THE DINKEY-BIRD
In an ocean, 'way out yonder
(As all sapient people know),
Is the land of Wonder-Wander,
Whither children love to go;
It's their playing, romping, swinging,
That give great joy to me
While the Dinkey-Bird goes singing
In the Amfalula-tree!
There the gum-drops grow like cherries,
And taffy's thick as peas,—
Caramels you pick like berries
When, and where, and how you please:
Big red sugar-plums are clinging
To the cliffs beside that sea
Where the Dinkey-Bird is singing
In the Amfalula-tree.
So when children shout and scamper
And make merry all the day,
When there's naught to put a damper
To the ardor of their play;
When I hear their laughter ringing,
Then I'm sure as sure can be
That the Dinkey-Bird is singing
In the Amfalula-tree.
For the Dinkey-Bird's bravuras
And staccatos are so sweet—
His roulades, appogiaturas,
And robustos so complete,
That the youth of every nation—
Be they near or far away—
Have especial delectation
In that gladsome roundelay.
Their eyes grow bright and brighter,
Their lungs begin to crow,
Their hearts get light and lighter,
And their cheeks are all aglow;
For an echo cometh bringing
The news to all and me.
That the Dinkey-Bird is singing
In the Amfalula-tree.
I'm sure you'd like to go there
To see your feathered friend—
And so many goodies grow there
You would like to comprehend!
Speed, little dreams, your winging
To that land across the sea
Where the Dickey-Bird is singing
In the Amfalula-Tree!
Eugene Field.
THE MAN IN THE MOON
Said the Raggedy Man on a hot afternoon,
"My!
Sakes!
What a lot o' mistakes
Some little folks makes on the Man in the Moon!
But people that's been up to see him like Me,
And calls on him frequent and intimutly,
Might drop a few hints that would interest you
Clean!
Through!
If you wanted 'em to—
Some actual facts that might interest you!"
"O the Man in the Moon has a crick in his back;
Whee!
Whimm!
Ain't you sorry for him?
And a mole on his nose that is purple and black;
And his eyes are so weak that they water and run
If he dares to dream even he looks at the sun,—
So he jes' dreams of stars, as the doctors advise—
My!
Eyes!
But isn't he wise—
To jes' dream of stars, as the doctors advise?"
"And the Man in the Moon has a boil on his ear—
Whee!
Whing!
What a singular thing!
I know! but these facts are authentic, my dear,—
There's a boil on his ear; and a corn on his chin,—
He calls it a dimple,—but dimples stick in,—
Yet it might be a dimple turned over, you know!
Whang!
Ho!
Why certainly so!—
It might be a dimple turned over, you know!"
"And the Man in the Moon has a rheumatic knee,
Gee!
Whizz!
What a pity that is!
And his toes have worked round where his heels ought to be.
So whenever he wants to go North he goes South,
And comes back with the porridge crumbs all round his mouth,
And he brushes them off with a Japanese fan,
Whing!
Whann!
What a marvellous man!
What a very remarkably marvellous man!"
"And the Man in the Moon," sighed the Raggedy Man,
"Gits!
So!
Sullonesome, you know!
Up there by himself since creation began!—
That when I call on him and then come away,
He grabs me and holds me and begs me to stay,—
Till—well, if it wasn't for Jimmy-cum-Jim,
Dadd!
Limb!
I'd go pardners with him!
Jes' jump my bob here and be pardners with him!"
James Whitcomb Riley.
THE STORY OF THE WILD HUNTSMAN
This is the Wild Huntsman that shoots the hares;
With the grass-green coat he always wears;
With game-bag, powder-horn and gun,
He's going out to have some fun.
He finds it hard without a pair
Of spectacles, to shoot the hare.
He put his spectacles upon his nose, and said,
"Now I will shoot the hares and kill them dead."
The hare sits snug in leaves and grass,
And laughs to see the green man pass.
Now as the sun grew very hot,
And he a heavy gun had got,
He lay down underneath a tree
And went to sleep as you may see.
And, while he slept like any top,
The little hare came, hop, hop, hop,—
Took gun and spectacles, and then
Softly on tiptoe went off again.
