whom I repine, But when I'm on a uptown She's on a downtown, On a downtown car of the Broadway line. Oh, to be downtown when I am uptown, Oh, to be uptown when I am downtown, I work at night time, She in the daytime, Never the right time for us to meet, Uptown or downtown, in "L," car or street. William Johnston.
WRITTEN AFTER SWIMMING FROM SESTOS TO ABYDOS
| If, in the month of dark December, Leander, who was nightly wont (What maid will not the tale remember?) To cross thy stream broad Hellespont. If, when the wint'ry tempest roar'd, He sped to Hero nothing loth, And thus of old thy current pour'd, Fair Venus! how I pity both! For me, degenerate, modern wretch, Though in the genial month of May, My dripping limbs I faintly stretch, And think I've done a feat to-day. But since he crossed the rapid tide, According to the doubtful story, To woo—and—Lord knows what beside, And swam for Love, as I for Glory; 'T were hard to say who fared the best: Sad mortals! thus the gods still plague you! He lost his labor, I my jest; For he was drowned, and I've the ague. Lord Byron. |
THE FISHERMAN'S CHANT
| Oh, the fisherman is a happy wight! He dibbles by day, and he sniggles by night. He trolls for fish, and he trolls his lay— He sniggles by night, and he dibbles by day. Oh, who so merry as he! On the river or the sea! Sniggling, Wriggling Eels, and higgling Over the price Of a nice Slice Of fish, twice As much as it ought to be. Oh, the fisherman is a happy man! He dibbles, and sniggles, and fills his can! With a sharpened hook, and a sharper eye, He sniggles and dibbles for what comes by, Oh, who so merry as he! On the river or the sea! Dibbling Nibbling Chub, and quibbling Over the price Of a nice Slice Of fish, twice As much as it ought to be. F. C. Burnand. |
REPORT OF AN ADJUDGED CASE
NOT TO BE FOUND IN ANY OF THE BOOKS
| Between Nose and Eyes a strange contest arose, The spectacles set them unhappily wrong; The point in dispute was, as all the world knows, To which the said spectacles ought to belong. So Tongue was the lawyer, and argued the cause With a great deal of skill, and a wig full of learning; While chief baron Ear sat to balance the laws, So famed for his talent in nicely discerning. In behalf of the Nose it will quickly appear, And your lordship, he said, will undoubtedly find, That the Nose has had spectacles always to wear, Which amounts to possession time out of mind. Then holding the spectacles up to the court— Your lordship observes they are made with a straddle As wide as the ridge of the Nose is; in short, Designed to sit close to it, just like a saddle. Again, would your lordship a moment suppose ('Tis a case that has happened, and may be again) That the visage or countenance had not a nose, Pray who would, or who could, wear spectacles then! On the whole it appears, and my argument shows With a reasoning the court will never condemn, That the spectacles plainly were made for the Nose, And the Nose was as plainly intended for them. Then shifting his side (as a lawyer knows how), He pleaded again in behalf of the Eyes; But what were his arguments few people know, For the court did not think they were equally wise. So his lordship decreed with a grave solemn tone, Decisive and clear, without one if or but— That, whenever the Nose put his spectacles on, By daylight or candlelight—Eyes should be shut! William Cowper. |
PREHISTORIC SMITH
QUATERNARY EPOCH—POST-PLIOCENE PERIOD
| A man sat on a rock and sought Refreshment from his thumb; A dinotherium wandered by And scared him some. His name was Smith. The kind of rock He sat upon was shale. One feature quite distinguished him— He had a tail. The danger past, he fell into A revery austere; While with his tail he whisked a fly From off his ear. "Mankind deteriorates," he said, "Grows weak and incomplete; And each new generation seems Yet more effete. "Nature abhors imperfect work, And on it lays her ban; And all creation must despise A tailless man. "But fashion's dictates rule supreme, Ignoring common sense; And fashion says, to dock your tail Is just immense. "And children now come in the world With half a tail or less; Too stumpy to convey a thought, And meaningless. "It kills expression. How can one Set forth, in words that drag, The best emotions of the soul, Without a wag?" Sadly he mused upon the world, Its follies and its woes; Then wiped the moisture from his eyes, And blew his nose. But clothed in earrings, Mrs. Smith Came wandering down the dale; And, smiling, Mr. Smith arose, And wagged his tail. David Law Proudfit. |
SONG
OF ONE ELEVEN YEARS IN PRISON
| I Whene'er with haggard eyes I view This dungeon that I'm rotting in, I think of those companions true Who studied with me at the U niversity of Gottingen, niversity of Gottingen. |
[Weeps, and pulls out a blue kerchief, with which he wipes his eyes; gazing tenderly at it, he proceeds—
| II Sweet kerchief, check'd with heavenly blue, Which once my love sat knotting in!— Alas! Matilda then was true! At least I thought so at the U niversity of Gottingen, niversity of Gottingen. |
[At the repetition of this line he clanks his chains in cadence.
| III Barbs! Barbs! alas! how swift you flew, Her neat post-wagon trotting in! Ye bore Matilda from my view; Forlorn I languish'd at the U niversity of Gottingen, niversity of Gottingen. IV This faded form! this pallid hue! This blood my veins is clotting in, My years are many—they were few When first I entered at the U niversity of Gottingen, niversity of Gottingen. V There first for thee my passion grew, Sweet, sweet Matilda Pottengen! Thou wast the daughter of my tu tor, law professor at the U niversity of Gottingen, niversity of Gottingen. VI Sun, moon and thou, vain world, adieu, That kings and priests are plotting in; Here doom'd to starve on water gru el, never shall I see the U niversity of Gottingen, niversity of Gottingen. |
[During the last stanza he dashes his head repeatedly against the walls of his prison; and, finally, so hard as to produce a visible contusion; he then throws himself on the floor in an agony. The curtain drops; the music still continuing to play till it is wholly fallen.
| George Canning. |
LYING
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I do confess, in many a sigh, My lips have breath'd you many a lie, And who, with such delights in view, Would lose them
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