A Parody Anthology. Wells Carolyn. Читать онлайн. Newlib. NEWLIB.NET

Автор: Wells Carolyn
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emulgator of the horned brute morose

      That on gyrated horn, to heaven's high vault

      Hurled up, with many a tortuous somersault,

      The low bone-cruncher, whose hot wrath pursued

      The scratching sneak, that waged eternal feud

      With long-tailed burglar, who his lips would smack

      On farinaceous wealth, that filled the halls of Jack.

      Vast limbed and broad the farmer comes at length,

      Whose cereal care supplied the vital strength

      Of chanticleer, whose matutinal cry

      Roused the quiescent form and ope'd the eye

      Of razor-loving cleric, who in bands

      Connubial linked the intermixed hands

      Of him, whose rent apparel gaped apart,

      And the lorn maiden with lugubrious heart,

      Her who extraught the exuberant lactic flow

      Of nutriment from that cornigerent cow,

      Eumenidal executor of fate,

      That to sidereal altitudes elate

      Cerberus, who erst with fang lethiferous

      Left lacerate Grimalkin latebrose —

      That killed the rat

      That ate the malt

      That lay in the house that Jack built.

A. Pope.

      MARY AND THE LAMB

      MARY, – what melodies mingle

      To murmur her musical name!

      It makes all one's finger-tips tingle

      Like fagots, the food of the flame;

      About her an ancient tradition

      A romance delightfully deep

      Has woven in juxtaposition

      With one little sheep, —

      One dear little lamb that would follow

      Her footsteps, unwearily fain.

      Down dale, over hill, over hollow,

      To school and to hamlet again;

      A gentle companion, whose beauty

      Consisted in snow-driven fleece,

      And whose most imperative duty

      Was keeping the peace.

      His eyes were as beads made of glassware,

      His lips were coquettishly curled,

      His capers made many a lass swear

      His caper-sauce baffled the world;

      His tail had a wag when it relished

      A sip of the milk in the pail, —

      And this fact has largely embellished

      The wag of this tale.

      One calm summer day when the sun was

      A great golden globe in the sky,

      One mild summer morn when the fun was

      Unspeakably clear in his eye,

      He tagged after exquisite Mary,

      And over the threshold of school

      He tripped in a temper contrary,

      And splintered the rule.

      A great consternation was kindled

      Among all the scholars, and some

      Confessed their affection had dwindled

      For lamby, and looked rather glum;

      But Mary's schoolmistress quick beckoned

      The children away from the jam,

      And said, sotto voce, she reckoned

      That Mame loved the lamb.

      Then all up the spine of the rafter

      There ran a most risible shock,

      And sorrow was sweetened with laughter

      At 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 floored

      Then cried he, “Bah-ed children, you blundered

      When 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, is

      To-day but a shadow in time;

      Her epitaph, too, I'm afraid is

      Writ only in rhyme.

      She's sung by the cook at her ladle

      That stirs up the capering sauce;

      She's sung by the nurse at the cradle

      When 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 region

      To 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 knows

      Of 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 sung

      Of a new youth – at whose sad side

      Sickness and pallor aye abide.

      Small is the worth

      Of Beauty in crude charms attired.

      She must shun mirth,

      Have suffered, fruitlessly desired,

      And wear no flush by hope inspired.

      Then die, that she

      May learn that Death is passing fair;

      May read in thee

      How 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