Kitabı oku: «A Parody Anthology», sayfa 6

HIGHER

 
THE shadows of night were a-comin' down swift,
And the dazzlin' snow lay drift on drift,
As thro' a village a youth did go,
A-carryin' a flag with this motto, —
Higher!
 
 
O'er a forehead high curled copious hair,
His nose a Roman, complexion fair,
O'er an eagle eye an auburn lash,
And he never stopped shoutin' thro' his moustache!
"Higher!"
 
 
He saw thro' the windows as he kept gettin' upper
A number of families sittin' at supper,
But he eyes the slippery rocks very keen
And fled as he cried, and cried while a fleein' —
"Higher!"
 
 
"Take care you there!" said an old woman; "stop!
It's blowing gales up there on top —
You'll tumble off on t'other side!"
But the hurryin' stranger loud replied,
"Higher!"
 
 
"Oh! don't you go up such a shocking night,
Come sleep on my lap," said a maiden bright.
On his Roman nose a tear-drop come,
But still he remarked, as he upward clomb,
"Higher!"
 
 
"Look out for the branch of that sycamore-tree!
Dodge rolling stones, if any you see!"
Sayin' which the farmer went home to bed
And the singular voice replied overhead,
"Higher!"
 
 
About quarter past six the next afternoon,
A man accidentally goin' up soon,
Heard spoken above him as often as twice
The very same word in a very weak voice,
"Higher!"
 
 
And not far, I believe, from quarter of seven —
He was slow gettin' up, the road bein' uneven —
Found the stranger dead in the drifted snow,
Still clutchin' the flag with the motto —
Higher!
 
 
Yes! lifeless, defunct, without any doubt,
The lamp of life being decidedly out,
On the dreary hillside the youth was a layin'!
And there was no more use for him to be sayin'
"Higher!"
 

Anonymous.

TOPSIDE GALAH!

 
THAT nightee teem he come chop, chop,
One young man walkee, no can stop,
Colo makee; icee makee;
He got flag; chop b'long welly culio, see —
Topside Galah!
 
 
He too muchee folly; one piecee eye
Lookee sharp – so fashion – alla same mi;
He talkee largee, talkee stlong,
To muchee culio; alla same gong —
Topside Galah!
 
 
Inside any house he can see light;
Any piecee loom got fire all light;
He lookee see plenty ice more high,
Inside he mouf he plenty cly —
Topside Galah!
 
 
"No can walkee!" olo man speakee he;
"Bimeby lain come, no can see;
Hab got water welly wide!"
Maskee, mi must go topside —
Topside Galah!
 
 
"Man-man," one galo talkee he,
"What for you go topside look see?"
"Nother teem," he makee plenty cly,
Maskee, alla teem walkee plenty high —
Topside Galah!
 
 
"Take care that spilum tlee, young man;
Take care that icee!" he no man-man
That coolie chin-chin he good-night;
He talkee "mi can go all light" —
Topside Galah!
 
 
Joss pidgin man chop-chop begin,
Morning teem that Joss chin-chin,
No see any man, he plenty fear,
Cause some man talkee, he can hear —
Topside Galah!
 
 
Young man makee die; one largee dog see
Too muchee bobbery, findee he.
Hand too muchee colo, inside can stop
Alla same piecee flag, got culio chop —
Topside Galah!
 

Anonymous.

EXCELSIOR

 
THE swampy State of Illinois
Contained a greenish sort of boy,
Who read with idiotic joy —
"Excelsior!"
 
 
He tarried not to eat or drink,
But put a flag of lightish pink,
And traced on it in violet ink —
Excelsior!
 
 
Though what he meant by that absurd,
Uncouth, and stupid, senseless word,
Has not been placed upon record —
Excelsior!
 
 
The characters were very plain,
In German text, yet he was fain
With greater clearness to explain —
Excelsior!
 
 
And so he ran, this stupid wight,
And hollered out with all his might,
(As to a person out of sight) —
"Excelsior!"
 
 
And everybody thought the lad
Within an ace of being mad,
Who cried in accents stern and sad —
"Excelsior!"
 
 
"Come to my arms," the maiden cried;
The youth grinned sheepishly, and sighed,
And then appropriately replied —
"Excelsior!"
 
 
The evening sun is in the sky,
But still the creature mounts on high
And shouts (nor gives a reason why)
"Excelsior!"
 
 
And ere he gains the topmost crag
His feeble legs begin to lag;
Unsteadily he holds the flag —
Excelsior!
 
