Kitabı oku: «A Parody Anthology», sayfa 2

THE BABY'S OMAR

 
OMAR'S the fad! Well then, let us indite
The shape of verse old Omar used to write;
And Juveniles are up. So we opine
A Baby's Omar would be out of sight!
 
 
Methinks the stunt is easy. Stilted style,
A misplaced Capital once in a while, —
Other verse writers do it like a shot;
And can't I do it too? Well, I should Smile!
 
 
But how I ramble on. I must dismiss
Dull Sloth, and set to Work at once, I wis;
I sometimes think there's nothing quite so hard
As a Beginning. Say we start like this:
 
 
Indeed, indeed my apron oft before
I tore, but was I naughty when I tore?
And then, and then came Ma, and thread in hand
Repaired the rent in my small pinafore.
 
 
A Penny Trumpet underneath the Bough,
A Drum that's big enough to make a Row;
A Toy Fire-Engine, and a squeaking Doll,
Oh, Life were Pandemonium enow.
 
 
Come, fill the Cup, then quickly on the floor
Your portion of the Porridge gaily pour.
The Nurse will Spank you, and she'll be discharged, —
Ah, but of Nurses there be Plenty more.
 
 
Yes, I can do it! Now, if but my Purse
Some kindly Editor will reimburse,
I'll write a Baby's Omar; for I'm sure
These Sample Stanzas here are not so worse.
 

Carolyn Wells.

AFTER CHAUCER

YE CLERKE OF YE WETHERE

 
A  CLERKE there was, a puissant wight was hee,
Who of ye wethere hadde ye maisterie;
Alway it was his mirthe and his solace —
To put eche seson's wethere oute of place.
 
 
Whanne that Aprille shoures wer our desyre,
He gad us Julye sonnes as hotte as fyre;
But sith ye summere togges we donned agayne,
Eftsoons ye wethere chaunged to cold and rayne.
 
 
Wo was that pilgrimme who fared forth a-foote,
Without ane gyngham that him list uppe-putte;
And gif no mackyntosches eke had hee,
A parlous state that wight befelle – pardie!
 
 
We wist not gif it nexte ben colde or hotte,
Cogswounds! ye barde a grewsome colde hath gotte!
Certes, that clerke's ane mightie man withalle,
Let non don him offence, lest ille befalle.
 

Anonymous.

AFTER SPENSER

A PORTRAIT

 
HE is to weet a melancholy carle:
Thin in the waist, with bushy head of hair,
As hath the seeded thistle, when a parle
It holds with Zephyr, ere it sendeth fair
Its light balloons into the summer air;
Thereto his beard had not begun to bloom.
No brush had touched his cheek, or razor sheer;
No care had touched his cheek with mortal doom,
But new he was and bright, as scarf from Persian loom.
 
 
Ne carèd he for wine, or half and half;
Ne carèd he for fish, or flesh, or fowl;
And sauces held he worthless as the chaff;
He 'sdeigned the swine-head at the wassail-bowl:
Ne with lewd ribbalds sat he cheek by jowl;
Ne with sly lemans in the scorner's chair;
But after water-brooks this pilgrim's soul
Panted and all his food was woodland air;
Though he would oft-times feast on gilliflowers rare
 
 
The slang of cities in no wise he knew,
Tipping the wink to him was heathen Greek;
He sipped no “olden Tom," or “ruin blue,"
Or Nantz, or cherry-brandy, drunk full meek
By many a damsel brave and rouge of cheek;
Nor did he know each aged watchman's beat,
Nor in obscurèd purlieus would he seek
For curlèd Jewesses, with ankles neat,
Who, as they walk abroad, make tinkling with their feet.
 

John Keats.

AFTER SHAKESPEARE

THE BACHELOR'S SOLILOQUY

 
TO wed, or not to wed? That is the question
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The pangs and arrows of outrageous love
Or to take arms against the powerful flame
And by oppressing quench it.
To wed – to marry —
And by a marriage say we end
The heartache and the thousand painful shocks
Love makes us heir to – 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished! to wed – to marry —
Perchance a scold! aye, there's the rub!
For in that wedded life what ills may come
When we have shuffled off our single state
Must give us serious pause. There's the respect
That makes us Bachelors a numerous race.
For who would bear the dull unsocial hours
Spent by unmarried men, cheered by no smile
To sit like hermit at a lonely board
In silence? Who would bear the cruel gibes
With which the Bachelor is daily teased
When he himself might end such heart-felt griefs
By wedding some fair maid? Oh, who would live
Yawning and staring sadly in the fire
Till celibacy becomes a weary life
But that the dread of something after wed-lock
(That undiscovered state from whose strong chains
No captive can get free) puzzles the will
And makes us rather choose those ills we have
Than fly to others which a wife may bring.
Thus caution doth make Bachelors of us all,
And thus our natural taste for matrimony
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought.
And love adventures of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn away
And lose the name of Wedlock.
 

