The Book of Humorous Verse Part 65

You Wi'yum, c.u.m 'ere, suh, dis minute. Wut dat you got under dat box?

I don't want no foolin'--you hear me? Wut you say? Ain't nu'h'n but _rocks_?

'Peahs ter me you's owdashus perticler. S'posin' dey's uv a new kine.

I'll des take a look at dem rocks. Hi yi! der you think dat I's bline?

_I_ calls dat a plain water-million, you scamp, en I knows whah it growed; It come fum de Jimmerson cawn fiel', dah on ter side er de road.

You stole it, you rascal--you stole it! I watched you fum down in de lot.

En time I gits th'ough wid you, n.i.g.g.e.r, you won't eb'n be a grease spot!

_I'll_ fix you. Mirandy! Mirandy! go cut me a hick'ry--make 'ase!

En cut me de toughes' en keenes' you c'n fine anywhah on de place.

I'll larn you, Mr. Wi'yum Joe Vetters, ter steal en ter lie, you young sinner, Disgracin' yo' ole Christian mammy, en makin' her leave cookin' dinner!

Now ain't you ashamed er yo'se'f, suh? I is. I's 'shamed you's my son!

En de holy accorjun angel he's 'shamed er wut you has done; En he's tuk it down up yander in coal-black, blood-red letters-- "One water-million stoled by Wi'yum Josephus Vetters."

En wut you s'posin' Brer Bascom, yo' teacher at Sunday school, 'Ud say ef he knowed how you's broke de good Lawd's Gol'n Rule?

Boy, whah's de raisin' I give you? Is you boun' fuh ter be a black villiun?

I's s'prised dat a chile er yo' mammy 'ud steal any man's water-million.

En I's now gwiner cut it right open, en you shain't have narry bite, Fuh a boy who'll steal water-millions--en dat in de day's broad light-- Ain't--_Lawdy!_ it's |GREEN|! Mirandy; Mi-ran-dy! come on wi' dat switch!

_Well_, stealin' a g-r-e-e-n water-million! who ever heered tell er des sich?

Cain't tell w'en dey's ripe? W'y, you thump 'um, en w'en dey go pank dey is green; But when dey go _punk_, now you mine me, dey's ripe--en dat's des wut I mean.

En nex' time you hook water-millions--_you_ heered me, you ign'ant young hunk, Ef you don't want a lickin' all over, be sho dat dey allers go "punk"!

_Harrison Robertson._

JOHN GRUMLIE

John Grumlie swore by the light o' the moon And the green leaves on the tree, That he could do more work in a day Than his wife could do in three.

His wife rose up in the morning Wi' cares and troubles enow-- John Grumlie bide at hame, John, And I'll go haud the plow.

First ye maun dress your children fair, And put them a' in their gear; And ye maun turn the malt, John, Or else ye'll spoil the beer; And ye maun reel the tweel, John, That I span yesterday; And ye maun ca' in the hens, John, Else they'll all lay away.

O he did dress his children fair, And put them a' in their gear; But he forgot to turn the malt, And so he spoil'd the beer: And he sang loud as he reeled the tweel That his wife span yesterday; But he forgot to put up the hens, And the hens all layed away.

The hawket crummie loot down nae milk; He kirned, nor b.u.t.ter gat; And a' gade wrang, and nought gade right; He danced with rage, and grat; Then up he ran to the head o' the knowe Wi' mony a wave and shout-- She heard him as she heard him not, And steered the stots about.

John Grumlie's wife cam hame at e'en, A weary wife and sad, And burst into a laughter loud, And laughed as she'd been mad: While John Grumlie swore by the light o' the moon And the green leaves on the tree, If my wife should na win a penny a day She's aye have her will for me.

_Allan Cunningham._

A SONG OF IMPOSSIBILITIES

Lady, I loved you all last year, How honestly and well-- Alas! would weary you to hear, And torture me to tell; I raved beneath the midnight sky, I sang beneath the limes-- Orlando in my lunacy, And Petrarch in my rhymes.

But all is over! When the sun Dries up the boundless main, When black is white, false-hearted one, I may be yours again!

When pa.s.sion's early hopes and fears Are not derided things; When truth is found in falling tears, Or faith in golden rings; When the dark Fates that rule our way Instruct me where they hide One woman that would ne'er betray, One friend that never lied; When summer shines without a cloud, And bliss without a pain; When worth is noticed in a crowd, I may be yours again!

When science pours the light of day Upon the lords of lands; When Huskisson is heard to say That Lethbridge understands; When wrinkles work their way in youth, Or Eldon's in a hurry; When lawyers represent the truth, Or Mr. Sumner Surrey; When aldermen taste eloquence Or bricklayers champagne; When common law is common sense, I may be yours again!

When learned judges play the beau, Or learned pigs the tabor; When traveller Bankes beats Cicero, Or Mr. Bishop Weber; When sinking funds discharge a debt, Or female hands a bomb; When bankrupts study the _Gazette_, Or colleges _Tom Thumb_; When little fishes learn to speak, Or poets not to feign; When Dr. Geldart construes Greek, I may be yours again!

When Pole and Thornton honour cheques, Or Mr. Const a rogue; When Jericho's in Middles.e.x, Or minuets in vogue; When Highgate goes to Devonport, Or fashion to Guildhall; When argument is heard at Court, Or Mr. Wynn at all; When Sydney Smith forgets to jest, Or farmers to complain; When kings that are are not the best, I may be yours again!

When peers from telling money shrink, Or monks from telling lies; When hydrogen begins to sink, Or Grecian scrip to rise; When German poets cease to dream, Americans to guess; When Freedom sheds her holy beam On Negroes, and the Press; When there is any fear of Rome, Or any hope of Spain; When Ireland is a happy home, I may be yours again!

When you can cancel what has been, Or alter what must be, Or bring once more that vanished scene, Those withered joys to me; When you can tune the broken lute, Or deck the blighted wreath, Or rear the garden's richest fruit, Upon a blasted heath; When you can lure the wolf at bay Back to his shattered chain, To-day may then be yesterday-- I may be yours again!

_Winthrop Mackworth Praed._

SONG

Go and catch a falling star, Get with child a mandrake root; Tell me where all past years are, Or who cleft the Devil's foot; Teach me to hear Mermaids singing,-- Or to keep off envy's stinging, And find What wind Serves to advance an honest mind.

If thou beest born to strange sights, Things invisible to see, Ride ten thousand days and nights, Till age snow white hairs on thee; Thou, when thou return'st, wilt tell me All strange wonders that befell thee, And swear Nowhere Lives a woman true and fair.

If thou find'st one, let me know; Such a pilgrimage were sweet.

Yet do not; I would not go, Though at next door we might meet.

Though she were true when you met her, And last till you write your letter, Yet she Will be False, ere I come, to two or three.

_John Donne._

THE OUBIT

It was an hairy oubit, sae proud he crept alang; A f.e.c.kless hairy oubit, and merrily he sang: "My Minnie bade me bide at home until I won my wings, I shew her soon my soul's aboon the warks o' creeping things."

This f.e.c.kless hairy oubit cam' hirpling by the linn, A swirl o' wind cam' doun the glen, and blew that oubit in.

Oh, when he took the water, the saumon fry they rose, And tigg'd him a' to pieces sma', by head and tail and toes.

Tak' warning then, young poets a', by this poor oubit's shame; Though Pegasus may nicher loud, keep Pegasus at hame.

O haud your hands frae inkhorns, though a' the Muses woo; For critics lie, like saumon fry, to mak' their meals o' you.