Kitabı oku: «A Parody Anthology», sayfa 3

MARY AND THE LAMB

 
MARY, – what melodies mingle
To murmur her musical name!
It makes all one's finger-tips tingle
Like fagots, the food of the flame;
About her an ancient tradition
A romance delightfully deep
Has woven in juxtaposition
With one little sheep, —
 
 
One dear little lamb that would follow
Her footsteps, unwearily fain.
Down dale, over hill, over hollow,
To school and to hamlet again;
A gentle companion, whose beauty
Consisted in snow-driven fleece,
And whose most imperative duty
Was keeping the peace.
 
 
His eyes were as beads made of glassware,
His lips were coquettishly curled,
His capers made many a lass swear
His caper-sauce baffled the world;
His tail had a wag when it relished
A sip of the milk in the pail, —
And this fact has largely embellished
The wag of this tale.
 
 
One calm summer day when the sun was
A great golden globe in the sky,
One mild summer morn when the fun was
Unspeakably clear in his eye,
He tagged after exquisite Mary,
And over the threshold of school
He tripped in a temper contrary,
And splintered the rule.
 
 
A great consternation was kindled
Among all the scholars, and some
Confessed their affection had dwindled
For lamby, and looked rather glum;
But Mary's schoolmistress quick beckoned
The children away from the jam,
And said, sotto voce, she reckoned
That Mame loved the lamb.
 
 
Then all up the spine of the rafter
There ran a most risible shock,
And sorrow was sweetened with laughter
At this little lamb of the flock;
And out spoke the schoolmistress Yankee,
With rather a New Hampshire whine,
“Dear pupils, sing Moody and Sankey,
Hymn 'Ninety and Nine.'"
 
 
Now after this music had finished,
And silence again was restored,
The ardor of lamby diminished,
His quips for a moment were floored
Then cried he, “Bah-ed children, you blundered
When singing that psalmistry, quite.
I'm labelled by Mary, 'Old Hundred,'
And I'm labelled right."
 
 
Then vanished the lambkin in glory,
A halo of books round his head:
What furthermore happened the story,
Alackaday! cannot be said.
And Mary, the musical maid, is
To-day but a shadow in time;
Her epitaph, too, I'm afraid is
Writ only in rhyme.
 
 
She's sung by the cook at her ladle
That stirs up the capering sauce;
She's sung by the nurse at the cradle
When ba-ba is restless and cross;
And lamby, whose virtues were legion,
Dwells ever in songs that we sing,
He makes a nice dish in this region
To eat in the spring!
 

Frank Dempster Sherman.

AFTER WALLER

THE AESTHETE TO THE ROSE

 
Go, flaunting Rose!
Tell her that wastes her love on thee,
That she nought knows
Of the New Cult, Intensity,
If sweet and fair to her you be.
 
 
Tell her that's young,
Or who in health and bloom takes pride,
That bards have sung
Of a new youth – at whose sad side
Sickness and pallor aye abide.
 
 
Small is the worth
Of Beauty in crude charms attired.
She must shun mirth,
Have suffered, fruitlessly desired,
And wear no flush by hope inspired.
 
 
Then die, that she
May learn that Death is passing fair;
May read in thee
How little of Art's praise they share,
Who are not sallow, sick, and spare!
 

Punch.

AFTER DRYDEN

THREE BLESSINGS

 
THREE brightest blessings of this thirsty race,
(Whence sprung and when I don't propose to trace);
Pale brandy, potent spirit of the night,
Brisk soda, welcome when the morn is bright;
To make the third, combine the other two,
The force of nature can no further go.
 

Anonymous.

OYSTER-CRABS

 
THREE viands in three different courses served,
Received the commendation they deserved.
The first in succulence all else surpassed;
The next in flavor; and in both, the last.
For Nature's forces could no further go;
To make the third, she joined the other two.
 

Carolyn Wells.

AFTER DR. WATTS

THE VOICE OF THE LOBSTER

 
“'TIS the voice of the Lobster: I heard him declare
'You have baked me too brown, I must sugar my hair.'
As a duck with its eyelids, so he with his nose
Trims his belt and his buttons, and turns out his toes.
When the sands are all dry, he is gay as a lark,
And will talk in contemptuous tones of the Shark:
But, when the tide rises and sharks are around,
His voice has a timid and tremulous sound.
“I passed by his garden, and marked, with one eye,
How the Owl and the Panther were sharing a pie;
The Panther took pie-crust, and gravy, and meat,
While the Owl had the dish as its share of the treat.
When the pie was all finished, the Owl, as a boon,
Was kindly permitted to pocket the spoon;
While the Panther received knife and fork with a growl,
And concluded the banquet by – "
 

Lewis Carroll.

