Poems

FROM A HYPERBOLIST

Take all the love that e'er was told
Since first the world began,
Increase it twenty thousand-fold
(If mathematics can),
Add all the love the world shall see
Till Gabriel's final call,
And when compared with mine 'twill be
Infinitesimal.

WERE ALL THE WORLD LIKE YOU

WERE all the world like you, my dear,
Were all the world like you,
Oh, there'd be darts in all our hearts
From sunset to the dew.
For life would be Love's jubilee
Where all were two and two,
And lovers' rhyme the only crime,
Were all the world like you, my dear,
Were all the world like you.

Were all the world like you, my dear,
Were all the world like you,
There'd be no pain nor clouds nor rain,
No kisses overdue;
But sweetest sighs and pleading eyes,
Where Cupid's arrow flew,
And lovers' rhyme the only crime,
Were all the world like you, my dear,
Were all the world like you.

HERE AND THERE

SWEET Phyllis went a-rambling here and there,
Here and there.
Her eyes were blue and golden was her hair.
She said, "Oh, life is strange;
I'm sure I need a change;
'Tis sad for one to ramble here and there,
Here and there."

Young Strephon went a-rambling here and there,
Here and there.
He sighed, "It needs but two to make a pair.
If I should meet a maid
Not in the least afraid,
How happy we'd go rambling here and there,
Here and there."

As youth and maid went rambling here and there,
Here and there,
They met, and loved at sight, for both were fair;
And neither youth nor maid
Was in the least afraid,
And hand in hand they ramble here and there,
Here and there.

UNCLE JOGALONG

MY dear old Uncle Jogalong
Was very slow, was very slow,
And said he thought that folks were wrong
To hurry so, to hurry so.

When he walked out upon the street
To take the air, to take the air,
It seemed almost as if his feet
Were fastened there, were fastened there.

He thought that traveling by rail
Was hurrying and scurrying,
But said the slow and creeping snail
Was just the thing, was just the thing.

He thought a hasty appetite
An awful crime, an awful crime,
So never finished breakfast, quite,
Till dinner time, till dinner time.

He said the world turned round so fast
He could not stay, he could not stay,
And so he said "Good-by" at last,
And went away, and went away.

THE INDIFFERENT MARINER

I'M a tough old salt, and it's never I care
A penny which way the wind is,
Or whether I sight Cape Finisterre,
Or make a port at the Indies.

Some folks steer for a port to trade,
And some steer north for the whaling;
Yet never I care a damn just where
I sail, so long's I'm sailing.

You never can stop the wind when it blows,
And you can't stop the rain from raining;
Then why, oh, why, go a-piping of your eye
When there's no sort o' use in complaining?

My face is browned and my lungs are sound,
And my hands they are big and calloused.
I've a little brown jug I sometimes hug,
And a little bread and meat for ballast.

But I keep no log of my daily grog,
For what's the use o' being bothered?
I drink a little more when the wind's offshore,
And most when the wind's from the no'th'ard.

Of course with a chill if I'm took quite ill,
And my legs get weak and toddly,
At the jug I pull, and turn in full,
And sleep the sleep of the godly.

But whether I do or whether I don't,
Or whether the jug's my failing,
It's never I care a damn just where
I sail, so long's I'm sailing.

ON A LIBRARY WALL

WHEN faltering fingers bid me cease to write,
And, laying down the pen, I seek the Night,
May those, to whom the Daylight still is sweet,
With loving lips my name ofttimes repeat.
And should Belshazzar's spirit hither stray,
And linger o'er the lines I write to-day,
May he, who wept for Babylonia's fall,
Look kindly at this "writing on the wall"!

MRS. MULLIGATAWNY

Mrs. Mulligatawny said, "I'm sure it's going to rain."
Mr. Mulligatawny said, "To me it's very plain."
William Mulligatawny said, "It must rain, anyhow."
Mary Mulligatawny said, "I feel it raining now."
And yet there were no clouds in sight, and 'twas a pleasant day,
But Mrs. Mulligatawny always liked to have her way.
With Mrs. Mulligatawny the family all agreed,
For all the Mulligatawnys feared her very much indeed,
And did, whenever they were bid,
As Mrs. Mulligatawny did,
And tried to think, as they were taught,
As Mrs. Mulligatawny thought.

