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Title: Ventures Into Verse

Author: H. L. Mencken

Release date: August 27, 2016 [eBook #52904]

Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK VENTURES INTO VERSE ***

Transcriber's Note:

The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.

Ventures into Verse

Being Various BALLADS, BALLADES, RONDEAUX, TRIOLETS, SONGS, QUATRAINS, ODES and ROUNDELS All rescued from the POTTERS' FIELD of Old Files and here Given DECENT BURIAL [Peace to Their Ashes]

BY

Henry Louis Mencken

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS & OTHER THINGS

By CHARLES S. GORDON & JOHN SIEGEL

MARSHALL, BEEK & GORDON :: NEW

YORK :: LONDON :: TORONTO :: SYDNEY

BALTIMORE FIRST (and Last) EDITION

M C M I I I

Copyright, 1903, by Henry L. Mencken

CONTENTS

VENTURES INTO VERSE

TO R. K.

THE SONG OF THE OLDEN TIME

THE SPANISH MAIN

THE TRANSPORT GEN'RAL FERGUSON

A WAR SONG

FAITH

THE BALLAD OF SHIPS IN HARBOR

THE ORF'CER BOY

THE FILIPINO MAIDEN

THE VIOLET

THE TIN-CLADS

SEPTEMBER

ARABESQUE

ESSAYS IN OLD FRENCH FORMS

A BALLADE OF PROTEST

A FRIVOLOUS RONDEAU

THE RHYMES OF MISTRESS DOROTHY

A FEW LINES

A RONDEAU OF TWO HOURS

AN ANTE-CHRISTMAS RONDEAU

ROUNDEL

IN VAUDEVILLE

THE RONDEAU OF RICHES

IN EATING SOUP

LOVE AND THE ROSE

A RONDEAU OF STATESMANSHIP

SONGS of THE CITY

SONGS OF THE CITY

OTHER VERSES

A MADRIGAL

A BALLAD OF LOOKING

WHEN THE PIPE GOES OUT

A PARADOX

THE SONG OF THE SLAPSTICK

IL PENSEROSO

FINIS

WARNING

Most of the verses that follow have been printed before and the author wishes to acknowledge his thanks for permission to reproduce them, to the editors and publishers of The Bookman, Life, The New England Magazine, The National Magazine and the Baltimore Morning Herald. Some are imitations—necessarily weak—of the verse of several men in whose writings he has found a good deal of innocent pleasure. The others, he fears, are more or less original.

PRELIMINARY REBUKE

Don't shoot the pianist; he's doing his best.

Gesundheit! Knockers! have your Fling!

Unto an Anvilfest you're bid;

It took a Lot of Hammering,

To build Old Cheops' Pyramid!

Ventures into Verse

BY HENRY L. MENCKEN

TO R. K.[1]

Prophet of brawn and bravery!

Bard of the fighting man!

You have made us kneel to a God of Steel,

And to fear his church's ban;

You have taught the song that the bullet sings—

The knell and the crowning ode of kings;

The ne'er denied appeal!

Prophet of brain and handicraft!

Bard of our grim machines!

You have made us dream of a God of Steam,

And have shown what his worship means

In the clanking rod and the whirring wheel

A life and a soul your songs reveal,

And power and might supreme.

Bard of the East and mystery!

Singer of those who bow

To the earthen clods that they call their gods

And with god-like fees endow;

You have shown that these heed not the suppliant's plea,

Nor the prayers of the priest and devotee,

Nor the vestal's futile vow.

Singer, we ask what we cannot learn

From our wise men and our schools;

Will our offered slain from our gods obtain

But the old reward of fools?

Will our man-made gods be like their kind?

If we bow to a clod of clay enshrined

Will we pray our prayers in vain?

1.  Copyright, 1899, by Dodd, Mead & Co.

THE SONG OF THE OLDEN TIME

Powder and shot now fight our fights

And we meet our foes no more,

As face to face our fathers fought

In the brave old days of yore;

To the thirteen inch and the needle gun,

To the she-cat four-point-three

We look for help when the war-dogs yelp

And the foe comes o'er the sea!

Oho! for the days of the olden time,

When a fight was a fight of men!

When lance broke lance and arm met arm—

There were no cowards then;

Sing ho! for the fight of the olden time,

When the muscles swelled in strain,

As the steel found rest in a brave man's breast

And the axe in a brave man's brain!

