A Little Book of Western Verse Part 3

THE BIBLIOMANIAC'S PRAYER

Keep me, I pray, in wisdom's way That I may truths eternal seek; I need protecting care to-day,-- My purse is light, my flesh is weak.

So banish from my erring heart All baleful appet.i.tes and hints Of Satan's fascinating art, Of first editions, and of prints.

Direct me in some G.o.dly walk Which leads away from bookish strife, That I with pious deed and talk May extra-ill.u.s.trate my life.

But if, O Lord, it pleaseth Thee To keep me in temptation's way, I humbly ask that I may be Most notably beset to-day; Let my temptation be a book, Which I shall purchase, hold, and keep, Whereon when other men shall look, They'll wail to know I got it cheap.

Oh, let it such a volume be As in rare copperplates abounds, Large paper, clean, and fair to see, Uncut, unique, unknown to Lowndes.

THE LYTTEL BOY

Sometime there ben a lyttel boy That wolde not renne and play, And helpless like that little tyke Ben allwais in the way.

"Goe, make you merrie with the rest,"

His weary moder cried; But with a frown he catcht her gown And hong untill her side.

That boy did love his moder well, Which spake him faire, I ween; He loved to stand and hold her hand And ken her with his een; His cosset bleated in the croft, His toys unheeded lay,-- He wolde not goe, but, tarrying soe, Ben allwais in the way.

G.o.dde loveth children and doth gird His throne with soche as these, And He doth smile in plaisaunce while They cl.u.s.ter at His knees; And sometime, when He looked on earth And watched the bairns at play, He kenned with joy a lyttel boy Ben allwais in the way.

And then a moder felt her heart How that it ben to-torne,-- She kissed eche day till she ben gray The shoon he used to worn; No bairn let hold untill her gown, Nor played upon the floore,-- G.o.dde's was the joy; a lyttel boy Ben in the way no more!

THE TRUTH ABOUT HORACE

It is very aggravating To hear the solemn prating Of the fossils who are stating That old Horace was a prude; When we know that with the ladies He was always raising Hades, And with many an escapade his Best productions are imbued.

There's really not much harm in a Large number of his carmina, But these people find alarm in a Few records of his acts; So they'd squelch the muse caloric, And to students soph.o.m.oric They d present as metaphoric What old Horace meant for facts.

We have always thought 'em lazy; Now we adjudge 'em crazy!

Why, Horace was a daisy That was very much alive!

And the wisest of us know him As his Lydia verses show him,-- Go, read that virile poem,-- It is No. 25.

He was a very owl, sir, And starting out to prowl, sir, You bet he made Rome howl, sir, Until he filled his date; With a ma.s.sic-laden ditty And a cla.s.sic maiden pretty He painted up the city, And Maecenas paid the freight!

THE DEATH OF ROBIN HOOD

"Give me my bow," said Robin Hood, "An arrow give to me; And where 't is shot mark thou that spot, For there my grave shall be."

Then Little John did make no sign, And not a word he spake; But he smiled, altho' with mickle woe His heart was like to break.

He raised his master in his arms, And set him on his knee; And Robin's eyes beheld the skies, The shaws, the greenwood tree.

The brook was babbling as of old, The birds sang full and clear, And the wild-flowers gay like a carpet lay In the path of the timid deer.

"O Little John," said Robin Hood, "Meseemeth now to be Standing with you so stanch and true Under the greenwood tree.

"And all around I hear the sound Of Sherwood long ago, And my merry men come back again,-- You know, sweet friend, you know!

"Now mark this arrow; where it falls, When I am dead dig deep, And bury me there in the greenwood where I would forever sleep."

He tw.a.n.ged his bow. Upon its course The clothyard arrow sped, And when it fell in yonder dell, Brave Robin Hood was dead.

The sheriff sleeps in a marble vault, The king in a shroud of gold; And upon the air with a chanted pray'r Mingles the mock of mould.

But the deer draw to the shady pool, The birds sing blithe and free, And the wild-flow'rs bloom o'er a hidden tomb Under the greenwood tree.

"LOLLYBY, LOLLY, LOLLYBY"

Last night, whiles that the curfew bell ben ringing, I heard a moder to her dearie singing "Lollyby, lolly, lollyby."

And presently that chylde did cease hys weeping, And on his moder's breast did fall a-sleeping, To "lolly, lolly, lollyby."

Faire ben the chylde unto his moder clinging, But fairer yet the moder's gentle singing,-- "Lollyby, lolly, lollyby."

And angels came and kisst the dearie smiling In dreems while him hys moder ben beguiling With "lolly, lolly, lollyby!"

Then to my harte saies I, "Oh, that thy beating Colde be a.s.suaged by some swete voice repeating 'Lollyby, lolly, lollyby;'

That like this lyttel chylde I, too, ben sleeping With plaisaunt phantasies about me creeping, To 'lolly, lolly, lollyby!'"

Sometime--mayhap when curfew bells are ringing-- A weary harte shall heare straunge voices singing, "Lollyby, lolly, lollyby;"

Sometime, mayhap, with Chrysts love round me streaming, I shall be lulled into eternal dreeming With "lolly, lolly, lollyby."

HORACE AND LYDIA RECONCILED

HORACE

When you were mine in auld lang syne, And when none else your charms might ogle, I'll not deny, Fair nymph, that I Was happier than a Persian mogul.

LYDIA