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Title: A Nonsense Anthology

Compiler: Carolyn Wells

Release date: November 1, 2005 [eBook #9380]
Most recently updated: January 2, 2021

Language: English


Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Robert Prince and PG Distributed Proofreaders

He must be a fool indeed who cannot at times play the fool; and he who does not enjoy nonsense must be lacking in sense.


A Nonsense Anthology

Collected by Carolyn Wells





UFFIA Harriet R. White
THE CRUISE OF THE "P.C." Anonymous
TO MARIE Anonymous
LUNAR STANZAS Henry Coggswell Knight
NONSENSE Anonymous, 1617
THE MOON IS UP Anonymous
'T IS MIDNIGHT Anonymous
MY DREAM Anonymous
MY HOME Anonymous
DARWINITY Herman Merivale
METAPHYSICS Oliver Herford
ABSTROSOPHY Gelett Burgess
ABSTEMIA Gelett Burgess
TIMON OF ARCHIMEDES Charles Battell Loomis
ALONE Anonymous
TRANSCENDENTALISM From the Times of India
QUATRAIN Anonymous
A CLASSIC ODE Charles Battell Loomis
BLUE MOONSHINE Francis G. Stokes
NONSENSE Thomas Moore
THY HEART Anonymous
JOHN JONES A.C. Swinburne
SWISS AIR Bret Harte
THE BULBUL Owen Seaman
BALLAD Anonymous
THERE WAS A MONKEY Anonymous, 1626
IF Anonymous
A RIDDLE Anonymous
IN THE DUMPS Anonymous
MARTIN TO HIS MAN From Deuteromelia
                                       Edward Lear
WAYS AND MEANS Lewis Carroll
                                       W.S. Gilbert
                                       Guy Wetmore Carryl
MALUM OPUS James Appleton Morgan
A HOLIDAY TASK Gilbert Abbott à Becket
                                       J. W. Morris
A GREAT MAN Oliver Goldsmith
AN ELEGY Oliver Goldsmith
PARSON GRAY Oliver Goldsmith
NEPHELIDIA A. C. Swinburne
COMPANIONS C. S. Calverley
HERE IS THE TALE Anthony C. Deane
THE AULD WIFE C. S. Calverley
NOT I R. L. Stevenson
THE PURPLE COW Gelett Burgess
THE LAZY ROOF Gelett Burgess
MY FEET Gelett Burgess
THE HEN Oliver Herford
THE COW Oliver Herford
THE PLATYPUS Oliver Herford
SOME GEESE Oliver Herford
THE FLAMINGO Lewis Gaylord Clark
SAGE COUNSEL A. T. Quiller-Couch
THE FROG Hilaire Belloc
THE YAK Hilaire Belloc
THE PYTHON Hilaire Belloc
THE BISON Hilaire Belloc
THE MONKEY'S GLUE Goldwin Goldsmith
THERE WAS A FROG Christ Church MS.
THE BLOATED BIGGABOON H. Cholmondeley-Pennell
HER DAIRY Peter Newell
TURVEY TOP Anonymous
WHAT THE PRINCE OF I DREAMT H. Cholmondeley-Pennell
THE MAN IN THE MOON James Whitcomb Riley
A THRENODY George Thomas Lanigan
ON THE ROAD Tudor Jenks
THE SUN J. Davis
IN THE NIGHT Anonymous
THE BOY Eugene Field
THE SEA Anonymous
FIN DE SIÈCLE Newton Mackintosh
MARY JANE Anonymous
AUNT ELIZA Col. D. Streamer
SUSAN Anonymous
MARY AMES Anonymous
                                       W. E. Henley
                                       Cosmo Monkhouse
                                       Walter Parke
                                       George du Maurier
                                       Robert J. Burdette
                                       Gelett Burgess
                                       Bruce Porter
                                       Newton Mackintosh


On a topographical map of Literature Nonsense would be represented by a small and sparsely settled country, neglected by the average tourist, but affording keen delight to the few enlightened travellers who sojourn within its borders. It is a field which has been neglected by anthologists and essayists; one of its few serious recognitions being in a certain "Treatise of Figurative Language," which says: "Nonsense; shall we dignify that with a place on our list? Assuredly will vote for doing so every one who hath at all duly noticed what admirable and wise uses it can be, and often is, put to, though never before in rhetoric has it been so highly honored. How deeply does clever or quaint nonsense abide in the memory, and for how many a decade—from earliest youth to age's most venerable years."

And yet Hazlitt's "Studies in Jocular Literature" mentions six divisions of the Jest, and omits Nonsense!

Perhaps, partly because of such neglect, the work of the best nonsense writers is less widely known than it might be.

But a more probable reason is that the majority of the reading world does not appreciate or enjoy real nonsense, and this, again, is consequent upon their inability to discriminate between nonsense of integral merit and simple chaff.

  A jest's prosperity lies in the ear
  Of him that hears it. Never in the tongue
  Of him that makes it,

and a sense of nonsense is as distinct a part of our mentality as a sense of humor, being by no means identical therewith.

It is a fad at present for a man to relate a nonsensical story, and then, if his hearer does not laugh, say gravely: "You have no sense of humor. That is a test story, and only a true humorist laughs at it." Now, the hearer may have an exquisite sense of humor, but he may be lacking in a sense of nonsense, and so the story gives him no pleasure. De Quincey said, "None but a man of extraordinary talent can write first-rate nonsense." Only a short study of the subject is required to convince us that De Quincey was right; and he might have added, none but a man of extraordinary taste can appreciate first-rate nonsense. As an instance of this, we may remember that Edward Lear, "the parent of modern nonsense-writers," was a talented author and artist, and a prime favorite of such men as Tennyson and the Earls of Derby; and John Ruskin placed Lear's name at the head of his list of the best hundred authors.

"Don't tell me," said William Pitt, "of a man's being able to talk sense; every one can talk sense. Can he talk nonsense?"

The sense of nonsense enables us not only to discern pure nonsense, but to consider intelligently nonsense of various degrees of purity. Absence of sense is not necessarily nonsense, any more than absence of justice is injustice.

Etymologically speaking, nonsense may be either words without meaning, or words conveying absurd or ridiculous ideas. It is the second definition which expresses the great mass of nonsense literature, but there is a small proportion of written nonsense which comes under the head of language without meaning.

Again, there are verses composed entirely of meaningless words, which are not nonsense literature, because they are written with some other intent.

The nursery rhyme, of which there are almost as many versions as there are nurseries,

  Eena, meena, mona, mi,
  Bassalona, bona, stri,
  Hare, ware, frown, whack,
  Halico balico, we, wi, we, wack,

is not strictly a nonsense verse, because it was invented and used for "counting out," and the arbitrary words simply take the place of the numbers 1, 2, 3, etc.

Also, the nonsense verses with which students of Latin composition are sometimes taught to begin their efforts, where words are used with no relative meaning, simply to familiarize the pupil with the mechanical values of quantity and metre, are not nonsense. It is only nonsense for nonsense' sake that is now under our consideration.

Doubtless the best and best-known example of versified words without meaning is "Jabberwocky." Although (notwithstanding Lewis Carroll's explanations) the coined words are absolutely without meaning, the rhythm is perfect and the poetic quality decidedly apparent, and the poem appeals to the nonsense lover as a work of pure genius. Bayard Taylor is said to have recited "Jabberwocky" aloud for his own delectation until he was forced to stop by uncontrollable laughter. To us who know our Alice it would seem unnecessary to quote this poem, but it is a fact that among the general reading community the appreciators of Lewis Carroll are surprisingly few. An editor of a leading literary review, when asked recently if he had read "Alice in Wonderland," replied, "No, but I mean to. It is by the author of 'As in a looking-Glass,' is it not?"

But of far greater interest and merit than nonsense of words, is nonsense of ideas. Here, again, we distinguish between nonsense and no sense. Ideas conveying no sense are often intensely funny, and this type is seen in some of the best of our nonsense literature.

A perfect specimen is the bit of evidence read by the White Rabbit at the Trial of the Knave of Hearts.[1] One charm of these verses is the serious air of legal directness which pervades their ambiguity, and another is the precision with which the metrical accent coincides exactly with the natural emphasis. They are marked, too, by the liquid euphony that always distinguishes Lewis Carroll's poetry.

A different type is found in verses that refer to objects in terms the opposite of true, thereby suggesting ludicrous incongruity, and there is also the nonsense verse that uses word effects which have been confiscated by the poets and tacitly given over to them.

A refrain of nonsense words is a favorite diversion of many otherwise serious poets.

With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,

is one of Shakespeare's many musical nonsense refrains.

[Footnote 1: "She's all my Fancy painted him," page 20.]

Burns gives us:

  Ken ye aught o' Captain Grose?
      Igo and ago,
  If he's 'mang his freens or foes?
      Iram, coram, dago.
  Is he slain by Highlan' bodies?
      Igo and ago;
  And eaten like a weather haggis?
      Iram, coram, dago.

Another very old refrain runs thus:

  Forum, corum, sunt di-vorum,
      Harum, scarum, divo;
  Tag-rag, merry-derry, periwig and hat-band,
      Hic, hoc, horum, genitivo.

An old ballad written before the Reformation has for a refrain:

    Sing go trix,
      Trim go trix,
  Under the greenwood tree.

While a celebrated political ballad is known by its nonsense chorus,

Lilliburlero bullin a-la.

Mother Goose rhymes abound in these nonsense refrains, and they are often fine examples of onomatopoeia.

By far the most meritorious and most interesting kind of nonsense is that which embodies an absurd or ridiculous idea, and treats it with elaborate seriousness. The greatest masters of this art are undoubtedly Edward Lear and Lewis Carroll. These Englishmen were men of genius, deep thinkers, and hard workers.

Lear was an artist draughtsman, his subjects being mainly ornithological and zoological. Lewis Carroll (Charles L. Dodgson) was an expert in mathematics and a lecturer on that science in Christ Church, Oxford.

Both these men numbered among their friends many of the greatest Englishmen of the day. Tennyson was a warm friend and admirer of each, as was also John Ruskin.

Lear's first nonsense verses, published in 1846, are written in the form of the well-known stanza beginning:

There was an old man of Tobago.

This type of stanza, known as the "Limerick," is said by a gentleman who speaks with authority to have flourished in the reign of William IV. This is one of several he remembers as current at his public school in 1834:

  There was a young man at St. Kitts
  Who was very much troubled with fits;
      The eclipse of the moon
      Threw him into a swoon,
  When he tumbled and broke into bits.

Lear distinctly asserts that this form of verse was not invented by him, but was suggested by a friend as a useful model for amusing rhymes. It proved so in his case, for he published no less than two hundred and twelve of these "Limericks."

In regard to his verses, Lear asserted that "nonsense, pure and absolute," was his aim throughout; and remarked, further, that to have been the means of administering innocent mirth to thousands was surely a just excuse for satisfaction. He pursued his aim with scrupulous consistency, and his absurd conceits are fantastic and ridiculous, but never cheaply or vulgarly funny.

Twenty-five years after his first book came out, Lear published other books of nonsense verse and prose, with pictures which are irresistibly mirth-provoking. Lear's nonsense songs, while retaining all the ludicrous merriment of his Limericks, have an added quality of poetic harmony. They are distinctly singable, and many of them have been set to music by talented composers. Perhaps the best-known songs are "The Owl and the Pussy-Cat" and "The Daddy-Long-Legs and the Fly."

Lear himself composed airs for "The Pelican Chorus" and "The Yonghy-Bonghy Bo," which were arranged for the piano by Professor Pomè, of San Remo, Italy.

Although like Lear's in some respects, Lewis Carroll's nonsense is perhaps of a more refined type. There is less of the grotesque and more poetic imagery. But though Carroll was more of a poet than Lear, both had the true sense of nonsense. Both assumed the most absurd conditions, and proceeded to detail their consequences with a simple seriousness that convulses appreciative readers, and we find ourselves uncertain whether it is the manner or the matter that is more amusing.

Lewis Carroll was a man of intellect and education; his funniest sayings are often based on profound knowledge or deep thought. Like Lear, he never spoiled his quaint fancies by over-exaggerating their quaintness or their fancifulness, and his ridiculous plots are as carefully conceived, constructed, and elaborated as though they embodied the soundest facts. No funny detail is ever allowed to become too funny; and it is in this judicious economy of extravagance that his genius is shown. As he remarks in one of his own poems:

  Then, fourthly, there are epithets
      That suit with any word—
  As well as Harvey's Reading Sauce
      With fish, or flesh, or bird.
  Such epithets, like pepper,
      Give zest to what you write;
  And, if you strew them sparely,
      They whet the appetite;
  But if you lay them on too thick,
      You spoil the matter quite!

Both Lear and Carroll suffered from the undiscerning critics who persisted in seeing in their nonsense a hidden meaning, a cynical, political, or other intent, veiled under the apparent foolery. Lear takes occasion to deny this in the preface to one of his books, and asserts not only that his rhymes and pictures have no symbolical meaning, but that he "took more care than might be supposed to make the subjects incapable of such misinterpretation."

Likewise, "Jabberwocky" was declared by one critic to be a translation from the German, and by others its originality was doubted. The truth is, that it was written by Lewis Carroll at an evening party; it was quite impromptu, and no ulterior meaning was intended. "The Hunting of the Snark" was also regarded by some as an allegory, or, perhaps, a burlesque on a celebrated case, in which the Snark was used as a personification of popularity, but Lewis Carroll protested that the poem had no meaning at all.

A favorite trick of the Nonsensists is the coining of words to suit their needs, and Lear and Carroll are especially happy in their inventions of this kind.

Lear gives us such gems as scroobious, meloobious, ombliferous, borascible, slobaciously, himmeltanious, flumpetty, and mumbian; while the best of Lewis Carroll's coined words are those found in "Jabberwocky."

Another of the great Nonsensists is W. S. Gilbert. Unlike Lear or Carroll, his work is not characterized by absurd words or phrases; he prefers a still wider scope, and invents a ridiculous plot. The "Bab Ballads," as well as Mr. Gilbert's comic opera librettos, hinge upon schemes of ludicrous impossibility, which are treated as the most natural proceedings in the world. The best known of the "Bab Ballads" is no doubt "The Yarn of the 'Nancy Bell,'" which was long since set to music and is still a popular song. In addition to his talent for nonsense, Mr. Gilbert possesses a wonderful rhyming facility, and juggles cleverly with difficult and unusual metres.

In regard to his "Bab Ballads," Mr. Gilbert gravely says that "they are not, as a rule, founded on fact," and, remembering their gory and often cannibalistic tendencies, we are grateful for this assurance. An instance of Gilbert's appreciation of other people's nonsense is his parody of Lear's verse:

  There was an old man in a tree
  Who was horribly bored by a bee;
      When they said, "Does it buzz?"
      He replied, "Yes, it does!
  It's a regular brute of a bee!"

The parody attributed to Gilbert is called "A Nonsense Rhyme in
Blank Verse":

  There was an old man of St. Bees,
  Who was stung in the arm by a wasp;
      When they asked, "Does it hurt?"
      He replied, "No, it doesn't,
  But I thought all the while 'twas a Hornet!"

Thackeray wrote spirited nonsense, but much of it had an under-meaning, political or otherwise, which bars it from the field of sheer nonsense.

The sense of nonsense is no respecter of persons; even staid old Dr. Johnson possessed it, though his nonsense verses are marked by credible fact and irrefutable logic. Witness these two examples:

  As with my hat upon my head
      I walked along the Strand,
  I there did meet another man
      With his hat in his hand.

  The tender infant, meek and mild,
      Fell down upon the stone;
  The nurse took up the squealing child,
      But still the child squealed on.

The Doctor is also responsible for

  If a man who turnips cries,
      Cry not when his father dies,
  'Tis a proof that he would rather
      Have a turnip than a father.

And indeed, among our best writers there are few who have not dropped into nonsense or semi-nonsense at one time or another.

A familiar bit of nonsense prose is by S. Foote, and it is said that
Charles Macklin used to recite it with great gusto:

  "She went into the garden to cut a cabbage-leaf to make
  an apple-pie, and at the same time a great she-bear coming
  up the street, pops its head into the shop. 'What, no
  soap?' so he died. She imprudently married the barber,
  and there were present the Pickaninnies, the Joblilies, the
  Gayrulies, and the Grand Panjandrum himself with the little
  round button on top, and they all fell to playing
  till the gunpowder ran out at the heels of their

[Transcriber's note: The above paragraph is not an excerpt from a longer work, but is complete as it stands.]

An old nonsense verse attributed to an Oxford student, is the well known:

  A centipede was happy quite,
      Until a frog in fun
  Said, "Pray, which leg comes after which?"
  This raised her mind to such a pitch,
  She lay distracted in the ditch
      Considering how to run.

So far as we know, Kipling has never printed anything which can be called nonsense verse, but it is doubtless only a question of time when that branch shall be added to his versatility. His "Just So" stories are capital nonsense prose, and the following rhyme proves him guilty of at least one Limerick:

  There was a small boy of Quebec,
  Who was buried in snow to his neck;
      When they said, "Are you friz?"
      He replied, "Yes, I is—
  But we don't call this cold in Quebec."

Among living authors, one who has written a great amount of good nonsense is Mr. Gelett Burgess, late editor of The Lark.

According to Mr. Burgess' own statement, the test of nonsense is its quotability, and his work stands this test admirably, for what absurd rhyme ever attained such popularity as his "Purple Cow"? This was first printed in The Lark, a paper published in San Francisco for two years, the only periodical of any merit that has ever made intelligent nonsense its special feature.

Another of the most talented nonsense writers of to-day is Mr. Oliver Herford. It is a pity, however, to reproduce his verse without his illustrations, for as nonsense these are as admirable as the text. But the greater part of Mr. Herford's work belongs to the realm of pure fancy, and though of a whimsical delicacy often equal to Lewis Carroll's, it is rarely sheer nonsense.

As a proof that good nonsense is by no means an easy achievement, attention is called to a recent competition inaugurated by the London Academy.

Nonsense rhymes similar to those quoted from The Lark were asked for, and though many were received, it is stated that no brilliant results were among them.

The prize was awarded to this weak and uninteresting specimen:

  "If half the road was made of jam,
      The other half of bread,
  How very nice my walks would be,"
      The greedy infant said.

These two were also offered by competitors:

  I love to stand upon my head
      And think of things sublime
  Until my mother interrupts
      And says it's dinner-time.

  A lobster wooed a lady crab,
      And kissed her lovely face.
  "Upon my sole," the crabbess cried,
      "I wish you'd mind your plaice!"

Let us, then, give Nonsense its place among the divisions of Humor, and though we cannot reduce it to an exact science, let us acknowledge it as a fine art.



  'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
      Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
  All mimsy were the borogoves,
      And the mome raths outgrabe.

  "Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
      The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
  Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
      The frumious Bandersnatch!"

  He took his vorpal sword in hand:
      Long time the manxome foe he sought.
  So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
      And stood awhile in thought.

  And as in uffish thought he stood,
      The Jabberwock with eyes of flame,
  Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
      And burbled as it came!

  One, two! One, two! And through, and through
      The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
  He left it dead, and with its head
      He went galumphing back.

  "And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
      Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
  Oh, frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!"
      He chortled in his joy.

  'T was brillig, and the slithy toves
      Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
  All mimsy were the borogoves
      And the mome raths outgrabe.

Lewis Carroll.


  Coesper[1] erat: tunc lubriciles[2] ultravia circum
      Urgebant gyros gimbiculosque tophi;
  Moestenui visae borogovides ire meatu;
      Et profugi gemitus exgrabuêre rathae.

  O fuge Iabrochium, sanguis meus![3] Ille recurvis
      Unguibus, estque avidis dentibus ille minax.
  Ububae fuge cautus avis vim, gnate! Neque unquam
      Faederpax contra te frumiosus eat!

  Vorpali gladio juvenis succingitur: hostis
      Manxumus ad medium quaeritur usque diem:
  Jamque viâ fesso, sed plurima mente prementi,
      Tumtumiae frondis suaserat umbra moram.

  Consilia interdum stetit egnia[4] mene revolvens;
      At gravis in densa fronde susuffrus[5] erat,
  Spiculaque[6] ex oculis jacientis flammea, tulseam
      Per silvam venit burbur[7] labrochii!

  Vorpali, semel atque iterum collectus in ictum,
      Persnicuit gladis persnacuitque puer:
  Deinde galumphatus, spernens informe Cadaver,
      Horrendum monstri rettulit ipse caput.

  Victor Iabrochii, spoliis insignis opimis,
      Rursus in amplexus, o radiose, meos!
  O frabiose dies! CALLO clamateque CALLA!
      Vix potuit lastus chorticulare pater.

  Coesper erat: tune lubriciles ultravia circum
      Urgebant gyros gimbiculosque tophi;
  Moestenui visæ borogovides ire meatu;
      Et profugi gemitus exgrabuêre rathæ.


[Footnote 1: Coesper from Coena and vesper.]

[Footnote 2: lubriciles from lubricus and graciles. See the Commentary in Humpty Dumpty's square, which will also explain ultravia, and—if it requires explanation—moestenui.]

[Footnote 3: Sanguis meus: cf. Verg. Aen. 6. 836, "Projice tela manu, sanguis meus!"]

[Footnote 4: egnia: "muffish" = segnis; … "uffish" = egnis.
This is a conjectural analogy, but I can suggest no better solution.]

[Footnote 5: susuffrus : "whiffling" :: susurrus : "whistling."]

[Footnote 6: spicula: see the picture.]

[Footnote 7: burbur: apparently a labial variation of murmur, stronger but more dissonant.]


  The Nyum-Nyum chortled by the sea,
      And sipped the wavelets green:
  He wondered how the sky could be
      So very nice and clean;

  He wondered if the chambermaid
      Had swept the dust away,
  And if the scrumptious Jabberwock
      Had mopped it up that day.

  And then in sadness to his love
      The Nyum-Nyum weeping said,
  I know no reason why the sea
      Should not be white or red.

  I know no reason why the sea
      Should not be red, I say;
  And why the slithy Bandersnatch
      Has not been round to-day.

  He swore he'd call at two o'clock,
      And now it's half-past four.
  "Stay," said the Nyum-Nyum's love, "I think
      I hear him at the door."

  In twenty minutes in there came
      A creature black as ink,
  Which put its feet upon a chair
      And called for beer to drink.

  They gave him porter in a tub,
      But, "Give me more!" he cried;
  And then he drew a heavy sigh,
      And laid him down, and died.

  He died, and in the Nyum-Nyum's cave
      A cry of mourning rose;
  The Nyum-Nyum sobbed a gentle sob,
      And slily blew his nose.

  The Nyum-Nyum's love, we need not state,
      Was overwhelmed and sad;
  She said, "Oh, take the corpse away,
      Or you will drive me mad!"

  The Nyum-Nyum in his supple arms
      Took up the gruesome weight,
  And, with a cry of bitter fear,
      He threw it at his mate.

  And then he wept, and tore his hair,
      And threw it in the sea,
  And loudly sobbed with streaming eyes
      That such a thing could be.

  The ox, that mumbled in his stall,
      Perspired and gently sighed,
  And then, in sympathy, it fell
      Upon its back and died.

  The hen that sat upon her eggs,
      With high ambition fired,
  Arose in simple majesty,
      And, with a cluck, expired.

  The jubejube bird, that carolled there,
      Sat down upon a post,
  And with a reverential caw,
      Gave up its little ghost.

  And ere its kind and loving life
      Eternally had ceased,
  The donkey, in the ancient barn,
      In agony deceased.

  The raven, perched upon the elm,
      Gave forth a scraping note,
  And ere the sound had died away,
      Had cut its tuneful throat.

  The Nyum-Nyum's love was sorrowful;
      And, after she had cried,
  She, with a brand-new carving-knife,
      Committed suicide.

  "Alas!" the Nyum-Nyum said, "alas!
      With thee I will not part,"
  And straightway seized a rolling-pin
      And drove it through his heart.

  The mourners came and gathered up
      The bits that lay about;
  But why the massacre had been,
      They could not quite make out.

  One said there was a mystery
      Connected with the deaths;
  But others thought the silent ones
      Perhaps had lost their breaths.

  The doctor soon arrived, and viewed
      The corpses as they lay;
  He could not give them life again,
      So he was heard to say.

  But, oh! it was a horrid sight;
      It made the blood run cold,
  To see the bodies carried off
      And covered up with mould.

  The Toves across the briny sea
      Wept buckets-full of tears;
  They were relations of the dead,
      And had been friends for years.

  The Jabberwock upon the hill
      Gave forth a gloomy wail,
  When in his airy seat he sat,
      And told the awful tale.

  And who can wonder that it made
      That loving creature cry?
  For he had done the dreadful work
      And caused the things to die.

  That Jabberwock was passing bad—
      That Jabberwock was wrong,
  And with this verdict I conclude
      One portion of my song.



  When sporgles spanned the floreate mead
      And cogwogs gleet upon the lea,
  Uffia gopped to meet her love
      Who smeeged upon the equat sea.

  Dately she walked aglost the sand;
      The boreal wind seet in her face;
  The moggling waves yalped at her feet;
      Pangwangling was her pace.

Harriet R. White.


  The Crankadox leaned o'er the edge of the moon,
      And wistfully gazed on the sea
  Where the Gryxabodill madly whistled a tune
      To the air of "Ti-fol-de-ding-dee."

  The quavering shriek of the Fliupthecreek
      Was fitfully wafted afar
  To the Queen of the Wunks as she powdered her cheek
      With the pulverized rays of a star.

  The Gool closed his ear on the voice of the Grig,
      And his heart it grew heavy as lead
  As he marked the Baldekin adjusting his wig
      On the opposite side of his head;

  And the air it grew chill as the Gryxabodill
      Raised his dank, dripping fins to the skies
  To plead with the Plunk for the use of her bill
      To pick the tears out of his eyes.

  The ghost of the Zhack flitted by in a trance;
      And the Squidjum hid under a tub
  As he heard the loud hooves of the Hooken advance
      With a rub-a-dub-dub-a-dub dub!

  And the Crankadox cried as he laid down and died,
      "My fate there is none to bewail!"
  While the Queen of the Wunks drifted over the tide
      With a long piece of crape to her tail.

James Whitcomb Riley.


  The woggly bird sat on the whango tree,
      Nooping the rinkum corn,
  And graper and graper, alas! grew he,
      And cursed the day he was born.
  His crute was clum and his voice was rum,
      As curiously thus sang he,
  "Oh, would I'd been rammed and eternally clammed
      Ere I perched on this whango tree."

  Now the whango tree had a bubbly thorn,
      As sharp as a nootie's bill,
  And it stuck in the woggly bird's umptum lorn
      And weepadge, the smart did thrill.
  He fumbled and cursed, but that wasn't the worst,
      For he couldn't at all get free,
  And he cried, "I am gammed, and injustibly nammed
      On the luggardly whango tree."

  And there he sits still, with no worm in his bill,
      Nor no guggledom in his nest;
  He is hungry and bare, and gobliddered with care,
      And his grabbles give him no rest;
  He is weary and sore and his tugmut is soar,
      And nothing to nob has he,
  As he chirps, "I am blammed and corruptibly jammed,
      In this cuggerdom whango tree."



  Sing for the garish eye,
      When moonless brandlings cling!
  Let the froddering crooner cry,
      And the braddled sapster sing,
  For never and never again,
      Will the tottering beechlings play,
  For bratticed wrackers are singing aloud,
      And the throngers croon in May!

W.S. Gilbert.


  Across the swiffling waves they went,
      The gumly bark yoked to and fro:
  The jupple crew on pleasure bent,
      Galored, "This is a go!"

  Beside the poo's'l stood the Gom,
      He chirked and murgled in his glee;
  While near him, in a grue jipon,
      The Bard was quite at sea.

  "Gollop! Golloy! Thou scrumjous Bard!
      Take pen (thy stylo) and endite
  A pome, my brain needs kurgling hard,
      And I will feast tonight."

  That wansome Bard he took his pen,
      A flirgly look around he guv;
  He squoffled once, he squirled, and then
      He wrote what's writ above.



  When the breeze from the bluebottle's blustering blim
      Twirls the toads in a tooroomaloo,
  And the whiskery whine of the wheedlesome whim
      Drowns the roll of the rattatattoo,
  Then I dream in the shade of the shally-go-shee,
      And the voice of the bally-molay
  Brings the smell of stale poppy-cods blummered in blee
      From the willy-wad over the way.

  Ah, the shuddering shoo and the blinketty-blanks
      When the yungalung falls from the bough
  In the blast of a hurricane's hicketty-hanks
      On the hills of the hocketty-how!
  Give the rigamarole to the clangery-whang,
      If they care for such fiddlededee;
  But the thingumbob kiss of the whangery-bang
      Keeps the higgledy-piggle for me.


  It is pilly-po-doddle and aligobung
      When the lollypop covers the ground,
  Yet the poldiddle perishes punketty-pung
      When the heart jimmy-coggles around.
  If the soul cannot snoop at the giggle-some cart,
      Seeking surcease in gluggety-glug,
  It is useless to say to the pulsating heart,
      "Panky-doodle ker-chuggetty-chug!"

John Bennett.


  Night saw the crew like pedlers with their packs
      Altho' it were too dear to pay for eggs;
  Walk crank along with coffin on their backs
      While in their arms they bow their weary legs.

  And yet 't was strange, and scarce can one suppose
      That a brown buzzard-fly should steal and wear
  His white jean breeches and black woollen hose,
      But thence that flies have souls is very clear.

  But, Holy Father! what shall save the soul,
      When cobblers ask three dollars for their shoes?
  When cooks their biscuits with a shot-tower roll,
      And farmers rake their hay-cocks with their hoes.

  Yet, 'twere profuse to see for pendant light,
      A tea-pot dangle in a lady's ear;
  And 'twere indelicate, although she might
      Swallow two whales and yet the moon shine clear.

  But what to me are woven clouds, or what,
      If dames from spiders learn to warp their looms?
  If coal-black ghosts turn soldiers for the State,
      With wooden eyes, and lightning-rods for plumes?

  Oh! too, too shocking! barbarous, savage taste!
      To eat one's mother ere itself was born!
  To gripe the tall town-steeple by the waste,
      And scoop it out to be his drinking-horn.

  No more: no more! I'm sick and dead and gone;
      Boxed in a coffin, stifled six feet deep;
  Thorns, fat and fearless, prick my skin and bone,
      And revel o'er me, like a soulless sheep.

Henry Coggswell Knight, 1815.


  Oh that my Lungs could bleat like butter'd Pease;
      But bleating of my lungs hath Caught the itch,
  And are as mangy as the Irish Seas
      That offer wary windmills to the Rich.

  I grant that Rainbowes being lull'd asleep,
      Snort like a woodknife in a Lady's eyes;
  Which makes her grieve to see a pudding creep,
      For Creeping puddings only please the wise.

