A Parody Anthology

AFTER SHAKESPEARE

THE BACHELOR'S SOLILOQUY

TO wed, or not to wed? That is the questionWhether 'tis nobler in the mind to sufferThe pangs and arrows of outrageous loveOr to take arms against the powerful flameAnd by oppressing quench it.To wed – to marry —And by a marriage say we endThe heartache and the thousand painful shocksLove makes us heir to – 'tis a consummationDevoutly to be wished! to wed – to marry —Perchance a scold! aye, there's the rub!For in that wedded life what ills may comeWhen we have shuffled off our single stateMust give us serious pause. There's the respectThat makes us Bachelors a numerous race.For who would bear the dull unsocial hoursSpent by unmarried men, cheered by no smileTo sit like hermit at a lonely boardIn silence? Who would bear the cruel gibesWith which the Bachelor is daily teasedWhen he himself might end such heart-felt griefsBy wedding some fair maid? Oh, who would liveYawning and staring sadly in the fireTill celibacy becomes a weary lifeBut that the dread of something after wed-lock(That undiscovered state from whose strong chainsNo captive can get free) puzzles the willAnd makes us rather choose those ills we haveThan fly to others which a wife may bring.Thus caution doth make Bachelors of us all,And thus our natural taste for matrimonyIs sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought.And love adventures of great pith and momentWith this regard their currents turn awayAnd lose the name of Wedlock.Anonymous.

POKER

TO draw, or not to draw, – that is the question: —Whether 'tis safer in the player to takeThe awful risk of skinning for a straight,Or, standing pat, to raise 'em all the limitAnd thus, by bluffing, get in. To draw, – to skin;No more – and by that skin to get a full,Or two pairs, or the fattest bouncing kingsThat luck is heir to – 'tis a consummationDevoutly to be wished. To draw – to skin;To skin! perchance to burst – ay, there's the rub!For in the draw of three what cards may come,When we have shuffled off th' uncertain pack,Must give us pause. There's the respectThat makes calamity of a bobtail flush;For who would bear the overwhelming blind,The reckless straddle, the wait on the edge,The insolence of pat hands and the liftsThat patient merit of the bluffer takes,When he himself might be much better offBy simply passing? Who would trays uphold,And go out on a small progressive raise,But that the dread of something after call —The undiscovered ace-full, to whose strengthSuch hands must bow, puzzles the will,And makes us rather keep the chips we haveThan be curious about the hands we know not of.Thus bluffing does make cowards of us all:And thus the native hue of a four-heart flushIs sicklied with some dark and cussed club,And speculators in a jack-pot's wealthWith this regard their interest turn awayAnd lose the right to open.Anonymous.

TOOTHACHE

TO have it out or not. That is the question —Whether 'tis better for the jaws to sufferThe pangs and torments of an aching toothOr to take steel against a host of troubles,And, by extracting them, end them? To pull – to tug! —No more: and by a tug to say we endThe toothache and a thousand natural illsThe jaw is heir to. 'Tis a consummationDevoutly to be wished! To pull – to tug! —To tug – perchance to break! Ay, there's the rub,For in that wrench what agonies may comeWhen we have half dislodged the stubborn foe,Must give us pause. There's the respectThat makes an aching tooth of so long life.For who would bear the whips and stings of pain,The old wife's nostrum, dentist's contumely;The pangs of hope deferred, kind sleep's delay;The insolence of pity, and the spurns,That patient sickness of the healthy takes,When he himself might his quietus makeFor one poor shilling? Who would fardels bear,To groan and sink beneath a load of pain? —But that the dread of something lodged withinThe linen-twisted forceps, from whose pangsNo jaw at ease returns, puzzles the will,And makes it rather bear the ills it hasThan fly to others that it knows not of.Thus dentists do make cowards of us all,And thus the native hue of resolutionIs sicklied o'er with the pale cast of fear;And many a one, whose courage seeks the door,With this regard his footsteps turns away,Scared at the name of dentist.Anonymous.

