Ruthless Rhymes for Heartless Homes. Graham Harry

      I   NEED no Comments of the Press,

      No critic's cursory caress,

      No paragraphs my book to bless

      With praise, or ban with curses,

      So long as You, for whom I write,

      Whose single notice I invite,

      Are still sufficiently polite

      To smile upon my verses.

      If You should seek for Ruthless Rhymes

      (In memory of Western climes),

      And, for the sake of olden times,

      Obtain this new edition,

      You must not be surprised a bit,

      Nor even deem the act unfit,

      That I have dedicated it

      To You, without permission.

      And if You chance to ask me why,

      It is sufficient, I reply,

      That You are You, and I am I, —

      To put the matter briefly.

      That I should dedicate to You

      Can only interest us two;

      The fact remains, then, that I do,

      Because I want to – chiefly.

      And if these verses can beguile

      From those grey eyes of yours a smile,

      You will have made it well worth while

      To seek your approbation;

      No further meed

      Of praise they need,

      But must succeed,

      And do indeed,

      If they but lead

      You on to read

      Beyond the Dedication.

      WITH guilty, conscience-stricken tears

      I offer up these rhymes of mine

      To children of maturer years

      (From Seventeen to Ninety-nine).

      A special solace may they be

      In days of second infancy.

      The frenzied mother who observes

      This volume in her offspring's hand,

      And trembles for the darling's nerves,

      Must please to clearly understand,

      If baby suffers by-and-bye

      The Artist is to blame, not I!

      But should the little brat survive,

      And fatten on the Ruthless Rhyme,

      To raise a Heartless Home and thrive

      Through a successful life of crime,

      The Artist hopes that you will see

      That I am to be thanked, not he!

      Fond parent, you whose children are

      Of tender age (from two to eight),

      Pray keep this little volume far

      From reach of such, and relegate

      My verses to an upper shelf, —

      Where you may study them yourself.

      AN Angel bore dear Uncle Joe

      To rest beyond the stars.

      I miss him, oh! I miss him so, —

      He had such good cigars.

      SAM had spirits naught could check,

      And to-day, at breakfast, he

      Broke his baby sister's neck,

      So he shan't have jam for tea!

      NAUGHTY little Hannah said

      She could make her grandma whistle,

      So, that night, inside her bed

      Placed some nettles and a thistle.

      Though dear grandma quite infirm is,

      Heartless Hannah watched her settle,

      With her poor old epidermis

      Resting up against a nettle.

      Suddenly she reached the thistle!

      My! you should have heard her whistle!

      A successful plan was Hannah's,

      But I cannot praise her manners.

      IN the drinking-well

      (Which the plumber built her)

      Aunt Eliza fell, —

      We must buy a filter.

      FATHER, chancing to chastise

      His indignant daughter Sue,

      Said, "I hope you realize

      That this hurts me more than you."

      Susan straightway ceased to roar.

      "If that's really true," said she,

      "I can stand a good deal more;

      Pray go on, and don't mind me."

      JEAN qui allait a Dijon

      (Il montait en bicyclette)

      Rencontra un gros lion

      Qui se faisait la toilette.

      Voila Jean qui tombe a terre

      Et le lion le digère!

      Mon Dieu! Que c'est embêtant!

      Il me devait quatre francs.

      JOHN, across the broad Atlantic,

      Tried to navigate a barque,

      But he met an unromantic

      And extremely hungry shark.

      John (I blame his childhood's teachers)

      Thought to treat this as a lark,

      Ignorant of how these creatures

      Do delight to bite a barque.

      Said "This animal's a bore!" and,

      With a scornful sort of grin,

      Handled an adjacent oar and

      Chucked it underneath the chin.

      At this unexpected juncture

      Which he had