The Book of Humorous Verse
Chapter 102 : She took the porcelain in her hand (O weary mother, drive the cows to roost); She pour

She took the porcelain in her hand (O weary mother, drive the cows to roost); She poured; I drank at her command; Drank deep, and now--you understand!

(O weary mother, drive the cows to roost.)

9--(_Burns, who liked it adulterated_)

Weel, gin ye speir, I'm no inclined, Whusky or tay--to state my mind, Fore ane or ither; For, gin I tak the first, I'm fou, And gin the next, I'm dull as you, Mix a' thegither.

10--(_Walt Whitman, who didn't stay more than a minute_)

One cup for myself-hood, Many for you. Allons, camerados, we will drink together, O hand-in-hand! That tea-spoon, please, when you've done with it.

What b.u.t.ter-colour'd hair you've got. I don't want to be personal.

All right, then, you needn't. You're a stale-cadaver.

Eighteen-pence if the bottles are returned.

Allons, from all bat-eyed formula.

_Barry Pain._

HOW OFTEN

They stood on the bridge at midnight, In a park not far from the town; They stood on the bridge at midnight, Because they didn't sit down.

The moon rose o'er the city, Behind the dark church spire; The moon rose o'er the city And kept on rising higher.

How often, oh, how often!

They whispered words so soft; How often, oh, how often; How often, oh, how oft!

_Ben King._

IF I SHOULD DIE TO-NIGHT

If I should die to-night And you should come to my cold corpse and say, Weeping and heartsick o'er my lifeless clay-- If I should die to-night, And you should come in deepest grief and woe-- And say: "Here's that ten dollars that I owe,"

I might arise in my large white cravat And say, "What's that?"

If I should die to-night And you should come to my cold corpse and kneel, Clasping my bier to show the grief you feel, I say, if I should die to-night And you should come to me, and there and then Just even hint 'bout paying me that ten, I might arise the while, But I'd drop dead again.

_Ben King._

"THE DAY IS DONE"

The day is done, and darkness From the wing of night is loosed, As a feather is wafted downward, From a chicken going to roost.

I see the lights of the baker, Gleam through the rain and mist, And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me, That I cannot well resist.

A feeling of sadness and longing That is not like being sick, And resembles sorrow only As a brickbat resembles a brick.

Come, get for me some supper,-- A good and regular meal-- That shall soothe this restless feeling, And banish the pain I feel.

Not from the pastry bakers, Not from the shops for cake; I wouldn't give a farthing For all that they can make.

For, like the soup at dinner, Such things would but suggest Some dishes more substantial, And to-night I want the best.

Go to some honest butcher, Whose beef is fresh and nice, As any they have in the city And get a liberal slice.

Such things through days of labor, And nights devoid of ease, For sad and desperate feelings, Are wonderful remedies.

They have an astonis.h.i.+ng power To aid and reinforce, And come like the "finally, brethren,"

That follows a long discourse.

Then get me a tender sirloin From off the bench or hook.

And lend to its sterling goodness The science of the cook.

And the night shall be filled with comfort, And the cares with which it begun Shall fold up their blankets like Indians, And silently cut and run.

_Ph[oe]be Cary._

JACOB

He dwelt among "Apartments let,"

About five stories high; A man, I thought, that none would get, And very few would try.

A boulder, by a larger stone Half hidden in the mud, Fair as a man when only one Is in the neighborhood.

He lived unknown, and few could tell When Jacob was not free; But he has got a wife--and O!

The difference to me!

_Ph[oe]be Cary._

BALLAD OF THE Ca.n.a.l

We were crowded in the cabin, Not a soul had room to sleep; It was midnight on the waters, And the banks were very steep.

'Tis a fearful thing when sleeping, To be startled by the shock, And to hear the rattling trumpet Thunder, "Coming to a lock!"