Zig-zagging it went
On the line of the farm,
And the trouble it caused
Was often quite warm,
The old line fence.
It was changed every year
By decree of the court,
To which, when worn out,
Our sires would resort
With the old line fence.
In hoeing their corn,
When the sun, too, was hot,
They surely would jaw,
Punch or claw, when they got
To the old line fence.
In dividing the lands
It fulfilled no desires,
But answered quite well
In "dividing" our sires,
This old line fence.
Though sometimes in this
It would happen to fail,
When, with top rail in hand,
One would flare up and scale
The old line fence!
Then the conflict was sharp
On debatable ground,
And the fertile soil there
Would be mussed far around
The old line fence.
It was shifted so oft
That no flowers there grew.
What frownings and clods,
And what words were shot through
The old line fence!
Our sires through the day
There would quarrel or fight,
With a vigour and vim,
But 'twas different at night
By the old line fence.
The fairest maid there
You would have descried
That ever leaned soft
On the opposite side
Of an old line fence.
Where our fathers built hate
There we builded our love,
Breathed our vows to be true
With our hands raised above
The old line fence.
Its place might be changed,
But there we would meet,
With our heads through the rails,
And with kisses most sweet,
At the old line fence.
It was love made the change,
And the clasping of hands
Ending ages of hate,
And between us now stands
Not a sign of line fence.
No debatable ground
Now enkindles alarms.
I've the girl I met there,
And, well, both of the farms,
And no line fence.

A. W. Bellow.

I'm taught p-l-o-u-g-h
S'all be pronouncÉ "plow."
"Zat's easy w'en you know," I say,
"Mon Anglais, I'll get through!"
My teacher say zat in zat case,
O-u-g-h is "oo."
And zen I laugh and say to him,
"Zees Anglais make me cough."

He say "Not 'coo,' but in zat word,
O-u-g-h is 'off,'"
Oh, Sacre bleu! such varied sounds
Of words makes me hiccough!
He say, "Again mon frien' ees wrong;
O-u-g-h is 'up'
In hiccough." Zen I cry, "No more,
You make my t'roat feel rough."
"Non, non!" he cry, "you are not right;
O-u-g-h is 'uff.'"
I say, "I try to spik your words,
I cannot spik zem though!"
"In time you'll learn, but now you're wrong!
O-u-g-h is 'owe.'"
"I'll try no more, I s'all go mad,
I'll drown me in ze lough!"
"But ere you drown yourself," said he,
"O-u-g-h is 'ock.'"
He taught no more, I held him fast,
And killed him wiz a rough.

Charles Battell Loomis.

'Twas whispered in heaven, 'twas muttered in hell,
And echo caught faintly the sound as it fell;
On the confines of earth 'twas permitted to rest,
And the depths of the ocean its presence confessed;
'Twill be found in the sphere when 'tis riven asunder,
Be seen in the lightning, and heard in the thunder.
'Twas allotted to man with his earliest breath,
It assists at his birth and attends him in death,
Presides o'er his happiness, honor, and health,
Is the prop of his house and the end of his wealth,
In the heaps of the miser is hoarded with care,
But is sure to be lost in his prodigal heir.
It begins every hope, every wish it must bound,
It prays with the hermit, with monarchs is crowned;
Without it the soldier, the sailor, may roam,
But woe to the wretch who expels it from home.
In the whisper of conscience 'tis sure to be found,
Nor e'en in the whirlwind of passion is drowned;
'Twill soften the heart, but, though deaf to the ear,
It will make it acutely and instantly hear;
But, in short, let it rest like a delicate flower;
Oh, breathe on it softly, it dies in an hour.

Catherine Fanshawe.

I dwells in the Hearth, and I breathes in the Hair;
If you searches the Hocean, you'll find that I'm there.
The first of all Hangels in Holympus am Hi,
Yet I'm banished from 'Eaven, expelled from on 'igh.
But, though on this Horb I'm destined to grovel,
I'm ne'er seen in an 'Ouse, in an 'Ut, nor an 'Ovel.
Not an 'Orse, not an 'Unter e'er bears me, alas!
But often I'm found on the top of a Hass.
I resides in a Hattic, and loves not to roam,
And yet I'm invariably absent from 'Ome.
Though 'Ushed in the 'Urricane, of the Hatmosphere part,
I enters no 'Ed, I creeps into no 'Art.
Only look, and you'll see in the Heye Hi appear;
Only 'Ark, and you'll 'Ear me just breathe in the Hear.
Though in sex not an 'E, I am (strange paradox)
Not a bit of an 'Effer, but partly a Hox.
Of Heternity I'm the beginning! and, mark,
Though I goes not with Noar, I'm first in the Hark.
I'm never in 'Ealth; have with Fysic no power,
I dies in a month, but comes back in a Hour.

Horace Mayhew.

Good people all, of every sort,
Give ear unto my song;
And if you find it wondrous short,—
It cannot hold you long.
In Islington there was a man,
Of whom the world might say
That still a godly race he ran,—
Whene'er he went to pray.
A kind and gentle heart he had,
To comfort friends and foes;
The naked every day he clad,—
When he put on his clothes.
And in that town a dog was found,
As many dogs there be,
Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound,
And curs of low degree.
The dog and man at first were friends;
But when a pique began,
The dog, to gain some private ends,
Went mad, and bit the man.
Around from all the neighboring streets,
The wondering neighbors ran,
And swore the dog had lost his wits
To bite so good a man.
The wound it seemed both sore and sad
To every Christian eye;
And while they swore the dog was mad
They swore the man would die.
But soon a wonder came to light,
That showed the rogues they lied;
The man recovered of the bite,
The dog it was that died.

Oliver Goldsmith.

Interred beneath this marble stone
Lie sauntering Jack and idle Joan.
While rolling threescore years and one
Did round this globe their courses run.
If human things went ill or well,
If changing empires rose or fell,
The morning past, the evening came,
And found this couple just the same.
They walked and ate, good folks. What then?
Why, then they walked and ate again;
They soundly slept the night away;
They did just nothing all the day,
Nor sister either had, nor brother;
They seemed just tallied for each other.
Their moral and economy
Most perfectly they made agree;
Each virtue kept its proper bound,
Nor trespassed on the other's ground.
Nor fame nor censure they regarded;
They neither punished nor rewarded.
He cared not what the footman did;
Her maids she neither praised nor chid;
So every servant took his course,
And, bad at first, they all grew worse;
Slothful disorder filled his stable,
And sluttish plenty decked her table.
Their beer was strong, their wine was port;
Their meal was large, their grace was short.
They gave the poor the remnant meat,
Just when it grew not fit to eat.
They paid the church and parish rate,
And took, but read not, the receipt;
For which they claimed their Sunday's due
Of slumbering in an upper pew.
No man's defects sought they to know,
So never made themselves a foe.
No man's good deeds did they commend,
So never raised themselves a friend.
Nor cherished they relations poor,
That might decrease their present store;
Nor barn nor house did they repair,
That might oblige their future heir.
They neither added nor confounded;
They neither wanted nor abounded.
Nor tear nor smile did they employ
At news of grief or public joy
When bells were rung and bonfires made,
If asked, they ne'er denied their aid;
Their jug was to the ringers carried,
Whoever either died or married.
Their billet at the fire was found,
Whoever was deposed or crowned.
Nor good, nor bad, nor fools, nor wise;
They would not learn, nor could advise;
Without love, hatred, joy, or fear,
They led—a kind of—as it were;
Nor wished, nor cared, nor laughed, nor cried.
And so they lived, and so they died.

Matthew Prior.

Old Grimes is dead; that good old man
We never shall see more:
He used to wear a long, black coat,
All button'd down before.
His heart was open as the day,
His feelings all were true;
His hair was some inclined to gray—
He wore it in a queue.
Whene'er he heard the voice of pain,
His breast with pity burn'd;
The large, round head upon his cane
From ivory was turn'd.

Kind words he ever had for all;
He knew no base design:
His eyes were dark and rather small,
His nose was aquiline.
He lived at peace with all mankind,
In friendship he was true:
His coat had pocket-holes behind,
His pantaloons were blue.
Unharm'd, the sin which earth pollutes
He pass'd securely o'er,
And never wore a pair of boots
For thirty years or more.
But good old Grimes is now at rest,
Nor fears misfortune's frown:
He wore a double-breasted vest—
The stripes ran up and down.
He modest merit sought to find,
Any pay it its desert:
He had no malice in his mind,
No ruffles on his shirt.
His neighbors he did not abuse—
Was sociable and gay:
He wore large buckles on his shoes,
And changed them every day.
His knowledge, hid from public gaze,
He did not bring to view,
Nor made a noise, town-meeting days,
As many people do.
His worldly goods he never threw
In trust to fortune's chances,
But lived (as all his brothers do)
In easy circumstances.

Thus undisturb'd by anxious cares,
His peaceful moments ran;
And everybody said he was
A fine old gentleman.

Albert Gorton Greene.

Oh, I used to sing a song,
An' dey said it was too long,
So I cut it off de en'
To accommodate a frien'
Nex' do', nex' do'—
To accommodate a frien' nex' do'.
But it made de matter wuss
Dan it had been at de fus,
'Ca'ze de en' was gone, an' den
Co'se it didn't have no en'
Any mo', any mo'—
Oh, it didn't have no en' any mo'!
So, to save my frien' from sinnin',
I cut off de song's beginnin';
Still he cusses right along
Whilst I sings about my song
Jes so, jes so—
Whilst I sings about my song jes so.
How to please 'im is my riddle,
So I'll fall back on my fiddle;
For I'd stan' myself on en'
To accommodate a frien'
Nex' do', nex' do'—
To accommodate a frien' nex' do'.

Ruth McEnery Stuart.

