The Book of Humorous Verse
Chapter 173 : The c.u.mberbunce, without ado, Gazed sadly on the ocean blue, And, lifting up its lit

The c.u.mberbunce, without ado, Gazed sadly on the ocean blue, And, lifting up its little head, In tones of awful longing, said:

"Oh, I would sing of mackerel skies, And why the sea is wet, Of jelly-fish and conger-eels, And things that I forget.

And I would hum a plaintive tune Of why the waves are hot As water boiling on a stove, Excepting that they're not!

"And I would sing of hooks and eyes, And why the sea is slant, And gayly tips the little s.h.i.+ps, Excepting that I can't!

I never sang a single song, I never hummed a note.

There is in me no melody, No music in my throat.

"So that is why I do not sing Of sharks, or whales, or anything!"

I looked in innocent surprise, My wonder showing in my eyes, "Then why, O, c.u.mberbunce," I cried, "Did you come walking at my side And ask me if you, please, might sing, When you could not warble anything?"

"I did not ask permission, sir, I really did not, I aver.

You, sir, misunderstood me, quite.

I did not ask you if I _might_.

Had you correctly understood, You'd know I asked you if I _could_.

So, as I cannot sing a song, Your answer, it is plain, was wrong.

The fact I could not sing I knew, But wanted your opinion, too."

A voice came softly o'er the lea.

"Farewell! my mate is calling me!"

I saw the creature disappear, Its voice, in parting, smote my ear-- "I thought all people understood The difference 'twixt 'might' and 'could'!"

_Paul West._

MR. FINNEY'S TURNIP

Mr. Finney had a turnip And it grew and it grew; And it grew behind the barn, And that turnip did no harm.

There it grew and it grew Till it could grow no longer; Then his daughter Lizzie picked it And put it in the cellar.

There it lay and it lay Till it began to rot; And his daughter Susie took it And put it in the pot.

And they boiled it and boiled it As long as they were able, And then his daughters took it, And put it on the table.

Mr. Finney and his wife They sat down to sup; And they ate and they ate And they ate that turnip up.

_Unknown._

NONSENSE VERSES

Lazy-bones, lazy-bones, wake up and peep!

The cat's in the cupboard, your mother's asleep.

There you sit snoring, forgetting her ills; Who is to give her her Bolus and Pills?

Twenty fine Angels must come into town, All for to help you to make your new gown: Dainty aerial Spinsters and Singers; Aren't you ashamed to employ such white fingers?

Delicate hands, unaccustom'd to reels, To set 'em working a poor body's wheels?

Why they came down is to me all a riddle, And left Hallelujah broke off in the middle: Jove's Court, and the Presence angelical, cut-- To eke out the work of a lazy young s.l.u.t.

Angel-duck, Angel-duck, winged and silly, Pouring a watering-pot over a lily, Gardener gratuitous, careless of pelf, Leave her to water her lily herself, Or to neglect it to death if she chuse it: Remember the loss is her own if she lose it.

_Charles Lamb._

LIKE TO THE THUNDERING TONE

Like to the thundering tone of unspoke speeches, Or like a lobster clad in logic breeches, Or like the gray fur of a crimson cat, Or like the mooncalf in a slipshod hat; E'en such is he who never was begotten Until his children were both dead and rotten.

Like to the fiery tombstone of a cabbage, Or like a crab-louse with its bag and baggage, Or like the four square circle of a ring, Or like to hey ding, ding-a, ding-a, ding; E'en such is he who spake, and yet, no doubt, Spake to small purpose, when his tongue was out.

Like to a fair, fresh, fading, wither'd rose, Or like to rhyming verse that runs in prose, Or like the stumbles of a tinder-box, Or like a man that's sound yet sickness mocks; E'en such is he who died and yet did laugh To see these lines writ for his epitaph.

_Bishop Corbet in 17th century._

aeSTIVATION

In candent ire the solar splendour flames; The foles, languescent, pend from arid rames; His humid front the cive, anheling, wipes, And dreams of erring on ventiferous ripes.

How dolce to vive occult to mortal eyes, Dorm on the herb with none to supervise, Carp the suave berries from the crescent vine, And bibe the flow from longicaudate kine!

To me, alas! no verdurous visions come, Save yon exiguous pool's conferva-sc.u.m-- No concave vast repeats the tender hue That laves my milk-jug with celestial blue.

Me wretched! let me curr to quercine shades!

Effund your albid hausts, lactiferous maids!

Oh, might I vole to some umbrageous clump,-- Depart--be off,--excede,--evade,--crump!

_Oliver Wendell Holmes._

UNCLE SIMON AND UNCLE JIM