The Home Book of Verse Volume Iv Part 44

When you and I have ceased Champagne to Sup, Be sure there will be More to Keep it Up; And while we pat Old Tabby by the fire, Full many a Girl will lead her Brindled Pup.

Josephine Daskam Bacon [1876-

"WHEN LOVELY WOMAN"

After Goldsmith

When lovely woman wants a favor, And finds, too late, that man won't bend, What earthly circ.u.mstance can save her From disappointment in the end?

The only way to bring him over, The last experiment to try, Whether a husband or a lover, If he have feeling is--to cry.

Phoebe Cary [1824-1871]

FRAGMENT IN IMITATION OF WORDSWORTH

There is a river clear and fair, 'Tis neither broad nor narrow; It winds a little here and there-- It winds about like any hare; And then it holds as straight a course As, on the turnpike road, a horse, Or, through the air, an arrow.

The trees that grow upon the sh.o.r.e Have grown a hundred years or more; So long there is no knowing: Old Daniel Dobson does not know When first those trees began to grow; But still they grew, and grew, and grew, As if they'd nothing else to do, But ever must be growing.

The impulses of air and sky Have reared their stately heads so high, And clothed their boughs with green; Their leaves the dews of evening quaff,-- And when the wind blows loud and keen, I've seen the jolly timbers laugh, And shake their sides with merry glee-- Wagging their heads in mockery.

Fixed are their feet in solid earth Where winds can never blow; But visitings of deeper birth Have reached their roots below.

For they have gained the river's brink And of the living waters drink.

There's little Will, a five years' child-- He is my youngest boy; To look on eyes so fair and wild, It is a very joy.

He hath conversed with sun and shower, And dwelt with every idle flower, As fresh and gay as them.

He loiters with the briar-rose,-- The blue-bells are his playfellows, That dance upon their slender stem.

And I have said, my little Will, Why should he not continue still A thing of Nature's rearing?

A thing beyond the world's control-- A living vegetable soul,-- No human sorrow fearing.

It were a blessed sight to see That child become a willow-tree, His brother trees among.

He'd be four times as tall as me, And live three times as long.

Catherine M. Fanshawe [1765-1834]

ONLY SEVEN After Wordsworth

I marvelled why a simple child, That lightly draws its breath, Should utter groans so very wild, And look as pale as death.

Adopting a parental tone, I asked her why she cried; The damsel answered with a groan, "I've got a pain inside!

"I thought it would have sent me mad Last night about eleven."

Said I, "What is it makes you bad?

How many apples have you had?"

She answered, "Only seven!"

"And are you sure you took no more, My little maid?" quoth I; "Oh, please, sir, mother gave me four, But they were in a pie!"

"If that's the case," I stammered out, "Of course you've had eleven."

The maiden answered with a pout, "I ain't had more nor seven!"

I wondered hugely what she meant, And said, "I'm bad at riddles; But I know where little girls are sent For telling taradiddles.

"Now, if you don't reform," said I, "You'll never go to heaven."

But all in vain; each time I try, That little idiot makes reply, "I ain't had more nor seven!"

POSTSCRIPT: To borrow Wordsworth's name was wrong, Or slightly misapplied; And so I'd better call my song "Lines after Ache-inside."

Henry Sambrooke Leigh [1837-1883]

LUCY LAKE After Wordsworth

Poor Lucy Lake was overgrown, But somewhat underbrained.

She did not know enough, I own, To go in when it rained.

Yet Lucy was constrained to go; Green bedding,--you infer.

Few people knew she died, but oh, The difference to her!

Newton Mackintosh [1858-

JANE SMITH After Wordsworth

I journeyed, on a winter's day, Across the lonely wold; No bird did sing upon the spray, And it was very cold.

I had a coach with horses four, Three white (though one was black), And on they went the common o'er, Nor swiftness did they lack.

A little girl ran by my side, And she was pinched and thin.

"Oh, please, sir, do give me a ride!

I'm fetching mother's gin."

"Enter my coach, sweet child," said I, "For you shall ride with me; And I will get you your supply Of mother's eau-de-vie."

The publican was stern and cold, And said: "Her mother's score Is writ, as you shall soon behold, Behind the bar-room door!"