The Book of Humorous Verse
Chapter 10 : A APPEAL FOR ARE TO THE s.e.xTANT OF THE OLD BRICK MEETINOUSE BY A GASPER The s.e.xtant

A APPEAL FOR ARE TO THE s.e.xTANT OF THE OLD BRICK MEETINOUSE

BY A GASPER

The s.e.xtant of the meetinouse, which sweeps And dusts, or is supposed too! and makes fiers, And lites the gas and sometimes leaves a screw loose, in which case it smells orful--worse than lampile; And wrings the Bel and toles it when men dyes to the grief of survivin pardners, and sweeps pathes; And for the servases gits $100 per annum, Which them that thinks deer, let em try it; Getting up be foar star-lite in all weathers and Kindlin-fires when the wether it is cold As zero, and like as not green wood for kindlers; I wouldn't be hired to do it for no some-- But o s.e.xtant! there are 1 kermoddity Which's more than gold, wich doant cost nothin, Worth more than anything exsep the Sole of Man.

i mean pewer Are, s.e.xtent, i mean pewer are!

O it is plenty out o dores, so plenty it doant no What on airth to dew with itself, but flys about Scaterin levs and bloin of men's hatts; in short, jest "fre as are" out dores.

But o s.e.xtant, in our church its scarce as piety, scarce as bank bills wen agints beg for mischuns, Wich some say purty often (taint nothin to me, Wat I give aint nothin to n.o.body), but o s.e.xtant, u shut 500 mens wimmen and children, Speshally the latter, up in a t.i.te place, Some has bad breths, none aint 2 swete, some is fevery, some is scrofilus, some has bad teeth, And some haint none, and some aint over clean; But every 1 on em breethes in and out and out and in, Say 50 times a minit, or 1 million and a half breths an our, Now how long will a church ful of are last at that rate, I ask you, say 15 minutes, and then wats to be did?

Why then they must brethe it all over agin.

And then agin, and so on, till each has took it down, At least ten times, and let it up again, and wats more The same individible don't have the privilege of brethen his own are, and no one's else; Each one mus take whatever comes to him, O s.e.xtant, don't you know our lungs is bellusses, To blo the fier of life, and keep it from goin out; and how can bellusses blow without wind, And aint wind _are_? i put it to your conscens.

Are is the same to us as milk to babes, Or water to fish, or pendlums to clox-- Or roots and airbs unto an injun Doctor, Or little pils to an omepath, Or boys to gurls. Are is for us to brethe, Wat signifies who preeches if i cant brethe?

Wats Pol? Wats Pollus? to sinners who are ded?

Ded for want of breth? why s.e.xtant, when we die Its only coz we cant brethe no more--that's all.

And now, O s.e.xtant, let me beg of you 2 let a little are into our church.

(Pewer are is sertin proper for the pews) And do it weak days and Sundays tew-- It aint much trouble--only make a hole And the are will come in itself; (It luvs to come in whare it can git warm): And o how it will rouse the people up And sperrit up the preacher, and stop garbs, And yawns and figgits as effectooal As wind on the dry Boans the Profit tells of.

_Arabella Willson._

CUPID'S DARTS

WHICH ARE A GROWING MENACE TO THE PUBLIC

Do not worry if I scurry from the grill room in a hurry, Dropping hastily my curry and retiring into balk; Do not let it cause you wonder if, by some mischance or blunder, We encounter on the Underground and I get out and walk.

If I double as a cub'll when you meet him in the stubble, Do not think I am in trouble or attempt to make a fuss; Do not judge me melancholy or attribute it to folly If I leave the Metropolitan and travel 'n a bus.

Do not quiet your anxiety by giving me a diet, Or by base resort to _vi et armis_ fold me to your arms, And let no suspicious tremor violate your wonted phlegm or Any fear that Harold's memory is faithless to your charms.

For my pa.s.sion as I dash on in that disconcerting fas.h.i.+on Is as ardently irrational as when we forged the link When you gave your little hand away to me, my own Amanda As we sat 'n the veranda till the stars began to wink.

And I am in such a famine when your beauty I examine That it lures me as the jam invites a hungry little brat; But I fancy that, at any rate, I'd rather waste a penny Then be spitted by the many pins that bristle from your hat.

_Unknown._

A PLEA FOR TRIGAMY

I've been trying to fas.h.i.+on a wifely ideal, And find that my tastes are so far from concise That, to marry completely, no fewer than three'll Suffice

I've subjected my views to severe atmospheric Compression, but still, in defiance of force, They distinctly fall under three heads, like a cleric Discourse.

My _first_ must be fas.h.i.+on's own fancy-bred daughter, Proud, peerless, and perfect--in fact, _comme il faut_; A waltzer and wit of the very first water-- For _show_.

But these beauties that serve to make all the men jealous, Once face them alone in the family cot, Heaven's angels incarnate (the novelists tell us) They're _not_.

But so much for appearances. Now for my _second_, My lover, the wife of my home and my heart: Of all fortune and fate of my life to be reckon'd A part.

She must know all the needs of a rational being, Be skilled to keep counsel, to comfort, to coax; And, above all things else, be accomplished at seeing My jokes.

I complete the menage by including the other With all the domestic prestige of a hen: As my housekeeper, nurse, or it may be, a mother Of men.

Total _three!_ and the virtues all well represented; With fewer than this such a thing can't be done; Though I've known married men who declare they're contented With one.

Would you hunt during harvest, or hay-make in winter?

And how can one woman expect to combine Certain qualifications essentially inter- necine?

You may say that my prospects are (legally) sunless; I state that I find them as clear as can be:-- I will marry _no_ wife, since I can't do with one less Than three.

_Owen Seaman._

THE POPE

The Pope he leads a happy life, He fears not married care nor strife.

He drinks the best of Rhenish wine,-- I would the Pope's gay lot were mine.

But yet all happy's not his life, He has no maid, nor blooming wife; No child has he to raise his hope,-- I would not wish to be the Pope.

The Sultan better pleases me, His is a life of jollity; He's wives as many as he will,-- I would the Sultan's throne then fill.

But even he's a wretched man, He must obey the Alcoran; He dare not drink one drop of wine-- I would not change his lot for mine.

So here I'll take my lowly stand, I'll drink my own, my native land; I'll kiss my maiden fair and fine, And drink the best of Rhenish wine.

And when my maiden kisses me I'll think that I the Sultan be; And when my cheery gla.s.s I tope, I'll fancy then I am the Pope.

_Charles Lever._

ALL AT SEA

THE VOYAGE OF A CERTAIN UNCERTAIN SAILORMAN

I saw a certain sailorman who sat beside the sea, And in the manner of his tribe he yawned this yarn to me: "'Twere back in eighteen-fifty-three, or mebbe fifty-four, I skipped the farm,--no, 't were the shop,--an' went to Baltimore.