A DREARY SONG

WELL, don't cry, my little tiny boy,With hey, ho, the wind and the rainAmuse yourself, and break some toy,For the rain it raineth every day.Alas, for the grass on Papa's estate,With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,He'll have to buy hay at an awful rate,For the rain it raineth every day.Mamma, she can't go out for a drive,With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,How cross she gets about four or five,For the rain it raineth every day.If I were you I'd be off to bed,With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,Or the damp will give you a cold in the head,For the rain it raineth every day.A great while ago this song was done,With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,And I, for one, cannot see it's fun,But the Dyces and the Colliers can – they say.Shirley Brooks.

TO THE STALL-HOLDERS AT A FANCY FAIR

WITH pretty speech accost both old and young,And speak it trippingly upon the tongue;But if you mouth it with a hoyden laugh,With clumsy ogling and uncomely chaff —As I have oft seen done at fancy fairs,I had as lief a huckster sold my wares,Avoid all so-called beautifying, dear.Oh! it offends me to the soul to hearThe things that men among themselves will sayOf some soi-disant “beauty of the day,"Whose face, when she with cosmetics has cloyed it,Out-Rachels Rachel! pray you, girls, avoid it.Neither be you too tame – but, ere you go,Provide yourselves with sprigs of mistletoe;Offer them coyly to the Roman herd —But don't you suit “the action to the word,"For in that very torrent of your passionRemember modesty is still in fashion.Oh, there be ladies whom I've seen hold stalls —Ladies of rank, my dear – to whom befallsNeither the accent nor the gait of ladies;So clumsily made up with Bloom of Cadiz,Powder-rouge – lip-salve – that I've fancied thenThey were the work of Nature's journeymen.W. S. Gilbert.

SONG

WITH a hey! and a hi! and a hey-ho rhyme!Oh, the shepherd ladHe is ne'er so gladAs when he pipes, in the blossom-time,So rare!While Kate picks by, yet looks not there.So rare! so rare!With a hey! and a hi! and a ho!The grasses curdle where the daisies blow!With a hey! and a hi! and a hey-ho vow!Then he sips her faceAt the sweetest place —And ho! how white is the hawthorn now! —So rare! —And the daisied world rocks round them there.So rare! so rare!With a hey! and a hi! and a ho!The grasses curdle where the daisies blow!James Whitcomb Riley.

THE WHIST-PLAYER'S SOLILOQUY

TO trump, or not to trump, – that is the question:Whether 't is better in this case to noticeThe leads and signals of outraged opponents,Or to force trumps against a suit of diamonds,And by opposing end them? To trump, – to take, —No more; and by that trick to win the leadAnd after that, return my partner's spadesFor which he signalled, – 'tis a consummationDevoutly to be wished. To trump – to take, —To take! perchance to win! Ay, there's the rub;For if we win this game, what hands may comeWhen we have shuffled up these cards again.Play to the score? ah! yes, there's the defectThat makes this Duplicate Whist so much like work.For who would heed the theories of Hoyle,The laws of Pole, the books of Cavendish,The Short-Suit system, Leads American,The Eleven Rule Finesse, The Fourth-best play,The Influence of signals on The Ruff,When he himself this doubtful trick might takeWith a small two-spot? Who would hesitate,But that the dread of something afterwards,An undiscovered discard or forced leadWhen playing the return, puzzles the will,And makes us rather lose the tricks we haveTo win the others that we know not of?Thus Duplicate Whist makes cowards of us all;And thus the native hue of BumblepuppyIs sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought.And good whist-players of great skill and judgment,With this regard their formulas defy,And lose the game by ruffing.Carolyn Wells.

AFTER WITHER

ANSWER TO MASTER WITHERS SONG, “SHALL I, WASTING IN DESPAIR?"

