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diff --git a/37999-8.txt b/37999-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b81e9f4 --- /dev/null +++ b/37999-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2915 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Poems, by Arthur Macy + +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: Poems + +Author: Arthur Macy + +Release Date: November 13, 2011 [EBook #37999] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS *** + + + + +Produced by Suzanne Shell, David E. Brown and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This +file was produced from images generously made available +by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) + + + + + + + + + + [Illustration: _Photo. by A. Marshall_ + Arthur Macy.] + + + + + POEMS + + BY ARTHUR MACY + + _With an Introduction by + WILLIAM ALFRED HOVEY_ + + W. B. CLARKE CO. + BOSTON + 1905 + + + COPYRIGHT 1905 BY MARY T. MACY + + ALL RIGHTS RESERVED + + + + +The Editors of _The Youth's Companion_, _St. Nicholas_, and _The Smart +Set_, The H. B. Stevens Company, The Oliver Ditson Company, and Messrs. +G. Schirmer & Company, have kindly permitted the republication of +several poems in this collection. + + + + +INTRODUCTION + + +Arthur Macy was a Nantucket boy of Quaker extraction. His name alone is +evidence of this, for it is safe to say that a Macy, wherever found in +the United States, is descended from that sturdy old Quaker who was one +of those who bought Nantucket from the Indians, paid them fairly for it, +treated them with justice, and lived on friendly terms with them. In +many ways Arthur Macy showed that he was a Nantucketer and, at least by +descent, a Quaker. He often used phrases peculiar to our island in the +sea, and was given, in conversation at least, to similes which smacked +of salt water. Almost the last time I saw him he said, "I'm coming round +soon for a good long gam." + +He was a many-sided man. In his intercourse with a friend like myself he +would show the side which he thought would interest me, and that only. +He was above all things cheery, and, to his praise be it said, he hated +a bore. I remember that a mutual friend was talking baseball to me by +the yard. Arthur was sitting by, listening. It was a subject in which he +was much interested. Nevertheless, turning to our mutual friend, he +said, "Don't talk baseball to _him_. He don't care anything about it, he +don't know anything about it, and he don't want to." On the other hand, +although little given to telling of his war experiences, he was always +ready to talk over the old days with me. Of what he did himself, he +modestly said but little, but of the services of others, more especially +of the men in the ranks, he was generous in his praise. + +Early in the war Macy enlisted in Company B, 24th Michigan Volunteer +Infantry. He was twice wounded on the first day at Gettysburg, and +managed to crawl into the town and get as far as the steps of the Court +House, which was fast filling with wounded from both sides. His sense of +humor was in evidence even at such a time. A Confederate officer rode up +and asked, "Have those men in there got arms?" Quick as a flash Macy +answered: "Some of them have and some of them haven't." He remained in +this Court-House hospital, a prisoner within the Confederate lines, +until the battle was over and Lee's army retreated. All wounded +prisoners who could walk were forced to go with them, but Macy's wound +was in the foot, and, fortunately for him, he was spared the horrors of +a Southern prison. + +He was on duty later at the Naval Academy Hospital in Annapolis, +presided over by Dr. Vanderkieft, perhaps as efficient a general +hospital administrator as the army had. I knew Dr. Vanderkieft very +well, and was on duty at his hospital when the exchanged prisoners came +back from Andersonville. Although Macy and I never met there, it came +out in our talk that we were there at the same time. He served his full +three years, and was honorably discharged about the close of the war. + +It is given to but few to have the keen sense of humor which he +possessed. Quick and keen at repartee, he never practised it save when +worth while. He never said the clearly obvious thing. Failing something +better than that, he held his peace. + +Had it not been for his disinclination to publish his verses, he long +ago would have had a national reputation. His reason for this +disinclination, as I gathered from many talks with him, was that he did +not consider his work of sufficiently high _poetic_ standard. Every one +praised his choice of words, his wonderful facility in rhyme, the +perfection of his metre, and the daintiness and delicacy of his verse. +"All right," he would say, "but that is not Poetry with a big P, and +that is the only kind that should be published. And there is mighty +little of it." It is fortunate that this severe judgment, creditable as +it was to him, is not to prevail. Lovers of the beautiful are not to be +robbed of "Sit Closer, Friends," nor of "A Poet's Lesson," and many who +never heard of that remarkable Spanish pachyderm will take delight in +the story of "The Rollicking Mastodon," whose home was "in the trunk of +a Tranquil Tree." The greater part of his verses with which I am +familiar I heard at Papyrus Club dinners. He was an early member, and +one of the most esteemed. He was fairly sure to have something in his +pocket, and the presiding officer never called upon him in vain. + +It was so at the Saint Botolph Club, of which he was long a member. +Whenever there was an "occasion" when the need of verse seemed +indicated, Arthur Macy could be counted on. His "Saint Botolph," which +has become the Club song, and will be sung as long as the Club endures, +was written for a Twelfth Night revel at my request. It has a peculiarly +old English flavor. He makes of the Saint, not the jolly friar nor yet +the severe recluse, but just a good, kind old man who "was loved by the +sinners and loved by the good," one who was certain that there must be +sin so long as + + "A few get the loaves and many get the crumbs, + And some are born fingers and some are born thumbs." + +And here we get a glimpse of Arthur Macy's view of life, which was +certainly broad and generous, with a philosophic flavor. + +Arthur Macy had a business side of which his Club intimates had but +slight knowledge. He represented, in New England, one of the great +commercial agencies of the country. His knowledge of business men, of +their standing, commercially and financially, was extended and intimate, +and was relied upon by our merchants and others as a basis for giving +credit. His office work required the closest attention to details and +the exercise of the most careful judgment. The whole success of such a +company as that which he represented depends upon the reliability of the +information which it gives. Without this it has no reason for existence. +It was to Arthur Macy that the merchants of Boston largely turned for +information concerning their customers scattered throughout New England, +and it was because of his success in obtaining such information and his +thorough knowledge of the business in all its details that the superior +officers of the company placed such implicit confidence in his judgment +and so high a value upon his advice. And in the conduct of this business +he showed his Quaker straightforwardness. His work was not at all of the +"detective" sort. If information was wanted concerning a man's business +by those who had dealings with him, Macy went directly to the man +himself, and told him that it was for his own best interest to show just +where he stood, and, above all things, to tell the exact truth. Honest +men had the truth told about them, and profited by it. Dishonest men and +secretive men were passed over in severe silence, and their credit +suffered accordingly. Few of those who sought Arthur Macy for business +information ever suspected that they were talking to a poet and man of +letters. + +I have not sought to tell Arthur Macy's life story. Neither have I +entered upon any detailed consideration of his verse. It is for the +reader to peruse the pages that follow and draw his own conclusion. I +have merely tried to give a glimpse of the characteristics of one of the +most charming personalities I ever knew. + + WILLIAM ALFRED HOVEY. + + ST. BOTOLPH CLUB, + _Boston, June 7, 1905_. + + + + +CONTENTS + + + FRONTISPIECE _Portrait of Arthur Macy_ + + INTRODUCTION v + + +POEMS + + In Remembrance 1 + + The Old Café 4 + + At Marliave's 8 + + The Passing of the Rose 9 + + A Valentine 10 + + Disenchantment 12 + + Constancy 15 + + A Poet's Lesson 17 + + "Place aux Dames" 19 + + All on a Golden Summer Day 20 + + Prismatic Boston 21 + + The Book Hunter 25 + + The Three Voices 27 + + Easy Knowledge 28 + + Susan Scuppernong 29 + + The Hatband 30 + + The Oyster 31 + + Wind and Rain 32 + + The Flag 34 + + My Masterpiece 36 + + A Ballade of Montaigne 40 + + The Criminal 42 + + A Bit of Color 45 + + Dinner Favors 48 + + The Moper 51 + + Various Valentines 54 + + Were all the World like You 59 + + Here and There 60 + + Uncle Jogalong 62 + + The Indifferent Mariner 64 + + On a Library Wall 66 + + Mrs. Mulligatawny 67 + + Euthanasia 70 + + Dainty Little Love 71 + + To M. 72 + + The Song 73 + + At Twilight Time 76 + + Céleste 78 + + Thistle-Down 80 + + The Slumber Song 81 + + Thou art to Me 82 + + Love 83 + + The Stranger-Man 84 + + The Honeysuckle Vine 86 + + Saint Botolph 87 + + The Gurgling Imps 90 + + The Worm will Turn 91 + + The Boston Cats 94 + + The Jonquil Maid 96 + + The Rollicking Mastodon 99 + + The Five Senses 102 + + Economy 103 + + Idylettes of the Queen 105 + + To M. E. 110 + + Bon Voyage 111 + + The Book of Life 112 + + + + +POEMS + + + + +IN REMEMBRANCE + +[W. L. C.] + + + Sit closer, friends, around the board! + Death grants us yet a little time. + Now let the cheering cup be poured, + And welcome song and jest and rhyme. + Enjoy the gifts that fortune sends. + Sit closer, friends! + + And yet, we pause. With trembling lip + We strive the fitting phrase to make; + Remembering our fellowship, + Lamenting Destiny's mistake. + We marvel much when Fate offends, + And claims our friends. + + Companion of our nights of mirth, + Where all were merry who were wise; + Does Death quite understand your worth, + And know the value of his prize? + I doubt me if he comprehends-- + He knows no friends. + + And in that realm is there no joy + Of comrades and the jocund sense? + Can Death so utterly destroy-- + For gladness grant no recompense? + And can it be that laughter ends + With absent friends? + + Oh, scholars whom we wisest call, + Who solve great questions at your ease, + We ask the simplest of them all, + And yet you cannot answer these! + And is it thus your knowledge ends, + To comfort friends? + + Dear Omar! should You chance to meet + Our Brother Somewhere in the Gloom, + Pray give to Him a Message sweet, + From Brothers in the Tavern Room. + He will not ask who 'tis that sends, + For We were Friends. + + Again a parting sail we see; + Another boat has left the shore. + A kinder soul on board has she + Than ever left the land before. + And as her outward course she bends, + Sit closer, friends! + + + + +THE OLD CAFÉ + + + You know, + Don't you, Joe, + Those merry evenings long ago? + You know the room, the narrow stair, + The wreaths of smoke that circled there, + The corner table where we sat + For hours in after-dinner chat, + And magnified + Our little world inside. + You know, + Don't you, Joe? + + Ah, those nights divine! + The simple, frugal wine, + The airs on crude Italian strings, + The joyous, harmless revelings, + Just fit for us--or kings! + At times a quaint and wickered flask + Of rare Chianti, or from the homelier cask + Of modest Pilsener a stein or so, + Amid the merry talk would flow; + Or red Bordeaux + From vines that grew where dear Montaigne + Held his domain. + And you remember that dark eye, + None too shy; + In fact, she seemed a bit too free + For you and me. + You know, + Don't you, Joe? + + Then Pegasus I knew, + And then I read to you + My callow rhymes + So many, many times; + And something in the place + Lent them a certain grace, + Until I scarce believed them mine, + Under the magic of the wine; + But now I read them o'er, + And see grave faults I had not seen before, + And wonder how + You could have listened with such placid brow, + And somehow apprehend + You sank the critic in the friend. + You know, + Don't you, Joe? + + And when we talked of books, + How learned were our looks! + And few the bards we could not quote, + From gay Catullus' lines to Milton's purer note. + Mayhap we now are wiser men, + But we knew more than all the scholars then; + And our conceit + Was grand, ineffable, complete! + We know, + Don't we, Joe? + + Gone are those golden nights + Of innocent Bohemian delights, + And we are getting on; + And anon, + Years sad and tremulous + May be in store for us; + But should we ever meet + Upon some quiet street, + And you discover in an old man's eye + Some transient sparkle of the days gone by, + Then you will guess, perchance, + The meaning of the glance; + You'll know, + Won't you, Joe? + + + + +AT MARLIAVE'S + + + At Marliave's when eventide + Finds rare companions at my side, + The laughter of each merry guest + At quaint conceit, or kindly jest, + Makes golden moments swiftly glide. + No voice unkind our faults to chide, + Our smallest virtue magnified; + And friendly hand to hand is pressed + At Marliave's. + + I lay my years and cares aside + Accepting what the gods provide, + I ask not for a lot more blest, + Nor do I crave a sweeter rest + Than that which comes with eventide + At Marliave's. + + + + +THE PASSING OF THE ROSE + + + A White Rose said, "How fair am I. + Behold a flower that cannot die!" + + A lover brushed the dew aside, + And fondly plucked it for his bride. + "A fitting choice!" the White Rose cried. + + The maiden wore it in her hair; + The Rose, contented to be there, + Still proudly boasted, "None so fair!" + + Then close she pressed it to her lips, + But, weary of companionships, + The flower within her bosom slips. + + O'ercome by all the beauty there, + It straight confessed, "Dear maid, I swear + 'Tis you, and you alone, are fair!" + + Turning its humbled head aside, + The envious Rose, lamenting, died. + + + + +A VALENTINE + +[FROM A VERY LITTLE BOY TO A VERY LITTLE GIRL] + + + This is a valentine for you. + Mother made it. She's real smart, + I told her that I loved you true + And you were my sweetheart. + + And then she smiled, and then she winked, + And then she said to father, + "Beginning young!" and then he thinked, + And then he said, "Well, rather." + + Then mother's eyes began to shine, + And then she made this valentine: + "If you love me as I love you, + No knife shall cut our love in two," + And father laughed and said, "How new!" + And then he said, "It's time for bed." + + So, when I'd said my prayers, + Mother came running up the stairs + And told me I might send the rhymes, + And then she kissed me lots of times. + Then I turned over to the wall + And cried about you, and--that's all. + + + + +DISENCHANTMENT + + + Time and I have fallen out; + We, who were such steadfast friends. + So slowly has it come about + That none may tell when it began; + Yet sure am I a cunning plan + Runs through it all; + And now, beyond recall, + Our friendship ends, + And ending, there remains to me + The memory of disloyalty. + + Long years ago Time tripping came + With promise grand, + And sweet assurances of fame; + And hand in hand + Through fairy-land + Went he and I together + In bright and golden weather. + Then, then I had not learned to doubt, + For friends were gods, and faith was sure, + And words were truth, and deeds were pure, + Before we had our falling out; + And life, all hope, was fair to see, + When Time made promise sweet to me. + + When first my faithless friend grew cold + I sought to knit a closer bond, + But he, less fond, + Sad days and years upon me rolled, + Pressed me with care, + With envy tinged the boyhood hair, + And ploughed unwelcome furrows in + Where none had been. + In vain I begged with trembling lip + For our old sweet companionship, + And saw, 'mid prayers and tears devout, + The presage of our falling out. + + And now I know Time has no friends, + Nor pity lends, + But touches all + With heavy finger soon or late; + And as we wait + The Reaper's call, + The sickle's fatal sweep, + We strive in vain to keep + One truth inviolate, + One cherished fancy free from doubt. + It was not so + Long years ago, + Before we had our falling out. + + If Time would come again to me, + And once more take me by the hand + For golden walks through fairy-land, + I could forgive the treachery + That stole my youth + And what of truth + Was mine to know; + Nor would I more his love misdoubt; + And