A Line-o’-Verse or Two
By
Bert Leston Taylor
The Reilly & Britton Co.
Chicago
Copyright, 1911
by
The Reilly & Britton Co.
NOTE
For the privilege of reprinting the rimes gathered here I am indebted to the courtesy of the Chicago Tribune and Puck, in whose pages most of them first appeared. “The Lay of St. Ambrose” is new.
One reason for rounding up this fugitive verse and prisoning it between covers was this: Frequently—more or less—I receive a request for a copy of this jingle or that, and it is easier to mention a publishing house than to search through ancient and dusty files.
The other reason was that I wanted to.
B. L. T.
TO MY READERS
Not merely of this book,—but a larger company, with whom, through the medium of the Chicago Tribune, I have been on very pleasant terms for several years,—this handful of rime is joyously dedicated.
THE LAY OF ST. AMBROSE
“And hard by doth dwell, in St. Catherine’s cell,
Ambrose, the anchorite old and grey.”
—The Lay of St. Nicholas.
Ambrose the anchorite old and grey
Larruped himself in his lonely cell,
And many a welt on his pious pelt
The scourge evoked as it rose and fell.
For hours together the flagellant leather
Went whacketty-whack with his groans of pain;
And the lay-brothers said, with a wag of the head,
“Ambrose has been at the bottle again.”
And such, in sooth, was the sober truth;
For the single fault of this saintly soul
Was a desert thirst for the cup accurst,—
A quenchless love for the Flowing Bowl.
When he woke at morn with a head forlorn
And a taste like a last-year swallow’s nest,
He would kneel and pray, then rise and flay
His sinful body like all possessed.
Frequently tempted, he fell from grace,
And as often he found the devil to pay;
But by diligent scourging and diligent purging
He managed to keep Old Nick at bay.
This was the plight of our anchorite,—
An endless penance condemned to dree,—
When it chanced one day there came his way
A Mystical Book with a golden Key.
This Mystical Book was a guide to health,
That none might follow and go astray;
While a turn of the Key unlocked the wealth
That all unknown in the Scriptures lay.
Disease is sin, the Book defined;
Sickness is error to which men cling;
Pain is merely a state of mind,
And matter a non-existent thing.
If a tooth should ache, or a leg should break,
You simply “affirm” and it’s sound again.
Cut and contusion are only delusion,
And indigestion a fancied pain.
For pain is naught if you “hold a thought,”
Fevers fly at your simple say;
You have but to affirm, and every germ
Will fold up its tent and steal away.
From matin gong to even-song
Ambrose pondered this mystic lore,
Till what had seemed fiction took on a conviction
That words had never possessed before.
“If pain,” quoth he, “is a state of mind,
If a rough hair shirt to silk is kin,—
If these things are error, pray where’s the terror
In scourging and purging oneself of sin?
“It certainly seemeth good to me,
By and large, in part and in whole.
I’ll put it in practice and find if it fact is,
Or only a mystical rigmarole.”
The very next night our anchorite
Of the Flowing Bowl drank long and deep.
He argued this wise: “New Thought applies
No fitter to lamb than it does to sheep.”
When he woke at morn with a head forlorn
And a taste akin to a parrot’s cage,
He knelt and prayed, then up and flayed
His sinful flesh in a righteous rage.
Whacketty-whack on breast and back,
Whacketty-whack, before, behind;
But he held the thought as he laid it on,
“Pain is merely a state of mind.”
Whacketty-whack on breast and back,
Whacketty-whack on calf and shin;
And the lay-brothers said, with a wag of the head,
“Ain’t he the glutton for discipline!”
Now every night our anchorite
Was exceedingly tight when he went to bed.
The scourge that once pained him no longer restrained him,
Nor even the fear of an aching head.
For he woke at morn with a pate as clear
As the silvery chime of the matin bell;
And without any jogging he fell to his flogging,
And larruped himself in his lonely cell.
But the leather had lost its power to sting;
To pangs of the flesh he was now immune;
His rough hair shirt no longer hurt,
Nor the pebbles he wore in his wooden shoon.