The lance-point broke on the armor's steel,

And the pike crushed helmet through,

And the blood of the vanquished, warm and red,

Stained the victor's war-steed, too!

A fight was a fight in the olden time—

Sing ho, for the days bygone!—

And a strong right arm was the luckiest charm,

When the foe came marching on!

Oho! for the days of the olden time,

When a fight was a fight of men!

When lance broke lance and arm met arm—

There were no cowards then!

Sing ho! for the fight of the olden time,

When the muscles swelled in strain,

As the steel found rest in a brave man's breast

And the axe in a brave man's brain!

THE SPANISH MAIN

Between the tangle of the palms,

There gleaming, like a star-strewn plain,

All smiling, lies the sea of calms,

And calls to us to fare amain;

And calls us, as with smile and gem,

She called that bold, upstanding brood,

Whose bones, when she had done with them,

Upon her shores she strewed.

Between the tangle of the palms,

By day the gleam is on the swell,

And drifting zephyrs, bearing balms,

Her tales of joy and riches tell,

And when the winds of night are free

Long, glimmering ripples wander by

As if the stars where in the sea,

Instead of in the sky.

And they went forth in ships of war

Girt up in all foolhardiness,

To take their toll from out her store,

Beguiled and snared by her caress;

And we go forth in cargo ships

To wrest her treasures bloodlessly,

And buy the nectar from her lips,

Our fairy goddess, she!

Where once their galleons blundered by

Our cargo ships are on their way,

And where their galleons rotting lie,

Our cargo ships are wrecked today.

For ever, 'till the world is done,

And all good merchantmen go down,

And dies the wind, as pales the sun,

Her smile will mask her frown.

THE TRANSPORT GEN'RAL FERGUSON[2]

The transport Gen'ral Ferguson, she left the Golden Gate,

With a thousand rookies sweatin' in her hold;

An' the sergeants drove an' drilled them, an' the sun it nearly killed them,—

Till they learned to do whatever they were told.

The transport Gen'ral Ferguson, she lay at Honolu',

An' the rookies went ashore an' roughed the town,

So the sergeants they corralled them, and with butt and barrel quelled them,—

An' they limped aboard an' set to fryin' brown.

The transport Gen'ral Ferguson, she steamed to-ward the south,

And the rookies sweated morning, noon and night;

'Till the lookout sighted land, and they cheered each grain o' sand,—

For their blood was boilin' over for a fight.

The transport Gen'ral Ferguson, she tied up at the dock,

An' each rookie lugged his gun an' kit ashore,

An' a train it come and took 'em where the tropic sun could cook 'em,—

An' the sergeants they could talk to them of war.

The transport Gen'ral Ferguson, she had her bottom scraped,

For the first part of her labor it was done,

An' the rookies chased the Tagals and the Tagals they escaped,—

An' the rookies set and sweated in the sun.

The transport Gen'ral Ferguson, she loafed around awhile,

An' the rookies they was soldier boys by now,

For it don't take long to teach 'em—where the Tagal lead can reach 'em—

All about the which and why and when and how.

The transport Gen'ral Ferguson, she headed home again,

With a thousand heavy coffins in her hold;

They were soldered up and stenciled, they were numbered and blue penciled,—

And the rookies lay inside 'em stiff and cold.

The transport Gen'ral Ferguson, she reached the Golden Gate,

An' the derrick dumped her cargo on the shore;

In a pyramid they piled it—and her manifest they filed it,

In a pigeon-hole with half a hundred more.

The transport Gen'ral Ferguson, she travels up and down,

A-haulin' rookies to and from the war;

Outward-bound they sweat in Kharki; homeward bound they come in lead

And they wonder what they've got to do it for.

The transport Gen'ral Ferguson, she's owned by Uncle Sam,

An' maybe Uncle Sam could tell 'em why,

But he don't—and so he takes 'em out to fight, and sweat, and swear,

An' brings them home for plantin' when they die.

2.  Copyright, 1902, by the Life Publishing Company.

A WAR SONG

The wounded bird to its blasted nest,

(Sing ho! for the joys of war!)

When the sun of its life veers o'er to the West,

(Sing ho! for the war, for the war!)