 
Now P. C. Nab is on his track!
He puts him in an empty sack,
And brings him home upon his back —
Excelsior!
 
 
Nab takes him to a lumber store,
They toss him in and lock the door,
Which only makes him bawl the more —
"Excelsior!"
 

Anonymous.

"THE DAY IS DONE"

 
THE day is done, and darkness
From the wing of night is loosed,
As a feather is wafted downward,
From a chicken going to roost.
 
 
I see the lights of the baker,
Gleam through the rain and mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me,
That I cannot well resist.
 
 
A feeling of sadness and longing
That is not like being sick,
And resembles sorrow only
As a brickbat resembles a brick.
 
 
Come, get for me some supper, —
A good and regular meal —
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
And banish the pain I feel.
 
 
Not from the pastry bakers,
Not from the shops for cake;
I wouldn't give a farthing
For all that they can make.
 
 
For, like the soup at dinner,
Such things would but suggest
Some dishes more substantial,
And to-night I want the best.
 
 
Go to some honest butcher,
Whose beef is fresh and nice,
As any they have in the city,
And get a liberal slice.
 
 
Such things through days of labor,
And nights devoid of ease,
For sad and desperate feelings,
Are wonderful remedies.
 
 
They have an astonishing power
To aid and reinforce,
And come like the "finally, brethren,"
That follows a long discourse.
 
 
Then get me a tender sirloin
From off the bench or hook.
And lend to its sterling goodness
The science of the cook.
 
 
And the night shall be filled with comfort,
And the cares with which it begun
Shall fold up their blankets like Indians,
And silently cut and run.
 

Phœbe Cary.

A PSALM OF LIFE

 
TELL me not, in idle jingle,
Marriage is an empty dream,
For the girl is dead that's single,
And things are not what they seem.
 
 
Married life is real, earnest,
Single blessedness a fib,
Taken from man, to man returnest,
Has been spoken of the rib.
 
 
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Nearer brings the wedding-day.
 
 
Life is long, and youth is fleeting,
And our hearts, if there we search,
Still like steady drums are beating
Anxious marches to the Church.
 
 
In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle;
Be a woman, be a wife!
 
 
Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act – act in the living Present.
Heart within, and Man ahead!
 
 
Lives of married folks remind us
We can live our lives as well,
And, departing, leave behind us; —
Such examples as will tell; —
 
 
Such examples, that another,
Sailing far from Hymen's port,
A forlorn, unmarried brother,
Seeing, shall take heart, and court.
 
 
Let us then be up and doing,
With the heart and head begin;
Still achieving, still pursùing,
Learn to labor, and to win!
 

Phœbe Cary.

HOW OFTEN

 
THEY stood on the bridge at midnight,
In a park not far from the town;
They stood on the bridge at midnight,
Because they didn't sit down.
 
 
The moon rose o'er the city,
Behind the dark church spire;
The moon rose o'er the city
And kept on rising higher.
 
 
How often, oh, how often!
They whispered words so soft;
How often, oh, how often;
How often, oh, how oft!
 

Ben King.

DESOLATION

 
SOMEWHAT back from the village street
Stands the old fashioned country seat.
Across its antique portico
Tall poplar trees their shadows throw.
And there throughout the livelong day,
Jemima plays the pi-a-na.
Do, re, mi,
Mi, re, do.
 
 
In the front parlor there it stands,
And there Jemima plies her hands,
While her papa, beneath his cloak,
Mutters and groans: "This is no joke!"
And swears to himself and sighs, alas!
With sorrowful voice to all who pass.
Do, re, mi,
Mi, re, do.
 
 
Through days of death and days of birth
She plays as if she owned the earth.
Through every swift vicissitude
She drums as if it did her good,
And still she sits from morn till night
And plunks away with main and might
Do, re, mi,
Mi, re, do.
 
 
In that mansion used to be
Free-hearted hospitality;
But that was many years before
Jemima dallied with the score.
When she began her daily plunk,
Into their graves the neighbors sunk.
Do, re, mi,
Mi, re, do.
 
 
To other worlds they've long since fled,
All thankful that they're safely dead.
They stood the racket while alive
Until Jemima rose at five.
And then they laid their burdens down,
And one and all they skipped the town.
Do, re, mi,
Mi, re, do.
 

Tom Masson.

THE BIRDS AND THE PHEASANT

 
I   SHOT a partridge in the air,
It fell in turnips, "Don" knew where;
For just as it dropped, with my right
I stopped another in its flight.
 
