IN THE GLOAMING
The twilight twiles in the vernal vale,
In adumbration of azure awe,
And I listlessly list in my swallow-tail
To the limpet licking his limber jaw.
And it's O for the sound of the daffodil,
For the dry distillings of prawn and prout,
When hope hops high and a heather hill
Is a dear delight and a darksome doubt.
The snagwap sits in the bosky brae
And sings to the gumplet in accents sweet;
The gibwink hasn't a word to say,
But pensively smiles at the fair keeweet.
And it's O for the jungles of Boorabul.
For the jingling jungles to jangle in,
With a moony maze of mellado mull,
And a protoplasm for next of kin.
O, sweet is the note of the shagreen shard
And mellow the mew of the mastodon,
When the soboliferous Somminard
Is scenting the shadows at set of sun.
And it's O for the timorous tamarind
In the murky meadows of Mariboo,
For the suave sirocco of Sazerkind,
And the pimpernell pellets of Pangipoo.
James C. Bayles.
BALLAD OF BEDLAM
Oh, lady, wake! the azure moon
Is rippling in the verdant skies,
The owl is warbling his soft tune,
Awaiting but thy snowy eyes.
The joys of future years are past,
To-morrow's hopes have fled away;
Still let us love, and e'en at last
We shall be happy yesterday.
The early beam of rosy night
Drives off the ebon morn afar,
While through the murmur of the light
The huntsman winds his mad guitar.
Then, lady, wake! my brigantine
Pants, neighs, and prances to be free;
Till the creation I am thine,
To some rich desert fly with me.
Punch.
'TIS SWEET TO ROAM
'Tis sweet to roam when morning's light
Resounds across the deep;
And the crystal song of the woodbine bright
Hushes the rocks to sleep,
And the blood-red moon in the blaze of noon
Is bathed in a crumbling dew,
And the wolf rings out with a glittering shout,
To-whit, to-whit, to-whoo!
Anonymous.
HYMN TO THE SUNRISE
The dreamy crags with raucous voices croon
Across the zephyr's heliotrope career;
I sit contentedly upon the moon
And watch the sunlight trickle round the sphere.
The shiny trill of jagged, feathered rocks
I hear with glee as swift I fly away;
And over waves of subtle, woolly flocks
Crashes the breaking day!
Anonymous.
THE MOON IS UP
The moon is up, the moon is up!
The larks begin to fly,
And, like a drowsy buttercup,
Dark Phoebus skims the sky,
The elephant, with cheerful voice,
Sings blithely on the spray;
The bats and beetles all rejoice,
Then let me, too, be gay.
I would I were a porcupine,
And wore a peacock's tail;
To-morrow, if the moon but shine,
Perchance I'll be a whale.
Then let me, like the cauliflower,
Be merry while I may,
And, ere there comes a sunny hour
To cloud my heart, be gay!
Anonymous.
'TIS MIDNIGHT
'Tis midnight, and the setting sun
Is slowly rising in the west;
The rapid rivers slowly run,
The frog is on his downy nest.
The pensive goat and sportive cow,
Hilarious, leap from bough to bough.
Anonymous.
UPRISING SEE THE FITFUL LARK
Uprising see the fitful lark
Unfold his pinion to the stream;
The pensive watch-dog's mellow bark
O'ershades yon cottage like a dream:
The playful duck and warbling bee
Hop gayly on, from tree to tree!
How calmly could my spirit rest
Beneath yon primrose bell so blue,
And watch those airy oxen drest
In every tint of pearling hue!
As on they hurl the gladsome plough,
While fairy zephyrs deck each brow!
Anonymous.
LIKE TO THE THUNDERING TONE
Like to the thundering tone of unspoke speeches,
Or like a lobster clad in logic breeches,
Or like the gray fur of a crimson cat,
Or like the mooncalf in a slipshod hat;
E'en such is he who never was begotten
Until his children were both dead and rotten.
Like to the fiery tombstone of a cabbage,
Or like a crab-louse with its bag and baggage,
Or like the four square circle of a ring,
Or like to hey ding, ding-a, ding-a, ding;
E'en such is he who spake, and yet, no doubt,
Spake to small purpose, when his tongue was out.
Like to a fair, fresh, fading, wither'd rose,
Or like to rhyming verse that runs in prose,
Or like the stumbles of a tinder-box,
Or like a man that's sound yet sickness mocks;
E'en such is he who died and yet did laugh
To see these lines writ for his epitaph.
Bishop Corbet in 17th century.
MY DREAM
I dreamed a dream next Tuesday week,
Beneath the apple-trees;
I thought my eyes were big pork-pies,
And my nose was Stilton cheese.