The wounded fox to its cave in the hill,

And the blood-dyed wolf to the snow-waste chill,

And the mangled elk to the wild-wood rill,

(Sing ho! for the price of war!)

The nest-queen harks to her master's hurts,

(Sing ho! for the wounds of war!)

And the she-fox busies with woodland worts,

(Sing ho! for the end of war!)

The she-wolf staunches the warm red flood,

And the doe is besmeared with the spurting blood,

For 'tis ever the weak that must help the strong,

Though they have no part in the triumph song,

And their glory is brief as their work is long—

(Sing ho! for the saints of war!)

FAITH

The Gawd that guided Moses

Acrost the desert sand,

The Gawd that unter Joner

Put out a helping hand,

The Gawd that saved these famous men

From death on land an' sea,

Can spare a minute now an' then

To take a peep at you an' me.

The Gawd of Ol' Man Adam

An' Father Abraham,

Of Joshua an' Isaiah,

Of lion an' of lamb,

Of kings, an' queens, an' potentates,

An' chaps of pedigree,

Wont put a bar acrost the Gate

When Gabr'el toots fer you an' me.

The Gawd that made the ocean

An' painted up the sky,

The Gawd that sets us livin'

An' takes us when we die,

Is just the same to ev'ry man,

Of high or low degree,

An' no one's better treated than

Poor little you and little me.

THE BALLAD OF SHIPS IN HARBOR

Clatter of shears and derrick,

Rattle of box and bale,

The ships of the earth are at their docks,

Back from the world-round trail—

Back from the wild waste northward,

Back from the wind and the lea,

Back from the ports of East and West,

Back from the under sea.

Here is a bark from Rio,

Back—and away she steals!

Here, from her trip, is a clipper ship

That showed the sea her heels—

South to the Gallapagos,

Down, due south, to the Horn,

And up, by the Windward Passage way,

On the breath of the balm-wind borne.

There, standing down the channel,

With a smoke wake o'er her rail,

Is a ship that goes to Zanzibar

Along the world-round trail,

'Ere seven suns have kissed her

She may pound on Quoddy Head—

A surf-tossed speck of melting wreck,

Deep-freighted with her dead.

And see that gaunt Norwegian,

Greasy, grimy and black—

She sails today for Yeddo Bay;

Who knows but she comes not back?

And there is a low decked Briton,

And yonder a white-winged Dane—

Oh, a song for the ships that put to sea

And come not back again!

Clatter of shears and derrick,

Rattle of box and bale,

The ships of the earth are home today,

Tomorrow they shall sail;

Cleared for the dawn and the sunset,

Cleared for the wind and the lea;

World-round and back, by the olden track—

Playthings of the sea.

THE ORF'CER BOY

“He was a gran' bhoy!”—Mulvaney.

Now 'e aren't got no whiskers

An' 'e's only five foot 'igh,

(All the same 'e is a' orf'cer hof the Queen!)

Oh, 'is voice is like a loidy's

An' 'e's so polite an' shy!

(All the same 'e serves 'Er Majesty the Queen!)

It is only 'bout a year ago 'e left 'is mother's knee,

It is only 'bout a month ago 'e come acrost the sea,

It is only 'bout a week that 'e 'as been aleadin' me.

(That's the way 'e serves 'Er Majesty the Queen!)

'E is such a little chappie,

Bein' only five foot 'igh,

That you'd wonder how 'is likes could serve the Queen;

You would think that when 'e 'eard the guns

'E'd just set down an' cry—

A-forgettin' ev'rythink about the Queen;

But by all that's good an' holy, you'd be extraord'ny wrong,

'Cos 'e doesn't like no singin' 'arf as good 's the Gatlin's song,

An' 'e fights as though 'e'd been a-fightin' twenty times as long

As any other man that serves the Queen!

If you'd seen him when we got to where

The Modder's deep an' wet,

You'd a-knowed 'e was a' orf'cer hof the Queen!

There's a dozen of the enemy

That ain't forgot 'im yet—

For 'e run 'is sword clean through 'em for the Queen!

Oh, 'e aren't much on whiskers an' 'e aren't much on 'eight,

An' a year or two ago 'e was a-learnin' for to write,

But you bet your soldier's shillin' 'e's the devil in a fight—

An' 'ed die to serve 'Er Majesty the Queen!