 
I killed a pheasant in the copse,
It fell amongst the fir-tree tops;
For though a pheasant's flight is strong,
A cock, hard hit, cannot fly long.
 
 
Soon, soon afterwards, in a pie,
I found the birds in jelly lie;
And the pheasant at a fortnight's end,
I found again in the carte of a friend.
 

Punch.

AFTER WHITTIER

HIRAM HOVER

(A Ballad of New England life)

 
WHERE the Moosatockmaguntic
Pours its waters in the Skuntic,
Met, along the forest side
Hiram Hover, Huldah Hyde.
 
 
She, a maiden fair and dapper,
He, a red-haired, stalwart trapper,
Hunting beaver, mink, and skunk
In the woodlands of Squeedunk.
 
 
She, Pentucket's pensive daughter,
Walked beside the Skuntic water
Gathering, in her apron wet,
Snake-root, mint, and bouncing-bet.
 
 
"Why," he murmured, loth to leave her,
"Gather yarbs for chills and fever,
When a lovyer bold and true,
Only waits to gather you?"
 
 
"Go," she answered, "I'm not hasty,
I prefer a man more tasty;
Leastways, one to please me well
Should not have a beasty smell."
 
 
"Haughty Huldah!" Hiram answered,
"Mind and heart alike are cancered;
Jest look here! these peltries give
Cash, wherefrom a pair may live.
 
 
"I, you think, am but a vagrant,
Trapping beasts by no means fragrant;
Yet, I'm sure it's worth a thank —
I've a handsome sum in bank."
 
 
Turned and vanished Hiram Hover,
And, before the year was over,
Huldah, with the yarbs she sold,
Bought a cape, against the cold.
 
 
Black and thick the furry cape was,
Of a stylish cut the shape was;
And the girls, in all the town,
Envied Huldah up and down.
 
 
Then at last, one winter morning,
Hiram came without a warning.
"Either," said he, "you are blind,
Huldah, or you've changed your mind.
 
 
"Me you snub for trapping varmints,
Yet you take the skins for garments;
Since you wear the skunk and mink,
There's no harm in me, I think."
 
 
"Well," said she, "we will not quarrel,
Hiram; I accept the moral,
Now the fashion's so I guess
I can't hardly do no less."
 
 
Thus the trouble all was over
Of the love of Hiram Hover.
Thus he made sweet Huldah Hyde
Huldah Hover as his bride.
 
 
Love employs, with equal favor,
Things of good and evil savor;
That which first appeared to part,
Warmed, at last, the maiden's heart.
 
 
Under one impartial banner,
Life, the hunter, Love the tanner,
Draw, from every beast they snare,
Comfort for a wedded pair!
 

Bayard Taylor.

AFTER MRS. NORTON

THE HORSE AND HIS MASTER

(A panegyric)

 
My – anything but beautiful, that standest "knock-knee'd" by,
"Inverted arch" describes thy back, as "dismal" doth thine eye.
Fret not – go roam the commons now, limp there for want of speed;
I dare not mount on thee ('twere pain), thou bag of bones, indeed.
Fret not with that too patient hoof, puff not with wheezy wind;
The harder that thou roarest now the more we lag behind;
The stranger "had" thy master, brute, for twice ten pounds, all told;
I only wish he had thee back! Too late – I'm sold! I'm sold!
 
 
To-morrow's sun will dawn again, but ah! no ride for me.
Can I gallop over Rotten Row astride on such as thee?
'Tis evening now, and getting dark, and blowing up for rain;
I'll lead thee then, with slow, slow steps, to some "bait stables" plain.
(When a horse dealer cheats, with eyes of clap-trap truth and tears,
A hack's form for an instant like a thoroughbred's appears.)
And sitting down, I'll ponder well beside this water's brink,
Here – what's thy name? Come, Rosinante! Drink pretty (?) creature, drink!
 
 
Drink on, inflate thy skin. Away! this wretched farce is o'er;
I could not live a day and know that we must meet once more.
I've tempted thee, in vain (though Sanger's power be strong,
They could not tempt this beast to trot), oh, thou hast lived too long!
Who says that I'll give in? Come up! who says thou art not old?
Thy faults were faults, poor useless steed, I fear, when thou wert foal'd.
Thus, thus I whack upon thy back; go, scour with might and main
The asphalt! Ha! who stops thee now may have thee for his gain.
 

Philip F. Allen.

