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Title: The Rubáiyát of a Bachelor
Author: Helen Rowland
Illustrator: Harold Speakman
Release date: March 2, 2010 [eBook #31467]
Most recently updated: January 6, 2021
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Emmy, Tor Martin Kristiansen and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RUBÁIYÁT OF A BACHELOR ***
PROMISED TO PAY A WOMAN'S BILLS FOR LIFE.
THE·RUBÁIYÁT
OF·A·BACHELOR
BY HELEN ROWLAND
DECORATIONS ···· BY ···· HAROLD ···· SPEAKMAN
DODGE PUBLISHING COMPANY
NEW YORK
NEW YORK
COPYRIGHT 1915 BY
DODGE PUBLISHING COMPANY
DODGE PUBLISHING COMPANY
TO
MY HUSBAND
WILLIAM HILL-BRERETON
THIS LITTLE BOOK IS AFFECTIONATELY
DEDICATED
MY HUSBAND
WILLIAM HILL-BRERETON
THIS LITTLE BOOK IS AFFECTIONATELY
DEDICATED
AKE! For the Spring has scattered into flight The Vows of Lent, and bids the heart be light. Bring on the Roast, and take the Fish away! The Season calls—and Woman's eyes are bright! |
EFORE the phantom of Pale Winter died, Methought the Voice of Spring within me cried, "When Hymen's rose-decked altars glow within, Why nods the laggard Bachelor outside?" |
ND, at the Signal, I who stood before In idle musing, shouted, "Say no more! You know how little while we have to Love— And Love's light Hand is knocking at the door!" |
OW, the New Moon reviving old desires, The gallant Youth to Sentiment aspires; And ere he saunters forth on conquest bent, Himself, like unto Solomon, attires. |
HIS WINTER GARMENTS HUNG—WHERE, NO ONE KNOWS!
OW blithely through the smiling throng he goes, His Winter garments hung— where, no one knows! A Symphony in radiant scarfs and hose, Wrought t'inspire a maiden's "Ah's!" and "Oh's!" |
NTO a new Flirtation, why not knowing, Nor whence, his heart with madness overflowing; Then out of it—and thence, without a pause, Into another, willy-nilly blowing. |
HAT if the conscience feel, perchance, a sting? No danger waits him—save the Wedding Ring. A Kiss is not the sin that yesterday It was—for that was Lent, and this is Spring! |
OME simple ones may sigh for wealth or fame, And some, for the sweet Domestic Life, and tame; But ah! give me a supper, a cigar, A charming Woman—and the old Love-Game! |
OME blue points on the half-shell, in a row, Some iced champagne, a melting bird—and Thou Beside me flirting, 'neath a picture hat— Oh, single life were Paradise enow! |
COZY-CORNER tête-ā-tête—what bliss! A murmured word, a sigh, a stolen kiss— Ah, tell me, does the Promised Paradise Hold anything one-half so sweet as this? |
ND yet, since I am made of common clay, One charm I'd add to this divine array; Lord make me careful, and whate'er betide, Without proposing, let me slip away! |
OR, some I've known, the bravest and the best, Who laughed at Love, as but an idle jest, Have, one by one, walked straight into the Net, Helpless, before the Cozy Corner test! |
HUS, oft, beside some damsel fond and fair, I've sat, thrilled by the perfume of her hair, And madly longed to murmur, lip-to-lip, "Beloved, marry me!"—but did not dare! |
OR some I've wooed, when I felt blithe and gay, Have looked so different, when we met next day, That I have simply stopped to say, "So charmed!" And shuddering, sped hurriedly away! |
OOK to the Married Men! Alas, their gains Are neither here nor there, for all their pains. For wedding bells are rung—and loudly rung To drown the clanking of the Marriage Chains! |
MOMENT'S halt—a little word or two— And you have done what you can ne'er undo; Promised to pay a Woman's bills for life— Anchored yourself—and there's an end of you! |
ND we, who now make merry at the gloom Of those who thus have gone to meet their doom— May we, ourselves, not some day follow suit, Ourselves to be the Butt of jests—for whom? |
NDEED, 'tis better to have loved and lost— Taken the Kiss and fled, at any cost, Than to have loved and married, and for aye, Thereafter, by a Woman, to be bossed. |
ITH me, along that strip of Broadway strewn With lovely maids, each radiant afternoon, And think, of all the thousands you behold, That you can marry one—and only one! |
UT, if the lip I kiss, the hand I press, Upon the morrow seem to charm me less, Ah well, am I not still a Bachelor, And thus, entitled to—another Guess? |
SOME FOR THE COMFORTS OF A CLUB MAY SIGH.
OME for the comforts of a club may sigh, And some for a hermit's lonely life. Not I! Give me a cozy hearthside, and a Girl Always "at home" when I chance by! |
ER cushioned chair a spot where I may curl My weary form, and rest, beyond the whirl Of madd'ning cares; to rise at half-past ten, And call next night—upon another girl! |
HY, if a man can thus, at ease, abide Each evening by a different damsel's side, Were't not a shame—were't not a shame, for him To any one, forever to be tied? |
ND so, the girls I've set my heart upon, I've flattered, wooed a little—and anon, Just as they thought to slip the fatal Noose About my neck, behold—the Bird had flown! |
OR this the argument that I submit—
Refute it, if you can, with all your wit! That Luck in Love, for such as you and I, Consists in safely keeping out of it! . . . . . . |
HIS morn, I've quaffed at least a quart or more Of water—yet am thirsty as before; And that dark taste still lingers in the mouth With which, last night, I reformation swore. |
SOME ANGEL, WITH A SAVING DRINK.