I would throw + My arms around him so, + That he'd forgive the falling out! + + + + +CONSTANCY + + + I first saw Phebe when the show'rs + Had just made brighter all the flow'rs; + Yet she was fair + As any there, + And so I loved her hours and hours. + + Then I met Helen, and her ways + Set my untutored heart ablaze. + I loved at sight + And deemed it right + To worship her for days and days. + + Yet when I gazed on Clara's cheeks + And spoke the language Cupid speaks, + O'er all the rest + She seemed the best, + And so I loved her weeks and weeks. + + But last of Love's sweet souvenirs + Was Delia with her sighs and tears. + Of her it seemed + I'd always dreamed, + And so I loved her years and years. + + But now again with Phebe met, + I love the first one of the set. + "Fickle," you say? + I answer, "Nay, + My heart is true to one quartette." + + + + +A POET'S LESSON + + + Poet, my master, come, tell me true, + And how are your verses made? + Ah! that is the easiest thing to do:-- + You take a cloud of a silvern hue, + A tender smile or a sprig of rue, + With plenty of light and shade, + + And weave them round in syllables rare, + With a grace and skill divine; + With the earnest words of a pleading prayer, + With a cadence caught from a dulcet air, + A tale of love and a lock of hair, + Or a bit of a trailing vine. + + Or, delving deep in a mine unwrought, + You find in the teeming earth + The golden vein of a noble thought; + The soul of a statesman still unbought, + Or a patriot's cry with anguish fraught + For the land that gave him birth. + + A brilliant youth who has lost his way + On the winding road of life; + A sculptor's dream of the plastic clay; + A painter's soul in a sunset ray; + The sweetest thing a woman can say, + Or a struggling nation's strife. + + A boy's ambition; a maiden's star, + Unrisen, but yet to be; + A glimmering light that shines afar + For a sinking ship on a moaning bar; + An empty sleeve; a veteran's scar; + Or a land where men are free. + + And if the poet's hand be strong + To weave the web of a deathless song, + And if a master guide the pen + To words that reach the hearts of men, + And if the ear and the touch be true, + It's the easiest thing in the world to do! + + + + +"PLACE AUX DAMES" + +[To M.] + + + With brilliant friends surrounding me, + So cosy at the Club I'm sitting; + While you at home I seem to see, + Attending strictly to your knitting. + + When women have their rights, my dear, + We'll hear no more of wrongs so shocking:-- + You with your friends shall gather here; + I'll stay at home and darn the stocking! + + + + +ALL ON A GOLDEN SUMMER DAY + + + All on a golden summer day, + As through the leaves a single ray + Of yellow sunshine finds its way + So bright, so bright; + The wakened birds that blithely sing + Seem welcoming another spring; + While all the woods are murmuring + So light, so light. + + All on a golden summer day, + When to my heart a single ray + Of tender kindness finds its way, + So bright, so bright; + Then comes sweet hope and bravely dares + To break the chain that sorrow wears-- + And all my burdens, all my cares + Are light, so light! + + + + +PRISMATIC BOSTON + + + Fair city by the famed Batrachian Pool, + Wise in the teachings of the Concord School; + Home of the Eurus, paradise of cranks, + Stronghold of thrift, proud in your hundred banks; + Land of the mind-cure and the abstruse book, + The Monday lecture and the shrinking Cook; + Where twin-lensed maidens, careless of their shoes, + In phrase Johnsonian oft express their views; + Where realistic pens invite the throng + To mention "spades," lest "shovels" should be wrong; + Where gaping strangers read the thrilling ode + To Pilgrim Trousers on the West-End road; + Where strange sartorial questions as to pants + Offend our "sisters, cousins, and our aunts;" + Where men expect by simple faith and prayer + To lift a lid and find a dollar there; + Where labyrinthine lanes that sinuous creep + Make Theseus sigh and Ariadne weep; + Where clubs gregarious take commercial risks + 'Mid fluctuations of alluring disks; + Where Beacon Hill is ever proud to show + Her reeking veins of liquid indigo; + To thee, fair land, I dedicate my song, + And tell how simple, artless minds go wrong. + + A Common Councilman, with lordly air, + One day went strolling down through Copley Square. + Within his breast there beat a spotless heart; + His taste was pure, his soul was steeped in art. + For he had worshiped oft at Cass's shrine, + Had daily knelt at Cogswell's fount divine, + And chaste surroundings of the City Hall + Had taught him much, and so he knew it all. + Proud, in a sack coat and a high silk hat, + Content in knowing just "where he was at," + He wandered on, till gazing toward the skies, + A nameless horror met his modest eyes; + For where the artist's chisel had engrossed + An emblem fit on Boston's proudest boast, + There stood aloft, with graceful equipoise, + Two very small, unexpurgated boys. + Filled with solicitude for city youth, + Whose morals suffer when they're told the truth, + Whose ethic standards high and higher rise, + When taught that God and nature are but lies, + In haste he to the council chamber hied, + His startled fellow-members called aside, + His fearful secret whispering disclosed, + Till all their separate joints were ankylosed. + Appalling was the silence at his tale; + Democrats turned red, Republicans turned pale. + What mugwumps turned 'tis difficult to think, + But probably they compromised on pink. + + When these stern moralists had their breaths regained, + And told how deeply they were shocked and pained, + They then resolved how wrong our children are, + Said, "Boys should be contented with a scar," + Rebuked Dame Nature for her deadly sins, + And damned trustees who foster "Heavenly Twins." + + O Councilmen, if it were left for you + To say what art is false and what is true, + What strange anomalies would the world behold! + Dolls would be angels, dross would count for gold; + Vice would be virtue, virtues would be taints; + Gods would be devils, Councilmen be saints; + And this sage law by your wise minds be built: + "No boy shall live if born without a kilt." + Then you'd resolve, to soothe all moral aches, + "We're always right, but God has made mistakes." + + + + +THE BOOK HUNTER + + + I've spent all my money in chasing + For books that are costly and rare; + I've made myself bankrupt in tracing + Each prize to its ultimate lair. + And now I'm a ruined collector, + Impoverished, ragged, and thin, + Reduced to a vanishing spectre, + Because of my prodigal sin. + + How often I've called upon Foley, + The man who's a friend of the cranks; + Knows books that are witty or holy, + And whether they're prizes or blanks. + For volumes on paper or vellum + He has a most accurate eye, + And always is willing to sell 'em + To dreamers like me who will buy. + + My purse requires fences and hedges, + Alas! it will never stay shut; + My coat-sleeves now have deckle edges, + My hair is unkempt and "uncut." + My coat is a true first edition, + And rusty from shoulder to waist; + My trousers are out of condition, + Their "colophon" worn and defaced. + + My shoes have been long out of fashion, + "Crushed leather" they both seem to be; + My hat is a thing for compassion, + The kind that is labelled "n. d." + My vest from its binding is broken, + It's what the French call a _relique_; + What I think of it cannot be spoken, + Its catalogue mark is "unique." + + I'm a book that is thumbed and untidy, + The only one left of the set; + I'm sure I was issued on Friday, + For fate is unkind to me yet. + My text has been cruelly garbled + By a destiny harder than flint; + But I wait for my grave to be "marbled," + And then I shall be out of print. + + + + +THE THREE VOICES + + + There once was a man who asked for pie, + In a piping voice up high, up high; + And when he asked for a salmon roe, + He spoke in a voice down low, down low; + But when he said he had no choice, + He always spoke in a medium voice. + + I cannot tell the reason why + He sometimes spoke up high, up high; + And why he sometimes spoke down low, + I do not know, I do not know; + And why he spoke in the medium way, + Don't ask me, for I cannot say. + + + + +EASY KNOWLEDGE + + + How nice 'twould be if knowledge grew + On bushes, as the berries do! + Then we could plant our spelling seed, + And gather all the words we need. + The sums from off our slates we'd wipe, + And