THE NEW VERSION

 
A SOLDIER of the Russians
Lay japanned at Tschrtzvkjskivitch,
There was lack of woman's nursing
And other comforts which
Might add to his last moments
And smooth the final way; —
But a comrade stood beside him
To hear what he might say.
The japanned Russian faltered
As he took that comrade's hand,
And he said: "I never more shall see
My own, my native land;
Take a message and a token
To some distant friends of mine,
For I was born at Smnlxzrskgqrxzski,
Fair Smnlxzrskgqrxzski on the Irkztrvzkimnov."
 

W. J. Lampton.

AFTER POE

WHAT TROUBLED POE'S RAVEN

 
COULD Poe walk again to-morrow, heavy with dyspeptic sorrow,
While the darkness seemed to borrow darkness from the night before,
From the hollow gloom abysmal, floating downward, grimly dismal,
Like a pagan curse baptismal from the bust above the door,
He would hear the Raven croaking from the dusk above the door,
"Never, never, nevermore!"
 
 
And, too angry to be civil, "Raven," Poe would cry "or devil,
Tell me why you will persist in haunting Death's Plutonian shore?"
Then would croak the Raven gladly, "I will tell you why so sadly,
I so mournfully and madly, haunt you, taunt you, o'er and o'er,
Why eternally I haunt you, daunt you, taunt you, o'er and o'er —
Only this, and nothing more.
 
 
"Forty-eight long years I've pondered, forty-eight long years I've wondered,
How a poet ever blundered into a mistake so sore.
How could lamp-light from your table ever in the world be able,
From below, to throw my sable shadow 'streaming on the floor,'
When I perched up here on Pallas, high above your chamber-door?
Tell me that – if nothing more!"
 
 
Then, like some wan, weeping willow, Poe would bend above his pillow,
Seeking surcease in the billow where mad recollections drown,
And in tearful tones replying, he would groan "There's no denying
Either I was blindly lying, or the world was upside down —
Say, by Joe! – it was just midnight – so the world was upside down —
Aye, the world was upside down!"
 

John Bennett.

THE AMATEUR FLUTE

 
HEAR the fluter with his flute, Silver flute!
Oh, what a world of wailing is awakened by its toot!
How it demi-semi quavers
On the maddened air of night!
And defieth all endeavors
To escape the sound or sigh
Of the flute, flute, flute,
With its tootle, tootle, toot;
With reiterated tooteling of exasperating toots,
The long protracted tootelings of agonizing toots
Of the flute, flute, flute, flute,
Flute, flute, flute,
And the wheezings and the spittings of its toots.
Should he get that other flute,
Golden flute,
Oh, what a deeper anguish will his presence institoot!
How his eyes to heaven he'll raise,
As he plays,
All the days!
How he'll stop us on our ways
With its praise!
And the people – oh, the people,
That don't live up in the steeple,
But inhabit Christian parlors
Where he visiteth and plays,
Where he plays, plays, plays
In the cruellest of ways,
And thinks we ought to listen,
And expects us to be mute,
Who would rather have the earache
Than the music of his flute,
Of his flute, flute, flute,
And the tootings of his toot,
Of the toots wherewith he tooteleth its agonizing toot,
Of the flute, flewt, fluit, floot,
Phlute, phlewt, phlewght,
And the tootle, tootle, tooting of its toot.
 

Anonymous.

SAMUEL BROWN

 
IT was many and many a year ago,
In a dwelling down in town,
That a fellow there lived whom you may know,
By the name of Samuel Brown;
And this fellow he lived with no other thought
Than to our house to come down.
 
 
I was a child, and he was a child,
In that dwelling down in town,
But we loved with a love that was more than love,
I and my Samuel Brown, —
With a love that the ladies coveted,
Me and Samuel Brown.
 
 
And this was the reason that, long ago,
To that dwelling down in town,
A girl came out of her carriage, courting
My beautiful Samuel Brown;
So that her high-bred kinsmen came,
And bore away Samuel Brown,
And shut him up in a dwelling house,
In a street quite up in the town.
 
 
The ladies not half so happy up there,
Went envying me and Brown;
Yes! that was the reason (as all men know,
In this dwelling down in town),
That the girl came out of the carriage by night,
Coquetting and getting my Samuel Brown.
 
 
But our love is more artful by far than the love
Of those who are older than we, —
Of many far wiser than we, —
And neither the girls that are living above,
Nor the girls that are down in town,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Samuel Brown.
 