SHALL I, mine affections slack,'Cause I see a woman's black?Or myself, with care cast down,'Cause I see a woman brown?Be she blacker than the night,Or the blackest jet in sight!If she be not so to me,What care I how black she be?Shall my foolish heart be burst,'Cause I see a woman's curst?Or a thwarting hoggish natureJoinèd in as bad a feature?Be she curst or fiercer thanBrutish beast, or savage man!If she be not so to me,What care I how curst she be?Shall a woman's vices makeMe her vices quite forsake?Or her faults to me made known,Make me think that I have none?Be she of the most accurst,And deserve the name of worst!If she be not so to me,What care I how bad she be?'Cause her fortunes seem too low,Shall I therefore let her go?He that bears an humble mindAnd with riches can be kind,Think how kind a heart he'd have,If he were some servile slave!And if that same mind I seeWhat care I how poor she be?Poor, or bad, or curst, or black,I will ne'er the more be slack!If she hate me (then believe!)She shall die ere I will grieve!If she like me when I wooI can like and love her too!If that she be fit for me!What care I what others be?Ben Jonson.

AFTER HERRICK

SONG

GATHER Kittens while you may,Time brings only Sorrow;And the Kittens of To-dayWill be Old Cats To-morrow.Oliver Herford.

TO JULIA UNDER LOCK AND KEY

(A form of betrothal gift in America is an anklet secured by a padlock, of which the other party keeps the key)WHEN like a bud my Julia blowsIn lattice-work of silken hose,Pleasant I deem it is to noteHow, 'neath the nimble petticoat,Above her fairy shoe is setThe circumvolving zonulet.And soothly for the lover's earA perfect bliss it is to hearAbout her limb so lithe and lankMy Julia's ankle-bangle clank.Not rudely tight, for 'twere a sinTo corrugate her dainty skin;Nor yet so large that it might fareOver her foot at unaware;But fashioned nicely with a viewTo let her airy stocking through:So as, when Julia goes to bed,Of all her gear disburdenèd,This ring at least she shall not doffBecause she cannot take it off.And since thereof I hold the key,She may not taste of liberty,Not though she suffer from the gout,Unless I choose to let her out.Owen Seaman.

AFTER NURSERY RHYMES

AN IDYLL OF PHATTE AND LEENE

THE hale John Sprat – oft called for shortness, Jack —Had married – had, in fact, a wife – and sheDid worship him with wifely reverence.He, who had loved her when she was a girl,Compass'd her, too, with sweet observances;E'en at the dinner table did it shine.For he – liking no fat himself – he never did,With jealous care piled up her plate with lean,Not knowing that all lean was hateful to her.And day by day she thought to tell him o 't,And watched the fat go out with envious eye,But could not speak for bashful delicacy.At last it chanced that on a winter day,The beef – a prize joint! – little was but fat;So fat, that John had all his work cut out,To snip out lean fragments for his wife,Leaving, in very sooth, none for himself;Which seeing, she spoke courage to her soul,Took up her fork, and, pointing to the jointWhere 'twas the fattest, piteously she said;“Oh, husband! full of love and tenderness!What is the cause that you so jealouslyPick out the lean for me. I like it not!Nay, loathe it – 'tis on the fat that I would feast;O me, I fear you do not like my taste!"Then he, dropping his horny-handled carving knife,Sprinkling therewith the gravy o'er her gown,Answer'd, amazed: “What! you like fat, my wife!And never told me. Oh, this is not kind!Think what your reticence has wrought for us;How all the fat sent down unto the maid —Who likes not fat – for such maids never do —Has been put in the waste-tub, sold for grease,And pocketed as servant's perquisite!Oh, wife! this news is good; for since, perforce,A joint must be not fat nor lean, but both;Our different tastes will serve our purpose well;For, while you eat the fat – the lean to meFalls as my cherished portion. Lo! 'tis good!"So henceforth – he that tells the tale relates —In John Sprat's household waste was quite unknown;For he the lean did eat, and she the fat,And thus the dinner-platter was all cleared.Anonymous.

