The Book of Humorous Verse
Chapter 147 : Faith, it's so killing you are, you a.s.sa.s.sinate-- Murder's the word for

Faith, it's so killing you are, you a.s.sa.s.sinate-- Murder's the word for you, Barney McGee!

Bold when they're sunny, and smooth when they're showery-- Oh, but the style of you, fluent and flowery!

Chesterfield's way, with a touch of the Bowery!

How, would they silence you, Barney machree?

Naught can your gab allay, Learned as Rabelais (You in his abbey lay Once on the spree).

Here's to the smile of you, (Oh, but the guile of you!) And a long while of you, Barney McGee!

Facile with phrases of length and Latinity, Like honorificabilitudinity, Where is the maid could resist your vicinity, Wiled by the impudent grace of your plea?

Then your vivacity and pertinacity Carry the day with the divil's audacity; No mere veracity robs your sagacity Of perspicacity, Barney McGee.

When all is new to them, What will you do to them?

Will you be true to them?

Who shall decree?

Here's a fair strife to you!

Health and long life to you!

And a great wife to you, Barney McGee!

Barney McGee, you're the pick of gentility; Nothing can phase you, you've such a facility; n.o.body ever yet found your utility There is the charm of you, Barney McGee; Under conditions that others would stammer in, Still unperturbed as a cat or a Cameron, Polished as somebody in the Decameron, Putting the glamour on price or p.a.w.nee.

In your meanderin', Love and philanderin', Calm as a mandarin Sipping his tea!

Under the art of you, Parcel and part of you, Here's to the heart of you, Barney McGee!

You who were ever alert to befriend a man, You who were ever the first to defend a man, You who had always the money to lend a man, Down on his luck and hard up for a V!

Sure, you'll be playing a harp in beat.i.tude (And a quare sight you will be in that att.i.tude)-- Some day, where grat.i.tude seems but a plat.i.tude, You'll find your lat.i.tude, Barney McGee.

That's no flim-flam at all, Frivol or sham at all, Just the plain--d.a.m.n it all, Have one with me!

Here's one and more to you!

Friends by the score to you, True to the core to you, Barney MeGee!

_Richard Hovey._

ADDRESS TO THE TOOTHACHE

My curse upon your venom'd stang, That shoots my tortur'd gooms alang; An' thro' my lug gies monie a tw.a.n.g, Wi' gnawing vengeance, Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang, Like racking engines!

A' down my beard the slavers trickle!

I throw the wee stools o'er the mickle, While round the fire the giglets keckle To see me loup; An', raving mad, I wish a heckle Were i' their doup!

When fevers burn, or ague freezes, Rheumatics gnaw, or colic squeezes, Our neebors sympathize to ease us Wi' pitying moan; But thee!--thou h.e.l.l o' a' diseases, They mock our groan!

Of a' the num'rous human dools, Ill-hairsts, daft bargains, cutty-stools, Or worthy frien's laid i' the mools, Sad sight to see!

The tricks o' knaves, or fash o' fools, Thou bear'st the gree!

Whare'er that place be priests ca' h.e.l.l, Whare a' the tones o' misery yell, An' ranked plagues their numbers tell In dreadfu' raw, Thou, Toothache, surely bear'st the bell Amang them a'!

O thou grim, mischief-making chiel, That gars the notes o' discord squeel, 'Till humankind aft dance a reel In gore a shoe-thick;-- Gie a' the faes o' Scotland's weal A towmond's toothache!

_Robert Burns._

A FAREWELL TO TOBACCO

May the Babylonish curse Straight confound my stammering verse, If I can a pa.s.sage see In this word-perplexity, Or a fit expression find, Or a language to my mind, (Still the phrase is wide or scant) To take leave of thee, _great plant_!

Or in any terms relate Half my love, or half my hate: For I hate, yet love thee so, That, whichever thing I show, The plain truth will seem to be A contrain'd hyperbole, And the pa.s.sion to proceed More from a mistress than a weed.

Sooty retainer to the vine, Bacchus' black servant, negro fine; Sorcerer, that mak'st us dote upon Thy begrimed complexion, And, for thy pernicious sake, More and greater oaths to break Than reclaimed lovers take 'Gainst women: thou thy siege dost lay Much too in the female way, While thou suck'st the laboring breath Faster than kisses or than death.

