The Book of Humorous Verse Part 6

OLD STUFF

If I go to see the play, Of the story I am certain; Promptly it gets under way With the lifting of the curtain.

Builded all that's said and done On the ancient recipe-- 'Tis the same old Two and One: _A and B in love with C_.

If I read the latest book, There's the mossy situation; One may confidently look For the trite triangulation.

Old as time, but ever new, Seemingly, this tale of Three-- Same old yarn of One and Two: _A and C in love with B_.

If I cast my eyes around, Far and near and middle distance, Still the formula is found In our everyday existence.

Everywhere I look I see-- Fact or fiction, life or play-- Still the little game of Three: _B and C in love with A._

While the ancient law fulfills, Myriad moons shall wane and wax.

Jack must have his pair of Jills, Jill must have her pair of Jacks.

_Bert Leston Taylor._

TO MINERVA

My temples throb, my pulses boil, I'm sick of Song and Ode and Ballad-- So Thyrsis, take the midnight oil, And pour it on a lobster salad.

My brain is dull, my sight is foul, I cannot write a verse, or read-- Then Pallas, take away thine Owl, And let us have a Lark instead.

_Thomas Hood._

THE LEGEND OF HEINZ VON STEIN

Out rode from his wild, dark castle The terrible Heinz von Stein; He came to the door of a tavern And gazed on its swinging sign.

He sat himself down at a table, And growled for a bottle of wine; Up came with a flask and a corkscrew A maiden of beauty divine.

Then, seized with a deep love-longing, He uttered, "O damosel mine, Suppose you just give a few kisses To the valorous Ritter von Stein!"

But she answered, "The kissing business Is entirely out of my line; And I certainly will not begin it On a countenance ugly as thine!"

Oh, then the bold knight was angry, And cursed both coa.r.s.e and fine; And asked, "How much is the swindle For your sour and nasty wine?"

And fiercely he rode to the castle And sat himself down to dine; And this is the dreadful legend Of the terrible Heinz von Stein.

_Charles G.o.dfrey Leland._

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!

_Eugene Field._

PROPINQUITY NEEDED

Celestine Silvousplait Justine de Mouton Rosalie, A coryphee who lived and danced in naughty, gay Paree, Was every bit as pretty as a French girl e'er can be (Which isn't saying much).

Maurice Boulanger (there's a name that would adorn a king), But Morris Baker was the name they called the man I sing.

He lived in New York City in the Street that's labeled Spring (Chosen because it rhymed).

Now Baker was a lonesome youth and wanted to be wed, And for a wife, all over town he hunted, it is said; And up and down Fifth Avenue he ofttimes wandered (He was a peripatetic Baker, he was).

And had he met Celestine, not a doubt but Cupid's darts Would in a trice have wounded both of their fond, loving hearts; But he has never left New York to stray in foreign parts (Because he hasn't the price).

And she has never left Paree and so, of course, you see There's not the slightest chance at all she'll marry Morris B.

For love to get well started, really needs propinquity (Hence my t.i.tle).

_Charles Battell Loomis._

IN THE CATACOMBS

Sam Brown was a fellow from way down East, Who never was "staggered" in the least.

No tale of marvellous beast or bird Could match the stories he had heard; No curious place or wondrous view "Was ekil to Podunk, I tell yu."

If they told him of Italy's sunny clime, "Maine kin beat it, every time!"

If they marvelled at aetna's fount of fire, They roused his ire: With an injured air He'd reply, "I swear I don't think much of a smokin' hill; We've got a moderate little rill Kin make yer old volcaner still; Jes' pour old Kennebec down the crater, 'N' I guess it'll cool her fiery nater!"