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   Chapter 2 No.2

The Book of Humorous Verse By Various Characters: 79231

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Pierre: I made a perfect landing over there

Behind the church-

Celeste:The Virgin heard my prayer!

Now I must burn the candle that I vowed-

Pierre: Then 'twas our Blessed Lady sent that Cloud

That saved me when the Boche came up behind.

I made a lightning turn, only to find

The Boche on top of me. It seemed a kind

Of miracle to see that Cloud-I swear

A moment past the sky was everywhere

As clear as clear; there was no Cloud in sight.

It looked to me, floating there calm and white.

Like a great mother hen, and I a chick.

She seemed to call me, and I scurried quick

Behind her wing. That spoiled the Boche's game,

And gave me time to turn and take good aim.

I emptied my last drum, and saw him drop

Ten thousand feet in flames-

Celeste (shuddering):Stop! Pierre, stop!

Maybe a girl is waiting for him too-

Pierre: 'Twas either him or me-

Celeste:Thank God, not you!

Pierre (pointing to the church): Come, let us burn the candle that you vowed.

Celeste: Two candles!

Pierre: Who's the other for?

Celeste: The Cloud!

Oliver Herford.

* * *


"You gave me the key of your heart, my love;

Then why do you make me knock?"

"Oh, that was yesterday, Saints above!

And last night-I changed the lock!"

John Boyle O'Reilly.

* * *


It worries me to beat the band

To hear folks say our lives is grand;

Wish they'd try some one-night stand.

Ain't it awful, Mabel?

Nothin' ever seems to suit-

The manager's an awful brute;

Spend our lives jest lookin' cute.

Ain't it awful, Mabel?

Met a boy last Tuesday night,

Was spendin' money left and right--

Me, gee! I couldn't eat a bite!

Ain't it awful, Mabel?

Then I met another guy-

Hungry! well, I thought I'd die!

But I couldn't make him buy.

Ain't it awful, Mabel?

Lots of men has called me dear,

Said without me life was drear,

But men is all so unsincere!

Ain't it awful, Mabel?

I tell you, life is mighty hard,

I've had proposals by the yard-

Some of 'em would 'a had me starred.

Ain't it awful, Mabel?

Remember that sealskin sacque of mine?

When I got it, look'd awful fine-

I found out it was a shine.

Ain't it awful, Mabel?

Prima donna's sore on me;

My roses had her up a tree-

I jest told her to "twenty-three."

Ain't it awful, Mabel?

My dear, she went right out and wired

The New York office to have me "fired";

But say! 'twas the author had me hired.

Ain't it awful, Mabel?

I think hotels is awful mean,

Jim and me put out of room sixteen-

An' we was only readin' Laura Jean.

Ain't it awful, Mabel?

The way folks talk about us too;

For the smallest thing we do-

'Nuff to make a girl feel blue.

Ain't it awful, Mabel?

My Gawd! is that the overture?

I never will be on, I'm sure-

The things us actresses endure,

Ain't it awful, Mabel?

John Edward Hazzard.

* * *


Oh, Wing Tee Wee

Was a sweet Chinee,

And she lived in the town of Tac.

Her eyes were blue,

And her curling queue

Hung dangling down her back;

And she fell in love with gay Win Sil

When he wrote his name on a laundry bill.

And, oh, Tim Told

Was a pirate bold,

And he sailed in a Chinese junk;

And he loved, ah me!

Sweet Wing Tee Wee,

But his valiant heart had sunk;

So he drowned his blues in fickle fizz,

And vowed the maid would yet be his.

So bold Tim Told

Showed all his gold

To the maid in the town of Tac;

And sweet Wing Wee

Eloped to sea,

And nevermore came back;

For in far Chinee the maids are fair,

And the maids are false,-as everywhere.

J. P. Denison.

* * *


Beside a Primrose 'broider'd Rill

Sat Phyllis Lee in Silken Dress

Whilst Lucius limn'd with loving skill

Her likeness, as a Shepherdess.

Yet tho' he strove with loving skill

His Brush refused to work his Will.

"Dear Maid, unless you close your Eyes

I cannot paint to-day," he said;

"Their Brightness shames the very Skies

And turns their Turquoise into Lead."

Quoth Phyllis, then, "To save the Skies

And speed your Brush, I'll shut my Eyes."

Now when her Eyes were closed, the Dear,

Not dreaming of such Treachery,

Felt a Soft Whisper in her Ear,

"Without the Light, how can one See?"

"If you are sure that none can see

I'll keep them shut," said Phyllis Lee.

Oliver Herford.

* * *


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.

* * *


Tom's album was filled with the pictures of belles

Who had captured his manly heart,

From the fairy who danced for the front-row swells

To the maiden who tooled her cart;

But one face as fair as a cloudless dawn

Caught my eye, and I said, "Who's this?"

"Oh, that," he replied, with a skilful yawn,

"Is the girl I couldn't kiss."

Her face was the best in the book, no doubt,

But I hastily turned the leaf,

For my friend had let his cigar go out,

And I knew I had bared his grief:

For caresses we win and smiles we gain

Yield only a transient bliss,

And we're all of us prone to sigh in vain

For "the girl we couldn't kiss."

Harry Romaine.

* * *


Young Rory O'More, courted Kathleen Bawn,

He was bold as a hawk,-she as soft as the dawn;

He wish'd in his heart pretty Kathleen to please,

And he thought the best way to do that was to tease.

"Now, Rory, be aisy," sweet Kathleen would cry,

(Reproof on her lip, but a smile in her eye),

"With your tricks I don't know, in troth, what I'm about,

Faith you've teased till I've put on my cloak inside out."

"Oh, jewel," says Rory, "that same is the way

You've thrated my heart for this many a day;

And 'tis plaz'd that I am, and why not to be sure?

For 'tis all for good luck," says bold Rory O'More.

"Indeed, then," says Kathleen, "don't think of the like,

For I half gave a promise to soothering Mike;

The ground that I walk on he loves, I'll be bound."

"Faith," says Rory, "I'd rather love you than the ground."

"Now, Rory, I'll cry if you don't let me go;

Sure I drame ev'ry night that I'm hating you so!"

"Oh," says Rory, "that same I'm delighted to hear,

For drames always go by conthraries, my dear;

Oh! jewel, keep draming that same till you die,

And bright morning will give dirty night the black lie!

And 'tis plaz'd that I am, and why not, to be sure?

Since 'tis all for good luck," says bold Rory O'More.

"Arrah, Kathleen, my darlint, you've teas'd me enough,

Sure I've thrash'd for your sake Dinny Grimes and Jim Duff;

And I've made myself, drinking your health, quite a baste,

So I think, after that, I may talk to the praste."

Then Rory, the rogue, stole his arm around her neck,

So soft and so white, without freckle or speck,

And he look'd in her eyes that were beaming with light,

And he kiss'd her sweet lips;-don't you think he was right?

"Now, Rory, leave off, sir; you'll hug me no more,

That's eight times to-day you have kiss'd me before."

"Then here goes another," says he, "to make sure,

For there's luck in odd numbers," says Rory O'More.

Samuel Lover.

* * *


"Le temps le mieux employé est celui qu' on perd."

-Claude Tillier.

I'd read three hours. Both notes and text

Were fast a mist becoming;

In bounced a vagrant bee, perplexed,

And filled the room with humming.

Then out. The casement's leafage sways,

And, parted light, discloses

Miss Di., with hat and book,-a maze

Of muslin mixed with roses.

"You're reading Greek?" "I am-and you?"

"O, mine's a mere romancer!"

"So Plato is." "Then read him-do;

And I'll read mine in answer."

I read. "My Plato (Plato, too,-

That wisdom thus should harden!)

Declares 'blue eyes look doubly blue

Beneath a Dolly Varden.'"

She smiled. "My book in turn avers

(No author's name is stated)

That sometimes those Philosophers

Are sadly mis-translated."

"But hear,-the next's in stronger style:

The Cynic School asserted

That two red lips which part and smile

May not be controverted!"

She smiled once more-"My book, I find,

Observes some modern doctors

Would make the Cynics out a kind

Of album-verse concoctors."

Then I-"Why not? 'Ephesian law,

No less than time's tradition,

Enjoined fair speech on all who saw

Diana's apparition.'"

She blushed-this time. "If Plato's page

No wiser precept teaches,

Then I'd renounce that doubtful sage,

And walk to Burnham-beeches."

"Agreed," I said. "For Socrates

(I find he too is talking)

Thinks Learning can't remain at ease

While Beauty goes a-walking."

She read no more, I leapt the sill:

The sequel's scarce essential-

Nay, more than this, I hold it still

Profoundly confidential.

Austin Dobson.

* * *


"The case is proceeding."

