it never had been done at all— How popular at dinners must that humourist have been! Oh, the days when some step-father for a query held a handle out— The door-mat from the scraper, is it distant very far? And when no one knew where Moses was when Aaron put the candle out, And no one had discovered that a door could be a-jar! But your modern hearers are In their tastes particular, And they sneer if you inform them that a door can be a jar! In search of quip and quiddity I've sat all day alone, apart— And all that I could hit on as a problem was—to find Analogy between a scrag of mutton and a Bony-part, Which offers slight employment to the speculative mind. For you cannot call it very good, however great your charity— It's not the sort of humour that is greeted with a shout— And I've come to the conclusion that my mine of jocularity, In present Anno Domini is worked completely out! Though the notion you may scout, I can prove beyond a doubt That my mine of jocularity is worked completely out! W. S. Gilbert.
THE PRACTICAL JOKER
| Oh, what a fund of joy jocund lies hid in harmless hoaxes! What keen enjoyment springs From cheap and simple things! What deep delight from sources trite inventive humour coaxes, That pain and trouble brew For every one but you! Gunpowder placed inside its waist improves a mild Havana, Its unexpected flash Burns eyebrows and moustache. When people dine no kind of wine beats ipecacuanha, But common sense suggests You keep it for your guests— Then naught annoys the organ boys like throwing red hot coppers. And much amusement bides In common butter slides; And stringy snares across the stairs cause unexpected croppers. Coal scuttles, recollect, Produce the same effect. A man possessed Of common sense Need not invest At great expense— It does not call For pocket deep, These jokes are all Extremely cheap. If you commence with eighteenpence—it's all you'll have to pay; You may command a pleasant and a most instructive day. A good spring gun breeds endless fun, and makes men jump like rockets— And turnip heads on posts Make very decent ghosts. Then hornets sting like anything, when placed in waistcoat pockets— Burnt cork and walnut juice Are not without their use. No fun compares with easy chairs whose seats are stuffed with needles— Live shrimps their patience tax When put down people's backs. Surprising, too, what one can do with a pint of fat black beetles— And treacle on a chair Will make a Quaker swear! Then sharp tin tacks And pocket squirts— And cobbler's wax For ladies' skirts— And slimy slugs On bedroom floors— And water jugs On open doors— Prepared with these cheap properties, amusing tricks to play Upon a friend a man may spend a most delightful day. W. S. Gilbert. |
TO PHŒBE
| "Gentle, modest little flower, Sweet epitome of May, Love me but for half an hour, Love me, love me, little fay." Sentences so fiercely flaming In your tiny, shell-like ear, I should always be exclaiming If I loved you, Phœbe dear. "Smiles that thrill from any distance Shed upon me while I sing! Please ecstaticize existence, Love me, oh, thou fairy thing!" Words like these, outpouring sadly, You'd perpetually hear, If I loved you fondly, madly;— But I do not, Phœbe dear. W. S. Gilbert. |
MALBROUCK
| Malbrouck, the prince of commanders, Is gone to the war in Flanders; His fame is like Alexander's; But when will he come home? Perhaps at Trinity Feast, or Perhaps he may come at Easter. Egad! he had better make haste, or We fear he may never come. For Trinity Feast is over, And has brought no news from Dover; And Easter is past, moreover, And Malbrouck still delays. Milady in her watch-tower Spends many a pensive hour, Not well knowing why or how her Dear lord from England stays. While sitting quite forlorn in That tower, she spies returning A page clad in deep mourning, With fainting steps and slow. "O page, prithee, come faster! What news do you bring of your master? I fear there is some disaster, Your looks are so full of woe." "The news I bring, fair lady," With sorrowful accent said he, "Is one you are not ready So soon, alas! to hear. "But since to speak I'm hurried," Added this page, quite flurried, "Malbrouck is dead and buried!" (And here he shed a tear.) "He's dead! he's dead as a herring! For I beheld his 'berring,' And four officers transferring His corpse away from the field. "One officer carried his sabre, And he carried it not without labour, Much envying his next neighbour, Who only bore a shield. "The third was helmet-bearer— That helmet which on its wearer Filled all who saw with terror, And covered a hero's brains. "Now, having got so far, I Find that (by the Lord Harry!) The fourth is left nothing to carry; So there the thing remains." Translated by Father Prout. |
MARK TWAIN: A PIPE DREAM
| Well I recall how first I met Mark Twain—an infant barely three Rolling a tiny cigarette While cooing on his nurse's knee. Since then in every sort of place I've met with Mark and heard him joke, Yet how can I describe his face? I never saw it for the smoke. At school he won a smokership, At Harvard College (Cambridge, Mass.) His name was soon on every lip, They made him "smoker" of his class. Who will forget his smoking bout With Mount Vesuvius—our cheers— When Mount Vesuvius went out And didn't smoke again for years? The news was flashed to England's King, Who begged Mark Twain to come and stay, Offered him dukedoms—anything To smoke the London fog away. But Mark was firm. "I bow," said he, "To no imperial command, No ducal coronet for me, My smoke is for my native land!" For Mark there waits a brighter crown! When Peter comes his card to read— He'll take the sign "No Smoking" down, Then Heaven will be Heaven indeed. Oliver Herford. |
FROM A FULL HEART
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In days of peace my fellow-men Rightly regarded me as more like A Bishop than a Major-Gen., And nothing since has made me warlike; But when this age-long struggle ends And I have seen the Allies dish up The goose of Hindenburg—oh, friends! I shall out-bish the mildest Bishop. When the War is over and the Kaiser's out of print I'm going to buy some tortoises and watch the beggars sprint; When the War is over and the sword at last we sheathe I'm going to keep a jelly-fish and listen to it breathe. I never really longed for gore, And any taste for red corpuscles That lingered with me left before The German troops had entered Brussels. In early days the Colonel's "'Shun!" Froze me; and as the war grew older The noise of some one else's gun Left me considerably colder. When the War is over and the battle has been won I'm going to buy a barnacle and take it for a run; When the War is over and the German fleet we sink I'm going to keep a silkworm's egg and listen to it think. The Captains and the Kings depart— It may be so, but not lieutenants; Dawn after weary dawn I start The never ending round of penance; One rock amid the welter
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