First there's the Bible,
And then the Koran,
Odgers on Libel,
Pope's Essay on Man,
Confessions of Rousseau,
The Essays of Lamb,
Robinson Crusoe
And Omar Khayyam,
Volumes of Shelley
And Venerable Bede,
Machiavelli
And Captain Mayne Reid,
Fox upon Martyrs
And Liddell and Scott,
Stubbs on the Charters,
The works of La Motte,
The Seasons by Thomson,
And Paul de Verlaine,
Theodore Mommsen
And Clemens (Mark Twain),
The Rocks of Hugh Miller,
The Mill on the Floss,
The Poems of Schiller,
The Iliados,
Don Quixote (Cervantes),
La Pucelle by Voltaire,
Inferno (that's Dante's),
And Vanity Fair,
Conybeare-Howson,
Brillat-Savarin,
And Baron Munchausen,
Mademoiselle De Maupin,
The Dramas of Marlowe,
The Three Musketeers,
Clarissa Harlowe,
And the Pioneers,
Sterne's Tristram Shandy,
The Ring and the Book,
And Handy Andy,
And Captain Cook,
The Plato of Jowett,
And Mill's Pol. Econ.,
The Haunts of Howitt,
The Encheiridion,
Lothair by Disraeli,
And Boccaccio,
The Student's Paley,
And Westward Ho!
The Pharmacopoeia,
Macaulay's Lays,
Of course The Medea,
And Sheridan's Plays,
The Odes of Horace,
And Verdant Green,
The Poems of Morris,
The Faery Queen,
The Stones of Venice,
Natural History (White's),
And then Pendennis,
The Arabian Nights,
Cicero's Orations,
Plain Tales from the Hills,
The Wealth of Nations,
And Byles on Bills,
As in a Glass Darkly,
Demosthenes' Crown,
The Treatise of Berkeley,
Tom Hughes's Tom Brown,
The Mahabharata,
The Humour of Hook,
The Kreutzer Sonata,
And Lalla Rookh,
Great Battles by Creasy,
And Hudibras,
And Midshipman Easy,
And Rasselas,
Shakespeare in extenso
And the Æneid,
And Euclid (Colenso),
The Woman who Did,
Poe's Tales of Mystery,
Then Rabelais,
Guizot's French History,
And Men of the Day,
Rienzi, by Lytton,
The Poems of Burns,
The Story of Britain,
The Journey (that's Sterne's),
The House of Seven Gables,
Carroll's Looking-glass,
Æsop his Fables,
And Leaves of Grass,
Departmental Ditties,
The Woman in White,
The Tale of Two Cities,
Ships that Pass in the Night,
Meredith's Feverel,
Gibbon's Decline,
Walter Scott's Peveril,
And—some verses of mine.

Mostyn T. Pigott.

Upon a rock, yet uncreate,
Amid a chaos inchoate,
An uncreated being sate;
Beneath him, rock,
Above him, cloud.
And the cloud was rock,
And the rock was cloud.
The rock then growing soft and warm,
The cloud began to take a form,
A form chaotic, vast and vague,
Which issued in the cosmic egg.
Then the Being uncreate
On the egg did incubate,
And thus became the incubator;
And of the egg did allegate,
And thus became the alligator;
And the incubator was potentate,
But the alligator was potentator.

Unknown.

Brisk methinks I am, and fine
When I drink my cap'ring wine;
Then to love I do incline,
When I drink my wanton wine;
And I wish all maidens mine,
When I drink my sprightly wine;
Well I sup and well I dine,
When I drink my frolic wine;
But I languish, lower, and pine,
When I want my fragrant wine.

Robert Herrick.

HÄndel, Bendel, Mendelssohn,
Brendel, Wendel, Jadassohn,
MÜller, Hiller, Heller, Franz,
Plothow, Flotow, Burto, Ganz.
Meyer, Geyer, Meyerbeer,
Heyer, Weyer, Beyer, Beer,
Lichner, Lachner, Schachner, Dietz,
Hill, Will, BrÜll, Grill, Drill, Reiss, Rietz.
Hansen, Jansen, Jensen, Kiehl,
Siade, Gade, Laade, Stiehl,
Naumann, Riemann, Diener, Wurst,
Niemann, Kiemann, Diener, Furst.

Kochler, Dochler, Rubinstein,
Himmel, Hummel, Rosenhain,
Lauer, Bauer, Kleinecke,
Homberg, Plomberg, Reinecke.

E. Lemke.

My Madeline! my Madeline!
Mark my melodious midnight moans;
Much may my melting music mean,
My modulated monotones.
My mandolin's mild minstrelsy,
My mental music magazine,
My mouth, my mind, my memory,
Must mingling murmur "Madeline!"
Muster 'mid midnight masquerades,
Mark Moorish maidens, matrons' mien;
'Mongst Murcia's most majestic maids,
Match me my matchless Madeline.
Mankind's malevolence may make
Much melancholy musing mine;
Many my motives may mistake,
My modest merits much malign.
My Madeline's most mirthful mood
Much mollifies my mind's machine,
My mournfulness's magnitude
Melts—make me merry, Madeline!
Match-making mas may machinate,
Manoeuvring misses me mis-ween;
Mere money may make many mate,
My magic motto's "Madeline!"

Melt, most mellifluous melody,
'Midst Murcia's misty mounts marine;
Meet me 'mid moonlight; marry me,
Madonna mia! my Madeline!

Walter Parke.

Sudden swallows swiftly skimming,
Sunset's slowly spreading shade,
Silvery songsters sweetly singing,
Summer's soothing serenade.
Susan Simpson strolled sedately,
Stifling sobs, suppressing sighs.
Seeing Stephen Slocum, stately
She stopped, showing some surprise.
"Say," said Stephen, "sweetest sigher;
Say, shall Stephen spouseless stay?"
Susan, seeming somewhat shyer,
Showed submissiveness straightway.
Summer's season slowly stretches,
Susan Simpson Slocum she—
So she signed some simple sketches—
Soul sought soul successfully.

Six Septembers Susan swelters;
Six sharp seasons snow supplies;
Susan's satin sofa shelters
Six small Slocums side by side.

Unknown.

The Emperor Nap he would set off
On a summer excursion to Moscow;
The fields were green and the sky was blue,
Morbleu! Parbleu!
What a splendid excursion to Moscow!
Four hundred thousand men and more
Must go with him to Moscow:
There were Marshals by the dozen,
And Dukes by the score;
Princes a few, and Kings one or two;
While the fields are so green, and the sky so blue,
Morbleu! Parbleu!
What a pleasant excursion to Moscow!
There was Junot and Augereau,
Heigh-ho for Moscow!
Dombrowsky and Poniatowsky,
Marshall Ney, lack-a-day!
General Rapp, and the Emperor Nap;
Nothing would do,
While the fields were so green, and the sky so blue,
Morbleu! Parbleu!
Nothing would do
For the whole of his crew,
But they must be marching to Moscow.
The Emperor Nap he talk'd so big
That he frighten'd Mr. Roscoe.
John Bull, he cries, if you'll be wise,
Ask the Emperor Nap if he will please
To grant you peace upon your knees,
Because he is going to Moscow!
He'll make all the Poles come out of their holes,
And beat the Russians, and eat the Prussians;
For the fields are green, and the sky is blue,
Morbleu! Parbleu!
And he'll certainly march to Moscow!

And Counsellor Brougham was all in a fume
At the thought of the march to Moscow:
The Russians, he said, they were undone,
And the great Fee-Faw-Fum
Would presently come,
With a hop, step, and jump, unto London,
For, as for his conquering Russia,
However some persons might scoff it,
Do it he could, do it he would,
And from doing it nothing would come but good,
And nothing could call him off it.
Mr. Jeffrey said so, who must certainly know,
For he was the Edinburgh Prophet.
They all of them knew Mr. Jeffrey's Review,
Which with Holy Writ ought to be reckon'd:
It was, through thick and thin, to its party true,
Its back was buff, and its sides were blue,
Morbleu! Parbleu!
It served them for law and for gospel too.
But the Russians stoutly they turned to
Upon the road to Moscow.
Nap had to fight his way all through;
They could fight, though they could not parlez-vous;
But the fields were green, and the sky was blue,
Morbleu! Parbleu!
And so he got to Moscow.
He found the place too warm for him,
For they set fire to Moscow.
To get there had cost him much ado,
And then no better course he knew
While the fields were green, and the sky was blue,
Morbleu! Parbleu!
But to march back again from Moscow.
The Russians they stuck close to him
All on the road from Moscow.
There was Tormazow and Jemalow,
And all the others that end in ow;
Milarodovitch and Jaladovitch,
And Karatschkowitch,
And all the others that end in itch;
Schamscheff, Souchosaneff,
And Schepaleff,
And all the others that end in eff:
Wasiltschikoff, Kotsomaroff,
And Tchoglokoff,
And all the others that end in off;
Rajeffsky, and Novereffsky,
And Rieffsky,
And all the others that end in effsky;
Oscharoffsky and Rostoffsky,
And all the others that end in offsky;
And Platoff he play'd them off,
And Shouvaloff he shovell'd them off,
And Markoff he mark'd them off,
And Krosnoff he cross'd them off,
And Touchkoff he touch'd them off,
And Boroskoff he bored them off,
And Kutousoff he cut them off,
And Parenzoff he pared them off,
And Worronzoff he worried them off,
And Doctoroff he doctor'd them off,
And Rodinoff he flogg'd them off.
And, last of all, an Admiral came,
A terrible man with a terrible name,
A name which you all know by sight very well,
But which no one can speak, and no one can spell.
They stuck close to Nap with all their might;
They were on the left and on the right
Behind and before, and by day and by night;
He would rather parlez-vous than fight;
But he look'd white, and he look'd blue.
Morbleu! Parbleu!
When parlez-vous no more would do.
For they remember'd Moscow.
And then came on the frost and snow
All on the road from Moscow.
The wind and the weather he found, in that hour,
Cared nothing for him, nor for all his power;
For him who, while Europe crouch'd under his rod,
Put his trust in his Fortune, and not in his God.
Worse and worse every day the elements grew,
The fields were so white and the sky was so blue,
Sacrebleu! Ventrebleu!
What a horrible journey from Moscow!
What then thought the Emperor Nap
Upon the road from Moscow?
Why, I ween he thought it small delight
To fight all day, and to freeze all night;
And he was besides in a very great fright,
For a whole skin he liked to be in;
And so not knowing what else to do,
When the fields were so white, and the sky so blue,
Morbleu! Parbleu!
He stole away,—I tell you true,—
Upon the road from Moscow.
'Tis myself, quoth he, I must mind most;
So the devil may take the hindmost.
Too cold upon the road was he;
Too hot had he been at Moscow;
But colder and hotter he may be,
For the grave is colder than Moscovy;
And a place there is to be kept in view,
Where the fire is red, and the brimstone blue,
Morbleu! Parbleu!
Which he must go to,
If the Pope say true,
If he does not in time look about him;
Where his namesake almost
He may have for his Host;
He has reckon'd too long without him;
If that Host get him in Purgatory,
He won't leave him there alone with his glory;
But there he must stay for a very long day,
For from thence there is no stealing away,
As there was on the road from Moscow.

Robert Southey.