wait for figures to be ripe, + And go into the fields, and pick + Whole bushels of arithmetic; + Or if we wished to learn Chinese, + We'd just go out and shake the trees; + And grammar then, in all the towns, + Would grow with proper verbs and nouns; + And in the gardens there would be + Great bunches of geography; + And all the passers-by would stop, + And marvel at the knowledge crop; + And I my pen would cease to push, + And pluck my verses from a bush! + + + + +SUSAN SCUPPERNONG + + + Silly Susan Scuppernong + Cried so hard and cried so long, + People asked her what was wrong. + + She replied, "I do not know + Any reason for my woe-- + I just feel like feeling so." + + + + +THE HATBAND + + + My hatband goes around my hat, + And while there's nothing strange in that, + It seems just like a lazy man + Who leaves off where he first began. + + But then this fact is always true, + The band does what it ought to do, + And is more useful than the man, + Because it does the best it can. + + + + +THE OYSTER + + + Two halves of an oyster shell, each a shallow cup; + Here once lived an oyster before they ate him up. + Oyster shells are smooth inside; outside very rough; + Very little room to spare, but he had enough. + Bedroom, parlor, kitchen, or cellar there was none; + Just one room in all the house--oysters need but one. + And he was never troubled by wind or rain or snow, + For he had a roof above, another one below. + I wonder if they fried him, or cooked him in a stew, + And sold him at a fair, and passed him off for two. + I wonder if the oysters all have names like us, + And did he have a name like "John" or "Romulus"? + I wonder if his parents wept to see him go; + I wonder who can tell; perhaps the mermaids know. + I wonder if our sleep the most of us would dread, + If we slept like oysters, a million in a bed! + + + + +WIND AND RAIN + + + The rain came down on Boston Town, + And the people said, "Oh, dear! + It's early yet for our annual wet,-- + 'Twas dry this time last year." + + In heavy suits and rubber boots + They went to the weather man, + And said, "Dear friend, do you intend + To change your present plan?" + + In tones of scorn, he said, "Begone! + I've ordered a week of rain. + Away! disperse! or I'll do worse, + And order a hurricane!" + + They sneered, "Oh, oh!" and they laughed, "Ho, ho!" + And they said, "You surely jest. + Your threats are vain, for a hurricane + Is the thing that we like best. + + "Our throats are tinned, and a sharp east wind + We really couldn't do without; + But we complain of too much rain, + And we think we'd like a drought." + + So the weather man took a palm-leaf fan + And he waved it up on high, + And he swept away the clouds so gray, + And the sun shone out in the sky. + + And the sun shines down on Boston Town, + And the weather still is clear; + And they set their clocks by the equinox, + And never the east wind fear. + + + + +THE FLAG + + + Here comes The Flag! + Hail it! + Who dares to drag + Or trail it? + Give it hurrahs,-- + Three for the stars, + Three for the bars. + Uncover your head to it! + The soldiers who tread to it + Shout at the sight of it, + The justice and right of it, + The unsullied white of it, + The blue and red of it, + And tyranny's dread of it! + + Here comes The Flag! + Cheer it! + Valley and crag + Shall hear it. + Fathers shall bless it, + Children caress it. + All shall maintain it. + No one shall stain it, + Cheers for the sailors that fought on the wave for it, + Cheers for the soldiers that always were brave for it, + Tears for the men that went down to the grave for it! + Here comes The Flag! + + + + +MY MASTERPIECE + + + I wrote the truest, tend'rest song + The world had ever heard; + And clear, melodious, and strong, + And sweet was every word. + The flowing numbers came to me + Unbidden from the heart; + So pure the strain, that poesy + Seemed something more than art. + + No doubtful cadence marred a line, + So tunefully it flowed, + And through the measure, all divine + The fire of genius glowed. + So deftly were the verses wrought, + So fair the legend told, + That every word revealed a thought, + And every thought was gold. + + Mine was the charm, the power, the skill, + The wisdom of the years; + 'Twas mine to move the world at will + To laughter or to tears. + For subtile pleasantry was there, + And brilliant flash of wit; + Now, pleading eyes were raised in prayer, + And now with smiles were lit. + + I sang of hours when youth was king, + And of one happy spot + Where life and love were everything, + And time was half forgot. + Of gracious days in woodland ways, + When every flower and tree + Seemed echoing the sweetest phrase + From lips in Arcadie. + + Of sagas old and Norseman bands + That sailed o'er northern seas; + Enchanting tales of fairy lands + And strange philosophies. + I sang of Egypt's fairest queen, + With passion's fatal curse; + Of that pale, sad-faced Florentine, + As deathless as his verse. + + Of time of the Arcadian Pan, + When dryads thronged the trees-- + When Atalanta swiftly ran + With fleet Hippomenes. + Brave stories, too, did I relate + Of battle-flags unfurled; + Of glorious days when Greece was great-- + When Rome was all the world! + + Of noble deeds for noble creeds, + Of woman's sacrifice-- + The mother's stricken heart that bleeds + For souls in Paradise. + Anon I told a tale of shame, + And while in tears I slept, + Behold! a white-robed angel came + And read the words and wept! + + And so I wrote my perfect song, + In such a wondrous key, + I heard the plaudits of the throng, + And fame awaited me. + Alas! the sullen morning broke, + And came the tempest's roar: + 'Mid discord trembling I awoke, + And lo! my dream was o'er! + + Yet often in the quiet night + My song returns to me; + I seize the pen, and fain would write + My long lost melody. + But dreaming o'er the words, ere long + Comes vague remembering, + And fades away the sweetest song + That man can ever sing! + + + + +A BALLADE OF MONTAIGNE + + + I sit before the firelight's glow + With all the world in apogee, + And con good Master Florio + With pipe a-light; and as I see + Queen Bess herself with book a-knee, + Reading it o'er and o'er again, + Here, 'neath my cosy mantel-tree, + I smoke my pipe and read Montaigne. + + Now howls the wind and drives the snow; + The traveler shivers on the lea; + While, with my precious folio, + Behold a happy devotee + To book and warmth and reverie! + The blast upon the window-pane + Disturbs me not, as trouble-free, + I smoke my pipe and read Montaigne. + + I am content, and thus I know + A mind as calm as summer sea,-- + A heart that stranger is to woe. + To happiness I hold the key + In this rare, sweet philosophy; + And while the Fates so fair ordain, + Well pleased with Destiny's decree, + I smoke my pipe and read Montaigne. + + +ENVOY + + Dear Prince! aye, more than prince to me, + Thou monarch of immortal reign! + Always thy subject I would be, + And smoke my pipe and read Montaigne! + + + + +THE CRIMINAL + + + Crime flourishes throughout the land, + And bids defiance to the law, + And wicked deeds on every hand + O'erwhelm our souls with awe! + + I know one hardened criminal + Whose maidenhood with crime begins; + Who, safe behind a prison wall, + Should expiate her sins. + + She is a thief whene'er she smiles, + For then she steals my heart from me, + And keeps it with a maiden's wiles, + And never sets it free. + + She plunders sighs from humankind, + She pilfers tears I would not weep, + She robs me of my peace of mind, + And she purloins my sleep. + + Of lawless ways she stands confessed, + And is a burglar bold whene'er + She finds a weakness in my breast, + And slyly enters there. + + A gambler she, whose arts entrance, + Whose victims yield without demur; + Content to play Love's game of chance + And lose their hearts to her. + + A graver crime is hers; for, when + Her matchless beauty I admire, + Of arson she is guilty then, + And sets my heart on fire. + + A bandit, preying on mankind, + Her captives by the score increase; + No hand can e'er their chains unbind, + No ransom bring release. + + She is a cruel murderess + Whene'er her eyes send forth a dart, + And as she holds me in duress + It stabs me to the heart. + + Crime flourishes throughout the land, + And bids defiance to the law, + And wicked deeds on every hand + O'erwhelm our souls with awe! + + + + +A BIT OF COLOR + +[PARIS, 1896] + + + Oh, damsel fair at the Porte Maillot, + With the