The green man wakes, and sees her place
The spectacles upon her face.
She pointed the gun at the hunter's heart,
Who jumped up at once with a start.
He cries, and screams, and runs away.
"Help me, good people, help! I pray."
At last he stumbled at the well,
Head over ears, and in he fell.
The hare stopped short, took aim, and hark!
Bang went the gun!—she missed her mark!
The poor man's wife was drinking up
Her coffee in her coffee-cup;
The gun shot cup and saucer through;
"Oh dear!" cried she, "what shall I do?"
Hiding close by the cottage there,
Was the hare's own child, the little hare.
When he heard the shot he quickly arose,
And while he stood upon his toes,
The coffee fell and burned his nose;
"Oh dear," he cried, "what burns me so?"
And held up the spoon with his little toe.
Dr. Heinrich Hoffman.
THE STORY OF PYRAMID THOTHMES
Thothmes, who loved a pyramid,
And dreamed of wonders that it hid,
Took up again one afternoon,
His longest staff, his sandal shoon,
His evening meal, his pilgrim flask,
And set himself at length the task,
Scorning the smaller and the small,
To climb the highest one of all.
The sun was very hot indeed,
Yet Thothmes never slacked his speed
Until upon the topmost stone
He lightly sat him down alone
To make himself some pleasant cheer
And turned to take his flask of beer,
For he was weary and athirst.
Forth from the neck the stopper burst
And rudely waked the sleeping dead.
In terror guilty Thothmes fled
As rose majestic, wroth and slow,
The Pharaoh's Ka of long ago.
"Help! help!" he cried, "or I am lost!
Oh! save me from old Pharaoh's ghost!"
Till, uttering one fearful yell,
He stumbled at the base and fell
Where Anubis was at his side,
And, by the god of death, he died.
The wife of Thothmes learned his tale
First from the "Memphis Evening Mail,"
And called her son, and told their woe;
"Alas!" said she, "I told him so!
Oh, think upon these awful things
And mount not on the graves of kings!
A pyramid is strange to see,
Though only at its base you be."
Anonymous.
THE STORY OF CRUEL PSAMTEK
Here is cruel Psamtek, see.
Such a wicked boy was he!
Chased the ibis round about,
Plucked its longest feathers out,
Stamped upon the sacred scarab
Like an unbelieving Arab,
Put the dog and cat to pain,
Making them to howl again.
Only think what he would do—
Tease the awful Apis too!
Basking by the sacred Nile
Lay the trusting crocodile;
Cruel Psamtek crept around him,
Laughed to think how he had found him,
With his pincers seized his tail,
Made the holy one to wail;
Till a priest of Isis came,
Called the wicked boy by name,
Shut him in a pyramid,
Where his punishment was hid.
—But the crocodile the while
Bore the pincers up the Nile—
Here the scribe who taught him letters,
And respect for all his betters,
Gave him many a heavy task,
Horrid medicines from a flask,
While on bread and water, too,
Bitter penance must he do.
The Crocodile is blythe and gay,
With friends and family at play,
And cries, "O blessed Land of Nile,
Where sacred is the crocodile,
Where no ill deed unpunished goes,
And man himself rewards our foes!"
Anonymous.
THE CUMBERBUNCE
I strolled beside the shining sea,
I was as lonely as could be;
No one to cheer me in my walk
But stones and sand, which cannot talk—
Sand and stones and bits of shell,
Which never have a thing to tell.
But as I sauntered by the tide
I saw a something at my side,
A something green, and blue, and pink,
And brown, and purple, too, I think.
I would not say how large it was;
I would not venture that, because
It took me rather by surprise,
And I have not the best of eyes.
Should you compare it to a cat,
I'd say it was as large as that;
Or should you ask me if the thing
Was smaller than a sparrow's wing,
I should be apt to think you knew,
And simply answer, "Very true!"
Well, as I looked upon the thing,
It murmured, "Please, sir, can I sing?"
And then I knew its name at once—
It plainly was a Cumberbunce.