Ah, those hours when by-gone sages
Led our thoughts through Learning's ways,
When the wit of sunnier ages,
Called once more to Earth the days
When rang through Athens' vine-hung lanes
Thy wild, wild laugh, Aristophanes!
Pensive through the land of Lotus,
Sauntered we by Nilus' side;
Garrulous old Herodotus
Still our mentor, still our guide,
Prating of the mystic bliss
Of Isis and of Osiris.
All the learn'd ones trooped before us,
All the wise of Hellas' land,
Down from mythic Pythagoras,
To the hemlock drinker grand.
Dark the hour that closed the gates
Of gloomy Dis on thee, Socrates.
Ah, those hours of tend'rest study,
When Electra's poet told
Of Love's cheek once warm and ruddy,
Pale with grief, with death chill cold!
Sobbing low like summer tides
Flow thy verses, Euripides!
High our hearts beat when Cicero
Shook the Capitolian dome;
How we shuddered, watching Nero
'Mid the glare of blazing Rome!
How those records still affright us
On thy gloomy page, Tacitus!
Back to youth I seem to glide, as
I recall those by-gone scenes,
When we conned o'er Thucydides,
Or recited Demosthenes.

L'ENVOI

Ancient sages, pardon these
Somewhat doubtful quantities.

H. I. DeBurgh.

Here lieth one, who did most truly prove
That he could never die while he could move;
So hung his destiny never to rot
While he might still jog on and keep his trot;
Made of sphere metal, never to decay
Until his revolution was at stay.
Time numbers motion, yet (without a crime
'Gainst old truth) motion number'd out his time
And like an engine moved with wheel and weight,
His principles being ceased, he ended straight.
Rest, that gives all men life, gave him his death,
And too much breathing put him out of breath;
Nor were it contradiction to affirm,
Too long vacation hasten'd on his term.
Merely to drive the time away he sicken'd,
Fainted, and died, nor would with ale be quicken'd;
"Nay," quoth he, on his swooning bed outstretch'd,
"If I mayn't carry, sure I'll ne'er be fetch'd,
But vow, though the cross doctors all stood hearers,
For one carrier put down to make six bearers."
Ease was his chief disease; and to judge right,
He died for heaviness that his cart went light:
His leisure told him that his time was come.
And lack of load made his life burdensome.
That even to his last breath (there be that say't),
As he were press'd to death, he cried, "More weight;"
But, had his doings lasted as they were,
He had been an immortal carrier.
Obedient to the moon he spent his date
In course reciprocal, and had his fate
Link'd to the mutual flowing of the seas,
Yet (strange to think) his wane was his increase:
His letters are deliver'd all, and gone,
Only remains the superscription.

John Milton.

O for a lodge in a garden of cucumbers!
O for an iceberg or two at control!
O for a vale which at mid-day the dew cumbers!
O for a pleasure-trip up to the pole!
O for a little one-story thermometer,
With nothing but zeroes all ranged in a row!
O for a big double-barreled hygrometer,
To measure this moisture that rolls from my brow!
O that this cold world were twenty times colder!
(That's irony red-hot it seemeth to me);
O for a turn of its dreaded cold shoulder!
O what a comfort an ague would be!
O for a grotto frost-lined and rill-riven,
Scooped in the rock under cataract vast!
O for a winter of discontent even!
O for wet blankets judiciously cast!
O for a soda-fount spouting up boldly
From every hot lamp-post against the hot sky!
O for proud maiden to look on me coldly,
Freezing my soul with a glance of her eye!
Then O for a draught from a cup of cold pizen,
And O for a resting-place in the cold grave!
With a bath in the Styx where the thick shadow lies on
And deepens the chill of its dark-running wave.

Rossiter Johnson.

Easy is the triolet,
If you really learn to make it!
Once a neat refrain you get,
Easy is the triolet.
As you see!—I pay my debt
With another rhyme. Deuce take it,
Easy is the triolet,
If you really learn to make it!

William Ernest Henley.

You bid me try, Blue-eyes, to write
A Rondeau. What! forthwith?—to-night?
Reflect? Some skill I have, 'tis true;
But thirteen lines!—and rhymed on two!—
"Refrain," as well. Ah, hapless plight!
Still there are five lines—ranged aright.
These Gallic bonds, I feared, would fright
My easy Muse. They did, till you—
You bid me try!
That makes them eight.—The port's in sight;
'Tis all because your eyes are bright!
Now just a pair to end in "oo,"—
When maids command, what can't we do?
Behold! The Rondeau—tasteful, light—
You bid me try!

Austin Dobson.

1. Why all this toil for triumphs of an hour?
2. Life's a short summer, man a flower.
3. By turns we catch the vital breath and die—
4. The cradle and the tomb, alas! so nigh.
5. To be, is better far than not to be.
6. Though all man's life may seem a tragedy;
7. But light cares speak when mighty griefs are dumb,
8. The bottom is but shallow whence they come.
9. Your fate is but the common lot of all:
10. Unmingled joys here to no man befall,
11. Nature to each allots his proper sphere;
12. Fortune makes folly her peculiar care;
13. Custom does often reason overrule,
14. And throw a cruel sunshine on a fool.
15. Live well; how long or short, permit to Heaven;
16. They who forgive most, shall be most forgiven.
17. Sin may be clasped so close we cannot see its face—
18. Vile intercourse where virtue has no place.
19. Then keep each passion down, however dear;
20. Thou pendulum betwixt a smile and tear.
21. Her sensual snares, let faithless pleasure lay,
22. With craft and skill, to ruin and betray;
23. Soar not too high to fall, but stoop to rise.
24. We masters grow of all that we despise.
25. Oh, then, renounce that impious self-esteem;
26. Riches have wings, and grandeur is a dream.
27. Think not ambition wise because 'tis brave,
28. The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
29. What is ambition?—'tis a glorious cheat!—
30. Only destructive to the brave and great.
31. What's all the gaudy glitter of a crown?
32. The way to bliss lies not on beds of down.
33. How long we live, not years but actions tell;
34. That man lives twice who lives the first life well.
35. Make, then, while yet ye may, your God your friend,
36. Whom Christians worship yet not comprehend.
37. The trust that's given guard, and to yourself be just;
38. For, live we how we can, yet die we must.

Unknown.

Blind Thamyris, and blind MÆonides,
Pursue the triumph and partake the gale!
Drop tears as fast as the Arabian trees,
To point a moral or adorn a tale.
Full many a gem of purest ray serene,
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears,
Like angels' visits, few and far between,
Deck the long vista of departed years.
Man never is, but always to be bless'd;
The tenth transmitter of a foolish face,
Like Aaron's serpent, swallows up the rest,
And makes a sunshine in the shady place.
For man the hermit sigh'd, till woman smiled,
To waft a feather or to drown a fly,
(In wit a man, simplicity a child,)
With silent finger pointing to the sky.
But fools rush in where angels fear to tread
Far out amid the melancholy main;
As when a vulture on Imaus bred,
Dies of a rose in aromatic pain.

Laman Blanchard.

In his chamber, weak and dying,
While the Norman Baron lay,
Loud, without, his men were crying,
"Shorter hours and better pay."
Know you why the ploughman, fretting,
Homeward plods his weary way
Ere his time? He's after getting
Shorter hours and better pay.
See! the Hesperus is swinging
Idle in the wintry bay,
And the skipper's daughter's singing,
"Shorter hours and better pay."
Where's the minstrel boy? I've found him
Joining in the labour fray
With his placards slung around him,
"Shorter hours and better pay."
Oh, young Lochinvar is coming;
Though his hair is getting grey,
Yet I'm glad to hear him humming,
"Shorter hours and, better pay."
E'en the boy upon the burning
Deck has got a word to say,
Something rather cross concerning
Shorter hours and better pay.
Lives of great men all remind us
We can make as much as they,
Work no more, until they find us
Shorter hours and better pay.
Hail to thee, blithe spirit! (Shelley)
Wilt thou be a blackleg? Nay.
Soaring, sing above the mÉlÉe,
"Shorter hours and better pay."

Unknown.

Lives there a man with soul so dead
Who never to himself has said,
"Shoot folly as it flies"?
Oh! more than tears of blood can tell,
Are in that word, farewell, farewell!
'Tis folly to be wise.
And what is friendship but a name,
That boils on Etna's breast of flame?
Thus runs the world away,
Sweet is the ship that's under sail
To where yon taper cheers the vale,
With hospitable ray!
Drink to me only with thine eyes
Through cloudless climes and starry skies!
My native land, good night!
Adieu, adieu, my native shore;
'Tis Greece, but living Greece no more—
Whatever is, is right!

Laman Blanchard.

Mysterious Nothing! how shall I define
Thy shapeless, baseless, placeless emptiness?
Nor form, nor colour, sound, nor size is thine,
Nor words nor fingers can thy voice express;
But though we cannot thee to aught compare,
A thousand things to thee may likened be,
And though thou art with nobody nowhere,
Yet half mankind devote themselves to thee.
How many books thy history contain;
How many heads thy mighty plans pursue;
What labouring hands thy portion only gain;
What busy bodies thy doings only do!
To thee the great, the proud, the giddy bend,
And—like my sonnet—all in nothing end.

Richard Porson.

"True 'tis P T, and P T 'tis, 'tis true."
In I V Lane, of C T fame,
There lived a man D C,
And A B I 6 was his name,
Now mark his history.
Long time his conduct free from blame
Did merit L O G,
Until an evil spirit came
In the shape of O D V.
"O! that a man into his mouth
Should put an N M E
To steal away his brains"—no drouth
Such course from sin may free.
Well, A B drank, the O T loon!
And learned to swear, sans ruth;
And then he gamed, and U Z soon
To D V 8 from truth.

An hourly glass with him was play,
He'd swallow that with phlegm;
Judge what he'd M T in a day,
"X P D Herculem."
Of virtue none to sots, I trow,
With F E K C prate;
And O of N R G could now
From A B M N 8.
Who on strong liquor badly dote,
Soon poverty must know;
Thus A B in a C D coat
Was shortly forced to go.
From poverty D C T he caught,
And cheated not A F U,
For what he purchased paying O,
Or but an "I O U."
Or else when he had tried B 4,
To shirk a debt, his wits,
He'd cry, "You shan't wait N E more,
I'll W or quits."
So lost did I 6 now A P R,
That said his wife, said she,
"F U act so, your fate quite clear
Is for 1 2 4 C."
His inside soon was out and out
More fiery than K N;
And while his state was thereabout
A cough C V R came.
He I P K Q N A tried,
And linseed T and rue;
But O could save him, so he died
As every 1 must 2.

