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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/30038-0.txt b/30038-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..bc7294d --- /dev/null +++ b/30038-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,3050 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 30038 *** + + Transcriber's Note: + [=XVII] = XVII with a line above. + + + * * * * * + + + + + 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! + + + _L'Envoi_ + + 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? + + + _L'Envoi_ + + 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! + + + _L'Envoi_ + + 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 + +DUETTO + + "_Donec gratus eram._" + + + HORACE: + + What time my Lydia owned me lord + No Persian king had much on Horace; + And when you blew my bed and board + I was some sad, believe me, Mawruss. + + LYDIA: + + What time you loved no other She, + Before this Chloë person signed you, + I flourished like a green bay tree; + Now I'm the Girl You Left Behind You. + + HORACE: + + This Chloë dame that takes my eye + Has so peculiar an allurance + I would not hesitate to die + If she could cop my life insurance. + + LYDIA: + + Well, as for that, I know a gent + With whom it's some delight to dally. + With me he makes an awful dent; + I'd perish once or twice for Cally. + + HORACE: + + Suppose our former love should go + Into a new de luxe edition? + Suppose I tie a can to Chlo, + And let you play your old position? + + LYDIA: + + Why, then, you cork, you butterfly, + You sweet, philandering, perjured villain, + With you I'd love to live and die, + Tho' Cally boy were twice as killin'. + + +III + +TO PYRRHA + + "_Quis multa gracilis._" + + + What young tin whistle gent, + Bedaubed with barber's scent,-- + What cheapskate waits on you + To woo, + O Pyrrha? + + For whom the puff and rat + And transformation that + You bought a year ago + Or so, + O Pyrrha? + + Peeved? Not a bit. Not I + I'm sorry for the guy. + He draws a lovely lime + This time, + O Pyrrha! + + I've dipped. The wet ain't fine. + Hung on the votive line + My duds. The gods can see + I'm free. + Eh, Pyrrha! + + +IV + +TO ARISTIUS FUSCUS + + "_My sweetly-smiling, sweetly-speaking Lalage._" + + + Fuscus, take a tip from me: + This here job's no bed of roses, + Not the cinch it seems to be, + Not the pipe that one supposes. + What care I, tho', if I may + Lallygag with Lalage. + + Every day there's ink to spill, + Tho' I may not feel like working. + Every day a hole to fill; + One must plug it--there's no shirking. + Oh, that I might all the day + Lallygag with Lalage! + + People say, "Gee! what a snap, + Turning paragraphs and verses. + He's the band on Fortune's cap, + Gets a barrel of ses-_terces_." + Let them gossip, while I play + Hide and seek with Lalage. + + People hand me out advice: + "Hod, you're doing too much drivel. + Write us something sweet and nice. + Stow the satire, chop the frivol." + But we have the rent to pay, + Lalage; eh, Lalage? + + Ladies shy the saving sense + Write me patronizing letters; + And there are the writing gents, + Always out to knock their betters. + What cares Flaccus if he may + Lallygag with Lalage! + + No, old top, the writing lay's + Not a bed of sweet geranium. + Brickbats mingle with bouquets + Shied at my devoted cranium. + Does it peeve yours truly? Nay. + Nothing can--with Lalage. + + Paste this, Fuscus, in your hat: + Not a pesky thing can peeve me. + Take it, too, from Horace flat, + She's some gal, is Lal, believe me. + So I coin this word to-day, + "Lallygag"--from Lalage. + + +V + +TO SYLVIA + + + Were I on the Latin lay, + Were I turning Odes to-day, + You would draw a gem from me, + Little maid of mystery! + + In an Ode I'd love to spout you; + I am simply bug about you. + That's the way!--the fairest peach + Is the one that's out of reach. + + I have toasted in my time + Many a peach (and many a lime), + All of them, I must confess, + Lacking your elusiveness. + + Lalage, my well known flame, + Was considerable dame; + Likewise Lydia and Phyllis, + Chloë, Pyrrha, Amaryllis. + + Syl, if you had lived when they did + You'd have had those damsels faded. + (That will give you, girl, some notion + Of your Flaccus's devotion.) + + Yep. If I were doing Odes + In my quondam favorite modes, + With your image to qui-vive me + I'd tear off some Ode, believe me! + + + + +A BALLAD OF MISFITS + + "_Chacun son métier:_ + _Les vaches seront bien gardées._" + --LA FONTAINE. + + + With skill for doing this or that + The Lord each man endows. + Some men are best for pushing pens, + And some for pushing plows; + And oh, the many many more + That should be tending cows! + _Chacun son métier:_ + _Les vaches bien gardées._ + + The ivory-headed serving maid + Who poses as a "cook," + She hath a very bovine brain, + She hath a bovine look. + Oh, prithee, lead her to the kine, + Oh, prithee get the hook! + _Chacun son métier:_ + _Les vaches bien gardées._ + + The papering-and-painting gents + Whose work is never done, + Who mess around your house until + You pine to pull a gun, + Who take three mortal days to do + What should be done in one;-- + _Chacun son métier:_ + _Les vaches bien gardées._ + + The pestilential "pianiste," + The screechy singer too, + The writer of the stupid book + And of the dull review, + The actor who is greatest when + He takes his exit cue;-- + _Chacun son métier:_ + _Les vaches bien gardées._ + + If every one were set to do + The task for which he's fit, + The writer of these trifling lines + Might also have to quit. + At tending cows the undersigned + Might make an awful hit. + _Chacun son métier:_ + _Les vaches bien gardées._ + + + + +AN ORIENTAL APOLOGY + + + When the hour was come Prince Chun arose, + And balanced a shoestring on his nose. + "From this some notion you will get," + Said he, "of China's deep regret." + + Now balancing upon his ear + A stein of foaming lager beer, + "This attitude," said he, "reveals + How very sorry China feels." + + Then spinning top-like on his cue, + "I can't begin to tell to you + The deep remorse we suffer for + The death of your Ambassador." + + Next, placing on his cue a plate, + He said, as it 'gan to gyrate: + "Nothing that's happened in his reign + Has caused my Emperor so much pain." + + Upon his back he did declare, + While juggling five balls in the air, + "This attitude--the humblest yet-- + Expresses personal regret." + + Last, spreading out a deck of cards-- + "Accept my Emperor's regards. + As our intentions were well meant, + Pray overlook the incident." + + + + +THE DAY OF THE COMET + + (_May 18, 1910._) + + + Here it is--Eighteenth of May! + Dawneth now the fatal day + When we take the awful veil + Of the fearsome comet's tail. + Vale, Earth! + + What will happen, heaven knows; + We can't even guess, suppose, + Hazard, speculate, surmise, + Hint, conjecture, theorize, + Or divine. + + Will we merely drill a hole + Through the trailing aureole? + Or will the prediction dire + Of a world destroyed by fire + Be fulfilled? + + Shall we crook our knees and pray + Counting this the Judgment Day? + Or preserve a cosmic ca'm, + Caring not a cosmic dam + What may come? + + There's the rub. If we but knew + We should know just what to do. + Yes is just as good as No + To all questions. Here we go!-- + Hang on tight! + + + + +THE MORNING AFTER + + (_May 19, 1910._) + + + Here we are, friends, whole and hale + In or through the comet's tail; + And as far as we can say, + Matters are about as they + Were before. + + Everything is much the same + As before the comet came. + Grasses grow and waters run-- + Nothing new beneath the sun-- + Same old sphere. + + Life is drab or life is gay, + Thorny path or primrose way; + All is common, all is strange; + "Down the ringing grooves of change" + Spins the world. + + Change but of a humdrum kind. + What we vaguely had in mind + Was some new sensation or + Thrill we never felt before. + Vain desire! + + Nothing's added to the stock: + Same old shiver, same old shock. + Round about the sun we'll go + In the same old status quo. + Awful bore! + + + + +A BALLADE OF IRRESOLUTION + + + Isolde, in the story old, + When Ireland's coast the vessel nears, + And Death were fairer to behold, + To Tristan gives "the cup that clears." + Straight to their fate the helmsman steers: + Unknowing, each the potion sips.... + Comes echoing through the ghostly years + "Give me the philtre of thy lips!" + + Ah, that like Tristan I were bold! + My soul into the future peers, + And passion flags, and heart grows cold, + And sicklied resolution veers. + I see the Sister of the Shears + Who sits fore'er and snips, and snips.... + Still falls upon my inward ears, + "Give me the philtre of thy lips!" + + Hero of lovers, largely soul'd! + Imagination thee enspheres + With song-enchanted wood and wold + And casements fronting magic meres. + Tristan, thy large example cheers + The faint of heart; thy story grips!-- + My soul again that echo hears, + "Give me the philtre of thy lips!" + + + _L'Envoi_ + + Sweet sorceress, resolve my fears! + He stakes all who Elysium clips. + What tho' the fruit be tares and tears!-- + Give me the philtre of thy lips! + + + + +TO WHAT BASE USES! + + "_Mrs. O---- now takes her daily dip at 5 in the afternoon, instead + of in the morning._" + --NEWPORT ITEM. + + + This is the forest primeval. + + This the spruce with the glorious plume + That grew in the forest primeval. + + This is the lumberman big and browned + Who felled the spruce tree to the ground + That grew in the forest primeval. + + This is the man with the paper mill + Who bought the pulp that paid the bill + Of the husky lumberjack who chopped + The lofty spruce and its branches lopped + That grew in the forest primeval. + + This is the publisher bland and rich + Who bought the roll of paper which + Was made by the man with the paper mill + Who bought the pulp that paid the bill + Of the lumberjack with the murderous ax + Who felled the spruce with lusty hacks + That grew in the forest primeval. + + This is the youth with the writing tool + Who does the daily Newport drool + That helps to make the publisher rich + Who ordered the stock of paper which + Was made by the man with the paper mill + Who bought the pulp that paid the bill + Of the husky Swede in the Joseph's coat + Who swung his ax and the tall spruce smote + That grew in the forest primeval. + + This is the lady far from slim + Who changed the hour of her daily swim + And excited the youth with the writing tool + Who does the Newport drivel and drool + For the prosperous publisher bland and fat + Who ordered the virgin paper that + Was made by the man with the paper mill + Who bought the pulp that paid the bill + Of Ole Oleson the husky Swede + Who did a foul and darksome deed + When he swung his ax with vigor and vim + And smote the spruce tree tall and trim + That grew in the forest primeval. + + This is the shop girl Mag or Liz + Who daily devours what news there is + Concerning the lady far from slim + Who changed the time of her ocean swim + And excited the youth with the writing tool + Who does the daily Newport drool + For the pursy publisher bland and rich + Who bought the innocent paper which + Was made by the man with the paper mill + Who bought the pulp that paid the bill + Of the Swedish jack who slew the spruce + That came to a most ignoble use-- + The lofty spruce with the glorious plume-- + The giant spruce that used to loom + In the heart of the forest primeval. + + + + +HOW THEY MIGHT HAVE BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS + + + We sprang to the motor, I, Joris and Dirck. + I snapped on my goggles and got to my work. + "Hi, there!" yelled the cop in the helmet of white; + "Let her flicker!" said Joris, and into the night, + With a sneer at the speed laws, we hurtled hell-bent + To carry to Aix the good tidings from Ghent. + + The going was poor, we expected delay, + And the usual livestock obstructed the way. + At Boom we ran over a large yellow dog, + At Düffeld a chicken, at Mecheln a hog; + What else, we'd no time to slow down to inquire; + At Aerschot, confound it! we blew out a tire. + + I jacked up the axle and ripped off the shoe, + And snapped on an extra that promised to do. + "All aboard!" I exclaimed as I cranked the machine, + But something was wrong with the curst gasoline. + "By Hasselt!" Dirck groaned, "We'll be half a day late; + We ought to have sent the good tidings by freight." + + False prophet! I tinkered a minute or two + And again we were off like "a bolt from the blue." + We ate up the hills at a forty-mile clip, + And skidded the turns like the snap of a whip, + Till we dashed into Aix and were pinched by a cop + For failing to slow when commanded to stop. + + "Now, wouldn't that frost you!" said Joris, but we + When we told the glad tidings were instantly free. + The Mayor himself paid the ten dollars' fine, + And blew us to dinner with six kinds of wine, + Which (the burgesses voted, by common consent) + Was no more than their due that brought good news from Ghent. + + + + +THE DINOSAUR + + + Behold the mighty Dinosaur, + Famous in prehistoric lore, + Not only for his weight and strength + But for his intellectual length. + You will observe by these remains + The creature had two sets of brains-- + One in his head (the usual place), + The other at his spinal base. + Thus he could reason _a priori_ + As well as _a posteriori_. + No problem bothered him a bit; + He made both head and tail of it. + So wise he was, so wise and solemn, + Each thought filled just a spinal column. + If one brain found the pressure strong + It passed a few ideas along; + If something slipped his forward mind + 'Twas rescued by the one behind; + And if in error he was caught + He had a saving afterthought. + As he thought twice before he spoke + He had no judgments to revoke; + For he could think, without congestion, + Upon both sides of every question. + + Oh, gaze upon this model beast, + Defunct ten million years at least. + + + + +A BALLADE OF CAP AND BELLS + + + When as a dewdrop joy enspheres + This pleasant planet, arched with blue, + When every prospect charms and cheers, + And all the world is fair to view-- + Who does not envy (have not you?) + That mortal, by Thalia kissed, + Who plies, in plumes of cockatoo, + The blithesome trade of humorist? + + But when the wind of fortune veers, + And blue-white skies turn leaden hue, + When every pleasant prospect blears + And all the weary world's askew-- + Who then would envy (if he knew) + Jack Point the jester, glum and trist; + Or ply, tho' first of all the crew, + The dismal trade of humorist? + + Ah, jocund trifles writ in tears, + And merry stanzas steeped in rue! + When all the world in drab appears + The fool must still in motley woo. + Tho' bitter be the cud he chew, + Still must he grind his foolish grist; + Still must he ply, the long day through, + The tragic trade of humorist! + + + _L'Envoi_ + + Lady of Tears, what pains perdue + The heart and soul of him may twist + Who doth in cap and bells pursue + The glad sad trade of humorist! + + + + +GENTLE DOCTOR BROWN + + + It was a gentle sawbones and his name was Doctor Brown. + His auto was the terror of a small suburban town. + His practice, quite amazing for so trivial a place, + Consisted of the victims of his homicidal pace. + + So constant was his practice and so high his motor's gear + That at knocking down pedestrians he never had a peer; + But it must, in simple justice, be as truly written down + That no man could be more thoughtful than gentle Doctor Brown. + + Whatever was the errand on which Doctor Brown was bent + He'd stop to patch a victim up and never charged a cent. + He'd always pause, whoever 'twas he happened to run down: + A humane and a thoughtful man was gentle Doctor Brown. + + "How fortunate," he would observe, "how fortunate 'twas I + That knocked you galley-west and heard your wild and wailing cry. + There _are_ some heartless wretches who would leave you here alone, + Without a sympathetic ear to catch your dying moan. + + "Such callousness," said Doctor Brown, "I cannot comprehend; + To fathom such indifference I simply don't pretend. + One ought to do his duty, and I never am remiss. + A simple word of thanks is all I ask. Here, swallow this!" + + Then, reaching in the tonneau, he'd unpack his little kit, + And perform an operation that was workmanlike and fit. + "You may survive," said Doctor Brown; "it's happened once or twice. + If not, you've had the benefit of competent advice." + + Oh, if all our motormaniacs were equally humane, + How little bitterness there'd be, or reason to complain! + How different our point of view if we were ridden down + By lunatics as thoughtful as gentle Doctor Brown! + + + + +IN THE GALLERY + + + Weirder than the pictures + Are the folks who come + With their owlish strictures-- + Telling why they're bum. + Of all lines of babble + This one has the call: + Picture gallery gabble + Is the best of all. + + Literary fluffle + Never, never cloys; + Much has Mrs. Guffle + Added to my joys. + For that chitter-chatter + I delight to fall. + But the picture patter + Is the best of all. + + With the music highbrows + I delight to chat, + Elevating my brows + Over this and that. + Music tittle-tattle + Never fails to thrall. + But the picture prattle + Is the best of all. + + Sociologic rub-dub + I delight to hear; + Philosophic flub-dub + Titillates my ear. + Lovelier yet the spiffle + In the picture hall; + For the picture piffle + Is the best of all. + + Weirder than the pictures + Are the folks who stand + Passing owlish strictures, + Catalogue in hand. + Hear the bunk they babble + Under every wall. + Yes. The gallery gabble + Is the best of all. + + + + +ALWAYS + + "_Il y a tous les jours quelque dam chose._" + --ABELARD TO HELOISE. + + + When Mrs. Mead was full of groans, + When symptoms of all sorts assailed her, + She sent for bluff old Doctor Jones, + And told him all the things that ailed her. + It took her nearly half the day, + And when she finished out the string-- + "Ye-e-s, Mrs. Mead," drawled Doctor J., + "There's always some dam thing." + + I like the line. It's worth a ton + Of optimistic commonplaces. + It's tonic, it refreshes one, + It cheers, it stimulates, it braces. + It summarizes things so well; + It has the philosophic ring. + Has Kant or Hegel more to tell? + "There's always some dam thing." + + The dean of all the cheer-up school + Adjures sad hearts to cease repining, + And intimates that, as a rule, + The sun behind the cloud is shining. + "Into each life----" You know the rest; + No need to finish out the string. + Longfellow boiled might be expressed, + "There's always some dam thing." + + When things go wrong I do not read + The cheer-up poets, great or lesser. + To soothe my soul I do not need + The Neo-Thought of Mr. Dresser. + Sufficient for each working day, + With all the worries it may bring, + That helpful line by Doctor J., + "There's always some dam thing." + + + + +THE MODERN MARINER + + + A dry sheet and a lazy sea, + And a wind so far from fast + It barely floats the owner's flag + That flutters at the mast-- + That flutters at the mast, my boys; + So while the sky is free + Of cloud we'll take a yachtsman's chance + And venture out to sea. + + The aneroid has dropped a tenth! + Back, back across the bar + To a harbor snug, and a long cold drink, + And a big fat black cigar-- + A big fat black cigar, my boys; + While, on an even keel, + The Swedish chef out-chefs himself + In getting up a meal. + + Give me a soft and gentle wind, + A fleckless azure sky; + I care not for your "snoring breeze" + And dinners heaving high-- + And dinners heaving high, my boys, + Make no great hit with me; + So when the breeze begins to snore + We'll not put out to sea. + + There's laughter in yon beach hotel, + And summer girls a crowd; + And hark the music, mariners, + The band is piping loud! + The band is piping loud, my boys, + Bright eyes are flashing free. + Come, fly the owner's-absent flag + And join the revelry. + + + + +A BALLADE OF THE CANNERY + + + What of the phrases, long decayed, + Of paleologic pedigree, + Musty, moldy, frazzled, and frayed-- + A doddering, dusty company? + What shall be done with them? say we; + And east and west the people bawl, + Dump them into the Cannery!-- + Into the brine go one and all. + + "Grilled" and "lauded" and "scored" and "flayed," + "Common or garden variety," + "Wave of crime" and "reform crusade," + "Along these lines" and "it seems to me," + "Noted savant," "I fail to see," + The "groaning board" of the "banquet hall,"-- + Masonjar 'em in "ghoulish glee"-- + Into the brine go one and all. + + "Succulent bivalves," "trusty blade," + "Last analysis," "practical-ly," + "Lone highwayman" and "fusillade," + "Millionaire broker and clubman," "gee!" + "In reply to yours," "can such things be?" + "Sounded the keynote" or "trumpet call,"-- + Can 'em, pickle 'em, one, two, three-- + Into the brine go one and all. + + + _L'Envoi_ + + Under the spreading chestnut tree + Stands the Cannery, all too small. + The Canner a briny man is he, + And into the brine go one and all. + + + + +PANDEAN PIPEDREAMS + + (_Induced by smoking "Pagan Pickings."_) + + +I + + _This is something that I heard,_ + _As the fluting of a bird,_ + _On a certain drowsy day,_ + _When my pipe was under way._ + _I was weary of the town,_ + _And the going up and down;_ + _Sick of streets and sick of noise,--_ + _And I pined for Pagan joys._ + + Daphne, here it is July! + Just the month, my love, to fly + To a sylvan solitude + In the green and ancient wood. + We will trip it as we go + On the neo-Pagan toe, + Sunny days and starry nights, + Savoring the wild delights + Of a turbulent desire + That may set the wood on fire. + + We will play at hunt-the-fawn, + In the neo-Dorian dawn. + You will scamper through the brake, + And I'll follow in your wake-- + + As the young Apollo ran + In the piping days of Pan. + You'll escape me, without doubt, + For I'm just a trifle stout; + But, when I have lagged behind, + Waiting for my second wynde, + From some pretty hiding-place + Will emerge your laughing face; + I shall glimpse your eyes of blue, + Hear your merry "Peek-a-boo!" + + What to wear? The Pagan plan + Contemplates a coat of tan; + But I fear we shall require + Just a trifle more attire. + Bushes scratch and brambles sting; + Insect myriads are a-wing;-- + Heavens, how mosquitoes swarm + When the woodland air is warm. + (MEM: To take, when we elope, + Tanglewood Mosquito Dope.) + + Do you like the picture, dear? + Have you aught of doubt or fear? + Have you any criticism + Of my neo-Paganism? + If not, dearie, let us fly + To that passion-ripening sky, + Where our souls may have their fling, + And our every care take wing. + + _So the bird song fluted by,_ + _Like a vagrant summer sigh--_ + _Came, and passed, and was no more;_ + _And my pleasant dream was o'er._ + _For arose the wraith of Doubt;_ + _And I knew my pipe was out._ + + +II + + _This is something that befell_ + _When my pipe was drawing well--_ + _Something, rather, that I heard_ + _As the fluting of a bird._ + + Daphne, come and live with me + In a Pagan greenery. + Life will then be naught but play, + One long Pagan holiday. + We will play at hide and seek + In the alders by the creek; + Sport amid the cascade's smother. + Splashing water at each other;-- + Every moment pleasure wooing, + Every moment something doing. + If we talk, we'll talk of Love: + All its arguments we'll prove. + Such a mental rest you'll find. + Leave your intellect behind. + + Night will come, (for come it will, + 'Spite the fluting on the hill,) + And we'll pitch a cozy camp + Where it isn't quite so damp. + While you dry your hair and laze + By the campfire's violet blaze, + I will rob a balsam tree + To construct a house for thee. + What so dear as to be wooed + In a sylvan solitude? + + What so sweet as Pagan vows + Whispered in a house of boughs? + Pagan love's without alloy. + Pagan kisses never cloy. + Arms that cling in Pagan fashion + Never tire. A Pagan passion + Is the only kind I know + That outlives a winter's snow. + Daphne, Daphne, let us fly! + You're a Pagan--so am I. + + _So the fluting on the hill_ + _Passed and died, and all was still._ + _So the Pagan Pickings died,_ + _And I laid the pipe aside._ + + + + +THE LAUNDRY OF LIFE + + (_An Adventure in Sentiment._) + + + Life is a laundry in which we + Are ironed out, or soon or late. + Who has not known the irony + Of fate? + + We enter it when we are born, + Our colors bright. Full soon they fade. + We leave it "done up," old and worn, + And frayed; + + Frayed round the edges, worn and thin-- + Life is a rough old linen slinger. + Who has not lost a button in + Life's wringer? + + With other linen we are tubbed, + With other linen often tangled; + In open court we then are scrubbed, + And mangled. + + Some take a gloss of happiness + The hardest wear can not diminish; + Others, alas! get a "domes- + Tic finish." + + + + +WISDOM IN A CAPSULE + + "_If she be not so to me._ + _What care I how fair she be?_" + --THE SHEPHERD'S RESOLUTION. + + + Here we have in this truism + Mr. James's pragmatism. + Test your troubles day by day + With it, and they fly away. + Is the weather boiling hot, + Hot enough to boil a pot-- + If it be not so to me, + What care I how hot it be? + + Take a pudding made of bread; + Much against it has been said; + But it does not lack defense-- + Many say it is immense. + Be it damned or be it blessed, + Let us make the acid test-- + If it be not so to me, + What care I how good it be? + + So with every blooming thing + That has power to soothe or sting; + Ships or shoes or sealing wax, + Carrots, comets, carpet tacks. + Every philosophic need + Covered by this capsule creed: + If it be not so to me, + {good} + What care I how {bad} it be? + + + + +THE LAND OF RAINBOW'S-END + + + Young Faintheart lay on a wayside bank, + Full prey to doubts and fears, + When he did espy come trudging by + A Pilgrim bent with years. + His back was bowed and his step was slow, + But his faith no years could bend, + As he eagerly pressed to the rose-lit west + And the Land of Rainbow's-End. + + "_It's ho, for a pack!" sang the Pilgrim gray,_ + "_And a stout oak staff for friend,_ + _And it's over the hills and far away_ + _To the Land of Rainbow's-End!_" + + "Thou'rt old," young Faintheart cried, "thou'rt old, + And there's many a league to go; + And still thou seekest the pot of gold + At the farther end of the bow." + "I am old, I am old," said the Pilgrim gray, + "But ever my way I'll wend + To the rose-lit hills of the dying day + And the Land of Rainbow's-End." + + "Come, rest thee, rest thee by my side; + Give o'er thy doomsday quest." + "Have done, have done!" the Pilgrim cried: + "The light wanes in the west. + The road is long, but I shall not tire; + I will lay my bones, God send, + By the beautiful City of Heart's Desire, + In the Land of Rainbow's-End." + + "_Then it's ho, for a pack!" sang the Pilgrim gray,_ + "_And a stout oak staff for friend,_ + _And it's over the hills and far away_ + _To the Land of Rainbow's-End._" + + + + +A BALLADE OF A BORE + + + When the weather is warm and the glass running high + And the odors of Araby tincture the air; + When the sun is aloft in a white and blue sky, + And the morrow holds promise of falling as fair;-- + In spring or in summer I'm free to declare, + And the same I am equally free to maintain, + One person has power my peace to impair: + The man who tells limericks gives me a pain. + + When the foliage flushes and summer is by, + And russet and red are the popular wear; + When the song of the woodland is changed to a sigh + And the horn of the hunter is heard by the hare;-- + In the season of autumn I'm free to declare, + And my language is lucid and simple and plain, + One person's acquaintance I freely forswear: + The man with the limerick gives me a pain. + + When the landscape is iced and the snow feathers fly, + When the fields are all bald and the trees are all bare, + And the prospect which nature presents to the eye + Is chiefly distinguished by glitter and glare;-- + In the season of winter I'm free to declare + That the limerick person is flat and inane. + This person, I think, we could easily spare: + The man who tells limericks gives me a pain. + + + _L'Envoi_ + + From New Year to Christmas I'm free to declare + That, for ways that are dull and for verse that is vain, + One bore is peculiar--and not at all rare: + The man with the limerick gives me a pain. + + + + +THE POLE + + (_Tune_: "_Carcassonne._") + + + I'm an old man, I'm eighty-three, + I seldom get away; + My work, it keeps me close at home-- + I have no time for play. + If it were not for the journey back, + That so fatigues a soul, + I'd like to take a little trip-- + I never have seen the Pole. + + 'Tis said that in that favored place + There is no heat or drouth; + And that, whichever way you turn, + You're looking south-by-south. + Some say there is a flagstaff there, + Some say there is a hole. + Think of the years that I have lived + And never have seen the Pole! + + The parson a hundred times is right-- + We ought to stay at home. + I'm an old man, I'm eighty-three, + I have no call to roam. + And yet if I could somehow find + The time--God bless my soul!-- + I think that I would die content + If I only could see the Pole! + + My brother has seen Baraboo, + If so he speak the truth; + My wife and son they both have been + As far as to Duluth; + My cousin cruised to Eastport, Maine, + On a ship that carried coal; + I've been as far as Mackinac-- + But I never have seen the Pole! + + + + +SH-H-H-H! + + "_Mr. Mabie is now reading the summer books._" + --THE LADIES' HOME JOURNAL. + + + What shall we buy for a summer's day? + What is good reading and what is not? + Mabie will tell us--we wait his say; + For Mabie alone can know what's what. + Meanwhile the world is as still as death; + Mute inquiry is in men's looks; + Everybody is holding his breath-- + Mabie is reading the summer books. + + The suns are at pause in the cosmic race; + The mills of the gods have ceased to grind; + The only sound that is heard in space + Is the rhythmic clicking of Mabie's mind. + Elsewhere silence, or near or far-- + Chattering Pleiads or babbling brooks; + For the whisper has passed from star to star: + "Mabie is reading the summer books." + + + + +THE VANISHED FAY + + + Tell me, whither do they go, + All the Little Ones we know? + They "grow up" before our eyes, + And the fairy spirit flies. + Time the Piper, pied and gay-- + Does he lure them all away? + Do they follow after him, + Over the horizon's brim? + + Daughter's growing fair to see, + Slim and straight as popple tree. + Still a child in heart and head, + But--the fairy spirit's fled. + As a fay at break of day, + Little One has flown away, + On the stroke of fairy bell-- + When and whither, who can tell? + + Still her childish fancies weave + In the Land of Make Believe; + And her love of magic lore + Is as avid as before. + Dollies big and dollies small + Still are at her beck and call. + But for all this pleasant play, + Little One has gone away. + + Whither, whither have they flown, + All the fays we all have known? + To what "faery lands forlorn" + On the sound of elfin horn? + As she were a woodland sprite, + Little One has vanished quite. + Waves the wand of Oberon: + Cock has crowed--the fay is gone! + + + + +AUTUMN REVERY + + + When the leaves are falling crimson + And the worm is off its feed, + When the rag weed and the jimson + Have agreed to go to seed, + When the air in forest bowers + Has a tang like Rhenish wine, + And to breathe it for two hours + Makes you feel you'd like to dine, + When the frost is on the pumpkin + And the corn is in the shock, + And the cheek of country bumpkin + City faces seems to mock,-- + When you come across a ditty + (Like this one) of Autumn's charm, + Then it's pleasant in the city, + Where they keep the houses warm. + + + + +THE RECOIL + + + I met a friend of lofty brow-- + As lofty as the laws allow. + I said to him, "You'll know, I'm sure-- + What's doing now in litrychoor?" + Said he: "I hate the very name; + I'm weary of the blooming game. + I read, whenever I have time, + Something by Phillips Oppenheim." + + "Cheer up!" said I. "What's new in Art?-- + You drift around the picture mart. + What do you think of Mr. Blum?-- + Some say he's great, some say he's bum." + "I'm strong for Blum," my friend replied; + "His pictures are so queer and pied. + I wouldn't change them if I could; + I'd rather have things queer than good." + + I spoke of this, I spoke of that, + But everything was stale and flat. + Said I, "You once adored the chaste, + You used to have such perfect taste." + "Good taste," he wailed, "brings but distress, + 'Tis an affliction, nothing less; + While those whose taste is punk and vile + Are happy all the blessed while." + + "Oh, take a brace, old man!" said I. + "Let me prescribe a nip of rye, + And then we'll go to see a play; + I've two for Barrymore to-day." + "No, no," he groaned; "'twould be a bore, + With all respect to Barrymore." + Said I: "Then whither shall we go?" + Said he: "A moving picture show." + + + + +THE CORONATION + + _Lang Syne._ + + + Twas a holy mystery + In the days of chivalry. + More than pageant was the Rite + In the sight of clod and knight. + Sword and Scepter, Orb and Rod, + Faith in self and faith in God; + Oaths of Homage fiercely flung, + Faith in heart and faith in tongue;-- + Gone the things that meaning gave + "With the old world to the grave." + + + 1911. + + Knightly faith was born to fade: + Now the Rite is masquerade. + Now a cockney paladin + Winds a penny horn of tin. + Where in reverence heads were bowed + Surges now a careless crowd; + "Muddied oafs" and "flanneled fools" + Jostle "Yanks" with camping stools;-- + Gone the things that meaning gave + "With the old world to the grave." + + + + +SONS OF BATTLE + + + Let us have peace, and Thy blessing, + Lord of the Wind and the Rain, + When we shall cease from oppressing, + From all injustice refrain; + When we hate falsehood and spurn it; + When we are men among men. + Let us have peace when we earn it-- + Never an hour till then. + + Let us have rest in Thy garden, + Lord of the Rock and the Green, + When there is nothing to pardon, + When we are whitened and clean. + Purge us of skulking and treason, + Help us to put them away. + We shall have rest in Thy season; + Till then the heat of the fray. + + Let us have peace in Thy pleasure, + Lord of the Cloud and the Sun; + Grant to us æons of leisure + When the long battle is done. + Now we have only begun it; + Stead us!--we ask nothing more. + Peace--rest--but not till we've won it-- + Never an hour before. + + + + +MY LADY NEW YORK + + + O siren of tresses peroxide, + And heart that is hard as a flint, + Blue orbs of complacency ox-eyed, + That light at the mark of the mint, + Ears only for jingle of joybells, + A conscience as light as a cork-- + You are wedded to follies and foibles, + My Lady New York. + + True, you have (not enough, tho', to hurt you) + Your moods and your manners austere; + You have visions and vapors of virtue, + And "reform" for a time has your ear; + But of chaste Puritanic embraces + You soon have enough and to spare, + And then you kick over the traces, + And virtue forswear. + + So go it, milady! Foot fleetly + The paths that are primrose and gay; + Abandon your fancy completely + To follies and fads of the day. + "Reform" is a something that throttles + The joys of the pace that's intense-- + Smash hearts, reputations, and bottles, + And ding the expense! + + + + +BALLADE OF THE PIPESMOKE CARRY + + + The Ancient Wood is white and still, + Over the pines the bleak wind blows, + Voiceless the brook and mute the rill, + Silence too where the river flows. + Still I catch the scent of the rose + And hear the white-throat's roundelay, + Footing the trail that Memory knows, + Over the hills and far away. + + I have only a pipe to fill: + Weaving, wreathing rings disclose + A trail that flings straight up the hill, + Straight as an arrow's flight. For those + Who fare by night the pole star glows + Above the mountain top. By day + A blasted pine the pathway shows + Over the hills and far away. + + The Ancient Wood is white and chill, + But what know I of wintry woes? + The Pipesmoke Trail is mine at will-- + Naught may hinder and none oppose. + Such the power the pipe bestows, + When the wilderness calls I may + Tramping go, as I smoke and doze, + Over the hills and far away. + + + _L'Envoi_ + + Deep in the canyons lie the snows: + They shall vanish if I but say-- + If my fancy a-roving goes + Over the hills and far away. + + + + +POST-VACATIONAL + + + You have heard that mildewed story, + That tradition horned and hoary, + That it wearies one to roam, + Past a doubt; + That one vainly on vacation + Tries to find recuperation, + Till he hunts his happy home + Tuckered out. + + That abroad there is no comfort, + That a man must journey home for 't-- + You have heard that whiskered wheeze, + Have you not? + 'Tis a commonplace to cavil + At the "luxuries of travel," + For in travel lack of ease + Is your lot. + + You have heard that gag historic; + It was often sprung by Yorick; + It's as old as Noah's ark + And its crew. + It's the commonest (at basis) + Of all common commonplaces;-- + So I merely would remark + That--it's true. + + + + +THE BARDS WE QUOTE + + + Whene'er I quote I seldom take + From bards whom angel hosts environ; + But usually some damned rake + Like Byron. + + Of Whittier I think a lot, + My fancy to him often turns; + But when I quote 'tis some such sot + As Burns. + + I'm very fond of Bryant, too, + He brings to me the woodland smelly; + Why should I quote that "village roo," + P. Shelley? + + I think Felicia Hemans great, + I dote upon Jean Ingelow; + Yet quote from such a reprobate + As Poe. + + To quote from drunkard or from rake + Is not a proper thing to do. + I find the habit hard to break, + Don't you? + + + + +THE PERSISTENT POET + + + "I remember, I remember"-- + Something special? Not a bit. + But, you see, this is November, + And Remember rimes with it. + + + + +HENCE THESE RIMES + + + Tho' my verse is exact, + Tho' it flawlessly flows, + As a matter of fact + I would rather write prose. + + While my harp is in tune, + And I sing like the birds, + I would really as soon + Write in straightaway words. + + Tho' my songs are as sweet + As Apollo e'er piped, + And my lines are as neat + As have ever been typed, + + I would rather write prose-- + I prefer it to rime; + It's less hard to compose, + And it takes me less time. + + "Well, if that be the case," + You are moved to inquire, + "Why appropriate space + For extolling your lyre?" + + I can only reply + That this form I elect + 'Cause it pleases the eye, + And I like the effect. + + + + +THE OLD ROLLER TOWEL + + + How dear to this heart is the old roller towel + Which fond recollection presents to my view. + It hung like a pall on the wall of the washroom, + And gathered the grime of the linotype crew. + The sink and the soap and the lye that stood by it + Remain; but the towel is gone past recall. + O tempora! Also, O mores! Sic transit + The time-honored towel that creaked on the wall. + The grimy old towel, the slimy old towel, + The tacky old towel that hung on the wall. + + Now hangs in the washroom a huge roll of paper-- + The old printer's towel we'll never see more. + The new (see directions) is "used like a blotter," + And crumpled and scattered in wads on the floor. + And often, when drying my hands in this fashion, + The tears of remembrance will gather and fall, + And I sigh (though I'm not what you'd call sentimental) + For the classic old towel that propped up the wall. + The sainted old towel, the tainted old towel, + The gooey old towel that hung on the wall. + + + + +UP CULTURE'S HILL + + (_The confession of a club lady._) + + + The path up Culture's Hill is steep, + And weary is the way, + With very little time for sleep + And none at all for play. + + She that this toilsome task essays + Must never bat an eye, + But keep her firm, unwavering gaze + Forever fixed on high. + + For should she ever careless grow, + And let her glances stray + Down to the shallow vale below, + Where Pleasure's Court holds sway-- + + Lured by the thrice forbidden fruit, + She'd lose her equipoise, + And like a wayward Pleiad shoot + Down to forbidden joys. + + I've been but short time on the road, + My courage still is strong; + Yet often have I felt the goad + That hurries me along. + + I've fallen over Maeterlinck, + And bumped myself to tears, + Burne-Jones's pictures made me blink, + And Wagner hurts my ears. + + I've stumbled over Ibsen humps + And over Rembrandt rocks, + I've got some fierce Debussy bumps, + Some awful Nietsche knocks. + + I'm wearied by the ceaseless quest, + I'm wayworn and footsore. + I've Culture till I cannot rest-- + Yet still I climb for more. + + But oh, when all is done and said, + Upon some manly breast + I'd like to lay my tired head + And take a good long rest. + + + + +THE PASSIONAL NOTE + + "_The erotic motive is almost entirely absent from American poetry. Even + our younger American poets are more profoundly interested in the why and + wherefore of things than in the girdle of Helen or the gleaming limbs of + 'the white implacable Aphrodite.'_" + --MR. SYLVESTER VIERECK. + + + In the years of my season erotic, + When Eros was lord of my days, + And I loved, with a love idiotic, + The Mabels and Madges and Mays; + When a purple and passionate lyric + Would sing all the night in my head,-- + I yearned, like the young Mr. Viereck, + For everything red. + + I doted on poems of passion, + And put my own pantings in rime, + To celebrate, after a fashion, + The damsels who took up my time. + I fed upon Swinburne, believe me, + I feasted on Byron and Burns, + And couplets from Sappho would give me + Most exquisite turns. + + How apparent it was that our songbirds-- + Our Emerson, Lowell, and Payne, + And Bryant and Drake--were the wrong birds + To pipe to the passional strain. + There was, in a word, nothing doing + In all of the rimes that they wrote; + They seemed to be always pursuing + The ethical note. + + What truth, I inquired, was so mighty, + What ethical thing was so rare, + As the limbs of the white Aphrodite + Or a strand of her heaven-kissed hair! + The girdle of red-headed Helen + Outweighed all the wherefores and whys, + And Wisdom elected to dwell in + A pair of blue eyes. + + _Now_ lyrical sizzlers and scorchers + Fail somehow to set me ablaze; + No longer are exquisite tortures + Provoked by these passionate lays. + I've tinned--and I can't say I've missed 'em-- + The poems of passion and sin. + _Some_ things one gets out of one's system, + And other things _in_. + + + + +_L'ENVOI._ + + + "_Go, little book," as Poet Southey said;_ + _You might be better and you might be worse._ + _With just one word of warning you are sped:_ + _Remember, you're not Poetry--you're Verse._ + + + * * * * * + + + + +Index + + Always 82 + Autumn Revery 104 + Ballad of Misfits 63 + Ballade of a Bore 97 + Ballade of the Cannery 86 + Ballade of Cap and Bells 76 + Ballade of Death and Time 28 + Ballade of Irresolution 68 + Ballade of the Pipesmoke Carry 110 + Ballade of Spring's Unrest 22 + Ballade of Wool-Gathering 48 + Bards We Quote, The 113 + Bread Puddynge 42 + Breakfast Food Family, The 19 + Coronation, The 107 + Day of the Comet, The 66 + Dinosaur, The 75 + Dornröschen 34 + "Farewell" 36 + Gentle Doctor Brown 78 + Hence These Rimes 115 + Horace: A Note from Mr. Flaccus 54 + I. To Aristius Fuscus 56 + II. Duetto 57 + III. To Pyrrha 59 + IV. To Aristius Fuscus 60 + V. To Sylvia 62 + How They Might Have Brought + the Good News 73 + In the Gallery 80 + In the Lamplight 17 + Kaiser's Farewell, The 30 + Land of Rainbow's-End, The 95 + Laundry of Life, The 93 + Lay of St. Ambrose 9 + Miss Legion 27 + Modern Mariner, The 84 + Morning After, The 67 + Musca Domestica 45 + My Lady New York 109 + Old Roller Towel, The 116 + Oriental Apology, An 65 + Pandean Pipedreams 88 + Passional Note, The 119 + Passionate Professor, The 47 + Persistent Poet, The 114 + Pole, The 99 + Post-Vacational 112 + Recoil, The 105 + Reform in Our Town 38 + Rime of the Clark Street Cable 25 + Sh-h-h-h! 101 + Simple, Heartfelt Lay, The 53 + Sons of Battle 108 + To a Tall Spruce 14 + To Lillian Russell 32 + To the Sun 50 + To What Base Uses 70 + "Treasure Island" 21 + Up Culture's Hill 117 + Vanished Fay, The 102 + When It Is Hot 51 + When the Sirup's on the Flapjack 41 + Why? 24 + Wisdom in a Capsule 94 + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's A line-o'-verse or two, by Bert Leston Taylor + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 30038 *** diff --git a/30038-8.txt b/30038-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9775b6b --- /dev/null +++ b/30038-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,3442 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of A line-o'-verse or two, by Bert Leston Taylor + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: A line-o'-verse or two + +Author: Bert Leston Taylor + +Release Date: September 20, 2009 [EBook #30038] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A LINE-O'-VERSE OR TWO *** + + + + +Produced by Bryan Ness, Anne Storer and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This +file was produced from images generously made available +by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) + + + + + + Transcriber's Note: + [=XVII] = XVII with a line above. + + + * * * * * + + + + + 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! + + + _L'Envoi_ + + 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? + + + _L'Envoi_ + + 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! + + + _L'Envoi_ + + 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 + +DUETTO + + "_Donec gratus eram._" + + + HORACE: + + What time my Lydia owned me lord + No Persian king had much on Horace; + And when you blew my bed and board + I was some sad, believe me, Mawruss. + + LYDIA: + + What time you loved no other She, + Before this Chloë person signed you, + I flourished like a green bay tree; + Now I'm the Girl You Left Behind You. + + HORACE: + + This Chloë dame that takes my eye + Has so peculiar an allurance + I would not hesitate to die + If she could cop my life insurance. + + LYDIA: + + Well, as for that, I know a gent + With whom it's some delight to dally. + With me he makes an awful dent; + I'd perish once or twice for Cally. + + HORACE: + + Suppose our former love should go + Into a new de luxe edition? + Suppose I tie a can to Chlo, + And let you play your old position? + + LYDIA: + + Why, then, you cork, you butterfly, + You sweet, philandering, perjured villain, + With you I'd love to live and die, + Tho' Cally boy were twice as killin'. + + +III + +TO PYRRHA + + "_Quis multa gracilis._" + + + What young tin whistle gent, + Bedaubed with barber's scent,-- + What cheapskate waits on you + To woo, + O Pyrrha? + + For whom the puff and rat + And transformation that + You bought a year ago + Or so, + O Pyrrha? + + Peeved? Not a bit. Not I + I'm sorry for the guy. + He draws a lovely lime + This time, + O Pyrrha! + + I've dipped. The wet ain't fine. + Hung on the votive line + My duds. The gods can see + I'm free. + Eh, Pyrrha! + + +IV + +TO ARISTIUS FUSCUS + + "_My sweetly-smiling, sweetly-speaking Lalage._" + + + Fuscus, take a tip from me: + This here job's no bed of roses, + Not the cinch it seems to be, + Not the pipe that one supposes. + What care I, tho', if I may + Lallygag with Lalage. + + Every day there's ink to spill, + Tho' I may not feel like working. + Every day a hole to fill; + One must plug it--there's no shirking. + Oh, that I might all the day + Lallygag with Lalage! + + People say, "Gee! what a snap, + Turning paragraphs and verses. + He's the band on Fortune's cap, + Gets a barrel of ses-_terces_." + Let them gossip, while I play + Hide and seek with Lalage. + + People hand me out advice: + "Hod, you're doing too much drivel. + Write us something sweet and nice. + Stow the satire, chop the frivol." + But we have the rent to pay, + Lalage; eh, Lalage? + + Ladies shy the saving sense + Write me patronizing letters; + And there are the writing gents, + Always out to knock their betters. + What cares Flaccus if he may + Lallygag with Lalage! + + No, old top, the writing lay's + Not a bed of sweet geranium. + Brickbats mingle with bouquets + Shied at my devoted cranium. + Does it peeve yours truly? Nay. + Nothing can--with Lalage. + + Paste this, Fuscus, in your hat: + Not a pesky thing can peeve me. + Take it, too, from Horace flat, + She's some gal, is Lal, believe me. + So I coin this word to-day, + "Lallygag"--from Lalage. + + +V + +TO SYLVIA + + + Were I on the Latin lay, + Were I turning Odes to-day, + You would draw a gem from me, + Little maid of mystery! + + In an Ode I'd love to spout you; + I am simply bug about you. + That's the way!--the fairest peach + Is the one that's out of reach. + + I have toasted in my time + Many a peach (and many a lime), + All of them, I must confess, + Lacking your elusiveness. + + Lalage, my well known flame, + Was considerable dame; + Likewise Lydia and Phyllis, + Chloë, Pyrrha, Amaryllis. + + Syl, if you had lived when they did + You'd have had those damsels faded. + (That will give you, girl, some notion + Of your Flaccus's devotion.) + + Yep. If I were doing Odes + In my quondam favorite modes, + With your image to qui-vive me + I'd tear off some Ode, believe me! + + + + +A BALLAD OF MISFITS + + "_Chacun son métier:_ + _Les vaches seront bien gardées._" + --LA FONTAINE. + + + With skill for doing this or that + The Lord each man endows. + Some men are best for pushing pens, + And some for pushing plows; + And oh, the many many more + That should be tending cows! + _Chacun son métier:_ + _Les vaches bien gardées._ + + The ivory-headed serving maid + Who poses as a "cook," + She hath a very bovine brain, + She hath a bovine look. + Oh, prithee, lead her to the kine, + Oh, prithee get the hook! + _Chacun son métier:_ + _Les vaches bien gardées._ + + The papering-and-painting gents + Whose work is never done, + Who mess around your house until + You pine to pull a gun, + Who take three mortal days to do + What should be done in one;-- + _Chacun son métier:_ + _Les vaches bien gardées._ + + The pestilential "pianiste," + The screechy singer too, + The writer of the stupid book + And of the dull review, + The actor who is greatest when + He takes his exit cue;-- + _Chacun son métier:_ + _Les vaches bien gardées._ + + If every one were set to do + The task for which he's fit, + The writer of these trifling lines + Might also have to quit. + At tending cows the undersigned + Might make an awful hit. + _Chacun son métier:_ + _Les vaches bien gardées._ + + + + +AN ORIENTAL APOLOGY + + + When the hour was come Prince Chun arose, + And balanced a shoestring on his nose. + "From this some notion you will get," + Said he, "of China's deep regret." + + Now balancing upon his ear + A stein of foaming lager beer, + "This attitude," said he, "reveals + How very sorry China feels." + + Then spinning top-like on his cue, + "I can't begin to tell to you + The deep remorse we suffer for + The death of your Ambassador." + + Next, placing on his cue a plate, + He said, as it 'gan to gyrate: + "Nothing that's happened in his reign + Has caused my Emperor so much pain." + + Upon his back he did declare, + While juggling five balls in the air, + "This attitude--the humblest yet-- + Expresses personal regret." + + Last, spreading out a deck of cards-- + "Accept my Emperor's regards. + As our intentions were well meant, + Pray overlook the incident." + + + + +THE DAY OF THE COMET + + (_May 18, 1910._) + + + Here it is--Eighteenth of May! + Dawneth now the fatal day + When we take the awful veil + Of the fearsome comet's tail. + Vale, Earth! + + What will happen, heaven knows; + We can't even guess, suppose, + Hazard, speculate, surmise, + Hint, conjecture, theorize, + Or divine. + + Will we merely drill a hole + Through the trailing aureole? + Or will the prediction dire + Of a world destroyed by fire + Be fulfilled? + + Shall we crook our knees and pray + Counting this the Judgment Day? + Or preserve a cosmic ca'm, + Caring not a cosmic dam + What may come? + + There's the rub. If we but knew + We should know just what to do. + Yes is just as good as No + To all questions. Here we go!-- + Hang on tight! + + + + +THE MORNING AFTER + + (_May 19, 1910._) + + + Here we are, friends, whole and hale + In or through the comet's tail; + And as far as we can say, + Matters are about as they + Were before. + + Everything is much the same + As before the comet came. + Grasses grow and waters run-- + Nothing new beneath the sun-- + Same old sphere. + + Life is drab or life is gay, + Thorny path or primrose way; + All is common, all is strange; + "Down the ringing grooves of change" + Spins the world. + + Change but of a humdrum kind. + What we vaguely had in mind + Was some new sensation or + Thrill we never felt before. + Vain desire! + + Nothing's added to the stock: + Same old shiver, same old shock. + Round about the sun we'll go + In the same old status quo. + Awful bore! + + + + +A BALLADE OF IRRESOLUTION + + + Isolde, in the story old, + When Ireland's coast the vessel nears, + And Death were fairer to behold, + To Tristan gives "the cup that clears." + Straight to their fate the helmsman steers: + Unknowing, each the potion sips.... + Comes echoing through the ghostly years + "Give me the philtre of thy lips!" + + Ah, that like Tristan I were bold! + My soul into the future peers, + And passion flags, and heart grows cold, + And sicklied resolution veers. + I see the Sister of the Shears + Who sits fore'er and snips, and snips.... + Still falls upon my inward ears, + "Give me the philtre of thy lips!" + + Hero of lovers, largely soul'd! + Imagination thee enspheres + With song-enchanted wood and wold + And casements fronting magic meres. + Tristan, thy large example cheers + The faint of heart; thy story grips!-- + My soul again that echo hears, + "Give me the philtre of thy lips!" + + + _L'Envoi_ + + Sweet sorceress, resolve my fears! + He stakes all who Elysium clips. + What tho' the fruit be tares and tears!-- + Give me the philtre of thy lips! + + + + +TO WHAT BASE USES! + + "_Mrs. O---- now takes her daily dip at 5 in the afternoon, instead + of in the morning._" + --NEWPORT ITEM. + + + This is the forest primeval. + + This the spruce with the glorious plume + That grew in the forest primeval. + + This is the lumberman big and browned + Who felled the spruce tree to the ground + That grew in the forest primeval. + + This is the man with the paper mill + Who bought the pulp that paid the bill + Of the husky lumberjack who chopped + The lofty spruce and its branches lopped + That grew in the forest primeval. + + This is the publisher bland and rich + Who bought the roll of paper which + Was made by the man with the paper mill + Who bought the pulp that paid the bill + Of the lumberjack with the murderous ax + Who felled the spruce with lusty hacks + That grew in the forest primeval. + + This is the youth with the writing tool + Who does the daily Newport drool + That helps to make the publisher rich + Who ordered the stock of paper which + Was made by the man with the paper mill + Who bought the pulp that paid the bill + Of the husky Swede in the Joseph's coat + Who swung his ax and the tall spruce smote + That grew in the forest primeval. + + This is the lady far from slim + Who changed the hour of her daily swim + And excited the youth with the writing tool + Who does the Newport drivel and drool + For the prosperous publisher bland and fat + Who ordered the virgin paper that + Was made by the man with the paper mill + Who bought the pulp that paid the bill + Of Ole Oleson the husky Swede + Who did a foul and darksome deed + When he swung his ax with vigor and vim + And smote the spruce tree tall and trim + That grew in the forest primeval. + + This is the shop girl Mag or Liz + Who daily devours what news there is + Concerning the lady far from slim + Who changed the time of her ocean swim + And excited the youth with the writing tool + Who does the daily Newport drool + For the pursy publisher bland and rich + Who bought the innocent paper which + Was made by the man with the paper mill + Who bought the pulp that paid the bill + Of the Swedish jack who slew the spruce + That came to a most ignoble use-- + The lofty spruce with the glorious plume-- + The giant spruce that used to loom + In the heart of the forest primeval. + + + + +HOW THEY MIGHT HAVE BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS + + + We sprang to the motor, I, Joris and Dirck. + I snapped on my goggles and got to my work. + "Hi, there!" yelled the cop in the helmet of white; + "Let her flicker!" said Joris, and into the night, + With a sneer at the speed laws, we hurtled hell-bent + To carry to Aix the good tidings from Ghent. + + The going was poor, we expected delay, + And the usual livestock obstructed the way. + At Boom we ran over a large yellow dog, + At Düffeld a chicken, at Mecheln a hog; + What else, we'd no time to slow down to inquire; + At Aerschot, confound it! we blew out a tire. + + I jacked up the axle and ripped off the shoe, + And snapped on an extra that promised to do. + "All aboard!" I exclaimed as I cranked the machine, + But something was wrong with the curst gasoline. + "By Hasselt!" Dirck groaned, "We'll be half a day late; + We ought to have sent the good tidings by freight." + + False prophet! I tinkered a minute or two + And again we were off like "a bolt from the blue." + We ate up the hills at a forty-mile clip, + And skidded the turns like the snap of a whip, + Till we dashed into Aix and were pinched by a cop + For failing to slow when commanded to stop. + + "Now, wouldn't that frost you!" said Joris, but we + When we told the glad tidings were instantly free. + The Mayor himself paid the ten dollars' fine, + And blew us to dinner with six kinds of wine, + Which (the burgesses voted, by common consent) + Was no more than their due that brought good news from Ghent. + + + + +THE DINOSAUR + + + Behold the mighty Dinosaur, + Famous in prehistoric lore, + Not only for his weight and strength + But for his intellectual length. + You will observe by these remains + The creature had two sets of brains-- + One in his head (the usual place), + The other at his spinal base. + Thus he could reason _a priori_ + As well as _a posteriori_. + No problem bothered him a bit; + He made both head and tail of it. + So wise he was, so wise and solemn, + Each thought filled just a spinal column. + If one brain found the pressure strong + It passed a few ideas along; + If something slipped his forward mind + 'Twas rescued by the one behind; + And if in error he was caught + He had a saving afterthought. + As he thought twice before he spoke + He had no judgments to revoke; + For he could think, without congestion, + Upon both sides of every question. + + Oh, gaze upon this model beast, + Defunct ten million years at least. + + + + +A BALLADE OF CAP AND BELLS + + + When as a dewdrop joy enspheres + This pleasant planet, arched with blue, + When every prospect charms and cheers, + And all the world is fair to view-- + Who does not envy (have not you?) + That mortal, by Thalia kissed, + Who plies, in plumes of cockatoo, + The blithesome trade of humorist? + + But when the wind of fortune veers, + And blue-white skies turn leaden hue, + When every pleasant prospect blears + And all the weary world's askew-- + Who then would envy (if he knew) + Jack Point the jester, glum and trist; + Or ply, tho' first of all the crew, + The dismal trade of humorist? + + Ah, jocund trifles writ in tears, + And merry stanzas steeped in rue! + When all the world in drab appears + The fool must still in motley woo. + Tho' bitter be the cud he chew, + Still must he grind his foolish grist; + Still must he ply, the long day through, + The tragic trade of humorist! + + + _L'Envoi_ + + Lady of Tears, what pains perdue + The heart and soul of him may twist + Who doth in cap and bells pursue + The glad sad trade of humorist! + + + + +GENTLE DOCTOR BROWN + + + It was a gentle sawbones and his name was Doctor Brown. + His auto was the terror of a small suburban town. + His practice, quite amazing for so trivial a place, + Consisted of the victims of his homicidal pace. + + So constant was his practice and so high his motor's gear + That at knocking down pedestrians he never had a peer; + But it must, in simple justice, be as truly written down + That no man could be more thoughtful than gentle Doctor Brown. + + Whatever was the errand on which Doctor Brown was bent + He'd stop to patch a victim up and never charged a cent. + He'd always pause, whoever 'twas he happened to run down: + A humane and a thoughtful man was gentle Doctor Brown. + + "How fortunate," he would observe, "how fortunate 'twas I + That knocked you galley-west and heard your wild and wailing cry. + There _are_ some heartless wretches who would leave you here alone, + Without a sympathetic ear to catch your dying moan. + + "Such callousness," said Doctor Brown, "I cannot comprehend; + To fathom such indifference I simply don't pretend. + One ought to do his duty, and I never am remiss. + A simple word of thanks is all I ask. Here, swallow this!" + + Then, reaching in the tonneau, he'd unpack his little kit, + And perform an operation that was workmanlike and fit. + "You may survive," said Doctor Brown; "it's happened once or twice. + If not, you've had the benefit of competent advice." + + Oh, if all our motormaniacs were equally humane, + How little bitterness there'd be, or reason to complain! + How different our point of view if we were ridden down + By lunatics as thoughtful as gentle Doctor Brown! + + + + +IN THE GALLERY + + + Weirder than the pictures + Are the folks who come + With their owlish strictures-- + Telling why they're bum. + Of all lines of babble + This one has the call: + Picture gallery gabble + Is the best of all. + + Literary fluffle + Never, never cloys; + Much has Mrs. Guffle + Added to my joys. + For that chitter-chatter + I delight to fall. + But the picture patter + Is the best of all. + + With the music highbrows + I delight to chat, + Elevating my brows + Over this and that. + Music tittle-tattle + Never fails to thrall. + But the picture prattle + Is the best of all. + + Sociologic rub-dub + I delight to hear; + Philosophic flub-dub + Titillates my ear. + Lovelier yet the spiffle + In the picture hall; + For the picture piffle + Is the best of all. + + Weirder than the pictures + Are the folks who stand + Passing owlish strictures, + Catalogue in hand. + Hear the bunk they babble + Under every wall. + Yes. The gallery gabble + Is the best of all. + + + + +ALWAYS + + "_Il y a tous les jours quelque dam chose._" + --ABELARD TO HELOISE. + + + When Mrs. Mead was full of groans, + When symptoms of all sorts assailed her, + She sent for bluff old Doctor Jones, + And told him all the things that ailed her. + It took her nearly half the day, + And when she finished out the string-- + "Ye-e-s, Mrs. Mead," drawled Doctor J., + "There's always some dam thing." + + I like the line. It's worth a ton + Of optimistic commonplaces. + It's tonic, it refreshes one, + It cheers, it stimulates, it braces. + It summarizes things so well; + It has the philosophic ring. + Has Kant or Hegel more to tell? + "There's always some dam thing." + + The dean of all the cheer-up school + Adjures sad hearts to cease repining, + And intimates that, as a rule, + The sun behind the cloud is shining. + "Into each life----" You know the rest; + No need to finish out the string. + Longfellow boiled might be expressed, + "There's always some dam thing." + + When things go wrong I do not read + The cheer-up poets, great or lesser. + To soothe my soul I do not need + The Neo-Thought of Mr. Dresser. + Sufficient for each working day, + With all the worries it may bring, + That helpful line by Doctor J., + "There's always some dam thing." + + + + +THE MODERN MARINER + + + A dry sheet and a lazy sea, + And a wind so far from fast + It barely floats the owner's flag + That flutters at the mast-- + That flutters at the mast, my boys; + So while the sky is free + Of cloud we'll take a yachtsman's chance + And venture out to sea. + + The aneroid has dropped a tenth! + Back, back across the bar + To a harbor snug, and a long cold drink, + And a big fat black cigar-- + A big fat black cigar, my boys; + While, on an even keel, + The Swedish chef out-chefs himself + In getting up a meal. + + Give me a soft and gentle wind, + A fleckless azure sky; + I care not for your "snoring breeze" + And dinners heaving high-- + And dinners heaving high, my boys, + Make no great hit with me; + So when the breeze begins to snore + We'll not put out to sea. + + There's laughter in yon beach hotel, + And summer girls a crowd; + And hark the music, mariners, + The band is piping loud! + The band is piping loud, my boys, + Bright eyes are flashing free. + Come, fly the owner's-absent flag + And join the revelry. + + + + +A BALLADE OF THE CANNERY + + + What of the phrases, long decayed, + Of paleologic pedigree, + Musty, moldy, frazzled, and frayed-- + A doddering, dusty company? + What shall be done with them? say we; + And east and west the people bawl, + Dump them into the Cannery!