THE CROCODILE

 
HOW doth the little crocodile
Improve his shining tail,
And pour the waters of the Nile
On every golden scale!
 
 
How cheerfully he seems to grin,
How neatly spreads his claws,
And welcomes little fishes in,
With gently smiling jaws!
 

Lewis Carroll.

AFTER GOLDSMITH

WHEN LOVELY WOMAN

 
WHEN lovely woman wants a favor,
And finds, too late, that man won't bend,
What earthly circumstance can save her
From disappointment in the end?
 
 
The only way to bring him over,
The last experiment to try,
Whether a husband or a lover,
If he have feeling is – to cry.
 

Phœbe Cary.

AFTER BURNS

GAELIC SPEECH; OR, “AULD LANG SYNE" DONE UP IN TARTAN

 
SHOULD Gaelic speech be e'er forgot,
And never brocht to min',
For she'll be spoke in Paradise
In the days of auld lang syne.
When Eve, all fresh in beauty's charms,
First met fond Adam's view,
The first word that he'll spoke till her
Was, “cumar achum dhu."
 
 
And Adam in his garden fair,
Whene'er the day did close,
The dish that he'll to supper teuk
Was always Athole brose.
When Adam from his leafy bower
Cam oot at broke o' day,
He'll always for his morning teuk
A quaich o' usquebae.
 
 
An' when wi' Eve he'll had a crack,
He'll teuk his sneeshin' horn,
An' on the tap ye'll well mitch mark
A pony praw Cairngorm.
The sneeshin' mull is fine, my friens —
The sneeshin' mull is gran';
We'll teukta hearty sneesh, my friens,
And pass frae han' to han'.
 
 
When man first fan the want o' claes,
The wind an' cauld to fleg.
He twisted roon' about his waist
The tartan philabeg.
An' music first on earth was heard
In Gaelic accents deep,
When Jubal in his oxter squeezed
The blether o' a sheep.
 
 
The praw bagpipes is gran', my friens,
The praw bagpipes is fine;
We'll teukta nother pibroch yet,
For the days o' auld lang syne!
 

Anonymous.

MY FOE

 
JOHN ALCOHOL, my foe, John,
When we were first acquaint,
I'd siller in my pockets, John,
Which noo, ye ken, I want;
I spent it all in treating, John,
Because I loved you so;
But mark ye, how you've treated me,
John Alcohol, my foe.
 
 
John Alcohol, my foe, John,
We've been ower lang together,
Sae ye maun tak' ae road, John,
And I will take anither;
Foe we maun tumble down, John,
If hand in hand we go;
And I shall hae the bill to pay,
John Alcohol, my foe.
 
 
John Alcohol, my foe, John,
Ye've blear'd out a' my een,
And lighted up my nose, John,
A fiery sign atween!
My hands wi' palsy shake, John,
My locks are like the snow;
Ye'll surely be the death of me,
John Alcohol, my foe.
 
 
John Alcohol, my foe, John,
'Twas love to you, I ween,
That gart me rise sae ear', John,
And sit sae late at e'en;
The best o' friens maun part, John,
It grieves me sair, ye know;
But “we'll nae mair to yon town,"
John Alcohol, my foe.
 
 
John Alcohol, my foe, John,
Ye've wrought me muckle skaith,
And yet to part wi' you, John,
I own I'm unko' laith;
But I'll join the temperance ranks, John,
Ye needna say me no;
It's better late than ne'er do weel,
John Alcohol, my foe.
 

Anonymous.

RIGID BODY SINGS

 
GIN a body meet a body
Flyin' through the air,
Gin a body hit a body,
Will it fly? and where?
Ilka impact has its measure,
Ne'er a' ane hae I,
Yet a' the lads they measure me,
Or, at least, they try.
 
 
Gin a body meet a body
Altogether free,
How they travel afterwards
We do not always see.
Ilka problem has its method
By analytics high;
For me, I ken na ane o' them,
But what the waur am I?
 

