The Home Book of Verse Volume Iv Part 29

William Ernest Henley [1849-1903]

VILLON'S BALLADE Of Good Counsel, To His Friends Of Evil Life

Nay, be you pardoner or cheat, Or cogger keen, or mumper shy, You'll burn your fingers at the feat, And howl like other folks that fry.

All evil folks that love a lie!

And where goes gain that greed ama.s.ses, By wile, and guile, and thievery?

'Tis all to taverns and to la.s.ses!

Rhyme, rail, dance, play the cymbals sweet, With game, and shame, and jollity, Go jigging through the field and street, With myst'ry and morality; Win gold at gleek,--and that will fly, Where all your gain at pa.s.sage pa.s.ses,-- And that's? You know as well as I, 'Tis all to taverns and to la.s.ses!

Nay, forth from all such filth retreat, Go delve and ditch, in wet or dry, Turn groom, give horse and mule their meat, If you've no clerkly skill to ply; You'll gain enough, with husbandry, But--sow hempseed and such wild gra.s.ses, And where goes all you take thereby?-- 'Tis all to taverns and to la.s.ses!

ENVOY Your clothes, your hose, your broidery, Your linen that the snow surpa.s.ses, Or ere they're worn, off, off they fly, 'Tis all to taverns and to la.s.ses!

Andrew Lang [1844-1912]

A LITTLE BROTHER OF THE RICH

To put new s.h.i.+ngles on old roofs; To give old women wadded skirts; To treat premonitory coughs With seasonable flannel s.h.i.+rts; To soothe the stings of poverty And keep the jackal from the door,-- These are the works that occupy The Little Sister of the Poor.

She carries, everywhere she goes, Kind words and chickens, jams and coals; Poultices for corporeal woes, And sympathy for downcast souls: Her currant jelly, her quinine, The lips of fever move to bless; She makes the humble sick-room s.h.i.+ne With unaccustomed tidiness.

A heart of hers the instant twin And vivid counterpart is mine; I also serve my fellow-men, Though in a somewhat different line.

The Poor, and their concerns, she has Monopolized, because of which It falls to me to labor as A Little Brother of the Rich.

For their sake at no sacrifice Does my devoted spirit quail; I give their horses exercise; As ballast on their yachts I sail.

Upon their tallyhos I ride And brave the chances of a storm; I even use my own inside To keep their wines and victuals warm.

Those whom we strive to benefit Dear to our hearts soon grow to be; I love my Rich, and I admit That they are very good to me.

Succor the Poor, my sisters,--I, While heaven shall still vouchsafe me health, Will strive to share and mollify The trials of abounding wealth.

Edward Sandford Martin [1856-

THE WORLD'S WAY

At Haroun's court it chanced, upon a time, An Arab poet made this pleasant rhyme:

"The new moon is a horseshoe, wrought of G.o.d, Wherewith the Sultan's stallion shall be shod."

On hearing this, the Sultan smiled, and gave The man a gold-piece. Sing again, O slave!

Above his lute the happy singer bent, And turned another gracious compliment.

And, as before, the smiling Sultan gave The man a sekkah. Sing again, O slave!

Again the verse came, fluent as a rill That wanders, silver-footed, down a hill.

The Sultan, listening, nodded as before, Still gave the gold, and still demanded more.

The nimble fancy that had climbed so high Grew weary with its climbing by and by:

Strange discords rose; the sense went quite amiss; The singer's rhymes refused to meet and kiss:

Invention flagged, the lute had got unstrung, And twice he sang the song already sung.

The Sultan, furious, called a mute, and said, O Musta, straightway whip me off his head!

Poets! not in Arabia alone You get beheaded when your skill is gone.

Thomas Bailey Aldrich [1837-1907]

FOR MY OWN MONUMENT

As doctors give physic by way of prevention, Mat, alive and in health, of his tombstone took care; For delays are unsafe, and his pious intention May haply be never fulfilled by his heir.

Then take Mat's word for it, the sculptor is paid; That the figure is fine, pray believe your own eye; Yet credit but lightly what more may be said, For we flatter ourselves, and teach marble to lie.

Yet counting as far as to fifty his years, His virtues and vices were as other men's are; High hopes he conceived, and he smothered great fears, In a life parti-colored, half pleasure, half care.

Nor to business a drudge, nor to faction a slave, He strove to make interest and freedom agree; In public employments industrious and grave, And alone with his friends, lord! how merry was he!

Now in equipage stately, now humbly on foot, Both fortunes be tried, but to neither would trust; And whirled in the round, as the wheel turned about, He found riches had wings, and knew man was but dust.

This verse, little polished, though mighty sincere, Sets neither his t.i.tles nor merit to view; It says that his relics collected lie here, And no mortal yet knows too if this may be true.

Fierce robbers there are that infest the highway, So Mat may be killed, and his bones never found; False witness at court, and fierce tempests at sea, So Mat may yet chance to be hanged or be drowned.

If his bones lie in earth, roll in sea, fly in air, To Fate we must yield, and the thing is the same; And if pa.s.sing thou giv'st him a smile or a tear, He cares not--yet, prithee, be kind to his fame.

Matthew Prior [1664-1721]

THE BISHOP ORDERS HIS TOMB AT SAINT PRAXED'S CHURCH