Mrs. Mulligatawny said, "Now two and two are three."
Mr. Mulligatawny said, "I'm sure they ought to be."
William Mulligatawny said, "Arithmetic is wrong."
Mary Mulligatawny said, "It's been so all along."
Now two and two do not make three, and three they never were;
But Mrs. Mulligatawny said 'twas near enough for her.
With Mrs. Mulligatawny the family all agreed,
For all the Mulligatawnys feared her very much indeed,
And did, whenever they were bid,
As Mrs. Mulligatawny did,
And tried to think, as they were taught,
As Mrs. Mulligatawny thought.

Mrs. Mulligatawny fell out of the world one day.
Mr. Mulligatawny said, "I don't know what to say."
William Mulligatawny said, "I don't know what to do."
Mary Mulligatawny said, "I feel the same as you."
Mrs. Mulligatawny left the family sitting there.
They couldn't think, they couldn't move, because they didn't dare;
For Mrs. Mulligatawny had always thought for them,
And all the Mulligatawnys thought the same as Mrs. M.,
And did, whenever they were bid,
As Mrs. Mulligatawny did,
And tried to think, as they were taught,
As Mrs. Mulligatawny thought.

EUTHANASIA

[To E. C.]

OH, drop your eyelids down, my lady;
Oh, drop your eyelids down.
'Twere well to keep your bright eyes shady
For pity of the town!
But should there any glances be,
I pray you give them all to me;
For though my life be lost thereby,
It were the sweetest death to die!

DAINTY LITTLE LOVE

DAINTY little Love came tripping
Down the hill,
Smiling as he thought of sipping
Sweets at will.
SHE said, "No,
Love must go."
Dainty little Love came tripping
Down the hill.

Dainty little Love went sighing
Up the hill,
All his little hopes were dying—
Love was ill.
Vain he tried
Tears to hide.
Dainty little Love went sighing
Up the hill.

TO M.

SWEET visions came to me in sleep,
Ah! wondrous fair to see;
And in my mind I strove to keep
The dream to tell to thee.

But morning broke with golden gleam,
And shone upon thy face,
And life was lovelier than a dream,
And dreams had lost their grace.

THE SONG

I HEARD an old, familiar air
Strummed idly by a careless hand,
Yet in the melody were rare,
Sweet echoings from childhood land.

The well-remembered mother touch,
The wise denials and consents,
The trivial sorrows that were much,
Small pleasures that were large events;

The fancies, dreams, strange wonderings,
The daily problems unexplained,
Momentous as the cares of kings
That on unhappy thrones have reigned,

Came back with each unstudied tone;
And came that song remembered best,
Which, with a sweetness all its own,
Once lulled the play-worn child to rest.

And there, secure as Tarik's height,
He slumbered, shielded from alarms,
Safe from the mystery of night,
Close folded in the mother's arms.

Then Israel's mighty songs of old,
And all the modern masters' art,
Were less than simple lays that told
The secret of the mother's heart.

The sweetest melody that flows
From lips that win the world's applause
Charms not like that which childhood knows,
Unfettered by the curb of laws.

For though we rise to nobler themes,
To grander harmonies attain,
Their lives not in the academes
The magic of the simpler strain.

And we may spurn the cruder song,
Or name it anything we will,
Denounce the artifice as wrong,
Yet to the child 'tis music still.

Thus, list'ning to an idle air,
Struck lightly by a careless hand,
I heard, amid the cadence there,
The sweetest song of childhood land.

AT TWILIGHT TIME

AT twilight time when tolls the chime,
And saddest notes are falling,
A lonely bird with plaintive word
Across the dusk is calling.
Vain doth it wait for one dear mate,
That ne'er shall know the morrow;
Then sinks to rest with drooping crest
In one long dream of sorrow.

Dearest, when night is here,
To thee I'm calling,
Sadly as tear on tear
Is slowly falling,
Oh, fold me near, more near—
In love enthralling!
Here on thy breast,
While life shall last,
With thee I stay.
Here will I rest
Till night is past,
And comes the day!

CÉLESTE

OF sweethearts I have had a score,
And time may bring as many more;
Tho' I remember all the rest,
Just now I worship dear Céleste;
Hers may not be the greatest love,
But ah! it is the latest love.