From the tragic-est novels at Mudie's-

At least, on a practical plan-

To the tales of mere Hodges and Judys,

One love is enough for a man.

But no case that I ever yet met is

Like mine: I am equally fond

Of Rose, who a charming brunette is,

And Dora, a blonde.

Each rivals the other in powers-

Each waltzes, each warbles, each paints-

Miss Rose, chiefly tumble-down towers;

Miss Do., perpendicular saints.

In short, to distinguish is folly;

'Twixt the pair I am come to the pass

Of Macheath, between Lucy and Polly,-

Or Buridan's ass.

If it happens that Rosa I've singled

For a soft celebration in rhyme,

Then the ringlets of Dora get mingled

Somehow with the tune and the time;

Or I painfully pen me a sonnet

To an eyebrow intended for Do.'s,

And behold I am writing upon it

The legend, "To Rose,"

Or I try to draw Dora (my blotter

Is all overscrawled with her head),

If I fancy at last that I've got her,

It turns to her rival instead;

Or I find myself placidly adding

To the rapturous tresses of Rose

Miss Dora's bud-mouth, and her madding

Ineffable nose.

Was there ever so sad a dilemma?

For Rose I would perish (pro tem.);

For Dora I'd willingly stem a-

(Whatever might offer to stem);

But to make the invidious election,-

To declare that on either one's side

I've a scruple,-a grain, more affection,

I cannot decide.

And, as either so hopelessly nice is,

My sole and my final resource

Is to wait some indefinite crisis,-

Some feat of molecular force,

To solve me this riddle conducive

By no means to peace or repose,

Since the issue can scarce be inclusive

Of Dora and Rose.


But, perhaps, if a third (say a Nora),

Not quite so delightful as Rose,-

Not wholly so charming as Dora,-

Should appear, is it wrong to suppose,-

As the claims of the others are equal,-

And flight-in the main-is the best,-

That I might ... But no matter,-the sequel

Is easily guessed.

Austin Dobson.

* * *




If I were you, when ladies at the play, Sir,

Beckon and nod, a melodrama through,

I would not turn abstractedly away, Sir,

If I were you!


If I were you, when persons I affected,

Wait for three hours to take me down to Kew,

I would at least pretend I recollected,

If I were you!


If I were you, when ladies are so lavish,

Sir, as to keep me every waltz but two,

I would not dance with odious Miss M'Tavish,

If I were you!


If I were you, who vow you cannot suffer

Whiff of the best,-the mildest "honey dew,"

I would not dance with smoke-consuming Puffer,

If I were you!


If I were you, I would not, Sir, be bitter,

Even to write the "Cynical Review";-


No, I should doubtless find flirtation fitter,

If I were you!


Really! You would? Why, Frank, you're quite delightful,-

Hot as Othello, and as black of hue;

Borrow my fan. I would not look so frightful,

If I were you!


"It is the cause." I mean your chaperon is

Bringing some well-curled juvenile. Adieu!

I shall retire. I'd spare that poor Adonis,

If I were you!


Go, if you will. At once! And by express, Sir!

Where shall it be? To China-or Peru?

Go. I should leave inquirers my address, Sir,

If I were you!


No-I remain. To stay and fight a duel

Seems, on the whole, the proper thing to do-

Ah, you are strong,-I would not then be cruel,

If I were you!


One does not like one's feelings to be doubted,-


One does not like one's friends to misconstrue,-


If I confess that I a wee-bit pouted?


I should admit that I was piqué, too.


Ask me to dance. I'd say no more about it,

If I were you!


Austin Dobson.

* * *


Miss Flora McFlimsey, of Madison Square,

Has made three separate journeys to Paris;

And her father assures me, each time she was there,

That she and her friend Mrs. Harris

(Not the lady whose name is so famous in history,

But plain Mrs. H., without romance or mystery)

Spent six consecutive weeks without stopping,

In one continuous round of shopping;-

Shopping alone, and shopping together,

At all hours of the day, and in all sorts of weather:

For all manner of things that a woman can put

On the crown of her head or the sole of her foot,

Or wrap round her shoulders, or fit round her waist,

Or that can be sewed on, or pinned on, or laced,

Or tied on with a string, or stitched on with a bow,

In front or behind, above or below;

For bonnets, mantillas, capes, collars, and shawls;

Dresses for breakfasts, and dinners, and balls;

Dresses to sit in, and stand in, and walk in,

Dresses to dance in, and flirt in, and talk in;

Dresses in which to do nothing at all;

Dresses for winter, spring, summer, and fall,-

All of them different in color and pattern,

Silk, muslin, and lace, crape, velvet, and satin,

Brocade, and broadcloth, and other material

Quite as expensive and much more ethereal:

In short, for all things that could ever be thought of,

Or milliner, modiste, or tradesman be bought of,

From ten-thousand-francs robes to twenty-sous frills;

In all quarters of Paris, and to every store:

While McFlimsey in vain stormed, scolded, and swore.

They footed the streets, and he footed the bills.

The last trip, their goods shipped by the steamer Argo

Formed, McFlimsey declares, the bulk of her cargo,

Not to mention a quantity kept from the rest,

Sufficient to fill the largest-sized chest,

Which did not appear on the ship's manifest,

But for which the ladies themselves manifested

Such particular interest that they invested

Their own proper persons in layers and rows

Of muslins, embroideries, worked underclothes,

Gloves, handkerchiefs, scarfs, and such trifles as those;

Then, wrapped in great shawls, like Circassian beauties,

Gave good-by to the ship, and go-by to the duties.

Her relations at home all marvelled, no doubt,

Miss Flora had grown so enormously stout

For an actual belle and a possible bride;

But the miracle ceased when she turned inside out,

And the truth came to light, and the dry-goods beside,

Which, in spite of collector and custom-house sentry,

Had entered the port without any entry.

And yet, though scarce three months have passed since the day

The merchandise went, on twelve carts, up Broadway,

This same Miss McFlimsey, of Madison Square,

The last time we met, was in utter despair,

Because she had nothing whatever to wear!

Nothing to wear! Now, as this is a true ditty,

I do not assert-this you know is between us-

That she's in a state of absolute nudity,

Like Powers's Greek Slave, or the Medici Venus;

But I do mean to say I have heard her declare,

When at the same moment she had on a dress

Which cost five hundred dollars, and not a cent less,

And jewelry worth ten times more, I should guess,

That she had not a thing in the wide world to wear!

I should mention just here, that out of Miss Flora's

Two hundred and fifty or sixty adorers,

I had just been selected as he who should throw all

The rest in the shade, by the gracious bestowal

On myself, after twenty or thirty rejections

Of those fossil remains which she called her "affections,"

And that rather decayed but well-known work of art,

Which Miss Flora persisted in styling "her heart."

So we were engaged. Our troth had been plighted

Not by moonbeam or starbeam, by fountain or grove;

But in a front parlor, most brilliantly lighted,

Beneath the gas-fixtures we whispered our love-

Without any romance, or raptures, or sighs,

Without any tears in Miss Flora's blue eyes,

Or blushes, or transports, or such silly actions;

It was one of the quietest business transactions,

With a very small sprinkling of sentiment, if any,

And a very large diamond imported by Tiffany.

On her virginal lips while I printed a kiss,

She exclaimed, as a sort of parenthesis,

And by way of putting me quite at my ease,

"You know, I'm to polka as much as I please,

And flirt when I like,-now stop,-don't you speak,-

And you must not come here more than twice in the week,

Or talk to me either at party or ball;

But always be ready to come when I call:

So don't prose to me about duty and stuff,-

If we don't break this off, there will be time enough

For that sort of thing; but the bargain must be,

That as long as I choose I am perfectly free:

For this is a sort of engagement, you see,

Which is binding on you, but not binding on me."

Well, having thus wooed Miss McFlimsey, and gained her,

With the silks, crinolines, and hoops that contained her,

I had, as I thought, a contingent remainder

At least in the property, and the best right

To appear as its escort by day and by night;

And it being the week of the Stuckups' grand ball,-

Their cards had been out for a fortnight or so,

And set all the Avenue on the tiptoe,-

I considered it only my duty to call

And see if Miss Flora intended to go.

I found her-as ladies are apt to be found

When the time intervening between the first sound

Of the bell and the visitor's entry is shorter

Than usual-I found-I won't say I caught-her

Intent on the pier-glass, undoubtedly meaning

To see if perhaps it didn't need cleaning.

She turned as I entered-"Why, Harry, you sinner,

I thought that you went to the Flashers' to dinner!"

"So I did," I replied; "but the dinner is swallowed,

And digested, I trust; for 'tis now nine or more:

So being relieved from that duty, I followed

Inclination, which led me, you see, to your door.

And now will your Ladyship so condescend

As just to inform me if you intend

Your beauty and graces and presence to lend

(All of which, when I own, I hope no one will borrow)

To the Stuckups, whose party, you know, is to-morrow?"

