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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Perverted Proverbs, by 
+Harry Graham, (AKA Col. D. Streamer)
+
+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: Perverted Proverbs
+       A Manual of Immorals for the Many
+
+Author: Harry Graham, (AKA Col. D. Streamer)
+
+Release Date: December 30, 2010 [EBook #34790]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PERVERTED PROVERBS ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Mark C. Orton, Carol Brown and the Online
+Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
+book was produced from scanned images of public domain
+material from the Google Print project.)
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+  PERVERTED
+  PROVERBS
+
+  _A MANUAL OF IMMORALS
+  FOR THE MANY_
+  BY
+  COL. D. STREAMER
+
+  Author of "Ruthless Rhymes for Heartless
+  Homes" "Ballads of the Boer War"
+  "The Baby's Baedeker"
+
+  [Illustration: printer's logo]
+
+  NEW YORK
+  R. H. RUSSELL
+  1903
+
+  _Copyright, 1903, by Robert Howard Russell_
+  Published May, 1903.
+
+
+
+
+  PERVERTED PROVERBS
+
+
+
+
+  _Perverted Proverbs_
+
+  _Dedicated to
+  Helen Whitney_
+
+
+  Do you recall those bygone days,
+  When you received with kindly praise
+    My bantling book of Rhyme?
+  Praise undeserved, alas! and yet
+  How sweet! For, tho' we had not met,
+    (Ah! what a waste of time!)
+  I could the more enjoy such mercies
+  Since I delighted in _your_ verses.
+
+  And when a Poet stoops to smile
+  On some one of the rank and file,
+    (Inglorious--if not mute,)
+  Some groundling bard who craves to climb,
+  Like me, the dizzy rungs of Rhyme,
+    To reach the Golden Fruit;
+  For one in such a situation
+  The faintest praise is no damnation.
+
+  Parnassus heights must surely pall;
+  For simpler diet do you call,
+    Of nectar growing tired?
+  These verses to your feet I bring,
+  Drawn from an unassuming spring,
+    Well-meant--if not inspired;
+  O charming Poet's charming daughter,
+  Descend and taste my toast and water!
+
+  For you alone these lines I write,
+  That, reading them, your brow may light
+    Beneath its crown of bays;
+  Your eyes may sparkle like a star,
+  With friendship, that is dearer far
+    Than any breath of praise;
+  The which a lucky man possessing
+  Can ask no higher human blessing.
+
+  And, though the "salt estranging sea"
+  Be widely spread 'twixt you and me,
+    We have what makes amends;
+  And since I am so glad of you,
+  Be glad of me a little, too,
+    Because of being friends.
+  And, if I earn your approbation,
+  Accept my humble dedication.
+
+                        H. G.
+
+
+
+
+  _Foreword_
+
+
+  The Press may pass my Verses by
+    With sentiments of indignation,
+  And say, like Greeks of old, that I
+    Corrupt the Youthful Generation;
+  I am unmoved by taunts like these--
+  (And so, I think, was Socrates).
+
+  Howe'er the Critics may revile,
+    I pick no journalistic quarrels,
+  Quite realizing that my Style
+    Makes up for any lack of Morals;
+  For which I feel no shred of shame--
+  (And Byron would have felt the same).
+
+  I don't intend a Child to read
+    These lines, which are not for the Young;
+  For, if I did, I should indeed
+    Feel fully worthy to be hung.
+  (Is "hanged" the perfect tense of "hang"?
+  Correct me, Mr. Andrew Lang!)
+
+  O Young of Heart, tho' in your prime,
+    By you these Verses may be seen!
+  Accept the Moral with the Rhyme,
+    And try to gather what I mean.
+  But, if you can't, it won't hurt me!
+  (And Browning would, I know, agree.)
+
+  Be reassured, I have not got
+    The style of Stephen Phillips' heroes,
+  Nor Henry Jones's pow'r of Plot,
+    Nor wit like Arthur Wing Pinero's!
+  (If so, I should not waste my time
+  In writing you this sort of rhyme.)
+
+  I strive to paint things as they Are,
+    Of Realism the true Apostle;
+  All flow'ry metaphors I bar,
+    Nor call the homely thrush a "throstle."
+  Such synonyms would make me smile.
+  (And so they would have made Carlyle.)
