator Boy
Ballade of a Hardy Annual
A Plea
Footlight Motifs—Mrs. Fiske
Footlight Motifs—Olga Nethersole
Ballade of the Average Reader
Poesy's Guerdon
Signal Service
Sporadic Fiction
Popular Ballad; "Never Forget Your Parents"
Ballade to a Lady (To Annabelle)
To a Thesaurus
The Ancient Lays
Erring in Company
The Limit
Chorus for Mixed Voices
The Translated Way
"And Yet It Is a Gentle Art."
Occasionally
Jim and Bill
When Nobody Listens
Office Mottoes
Metaphysics
Heads and Tails
An Election Night Pantoum
I Can Not Pay That Premium
Three Authors
To Quotation
Melodrama
A Poor Excuse, but Our Own
Monotonous Variety
The Amateur Botanist
A Word for It
The Poem Speaks
Bedbooks
A New York Child's Garden of Verses
Downward, Come Downward
Speaking of Hunting
The Flat Hunter's Way
Birds and Bards
A Wish—An Apartmental Ditty
The 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 then I slump 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 above
Were silent as the very grave;
If foreign counts were prone to save;
If tailors did not dun—
If automobiles always ran
As 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 cranks
On base-ball; if the selling price
Of meat and coal and eggs and ice
Would 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 came
To visit; if a foot-ball game
Were mild and harmless sport;
If all the Presidential news
Were colourless; if there were men
At every mountain, sea-side, glen,
River and lake resort—
If every girl were fair of face;
If women did not fear to get
Their 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
AD PUERUM
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
AD LEUCONOEN
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 we
are gone away;
Try not to read the Final Page, the ending
colophonian,
Trust not the gypsy's tea-leaves, nor the
prophets Babylonian.
Better to have what is to come enshrouded
in obscurity
Than to be certain of the sort and length of
our futurity.
Why, even as I monologue on wisdom and
longevity
How Time has flown! Spear some of it!
The longest life is brevity.
That For Money!
AD C. SALLUSTIUM CRISPUM
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 encumber
Mother Earth"—I've got your number.
Why is Proculeius known
From Elmira to Malone?
For his money? Don't upset me!
For his love of folks—you get me?
Choke the Rockefeller yen
For the clink of iron men!
Happiness it will not mint us,
Take it from your Uncle Quintus.
Fancy food and wealthy drink
Raise Gehenna with a gink;
Pastry, terrapin, and cheeses
Bring on gout and swell diseases.
Phraates upon the throne
Old King Cyrus used to own
Fails to hoodwink or deceive me,
Cyrus was some king, believe me!
Get me right: a man's-size prince
Knows that money is a quince.
When they see the Yellow Taffy,
Reg'lar Princes don't go daffy.
Xanthias Jollied
AD XANTHIAM PHOCEUM
Horace: Book II, Ode 4.
"Ne sit ancillae tibi amor pudori."
Nay, Xanthias, feel unashamed
That she you love is but a servant.
Remember, lovers far more famed
Were just as fervent.
Achilles loved the pretty slave
Briseis for her fair complexion;
And to Tecmessa Ajax gave
His young affection.
Why, Agamemnon at the height
Of 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 set
Is lowly—that she is not of
The Roman smart set?
A maiden modest as is she,
So full of sweetness and forbearance,
Must be all right; her folks must be
Delightful 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 years
Is over forty.
Horace the Wise
AD PYRRHAM
Horace: Book I, Ode 5.
"Quis multa gracilis te puer in rosa"
What lady-like youth in his wild aberrations
Is 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 song
writers to this. The translation is literal
enough—"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
AD LYDIAM
Horace: Book I., Ode 13.
"Quem tu, Lydia, Telephi Cervicem roseam, cerea Telephi—"
What time thou yearnest for the arms
Of Telephus, I fain would twist 'em;
When thou dost praise his other charms
It just upsets my well-known system;
My brain is like a three-ring circus,
In short, it gets my capra hircus.
My reason reels, my cheeks grow pale,
My heart becomes unduly spiteful,
My verses in the Evening Mail
Are 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 those
Whose 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
IN CHLORIN
Horace: Book III, Ode 15.
"Uxor pauperis Ibyci—"
Your conduct, naughty Chloris, is
Not just exactly Horace's
Ideal of a lady
At the shady
Time of life;
You mustn't throw your soul away
On 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 another
In which mother
Shouldn't mix;
But revels Bacchanalian
Are—or should be—quite alien
To you a married person,
Something worse'n
Forty-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 things
That keep you from parental things—
The World, the Flesh, the Devil,
On the level,
Cut 'em out!