The fair Flora looked up with a pitiful air,

And answered quite promptly, "Why, Harry, mon cher,

I should like above all things to go with you there;

But really and truly-I've nothing to wear."

"Nothing to wear? Go just as you are:

Wear the dress you have on, and you'll be by far,

I engage, the most bright and particular star

On the Stuckup horizon-" I stopped, for her eye,

Notwithstanding this delicate onset of flattery,

Opened on me at once a most terrible battery

Of scorn and amazement. She made no reply,

But gave a slight turn to the end of her nose

(That pure Grecian feature), as much as to say,

"How absurd that any sane man should suppose

That a lady would go to a ball in the clothes,

No matter how fine, that she wears every day!"

So I ventured again-"Wear your crimson brocade."

(Second turn-up of nose)-"That's too dark by a shade."-

"Your blue silk-" "That's too heavy."-"Your pink-" "That's too light."-

"Wear tulle over satin." "I can't endure white."-

"Your rose-colored, then, the best of the batch-"

"I haven't a thread of point lace to match."-

"Your brown moire-antique-" "Yes, and look like a Quaker."-

"The pearl-colored-" "I would, but that plaguy dressmaker

Has had it a week."-"Then that exquisite lilac,

In which you would melt the heart of a Shylock."

(Here the nose took again the same elevation)-

"I wouldn't wear that for the whole of creation."-

"Why not? It's my fancy, there's nothing could strike it

As more comme il faut"-"Yes, but, dear me, that lean

Sophronia Stuckup has got one just like it,

And I won't appear dressed like a chit of sixteen."-

"Then that splendid purple, that sweet mazarine,

That superb point d'aiguille, that imperial green,

That zephyr-like tarlatan, that rich grenadine-"

"Not one of all which is fit to be seen,"

Said the lady, becoming excited and flushed.

"Then wear," I exclaimed, in a tone which quite crushed

Opposition, "that gorgeous toilette which you sported

In Paris last spring, at the grand presentation,

When you quite turned the head of the head of the nation;

And by all the grand court were so very much courted."

The end of the nose was portentously tipped up,

And both the bright eyes shot forth indignation,

As she burst upon me with the fierce exclamation,

"I have worn it three times at the least calculation,

And that and most of my dresses are ripped up!"

Here I ripped out something, perhaps rather rash-

Quite innocent, though; but to use an expression

More striking than classic, it "settled my hash,"

And proved very soon the last act of our session.

"Fiddlesticks, is it, sir? I wonder the ceiling

Doesn't fall down and crush you!-oh, you men have no feeling.

You selfish, unnatural, illiberal creatures,

Who set yourselves up as patterns and preachers,

Your silly pretence-why, what a mere guess it is!

Pray, what do you know of a woman's necessities?

I have told you and shown you I've nothing to wear,

And it's perfectly plain you not only don't care,

But you do not believe me" (here the nose went still higher):

"I suppose if you dared you would call me a liar.

Our engagement is ended, sir-yes, on the spot;

You're a brute, and a monster, and-I don't know what."

I mildly suggested the words Hottentot,

Pickpocket, and cannibal, Tartar, and thief,

As gentle expletives which might give relief:

But this only proved as a spark to the powder,

And the storm I had raised came faster and louder;

It blew, and it rained, thundered, lightened, and hailed

Interjections, verbs, pronouns, till language quite failed

To express the abusive, and then its arrears

Were brought up all at once by a torrent of tears;

And my last faint, despairing attempt at an obs-

Ervation was lost in a tempest of sobs.

Well, I felt for the lady, and felt for my hat too,

Improvised on the crown of the latter a tattoo,

In lieu of expressing the feelings which lay

Quite too deep for words, as Wordsworth would say:

Then, without going through the form of a bow,

Found myself in the entry,-I hardly knew how,-

On doorstep and sidewalk, past lamp-post and square,

At home and up-stairs, in my own easy-chair;

Poked my feet into slippers, my fire into blaze,

And said to myself, as I lit my cigar,-

Supposing a man had the wealth of the Czar

Of the Russias to boot, for the rest of his days,

On the whole do you think he would have much time to spare

If he married a woman with nothing to wear?

William Allen Butler.

* * *


They nearly strike me dumb,

And I tremble when they come


This palpitation means

These boots are Geraldine's-

Think of that!

Oh, where did hunter win

So delectable a skin

For her feet?

You lucky little kid,

You perished, so you did,

For my sweet!

The fa?ry stitching gleams

On the sides, and in the seams,

And it shows

The Pixies were the wags

Who tipt those funny tags

And these toes.

What soles to charm an elf!

Had Crusoe, sick of self,

Chanced to view

One printed near the tide,

Oh, how hard he would have tried

For the two!

For Gerry's debonair

And innocent, and fair

As a rose;

She's an angel in a frock,

With a fascinating cock

To her nose.

The simpletons who squeeze

Their extremities to please


Would positively flinch

From venturing to pinch


Cinderella's lefts and rights,

To Geraldine's were frights;

And I trow,

The damsel, deftly shod,

Has dutifully trod

Until now.

Come, Gerry, since it suits

Such a pretty Puss (in Boots)

These to don;

Set this dainty hand awhile

On my shoulder, dear, and I'll

Put them on.

Frederick Locker-Lampson.

* * *


Last year I trod these fields with Di,

Fields fresh with clover and with rye;

They now seem arid!

Then Di was fair and single; how

Unfair it seems on me, for now

Di's fair-and married!

A blissful swain-I scorn'd the song

Which says that though young Love is strong,

The Fates are stronger;

Breezes then blew a boon to men,

The buttercups were bright, and then

This grass was longer.

That day I saw and much esteem'd

Di's ankles, which the clover seem'd

Inclined to smother;

It twitch'd, and soon untied (for fun)

The ribbon of her shoes, first one,

And then the other.

I'm told that virgins augur some

Misfortune if their shoe-strings come

To grief on Friday:

And so did Di, and then her pride

Decreed that shoe-strings so untied

Are "so untidy!"

Of course I knelt; with fingers deft

I tied the right, and then the left;

Says Di, "The stubble

Is very stupid!-as I live,

I'm quite ashamed!-I'm shock'd to give

You so much trouble!"

For answer I was fain to sink

To what we all would say and think

Were Beauty present:

"Don't mention such a simple act-

A trouble? not the least! in fact

It's rather pleasant!"

I trust that Love will never tease

Poor little Di, or prove that he's

A graceless rover.

She's happy now as Mrs. Smith-

And less polite when walking with

Her chosen lover!

Heigh-ho! Although no moral clings

To Di's blue eyes, and sandal strings,

We've had our quarrels!-

I think that Smith is thought an ass;

I know that when they walk in grass

She wears balmorals.

Frederick Locker-Lampson.

* * *


I recollect a nurse call'd Ann,

Who carried me about the grass,

And one fine day a fine young man

Came up, and kiss'd the pretty lass.

She did not make the least objection!

Thinks I, "Aha!

When I can talk I'll tell Mamma"

-And that's my earliest recollection.

Frederick Locker-Lampson.

* * *



He dropt a tear on Susan's bier,

He seem'd a most despairing swain;

But bluer sky brought newer tie,

And-would he wish her back again?

The moments fly, and when we die,

Will Philly Thistletop complain?

She'll cry and sigh, and-dry her eye,

And let herself be woo'd again.

Frederick Locker-Lampson.

* * *


Perhaps you may a-noticed I been soht o' solemn lately,

Haven't been a-lookin' quite so pleasant.

Mabbe I have been a little bit too proud and stately;

Dat's because I'se lonesome jes' at present.

I an' him agreed to quit a week or so ago,

Fo' now dat I am in de social swim

I'se 'rived to de opinion dat he ain't my style o' beau,

So I tole him dat my watch was fas' fo' him.


Oh, I didn't like his clo'es,

An' I didn't like his eyes,

Nor his walk, nor his talk,

Nor his ready-made neckties.

I didn't like his name a bit,

Jes' 'spise the name o' Jim;

If dem ere reasons ain't enough,

I didn't like Him.

Dimon' ring he give to me, an' said it was a fine stone.

Guess it's only alum mixed wif camphor.

Took it roun' to Eisenstein; he said it was a rhinestone,

Kind, he said, he didn't give a dam fur.

Sealskin sack he give to me it got me in a row.

P'liceman called an' asked to see dat sack;

Said another lady lost it. Course I don't know how;

But I had to go to jail or give it back.


Oh, I didn't like his trade;

Trade dat kep' him out all night.

He'd de look ob a crook,

An' he owned a bull's-eye light.

So when policemen come to ask

What I know 'bout dat Jim,

I come to de confusion dat

I didn't like Him.

