On her best-room wall! And I hate her, and I'm glad she squints. Well, I suppose I lived my life, But it was Life in name only. And I'm mad at the whole world! OPHELIA No, it wasn't suicide, But I had heard so much of those mud baths, Ugh! it was a mess! Weeds, slime, and tangled vines! Oh, me! Had I been Annette Kellerman Or even a real mermaid, I had lived to tell the tale. But I slid down and under, And so Will Shaxpur told it for me. It beats that scrawny, red-headed old thing of Tom Hood's All hollow! CASABIANCA I played to the Grand Stand! Sure I did, And I made good. Ain't I in McGuffey's Third Reader? Don't they speak pieces about me Friday afternoons? Say, I was there with the goods, Wasn't I? And it paid. But I wish Movin' Pitchers had been invented then! Styx River Anthology 525 ANNABEL LEE They may say all they like About germs and micro-crocuses, Or whatever they are! But my set opinion is, If you want to get a good, old-fashioned chills and fever, Just poke around In a damp, messy place by the sea, Without rubbers on. A good cold wind, Blowing out of a cloud, by night, ANGUS MC PHAIRSON Oh, of course, It's always some dratted petticoat! Just because that little flibbertigibbet, Annie Laurie Had a white throat and a blue e'e, She played the very devil with my peace of mind. She'd dimple at me Till I was aboot crazy; And then laugh at me through her dimples! She was my bespoke. And I'd beg her to have the banns called, But there was no pinning her down. Well, she was so bonny That like a fool, I said I'd lay me doon And dee for her. And, like a fool,- Carolyn Wells. ANSWER TO MASTER WITHER'S SONG, I, WASTING IN DESPAIR?" SHALL I, mine affections slack, Shall my foolish heart be burst, Shall a woman's vices make Or her faults to me made known, And deserve the name of worst! If she be not so to me, 'Cause her fortunes seem too low, What care I how poor she be? "SHALL Song of the Springtide Poor, or bad, or curst, or black, 527 Ben Jonson. SONG OF THE SPRINGTIDE O SEASON Supposed of all free flowers, Why is it that o'er the wild waters Are plagued with perpetual chills, Happy he, O Springtide, who hath found thee, With thy garment of greenery round thee, When the songs of thy singers are sifted, What lunatic lune, what vain vision, THE VILLAGE CHOIR HALF a bar, half a bar, Into an awful ditch Choir and precentor hitch, Into a mess of pitch, They led the Old Hundred. Trebles to right of them, Tenors to left of them, Bellowed and thundered. From the Old Hundred! Screeched all the trebles here, While his mind wandered; Theirs not to reason why This psalm was pitched too high: Theirs but to gasp and cry Out the Old Hundred. Trebles to right of them, Tenors to left of them, Basses in front of them, Bellowed and thundered. Unknown. |