A Parody Anthology - Carolyn Wells 2 стр.

HARK! for the message cometh from the King!
Winter, thy doom is spoke; thy dirges ring,
Thy time is o'er and through the Palace door
Enter the Princess! Hail the new-crowned Spring!

Comes she all rose-crowned, glowing with the Joy
Of Laughter and of Cupid, the God-Boy;
Buds bursting on the bough in welcoming
To Her we Love, whose loving will not cloy!

List! from the organ rippling in the Street
Come sounds rejoicing, glad Her reign to greet.
The Shad is smiling in the Market Place
And eke the Little Neck! Ah Life is Sweet!

Come, let us lilt a Merry Little Song
And in an Automobile glide along
Into the glory of the Year's new Birth.
Hasten! Oh, haste! For this is Spring, I Think!

Come where the Bonnets bloom within the Grove
And let us pluck them for the One we Love;
Violets and Things and chiffon-nested Birds.
Tell me didst ever see a Glass-Eyed Dove?

Think you how many Springs will go and come
When We are Dead Ones and the busy Hum
Of life will never reach us Nothing Done
And Nothing Doing in the Silence Glum!

Listen! the cable car's Gay Gong has rang,
The Elevated on its perch, A-clang
Like to a District Messenger astir.
Thought you, it was a Nightingale that sang?

Ah! my Beloved, when it's Really Spring
We know it by the Buds a-blossoming,
Signals from earth to sky Tremendous Sounds
That might to Some mean any Ancient Thing!

Then let us to the Caravan at Once,
The Sawdust where the Peanut haunts
The air with strange sweet Odors
And the Elephant does Wild and Woolly Stunts!

Asparagus is glowing on the Stall,
The Spring lamb cavorts on the Menu tall;
Strawberries ripe a Dollar for the Box:
Wouldn't it jar You somehow, After all?

A Book of Coon Songs underneath the Bough,
A Jug of Wine, a Dozen Buns, and Thou
Beside me singing rag-time? I don't know?
I wonder would a dozen be enow?

I sent my soul afling through Joy and Pain
For Information that the Winds might deign.
Softly the breezes pitched it, Russie-curved,
And whispered slowly sadly Guess Again."

Sometimes I think the Glories that they Sing
Are like the grape-vine the Fox tried to cling;
But take To-day and make the Most of It,
I think it's Just Too Sweet for anything!

What of To-morrow say you? Oh, my Friend
To-morrow's Not been Touched. It's yet to Spend.
I often wonder if we should expire
If we could but Collect the Gold we Lend!

Ah, Love! could Thou and I Creation run,
How Different our Scheme! The Summer's sun
Would see another Springtime blossoming,
Another Summer's Rose to Follow On!

And Leaning from the Sky a Little Star
Would Tell Us from the Canopy afar
What now we Grope for in the Dinky-dink,
And wonder blindly, vaguely, What we Are!

And when Alone you dream your fancies ripe,
Thyself all Hasheesh-fed My Prototype!
Smoke Up and when you gather with the Group
Where I made One Turn Down an Empty Pipe!

MASTER, in memory of that Verse of Thine,
And of Thy rather pretty taste in Wine,
We gather at this jaded Century's end,
Our Cheeks, if so we may, to incarnadine.

Thou hast the kind of Halo which outstays
Most other Genii's. Though a Laureate's bays
Should slowly crumple up, Thou livest on,
Having survived a certain Paraphrase.

The Lion and the Alligator squat
In Dervish Courts the Weather being hot
Under Umbrellas. Where is Mahmud now?
Plucked by the Kitchener and gone to Pot!

Not so with thee; but in Thy place of Rest,
Where East is East and never can be West,
Thou art the enduring Theme of dining Bards;
O make allowances; they do their Best.

Our Health Thy Prophet's health is but so-so;
Much marred by men of Abstinence who know
Of Thee and all Thy loving Tavern-lore
Nothing, nor care for it one paltry Blow.

Yea, we ourselves, who beam around Thy Bowl,
Somewhat to dull Convention bow the Soul,
We sit in sable Trouserings and Boots,
Nor do the Vine-leaves deck a single Poll.

How could they bloom in uncongenial air?
Nor, though they bloomed profusely, should we wear
Upon our Heads so tight is Habit's hold
Aught else beside our own unaided Hair.

The Epoch curbs our Fancy. What is more
To BE, in any case, is now a Bore.
Even in Humor there is nothing new;
There is no Joke that was not made before.

