Weeks gone, still they're sitting, Milly, Billy; O, the winter winds are wondrous chilly!

"Winter weather, Close together; Wouldn't tarry, Better marry.

Milly, Billy, Billy, Milly, Two--one, one--two, Don't wait, 'twon't do, Knockety-nick, nickety-knock,"-- Goes the kitchen clock.

Winters two have gone, and where is Milly?

Spring has come again, and where is Billy?

"Give me credit, For I did it; Treat me kindly, Mind you wind me.

Mister Billy, Mistress Milly, My--O, O--my, By-by, by-by, Nickety-knock, cradle rock,"-- Goes the kitchen clock.

_John Vance Cheney._

LADY MINE

Lady mine, most fair thou art With youth's gold and white and red; 'Tis a pity that thy heart Is so much harder than thy head.

This has stayed my kisses oft, This from all thy charms debarr'd, That thy head is strangely soft, While thy heart is strangely hard.

Nothing had kept us apart-- I had loved thee, I had wed-- Hadst thou had a softer heart Or a harder head.

But I think I'll bear Love's smart Till the wound has healed and fled, Or thy head is like thy heart, Or thy heart is like thy head.

_H. E. Clarke._

BALLADE OF THE GOLFER IN LOVE

In the "foursome" some would fain Find nepenthe for their woe; Following through shine or rain Where the "greens" like satin show; But I vote such sport as "slow"-- Find it rather glum and gruesome; With a little maid I know I would play a quiet "twosome"!

In the "threesome," some maintain, Lies excitement's gayest glow-- Strife that mounts unto the brain Like the sparkling _Veuve Clicquot_; My opinion? Nay, not so!

Noon or eve or morning dewsome With a little maid I know I would play a quiet "twosome"!

Bays of glory some would gain With grim "Bogey" for their foe; (He's a bogey who's not slain Save one smite with canny blow!) Yet I hold this tame, and though My refrain seems trite, 'tis truesome; With a little maid I know I would play a quiet "twosome"!

|envoy|

Comrades all who golfing go, Happiness--if you would view some-- With a little maid _you_ know, Haste and play a quiet "twosome"!

_Clinton Scollard._

BALLADE OF FORGOTTEN LOVES

Some poets sing of sweethearts dead, Some sing of true loves far away; Some sing of those that others wed, And some of idols turned to clay.

I sing a pensive roundelay To sweethearts of a doubtful lot, The pa.s.sions vanished in a day-- The little loves that I've forgot.

For, as the happy years have sped, And golden dreams have changed to gray, How oft the flame of love was fed By glance, or smile, from Maud or May, When wayward Cupid was at play; Mere fancies, formed of who knows what, But still my debt I ne'er can pay-- The little loves that I've forgot.

O joyous hours forever fled!

O sudden hopes that would not stay!

Held only by the slender thread Of memory that's all astray.

Their very names I cannot say.

Time's will is done, I know them not; But blessings on them all, I pray-- The little loves that I've forgot.

|envoi|

Sweetheart, why foolish fears betray?

Ours is the one true lovers' knot; Note well the burden of my lay-- The little loves that I've forgot.

_Arthur Grissom._

IV

SATIRE

A BALLADE OF SUICIDE

The gallows in my garden, people say, Is new and neat and adequately tall.

I tie the noose on in a knowing way As one that knots his necktie for a ball; But just as all the neighbours--on the wall-- Are drawing a long breath to shout "Hurray!"

The strangest whim has seized me.... After all I think I will not hang myself to-day.

To-morrow is the time I get my pay-- My uncle's sword is hanging in the hall-- I see a little cloud all pink and grey-- Perhaps the rector's mother will _not_ call-- I fancy that I heard from Mr. Gall That mushrooms could be cooked another way-- I never read the works of Juvenal-- I think I will not hang myself to-day.

The world will have another washing day; The decadents decay; the pedants pall; And H. G. Wells has found that children play, And Bernard Shaw discovered that they squall; Rationalists are growing rational-- And through thick woods one finds a stream astray, So secret that the very sky seems small-- I think I will not hang myself to-day.

|Envoi|

Prince, I can hear the trump of Germinal, The tumbrils toiling up the terrible way; Even to-day your royal head may fall-- I think I will not hang myself to-day.

_G. K. Chesterton._