Without and Within

Nothing to comb but hair,

Nowhere to sleep but in bed,

Nothing to weep but tears,

Nothing to bury but dead.

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Nothing to sing but songs,
Ah, well, alas! alack!
Nowhere to go but out,

Nowhere to come but back.

Nothing to see but sights,

Nothing to quench but thirst,
Nothing to have but what we've got
Thus through life we are cursed.

Nothing to strike but a gait;
Everything moves that goes.
Nothing at all but common sense
Can ever withstand these woes.

WITHOUT AND WITHIN

Ben King.

My coachman, in the moonlight there,
Looks through the side-light of the door;
I hear him with his brethren swear,
As I could do, but only more.

Flattening his nose against the pane,
He envies me my brilliant lot,
Breathes on his aching fist in vain,
And dooms me to a place more hot.

He sees me in to supper go,

A silken wonder by my side,

Bare arms, bare shoulders, and a row
Of flounces, for the door too wide..

He thinks how happy is my arm,

'Neath its white-gloved and jewelled load; And wishes me some dreadful harm,

Hearing the merry corks explode.

Meanwhile I inly curse the bore
Of hunting still the same old coon,
And envy him, outside the door,
The golden quiet of the moon.

The winter wind is not so cold

As the bright smile he sees me win,
Nor the host's oldest wine so old

As our poor gabble, sour and thin.

I envy him the rugged prance

By which his freezing feet he warms,
And drag my lady's chains, and dance,
The galley-slave of dreary forms.

Oh, could he have my share of din,
And I his quiet-past a doubt
"Twould still be one man bored within,
And just another bored without.

James Russell Lowell.

SAME OLD STORY

HISTORY, and nature, too, repeat themselves, they say;
Men are only habit's slaves; we see it every day.
Life has done its best for me-I find it tiresome still;
For nothing's everything at all, and everything is nil.
Same old get-up, dress, and tub;

Same old breakfast; same old club;
Same old feeling; same old blue;
Same old story-nothing new!

Life consists of paying bills as long as you have health; Woman? She'll be true to you-as long as you have wealth; Think sometimes of marriage, if the right girl I could strike; But the more I see of girls, the more they are alike.

Same old giggles, smiles, and eyes;

Same old kisses; same old sighs;
Same old chaff you; same adieu;
Same old story-nothing new!

Same Old Story

Go to theatres sometimes to see the latest plays;

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Same old plots I played with in my happy childhood's days;
Hero, same; same villain; and same heroine in tears,
Starving, homeless, in the snow-with diamonds in her ears.
Same stern father making "bluffs";
Leading man all teeth and cuffs;

Same soubrettes, still twenty-two;
Same old story-nothing new!

Friend of mine got married; in a year or so, a boy!
Father really foolish in his fond paternal joy;

Talked about that "kiddy," and became a dreadful bore-
Just as if a baby never had been born before.

Same old crying, only more;

Same old business, walking floor;
Same old "kitchy-coochy-coo!"
Same old baby-nothing new!

Harry B. Smith.

VI

EPIGRAMS

WOMAN'S WILL

MEN, dying, make their wills, but wives

Escape a work so sad;

Why should they make what all their lives

The gentle dames have had?

John G. Saxe.

CYNICUS TO W. SHAKESPEARE

You wrote a line too much, my sage,
Of seers the first, and first of sayers;
For only half the world's a stage,
And only all the women players.

James Kenneth Stephen.

SENEX TO MATT. PRIOR

АH! Matt, old age has brought to me
Thy wisdom, less thy certainty;
The world's a jest, and joy's a trinket;

I knew that once, but now I think it.

James Kenneth Stephen.

TO A BLOCKHEAD

You beat your pate, and fancy wit will come:
Knock as you please, there's nobody at home.

Alexander Pope.

Epigrams

THE FOOL AND THE POET

SIR, I admit your general rule,
That every poet is a fool,

But you yourself may serve to show it,
That every fool is not a poet.

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Alexander Pope.

A RHYMESTER

JEM writes his verses with more speed
Than the printer's boy can set 'em;
Quite as fast as we can read,

And only not so fast as we forget 'em.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge.

GILES'S HOPE

WHAT? rise again with all one's bones,
Quoth Giles, I hope you fib:

I trusted, when I went to Heaven,

To go without my rib.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge.

COLOGNE

IN Köln, a town of monks and bones,
And pavements fanged with murderous stones,
And rags, and hags, and hideous wenches,
I counted two-and-seventy stenches,

All well defined, and separate stinks!

Ye nymphs that reign o'er sewers and sinks,
The river Rhine, it is well known,

Doth wash your city of Cologne;

But tell me, nymphs, what power divine
Shall henceforth wash the river Rhine?

Samuel Taylor Coleridge.