R.S.V.P.
AD PHYLLIDEM
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' birthday
13th 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 with
Some 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
AD ARIUSTUM FUSCUM
I
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 rest
There'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 scare
Into 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 bear
Came 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!
II
Fuscus, my friend, take it from me—
I know the world and what it's made of—
One on the square has naught to be
Afraid of.
The Moorish bows and javelins? Nope.
Such deadly things need not alarm him.
Why, even arrows dipped in dope
Can'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 not
Come near me!
Ah, set me on the sunless plain,
In China, Norway, or Matanzas,
Ay, place me anywhere from Maine
To Kansas.
Still of my Lalage I'll sing,
Where'er the Fates may chance to drop me;
And nobody nor anything
Shall stop me.
When Horace "Came Back"
CARMEN AMOEBAEUM
I
Horace: Book III, Ode 9.
"Donec gratus eram tibi—"
HORACE
When I was your stiddy, my loveliest Lyddy,
And you my embraceable she,
In joys and diversions, the king of the Persians
Had nothing on me.
LYDIA
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 Roman
Was happier than I.
HORACE
Ah, Chloe the Thracian—whose sweet modulation
Of voice as she lilts to the lyre
Is sweeter and fairer? Would but the Fates spare her
I'd love to expire.
LYDIA
Tush! Calais claims me and wholly inflames me,
He pesters me never with rhymes;
If they should spare Cally, I'd perish to_tal_ly
A couple of times.
HORACE
Suppose my affection in Lyddy's direction
Returned; that I gave the good-by
To Chloe the golden, and back to the olden?—
I pause for reply.
LYDIA
Cheer up, mine ensnarer! Be Calais fairer
Than stars, be you blustery and base,
I'll love you, adore you; in brief, I am for you
All over the place.
II
HORACE
What time I was your one best bet
And no one passed the wire before me,
Dear Lyddy, I cannot forget
How 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 than
A Persian.
LYDIA
Correct. As long as you were not
So 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.
HORACE
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.
LYDIA
Now Calais, the handsome son
Of old Ornitus, has me going;
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 twice
To save him.
HORACE
Suppose I'm gone on you again,
Suppose I've got ingrown affection
For you; I sort of wonder, then,
If you'd have any great objection.
Suppose I pass this Chloe up
And say:"Go roll your hoop, I'm rid o' ye!"
Would that drop sweetness in your cup?
Eh, Lydia?
LYDIA
Why, say—though he's fair as a star,
And you are like a cork, erratic
And light—and though I know you are
As blustery as the Adriatic,
I think I'd rather live with you
Or die with you, I swear to gracious.
So I will be your Mrs. Q.
Horatius.
Nix On the Fluffy Stuff
AD CYNTHIAM
Propertius: Book I, Elegy 2.
"Quid iuvat ornato procedere, vita, capillo
Et tenues Coa veste movere sinus?"
Why, my love, the yellow trinkets
In your tresses' purer gold?
Why the Syrian perfume? Think it's
Nice to be thus aureoled?
Why the silken robes that rustle?
Why the pigment on the map?
Think you all that fume and fuss'll
Ever 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 Phoebe
For no bought or borrowed wile;
Hillaira—wasn't she be-
Loved without excessive style?
Hippodamia slaved no fashions—
All that braver, elder time
Is replete with simple passions
Difficult 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 merely
Cut the frivol out.
Catullus, Considerable Kisser
(A Pasteurization of Ode VII.)
How many kisses, Lesbia, miss, you ask would
be enough for me?
I cannot sum the total number; nay, that were
too tough for me.
The sands that o'er Cyrene's shore lie sweetly
odoriferous,
The stars that sprent the firmament when
overly stelliferous—
Come, Lezzy, please add all of these, until the
whole amount of 'em
Will sorely vex the rubbernecks attempting
to keep count of 'em.
V. Catullus Explains
ODE LXXXV: AD LESBIAM
Hark thou, my Lesbia, there be none existent
Can truly say she hath been loved by me
As thou hast been. No faith is more consistent
Than 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 devotion
And 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 cigar
And 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-beat
Its 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 the Banquet 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 with
The heart you picture—incandescent, white.