Poor wight! till black in' the face he raved,
'Twas P T S 2 C
His latest spirit "spirit" craved—
His last words, "O D V."

MORAL

I'll not S A to preach and prate,
But tell U if U do
Drink O D V at such R 8,
Death will 4 stall U 2.
O U then who A Y Z have,
Shun O D V as a wraith,
For 'tis a bonus to the grave,
An S A unto death.

Unknown.

A man of words and not of deeds,
Is like a garden full of weeds;
And when the weeds begin to grow,
It's like a garden full of snow;
And when the snow begins to fall,
It's like a bird upon the wall;
And when the bird away does fly,
It's like an eagle in the sky;
And when the sky begins to roar,
It's like a lion at the door;
And when the door begins to crack,
It's like a stick across your back;
And when your back begins to smart,
It's like a penknife in your heart;
And when your heart begins to bleed,
You're dead, and dead, and dead indeed.

Unknown.

As wet as a fish—as dry as a bone;
As live as a bird—as dead as a stone;
As plump as a partridge—as poor as a rat;
As strong as a horse—as weak as a cat;
As hard as a flint—as soft as a mole;
As white as a lily—as black as a coal;
As plain as a pike-staff—as rough as a bear;
As light as a drum—as free as the air;
As heavy as lead—as light as a feather;
As steady as time—uncertain as weather;
As hot as an oven—as cold as a frog;
As gay as a lark—as sick as a dog;
As slow as the tortoise—as swift as the wind;
As true as the Gospel—as false as mankind;
As thin as a herring—as fat as a pig;
As proud as a peacock—as blithe as a grig;
As savage as tigers—as mild as a dove;
As stiff as a poker—as limp as a glove;
As blind as a bat—as deaf as a post;
As cool as a cucumber—as warm as a toast;
As flat as a flounder—as round as a ball;
As blunt as a hammer—as sharp as an awl;
As red as a ferret—as safe as the stocks;
As bold as a thief—as sly as a fox;
As straight as an arrow—as crook'd as a bow;
As yellow as saffron—as black as a sloe;
As brittle as glass—as tough as gristle;
As neat as my nail—as clean as a whistle;
As good as a feast—as had as a witch;
As light as is day—as dark as is pitch;
As brisk as a bee—as dull as an ass;
As full as a tick—as solid as brass.

Unknown.

No sun—no moon!
No morn—no noon—
No dawn—no dusk—no proper time of day—
No sky—no earthly view—
No distance looking blue—
No road—no street—no "t'other side the way"—
No end to any Row—
No indications where the Crescents go—
No top to any steeple—
No recognitions of familiar people—
No courtesies for showing 'em—
No knowing 'em!
No travelling at all—no locomotion,
No inkling of the way—no notion—
"No go"—by land or ocean—
No mail—no post—
No news from any foreign coast—
No park—no ring—no afternoon gentility—
No company—no nobility—
No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease,
No comfortable feel in any member—
No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees,
No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds, November!

Thomas Hood.

Young Ben he was a nice young man,
A carpenter by trade;
And he fell in love with Sally Brown,
That was a lady's maid.
But as they fetched a walk one day,
They met a press-gang crew;
And Sally she did faint away,
Whilst Ben he was brought to.

The boatswain swore with wicked words,
Enough to shock a saint,
That though she did seem in a fit,
'Twas nothing but a feint.
"Come, girl," said he, "hold up your head,
He'll be as good as me;
For when your swain is in our boat,
A boatswain he will be."
So when they'd made their game of her,
And taken off her elf,
She roused, and found she only was
A coming to herself.
"And is he gone, and is he gone?"
She cried, and wept outright:
"Then I will to the water side,
And see him out of sight."
A waterman came up to her,—
"Now, young woman," said he,
"If you weep on so, you will make
Eye-water in the sea."
"Alas! they've taken my beau, Ben,
To sail with old Benbow;"
And her woe began to run afresh,
As if she'd said, "Gee woe!"
Says he, "They've only taken him
To the Tender-ship, you see;"
"The Tender-ship," cried Sally Brown,
"What a hard-ship that must be!
"O! would I were a mermaid now,
For then I'd follow him;
But, O!—I'm not a fish-woman,
And so I cannot swim.

"Alas! I was not born beneath
The virgin and the scales,
So I must curse my cruel stars,
And walk about in Wales."
Now Ben had sailed to many a place
That's underneath the world;
But in two years the ship came home,
And all her sails were furled.
But when he called on Sally Brown,
To see how she got on,
He found she'd got another Ben,
Whose Christian name was John.
"O, Sally Brown, O, Sally Brown,
How could you serve me so?
I've met with many a breeze before,
But never such a blow!"
Then reading on his 'bacco-box,
He heaved a heavy sigh,
And then began to eye his pipe,
And then to pipe his eye.
And then he tried to sing "All's Well,"
But could not, though he tried;
His head was turned, and so he chewed
His pigtail till he died.
His death, which happened in his berth,
At forty-odd befell:
They went and told the sexton, and
The sexton tolled the bell.

Thomas Hood.

Tim Turpin he was gravel blind,
And ne'er had seen the skies:
For Nature, when his head was made,
Forgot to dot his eyes.
So, like a Christmas pedagogue,
Poor Tim was forced to do,—
Look out for pupils, for he had
A vacancy for two.
There's some have specs to help their sight
Of objects dim and small;
But Tim had specks within his eyes,
And could not see at all.
Now Tim he wooed a servant maid,
And took her to his arms;
For he, like Pyramus, had cast
A wall-eye on her charms.
By day she led him up and down
Where'er he wished to jog,
A happy wife, although she led
The life of any dog.
But just when Tim had lived a month
In honey with his wife,
A surgeon oped his Milton eyes,
Like oysters, with a knife.
But when his eyes were opened thus,
He wished them dark again;
For when he looked upon his wife,
He saw her very plain.
Her face was bad, her figure worse,
He couldn't bear to eat;
For she was anything but like
A Grace before his meat.

Now Tim he was a feeling man:
For when his sight was thick,
It made him feel for everything,—
But that was with a stick.
So, with a cudgel in his hand,—
It was not light or slim,—
He knocked at his wife's head until
It opened unto him.
And when the corpse was stiff and cold,
He took his slaughtered spouse,
And laid her in a heap with all
The ashes of her house.
But, like a wicked murderer,
He lived in constant fear
From day to day, and so he cut
His throat from ear to ear.
The neighbors fetched a doctor in:
Said he, "This wound I dread
Can hardly be sewed up,—his life
Is hanging on a thread."
But when another week was gone,
He gave him stronger hope,—
Instead of hanging on a thread,
Of hanging on a rope.
Ah! when he hid his bloody work,
In ashes round about,
How little he supposed the truth
Would soon be sifted out!
But when the parish dustman came,
His rubbish to withdraw,
He found more dust within the heap
Than he contracted for!

A dozen men to try the fact,
Were sworn that very day;
But though they all were jurors, yet
No conjurors were they.
Said Tim unto those jurymen,
"You need not waste your breath,
For I confess myself, at once,
The author of her death.
"And O, when I reflect upon
The blood that I have spilt,
Just like a button is my soul,
Inscribed with double guilt!"
Then turning round his head again
He saw before his eyes
A great judge, and a little judge,
The judges of a-size!
The great judge took his judgment-cap,
And put it on his head,
And sentenced Tim by law to hang
Till he was three times dead.
So he was tried, and he was hung
(Fit punishment for such)
On Horsham drop, and none can say
It was a drop too much.

Thomas Hood.

Ben Battle was a soldier bold,
And used to war's alarms:
But a cannon-ball took off his legs,
So he laid down his arms!

Now, as they bore him off the field,
Said he, "Let others shoot,
For here I leave my second leg,
And the Forty-second Foot!"
The army surgeons made him limbs:
Said he, "They're only pegs;
But there's as wooden members quite,
As represent my legs!"
Now Ben he loved a pretty maid,
Her name was Nelly Gray;
So he went to pay her his devours
When he'd devoured his pay!
But when he called on Nelly Gray,
She made him quite a scoff;
And when she saw his wooden legs,
Began to take them off!
"O Nelly Gray! O Nelly Gray!
Is this your love so warm?
The love that loves a scarlet coat,
Should be more uniform!"
Said she, "I loved a soldier once,
For he was blithe and brave;
But I will never have a man
With both legs in the grave!
"Before you had those timber toes,
Your love I did allow,
But then you know, you stand upon
Another footing now!"
"O Nelly Gray! O Nelly Gray!
For all your jeering speeches,
At duty's call I left my legs
In Badajos's breaches!"

"Why, then," said she, "you've lost the feet
Of legs in war's alarms,
And now you cannot wear your shoes
Upon your feats of arms!"
"Oh, false and fickle Nelly Gray;
I know why you refuse:
Though I've no feet—some other man
Is standing in my shoes!
"I wish I ne'er had seen your face;
But now a long farewell!
For you will be my death—alas!
You will not be my Nell!"
Now, when he went from Nelly Gray,
His heart so heavy got—
And life was such a burden grown,
It made him take a knot!
So round his melancholy neck
A rope he did entwine,
And, for his second time in life
Enlisted in the Line!
One end he tied around a beam,
And then removed his pegs,
And as his legs were off,—of course,
He soon was off his legs!
And there he hung till he was dead
As any nail in town,—
For though distress had cut him up,
It could not cut him down!
A dozen men sat on his corpse,
To find out why he died—
And they buried Ben in four cross-roads,
With a stake in his inside!

Thomas Hood.

"Oh! what is that comes gliding in,
And quite in middling haste?
It is the picture of my Jones,
And painted to the waist.
"It is not painted to the life,
For where's the trousers blue?
O Jones, my dear!—Oh, dear! my Jones,
What is become of you?"
"O Sally, dear, it is too true,—
The half that you remark
Is come to say my other half
Is bit off by a shark!
"O Sally, sharks do things by halves,
Yet most completely do!
A bite in one place seems enough,
But I've been bit in two.
"You know I once was all your own,
But now a shark must share!
But let that pass—for now to you
I'm neither here nor there.
"Alas! death has a strange divorce
Effected in the sea,
It has divided me from you,
And even me from me!
"Don't fear my ghost will walk o' nights
To haunt, as people say;
My ghost can't walk, for, oh! my legs
Are many leagues away!
"Lord! think when I am swimming round,
And looking where the boat is,
A shark just snaps away a half,
Without 'a quarter's notice.'