You are amazed that I could tell
The creature's name so quickly? Well,
I knew it was not a paper-doll,
A pencil or a parasol,
A tennis-racket or a cheese,
And, as it was not one of these,
And I am not a perfect dunce—
It had to be a Cumberbunce!
With pleading voice and tearful eye
It seemed as though about to cry.
It looked so pitiful and sad
It made me feel extremely bad.
My heart was softened to the thing
That asked me if it, please, could sing.
Its little hand I longed to shake,
But, oh, it had no hand to take!
I bent and drew the creature near,
And whispered in its pale blue ear,
"What! Sing, my Cumberbunce? You can!
Sing on, sing loudly, little man!"
The Cumberbunce, without ado,
Gazed sadly on the ocean blue,
And, lifting up its little head,
In tones of awful longing, said:
"Oh, I would sing of mackerel skies,
And why the sea is wet,
Of jelly-fish and conger-eels,
And things that I forget.
And I would hum a plaintive tune
Of why the waves are hot
As water boiling on a stove,
Excepting that they're not!"
"And I would sing of hooks and eyes,
And why the sea is slant,
And gayly tips the little ships,
Excepting that I can't!
I never sang a single song,
I never hummed a note.
There is in me no melody,
No music in my throat."
"So that is why I do not sing
Of sharks, or whales, or anything!"
I looked in innocent surprise,
My wonder showing in my eyes.
"Then why, O, Cumberbunce," I cried,
"Did you come walking at my side
And ask me if you, please, might sing,
When you could not warble anything?"
"I did not ask permission, sir,
I really did not, I aver.
You, sir, misunderstood me, quite.
I did not ask you if I might.
Had you correctly understood,
You'd know I asked you if I could.
So, as I cannot sing a song,
Your answer, it is plain, was wrong.
The fact I could not sing I knew,
But wanted your opinion, too."
A voice came softly o'er the lea.
"Farewell! my mate is calling me!"
I saw the creature disappear,
Its voice, in parting, smote my ear—
"I thought all people understood
The difference 'twixt 'might' and 'could'!"
Paul West.
THE AHKOND OF SWAT
Who, or why, or which, or what,
Is the Ahkond of Swat?
Is he tall or short, or dark or fair?
Does he sit on a stool or sofa or chair,
or Squat,
The Ahkond of Swat?
Is he wise or foolish, young or old?
Does he drink his soup and his coffee cold,
or Hot,
The Ahkond of Swat?
Does he sing or whistle, jabber or talk,
And when riding abroad does he gallop or walk,
or Trot,
The Ahkond of Swat?
Does he wear a turban, a fez or a hat?
Does he sleep on a mattress, a bed or a mat,
or a Cot,
The Ahkond of Swat?
When he writes a copy in round-hand size,
Does he cross his t's and finish his i's
with a Dot,
The Ahkond of Swat?
Can he write a letter concisely clear,
Without a speck or a smudge or smear
or Blot,
The Ahkond of Swat?
Do his people like him extremely well?
Or do they, whenever they can, rebel,
or Plot,
At the Ahkond of Swat?
If he catches them then, either old or young,
Does he have them chopped in pieces or hung,
or Shot,
The Ahkond of Swat?
Do his people prig in the lanes or park?
Or even at times, when days are dark,
Garotte?
Oh, the Ahkond of Swat?
Does he study the wants of his own dominion?
Or doesn't he care for public opinion
a Jot,
The Ahkond of Swat?
To amuse his mind do his people show him
Pictures, or any one's last new poem,
or What,
For the Ahkond of Swat?
At night if he suddenly screams and wakes,
Do they bring him only a few small cakes,
or a Lot,
For the Ahkond of Swat?
Does he live on turnips, tea or tripe,
Does he like his shawl to be marked with a stripe
or a Dot,
The Ahkond of Swat?
Does he like to lie on his back in a boat
Like the lady who lived in that isle remote,
Shalott.
The Ahkond of Swat?
Is he quiet, or always making a fuss?
Is his steward a Swiss or a Swede or a Russ,
or a Scot,
The Ahkond of Swat?
Does he like to sit by the calm blue wave?