For little Cupid's never stupid,
As I've found out;
And love is truest when 'tis newest,
Beyond a doubt, beyond a doubt.

Of sweethearts I have had a score,
Céleste says I deserve no more;
I take revenge on dear Céleste,
By telling her I love her best;
Hers may not be the greatest love,
But ah! it is the latest love.

For little Cupid's never stupid,
As I've found out;
And love is truest when 'tis newest,
Beyond a doubt, beyond a doubt.

THISTLE-DOWN

THE thistle-down floats on the air, the air,
Whenever the soft wind blows,
And the wind can tell just where, just where
The feathery thistle-down goes.
And it tells the bird in a single word,
Who whispers it low to the bee;
And they try to keep the mystery deep,
And none of them tell it to me.
But I know well, though they never will tell,
Where the thistle-down goes when it says "Farewell,"
It floats and floats away on the air,
And goes where the wind goes—everywhere!

SLUMBER SONG

GENTLY fall the shadows gray,
Daylight softly veiling;
Now to Dreamland we'll away,
Sailing, sailing, sailing.

Little eyes were made for sleeping,
Little heads were made for rest,
Golden locks were made for keeping
Close to mother's breast;
Little hands were made for folding,
Little lips should never sigh;
What dear mother's arms are holding,
Love alone can buy.

Gently fall the shadows gray,
Daylight softly veiling;
Now to Dreamland we'll away,
Sailing, sailing, sailing.

THOU ART TO ME

THOU art to me
As are soft breezes to a summer sea;
As stars unto the night;
Or when the day is born,
As sunrise to the morn;
As peace unto the fading of the light.

Thou art to me
As one sweet flower upon a barren lea;
As rest to toiling hands;
As one clear spring amid the desert sands;
As smiles to maidens' lips;
As hope to friends that wait for absent ships;
As happiness to youth;
As purity to truth;
As sweetest dreams to sleep;
As balm to wounded hearts that weep.
All, all that I would have thee be
Thou art to me.

LOVE

[Trio]

OH, love hits all humanity, humanity, my dear;
But after all it's vanity, a vanity, I fear;
And sometimes 'tis insanity, insanity, so queer;
Humanity, yes, a vanity, yes, insanity so queer.
And love is often curious, so curious to see,
And oftentimes is spurious, so spurious, ah, me!
And surely 'tis injurious, injurious when free,
So curious, yes, and spurious, yes, injurious when free.

Oh, love brings much anxiety, anxiety and grief,
But seasoned with propriety, propriety, relief,
It's mixed with joy and piety, but piety is brief;
Anxiety, yes, propriety, yes, but piety is brief.
Oh, young love's all timidity, timidity, I'm told,
Gains courage with rapidity, rapidity, so bold,
With traces of acidity, acidity, when old;
Timidity, yes, rapidity, yes, acidity, when old.

THE STRANGER-MAN

"NOW what is that, my daughter dear, upon thy cheek so fair?"
"'Tis but a kiss, my mother dear—kind fortune sent it there.
It was a courteous stranger-man that gave it unto me,
And it is passing red because it was the last of three."

"A kiss indeed! my daughter dear; I marvel in surprise!
Such conduct with a stranger-man I fear me was not wise."
"Methought the same, my mother dear, and so at three forbore,
Although the courteous stranger-man vowed he had many more."

"Now prithee, daughter, quickly go, and bring the stranger here,
And bid him hie and bid him fly to me, my daughter dear;
For times be very, very hard, and blessings eke so rare,
I fain would meet a stranger-man that hath a kiss to spare."

THE HONEYSUCKLE VINE

'TWAS a tender little honeysuckle vine
That smiled and danced in the warm sunshine,
And spied a maid as fair as all maids be,
Who said, "Little honeysuckle, come up to me."
So it climbed and climbed in the sun and the shade,
And all summer long at her window stayed;
For that is the way that honeysuckles go,
And that is the way that true loves grow.

Then the loving little honeysuckle vine
Kissed the little maid in the warm sunshine;
But the winter came with an angry frown,
And the false little maid shut the window down;
And the sorrowing vine on the wintry side
Mourned and mourned for the love that died,
And faded away in the wind and snow,—
And that is the way that some loves go.