"One half is here, the other half
Is near Columbia placed;
O Sally, I have got the whole
Atlantic for my waist.
"But now, adieu—a long adieu!
I've solved death's awful riddle,
And would say more, but I am doomed
To break off in the middle!"

Thomas Hood.

One day the dreary old King of Death
Inclined for some sport with the carnal,
So he tied a pack of darts on his back,
And quietly stole from his charnel.
His head was bald of flesh and of hair,
His body was lean and lank;
His joints at each stir made a crack, and the cur
Took a gnaw, by the way, at his shank.
And what did he do with his deadly darts,
This goblin of grisly bone?
He dabbled and spilled man's blood, and he killed
Like a butcher that kills his own.
The first he slaughtered it made him laugh
(For the man was a coffin-maker),
To think how the mutes, and men in black suits,
Would mourn for an undertaker.
Death saw two Quakers sitting at church;
Quoth he, "We shall not differ."
And he let them alone, like figures of stone,
For he could not make them stiffer.

He saw two duellists going to fight,
In fear they could not smother;
And he shot one through at once—for he knew
They never would shoot each other.
He saw a watchman fast in his box,
And he gave a snore infernal;
Said Death, "He may keep his breath, for his sleep
Can never be more eternal."
He met a coachman driving a coach
So slow that his fare grew sick;
But he let him stray on his tedious way,
For Death only wars on the quick.
Death saw a tollman taking a toll,
In the spirit of his fraternity;
But he knew that sort of man would extort,
Though summoned to all eternity.
He found an author writing his life,
But he let him write no further;
For Death, who strikes whenever he likes,
Is jealous of all self-murther!
Death saw a patient that pulled out his purse,
And a doctor that took the sum;
But he let them be—for he knew that the "fee"
Was a prelude to "faw" and "fum."
He met a dustman ringing a bell,
And he gave him a mortal thrust;
For himself, by law, since Adam's flaw,
Is contractor for all our dust.
He saw a sailor mixing his grog,
And he marked him out for slaughter;
For on water he scarcely had cared for death,
And never on rum-and-water.

Death saw two players playing at cards,
But the game wasn't worth a dump,
For he quickly laid them flat with a spade,
To wait for the final trump!

Thomas Hood.

That man must lead a happy life
Who's free from matrimonial chains,
Who is directed by a wife
Is sure to suffer for his pains.
Adam could find no solid peace
When Eve was given for a mate;
Until he saw a woman's face
Adam was in a happy state.
In all the female race appear
Hypocrisy, deceit, and pride;
Truth, darling of a heart sincere,
In woman never did reside.
What tongue is able to unfold
The failings that in woman dwell?
The worth in woman we behold
Is almost imperceptible.
Confusion take the man, I say,
Who changes from his singleness,
Who will not yield to woman's sway
Is sure of earthly blessedness.

Unknown.

I saw a peacock with a fiery tail
I saw a blazing comet pour down hail
I saw a cloud all wrapt with ivy round
I saw a lofty oak creep on the ground
I saw a beetle swallow up a whale
I saw a foaming sea brimful of ale
I saw a pewter cup sixteen feet deep
I saw a well full of men's tears that weep
I saw wet eyes in flames of living fire
I saw a house as high as the moon and higher
I saw the glorious sun at deep midnight
I saw the man who saw this wondrous sight.
I saw a pack of cards gnawing a bone
I saw a dog seated on Britain's throne
I saw King George shut up within a box
I saw an orange driving a fat ox
I saw a butcher not a twelvemonth old
I saw a great-coat all of solid gold
I saw two buttons telling of their dreams
I saw my friends who wished I'd quit these themes.

Unknown.

Men once were surnamed for their shape or estate
(You all may from history worm it),
There was Louis the bulky, and Henry the Great,
John Lackland, and Peter the Hermit:
But now, when the doorplates of misters and dames
Are read, each so constantly varies;
From the owner's trade, figure, and calling, surnames
Seem given by the rule of contraries.

Mr. Wise is a dunce, Mr. King is a whig,
Mr. Coffin's uncommonly sprightly,
And huge Mr. Little broke down in a gig
While driving fat Mrs. Golightly.
At Bath, where the feeble go more than the stout
(A conduct well worthy of Nero),
Over poor Mr. Lightfoot, confined with the gout,
Mr. Heavyside danced a bolero.
Miss Joy, wretched maid, when she chose Mr. Love,
Found nothing but sorrow await her;
She now holds in wedlock, as true as a dove,
That fondest of mates, Mr. Hayter.
Mr. Oldcastle dwells in a modern-built hut;
Miss Sage is of madcaps the archest;
Of all the queer bachelors Cupid e'er cut,
Old Mr. Younghusband's the starchest.
Mr. Child, in a passion, knock'd down Mr. Rock;
Mr. Stone like an aspen-leaf shivers;
Miss Pool used to dance, but she stands like a stock
Ever since she became Mrs. Rivers.
Mr. Swift hobbles onward, no mortal knows how,
He moves as though cords had entwined him;
Mr. Metcalf ran off upon meeting a cow,
With pale Mr. Turnbull behind him.
Mr. Barker's as mute as a fish in the sea,
Mr. Miles never moves on a journey,
Mr. Gotobed sits up till half after three,
Mr. Makepeace was bred an attorney.
Mr. Gardener can't tell a flower from a root,
Mr. Wild with timidity draws back,
Mr. Ryder performs all his journeys on foot,
Mr. Foot all his journeys on horseback.
Mr. Penny, whose father was rolling in wealth,
Consumed all the fortune his dad won;
Large Mr. Le Fever's the picture of health;
Mr. Goodenough is but a bad one;
Mr. Cruikshank stept into three thousand a year
By showing his leg to an heiress:
Now I hope you'll acknowledge I've made it quite clear
Surnames ever go by contraries.

James Smith.

A little saint best fits a little shrine,
A little prop best fits a little vine;
As my small cruse best fits my little wine.
A little seed best fits a little soil,
A little trade best fits a little toil;
As my small jar best fits my little oil.
A little bin best fits a little bread,
A little garland fits a little head;
As my small stuff best fits my little shed.
A little hearth best fits a little fire,
A little chapel fits a little choir;
As my small bell best fits my little spire.
A little stream best fits a little boat,
A little lead best fits a little float;
As my small pipe best fits my little note.
A little meat best fits a little belly,
As sweetly, lady, give me leave to tell ye,
This little pipkin fits this little jelly.

Robert Herrick.

Marry, I lent my gossip my mare, to fetch home coals,
And he her drownÉd into the quarry holes;
And I ran to the Consistory, for to 'plain,
And there I happened among a greedy meine.
They gave me first a thing they call Citandum;
Within eight days, I got but Libellandum;
Within a month, I got Ad oppenendum;
In half a year, I got Interloquendum;
And then I got—how call ye it?—Ad replicandum.
But I could never one word yet understand them;
And then, they caused me cast out many placks,
And made me pay for four-and-twenty acts.
But, ere they came half gait to Concludendum,
The fiend one plack was left for to defend him.
Thus they postponed me two years, with their train,
Then, hodie ad octo, bade me come again,
And then, these rooks, they roupit wonder fast,
For sentence silver, they criÉd at the last.
Of Pronunciandum they made me wonder fain;
But I got never my good grey mare again.

Sir David Lindesay.

The oft'ner seen, the more I lust,
The more I lust, the more I smart,
The more I smart, the more I trust,
The more I trust, the heavier heart,
The heavy heart breeds mine unrest,
Thy absence therefore I like best.
The rarer seen, the less in mind,
The less in mind, the lesser pain,
The lesser pain, less grief I find,
The lesser grief, the greater gain,
The greater gain, the merrier I,
Therefore I wish thy sight to fly.

The further off, the more I joy,
The more I joy, the happier life,
The happier life, less hurts annoy,
The lesser hurts, pleasure most rife,
Such pleasures rife shall I obtain
When distance doth depart us train.

Barnaby Googe.

John Bull for pastime took a prance,
Some time ago, to peep at France;
To talk of sciences and arts,
And knowledge gain'd in foreign parts.
Monsieur, obsequious, heard him speak,
And answer'd John in heathen Greek:
To all he ask'd, 'bout all he saw,
'Twas, Monsieur, je vous n'entends pas.
John, to the Palais-Royal come,
Its splendor almost struck him dumb.
"I say, whose house is that there here?"
"House! Je vous n'entends pas, Monsieur."
"What, Nongtongpaw again!" cries John;
"This fellow is some mighty Don:
No doubt he's plenty for the maw,
I'll breakfast with this Nongtongpaw."
John saw Versailles from Marli's height,
And cried, astonish'd at the sight,
"Whose fine estate is that there here?"
"State! Je vous n'entends pas, Monsieur."
"His? what! the land and houses, too?
The fellow's richer than a Jew:
On everything he lays his claw!
I'd like to dine with Nongtongpaw."
Next tripping came a courtly fair,
John cried, enchanted with her air,
"What lovely wench is that there here?"
"Ventch! Je vous n'entends pas, Monsieur."
"What, he again? Upon, my life!
A palace, lands, and then a wife
Sir Joshua might delight to draw!
I'd like to sup with Nongtongpaw."
"But hold! whose funeral's that?" cries John.
"Je vous n'entends pas."—"What! is he gone?
Wealth, fame, and beauty could not save
Poor Nongtongpaw then from the grave!
His race is run, his game is up,—
I'd with him breakfast, dine, and sup;
But since he chooses to withdraw,
Good night t'ye, Mounseer Nongtongpaw!"

Charles Dibdin.

I said, "This horse, sir, will you shoe?"
And soon the horse was shod.
I said, "This deed, sir, will you do?"
And soon the deed was dod!
I said, "This stick, sir, will you break?"
At once the stick he broke.
I said, "This coat, sir, will you make?"
And soon the coat he moke!

Unknown.

I have a copper penny and another copper penny,
Well, then, of course, I have two copper pence;
I have a cousin Jenny and another cousin Jenny,
Well, pray, then, do I have two cousin Jence?

Unknown.

A Persian penman named Aziz,
Remarked, "I think I know my biz.
For when I write my name as is,
It is Aziz as is Aziz."

Unknown.