+
+  My Style may be at times, I own,
+    A trifle cryptic or abstruse;
+  In this I do not stand alone,
+    And need but mention, in excuse,
+  A thousand world-familiar names,
+  From Meredith to Henry James.
+
+  From these my fruitless fancy roams
+    To seek the Ade of Modern Fable,
+  From Doyle's or Hemans' "Stately Ho(l)mes,"
+    To t'other of The Breakfast Table;
+  Like Galahad, I wish (in vain)
+  "My wit were as the wit of Twain!"
+
+  Had I but Whitman's rugged skill,
+    (And managed to escape the Censor),
+  The Accuracy of a Mill,
+    The Reason of a Herbert Spencer,
+  The literary talents even
+  Of Sidney Lee or Leslie Stephen.
+
+  The pow'r of Patmore's placid pen,
+    Or Watson's gift of execration,
+  The sugar of Le Gallienne,
+    Or Algernon's Alliteration.
+  One post there is I'd not be lost in,
+  --Tho' I might find it most ex-austin'!
+
+  Some day, if I but study hard,
+    The public, vanquished by my pen'll
+  Acclaim me as a Minor Bard,
+    Like Norman Gale or Mrs. Meynell,
+  And listen to my lyre a-rippling
+  Imperial banjo-spasms like Kipling.
+
+  Were I a syndicate like K.
+    Or flippant scholar like Augustine;
+  Had I the style of Pater, say,
+    Which ev'ryone would put their trust in,
+  I'd love (as busy as a squirrel)
+  To pate, to kipple, and to birrel.
+
+  So don't ignore me. If you should,
+    'Twill touch me to the very heart oh!
+  To be as much misunderstood
+    As once was Andrea del Sarto;
+  Unrecognized to toil away,
+  Like Millet--not, of course, Mill_ais_.
+
+  And, pray, for Morals do not look
+    In this unique agglomeration,
+  --This unpretentious little book
+    Of Infelicitous Quotation.
+  I deem you foolish if you do,
+  (And Mr. Russell thinks so, too).
+
+
+
+
+  _"Virtue is Its Own Reward"_
+
+
+  Virtue its own reward? Alas!
+    And what a poor one as a rule!
+  Be Virtuous and Life will pass
+    Like one long term of Sunday-School.
+  (No prospect, truly, could one find
+  More unalluring to the mind.)
+
+  You may imagine that it pays
+    To practise Goodness. Not a bit!
+  You cease receiving any praise
+    When people have got used to it;
+  'Tis generally understood
+  You find it _easy_ to be good.
+
+  The Model Child has got to keep
+    His fingers and his garments white;
+  In church he may not go to sleep,
+    Nor ask to stop up late at night.
+  In fact he must not ever do
+  A single thing he wishes to.
+
+  He may not paddle in his boots,
+    Like naughty children, at the Sea;
+  The sweetness of Forbidden Fruits
+    Is not, alas! for such as he.
+  He watches, with pathetic eyes,
+  His weaker brethren make mud-pies.
+
+  He must not answer back, oh no!
+    However rude grown-ups may be,
+  But keep politely silent, tho'
+    He brim with scathing repartee;
+  For nothing is considered worse
+  Than scoring off Mamma or Nurse.
+
+  He must not eat too much at meals,
+    Nor scatter crumbs upon the floor;
+  However vacuous he feels,
+    He may not pass his plate for more;
+  --Not tho' his ev'ry organ ache
+  For further slabs of Christmas cake.
+
+  He is enjoined to choose his food
+    From what is easy to digest;
+  A choice which in itself is good,
+    But never what _he_ likes the best.
+  (At times how madly he must wish
+  For just _one_ real unwholesome dish!)
+
+  And, when the wretched urchin plays
+    With other little girls and boys,
+  He has to show unselfish ways
+    By giving them his choicest toys;
+  His ears he lets them freely box,
+  Or pull his lubricated locks.
+
+  His face is always being washed,
+    His hair perpetually brushed,
+  And thus his brighter side is squashed,
+    His human instincts warped and crushed;
+  Small wonder that his early years
+  Are filled with "thoughts too deep for tears."
+
+  He is commanded not to waste
+    The fleeting hours of childhood's days
+  By giving way to any taste
+    For circuses or matinées;
+  For him the entertainments planned
+  Are "Lectures on the Holy Land."
+
+  He never reads a story book
+    By Rider H. or Winston C.,
+  In vain upon his desk you'd look
+    For tales by Richard Harding D.;
+  Nor could you find upon his shelf
+  The works of Rudyard--or myself!