When conscience was troubled he cheerfully doubled
His matinal dose of discipline;—
A deuce of a scourging, sufficient for purging
The Devil himself of original sin.
Whacketty-whack on breast and back,
Whacketty-whack from morn to noon;
Whacketty-whacketty-whacketty-whack!—
Till the abbey rang with the dismal tune.
Deacon and prior, lay-brother and friar
Exclaimed at these whoppings spectacular;
And even the Abbot remarked that the habit
Of scourging oneself might be carried too far.
“My son,” said he, “I am pleased to see
Such penance as never was known before;
But you raise such a racket in dusting your jacket,
The noise is becoming a bit of a bore.
“How would it do if you whaled yourself
From eight to ten or from one to three?
Or if ‘More’ is your motto, pray hire a grotto;
I know of one you can have rent free.”
Ambrose the anchorite bowed his head,
And girded his loins and went away.
He rented a cavern not far from a tavern,
And tippled by night and scourged by day.
The more the penance the more the sin,
The more he whopped him the more he drank;
Till his hair fell out and his cheeks fell in,
And his corpulent figure grew long and lank.
At Whitsuntide he up and died,
While flaying himself for his final spree.
And who shall say whether ’twas liquor or leather
That hurried him into eternity?
They made him a saint, as well they might,
And gave him a beautiful aureole.
And—somehow or other, this circle of light
Suggests the rim of the Flowing Bowl.
TO A TALL SPRUCE
Pride of the forest primeval,
Peer of the glorious pine,
Doomed to an end that is evil,
Fearful the fate that is thine!
Peer of the glorious pine,
Now the landlooker has found you,
Fearful the fate that is thine—
Fate of the spruces around you.
Now the landlooker has found you,
Stripped of your beautiful plume—
Fate of the spruces around you—
Swiftly you’ll draw to your doom.
Stripped of your beautiful plume,
Bzzng! into logs they will whip you.
Swiftly you’ll draw to your doom;
To the pulp mill they will ship you.
Bzzng! into logs they will whip you,
Lumbermen greedy for gold.
To the pulp mill they will ship you.
Hearken, there’s worse to be told!
Lumbermen greedy for gold
Over your ruins will caper.
Hearken, there’s worse to be told:
You will be made into paper!
Over your ruins will caper
Murderous shavers and hooks.
You will be made into paper!
You will be made into books!
Murderous shavers and hooks
Swiftly your pride will diminish.
You will be made into books!
Horrible, horrible finish!
Swiftly your pride will diminish.
You will become a romance!
Horrible, horrible finish!
Fate has no sadder mischance.
You will become a romance,
Filled with “Gadzooks!” and “Have at you!”
Fate has no sadder mischance;
It would wring tears from a statue.
Filled with “Gadzooks!” and “Have at you!”
You may become a “Lazarre”—
(It would wring tears from a statue)—
“Graustark,” “Stovepipe of Navarre.”
You may become a “Lazarre”;
Fate has still worse it can turn on—
“Graustark,” “Stovepipe of Navarre,”
Even a “Dorothy Vernon”!
Fate has still worse it can turn on—
Lower you cannot descend;
Even a “Dorothy Vernon”!—
That is the limit—the end.
Lower you cannot descend.
Doomed to an end that is evil,
That is the limit—the end!
Pride of the forest primeval.
IN THE LAMPLIGHT
The dinner done, the lamp is lit,
And in its mellow glow we sit
And talk of matters, grave and gay,
That went to make another day.
Comes Little One, a book in hand,
With this request, nay, this command—
(For who’d gainsay the little sprite)—
“Please—will you read to me to-night?”
Read to you, Little One? Why, yes.
What shall it be to-night? You guess
You’d like to hear about the Bears—
Their bowls of porridge, beds and chairs?
Well, that you shall.... There! that tale’s done!
And now—you’d like another one?
To-morrow evening, Curly Head.
It’s “hass-pass seven.” Off to bed!
So each night another story:
Wicked dwarfs and giants gory;
Dragons fierce and princes daring,
Forth to fame and fortune faring;
Wandering tots, with leaves for bed;
Houses made of gingerbread;
Witches bad and fairies good,
And all the wonders of the wood.
