  A MADRIGALHow 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 LOOKINGHe 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 he Stared at them through a magnifying prism. For he was but an oculist, and she Was being treated for astigmatism. WHEN THE PIPE GOES OUTA maiden's heart, And sighs profuse, A father's foot, And—what's the use? A PARADOXDan 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 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 SLAPSTICKWhy 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 then The slapstick's bust in half! (Curtain) IL PENSEROSOLove'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 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 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! FINISThere 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 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 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 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. 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 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. 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 |
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