A Nonsense Anthology - LightNovelsOnl.com
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TO MOLLIDUSTA
When gooseberries grow on the stem of a daisy, And plum-puddings roll on the tide to the sh.o.r.e, And julep is made from the curls of a jazey, Oh, then, Mollidusta, I'll love thee no more.
When steamboats no more on the Thames shall be going, And a cast-iron bridge reach Vauxhall from the Nore, And the Grand Junction waterworks cease to be flowing, Oh, then, Mollidusta, I'll love thee no more.
_Planche_.
JOHN JONES
_At the Piano_
I
Love me and leave me; what love bids retrieve me? can June's fist grasp May?
Leave me and love me; hopes eyed once above me like spring's sprouts, decay; Fall as the snow falls, when summer leaves grow false--cards packed for storm's play!
II
Nay, say Decay's self be but last May's elf, wing s.h.i.+fted, eye sheathed-- Changeling in April's crib rocked, who lets 'scape rills locked fast since frost breathed-- Skin cast (think!) adder-like, now bloom bursts bladder-like,-- bloom frost bequeathed?
III
Ah, how can fear sit and hear as love hears it grief's heart's cracked grate's screech?
Chance lets the gate sway that opens on hate's way and shews on shame's beach Crouched like an imp sly change watch sweet love's shrimps lie, a toothful in each.
IV
Time feels his tooth slip on husks wet from Truth's lip, which drops them and grins-- Sh.e.l.ls where no throb stirs of life left in lobsters since joy thrilled their fins-- Hues of the p.a.w.n's tail or comb that makes dawn stale, so red for our sins!
V
Leaves love last year smelt now feel dead love's tears melt--flies caught in time's mes.h.!.+
Salt are the dews in which new time breeds new sin, brews blood and stews flesh; Next year may see dead more germs than this weeded and reared them afresh.
Old times left perish, new time to cherish; life just s.h.i.+fts its tune; As, when the day dies, half afraid, eyes the growth of the moon; Love me and save me, take me or waive me; death takes one so soon!
_A.C. Swinburne_.
_THE OWL AND THE p.u.s.s.y-CAT_
The Owl and the p.u.s.s.y-Cat went to sea In a beautiful pea-green boat: They took some honey, and plenty of money Wrapped up in a five-pound note.
The Owl looked up to the stars above, And sang to a small guitar, "Oh, lovely p.u.s.s.y, oh, p.u.s.s.y, my love, What a beautiful p.u.s.s.y you are, You are, You are!
What a beautiful p.u.s.s.y you are!"
p.u.s.s.y said to the Owl, "You elegant fowl, How charmingly sweet you sing!
Oh, let us be married; too long we have tarried: But what shall we do for a ring?"
They sailed away for a year and a day, To the land where the bong-tree grows; And there in the wood a Piggy-wig stood, With a ring at the end of his nose, His nose, His nose, With a ring at the end of his nose.
"Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one s.h.i.+lling Your ring?" Said the Piggy, "I will."
So they took it away and were married next day By the Turkey who lives on the hill.
They dined on mince and slices of quince, Which they ate with a runcible spoon; And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand, They danced by the light of the moon, The moon, The moon, They danced by the light of the moon.
_Edward Lear_.
A BALLADE OF THE NURSERIE
She hid herself in the _soiree_ kettle Out of her Ma's way, wise, wee maid!
Wan was her lip as the lily's petal, Sad was the smile that over it played.
Why doth she warble not? Is she afraid Of the hound that howls, or the moaning mole?
Can it be on an errand she hath delayed?
Hush thee, hush thee, dear little soul!
The nightingale sings to the nodding nettle In the gloom o' the gloaming athwart the glade: The zephyr sighs soft on Popcatapetl, And Auster is taking it cool in the shade: Sing, hey, for a _gutta serenade_!
Not mine to stir up a storied pole, No noses snip with a bluggy blade-- Hush thee, hush thee, dear little soul!
Shall I bribe with a store of minted metal?
With Everton toffee thee persuade?
That thou in a kettle thyself shouldst settle, When grandly and gaudily all arrayed!
Thy flounces 'ill foul and fangles fade.
Come out, and Algernon Charles 'ill roll Thee safe and snug in Plutonian plaid-- Hush thee, hush thee, dear little soul!
ENVOI
When nap is none and raiment frayed, And winter crowns the puddered poll, A kettle sings ane soote ballade-- Hush thee, hush thee, dear little soul.
_John Twig_.
_A BALLAD OF HIGH ENDEAVOR_
Ah Night! blind germ of days to be, Ah me! ah me!
(Sweet Venus, mother!) What wail of smitten strings hear we?
(Ah me! ah me!
_Hey diddle dee_!)
Ravished by clouds our Lady Moon, Ah me! ah me!
