AFTER VARIOUS POPULAR SONGS BEAUTIFUL SNOW |
(With a drift) OH! the snow, the beautiful snow (This is a parody, please, you know; Over and over again you may meet Parodies writ on this poem so sweet; Rhyming, chiming, skipping along, Comical bards think they do nothing wrong; Striving to follow what others have done, One to the number may keep up the fun). Beautiful snow, so gently you scud, Pure for a minute, then dirty as mud! Oh! the snow, the beautiful snow! Here's a fine mess you have left us below; Chilling our feet to the tips of our toes; Cheekily landing full pert on our nose; Jinking, slinking, ever you try 'Neath our umbrella to flop in our eye; Gamins await us at every new street, Watching us carefully, guiding our feet, Joking, mocking, ready to throw A hard-compressed ball of this beautiful snow. Anonymous.
THE NEWEST THING IN CHRISTMAS
CAROLS GOD rest you, merry gentlemen! May nothing you dismay; Not even the dyspeptic plats Through which you'll eat your way; Nor yet the heavy Christmas bills The season bids you pay; No, nor the ever tiresome need Of being to order gay; Nor yet the shocking cold you'll catch If fog and slush hold sway; Nor yet the tumbles you must bear If frost should win the day; Nor sleepless nights—they're sure to come— When "waits" attune their lay; Nor pantomimes, whose dreariness Might turn macassar gray; Nor boisterous children, home in heaps, And ravenous of play; Nor yet—in fact, the host of ills Which Christmases array. God rest you, merry gentlemen, May none of these dismay! Anonymous.
THE TALE OF LORD LOVELL LORD LOVELL he stood at his own front door, Seeking the hole for the key; His hat was wrecked, and his trousers bore A rent across either knee, When down came the beauteous Lady Jane In fair white draperie. "Oh, where have you been, Lord Lovell?" she said, "Oh, where have you been?" said she; "I have not closed an eye in bed, And the clock has just struck three. Who has been standing you on your head In the ash-barrel, pardie?" "I am not drunk, Lad' Shane," he said: "And so late it cannot be; The clock struck one as I enterÉd— I heard it two times or three; It must be the salmon on which I fed Has been too many for me." "Go tell your tale, Lord Lovell," she said, "To the maritime cavalree, To your grandmother of the hoary head— To any one but me: The door is not used to be openÉd With a cigarette for a key." Anonymous.
"SONGS WITHOUT WORDS" I CANNOT sing the old songs, Though well I know the tune, Familiar as a cradle-song With sleep-compelling croon; Yet though I'm filled with music As choirs of summer birds, "I cannot sing the old songs"— I do not know the words. I start on "Hail Columbia," And get to "heav'n-born band," And there I strike an up-grade With neither steam nor sand; "Star-Spangled Banner" downs me Right in my wildest screaming, I start all right, but dumbly come To voiceless wreck at "streaming." So when I sing the old songs, Don't murmur or complain If "Ti, diddy ah da, tum dum" Should fill the sweetest strain. I love "Tolly um dum di do," And the "Trilla-la yeep da" birds, But "I cannot sing the old songs"— I do not know the words. Robert J. Burdette.
THE ELDERLY GENTLEMAN BY the side of a murmuring stream, an elderly gentleman sat, On the top of his head was his wig, and a-top of his wig was his hat. The wind it blew high and blew strong, as the elderly gentleman sat; And bore from his head in a trice, and plunged in the river his hat. The gentleman then took his cane, which lay by his side as he sat; And he dropped in the river his wig, in attempting to get out his hat. His breast it grew cold with despair, and full in his eye madness sat; So he flung in the river his cane to swim with his wig and his hat. Cool reflection at last came across, while this elderly gentleman sat; So he thought he would follow the stream, and look for his cane, wig, and hat. His head, being thicker than common, o'erbalanced the rest of his fat, And in plumpt this son of a woman, to follow his wig, cane, and hat. George Canning.
TURTLE SOUP BEAUTIFUL soup, so rich and green, Waiting in a hot tureen! Who for such dainties would not stoop? Soup of the evening, beautiful Soup? Soup of the evening, beautiful Soup? Beau—ootiful Soo—oop! Beau—ootiful Soo—oop! Soo—oop of the e—e—evening, Beautiful, beautiful Soup! "Beautiful Soup! Who cares for fish, Game, or any other dish? Who would not give all else for two p Ennyworth only of beautiful Soup? Pennyworth only of beautiful soup? Beau—ootiful Soo—oop! Beau—ootiful Soo—oop! Soo—oop of the e—e—evening, Beautiful, beauti—FUL SOUP!" Lewis Carroll. SOME DAY (To an Extortionate Tailor) I KNOW not when your bill I'll see, I know not when that bill fell due, What interest you will charge to me, Or will you take my I. O. U.? It may not be till years are passed, Till chubby children's locks are gray; The tailor trusts us, but at last His reckoning we must meet some day. Some day—some day—some day I must meet it, Snip, I know not when or how, Snip, I know not when or how; Only this—only this—this that once you did me— Only this—I'll do you now—I'll do you now now— I'll do you now! I know not are you far or near— Are you at rest, or cutting still? I know not who is held so dear! Or who's to pay your "little bill"! But when it comes,—some day—some day— These eyes an awful tote may see; And don't you wish, my tailor gay, That you may get your £. s. d.? Some day—some day—some day I must meet it, Snip, I know not when or how, Snip, I know not when or how; Only this—only this—this that once you did me— Only this—I'll do you now—I'll do you now now— I'll do you now! F. P. Doveton.
IF I SHOULD DIE TO-NIGHT IF I should die to-night And you should come to my cold corpse and say, Weeping and heartsick o'er my lifeless clay— If I should die to-night, And you should come in deepest grief and woe— And say: "Here's that ten dollars that I owe," I might arise in my large white cravat And say, "What's that?" If I should die to-night And you should come to my cold corpse and kneel, Clasping my bier to show the grief you feel, I say, if I should die to-night And you should come to me, and there and then Just even hint 'bout paying me that ten, I might arise the while, But I'd drop dead again. Ben King. A LOVE SONG (In the modern taste, 1733) FLUTTERING spread thy purple pinions, Gentle Cupid, o'er my heart; I, a slave in thy dominions; Nature must give way to art. Mild Arcadians, ever blooming, Nightly nodding o'er your flocks, See my weary days consuming All beneath yon flowery rocks. Thus the Cyprian goddess weeping Mourn'd Adonis, darling youth; Him the boar, in silence creeping, Gored with unrelenting tooth. Cynthia, tune harmonious numbers, Fair Discretion, string the lyre; Soothe my ever-waking slumbers; Bright Apollo, lend thy choir. Gloomy Pluto, king of terrors, Arm'd in adamantine chains, Lead me to the crystal mirrors Watering soft Elysian plains. Mourning cypress, verdant willow, Gilding my Aurelia's brows, Morpheus hovering o'er my pillow, Hear me pay my dying vows. Melancholy smooth Meander, Swiftly purling in a round, On thy margin lovers wander, With thy flowery chaplets crowned. Thus when Philomela drooping Softly seeks her silent mate, See the bird of Juno stooping; Melody resigns to fate. Dean Swift.
OLD FASHIONED FUN WHEN that old joke was new, It was not hard to joke, And puns we now pooh-pooh, Great laughter would provoke. True wit was seldom heard, And humor shown by few, When reign'd King George the Third, And that old joke was new. It passed indeed for wit, Did this achievement rare, When down your friend would sit, To steal away his chair. You brought him to the floor, You bruised him black and blue, And this would cause a roar, When your old joke was new. W. M. Thackeray.
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