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A Satire Anthology
Автор
Год написания книги
2017
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It aint by princerples nor men
My preudunt course is steadied;
I scent which pays the best, an’ then
Go into it bald-headed.
I du believe thet holdin’ slaves
Comes nat’ral tu a Presidunt,
Let ’lone the rowdedow it saves
To hev a well-broke precedunt;
Fer any office, small or gret,
I couldn’t ax with no face,
Without I’d ben, thru dry an’ wet,
Th’ unrizzest kind o’ doughface.
I du believe wutever trash
’Ill keep the people in blindness,
Thet we the Mexicuns can thrash
Right inter brotherly kindness;
Thet bomb-shells, grape, an’ powder, ’n’ ball
Air good-will’s strongest magnets;
Thet peace, to make it stick at all,
Must be druv in with bagnets.
In short, I firmly du believe
In Humbug generally,
Fer it’s a thing thet I perceive
To hev a solid vally;
This heth my faithful shepherd ben,
In pasture sweet heth led me,
An’ this’ll keep the people green,
To feed ez they hev fed me.
James Russell Lowell.
REVELRY IN INDIA
WE meet ’neath the sounding rafter,
And the walls around are bare;
As they echo the peals of laughter,
It seems that the dead are there;
But stand to your glasses steady,
We drink to our comrades’ eyes.
Quaff a cup to the dead already,
And hurrah for the next that dies!
Not here are the goblets flowing,
Not here is the vintage sweet;
’Tis cold, as our hearts are growing,
And dark as the doom we meet.
But stand to your glasses steady,
And soon shall our pulses rise.
A cup to the dead already —
Hurrah for the next that dies!
Not a sigh for the lot that darkles,
Not a tear for the friends that sink;
We’ll fall, ’midst the wine-cup’s sparkles,
As mute as the wine we drink.
So stand to your glasses steady,
’Tis in this that our respite lies.
One cup to the dead already —
Hurrah for the next that dies!
Time was when we frowned at others;
We thought we were wiser then;
Ha, ha! let those think of their mothers,
Who hope to see them again.
No! stand to your glasses steady;
The thoughtless are here the wise
A cup to the dead already —
Hurrah for the next that dies!
There’s many a hand that’s shaking,
There’s many a cheek that’s sunk;
But soon, though our hearts are breaking,
They’ll burn with the wine we’ve drunk.
So stand to your glasses steady,
’Tis here the revival lies.
A cup to the dead already —
Hurrah for the next that dies!
There’s a mist on the glass congealing,
’Tis the hurricane’s fiery breath;
And thus does the warmth of feeling
Turn ice in the grasp of death.
Ho! stand to your glasses steady;
For a moment the vapour flies.
A cup to the dead already —
Hurrah for the next that dies!
Who dreads to the dust returning?
Who shrinks from the sable shore,
Where the high and haughty yearning
Of the soul shall sing no more?
Ho! stand to your glasses steady;
This world is a world of lies.
A cup to the dead already —
Hurrah for the next that dies!
Cut off from the land that bore us,
My preudunt course is steadied;
I scent which pays the best, an’ then
Go into it bald-headed.
I du believe thet holdin’ slaves
Comes nat’ral tu a Presidunt,
Let ’lone the rowdedow it saves
To hev a well-broke precedunt;
Fer any office, small or gret,
I couldn’t ax with no face,
Without I’d ben, thru dry an’ wet,
Th’ unrizzest kind o’ doughface.
I du believe wutever trash
’Ill keep the people in blindness,
Thet we the Mexicuns can thrash
Right inter brotherly kindness;
Thet bomb-shells, grape, an’ powder, ’n’ ball
Air good-will’s strongest magnets;
Thet peace, to make it stick at all,
Must be druv in with bagnets.
In short, I firmly du believe
In Humbug generally,
Fer it’s a thing thet I perceive
To hev a solid vally;
This heth my faithful shepherd ben,
In pasture sweet heth led me,
An’ this’ll keep the people green,
To feed ez they hev fed me.
James Russell Lowell.
REVELRY IN INDIA
WE meet ’neath the sounding rafter,
And the walls around are bare;
As they echo the peals of laughter,
It seems that the dead are there;
But stand to your glasses steady,
We drink to our comrades’ eyes.
Quaff a cup to the dead already,
And hurrah for the next that dies!
Not here are the goblets flowing,
Not here is the vintage sweet;
’Tis cold, as our hearts are growing,
And dark as the doom we meet.
But stand to your glasses steady,
And soon shall our pulses rise.
A cup to the dead already —
Hurrah for the next that dies!
Not a sigh for the lot that darkles,
Not a tear for the friends that sink;
We’ll fall, ’midst the wine-cup’s sparkles,
As mute as the wine we drink.
So stand to your glasses steady,
’Tis in this that our respite lies.
One cup to the dead already —
Hurrah for the next that dies!
Time was when we frowned at others;
We thought we were wiser then;
Ha, ha! let those think of their mothers,
Who hope to see them again.
No! stand to your glasses steady;
The thoughtless are here the wise
A cup to the dead already —
Hurrah for the next that dies!
There’s many a hand that’s shaking,
There’s many a cheek that’s sunk;
But soon, though our hearts are breaking,
They’ll burn with the wine we’ve drunk.
So stand to your glasses steady,
’Tis here the revival lies.
A cup to the dead already —
Hurrah for the next that dies!
There’s a mist on the glass congealing,
’Tis the hurricane’s fiery breath;
And thus does the warmth of feeling
Turn ice in the grasp of death.
Ho! stand to your glasses steady;
For a moment the vapour flies.
A cup to the dead already —
Hurrah for the next that dies!
Who dreads to the dust returning?
Who shrinks from the sable shore,
Where the high and haughty yearning
Of the soul shall sing no more?
Ho! stand to your glasses steady;
This world is a world of lies.
A cup to the dead already —
Hurrah for the next that dies!
Cut off from the land that bore us,
Другие электронные книги автора Carolyn Wells
Последний отзыв
Книга дельная. Без воды, приводятся реальные кейсы и способы их разрешения. Много практичных полезных советов и методик. Кое-что уже испробовала в дел...
Далее