+
+  He always fears that he may do
+    Some action that is _infra dig._,
+  And so he lives his short life through
+    In the most noxious rôle of Prig.
+  ("Short life" I say, for it's agreed
+  The Good die very young indeed.)
+
+  Ah me! How sad it is to think
+    He could have lived like me--or you!
+  With practice and a taste for drink,
+    Our joys he might have known, he too!
+  And shared the pleasure _we_ have had
+  In being gloriously bad!
+
+  The Naughty Boy gets much delight
+    From doing what he should not do;
+  But, as such conduct isn't Right,
+    He sometimes suffers for it, too.
+  Yet, what's a spanking to the fun
+  Of leaving vital things Undone?
+
+  If he's notoriously bad,
+    But for a day should change his ways,
+  His parents will be all so glad,
+    They'll shower him with gifts and praise!
+  (It pays a connoisseur in crimes
+  To be a perfect saint at times.)
+
+  Of course there always lies the chance
+    That he is charged with being ill,
+  And all his innocent romance
+    Is ruined by a rhubarb pill.
+  (Alas! 'Tis not alone the Good
+  That are so much misunderstood.)
+
+  But, as a rule, when he behaves
+    (Evincing no malarial signs),
+  His friends are all his faithful slaves,
+    Until he once again declines
+  With easy conscience, more or less,
+  To undiluted wickedness.
+
+  The Wicked flourish like the bay,
+    At Cards or Love they always win,
+  Good Fortune dogs their steps all day,
+    They fatten while the Good grow thin.
+  The Righteous Man has much to bear;
+  The Bad becomes a Bullionaire!
+
+  For, though he be the greatest sham,
+    Luck favours him his whole life through;
+  At "Bridge" he always makes a Slam
+    After declaring "Sans atout";
+  With ev'ry deal his fate has planned
+  A hundred Aces in his hand.
+
+   And it is always just the same;
+    He somehow manages to win,
+  By mere good fortune, any game
+    That he may be competing in.
+  At Golf no bunker breaks his club,
+  For him the green provides no "rub."
+
+  At Billiards, too, he flukes away
+    (With quite unnecessary "side");
+  No matter what he tries to play,
+    For him the pockets open wide;
+  He never finds both balls in baulk,
+  Or makes miss-cues for want of chalk.
+
+  He swears; he very likely bets;
+    He even wears a flaming necktie;
+  Inhales Egyptian cigarettes
+    And has a "Mens Inconscia Recti";
+  Yet, spite of all, one must confess
+  That naught succeeds like his excess.
+
+  There's no occasion to be Just,
+    No need for motives that are fine,
+  To be Director of a Trust,
+    Or Manager of a Combine;
+  Your corner is a public curse,
+  Perhaps; but it will fill your purse.
+
+  Then stride across the Public's bones,
+    Crush all opponents under you,
+  Until you "rise on stepping-stones
+    Of their dead selves"; and, when you do,
+  The widow's and the orphan's tears
+  Shall comfort your declining years!
+
+  But having had your boom in oil,
+    And made your millions out of it,
+  Would you propose to cease from toil?
+    Great Vanderfeller! Not a bit!
+  You've _got_ to labour, day and night,
+  Until you die--and serve you right!
+
+  Then, when you stop this frenzied race,
+    And others in your office sit,
+  You'll leave the world a better place,
+    --The better for your leaving it!
+  For there's a chance perhaps your heir
+  May spend what you've collected there.
+
+  Myself, how lucky I must be,
+    That need not fear so gross an end;
+  Since Fortune has not favoured me
+    With many million pounds to spend.
+  (Still, did that fickle Dame relent,
+  I'd show you how they _should_ be spent!)
+
+  I am not saint enough to feel
+    My shoulder ripen to a wing,
+  Nor have I wits enough to steal
+    His title from the Copper King;
+  And there's a vasty gulf between
+  The Man I Am and Might Have Been;
+
+  But tho' at dinner I may take
+    Too much of Heidsieck (extra dry),
+  And underneath the table make
+    My simple couch just where I lie,
+  My mode of roosting on the floor
+  Is just a trick and nothing more.
+
+  And when, not Wisely but too Well,
+    My thirst I have contrived to quench,
+  The stories I am apt to tell
+    May be, perhaps, a trifle French;
+  (For 'tis in anecdote, no doubt,
+  That what's Bred in the Beaune comes out.)
