A Parody Anthology - Wells Carolyn

Скачать книгу

Cheeks, if so we may, to incarnadine.

      Thou hast the kind of Halo which outstays

      Most other Genii's. Though a Laureate's bays

      Should slowly crumple up, Thou livest on,

      Having survived a certain Paraphrase.

      The Lion and the Alligator squat

      In Dervish Courts – the Weather being hot —

      Under Umbrellas. Where is Mahmud now?

      Plucked by the Kitchener and gone to Pot!

      Not so with thee; but in Thy place of Rest,

      Where East is East and never can be West,

      Thou art the enduring Theme of dining Bards;

      O make allowances; they do their Best.

      Our Health – Thy Prophet's health – is but so-so;

      Much marred by men of Abstinence who know

      Of Thee and all Thy loving Tavern-lore

      Nothing, nor care for it one paltry Blow.

      Yea, we ourselves, who beam around Thy Bowl,

      Somewhat to dull Convention bow the Soul,

      We sit in sable Trouserings and Boots,

      Nor do the Vine-leaves deck a single Poll.

      How could they bloom in uncongenial air?

      Nor, though they bloomed profusely, should we wear

      Upon our Heads – so tight is Habit's hold —

      Aught else beside our own unaided Hair.

      The Epoch curbs our Fancy. What is more

      To BE, in any case, is now a Bore.

      Even in Humor there is nothing new;

      There is no Joke that was not made before.

      But Thou! with what a fresh and poignant sting

      Thy Muse remarked that Time was on the Wing!

      Ah, Golden Age, when Virgin was the Soil,

      And Decadence was deemed a newish Thing.

      These picturesque departures now are stale;

      The noblest Vices have their vogue and fail;

      Through some inherent Taint or lack of Nerve

      We cease to sin upon a generous scale.

      This hour, though drinking at my Host's expense,

      I fear to use a fine Incontinence,

      For terror of the Law and him that waits

      Outside, the unknown X, to hale us hence.

      For, should he make of us an ill Report

      As pipkins of the more loquacious Sort,

      We might be lodged, the Lord alone knows where,

      Save Peace were purchased with a pewter Quart.

      And yet, O Lover of the purple Vine,

      Haply Thy Ghost is watching how we dine;

      Ah, let the Whither go; we'll take our chance

      Of fourteen days with option of a Fine.

      Master, if we, Thy Vessels, staunch and stout,

      Should stagger, half-seas-over, blind with Doubt,

      In sound of that dread moaning of the Bar,

      Be near, be very near, to bail us out!

Owen Seaman.

      THE BABY'S OMAR

      OMAR'S the fad! Well then, let us indite

      The shape of verse old Omar used to write;

      And Juveniles are up. So we opine

      A Baby's Omar would be out of sight!

      Methinks the stunt is easy. Stilted style,

      A misplaced Capital once in a while, —

      Other verse writers do it like a shot;

      And can't I do it too? Well, I should Smile!

      But how I ramble on. I must dismiss

      Dull Sloth, and set to Work at once, I wis;

      I sometimes think there's nothing quite so hard

      As a Beginning. Say we start like this:

      Indeed, indeed my apron oft before

      I tore, but was I naughty when I tore?

      And then, and then came Ma, and thread in hand

      Repaired the rent in my small pinafore.

      A Penny Trumpet underneath the Bough,

      A Drum that's big enough to make a Row;

      A Toy Fire-Engine, and a squeaking Doll,

      Oh, Life were Pandemonium enow.

      Come, fill the Cup, then quickly on the floor

      Your portion of the Porridge gaily pour.

      The Nurse will Spank you, and she'll be discharged, —

      Ah, but of Nurses there be Plenty more.

      Yes, I can do it! Now, if but my Purse

      Some kindly Editor will reimburse,

      I'll write a Baby's Omar; for I'm sure

      These Sample Stanzas here are not so worse.

Carolyn Wells.

      AFTER CHAUCER

      YE CLERKE OF YE WETHERE

      A  CLERKE there was, a puissant wight was hee,

      Who of ye wethere hadde ye maisterie;

      Alway it was his mirthe and his solace —

      To put eche seson's wethere oute of place.

      Whanne that Aprille shoures wer our desyre,

      He gad us Julye sonnes as hotte as fyre;

      But sith ye summere togges we donned agayne,

      Eftsoons ye wethere chaunged to cold and rayne.

      Wo was that pilgrimme who fared forth a-foote,

      Without ane gyngham that him list uppe-putte;

      And gif no mackyntosches eke had hee,

      A parlous state that wight befelle – pardie!

      We wist not gif it nexte ben colde or hotte,

      Cogswounds! ye barde a grewsome colde hath gotte!

      Certes, that clerke's ane mightie man withalle,

      Let non don him offence, lest ille befalle.

Anonymous.

      AFTER SPENSER

      A PORTRAIT

      HE is to weet a melancholy carle:

      Thin in the waist, with bushy head of hair,

      As hath the seeded thistle, when a parle

      It holds with Zephyr, ere it sendeth fair

      Its light balloons into the summer air;

      Thereto his beard had not begun to bloom.

      No brush had touched his cheek, or razor sheer;

      No care had touched his cheek with mortal doom,

      But new he was and bright, as scarf

Скачать книгу