IF WE DIDN'T HAVE TO EAT

Life would be an easy matter If we didn't have to eat.

If we never had to utter, "Won't you pa.s.s the bread and b.u.t.ter, Likewise push along that platter Full of meat?"

Yes, if food were obsolete Life would be a jolly treat, If we didn't--shine or shower, Old or young, 'bout every hour-- Have to eat, eat, eat, eat, eat-- 'Twould be jolly if we didn't have to eat.

We could save a lot of money If we didn't have to eat.

Could we cease our busy buying, Baking, broiling, brewing, frying, Life would then be oh, so sunny And complete; And we wouldn't fear to greet Every grocer in the street If we didn't--man and woman, Every hungry, helpless human-- Have to eat, eat, eat, eat, eat-- We'd save money if we didn't have to eat.

All our worry would be over If we didn't have to eat.

Would the butcher, baker, grocer Get our hard-earned dollars? No, Sir!

We would then be right in clover Cool and sweet.

Want and hunger we could cheat, And we'd get there with both feet, If we didn't--poor or wealthy, Halt or nimble, sick or healthy-- Have to eat, eat, eat, eat, eat, We could get there if we didn't have to eat.

_Nixon Waterman._

TO MY EMPTY PURSE

To you, my purse, and to none other wight, Complain I, for ye be my lady dere; I am sorry now that ye be light, For, certes, ye now make me heavy chere; Me were as lefe be laid upon a bere, For which unto your mercy thus I crie, Be heavy againe, or els mote I die.

Now vouchsafe this day or it be night, That I of you the blissful sowne may here, Or see your color like the sunne bright, That of yellowness had never pere; Ye are my life, ye be my hertes stere, Queen of comfort and of good companie, Be heavy againe, or els mote I die.

Now purse, thou art to me my lives light, And saviour, as downe in this world here, Out of this towne helpe me by your might, Sith that you will not be my treasure, For I am slave as nere as any frere, But I pray unto your curtesie, Be heavy againe, or els mote I die.

_Geoffrey Chaucer._

THE BIRTH OF SAINT PATRICK

On the eighth day of March it was, some people say, That Saint Pathrick at midnight he first saw the day; While others declare 'twas the ninth he was born, And 'twas all a mistake between midnight and morn; For mistakes _will_ occur in a hurry and shock, And some blam'd the baby--and some blam'd the clock-- Till with all their cross-questions sure no one could know, If the child was too fast--or the clock was too slow.

Now the first faction fight in ould Ireland, they say, Was all on account of Saint Pathrick's birthday, Some fought for the eighth--for the ninth more would die.

And who wouldn't see right, sure they blacken'd his eye!

At last, _both_ the factions so positive grew, That _each_ kept a birthday, so Pat then had _two_, Till Father Mulcahy, who showed them their sins, Said, "No one could have two birthdays but a _twins_."

Says he, "Boys, don't be fightin' for eight or for nine, Don't be always dividin'--but sometimes combine; Combine eight with nine, and seventeen is the mark, So let that be his birthday."--"Amen," says the clerk.

"If he wasn't a _twins_, sure our hist'ry will show-- That, at least, he's worth any _two_ saints that we know!"

Then they all got blind dhrunk--which complated their bliss, And we keep up the practice from that day to this.

_Samuel Lover._

HER LITTLE FEET

Her little feet!... Beneath us ranged the sea, She sat, from sun and wind umbrella-shaded, One shoe above the other danglingly, And lo! a Something exquisitely graded, Brown rings and white, distracting--to the knee!

The band was loud. A wild waltz melody Flowed rhythmic forth. The n.o.bodies paraded.

And thro' my dream went pulsing fast and free: Her little feet.

Till she made room for some one. It was He!

A port-wine flavored He, a He who traded, Rich, rosy, round, obese to a degree!

A sense of injury overmastered me.

Quite bulbously his ample boots upbraided Her little feet.

_William Ernest Henley._

SCHOOL

If there is a vile, pernicious, Wicked and degraded rule, Tending to debase the vicious, And corrupt the harmless fool; If there is a hateful habit Making man a senseless tool, With the feelings of a rabbit And the wisdom of a mule; It's the rule which inculcates, It's the habit which dictates The wrong and sinful practice of going into school.

If there's anything improving To an erring sinner's state, Which is useful in removing All the ills of human fate; If there's any glorious custom Which our faults can dissipate, And can casually thrust 'em Out of sight and make us great; It's the plan by which we shirk Half our matu-ti-nal work, The glorious inst.i.tution of always being late.

_James Kenneth Stephen._

THE MILLENNIUM

TO R. K.

_As long I dwell on some stupendous And tremendous (Heaven defend us!) Monstr'-inform'-ingens-horrendous Demoniaco-seraphic Penman's latest piece of graphic._ --|Robert Browning|.

Will there never come a season Which shall rid us from the curse Of a prose which knows no reason And an unmelodious verse: When the world shall cease to wonder At the genius of an a.s.s, And a boy's eccentric blunder Shall not bring success to pa.s.s:

When mankind shall be delivered From the clash of magazines, And the inkstand shall be shivered Into countless smithereens: When there stands a muzzled stripling, Mute, beside a muzzled bore: When the Rudyards cease from Kipling And the Haggards Ride no more?

_James Kenneth Stephen._