“I like the witches best,” says she
Who nightly nestles on my knee;
And why by them she sets such store,
Psychologists may puzzle o’er.
Her likes are mine, and I agree
With all that she confides to me.
And thus we travel, hand in hand,
The storied roads of Fairyland.
Ah, Little One, when years have fled,
And left their silver on my head,
And when the dimming eyes of age
With difficulty scan the page,
Perhaps I’ll turn the tables then;
Perhaps I’ll put the question, when
I borrow of your better sight—
“Please—will you read to me to-night?”
THE BREAKFAST FOOD FAMILY
John Spratt will eat no fat,
Nor will he touch the lean;
He scorns to eat of any meat,
He lives upon Foodine.
But Mrs. Spratt will none of that,
Foodine she cannot eat;
Her special wish is for a dish
Of Expurgated Wheat.
To William Spratt that food is flat
On which his mater dotes.
His favorite feed—his special need—
Is Eata Heapa Oats.
But sister Lil can’t see how Will
Can touch such tasteless food.
As breakfast fare it can’t compare,
She says, with Shredded Wood.
Now, none of these Leander please,
He feeds upon Bath Mitts.
While sister Jane improves her brain
With Cero-Grapo-Grits.
Lycurgus votes for Father’s Oats;
Proggine appeals to May;
The junior John subsists upon
Uneeda Bayla Hay.
Corrected Wheat for little Pete;
Flaked Pine for Dot; while “Bub”
The infant Spratt is waxing fat
On Battle Creek Near-Grub.
“TREASURE ISLAND”
Comes little lady, a book in hand,
A light in her eyes that I understand,
And her cheeks aglow from the faery breeze
That sweeps across the uncharted seas.
She gives me the book, and her word of praise
A ton of critical thought outweighs.
“I’ve finished it, daddie!”—a sigh thereat.
“Are there any more books in the world like that?”
No, little lady. I grieve to say
That of all the books in the world to-day
There’s not another that’s quite the same
As this magic book with the magic name.
Volumes there be that are pure delight,
Ancient and yellowed or new and bright;
But—little and thin, or big and fat—
There are no more books in the world like that.
And what, little lady, would I not give
For the wonderful world in which you live!
What have I garnered one-half as true
As the tales Titania whispers you?
Ah, late we learn that the only truth
Was that which we found in the Book of Youth.
Profitless others, and stale, and flat;—
There are no more books in the world like that.
A BALLADE OF SPRING’S UNREST
Up in the woodland where Spring
Comes as a laggard, the breeze
Whispers the pines that the King,
Fallen, has yielded the keys
To his White Palace and flees
Northward o’er mountain and dale.
Speed then the hour that frees!
Ho, for the pack and the trail!
Northward my fancy takes wing,
Restless am I, ill at ease.
Pleasures the city can bring
Lose now their power to please.
Barren, all barren, are these,
Town life’s a tedious tale;
That cup is drained to the lees—
Ho, for the pack and the trail!
Ho, for the morning I sling
Pack at my back, and with knees
Brushing a thoroughfare, fling
Into the green mysteries:
One with the birds and the bees,
One with the squirrel and quail,
Night, and the stream’s melodies—
Ho, for the pack and the trail!
Pictures and music and teas,
Theaters—books even—stale.
Ho, for the smell of the trees!
Ho, for the pack and the trail!
WHY?
Why, when the sun is gold,
The weather fine,
The air (this phrase is old)
Like Gascon wine;—
Why, when the leaves are red,
And yellow, too,
And when (as has been said)
The skies are blue;—
Why, when all things promote
One’s peace and joy,—
A joy that is (to quote)
Without alloy;—
Why, when a man’s well off,
Happy and gay,
Why must he go play golf
And spoil his day!
THE RIME OF THE CLARK STREET CABLE
(Now happily extinct.)
Twas in a vault beneath the street,
In the trench of the traction rope,
That I found a guy with a fishy eye
And a think tank filled with dope.
His hair was matted, his face was black,
And matted and black was he;
And I heard this wight in the vault recite,
“In a singular minor key”:
“Oh, I am the guy with the fishy eye
And the think tank filled with dope.
