Following Pair
O very remarkable mortal,
What food is engaging your jaws
And staining with amber their portal?
“It’s ’baccy I chaws.”
And why do you sway in your walking,
To right and left many degrees,
And hitch up your trousers when talking?
“I follers the seas.”
Great indolent shark in the rollers,
Is “ ’baccy,” too, one of your faults?—
You, too, display maculate molars.
“I dines upon salts.”
Strange diet!—intestinal pain it
Is commonly given to nip.
And how can you ever obtain it?
“I follers the ship.”
Political Economy
“I beg you to note,” said a Man to a Goose,
As he plucked from her bosom the plumage all loose,
“That pillows and cushions of feathers, and beds
As warm as maids’ hearts and as soft as their heads,
Increase of life’s comforts the general sum—
Which raises the standard of living.” “Come, come,”
The Goose said, impatiently, “tell me or cease,
How that is of any advantage to geese.”
“What, what!” said the man—“you are very obtuse!
Consumption no profit to those who produce?
No good to accrue to Supply from a grand
Progressive expansion, all round, of Demand?
Luxurious habits no benefit bring
To those who purvey the luxurious thing?
Consider, I pray you, my friend, how the growth
Of luxury promises—” “Promises,” quoth
The sufferer, “what?—to what course is it pledged
To pay me for being so often defledged?”
“Accustomed”—this notion the plucker expressed
As he ripped out a handful of down from her breast—
“To one kind of luxury, people soon yearn
For others and ever for others in turn.
And the man who to-night on your feathers will rest,
His mutton or bacon or beef to digest,
His hunger to-morrow will wish to assuage
With goose and a dressing of onions and sage.”
The Unpardonable Sin
I reckon that ye never knew,
That dandy slugger, Tom Carew.
He had a touch as light an’ free
As that of any honey-bee;
But where it lit there wasn’t much
To jestify another touch.
O, what a Sunday-school it was
To watch him puttin’ up his paws
An’ roominate upon their heft—
Particular his holy left!
Tom was my style—that’s all I say;
Some others may be equal gay.
What’s come of him? Dunno, I’m sure;
He’s dead—which make his fate obscure.
I only started in to clear
One vital p’int in his career,
Which is to say—afore he died
He soiled his erming mighty snide.
Ye see he took to politics
And learnt them statesmen-fellers’ tricks;
Pulled wires, wore stovepipe hats, used scent,
Just like he was the President;
Went to the Legislater; spoke
Right out agin the British yoke—
But that was right. He let his hair
Grow long to qualify for Mayor,
An’ once or twice he poked his snoot
In Congress like a low galoot!
It had to come—no gent can hope
To wrastle God agin the rope.
Tom went from bad to wuss. Being dead,
I s’pose it oughtn’t to be said,
For sech inikities as flow
From politics ain’t fit to know.
But, if you think it’s actin’ white
To tell it—Thomas throwed a fight!
Industrial Discontent
As time rolled on the whole world came to be
A desolation and a darksome curse;
And someone said: “The changes that you see
In the fair frame of things, from bad to worse,
Are wrought by strikes. The sun withdrew his glimmer
Because the moon assisted with her shimmer.
“Then, when poor Luna, straining very hard,
Doubled her light to serve a darkling world,
He called her ‘scab,’ and meanly would retard
Her rising: and at last the villain hurled
A heavy beam which knocked her o’er the Lion
Into the nebula of great O’Ryan.
“The planets all had struck some time before,
Demanding what they said were equal rights:
Some pointing out that others had far more
That a fair dividend of satellites.
So all went out—but those the best provided,
If they had dared, would rather have abided.
“The stars struck too—I think it was because
The comets had more liberty than they,
And were not bound by any hampering laws,
While they were fixed; and there are those who say
The comets’ tresses nettled poor Antares,
A bald old orb, whose disposition varies.
“The earth’s the only one that isn’t in
The movement—I suppose because she’s watched
With horror and disgust how her fair skin
Her pranking parasites have fouled and blotched
With blood and grease in every labor riot,
When seeing any purse or throat to fly at.”
Tempora Mutantur
“The world is dull,” I cried in my despair:
“Its myths and fables are no longer fair.
“Roll back thy centuries, O Father Time:
To Greece transport me in her golden prime.
“Give back the beautiful old gods again—
The sportive Nymphs, the Dryad’s jocund train,
“Pan piping on his reeds, the Naiades,
The Sirens singing by the sleepy seas.
“Nay, show me but a Gorgon and I’ll dare
To lift mine eyes to her peculiar hair
“(The fatal horrors of her snaky pate,
That stiffen men into a stony state)
“And die—becoming, as my spirit flies,
A noble statue of myself, life size.”
Straight as I spoke I heard the voice of Fate:
“Look up, my lad, the Gorgon sisters wait.”
Lifting my eyes, I saw Medusa stand,
Stheno, Euryale, on either hand.
I gazed unpetrified and unappalled—
The girls had aged and were entirely bald!
A False Alarm
When Gertrude Atherton pronounced the ladies
Of fair Manhattan hideous as Hades—
In eyes no splendor, and in cheeks no roses,
And, O ye godlings! rudimentary noses—
To pass a bad half-hour before their glasses,
Straight to their dressing-rooms ran dames and lasses,
Who, still dissenting from her curst appraisal,
Grew more pugnacious, but not less pugnasal.
Ladies, be calm: there’s nothing to distress you—
The Sacred Englishman will rise and bless you.
No noses—none to speak of—is alarming,
But that you can’t speak through them—that is charming!
Contentment
Sleep fell upon my senses and I dreamed
Long years had circled since my life had fled.
The world was different, and all things seemed
Remote and strange, like noises to the dead.
And one great Voice there was; and someone said:
“Posterity is speaking—rightly deemed
Infallible:” and so I gave attention,
Hoping Posterity my name would mention.
“Illustrious Spirit,” said the Voice, “appear!
While we confirm eternally thy fame,
Before our dread tribunal answer, here,
Why do no statues celebrate thy name,
No monuments thy services proclaim?
Why did not thy contemporaries rear
To thee some schoolhouse or memorial college?
It looks almighty queer, you must acknowledge.”
Up spake I hotly: “That is where you err!”
But
