A Nonsense Anthology Part 27

of My eyes. It is called a krokis.

Sweat lovly prety littil sweat Thing, you bloometh before The lairicks on High sing, thy lefs are neithir Red Nor yelly.

but Just betwixt the two you hardy felly.

i fear youl yet be Nippit with the frost.

As Maney a one has known to there kost.

you should have not kome out in such a hurrey.

As this is only the Month of Febrywurrey.

and you may expick yet Much bad wethir.

when all your blads will krunkil up like Burnt leather.

alas. alas. theres Men which tries to rime, who have like you kome out befor there time.

The Moril of My peese depend upon it.

is good so here i End my odd or sonit.

_Anonymous_.

_SOME VERSES TO SNAIX_

Prodiggus reptile! long and skaly kuss!

You are the dadrattedest biggest thing I ever Seed that cud ty itself into a double bo- Not, and c.u.m all strate again in a Minnit or so, without winkin or seemin To experience any particular pane In the diafram.

Stoopenjus inseck! marvelous annimile!

You are no doubt seven thousand yeres Old, and hav a considerable of a Family sneekin round thru the tall Gras in Africa, a eetin up little greezy n.i.g.g.e.rs, and wishin they was biggir.

I wonder how big yu was when yu Was a inphant about 2 fete long. I Expec yu was a purty good size, and Lived on phrogs, and lizzerds, and polly- Wogs and sutch things.

You are havin' a nice time now, ennyhow-- Don't have nothing to do but lay oph.

And etc kats and rabbits, and stic Out yure tung and twist yur tale.

I wunder if yu ever swollered a man Without takin oph his butes. If there was Bra.s.s b.u.t.tins on his kote, I spose Yu had ter swaller a lot of b.u.t.tin- Wholes, and a shu--hamer to nock The soals oph of the boots and drive in The tax, so that they wouldn't kut yure Inside. I wunder if vittles taste Good all the way down. I expec so-- At leest, fur 6 or 7 fete.

You are so mighty long, I shud thynk If your tale was kold, yure hed Woodent no it till the next day, But it's hard tu tell: snaix is snaix.

_Anonymous_.

_A GREAT MAN_

Ye muses, pour the pitying tear For Pollio s.n.a.t.c.h'd away: For had he liv'd another year!

--He had not dy'd to-day.

O, were he born to bless mankind, In virtuous times of yore, Heroes themselves had fallen behind!

--Whene'er he went before.

How sad the groves and plains appear, And sympathetic sheep: Even pitying hills would drop a tear!

--If hills could learn to weep.

His bounty in exalted strain Each bard might well display: Since none implor'd relief in vain!

--That went reliev'd away.

And hark! I hear the tuneful throng; His obsequies forbid.

He still shall live, shall live as long --As ever dead man did.

_Oliver Goldsmith_.

_AN ELEGY_

_On the Glory of her s.e.x, Mrs. Mary Blaize_

Good people all, with one accord, Lament for Madam Blaize, Who never wanted a good word-- From those who spoke her praise.

The needy seldom pa.s.s'd her door, And always found her kind; She freely lent to all the poor-- Who left a pledge behind.

She strove the neighborhood to please With manners wondrous winning; And never follow'd wicked ways-- Unless when she was sinning.

At church, in silks and satins new, With hoop of monstrous size, She never slumber'd in her pew-- But when she shut her eyes.

Her love was sought, I do aver, By twenty beaux and more; The King himself has follow'd her-- When she has walk'd before.

But now, her wealth and finery fled, Her hangers-on cut short all; The doctors found, when she was dead-- Her last disorder mortal.

Let us lament, in sorrow sore, For Kent Street well may say, That had she lived a twelvemonth more-- She had not died to-day.

_Oliver Goldsmith_.

_PARSON GRAY_

A quiet home had Parson Gray, Secluded in a vale; His daughters all were feminine, And all his sons were male.

How faithfully did Parson Gray The bread of life dispense-- Well "posted" in theology, And post and rail his fence.

'Gainst all the vices of the age He manfully did battle; His chickens were a biped breed, And quadruped his cattle.

No clock more punctually went, He ne'er delayed a minute-- Nor ever empty was his purse, When he had money in it.

His piety was ne'er denied; His truths. .h.i.t saint and sinner; At morn he always breakfasted; He always dined at dinner.

He ne'er by any luck was grieved, By any care perplexed-- No filcher he, though when he preached, He always "took" a text.

As faithful characters he drew As mortal ever saw; But ah! poor parson! when he died, His breath he could not draw!