My work is to watch the beautiful botch
That’s known as the Clark Street Rope.
“I pipes my eye as the rope goes by
For every danger spot.
If I spies one out I gives a shout,
And we puts in another knot.
“Them knots is all like brothers to me,
And I loves ’em, one and all.”
The muddy guy with the fishy eye
A muddy tear let fall.
“There goes a knot we tied last week,
There’s one what we tied to-day;
And there’s a patch was hard to reach,
And caused six hours’ delay.
“Two hundred seventy-nine, all told,
And I knows their history;
And I’m most attached to a break we patched
In the winter of ’eighty-three.
“For every time that knot comes round
It sings out, ‘Howdy, Bill!
We’ll walk ’em home to-night, old man,
From here to the Ferris Wheel.
“‘We’ll walk ’em in the rush hours, Bill,
A swearing company,
As we’ve walked ’em, Bill, since I was tied,
In the winter of ’eighty-three.’”
The muddy guy with the fishy eye
Let fall another tear.
“Them knots is wife and child to me;
I’ve known ’em forty year.
“For I am the guy with the fishy eye
And the think tank filled with dope,
Whose work is to watch the lovely botch
That’s known as the Clark Street Rope.”
MISS LEGION
She is hotfoot after Cultyure,
She pursues it with a club.
She breathes a heavy atmosphere
Of literary flub.
No literary shrine so far
But she is there to kneel;
But—
Her favorite line of reading
Is O. Meredith’s “Lucille.”
Of course she’s up on pictures—
Passes for a connoisseur.
On free days at the Institute
You’ll always notice her.
She qualifies approval
Of a Titian or Corot;
But—
She throws a fit of rapture
When she comes to Bouguereau.
And when you talk of music,
She is Music’s devotee.
She will tell you that Beethoven
Always makes her wish to pray;
And “dear old Bach!” His very name
She says, her ear enchants;
But—
Her favorite piece is Weber’s
“Invitation to the Dance.”
A BALLADE OF DEATH AND TIME
I hold it truth with him who sweetly sings—
The weekly music of the London Sphere—
That deathless tomes the living present brings:
Great literature is with us year on year.
Books of the mighty dead, whom men revere,
Remind me I can make my books sublime.
But prithee, bay my brow while I am here:
Why do we always wait for Death and Time?
Shakespeare, great spirit, beat his mighty wings,
As I beat mine, for the occasion near.
He knew, as I, the worth of present things:
Great literature is with us year on year.
Methinks I meet across the gulf his clear
And tranquil eye; his calm reflections chime
With mine: “Why do we at the present fleer?
Why do we always wait for Death and Time?”
The reading world with acclamation rings
For my last book. It led the list at Weir,
Altoona, Rahway, Painted Post, Hot Springs:
Great literature is with us year on year.
The Bookman gives me a vociferous cheer.
Howells approves! I can no higher climb.
Bring then the laurel, crown my bright career.
Why do we always wait for Death and Time?
Critics, who pastward, ever pastward peer,
Great literature is with us year on year.
Trumpet my fame while I am in my prime.
Why do we always wait for Death and Time?
THE KAISER’S FAREWELL TO PRINCE HENRY
Aufwiedersehen, brother mine!
Farewells will soon be kissed;
And ere you leave to breast the brine
Give me once more your fist;
That mailéd fist, clenched high in air
On many a foreign shore,
Enforcing coaling stations where
No stations were before;
That fist, which weaker nations view
As if ’twere Michael’s own,
And which appals the heathen who
Bow down to wood and stone.
But this trip no brass knuckles. Glove
That heavy mailéd hand;
Your mission now is one of Love
And Peace—you understand.
All that’s American you’ll praise;
The Yank can do no wrong.
To use his own expressive phrase,
Just “jolly him along.”
Express surprise to find, the more
Of Roosevelt you see,
How much I am like Theodore,
And Theodore like me.
I am, in fact, (this might not be
A bad thing to suggest,)
The Theodore of the East, and he
The William of the West.
And, should you get a chance, find out—
If anybody knows—
Exactly what it’s all about,
That Doctrine of Monroe’s.