  Not that a hard-row'd herring should presume
      To swing a tyth pig in a Cateskin purse;
  For fear the hailstons which did fall at Rome,
      By lesning of the fault should make it worse.

  For 'tis most certain Winter woolsacks grow
      From geese to swans if men could keep them so,
  Till that the sheep shorn Planets gave the hint
      To pickle pancakes in Geneva print.

  Some men there were that did suppose the skie
      Was made of Carbonado'd Antidotes;
  But my opinion is, a Whale's left eye,
      Need not be coyned all King Harry groates.

  The reason's plain, for Charon's Westerne barge
      Running a tilt at the Subjunctive mood,
  Beckoned to Bednal Green, and gave him charge
      To fasten padlockes with Antartic food.

  The End will be the Mill ponds must be laded,
      To fish for white pots in a Country dance;
  So they that suffered wrong and were upbraded
      Shall be made friends in a left-handed trance.

Anonymous, 1617.


  Oh that my soul a marrow-bone might seize!
  For the old egg of my desire is broken,
  Spilled is the pearly white and spilled the yolk, and
  As the mild melancholy contents grease
  My path the shorn lamb baas like bumblebees.
  Time's trashy purse is as a taken token
  Or like a thrilling recitation, spoken
  By mournful mouths filled full of mirth and cheese.

  And yet, why should I clasp the earthful urn?
  Or find the frittered fig that felt the fast?
  Or choose to chase the cheese around the churn?
  Or swallow any pill from out the past?
  Ah, no Love, not while your hot kisses burn
  Like a potato riding on the blast.



  Bright breaks the warrior o'er the ocean wave
  Through realms that rove not, clouds that cannot save,
  Sinks in the sunshine; dazzles o'er the tomb
  And mocks the mutiny of Memory's gloom.
  Oh! who can feel the crimson ecstasy
  That soothes with bickering jar the Glorious Tree?
  O'er the high rock the foam of gladness throws,
  While star-beams lull Vesuvius to repose:
  Girds the white spray, and in the blue lagoon,
  Weeps like a walrus o'er the waning moon?
  Who can declare?—not thou, pervading boy
  Whom pibrochs pierce not, crystals cannot cloy;—
  Not thou soft Architect of silvery gleams,
  Whose soul would simmer in Hesperian streams,
  Th' exhaustless fire—the bosom's azure bliss,
  That hurtles, life-like, o'er a scene like this;—
  Defies the distant agony of Day—
  And sweeps o'er hetacombs—away! away!
  Say shall Destruction's lava load the gale,
  The furnace quiver and the mountain quail?
  Say shall the son of Sympathy pretend
  His cedar fragrance with our Chiefs to blend?
  There, where the gnarled monuments of sand
  Howl their dark whirlwinds to the levin brand;
  Conclusive tenderness; fraternal grog,
  Tidy conjunction; adamantine bog,
  Impetuous arrant toadstool; Thundering quince,
  Repentant dog-star, inessential Prince,
  Expound. Pre-Adamite eventful gun,
  Crush retribution, currant-jelly, pun,
  Oh! eligible Darkness, fender, sting,
  Heav'n-born Insanity, courageous thing.
  Intending, bending, scouring, piercing all,
  Death like pomatum, tea, and crabs must fall.



  She's all my fancy painted him,
      (I make no idle boast);
  If he or you had lost a limb,
      Which would have suffered most?

  He said that you had been to her,
      And seen me here before:
  But, in another character
      She was the same of yore.

  There was not one that spoke to us,
      Of all that thronged the street;
  So he sadly got into a 'bus,
      And pattered with his feet.

  They told me you had been to her,
      And mentioned me to him;
  She gave me a good character,
      But said I could not swim.

  He sent them word I had not gone
      (We know it to be true);
  If she should push the matter on,
      What would become of you?

  I gave her one, they gave him two,
      You gave us three or more;
  They all returned from him to you,
      Though they were mine before.

  If I or she should chance to be
      Involved in this affair,
  He trusts to you to set them free,
      Exactly as we were.

  My notion was that you had been
      (Before she had this fit)
  An obstacle that came between
      Him, and ourselves, and it.

  Don't let him know she liked them best,
      For this must ever be
  A secret, kept from all the rest,
      Between yourself and me.

Lewis Carroll.


  My recollectest thoughts are those
      Which I remember yet;
  And bearing on, as you'd suppose,
      The things I don't forget.

  But my resemblest thoughts are less
      Alike than they should be;
  A state of things, as you'll confess,
      You very seldom see.

  And yet the mostest thought I love
      Is what no one believes—
  That I'm the sole survivor of
      The famous Forty Thieves!

Charles E. Carry.


  "You are old, Father William," the young man said,
      "And your nose has a look of surprise;
  Your eyes have turned round to the back of your head,
      And you live upon cucumber pies."

  "I know it, I know it," the old man replied,
      "And it comes from employing a quack,
  Who said if I laughed when the crocodile died
      I should never have pains in my back."

  "You are old, Father William," the young man said,
      "And your legs always get in your way;
  You use too much mortar in mixing your bread,
      And you try to drink timothy hay."

  "Very true, very true," said the wretched old man,
      "Every word that you tell me is true;
  And it's caused by my having my kerosene can
      Painted red where it ought to be blue."

  "You are old, Father William," the young man said,
      "And your teeth are beginning to freeze,
  Your favorite daughter has wheels in her head,
      And the chickens are eating your knees."

  "You are right," said the old man, "I cannot deny,
      That my troubles are many and great,
  But I'll butter my ears on the Fourth of July,
      And then I'll be able to skate."



  The twilight twiles in the vernal vale,
      In adumbration of azure awe,
  And I listlessly list in my swallow-tail
      To the limpet licking his limber jaw.
  And it's O for the sound of the daffodil,
      For the dry distillings of prawn and prout,
  When hope hops high and a heather hill
      Is a dear delight and a darksome doubt.
  The snagwap sits in the bosky brae
      And sings to the gumplet in accents sweet;
  The gibwink hasn't a word to say,
      But pensively smiles at the fair keeweet.

  And it's O for the jungles of Boorabul.
      For the jingling jungles to jangle in,
  With a moony maze of mellado mull,
      And a protoplasm for next of kin.
  O, sweet is the note of the shagreen shard
      And mellow the mew of the mastodon,
  When the soboliferous Somminard
      Is scenting the shadows at set of sun.
  And it's O for the timorous tamarind
      In the murky meadows of Mariboo,
  For the suave sirocco of Sazerkind,
      And the pimpernell pellets of Pangipoo.

James C. Bayles.


  Oh, lady, wake! the azure moon
      Is rippling in the verdant skies,
  The owl is warbling his soft tune,
      Awaiting but thy snowy eyes.

  The joys of future years are past,
      To-morrow's hopes have fled away;
  Still let us love, and e'en at last
      We shall be happy yesterday.

  The early beam of rosy night
      Drives off the ebon morn afar,
  While through the murmur of the light
      The huntsman winds his mad guitar.

  Then, lady, wake! my brigantine
      Pants, neighs, and prances to be free;
  Till the creation I am thine,
      To some rich desert fly with me.



  'Tis sweet to roam when morning's light
      Resounds across the deep;
  And the crystal song of the woodbine bright
      Hushes the rocks to sleep,
  And the blood-red moon in the blaze of noon
      Is bathed in a crumbling dew,
  And the wolf rings out with a glittering shout,
      To-whit, to-whit, to-whoo!



  The dreamy crags with raucous voices croon
      Across the zephyr's heliotrope career;
  I sit contentedly upon the moon
      And watch the sunlight trickle round the sphere.

  The shiny trill of jagged, feathered rocks
      I hear with glee as swift I fly away;
  And over waves of subtle, woolly flocks
      Crashes the breaking day!



  The moon is up, the moon is up!
      The larks begin to fly,
  And, like a drowsy buttercup,
      Dark Phoebus skims the sky,
  The elephant, with cheerful voice,
      Sings blithely on the spray;
  The bats and beetles all rejoice,
      Then let me, too, be gay.

  I would I were a porcupine,
      And wore a peacock's tail;
  To-morrow, if the moon but shine,
      Perchance I'll be a whale.
  Then let me, like the cauliflower,
      Be merry while I may,
  And, ere there comes a sunny hour
      To cloud my heart, be gay!



  'Tis midnight, and the setting sun
      Is slowly rising in the west;
  The rapid rivers slowly run,
      The frog is on his downy nest.
  The pensive goat and sportive cow,
      Hilarious, leap from bough to bough.



  Uprising see the fitful lark
      Unfold his pinion to the stream;
  The pensive watch-dog's mellow bark
      O'ershades yon cottage like a dream:
  The playful duck and warbling bee
  Hop gayly on, from tree to tree!

  How calmly could my spirit rest
      Beneath yon primrose bell so blue,
  And watch those airy oxen drest
      In every tint of pearling hue!
  As on they hurl the gladsome plough,
  While fairy zephyrs deck each brow!



  Like to the thundering tone of unspoke speeches,
  Or like a lobster clad in logic breeches,
  Or like the gray fur of a crimson cat,
  Or like the mooncalf in a slipshod hat;
  E'en such is he who never was begotten
  Until his children were both dead and rotten.

  Like to the fiery tombstone of a cabbage,
  Or like a crab-louse with its bag and baggage,
  Or like the four square circle of a ring,
  Or like to hey ding, ding-a, ding-a, ding;
  E'en such is he who spake, and yet, no doubt,
  Spake to small purpose, when his tongue was out.

  Like to a fair, fresh, fading, wither'd rose,
  Or like to rhyming verse that runs in prose,
  Or like the stumbles of a tinder-box,
  Or like a man that's sound yet sickness mocks;
  E'en such is he who died and yet did laugh
  To see these lines writ for his epitaph.

Bishop Corbet in 17th century.


  I dreamed a dream next Tuesday week,
      Beneath the apple-trees;
  I thought my eyes were big pork-pies,
      And my nose was Stilton cheese.
  The clock struck twenty minutes to six,
      When a frog sat on my knee;
  I asked him to lend me eighteenpence,
      But he borrowed a shilling of me.



  My home is on the rolling deep,
  I spend my time a-feeding sheep;
  And when the waves on high are running,
  I take my gun and go a-gunning.
  I shoot wild ducks down deep snake-holes,
  And drink gin-sling from two-quart bowls.



  We seek to know, and knowing seek;
      We seek, we know, and every sense
      Is trembling with the great intense,
  And vibrating to what we speak.

  We ask too much, we seek too oft;
      We know enough and should no more;
      And yet we skim through Fancy's lore,
  And look to earth and not aloft.

* * * * *

  O Sea! whose ancient ripples lie
      On red-ribbed sands where seaweeds shone;
      O moon! whose golden sickle's gone,
  O voices all! like you I die!

Cuthbert Bede.


  One, who is not, we see; but one, whom we see not, is;
    Surely, this is not that; but that is assuredly this.

  What, and wherefore, and whence: for under is over and under;
  If thunder could be without lightning, lightning could be without

  Doubt is faith in the main; but faith, on the whole, is doubt;
  We cannot believe by proof; but could we believe without?

  Why, and whither, and how? for barley and rye are not clover;
  Neither are straight lines curves; yet over is under and over.

  One and two are not one; but one and nothing is two;
  Truth can hardly be false, if falsehood cannot be true.

  Parallels all things are; yet many of these are askew;
  You are certainly I; but certainly I am not you.

  One, whom we see not, is; and one, who is not, we see;
  Fiddle, we know, is diddle; and diddle, we take it, is dee.

A.C. Swinburne.


  Power to thine elbow, thou newest of sciences,
      All the old landmarks are ripe for decay;
  Wars are but shadows, and so are alliances,
      Darwin the great is the man of the day.

  All other 'ologies want an apology;
      Bread's a mistake—Science offers a stone;
  Nothing is true but Anthropobiology—
      Darwin the great understands it alone.

  Mighty the great evolutionist teacher is,
      Licking Morphology clean into shape;
  Lord! what an ape the Professor or Preacher is,
      Ever to doubt his descent from an ape.

  Man's an Anthropoid—he cannot help that, you know—
      First evoluted from Pongos of old;
  He's but a branch of the catarrhine cat, you know—
      Monkey I mean—that's an ape with a cold.

  Fast dying out are man's later Appearances,
      Cataclysmitic Geologies gone;
  Now of Creation completed the clearance is,
      Darwin alone you must anchor upon.

  Primitive Life—Organisms were chemical,
      Busting spontaneous under the sea;
  Purely subaqueous, panaquademical,
      Was the original Crystal of Me.

  I'm the Apostle of mighty Darwinity,
      Stands for Divinity—sounds much the same—
      Only can doubt whence the lot of us came.

  Down on your knees, Superstition and Flunkeydom!
      Won't you accept such plain doctrines instead?
  What is so simple as primitive Monkeydom
      Born in the sea with a cold in its head?

Herman Merivale.


  A moving form or rigid mass,
        Under whate'er conditions
  Along successive screws must pass
        Between each two positions.
  It turns around and slides along—
  This is the burden of my song.

  The pitch of screw, if multiplied
        By angle of rotation,
  Will give the distance it must glide
        In motion of translation.
  Infinite pitch means pure translation,
  And zero pitch means pure rotation.

  Two motions on two given screws,
        With amplitudes at pleasure,
  Into a third screw-motion fuse;
        Whose amplitude we measure
  By parallelogram construction
  (A very obvious deduction.)

  Its axis cuts the nodal line
        Which to both screws is normal,
  And generates a form divine,
        Whose name, in language formal,
  Is "surface-ruled of third degree."
  Cylindroid is the name for me.

  Rotation round a given line
        Is like a force along.
  If to say couple you incline,
        You're clearly in the wrong;—
  'Tis obvious, upon reflection,
  A line is not a mere direction.

  So couples with translations too
        In all respects agree;
  And thus there centres in the screw
        A wondrous harmony
  Of Kinematics and of Statics,—
  The sweetest thing in mathematics.

  The forces on one given screw,
        With motion on a second,
  In general some work will do,
        Whose magnitude is reckoned
  By angle, force, and what we call
  The coefficient virtual.

  Rotation now to force convert,
        And force into rotation;
  Unchanged the work, we can assert,
        In spite of transformation.
  And if two screws no work can claim,
  Reciprocal will be their name.

  Five numbers will a screw define,
        A screwing motion, six;
  For four will give the axial line,
        One more the pitch will fix;
  And hence we always can contrive
  One screw reciprocal to five.

  Screws—two, three, four or five, combined
        (No question here of six),
  Yield other screws which are confined
        Within one screw complex.
  Thus we obtain the clearest notion
  Of freedom and constraint of motion.

  In complex III., three several screws
        At every point you find,
  Or if you one direction choose,
        One screw is to your mind;
  And complexes of order III.
  Their own reciprocals may be.

  In IV., wherever you arrive,
        You find of screws a cone,
  On every line in complex V.
        There is precisely one;
  At each point of this complex rich,
  A plane of screws have given pitch.

  But time would fail me to discourse
        Of Order and Degree;
  Of Impulse, Energy and Force,
        And Reciprocity.
  All these and more, for motions small,
  Have been discussed by Dr. Ball.



  Across the moorlands of the Not
      We chase the gruesome When;
  And hunt the Itness of the What
      Through forests of the Then.
  Into the Inner Consciousness
      We track the crafty Where;
  We spear the Ego tough, and beard
      The Selfhood in his lair.

  With lassos of the brain we catch
     The Isness of the Was;
  And in the copses of the Whence
      We hear the think bees buzz.
  We climb the slippery Whichbark tree
      To watch the Thusness roll
  And pause betimes in gnostic rimes
      To woo the Over Soul.



  Why and Wherefore set out one day
        To hunt for a wild Negation.
  They agreed to meet at a cool retreat
        On the Point of Interrogation.

  But the night was dark and they missed their mark,
        And, driven well-nigh to distraction,
  They lost their ways in a murky maze
        Of utter abstruse abstraction.

  Then they took a boat and were soon afloat
        On a sea of Speculation,
  But the sea grew rough, and their boat, though tough,
        Was split into an Equation.

  As they floundered about in the waves of doubt
        Rose a fearful Hypothesis,
  Who gibbered with glee as they sank in the sea,
        And the last they saw was this:

  On a rock-bound reef of Unbelief
        There sat the wild Negation;
  Then they sank once more and were washed ashore
        At the Point of Interrogation.

Oliver Herford.


  If echoes from the fitful past
      Could rise to mental view,
  Would all their fancied radiance last
  Or would some odors from the blast,
      Untouched by Time, accrue?

  Is present pain a future bliss,
      Or is it something worse?
  For instance, take a case like this:
  Is fancied kick a real kiss,
      Or rather the reverse?

  Is plenitude of passion palled
      By poverty of scorn?
  Does Fiction mend where Fact has mauled?
  Has Death its wisest victims called
      When idiots are born?

Gelett Burgess.


In Mystic Argot often Confounded with Farrago

  If aught that stumbles in my speech
      Or stutters in my pen,
  Or, claiming tribute, each to each,
      Rise, not to fall again,
  Let something lowlier far, for me,
      Through evanescent shades—
  Than which my spirit might not be
      Nourished in fitful ecstasy
  Not less to know but more to see
      Where that great Bliss pervades.

Gelett Burgess.


Supposed to be Translated from the Old Parsee

  Twine then the rays
      Round her soft Theban tissues!
  All will be as She says,
      When that dead past reissues.
  Matters not what nor where,
      Hark, to the moon's dim cluster!
  How was her heavy hair
      Lithe as a feather duster!
  Matters not when nor whence;
  Sounds make the song, not sense,
      Thus I inhibit!

Gelett Burgess.


  As one who cleaves the circumambient air
      Seeking in azure what it lacks in space,
      And sees a young and finely chiselled face
  Filled with foretastes of wisdom yet more rare;
  Touching and yet untouched—unmeasured grace!
      A breathing credo and a living prayer—
      Yet of the earth, still earthy; debonair
  The while in heaven it seeketh for a place.

  So thy dear eyes and thy kind lips but say—
      Ere from his cerements Timon seems to flit:
        "What of the reaper grim with sickle keen?"
  And then the sunlight ushers in new day
      And for our tasks our bodies seem more fit—
        "Might of the night, unfleeing, sight unseen."

Charles Battell Loomis.


  Alone! Alone!
  I sit in the solitudes of the moonshades,
  Soul-hungering in the moonshade solitudes sit I—
  My heart-lifts beaten down in the wild wind-path.
  Oppressed, and scourged and beaten down are my heart-lifts.
  I fix my gaze on the eye-star, and the eye-star flings its dart
       upon me.
  I wonder why my soul is lost in wonder why I am,
  And why the eye-star mocks me,
  Why the wild wind beats down my heart-lifts;
  Why I am stricken here in the moonshade solitudes.
  Oh! why am I what I am,
  And why am I anything?
  Am I not as wild as the wind and more crazy?
  Why do I sit in the moonshade, while the eye-star mocks me while I
       ask what I am?

Why? Why?



  I might not, if I could;
      I should not, if I might;
  Yet if I should I would,
      And, shoulding, I should quite!

  I must not, yet I may;
      I can, and still I must;
  But ah! I cannot—nay,
      To must I may not, just!

  I shall, although I will,
      But be it understood,
  If I may, can, shall—still
      I might, could, would, or should!



  It is told, in Buddhi-theosophic schools,
            There are rules,
  By observing which, when mundane labor irks
        One can simulate quiescence
        By a timely evanescence
        From his Active Mortal Essence,
            (Or his Works.)

  The particular procedure leaves research
            In the lurch,
  But, apparently, this matter-moulded form
        Is a kind of outer plaster,
        Which a well-instructed Master
        Can remove without disaster
            When he's warm.

  And to such as mourn an Indian Solar Clime
            At its prime
  'Twere a thesis most immeasurably fit,
        So expansively elastic,
        And so plausibly fantastic,
        That one gets enthusiastic
            For a bit.

From the Times of India.


  In loopy links the canker crawls,
      Tads twiddle in their 'polian glee,
  Yet sinks my heart as water falls.
  The loon that laughs, the babe that bawls,
  The wedding wear, the funeral palls,
      Are neither here nor there to me.
        Of life the mingled wine and brine
      I sit and sip pipslipsily.



  Oh! to be wafted away
  From this black Aceldama of sorrow,
  Where the dust of an earthy to-day
  Makes the earth of a dusty to-morrow.

W.S. Gilbert.


  Come fleetly, come fleetly, my hookabadar,
  For the sound of the tam-tam is heard from afar.
  "Banoolah! Banoolah!" The Brahmins are nigh,
  And the depths of the jungle re-echo their cry.
      Pestonjee Bomanjee!
      Smite the guitar;
  Join in the chorus, my hookabadar.

  Heed not the blast of the deadly monsoon,
  Nor the blue Brahmaputra that gleams in the moon.
  Stick to thy music, and oh, let the sound
  Be heard with distinctness a mile or two round.
      Famsetjee, Feejeebhoy!
      Sweep the guitar.
  Join in the chorus, my hookabadar.

  Art thou a Buddhist, or dost thou indeed
  Put faith in the monstrous Mohammedan creed?
  Art thou a Ghebir—a blinded Parsee?
  Not that it matters an atom to me.
      Cursetjee Bomanjee!
      Twang the guitar
  Join in the chorus, my hookabadar.

Henry S. Leigh.


  Affection's charm no longer gilds
      The idol of the shrine;
  But cold Oblivion seeks to fill
      Regret's ambrosial wine.
  Though Friendship's offering buried lies
      'Neath cold Aversion's snow,
  Regard and Faith will ever bloom
      Perpetually below.

  I see thee whirl in marble halls,
      In Pleasure's giddy train,
  Remorse is never on that brow,
      Nor Sorrow's mark of pain.
  Deceit has marked thee for her own;
      Inconstancy the same;
  And Ruin wildly sheds its gleam
      Athwart thy path of shame.

Bret Harte.


  Oh, limpid stream of Tyrus, now I hear
      The pulsing wings of Armageddon's host,
  Clear as a colcothar and yet more clear—
      (Twin orbs, like those of which the Parsees boast;)

  Down in thy pebbled deeps in early spring
      The dimpled naiads sport, as in the time
  When Ocidelus with untiring wing
      Drave teams of prancing tigers, 'mid the chime

  Of all the bells of Phicol. Scarcely one
      Peristome veils its beauties now, but then—
  Like nascent diamonds, sparkling in the sun,
      Or sainfoin, circinate, or moss in marshy fen.

  Loud as the blasts of Tubal, loud and strong,
      Sweet as the songs of Sappho, aye more sweet;
  Long as the spear of Arnon, twice as long,
      What time he hurled it at King Pharaoh's feet.

Charles Battell Loomis.


  Where avalanches wail, and green Distress
  Sweeps o'er the pallid beak of loveliness:
  Where melancholy Sulphur holds her sway:
  And cliffs of conscience tremble and obey;

  And where Tartarean rattle snakes expire;
  Twisting like tendrils of a hero's pyre?
  No! dancing in the meteor's hall of power,
  See, Genius ponders o'er Affection's tower!
  A form of thund'ring import soars on high,
  Hark! 'tis the gore of infant melody:
  No more shall verdant Innocence amuse
  The lips that death-fraught Indignation glues;—
  Tempests shall teach the trackless tide of thought.
  That undiminish'd senselessness is naught;
  Freedom shall glare; and oh! ye links divine,
  The Poet's heart shall quiver in the brine.



  Mingled aye with fragrant yearnings,
      Throbbing in the mellow glow,
  Glint the silvery spirit-burnings,
      Pearly blandishments of woe.

  Aye! forever and forever,
      Whilst the love-lorn censers sweep,
  Whilst the jasper winds dissever
      Amber-like the crystal deep,

  Shall the soul's delirious slumber,
      Sea-green vengeance of a kiss,
  Teach despairing crags to number
      Blue infinities of bliss.

Francis G. Stokes.


  Good reader, if you e'er have seen,
        When Phoebus hastens to his pillow,
        The mermaids with their tresses green
      Dancing upon the western billow;
        If you have seen at twilight dim,
        When the lone spirit's vesper hymn
      Floats wild along the winding shore,
  The fairy train their ringlets weave
      Glancing along the spangled green;—
        If you have seen all this, and more,
      God bless me! what a deal you've seen!

Thomas Moore.


  He comes with herald clouds of dust;
      Ecstatic frenzies rend his breast;
  A moment, and he graced the earth—
      Now, seek him at the eagle's nest.

  Hark! see'st thou not the torrent's flash
      Far shooting o'er the mountain height?
  Hear'st not the billow's solemn roar,
      That echoes through the vaults of night?

  Anon the murky cloud is riven,
      The lightnings leap in sportive play,
  And through the clanging doors of heaven,
      In calm effulgence bursts the day.

  Hope, peering from her fleecy car,
      Smiles welcome to the coming spring,
  And birds with blithesome songs of praise
      Make every grove and valley ring.

  What though on pinions of the blast
      The sea-gulls sweep with leaden flight?
  What though the watery caverns deep
      Gleam ghostly on the wandering sight?

  Is there no music in the trees
      To charm thee with its frolic mirth?
  Must Care's wan phantom still beguile
      And chain thee to the stubborn earth?

  Lo! Fancy from her magic realm
      Pours Boreal gleams adown the pole.
  The tidal currents lift and swell—
      Dead currents of the ocean's soul.

  Yet never may their mystic streams
      Breathe whispers of the mournful past,
  Or Pallas wake her sounding lyre
      Mid Ether's columned temples vast.

  Grave History walks again the earth
      As erst it did in days of eld,
  When seated on the golden throne
      Her hand a jewelled sceptre held.

  The Delphian oracle is dumb,
      Dread Cumae wafts no words of fate,
  To fright the eager souls that press
      Through sullen Lethe's iron gate.

  But deeper shadows gather o'er
      The vales that sever night and morn;
  And darkness folds with brooding wing
      The rustling fields of waving corn.

  Then issuing from his bosky lair
      The crafty tiger crouches low,
  Or thunders from the frozen north
      The white bear lapped in Arctic snow.

  Thus shift the scenes till high aloft
      The young moon sets her crescent horn,
  And in gray evening's emerald sea
      The beauteous Star of Love is born.



  When moonlike ore the hazure seas
      In soft effulgence swells,
  When silver jews and balmy breaze
      Bend down the Lily's bells;

  When calm and deap, the rosy sleap
      Has lapt your soal in dreems,
  R Hangeline! R lady mine!
      Dost thou remember Jeames?

  I mark thee in the Marble all,
      Where England's loveliest shine—
  I say the fairest of them hall
      Is Lady Hangeline.

  My soul, in desolate eclipse,
      With recollection teems—
  And then I hask, with weeping lips,
      Dost thou remember Jeames?

  Away! I may not tell thee hall
      This soughring heart endures—
  There is a lonely sperrit-call
      That Sorrow never cures;

  There is a little, little Star,
      That still above me beams;
  It is the Star of Hope—but ar!
      Dost thou remember Jeames?

W.M. Thackeray.


  Fluttering spread thy purple pinions,
      Gentle Cupid, o'er my heart,
  I a slave in thy dominions,
      Nature must give way to art.

  Mild Arcadians, ever blooming,
      Nightly nodding o'er your flocks,
  See my weary days consuming,
      All beneath yon flowery rocks.

  Thus the Cyprian goddess weeping,
      Mourned Adonis, darling youth:
  Him the boar, in silence creeping,
      Gored with unrelenting tooth.

  Cynthia, tune harmonious numbers;
      Fair Discretion, tune the lyre;
  Soothe my ever-waking slumbers;
      Bright Apollo, lend thy choir.

  Gloomy Pluto, king of terrors,
      Armed in adamantine chains,
  Lead me to the crystal mirrors,
      Watering soft Elysian plains.

  Mournful Cypress, verdant willow,
      Gilding my Aurelia's brows,
  Morpheus, hovering o'er my pillow,
      Hear me pay my dying vows.

  Melancholy, smooth Maeander,
      Swiftly purling in a round,
  On thy margin lovers wander
      With thy flowery chaplets crowned.

  Thus when Philomela, drooping,
      Softly seeks her silent mate,
  So the bird of Juno stooping;
      Melody resigns to fate.

Alexander Pope.


  Untwine those ringlets! Ev'ry dainty clasp
      That shines like twisted sunlight in my eye
  Is but the coiling of the jewelled asp
      That smiles to see men die.

  Oh, cobra-curlèd! Fierce-fanged fair one! Draw
      Night's curtain o'er the landscape of thy hair!
  I yield! I kneel! I own, I bless thy law
      That dooms me to despair.

  I mark the crimson ruby of thy lips,
      I feel the witching weirdness of thy breath!
  I droop! I sink into my soul's eclipse,—
      I fall in love with death!

  And yet, vouchsafe a moment! I would gaze
      Once more into those sweetly-murderous eyes,
  Soft glimmering athwart the pearly haze
      That smites to dusk the skies.

  Hast thou no pity? Must I darkly tread
      The unknown paths that lead me wide from thee?
  Hast thou no garland for this aching head
      That soon so low must be?

  No sound? No sigh? No smile? Is all forgot?
      Then spin my shroud out of that golden skein
  Thou callst thy tresses! I shall stay thee not—
      My struggles were but vain!

  But shall I see thee far beyond the sun,
      When the new dawn lights Empyrean scenes?
  What matters now? I know the poem's done,
      And wonder what the dickens it all means!



  Lovely maid, with rapture swelling,
      Should these pages meet thine eye,
  Clouds of absence soft dispelling;—
      Vacant memory heaves a sigh.

  As the rose, with fragrance weeping,
      Trembles to the tuneful wave,
  So my heart shall twine unsleeping,
      Till it canopies the grave.

  Though another's smile's requited,
      Envious fate my doom should be;
  Joy forever disunited,
      Think, ah! think, at times on me!

  Oft, amid the spicy gloaming,
      Where the brakes their songs instil,
  Fond affection silent roaming,
      Loves to linger by the rill—

  There, when echo's voice consoling,
      Hears the nightingale complain,
  Gentle sighs my lips controlling,
      Bind my soul in beauty's chain.

  Oft in slumber's deep recesses,
      I thy mirror'd image see;
  Fancy mocks the vain caresses
      I would lavish like a bee!

  But how vain is glittering sadness!
      Hark, I hear distraction's knell!
  Torture gilds my heart with madness!
      Now forever fare thee well!



  How many strive to force a way
  Where none can go save those who pay,
  To verdant plains of soft delight
  The homage of the silent night,
  When countless stars from pole to pole
  Around the earth unceasing roll
  In roseate shadow's silvery hue,
  Shine forth and gild the morning dew.

  And must we really part for good,
  But meet again here where we've stood?
  No more delightful trysting-place,
  We've watched sweet Nature's smiling face.
  No more the landscape's lovely brow,
  Exchange our mutual breathing vow.
  Then should the twilight draw around
  No loving interchange of sound.