Harry B. Smith.

* * *


She kept her secret well, oh, yes,

Her hideous secret well.

We together were cast, I knew not her past;

For how was I to tell?

I married her, guileless lamb I was;

I'd have died for her sweet sake.

How could I have known that my Angeline

Had been a Human Snake?

Ah, we had been wed but a week or two

When I found her quite a wreck:

Her limbs were tied in a double bow-knot

At the back of her swan-like neck.

No curse there sprang to my pallid lips,

Nor did I reproach her then;

I calmly untied my bonny bride

And straightened her out again.


My Angeline! My Angeline!

Why didst disturb my mind serene?

My well-belovèd circus queen,

My Human Snake, my Angeline!

At night I'd wake at the midnight hour,

With a weird and haunted feeling,

And there she'd be, in her robe de nuit,

A-walking upon the ceiling.

She said she was being "the human fly,"

And she'd lift me up from beneath

By a section slight of my garb of night,

Which she held in her pearly teeth.

For the sweet, sweet sake of the Human Snake

I'd have stood this conduct shady;

But she skipped in the end with an old, old friend,

An eminent bearded lady.

But, oh, at night, when my slumber's light,

Regret comes o'er me stealing;

For I miss the sound of those little feet,

As they pattered along the ceiling.


My Angeline! My Angeline!

Why didst disturb my mind serene?

My well-belovèd circus queen,

My Human Snake, my Angeline!

Harry B. Smith.

* * *


Hear what Highland Nora said,-

"The Earlie's son I will not wed,

Should all the race of nature die,

And none be left but he and I.

For all the gold, for all the gear,

And all the lands both far and near,

That ever valour lost or won,

I would not wed the Earlie's son."

"A maiden's vows," old Callum spoke,

"Are lightly made and lightly broke,

The heather on the mountain's height

Begins to bloom in purple light;

The frost-wind soon shall sweep away

That lustre deep from glen and brae;

Yet Nora, ere its bloom be gone,

May blithely wed the Earlie's son."

"The swan," she said, "the lake's clear breast

May barter for the eagle's nest;

The Awe's fierce stream may backward turn,

Ben-Cruaichan fall, and crush Kilchurn;

Our kilted clans, when blood is high,

Before their foes may turn and fly;

But I, were all these marvels done,

Would never wed the Earlie's son."

Still in the water-lily's shade

Her wonted nest the wild swan made;

Ben-Cruaichan stands as fast as ever,

Still downward foams the Awe's fierce river;

To shun the clash of foeman's steel,

No Highland brogue has turn'd the heel;

But Nora's heart is lost and won,

-She's wedded to the Earlie's son!

Sir Walter Scott.

* * *


O'er the men of Ethiopia she would pour her cornucopia,

And shower wealth and plenty on the people of Japan,

Send down jelly cake and candies to the Indians of the Andes,

And a cargo of plum pudding to the men of Hindoostan;

And she said she loved 'em so,

Bushman, Finn, and Eskimo.

If she had the wings of eagles to their succour she would fly

Loaded down with jam and jelly,

Succotash and vermicelli,

Prunes, pomegranates, plums and pudding, peaches, pineapples, and pie.

She would fly with speedy succour to the natives of Molucca

With whole loads of quail and salmon, and with tons of fricassee

And give cake in fullest measure

To the men of Australasia

And all the Archipelagoes that dot the southern sea;

And the Anthropophagi,

All their lives deprived of pie,

She would satiate and satisfy with custards, cream, and mince;

And those miserable Australians

And the Borrioboolighalians,

She would gorge with choicest jelly, raspberry, currant, grape, and quince.

But like old war-time hardtackers, her poor husband lived on crackers,

Bought at wholesale from a baker, eaten from the mantelshelf;

If the men of Madagascar,

And the natives of Alaska,

Had enough to sate their hunger, let him look out for himself.

And his coat had but one tail

And he used a shingle nail

To fasten up his galluses when he went out to his work;

And she used to spend his money

To buy sugar-plums and honey

For the Terra del Fuegian and the Turcoman and Turk.

Sam Walter Foss.

* * *


'Twas a pretty little maiden

In a garden gray and old,

Where the apple trees were laden

With the magic fruit of gold;

But she strayed beyond the portal

Of the garden of the Sun,

And she flirted with a mortal,

Which she oughtn't to have done!

For a giant was her father and a goddess was her mother,

She was Merope or Sterope-the one or else the other;

And the man was not the equal, though presentable and rich,

Of Merope or Sterope-I don't remember which!

Now the giant's daughters seven,

She among them, if you please,

Were translated to the heaven

As the starry Pleiades!

But amid their constellation

One alone was always dark,

For she shrank from observation

Or censorious remark.

She had yielded to a mortal when he came to flirt and flatter.

She was Merope or Sterope-the former or the latter;

So the planets all ignored her, and the comets wouldn't call

On Merope or Sterope-I am not sure at all!

But the Dog-star, brightly shining

In the hottest of July,

Saw the pretty Pleiad pining

In the shadow of the sky,

And he courted her and kissed her

Till she kindled into light;

And the Pleiads' erring sister

Was the lady of the night!

So her former indiscretion as a fault was never reckoned,

To Merope or Sterope-the first or else the second,

And you'll never see so rigidly respectable a dame

As Merope or Sterope-I can't recall her name!

Arthur Reed Ropes.

* * *


They've got a brand-new organ, Sue,

For all their fuss and search;

They've done just as they said they'd do,

And fetched it into church.

They're bound the critter shall be seen,

And on the preacher's right

They've hoisted up their new machine

In everybody's sight.

They've got a chorister and choir,

Ag'in' my voice and vote;

For it was never my desire

To praise the Lord by note.

I've been a sister good an' true

For five-an'-thirty year;

I've done what seemed my part to do,

An' prayed my duty clear;

I've sung the hymns both slow and quick,

Just as the preacher read,

And twice, when Deacon Tubbs was sick,

I took the fork an' led;

And now, their bold, new-fangled ways

Is comin' all about;

And I, right in my latter days,

Am fairly crowded out!

To-day the preacher, good old dear,

With tears all in his eyes,

Read, "I can read my title clear

To mansions in the skies."

I al'ays liked that blessed hymn-

I s'pose I al'ays will-

It somehow gratifies my whim,

In good old Ortonville;

But when that choir got up to sing,

I couldn't catch a word;

They sung the most dog-gondest thing

A body ever heard!

Some worldly chaps was standin' near;

An' when I see them grin,

I bid farewell to every fear,

And boldly waded in.

I thought I'd chase their tune along,

An' tried with all my might;

But though my voice was good an' strong,

I couldn't steer it right.

When they was high, then I was low,

An' also contrawise;

An' I too fast, or they too slow,

To "mansions in the skies."

An' after every verse, you know

They play a little tune;

I didn't understand, and so

I started in too soon.

I pitched it pretty middlin' high,

I fetched a lusty tone,

But oh, alas! I found that I

Was singin' there alone!

They laughed a little, I am told;

But I had done my best;

And not a wave of trouble rolled

Across my peaceful breast.

And Sister Brown-I could but look-

She sits right front of me;

She never was no singin'-book,

An' never went to be;

But then she al'ays tried to do

The best she could, she said;

She understood the time right through,

An' kep' it with her head;

But when she tried this mornin', oh,

I had to laugh, or cough!

It kep' her head a-bobbin' so,

It e'en a'most came off.

An' Deacon Tubbs-he all broke 'down,

As one might well suppose;

He took one look at Sister Brown,

And meekly scratched his nose.

He looked his hymn-book through and through,

And laid it on the seat,

And then a pensive sigh he drew,

And looked completely beat.

And when they took another bout,

He didn't even rise;

But drawed his red bandanner out,

An' wiped his weepin' eyes.

I've been a sister, good an' true,

For five-an'-thirty year;

I've done what seemed my part to do,

An' prayed my duty clear;

But Death will stop my voice, I know,

For he is on my track;

And some day I to church will go,

And nevermore come back;

And when the folks gets up to sing-

Whene'er that time shall be-

I do not want no patent thing

A-squealin' over me!

Will Carteton.

* * *


Now the Widow McGee,

And Larrie O'Dee,

Had two little cottages out on the green,

With just room enough for two pig-pens between.

The widow was young and the widow was fair,

With the brightest of eyes and the brownest of hair,

And it frequently chanced, when she came in the morn,

With the swill for her pig, Larrie came with the corn,

And some of the ears that he tossed from his hand

In the pen of the widow were certain to land.

One morning said he:

"Och! Misthress McGee,

It's a waste of good lumber, this runnin' two rigs,

Wid a fancy purtition betwane our two pigs!"

"Indade, sur, it is!" answered Widow McGee,

With the sweetest of smiles upon Larrie O'Dee.