-- + Into the brine go one and all. + + "Grilled" and "lauded" and "scored" and "flayed," + "Common or garden variety," + "Wave of crime" and "reform crusade," + "Along these lines" and "it seems to me," + "Noted savant," "I fail to see," + The "groaning board" of the "banquet hall,"-- + Masonjar 'em in "ghoulish glee"-- + Into the brine go one and all. + + "Succulent bivalves," "trusty blade," + "Last analysis," "practical-ly," + "Lone highwayman" and "fusillade," + "Millionaire broker and clubman," "gee!" + "In reply to yours," "can such things be?" + "Sounded the keynote" or "trumpet call,"-- + Can 'em, pickle 'em, one, two, three-- + Into the brine go one and all. + + + _L'Envoi_ + + Under the spreading chestnut tree + Stands the Cannery, all too small. + The Canner a briny man is he, + And into the brine go one and all. + + + + +PANDEAN PIPEDREAMS + + (_Induced by smoking "Pagan Pickings."_) + + +I + + _This is something that I heard,_ + _As the fluting of a bird,_ + _On a certain drowsy day,_ + _When my pipe was under way._ + _I was weary of the town,_ + _And the going up and down;_ + _Sick of streets and sick of noise,--_ + _And I pined for Pagan joys._ + + Daphne, here it is July! + Just the month, my love, to fly + To a sylvan solitude + In the green and ancient wood. + We will trip it as we go + On the neo-Pagan toe, + Sunny days and starry nights, + Savoring the wild delights + Of a turbulent desire + That may set the wood on fire. + + We will play at hunt-the-fawn, + In the neo-Dorian dawn. + You will scamper through the brake, + And I'll follow in your wake-- + + As the young Apollo ran + In the piping days of Pan. + You'll escape me, without doubt, + For I'm just a trifle stout; + But, when I have lagged behind, + Waiting for my second wynde, + From some pretty hiding-place + Will emerge your laughing face; + I shall glimpse your eyes of blue, + Hear your merry "Peek-a-boo!" + + What to wear? The Pagan plan + Contemplates a coat of tan; + But I fear we shall require + Just a trifle more attire. + Bushes scratch and brambles sting; + Insect myriads are a-wing;-- + Heavens, how mosquitoes swarm + When the woodland air is warm. + (MEM: To take, when we elope, + Tanglewood Mosquito Dope.) + + Do you like the picture, dear? + Have you aught of doubt or fear? + Have you any criticism + Of my neo-Paganism? + If not, dearie, let us fly + To that passion-ripening sky, + Where our souls may have their fling, + And our every care take wing. + + _So the bird song fluted by,_ + _Like a vagrant summer sigh--_ + _Came, and passed, and was no more;_ + _And my pleasant dream was o'er._ + _For arose the wraith of Doubt;_ + _And I knew my pipe was out._ + + +II + + _This is something that befell_ + _When my pipe was drawing well--_ + _Something, rather, that I heard_ + _As the fluting of a bird._ + + Daphne, come and live with me + In a Pagan greenery. + Life will then be naught but play, + One long Pagan holiday. + We will play at hide and seek + In the alders by the creek; + Sport amid the cascade's smother. + Splashing water at each other;-- + Every moment pleasure wooing, + Every moment something doing. + If we talk, we'll talk of Love: + All its arguments we'll prove. + Such a mental rest you'll find. + Leave your intellect behind. + + Night will come, (for come it will, + 'Spite the fluting on the hill,) + And we'll pitch a cozy camp + Where it isn't quite so damp. + While you dry your hair and laze + By the campfire's violet blaze, + I will rob a balsam tree + To construct a house for thee. + What so dear as to be wooed + In a sylvan solitude? + + What so sweet as Pagan vows + Whispered in a house of boughs? + Pagan love's without alloy. + Pagan kisses never cloy. + Arms that cling in Pagan fashion + Never tire. A Pagan passion + Is the only kind I know + That outlives a winter's snow. + Daphne, Daphne, let us fly! + You're a Pagan--so am I. + + _So the fluting on the hill_ + _Passed and died, and all was still._ + _So the Pagan Pickings died,_ + _And I laid the pipe aside._ + + + + +THE LAUNDRY OF LIFE + + (_An Adventure in Sentiment._) + + + Life is a laundry in which we + Are ironed out, or soon or late. + Who has not known the irony + Of fate? + + We enter it when we are born, + Our colors bright. Full soon they fade. + We leave it "done up," old and worn, + And frayed; + + Frayed round the edges, worn and thin-- + Life is a rough old linen slinger. + Who has not lost a button in + Life's wringer? + + With other linen we are tubbed, + With other linen often tangled; + In open court we then are scrubbed, + And mangled. + + Some take a gloss of happiness + The hardest wear can not diminish; + Others, alas! get a "domes- + Tic finish." + + + + +WISDOM IN A CAPSULE + + "_If she be not so to me._ + _What care I how fair she be?_" + --THE SHEPHERD'S RESOLUTION. + + + Here we have in this truism + Mr. James's pragmatism. + Test your troubles day by day + With it, and they fly away. + Is the weather boiling hot, + Hot enough to boil a pot-- + If it be not so to me, + What care I how hot it be? + + Take a pudding made of bread; + Much against it has been said; + But it does not lack defense-- + Many say it is immense. + Be it damned or be it blessed, + Let us make the acid test-- + If it be not so to me, + What care I how good it be? + + So with every blooming thing + That has power to soothe or sting; + Ships or shoes or sealing wax, + Carrots, comets, carpet tacks. + Every philosophic need + Covered by this capsule creed: + If it be not so to me, + {good} + What care I how {bad} it be? + + + + +THE LAND OF RAINBOW'S-END + + + Young Faintheart lay on a wayside bank, + Full prey to doubts and fears, + When he did espy come trudging by + A Pilgrim bent with years. + His back was bowed and his step was slow, + But his faith no years could bend, + As he eagerly pressed to the rose-lit west + And the Land of Rainbow's-End. + + "_It's ho, for a pack!" sang the Pilgrim gray,_ + "_And a stout oak staff for friend,_ + _And it's over the hills and far away_ + _To the Land of Rainbow's-End!_" + + "Thou'rt old," young Faintheart cried, "thou'rt old, + And there's many a league to go; + And still thou seekest the pot of gold + At the farther end of the bow." + "I am old, I am old," said the Pilgrim gray, + "But ever my way I'll wend + To the rose-lit hills of the dying day + And the Land of Rainbow's-End." + + "Come, rest thee, rest thee by my side; + Give o'er thy doomsday quest." + "Have done, have done!" the Pilgrim cried: + "The light wanes in the west. + The road is long, but I shall not tire; + I will lay my bones, God send, + By the beautiful City of Heart's Desire, + In the Land of Rainbow's-End." + + "_Then it's ho, for a pack!" sang the Pilgrim gray,_ + "_And a stout oak staff for friend,_ + _And it's over the hills and far away_ + _To the Land of Rainbow's-End._" + + + + +A BALLADE OF A BORE + + + When the weather is warm and the glass running high + And the odors of Araby tincture the air; + When the sun is aloft in a white and blue sky, + And the morrow holds promise of falling as fair;-- + In spring or in summer I'm free to declare, + And the same I am equally free to maintain, + One person has power my peace to impair: + The man who tells limericks gives me a pain. + + When the foliage flushes and summer is by, + And russet and red are the popular wear; + When the song of the woodland is changed to a sigh + And the horn of the hunter is heard by the hare;-- + In the season of autumn I'm free to declare, + And my language is lucid and simple and plain, + One person's acquaintance I freely forswear: + The man with the limerick gives me a pain. + + When the landscape is iced and the snow feathers fly, + When the fields are all bald and the trees are all bare, + And the prospect which nature presents to the eye + Is chiefly distinguished by glitter and glare;-- + In the season of winter I'm free to declare + That the limerick person is flat and inane. + This person, I think, we could easily spare: + The man who tells limericks gives me a pain. + + + _L'Envoi_ + + From New Year to Christmas I'm free to declare + That, for ways that are dull and for verse that is vain, + One bore is peculiar--and not at all rare: + The man with the limerick gives me a pain. + + + + +THE POLE + + (_Tune_: "_Carcassonne._") + + + I'm an old man, I'm eighty-three, + I seldom get away; + My work, it keeps me close at home-- + I have no time for play. + If it were not for the journey back, + That so fatigues a soul, + I'd like to take a little trip-- + I never have seen the Pole. + + 'Tis said that in that favored place + There is no heat or drouth; + And that, whichever way you turn, + You're looking south-by-south. + Some say there is a flagstaff there, + Some say there is a hole. + Think of the years that I have lived + And never have seen the Pole! + + The parson a hundred times is right-- + We ought to stay at home. + I'm an old man, I'm eighty-three, + I have no call to roam. + And yet if I could somehow find + The time--God bless my soul!-- + I think that I would die content + If I only could see the Pole! + + My brother has seen Baraboo, + If so he speak the truth; + My wife and son they both have been + As far as to Duluth; + My cousin cruised to Eastport, Maine, + On a ship that carried coal; + I've been as far as Mackinac-- + But I never have seen the Pole! + + + + +SH-H-H-H! + + "_Mr. Mabie is now reading the summer books._" + --THE LADIES' HOME JOURNAL. + + + What shall we buy for a summer's day? + What is good reading and what is not? + Mabie will tell us--we wait his say; + For Mabie alone can know what's what. + Meanwhile the world is as still as death; + Mute inquiry is in men's looks; + Everybody is holding his breath-- + Mabie is reading the summer books. + + The suns are at pause in the cosmic race; + The mills of the gods have ceased to grind; + The only sound that is heard in space + Is the rhythmic clicking of Mabie's mind. + Elsewhere silence, or near or far-- + Chattering Pleiads or babbling brooks; + For the whisper has passed from star to star: + "Mabie is reading the summer books." + + + + +THE VANISHED FAY + + + Tell me, whither do they go, + All the Little Ones we know? + They "grow up" before our eyes, + And the fairy spirit flies. + Time the Piper, pied and gay-- + Does he lure them all away? + Do they follow after him, + Over the horizon's brim? + + Daughter's growing fair to see, + Slim and straight as popple tree. + Still a child in heart and head, + But--the fairy spirit's fled. + As a fay at break of day, + Little One has flown away, + On the stroke of fairy bell-- + When and whither, who can tell? + + Still her childish fancies weave + In the Land of Make Believe; + And her love of magic lore + Is as avid as before. + Dollies big and dollies small + Still are at her beck and call. + But for all this pleasant play, + Little One has gone away. + + Whither, whither have they flown, + All the fays we all have known? + To what "faery lands forlorn" + On the sound of elfin horn? + As she were a woodland sprite, + Little One has vanished quite. + Waves the wand of Oberon: + Cock has crowed--the fay is gone! + + + + +AUTUMN REVERY + + + When the leaves are falling crimson + And the worm is off its feed, + When the rag weed and the jimson + Have agreed to go to seed, + When the air in forest bowers + Has a tang like Rhenish wine, + And to breathe it for two hours + Makes you feel you'd like to dine, + When the frost is on the pumpkin + And the corn is in the shock, + And the cheek of country bumpkin + City faces seems to mock,-- + When you come across a ditty + (Like this one) of Autumn's charm, + Then it's pleasant in the city, + Where they keep the houses warm. + + + + +THE RECOIL + + + I met a friend of lofty brow-- + As lofty as the laws allow. + I said to him, "You'll know, I'm sure-- + What's doing now in litrychoor?" + Said he: "I hate the very name; + I'm weary of the blooming game. + I read, whenever I have time, + Something by Phillips Oppenheim." + + "Cheer up!" said I. "What's new in Art?-- + You drift around the picture mart. + What do you think of Mr. Blum?-- + Some say he's great, some say he's bum." + "I'm strong for Blum," my friend replied; + "His pictures are so queer and pied. + I wouldn't change them if I could; + I'd rather have things queer than good." + + I spoke of this, I spoke of that, + But everything was stale and flat. + Said I, "You once adored the chaste, + You used to have such perfect taste." + "Good taste," he wailed, "brings but distress, + 'Tis an affliction, nothing less; + While those whose taste is punk and vile + Are happy all the blessed while." + + "Oh, take a brace, old man!" said I. + "Let me prescribe a nip of rye, + And then we'll go to see a play; + I've two for Barrymore to-day." + "No, no," he groaned; "'twould be a bore, + With all respect to Barrymore." + Said I: "Then whither shall we go?" + Said he: "A moving picture show." + + + + +THE CORONATION + + _Lang Syne._ + + + Twas a holy mystery + In the days of chivalry. + More than pageant was the Rite + In the sight of clod and knight. + Sword and Scepter, Orb and Rod, + Faith in self and faith in God; + Oaths of Homage fiercely flung, + Faith in heart and faith in tongue;-- + Gone the things that meaning gave + "With the old world to the grave." + + + 1911. + + Knightly faith was born to fade: + Now the Rite is masquerade. + Now a cockney paladin + Winds a penny horn of tin. + Where in reverence heads were bowed + Surges now a careless crowd; + "Muddied oafs" and "flanneled fools" + Jostle "Yanks" with camping stools;-- + Gone the things that meaning gave + "With the old world to the grave." + + + + +SONS OF BATTLE + + + Let us have peace, and Thy blessing, + Lord of the Wind and the Rain, + When we shall cease from oppressing, + From all injustice refrain; + When we hate falsehood and spurn it; + When we are men among men. + Let us have peace when we earn it-- + Never an hour till then. + + Let us have rest in Thy garden, + Lord of the Rock and the Green, + When there is nothing to pardon, + When we are whitened and clean. + Purge us of skulking and treason, + Help us to put them away. + We shall have rest in Thy season; + Till then the heat of the fray. + + Let us have peace in Thy pleasure, + Lord of the Cloud and the Sun; + Grant to us æons of leisure + When the long battle is done. + Now we have only begun it; + Stead us!--we ask nothing more. + Peace--rest--but not till we've won it-- + Never an hour before. + + + + +MY LADY NEW YORK + + + O siren of tresses peroxide, + And heart that is hard as a flint, + Blue orbs of complacency ox-eyed, + That light at the mark of the mint, + Ears only for jingle of joybells, + A conscience as light as a cork-- + You are wedded to follies and foibles, + My Lady New York. + + True, you have (not enough, tho', to hurt you) + Your moods and your manners austere; + You have visions and vapors of virtue, + And "reform" for a time has your ear; + But of chaste Puritanic embraces + You soon have enough and to spare, + And then you kick over the traces, + And virtue forswear. + + So go it, milady! Foot fleetly + The paths that are primrose and gay; + Abandon your fancy completely + To follies and fads of the day. + "Reform" is a something that throttles + The joys of the pace that's intense-- + Smash hearts, reputations, and bottles, + And ding the expense! + + + + +BALLADE OF THE PIPESMOKE CARRY + + + The Ancient Wood is white and still, + Over the pines the bleak wind blows, + Voiceless the brook and mute the rill, + Silence too where the river flows. + Still I catch the scent of the rose + And hear the white-throat's roundelay, + Footing the trail that Memory knows, + Over the hills and far away. + + I have only a pipe to fill: + Weaving, wreathing rings disclose + A trail that flings straight up the hill, + Straight as an arrow's flight. For those + Who fare by night the pole star glows + Above the mountain top. By day + A blasted pine the pathway shows + Over the hills and far away. + + The Ancient Wood is white and chill, + But what know I of wintry woes? + The Pipesmoke Trail is mine at will-- + Naught may hinder and none oppose. + Such the power the pipe bestows, + When the wilderness calls I may + Tramping go, as I smoke and doze, + Over the hills and far away. + + + _L'Envoi_ + + Deep in the canyons lie the snows: + They shall vanish if I but say-- + If my fancy a-roving goes + Over the hills and far away. + + + + +POST-VACATIONAL + + + You have heard that mildewed story, + That tradition horned and hoary, + That it wearies one to roam, + Past a doubt; + That one vainly on vacation + Tries to find recuperation, + Till he hunts his happy home + Tuckered out. + + That abroad there is no comfort, + That a man must journey home for 't-- + You have heard that whiskered wheeze, + Have you not? + 'Tis a commonplace to cavil + At the "luxuries of travel," + For in travel lack of ease + Is your lot. + + You have heard that gag historic; + It was often sprung by Yorick; + It's as old as Noah's ark + And its crew. + It's the commonest (at basis) + Of all common commonplaces;-- + So I merely would remark + That--it's true. + + + + +THE BARDS WE QUOTE + + + Whene'er I quote I seldom take + From bards whom angel hosts environ; + But usually some damned rake + Like Byron. + + Of Whittier I think a lot, + My fancy to him often turns; + But when I quote 'tis some such sot + As Burns. + + I'm very fond of Bryant, too, + He brings to me the woodland smelly; + Why should I quote that "village roo," + P. Shelley? + + I think Felicia Hemans great, + I dote upon Jean Ingelow; + Yet quote from such a reprobate + As Poe. + + To quote from drunkard or from rake + Is not a proper thing to do. + I find the habit hard to break, + Don't you? + + + + +THE PERSISTENT POET + + + "I remember, I remember"-- + Something special? Not a bit. + But, you see, this is November, + And Remember rimes with it. + + + + +HENCE THESE RIMES + + + Tho' my verse is exact, + Tho' it flawlessly flows, + As a matter of fact + I would rather write prose. + + While my harp is in tune, + And I sing like the birds, + I would really as soon + Write in straightaway words. + + Tho' my songs are as sweet + As Apollo e'er piped, + And my lines are as neat + As have ever been typed, + + I would rather write prose-- + I prefer it to rime; + It's less hard to compose, + And it takes me less time. + + "Well, if that be the case," + You are moved to inquire, + "Why appropriate space + For extolling your lyre?" + + I can only reply + That this form I elect + 'Cause it pleases the eye, + And I like the effect. + + + + +THE OLD ROLLER TOWEL + + + How dear to this heart is the old roller towel + Which fond recollection presents to my view. + It hung like a pall on the wall of the washroom, + And gathered the grime of the linotype crew. + The sink and the soap and the lye that stood by it + Remain; but the towel is gone past recall. + O tempora! Also, O mores! Sic transit + The time-honored towel that creaked on the wall. + The grimy old towel, the slimy old towel, + The tacky old towel that hung on the wall. + + Now hangs in the washroom a huge roll of paper-- + The old printer's towel we'll never see more. + The new (see directions) is "used like a blotter," + And crumpled and scattered in wads on the floor. + And often, when drying my hands in this fashion, + The tears of remembrance will gather and fall, + And I sigh (though I'm not what you'd call sentimental) + For the classic old towel that propped up the wall. + The sainted old towel, the tainted old towel, + The gooey old towel that hung on the wall. + + + + +UP CULTURE'S HILL + + (_The confession of a club lady._) + + + The path up Culture's Hill is steep, + And weary is the way, + With very little time for sleep + And none at all for play. + + She that this toilsome task essays + Must never bat an eye, + But keep her firm, unwavering gaze + Forever fixed on high. + + For should she ever careless grow, + And let her glances stray + Down to the shallow vale below, + Where Pleasure's Court holds sway-- + + Lured by the thrice forbidden fruit, + She'd lose her equipoise, + And like a wayward Pleiad shoot + Down to forbidden joys. + + I've been but short time on the road, + My courage still is strong; + Yet often have I felt the goad + That hurries me along. + + I've fallen over Maeterlinck, + And bumped myself to tears, + Burne-Jones's pictures made me blink, + And Wagner hurts my ears. + + I've stumbled over Ibsen humps + And over Rembrandt rocks, + I've got some fierce Debussy bumps, + Some awful Nietsche knocks. + + I'm wearied by the ceaseless quest, + I'm wayworn and footsore. + I've Culture till I cannot rest-- + Yet still I climb for more. + + But oh, when all is done and said, + Upon some manly breast + I'd like to lay my tired head + And take a good long rest. + + + + +THE PASSIONAL NOTE + + "_The erotic motive is almost entirely absent from American poetry. Even + our younger American poets are more profoundly interested in the why and + wherefore of things than in the girdle of Helen or the gleaming limbs of + 'the white implacable Aphrodite.'_" + --MR. SYLVESTER VIERECK. + + + In the years of my season erotic, + When Eros was lord of my days, + And I loved, with a love idiotic, + The Mabels and Madges and Mays; + When a purple and passionate lyric + Would sing all the night in my head,-- + I yearned, like the young Mr. Viereck, + For everything red. + + I doted on poems of passion, + And put my own pantings in rime, + To celebrate, after a fashion, + The damsels who took up my time. + I fed upon Swinburne, believe me, + I feasted on Byron and Burns, + And couplets from Sappho would give me + Most exquisite turns. + + How apparent it was that our songbirds-- + Our Emerson, Lowell, and Payne, + And Bryant and Drake--were the wrong birds + To pipe to the passional strain. + There was, in a word, nothing doing + In all of the rimes that they wrote; + They seemed to be always pursuing + The ethical note. + + What truth, I inquired, was so mighty, + What ethical thing was so rare, + As the limbs of the white Aphrodite + Or a strand of her heaven-kissed hair! + The girdle of red-headed Helen + Outweighed all the wherefores and whys, + And Wisdom elected to dwell in + A pair of blue eyes. + + _Now_ lyrical sizzlers and scorchers + Fail somehow to set me ablaze; + No longer are exquisite tortures + Provoked by these passionate lays. + I've tinned--and I can't say I've missed 'em-- + The poems of passion and sin. + _Some_ things one gets out of one's system, + And other things _in_. + + + + +_L'ENVOI._ + + + "_Go, little book," as Poet Southey said;_ + _You might be better and you might be worse._ + _With just one word of warning you are sped:_ + _Remember, you're not Poetry--you're Verse._ + + + * * * * * + + + + +Index + + Always 82 + Autumn Revery 104 + Ballad of Misfits 63 + Ballade of a Bore 97 + Ballade of the Cannery 86 + Ballade of Cap and Bells 76 + Ballade of Death and Time 28 + Ballade of Irresolution 68 + Ballade of the Pipesmoke Carry 110 + Ballade of Spring's Unrest 22 + Ballade of Wool-Gathering 48 + Bards We Quote, The 113 + Bread Puddynge 42 + Breakfast Food Family, The 19 + Coronation, The 107 + Day of the Comet, The 66 + Dinosaur, The 75 + Dornröschen 34 + "Farewell" 36 + Gentle Doctor Brown 78 + Hence These Rimes 115 + Horace: A Note from Mr. Flaccus 54 + I. To Aristius Fuscus 56 + II. Duetto 57 + III. To Pyrrha 59 + IV. To Aristius Fuscus 60 + V. To Sylvia 62 + How They Might Have Brought + the Good News 73 + In the Gallery 80 + In the Lamplight 17 + Kaiser's Farewell, The 30 + Land of Rainbow's-End, The 95 + Laundry of Life, The 93 + Lay of St. Ambrose 9 + Miss Legion 27 + Modern Mariner, The 84 + Morning After, The 67 + Musca Domestica 45 + My Lady New York 109 + Old Roller Towel, The 116 + Oriental Apology, An 65 + Pandean Pipedreams 88 + Passional Note, The 119 + Passionate Professor, The 47 + Persistent Poet, The 114 + Pole, The 99 + Post-Vacational 112 + Recoil, The 105 + Reform in Our Town 38 + Rime of the Clark Street Cable 25 + Sh-h-h-h! 101 + Simple, Heartfelt Lay, The 53 + Sons of Battle 108 + To a Tall Spruce 14 + To Lillian Russell 32 + To the Sun 50 + To What Base Uses 70 + "Treasure Island" 21 + Up Culture's Hill 117 + Vanished Fay, The 102 + When It Is Hot 51 + When the Sirup's on the Flapjack 41 + Why? 24 + Wisdom in a Capsule 94 + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's A line-o'-verse or two, by Bert Leston Taylor + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A LINE-O'-VERSE OR TWO *** + +***** This file should be named 30038-8.txt or 30038-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/3/0/0/3/30038/ + +Produced by Bryan Ness, Anne Storer and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This +file was produced from images generously made available +by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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L. T.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</a></span></p> +<p><strong><em>TO MY READERS</em></strong></p> + + +<p><em>Not merely of this book,—but a larger company, +with whom, through the medium of the</em> Chicago +Tribune, <em>I have been on very pleasant terms for +several years,—this handful of rime is joyously +dedicated.</em></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</a></span></p> + +<p><strong>THE LAY OF ST. AMBROSE</strong></p> + +<p style="margin-left: 3em;"> +“<em>And hard by doth dwell, in St. Catherine’s cell,</em><br /> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;"><em>Ambrose, the anchorite old and grey.</em>”</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 10em;" class="smcap">—The Lay of St. Nicholas.</span> +</p> + + +<p> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">Ambrose the anchorite old and grey</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">Larruped himself in his lonely cell,</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">And many a welt on his pious pelt</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">The scourge evoked as it rose and fell.</span></p> + +<p> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">For hours together the flagellant leather</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">Went whacketty-whack with his groans of pain;</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">And the lay-brothers said, with a wag of the head,</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">“Ambrose has been at the bottle again.”</span></p> + +<p> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">And such, in sooth, was the sober truth;</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">For the single fault of this saintly soul</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">Was a desert thirst for the cup accurst,—</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">A quenchless love for the Flowing Bowl.</span></p> + +<p> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">When he woke at morn with a head forlorn</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">And a taste like a last-year swallow’s nest,</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">He would kneel and pray, then rise and flay</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">His sinful body like all possessed.</span></p> + +<p> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">Frequently tempted, he fell from grace,</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">And as often he found the devil to pay;</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">But by diligent scourging and diligent purging</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">He managed to keep Old Nick at bay.</span></p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</a></span> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">This was the plight of our anchorite,—</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">An endless penance condemned to dree,—</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">When it chanced one day there came his way</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">A Mystical Book with a golden Key.</span></p> + +<p> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">This Mystical Book was a guide to health,</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">That none might follow and go astray;</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">While a turn of the Key unlocked the wealth</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">That all unknown in the Scriptures lay.</span></p> + +<p> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">Disease is sin, the Book defined;</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">Sickness is error to which men cling;</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">Pain is merely a state of mind,</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">And matter a non-existent thing.</span></p> + +<p> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">If a tooth should ache, or a leg should break,</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">You simply “affirm” and it’s sound again.</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">Cut and contusion are only delusion,</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">And indigestion a fancied pain.</span></p> + +<p> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">For pain is naught if you “hold a thought,”</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">Fevers fly at your simple say;</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">You have but to affirm, and every germ</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">Will fold up its tent and steal away.</span></p> + +<hr style='margin-left: 5em; width: 15%;' /> + +<p> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">From matin gong to even-song</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">Ambrose pondered this mystic lore,</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">Till what had seemed fiction took on a conviction</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">That words had never possessed before.</span></p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</a></span> +“If pain,” quoth he, “is a state of mind,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">If a rough hair shirt to silk is kin,—</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">If these things are error, pray where’s the terror</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">In scourging and purging oneself of sin?</span></p> + +<p> +“It certainly seemeth good to me,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">By and large, in part and in whole.</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">I’ll put it in practice and find if it fact is,</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">Or only a mystical rigmarole.”</span></p> + +<hr style='margin-left: 5em; width: 15%;' /> + +<p> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">The very next night our anchorite</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">Of the Flowing Bowl drank long and deep.</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">He argued this wise: “New Thought applies</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">No fitter to lamb than it does to sheep.”</span></p> + +<p> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">When he woke at morn with a head forlorn</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">And a taste akin to a parrot’s cage,</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">He knelt and prayed, then up and flayed</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">His sinful flesh in a righteous rage.</span></p> + +<p> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">Whacketty-whack on breast and back,</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">Whacketty-whack, before, behind;</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">But he held the thought as he laid it on,</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">“Pain is merely a state of mind.”</span></p> + +<p> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">Whacketty-whack on breast and back,</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">Whacketty-whack on calf and shin;</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">And the lay-brothers said, with a wag of the head,</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">“<em>Ain’t</em> he the glutton for discipline!”</span></p> + +<hr style='margin-left: 5em; width: 15%;' /> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</a></span> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">Now every night our anchorite</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">Was exceedingly tight when he went to bed.</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">The scourge that once pained him no longer restrained him,</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">Nor even the fear of an aching head.</span></p> + +<p> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">For he woke at morn with a pate as clear</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">As the silvery chime of the matin bell;</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">And without any jogging he fell to his flogging,</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">And larruped himself in his lonely cell.</span></p> + +<p> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">But the leather had lost its power to sting;</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">To pangs of the flesh he was now immune;</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">His rough hair shirt no longer hurt,</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">Nor the pebbles he wore in his wooden shoon.</span></p> + +<p> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">When conscience was troubled he cheerfully doubled</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">His matinal dose of discipline;—</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">A deuce of a scourging, sufficient for purging</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">The Devil himself of original sin.</span></p> + +<p> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">Whacketty-whack on breast and back,</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">Whacketty-whack from morn to noon;</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">Whacketty-whacketty-whacketty-whack!—</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">Till the abbey rang with the dismal tune.</span></p> + +<p> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">Deacon and prior, lay-brother and friar</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">Exclaimed at these whoppings spectacular;</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">And even the Abbot remarked that the habit</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">Of scourging oneself might be carried too far.</span></p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</a></span> +“My son,” said he, “I am pleased to see<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">Such penance as never was known before;</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">But you raise such a racket in dusting your jacket,</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">The noise is becoming a bit of a bore.</span></p> + +<p> +“How would it do if you whaled yourself<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">From eight to ten or from one to three?</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">Or if ‘More’ is your motto, pray hire a grotto;</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">I know of one you can have rent free.”</span></p> + +<hr style='margin-left: 5em; width: 15%;' /> + +<p> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">Ambrose the anchorite bowed his head,</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">And girded his loins and went away.</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">He rented a cavern not far from a tavern,</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">And tippled by night and scourged by day.</span></p> + +<p> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">The more the penance the more the sin,</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">The more he whopped him the more he drank;</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">Till his hair fell out and his cheeks fell in,</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">And his corpulent figure grew long and lank.</span></p> + +<p> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">At Whitsuntide he up and died,</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">While flaying himself for his final spree.</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">And who shall say whether ’twas liquor or leather</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">That hurried him into eternity?</span></p> + +<p> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">They made him a saint, as well they might,</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">And gave him a beautiful aureole.</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">And—somehow or other, this circle of light</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">Suggests the rim of the Flowing Bowl.</span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>TO A TALL SPRUCE</strong></p> + + +<p> + Pride of the forest primeval,<br /> + Peer of the glorious pine,<br /> + Doomed to an end that is evil,<br /> + Fearful the fate that is thine!</p> + +<p> + Peer of the glorious pine,<br /> + Now the landlooker has found you,<br /> + Fearful the fate that is thine—<br /> + Fate of the spruces around you.</p> + +<p> + Now the landlooker has found you,<br /> + Stripped of your beautiful plume—<br /> + Fate of the spruces around you—<br /> + Swiftly you’ll draw to your doom.</p> + +<p> + Stripped of your beautiful plume,<br /> + Bzzng! into logs they will whip you.<br /> + Swiftly you’ll draw to your doom;<br /> + To the pulp mill they will ship you.</p> + +<p> + Bzzng! into logs they will whip you,<br /> + Lumbermen greedy for gold.<br /> + To the pulp mill they will ship you.<br /> + Hearken, there’s worse to be told!</p> + +<p> + Lumbermen greedy for gold<br /> + Over your ruins will caper.<br /> + Hearken, there’s worse to be told:<br /> + You will be made into paper!</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</a></span> + Over your ruins will caper<br /> + Murderous shavers and hooks.<br /> + You will be made into paper!<br /> + You will be made into books!</p> + +<p> + Murderous shavers and hooks<br /> + Swiftly your pride will diminish.<br /> + You will be made into books!<br /> + Horrible, horrible finish!</p> + +<p> + Swiftly your pride will diminish.<br /> + You will become a romance!<br /> + Horrible, horrible finish!<br /> + Fate has no sadder mischance.</p> + +<p> + You will become a romance,<br /> + Filled with “Gadzooks!” and “Have at you!”<br /> + Fate has no sadder mischance;<br /> + It would wring tears from a statue.</p> + +<p> + Filled with “Gadzooks!” and “Have at you!”<br /> + You may become a “Lazarre”—<br /> + (It would wring tears from a statue)—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Graustark,” “Stovepipe of Navarre.”</span></p> + +<p> + You may become a “Lazarre”;<br /> + Fate has still worse it can turn on—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Graustark,” “Stovepipe of Navarre,”</span><br /> + Even a “Dorothy Vernon”!</p> + +<p> + Fate has still worse it can turn on—<br /> + Lower you cannot descend;<br /> + Even a “Dorothy Vernon”!—<br /> + That is the limit—the end.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</a></span> + Lower you cannot descend.<br /> + Doomed to an end that is evil,<br /> + That <em>is</em> the limit—the <em>end</em>!<br /> + Pride of the forest primeval.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>IN THE LAMPLIGHT</strong></p> + + +<p> + The dinner done, the lamp is lit,<br /> + And in its mellow glow we sit<br /> + And talk of matters, grave and gay,<br /> + That went to make another day.<br /> + Comes Little One, a book in hand,<br /> + With this request, nay, this command—<br /> + (For who’d gainsay the little sprite)—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Please—will you read to me to-night?”</span></p> + +<p> + Read to you, Little One? Why, yes.<br /> + What shall it be to-night? You guess<br /> + You’d like to hear about the Bears—<br /> + Their bowls of porridge, beds and chairs?<br /> + Well, that you shall.... There! that tale’s done!<br /> + And now—you’d like another one?<br /> + To-morrow evening, Curly Head.<br /> + It’s “hass-pass seven.” Off to bed!</p> + +<p> + So each night another story:<br /> + Wicked dwarfs and giants gory;<br /> + Dragons fierce and princes daring,<br /> + Forth to fame and fortune faring;<br /> + Wandering tots, with leaves for bed;<br /> + Houses made of gingerbread;<br /> + Witches bad and fairies good,<br /> + And all the wonders of the wood.</p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“I like the witches best,” says she</span><br /> + Who nightly nestles on my knee;<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</a></span> + And why by them she sets such store,<br /> + Psychologists may puzzle o’er.<br /> + Her likes are mine, and I agree<br /> + With all that she confides to me.<br /> + And thus we travel, hand in hand,<br /> + The storied roads of Fairyland.</p> + +<p> + Ah, Little One, when years have fled,<br /> + And left their silver on my head,<br /> + And when the dimming eyes of age<br /> + With difficulty scan the page,<br /> + Perhaps <em>I’ll</em> turn the tables then;<br /> + Perhaps <em>I’ll</em> put the question, when<br /> + I borrow of your better sight—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Please—will you read to me to-night?”</span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>THE BREAKFAST FOOD FAMILY</strong></p> + + +<p> + John Spratt will eat no fat,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Nor will he touch the lean;</span><br /> + He scorns to eat of any meat,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">He lives upon Foodine.</span></p> + +<p> + But Mrs. Spratt will none of that,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Foodine she cannot eat;</span><br /> + Her special wish is for a dish<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of Expurgated Wheat.</span></p> + +<p> + To William Spratt that food is flat<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">On which his mater dotes.</span><br /> + His favorite feed—his special need—<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Is Eata Heapa Oats.</span></p> + +<p> + But sister Lil can’t see how Will<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Can touch such tasteless food.</span><br /> + As breakfast fare it can’t compare,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">She says, with Shredded Wood.</span></p> + +<p> + Now, none of these Leander please,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">He feeds upon Bath Mitts.</span><br /> + While sister Jane improves her brain<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">With Cero-Grapo-Grits.</span></p> + +<p> + Lycurgus votes for Father’s Oats;<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Proggine appeals to May;</span><br /> + The junior John subsists upon<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Uneeda Bayla Hay.</span></p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</a></span> + Corrected Wheat for little Pete;<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Flaked Pine for Dot; while “Bub”</span><br /> + The infant Spratt is waxing fat<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">On Battle Creek Near-Grub.</span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>“TREASURE ISLAND”</strong></p> + + +<p> + Comes little lady, a book in hand,<br /> + A light in her eyes that I understand,<br /> + And her cheeks aglow from the faery breeze<br /> + That sweeps across the uncharted seas.<br /> + She gives me the book, and her word of praise<br /> + A ton of critical thought outweighs.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“I’ve finished it, daddie!”—a sigh thereat.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Are there any more books in the world like that?”</span></p> + +<p> + No, little lady. I grieve to say<br /> + That of all the books in the world to-day<br /> + There’s not another that’s quite the same<br /> + As this magic book with the magic name.<br /> + Volumes there be that are pure delight,<br /> + Ancient and yellowed or new and bright;<br /> + But—little and thin, or big and fat—<br /> + There are no more books in the world like that.</p> + +<p> + And what, little lady, would I not give<br /> + For the wonderful world in which you live!<br /> + What have I garnered one-half as true<br /> + As the tales Titania whispers you?<br /> + Ah, late we learn that the only truth<br /> + Was that which we found in the Book of Youth.<br /> + Profitless others, and stale, and flat;—<br /> + There are no more books in the world like that.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>A BALLADE OF SPRING’S UNREST</strong></p> + + +<p> + Up in the woodland where Spring<br /> + Comes as a laggard, the breeze<br /> + Whispers the pines that the King,<br /> + Fallen, has yielded the keys<br /> + To his White Palace and flees<br /> + Northward o’er mountain and dale.<br /> + Speed then the hour that frees!<br /> + Ho, for the pack and the trail!</p> + +<p> + Northward my fancy takes wing,<br /> + Restless am I, ill at ease.<br /> + Pleasures the city can bring<br /> + Lose now their power to please.<br /> + Barren, all barren, are these,<br /> + Town life’s a tedious tale;<br /> + That cup is drained to the lees—<br /> + Ho, for the pack and the trail!</p> + +<p> + Ho, for the morning I sling<br /> + Pack at my back, and with knees<br /> + Brushing a thoroughfare, fling<br /> + Into the green mysteries:<br /> + One with the birds and the bees,<br /> + One with the squirrel and quail,<br /> + Night, and the stream’s melodies—<br /> + Ho, for the pack and the trail!</p> + +<p> </p> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</a></span> + <span style="margin-left: 3em;"><em>L’Envoi</em></span></p> + +<p> + Pictures and music and teas,<br /> + Theaters—books even—stale.<br /> + Ho, for the smell of the trees!<br /> + Ho, for the pack and the trail!</p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>WHY?</strong></p> + + +<p> + Why, when the sun is gold,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">The weather fine,</span><br /> + The air (this phrase is old)<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Like Gascon wine;—</span></p> + +<p> + Why, when the leaves are red,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And yellow, too,</span><br /> + And when (as has been said)<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">The skies are blue;—</span></p> + +<p> + Why, when all things promote<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">One’s peace and joy,—</span><br /> + A joy that is (to quote)<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Without alloy;—</span></p> + +<p> + Why, when a man’s well off,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Happy and gay,</span><br /> +<em>Why</em> must he go play golf<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And spoil his day!</span></p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>THE RIME OF THE CLARK STREET CABLE</strong></p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 3em;">(<em>Now happily extinct.</em>)</span></p> + + +<p> + Twas in a vault beneath the street,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">In the trench of the traction rope,</span><br /> + That I found a guy with a fishy eye<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And a think tank filled with dope.</span></p> + +<p> + His hair was matted, his face was black,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And matted and black was he;</span><br /> + And I heard this wight in the vault recite,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: .7em;">“In a singular minor key”:</span></p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: .3em;">“Oh, I am the guy with the fishy eye</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And the think tank filled with dope.</span><br /> + My work is to watch the beautiful botch<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">That’s known as the Clark Street Rope.</span></p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“I pipes my eye as the rope goes by</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">For every danger spot.</span><br /> + If I spies one out I gives a shout,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And we puts in another knot.</span></p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Them knots is all like brothers to me,</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And I loves ’em, one and all.”</span><br /> + The muddy guy with the fishy eye<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">A muddy tear let fall.</span></p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“There goes a knot we tied last week,</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">There’s one what we tied to-day;</span><br /> + And there’s a patch was hard to reach,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And caused six hours’ delay.</span></p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</a></span> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Two hundred seventy-nine, all told,</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And I knows their history;</span><br /> + And I’m most attached to a break we patched<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">In the winter of ’eighty-three.</span></p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“For every time that knot comes round</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">It sings out, ‘Howdy, Bill!</span><br /> + We’ll walk ’em home to-night, old man,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">From here to the Ferris Wheel.</span></p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“‘We’ll walk ’em in the rush hours, Bill,</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">A swearing company,</span><br /> + As we’ve walked ’em, Bill, since I was tied,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">In the winter of ’eighty-three.’”</span></p> + +<p> + The muddy guy with the fishy eye<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Let fall another tear.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Them knots is wife and child to me;</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">I’ve known ’em forty year.</span></p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“For I am the guy with the fishy eye</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And the think tank filled with dope,</span><br /> + Whose work is to watch the lovely botch<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">That’s known as the Clark Street Rope.”</span></p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>MISS LEGION</strong></p> + + +<p> + She is hotfoot after Cultyure,<br /> + She pursues it with a club.<br /> + She breathes a heavy atmosphere<br /> + Of literary flub.<br /> + No literary shrine so far<br /> + But she is there to kneel;<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 3em;">But—</span><br /> + Her favorite line of reading<br /> + Is O. Meredith’s “Lucille.”</p> + +<p> + Of course she’s up on pictures—<br /> + Passes for a connoisseur.<br /> + On free days at the Institute<br /> + You’ll always notice her.<br /> + She qualifies approval<br /> + Of a Titian or Corot;<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 3em;">But—</span><br /> + She throws a fit of rapture<br /> + When she comes to Bouguereau.</p> + +<p> + And when you talk of music,<br /> + She is Music’s devotee.<br /> + She will tell you that Beethoven<br /> + Always makes her wish to pray;<br /> + And “dear old Bach!” His very name<br /> + She says, her ear enchants;<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 3em;">But—</span><br /> + Her favorite piece is Weber’s<br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Invitation to the Dance.”</span></p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>A BALLADE OF DEATH AND TIME</strong></p> + + +<p> + I hold it truth with him who sweetly sings—<br /> + The weekly music of the <em>London Sphere</em>—<br /> + That deathless tomes the living present brings:<br /> + Great literature is with us year on year.<br /> + Books of the mighty dead, whom men revere,<br /> + Remind me I can make <em>my</em> books sublime.<br /> + But prithee, bay my brow while I am here:<br /> + Why do we always wait for Death and Time?</p> + +<p> + Shakespeare, great spirit, beat his mighty wings,<br /> + As I beat mine, for the occasion near.<br /> + He knew, as I, the worth of present things:<br /> + Great literature is with us year on year.<br /> + Methinks I meet across the gulf his clear<br /> + And tranquil eye; his calm reflections chime<br /> + With mine: “Why do we at the present fleer?<br /> + Why do we always wait for Death and Time?”</p> + +<p> + The reading world with acclamation rings<br /> + For my last book. It led the list at Weir,<br /> + Altoona, Rahway, Painted Post, Hot Springs:<br /> + Great literature is with us year on year.<br /> + The <em>Bookman</em> gives me a vociferous cheer.<br /> + Howells approves! I can no higher climb.<br /><br /> + Bring then the laurel, crown my bright career.<br /> + Why do we always wait for Death and Time?</p> + +<p> </p> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</a></span> + <span style="margin-left: 3em;"><em>L’Envoi</em></span></p> + +<p> + Critics, who pastward, ever pastward peer,<br /> + Great literature is with us year on year.<br /> + Trumpet my fame while I am in my prime.<br /> + Why do we always wait for Death and Time?</p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>THE KAISER’S FAREWELL TO PRINCE HENRY</strong></p> + + +<p> + Aufwiedersehen, brother mine!<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Farewells will soon be kissed;</span><br /> + And ere you leave to breast the brine<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Give me once more your fist;</span></p> + +<p> + That mailéd fist, clenched high in air<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">On many a foreign shore,</span><br /> + Enforcing coaling stations where<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">No stations were before;</span></p> + +<p> + That fist, which weaker nations view<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">As if ’twere Michael’s own,</span><br /> + And which appals the heathen who<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Bow down to wood and stone.</span></p> + +<p> + But this trip no brass knuckles. Glove<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">That heavy mailéd hand;</span><br /> + Your mission now is one of Love<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And Peace—you understand.</span></p> + +<p> + All that’s American you’ll praise;<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">The Yank can do no wrong.</span><br /> + To use his own expressive phrase,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Just “jolly him along.”</span></p> + +<p> + Express surprise to find, the more<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of Roosevelt you see,</span><br /> + How much I am like Theodore,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And Theodore like me.</span></p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</a></span> + I am, in fact, (this might not be<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">A bad thing to suggest,)</span><br /> + The Theodore of the East, and he<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">The William of the West.</span></p> + +<p> + And, should you get a chance, find out—<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">If anybody knows—</span><br /> + Exactly what it’s all about,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">That Doctrine of Monroe’s.</span></p> + +<p> + That’s <em>entre nous</em>. My present plan<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">You know as well as I:</span><br /> + Be just as Yankee as you can;<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">If needs be, eat some pie.</span></p> + +<p> + Cut out the ’kraut, cut out Rhine wine,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Cut out the Schützenfest,</span><br /> + The Sängerbund, the Turnverein,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">The Kommers, and the rest.</span></p> + +<p> + And if some fool society<br /> + <span style="margin-left: .7em;">“Die Wacht am Rhein” should sing,</span><br /> +<em>You</em> sing “My Country, ’Tis of Thee”—<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">The tune’s “God Save the King.”</span></p> + +<p> + To our own kindred in that land<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">There’s not much you need tell.</span><br /> + Just tell them that you saw me, and<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">That I was looking well.</span></p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>TO LILLIAN RUSSELL</strong></p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 3em;">(<em>A reminiscence of 18—.</em>)</span></p> + + +<p> + Dear Lillian! (The “dear” one risks;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Miss Russell” were a bit austerer)—</span><br /> + Do you remember Mr. Fiske’s<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 2em;"><em>Dramatic Mirror</em></span></p> + +<p> + Back when—? (But we’ll not count the years;<br /> + The way they’ve sped is most surprising.)<br /> + You were a trifle in arrears<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 2em;">For advertising.</span></p> + +<p> + I brought the bill to your address;<br /> + I was the <em>Mirror’s</em> bill collector—<br /> + In Thespian haunts a more or less<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 2em;">Familiar spectre.</span></p> + +<p> + On that (to me) momentous day<br /> + You dwelt amid the city’s clatter,<br /> + A few doors west of old Broadway;<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 2em;">The street—no matter.</span></p> + +<p> + But while you have forgot the debt,<br /> + And him who called in line of duty,<br /> + He never, never shall forget<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 2em;">Your wondrous beauty.</span></p> + +<p> + You were too fair for mortal speech,—<br /> + Enchanting, positively rippin’;<br /> + You were some dream, and quelque peach,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 2em;">And beaucoup pippin.</span></p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</a></span> + Your “fight with Time” had not begun,<br /> + Nor any reason to promote it;<br /> + No beauty battles to be won.<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 2em;">Beauty? You wrote it!</span></p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“A bill?” you murmured in distress,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“A bill?” (I still can hear you say it.)</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“A bill from Mr. Fiske? Oh, yes ...</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 2em;">I’ll call and pay it.”</span></p> + +<p> + And he, the thrice-requited kid,<br /> + That such a goddess should address him,<br /> + Could only blush and paw his lid,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 2em;">And stammer, “Yes’m!”</span></p> + +<p> + Eheu! It seems a cycle since,<br /> + But still the nerve of memory tingles.<br /> + And here you’re writing Beauty Hints,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 2em;">And I these jingles.</span></p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>DORNRÖSCHEN</strong></p> + + +<p> + In the great hall of Castle Innocence,<br /> + Hedged round with thorns of maiden doubts and fears,—<br /> + Within, without, a silence grave, intense,—<br /> + Her soul lies sleeping through the rose-leaf years.</p> + +<p> + Hedged round with thorns of maiden doubts and fears;<br /> + And all save one the thither path shall miss.<br /> + Her soul lies sleeping through the rose-leaf years,<br /> + Waiting the Prince and his awakening kiss.</p> + +<p> + And all save one the thither path shall miss;<br /> + For one alone may thread the thorn defence.<br /> + Waiting the Prince and his awakening kiss,<br /> + A hush broods over Castle Innocence.</p> + +<p> + For one alone may thread the thorn defence,<br /> + Care free, heart free, and singing on his way.<br /> + A hush broods over Castle Innocence<br /> + One comes to wake;—but when—ah, who can say!</p> + +<p> + Care free, heart free, and singing on his way,<br /> + One comes all thorns of Fear and Doubt to dare.<br /> + One comes to wake! But when? Ah, who can say<br /> + The hour his light feet press the castle stair?</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</a></span> + One comes all thorns of Fear and Doubt to dare!<br /> + Thorns with his coming into roses bloom.<br /> + The hour his light feet press the castle stair<br /> + The warders of the castle hall give room.</p> + +<p> + Thorns with his coming into roses bloom;<br /> + For him the flowers of Trust and Faith unfold.<br /> + The warders of the castle hall give room<br /> + Before the young Prince of the Heart of Gold.</p> + +<p> + For him the flowers of Trust and Faith unfold;<br /> + Till then the thorns of maiden doubts and fears.<br /> + Before the young Prince of the Heart of Gold<br /> + Her rose-soul slumbers through the tranquil years.</p> + +<p> + Till then the thorns of maiden doubts and fears.<br /> + Within, without, a silence grave, intense.<br /> + Her rose-soul slumbers through the tranquil years<br /> + In the great hall of Castle Innocence.</p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>“FAREWELL!”</strong></p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 3em;">(<em>Evoked by Calverley’s “Forever.”</em>)</span></p> + + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Farewell!” Another gloomy word</span><br /> + As ever into language crept.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">’Tis often written, never heard</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 2em;">Except</span></p> + +<p> + In playhouse. Ere the hero flits<br /> + (In handcuffs) from our pitying view,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Farewell!” he murmurs, then exits</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 2em;">R. U.</span></p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Farewell!” is much too sighful for</span><br /> + An age that has not time to sigh.<br /> + We say, “I’ll see you later,” or<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 2em;">“Good-bye!”</span></p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Fare well” meant long ago, before</span><br /> + It crept tear-spattered into song,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Safe voyage!” “Pleasant journey!” or</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 2em;">“So long!”