The Book of Humorous Verse
Chapter 110 : Weeds, slime, and tangled vines! Oh, me!Had I been Annette Kellerman Or even a real me

Weeds, slime, and tangled vines! Oh, me!

Had I been Annette Kellerman Or even a real mermaid, I had lived to tell the tale.

But I slid down and under, And so Will Shaxpur told it for me.

Just as well.

But I think my death scene is unexcelled By any in cold print.

It beats that scrawny, red-headed old thing of Tom Hood's All hollow!

CASABLANCA

I played to the Grand Stand!

Sure I did, And I made good.

Ain't I in McGuffey's Third Reader?

Don't they speak pieces about me Friday afternoons?

Don't everybody know the first two lines of my story,-- And no more?

Say, I was there with the goods, Wasn't I?

And it paid.

But I wish Movin' Pitchers had been invented then!

ANNABEL LEE

They may say all they like About germs and micro-crocuses,-- Or whatever they are!

But my set opinion is,-- If you want to get a good, old-fas.h.i.+oned chills and fever, Just poke around In a damp, messy place by the sea, Without rubbers on.

A good cold wind, Blowing out of a cloud, by night, Will give you a harder shaking ague Than all the bacilli in the Basilica.

It did me.

ANGUS MCPHAIRSON

Oh, of course, It's always some dratted petticoat!

Just because that little flibbertigibbet, Annie Laurie Had a white throat and a blue e'e, She played the very devil with my peace of mind.

She'd dimple at me Till I was aboot crazy; And then laugh at me through her dimples!

She was my bespoke.

And I'd beg her to have the banns called,-- But there was no pinning her down.

Well, she was so bonny That like a fool, I said I'd lay me doon And dee for her.

And,--like a fool,-- I did.

_Carolyn Wells._

ANSWER TO MASTER WITHER'S SONG, "SHALL I, WASTING IN DESPAIR?"

Shall I, mine affections slack, 'Cause I see a woman's black?

Or myself, with care cast down, 'Cause I see a woman brown?

Be she blacker than the night, Or the blackest jet in sight!

If she be not so to me, What care I how black she be?

Shall my foolish heart be burst, 'Cause I see a woman's curst?

Or a thwarting hoggish nature Joined in as bad a feature?

Be she curst or fiercer than Brutish beast, or savage man!

If she be not so to me, What care I how curst she be?

Shall a woman's vices make Me her vices quite forsake?

Or her faults to me made known, Make me think that I have none?

Be she of the most accurst, And deserve the name of worst!

If she be not so to me, What care I how bad she be?

'Cause her fortunes seem too low, Shall I therefore let her go?

He that bears an humble mind And with riches can be kind, Think how kind a heart he'd have, If he were some servile slave!

And if that same mind I see What care I how poor she be?

Poor, or bad, or curst, or black, I will ne'er the more be slack!

If she hate me (then believe!) She shall die ere I will grieve!

If she like me when I woo I can like and love her too!

If that she be fit for me!

What care I what others be?

_Ben Jonson._

SONG OF THE SPRINGTIDE

O Season supposed of all free flowers, Made lovely by light of the sun, Of garden, of field, and of tree-flowers, Thy singers are surely in fun!

Or what is it wholly unsettles Thy sequence of shower and s.h.i.+ne, And maketh thy pus.h.i.+ngs and petals To shrivel and pine?

Why is it that o'er the wild waters That beastly North-Easter still blows, Dust-dimming the eyes of our daughters, Blue-nipping each nice little nose?

Why is it these sea-skirted islands Are plagued with perpetual chills, Driving men to Italian or Nile-lands From Albion's ills?

Happy he, O Springtide, who hath found thee, All sunlit, in luckier lands, With thy garment of greenery round thee, And belted with blossomy bands.

From us by the blast thou art drifted, All brag of thy beauties is bosh; When the songs of thy singers are sifted, They simply won't wash.

What lunatic lune, what vain vision, Thy laureate, Springtide, may move To sing thee,--oh, bitter derision!

A season of laughter and love?

You make a man mad beyond measure, O Spring, and thy lauders like thee: Thy flowers, thy pastimes and pleasures, Are fiddlededee!

_Unknown._

THE VILLAGE CHOIR

Half a bar, half a bar, Half a bar onward!

Into an awful ditch Choir and precentor hitch, Into a mess of pitch, They led the Old Hundred.

Trebles to right of them, Tenors to left of them, Ba.s.ses in front of them, Bellowed and thundered.