+
+  It does not render me unfit
+    To give advice, both wise and right,
+  Because I do not follow it
+    Myself as closely as I might;
+  There's nothing that I wouldn't do
+  To point the proper road to _you_.
+
+  And this I'm sure of, more or less,
+    And trust that you will all agree,
+  The Elements of Happiness
+    Consist in being--just like Me;
+  No sinner, nor a saint perhaps,
+  But--well, the very best of chaps.
+
+  Share the Experience I have had,
+    Consider all I've known and seen,
+  And Don't be Good, and Don't be Bad,
+    But cultivate a Golden Mean.
+
+     *     *     *     *     *
+
+  What makes Existence _really_ nice
+  Is Virtue--with a dash of Vice.
+
+
+
+
+  "_Enough is as Good as a Feast._"
+
+
+  What is Enough? An idle dream!
+    One cannot have enough, I swear,
+  Of Ices or Meringues-and-Cream,
+    Nougat or Chocolate Eclairs,
+  Of Oysters or of Caviar,
+  Of Prawns or Paté de Foie _Grar_!
+
+  Who would not willingly forsake
+    Kindred and Home, without a fuss,
+  For Icing from a Birthday Cake,
+    Or juicy fat Asparagus,
+  And journey over countless seas
+  For New Potatoes and Green Peas?
+
+  They say that a Contented Mind
+    Is a Continual Feast;--but where
+  The mental frame, and how to find,
+    Which can with Turtle Soup compare?
+  No mind, however full of Ease,
+  Could be Continual Toasted Cheese.
+
+  For dinner have a sole to eat,
+    (Some Perrier Jouet, '92,)
+  An Entrée then (and, with the meat,
+    A bottle of Lafitte will do),
+  A quail, a glass of port (just one),
+  Liqueurs and coffee, and you've done.
+
+  But should you want a hearty meal,
+    And not this gourmet's lightsome snack,
+  Fill up with terrapin and teal,
+    Clam chowder, crabs and canvasback;
+  With all varieties of sauce,
+  And diff'rent wines for ev'ry course.
+
+  Your tastes may be of simpler type;--
+    A homely glass of "half-and-half,"
+  An onion and a dish of tripe,
+    Or headpiece of the kindly calf.
+  (Cruel perhaps, but then, you know,
+  "_'Faut tout souffrir pour être veau!_")
+
+  'Tis a mistake to eat too much
+    Of any dishes but the best;
+  And you, of course, should never touch
+    A thing you _know_ you can't digest;
+  For instance, lobster;--if you _do_,
+  Well,--I'm amayonnaised at you!
+
+  Let this be your heraldic crest,
+    A bottle (chargé) of Champagne,
+  A chicken (gorged) with salad (dress'd),
+    Below, this motto to explain--
+  "Enough is Very Good, may be;
+  Too Much is Good Enough for Me!"
+
+
+
+
+  "_Don't Buy a Pig in a Poke._"
+
+
+  Unscrupulous Pigmongers will
+    Attempt to wheedle and to coax
+  The ignorant young housewife till
+    She purchases her pigs in pokes;
+  Beasts that have got a Lurid Past,
+  Or else are far Too Good to Last.
+
+  So, should you not desire to be
+    The victim of a cruel hoax,
+  Then promise me, ah! promise me,
+    You will not purchase pigs in pokes!
+  ('Twould be an error just as big
+  To poke your purchase in a pig.)
+
+  Too well I know the bitter cost,
+    To turn this subject off with jokes;
+  How many a fortune has been lost
+    By men who purchased pigs in pokes.
+  (Ah! think on such when you would talk
+  With mouths that are replete with pork!)
+
+  And, after dinner, round the fire,
+    Astride of Grandpa's rugged knee,
+  Implore your bored but patient sire
+    To tell you what a Poke may be.
+  The fact he might disclose to you--
+  Which is far more than _I_ can do.
+
+     *     *     *     *     *
+
+  The Moral of The Pigs and Pokes
+    Is not to make your choice too quick.
+  In purchasing a Book of Jokes,
+    Pray poke around and take your pick.
+  Who knows how rich a mental meal
+  The covers of _this_ book conceal?