THE FILIPINO MAIDEN

Her father we've chased in the jungle,

And her brother is full of our lead;

Her uncles and cousins

In yellow half-dozens

We've tried to induce to be dead;

And while we have shot at their shadows,

They've done the same favor for us—

But, by George, she's so sweet

That we'd rather be beat

Than to have her mixed up in the fuss.

Oh! isn't her blush like the roses?

And aren't her eyes like the stars?

And whenever she smiles

Don't you think you are miles

From the rattle and roar of the wars?

Would you take the three stars of a general

If she'd say “Leave the stars and take me?”

Oh! we've stolen sweet kisses from thousands of misses,

But hers are the sweetest that be.

Her name may be Ahlo or Nina,

Or Zanez or Lalamaloo;

She may smoke the cigars

Of the chino bazars,

And prefer black maduros to you;

She may speak a wild six-cornered lingo,

And say that your Spanish is queer,

But you'll never mind this

When she gives you a kiss

And calls you her “zolshier poy dear.”

Oh! isn't her blush like the roses?

And aren't her eyes like the stars?

And whenever she smiles

Don't you think you are miles

From the rattle and roar of the wars?

Would you take the three stars of a general

If she'd say “Leave the stars and take me?”

Oh! I've stolen sweet kisses from thousands of misses,

But her's are the sweetest for me!

THE VIOLET

As in the first pale flush of coming dawn

We see a promise of the glorious sun,

So in the violet's misty blue is drawn

A shadowy likeness of the days to be,

The days of cloudless skies and poesie,

When Winter's done.

THE TIN-CLADS[3]

The small gunboats captured from the Spaniards and facetiously called “tin-clads” by the men of the land forces, are of great value in the offensive operations against the insurgents along the coast.—[MANILLA DISPATCH]

Their draft is a foot and a half,

And a knot and a half is their speed,

Their bows are as blunt as the stern of a punt

And their boilers are wonders of greed;

Their rudders are always on strike,

Their displacement is thirty-two tons,

They are armored with tin—to the dishpan they're kin—

But their Maxims are A number ones,

(Ask Aggie!)

Their Maxims are murderous guns!

When from out the towns and villages, and out the jungle, too,

We have chased the Filipinos on the run,

Toward the river swamps they foot it—towards the swamps we can't go through—

And we're doubtful if we've lost the fight or won;

Then when all are safe in hiding in the slimy mud and reeds,

From the river 'cross the swamp we hear a sound;

It's the sputter and the rattle of the automatic feeds

On the tin-protected cruisers—how they pound—

(Sweet sound!)

They that save us being losers—Rah! the tin-protected cruisers!

Hear their rattling Maxims pound, pound, pound!

When the guns have done their work, and the Tagals come our way,

(I admit they much prefer us to the guns,)

Why, we finish up what's left—ten in every dozen lay

Dead as Noah, in the swampy pools and runs;

Then the Maxims stop their rattle and we know that midst the reeds,

Half a hundred Filipinos on the ground

Are a-looking at the sky, with a glassy, sightless eye,

And the other half—or most of them—are drowned.

'Twas the tin-protected cruisers—How they pound!

(Sweet sound!)

They that saved us being losers—Rah! the tin-protected cruisers!

How their rattling Maxims pound, pound, pound!

Their draft is a foot and a half

And a knot and a half is their speed,

Their bows are as blunt as the stern of a punt,

And their engines are wonders, indeed.

Their rudders are always on strike,

Their bunkers hold two or three tons,

They are armored with tin—to the meat-can they're kin—

'But their Maxims are A number ones,

(Ask Aggie!)

Their Maxims are murderous guns;

(Go ask him!)

Their Maxims are Death's younger sons.

3.  Copyright, 1900, by the W. W. Potter Co.

SEPTEMBER

A dash of scarlet in the dark'ning green,

A minor echo in the night-wind's wail,

And faint and low, the swirling boughs between,

The last, sad carol of the nightingale.

ARABESQUE

(An English Version of an old Turkish Lyric.)

The tinkling sound of the camel's bell

Comes softly across the sand,

And the nightingale by the garden well

Still warbles his saraband,

But the night goes by and the dawn-winds blow

From the glimmering East and the Hills of Snow,

And I wait, sweetheart, I wait alone,

For a smile from thee, my own!

