Here’s to the floor,
Our best friend of all,
Who sticks to us close
In the time of our fall.
When benches are fickle
And tables betray
And rugs are revolving,
He meets us half-way.
Our stay and support,
When we can’t stand alone,
With the floor for a backer,
We’ll never be thrown.
Here’s to our friend,
In life’s every stage!
Dry nurse of infancy,
Wet nurse of age!
A health to our floor!
Supporter and stay;
Though he often be full,
May he never give way!
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To
Music
Here’s to Music,
Joy of joys!
One man’s music’s
Another man’s noise.
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TO THE Publisher!—Drink!
Let his virtue be shown
In the Good Works of others
If not in his own.
TO
THE PUBLISHER
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Here’s looking
at you, dear!
though I should pour
A sea of wine,
my eyes would
thirst for more.
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HERE’S to the Dove of Peace!
May she find a mate some day,
And may her tribe increase
As fast as she can lay!
WITH cooing doves galore
Then may the sky be dark
Until the Dogs of War
Can’t see each other bark!
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Here’s to the Clock!
Whose hands, we pray heaven,
When we come home at three,
Have stopped at eleven!
TO
THE CLOCK
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Here’s to Hope,
the child of Care,
And pretty sister
of Despair!
Here’s hoping that
Hope’s children shan’t
Take after their Grandma
or Aunt!
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To Liberty
Here’s to our Goddess, Liberty,
Idol of bronze and stone!
May she awake to life some day
And let her charms be known.
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Stairs
a toast
Here’s to the man who
invented stairs
And taught our feet
to soar!
He was the first who
ever burst
Into a second floor.
The world would be
downstairs to-day
Had he not found
the key;
So let his name go
down to fame,
Whatever it may be.
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To
Our Lady Nicotine
Here’s to Lady Nicotine!
Saint and Sorceress
and Queen!
Saint, whose purple
halo rings
Lift our eyes from
earthly things;
Witch, whose wand of
scented briar
Transmutes dead weeds
to fragrant fire;
Queen, whose rod her slaves adore!
What can freedom offer more?
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OH, EDITOR, EDITOR,
Awful and grand,
Who holdest our fate
In the palm of thy hand,
Dost ever reflect
How one day thy ghost
To an Editor awf’ler
And grander will post?
Before him a great
Golden scroll is spread wide,
And a bottomless waste-basket
Yawns at his side.
With a swift searching glance
He reads through thy soul,
Then he looks at the basket,
Then looks at the scroll;
He purses his lips
And nibbles his pen,
And frowns for one long
Awful moment—and then—
Oh, Editor!—think! if thy
Poor crumpled soul
Fall into the basket
And not in the scroll!
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To
The Creditor
Here’s to the Creditor,
Long may he reign!
May his Faith never waver,
His Trust never wane.
May the Lord make him gentle
And gracious and gay,
Yet quick to resent
The least offer of pay:
May he soften his heart
As he softened, we’re told,
To the Israelite’s ‘touch,’
The Egyptian of old;
And when on his last
Long account he shall look,
The angel will say
As he closes the book:
“The Lord gives you Credit
For Credit you gave”!
So here’s to the Creditor—
Long may he waive.
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To
Neptune
A health to King Neptune,
The boss of the wave!
Who sits on the Ocean
And makes it behave.
Come fill up your bumpers
And take a long pull!
When he’s calm he’s not dry—
When he rolls, he’s not full.
Whether sober or rough,
He’s always a sport,
And we’ll never stop toasting him
Till we’re in port.
A jolly old salt,
Though he smile or he frown.
So here’s to King Neptune!
Fill up! Drink her down!
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WE DRINK your health, O Waiter!
And may you be preserved
From old age, gout, or sudden death!—
At least till supper’s served.
TO
THE WAITER
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Here’s to temptation!
Give us strength and grace
Against her witching smile,
To set our face!
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Here’s to the maid
with Fancy Free;
If Cupid’s
necromancy
Imprison not
her heart, maybe,
It will arrest
her Fancy.
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To our Sweethearts and Wives,
The joy of our lives!
May our Wives be our Sweethearts—
Our Sweethearts, our Wives.
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To Our Readers
Here’s to our Readers, Health!
good Looks!
And Joy ad infinitum
And may they live to read
our Books
As long as we may write ’em.
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