New Collected Rhymes | Page 8

the well-spread board,?And have to own--oh, contradiction!?Though every dainty it afford,?There's nothing like the food of fiction.
"The better half"--how good the sound!?Of Scott's or Ainsworth's "venison pasty,"?In cups of old Canary drowned,?(Which probably was very nasty).?The beefsteak pudding made by Ruth?To cheer Tom Pinch in his affliction,?Ah me, in all the world of truth,?There's nothing like the food of fiction!
The cakes and ham and buttered toast?That graced the board of Gabriel Varden,?In Bracebridge Hall the Christmas roast,?Fruits from the Goblin Market Garden.?And if you'd eat of luscious sweets?And yet escape from gout's infliction,?Just read "St. Agnes' Eve" by Keats -?There's nothing like the food of fiction.
What cups of tea were ever brewed?Like Sairey Gamp's--the dear old sinner??What savoury mess was ever stewed?Like that for Short's and Codlin's dinner??What was the flavour of that "poy" -?To use the Fotheringay's own diction -?Pendennis ate, the love-sick boy??There's nothing like the food of fiction.
Prince, you are young--but you will find?After life's years of fret and friction,?That hunger wanes--but never mind!?There's nothing like the food of fiction.
"A HIGHLY VALUABLE CHAIN OF THOUGHTS"
Had cigarettes no ashes,?And roses ne'er a thorn,?No man would be a funker?Of whin, or burn, or bunker.?There were no need for mashies,?The turf would ne'er be torn,?Had cigarettes no ashes,?And roses ne'er a thorn.
Had cigarettes no ashes,?And roses ne'er a thorn,?The big trout would not ever?Escape into the river.?No gut the salmon smashes?Would leave us all forlorn,?Had cigarettes no ashes,?And roses ne'er a thorn.
But 'tis an unideal,?Sad world in which we're born,?And things will "go contrairy"?With Martin and with Mary:?And every day the real?Comes bleakly in with morn,?And cigarettes have ashes,?And every rose a thorn.
MATRIMONY
(Matrimony--Advertiser would like to hear from well-educated Protestant lady, under thirty, fair, with view to above, who would have no objection to work Remington type-writer, at home. Enclose photo. T. 99. This Office. Cork newspaper.)
T. 99 would gladly hear?From one whose years are few,?A maid whose doctrines are severe,?Of Presbyterian blue,?Also--with view to the above -?Her photo he would see,?And trusts that she may live and love?His Protestant to be!?But ere the sacred rites are done?(And by no Priest of Rome)?He'd ask, if she a Remington?Type-writer works--at home?
If she have no objections to?This task, and if her hair -?In keeping with her eyes of blue -?Be delicately fair,?Ah, THEN, let her a photo send?Of all her charms divine,?To him who rests her faithful friend,?Her own T. 99.
PISCATORI PISCATOR--IN MEMORY OF THOMAS TOD STODDART
An angler to an angler here,?To one who longed not for the bays,?I bring a little gift and dear,?A line of love, a word of praise,?A common memory of the ways,?By Elibank and Yair that lead;?Of all the burns, from all the braes,?That yield their tribute to the Tweed.
His boyhood found the waters clean,?His age deplored them, foul with dye;?But purple hills, and copses green,?And these old towers he wandered by,?Still to the simple strains reply?Of his pure unrepining reed,?Who lies where he was fain to lie,?Like Scott, within the sound of Tweed.
THE CONTENTED ANGLER
The Angler hath a jolly life?Who by the rail runs down,?And leaves his business and his wife,?And all the din of town.?The wind down stream is blowing straight,?And nowhere cast can he:?Then lo, he doth but sit and wait?In kindly company.
The miller turns the water off,?Or folk be cutting weed,?While he doth at misfortune scoff,?From every trouble freed.?Or else he waiteth for a rise,?And ne'er a rise may see;?For why, there are not any flies?To bear him company.
Or, if he mark a rising trout,?He straightway is caught up,?And then he takes his flasket out,?And drinks a rousing cup.?Or if a trout he chance to hook,?Weeded and broke is he,?And then he finds a godly book?Instructive company.
OFF MY GAME
"I'm of my game," the golfer said,?And shook his locks in woe;?"My putter never lays me dead,?My drives will never go;?Howe'er I swing, howe'er I stand,?Results are still the same,?I'm in the burn, I'm in the sand -?I'm off my game!
"Oh, would that such mishaps might fall?On Laidlay or Macfie,?That they might toe or heel the ball,?And sclaff along like me!?Men hurry from me in the street,?And execrate my name,?Old partners shun me when we meet -?I'm off my game!
"Why is it that I play at all??Let memory remind me?How once I smote upon my ball,?And bunkered it--BEHIND ME.?I mostly slice into the whins,?And my excuse is lame -?It cannot cover half my sins -?I'm off my game!
"I hate the sight of all my set,?I grow morose as Byron;?I never loved a brassey yet,?And now I hate an iron.?My cleek seems merely made to top,?My putting's wild or tame;?It's really time for me to stop -?I'm off my game!"
THE PROPERTY OF A GENTLEMAN WHO HAS GIVEN UP COLLECTING
Oh blessed be the cart that takes?Away my books, my curse, my clog,?Blessed the auctioneer who makes?Their inefficient