The clock struck twenty minutes to six,
When a frog sat on my knee;
I asked him to lend me eighteenpence,
But he borrowed a shilling of me.
Anonymous.
MY HOME
My home is on the rolling deep,
I spend my time a-feeding sheep;
And when the waves on high are running,
I take my gun and go a-gunning.
I shoot wild ducks down deep snake-holes,
And drink gin-sling from two-quart bowls.
Anonymous.
IN IMMEMORIAM
We seek to know, and knowing seek;
We seek, we know, and every sense
Is trembling with the great intense,
And vibrating to what we speak.
We ask too much, we seek too oft;
We know enough and should no more;
And yet we skim through Fancy's lore,
And look to earth and not aloft.
* * * * *
O Sea! whose ancient ripples lie
On red-ribbed sands where seaweeds shone;
O moon! whose golden sickle's gone,
O voices all! like you I die!
Cuthbert Bede.
THE HIGHER PANTHEISM IN A NUTSHELL
One, who is not, we see; but one, whom we see not, is;
Surely, this is not that; but that is assuredly this.
What, and wherefore, and whence: for under is over and under;
If thunder could be without lightning, lightning could be without
thunder.
Doubt is faith in the main; but faith, on the whole, is doubt;
We cannot believe by proof; but could we believe without?
Why, and whither, and how? for barley and rye are not clover;
Neither are straight lines curves; yet over is under and over.
One and two are not one; but one and nothing is two;
Truth can hardly be false, if falsehood cannot be true.
Parallels all things are; yet many of these are askew;
You are certainly I; but certainly I am not you.
One, whom we see not, is; and one, who is not, we see;
Fiddle, we know, is diddle; and diddle, we take it, is dee.
A.C. Swinburne.
DARWINITY
Power to thine elbow, thou newest of sciences,
All the old landmarks are ripe for decay;
Wars are but shadows, and so are alliances,
Darwin the great is the man of the day.
All other 'ologies want an apology;
Bread's a mistake—Science offers a stone;
Nothing is true but Anthropobiology—
Darwin the great understands it alone.
Mighty the great evolutionist teacher is,
Licking Morphology clean into shape;
Lord! what an ape the Professor or Preacher is,
Ever to doubt his descent from an ape.
Man's an Anthropoid—he cannot help that, you know—
First evoluted from Pongos of old;
He's but a branch of the catarrhine cat, you know—
Monkey I mean—that's an ape with a cold.
Fast dying out are man's later Appearances,
Cataclysmitic Geologies gone;
Now of Creation completed the clearance is,
Darwin alone you must anchor upon.
Primitive Life—Organisms were chemical,
Busting spontaneous under the sea;
Purely subaqueous, panaquademical,
Was the original Crystal of Me.
I'm the Apostle of mighty Darwinity,
Stands for Divinity—sounds much the same—
Apo-theistico-Pan-Asininity
Only can doubt whence the lot of us came.
Down on your knees, Superstition and Flunkeydom!
Won't you accept such plain doctrines instead?
What is so simple as primitive Monkeydom
Born in the sea with a cold in its head?
Herman Merivale.
SONG OF THE SCREW
A moving form or rigid mass,
Under whate'er conditions
Along successive screws must pass
Between each two positions.
It turns around and slides along—
This is the burden of my song.
The pitch of screw, if multiplied
By angle of rotation,
Will give the distance it must glide
In motion of translation.
Infinite pitch means pure translation,
And zero pitch means pure rotation.
Two motions on two given screws,
With amplitudes at pleasure,
Into a third screw-motion fuse;
Whose amplitude we measure
By parallelogram construction
(A very obvious deduction.)
Its axis cuts the nodal line
Which to both screws is normal,
And generates a form divine,
Whose name, in language formal,
Is "surface-ruled of third degree."
Cylindroid is the name for me.
Rotation round a given line
Is like a force along.
If to say couple you incline,
You're clearly in the wrong;—
'Tis obvious, upon reflection,
A line is not a mere direction.
So couples with translations too
In all respects agree;
And thus there centres in the screw
A wondrous harmony
Of Kinematics and of Statics,—
The sweetest thing in mathematics.
The forces on one given screw,
With motion on a second,
In general some work will do,
Whose magnitude is reckoned
By angle, force, and what we call
The coefficient virtual.
Rotation now to force convert,
And force into rotation;
Unchanged the work, we can assert,
In spite of transformation.
And if two screws no work can claim,
Reciprocal will be their name.
Five numbers will a screw define,
A screwing motion, six;
For four will give the axial line,
One more the pitch will fix;
And hence we always can contrive
One screw reciprocal to five.
Screws—two, three, four or five, combined
(No question here of six),
Yield other screws which are confined
Within one screw complex.
Thus we obtain the clearest notion
Of freedom and constraint of motion.
