Nursery Rhymes à la Mode MORE IMPRESSIONS LA FUITE DES OIES To outer senses they are geese, But try the impression trick. Cool! Cool! Deep silence on the shadowy flood, Save rare sharp stridence (that means "quack "), And suddenly subsides the sun, Bulks mystic, ghostly, thrid the gloom (That means the white geese waddling home), And darkness reigns! (See how it's done?) 509 Oscuro Wildgoose. NURSERY RHYMES À LA MODE (Our nurseries will soon be too cultured to admit the old rhymes in their Philistine and unesthetic garb. They may be redressed somewhat on this model.) OH, but she was dark and shrill, Oh, and the moon was wan and bright, The Cow she looked nor left nor right, As it was parlous wantoning, (Ah, good my gentles, laugh not ye,) And underneath a dreesome moon POSTSCRIPT Then blame me not, altho' my verse Sounds like an echo of C. S. C. Since still they make ballads that worse and worse Savor of diddle and hey-de-dee. Unknown. A MAUDLE-IN BALLAD TO HIS LILY My lank limp lily, my long lithe lily, My languid lily-love fragile and thin, With dank leaves dangling and flower-flap chilly, To my own wan soul and my own wan chin, My long lithe lily, my languid lily, What shall I weave for thee-what shall I spin- Shall I buzz like a bee with my face thrust in Gillian My languid lily, my lank limp lily, 511 What care I while you smile? Not a pin! I have watered with chlorodine, tears of chagrin, In a rough red flower-pot, sweeter than sin, Unknown. GILLIAN JACK and Jille I have made me an end of the moods of maidens, Went up a hylle Where the strong fell faints in the lazy levels We left the levels, we left the river, And turned us and toiled to the air above. To fetch a paile of water, By the sad sweet springs that have salved our sorrow, Where we walk not to-day nor shall walk not to morrow The wells of Lethe for wearied lips. Jack felle downe The low light trembled on languid lashes, The haze of your hair on my mouth was blown, Our love flashed fierce from its fading ashes, As night's dim net on the day was thrown. What was it meant for, or made for, that minute, But that our lives in delight should be dipt? Was it yours, or my fault, or fate's, that in it Our frail feet faltered, our steep steps slipt. And brake his crowne, and Jille came tumblynge after. Unknown. EXTRACTS FROM THE RUBAIYAT OF WAKE! for the Hack can scatter into flight The Penny-a-Liner is Abroad, and strikes Before Historical Romances died, Methought a Voice from Art's Olympus cried, "When all Dumas and Scott is still for Sale, Why nod o'er drowsy Tales, by Tyros tried?" Extracts from Rubaiyat of Omar Cayenne 513 A Book of Limericks-Nonsense, anyhow- Ah, my Beloved, write the Book that clears To-morrow!-Why, To-Morrow I may see And we, that now within the Editor's Room Ourselves must we give way to next month's Set- As then the Poet for his morning Sup Fills with a Metaphor his mental Cup, Do you devoutly read your Manuscripts That Someone may, before you burn them up! And if the Bosh you write, the Trash you read, Think that you are no worse than other Scribes, So, when WHO's-WHO records your silly Name, You'll fancy you're a Genius, just the Same! Why, if an Author can fling Art aside, And in a Book of Balderdash take pride, Were't not a Shame-were't not a Shame for him A Conscientious Novel to have tried? And fear not, if the Editor refuse Your work, he has no more from which to choose; Millions of Manuscripts too bad to use. |