Kitabı oku: «A Parody Anthology», sayfa 4

AFTER SOUTHEY

THE OLD MAN'S COLD AND HOW HE GOT IT

(By Northey-Southey-Eastey-Westey)

 
"YOU are cold, Father William," the young man cried,
"You shake and you shiver, I say;
You've a cold, Father William, your nose it is red,
Now tell me the reason, I pray."
 
 
"In the days of my youth," Father William replied —
(He was a dissembling old man)
"I put lumps of ice in my grandpapa's boots,
And snowballed my Aunt Mary Ann."
 
 
"Go along, Father William," the young man cried,
"You are trying it on, sir, to-day;
What makes your teeth chatter like bone castanets?
Come tell me the reason, I pray."
 
 
"In the days of my youth," Father William replied,
"I went to the North Pole with Parry;
And now, my sweet boy, the Arc-tic doloreaux
Plays with this old man the Old Harry."
 
 
"Get out! Father William," the young man cried.
"Come, you shouldn't go on in this way;
You are funny, but still you've a frightful bad cold —
Now tell me the reason, I pray."
 
 
"I am cold, then, dear youth," Father William replied;
"I've a cold, my impertinent son,
Because for some weeks my coals have been bought
At forty-eight shillings a ton!"
 

FATHER WILLIAM

 
"YOU are old, Father William," the young man said,
"And your hair has become very white;
And yet you incessantly stand on your head —
Do you think, at your age, it is right?"
"In my youth," Father William replied to his son,
"I feared it might injure the brain;
But now that I'm perfectly sure I have none,
Why, I do it again and again."
"You are old," said the youth, "as I mentioned before,
And grown most uncommonly fat;
Yet you turned a back-somersault in at the door —
Pray what is the reason of that?"
"In my youth," said the sage, as he shook his gray locks,
"I kept all my limbs very supple
By the use of this ointment – one shilling the box —
Allow me to sell you a couple."
"You are old," said the youth, "and your jaws are too weak
For anything tougher than suet;
Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak;
Pray, how did you manage to do it?"
"In my youth," said his father, "I took to the law,
And argued each case with my wife;
And the muscular strength which it gave to my jaw,
Has lasted the rest of my life."
"You are old," said the youth, "one would hardly suppose
That your eye was as steady as ever;
Yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose —
What made you so awfully clever?"
"I have answered three questions and that is enough,"
Said his father; "don't give yourself airs!
Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff?
Be off, or I'll kick you downstairs!"
 

Lewis Carroll

LADY JANE

(Sapphics)

 
DOWN the green hill-side fro' the castle window
Lady Jane spied Bill Amaranth a-workin';
Day by day watched him go about his ample
Nursery garden.
 
 
Cabbages thriv'd there, wi' a mort o' green-stuff —
Kidney beans, broad beans, onions, tomatoes,
Artichokes, seakale, vegetable marrows,
Early potatoes.
 
 
Lady Jane cared not very much for all these:
What she cared much for was a glimpse o' Willum
Strippin' his brown arms wi' a view to horti-
Cultural effort.
 
 
Little guessed Willum, never extra-vain, that
Up the green hill-side, i' the gloomy castle,
Feminine eyes could so delight to view his
Noble proportions.
 
 
Only one day while, in an innocent mood,
Moppin' his brow (cos 'twas a trifle sweaty)
With a blue kerchief – lo, he spies a white un
Coyly responding.
 
 
Oh, delightsome Love! Not a jot do you care
For the restrictions set on human inter-
Course by cold-blooded social refiners;
Nor do I, neither.
 
 
Day by day, peepin' fro' behind the bean-sticks,
Willum observed that scrap o' white a-wavin',
Till his hot sighs out-growin' all repression
Busted his weskit.
 
 
Lady Jane's guardian was a haughty Peer, who
Clung to old creeds and had a nasty temper;
Can we blame Willum that he hardly cared to
Risk a refusal?
 
 
Year by year found him busy 'mid the bean-sticks,
Wholly uncertain how on earth to take steps.
Thus for eighteen years he beheld the maiden
Wave fro' her window.
 
 
But the nineteenth spring, i' the castle post-bag,
Came by book-post Bill's catalogue o' seedlings
Mark'd wi' blue ink at "Paragraphs relatin'
Mainly to Pumpkins."
 