That’s entre nous. My present plan
You know as well as I:
Be just as Yankee as you can;
If needs be, eat some pie.
Cut out the ’kraut, cut out Rhine wine,
Cut out the Schützenfest,
The Sängerbund, the Turnverein,
The Kommers, and the rest.
And if some fool society
“Die Wacht am Rhein” should sing,
You sing “My Country, ’Tis of Thee”—
The tune’s “God Save the King.”
To our own kindred in that land
There’s not much you need tell.
Just tell them that you saw me, and
That I was looking well.
TO LILLIAN RUSSELL
(A reminiscence of 18—.)
Dear Lillian! (The “dear” one risks;
“Miss Russell” were a bit austerer)—
Do you remember Mr. Fiske’s
Dramatic Mirror
Back when—? (But we’ll not count the years;
The way they’ve sped is most surprising.)
You were a trifle in arrears
For advertising.
I brought the bill to your address;
I was the Mirror’s bill collector—
In Thespian haunts a more or less
Familiar spectre.
On that (to me) momentous day
You dwelt amid the city’s clatter,
A few doors west of old Broadway;
The street—no matter.
But while you have forgot the debt,
And him who called in line of duty,
He never, never shall forget
Your wondrous beauty.
You were too fair for mortal speech,—
Enchanting, positively rippin’;
You were some dream, and quelque peach,
And beaucoup pippin.
Your “fight with Time” had not begun,
Nor any reason to promote it;
No beauty battles to be won.
Beauty? You wrote it!
“A bill?” you murmured in distress,
“A bill?” (I still can hear you say it.)
“A bill from Mr. Fiske? Oh, yes ...
I’ll call and pay it.”
And he, the thrice-requited kid,
That such a goddess should address him,
Could only blush and paw his lid,
And stammer, “Yes’m!”
Eheu! It seems a cycle since,
But still the nerve of memory tingles.
And here you’re writing Beauty Hints,
And I these jingles.
DORNRÖSCHEN
In the great hall of Castle Innocence,
Hedged round with thorns of maiden doubts and fears,—
Within, without, a silence grave, intense,—
Her soul lies sleeping through the rose-leaf years.
Hedged round with thorns of maiden doubts and fears;
And all save one the thither path shall miss.
Her soul lies sleeping through the rose-leaf years,
Waiting the Prince and his awakening kiss.
And all save one the thither path shall miss;
For one alone may thread the thorn defence.
Waiting the Prince and his awakening kiss,
A hush broods over Castle Innocence.
For one alone may thread the thorn defence,
Care free, heart free, and singing on his way.
A hush broods over Castle Innocence
One comes to wake;—but when—ah, who can say!
Care free, heart free, and singing on his way,
One comes all thorns of Fear and Doubt to dare.
One comes to wake! But when? Ah, who can say
The hour his light feet press the castle stair?
One comes all thorns of Fear and Doubt to dare!
Thorns with his coming into roses bloom.
The hour his light feet press the castle stair
The warders of the castle hall give room.
Thorns with his coming into roses bloom;
For him the flowers of Trust and Faith unfold.
The warders of the castle hall give room
Before the young Prince of the Heart of Gold.
For him the flowers of Trust and Faith unfold;
Till then the thorns of maiden doubts and fears.
Before the young Prince of the Heart of Gold
Her rose-soul slumbers through the tranquil years.
Till then the thorns of maiden doubts and fears.
Within, without, a silence grave, intense.
Her rose-soul slumbers through the tranquil years
In the great hall of Castle Innocence.
“FAREWELL!”
(Evoked by Calverley’s “Forever.”)
“Farewell!” Another gloomy word
As ever into language crept.
’Tis often written, never heard
Except
In playhouse. Ere the hero flits
(In handcuffs) from our pitying view,
“Farewell!” he murmurs, then exits
R. U.
“Farewell!” is much too sighful for
An age that has not time to sigh.
We say, “I’ll see you later,” or
“Good-bye!”
“Fare well” meant long ago, before
It crept tear-spattered into song,
“Safe voyage!” “Pleasant journey!” or
“So long!”
But gone its cheery, old-time ring:
The poets made it rime with knell.
