WHAT'S MY THOUGHT LIKE?

Quest.-WHY is a Pump like Viscount Castlereagh?
Answ. Because it is a slender thing of wood,
That up and down its awkward arm doth sway,
And coolly spout, and spout, and spout away,
In one weak, washy, everlasting flood!

Thomas Moore.

OF ALL THE MEN

Of all the men one meets about,

There's none like Jack-he's everywhere:
At church-park-auction-dinner-rout-
Go when and where you will, he's there.
Try the West End, he's at your back-

Meets you, like Eurus, in the East-
You're call'd upon for "How do, Jack?"
One hundred times a day, at least.

A friend of his one evening said,

As home he took his pensive way,

"Upon my soul, I fear Jack's dead-
I've seen him but three times to-day!"

Thomas Moore.

ON BUTLER'S MONUMENT

WHILE Butler, needy wretch, was yet alive,
No generous patron would a dinner give.

See him, when starved to death and turn'd to dust,
Presented with a monumental bust.

The poet's fate is here in emblem shown-
He ask'd for bread, and he received a stone.

Rev. Samuel Wesley.

Epigrams

A CONJUGAL CONUNDRUM

WHICH is of greater value, prythee, say,

371

The Bride or Bridegroom?-must the truth be told? Alas, it must! The Bride is given away

The Bridegroom's often regularly sold.

Unknown.

VII

BURLESQUE

LOVERS AND A REFLECTION

IN moss-prankt dells which the sunbeams flatter (And heaven it knoweth what that may mean; Meaning, however, is no great matter)

Where woods are a-tremble with words a-tween;

Thro' God's own heather we wonned together,
I and my Willie (O love my love):

I need hardly remark it was glorious weather,
And flitter-bats wavered alow, above:

Boats were curtseying, rising, bowing,
(Boats in that climate are so polite,)
And sands were a ribbon of green endowing,
And O the sun-dazzle on bark and bight!

Thro' the rare red heather we danced together
(O love my Willie,) and smelt for flowers:
I must mention again it was glorious weather,
Rhymes are so scarce in this world of ours:

By rises that flushed with their purple favors,
Thro' becks that brattled o'er grasses sheen,
We walked or waded, we two young shavers,
Thanking our stars we were both so green.

We journeyed in parallels, I and Willie,
In fortunate parallels! Butterflies,
Hid in weltering shadows of daffodilly
Or Marjoram, kept making peacock eyes:

Lovers and a Reflection

Song-birds darted about, some inky

As coal, some snowy (I ween) as curds;

Or rosy as pinks, or as roses pinky

They reck of no eerie To-come, those birds!

But they skim over bents which the mill-stream washes,
Or hang in the lift 'neath a white cloud's hem;
They need no parasols, no goloshes;

And good Mrs. Trimmer she feedeth them.

Then we thrid God's cowslips (as erst his heather),
That endowed the wan grass with their golden blooms;
And snapt (it was perfectly charming weather)—
Our fingers at Fate and her goddess-glooms:

And Willie 'gan sing―(Oh, his notes were fluty;

373

Wafts fluttered them out to the white-winged sea)— Something made up of rhymes that have done much duty, Rhymes (better to put it) of "ancientry":

Bowers of flowers encountered showers

In William's carol-(O love my Willie!)
Then he bade sorrow borrow from blithe to-morrow
I quite forget what-say a daffodilly.

A nest in a hollow, "with buds to follow,"

I think occurred next in his nimble strain;
And clay that was "kneaden" of course in Eden-
A rhyme most novel I do maintain:

Mists, bones, the singer himself, love-stories,
And all least furlable things got furled;
Not with any design to conceal their glories,
But simply and solely to rhyme with world.

O if billows and pillows and hours and flowers,
And all the brave rhymes of an elder day,
Could be furled together, this genial weather,

And carted or carried on wafts away,

Nor ever again trotted out-ah me!

How much fewer volumes of verse there'd be.

Charles Stuart Calverley.

OUR HYMN

AT morning's call

The small-voiced pug dog welcomes in the sun,
And flea-bit mongrels wakening one by one,
Give answer all.

When evening dim

Draws rounds us, then the lovely caterwaul,
Tart solo, sour duet and general squall,
These are our hymn.

Oliver Wendell Holmes.

“SOLDIER, REST!"

A RUSSIAN sailed over the blue Black Sea
Just when the war was growing hot,
And he shouted, "I'm Tjalikavakeree-
Karindabrolikanavandorot-

Schipkadirova-
Ivandiszstova-

Sanilik

Danilik-
Varagobhot!"

A Turk was standing upon the shore
Right where the terrible Russian crossed;
And he cried, "Bismillah! I'm Abd el Kor-
Bazaroukilgonautoskobrosk-

Getzinpravadi

Kilgekosladji

Grivido

Blivido

Jenikodosk!"