"And thin, it looks kind o' hard-hearted and mane,

Kapin' two friendly pigs so exsaidenly near

That whiniver one grunt

s the other can hear,

And yit kape a cruel purtition betwane."

"Shwate Widow McGee,"

Answered Larrie O'Dee,

"If ye fale in your heart we are mane to the pigs,

Ain't we mane to ourselves to be runnin' two rigs?

Och! it made me heart ache when I paped through the cracks

Of me shanty, lasht March, at yez shwingin' yer axe;

An' a-bobbin' yer head an' a-shtompin' yer fate,

Wid yer purty white hands jisht as red as a bate,

A-shplittin' yer kindlin'-wood out in the shtorm,

When one little shtove it would kape us both warm!"

"Now, piggy," says she,

"Larrie's courtin' o' me,

Wid his dilicate tinder allusions to you;

So now yez must tell me jisht what I must do:

For, if I'm to say yes, shtir the swill wid yer snout;

But if I'm to say no, ye must kape yer nose out.

Now Larrie, for shame! to be bribin' a pig

By a-tossin' a handful of corn in its shwig!"

"Me darlint, the piggy says yes," answered he.

And that was the courtship of Larrie O'Dee.

William W. Fink.

* * *


No fault in women, to refuse

The offer which they most would choose.

No fault in women to confess

How tedious they are in their dress;

No fault in women, to lay on

The tincture of vermilion,

And there to give the cheek a dye

Of white, where Nature doth deny.

No fault in women, to make show

Of largeness, when they've nothing so;

When, true it is, the outside swells

With inward buckram, little else.

No fault in women, though they be

But seldom from suspicion free;

No fault in womankind at all,

If they but slip, and never fall.

Robert Herrick.

* * *


She went round and asked subscriptions

For the heathen black Egyptians

And the Terra del Fuegians,

She did;

For the tribes round Athabasca,

And the men of Madagascar,

And the poor souls of Alaska,

So she did;

She longed, she said, to buy

Jelly, cake, and jam, and pie,

For the Anthropophagi,

So she did.

Her heart ached for the Australians

And the Borriobooli-Ghalians,

And the poor dear Amahagger,

Yes, it did;

And she loved the black Numidian,

And the ebon Abyssinian,

And the charcoal-coloured Guinean,

Oh, she did!

And she said she'd cross the seas

With a ship of bread and cheese

For those starving Chimpanzees,

So she did.

How she loved the cold Norwegian

And the poor half-melted Feejeean,

And the dear Molucca Islander,

She did:

She sent tins of red tomato

To the tribes beyond the Equator,

But her husband ate potato,

So he did;

The poor helpless, homeless thing

(My voice falters as I sing)

Tied his clothes up with a string,

Yes, he did.


* * *


When Mary Ann Dollinger got the skule daown thar on Injun Bay,

I was glad, for I like ter see a gal makin' her honest way.

I heerd some talk in the village abaout her flyin' high,

Tew high for busy farmer folks with chores ter do ter fly;

But I paid no sorter attention ter all the talk ontell

She come in her reg'lar boardin' raound ter visit with us a spell.

My Jake an' her had been cronies ever since they could walk,

An' it tuk me aback to hear her kerrectin' him in his talk.

Jake ain't no hand at grammar, though he hain't his beat for work;

But I sez ter myself, "Look out, my gal, yer a-foolin' with a Turk!"

Jake bore it wonderful patient, an' said in a mournful way,

He p'sumed he was behindhand with the doin's at Injun Bay.

I remember once he was askin' for some o' my Injun buns,

An' she said he should allus say, "them air," stid o' "them is" the ones.

Wal, Mary Ann kep' at him stiddy mornin' an' evenin' long,

Tell he dassent open his mouth for fear o' talkin' wrong.

One day I was pickin' currants daown by the old quince-tree,

When I heerd Jake's voice a-saying', "Be yer willin' ter marry me?"

An' Mary Ann kerrectin', 'Air ye willin' yeou sh'd say";

Our Jake he put his foot daown in a plum, decided way,

"No wimmen-folks is a-goin' ter be rearrangin' me,

Hereafter I says 'craps,' 'them is,' 'I calk'late,' an' 'I be.'

Ef folks don't like my talk they needn't hark ter what I say:.

But I ain't a-goin' to take no sass from folks from Injun Bay.

I ask you free an' final, 'Be ye goin' ter marry me?'"

An' Mary Ann says, tremblin, yet anxious-like, "I be."

Florence E. Pratt.

* * *


A maiden once, of certain age,

To catch a husband did engage;

But, having passed the prime of life

In striving to become a wife

Without success, she thought it time

To mend the follies of her prime.

Departing from the usual course

Of paint and such like for resource,

With all her might this ancient maid

Beneath an oak-tree knelt and prayed;

Unconscious that a grave old owl

Was perched above-the mousing fowl!

"Oh, give! a husband give!" she cried,

"While yet I may become a bride;

Soon will my day of grace be o'er,

And then, like many maids before,

I'll die without an early Jove,

And none to meet me there above!

"Oh, 'tis a fate too hard to bear!

Then answer this my humble prayer,

And oh, a husband give to me!"

Just then the owl from out the tree,

In deep bass tones cried, "Who-who-who!"

"Who, Lord? And dost Thou ask me who?

Why, any one, good Lord, will do."


* * *


There were three young maids of Lee;

They were fair as fair can be,

And they had lovers three times three,

For they were fair as fair can be,

These three young maids of Lee.

But these young maids they cannot find

A lover each to suit her mind;

The plain-spoke lad is far too rough,

The rich young lord is not rich enough,

The one is too poor, and one is too tall,

And one just an inch too short for them all.

"Others pick and choose, and why not we?

We can very well wait," said the maids of Lee.

There were three young maids of Lee;

They were fair as fair can be,

And they had lovers three times three

For they were fair as fair can be,

These three young maids of Lee.

There are three old maids of Lee,

And they are old as old can be,

And one is deaf, and one cannot see,

And they are all as cross as a gallows-tree,

These three old maids of Lee.

Now, if any one chanced-'tis a chance remote-

One single charm in these maids to note,

He need not a poet nor handsome be,

For one is deaf and one cannot see;

He need not woo on his bended knee,

For they all are willing as willing can be.

He may take the one, or the two, or the three,

If he'll only take them away from Lee.

There are three old maids at Lee;

They are cross as cross can be;

And there they are, and there they'll be

To the end of the chapter, one, two, three,

These three old maids of Lee.

Frederic E. Weatherly.

* * *


Years-years ago,-ere yet my dreams

Had been of being wise and witty,-

Ere I had done with writing themes,

Or yawn'd o'er this infernal Chitty;-

Years, years ago, while all my joy

Was in my fowling-piece and filly:

In short, while I was yet a boy,

I fell in love with Laura Lily.

I saw her at the county ball;

There, when the sounds of flute and fiddle

Gave signal sweet in that old hall

Of hands across and down the middle,

Hers was the subtlest spell by far

Of all that set young hearts romancing:

She was our queen, our rose, our star;

And when she danced-O Heaven, her dancing!

Dark was her hair, her hand was white;

Her voice was exquisitely tender,

Her eyes were full of liquid light;

I never saw a waist so slender;

Her every look, her every smile,

Shot right and left a score of arrows;

I thought 'twas Venus from her isle,

And wonder'd where she'd left her sparrows.

She talk'd,-of politics or prayers;

Of Southey's prose, or Wordsworth's sonnets;

Of daggers or of dancing bears,

Of battles, or the last new bonnets;

By candle-light, at twelve o'clock,

To me it matter'd not a tittle,

If those bright lips had quoted Locke,

I might have thought they murmur'd Little.

Through sunny May, through sultry June,

I loved her with a love eternal;

I spoke her praises to the moon,

I wrote them for the Sunday Journal.

My mother laugh'd; I soon found out

That ancient ladies have no feeling;

My father frown'd; but how should gout

See any happiness in kneeling?

She was the daughter of a Dean,

Rich, fat, and rather apoplectic;

She had one brother, just thirteen,

Whose color was extremely hectic;

Her grandmother for many a year

Had fed the parish with her bounty;

Her second cousin was a peer,

And lord lieutenant of the county.

But titles and the three per cents,

And mortgages, and great relations,

And India bonds, and tithes and rents,

Oh! what are they to love's sensations?

Black eyes, fair forehead, clustering locks,

Such wealth, such honors, Cupid chooses;

He cares as little for the stocks,

As Baron Rothschild for the Muses.

She sketch'd; the vale, the wood, the beach,

Grew lovelier from her pencil's shading;

She botanized; I envied each

Young blossom in her boudoir fading;

She warbled Handel; it was grand-

She made the Catalani jealous;

She touch'd the organ; I could stand

For hours and hours to blow the bellows.