NURSERY SONG IN PIDGIN ENGLISH

SINGEE a songee sick a pence,Pockee muchee lye;Dozen two time blackee birdCookee in e pie.When him cutee topsideBirdee bobbery sing;Himee tinkee nicey dishSetee foree King!Kingee in a talkee loomCountee muchee money;Queeny in e kitchee,Chew-chee breadee honey.Servant galo shakee,Hangee washee clothes;Cho-chop comee blackie bird,Nipee off her nose!Anonymous.

THE HOUSE THAT JACK BUILT

AND this reft house is that the which he built,Lamented Jack! and here his malt he piled.Cautious in vain! these rats that squeak so wild,Squeak not unconscious of their father's guilt.Did he not see her gleaming through the glade!Belike 'twas she, the maiden all forlorn.What though she milked no cow with crumpled horn,Yet, aye she haunts the dale where erst she strayed:And aye before her stalks her amorous knight!Still on his thighs their wonted brogues are worn,And through those brogues, still tattered and betorn,His hindward charms gleam an unearthly white.Samuel Taylor Coleridge.

BOSTON NURSERY RHYMES

RHYME FOR A GEOLOGICAL BABYTRILOBITE, Graptolite, Nautilus pie;Seas were calcareous, oceans were dry.Eocene, miocene, pliocene Tuff,Lias and Trias and that is enough.RHYME FOR ASTRONOMICAL BABYBYE Baby Bunting,Father's gone star-hunting;Mother's at the telescopeCasting baby's horoscope.Bye Baby Buntoid,Father's found an asteroid;Mother takes by calculationThe angle of its inclination.RHYME FOR BOTANICAL BABYLITTLE bo-peepalsHas lost her sepals,And can't tell where to find them;In the involucreBy hook or by crook orShe'll make up her mind not to mind them.RHYME FOR A CHEMICAL BABYOH, sing a song of phosphates,Fibrine in a line,Four-and-twenty folliclesIn the van of time.When the phosphorescenceEvoluted brain,Superstition ended,Men began to reign.Rev. Joseph Cook.

A SONG OF A HEART

UPON a time I had a Heart,And it was bright and gay;And I gave it to a Lady fairTo have and keep alway.She soothed it and she smoothed itAnd she stabbed it till it bled;She brightened it and lightened itAnd she weighed it down with lead.She flattered it and battered itAnd she filled it full of gall;Yet had I Twenty Hundred Hearts,Still should she have them all.Oliver Herford.

