The Humorous Poetry of the English Language; from Chaucer to Saxe Part 107

I du believe it's wise an' good To sen' out furrin missions, Thet is, on sartin understood An' orthydox conditions;-- I mean nine thousan' dolls. per ann., Nine thousan' more fer outfit, An' me to recommend a man The place 'ould jest about fit.

I du believe in special ways O' prayin' an' convartin'; The bread comes back in many days, An' b.u.t.tered, tu, fer sartin;-- I mean in preyin' till one busts On wut the party chooses, An' in convartin' public trusts To very privit uses.

I do believe hard coin the stuff Fer 'lectioneers to spout on; The people's ollers soft enough To make hard money out on; Dear Uncle Sam pervides fer his, An' gives a good-sized junk to all-- I don't care HOW hard money is, Ez long ez mine's paid punctooal.

I du believe with all my soul In the gret Press's freedom, To pint the people to the goal An' in the traces lead 'em: Palsied the arm thet forges yokes At my fat contracts squintin', An' wilhered be the nose thet pokes Inter the gov'ment printin'!

I du believe thet I should give Wut's his'n unto Caesar, Fer it's by him I move an' live, From him my bread an' cheese air I du believe thet all o' me Doth bear his souperscription,-- Will, conscience, honor, honesty, An' things o' thet description.

I du believe in prayer an' praise To him thet hez the grantin'

O' jobs--in every thin' thet pays, But most of all in CANTIN'; This doth my cup with marcies fill, This lays all thought o' sin to rest-- I DON'T believe in princerple, But, O, I DU in interest.

I du believe in bein' this Or thet, ez it may happen One way, or t' other hendiest is To ketch the people nappin'; It aint by princerples nor men My preudent course is steadied-- I scent wich pays the best, an' then Go into it baldheaded.

I du believe thet holdin' slaves Comes nat'ral tu a President, Let 'lone the rowdedow it saves To have a wal-broke precedunt; Fer any office, small or gret, I could'nt ax with no face, Without I'd been, thru dry an' wet, The unrizziest kind o' doughface.

I du believe wutever trash 'll keep the people in blindness,-- Thet we the Mexicans can thrash Right inter brotherly kindness-- Thet bombsh.e.l.ls, grape, an' powder 'n' ball Air good-will's strongest magnets-- Thet peace, to make it stick at all, Must be druv in with bagnets.

In short, I firmly du believe In Humbug generally, Fer it's a thing thet I perceive To hev a solid vally; This heth my faithful shepherd ben, In pasturs sweet heth led me, An' this'll keep the people green To feed ez they have fed me.

THE COURTIN'.

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

Zekle crep' up, quite unbeknown, An' peeked in thru the winder, An there sot Huldy all alone, 'ith no one nigh to hender.

Agin' the chimbly crooknecks hung, An' in among 'em rusted The ole queen's arm thet gran'ther Young Fetched back from Concord busted.

The wannut logs shot sparkles out Toward the pootiest, bless her!

An' leetle fires danced all about The chiny on the dresser.

The very room, coz she wuz in, Looked warm frum floor to ceilin'.

An' she looked full ez rosy agin Ez th' apple she wuz peelin'.

She heerd a foot an' knowd it, tu, Araspin' on the sc.r.a.per-- All ways to once her feelins flew Like sparks in burnt-up paper.

He kin' o' l'itered on the mat, Some doubtfle of the seekle: His heart kep' goin' pitypat, But hern went pity Zekle.

A SONG FOR A CATARRH.

PUNCH

By Bary ALLe is like the suL, WheL at the dawL it fliLgs Its goldeL sBiles of light upoL Earth's greeL and loLely thiLgs.

IL vaiL I sue, I oLly wiL FroB her a scorLful frowL, But sooL as I By prayers begiL, She cries O Lo! begoLe, Yes! yes! the burtheL of her soLg Is Lo! Lo! Lo! begoLe!

By Bary ALLe is like the mooL, WheL first her silver sheeL Awakes the LightiLgale's soft tuLe, That else had sileLt beeL.

But Bary ALLe, like darkest Light, OL be, alas! looks dowL; Her sBiles oL others beaB their light, Her frowLs are all By owL.

I've but oLe burtheL to By soLg-- Her frowLs are all By owL.

EPITAPH ON A CANDLE.

PUNCH.

A WICKED one lies buried here, Who died in a DECLINE; He never rose in rank, I fear, Though he was born to s.h.i.+NE.

He once was FAT, but now, indeed, He's thin as any griever; He died--the Doctors all agreed, Of a most BURNING fever.

One thing of him is said with truth, With which I'm much amused; It is--that when he stood, forsooth, A STICK he always used.

Now WINDING-SHEETS he sometimes made, But this was not enough, For finding it a poorish trade, He also dealt in SNUFF.

If e'er you said "GO OUT, I pray,"

He much ill nature show'd; On such occasions he would say, "Vy, if I do, I'M BLOW'D"

In this his friends do all agree, Although you'll think I'm joking, When GOING OUT 'tis said that he Was very fond of SMOKING.

Since all religion he despised, Let these few words suffice, Before he ever was baptized They DIPP'D him once or twice.

POETRY ON AN IMPROVED PRINCIPLE.

A RENCONTER WITH A TEA-TOTALLER.

PUNCH.

On going forth last night, a friend to see, I met a man by trade a s-n-o-B; Reeling along the path he held his way.

"Ho! ho!" quoth I, "he's d-r-u-n-K"

Then thus to him--"Were it not better, far, You were a little s...o...b..e-R?

'T were happier for your family, I guess, Than playing of such rum r-i-g-S.

Besides, all drunkards, when policemen see 'em, Are taken up at once by t-h-e-M."

'Me drunk!" the cobbler cried, "the devil trouble you You want to kick up a blest r-o-W.

Now, may I never wish to work for Hoby, If drain I've had!" (the lying s-n-O-B!) I've just return'd from a tee-total party, Twelve on us jamm'd in a spring c-a-R-P.

The man as lectured, now, WAS drunk; why, bless ye, He's sent home in a c-h-a-i-S-E.

He'd taken so much lush into his belly, I'm blest if he could t-o-dd-L-E.

A pair on 'em--hisself and his good lady;-- The gin had got into her h-e-A-D.

(My eye and Betty! what weak mortals WE are; They said they took but ginger b-e-E-R!) But as for me, I've stuck ('t was rather ropy) All day to weak imperial p-O-P.

And now we've had this little bit o' sparrin', Just stand a q-u-a-r-t-e-R-N!"

ON A REJECTED NOSEGAY, OFFERED BY THE AUTHOR TO A BEAUTIFUL YOUNG LADY, WHO RETURNED IT.

PUNCH.