She kept an album, too, at home,

Well fill'd with all an album's glories;

Paintings of butterflies, and Rome,

Patterns for trimming, Persian stories;

Soft songs to Julia's cockatoo,

Fierce odes to Famine and to Slaughter;

And autographs of Prince Leboo,

And recipes for elder water.

And she was flatter'd, worshipp'd, bored;

Her steps were watch'd, her dress was noted;

Her poodle dog was quite adored,

Her sayings were extremely quoted.

She laugh'd, and every heart was glad,

As if the taxes were abolish'd;

She frown'd, and every look was sad,

As if the Opera were demolished.

She smil'd on many just for fun-

I knew that there was nothing in it;

I was the first-the only one

Her heart had thought of for a minute;

I knew it, for she told me so,

In phrase which was divinely moulded;

She wrote a charming hand,-and oh!

How sweetly all her notes were folded!

Our love was like most other loves-

A little glow, a little shiver;

A rosebud and a pair of gloves,

And "Fly Not Yet," upon the river;

Some jealousy of some one's heir,

Some hopes of dying broken-hearted,

A miniature, a lock of hair,

The usual vows-and then we parted.

We parted;-months and years roll'd by;

We met again four summers after;

Our parting was all sob and sigh--

Our meeting was all mirth and laughter;

For in my heart's most secret cell,

There had been many other lodgers;

And she was not the ballroom belle,

But only-Mrs. Something Rogers.

Winthrop Mackworth Praed.

* * *


Old Nick, who taught the village school,

Wedded a maid of homespun habit;

He was as stubborn as a mule,

She was as playful as a rabbit.

Poor Jane had scarce become a wife,

Before her husband sought to make her

The pink of country-polished life,

And prim and formal as a Quaker.

One day the tutor went abroad,

And simple Jenny sadly missed him;

When he returned, behind her lord

She slyly stole, and fondly kissed him!

The husband's anger rose!-and red

And white his face alternate grew!

"Less freedom, ma'am!" Jane sighed and said,

"Oh, dear! I didn't know 'twas you!"

George Pope Morris.

* * *


Behave yoursel' before folk,

Behave yoursel' before folk,

And dinna be sae rude to me,

As kiss me sae before folk.

It wadna gi'e me meikle pain,

Gin we were seen and heard by nane,

To tak' a kiss, or grant you ane;

But guidsake! no before folk.

Behave yoursel' before folk,

Behave yoursel' before folk;

Whate'er ye do, when out o' view,

Be cautious aye before folk.

Consider, lad, how folk will crack,

And what a great affair they'll mak'

O' naething but a simple smack,

That's gi'en or ta'en before folk.

Behave yoursel' before folk,

Behave yoursel' before folk;

Nor gi'e the tongue o' auld or young

Occasion to come o'er folk.

It's no through hatred o' a kiss,

That I sae plainly tell you this;

But, losh! I tak' it sair amiss

To be sae teazed before folk.

Behave yoursel' before folk,

Behave yoursel' before folk;

When we're our lane ye may tak' ane,

But fient a ane before folk.

I'm sure wi' you I've been as free

As ony modest lass should be;

But yet it doesna do to see

Sic freedom used before folk.

Behave yoursel' before folk,

Behave yoursel' before folk;

I'll ne'er submit again to it-

So mind you that-before folk.

Ye tell me that my face is fair;

It may be sae-I dinna care-

But ne'er again gar't blush sae sair

As ye ha'e done before folk.

Behave yoursel' before folk,

Behave yoursel' before folk;

Nor heat my cheeks wi' your mad freaks,

But aye de douce before folk.

Ye tell me that my lips are sweet,

Sic tales, I doubt, are a' deceit;

At ony rate, it's hardly meet

To pree their sweets before folk.

Behave yoursel' before folk,

Behave yoursel' before folk;

Gin that's the case, there's time, and place,

But surely no before folk.

But, gin you really do insist

That I should suffer to be kiss'd,

Gae, get a license frae the priest,

And mak' me yours before folk.

Behave yoursel' before folk,

Behave yoursel' before folk;

And when we're ane, baith flesh and bane,

Ye may tak' ten-before folk.

Alexander Rodger.

* * *


Margarita first possess'd,

If I remember well, my breast,

Margarita, first of all;

But when a while the wanton maid

With my restless heart had play'd,

Martha took the flying ball.

Martha soon did it resign

To the beauteous Catharine.

Beauteous Catharine gave place

(Though loth and angry she to part

With the possession of my heart)

To Eliza's conquering face.

Eliza till this hour might reign,

Had she not evil counsel ta'en:

Fundamental laws she broke,

And still new favourites she chose,

Till up in arms my passions rose,

And cast away her yoke.

Mary then and gentle Anne,

Both to reign at once began,

Alternately they swayed:

And sometimes Mary was the fair,

And sometimes Anne the crown did wear,

And sometimes both I obey'd.

Another Mary then arose,

And did rigorous laws impose;

A mighty tyrant she!

Long, alas, should I have been

Under that iron-scepter'd queen,

Had not Rebecca set me free.

When fair Rebecca set me free,

'Twas then a golden time with me,

But soon those pleasures fled;

For the gracious princess died

In her youth and beauty's pride,

And Judith reigned in her stead.

One month, three days, and half an hour,

Judith held the sovereign power,

Wondrous beautiful her face;

But so weak and small her wit,

That she to govern was unfit,

And so Susanna took her place.

But when Isabella came,

Arm'd with a resistless flame,

And th' artillery of her eye;

Whilst she proudly march'd about

Greater conquests to find out:

She beat out Susan by the bye.

But in her place I then obey'd

Black-ey'd Bess, her viceroy maid,

To whom ensued a vacancy:

Thousand worse passions then possess'd

The interregnum of my breast;

Bless me from such an anarchy.

Gentle Henrietta then,

And a third Mary next began;

Then Joan, and Jane, and Andria:

And then a pretty Thomasine,

And then another Catharine,

And then a long et c?tera.

But should I now to you relate

The strength and riches of their state,

The powder, patches, and the pins,

The ribbons, jewels, and the rings,

The lace, the paint, and warlike things,

That make up all their magazines:

If I should tell the politic arts

To take and keep men's hearts;

The letters, embassies, and spies,

The frowns, and smiles, and flatteries,

The quarrels, tears, and perjuries,

Numberless, nameless, mysteries!

And all the little lime-twigs laid

By Machiavel, the waiting maid;

I more voluminous should grow

(Chiefly if I, like them, should tell

All change of weather that befel)

Than Holinshed or Stow.

But I will briefer with them be,

Since few of them were long with me:

An higher and a nobler strain

My present empress does claim,

Eleonora, first o' th' name,

Whom God grant long to reign.

Abraham Cowley.

* * *


A soldier and a sailor,

A tinker and a tailor,

Had once a doubtful strife, sir,

To make a maid a wife, sir,

Whose name was Buxom Joan.

For now the time was ended,

When she no more intended

To lick her lips at men, sir,

And gnaw the sheets in vain, sir,

And lie o' nights alone.

The soldier swore like thunder,

He loved her more than plunder;

And showed her many a scar, sir,

That he had brought from far, sir,

With fighting for her sake.

The tailor thought to please her,

With offering her his measure.

The tinker too with mettle,

Said he could mend her kettle,

And stop up every leak.

But while these three were prating,

The sailor slily waiting,

Thought if it came about, sir,

That they should all fall out, sir,

He then might play his part.

And just e'en as he meant, sir,

To loggerheads they went, sir,

And then he let fly at her

A shot 'twixt wind and water,

That won this fair maid's heart.

William Congreve.

* * *


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 I rum! tum!! tum!!! my Geraldine.

F. C. Burnand.

* * *


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.

* * *


"Oh, 'tis time I should talk to your mother,

Sweet Mary," says I;

"Oh, don't talk to my mother," says Mary,

Beginning to cry:

"For my mother says men are decaivers,

And never, I know, will consent;

She says girls in a hurry to marry,

At leisure repent."

"Then, suppose I should talk to your father,

Sweet Mary," says I;

"Oh, don't talk to my father," says Mary,

Beginning to cry:

"For my father he loves me so dearly,

He'll never consent I should go;-

If you talk to my father," says Mary,

"He'll surely say 'No.'"

"Then how shall I get you, my jewel,

Sweet Mary?" says I;

"If your father and mother's so cruel,

Most surely I'll die!"

"Oh, never say die, dear," says Mary;

"A way now to save you I see:

Since my parents are both so conthrairy,

You'd better ask me."

Samuel Lover.

* * *


Of all the girls that are so smart,

There's none like Pretty Sally;

She is the darling of my heart,

And lives in our alley.

