What boots to fall again forlorn?
Ah me! ah me!
(Sweet Venus, mother!) Scorned by the grinning hound of scorn, (Ah me! ah me!
_Dum diddle dee!_)
Art thou not greater who art less?
Ah me! ah me!
(Sweet Venus, mother!) Low love fulfilled of low success?
(Ah me! ah me!
_Hey diddle dee!_)
_Unknown._
FATHER WILLIAM
"You are old, Father William," the young man said, "And your hair has become very white; And yet you incessantly stand on your head-- Do you think, at your age, it is right?"
"In my youth," Father William replied to his son, "I feared it might injure the brain; But now that I"m perfectly sure I have none, Why, I do it again and again."
"You are old," said the youth, "as I mentioned before, And have grown most uncommonly fat; Yet you turned a back somersault in at the door-- Pray, what is the reason of that?"
"In my youth," said the sage, as he shook his gray locks, "I kept all my limbs very supple By the use of this ointment--one shilling the box-- Allow me to sell you a couple."
"You are old," said the youth, "and your jaws are too weak For anything tougher than suet; Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak; Pray, how did you manage to do it?"
"In my youth," said his father, "I took to the law, And argued each case with my wife; And the muscular strength which it gave to my jaw, Has lasted the rest of my life."
"You are old," said the youth; "one would hardly suppose That your eye was as steady as ever; Yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose-- What made you so awfully clever?"
"I have answered three questions, and that is enough,"
Said his father; "don"t give yourself airs!
Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff?
Be off, or I"ll kick you down-stairs!"
_Lewis Carroll._
THE POETS AT TEA
1--(_Macaulay, who made it_)
Pour, varlet, pour the water, The water steaming hot!
A spoonful for each man of us, Another for the pot!
We shall not drink from amber, Nor Capuan slave shall mix For us the snows of Athos With port at thirty-six; Whiter than snow the crystals, Grown sweet "neath tropic fires, More rich the herbs of China"s field, The pasture-lands more fragrance yield; For ever let Britannia wield The tea-pot of her sires!
2--(_Tennyson, who took it hot_)
I think that I am drawing to an end: For on a sudden came a gasp for breath, And stretching of the hands, and blinded eyes, And a great darkness falling on my soul.
O Hallelujah!... Kindly pa.s.s the milk.
3--(_Swinburne, who let it get cold_)
As the sin that was sweet in the sinning Is foul in the ending thereof, As the heat of the summer"s beginning Is past in the winter of love: O purity, painful and pleading!
O coldness, ineffably gray!
Oh, hear us, our handmaid unheeding.
And take it away!
4--(_Cowper, who thoroughly enjoyed it_)
The cosy fire is bright and gay, The merry kettle boils away And hums a cheerful song.
I sing the saucer and the cup; Pray, Mary, fill the tea-pot up, And do not make it strong.
5--(_Browning, who treated it allegorically_)
Tut! Bah! We take as another case-- Pa.s.s the bills on the pills on the window-sill; notice the capsule (A sick man"s fancy, no doubt, but I place Reliance on trade-marks, Sir)--so perhaps you"ll Excuse the digression--this cup which I hold Light-poised--Bah, it"s spilt in the bed!--well, let"s on go-- Hold Bohea and sugar, Sir; if you were told The sugar was salt, would the Bohea be Congo?
6--(_Wordsworth, who gave it away_)
"Come, little cottage girl, you seem To want my cup of tea; And will you take a little cream?
Now tell the truth to me."
She had a rustic, woodland grin, Her cheek was soft as silk, And she replied, "Sir, please put in A little drop of milk."
"Why, what put milk into your head?
"Tis cream my cows supply;"
And five times to the child I said, "Why, pig-head, tell me, why?"
"You call me pig-head," she replied; "My proper name is Ruth.
I called that milk"--she blushed with pride-- "You bade me speak the truth."
7--(_Poe, who got excited over it_)
Here"s a mellow cup of tea, golden tea!
What a world of rapturous thought its fragrance brings to me!
Oh, from out the silver cells How it wells!
How it smells!
Keeping tune, tune, tune To the tintinnabulation of the spoon.
And the kettle on the fire Boils its spout off with desire, With a desperate desire And a crystalline endeavour Now, now to sit, or never, On the top of the pale-faced moon, But he always came home to tea, tea, tea, tea, tea, Tea to the n----th.
8--(_Rossetti, who took six cups of it_)
The lilies lie in my lady"s bower (O weary mother, drive the cows to roost), They faintly droop for a little hour; My lady"s head droops like a flower.