A Parody Anthology. Wells Carolyn

      WELL, don't cry, my little tiny boy,

      With hey, ho, the wind and the rain

      Amuse yourself, and break some toy,

      For the rain it raineth every day.

      Alas, for the grass on Papa's estate,

      With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,

      He'll have to buy hay at an awful rate,

      For the rain it raineth every day.

      Mamma, she can't go out for a drive,

      With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,

      How cross she gets about four or five,

      For the rain it raineth every day.

      If I were you I'd be off to bed,

      With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,

      Or the damp will give you a cold in the head,

      For the rain it raineth every day.

      A great while ago this song was done,

      With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,

      And I, for one, cannot see it's fun,

      But the Dyces and the Colliers can – they say.

      WITH pretty speech accost both old and young,

      And speak it trippingly upon the tongue;

      But if you mouth it with a hoyden laugh,

      With clumsy ogling and uncomely chaff —

      As I have oft seen done at fancy fairs,

      I had as lief a huckster sold my wares,

      Avoid all so-called beautifying, dear.

      Oh! it offends me to the soul to hear

      The things that men among themselves will say

      Of some soi-disant “beauty of the day,"

      Whose face, when she with cosmetics has cloyed it,

      Out-Rachels Rachel! pray you, girls, avoid it.

      Neither be you too tame – but, ere you go,

      Provide yourselves with sprigs of mistletoe;

      Offer them coyly to the Roman herd —

      But don't you suit “the action to the word,"

      For in that very torrent of your passion

      Remember modesty is still in fashion.

      Oh, there be ladies whom I've seen hold stalls —

      Ladies of rank, my dear – to whom befalls

      Neither the accent nor the gait of ladies;

      So clumsily made up with Bloom of Cadiz,

      Powder-rouge – lip-salve – that I've fancied then

      They were the work of Nature's journeymen.

      WITH a hey! and a hi! and a hey-ho rhyme!

      Oh, the shepherd lad

      He is ne'er so glad

      As when he pipes, in the blossom-time,

      So rare!

      While Kate picks by, yet looks not there.

      So rare! so rare!

      With a hey! and a hi! and a ho!

      The grasses curdle where the daisies blow!

      With a hey! and a hi! and a hey-ho vow!

      Then he sips her face

      At the sweetest place —

      And ho! how white is the hawthorn now! —

      So rare! —

      And the daisied world rocks round them there.

      So rare! so rare!

      With a hey! and a hi! and a ho!

      The grasses curdle where the daisies blow!

      TO trump, or not to trump, – that is the question:

      Whether 't is better in this case to notice

      The leads and signals of outraged opponents,

      Or to force trumps against a suit of diamonds,

      And by opposing end them? To trump, – to take, —

      No more; and by that trick to win the lead

      And after that, return my partner's spades

      For which he signalled, – 'tis a consummation

      Devoutly to be wished. To trump – to take, —

      To take! perchance to win! Ay, there's the rub;

      For if we win this game, what hands may come

      When we have shuffled up these cards again.

      Play to the score? ah! yes, there's the defect

      That makes this Duplicate Whist so much like work.

      For who would heed the theories of Hoyle,

      The laws of Pole, the books of Cavendish,

      The Short-Suit system, Leads American,

      The Eleven Rule Finesse, The Fourth-best play,

      The Influence of signals on The Ruff,

      When he himself this doubtful trick might take

      With a small two-spot? Who would hesitate,

      But that the dread of something afterwards,

      An undiscovered discard or forced lead

      When playing the return, puzzles the will,

      And makes us rather lose the tricks we have

      To win the others that we know not of?

      Thus Duplicate Whist makes cowards of us all;

      And thus the native hue of Bumblepuppy

      Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought.

      And good whist-players of great skill and judgment,

      With this regard their formulas defy,

      And lose the game by ruffing.

      SHALL I, mine affections slack,

      'Cause I see a woman's black?

      Or myself, with care cast down,

      'Cause I see a woman brown?

      Be she blacker than the night,

      Or the blackest jet in sight!

      If she be not so to me,

      What