A nice girl holler'd "Stay, oh stay! "Its no use, young woman, I'm bound to goUpards!" Said a cute old cove, "Young man, take care, There's a rotten old pine-tree fix'd up there; Sure as eggs is eggs it will fall on your head,” The young man only wink'd and saidUpards! Next morning at the break of day, A Shaker chanced to pass that way," And thought he heard the voice of a coon, Upards! By reek and close air overcome, The Climbing Boy was oft struck dumb, His knees were worn by rough ascent When, jammed in, on his upward way These horrors having been at last Still certain Bumbles, it appears, May a new law, more strictly framed, L He tarried not to eat or drink, Though what he meant by that absurd, The characters were very plain, And so he ran, this stupid wight, Excelsior! And everybody thought the lad Who cried in accents stern and sad- "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, But ere he gains the topmost crag Now P. C. Nab is on his track! He puts him in an empty sack, Nab takes him to a lumber store, They toss him in and lock the door, Which only makes him bawl the moreExcelsior! Edinburgh Sketches and Miscellanies. By ERIC. (John Menzies and Company, Edinburgh, 1876). THE DOWAGER-DUCHESS AT THE DRAWING ROOM. ("A bleak, nipping south-easterly wind was blowing throughout yesterday, the glass having again fallen, but the usual rules as to the Court dress to be worn by all ladies who attended the Drawing Room were strictly enforced. Lowcut bodies, both at back and front, were de rigueur."Weekly Paper, February, 1880). THE Dowager-Duchess has been to the Palace, Within was seen an aged dame, Whose breath in gasps most frequent came; Her face was white as Death's own hue, Her Roman nose was red; with blue Her lips spread o'er. The fair young maiden by her side, "Oh joy!" this maiden cried, when she And when she would have left her seat, 'Be quick and heat my grandma's bed !” The Honourable Miss Alice said: "Let well warmed bricks in flannel wrapp'd Without delay be in it clapp'd, And bottles hot! "Beware no window open be, And blankets bring at once to me!" Thus was the maiden's forethought shownHer Grandma scarce had strength to groan: "Hot ginger, dear!" And ere of minutes ten had fled, The chilled old Duchess was in bed; Then in the firelight, thin and gray, A voice came, somewhat hoarse 'twas true, * Truth, February 26, 1880. AFTER LONGfellow. (A Long Way). THE western sun was sinking fast, His brow was dark with smoke and soot, He lingered at the corner "pub,' "Go not again," the landlord said, "Oh, stay,” the daughter said, "and rest Why should'st thou from our presence fly?" "Beware the stern blue-coated man- In Duke Street, at the break of day, In falling he his leg had broke, When gently raised, these words he spoke--- He died; his body calmly rests; A voice cries, with sepulchral power- Teddy May and other Poems, by William Thomson, Glasgow, 1883. X X X X X VOICES OF OUR NIGHTS. (Submitted to the American Poet, by Mr. Wrongfellow). I HEARD the feline footsteps in the night I saw the sable wretch in the moon's light I felt her (that I did! I'm sure I'm right !) Step o'er me just above; With shrill pathetic mewings through the night, I heard the sounds of passion and of fight, The caterwauling chimes, That fill each attic chamber in the night, Where some starved poet rhymes. My night-capped head in the cool midnight air The echo of perpetual squalls rose there, Peace! peace! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer! I hate, while thus you screech, and spit, and swear, Punch, May 4, 1861. PICKED UP AT THE STALL ENTRANCE TO THE NOVELTY THEATRE. I KNOW a maiden fair to see K. V. K. V. ! (Cave!) She dances most bewitchingly K. V. K. V.! SUGGESTED BY "THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH." (With Apologies to the Shade of Longfellow.) UNDER Britannia's spreading oak The Grand Old Woodman stands ; A presentation axe he wields His hair is white and dank and long His brow is wet with honest sweat- Week in, week out, from morn till night, As the sexton's song on the village bell, The children of his Rebel School Crowd round his open door; And catch the myriad words that fly He hears the parson pray and preach- And it makes his heart rejoice. It sounds to him like an angel's voice Which reminds him he will talk no more And with his collar end he wipes A tear out of his eyes. Too much attempted, nothing done, How can he seek repose? Experience by thee, my friend, Thy country has been taught; Hadst though been doomed to silent life, As reckless talkers ought, Then had thy native land escaped Much evil thou hast wrought. The Globe, September 10, 1884. THE LOW BOHEMIAN. BEFORE the Cheshire Cheese's bar The low Bohemian stands; A sallow, seedy man is he, He "four of Cork" demands. His nose is large and very red, His mouth 'twere hard to span ; Week in, week out, from mcrn to night, He knows the barmaids' Christian names (A fact they much deplore ;) Now here, now there, he, with a leer, Slinks in at the swinging door! He glories in the Referee, And reads the Weekly Times, Loafing and loitering-liquoring- Each morning finds him " coppery," SPHINX. 66 done," He's "screw'd" ere night doth close; Something attempted-some one Whilst liquor always flows. THE VILLAGE SCHOOLBOY. UNDER the garden apple-tree The village schoolboy stands ; The boy, a nasty boy is he, With muddy, filthy hands; And the mussel-shells he's playing with Are pick'd from dirty sands. His hair is short, and red, and straight, His face is like the tar; He cries and bawls when mother calls, You hear him near and far, And when he gets a chance he steals The sugar from the jar. Week in, week out, from morn till night, He bellows and he cries, And in the village there's not one So good at telling lies; Big stones he throws at other boys, He goes on Sunday to the church, And every one annoys; He pinches all the kids he's near, Hold your noise!" His father smacks him in the face, He pulls him by the nose, The village schoolboy only cries, And crying-off he goes; His parents go to bed at night, And THERE, they've no repose. The Sporting Times, July 5, 1884. THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. W. C. L. BESIDE a dingy public-house, the village smithy stands, His face is void of any charm, he looks a nasty brute. Week in, week out, from morn to night, he curses high and low. You seldom hear his hammer's beat, his step is dull and slow; Communications from his mouth are seldom "yes" or " or "no." And children coming home from school run frightened past his door, They fear to see the ugly beast, and shun his drunken roar, They'd only catch a kick or blow, if they lingered near his door. He never goes inside a church, and never sends his boys, He never heard a parson preach, he hates his daughter's voice, Snarling over her kitchen work, it makes him swear like vice, Reminding him of her mother's voice--that wasn't over nice. And when he thinks of her once more, how in the grave she lies, He thinks in his heart that Providence is sometimes kind and wise, Cursing, drinking, borrowing; onward through life he goes. No morning sees good work begin, no evening sees its close. Nothing attempted, nothing done, from gin he gets repose. The Topical Times, September 13, 1884. The parody of "A Psalm of Life," entitled "The Maiden's Dream of Life," which was quoted on page 64, Part IV., of Parodies, was copied from a Washington (U.S.) newspaper, dated December, 1871. The idea of this parody had evidently been borrowed from one contained in a small volume by Phoebe Carey, entitled "Poems and Parodies." The borrower made some verbal alterations, which were by no means improvements on Miss Carey's parody, which is decidedly the better of the two : A PSALM Of Life. (What the Heart of the Young Woman said to the Old Maia). 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; Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Nearer brings the wedding day. 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 Sailing far from Hymen's fort, Poems and Parodies. By Phoebe Carey, Boston, 1854. The following is an amusing specimen of And to rust is not its goal; We may write with ease sublime, Seize this Ink before too late, SHORT FELLOW. PLEASE BE CHEERFUL. TELL us not, in mournful "numbers, Life is dark enough in earnest, Like their heroines out on bail, |