In complex III., three several screws
At every point you find,
Or if you one direction choose,
One screw is to your mind;
And complexes of order III.
Their own reciprocals may be.
In IV., wherever you arrive,
You find of screws a cone,
On every line in complex V.
There is precisely one;
At each point of this complex rich,
A plane of screws have given pitch.
But time would fail me to discourse
Of Order and Degree;
Of Impulse, Energy and Force,
And Reciprocity.
All these and more, for motions small,
Have been discussed by Dr. Ball.
Anonymous.
MOORLANDS OF THE NOT
Across the moorlands of the Not
We chase the gruesome When;
And hunt the Itness of the What
Through forests of the Then.
Into the Inner Consciousness
We track the crafty Where;
We spear the Ego tough, and beard
The Selfhood in his lair.
With lassos of the brain we catch
The Isness of the Was;
And in the copses of the Whence
We hear the think bees buzz.
We climb the slippery Whichbark tree
To watch the Thusness roll
And pause betimes in gnostic rimes
To woo the Over Soul.
Anonymous.
METAPHYSICS
Why and Wherefore set out one day
To hunt for a wild Negation.
They agreed to meet at a cool retreat
On the Point of Interrogation.
But the night was dark and they missed their mark,
And, driven well-nigh to distraction,
They lost their ways in a murky maze
Of utter abstruse abstraction.
Then they took a boat and were soon afloat
On a sea of Speculation,
But the sea grew rough, and their boat, though tough,
Was split into an Equation.
As they floundered about in the waves of doubt
Rose a fearful Hypothesis,
Who gibbered with glee as they sank in the sea,
And the last they saw was this:
On a rock-bound reef of Unbelief
There sat the wild Negation;
Then they sank once more and were washed ashore
At the Point of Interrogation.
Oliver Herford.
ABSTROSOPHY
If echoes from the fitful past
Could rise to mental view,
Would all their fancied radiance last
Or would some odors from the blast,
Untouched by Time, accrue?
Is present pain a future bliss,
Or is it something worse?
For instance, take a case like this:
Is fancied kick a real kiss,
Or rather the reverse?
Is plenitude of passion palled
By poverty of scorn?
Does Fiction mend where Fact has mauled?
Has Death its wisest victims called
When idiots are born?
Gelett Burgess.
ABSTEMIA
In Mystic Argot often Confounded with Farrago
If aught that stumbles in my speech
Or stutters in my pen,
Or, claiming tribute, each to each,
Rise, not to fall again,
Let something lowlier far, for me,
Through evanescent shades—
Than which my spirit might not be
Nourished in fitful ecstasy
Not less to know but more to see
Where that great Bliss pervades.
Gelett Burgess.
PSYCHOLOPHON
Supposed to be Translated from the Old Parsee
Twine then the rays
Round her soft Theban tissues!
All will be as She says,
When that dead past reissues.
Matters not what nor where,
Hark, to the moon's dim cluster!
How was her heavy hair
Lithe as a feather duster!
Matters not when nor whence;
Flittertigibbet!
Sounds make the song, not sense,
Thus I inhibit!
Gelett Burgess.
TIMON OF ARCHIMEDES
As one who cleaves the circumambient air
Seeking in azure what it lacks in space,
And sees a young and finely chiselled face
Filled with foretastes of wisdom yet more rare;
Touching and yet untouched—unmeasured grace!
A breathing credo and a living prayer—
Yet of the earth, still earthy; debonair
The while in heaven it seeketh for a place.
So thy dear eyes and thy kind lips but say—
Ere from his cerements Timon seems to flit:
"What of the reaper grim with sickle keen?"
And then the sunlight ushers in new day
And for our tasks our bodies seem more fit—
"Might of the night, unfleeing, sight unseen."
Charles Battell Loomis.
ALONE
Alone! Alone!
I sit in the solitudes of the moonshades,
Soul-hungering in the moonshade solitudes sit I—
My heart-lifts beaten down in the wild wind-path.
Oppressed, and scourged and beaten down are my heart-lifts.
I fix my gaze on the eye-star, and the eye-star flings its dart
upon me.
I wonder why my soul is lost in wonder why I am,
And why the eye-star mocks me,
Why the wild wind beats down my heart-lifts;
Why I am stricken here in the moonshade solitudes.
Oh! why am I what I am,
And why am I anything?
Am I not as wild as the wind and more crazy?
Why do I sit in the moonshade, while the eye-star mocks me while I
ask what I am?
Why? Why?
Anonymous.
LINES BY A MEDIUM
I might not, if I could;
I should not, if I might;
Yet if I should I would,
And, shoulding, I should quite!