Awake! e'er the gong of the muezzin

Peals forth for another day;

E'er its loveless, barren toil begin

But a smile from you I pray!

But a smile from your soul-enslaving eyes,—

As brightly dark as the midnight skies,—

But a smile, I pray! Awake! sweetheart,

Awake! my own, my own!

ESSAYS IN OLD FRENCH FORMS

A BALLADE OF PROTEST[4]

(To the address of Master Rudyard Kipling, Poetaster)

For long, unjoyed, we've heard you sing

Of politics and army bills,

Of money-lust and cricketing,

Of clothes and fear and other things;

Meanwhile the palm-trees and the hills

Have lacked a bard to voice their lay;

Poet, ere time your lyre string stills,

Sing us again of Mandalay!

Unsung the East lies glimmering,

Unsung the palm trees toss their frills,

Unsung the seas their splendors fling,

The while you prate of laws and tills.

Each man his destiny fulfills;

Can it be yours to loose and stray;

In sophist garb to waste your quills?—

Sing us again of Mandalay!

Sing us again in rhymes that ring,

In Master-Voice that lives and thrills.

Sing us again of wind and wing,

Of temple bells and jungle thrills;

And if your Pegasus e'er wills

To lead you down some other way,

Go bind him in his olden thills—

Sing us again of Mandalay!

Master, regard the plaint we bring,

And hearken to the prayer we pray.

Lay down your law and sermoning—

Sing us again of Mandalay!

4.  Copyright, 1902, by Dodd, Mead & Co.

A FRIVOLOUS RONDEAU

“I co'd reherse

A lyric verse.”—The Hesperides.

A lyric verse I'll make for you,

Fair damsel that the many woo,

'Twill be a sonnet on your fan—

That aid to love from quaint Japan—

And “true” will rhyme with “eyes of blue.”

Ah! me, if you but only knew

The toil of setting out to hew

From words—as I shall try to do—

A lyric verse.

Fleet metric ghosts I must pursue,

And dim rhyme apparitions, too—

But yet, 'tis joyfully I scan,

And reckon rhymes and think and plan

For there's no cheaper present than

A lyric verse.

THE RHYMES OF MISTRESS DOROTHY

Roundel—

Bemauled by ev'ry hurrying churl

And deafened by the city's brawl,

A helm-less craft I helpless swirl

Adown the street.

With battered hat I trip and sprawl

And like a toy tee-to-tum swirl,

To end my strugglings with a fall—

But what care I for knock and whirl?—

Egad! I heed them not at all;

For here comes Dolly—sweetheart girl!—

Adown the street!

Triolet—

The light that lies in Dolly's eyes

Is sun and moon and stars to me;

It dims the splendor of the skies—

The light that lies in Dolly's eyes—

And me-ward shining, testifies

That Dolly's mine, fore'er to be—

The light that lies in Dolly's eyes

Is sun and moon and stars to me!

Roundelay—

Oh, Dolly is my treasury—

What more of wealth could I desire?

Her lips are rubies set for me,

And there between (sweet property!)

A string of pearls to smiles conspire;

With Dolly as my treasury,

What more of wealth could I desire?

And when have men of alchemy

Yet dreamed of gems like those I see

In Dolly's eyes, as flashing fire,

They bid the envious world admire?—

Oh, Dolly is my treasury!

What more of wealth could I desire?

And then her hair!—there cannot be

Such gold beyond the Purple Sea

As this of mine—unpriced and free!

Oh, Dolly is my treasury,

My sweetheart and my heart's desire!

A FEW LINES

Few roses like your cheeks are red,

Few lilies like your brow are fair;

Few vassals like your slave are led,

Few roses like your cheeks are red,

Few dangers like your frown I dread;

Few rubies to your lips compare,

Few roses like your cheeks are red,

Few lilies like your brow are fair.

A RONDEAU OF TWO HOURS

“It's a cinch.”—Plato.

From four to six milady fair

Is chic and sweet and debonair,

For then it is, with smiles and tea,

She fills the chappy mob with glee

(The jays but come to drink and stare).

A rose is nestled in her hair,

Like Cupid lurking in his lair—

Few of the jays remain heart free

From four to six.

Oh let them come—I would not care

If all the men on earth were there;

For when they go she smiles on me,

And, just because she loves me, she

Makes all the ringers take their share

From four to six.