</span></p> + +<p> + But gone its cheery, old-time ring:<br /> + The poets made it rime with knell.<br /> + Joined, it became a dismal thing—<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 2em;">“Farewell!”</span></p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Farewell!” Into the lover’s soul</span><br /> + You see fate plunge the cruel iron.<br /> + All poets use it. It’s the whole<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 2em;">Of Byron.</span></p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</a></span> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“I only feel—farewell!” said he;</span><br /> + And always tearful was the telling.<br /> + Lord Byron was eternally<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 2em;">Farewelling.</span></p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Farewell!” A dismal word, ’tis true.</span><br /> + (And why not tell the truth about it?)<br /> + But what on earth would poets do<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 2em;">Without it!</span></p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>REFORM IN OUR TOWN</strong></p> + + +<p> + There was a man in Our Town<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And Jimson was his name,</span><br /> + Who cried, “Our civic government<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Is honeycombed with shame.”</span><br /> + He called us neighbors in and said,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: .7em;">“By Graft we’re overrun.</span><br /> + Let’s have a general cleaning up,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">As other towns have done.”</span></p> + +<p> + The citizens of Our Town<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Responded to the call;</span><br /> + Beneath the banner of Reform<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">We gathered one and all.</span><br /> + We sent away for men expert<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">In hunting civic sin,</span><br /> + To ask these practised gentlemen<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Just how we should begin.</span></p> + +<p> + The experts came to Our Town<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And told us how ’twas done.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Begin with Gas and Traction,</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And half your fight is won.</span><br /> + Begin with Gas and Traction;<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">The rest will follow soon.”</span><br /> + We looked at one another<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And hummed a different tune.</span></p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</a></span> + Said Smith, “Saloons in Our Town<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Are palaces of shame.”</span><br /> + Said Jones, “Police corruption<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Has hurt the town’s fair name.”</span><br /> + Said Brown, “Our lawless children<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Pitch pennies as they please.”</span><br /> + Now would it not be wiser<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">To start Reform with these?</span></p> + +<p> + The men who came to Our Town<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Replied, “No haste with these;</span><br /> + Begin with Gas—or Water—<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">The roots of the disease.”</span><br /> + We looked at one another<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And hemmed and hawed a bit;</span><br /> + Enthusiasm faded then<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">From every single cit.</span></p> + +<p> + The men who came to Our Town<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Expressed a mild surprise,</span><br /> + Then they too at each other<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Looked “with a wild surmise.”</span><br /> + Jimson had stock in Traction,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And Jones had stock in Gas,</span><br /> + And Smith and Brown in this and that,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">So—nothing came to pass.</span></p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</a></span> + The profligates of Our Town<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Pitch pennies as of yore;</span><br /> + Police corruption flourishes<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">As rankly as before,</span><br /> + Still are our gilded ginmills<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Foul palaces of shame.</span><br /> + Reform is just as distant<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">As when the wise men came.</span></p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>WHEN THE SIRUP’S ON THE FLAPJACK</strong></p> + + +<p> + When the sirup’s on the flapjack and the coffee’s in the pot;<br /> + When the fly is in the butter—where he’d rather be than not;<br /> + When the cloth is on the table, and the plates are on the cloth;<br /> + When the salt is in the shaker and the chicken’s in the broth;<br /> + When the cream is in the pitcher and the pitcher’s on the tray,<br /> + And the tray is on the sideboard when it isn’t on the way;<br /> + When the rind is on the bacon and likewise upon the cheese,<br /> + Then I somehow feel inspired to do a string of rimes like these.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>BREAD PUDDYNGE</strong></p> + + +<p> + When good King Arthur ruled our land<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">He was a goodly king,</span><br /> + And his idea of what to eat<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Was a good bag puddynge.</span></p> + +<p> + The bag puddynge he had in mind<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Was thickly strewn with plums,</span><br /> + With alternating lumps of fat<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">As big as my two thumbs.</span></p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“My love,” quoth he to Guinevere,</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: .7em;">“We have a joust to-day—</span><br /> + Sir Launce is here, Sir Tris, Sir Gal,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And all the brave array.</span></p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Put everything across to-night</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">In guise of goodly fare,</span><br /> + And cook us up a bag puddynge<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">That will y-curl our hair.”</span></p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“I’ll curl your hair,” said Guinevere,</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: .7em;">“As tight as tight can be;</span><br /> + I’ll cook you up a bag puddynge<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">From my new recipee.”</span></p> + +<hr style='margin-left: 3em; width: 15%;' /> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Pitch in and eat, my merry men!”</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">That night the King did say;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“But save a little room—a bag</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Puddynge is on the way.</span></p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</a></span> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Ho! here it comes! Now, by my sword,</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">A famous feast ’twill be.</span><br /> + Queen Guinevere hath cooked it, Launce,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">From her own recipee.”</span></p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Odslife!” cried Launce, “if there is aught</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">I love ’tis this same thing.”</span><br /> + And he and all the knights did fall<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Upon that bag puddynge.</span></p> + +<p> + One taste, and every holy knight<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Sat speechless for a space,</span><br /> + While disappointment and disgust<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Were writ in every face.</span></p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Odsbodikins!” Sir Tristram cried,</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: .7em;">“In all my days, by Jing!</span><br /> + I ne’er did taste so flat a mess<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">As this here bag puddynge.”</span></p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Odswhiskers, Arthur!” cried Sir Launce,</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Whose license knew no bounds,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“I would to Godde I had this stuff</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">To poultice up my wounds.”</span></p> + +<p> + King Arthur spat his mouthful out,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And sent for Guinevere.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“What is this frightful mess?” he roared.</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: .7em;">“Is this a joke, my dear?”</span></p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</a></span> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Oh, ain’t it good?” asked Guinevere,</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Her face a rosy red.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“I thought ’twould make an awful hit:</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;"><em>I made it out of bread!</em>”</span></p> + +<hr style='margin-left: 3em; width: 15%;' /> + +<p> + When good King Arthur ruled our land<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">He was a goodly king,</span><br /> + And only once in all his reign<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Was made a Bread Puddynge.</span></p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>MUSCA DOMESTICA</strong></p> + + +<p> + Baby bye, here’s a fly,<br /> + We will watch him, you and I;<br /> + Lest he fall in Baby’s mouth,<br /> + Bringing germs from north and south.<br /> + In the world of things a-wing<br /> + There is not a nastier thing<br /> + Than this pesky little fly;—<br /> + So we’ll watch him, you and I.</p> + +<p> + See him crawl up the wall,<br /> + And he’ll never, never fall;<br /> + Save that, poisoned, he may drop<br /> + In the soup or on the chop.<br /> + Let us coax the cunning brute<br /> + To the tempting Tanglefoot,<br /> + Or invite his thirsty soul<br /> + To the poison-paper bowl.</p> + +<p> + I believe with six such legs<br /> + You or I could walk on eggs;<br /> + But he’d rather crawl on meat<br /> + With his microbe-laden feet.<br /> + Eggs would hardly do as well—<br /> + He could not get through the shell;<br /> + Better far, to spread disease,<br /> + Vegetables, meat, or cheese.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</a></span> + There he goes, on his toes,<br /> + Tickling, tickling Baby’s nose.<br /> + Heaven knows where he has been,<br /> + And what filth he’s wallowed in.<br /> + Drat the nasty little wretch!<br /> + He’s the deuce and all to ketch.<br /> + Ah! He’s settled on the wall.<br /> + Now the thunderbolt shall fall!</p> + +<p> + Baby bye, see that fly?<br /> + We will swat him, you and I.</p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>THE PASSIONATE PROFESSOR</strong></p> + +<p style="margin-left: 3em;"> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“<em>But bending low, I whisper only this:</em></span><br /> + <em>‘Love, it is night.’</em>”<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 5em;" class="smcap">—Harry Thurston Peck.</span></p> + + +<p> + Love, it is night. The orb of day<br /> + Has gone to hit the cosmic hay.<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Nocturnal voices now we hear.</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Come, heart’s delight, the hour is near</span><br /> + When Passion’s mandate we obey.</p> + +<p> + I would not, sweet, the fact convey<br /> + In any crude and obvious way:<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">I merely whisper in your ear—</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 5em;">“Love, it is night!”</span></p> + +<p> + Candor compels me, pet, to say<br /> + That years my fading charms betray.<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Tho’ Love be blind, I grant it’s clear</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">I’m no Apollo Belvedere.</span><br /> + But after dark all cats are gray.<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 5em;">Love, it is night!</span></p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>A BALLADE OF WOOL-GATHERING</strong></p> + + +<p> + Now is my season of unrest,<br /> + Now calls the forest, day and night;<br /> + And by its pleasant spell obsessed,<br /> + My wits go soaring like a kite.<br /> + Forgive me if I be not bright,<br /> + And pardon if I seem distrait;<br /> + Wood-fancies put my wits to flight;—<br /> + The woods are but a week away.</p> + +<p> + Palleth upon my soul the jest,<br /> + Falleth upon my pen a blight.<br /> + The daily task has lost its zest,<br /> + And everything is flat and trite.<br /> + There’s nothing humorous in sight;<br /> + Don’t mind if I am dull to-day.<br /> + For every column is a fight<br /> + When woods are but a week away.</p> + +<p> + Woods in the robes of summer dressed—<br /> + In greens and grays and browns bedight!<br /> + A journey on a river’s breast,<br /> + Beneath the wedded blue-and-white!...<br /> + This end the Voyage of Delight<br /> + Waits, in a little wood-bound bay,<br /> + A bark canoe, all trim and tight;—<br /> + The woods are but a week away!</p> + +<p> </p> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</a></span> + <span style="margin-left: 3em;"><em>L’Envoi</em></span></p> + +<p> + Dear Reader, there is much to write;<br /> + I’ve many weighty things to say.<br /> + But who can write when woods invite,<br /> + And woods are but a week away!</p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>TO THE SUN</strong></p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 3em;">(<em>Variations on a theme by Gilbert.</em>)</span></p> + + +<p> + Shine on, Old Top, shine on!<br /> + Across the realms of space<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 2em;">Shine on!</span><br /> + What though I’m in a sorry case?<br /> + What though my collar is a wreck,<br /> + And hangs a rag about my neck?<br /> + What though at food I can but peck?<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Never <em>you</em> mind!</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 2em;">Shine on!</span></p> + +<p> + Shine on, Old Top, shine on!<br /> + Through leagues of lifeless air<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 2em;">Shine on!</span><br /> + It’s true I’ve no more shirts to wear,<br /> + My underwear is soaked, ’tis true,<br /> + My gullet is a redhot flue—<br /> + But don’t let that unsettle you!<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Never <em>you</em> mind!</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 2em;">Shine on!</span> <span style="margin-left: 3em;">[<em>It shines on.</em>]</span></p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>WHEN IT IS HOT</strong></p> + +<p>“<em>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.</em>”</p> + + +<p> + Consider Mr. Shadrach,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of fiery furnace fame:</span><br /> + He didn’t bleat about the heat<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Or fuss about the flame.</span><br /> + He didn’t stew and worry,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And get his nerves in kinks,</span><br /> + Nor fill his skin with limes and gin<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And other “cooling drinks.”</span></p> + +<p> + Consider Mr. Meshach,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Who felt the furnace too:</span><br /> + He let it sizz nor queried “Is<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">It hot enough for you?”</span><br /> + He didn’t mop his forehead,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And hunt a shady spot;</span><br /> + Nor did he say, “Gee! what a day!<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Believe me, it’s some hot.”</span></p> + +<p> + Consider, too, Abed-nego,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Who shared his comrades’ plight:</span><br /> + He didn’t shake his coat and make<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Himself a holy sight.</span><br /> + He didn’t wear suspenders<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Without a coat and vest;</span><br /> + Nor did he scowl and snort and howl,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And make himself a pest.</span></p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</a></span> + Consider, friends, this trio—<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">How little fuss they made.</span><br /> + They didn’t curse when it was worse<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Than ninety in the shade.</span><br /> + They moved about serenely<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Within the furnace bright,</span><br /> + And soon forgot that it was hot,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">With “no relief in sight.”</span></p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>THE SIMPLE, HEARTFELT LAY</strong></p> + + +<p> + Lives of poets oft remind us<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Not to wait too long for Time,</span><br /> + But, departing, leave behind us<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Obvious facts embalmed in rime.</span></p> + +<p> + Poems that we have to ponder<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Turn us prematurely gray;</span><br /> + We are infinitely fonder<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of the simple, heartfelt lay.</span></p> + +<p> + Whitman’s <em>Leaves of Grass</em> is odious,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Browning’s <em>Ring and Book</em> a bore.</span><br /> + Bleat, O bards, in lines melodious,—<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Bleat that two and two is four!</span></p> + +<p> + Must we hunt for hidden treasures?<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Nay! We want the heartfelt straight.</span><br /> + Minstrel, sing, in obvious measures—<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Sing that four and four is eight!</span></p> + +<p> + Whitman leads to easy slumbers,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Browning makes us hunt the hay.</span><br /> + Pipe, ye potes, in simplest numbers,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Anything ye have to say.</span></p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>Q·HORATIVS·FLACCUS<br /> +B· L· T·SVO·SALVTEM</strong></p> + + +<p> + HAEC·CARMINA·MI·VETVLE·QVAE<br /> + ME·IVVENE·PARVM·DILIGENTER<br /> + COMPOSITA·EXCIDERVNT·SENEX<br /> + REFICIENDA·LIMANDAQVE·IAM<br /> + DVDVM·EXISTIMO·QVOD·NVNC<br /> + DEMVM·FACTVM·EST·MIRARIS<br /> + FORTASSE·CVR·ANGLICE·RE<br /> + SCRIPSERIM·DESINES·MIRARI<br /> + CVM·DIXERO·SINE·FVCO·OPOR<br /> + TERE·POETA·ETIAM·VIVVS·NON<br /> + SOLVM·ACCOMMODEM·MEA·OPERA<br /> + AD·NORMAM·RECENTIORVM·TEM<br /> + PORVM·SED·ETIAM·VTAR·NEMPE<br /> + EA·LINGVA·QVAE·MAIORE·RE<br /> + SILIENDI·VT·ITA·DICAM·VI<br /> + PRAEDITA·VIDEATVR·VELIM<br /> + SINT·NOVI·VERSVS·TIBI·MVL<br /> + TO·IVCVNDIORES·QVAM·PRIS<br /> + CA·EXEMPLA</p> + +<p> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">SCRIBEBAM·HELNGON</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span style="text-decoration: overline;">XVII</span>·KAL·DEC</span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>A NOTE FROM MR. FLACCUS</strong></p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 3em;">(<em>Concerning the verses that follow.</em>)</span></p> + + +<p>Dear B. L. T.:</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>I hope you will like these new lines of mine +better than their prototypes.</p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 5em;">Yours regardfully,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 12em;">Q. H. F.</span><br /> +<em>Helngon, November 15.</em></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 15%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</a></span></p> +<p style="margin-left: 5em;"><strong>I</strong></p> + +<p><strong>TO ARISTIUS FUSCUS</strong></p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 3em;">“<em>Integer vitæ scelerisque purus.</em>”</span></p> + + +<p> + Fuscus, old scout, if a guy’s on the level<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">That’s all the arsenal he’ll have to tote;</span><br /> + Up to St. Peter or down to the Devil,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">No need to carry a gun in his coat.</span></p> + +<p> + Prowling around, as you know is my habit,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">I met a wolf in the forest, and he</span><br /> + Beat it for Wolfville and ran like a rabbit.<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">(He was some wolf, too, receive it from me.)</span></p> + +<p> + Where I may happen to camp is no matter,—<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Paris, Chicago, Ostend or St. Joe,—</span><br /> + Like the old dame in the nursery patter<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">I shall make music wherever I go.</span></p> + +<p> + Drop me in Dawson or chuck me in Cadiz,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Dump me in Kansas or plant me in Rome,—</span><br /> + I shall keep on making love to the ladies:<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Where there’s a skirt is my notion of home.</span></p> + + + + +<p> </p> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</a></span></p> +<p style="margin-left: 5em;"><strong>II</strong></p> + +<p><strong>DUETTO</strong></p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 3em;">“<em>Donec gratus eram.</em>”</span></p> + + +<p> + <span style="margin-left: 5em;">HORACE:</span><br /> + What time my Lydia owned me lord<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">No Persian king had much on Horace;</span><br /> + And when you blew my bed and board<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">I was some sad, believe me, Mawruss.</span></p> + +<p> + <span style="margin-left: 5em;">LYDIA:</span><br /> + What time you loved no other She,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Before this Chloë person signed you,</span><br /> + I flourished like a green bay tree;<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Now I’m the Girl You Left Behind You.</span></p> + +<p> + <span style="margin-left: 5em;">HORACE:</span><br /> + This Chloë dame that takes my eye<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Has so peculiar an allurance</span><br /> + I would not hesitate to die<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">If she could cop my life insurance.</span></p> + +<p> + <span style="margin-left: 5em;">LYDIA:</span><br /> + Well, as for that, I know a gent<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">With whom it’s some delight to dally.</span><br /> + With me he makes an awful dent;<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">I’d perish once or twice for Cally.</span></p> + +<p> + <span style="margin-left: 5em;">HORACE:</span><br /> + Suppose our former love should go<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Into a new de luxe edition?</span><br /> + Suppose I tie a can to Chlo,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And let you play your old position?</span></p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</a></span> + <span style="margin-left: 5em;">LYDIA:</span><br /> + Why, then, you cork, you butterfly,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">You sweet, philandering, perjured villain,</span><br /> + With you I’d love to live and die,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Tho’ Cally boy were twice as killin’.</span></p> + + + + +<p> </p> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</a></span></p> +<p><strong><span style="margin-left: 5em;">III</span></strong></p> + +<p><strong>TO PYRRHA</strong></p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 3em;">“<em>Quis multa gracilis.</em>”</span></p> + + +<p> + What young tin whistle gent,<br /> + Bedaubed with barber’s scent,—<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">What cheapskate waits on you</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">To woo,</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 3em;">O Pyrrha?</span></p> + +<p> + For whom the puff and rat<br /> + And transformation that<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">You bought a year ago</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Or so,</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 3em;">O Pyrrha?</span></p> + +<p> + Peeved? Not a bit. Not I<br /> + I’m sorry for the guy.<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">He draws a lovely lime</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">This time,</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 3em;">O Pyrrha!</span></p> + +<p> + I’ve dipped. The wet ain’t fine.<br /> + Hung on the votive line<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">My duds. The gods can see</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">I’m free.</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 3em;">Eh, Pyrrha!</span></p> + + + + +<p> </p> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</a></span></p> +<p><strong><span style="margin-left: 5em;">IV</span></strong></p> + +<p><strong>TO ARISTIUS FUSCUS</strong></p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 3em;">“<em>My sweetly-smiling, sweetly-speaking Lalage.</em>”</span></p> + + +<p> + Fuscus, take a tip from me:<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">This here job’s no bed of roses,</span><br /> + Not the cinch it seems to be,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Not the pipe that one supposes.</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 3em;">What care I, tho’, if I may</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 3em;">Lallygag with Lalage.</span></p> + +<p> + Every day there’s ink to spill,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Tho’ I may not feel like working.</span><br /> + Every day a hole to fill;<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">One must plug it—there’s no shirking.</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 3em;">Oh, that I might all the day</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 3em;">Lallygag with Lalage!</span></p> + +<p> + People say, “Gee! what a snap,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Turning paragraphs and verses.</span><br /> + He’s the band on Fortune’s cap,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Gets a barrel of ses-<em>terces</em>.”</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 3em;">Let them gossip, while I play</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 3em;">Hide and seek with Lalage.</span></p> + +<p> + People hand me out advice:<br /> + <span style="margin-left: .7em;">“Hod, you’re doing too much drivel.</span><br /> + Write us something sweet and nice.<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Stow the satire, chop the frivol.”</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 3em;">But we have the rent to pay,</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 3em;">Lalage; eh, Lalage?</span></p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</a></span> + Ladies shy the saving sense<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Write me patronizing letters;</span><br /> + And there are the writing gents,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Always out to knock their betters.</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 3em;">What cares Flaccus if he may</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 3em;">Lallygag with Lalage!</span></p> + +<p> + No, old top, the writing lay’s<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Not a bed of sweet geranium.</span><br /> + Brickbats mingle with bouquets<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Shied at my devoted cranium.</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 3em;">Does it peeve yours truly? Nay.</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 3em;">Nothing can—with Lalage.</span></p> + +<p> + Paste this, Fuscus, in your hat:<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Not a pesky thing can peeve me.</span><br /> + Take it, too, from Horace flat,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">She’s some gal, is Lal, believe me.</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 3em;">So I coin this word to-day,</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 2.7em;">“Lallygag”—from Lalage.</span></p> + + + + +<p> </p> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</a></span></p> +<p><strong><span style="margin-left: 5em;">V</span></strong></p> + +<p><strong>TO SYLVIA</strong></p> + + +<p> + Were I on the Latin lay,<br /> + Were I turning Odes to-day,<br /> + You would draw a gem from me,<br /> + Little maid of mystery!</p> + +<p> + In an Ode I’d love to spout you;<br /> + I am simply bug about you.<br /> + That’s the way!—the fairest peach<br /> + Is the one that’s out of reach.</p> + +<p> + I have toasted in my time<br /> + Many a peach (and many a lime),<br /> + All of them, I must confess,<br /> + Lacking your elusiveness.</p> + +<p> + Lalage, my well known flame,<br /> + Was considerable dame;<br /> + Likewise Lydia and Phyllis,<br /> + Chloë, Pyrrha, Amaryllis.</p> + +<p> + Syl, if you had lived when they did<br /> + You’d have had those damsels faded.<br /> + (That will give you, girl, some notion<br /> + Of your Flaccus’s devotion.)</p> + +<p> + Yep. If I were doing Odes<br /> + In my quondam favorite modes,<br /> + With your image to qui-vive me<br /> + I’d tear off some Ode, believe me!</p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>A BALLAD OF MISFITS</strong></p> + +<p style="margin-left: 3em;"> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“<em>Chacun son métier:</em></span><br /> + <em>Les vaches seront bien gardées.</em>”<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 7em;" class="smcap">—La Fontaine.</span></p> + + +<p> + With skill for doing this or that<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">The Lord each man endows.</span><br /> + Some men are best for pushing pens,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And some for pushing plows;</span><br /> + And oh, the many many more<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">That should be tending cows!</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 2em;"><em>Chacun son métier:</em></span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 2em;"><em>Les vaches bien gardées.</em></span></p> + +<p> + The ivory-headed serving maid<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Who poses as a “cook,”</span><br /> + She hath a very bovine brain,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">She hath a bovine look.</span><br /> + Oh, prithee, lead her to the kine,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Oh, prithee get the hook!</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 2em;"><em>Chacun son métier:</em></span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 2em;"><em>Les vaches bien gardées.</em></span></p> + +<p> + The papering-and-painting gents<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Whose work is never done,</span><br /> + Who mess around your house until<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">You pine to pull a gun,</span><br /> + Who take three mortal days to do<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">What should be done in one;—</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 2em;"><em>Chacun son métier:</em></span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 2em;"><em>Les vaches bien gardées.</em></span></p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</a></span> + The pestilential “pianiste,”<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">The screechy singer too,</span><br /> + The writer of the stupid book<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And of the dull review,</span><br /> + The actor who is greatest when<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">He takes his exit cue;—</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 2em;"><em>Chacun son métier:</em></span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 2em;"><em>Les vaches bien gardées.</em></span></p> + +<p> + If every one were set to do<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">The task for which he’s fit,</span><br /> + The writer of these trifling lines<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Might also have to quit.</span><br /> + At tending cows the undersigned<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Might make an awful hit.</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 2em;"><em>Chacun son métier:</em></span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 2em;"><em>Les vaches bien gardées.</em></span></p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>AN ORIENTAL APOLOGY</strong></p> + + +<p> + When the hour was come Prince Chun arose,<br /> + And balanced a shoestring on his nose.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“From this some notion you will get,”</span><br /> + Said he, “of China’s deep regret.”</p> + +<p> + Now balancing upon his ear<br /> + A stein of foaming lager beer,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“This attitude,” said he, “reveals</span><br /> + How very sorry China feels.”</p> + +<p> + Then spinning top-like on his cue,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“I can’t begin to tell to you</span><br /> + The deep remorse we suffer for<br /> + The death of your Ambassador.”</p> + +<p> + Next, placing on his cue a plate,<br /> + He said, as it ’gan to gyrate:<br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Nothing that’s happened in his reign</span><br /> + Has caused my Emperor so much pain.”</p> + +<p> + Upon his back he did declare,<br /> + While juggling five balls in the air,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“This attitude—the humblest yet—</span><br /> + Expresses personal regret.”</p> + +<p> + Last, spreading out a deck of cards—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Accept my Emperor’s regards.</span><br /> + As our intentions were well meant,<br /> + Pray overlook the incident.”</p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>THE DAY OF THE COMET</strong></p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 3em;">(<em>May 18, 1910.</em>)</span></p> + + +<p> + Here it is—Eighteenth of May!<br /> + Dawneth now the fatal day<br /> + When we take the awful veil<br /> + Of the fearsome comet’s tail.<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 3em;">Vale, Earth!</span></p> + +<p> + What will happen, heaven knows;<br /> + We can’t even guess, suppose,<br /> + Hazard, speculate, surmise,<br /> + Hint, conjecture, theorize,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 3em;">Or divine.</span></p> + +<p> + Will we merely drill a hole<br /> + Through the trailing aureole?<br /> + Or will the prediction dire<br /> + Of a world destroyed by fire<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 3em;">Be fulfilled?</span></p> + +<p> + Shall we crook our knees and pray<br /> + Counting this the Judgment Day?<br /> + Or preserve a cosmic ca’m,<br /> + Caring not a cosmic dam<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 3em;">What may come?</span></p> + +<p> + There’s the rub. If we but knew<br /> + We should know just what to do.<br /> + Yes is just as good as No<br /> + To all questions. Here we go!—<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 3em;">Hang on tight!</span></p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</a></span></p> +<p>THE MORNING AFTER</p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 3em;">(<em>May 19, 1910.</em>)</span></p> + + +<p> + Here we are, friends, whole and hale<br /> + In or through the comet’s tail;<br /> + And as far as we can say,<br /> + Matters are about as they<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 3em;">Were before.</span></p> + +<p> + Everything is much the same<br /> + As before the comet came.<br /> + Grasses grow and waters run—<br /> + Nothing new beneath the sun—<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 3em;">Same old sphere.</span></p> + +<p> + Life is drab or life is gay,<br /> + Thorny path or primrose way;<br /> + All is common, all is strange;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Down the ringing grooves of change”</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 3em;">Spins the world.</span></p> + +<p> + Change but of a humdrum kind.<br /> + What we vaguely had in mind<br /> + Was some new sensation or<br /> + Thrill we never felt before.<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 3em;">Vain desire!</span></p> + +<p> + Nothing’s added to the stock:<br /> + Same old shiver, same old shock.<br /> + Round about the sun we’ll go<br /> + In the same old status quo.<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 3em;">Awful bore!</span></p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>A BALLADE OF IRRESOLUTION</strong></p> + + +<p> + Isolde, in the story old,<br /> + When Ireland’s coast the vessel nears,<br /> + And Death were fairer to behold,<br /> + To Tristan gives “the cup that clears.”<br /> + Straight to their fate the helmsman steers:<br /> + Unknowing, each the potion sips....<br /> + Comes echoing through the ghostly years<br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Give me the philtre of thy lips!”</span></p> + +<p> + Ah, that like Tristan I were bold!<br /> + My soul into the future peers,<br /> + And passion flags, and heart grows cold,<br /> + And sicklied resolution veers.<br /> + I see the Sister of the Shears<br /> + Who sits fore’er and snips, and snips....<br /> + Still falls upon my inward ears,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Give me the philtre of thy lips!”</span></p> + +<p> + Hero of lovers, largely soul’d!<br /> + Imagination thee enspheres<br /> + With song-enchanted wood and wold<br /> + And casements fronting magic meres.<br /> + Tristan, thy large example cheers<br /> + The faint of heart; thy story grips!—<br /> + My soul again that echo hears,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Give me the philtre of thy lips!”</span></p> + +<p> </p> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</a></span> + <span style="margin-left: 3em;"><em>L’Envoi</em></span></p> + +<p> + Sweet sorceress, resolve my fears!<br /> + He stakes all who Elysium clips.<br /> + What tho’ the fruit be tares and tears!—<br /> + Give me the philtre of thy lips!</p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>TO WHAT BASE USES!</strong></p> + +<p>“<em>Mrs. O—— now takes her daily dip at 5 in the afternoon, +instead of in the morning.</em>”<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 12em;" class="smcap">—Newport Item.</span></p> + + +<p> + This is the forest primeval.</p> + +<p> + This the spruce with the glorious plume<br /> + That grew in the forest primeval.</p> + +<p> + This is the lumberman big and browned<br /> + Who felled the spruce tree to the ground<br /> + That grew in the forest primeval.</p> + +<p> + This is the man with the paper mill<br /> + Who bought the pulp that paid the bill<br /> + Of the husky lumberjack who chopped<br /> + The lofty spruce and its branches lopped<br /> + That grew in the forest primeval.</p> + +<p> + This is the publisher bland and rich<br /> + Who bought the roll of paper which<br /> + Was made by the man with the paper mill<br /> + Who bought the pulp that paid the bill<br /> + Of the lumberjack with the murderous ax<br /> + Who felled the spruce with lusty hacks<br /> + That grew in the forest primeval.</p> + +<p> + This is the youth with the writing tool<br /> + Who does the daily Newport drool<br /> + That helps to make the publisher rich<br /> + Who ordered the stock of paper which<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</a></span><br /> + Was made by the man with the paper mill<br /> + Who bought the pulp that paid the bill<br /> + Of the husky Swede in the Joseph’s coat<br /> + Who swung his ax and the tall spruce smote<br /> + That grew in the forest primeval.</p> + +<p> + This is the lady far from slim<br /> + Who changed the hour of her daily swim<br /> + And excited the youth with the writing tool<br /> + Who does the Newport drivel and drool<br /> + For the prosperous publisher bland and fat<br /> + Who ordered the virgin paper that<br /> + Was made by the man with the paper mill<br /> + Who bought the pulp that paid the bill<br /> + Of Ole Oleson the husky Swede<br /> + Who did a foul and darksome deed<br /> + When he swung his ax with vigor and vim<br /> + And smote the spruce tree tall and trim<br /> + That grew in the forest primeval.</p> + +<p> + This is the shop girl Mag or Liz<br /> + Who daily devours what news there is<br /> + Concerning the lady far from slim<br /> + Who changed the time of her ocean swim<br /> + And excited the youth with the writing tool<br /> + Who does the daily Newport drool<br /> + For the pursy publisher bland and rich<br /> + Who bought the innocent paper which<br /> + Was made by the man with the paper mill<br /> + Who bought the pulp that paid the bill<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</a></span><br /> + Of the Swedish jack who slew the spruce<br /> + That came to a most ignoble use—<br /> + The lofty spruce with the glorious plume—<br /> + The giant spruce that used to loom<br /> + In the heart of the forest primeval.</p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>HOW THEY MIGHT HAVE BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS</strong></p> + + +<p> + We sprang to the motor, I, Joris and Dirck.<br /> + I snapped on my goggles and got to my work.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Hi, there!” yelled the cop in the helmet of white;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Let her flicker!” said Joris, and into the night,</span><br /> + With a sneer at the speed laws, we hurtled hell-bent<br /> + To carry to Aix the good tidings from Ghent.</p> + +<p> + The going was poor, we expected delay,<br /> + And the usual livestock obstructed the way.<br /> + At Boom we ran over a large yellow dog,<br /> + At Düffeld a chicken, at Mecheln a hog;<br /> + What else, we’d no time to slow down to inquire;<br /> + At Aerschot, confound it! we blew out a tire.</p> + +<p> + I jacked up the axle and ripped off the shoe,<br /> + And snapped on an extra that promised to do.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“All aboard!” I exclaimed as I cranked the machine,</span><br /> + But something was wrong with the curst gasoline.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“By Hasselt!” Dirck groaned, “We’ll be half a day late;</span><br /> + We ought to have sent the good tidings by freight.”</p> + +<p> + False prophet! I tinkered a minute or two<br /> + And again we were off like “a bolt from the blue.”<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</a></span><br /> + We ate up the hills at a forty-mile clip,<br /> + And skidded the turns like the snap of a whip,<br /> + Till we dashed into Aix and were pinched by a cop<br /> + For failing to slow when commanded to stop.</p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Now, wouldn’t that frost you!” said Joris, but we</span><br /> + When we told the glad tidings were instantly free.<br /> + The Mayor himself paid the ten dollars’ fine,<br /> + And blew us to dinner with six kinds of wine,<br /> + Which (the burgesses voted, by common consent)<br /> + Was no more than their due that brought good news from Ghent.</p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>THE DINOSAUR</strong></p> + + +<p> + Behold the mighty Dinosaur,<br /> + Famous in prehistoric lore,<br /> + Not only for his weight and strength<br /> + But for his intellectual length.<br /> + You will observe by these remains<br /> + The creature had two sets of brains—<br /> + One in his head (the usual place),<br /> + The other at his spinal base.<br /> + Thus he could reason <em>a priori</em><br /> + As well as <em>a posteriori</em>.<br /> + No problem bothered him a bit;<br /> + He made both head and tail of it.<br /> + So wise he was, so wise and solemn,<br /> + Each thought filled just a spinal column.<br /> + If one brain found the pressure strong<br /> + It passed a few ideas along;<br /> + If something slipped his forward mind<br /> + ’Twas rescued by the one behind;<br /> + And if in error he was caught<br /> + He had a saving afterthought.<br /> + As he thought twice before he spoke<br /> + He had no judgments to revoke;<br /> + For he could think, without congestion,<br /> + Upon both sides of every question.</p> + +<p> + Oh, gaze upon this model beast,<br /> + Defunct ten million years at least.</p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>A BALLADE OF CAP AND BELLS</strong></p> + + +<p> + When as a dewdrop joy enspheres<br /> + This pleasant planet, arched with blue,<br /> + When every prospect charms and cheers,<br /> + And all the world is fair to view—<br /> + Who does not envy (have not you?)<br /> + That mortal, by Thalia kissed,<br /> + Who plies, in plumes of cockatoo,<br /> + The blithesome trade of humorist?</p> + +<p> + But when the wind of fortune veers,<br /> + And blue-white skies turn leaden hue,<br /> + When every pleasant prospect blears<br /> + And all the weary world’s askew—<br /> + Who then would envy (if he knew)<br /> + Jack Point the jester, glum and trist;<br /> + Or ply, tho’ first of all the crew,<br /> + The dismal trade of humorist?</p> + +<p> + Ah, jocund trifles writ in tears,<br /> + And merry stanzas steeped in rue!<br /> + When all the world in drab appears<br /> + The fool must still in motley woo.<br /> + Tho’ bitter be the cud he chew,<br /> + Still must he grind his foolish grist;<br /> + Still must he ply, the long day through,<br /> + The tragic trade of humorist!</p> + +<p> </p> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</a></span> + <span style="margin-left: 3em;"><em>L’Envoi</em></span></p> + +<p> + Lady of Tears, what pains perdue<br /> + The heart and soul of him may twist<br /> + Who doth in cap and bells pursue<br /> + The glad sad trade of humorist!</p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>GENTLE DOCTOR BROWN</strong></p> + + +<p> + It was a gentle sawbones and his name was Doctor Brown.<br /> + His auto was the terror of a small suburban town.<br /> + His practice, quite amazing for so trivial a place,<br /> + Consisted of the victims of his homicidal pace.</p> + +<p> + So constant was his practice and so high his motor’s gear<br /> + That at knocking down pedestrians he never had a peer;<br /> + But it must, in simple justice, be as truly written down<br /> + That no man could be more thoughtful than gentle Doctor Brown.</p> + +<p> + Whatever was the errand on which Doctor Brown was bent<br /> + He’d stop to patch a victim up and never charged a cent.<br /> + He’d always pause, whoever ’twas he happened to run down:<br /> + A humane and a thoughtful man was gentle Doctor Brown.</p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“How fortunate,” he would observe, “how fortunate ’twas I</span><br /> + That knocked you galley-west and heard your wild and wailing cry.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</a></span><br /> + There <em>are</em> some heartless wretches who would leave you here alone,<br /> + Without a sympathetic ear to catch your dying moan.</p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Such callousness,” said Doctor Brown, “I cannot comprehend;</span><br /> + To fathom such indifference I simply don’t pretend.<br /> + One ought to do his duty, and I never am remiss.<br /> + A simple word of thanks is all I ask. Here, swallow this!”</p> + +<p> + Then, reaching in the tonneau, he’d unpack his little kit,<br /> + And perform an operation that was workmanlike and fit.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“You may survive,” said Doctor Brown; “it’s happened once or twice.</span><br /> + If not, you’ve had the benefit of competent advice.”</p> + +<p> + Oh, if all our motormaniacs were equally humane,<br /> + How little bitterness there’d be, or reason to complain!<br /> + How different our point of view if we were ridden down<br /> + By lunatics as thoughtful as gentle Doctor Brown!</p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>IN THE GALLERY</strong></p> + + +<p> + Weirder than the pictures<br /> + Are the folks who come<br /> + With their owlish strictures—<br /> + Telling why they’re bum.<br /> + Of all lines of babble<br /> + This one has the call:<br /> + Picture gallery gabble<br /> + Is the best of all.</p> + +<p> + Literary fluffle<br /> + Never, never cloys;<br /> + Much has Mrs. Guffle<br /> + Added to my joys.<br /> + For that chitter-chatter<br /> + I delight to fall.<br /> + But the picture patter<br /> + Is the best of all.</p> + +<p> + With the music highbrows<br /> + I delight to chat,<br /> + Elevating my brows<br /> + Over this and that.<br /> + Music tittle-tattle<br /> + Never fails to thrall.<br /> + But the picture prattle<br /> + Is the best of all.</p> + +<p> + Sociologic rub-dub<br /> + I delight to hear;<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</a></span><br /> + Philosophic flub-dub<br /> + Titillates my ear.<br /> + Lovelier yet the spiffle<br /> + In the picture hall;<br /> + For the picture piffle<br /> + Is the best of all.</p> + +<p> + Weirder than the pictures<br /> + Are the folks who stand<br /> + Passing owlish strictures,<br /> + Catalogue in hand.<br /> + Hear the bunk they babble<br /> + Under every wall.<br /> + Yes. The gallery gabble<br /> + Is the best of all.</p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>ALWAYS</strong></p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 3em;">“<em>Il y a tous les jours quelque dam chose.</em>”</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 12em;" class="smcap">—Abelard to Heloise.</span></p> + + +<p> + When Mrs. Mead was full of groans,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">When symptoms of all sorts assailed her,</span><br /> + She sent for bluff old Doctor Jones,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And told him all the things that ailed her.</span><br /> + It took her nearly half the day,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And when she finished out the string—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Ye-e-s, Mrs. Mead,” drawled Doctor J.,</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: .7em;">“There’s always some dam thing.”</span></p> + +<p> + I like the line. It’s worth a ton<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of optimistic commonplaces.</span><br /> + It’s tonic, it refreshes one,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">It cheers, it stimulates, it braces.</span><br /> + It summarizes things so well;<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">It has the philosophic ring.</span><br /> + Has Kant or Hegel more to tell?<br /> + <span style="margin-left: .7em;">“There’s always some dam thing.”</span></p> + +<p> + The dean of all the cheer-up school<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Adjures sad hearts to cease repining,</span><br /> + And intimates that, as a rule,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">The sun behind the cloud is shining.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Into each life——” You know the rest;</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">No need to finish out the string.</span><br /> + Longfellow boiled might be expressed,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: .7em;">“There’s always some dam thing.”</span></p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</a></span> + When things go wrong I do not read<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">The cheer-up poets, great or lesser.</span><br /> + To soothe my soul I do not need<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">The Neo-Thought of Mr. Dresser.</span><br /> + Sufficient for each working day,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">With all the worries it may bring,</span><br /> + That helpful line by Doctor J.,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: .7em;">“There’s always some dam thing.”</span></p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>THE MODERN MARINER</strong></p> + + +<p> + A dry sheet and a lazy sea,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And a wind so far from fast</span><br /> + It barely floats the owner’s flag<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">That flutters at the mast—</span><br /> + That flutters at the mast, my boys;<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">So while the sky is free</span><br /> + Of cloud we’ll take a yachtsman’s chance<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And venture out to sea.</span></p> + +<p> + The aneroid has dropped a tenth!<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Back, back across the bar</span><br /> + To a harbor snug, and a long cold drink,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And a big fat black cigar—</span><br /> + A big fat black cigar, my boys;<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">While, on an even keel,</span><br /> + The Swedish chef out-chefs himself<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">In getting up a meal.</span></p> + +<p> + Give me a soft and gentle wind,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">A fleckless azure sky;</span><br /> + I care not for your “snoring breeze”<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And dinners heaving high—</span><br /> + And dinners heaving high, my boys,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Make no great hit with me;</span><br /> + So when the breeze begins to snore<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">We’ll not put out to sea.</span></p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</a></span> + There’s laughter in yon beach hotel,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And summer girls a crowd;</span><br /> + And hark the music, mariners,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">The band is piping loud!</span><br /> + The band is piping loud, my boys,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Bright eyes are flashing free.</span><br /> + Come, fly the owner’s-absent flag<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And join the revelry.</span></p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>A BALLADE OF THE CANNERY</strong></p> + + +<p> + What of the phrases, long decayed,<br /> + Of paleologic pedigree,<br /> + Musty, moldy, frazzled, and frayed—<br /> + A doddering, dusty company?<br /> + What shall be done with them? say we;<br /> + And east and west the people bawl,<br /> + Dump them into the Cannery!—<br /> + Into the brine go one and all.</p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Grilled” and “lauded” and “scored” and “flayed,”</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Common or garden variety,”</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Wave of crime” and “reform crusade,”</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Along these lines” and “it seems to me,”</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Noted savant,” “I fail to see,”</span><br /> + The “groaning board” of the “banquet hall,”—<br /> + Masonjar ’em in “ghoulish glee”—<br /> + Into the brine go one and all.</p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Succulent bivalves,” “trusty blade,”</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Last analysis,” “practical-ly,”</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Lone highwayman” and “fusillade,”</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Millionaire broker and clubman,” “gee!”</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“In reply to yours,” “can such things be?”</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Sounded the keynote” or “trumpet call,”—</span><br /> + Can ’em, pickle ’em, one, two, three—<br /> + Into the brine go one and all.</p> + +<p> </p> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</a></span> + <span style="margin-left: 3em;"><em>L’Envoi</em></span></p> + +<p> + Under the spreading chestnut tree<br /> + Stands the Cannery, all too small.<br /> + The Canner a briny man is he,<br /> + And into the brine go one and all.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>PANDEAN PIPEDREAMS</strong></p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 3em;">(<em>Induced by smoking “Pagan Pickings.”</em>)</span></p> + + +<p style="margin-left: 5em;"><strong>I</strong></p> + +<p> +<em>This is something that I heard,</em><br /> +<em>As the fluting of a bird,</em><br /> +<em>On a certain drowsy day,</em><br /> +<em>When my pipe was under way.</em><br /> +<em>I was weary of the town,</em><br /> +<em>And the going up and down;</em><br /> +<em>Sick of streets and sick of noise,—</em><br /> +<em>And I pined for Pagan joys.</em></p> + +<p> + Daphne, here it is July!<br /> + Just the month, my love, to fly<br /> + To a sylvan solitude<br /> + In the green and ancient wood.<br /> + We will trip it as we go<br /> + On the neo-Pagan toe,<br /> + Sunny days and starry nights,<br /> + Savoring the wild delights<br /> + Of a turbulent desire<br /> + That may set the wood on fire.</p> + +<p> + We will play at hunt-the-fawn,<br /> + In the neo-Dorian dawn.<br /> + You will scamper through the brake,<br /> + And I’ll follow in your wake—</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</a></span> + As the young Apollo ran<br /> + In the piping days of Pan.<br /> + You’ll escape me, without doubt,<br /> + For I’m just a trifle stout;<br /> + But, when I have lagged behind,<br /> + Waiting for my second wynde,<br /> + From some pretty hiding-place<br /> + Will emerge your laughing face;<br /> + I shall glimpse your eyes of blue,<br /> + Hear your merry “Peek-a-boo!”</p> + +<p> + What to wear? The Pagan plan<br /> + Contemplates a coat of tan;<br /> + But I fear we shall require<br /> + Just a trifle more attire.<br /> + Bushes scratch and brambles sting;<br /> + Insect myriads are a-wing;—<br /> + Heavens, how mosquitoes swarm<br /> + When the woodland air is warm.<br /> + (<span class="smcap">Mem</span>: To take, when we elope,<br /> + Tanglewood Mosquito Dope.)</p> + +<p> + Do you like the picture, dear?<br /> + Have you aught of doubt or fear?<br /> + Have you any criticism<br /> + Of my neo-Paganism?<br /> + If not, dearie, let us fly<br /> + To that passion-ripening sky,<br /> + Where our souls may have their fling,<br /> + And our every care take wing.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</a></span> +<em>So the bird song fluted by,</em><br /> +<em>Like a vagrant summer sigh—</em><br /> +<em>Came, and passed, and was no more;</em><br /> +<em>And my pleasant dream was o’er.</em><br /> +<em>For arose the wraith of Doubt;</em><br /> +<em>And I knew my pipe was out.</em></p> + + +<p> </p> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</a></span> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;"><strong>II</strong></span></p> + +<p> +<em>This is something that befell</em><br /> +<em>When my pipe was drawing well—</em><br /> +<em>Something, rather, that I heard</em><br /> +<em>As the fluting of a bird.</em></p> + +<p> + Daphne, come and live with me<br /> + In a Pagan greenery.<br /> + Life will then be naught but play,<br /> + One long Pagan holiday.<br /> + We will play at hide and seek<br /> + In the alders by the creek;<br /> + Sport amid the cascade’s smother.<br /> + Splashing water at each other;—<br /> + Every moment pleasure wooing,<br /> + Every moment something doing.<br /> + If we talk, we’ll talk of Love:<br /> + All its arguments we’ll prove.<br /> + Such a mental rest you’ll find.<br /> + Leave your intellect behind.</p> + +<p> + Night will come, (for come it will,<br /> + ’Spite the fluting on the hill,)<br /> + And we’ll pitch a cozy camp<br /> + Where it isn’t quite so damp.<br /> + While you dry your hair and laze<br /> + By the campfire’s violet blaze,<br /> + I will rob a balsam tree<br /> + To construct a house for thee.<br /> + What so dear as to be wooed<br /> + In a sylvan solitude?</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</a></span> + What so sweet as Pagan vows<br /> + Whispered in a house of boughs?<br /> + Pagan love’s without alloy.<br /> + Pagan kisses never cloy.<br /> + Arms that cling in Pagan fashion<br /> + Never tire. A Pagan passion<br /> + Is the only kind I know<br /> + That outlives a winter’s snow.<br /> + Daphne, Daphne, let us fly!<br /> + You’re a Pagan—so am I.</p> + +<p> +<em>So the fluting on the hill</em><br /> +<em>Passed and died, and all was still.</em><br /> +<em>So the Pagan Pickings died,</em><br /> +<em>And I laid the pipe aside.</em></p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>THE LAUNDRY OF LIFE</strong></p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 3em;">(<em>An Adventure in Sentiment.</em>)</span></p> + + +<p> + Life is a laundry in which we<br /> + Are ironed out, or soon or late.<br /> + Who has not known the irony<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 4em;">Of fate?</span></p> + +<p> + We enter it when we are born,<br /> + Our colors bright. Full soon they fade.<br /> + We leave it “done up,” old and worn,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 4em;">And frayed;</span></p> + +<p> + Frayed round the edges, worn and thin—<br /> + Life is a rough old linen slinger.<br /> + Who has not lost a button in<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 4em;">Life’s wringer?</span></p> + +<p> + With other linen we are tubbed,<br /> + With other linen often tangled;<br /> + In open court we then are scrubbed,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 4em;">And mangled.</span></p> + +<p> + Some take a gloss of happiness<br /> + The hardest wear can not diminish;<br /> + Others, alas! get a “domes-<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 4em;">Tic finish.”</span></p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>WISDOM IN A CAPSULE</strong></p> + +<p style="margin-left: 3em;"> +“<em>If she be not so to me.</em><br /> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;"><em>What care I how fair she be?</em>”</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;" class="smcap">—The Shepherd’s Resolution.</span></p> + + +<p> + Here we have in this truism<br /> + Mr. James’s pragmatism.<br /> + Test your troubles day by day<br /> + With it, and they fly away.<br /> + Is the weather boiling hot,<br /> + Hot enough to boil a pot—<br /> + If it be not so to me,<br /> + What care I how hot it be?</p> + +<p> + Take a pudding made of bread;<br /> + Much against it has been said;<br /> + But it does not lack defense—<br /> + Many say it is immense.<br /> + Be it damned or be it blessed,<br /> + Let us make the acid test—<br /> + If it be not so to me,<br /> + What care I how good it be?</p> + +<p> + So with every blooming thing<br /> + That has power to soothe or sting;<br /> + Ships or shoes or sealing wax,<br /> + Carrots, comets, carpet tacks.<br /> + Every philosophic need<br /> + Covered by this capsule creed:<br /> + If it be not so to me,<br /> + What care I how <img src="images/goodbad.jpg" width="41" height="25" alt="good bad" title="" /> it be?</p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>THE LAND OF RAINBOW’S-END</strong></p> + + +<p> + Young Faintheart lay on a wayside bank,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Full prey to doubts and fears,</span><br /> + When he did espy come trudging by<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">A Pilgrim bent with years.