The Book of Humorous Verse
Chapter 171 : There was a young lady of Lynn, Who was deep in original sin; When they said, "Do

There was a young lady of Lynn, Who was deep in original sin; When they said, "Do be good,"

She said, "Would if I could!"

And straightway went at it ag'in.

I'd rather have fingers than toes; I'd rather have ears than a nose; And as for my hair I'm glad it's all there, I'll be awfully sad when it goes.

_Gelett Burgess._

There was a young fellow named Clyde; Who was once at a funeral spied.

When asked who was dead, He smilingly said, "_I_ don't know,--I just came for the ride!"

There was a young lady of Truro, Who wished a mahogany bureau; But her father said, "Dod!

All the men on Cape Cod Couldn't buy a mahogany bureau!"

There was a young man of Ostend Who vowed he'd hold out to the end, But when halfway over From Calais to Dover, He done what he didn't intend--

There was a young man of Cohoes, Wore tar on the end of his nose; When asked why he done it, He said for the fun it Afforded the men of Cohoes.

_Robert J. Burdette._

There is a young artist called Whistler, Who in every respect is a bristler; A tube of white lead, Or a punch on the head, Come equally handy to Whistler.

_Dante Gabriel Rossetti._

There is a creator named G.o.d, Whose doings are sometimes quite odd; He made a painter named Val, And I say and I shall, That he does no great credit to G.o.d.

_J. M. Whistler._

There was a young lady of station, "I love man!" was her sole exclamation; But when men cried, "You flatter!"

She replied, "Oh, no matter!

Isle of Man, is the true explanation."

_Lewis Carroll._

There was a young lady of Twickenham, Whose shoes were too tight to walk quick in 'em; She came back from her walk, Looking white as a chalk, And took 'em both off and was sick in 'em.

_Oliver Herford._

"It's a very warm day," observed Billy.

"I hope that you won't think it silly If I say that this heat Makes me think 'twould be sweet If one were a coolie in Chile!"

_Tudor Jenks._

There was a young man from Cornell, Who said, "I'm aware of a smell, But whether it's drains Or human remains, I'm really unable to tell."

There was a young lady from Joppa, Whose friends all decided to drop her; She went with a friend On a trip to Ostend,-- And the rest of the story's improper.

There once was a sculptor named Phidias, Whose statues by some were thought hideous; He made Aphrodite Without any nighty, Which shocked all the ultra-fastidious.

John woke on Jan. first and felt queer; Said, "Crackers I'll swear off this year!

For the lobster and wine And the rabbit were fine,-- And it certainly wasn't the beer."

There was a young lady of Venice Who used hard-boiled eggs to play tennis; When they said, "You are wrong,"

She replied, "Go along!

You don't know how prolific my hen is!"

There was a young man of Fort Blainey, Who proposed to his typist named Janey; When his friends said, "Oh, dear!

She's so old and so queer!"

He replied, "But the day was so rainy!"

XIII

NONSENSE

LUNAR STANZAS

Night saw the crew like pedlers with their packs Altho' it were too dear to pay for eggs; Walk crank along with coffin on their backs While in their arms they bow their weary legs.

And yet 'twas strange, and scarce can one suppose That a brown buzzard-fly should steal and wear His white jean breeches and black woollen hose, But thence that flies have souls is very clear.

But, Holy Father! what shall save the soul, When cobblers ask three dollars for their shoes?

When cooks their biscuits with a shot-tower roll, And farmers rake their hay-c.o.c.ks with their hoes.

Yet, 'twere profuse to see for pendant light, A tea-pot dangle in a lady's ear; And 'twere indelicate, although she might Swallow two whales and yet the moon s.h.i.+ne clear.

But what to me are woven clouds, or what, If dames from spiders learn to warp their looms?

If coal-black ghosts turn soldiers for the State, With wooden eyes, and lightning-rods for plumes?

Oh! too, too shocking! barbarous, savage taste!

To eat one's mother ere itself was born!

To gripe the tall town-steeple by the waste, And scoop it out to be his drinking-horn.

No more: no more! I'm sick and dead and gone; Boxed in a coffin, stifled six feet deep; Thorns, fat and fearless, p.r.i.c.k my skin and bone, And revel o'er me, like a soulless sheep.