 
"W. A. can," so the Lady Jane read,
"Strongly commend that very noble Gourd, the
Lady Jane, first-class medal, ornamental;
Grows to a great height."
 
 
Scarce a year arter, by the scented hedgerows —
Down the mown hill-side, fro' the castle gateway —
Came a long train and, i' the midst, a black bier,
Easily shouldered.
 
 
"Whose is yon corse that, thus adorned wi' gourd leaves
Forth ye bear with slow step?" A mourner answer'd,
"'Tis the poor clay-cold body Lady Jane grew
Tired to abide in."
 
 
"Delve my grave quick, then, for I die to-morrow.
Delve it one furlong fro' the kidney bean-sticks,
Where I may dream she's goin' on precisely
As she was used to."
 
 
Hardly died Bill when, fro' the Lady Jane's grave,
Crept to his white death-bed a lovely pumpkin:
Climb'd the house wall and over-arched his head wi'
Billowy verdure.
 
 
Simple this tale! – but delicately perfumed
As the sweet roadside honeysuckle. That's why,
Difficult though its metre was to tackle,
I'm glad I wrote it.
 

A. T. Quiller-Couch.

AFTER CAMPBELL

THE NEW ARRIVAL

 
THERE came to port last Sunday night
The queerest little craft,
Without an inch of rigging on;
I looked and looked – and laughed!
It seemed so curious that she
Should cross the Unknown water,
And moor herself within my room —
My daughter! Oh, my daughter!
 
 
Yet by these presents witness all
She's welcome fifty times,
And comes consigned in hope and love —
And common-metre rhymes.
She has no manifest but this,
No flag floats o'er the water;
She's too new for the British Lloyds —
My daughter! Oh, my daughter!
 
 
Ring out, wild bells – and tame ones too,
Ring out the lover's moon;
Ring in the little worsted socks,
Ring in the bib and spoon.
Ring out the muse, ring in the nurse,
Ring in the milk and water;
Away with paper, pen, and ink —
My daughter! Oh, my daughter!
 

George Washington Cable.

JOHN THOMPSON'S DAUGHTER

 
A FELLOW near Kentucky's clime
Cries, "Boatman, do not tarry,
And I'll give thee a silver dime
To row us o'er the ferry."
 
 
"Now, who would cross the Ohio,
This dark and stormy water?"
"O, I am this young lady's beau,
And she, John Thompson's daughter.
 
 
"We've fled before her father's spite
With great precipitation;
And should he find us here to-night,
I'd lose my reputation.
 
 
"They've missed the girl and purse beside,
His horsemen hard have pressed me;
And who will cheer my bonny bride,
If yet they shall arrest me?"
 
 
Out spoke the boatman then in time,
"You shall not fail, don't fear it;
I'll go, not for your silver dime,
But for your manly spirit.
 
 
"And by my word, the bonny bird
In danger shall not tarry;
For though a storm is coming on,
I'll row you o'er the ferry."
 
 
By this the wind more fiercely rose,
The boat was at the landing;
And with the drenching rain their clothes
Grew wet where they were standing.
 
 
But still, as wilder rose the wind,
And as the night grew drearer;
Just back a piece came the police,
Their tramping sounded nearer.
 
 
"Oh, haste thee, haste!" the lady cries,
"It's anything but funny;
I'll leave the light of loving eyes,
But not my father's money!"
 
 
And still they hurried in the face
Of wind and rain unsparing;
John Thompson reached the landing place —
His wrath was turned to swearing.
 
 
For by the lightning's angry flash,
His child he did discover;
One lovely hand held all the cash,
And one was round her lover!
 
 
"Come back, come back!" he cried in woe,
Across the stormy water;
"But leave the purse, and you may go,
My daughter, oh, my daughter!"
 
 
'Twas vain; they reached the other shore
(Such doom the Fates assign us);
The gold he piled went with his child,
And he was left there minus.
 

Phœbe Cary.

AFTER THOMAS MOORE

THE LAST CIGAR

 
'TIS a last choice Havana
I hold here alone;
All its fragrant companions
In perfume have flown.
No more of its kindred
To gladden the eye,
So my empty cigar case
I close with a sigh.
 
 
I'll not leave thee, thou lone one,
To pine; but the stem
I'll bite off and light thee
To waft thee to them.
And gently I'll scatter
The ashes you shed,
As your soul joins its mates in
A cloud overhead.
 