  Less for renown than innate love,
  These to my wish must recreant prove;
  Nor whilst an impulse here remain,
  Can ever hope the soul to gain;
  For memory scanning all the past,
  Relaxes her firm bonds at last,
  And gives to candor all the grace
  The heart can in its temple trace.



  Thy heart is like some icy lake,
      On whose cold brink I stand;
  Oh, buckle on my spirit's skate,
  And lead, thou living saint, the way
      To where the ice is thin—
  That it may break beneath my feet
      And let a lover in!



  There's not a spider in the sky,
      There's not a glowworm in the sea,
  There's not a crab that soars on high,
      But bids me dream, dear maid, of thee!

  When watery Phoebus ploughs the main,
      When fiery Luna gilds the lea,
  As flies run up the window-pane,
      So fly my thoughts, dear love, to thee!



  I don't know any greatest treat
      As sit him in a gay parterre,
  And sniff one up the perfume sweet
      Of every roses buttoning there.

  It only want my charming miss
      Who make to blush the self red rose;
  Oh! I have envy of to kiss
      The end's tip of her splendid nose.

  Oh! I have envy of to be
      What grass 'neath her pantoffle push,
  And too much happy seemeth me
      The margaret which her vestige crush.

  But I will meet her nose at nose,
      And take occasion for her hairs,
  And indicate her all my woes,
      That she in fine agree my prayers.

  I don't know any greatest treat
      As sit him in a gay parterre,
  With Madame who is too more sweet
      Than every roses buttoning there.

E.H. Palmer


  When gooseberries grow on the stem of a daisy,
      And plum-puddings roll on the tide to the shore,
  And julep is made from the curls of a jazey,
      Oh, then, Mollidusta, I'll love thee no more.

  When steamboats no more on the Thames shall be going,
      And a cast-iron bridge reach Vauxhall from the Nore,
  And the Grand Junction waterworks cease to be flowing,
      Oh, then, Mollidusta, I'll love thee no more.



At the Piano


  Love me and leave me; what love bids retrieve me? can June's fist
       grasp May?
  Leave me and love me; hopes eyed once above me like spring's
       sprouts, decay;
  Fall as the snow falls, when summer leaves grow false—cards
       packed for storm's play!


  Nay, say Decay's self be but last May's elf, wing shifted, eye
  Changeling in April's crib rocked, who lets 'scape rills locked
       fast since frost breathed—
  Skin cast (think!) adder-like, now bloom bursts bladder-like,—
       bloom frost bequeathed?


  Ah, how can fear sit and hear as love hears it grief's heart's
       cracked grate's screech?
  Chance lets the gate sway that opens on hate's way and shews on
       shame's beach
  Crouched like an imp sly change watch sweet love's shrimps lie, a
       toothful in each.


  Time feels his tooth slip on husks wet from Truth's lip, which
       drops them and grins—
  Shells where no throb stirs of life left in lobsters since joy
       thrilled their fins—
  Hues of the pawn's tail or comb that makes dawn stale, so red for
       our sins!


  Leaves love last year smelt now feel dead love's tears melt—flies
       caught in time's mesh!
  Salt are the dews in which new time breeds new sin, brews blood
       and stews flesh;
  Next year may see dead more germs than this weeded and reared them

  Old times left perish, new time to cherish; life just shifts its
  As, when the day dies, half afraid, eyes the growth of the moon;
  Love me and save me, take me or waive me; death takes one so soon!

A.C. Swinburne.


  The Owl and the Pussy-Cat went to sea
      In a beautiful pea-green boat:
  They took some honey, and plenty of money
      Wrapped up in a five-pound note.
  The Owl looked up to the stars above,
      And sang to a small guitar,
  "Oh, lovely Pussy, oh, Pussy, my love,
      What a beautiful Pussy you are,
              You are,
              You are!
      What a beautiful Pussy you are!"

  Pussy said to the Owl, "You elegant fowl,
      How charmingly sweet you sing!
  Oh, let us be married; too long we have tarried:
      But what shall we do for a ring?"
  They sailed away for a year and a day,
      To the land where the bong-tree grows;
  And there in the wood a Piggy-wig stood,
      With a ring at the end of his nose,
              His nose,
              His nose,
      With a ring at the end of his nose.

  "Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling
      Your ring?" Said the Piggy, "I will."
  So they took it away and were married next day
      By the Turkey who lives on the hill.
  They dined on mince and slices of quince,
      Which they ate with a runcible spoon;
  And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,
      They danced by the light of the moon,
              The moon,
              The moon,
      They danced by the light of the moon.

Edward Lear.


  She hid herself in the soirée kettle
      Out of her Ma's way, wise, wee maid!
  Wan was her lip as the lily's petal,
      Sad was the smile that over it played.
      Why doth she warble not? Is she afraid
  Of the hound that howls, or the moaning mole?
      Can it be on an errand she hath delayed?
  Hush thee, hush thee, dear little soul!

  The nightingale sings to the nodding nettle
      In the gloom o' the gloaming athwart the glade:
  The zephyr sighs soft on Popòcatapètl,
      And Auster is taking it cool in the shade:
      Sing, hey, for a gutta serenade!
  Not mine to stir up a storied pole,
      No noses snip with a bluggy blade—
  Hush thee, hush thee, dear little soul!

  Shall I bribe with a store of minted metal?
      With Everton toffee thee persuade?
  That thou in a kettle thyself shouldst settle,
      When grandly and gaudily all arrayed!
      Thy flounces 'ill foul and fangles fade.
  Come out, and Algernon Charles 'ill roll
      Thee safe and snug in Plutonian plaid—
  Hush thee, hush thee, dear little soul!


      When nap is none and raiment frayed,
  And winter crowns the puddered poll,
      A kettle sings ane soote ballade—
  Hush thee, hush thee, dear little soul.

John Twig.


  Ah Night! blind germ of days to be,
      Ah me! ah me!
      (Sweet Venus, mother!)
  What wail of smitten strings hear we?
      (Ah me! ah me!
                Hey diddle dee!)

  Ravished by clouds our Lady Moon,
      Ah me! ah me!
      (Sweet Venus, mother!)
  Sinks swooning in a lady-swoon
      (Ah me! ah me!
                Dum diddle dee!)

  What profits it to rise i' the dark?
      Ah me! ah me!
      (Sweet Venus, mother!)
  If love but over-soar its mark
      (Ah me! ah me!
                Hey diddle dee!)

  What boots to fall again forlorn?
      Ah me! ah me!
      (Sweet Venus, mother!)
  Scorned by the grinning hound of scorn,
      (Ah me! ah me!
                Dum diddle dee!)

  Art thou not greater who art less?
       Ah me! ah me!
      (Sweet Venus, mother!)
  Low love fulfilled of low success?
      (Ah me! ah me!
                Hey diddle dee!)



  Out on the margin of moonshine land,
        Tickle me, love, in these lonesome ribs,
  Out where the whing-whang loves to stand,
  Writing his name with his tail on the sand,
  And wiping it out with his oogerish hand;
        Tickle me, love, in these lonesome ribs.

  Is it the gibber of gungs and keeks?
        Tickle me, love, in these lonesome ribs,
  Or what is the sound the whing-whang seeks,
  Crouching low by the winding creeks,
  And holding his breath for weeks and weeks?
        Tickle me, love, in these lonesome ribs.

  Aroint him the wraithest of wraithly things!
        Tickle me, love, in these lonesome ribs,
  'Tis a fair whing-whangess with phosphor rings,
  And bridal jewels of fangs and stings,

James W. Riley


  The lilies lie in my lady's bower,
      (Oh! weary mother, drive the cows to roost;)
  They faintly droop for a little hour;
  My lady's head droops like a flower.

  She took the porcelain in her hand,
      (Oh! weary mother, drive the cows to roost;)
  She poured; I drank at her command;
  Drank deep, and now—you understand!
      (Oh! weary mother, drive the cows to roost.)

Barry Pain.


  I'm a gay tra, la, la,
  With my fal, lal, la, la,
  And my bright—
  And my light—
      Tra, la, le. [Repeat.]

  Then laugh, ha, ha, ha,
  And ring, ting, ling, ling,
  And sing, fal, la, la,
    La, la, le. [Repeat.]

Bret Harte.


  The bulbul hummeth like a book
      Upon the pooh-pooh tree,
  And now and then he takes a look
      At you and me,
      At me and you.

Owen Seaman.


With an Ancient Refrain

  O stoodent A has gone and spent,
  With a hey-lililu and a how-low-lan
  All his money to a Cent,
  And the birk and the broom blooms bonny.

  His Creditors he could not pay,
  With a hey-lililu and a how-low-lan,
  And Prison proved a shock to A,
  And the birk and the broom blooms bonny.



  Oh, my Geraldine,
        No flow'r was ever seen so toodle um.
        You are my lum ti toodle lay,
            Pretty, pretty queen,
  Is rum ti Geraldine and something teen,
  More sweet than tiddle lum in May.
        Like the star so bright
        That somethings all the night,
            My Geraldine!
  You're fair as the rum ti lum ti sheen,
        Hark! there is what—ho!
        From something—um, you know,
            Dear, what I mean.
  Oh! rum! tum!! tum!!! my Geraldine.

F.C. Burnand.


  Buz, quoth the blue fly,
      Hum, quoth the bee,
  Buz and hum they cry,
      And so do we:
  In his ear, in his nose, thus, do you see?
  He ate the dormouse, else it was he.

Ben Jonson in "The Masque of Oberon."


  As I walked by myself,
  And talked to myself,
      Myself said unto me,
  Look to thyself,
  Take care of thyself,
      For nobody cares for thee.

  I answered myself,
  And said to myself,
      In the self-same repartee,
  Look to thyself,
  Or not look to thyself,
      The selfsame thing will be.



  There was a monkey climbed up a tree,
  When he fell down, then down fell he.

  There was a crow sat on a stone,
  When he was gone, then there was none.

  There was an old wife did eat an apple,
  When she had eat two, she had eat a couple.

  There was a horse going to the mill,
  When he went on, he stood not still.

  There was a butcher cut his thumb,
  When it did bleed, then blood did come.

  There was a lackey ran a race,
  When he ran fast, he ran apace.

  There was a cobbler clouting shoon,
  When they were mended, they were done.

  There was a chandler making candle,
  When he them strip, he did them handle.

  There was a navy went into Spain,
  When it returned, it came again.

Anonymous, 1626.


  There was a little Guinea-pig,
  Who, being little, was not big;
  He always walked upon his feet,
  And never fasted when he eat.

  When from a place he ran away,
  He never at that place did stay;
  And while he ran, as I am told,
  He ne'er stood still for young or old.

  He often squeaked, and sometimes vi'lent,
  And when he squeaked he ne'er was silent:
  Though ne'er instructed by a cat,
  He knew a mouse was not a rat.

  One day, as I am certified,
  He took a whim, and fairly died;
  And as I'm told by men of sense,
  He never has been living since!



  Three children sliding on the ice
      Upon a summer's day,
  As it fell out they all fell in,
      The rest they ran away.

  Now, had these children been at home,
      Or sliding on dry ground,
  Ten thousand pounds to one penny
      They had not all been drowned.

  You parents all that children have,
      And you too that have none,
  If you would have them safe abroad
      Pray keep them safe at home.

London, 1662


  If all the land were apple-pie,
      And all the sea were ink;
  And all the trees were bread and cheese,
      What should we do for drink?



  The man in the wilderness asked of me
  How many strawberries grew in the sea.
  I answered him as I thought good,
  As many as red herrings grow in the wood.



  There were three jovial huntsmen,
      As I have heard them say,
  And they would go a-hunting
      All on a summer's day.

  All the day they hunted,
      And nothing could they find
  But a ship a-sailing,
      A-sailing with the wind.

  One said it was a ship,
      The other said Nay;
  The third said it was a house
      With the chimney blown away.

  And all the night they hunted,
      And nothing could they find;
  But the moon a-gliding,
      A-gliding with the wind.

  One said it was the moon,
      The other said Nay;
  The third said it was a cheese,
      And half o't cut away.



  My father left me three acres of land,
      Sing ivy, sing ivy;
  My father left me three acres of land,
      Sing holly, go whistle, and ivy!

  I ploughed it with a ram's horn,
      Sing ivy, sing ivy;
  And sowed it all over with one peppercorn.
      Sing holly, go whistle, and ivy!

  I harrowed it with a bramble bush,
      Sing ivy, sing ivy;
  And reaped it with my little penknife,
      Sing holly, go whistle, and ivy!

  I got the mice to carry it to the barn,
      Sing ivy, sing ivy;
  And thrashed it with a goose's quill,
      Sing holly, go whistle, and ivy!

  I got the cat to carry it to the mill,
      Sing ivy, sing ivy;
  The miller he swore he would have her paw,
  And the cat she swore she would scratch his face,
      Sing holly, go whistle, and ivy!



  Master I have, and I am his man,
      Gallop a dreary dun;
  Master I have, and I am his man,
  And I'll get a wife as fast as I can;
  With a heighly gaily gamberally,
      Higgledy piggledy, niggledy, niggledy,
      Gallop a dreary dun.



  Hyder iddle diddle dell,
  A yard of pudding is not an ell;
  Not forgetting tweedle-dye,
  A tailor's goose will never fly.



  When good King Arthur ruled the land,
      He was a goodly king:
  He stole three pecks of barley meal,
      To make a bag-pudding.

  A bag-pudding the king did make,
      And stuffed it well with plums;
  And in it put great lumps of fat,
      As big as my two thumbs.

  The king and queen did eat thereof,
      And noblemen beside;
  And what they could not eat that night,
      The queen next morning fried.



  We're all in the dumps,
  For diamonds are trumps;
  The kittens are gone to St. Paul's!
  The babies are bit,
  The moon's in a fit,
  And the houses are built without walls.



  Tweedle-dum and Tweedle-dee
      Resolved to have a battle,
  For Tweedle-dum said Tweedle-dee
      Had spoiled his nice new rattle.
  Just then flew by a monstrous crow,
      As big as a tar-barrel,
  Which frightened both the heroes so
      They quite forgot their quarrel.



  Martin said to his man,
          Fie! man, fie!
  Oh, Martin said to his man,
          Who's the fool now?
  Martin said to his man,
  Fill thou the cup, and I the can;
  Thou hast well drunken, man:
          Who's the fool now?

  I see a sheep shearing corn,
          Fie! man, fie!
  I see a sheep shearing corn,
          Who's the fool now?
  I see a sheep shearing corn,
  And a cuckoo blow his horn;
  Thou hast well drunken, man:
          Who's the fool now?

  I see a man in the moon,
          Fie! man, fie!
  I see a man in the moon,
          Who's the fool now?
  I see a man in the moon,
  Clouting of St. Peter's shoon,
  Thou hast well drunken, man:
          Who's the fool now?

  I see a hare chase a hound,
          Fie! man, fie!
  I see a hare chase a hound,
          Who's the fool now?
  I see a hare chase a hound,
  Twenty mile above the ground;
  Thou hast well drunken, man:
          Who's the fool now?

  I see a goose ring a hog,
          Fie! man, fie!
  I see a goose ring a hog,
          Who's the fool now?
  I see a goose ring a hog,
  And a snail that bit a dog;
  Thou hast well drunken, man:
          Who's the fool now?

  I see a mouse catch the cat,
          Fie! man, fie!
  I see a mouse catch the cat,
          Who's the fool now?
  I see a mouse catch the cat,
  And the cheese to eat the rat;
  Thou hast well drunken, man:
          Who's the fool now?

                          From Deuteromelia
                          printed in the reign of James I



  On the Coast of Coromandel
      Where the early pumpkins blow,
        In the middle of the woods
      Lived the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.
  Two old chairs, and half a candle,
  One old jug without a handle,—
      These were all his worldly goods:
      In the middle of the woods,
      These were all the worldly goods
    Of the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo,
    Of the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.


  Once, among the Bong-trees walking
    Where the early pumpkins blow,
      To a little heap of stones
    Came the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.
  There he heard a Lady talking,
  To some milk-white Hens of Dorking,—
        "'Tis the Lady Jingly Jones!
        On that little heap of stones
        Sits the Lady Jingly Jones!"
      Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo,
      Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.


  "Lady Jingly! Lady Jingly!
      Sitting where the pumpkins blow,
        Will you come and be my wife?"
      Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo,
  "I am tired of living singly,—
  On this coast so wild and shingly,—
        I'm a-weary of my life;
        If you'll come and be my wife,
        Quite serene would be my life!"
      Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo,
      Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.


  "On this Coast of Coromandel
      Shrimps and watercresses grow,
        Prawns are plentiful and cheap,"
      Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.
  "You shall have my chairs and candle,
  And my jug without a handle!
        Gaze upon the rolling deep
        (Fish is plentiful and cheap):
        As the sea, my love is deep!"
      Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo,
      Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.

  Lady Jingly answered sadly,
      And her tears began to flow,—
        "Your proposal comes too late,
      Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo!
  I would be your wife most gladly!"
  (Here she twirled her fingers madly,)
        "But in England I've a mate!
        Yes! you've asked me far too late,
        For in England I've a mate,
      Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo!
      Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo!"


  Mr. Jones (his name is Handel,—
      Handel Jones, Esquire & Co.)
        Dorking fowls delights to send,
      Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo!
  Keep, oh, keep your chairs and candle,
  And your jug without a handle,—
        I can merely be your friend!
        Should my Jones more Dorkings send,
        I will give you three, my friend!
      Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo!
      Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo!


  "Though you've such a tiny body,
      And your head so large doth grow,—
        Though your hat may blow away,
      Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo!
  Though you're such a Hoddy Doddy,
  Yet I wish that I could modi-
        fy the words I needs must say!
        Will you please to go away?
        That is all I have to say,
      Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo!
      Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo!"


  Down the slippery slopes of Myrtle,
      Where the early pumpkins blow,
        To the calm and silent sea
      Fled the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.
  There, beyond the Bay of Gurtle,
  Lay a large and lively Turtle.
        "You're the Cove," he said, "for me:
        On your back beyond the sea,
        Turtle, you shall carry me!"
      Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo,
      Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.


  Through the silent roaring ocean
      Did the Turtle swiftly go;
        Holding fast upon his shell
      Rode the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.
  With a sad primaeval motion
  Toward the sunset isles of Boshen
        Still the Turtle bore him well,
        Holding fast upon his shell.
        "Lady Jingly Jones, farewell!"
      Sang the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo,
      Sang the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.


  From the Coast of Coromandel
      Did that Lady never go,
        On that heap of stones she mourns
      For the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.
  On that Coast of Coromandel,
  In his jug without a handle
        Still she weeps, and daily moans;
        On the little heap of stones
        To her Dorking Hens she moans,
      For the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo,
      For the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.

Edward Lear.


  The Pobble who has no toes
      Had once as many as we;
  When they said, "Some day you may lose them all,"
      He replied, "Fish fiddle de-dee!"
  And his Aunt Jobiska made him drink
  Lavender water tinged with pink;
  For she said, "The World in general knows
  There's nothing so good for a Pobble's toes!"

  The Pobble who has no toes
      Swam across the Bristol Channel;
  But before he set out he wrapped his nose
      In a piece of scarlet flannel.
  For his Aunt Jobiska said, "No harm
  Can come to his toes if his nose is warm;
  And it's perfectly known that a Pobble's toes
  Are safe—provided he minds his nose."

  The Pobble swam fast and well,
      And when boats or ships came near him,
  He tinkledy-binkledy-winkled a bell
      So that all the world could hear him.
  And all the Sailors and Admirals cried,
  When they saw him nearing the farther side,
  "He has gone to fish for his Aunt Jobiska's
  Runcible Cat with crimson whiskers!"

  But before he touched the shore—
      The shore of the Bristol Channel,
  A sea-green Porpoise carried away
      His wrapper of scarlet flannel.
  And when he came to observe his feet,
  Formerly garnished with toes so neat,
  His face at once became forlorn
  On perceiving that all his toes were gone!

  And nobody ever knew,
      From that dark day to the present,
  Whoso had taken the Pobble's toes,
      In a manner so far from pleasant.
  Whether the shrimps or crawfish gray,
  Or crafty mermaids stole them away,
  Nobody knew; and nobody knows
  How the Pobble was robbed of his twice five toes!

  The Pobble who has no toes
      Was placed in a friendly Bark,
  And they rowed him back and carried him up
      To his Aunt Jobiska's Park.
  And she made him a feast at his earnest wish,
  Of eggs and buttercups fried with fish;
  And she said, "It's a fact the whole world knows,
  That Pobbles are happier without their toes."

Edward Lear.



  They went to sea in a sieve, they did;
      In a sieve they went to sea:
  In spite of all their friends could say,
  On a winter's morn, on a stormy day,
     In a sieve they went to sea.
  And when the sieve turned round and round,
  And every one cried, "You'll all be drowned!"
  They called aloud, "Our sieve ain't big;
  But we don't care a button, we don't care a fig:
      In a sieve we'll go to sea!"
        Far and few, far and few,
          Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
        Their heads are green and their hands are blue;
          And they went to sea in a sieve.


  They sailed away in a sieve, they did,
      In a sieve they sailed so fast,
  With only a beautiful pea-green veil
  Tied with a ribbon by way of a sail,
      To a small tobacco-pipe mast.
  And every one said who saw them go,
  "Oh! won't they soon be upset, you know?
  For the sky is dark and the voyage is long,
  And, happen what may, it's extremely wrong
      In a sieve to sail so fast."
        Far and few, far and few,
          Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
        Their heads are green and their hands are blue;
          And they went to sea in a sieve.


  The water it soon came in, it did;
      The water it soon came in:
  So, to keep them dry, they wrapped their feet
  In a pinky paper all folded neat;
      And they fastened it down with a pin.
  And they passed the night in a crockery-jar;
  And each of them said, "How wise we are!
  Though the sky be dark, and the voyage be long,
  Yet we never can think we were rash or wrong,
      While round in our sieve we spin."
        Far and few, far and few,
          Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
        Their heads are green and their hands are blue;
          And they went to sea in a sieve.


  And all night long they sailed away;
      And when the sun went down,
  They whistled and warbled a moony song
  To the echoing sound of a coppery gong,
      In the shade of the mountains brown.
  "O Timballoo! How happy we are
  When we live in a sieve and a crockery-jar!
  And all night long, in the moonlight pale,
  We sail away with a pea-green sail
      In the shade of the mountains brown."
        Far and few, far and few,
          Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
        Their heads are green, and their hands are blue;
          And they went to sea in a sieve.

  They sailed to the Western Sea, they did,—
      To a land all covered with trees;
  And they bought an owl and a useful cart,
  And a pound of rice, and a cranberry-tart,
      And a hive of silvery bees;
  And they bought a pig, and some green jackdaws,
  And a lovely monkey with lollipop paws,
  And forty bottles of ring-bo-ree,
      And no end of Stilton cheese.
        Far and few, far and few,
          Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
        Their heads are green, and their hands are blue;
          And they went to sea in a sieve.


  And in twenty years they all came back,—
      In twenty years or more;
  And every one said, "How tall they've grown!
  For they've been to the Lakes, and the Torrible Zone,
      And the hills of the Chankly Bore."
  And they drank their health, and gave them a feast
  Of dumplings made of beautiful yeast;
  And every one said, "If we only live,
  We, too, will go to sea in a sieve,
      To the hills of the Chankly Bore."
        Far and few, far and few,
          Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
        Their heads are green, and their hands are blue;
          And they went to sea in a sieve.

Edward Lear.



  Oh! my aged Uncle Arly,
  Sitting on a heap of barley
        Through the silent hours of night,
  Close beside a leafy thicket;
  On his nose there was a cricket,
  In his hat a Railway-Ticket,
        (But his shoes were far too tight.)


  Long ago, in youth, he squander'd
  All his goods away, and wander'd
        To the Timskoop-hills afar.
  There on golden sunsets glazing
  Every evening found him gazing,
  Singing, "Orb! you're quite amazing!
        How I wonder what you are!"


  Like the ancient Medes and Persians,
  Always by his own exertions
        He subsisted on those hills;
  Whiles, by teaching children spelling,
  Or at times by merely yelling,
  Or at intervals by selling
        "Propter's Nicodemus Pills."


  Later, in his morning rambles,
  He perceived the moving brambles
        Something square and white disclose:—
  'Twas a First-class Railway-Ticket;
  But on stooping down to pick it
  Off the ground, a pea-green cricket
        Settled on my uncle's nose.


  Never, nevermore, oh! never
  Did that cricket leave him ever,—
        Dawn or evening, day or night;
  Clinging as a constant treasure,
  Chirping with a cheerious measure,
  Wholly to my uncle's pleasure,
        (Though his shoes were far too tight.)


  So for three and forty winters,
  Till his shoes were worn to splinters
        All those hills he wander'd o'er,—
  Sometimes silent, sometimes yelling;
  Till he came to Borley-Melling,
  Near his old ancestral dwelling,
        (But his shoes were far too tight.)


  On a little heap of barley
  Died my aged Uncle Arly,
        And they buried him one night
  Close beside the leafy thicket;
  There, his hat and Railway-Ticket;
  There, his ever faithful cricket;
        (But his shoes were far too tight.)

Edward Lear.


  How pleasant to know Mr. Lear!
      Who has written such volumes of stuff!
  Some think him ill-tempered and queer,
      But a few think him pleasant enough.

  His mind is concrete and fastidious,
      His nose is remarkably big;
  His visage is more or less hideous,
      His beard it resembles a wig.

  He has ears, and two eyes, and ten fingers,
      Leastways if you reckon two thumbs;
  Long ago he was one of the singers,
      But now he is one of the dumbs.

  He sits in a beautiful parlour,
      With hundreds of books on the wall;
  He drinks a great deal of Marsala,
      But never gets tipsy at all.

  He has many friends, laymen and clerical,
      Old Foss is the name of his cat:
  His body is perfectly spherical,
      He weareth a runcible hat.

  When he walks in a waterproof white,
      The children run after him so!
  Calling out, "He's come out in his night-
      Gown, that crazy old Englishman, oh!"

  He weeps by the side of the ocean,
      He weeps on the top of the hill;
  He purchases pancakes and lotion,
      And chocolate shrimps from the mill.

  He reads but he cannot speak Spanish,
      He cannot abide ginger-beer:
  Ere the days of his pilgrimage vanish,
      How pleasant to know Mr. Lear.

Edward Lear.


  I'll tell thee everything I can;
      There's little to relate.
  I saw an aged aged man,
      A-sitting on a gate.
  "Who are you, aged man?" I said,
      "And how is it you live?"
  His answer trickled through my head
      Like water through a sieve.

  He said, "I look for butterflies
      That sleep among the wheat:
  I make them into mutton-pies,
      And sell them in the street.
  I sell them unto men," he said,
      "Who sail on stormy seas;
  And that's the way I get my bread—
      A trifle, if you please."

  But I was thinking of a plan
      To dye one's whiskers green,
  And always use so large a fan
      That they could not be seen.
  So, having no reply to give
      To what the old man said,
  I cried, "Come, tell me how you live!"
      And thumped him on the head.

  His accents mild took up the tale;
      He said, "I go my ways
  And when I find a mountain-rill
      I set it in a blaze;
  And thence they make a stuff they call
      Rowland's Macassar Oil—
  Yet twopence-halfpenny is all
      They give me for my toil."

  But I was thinking of a way
      To feed oneself on batter,
  And so go on from day to day
      Getting a little fatter.
  I shook him well from side to side,
      Until his face was blue;
  "Come, tell me how you live," I cried,
      "And what it is you do!"

  He said, "I hunt for haddock's eyes
      Among the heather bright,
  And work them into waistcoat-buttons
      In the silent night.
  And these I do not sell for gold
      Or coin of silvery shine,
  But for a copper halfpenny
      And that will purchase nine."

  "I sometimes dig for buttered rolls,
      Or set limed twigs for crabs;
  I sometimes search the grassy knolls
      For wheels of Hansom cabs.
  And that's the way" (he gave a wink)
      "By which I get my wealth—
  And very gladly will I drink
      Your Honor's noble health."

  I heard him then, for I had just
      Completed my design
  To keep the Menai Bridge from rust
      By boiling it in wine.
  I thanked him much for telling me
      The way he got his wealth,
  But chiefly for his wish that he
      Might drink my noble health.

  And now if e'er by chance I put
      My fingers into glue,
  Or madly squeeze a right-hand foot
      Into a left-hand shoe,
  Or if I drop upon my toe
      A very heavy weight,
  I weep, for it reminds me so
  Of that old man I used to know—
  Whose look was mild, whose speech was slow,
  Whose hair was whiter than the snow,
  Whose face was very like a crow,
  With eyes, like cinders, all aglow,
  Who seemed distracted with his woe,
  Who rocked his body to and fro,
  And muttered mumblingly, and low,
  As if his mouth were full of dough,
  Who snorted like a buffalo—
  That summer evening, long ago,
      A-sitting on a gate.

Lewis Carroll


  The sun was shining on the sea,
      Shining with all his might:
  He did his very best to make
      The billows smooth and bright—
  And this was odd, because it was
      The middle of the night.

  The moon was shining sulkily,
      Because she thought the sun
  Had got no business to be there
      After the day was done—
  "It's very rude of him," she said,
      "To come and spoil the fun!"

  The sea was wet as wet could be,
      The sands were dry as dry.
  You could not see a cloud, because
      No cloud was in the sky:
  No birds were flying overhead—
      There were no birds to fly.

  The Walrus and the Carpenter
      Were walking close at hand;
  They wept like anything to see
      Such quantities of sand:
  "If this were only cleared away,"
      They said, "it would be grand!"

  "If seven maids with seven mops
      Swept it for half a year,
  Do you suppose," the Walrus said,
      "That they could get it clear?"
  "I doubt it," said the Carpenter,
      And shed a bitter tear.

  "O Oysters come and walk with us!"
      The Walrus did beseech.
  "A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk,
      Along the briny beach:
  We cannot do with more than four,
      To give a hand to each."

  The eldest Oyster looked at him,
      But not a word he said:
  The eldest Oyster winked his eye,
      And shook his heavy head—
  Meaning to say he did not choose
      To leave the oyster-bed.

  But four young Oysters hurried up,
      All eager for the treat:
  Their coats were brushed, their faces washed,
      Their shoes were clean and neat—
  And this was odd, because, you know,
      They hadn't any feet.

  Four other Oysters followed them,
      And yet another four;
  And thick and fast they came at last,
      And more, and more, and more—
  All hopping through the frothy waves,
      And scrambling to the shore.

  The Walrus and the Carpenter
      Walked on a mile or so,
  And then they rested on a rock
      Conveniently low:
  And all the little Oysters stood
      And waited in a row.

