The Book of Humorous Verse Part 107

My lank limp lily, my long lithe lily, My languid lily-love fragile and thin, With dank leaves dangling and flower-flap chilly.

That shines like the shin of a Highland gilly!

Mottled and moist as a cold toad's skin!

l.u.s.trous and leper-white, splendid and splay!

Art thou not Utter and wholly akin To my own wan soul and my own wan chin, And my own wan nose-tip, tilted to sway The peac.o.c.k's feather, _sweeter than sin_, That I bought for a halfpenny yesterday?

My long lithe lily, my languid lily, My lank limp lily-love, how shall I win-- Woo thee to wink at me? Silver lily, How shall I sing to thee, softly or shrilly?

What shall I weave for thee--what shall I spin-- Rondel, or rondeau, or virelai?

Shall I buzz like a bee with my face thrust in Thy choice, chaste chalice, or choose me a tin Trumpet, or touchingly, tenderly play On the weird bird-whistle, _sweeter than sin_, That I bought for a halfpenny yesterday.

My languid lily, my lank limp lily, My long lithe lily-love, men may grin-- Say that I'm soft and supremely silly-- What care I while you whisper stilly; What care I while you smile? Not a pin!

While you smile, you whisper--'Tis sweet to decay?

I have watered with chlorodine, tears of chagrin, The churchyard mould I have planted thee in, Upside down in an intense way, In a rough red flower-pot, _sweeter than sin_, That I bought for a halfpenny yesterday.

_Unknown._

GILLIAN

Jack and Jille I have made me an end of the moods of maidens, I have loosed me, and leapt from the links of love; From the kiss that cloys and desire that deadens, The woes that madden, the words that move.

In the dim last days of a spent September, When fruits are fallen, and flies are fain; Before you forget, and while I remember, I cry as I shall cry never again.

Went up a hylle Where the strong fell faints in the lazy levels Of misty meadows, and streams that stray; We raised us at eve from our rosy revels, With the faces aflame for the death of the day; With pale lips parted, and sighs that shiver, Low lids that cling to the last of love: We left the levels, we left the river, And turned us and toiled to the air above.

To fetch a paile of water, By the sad sweet springs that have salved our sorrow, The fates that haunt us, the grief that grips-- Where we walk not to-day nor shall walk not tomorrow The wells of Lethe for wearied lips.

With souls nor shaken with tears nor laughter, With limp knees loosed as of priests that pray, We bowed us and bent to the white well-water, We dipped and we drank it and bore away.

Jack felle downe The low light trembled on languid lashes, The haze of your hair on my mouth was blown, Our love flashed fierce from its fading ashes, As night's dim net on the day was thrown.

What was it meant for, or made for, that minute, But that our lives in delight should be dipt?

Was it yours, or my fault, or fate's, that in it Our frail feet faltered, our steep steps slipt.

And brake his crowne, and Jille came tumblynge after.

Our linked hands loosened and lapsed in sunder, Love from our limbs as a shift was shed, But paused a moment, to watch with wonder The pale pained body, the bursten head.

While our sad souls still with regrets are riven, While the blood burns bright on our bruised brows, I have set you free, and I stand forgiven-- And now I had better go call my cows.

_Unknown._

EXTRACTS FKOM THE RUBAIYAT OF OMAR CAYENNE

Wake! for the Hack can scatter into flight Shakespeare and Dante in a single Night!

The Penny-a-Liner is Abroad, and strikes Our Modern Literature with blithering Blight.

Before Historical Romances died, Methought a Voice from Art's Olympus cried, "When all Dumas and Scott is still for Sale, Why nod o'er drowsy Tales, by Tyros tried?"

A Book of Limericks--Nonsense, anyhow-- Alice in Wonderland, the Purple Cow Beside me singing on Fifth Avenue-- Ah, this were Modern Literature enow!

Ah, my Beloved, write the Book that clears |To-Day| of dreary Debt and sad Arrears; To-morrow!--Why, To-Morrow I may see My Nonsense popular as Edward Lear's.

And we, that now within the Editor's Room Make merry while we have our little Boom, Ourselves must we give way to next month's Set-- Girls with Three Names, who know not Who from Whom!

As then the Poet for his morning Sup Fills with a Metaphor his mental Cup, Do you devoutly read your Ma.n.u.scripts That Someone may, before you burn them up!

And if the Bosh you write, the Trash you read, End in the Garbage-Barrel--take no Heed; Think that you are no worse than other Scribes, Who scribble Stuff to meet the Public Need.

So, when |Who's-Who| records your silly Name, You'll think that you have found the Road to Fame; And though ten thousand other Names are there, You'll fancy you're a Genius, just the Same!

Why, if an Author can fling Art aside, And in a Book of Balderdash take pride, Were't not a Shame--were't not a Shame for him A Conscientious Novel to have tried?

And fear not, if the Editor refuse Your work, he has no more from which to choose; The Literary Microbe shall bring forth Millions of Ma.n.u.scripts too bad to use.

The Woman's Touch runs through our Magazines; For her the Home, and Mother-Tale, and Scenes Of Love-and-Action, Happy at the End-- The same old Plots, the same old Ways and Means.

But if, in spite of this, you build a Plot Which these immortal Elements has not, You gaze |To-Day| upon a Slip, which reads, "The Editor Regrets"--and such-like Rot.

Waste not your Ink, and don't attempt to use That subtle Touch which Editors refuse; Better be jocund at two cents a word, Than, starving, court an ill-requited Muse!

Strange--is it not?--that of the Authors who Publish in England, such a mighty Few Make a Success, though here they score a Hit?

The British Public knows a Thing or Two!

The Scribe no question makes of Verse or Prose, But what the Editor demands, he shows; And he who buys three thousand words of Drool, He knows what People want--you Bet He knows!

Would but some winged Angel bring the News Of Critic who reads Books that he Reviews, And make the stern Reviewer do as well Himself, before he Meed of Praise refuse!

Ah, Love, could you and I perchance succeed In boiling down the Million Books we read Into One Book, and edit that a Bit-- There'd be a |World's Best Literature| indeed!

_Gelett Burgess._

DIVERSIONS OF THE RE-ECHO CLUB

It is with pleasure that we announce our ability to offer to the public the papers of the Re-Echo Club. This club, somewhat after the order of the Echo Club, late of Boston, takes pleasure in trying to better what is done. On the occasion of the meeting of which the following gems of poesy are the result, the several members of the club engaged to write up the well-known tradition of the Purple Cow in more elaborate form than the quatrain made famous by Mr. Gelett Burgess:

"I never saw a Purple Cow, I never hope to see one; But I can tell you, anyhow, I'd rather see than be one."

The first attempt here cited is the production of Mr. John Milton:

Hence, vain, deluding cows.

The herd of folly, without colour bright, How little you delight, Or fill the Poet's mind, or songs arouse!