 
All pleasure is fleeting,
It blooms to decay;
From the weeds' glowing circle
The ash drops away.
A last whiff is taken,
The butt-end is thrown,
And with empty cigar-case,
I sit all alone.
 

Anonymous.

'TWAS EVER THUS

 
I NEVER bought a young gazelle,
To glad me with its soft black eye,
But, when it came to know me well,
'Twas sure to butt me on the sly.
I never drilled a cockatoo,
To speak with almost human lip,
But, when a pretty phrase it knew,
'Twas sure to give some friend a nip.
I never trained a collie hound
To be affectionate and mild,
But, when I thought a prize I'd found,
'Twas sure to bite my youngest child.
I never kept a tabby kit
To cheer my leisure with its tricks,
But, when we all grew fond of it,
'Twas sure to catch the neighbor's chicks.
I never reared a turtle-dove,
To coo all day with gentle breath,
But, when its life seemed one of love,
'Twas sure to peck its mate to death.
I never – well I never yet —
And I have spent no end of pelf —
Invested money in a pet
That didn't misconduct itself.
 

Anonymous.

"THERE'S A BOWER OF BEAN-VINES"

 
There's a bower of bean-vines in Benjamin's yard,
And the cabbages grow round it, planted for greens;
In the time of my childhood 'twas terribly hard
To bend down the bean-poles, and pick off the beans.
 
 
That bower and its products I never forget,
But oft, when my landlady presses me hard,
I think, are the cabbages growing there yet,
Are the bean-vines still bearing in Benjamin's yard?
 
 
No, the bean-vines soon withered that once used to wave,
But some beans had been gathered, the last that hung on;
And a soup was distilled in a kettle, that gave
All the fragrance of summer when summer was gone.
 
 
Thus memory draws from delight, ere it dies,
An essence that breathes of it awfully hard;
As thus good to my taste as 'twas then to my eyes,
Is that bower of bean-vines in Benjamin's yard.
 

Phœbe Cary.

DISASTER

 
'TWAS ever thus from childhood's hour!
My fondest hopes would not decay;
I never loved a tree or flower
Which was the first to fade away!
The garden, where I used to delve
Short-frock'd, still yields me pinks in plenty;
The pear-tree that I climbed at twelve
I see still blossoming, at twenty.
 
 
I never nursed a dear gazelle;
But I was given a parroquet —
(How I did nurse him if unwell!)
He's imbecile, but lingers yet.
He's green, with an enchanting tuft;
He melts me with his small black eye;
He'd look inimitable stuffed,
And knows it – but he will not die!
 
 
I had a kitten – I was rich
In pets – but all too soon my kitten
Became a full-sized cat, by which
I've more than once been scratched and bitten.
And when for sleep her limbs she curl'd
One day beside her untouch'd plateful,
And glided calmly from the world,
I freely own that I was grateful.
 
 
And then I bought a dog – a queen!
Ah, Tiny, dear departing pug!
She lives, but she is past sixteen
And scarce can crawl across the rug.
I loved her beautiful and kind;
Delighted in her pert bow-wow;
But now she snaps if you don't mind;
'Twere lunacy to love her now.
 
 
I used to think, should e'er mishap
Betide my crumple-visaged Ti,
In shape of prowling thief, or trap,
Or coarse bull-terrier – I should die.
But ah! disasters have their use,
And life might e'en be too sunshiny;
Nor would I make myself a goose,
If some big dog should swallow Tiny.
 

Charles S. Calverley.

SARAH'S HALLS

 
THE broom that once through Sarah's halls,
In hole and corner sped,
Now useless leans 'gainst Sarah's walls
And gathers dust instead.
So sweeps the slavey now-a-days
So work is shifted o'er,
And maids that once gained honest praise
Now earn that praise no more!
No more the cobweb from its height
The broom of Sarah fells;
The fly alone unlucky wight
Invades the spider's cells.
Thus energy so seldom wakes,
All sign that Sarah gives
Is when some dish or platter breaks,
To show that still she lives.
 

Judy.

'TWAS EVER THUS

 
I NEVER rear'd a young gazelle,
(Because, you see, I never tried);
But had it known and loved me well,
No doubt the creature would have died.
My rich and aged Uncle John
Has known me long and loves me well
But still persists in living on —
I would he were a young gazelle.
 
 
I never loved a tree or flower;
But, if I had, I beg to say
The blight, the wind, the sun, or shower
Would soon have withered it away.
I've dearly loved my Uncle John,
From childhood to the present hour,
And yet he will go living on on —
I would he were a tree or flower!
 