soft blue eyes that haunt me so, + Pray what should I do + When a girl like you + Bestows her smile, her glance, and her sigh + On the first fond fool that is passing by, + Who listens and longs as the sweet words flow + From her pretty red lips at the Porte Maillot? + + There were lips as red ere you were born, + Now wreathed in smiles, now curled in scorn, + And other bright eyes + With their truth and lies, + That broke the heart and turned the brain + Of many a tender, lovelorn swain; + But never, I ween, brought half the woe + That comes from the lips at the Porte Maillot. + + A charming picture, there you stand, + A perfect work from a master's hand! + With your face so fair + And your wondrous hair, + Your glorious color, your light and shade, + And your classic head that the gods have made, + Your cheeks with crimson all aglow, + As you wait for a lover at the Porte Maillot. + + There are gorgeous tints in the jeweled crown, + There are brilliant shades when the sun goes down; + But your lips vie + With the western sky, + And give to the world so rare a hue + That the painter must learn his art anew, + And the sunset borrow a brighter glow + From the lips of the girl at the Porte Maillot. + + Come, tell me truly, fair-haired youth, + Do her eyes flash love, her lips speak truth? + Or does she beguile + With her glance and smile, + And burn you, spurn you all day long + With a Circe's art and a Siren's song? + Ah! would that your foolish heart might know + The lie in the heart at the Porte Maillot! + + + + +DINNER FAVORS + + + TO S. + + I fill my goblet to the brim + And clink the glasses rim to rim. + Across the board I waft a kiss + With thanks for such an hour as this, + And clasping joy, bid sorrow flee, + And welcome you my vis-ŕ-vis. + + + TO A. R. C. + + Of all the joys on earth that be + There is no sweeter one to me + Than sitting with a merry lass + From consommé to demi-tasse. + + And yet a golden hour I'd steal, + Reverse the order of the meal, + And countermarching, backward stray + From demi-tasse to consommé. + + + TO S. B. F. + + Give me but a bit to eat, + And an hour or two, + Just a salad and a sweet, + And a chat with you. + Give me table full or bare, + Crust or rich ragout; + But whatever be the fare, + Always give me you. + + + THE HOST + + Between the two perplexed I go, + A shuttlecock, tossed to and fro. + I gaze on one, and know that she + Is all that womankind can be; + I seek the other, and she seems + The perfect idol of my dreams; + And so between the charming pair + My heart is ever in the air. + And yet, although it be my fate + To hover indeterminate, + I rest content, nor ask for more + Than this sweet game of battledore. + + + + +THE MOPER + + + The Moper mopeth all the day; + He mopeth eke at night; + And never is the Moper gay, + But, grim and serious alway, + He is a sorry sight. + + He liketh not the merry quip; + He hateth other men; + Escheweth he companionship, + Nor doth he e'er essay to trip + The light fantastic ten. + + He seeketh not where murm'ring brooks + With rippling music flow. + He seeth naught in woman's looks, + And never readeth he in books + Except they tell of woe. + + He e'en forgetteth that the sun, + Likewise God's balmy air, + Were made to gladden every one; + But he preferreth both to shun, + And taketh not his share. + + He careth not for merry wights + Who drink Château Yquem, + But he would set the world to rights + By peopling it with eremites-- + And very few of them. + + When children sport with merry glee, + He thinketh they are wild, + And with them doth so disagree + It seemeth verily that he + Hath never been a child. + + He thinketh that it is not right + Rare dishes to discuss, + And knoweth not the keen delight + Of one that hath an appetite + Yclepčd ravenous. + + Of goodly raiment he hath none, + He calleth it "display;" + Wherefore the urchin poketh fun, + Because he looketh like that one + Unholy men call "jay." + + And so we see this foolish man + All pleasant things doth scorn. + Good folk, pray God to change his plan, + And cheer the Moper if He can, + Or let no more be born! + + + + +VARIOUS VALENTINES + + + I + + FROM A BIBLIOPHILE + + Lyke some choise booke thou arte toe mee, + Bound all so daintilie; + And 'neath the covers faire + Are contents true and rare. + Ne wolde I looke + Ne reade inne any other booke + If I belyke could find therein the charte + And indice to thy hearte. + The Great Wise Authour made but one + Of this edition, then was don; + And were this onlie copie mine, + Then wolde I write therein, "My Valentyne." + + + II + + FROM AN INCONSTANT-CONSTANT + + (_After Henri Murger_) + + Though I love many maidens fair + As fondly as a heart may dare, + Yet still are you the only one + True goddess of my pantheon. + + And though my life is like a song, + Each maid a stanza, clear and strong, + Yet always I return again + To you who are the sweet refrain. + + + III + + FROM A COMMERCIAL LOVER + + If I were but a syndicate, + And love were merchandise, + I'd buy it at the market rate, + And hold it for a rise. + + And should the price of all this love + Bound upward like a ball, + And reach 1000 or above, + Still you should have it all. + + + IV + + FROM AN UNCERTAIN MARKSMAN + + I send you two kisses + Wrapped up in a rhyme; + From Love's warm abysses + I send you two kisses; + If one of them misses + Please wait till next time, + And I'll send you _three_ kisses + Wrapped up in a rhyme. + + + V + + FROM A CONCHOLOGIST + + Were I a murm'ring ocean shell + Pressed close against your ear, + My constant whisperings would tell + A story sweet to hear. + I'd make the message from the sea + Love's tidings on the shore, + And I would woo with words so true + That you could ask no more. + + So if some silvern nautilus + Lay close beside your cheek, + And you should hear a language dear + Unto the heart I seek, + You'll know within the simple shell + That murmurs o'er and o'er + I send to you a love more true + Than e'er was breathed before. + + + VI + + FROM A HYPERBOLIST + + Take all the love that e'er was told + Since first the world began, + Increase it twenty thousand-fold + (If mathematics can), + Add all the love the world shall see + Till Gabriel's final call, + And when compared with mine 'twill be + Infinitesimal. + + + + +WERE ALL THE WORLD LIKE YOU + + + Were all the world like you, my dear, + Were all the world like you, + Oh, there'd be darts in all our hearts + From sunset to the dew. + For life would be Love's jubilee + Where all were two and two, + And lovers' rhyme the only crime, + Were all the world like you, my dear, + Were all the world like you. + + Were all the world like you, my dear, + Were all the world like you, + There'd be no pain nor clouds nor rain, + No kisses overdue; + But sweetest sighs and pleading eyes, + Where Cupid's arrow flew, + And lovers' rhyme the only crime, + Were all the world like you, my dear, + Were all the world like you. + + + + +HERE AND THERE + + + Sweet Phyllis went a-rambling here and there, + Here and there. + Her eyes were blue and golden was her hair. + She said, "Oh, life is strange; + I'm sure I need a change; + 'Tis sad for _one_ to ramble here and there, + Here and there." + + Young Strephon went a-rambling here and there, + Here and there. + He sighed, "It needs but two to make a pair. + If I should meet a maid + Not in the least afraid, + How happy we'd go rambling here and there, + Here and there." + + As youth and maid went rambling here and there, + Here and there, + They met, and loved at sight, for both were fair; + And neither youth nor maid + Was in the least afraid, + And hand in hand they ramble here and there, + Here and there. + + + + +UNCLE JOGALONG + + + My dear old Uncle Jogalong + Was very slow, was very slow, + And said he thought that folks were wrong + To hurry so, to hurry so. + + When he walked out upon the street + To take the air, to take the air, + It seemed almost as if his feet + Were fastened there, were fastened there. + + He thought that traveling by rail + Was hurrying and scurrying, + But said the slow and creeping snail + Was just the thing, was just the thing. + + He thought a hasty appetite + An awful crime, an awful crime, + So never finished breakfast, quite, + Till dinner time, till dinner time. + + He said the world turned round so fast + He could not stay, he could not stay, + And so he said "Good-by" at last, + And went away, and went away. + + + + +THE INDIFFERENT MARINER + + + I'm