  (La Fuite des Oies) TO outer senses they are geese, Dull drowsing by a weedy pool; But try the impression trick. Cool! Cool! Snow-slumbering sentinels of Peace! Deep silence on the shadowy flood, Save rare sharp stridence (that means "quack"), Low amber light in Ariel track Athwart the dun (that means the mud). And suddenly subsides the sun, Bulks mystic, ghostly, thrid the gloom (That means the white geese waddling home), And darkness reigns! (See how it's done?) Oscuro Wildgoose. NURSERY RHYMES À LA MODE(Our nurseries will soon be too cultured to admit the old rhymes in their Philistine and unÆsthetic garb. They may be redressed somewhat on this model) OH, but she was dark and shrill, (Hey-de-diddle and hey-de-dee!) The cat that (on the first April) Oh, and the moon was wan and bright, (Hey-de-diddle and hey-de-dee!) The Cow she looked nor left nor right, But took it straight at a jump, pardie! The hound did laugh to see this thing, (Hey-de-diddle and hey-de-dee!) As it was parlous wantoning, (Ah, good my gentles, laugh not ye,) And underneath a dreesome moon Two lovers fled right piteouslie; A spooney plate with a plated spoon, (Hey-de-diddle and hey-de-dee!) POSTSCRIPTThen blame me not, altho' my verse Sounds like an echo of C. S. C. Since still they make ballads that worse and worse Savor of diddle and hey-de-dee. Anonymous. A MAUDLE-IN BALLAD(To his Lily) MY lank limp lily, my long lithe lily, My languid lily-love fragile and thin, With dank leaves dangling and flower-flap chilly, That shines like the shin of a Highland gilly! Mottled and moist as a cold toad's skin! Lustrous and leper-white, splendid and splay! To my own wan soul and my own wan chin, And my own wan nose-tip, tilted to sway The peacock's feather, sweeter than sin, That I bought for a halfpenny yesterday? My long lithe lily, my languid lily, My lank limp lily-love, how shall I win— Woo thee to wink at me? Silver lily, How shall I sing to thee, softly or shrilly? What shall I weave for thee—what shall I spin— Rondel, or rondeau, or virelai? Shall I buzz like a bee with my face thrust in Thy choice, chaste chalice, or choose me a tin Trumpet, or touchingly, tenderly play On the weird bird-whistle, sweeter than sin, That I bought for a halfpenny yesterday. My languid lily, my lank limp lily, My long lithe lily-love, men may grin— Say that I'm soft and supremely silly— What care I while you whisper stilly; What care I while you smile? Not a pin! While you smile, you whisper—'Tis sweet to decay? I have watered with chlorodine, tears of chagrin, The churchyard mould I have planted thee in, Upside down in an intense way, In a rough red flower-pot, sweeter than sin, That I bought for a halfpenny yesterday. Punch. QUITE THE CHEESE(By a Wilde Æsthete) THERE was once a maiden who loved a cheese; Sing, hey! potatoes and paint! She could eat a pound and a half with ease Oh, the odorous air was faint! What was the cheese that she loved the best? Sing, hey, red pepper and rags! You will find it out if you read the rest; Oh, the horrors of frowning crags! Came lovers to woo her from every land— Sing, hey! fried bacon and files! They asked for her heart, but they meant her hand, Oh, the joy of the Happy Isles. A haughty old Don from Oporto came; Sing, hey! new carrots and nails! The Duke of Gorgonzola, his famous name, Oh, the lusciously-scented gales! Lord Stilton belonged to a mighty line! Sing, hey! salt herrings and stones! He was "Blue" as chine—his taste divine! Came stout Double Glo'ster—a man and wife, Sing, hey! post pillars and pies! And the son was Single, and fair as fate; Oh, the purple of sunset skies! De Camembert came from his sunny France, Sing, hey! pork cutlets and pearls! He would talk sweet nothings, and sing and dance, Oh, the sighs of the soft sweet girls. Came GruyÈre so pale! a most hole-y man! Sing, hey! red sandstone and rice! But the world saw through him as worldings can, Oh, the breezes from Isles of Spice. But the maiden fair loved no cheese but one! Sing, hey! acrostics and ale! Save for Single Glo'ster she love had none! Oh, the roses on fair cheeks pale! He was fair and single—and so was she! Sing, hey! tomatoes and tar! And so now you know which it is to be! Oh, the aid of a lucky star! They toasted the couple the livelong night, Sing, hey! cast iron and carp! And engaged a poet this song to write. Oh, the breathing Æolian harp! So he wrote this ballad at vast expense! Sing, hey! pump-handles and peas! And, though you may think it devoid of sense, Oh, he fancies it QUITE THE CHEESE! H. C. Waring. |
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