The Willows

Let us drink to the emeu and eagle,-
To the swan and the monkey on high-
To the eagle and monkey on high;
For this bar-keeper will not inveigle,-
Bully boy with the vitreous eye;
He surely would never inveigle,―
Sweet youth with the crystalline eye."

'But Mary, uplifting her finger,

Said, "Sadly this bar I mistrust,I fear that this bar does not trust. Oh, hasten! oh, let us not linger!

Oh, fly!—let us fly-ere we must!" In terror she cried, letting sink her

Parasol till it trailed in the dust,-
In agony sobbed, letting sink her

Parasol till it trailed in the dust,-
Till it sorrowfully trailed in the dust.

Then I pacified Mary, and kissed her,
And tempted her into the room,
And conquer'd her scruples and gloom;
And we passed to the end of the vista,
But were stopped by the warning of doom-
By some words that were warning of doom.
And I said, "What is written, sweet sister,
At the opposite end of the room?”
She sobbed, as she answered, “All liquors
Must be paid for ere leaving the room."

Then my heart it grew ashen and sober,
As the streets were deserted and drear-
For my pockets were empty and drear;
And I cried, "It was surely October,
On this very night of last year,
That I journeyed-I journeyed down here-
That I brought a fair maiden down here,
On this night of all nights in the year.
Ah! to me that inscription is clear:

425

Well I know now I'm perfectly sober,
Why no longer they credit me here,—
Well I know now that music of Auber,
And this Nightingale, kept by one Shear."

Bret Harte.

A BALLAD

IN THE MANNER OF R - DY RD K

- PL - NG

As I was walkin' the jungle round, a-killin' of tigers an' time; I seed a kind of an author man a writin' a rousin' rhyme; 'E was writin' a mile a minute an' more, an' I sez to 'im, "'Oo are you?"

Sez 'e, "I'm a poet-'er majesty's poet-soldier an' sailor, too!"

An 'is poem began in Ispahan an' ended in Kalamazoo,
It 'ad army in it, an' navy in it, an' jungle sprinkled through,
For 'e was a poet-'er majesty's poet-soldier an' sailor, too!

An' after, I met 'im all over the world, a doin' of things a host;

'E 'ad one foot planted in Burmah, an' one on the Gloucester coast;

'Es 'alf a sailor an' 'alf a whaler, 'e's captain, cook and crew, But most a poet-'er majesty's poet-soldier an' sailor too! 'E's often Scot an' 'e's often not, but 'is work is never

through

For 'e laughs at blame, an' 'e writes for fame, an' a bit for

revenoo,

Bein' a poet-'er majesty's poet-soldier an' sailor too!

'E'll take you up to the Ar'tic zone, 'e'll take you down to the Nile,

'E'll give you a barrack ballad in the Tommy Atkins style, Or 'e'll sing you a Dipsy Chantey, as the bloomin' bo'suns

do,

For 'e is a poet-'er majesty's poet-soldier an' sailor too. An' there isn't no room for others, an' there's nothin' left

to do;

Commonplaces

427

'E 'as sailed the main from the 'Orn to Spain, 'e 'as tramped

the jungle through,

An' written up all there is to write-soldier an' sailor, too!

There are manners an' manners of writin', but 'is is the proper way,

An' it ain't so hard to be a bard if you'll imitate Rudyard K.; But sea an' shore an' peace an' war, an' everything else in view

'E 'as gobbled the lot!-'er majesty's poet-soldier an' sailor,

too.

'E's not content with 'is Indian 'ome, 'e's looking for regions

new,

In another year 'e'll ave swept 'em clear, an' what'll the rest of us do?

'E's crowdin' us out!-'er majesty's poet-soldier an' sailor

too!

Guy Wetmore Carryl.

THE TRANSLATED WAY

Being a lyric translation of Heine's "Du bist wie eine Blume," as it is usually done.

THOU art like unto a Flower,

So pure and clean thou art;
I view thee and much sadness
Steals to me in the heart.

To me it seems my Hands I
Should now impose on your
Head, praying God to keep you
So fine and clean and pure.

Franklin P. Adams.

COMMONPLACES

RAIN on the face of the sea,

Rain on the sodden land,

And the window-pane is blurred with rain

As I watch it, pen in hand.

Mist on the face of the sea,

Mist on the sodden land,
Filling the vales as daylight fails,
And blotting the desolate sand.

Voices from out of the mist,
Calling to one another:

"Hath love an end, thou more than friend,
Thou dearer than ever brother?"

Voices from out of the mist,

Calling and passing away;

But I cannot speak, for my voice is weak,
And... this is the end of my lay.

Rudyard Kipling

ANGELO ORDERS HIS DINNER

I, ANGELO, obese, black-garmented,
Respectable, much in demand, well fed
With mine own larder's dainties, where, indeed,
Such cakes of myrrh or fine alyssum seed,
Thin as a mallow-leaf, embrowned o' the top.
Which, cracking, lets the ropy, trickling drop
Of sweetness touch your tongue, or potted nests
Which my recondite recipe invests
With cold conglomerate tidbits-ah, the bill!
(You say), but given it were mine to fill
My chests, the case so put were yours, we'll say
(This counter, here, your post, as mine to-day),
And you've an eye to luxuries, what harm
In smoothing down your palate with the charm
Yourself concocted? There we issue take;
And see! as thus across the rim I break
This puffy paunch of glazed embroidered cake,
So breaks, through use, the lust of watering chaps

And craveth plainness: do I so? Perhaps;
But that's my secret. Find me such a man

As Lippo yonder, built upon the plan

The Promissory Note

Of heavy storage, double-navelled, fat
From his own giblet's oils, an Ararat
Uplift o'er water, sucking rosy draughts
From Noah's vineyard,-crisp, enticing wafts
Yon kitchen now emits, which to your sense
Somewhat abate the fear of old events,
Qualms to the stomach,-I, you see, am slow
Unnecessary duties to forego,—

You understand? A venison haunch, haut gout.
Ducks that in Cimbrian olives mildly stew.

And sprigs of anise, might one's teeth provoke
To taste, and so we wear the complex yoke
Just as it suits,-my liking, I confess,
More to receive, and to partake no less,
Still more obese, while through thick adipose
Sensation shoots, from testing tongue to toes
Far off, dim-conscious, at the body's verge,
Where the froth-whispers of its waves emerge
On the untasting sand. Stay, now! a seat
Is bare: I, Angelo, will sit and eat.

429

Bayard Taylor.

THE PROMISSORY NOTE

IN the lonesome latter years

(Fatal years!)

To the dropping of my tears

Danced the mad and mystic spheres
In a rounded, reeling rune,

'Neath the moon,

To the dripping and the dropping of my tears.

Ah, my soul is swathed in gloom,

(Ulalume!)

In a dim Titanic tomb,

For my gaunt and gloomy soul

Ponders o'er the penal scroll,

O'er the parchment (not a rhyme),
Out of place,-out of time,-
I am shredded, shorn, unshifty,

(Oh, the fifty!)