</span><br /> + His back was bowed and his step was slow,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">But his faith no years could bend,</span><br /> + As he eagerly pressed to the rose-lit west<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And the Land of Rainbow’s-End.</span></p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“<em>It’s ho, for a pack!” sang the Pilgrim gray,</em></span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: .7em;">“<em>And a stout oak staff for friend,</em></span><br /> +<em>And it’s over the hills and far away</em><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;"><em>To the Land of Rainbow’s-End!</em>”</span></p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Thou’rt old,” young Faintheart cried, “thou’rt old,</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And there’s many a league to go;</span><br /> + And still thou seekest the pot of gold<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">At the farther end of the bow.”</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“I am old, I am old,” said the Pilgrim gray,</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: .7em;">“But ever my way I’ll wend</span><br /> + To the rose-lit hills of the dying day<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And the Land of Rainbow’s-End.”</span></p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Come, rest thee, rest thee by my side;</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Give o’er thy doomsday quest.”</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Have done, have done!” the Pilgrim cried:</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: .7em;">“The light wanes in the west.</span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</a></span><br /> + The road is long, but I shall not tire;<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">I will lay my bones, God send,</span><br /> + By the beautiful City of Heart’s Desire,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">In the Land of Rainbow’s-End.”</span></p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“<em>Then it’s ho, for a pack!” sang the Pilgrim gray,</em></span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: .7em;">“<em>And a stout oak staff for friend,</em></span><br /> +<em>And it’s over the hills and far away</em><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;"><em>To the Land of Rainbow’s-End.</em>”</span></p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>A BALLADE OF A BORE</strong></p> + + +<p> + When the weather is warm and the glass running high<br /> + And the odors of Araby tincture the air;<br /> + When the sun is aloft in a white and blue sky,<br /> + And the morrow holds promise of falling as fair;—<br /> + In spring or in summer I’m free to declare,<br /> + And the same I am equally free to maintain,<br /> + One person has power my peace to impair:<br /> + The man who tells limericks gives me a pain.</p> + +<p> + When the foliage flushes and summer is by,<br /> + And russet and red are the popular wear;<br /> + When the song of the woodland is changed to a sigh<br /> + And the horn of the hunter is heard by the hare;—<br /> + In the season of autumn I’m free to declare,<br /> + And my language is lucid and simple and plain,<br /> + One person’s acquaintance I freely forswear:<br /> + The man with the limerick gives me a pain.</p> + +<p> + When the landscape is iced and the snow feathers fly,<br /> + When the fields are all bald and the trees are all bare,<br /> + And the prospect which nature presents to the eye<br /> + Is chiefly distinguished by glitter and glare;—<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</a></span> + In the season of winter I’m free to declare<br /> + That the limerick person is flat and inane.<br /> + This person, I think, we could easily spare:<br /> + The man who tells limericks gives me a pain.</p> + +<p> </p> +<p> + <span style="margin-left: 3em;"><em>L’Envoi</em></span></p> + +<p> + From New Year to Christmas I’m free to declare<br /> + That, for ways that are dull and for verse that is vain,<br /> + One bore is peculiar—and not at all rare:<br /> + The man with the limerick gives me a pain.</p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>THE POLE</strong></p> + +<p style="margin-left: 3em;">(<em>Tune</em>: “<em>Carcassonne.</em>”)</p> + + +<p> + I’m an old man, I’m eighty-three,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">I seldom get away;</span><br /> + My work, it keeps me close at home—<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">I have no time for play.</span><br /> + If it were not for the journey back,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">That so fatigues a soul,</span><br /> + I’d like to take a little trip—<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">I never have seen the Pole.</span></p> + +<p> + ’Tis said that in that favored place<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">There is no heat or drouth;</span><br /> + And that, whichever way you turn,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">You’re looking south-by-south.</span><br /> + Some say there is a flagstaff there,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Some say there is a hole.</span><br /> + Think of the years that I have lived<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And never have seen the Pole!</span></p> + +<p> + The parson a hundred times is right—<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">We ought to stay at home.</span><br /> + I’m an old man, I’m eighty-three,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">I have no call to roam.</span><br /> + And yet if I could somehow find<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">The time—God bless my soul!—</span><br /> + I think that I would die content<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">If I only could see the Pole!</span></p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</a></span> + My brother has seen Baraboo,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">If so he speak the truth;</span><br /> + My wife and son they both have been<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">As far as to Duluth;</span><br /> + My cousin cruised to Eastport, Maine,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">On a ship that carried coal;</span><br /> + I’ve been as far as Mackinac—<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">But I never have seen the Pole!</span></p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>SH-H-H-H!</strong></p> + +<p style="margin-left: 3em;"> +“<em>Mr. Mabie is now reading the summer books.</em>”<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 5em;" class="smcap">—The Ladies’ Home Journal.</span></p> + + +<p> + What shall we buy for a summer’s day?<br /> + What is good reading and what is not?<br /> + Mabie will tell us—we wait his say;<br /> + For Mabie alone can know what’s what.<br /> + Meanwhile the world is as still as death;<br /> + Mute inquiry is in men’s looks;<br /> + Everybody is holding his breath—<br /> + Mabie is reading the summer books.</p> + +<p> + The suns are at pause in the cosmic race;<br /> + The mills of the gods have ceased to grind;<br /> + The only sound that is heard in space<br /> + Is the rhythmic clicking of Mabie’s mind.<br /> + Elsewhere silence, or near or far—<br /> + Chattering Pleiads or babbling brooks;<br /> + For the whisper has passed from star to star:<br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Mabie is reading the summer books.”</span></p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>THE VANISHED FAY</strong></p> + + +<p> + Tell me, whither do they go,<br /> + All the Little Ones we know?<br /> + They “grow up” before our eyes,<br /> + And the fairy spirit flies.<br /> + Time the Piper, pied and gay—<br /> + Does he lure them all away?<br /> + Do they follow after him,<br /> + Over the horizon’s brim?</p> + +<p> + Daughter’s growing fair to see,<br /> + Slim and straight as popple tree.<br /> + Still a child in heart and head,<br /> + But—the fairy spirit’s fled.<br /> + As a fay at break of day,<br /> + Little One has flown away,<br /> + On the stroke of fairy bell—<br /> + When and whither, who can tell?</p> + +<p> + Still her childish fancies weave<br /> + In the Land of Make Believe;<br /> + And her love of magic lore<br /> + Is as avid as before.<br /> + Dollies big and dollies small<br /> + Still are at her beck and call.<br /> + But for all this pleasant play,<br /> + Little One has gone away.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</a></span> + Whither, whither have they flown,<br /> + All the fays we all have known?<br /> + To what “faery lands forlorn”<br /> + On the sound of elfin horn?<br /> + As she were a woodland sprite,<br /> + Little One has vanished quite.<br /> + Waves the wand of Oberon:<br /> + Cock has crowed—the fay is gone!</p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>AUTUMN REVERY</strong></p> + + +<p> + When the leaves are falling crimson<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And the worm is off its feed,</span><br /> + When the rag weed and the jimson<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Have agreed to go to seed,</span><br /> + When the air in forest bowers<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Has a tang like Rhenish wine,</span><br /> + And to breathe it for two hours<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Makes you feel you’d like to dine,</span><br /> + When the frost is on the pumpkin<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And the corn is in the shock,</span><br /> + And the cheek of country bumpkin<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">City faces seems to mock,—</span><br /> + When you come across a ditty<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">(Like this one) of Autumn’s charm,</span><br /> + Then it’s pleasant in the city,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Where they keep the houses warm.</span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>THE RECOIL</strong></p> + + +<p> + I met a friend of lofty brow—<br /> + As lofty as the laws allow.<br /> + I said to him, “You’ll know, I’m sure—<br /> + What’s doing now in litrychoor?”<br /> + Said he: “I hate the very name;<br /> + I’m weary of the blooming game.<br /> + I read, whenever I have time,<br /> + Something by Phillips Oppenheim.”</p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Cheer up!” said I. “What’s new in Art?—</span><br /> + You drift around the picture mart.<br /> + What do you think of Mr. Blum?—<br /> + Some say he’s great, some say he’s bum.”<br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“I’m strong for Blum,” my friend replied;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“His pictures are so queer and pied.</span><br /> + I wouldn’t change them if I could;<br /> + I’d rather have things queer than good.”</p> + +<p> + I spoke of this, I spoke of that,<br /> + But everything was stale and flat.<br /> + Said I, “You once adored the chaste,<br /> + You used to have such perfect taste.”<br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Good taste,” he wailed, “brings but distress,</span><br /> + ’Tis an affliction, nothing less;<br /> + While those whose taste is punk and vile<br /> + Are happy all the blessed while.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</a></span> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Oh, take a brace, old man!” said I.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Let me prescribe a nip of rye,</span><br /> + And then we’ll go to see a play;<br /> + I’ve two for Barrymore to-day.”<br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“No, no,” he groaned; “’twould be a bore,</span><br /> + With all respect to Barrymore.”<br /> + Said I: “Then whither shall we go?”<br /> + Said he: “A moving picture show.”</p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>THE CORONATION</strong></p> + +<p style="margin-left: 4em;"><em>Lang Syne.</em></p> + + +<p> + Twas a holy mystery<br /> + In the days of chivalry.<br /> + More than pageant was the Rite<br /> + In the sight of clod and knight.<br /> + Sword and Scepter, Orb and Rod,<br /> + Faith in self and faith in God;<br /> + Oaths of Homage fiercely flung,<br /> + Faith in heart and faith in tongue;—<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Gone the things that meaning gave</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: .7em;">“With the old world to the grave.”</span></p> + +<p> </p> +<p style="margin-left: 4em;">1911.</p> + +<p> + Knightly faith was born to fade:<br /> + Now the Rite is masquerade.<br /> + Now a cockney paladin<br /> + Winds a penny horn of tin.<br /> + Where in reverence heads were bowed<br /> + Surges now a careless crowd;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Muddied oafs” and “flanneled fools”</span><br /> + Jostle “Yanks” with camping stools;—<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Gone the things that meaning gave</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: .7em;">“With the old world to the grave.”</span></p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>SONS OF BATTLE</strong></p> + + +<p> + Let us have peace, and Thy blessing,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Lord of the Wind and the Rain,</span><br /> + When we shall cease from oppressing,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">From all injustice refrain;</span><br /> + When we hate falsehood and spurn it;<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">When we are men among men.</span><br /> + Let us have peace when we earn it—<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Never an hour till then.</span></p> + +<p> + Let us have rest in Thy garden,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Lord of the Rock and the Green,</span><br /> + When there is nothing to pardon,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">When we are whitened and clean.</span><br /> + Purge us of skulking and treason,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Help us to put them away.</span><br /> + We shall have rest in Thy season;<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Till then the heat of the fray.</span></p> + +<p> + Let us have peace in Thy pleasure,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Lord of the Cloud and the Sun;</span><br /> + Grant to us æons of leisure<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">When the long battle is done.</span><br /> + Now we have only begun it;<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Stead us!—we ask nothing more.</span><br /> + Peace—rest—but not till we’ve won it—<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Never an hour before.</span></p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>MY LADY NEW YORK</strong></p> + + +<p> + O siren of tresses peroxide,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And heart that is hard as a flint,</span><br /> + Blue orbs of complacency ox-eyed,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">That light at the mark of the mint,</span><br /> + Ears only for jingle of joybells,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">A conscience as light as a cork—</span><br /> + You are wedded to follies and foibles,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">My Lady New York.</span></p> + +<p> + True, you have (not enough, tho’, to hurt you)<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Your moods and your manners austere;</span><br /> + You have visions and vapors of virtue,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And “reform” for a time has your ear;</span><br /> + But of chaste Puritanic embraces<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">You soon have enough and to spare,</span><br /> + And then you kick over the traces,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And virtue forswear.</span></p> + +<p> + So go it, milady! Foot fleetly<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">The paths that are primrose and gay;</span><br /> + Abandon your fancy completely<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">To follies and fads of the day.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Reform” is a something that throttles</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">The joys of the pace that’s intense—</span><br /> + Smash hearts, reputations, and bottles,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And ding the expense!</span></p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>BALLADE OF THE PIPESMOKE CARRY</strong></p> + + +<p> + The Ancient Wood is white and still,<br /> + Over the pines the bleak wind blows,<br /> + Voiceless the brook and mute the rill,<br /> + Silence too where the river flows.<br /> + Still I catch the scent of the rose<br /> + And hear the white-throat’s roundelay,<br /> + Footing the trail that Memory knows,<br /> + Over the hills and far away.</p> + +<p> + I have only a pipe to fill:<br /> + Weaving, wreathing rings disclose<br /> + A trail that flings straight up the hill,<br /> + Straight as an arrow’s flight. For those<br /> + Who fare by night the pole star glows<br /> + Above the mountain top. By day<br /> + A blasted pine the pathway shows<br /> + Over the hills and far away.</p> + +<p> + The Ancient Wood is white and chill,<br /> + But what know I of wintry woes?<br /> + The Pipesmoke Trail is mine at will—<br /> + Naught may hinder and none oppose.<br /> + Such the power the pipe bestows,<br /> + When the wilderness calls I may<br /> + Tramping go, as I smoke and doze,<br /> + Over the hills and far away.</p> + +<p> </p> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</a></span> + <span style="margin-left: 3em;"><em>L’Envoi</em></span></p> + +<p> + Deep in the canyons lie the snows:<br /> + They shall vanish if I but say—<br /> + If my fancy a-roving goes<br /> + Over the hills and far away.</p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>POST-VACATIONAL</strong></p> + + +<p> + You have heard that mildewed story,<br /> + That tradition horned and hoary,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">That it wearies one to roam,</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 3em;">Past a doubt;</span><br /> + That one vainly on vacation<br /> + Tries to find recuperation,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Till he hunts his happy home</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 3em;">Tuckered out.</span></p> + +<p> + That abroad there is no comfort,<br /> + That a man must journey home for ’t—<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">You have heard that whiskered wheeze,</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 3em;">Have you not?</span><br /> + ’Tis a commonplace to cavil<br /> + At the “luxuries of travel,”<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">For in travel lack of ease</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 3em;">Is your lot.</span></p> + +<p> + You have heard that gag historic;<br /> + It was often sprung by Yorick;<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">It’s as old as Noah’s ark</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 3em;">And its crew.</span><br /> + It’s the commonest (at basis)<br /> + Of all common commonplaces;—<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">So I merely would remark</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 3em;">That—it’s true.</span></p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>THE BARDS WE QUOTE</strong></p> + + +<p> + Whene’er I quote I seldom take<br /> + From bards whom angel hosts environ;<br /> + But usually some damned rake<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 4em;">Like Byron.</span></p> + +<p> + Of Whittier I think a lot,<br /> + My fancy to him often turns;<br /> + But when I quote ’tis some such sot<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 4em;">As Burns.</span></p> + +<p> + I’m very fond of Bryant, too,<br /> + He brings to me the woodland smelly;<br /> + Why should I quote that “village roo,”<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 4em;">P. Shelley?</span></p> + +<p> + I think Felicia Hemans great,<br /> + I dote upon Jean Ingelow;<br /> + Yet quote from such a reprobate<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 4em;">As Poe.</span></p> + +<p> + To quote from drunkard or from rake<br /> + Is not a proper thing to do.<br /> + I find the habit hard to break,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 4em;">Don’t you?</span></p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>THE PERSISTENT POET</strong></p> + + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“I remember, I remember”—</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Something special? Not a bit.</span><br /> + But, you see, this is November,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And Remember rimes with it.</span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>HENCE THESE RIMES</strong></p> + + +<p> + Tho’ my verse is exact,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Tho’ it flawlessly flows,</span><br /> + As a matter of fact<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">I would rather write prose.</span></p> + +<p> + While my harp is in tune,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And I sing like the birds,</span><br /> + I would really as soon<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Write in straightaway words.</span></p> + +<p> + Tho’ my songs are as sweet<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">As Apollo e’er piped,</span><br /> + And my lines are as neat<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">As have ever been typed,</span></p> + +<p> + I would rather write prose—<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">I prefer it to rime;</span><br /> + It’s less hard to compose,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And it takes me less time.</span></p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Well, if that be the case,”</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">You are moved to inquire,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Why appropriate space</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">For extolling your lyre?”</span></p> + +<p> + I can only reply<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">That this form I elect</span><br /> + ’Cause it pleases the eye,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And I like the effect.</span></p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>THE OLD ROLLER TOWEL</strong></p> + + +<p> + How dear to this heart is the old roller towel<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Which fond recollection presents to my view.</span><br /> + It hung like a pall on the wall of the washroom,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And gathered the grime of the linotype crew.</span><br /> + The sink and the soap and the lye that stood by it<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Remain; but the towel is gone past recall.</span><br /> + O tempora! Also, O mores! Sic transit<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">The time-honored towel that creaked on the wall.</span><br /> + The grimy old towel, the slimy old towel,<br /> + The tacky old towel that hung on the wall.</p> + +<p> + Now hangs in the washroom a huge roll of paper—<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">The old printer’s towel we’ll never see more.</span><br /> + The new (see directions) is “used like a blotter,”<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And crumpled and scattered in wads on the floor.</span><br /> + And often, when drying my hands in this fashion,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">The tears of remembrance will gather and fall,</span><br /> + And I sigh (though I’m not what you’d call sentimental)<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">For the classic old towel that propped up the wall.</span><br /> + The sainted old towel, the tainted old towel,<br /> + The gooey old towel that hung on the wall.</p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>UP CULTURE’S HILL</strong></p> + +<p style="margin-left: 3em;">(<em>The confession of a club lady.</em>)</p> + + +<p> + The path up Culture’s Hill is steep,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And weary is the way,</span><br /> + With very little time for sleep<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And none at all for play.</span></p> + +<p> + She that this toilsome task essays<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Must never bat an eye,</span><br /> + But keep her firm, unwavering gaze<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Forever fixed on high.</span></p> + +<p> + For should she ever careless grow,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And let her glances stray</span><br /> + Down to the shallow vale below,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Where Pleasure’s Court holds sway—</span></p> + +<p> + Lured by the thrice forbidden fruit,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">She’d lose her equipoise,</span><br /> + And like a wayward Pleiad shoot<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Down to forbidden joys.</span></p> + +<p> + I’ve been but short time on the road,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">My courage still is strong;</span><br /> + Yet often have I felt the goad<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">That hurries me along.</span></p> + +<p> + I’ve fallen over Maeterlinck,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And bumped myself to tears,</span><br /> + Burne-Jones’s pictures made me blink,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And Wagner hurts my ears.</span></p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</a></span> + I’ve stumbled over Ibsen humps<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And over Rembrandt rocks,</span><br /> + I’ve got some fierce Debussy bumps,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Some awful Nietsche knocks.</span></p> + +<p> + I’m wearied by the ceaseless quest,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">I’m wayworn and footsore.</span><br /> + I’ve Culture till I cannot rest—<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Yet still I climb for more.</span></p> + +<p> + But oh, when all is done and said,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Upon some manly breast</span><br /> + I’d like to lay my tired head<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And take a good long rest.</span></p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>THE PASSIONAL NOTE</strong></p> + +<p>“<em>The erotic motive is almost entirely absent from American +poetry. Even our younger American poets are more +profoundly interested in the why and wherefore of things +than in the girdle of Helen or the gleaming limbs of ‘the +white implacable Aphrodite.’</em>”<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 15em;" class="smcap">—Mr. Sylvester Viereck.</span></p> + + +<p> + In the years of my season erotic,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">When Eros was lord of my days,</span><br /> + And I loved, with a love idiotic,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">The Mabels and Madges and Mays;</span><br /> + When a purple and passionate lyric<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Would sing all the night in my head,—</span><br /> + I yearned, like the young Mr. Viereck,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">For everything red.</span></p> + +<p> + I doted on poems of passion,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And put my own pantings in rime,</span><br /> + To celebrate, after a fashion,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">The damsels who took up my time.</span><br /> + I fed upon Swinburne, believe me,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">I feasted on Byron and Burns,</span><br /> + And couplets from Sappho would give me<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Most exquisite turns.</span></p> + +<p> + How apparent it was that our songbirds—<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Our Emerson, Lowell, and Payne,</span><br /> + And Bryant and Drake—were the wrong birds<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">To pipe to the passional strain.</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</a></span> + There was, in a word, nothing doing<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">In all of the rimes that they wrote;</span><br /> + They seemed to be always pursuing<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">The ethical note.</span></p> + +<p> + What truth, I inquired, was so mighty,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">What ethical thing was so rare,</span><br /> + As the limbs of the white Aphrodite<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Or a strand of her heaven-kissed hair!</span><br /> + The girdle of red-headed Helen<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Outweighed all the wherefores and whys,</span><br /> + And Wisdom elected to dwell in<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">A pair of blue eyes.</span></p> + +<p> +<em>Now</em> lyrical sizzlers and scorchers<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Fail somehow to set me ablaze;</span><br /> + No longer are exquisite tortures<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Provoked by these passionate lays.</span><br /> + I’ve tinned—and I can’t say I’ve missed ’em—<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">The poems of passion and sin.</span><br /> +<em>Some</em> things one gets out of one’s system,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And other things <em>in</em>.</span></p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</a></span></p> +<p><strong><em>L’ENVOI.</em></strong></p> + + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“<em>Go, little book,” as Poet Southey said;</em></span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;"><em>You might be better and you might be worse.</em></span><br /> + <em>With just one word of warning you are sped:</em><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;"><em>Remember, you’re not Poetry—you’re Verse.</em></span></p> + +</div> + +<hr style="width: 95%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</a></span></p> +<h2>Index</h2> + + +<div class='center'> +<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary=""> + +<tr> <td align='left'>Always</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_82">82</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>Autumn Revery</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_104">104</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>Ballad of Misfits</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_63">63</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>Ballade of a Bore</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_97">97</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>Ballade of the Cannery</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_86">86</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>Ballade of Cap and Bells</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_76">76</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>Ballade of Death and Time</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_28">28</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>Ballade of Irresolution</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_68">68</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>Ballade of the Pipesmoke Carry</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_110">110</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>Ballade of Spring’s Unrest</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_22">22</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>Ballade of Wool-Gathering</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_48">48</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>Bards We Quote, The</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_113">113</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>Bread Puddynge</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_42">42</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>Breakfast Food Family, The</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_19">19</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>Coronation, The</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_107">107</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>Day of the Comet, The</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_66">66</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>Dinosaur, The</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_75">75</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>Dornröschen</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_34">34</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>“Farewell”</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_36">36</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>Gentle Doctor Brown</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_78">78</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>Hence These Rimes</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_115">115</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>Horace: A Note from Mr. Flaccus</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_54">54</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'><span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">I. To Aristius Fuscus</span></td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_56">56</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'><span style="margin-left: 1.3em;">II. Duetto</span></td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_57">57</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'><span style="margin-left: 1em;">III. To Pyrrha</span></td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_59">59</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'><span style="margin-left: 1em;">IV. To Aristius Fuscus</span></td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_60">60</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'><span style="margin-left: 1.3em;">V. To Sylvia</span></td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_62">62</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>How They Might Have Brought the Good News</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_73">73</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>In the Gallery</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_80">80</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>In the Lamplight</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_17">17</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>Kaiser’s Farewell, The</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_30">30</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>Land of Rainbow’s-End, The</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_95">95</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>Laundry of Life, The</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_93">93</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>Lay of St. Ambrose</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_9">9</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>Miss Legion</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_27">27</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>Modern Mariner, The</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_84">84</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>Morning After, The</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_67">67</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>Musca Domestica</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_45">45</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>My Lady New York</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_109">109</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>Old Roller Towel, The</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_116">116</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>Oriental Apology, An</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_65">65</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>Pandean Pipedreams</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_88">88</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>Passional Note, The</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_119">119</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>Passionate Professor, The</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_47">47</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>Persistent Poet, The</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_114">114</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>Pole, The</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_99">99</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>Post-Vacational</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_112">112</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>Recoil, The</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_105">105</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>Reform in Our Town</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_38">38</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>Rime of the Clark Street Cable</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_25">25</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>Sh-h-h-h!</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_101">101</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>Simple, Heartfelt Lay, The</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_53">53</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>Sons of Battle</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_108">108</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>To a Tall Spruce</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_14">14</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>To Lillian Russell</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_32">32</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>To the Sun</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_50">50</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>To What Base Uses</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_70">70</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>“Treasure Island”</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_21">21</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>Up Culture’s Hill</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_117">117</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>Vanished Fay, The</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_102">102</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>When It Is Hot</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_51">51</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>When the Sirup’s on the Flapjack</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_41">41</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>Why?</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_24">24</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>Wisdom in a Capsule</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_94">94</a></td> </tr> + +</table></div> + +<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 30038 ***</div> +</body> +</html> diff --git a/30038-h/images/deco_tpage.png b/30038-h/images/deco_tpage.png Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..31c9b85 --- /dev/null +++ b/30038-h/images/deco_tpage.png diff --git a/30038-h/images/goodbad.jpg b/30038-h/images/goodbad.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..33cde48 --- /dev/null +++ b/30038-h/images/goodbad.jpg diff --git a/30038-h/images/imgcover.jpg b/30038-h/images/imgcover.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..3498dba --- /dev/null +++ b/30038-h/images/imgcover.jpg diff --git a/30038.txt b/30038.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..fb5b92b --- /dev/null +++ b/30038.txt @@ -0,0 +1,3442 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of A line-o'-verse or two, by Bert Leston Taylor + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: A line-o'-verse or two + +Author: Bert Leston Taylor + +Release Date: September 20, 2009 [EBook #30038] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A LINE-O'-VERSE OR TWO *** + + + + +Produced by Bryan Ness, Anne Storer and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This +file was produced from images generously made available +by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) + + + + + + Transcriber's Note: + [=XVII] = XVII with a line above. + + + * * * * * + + + + + 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! + + + _L'Envoi_ + + 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? + + + _L'Envoi_ + + 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 mailed 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 mailed 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 Schuetzenfest, + The Saengerbund, 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. + + + + +DORNROeSCHEN + + + 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! + + + _L'Envoi_ + + 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 vitae 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 + +DUETTO + + "_Donec gratus eram._" + + + HORACE: + + What time my Lydia owned me lord + No Persian king had much on Horace; + And when you blew my bed and board + I was some sad, believe me, Mawruss. + + LYDIA: + + What time you loved no other She, + Before this Chloe person signed you, + I flourished like a green bay tree; + Now I'm the Girl You Left Behind You. + + HORACE: + + This Chloe dame that takes my eye + Has so peculiar an allurance + I would not hesitate to die + If she could cop my life insurance. + + LYDIA: + + Well, as for that, I know a gent + With whom it's some delight to dally. + With me he makes an awful dent; + I'd perish once or twice for Cally. + + HORACE: + + Suppose our former love should go + Into a new de luxe edition? + Suppose I tie a can to Chlo, + And let you play your old position? + + LYDIA: + + Why, then, you cork, you butterfly, + You sweet, philandering, perjured villain, + With you I'd love to live and die, + Tho' Cally boy were twice as killin'. + + +III + +TO PYRRHA + + "_Quis multa gracilis._" + + + What young tin whistle gent, + Bedaubed with barber's scent,-- + What cheapskate waits on you + To woo, + O Pyrrha? + + For whom the puff and rat + And transformation that + You bought a year ago + Or so, + O Pyrrha? + + Peeved? Not a bit. Not I + I'm sorry for the guy. + He draws a lovely lime + This time, + O Pyrrha! + + I've dipped. The wet ain't fine. + Hung on the votive line + My duds. The gods can see + I'm free. + Eh, Pyrrha! + + +IV + +TO ARISTIUS FUSCUS + + "_My sweetly-smiling, sweetly-speaking Lalage._" + + + Fuscus, take a tip from me: + This here job's no bed of roses, + Not the cinch it seems to be, + Not the pipe that one supposes. + What care I, tho', if I may + Lallygag with Lalage. + + Every day there's ink to spill, + Tho' I may not feel like working. + Every day a hole to fill; + One must plug it--there's no shirking. + Oh, that I might all the day + Lallygag with Lalage! + + People say, "Gee! what a snap, + Turning paragraphs and verses. + He's the band on Fortune's cap, + Gets a barrel of ses-_terces_." + Let them gossip, while I play + Hide and seek with Lalage. + + People hand me out advice: + "Hod, you're doing too much drivel. + Write us something sweet and nice. + Stow the satire, chop the frivol." + But we have the rent to pay, + Lalage; eh, Lalage? + + Ladies shy the saving sense + Write me patronizing letters; + And there are the writing gents, + Always out to knock their betters. + What cares Flaccus if he may + Lallygag with Lalage! + + No, old top, the writing lay's + Not a bed of sweet geranium. + Brickbats mingle with bouquets + Shied at my devoted cranium. + Does it peeve yours truly? Nay. + Nothing can--with Lalage. + + Paste this, Fuscus, in your hat: + Not a pesky thing can peeve me. + Take it, too, from Horace flat, + She's some gal, is Lal, believe me. + So I coin this word to-day, + "Lallygag"--from Lalage. + + +V + +TO SYLVIA + + + Were I on the Latin lay, + Were I turning Odes to-day, + You would draw a gem from me, + Little maid of mystery! + + In an Ode I'd love to spout you; + I am simply bug about you. + That's the way!--the fairest peach + Is the one that's out of reach. + + I have toasted in my time + Many a peach (and many a lime), + All of them, I must confess, + Lacking your elusiveness. + + Lalage, my well known flame, + Was considerable dame; + Likewise Lydia and Phyllis, + Chloe, Pyrrha, Amaryllis. + + Syl, if you had lived when they did + You'd have had those damsels faded. + (That will give you, girl, some notion + Of your Flaccus's devotion.) + + Yep. If I were doing Odes + In my quondam favorite modes, + With your image to qui-vive me + I'd tear off some Ode, believe me! + + + + +A BALLAD OF MISFITS + + "_Chacun son metier:_ + _Les vaches seront bien gardees._" + --LA FONTAINE. + + + With skill for doing this or that + The Lord each man endows. + Some men are best for pushing pens, + And some for pushing plows; + And oh, the many many more + That should be tending cows! + _Chacun son metier:_ + _Les vaches bien gardees._ + + The ivory-headed serving maid + Who poses as a "cook," + She hath a very bovine brain, + She hath a bovine look. + Oh, prithee, lead her to the kine, + Oh, prithee get the hook! + _Chacun son metier:_ + _Les vaches bien gardees._ + + The papering-and-painting gents + Whose work is never done, + Who mess around your house until + You pine to pull a gun, + Who take three mortal days to do + What should be done in one;-- + _Chacun son metier:_ + _Les vaches bien gardees._ + + The pestilential "pianiste," + The screechy singer too, + The writer of the stupid book + And of the dull review, + The actor who is greatest when + He takes his exit cue;-- + _Chacun son metier:_ + _Les vaches bien gardees._ + + If every one were set to do + The task for which he's fit, + The writer of these trifling lines + Might also have to quit. + At tending cows the undersigned + Might make an awful hit. + _Chacun son metier:_ + _Les vaches bien gardees._ + + + + +AN ORIENTAL APOLOGY + + + When the hour was come Prince Chun arose, + And balanced a shoestring on his nose. + "From this some notion you will get," + Said he, "of China's deep regret." + + Now balancing upon his ear + A stein of foaming lager beer, + "This attitude," said he, "reveals + How very sorry China feels." + + Then spinning top-like on his cue, + "I can't begin to tell to you + The deep remorse we suffer for + The death of your Ambassador." + + Next, placing on his cue a plate, + He said, as it 'gan to gyrate: + "Nothing that's happened in his reign + Has caused my Emperor so much pain." + + Upon his back he did declare, + While juggling five balls in the air, + "This attitude--the humblest yet-- + Expresses personal regret." + + Last, spreading out a deck of cards-- + "Accept my Emperor's regards. + As our intentions were well meant, + Pray overlook the incident." + + + + +THE DAY OF THE COMET + + (_May 18, 1910._) + + + Here it is--Eighteenth of May! + Dawneth now the fatal day + When we take the awful veil + Of the fearsome comet's tail. + Vale, Earth! + + What will happen, heaven knows; + We can't even guess, suppose, + Hazard, speculate, surmise, + Hint, conjecture, theorize, + Or divine. + + Will we merely drill a hole + Through the trailing aureole? + Or will the prediction dire + Of a world destroyed by fire + Be fulfilled? + + Shall we crook our knees and pray + Counting this the Judgment Day? + Or preserve a cosmic ca'm, + Caring not a cosmic dam + What may come? + + There's the rub. If we but knew + We should know just what to do. + Yes is just as good as No + To all questions. Here we go!-- + Hang on tight! + + + + +THE MORNING AFTER + + (_May 19, 1910._) + + + Here we are, friends, whole and hale + In or through the comet's tail; + And as far as we can say, + Matters are about as they + Were before. + + Everything is much the same + As before the comet came. + Grasses grow and waters run-- + Nothing new beneath the sun-- + Same old sphere. + + Life is drab or life is gay, + Thorny path or primrose way; + All is common, all is strange; + "Down the ringing grooves of change" + Spins the world. + + Change but of a humdrum kind. + What we vaguely had in mind + Was some new sensation or + Thrill we never felt before. + Vain desire! + + Nothing's added to the stock: + Same old shiver, same old shock. + Round about the sun we'll go + In the same old status quo. + Awful bore! + + + + +A BALLADE OF IRRESOLUTION + + + Isolde, in the story old, + When Ireland's coast the vessel nears, + And Death were fairer to behold, + To Tristan gives "the cup that clears." + Straight to their fate the helmsman steers: + Unknowing, each the potion sips.... + Comes echoing through the ghostly years + "Give me the philtre of thy lips!" + + Ah, that like Tristan I were bold! + My soul into the future peers, + And passion flags, and heart grows cold, + And sicklied resolution veers. + I see the Sister of the Shears + Who sits fore'er and snips, and snips.... + Still falls upon my inward ears, + "Give me the philtre of thy lips!" + + Hero of lovers, largely soul'd! + Imagination thee enspheres + With song-enchanted wood and wold + And casements fronting magic meres. + Tristan, thy large example cheers + The faint of heart; thy story grips!-- + My soul again that echo hears, + "Give me the philtre of thy lips!" + + + _L'Envoi_ + + Sweet sorceress, resolve my fears! + He stakes all who Elysium clips. + What tho' the fruit be tares and tears!-- + Give me the philtre of thy lips! + + + + +TO WHAT BASE USES! + + "_Mrs. O---- now takes her daily dip at 5 in the afternoon, instead + of in the morning._" + --NEWPORT ITEM. + + + This is the forest primeval. + + This the spruce with the glorious plume + That grew in the forest primeval. + + This is the lumberman big and browned + Who felled the spruce tree to the ground + That grew in the forest primeval. + + This is the man with the paper mill + Who bought the pulp that paid the bill + Of the husky lumberjack who chopped + The lofty spruce and its branches lopped + That grew in the forest primeval. + + This is the publisher bland and rich + Who bought the roll of paper which + Was made by the man with the paper mill + Who bought the pulp that paid the bill + Of the lumberjack with the murderous ax + Who felled the spruce with lusty hacks + That grew in the forest primeval. + + This is the youth with the writing tool + Who does the daily Newport drool + That helps to make the publisher rich + Who ordered the stock of paper which + Was made by the man with the paper mill + Who bought the pulp that paid the bill + Of the husky Swede in the Joseph's coat + Who swung his ax and the tall spruce smote + That grew in the forest primeval. + + This is the lady far from slim + Who changed the hour of her daily swim + And excited the youth with the writing tool + Who does the Newport drivel and drool + For the prosperous publisher bland and fat + Who ordered the virgin paper that + Was made by the man with the paper mill + Who bought the pulp that paid the bill + Of Ole Oleson the husky Swede + Who did a foul and darksome deed + When he swung his ax with vigor and vim + And smote the spruce tree tall and trim + That grew in the forest primeval. + + This is the shop girl Mag or Liz + Who daily devours what news there is + Concerning the lady far from slim + Who changed the time of her ocean swim + And excited the youth with the writing tool + Who does the daily Newport drool + For the pursy publisher bland and rich + Who bought the innocent paper which + Was made by the man with the paper mill + Who bought the pulp that paid the bill + Of the Swedish jack who slew the spruce + That came to a most ignoble use-- + The lofty spruce with the glorious plume-- + The giant spruce that used to loom + In the heart of the forest primeval. + + + + +HOW THEY MIGHT HAVE BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS + + + We sprang to the motor, I, Joris and Dirck. + I snapped on my goggles and got to my work. + "Hi, there!" yelled the cop in the helmet of white; + "Let her flicker!" said Joris, and into the night, + With a sneer at the speed laws, we hurtled hell-bent + To carry to Aix the good tidings from Ghent. + + The going was poor, we expected delay, + And the usual livestock obstructed the way. + At Boom we ran over a large yellow dog, + At Dueffeld a chicken, at Mecheln a hog; + What else, we'd no time to slow down to inquire; + At Aerschot, confound it! we blew out a tire. + + I jacked up the axle and ripped off the shoe, + And snapped on an extra that promised to do. + "All aboard!" I exclaimed as I cranked the machine, + But something was wrong with the curst gasoline. + "By Hasselt!" Dirck groaned, "We'll be half a day late; + We ought to have sent the good tidings by freight." + + False prophet! I tinkered a minute or two + And again we were off like "a bolt from the blue." + We ate up the hills at a forty-mile clip, + And skidded the turns like the snap of a whip, + Till we dashed into Aix and were pinched by a cop + For failing to slow when commanded to stop. + + "Now, wouldn't that frost you!" said Joris, but we + When we told the glad tidings were instantly free. + The Mayor himself paid the ten dollars' fine, + And blew us to dinner with six kinds of wine, + Which (the burgesses voted, by common consent) + Was no more than their due that brought good news from Ghent. + + + + +THE DINOSAUR + + + Behold the mighty Dinosaur, + Famous in prehistoric lore, + Not only for his weight and strength + But for his intellectual length. + You will observe by these remains + The creature had two sets of brains-- + One in his head (the usual place), + The other at his spinal base. + Thus he could reason _a priori_ + As well as _a posteriori_. + No problem bothered him a bit; + He made both head and tail of it. + So wise he was, so wise and solemn, + Each thought filled just a spinal column. + If one brain found the pressure strong + It passed a few ideas along; + If something slipped his forward mind + 'Twas rescued by the one behind; + And if in error he was caught + He had a saving afterthought. + As he thought twice before he spoke + He had no judgments to revoke; + For he could think, without congestion, + Upon both sides of every question. + + Oh, gaze upon this model beast, + Defunct ten million years at least. + + + + +A BALLADE OF CAP AND BELLS + + + When as a dewdrop joy enspheres + This pleasant planet, arched with blue, + When every prospect charms and cheers, + And all the world is fair to view-- + Who does not envy (have not you?) + That mortal, by Thalia kissed, + Who plies, in plumes of cockatoo, + The blithesome trade of humorist? + + But when the wind of fortune veers, + And blue-white skies turn leaden hue, + When every pleasant prospect blears + And all the weary world's askew-- + Who then would envy (if he knew) + Jack Point the jester, glum and trist; + Or ply, tho' first of all the crew, + The dismal trade of humorist? + + Ah, jocund trifles writ in tears, + And merry stanzas steeped in rue! + When all the world in drab appears + The fool must still in motley woo. + Tho' bitter be the cud he chew, + Still must he grind his foolish grist; + Still must he ply, the long day through, + The tragic trade of humorist! + + + _L'Envoi_ + + Lady of Tears, what pains perdue + The heart and soul of him may twist + Who doth in cap and bells pursue + The glad sad trade of humorist! + + + + +GENTLE DOCTOR BROWN + + + It was a gentle sawbones and his name was Doctor Brown. + His auto was the terror of a small suburban town. + His practice, quite amazing for so trivial a place, + Consisted of the victims of his homicidal pace. + + So constant was his practice and so high his motor's gear + That at knocking down pedestrians he never had a peer; + But it must, in simple justice, be as truly written down + That no man could be more thoughtful than gentle Doctor Brown. + + Whatever was the errand on which Doctor Brown was bent + He'd stop to patch a victim up and never charged a cent. + He'd always pause, whoever 'twas he happened to run down: + A humane and a thoughtful man was gentle Doctor Brown. + + "How fortunate," he would observe, "how fortunate 'twas I + That knocked you galley-west and heard your wild and wailing cry. + There _are_ some heartless wretches who would leave you here alone, + Without a sympathetic ear to catch your dying moan. + + "Such callousness," said Doctor Brown, "I cannot comprehend; + To fathom such indifference I simply don't pretend. + One ought to do his duty, and I never am remiss. + A simple word of thanks is all I ask. Here, swallow this!" + + Then, reaching in the tonneau, he'd unpack his little kit, + And perform an operation that was workmanlike and fit. + "You may survive," said Doctor Brown; "it's happened once or twice. + If not, you've had the benefit of competent advice." + + Oh, if all our motormaniacs were equally humane, + How little bitterness there'd be, or reason to complain! + How different our point of view if we were ridden down + By lunatics as thoughtful as gentle Doctor Brown! + + + + +IN THE GALLERY + + + Weirder than the pictures + Are the folks who come + With their owlish strictures-- + Telling why they're bum. + Of all lines of babble + This one has the call: + Picture gallery gabble + Is the best of all. + + Literary fluffle + Never, never cloys; + Much has Mrs. Guffle + Added to my joys. + For that chitter-chatter + I delight to fall. + But the picture patter + Is the best of all. + + With the music highbrows + I delight to chat, + Elevating my brows + Over this and that. + Music tittle-tattle + Never fails to thrall. + But the picture prattle + Is the best of all. + + Sociologic rub-dub + I delight to hear; + Philosophic flub-dub + Titillates my ear. + Lovelier yet the spiffle + In the picture hall; + For the picture piffle + Is the best of all. + + Weirder than the pictures + Are the folks who stand + Passing owlish strictures, + Catalogue in hand. + Hear the bunk they babble + Under every wall. + Yes. The gallery gabble + Is the best of all. + + + + +ALWAYS + + "_Il y a tous les jours quelque dam chose._" + --ABELARD TO HELOISE. + + + When Mrs. Mead was full of groans, + When symptoms of all sorts assailed her, + She sent for bluff old Doctor Jones, + And told him all the things that ailed her. + It took her nearly half the day, + And when she finished out the string-- + "Ye-e-s, Mrs. Mead," drawled Doctor J., + "There's always some dam thing." + + I like the line. It's worth a ton + Of optimistic commonplaces. + It's tonic, it refreshes one, + It cheers, it stimulates, it braces. + It summarizes things so well; + It has the philosophic ring. + Has Kant or Hegel more to tell? + "There's always some dam thing." + + The dean of all the cheer-up school + Adjures sad hearts to cease repining, + And intimates that, as a rule, + The sun behind the cloud is shining. + "Into each life----" You know the rest; + No need to finish out the string. + Longfellow boiled might be expressed, + "There's always some dam thing." + + When things go wrong I do not read + The cheer-up poets, great or lesser. + To soothe my soul I do not need + The Neo-Thought of Mr. Dresser. + Sufficient for each working day, + With all the worries it may bring, + That helpful line by Doctor J., + "There's always some dam thing." + + + + +THE MODERN MARINER + + + A dry sheet and a lazy sea, + And a wind so far from fast + It barely floats the owner's flag + That flutters at the mast-- + That flutters at the mast, my boys; + So while the sky is free + Of cloud we'll take a yachtsman's chance + And venture out to sea. + + The aneroid has dropped a tenth! + Back, back across the bar + To a harbor snug, and a long cold drink, + And a big fat black cigar-- + A big fat black cigar, my boys; + While, on an even keel, + The Swedish chef out-chefs himself + In getting up a meal. + + Give me a soft and gentle wind, + A fleckless azure sky; + I care not for your "snoring breeze" + And dinners heaving high-- + And dinners heaving high, my boys, + Make no great hit with me; + So when the breeze begins to snore + We'll not put out to sea. + + There's laughter in yon beach hotel, + And summer girls a crowd; + And hark the music, mariners, + The band is piping loud! + The band is piping loud, my boys, + Bright eyes are flashing free. + Come, fly the owner's-absent flag + And join the revelry. + + + + +A BALLADE OF THE CANNERY + + + What of the phrases, long decayed, + Of paleologic pedigree, + Musty, moldy, frazzled, and frayed-- + A doddering, dusty company? + What shall be done with them? say we; + And east and west the people bawl, + Dump them into the Cannery!-- + Into the brine go one and all. + + "Grilled" and "lauded" and "scored" and "flayed," + "Common or garden variety," + "Wave of crime" and "reform crusade," + "Along these lines" and "it seems to me," + "Noted savant," "I fail to see," + The "groaning board" of the "banquet hall,"-- + Masonjar 'em in "ghoulish glee"-- + Into the brine go one and all. + + "Succulent bivalves," "trusty blade," + "Last analysis," "practical-ly," + "Lone highwayman" and "fusillade," + "Millionaire broker and clubman," "gee!" + "In reply to yours," "can such things be?" + "Sounded the keynote" or "trumpet call,"-- + Can 'em, pickle 'em, one, two, three-- + Into the brine go one and all. + + + _L'Envoi_ + + Under the spreading chestnut tree + Stands the Cannery, all too small. + The Canner a briny man is he, + And into the brine go one and all. + + + + +PANDEAN PIPEDREAMS + + (_Induced by smoking "Pagan Pickings."_) + + +I + + _This is something that I heard,_ + _As the fluting of a bird,_ + _On a certain drowsy day,_ + _When my pipe was under way._ + _I was weary of the town,_ + _And the going up and down;_ + _Sick of streets and sick of noise,--_ + _And I pined for Pagan joys._ + + Daphne, here it is July! + Just the month, my love, to fly + To a sylvan solitude + In the green and ancient wood. + We will trip it as we go + On the neo-Pagan toe, + Sunny days and starry nights, + Savoring the wild delights + Of a turbulent desire + That may set the wood on fire. + + We will play at hunt-the-fawn, + In the neo-Dorian dawn. + You will scamper through the brake, + And I'll follow in your wake-- + + As the young Apollo ran + In the piping days of Pan. + You'll escape me, without doubt, + For I'm just a trifle stout; + But, when I have lagged behind, + Waiting for my second wynde, + From some pretty hiding-place + Will emerge your laughing face; + I shall glimpse your eyes of blue, + Hear your merry "Peek-a-boo!" + + What to wear? The Pagan plan + Contemplates a coat of tan; + But I fear we shall require + Just a trifle more attire. + Bushes scratch and brambles sting; + Insect myriads are a-wing;-- + Heavens, how mosquitoes swarm + When the woodland air is warm. + (MEM: To take, when we elope, + Tanglewood Mosquito Dope.) + + Do you like the picture, dear? + Have you aught of doubt or fear? + Have you any criticism + Of my neo-Paganism? + If not, dearie, let us fly + To that passion-ripening sky, + Where our souls may have their fling, + And our every care take wing. + + _So the bird song fluted by,_ + _Like a vagrant summer sigh--_ + _Came, and passed, and was no more;_ + _And my pleasant dream was o'er._ + _For arose the wraith of Doubt;_ + _And I knew my pipe was out._ + + +II + + _This is something that befell_ + _When my pipe was drawing well--_ + _Something, rather, that I heard_ + _As the fluting of a bird._ + + Daphne, come and live with me + In a Pagan greenery. + Life will then be naught but play, + One long Pagan holiday. + We will play at hide and seek + In the alders by the creek; + Sport amid the cascade's smother. + Splashing water at each other;-- + Every moment pleasure wooing, + Every moment something doing. + If we talk, we'll talk of Love: + All its arguments we'll prove. + Such a mental rest you'll find. + Leave your intellect behind. + + Night will come, (for come it will, + 'Spite the fluting on the hill,) + And we'll pitch a cozy camp + Where it isn't quite so damp. + While you dry your hair and laze + By the campfire's violet blaze, + I will rob a balsam tree + To construct a house for thee. + What so dear as to be wooed + In a sylvan solitude? + + What so sweet as Pagan vows + Whispered in a house of boughs? + Pagan love's without alloy. + Pagan kisses never cloy. + Arms that cling in Pagan fashion + Never tire. A Pagan passion + Is the only kind I know + That outlives a winter's snow. + Daphne, Daphne, let us fly! + You're a Pagan--so am I. + + _So the fluting on the hill_ + _Passed and died, and all was still._ + _So the Pagan Pickings died,_ + _And I laid the pipe aside._ + + + + +THE LAUNDRY OF LIFE + + (_An Adventure in Sentiment._) + + + Life is a laundry in which we + Are ironed out, or soon or late. + Who has not known the irony + Of fate? + + We enter it when we are born, + Our colors bright. Full soon they fade. + We leave it "done up," old and worn, + And frayed; + + Frayed round the edges, worn and thin-- + Life is a rough old linen slinger. + Who has not lost a button in + Life's wringer? + + With other linen we are tubbed, + With other linen often tangled; + In open court we then are scrubbed, + And mangled. + + Some take a gloss of happiness + The hardest wear can not diminish; + Others, alas! get a "domes- + Tic finish." + + + + +WISDOM IN A CAPSULE + + "_If she be not so to me._ + _What care I how fair she be?