We must confess that you have made a hit with
Us 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 seven
To-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 grew
He 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 him
And that Jim would amount to a lot.
And Jim grew to manhood and honour and fame
And 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 brook
That German, Irish, Swede, and Slav
And all the dear domestics have.
And you shall sit upon the stoop
What 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 spuds
You'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 ticks
And 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 gone
May help you with those to come.
Norah, she landed from Dublin,
Green as acushla machree;
Norah was willing and anxious
To 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 lovely
Until—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 worry
And trouble and bother and fuss—
When you answer an ad., think of those we have had
And learn about servants from us.
Our Dum'd Animals
What time I seek my virtuous couch to steal
Some 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 log
Were harder far than falling off to sleep;
But that was ere my neighbour's gentle dog
Began to think he was defending sheep.
From twelve to two his barking and his howling
Accompanies two torn cats' nightly yowling.
At two-ten sharp the parrot in the flat
Across 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 endure
Such a torrid temperature?
Be it hotter than the flames
South Gehenna Junction claims,
If it be not so to me,
What care I how hot it be?
Shall I say I love the town
Praised by Robinson and Browne?
Shall I say, "In summer heat
Old Manhattan can't be beat?"
Be it luring as a bar,
Or my neighbour's motor-car,
If I think it is pazziz
What care I how fine it is?
Shall I prate of rural joys
Far from civic smoke and noise?
Shall I, like the others, drool
"But the nights are always cool?"
If I hate to rise at six
Shall 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 should
Take 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 livest
Just across the way,
If a hang thou givest
What the people say,
If a cuss thou carest
What a poet thinks—
Hearken, if thou darest,
Most immodest minx!
Though thy gloves thou tiest,
To the curtain string,
Though the things thou driest
Gird me while I sing,
Hankies and inventions
Of the lacy tribe—
Things I may not mention,
Let alone describe.
These I mutely stand for
Though the sight offend,
THIS I reprimand for;
Take it from a friend:
Cease to pin thy tresses
To 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 soprano
Singing: "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 of
beauty?
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 seat
Comes 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?
L'ENVOI
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 birds
Is a bunch of etymology,
Just a lot of high—flown words.
Is the curlew an uxorial
Bird? The Latin name for crow?
Is the bulfinch grallatorial?
I dunno.
O'er my head no golden gloriole
Ever shall be proudly set
For my knowledge of the oriole,
Eagle, ibis, or egrette.
I know less about the tanager
And its hopes and fears and aims
Than a busy Broadway manager
Does of James.
But, despite my incapacity
On 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 at
What I know not, though ye mock,
Birdies wake me every morning at
Four 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 find
In the "High Cash Cloe's!" man's holler, in the hurdy—gurdy grind.
Are your Spanish castles blue prints? Are you waiting for a knight
To 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 you
Crave 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 no
Sign 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 no
Way 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 about
Seems to be any one other than you;
Therefore, Myrtilla, I'm penning to-night about
Twelve 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 theme
Of singing to a ladye's eyen whiche maken them to dreme,
And through ye blessed hours of slepe—thilk eyen or browne or blue
Doe 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 glowed
Warmer than chill appreciation—
If they should lengthen to an "Ode
On Fascination—"
If I should cast this cold restraint,
Nor dam this pen's o'ereager flowing—
If but your portrait I should paint
In 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 objection
To your building laws.
You are five one-and-a-quarter,
And your girth is thirty-three—
Myrtie, you're a little shorter
Than you ought to be.
It is far from my intentions
Your proportions to describe,
Briefly, Myrtie, your dimensions
Do not seem to jibe.
Farewell, Myrt, for Ethelisa
Seems to be my certain fate,
Stupid? Silly? Sure, but she's a
Perfect 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 head
With 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 lid
You 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 hat
If you promise this, Myrtillie:
Wear your lacebelows and fluffs;
Wear the awfullest creations—
But—omit the stylish puffs
And the vogueish transformations.
Myrt, if you inflate your hair
I 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 fault
Like that with just a grain of salt.
And, sweetest maid in all New York,
When all ungracefully you pierce
The toothsome oyster with your fork
I 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 where
It 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 feel
Toward you, dear Tillie, quite the same
Since I have seen you on the job
Of eating corn—corn on the cob.
She Is Not Fair
"She is not fair to outward view";
No beauty hers of form or face
She hath no witchery, 'tis true,
No grace.