Anonymous.

POKER

 
TO draw, or not to draw, – that is the question: —
Whether 'tis safer in the player to take
The awful risk of skinning for a straight,
Or, standing pat, to raise 'em all the limit
And thus, by bluffing, get in. To draw, – to skin;
No more – and by that skin to get a full,
Or two pairs, or the fattest bouncing kings
That luck is heir to – 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To draw – to skin;
To skin! perchance to burst – ay, there's the rub!
For in the draw of three what cards may come,
When we have shuffled off th' uncertain pack,
Must give us pause. There's the respect
That makes calamity of a bobtail flush;
For who would bear the overwhelming blind,
The reckless straddle, the wait on the edge,
The insolence of pat hands and the lifts
That patient merit of the bluffer takes,
When he himself might be much better off
By simply passing? Who would trays uphold,
And go out on a small progressive raise,
But that the dread of something after call —
The undiscovered ace-full, to whose strength
Such hands must bow, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather keep the chips we have
Than be curious about the hands we know not of.
Thus bluffing does make cowards of us all:
And thus the native hue of a four-heart flush
Is sicklied with some dark and cussed club,
And speculators in a jack-pot's wealth
With this regard their interest turn away
And lose the right to open.
 

Anonymous.

TOOTHACHE

 
TO have it out or not. That is the question —
Whether 'tis better for the jaws to suffer
The pangs and torments of an aching tooth
Or to take steel against a host of troubles,
And, by extracting them, end them? To pull – to tug! —
No more: and by a tug to say we end
The toothache and a thousand natural ills
The jaw is heir to. 'Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished! To pull – to tug! —
To tug – perchance to break! Ay, there's the rub,
For in that wrench what agonies may come
When we have half dislodged the stubborn foe,
Must give us pause. There's the respect
That makes an aching tooth of so long life.
For who would bear the whips and stings of pain,
The old wife's nostrum, dentist's contumely;
The pangs of hope deferred, kind sleep's delay;
The insolence of pity, and the spurns,
That patient sickness of the healthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
For one poor shilling? Who would fardels bear,
To groan and sink beneath a load of pain? —
But that the dread of something lodged within
The linen-twisted forceps, from whose pangs
No jaw at ease returns, puzzles the will,
And makes it rather bear the ills it has
Than fly to others that it knows not of.
Thus dentists do make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of fear;
And many a one, whose courage seeks the door,
With this regard his footsteps turns away,
Scared at the name of dentist.
 

Anonymous.

A DREARY SONG

 
WELL, don't cry, my little tiny boy,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain
Amuse yourself, and break some toy,
For the rain it raineth every day.
 
 
Alas, for the grass on Papa's estate,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
He'll have to buy hay at an awful rate,
For the rain it raineth every day.
 
 
Mamma, she can't go out for a drive,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
How cross she gets about four or five,
For the rain it raineth every day.
 
 
If I were you I'd be off to bed,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
Or the damp will give you a cold in the head,
For the rain it raineth every day.
 
 
A great while ago this song was done,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
And I, for one, cannot see it's fun,
But the Dyces and the Colliers can – they say.
 

Shirley Brooks.

TO THE STALL-HOLDERS AT A FANCY FAIR

 
WITH pretty speech accost both old and young,
And speak it trippingly upon the tongue;
But if you mouth it with a hoyden laugh,
With clumsy ogling and uncomely chaff —
As I have oft seen done at fancy fairs,
I had as lief a huckster sold my wares,
Avoid all so-called beautifying, dear.
Oh! it offends me to the soul to hear
The things that men among themselves will say
Of some soi-disant “beauty of the day,"
Whose face, when she with cosmetics has cloyed it,
Out-Rachels Rachel! pray you, girls, avoid it.
Neither be you too tame – but, ere you go,
Provide yourselves with sprigs of mistletoe;
Offer them coyly to the Roman herd —
But don't you suit “the action to the word,"
For in that very torrent of your passion
Remember modesty is still in fashion.
Oh, there be ladies whom I've seen hold stalls —
Ladies of rank, my dear – to whom befalls
Neither the accent nor the gait of ladies;
So clumsily made up with Bloom of Cadiz,
Powder-rouge – lip-salve – that I've fancied then
They were the work of Nature's journeymen.
 