SAINT BOTOLPH

Saint Botolph flourished in the olden time,
In the days when the saints were in their prime.
Oh, his feet were bare and bruised and cold,
But his heart was warm and as pure as gold.
And the kind old saint with his gown and his hood
Was loved by the sinners and loved by the good,
For he made the sinners as pure as the snow,
And the good men needed him to keep them so.

CHORUS

Then drink, brave gentlemen, drink with me
To the Lincolnshire saint by the old North Sea.
A glass and a toast and a song and a rhyme
To the barefooted saint of the olden time.

He loved a friend and a flagon of wine,
When the friend was true and the bottle was fine.
He would raise his glass with a knowing wink,
And this was the toast he would always drink:—

"Oh, here's to the good and the bad men too,
For without them saints would have nothing to do.
Oh, I love them both and I love them well,
But which I love better, I never can tell."

CHORUS

Then drink, brave gentlemen, drink with me
To the Lincolnshire saint by the old North Sea.
A glass and a toast and a song and a rhyme
To the barefooted saint of the olden time.

As he journeyed along on the king's highway
He gave all the boys and the girls "Good-day,"
And never a child saw the hood and gown
But ran to the father of Botolph's Town.
He'd a word for the wicked, and he called them kin,
And he said, "I am certain that there must be sin
While a few get the loaves and many get the crumbs,
And some are born fingers and some born thumbs."

CHORUS

Then drink, brave gentlemen, drink with me
To the Lincolnshire saint by the old North Sea.
A glass and a toast and a song and a rhyme
To the barefooted saint of the olden time.

But the saint grew old, and sorry the day
When his life went out with the tide in the bay;
But he left a name and he left a creed
Of the cheerful life and the kindly deed.
Then remember the man of the days of old
Whose heart was warm and as pure as gold,
And remember the tears and the prayers he gave
For any poor devil with a soul to save.

CHORUS

Then drink, brave gentlemen, drink with me
To the Lincolnshire saint by the old North Sea.
A glass and a toast and a song and a rhyme
To the barefooted saint of the olden time.

THE GURGLING IMPS

THE Gurgling Imps of Mummery Mum
Lived in the Land of the Crimson Plum,
And a language very strange had they,
'Twas merely a chattering ricochet.

The Gurgling Imps of Mummery Mum
Caught hummingbirds for the sake of the hum,
Their cheeks were flushed with a sable tinge,
Their eyelids hung on a silver hinge.

The Gurgling Imps of Mummery Mum
Called each other "My charming chum,"
And floated in tears of joy to see
Their relatives hung in a cranberry tree.

The Gurgling Imps of Mummery Mum
Stole the whole of a half of a crumb,
And a wind arose and blew the Imps
Way off to the Land of the Lazy Limps.

THE WORM WILL TURN

I'M a gentle, meek, and patient human worm;
Unattractive,
Rather active,
With a sense of right, original but firm.
I was taught to be forgiving,
For my enemies to pray;
But what's the use of living
If you never can repay
All the little animosities that in your bosom burn—
Oh, it's pleasant to remember that "the worm will turn."

I'm so gentle and so patient and so meek,
Unpretending,
Unoffending.
But if, perchance, you smite me on the cheek,
I will never turn the other,
As I was taught to do
By a puritanic mother,
Whose theology was blue.
Your experience will widen when explicitly you learn
How a modest, mild, submissive little worm will turn.

I'm so subtle and so crafty and so sly.
I am humble,
But I "tumble"
To the slightest oscillation of the eye.
When others think they're winning
A fabulous amount,
Then I do a little sinning
On my personal account,
And in my quiet, simple way a modest stipend earn
As they slowly grasp the bitter fact that worms will turn.

Oh, human worms are curious little things;
Inoffensive,
Rather pensive
Till it comes to using little human stings.
Oh, then avoid intrusion
If you would be discreet,
And cultivate seclusion
In an underground retreat.
And whenever you are tempted the lowly worm to spurn,
Just bear in mind that little line, "The worm will turn."

THE BOSTON CATS

A Little Cat played on a silver flute,
And a Big Cat sat and listened;
The Little Cat's strains gave the Big Cat pains,
And a tear on his eyelid glistened.

Then the Big Cat said, "Oh, rest awhile;"
But the Little Cat said, "No, no;
For I get pay for the tunes I play;"
And the Big Cat answered, "Oh!