AN ANTE-CHRISTMAS RONDEAU

“'Tis a sad story, mates.”—Marie Corelli.

It's up to me—the winds are chill

And snow clouds drift from o'er the hill,

At dawn the rime is on the grass,

At five o'clock we light the gas,

And long gone is the daffodil.

Jack Frost draws flowers upon the glass

And blasts the growing ones—alas!

Whene'er he comes to scar and kill,

It's up to me.

I run not in the croaker class,

But when I see the autumn pass,

Of crushing woes I have my fill—

To buy a Christmas gift for Jill

A horde of gold I must amass—

It's up to me.

ROUNDEL

If love were all and we could cheat

All gods but Cupid of their due,

Our joy in life would be complete.

We'd only live that we might woo,

(Instead, as now, that we might eat,)

And ev'ry lover would be true,—

If love were all.

Yet, if we found our bread and meat

In kisses it would please but few,

Soon life would grow a cloying sweet,

If love were all.

IN VAUDEVILLE

In vaudeville the elder jest

Remains the one that's loved the best;

For 'tis the custom of the stage

To venerate and honor age

And look upon the old as blest.

Originality's a pest

That artist's labor hard to best—

Conservatism is the rage

In vaudeville.

The artist's arms are here expressed:

A slapstick argent as a crest

(It is an ancient heritage),

A seltzer siphon gules—the wage

Of newness is a lengthy rest

In vaudeville.

THE RONDEAU OF RICHES

If I were rich and had a store

Of gold doubloons and louis d'or—

A treasure for a pirate crew—

Then I would spend it all for you—

My heart's delight and conqueror!

About your feet upon the floor,

Ten thousand rubies I would pour—

Regardless of expense, I'd woo

If I were rich.

But as I'm not, I can but soar

Mid fancy's heights and ponder o'er

The things that I would like to do;

And as I pass them in review

It strikes me that you'd love me more

If I were rich.

IN EATING SOUP

In eating soup, it's always well

To make an effort to excel

The unregenerate who sop

With bread the last surviving drop

As if to them but one befell.

And if it burn you do not yell,

Or stamp or storm or say “Oh!——well!”—

From social grandeur you may flop

In eating soup.

And if the appetizing smell

Upon you cast a witch's spell,

To drain your plate pray do not stop,

And please, I pray you, do not slop!

A gurgling sound's a social knell

In eating soup.

LOVE AND THE ROSE

The thorn lives but to shield the rose;

Coquetry may but shelter love!

(This consolation Hope bestows).

The thorn lives but to shield the rose;

Though blood from many a thorn wound flows

I'll pluck the rose that blows above—

The thorn lives but to shield the rose,

Coquetry may but shelter love!

Love me more or not at all,

Half a rose is less than none;

Hear the wretch you hold in thrall!

Love me more or not at all!

Dilletante love will pall,

I would have you wholly won;—

Love me more or not at all;

Half a rose is less than none!

A RONDEAU OF STATESMANSHIP

In politics it's funny how

A man may tell you one thing now

And say tomorrow that he meant

To voice a different sentiment

And vow a very different vow.

The writ and spoken laws allow

Each individual to endow

His words with underground intent

In politics.

Thus he who leads in verbal prow-

Ness sports the laurel on his brow—

So if you wish to represent

The acme of the eminent,

Learning lying ere you make your bow

In politics.

SONGS of THE CITY

SONGS OF THE CITY

I—Auroral[5]

Another day comes journeying with the sun,

The east grows ghastly with the dawning's gleam,

And e'er the dark has flown and night is done

The alley pavements with their many teem.

Another day of toil and grief and pain;

Life surely seems not sweet to such as these!

Yet they live toiling that they may but gain

The right to life and all life's miseries.

II—Madrigal

Ah! what were all the running brooks

From ocean-side to ocean-side,

And what were all the chattering wrens

That wake the wood with song,

And what were all the roses red

In all the flowery meadows wide,

And what were all the fairy clouds

That 'cross the heavens throng—

And what were all the joys that bide

In meadow, wood and down,

To me, if I were at your side

Within the joyless town?