Or to sleep and snore in a dark green cave,
or a Grott,
The Ahkond of Swat?
Does he drink small beer from a silver jug?
Or a bowl? or a glass? or a cup? or a mug?
or a Pot,
The Ahkond of Swat?
Does he beat his wife with a gold-topped pipe,
When she lets the gooseberries grow too ripe,
or Rot,
The Ahkond of Swat?
Does he wear a white tie when he dines with his friends,
And tie it neat in a bow with ends,
or a Knot,
The Ahkond of Swat?
Does he like new cream, and hate mince-pies?
When he looks at the sun does he wink his eyes,
or Not,
The Ahkond of Swat?
Does he teach his subjects to roast and bake?
Does he sail about on an inland lake,
in a Yacht,
The Ahkond of Swat?
Some one, or nobody knows I wot
Who or which or why or what
Is the Ahkond of Swat!
Edward Lear.
A THRENODY
What, what, what,
What's the news from Swat?
Sad news,
Bad news,
Comes by the cable led
Through the Indian Ocean's bed,
Through the Persian Gulf, the Red
Sea and the Med-
Iterranean—he's dead;
The Ahkoond is dead!
For the Ahkoond I mourn,
Who wouldn't?
He strove to disregard the message stern,
But he Ahkoodn't.
Dead, dead, dead;
(Sorrow Swats!)
Swats wha hae wi' Ahkoond bled,
Swats whom he hath often led
Onward to a gory bed,
Or to Victory,
As the case might be,
Sorrow Swats!
Tears shed,
Tears shed like water,
Your great Ahkoond is dead!
That Swats the matter!
Mourn, city of Swat!
Your great Ahkoond is not,
But lain 'mid worms to rot.
His mortal part alone, his soul was caught
(Because he was a good Ahkoond)
Up to the bosom of Mahound.
Though earthly walls his frame surround
(Forever hallowed be the ground!)
And sceptics mock the lowly mound
And say "He's now of no Ahkoond!"
His soul is in the skies—
The azure skies that bend above his loved
Metropolis of Swat.
He sees with larger, other eyes,
Athwart all earthly mysteries—
He knows what's Swat.
Let Swat bury the great Ahkoond
With a noise of mourning and of lamentation!
Let Swat bury the great Ahkoond
With the noise of the mourning of the Swattish nation!
Fallen is at length
Its tower of strength,
Its sun is dimmed ere it had nooned;
Dead lies the great Ahkoond,
The great Ahkoond of Swat
Is not!
George Thomas Lanigan.
DIRGE OF THE MOOLLA OF KOTAL
Rival of the Akhoond of Swat
I.
Alas, unhappy land; ill-fated spot
Kotal—though where or what
On earth Kotal is, the bard has forgot;
Further than this indeed he knoweth not—
It borders upon Swat!
II.
When sorrows come, they come not single spies,
But in battal-
Ions: the gloom that lay on Swat now lies
Upon Kotal,
On sad Kotal, whose people ululate
For their loved Moolla late.
Put away his little turban,
And his narghileh embrowned,
The lord of Kotal—rural urban—
'S gone unto his last Akhoond,
'S gone to meet his rival Swattan,
'S gone, indeed, but not forgotten.
III.
His rival, but in what?
Wherein did the deceased Akhoond of Swat
Kotal's lamented Moolla late,
As it were, emulate?
Was it in the tented field
With crash of sword on shield,
While backward meaner champions reeled
And loud the tom-tom pealed?
Did they barter gash for scar
With the Persian scimetar
Or the Afghanistee tulwar,
While loud the tom-tom pealed—
While loud the tom-tom pealed,
And the jim-jam squealed,
And champions less well heeled
Their war-horses wheeled
And fled the presence of these mortal big bugs o'
the field?
Was Kotal's proud citadel—
Bastioned, and demi-luned,
Beaten down with shot and shell
By the guns of the Akhoond?
Or were wails despairing caught, as
The burghers pale of Swat
Cried in panic, "Moolla ad Portas"?
—Or what?
Or made each in the cabinet his mark
Kotalese Gortschakoff, Swattish Bismarck?