+
+
+
+
+  "_Learn to Take Things Easily._"
+
+
+  To these few words, it seems to me,
+    A wealth of sound instruction clings;
+  O Learn to Take things easily--
+    Espeshly Other People's Things;
+  And Time will make your fingers deft
+  At what is known as Petty Theft.
+
+  Your precious moments do not waste;
+    Take Ev'rything that isn't tied!
+  Who knows but you may have a Taste,
+    A Gift perhaps, for Homicide,--
+  (A Mania which, encouraged, thrives
+  On Taking Other People's Lives).
+
+  "Fools and Their Money soon must part!"
+    And you can help this on, may be,
+  If, in the kindness of your Heart,
+    You Learn to Take things easily;
+  And be, with little education,
+  A Prince of Misappropriation.
+
+
+
+
+  "_A Rolling Stone Gathers No Moss._"
+
+
+  I never understood, I own,
+    What anybody (with a soul)
+  Could mean by offering a Stone
+    This needless warning not to Roll;
+  And what inducement there can be
+  To gather Moss I fail to see.
+
+  I'd sooner gather anything,
+    Like primroses, or news perhaps,
+  Or even wool (when suffering
+    A momentary mental lapse);
+  But could forego my share of moss,
+  Nor ever realize the loss.
+
+  'Tis a botanical disease,
+    And worthy of remark as such;
+  Lending a dignity to trees,
+    To ruins a romantic touch.
+  A timely adjunct, I've no doubt,
+  But not worth writing home about.
+
+  Of all the Stones I ever met,
+    In calm repose upon the ground,
+  I really never found one yet
+    With a desire to roll around;
+  Theirs is a stationary rôle,--
+  (A joke,--and feeble on the whole).
+
+  But, if I were a stone, I swear
+    I'd sooner move and view the World
+  Than sit and grow the greenest hair
+    That ever Nature combed and curled.
+  I see no single saving grace
+  In being known as "Mossyface!"
+
+  Instead, I might prove useful for
+    A weapon in the hand of Crime,
+  A paperweight, a milestone, or
+    A missile at Election time;
+  In each capacity I could
+  Do quite incalculable good.
+
+  When well directed from the Pit,
+    I might promote a welcome death,
+  If fortunate enough to hit
+    Some budding Hamlet or Macbeth,
+  Who twice each day the playhouse fills,--
+  (For further Notice See Small Bills).
+
+  At concerts, too, if you prefer,
+    I could prevent your growing deaf,
+  By silencing the amateur
+    Before she reached that upper F.;
+  Or else, in lieu of half-a-brick,
+  Restrain some local Kubelik.
+
+  Then, human stones, take my advice,
+    (As you should always do, indeed);
+  This proverb may be very nice,
+    But don't you pay it any heed,
+  And, tho' you make the critics cross,
+  Roll on, and never mind the moss.
+
+
+
+
+  "_After Dinner Sit a While; After
+  Supper Walk a Mile._"
+
+
+  After luncheon sit awhile,
+    'Tis an admirable plan;
+  After dinner walk a mile--
+    But make certain that you _can_.
+  (Were you not this maxim taught;--
+  "Good is Wrought by want of Port.")
+
+  After dinner think on this;
+    Join the ladies with a smile,
+  And remember that a Miss
+    Is as good as any mile.
+  (Thus you may be led to feel
+  What Amis felt for Amile.)
+
+  Never fear of being shy
+    At the houses where you dine;
+  You'll recover by-and-bye,
+    With the second glass of wine;
+  And can recognize with bliss
+  That a Meal is not amiss.
+
+
+
+
+  "_It is Never Too Late to Mend._"
+
+
+  Since it can never be too late
+    To change your life, or else renew it,
+  Let the unpleasant process wait
+    Until you are _compelled_ to do it.
+  The State provides (and gratis too)
+  Establishments for such as you.
+
+  Remember this, and pluck up heart,
+    That, be you publican or parson,
+  Your ev'ry art must have a start,
+    From petty larceny to arson;
+  And even in the burglar's trade,
+  The cracksman is not born, but made.
+
+  So, if in your career of crime,
+    You fail to carry out some "coup",
+  Then try again a second time,
+    And yet again, until you _do_;
+  And don't despair, or fear the worst,
+  Because you get found out at first.
+
+  Perhaps the battle will not go,
+    On all occasions, to the strongest;
+  You may be fairly certain tho'
+    That He Laughs Last who laughs the Longest.