III—Within the City Gates

We can but dream of murmuring rills

Mad racing down the wooded hills,

Of meadow flowers and balmy days

When robin sings his amorous lays;

And lost among the city's ways,

To us it is not given to gaze

In wonder as the morning haze

Lifts from the sea of daffodils,—

Of all but those on window-sills

We can but dream.

IV—April

At dawn a gay gallant comes to the eaves

And trills a song unto his lady fair,

And then, above the reach of boyish thieves,

A building nest sways in the balmy air;

One day a flower upon a window sill

Puts forth a bud, and as its beauty grows

The sun—gay prodigal!—with life-light glows,

The while he reads the doom of storms and snows;

And then—and then—there comes the springtime's thrill!

V—The Coming of Winter

A chill, damp west wind and a heavy sky,

With clouds that merge in one gray, darkling sea,

The last red leaves of autumn flutter by,

Wrest from the dead twigs of the street-side tree;

And then there comes an eddying cloud of white,

First dim, then blotting everything below;

Up to the eaves the sparrows haste in flight—

And thus upon the town descends the snow.

VI—The Snow

A song of birds adown a mine's dark galleries,

A scent of roses 'mid a waste of moor and fen,

A gush of sparkling waters from the desert sands,—

So comes the snow upon the town, an alien.

VII—Nocturne

How like a warrior on the battlefield

The city sleeps, with brain awake, and eyes

That know no closing. Ere the first star dies

It rises from its slumber, and with shield

In hand, full ready for the fray,

Goes forth to meet the day.

5.  Copyright, 1899, by Warren F. Kellogg.

OTHER VERSES

A MADRIGAL

How can I choose but love you,

Maid of the witching smile?

Your eyes are as blue as the skies above you;

How can I choose but love you, love you,

You and your witching smile?

For the red of your lips is the red of the rose,

And the white of your brows is the white of the snows,

And the gold of your hair is the splendor that glows

When the sun gilds the east at morn.

And the blue of your eyes

Is the blue of the skies

Of an orient day new-born;

And your smile has a charm that is balm to the soul,

And your pa has a bar'l and a many-plunk roll,

So how can I choose but love you, love you,

Love you, love you, love you?

A BALLAD OF LOOKING

He looked into her eyes, and there he saw

No trace of that bright gleam which poets say

Comes from the faery orb of love's sweet day,

No blushing coyness causes her to withdraw

Her gaze from his. He looked and yet he knew

No joy, no whirling numbness of the brain,

No quickening heart-beat. Then he looked again,

And once again, unblushing, she looked too.

He looked into her eyes—with interest he

Stared at them through a magnifying prism.

For he was but an oculist, and she

Was being treated for astigmatism.

WHEN THE PIPE GOES OUT

A maiden's heart,

And sighs profuse,

A father's foot,

And—what's the use?

A PARADOX

Dan Cupyd drewe hys lyttle bowe,

And strayght ye arrowe from it flewe,

Although its course was rather lowe,

I thought 'twould pass above my heade—

In stature I am shorte, you knowe.

But soone upon my breast a stayne

Of blood appeared, and showed ye marke

Whereat ye boy god tooke hys aime;

I staggered, groaned and then—I smyled!

Egad! it was a pleasante payne!

THE SONG OF THE SLAPSTICK

Why is a hen? (Kerflop!) Haw, haw!

Toot, goes the slide trombone;

Why is a hen? (And a swat in the jaw!)

And the ushers laugh alone.

Why is a—(Bang!)—is a—(Biff!) Ho, ho!

Boom! goes the sad French horn;

Why is a hen? (Kerflop!) Do you know?—

And the paid admissions mourn!

Vhy iss a hen? Yes? No? (Kerflop?)

Bang! goes the man at the drum;

Vhy iss a hen? (And a knock at the top!)

And the press agent's stricken dumb;

Vhy iss a—(Thud!)—iss a—(Flop!)—iss a hen?

Hark! how the supers laugh!

Vhy iss a—(Bing! Bang! Boom!)—and then

The slapstick's bust in half!

(Curtain)

IL PENSEROSO

Love's song is sung in ragtime now

And kisses sweet are syncopated joys,

The tender sign, the melancholy moan,

The soft reproach and yearning up-turned gaze

Have passed into the caves without the gates

And in their place, to serve love's purposes,

Bold profanations from the music halls

Are working overtime.

