The Book of Humorous Verse. Various

It is very aggravating To hear the solemn prating Of the fossils who are stating That old Horace was a prude; When we know that with the ladies He was always raising Hades, And with many an escapade his Best productions are imbued. There's really not much harm in a Large number of his carmina, But these people find alarm in a Few records of his acts; So they'd squelch the muse caloric, And to students sophomoric They'd present as metaphoric What old Horace meant for facts. We have always thought 'em lazy; Now we adjudge 'em crazy! Why, Horace was a daisy That was very much alive! And the wisest of us know him As his Lydia verses show him— Go, read that virile poem— It is No. 25. He was a very owl, sir, And starting out to prowl, sir, You bet he made Rome howl, sir, Until he filled his date; With a massic-laden ditty And a classic maiden pretty, He painted up the city, And Mæcenas paid the freight! Eugene Field.

PROPINQUITY NEEDED

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Celestine Silvousplait Justine de Mouton Rosalie, A coryphée who lived and danced in naughty, gay Paree, Was every bit as pretty as a French girl e'er can be (Which isn't saying much). Maurice Boulanger (there's a name that would adorn a king), But Morris Baker was the name they called the man I sing. He lived in New York City in the Street that's labeled Spring (Chosen because it rhymed). Now Baker was a lonesome youth and wanted to be wed, And for a wife, all over town he hunted, it is said; And up and down Fifth Avenue he ofttimes wanderéd (He was a peripatetic Baker, he was). And had he met Celestine, not a doubt but Cupid's darts Would in a trice have wounded both of their fond, loving hearts; But he has never left New York to stray in foreign parts (Because he hasn't the price). And she has never left Paree and so, of course, you see There's not the slightest chance at all she'll marry Morris B. For love to get well started, really needs propinquity (Hence my title). Charles Battell Loomis.

IN THE CATACOMBS

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Sam Brown was a fellow from way down East, Who never was "staggered" in the least. No tale of marvellous beast or bird Could match the stories he had heard; No curious place or wondrous view "Was ekil to Podunk, I tell yu." If they told him of Italy's sunny clime, "Maine kin beat it, every time!" If they marvelled at Ætna's fount of fire, They roused his ire: With an injured air He'd reply, "I swear I don't think much of a smokin' hill; We've got a moderate little rill Kin make yer old volcaner still; Jes' pour old Kennebec down the crater, 'N' I guess it'll cool her fiery nater!" They showed him a room where a queen had slept; "'Twan't up to the tavern daddy kept." They showed him Lucerne; but he had drunk From the beautiful Molechunkamunk. They took him at last to ancient Rome, And inveigled him into a catacomb: Here they plied him with draughts of wine, Though he vowed old cider was twice as fine, Till the fumes of Falernian filled his head, And he slept as sound as the silent dead; They removed a mummy to make him room, And laid him at length in the rocky tomb. They piled old skeletons round the stone, Set a "dip" in a candlestick of bone, And left him to slumber there alone; Then watched from a distance the taper's gleam, Waiting to jeer at his frightened scream, When he should wake from his drunken dream. After a time the Yankee woke, But instantly saw through the flimsy joke; So never a cry or shout he uttered, But solemnly rose, and slowly muttered: "I see how it is. It's the judgment day, We've all been dead and stowed away; All these stone furreners sleepin' yet, An' I'm the fust one up, you bet! Can't none o' you Romans start, I wonder? United States ahead, by thunder!" Harlan Hoge Ballard.

OUR NATIVE BIRDS

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Alone I sit at eventide; The twilight glory pales, And o'er the meadows far and wide I hear the bobolinks— (We have no nightingales!) Song-sparrows warble on the tree, I hear the purling brook, And from the old manse on the lea Flies slow the cawing crow— (In England 'twere a rook!) The last faint golden beams of day Still glow on cottage panes, And on their lingering homeward way Walk weary laboring men— (Alas! we have no swains!) From farmyards, down fair rural glades Come sounds of tinkling bells, And songs of merry brown milkmaids Sweeter than catbird's strains— (I should say Philomel's!) I could sit here till morning came, All through the night hours dark, Until I saw the sun's bright flame And heard the oriole— (Alas! we have no lark!) We have no leas, no larks, no rooks, No swains, no nightingales, No singing milkmaids (save in books) The poet does his best:— It is the rhyme that fails. Nathan Haskell Dole.

THE PRAYER OF CYRUS BROWN

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"The proper way for a man to pray," Said Deacon Lemuel Keyes, "And the only proper attitude Is down upon his knees." "No, I should say the way to pray," Said Rev. Doctor Wise, "Is standing straight with outstretched arms And rapt and upturned eyes." "Oh, no; no, no," said Elder Slow, "Such posture is too proud: A man should pray with eyes fast closed And head contritely bowed." "It seems to me his hands should be Austerely clasped in front. With both thumbs pointing toward the ground," Said Rev. Doctor Blunt. "Las' year I fell in Hodgkin's well Head first," said Cyrus Brown, "With both my heels a-stickin' up, My head a-pinting down; "An' I made a prayer right then an' there— Best prayer I ever said, The prayingest prayer I ever prayed, A-standing on my head." Sam Walter Foss.

ERRING IN COMPANY

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      "If I have erred, I err in company with Abraham Lincoln."—Theodore Roosevelt.

If e'er my rhyming be at fault, If e'er I chance to scribble dope, If that my metre ever halt, I err in company with Pope. An that my grammar go awry, An that my English be askew, Sooth, I can prove an alibi— The Bard of Avon did it too. If often toward the bottled grape My errant fancy fondly turns, Remember, leering jackanape, I err in company with Burns. If now and then I sigh "Mine own!" Unto another's wedded wife, Remember, I am not alone— Hast ever read Lord Byron's Life? If frequently I fret and fume, And absolutely will not smile, I err in company with Hume, Old Socrates and T. Carlyle. If e'er I fail in etiquette, And foozle on The Proper Stuff Regarding manners, don't forget A. Tennyson's were pretty tough. Eke if I err upon the side Of talking overmuch of Me, I err, it cannot be denied, In most illustrious company. Franklin P. Adams.

CUPID

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Why was Cupid a boy, And why a boy was he? He should have been a girl, For aught that I can see. For he shoots with his bow, And the girl shoots with her eye; And they both are merry and glad, And laugh when we do cry. Then to make Cupid a boy Was surely a woman's plan, For a boy never learns so much Till he has become a man. And then he's so pierced with cares, And wounded with arrowy smarts, That the whole business of his life Is to pick out the heads of the darts. William Blake.