Did they explain and render hazier
The policies of Central Asia?
Did they with speeches from the throne,
Wars dynastic,
Ententes cordiales,
Between Swat and Kotal;
Holy alliances,
And other appliances
Of statesmen with morals and consciences
plastic
Come by much more than their own?
Made they mots, as "There to-day are
No more Himalayehs,"
Or, if you prefer it, "There to-day are
No more Himalaya"?
Oi, said the Akhoond, "Sah,
L'État de Swat c'est moi"?
Khabu, did there come great fear
On thy Khabuldozed Ameer
Ali Shere?
Or did the Khan of far
Kashgar
Tremble at the menace hot
Of the Moolla of Kotal,
"I will extirpate thee, pal
Of my foe the Akhoond of Swat"?
Who knows
Of Moolla and Akhoond aught more than I did?
Namely, in life they rivals were, or foes,
And in their deaths not very much divided?
If any one knows it,
Let him disclose it!
George Thomas Lanigan.
RUSSIAN AND TURK
There was a Russian came over the sea,
Just when the war was growing hot;
And his name it was Tjalikavakaree-
Karindobrolikanahudarot-
Shibkadirova-
Ivarditztova
Sanilik
Danerik
Varagobhot.
A Turk was standing upon the shore—
Right where the terrible Russian crossed,
And he cried: "Bismillah! I'm Ab-El Kor-
Bazarou-Kilgonautosgobross-
Getfinpravadi-
Kligekoladji
Grivino
Blivido-
Jenikodosk!"
So they stood like brave men long and well;
And they called each other their proper names,
Till the lockjaw seized them, and where they fell
They buried them both by the Irdesholmmes
Kalatalustchuk
Mischtaribusiclup-
Bulgari-
Dulbary-
Sagharimsing.
Anonymous.
LINES TO MISS FLORENCE HUNTINGDON
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 in Skoodoowabskooksis
And mirrored in Skoodoowabskook.
You shall sleep to the music of leaflets,
By zephyrs in wantonness shook,
And dream of the Skoodoowabskooksis,
And, perhaps, of the Skoodoowabskook.
When awaked by the hens and the roosters,
Each morn, you shall joyously look
On the junction of Skoodoowabskooksis
With the soft gliding Skoodoowabskook.
Your food shall be fish from the waters,
Drawn forth on the point of a hook,
From murmuring Skoodoowabskooksis,
Or wandering Skoodoowabskook!
You shall quaff the most sparkling of water,
Drawn forth from a silvery brook
Which flows to the Skoodoowabskooksis,
And then to the Skoodoowabskook!
And you shall preside at the banquet,
And I will wait on thee 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 Kennebeccasis, and Quaco,
Of Merigonishe, and Buctouche,
Of Nashwaak, and Magaguadavique,
Or Memmerimammericook,—
There's none like the Skoodoowabskooksis,
Excepting the Skoodoowabskook!
Anonymous.
COBBE'S PROPHECIES
When the day and the night do meete
And the houses are even with the streete:
And the fire and the water agree,
And blinde men have power to see:
When the Wolf and the Lambe lie down togither,
And the blasted trees will not wither:
When the flood and the ebbe run one way,
And the Sunne and the Moone are at a stay;
When Age and Youth are all one,
And the Miller creepes through the Mill-stone:
When the Ram butts the Butcher on the head,
And the living are buried with the dead.
When the Cobler doth worke without his ends,
And the Cutpurse and the Hangman are friends:
Strange things will then be to see,
But I think it will never be!
—1614.
AN UNSUSPECTED FACT
If down his throat a man should choose
In fun, to jump or slide,
He'd scrape his shoes against his teeth,
Nor dirt his own inside.
But if his teeth were lost and gone,
And not a stump to scrape upon,
He'd see at once how very pat
His tongue lay there by way of mat,
And he would wipe his feet on that!
Edward Cannon.
THE SORROWS OF WERTHER
Werther had a love for Charlotte
Such as words could never utter;
Would you know how first he met her?
She was cutting bread and butter.
