The Book of Humorous Verse. Various
as I did to you! Charles Stuart Calverley.
WHAT IS A WOMAN LIKE?
| A woman is like to—but stay— What a woman is like, who can say? There is no living with or without one. Love bites like a fly, Now an ear, now an eye, Buzz, buzz, always buzzing about one. When she's tender and kind She is like to my mind, (And Fanny was so, I remember). She's like to—Oh, dear! She's as good, very near, As a ripe, melting peach in September. If she laugh, and she chat, Play, joke, and all that, And with smiles and good humor she meet me, She's like a rich dish Of venison or fish, That cries from the table, Come eat me! But she'll plague you and vex you, Distract and perplex you; False-hearted and ranging, Unsettled and changing, What then do you think, she is like? Like sand? Like a rock? Like a wheel? Like a clock? Ay, a clock that is always at strike. Her head's like the island folks tell on, Which nothing but monkeys can dwell on; Her heart's like a lemon—so nice She carves for each lover a slice; In truth she's to me, Like the wind, like the sea, Whose raging will hearken to no man; Like a mill, like a pill, Like a flail, like a whale, Like an ass, like a glass Whose image is constant to no man; Like a shower, like a flower, Like a fly, like a pie, Like a pea, like a flea, Like a thief, like—in brief, She's like nothing on earth—but a woman! Unknown. |
MIS' SMITH
| All day she hurried to get through, The same as lots of wimmin do; Sometimes at night her husban' said, "Ma, ain't you goin' to come to bed?" And then she'd kinder give a hitch, And pause half way between a stitch, And sorter sigh, and say that she Was ready as she'd ever be, She reckoned. And so the years went one by one, An' somehow she was never done; An' when the angel said, as how "Mis' Smith, it's time you rested now," She sorter raised her eyes to look A second, as a stitch she took; "All right, I'm comin' now," says she, "I'm ready as I'll ever be, I reckon." Albert Bigelow Paine. |
TRIOLET
| "I love you, my lord!" Was all that she said— What a dissonant chord, "I love you, my lord!" Ah! how I abhorred That sarcastic maid!— "I love you? My Lord!" Was all that she said. Paul T. Gilbert. |
BESSIE BROWN, M.D.
| 'Twas April when she came to town; The birds had come; the bees were swarming. Her name, she said, was Doctor Brown; I saw at once that she was charming. She took a cottage tinted green, Where dewy roses loved to mingle; And on the door, next day, was seen A dainty little shingle. Her hair was like an amber wreath; Her hat was darker, to enhance it. The violet eyes that glowed beneath Were brighter than her keenest lancet, The beauties of her glove and gown The sweetest rhyme would fail to utter. Ere she had been a day in town The town was in a flutter. The gallants viewed her feet and hands, And swore they never saw such wee things; The gossips met in purring bands, And tore her piecemeal o'er the tea-things. The former drank the Doctor's health With clinking cups, the gay carousers; The latter watched her door by stealth, Just like so many mousers. But Doctor Bessie went her way, Unmindful of the spiteful cronies, And drove her buggy every day Behind a dashing pair of ponies. Her flower-like face so bright she bore I hoped that time might never wilt her. The way she tripped across the floor Was better than a philter. Her patients thronged the village street; Her snowy slate was always quite full. Some said her bitters tasted sweet, And some pronounced her pills delightful. 'Twas strange—I knew not what it meant— She seemed a nymph from Eldorado; Where'er she came, where'er she went, Grief lost its gloomy shadow. Like all the rest I, too, grew ill; My aching heart there was no quelling. I tremble at my doctor's bill— And lo! the items still are swelling. The drugs I've drunk you'd weep to hear! They've quite enriched the fair concocter, And I'm a ruined man, I fear, Unless—I wed the Doctor! Samuel Minturn Peck. |
A SKETCH FROM THE LIFE
| Its eyes are gray; Its hair is either brown Or black; And, strange to say, Its dresses button down The back! It wears a plume That loves to frisk around My ear. It crowds the room With cushions in a mound And queer Old rugs and lamps In corners à la Turque And things. It steals my stamps, And when I want to work It sings! It rides and skates— But then it comes and fills My walls With plaques and plates And keeps me paying bills And calls. It's firm; and if I should my many woes Deplore, 'Twould only sniff And perk its little nose Some more. It's bright, though small; Its name, you may have guessed, Is "Wife." But, after all, It gives a wondrous zest To life! Arthur Guiterman. |
MINGUILLO'S KISS
| Since for kissing thee, Minguillo, Mother's ever scolding me, Give me swiftly back, thou dear one, Give the kiss I gave to thee. Give me back the kiss—that one, now; Let my mother scold no more; Let us tell her all is o'er: What was done is all undone now. Yes, it will be wise, Minguillo, My fond kiss to give to me; Give me swiftly back, thou dear one, Give the kiss I gave to thee. Give me back the kiss, for mother Is impatient—prithee, do! For that one thou shalt have two: Give me that, and take another. Yes, then will they be contented, Then can't they complain of me; Give me swiftly back, thou dear one, Give the kiss I gave to thee. Unknown. |
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