A line-o'-verse or two

“FAREWELL!”

(Evoked by Calverley’s “Forever.”)

 
“Farewell!” Another gloomy word
As ever into language crept.
’Tis often written, never heard
Except
 
 
In playhouse. Ere the hero flits
(In handcuffs) from our pitying view,
“Farewell!” he murmurs, then exits
R. U.
 
 
“Farewell!” is much too sighful for
An age that has not time to sigh.
We say, “I’ll see you later,” or
“Good-bye!”
 
 
“Fare well” meant long ago, before
It crept tear-spattered into song,
“Safe voyage!” “Pleasant journey!” or
“So long!”
 
 
But gone its cheery, old-time ring:
The poets made it rime with knell.
Joined, it became a dismal thing —
“Farewell!”
 
 
“Farewell!” Into the lover’s soul
You see fate plunge the cruel iron.
All poets use it. It’s the whole
Of Byron.
 
 
“I only feel – farewell!” said he;
And always tearful was the telling.
Lord Byron was eternally
Farewelling.
 
 
“Farewell!” A dismal word, ’tis true.
(And why not tell the truth about it?)
But what on earth would poets do
Without it!
 

REFORM IN OUR TOWN

 
There was a man in Our Town
And Jimson was his name,
Who cried, “Our civic government
Is honeycombed with shame.”
He called us neighbors in and said,
“By Graft we’re overrun.
Let’s have a general cleaning up,
As other towns have done.”
 
 
The citizens of Our Town
Responded to the call;
Beneath the banner of Reform
We gathered one and all.
We sent away for men expert
In hunting civic sin,
To ask these practised gentlemen
Just how we should begin.
 
 
The experts came to Our Town
And told us how ’twas done.
“Begin with Gas and Traction,
And half your fight is won.
Begin with Gas and Traction;
The rest will follow soon.”
We looked at one another
And hummed a different tune.
 
 
Said Smith, “Saloons in Our Town
Are palaces of shame.”
Said Jones, “Police corruption
Has hurt the town’s fair name.”
Said Brown, “Our lawless children
Pitch pennies as they please.”
Now would it not be wiser
To start Reform with these?
 
 
The men who came to Our Town
Replied, “No haste with these;
Begin with Gas – or Water —
The roots of the disease.”
We looked at one another
And hemmed and hawed a bit;
Enthusiasm faded then
From every single cit.
 
 
The men who came to Our Town
Expressed a mild surprise,
Then they too at each other
Looked “with a wild surmise.”
Jimson had stock in Traction,
And Jones had stock in Gas,
And Smith and Brown in this and that,
So – nothing came to pass.
 
 
The profligates of Our Town
Pitch pennies as of yore;
Police corruption flourishes
As rankly as before,
Still are our gilded ginmills
Foul palaces of shame.
Reform is just as distant
As when the wise men came.
 

WHEN THE SIRUP’S ON THE FLAPJACK

 
When the sirup’s on the flapjack and the coffee’s in the pot;
When the fly is in the butter – where he’d rather be than not;
When the cloth is on the table, and the plates are on the cloth;
When the salt is in the shaker and the chicken’s in the broth;
When the cream is in the pitcher and the pitcher’s on the tray,
And the tray is on the sideboard when it isn’t on the way;
When the rind is on the bacon and likewise upon the cheese,
Then I somehow feel inspired to do a string of rimes like these.
 

BREAD PUDDYNGE

 
When good King Arthur ruled our land
He was a goodly king,
And his idea of what to eat
Was a good bag puddynge.
 
 
The bag puddynge he had in mind
Was thickly strewn with plums,
With alternating lumps of fat
As big as my two thumbs.
 
 
“My love,” quoth he to Guinevere,
“We have a joust to-day —
Sir Launce is here, Sir Tris, Sir Gal,
And all the brave array.
 
 
“Put everything across to-night
In guise of goodly fare,
And cook us up a bag puddynge
That will y-curl our hair.”
 
 
“I’ll curl your hair,” said Guinevere,
“As tight as tight can be;
I’ll cook you up a bag puddynge
From my new recipee.”
 
 
“Pitch in and eat, my merry men!”
That night the King did say;
“But save a little room – a bag
Puddynge is on the way.
 
 
“Ho! here it comes! Now, by my sword,
A famous feast ’twill be.
Queen Guinevere hath cooked it, Launce,
From her own recipee.”
 
 
“Odslife!” cried Launce, “if there is aught
I love ’tis this same thing.”
And he and all the knights did fall
Upon that bag puddynge.
 
 
One taste, and every holy knight
Sat speechless for a space,
While disappointment and disgust
Were writ in every face.
 
 
“Odsbodikins!” Sir Tristram cried,
“In all my days, by Jing!
I ne’er did taste so flat a mess
As this here bag puddynge.”
 
 
“Odswhiskers, Arthur!” cried Sir Launce,
Whose license knew no bounds,
“I would to Godde I had this stuff
To poultice up my wounds.”
 
 
King Arthur spat his mouthful out,
And sent for Guinevere.
“What is this frightful mess?” he roared.
“Is this a joke, my dear?”
 
 
“Oh, ain’t it good?” asked Guinevere,
Her face a rosy red.
“I thought ’twould make an awful hit:
I made it out of bread!”
 
 
When good King Arthur ruled our land
He was a goodly king,
And only once in all his reign
Was made a Bread Puddynge.
 