  "The time has come," the Walrus said,
      "To talk of many things:
  Of shoes—and ships—and sealing-wax—
      Of cabbages—and kings—
  And why the sea is boiling hot—
      And whether pigs have wings."

  "But wait a bit," the Oysters cried,
      "Before we have our chat;
  For some of us are out of breath,
      And all of us are fat!"
  "No hurry!" said the Carpenter,
      They thanked him much for that.

  "A loaf of bread," the Walrus said,
      "Is what we chiefly need:
  Pepper and vinegar besides
      Are very good indeed—
  Now if you 're ready, Oysters dear,
      We can begin to feed."

  "But not on us!" the Oysters cried,
      Turning a little blue.
  "After such kindness that would be
      A dismal thing to do!"
  "The night is fine," the Walrus said,
      "Do you admire the view?"

  "It was so kind of you to come!
      And you are very nice!"
  The Carpenter said nothing but
      "Cut us another slice:
  I wish you were not quite so deaf—
      I've had to ask you twice!"

  "It seems a shame," the Walrus said,
      "To play them such a trick,
  After we've brought them out so far,
      And made them trot so quick!"
  The Carpenter said nothing but
     "The butter's spread too thick!"

  "I weep for you," the Walrus said;
      "I deeply sympathize."
  With sobs and tears he sorted out
      Those of the largest size,
  Holding his pocket-handkerchief
      Before his streaming eyes.

  "O Oysters," said the Carpenter,
      "You've had a pleasant run!
  Shall we be trotting home again?"
      But answer came there none—
  And this was scarcely odd, because
    They'd eaten every one.

Lewis Carroll.


  We have sailed many months, we have sailed many weeks,
      (Four weeks to the month you may mark),
  But never as yet ('tis your Captain who speaks)
      Have we caught the least glimpse of a Snark!

  "We have sailed many weeks, we have sailed many days,
      (Seven days to the week I allow),
  But a Snark, on the which we might lovingly gaze,
      We have never beheld until now!"

  "Come, listen, my men, while I tell you again
      The five unmistakable marks
  By which you may know, wheresoever you go,
      The warranted genuine Snarks."

  "Let us take them in order. The first is the taste,
      Which is meagre and hollow, but crisp:
  Like a coat that is rather too tight in the waist,
      With a flavour of Will-o-the-wisp."

  "Its habit of getting up late you'll agree
      That it carries too far, when I say
  That it frequently breakfasts at five-o'clock tea,
      And dines on the following day."

  "The third is its slowness in taking a jest.
      Should you happen to venture on one,
  It will sigh like a thing that is greatly distressed;
      And it always looks grave at a pun."

  "The fourth is its fondness for bathing-machines,
      Which it constantly carries about,
  And believes that they add to the beauty of scenes—
      A sentiment open to doubt."

  "The fifth is ambition. It next will be right
      To describe each particular batch;
  Distinguishing those that have feathers, and bite,
      From those that have whiskers, and scratch."

  "For, although common Snarks do no manner of harm,
      Yet I feel it my duty to say
  Some are Boojums—" The Bellman broke off in alarm,
      For the Baker had fainted away.

  They roused him with muffins—they roused him with ice—
      They roused him with mustard and cress—
  They roused him with jam and judicious advice—
      They set him conundrums to guess.

  When at length he sat up and was able to speak,
      His sad story he offered to tell;
  And the Bellman cried, "Silence! Not even a shriek!"
      And excitedly tingled his bell.

  "My father and mother were honest, though poor—"
      "Skip all that!" cried the Bellman in haste,
  "If it once becomes dark, there's no chance of a Snark,
      We have hardly a minute to waste!"

  "I skip forty years," said the Baker, in tears,
      "And proceed without further remark
  To the day when you took me aboard of your ship
      To help you in hunting the Snark."

  "You may seek it with thimbles—and seek it with care;
      You may hunt it with forks and hope;
  You may threaten its life with a railway-share;
      You may charm it with smiles and soap—"

  "I said it in Hebrew—I said it in Dutch—
      I said it in German and Greek;
  But I wholly forgot (and it vexes me much)
      That English is what you speak!"

  "The thing can be done," said the Butcher, "I think
      The thing must be done, I am sure.
  The thing shall be done! Bring me paper and ink,
      The best there is time to procure."

  So engrossed was the Butcher, he heeded them not,
      As he wrote with a pen in each hand,
  And explained all the while in a popular style
      Which the Beaver could well understand.

  "Taking Three as the subject to reason about—
      A convenient number to state—
  We add Seven and Ten and then multiply out
      By One Thousand diminished by Eight."

  "The result we proceed to divide, as you see,
      By Nine Hundred and Ninety and Two;
  Then subtract Seventeen, and the answer must be
      Exactly and perfectly true."

  "As to temper, the Jubjub's a desperate bird,
      Since it lives in perpetual passion:
  Its taste in costume is entirely absurd—
      It is ages ahead of the fashion."

  "Its flavor when cooked is more exquisite far
      Than mutton or oysters or eggs:
  (Some think it keeps best in an ivory jar,
      And some, in mahogany kegs.)"

  "You boil it in sawdust; you salt it in glue:
      You condense it with locusts and tape;
  Still keeping one principal object in view—
      To preserve its symmetrical shape."

  The Butcher would gladly have talked till next day,
      But he felt that the Lesson must end,
  And he wept with delight in attempting to say
      He considered the Beaver his friend.

Lewis Carroll.


  He thought he saw a Banker's clerk
      Descending from the 'bus;
  He looked again, and found it was
      A Hippopotamus.
  "If this should stay to dine," he said,
      "There won't be much for us!"

  He thought he saw an Albatross
      That fluttered round the lamp:
  He looked again, and found it was
      A Penny-Postage-Stamp.
  "You'd best be getting home," he said;
      "The nights are very damp!"

  He thought he saw a Coach-and-Four
      That stood beside his bed:
  He looked again, and found it was
      A Bear without a Head.
  "Poor thing," he said, "poor silly thing!
      It's waiting to be fed!"

  He thought he saw a Kangaroo
      That worked a coffee-mill:
  He looked again, and found it was
      A Vegetable-Pill.
  "Were I to swallow this," he said,
      "I should be very ill!"

  He thought he saw a Rattlesnake
      That questioned him in Greek:
  He looked again, and found it was
      The Middle of Next Week.
  "The one thing I regret," he said,
      "Is that it cannot speak!"

Lewis Carroll.


  It was a robber's daughter, and her name was Alice Brown.
  Her father was the terror of a small Italian town;
  Her mother was a foolish, weak, but amiable old thing;
  But it isn't of her parents that I'm going for to sing.

  As Alice was a-sitting at her window-sill one day,
  A beautiful young gentleman he chanced to pass that way;
  She cast her eyes upon him, and he looked so good and true,
  That she thought, "I could be happy with a gentleman like you!"

  And every morning passed her house that cream of gentlemen,
  She knew she might expect him at a quarter unto ten,
  A sorter in the Custom-house, it was his daily road
  (The Custom-house was fifteen minutes' walk from her abode.)

  But Alice was a pious girl, who knew it wasn't wise
  To look at strange young sorters with expressive purple eyes;
  So she sought the village priest to whom her family confessed,
  The priest by whom their little sins were carefully assessed.

  "Oh, holy father," Alice said, "'twould grieve you, would it not?
  To discover that I was a most disreputable lot!
  Of all unhappy sinners I'm the most unhappy one!"
  The padre said, "Whatever have you been and gone and done?"

  "I have helped mamma to steal a little kiddy from its dad,
  I've assisted dear papa in cutting up a little lad.
  I've planned a little burglary and forged a little check,
  And slain a little baby for the coral on its neck!"

  The worthy pastor heaved a sigh, and dropped a silent tear—
  And said, "You mustn't judge yourself too heavily, my dear—
  It's wrong to murder babies, little corals for to fleece;
  But sins like these one expiates at half-a-crown apiece."

  "Girls will be girls—you're very young, and flighty in your mind;
  Old heads upon young shoulders we must not expect to find:
  We mustn't be too hard upon these little girlish tricks—
  Let's see—five crimes at half-a-crown—exactly twelve-and-six."

  "Oh, father," little Alice cried, "your kindness makes me weep,
  You do these little things for me so singularly cheap—
  Your thoughtful liberality I never can forget;
  But O there is another crime I haven't mentioned yet!"

  "A pleasant-looking gentleman, with pretty purple eyes,
  I've noticed at my window, as I've sat a-catching flies;
  He passes by it every day as certain as can be—
  I blush to say I've winked at him and he has winked at me!"

  "For shame," said Father Paul, "my erring daughter! On my word
  This is the most distressing news that I have ever heard.
  Why, naughty girl, your excellent papa has pledged your hand
  To a promising young robber, the lieutenant of his band!"

  "This dreadful piece of news will pain your worthy parents so!
  They are the most remunerative customers I know;
  For many many years they've kept starvation from my doors,
  I never knew so criminal a family as yours!"

  "The common country folk in this insipid neighborhood
  Have nothing to confess, they're so ridiculously good;
  And if you marry any one respectable at all,
  Why, you'll reform, and what will then become of Father Paul?"

  The worthy priest, he up and drew his cowl upon his crown,
  And started off in haste to tell the news to Robber Brown;
  To tell him how his daughter, who now was for marriage fit,
  Had winked upon a sorter, who reciprocated it.

  Good Robber Brown, he muffled up his anger pretty well,
  He said, "I have a notion, and that notion I will tell;
  I will nab this gay young sorter, terrify him into fits,
  And get my gentle wife to chop him into little bits."

  "I've studied human nature, and I know a thing or two,
  Though a girl may fondly love a living gent, as many do—
  A feeling of disgust upon her senses there will fall
  When she looks upon his body chopped particularly small."

  He traced that gallant sorter to a still suburban square;
  He watched his opportunity and seized him unaware;
  He took a life-preserver and he hit him on the head,
  And Mrs. Brown dissected him before she went to bed.

  And pretty little Alice grew more settled in her mind,
  She nevermore was guilty of a weakness of the kind,
  Until at length good Robber Brown bestowed her pretty hand
  On the promising young robber, the lieutenant of his band.

W.S. Gilbert.


  Strike the concertina's melancholy string!
  Blow the spirit-stirring harp like any thing!
          Let the piano's martial blast
          Rouse the Echoes of the Past,
  For of Agib, Prince of Tartary, I sing!

  Of Agib, who amid Tartaric scenes,
  Wrote a lot of ballet-music in his teens:
          His gentle spirit rolls
          In the melody of souls—
  Which is pretty, but I don't know what it means

  Of Agib, who could readily, at sight,
  Strum a march upon the loud Theodolite:
          He would diligently play
          On the Zoetrope all day,
  And blow the gay Pantechnicon all night.

  One winter—I am shaky in my dates—
  Came two starving minstrels to his gates,
          Oh, Allah be obeyed,
          How infernally they played!
  I remember that they called themselves the "Oiiaits."

  Oh! that day of sorrow, misery, and rage,
  I shall carry to the Catacombs of Age,
          Photographically lined
          On the tablet of my mind,
  When a yesterday has faded from its page!

  Alas! Prince Agib went and asked them in!
  Gave them beer, and eggs, and sweets, and scents, and tin.
          And when (as snobs would say)
          They "put it all away,"
  He requested them to tune up and begin.

  Though its icy horror chill you to the core,
  I will tell you what I never told before,
          The consequences true
          Of that awful interview,
  For I listened at the key-hole in the door!

  They played him a sonata—let me see!
  "Medulla oblongata"—key of G.
          Then they began to sing
          That extremely lovely thing,
  "Scherzando! ma non troppo, ppp."

  He gave them money, more than they could count,
  Scent, from a most ingenious little fount,
          More beer, in little kegs,
          Many dozen hard-boiled eggs,
  And goodies to a fabulous amount.

  Now follows the dim horror of my tale,
  And I feel I'm growing gradually pale,
          For, even at this day,
          Though its sting has passed away,
  When I venture to remember it, I quail!

  The elder of the brothers gave a squeal,
  All-overish it made me for to feel!
          "Oh Prince," he says, says he,
          "If a Prince indeed you be,
  I've a mystery I'm going to reveal!"

  "Oh, listen, if you'd shun a horrid death,
  To what the gent who's speaking to you, saith:
          No 'Oiiaits' in truth are we,
          As you fancy that we be,
  For (ter-remble) I am Aleck—this is Beth!"

  Said Agib, "Oh! accursed of your kind,
  I have heard that you are men of evil mind!"
          Beth gave a dreadful shriek—
          But before he'd time to speak
  I was mercilessly collared from behind.

  In number ten or twelve or even more,
  They fastened me, full length upon the floor.
          On my face extended flat
          I was walloped with a cat
  For listening at the key-hole of the door.

  Oh! the horror of that agonizing thrill!
  (I can feel the place in frosty weather still).
          For a week from ten to four
          I was fastened to the floor,
  While a mercenary wopped me with a will!

  They branded me, and broke me on a wheel,
  And they left me in an hospital to heal;
          And, upon my solemn word,
          I have never never heard
  What those Tartars had determined to reveal.

  But that day of sorrow, misery, and rage,
  I shall carry to the Catacombs of Age,
          Photographically lined
          On the tablet of my mind,
  When a yesterday has faded from its page!

W.S. Gilbert.


* * * * *

  "Love you?" said I, then I sighed, and then I gazed upon her
  For I think I do this sort of thing particularly neatly—

  "Tell me whither I may his me, tell me, dear one, that I may know—
  Is it up the highest Andes? down a horrible volcano?"

  But she said, "It isn't polar bears, or hot volcanic grottoes,
  Only find out who it is that writes those lovely cracker mottoes."

  Seven weary years I wandered—Patagonia, China, Norway,
  Till at last I sank exhausted, at a pastrycook his doorway.

  And he chirped and sang and skipped about, and laughed with
       laughter hearty,
  He was wonderfully active for so very stout a party.

  And I said, "Oh, gentle pieman, why so very, very merry?
  Is it purity of conscience, or your one-and-seven sherry?"

* * * * *

  "Then I polish all the silver which a supper-table lacquers;
  Then I write the pretty mottoes which you find inside the crackers."

  "Found at last!" I madly shouted. "Gentle pieman, you astound me!"
  Then I waved the turtle soup enthusiastically round me.

  And I shouted and I danced until he'd quite a crowd around him,
  And I rushed away, exclaiming, "I have found him! I have found him!"

W.S. Gilbert.


  The bravest names for fire and flames,
      And all that mortal durst,
  Were General John and Private James,
      Of the Sixty-seventy-first.

  General John was a soldier tried,
      A chief of warlike dons;
  A haughty stride and a withering pride
      Were Major-General John.

  A sneer would play on his martial phiz,
      Superior birth to show;
  "Pish!" was a favorite word of his,
      And he often said "Ho! Ho!"

  Full-Private James described might be,
      As a man of mournful mind;
  No characteristic trait had he
      Of any distinctive kind.

  From the ranks, one day, cried Private James,
      "Oh! Major-General John,
  I've doubts of our respective names,
      My mournful mind upon."

  "A glimmering thought occurs to me,
      (Its source I can't unearth),
  But I've a kind of notion we
      Were cruelly changed at birth."

  "I've a strange idea, each other's names
      That we have each got on.
  Such things have been," said Private James.
      "They have!" sneered General John.

  "My General John, I swear upon
      My oath I think it is so—"
  "Pish!" proudly sneered his General John,
      And he also said "Ho! ho!"

  "My General John! my General John!
      My General John!" quoth he,
  "This aristocratical sneer upon
      Your face I blush to see."

  "No truly great or generous cove
      Deserving of them names
  Would sneer at a fixed idea that's drove
      In the mind of a Private James!"

  Said General John, "Upon your claims
      No need your breath to waste;
  If this is a joke, Full-Private James,
      It's a joke of doubtful taste."

  "But being a man of doubtless worth,
      If you feel certain quite
  That we were probably changed at birth,
      I'll venture to say you're right."

  So General John as Private James
      Fell in, parade upon;
  And Private James, by change of names,
      Was Major-General John.

W.S. Gilbert


  There were three sailors of Bristol City
      Who took a boat and went to sea,
  But first with beef and captain's biscuits,
      And pickled pork they loaded she.

  There was gorging Jack, and guzzling Jimmy,
      And the youngest he was little Billee.
  Now when they'd got as far as the Equator,
      They'd nothing left but one split pea.

  Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy,
      "I am extremely hungaree."
  To gorging Jack says guzzling Jimmy,
      "We've nothing left, us must eat we."

  Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy,
      "With one another we shouldn't agree!
  There's little Bill, he's young and tender,
      We're old and tough, so let's eat he."

  "O Billy! we're going to kill and eat you,
      So undo the button of your chemie."
  When Bill received this information,
      He used his pocket-handkerchie,

  "First let me say my catechism,
      Which my poor mother taught to me."
  "Make haste! make haste!" says guzzling Jimmy,
      While Jack pulled out his snicker-snee.

  Then Bill went up to the main-top-gallant-mast,
      And down he fell on his bended knee,
  He scarce had come to the Twelfth Commandment
      When up he jumps—"There's land I see!"

  "Jerusalem and Madagascar,
      And North and South Amerikee,
  There's the British flag a-riding at anchor,
      With Admiral Napier, K.C.B."

  So when they got aboard of the Admiral's,
      He hanged fat Jack and flogged Jimmee,
  But as for little Bill, he made him
      The captain of a Seventy-three.

W. M. Thackeray.


  On wan dark night on Lac St. Pierre,
      De win' she blow, blow, blow,
  An' de crew of de wood scow "Julie Plante"
      Got scar't an' run below—
  For de win' she blow lak hurricane;
      Bimeby she blow some more,
  An' de scow bus' up on Lac St. Pierre
      Wan arpent from de shore.

  De captinne walk on de fronte deck,
      An' walk de him' deck too—
  He call de crew from up de hole,
      He call de cook also.
  De cook she's name was Rosie,
      She come from Montreal,
  Was chambre maid on lumber barge,
      On de Grande Lachine Canal.

  De win' she blow from nor'-eas'-wes',—
      De sout' win' she blow too,
  Wen Rosie cry, "Mon cher captinne,
      Mon cher, w'at I shall do?"
  Den de captinne t'row de big ankerre,
      But still de scow she dreef,
  De crew he can't pass on de shore,
      Becos he los' hees skeef.

  De night was dark lak wan black cat,
      De wave run high an' fas',
  Wen de captinne tak' de Rosie girl
      An' tie her to de mas'.
  Den he also tak' de life preserve,
      An' jomp off on de lak',
  An' say, "Good-by, ma Rosie dear,
      I go down for your sak'."

  Nex' morning very early
      'Bout ha'f-pas' two—t'ree—four—
  De captinne—scow—an' de poor Rosie
      Was corpses on de shore.
  For de win' she blow lak' hurricane,
      Bimeby she blow some more,
  An' de scow, bus' up on Lac St. Pierre,
      Wan arpent from de shore.


  Now all good wood scow sailor man
      Tak' warning by dat storm
  An' go an' marry some nice French girl
      An' live on wan beeg farm.
  De win' can blow lak' hurricane
      An' s'pose she blow some more,
  You can't get drown on Lac St. Pierre
      So long you stay on shore.

William H. Drummond.


  Upon the poop the captain stands,
      As starboard as may be;
  And pipes on deck the topsail hands
  To reef the topsail-gallant strands
      Across the briny sea.

  "Ho! splice the anchor under-weigh!"
      The captain loudly cried;
  "Ho! lubbers brave, belay! belay!
  For we must luff for Falmouth Bay
      Before to-morrow's tide."

  The good ship was a racing yawl,
      A spare-rigged schooner sloop,
  Athwart the bows the taffrails all
  In grummets gay appeared to fall,
      To deck the mainsail poop.

  But ere they made the Foreland Light,
      And Deal was left behind,
  The wind it blew great gales that night,
  And blew the doughty captain tight,
      Full three sheets in the wind.

  And right across the tiller head
      The horse it ran apace,
  Whereon a traveller hitched and sped
  Along the jib and vanished
      To heave the trysail brace.

  What ship could live in such a sea?
      What vessel bear the shock?
  "Ho! starboard port your helm-a-lee!
  Ho! reef the maintop-gallant-tree,
      With many a running block!"

  And right upon the Scilly Isles
      The ship had run aground;
  When lo! the stalwart Captain Giles
  Mounts up upon the gaff and smiles,
      And slews the compass round.

  "Saved! saved!" with joy the sailors cry,
      And scandalize the skiff;
  As taut and hoisted high and dry
  They see the ship unstoppered lie
      Upon the sea-girt cliff.

  And since that day in Falmouth Bay,
      As herring-fishers trawl,
  The younkers hear the boatswains say
  How Captain Giles that awful day
      Preserved the sinking yawl.

E.H. Palmer.


As narrated by the second mate to one of the marines.

  This is the tale that was told to me,
  By a battered and shattered son of the sea:
  To me and my messmate, Silas Green,
  When I was a guileless young marine.

  "'T was the good ship 'Gyacutus,'
  All in the China seas;
  With the wind a lee, and the capstan free,
  To catch the summer breeze."

  "'T was Captain Porgie on the deck
  To the mate in the mizzen hatch,
  While the boatswain bold, in the for'ard hold,
  Was winding his larboard watch."

  "'Oh, how does our good ship head to-night?
  How heads our gallant craft?'
  'Oh, she heads to the E. S. W. by N.
  And the binnacle lies abaft.'"

  "'Oh, what does the quadrant indicate?
  And how does the sextant stand?'
  'Oh, the sextant's down to the freezing point
  And the quadrant's lost a hand.'"

  "'Oh, if the quadrant's lost a hand,
  And the sextant falls so low,
  It's our body and bones to Davy Jones
  This night are bound to go."

  "'Oh, fly aloft to the garboard-strake,
  And reef the spanker boom,
  Bend a stubbing sail on the martingale
  To give her weather room."

  "'Oh, boatswain, down in the for'ard hold
  What water do you find?'
  'Four foot and a half by the royal gaff
  And rather more behind.'"

  "'Oh, sailors, collar your marline spikes
  And each belaying pin;
  Come, stir your stumps to spike the pumps,
  Or more will be coming in.'"

  "'They stirred their stumps, they spiked the pumps
  They spliced the mizzen brace;
  Aloft and alow they worked, but, oh!
  The water gained apace."

  "They bored a hole below her line
  To let the water out,
  But more and more with awful roar
  The water in did spout."

  "Then up spoke the cook of our gallant ship—
  And he was a lubber brave—
  'I've several wives in various ports,
  And my life I'd like to save.'"

  "Then up spoke the captain of marines,
  Who dearly loved his prog:
  'It's awful to die, and it's worse to be dry,
  And I move we pipes to grog.'"

  "Oh, then 'twas the gallant second-mate
  As stopped them sailors' jaw,
  'Twas the second-mate whose hand had weight
  In laying down the law."

  "He took the anchor on his back,
  And leapt into the main;
  Through foam and spray he clove his way,
  And sunk, and rose again."

  "Through foam and spray a league away
  The anchor stout he bore,
  Till, safe at last, I made it fast,
  And warped the ship ashore."

  This is the tale that was told to me,
  By that modest and truthful son of the sea.
  And I envy the life of a second mate,
  Though captains curse him and sailors hate;
  For he ain't like some of the swabs I've seen,
  As would go and lie to a poor marine.

J.J. Rache.


  A capital ship for an ocean trip
      Was the "Walloping Window-blind"—
  No gale that blew dismayed her crew
      Or troubled the captain's mind.
  The man at the wheel was taught to feel
      Contempt for the wildest blow,
  And it often appeared, when the weather had cleared,
      That he'd been in his bunk below.

  The boatswain's mate was very sedate,
      Yet fond of amusement, too;
  And he played hop-scotch with the starboard watch,
      While the captain tickled the crew.
  And the gunner we had was apparently mad,
      For he sat on the after rail,
  And fired salutes with the captain's boots,
      In the teeth of the booming gale.

  The captain sat in a commodore's hat
      And dined in a royal way
  On toasted pigs and pickles and figs
      And gummery bread each day.
  But the cook was Dutch and behaved as such:
      For the food that he gave the crew
  Was a number of tons of hot-cross buns
      Chopped up with sugar and glue.

  And we all felt ill as mariners will,
      On a diet that's cheap and rude;
  And we shivered and shook as we dipped the cook
      In a tub of his gluesome food.
  Then nautical pride we laid aside,
      And we cast the vessel ashore
  On the Gulliby Isles, where the Poohpooh smiles,
      And the Anagazanders roar.

  Composed of sand was that favored land,
      And trimmed with cinnamon straws;
  And pink and blue was the pleasing hue
      Of the Tickletoeteaser's claws.
  And we sat on the edge of a sandy ledge
      And shot at the whistling bee;
  And the Binnacle-bats wore water-proof hats
      As they danced in the sounding sea.

  On rubagub bark, from dawn to dark,
      We fed, till we all had grown
  Uncommonly shrunk,—when a Chinese junk
      Came by from the torriby zone.
  She was stubby and square, but we didn't much care,
      And we cheerily put to sea;
  And we left the crew of the junk to chew
      The bark of the rubagub tree.

Charles E. Carryl.


  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, 't was 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 a 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 't was a sensible thing to do;
  For Little Peetookle is spared the strain
      Of the Rollicking Mastodon over in Spain.

Arthur Macy.


  The Sun appeared so smug and bright,
      One day, that I made bold
  To ask him what he did each night
      With all his surplus gold.

  He flushed uncomfortably red,
      And would not meet my eye.
  "I travel round the world," he said,
      "And travelling rates are high."

  With frigid glance I pierced him through.
      He squirmed and changed his tune.
  Said he: "I will be frank with you:
      I lend it to the Moon."

  "Poor thing! You know she's growing old
      And hasn't any folk.
  She suffers terribly from cold,
      And half the time she's broke."

* * * * *

  That evening on the beach I lay
      Behind a lonely dune,
  And as she rose above the bay
      I buttonholed the Moon.

  "Tell me about that gold," said I.
      I saw her features fall.
  "You see, it's useless to deny;
      The Sun has told me all."

  "Sir!" she exclaimed, "how can you try
      An honest Moon this way?
  As for the gold, I put it by
      Against a rainy day."

  I smiled and shook my head. "All right,
      If you must know," said she,
  "I change it into silver bright
      Wherewith to tip the Sea."

  "He is so faithful and so good,
      A most deserving case;
  If he should leave, I fear it would
      Be hard to fill his place."

* * * * *

  When asked if they accepted tips,
      The waves became so rough;
  I thought of those at sea in ships,
      And felt I'd said enough.

  For if one virtue I have learned,
      'Tis tact; so I forbore
  To press the matter, though I burned
      To ask one question more.

  I hate a scene, and do not wish
      To be mixed up in gales,
  But, oh, I longed to ask the Fish
      Whence came their silver scales!

Oliver Herfora.


  Bartholomew Benjamin Bunting
      Had only three passions in life,
  And one of the trio was hunting,
      The others his babe and his wife.
  And always, so rigid his habits,
      He frolicked at home until two,
  And then started hunting for rabbits,
      And hunted till fall of the dew.

  Belinda Bellonia Bunting,
      Thus widowed for half of the day,
  Her duty maternal confronting,
      With baby would patiently play.
  When thus was her energy wasted,
      A patented food she'd dispense.
  (She had bought it the day that they pasted
      The posters all over her fence.)

  But Bonaparte Buckingham Bunting,
      The infant thus blindly adored,
  Replied to her worship by grunting,
      Which showed he was brutally bored.
  'Twas little he cared for the troubles
      Of life. Like a crab on the sands,
  From his sweet little mouth he blew bubbles,
      And threatened the air with his hands.

  Bartholomew Benjamin Bunting
      One night, as his wife let him in,
  Produced as the fruit of his hunting
      A cottontail's velvety skin,
  Which, seeing young Bonaparte wriggle,
      He gave him without a demur,
  And the babe with an aqueous giggle
      He swallowed the whole of the fur!

  Belinda Bellonia Bunting
      Behaved like a consummate loon:
  Her offspring in frenzy confronting
      She screamed herself mottled maroon:
  She felt of his vertebrae spinal,
      Expecting he'd surely succumb,
  And gave him one vigorous, final,
      Hard prod in the pit of his tum.

  But Bonaparte Buckingham Bunting,
      At first but a trifle perplexed,
  By a change in his manner of grunting
      Soon showed he was horribly vexed.
  He displayed not a sign of repentance
      But spoke, in a dignified tone,
  The only consecutive sentence
      He uttered. 'Twas: "Lemme alone."

  The Moral: The parent that uses
      Precaution his folly regrets:
  An infant gets all that he chooses,
      An infant chews all that he gets.

  And colics? He constantly has 'em
      So long as his food is the best,
  But he'll swallow with never a spasm
      What ostriches couldn't digest.

Guy Wetmore Carryl.


  Ben Battle was a soldier bold,
      And used to war's alarms:
  But a cannon-ball took off his legs,
      So he laid down his arms!

  Now, as they bore him off the field,
      Said he, "Let others shoot,
  For here I leave my second leg,
      And the Forty-second Foot!"

  The army surgeons made him limbs:
      Said he, "They're only pegs;
  But there's as wooden members quite,
      As represent my legs!"

  Now Ben he loved a pretty maid,
      Her name was Nelly Gray;
  So he went to pay her his devours
      When he'd devoured his pay!

  But when he called on Nelly Gray,
      She made him quite a scoff;
  And when she saw his wooden legs,
      Began to take them off!

  "O Nelly Gray! O Nelly Gray!
      Is this your love so warm?
  The love that loves a scarlet coat,
      Should be more uniform!"

  Said she, "I loved a soldier once,
      For he was blithe and brave;
  But I will never have a man
      With both legs in the grave!"

  "Before you had those timber toes,
      Your love I did allow,
  But then you know, you stand upon
      Another footing now!"

  "O Nelly Gray! O Nelly Gray!
      For all your jeering speeches,
  At duty's call I left my legs
      In Badajos's breaches!"

  "Why, then," said she, "you've lost the feet
      Of legs in war's alarms,
  And now you cannot wear your shoes
      Upon your feats of arms!"

  "Oh, false and fickle Nelly Gray;
      I know why you refuse:
  Though I've no feet—some other man
      Is standing in my shoes!"

  "I wish I ne'er had seen your face;
      But now a long farewell!
  For you will be my death—alas!
      You will not be my Nell!"

  Now, when he went from Nelly Gray,
      His heart so heavy got—
  And life was such a burden grown,
      It made him take a knot!

  So round his melancholy neck
      A rope he did entwine,
  And, for his second time in life
      Enlisted in the Line!

  One end he tied around a beam,
      And then removed his pegs,
  And as his legs were off,—of course,
      He soon was off his legs!

  And there he hung till he was dead
      As any nail in town,—
  For though distress had cut him up,
      It could not cut him down!

