A line-o'-verse or two Part 8

People hand me out advice: "Hod, you're doing too much drivel.

Write us something sweet and nice.

Stow the satire, chop the frivol."

But we have the rent to pay, Lalage; eh, Lalage?

Ladies shy the saving sense Write me patronizing letters; And there are the writing gents, Always out to knock their betters.

What cares Flaccus if he may Lallygag with Lalage!

No, old top, the writing lay's Not a bed of sweet geranium.

Brickbats mingle with bouquets Shied at my devoted cranium.

Does it peeve yours truly? Nay.

Nothing can--with Lalage.

Paste this, Fuscus, in your hat: Not a pesky thing can peeve me.

Take it, too, from Horace flat, She's some gal, is Lal, believe me.

So I coin this word to-day, "Lallygag"--from Lalage.

V

TO SYLVIA

Were I on the Latin lay, Were I turning Odes to-day, You would draw a gem from me, Little maid of mystery!

In an Ode I'd love to spout you; I am simply bug about you.

That's the way!--the fairest peach Is the one that's out of reach.

I have toasted in my time Many a peach (and many a lime), All of them, I must confess, Lacking your elusiveness.

Lalage, my well known flame, Was considerable dame; Likewise Lydia and Phyllis, Chloe, Pyrrha, Amaryllis.

Syl, if you had lived when they did You'd have had those damsels faded.

(That will give you, girl, some notion Of your Flaccus's devotion.)

Yep. If I were doing Odes In my quondam favorite modes, With your image to qui-vive me I'd tear off some Ode, believe me!

A BALLAD OF MISFITS

"_Chacun son metier:_ _Les vaches seront bien gardees._"

--LA FONTAINE.

With skill for doing this or that The Lord each man endows.

Some men are best for pushing pens, And some for pushing plows; And oh, the many many more That should be tending cows!

_Chacun son metier:_ _Les vaches bien gardees._

The ivory-headed serving maid Who poses as a "cook,"

She hath a very bovine brain, She hath a bovine look.

Oh, prithee, lead her to the kine, Oh, prithee get the hook!

_Chacun son metier:_ _Les vaches bien gardees._

The papering-and-painting gents Whose work is never done, Who mess around your house until You pine to pull a gun, Who take three mortal days to do What should be done in one;-- _Chacun son metier:_ _Les vaches bien gardees._

The pestilential "pianiste,"

The screechy singer too, The writer of the stupid book And of the dull review, The actor who is greatest when He takes his exit cue;-- _Chacun son metier:_ _Les vaches bien gardees._

If every one were set to do The task for which he's fit, The writer of these trifling lines Might also have to quit.

At tending cows the undersigned Might make an awful hit.

_Chacun son metier:_ _Les vaches bien gardees._

AN ORIENTAL APOLOGY

When the hour was come Prince Chun arose, And balanced a shoestring on his nose.

"From this some notion you will get,"

Said he, "of China's deep regret."

Now balancing upon his ear A stein of foaming lager beer, "This att.i.tude," said he, "reveals How very sorry China feels."

Then spinning top-like on his cue, "I can't begin to tell to you The deep remorse we suffer for The death of your Amba.s.sador."

Next, placing on his cue a plate, He said, as it 'gan to gyrate: "Nothing that's happened in his reign Has caused my Emperor so much pain."

Upon his back he did declare, While juggling five b.a.l.l.s in the air, "This att.i.tude--the humblest yet-- Expresses personal regret."

Last, spreading out a deck of cards-- "Accept my Emperor's regards.

As our intentions were well meant, Pray overlook the incident."

THE DAY OF THE COMET

(_May 18, 1910._)

Here it is--Eighteenth of May!

Dawneth now the fatal day When we take the awful veil Of the fearsome comet's tail.

Vale, Earth!

What will happen, heaven knows; We can't even guess, suppose, Hazard, speculate, surmise, Hint, conjecture, theorize, Or divine.