The Book of Humorous Verse Part 67

"Keep them sanwidjus dry,"

Says I.

When the rine came down in a reggiler sheet.

But what can yo do with one umbrella, And a damp gel strung on the arm of a fella?

"Well, rined-on 'am ain't pleasant to eat, If yer don't believe it, just go an try,"

Says I.

"There is some gels whort cry,"

Says I.

"And there is some don't shed a tear, But just get tempers, and when they has'em Reaches a pint in their sarcasem, As on'y a dorg could bear to 'ear."

This unto Nancy by-and-by, Says I.

All's hover now. And why, Says I.

But why did I wear them boots, that vest?

The bloom is off 'em; they're sad to see; And hev'rythin's off twixt Nancy and me; And my trousers is off and gone to be pressed-- And ain't this a blimed bangkolidye?

Says I.

_Barry Pain._

PENSeES DE NOeL

When the landlord wants the rent Of your humble tenement; When the Christmas bills begin Daily, hourly pouring in; When you pay your gas and poor rate Tip the rector, fee the curate, Let this thought your spirit cheer-- Christmas comes but once a year.

When the man who brings the coal Claims his customary dole: When the postman rings and knocks For his usual Christmas-box: When you're dunned by half the town With demands for half-a-crown,-- Think, although they cost you dear, Christmas comes but once a year.

When you roam from shop to shop, Seeking, till you nearly drop, Christmas cards and small donations For the maw of your relations, Questing vainly 'mid the heap For a thing that's nice, and cheap: Think, and check the rising tear, Christmas comes but once a year.

Though for three successive days Business quits her usual ways; Though the milkman's voice be dumb; Though the paper doesn't come; Though you want tobacco, but Find that all the shops are shut: Bravely still your sorrows bear-- Christmas comes but once a year.

When mince-pies you can't digest Join with waits to break your rest: When, oh when, to crown your woe, Persons who might better know Think it needful that you should Don a gay convivial mood:-- Bear with fort.i.tude and patience These afflicting dispensations: Man was born to suffer here: Christmas comes but once a year.

_A. D. G.o.dley._

A BALLADE OF AN ANTI-PURITAN

They spoke of Progress spiring round, Of Light and Mrs. Humphry Ward-- It is not true to say I frowned, Or ran about the room and roared; I might have simply sat and snored-- I rose politely in the club And said, "I feel a little bored; Will someone take me to a pub?"

The new world's wisest did surround Me; and it pains me to record I did not think their views profound, Or their conclusions well a.s.sured; The simple life I can't afford, Besides, I do not like the grub-- I want a mash and sausage, "scored"-- Will someone take me to a pub?

I know where Men can still be found, Anger and clamorous accord, And virtues growing from the ground, And fellows.h.i.+p of beer and board, And song, that is a st.u.r.dy cord, And hope, that is a hardy shrub, And goodness, that is G.o.d's last word-- Will someone take me to a pub?

ENVOI

Prince, Bayard would have smashed his sword To see the sort of knights you dub-- Is that the last of them--O Lord!

Will someone take me to a pub?

_G. K. Chesterton._

PESSIMISM

In the age that was golden, the halcyon time, All the billows were balmy and breezes were bland.

Then the poet was never hard up for a rhyme, Then the milk and the honey flew free and were prime, And the voice of the turtle was heard in the land.

In the times that are guilty the winds are perverse, Blowing fair for the sharper and foul for the dupe.

Now the poet's condition could scarcely be worse, Now the milk and the honey are strained through the purse, And the voice of the turtle is dead in the soup.

_Newton Mackintosh._

CYNICAL ODE TO AN ULTRA-CYNICAL PUBLIC

You prefer a buffoon to a scholar, A harlequin to a teacher, A jester to a statesman, An Anonyma flaring on horseback To a modest and spotless woman-- Brute of a public!

You think that to sneer shows wisdom, That a gibe outvalues a reason, That slang, such as thieves delight in, Is fit for the lips of the gentle, And rather a grace than a blemish, Thick-headed public!

You think that if merit's exalted 'Tis excellent sport to decry it, And trail its good name in the gutter; And that cynics, white-gloved and cravatted, Are the cream and quintessence of all things, a.s.s of a public!

You think that success must be merit, That honour and virtue and courage Are all very well in their places, But that money's a thousand times better; Detestable, stupid, degraded Pig of a public!

_Charles Mackay._

YOUTH AND ART

It once might have been, once only: We lodged in a street together.

You, a sparrow on the house-top lonely, I, a lone she-bird of his feather.

Your trade was with sticks and clay, You thumbed, thrust, patted and polished, Then laughed, "They will see some day Smith made, and Gibson demolished."

My business was song, song, song; I chirped, cheeped, trilled and twittered, "Kate Brown's on the boards ere long, And Grisi's existence embittered!"

I earned no more by a warble Than you by a sketch in plaster; You wanted a piece of marble, I needed a music-master.