  A dozen men sat on his corpse,
      To find out why he died—
  And they buried Ben in four cross-roads,
      With a stake in his inside!

Thomas Hood.


  By the side of a murmuring stream an elderly gentleman sat.
  On the top of his head was a wig, and a-top of his wig was his hat.

  The wind it blew high and blew strong, as the elderly gentleman sat;
  And bore from his head in a trice, and plunged in the river his hat.

  The gentleman then took his cane which lay by his side as he sat;
  And he dropped in the river his wig, in attempting to get out his

  His breast it grew cold with despair, and full in his eye madness
  So he flung in the river his cane to swim with his wig, and his hat.

  Cool reflection at last came across while this elderly gentleman
  So he thought he would follow the stream and look for his cane, wig,
       and hat.

  His head being thicker than common, o'er-balanced the rest of his
  And in plumped this son of a woman to follow his wig, cane, and hat.

George Canning.


  Prope ripam fluvii solus
      A senex silently sat;
  Super capitum ecce his wig,
      Et wig super, ecce his hat.

  Blew Zephyrus alte, acerbus,
      Dum elderly gentleman sat;
  Et a capite took up quite torve
      Et in rivum projecit his hat.

  Tunc soft maledixit the old man,
      Tunc stooped from the bank where he sat
  Et cum scipio poked in the water,
      Conatus servare his hat.

  Blew Zephyrus alte, acerbus,
      The moment it saw him at that;
  Et whisked his novum scratch wig
      In flumen, along with his hat.

  Ab imo pectore damnavit
      In coeruleus eye dolor sat;
  Tunc despairingly threw in his cane
      Nare cum his wig and his hat.


  Contra bonos mores, don't swear
      It 'est wicked you know (verbum sat),
  Si this tale habet no other moral
      Mehercle! You're gratus to that!

James Appleton Morgan.


  In candent ire the solar splendor flames;
  The foles, languescent, pend from arid rames;
  His humid front the cive, anheling, wipes,
  And dreams of erring on ventiferous ripes.

  How dulce to vive occult to mortal eyes,
  Dorm on the herb with none to supervise,
  Carp the suave berries from the crescent vine,
  And bibe the flow from longicaudate kine.

  To me also, no verdurous visions come
  Save you exiguous pool's confervascum,—
  No concave vast repeats the tender hue
  That laves my milk-jug with celestial blue.

  Me wretched! Let me curr to quercine shades!
  Effund your albid hausts, lactiferous maids!
  Oh, might I vole to some umbrageous chump,—
  Depart,—be off,—excede,—evade,—erump!

O. W. Holmes.


Air—Jullien's Polka

  Qui nunc dancere vult modo
  Wants to dance in the fashion, oh!
  Discere debet—ought to know,
  Kickere floor cum heel et toe
        One, two three,
        Hop with me,
  Whirligig, twirligig, rapidè.

  Polkam jungere, Virgo, vis,
  Will you join the Polka, Miss?
  Liberius—most willingly.
  Sic agimus—then let us try:
        Nunc vide
        Skip with me,
  Whirlabout, roundabout, celerè.

  Tum laevâ citò, tum dextrâ
  First to the left, and then t' other way;
  Aspice retrò in vultu,
  You look at her, and she looks at you.
        Das palmam,
        Change hands ma'am
  Celerè—run away, just in sham.

Gilbert Abbott à Becket.


  Puer ex Jersey
  Iens ad school;
  Vidit in meadow,
  Infestum mule.

  Ille approaches
  O magnus sorrow!
  Puer it skyward.
  Funus ad morrow.


  Qui vidit a thing
  Non ei well-known,
  Est bene for him
  Relinqui id alone.



  Une petite pêche dans un orchard fleurit,
  Attendez à mon narration triste!
  Une petite pêche verdante fleurit.
  Grâce à chaleur de soleil, et moisture de miste.
  Il fleurit, il fleurit,
  Attendez à mon narration triste!

  Signes dures pour les deux,
  Petit Jean et sa soeur Sue,
  Et la pêche d'une verdante hue,
  Qui fleurit, qui fleurit,
  Attendez a mon narration triste!



  Monsieur McGinté allait en has jusqu'an fond du mer,
      Ils ne l'ont pas encore trouvé
      Je crois qu'il est certainement mouillé.
  Monsieur McGinté, je le repéte, allait jusqu'au fond du mer,
      Habillé dans sa meilleure costume.



Picus Erythrocephalus:

  O whither goest thou, pale studént
      Within the wood so fur?
  Art on the chokesome cherry bent?
      Dost seek the chestnut burr?

Pale Studént:

  O it is not for the mellow chestnut
      That I so far am come,
  Nor yet for puckery cherries, but
      For Cypripediúm.

  A blossom hangs the choke-cherry
      And eke the chestnut burr,
  And thou a silly fowl must be,
      Thou red-head wood-peckére.

Picas Erythrocephalus:

  Turn back, turn back, thou pale studént,
      Nor in the forest go;
  There lurks beneath his bosky tent
      The deadly mosquitó,

  And there the wooden-chuck doth tread,
      And from the oak-tree's top
  The red, red squirrels on thy head
      The frequent acorn drop.

Pale Studént:

  The wooden-chuck is next of kin
      Unto the wood-peckére:
  I fear not thine ill-boding din,
      And why should I fear her?

  What though a score of acorns drop
      And squirrels' fur be red!
  'Tis not so ruddy as thy top—
      So scarlet as thy head.

  O rarely blooms the Cypripe-
      diúm upon its stalk;
  And like a torch it shines to me
      Adown the dark wood-walk.

  O joy to pluck it from the ground,
      To view the purple sac,
  To touch the sessile stigma's round—
      And shall I then turn back?

Picus Erytbrocephalus:

  O black and shining is the log
      That feeds the sumptuous weed,
  Nor stone is found nor bedded log
      Where foot may well proceed.

  Midmost it glimmers in the mire
     Like Jack o' Lanthorn's spark,
  Lighting, with phosphorescent fire,
      The green umbrageous dark.

  There while thy thirsty glances drink
      The fair and baneful plant,
  Thy shoon within the ooze shall sink
      And eke thine either pant.

Pale Studént:

  Give o'er, give o'er, thou wood-peckóre;
      The bark upon the tree,
  Thou, at thy will, mayst peck and bore
      But peck and bore not me.

  Full two long hours I've searched about
      And 't would in sooth be rum,
  If I should now go back without
      The Cypripediúm.

Picus Erythrocephalus:

  Farewell! Farewell! But this I tell
      To thee, thou pale studént,
  Ere dews have fell, thou'lt rue it well
      That woodward thou didst went:

  Then whilst thou blows the drooping nose
      And wip'st the pensive eye—
  There where the sad symplocarpus foetidus grows,
      Then think—O think of I!

  Loud flouted there that student wight
      Solche warnynge for to hear;
  "I scorn, old hen, thy threats of might,
      And eke thine ill grammére."

  "Go peck the lice (or green or red)
      That swarm the bass-wood tree,
  But wag no more thine addled head
      Nor clack thy tongue at me."

  The wood-peck turned to whet her beak,
      The student heard her drum,
  As through the wood he went to seek
      The Cypripediúm.

  Alas! and for that pale studént:
      The evening bell did ring,
  And down the walk the Freshmen went
      Unto the prayer-meetíng;

  Upon the fence loud rose the song,
      The weak, weak tea was o'er—
  Ha! who is he that sneaks along
      Into South Middle's door?

  The mud was on his shoon, and O!
      The briar was in his thumb,
  His staff was in his hand but no—
      No Cypripediúm.

Henry A. Beers.


  There is a niland on a river lying,
  Which runs into Gautimaly, a warm country,
  Lying near the Tropicks, covered with sand;
  Hear and their a symptum of a Wilow,
  Hanging of its umberagious limbs & branches
  Over the clear streme meandering far below.
  This was the home of the now silent Alegaiter,
  When not in his other element confine'd:
  Here he wood set upon his eggs asleep
  With 1 ey observant of flis and other passing
  Objects: a while it kept a going on so:
  Fereles of danger was the happy Alegaiter!
  But a las! in a nevil our he was fourced to
  Wake! that dreme of Blis was two sweet for him.
  1 morning the sun arose with unusool splender
  Whitch allso did our Alegaiter, coming from the water,
  His scails a flinging of the rais of the son back,
  To the fountain-head which tha originly sprung from,
  But having not had nothing to eat for some time, he
  Was slepy and gap'd, in a short time, widely.
  Unfoalding soon a welth of perl-white teth,
  The rais of the son soon shet his sinister ey
  Because of their mutool splendor and warmth.
  The evil Our (which I sed) was now come;
  Evidently a good chans for a water-snaik
  Of the large specie, which soon appeared
  Into the horison, near the bank where reposed
  Calmly in slepe the Alegaiter before spoken of.
  About 60 feet was his Length (not the 'gaiter)
  And he was aperiently a well-proportioned snaik.
  When he was all ashore he glared upon
  The iland with approval, but was soon
  "Astonished with the view and lost to wonder" (from Wats)
  (For jest then he began to see the Alegaiter)
  Being a nateral enemy of his'n, he worked hisself
  Into a fury, also a ni position.
  Before the Alegaiter well could ope
  His eye (in other words perceive his danger)
  The Snaik had enveloped his body just 19
  Times with "foalds voluminous and vast" (from Milton)
  And had tore off several scails in the confusion,
  Besides squeazing him awfully into his stomoc.
  Just then, by a fortinate turn in his affairs,
  He ceazed into his mouth the careless tale
  Of the unreflecting water-snaik! Grown desperate
  He, finding that his tale was fast squesed
  Terrible while they roaled all over the iland.

  It was a well-conduckted Affair; no noise
  Disturbed the harmony of the seen, ecsept
  Onct when a Willow was snaped into by the roaling.
  Eeach of the combatence hadn't a minit for holering.
  So the conflick was naterally tremenjous!
  But soon by grate force the tail was bit complete-
  Ly of; but the eggzeration was too much
  For his delicate Constitootion; he felt a compression
  Onto his chest and generally over his body;
  When he ecspressed his breathing, it was with
  Grate difficulty that he felt inspired again onct more.
  Of course this state must suffer a revolootion.
  So the alegaiter give but one yel, and egspired.
  The water-snaik realed hisself off, & survay'd
  For say 10 minits, the condition of
  His fo: then wondering what made his tail hurt,
  He slowly went off for to cool.

J. W. Morris.


Selestial apoley which Didest inspire. the souls of burns and pop with sackred fir. Kast thy Mantil over me When i shal sing, the praiz Of A sweat flower who grows in spring Which has of late kome under the Fokis. of My eyes. It is called a krokis. Sweat lovly prety littil sweat Thing, you bloometh before The lairicks on High sing, thy lefs are neithir Red Nor yelly. but Just betwixt the two you hardy felly.

i fear youl yet be Nippit with the frost. As Maney a one has known to there kost. you should have not kome out in such a hurrey. As this is only the Month of Febrywurrey. and you may expick yet Much bad wethir. when all your blads will krunkil up like Burnt leather. alas. alas. theres Men which tries to rime, who have like you kome out befor there time. The Moril of My peese depend upon it. is good so here i End my odd or sonit.



  Prodiggus reptile! long and skaly kuss!
  You are the dadrattedest biggest thing I ever
  Seed that cud ty itself into a double bo-
  Not, and cum all strate again in a
  Minnit or so, without winkin or seemin
  To experience any particular pane
  In the diafram.

  Stoopenjus inseck! marvelous annimile!
  You are no doubt seven thousand yeres
  Old, and hav a considerable of a
  Family sneekin round thru the tall
  Gras in Africa, a eetin up little greezy
  Niggers, and wishin they was biggir.

  I wonder how big yu was when yu
  Was a inphant about 2 fete long. I
  Expec yu was a purty good size, and
  Lived on phrogs, and lizzerds, and polly-
  Wogs and sutch things.

  You are havin' a nice time now, ennyhow—
  Don't have nothing to do but lay oph.
  And etc kats and rabbits, and stic
  Out yure tung and twist yur tale.
  I wunder if yu ever swollered a man
  Without takin oph his butes. If there was
  Brass buttins on his kote, I spose
  Yu had ter swaller a lot of buttin-
  Wholes, and a shu—hamer to nock
  The soals oph of the boots and drive in
  The tax, so that they wouldn't kut yure
  Inside. I wunder if vittles taste
  Good all the way down. I expec so—
  At leest, fur 6 or 7 fete.

  You are so mighty long, I shud thynk
  If your tale was kold, yure hed
  Woodent no it till the next day,
  But it's hard tu tell: snaix is snaix.



  Ye muses, pour the pitying tear
      For Pollio snatch'd away:
  For had he liv'd another year!
      —He had not dy'd to-day.

  O, were he born to bless mankind,
      In virtuous times of yore,
  Heroes themselves had fallen behind!
      —Whene'er he went before.

  How sad the groves and plains appear,
      And sympathetic sheep:
  Even pitying hills would drop a tear!
      —If hills could learn to weep.

  His bounty in exalted strain
      Each bard might well display:
  Since none implor'd relief in vain!
      —That went reliev'd away.

  And hark! I hear the tuneful throng;
      His obsequies forbid.
  He still shall live, shall live as long
      —As ever dead man did.

Oliver Goldsmith.


On the Glory of her Sex, Mrs. Mary Blaize

  Good people all, with one accord,
      Lament for Madam Blaize,
  Who never wanted a good word—
      From those who spoke her praise.

  The needy seldom pass'd her door,
      And always found her kind;
  She freely lent to all the poor—
      Who left a pledge behind.

  She strove the neighborhood to please
      With manners wondrous winning;
  And never follow'd wicked ways—
      Unless when she was sinning.

  At church, in silks and satins new,
      With hoop of monstrous size,
  She never slumber'd in her pew—
      But when she shut her eyes.

  Her love was sought, I do aver,
      By twenty beaux and more;
  The King himself has follow'd her—
      When she has walk'd before.

  But now, her wealth and finery fled,
      Her hangers-on cut short all;
  The doctors found, when she was dead—
      Her last disorder mortal.

  Let us lament, in sorrow sore,
      For Kent Street well may say,
  That had she lived a twelvemonth more—
      She had not died to-day.

Oliver Goldsmith.


  A quiet home had Parson Gray,
      Secluded in a vale;
  His daughters all were feminine,
      And all his sons were male.

  How faithfully did Parson Gray
      The bread of life dispense—
  Well "posted" in theology,
      And post and rail his fence.

  'Gainst all the vices of the age
      He manfully did battle;
  His chickens were a biped breed,
      And quadruped his cattle.

  No clock more punctually went,
      He ne'er delayed a minute—
  Nor ever empty was his purse,
      When he had money in it.

  His piety was ne'er denied;
      His truths hit saint and sinner;
  At morn he always breakfasted;
      He always dined at dinner.

  He ne'er by any luck was grieved,
      By any care perplexed—
  No filcher he, though when he preached,
      He always "took" a text.

  As faithful characters he drew
      As mortal ever saw;
  But ah! poor parson! when he died,
      His breath he could not draw!

Oliver Goldsmith.


  Good people all, of every sort,
      Give ear unto my song;
  And if you find it wondrous short,—
      It cannot hold you long.

  In Islington there was a man,
      Of whom the world might say
  That still a godly race he ran,—
      Whene'er he went to pray.

  A kind and gentle heart he had,
      To comfort friends and foes;
  The naked every day he clad,—
      When he put on his clothes.

  And in that town a dog was found,
      As many dogs there be,
  Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound,
      And curs of low degree.

  The dog and man at first were friends;
      But when a pique began,
  The dog, to gain some private ends,
      Went mad, and bit the man.

  Around from all the neighboring streets,
      The wondering neighbors ran,
  And swore the dog had lost his wits
      To bite so good a man.

  The wound it seemed both sore and sad
      To every Christian eye;
  And while they swore the dog was mad
      They swore the man would die.

  But soon a wonder came to light,
      That showed the rogues they lied;
  The man recovered of the bite,
      The dog it was that died.

Oliver Goldsmith.


  There was an old man
      Who lived on a common
  And, if fame speaks true,
      He was born of a woman.
  Perhaps you will laugh,
      But for truth I've been told
  He once was an infant
      Tho' age made him old.

  Whene'er he was hungry
      He longed for some meat;
  And if he could get it
      'T was said he would eat.
  When thirsty he'd drink
      If you gave him a pot,
  And what he drank mostly
      Ran down his throat.

  He seldom or never
      Could see without light,
  And yet I've been told he
      Could hear in the night.
  He has oft been awake
      In the daytime, 't is said,
  And has fallen asleep
      As he lay in his bed.

  'T is reported his tongue
      Always moved when he talk'd,
  And he stirred both his arms
      And his legs when he walk'd;
  And his gait was so odd
      Had you seen him you 'd burst,
  For one leg or t' other
      Would always be first.

  His face was the drollest
      That ever was seen,
  For if 't was not washed
      It seldom was clean;
  His teeth he expos'd when
      He happened to grin,
  And his mouth stood across
      'Twixt his nose and his chin.

  When this whimsical chap
      Had a river to pass,
  If he couldn't get over
      He stayed where he was.
  'T is said he ne'er ventured
      To quit the dry ground,
  Yet so great was his luck
      He never was drowned.

  At last he fell sick,
      As old chronicles tell,
  And then, as folks say,
      He was not very well.
  But what was as strange
      In so weak a condition,
  As he could not give fees
      He could get no physician.

  What wonder he died!
      Yet 't is said that his death
  Was occasioned at last
      By the loss of his breath.
  But peace to his bones
      Which in ashes now moulder.
  Had he lived a day longer
      He'd have been a day older.



  Once—but no matter when—
      There lived—no matter where—
  A man, whose name—but then
      I need not that declare.

  He—well, he had been born,
      And so he was alive;
  His age—I details scorn—
      Was somethingty and five.

  He lived—how many years
      I truly can't decide;
  But this one fact appears
      He lived—until he died.

  "He died," I have averred,
      But cannot prove 't was so,
  But that he was interred,
      At any rate, I know.

  I fancy he'd a son,
      I hear he had a wife:
  Perhaps he'd more than one,
      I know not, on my life!

  But whether he was rich,
      Or whether he was poor,
  Or neither—both—or which,
      I cannot say, I'm sure.

  I can't recall his name,
      Or what he used to do:
  But then—well, such is fame!
      'T will so serve me and you.

  And that is why I thus,
      About this unknown man
  Would fain create a fuss,
      To rescue, if I can.

  From dark oblivion's blow,
      Some record of his lot:
  But, ah! I do not know
      Who—where—when—why—or what.


  In this brief pedigree
      A moral we should find—
  But what it ought to be
      Has quite escaped my mind!



  Here lieth one, who did most truly prove
  That he could never die while he could move;
  So hung his destiny never to rot
  While he might still jog on and keep his trot;
  Made of sphere metal, never to decay
  Until his revolution was at stay.
  Time numbers motion, yet (without a crime
  'Gainst old truth) motion number'd out his time,
  And like an engine moved with wheel and weight,
  His principles being ceased, he ended straight.
  Rest, that gives all men life, gave him his death,
  And too much breathing put him out of breath;
  Nor were it contradiction to affirm,
  Too long vacation hasten'd on his term.
  Merely to drive the time away he sicken'd,
  Fainted, and died, nor would with ale be quicken'd;
  "Nay," quoth he, on his swooning bed outstretch'd,
  "If I mayn't carry, sure I'll ne'er be fetch'd,
  But vow, though the cross doctors all stood hearers,
  For one carrier put down to make six bearers."
  Ease was his chief disease; and to judge right,
  He died for heaviness that his cart went light:
  His leisure told him that his time was come,
  And lack of load made his life burdensome.
  That even to his last breath (there be that say't),
  As he were press'd to death, he cried, "More weight;"
  But, had his doings lasted as they were,
  He had been an immortal carrier.
  Obedient to the moon he spent his date
  In course reciprocal, and had his fate
  Link'd to the mutual flowing of the seas,
  Yet (strange to think) his wane was his increase:
  His letters are deliver'd all, and gone,
  Only remains the superscription.

John Milton.


  From the depth of the dreamy decline of the dawn
      through a notable nimbus of nebulous noonshine,
  Pallid and pink as the palm of the flag-flower
      that flickers with fear of the flies as they float,
  Are they looks of our lovers that lustrously lean from a marvel
      of mystic miraculous moonshine,
  These that we feel in the blood of our blushes that thicken and
      threaten with sobs from the throat?
  Thicken and thrill as a theatre thronged at appeal of an actor's
      appalled agitation,
  Fainter with fear of the fires of the future than pale with the
      promise of pride in the past;
  Flushed with the famishing fulness of fever that reddens with
      radiance of rathe recreation,
  Gaunt as the ghastliest of glimpses that gleam through the gloom
      of the gloaming when ghosts go aghast?
  Nay, for the nick of the tick of the time is a tremulous touch
      on the temples of terror,
  Strained as the sinews yet strenuous with strife of the dead who
      is dumb as the dust-heaps of death:
  Surely no soul is it, sweet as the spasm of erotic emotional
      exquisite error,
  Bathed in the balms of beatified bliss, beatific itself by
      beatitude's breath.
  Surely no spirit or sense of a soul that was soft to the spirit
      and soul of our senses
  Sweetens the stress of suspiring suspicion that sobs in the
      semblance and sound of a sigh;
  Only this oracle opens Olympian, in mystical moods and
     triangular tenses—
  Life is the lust of a lamp for the light that is dark till the
      dawn of the day when we die.
  Mild is the mirk and monotonous music of memory melodiously mute
      as it may be,
  While the hope in the heart of a hero is bruised by the breach of
      men's rapiers resigned to the rod;
  Made meek as a mother whose bosom—beats bound with the bliss—
      bringing bulk of a balm—breathing baby,
  As they grope through the grave-yards of creeds, under skies
      growing green'at a groan for the grimness of God.
  Blank is the book of his bounty beholden of old and its binding
      is blacker than bluer:
  Out of blue into black is the scheme of the skies, and their
      dews are the wine of the bloodshed of things;
  Till the darkling desire of delight shall be free as a fawn that
      is freed from the fangs that pursue her,
  Till the heart-beats of hell shall be hushed by a hymn from the
      hunt that has harried the kernel of kings.

A. C. Swinburne, in "The Heptalogia."


  What lightning shall light it? What thunder shall tell it?
  In the height of the height, in the depth of the deep?

  Shall the sea—storm declare it, or paint it, or smell it?
      Shall the price of a slave be its treasure to keep?
  When the night has grown near with the gems on her bosom,
      When the white of mine eyes is the whiteness of snow,
  When the cabman—in liquor—drives a blue roan, a kicker,
      Into the land of the dear long ago.

  Ah!—Ah, again!—You will come to me, fall on me—
      You are so heavy, and I am so flat.
  And I? I shall not be at home when you call on me,
      But stray down the wind like a gentleman's hat:
  I shall list to the stars when the music is purple,
      Be drawn through a pipe, and exhaled into rings;
  Turn to sparks, and then straightway get stuck in the gateway
      That stands between speech and unspeakable things.

  As I mentioned before, by what light is it lighted?
      Oh! Is it fourpence, or piebald, or gray?
  Is it a mayor that a mother has knighted,
      Or is it a horse of the sun and the day?
  Is it a pony? If so, who will change it?
      O golfer, be quiet, and mark where it scuds,
  And think of its paces—of owners and races—
      Relinquish the links for the study of studs.

  Not understood? Take me hence! Take me yonder!
      Take me away to the land of my rest—
  There where the Ganges and other gees wander,
      And uncles and antelopes act for the best,
  And all things are mixed and run into each other
      In a violet twilight of virtues and sins,
  With the church-spires below you and no one to show you
      Where the curate leaves off and the pew-rent begins!

  In the black night through the rank grass the snakes peer—
      The cobs and the cobras are partial to grass—
  And a boy wanders out with a knowledge of Shakespeare
      That's not often found in a boy of his class,
  And a girl wanders out without any knowledge,
      And a bird wanders out, and a cow wanders out,
  Likewise one wether, and they wander together—
      There's a good deal of wandering lying about.

  But it's all for the best; I've been told by my friends, Sir,
      That in verses I'd written the meaning was slight;
  I've tried with no meaning—to make 'em amends, Sir—
      And find that this kind's still more easy to write.
  The title has nothing to do with the verses,
      But think of the millions—the laborers who
  In busy employment find deepest enjoyment,
      And yet, like my title, have nothing to do!

Barry Pain.


  I know not of what we ponder'd
      Or made pretence to talk,
  As, her hand within mine, we wander'd
      Tow'rd the pool by the limetree 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 blurred 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 failed 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'raps 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 passed, what was felt or spoken—
      Whether anything passed at all—
  And whether the heart was broken
      That beat under that sheltering 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, and who on earth we were,
      And what this is all about.

C. S. Calverley.


  You see this pebble-stone? It's a thing I bought
  Of a bit of a chit of a boy i' the mid o' the day—
  I like to dock the smaller parts-o-speech,
  As we curtail the already cur-tailed cur
  (You catch the paronomasia, play 'po' words?)
  Did, rather, i' the pre-Landseerian days.
  Well, to my muttons. I purchased the concern,
  And clapt it i' my poke, having given for same
  By way o' chop, swop, barter or exchange—
  "Chop" was my snickering dandiprat's own term—
  One shilling and fourpence, current coin o' the realm.
  O-n-e one and f-o-u-r four
  Pence, one and fourpence—you are with me, sir?—
  What hour it skills not: ten or eleven o' the clock,
  One day (and what a roaring day it was
  Go shop or sight-see—bar a spit o' rain!)
  In February, eighteen sixty nine,
  Alexandrina Victoria, Fidei,
  Hm—hm—how runs the jargon? being on the throne.

  Such, sir, are all the facts, succinctly put,
  The basis or substratum—what you will—
  Of the impending eighty thousand lines.
  "Not much in 'em either," quoth perhaps simple Hodge.
  But there's a superstructure. Wait a bit.

  Mark first the rationale of the thing:
  Hear logic rivel and levigate the deed.
  That shilling—and for matter o' that, the pence—
  I had o' course upo' me—wi' me say—
  (Mecum's the Latin, make a note o' that)
  When I popp'd pen i' stand, scratched ear, wiped snout,
  (Let everybody wipe his own himself)
  Sniff'd—tch!—at snuffbox; tumbled up, he-heed,
  Haw-haw'd (not he-haw'd, that's another guess thing):
  Then fumbled at, and stumbled out of, door,
  I shoved the timber ope wi' my omoplat;
  And in vestibulo, i' the lobby to-wit,
  (Iacobi Facciolati's rendering, sir,)
  Donned galligaskins, antigropeloes,
  And so forth; and, complete with hat and gloves,
  One on and one a-dangle i' my hand,
  And ombrifuge (Lord love you!) cas o' rain,
  I flopped forth, 'sbuddikins! on my own ten toes,
  (I do assure you there be ten of them)
  And went clump-clumping up hill and down dale
  To find myself o' the sudden i' front o' the boy.
  Put case I hadn't 'em on me, could I ha' bought
  This sort-o'-kind-o'-what-you-might-call-toy,
  This pebble-thing, o' the boy-thing? Q. E. D.
  That's proven without aid for mumping Pope,
  Sleek porporate or bloated cardinal.
  (Isn't it, old Fatchops? You're in Euclid now.)
  So, having the shilling—having i' fact a lot—
  And pence and halfpence, ever so many o' them,
  I purchased, as I think I said before,
  The pebble (lapis, lapidis, di, dem, de
  What nouns 'crease short i' the genitive, Fatchops, eh?)
  O the boy, a bare-legg'd beggarly son of a gun,
  For one-and-fourpence. Here we are again.
  Now Law steps in, biwigged, voluminous-jaw'd;
  Investigates and re-investigates.
  Was the transaction illegal? Law shakes head.
  Perpend, sir, all the bearings of the case.

  At first the coin was mine, the chattel his.
  But now (by virtue of the said exchange
  And barter) vice versa all the coin,
  Rer juris operationem, vests
  I' the boy and his assigns till ding o' doom;
  In saecula saeculo-o-o-orum;
  (I think I hear the Abate mouth out that.)
  To have and hold the same to him and them …
  Confer some idiot on Conveyancing.
  Whereas the pebble and every part thereof,
  And all that appertaineth thereunto,
  Quodcunque pertinet ad em rem,
  (I fancy, sir, my Latin's rather pat)
  Or shall, will, may, might, can, could, would, or should,
  Subaudi caetera—clap we to the close—
  For what's the good of law in such a case o' the kind
  Is mine to all intents and purposes.
  This settled, I resume the thread o' the tale.

  Now for a touch o' the vendor's quality.
  He says a gen'lman bought a pebble of him,
  (This pebble i' sooth, sir, which I hold i' my hand)—
  And paid for 't, like a gen'lman, on the nail.
  "Did I o'ercharge him a ha'penny? Devil a bit.
  Fiddlepin's end! Get out, you blazing ass!
  Gabble o' the goose. Don't bugaboo-baby me!
  Go double or quits? Yah! tittup! what's the odds?"
  —There's the transaction viewed in the vendor's light.

  Next ask that dumpled hag, stood snuffling by,
  With her three frowsy blowsy brats o' babes,
  The scum o' the Kennel, cream o' the filth-heap—Faugh!
  Aie, aie, aie, aie! [Greek: otototototoi],
  ('Stead which we blurt out, Hoighty toighty now)—
  And the baker and candlestick maker, and Jack and Gill,
  Blear'd Goody this and queasy Gaffer that,
  Ask the Schoolmaster, Take Schoolmaster first.
  He saw a gentleman purchase of a lad
  A stone, and pay for it rite on the square,
  And carry it off per saltum, jauntily
  Propria quae maribus, gentleman's property now
  (Agreeable to the law explained above).
  In proprium usum, for his private ends,
  The boy he chucked a brown i' the air, and bit
  I' the face the shilling; heaved a thumping stone
  At a lean hen that ran cluck-clucking by,
  (And hit her, dead as nail i' post o' door,)
  Then abiit—What's the Ciceronian phrase?
  Excessit, evasit, erupit—off slogs boy;
  Off like bird, avi similis—(you observed
  The dative? Pretty i' the Mantuan!)—Anglice
  Off in three flea skips. Hactenus, so far,
  So good, tam bene. Bene, satis, male,—
  Where was I with my trope 'bout one in a quag?
  I did once hitch the Syntax into verse
  Verbum personale, a verb personal,
  Concordat—"ay", agrees old Fatchops—cum
, with its nominative,
  Genere, i' point of gender, numero,
  O' number, et persona, and person. Ut,
  Instance: Sol ruit, down flops sun, et and,
  Montes umbrantur, out flounce mountains. Pah!
  Excuse me, sir, I think I'm going mad.