_" + --THE SHEPHERD'S RESOLUTION. + + + Here we have in this truism + Mr. James's pragmatism. + Test your troubles day by day + With it, and they fly away. + Is the weather boiling hot, + Hot enough to boil a pot-- + If it be not so to me, + What care I how hot it be? + + Take a pudding made of bread; + Much against it has been said; + But it does not lack defense-- + Many say it is immense. + Be it damned or be it blessed, + Let us make the acid test-- + If it be not so to me, + What care I how good it be? + + So with every blooming thing + That has power to soothe or sting; + Ships or shoes or sealing wax, + Carrots, comets, carpet tacks. + Every philosophic need + Covered by this capsule creed: + If it be not so to me, + {good} + What care I how {bad} it be? + + + + +THE LAND OF RAINBOW'S-END + + + Young Faintheart lay on a wayside bank, + Full prey to doubts and fears, + When he did espy come trudging by + A Pilgrim bent with years. + His back was bowed and his step was slow, + But his faith no years could bend, + As he eagerly pressed to the rose-lit west + And the Land of Rainbow's-End. + + "_It's ho, for a pack!" sang the Pilgrim gray,_ + "_And a stout oak staff for friend,_ + _And it's over the hills and far away_ + _To the Land of Rainbow's-End!_" + + "Thou'rt old," young Faintheart cried, "thou'rt old, + And there's many a league to go; + And still thou seekest the pot of gold + At the farther end of the bow." + "I am old, I am old," said the Pilgrim gray, + "But ever my way I'll wend + To the rose-lit hills of the dying day + And the Land of Rainbow's-End." + + "Come, rest thee, rest thee by my side; + Give o'er thy doomsday quest." + "Have done, have done!" the Pilgrim cried: + "The light wanes in the west. + The road is long, but I shall not tire; + I will lay my bones, God send, + By the beautiful City of Heart's Desire, + In the Land of Rainbow's-End." + + "_Then it's ho, for a pack!" sang the Pilgrim gray,_ + "_And a stout oak staff for friend,_ + _And it's over the hills and far away_ + _To the Land of Rainbow's-End._" + + + + +A BALLADE OF A BORE + + + When the weather is warm and the glass running high + And the odors of Araby tincture the air; + When the sun is aloft in a white and blue sky, + And the morrow holds promise of falling as fair;-- + In spring or in summer I'm free to declare, + And the same I am equally free to maintain, + One person has power my peace to impair: + The man who tells limericks gives me a pain. + + When the foliage flushes and summer is by, + And russet and red are the popular wear; + When the song of the woodland is changed to a sigh + And the horn of the hunter is heard by the hare;-- + In the season of autumn I'm free to declare, + And my language is lucid and simple and plain, + One person's acquaintance I freely forswear: + The man with the limerick gives me a pain. + + When the landscape is iced and the snow feathers fly, + When the fields are all bald and the trees are all bare, + And the prospect which nature presents to the eye + Is chiefly distinguished by glitter and glare;-- + In the season of winter I'm free to declare + That the limerick person is flat and inane. + This person, I think, we could easily spare: + The man who tells limericks gives me a pain. + + + _L'Envoi_ + + From New Year to Christmas I'm free to declare + That, for ways that are dull and for verse that is vain, + One bore is peculiar--and not at all rare: + The man with the limerick gives me a pain. + + + + +THE POLE + + (_Tune_: "_Carcassonne._") + + + I'm an old man, I'm eighty-three, + I seldom get away; + My work, it keeps me close at home-- + I have no time for play. + If it were not for the journey back, + That so fatigues a soul, + I'd like to take a little trip-- + I never have seen the Pole. + + 'Tis said that in that favored place + There is no heat or drouth; + And that, whichever way you turn, + You're looking south-by-south. + Some say there is a flagstaff there, + Some say there is a hole. + Think of the years that I have lived + And never have seen the Pole! + + The parson a hundred times is right-- + We ought to stay at home. + I'm an old man, I'm eighty-three, + I have no call to roam. + And yet if I could somehow find + The time--God bless my soul!-- + I think that I would die content + If I only could see the Pole! + + My brother has seen Baraboo, + If so he speak the truth; + My wife and son they both have been + As far as to Duluth; + My cousin cruised to Eastport, Maine, + On a ship that carried coal; + I've been as far as Mackinac-- + But I never have seen the Pole! + + + + +SH-H-H-H! + + "_Mr. Mabie is now reading the summer books._" + --THE LADIES' HOME JOURNAL. + + + What shall we buy for a summer's day? + What is good reading and what is not? + Mabie will tell us--we wait his say; + For Mabie alone can know what's what. + Meanwhile the world is as still as death; + Mute inquiry is in men's looks; + Everybody is holding his breath-- + Mabie is reading the summer books. + + The suns are at pause in the cosmic race; + The mills of the gods have ceased to grind; + The only sound that is heard in space + Is the rhythmic clicking of Mabie's mind. + Elsewhere silence, or near or far-- + Chattering Pleiads or babbling brooks; + For the whisper has passed from star to star: + "Mabie is reading the summer books." + + + + +THE VANISHED FAY + + + Tell me, whither do they go, + All the Little Ones we know? + They "grow up" before our eyes, + And the fairy spirit flies. + Time the Piper, pied and gay-- + Does he lure them all away? + Do they follow after him, + Over the horizon's brim? + + Daughter's growing fair to see, + Slim and straight as popple tree. + Still a child in heart and head, + But--the fairy spirit's fled. + As a fay at break of day, + Little One has flown away, + On the stroke of fairy bell-- + When and whither, who can tell? + + Still her childish fancies weave + In the Land of Make Believe; + And her love of magic lore + Is as avid as before. + Dollies big and dollies small + Still are at her beck and call. + But for all this pleasant play, + Little One has gone away. + + Whither, whither have they flown, + All the fays we all have known? + To what "faery lands forlorn" + On the sound of elfin horn? + As she were a woodland sprite, + Little One has vanished quite. + Waves the wand of Oberon: + Cock has crowed--the fay is gone! + + + + +AUTUMN REVERY + + + When the leaves are falling crimson + And the worm is off its feed, + When the rag weed and the jimson + Have agreed to go to seed, + When the air in forest bowers + Has a tang like Rhenish wine, + And to breathe it for two hours + Makes you feel you'd like to dine, + When the frost is on the pumpkin + And the corn is in the shock, + And the cheek of country bumpkin + City faces seems to mock,-- + When you come across a ditty + (Like this one) of Autumn's charm, + Then it's pleasant in the city, + Where they keep the houses warm. + + + + +THE RECOIL + + + I met a friend of lofty brow-- + As lofty as the laws allow. + I said to him, "You'll know, I'm sure-- + What's doing now in litrychoor?" + Said he: "I hate the very name; + I'm weary of the blooming game. + I read, whenever I have time, + Something by Phillips Oppenheim." + + "Cheer up!" said I. "What's new in Art?-- + You drift around the picture mart. + What do you think of Mr. Blum?-- + Some say he's great, some say he's bum." + "I'm strong for Blum," my friend replied; + "His pictures are so queer and pied. + I wouldn't change them if I could; + I'd rather have things queer than good." + + I spoke of this, I spoke of that, + But everything was stale and flat. + Said I, "You once adored the chaste, + You used to have such perfect taste." + "Good taste," he wailed, "brings but distress, + 'Tis an affliction, nothing less; + While those whose taste is punk and vile + Are happy all the blessed while." + + "Oh, take a brace, old man!" said I. + "Let me prescribe a nip of rye, + And then we'll go to see a play; + I've two for Barrymore to-day." + "No, no," he groaned; "'twould be a bore, + With all respect to Barrymore." + Said I: "Then whither shall we go?" + Said he: "A moving picture show." + + + + +THE CORONATION + + _Lang Syne._ + + + Twas a holy mystery + In the days of chivalry. + More than pageant was the Rite + In the sight of clod and knight. + Sword and Scepter, Orb and Rod, + Faith in self and faith in God; + Oaths of Homage fiercely flung, + Faith in heart and faith in tongue;-- + Gone the things that meaning gave + "With the old world to the grave." + + + 1911. + + Knightly faith was born to fade: + Now the Rite is masquerade. + Now a cockney paladin + Winds a penny horn of tin. + Where in reverence heads were bowed + Surges now a careless crowd; + "Muddied oafs" and "flanneled fools" + Jostle "Yanks" with camping stools;-- + Gone the things that meaning gave + "With the old world to the grave." + + + + +SONS OF BATTLE + + + Let us have peace, and Thy blessing, + Lord of the Wind and the Rain, + When we shall cease from oppressing, + From all injustice refrain; + When we hate falsehood and spurn it; + When we are men among men. + Let us have peace when we earn it-- + Never an hour till then. + + Let us have rest in Thy garden, + Lord of the Rock and the Green, + When there is nothing to pardon, + When we are whitened and clean. + Purge us of skulking and treason, + Help us to put them away. + We shall have rest in Thy season; + Till then the heat of the fray. + + Let us have peace in Thy pleasure, + Lord of the Cloud and the Sun; + Grant to us aeons of leisure + When the long battle is done. + Now we have only begun it; + Stead us!--we ask nothing more. + Peace--rest--but not till we've won it-- + Never an hour before. + + + + +MY LADY NEW YORK + + + O siren of tresses peroxide, + And heart that is hard as a flint, + Blue orbs of complacency ox-eyed, + That light at the mark of the mint, + Ears only for jingle of joybells, + A conscience as light as a cork-- + You are wedded to follies and foibles, + My Lady New York. + + True, you have (not enough, tho', to hurt you) + Your moods and your manners austere; + You have visions and vapors of virtue, + And "reform" for a time has your ear; + But of chaste Puritanic embraces + You soon have enough and to spare, + And then you kick over the traces, + And virtue forswear. + + So go it, milady! Foot fleetly + The paths that are primrose and gay; + Abandon your fancy completely + To follies and fads of the day. + "Reform" is a something that throttles + The joys of the pace that's intense-- + Smash hearts, reputations, and bottles, + And ding the expense! + + + + +BALLADE OF THE PIPESMOKE CARRY + + + The Ancient Wood is white and still, + Over the pines the bleak wind blows, + Voiceless the brook and mute the rill, + Silence too where the river flows. + Still I catch the scent of the rose + And hear the white-throat's roundelay, + Footing the trail that Memory knows, + Over the hills and far away. + + I have only a pipe to fill: + Weaving, wreathing rings disclose + A trail that flings straight up the hill, + Straight as an arrow's flight. For those + Who fare by night the pole star glows + Above the mountain top. By day + A blasted pine the pathway shows + Over the hills and far away. + + The Ancient Wood is white and chill, + But what know I of wintry woes? + The Pipesmoke Trail is mine at will-- + Naught may hinder and none oppose. + Such the power the pipe bestows, + When the wilderness calls I may + Tramping go, as I smoke and doze, + Over the hills and far away. + + + _L'Envoi_ + + Deep in the canyons lie the snows: + They shall vanish if I but say-- + If my fancy a-roving goes + Over the hills and far away. + + + + +POST-VACATIONAL + + + You have heard that mildewed story, + That tradition horned and hoary, + That it wearies one to roam, + Past a doubt; + That one vainly on vacation + Tries to find recuperation, + Till he hunts his happy home + Tuckered out. + + That abroad there is no comfort, + That a man must journey home for 't-- + You have heard that whiskered wheeze, + Have you not? + 'Tis a commonplace to cavil + At the "luxuries of travel," + For in travel lack of ease + Is your lot. + + You have heard that gag historic; + It was often sprung by Yorick; + It's as old as Noah's ark + And its crew. + It's the commonest (at basis) + Of all common commonplaces;-- + So I merely would remark + That--it's true. + + + + +THE BARDS WE QUOTE + + + Whene'er I quote I seldom take + From bards whom angel hosts environ; + But usually some damned rake + Like Byron. + + Of Whittier I think a lot, + My fancy to him often turns; + But when I quote 'tis some such sot + As Burns. + + I'm very fond of Bryant, too, + He brings to me the woodland smelly; + Why should I quote that "village roo," + P. Shelley? + + I think Felicia Hemans great, + I dote upon Jean Ingelow; + Yet quote from such a reprobate + As Poe. + + To quote from drunkard or from rake + Is not a proper thing to do. + I find the habit hard to break, + Don't you? + + + + +THE PERSISTENT POET + + + "I remember, I remember"-- + Something special? Not a bit. + But, you see, this is November, + And Remember rimes with it. + + + + +HENCE THESE RIMES + + + Tho' my verse is exact, + Tho' it flawlessly flows, + As a matter of fact + I would rather write prose. + + While my harp is in tune, + And I sing like the birds, + I would really as soon + Write in straightaway words. + + Tho' my songs are as sweet + As Apollo e'er piped, + And my lines are as neat + As have ever been typed, + + I would rather write prose-- + I prefer it to rime; + It's less hard to compose, + And it takes me less time. + + "Well, if that be the case," + You are moved to inquire, + "Why appropriate space + For extolling your lyre?" + + I can only reply + That this form I elect + 'Cause it pleases the eye, + And I like the effect. + + + + +THE OLD ROLLER TOWEL + + + How dear to this heart is the old roller towel + Which fond recollection presents to my view. + It hung like a pall on the wall of the washroom, + And gathered the grime of the linotype crew. + The sink and the soap and the lye that stood by it + Remain; but the towel is gone past recall. + O tempora! Also, O mores! Sic transit + The time-honored towel that creaked on the wall. + The grimy old towel, the slimy old towel, + The tacky old towel that hung on the wall. + + Now hangs in the washroom a huge roll of paper-- + The old printer's towel we'll never see more. + The new (see directions) is "used like a blotter," + And crumpled and scattered in wads on the floor. + And often, when drying my hands in this fashion, + The tears of remembrance will gather and fall, + And I sigh (though I'm not what you'd call sentimental) + For the classic old towel that propped up the wall. + The sainted old towel, the tainted old towel, + The gooey old towel that hung on the wall. + + + + +UP CULTURE'S HILL + + (_The confession of a club lady._) + + + The path up Culture's Hill is steep, + And weary is the way, + With very little time for sleep + And none at all for play. + + She that this toilsome task essays + Must never bat an eye, + But keep her firm, unwavering gaze + Forever fixed on high. + + For should she ever careless grow, + And let her glances stray + Down to the shallow vale below, + Where Pleasure's Court holds sway-- + + Lured by the thrice forbidden fruit, + She'd lose her equipoise, + And like a wayward Pleiad shoot + Down to forbidden joys. + + I've been but short time on the road, + My courage still is strong; + Yet often have I felt the goad + That hurries me along. + + I've fallen over Maeterlinck, + And bumped myself to tears, + Burne-Jones's pictures made me blink, + And Wagner hurts my ears. + + I've stumbled over Ibsen humps + And over Rembrandt rocks, + I've got some fierce Debussy bumps, + Some awful Nietsche knocks. + + I'm wearied by the ceaseless quest, + I'm wayworn and footsore. + I've Culture till I cannot rest-- + Yet still I climb for more. + + But oh, when all is done and said, + Upon some manly breast + I'd like to lay my tired head + And take a good long rest. + + + + +THE PASSIONAL NOTE + + "_The erotic motive is almost entirely absent from American poetry. Even + our younger American poets are more profoundly interested in the why and + wherefore of things than in the girdle of Helen or the gleaming limbs of + 'the white implacable Aphrodite.'_" + --MR. SYLVESTER VIERECK. + + + In the years of my season erotic, + When Eros was lord of my days, + And I loved, with a love idiotic, + The Mabels and Madges and Mays; + When a purple and passionate lyric + Would sing all the night in my head,-- + I yearned, like the young Mr. Viereck, + For everything red. + + I doted on poems of passion, + And put my own pantings in rime, + To celebrate, after a fashion, + The damsels who took up my time. + I fed upon Swinburne, believe me, + I feasted on Byron and Burns, + And couplets from Sappho would give me + Most exquisite turns. + + How apparent it was that our songbirds-- + Our Emerson, Lowell, and Payne, + And Bryant and Drake--were the wrong birds + To pipe to the passional strain. + There was, in a word, nothing doing + In all of the rimes that they wrote; + They seemed to be always pursuing + The ethical note. + + What truth, I inquired, was so mighty, + What ethical thing was so rare, + As the limbs of the white Aphrodite + Or a strand of her heaven-kissed hair! + The girdle of red-headed Helen + Outweighed all the wherefores and whys, + And Wisdom elected to dwell in + A pair of blue eyes. + + _Now_ lyrical sizzlers and scorchers + Fail somehow to set me ablaze; + No longer are exquisite tortures + Provoked by these passionate lays. + I've tinned--and I can't say I've missed 'em-- + The poems of passion and sin. + _Some_ things one gets out of one's system, + And other things _in_. + + + + +_L'ENVOI._ + + + "_Go, little book," as Poet Southey said;_ + _You might be better and you might be worse._ + _With just one word of warning you are sped:_ + _Remember, you're not Poetry--you're Verse._ + + + * * * * * + + + + +Index + + Always 82 + Autumn Revery 104 + Ballad of Misfits 63 + Ballade of a Bore 97 + Ballade of the Cannery 86 + Ballade of Cap and Bells 76 + Ballade of Death and Time 28 + Ballade of Irresolution 68 + Ballade of the Pipesmoke Carry 110 + Ballade of Spring's Unrest 22 + Ballade of Wool-Gathering 48 + Bards We Quote, The 113 + Bread Puddynge 42 + Breakfast Food Family, The 19 + Coronation, The 107 + Day of the Comet, The 66 + Dinosaur, The 75 + Dornroeschen 34 + "Farewell" 36 + Gentle Doctor Brown 78 + Hence These Rimes 115 + Horace: A Note from Mr. Flaccus 54 + I. To Aristius Fuscus 56 + II. Duetto 57 + III. To Pyrrha 59 + IV. To Aristius Fuscus 60 + V. To Sylvia 62 + How They Might Have Brought + the Good News 73 + In the Gallery 80 + In the Lamplight 17 + Kaiser's Farewell, The 30 + Land of Rainbow's-End, The 95 + Laundry of Life, The 93 + Lay of St. Ambrose 9 + Miss Legion 27 + Modern Mariner, The 84 + Morning After, The 67 + Musca Domestica 45 + My Lady New York 109 + Old Roller Towel, The 116 + Oriental Apology, An 65 + Pandean Pipedreams 88 + Passional Note, The 119 + Passionate Professor, The 47 + Persistent Poet, The 114 + Pole, The 99 + Post-Vacational 112 + Recoil, The 105 + Reform in Our Town 38 + Rime of the Clark Street Cable 25 + Sh-h-h-h! 101 + Simple, Heartfelt Lay, The 53 + Sons of Battle 108 + To a Tall Spruce 14 + To Lillian Russell 32 + To the Sun 50 + To What Base Uses 70 + "Treasure Island" 21 + Up Culture's Hill 117 + Vanished Fay, The 102 + When It Is Hot 51 + When the Sirup's on the Flapjack 41 + Why? 24 + Wisdom in a Capsule 94 + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's A line-o'-verse or two, by Bert Leston Taylor + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A LINE-O'-VERSE OR TWO *** + +***** This file should be named 30038.txt or 30038.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/3/0/0/3/30038/ + +Produced by Bryan Ness, Anne Storer and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This +file was produced from images generously made available +by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e54c29d --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #30038 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/30038) diff --git a/old/30038-8.txt b/old/30038-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9775b6b --- /dev/null +++ b/old/30038-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,3442 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of A line-o'-verse or two, by Bert Leston Taylor + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: A line-o'-verse or two + +Author: Bert Leston Taylor + +Release Date: September 20, 2009 [EBook #30038] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A LINE-O'-VERSE OR TWO *** + + + + +Produced by Bryan Ness, Anne Storer and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This +file was produced from images generously made available +by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) + + + + + + Transcriber's Note: + [=XVII] = XVII with a line above. + + + * * * * * + + + + + 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! + + + _L'Envoi_ + + 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? + + + _L'Envoi_ + + 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! + + + _L'Envoi_ + + 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 + +DUETTO + + "_Donec gratus eram._" + + + HORACE: + + What time my Lydia owned me lord + No Persian king had much on Horace; + And when you blew my bed and board + I was some sad, believe me, Mawruss. + + LYDIA: + + What time you loved no other She, + Before this Chloë person signed you, + I flourished like a green bay tree; + Now I'm the Girl You Left Behind You. + + HORACE: + + This Chloë dame that takes my eye + Has so peculiar an allurance + I would not hesitate to die + If she could cop my life insurance. + + LYDIA: + + Well, as for that, I know a gent + With whom it's some delight to dally. + With me he makes an awful dent; + I'd perish once or twice for Cally. + + HORACE: + + Suppose our former love should go + Into a new de luxe edition? + Suppose I tie a can to Chlo, + And let you play your old position? + + LYDIA: + + Why, then, you cork, you butterfly, + You sweet, philandering, perjured villain, + With you I'd love to live and die, + Tho' Cally boy were twice as killin'. + + +III + +TO PYRRHA + + "_Quis multa gracilis._" + + + What young tin whistle gent, + Bedaubed with barber's scent,-- + What cheapskate waits on you + To woo, + O Pyrrha? + + For whom the puff and rat + And transformation that + You bought a year ago + Or so, + O Pyrrha? + + Peeved? Not a bit. Not I + I'm sorry for the guy. + He draws a lovely lime + This time, + O Pyrrha! + + I've dipped. The wet ain't fine. + Hung on the votive line + My duds. The gods can see + I'm free. + Eh, Pyrrha! + + +IV + +TO ARISTIUS FUSCUS + + "_My sweetly-smiling, sweetly-speaking Lalage._" + + + Fuscus, take a tip from me: + This here job's no bed of roses, + Not the cinch it seems to be, + Not the pipe that one supposes. + What care I, tho', if I may + Lallygag with Lalage. + + Every day there's ink to spill, + Tho' I may not feel like working. + Every day a hole to fill; + One must plug it--there's no shirking. + Oh, that I might all the day + Lallygag with Lalage! + + People say, "Gee! what a snap, + Turning paragraphs and verses. + He's the band on Fortune's cap, + Gets a barrel of ses-_terces_." + Let them gossip, while I play + Hide and seek with Lalage. + + People hand me out advice: + "Hod, you're doing too much drivel. + Write us something sweet and nice. + Stow the satire, chop the frivol." + But we have the rent to pay, + Lalage; eh, Lalage? + + Ladies shy the saving sense + Write me patronizing letters; + And there are the writing gents, + Always out to knock their betters. + What cares Flaccus if he may + Lallygag with Lalage! + + No, old top, the writing lay's + Not a bed of sweet geranium. + Brickbats mingle with bouquets + Shied at my devoted cranium. + Does it peeve yours truly? Nay. + Nothing can--with Lalage. + + Paste this, Fuscus, in your hat: + Not a pesky thing can peeve me. + Take it, too, from Horace flat, + She's some gal, is Lal, believe me. + So I coin this word to-day, + "Lallygag"--from Lalage. + + +V + +TO SYLVIA + + + Were I on the Latin lay, + Were I turning Odes to-day, + You would draw a gem from me, + Little maid of mystery! + + In an Ode I'd love to spout you; + I am simply bug about you. + That's the way!--the fairest peach + Is the one that's out of reach. + + I have toasted in my time + Many a peach (and many a lime), + All of them, I must confess, + Lacking your elusiveness. + + Lalage, my well known flame, + Was considerable dame; + Likewise Lydia and Phyllis, + Chloë, Pyrrha, Amaryllis. + + Syl, if you had lived when they did + You'd have had those damsels faded. + (That will give you, girl, some notion + Of your Flaccus's devotion.) + + Yep. If I were doing Odes + In my quondam favorite modes, + With your image to qui-vive me + I'd tear off some Ode, believe me! + + + + +A BALLAD OF MISFITS + + "_Chacun son métier:_ + _Les vaches seront bien gardées._" + --LA FONTAINE. + + + With skill for doing this or that + The Lord each man endows. + Some men are best for pushing pens, + And some for pushing plows; + And oh, the many many more + That should be tending cows! + _Chacun son métier:_ + _Les vaches bien gardées._ + + The ivory-headed serving maid + Who poses as a "cook," + She hath a very bovine brain, + She hath a bovine look. + Oh, prithee, lead her to the kine, + Oh, prithee get the hook! + _Chacun son métier:_ + _Les vaches bien gardées._ + + The papering-and-painting gents + Whose work is never done, + Who mess around your house until + You pine to pull a gun, + Who take three mortal days to do + What should be done in one;-- + _Chacun son métier:_ + _Les vaches bien gardées._ + + The pestilential "pianiste," + The screechy singer too, + The writer of the stupid book + And of the dull review, + The actor who is greatest when + He takes his exit cue;-- + _Chacun son métier:_ + _Les vaches bien gardées._ + + If every one were set to do + The task for which he's fit, + The writer of these trifling lines + Might also have to quit. + At tending cows the undersigned + Might make an awful hit. + _Chacun son métier:_ + _Les vaches bien gardées._ + + + + +AN ORIENTAL APOLOGY + + + When the hour was come Prince Chun arose, + And balanced a shoestring on his nose. + "From this some notion you will get," + Said he, "of China's deep regret." + + Now balancing upon his ear + A stein of foaming lager beer, + "This attitude," said he, "reveals + How very sorry China feels." + + Then spinning top-like on his cue, + "I can't begin to tell to you + The deep remorse we suffer for + The death of your Ambassador." + + Next, placing on his cue a plate, + He said, as it 'gan to gyrate: + "Nothing that's happened in his reign + Has caused my Emperor so much pain." + + Upon his back he did declare, + While juggling five balls in the air, + "This attitude--the humblest yet-- + Expresses personal regret." + + Last, spreading out a deck of cards-- + "Accept my Emperor's regards. + As our intentions were well meant, + Pray overlook the incident." + + + + +THE DAY OF THE COMET + + (_May 18, 1910._) + + + Here it is--Eighteenth of May! + Dawneth now the fatal day + When we take the awful veil + Of the fearsome comet's tail. + Vale, Earth! + + What will happen, heaven knows; + We can't even guess, suppose, + Hazard, speculate, surmise, + Hint, conjecture, theorize, + Or divine. + + Will we merely drill a hole + Through the trailing aureole? + Or will the prediction dire + Of a world destroyed by fire + Be fulfilled? + + Shall we crook our knees and pray + Counting this the Judgment Day? + Or preserve a cosmic ca'm, + Caring not a cosmic dam + What may come? + + There's the rub. If we but knew + We should know just what to do. + Yes is just as good as No + To all questions. Here we go!-- + Hang on tight! + + + + +THE MORNING AFTER + + (_May 19, 1910._) + + + Here we are, friends, whole and hale + In or through the comet's tail; + And as far as we can say, + Matters are about as they + Were before. + + Everything is much the same + As before the comet came. + Grasses grow and waters run-- + Nothing new beneath the sun-- + Same old sphere. + + Life is drab or life is gay, + Thorny path or primrose way; + All is common, all is strange; + "Down the ringing grooves of change" + Spins the world. + + Change but of a humdrum kind. + What we vaguely had in mind + Was some new sensation or + Thrill we never felt before. + Vain desire! + + Nothing's added to the stock: + Same old shiver, same old shock. + Round about the sun we'll go + In the same old status quo. + Awful bore! + + + + +A BALLADE OF IRRESOLUTION + + + Isolde, in the story old, + When Ireland's coast the vessel nears, + And Death were fairer to behold, + To Tristan gives "the cup that clears." + Straight to their fate the helmsman steers: + Unknowing, each the potion sips.... + Comes echoing through the ghostly years + "Give me the philtre of thy lips!" + + Ah, that like Tristan I were bold! + My soul into the future peers, + And passion flags, and heart grows cold, + And sicklied resolution veers. + I see the Sister of the Shears + Who sits fore'er and snips, and snips.... + Still falls upon my inward ears, + "Give me the philtre of thy lips!" + + Hero of lovers, largely soul'd! + Imagination thee enspheres + With song-enchanted wood and wold + And casements fronting magic meres. + Tristan, thy large example cheers + The faint of heart; thy story grips!-- + My soul again that echo hears, + "Give me the philtre of thy lips!" + + + _L'Envoi_ + + Sweet sorceress, resolve my fears! + He stakes all who Elysium clips. + What tho' the fruit be tares and tears!-- + Give me the philtre of thy lips! + + + + +TO WHAT BASE USES! + + "_Mrs. O---- now takes her daily dip at 5 in the afternoon, instead + of in the morning._" + --NEWPORT ITEM. + + + This is the forest primeval. + + This the spruce with the glorious plume + That grew in the forest primeval. + + This is the lumberman big and browned + Who felled the spruce tree to the ground + That grew in the forest primeval. + + This is the man with the paper mill + Who bought the pulp that paid the bill + Of the husky lumberjack who chopped + The lofty spruce and its branches lopped + That grew in the forest primeval. + + This is the publisher bland and rich + Who bought the roll of paper which + Was made by the man with the paper mill + Who bought the pulp that paid the bill + Of the lumberjack with the murderous ax + Who felled the spruce with lusty hacks + That grew in the forest primeval. + + This is the youth with the writing tool + Who does the daily Newport drool + That helps to make the publisher rich + Who ordered the stock of paper which + Was made by the man with the paper mill + Who bought the pulp that paid the bill + Of the husky Swede in the Joseph's coat + Who swung his ax and the tall spruce smote + That grew in the forest primeval. + + This is the lady far from slim + Who changed the hour of her daily swim + And excited the youth with the writing tool + Who does the Newport drivel and drool + For the prosperous publisher bland and fat + Who ordered the virgin paper that + Was made by the man with the paper mill + Who bought the pulp that paid the bill + Of Ole Oleson the husky Swede + Who did a foul and darksome deed + When he swung his ax with vigor and vim + And smote the spruce tree tall and trim + That grew in the forest primeval. + + This is the shop girl Mag or Liz + Who daily devours what news there is + Concerning the lady far from slim + Who changed the time of her ocean swim + And excited the youth with the writing tool + Who does the daily Newport drool + For the pursy publisher bland and rich + Who bought the innocent paper which + Was made by the man with the paper mill + Who bought the pulp that paid the bill + Of the Swedish jack who slew the spruce + That came to a most ignoble use-- + The lofty spruce with the glorious plume-- + The giant spruce that used to loom + In the heart of the forest primeval. + + + + +HOW THEY MIGHT HAVE BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS + + + We sprang to the motor, I, Joris and Dirck. + I snapped on my goggles and got to my work. + "Hi, there!" yelled the cop in the helmet of white; + "Let her flicker!" said Joris, and into the night, + With a sneer at the speed laws, we hurtled hell-bent + To carry to Aix the good tidings from Ghent. + + The going was poor, we expected delay, + And the usual livestock obstructed the way. + At Boom we ran over a large yellow dog, + At Düffeld a chicken, at Mecheln a hog; + What else, we'd no time to slow down to inquire; + At Aerschot, confound it! we blew out a tire. + + I jacked up the axle and ripped off the shoe, + And snapped on an extra that promised to do. + "All aboard!" I exclaimed as I cranked the machine, + But something was wrong with the curst gasoline. + "By Hasselt!" Dirck groaned, "We'll be half a day late; + We ought to have sent the good tidings by freight." + + False prophet! I tinkered a minute or two + And again we were off like "a bolt from the blue." + We ate up the hills at a forty-mile clip, + And skidded the turns like the snap of a whip, + Till we dashed into Aix and were pinched by a cop + For failing to slow when commanded to stop. + + "Now, wouldn't that frost you!" said Joris, but we + When we told the glad tidings were instantly free. + The Mayor himself paid the ten dollars' fine, + And blew us to dinner with six kinds of wine, + Which (the burgesses voted, by common consent) + Was no more than their due that brought good news from Ghent. + + + + +THE DINOSAUR + + + Behold the mighty Dinosaur, + Famous in prehistoric lore, + Not only for his weight and strength + But for his intellectual length. + You will observe by these remains + The creature had two sets of brains-- + One in his head (the usual place), + The other at his spinal base. + Thus he could reason _a priori_ + As well as _a posteriori_. + No problem bothered him a bit; + He made both head and tail of it. + So wise he was, so wise and solemn, + Each thought filled just a spinal column. + If one brain found the pressure strong + It passed a few ideas along; + If something slipped his forward mind + 'Twas rescued by the one behind; + And if in error he was caught + He had a saving afterthought. + As he thought twice before he spoke + He had no judgments to revoke; + For he could think, without congestion, + Upon both sides of every question. + + Oh, gaze upon this model beast, + Defunct ten million years at least. + + + + +A BALLADE OF CAP AND BELLS + + + When as a dewdrop joy enspheres + This pleasant planet, arched with blue, + When every prospect charms and cheers, + And all the world is fair to view-- + Who does not envy (have not you?) + That mortal, by Thalia kissed, + Who plies, in plumes of cockatoo, + The blithesome trade of humorist? + + But when the wind of fortune veers, + And blue-white skies turn leaden hue, + When every pleasant prospect blears + And all the weary world's askew-- + Who then would envy (if he knew) + Jack Point the jester, glum and trist; + Or ply, tho' first of all the crew, + The dismal trade of humorist? + + Ah, jocund trifles writ in tears, + And merry stanzas steeped in rue! + When all the world in drab appears + The fool must still in motley woo. + Tho' bitter be the cud he chew, + Still must he grind his foolish grist; + Still must he ply, the long day through, + The tragic trade of humorist! + + + _L'Envoi_ + + Lady of Tears, what pains perdue + The heart and soul of him may twist + Who doth in cap and bells pursue + The glad sad trade of humorist! + + + + +GENTLE DOCTOR BROWN + + + It was a gentle sawbones and his name was Doctor Brown. + His auto was the terror of a small suburban town. + His practice, quite amazing for so trivial a place, + Consisted of the victims of his homicidal pace. + + So constant was his practice and so high his motor's gear + That at knocking down pedestrians he never had a peer; + But it must, in simple justice, be as truly written down + That no man could be more thoughtful than gentle Doctor Brown. + + Whatever was the errand on which Doctor Brown was bent + He'd stop to patch a victim up and never charged a cent. + He'd always pause, whoever 'twas he happened to run down: + A humane and a thoughtful man was gentle Doctor Brown. + + "How fortunate," he would observe, "how fortunate 'twas I + That knocked you galley-west and heard your wild and wailing cry. + There _are_ some heartless wretches who would leave you here alone, + Without a sympathetic ear to catch your dying moan. + + "Such callousness," said Doctor Brown, "I cannot comprehend; + To fathom such indifference I simply don't pretend. + One ought to do his duty, and I never am remiss. + A simple word of thanks is all I ask. Here, swallow this!" + + Then, reaching in the tonneau, he'd unpack his little kit, + And perform an operation that was workmanlike and fit. + "You may survive," said Doctor Brown; "it's happened once or twice. + If not, you've had the benefit of competent advice." + + Oh, if all our motormaniacs were equally humane, + How little bitterness there'd be, or reason to complain! + How different our point of view if we were ridden down + By lunatics as thoughtful as gentle Doctor Brown! + + + + +IN THE GALLERY + + + Weirder than the pictures + Are the folks who come + With their owlish strictures-- + Telling why they're bum. + Of all lines of babble + This one has the call: + Picture gallery gabble + Is the best of all. + + Literary fluffle + Never, never cloys; + Much has Mrs. Guffle + Added to my joys. + For that chitter-chatter + I delight to fall. + But the picture patter + Is the best of all. + + With the music highbrows + I delight to chat, + Elevating my brows + Over this and that. + Music tittle-tattle + Never fails to thrall. + But the picture prattle + Is the best of all. + + Sociologic rub-dub + I delight to hear; + Philosophic flub-dub + Titillates my ear. + Lovelier yet the spiffle + In the picture hall; + For the picture piffle + Is the best of all. + + Weirder than the pictures + Are the folks who stand + Passing owlish strictures, + Catalogue in hand. + Hear the bunk they babble + Under every wall. + Yes. The gallery gabble + Is the best of all. + + + + +ALWAYS + + "_Il y a tous les jours quelque dam chose._" + --ABELARD TO HELOISE. + + + When Mrs. Mead was full of groans, + When symptoms of all sorts assailed her, + She sent for bluff old Doctor Jones, + And told him all the things that ailed her. + It took her nearly half the day, + And when she finished out the string-- + "Ye-e-s, Mrs. Mead," drawled Doctor J., + "There's always some dam thing." + + I like the line. It's worth a ton + Of optimistic commonplaces. + It's tonic, it refreshes one, + It cheers, it stimulates, it braces. + It summarizes things so well; + It has the philosophic ring. + Has Kant or Hegel more to tell? + "There's always some dam thing." + + The dean of all the cheer-up school + Adjures sad hearts to cease repining, + And intimates that, as a rule, + The sun behind the cloud is shining. + "Into each life----" You know the rest; + No need to finish out the string. + Longfellow boiled might be expressed, + "There's always some dam thing." + + When things go wrong I do not read + The cheer-up poets, great or lesser. + To soothe my soul I do not need + The Neo-Thought of Mr. Dresser. + Sufficient for each working day, + With all the worries it may bring, + That helpful line by Doctor J., + "There's always some dam thing." + + + + +THE MODERN MARINER + + + A dry sheet and a lazy sea, + And a wind so far from fast + It barely floats the owner's flag + That flutters at the mast-- + That flutters at the mast, my boys; + So while the sky is free + Of cloud we'll take a yachtsman's chance + And venture out to sea. + + The aneroid has dropped a tenth! + Back, back across the bar + To a harbor snug, and a long cold drink, + And a big fat black cigar-- + A big fat black cigar, my boys; + While, on an even keel, + The Swedish chef out-chefs himself + In getting up a meal. + + Give me a soft and gentle wind, + A fleckless azure sky; + I care not for your "snoring breeze" + And dinners heaving high-- + And dinners heaving high, my boys, + Make no great hit with me; + So when the breeze begins to snore + We'll not put out to sea. + + There's laughter in yon beach hotel, + And summer girls a crowd; + And hark the music, mariners, + The band is piping loud! + The band is piping loud, my boys, + Bright eyes are flashing free. + Come, fly the owner's-absent flag + And join the revelry. + + + + +A BALLADE OF THE CANNERY + + + What of the phrases, long decayed, + Of paleologic pedigree, + Musty, moldy, frazzled, and frayed-- + A doddering, dusty company? + What shall be done with them? say we; + And east and west the people bawl, + Dump them into the Cannery!-- + Into the brine go one and all. + + "Grilled" and "lauded" and "scored" and "flayed," + "Common or garden variety," + "Wave of crime" and "reform crusade," + "Along these lines" and "it seems to me," + "Noted savant," "I fail to see," + The "groaning board" of the "banquet hall,"-- + Masonjar 'em in "ghoulish glee"-- + Into the brine go one and all. + + "Succulent bivalves," "trusty blade," + "Last analysis," "practical-ly," + "Lone highwayman" and "fusillade," + "Millionaire broker and clubman," "gee!" + "In reply to yours," "can such things be?" + "Sounded the keynote" or "trumpet call,"-- + Can 'em, pickle 'em, one, two, three-- + Into the brine go one and all. + + + _L'Envoi_ + + Under the spreading chestnut tree + Stands the Cannery, all too small. + The Canner a briny man is he, + And into the brine go one and all. + + + + +PANDEAN PIPEDREAMS + + (_Induced by smoking "Pagan Pickings."_) + + +I + + _This is something that I heard,_ + _As the fluting of a bird,_ + _On a certain drowsy day,_ + _When my pipe was under way._ + _I was weary of the town,_ + _And the going up and down;_ + _Sick of streets and sick of noise,--_ + _And I pined for Pagan joys._ + + Daphne, here it is July! + Just the month, my love, to fly + To a sylvan solitude + In the green and ancient wood. + We will trip it as we go + On the neo-Pagan toe, + Sunny days and starry nights, + Savoring the wild delights + Of a turbulent desire + That may set the wood on fire. + + We will play at hunt-the-fawn, + In the neo-Dorian dawn. + You will scamper through the brake, + And I'll follow in your wake-- + + As the young Apollo ran + In the piping days of Pan. + You'll escape me, without doubt, + For I'm just a trifle stout; + But, when I have lagged behind, + Waiting for my second wynde, + From some pretty hiding-place + Will emerge your laughing face; + I shall glimpse your eyes of blue, + Hear your merry "Peek-a-boo!" + + What to wear? The Pagan plan + Contemplates a coat of tan; + But I fear we shall require + Just a trifle more attire. + Bushes scratch and brambles sting; + Insect myriads are a-wing;-- + Heavens, how mosquitoes swarm + When the woodland air is warm. + (MEM: To take, when we elope, + Tanglewood Mosquito Dope.) + + Do you like the picture, dear? + Have you aught of doubt or fear? + Have you any criticism + Of my neo-Paganism? + If not, dearie, let us fly + To that passion-ripening sky, + Where our souls may have their fling, + And our every care take wing. + + _So the bird song fluted by,_ + _Like a vagrant summer sigh--_ + _Came, and passed, and was no more;_ + _And my pleasant dream was o'er._ + _For arose the wraith of Doubt;_ + _And I knew my pipe was out._ + + +II + + _This is something that befell_ + _When my pipe was drawing well--_ + _Something, rather, that I heard_ + _As the fluting of a bird._ + + Daphne, come and live with me + In a Pagan greenery. + Life will then be naught but play, + One long Pagan holiday. + We will play at hide and seek + In the alders by the creek; + Sport amid the cascade's smother. + Splashing water at each other;-- + Every moment pleasure wooing, + Every moment something doing. + If we talk, we'll talk of Love: + All its arguments we'll prove. + Such a mental rest you'll find. + Leave your intellect behind. + + Night will come, (for come it will, + 'Spite the fluting on the hill,) + And we'll pitch a cozy camp + Where it isn't quite so damp. + While you dry your hair and laze + By the campfire's violet blaze, + I will rob a balsam tree + To construct a house for thee. + What so dear as to be wooed + In a sylvan solitude? + + What so sweet as Pagan vows + Whispered in a house of boughs? + Pagan love's without alloy. + Pagan kisses never cloy. + Arms that cling in Pagan fashion + Never tire. A Pagan passion + Is the only kind I know + That outlives a winter's snow. + Daphne, Daphne, let us fly! + You're a Pagan--so am I. + + _So the fluting on the hill_ + _Passed and died, and all was still._ + _So the Pagan Pickings died,_ + _And I laid the pipe aside._ + + + + +THE LAUNDRY OF LIFE + + (_An Adventure in Sentiment._) + + + Life is a laundry in which we + Are ironed out, or soon or late. + Who has not known the irony + Of fate? + + We enter it when we are born, + Our colors bright. Full soon they fade. + We leave it "done up," old and worn, + And frayed; + + Frayed round the edges, worn and thin-- + Life is a rough old linen slinger. + Who has not lost a button in + Life's wringer? + + With other linen we are tubbed, + With other linen often tangled; + In open court we then are scrubbed, + And mangled. + + Some take a gloss of happiness + The hardest wear can not diminish; + Others, alas! get a "domes- + Tic finish." + + + + +WISDOM IN A CAPSULE + + "_If she be not so to me._ + _What care I how fair she be?_" + --THE SHEPHERD'S RESOLUTION. + + + Here we have in this truism + Mr. James's pragmatism. + Test your troubles day by day + With it, and they fly away. + Is the weather boiling hot, + Hot enough to boil a pot-- + If it be not so to me, + What care I how hot it be? + + Take a pudding made of bread; + Much against it has been said; + But it does not lack defense-- + Many say it is immense. + Be it damned or be it blessed, + Let us make the acid test-- + If it be not so to me, + What care I how good it be? + + So with every blooming thing + That has power to soothe or sting; + Ships or shoes or sealing wax, + Carrots, comets, carpet tacks. + Every philosophic need + Covered by this capsule creed: + If it be not so to me, + {good} + What care I how {bad} it be? + + + + +THE LAND OF RAINBOW'S-END + + + Young Faintheart lay on a wayside bank, + Full prey to doubts and fears, + When he did espy come trudging by + A Pilgrim bent with years. + His back was bowed and his step was slow, + But his faith no years could bend, + As he eagerly pressed to the rose-lit west + And the Land of Rainbow's-End. + + "_It's ho, for a pack!" sang the Pilgrim gray,_ + "_And a stout oak staff for friend,_ + _And it's over the hills and far away_ + _To the Land of Rainbow's-End!_" + + "Thou'rt old," young Faintheart cried, "thou'rt old, + And there's many a league to go; + And still thou seekest the pot of gold + At the farther end of the bow." + "I am old, I am old," said the Pilgrim gray, + "But ever my way I'll wend + To the rose-lit hills of the dying day + And the Land of Rainbow's-End." + + "Come, rest thee, rest thee by my side; + Give o'er thy doomsday quest." + "Have done, have done!" the Pilgrim cried: + "The light wanes in the west. + The road is long, but I shall not tire; + I will lay my bones, God send, + By the beautiful City of Heart's Desire, + In the Land of Rainbow's-End." + + "_Then it's ho, for a pack!" sang the Pilgrim gray,_ + "_And a stout oak staff for friend,_ + _And it's over the hills and far away_ + _To the Land of Rainbow's-End._" + + + + +A BALLADE OF A BORE + + + When the weather is warm and the glass running high + And the odors of Araby tincture the air; + When the sun is aloft in a white and blue sky, + And the morrow holds promise of falling as fair;-- + In spring or in summer I'm free to declare, + And the same I am equally free to maintain, + One person has power my peace to impair: + The man who tells limericks gives me a pain. + + When the foliage flushes and summer is by, + And russet and red are the popular wear; + When the song of the woodland is changed to a sigh + And the horn of the hunter is heard by the hare;-- + In the season of autumn I'm free to declare, + And my language is lucid and simple and plain, + One person's acquaintance I freely forswear: + The man with the limerick gives me a pain. + + When the landscape is iced and the snow feathers fly, + When the fields are all bald and the trees are all bare, + And the prospect which nature presents to the eye + Is chiefly distinguished by glitter and glare;-- + In the season of winter I'm free to declare + That the limerick person is flat and inane. + This person, I think, we could easily spare: + The man who tells limericks gives me a pain. + + + _L'Envoi_ + + From New Year to Christmas I'm free to declare + That, for ways that are dull and for verse that is vain, + One bore is peculiar--and not at all rare: + The man with the limerick gives me a pain. + + + + +THE POLE + + (_Tune_: "_Carcassonne._") + + + I'm an old man, I'm eighty-three, + I seldom get away; + My work, it keeps me close at home-- + I have no time for play. + If it were not for the journey back, + That so fatigues a soul, + I'd like to take a little trip-- + I never have seen the Pole. + + 'Tis said that in that favored place + There is no heat or drouth; + And that, whichever way you turn, + You're looking south-by-south. + Some say there is a flagstaff there, + Some say there is a hole. + Think of the years that I have lived + And never have seen the Pole! + + The parson a hundred times is right-- + We ought to stay at home. + I'm an old man, I'm eighty-three, + I have no call to roam. + And yet if I could somehow find + The time--God bless my soul!-- + I think that I would die content + If I only could see the Pole! + + My brother has seen Baraboo, + If so he speak the truth; + My wife and son they both have been + As far as to Duluth; + My cousin cruised to Eastport, Maine, + On a ship that carried coal; + I've been as far as Mackinac-- + But I never have seen the Pole! + + + + +SH-H-H-H! + + "_Mr. Mabie is now reading the summer books._" + --THE LADIES' HOME JOURNAL. + + + What shall we buy for a summer's day? + What is good reading and what is not? + Mabie will tell us--we wait his say; + For Mabie alone can know what's what. + Meanwhile the world is as still as death; + Mute inquiry is in men's looks; + Everybody is holding his breath-- + Mabie is reading the summer books. + + The suns are at pause in the cosmic race; + The mills of the gods have ceased to grind; + The only sound that is heard in space + Is the rhythmic clicking of Mabie's mind. + Elsewhere silence, or near or far-- + Chattering Pleiads or babbling brooks; + For the whisper has passed from star to star: + "Mabie is reading the summer books." + + + + +THE VANISHED FAY + + + Tell me, whither do they go, + All the Little Ones we know? + They "grow up" before our eyes, + And the fairy spirit flies. + Time the Piper, pied and gay-- + Does he lure them all away? + Do they follow after him, + Over the horizon's brim? + + Daughter's growing fair to see, + Slim and straight as popple tree. + Still a child in heart and head, + But--the fairy spirit's fled. + As a fay at break of day, + Little One has flown away, + On the stroke of fairy bell-- + When and whither, who can tell? + + Still her childish fancies weave + In the Land of Make Believe; + And her love of magic lore + Is as avid as before. + Dollies big and dollies small + Still are at her beck and call. + But for all this pleasant play, + Little One has gone away. + + Whither, whither have they flown, + All the fays we all have known? + To what "faery lands forlorn" + On the sound of elfin horn? + As she were a woodland sprite, + Little One has vanished quite. + Waves the wand of Oberon: + Cock has crowed--the fay is gone! + + + + +AUTUMN REVERY + + + When the leaves are falling crimson + And the worm is off its feed, + When the rag weed and the jimson + Have agreed to go to seed, + When the air in forest bowers + Has a tang like Rhenish wine, + And to breathe it for two hours + Makes you feel you'd like to dine, + When the frost is on the pumpkin + And the corn is in the shock, + And the cheek of country bumpkin + City faces seems to mock,-- + When you come across a ditty + (Like this one) of Autumn's charm, + Then it's pleasant in the city, + Where they keep the houses warm. + + + + +THE RECOIL + + + I met a friend of lofty brow-- + As lofty as the laws allow. + I said to him, "You'll know, I'm sure-- + What's doing now in litrychoor?" + Said he: "I hate the very name; + I'm weary of the blooming game. + I read, whenever I have time, + Something by Phillips Oppenheim." + + "Cheer up!" said I. "What's new in Art?-- + You drift around the picture mart. + What do you think of Mr. Blum?-- + Some say he's great, some say he's bum." + "I'm strong for Blum," my friend replied; + "His pictures are so queer and pied. + I wouldn't change them if I could; + I'd rather have things queer than good." + + I spoke of this, I spoke of that, + But everything was stale and flat. + Said I, "You once adored the chaste, + You used to have such perfect taste." + "Good taste," he wailed, "brings but distress, + 'Tis an affliction, nothing less; + While those whose taste is punk and vile + Are happy all the blessed while." + + "Oh, take a brace, old man!" said I. + "Let me prescribe a nip of rye, + And then we'll go to see a play; + I've two for Barrymore to-day." + "No, no," he groaned; "'twould be a bore, + With all respect to Barrymore." + Said I: "Then whither shall we go?" + Said he: "A moving picture show." + + + + +THE CORONATION + + _Lang Syne._ + + + Twas a holy mystery + In the days of chivalry. + More than pageant was the Rite + In the sight of clod and knight. + Sword and Scepter, Orb and Rod, + Faith in self and faith in God; + Oaths of Homage fiercely flung, + Faith in heart and faith in tongue;-- + Gone the things that meaning gave + "With the old world to the grave." + + + 1911. + + Knightly faith was born to fade: + Now the Rite is masquerade. + Now a cockney paladin + Winds a penny horn of tin. + Where in reverence heads were bowed + Surges now a careless crowd; + "Muddied oafs" and "flanneled fools" + Jostle "Yanks" with camping stools;-- + Gone the things that meaning gave + "With the old world to the grave." + + + + +SONS OF BATTLE + + + Let us have peace, and Thy blessing, + Lord of the Wind and the Rain, + When we shall cease from oppressing, + From all injustice refrain; + When we hate falsehood and spurn it; + When we are men among men. + Let us have peace when we earn it-- + Never an hour till then. + + Let us have rest in Thy garden, + Lord of the Rock and the Green, + When there is nothing to pardon, + When we are whitened and clean. + Purge us of skulking and treason, + Help us to put them away. + We shall have rest in Thy season; + Till then the heat of the fray. + + Let us have peace in Thy pleasure, + Lord of the Cloud and the Sun; + Grant to us æons of leisure + When the long battle is done. + Now we have only begun it; + Stead us!--we ask nothing more. + Peace--rest--but not till we've won it-- + Never an hour before. + + + + +MY LADY NEW YORK + + + O siren of tresses peroxide, + And heart that is hard as a flint, + Blue orbs of complacency ox-eyed, + That light at the mark of the mint, + Ears only for jingle of joybells, + A conscience as light as a cork-- + You are wedded to follies and foibles, + My Lady New York. + + True, you have (not enough, tho', to hurt you) + Your moods and your manners austere; + You have visions and vapors of virtue, + And "reform" for a time has your ear; + But of chaste Puritanic embraces + You soon have enough and to spare, + And then you kick over the traces, + And virtue forswear. + + So go it, milady! Foot fleetly + The paths that are primrose and gay; + Abandon your fancy completely + To follies and fads of the day. + "Reform" is a something that throttles + The joys of the pace that's intense-- + Smash hearts, reputations, and bottles, + And ding the expense! + + + + +BALLADE OF THE PIPESMOKE CARRY + + + The Ancient Wood is white and still, + Over the pines the bleak wind blows, + Voiceless the brook and mute the rill, + Silence too where the river flows. + Still I catch the scent of the rose + And hear the white-throat's roundelay, + Footing the trail that Memory knows, + Over the hills and far away. + + I have only a pipe to fill: + Weaving, wreathing rings disclose + A trail that flings straight up the hill, + Straight as an arrow's flight. For those + Who fare by night the pole star glows + Above the mountain top. By day + A blasted pine the pathway shows + Over the hills and far away. + + The Ancient Wood is white and chill, + But what know I of wintry woes? + The Pipesmoke Trail is mine at will-- + Naught may hinder and none oppose. + Such the power the pipe bestows, + When the wilderness calls I may + Tramping go, as I smoke and doze, + Over the hills and far away. + + + _L'Envoi_ + + Deep in the canyons lie the snows: + They shall vanish if I but say-- + If my fancy a-roving goes + Over the hills and far away. + + + + +POST-VACATIONAL + + + You have heard that mildewed story, + That tradition horned and hoary, + That it wearies one to roam, + Past a doubt; + That one vainly on vacation + Tries to find recuperation, + Till he hunts his happy home + Tuckered out. + + That abroad there is no comfort, + That a man must journey home for 't-- + You have heard that whiskered wheeze, + Have you not? + 'Tis a commonplace to cavil + At the "luxuries of travel," + For in travel lack of ease + Is your lot. + + You have heard that gag historic; + It was often sprung by Yorick; + It's as old as Noah's ark + And its crew. + It's the commonest (at basis) + Of all common commonplaces;-- + So I merely would remark + That--it's true. + + + + +THE BARDS WE QUOTE + + + Whene'er I quote I seldom take + From bards whom angel hosts environ; + But usually some damned rake + Like Byron. + + Of Whittier I think a lot, + My fancy to him often turns; + But when I quote 'tis some such sot + As Burns. + + I'm very fond of Bryant, too, + He brings to me the woodland smelly; + Why should I quote that "village roo," + P. Shelley? + + I think Felicia Hemans great, + I dote upon Jean Ingelow; + Yet quote from such a reprobate + As Poe. + + To quote from drunkard or from rake + Is not a proper thing to do. + I find the habit hard to break, + Don't you? + + + + +THE PERSISTENT POET + + + "I remember, I remember"-- + Something special? Not a bit. + But, you see, this is November, + And Remember rimes with it. + + + + +HENCE THESE RIMES + + + Tho' my verse is exact, + Tho' it flawlessly flows, + As a matter of fact + I would rather write prose. + + While my harp is in tune, + And I sing like the birds, + I would really as soon + Write in straightaway words. + + Tho' my songs are as sweet + As Apollo e'er piped, + And my lines are as neat + As have ever been typed, + + I would rather write prose-- + I prefer it to rime; + It's less hard to compose, + And it takes me less time. + + "Well, if that be the case," + You are moved to inquire, + "Why appropriate space + For extolling your lyre?" + + I can only reply + That this form I elect + 'Cause it pleases the eye, + And I like the effect. + + + + +THE OLD ROLLER TOWEL + + + How dear to this heart is the old roller towel + Which fond recollection presents to my view. + It hung like a pall on the wall of the washroom, + And gathered the grime of the linotype crew. + The sink and the soap and the lye that stood by it + Remain; but the towel is gone past recall. + O tempora! Also, O mores! Sic transit + The time-honored towel that creaked on the wall. + The grimy old towel, the slimy old towel, + The tacky old towel that hung on the wall. + + Now hangs in the washroom a huge roll of paper-- + The old printer's towel we'll never see more. + The new (see directions) is "used like a blotter," + And crumpled and scattered in wads on the floor. + And often, when drying my hands in this fashion, + The tears of remembrance will gather and fall, + And I sigh (though I'm not what you'd call sentimental) + For the classic old towel that propped up the wall. + The sainted old towel, the tainted old towel, + The gooey old towel that hung on the wall. + + + + +UP CULTURE'S HILL + + (_The confession of a club lady._) + + + The path up Culture's Hill is steep, + And weary is the way, + With very little time for sleep + And none at all for play. + + She that this toilsome task essays + Must never bat an eye, + But keep her firm, unwavering gaze + Forever fixed on high. + + For should she ever careless grow, + And let her glances stray + Down to the shallow vale below, + Where Pleasure's Court holds sway-- + + Lured by the thrice forbidden fruit, + She'd lose her equipoise, + And like a wayward Pleiad shoot + Down to forbidden joys. + + I've been but short time on the road, + My courage still is strong; + Yet often have I felt the goad + That hurries me along. + + I've fallen over Maeterlinck, + And bumped myself to tears, + Burne-Jones's pictures made me blink, + And Wagner hurts my ears. + + I've stumbled over Ibsen humps + And over Rembrandt rocks, + I've got some fierce Debussy bumps, + Some awful Nietsche knocks. + + I'm wearied by the ceaseless quest, + I'm wayworn and footsore. + I've Culture till I cannot rest-- + Yet still I climb for more. + + But oh, when all is done and said, + Upon some manly breast + I'd like to lay my tired head + And take a good long rest. + + + + +THE PASSIONAL NOTE + + "_The erotic motive is almost entirely absent from American poetry. Even + our younger American poets are more profoundly interested in the why and + wherefore of things than in the girdle of Helen or the gleaming limbs of + 'the white implacable Aphrodite.'