Tobogganing on Parnassus Part 12

If often toward the bottled grape My errant fancy fondly turns, Remember, jeering jackanape, I err in company with Burns.

If now and then I sigh "Mine own!"

Unto another's wedded wife, Remember I am not alone-- Hast ever read Lord Byron's Life?

If frequently I fret and fume, And absolutely will not smile, I err in company with Hume, Old Socrates and T. Carlyle.

If e'er I fail in etiquette, And foozle on The Proper Stuff Regarding manners, don't forget A. Tennyson's were pretty tough.

Eke if I err upon the side Of talking overmuch of Me, I err, it cannot be denied, In most ill.u.s.trious company.

The Limit

While I hold as superficial him who has his young initial Neatly graven on his Turkish cigarette, Such a bit of affectation I can view with toleration, Such a folly I forgive and I forget.

Him who rocks the little boat, or him who rides the cyclemotor I dislike a little more than just enough; But you might as well be knowing that the guy who gets me going Is the man who wears his kerchief in his cuff.

Now I've builded many a verse on that extremely stylish person Who insists upon the hat of emerald hue; I have made a lot of fun of things that honestly were none of My blanked business--and I knew that it was true.

At the shameless subway smoker I have been a ceaseless joker---- For that nuisance daily gets me in a huff-- But the one that makes me maddest is that pestilential faddist Who is carrying his kerchief in his cuff.

I'm a pa.s.sive, harmless hater of the vari-coloured gaiter That the men of the Rialto will affect; Of the loud and sa.s.sy clother, I'm a quiet, modest loather, And to comic section weskits I object.

But, as I have intimated, hinted, innuendoed stated, Of the things that I believe are awful stuff, Nothing starts my indignation like the silly affectation Of the man who wears his kerchief in his cuff---- E-nough!

Of the man who wears his kerchief in his cuff.

Chorus for Mixed Voices

(Being a stenographic report of how it sounds from the piazza when a dozen boat loads go out on the lake of a summer evening.)

How can I bear to good old Yale the shades of Upidee That's where my heart is weep no more in sunny Tennessee How dear to heart grows weary far from meadow gra.s.s is blue Above Cayuga's waters we will sing I'm strong for you.

A Spanish cava fare thee well and everything so fine That's where you get your old black Joe my darling Clementine The old folks would enjoy it on the road to Mandalay 'Twas from Aunt Dinah's polly-wolly-woodle all the day.

I hear those good night ladies much obliged because we're here Afraid to go home in the with a good song ringing clear Just tell them that fair Harvard old Na.s.sau is s.h.i.+ning bright How can I bear to grand old rag we roll along good night!

The Translated Way

(Being a "lyric" translation of Heine's "Du Bist Wie Eine Blume," as it is usually done.)

Thou art like to a Flower, So pure and clean thou art; I view thee and much Sadness Steals to me in the Heart.

To me it seems my Hands I Should now impose on your Head, praying G.o.d to keep you So fine and clean and pure.

"And Yet It Is A Gentle Art!"

(Parody is a genre frowned upon by your professors of literature... And yet it is a gentle art-- "The Point of View" in May _Scribner's_.)

A sweet disorder in the verse That never looks behind Shall profit not who steals my purse, Let joy be unconfined!

How vainly men themselves amaze!

The stars began to blink, An art that there were few to praise, Nor any drop to drink.

O sleep, it is a blessed thing Which I must ne'er enjoy!

There never was a fairer spring Than when I was a boy.

One fond embrace and then we part!

Good--by, my lover, good-by!

And yet it is a gentle art, Which n.o.body can deny.

Occasionally

Now and then there's a couple whose conjugal life Is happy as happy can be; Now and then there's a man who believes that his wife Is the One Unsurpa.s.sable She; There are doubtless in England a great many folks Whose humour is airy and sage; But there never is one in American jokes Or on the American stage

Now and then there's an auto that doesn't break down, Or an angler who catches some fish; Now and then there's a pretty society gown Or a girl that breaks never a dish; There is haply a Croesus who isn't a hoax.

Or a jest that's not h.o.a.ry with age; But there never is one in American jokes Or on the American stage.

Now and then there's a poet with closely cropped hair, Or a sporting man quiet in dress; Now and then there's a lady from Boston who's fair, Now and then there's a fetterless press; Now and then there's a laugh that a jester may coax, A librettist may put on his page-- But they're terribly rare in American jokes, And--oh, the American stage!

Jim and Bill

Bill Jones was cynical and sad; He thought sincerity was rare; Most people, Bill believed, were bad And few were fair.

He said that cheating was the rule; That nearly everything was fake; That nearly all, both knave and fool, Were on the make.

Jim Brown was cheerful as the sun; He thought the world a lovely place, Exhibiting to every one A smiling face.

He thought that every man was fair; He had no cause to sob or sigh; He said that everything was square As any die.

Dear reader, would you rather be Like Jim, not crediting the ill, Joyous in your serenity, Or right, like Bill?

When n.o.body Listens