  You see the trick on't, though, and can yourself
  Continue the discourse ad libitum.
  It takes up about eighty thousand lines,
  A thing imagination boggles at;
  And might, odds-bobs, sir! in judicious hands
  Extend from here to Mesopotamy.

C.S. Calverley.


  In moss-prankt dells which the sunbeams flatter
      (And heaven it knoweth what that may mean;
  Meaning, however, is no great matter)
      Where woods are a-tremble with words a-tween;

  Thro' God's own heather we wonned together,
      I and my Willie (O love my love):
  I need hardly remark it was glorious weather,
      And flitter-bats wavered alow, above:

  Boats were curtseying, rising, bowing,
      (Boats in that climate are so polite,)
  And sands were a ribbon of green endowing,
      And O the sun-dazzle on bark and bight!

  Thro' the rare red heather we danced together
      (O love my Willie,) and smelt for flowers:
  I must mention again it was glorious weather,
      Rhymes are so scarce in this world of ours:

  By rises that flushed with their purple favors,
      Thro' becks that brattled o'er grasses sheen,
  We walked or waded, we two young shavers,
      Thanking our stars we were both so green.

  We journeyed in parallels, I and Willie,
      In fortunate parallels! Butterflies,
  Hid in weltering shadows of daffodilly
      Or marjoram, kept making peacock eyes:

  Song-birds darted about, some inky
      As coal, some snowy (I ween) as curds;
  Or rosy as pinks, or as roses pinky—
      They reek of no eerie To-come, those birds!

  But they skim over bents which the mill-stream washes,
      Or hang in the lift 'neath a white cloud's hem;
  They need no parasols, no goloshes;
      And good Mrs. Trimmer she feedeth them.

  Then we thrid God's cowslips (as erst his heather),
      That endowed the wan grass with their golden blooms;
  And snapt—(it was perfectly charming weather)—
      Our fingers at Fate and her goddess-glooms:

  And Willie 'gan sing—(Oh, his notes were fluty;
      Wafts fluttered them out to the white-winged sea)—
  Something made up of rhymes that have done much duty,
      Rhymes (better to put it) of "ancientry":

  Bowers of flowers encountered showers
      In William's carol—(O love my Willie!)
  Then he bade sorrow borrow from blithe tomorrow
      I quite forget what—say a daffodilly.

  A nest in a hollow, "with buds to follow,"
      I think occurred next in his nimble strain;
  And clay that was "kneaden" of course in Eden—
      A rhyme most novel I do maintain:

  Mists, bones, the singer himself, love-stories,
      And all least furlable things got furled;
  Not with any design to conceal their glories,
      But simply and solely to rhyme with world.

  O if billows and pillows and hours and flowers,
      And all the brave rhymes of an elder day,
  Could be furled together, this genial weather,
      And carted or carried on wafts away,

  Nor ever again trotted out—ah me!
  How much fewer volumes of verse there'd be.

C.S. Calverley


  There is a river clear and fair,
  'Tis neither broad nor narrow;
        It winds a little here and there—
  It winds about like any hare;
  And then it takes as straight a course
  As on the turnpike road a horse,
      Or through the air an arrow.

  The trees that grow upon the shore,
  Have grown a hundred years or more;
        So long there is no knowing.
  Old Daniel Dobson does not know
  When first these trees began to grow;
  But still they grew, and grew, and grew,
  As if they'd nothing else to do,
      But ever to be growing.

  The impulses of air and sky
  Have rear'd their stately heads so high,
      And clothed their boughs with green;
  Their leaves the dews of evening quaff,—
      And when the wind blows loud and keen,
  I've seen the jolly timbers laugh,
      And shake their sides with merry glee—
      Wagging their heads in mockery.

      Fix'd are their feet in solid earth,
      Where winds can never blow;
  But visitings of deeper birth
      Have reach'd their roots below.
  For they have gain'd the river's brink,
  And of the living waters drink.

  There's little Will, a five years child—
      He is my youngest boy:
  To look on eyes so fair and wild,
      It is a very joy:—
  He hath conversed with sun and shower,
  And dwelt with every idle flower,
      As fresh and gay as them.
  He loiters with the briar rose,—
  The blue-belles are his play-fellows,
      That dance upon their slender stem.

  And I have said, my little Will,
  Why should not he continue still
      A thing of Nature's rearing?
  A thing beyond the world's control—
  A living vegetable soul,—
      No human sorrow fearing.

  It were a blessed sight to see
  That child become a Willow-tree,
      His brother trees among.
  He'd be four times as tall as me,
      And live three times as long.

Catharine M. Fanshawe.


  You may lift me up in your arms, lad, and turn my face to the sun,
  For a last look back at the dear old track where the Jubilee cup
       was won;
  And draw your chair to my side, lad—no, thank ye, I feel no pain—
  For I'm going out with the tide, lad; but I'll tell you the tale

  I'm seventy-nine or nearly, and my head it has long turned gray,
  But it all comes back as clearly as though it was yesterday—
  The dust, and the bookies shouting around the clerk of the scales,
  And the clerk of the course, and the nobs in force, and 'Is
       'Ighness the Pr**ce of W*les.

  'Twas a nine-hole thresh to wind'ard (but none of us cared for that),
  With a straight run home to the service tee, and a finish along
       the flat,
  "Stiff?" ah, well you may say it! Spot barred, and at five stone
  But at two and a bisque I'd ha' run the risk; for I was a
       greenhorn then.

  So we stripped to the B. Race signal, the old red swallowtail—
  There was young Ben Bolt and the Portland Colt, and Aston Villa,
       and Yale;
  And W. G., and Steinitz, Leander and The Saint,
  And the G*rm*n Emp*r*r's Meteor, a-looking as fresh as paint;

  John Roberts (scratch), and Safety Match, The Lascar, and Lorna
  Oom Paul (a bye), and Romany Rye, and me upon Wooden Spoon;
  And some of us cut for partners, and some of us strung for baulk,
  And some of us tossed for stations—But there, what use to talk?

  Three-quarter-back on the Kingsclere crack was station enough for
  With a fresh jackyarder blowing and the Vicarage goal a-lee!
  And I leaned and patted her centre-bit and eased the quid in her
  With a "Soh my lass!" and a "Woa you brute!"—for she could do all
       but speak.

  She was geared a thought too high perhaps; she was trained a
       trifle fine;
  But she had the grand reach forward! I never saw such a line!
  Smooth-bored, clean run, from her fiddle head with its dainty ear
  Hard-bit, pur sang, from her overhang to the heel of her off
       hind sock.

  Sir Robert he walked beside me as I worked her down to the mark;
  "There's money on this, my lad," said he, "and most of 'em's
       running dark;
  But ease the sheet if you're bunkered, and pack the scrummages
  And use your slide at the distance, and we'll drink to your health

  But I bent and tightened my stretcher. Said I to myself, said I—
  "John Jones, this here is the Jubilee Cup, and you have to do or
  And the words weren't hardly spoken when the umpire shouted
  And we all kicked off from the Gasworks End with a "Yoicks!" and a
       "Gone Away!"

  And at first I thought of nothing, as the clay flew by in lumps,
  But stuck to the old Ruy Lopez, and wondered who'd call for trumps,
  And luffed her close to the cushion, and watched each one as it
  And in triple file up the Rowley Mile we went like a trail of smoke.

  The Lascar made the running but he didn't amount to much,
  For old Oom Paul was quick on the ball, and headed it back to touch;
  And the whole first flight led off with the right as The Saint
       took up the pace,
  And drove it clean to the putting green and trumped it there with
       an ace.

  John Roberts had given a miss in baulk, but Villa cleared with a
  And keeping her service hard and low the Meteor forged to the front;
  With Romany Rye to windward at dormy and two to play,
  And Yale close up—but a Jubilee Cup isn't run for every day.

  We laid our course for the Warner—I tell you the pace was hot!
  And again off Tattenham Corner a blanket covered the lot.
  Check side! Check side! now steer her wide! and barely an inch of
  With The Lascar's tail over our lee rail and brushing Leander's

  We were running as strong as ever—eight knots—but it couldn't
  For the spray and the bails were flying, the whole field tailing
  And the Portland Colt had shot his bolt, and Yale was bumped at
       the Doves,
  And The Lascar resigned to Steinitz, stalemated in fifteen moves.

  It was bellows to mend with Roberts—starred three for a penalty
  But he chalked his cue and gave 'em the butt, and Oom Paul marked
       the trick—
  "Offside—No Ball—and at fourteen all! Mark Cock! and two for his
  When W.G. ran clean through his lee and beat him twice with a lob.

  He yorked him twice on a crumbling pitch and wiped his eye with a
  But his guy-rope split with the strain of it and he dropped back
       out of the race;
  And I drew a bead on the Meteor's lead, and challenging none too
  Bent over and patted her garboard strake, and called upon Wooden

  She was all of a shiver forward, the spoondrift thick on her flanks,
  But I'd brought her an easy gambit, and nursed her over the banks;
  She answered her helm—the darling! and woke up now with a rush,
  While the Meteor's jock, he sat like a rock—he knew we rode for
       his brush!

  There was no one else left in it. The Saint was using his whip,
  And Safety Match, with a lofting catch, was pocketed deep at slip;
  And young Ben Bolt with his niblick took miss at Leander's lunge,
  But topped the net with the ricochet, and Steinitz threw up the

  But none of the lot could stop the rot—nay, don't ask me to stop!
  The villa had called for lemons, Oom Paul had taken his drop,
  And both were kicking the referee. Poor fellow! he done his best;
  But, being in doubt, he'd ruled them out—which he always did when

  So, inch by inch, I tightened the winch, and chucked the sandbags
  I heard the nursery cannons pop, I heard the bookies shout:
  "The Meteor wins!" "No, Wooden Spoon!" "Check!" "Vantage!"
       "Leg Before!"
  "Last Lap!" "Pass Nap!" At his saddle-flap I put up the helm and

  You may overlap at the saddle-flap, and yet be loo'd on the tape:
  And it all depends upon changing ends, how a seven-year-old will
  It was tack and tack to the Lepe and back—a fair ding-dong to the
  And he led by his forward canvas yet as we shot 'neath Hammersmith

  He led by his forward canvas—he led from his strongest suit—
  But along we went on a roaring scent, and at Fawley I gained a foot.
  He fisted off with his jigger, and gave me his wash—too late!
  Deuce—Vantage—Check! By neck and neck we rounded into the

  I could hear the "Conquering 'Ero" a-crashing on Godfrey's band,
  And my hopes fell sudden to zero, just there, with the race in
  In sight of the Turf's Blue Ribbon, in sight of the umpire's tape,
  As I felt the tack of her spinnaker c-rack! as I heard the steam

  Had I lost at that awful juncture my presence of mind? … but no!
  I leaned and felt for the puncture, and plugged it there with my
  Hand over hand by the Members' Stand I lifted and eased her up,
  Shot—clean and fair—to the crossbar there, and landed the
       Jubilee Cup!

  "The odd by a head, and leg before," so the Judge he gave the word:
  And the umpire shouted "Over!" but I neither spoke nor stirred.
  They crowded round: for there on the ground I lay in a dead-cold
  Pitched neck and crop on the turf atop of my beautiful Wooden Spoon.

  Her dewlap tire was punctured, her bearings all red hot;
  She'd a lolling tongue, and her bowsprit sprung, and her running
       gear in a knot;
  And amid the sobs of her backers, Sir Robert loosened her girth
  And led her away to the knacker's. She had raced her last on earth!

  But I mind me well of the tear that fell from the eye of our noble
  And the things he said as he tucked me in bed—and I 've lain
       there ever since;
  Tho' it all gets mixed up queerly that happened before my spill,—
  But I draw my thousand yearly: it 'll pay for the doctor's bill.

  I'm going out with the tide, lad—you 'll dig me a numble grave,
  And whiles you will bring your bride, lad, and your sons, if sons
       you have,
  And there when the dews are weeping, and the echoes murmur
  And the salt, salt tide comes creeping and covers the

  In the hour when the ducks deposit their eggs with a boasted force,
  They'll look and whisper "How was it?" and you'll take them over
       the course,
  And your voice will break as you try to speak of the glorious
       first of June,
  When the Jubilee Cup, with John Jones up, was won upon Wooden Spoon.

Arthur T. Quiller-Couch.


  Lady, I loved you all last year,
      How honestly and well—
  Alas! would weary you to hear,
      And torture me to tell;
  I raved beneath the midnight sky,
      I sang beneath the limes—
  Orlando in my lunacy,
      And Petrarch in my rhymes.
  But all is over! When the sun
      Dries up the boundless main,
  When black is white, false-hearted one,
      I may be yours again!

  When passion's early hopes and fears
      Are not derided things;
  When truth is found in falling tears,
      Or faith in golden rings;
  When the dark Fates that rule our way
      Instruct me where they hide
  One woman that would ne'er betray,
      One friend that never lied;
  When summer shines without a cloud,
      And bliss without a pain;
  When worth is noticed in a crowd,
      I may be yours again!

  When science pours the light of day
      Upon the lords of lands;
  When Huskisson is heard to say
      That Lethbridge understands;
  When wrinkles work their way in youth,
      Or Eldon's in a hurry;
  When lawyers represent the truth,
      Or Mr. Sumner Surrey;
  When aldermen taste eloquence
      Or bricklayers champagne;
  When common law is common sense,
      I may be yours again!

  When learned judges play the beau,
      Or learned pigs the tabor;
  When traveller Bankes beats Cicero,
      Or Mr. Bishop Weber;
  When sinking funds discharge a debt,
      Or female hands a bomb;
  When bankrupts study the Gazette,
      Or colleges Tom Thumb;
  When little fishes learn to speak,
      Or poets not to feign;
  When Dr. Geldart construes Greek,
      I may be yours again!

  When Pole and Thornton honor cheques,
      Or Mr. Const a rogue;
  When Jericho's in Middlesex,
      Or minuets in vogue;
  When Highgate goes to Devonport,
      Or fashion to Guildhall;
  When argument is heard at Court,
      Or Mr. Wynn at all;
  When Sydney Smith forgets to jest,
      Or farmers to complain;
  When kings that are are not the best,
      I may be yours again!

  When peers from telling money shrink,
      Or monks from telling lies;
  When hydrogen begins to sink,
      Or Grecian scrip to rise;
  When German poets cease to dream,
      Americans to guess;
  When Freedom sheds her holy beam
      On Negroes, and the Press;
  When there is any fear of Rome,
      Or any hope of Spain;
  When Ireland is a happy home,
      I may be yours again!

  When you can cancel what has been,
      Or alter what must be,
  Or bring once more that vanished scene,
      Those withered joys to me;
  When you can tune the broken lute,
      Or deck the blighted wreath,
  Or rear the garden's richest fruit,
      Upon a blasted heath;
  When you can lure the wolf at bay
      Back to his shattered chain,
  To-day may then be yesterday—
      I may be yours again!

W.M. Praed.


  When these things following be done to our intent,
  Then put women in trust and confident.

  When nettles in winter bring forth roses red,
      And all manner of thorn trees bear figs naturally,
  And geese bear pearls in every mead,
      And laurel bear cherries abundantly,
      And oaks bear dates very plenteously,
  And kisks give of honey superfluence,
  Then put women in trust and confidence.

  When box bear paper in every land and town,
      And thistles bear berries in every place,
  And pikes have naturally feathers in their crown,
      And bulls of the sea sing a good bass,
      And men be the ships fishes trace,
  And in women be found no insipience,
  Then put them in trust and confidence.

  When whitings do walk forests to chase harts,
      And herrings their horns in forests boldly blow,
  And marmsets mourn in moors and lakes,
      And gurnards shoot rooks out of a crossbow,
      And goslings hunt the wolf to overthrow,
  And sprats bear spears in armes of defence,
  Then put women in trust and confidence.

  When swine be cunning in all points of music,
      And asses be doctors of every science,
  And cats do heal men by practising of physic,
      And buzzards to scripture give any credence,
      And merchants buy with horn, instead of groats and pence,
  And pyes be made poets for their eloquence,
  Then put women in trust and confidence.

  When sparrows build churches on a height,
      And wrens carry sacks unto the mill,
  And curlews carry timber houses to dight,
      And fomalls bear butter to market to sell,
      And woodcocks bear woodknives cranes to kill,
  And greenfinches to goslings do obedience,
  Then put women in trust and confidence.

  When crows take salmon in woods and parks,
      And be take with swifts and snails,
  And camels in the air take swallows and larks,
      And mice move mountains by wagging of their tails,
      And shipmen take a ride instead of sails,
  And when wives to their husbands do no offence,
  Then put women in trust and confidence.

  When antelopes surmount eagles in flight,
      And swans be swifter than hawks of the tower,
  And wrens set gos-hawks by force and might,
      And muskets make verjuice of crabbes sour,
      And ships sail on dry land, silt give flower,
  And apes in Westminster give judgment and sentence,
  Then put women in trust and confidence.




  Here is the tale—and you must make the most of it!
      Here is the rhyme—ah, listen and attend!
  Backwards—forwards—read it all and boast of it
      If you are anything the wiser at the end

  Now Jack looked up—it was time to sup, and the bucket was yet to
  And Jack looked round for a space and frowned, then beckoned his
       sister Jill,
  And twice he pulled his sister's hair, and thrice he smote her side;
  "Ha' done, ha' done with your impudent fun—ha' done with your
       games!" she cried;
  "You have made mud-pies of a marvellous size—finger and face are
  You have trodden the Way of the Mire and Clay—now up and wash you,
  Or else, or ever we reach our home, there waiteth an angry dame—
  Well you know the weight of her blow—the supperless open shame!
  Wash, if you will, on yonder hill—wash, if you will, at the spring,—
  Or keep your dirt, to your certain hurt, and an imminent walloping!"

  "You must wash—you must scrub—you must scrape!" growled Jack,
       "you must traffic with cans and pails,
  Nor keep the spoil of the good brown soil in the rim of your
  The morning path you must tread to your bath—you must wash ere
       the night descends,
  And all for the cause of conventional laws and the soapmakers'
  But if 'tis sooth that our meal in truth depends on our washing,
  By the sacred right of our appetite—haste—haste to the top of
       the hill!"

  They have trodden the Way of the Mire and Clay, they have toiled
       and travelled far,
  They have climbed to the brow of the hill-top now, where the
       bubbling fountains are,
  They have taken the bucket and filled it up—yea, filled it up to
       the brim;
  But Jack he sneered at his sister Jill, and Jill she jeered at him:
  "What, blown already!" Jack cried out (and his was a biting mirth!)
  "You boast indeed of your wonderful speed—but what is the
       boasting worth?
  Now, if you can run as the antelope runs, and if you can turn like
       a hare,
  Come, race me, Jill, to the foot of the hill—and prove your
       boasting fair!"

  "Race? What is a race" (and a mocking face had Jill as she spake
       the word)
  "Unless for a prize the runner tries? The truth indeed ye heard,
  For I can run as the antelope runs, and I can turn like a hare:—
  The first one down wins half-a-crown—and I will race you there!"
  "Yea, if for the lesson that you will learn (the lesson of humbled
  The price you fix at two-and-six, it shall not be denied;
  Come, take your stand at my right hand, for here is the mark we toe:
  Now, are you ready, and are you steady? Gird up your petticoats! Go!"

  And Jill she ran like a winging bolt, a bolt from the bow released,
  But Jack like a stream of the lightning gleam, with its pathway
       duly greased;
  He ran down hill in front of Jill like a summer-lightning flash—
  Till he suddenly tripped on a stone, or slipped, and fell to the
       earth with a crash.
  Then straight did rise on his wondering eyes the constellations
  Arcturus and the Pleiades, the Greater and Lesser Bear,
  The swirling rain of a comet's train he saw, as he swiftly fell—
  And Jill came tumbling after him with a loud triumphant yell:
  "You have won, you have won, the race is done! And as for the
       wager laid—
  You have fallen down with a broken crown—the half-crown debt is

  They have taken Jack to the room at the back where the family
       medicines are,
  And he lies in bed with a broken head in a halo of vinegar;
  While, in that Jill had laughed her fill as her brother fell to
  She had felt the sting of a walloping—she hath paid the price of
       her mirth!

  Here is the tale—and now you have the whole of it,
  Here is the story—well and wisely planned,
  Beauty—Duty—these make up the soul of it—
  But, ah, my little readers, will you mark and understand

Anthony C. Deane.


  The auld wife sat at her ivied door,
      (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)
  A thing she had frequently done before;
      And her spectacles lay on her aproned knees.

  The piper he piped on the hill-top high,
      (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)
  Till the cow said "I die" and the goose asked "Why;"
      And the dog said nothing, but searched for fleas.

  The farmer he strode through the square farmyard;
      (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)
  His last brew of ale was a trifle hard,
      The connection of which with the plot one sees.

  The farmer's daughter hath frank blue eyes,
      (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)
  She hears the rooks caw in the windy skies,
      As she sits at her lattice and shells her peas.

  The farmer's daughter hath ripe red lips;
      (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)
  If you try to approach her, away she skips
      Over tables and chairs with apparent ease.

  The farmer's daughter hath soft brown hair;
      (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)
  And I met with a ballad, I can't say where,
      Which wholly consisted of lines like these.

  She sat with her hands 'neath her dimpled cheeks,
      (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)
  And spake not a word. While a lady speaks
      There is hope, but she didn't even sneeze.

  She sat with her hands 'neath her crimson cheeks;
      (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)
  She gave up mending her father's breeks,
      And let the cat roll in her best chemise.

  She sat with her hands 'neath her burning cheeks
      (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese),
  And gazed at the piper for thirteen weeks;
      Then she followed him out o'er the misty leas.

  Her sheep followed her as their tails did them
      (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese),
  And this song is considered a perfect gem,
      And as to the meaning, it's what you please.

Charles S. Calverley.


  Some like drink
      In a pint pot,
  Some like to think,
      Some not.

  Strong Dutch cheese,
      Old Kentucky Rye,
  Some like these;
      Not I.

  Some like Poe,
      And others like Scott;
  Some like Mrs. Stowe,
      Some not.

  Some like to laugh,
      Some like to cry,
  Some like to chaff;
      Not I.

R.L. Stevenson.


  Minnie and Winnie
      Slept in a shell.
  Sleep, little ladies!
      And they slept well.

  Pink was the shell within,
      Silver without;
  Sounds of the great sea
      Wandered about.

  Sleep little ladies!
      Wake not soon!
  Echo on echo
      Dies to the moon.

  Two bright stars
      Peep'd into the shell,
  What are they dreaming of?
      Who can tell?

  Started a green linnet
      Out of the croft;
  Wake, little ladies,
      The sun is aloft!

Lord Tennyson.


  The Mayor of Scuttleton burned his nose
  Trying to warm his copper toes;
  He lost his money and spoiled his will
  By signing his name with an icicle quill;
  He went bareheaded, and held his breath,
  And frightened his grandame most to death;
  He loaded a shovel and tried to shoot,
  And killed the calf in the leg of his boot;

  He melted a snowbird and formed the habit
  Of dancing jigs with a sad Welsh rabbit;
  He lived on taffy and taxed the town;
  And read his newspaper upside down;
  Then he sighed and hung his hat on a feather,
  And bade the townspeople come together;
  But the worst of it all was, nobody knew
  What the Mayor of Scuttleton next would do.

Mary Mapes Dodge.


  I never saw a Purple Cow,
      I never hope to see one;
  But I can tell you, anyhow,
      I'd rather see than be one.


  Ah yes, I wrote the Purple Cow,
      I'm sorry now I wrote it.
  But I can tell you anyhow,
      I'll kill you if you quote it.

Gelett Burgess.


  I'd Never Dare to Walk across
      A Bridge I Could Not See;
  For Quite afraid of Falling off,
      I fear that I Should Be!

Gelett Burgess.


  The Roof it has a Lazy Time
      A-lying in the Sun;
  The Walls they have to Hold Him Up;
      They do Not Have Much Fun!

Gelett Burgess.


  My feet, they haul me Round the House,
      They Hoist me up the Stairs;
  I only have to Steer them and
      They Ride me Everywheres.

Gelett Burgess.


  Alas! my Child, where is the Pen
  That can do Justice to the Hen?
  Like Royalty, She goes her way,
  Laying foundations every day,
  Though not for Public Buildings, yet
  For Custard, Cake and Omelette.

  Or if too Old for such a use
  They have their Fling at some Abuse,
  As when to Censure Plays Unfit
  Upon the Stage they make a Hit,
  Or at elections Seal the Fate
  Of an Obnoxious Candidate.
  No wonder, Child, we prize the Hen,
  Whose Egg is Mightier than the Pen.

Oliver Herford.


  The Cow is too well known, I fear,
  To need an introduction here.
  If She should vanish from earth's face
  It would be hard to fill her place;
  For with the Cow would disappear
  So much that every one holds Dear.
  Oh, think of all the Boots and Shoes,
  Milk Punches, Gladstone Bags and Stews,
  And Things too numerous to count,
  Of which, my child, she is the Fount.
  Let's hope, at least, the Fount may last
  Until our Generation's past.

Oliver Herford.


  Children, behold the Chimpanzee:
  He sits on the ancestral tree
  From which we sprang in ages gone.
  I'm glad we sprang: had we held on,
  We might, for aught that I can say,
  Be horrid Chimpanzees today.

Oliver Herford.


  "Oh, say, what is this fearful, wild,
  Incorrigible cuss?"
  "This creature (don't say 'cuss,' my child;
  'Tis slang)—this creature fierce is styled
  The Hippopotamus.
  His curious name derives its source
  From two Greek words: hippos—a horse,
  Potamos—river. See?
  The river's plain enough, of course;
  But why they called that thing a horse,
  That's what is Greek to me."

Oliver Herford.


  My child, the Duck-billed Platypus
  A sad example sets for us:
  From him we learn how Indecision
  Of character provokes Derision.

  This vacillating Thing, you see,
  Could not decide which he would be,
  Fish, Flesh or Fowl, and chose all three.
  The scientists were sorely vexed
  To classify him; so perplexed
  Their brains, that they, with Rage at bay,
  Call him a horrid name one day,—
  A name that baffles, frights and shocks us,
  Ornithorhynchus Paradoxus.

Oliver Herford.


  Ev-er-y child who has the use
  Of his sen-ses knows a goose.
  See them un-der-neath the tree
  Gath-er round the goose-girl's knee,
  While she reads them by the hour
  From the works of Scho-pen-hau-er.

  How pa-tient-ly the geese at-tend!
  But do they re-al-ly com-pre-hend
  What Scho-pen-hau-er's driv-ing at?
  Oh, not at all; but what of that?
  Nei-ther do I; nei-ther does she;
  And, for that mat-ter, nor does he.

Oliver Herford.


Inspired by reading a chorus of spirits in a German play


  Oh! tell me have you ever seen a red, long-leg'd Flamingo?
  Oh! tell me have you ever yet seen him the water in go?


  Oh! yes at Bowling-Green I've seen a red long-leg'd Flamingo,
  Oh! yes at Bowling-Green I've there seen him the water in go.


  Oh! tell me did you ever see a bird so funny stand-o
  When forth he from the water comes and gets upon the land-o?


  No! in my life I ne'er did see a bird so funny stand-o
  When forth he from the water comes and gets upon the land-o.


  He has a leg some three feet long, or near it, so they say, Sir.
  Stiff upon one alone he stands, t'other he stows away, Sir.


  And what an ugly head he's got! I wonder that he'd wear it.
  But rather more I wonder that his long, thin neck can bear it.


  And think, this length of neck and legs (no doubt they have their
  Are members of a little frame, much smaller than a goose's!


  Oh! isn't he a curious bird, that red, long-leg'd Flamingo?
  A water bird, a gawky bird, a sing'lar bird, by jingo!

Lewis Gaylord Clark.


  Speak gently to the herring and kindly to the calf,
  Be blithesome with the bunny, at barnacles don't laugh!
  Give nuts unto the monkey, and buns unto the bear,
  Ne'er hint at currant jelly if you chance to see a hare!
  Oh, little girls, pray hide your combs when tortoises draw nigh,
  And never in the hearing of a pigeon whisper Pie!
  But give the stranded jelly-fish a shove into the sea,—
  Be always kind to animals wherever you may be!

  Oh, make not game of sparrows, nor faces at the ram,
  And ne'er allude to mint sauce when calling on a lamb.
  Don't beard the thoughtful oyster, don't dare the cod to crimp,
  Don't cheat the pike, or ever try to pot the playful shrimp.
  Tread lightly on the turning worm, don't bruise the butterfly,
  Don't ridicule the wry-neck, nor sneer at salmon-fry;
  Oh, ne'er delight to make dogs fight, nor bantams disagree,—
  Be always kind to animals wherever you may be!

  Be lenient with lobsters, and ever kind to crabs,
  And be not disrespectful to cuttle-fish or dabs;
  Chase not the Cochin-China, chaff not the ox obese,
  And babble not of feather-beds in company with geese.
  Be tender with the tadpole, and let the limpet thrive,
  Be merciful to mussels, don't skin your eels alive;
  When talking to a turtle don't mention calipee—
  Be always kind to animals wherever you may be.

J. Ashby-Sterry.


  The lion is the beast to fight,
          He leaps along the plain,
        And if you run with all your might,
      He runs with all his mane.
        I'm glad I'm not a Hottentot,
        But if I were, with outward cal-lum
            I'd either faint upon the spot
            Or hie me up a leafy pal-lum.

  The chamois is the beast to hunt;
        He's fleeter than the wind,
  And when the chamois is in front,
        The hunter is behind.
          The Tyrolese make famous cheese
          And hunt the chamois o'er the chaz-zums;
          I'd choose the former if you please,
          For precipices give me spaz-zums.

  The polar bear will make a rug
        Almost as white as snow;
  But if he gets you in his hug,
        He rarely lets you go.
          And Polar ice looks very nice,
          With all the colors of a pris-sum;
          But, if you'll follow my advice,
          Stay home and learn your catechissum.

A.T. Quiller-Couch.


  Remembering his taste for blood
      You'd better bait him with a cow;
  Persuade the brute to chew the cud
      Her tail suspended from a bough;
  It thrills the lion through and through
      To hear the milky creature moo.

  Having arranged this simple ruse,
      Yourself you climb a neighboring tree;
  See to it that the spot you choose
      Commands the coming tragedy;
  Take up a smallish Maxim gun,
      A search-light, whisky, and a bun.

  It's safer, too, to have your bike
      Standing immediately below,
  In case your piece should fail to strike,
      Or deal an ineffective blow;
  The Lion moves with perfect grace,
      But cannot go the scorcher's pace.

  Keep open ear for subtle signs;
      Thus, when the cow profusely moans,
  That means to say, the Lion dines.
      The crunching sound, of course, is bones;
  Silence resumes her ancient reign—
      This shows the cow is out of pain.

