Alas for those two loving ones! she waked not from her swound, And he was taken with the cramp, and in the waves was drowned; But Fate has metamorphosed them, in pity of their woe, And now they keep an oyster shop for mermaids down below. Oliver Wendell Holmes ONLY SEVEN A PASTORAL STORY AFTER WORDS WORTH I marvell'd why a simple child, That lightly draws its breath, Adopting a parental tone, I ask'd her why she cried; The damsel answered with a groan, "I thought it would have sent me mad Last night about eleven." Said I, "What is it makes you bad? "And are you sure you took no more, "Oh, please, sir, mother gave me four, "If that's the case," I stammer'd out, The maiden answer'd with a pout, I wonder'd hugely what she meant, But I know where little girls are sent "Now, if you won't reform," said I, To borrow Wordsworth's name was wrong, Or slightly misapplied; And so I'd better call my song, "Lines after Ache-Inside." Henry S. Leigh THE SOCIETY UPON THE STANISLAUS I reside at Table Mountain, and my name is Truthful James; I am not up to small deceit, or any sinful games; And I'll tell in simple language what I know about the row That broke up our Society upon the Stanislow. But first I would remark, that it is not a proper plan To lay for that same member for to "put a head" on him. Now, nothing could be finer or more beautiful to see Till Brown of Calaveras brought a lot of fossil bones Then Brown he read a paper, and he reconstructed there, From those same bones, an animal that was extremely rare, And Jones then asked the chair for a suspension of the rules, Till he could prove that those same bones was one of his lost mules. Then Brown he smiled a bitter smile, and said he was at fault; It seemed he had been trespassing on Jones's family vault : Now, I hold it is not decent for a scientific gent Then Abner Dean of Angel's raised a point of order when A chunk of old red sandstone took him in the abdomen, And he smiled a kind of sickly smile, and curled up on the floor, And the subsequent proceedings interested him no more. For, in less time than I write it, every member did engage Till the skull of an old mammoth caved the head of Thompson in. And this is all I have to say of these improper games, For I live at Table Mountain, and my name is Truthful James; And I've told in simple language what I know about the row That broke up our Society upon the Stanislow. AN ACTOR Bret Harte A shabby fellow chanced one day to meet Garrick, of whom our nation justly brags; "Good sir, I do not recollect your face," Quoth Garrick. No?" replied the man of rags; "The boards of Drury you and I have trod Full many a time together, I am sure." “When?” with an oath, cried Garrick, “for, by G―d, Did you and I together play?" "Lord!" quoth the fellow, "think not that I mock When you played Hamlet, sir, I played the cock!" John Wolcot ("Peter Pindar") THE BITER BIT The sun is in the sky, mother, the flowers are springing fair, And the melody of woodland birds is stirring in the air; The river, smiling to the sky, glides onward to the sea, And happiness is everywhere, O mother, but with me! They are going to the church, mother, I hear the marriage bell; It booms along the upland, -oh, it haunts me like a knell; He leads her on his arm, mother, he cheers her faltering step, And closely to his side she clings, — she does, the demirep! They are crossing by the stile, mother, where we so oft have stood, The stile beside the shady thorn, at the corner of the wood; And the boughs, that wont to murmur back the words that won my ear, Wave their silver branches o'er him, as he leads his bridal fere. He will pass beside the stream, mother, where first my hand he press'd, By the meadow where, with quivering lip, his passion he confess'd; And down the hedgerows where we've stray'd again and yet again; And he will not think of me, mother, his broken-hearted Jane! He said that I was proud, mother, that I look'd for rank and gold, He said I did not love him, he said my words were cold; He said I'd kept him off and on, in hopes of higher game, And it may be that I did, mother; but who hasn't done the same? I did not know my heart, mother, I know it now too late; I thought that I without a pang could wed some nobler mate; But no nobler suitor sought me, - and he has taken wing, And my heart is gone, and I am left a lone and blighted thing. You may lay me in my bed, mother, my head is throbbing sore; And, mother, prithee, let the sheets be duly aired before; And, if you'd please, my mother dear, your poor desponding child, Draw me a pot of beer, mother, and mother, draw it mild! William E. Aytoun In the Bon Gaultier Ballads ODE TO TOBACCO Thou who, when fears attack, Sweet, when the morn is gray; I have a liking old For thee, though manifold How one (or two at most) Drops make a cat a ghost |