If you get pay for the tunes you play,
I'm afraid you'll play till you drop;
You'll spoil your health in the race for wealth,
So I'll give you more to stop."

Said the Little Cat, "Hush! you make me blush;
Your offer is unusually kind;
Though it's very, very hard to leave the back yard,
I'll accept if you don't mind."

So the Big Cat gave him a thousand pounds
And a silver brush and a comb,
And a country seat on Beacon Street,
Right under the State House dome.

And the Little Cat sits with other little kits,
And watches the bright sun rise;
And the voice of the flute is long since mute,
And the Big Cat dries his eyes.

THE JONQUIL MAID

A LITTLE Maid sat in a Jonquil Tree,
Singing alone,
In a low love-tone,
And the wind swept by with a wistful moan;
For he longed to stay
With the Maid all day;
But he knew
As he blew
It was true
That the dew
Would never, never dry
If the wind should die;
So he hurried away where the rosebuds grew.
And while to the Land of the Rose went he,
Singing alone,
In a low love-tone,
A Little Maid sat in a Jonquil Tree.

The Little Maid's eyes had a rainbow hue,
And her sunset hair
Was woven with care
In a knot that was fit for a Psyche to wear;
And she pressed her lips
With her finger tips,
Threw a sly
Kiss to try
If he'd sigh
In reply,
And said with a laugh,
"Oh, it's not one half
As sweet as I give when there's Some One nigh."
And while to the Rosebud Land went he,
Singing alone,
In a low love-tone,
A Little Maid sat in a Jonquil Tree.

The wind swept back to the Jonquil Tree
At the close of day,
In the twilight gray;
But the sweet Little Maid had stolen away;
And whither she's flown
Will never be known
Till the Rose
As it blows
Shall disclose
All it knows
Of the Maid so fair
With the sunset hair.
And the sad wind comes and sighs and goes,
And dreams of the day when he blew so free,
When singing alone,
In a low love-tone,
A Little Maid sat in a Jonquil Tree.

THE ROLLICKING MASTODON

A Rollicking Mastodon lived in Spain,
In the trunk of a Tranquil Tree.
His face was plain, but his jocular vein
Was a burst of the wildest glee.
His voice was strong and his laugh so long
That people came many a mile,
And offered to pay a guinea a day
For the fractional part of a smile.
The Rollicking Mastodon's laugh was wide—
Indeed, 'twas a matter of family pride;
And oh! so proud of his jocular vein
Was the Rollicking Mastodon over in Spain.

The Rollicking Mastodon said one day,
"I feel that I need some air,
For a little ozone's a tonic for bones,
As well as a gloss for the hair."
So he skipped along and warbled a song
In his own triumphulant way.
His smile was bright and his skip was light
As he chirruped his roundelay.
The Rollicking Mastodon tripped along,
And sang what Mastodons call a song;
But every note of it seemed to pain
The Rollicking Mastodon over in Spain.

A Little Peetookle came over the hill,
Dressed up in a bollitant coat;
And he said, "You need some harroway seed,
And a little advice for your throat."
The Mastodon smiled and said, "My child,
There's a chance for your taste to grow.
If you polish your mind, you'll certainly find
How little, how little you know."
The Little Peetookle, his teeth he ground
At the Mastodon's singular sense of sound;
For he felt it a sort of musical stain
On the Rollicking Mastodon over in Spain.

"Alas! and alas! has it come to this pass?"
Said the Little Peetookle: "Dear me!
It certainly seems your horrible screams
Intended for music must be."
The Mastodon stopped; his ditty he dropped,
And murmured, "Good-morning, my dear!
I never will sing to a sensitive thing
That shatters a song with a sneer!"
The Rollicking Mastodon bade him "adieu."
Of course, 'twas a sensible thing to do;
For Little Peetookle is spared the strain
Of the Rollicking Mastodon over in Spain.

THE FIVE SENSES

OH, why do men their glasses clink
When good old honest wine they drink?

Wine is so excellent a thing
To lowest subject, or to highest king,
That every sense alike should share
The pleasure that can banish care.
Thus may each merry eye behold
The sparkle of the red or gold.
Our lips may feel the goblet's edge
And taste the loving cup we pledge.
While from each foaming glass escape
The precious perfumes of the grape.
But ah, we hear it not, and so
We give the touch that all men know.
And thus do all the senses share
The pleasure that can banish care.