Charlotte was a married lady,
And a moral man was Werther,
And for all the wealth of Indies,
Would do nothing for to hurt her.
So he sigh'd and pined and ogled,
And his passion boil'd and bubbled,
Till he blew his silly brains out,
And no more was by it troubled.
Charlotte, having seen his body
Borne before her on a shutter,
Like a well-conducted person,
Went on cutting bread and butter.
W.M. Thackeray.
NONSENSE VERSES
Lazy-bones, lazy-bones, wake up and peep!
The cat's in the cupboard, your mother's asleep.
There you sit snoring, forgetting her ills;
Who is to give her her Bolus and Pills?
Twenty fine Angels must come into town,
All for to help you to make your new gown:
Dainty aerial Spinsters and Singers;
Aren't you ashamed to employ such white fingers?
Delicate hands, unaccustom'd to reels,
To set 'em working a poor body's wheels?
Why they came down is to me all a riddle,
And left Hallelujah broke off in the middle:
Jove's Court, and the Presence angelical, cut—
To eke out the work of a lazy young slut.
Angel-duck, Angel-duck, winged and silly,
Pouring a watering-pot over a lily,
Gardener gratuitous, careless of pelf,
Leave her to water her lily herself,
Or to neglect it to death if she chuse it:
Remember the loss is her own if she lose it.
Charles Lamb.
THE NOBLE TUCK-MAN
Americus, as he did wend
With A. J. Mortimer, his chum,
The two were greeted by a friend,
"And how are you, boys, Hi, Ho, Hum?"
He spread a note so crisp, so neat
(Ho, and Hi, and tender Hum),
"If you of this a fifth can eat
I'll give you the remainder. Come!"
To the tuck-shop three repair,
(Ho, and Hum, and pensive Hi),
One looks on to see all's fair,
Two call out for hot mince-pie.
Thirteen tarts, a few Bath buns
(Hi, and Hum, and gorgeous Ho),
Lobster cakes (the butter'd ones),
All at once they cry, "No go."
Then doth tuck-man smile. "Them there
(Ho, and Hi, and futile Hum)
Jellies three and sixpence air,
Use of spoons an equal sum."
Three are rich. Sweet task 'tis o'er,
"Tuckman, you're a brick," they cry,
Wildly then shake hands all four
(Hum and Ho, the end is Hi).
Jean Ingelow.
THE PESSIMIST
Nothing to do but work,
Nothing to eat but food,
Nothing to wear but clothes
To keep one from going nude.
Nothing to breathe but air,
Quick as a flash 'tis gone;
Nowhere to fall but off,
Nowhere to stand but on.
Nothing to comb but hair,
Nowhere to sleep but in bed,
Nothing to weep but tears,
Nothing to bury but dead.
Nothing to sing but songs,
Ah, well, alas! alack!
Nowhere to go but out,
Nowhere to come but back.
Nothing to see but sights,
Nothing to quench but thirst,
Nothing to have but what we've got;
Thus thro' life we are cursed.
Nothing to strike but a gait;
Everything moves that goes.
Nothing at all but common sense
Can ever withstand these woes.
Ben King.
THE MODERN HIAWATHA
He killed the noble Mudjokivis.
Of the skin he made him mittens,
Made them with the fur side inside,
Made them with the skin side outside.
He, to get the warm side inside,
Put the inside skin side outside;
He, to get the cold side outside,
Put the warm side fur side inside.
That's why he put the fur side inside,
Why he put the skin side outside,
Why he turned them inside outside.
Anonymous.
ON THE ROAD
Said Folly to Wisdom,
"Pray, where are we going?"
Said Wisdom to Folly,
"There's no way of knowing."
Said Folly to Wisdom,
"Then what shall we do?"
Said Wisdom to Folly,
"I thought to ask you."
Tudor Jenks.
UNCLE SIMON AND UNCLE JIM
Uncle Simon he
Clum up a tree
To see what he could see
When presentlee
Uncle Jim
Clum up beside of him
And squatted down by he.
Artemus Ward.
POOR DEAR GRANDPAPA
What is the matter with Grandpapa?
What can the matter be?
He's broken his leg in trying to spell
Tommy without a T.