J. C. Maxwell.

AFTER CATHERINE FANSHAWE

COCKNEY ENIGMA ON THE LETTER H

 
I   DWELLS in the Herth and I breathes in the Hair;
If you searches the Hocean you'll find that I'm there;
The first of all Hangels in Holympus am Hi,
Yet I'm banished from 'Eaven, expelled from on 'Igh.
But tho' on this Horb I am destined to grovel,
I'm ne'er seen in an 'Ouse, in an 'Ut, nor an 'Ovel;
Not an 'Oss nor an 'Unter e'er bears me, alas!
But often I'm found on the top of a Hass.
I resides in a Hattic and loves not to roam,
And yet I'm invariably habsent from 'Ome.
Tho' 'ushed in the 'Urricane, of the Hatmosphere part,
I enters no 'Ed, I creeps into no 'Art,
But look and you'll see in the Heye I appear.
Only 'ark and you'll 'ear me just breathe in the Hear;
Tho' in sex not an 'E, I am (strange paradox!),
Not a bit of an 'Effer, but partly a Hox.
Of Heternity Hi'm the beginning! and mark,
Tho' I goes not with Noar, I'm the first in the Hark.
I'm never in 'Elth – have with Fysic no power;
I dies in a Month, but comes back in a Hour.
 

Horace Mayhew.

AFTER WORDSWORTH

ON WORDSWORTH

 
HE lived amidst th' untrodden ways
To Rydal Lake that lead;
A bard whom there was none to praise
And very few to read.
 
 
Behind a cloud his mystic sense,
Deep hidden, who can spy?
Bright as the night when not a star
Is shining in the sky.
 
 
Unread his works – his “Milk White Doe"
With dust is dark and dim;
It's still in Longmans' shop, and oh!
The difference to him.
 

Anonymous.

JACOB

 
HE dwelt among “Apartments let,"
About five stories high;
A man, I thought, that none would get,
And very few would try.
 
 
A boulder, by a larger stone
Half hidden in the mud,
Fair as a man when only one
Is in the neighborhood.
 
 
He lived unknown, and few could tell
When Jacob was not free;
But he has got a wife – and O!
The difference to me!
 

Phœbe Cary.

FRAGMENT IN IMITATION OF WORDSWORTH

 
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 holds 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 those trees began to grow;
But still they grew, and grew, and grew,
As if they'd nothing else to do,
But ever must be growing.
 
 
The impulses of air and sky
Have reared 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.
 
 
Fixed are their feet in solid earth
Where winds can never blow;
But visitings of deeper birth
Have reached their roots below.
For they have gained 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-bells are his play-fellows,
That dance upon their slender stem.
 
 
And I have said, my little Will,
Why should he not 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.
 

Catherine M. Fanshawe.

JANE SMITH

 
I   JOURNEYED, on a winter's day,
Across the lonely wold;
No bird did sing upon the spray,
And it was very cold.
 
 
I had a coach with horses four,
Three white (though one was black),
And on they went the common o'er,
Nor swiftness did they lack.
 
 
A little girl ran by the side,
And she was pinched and thin.
“Oh, please, sir, do give me a ride!
I'm fetching mother's gin."
 
 
“Enter my coach, sweet child," said I,
“For you shall ride with me;
And I will get you your supply
Of mother's eau-de-vie."
 
 
The publican was stern and cold,
And said: “Her mother's score
Is writ, as you shall soon behold,
Behind the bar-room door!"
 
 
I blotted out the score with tears,
And paid the money down;
And took the maid of thirteen years
Back to her mother's town.
 
 
And though the past with surges wild
Fond memories may sever,
The vision of that happy child
Will leave my spirits never!
 

Rudyard Kipling.

ONLY SEVEN

(A Pastoral Story after Wordsworth)

 
I   MARVELLED why a simple child,
That lightly draws its breath,
Should utter groans so very wild,
And look as pale as Death.
 
 
Adopting a parental tone,
I ask'd her why she cried;
The damsel answered with a groan,
“I've got a pain inside!
 
 
“I thought it would have sent me mad
Last night about eleven."
Said I, “What is it makes you bad?
How many apples have you had?"
She answered, “Only seven!"
 
 
“And are you sure you took no more,
My little maid?" quoth I;
“Oh, please, sir, mother gave me four,
But they were in a pie!"
 