I must not, yet I may;
I can, and still I must;
But ah! I cannot—nay,
To must I may not, just!
I shall, although I will,
But be it understood,
If I may, can, shall—still
I might, could, would, or should!
Anonymous.
TRANSCENDENTALISM
It is told, in Buddhi-theosophic schools,
There are rules,
By observing which, when mundane labor irks
One can simulate quiescence
By a timely evanescence
From his Active Mortal Essence,
(Or his Works.)
The particular procedure leaves research
In the lurch,
But, apparently, this matter-moulded form
Is a kind of outer plaster,
Which a well-instructed Master
Can remove without disaster
When he's warm.
And to such as mourn an Indian Solar Clime
At its prime
'Twere a thesis most immeasurably fit,
So expansively elastic,
And so plausibly fantastic,
That one gets enthusiastic
For a bit.
From the Times of India.
INDIFFERENCE
In loopy links the canker crawls,
Tads twiddle in their 'polian glee,
Yet sinks my heart as water falls.
The loon that laughs, the babe that bawls,
The wedding wear, the funeral palls,
Are neither here nor there to me.
Of life the mingled wine and brine
I sit and sip pipslipsily.
Anonymous.
HEART-FOAM
Oh! to be wafted away
From this black Aceldama of sorrow,
Where the dust of an earthy to-day
Makes the earth of a dusty to-morrow.
W.S. Gilbert.
COSSIMBAZAR
Come fleetly, come fleetly, my hookabadar,
For the sound of the tam-tam is heard from afar.
"Banoolah! Banoolah!" The Brahmins are nigh,
And the depths of the jungle re-echo their cry.
Pestonjee Bomanjee!
Smite the guitar;
Join in the chorus, my hookabadar.
Heed not the blast of the deadly monsoon,
Nor the blue Brahmaputra that gleams in the moon.
Stick to thy music, and oh, let the sound
Be heard with distinctness a mile or two round.
Famsetjee, Feejeebhoy!
Sweep the guitar.
Join in the chorus, my hookabadar.
Art thou a Buddhist, or dost thou indeed
Put faith in the monstrous Mohammedan creed?
Art thou a Ghebir—a blinded Parsee?
Not that it matters an atom to me.
Cursetjee Bomanjee!
Twang the guitar
Join in the chorus, my hookabadar.
Henry S. Leigh.
THE PERSONIFIED SENTIMENTAL
Affection's charm no longer gilds
The idol of the shrine;
But cold Oblivion seeks to fill
Regret's ambrosial wine.
Though Friendship's offering buried lies
'Neath cold Aversion's snow,
Regard and Faith will ever bloom
Perpetually below.
I see thee whirl in marble halls,
In Pleasure's giddy train,
Remorse is never on that brow,
Nor Sorrow's mark of pain.
Deceit has marked thee for her own;
Inconstancy the same;
And Ruin wildly sheds its gleam
Athwart thy path of shame.
Bret Harte.
A CLASSIC ODE
Oh, limpid stream of Tyrus, now I hear
The pulsing wings of Armageddon's host,
Clear as a colcothar and yet more clear—
(Twin orbs, like those of which the Parsees boast;)
Down in thy pebbled deeps in early spring
The dimpled naiads sport, as in the time
When Ocidelus with untiring wing
Drave teams of prancing tigers, 'mid the chime
Of all the bells of Phicol. Scarcely one
Peristome veils its beauties now, but then—
Like nascent diamonds, sparkling in the sun,
Or sainfoin, circinate, or moss in marshy fen.
Loud as the blasts of Tubal, loud and strong,
Sweet as the songs of Sappho, aye more sweet;
Long as the spear of Arnon, twice as long,
What time he hurled it at King Pharaoh's feet.
Charles Battell Loomis.
WHERE AVALANCHES WAIL
Where avalanches wail, and green Distress
Sweeps o'er the pallid beak of loveliness:
Where melancholy Sulphur holds her sway:
And cliffs of conscience tremble and obey;
And where Tartarean rattle snakes expire;
Twisting like tendrils of a hero's pyre?
No! dancing in the meteor's hall of power,
See, Genius ponders o'er Affection's tower!
A form of thund'ring import soars on high,
Hark! 'tis the gore of infant melody:
No more shall verdant Innocence amuse
The lips that death-fraught Indignation glues;—
Tempests shall teach the trackless tide of thought.
That undiminish'd senselessness is naught;
Freedom shall glare; and oh! ye links divine,
The Poet's heart shall quiver in the brine.
Anonymous
BLUE MOONSHINE
Mingled aye with fragrant yearnings,
Throbbing in the mellow glow,
Glint the silvery spirit-burnings,
Pearly blandishments of woe.