But Thou! with what a fresh and poignant sting
Thy Muse remarked that Time was on the Wing!
Ah, Golden Age, when Virgin was the Soil,
And Decadence was deemed a newish Thing.

These picturesque departures now are stale;
The noblest Vices have their vogue and fail;
Through some inherent Taint or lack of Nerve
We cease to sin upon a generous scale.

This hour, though drinking at my Host's expense,
I fear to use a fine Incontinence,
For terror of the Law and him that waits
Outside, the unknown X, to hale us hence.

For, should he make of us an ill Report
As pipkins of the more loquacious Sort,
We might be lodged, the Lord alone knows where,
Save Peace were purchased with a pewter Quart.

And yet, O Lover of the purple Vine,
Haply Thy Ghost is watching how we dine;
Ah, let the Whither go; we'll take our chance
Of fourteen days with option of a Fine.

Master, if we, Thy Vessels, staunch and stout,
Should stagger, half-seas-over, blind with Doubt,
In sound of that dread moaning of the Bar,
Be near, be very near, to bail us out!

OMAR'S the fad! Well then, let us indite
The shape of verse old Omar used to write;
And Juveniles are up. So we opine
A Baby's Omar would be out of sight!

Methinks the stunt is easy. Stilted style,
A misplaced Capital once in a while,
Other verse writers do it like a shot;
And can't I do it too? Well, I should Smile!

But how I ramble on. I must dismiss
Dull Sloth, and set to Work at once, I wis;
I sometimes think there's nothing quite so hard
As a Beginning. Say we start like this:

Indeed, indeed my apron oft before
I tore, but was I naughty when I tore?
And then, and then came Ma, and thread in hand
Repaired the rent in my small pinafore.

A Penny Trumpet underneath the Bough,
A Drum that's big enough to make a Row;
A Toy Fire-Engine, and a squeaking Doll,
Oh, Life were Pandemonium enow.

Come, fill the Cup, then quickly on the floor
Your portion of the Porridge gaily pour.
The Nurse will Spank you, and she'll be discharged,
Ah, but of Nurses there be Plenty more.

Yes, I can do it! Now, if but my Purse
Some kindly Editor will reimburse,
I'll write a Baby's Omar; for I'm sure
These Sample Stanzas here are not so worse.

OMAR'S the fad! Well then, let us indite
The shape of verse old Omar used to write;
And Juveniles are up. So we opine
A Baby's Omar would be out of sight!

Methinks the stunt is easy. Stilted style,
A misplaced Capital once in a while,
Other verse writers do it like a shot;
And can't I do it too? Well, I should Smile!

But how I ramble on. I must dismiss
Dull Sloth, and set to Work at once, I wis;
I sometimes think there's nothing quite so hard
As a Beginning. Say we start like this:

Indeed, indeed my apron oft before
I tore, but was I naughty when I tore?
And then, and then came Ma, and thread in hand
Repaired the rent in my small pinafore.

A Penny Trumpet underneath the Bough,
A Drum that's big enough to make a Row;
A Toy Fire-Engine, and a squeaking Doll,
Oh, Life were Pandemonium enow.

Come, fill the Cup, then quickly on the floor
Your portion of the Porridge gaily pour.
The Nurse will Spank you, and she'll be discharged,
Ah, but of Nurses there be Plenty more.

Yes, I can do it! Now, if but my Purse
Some kindly Editor will reimburse,
I'll write a Baby's Omar; for I'm sure
These Sample Stanzas here are not so worse.

A  CLERKE there was, a puissant wight was hee,
Who of ye wethere hadde ye maisterie;
Alway it was his mirthe and his solace
To put eche seson's wethere oute of place.

Whanne that Aprille shoures wer our desyre,
He gad us Julye sonnes as hotte as fyre;
But sith ye summere togges we donned agayne,
Eftsoons ye wethere chaunged to cold and rayne.

Wo was that pilgrimme who fared forth a-foote,
Without ane gyngham that him list uppe-putte;
And gif no mackyntosches eke had hee,
A parlous state that wight befelle pardie!

We wist not gif it nexte ben colde or hotte,
Cogswounds! ye barde a grewsome colde hath gotte!
Certes, that clerke's ane mightie man withalle,
Let non don him offence, lest ille befalle.

HE is to weet a melancholy carle:
Thin in the waist, with bushy head of hair,
As hath the seeded thistle, when a parle
It holds with Zephyr, ere it sendeth fair
Its light balloons into the summer air;
Thereto his beard had not begun to bloom.
No brush had touched his cheek, or razor sheer;
No care had touched his cheek with mortal doom,
But new he was and bright, as scarf from Persian loom.