+  So keep a good reserve of laughter,
+  Which may be found of use hereafter.
+
+  Believe me that, howe'er well meant,
+    A Good Resolve is always brief;
+  Don't let your precious hours be spent
+    In turning over a new leaf.
+  Such leaves, like Nature's, soon decay,
+  And then are only in the way.
+
+  The Road to--well, a certain spot,
+    (A Road of very fair dimensions),
+  Has, so the proverb tells us, got
+    A parquet-floor of Good Intentions.
+  Take care, in your desire to please,
+  You do not add a brick to these.
+
+  For there may come a moment when
+    You shall be mended willy-nilly,
+  With many more misguided men,
+    Whose skill is undermined with skilly.
+  Till then procrastinate, my friend;
+  "It _Never_ is Too Late to Mend!"
+
+
+
+
+  "_A Bad Workman Complains of his Tools._"
+
+
+  This Pen of mine is simply grand,
+    I never loved a pen so much;
+  This Paper (underneath my hand)
+    Is really a delight to touch;
+  And never in my life, I think,
+  Did I make use of finer ink.
+
+  The Subject upon which I write
+    Is everything that I could choose;
+  I seldom knew my Wits more bright,
+    More cosmopolitan my Views;
+  Nor ever did my Head contain
+  So surplus a supply of Brain!
+
+
+
+
+  _Potpourri._
+
+
+  There are many more Maxims to which
+    I would like to accord a front place,
+  But alas! I have got
+  To omit a whole lot,
+    For the lack of available space;
+  And the rest I am forced to boil down and condense
+  To the following Essence of Sound without Sense:
+
+
+  Now the Pitcher that journeys too oft
+    To the Well will get broken at last.
+  But you'll find it a fact
+  That, by using some tact,
+    Such a danger as this can be past.
+  (There's an obvious way, and a simple, you'll own,
+  Which is, if you're a Pitcher, to Let Well alone.)
+
+
+  Half a loafer is never well-bred,
+    And Self-Praise is a Dangerous Thing.
+  And the Mice are at play
+  When the Cat is away,
+    For a moment, inspecting a King.
+  (Tho' if Care kills a Cat, as the Proverbs declare,
+  It is right to suppose that the King will take care.)
+
+
+  Don't Halloo till you're out of the Wood,
+    When a Stitch in Good Time will save nine,
+  While a Bird in the Hand
+  Is worth Two, understand,
+    In the Bush that Needs no Good Wine.
+  (Tho' the two, if they _Can_ sing but Won't, have been known,
+  By an accurate aim to be killed with one Stone.)
+
+
+  Never Harness the Cart to the Horse;
+    Since the latter should be _à la carte_.
+  And Birds of a Feather
+  Come Flocking Together,
+    Because they can't well Flock Apart.
+  (You may cast any Bread on the Waters, I think,
+  But, unless I'm mistaken, you can't make it Sink.)
+
+
+  It is only the Fool who remarks
+    That there Can't be a Fire without Smoke;
+  Has he never yet learned
+  How the gas can be turned
+    On the best incombustible coke?
+  (Would you value a man by the checks on his suits,
+  And forget "_que c'est le premier passbook qui Coutts_?")
+
+
+  Now "_De Mortuis Nil Nisi Bo-
+    num_," is Latin, as ev'ryone owns;
+  If your domicile be
+  Near a Mortuaree,
+    You should always avoid throwing bones.
+  (I would further remark, if I could,--but I couldn't--
+  That People Residing in Glasshouses shouldn't.)
+
+
+  You have heard of the Punctual Bird,
+    Who was First in presenting his Bill;
+  But I pray you'll be firm,
+  And remember the Worm
+    Had to get up much earlier still;
+  (So that, if you _can't_ rise in the morning, then Don't;
+  And be certain that Where there's a Will there's a Won't.)
+
+
+  You can give a bad name to a Dog,
+    And hang him by way of excuse;
+  Whereas Hunger, of course,
+  Is by far the Best Sauce
+    For the Gander as well as the Goose.
+  (But you shouldn't judge anyone just by his looks,
+  For a Surfeit of Broth ruins too many Cooks.)
+
+
+  With the fact that Necessity knows
+    Nine Points of the Law, you'll agree.
+  There are just as Good Fish
+  To be found on a Dish
+    As you ever could catch in the Sea.
+  (You should Look ere you Leap on a Weasel Asleep,
+  And I've also remarked That Still Daughters Run Cheap.)