ET, when some Angel, with a saving drink Of iced Nepenthe comes, I shall not shrink; But, having drunk of it, shall feel again As good and noble as before, I think. |
ACH morn some fresh repentance brings, you say? Yes—but where leaves the vows of Yesterday? For I shall make and break them all, again, When Time hath taken this Headache away. |
HAT if my conscience seem an idle joke— My good resolves all disappear in smoke? This thought remains—and is it not enough?— I do not wear the Matrimonial Yoke! |
AY! There is no one waiting at the door, Whene'er I wander in at half-past four, No one to question, no one to accuse, No one, my shocking frailty to deplore! |
O one to greet me with her tear-stained eyes, No one to doubt my quaint, fantastic lies, No one my foolish looks to criticize— Ah, but the knots, the KNOTS in marriage-ties! |
H Friend, could you and I, somehow, conspire, To grasp the Matrimonial Scheme entire, Would we not shatter it to bits—and then, Make of its bonds a rousing Funeral Pyre? |
YSELF, when young, did eagerly frequent The weddings of my friends on Bondage bent; But evermore thanked Fate, when I escaped Scot-free, by that same door wherein I went. |
NTO the fatal compact, why not knowing, I've seen them go, nor dream where they were going; Then out again, with shouts of "Westward, ho!" The bitter seeds of Alimony sowing! |
H well, they say that, sometimes, side by side, A cat and dog may peacefully abide. Perhaps—perhaps. But that is only when That cat and dog are not together tied! |
FT, to some patient married man I turn, The secret of his dumb content to learn, But lip-to-ear, he mutters, "Fool, beware! This is the path, whence there is no return!" |
BUT, LIP-TO-EAR, HE MUTTERS, "FOOL, BEWARE!"
H, threats of Hell, and hopes of Paradise! One thing is certain—when a Husband dies, No wife shall greet him there with "Where's" or "Why's" Nor mock with laughter his most subtle lies! |
O matter whether up or down he goes, He neither cares nor questions, I suppose; Since Death can hold no bitterness for him, Because—because—Oh well, he knows, HE KNOWS! |
OULD you the spangle of existence spend In Matrimony? Slow about, my Friend! A maiden's hair is more oft false than true, And on the chemist may her blush depend. |
MAIDEN'S hair is more oft false than true! Aye, and her Modiste is, perchance, the clue, Could you but know it, to her sylph-like grace, And, peradventure, to her Figure, too. |
HY, for this NOTHING, then, should you provoke The gods, or lightly don the galling yoke Of unpermitted pleasure, under pain Of Alimony-until-Death, if broke? |
HY, when to-day your bills are promptly paid, Assume the whims of some capricious maid, Incur the debts you never did contract, And yet must settle? Oh, the sorry trade! |
I SWORE—BUT WAS I SOBER WHEN I SWORE?
O "settle down and marry," oft of yore, I swore—but was I sober when I swore? And then there came another girl—and I Turned gaily to the old Love-Game, once more. |
ND, much as I repented things like this, And fondly dreamed of sweet Domestic Bliss, I sometimes wonder what a wife can give, One half so thrilling as a stolen kiss! |
ET, if the hair should vanish from my brow, My girth, in time, to great dimensions grow— If youth's sweet-scented "Buds" should pass me by, Accounting me an antiquated beau— |
HY then, some winged angel, ere too late—
Some maiden verging onto twenty-eight— Will gladly take what's left of me, I trow, And, leading me to wedlock, thank her Fate! . . . . . . |
LAS, for those who may to-day prepare The wedding trousseau for the morrow's wear, A voice of warning cried, "There's many a slip Betwixt the Altar and the Solitaire!" |
NTO this pact, man glides like water flowing, But out of it is not such easy going; For they, who once were simple, guileless things, In Breach-of-Promise lore are now more knowing. |
WHAT! WOULD YOU CAST A LOVING WOMAN HENCE?
HAT! Would you cast a loving Woman hence? Thou, Fickle One, prepare for penitence! Full many a golden ducat shall you pay To drown the memory of such insolence. |
ND every note, that, in your cups, you write, In cold black Type, perchance shall see the light; While all the World, across its coffee urn, Shall titter gaily at the sorry sight. |
H yes! For all the papers, which discussed Your wedding plans, shall turn your cake to crust, Publish your letters and your photographs, And trail your Egotism in the dust! |
HE Opera Queens, that men have wooed and won, Have loved them for a while, and then—anon, Like snow upon Broadway, with lightsome "touch," Annexed their millions, and alas, have flown! |
H look you, in the long and varied list Of Millionaires thus rifled and dismissed, How, rich man, after rich man, bode his hour, Then went his way, to swell the golden grist. |
HAT Diva's rubies ever glow so red As when some Gilded Chappie hath been bled? And every diamond the Show Girl wears, Dropped in her lap, when some Fool lost his head. |