A Parody Anthology. Wells Carolyn

      'TIS a last choice Havana

      I hold here alone;

      All its fragrant companions

      In perfume have flown.

      No more of its kindred

      To gladden the eye,

      So my empty cigar case

      I close with a sigh.

      I'll not leave thee, thou lone one,

      To pine; but the stem

      I'll bite off and light thee

      To waft thee to them.

      And gently I'll scatter

      The ashes you shed,

      As your soul joins its mates in

      A cloud overhead.

      All pleasure is fleeting,

      It blooms to decay;

      From the weeds' glowing circle

      The ash drops away.

      A last whiff is taken,

      The butt-end is thrown,

      And with empty cigar-case,

      I sit all alone.

      I NEVER bought a young gazelle,

      To glad me with its soft black eye,

      But, when it came to know me well,

      'Twas sure to butt me on the sly.

      I never drilled a cockatoo,

      To speak with almost human lip,

      But, when a pretty phrase it knew,

      'Twas sure to give some friend a nip.

      I never trained a collie hound

      To be affectionate and mild,

      But, when I thought a prize I'd found,

      'Twas sure to bite my youngest child.

      I never kept a tabby kit

      To cheer my leisure with its tricks,

      But, when we all grew fond of it,

      'Twas sure to catch the neighbor's chicks.

      I never reared a turtle-dove,

      To coo all day with gentle breath,

      But, when its life seemed one of love,

      'Twas sure to peck its mate to death.

      I never – well I never yet —

      And I have spent no end of pelf —

      Invested money in a pet

      That didn't misconduct itself.

      There's a bower of bean-vines in Benjamin's yard,

      And the cabbages grow round it, planted for greens;

      In the time of my childhood 'twas terribly hard

      To bend down the bean-poles, and pick off the beans.

      That bower and its products I never forget,

      But oft, when my landlady presses me hard,

      I think, are the cabbages growing there yet,

      Are the bean-vines still bearing in Benjamin's yard?

      No, the bean-vines soon withered that once used to wave,

      But some beans had been gathered, the last that hung on;

      And a soup was distilled in a kettle, that gave

      All the fragrance of summer when summer was gone.

      Thus memory draws from delight, ere it dies,

      An essence that breathes of it awfully hard;

      As thus good to my taste as 'twas then to my eyes,

      Is that bower of bean-vines in Benjamin's yard.

      'TWAS ever thus from childhood's hour!

      My fondest hopes would not decay;

      I never loved a tree or flower

      Which was the first to fade away!

      The garden, where I used to delve

      Short-frock'd, still yields me pinks in plenty;

      The pear-tree that I climbed at twelve

      I see still blossoming, at twenty.

      I never nursed a dear gazelle;

      But I was given a parroquet —

      (How I did nurse him if unwell!)

      He's imbecile, but lingers yet.

      He's green, with an enchanting tuft;

      He melts me with his small black eye;

      He'd look inimitable stuffed,

      And knows it – but he will not die!

      I had a kitten – I was rich

      In pets – but all too soon my kitten

      Became a full-sized cat, by which

      I've more than once been scratched and bitten.

      And when for sleep her limbs she curl'd

      One day beside her untouch'd plateful,

      And glided calmly from the world,

      I freely own that I was grateful.

      And then I bought a dog – a queen!

      Ah, Tiny, dear departing pug!

      She lives, but she is past sixteen

      And scarce can crawl across the rug.

      I loved her beautiful and kind;

      Delighted in her pert bow-wow;

      But now she snaps if you don't mind;

      'Twere lunacy to love her now.

      I used to think, should e'er mishap

      Betide my crumple-visaged Ti,

      In shape of prowling thief, or trap,

      Or coarse bull-terrier – I should die.

      But ah! disasters have their use,

      And life might e'en be too sunshiny;

      Nor would I make myself a goose,

      If some big dog should swallow Tiny.