Nor pretty wit, nor well-stored mind,
Nor azure eyes, nor golden hair
Hath 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 you
Obstructs my cold, unbiased view,
And keeps me from
My hard though hum-
Ble task,
I do not murmur nor complain
I do not ululate nor feign
A love for vin
Or what is in
A flask.
When, as I said in stanza first,
My mind is thoroughly immersed
With you until
My pulses thrill
And throb,
I don't, in tones more picturesque
Than journalistic, slam my desk,
And in a fit
Of frenzy quit
My job.
When, as I may have said before,
Your image I can not ignore,
I do not tear
My thinning hair
Nor cuss;
I leave such sentimental show
To bards like Shelley, Keats, and Poe
I merely spill
Some 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 desire
To 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 underline
Most 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 pie
Unalterably 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 you
Ever would speak to me, sweet, in that tone.
Myrtie, you say that my poems are penned to you
Only 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
I
TO THE GROCERY BOY
Before you send me up that card
With rime and diction far from subtle,
Hear what a now rebellious bard
Says 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 tea
To us, while ours goes to the neighbours,
And yet you dare demand from me
Reward for inefficient labours!
You who but lately made me hit
My 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.
II
TO THE JANITOR
Sullen, surly Scandinave,
Smoking on a pipe,
Valiantly I cast the glave
At thee and thy type.
Person of the shakeless grouch
Tamperer with the cream,
Idler, lounger, sloven, slouch
Despot of the steam—
Thou who bangest garbage cans
In the hollow court,
Thou whose children spin tin pans
Deeming it is sport—
Tyrant of the tenement,
Take thy card and flee!
Not a nickel, not a cent
Dost thou get from me.
III
TO THE WAITER
O waiter, will you tell me why
You think to get at Christmas time
A five-case note, for do not I
Slip 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 fuss
And 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.
IV
TO THE APARTMENT HOUSE TELEPHONE GIRL
Proud, imperious female person
That presideth o'er my 'phone,
Hearken while I do some verse on
Thee, and thee alone.
Puffed and pompadoured and ratted,
Reading Munsey's all 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.
V
TO THE BARBER
Prince of the parlour tonsorial,
Knight of the razor and shears,
Who have from time immemorial
Snipped it too short round the ears—
You with your long academical
Causes for "thinning on top,"
Selling me gallons of chemical
Tonic, 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!"
VI
TO THE HALL-AND-ELEVATOR-BOY
Lo, the West Indian! whose untutored mind
To Christmas giving makes me disinclined,
Who tellest callers I have moved away
And mixest up the morning mail each day.
When for thine elevator car I ring
Thou 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 die
Bobs 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 spy
All on the theme of the grandmother dear.
Bonnets, umbrellas, and buckets of beer
Please 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 guy
Marriage, a thing at which no one should jeer.
Things that in others elicit a tear
All of our risibles simply unyoke;
But from this stand we're unwilling to veer:
Down with the grandmother-funeral joke!
L'ENVOI
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 harden
Ourselves 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
I
MRS. FISKE
Staccato, hurried, nervous, brisk,
Cascading, intermittent, choppy,
The brittle voice of Mrs. Fiske
Shall serve me now as copy.
Assist me, O my Muse, what time
I pen a bit of Deathless Rhyme!
Time was, when first that voice I heard,
Despite my close and tense endeavour,
When many an important word
Was 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 w
And 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 critic
As usual is just a sense
Of humour, analytic.
So any time I'm glad to frisk
Two bones to witness Mrs. Fiske.
II
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 training
Has kept me from going
To dramas in which
Little Olga was showing.
But I like little Olga,
Her art is so warm;
And if I don't see her
She'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 paste
In 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 is too good; 'twill go to waste.
Write something commonplacer—
Ed.)
Write for the average reader, fed
By pre-digested near-food's feeder,
But though my high ideals have fled,
I've never seen an average reader.
How many lines have been erased!
How many fancies have been shed!
How many failures might be traced
To 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've never seen an average reader.
L'ENVOI
Most read of readers, if you've read
The 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 Line
Suffused with the spark divine
As who should say: "By George! That's fine!"
Indignantly do I deny
The 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 hard
To figure! At some station lonely
We see this sign upon the card:
[Footnote Asterisk: Train 20: Stops on signal only.]
We read thee wrong; the untrained eye
Does not see always with precision.
The train we thought to travel by
[Footnote Dagger: Runs only on North-west division.]