MUSCA DOMESTICA

 
Baby bye, here’s a fly,
We will watch him, you and I;
Lest he fall in Baby’s mouth,
Bringing germs from north and south.
In the world of things a-wing
There is not a nastier thing
Than this pesky little fly; —
So we’ll watch him, you and I.
 
 
See him crawl up the wall,
And he’ll never, never fall;
Save that, poisoned, he may drop
In the soup or on the chop.
Let us coax the cunning brute
To the tempting Tanglefoot,
Or invite his thirsty soul
To the poison-paper bowl.
 
 
I believe with six such legs
You or I could walk on eggs;
But he’d rather crawl on meat
With his microbe-laden feet.
Eggs would hardly do as well —
He could not get through the shell;
Better far, to spread disease,
Vegetables, meat, or cheese.
 
 
There he goes, on his toes,
Tickling, tickling Baby’s nose.
Heaven knows where he has been,
And what filth he’s wallowed in.
Drat the nasty little wretch!
He’s the deuce and all to ketch.
Ah! He’s settled on the wall.
Now the thunderbolt shall fall!
 
 
Baby bye, see that fly?
We will swat him, you and I.
 

THE PASSIONATE PROFESSOR

 
“But bending low, I whisper only this:
‘Love, it is night.’”
 

– Harry Thurston Peck.

 
Love, it is night. The orb of day
Has gone to hit the cosmic hay.
Nocturnal voices now we hear.
Come, heart’s delight, the hour is near
When Passion’s mandate we obey.
 
 
I would not, sweet, the fact convey
In any crude and obvious way:
I merely whisper in your ear —
“Love, it is night!”
 
 
Candor compels me, pet, to say
That years my fading charms betray.
Tho’ Love be blind, I grant it’s clear
I’m no Apollo Belvedere.
But after dark all cats are gray.
Love, it is night!
 

A BALLADE OF WOOL-GATHERING

 
Now is my season of unrest,
Now calls the forest, day and night;
And by its pleasant spell obsessed,
My wits go soaring like a kite.
Forgive me if I be not bright,
And pardon if I seem distrait;
Wood-fancies put my wits to flight; —
The woods are but a week away.
 
 
Palleth upon my soul the jest,
Falleth upon my pen a blight.
The daily task has lost its zest,
And everything is flat and trite.
There’s nothing humorous in sight;
Don’t mind if I am dull to-day.
For every column is a fight
When woods are but a week away.
 
 
Woods in the robes of summer dressed —
In greens and grays and browns bedight!
A journey on a river’s breast,
Beneath the wedded blue-and-white!..
This end the Voyage of Delight
Waits, in a little wood-bound bay,
A bark canoe, all trim and tight; —
The woods are but a week away!
 

L’Envoi

 
Dear Reader, there is much to write;
I’ve many weighty things to say.
But who can write when woods invite,
And woods are but a week away!
 

TO THE SUN

(Variations on a theme by Gilbert.)

 
Shine on, Old Top, shine on!
Across the realms of space
Shine on!
What though I’m in a sorry case?
What though my collar is a wreck,
And hangs a rag about my neck?
What though at food I can but peck?
Never you mind!
Shine on!
 
 
Shine on, Old Top, shine on!
Through leagues of lifeless air
Shine on!
It’s true I’ve no more shirts to wear,
My underwear is soaked, ’tis true,
My gullet is a redhot flue —
But don’t let that unsettle you!
Never you mind!
Shine on! [It shines on.]
 

WHEN IT IS HOT

“And Nebuchadnezzar commanded the most mighty men that were in his army to bind Shadrach, Meshach, and Abed-nego, and to cast them into the burning fiery furnace.”

 

 
Consider Mr. Shadrach,
Of fiery furnace fame:
He didn’t bleat about the heat
Or fuss about the flame.
He didn’t stew and worry,
And get his nerves in kinks,
Nor fill his skin with limes and gin
And other “cooling drinks.”
 
 
Consider Mr. Meshach,
Who felt the furnace too:
He let it sizz nor queried “Is
It hot enough for you?”
He didn’t mop his forehead,
And hunt a shady spot;
Nor did he say, “Gee! what a day!
Believe me, it’s some hot.”
 
 
Consider, too, Abed-nego,
Who shared his comrades’ plight:
He didn’t shake his coat and make
Himself a holy sight.
He didn’t wear suspenders
Without a coat and vest;
Nor did he scowl and snort and howl,
And make himself a pest.
 
 
Consider, friends, this trio —
How little fuss they made.
They didn’t curse when it was worse
Than ninety in the shade.
They moved about serenely
Within the furnace bright,
And soon forgot that it was hot,
With “no relief in sight.”
 

THE SIMPLE, HEARTFELT LAY

 
Lives of poets oft remind us
Not to wait too long for Time,
But, departing, leave behind us
Obvious facts embalmed in rime.
 
 
Poems that we have to ponder
Turn us prematurely gray;
We are infinitely fonder
Of the simple, heartfelt lay.
 
 
Whitman’s Leaves of Grass is odious,
Browning’s Ring and Book a bore.
Bleat, O bards, in lines melodious, —
Bleat that two and two is four!
 
 
Must we hunt for hidden treasures?
Nay! We want the heartfelt straight.
Minstrel, sing, in obvious measures —
Sing that four and four is eight!
 
 
Whitman leads to easy slumbers,
Browning makes us hunt the hay.
Pipe, ye potes, in simplest numbers,
Anything ye have to say.