Aye! forever and forever,
Whilst the love-lorn censers sweep,
Whilst the jasper winds dissever
Amber-like the crystal deep,
Shall the soul's delirious slumber,
Sea-green vengeance of a kiss,
Teach despairing crags to number
Blue infinities of bliss.
Francis G. Stokes.
NONSENSE
Good reader, if you e'er have seen,
When Phoebus hastens to his pillow,
The mermaids with their tresses green
Dancing upon the western billow;
If you have seen at twilight dim,
When the lone spirit's vesper hymn
Floats wild along the winding shore,
The fairy train their ringlets weave
Glancing along the spangled green;—
If you have seen all this, and more,
God bless me! what a deal you've seen!
Thomas Moore.
SUPERIOR NONSENSE VERSES
He comes with herald clouds of dust;
Ecstatic frenzies rend his breast;
A moment, and he graced the earth—
Now, seek him at the eagle's nest.
Hark! see'st thou not the torrent's flash
Far shooting o'er the mountain height?
Hear'st not the billow's solemn roar,
That echoes through the vaults of night?
Anon the murky cloud is riven,
The lightnings leap in sportive play,
And through the clanging doors of heaven,
In calm effulgence bursts the day.
Hope, peering from her fleecy car,
Smiles welcome to the coming spring,
And birds with blithesome songs of praise
Make every grove and valley ring.
What though on pinions of the blast
The sea-gulls sweep with leaden flight?
What though the watery caverns deep
Gleam ghostly on the wandering sight?
Is there no music in the trees
To charm thee with its frolic mirth?
Must Care's wan phantom still beguile
And chain thee to the stubborn earth?
Lo! Fancy from her magic realm
Pours Boreal gleams adown the pole.
The tidal currents lift and swell—
Dead currents of the ocean's soul.
Yet never may their mystic streams
Breathe whispers of the mournful past,
Or Pallas wake her sounding lyre
Mid Ether's columned temples vast.
Grave History walks again the earth
As erst it did in days of eld,
When seated on the golden throne
Her hand a jewelled sceptre held.
The Delphian oracle is dumb,
Dread Cumae wafts no words of fate,
To fright the eager souls that press
Through sullen Lethe's iron gate.
But deeper shadows gather o'er
The vales that sever night and morn;
And darkness folds with brooding wing
The rustling fields of waving corn.
Then issuing from his bosky lair
The crafty tiger crouches low,
Or thunders from the frozen north
The white bear lapped in Arctic snow.
Thus shift the scenes till high aloft
The young moon sets her crescent horn,
And in gray evening's emerald sea
The beauteous Star of Love is born.
Anonymous.
WHEN MOONLIKE ORE THE HAZURE SEAS
When moonlike ore the hazure seas
In soft effulgence swells,
When silver jews and balmy breaze
Bend down the Lily's bells;
When calm and deap, the rosy sleap
Has lapt your soal in dreems,
R Hangeline! R lady mine!
Dost thou remember Jeames?
I mark thee in the Marble all,
Where England's loveliest shine—
I say the fairest of them hall
Is Lady Hangeline.
My soul, in desolate eclipse,
With recollection teems—
And then I hask, with weeping lips,
Dost thou remember Jeames?
Away! I may not tell thee hall
This soughring heart endures—
There is a lonely sperrit-call
That Sorrow never cures;
There is a little, little Star,
That still above me beams;
It is the Star of Hope—but ar!
Dost thou remember Jeames?
W.M. Thackeray.
LINES BY A PERSON OF QUALITY
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,
Mourned Adonis, darling youth:
Him the boar, in silence creeping,
Gored with unrelenting tooth.
Cynthia, tune harmonious numbers;
Fair Discretion, tune the lyre;
Soothe my ever-waking slumbers;
Bright Apollo, lend thy choir.
Gloomy Pluto, king of terrors,
Armed in adamantine chains,
Lead me to the crystal mirrors,
Watering soft Elysian plains.
Mournful Cypress, verdant willow,
Gilding my Aurelia's brows,
Morpheus, hovering o'er my pillow,
Hear me pay my dying vows.
Melancholy, smooth Maeander,
Swiftly purling in a round,
On thy margin lovers wander
With thy flowery chaplets crowned.
Thus when Philomela, drooping,
Softly seeks her silent mate,
So the bird of Juno stooping;
Melody resigns to fate.
Alexander Pope.
FRANGIPANNI
Untwine those ringlets! Ev'ry dainty clasp
That shines like twisted sunlight in my eye
Is but the coiling of the jewelled asp
That smiles to see men die.
Oh, cobra-curlèd! Fierce-fanged fair one! Draw
Night's curtain o'er the landscape of thy hair!
I yield! I kneel! I own, I bless thy law
That dooms me to despair.