D' Arcy W. Thompson.
THE SEA-SERPENT
All bones but yours will rattle when I say
I'm the sea-serpent from America.
Mayhap you've heard that I've been round the world;
I guess I'm round it now, Mister, twice curled.
Of all the monsters through the deep that splash,
I'm "number one" to all immortal smash.
When I lie down and would my length unroll,
There ar'n't half room enough 'twixt pole and pole.
In short, I grow so long that I've a notion
I must be measured soon for a new ocean.
Planché.
MELANCHOLIA
I am a peevish student, I;
My star is gone from yonder sky.
I think it went so high at first
That it just went and gone and burst.
Anonymous.
THE MONKEY'S WEDDING
The monkey married the Baboon's sister,
Smacked his lips and then he kissed her,
He kissed so hard he raised a blister.
She set up a yell.
The bridesmaid stuck on some court plaster,
It stuck so fast it couldn't stick faster,
Surely 't was a sad disaster,
But it soon got well.
What do you think the bride was dressed in?
White gauze veil and a green glass breast-pin,
Red kid shoes—she was quite interesting,
She was quite a belle.
The bridegroom swell'd with a blue shirt collar,
Black silk stock that cost a dollar,
Large false whiskers the fashion to follow;
He cut a monstrous swell.
What do you think they had for supper?
Black-eyed peas and bread and butter,
Ducks in the duck-house all in a flutter,
Pickled oysters too.
Chestnuts raw and boil'd and roasted,
Apples sliced and onions toasted,
Music in the corner posted,
Waiting for the cue.
What do you think was the tune they danced to?
"The drunken Sailor"—sometimes "Jim Crow,"
Tails in the way—and some got pinched, too,
'Cause they were too long.
What do you think they had for a fiddle?
An old Banjo with a hole in the middle,
A Tambourine made out of a riddle,
And that's the end of my song.
Anonymous.
MR. FINNEY'S TURNIP
Mr. Finney had a turnip
And it grew and it grew,
And it grew behind the barn,
And that turnip did no harm.
There it grew and it grew
Till it could grow no longer;
Then his daughter Lizzie picked it
And put it in the cellar.
There it lay and it lay
Till it began to rot;
And his daughter Susie took it
And put it in the pot.
And they boiled it and boiled it
As long as they were able,
And then his daughters took it
And put it on the table.
Mr. Finney and his wife
They sat down to sup;
And they ate and they ate
And they ate that turnip up.
Anonymous..
THE SUN
The Sun, yon glorious orb of day,
Ninety-four million miles away,
Will keep revolving in its orbit
Till heat and motion reabsorb it.
J. Davis.
THE AUTUMN LEAVES
The Autumn leaves are falling,
Are falling here and there.
They're falling through the atmosphere
And also through the air.
Anonymous.
IN THE NIGHT
The night was growing old
As she trudged through snow and sleet;
Her nose was long and cold,
And her shoes were full of feet.
Anonymous.
POOR BROTHER
How very sad it is to think
Our poor benighted brother
Should have his head upon one end,
His feet upon the other.
Anonymous.
THE BOY
Down through the snow-drifts in the street
With blustering joy he steers;
His rubber boots are full of feet
And his tippet full of ears.
Eugene Field.
THE SEA
Behold the wonders of the mighty deep,
Where crabs and lobsters learn to creep,
And little fishes learn to swim,
And clumsy sailors tumble in.
Anonymous.
THERE WAS A LITTLE GIRL
There was a little girl,
And she had a little curl
Right in the middle of her forehead.
When she was good
She was very, very good,
And when she was bad she was horrid.
One day she went upstairs,
When her parents, unawares,
In the kitchen were occupied with meals
And she stood upon her head
In her little trundle-bed,
And then began hooraying with her heels.
Her mother heard the noise,
And she thought it was the boys
A-playing at a combat in the attic;
But when she climbed the stair,
And found Jemima there,
She took and she did spank her most emphatic.
H. W. Longfellow.
FIN DE SIÈCLE
The sorry world is sighing now;
_La Grippe _is at the door;
And many folks are dying now
Who never died before.