a tough old salt, and it's never I care + A penny which way the wind is, + Or whether I sight Cape Finisterre, + Or make a port at the Indies. + + Some folks steer for a port to trade, + And some steer north for the whaling; + Yet never I care a damn just where + I sail, so long's I'm sailing. + + You never can stop the wind when it blows, + And you can't stop the rain from raining; + Then why, oh, why, go a-piping of your eye + When there's no sort o' use in complaining? + + My face is browned and my lungs are sound, + And my hands they are big and calloused. + I've a little brown jug I sometimes hug, + And a little bread and meat for ballast. + + But I keep no log of my daily grog, + For what's the use o' being bothered? + I drink a little more when the wind's offshore, + And most when the wind's from the no'th'ard. + + Of course with a chill if I'm took quite ill, + And my legs get weak and toddly, + At the jug I pull, and turn in full, + And sleep the sleep of the godly. + + But whether I do or whether I don't, + Or whether the jug's my failing, + It's never I care a damn just where + I sail, so long's I'm sailing. + + + + +ON A LIBRARY WALL + + + When faltering fingers bid me cease to write, + And, laying down the pen, I seek the Night, + May those, to whom the Daylight still is sweet, + With loving lips my name ofttimes repeat. + And should Belshazzar's spirit hither stray, + And linger o'er the lines I write to-day, + May he, who wept for Babylonia's fall, + Look kindly at _this_ "writing on the wall"! + + + + +MRS. MULLIGATAWNY + + + Mrs. Mulligatawny said, "I'm sure it's going to rain." + Mr. Mulligatawny said, "To me it's very plain." + William Mulligatawny said, "It must rain, anyhow." + Mary Mulligatawny said, "I feel it raining now." + And yet there were no clouds in sight, and 'twas a pleasant day, + But Mrs. Mulligatawny always liked to have her way. + With Mrs. Mulligatawny the family all agreed, + For all the Mulligatawnys feared her very much indeed, + And did, whenever they were bid, + As Mrs. Mulligatawny did, + And tried to think, as they were taught, + As Mrs. Mulligatawny thought. + + Mrs. Mulligatawny said, "Now two and two are three." + Mr. Mulligatawny said, "I'm sure they ought to be." + William Mulligatawny said, "Arithmetic is wrong." + Mary Mulligatawny said, "It's been so all along." + Now two and two do not make three, and three they never were; + But Mrs. Mulligatawny said 'twas near enough for her. + With Mrs. Mulligatawny the family all agreed, + For all the Mulligatawnys feared her very much indeed, + And did, whenever they were bid, + As Mrs. Mulligatawny did, + And tried to think, as they were taught, + As Mrs. Mulligatawny thought. + + Mrs. Mulligatawny fell out of the world one day. + Mr. Mulligatawny said, "I don't know what to say." + William Mulligatawny said, "I don't know what to do." + Mary Mulligatawny said, "I feel the same as you." + Mrs. Mulligatawny left the family sitting there. + They couldn't think, they couldn't move, because they didn't dare; + For Mrs. Mulligatawny had always thought for them, + And all the Mulligatawnys thought the same as Mrs. M., + And did, whenever they were bid, + As Mrs. Mulligatawny did, + And tried to think, as they were taught, + As Mrs. Mulligatawny thought. + + + + +EUTHANASIA + +[To E. C.] + + + Oh, drop your eyelids down, my lady; + Oh, drop your eyelids down. + 'Twere well to keep your bright eyes shady + For pity of the town! + But should there any glances be, + I pray you give them all to me; + For though my life be lost thereby, + It were the sweetest death to die! + + + + +DAINTY LITTLE LOVE + + + Dainty little Love came tripping + Down the hill, + Smiling as he thought of sipping + Sweets at will. + SHE said, "No, + Love must go." + Dainty little Love came tripping + Down the hill. + + Dainty little Love went sighing + Up the hill, + All his little hopes were dying-- + Love was ill. + Vain he tried + Tears to hide. + Dainty little Love went sighing + Up the hill. + + + + +TO M. + + + Sweet visions came to me in sleep, + Ah! wondrous fair to see; + And in my mind I strove to keep + The dream to tell to thee. + + But morning broke with golden gleam, + And shone upon thy face, + And life was lovelier than a dream, + And dreams had lost their grace. + + + + +THE SONG + + + I heard an old, familiar air + Strummed idly by a careless hand, + Yet in the melody were rare, + Sweet echoings from childhood land. + + The well-remembered mother touch, + The wise denials and consents, + The trivial sorrows that were much, + Small pleasures that were large events; + + The fancies, dreams, strange wonderings, + The daily problems unexplained, + Momentous as the cares of kings + That on unhappy thrones have reigned, + + Came back with each unstudied tone; + And came that song remembered best, + Which, with a sweetness all its own, + Once lulled the play-worn child to rest. + + And there, secure as Tarik's height, + He slumbered, shielded from alarms, + Safe from the mystery of night, + Close folded in the mother's arms. + + Then Israel's mighty songs of old, + And all the modern masters' art, + Were less than simple lays that told + The secret of the mother's heart. + + The sweetest melody that flows + From lips that win the world's applause + Charms not like that which childhood knows, + Unfettered by the curb of laws. + + For though we rise to nobler themes, + To grander harmonies attain, + Their lives not in the academes + The magic of the simpler strain. + + And we may spurn the cruder song, + Or name it anything we will, + Denounce the artifice as wrong, + Yet to the child 'tis music still. + + Thus, list'ning to an idle air, + Struck lightly by a careless hand, + I heard, amid the cadence there, + The sweetest song of childhood land. + + + + +AT TWILIGHT TIME + + + At twilight time when tolls the chime, + And saddest notes are falling, + A lonely bird with plaintive word + Across the dusk is calling. + Vain doth it wait for one dear mate, + That ne'er shall know the morrow; + Then sinks to rest with drooping crest + In one long dream of sorrow. + + Dearest, when night is here, + To thee I'm calling, + Sadly as tear on tear + Is slowly falling, + Oh, fold me near, more near-- + In love enthralling! + Here on thy breast, + While life shall last, + With thee I stay. + Here will I rest + Till night is past, + And comes the day! + + + + +CÉLESTE + + + Of sweethearts I have had a score, + And time may bring as many more; + Tho' I remember all the rest, + Just now I worship dear Céleste; + Hers may not be the greatest love, + But ah! it is the latest love. + + For little Cupid's never stupid, + As I've found out; + And love is truest when 'tis newest, + Beyond a doubt, beyond a doubt. + + Of sweethearts I have had a score, + Céleste says I deserve no more; + I take revenge on dear Céleste, + By telling her I love her best; + Hers may not be the greatest love, + But ah! it is the latest love. + + For little Cupid's never stupid, + As I've found out; + And love is truest when 'tis newest, + Beyond a doubt, beyond a doubt. + + + + +THISTLE-DOWN + + + The thistle-down floats on the air, the air, + Whenever the soft wind blows, + And the wind can tell just where, just where + The feathery thistle-down goes. + And it tells the bird in a single word, + Who whispers it low to the bee; + And they try to keep the mystery deep, + And none of them tell it to me. + But I know well, though they never will tell, + Where the thistle-down goes when it says "Farewell," + It floats and floats away on the air, + And goes where the wind goes--everywhere! + + + + +SLUMBER SONG + + + Gently fall the shadows gray, + Daylight softly veiling; + Now to Dreamland we'll away, + Sailing, sailing, sailing. + + Little eyes were made for sleeping, + Little heads were made for rest, + Golden locks were made for keeping + Close to mother's breast; + Little hands were made for folding, + Little lips should never sigh; + What dear mother's arms are holding, + Love alone can buy. + + Gently fall the shadows gray, + Daylight softly veiling; + Now to Dreamland we'll away, + Sailing, sailing, sailing. + + + + +THOU ART TO ME + + + Thou art to me + As are soft breezes to a summer sea; + As stars unto the night; + Or when the day is born, + As sunrise to the morn; + As peace unto the fading of the light. + + Thou art to me + As one sweet flower upon a barren lea; + As rest to toiling hands; + As one clear spring amid the desert sands; + As smiles