Disaster

It seemed so curious that she

Should cross the Unknown water,
And moor herself within my room-
My daughter! O, my daughter!

Yet by these presents witness all
She's welcome fifty times,

And comes consigned in hope and love-
And common-metre rhymes.

She has no manifest but this;

No flag floats o'er the water;

She's too new for the British Lloyds

My daughter! O, my daughter!

Ring out, wild bells- and tame ones too;
Ring out the lover's moon.

Ring in the little worsted socks,

Ring in the bib and spoon.

Ring out the muse, ring in the nurse,
Ring in the milk and water.

Away with paper, pen, and ink-
My daughter! O, my daughter!

George Washington Cable [1844

1861

DISASTER

AFTER MOORE

'TWAS ever thus from childhood's hour My fondest hopes would not decay:

I never loved a tree or flower

Which was the first to fade away! The garden, where I used to delve

Short-frocked, still yields me pinks in plenty;

The pear-tree that I climbed at twelve,
I see still blossoming, at twenty.

I never nursed a dear gazelle.

But I was given a paroquet— How I did nurse him if unwell!

He's imbecile, but lingers yet.

He's green, with an enchanting tuft;
He melts me with his small black eye:
He'd look inimitable stuffed,

And knows it--but he will not die!

I had a kitten-I was rich

In pets-but all too soon my kitten Became a full-sized cat, by which

I've more than once been scratched and bitten; And when for sleep her limbs she curled

One day beside her untouched plateful,

And glided calmly from the world,
I freely own that I was grateful.

And then I bought a dog-a queen!
Ah, Tiny, dear departing pug!
She lives, but she is past sixteen,
And scarce can crawl across the rug.
I loved her beautiful and kind;
Delighted in her pert Bow-wow:
But now she snaps if you don't mind;
'Twere lunacy to love her now.

I used to think, should e'er mishap
Betide my crumple-visaged Ti,
In shape of prowling thief, or trap,
Or coarse bull-terrier-I should die.
But ah! disasters have their use;
And life might e'en be too sunshiny:
Nor would I make myself a goose,
If some big dog should swallow Tiny.
Charles Stuart Calverley [1831-1884]

"TWAS EVER THUS

AFTER MOORE

I NEVER reared a young gazelle,
(Because, you see, I never tried);

But had it known and loved me well,

No doubt the creature would have died.

A Grievance

My rich and agèd Uncle John

Has known me long and loves me well
But still persists in living on-

I would he were a young gazelle.

I never loved a tree or flower;

But, if I had, I beg to say

The blight, the wind, the sun, or shower
Would soon have withered it away.
I've dearly loved my Uncle John,
From childhood to the present hour,

And yet he will go living on

I would he were a tree or flower!

1863

Henry Sambrooke Leigh [1837-1883]

A GRIEVANCE

AFTER BYRON

DEAR Mr. Editor: I wish to say

If you will not be angry at my writing it—
But I've been used, since childhood's happy day,
When I have thought of something, to inditing it;
I seldom think of things; and, by the way,

Although this meter may not be exciting, it

Enables one to be extremely terse,

Which is not what one always is in verse.

I used to know a man,-such things befall

The observant wayfarer through Fate's domainHe was a man, take him for all in all,

We shall not look upon his like again;

I know that statement's not original;

What statement is, since Shakespeare? or, since Cain, What murder? I believe 'twas Shakespeare said it, or Perhaps it may have been your Fighting Editor.

Though why an Editor should fight, or why
A Fighter should abase himself to edit,

Are problems far too difficult and high

For me to solve with any sort of credit.

Some greatly more accomplished man than I

Must tackle them: let's say then Shakespeare said it;

And, if he did not, Lewis Morris may

(Or even if he did). Some other day,

When I have nothing pressing to impart,

I should not mind dilating on this matter.
I feel its import both in head and heart,
And always did,-especially the latter.
I could discuss it in the busy mart

Or on the lonely housetop; hold! this chatter
Diverts me from my purpose. To the point:
The time, as Hamlet said, is out of joint,

And perhaps I was born to set it right,—
A fact I greet with perfect equanimity.
I do not put it down to "cursèd spite,"

I don't see any cause for cursing in it. I
Have always taken very great delight

In such pursuits since first I read divinity.
Whoever will may write a nation's songs
As long as I'm allowed to right its wrongs.

What's Eton but a nursery of wrong-righters,
A mighty mother of effective men;

A training ground for amateur reciters,

A sharpener of the sword as of the pen;

A factory of orators and fighters,

A forcing-house of genius? Now and then
The world at large shrinks back, abashed and beaten,
Unable to endure the glare of Eton.

I think I said I knew a man: what then?
I don't suppose such knowledge is forbid.
We nearly all do, more or less, know men,—
Or think we do; nor will a man get rid

Of that delusion while he wields a pen.

But who this man was, what, if aught, he did, Nor why I mentioned him, I do not know,

Nor what I "wished to say" a while ago.

James Kenneth Stephen (1859-1892]

"Not a Sou Had He Got"

"NOT A SOU HAD HE GOT"

AFTER CHARLES WOLFE

Nor a sou had he got-not a guinea or note—
And he looked confoundedly flurried,

As he bolted away without paying his shot,
And the landlady after him hurried.

We saw him again at dead of night,
When home from the club returning;
We twigged the doctor beneath the light
Of the gas-lamp brilliantly burning.

All bare and exposed to the midnight dews,
Reclined in a gutter we found him;

And he looked like a gentleman taking a snooze
With his Marshall cloak around him.

"The doctor's as drunk as the devil," we said,
And we managed a shutter to borrow;

1865

We raised him; and sighed at the thought that his head
Would consumedly ache on the morrow.

We bore him home, and we put him to bed,
And we told his wife and his daughter
To give him next morning a couple of red-
Herrings, with soda-water.

Loudly they talked of his money that's gone,
And his lady began to upbraid him;
But little he recked, so they let him snore on
'Neath the counterpane, just as we laid him.

We tucked him in, and had hardly done,
When, beneath the window calling,
We heard the rough voice of a son of a gun
Of a watchman "One o'clock!" bawling.

Slowly and sadly we all walked down

From his room on the uppermost story;
A rushlight we placed on the cold hearth-stone,
And we left him alone in his glory.

Richard Harris Barham [1788-1845]