W. S. Gilbert.

SONG

 
WITH a hey! and a hi! and a hey-ho rhyme!
Oh, the shepherd lad
He is ne'er so glad
As when he pipes, in the blossom-time,
So rare!
While Kate picks by, yet looks not there.
So rare! so rare!
With a hey! and a hi! and a ho!
The grasses curdle where the daisies blow!
With a hey! and a hi! and a hey-ho vow!
Then he sips her face
At the sweetest place —
And ho! how white is the hawthorn now! —
So rare! —
And the daisied world rocks round them there.
So rare! so rare!
With a hey! and a hi! and a ho!
The grasses curdle where the daisies blow!
 

James Whitcomb Riley.

THE WHIST-PLAYER'S SOLILOQUY

 
TO trump, or not to trump, – that is the question:
Whether 't is better in this case to notice
The leads and signals of outraged opponents,
Or to force trumps against a suit of diamonds,
And by opposing end them? To trump, – to take, —
No more; and by that trick to win the lead
And after that, return my partner's spades
For which he signalled, – 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To trump – to take, —
To take! perchance to win! Ay, there's the rub;
For if we win this game, what hands may come
When we have shuffled up these cards again.
Play to the score? ah! yes, there's the defect
That makes this Duplicate Whist so much like work.
For who would heed the theories of Hoyle,
The laws of Pole, the books of Cavendish,
The Short-Suit system, Leads American,
The Eleven Rule Finesse, The Fourth-best play,
The Influence of signals on The Ruff,
When he himself this doubtful trick might take
With a small two-spot? Who would hesitate,
But that the dread of something afterwards,
An undiscovered discard or forced lead
When playing the return, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather lose the tricks we have
To win the others that we know not of?
Thus Duplicate Whist makes cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of Bumblepuppy
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought.
And good whist-players of great skill and judgment,
With this regard their formulas defy,
And lose the game by ruffing.
 

Carolyn Wells.

AFTER WITHER

ANSWER TO MASTER WITHERS SONG, “SHALL I, WASTING IN DESPAIR?"

 
SHALL I, mine affections slack,
'Cause I see a woman's black?
Or myself, with care cast down,
'Cause I see a woman brown?
Be she blacker than the night,
Or the blackest jet in sight!
If she be not so to me,
What care I how black she be?
 
 
Shall my foolish heart be burst,
'Cause I see a woman's curst?
Or a thwarting hoggish nature
Joinèd in as bad a feature?
Be she curst or fiercer than
Brutish beast, or savage man!
If she be not so to me,
What care I how curst she be?
 
 
Shall a woman's vices make
Me her vices quite forsake?
Or her faults to me made known,
Make me think that I have none?
Be she of the most accurst,
And deserve the name of worst!
If she be not so to me,
What care I how bad she be?
 
 
'Cause her fortunes seem too low,
Shall I therefore let her go?
He that bears an humble mind
And with riches can be kind,
Think how kind a heart he'd have,
If he were some servile slave!
And if that same mind I see
What care I how poor she be?
 
 
Poor, or bad, or curst, or black,
I will ne'er the more be slack!
If she hate me (then believe!)
She shall die ere I will grieve!
If she like me when I woo
I can like and love her too!
If that she be fit for me!
What care I what others be?
 

Ben Jonson.

AFTER HERRICK

SONG

 
GATHER Kittens while you may,
Time brings only Sorrow;
And the Kittens of To-day
Will be Old Cats To-morrow.
 

Oliver Herford.

TO JULIA UNDER LOCK AND KEY

(A form of betrothal gift in America is an anklet secured by a padlock, of which the other party keeps the key)

 
WHEN like a bud my Julia blows
In lattice-work of silken hose,
Pleasant I deem it is to note
How, 'neath the nimble petticoat,
Above her fairy shoe is set
The circumvolving zonulet.
And soothly for the lover's ear
A perfect bliss it is to hear
About her limb so lithe and lank
My Julia's ankle-bangle clank.
Not rudely tight, for 'twere a sin
To corrugate her dainty skin;
Nor yet so large that it might fare
Over her foot at unaware;
But fashioned nicely with a view
To let her airy stocking through:
So as, when Julia goes to bed,
Of all her gear disburdenèd,
This ring at least she shall not doff
Because she cannot take it off.
And since thereof I hold the key,
She may not taste of liberty,
Not though she suffer from the gout,
Unless I choose to let her out.
 