Ne carèd he for wine, or half and half;
Ne carèd he for fish, or flesh, or fowl;
And sauces held he worthless as the chaff;
He 'sdeigned the swine-head at the wassail-bowl:
Ne with lewd ribbalds sat he cheek by jowl;
Ne with sly lemans in the scorner's chair;
But after water-brooks this pilgrim's soul
Panted and all his food was woodland air;
Though he would oft-times feast on gilliflowers rare

The slang of cities in no wise he knew,
Tipping the wink to him was heathen Greek;
He sipped no olden Tom," or ruin blue,"
Or Nantz, or cherry-brandy, drunk full meek
By many a damsel brave and rouge of cheek;
Nor did he know each aged watchman's beat,
Nor in obscurèd purlieus would he seek
For curlèd Jewesses, with ankles neat,
Who, as they walk abroad, make tinkling with their feet.

TO wed, or not to wed? That is the question
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The pangs and arrows of outrageous love
Or to take arms against the powerful flame
And by oppressing quench it.
To wed to marry
And by a marriage say we end
The heartache and the thousand painful shocks
Love makes us heir to 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished! to wed to marry
Perchance a scold! aye, there's the rub!
For in that wedded life what ills may come
When we have shuffled off our single state
Must give us serious pause. There's the respect
That makes us Bachelors a numerous race.
For who would bear the dull unsocial hours
Spent by unmarried men, cheered by no smile
To sit like hermit at a lonely board
In silence? Who would bear the cruel gibes
With which the Bachelor is daily teased
When he himself might end such heart-felt griefs
By wedding some fair maid? Oh, who would live
Yawning and staring sadly in the fire
Till celibacy becomes a weary life
But that the dread of something after wed-lock
(That undiscovered state from whose strong chains
No captive can get free) puzzles the will
And makes us rather choose those ills we have
Than fly to others which a wife may bring.
Thus caution doth make Bachelors of us all,
And thus our natural taste for matrimony
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought.
And love adventures of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn away
And lose the name of Wedlock.

TO draw, or not to draw,  that is the question:
Whether 'tis safer in the player to take
The awful risk of skinning for a straight,
Or, standing pat, to raise 'em all the limit
And thus, by bluffing, get in. To draw,  to skin;
No more and by that skin to get a full,
Or two pairs, or the fattest bouncing kings
That luck is heir to 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To draw to skin;
To skin! perchance to burst ay, there's the rub!
For in the draw of three what cards may come,
When we have shuffled off th' uncertain pack,
Must give us pause. There's the respect
That makes calamity of a bobtail flush;
For who would bear the overwhelming blind,
The reckless straddle, the wait on the edge,
The insolence of pat hands and the lifts
That patient merit of the bluffer takes,
When he himself might be much better off
By simply passing? Who would trays uphold,
And go out on a small progressive raise,
But that the dread of something after call
The undiscovered ace-full, to whose strength
Such hands must bow, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather keep the chips we have
Than be curious about the hands we know not of.
Thus bluffing does make cowards of us all:
And thus the native hue of a four-heart flush
Is sicklied with some dark and cussed club,
And speculators in a jack-pot's wealth
With this regard their interest turn away
And lose the right to open.

TO have it out or not. That is the question
Whether 'tis better for the jaws to suffer
The pangs and torments of an aching tooth
Or to take steel against a host of troubles,
And, by extracting them, end them? To pull to tug!
No more: and by a tug to say we end
The toothache and a thousand natural ills
The jaw is heir to. 'Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished! To pull to tug!
To tug perchance to break! Ay, there's the rub,
For in that wrench what agonies may come
When we have half dislodged the stubborn foe,
Must give us pause. There's the respect
That makes an aching tooth of so long life.
For who would bear the whips and stings of pain,
The old wife's nostrum, dentist's contumely;
The pangs of hope deferred, kind sleep's delay;
The insolence of pity, and the spurns,
That patient sickness of the healthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
For one poor shilling? Who would fardels bear,
To groan and sink beneath a load of pain?
But that the dread of something lodged within
The linen-twisted forceps, from whose pangs
No jaw at ease returns, puzzles the will,
And makes it rather bear the ills it has
Than fly to others that it knows not of.
Thus dentists do make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of fear;
And many a one, whose courage seeks the door,
With this regard his footsteps turns away,
Scared at the name of dentist.