_" + --MR. SYLVESTER VIERECK. + + + In the years of my season erotic, + When Eros was lord of my days, + And I loved, with a love idiotic, + The Mabels and Madges and Mays; + When a purple and passionate lyric + Would sing all the night in my head,-- + I yearned, like the young Mr. Viereck, + For everything red. + + I doted on poems of passion, + And put my own pantings in rime, + To celebrate, after a fashion, + The damsels who took up my time. + I fed upon Swinburne, believe me, + I feasted on Byron and Burns, + And couplets from Sappho would give me + Most exquisite turns. + + How apparent it was that our songbirds-- + Our Emerson, Lowell, and Payne, + And Bryant and Drake--were the wrong birds + To pipe to the passional strain. + There was, in a word, nothing doing + In all of the rimes that they wrote; + They seemed to be always pursuing + The ethical note. + + What truth, I inquired, was so mighty, + What ethical thing was so rare, + As the limbs of the white Aphrodite + Or a strand of her heaven-kissed hair! + The girdle of red-headed Helen + Outweighed all the wherefores and whys, + And Wisdom elected to dwell in + A pair of blue eyes. + + _Now_ lyrical sizzlers and scorchers + Fail somehow to set me ablaze; + No longer are exquisite tortures + Provoked by these passionate lays. + I've tinned--and I can't say I've missed 'em-- + The poems of passion and sin. + _Some_ things one gets out of one's system, + And other things _in_. + + + + +_L'ENVOI._ + + + "_Go, little book," as Poet Southey said;_ + _You might be better and you might be worse._ + _With just one word of warning you are sped:_ + _Remember, you're not Poetry--you're Verse._ + + + * * * * * + + + + +Index + + Always 82 + Autumn Revery 104 + Ballad of Misfits 63 + Ballade of a Bore 97 + Ballade of the Cannery 86 + Ballade of Cap and Bells 76 + Ballade of Death and Time 28 + Ballade of Irresolution 68 + Ballade of the Pipesmoke Carry 110 + Ballade of Spring's Unrest 22 + Ballade of Wool-Gathering 48 + Bards We Quote, The 113 + Bread Puddynge 42 + Breakfast Food Family, The 19 + Coronation, The 107 + Day of the Comet, The 66 + Dinosaur, The 75 + Dornröschen 34 + "Farewell" 36 + Gentle Doctor Brown 78 + Hence These Rimes 115 + Horace: A Note from Mr. Flaccus 54 + I. To Aristius Fuscus 56 + II. Duetto 57 + III. To Pyrrha 59 + IV. To Aristius Fuscus 60 + V. To Sylvia 62 + How They Might Have Brought + the Good News 73 + In the Gallery 80 + In the Lamplight 17 + Kaiser's Farewell, The 30 + Land of Rainbow's-End, The 95 + Laundry of Life, The 93 + Lay of St. Ambrose 9 + Miss Legion 27 + Modern Mariner, The 84 + Morning After, The 67 + Musca Domestica 45 + My Lady New York 109 + Old Roller Towel, The 116 + Oriental Apology, An 65 + Pandean Pipedreams 88 + Passional Note, The 119 + Passionate Professor, The 47 + Persistent Poet, The 114 + Pole, The 99 + Post-Vacational 112 + Recoil, The 105 + Reform in Our Town 38 + Rime of the Clark Street Cable 25 + Sh-h-h-h! 101 + Simple, Heartfelt Lay, The 53 + Sons of Battle 108 + To a Tall Spruce 14 + To Lillian Russell 32 + To the Sun 50 + To What Base Uses 70 + "Treasure Island" 21 + Up Culture's Hill 117 + Vanished Fay, The 102 + When It Is Hot 51 + When the Sirup's on the Flapjack 41 + Why? 24 + Wisdom in a Capsule 94 + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's A line-o'-verse or two, by Bert Leston Taylor + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A LINE-O'-VERSE OR TWO *** + +***** This file should be named 30038-8.txt or 30038-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/3/0/0/3/30038/ + +Produced by Bryan Ness, Anne Storer and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This +file was produced from images generously made available +by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: A line-o'-verse or two + +Author: Bert Leston Taylor + +Release Date: September 20, 2009 [EBook #30038] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A LINE-O'-VERSE OR TWO *** + + + + +Produced by Bryan Ness, Anne Storer and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This +file was produced from images generously made available +by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) + + + + + + +</pre> + + + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 311px;"> +<img src="images/imgcover.jpg" width="311" height="550" alt="cover" title="" /> +</div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<div class="box"> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[Pg 3]</a></span></p> +<h1>A Line-o’-Verse or Two</h1> + +<p> </p> + +<h3>By</h3> +<h2>Bert Leston Taylor</h2> + +<p> </p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 200px;"> +<img src="images/deco_tpage.png" width="200" height="105" alt="page decoration" title="" /> +</div> + +<p> </p> + +<h2>The Reilly & Britton Co.</h2> +<h3>Chicago</h3> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[Pg 4]</a></span></p> +<p class="center"> +Copyright, 1911<br /> +by<br /> +The Reilly & Britton Co.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[Pg 5]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>NOTE</strong></p> + + +<p>For the privilege of reprinting the rimes gathered +here I am indebted to the courtesy of +the <em>Chicago Tribune</em> and <em>Puck</em>, in whose pages +most of them first appeared. “The Lay of St. +Ambrose” is new.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>The other reason was that I wanted to.</p> + +<p style="margin-left: 20em;">B. L. T.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</a></span></p> +<p><strong><em>TO MY READERS</em></strong></p> + + +<p><em>Not merely of this book,—but a larger company, +with whom, through the medium of the</em> Chicago +Tribune, <em>I have been on very pleasant terms for +several years,—this handful of rime is joyously +dedicated.</em></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</a></span></p> + +<p><strong>THE LAY OF ST. AMBROSE</strong></p> + +<p style="margin-left: 3em;"> +“<em>And hard by doth dwell, in St. Catherine’s cell,</em><br /> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;"><em>Ambrose, the anchorite old and grey.</em>”</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 10em;" class="smcap">—The Lay of St. Nicholas.</span> +</p> + + +<p> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">Ambrose the anchorite old and grey</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">Larruped himself in his lonely cell,</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">And many a welt on his pious pelt</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">The scourge evoked as it rose and fell.</span></p> + +<p> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">For hours together the flagellant leather</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">Went whacketty-whack with his groans of pain;</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">And the lay-brothers said, with a wag of the head,</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">“Ambrose has been at the bottle again.”</span></p> + +<p> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">And such, in sooth, was the sober truth;</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">For the single fault of this saintly soul</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">Was a desert thirst for the cup accurst,—</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">A quenchless love for the Flowing Bowl.</span></p> + +<p> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">When he woke at morn with a head forlorn</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">And a taste like a last-year swallow’s nest,</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">He would kneel and pray, then rise and flay</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">His sinful body like all possessed.</span></p> + +<p> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">Frequently tempted, he fell from grace,</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">And as often he found the devil to pay;</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">But by diligent scourging and diligent purging</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">He managed to keep Old Nick at bay.</span></p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</a></span> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">This was the plight of our anchorite,—</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">An endless penance condemned to dree,—</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">When it chanced one day there came his way</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">A Mystical Book with a golden Key.</span></p> + +<p> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">This Mystical Book was a guide to health,</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">That none might follow and go astray;</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">While a turn of the Key unlocked the wealth</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">That all unknown in the Scriptures lay.</span></p> + +<p> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">Disease is sin, the Book defined;</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">Sickness is error to which men cling;</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">Pain is merely a state of mind,</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">And matter a non-existent thing.</span></p> + +<p> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">If a tooth should ache, or a leg should break,</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">You simply “affirm” and it’s sound again.</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">Cut and contusion are only delusion,</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">And indigestion a fancied pain.</span></p> + +<p> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">For pain is naught if you “hold a thought,”</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">Fevers fly at your simple say;</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">You have but to affirm, and every germ</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">Will fold up its tent and steal away.</span></p> + +<hr style='margin-left: 5em; width: 15%;' /> + +<p> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">From matin gong to even-song</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">Ambrose pondered this mystic lore,</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">Till what had seemed fiction took on a conviction</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">That words had never possessed before.</span></p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</a></span> +“If pain,” quoth he, “is a state of mind,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">If a rough hair shirt to silk is kin,—</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">If these things are error, pray where’s the terror</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">In scourging and purging oneself of sin?</span></p> + +<p> +“It certainly seemeth good to me,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">By and large, in part and in whole.</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">I’ll put it in practice and find if it fact is,</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">Or only a mystical rigmarole.”</span></p> + +<hr style='margin-left: 5em; width: 15%;' /> + +<p> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">The very next night our anchorite</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">Of the Flowing Bowl drank long and deep.</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">He argued this wise: “New Thought applies</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">No fitter to lamb than it does to sheep.”</span></p> + +<p> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">When he woke at morn with a head forlorn</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">And a taste akin to a parrot’s cage,</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">He knelt and prayed, then up and flayed</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">His sinful flesh in a righteous rage.</span></p> + +<p> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">Whacketty-whack on breast and back,</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">Whacketty-whack, before, behind;</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">But he held the thought as he laid it on,</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">“Pain is merely a state of mind.”</span></p> + +<p> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">Whacketty-whack on breast and back,</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">Whacketty-whack on calf and shin;</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">And the lay-brothers said, with a wag of the head,</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">“<em>Ain’t</em> he the glutton for discipline!”</span></p> + +<hr style='margin-left: 5em; width: 15%;' /> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</a></span> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">Now every night our anchorite</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">Was exceedingly tight when he went to bed.</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">The scourge that once pained him no longer restrained him,</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">Nor even the fear of an aching head.</span></p> + +<p> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">For he woke at morn with a pate as clear</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">As the silvery chime of the matin bell;</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">And without any jogging he fell to his flogging,</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">And larruped himself in his lonely cell.</span></p> + +<p> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">But the leather had lost its power to sting;</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">To pangs of the flesh he was now immune;</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">His rough hair shirt no longer hurt,</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">Nor the pebbles he wore in his wooden shoon.</span></p> + +<p> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">When conscience was troubled he cheerfully doubled</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">His matinal dose of discipline;—</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">A deuce of a scourging, sufficient for purging</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">The Devil himself of original sin.</span></p> + +<p> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">Whacketty-whack on breast and back,</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">Whacketty-whack from morn to noon;</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">Whacketty-whacketty-whacketty-whack!—</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">Till the abbey rang with the dismal tune.</span></p> + +<p> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">Deacon and prior, lay-brother and friar</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">Exclaimed at these whoppings spectacular;</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">And even the Abbot remarked that the habit</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">Of scourging oneself might be carried too far.</span></p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</a></span> +“My son,” said he, “I am pleased to see<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">Such penance as never was known before;</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">But you raise such a racket in dusting your jacket,</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">The noise is becoming a bit of a bore.</span></p> + +<p> +“How would it do if you whaled yourself<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">From eight to ten or from one to three?</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">Or if ‘More’ is your motto, pray hire a grotto;</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">I know of one you can have rent free.”</span></p> + +<hr style='margin-left: 5em; width: 15%;' /> + +<p> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">Ambrose the anchorite bowed his head,</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">And girded his loins and went away.</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">He rented a cavern not far from a tavern,</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">And tippled by night and scourged by day.</span></p> + +<p> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">The more the penance the more the sin,</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">The more he whopped him the more he drank;</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">Till his hair fell out and his cheeks fell in,</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">And his corpulent figure grew long and lank.</span></p> + +<p> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">At Whitsuntide he up and died,</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">While flaying himself for his final spree.</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">And who shall say whether ’twas liquor or leather</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">That hurried him into eternity?</span></p> + +<p> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">They made him a saint, as well they might,</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">And gave him a beautiful aureole.</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;">And—somehow or other, this circle of light</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">Suggests the rim of the Flowing Bowl.</span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>TO A TALL SPRUCE</strong></p> + + +<p> + Pride of the forest primeval,<br /> + Peer of the glorious pine,<br /> + Doomed to an end that is evil,<br /> + Fearful the fate that is thine!</p> + +<p> + Peer of the glorious pine,<br /> + Now the landlooker has found you,<br /> + Fearful the fate that is thine—<br /> + Fate of the spruces around you.</p> + +<p> + Now the landlooker has found you,<br /> + Stripped of your beautiful plume—<br /> + Fate of the spruces around you—<br /> + Swiftly you’ll draw to your doom.</p> + +<p> + Stripped of your beautiful plume,<br /> + Bzzng! into logs they will whip you.<br /> + Swiftly you’ll draw to your doom;<br /> + To the pulp mill they will ship you.</p> + +<p> + Bzzng! into logs they will whip you,<br /> + Lumbermen greedy for gold.<br /> + To the pulp mill they will ship you.<br /> + Hearken, there’s worse to be told!</p> + +<p> + Lumbermen greedy for gold<br /> + Over your ruins will caper.<br /> + Hearken, there’s worse to be told:<br /> + You will be made into paper!</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</a></span> + Over your ruins will caper<br /> + Murderous shavers and hooks.<br /> + You will be made into paper!<br /> + You will be made into books!</p> + +<p> + Murderous shavers and hooks<br /> + Swiftly your pride will diminish.<br /> + You will be made into books!<br /> + Horrible, horrible finish!</p> + +<p> + Swiftly your pride will diminish.<br /> + You will become a romance!<br /> + Horrible, horrible finish!<br /> + Fate has no sadder mischance.</p> + +<p> + You will become a romance,<br /> + Filled with “Gadzooks!” and “Have at you!”<br /> + Fate has no sadder mischance;<br /> + It would wring tears from a statue.</p> + +<p> + Filled with “Gadzooks!” and “Have at you!”<br /> + You may become a “Lazarre”—<br /> + (It would wring tears from a statue)—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Graustark,” “Stovepipe of Navarre.”</span></p> + +<p> + You may become a “Lazarre”;<br /> + Fate has still worse it can turn on—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Graustark,” “Stovepipe of Navarre,”</span><br /> + Even a “Dorothy Vernon”!</p> + +<p> + Fate has still worse it can turn on—<br /> + Lower you cannot descend;<br /> + Even a “Dorothy Vernon”!—<br /> + That is the limit—the end.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</a></span> + Lower you cannot descend.<br /> + Doomed to an end that is evil,<br /> + That <em>is</em> the limit—the <em>end</em>!<br /> + Pride of the forest primeval.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>IN THE LAMPLIGHT</strong></p> + + +<p> + The dinner done, the lamp is lit,<br /> + And in its mellow glow we sit<br /> + And talk of matters, grave and gay,<br /> + That went to make another day.<br /> + Comes Little One, a book in hand,<br /> + With this request, nay, this command—<br /> + (For who’d gainsay the little sprite)—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Please—will you read to me to-night?”</span></p> + +<p> + Read to you, Little One? Why, yes.<br /> + What shall it be to-night? You guess<br /> + You’d like to hear about the Bears—<br /> + Their bowls of porridge, beds and chairs?<br /> + Well, that you shall.... There! that tale’s done!<br /> + And now—you’d like another one?<br /> + To-morrow evening, Curly Head.<br /> + It’s “hass-pass seven.” Off to bed!</p> + +<p> + So each night another story:<br /> + Wicked dwarfs and giants gory;<br /> + Dragons fierce and princes daring,<br /> + Forth to fame and fortune faring;<br /> + Wandering tots, with leaves for bed;<br /> + Houses made of gingerbread;<br /> + Witches bad and fairies good,<br /> + And all the wonders of the wood.</p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“I like the witches best,” says she</span><br /> + Who nightly nestles on my knee;<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</a></span> + And why by them she sets such store,<br /> + Psychologists may puzzle o’er.<br /> + Her likes are mine, and I agree<br /> + With all that she confides to me.<br /> + And thus we travel, hand in hand,<br /> + The storied roads of Fairyland.</p> + +<p> + Ah, Little One, when years have fled,<br /> + And left their silver on my head,<br /> + And when the dimming eyes of age<br /> + With difficulty scan the page,<br /> + Perhaps <em>I’ll</em> turn the tables then;<br /> + Perhaps <em>I’ll</em> put the question, when<br /> + I borrow of your better sight—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Please—will you read to me to-night?”</span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>THE BREAKFAST FOOD FAMILY</strong></p> + + +<p> + John Spratt will eat no fat,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Nor will he touch the lean;</span><br /> + He scorns to eat of any meat,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">He lives upon Foodine.</span></p> + +<p> + But Mrs. Spratt will none of that,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Foodine she cannot eat;</span><br /> + Her special wish is for a dish<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of Expurgated Wheat.</span></p> + +<p> + To William Spratt that food is flat<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">On which his mater dotes.</span><br /> + His favorite feed—his special need—<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Is Eata Heapa Oats.</span></p> + +<p> + But sister Lil can’t see how Will<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Can touch such tasteless food.</span><br /> + As breakfast fare it can’t compare,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">She says, with Shredded Wood.</span></p> + +<p> + Now, none of these Leander please,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">He feeds upon Bath Mitts.</span><br /> + While sister Jane improves her brain<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">With Cero-Grapo-Grits.</span></p> + +<p> + Lycurgus votes for Father’s Oats;<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Proggine appeals to May;</span><br /> + The junior John subsists upon<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Uneeda Bayla Hay.</span></p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</a></span> + Corrected Wheat for little Pete;<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Flaked Pine for Dot; while “Bub”</span><br /> + The infant Spratt is waxing fat<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">On Battle Creek Near-Grub.</span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>“TREASURE ISLAND”</strong></p> + + +<p> + Comes little lady, a book in hand,<br /> + A light in her eyes that I understand,<br /> + And her cheeks aglow from the faery breeze<br /> + That sweeps across the uncharted seas.<br /> + She gives me the book, and her word of praise<br /> + A ton of critical thought outweighs.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“I’ve finished it, daddie!”—a sigh thereat.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Are there any more books in the world like that?”</span></p> + +<p> + No, little lady. I grieve to say<br /> + That of all the books in the world to-day<br /> + There’s not another that’s quite the same<br /> + As this magic book with the magic name.<br /> + Volumes there be that are pure delight,<br /> + Ancient and yellowed or new and bright;<br /> + But—little and thin, or big and fat—<br /> + There are no more books in the world like that.</p> + +<p> + And what, little lady, would I not give<br /> + For the wonderful world in which you live!<br /> + What have I garnered one-half as true<br /> + As the tales Titania whispers you?<br /> + Ah, late we learn that the only truth<br /> + Was that which we found in the Book of Youth.<br /> + Profitless others, and stale, and flat;—<br /> + There are no more books in the world like that.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>A BALLADE OF SPRING’S UNREST</strong></p> + + +<p> + Up in the woodland where Spring<br /> + Comes as a laggard, the breeze<br /> + Whispers the pines that the King,<br /> + Fallen, has yielded the keys<br /> + To his White Palace and flees<br /> + Northward o’er mountain and dale.<br /> + Speed then the hour that frees!<br /> + Ho, for the pack and the trail!</p> + +<p> + Northward my fancy takes wing,<br /> + Restless am I, ill at ease.<br /> + Pleasures the city can bring<br /> + Lose now their power to please.<br /> + Barren, all barren, are these,<br /> + Town life’s a tedious tale;<br /> + That cup is drained to the lees—<br /> + Ho, for the pack and the trail!</p> + +<p> + Ho, for the morning I sling<br /> + Pack at my back, and with knees<br /> + Brushing a thoroughfare, fling<br /> + Into the green mysteries:<br /> + One with the birds and the bees,<br /> + One with the squirrel and quail,<br /> + Night, and the stream’s melodies—<br /> + Ho, for the pack and the trail!</p> + +<p> </p> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</a></span> + <span style="margin-left: 3em;"><em>L’Envoi</em></span></p> + +<p> + Pictures and music and teas,<br /> + Theaters—books even—stale.<br /> + Ho, for the smell of the trees!<br /> + Ho, for the pack and the trail!</p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>WHY?</strong></p> + + +<p> + Why, when the sun is gold,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">The weather fine,</span><br /> + The air (this phrase is old)<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Like Gascon wine;—</span></p> + +<p> + Why, when the leaves are red,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And yellow, too,</span><br /> + And when (as has been said)<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">The skies are blue;—</span></p> + +<p> + Why, when all things promote<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">One’s peace and joy,—</span><br /> + A joy that is (to quote)<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Without alloy;—</span></p> + +<p> + Why, when a man’s well off,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Happy and gay,</span><br /> +<em>Why</em> must he go play golf<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And spoil his day!</span></p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>THE RIME OF THE CLARK STREET CABLE</strong></p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 3em;">(<em>Now happily extinct.</em>)</span></p> + + +<p> + Twas in a vault beneath the street,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">In the trench of the traction rope,</span><br /> + That I found a guy with a fishy eye<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And a think tank filled with dope.</span></p> + +<p> + His hair was matted, his face was black,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And matted and black was he;</span><br /> + And I heard this wight in the vault recite,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: .7em;">“In a singular minor key”:</span></p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: .3em;">“Oh, I am the guy with the fishy eye</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And the think tank filled with dope.</span><br /> + My work is to watch the beautiful botch<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">That’s known as the Clark Street Rope.</span></p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“I pipes my eye as the rope goes by</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">For every danger spot.</span><br /> + If I spies one out I gives a shout,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And we puts in another knot.</span></p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Them knots is all like brothers to me,</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And I loves ’em, one and all.”</span><br /> + The muddy guy with the fishy eye<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">A muddy tear let fall.</span></p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“There goes a knot we tied last week,</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">There’s one what we tied to-day;</span><br /> + And there’s a patch was hard to reach,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And caused six hours’ delay.</span></p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</a></span> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Two hundred seventy-nine, all told,</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And I knows their history;</span><br /> + And I’m most attached to a break we patched<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">In the winter of ’eighty-three.</span></p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“For every time that knot comes round</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">It sings out, ‘Howdy, Bill!</span><br /> + We’ll walk ’em home to-night, old man,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">From here to the Ferris Wheel.</span></p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“‘We’ll walk ’em in the rush hours, Bill,</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">A swearing company,</span><br /> + As we’ve walked ’em, Bill, since I was tied,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">In the winter of ’eighty-three.’”</span></p> + +<p> + The muddy guy with the fishy eye<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Let fall another tear.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Them knots is wife and child to me;</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">I’ve known ’em forty year.</span></p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“For I am the guy with the fishy eye</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And the think tank filled with dope,</span><br /> + Whose work is to watch the lovely botch<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">That’s known as the Clark Street Rope.”</span></p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>MISS LEGION</strong></p> + + +<p> + She is hotfoot after Cultyure,<br /> + She pursues it with a club.<br /> + She breathes a heavy atmosphere<br /> + Of literary flub.<br /> + No literary shrine so far<br /> + But she is there to kneel;<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 3em;">But—</span><br /> + Her favorite line of reading<br /> + Is O. Meredith’s “Lucille.”</p> + +<p> + Of course she’s up on pictures—<br /> + Passes for a connoisseur.<br /> + On free days at the Institute<br /> + You’ll always notice her.<br /> + She qualifies approval<br /> + Of a Titian or Corot;<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 3em;">But—</span><br /> + She throws a fit of rapture<br /> + When she comes to Bouguereau.</p> + +<p> + And when you talk of music,<br /> + She is Music’s devotee.<br /> + She will tell you that Beethoven<br /> + Always makes her wish to pray;<br /> + And “dear old Bach!” His very name<br /> + She says, her ear enchants;<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 3em;">But—</span><br /> + Her favorite piece is Weber’s<br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Invitation to the Dance.”</span></p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>A BALLADE OF DEATH AND TIME</strong></p> + + +<p> + I hold it truth with him who sweetly sings—<br /> + The weekly music of the <em>London Sphere</em>—<br /> + That deathless tomes the living present brings:<br /> + Great literature is with us year on year.<br /> + Books of the mighty dead, whom men revere,<br /> + Remind me I can make <em>my</em> books sublime.<br /> + But prithee, bay my brow while I am here:<br /> + Why do we always wait for Death and Time?</p> + +<p> + Shakespeare, great spirit, beat his mighty wings,<br /> + As I beat mine, for the occasion near.<br /> + He knew, as I, the worth of present things:<br /> + Great literature is with us year on year.<br /> + Methinks I meet across the gulf his clear<br /> + And tranquil eye; his calm reflections chime<br /> + With mine: “Why do we at the present fleer?<br /> + Why do we always wait for Death and Time?”</p> + +<p> + The reading world with acclamation rings<br /> + For my last book. It led the list at Weir,<br /> + Altoona, Rahway, Painted Post, Hot Springs:<br /> + Great literature is with us year on year.<br /> + The <em>Bookman</em> gives me a vociferous cheer.<br /> + Howells approves! I can no higher climb.<br /><br /> + Bring then the laurel, crown my bright career.<br /> + Why do we always wait for Death and Time?</p> + +<p> </p> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</a></span> + <span style="margin-left: 3em;"><em>L’Envoi</em></span></p> + +<p> + Critics, who pastward, ever pastward peer,<br /> + Great literature is with us year on year.<br /> + Trumpet my fame while I am in my prime.<br /> + Why do we always wait for Death and Time?</p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>THE KAISER’S FAREWELL TO PRINCE HENRY</strong></p> + + +<p> + Aufwiedersehen, brother mine!<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Farewells will soon be kissed;</span><br /> + And ere you leave to breast the brine<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Give me once more your fist;</span></p> + +<p> + That mailéd fist, clenched high in air<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">On many a foreign shore,</span><br /> + Enforcing coaling stations where<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">No stations were before;</span></p> + +<p> + That fist, which weaker nations view<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">As if ’twere Michael’s own,</span><br /> + And which appals the heathen who<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Bow down to wood and stone.</span></p> + +<p> + But this trip no brass knuckles. Glove<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">That heavy mailéd hand;</span><br /> + Your mission now is one of Love<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And Peace—you understand.</span></p> + +<p> + All that’s American you’ll praise;<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">The Yank can do no wrong.</span><br /> + To use his own expressive phrase,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Just “jolly him along.”</span></p> + +<p> + Express surprise to find, the more<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of Roosevelt you see,</span><br /> + How much I am like Theodore,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And Theodore like me.</span></p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</a></span> + I am, in fact, (this might not be<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">A bad thing to suggest,)</span><br /> + The Theodore of the East, and he<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">The William of the West.</span></p> + +<p> + And, should you get a chance, find out—<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">If anybody knows—</span><br /> + Exactly what it’s all about,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">That Doctrine of Monroe’s.</span></p> + +<p> + That’s <em>entre nous</em>. My present plan<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">You know as well as I:</span><br /> + Be just as Yankee as you can;<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">If needs be, eat some pie.</span></p> + +<p> + Cut out the ’kraut, cut out Rhine wine,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Cut out the Schützenfest,</span><br /> + The Sängerbund, the Turnverein,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">The Kommers, and the rest.</span></p> + +<p> + And if some fool society<br /> + <span style="margin-left: .7em;">“Die Wacht am Rhein” should sing,</span><br /> +<em>You</em> sing “My Country, ’Tis of Thee”—<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">The tune’s “God Save the King.”</span></p> + +<p> + To our own kindred in that land<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">There’s not much you need tell.</span><br /> + Just tell them that you saw me, and<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">That I was looking well.</span></p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>TO LILLIAN RUSSELL</strong></p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 3em;">(<em>A reminiscence of 18—.</em>)</span></p> + + +<p> + Dear Lillian! (The “dear” one risks;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Miss Russell” were a bit austerer)—</span><br /> + Do you remember Mr. Fiske’s<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 2em;"><em>Dramatic Mirror</em></span></p> + +<p> + Back when—? (But we’ll not count the years;<br /> + The way they’ve sped is most surprising.)<br /> + You were a trifle in arrears<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 2em;">For advertising.</span></p> + +<p> + I brought the bill to your address;<br /> + I was the <em>Mirror’s</em> bill collector—<br /> + In Thespian haunts a more or less<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 2em;">Familiar spectre.</span></p> + +<p> + On that (to me) momentous day<br /> + You dwelt amid the city’s clatter,<br /> + A few doors west of old Broadway;<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 2em;">The street—no matter.</span></p> + +<p> + But while you have forgot the debt,<br /> + And him who called in line of duty,<br /> + He never, never shall forget<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 2em;">Your wondrous beauty.</span></p> + +<p> + You were too fair for mortal speech,—<br /> + Enchanting, positively rippin’;<br /> + You were some dream, and quelque peach,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 2em;">And beaucoup pippin.</span></p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</a></span> + Your “fight with Time” had not begun,<br /> + Nor any reason to promote it;<br /> + No beauty battles to be won.<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 2em;">Beauty? You wrote it!</span></p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“A bill?” you murmured in distress,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“A bill?” (I still can hear you say it.)</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“A bill from Mr. Fiske? Oh, yes ...</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 2em;">I’ll call and pay it.”</span></p> + +<p> + And he, the thrice-requited kid,<br /> + That such a goddess should address him,<br /> + Could only blush and paw his lid,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 2em;">And stammer, “Yes’m!”</span></p> + +<p> + Eheu! It seems a cycle since,<br /> + But still the nerve of memory tingles.<br /> + And here you’re writing Beauty Hints,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 2em;">And I these jingles.</span></p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>DORNRÖSCHEN</strong></p> + + +<p> + In the great hall of Castle Innocence,<br /> + Hedged round with thorns of maiden doubts and fears,—<br /> + Within, without, a silence grave, intense,—<br /> + Her soul lies sleeping through the rose-leaf years.</p> + +<p> + Hedged round with thorns of maiden doubts and fears;<br /> + And all save one the thither path shall miss.<br /> + Her soul lies sleeping through the rose-leaf years,<br /> + Waiting the Prince and his awakening kiss.</p> + +<p> + And all save one the thither path shall miss;<br /> + For one alone may thread the thorn defence.<br /> + Waiting the Prince and his awakening kiss,<br /> + A hush broods over Castle Innocence.</p> + +<p> + For one alone may thread the thorn defence,<br /> + Care free, heart free, and singing on his way.<br /> + A hush broods over Castle Innocence<br /> + One comes to wake;—but when—ah, who can say!</p> + +<p> + Care free, heart free, and singing on his way,<br /> + One comes all thorns of Fear and Doubt to dare.<br /> + One comes to wake! But when? Ah, who can say<br /> + The hour his light feet press the castle stair?</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</a></span> + One comes all thorns of Fear and Doubt to dare!<br /> + Thorns with his coming into roses bloom.<br /> + The hour his light feet press the castle stair<br /> + The warders of the castle hall give room.</p> + +<p> + Thorns with his coming into roses bloom;<br /> + For him the flowers of Trust and Faith unfold.<br /> + The warders of the castle hall give room<br /> + Before the young Prince of the Heart of Gold.</p> + +<p> + For him the flowers of Trust and Faith unfold;<br /> + Till then the thorns of maiden doubts and fears.<br /> + Before the young Prince of the Heart of Gold<br /> + Her rose-soul slumbers through the tranquil years.</p> + +<p> + Till then the thorns of maiden doubts and fears.<br /> + Within, without, a silence grave, intense.<br /> + Her rose-soul slumbers through the tranquil years<br /> + In the great hall of Castle Innocence.</p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>“FAREWELL!”</strong></p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 3em;">(<em>Evoked by Calverley’s “Forever.”</em>)</span></p> + + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Farewell!” Another gloomy word</span><br /> + As ever into language crept.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">’Tis often written, never heard</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 2em;">Except</span></p> + +<p> + In playhouse. Ere the hero flits<br /> + (In handcuffs) from our pitying view,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Farewell!” he murmurs, then exits</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 2em;">R. U.</span></p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Farewell!” is much too sighful for</span><br /> + An age that has not time to sigh.<br /> + We say, “I’ll see you later,” or<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 2em;">“Good-bye!”</span></p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Fare well” meant long ago, before</span><br /> + It crept tear-spattered into song,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Safe voyage!” “Pleasant journey!” or</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 2em;">“So long!”</span></p> + +<p> + But gone its cheery, old-time ring:<br /> + The poets made it rime with knell.<br /> + Joined, it became a dismal thing—<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 2em;">“Farewell!”</span></p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Farewell!” Into the lover’s soul</span><br /> + You see fate plunge the cruel iron.<br /> + All poets use it. It’s the whole<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 2em;">Of Byron.</span></p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</a></span> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“I only feel—farewell!” said he;</span><br /> + And always tearful was the telling.<br /> + Lord Byron was eternally<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 2em;">Farewelling.</span></p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Farewell!” A dismal word, ’tis true.</span><br /> + (And why not tell the truth about it?)<br /> + But what on earth would poets do<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 2em;">Without it!</span></p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>REFORM IN OUR TOWN</strong></p> + + +<p> + There was a man in Our Town<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And Jimson was his name,</span><br /> + Who cried, “Our civic government<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Is honeycombed with shame.”</span><br /> + He called us neighbors in and said,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: .7em;">“By Graft we’re overrun.</span><br /> + Let’s have a general cleaning up,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">As other towns have done.”</span></p> + +<p> + The citizens of Our Town<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Responded to the call;</span><br /> + Beneath the banner of Reform<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">We gathered one and all.</span><br /> + We sent away for men expert<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">In hunting civic sin,</span><br /> + To ask these practised gentlemen<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Just how we should begin.</span></p> + +<p> + The experts came to Our Town<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And told us how ’twas done.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Begin with Gas and Traction,</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And half your fight is won.</span><br /> + Begin with Gas and Traction;<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">The rest will follow soon.”</span><br /> + We looked at one another<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And hummed a different tune.</span></p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</a></span> + Said Smith, “Saloons in Our Town<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Are palaces of shame.”</span><br /> + Said Jones, “Police corruption<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Has hurt the town’s fair name.”</span><br /> + Said Brown, “Our lawless children<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Pitch pennies as they please.”</span><br /> + Now would it not be wiser<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">To start Reform with these?</span></p> + +<p> + The men who came to Our Town<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Replied, “No haste with these;</span><br /> + Begin with Gas—or Water—<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">The roots of the disease.”</span><br /> + We looked at one another<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And hemmed and hawed a bit;</span><br /> + Enthusiasm faded then<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">From every single cit.</span></p> + +<p> + The men who came to Our Town<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Expressed a mild surprise,</span><br /> + Then they too at each other<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Looked “with a wild surmise.”</span><br /> + Jimson had stock in Traction,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And Jones had stock in Gas,</span><br /> + And Smith and Brown in this and that,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">So—nothing came to pass.</span></p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</a></span> + The profligates of Our Town<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Pitch pennies as of yore;</span><br /> + Police corruption flourishes<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">As rankly as before,</span><br /> + Still are our gilded ginmills<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Foul palaces of shame.</span><br /> + Reform is just as distant<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">As when the wise men came.</span></p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>WHEN THE SIRUP’S ON THE FLAPJACK</strong></p> + + +<p> + When the sirup’s on the flapjack and the coffee’s in the pot;<br /> + When the fly is in the butter—where he’d rather be than not;<br /> + When the cloth is on the table, and the plates are on the cloth;<br /> + When the salt is in the shaker and the chicken’s in the broth;<br /> + When the cream is in the pitcher and the pitcher’s on the tray,<br /> + And the tray is on the sideboard when it isn’t on the way;<br /> + When the rind is on the bacon and likewise upon the cheese,<br /> + Then I somehow feel inspired to do a string of rimes like these.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>BREAD PUDDYNGE</strong></p> + + +<p> + When good King Arthur ruled our land<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">He was a goodly king,</span><br /> + And his idea of what to eat<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Was a good bag puddynge.</span></p> + +<p> + The bag puddynge he had in mind<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Was thickly strewn with plums,</span><br /> + With alternating lumps of fat<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">As big as my two thumbs.</span></p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“My love,” quoth he to Guinevere,</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: .7em;">“We have a joust to-day—</span><br /> + Sir Launce is here, Sir Tris, Sir Gal,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And all the brave array.</span></p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Put everything across to-night</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">In guise of goodly fare,</span><br /> + And cook us up a bag puddynge<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">That will y-curl our hair.”</span></p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“I’ll curl your hair,” said Guinevere,</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: .7em;">“As tight as tight can be;</span><br /> + I’ll cook you up a bag puddynge<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">From my new recipee.”</span></p> + +<hr style='margin-left: 3em; width: 15%;' /> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Pitch in and eat, my merry men!”</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">That night the King did say;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“But save a little room—a bag</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Puddynge is on the way.</span></p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</a></span> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Ho! here it comes! Now, by my sword,</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">A famous feast ’twill be.</span><br /> + Queen Guinevere hath cooked it, Launce,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">From her own recipee.”</span></p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Odslife!” cried Launce, “if there is aught</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">I love ’tis this same thing.”</span><br /> + And he and all the knights did fall<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Upon that bag puddynge.</span></p> + +<p> + One taste, and every holy knight<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Sat speechless for a space,</span><br /> + While disappointment and disgust<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Were writ in every face.</span></p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Odsbodikins!” Sir Tristram cried,</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: .7em;">“In all my days, by Jing!</span><br /> + I ne’er did taste so flat a mess<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">As this here bag puddynge.”</span></p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Odswhiskers, Arthur!” cried Sir Launce,</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Whose license knew no bounds,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“I would to Godde I had this stuff</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">To poultice up my wounds.”</span></p> + +<p> + King Arthur spat his mouthful out,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And sent for Guinevere.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“What is this frightful mess?” he roared.</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: .7em;">“Is this a joke, my dear?”</span></p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</a></span> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Oh, ain’t it good?” asked Guinevere,</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Her face a rosy red.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“I thought ’twould make an awful hit:</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;"><em>I made it out of bread!</em>”</span></p> + +<hr style='margin-left: 3em; width: 15%;' /> + +<p> + When good King Arthur ruled our land<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">He was a goodly king,</span><br /> + And only once in all his reign<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Was made a Bread Puddynge.</span></p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>MUSCA DOMESTICA</strong></p> + + +<p> + Baby bye, here’s a fly,<br /> + We will watch him, you and I;<br /> + Lest he fall in Baby’s mouth,<br /> + Bringing germs from north and south.<br /> + In the world of things a-wing<br /> + There is not a nastier thing<br /> + Than this pesky little fly;—<br /> + So we’ll watch him, you and I.</p> + +<p> + See him crawl up the wall,<br /> + And he’ll never, never fall;<br /> + Save that, poisoned, he may drop<br /> + In the soup or on the chop.<br /> + Let us coax the cunning brute<br /> + To the tempting Tanglefoot,<br /> + Or invite his thirsty soul<br /> + To the poison-paper bowl.</p> + +<p> + I believe with six such legs<br /> + You or I could walk on eggs;<br /> + But he’d rather crawl on meat<br /> + With his microbe-laden feet.<br /> + Eggs would hardly do as well—<br /> + He could not get through the shell;<br /> + Better far, to spread disease,<br /> + Vegetables, meat, or cheese.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</a></span> + There he goes, on his toes,<br /> + Tickling, tickling Baby’s nose.<br /> + Heaven knows where he has been,<br /> + And what filth he’s wallowed in.<br /> + Drat the nasty little wretch!<br /> + He’s the deuce and all to ketch.<br /> + Ah! He’s settled on the wall.<br /> + Now the thunderbolt shall fall!</p> + +<p> + Baby bye, see that fly?<br /> + We will swat him, you and I.</p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>THE PASSIONATE PROFESSOR</strong></p> + +<p style="margin-left: 3em;"> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“<em>But bending low, I whisper only this:</em></span><br /> + <em>‘Love, it is night.’</em>”<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 5em;" class="smcap">—Harry Thurston Peck.</span></p> + + +<p> + Love, it is night. The orb of day<br /> + Has gone to hit the cosmic hay.<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Nocturnal voices now we hear.</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Come, heart’s delight, the hour is near</span><br /> + When Passion’s mandate we obey.</p> + +<p> + I would not, sweet, the fact convey<br /> + In any crude and obvious way:<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">I merely whisper in your ear—</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 5em;">“Love, it is night!”</span></p> + +<p> + Candor compels me, pet, to say<br /> + That years my fading charms betray.<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Tho’ Love be blind, I grant it’s clear</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">I’m no Apollo Belvedere.</span><br /> + But after dark all cats are gray.<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 5em;">Love, it is night!</span></p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>A BALLADE OF WOOL-GATHERING</strong></p> + + +<p> + Now is my season of unrest,<br /> + Now calls the forest, day and night;<br /> + And by its pleasant spell obsessed,<br /> + My wits go soaring like a kite.<br /> + Forgive me if I be not bright,<br /> + And pardon if I seem distrait;<br /> + Wood-fancies put my wits to flight;—<br /> + The woods are but a week away.</p> + +<p> + Palleth upon my soul the jest,<br /> + Falleth upon my pen a blight.<br /> + The daily task has lost its zest,<br /> + And everything is flat and trite.<br /> + There’s nothing humorous in sight;<br /> + Don’t mind if I am dull to-day.<br /> + For every column is a fight<br /> + When woods are but a week away.</p> + +<p> + Woods in the robes of summer dressed—<br /> + In greens and grays and browns bedight!<br /> + A journey on a river’s breast,<br /> + Beneath the wedded blue-and-white!...<br /> + This end the Voyage of Delight<br /> + Waits, in a little wood-bound bay,<br /> + A bark canoe, all trim and tight;—<br /> + The woods are but a week away!</p> + +<p> </p> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</a></span> + <span style="margin-left: 3em;"><em>L’Envoi</em></span></p> + +<p> + Dear Reader, there is much to write;<br /> + I’ve many weighty things to say.<br /> + But who can write when woods invite,<br /> + And woods are but a week away!</p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>TO THE SUN</strong></p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 3em;">(<em>Variations on a theme by Gilbert.</em>)</span></p> + + +<p> + Shine on, Old Top, shine on!<br /> + Across the realms of space<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 2em;">Shine on!</span><br /> + What though I’m in a sorry case?<br /> + What though my collar is a wreck,<br /> + And hangs a rag about my neck?<br /> + What though at food I can but peck?<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Never <em>you</em> mind!</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 2em;">Shine on!</span></p> + +<p> + Shine on, Old Top, shine on!<br /> + Through leagues of lifeless air<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 2em;">Shine on!</span><br /> + It’s true I’ve no more shirts to wear,<br /> + My underwear is soaked, ’tis true,<br /> + My gullet is a redhot flue—<br /> + But don’t let that unsettle you!<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Never <em>you</em> mind!</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 2em;">Shine on!</span> <span style="margin-left: 3em;">[<em>It shines on.</em>]</span></p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>WHEN IT IS HOT</strong></p> + +<p>“<em>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.</em>”</p> + + +<p> + Consider Mr. Shadrach,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of fiery furnace fame:</span><br /> + He didn’t bleat about the heat<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Or fuss about the flame.</span><br /> + He didn’t stew and worry,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And get his nerves in kinks,</span><br /> + Nor fill his skin with limes and gin<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And other “cooling drinks.”</span></p> + +<p> + Consider Mr. Meshach,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Who felt the furnace too:</span><br /> + He let it sizz nor queried “Is<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">It hot enough for you?”</span><br /> + He didn’t mop his forehead,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And hunt a shady spot;</span><br /> + Nor did he say, “Gee! what a day!<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Believe me, it’s some hot.”</span></p> + +<p> + Consider, too, Abed-nego,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Who shared his comrades’ plight:</span><br /> + He didn’t shake his coat and make<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Himself a holy sight.</span><br /> + He didn’t wear suspenders<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Without a coat and vest;</span><br /> + Nor did he scowl and snort and howl,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And make himself a pest.</span></p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</a></span> + Consider, friends, this trio—<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">How little fuss they made.</span><br /> + They didn’t curse when it was worse<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Than ninety in the shade.</span><br /> + They moved about serenely<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Within the furnace bright,</span><br /> + And soon forgot that it was hot,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">With “no relief in sight.”</span></p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>THE SIMPLE, HEARTFELT LAY</strong></p> + + +<p> + Lives of poets oft remind us<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Not to wait too long for Time,</span><br /> + But, departing, leave behind us<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Obvious facts embalmed in rime.</span></p> + +<p> + Poems that we have to ponder<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Turn us prematurely gray;</span><br /> + We are infinitely fonder<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of the simple, heartfelt lay.</span></p> + +<p> + Whitman’s <em>Leaves of Grass</em> is odious,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Browning’s <em>Ring and Book</em> a bore.</span><br /> + Bleat, O bards, in lines melodious,—<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Bleat that two and two is four!</span></p> + +<p> + Must we hunt for hidden treasures?<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Nay! We want the heartfelt straight.</span><br /> + Minstrel, sing, in obvious measures—<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Sing that four and four is eight!</span></p> + +<p> + Whitman leads to easy slumbers,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Browning makes us hunt the hay.</span><br /> + Pipe, ye potes, in simplest numbers,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Anything ye have to say.</span></p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>Q·HORATIVS·FLACCUS<br /> +B· L· T·SVO·SALVTEM</strong></p> + + +<p> + HAEC·CARMINA·MI·VETVLE·QVAE<br /> + ME·IVVENE·PARVM·DILIGENTER<br /> + COMPOSITA·EXCIDERVNT·SENEX<br /> + REFICIENDA·LIMANDAQVE·IAM<br /> + DVDVM·EXISTIMO·QVOD·NVNC<br /> + DEMVM·FACTVM·EST·MIRARIS<br /> + FORTASSE·CVR·ANGLICE·RE<br /> + SCRIPSERIM·DESINES·MIRARI<br /> + CVM·DIXERO·SINE·FVCO·OPOR<br /> + TERE·POETA·ETIAM·VIVVS·NON<br /> + SOLVM·ACCOMMODEM·MEA·OPERA<br /> + AD·NORMAM·RECENTIORVM·TEM<br /> + PORVM·SED·ETIAM·VTAR·NEMPE<br /> + EA·LINGVA·QVAE·MAIORE·RE<br /> + SILIENDI·VT·ITA·DICAM·VI<br /> + PRAEDITA·VIDEATVR·VELIM<br /> + SINT·NOVI·VERSVS·TIBI·MVL<br /> + TO·IVCVNDIORES·QVAM·PRIS<br /> + CA·EXEMPLA</p> + +<p> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">SCRIBEBAM·HELNGON</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span style="text-decoration: overline;">XVII</span>·KAL·DEC</span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>A NOTE FROM MR. FLACCUS</strong></p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 3em;">(<em>Concerning the verses that follow.</em>)</span></p> + + +<p>Dear B. L. T.:</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>I hope you will like these new lines of mine +better than their prototypes.</p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 5em;">Yours regardfully,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 12em;">Q. H. F.</span><br /> +<em>Helngon, November 15.</em></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 15%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</a></span></p> +<p style="margin-left: 5em;"><strong>I</strong></p> + +<p><strong>TO ARISTIUS FUSCUS</strong></p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 3em;">“<em>Integer vitæ scelerisque purus.</em>”</span></p> + + +<p> + Fuscus, old scout, if a guy’s on the level<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">That’s all the arsenal he’ll have to tote;</span><br /> + Up to St. Peter or down to the Devil,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">No need to carry a gun in his coat.</span></p> + +<p> + Prowling around, as you know is my habit,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">I met a wolf in the forest, and he</span><br /> + Beat it for Wolfville and ran like a rabbit.