to maidens' lips; + As hope to friends that wait for absent ships; + As happiness to youth; + As purity to truth; + As sweetest dreams to sleep; + As balm to wounded hearts that weep. + All, all that I would have thee be + Thou art to me. + + + + +LOVE + +[TRIO] + + + Oh, love hits all humanity, humanity, my dear; + But after all it's vanity, a vanity, I fear; + And sometimes 'tis insanity, insanity, so queer; + Humanity, yes, a vanity, yes, insanity so queer. + And love is often curious, so curious to see, + And oftentimes is spurious, so spurious, ah, me! + And surely 'tis injurious, injurious when free, + So curious, yes, and spurious, yes, injurious when free. + + Oh, love brings much anxiety, anxiety and grief, + But seasoned with propriety, propriety, relief, + It's mixed with joy and piety, but piety is brief; + Anxiety, yes, propriety, yes, but piety is brief. + Oh, young love's all timidity, timidity, I'm told, + Gains courage with rapidity, rapidity, so bold, + With traces of acidity, acidity, when old; + Timidity, yes, rapidity, yes, acidity, when old. + + + + +THE STRANGER-MAN + + + "Now what is that, my daughter dear, upon thy cheek so fair?" + "'Tis but a kiss, my mother dear--kind fortune sent it there. + It was a courteous stranger-man that gave it unto me, + And it is passing red because it was the last of three." + + "A kiss indeed! my daughter dear; I marvel in surprise! + Such conduct with a stranger-man I fear me was not wise." + "Methought the same, my mother dear, and so at three forbore, + Although the courteous stranger-man vowed he had many more." + + "Now prithee, daughter, quickly go, and bring the stranger here, + And bid him hie and bid him fly to me, my daughter dear; + For times be very, very hard, and blessings eke so rare, + I fain would meet a stranger-man that hath a kiss to spare." + + + + +THE HONEYSUCKLE VINE + + + 'Twas a tender little honeysuckle vine + That smiled and danced in the warm sunshine, + And spied a maid as fair as all maids be, + Who said, "Little honeysuckle, come up to me." + So it climbed and climbed in the sun and the shade, + And all summer long at her window stayed; + For that is the way that honeysuckles go, + And that is the way that true loves grow. + + Then the loving little honeysuckle vine + Kissed the little maid in the warm sunshine; + But the winter came with an angry frown, + And the false little maid shut the window down; + And the sorrowing vine on the wintry side + Mourned and mourned for the love that died, + And faded away in the wind and snow,-- + And that is the way that some loves go. + + + + +SAINT BOTOLPH + + + Saint Botolph flourished in the olden time, + In the days when the saints were in their prime. + Oh, his feet were bare and bruised and cold, + But his heart was warm and as pure as gold. + And the kind old saint with his gown and his hood + Was loved by the sinners and loved by the good, + For he made the sinners as pure as the snow, + And the good men needed him to keep them so. + + CHORUS + + Then drink, brave gentlemen, drink with me + To the Lincolnshire saint by the old North Sea. + A glass and a toast and a song and a rhyme + To the barefooted saint of the olden time. + + + He loved a friend and a flagon of wine, + When the friend was true and the bottle was fine. + He would raise his glass with a knowing wink, + And this was the toast he would always drink:-- + + "Oh, here's to the good and the bad men too, + For without them saints would have nothing to do. + Oh, I love them both and I love them well, + But which I love better, I never can tell." + + CHORUS + + Then drink, brave gentlemen, drink with me + To the Lincolnshire saint by the old North Sea. + A glass and a toast and a song and a rhyme + To the barefooted saint of the olden time. + + + As he journeyed along on the king's highway + He gave all the boys and the girls "Good-day," + And never a child saw the hood and gown + But ran to the father of Botolph's Town. + He'd a word for the wicked, and he called them kin, + And he said, "I am certain that there must be sin + While a few get the loaves and many get the crumbs, + And some are born fingers and some born thumbs." + + CHORUS + + Then drink, brave gentlemen, drink with me + To the Lincolnshire saint by the old North Sea. + A glass and a toast and a song and a rhyme + To the barefooted saint of the olden time. + + But the saint grew old, and sorry the day + When his life went out with the tide in the bay; + But he left a name and he left a creed + Of the cheerful life and the kindly deed. + Then remember the man of the days of old + Whose heart was warm and as pure as gold, + And remember the tears and the prayers he gave + For any poor devil with a soul to save. + + CHORUS + + Then drink, brave gentlemen, drink with me + To the Lincolnshire saint by the old North Sea. + A glass and a toast and a song and a rhyme + To the barefooted saint of the olden time. + + + + +THE GURGLING IMPS + + + The Gurgling Imps of Mummery Mum + Lived in the Land of the Crimson Plum, + And a language very strange had they, + 'Twas merely a chattering ricochet. + + The Gurgling Imps of Mummery Mum + Caught hummingbirds for the sake of the hum, + Their cheeks were flushed with a sable tinge, + Their eyelids hung on a silver hinge. + + The Gurgling Imps of Mummery Mum + Called each other "My charming chum," + And floated in tears of joy to see + Their relatives hung in a cranberry tree. + + The Gurgling Imps of Mummery Mum + Stole the whole of a half of a crumb, + And a wind arose and blew the Imps + Way off to the Land of the Lazy Limps. + + + + +THE WORM WILL TURN + + + I'm a gentle, meek, and patient human worm; + Unattractive, + Rather active, + With a sense of right, original but firm. + I was taught to be forgiving, + For my enemies to pray; + But what's the use of living + If you never can repay + All the little animosities that in your bosom burn-- + Oh, it's pleasant to remember that "the worm will turn." + + I'm so gentle and so patient and so meek, + Unpretending, + Unoffending. + But if, perchance, you smite me on the cheek, + I will never turn the other, + As I was taught to do + By a puritanic mother, + Whose theology was blue. + Your experience will widen when explicitly you learn + How a modest, mild, submissive little worm will turn. + + I'm so subtle and so crafty and so sly. + I am humble, + But I "tumble" + To the slightest oscillation of the eye. + When others think they're winning + A fabulous amount, + Then I do a little sinning + On my personal account, + And in my quiet, simple way a modest stipend earn + As they slowly grasp the bitter fact that worms will turn. + + Oh, human worms are curious little things; + Inoffensive, + Rather pensive + Till it comes to using little human stings. + Oh, then avoid intrusion + If you would be discreet, + And cultivate seclusion + In an underground retreat. + And whenever you are tempted the lowly worm to spurn, + Just bear in mind that little line, "The worm will turn." + + + + +THE BOSTON CATS + + + A Little Cat played on a silver flute, + And a Big Cat sat and listened; + The Little Cat's strains gave the Big Cat pains, + And a tear on his eyelid glistened. + + Then the Big Cat said, "Oh, rest awhile;" + But the Little Cat said, "No, no; + For I get pay for the tunes I play;" + And the Big Cat answered, "Oh! + + If you get pay for the tunes you play, + I'm afraid you'll play till you drop; + You'll spoil your health in the race for wealth, + So I'll give you more to stop." + + Said the Little Cat, "Hush! you make me blush; + Your offer is unusually kind; + Though it's very, very hard to leave the back yard, + I'll accept if you don't mind." + + So the Big Cat gave him a thousand pounds + And a silver brush and a comb, + And a country seat on Beacon Street, + Right under the State House dome. + + And the Little Cat sits with other little kits, + And watches the bright sun rise; + And the voice of the flute is long since mute, + And the Big Cat dries his eyes. + + + + +THE JONQUIL MAID + + + A little Maid sat in a Jonquil Tree, + Singing alone, + In a low love-tone, + And the wind swept by with a wistful moan; + For he longed to stay + With the Maid all day; + But he knew + As he blew + It was true + That the dew + Would never, never dry + If the wind should die; + So he hurried away where the rosebuds grew. + And while to the Land of the Rose went he, + Singing alone, + In a low love-tone, + A Little Maid sat in a Jonquil Tree. + + The