What is earth, sexton?—A place to dig graves;
What is earth, rich men?—A place to work slaves,
What is earth, grey-beard?—A place to grow old;
What is earth, miser?—A place to dig gold;
What is earth, school-boy?—A place for my play;
What is earth, maiden?—A place to be gay;
What is earth, seamstress?—A place where I weep;
What is earth, sluggard?—A good place to sleep;
What is earth, soldier?—A place for a battle;
What is earth, herdsman?—A place to raise cattle;
What is earth, widow?—A place of true sorrow;
What is earth, tradesman?—I'll tell you to-morrow;
What is earth, sick man?—'Tis nothing to me;
What is earth, sailor?—My home is the sea;
What is earth, statesman?—A place to win fame;
What is earth, author?—I'll write there my name;
What is earth, monarch?—For my realm 'tis given;
What is earth, Christian?—The gateway of heaven.

Unknown.

Dear maid, let me speak
What I never yet spoke:
You have made my heart squeak
As it never yet squoke,
And for sight of you, both my eyes ache as they ne'er before oak.

With your voice my ears ring,
And a sweeter ne'er rung,
Like a bird's on the wing
When at morn it has wung.
And gladness to me it doth bring, such as never voice brung.
My feelings I'd write,
But they cannot be wrote,
And who can indite
What was never indote!
And my love I hasten to plight—the first that I plote.
Yes, you would I choose,
Whom I long ago chose,
And my fond spirit sues
As it never yet sose,
And ever on you do I muse, as never man mose.
The house where you bide
Is a blessed abode;
Sure, my hopes I can't hide,
For they will not be hode,
And no person living has sighed, as, darling, I've sode.
Your glances they shine
As no others have shone,
And all else I'd resign
That a man could resone,
And surely no other could pine as I lately have pone.
And don't you forget
You will ne'er be forgot,
You never should fret
As at times you have frot,
I would chase all the cares that beset, if they ever besot.
For you I would weave
Songs that never were wove,
And deeds I'd achieve
Which no man yet achove,
And for me you never should grieve, as for you I have grove.

I'm as worthy a catch
As ever, was caught.
O, your answer I watch
As a man never waught,
And we'd make the most elegant match as ever was maught.
Let my longings not sink;
I would die if they sunk.
O, I ask you to think
As you never have thunk,
And our fortunes and lives let us link, as no lives could be lunk.

A. W. Bellow.

Sally Salter, she was a young lady who taught,

And her friend Charley Church was a preacher who praught!

Though his enemies called him a screecher who scraught.

His heart when he saw her kept sinking and sunk,

And his eye, meeting hers, began winking and wunk;

While she in her turn fell to thinking, and thunk.

He hastened to woo her, and sweetly he wooed,

For his love grew until to a mountain it grewed,

And what he was longing to do then he doed.

In secret he wanted to speak, and he spoke,

To seek with his lips what his heart long had soke;

So he managed to let the truth leak, and it loke.

He asked her to ride to the church, and they rode,

They so sweetly did glide, that they both thought they glode,

And they came to the place to be tied, and were tode.

Then, "homeward" he said, "let us drive" and they drove,

And soon as they wished to arrive, they arrove;

For whatever he couldn't contrive she controve.

The kiss he was dying to steal, then he stole:

At the feet where he wanted to kneel, then he knole,

And said, "I feel better than ever I fole."

So they to each other kept clinging, and clung;

While time his swift circuit was winging, and wung;

And this was the thing he was bringing, and brung:

The man Sally wanted to catch, and had caught—

That she wanted from others to snatch, and had snaught—

Was the one that she now liked to scratch and she scraught.

And Charley's warm love began freezing and froze,

While he took to teasing, and cruelly toze

The girl he had wished to be squeezing and squoze.

"Wretch!" he cried, when she threatened to leave him, and left,

"How could you deceive me, as you have deceft?"

And she answered, "I promised to cleave, and I've cleft!"

Unknown.

An Austrian army, awfully array'd,
Boldly by battery besiege Belgrade;
Cossack commanders cannonading come,
Deal devastation's dire destructive doom;
Ev'ry endeavour engineers essay,
For fame, for freedom, fight, fierce furious fray.
Gen'rals 'gainst gen'rals grapple,—gracious God!
How honors Heav'n heroic hardihood!
Infuriate, indiscriminate in ill,
Just Jesus, instant innocence instill!
Kinsmen kill kinsmen, kindred kindred kill.
Labour low levels longest, loftiest lines;
Men march 'midst mounds, motes, mountains, murd'rous mines.
Now noisy, noxious numbers notice nought,
Of outward obstacles o'ercoming ought;
Poor patriots perish, persecution's pest!
Quite quiet Quakers "Quarter, quarter," quest;
Reason returns, religion, right, redounds,
Suwarow stop such sanguinary sounds!
Truce to thee, Turkey, terror to thy train!
Unwise, unjust, unmerciful Ukraine!
Vanish vile vengeance, vanish victory vain!
Why wish we warfare? wherefore welcome won
Xerxes, Nantippus, Navier, Xenophon?
Yield, ye young Yaghier yeomen, yield your yell!
Zimmerman's, Zoroaster's, Zeno's zeal
Again attract; arts against arms appeal.
All, all ambitious aims, avaunt, away!
Et cetera, et cetera, et ceterae.

Unknown.

La Galisse now I wish to touch;
Droll air! if I can strike it,
I'm sure the song will please you much;
That is, if you should like it.
La Galisse was, indeed, I grant,
Not used to any dainty,
When he was born; but could not want
As long as he had plenty.
Instructed with the greatest care,
He always was well bred,
And never used a hat to wear
But when 'twas on his head.
His temper was exceeding good,
Just of his father's fashion;
And never quarrels boiled his blood
Except when in a passion.

His mind was on devotion bent;
He kept with care each high day,
And Holy Thursday always spent
The day before Good Friday.
He liked good claret very well,
I just presume to think it;
For ere its flavour he could tell
He thought it best to drink it.
Than doctors more he loved the cook,
Though food would make him gross,
And never any physic took
But when he took a dose.
Oh, happy, happy is the swain
The ladies so adore;
For many followed in his train
Whene'er he walked before.
Bright as the sun his flowing hair
In golden ringlets shone;
And no one could with him compare,
If he had been alone.
His talents I cannot rehearse,
But every one allows
That whatsoe'er he wrote in verse,
No one could call it prose.
He argued with precision nice,
The learned all declare;
And it was his decision wise,
No horse could be a mare.
His powerful logic would surprise,
Amaze, and much delight:
He proved that dimness of the eyes
Was hurtful to the sight.

They liked him much—so it appears
Most plainly—who preferred him;
And those did never want their ears
Who any time had heard him.
He was not always right, 'tis true,
And then he must be wrong;
But none had found it out, he knew,
If he had held his tongue.
Whene'er a tender tear he shed,
'Twas certain that he wept;
And he would lie awake in bed,
Unless, indeed, he slept.
In tilting everybody knew
His very high renown;
Yet no opponents he o'erthrew
But those that he knocked down.
At last they smote him in the head,—
What hero ever fought all?
And when they saw that he was dead,
They knew the wound was mortal.
And when at last he lost his breath,
It closed his every strife;
For that sad day that sealed his death
Deprived him of his life.

Gilles MÉnage.

Oh, it's H-A-P-P-Y I am, and it's F-R-double-E,
And it's G-L-O-R-Y to know that I'm S-A-V-E-D.
Once I was B-O-U-N-D by the chains of S-I-N
And it's L-U-C-K-Y I am that all is well again.

Oh, the bells of Hell go ting-a-ling-a-ling
For you, but not for me.
The bells of Heaven go sing-a-ling-a-ling
For there I soon shall be.
Oh, Death, where is thy sting-a-ling-a-ling
Oh, Grave, thy victorie-e.
No Ting-a-ling-a-ling, no sting-a-ling-a-ling
But sing-a-ling-a-ling for me.

Unknown.

He took her fancy when he came,
He took her hand, he took a kiss,
He took no notice of the shame
That glowed her happy cheek at this.
He took to come of afternoons,
He took an oath he'd ne'er deceive,
He took her master's silver spoons,
And after that he took his leave.

Thomas Hood, Jr.

Do you think I'd marry a woman
That can neither cook nor sew,
Nor mend a rent in her gloves
Or a tuck in her furbelow;
Who spends her time in reading
The novels that come and go;
Who tortures heavenly music,
And makes it a thing of woe;
Who deems three-fourths of my income
Too little, by half, to show
What a figure she'd make, if I'd let her,
'Mid the belles of Rotten Row;
Who has not a thought in her head
Where thoughts are expected to grow,
Except of trumpery scandals
Too small for a man to know?
Do you think I'd wed with that,
Because both high and low
Are charmed by her youthful graces
And her shoulders white as snow?
Ah no! I've a wish to be happy,
I've a thousand a year or so,
'Tis all I can expect
That fortune will bestow!
So, pretty one, idle one, stupid one!
You're not for me, I trow,
To-day, nor yet to-morrow,
No, no! decidedly no!

Charlts Mackay.

How hard, when those who do not wish
To lend, that's lose, their books,
Are snared by anglers—folks that fish
With literary hooks;
Who call and take some favourite tome,
But never read it through;
They thus complete their set at home,
By making one at you.
Behold the bookshelf of a dunce
Who borrows—never lends;
Yon work, in twenty volumes, once
Belonged to twenty friends.
New tales and novels you may shut
From view—'tis all in vain;
They're gone—and though the leaves are "cut"
They never "come again."
For pamphlets lent I look around,
For tracts my tears are spilt;
But when they take a book that's bound,
'Tis surely extra guilt.

A circulating library
Is mine—my birds are flown;
There's one odd volume left, to be
Like all the rest, a-lone.
I, of my "Spenser" quite bereft,
Last winter sore was shaken;
Of "Lamb" I've but a quarter left,
Nor could I save my "Bacon."
My "Hall" and "Hill" were levelled flat,
But "Moore" was still the cry;
And then, although I threw them "Sprat,"
They swallowed up my "Pye."
O'er everything, however slight,
They seized some airy trammel;
They snatched my "Hogg" and "Fox" one night,
And pocketed my "Campbell."
And then I saw my "Crabbe" at last,
Like Hamlet's, backward go;
And as my tide was ebbing fast,
Of course I lost my "Rowe."
I wondered into what balloon
My books their course had bent;
And yet, with all my marvelling, soon
I found my "Marvell" went.
My "Mallet" served to knock me down,
Which makes me thus a talker;
And once, while I was out of town,
My "Johnson" proved a "Walker."
While studying o'er the fire one day
My "Hobbes" amidst the smoke;
They bore my "Colman" clean away,
And carried off my "Coke."