 
For the morn never shines, without bringing me lines,
From my beautiful Samuel Brown;
And the night's never dark, but I sit in the park
With my beautiful Samuel Brown.
And often by day, I walk down in Broadway,
With my darling, my darling, my life and my stay,
To our dwelling down in town,
To our house in the street down town.
 

Phœbe Cary.

THE PROMISSORY NOTE

 
IN the lonesome latter years
(Fatal years!)
To the dropping of my tears
Danced the mad and mystic spheres
In a rounded, reeling rune,
'Neath the moon,
To the dripping and the dropping of my tears.
 
 
Ah, my soul is swathed in gloom,
(Ulalume!)
In a dim Titanic tomb,
For my gaunt and gloomy soul
Ponders o'er the penal scroll,
O'er the parchment (not a rhyme),
Out of place, – out of time, —
I am shredded, shorn, unshifty,
(Oh, the fifty!)
And the days have passed, the three,
Over me!
And the debit and the credit are as one to him and me!
 
 
'Twas the random runes I wrote
At the bottom of the note,
(Wrote and freely
Gave to Greeley)
In the middle of the night,
In the mellow, moonless night,
When the stars were out of sight,
When my pulses, like a knell,
(Israfel!)
Danced with dim and dying fays
O'er the ruins of my days,
O'er the dimeless, timeless days,
When the fifty, drawn at thirty,
Seeming thrifty, yet the dirty
Lucre of the market, was the most that I could raise!
 
 
Fiends controlled it,
(Let him hold it!)
Devils held for me the inkstand and the pen;
Now the days of grace are o'er,
(Ah, Lenore!)
I am but as other men;
What is time, time, time,
To my rare and runic rhyme,
To my random, reeling rhyme,
By the sands along the shore,
Where the tempest whispers, "Pay him!" and I answer, "Nevermore!"
 

Bayard Taylor.

THE CANNIBAL FLEA

 
IT was many and many a year ago
In a District called E. C.,
That a Monster dwelt whom I came to know
By the name of Cannibal Flea,
And the brute was possessed with no other thought
Than to live – and to live on me!
 
 
I was in bed, and he was in bed
In the District named E. C.,
When first in his thirst so accurst he burst
Upon me, the Cannibal Flea,
With a bite that felt as if some one had driven
A bayonet into me.
 
 
And this was the reason why long ago
In that District named E. C.
I tumbled out of my bed, willing
To capture the Cannibal Flea,
Who all the night until morning came
Kept boring into me!
It wore me down to a skeleton
In the District hight E. C.
 
 
From that hour I sought my bed – eleven —
Till daylight he tortured me.
Yes! – that was the reason (as all men know
In that District named E. C.)
I so often jumped out of my bed by night
Willing the killing of Cannibal Flea.
 
 
But his hops they were longer by far than the hops
Of creatures much larger than he —
Of parties more long-legged than he;
And neither the powder nor turpentine drops,
Nor the persons engaged by me,
Were so clever as ever to stop me the hop
Of the terrible Cannibal Flea.
 
 
For at night with a scream, I am waked from my dream
By the terrible Cannibal Flea;
And at morn I ne'er rise without bites – of such size! —
From the terrible Cannibal Flea.
So I'm forced to decide I'll no longer reside
In the District – the District – where he doth abide,
The locality known as E. C.
That is postally known as E. C.
 

Tom Hood, Jr.

ANNABEL LEE

 
'TWAS more than a million years ago,
Or so it seems to me,
That I used to prance around and beau
The beautiful Annabel Lee.
There were other girls in the neighborhood
But none was a patch to she.
 
 
And this was the reason that long ago,
My love fell out of a tree,
And busted herself on a cruel rock;
A solemn sight to see,
For it spoiled the hat and gown and looks
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.
 
 
We loved with a love that was lovely love,
I and my Annabel Lee,
And we went one day to gather the nuts
That men call hickoree.
And I stayed below in the rosy glow
While she shinned up the tree,
But no sooner up than down kerslup
Came the beautiful Annabel Lee.
 
 
And the pallid moon and the hectic noon
Bring gleams of dreams for me,
Of the desolate and desperate fate
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.
And I often think as I sink on the brink
Of slumber's sea, of the warm pink link
That bound my soul to Annabel Lee;
And it wasn't just best for her interest
To climb that hickory tree,
For had she stayed below with me,
We'd had no hickory nuts maybe,
But I should have had my Annabel Lee.
 

Stanley Huntley.