PHILIP RAY and Enoch Arden
Both were spoons on Annie Lee.
Phil did not fulfil her notion
She preferred to wed with E.
Him she married and she bore him
Pretty little children three;
But becoming short of "rhino,"
Enoch started off for sea,
Leaving Mrs. Arden mistress
Of a well-stocked village shop,
Selling butter, soap, and treacle,
Beeswax, whipcord, lollipop.
Ten long years she waited for him,
But he neither came nor wrote;
Therefore she concluded Enoch
Could no longer be afloat.
So when Philip came to ask her
If she would be Mrs. Ray,
She, believing herself widowed,
Could not say her suitor nay.
So a second time she married,
Gave up selling bread and cheese-
And in due time Philip nursèd
A little Ray upon his knees.
But, alas! the long-lost Enoch
Turn'd up unexpectedly,
And was vastly disconcerted
At this act of bigamy.
But on thinking o'er the matter,
He determined to atone
For his lengthen'd absence from her
By just leaving well alone.
So he took to bed and dwindled
Down to something like a shade;
Settled with his good landlady,
Then the debt of nature paid.
And when both the Rays discovered
How poor Enoch's life had ended,
They came down in handsome manner,
And gave his corpse a fun'ral splendid.
This is all I know about it.
If it's not sufficient, write
By next mail to Alfred Tenny
son, M. P., Isle of Wight.
A SODDEN gray in the chilly dawn,
A burst of the red gold sun at noon;
A windy lea for the dying day,
And a wail at dusk like the distant loon;
A ghost at night in the leafless larch,
A sigh and a moan,
A frown in the morning black and dim;
A smile when the day is half-way run;
A moan when the wind comes up from the sea,
And tosses the larch when the day is done.
A penitent, changeful, grewsome thing,
Is this fierce love child
It is mad with the love of an unloved one,
It is chill with the winters that long have set;
It is sad at times and anon it laughs,
And is warm with the summer that is not yet. And its voice laughs loud in the leafless larch, But to sigh again,
A dose of quinine when the sun comes up
From its tossed-up bed in the eastern sea;
Some castor oil when the moon has sped,
A blue pill dark and catnip tea;
A decoction made from the leafless larch,
And another blue pill,
OUT on the margin of moonshine land,
Tickle me, love, in these lonesome ribs,
Out where the whing-whang loves to stand,
Writing his name with his tail on the sand,
And wipes it out with his oogerish hand;
Tickle me, love, in these lonesome ribs.
Is it the gibber of gungs and keeks?
Tickle me, love, in these lonesome ribs,
Or what is the sound the whing-whang seeks,
Crouching low by winding creeks,
And holding his breath for weeks and weeks?
Tickle me, love, in these lonesome ribs.
Anoint him the wealthiest of wraithy things!
Tickle me, love, in these lonesome ribs.
"T is a fair whing-whangess with phosphor rings,
And bridal jewels of fangs and stings,
And she sits and as sadly and softly sings,
As the mildewed whir of her own dead wings;
Tickle me, dear; tickle me here;
Tickle me, love, in these lonesome ribs.
JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY.
A GIRL'S A GIRL FOR A'THAT.
Is there a lady in the land
That boasts her rank and a' that? With scornful eye we pass her by,
And little care for a' that:
For Nature's charm shall bear the palm,
A girl's a girl for a' that.
What though her neck with gems she deck,
With folly's gear and a' that,
And gayly ride in pomp and pride?
We can dispense with a' that:
An honest heart acts no such part,-
A girl's a girl for a' that.
The nobly born may proudly scorn
A lowly lass and aʼ that;
A pretty face has far more grace
Than haughty looks and a' that;
A bonnie maid needs no such aid,—
A girl's a girl for a' that.
Then let us trust that come it must,
And sure it will for a' that,
When faith and love, all arts above,
Shall reign supreme and a' that;
And every youth confess the truth,—
A girl's a girl for a' that.
I HEAR thee speak of a Western land,
Thou callest its children a wide-awake band-
Father, oh, where is that favored spot?
Shall we not seek it and build us a cot?
Is it where the hills of Berkshire stand,
Whence the honey comes already canned?
Not there, not there, my child!
Is it far away in the Empire State,
Where Horace Greeley feels first-rate,
Where the people are ruled by Tammany ring,
And Mr. Fisk is a railway king,
With two thousand men at his command,
Besides a boat with a big brass band?
Not there, not there, my child !
Is it where the little pigs grow great
In the fertile vales of the Buckeye State,
And get so fat on acorns and meal
That they sell every bit of them, all but the squeal, Where the butchers have such a plenty of hogs That they don't make sausages out of dogs?
Not there, not there, my child!
Or is it where they fortunes make,
Where they've got a tunnel under the lake,
Where the stores are full of wheat and corn,
And divorces are plenty, as sure as you 're born,
Where Long John Wentworth is right on hand, —
Is it there, dear father, that Western land?
Not there, not there, my child!
Is it in the dominions of Brigham Young,
The most married man that is left unhung,
Where every man that likes can go,
And get forty wives or more, you know,
Where "saints" are plenty with "cheeks" sublime,
Can that be the gay and festive clime?
Not there, not there, my child!
Is it where Nevada's mountains rise
From the alkali plains which we all despise,
Where a man may beg, or borrow, or steal,
Yet he often will fail to get a square meal,
Where the rocks are full of silver ore,
Is it there we 'll find that Western shore?
Not there, not there, my child!
Eye hath not seen it, my verdant youth,
Tongue cannot name it and speak the truth;
For though you go to the farthest State,
And stand on the rocks by the Golden Gate,
They'll point you across the western sea,
To the land whence cometh the "heathen Chinee,"
Saying ""T is there, my child."
MINE eyes to mine eyelids cling thickly,
My tongue feels a mouthful and more,
My senses are sluggish and sickly,
To live and to breathe is a bore.
My head weighs a ton and a quarter
By pains and by pangs ever split,
Which manifold washings with water
Relieve not a bit.
My longings of thirst are unlawful,
And vain to console or control,
The aroma of coffee is awful,
Repulsive the sight of the roll.
I take my matutinal journal,
And strive my dull wits to engage,
But cannot endure the infernal
Sharp crack of its page.
What bad luck my soul had bedevilled,
What demon of spleen and of spite,
That I rashly went forth and I revelled
In riotous living last night?
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