THE DOMICILE OF JOHN

BEHOLD the mansion reared by Daedal Jack!See the malt stored in many a plethoric sack,In the proud cirque of Ivan's Bivouac!Mark how the rat's felonious fangs invadeThe golden stores in John's pavilion laid!Anon, with velvet foot and Tarquin strides,Subtle Grimalkin to his quarry glides;Grimalkin grim, that slew the fierce rodent,Whose tooth insidious Johann's sackcloth rent!Lo! Now the deep-mouthed canine foe's assault!That vexed the avenger of the stolen malt,Stored in the hallowed precincts of that hall,That rose complete at Jack's creative call.Here stalks the impetuous cow with the crumpled horn,Whereon the exacerbating hound was tornWho bayed the feline slaughter-beast that slewThe rat predaceous, whose keen fangs ran throughThe textile fibres that involved the grainThat lay in Hans' inviolate domain.Here walks forlorn the damsel crowned with rue,Lactiferous spoils from vaccine dugs who drewOf that corniculate beast whose tortuous hornTossed to the clouds, in fierce vindictive scorn,The baying hound whose braggart bark and stirArched the lithe spine and reared the indignant furOf puss, that, with verminicidal claw,Struck the weird rat, in whose insatiate mawLay reeking malt, that erst in Juan's courts we saw.Robed in senescent garb, that seems, in sooth,Too long a prey to Chronos' iron tooth,Behold the man whose amorous lips inclineFull with young Eros' osculative sign,To the lorn maiden whose lactalbic handsDrew albulactic wealth from lacteal glandsOf that immortal bovine, by whose hornDistort, to realms ethereal was borneThe beast catulean, vexer of that slyUlysses quadrupedal, who made dieThe old mordaceous rat that dared devourAntecedaneous ale in John's domestic bower.Lo! Here, with hirsute honors doffed, succinctOf saponaceous locks, the priest who linkedIn Hymen's golden bands the man unthriftWhose means exiguous stared from many a rift,E'en as he kissed the virgin all forlornWho milked the cow with implicated horn,Who in fierce wrath the canine torturer skied,That dared to vex the insidious muricide,Who let auroral effluence through the peltOf that sly rat that robbed the palace that Jack built.The loud cantankerous Shanghai comes at last,Whose shouts aroused the shorn ecclesiast,Who sealed the vows of Hymen's sacramentTo him who, robed in garments indigent,Exosculates the damsel lachrymose,The emulgator of the horned brute moroseThat on gyrated horn, to heaven's high vaultHurled up, with many a tortuous somersault,The low bone-cruncher, whose hot wrath pursuedThe scratching sneak, that waged eternal feudWith long-tailed burglar, who his lips would smackOn farinaceous wealth, that filled the halls of Jack.Vast limbed and broad the farmer comes at length,Whose cereal care supplied the vital strengthOf chanticleer, whose matutinal cryRoused the quiescent form and ope'd the eyeOf razor-loving cleric, who in bandsConnubial linked the intermixed handsOf him, whose rent apparel gaped apart,And the lorn maiden with lugubrious heart,Her who extraught the exuberant lactic flowOf nutriment from that cornigerent cow,Eumenidal executor of fate,That to sidereal altitudes elateCerberus, who erst with fang lethiferousLeft lacerate Grimalkin latebrose —That killed the ratThat ate the maltThat lay in the house that Jack built.A. Pope.

MARY AND THE LAMB

MARY, – what melodies mingleTo murmur her musical name!It makes all one's finger-tips tingleLike fagots, the food of the flame;About her an ancient traditionA romance delightfully deepHas woven in juxtapositionWith one little sheep, —One dear little lamb that would followHer footsteps, unwearily fain.Down dale, over hill, over hollow,To school and to hamlet again;A gentle companion, whose beautyConsisted in snow-driven fleece,And whose most imperative dutyWas keeping the peace.His eyes were as beads made of glassware,His lips were coquettishly curled,His capers made many a lass swearHis caper-sauce baffled the world;His tail had a wag when it relishedA sip of the milk in the pail, —And this fact has largely embellishedThe wag of this tale.One calm summer day when the sun wasA great golden globe in the sky,One mild summer morn when the fun wasUnspeakably clear in his eye,He tagged after exquisite Mary,And over the threshold of schoolHe tripped in a temper contrary,And splintered the rule.A great consternation was kindledAmong all the scholars, and someConfessed their affection had dwindledFor lamby, and looked rather glum;But Mary's schoolmistress quick beckonedThe children away from the jam,And said, sotto voce, she reckonedThat Mame loved the lamb.Then all up the spine of the rafterThere ran a most risible shock,And sorrow was sweetened with laughterAt this little lamb of the flock;And out spoke the schoolmistress Yankee,With rather a New Hampshire whine,“Dear pupils, sing Moody and Sankey,Hymn 'Ninety and Nine.'"Now after this music had finished,And silence again was restored,The ardor of lamby diminished,His quips for a moment were flooredThen cried he, “Bah-ed children, you blunderedWhen singing that psalmistry, quite.I'm labelled by Mary, 'Old Hundred,'And I'm labelled right."Then vanished the lambkin in glory,A halo of books round his head:What furthermore happened the story,Alackaday! cannot be said.And Mary, the musical maid, isTo-day but a shadow in time;Her epitaph, too, I'm afraid isWrit only in rhyme.She's sung by the cook at her ladleThat stirs up the capering sauce;She's sung by the nurse at the cradleWhen ba-ba is restless and cross;And lamby, whose virtues were legion,Dwells ever in songs that we sing,He makes a nice dish in this regionTo eat in the spring!Frank Dempster Sherman.