Henry S. Leigh.

AFTER JANE TAYLOR

THE BAT

 
TWINKLE, twinkle, little bat!
How I wonder what you're at!
 
 
Up above the world you fly,
Like a tea-tray in the sky.
 

Lewis Carroll.

AFTER BARRY CORNWALL

THE TEA

 
THE tea! The tea! The beef, beef-tea!
The brew from gravy-beef for me!
Without a doubt, as I'll be bound,
The best for an invalid 'tis found;
It's better than gruel; with sago vies;
Or with the cradled babe's supplies.
 
 
I like beef-tea! I like beef-tea,
I'm satisfied, and aye shall be,
With the brew I love, and the brew I know,
And take it wheresoe'er I go.
If the price should rise, or meat be cheap,
No matter. I'll to beef-tea keep.
 
 
I love – oh, how I love to guide
The strong beef-tea to its place inside,
When round and round you stir the spoon
Or whistle thereon to cool it soon.
Because one knoweth – or ought to know,
That things get cool whereon you blow.
 
 
I never have drunk the dull souchong,
But I for my loved beef-tea did long,
And inly yearned for that bountiful zest,
Like a bird. As a child on that I messed —
And a mother it was and is to me,
For I was weaned on the beef – beef-tea!
 

Tom Hood, Jr.

AFTER BYRON

THE ROUT OF BELGRAVIA

 
THE Belgravians came down on the Queen in her hold,
And their costumes were gleaming with purple and gold,
And the sheen of their jewels was like stars on the sea,
As their chariots rolled proudly down Piccadill-ee.
 
 
Like the leaves of Le Follet when summer is green,
That host in its glory at noontide was seen;
Like the leaves of a toy-book all thumb-marked and worn,
That host four hours later was tattered and torn.
 
 
For the rush of the crowd, which was eager and vast,
Had rumpled and ruined and wrecked as it passed;
And the eyes of the wearer waxed angry in haste,
As a dress but once worn was dragged out at the waist.
 
 
And there lay the feather and fan side by side,
But no longer they nodded or waved in their pride;
And there lay lace flounces and ruching in slips,
And spur-torn material in plentiful strips.
 
 
And there were odd gauntlets and pieces of hair;
And fragments of back-combs and slippers were there;
And the gay were all silent, their mirth was all hushed,
Whilst the dewdrops stood out on the brows of the crushed.
 
 
And the dames of Belgravia were loud in their wail,
And the matrons of Mayfair all took up the tale;
And they vow as they hurry unnerved from the scene,
That it's no trifling matter to call on the Queen.
 

Jon Duan.

A GRIEVANCE

 
DEAR Mr. Editor: I wish to say —
If you will not be angry at my writing it —
But I've been used, since childhood's happy day,
When I have thought of something, to inditing it;
I seldom think of things; and, by the way,
Although this metre may not be exciting, it
Enables one to be extremely terse,
Which is not what one always is in verse.
 
 
I used to know a man, such things befall
The observant wayfarer through Fate's domain
He was a man, take him for all in all,
We shall not look upon his like again;
I know that statement's not original;
What statement is, since Shakespere? or, since Cain,
What murder? I believe 'twas Shakespere said it, or
Perhaps it may have been your Fighting Editor.
 
 
Though why an Editor should fight, or why
A Fighter should abase himself to edit,
Are problems far too difficult and high
For me to solve with any sort of credit.
Some greatly more accomplished man than I
Must tackle them: let's say then Shakespere said it;
And, if he did not, Lewis Morris may
(Or even if he did). Some other day,
 
 
When I have nothing pressing to impart,
I should not mind dilating on this matter.
I feel its import both in head and heart,
And always did, – especially the latter.
I could discuss it in the busy mart
Or on the lonely housetop; hold! this chatter
Diverts me from my purpose. To the point:
The time, as Hamlet said, is out of joint,
 
 
And perhaps I was born to set it right, —
A fact I greet with perfect equanimity.
I do not put it down to "cursed spite,"
I don't see any cause for cursing in it. I
Have always taken very great delight
In such pursuits since first I read divinity.
Whoever will may write a nation's songs
As long as I'm allowed to right its wrongs.
 
