Yea! sharp with them there bags of mysteree!

For lo!" she ses, "for lo! old pal," ses she, "I'm blooming peckish, neither more nor less."

Was it not prime--I leave you all to guess How prime!--to have a Jude in love's distress Come spooning round, and murmuring balmilee, "O crikey, Bill!"

For in such rorty wise doth Love express His blooming views, and asks for your address, And makes it right, and does the gay and free.

I kissed her--I did so! And her and me Was pals. And if that ain't good business, "O crikey, Bill!"

II. VILLANELLE

Now ain't they utterly too-too (She ses, my Missus mine, ses she), Them flymy little bits of Blue.

Joe, just you kool 'em--nice and skew Upon our old meogginee, Now ain't they utterly too-too?

They're better than a pot'n' a screw, They're equal to a Sunday spree, Them flymy little bits of Blue!

Suppose I put 'em up the flue, And booze the profits, Joe? Not me.

Now ain't they utterly too-too?

I do the 'Igh Art fake, I do.

Joe, I'm consummate; and I _see_ Them flymy little bits of Blue.

Which Joe, is why I ses ter you-- aesthetic-like, and limp, and free-- Now _ain't_ they utterly too-too, Them flymy little bits of Blue?

III. BALLADE

I often does a quiet read At Booty Sh.e.l.ly's poetry; I thinks that Swinburne at a screed Is really almost too too fly; At Signor Vagna's harmony I likes a merry little flutter; I've had at Pater many a shy; In fact, my form's the Bloomin' Utter.

My mark's a tidy little feed, And 'Enery Irving's gallery, To see old 'Amlick do a bleed, And Ellen Terry on the die, Or Frankey's ghostes at hi-spy, And parties carried on a shutter.

Them vulgar Coupeaus is my eye!

In fact my form's the Bloomin' Utter.

The Grosvenor's nuts--it is, indeed!

I goes for 'Olman 'Unt like pie.

It's equal to a friendly lead To see B. Jones's judes go by.

Stanhope he make me fit to cry.

Whistler he makes me melt like b.u.t.ter.

Strudwick he makes me flash my cly-- In fact, my form's the Bloomin' Utter.

ENVOY

I'm on for any Art that's 'Igh; I talks as quiet as I can splutter; I keeps a Dado on the sly; In fact, my form's the Bloomin' Utter.

_William Ernest Henley._

THE LAWYER'S INVOCATION TO SPRING

Whereas, on certain boughs and sprays Now divers birds are heard to sing, And sundry flowers their heads upraise, Hail to the coming on of Spring!

The songs of those said birds arouse The memory of our youthful hours, As green as those said sprays and boughs, As fresh and sweet as those said flowers.

The birds aforesaid--happy pairs-- Love, 'mid the aforesaid boughs, inshrines In freehold nests; themselves their heirs, Administrators, and a.s.signs.

O busiest term of Cupid's Court, Where tender plaintiffs actions bring,-- Season of frolic and of sport, Hail, as aforesaid, coming Spring!

_Henry Howard Brownell._

NORTH, EAST, SOUTH, AND WEST

AFTER R. K.

Oh! I have been North, and I have been South, and the East hath seen me pa.s.s, And the West hath cradled me on her breast, that is circled round with bra.s.s, And the world hath laugh'd at me, and I have laugh'd at the world alone, With a loud hee-haw till my hard-work'd jaw is stiff as a dead man's bone!

Oh! I have been up and I have been down and over the sounding sea, And the sea-birds cried as they dropp'd and died at the terrible sight of me, For my head was bound with a star, and crown'd with the fire of utmost h.e.l.l, And I made this song with a brazen tongue and a more than fiendish yell:

"Oh! curse you all, for the sake of men who have liv'd and died for spite, And be doubly curst for the dark ye make where there ought to be but light, And be trebly curst by the deadly spell of a woman's lasting hate,-- And drop ye down to the mouth of h.e.l.l who would climb to the Golden Gate!"

Then the world grew green, and grim and grey at the horrible noise I made, And held up its hands in a pious way when I call'd a spade a spade; But I cared no whit for the blame of it, and nothing at all for its praise, And the whole consign'd with a tranquil mind to a sempiternal blaze!

All this have I sped, and have brought me back to work at the set of sun, And I set my seal to the thoughts I feel in the twilight one by one, For I speak but sooth in the name of Truth when I write such things as these;

And the whole I send to a critical friend who is learned in Kiplingese!

_Unknown._

MARTIN LUTHER AT POTSDAM

What lightning shall light it? What thunder shall tell it?

In the height of the height, in the depth of the deep?

Shall the sea-storm declare it, or paint it, or smell it?

Shall the price of a slave be its treasure to keep?

When the night has grown near with the gems on her bosom, When the white of mine eyes is the whiteness of snow, When the cabman--in liquor--drives a blue roan, a kicker, Into the land of the dear long ago.

Ah!--Ah, again!--You will come to me, fall on me-- You are _so_ heavy, and I am _so_ flat.

And I? I shall not be at home when you call on me, But stray down the wind like a gentleman's hat: I shall list to the stars when the music is purple, Be drawn through a pipe, and exhaled into rings; Turn to sparks, and then straightway get stuck in the gateway That stands between speech and unspeakable things.

As I mentioned before, by what light is it lighted?

Oh! Is it fourpence, or piebald, or gray?

Is it a mayor that a mother has knighted Or is it a horse of the sun and the day?