 
“If that's the case," I stammer'd out,
“Of course you've had eleven."
The maiden answered with a pout,
“I ain't had more nor seven!"
 
 
I wonder'd hugely what she meant,
And said, “I'm bad at riddles;
But I know where little girls are sent
For telling taradiddles.
 
 
“Now, if you won't reform," said I,
“You'll never go to Heaven."
But all in vain; each time I try,
That little idiot makes reply,
“I ain't had more nor seven!"
 

POSTSCRIPT

 
To borrow Wordsworth's name was wrong,
Or slightly misapplied;
And so I'd better call my song,
“Lines after Ache-Inside."
 

Henry S. Leigh.

LUCY LAKE

 
POOR Lucy Lake was overgrown,
But somewhat underbrained.
She did not know enough, I own,
To go in when it rained.
 
 
Yet Lucy was constrained to go;
Green bedding, – you infer.
Few people knew she died, but oh,
The difference to her!
 

Newton Mackintosh.

AFTER SIR WALTER SCOTT

YOUNG LOCHINVAR

(The true story in blank verse)

 
OH! young Lochinvar has come out of the West,
Thro' all the wide border his horse has no equal,
Having cost him forty-five dollars at the market,
Where good nags, fresh from the country,
With burrs still in their tails are selling
For a song; and save his good broadsword
He weapon had none, except a seven shooter
Or two, a pair of brass knuckles, and an Arkansaw
 
 
Toothpick in his boot, so, comparatively speaking,
He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone,
Because there was no one going his way.
He stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for
Toll-gates; he swam the Eske River where ford
There was none, and saved fifteen cents
In ferriage, but lost his pocket-book, containing
Seventeen dollars and a half, by the operation.
 
 
Ere he alighted at the Netherby mansion
He stopped to borrow a dry suit of clothes,
And this delayed him considerably, so when
He arrived the bride had consented – the gallant
Came late – for a laggard in love and a dastard in war
Was to wed the fair Ellen, and the guests had assembled.
 
 
So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall
Among bridesmen and kinsmen and brothers and
Brothers-in-law and forty or fifty cousins;
Then spake the bride's father, his hand on his sword
(For the poor craven bridegroom ne'er opened his head):
 
 
“Oh, come ye in peace here, or come ye in anger,
Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?"
“I long wooed your daughter, and she will tell you
I have the inside track in the free-for-all
For her affections! My suit you denied; but let
That pass, while I tell you, old fellow, that love
Swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide,
And now I am come with this lost love of mine
To lead but one measure, drink one glass of beer;
There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far
That would gladly be bride to yours very truly."
The bride kissed the goblet, the knight took it up,
He quaffed off the nectar and threw down the mug,
Smashing it into a million pieces, while
He remarked that he was the son of a gun
From Seven-up and run the Number Nine.
She looked down to blush, but she looked up again
For she well understood the wink in his eye;
He took her soft hand ere her mother could
Interfere, “Now tread we a measure; first four
Half right and left; swing," cried young Lochinvar.
One touch to her hand and one word in her ear,
When they reached the hall-door and the charger
Stood near on three legs eating post-hay;
So light to the croup the fair lady he swung,
Then leaped to the saddle before her.
“She is won! we are gone! over bank! bush, and spar,
They'll have swift steeds that follow" – but in the
Excitement of the moment he had forgotten
To untie the horse, and the poor brute could
Only gallop in a little circus around the
Hitching-post; so the old gent collared
The youth and gave him the awfullest lambasting
That was ever heard of on Canobie Lee;
So dauntless in war and so daring in love,
Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?
 
 
The bride kissed the goblet, the knight took it up,
He quaffed off the nectar and threw down the mug,
Smashing it into a million pieces, while
He remarked that he was the son of a gun
From Seven-up and run the Number Nine.
She looked down to blush, but she looked up again
For she well understood the wink in his eye;
He took her soft hand ere her mother could
Interfere, “Now tread we a measure; first four
Half right and left; swing," cried young Lochinvar.
 
 
One touch to her hand and one word in her ear,
When they reached the hall-door and the charger
Stood near on three legs eating post-hay;
So light to the croup the fair lady he swung,
Then leaped to the saddle before her.
“She is won! we are gone! over bank! bush, and spar,
They'll have swift steeds that follow" – but in the
 
 
Excitement of the moment he had forgotten
To untie the horse, and the poor brute could
Only gallop in a little circus around the
Hitching-post; so the old gent collared
The youth and gave him the awfullest lambasting
That was ever heard of on Canobie Lee;
So dauntless in war and so daring in love,
Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?
 

