The Home Book of Verse Volume Iv Part 34

Deftly hiding reproof in praise, She cries: "'Tis, indeed, a lovely vaze!"

But brief her unworthy triumph when The lofty one from the home of Penn,

With the consciousness of two grandpapas, Exclaims: "It is quite a lovely vahs!"

And glances round with an anxious thrill, Awaiting the word of Beacon Hill.

But the Boston maid smiles courteouslee, And gently murmurs: "Oh pardon me!

"I did not catch your remark, because I was so entranced with that charming vaws!"

Dies erit praegelida Sinistra quum Bostonia.

James Jeffrey Roche [1847-1908]

HEM AND HAW

Hem and Haw were the sons of sin, Created to shally and shirk; Hem lay 'round and Haw looked on While G.o.d did all the work.

Hem was a fogy, and Haw was a prig, For both had the dull, dull mind; And whenever they found a thing to do, They yammered and went it blind.

Hem was the father of bigots and bores; As the sands of the sea were they.

And Haw was the father of all the tribe Who criticise to-day.

But G.o.d was an artist from the first, And knew what he was about; While over his shoulder sneered these two, And advised him to rub it out.

They prophesied ruin ere man was made: "Such folly must surely fail!"

And when he was done, "Do you think, my Lord, He's better without a tail?"

And still in the honest working world, With posture and hint and smirk, These sons of the devil are standing by While Man does all the work.

They balk endeavor and baffle reform, In the sacred name of law; And over the quavering voice of Hem, Is the droning voice of Haw.

Bliss Carman [1861-1929]

MINIVER CHEEVY

Miniver Cheevy, child of scorn, Grew lean while he a.s.sailed the seasons; He wept that he was ever born, And he had reasons.

Miniver loved the days of old When swords were bright and steeds were prancing; The vision of a warrior bold Would set him dancing.

Miniver sighed for what was not, And dreamed, and rested from his labors; He dreamed of Thebes and Camelot, And Priam's neighbors.

Miniver mourned the ripe renown That made so many a name so fragrant; He mourned Romance, now on the town, And Art, a vagrant.

Miniver loved the Medici, Albeit he had never seen one; He would have sinned incessantly Could he have been one.

Miniver cursed the commonplace, And eyed a khaki suit with loathing; He missed the medieval grace Of iron clothing.

Miniver scorned the gold he sought, But sore annoyed was he without it; Miniver thought, and thought, and thought, And thought about it.

Miniver Cheevy, born too late, Scratched his head and kept on thinking; Miniver coughed, and called it fate, And kept on drinking.

Edwin Arlington Robinson [1869-1935]

THEN AG'IN

Jim Bowker, he said, ef he'd had a fair show, And a big enough town for his talents to grow, And the least bit a.s.sistance in hoein' his row, Jim Bowker, he said, He'd filled the world full of the sound of his name, An' clumb the top round in the ladder of fame; It may have been so; I dunno; Jest so it might been, Then ag'in--

But he had tarnal luck--everythin' went ag'in him, The arrers er fortune they allus 'ud pin him; So he didn't get no chance to show off what was in him.

Jim Bowker, he said, Ef he'd had a fair show, you couldn't tell where he'd come, An' the feats he'd a-done, an' the heights he'd a-clumb-- It may have been so; I dunno; Jest so it might been, Then ag'in--

But we're all like Jim Bowker, thinks I, more or less-- Charge fate for our bad luck, ourselves for success, An' give fortune the blame for all our distress, As Jim Bowker, he said.

Ef it hadn' been for luck an' misfortune an' sich, We might a-been famous, an' might a-been rich.

It might be jest so; I dunno; Jest so it might been, Then ag'in--

Sam Walter Foss [1858-1911]

A CONSERVATIVE

The garden beds I wandered by One bright and cheerful morn, When I found a new-fledged b.u.t.terfly, A-sitting on a thorn, A black and crimson b.u.t.terfly, All doleful and forlorn.

I thought that life could have no sting To infant b.u.t.terflies, So I gazed on this unhappy thing With wonder and surprise, While sadly with his waving wing He wiped his weeping eyes.

Said I, "What can the matter be?

Why weepest thou so sore?

With garden fair and sunlight free And flowers in goodly store:"-- But he only turned away from me And burst into a roar.

Cried he, "My legs are thin and few Where once I had a swarm!

Soft fuzzy fur--a joy to view-- Once kept my body warm, Before these flapping wing-things grew, To hamper and deform!"

At that outrageous bug I shot The fury of mine eye; Said I, in scorn all burning hot, In rage and anger high, "You ignominious idiot!

Those wings are made to fly!

'I do not want to fly," said he, "I only want to squirm!"

And he drooped his wings dejectedly, But still his voice was firm: "I do not want to be a fly!