The Willow-Tree

O'er the gray water:
"Where is my lovely one?
Where is my daughter?

"Rouse thee, Sir Constable-
Rouse thee and look;
Fisherman, bring your net,
Boatman, your hook.
Beat in the lily-beds,
Dive in the brook!"

Vainly the constable
Shouted and called her;

Vainly the fisherman

Beat the green alder; Vainly he flung the net, Never it hauled her!

Mother beside the fire

Sat, her nightcap in;

Father, in easy chair,
Gloomily napping,

When at the window-sill

Came a light tapping!

And a pale countenance

Looked through the casement, Loud beat the mother's heart,

Sick with amazement,

And at the vision which

Came to surprise her,

Shrieked in an agony→→→→ "Lor'! it's Elizar!"

Yes, 'twas Elizabeth

Yes, 'twas their girl;
Pale was her check, and her

Hair out of curl.

"Mother," the loving one,

Blushing exclaimed, "Let not your innocent

Lizzy be blamed.

1937

"Yesterday, going to Aunt
Jones's to tea,

Mother, dear mother, I

Forgot the door-key!
And as the night was cold
And the way steep,
Mrs. Jones kept me to
Breakfast and sleep."

Whether her Pa and Ma
Fully believed her,
That we shall never know,

Stern they received her;

And for the work of that
Cruel, though short, night
Sent her to bed without

Tea for a fortnight.

MORAL

Hey diddle diddlety,

Cat and the fiddlety,

Maidens of England, take caution by she!

Let love and suicide

Never tempt you aside,

And always remember to take the door-key. William Makepeace Thackeray [1811-1863]

POETS AND LINNETS

AFTER ROBERT BROWNING

WHERE'ER there's a thistle to feed a linnet
And linnets are plenty, thistles rife-
Or an acorn-cup to catch dew-drops in it
There's ample promise of further life.
Now, mark how we begin it.

For linnets will follow, if linnets are minded,
As blows the white-feather parachute;
And ships will reel by the tempest blinded-
Aye, ships and shiploads of men to boot!
How deep whole fleets you'll find hid.

Ballad

And we blow the thistle-down hither and thither
Forgetful of linnets, and men, and God.
The dew! for its want an oak will wither-
By the dull hoof into the dust is trod,
And then who strikes the cither?

But thistles were only for donkeys intended,

And that donkeys are common enough is clear,

1939

And that drop! what a vessel it might have befriended, Does it add any flavor to Glugabib's beer?

Well, there's my musing ended.

THE JAM-POT

Tom Hood [1835-1874]

One moment-checked your fist.

But, as it was, too bold

You grappled and you missed.
More plainly you were sold.

"Well, neither of us shared
The dainty." That your plea?
"Well, neither of us cared,"

I answer. . . . "Let me see.
How have your trousers fared?"
Rudyard Kipling [1865-

BALLAD

AFTER WILLIAM MORRIS

PART I

THE auld wife sat at her ivied door,

(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)

A thing she had frequently done before;
And her spectacles lay on her aproned knees.

The piper he piped on the hill-top high,
(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)

Till the cow said "I die," and the goose asked "Why?" And the dog said nothing, but searched for fleas.

The farmer he strode through the square farmyard; (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)

His last brew of ale was a trifle hard

The connection of which with the plot one sees.

The farmer's daughter hath frank blue eyes;
(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)
She hears the rooks caw in the windy skies,
As she sits at her lattice and shells her peas.
The farmer's daughter hath ripe red lips;
(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)
If you try to approach her, away she skips
Over tables and chairs with apparent ease.
The farmer's daughter hath soft brown hair;
(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)
And I met with a ballad, I can't say where,
Which wholly consisted of lines like these.

I ART II

She sat, with her hands 'neath her dimpled cheeks,
(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)

And spake not a word. While a lady speaks
There is hope, but she didn't even sneeze.

She sat, with her hands 'neath her crimson cheeks,
(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)

She gave up mending her father's breeks,

And let the cat roll in her new chemise.

She sat, with her hands 'neath her burning cheeks, (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)

And gazed at the piper for thirteen weeks;

Then she followed him out o'er the misty leas.

Her sheep followed her, as their tails did them.
(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)
And this song is considered a perfect gem,

And as to the meaning, it's what you please.

Charles Stuart Calverley [1831-1884]

The Poster-Girl

1941

THE POSTER-GIRL

AFTER DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI

THE blessed Poster-girl leaned out
From a pinky-purple heaven;
One eye was red and one was green;
Her bang was cut uneven;

She had three fingers on her hand,

And the hairs on her head were seven.

Her robe, ungirt from clasp to hem,
No sunflowers did adorn,

But a heavy Turkish portiere

Was very neatly worn;

And the hat that lay along her back
Was yellow like canned corn.

It was a kind of wobbly wave
That she was standing on,

And high aloft she flung a scarf

That must have weighed a ton; And she was rather tall-at least She reached up to the sun.

She curved and writhed, and then she said,
Less green of speech than blue:

"Perhaps I am absurd-perhaps

I don't appeal to you;
But my artistic worth depends
Upon the point of view."

I saw her smile, although her eyes

Were only smudgy smears;

And then she swished her swirling arms,

And wagged her gorgeous ears,

She sobbed a blue-and-green-checked sob,

And wept some purple tears.

Carolyn Wells [186