Owen Seaman.

AFTER NURSERY RHYMES

AN IDYLL OF PHATTE AND LEENE

 
THE hale John Sprat – oft called for shortness, Jack —
Had married – had, in fact, a wife – and she
Did worship him with wifely reverence.
He, who had loved her when she was a girl,
Compass'd her, too, with sweet observances;
E'en at the dinner table did it shine.
For he – liking no fat himself – he never did,
With jealous care piled up her plate with lean,
Not knowing that all lean was hateful to her.
And day by day she thought to tell him o 't,
And watched the fat go out with envious eye,
But could not speak for bashful delicacy.
 
 
At last it chanced that on a winter day,
The beef – a prize joint! – little was but fat;
So fat, that John had all his work cut out,
To snip out lean fragments for his wife,
Leaving, in very sooth, none for himself;
Which seeing, she spoke courage to her soul,
Took up her fork, and, pointing to the joint
Where 'twas the fattest, piteously she said;
“Oh, husband! full of love and tenderness!
What is the cause that you so jealously
Pick out the lean for me. I like it not!
Nay, loathe it – 'tis on the fat that I would feast;
O me, I fear you do not like my taste!"
 
 
Then he, dropping his horny-handled carving knife,
Sprinkling therewith the gravy o'er her gown,
Answer'd, amazed: “What! you like fat, my wife!
And never told me. Oh, this is not kind!
Think what your reticence has wrought for us;
How all the fat sent down unto the maid —
Who likes not fat – for such maids never do —
Has been put in the waste-tub, sold for grease,
And pocketed as servant's perquisite!
Oh, wife! this news is good; for since, perforce,
A joint must be not fat nor lean, but both;
Our different tastes will serve our purpose well;
For, while you eat the fat – the lean to me
Falls as my cherished portion. Lo! 'tis good!"
So henceforth – he that tells the tale relates —
In John Sprat's household waste was quite unknown;
For he the lean did eat, and she the fat,
And thus the dinner-platter was all cleared.
 

Anonymous.

NURSERY SONG IN PIDGIN ENGLISH

 
SINGEE a songee sick a pence,
Pockee muchee lye;
Dozen two time blackee bird
Cookee in e pie.
When him cutee topside
Birdee bobbery sing;
Himee tinkee nicey dish
Setee foree King!
Kingee in a talkee loom
Countee muchee money;
Queeny in e kitchee,
Chew-chee breadee honey.
Servant galo shakee,
Hangee washee clothes;
Cho-chop comee blackie bird,
Nipee off her nose!
 

Anonymous.

THE HOUSE THAT JACK BUILT

 
AND this reft house is that the which he built,
Lamented Jack! and here his malt he piled.
Cautious in vain! these rats that squeak so wild,
Squeak not unconscious of their father's guilt.
 
 
Did he not see her gleaming through the glade!
Belike 'twas she, the maiden all forlorn.
What though she milked no cow with crumpled horn,
Yet, aye she haunts the dale where erst she strayed:
 
 
And aye before her stalks her amorous knight!
Still on his thighs their wonted brogues are worn,
And through those brogues, still tattered and betorn,
His hindward charms gleam an unearthly white.
 

Samuel Taylor Coleridge.

BOSTON NURSERY RHYMES

RHYME FOR A GEOLOGICAL BABY

 
TRILOBITE, Graptolite, Nautilus pie;
Seas were calcareous, oceans were dry.
Eocene, miocene, pliocene Tuff,
Lias and Trias and that is enough.
 

RHYME FOR ASTRONOMICAL BABY

 
BYE Baby Bunting,
Father's gone star-hunting;
Mother's at the telescope
Casting baby's horoscope.
Bye Baby Buntoid,
Father's found an asteroid;
Mother takes by calculation
The angle of its inclination.
 

RHYME FOR BOTANICAL BABY

 
LITTLE bo-peepals
Has lost her sepals,
And can't tell where to find them;
In the involucre
By hook or by crook or
She'll make up her mind not to mind them.
 