Anonymous.

AFTER COLERIDGE

THE ANCIENT MARINER

(The Wedding Guest's Version of the Affair from HisPoint of View)

 
IT is an Ancient Mariner,
And he stoppeth one of three —
In fact he coolly took my arm —
“There was a ship," quoth he.
 
 
“Bother your ships!" said I, “is this
The time a yarn to spin?
This is a wedding, don't you see,
And I am next of kin.
 
 
“The wedding breakfast has begun,
We're hungry as can be —
Hold off! Unhand me, longshore man!"
With that his hand dropt he.
 
 
But there was something in his eye,
That made me sick and ill,
Yet forced to listen to his yarn —
The Mariner'd had his will.
 
 
While Tom and Harry went their way
I sat upon a stone —
So queer on Fanny's wedding day
Me sitting there alone!
 
 
Then he began, that Mariner,
To rove from pole to pole,
In one long-winded, lengthened-out,
Eternal rigmarole,
 
 
About a ship in which he'd sailed,
Though whither, goodness knows,
Where “ice will split with a thunder-fit,"
And every day it snows.
 
 
And then about a precious bird
Of some sort or another,
That – was such nonsense ever heard? —
Used to control the weather!
 
 
Now, at this bird the Mariner
Resolved to have a shy,
And laid it low with his cross-bow —
And then the larks! My eye!
 
 
For loss of that uncommon fowl,
They couldn't get a breeze;
And there they stuck, all out of luck,
And rotted on the seas.
 
 
The crew all died, or seemed to die,
And he was left alone
With that queer bird. You never heard
What games were carried on!
 
 
At last one day he stood and watched
The fishes in the sea,
And said, “I'm blest!" and so the ship
Was from the spell set free.
 
 
And it began to rain and blow,
And as it rained and blew,
The dead got up and worked the ship —
That was a likely crew!
 
 
However, somehow he escaped,
And got again to land,
But mad as any hatter, say,
From Cornhill to the Strand.
 
 
For he believes that certain folks
Are singled out by fate,
To whom this cock-and-bull affair
Of his he must relate.
 
 
Describing all the incidents,
And painting all the scenes,
As sailors will do in the tales
They tell to the Marines.
 
 
Confound the Ancient Mariner!
I knew I should be late;
And so it was; the wedding guests
Had all declined to wait.
 
 
Another had my place, and gave
My toast; and sister Fan
Said “'Twas a shame. What could you want
With that seafaring man?"
 
 
I felt like one that had been stunned
Through all this wrong and scorn;
A sadder and a later man
I rose the morrow morn.
 

Anonymous

STRIKING

 
IT was a railway passenger,
And he lept out jauntilie.
"Now up and bear, thou stout portèr,
My two chattèls to me.
 
 
"Bring hither, bring hither my bag so red,
And portmanteau so brown;
(They lie in the van, for a trusty man
He labelled them London town:)
 
 
"And fetch me eke a cabman bold,
That I may be his fare, his fare;
And he shall have a good shilling,
If by two of the clock he do me bring
To the Terminus, Euston Square."
 
 
"Now, – so to thee the saints alway,
Good gentleman, give luck, —
As never a cab may I find this day,
For the cabman wights have struck.
 
 
And now, I wis, at the Red Post Inn,
Or else at the Dog and Duck,
Or at Unicorn Blue, or at Green Griffin,
The nut-brown ale and the fine old gin
Right pleasantly they do suck."
 
 
"Now rede me aright, thou stout portèr,
What were it best that I should do:
For woe is me, an' I reach not there
Or ever the clock strike two."
 
 
"I have a son, a lytel son;
Fleet is his foot as the wild roebuck's:
Give him a shilling, and eke a brown,
And he shall carry thy fardels down
To Euston, or half over London town,
On one of the station trucks."
 
 
Then forth in a hurry did they twain fare,
The gent and the son of the stout portèr,
Who fled like an arrow, nor turned a hair,
Through all the mire and muck:
"A ticket, a ticket, sir clerk, I pray:
For by two of the clock must I needs away."
"That may hardly be," the clerk did say,
"For indeed – the clocks have struck."
 

Charles S. Calverley.