The Book of Humorous Verse
Chapter 93 : Know'st thou not "mercy is not strain'd, But droppeth as the gentle dew,

Know'st thou not "mercy is not strain'd, But droppeth as the gentle dew,"

And while it blesseth him who gain'd, It blesseth him who gave it, too?

Say, what art thou? and what is he, Pale victim of despair and pain, Whose streaming eyes and bended knee Sue to thee thus--and sue in vain?

Cold callous man!--he scorns to yield, Or aught relax his felon gripe, But answers, "I'm Inspector Field And this here warment's prigg'd your wipe."

_Richard Harris Barham._

RURAL RAPTURES

'Tis sweet at dewy eve to rove When softly sighs the western breeze, And wandering 'mid the starlit grove To take a pinch of snuff and sneeze.

'Tis sweet to see in daisied field The flocks and herds their pleasure take; But sweeter are the joys they yield In tender chop and juicy steak.

'Tis sweet to hear the murmurous sound That from the vocal woods doth rise, To mark the pigeons wheeling round, And think how nice they'd be in pies.

When nightingales pour from their throats Their gus.h.i.+ng melody, 'tis sweet; Yet sweeter 'tis to catch the notes That issue from Threadneedle Street.

_Unknown._

A FRAGMENT

His eye was stern and wild--his cheek was pale and cold as clay; Upon his tightened lip a smile of fearful meaning lay.

He mused awhile--but not in doubt--no trace of doubt was there; It was the steady solemn pause of resolute despair.

Once more he looked upon the scroll--once more its words he read-- Then calmly, with unflinching hand, its folds before him spread.

I saw him bare his throat, and seize the blue-cold gleaming steel, And grimly try the tempered edge he was so soon to feel!

A sickness crept upon my heart, and dizzy swam my headI could not stir--I could not cry--I felt benumbed and dead; Black icy horrors struck me dumb, and froze my senses o'er; I closed my eyes in utter fear, and strove to think no more.

Again I looked: a fearful change across his face had pa.s.sed-- He seemed to rave--on cheek and lip a flaky foam was cast; He raised on high the glittering blade--then first I found a tongue-- "Hold, madman! stay thy frantic deed!" I cried, and forth I sprung; He heard me, but he heeded not; one glance around he gave, And ere I could arrest his hands, he had--begun to _shave_!

_Unknown._

THE BITER BIT

The sun is in the sky, mother, the flowers are springing fair, And the melody of woodland birds is stirring in the air; The river, smiling to the sky, glides onward to the sea, And happiness is everywhere, oh, mother, but with me!

They are going to the church, mother--I hear the marriage bell It booms along the upland--oh! it haunts me like a knell; He leads her on his arm, mother, he cheers her faltering step, And closely to his side she clings--she does, the demirep!

They are crossing by the stile, mother, where we so oft have stood, The stile beside the shady thorn, at the corner of the wood; And the boughs, that wont to murmur back the words that won my ear, Wave their silver branches o'er him, as he leads his bridal fere.

He will pa.s.s beside the stream, mother, where first my hand he pressed, By the meadow where, with quivering lip, his pa.s.sion he confessed; And down the hedgerows where we've strayed again and yet again; But he will not think of me, mother, his broken-hearted Jane!

He said that I was proud, mother, that I looked for rank and gold, He said I did not love him--he said my words were cold; He said I kept him off and on, in hopes of higher game-- And it may be that I did, mother; but who hasn't done the same.

I did not know my heart, mother--I know it now too late; I thought that I without a pang could wed some n.o.bler mate; But no n.o.bler suitor sought me--and he has taken wing, And my heart is gone, and I am left a lone and blighted thing.

You may lay me in my bed, mother--my head is throbbing sore; And, mother, prithee, let the sheets be duly aired before; And, if you'd please, my mother dear, your poor desponding child, Draw me a pot of beer, mother, and, mother, draw it mild!

_William E. Aytoun._

COMFORT IN AFFLICTION

"Wherefore starts my bosom's lord?

Why this anguish in thine eye?

Oh, it seems as thy heart's chord Had broken with that sigh!

"Rest thee, my dear lord, I pray, Rest thee on my bosom now!

And let me wipe the dews away, Are gathering on thy brow.

"There, again! that fevered start!

What, love! husband! is thy pain?

There is a sorrow in thy heart, A weight upon thy brain!

"Nay, nay, that sickly smile can ne'er Deceive affection's searching eye; 'Tis a wife's duty, love, to share Her husband's agony.

"Since the dawn began to peep, Have I lain with stifled breath; Heard thee moaning in thy sleep, As thou wert at grips with death.

"Oh, what joy it was to see My gentle lord once more awake!

Tell me, what is amiss with thee?

Speak, or my heart will break!"

"Mary, thou angel of my life, Thou ever good and kind; 'Tis not, believe me, my dear wife, The anguish of the mind!

"It is not in my bosom, dear, No, nor in my brain, in sooth; But, Mary, oh, I feel it here, Here in my wisdom tooth!

"Then give,--oh, first, best antidote,-- Sweet partner of my bed!

Give me thy flannel petticoat To wrap around my head!"

_William E. Aytoun._