RHYME FOR A CHEMICAL BABY

 
OH, sing a song of phosphates,
Fibrine in a line,
Four-and-twenty follicles
In the van of time.
When the phosphorescence
Evoluted brain,
Superstition ended,
Men began to reign.
 

Rev. Joseph Cook.

A SONG OF A HEART

 
UPON a time I had a Heart,
And it was bright and gay;
And I gave it to a Lady fair
To have and keep alway.
 
 
She soothed it and she smoothed it
And she stabbed it till it bled;
She brightened it and lightened it
And she weighed it down with lead.
 
 
She flattered it and battered it
And she filled it full of gall;
Yet had I Twenty Hundred Hearts,
Still should she have them all.
 

Oliver Herford.

THE DOMICILE OF JOHN

 
BEHOLD the mansion reared by Daedal Jack!
See the malt stored in many a plethoric sack,
In the proud cirque of Ivan's Bivouac!
 
 
Mark how the rat's felonious fangs invade
The golden stores in John's pavilion laid!
 
 
Anon, with velvet foot and Tarquin strides,
Subtle Grimalkin to his quarry glides;
Grimalkin grim, that slew the fierce rodent,
Whose tooth insidious Johann's sackcloth rent!
 
 
Lo! Now the deep-mouthed canine foe's assault!
That vexed the avenger of the stolen malt,
Stored in the hallowed precincts of that hall,
That rose complete at Jack's creative call.
 
 
Here stalks the impetuous cow with the crumpled horn,
Whereon the exacerbating hound was torn
Who bayed the feline slaughter-beast that slew
The rat predaceous, whose keen fangs ran through
The textile fibres that involved the grain
That lay in Hans' inviolate domain.
Here walks forlorn the damsel crowned with rue,
Lactiferous spoils from vaccine dugs who drew
Of that corniculate beast whose tortuous horn
Tossed to the clouds, in fierce vindictive scorn,
The baying hound whose braggart bark and stir
Arched the lithe spine and reared the indignant fur
Of puss, that, with verminicidal claw,
Struck the weird rat, in whose insatiate maw
Lay reeking malt, that erst in Juan's courts we saw.
 
 
Robed in senescent garb, that seems, in sooth,
Too long a prey to Chronos' iron tooth,
Behold the man whose amorous lips incline
Full with young Eros' osculative sign,
To the lorn maiden whose lactalbic hands
Drew albulactic wealth from lacteal glands
Of that immortal bovine, by whose horn
Distort, to realms ethereal was borne
The beast catulean, vexer of that sly
Ulysses quadrupedal, who made die
The old mordaceous rat that dared devour
Antecedaneous ale in John's domestic bower.
 
 
Lo! Here, with hirsute honors doffed, succinct
Of saponaceous locks, the priest who linked
In Hymen's golden bands the man unthrift
Whose means exiguous stared from many a rift,
E'en as he kissed the virgin all forlorn
Who milked the cow with implicated horn,
Who in fierce wrath the canine torturer skied,
That dared to vex the insidious muricide,
Who let auroral effluence through the pelt
Of that sly rat that robbed the palace that Jack built.
 
 
The loud cantankerous Shanghai comes at last,
Whose shouts aroused the shorn ecclesiast,
Who sealed the vows of Hymen's sacrament
To him who, robed in garments indigent,
Exosculates the damsel lachrymose,
The emulgator of the horned brute morose
That on gyrated horn, to heaven's high vault
Hurled up, with many a tortuous somersault,
The low bone-cruncher, whose hot wrath pursued
The scratching sneak, that waged eternal feud
With long-tailed burglar, who his lips would smack
On farinaceous wealth, that filled the halls of Jack.
 
 
Vast limbed and broad the farmer comes at length,
Whose cereal care supplied the vital strength
Of chanticleer, whose matutinal cry
Roused the quiescent form and ope'd the eye
Of razor-loving cleric, who in bands
Connubial linked the intermixed hands
Of him, whose rent apparel gaped apart,
And the lorn maiden with lugubrious heart,
Her who extraught the exuberant lactic flow
Of nutriment from that cornigerent cow,
Eumenidal executor of fate,
That to sidereal altitudes elate
Cerberus, who erst with fang lethiferous
Left lacerate Grimalkin latebrose —
That killed the rat
That ate the malt
That lay in the house that Jack built.
 

A. Pope.