The Home Book of Verse Volume Iv Part 48

The farmer's daughter hath frank blue eyes; (b.u.t.ter and eggs and a pound of cheese) She hears the rooks caw in the windy skies, As she sits at her lattice and sh.e.l.ls her peas.

The farmer's daughter hath ripe red lips; (b.u.t.ter and eggs and a pound of cheese) If you try to approach her, away she skips Over tables and chairs with apparent ease.

The farmer's daughter hath soft brown hair; (b.u.t.ter and eggs and a pound of cheese) And I met with a ballad, I can't say where, Which wholly consisted of lines like these.

Part II She sat, with her hands 'neath her dimpled cheeks, (Butler and eggs and a pound of cheese) And spake not a word. While a lady speaks There is hope, but she didn't even sneeze.

She sat, with her hands 'neath her crimson cheeks, (b.u.t.ter and eggs and a pound of cheese) She gave up mending her father's breeks, And let the cat roll in her new chemise.

She sat, with her hands 'neath her burning cheeks, (b.u.t.ter and eggs and a pound of cheese) And gazed at the piper for thirteen weeks; Then she followed him out o'er the misty leas.

Her sheep followed her, as their tails did them.

(b.u.t.ter and eggs and a pound of cheese) And this song is considered a perfect gem, And as to the meaning, it's what you please.

Charles Stuart Calverley [1831-1884]

THE POSTER-GIRL After Dante Gabriel Rossetti

The blessed Poster-girl leaned out From a pinky-purple heaven; One eye was red and one was green; Her bang was cut uneven; She had three fingers on her hand, And the hairs on her head were seven.

Her robe, ungirt from clasp to hem, No sunflowers did adorn, But a heavy Turkish portiere Was very neatly worn; And the hat that lay along her back Was yellow like canned corn.

It was a kind of wobbly wave That she was standing on, And high aloft she flung a scarf That must have weighed a ton; And she was rather tall--at least She reached up to the sun.

She curved and writhed, and then she said, Less green of speech than blue: "Perhaps I am absurd--perhaps I don't appeal to you; But my artistic worth depends Upon the point of view."

I saw her smile, although her eyes Were only smudgy smears; And then she swished her swirling arms, And wagged her gorgeous ears, She sobbed a blue-and-green-checked sob, And wept some purple tears.

Carolyn Wells [186?--

AFTER DILETTANTE CONCETTI After Dante Gabriel Rossetti

"Why do you wear your hair like a man, Sister Helen?

This week is the third since you began."

"I'm writing a ballad; be still if you can, Little brother.

(O Mother Carey, mother!

What chickens are these between sea and heaven?)"

"But why does your figure appear so lean, Sister Helen?

And why do you dress in sage, sage green?"

"Children should never be heard, if seen, Little brother!

(O Mother Carey, mother!

What fowls are a-wing in the stormy heaven!)"

"But why is your face so yellowy white, Sister Helen?

And why are your skirts so funnily tight?"

"Be quiet, you torment, or how can I write, Little brother?

(O Mother Carey, mother!

How gathers thy train to the sea from the heaven!)"

"And who's Mother Carey, and what is her train, Sister Helen?

And why do you call her again and again?"

"You troublesome boy, why that's the refrain, Little brother.

(O Mother Carey, mother!

What work is toward in the startled heaven?)"

"And what's a refrain? What a curious word, Sister Helen!

Is the ballad you're writing about a sea-bird?"

"Not at all; why should it be? Don't be absurd, Little brother.

(O Mother Carey, mother!

Thy brood flies lower as lowers the heaven.)"

(A big brother speaketh:)

"The refrain you've studied a meaning had, Sister Helen!

It gave strange force to a weird ballad.

But refrains have become a ridiculous 'fad', Little brother.

And Mother Carey, mother, Has a bearing on nothing in earth or heaven.

"But the finical fas.h.i.+on has had its day, Sister Helen.

And let's try in the style of a different lay To bid it adieu in poetical way, Little brother.

So, Mother Carey, mother!

Collect your chickens and go to--heaven."

(A pause. Then the big brother singeth, accompanying himself in a plaintive wise on the triangle:)

"Look in my face. My name is Used-to-was, I am also called Played-out and Done-to-death, And It-will-wash-no-more. Awakeneth Slowly, but sure awakening it has, The common-sense of man; and I, alas!

The ballad-burden trick, now known too well, Am turned to scorn, and grown contemptible-- A too transparent artifice to pa.s.s.

"What a cheap dodge I am! The cats who dart Tin-kettled through the streets in wild surprise a.s.sail judicious ears not otherwise; And yet no critics praise the urchin's 'art', Who to the wretched creature's caudal part Its foolish empty-jingling 'burden' ties."

Henry Duff Traill [1842-1900]

IF After Swinburne

If life were never bitter, And love were always sweet, Then who would care to borrow A moral from to-morrow-- If Thames would always glitter, And joy would ne'er retreat, If life were never bitter, And love were always sweet!

If care were not the waiter Behind a fellow's chair, When easy-going sinners Sit down to Richmond dinners, And life's swift stream flows straighter, By Jove, it would be rare, If care were not the waiter Behind a fellow's chair.

If wit were always radiant, And wine were always iced, And bores were kicked out straightway Through a convenient gateway; Then down the year's long gradient 'Twere sad to be enticed, If wit were always radiant, And wine were always iced.