  But when a fat and torpid hum
      Escapes the eater's unctuous nose,
  Turn up the light and let it come
      Full on his innocent repose;
  Then pour your shot between his eyes,
      And go on pouring till he dies.

  Play, even so, discretion's part;
      Descend with stealth; bring on your gun;
  Then lay your hand above his heart
      To see if he is really done;
  Don't skin him till you know he's dead
      Or you may perish in his stead!

  Years hence, at home, when talk is tall,
      You'll set the gun-room wide agape,
  Describing how with just a small
      Pea-rifle, going after ape
  You met a Lion unaware,
      And felled him flying through the air.

Owen Seaman.


  Be kind and tender to the Frog,
      And do not call him names,
  As "Slimy-Skin," or "Polly-wog,"
      Or likewise, "Uncle James,"
  Or "Gape-a-grin," or "Toad-gone-wrong,"
      Or "Billy-Bandy-knees;"
  The Frog is justly sensitive
      To epithets like these.

  No animal will more repay
      A treatment kind and fair,
  At least, so lonely people say
  Who keep a frog (and, by the way,
      They are extremely rare).

Hilaire Belloc.


  As a friend to the children commend me the yak,
        You will find it exactly the thing:
  It will carry and fetch, you can ride on its back,
        Or lead it about with a string.

  A Tartar who dwells on the plains of Thibet
        (A desolate region of snow)
  Has for centuries made it a nursery pet,
        And surely the Tartar should know!

  Then tell your papa where the Yak can be got,
        And if he is awfully rich,
  He will buy you the creature—or else he will not,
        (I cannot be positive which).

Hilaire Belloc.


  A python I should not advise,
  It needs a doctor for its eyes,
        And has the measles yearly.

  However, if you feel inclined
  To get one (to improve your mind,
        And not from fashion merely),

  Allow no music near its cage;
  And when it flies into a rage
        Chastise it most severely.

  I had an Aunt in Yucatan
  Who bought a Python from a man
        And kept it for a pet.

  She died because she never knew
  These simple little rules and few;—
        The snake is living yet.

Hilaire Belloc.


  The Bison is vain, and (I write it with pain)
      The Door-mat you see on his head
  Is not, as some learned professors maintain,
  The opulent growth of a genius' brain;
      But is sewn on with needle and thread.

Hilaire Belloc.


  Be kind to the panther! for when thou wert young,
      In thy country far over the sea,
  'Twas a panther ate up thy papa and mamma,
      And had several mouthfuls of thee!

  Be kind to the badger! for who shall decide
      The depths of his badgerly soul?
  And think of the tapir when flashes the lamp
      O'er the fast and the free-flowing bowl.

  Be kind to the camel! nor let word of thine
      Ever put up his bactrian back;
  And cherish the she-kangaroo with her bag,
      Nor venture to give her the sack.

  Be kind to the ostrich! for how canst thou hope
      To have such a stomach as it?
  And when the proud day of your bridal shall come,
      Do give the poor birdie a bit.

  Be kind to the walrus! nor ever forget
      To have it on Tuesday to tea;
  But butter the crumpets on only one side,
      Save such as are eaten by thee.

  Be kind to the bison! and let the jackal
      In the light of thy love have a share;
  And coax the ichneumon to grow a new tail,
      And have lots of larks in its lair.

  Be kind to the bustard! that genial bird,
      And humor its wishes and ways;
  And when the poor elephant suffers from bile,
      Then tenderly lace up his stays!



  When the monkey in his madness
      Took the glue to mend his voice,
  'Twas the crawfish showed his sadness
      That the bluebird could rejoice.

  Then the perspicacious parrot
      Sought to save the suicide
  By administering carrot,
      But the monkey merely died.

  So the crawfish and the parrot
      Sauntered slowly toward the sea,
  While the bluebird stole the carrot
      And returned the glue to me.

Goldwin Goldsmith.


  There was a frog swum in the lake,
      The crab came crawling by:
  "Wilt thou," coth the frog, "be my make?"
      Coth the crab, "No, not I."
  "My skin is sooth and dappled fine,
      I can leap far and nigh.
  Thy shell is hard: so is not mine."
      Coth the crab, "No, not I."
  "Tell me," then spake the crab, "therefore,
      Or else I thee defy:
  Give me thy claw, I ask no more."
      Coth the frog, "That will I."
  The crab bit off the frog's fore-feet;
      The frog then he must die.
  To woo a crab it is not meet:
      If any do, it is not I.

From Christ Church MS., I. 549.


  The bloated Biggaboon
  Was so haughty, he would not repose
  In a house, or a hall, or ces choses,
  But he slept his high sleep in his clothes—
        'Neath the moon.
        The bloated Biggaboon
  Pour'd contempt upon waistcoat and skirt,
  Holding swallow-tails even as dirt—
  So he puff'd himself out in his shirt,
        Like a b'loon.

H. Cholmondeley-Pennell.


  "Of what are you afraid, my child?" inquired the kindly teacher.
  "Oh, sir! the flowers, they are wild," replied the timid creature.

Peter Newell.


  "Now, if the fish will only bite, we'll have some royal fun."
  "And do fish bite? The horrid things! Indeed, I'll not catch one!"

Peter Newell.


  She played upon her music-box a fancy air by chance,
  And straightway all her polka-dots began a lively dance.

Peter Newell.


  "A milkweed, and a buttercup, and cowslip," said sweet Mary,
  "Are growing in my garden-plot, and this I call my dairy."

Peter Newell.


  'Twas after a supper of Norfolk brawn
      That into a doze I chanced to drop,
  And thence awoke in the gray of dawn,
      In the wonder-land of Turvey Top.

  A land so strange I never had seen,
      And could not choose but look and laugh—
  A land where the small the great includes,
      And the whole is less than the half!

  A land where the circles were not lines
      Round central points, as schoolmen show,
  And the parallels met whenever they chose,
      And went playing at touch-and-go!

  There—except that every round was square
      And save that all the squares were rounds—
  No surface had limits anywhere,
      So they never could beat the bounds.

  In their gardens, fruit before blossom came,
      And the trees diminished as they grew;
  And you never went out to walk a mile,
      'Twas the mile that walked to you.

  The people there are not tall or short,
      Heavy or light, or stout or thin,
  And their lives begin where they should leave off,
      Or leave off where they should begin.

  There childhood, with naught of childish glee,
      Looks on the world with thoughtful brow;
  'Tis only the aged who laugh and crow,
      And cry, "We have done with it now!"

  A singular race! what lives they spent!
      Got up before they went to bed!
  And never a man said what he meant,
      Or a woman meant what she said.

  They blended colours that will not blend,
      All hideous contrasts voted sweet;
  In yellow and red their Quakers dress'd,
      And considered it rather neat.

  They didn't believe in the wise and good,
      Said the best were worst, the wisest fools;
  And 'twas only to have their teachers taught
      That they founded national schools.

  They read in "books that are no books,"
      Their classics—chess-boards neatly bound;
  Those their greatest authors who never wrote,
      And their deepest the least profound.

  Now, such were the folks of that wonder-land,
      A curious people, as you will own;
  But are there none of the race abroad,
      Are no specimens elsewhere known?

  Well, I think that he whose views of life
      Are crooked, wrong, perverse, and odd,
  Who looks upon all with jaundiced eyes—
      Sees himself and believes it God,

  Who sneers at the good, and makes the ill,
      Curses a world he cannot mend;
  Who measures life by the rule of wrong
      And abuses its aim and end,

  The man who stays when he ought to move,
      And only goes when he ought to stop—
  Is strangely like the folk in my dream,
      And would flourish in Turvey Top.



  I dreamt it! such a funny thing—
      And now it's taken wing;
  I s'pose no man before or since
      Dreamt such a funny thing?

  It had a Dragon; with a tail;
      A tail both long and slim,
  And ev'ry day he wagg'd at it—
      How good it was of him!

  And so to him the tailest
      Of all three-tailed Bashaws,
  Suggested that for reasons
      The waggling should pause;

  And held his tail—which, parting,
      Reversed that Bashaw, which
  Reversed that Dragon, who reversed
      Himself into a ditch.

* * * * *

  It had a monkey—in a trap—
      Suspended by the tail:
  Oh! but that monkey look'd distress'd,
      And his countenance was pale.

  And he had danced and dangled there;
      Till he grew very mad:
  For his tail it was a handsome tail
      And the trap had pinched it—bad.

  The trapper sat below, and grinn'd;
      His victim's wrath wax'd hot:
  He bit his tail in two—and fell—
      And killed him on the spot.

* * * * *

  It had a pig—a stately pig;
      With curly tail and quaint:
  And the Great Mogul had hold of that
      Till he was like to faint.

  So twenty thousand Chinamen,
      With three tails each at least,
  Came up to help the Great Mogul,
      And took him round the waist.

  And so, the tail slipp'd through his hands;
      And so it came to pass,
  That twenty thousand Chinamen
      Sat down upon the grass.

* * * * *

  It had a Khan—a Tartar Khan—
      With tail superb, I wis;
  And that fell graceful down a back
      Which was considered his.

  Wherefore all sorts of boys that were
      Accursed, swung by it;
  Till he grew savage in his mind
      And vex'd, above a bit:

  And so he swept his tail, as one
      Awak'ning from a dream;
  And those abominable ones
      Flew off into the stream.

  Likewise they hobbled up and down,
      Like many apples there;
  Till they subsided—and became
      Amongst the things that were.

* * * * *

  And so it had a moral too,
      That would be bad to lose;
  "Whoever takes a Tail in hand
      Should mind his p's and queues."

  I dreamt it!—such a funny thing!
      And now it's taken wing;
  I s'pose no man before or since
      Dreamt such a funny thing?

H. Cholmondeley-Pennell.


  In an ocean, 'way out yonder
      (As all sapient people know),
  Is the land of Wonder-Wander,
      Whither children love to go;
  It's their playing, romping, swinging,
      That give great joy to me
  While the Dinkey-Bird goes singing
      In the Amfalula-tree!

  There the gum-drops grow like cherries,
      And taffy's thick as peas,—
  Caramels you pick like berries
      When, and where, and how you please:
  Big red sugar-plums are clinging
      To the cliffs beside that sea
  Where the Dinkey-Bird is singing
      In the Amfalula-tree.

  So when children shout and scamper
      And make merry all the day,
  When there's naught to put a damper
      To the ardor of their play;
  When I hear their laughter ringing,
      Then I'm sure as sure can be
  That the Dinkey-Bird is singing
      In the Amfalula-tree.

  For the Dinkey-Bird's bravuras
      And staccatos are so sweet—
  His roulades, appogiaturas,
      And robustos so complete,
  That the youth of every nation—
      Be they near or far away—
  Have especial delectation
      In that gladsome roundelay.

  Their eyes grow bright and brighter,
      Their lungs begin to crow,
  Their hearts get light and lighter,
      And their cheeks are all aglow;
  For an echo cometh bringing
      The news to all and me.
  That the Dinkey-Bird is singing
      In the Amfalula-tree.

  I'm sure you'd like to go there
      To see your feathered friend—
  And so many goodies grow there
      You would like to comprehend!
  Speed, little dreams, your winging
      To that land across the sea
  Where the Dickey-Bird is singing
      In the Amfalula-Tree

Eugene Field.


  Said the Raggedy Man on a hot afternoon,
          What a lot o' mistakes
  Some little folks makes on the Man in the Moon!
  But people that's been up to see him like Me,
  And calls on him frequent and intimutly,
  Might drop a few hints that would interest you
          If you wanted 'em to—
  Some actual facts that might interest you!"

  "O the Man in the Moon has a crick in his back;
          Ain't you sorry for him?
  And a mole on his nose that is purple and black;
  And his eyes are so weak that they water and run
  If he dares to dream even he looks at the sun,—
  So he jes' dreams of stars, as the doctors advise—
                But isn't he wise—
  To jes' dream of stars, as the doctors advise?"

  "And the Man in the Moon has a boil on his ear—
                What a singular thing!
  I know! but these facts are authentic, my dear,—
  There's a boil on his ear; and a corn on his chin,—
  He calls it a dimple,—but dimples stick in,—
  Yet it might be a dimple turned over, you know!
                Why certainly so!—
  It might be a dimple turned over, you know!"

  "And the Man in the Moon has a rheumatic knee,
                What a pity that is!
  And his toes have worked round where his heels ought to be.
  So whenever he wants to go North he goes South,
  And comes back with the porridge crumbs all round his mouth,
  And he brushes them off with a Japanese fan,
                What a marvellous man!
  What a very remarkably marvellous man!"

  "And the Man in the Moon," sighed the Raggedy Man,
                Sullonesome, you know!
  Up there by himself since creation began!—
  That when I call on him and then come away,
  He grabs me and holds me and begs me to stay,—
  Till—well, if it wasn't for Jimmy-cum-Jim,
                I'd go pardners with him!
  Jes' jump my bob here and be pardners with him!"

James Whitcomb Riley.


  This is the Wild Huntsman that shoots the hares;
  With the grass-green coat he always wears;
  With game-bag, powder-horn and gun,
  He's going out to have some fun.
  He finds it hard without a pair
  Of spectacles, to shoot the hare.

  He put his spectacles upon his nose, and said,
  "Now I will shoot the hares and kill them dead."
  The hare sits snug in leaves and grass,
  And laughs to see the green man pass.
  Now as the sun grew very hot,
  And he a heavy gun had got,
  He lay down underneath a tree
  And went to sleep as you may see.
  And, while he slept like any top,
  The little hare came, hop, hop, hop,—
  Took gun and spectacles, and then
  Softly on tiptoe went off again.
  The green man wakes, and sees her place
  The spectacles upon her face.
  She pointed the gun at the hunter's heart,
  Who jumped up at once with a start.
  He cries, and screams, and runs away.
  "Help me, good people, help! I pray."
  At last he stumbled at the well,
  Head over ears, and in he fell.
  The hare stopped short, took aim, and hark!
  Bang went the gun!—she missed her mark!
  The poor man's wife was drinking up
  Her coffee in her coffee-cup;
  The gun shot cup and saucer through;
  "Oh dear!" cried she, "what shall I do?"
  Hiding close by the cottage there,
  Was the hare's own child, the little hare.
  When he heard the shot he quickly arose,
  And while he stood upon his toes,
  The coffee fell and burned his nose;
  "Oh dear," he cried, "what burns me so?"
  And held up the spoon with his little toe.

Dr. Heinrich Hoffman.


  Thothmes, who loved a pyramid,
  And dreamed of wonders that it hid,
  Took up again one afternoon,
  His longest staff, his sandal shoon,
  His evening meal, his pilgrim flask,
  And set himself at length the task,
  Scorning the smaller and the small,
  To climb the highest one of all.

  The sun was very hot indeed,
  Yet Thothmes never slacked his speed
  Until upon the topmost stone
  He lightly sat him down alone
  To make himself some pleasant cheer
  And turned to take his flask of beer,
  For he was weary and athirst.
  Forth from the neck the stopper burst
  And rudely waked the sleeping dead.
  In terror guilty Thothmes fled
  As rose majestic, wroth and slow,
  The Pharaoh's Ka of long ago.
  "Help! help!" he cried, "or I am lost!
  Oh! save me from old Pharaoh's ghost!"

  Till, uttering one fearful yell,
  He stumbled at the base and fell
  Where Anubis was at his side,
  And, by the god of death, he died.

  The wife of Thothmes learned his tale
  First from the "Memphis Evening Mail,"
  And called her son, and told their woe;
  "Alas!" said she, "I told him so!
  Oh, think upon these awful things
  And mount not on the graves of kings!
  A pyramid is strange to see,
  Though only at its base you be."



  Here is cruel Psamtek, see.
  Such a wicked boy was he!
  Chased the ibis round about,
  Plucked its longest feathers out,
  Stamped upon the sacred scarab
  Like an unbelieving Arab,
  Put the dog and cat to pain,
  Making them to howl again.
  Only think what he would do—
  Tease the awful Apis too!
  Basking by the sacred Nile
  Lay the trusting crocodile;
  Cruel Psamtek crept around him,
  Laughed to think how he had found him,
  With his pincers seized his tail,
  Made the holy one to wail;
  Till a priest of Isis came,
  Called the wicked boy by name,
  Shut him in a pyramid,
  Where his punishment was hid.
  —But the crocodile the while
  Bore the pincers up the Nile—
  Here the scribe who taught him letters,
  And respect for all his betters,
  Gave him many a heavy task,
  Horrid medicines from a flask,
  While on bread and water, too,
  Bitter penance must he do.

  The Crocodile is blythe and gay,
  With friends and family at play,
  And cries, "O blessed Land of Nile,
  Where sacred is the crocodile,
  Where no ill deed unpunished goes,
  And man himself rewards our foes!"



  I strolled beside the shining sea,
  I was as lonely as could be;
  No one to cheer me in my walk
  But stones and sand, which cannot talk—
  Sand and stones and bits of shell,
  Which never have a thing to tell.

  But as I sauntered by the tide
  I saw a something at my side,
  A something green, and blue, and pink,
  And brown, and purple, too, I think.
  I would not say how large it was;
  I would not venture that, because
  It took me rather by surprise,
  And I have not the best of eyes.

  Should you compare it to a cat,
  I'd say it was as large as that;
  Or should you ask me if the thing
  Was smaller than a sparrow's wing,
  I should be apt to think you knew,
  And simply answer, "Very true!"

  Well, as I looked upon the thing,
  It murmured, "Please, sir, can I sing?"
  And then I knew its name at once—
  It plainly was a Cumberbunce.

  You are amazed that I could tell
  The creature's name so quickly? Well,
  I knew it was not a paper-doll,
  A pencil or a parasol,
  A tennis-racket or a cheese,
  And, as it was not one of these,
  And I am not a perfect dunce—
  It had to be a Cumberbunce!

  With pleading voice and tearful eye
  It seemed as though about to cry.
  It looked so pitiful and sad
  It made me feel extremely bad.
  My heart was softened to the thing
  That asked me if it, please, could sing.
  Its little hand I longed to shake,
  But, oh, it had no hand to take!
  I bent and drew the creature near,
  And whispered in its pale blue ear,
  "What! Sing, my Cumberbunce? You can!
  Sing on, sing loudly, little man!"

  The Cumberbunce, without ado,
  Gazed sadly on the ocean blue,
  And, lifting up its little head,
  In tones of awful longing, said:

    "Oh, I would sing of mackerel skies,
      And why the sea is wet,
    Of jelly-fish and conger-eels,
       And things that I forget.
    And I would hum a plaintive tune
      Of why the waves are hot
    As water boiling on a stove,
      Excepting that they're not!"

    "And I would sing of hooks and eyes,
      And why the sea is slant,
    And gayly tips the little ships,
      Excepting that I can't!
    I never sang a single song,
      I never hummed a note.
    There is in me no melody,
      No music in my throat."

    "So that is why I do not sing
    Of sharks, or whales, or anything!"

  I looked in innocent surprise,
  My wonder showing in my eyes.
  "Then why, O, Cumberbunce," I cried,
  "Did you come walking at my side
  And ask me if you, please, might sing,
  When you could not warble anything?"

  "I did not ask permission, sir,
  I really did not, I aver.
  You, sir, misunderstood me, quite.
  I did not ask you if I might.
  Had you correctly understood,
  You'd know I asked you if I could.
  So, as I cannot sing a song,
  Your answer, it is plain, was wrong.
  The fact I could not sing I knew,
  But wanted your opinion, too."

    A voice came softly o'er the lea.
      "Farewell! my mate is calling me!"

  I saw the creature disappear,
  Its voice, in parting, smote my ear—

  "I thought all people understood
  The difference 'twixt 'might' and 'could'!"

Paul West.


  Who, or why, or which, or what,
                                Is the Ahkond of Swat?

  Is he tall or short, or dark or fair?
  Does he sit on a stool or sofa or chair,
                                             or Squat,
                                   The Ahkond of Swat?

  Is he wise or foolish, young or old?
  Does he drink his soup and his coffee cold,
                                               or Hot,
                                   The Ahkond of Swat?

  Does he sing or whistle, jabber or talk,
  And when riding abroad does he gallop or walk,
                                              or Trot,
                                   The Ahkond of Swat?

  Does he wear a turban, a fez or a hat?
  Does he sleep on a mattress, a bed or a mat,
                                             or a Cot,
                                   The Ahkond of Swat?

  When he writes a copy in round-hand size,
  Does he cross his t's and finish his i's
                                           with a Dot,
                                   The Ahkond of Swat?

  Can he write a letter concisely clear,
  Without a speck or a smudge or smear
                                              or Blot,
                                   The Ahkond of Swat?

  Do his people like him extremely well?
  Or do they, whenever they can, rebel,
                                             or Plot,
                               At the Ahkond of Swat?

  If he catches them then, either old or young,
  Does he have them chopped in pieces or hung,
                                             or Shot,
                                  The Ahkond of Swat?

  Do his people prig in the lanes or park?
  Or even at times, when days are dark,
                              Oh, the Ahkond of Swat?

  Does he study the wants of his own dominion?
  Or doesn't he care for public opinion
                                               a Jot,
                                  The Ahkond of Swat?

  To amuse his mind do his people show him
  Pictures, or any one's last new poem,
                                             or What,
                              For the Ahkond of Swat?

  At night if he suddenly screams and wakes,
  Do they bring him only a few small cakes,
                                            or a Lot,
                              For the Ahkond of Swat?

  Does he live on turnips, tea or tripe,
  Does he like his shawl to be marked with a stripe
                                            or a Dot,
                                  The Ahkond of Swat?

  Does he like to lie on his back in a boat
  Like the lady who lived in that isle remote,
                                  The Ahkond of Swat?

  Is he quiet, or always making a fuss?
  Is his steward a Swiss or a Swede or a Russ,
                                           or a Scot,
                                  The Ahkond of Swat?

  Does he like to sit by the calm blue wave?
  Or to sleep and snore in a dark green cave,
                                          or a Grott,
                                  The Ahkond of Swat?

  Does he drink small beer from a silver jug?
  Or a bowl? or a glass? or a cup? or a mug?
                                            or a Pot,
                                  The Ahkond of Swat?

  Does he beat his wife with a gold-topped pipe,
  When she lets the gooseberries grow too ripe,
                                              or Rot,
                                  The Ahkond of Swat?

  Does he wear a white tie when he dines with his friends,
  And tie it neat in a bow with ends,
                                           or a Knot,
                                  The Ahkond of Swat?

  Does he like new cream, and hate mince-pies?
  When he looks at the sun does he wink his eyes,
                                              or Not,
                                  The Ahkond of Swat?

  Does he teach his subjects to roast and bake?
  Does he sail about on an inland lake,
                                          in a Yacht,
                                  The Ahkond of Swat?

  Some one, or nobody knows I wot
  Who or which or why or what
                               Is the Ahkond of Swat!

Edward Lear.


  What, what, what,
  What's the news from Swat?
  Sad news,
  Bad news,
  Comes by the cable led
  Through the Indian Ocean's bed,
  Through the Persian Gulf, the Red
  Sea and the Med-
  Iterranean—he's dead;
  The Ahkoond is dead!

  For the Ahkoond I mourn,
        Who wouldn't?
  He strove to disregard the message stern,
        But he Ahkoodn't.
  Dead, dead, dead;
        (Sorrow Swats!)
  Swats wha hae wi' Ahkoond bled,
  Swats whom he hath often led
  Onward to a gory bed,
        Or to Victory,
        As the case might be,
          Sorrow Swats!
        Tears shed,
          Tears shed like water,
  Your great Ahkoond is dead!
        That Swats the matter!

  Mourn, city of Swat!
  Your great Ahkoond is not,
  But lain 'mid worms to rot.
  His mortal part alone, his soul was caught
        (Because he was a good Ahkoond)
        Up to the bosom of Mahound.
  Though earthly walls his frame surround
  (Forever hallowed be the ground!)
  And sceptics mock the lowly mound
  And say "He's now of no Ahkoond!"
        His soul is in the skies—
  The azure skies that bend above his loved
          Metropolis of Swat.
     He sees with larger, other eyes,
        Athwart all earthly mysteries—
        He knows what's Swat.

  Let Swat bury the great Ahkoond
      With a noise of mourning and of lamentation!
  Let Swat bury the great Ahkoond
      With the noise of the mourning of the Swattish nation!
        Fallen is at length
        Its tower of strength,
  Its sun is dimmed ere it had nooned;
  Dead lies the great Ahkoond,
        The great Ahkoond of Swat
        Is not!

George Thomas Lanigan.


Rival of the Akhoond of Swat


  Alas, unhappy land; ill-fated spot
  Kotal—though where or what
  On earth Kotal is, the bard has forgot;
  Further than this indeed he knoweth not—
  It borders upon Swat!


  When sorrows come, they come not single spies,
        But in battal-
  Ions: the gloom that lay on Swat now lies
        Upon Kotal,
  On sad Kotal, whose people ululate
  For their loved Moolla late.
  Put away his little turban,
  And his narghileh embrowned,
  The lord of Kotal—rural urban—
  'S gone unto his last Akhoond,
  'S gone to meet his rival Swattan,
  'S gone, indeed, but not forgotten.


  His rival, but in what?
  Wherein did the deceased Akhoond of Swat
  Kotal's lamented Moolla late,
  As it were, emulate?
  Was it in the tented field
  With crash of sword on shield,
  While backward meaner champions reeled
  And loud the tom-tom pealed?
  Did they barter gash for scar
  With the Persian scimetar
  Or the Afghanistee tulwar,
  While loud the tom-tom pealed—
  While loud the tom-tom pealed,
  And the jim-jam squealed,
  And champions less well heeled
  Their war-horses wheeled
  And fled the presence of these mortal big bugs o'
            the field?
  Was Kotal's proud citadel—
  Bastioned, and demi-luned,
  Beaten down with shot and shell
  By the guns of the Akhoond?
  Or were wails despairing caught, as
  The burghers pale of Swat
  Cried in panic, "Moolla ad Portas"?
          —Or what?
  Or made each in the cabinet his mark
  Kotalese Gortschakoff, Swattish Bismarck?
  Did they explain and render hazier
  The policies of Central Asia?
  Did they with speeches from the throne,
          Wars dynastic,
  Ententes cordiales,
  Between Swat and Kotal;
  Holy alliances,
  And other appliances
  Of statesmen with morals and consciences
  Come by much more than their own?
  Made they mots, as "There to-day are
  No more Himalayehs,"
  Or, if you prefer it, "There to-day are
  No more Himalaya"?
  Oi, said the Akhoond, "Sah,
  L'État de Swat c'est moi"?
  Khabu, did there come great fear
  On thy Khabuldozed Ameer
          Ali Shere?

  Or did the Khan of far
  Tremble at the menace hot
  Of the Moolla of Kotal,
  "I will extirpate thee, pal
  Of my foe the Akhoond of Swat"?
        Who knows
  Of Moolla and Akhoond aught more than I did?
  Namely, in life they rivals were, or foes,
  And in their deaths not very much divided?
  If any one knows it,
  Let him disclose it!

George Thomas Lanigan.


  There was a Russian came over the sea,
      Just when the war was growing hot;
  And his name it was Tjalikavakaree-

  A Turk was standing upon the shore—
      Right where the terrible Russian crossed,
  And he cried: "Bismillah! I'm Ab-El Kor-

  So they stood like brave men long and well;
      And they called each other their proper names,
  Till the lockjaw seized them, and where they fell
       They buried them both by the Irdesholmmes



  Sweet maiden of Passamaquoddy,
      Shall we seek for communion of souls
  Where the deep Mississippi meanders,
      Or the distant Saskatchewan rolls?

  Ah no,—for in Maine I will find thee
      A sweetly sequestrated nook,
  Where the far-winding Skoodoowabskooksis
      Conjoins with the Skoodoowabskook.

  There wander two beautiful rivers,
      With many a winding and crook;
  The one is the Skoodoowabskooksis,
      The other—the Skoodoowabskook.

  Ah, sweetest of haunts! though unmentioned
      In geography, atlas, or book,
  How fair is the Skoodoowabskooksis,
      When joining the Skoodoowabskook!

  Our cot shall be close by the waters
      Within that sequestrated nook—
  Reflected in Skoodoowabskooksis
      And mirrored in Skoodoowabskook.

  You shall sleep to the music of leaflets,
      By zephyrs in wantonness shook,
  And dream of the Skoodoowabskooksis,
      And, perhaps, of the Skoodoowabskook.

  When awaked by the hens and the roosters,
      Each morn, you shall joyously look
  On the junction of Skoodoowabskooksis
      With the soft gliding Skoodoowabskook.

  Your food shall be fish from the waters,
      Drawn forth on the point of a hook,
  From murmuring Skoodoowabskooksis,
      Or wandering Skoodoowabskook!

  You shall quaff the most sparkling of water,
      Drawn forth from a silvery brook
  Which flows to the Skoodoowabskooksis,
      And then to the Skoodoowabskook!

  And you shall preside at the banquet,
      And I will wait on thee as cook;
  And we'll talk of the Skoodoowabskooksis,
      And sing of the Skoodoowabskook!

  Let others sing loudly of Saco,
      Of Quoddy, and Tattamagouche,
  Of Kennebeccasis, and Quaco,
      Of Merigonishe, and Buctouche,

  Of Nashwaak, and Magaguadavique,
      Or Memmerimammericook,—
  There's none like the Skoodoowabskooksis,
      Excepting the Skoodoowabskook!



  When the day and the night do meete
  And the houses are even with the streete:
  And the fire and the water agree,
  And blinde men have power to see:
  When the Wolf and the Lambe lie down togither,
  And the blasted trees will not wither:
  When the flood and the ebbe run one way,
  And the Sunne and the Moone are at a stay;
  When Age and Youth are all one,
  And the Miller creepes through the Mill-stone:
  When the Ram butts the Butcher on the head,
  And the living are buried with the dead.
  When the Cobler doth worke without his ends,
  And the Cutpurse and the Hangman are friends:
  Strange things will then be to see,
  But I think it will never be!



  If down his throat a man should choose
      In fun, to jump or slide,
  He'd scrape his shoes against his teeth,
      Nor dirt his own inside.
  But if his teeth were lost and gone,
  And not a stump to scrape upon,
  He'd see at once how very pat
  His tongue lay there by way of mat,
  And he would wipe his feet on that!

Edward Cannon.


  Werther had a love for Charlotte
      Such as words could never utter;
  Would you know how first he met her?
      She was cutting bread and butter.

  Charlotte was a married lady,
      And a moral man was Werther,
  And for all the wealth of Indies,
      Would do nothing for to hurt her.

  So he sigh'd and pined and ogled,
      And his passion boil'd and bubbled,
  Till he blew his silly brains out,
      And no more was by it troubled.

  Charlotte, having seen his body
      Borne before her on a shutter,
  Like a well-conducted person,
      Went on cutting bread and butter.

W.M. Thackeray.