I mark the crimson ruby of thy lips,
I feel the witching weirdness of thy breath!
I droop! I sink into my soul's eclipse,—
I fall in love with death!
And yet, vouchsafe a moment! I would gaze
Once more into those sweetly-murderous eyes,
Soft glimmering athwart the pearly haze
That smites to dusk the skies.
Hast thou no pity? Must I darkly tread
The unknown paths that lead me wide from thee?
Hast thou no garland for this aching head
That soon so low must be?
No sound? No sigh? No smile? Is all forgot?
Then spin my shroud out of that golden skein
Thou callst thy tresses! I shall stay thee not—
My struggles were but vain!
But shall I see thee far beyond the sun,
When the new dawn lights Empyrean scenes?
What matters now? I know the poem's done,
And wonder what the dickens it all means!
Anonymous.
LINES BY A FOND LOVER
Lovely maid, with rapture swelling,
Should these pages meet thine eye,
Clouds of absence soft dispelling;—
Vacant memory heaves a sigh.
As the rose, with fragrance weeping,
Trembles to the tuneful wave,
So my heart shall twine unsleeping,
Till it canopies the grave.
Though another's smile's requited,
Envious fate my doom should be;
Joy forever disunited,
Think, ah! think, at times on me!
Oft, amid the spicy gloaming,
Where the brakes their songs instil,
Fond affection silent roaming,
Loves to linger by the rill—
There, when echo's voice consoling,
Hears the nightingale complain,
Gentle sighs my lips controlling,
Bind my soul in beauty's chain.
Oft in slumber's deep recesses,
I thy mirror'd image see;
Fancy mocks the vain caresses
I would lavish like a bee!
But how vain is glittering sadness!
Hark, I hear distraction's knell!
Torture gilds my heart with madness!
Now forever fare thee well!
Anonymous.
FORCING A WAY
How many strive to force a way
Where none can go save those who pay,
To verdant plains of soft delight
The homage of the silent night,
When countless stars from pole to pole
Around the earth unceasing roll
In roseate shadow's silvery hue,
Shine forth and gild the morning dew.
And must we really part for good,
But meet again here where we've stood?
No more delightful trysting-place,
We've watched sweet Nature's smiling face.
No more the landscape's lovely brow,
Exchange our mutual breathing vow.
Then should the twilight draw around
No loving interchange of sound.
Less for renown than innate love,
These to my wish must recreant prove;
Nor whilst an impulse here remain,
Can ever hope the soul to gain;
For memory scanning all the past,
Relaxes her firm bonds at last,
And gives to candor all the grace
The heart can in its temple trace.
Anonymous.
THY HEART
Thy heart is like some icy lake,
On whose cold brink I stand;
Oh, buckle on my spirit's skate,
And lead, thou living saint, the way
To where the ice is thin—
That it may break beneath my feet
And let a lover in!
Anonymous.
A LOVE-SONG BY A LUNATIC
There's not a spider in the sky,
There's not a glowworm in the sea,
There's not a crab that soars on high,
But bids me dream, dear maid, of thee!
When watery Phoebus ploughs the main,
When fiery Luna gilds the lea,
As flies run up the window-pane,
So fly my thoughts, dear love, to thee!
Anonymous.
THE PARTERRE
I don't know any greatest treat
As sit him in a gay parterre,
And sniff one up the perfume sweet
Of every roses buttoning there.
It only want my charming miss
Who make to blush the self red rose;
Oh! I have envy of to kiss
The end's tip of her splendid nose.
Oh! I have envy of to be
What grass 'neath her pantoffle push,
And too much happy seemeth me
The margaret which her vestige crush.
But I will meet her nose at nose,
And take occasion for her hairs,
And indicate her all my woes,
That she in fine agree my prayers.
THE ENVOY
I don't know any greatest treat
As sit him in a gay parterre,
With Madame who is too more sweet
Than every roses buttoning there.
E.H. Palmer
TO MOLLIDUSTA
When gooseberries grow on the stem of a daisy,
And plum-puddings roll on the tide to the shore,
And julep is made from the curls of a jazey,
Oh, then, Mollidusta, I'll love thee no more.
When steamboats no more on the Thames shall be going,
And a cast-iron bridge reach Vauxhall from the Nore,
And the Grand Junction waterworks cease to be flowing,
Oh, then, Mollidusta, I'll love thee no more.
Planché.
JOHN JONES
At the Piano
I
Love me and leave me; what love bids retrieve me? can June's fist
grasp May?
Leave me and love me; hopes eyed once above me like spring's
sprouts, decay;
Fall as the snow falls, when summer leaves grow false—cards
packed for storm's play!