<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">(He was some wolf, too, receive it from me.)</span></p> + +<p> + Where I may happen to camp is no matter,—<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Paris, Chicago, Ostend or St. Joe,—</span><br /> + Like the old dame in the nursery patter<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">I shall make music wherever I go.</span></p> + +<p> + Drop me in Dawson or chuck me in Cadiz,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Dump me in Kansas or plant me in Rome,—</span><br /> + I shall keep on making love to the ladies:<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Where there’s a skirt is my notion of home.</span></p> + + + + +<p> </p> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</a></span></p> +<p style="margin-left: 5em;"><strong>II</strong></p> + +<p><strong>DUETTO</strong></p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 3em;">“<em>Donec gratus eram.</em>”</span></p> + + +<p> + <span style="margin-left: 5em;">HORACE:</span><br /> + What time my Lydia owned me lord<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">No Persian king had much on Horace;</span><br /> + And when you blew my bed and board<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">I was some sad, believe me, Mawruss.</span></p> + +<p> + <span style="margin-left: 5em;">LYDIA:</span><br /> + What time you loved no other She,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Before this Chloë person signed you,</span><br /> + I flourished like a green bay tree;<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Now I’m the Girl You Left Behind You.</span></p> + +<p> + <span style="margin-left: 5em;">HORACE:</span><br /> + This Chloë dame that takes my eye<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Has so peculiar an allurance</span><br /> + I would not hesitate to die<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">If she could cop my life insurance.</span></p> + +<p> + <span style="margin-left: 5em;">LYDIA:</span><br /> + Well, as for that, I know a gent<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">With whom it’s some delight to dally.</span><br /> + With me he makes an awful dent;<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">I’d perish once or twice for Cally.</span></p> + +<p> + <span style="margin-left: 5em;">HORACE:</span><br /> + Suppose our former love should go<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Into a new de luxe edition?</span><br /> + Suppose I tie a can to Chlo,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And let you play your old position?</span></p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</a></span> + <span style="margin-left: 5em;">LYDIA:</span><br /> + Why, then, you cork, you butterfly,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">You sweet, philandering, perjured villain,</span><br /> + With you I’d love to live and die,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Tho’ Cally boy were twice as killin’.</span></p> + + + + +<p> </p> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</a></span></p> +<p><strong><span style="margin-left: 5em;">III</span></strong></p> + +<p><strong>TO PYRRHA</strong></p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 3em;">“<em>Quis multa gracilis.</em>”</span></p> + + +<p> + What young tin whistle gent,<br /> + Bedaubed with barber’s scent,—<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">What cheapskate waits on you</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">To woo,</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 3em;">O Pyrrha?</span></p> + +<p> + For whom the puff and rat<br /> + And transformation that<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">You bought a year ago</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Or so,</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 3em;">O Pyrrha?</span></p> + +<p> + Peeved? Not a bit. Not I<br /> + I’m sorry for the guy.<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">He draws a lovely lime</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">This time,</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 3em;">O Pyrrha!</span></p> + +<p> + I’ve dipped. The wet ain’t fine.<br /> + Hung on the votive line<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">My duds. The gods can see</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">I’m free.</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 3em;">Eh, Pyrrha!</span></p> + + + + +<p> </p> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</a></span></p> +<p><strong><span style="margin-left: 5em;">IV</span></strong></p> + +<p><strong>TO ARISTIUS FUSCUS</strong></p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 3em;">“<em>My sweetly-smiling, sweetly-speaking Lalage.</em>”</span></p> + + +<p> + Fuscus, take a tip from me:<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">This here job’s no bed of roses,</span><br /> + Not the cinch it seems to be,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Not the pipe that one supposes.</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 3em;">What care I, tho’, if I may</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 3em;">Lallygag with Lalage.</span></p> + +<p> + Every day there’s ink to spill,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Tho’ I may not feel like working.</span><br /> + Every day a hole to fill;<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">One must plug it—there’s no shirking.</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 3em;">Oh, that I might all the day</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 3em;">Lallygag with Lalage!</span></p> + +<p> + People say, “Gee! what a snap,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Turning paragraphs and verses.</span><br /> + He’s the band on Fortune’s cap,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Gets a barrel of ses-<em>terces</em>.”</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 3em;">Let them gossip, while I play</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 3em;">Hide and seek with Lalage.</span></p> + +<p> + People hand me out advice:<br /> + <span style="margin-left: .7em;">“Hod, you’re doing too much drivel.</span><br /> + Write us something sweet and nice.<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Stow the satire, chop the frivol.”</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 3em;">But we have the rent to pay,</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 3em;">Lalage; eh, Lalage?</span></p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</a></span> + Ladies shy the saving sense<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Write me patronizing letters;</span><br /> + And there are the writing gents,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Always out to knock their betters.</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 3em;">What cares Flaccus if he may</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 3em;">Lallygag with Lalage!</span></p> + +<p> + No, old top, the writing lay’s<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Not a bed of sweet geranium.</span><br /> + Brickbats mingle with bouquets<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Shied at my devoted cranium.</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 3em;">Does it peeve yours truly? Nay.</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 3em;">Nothing can—with Lalage.</span></p> + +<p> + Paste this, Fuscus, in your hat:<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Not a pesky thing can peeve me.</span><br /> + Take it, too, from Horace flat,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">She’s some gal, is Lal, believe me.</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 3em;">So I coin this word to-day,</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 2.7em;">“Lallygag”—from Lalage.</span></p> + + + + +<p> </p> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</a></span></p> +<p><strong><span style="margin-left: 5em;">V</span></strong></p> + +<p><strong>TO SYLVIA</strong></p> + + +<p> + Were I on the Latin lay,<br /> + Were I turning Odes to-day,<br /> + You would draw a gem from me,<br /> + Little maid of mystery!</p> + +<p> + In an Ode I’d love to spout you;<br /> + I am simply bug about you.<br /> + That’s the way!—the fairest peach<br /> + Is the one that’s out of reach.</p> + +<p> + I have toasted in my time<br /> + Many a peach (and many a lime),<br /> + All of them, I must confess,<br /> + Lacking your elusiveness.</p> + +<p> + Lalage, my well known flame,<br /> + Was considerable dame;<br /> + Likewise Lydia and Phyllis,<br /> + Chloë, Pyrrha, Amaryllis.</p> + +<p> + Syl, if you had lived when they did<br /> + You’d have had those damsels faded.<br /> + (That will give you, girl, some notion<br /> + Of your Flaccus’s devotion.)</p> + +<p> + Yep. If I were doing Odes<br /> + In my quondam favorite modes,<br /> + With your image to qui-vive me<br /> + I’d tear off some Ode, believe me!</p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>A BALLAD OF MISFITS</strong></p> + +<p style="margin-left: 3em;"> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“<em>Chacun son métier:</em></span><br /> + <em>Les vaches seront bien gardées.</em>”<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 7em;" class="smcap">—La Fontaine.</span></p> + + +<p> + With skill for doing this or that<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">The Lord each man endows.</span><br /> + Some men are best for pushing pens,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And some for pushing plows;</span><br /> + And oh, the many many more<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">That should be tending cows!</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 2em;"><em>Chacun son métier:</em></span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 2em;"><em>Les vaches bien gardées.</em></span></p> + +<p> + The ivory-headed serving maid<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Who poses as a “cook,”</span><br /> + She hath a very bovine brain,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">She hath a bovine look.</span><br /> + Oh, prithee, lead her to the kine,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Oh, prithee get the hook!</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 2em;"><em>Chacun son métier:</em></span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 2em;"><em>Les vaches bien gardées.</em></span></p> + +<p> + The papering-and-painting gents<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Whose work is never done,</span><br /> + Who mess around your house until<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">You pine to pull a gun,</span><br /> + Who take three mortal days to do<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">What should be done in one;—</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 2em;"><em>Chacun son métier:</em></span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 2em;"><em>Les vaches bien gardées.</em></span></p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</a></span> + The pestilential “pianiste,”<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">The screechy singer too,</span><br /> + The writer of the stupid book<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And of the dull review,</span><br /> + The actor who is greatest when<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">He takes his exit cue;—</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 2em;"><em>Chacun son métier:</em></span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 2em;"><em>Les vaches bien gardées.</em></span></p> + +<p> + If every one were set to do<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">The task for which he’s fit,</span><br /> + The writer of these trifling lines<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Might also have to quit.</span><br /> + At tending cows the undersigned<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Might make an awful hit.</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 2em;"><em>Chacun son métier:</em></span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 2em;"><em>Les vaches bien gardées.</em></span></p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>AN ORIENTAL APOLOGY</strong></p> + + +<p> + When the hour was come Prince Chun arose,<br /> + And balanced a shoestring on his nose.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“From this some notion you will get,”</span><br /> + Said he, “of China’s deep regret.”</p> + +<p> + Now balancing upon his ear<br /> + A stein of foaming lager beer,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“This attitude,” said he, “reveals</span><br /> + How very sorry China feels.”</p> + +<p> + Then spinning top-like on his cue,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“I can’t begin to tell to you</span><br /> + The deep remorse we suffer for<br /> + The death of your Ambassador.”</p> + +<p> + Next, placing on his cue a plate,<br /> + He said, as it ’gan to gyrate:<br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Nothing that’s happened in his reign</span><br /> + Has caused my Emperor so much pain.”</p> + +<p> + Upon his back he did declare,<br /> + While juggling five balls in the air,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“This attitude—the humblest yet—</span><br /> + Expresses personal regret.”</p> + +<p> + Last, spreading out a deck of cards—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Accept my Emperor’s regards.</span><br /> + As our intentions were well meant,<br /> + Pray overlook the incident.”</p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>THE DAY OF THE COMET</strong></p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 3em;">(<em>May 18, 1910.</em>)</span></p> + + +<p> + Here it is—Eighteenth of May!<br /> + Dawneth now the fatal day<br /> + When we take the awful veil<br /> + Of the fearsome comet’s tail.<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 3em;">Vale, Earth!</span></p> + +<p> + What will happen, heaven knows;<br /> + We can’t even guess, suppose,<br /> + Hazard, speculate, surmise,<br /> + Hint, conjecture, theorize,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 3em;">Or divine.</span></p> + +<p> + Will we merely drill a hole<br /> + Through the trailing aureole?<br /> + Or will the prediction dire<br /> + Of a world destroyed by fire<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 3em;">Be fulfilled?</span></p> + +<p> + Shall we crook our knees and pray<br /> + Counting this the Judgment Day?<br /> + Or preserve a cosmic ca’m,<br /> + Caring not a cosmic dam<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 3em;">What may come?</span></p> + +<p> + There’s the rub. If we but knew<br /> + We should know just what to do.<br /> + Yes is just as good as No<br /> + To all questions. Here we go!—<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 3em;">Hang on tight!</span></p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</a></span></p> +<p>THE MORNING AFTER</p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 3em;">(<em>May 19, 1910.</em>)</span></p> + + +<p> + Here we are, friends, whole and hale<br /> + In or through the comet’s tail;<br /> + And as far as we can say,<br /> + Matters are about as they<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 3em;">Were before.</span></p> + +<p> + Everything is much the same<br /> + As before the comet came.<br /> + Grasses grow and waters run—<br /> + Nothing new beneath the sun—<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 3em;">Same old sphere.</span></p> + +<p> + Life is drab or life is gay,<br /> + Thorny path or primrose way;<br /> + All is common, all is strange;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Down the ringing grooves of change”</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 3em;">Spins the world.</span></p> + +<p> + Change but of a humdrum kind.<br /> + What we vaguely had in mind<br /> + Was some new sensation or<br /> + Thrill we never felt before.<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 3em;">Vain desire!</span></p> + +<p> + Nothing’s added to the stock:<br /> + Same old shiver, same old shock.<br /> + Round about the sun we’ll go<br /> + In the same old status quo.<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 3em;">Awful bore!</span></p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>A BALLADE OF IRRESOLUTION</strong></p> + + +<p> + Isolde, in the story old,<br /> + When Ireland’s coast the vessel nears,<br /> + And Death were fairer to behold,<br /> + To Tristan gives “the cup that clears.”<br /> + Straight to their fate the helmsman steers:<br /> + Unknowing, each the potion sips....<br /> + Comes echoing through the ghostly years<br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Give me the philtre of thy lips!”</span></p> + +<p> + Ah, that like Tristan I were bold!<br /> + My soul into the future peers,<br /> + And passion flags, and heart grows cold,<br /> + And sicklied resolution veers.<br /> + I see the Sister of the Shears<br /> + Who sits fore’er and snips, and snips....<br /> + Still falls upon my inward ears,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Give me the philtre of thy lips!”</span></p> + +<p> + Hero of lovers, largely soul’d!<br /> + Imagination thee enspheres<br /> + With song-enchanted wood and wold<br /> + And casements fronting magic meres.<br /> + Tristan, thy large example cheers<br /> + The faint of heart; thy story grips!—<br /> + My soul again that echo hears,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Give me the philtre of thy lips!”</span></p> + +<p> </p> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</a></span> + <span style="margin-left: 3em;"><em>L’Envoi</em></span></p> + +<p> + Sweet sorceress, resolve my fears!<br /> + He stakes all who Elysium clips.<br /> + What tho’ the fruit be tares and tears!—<br /> + Give me the philtre of thy lips!</p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>TO WHAT BASE USES!</strong></p> + +<p>“<em>Mrs. O—— now takes her daily dip at 5 in the afternoon, +instead of in the morning.</em>”<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 12em;" class="smcap">—Newport Item.</span></p> + + +<p> + This is the forest primeval.</p> + +<p> + This the spruce with the glorious plume<br /> + That grew in the forest primeval.</p> + +<p> + This is the lumberman big and browned<br /> + Who felled the spruce tree to the ground<br /> + That grew in the forest primeval.</p> + +<p> + This is the man with the paper mill<br /> + Who bought the pulp that paid the bill<br /> + Of the husky lumberjack who chopped<br /> + The lofty spruce and its branches lopped<br /> + That grew in the forest primeval.</p> + +<p> + This is the publisher bland and rich<br /> + Who bought the roll of paper which<br /> + Was made by the man with the paper mill<br /> + Who bought the pulp that paid the bill<br /> + Of the lumberjack with the murderous ax<br /> + Who felled the spruce with lusty hacks<br /> + That grew in the forest primeval.</p> + +<p> + This is the youth with the writing tool<br /> + Who does the daily Newport drool<br /> + That helps to make the publisher rich<br /> + Who ordered the stock of paper which<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</a></span><br /> + Was made by the man with the paper mill<br /> + Who bought the pulp that paid the bill<br /> + Of the husky Swede in the Joseph’s coat<br /> + Who swung his ax and the tall spruce smote<br /> + That grew in the forest primeval.</p> + +<p> + This is the lady far from slim<br /> + Who changed the hour of her daily swim<br /> + And excited the youth with the writing tool<br /> + Who does the Newport drivel and drool<br /> + For the prosperous publisher bland and fat<br /> + Who ordered the virgin paper that<br /> + Was made by the man with the paper mill<br /> + Who bought the pulp that paid the bill<br /> + Of Ole Oleson the husky Swede<br /> + Who did a foul and darksome deed<br /> + When he swung his ax with vigor and vim<br /> + And smote the spruce tree tall and trim<br /> + That grew in the forest primeval.</p> + +<p> + This is the shop girl Mag or Liz<br /> + Who daily devours what news there is<br /> + Concerning the lady far from slim<br /> + Who changed the time of her ocean swim<br /> + And excited the youth with the writing tool<br /> + Who does the daily Newport drool<br /> + For the pursy publisher bland and rich<br /> + Who bought the innocent paper which<br /> + Was made by the man with the paper mill<br /> + Who bought the pulp that paid the bill<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</a></span><br /> + Of the Swedish jack who slew the spruce<br /> + That came to a most ignoble use—<br /> + The lofty spruce with the glorious plume—<br /> + The giant spruce that used to loom<br /> + In the heart of the forest primeval.</p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>HOW THEY MIGHT HAVE BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS</strong></p> + + +<p> + We sprang to the motor, I, Joris and Dirck.<br /> + I snapped on my goggles and got to my work.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Hi, there!” yelled the cop in the helmet of white;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Let her flicker!” said Joris, and into the night,</span><br /> + With a sneer at the speed laws, we hurtled hell-bent<br /> + To carry to Aix the good tidings from Ghent.</p> + +<p> + The going was poor, we expected delay,<br /> + And the usual livestock obstructed the way.<br /> + At Boom we ran over a large yellow dog,<br /> + At Düffeld a chicken, at Mecheln a hog;<br /> + What else, we’d no time to slow down to inquire;<br /> + At Aerschot, confound it! we blew out a tire.</p> + +<p> + I jacked up the axle and ripped off the shoe,<br /> + And snapped on an extra that promised to do.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“All aboard!” I exclaimed as I cranked the machine,</span><br /> + But something was wrong with the curst gasoline.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“By Hasselt!” Dirck groaned, “We’ll be half a day late;</span><br /> + We ought to have sent the good tidings by freight.”</p> + +<p> + False prophet! I tinkered a minute or two<br /> + And again we were off like “a bolt from the blue.”<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</a></span><br /> + We ate up the hills at a forty-mile clip,<br /> + And skidded the turns like the snap of a whip,<br /> + Till we dashed into Aix and were pinched by a cop<br /> + For failing to slow when commanded to stop.</p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Now, wouldn’t that frost you!” said Joris, but we</span><br /> + When we told the glad tidings were instantly free.<br /> + The Mayor himself paid the ten dollars’ fine,<br /> + And blew us to dinner with six kinds of wine,<br /> + Which (the burgesses voted, by common consent)<br /> + Was no more than their due that brought good news from Ghent.</p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>THE DINOSAUR</strong></p> + + +<p> + Behold the mighty Dinosaur,<br /> + Famous in prehistoric lore,<br /> + Not only for his weight and strength<br /> + But for his intellectual length.<br /> + You will observe by these remains<br /> + The creature had two sets of brains—<br /> + One in his head (the usual place),<br /> + The other at his spinal base.<br /> + Thus he could reason <em>a priori</em><br /> + As well as <em>a posteriori</em>.<br /> + No problem bothered him a bit;<br /> + He made both head and tail of it.<br /> + So wise he was, so wise and solemn,<br /> + Each thought filled just a spinal column.<br /> + If one brain found the pressure strong<br /> + It passed a few ideas along;<br /> + If something slipped his forward mind<br /> + ’Twas rescued by the one behind;<br /> + And if in error he was caught<br /> + He had a saving afterthought.<br /> + As he thought twice before he spoke<br /> + He had no judgments to revoke;<br /> + For he could think, without congestion,<br /> + Upon both sides of every question.</p> + +<p> + Oh, gaze upon this model beast,<br /> + Defunct ten million years at least.</p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>A BALLADE OF CAP AND BELLS</strong></p> + + +<p> + When as a dewdrop joy enspheres<br /> + This pleasant planet, arched with blue,<br /> + When every prospect charms and cheers,<br /> + And all the world is fair to view—<br /> + Who does not envy (have not you?)<br /> + That mortal, by Thalia kissed,<br /> + Who plies, in plumes of cockatoo,<br /> + The blithesome trade of humorist?</p> + +<p> + But when the wind of fortune veers,<br /> + And blue-white skies turn leaden hue,<br /> + When every pleasant prospect blears<br /> + And all the weary world’s askew—<br /> + Who then would envy (if he knew)<br /> + Jack Point the jester, glum and trist;<br /> + Or ply, tho’ first of all the crew,<br /> + The dismal trade of humorist?</p> + +<p> + Ah, jocund trifles writ in tears,<br /> + And merry stanzas steeped in rue!<br /> + When all the world in drab appears<br /> + The fool must still in motley woo.<br /> + Tho’ bitter be the cud he chew,<br /> + Still must he grind his foolish grist;<br /> + Still must he ply, the long day through,<br /> + The tragic trade of humorist!</p> + +<p> </p> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</a></span> + <span style="margin-left: 3em;"><em>L’Envoi</em></span></p> + +<p> + Lady of Tears, what pains perdue<br /> + The heart and soul of him may twist<br /> + Who doth in cap and bells pursue<br /> + The glad sad trade of humorist!</p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>GENTLE DOCTOR BROWN</strong></p> + + +<p> + It was a gentle sawbones and his name was Doctor Brown.<br /> + His auto was the terror of a small suburban town.<br /> + His practice, quite amazing for so trivial a place,<br /> + Consisted of the victims of his homicidal pace.</p> + +<p> + So constant was his practice and so high his motor’s gear<br /> + That at knocking down pedestrians he never had a peer;<br /> + But it must, in simple justice, be as truly written down<br /> + That no man could be more thoughtful than gentle Doctor Brown.</p> + +<p> + Whatever was the errand on which Doctor Brown was bent<br /> + He’d stop to patch a victim up and never charged a cent.<br /> + He’d always pause, whoever ’twas he happened to run down:<br /> + A humane and a thoughtful man was gentle Doctor Brown.</p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“How fortunate,” he would observe, “how fortunate ’twas I</span><br /> + That knocked you galley-west and heard your wild and wailing cry.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</a></span><br /> + There <em>are</em> some heartless wretches who would leave you here alone,<br /> + Without a sympathetic ear to catch your dying moan.</p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Such callousness,” said Doctor Brown, “I cannot comprehend;</span><br /> + To fathom such indifference I simply don’t pretend.<br /> + One ought to do his duty, and I never am remiss.<br /> + A simple word of thanks is all I ask. Here, swallow this!”</p> + +<p> + Then, reaching in the tonneau, he’d unpack his little kit,<br /> + And perform an operation that was workmanlike and fit.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“You may survive,” said Doctor Brown; “it’s happened once or twice.</span><br /> + If not, you’ve had the benefit of competent advice.”</p> + +<p> + Oh, if all our motormaniacs were equally humane,<br /> + How little bitterness there’d be, or reason to complain!<br /> + How different our point of view if we were ridden down<br /> + By lunatics as thoughtful as gentle Doctor Brown!</p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>IN THE GALLERY</strong></p> + + +<p> + Weirder than the pictures<br /> + Are the folks who come<br /> + With their owlish strictures—<br /> + Telling why they’re bum.<br /> + Of all lines of babble<br /> + This one has the call:<br /> + Picture gallery gabble<br /> + Is the best of all.</p> + +<p> + Literary fluffle<br /> + Never, never cloys;<br /> + Much has Mrs. Guffle<br /> + Added to my joys.<br /> + For that chitter-chatter<br /> + I delight to fall.<br /> + But the picture patter<br /> + Is the best of all.</p> + +<p> + With the music highbrows<br /> + I delight to chat,<br /> + Elevating my brows<br /> + Over this and that.<br /> + Music tittle-tattle<br /> + Never fails to thrall.<br /> + But the picture prattle<br /> + Is the best of all.</p> + +<p> + Sociologic rub-dub<br /> + I delight to hear;<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</a></span><br /> + Philosophic flub-dub<br /> + Titillates my ear.<br /> + Lovelier yet the spiffle<br /> + In the picture hall;<br /> + For the picture piffle<br /> + Is the best of all.</p> + +<p> + Weirder than the pictures<br /> + Are the folks who stand<br /> + Passing owlish strictures,<br /> + Catalogue in hand.<br /> + Hear the bunk they babble<br /> + Under every wall.<br /> + Yes. The gallery gabble<br /> + Is the best of all.</p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>ALWAYS</strong></p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 3em;">“<em>Il y a tous les jours quelque dam chose.</em>”</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 12em;" class="smcap">—Abelard to Heloise.</span></p> + + +<p> + When Mrs. Mead was full of groans,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">When symptoms of all sorts assailed her,</span><br /> + She sent for bluff old Doctor Jones,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And told him all the things that ailed her.</span><br /> + It took her nearly half the day,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And when she finished out the string—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Ye-e-s, Mrs. Mead,” drawled Doctor J.,</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: .7em;">“There’s always some dam thing.”</span></p> + +<p> + I like the line. It’s worth a ton<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of optimistic commonplaces.</span><br /> + It’s tonic, it refreshes one,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">It cheers, it stimulates, it braces.</span><br /> + It summarizes things so well;<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">It has the philosophic ring.</span><br /> + Has Kant or Hegel more to tell?<br /> + <span style="margin-left: .7em;">“There’s always some dam thing.”</span></p> + +<p> + The dean of all the cheer-up school<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Adjures sad hearts to cease repining,</span><br /> + And intimates that, as a rule,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">The sun behind the cloud is shining.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Into each life——” You know the rest;</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">No need to finish out the string.</span><br /> + Longfellow boiled might be expressed,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: .7em;">“There’s always some dam thing.”</span></p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</a></span> + When things go wrong I do not read<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">The cheer-up poets, great or lesser.</span><br /> + To soothe my soul I do not need<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">The Neo-Thought of Mr. Dresser.</span><br /> + Sufficient for each working day,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">With all the worries it may bring,</span><br /> + That helpful line by Doctor J.,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: .7em;">“There’s always some dam thing.”</span></p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>THE MODERN MARINER</strong></p> + + +<p> + A dry sheet and a lazy sea,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And a wind so far from fast</span><br /> + It barely floats the owner’s flag<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">That flutters at the mast—</span><br /> + That flutters at the mast, my boys;<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">So while the sky is free</span><br /> + Of cloud we’ll take a yachtsman’s chance<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And venture out to sea.</span></p> + +<p> + The aneroid has dropped a tenth!<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Back, back across the bar</span><br /> + To a harbor snug, and a long cold drink,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And a big fat black cigar—</span><br /> + A big fat black cigar, my boys;<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">While, on an even keel,</span><br /> + The Swedish chef out-chefs himself<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">In getting up a meal.</span></p> + +<p> + Give me a soft and gentle wind,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">A fleckless azure sky;</span><br /> + I care not for your “snoring breeze”<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And dinners heaving high—</span><br /> + And dinners heaving high, my boys,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Make no great hit with me;</span><br /> + So when the breeze begins to snore<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">We’ll not put out to sea.</span></p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</a></span> + There’s laughter in yon beach hotel,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And summer girls a crowd;</span><br /> + And hark the music, mariners,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">The band is piping loud!</span><br /> + The band is piping loud, my boys,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Bright eyes are flashing free.</span><br /> + Come, fly the owner’s-absent flag<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And join the revelry.</span></p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>A BALLADE OF THE CANNERY</strong></p> + + +<p> + What of the phrases, long decayed,<br /> + Of paleologic pedigree,<br /> + Musty, moldy, frazzled, and frayed—<br /> + A doddering, dusty company?<br /> + What shall be done with them? say we;<br /> + And east and west the people bawl,<br /> + Dump them into the Cannery!—<br /> + Into the brine go one and all.</p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Grilled” and “lauded” and “scored” and “flayed,”</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Common or garden variety,”</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Wave of crime” and “reform crusade,”</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Along these lines” and “it seems to me,”</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Noted savant,” “I fail to see,”</span><br /> + The “groaning board” of the “banquet hall,”—<br /> + Masonjar ’em in “ghoulish glee”—<br /> + Into the brine go one and all.</p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Succulent bivalves,” “trusty blade,”</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Last analysis,” “practical-ly,”</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Lone highwayman” and “fusillade,”</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Millionaire broker and clubman,” “gee!”</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“In reply to yours,” “can such things be?”</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Sounded the keynote” or “trumpet call,”—</span><br /> + Can ’em, pickle ’em, one, two, three—<br /> + Into the brine go one and all.</p> + +<p> </p> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</a></span> + <span style="margin-left: 3em;"><em>L’Envoi</em></span></p> + +<p> + Under the spreading chestnut tree<br /> + Stands the Cannery, all too small.<br /> + The Canner a briny man is he,<br /> + And into the brine go one and all.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>PANDEAN PIPEDREAMS</strong></p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 3em;">(<em>Induced by smoking “Pagan Pickings.”</em>)</span></p> + + +<p style="margin-left: 5em;"><strong>I</strong></p> + +<p> +<em>This is something that I heard,</em><br /> +<em>As the fluting of a bird,</em><br /> +<em>On a certain drowsy day,</em><br /> +<em>When my pipe was under way.</em><br /> +<em>I was weary of the town,</em><br /> +<em>And the going up and down;</em><br /> +<em>Sick of streets and sick of noise,—</em><br /> +<em>And I pined for Pagan joys.</em></p> + +<p> + Daphne, here it is July!<br /> + Just the month, my love, to fly<br /> + To a sylvan solitude<br /> + In the green and ancient wood.<br /> + We will trip it as we go<br /> + On the neo-Pagan toe,<br /> + Sunny days and starry nights,<br /> + Savoring the wild delights<br /> + Of a turbulent desire<br /> + That may set the wood on fire.</p> + +<p> + We will play at hunt-the-fawn,<br /> + In the neo-Dorian dawn.<br /> + You will scamper through the brake,<br /> + And I’ll follow in your wake—</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</a></span> + As the young Apollo ran<br /> + In the piping days of Pan.<br /> + You’ll escape me, without doubt,<br /> + For I’m just a trifle stout;<br /> + But, when I have lagged behind,<br /> + Waiting for my second wynde,<br /> + From some pretty hiding-place<br /> + Will emerge your laughing face;<br /> + I shall glimpse your eyes of blue,<br /> + Hear your merry “Peek-a-boo!”</p> + +<p> + What to wear? The Pagan plan<br /> + Contemplates a coat of tan;<br /> + But I fear we shall require<br /> + Just a trifle more attire.<br /> + Bushes scratch and brambles sting;<br /> + Insect myriads are a-wing;—<br /> + Heavens, how mosquitoes swarm<br /> + When the woodland air is warm.<br /> + (<span class="smcap">Mem</span>: To take, when we elope,<br /> + Tanglewood Mosquito Dope.)</p> + +<p> + Do you like the picture, dear?<br /> + Have you aught of doubt or fear?<br /> + Have you any criticism<br /> + Of my neo-Paganism?<br /> + If not, dearie, let us fly<br /> + To that passion-ripening sky,<br /> + Where our souls may have their fling,<br /> + And our every care take wing.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</a></span> +<em>So the bird song fluted by,</em><br /> +<em>Like a vagrant summer sigh—</em><br /> +<em>Came, and passed, and was no more;</em><br /> +<em>And my pleasant dream was o’er.</em><br /> +<em>For arose the wraith of Doubt;</em><br /> +<em>And I knew my pipe was out.</em></p> + + +<p> </p> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</a></span> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;"><strong>II</strong></span></p> + +<p> +<em>This is something that befell</em><br /> +<em>When my pipe was drawing well—</em><br /> +<em>Something, rather, that I heard</em><br /> +<em>As the fluting of a bird.</em></p> + +<p> + Daphne, come and live with me<br /> + In a Pagan greenery.<br /> + Life will then be naught but play,<br /> + One long Pagan holiday.<br /> + We will play at hide and seek<br /> + In the alders by the creek;<br /> + Sport amid the cascade’s smother.<br /> + Splashing water at each other;—<br /> + Every moment pleasure wooing,<br /> + Every moment something doing.<br /> + If we talk, we’ll talk of Love:<br /> + All its arguments we’ll prove.<br /> + Such a mental rest you’ll find.<br /> + Leave your intellect behind.</p> + +<p> + Night will come, (for come it will,<br /> + ’Spite the fluting on the hill,)<br /> + And we’ll pitch a cozy camp<br /> + Where it isn’t quite so damp.<br /> + While you dry your hair and laze<br /> + By the campfire’s violet blaze,<br /> + I will rob a balsam tree<br /> + To construct a house for thee.<br /> + What so dear as to be wooed<br /> + In a sylvan solitude?</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</a></span> + What so sweet as Pagan vows<br /> + Whispered in a house of boughs?<br /> + Pagan love’s without alloy.<br /> + Pagan kisses never cloy.<br /> + Arms that cling in Pagan fashion<br /> + Never tire. A Pagan passion<br /> + Is the only kind I know<br /> + That outlives a winter’s snow.<br /> + Daphne, Daphne, let us fly!<br /> + You’re a Pagan—so am I.</p> + +<p> +<em>So the fluting on the hill</em><br /> +<em>Passed and died, and all was still.</em><br /> +<em>So the Pagan Pickings died,</em><br /> +<em>And I laid the pipe aside.</em></p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>THE LAUNDRY OF LIFE</strong></p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 3em;">(<em>An Adventure in Sentiment.</em>)</span></p> + + +<p> + Life is a laundry in which we<br /> + Are ironed out, or soon or late.<br /> + Who has not known the irony<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 4em;">Of fate?</span></p> + +<p> + We enter it when we are born,<br /> + Our colors bright. Full soon they fade.<br /> + We leave it “done up,” old and worn,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 4em;">And frayed;</span></p> + +<p> + Frayed round the edges, worn and thin—<br /> + Life is a rough old linen slinger.<br /> + Who has not lost a button in<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 4em;">Life’s wringer?</span></p> + +<p> + With other linen we are tubbed,<br /> + With other linen often tangled;<br /> + In open court we then are scrubbed,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 4em;">And mangled.</span></p> + +<p> + Some take a gloss of happiness<br /> + The hardest wear can not diminish;<br /> + Others, alas! get a “domes-<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 4em;">Tic finish.”</span></p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>WISDOM IN A CAPSULE</strong></p> + +<p style="margin-left: 3em;"> +“<em>If she be not so to me.</em><br /> + <span style="margin-left: .5em;"><em>What care I how fair she be?</em>”</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;" class="smcap">—The Shepherd’s Resolution.</span></p> + + +<p> + Here we have in this truism<br /> + Mr. James’s pragmatism.<br /> + Test your troubles day by day<br /> + With it, and they fly away.<br /> + Is the weather boiling hot,<br /> + Hot enough to boil a pot—<br /> + If it be not so to me,<br /> + What care I how hot it be?</p> + +<p> + Take a pudding made of bread;<br /> + Much against it has been said;<br /> + But it does not lack defense—<br /> + Many say it is immense.<br /> + Be it damned or be it blessed,<br /> + Let us make the acid test—<br /> + If it be not so to me,<br /> + What care I how good it be?</p> + +<p> + So with every blooming thing<br /> + That has power to soothe or sting;<br /> + Ships or shoes or sealing wax,<br /> + Carrots, comets, carpet tacks.<br /> + Every philosophic need<br /> + Covered by this capsule creed:<br /> + If it be not so to me,<br /> + What care I how <img src="images/goodbad.jpg" width="41" height="25" alt="good bad" title="" /> it be?</p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>THE LAND OF RAINBOW’S-END</strong></p> + + +<p> + Young Faintheart lay on a wayside bank,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Full prey to doubts and fears,</span><br /> + When he did espy come trudging by<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">A Pilgrim bent with years.</span><br /> + His back was bowed and his step was slow,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">But his faith no years could bend,</span><br /> + As he eagerly pressed to the rose-lit west<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And the Land of Rainbow’s-End.</span></p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“<em>It’s ho, for a pack!” sang the Pilgrim gray,</em></span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: .7em;">“<em>And a stout oak staff for friend,</em></span><br /> +<em>And it’s over the hills and far away</em><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;"><em>To the Land of Rainbow’s-End!</em>”</span></p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Thou’rt old,” young Faintheart cried, “thou’rt old,</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And there’s many a league to go;</span><br /> + And still thou seekest the pot of gold<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">At the farther end of the bow.”</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“I am old, I am old,” said the Pilgrim gray,</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: .7em;">“But ever my way I’ll wend</span><br /> + To the rose-lit hills of the dying day<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And the Land of Rainbow’s-End.”</span></p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Come, rest thee, rest thee by my side;</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Give o’er thy doomsday quest.”</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Have done, have done!” the Pilgrim cried:</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: .7em;">“The light wanes in the west.</span><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</a></span><br /> + The road is long, but I shall not tire;<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">I will lay my bones, God send,</span><br /> + By the beautiful City of Heart’s Desire,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">In the Land of Rainbow’s-End.”</span></p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“<em>Then it’s ho, for a pack!” sang the Pilgrim gray,</em></span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: .7em;">“<em>And a stout oak staff for friend,</em></span><br /> +<em>And it’s over the hills and far away</em><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;"><em>To the Land of Rainbow’s-End.</em>”</span></p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>A BALLADE OF A BORE</strong></p> + + +<p> + When the weather is warm and the glass running high<br /> + And the odors of Araby tincture the air;<br /> + When the sun is aloft in a white and blue sky,<br /> + And the morrow holds promise of falling as fair;—<br /> + In spring or in summer I’m free to declare,<br /> + And the same I am equally free to maintain,<br /> + One person has power my peace to impair:<br /> + The man who tells limericks gives me a pain.</p> + +<p> + When the foliage flushes and summer is by,<br /> + And russet and red are the popular wear;<br /> + When the song of the woodland is changed to a sigh<br /> + And the horn of the hunter is heard by the hare;—<br /> + In the season of autumn I’m free to declare,<br /> + And my language is lucid and simple and plain,<br /> + One person’s acquaintance I freely forswear:<br /> + The man with the limerick gives me a pain.</p> + +<p> + When the landscape is iced and the snow feathers fly,<br /> + When the fields are all bald and the trees are all bare,<br /> + And the prospect which nature presents to the eye<br /> + Is chiefly distinguished by glitter and glare;—<br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</a></span> + In the season of winter I’m free to declare<br /> + That the limerick person is flat and inane.<br /> + This person, I think, we could easily spare:<br /> + The man who tells limericks gives me a pain.</p> + +<p> </p> +<p> + <span style="margin-left: 3em;"><em>L’Envoi</em></span></p> + +<p> + From New Year to Christmas I’m free to declare<br /> + That, for ways that are dull and for verse that is vain,<br /> + One bore is peculiar—and not at all rare:<br /> + The man with the limerick gives me a pain.</p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>THE POLE</strong></p> + +<p style="margin-left: 3em;">(<em>Tune</em>: “<em>Carcassonne.</em>”)</p> + + +<p> + I’m an old man, I’m eighty-three,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">I seldom get away;</span><br /> + My work, it keeps me close at home—<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">I have no time for play.</span><br /> + If it were not for the journey back,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">That so fatigues a soul,</span><br /> + I’d like to take a little trip—<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">I never have seen the Pole.</span></p> + +<p> + ’Tis said that in that favored place<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">There is no heat or drouth;</span><br /> + And that, whichever way you turn,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">You’re looking south-by-south.</span><br /> + Some say there is a flagstaff there,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Some say there is a hole.</span><br /> + Think of the years that I have lived<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And never have seen the Pole!</span></p> + +<p> + The parson a hundred times is right—<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">We ought to stay at home.</span><br /> + I’m an old man, I’m eighty-three,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">I have no call to roam.</span><br /> + And yet if I could somehow find<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">The time—God bless my soul!—</span><br /> + I think that I would die content<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">If I only could see the Pole!</span></p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</a></span> + My brother has seen Baraboo,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">If so he speak the truth;</span><br /> + My wife and son they both have been<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">As far as to Duluth;</span><br /> + My cousin cruised to Eastport, Maine,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">On a ship that carried coal;</span><br /> + I’ve been as far as Mackinac—<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">But I never have seen the Pole!</span></p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>SH-H-H-H!</strong></p> + +<p style="margin-left: 3em;"> +“<em>Mr. Mabie is now reading the summer books.</em>”<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 5em;" class="smcap">—The Ladies’ Home Journal.</span></p> + + +<p> + What shall we buy for a summer’s day?<br /> + What is good reading and what is not?<br /> + Mabie will tell us—we wait his say;<br /> + For Mabie alone can know what’s what.<br /> + Meanwhile the world is as still as death;<br /> + Mute inquiry is in men’s looks;<br /> + Everybody is holding his breath—<br /> + Mabie is reading the summer books.</p> + +<p> + The suns are at pause in the cosmic race;<br /> + The mills of the gods have ceased to grind;<br /> + The only sound that is heard in space<br /> + Is the rhythmic clicking of Mabie’s mind.<br /> + Elsewhere silence, or near or far—<br /> + Chattering Pleiads or babbling brooks;<br /> + For the whisper has passed from star to star:<br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Mabie is reading the summer books.”</span></p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>THE VANISHED FAY</strong></p> + + +<p> + Tell me, whither do they go,<br /> + All the Little Ones we know?<br /> + They “grow up” before our eyes,<br /> + And the fairy spirit flies.<br /> + Time the Piper, pied and gay—<br /> + Does he lure them all away?<br /> + Do they follow after him,<br /> + Over the horizon’s brim?</p> + +<p> + Daughter’s growing fair to see,<br /> + Slim and straight as popple tree.<br /> + Still a child in heart and head,<br /> + But—the fairy spirit’s fled.<br /> + As a fay at break of day,<br /> + Little One has flown away,<br /> + On the stroke of fairy bell—<br /> + When and whither, who can tell?</p> + +<p> + Still her childish fancies weave<br /> + In the Land of Make Believe;<br /> + And her love of magic lore<br /> + Is as avid as before.<br /> + Dollies big and dollies small<br /> + Still are at her beck and call.<br /> + But for all this pleasant play,<br /> + Little One has gone away.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</a></span> + Whither, whither have they flown,<br /> + All the fays we all have known?<br /> + To what “faery lands forlorn”<br /> + On the sound of elfin horn?<br /> + As she were a woodland sprite,<br /> + Little One has vanished quite.<br /> + Waves the wand of Oberon:<br /> + Cock has crowed—the fay is gone!</p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>AUTUMN REVERY</strong></p> + + +<p> + When the leaves are falling crimson<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And the worm is off its feed,</span><br /> + When the rag weed and the jimson<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Have agreed to go to seed,</span><br /> + When the air in forest bowers<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Has a tang like Rhenish wine,</span><br /> + And to breathe it for two hours<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Makes you feel you’d like to dine,</span><br /> + When the frost is on the pumpkin<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And the corn is in the shock,</span><br /> + And the cheek of country bumpkin<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">City faces seems to mock,—</span><br /> + When you come across a ditty<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">(Like this one) of Autumn’s charm,</span><br /> + Then it’s pleasant in the city,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Where they keep the houses warm.</span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>THE RECOIL</strong></p> + + +<p> + I met a friend of lofty brow—<br /> + As lofty as the laws allow.<br /> + I said to him, “You’ll know, I’m sure—<br /> + What’s doing now in litrychoor?”<br /> + Said he: “I hate the very name;<br /> + I’m weary of the blooming game.<br /> + I read, whenever I have time,<br /> + Something by Phillips Oppenheim.”</p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Cheer up!” said I. “What’s new in Art?—</span><br /> + You drift around the picture mart.<br /> + What do you think of Mr. Blum?—<br /> + Some say he’s great, some say he’s bum.”<br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“I’m strong for Blum,” my friend replied;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“His pictures are so queer and pied.</span><br /> + I wouldn’t change them if I could;<br /> + I’d rather have things queer than good.”</p> + +<p> + I spoke of this, I spoke of that,<br /> + But everything was stale and flat.<br /> + Said I, “You once adored the chaste,<br /> + You used to have such perfect taste.”<br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Good taste,” he wailed, “brings but distress,</span><br /> + ’Tis an affliction, nothing less;<br /> + While those whose taste is punk and vile<br /> + Are happy all the blessed while.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</a></span> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Oh, take a brace, old man!” said I.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Let me prescribe a nip of rye,</span><br /> + And then we’ll go to see a play;<br /> + I’ve two for Barrymore to-day.”<br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“No, no,” he groaned; “’twould be a bore,</span><br /> + With all respect to Barrymore.”<br /> + Said I: “Then whither shall we go?”<br /> + Said he: “A moving picture show.”</p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>THE CORONATION</strong></p> + +<p style="margin-left: 4em;"><em>Lang Syne.</em></p> + + +<p> + Twas a holy mystery<br /> + In the days of chivalry.<br /> + More than pageant was the Rite<br /> + In the sight of clod and knight.<br /> + Sword and Scepter, Orb and Rod,<br /> + Faith in self and faith in God;<br /> + Oaths of Homage fiercely flung,<br /> + Faith in heart and faith in tongue;—<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Gone the things that meaning gave</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: .7em;">“With the old world to the grave.”</span></p> + +<p> </p> +<p style="margin-left: 4em;">1911.</p> + +<p> + Knightly faith was born to fade:<br /> + Now the Rite is masquerade.<br /> + Now a cockney paladin<br /> + Winds a penny horn of tin.<br /> + Where in reverence heads were bowed<br /> + Surges now a careless crowd;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Muddied oafs” and “flanneled fools”</span><br /> + Jostle “Yanks” with camping stools;—<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Gone the things that meaning gave</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: .7em;">“With the old world to the grave.”</span></p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>SONS OF BATTLE</strong></p> + + +<p> + Let us have peace, and Thy blessing,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Lord of the Wind and the Rain,</span><br /> + When we shall cease from oppressing,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">From all injustice refrain;</span><br /> + When we hate falsehood and spurn it;<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">When we are men among men.</span><br /> + Let us have peace when we earn it—<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Never an hour till then.</span></p> + +<p> + Let us have rest in Thy garden,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Lord of the Rock and the Green,</span><br /> + When there is nothing to pardon,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">When we are whitened and clean.</span><br /> + Purge us of skulking and treason,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Help us to put them away.</span><br /> + We shall have rest in Thy season;<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Till then the heat of the fray.</span></p> + +<p> + Let us have peace in Thy pleasure,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Lord of the Cloud and the Sun;</span><br /> + Grant to us æons of leisure<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">When the long battle is done.</span><br /> + Now we have only begun it;<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Stead us!—we ask nothing more.</span><br /> + Peace—rest—but not till we’ve won it—<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Never an hour before.</span></p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>MY LADY NEW YORK</strong></p> + + +<p> + O siren of tresses peroxide,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And heart that is hard as a flint,</span><br /> + Blue orbs of complacency ox-eyed,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">That light at the mark of the mint,</span><br /> + Ears only for jingle of joybells,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">A conscience as light as a cork—</span><br /> + You are wedded to follies and foibles,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">My Lady New York.</span></p> + +<p> + True, you have (not enough, tho’, to hurt you)<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Your moods and your manners austere;</span><br /> + You have visions and vapors of virtue,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And “reform” for a time has your ear;</span><br /> + But of chaste Puritanic embraces<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">You soon have enough and to spare,</span><br /> + And then you kick over the traces,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And virtue forswear.</span></p> + +<p> + So go it, milady! Foot fleetly<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">The paths that are primrose and gay;</span><br /> + Abandon your fancy completely<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">To follies and fads of the day.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Reform” is a something that throttles</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">The joys of the pace that’s intense—</span><br /> + Smash hearts, reputations, and bottles,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And ding the expense!</span></p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>BALLADE OF THE PIPESMOKE CARRY</strong></p> + + +<p> + The Ancient Wood is white and still,<br /> + Over the pines the bleak wind blows,<br /> + Voiceless the brook and mute the rill,<br /> + Silence too where the river flows.<br /> + Still I catch the scent of the rose<br /> + And hear the white-throat’s roundelay,<br /> + Footing the trail that Memory knows,<br /> + Over the hills and far away.</p> + +<p> + I have only a pipe to fill:<br /> + Weaving, wreathing rings disclose<br /> + A trail that flings straight up the hill,<br /> + Straight as an arrow’s flight. For those<br /> + Who fare by night the pole star glows<br /> + Above the mountain top. By day<br /> + A blasted pine the pathway shows<br /> + Over the hills and far away.</p> + +<p> + The Ancient Wood is white and chill,<br /> + But what know I of wintry woes?<br /> + The Pipesmoke Trail is mine at will—<br /> + Naught may hinder and none oppose.<br /> + Such the power the pipe bestows,<br /> + When the wilderness calls I may<br /> + Tramping go, as I smoke and doze,<br /> + Over the hills and far away.</p> + +<p> </p> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</a></span> + <span style="margin-left: 3em;"><em>L’Envoi</em></span></p> + +<p> + Deep in the canyons lie the snows:<br /> + They shall vanish if I but say—<br /> + If my fancy a-roving goes<br /> + Over the hills and far away.</p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>POST-VACATIONAL</strong></p> + + +<p> + You have heard that mildewed story,<br /> + That tradition horned and hoary,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">That it wearies one to roam,</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 3em;">Past a doubt;</span><br /> + That one vainly on vacation<br /> + Tries to find recuperation,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Till he hunts his happy home</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 3em;">Tuckered out.</span></p> + +<p> + That abroad there is no comfort,<br /> + That a man must journey home for ’t—<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">You have heard that whiskered wheeze,</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 3em;">Have you not?</span><br /> + ’Tis a commonplace to cavil<br /> + At the “luxuries of travel,”<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">For in travel lack of ease</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 3em;">Is your lot.</span></p> + +<p> + You have heard that gag historic;<br /> + It was often sprung by Yorick;<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">It’s as old as Noah’s ark</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 3em;">And its crew.</span><br /> + It’s the commonest (at basis)<br /> + Of all common commonplaces;—<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">So I merely would remark</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 3em;">That—it’s true.</span></p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>THE BARDS WE QUOTE</strong></p> + + +<p> + Whene’er I quote I seldom take<br /> + From bards whom angel hosts environ;<br /> + But usually some damned rake<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 4em;">Like Byron.</span></p> + +<p> + Of Whittier I think a lot,<br /> + My fancy to him often turns;<br /> + But when I quote ’tis some such sot<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 4em;">As Burns.</span></p> + +<p> + I’m very fond of Bryant, too,<br /> + He brings to me the woodland smelly;<br /> + Why should I quote that “village roo,”<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 4em;">P. Shelley?</span></p> + +<p> + I think Felicia Hemans great,<br /> + I dote upon Jean Ingelow;<br /> + Yet quote from such a reprobate<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 4em;">As Poe.</span></p> + +<p> + To quote from drunkard or from rake<br /> + Is not a proper thing to do.<br /> + I find the habit hard to break,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 4em;">Don’t you?</span></p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>THE PERSISTENT POET</strong></p> + + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“I remember, I remember”—</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Something special? Not a bit.</span><br /> + But, you see, this is November,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And Remember rimes with it.</span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>HENCE THESE RIMES</strong></p> + + +<p> + Tho’ my verse is exact,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Tho’ it flawlessly flows,</span><br /> + As a matter of fact<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">I would rather write prose.