A Parody Anthology. Wells Carolyn

      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 ask'd 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 stammer'd out,

      “Of course you've had eleven."

      The maiden answered with a pout,

      “I ain't had more nor seven!"

      I wonder'd 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 won'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!"

      To borrow Wordsworth's name was wrong,

      Or slightly misapplied;

      And so I'd better call my song,

      “Lines after Ache-Inside."

      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!

      OH! young Lochinvar has come out of the West,

      Thro' all the wide border his horse has no equal,

      Having cost him forty-five dollars at the market,

      Where good nags, fresh from the country,

      With burrs still in their tails are selling

      For a song; and save his good broadsword

      He weapon had none, except a seven shooter

      Or two, a pair of brass knuckles, and an Arkansaw

      Toothpick in his boot, so, comparatively speaking,

      He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone,

      Because there was no one going his way.

      He stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for

      Toll-gates; he swam the Eske River where ford

      There was none, and saved fifteen cents

      In ferriage, but lost his pocket-book, containing

      Seventeen dollars and a half, by the operation.

      Ere he alighted at the Netherby mansion

      He stopped to borrow a dry suit of clothes,

      And this delayed him considerably, so when

      He arrived the bride had consented – the gallant

      Came late – for a laggard in love and a dastard in war

      Was to wed the fair Ellen, and the guests had assembled.

      So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall

      Among bridesmen and kinsmen and brothers and

      Brothers-in-law and forty or fifty cousins;

      Then spake the bride's father, his hand on his sword

      (For the poor craven bridegroom ne'er opened his head):

      “Oh, come ye in peace here, or come ye in anger,

      Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?"

      “I long wooed your daughter, and she will tell you

      I have the inside track in the free-for-all

      For her affections! My suit you denied; but let

      That pass, while I tell you, old fellow, that love

      Swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide,

      And now I am come with this lost love of mine

      To lead but one measure, drink one glass of beer;

      There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far

      That would gladly be bride to yours very truly."

      The bride kissed the goblet, the knight took it up,

      He quaffed off the nectar and threw down the mug,

      Smashing it into a million pieces, while

      He remarked that he was the son