II
Nay, say Decay's self be but last May's elf, wing shifted, eye
sheathed—
Changeling in April's crib rocked, who lets 'scape rills locked
fast since frost breathed—
Skin cast (think!) adder-like, now bloom bursts bladder-like,—
bloom frost bequeathed?
III
Ah, how can fear sit and hear as love hears it grief's heart's
cracked grate's screech?
Chance lets the gate sway that opens on hate's way and shews on
shame's beach
Crouched like an imp sly change watch sweet love's shrimps lie, a
toothful in each.
IV
Time feels his tooth slip on husks wet from Truth's lip, which
drops them and grins—
Shells where no throb stirs of life left in lobsters since joy
thrilled their fins—
Hues of the pawn's tail or comb that makes dawn stale, so red for
our sins!
V
Leaves love last year smelt now feel dead love's tears melt—flies
caught in time's mesh!
Salt are the dews in which new time breeds new sin, brews blood
and stews flesh;
Next year may see dead more germs than this weeded and reared them
afresh.
Old times left perish, new time to cherish; life just shifts its
tune;
As, when the day dies, half afraid, eyes the growth of the moon;
Love me and save me, take me or waive me; death takes one so soon!
A.C. Swinburne.
THE OWL AND THE PUSSY-CAT
The Owl and the Pussy-Cat went to sea
In a beautiful pea-green boat:
They took some honey, and plenty of money
Wrapped up in a five-pound note.
The Owl looked up to the stars above,
And sang to a small guitar,
"Oh, lovely Pussy, oh, Pussy, my love,
What a beautiful Pussy you are,
You are,
You are!
What a beautiful Pussy you are!"
Pussy said to the Owl, "You elegant fowl,
How charmingly sweet you sing!
Oh, let us be married; too long we have tarried:
But what shall we do for a ring?"
They sailed away for a year and a day,
To the land where the bong-tree grows;
And there in the wood a Piggy-wig stood,
With a ring at the end of his nose,
His nose,
His nose,
With a ring at the end of his nose.
"Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling
Your ring?" Said the Piggy, "I will."
So they took it away and were married next day
By the Turkey who lives on the hill.
They dined on mince and slices of quince,
Which they ate with a runcible spoon;
And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,
They danced by the light of the moon,
The moon,
The moon,
They danced by the light of the moon.
Edward Lear.
A BALLADE OF THE NURSERIE
She hid herself in the soirée kettle
Out of her Ma's way, wise, wee maid!
Wan was her lip as the lily's petal,
Sad was the smile that over it played.
Why doth she warble not? Is she afraid
Of the hound that howls, or the moaning mole?
Can it be on an errand she hath delayed?
Hush thee, hush thee, dear little soul!
The nightingale sings to the nodding nettle
In the gloom o' the gloaming athwart the glade:
The zephyr sighs soft on Popòcatapètl,
And Auster is taking it cool in the shade:
Sing, hey, for a gutta serenade!
Not mine to stir up a storied pole,
No noses snip with a bluggy blade—
Hush thee, hush thee, dear little soul!
Shall I bribe with a store of minted metal?
With Everton toffee thee persuade?
That thou in a kettle thyself shouldst settle,
When grandly and gaudily all arrayed!
Thy flounces 'ill foul and fangles fade.
Come out, and Algernon Charles 'ill roll
Thee safe and snug in Plutonian plaid—
Hush thee, hush thee, dear little soul!
ENVOI
When nap is none and raiment frayed,
And winter crowns the puddered poll,
A kettle sings ane soote ballade—
Hush thee, hush thee, dear little soul.
John Twig.
A BALLAD OF HIGH ENDEAVOR
Ah Night! blind germ of days to be,
Ah me! ah me!
(Sweet Venus, mother!)
What wail of smitten strings hear we?
(Ah me! ah me!
Hey diddle dee!)
Ravished by clouds our Lady Moon,
Ah me! ah me!
(Sweet Venus, mother!)
Sinks swooning in a lady-swoon
(Ah me! ah me!
Dum diddle dee!)
What profits it to rise i' the dark?
Ah me! ah me!
(Sweet Venus, mother!)
If love but over-soar its mark
(Ah me! ah me!
Hey diddle dee!)
What boots to fall again forlorn?
Ah me! ah me!
(Sweet Venus, mother!)
Scorned by the grinning hound of scorn,
(Ah me! ah me!
Dum diddle dee!)
Art thou not greater who art less?
Ah me! ah me!
(Sweet Venus, mother!)
Low love fulfilled of low success?
(Ah me! ah me!
Hey diddle dee!)
Anonymous.
THE LUGUBRIOUS WHING-WHANG
Out on the margin of moonshine land,
Tickle me, love, in these lonesome ribs,
Out where the whing-whang loves to stand,
Writing his name with his tail on the sand,
And wiping it out with his oogerish hand;
Tickle me, love, in these lonesome ribs.