Joined, it became a dismal thing—
“Farewell!”
“Farewell!” Into the lover’s soul
You see fate plunge the cruel iron.
All poets use it. It’s the whole
Of Byron.
“I only feel—farewell!” said he;
And always tearful was the telling.
Lord Byron was eternally
Farewelling.
“Farewell!” A dismal word, ’tis true.
(And why not tell the truth about it?)
But what on earth would poets do
Without it!
REFORM IN OUR TOWN
There was a man in Our Town
And Jimson was his name,
Who cried, “Our civic government
Is honeycombed with shame.”
He called us neighbors in and said,
“By Graft we’re overrun.
Let’s have a general cleaning up,
As other towns have done.”
The citizens of Our Town
Responded to the call;
Beneath the banner of Reform
We gathered one and all.
We sent away for men expert
In hunting civic sin,
To ask these practised gentlemen
Just how we should begin.
The experts came to Our Town
And told us how ’twas done.
“Begin with Gas and Traction,
And half your fight is won.
Begin with Gas and Traction;
The rest will follow soon.”
We looked at one another
And hummed a different tune.
Said Smith, “Saloons in Our Town
Are palaces of shame.”
Said Jones, “Police corruption
Has hurt the town’s fair name.”
Said Brown, “Our lawless children
Pitch pennies as they please.”
Now would it not be wiser
To start Reform with these?
The men who came to Our Town
Replied, “No haste with these;
Begin with Gas—or Water—
The roots of the disease.”
We looked at one another
And hemmed and hawed a bit;
Enthusiasm faded then
From every single cit.
The men who came to Our Town
Expressed a mild surprise,
Then they too at each other
Looked “with a wild surmise.”
Jimson had stock in Traction,
And Jones had stock in Gas,
And Smith and Brown in this and that,
So—nothing came to pass.
The profligates of Our Town
Pitch pennies as of yore;
Police corruption flourishes
As rankly as before,
Still are our gilded ginmills
Foul palaces of shame.
Reform is just as distant
As when the wise men came.
WHEN THE SIRUP’S ON THE FLAPJACK
When the sirup’s on the flapjack and the coffee’s in the pot;
When the fly is in the butter—where he’d rather be than not;
When the cloth is on the table, and the plates are on the cloth;
When the salt is in the shaker and the chicken’s in the broth;
When the cream is in the pitcher and the pitcher’s on the tray,
And the tray is on the sideboard when it isn’t on the way;
When the rind is on the bacon and likewise upon the cheese,
Then I somehow feel inspired to do a string of rimes like these.
BREAD PUDDYNGE
When good King Arthur ruled our land
He was a goodly king,
And his idea of what to eat
Was a good bag puddynge.
The bag puddynge he had in mind
Was thickly strewn with plums,
With alternating lumps of fat
As big as my two thumbs.
“My love,” quoth he to Guinevere,
“We have a joust to-day—
Sir Launce is here, Sir Tris, Sir Gal,
And all the brave array.
“Put everything across to-night
In guise of goodly fare,
And cook us up a bag puddynge
That will y-curl our hair.”
“I’ll curl your hair,” said Guinevere,
“As tight as tight can be;
I’ll cook you up a bag puddynge
From my new recipee.”
“Pitch in and eat, my merry men!”
That night the King did say;
“But save a little room—a bag
Puddynge is on the way.
“Ho! here it comes! Now, by my sword,
A famous feast ’twill be.
Queen Guinevere hath cooked it, Launce,
From her own recipee.”
“Odslife!” cried Launce, “if there is aught
I love ’tis this same thing.”
And he and all the knights did fall
Upon that bag puddynge.
One taste, and every holy knight
Sat speechless for a space,
While disappointment and disgust
Were writ in every face.
“Odsbodikins!” Sir Tristram cried,
“In all my days, by Jing!
I ne’er did taste so flat a mess
As this here bag puddynge.”
“Odswhiskers, Arthur!” cried Sir Launce,
Whose license knew no bounds,
“I would to Godde I had this stuff
To poultice up my wounds.”
King Arthur spat his mouthful out,
And sent for Guinevere.
“What is this frightful mess?” he roared.