They picked my "Locke," to me far more
Than Bramah's patent's worth;
And now my losses I deplore,
Without a "Home" on earth.
If once a book you let them lift,
Another they conceal,
For though I caught them stealing "Swift,"
As swiftly went my "Steele."
"Hope" is not now upon my shelf,
Where late he stood elated;
But, what is strange, my "Pope" himself
Is excommunicated.
My little "Suckling" in the grave
Is sunk, to swell the ravage;
And what 'twas Crusoe's fate to save
'Twas mine to lose—a "Savage."
Even "Glover's" works I cannot put
My frozen hands upon;
Though ever since I lost my "Foote,"
My "Bunyan" has been gone.
My "Hoyle" with "Cotton" went; oppressed,
My "Taylor" too must fail;
To save my "Goldsmith" from arrest,
In vain I offered "Bayle."
I "Prior," sought, but could not see
The "Hood" so late in front;
And when I turned to hunt for "Lee,"
Oh! where was my "Leigh Hunt!"
I tried to laugh, old care to tickle,
Yet could not "Tickell" touch;
And then, alas! I missed my "Mickle,"
And surely mickle's much.

'Tis quite enough my griefs to feed,
My sorrows to excuse,
To think I cannot read my "Reid,"
Nor even use my "Hughes."
To "West," to "South," I turn my head,
Exposed alike to odd jeers;
For since my "Roger Ascham's" fled,
I ask 'em for my "Rogers."
They took my "Horne"—and "Horne Tooke" too,
And thus my treasures flit;
I feel when I would "Hazlitt" view,
The flames that it has lit.
My word's worth little, "Wordsworth" gone,
If I survive its doom;
How many a bard I doted on
Was swept off—with my "Broome."
My classics would not quiet lie,
A thing so fondly hoped;
Like Dr. Primrose, I may cry,
"My 'Livy' has eloped!"
My life is wasting fast away—
I suffer from these shocks;
And though I fixed a lock on "Grey"
There's grey upon my locks.
I'm far from young—am growing pale—
I see my "Butter" fly;
And when they ask about my ail,
'Tis "Burton" I reply.
They still have made me slight returns,
And thus my griefs divide;
For oh! they've cured me of my "Burns,"
And eased my "Akenside."

But all I think I shall not say,
Nor let my anger burn;
For as they never found me "Gay,"
They have not left me "Sterne."

Laman Blanchard.

I have found out a gig-gig-gift for my fuf-fuf-fair,

I have found where the rattlesnakes bub-bub-breed;

Will you co-co-come, and I'll show you the bub-bub-bear,

And the lions and tit-tit-tigers at fuf-fuf-feed.

I know where the co-co-cockatoo's song

Makes mum-mum-melody through the sweet vale;

Where the mum-monkeys gig-gig-grin all the day long,

Or gracefully swing by the tit-tit-tit-tail.

You shall pip-play, dear, some did-did-delicate joke

With the bub-bub-bear on the tit-tit-top of his pip-pip-pip-pole;

But observe, 'tis forbidden to pip-pip-poke

At the bub-bub-bear with your pip-pip-pink pip-pip-pip-pip-parasol!

You shall see the huge elephant pip-pip-play,

You shall gig-gig-gaze on the stit-stit-stately raccoon;

And then, did-did-dear, together we'll stray

To the cage of the bub-bub-blue-faced bab-bab-boon.

You wished (I r-r-remember it well,

And I lul-lul-loved you the m-m-more for the wish)

To witness the bub-bub-beautiful pip-pip-pelican

swallow the l-l-live little fuf-fuf-fish!

Unknown.

Even is come; and from the dark Park, hark,
The signal of the setting sun—one gun!
And six is sounding from the chime, prime time
To go and see the Drury-Lane, Dane slain,—
Or hear Othello's jealous doubt spout out,—
Or Macbeth raving at that shade-made blade,
Denying to his frantic clutch much touch;—
Or else to see Ducrow with wide stride ride
Four horses as no other man can span;
Or in the small Olympic Pit, sit split
Laughing at Liston, while you quiz his phiz.
Anon Night comes, and with her wings brings things
Such as, with his poetic tongue, Young sung;
The gas up-blazes with its bright white light,
And paralytic watchmen prowl, howl, growl,
About the streets and take up Pall-Mall Sal,
Who, hasting to her nightly jobs, robs fobs.
Now thieves to enter for your cash, smash, crash,
Past drowsy Charley, in a deep sleep, creep,
But frightened by Policeman B 3, flee,
And while they're going, whisper low, "No go!"
Now puss, while folks are in their beds, treads leads.
And sleepers waking, grumble—"Drat that cat!"
Who in the gutter caterwauls, squalls, mauls
Some feline foe, and screams in shrill ill-will.
Now Bulls of Bashan, of a prize size, rise
In childish dreams, and with a roar gore poor
Georgy, or Charley, or Billy, willy-nilly;—
But Nursemaid, in a nightmare rest, chest-pressed,
Dreameth of one of her old flames, James Games,
And that she hears—what faith is man's!—Ann's banns
And his, from Reverend Mr. Rice, twice, thrice:
White ribbons flourish, and a stout shout out,
That upward goes, shows Rose knows those bows' woes!

Thomas Hood.

Thine eyes, dear one, dot dot, are like, dash, what?
They, pure as sacred oils, bless and anoint
My sin-swamped soul which at thy feet sobs out,
O exclamation point, O point, O point!
Ah, had I words, blank blank, which, dot, I've not,
I'd swoon in songs which should'st illume the dark
With light of thee. Ah, God (it's strong to swear)
Why, why, interrogation mark, why, mark?
Dot dot dot dot. And so, dash, yet, but nay!
My tongue takes pause; some words must not be said,
For fear the world, cold hyphen-eyed, austere,
Should'st shake thee by the throat till reason fled.
One hour of love we've had. Dost thou recall
Dot dot dash blank interrogation mark?
The night was ours, blue heaven over all
Dash, God! dot stars, keep thou our secret dark!

Marion Hill.

In our hearts is the Great One of Avon
Engraven,
And we climb the cold summits once built on
By Milton.
But at times not the air that is rarest
Is fairest,
And we long in the valley to follow
Apollo.
Then we drop from the heights atmospheric
To Herrick,
Or we pour the Greek honey, grown blander,
Of Landor;

Or our cosiest nook in the shade is
Where Praed is,
Or we toss the light bells of the mocker
With Locker.
Oh, the song where not one of the Graces
Tight-laces,—
Where we woo the sweet Muses not starchly
But archly,—
Where the verse, like a piper a-Maying,
Comes playing,—
And the rhyme is as gay as a dancer
In answer,—
It will last till men weary of pleasure
In measure!
It will last till men weary of laughter ...
And after!

Austin Dobson.

O precious code, volume, tome,
Book, writing, compilation, work
Attend the while I pen a pome,
A jest, a jape, a quip, a quirk.
For I would pen, engross, indite,
Transcribe, set forth, compose, address,
Record, submit—yea, even write
An ode, an elegy to bless—
To bless, set store by, celebrate,
Approve, esteem, endow with soul,
Commend, acclaim, appreciate,
Immortalize, laud, praise, extol.

Thy merit, goodness, value, worth,
Experience, utility—
O manna, honey, salt of earth,
I sing, I chant, I worship thee!
How could I manage, live, exist,
Obtain, produce, be real, prevail,
Be present in the flesh, subsist,
Have place, become, breathe or inhale.
Without thy help, recruit, support,
Opitulation, furtherance,
Assistance, rescue, aid, resort,
Favour, sustention and advance?
Alack! Alack! and well-a-day!
My case would then be dour and sad,
Likewise distressing, dismal, gray,
Pathetic, mournful, dreary, bad.

Though I could keep this up all day,
This lyric, elegiac, song,
Meseems hath come the time to say
Farewell! Adieu! Good-by! So long!

Franklin P. Adams.

No longer, O scholars, shall Plautus
Be taught us.
No more shall professors be partial
To Martial.
No ninny
Will stop playing "shinney"
For Pliny.
Not even the veriest Mexican Greaser
Will stop to read CÆsar.
No true son of Erin will leave his potato
To list to the love-lore of Ovid or Plato.
Old Homer,
That hapless old roamer,
Will ne'er find a rest 'neath collegiate dome or
Anywhere else. As to Seneca,
Any cur
Safely may snub him, or urge ill
Effects from the reading of Virgil.
Cornelius Nepos
Wont keep us
Much longer from pleasure's light errands—
Nor Terence.
The irreverent now may all scoff in ease
At the shade of poor old Aristophanes.
And moderns it now doth behoove in all
Ways to despise poor old Juvenal;
And to chivvy
Livy.
The class-room hereafter will miss a row
Of eager young students of Cicero.
The 'longshoreman—yes, and the dock-rat, he's
Down upon Socrates.
And what'll
Induce us to read Aristotle?
We shall fail in
Our duty to Galen.
No tutor henceforward shall rack us
To construe old Horatius Flaccus.
We have but a wretched opinion
Of Mr. Justinian.
In our classical pabulum mix we've no wee sop
Of Æsop.
Our balance of intellect asks for no ballast
From Sallust.
With feminine scorn no fair Vassar-bred lass at us
Shall smile if we own that we cannot read Tacitus.
No admirer shall ever now weathe with begonias
The bust of Suetonius.
And so, if you follow me,
We'll have to cut Ptolemy.
Besides, it would just be considered facetious
To look at Lucretius.
And you can
Not go in Society if 'you read Lucan,
And we cannot have any fun
Out of Xenophon.

Unknown.

An Austrian Archduke, assaulted and assailed,
Broke Belgium's barriers, by Britain bewailed,
Causing consternation, confused chaotic crises;
Diffusing destructive, death dealing devices.
England engaged earnestly, eager every ear,
France fought furiously, forsaking foolish fear,
Great German garrisons grappled Gallic guard,
Hohenzollern Hussars hammered, heavy, hard.
Infantry, Imperial, Indian, Irish, intermingling,
Jackets jaunty, joking, jesting, jostling, jingling.
Kinetic, Kruppised Kaiser, kingdom's killing knight,
Laid Louvain lamenting, London lacking light,
Mobilising millions, marvellous mobility,
Numberless nonentities, numerous nobility.
Oligarchies olden opposed olive offering,
Prussia pressed Paris, Polish protection proffering,
Quaint Quebec quickly quartered quotidian quota,
Renascent Russia, resonant, reported regal rota.
Scotch soldiers, sterling, songs stalwart sung,
"Tipperary" thundered through titanic tongue.
United States urging unarmament, unwanted,
Visualised victory vociferously vaunted,
Wilson's warnings wasted, world war wild,
Xenian Nanthochroi Nantippically X-iled.
Yorkshire's young yeomen yelling youthfully,
"Zigzag Zeppelins, Zuyder Zee."