Newton Mackintosh.
MARY JANE
Mary Jane was a farmer's daughter,
Mary Jane did what she oughter.
She fell in love—but all in vain;
Oh, poor Mary! oh, poor Jane!
Anonymous.
TENDER-HEARTEDNESS
Little Willie, in the best of sashes,
Fell in the fire and was burned to ashes.
By and by the room grew chilly,
But no one liked to poke up Willie.
Col. D. Streamer.
IMPETUOUS SAMUEL
Sam had spirits naught could check,
And to-day, at breakfast, he
Broke his baby sister's neck,
So he sha'n't have jam for tea!
Col. D. Streamer.
MISFORTUNES NEVER COME SINGLY
Making toast at the fireside,
Nurse fell in the grate and died;
And, what makes it ten times worse,
All the toast was burned with Nurse.
Col. D. Streamer.
AUNT ELIZA
In the drinking-well
(Which the plumber built her)
Aunt Eliza fell,—
We must buy a filter.
Col. D. Streamer.
SUSAN
Susan poisoned her grandmother's tea;
Grandmamma died in agonee.
Susan's papa was greatly vexed,
And he said to Susan, "My dear, what next?"
Anonymous.
BABY AND MARY
Baby sat on the window-seat;
Mary pushed Baby into the street;
Baby's brains were dashed out in the "arey";
And mother held up her forefinger at Mary.
Anonymous.
THE SUNBEAM
I dined with a friend in the East, one day,
Who had no window-sashes;
A sunbeam through the window came
And burnt his wife to ashes.
"John, sweep your mistress away," said he,
"And bring fresh wine for my friend and me."
Anonymous.
LITTLE WILLIE
Little Willie hung his sister,
She was dead before we missed her.
"Willie's always up to tricks!
Ain't he cute? He's only six!"
Anonymous.
MARY AMES
Pity now poor Mary Ames,
Blinded by her brother James;
Red-hot nails in her eyes he poked,—
I never saw Mary more provoked.
Anonymous.
MUDDLED METAPHORS
By a Moore-ose Melodist
Oh, ever thus from childhood's hour,
I've seen my fondest hopes recede!
I never loved a tree or flower
That didn't trump its partner's lead.
I never nursed a dear gazelle,
To glad me with its dappled hide,
But when it came to know me well,
It fell upon the buttered side.
I never taught a cockatoo
To whistle comic songs profound,
But, just when "Jolly Dogs" it knew,
It failed for ninepence in the pound.
I never reared a walrus cub
In my aquarium to plunge,
But, when it learned to love its tub,
It placidly threw up the sponge!
I never strove a metaphor
To every bosom home to bring
But—just as it had reached the door—
It went and cut a pigeon's wing!
Tom Hood, Jr.
VILLON'S STRAIGHT TIP TO ALL CROSS COVES
"Tout aux tavernes et aux fiells"
Suppose you screeve? or go cheap-jack?
Or fake the broads? or fig a nag?
Or thimble-rig? or knap a yack?
Or pitch a snide? or smash a rag?
Suppose you duff? or nose and lag?
Or get the straight, and land your pot?
How do you melt the multy swag?
Booze and the blowens cop the lot.
Fiddle, or fence, or mace, or mack;
Or moskeneer, or flash the drag;
Dead-lurk a crib, or do a crack;
Pad with a slang, or chuck a fag;
Bonnet, or tout, or mump and gag;
Rattle the tats, or mark the spot;
You cannot bag a single stag;
Booze and the blowens cop the lot.
Suppose you try a different tack,
And on the square you flash your flag?
At penny-a-lining make your whack,
Or with the mummers mug and gag?
For nix, for nix the dibbs you bag!
At any graft, no matter what,
Your merry goblins soon stravag:
Booze and the blowens cop the lot.
THE MORAL
It's up the spout and Charley Wag
With wipes and tickers and what not
Until the squeezer nips your scrag,
Booze and the blowens cop the lot.
W. E. Henley.
ODE TO THE HUMAN HEART
Blind Thamyris, and blind M. æonides,
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.