The Book of Humorous Verse
Chapter 79 : BYGONES Or ever a lick of Art was done, Or ever a one to care, I was a Purple Polygon,

BYGONES

Or ever a lick of Art was done, Or ever a one to care, I was a Purple Polygon, And you were a Sky-Blue Square.

You yearned for me across a void, For I lay in a different plane, I'd set my heart on a Red Rhom_boid_, And your sighing was in vain.

You pined for me as well I knew, And you faded day by day, Until the Square that was heavenly Blue, Had paled to an ashen grey.

A myriad years or less or more, Have softly fluttered by, Matters are much as they were before, Except 'tis I that sigh.

I yearn for you, but I have no chance, You lie in a different plane, I break my heart for a single glance, And I break said heart in vain.

And ever I grow more pale and wan, And taste your old despair, When I was a Purple Polygon, And you were a Sky-Blue Square.

_Bert Leston Taylor._

JUSTICE TO SCOTLAND

AN UNPUBLISHED POEM BY BURNS

O mickle yeuks the keckle doup, An' a' unsicker girns the graith, For wae and wae! the crowdies loup O'er jouk an' hallan, braw an' baith Where ance the coggie hirpled fair, And blithesome poort.i.th toomed the loof, There's nae a burnie giglet rare But blaws in ilka jinking coof.

The routhie bield that gars the gear Is gone where glint the pawky een.

And aye the stound is birkin lear Where sconnered yowies wheeped yestreen, The crees.h.i.+e rax wi' skelpin' kaes Nae mair the howdie bicker whangs, Nor weanies in their wee bit claes Glour light as lammies wi' their sangs.

Yet leeze me on my bonny byke!

My drappie aiblins blinks the noo, An' leesome luve has lapt the d.y.k.e Forgatherin' just a wee bit fou.

And Scotia! while thy rantin' lunt Is mirk and moop with gowans fine, I'll stowlins pit my unco brunt, An' cleek my duds for auld lang syne.

_Unknown._

LAMENT OF THE SCOTCH-IRISH EXILE

Oh, I want to win me hame To my ain countrie, The land frae whence I came Far away across the sea; Bit I canna find it there, on the atlas anywhere, And I greet and wonder sair Where the deil it can be?

I hae never met a man, In a' the warld wide, Who has trod my native lan'

Or its distant sh.o.r.es espied; But they tell me there's a place where my hypothetic race Its dim origin can trace-- Tipperary-on-the-Clyde.

But anither answers: "Nae, Ye are varra far frae richt; Glasgow town in Dublin Bay Is the spot we saw the licht."

But I dinna find the maps bearing out these pawkie chaps, And I sometimes think perhaps It has vanished out o' sight.

Oh, I fain wad win me hame To that undiscovered lan'

That has neither place nor name Where the Scoto-Irishman May behold the castles fair by his fathers builded there Many, many ages ere Ancient history began.

_James Jeffrey Roche._

A SONG OF SORROW

A LULLABYLET FOR A MAGAZINELET

Wan from the wild and woful West-- Sleep, little babe, sleep on!

Mother will sing to--you know the rest-- Sleep, little babe, sleep on!

Softly the sand steals slowly by, Cursed be the curlew's chittering cry; By-a-by, oh, by-a-by!

Sleep, little babe, sleep on!

Rosy and sweet come the hush of night-- Sleep, little babe, sleep on!

(Twig to the lilt, I have got it all right) Sleep, little babe, sleep on!

Dark are the dark and darkling days Winding the webbed and winsome ways, Homeward she creeps in dim amaze-- Sleep, little babe, sleep on!

(But it waked up, drat it!)

_Charles Battell Loomis._

THE REJECTED "NATIONAL HYMNS"

I

BY H---Y W. L-NGF----W

Back in the years when Phlagstaff, the Dane, was monarch Over the sea-ribb'd land of the fleet-footed Nors.e.m.e.n, Once there went forth young Ursa to gaze at the heavens-- Ursa--the n.o.blest of all the Vikings and hors.e.m.e.n.

Musing, he sat in his stirrups and viewed the horizon, Where the Aurora lapt stars in a North-polar manner, Wildly he started,--for there in the heavens before him Flutter'd and flam'd the original Star Spangled Banner.

II

BY J-HN GR--NL--F WH--T--R

My Native Land, thy Puritanic stock Still finds its roots firm-bound in Plymouth Rock, And all thy sons unite in one grand wish-- To keep the virtues of Preserved Fish.

Preserved Fish, the Deacon stern and true, Told our New England what her sons should do, And if they swerve from loyalty and right, Then the whole land is lost indeed in night.

III