“Is this a joke, my dear?”
“Oh, ain’t it good?” asked Guinevere,
Her face a rosy red.
“I thought ’twould make an awful hit:
I made it out of bread!”
When good King Arthur ruled our land
He was a goodly king,
And only once in all his reign
Was made a Bread Puddynge.
MUSCA DOMESTICA
Baby bye, here’s a fly,
We will watch him, you and I;
Lest he fall in Baby’s mouth,
Bringing germs from north and south.
In the world of things a-wing
There is not a nastier thing
Than this pesky little fly;—
So we’ll watch him, you and I.
See him crawl up the wall,
And he’ll never, never fall;
Save that, poisoned, he may drop
In the soup or on the chop.
Let us coax the cunning brute
To the tempting Tanglefoot,
Or invite his thirsty soul
To the poison-paper bowl.
I believe with six such legs
You or I could walk on eggs;
But he’d rather crawl on meat
With his microbe-laden feet.
Eggs would hardly do as well—
He could not get through the shell;
Better far, to spread disease,
Vegetables, meat, or cheese.
There he goes, on his toes,
Tickling, tickling Baby’s nose.
Heaven knows where he has been,
And what filth he’s wallowed in.
Drat the nasty little wretch!
He’s the deuce and all to ketch.
Ah! He’s settled on the wall.
Now the thunderbolt shall fall!
Baby bye, see that fly?
We will swat him, you and I.
THE PASSIONATE PROFESSOR
“But bending low, I whisper only this:
‘Love, it is night.’”
—Harry Thurston Peck.
Love, it is night. The orb of day
Has gone to hit the cosmic hay.
Nocturnal voices now we hear.
Come, heart’s delight, the hour is near
When Passion’s mandate we obey.
I would not, sweet, the fact convey
In any crude and obvious way:
I merely whisper in your ear—
“Love, it is night!”
Candor compels me, pet, to say
That years my fading charms betray.
Tho’ Love be blind, I grant it’s clear
I’m no Apollo Belvedere.
But after dark all cats are gray.
Love, it is night!
A BALLADE OF WOOL-GATHERING
Now is my season of unrest,
Now calls the forest, day and night;
And by its pleasant spell obsessed,
My wits go soaring like a kite.
Forgive me if I be not bright,
And pardon if I seem distrait;
Wood-fancies put my wits to flight;—
The woods are but a week away.
Palleth upon my soul the jest,
Falleth upon my pen a blight.
The daily task has lost its zest,
And everything is flat and trite.
There’s nothing humorous in sight;
Don’t mind if I am dull to-day.
For every column is a fight
When woods are but a week away.
Woods in the robes of summer dressed—
In greens and grays and browns bedight!
A journey on a river’s breast,
Beneath the wedded blue-and-white!...
This end the Voyage of Delight
Waits, in a little wood-bound bay,
A bark canoe, all trim and tight;—
The woods are but a week away!
Dear Reader, there is much to write;
I’ve many weighty things to say.
But who can write when woods invite,
And woods are but a week away!
TO THE SUN
(Variations on a theme by Gilbert.)
Shine on, Old Top, shine on!
Across the realms of space
Shine on!
What though I’m in a sorry case?
What though my collar is a wreck,
And hangs a rag about my neck?
What though at food I can but peck?
Never you mind!
Shine on!
Shine on, Old Top, shine on!
Through leagues of lifeless air
Shine on!
It’s true I’ve no more shirts to wear,
My underwear is soaked, ’tis true,
My gullet is a redhot flue—
But don’t let that unsettle you!
Never you mind!
Shine on! [It shines on.]
WHEN IT IS HOT
“And Nebuchadnezzar commanded the most mighty men that were in his army to bind Shadrach, Meshach, and Abed-nego, and to cast them into the burning fiery furnace.”
Consider Mr. Shadrach,
Of fiery furnace fame:
He didn’t bleat about the heat
Or fuss about the flame.
He didn’t stew and worry,
And get his nerves in kinks,
Nor fill his skin with limes and gin
And other “cooling drinks.”
Consider Mr. Meshach,
Who felt the furnace too:
He let it sizz nor queried “Is
It hot enough for you?”
