The Book of Humorous Verse
Chapter 77 : A Turk was standing upon the sh.o.r.e Right where the terrible Russian crossed; And he

A Turk was standing upon the sh.o.r.e Right where the terrible Russian crossed; And he cried, "Bismillah! I'm Abd el Kor-- Bazaroukilgonautoskobrosk-- Getzinpravadi-- Kilgekosladji-- Grivido-- Blivido-- Jenikodosk!"

So they stood like brave men, long and well, And they called each other their proper names, Till the lockjaw seized them, and where they fell They buried them both by the Irdosholames-- Kalatal.u.s.tchuk-- Mischaribustchup-- Bulgari-- Dulgari-- Sagharimainz.

_Robert J. Burdette._

IMITATION

Calm and implacable, Eying disdainfully the world beneath, Sat Humpty-Dumpty on his mural eminence In solemn state: And I relate his story In verse unfettered by the bothering restrictions of rhyme or metre, In verse (or "rhythm," as I prefer to call it) Which, consequently, is far from difficult to write.

He sat. And at his feet The world pa.s.sed on--the surging crowd Of men and women, pa.s.sionate, turgid, dense, Keenly alert, lethargic, or obese.

(Those two lines scan!)

Among the rest He noted Jones; Jones with his Roman nose, His eyebrows--the left one streaked with a dash of gray-- And yellow boots.

Not that Jones Has anything in particular to do with the story; But a descriptive phrase Like the above shows that the writer is A Master of Realism.

Let us proceed. Suddenly from his seat Did Humpty-Dumpty slip. Vainly he clutched The impalpable air. Down and down, Right to the foot of the wall, Right on to the horribly hard pavement that ran beneath it, Humpty-Dumpty, the unfortunate Humpty-Dumpty, Fell.

And him, alas! no equine agency, Him no power of regal battalions-- Resourceful, eager, strenuous-- Could ever restore to the lofty eminence Which once was his.

Still he lies on the very identical Spot where he fell--lies, as I said on the ground, Shamefully and conspicuously abased!

_Anthony C. Deane._

THE MIGHTY MUST

Come mighty Must!

Inevitable Shall!

In thee I trust.

Time weaves my coronal!

Go mocking Is!

Go disappointing Was!

That I am this Ye are the cursed cause!

Yet humble second shall be first, I ween; And dead and buried be the curst Has Been!

Oh weak Might Be!

Oh, May, Might, Could, Would, Should!

How powerless ye For evil or for good!

In every sense Your moods I cheerless call, Whate'er your tense Ye are imperfect, all!

Ye have deceived the trust I've shown In ye!

Away! The Mighty Must alone Shall be!

_W. S. Gilbert._

MIDSUMMER MADNESS

A SOLILOQUY

I am a hearthrug-- Yes, a rug-- Though I cannot describe myself as snug; Yet I know that for me they paid a price For a Turkey carpet that would suffice (But we live in an age of rascal vice).

Why was I ever woven, For a clumsy lout, with a wooden leg, To come with his endless Peg! Peg!

Peg! Peg!

With a wooden leg, Till countless holes I'm drove in.

("Drove," I have said, and it should be "driven"; A hearthrug's blunders should be forgiven, For wretched scribblers have exercised Such endless bosh and clamour, So improvidently have improvised, That they've utterly ungrammaticised Our ungrammatical grammar).

And the coals Burn holes, Or make spots like moles, And my lily-white tints, as black as your hat turn, And the housemaid (a matricide, will-forging slattern), Rolls The rolls From the plate, in shoals, When they're put to warm in front of the coals; And no one with me condoles, For the b.u.t.ter stains on my beautiful pattern.

But the coals and rolls, and sometimes soles, Dropp'd from the frying-pan out of the fire.

Are nothing to raise my indignant ire, Like the Peg! Peg!

Of that horrible man with the wooden leg.

This moral spread from me, Sing it, ring it, yelp it-- Never a hearthrug be, That is if you can help it.

_Unknown._

MAVRONE

ONE OF THOSE SAD IRISH POEMS, WITH NOTES

From Arranmore the weary miles I've come; An' all the way I've heard A Shrawn[1] that's kep' me silent, speechless, dumb, Not sayin' any word.

An' was it then the Shrawn of Eire,[2] you'll say, For him that died the death on Carrisbool?

It was not that; nor was it, by the way, The Sons of Garnim[3] blitherin' their drool; Nor was it any Crowdie of the Shee,[4]

Or Itt, or Himm, nor wail of Barryhoo[5]

For Barrywhich that stilled the tongue of me.

'Twas but my own heart cryin' out for you Magraw![6] Bulleen, s.h.i.+nnanigan, Boru, Aroon, Machree, Aboo![7]

_Arthur Guiterman._

[Footnote 1: A Shrawn is a pure Gaelic noise, something like a groan, more like a shriek, and most like a sigh of longing.]

[Footnote 2: Eire was daughter of Carne, King of Connaught. Her lover, Murdh of the Open Hand, was captured by Greatcoat Mackintosh, King of Ulster, on the plain of Carrisbool, and made into soup. Eire's grief on this sad occasion has become proverbial.]

[Footnote 3: Garnim was second cousin to Manannan MacLir. His sons were always sad about something. There were twenty-two of them, and they were all unfortunate in love at the same time, just like a chorus at the opera. "Blitherin' their drool" is about the same as "dreeing their weird."]

[Footnote 4: The Shee (or "Sidhe," as I should properly spell it if you were not so ignorant) were, as everybody knows, the regular, stand-pat, organization fairies of Erin. The Crowdie was their annual convention, at which they made melancholy sounds. The Itt and Himm were the irregular, or insurgent, fairies. They _never_ got any offices or patronage. See MacAlester, _Polity of the Sidhe of West Meath_, page 985.]

[Footnote 5: The Barryhoo is an ancient Celtic bird about the size of a Mavis, with lavender eyes and a black-c.r.a.pe tail. It continually mourns its mate (Barrywhich, feminine form), which has an hereditary predisposition to an early and tragic demise and invariably dies first.]