+
+
+  The much trodden-on Lane _will_ Turn,
+    And a Friend is in Need of a Friend;
+  But the Wisest of Saws,
+  Like the Camel's Last Straws,
+    Or the Longest of Worms, have an end.
+  So, before out of Patience a Virtue you make,
+  A decisive farewell of these maxims we'll take.
+
+
+
+
+  _Envoi._
+
+  _"Don't Look a Gifthorse in the Mouth"_
+
+
+  I knew a man, who lived down South;
+    He thought this maxim to defy;
+  He looked a Gifthorse in the Mouth;
+    The Gifthorse bit him in the Eye!
+  And, while the steed enjoyed his bite,
+  My Southern friend mislaid his sight.
+
+  Now, had this foolish man, that day,
+    Observed the Gifthorse in the _Heel_,
+  It might have kicked his brains away,
+    But that's a loss he would not feel;
+  Because you see (need I explain?)
+  My Southern friend had got no brain.
+
+  When anyone to you presents
+    A poodle, or a pocketknife,
+  A set of Ping-pong instruments,
+    A banjo or a Lady-wife,
+  'Tis churlish, as I understand,
+  To grumble that they're second-hand.
+
+  And he who termed Ingratitude
+    As "worser nor a servant's tooth"
+  Was evidently well imbued
+    With all the elements of Truth;
+  (While he who said "Uneasy lies
+  The tooth that wears a crown" was wise).
+
+  "One must be poor," George Eliot said,
+    "To know the luxury of giving;"
+  So too one really should be dead
+    To realize the joy of living.
+  (I'd sooner be--I don't know which--
+  I'd _like_ to be alive and rich!)
+
+  _This_ book may be a Gifthorse too,
+    And one you surely ought to prize;
+  If so, I beg you, read it through
+    With kindly and uncaptious eyes,
+  Not grumbling because this particular line doesn't happen to scan,
+  And this one doesn't rhyme!
+
+
+
+
+  _Aftword._
+
+
+  'Tis done! We reach the final page,
+    With feelings of relief, I'm certain;
+  And there arrives at such a stage,
+    The moment to ring down the curtain.
+  (This metaphor is freely taken
+  From Shakespeare--or perhaps from Bacon.)
+
+  The Book perused, our Future brings
+    A plethora of blank to-morrows,
+  When memories of Happier Things
+    Will be our Sorrow's Crown of Sorrows.
+  (I trust you recognize this line
+  As being Tennyson's, not mine.)
+
+  My verses may indeed be few,
+    But are they not, to quote the poet,
+  "The sweetest things that ever grew
+    Beside a human door"? I know it.
+  (What an _in_human door would be,
+  Enquire of Wordsworth, please, not me.)
+
+  'Twas one of my most cherished dreams
+    To write a Moral Book some day;
+  What says the Bard? "The best laid schemes
+    Of Mice and Men gang aft agley!"
+  (The Bard here mentioned, by the bye,
+  Is Robbie Burns, of course--not I.)
+
+  And tho' my pen records each thought
+    As swift as the phonetic Pitman,
+  Morality is not my "forte,"
+    O Camarados! (_vide_ Whitman)
+  And, like the Porcupine, I still
+  Am forced to ply a fretful quill.
+
+  We may be Master of our Fate,
+    (As Henley was inspired to mention)
+  Yet am I but the Second Mate
+    Upon the ss. "Good Intention";
+  For me the course direct is lacking--
+  I have to do a deal of tacking.
+
+  To seek for Morals here's a task
+    Of which you well may be despairing;
+  "What has become of them?" you ask,
+    They've given us the slip--like Waring.
+  "Look East!" said Browning once, and I
+  Would make a similar reply.
+
+  Look East, where in a garret drear,
+    The Author works, without cessation,
+  Composing verses for a mere-
+    ly nominal remuneration;
+  And, while he has the strength to write 'em,
+  Will do so still--_ad infinitum_.
+
+
+
+
+      FINIS.
+
+
+
+Transcriber's Notes:
+
+The words 'bo-num' and 'mere-ly' were retained hyphenated at the ends of
+lines to match the printed edition and maintain the poetical intent of
+the author.
+
+Changed 'Heidsick' to 'Heidsieck.'
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Perverted Proverbs, by 
+Harry Graham, (AKA Col. D. Streamer)
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