  Lazy-bones, lazy-bones, wake up and peep!
  The cat's in the cupboard, your mother's asleep.
  There you sit snoring, forgetting her ills;
  Who is to give her her Bolus and Pills?
  Twenty fine Angels must come into town,
  All for to help you to make your new gown:
  Dainty aerial Spinsters and Singers;
  Aren't you ashamed to employ such white fingers?
  Delicate hands, unaccustom'd to reels,
  To set 'em working a poor body's wheels?
  Why they came down is to me all a riddle,
  And left Hallelujah broke off in the middle:
  Jove's Court, and the Presence angelical, cut—
  To eke out the work of a lazy young slut.
  Angel-duck, Angel-duck, winged and silly,
  Pouring a watering-pot over a lily,
  Gardener gratuitous, careless of pelf,
  Leave her to water her lily herself,
  Or to neglect it to death if she chuse it:
  Remember the loss is her own if she lose it.

Charles Lamb.


  Americus, as he did wend
      With A. J. Mortimer, his chum,
  The two were greeted by a friend,
      "And how are you, boys, Hi, Ho, Hum?"

  He spread a note so crisp, so neat
      (Ho, and Hi, and tender Hum),
  "If you of this a fifth can eat
      I'll give you the remainder. Come!"

  To the tuck-shop three repair,
      (Ho, and Hum, and pensive Hi),
  One looks on to see all's fair,
     Two call out for hot mince-pie.

  Thirteen tarts, a few Bath buns
      (Hi, and Hum, and gorgeous Ho),
  Lobster cakes (the butter'd ones),
      All at once they cry, "No go."

  Then doth tuck-man smile. "Them there
      (Ho, and Hi, and futile Hum)
  Jellies three and sixpence air,
      Use of spoons an equal sum."

  Three are rich. Sweet task 'tis o'er,
      "Tuckman, you're a brick," they cry,
  Wildly then shake hands all four
      (Hum and Ho, the end is Hi).

Jean Ingelow.


  Nothing to do but work,
      Nothing to eat but food,
  Nothing to wear but clothes
      To keep one from going nude.

  Nothing to breathe but air,
      Quick as a flash 'tis gone;
  Nowhere to fall but off,
      Nowhere to stand but on.

  Nothing to comb but hair,
      Nowhere to sleep but in bed,
  Nothing to weep but tears,
      Nothing to bury but dead.

  Nothing to sing but songs,
      Ah, well, alas! alack!
  Nowhere to go but out,
      Nowhere to come but back.

  Nothing to see but sights,
      Nothing to quench but thirst,
  Nothing to have but what we've got;
      Thus thro' life we are cursed.

  Nothing to strike but a gait;
      Everything moves that goes.
  Nothing at all but common sense
      Can ever withstand these woes.

Ben King.


  He killed the noble Mudjokivis.
  Of the skin he made him mittens,
  Made them with the fur side inside,
  Made them with the skin side outside.
  He, to get the warm side inside,
  Put the inside skin side outside;
  He, to get the cold side outside,
  Put the warm side fur side inside.
  That's why he put the fur side inside,
  Why he put the skin side outside,
  Why he turned them inside outside.



  Said Folly to Wisdom,
      "Pray, where are we going?"
  Said Wisdom to Folly,
      "There's no way of knowing."

  Said Folly to Wisdom,
      "Then what shall we do?"
  Said Wisdom to Folly,
      "I thought to ask you."

Tudor Jenks.


  Uncle Simon he
  Clum up a tree
  To see what he could see
  When presentlee
  Uncle Jim
  Clum up beside of him
  And squatted down by he.

Artemus Ward.


  What is the matter with Grandpapa?
  What can the matter be?
  He's broken his leg in trying to spell
  Tommy without a T.

D' Arcy W. Thompson.


  All bones but yours will rattle when I say
  I'm the sea-serpent from America.
  Mayhap you've heard that I've been round the world;
  I guess I'm round it now, Mister, twice curled.
  Of all the monsters through the deep that splash,
  I'm "number one" to all immortal smash.
  When I lie down and would my length unroll,
  There ar'n't half room enough 'twixt pole and pole.
  In short, I grow so long that I've a notion
  I must be measured soon for a new ocean.



  I am a peevish student, I;
  My star is gone from yonder sky.
  I think it went so high at first
  That it just went and gone and burst.



  The monkey married the Baboon's sister,
  Smacked his lips and then he kissed her,
  He kissed so hard he raised a blister.
        She set up a yell.
  The bridesmaid stuck on some court plaster,
  It stuck so fast it couldn't stick faster,
  Surely 't was a sad disaster,
        But it soon got well.

  What do you think the bride was dressed in?
  White gauze veil and a green glass breast-pin,
  Red kid shoes—she was quite interesting,
        She was quite a belle.
  The bridegroom swell'd with a blue shirt collar,
  Black silk stock that cost a dollar,
  Large false whiskers the fashion to follow;
        He cut a monstrous swell.

  What do you think they had for supper?
  Black-eyed peas and bread and butter,
  Ducks in the duck-house all in a flutter,
        Pickled oysters too.
  Chestnuts raw and boil'd and roasted,
  Apples sliced and onions toasted,
  Music in the corner posted,
        Waiting for the cue.

  What do you think was the tune they danced to?
  "The drunken Sailor"—sometimes "Jim Crow,"
  Tails in the way—and some got pinched, too,
        'Cause they were too long.
  What do you think they had for a fiddle?
  An old Banjo with a hole in the middle,
  A Tambourine made out of a riddle,
        And that's the end of my song.



  Mr. Finney had a turnip
  And it grew and it grew,
  And it grew behind the barn,
  And that turnip did no harm.

  There it grew and it grew
  Till it could grow no longer;
  Then his daughter Lizzie picked it
  And put it in the cellar.

  There it lay and it lay
  Till it began to rot;
  And his daughter Susie took it
  And put it in the pot.

  And they boiled it and boiled it
  As long as they were able,
  And then his daughters took it
  And put it on the table.

  Mr. Finney and his wife
  They sat down to sup;
  And they ate and they ate
  And they ate that turnip up.



  The Sun, yon glorious orb of day,
  Ninety-four million miles away,
  Will keep revolving in its orbit
  Till heat and motion reabsorb it.

J. Davis.


  The Autumn leaves are falling,
  Are falling here and there.
  They're falling through the atmosphere
  And also through the air.



  The night was growing old
  As she trudged through snow and sleet;
  Her nose was long and cold,
  And her shoes were full of feet.



  How very sad it is to think
  Our poor benighted brother
  Should have his head upon one end,
  His feet upon the other.



  Down through the snow-drifts in the street
  With blustering joy he steers;
  His rubber boots are full of feet
  And his tippet full of ears.

Eugene Field.


  Behold the wonders of the mighty deep,
  Where crabs and lobsters learn to creep,
  And little fishes learn to swim,
  And clumsy sailors tumble in.



  There was a little girl,
      And she had a little curl
  Right in the middle of her forehead.
  When she was good
  She was very, very good,
      And when she was bad she was horrid.

  One day she went upstairs,
  When her parents, unawares,
      In the kitchen were occupied with meals
  And she stood upon her head
  In her little trundle-bed,
      And then began hooraying with her heels.

  Her mother heard the noise,
  And she thought it was the boys
      A-playing at a combat in the attic;
  But when she climbed the stair,
  And found Jemima there,
      She took and she did spank her most emphatic.

H. W. Longfellow.


  The sorry world is sighing now;
      _La Grippe _is at the door;
  And many folks are dying now
      Who never died before.

Newton Mackintosh.


  Mary Jane was a farmer's daughter,
  Mary Jane did what she oughter.
  She fell in love—but all in vain;
  Oh, poor Mary! oh, poor Jane!



  Little Willie, in the best of sashes,
  Fell in the fire and was burned to ashes.
  By and by the room grew chilly,
  But no one liked to poke up Willie.

Col. D. Streamer.


  Sam had spirits naught could check,
      And to-day, at breakfast, he
  Broke his baby sister's neck,
      So he sha'n't have jam for tea!

Col. D. Streamer.


  Making toast at the fireside,
  Nurse fell in the grate and died;
  And, what makes it ten times worse,
  All the toast was burned with Nurse.

Col. D. Streamer.


  In the drinking-well
      (Which the plumber built her)
  Aunt Eliza fell,—
      We must buy a filter.

Col. D. Streamer.


  Susan poisoned her grandmother's tea;
  Grandmamma died in agonee.
  Susan's papa was greatly vexed,
  And he said to Susan, "My dear, what next?"



  Baby sat on the window-seat;
  Mary pushed Baby into the street;
  Baby's brains were dashed out in the "arey";
  And mother held up her forefinger at Mary.



  I dined with a friend in the East, one day,
      Who had no window-sashes;
  A sunbeam through the window came
      And burnt his wife to ashes.
  "John, sweep your mistress away," said he,
  "And bring fresh wine for my friend and me."



  Little Willie hung his sister,
  She was dead before we missed her.
  "Willie's always up to tricks!
  Ain't he cute? He's only six!"



  Pity now poor Mary Ames,
  Blinded by her brother James;
  Red-hot nails in her eyes he poked,—
  I never saw Mary more provoked.



By a Moore-ose Melodist

  Oh, ever thus from childhood's hour,
      I've seen my fondest hopes recede!
  I never loved a tree or flower
      That didn't trump its partner's lead.

  I never nursed a dear gazelle,
      To glad me with its dappled hide,
  But when it came to know me well,
      It fell upon the buttered side.

  I never taught a cockatoo
      To whistle comic songs profound,
  But, just when "Jolly Dogs" it knew,
      It failed for ninepence in the pound.

  I never reared a walrus cub
      In my aquarium to plunge,
  But, when it learned to love its tub,
      It placidly threw up the sponge!

  I never strove a metaphor
      To every bosom home to bring
  But—just as it had reached the door—
      It went and cut a pigeon's wing!

Tom Hood, Jr.


"Tout aux tavernes et aux fiells"

  Suppose you screeve? or go cheap-jack?
      Or fake the broads? or fig a nag?
  Or thimble-rig? or knap a yack?
      Or pitch a snide? or smash a rag?
      Suppose you duff? or nose and lag?
  Or get the straight, and land your pot?
      How do you melt the multy swag?
  Booze and the blowens cop the lot.

  Fiddle, or fence, or mace, or mack;
      Or moskeneer, or flash the drag;
  Dead-lurk a crib, or do a crack;
      Pad with a slang, or chuck a fag;
      Bonnet, or tout, or mump and gag;
  Rattle the tats, or mark the spot;
      You cannot bag a single stag;
  Booze and the blowens cop the lot.

  Suppose you try a different tack,
      And on the square you flash your flag?
  At penny-a-lining make your whack,
      Or with the mummers mug and gag?
      For nix, for nix the dibbs you bag!
  At any graft, no matter what,
      Your merry goblins soon stravag:
  Booze and the blowens cop the lot.


      It's up the spout and Charley Wag
  With wipes and tickers and what not
      Until the squeezer nips your scrag,
  Booze and the blowens cop the lot.

W. E. Henley.


  Blind Thamyris, and blind M. æonides,
      Pursue the triumph and partake the gale!
  Drop tears as fast as the Arabian trees,
      To point a moral or adorn a tale.

  Full many a gem of purest ray serene,
      Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears,
  Like angels' visits, few and far between,
      Deck the long vista of departed years.

  Man never is, but always to be bless'd;
      The tenth transmitter of a foolish face,
  Like Aaron's serpent, swallows up the rest,
      And makes a sunshine in the shady place.

  For man the hermit sigh'd, till woman smiled,
      To waft a feather or to drown a fly,
  (In wit a man, simplicity a child,)
      With silent finger pointing to the sky.

  But fools rush in where angels fear to tread,
      Far out amid the melancholy main;
  As when a vulture on Imaus bred,
      Dies of a rose in aromatic pain.

Laman Blanchard.


  There was an old person of Ware
  Who rode on the back of a bear;
      When they said, "Does it trot?"
      He said: "Certainly not,
  It's a Moppsikon Floppsikon bear."

  There was an old person of Wick,
  Who said, "Tick-a-Tick, Tick-a-Tick,
      Chickabee, Chickabaw,"
      And he said nothing more,
  This laconic old person of Wick.

  There was an old person of Woking,
  Whose mind was perverse and provoking;
      He sate on a rail,
      With his head in a pail,
  That illusive old person of Woking.

  There was once a man with a beard
  Who said, "It is just as I feared!—
      Two Owls and a Hen,
      Four Larks and a Wren
  Have all built their nests in my beard."

  There was an old man of Thermopylae,
  Who never did anything properly;
      But they said: "If you choose
      To boil eggs in your shoes,
  You cannot remain in Thermopylae."

  There was an Old Man who said, "Hush!
  I perceive a young bird in this bush!"
      When they said, "Is it small?"
      He replied, "Not at all;
  It is four times as big as the bush!"

  There was an Old Man who supposed
  That the street door was partially closed;
      But some very large Rats
      Ate his coats and his hats,
  While that futile Old Gentleman dozed.

  There was an Old Man of Leghorn,
  The smallest that ever was born;
      But quickly snapt up he
      Was once by a Puppy,
  Who devoured that Old Man of Leghorn.

  There was an Old Man of Kamschatka
  Who possessed a remarkably fat Cur;
      His gait and his waddle
      Were held as a model
  To all the fat dogs in Kamschatka.

Edward Lear.

     [From books printed for the benefit of the New York
      Fair in aid of the Sanitary Commission
, 1864]

  There was a gay damsel of Lynn,
  Whose waist was so charmingly thin,
      The dressmaker needed
      A microscope—she did—
  To fit this slim person of Lynn.

  There was a young lady of Milton,
  Who was highly disgusted with Stilton;
      When offered a bite,
      She said, "Not a mite!"
  That suggestive young lady of Milton.

  There was a dear lady of Eden,
  Who on apples was quite fond of feedin';
      She gave one to Adam,
      Who said, "Thank you, Madam,"
  And then both skedaddled from Eden.

  There was a young lady of Wales,
  Who wore her back hair in two tails;
      And a hat on her head
      That was striped black and red,
  And studded with ten-penny nails.

  There was an old man who said, "Do
  Tell me how I'm to add two and two?
      I'm not very sure
      That it doesn't make four—
  But I fear that is almost too few."

  There once was a man who said, "How
  Shall I manage to carry my cow?
      For if I should ask it
      To get in my basket,
  'Twould make such a terrible row."


  There once was an old man of Lyme
  Who married three wives at a time;
      When asked, "Why a third?"
      He replied, "One's absurd!
  And bigamy, sir, is a crime."

  There once was a person of Benin,
  Who wore clothes not fit to be seen in;
      When told that he shouldn't,
      He replied, "Gumscrumrudent!"
  A word of inscrutable meanin'.

  There once was a girl of New York
  Whose body was lighter than cork;
      She had to be fed
      For six weeks upon lead,
  Before she went out for a walk.

Cosmo Monkhouse.

  There was a young man who was bitten
  By twenty-two cats and a kitten;
      Sighed he, "It is clear
      My finish is near;
  No matter; I'll die like a Briton!"

  There was a princess of Bengal,
  Whose mouth was exceedingly small;
      Said she, "It would be
      More easy for me
  To do without eating at all!"

  There was an old stupid who wrote
  The verses above that we quote;
      His want of all sense
      Was something immense,
  Which made him a person of note.

Walter Parke.


  À Potsdam, les totaux absteneurs,
  Comme tant d'autres titotalleurs,
      Sont gloutons, omnivores,
  Grands manchons, et terribles duffeurs.

  Un vieux due (le meilleur des époux)
  Demandait (en lui tâtant le pouls)
      À sa vielle duchesse
      (Qu'un vieux catarrhe oppresse):—
  "Et ton thé, t'a-t-il ôté ta toux?"

  II naquit près de Choisy-le-Roi;
  Le Latin lui causait de l'effroi;
      Et les Mathématiques
      Lui donnaient des coliques,
  Et le Grec l'enrhûmait. Ce fut moi.

  Il etait un gendarme, à Nanteuil,
  Qui n'avait qu'une dent et qu'un oeil;
      Mais cet oeil solitaire
      Etait plein de mystère;
  Cette dent, d'importance et d'orgueil.

  "Cassez-vous, cassez-vous, cassez-vous,
  O mer, sur vos froids gris calloux!"
      Ainsi traduisit Laure
      Au profit d'Isadore
  (Bon jeune homme, at son futur epoux.)

  Un marin naufrage (de Doncastre)
  Pour prière, an milieu du désastre
      Répétait à genoux
      Ces mots simples et doux:—
  "Scintillez, scintillez, petit astre!"

George du Maurier.

* * * * *

  There was a young man of Cohoes,
  Wore tar on the end of his nose;
      When asked why he done it,
      He said for the fun it
  Afforded the men of Cohoes.

Robert J. Burdette.

* * * * *

  I'd rather have habits than clothes,
  For that's where my intellect shows.
      And as for my hair,
      Do you think I should care
  To comb it at night with my toes?

  I'd rather have ears than a nose,
  I'd rather have fingers than toes,
      But as for my hair:
      I'm glad it's all there;
  I'll be awfully sad when it goes.

  I wish that my Room had a Floor;
  I don't so much care for a Door,
      But this walking around
      Without touching the ground
  Is getting to be quite a bore!

Gelett Burgess.

  H was an indigent Hen,
  Who picked up a corn now and then;
    She had but one leg
    On which she could peg,
  And behind her left ear was a wen.

Bruce Porter.

  Cleopatra, who thought they maligned her,
  Resolved to reform and be kinder;
    "If, when pettish," she said,
    "I should knock off your head,
  Won't you give me some gentle reminder?"

Newton Mackintosh.

  When that Seint George hadde sleyne ye draggon,
  He sate him down furninst a flaggon;
      And, wit ye well,
      Within a spell
  He had a bien plaisaunt jag on.


  There was a young lady of Niger
  Who smiled as she rode on a Tiger;
      They came back from the ride
      With the lady inside,
  And the smile on the face of the Tiger.


  There was a young maid who said, "Why
  Can't I look in my ear with my eye?
      If I give my mind to it,
      I'm sure I can do it,
  You never can tell till you try."



ABSTEMIA Gelett Burgess
Abstrosophy Gelett Burgess
Aestivation O. W. Holmes
Ahkond of Swat, The Edward Lear
As with my Hat upon my Head Dr. Johnson
Auld Wife, The C. S. Calverley
Aunt Eliza Col. D. Streamer
Autumn Leaves, The

Ballade of the Nurserie John Twig
Ballad of Bedlam
Ballad of High Endeavor, A
Ballad with an Ancient Refrain
Bison, The Hilaire Relloc
Bloated Biggaboon, The H. Cholmondeley-Pennell
Blue Moonshine Francis G. Stokes
Boy, The Eugene Field
Bulbul, The Owen Seaman
Buz, quoth the Blue Fly Ben Jonson

Chimpanzee, The Oliver Herford
Chronicle, A
Classic Ode, A Charles Battell Loomis
Cobbe's Prophecies
Cock and the Bull, The C. S. Calverley
Collusion between a Alegaiter and a Water-Snaik
                                J. W. Morris
Companions C. S. Calverley
Cossimbazar Henry S. Leigh
Cow, The Oliver Herford
Cruise of the "P. C.", The
Cumberbunce, The Paul West

DARWINITY Herman Merivale
Dinkey-Bird, The Eugene Field
Dirge of the Moolla of Kotal George T. Lanigan

Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog Oliver Goldsmith
Elegy on Madam Blaize Oliver Goldsmith

Famous Ballad of the Jubilee Cup, The
                                A. T. Stiller-Couch
Father William
Ferdinando and Elvira W. S. Gilbert
Fin de Siecle Newton Mackintosh
Flamingo, The Lewis Gaylord Clark
Forcing a Way
Frog, The Hilaire Belloc

Gentle Alice Brown W. S. Gilbert
Great Man, A Oliver Goldsmith
Guinea Pig, The

HEN, THE Oliver Herford
Her Dairy Peter Newell
Here is the Tale Anthony C. Deane
Her Polka Dots Peter Newell
Higher Pantheism in a Nutshell, The
                                A. C. Swinburne
Hippopotamus, The Oliver Herford
Holiday Task, A Gilbert Abbott a Becket
Hunting of the Snark, The Lewis Carroll
Hyder iddle diddle dell
Hymn to the Sunrise

If Half the Road
If a Man who Turnips Cries Dr. Johnson
I Love to Stand
Imitation of Wordsworth Catharine M. Fanshawe
Impetuous Samuel Col. D. Streamer
Incidents in the Life of my Uncle Arly
                                Edward Lear
In Immemorian Cuthbert Bede
In the Dumps
In the Gloaming James C. Bayles
In the Night
Invisible Bridge, The Gelett Burgess

John Jones A. C. Swinburne
Jumblies, The Edward Lear

Kindness to Animals J. Ashby-Sterry
King Arthur

Lazy Roof, The Gelett Burgess
Like to the Thundering Tone Bishop Corbet
  Cleopatra, who thought they maligned her
                                Newton Mackintosh
  H was an indigent H Bruce Porter
  I'd rather have habits than clothes
                                Gelett Burgess
  I wish that my room had a door
                                Gelett Burgess
  There once was a girl of New York
                                Cosmo Monkhouse
  There once was a man who said "How"
  There once was an old man of Lyme
                                Cosmo Monkhouse
  There once was a person of Benin
                                Cosmo Monkhouse
  There was a dear lady of Eden
  There was a gay damsel of Lynn
  There was an old man in a tree
                                Edward Lear
  There was an Old Man of Kamschatka
                                Edward Lear
  There was an Old Man of Leghorn
                                Edward Lear
  There was an old man of St. Bees
                                W. S. Gilbert
  There was an old man of Thermopylae
                                Edward Lear
  There was an old man who said "Do"
  There was an Old Man who said "Hush"
                                Edward Lear
  There was an Old Man who supposed
                                Edward Lear
  There was an old person of Ware
                                Edward Lear
  There was an old person of Wick
                                Edward Lear
  There was an old person of Woking
                                Edward Lear
  There was an old stupid who wrote
                                Walter Parke
  There was once a man with a beard
                                Edward Lear
  There was a princess of Bengal
                                Walter Parke
  There was a small boy of Quebec
                                Rudyard Kipling
  There was a young lady of Milton
  There was a young lady of Niger
  There was a young lady of Wales
  There was a young maid who said "Why"
  There was a young man at St. Kitts
  There was a young man of Cohoes
                                Robert J. Burdette
  There was a young man who was bitten
                                Walter Parke
  Vers Nonsensiques George du Maurier
  When that Seint George hadde sleyne ye dragon
Lines by a Fond Lover
Lines by a Medium
Lines by a Person of Quality Alexander Pope
Lines to Miss Florence Huntingdon
Lines to a Young Lady Edward Lear
Little Billee W.M. Thackeray
Little Peach, The
Little Willie
Lobster wooed a Lady Crab, A
Lovers and a Reflection C.S. Calverley
Love Song by a Lunatic
Lugubrious Whing-Whang, The James W. Riley
Lunar Stanzas H.C. Knight

MALUM OPUS J. Appleton Morgan
Man in the Moon, The James W. Riley
Martin Luther at Potsdam Barry Pain
Martin to his Man
Mary Ames
Mary Jane
Master and Man
Mayor of Scuttleton, The Mary Mapes Dodge
Metaphysics Oliver Herford
Minnie and Winnie Lord Tennyson
Misfortunes Col. D. Streamer
Mr. Finney's Turnip
Modern Hiawatha, The
Monkey's Glue, The Goldwin Goldsmith
Monkey's Wedding The
Monsieur McGinté
Moon is up, The
Moorlands of the Not
Mors Iabrochii
Muddled Metaphors Tom Hood, Jr.
My Dream
My Feet Gelett Burgess
My Home
My Recollectest Thoughts Charles E. Carryl

Nephelidia A. C. Swinburne
Noble Tuckman, The Jean Ingelow
Nonsense Thomas Moore
Nonsense Verses Charles Lamb
Not I R.L. Stevenson
Nyum-Nyum, The

Ocean Wanderer, The
Odd to a Krokis
Ode to the Human Heart Laman Blanchard
Of Baiting the Lion Owen Seaman
Oh, my Geraldine F.C. Burnand
Oh, Weary Mother Barry Pain
On the Oxford Carrier John Milton
On the Road Tudor Jenks
Owl and the Pussy-Cat, The Edward Lear

Parson Gray Oliver Goldsmith
Parterre, The E. H. Palmer
Personified Sentimental, The Bret Harte
Pessimist, The Ben King
Platypus, The Oliver Herford
Pobble who has no Toes, The Edward Lear
Poor Brother
Poor Dear Grandpapa D'Arcy W. Thompson
Psycholophon Gelett Burgess
Puer ex Jersey
Purple Cow, The Gelett Burgess
Python, The Hilaire Belloc


Rollicking Mastodon, The Arthur Macy
Russian and Turk

SAGE COUNSEL A. T. Quiller-Couch
Sailor's Yarn, A James Jeffrey Roche
Sea, The
Sea-Serpent, The Planché
She's All my Fancy Painted Him Lewis Carroll
She Went into the Garden S. Foote
Shipwreck, The E. H. Palmer
Silver Question, The Oliver Herford
Sing for the Garish Eye W. S. Gilbert
Singular Sangfroid of Baby Bunting, The Guy W. Carryl
Some Geese Oliver Herford
Some Verses to Snaix
Song of Impossibilities William M. Praed
Song of the Screw, The
Song on King William III
Sonnet Found in a Deserted Madhouse
Sorrows of Werther, The W. M. Thackeray
Spirk Troll-Derisive James W. Riley
Story of Cruel Psamtek, The
Story of Prince Agib, The W. S. Gilbert
Story of Pyramid Thothmes
Story of the Wild Huntsman Heinrich Hoffman
Sun, The J. Davis
Sunbeam, The
Superior Nonsense Verses
Swiss Air Bret Harte
Sylvie and Bruno Lewis Carroll

Tender-Heartedness Col. D. Streamer
Tender Infant, The Dr. Johnson
There was a Frog
There was a Little Girl H. W. Longfellow
There was a Monkey
Three Acres of Land
Three Children
Three Jovial Huntsmen
Threnody George T. Lanigan
Thy Heart
Timid Hortense Peter Newell
Timon of Archimedes Charles Battell Loomis
'Tis Midnight and the Setting Sun
'Tis Sweet to Roam
To Marie
To Mollidusta Planché
Trust in Women
Turvey Top
Tweedle-dum and Tweedle-dee

Uffia Harriet R. White
Uncle Simon and Uncle Jim Artemui Ward
Unsuspected Fact, An Edward Cannon
Uprising See the Fitful Lark

Villon's Straight Tip W. E. Henley

Walloping Window-Blind, The Charles E. Carryl
Walrus and the Carpenter, The Lewis Carroll
Ways and Means Lewis Carroll
Whango Tree, The
What the Prince of I Dreamt H. Cholmondeley-Pennell
When Moonlike ore the Hazure Seas
                                W.M. Thackeray
Where Avalanches Wail
Wild Flowers Peter Newell
Wonderful Old Man, The
Wreck of the "Julie Plante" W.H. Drummond

Yak, The Hilaire Belloc
Yonghy-Bonghy-BO, The Edward Lear


   A Holiday Task
  Kindness to Animals

  In the Gloaming
  In Immemoriam
  Ye Laye of ye Woodpeckore
  The Bison
  The Frog
  The Python
  The Yak
  Ode to the Human Heart
  The Invisible Bridge
  The Lazy Roof
  My Feet
  The Purple Cow
  Oh, my Geraldine
  Ken ye Aught o' Captain Grose?

  The Auld Wife
  The Cock and the Bull
  Lovers and a Reflection
  The Elderly Gentleman
  An Unsuspected Fact
  The Hunting of the Snark
  She's All my Fancy Painted Him
  Sylvie and Bruno
  The Walrus and the Carpenter
  Ways and Means
  My Recollectest Thoughts
  The Walloping Window-Blind
  The Singular Sangfroid of Baby Bunting
  The Bloated Biggaboon
  What the Prince of I Dreamt
  The Flamingo
  Like to the Thundering Tone

  The Sun
  Here is the Tale
  The Mayor of Scuttleton
  Wreck of the "Julie Plante," The
  Vers Nonsensiques

  Imitation of Wordsworth
  The Boy
  The Dinkey Bird
  Farrago of Nonsense

  Ferdinando and Elvira
  General John
  Gentle Alice Brown
  Sing for the Garish Eye
  The Story of Prince Agib
  There was an Old Man of St. Bees
  The Monkey's Glue
  Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog
  Elegy on Madam Blaize
  A Great Man
  Parson Gray

  The Personified Sentimental
  Swiss Air
  Villon's Straight Tip
  The Chimpanzee
  The Cow
  The Hen
  The Hippopotamus
  The Platypus
  The Silver Question
  Some Geese
  The Story of the Wild Huntsman
  Faithless Nelly Gray
  Muddled Metaphors

  The Noble Tuckman

  On the Road
  As with my Hat
  If a Man who Turnips Cries
  The Tender Infant
  Buz, quoth the Blue Fly

  The Pessimist
  Lunar Stanzas

  Nonsense Verses
  Dirge of the Moolla of Kotal
  A Threnody
  The Ahkond of Swat
  Incidents in the Life of my Uncle Arly
  The Jumblies
  Lines to a Young Lady
  The Owl and the Pussy-Cat
  The Pobble
  There was an Old Man in a Tree
  The Yonghy-Bonghy-BO
  There was a Little Girl
  A Classic Ode
  Timon of Archimedes

  Fin de Siècle
  The Rollicking Mastodon
  On the Oxford Carrier
  Malum Opus
  Collusion between a Alegaiter and a Water-Snaik

  Her Dairy
  Her Polka Dots
  Timid Hortense
  Wild Flowers

  Martin Luther at Potsdam
  Oh, Weary Mother
  The Parterre
  The Shipwreck
  The Sea-Serpent
  To Mollidusta
  Lines by a Person of Quality
  Song of Impossibilities

  The Famous Ballad of the Jubilee Cup
  Sage Counsel

  The Lugubrious Whing-Whang
  The Man in the Moon
  Spirk Troll-Derisive
  A Sailor's Yarn

  The Bulbul
  Of Baiting the Lion
  Not I
  Blue Moonshine
  Aunt Eliza
  Impetuous Samuel
STREAMER, COL. D.—Continued
  The Higher Pantheism
  John Jones

  Minnie and Winnie
  Little Billee
  The Sorrows of Werther
  When Moonlike ore the Hazure Seas
  Poor Dear Grandpapa
  Ballade of the Nurserie

  Uncle Simon and Uncle Jim
  The Cumberbunce

End of Project Gutenberg's A Nonsense Anthology, by Collected by Carolyn Wells