And that is why the glasses clink
When good old honest wine we drink.

ECONOMY

[A Valentine]

I SEND,
O sweetest friend,
A kiss;
Such as fair ladies gave
Of old, when knights were brave,
And smiles were won
Through foes undone.
And this will be
For you to give again to me;
And then, its present errand o'er,
I'll give it unto you once more,
Ere briefest time elapse,
With interest, perhaps.
Its mission spent,
Again to me it may be lent.
And thus, day after day,
As we a simple law obey,
Forever, to and fro,
The selfsame kiss will go;
A busy shuttle that shall weave
A web of love, to soften and relieve
Our daily care.
And so,
As thus we share,
With lip to lip,
Our frugal partnership,
One kiss will always do
For two.
And, oh, how easy it will be
To practice this economy!

IDYLETTES OF THE QUEEN

I.—SHE

I FAIN would write on pleasant themes;
So let me prate
Awhile of Kate;
And if my rhyming effort seems
Uncouth or rough,
At any rate,
She's Kate,
And that's enough.

II.—HER EYES

Her eyes are bright—
I cannot say "like stars at night,"
Nor can I say
"Like the Orb of Day,"
Because such phrases are archaic.
And if I swear
That they compare
With diamonds rare,
That's too prosaic.

I've hunted my thesaurus through,
"The Century" and "Webster," too,
But all in vain;
'Tis therefore plain
That they who made these books so wise
Had never seen her eyes!

III.—HER GOWN

When Kate puts on her Sunday gown
And goes to church all in her best,
The watchful gargoyles looking down
Relax their most forbidding frown,
And smile with kindly interest.

Discerning gargoyles! could I be
One of your number looking down,
With you I surely would agree
And share your amiability
At sight of Kate and Sunday gown.

IV.—HER KNOWLEDGE

How much she knows no one can tell;
But she can read and write and spell,
Divide and multiply and add,
And name the apples Thomas had
When John enticed him five to sell.

For "jelly" she does not say "jell,"
Nor horrify us with "umbrell,"
For all of which we're very glad—
How much she knows!

She knows the oyster by his shell,
Detects the newsboy by his yell,
Enumerates the bones in shad,
And thinks my poetry is bad.
Well! well! well! well! well! well! well! well!
How much she knows!

V.—HER SIGH

When she utters a sigh
'Tis a breath from the roses,
And a-hovering nigh,
When she utters a sigh,
The bees wonder why
No garden discloses.
When she utters a sigh
'Tis a breath from the roses.

VI.—HER RING

Her ring goes round her finger.
Oh, foolish thing!
Were I a ring,
I'd not "go round"—I'd linger!

VII.—HER FAULTS

Of faults she has but one,
And that is, she has none.

VIII.—HER VOICE

Sweet and soothing, rhythmic, tuneful,
Dulcet, mellow, unbassoonful,
Zither, 'cello, lute, guitar,
And there you are!

IX.—HER LOVE

Do you love me?
R. S. V. P.

TO M. E.

WE keep in step as years roll by;
You march behind and I before:—
The path is new to you; but I
Have passed the ground you're walking o'er.
Yet I march on with measured tread,
And looking back, I smile and greet you:—
I fear the order, "Halt!" Instead,
Would I might countermarch and meet you.

BON VOYAGE

[To O. R.]

OUT from the Land of the Future, into the Land of the Past
A comrade sails to the East, the sport of the wave and the blast.
Oh, billow and breeze, be kind, and temper your strength to your guest,
Kind for the sake of the friend,—for the sake of the hands he pressed.

Oh, tenderest billow and breeze, welcome him even as we
Would welcome if you were the friend and we were the wind and the sea!
Welcome, protect him, and waft him westward and homeward at last
Into the Land of the Future, out from the Land of the Past!

THE BOOK OF LIFE

WHOSO his book of life doth con
From title-leaf to colophon
May read, if he but wrongly look,
Some sorry pages in his book.

But if he read aright each line,
Interpreting the scheme divine,
'Twill be most fair to look upon
From title-leaf to colophon.

The Riverside Press

Electrotyped and printed by H. O. Houghton & Co.
Cambridge, Mass., U. S. A.

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