There's ne'er a lady in the land

That's half so sweet as Sally;

She is the darling of my heart,

And lives in our alley.

Her father he makes cabbage-nets,

And through the streets does cry them;

Her mother she sells laces long

To such as please to buy them:

But sure such folk can have no part

In such a girl as Sally;

She is the darling of my heart,

And lives in our alley.

When she is by, I leave my work,

I love her so sincerely;

My master comes, like any Turk,

And bangs me most severely:

But let him bang, long as he will,

I'll bear it all for Sally;

She is the darling of my heart,

And lives in our alley.

Of all the days are in the week,

I dearly love but one day,

And that's the day that comes betwixt

A Saturday and Monday;

For then I'm dressed, all in my best,

To walk abroad with Sally;

She is the darling of my heart,

And lives in our alley.

My master carries me to church,

And often am I blamed,

Because I leave him in the lurch,

Soon as the text is named:

I leave the church in sermon time,

And slink away to Sally;

She is the darling of my heart,

And lives in our alley.

When Christmas comes about again,

Oh, then I shall have money;

I'll hoard it up and, box and all,

I'll give it to my honey;

Oh, would it were ten thousand pounds,

I'd give it all to Sally;

For she's the darling of my heart,

And lives in our alley.

My master, and the neighbors all,

Make game of me and Sally,

And but for her I'd better be

A slave, and row a galley:

But when my seven long years are out,

Oh, then I'll marry Sally,

And then how happily we'll live-

But not in our alley.

Henry Carey.

* * *



My heart will break-I'm sure it will:

My lover, yes, my favorite-he

Who seemed my own through good and ill-

Has basely turned his back on me.


Ah! silly sorrower, weep no more;

Your lover's turned his back, we see;

But you had turned his head before,

And now he's as he ought to be.

Laman Blanchard.

* * *


O, if my love offended me,

And we had words together,

To show her I would master be,

I'd whip her with a feather!

If then she, like a naughty girl,

Would tyranny declare it,

I'd give my pet a cross of pearl,

And make her always bear it.

If still she tried to sulk and sigh,

And threw away my posies,

I'd catch my darling on the sly,

And smother her with roses.

But should she clench her dimpled fists,

Or contradict her betters,

I'd manacle her tiny wrists

With dainty jewelled fetters.

And if she dared her lips to pout,

Like many pert young misses,

I'd wind my arm her waist about,

And punish her-with kisses!

J. Ashby-Sterry.

* * *



Lady, very fair are you,

And your eyes are very blue,

And your hose;

And your brow is like the snow,

And the various things you know,

Goodness knows.

And the rose-flush on your cheek,

And your Algebra and Greek

Perfect are;

And that loving lustrous eye

Recognizes in the sky

Every star.

You have pouting piquant lips,

You can doubtless an eclipse


But for your cerulean hue,

I had certainly from you

Met my fate.

If by some arrangement dual

I were Adams mixed with Whewell,

Then some day

I, as wooer, perhaps might come

To so sweet an Artium


Mortimer Collins.

* * *



Careless rhymer, it is true,

That my favourite colour's blue:

But am I

To be made a victim, sir,

If to puddings I prefer

Cambridge [pi]?

If with giddier girls I play

Croquet through the summer day

On the turf,

Then at night ('tis no great boon)

Let me study how the moon

Sways the surf.

Tennyson's idyllic verse

Surely suits me none the worse

If I seek

Old Sicilian birds and bees-

Music of sweet Sophocles-

Golden Greek.

You have said my eyes are blue;

There may be a fairer hue,

Perhaps-and yet

It is surely not a sin

If I keep my secrets in


Mortimer Collins.

* * *


By the Watertown Horse-Car Conductor

It was a millinger most gay,

As sat within her shop;

A student came along that way,

And in he straight did pop.

Clean shaven he, of massive mould,

He thought his looks was killing her;

So lots of stuff to him she sold:

"Thanks!" says the millinger.

He loafed around and seemed to try

On all things to converse;

The millinger did mind her eye,

But also mound his purse.

He tried, then, with his flattering tongue,

With nonsense to be filling her;

But she was sharp, though she was young:

"Thanks," said the millinger.

He asked her to the theatre,

They got into my car;

Our steeds were tired, could hardly stir,

He thought the way not far.

A pretty pict-i-ure she made,

No doctors had been pilling her;

Fairly the fair one's fare he paid:

"Thanks!" said the millinger.

When we arrived in Bowdoin Square,

A female to them ran;

Then says that millinger so fair:

"O, thank you, Mary Ann!

She's going with us, she is," says she,

"She only is fulfilling her

Duty in looking after me:

Thanks!" said that millinger.

"Why," says that student chap to her,

"I've but two seats to hand."

"Too bad," replied that millinger,

"Then you will have to stand."

"I won't stand this," says he, "I own

The joke which you've been drilling her;

Here, take the seats and go alone!"

"Thanks!" says the millinger.

That ere much-taken-down young man

Stepped back into my car.

We got fresh horses, off they ran;

He thought the distance far.

And now she is my better half,

And oft, when coo-and-billing her,

I think about that chap and laugh:

"Thanks!" says my millinger.

Fred W. Loring.

* * *


One morning when Spring was in her teens-

A morn to a poet's wishing,

All tinted in delicate pinks and greens-

Miss Bessie and I went fishing.

I in my rough and easy clothes,

With my face at the sun-tan's mercy;

She with her hat tipped down to her nose,

And her nose tipped-vice versa.

I with my rod, my reel, and my hooks,

And a hamper for lunching recesses;

She with the bait of her comely looks,

And the seine of her golden tresses.

So we sat us down on the sunny dike,

Where the white pond-lilies teeter,

And I went to fishing like quaint old Ike,

And she like Simon Peter.

All the noon I lay in the light of her eyes,

And dreamily watched and waited,

But the fish were cunning and would not rise,

And the baiter alone was baited.

And when the time of departure came,

My bag hung flat as a flounder;

But Bessie had neatly hooked her game-

A hundred-and-fifty-pounder.


* * *


Nay, I cannot come into the garden just now,

Tho' it vexes me much to refuse:

But I must have the next set of waltzes, I vow,

With Lieutenant de Boots of the Blues.

I am sure you'll be heartily pleas'd when you hear

That our ball has been quite a success.

As for me-I've been looking a monster, my dear.

In that old-fashion'd guy of a dress.

You had better at once hurry home, dear, to bed;

It is getting so dreadfully late.

You may catch the bronchitis or cold in the head

If you linger so long at our gate.

Don't be obstinate, Alfy; come, take my advice-

For I know you're in want of repose:

Take a basin of gruel (you'll find it so nice),

And remember to tallow your nose.

No, I tell you I can't and I shan't get away,

For De Boots has implor'd me to sing.

As to you-if you like it, of course you can stay,

You were always an obstinate thing.

If you feel it a pleasure to talk to the flow'rs

About "babble and revel and wine,"

When you might have been snoring for two or three hours,

Why, it's not the least business of mine.

Henry S. Leigh.

* * *


"Are women fair?" Ay, wondrous fair to see, too.

"Are women sweet?" Yea, passing sweet they be, too.

Most fair and sweet to them that only love them;

Chaste and discreet to all save them that prove them.

"Are women wise?" Not wise, but they be witty;

"Are women witty?" Yea, the more the pity;

They are so witty, and in wit so wily,

Though ye be ne'er so wise, they will beguile ye.

"Are women fools?" Not fools, but fondlings many;

"Can women fond be faithful unto any?"

When snow-white swans do turn to colour sable,

Then women fond will be both firm and stable.

"Are women saints?" No saints, nor yet no devils;

"Are women good?" Not good, but needful evils.

So Angel-like, that devils I do not doubt them,

So needful evils that few can live without them.

"Are women proud?" Ay! passing proud, an praise them.

"Are women kind?" Ay! wondrous kind, an please them.

Or so imperious, no man can endure them,

Or so kind-hearted, any may procure them.

Francis Davison.

* * *


Upon ane stormy Sunday,

Coming adoon the lane,

Were a score of bonnie lassies-

And the sweetest I maintain

Was Caddie,

That I took unneath my plaidie,

To shield her from the rain.

She said that the daisies blushed

For the kiss that I had ta'en;

I wadna hae thought the lassie

Wad sae of a kiss complain:

"Now, laddie!

I winna stay under your plaidie,

If I gang hame in the rain!"

But, on an after Sunday,

When cloud there was not ane,

This selfsame winsome lassie

(We chanced to meet in the lane),

Said, "Laddie,

Why dinna ye wear your plaidie?

Wha kens but it may rain?"

Charles Sibley.

* * *



On me he shall ne'er put a ring,

So, mamma, 'tis in vain to take trouble-

For I was but eighteen in spring

While his age exactly is double.