AFTER WALLER

THE AESTHETE TO THE ROSE

Go, flaunting Rose!Tell her that wastes her love on thee,That she nought knowsOf the New Cult, Intensity,If sweet and fair to her you be.Tell her that's young,Or who in health and bloom takes pride,That bards have sungOf a new youth – at whose sad sideSickness and pallor aye abide.Small is the worthOf Beauty in crude charms attired.She must shun mirth,Have suffered, fruitlessly desired,And wear no flush by hope inspired.Then die, that sheMay learn that Death is passing fair;May read in theeHow little of Art's praise they share,Who are not sallow, sick, and spare!Punch.

AFTER DRYDEN

THREE BLESSINGS

THREE brightest blessings of this thirsty race,(Whence sprung and when I don't propose to trace);Pale brandy, potent spirit of the night,Brisk soda, welcome when the morn is bright;To make the third, combine the other two,The force of nature can no further go.Anonymous.

OYSTER-CRABS

THREE viands in three different courses served,Received the commendation they deserved.The first in succulence all else surpassed;The next in flavor; and in both, the last.For Nature's forces could no further go;To make the third, she joined the other two.Carolyn Wells.

AFTER DR. WATTS

THE VOICE OF THE LOBSTER

“'TIS the voice of the Lobster: I heard him declare'You have baked me too brown, I must sugar my hair.'As a duck with its eyelids, so he with his noseTrims his belt and his buttons, and turns out his toes.When the sands are all dry, he is gay as a lark,And will talk in contemptuous tones of the Shark:But, when the tide rises and sharks are around,His voice has a timid and tremulous sound.“I passed by his garden, and marked, with one eye,How the Owl and the Panther were sharing a pie;The Panther took pie-crust, and gravy, and meat,While the Owl had the dish as its share of the treat.When the pie was all finished, the Owl, as a boon,Was kindly permitted to pocket the spoon;While the Panther received knife and fork with a growl,And concluded the banquet by – "Lewis Carroll.

THE CROCODILE

HOW doth the little crocodileImprove his shining tail,And pour the waters of the NileOn every golden scale!How cheerfully he seems to grin,How neatly spreads his claws,And welcomes little fishes in,With gently smiling jaws!Lewis Carroll.

AFTER GOLDSMITH

WHEN LOVELY WOMAN

WHEN lovely woman wants a favor,And finds, too late, that man won't bend,What earthly circumstance can save herFrom disappointment in the end?The only way to bring him over,The last experiment to try,Whether a husband or a lover,If he have feeling is – to cry.Phœbe Cary.

AFTER BURNS

GAELIC SPEECH; OR, “AULD LANG SYNE" DONE UP IN TARTAN

SHOULD Gaelic speech be e'er forgot,And never brocht to min',For she'll be spoke in ParadiseIn the days of auld lang syne.When Eve, all fresh in beauty's charms,First met fond Adam's view,The first word that he'll spoke till herWas, “cumar achum dhu."And Adam in his garden fair,Whene'er the day did close,The dish that he'll to supper teukWas always Athole brose.When Adam from his leafy bowerCam oot at broke o' day,He'll always for his morning teukA quaich o' usquebae.An' when wi' Eve he'll had a crack,He'll teuk his sneeshin' horn,An' on the tap ye'll well mitch markA pony praw Cairngorm.The sneeshin' mull is fine, my friens —The sneeshin' mull is gran';We'll teukta hearty sneesh, my friens,And pass frae han' to han'.When man first fan the want o' claes,The wind an' cauld to fleg.He twisted roon' about his waistThe tartan philabeg.An' music first on earth was heardIn Gaelic accents deep,When Jubal in his oxter squeezedThe blether o' a sheep.The praw bagpipes is gran', my friens,The praw bagpipes is fine;We'll teukta nother pibroch yet,For the days o' auld lang syne!Anonymous.