</span></p> + +<p> + While my harp is in tune,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And I sing like the birds,</span><br /> + I would really as soon<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Write in straightaway words.</span></p> + +<p> + Tho’ my songs are as sweet<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">As Apollo e’er piped,</span><br /> + And my lines are as neat<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">As have ever been typed,</span></p> + +<p> + I would rather write prose—<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">I prefer it to rime;</span><br /> + It’s less hard to compose,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And it takes me less time.</span></p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Well, if that be the case,”</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">You are moved to inquire,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“Why appropriate space</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">For extolling your lyre?”</span></p> + +<p> + I can only reply<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">That this form I elect</span><br /> + ’Cause it pleases the eye,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And I like the effect.</span></p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>THE OLD ROLLER TOWEL</strong></p> + + +<p> + How dear to this heart is the old roller towel<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Which fond recollection presents to my view.</span><br /> + It hung like a pall on the wall of the washroom,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And gathered the grime of the linotype crew.</span><br /> + The sink and the soap and the lye that stood by it<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Remain; but the towel is gone past recall.</span><br /> + O tempora! Also, O mores! Sic transit<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">The time-honored towel that creaked on the wall.</span><br /> + The grimy old towel, the slimy old towel,<br /> + The tacky old towel that hung on the wall.</p> + +<p> + Now hangs in the washroom a huge roll of paper—<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">The old printer’s towel we’ll never see more.</span><br /> + The new (see directions) is “used like a blotter,”<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And crumpled and scattered in wads on the floor.</span><br /> + And often, when drying my hands in this fashion,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">The tears of remembrance will gather and fall,</span><br /> + And I sigh (though I’m not what you’d call sentimental)<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">For the classic old towel that propped up the wall.</span><br /> + The sainted old towel, the tainted old towel,<br /> + The gooey old towel that hung on the wall.</p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>UP CULTURE’S HILL</strong></p> + +<p style="margin-left: 3em;">(<em>The confession of a club lady.</em>)</p> + + +<p> + The path up Culture’s Hill is steep,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And weary is the way,</span><br /> + With very little time for sleep<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And none at all for play.</span></p> + +<p> + She that this toilsome task essays<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Must never bat an eye,</span><br /> + But keep her firm, unwavering gaze<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Forever fixed on high.</span></p> + +<p> + For should she ever careless grow,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And let her glances stray</span><br /> + Down to the shallow vale below,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Where Pleasure’s Court holds sway—</span></p> + +<p> + Lured by the thrice forbidden fruit,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">She’d lose her equipoise,</span><br /> + And like a wayward Pleiad shoot<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Down to forbidden joys.</span></p> + +<p> + I’ve been but short time on the road,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">My courage still is strong;</span><br /> + Yet often have I felt the goad<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">That hurries me along.</span></p> + +<p> + I’ve fallen over Maeterlinck,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And bumped myself to tears,</span><br /> + Burne-Jones’s pictures made me blink,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And Wagner hurts my ears.</span></p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</a></span> + I’ve stumbled over Ibsen humps<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And over Rembrandt rocks,</span><br /> + I’ve got some fierce Debussy bumps,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Some awful Nietsche knocks.</span></p> + +<p> + I’m wearied by the ceaseless quest,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">I’m wayworn and footsore.</span><br /> + I’ve Culture till I cannot rest—<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Yet still I climb for more.</span></p> + +<p> + But oh, when all is done and said,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Upon some manly breast</span><br /> + I’d like to lay my tired head<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And take a good long rest.</span></p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</a></span></p> +<p><strong>THE PASSIONAL NOTE</strong></p> + +<p>“<em>The erotic motive is almost entirely absent from American +poetry. Even our younger American poets are more +profoundly interested in the why and wherefore of things +than in the girdle of Helen or the gleaming limbs of ‘the +white implacable Aphrodite.’</em>”<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 15em;" class="smcap">—Mr. Sylvester Viereck.</span></p> + + +<p> + In the years of my season erotic,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">When Eros was lord of my days,</span><br /> + And I loved, with a love idiotic,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">The Mabels and Madges and Mays;</span><br /> + When a purple and passionate lyric<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Would sing all the night in my head,—</span><br /> + I yearned, like the young Mr. Viereck,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">For everything red.</span></p> + +<p> + I doted on poems of passion,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And put my own pantings in rime,</span><br /> + To celebrate, after a fashion,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">The damsels who took up my time.</span><br /> + I fed upon Swinburne, believe me,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">I feasted on Byron and Burns,</span><br /> + And couplets from Sappho would give me<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Most exquisite turns.</span></p> + +<p> + How apparent it was that our songbirds—<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Our Emerson, Lowell, and Payne,</span><br /> + And Bryant and Drake—were the wrong birds<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">To pipe to the passional strain.</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</a></span> + There was, in a word, nothing doing<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">In all of the rimes that they wrote;</span><br /> + They seemed to be always pursuing<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">The ethical note.</span></p> + +<p> + What truth, I inquired, was so mighty,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">What ethical thing was so rare,</span><br /> + As the limbs of the white Aphrodite<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Or a strand of her heaven-kissed hair!</span><br /> + The girdle of red-headed Helen<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Outweighed all the wherefores and whys,</span><br /> + And Wisdom elected to dwell in<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">A pair of blue eyes.</span></p> + +<p> +<em>Now</em> lyrical sizzlers and scorchers<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Fail somehow to set me ablaze;</span><br /> + No longer are exquisite tortures<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Provoked by these passionate lays.</span><br /> + I’ve tinned—and I can’t say I’ve missed ’em—<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">The poems of passion and sin.</span><br /> +<em>Some</em> things one gets out of one’s system,<br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And other things <em>in</em>.</span></p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</a></span></p> +<p><strong><em>L’ENVOI.</em></strong></p> + + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: -.3em;">“<em>Go, little book,” as Poet Southey said;</em></span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;"><em>You might be better and you might be worse.</em></span><br /> + <em>With just one word of warning you are sped:</em><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 1em;"><em>Remember, you’re not Poetry—you’re Verse.</em></span></p> + +</div> + +<hr style="width: 95%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</a></span></p> +<h2>Index</h2> + + +<div class='center'> +<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary=""> + +<tr> <td align='left'>Always</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_82">82</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>Autumn Revery</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_104">104</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>Ballad of Misfits</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_63">63</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>Ballade of a Bore</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_97">97</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>Ballade of the Cannery</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_86">86</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>Ballade of Cap and Bells</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_76">76</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>Ballade of Death and Time</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_28">28</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>Ballade of Irresolution</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_68">68</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>Ballade of the Pipesmoke Carry</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_110">110</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>Ballade of Spring’s Unrest</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_22">22</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>Ballade of Wool-Gathering</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_48">48</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>Bards We Quote, The</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_113">113</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>Bread Puddynge</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_42">42</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>Breakfast Food Family, The</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_19">19</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>Coronation, The</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_107">107</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>Day of the Comet, The</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_66">66</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>Dinosaur, The</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_75">75</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>Dornröschen</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_34">34</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>“Farewell”</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_36">36</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>Gentle Doctor Brown</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_78">78</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>Hence These Rimes</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_115">115</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>Horace: A Note from Mr. Flaccus</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_54">54</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'><span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">I. To Aristius Fuscus</span></td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_56">56</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'><span style="margin-left: 1.3em;">II. Duetto</span></td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_57">57</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'><span style="margin-left: 1em;">III. To Pyrrha</span></td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_59">59</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'><span style="margin-left: 1em;">IV. To Aristius Fuscus</span></td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_60">60</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'><span style="margin-left: 1.3em;">V. To Sylvia</span></td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_62">62</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>How They Might Have Brought the Good News</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_73">73</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>In the Gallery</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_80">80</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>In the Lamplight</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_17">17</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>Kaiser’s Farewell, The</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_30">30</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>Land of Rainbow’s-End, The</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_95">95</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>Laundry of Life, The</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_93">93</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>Lay of St. Ambrose</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_9">9</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>Miss Legion</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_27">27</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>Modern Mariner, The</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_84">84</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>Morning After, The</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_67">67</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>Musca Domestica</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_45">45</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>My Lady New York</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_109">109</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>Old Roller Towel, The</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_116">116</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>Oriental Apology, An</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_65">65</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>Pandean Pipedreams</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_88">88</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>Passional Note, The</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_119">119</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>Passionate Professor, The</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_47">47</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>Persistent Poet, The</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_114">114</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>Pole, The</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_99">99</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>Post-Vacational</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_112">112</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>Recoil, The</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_105">105</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>Reform in Our Town</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_38">38</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>Rime of the Clark Street Cable</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_25">25</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>Sh-h-h-h!</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_101">101</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>Simple, Heartfelt Lay, The</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_53">53</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>Sons of Battle</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_108">108</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>To a Tall Spruce</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_14">14</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>To Lillian Russell</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_32">32</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>To the Sun</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_50">50</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>To What Base Uses</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_70">70</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>“Treasure Island”</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_21">21</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>Up Culture’s Hill</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_117">117</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>Vanished Fay, The</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_102">102</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>When It Is Hot</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_51">51</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>When the Sirup’s on the Flapjack</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_41">41</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>Why?</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_24">24</a></td> </tr> +<tr> <td align='left'>Wisdom in a Capsule</td> <td align='right'><a href="#Page_94">94</a></td> </tr> + +</table></div> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's A line-o'-verse or two, by Bert Leston Taylor + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A LINE-O'-VERSE OR TWO *** + +***** This file should be named 30038-h.htm or 30038-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/3/0/0/3/30038/ + +Produced by Bryan Ness, Anne Storer and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This +file was produced from images generously made available +by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: A line-o'-verse or two + +Author: Bert Leston Taylor + +Release Date: September 20, 2009 [EBook #30038] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A LINE-O'-VERSE OR TWO *** + + + + +Produced by Bryan Ness, Anne Storer and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This +file was produced from images generously made available +by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) + + + + + + Transcriber's Note: + [=XVII] = XVII with a line above. + + + * * * * * + + + + + 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! + + + _L'Envoi_ + + 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? + + + _L'Envoi_ + + 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 mailed 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 mailed 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 Schuetzenfest, + The Saengerbund, 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. + + + + +DORNROeSCHEN + + + 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! + + + _L'Envoi_ + + 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 vitae 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 + +DUETTO + + "_Donec gratus eram._" + + + HORACE: + + What time my Lydia owned me lord + No Persian king had much on Horace; + And when you blew my bed and board + I was some sad, believe me, Mawruss. + + LYDIA: + + What time you loved no other She, + Before this Chloe person signed you, + I flourished like a green bay tree; + Now I'm the Girl You Left Behind You. + + HORACE: + + This Chloe dame that takes my eye + Has so peculiar an allurance + I would not hesitate to die + If she could cop my life insurance. + + LYDIA: + + Well, as for that, I know a gent + With whom it's some delight to dally. + With me he makes an awful dent; + I'd perish once or twice for Cally. + + HORACE: + + Suppose our former love should go + Into a new de luxe edition? + Suppose I tie a can to Chlo, + And let you play your old position? + + LYDIA: + + Why, then, you cork, you butterfly, + You sweet, philandering, perjured villain, + With you I'd love to live and die, + Tho' Cally boy were twice as killin'. + + +III + +TO PYRRHA + + "_Quis multa gracilis._" + + + What young tin whistle gent, + Bedaubed with barber's scent,-- + What cheapskate waits on you + To woo, + O Pyrrha? + + For whom the puff and rat + And transformation that + You bought a year ago + Or so, + O Pyrrha? + + Peeved? Not a bit. Not I + I'm sorry for the guy. + He draws a lovely lime + This time, + O Pyrrha! + + I've dipped. The wet ain't fine. + Hung on the votive line + My duds. The gods can see + I'm free. + Eh, Pyrrha! + + +IV + +TO ARISTIUS FUSCUS + + "_My sweetly-smiling, sweetly-speaking Lalage._" + + + Fuscus, take a tip from me: + This here job's no bed of roses, + Not the cinch it seems to be, + Not the pipe that one supposes. + What care I, tho', if I may + Lallygag with Lalage. + + Every day there's ink to spill, + Tho' I may not feel like working. + Every day a hole to fill; + One must plug it--there's no shirking. + Oh, that I might all the day + Lallygag with Lalage! + + People say, "Gee! what a snap, + Turning paragraphs and verses. + He's the band on Fortune's cap, + Gets a barrel of ses-_terces_." + Let them gossip, while I play + Hide and seek with Lalage. + + People hand me out advice: + "Hod, you're doing too much drivel. + Write us something sweet and nice. + Stow the satire, chop the frivol." + But we have the rent to pay, + Lalage; eh, Lalage? + + Ladies shy the saving sense + Write me patronizing letters; + And there are the writing gents, + Always out to knock their betters. + What cares Flaccus if he may + Lallygag with Lalage! + + No, old top, the writing lay's + Not a bed of sweet geranium. + Brickbats mingle with bouquets + Shied at my devoted cranium. + Does it peeve yours truly? Nay. + Nothing can--with Lalage. + + Paste this, Fuscus, in your hat: + Not a pesky thing can peeve me. + Take it, too, from Horace flat, + She's some gal, is Lal, believe me. + So I coin this word to-day, + "Lallygag"--from Lalage. + + +V + +TO SYLVIA + + + Were I on the Latin lay, + Were I turning Odes to-day, + You would draw a gem from me, + Little maid of mystery! + + In an Ode I'd love to spout you; + I am simply bug about you. + That's the way!--the fairest peach + Is the one that's out of reach. + + I have toasted in my time + Many a peach (and many a lime), + All of them, I must confess, + Lacking your elusiveness. + + Lalage, my well known flame, + Was considerable dame; + Likewise Lydia and Phyllis, + Chloe, Pyrrha, Amaryllis. + + Syl, if you had lived when they did + You'd have had those damsels faded. + (That will give you, girl, some notion + Of your Flaccus's devotion.) + + Yep. If I were doing Odes + In my quondam favorite modes, + With your image to qui-vive me + I'd tear off some Ode, believe me! + + + + +A BALLAD OF MISFITS + + "_Chacun son metier:_ + _Les vaches seront bien gardees._" + --LA FONTAINE. + + + With skill for doing this or that + The Lord each man endows. + Some men are best for pushing pens, + And some for pushing plows; + And oh, the many many more + That should be tending cows! + _Chacun son metier:_ + _Les vaches bien gardees._ + + The ivory-headed serving maid + Who poses as a "cook," + She hath a very bovine brain, + She hath a bovine look. + Oh, prithee, lead her to the kine, + Oh, prithee get the hook! + _Chacun son metier:_ + _Les vaches bien gardees._ + + The papering-and-painting gents + Whose work is never done, + Who mess around your house until + You pine to pull a gun, + Who take three mortal days to do + What should be done in one;-- + _Chacun son metier:_ + _Les vaches bien gardees._ + + The pestilential "pianiste," + The screechy singer too, + The writer of the stupid book + And of the dull review, + The actor who is greatest when + He takes his exit cue;-- + _Chacun son metier:_ + _Les vaches bien gardees._ + + If every one were set to do + The task for which he's fit, + The writer of these trifling lines + Might also have to quit. + At tending cows the undersigned + Might make an awful hit. + _Chacun son metier:_ + _Les vaches bien gardees._ + + + + +AN ORIENTAL APOLOGY + + + When the hour was come Prince Chun arose, + And balanced a shoestring on his nose. + "From this some notion you will get," + Said he, "of China's deep regret." + + Now balancing upon his ear + A stein of foaming lager beer, + "This attitude," said he, "reveals + How very sorry China feels." + + Then spinning top-like on his cue, + "I can't begin to tell to you + The deep remorse we suffer for + The death of your Ambassador." + + Next, placing on his cue a plate, + He said, as it 'gan to gyrate: + "Nothing that's happened in his reign + Has caused my Emperor so much pain." + + Upon his back he did declare, + While juggling five balls in the air, + "This attitude--the humblest yet-- + Expresses personal regret." + + Last, spreading out a deck of cards-- + "Accept my Emperor's regards. + As our intentions were well meant, + Pray overlook the incident." + + + + +THE DAY OF THE COMET + + (_May 18, 1910._) + + + Here it is--Eighteenth of May! + Dawneth now the fatal day + When we take the awful veil + Of the fearsome comet's tail. + Vale, Earth! + + What will happen, heaven knows; + We can't even guess, suppose, + Hazard, speculate, surmise, + Hint, conjecture, theorize, + Or divine. + + Will we merely drill a hole + Through the trailing aureole? + Or will the prediction dire + Of a world destroyed by fire + Be fulfilled? + + Shall we crook our knees and pray + Counting this the Judgment Day? + Or preserve a cosmic ca'm, + Caring not a cosmic dam + What may come? + + There's the rub. If we but knew + We should know just what to do. + Yes is just as good as No + To all questions. Here we go!-- + Hang on tight! + + + + +THE MORNING AFTER + + (_May 19, 1910._) + + + Here we are, friends, whole and hale + In or through the comet's tail; + And as far as we can say, + Matters are about as they + Were before. + + Everything is much the same + As before the comet came. + Grasses grow and waters run-- + Nothing new beneath the sun-- + Same old sphere. + + Life is drab or life is gay, + Thorny path or primrose way; + All is common, all is strange; + "Down the ringing grooves of change" + Spins the world. + + Change but of a humdrum kind. + What we vaguely had in mind + Was some new sensation or + Thrill we never felt before. + Vain desire! + + Nothing's added to the stock: + Same old shiver, same old shock. + Round about the sun we'll go + In the same old status quo. + Awful bore! + + + + +A BALLADE OF IRRESOLUTION + + + Isolde, in the story old, + When Ireland's coast the vessel nears, + And Death were fairer to behold, + To Tristan gives "the cup that clears." + Straight to their fate the helmsman steers: + Unknowing, each the potion sips.... + Comes echoing through the ghostly years + "Give me the philtre of thy lips!" + + Ah, that like Tristan I were bold! + My soul into the future peers, + And passion flags, and heart grows cold, + And sicklied resolution veers. + I see the Sister of the Shears + Who sits fore'er and snips, and snips.... + Still falls upon my inward ears, + "Give me the philtre of thy lips!" + + Hero of lovers, largely soul'd! + Imagination thee enspheres + With song-enchanted wood and wold + And casements fronting magic meres. + Tristan, thy large example cheers + The faint of heart; thy story grips!-- + My soul again that echo hears, + "Give me the philtre of thy lips!" + + + _L'Envoi_ + + Sweet sorceress, resolve my fears! + He stakes all who Elysium clips. + What tho' the fruit be tares and tears!-- + Give me the philtre of thy lips! + + + + +TO WHAT BASE USES! + + "_Mrs. O---- now takes her daily dip at 5 in the afternoon, instead + of in the morning._" + --NEWPORT ITEM. + + + This is the forest primeval. + + This the spruce with the glorious plume + That grew in the forest primeval. + + This is the lumberman big and browned + Who felled the spruce tree to the ground + That grew in the forest primeval. + + This is the man with the paper mill + Who bought the pulp that paid the bill + Of the husky lumberjack who chopped + The lofty spruce and its branches lopped + That grew in the forest primeval. + + This is the publisher bland and rich + Who bought the roll of paper which + Was made by the man with the paper mill + Who bought the pulp that paid the bill + Of the lumberjack with the murderous ax + Who felled the spruce with lusty hacks + That grew in the forest primeval. + + This is the youth with the writing tool + Who does the daily Newport drool + That helps to make the publisher rich + Who ordered the stock of paper which + Was made by the man with the paper mill + Who bought the pulp that paid the bill + Of the husky Swede in the Joseph's coat + Who swung his ax and the tall spruce smote + That grew in the forest primeval. + + This is the lady far from slim + Who changed the hour of her daily swim + And excited the youth with the writing tool + Who does the Newport drivel and drool + For the prosperous publisher bland and fat + Who ordered the virgin paper that + Was made by the man with the paper mill + Who bought the pulp that paid the bill + Of Ole Oleson the husky Swede + Who did a foul and darksome deed + When he swung his ax with vigor and vim + And smote the spruce tree tall and trim + That grew in the forest primeval. + + This is the shop girl Mag or Liz + Who daily devours what news there is + Concerning the lady far from slim + Who changed the time of her ocean swim + And excited the youth with the writing tool + Who does the daily Newport drool + For the pursy publisher bland and rich + Who bought the innocent paper which + Was made by the man with the paper mill + Who bought the pulp that paid the bill + Of the Swedish jack who slew the spruce + That came to a most ignoble use-- + The lofty spruce with the glorious plume-- + The giant spruce that used to loom + In the heart of the forest primeval. + + + + +HOW THEY MIGHT HAVE BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS + + + We sprang to the motor, I, Joris and Dirck. + I snapped on my goggles and got to my work. + "Hi, there!" yelled the cop in the helmet of white; + "Let her flicker!" said Joris, and into the night, + With a sneer at the speed laws, we hurtled hell-bent + To carry to Aix the good tidings from Ghent. + + The going was poor, we expected delay, + And the usual livestock obstructed the way. + At Boom we ran over a large yellow dog, + At Dueffeld a chicken, at Mecheln a hog; + What else, we'd no time to slow down to inquire; + At Aerschot, confound it! we blew out a tire. + + I jacked up the axle and ripped off the shoe, + And snapped on an extra that promised to do. + "All aboard!" I exclaimed as I cranked the machine, + But something was wrong with the curst gasoline. + "By Hasselt!" Dirck groaned, "We'll be half a day late; + We ought to have sent the good tidings by freight." + + False prophet! I tinkered a minute or two + And again we were off like "a bolt from the blue." + We ate up the hills at a forty-mile clip, + And skidded the turns like the snap of a whip, + Till we dashed into Aix and were pinched by a cop + For failing to slow when commanded to stop. + + "Now, wouldn't that frost you!" said Joris, but we + When we told the glad tidings were instantly free. + The Mayor himself paid the ten dollars' fine, + And blew us to dinner with six kinds of wine, + Which (the burgesses voted, by common consent) + Was no more than their due that brought good news from Ghent. + + + + +THE DINOSAUR + + + Behold the mighty Dinosaur, + Famous in prehistoric lore, + Not only for his weight and strength + But for his intellectual length. + You will observe by these remains + The creature had two sets of brains-- + One in his head (the usual place), + The other at his spinal base. + Thus he could reason _a priori_ + As well as _a posteriori_. + No problem bothered him a bit; + He made both head and tail of it. + So wise he was, so wise and solemn, + Each thought filled just a spinal column. + If one brain found the pressure strong + It passed a few ideas along; + If something slipped his forward mind + 'Twas rescued by the one behind; + And if in error he was caught + He had a saving afterthought. + As he thought twice before he spoke + He had no judgments to revoke; + For he could think, without congestion, + Upon both sides of every question. + + Oh, gaze upon this model beast, + Defunct ten million years at least. + + + + +A BALLADE OF CAP AND BELLS + + + When as a dewdrop joy enspheres + This pleasant planet, arched with blue, + When every prospect charms and cheers, + And all the world is fair to view-- + Who does not envy (have not you?) + That mortal, by Thalia kissed, + Who plies, in plumes of cockatoo, + The blithesome trade of humorist? + + But when the wind of fortune veers, + And blue-white skies turn leaden hue, + When every pleasant prospect blears + And all the weary world's askew-- + Who then would envy (if he knew) + Jack Point the jester, glum and trist; + Or ply, tho' first of all the crew, + The dismal trade of humorist? + + Ah, jocund trifles writ in tears, + And merry stanzas steeped in rue! + When all the world in drab appears + The fool must still in motley woo. + Tho' bitter be the cud he chew, + Still must he grind his foolish grist; + Still must he ply, the long day through, + The tragic trade of humorist! + + + _L'Envoi_ + + Lady of Tears, what pains perdue + The heart and soul of him may twist + Who doth in cap and bells pursue + The glad sad trade of humorist! + + + + +GENTLE DOCTOR BROWN + + + It was a gentle sawbones and his name was Doctor Brown. + His auto was the terror of a small suburban town. + His practice, quite amazing for so trivial a place, + Consisted of the victims of his homicidal pace. + + So constant was his practice and so high his motor's gear + That at knocking down pedestrians he never had a peer; + But it must, in simple justice, be as truly written down + That no man could be more thoughtful than gentle Doctor Brown. + + Whatever was the errand on which Doctor Brown was bent + He'd stop to patch a victim up and never charged a cent. + He'd always pause, whoever 'twas he happened to run down: + A humane and a thoughtful man was gentle Doctor Brown. + + "How fortunate," he would observe, "how fortunate 'twas I + That knocked you galley-west and heard your wild and wailing cry. + There _are_ some heartless wretches who would leave you here alone, + Without a sympathetic ear to catch your dying moan. + + "Such callousness," said Doctor Brown, "I cannot comprehend; + To fathom such indifference I simply don't pretend. + One ought to do his duty, and I never am remiss. + A simple word of thanks is all I ask. Here, swallow this!" + + Then, reaching in the tonneau, he'd unpack his little kit, + And perform an operation that was workmanlike and fit. + "You may survive," said Doctor Brown; "it's happened once or twice. + If not, you've had the benefit of competent advice." + + Oh, if all our motormaniacs were equally humane, + How little bitterness there'd be, or reason to complain! + How different our point of view if we were ridden down + By lunatics as thoughtful as gentle Doctor Brown! + + + + +IN THE GALLERY + + + Weirder than the pictures + Are the folks who come + With their owlish strictures-- + Telling why they're bum. + Of all lines of babble + This one has the call: + Picture gallery gabble + Is the best of all. + + Literary fluffle + Never, never cloys; + Much has Mrs. Guffle + Added to my joys. + For that chitter-chatter + I delight to fall. + But the picture patter + Is the best of all. + + With the music highbrows + I delight to chat, + Elevating my brows + Over this and that. + Music tittle-tattle + Never fails to thrall. + But the picture prattle + Is the best of all. + + Sociologic rub-dub + I delight to hear; + Philosophic flub-dub + Titillates my ear. + Lovelier yet the spiffle + In the picture hall; + For the picture piffle + Is the best of all. + + Weirder than the pictures + Are the folks who stand + Passing owlish strictures, + Catalogue in hand. + Hear the bunk they babble + Under every wall. + Yes. The gallery gabble + Is the best of all. + + + + +ALWAYS + + "_Il y a tous les jours quelque dam chose._" + --ABELARD TO HELOISE. + + + When Mrs. Mead was full of groans, + When symptoms of all sorts assailed her, + She sent for bluff old Doctor Jones, + And told him all the things that ailed her. + It took her nearly half the day, + And when she finished out the string-- + "Ye-e-s, Mrs. Mead," drawled Doctor J., + "There's always some dam thing." + + I like the line. It's worth a ton + Of optimistic commonplaces. + It's tonic, it refreshes one, + It cheers, it stimulates, it braces. + It summarizes things so well; + It has the philosophic ring. + Has Kant or Hegel more to tell? + "There's always some dam thing." + + The dean of all the cheer-up school + Adjures sad hearts to cease repining, + And intimates that, as a rule, + The sun behind the cloud is shining. + "Into each life----" You know the rest; + No need to finish out the string. + Longfellow boiled might be expressed, + "There's always some dam thing." + + When things go wrong I do not read + The cheer-up poets, great or lesser. + To soothe my soul I do not need + The Neo-Thought of Mr. Dresser. + Sufficient for each working day, + With all the worries it may bring, + That helpful line by Doctor J., + "There's always some dam thing." + + + + +THE MODERN MARINER + + + A dry sheet and a lazy sea, + And a wind so far from fast + It barely floats the owner's flag + That flutters at the mast-- + That flutters at the mast, my boys; + So while the sky is free + Of cloud we'll take a yachtsman's chance + And venture out to sea. + + The aneroid has dropped a tenth! + Back, back across the bar + To a harbor snug, and a long cold drink, + And a big fat black cigar-- + A big fat black cigar, my boys; + While, on an even keel, + The Swedish chef out-chefs himself + In getting up a meal. + + Give me a soft and gentle wind, + A fleckless azure sky; + I care not for your "snoring breeze" + And dinners heaving high-- + And dinners heaving high, my boys, + Make no great hit with me; + So when the breeze begins to snore + We'll not put out to sea. + + There's laughter in yon beach hotel, + And summer girls a crowd; + And hark the music, mariners, + The band is piping loud! + The band is piping loud, my boys, + Bright eyes are flashing free. + Come, fly the owner's-absent flag + And join the revelry. + + + + +A BALLADE OF THE CANNERY + + + What of the phrases, long decayed, + Of paleologic pedigree, + Musty, moldy, frazzled, and frayed-- + A doddering, dusty company? + What shall be done with them? say we; + And east and west the people bawl, + Dump them into the Cannery!-- + Into the brine go one and all. + + "Grilled" and "lauded" and "scored" and "flayed," + "Common or garden variety," + "Wave of crime" and "reform crusade," + "Along these lines" and "it seems to me," + "Noted savant," "I fail to see," + The "groaning board" of the "banquet hall,"-- + Masonjar 'em in "ghoulish glee"-- + Into the brine go one and all. + + "Succulent bivalves," "trusty blade," + "Last analysis," "practical-ly," + "Lone highwayman" and "fusillade," + "Millionaire broker and clubman," "gee!" + "In reply to yours," "can such things be?" + "Sounded the keynote" or "trumpet call,"-- + Can 'em, pickle 'em, one, two, three-- + Into the brine go one and all. + + + _L'Envoi_ + + Under the spreading chestnut tree + Stands the Cannery, all too small. + The Canner a briny man is he, + And into the brine go one and all. + + + + +PANDEAN PIPEDREAMS + + (_Induced by smoking "Pagan Pickings."_) + + +I + + _This is something that I heard,_ + _As the fluting of a bird,_ + _On a certain drowsy day,_ + _When my pipe was under way._ + _I was weary of the town,_ + _And the going up and down;_ + _Sick of streets and sick of noise,--_ + _And I pined for Pagan joys._ + + Daphne, here it is July! + Just the month, my love, to fly + To a sylvan solitude + In the green and ancient wood. + We will trip it as we go + On the neo-Pagan toe, + Sunny days and starry nights, + Savoring the wild delights + Of a turbulent desire + That may set the wood on fire. + + We will play at hunt-the-fawn, + In the neo-Dorian dawn. + You will scamper through the brake, + And I'll follow in your wake-- + + As the young Apollo ran + In the piping days of Pan. + You'll escape me, without doubt, + For I'm just a trifle stout; + But, when I have lagged behind, + Waiting for my second wynde, + From some pretty hiding-place + Will emerge your laughing face; + I shall glimpse your eyes of blue, + Hear your merry "Peek-a-boo!" + + What to wear? The Pagan plan + Contemplates a coat of tan; + But I fear we shall require + Just a trifle more attire. + Bushes scratch and brambles sting; + Insect myriads are a-wing;-- + Heavens, how mosquitoes swarm + When the woodland air is warm. + (MEM: To take, when we elope, + Tanglewood Mosquito Dope.) + + Do you like the picture, dear? + Have you aught of doubt or fear? + Have you any criticism + Of my neo-Paganism? + If not, dearie, let us fly + To that passion-ripening sky, + Where our souls may have their fling, + And our every care take wing. + + _So the bird song fluted by,_ + _Like a vagrant summer sigh--_ + _Came, and passed, and was no more;_ + _And my pleasant dream was o'er._ + _For arose the wraith of Doubt;_ + _And I knew my pipe was out._ + + +II + + _This is something that befell_ + _When my pipe was drawing well--_ + _Something, rather, that I heard_ + _As the fluting of a bird._ + + Daphne, come and live with me + In a Pagan greenery. + Life will then be naught but play, + One long Pagan holiday. + We will play at hide and seek + In the alders by the creek; + Sport amid the cascade's smother. + Splashing water at each other;-- + Every moment pleasure wooing, + Every moment something doing. + If we talk, we'll talk of Love: + All its arguments we'll prove. + Such a mental rest you'll find. + Leave your intellect behind. + + Night will come, (for come it will, + 'Spite the fluting on the hill,) + And we'll pitch a cozy camp + Where it isn't quite so damp. + While you dry your hair and laze + By the campfire's violet blaze, + I will rob a balsam tree + To construct a house for thee. + What so dear as to be wooed + In a sylvan solitude? + + What so sweet as Pagan vows + Whispered in a house of boughs? + Pagan love's without alloy. + Pagan kisses never cloy. + Arms that cling in Pagan fashion + Never tire. A Pagan passion + Is the only kind I know + That outlives a winter's snow. + Daphne, Daphne, let us fly! + You're a Pagan--so am I. + + _So the fluting on the hill_ + _Passed and died, and all was still._ + _So the Pagan Pickings died,_ + _And I laid the pipe aside._ + + + + +THE LAUNDRY OF LIFE + + (_An Adventure in Sentiment._) + + + Life is a laundry in which we + Are ironed out, or soon or late. + Who has not known the irony + Of fate? + + We enter it when we are born, + Our colors bright. Full soon they fade. + We leave it "done up," old and worn, + And frayed; + + Frayed round the edges, worn and thin-- + Life is a rough old linen slinger. + Who has not lost a button in + Life's wringer? + + With other linen we are tubbed, + With other linen often tangled; + In open court we then are scrubbed, + And mangled. + + Some take a gloss of happiness + The hardest wear can not diminish; + Others, alas! get a "domes- + Tic finish." + + + + +WISDOM IN A CAPSULE + + "_If she be not so to me._ + _What care I how fair she be?_" + --THE SHEPHERD'S RESOLUTION. + + + Here we have in this truism + Mr. James's pragmatism. + Test your troubles day by day + With it, and they fly away. + Is the weather boiling hot, + Hot enough to boil a pot-- + If it be not so to me, + What care I how hot it be? + + Take a pudding made of bread; + Much against it has been said; + But it does not lack defense-- + Many say it is immense. + Be it damned or be it blessed, + Let us make the acid test-- + If it be not so to me, + What care I how good it be? + + So with every blooming thing + That has power to soothe or sting; + Ships or shoes or sealing wax, + Carrots, comets, carpet tacks. + Every philosophic need + Covered by this capsule creed: + If it be not so to me, + {good} + What care I how {bad} it be? + + + + +THE LAND OF RAINBOW'S-END + + + Young Faintheart lay on a wayside bank, + Full prey to doubts and fears, + When he did espy come trudging by + A Pilgrim bent with years. + His back was bowed and his step was slow, + But his faith no years could bend, + As he eagerly pressed to the rose-lit west + And the Land of Rainbow's-End. + + "_It's ho, for a pack!" sang the Pilgrim gray,_ + "_And a stout oak staff for friend,_ + _And it's over the hills and far away_ + _To the Land of Rainbow's-End!_" + + "Thou'rt old," young Faintheart cried, "thou'rt old, + And there's many a league to go; + And still thou seekest the pot of gold + At the farther end of the bow." + "I am old, I am old," said the Pilgrim gray, + "But ever my way I'll wend + To the rose-lit hills of the dying day + And the Land of Rainbow's-End." + + "Come, rest thee, rest thee by my side; + Give o'er thy doomsday quest." + "Have done, have done!" the Pilgrim cried: + "The light wanes in the west. + The road is long, but I shall not tire; + I will lay my bones, God send, + By the beautiful City of Heart's Desire, + In the Land of Rainbow's-End." + + "_Then it's ho, for a pack!" sang the Pilgrim gray,_ + "_And a stout oak staff for friend,_ + _And it's over the hills and far away_ + _To the Land of Rainbow's-End._" + + + + +A BALLADE OF A BORE + + + When the weather is warm and the glass running high + And the odors of Araby tincture the air; + When the sun is aloft in a white and blue sky, + And the morrow holds promise of falling as fair;-- + In spring or in summer I'm free to declare, + And the same I am equally free to maintain, + One person has power my peace to impair: + The man who tells limericks gives me a pain. + + When the foliage flushes and summer is by, + And russet and red are the popular wear; + When the song of the woodland is changed to a sigh + And the horn of the hunter is heard by the hare;-- + In the season of autumn I'm free to declare, + And my language is lucid and simple and plain, + One person's acquaintance I freely forswear: + The man with the limerick gives me a pain. + + When the landscape is iced and the snow feathers fly, + When the fields are all bald and the trees are all bare, + And the prospect which nature presents to the eye + Is chiefly distinguished by glitter and glare;-- + In the season of winter I'm free to declare + That the limerick person is flat and inane. + This person, I think, we could easily spare: + The man who tells limericks gives me a pain. + + + _L'Envoi_ + + From New Year to Christmas I'm free to declare + That, for ways that are dull and for verse that is vain, + One bore is peculiar--and not at all rare: + The man with the limerick gives me a pain. + + + + +THE POLE + + (_Tune_: "_Carcassonne._") + + + I'm an old man, I'm eighty-three, + I seldom get away; + My work, it keeps me close at home-- + I have no time for play. + If it were not for the journey back, + That so fatigues a soul, + I'd like to take a little trip-- + I never have seen the Pole. + + 'Tis said that in that favored place + There is no heat or drouth; + And that, whichever way you turn, + You're looking south-by-south. + Some say there is a flagstaff there, + Some say there is a hole. + Think of the years that I have lived + And never have seen the Pole! + + The parson a hundred times is right-- + We ought to stay at home. + I'm an old man, I'm eighty-three, + I have no call to roam. + And yet if I could somehow find + The time--God bless my soul!-- + I think that I would die content + If I only could see the Pole! + + My brother has seen Baraboo, + If so he speak the truth; + My wife and son they both have been + As far as to Duluth; + My cousin cruised to Eastport, Maine, + On a ship that carried coal; + I've been as far as Mackinac-- + But I never have seen the Pole! + + + + +SH-H-H-H! + + "_Mr. Mabie is now reading the summer books._" + --THE LADIES' HOME JOURNAL. + + + What shall we buy for a summer's day? + What is good reading and what is not? + Mabie will tell us--we wait his say; + For Mabie alone can know what's what. + Meanwhile the world is as still as death; + Mute inquiry is in men's looks; + Everybody is holding his breath-- + Mabie is reading the summer books. + + The suns are at pause in the cosmic race; + The mills of the gods have ceased to grind; + The only sound that is heard in space + Is the rhythmic clicking of Mabie's mind. + Elsewhere silence, or near or far-- + Chattering Pleiads or babbling brooks; + For the whisper has passed from star to star: + "Mabie is reading the summer books." + + + + +THE VANISHED FAY + + + Tell me, whither do they go, + All the Little Ones we know? + They "grow up" before our eyes, + And the fairy spirit flies. + Time the Piper, pied and gay-- + Does he lure them all away? + Do they follow after him, + Over the horizon's brim? + + Daughter's growing fair to see, + Slim and straight as popple tree. + Still a child in heart and head, + But--the fairy spirit's fled. + As a fay at break of day, + Little One has flown away, + On the stroke of fairy bell-- + When and whither, who can tell? + + Still her childish fancies weave + In the Land of Make Believe; + And her love of magic lore + Is as avid as before. + Dollies big and dollies small + Still are at her beck and call. + But for all this pleasant play, + Little One has gone away. + + Whither, whither have they flown, + All the fays we all have known? + To what "faery lands forlorn" + On the sound of elfin horn? + As she were a woodland sprite, + Little One has vanished quite. + Waves the wand of Oberon: + Cock has crowed--the fay is gone! + + + + +AUTUMN REVERY + + + When the leaves are falling crimson + And the worm is off its feed, + When the rag weed and the jimson + Have agreed to go to seed, + When the air in forest bowers + Has a tang like Rhenish wine, + And to breathe it for two hours + Makes you feel you'd like to dine, + When the frost is on the pumpkin + And the corn is in the shock, + And the cheek of country bumpkin + City faces seems to mock,-- + When you come across a ditty + (Like this one) of Autumn's charm, + Then it's pleasant in the city, + Where they keep the houses warm. + + + + +THE RECOIL + + + I met a friend of lofty brow-- + As lofty as the laws allow. + I said to him, "You'll know, I'm sure-- + What's doing now in litrychoor?" + Said he: "I hate the very name; + I'm weary of the blooming game. + I read, whenever I have time, + Something by Phillips Oppenheim." + + "Cheer up!" said I. "What's new in Art?-- + You drift around the picture mart. + What do you think of Mr. Blum?-- + Some say he's great, some say he's bum." + "I'm strong for Blum," my friend replied; + "His pictures are so queer and pied. + I wouldn't change them if I could; + I'd rather have things queer than good." + + I spoke of this, I spoke of that, + But everything was stale and flat. + Said I, "You once adored the chaste, + You used to have such perfect taste." + "Good taste," he wailed, "brings but distress, + 'Tis an affliction, nothing less; + While those whose taste is punk and vile + Are happy all the blessed while." + + "Oh, take a brace, old man!" said I. + "Let me prescribe a nip of rye, + And then we'll go to see a play; + I've two for Barrymore to-day." + "No, no," he groaned; "'twould be a bore, + With all respect to Barrymore." + Said I: "Then whither shall we go?" + Said he: "A moving picture show." + + + + +THE CORONATION + + _Lang Syne._ + + + Twas a holy mystery + In the days of chivalry. + More than pageant was the Rite + In the sight of clod and knight. + Sword and Scepter, Orb and Rod, + Faith in self and faith in God; + Oaths of Homage fiercely flung, + Faith in heart and faith in tongue;-- + Gone the things that meaning gave + "With the old world to the grave." + + + 1911. + + Knightly faith was born to fade: + Now the Rite is masquerade. + Now a cockney paladin + Winds a penny horn of tin. + Where in reverence heads were bowed + Surges now a careless crowd; + "Muddied oafs" and "flanneled fools" + Jostle "Yanks" with camping stools;-- + Gone the things that meaning gave + "With the old world to the grave." + + + + +SONS OF BATTLE + + + Let us have peace, and Thy blessing, + Lord of the Wind and the Rain, + When we shall cease from oppressing, + From all injustice refrain; + When we hate falsehood and spurn it; + When we are men among men. + Let us have peace when we earn it-- + Never an hour till then. + + Let us have rest in Thy garden, + Lord of the Rock and the Green, + When there is nothing to pardon, + When we are whitened and clean. + Purge us of skulking and treason, + Help us to put them away. + We shall have rest in Thy season; + Till then the heat of the fray. + + Let us have peace in Thy pleasure, + Lord of the Cloud and the Sun; + Grant to us aeons of leisure + When the long battle is done. + Now we have only begun it; + Stead us!--we ask nothing more. + Peace--rest--but not till we've won it-- + Never an hour before. + + + + +MY LADY NEW YORK + + + O siren of tresses peroxide, + And heart that is hard as a flint, + Blue orbs of complacency ox-eyed, + That light at the mark of the mint, + Ears only for jingle of joybells, + A conscience as light as a cork-- + You are wedded to follies and foibles, + My Lady New York. + + True, you have (not enough, tho', to hurt you) + Your moods and your manners austere; + You have visions and vapors of virtue, + And "reform" for a time has your ear; + But of chaste Puritanic embraces + You soon have enough and to spare, + And then you kick over the traces, + And virtue forswear. + + So go it, milady! Foot fleetly + The paths that are primrose and gay; + Abandon your fancy completely + To follies and fads of the day. + "Reform" is a something that throttles + The joys of the pace that's intense-- + Smash hearts, reputations, and bottles, + And ding the expense! + + + + +BALLADE OF THE PIPESMOKE CARRY + + + The Ancient Wood is white and still, + Over the pines the bleak wind blows, + Voiceless the brook and mute the rill, + Silence too where the river flows. + Still I catch the scent of the rose + And hear the white-throat's roundelay, + Footing the trail that Memory knows, + Over the hills and far away. + + I have only a pipe to fill: + Weaving, wreathing rings disclose + A trail that flings straight up the hill, + Straight as an arrow's flight. For those + Who fare by night the pole star glows + Above the mountain top. By day + A blasted pine the pathway shows + Over the hills and far away. + + The Ancient Wood is white and chill, + But what know I of wintry woes? + The Pipesmoke Trail is mine at will-- + Naught may hinder and none oppose. + Such the power the pipe bestows, + When the wilderness calls I may + Tramping go, as I smoke and doze, + Over the hills and far away. + + + _L'Envoi_ + + Deep in the canyons lie the snows: + They shall vanish if I but say-- + If my fancy a-roving goes + Over the hills and far away. + + + + +POST-VACATIONAL + + + You have heard that mildewed story, + That tradition horned and hoary, + That it wearies one to roam, + Past a doubt; + That one vainly on vacation + Tries to find recuperation, + Till he hunts his happy home + Tuckered out. + + That abroad there is no comfort, + That a man must journey home for 't-- + You have heard that whiskered wheeze, + Have you not? + 'Tis a commonplace to cavil + At the "luxuries of travel," + For in travel lack of ease + Is your lot. + + You have heard that gag historic; + It was often sprung by Yorick; + It's as old as Noah's ark + And its crew. + It's the commonest (at basis) + Of all common commonplaces;-- + So I merely would remark + That--it's true. + + + + +THE BARDS WE QUOTE + + + Whene'er I quote I seldom take + From bards whom angel hosts environ; + But usually some damned rake + Like Byron. + + Of Whittier I think a lot, + My fancy to him often turns; + But when I quote 'tis some such sot + As Burns. + + I'm very fond of Bryant, too, + He brings to me the woodland smelly; + Why should I quote that "village roo," + P. Shelley? + + I think Felicia Hemans great, + I dote upon Jean Ingelow; + Yet quote from such a reprobate + As Poe. + + To quote from drunkard or from rake + Is not a proper thing to do. + I find the habit hard to break, + Don't you? + + + + +THE PERSISTENT POET + + + "I remember, I remember"-- + Something special? Not a bit. + But, you see, this is November, + And Remember rimes with it. + + + + +HENCE THESE RIMES + + + Tho' my verse is exact, + Tho' it flawlessly flows, + As a matter of fact + I would rather write prose. + + While my harp is in tune, + And I sing like the birds, + I would really as soon + Write in straightaway words. + + Tho' my songs are as sweet + As Apollo e'er piped, + And my lines are as neat + As have ever been typed, + + I would rather write prose-- + I prefer it to rime; + It's less hard to compose, + And it takes me less time. + + "Well, if that be the case," + You are moved to inquire, + "Why appropriate space + For extolling your lyre?" + + I can only reply + That this form I elect + 'Cause it pleases the eye, + And I like the effect. + + + + +THE OLD ROLLER TOWEL + + + How dear to this heart is the old roller towel + Which fond recollection presents to my view. + It hung like a pall on the wall of the washroom, + And gathered the grime of the linotype crew. + The sink and the soap and the lye that stood by it + Remain; but the towel is gone past recall. + O tempora! Also, O mores! Sic transit + The time-honored towel that creaked on the wall. + The grimy old towel, the slimy old towel, + The tacky old towel that hung on the wall. + + Now hangs in the washroom a huge roll of paper-- + The old printer's towel we'll never see more. + The new (see directions) is "used like a blotter," + And crumpled and scattered in wads on the floor. + And often, when drying my hands in this fashion, + The tears of remembrance will gather and fall, + And I sigh (though I'm not what you'd call sentimental) + For the classic old towel that propped up the wall. + The sainted old towel, the tainted old towel, + The gooey old towel that hung on the wall. + + + + +UP CULTURE'S HILL + + (_The confession of a club lady._) + + + The path up Culture's Hill is steep, + And weary is the way, + With very little time for sleep + And none at all for play. + + She that this toilsome task essays + Must never bat an eye, + But keep her firm, unwavering gaze + Forever fixed on high. + + For should she ever careless grow, + And let her glances stray + Down to the shallow vale below, + Where Pleasure's Court holds sway-- + + Lured by the thrice forbidden fruit, + She'd lose her equipoise, + And like a wayward Pleiad shoot + Down to forbidden joys. + + I've been but short time on the road, + My courage still is strong; + Yet often have I felt the goad + That hurries me along. + + I've fallen over Maeterlinck, + And bumped myself to tears, + Burne-Jones's pictures made me blink, + And Wagner hurts my ears. + + I've stumbled over Ibsen humps + And over Rembrandt rocks, + I've got some fierce Debussy bumps, + Some awful Nietsche knocks. + + I'm wearied by the ceaseless quest, + I'm wayworn and footsore. + I've Culture till I cannot rest-- + Yet still I climb for more. + + But oh, when all is done and said, + Upon some manly breast + I'd like to lay my tired head + And take a good long rest. + + + + +THE PASSIONAL NOTE + + "_The erotic motive is almost entirely absent from American poetry. Even + our younger American poets are more profoundly interested in the why and + wherefore of things than in the girdle of Helen or the gleaming limbs of + 'the white implacable Aphrodite.'_" + --MR. SYLVESTER VIERECK. + + + In the years of my season erotic, + When Eros was lord of my days, + And I loved, with a love idiotic, + The Mabels and Madges and Mays; + When a purple and passionate lyric + Would sing all the night in my head,-- + I yearned, like the young Mr. Viereck, + For everything red. + + I doted on poems of passion, + And put my own pantings in rime, + To celebrate, after a fashion, + The damsels who took up my time. + I fed upon Swinburne, believe me, + I feasted on Byron and Burns, + And couplets from Sappho would give me + Most exquisite turns. + + How apparent it was that our songbirds-- + Our Emerson, Lowell, and Payne, + And Bryant and Drake--were the wrong birds + To pipe to the passional strain. + There was, in a word, nothing doing + In all of the rimes that they wrote; + They seemed to be always pursuing + The ethical note. + + What truth, I inquired, was so mighty, + What ethical thing was so rare, + As the limbs of the white Aphrodite + Or a strand of her heaven-kissed hair! + The girdle of red-headed Helen + Outweighed all the wherefores and whys, + And Wisdom elected to dwell in + A pair of blue eyes. + + _Now_ lyrical sizzlers and scorchers + Fail somehow to set me ablaze; + No longer are exquisite tortures + Provoked by these passionate lays. + I've tinned--and I can't say I've missed 'em-- + The poems of passion and sin. + _Some_ things one gets out of one's system, + And other things _in_. + + + + +_L'ENVOI._ + + + "_Go, little book," as Poet Southey said;_ + _You might be better and you might be worse._ + _With just one word of warning you are sped:_ + _Remember, you're not Poetry--you're Verse._ + + + * * * * * + + + + +Index + + Always 82 + Autumn Revery 104 + Ballad of Misfits 63 + Ballade of a Bore 97 + Ballade of the Cannery 86 + Ballade of Cap and Bells 76 + Ballade of Death and Time 28 + Ballade of Irresolution 68 + Ballade of the Pipesmoke Carry 110 + Ballade of Spring's Unrest 22 + Ballade of Wool-Gathering 48 + Bards We Quote, The 113 + Bread Puddynge 42 + Breakfast Food Family, The 19 + Coronation, The 107 + Day of the Comet, The 66 + Dinosaur, The 75 + Dornroeschen 34 + "Farewell" 36 + Gentle Doctor Brown 78 + Hence These Rimes 115 + Horace: A Note from Mr. Flaccus 54 + I. To Aristius Fuscus 56 + II. Duetto 57 + III. To Pyrrha 59 + IV. To Aristius Fuscus 60 + V. To Sylvia 62 + How They Might Have Brought + the Good News 73 + In the Gallery 80 + In the Lamplight 17 + Kaiser's Farewell, The 30 + Land of Rainbow's-End, The 95 + Laundry of Life, The 93 + Lay of St. Ambrose 9 + Miss Legion 27 + Modern Mariner, The 84 + Morning After, The 67 + Musca Domestica 45 + My Lady New York 109 + Old Roller Towel, The 116 + Oriental Apology, An 65 + Pandean Pipedreams 88 + Passional Note, The 119 + Passionate Professor, The 47 + Persistent Poet, The 114 + Pole, The 99 + Post-Vacational 112 + Recoil, The 105 + Reform in Our Town 38 + Rime of the Clark Street Cable 25 + Sh-h-h-h! 101 + Simple, Heartfelt Lay, The 53 + Sons of Battle 108 + To a Tall Spruce 14 + To Lillian Russell 32 + To the Sun 50 + To What Base Uses 70 + "Treasure Island" 21 + Up Culture's Hill 117 + Vanished Fay, The 102 + When It Is Hot 51 + When the Sirup's on the Flapjack 41 + Why? 24 + Wisdom in a Capsule 94 + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's A line-o'-verse or two, by Bert Leston Taylor + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A LINE-O'-VERSE OR TWO *** + +***** This file should be named 30038.txt or 30038.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/3/0/0/3/30038/ + +Produced by Bryan Ness, Anne Storer and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This +file was produced from images generously made available +by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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