Little Maid's eyes had a rainbow hue, + And her sunset hair + Was woven with care + In a knot that was fit for a Psyche to wear; + And she pressed her lips + With her finger tips, + Threw a sly + Kiss to try + If he'd sigh + In reply, + And said with a laugh, + "Oh, it's not one half + As sweet as I give when there's Some One nigh." + And while to the Rosebud Land went he, + Singing alone, + In a low love-tone, + A Little Maid sat in a Jonquil Tree. + + The wind swept back to the Jonquil Tree + At the close of day, + In the twilight gray; + But the sweet Little Maid had stolen away; + And whither she's flown + Will never be known + Till the Rose + As it blows + Shall disclose + All it knows + Of the Maid so fair + With the sunset hair. + And the sad wind comes and sighs and goes, + And dreams of the day when he blew so free, + When singing alone, + In a low love-tone, + A Little Maid sat in a Jonquil Tree. + + + + +THE ROLLICKING MASTODON + + + A Rollicking Mastodon lived in Spain, + In the trunk of a Tranquil Tree. + His face was plain, but his jocular vein + Was a burst of the wildest glee. + His voice was strong and his laugh so long + That people came many a mile, + And offered to pay a guinea a day + For the fractional part of a smile. + The Rollicking Mastodon's laugh was wide-- + Indeed, 'twas a matter of family pride; + And oh! so proud of his jocular vein + Was the Rollicking Mastodon over in Spain. + + The Rollicking Mastodon said one day, + "I feel that I need some air, + For a little ozone's a tonic for bones, + As well as a gloss for the hair." + So he skipped along and warbled a song + In his own triumphulant way. + His smile was bright and his skip was light + As he chirruped his roundelay. + The Rollicking Mastodon tripped along, + And sang what Mastodons call a song; + But every note of it seemed to pain + The Rollicking Mastodon over in Spain. + + A Little Peetookle came over the hill, + Dressed up in a bollitant coat; + And he said, "You need some harroway seed, + And a little advice for your throat." + The Mastodon smiled and said, "My child, + There's a chance for your taste to grow. + If you polish your mind, you'll certainly find + How little, how little you know." + The Little Peetookle, his teeth he ground + At the Mastodon's singular sense of sound; + For he felt it a sort of musical stain + On the Rollicking Mastodon over in Spain. + + "Alas! and alas! has it come to this pass?" + Said the Little Peetookle: "Dear me! + It certainly seems your horrible screams + Intended for music must be." + The Mastodon stopped; his ditty he dropped, + And murmured, "Good-morning, my dear! + I never will sing to a sensitive thing + That shatters a song with a sneer!" + The Rollicking Mastodon bade him "adieu." + Of course, 'twas a sensible thing to do; + For Little Peetookle is spared the strain + Of the Rollicking Mastodon over in Spain. + + + + +THE FIVE SENSES + + + Oh, why do men their glasses clink + When good old honest wine they drink? + + Wine is so excellent a thing + To lowest subject, or to highest king, + That every sense alike should share + The pleasure that can banish care. + Thus may each merry eye _behold_ + The sparkle of the red or gold. + Our lips may _feel_ the goblet's edge + And _taste_ the loving cup we pledge. + While from each foaming glass escape + The precious _perfumes_ of the grape. + But ah, we _hear_ it not, and so + We give the _touch_ that all men know. + And thus do all the senses share + The pleasure that can banish care. + + And that is why the glasses clink + When good old honest wine we drink. + + + + +ECONOMY + +[A VALENTINE] + + + I send, + O sweetest friend, + A kiss; + Such as fair ladies gave + Of old, when knights were brave, + And smiles were won + Through foes undone. + And this will be + For you to give again to me; + And then, its present errand o'er, + I'll give it unto you once more, + Ere briefest time elapse, + With interest, perhaps. + Its mission spent, + Again to me it may be lent. + And thus, day after day, + As we a simple law obey, + Forever, to and fro, + The selfsame kiss will go; + A busy shuttle that shall weave + A web of love, to soften and relieve + Our daily care. + And so, + As thus we share, + With lip to lip, + Our frugal partnership, + One kiss will always do + For two. + And, oh, how easy it will be + To practice this economy! + + + + +IDYLETTES OF THE QUEEN + + + I.--SHE + + I fain would write on pleasant themes; + So let me prate + Awhile of Kate; + And if my rhyming effort seems + Uncouth or rough, + At any rate, + She's Kate, + And that's enough. + + + II.--HER EYES + + Her eyes are bright-- + I cannot say "like stars at night," + Nor can I say + "Like the Orb of Day," + Because such phrases are archaic. + And if I swear + That they compare + With diamonds rare, + That's too prosaic. + + I've hunted my thesaurus through, + "The Century" and "Webster," too, + But all in vain; + 'Tis therefore plain + That they who made these books so wise + Had never seen her eyes! + + + III.--HER GOWN + + When Kate puts on her Sunday gown + And goes to church all in her best, + The watchful gargoyles looking down + Relax their most forbidding frown, + And smile with kindly interest. + + Discerning gargoyles! could I be + One of your number looking down, + With you I surely would agree + And share your amiability + At sight of Kate and Sunday gown. + + + IV.--HER KNOWLEDGE + + How much she knows no one can tell; + But she can read and write and spell, + Divide and multiply and add, + And name the apples Thomas had + When John enticed him five to sell. + + For "jelly" she does not say "jell," + Nor horrify us with "umbrell," + For all of which we're very glad-- + How much she knows! + + She knows the oyster by his shell, + Detects the newsboy by his yell, + Enumerates the bones in shad, + And thinks my poetry is bad. + Well! well! well! well! well! well! well! well! + How much she knows! + + + V.--HER SIGH + + When she utters a sigh + 'Tis a breath from the roses, + And a-hovering nigh, + When she utters a sigh, + The bees wonder why + No garden discloses. + When she utters a sigh + 'Tis a breath from the roses. + + + VI.--HER RING + + Her ring goes round her finger. + Oh, foolish thing! + Were I a ring, + I'd not "go round"--I'd linger! + + + VII.--HER FAULTS + + Of faults she has but one, + And that is, she has none. + + + VIII.--HER VOICE + + Sweet and soothing, rhythmic, tuneful, + Dulcet, mellow, _un_bassoonful, + Zither, 'cello, lute, guitar, + And there you are! + + + IX.--HER LOVE + + Do you love me? + R. S. V. P. + + + + +TO M. E. + + + We keep in step as years roll by; + You march behind and I before:-- + The path is new to you; but I + Have passed the ground you're walking o'er. + Yet I march on with measured tread, + And looking back, I smile and greet you:-- + I fear the order, "Halt!" Instead, + Would I might countermarch and meet you. + + + + +BON VOYAGE + +[TO O. R.] + + + Out from the Land of the Future, into the Land of the Past + A comrade sails to the East, the sport of the wave and the blast. + Oh, billow and breeze, be kind, and temper your strength to your guest, + Kind for the sake of the friend,--for the sake of the hands he pressed. + + Oh, tenderest billow and breeze, welcome him even as we + Would welcome if you were the friend and we were the wind and the sea! + Welcome, protect him, and waft him westward and homeward at last + Into the Land of the Future, out from the Land of the Past! + + + + +THE BOOK OF LIFE + + + Whoso his book of life doth con + From title-leaf to colophon + May read, if he but wrongly look, + Some sorry pages in his book. + + But if he read aright each line, + Interpreting the scheme divine, + 'Twill be most fair to look upon + From title-leaf to colophon. + + + + + The Riverside Press + + _Electrotyped and printed by H. O. Houghton & Co._ + _Cambridge, Mass., U. S. A._ + + + + +TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES: + + Text in italics is surrounded with underscores: _italics_. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Poems, by Arthur Macy + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS *** + +***** This file should be named 37999-8.txt or 37999-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/7/9/9/37999/ + +Produced by Suzanne Shell, David E. Brown and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://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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