 
What's Eton but a nursery of wrong-righters,
A mighty mother of effective men;
A training ground for amateur reciters,
A sharpener of the sword as of the pen;
A factory of orators and fighters,
A forcing-house of genius? Now and then
The world at large shrinks back, abashed and beaten,
Unable to endure the glare of Eton.
 
 
I think I said I knew a man: what then?
I don't suppose such knowledge is forbid.
We nearly all do, more or less, know men, —
Or think we do; nor will a man get rid
Of that delusion, while he wields a pen.
But who this man was, what, if aught, he did,
Nor why I mentioned him, I do not know;
Nor what I "wished to say" a while ago.
 

J. K. Stephen.

AFTER CHARLES WOLFE

THE BURIAL OF THE BACHELOR

 
NOT a laugh was heard, not a frivolous note,
As the groom to the wedding we carried;
Not a jester discharged his farewell shot
As the bachelor went to be married.
 
 
We married him quickly that morning bright,
The leaves of our prayer-books turning,
In the chancel's dimly religious light,
And tears in our eyelids burning.
 
 
No useless nosegay adorned his chest,
Not in chains but in laws we bound him;
And he looked like a bridegroom trying his best
To look used to the scene around him.
 
 
Few and small were the fees it cost,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow,
But we silently gazed on the face of the lost
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
 
 
We thought as we hurried him home to be fed,
And tried our low spirits to rally,
That the weather looked very like squalls overhead
For the passage from Dover to Calais.
 
 
Lightly they'll talk of the bachelor gone,
And o'er his frail fondness upbraid him;
But little he'll reck if they let him alone,
With his wife that the parson hath made him.
 
 
But half of our heavy task was done,
When the clock struck the hour for retiring;
And we judged by the knocks which had now begun
That their cabby was rapidly tiring.
 
 
Slowly and sadly we led them down,
From the scene of his lame oratory;
We told the four-wheeler to drive them to town,
And we left them alone in their glory.
 

Anonymous.

NOT A SOU HAD HE GOT

 
NOT a sou had he got – not a guinea or note,
And he looked confoundedly flurried
As he bolted away without paying his shot,
And the Landlady after him hurried.
 
 
We saw him again at dead of night,
When home from the club returning;
We twigged the Doctor beneath the light
Of the gas-lamp brilliantly burning.
 
 
All bare and exposed to the midnight dews,
Reclined in the gutter we found him;
And he look'd like a gentleman taking a snooze,
With his Marshal cloak around him.
 
 
"The Doctor's as drunk as the d – ," we said,
And we managed a shutter to borrow;
We raised him, and sighed at the thought that his head
Would "consumedly ache" on the morrow.
 
 
We bore him home, and we put him to bed,
And we told his wife and his daughter
To give him, next morning, a couple of red
Herrings, with soda-water.
 
 
Loudly they talked of his money that's gone
And his lady began to upbraid him;
But little he reck'd, so they let him snore on
'Neath the counterpane just as we laid him.
 
 
We tucked him in, and had hardly done
When, beneath the window calling,
We heard the rough voice of a son of a gun
Of a watchman "One o'clock!" bawling.
 
 
Slowly and sadly we all walk'd down
From his room in the uppermost story;
A rushlight was placed on the cold hearth-stone,
And we left him alone in his glory!
 

R. Harris Barham.

THE MARRIAGE OF SIR JOHN SMITH

 
NOT a sigh was heard, nor a funeral tone,
As the man to his bridal we hurried;
Not a woman discharged her farewell groan,
On the spot where the fellow was married.
 
 
We married him just about eight at night,
Our faces paler turning,
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,
And the gas-lamp's steady burning.
 
 
No useless watch-chain covered his vest,
Nor over-dressed we found him;
But he looked like a gentleman wearing his best,
With a few of his friends around him.
 
 
Few and short were the things we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow,
But we silently gazed on the man that was wed,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
 
 
We thought, as we silently stood about,
With spite and anger dying,
How the merest stranger had cut us out,
With only half our trying.
 
 
Lightly we'll talk of the fellow that's gone,
And oft for the past upbraid him;
But little he'll reck if we let him live on,
In the house where his wife conveyed him.
 
 
But our heavy task at length was done,
When the clock struck the hour for retiring;
And we heard the spiteful squib and pun
The girls were sullenly firing.
 
 
Slowly and sadly we turned to go, —
We had struggled, and we were human;
We shed not a tear, and we spoke not our woe,
But we left him alone with his woman.
 

Phœbe Cary.