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(I wonder if a swallow sings?) and … well, the other birds. Too long I dwelt in ignorance of all the countless treasures Which dwellers in the country have in such abundant store; To give a single instance of the multitude of pleasures— The music of the nighting—oh, I mentioned that before. And shall I prune potato-trees and artichokes, I wonder, And cultivate the silo-plant, which springs (I hope it springs?) In graceful foliage overhead?—Excuse me if I blunder, It's really inconvenient not to know the name of things!
No matter; in the future, when I celebrate the beauty Of country life in glowing terms, and "build the lofty rhyme" Aware that every Englishman is bound to do his duty, I'll learn to give the stupid things their proper names in time! Meanwhile, you needn't wonder at the view I've indicated, The country life appears to me indubitably blest, For, even if its other charms are somewhat overstated, As long as Maud is there, you see—what matters all the rest?
Anthony C. Deane.
AN OLD BACHELOR
| 'Twas raw, and chill, and cold outside, With a boisterous wind untamed, But I was sitting snug within, Where my good log-fire flamed. As my clock ticked, My cat purred, And my kettle sang. I read me a tale of war and love, Brave knights and their ladies fair; And I brewed a brew of stiff hot-scotch To drive away dull care. As my clock ticked, My cat purred, And my kettle sang. At last the candles sputtered out, But the embers still were bright, When I turned my tumbler upside down, An' bade m'self g' night! As th' ket'l t-hic-ked, The clock purred, And the cat (hic) sang! Tudor Jenks. |
SONG
| Three score and ten by common calculation The years of man amount to; but we'll say He turns four-score, yet, in my estimation, In all those years he has not lived a day. Out of the eighty you must first remember The hours of night you pass asleep in bed; And, counting from December to December, Just half your life you'll find you have been dead. To forty years at once by this reduction We come; and sure, the first five from your birth, While cutting teeth and living upon suction, You're not alive to what this life is worth. From thirty-five next take for education Fifteen at least at college and at school; When, notwithstanding all your application, The chances are you may turn out a fool. Still twenty we have left us to dispose of, But during them your fortune you've to make; And granting, with the luck of some one knows of, 'Tis made in ten—that's ten from life to take. Out of the ten yet left you must allow for The time for shaving, tooth and other aches, Say four—and that leaves, six, too short, I vow, for Regretting past and making fresh mistakes. Meanwhile each hour dispels some fond illusion; Until at length, sans eyes, sans teeth, you may Have scarcely sense to come to this conclusion— You've reached four-score, but haven't lived a day! J. R. Planché. |
THE QUEST OF THE PURPLE COW
| He girded on his shining sword, He clad him in his suit of mail, He gave his friends the parting word, With high resolve his face was pale. They said, "You've kissed the Papal Toe, To great Moguls you've made your bow, Why will you thus world-wandering go?" "I never saw a purple cow!" "I never saw a purple cow! Oh, hinder not my wild emprise— Let me depart! For even now Perhaps, before some yokel's eyes The purpling creature dashes by, Bending its noble, hornèd brow. They see its glowing charms, but I— I never saw a purple cow!" "But other cows there be," they said, "Both cows of high and low degree, Suffolk and Devon, brown, black, red, The Ayrshire and the Alderney. Content yourself with these." "No, no," He cried, "Not these! Not these! For how Can common kine bring comfort? Oh! I never saw a purple cow!" He flung him to his charger's back, He left his kindred limp and weak, They cried: "He goes, alack! alack! The unattainable to seek." But westward still he rode—pardee! The West! Where such freaks be; I vow, I'd not be much surprised if he Should some day see A Purple Cow! Hilda Johnson. |
ST. PATRICK OF IRELAND, MY DEAR!
| A fig for St. Denis of France— He's a trumpery fellow to brag on; A fig for St. George and his lance, Which spitted a heathenish dragon; And the saints of the Welshman or Scot Are a couple of pitiful pipers, Both of whom may just travel to pot, Compared with that patron of swipers— St. Patrick of Ireland, my dear! He came to the Emerald Isle On a lump of a paving-stone mounted; The steamboat he beat by a mile, Which mighty good sailing was counted. Says he, "The salt water, I think, Has made me most bloodily thirsty; So bring me a flagon of drink To keep down the mulligrubs, burst ye! Of drink that is fit for a saint!" He preached, then, with wonderful force, The ignorant natives a-teaching; With a pint he washed down his discourse, "For," says he, "I detest your dry preaching." The people, with wonderment struck At a pastor so pious and civil, Exclaimed—"We're for you, my old buck! And we pitch our blind gods to the devil, Who dwells in hot water below!" This ended, our worshipful spoon Went to visit an elegant fellow, Whose practice, each cool afternoon, Was to get most delightfully mellow. That day with a black-jack of beer, It chanced he was treating a party; Says the saint—"This good day, do you hear, I drank nothing to speak of, my hearty! So give me a pull at the pot!" The pewter he lifted in sport (Believe me, I tell you no fable); A gallon he drank from the quart, And then placed it full on the table. "A miracle!" every one said— And they all took a haul at the stingo; They were capital hands at the trade, And drank till they fell; yet, by jingo, The pot still frothed over the brim. Next day, quoth his host, "'Tis a fast, And I've nought in my larder but mutton; And on Fridays who'd made such repast, Except an unchristian-like glutton?" Says Pat, "Cease your nonsense, I beg— What you tell me is nothing but gammon; Take my compliments down to the leg, And bid it come hither a salmon!" And the leg most politely complied. You've heard, I suppose, long ago, How the snakes, in a manner most antic, He marched to the county Mayo, And trundled them into th' Atlantic. Hence, not to use water for drink, The people of Ireland determine— With mighty good reason, I think, Since St. Patrick has filled it with vermin And vipers, and other such stuff! Oh, he was an elegant blade As you'd meet from Fairhead to Kilcrumper; And though under the sod he is laid, Yet here goes his health in a bumper! I wish he was here, that my glass He might by art magic replenish; But since he is not—why, alas! My ditty must come to a finish— Because all the liquor is out! William Maginn. |
THE IRISH SCHOOLMASTER
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"Come here, my boy; hould up your head, And look like a jintlemàn, Sir; Jist tell me who King David was— Now tell me if you can, Sir." "King David was a mighty man, And he was King of Spain, Sir; His eldest daughter 'Jessie' was The 'Flower of Dunblane,' Sir." "You're right, my boy; hould up your head, And look like a jintlemàn, Sir; Sir Isaac Newton—who was he? Now tell me if you can, Sir." "Sir Isaac Newton was the boy That climbed the apple-tree, Sir; He then fell down and broke his crown, And lost his gravity, Sir." "You're right, my boy; hould up your head, And look like a jintlemàn, Sir; Jist tell me who ould Marmion was— Now
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