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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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