The Book of Humorous Verse
Chapter 80 : BY DR. OL-V-R W-ND-L H-LMES A diagnosis of our hist'ry proves Our native land a la

BY DR. OL-V-R W-ND-L H-LMES

A diagnosis of our hist'ry proves Our native land a land its native loves; Its birth a deed obstetric without peer, Its growth a source of wonder far and near.

To love it more behold how foreign sh.o.r.es Sink into nothingness beside its stores; Hyde Park at best--though counted ultra-grand-- The "Boston Common" of Victoria's land.

IV

BY R-LPH W-LDO EM-R--N

Source immaterial of material naught, Focus of light infinitesimal, Sum of all things by sleepless Nature wrought, Of which the normal man is decimal.

Refract, in prism immortal, from thy stars To the stars bent incipient on our flag, The beam translucent, neutrifying death, And raise to immortality the rag.

V

BY W-LL--M C-LL-N B-Y-NT

The sun sinks softly to his Ev'ning Post, The sun swells grandly to his morning crown; Yet not a star our Flag of Heav'n has lost, And not a sunset stripe with him goes down.

So thrones may fall, and from the dust of those New thrones may rise, to totter like the last; But still our Country's n.o.bler planet glows While the eternal stars of Heaven are fast.

VI

BY N. P. W-LL-IS

One hue of our Flag is taken From the cheeks of my blus.h.i.+ng Pet, And its stars beat time and sparkle Like the studs on her chemisette.

Its blue is the ocean shadow That hides in her dreamy eyes, It conquers all men, like her, And still for a Union flies.

VII

BY TH-M--S B-IL-Y ALD--CH

The little brown squirrel hops in the corn, The cricket quaintly sings, The emerald pigeon nods his head, And the shad in the river springs, The dainty sunflow'r hangs its head On the sh.o.r.e of the summer sea; And better far that I were dead, If Maud did not love me.

I love the squirrel that hops in the corn, And the cricket that quaintly sings; And the emerald pigeon that nods his head, And the shad that gaily springs.

I love the dainty sunflow'r, too, And Maud with her snowy breast; I love them all;--but I love--I love-- I love my country best.

_Robert H. Newell._

THE EDITOR'S WOOING

We love thee, Ann Maria Smith, And in thy condescension We see a future full of joys Too numerous to mention.

There's Cupid's arrow in thy glance, That by thy love's coercion Has reached our melting heart of hearts, And asked for one insertion.

With joy we feel the blissful smart; And ere our pa.s.sion ranges, We freely place thy love upon The list of our exchanges.

There's music in thy lowest tone, And silver in thy laughter: And truth--but we will give the full Particulars hereafter.

Oh, we could tell thee of our plans All obstacles to scatter; But we are full just now, and have A press of other matter.

Then let us marry, Queen of Smiths, Without more hesitation: The very thought doth give our blood A larger circulation.

_Robert H. Newell._

THE BABY'S DeBUT[1]

A BURLESQUE IMITATION OF WORDSWORTH--REJECTED ADDRESSES

[Spoken in the character of Nancy Lake, a girl eight years of age, who is drawn upon the stage in a child's chaise by Samuel Hughes, her uncle's porter.]

My brother Jack was nine in May, And I was eight on New-year's-day; So in Kate Wilson's shop Papa (he's my papa and Jack's) Bought me, last week, a doll of wax, And brother Jack a top.

Jack's in the pouts, and this it is-- He thinks mine came to more than his;

So to my drawer he goes, Takes out the doll, and, O, my stars!

He pokes her head between the bars, And melts off half her nose!

Quite cross, a bit of string I beg, And tie it to his peg-top's peg, And bang, with might and main, Its head against the parlor-door: Off flies the head, and hits the floor, And breaks a window-pane.

This made him cry with rage and spite: Well, let him cry, it serves him right.

A pretty thing, forsooth!

If he's to melt, all scalding hot, Half my doll's nose, and I am not To draw his peg-top's tooth!

Aunt Hannah heard the window break, And cried, "O naughty Nancy Lake, Thus to distress your aunt: No Drury Lane for you to-day!"

And while papa said, "Pooh, she may!"

Mamma said, "No, she sha'n't!"

Well, after many a sad reproach, They got into a hackney-coach, And trotted down the street.

I saw them go: one horse was blind, The tails of both hung down behind, Their shoes were on their feet.

The chaise in which poor brother Bill Used to be drawn to Pentonville, Stood in the lumber-room: I wiped the dust from off the top, While Molly mopped it with a mop, And brushed it with a broom.

My uncle's porter, Samuel Hughes, Came in at six to black the shoes, (I always talk to Sam:) So what does he, but takes, and drags Me in the chaise along the flags, And leaves me where I am.

My father's walls are made of brick, But not so tall and not so thick As these; and, goodness me!

My father's beams are made of wood, But never, never half so good As those that now I see.

What a large floor! 'tis like a town!

The carpet, when they lay it down, Won't hide it, I'll be bound; And there's a row of lamps!--my eye!