The Book of Humorous Verse. Various
my own Amanda As we sat 'n the veranda till the stars began to wink. And I am in such a famine when your beauty I examine That it lures me as the jam invites a hungry little brat; But I fancy that, at any rate, I'd rather waste a penny Then be spitted by the many pins that bristle from your hat. Unknown.
A PLEA FOR TRIGAMY
| I've been trying to fashion a wifely ideal, And find that my tastes are so far from concise That, to marry completely, no fewer than three'll Suffice I've subjected my views to severe atmospheric Compression, but still, in defiance of force, They distinctly fall under three heads, like a cleric Discourse. My first must be fashion's own fancy-bred daughter, Proud, peerless, and perfect—in fact, comme il faut; A waltzer and wit of the very first water— For show. But these beauties that serve to make all the men jealous, Once face them alone in the family cot, Heaven's angels incarnate (the novelists tell us) They're not. But so much for appearances. Now for my second, My lover, the wife of my home and my heart: Of all fortune and fate of my life to be reckon'd A part. She must know all the needs of a rational being, Be skilled to keep counsel, to comfort, to coax; And, above all things else, be accomplished at seeing My jokes. I complete the ménage by including the other With all the domestic prestige of a hen: As my housekeeper, nurse, or it may be, a mother Of men. Total three! and the virtues all well represented; With fewer than this such a thing can't be done; Though I've known married men who declare they're contented With one. Would you hunt during harvest, or hay-make in winter? And how can one woman expect to combine Certain qualifications essentially inter- necine? You may say that my prospects are (legally) sunless; I state that I find them as clear as can be:— I will marry no wife, since I can't do with one less Than three. Owen Seaman. |
THE POPE
| The Pope he leads a happy life, He fears not married care nor strife. He drinks the best of Rhenish wine— I would the Pope's gay lot were mine. But yet all happy's not his life, He has no maid, nor blooming wife; No child has he to raise his hope— I would not wish to be the Pope. The Sultan better pleases me, His is a life of jollity; He's wives as many as he will— I would the Sultan's throne then fill. But even he's a wretched man, He must obey the Alcoran; He dare not drink one drop of wine— I would not change his lot for mine. So here I'll take my lowly stand, I'll drink my own, my native land; I'll kiss my maiden fair and fine, And drink the best of Rhenish wine. And when my maiden kisses me I'll think that I the Sultan be; And when my cheery glass I tope, I'll fancy then I am the Pope. Charles Lever. |
ALL AT SEA
THE VOYAGE OF A CERTAIN UNCERTAIN SAILORMAN
| I saw a certain sailorman who sat beside the sea, And in the manner of his tribe he yawned this yarn to me: "'Twere back in eighteen-fifty-three, or mebbe fifty-four, I skipped the farm—no, 't were the shop—an' went to Baltimore. I shipped aboard the Lizzie—or she might ha' bin the Jane; Them wimmin names are mixey, so I don't remember plain; But anyhow, she were a craft that carried schooner rig, (Although Sam Swab, the bo'sun, allus swore she were a brig); We sailed away from Salem Town—no, lemme think;—'t were Lynn— An' steered a course for Africa (or Greece, it might ha' bin); But anyway, we tacked an' backed an' weathered many a storm— Oh, no—as I recall it now, that week was fine an' warm! Who did I say the cap'n was? I didn't say at all? Wa-a-ll now, his name were 'Lijah Bell—or was it Eli Ball? I kinder guess 't were Eli. He'd a big, red, bushy beard— No-o-o, come to think, he allus kept his whiskers nicely sheared. But anyhow, that voyage was the first I'd ever took, An' all I had to do was cut up cabbage for the cook; But come to talk o' cabbage just reminds me—that there trip Would prob'ly be my third one, on a Hong Kong clipper-ship. The crew they were a jolly lot, an' used to sing 'Avast,' I think it were, or else 'Ahoy,' while bailing out the mast. And as I recollect it now—" But here I cut him short, And said: "It's time to tack again, and bring your wits to port; I came to get a story both adventurous and true, And here is how I started out to write the interview: 'I saw a certain sailorman,' but you turn out to be The most un-certain sailorman that ever sailed the sea!" He puffed his pipe, and answered, "Wa-a-ll, I thought 'twere mine, but still, I must ha' told the one belongs to my twin brother Bill!" Frederick Moxon. |
BALLAD OF THE PRIMITIVE JEST
| I am an ancient Jest! Paleolithic man In his arboreal nest The sparks of fun would fan; My outline did he plan, And laughed like one possessed, 'Twas thus my course began, I am a Merry Jest. I am an early Jest! Man delved and built and span; Then wandered South and West The peoples Aryan, I journeyed in their van; The Semites, too, confessed— From Beersheba to Dan— I am a Merry Jest. I am an ancient Jest, Through all the human clan, Red, black, white, free, oppressed, Hilarious I ran! I'm found in Lucian, In Poggio, and the rest, I'm dear to Moll and Nan! I am a Merry Jest! ENVOY: Prince, you may storm and ban— Joe Millers are a pest, Suppress me if you can! I am a Merry Jest! Andrew Lang. |
VILLANELLE OF THINGS AMUSING
| These are the things that make me laugh— Life's a preposterous farce, say I! And I've missed of too many jokes by half. The high-heeled antics of colt and calf, The men who think they can act, and try— These are the things that make me laugh. The hard-boiled poses in photograph, The groom still wearing his wedding tie— And I've missed of too many jokes by half! These are the bubbles I gayly quaff With the rank conceit of the new-born fly— These are the things that make me laugh! For, Heaven help me! I needs must chaff, And people will tickle me till I die— And I've missed of too many jokes by half! So write me down in my epitaph As one too fond of his health to cry— These are the things that make me laugh, And I've missed of too many jokes by half! Gelett Burgess. |
HOW TO EAT WATERMELONS
| When you slice a Georgy melon you mus' know what you is at An' look out how de knife is gwine in. Put one-half on dis side er you—de yuther half on dat, En' den you gits betwixt 'em, en begin! Oh, melons! Honey good ter see; But we'en it comes ter sweetness, De melon make fer me! En den you puts yo' knife up, en you sorter licks de blade, En never stop fer sayin' any grace; But eat ontell you satisfy—roll over in de shade, En sleep ontell de sun shine in yo' face! Oh, melons! Honey good ter see; But we'en it comes ter sweetness, De melon make fer me! Frank Libby Stanton. |
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