Thou in such a cloud dost bind us That our worst foes cannot find us, And ill-fortune, that would thwart us, Shoots at rovers, shooting at us; While each man, through thy height'ning steam, Does like a smoking Etna seem, And all about us does express (Fancy and wit in richest dress) A Sicilian fruitfulness.

Thou through such a mist dost show us That our best friends do not know us, And, for those allowed features, Due to reasonable creatures, Liken'st us to fell Chimeras, Monsters,--that who see us, fear us; Worse than Cerberus or Geryon, Or, who first loved a cloud, Ixion.

Bacchus we know, and we allow His tipsy rites. But what art thou That but by reflex canst show What his deity can do, As the false Egyptian spell Aped the true Hebrew miracle?

Some few vapors thou may'st raise, The weak brain may serve to amaze, But to the reins and n.o.bler heart Canst nor life nor heat impart.

Brother of Bacchus, later born, The old world was sure forlorn Wanting thee, that aidest more The G.o.d's victories than, before, All his panthers, and the brawls Of his piping Baccha.n.a.ls.

These, as stale, we disallow, Or judge of _thee_ meant: only thou His true Indian conquest art; And, for ivy round his dart, The reformed G.o.d now weaves A finer thyrsus of thy leaves.

Scent to match thy rich perfume Chemic art did ne'er presume Through her quaint alembic strain, None so sov'reign to the brain; Nature, that did in thee excel, Framed again no second smell, Roses, violets, but toys For the smaller sort of boys, Or for greener damsels meant; Thou art the only manly scent.

Stinkingest of the stinking kind!

Filth of the mouth and fog of the mind!

Africa, that brags her foison, Breeds no such prodigious poison!

Henbane, nightshade, both together, Hemlock, aconite--

Nay, rather, Plant divine, of rarest virtue; Blisters on the tongue would hurt you!

'Twas but in a sort I blamed thee; None e'er prosper'd who defamed thee; Irony all, and feign'd abuse, Such as perplex'd lovers use, At a need, when, in despair To paint forth their fairest fair, Or in part but to express That exceeding comeliness Which their fancies doth so strike, They borrow language of dislike; And, instead of Dearest Miss, Jewel, Honey, Sweetheart, Bliss, And those forms of old admiring, Call her c.o.c.katrice and Siren, Basilisk, and all that's evil, Witch, Hyena, Mermaid, Devil, Ethiop, Wench, and Blackamoor, Monkey, Ape, and twenty more; Friendly Trait'ress, loving Foe-- Not that she is truly so, But no other way they know A contentment to express, Borders so upon excess, That they do not rightly wot Whether it be from pain or not.

Or, as men constrain'd to part With what's nearest to their heart, While their sorrow's at the height, Lose discrimination quite, And their hasty wrath let fall, To appease their frantic gall, On the darling thing whatever, Whence they feel it death to sever Though it be, as they, perforce, Guiltless of the sad divorce.

For I must (nor let it grieve thee, Friendliest of plants, that I must) leave thee.

For thy sake, |TOBACCO|, I Would do anything but die, And but seek to extend my days Long enough to sing thy praise.

But, as she who once hath been A king's consort is a queen Ever after, nor will bate Any t.i.ttle of her state Though a widow, or divorced, So I, from thy converse forced, The old name and style retain, A right Katherine of Spain; And a seat, too, 'mongst the joys Of the blest Tobacco Boys; Where, though I, by sour physician, Am debarr'd the full fruition Of thy favors, I may catch Some collateral sweets, and s.n.a.t.c.h Sidelong odors, that give life Like glances from a neighbor's wife; And still live in the by-places And the suburbs of thy graces; And in thy borders take delight, An unconquer'd Canaanite.

_Charles Lamb._

JOHN BARLEYCORN

There were three kings into the east, Three kings both great and high; And they hae sworn a solemn oath John Barleycorn should die.

They took a plough and plough'd him down, Put clods upon his head; And they hae sworn a solemn oath John Barleycorn was dead.