The Book of Humorous Verse. Various
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Of this more could my muse relate, But you, kind reader, I'll not sate; For if I did you'd cry "Hallo! I've heard enough"—"Exactly so." Lady T. Hastings.
COMPANIONS
A TALE OF A GRANDFATHER
| I know not of what we ponder'd Or made pretty pretence to talk, As, her hand within mine, we wander'd Tow'rd the pool by the lime-tree walk, While the dew fell in showers from the passion flowers And the blush-rose bent on her stalk. I cannot recall her figure: Was it regal as Juno's own? Or only a trifle bigger Than the elves who surround the throne Of the Faëry Queen, and are seen, I ween, By mortals in dreams alone? What her eyes were like, I know not: Perhaps they were blurr'd with tears; And perhaps in your skies there glow not (On the contrary) clearer spheres. No! as to her eyes I am just as wise As you or the cat, my dears. Her teeth, I presume, were "pearly": But which was she, brunette or blonde? Her hair, was it quaintly curly, Or as straight as a beadle's wand? That I fail'd to remark;—it was rather dark And shadowy round the pond. Then the hand that reposed so snugly In mine—was it plump or spare? Was the countenance fair or ugly? Nay, children, you have me there! My eyes were p'r'aps blurr'd; and besides I'd heard That it's horribly rude to stare. And I—was I brusque and surly? Or oppressively bland and fond? Was I partial to rising early? Or why did we twain abscond, All breakfastless, too, from the public view, To prowl by a misty pond? What pass'd, what was felt or spoken— Whether anything pass'd at all— And whether the heart was broken That beat under that shelt'ring shawl— (If shawl she had on, which I doubt)—has gone, Yes, gone from me past recall. Was I haply the lady's suitor? Or her uncle? I can't make out— Ask your governess, dears, or tutor. For myself, I'm in hopeless doubt As to why we were there, who on earth we were, And, what this is all about. Charles Stuart Calverley. |
THE SCHOOLMASTER
ABROAD WITH HIS SON
| O what harper could worthily harp it, Mine Edward! this wide-stretching wold (Look out wold) with its wonderful carpet Of emerald, purple and gold! Look well at it—also look sharp, it Is getting so cold. The purple is heather (erica); The yellow, gorse—call'd sometimes "whin." Cruel boys on its prickles might spike a Green beetle as if on a pin. You may roll in it, if you would like a Few holes in your skin. You wouldn't? Then think of how kind you Should be to the insects who crave Your compassion—and then, look behind you At yon barley-ears! Don't they look brave As they undulate—(undulate, mind you, From unda, a wave). The noise of those sheep-bells, how faint it Sounds here—(on account of our height)! And this hillock itself—who could paint it, With its changes of shadow and light? Is it not—(never, Eddy, say "ain't it")— A marvelous sight? Then yon desolate eerie morasses. The haunts of the snipe and the hern— (I shall question the two upper classes On aquatiles, when we return)— Why, I see on them absolute masses Of filix or fern. How it interests e'en a beginner (Or tiro) like dear little Ned! Is he listening? As I am a sinner He's asleep—he is wagging his head. Wake up! I'll go home to my dinner, And you to your bed. The boundless ineffable prairie; The splendor of mountain and lake With their hues that seem ever to vary; The mighty pine forests which shake In the wind, and in which the unwary May tread on a snake; And this wold with its heathery garment— Are themes undeniably great. But—although there is not any harm in't— It's perhaps little good to dilate On their charms to a dull little varmint Of seven or eight. Charles Stuart Calverley. |
A APPEAL FOR ARE TO THE SEXTANT OF THE OLD BRICK MEETINOUSE
BY A GASPER
| The sextant of the meetinouse, which sweeps And dusts, or is supposed too! and makes fiers, And lites the gas and sometimes leaves a screw loose, in which case it smells orful—worse than lampile; And wrings the Bel and toles it when men dyes to the grief of survivin pardners, and sweeps pathes; And for the servases gits $100 per annum, Which them that thinks deer, let em try it; Getting up be foar star-lite in all weathers and Kindlin-fires when the wether it is cold As zero, and like as not green wood for kindlers; I wouldn't be hired to do it for no some— But o sextant! there are 1 kermoddity Which's more than gold, wich doant cost nothin, Worth more than anything exsep the Sole of Man. i mean pewer Are, sextent, i mean pewer are! O it is plenty out o dores, so plenty it doant no What on airth to dew with itself, but flys about Scaterin levs and bloin of men's hatts; in short, jest "fre as are" out dores. But o sextant, in our church its scarce as piety, scarce as bank bills wen agints beg for mischuns, Wich some say purty often (taint nothin to me, Wat I give aint nothin to nobody), but o sextant, u shut 500 mens wimmen and children, Speshally the latter, up in a tite place, Some has bad breths, none aint 2 swete, some is fevery, some is scrofilus, some has bad teeth, And some haint none, and some aint over clean; But every 1 on em breethes in and out and out and in, Say 50 times a minit, or 1 million and a half breths an our, Now how long will a church ful of are last at that rate, I ask you, say 15 minutes, and then wats to be did? Why then they must brethe it all over agin. And then agin, and so on, till each has took it down, At least ten times, and let it up again, and wats more The same individible don't have the privilege of brethen his own are, and no one's else; Each one mus take whatever comes to him, O sextant, don't you know our lungs is bellusses, To blo the fier of life, and keep it from goin out; and how can bellusses blow without wind, And aint wind are? i put it to your conscens. Are is the same to us as milk to babes, Or water to fish, or pendlums to clox— Or roots and airbs unto an injun Doctor, Or little pils to an omepath, Or boys to gurls. Are is for us to brethe, Wat signifies who preeches if i cant brethe? Wats Pol? Wats Pollus? to sinners who are ded? Ded for want of breth? why sextant, when we die Its only coz we cant brethe no more—that's all. And now, O sextant, let me beg of you 2 let a little are into our church. (Pewer are is sertin proper for the pews) And do it weak days and Sundays tew— It aint much trouble—only make a hole And the are will come in itself; (It luvs to come in whare it can git warm): And o how it will rouse the people up And sperrit up the preacher, and stop garbs, And yawns and figgits as effectooal As wind on the dry Boans the Profit tells of. Arabella Willson. |
CUPID'S DARTS
WHICH ARE A GROWING MENACE TO THE PUBLIC
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Do not worry if I scurry from the grill room in a hurry, Dropping hastily my curry and retiring into balk; Do not let it cause you wonder if, by some mischance or blunder, We encounter on the Underground and I get out and walk. If I double as a cub'll when you meet him in the stubble, Do not think I am in trouble or attempt to make a fuss; Do not judge me melancholy or attribute it to folly If I leave the Metropolitan and travel 'n a bus. Do not quiet your anxiety by giving me a diet, Or by base resort to vi et armis fold me to your arms, And let no suspicious tremor violate your wonted phlegm or Any fear that Harold's memory is faithless to your charms. For my passion as I dash on in that disconcerting fashion Is as ardently irrational as when we |