Is it the gibber of gungs and keeks?
Tickle me, love, in these lonesome ribs,
Or what is the sound the whing-whang seeks,
Crouching low by the winding creeks,
And holding his breath for weeks and weeks?
Tickle me, love, in these lonesome ribs.
Aroint him the wraithest of wraithly things!
Tickle me, love, in these lonesome ribs,
'Tis a fair whing-whangess with phosphor rings,
And bridal jewels of fangs and stings,
James W. Riley
OH! WEARY MOTHER
The lilies lie in my lady's bower,
(Oh! weary mother, drive the cows to roost;)
They faintly droop for a little hour;
My lady's head droops like a flower.
She took the porcelain in her hand,
(Oh! weary mother, drive the cows to roost;)
She poured; I drank at her command;
Drank deep, and now—you understand!
(Oh! weary mother, drive the cows to roost.)
Barry Pain.
SWISS AIR
I'm a gay tra, la, la,
With my fal, lal, la, la,
And my bright—
And my light—
Tra, la, le. [Repeat.]
Then laugh, ha, ha, ha,
And ring, ting, ling, ling,
And sing, fal, la, la,
La, la, le. [Repeat.]
Bret Harte.
THE BULBUL
The bulbul hummeth like a book
Upon the pooh-pooh tree,
And now and then he takes a look
At you and me,
At me and you.
Kuchi!
Kuchoo!
Owen Seaman.
BALLAD
With an Ancient Refrain
O stoodent A has gone and spent,
With a hey-lililu and a how-low-lan
All his money to a Cent,
And the birk and the broom blooms bonny.
His Creditors he could not pay,
With a hey-lililu and a how-low-lan,
And Prison proved a shock to A,
And the birk and the broom blooms bonny.
Anonymous.
OH, MY GERALDINE
Oh, my Geraldine,
No flow'r was ever seen so toodle um.
You are my lum ti toodle lay,
Pretty, pretty queen,
Is rum ti Geraldine and something teen,
More sweet than tiddle lum in May.
Like the star so bright
That somethings all the night,
My Geraldine!
You're fair as the rum ti lum ti sheen,
Hark! there is what—ho!
From something—um, you know,
Dear, what I mean.
Oh! rum! tum!! tum!!! my Geraldine.
F.C. Burnand.
BUZ, QUOTH THE BLUE FLY
Buz, quoth the blue fly,
Hum, quoth the bee,
Buz and hum they cry,
And so do we:
In his ear, in his nose, thus, do you see?
He ate the dormouse, else it was he.
Ben Jonson in "The Masque of Oberon."
A SONG ON KING WILLIAM III
As I walked by myself,
And talked to myself,
Myself said unto me,
Look to thyself,
Take care of thyself,
For nobody cares for thee.
I answered myself,
And said to myself,
In the self-same repartee,
Look to thyself,
Or not look to thyself,
The selfsame thing will be.
Anonymous.
THERE WAS A MONKEY
There was a monkey climbed up a tree,
When he fell down, then down fell he.
There was a crow sat on a stone,
When he was gone, then there was none.
There was an old wife did eat an apple,
When she had eat two, she had eat a couple.
There was a horse going to the mill,
When he went on, he stood not still.
There was a butcher cut his thumb,
When it did bleed, then blood did come.
There was a lackey ran a race,
When he ran fast, he ran apace.
There was a cobbler clouting shoon,
When they were mended, they were done.
There was a chandler making candle,
When he them strip, he did them handle.
There was a navy went into Spain,
When it returned, it came again.
Anonymous, 1626.
THE GUINEA PIG
There was a little Guinea-pig,
Who, being little, was not big;
He always walked upon his feet,
And never fasted when he eat.
When from a place he ran away,
He never at that place did stay;
And while he ran, as I am told,
He ne'er stood still for young or old.
He often squeaked, and sometimes vi'lent,
And when he squeaked he ne'er was silent:
Though ne'er instructed by a cat,
He knew a mouse was not a rat.
One day, as I am certified,
He took a whim, and fairly died;
And as I'm told by men of sense,
He never has been living since!
Anonymous.
THREE CHILDREN
Three children sliding on the ice
Upon a summer's day,
As it fell out they all fell in,
The rest they ran away.
Now, had these children been at home,
Or sliding on dry ground,
Ten thousand pounds to one penny
They had not all been drowned.
You parents all that children have,
And you too that have none,
If you would have them safe abroad
Pray keep them safe at home.
London, 1662
IF
If all the land were apple-pie,
And all the sea were ink;
And all the trees were bread and cheese,
What should we do for drink?
Anonymous.