He's but in his thirty-sixth year,

Tall, handsome, good-natured and witty,

And should you refuse him, my dear,

May you die an old maid without pity!


His figure, I grant you, will pass,

And at present he's young enough plenty;

But when I am sixty, alas!

Will not he be a hundred and twenty?

Charles Graham Halpine.

* * *


When swallows Northward flew

Forth from his home did fare

Guy, Lord of Lanturlaire

And Lanturlu.

Swore he to cross the brine,

Pausing not, night nor day,

That he might Paynims slay

In Palestine.

Half a league on his way

Met he a shepherdess

Beaming with loveliness-

Fair as Young Day.

Gazed he in eyes of blue-

Saw love in hiding there

Guy, Lord of Lanturlaire

And Lanturlu.

"Let the foul Paynim wait!"

Plead Love, "and stay with me.

Cruel and cold the sea-

Here's brighter fate."

When swallows Southward flew

Back to his home did fare

Guy, Lord of Lanturlaire

And Lanturlu.

Led he his charger gay

Bearing a shepherdess

Beaming with happiness-

Fair as Young Day.

White lambs, be-ribboned blue-

Tends now with anxious care,

Guy, Lord of Lanturlaire

And Lanturlu.

George F. Warren.

* * *


Oh, yes, we've be'n fixin' up some sence we sold that piece o' groun'

Fer a place to put a golf-lynx to them crazy dudes from town.

(Anyway, they laughed like crazy when I had it specified,

Ef they put a golf-lynx on it, thet they'd haf to keep him tied.)

But they paid the price all reg'lar, an' then Sary says to me,

"Now we're goin' to fix the parlor up, an' settin'-room," says she.

Fer she 'lowed she'd been a-scrimpin' an' a-scrapin' all her life,

An' she meant fer once to have things good as Cousin Ed'ard's wife.

Well, we went down to the city, an' she bought the blamedest mess;

An' them clerks there must 'a' took her fer a' Astoroid, I guess;

Fer they showed her fancy bureaus which they said was shiffoneers,

An' some more they said was dressers, an' some curtains called porteers.

An' she looked at that there furnicher, an' felt them curtains' heft;

Then she sailed in like a cyclone an' she bought 'em right an' left;

An' she picked a Bress'ls carpet thet was flowered like Cousin Ed's,

But she drawed the line com-pletely when we got to foldin'-beds.

Course, she said, 't 'u'd make the parlor lots more roomier, she s'posed;

But she 'lowed she'd have a bedstid thet was shore to stay un-closed;

An' she stopped right there an' told us sev'ral tales of folks she'd read

Bein' overtook in slumber by the "fatal foldin'-bed."

"Not ef it wuz set in di'mon's! Nary foldin'-bed fer me!

I ain't goin' to start fer glory in a rabbit-trap!" says she.

"When the time comes I'll be ready an' a-waitin'; but ez yet,

I shan't go to sleep a-thinkin' that I've got the triggers set."

Well, sir, shore as yo''re a-livin', after all thet Sary said,

'Fore we started home that evenin' she hed bought a foldin'-bed;

An' she's put it in the parlor, where it adds a heap o' style;

An' we're sleepin' in the settin'-room at present fer a while.

Sary still maintains it's han'some, "an' them city folks'll see

That we're posted on the fashions when they visit us," says she;

But it plagues her some to tell her, ef it ain't no other use,

We can set it fer the golf-lynx ef he ever sh'u'd get loose.

Albert Bigelow Paine.

* * *


Far, oh, far is the Mango island,

Far, oh, far is the tropical sea-

Palms a-slant and the hills a-smile, and

A cannibal maiden a-waiting for me.

I've been deceived by a damsel Spanish,

And Indian maidens both red and brown,

A black-eyed Turk and a blue-eyed Danish,

And a Puritan lassie of Salem town.

For the Puritan Prue she sets in the offing,

A-castin' 'er eyes at a tall marine,

And the Spanish minx is the wust at scoffing

Of all of the wimming I ever seen.

But the cannibal maid is a simple creetur,

With a habit of gazin' over the sea,

A-hopin' in vain for the day I'll meet 'er,

And constant and faithful a-yearnin' for me.

Me Turkish sweetheart she played me double-

Eloped with the Sultan Harum In-Deed,

And the Danish damsel she made me trouble

When she ups and married an oblong Swede.

But there's truth in the heart of the maid o' Mango,

Though her cheeks is black like the kiln-baked cork,

As she sets in the shade o' the whingo-whango,

A-waitin' for me-with a knife and fork.

Wallace Irwin.

* * *


O reverend sir, I do declare

It drives me most to frenzy,

To think of you a-lying there

Down sick with influenzy.

A body'd thought it was enough

To mourn your wife's departer,

Without sich trouble as this ere

To come a-follerin' arter.

But sickness and affliction

Are sent by a wise creation,

And always ought to be underwent

By patience and resignation.

O, I could to your bedside fly,

And wipe your weeping eyes,

And do my best to cure you up,

If 'twouldn't create surprise.

It's a world of trouble we tarry in,

But, Elder, don't despair;

That you may soon be movin' again

Is constantly my prayer.

Both sick and well, you may depend

You'll never be forgot

By your faithful and affectionate friend,

Priscilla Pool Bedott.

Frances Miriam Whitcher.

* * *


She stood beneath the mistletoe

That hung above the door,

Quite conscious of the sprig above,

Revered by maids of yore.

A timid longing filled her heart;

Her pulses throbbed with heat;

He sprang to where the fair girl stood.

"May I-just one-my sweet?"

He asked his love, who tossed her head,

"Just do it-if-you dare!" she said.

He sat before the fireplace

Down at the club that night.

"She loves me not," he hotly said,

"Therefore she did but right!"

She sat alone within her room,

And with her finger-tips

She held his picture to her heart,

Then pressed it to her lips.

"My loved one!" sobbed she, "if you-cared

You surely would have-would have-dared."

George Francis Shults.

* * *


It was a Moorish maiden was sitting by a well,

And what the maiden thought of I cannot, cannot tell.

When by there rode a valiant knight from the town of Oviedo-

Alphonso Guzman was he hight, the Count of Desparedo.

"Oh, maiden, Moorish maiden! why sitt'st thou by the spring?

Say, dost thou seek a lover, or any other thing?

Why gazest thou upon me, with eyes so large and wide,

And wherefore doth the pitcher lie broken by thy side?"

"I do not seek a lover, thou Christian knight so gay,

Because an article like that hath never come my way;

And why I gaze upon you, I cannot, cannot tell,

Except that in your iron hose you look uncommon swell.

"My pitcher it is broken, and this the reason is,-

A shepherd came behind me, and tried to snatch a kiss;

I would not stand his nonsense, so ne'er a word I spoke,

But scored him on the costard, and so the jug was broke.

"My uncle, the Alcaydè, he waits for me at home,

And will not take his tumbler until Zorayda come.

I cannot bring him water-the pitcher is in pieces-

And so I'm sure to catch it, 'cos he wallops all his nieces."

"Oh, maiden, Moorish maiden! wilt thou be ruled by me!

So wipe thine eyes and rosy lips, and give me kisses three;

And I'll give thee my helmet, thou kind and courteous lady,

To carry home the water to thy uncle, the Alcaydè."

He lighted down from off his steed-he tied him to a tree-

He bowed him to the maiden, and took his kisses three:

"To wrong thee, sweet Zorayda, I swear would be a sin!"

He knelt him at the fountain, and he dipped his helmet in.

Up rose the Moorish maiden-behind the knight she steals,

And caught Alphonso Guzman up tightly by the heels;

She tipped him in, and held him down beneath the bubbling water,-

"Now, take thou that for venturing to kiss Al Hamet's daughter!"

A Christian maid is weeping in the town of Oviedo;

She waits the coming of her love, the Count of Desparedo.

I pray you all in charity, that you will never tell,

How he met the Moorish maiden beside the lonely well.

William E. Aytoun.

* * *


"You must give back," her mother said,

To a poor sobbing little maid,

"All the young man has given you,

Hard as it now may seem to do."

"'Tis done already, mother dear!"

Said the sweet girl, "So never fear."

Mother. Are you quite certain? Come, recount

(There was not much) the whole amount.

Girl. The locket; the kid gloves.

Mother.Go on.

Girl. Of the kid gloves I found but one.

Mother. Never mind that. What else? Proceed.

You gave back all his trash?


Mother. And was there nothing you would save?

Girl. Everything I could give I gave.

Mother. To the last tittle?

Girl.Even to that.

Mother. Freely?

Girl.My heart went pit-a-pat

At giving up ... ah me! ah me!

I cry so I can hardly see ...

All the fond looks and words that past,

And all the kisses, to the last.

Walter Savage Landor.

* * *

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