John R. Edwards.

Sweet maiden of Passamaquoddy
Shall we seek for communion of souls
Where the deep Mississippi meanders
Or the distant Saskatchewan rolls?
Ah, no!—for in Maine I will find thee
A sweetly sequestrated nook,
Where the far-winding Skoodoowabskooksis
Conjoins with the Skoodoowabskook.
There wander two beautiful rivers,
With many a winding and crook:
The one is the Skoodoowabskooksis;
The other, the Skoodoowabskook.
Ah, sweetest of haunts! though unmentioned
In geography, atlas, or book,
How fair is the Skoodoowabskooksis,
When joining the Skoodoowabskook!

Our cot shall be close by the waters,
Within that sequestrated nook,
Reflected by Skoodoowabskooksis,
And mirrored in Skoodoowabskook.
You shall sleep to the music of leaflets,
By zephyrs in wantonness shook,
To dream of the Skoodoowabskooksis,
And, perhaps, of the Skoodoowabskook.
Your food shall be fish from the waters,
Drawn forth on the point of a hook,
From murmuring Skoodoowabskooksis,
Or meandering Skoodoowabskook.
You shall quaff the most sparkling of waters,
Drawn forth from a silvery brook,
Which flows to the Skoodoowabskooksis,
And so to the Skoodoowabskook.
And you shall preside at the banquet,
And I shall wait on you as cook;
And we'll talk of the Skoodoowabskooksis,
And sing of the Skoodoowabskook.
Let others sing loudly of Saco,
Of Quoddy and Tattamagouche,
Of Kenebeccasis and Quaco,
Of Merigoniche and Buctouche,
Of Nashwaak and Magaguadavique,
Or Memmerimammericook:—
There's none like the Skoodoowabskooksis,
Excepting the Skoodoowabskook!

Unknown.

Knows he that never took a pinch,
Nosey, the pleasure thence which flows,
Knows he the titillating joys
Which my nose knows?
O Nose, I am as proud of thee
As any mountain of its snows,
I gaze on thee, and feel that pride
A Roman knows!

Albert A. Forrester (Alfred Crowquill).

Qui nunc dancere vult modo,
Wants to dance in the fashion, oh!
Discere debet—ought to know,
Kickere floor cum heel and toe,
One, two, three,
Hop with me,
Whirligig, twirligig, rapide.
Polkam jungere, Virgo, vis,
Will you join the polka, miss?
Liberius—most willingly,
Sic agimus—then let us try:
Nunc vide,
Skip with me,
Whirlabout, roundabout, celere.
Tum lÆva cito, turn dextra,
First to the left, and then t'other way;
Aspice retro in vultu,
You look at her, and she looks at you.
Das palmam
Change hands, ma'am;
Celere—run away, just in sham.

Barclay Philips.

A cat I sing, of famous memory,
Though catachrestical my song may be;
In a small garden catacomb she lies,
And cataclysms fill her comrades' eyes;
Borne on the air, the catacoustic song
Swells with her virtues' catalogue along,
No cataplasm could lengthen out her years,
Though mourning friends shed cataracts of tears.
Once loud and strong her catechist-like voice
It dwindled to a catcall's squeaking noise;
Most categorical her virtues shone,
By catenation join'd each one to one;—
But a vile catchpoll dog, with cruel bite,
Like catling's cut, her strength disabled quite;
Her caterwauling pierced the heavy air,
As cataphracts their arms through legions bear;
'Tis vain! as caterpillars drag away
Their lengths, like cattle after busy day,
She ling'ring died, nor left in kit kat the
Embodyment of this catastrophe.

Cruikshank's Omnibus.

Come! fill a fresh bumper—for why should we go
logwood
While the nectar still reddens our cups as they flow?
decoction
Pour out the rich juices still bright with the sun,
dye-stuff
Till o'er the brimmed crystal the rubies shall run.
half-ripened apples
The purple-globed clusters their life-dews have bled;
taste sugar of lead
How sweet is the breath of the fragrance they shed!
rank poisons wines!!!
For Summer's last roses lie hid in the wines
stable-boys smoking long-nines
That were garnered by maidens who laughed through the vines,
scowl howl scoff sneer
Then a smile, and a glass, and a toast, and a cheer,
strychnine and whiskey, and ratsbane and beer
For all the good wine, and we've some of it here!
In cellar, in pantry, in attic, in hall,
Down, down with the tyrant that masters us all!
Long live the gay servant that laughs for us all!

Oliver Wendell Holmes.

I devise to end my days—in a tavern drinking,

May some Christian hold for me—the glass when I am shrinking,

That the cherubim may cry—when they see me sinking,

God be merciful to a soul—of this gentleman's way of thinking.

A glass of wine amazingly—enlighteneth one's internals;

'Tis wings bedewed with nectar—that fly up to supernals;

Bottles cracked in taverns—have much the sweeter kernels,

Than the sups allowed to us—in the college journals.

Every one by nature hath—a mold which he was cast in;

I happen to be one of those—who never could write fasting;

By a single little boy—I should be surpass'd in

Writing so: I'd just as lief—be buried; tomb'd and grass'd in.

Every one by nature hath—a gift too, a dotation:

I, when I make verses—do get the inspiration

Of the very best of wine—that comes into the nation:

It maketh sermons to astound—for edification.

Just as liquor floweth good—floweth forth my lay so;

But I must moreover eat—or I could not say so;

Naught it availeth inwardly—should I write all day so;

But with God's grace after meat—I beat Ovidius Naso.

Neither is there given to me—prophetic animation,

Unless when I have eat and drank—yea, ev'n to saturation,

Then in my upper story—hath Bacchus domination,

And Phoebus rushes into me, and beggareth all relation.

Leigh Hunt.

There was an old man of Tobago,
Who lived upon rice, gruel and sago;
Till, much to his bliss,
His physician said this:
"To a leg, sir, of mutton, you may go."
There was an old soldier of Bister,
Went walking one day with his sister;
When a cow, at one poke,
Tossed her into an oak,
Before the old gentleman missed her.
There was a young man of St. Kitts
Who was very much troubled with fits;
The eclipse of the moon
Threw him into a swoon,
When he tumbled and broke into bits.
There was an old man who said, "Gee!
I can't multiply seven by three!
Though fourteen seems plenty,
It might come to twenty,—
I haven't the slightest idee!"

There was an old man in a pie,
Who said, "I must fly! I must fly!"
When they said, "You can't do it!"
He replied that he knew it,
But he had to get out of that pie!
A Tutor who tooted the flute
Tried to teach two young tooters to toot;
Said the two to the Tutor,
"Is it harder to toot, or
To tutor two tooters to toot?"

Carolyn Wells.

RECITED BY A CHINESE INFANT

If-itty-teshi-mow Jays
Haddee ny up-plo-now-shi-buh nays;
ha! ha!
He lote im aw dow,
Witty motti-fy flow;
A-flew-ty ho-lot-itty flays! Hee!

Translation

Infinitesimal James
Had nine unpronounceable names;
He wrote them all down,
With a mortified frown,
And threw the whole lot in the flames.
For beauty I am not a star,
There are others more handsome by far;
But my face I don't mind it,
For I am behind it,
It's the people in front that I jar.
There was a young lady of Oakham,
Who would steal your cigars and then soak 'em
In treacle and rum,
And then smear them with gum,
So it wasn't a pleasure to smoke 'em.
There was an Old Man in a tree
Who was horribly bored by a bee;
When they said, "Does it buzz?"
He replied, "Yes, it does!
It's a regular brute of a bee."

Edward Lear.

There was an Old Man of St. Bees
Who was stung in the arm by a wasp.
When asked, "Does it hurt?"
He replied, "No, it doesn't,
But I thought all the while 'twas a hornet."

W. S. Gilbert.

There was an old man of the Rhine,
When asked at what hour he would dine,
Replied, "At eleven,
Four, six, three and seven,
And eight and a quarter of nine."
There was a young man of Laconia,
Whose mother-in-law had pneumonia;
He hoped for the worst,
And after March first
They buried her 'neath a begonia.
There was a young man of the cape
Who always wore trousers of crÊpe;
When asked, "Don't they tear?"
He replied, "Here and there;
But they keep such a beautiful shape."
There once were some learned M.D.'s,
Who captured some germs of disease,
And infected a train,
Which without causing pain,
Allowed one to catch it with ease.

Oliver Herford.

There was a young lady of Lynn,
Who was deep in original sin;
When they said, "Do be good,"
She said, "Would if I could!"
And straightway went at it ag'in.
I'd rather have fingers than toes;
I'd rather have ears than a nose;
And as for my hair
I'm glad it's all there,
I'll be awfully sad when it goes.

Gelett Burgess.

There was a young fellow named Clyde;
Who was once at a funeral spied.
When asked who was dead,
He smilingly said,
"I don't know,—I just came for the ride!"
There was a young lady of Truro,
Who wished a mahogany bureau;
But her father said, "Dod!
All the men on Cape Cod
Couldn't buy a mahogany bureau!"
There was a young man of Ostend
Who vowed he'd hold out to the end,
But when halfway over
From Calais to Dover,
He done what he didn't intend—
There was a young man of Cohoes,
Wore tar on the end of his nose;
When asked why he done it,
He said for the fun it
Afforded the men of Cohoes.

Robert J. Burdette.

There is a young artist called Whistler,
Who in every respect is a bristler;
A tube of white lead,
Or a punch on the head,
Come equally handy to Whistler.

Dante Gabriel Rossetti.

There is a creator named God,
Whose doings are sometimes quite odd;
He made a painter named Val,
And I say and I shall,
That he does no great credit to God.

J. M. Whistler.

There was a young lady of station,
"I love man!" was her sole exclamation;
But when men cried, "You flatter!"
She replied, "Oh, no matter!
Isle of Man, is the true explanation."

Lewis Carroll.

There was a young lady of Twickenham,
Whose shoes were too tight to walk quick in 'em;
She came back from her walk,
Looking white as a chalk,
And took 'em both off and was sick in 'em.

Oliver Herford.

"It's a very warm day," observed Billy.
"I hope that you won't think it silly
If I say that this heat
Makes me think 'twould be sweet
If one were a coolie in Chile!"

Tudor Jenks.