He didn’t mop his forehead,
And hunt a shady spot;
Nor did he say, “Gee! what a day!
Believe me, it’s some hot.”
Consider, too, Abed-nego,
Who shared his comrades’ plight:
He didn’t shake his coat and make
Himself a holy sight.
He didn’t wear suspenders
Without a coat and vest;
Nor did he scowl and snort and howl,
And make himself a pest.
Consider, friends, this trio—
How little fuss they made.
They didn’t curse when it was worse
Than ninety in the shade.
They moved about serenely
Within the furnace bright,
And soon forgot that it was hot,
With “no relief in sight.”
THE SIMPLE, HEARTFELT LAY
Lives of poets oft remind us
Not to wait too long for Time,
But, departing, leave behind us
Obvious facts embalmed in rime.
Poems that we have to ponder
Turn us prematurely gray;
We are infinitely fonder
Of the simple, heartfelt lay.
Whitman’s Leaves of Grass is odious,
Browning’s Ring and Book a bore.
Bleat, O bards, in lines melodious,—
Bleat that two and two is four!
Must we hunt for hidden treasures?
Nay! We want the heartfelt straight.
Minstrel, sing, in obvious measures—
Sing that four and four is eight!
Whitman leads to easy slumbers,
Browning makes us hunt the hay.
Pipe, ye potes, in simplest numbers,
Anything ye have to say.
Q·HORATIVS·FLACCUS
B· L· T·SVO·SALVTEM
HAEC·CARMINA·MI·VETVLE·QVAE
ME·IVVENE·PARVM·DILIGENTER
COMPOSITA·EXCIDERVNT·SENEX
REFICIENDA·LIMANDAQVE·IAM
DVDVM·EXISTIMO·QVOD·NVNC
DEMVM·FACTVM·EST·MIRARIS
FORTASSE·CVR·ANGLICE·RE
SCRIPSERIM·DESINES·MIRARI
CVM·DIXERO·SINE·FVCO·OPOR
TERE·POETA·ETIAM·VIVVS·NON
SOLVM·ACCOMMODEM·MEA·OPERA
AD·NORMAM·RECENTIORVM·TEM
PORVM·SED·ETIAM·VTAR·NEMPE
EA·LINGVA·QVAE·MAIORE·RE
SILIENDI·VT·ITA·DICAM·VI
PRAEDITA·VIDEATVR·VELIM
SINT·NOVI·VERSVS·TIBI·MVL
TO·IVCVNDIORES·QVAM·PRIS
CA·EXEMPLA
SCRIBEBAM·HELNGON
XVII·KAL·DEC
A NOTE FROM MR. FLACCUS
(Concerning the verses that follow.)
Dear B. L. T.:
You know my “pomes.” Well, old man, I was pretty young when I got them out of my system, and they seem rather raw to me now—I’m getting along, you know; so I’ve been thinking that I’d do ’em over again, file ’em down, as we used to say. Enclosed is the result of my labors.
I presume you are wondering why I have done them into United States; but you know perfectly well that a poet as much alive as I am to-day must not only keep up with the procession, but choose a thought-vehicle that has good springs to it—“beaucoup resiliency,” I s’pose you’d call it.
I hope you will like these new lines of mine better than their prototypes.
Yours regardfully,
Q. H. F.
Helngon, November 15.
I
TO ARISTIUS FUSCUS
“Integer vitæ scelerisque purus.”
Fuscus, old scout, if a guy’s on the level
That’s all the arsenal he’ll have to tote;
Up to St. Peter or down to the Devil,
No need to carry a gun in his coat.
Prowling around, as you know is my habit,
I met a wolf in the forest, and he
Beat it for Wolfville and ran like a rabbit.
(He was some wolf, too, receive it from me.)
Where I may happen to camp is no matter,—
Paris, Chicago, Ostend or St. Joe,—
Like the old dame in the nursery patter
I shall make music wherever I go.
Drop me in Dawson or chuck me in Cadiz,
Dump me in Kansas or plant me in Rome,—
I shall keep on making love to the ladies:
Where there’s a skirt is my notion of home.
II