In days of old the amorous swain would sigh

And say unto his lady love the while

He pressed her to his heaving low-cut vest,

“Dost love me, sweet?” And she, with many a blush,

Would softly answer, “Yes, my cavalier!”

Now to his girl the ragtime lover says,

The while he strums his marked-down mandolin

“Is you ma lady love?” and she, his girl,

Makes answer thus: “Ah is!”

Gadzooks! it makes me sad! I see the doom

Of Cupid, and upon the battered air

I hear a rumor floating. It is this:

That when the boy god shuffles to the grave

'Tis Syncopated Sambo that will get

His job!

*     *     *     *     *

Ah, me! What sadness resteth on my soul!

FINIS

There was a man that delved in the earth

For glittering gems and gold,

And whatever lay hidden that seemed of worth

He carefully seized and sold;

So his days were long and his store was great,

And ever for more he sighed,

'Till kings bowed down and he ruled in state—

And after awhile he died.

Oh, blithesome and shrill the wails resound!

Oh, gaily his children moan!

And the end of it all was a hole in the ground

And a scratch on a crumbling stone.

There was a man that fought for the right,

And never a friend had he,

'Till after the dark there dawned the light

And the world could know and see;

Oh, long was the fight and comfortless,

But great was the fighter's pride,

And a victor he rose from the storm and stress—

And after awhile he died.

Oh, great was the fame but newly found

Of the man that fought alone!

And the end of it all was a hole in the ground

And a scratch on a crumbling stone.

There was a man that dreamed a dream,

And his pen it served his brain;

And great was his art and great his theme

And long was his laurelled reign;

But after awhile the world forgot

And his work was pushed aside,

(For to serve and wait is the mortal lot)

And then, in the end, he died.

Oh! brown on his brow were the bays that bound

And far was his glory flown!

And the end of it all was a hole in the ground

And a scratch on a crumbling stone.

DONE INTO TYPE AND PRINTED BY MARSHALL, BEEK & GORDON IN THE CITY OF BALTIMORE AND ON THE THIRD FLOOR OF THE TELEGRAM BUILDING, NORTH AND BALTIMORE STREET CROSSING ANNO DOMINI MCMIII

250

Copies Of This

Facsimile Edition Of

Ventures Into Verse

Have Been Printed For

Smith's Book Store

Baltimore 1, Maryland

This Is Copy No.

247

TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES

1. Added Table of Contents on p. 3.

2. Corrected Isaaih to Isaiah on p. 11.

3. Silently corrected typographical errors.

4. Retained anachronistic and non-standard spellings as printed.

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Table of Contents

Ventures into Verse Being Various Ballads, Ballades, Rondeaux, Triolets, Songs, Quatrains, Odes and Roundels All rescued from the Potters' Field of Old Files and here Given Decent Burial [Peace to Their Ashes]

CONTENTS

WARNING

PRELIMINARY REBUKE

Ventures into Verse

TO R. K.[1]

THE SONG OF THE OLDEN TIME

THE SPANISH MAIN

THE TRANSPORT GEN'RAL FERGUSON[2]

A WAR SONG

FAITH

THE BALLAD OF SHIPS IN HARBOR

THE ORF'CER BOY

THE FILIPINO MAIDEN

THE VIOLET

THE TIN-CLADS[3]

SEPTEMBER

ARABESQUE

ESSAYS IN OLD FRENCH FORMS

A BALLADE OF PROTEST[4]

A FRIVOLOUS RONDEAU

THE RHYMES OF MISTRESS DOROTHY

Roundel—

Triolet—

Roundelay—

A FEW LINES

A RONDEAU OF TWO HOURS

AN ANTE-CHRISTMAS RONDEAU

ROUNDEL

IN VAUDEVILLE

THE RONDEAU OF RICHES

IN EATING SOUP

LOVE AND THE ROSE

A RONDEAU OF STATESMANSHIP

SONGS of THE CITY

SONGS OF THE CITY

I—Auroral[5]

II—Madrigal

III—Within the City Gates

IV—April

V—The Coming of Winter

VI—The Snow

VII—Nocturne

OTHER VERSES

A MADRIGAL

A BALLAD OF LOOKING

WHEN THE PIPE GOES OUT

A PARADOX

THE SONG OF THE SLAPSTICK

IL PENSEROSO

FINIS

TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE