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A Satire Anthology
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Год написания книги
2017
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Other religions are buried in mists;
We’re our own Gods, say the Positivists.
Mortimer Collins.
SKY-MAKING
TO PROFESSOR TYNDALL
JUST take a trifling handful, O philosopher,
Of magic matter, give it a slight toss over
The ambient ether, and I don’t see why
You shouldn’t make a sky.
O hours Utopian which we may anticipate!
Thick London fog how easy ’tis to dissipate,
And make the most pea-soupy day as clear
As Bass’s brightest beer!
Poet-professor! now my brain thou kindlest;
I am become a most determined Tyndallist.
If it is known a fellow can make skies,
Why not make bright blue eyes?
This to deny, the folly of a dunce it is;
Surely a girl as easy as a sunset is.
If you can make a halo or eclipse,
Why not two laughing lips?
The creed of Archimedes, erst of Sicily,
And of D’Israeli … forti nil difficile,
Is likewise mine. Pygmalion was a fool
Who should have gone to school.
Why should an author scribble rhymes or articles?
Bring me a dozen tiny Tyndall particles;
Therefrom I’ll coin a dinner, Nash’s wine,
And a nice girl to dine.
Mortimer Collins.
MY LORD TOMNODDY
MY Lord Tomnoddy’s the son of an earl;
His hair is straight, but his whiskers curl;
His lordship’s forehead is far from wide,
But there’s plenty of room for the brains inside.
He writes his name with indifferent ease;
He’s rather uncertain about the “d’s”;
But what does it matter, if three or one,
To the Earl of Fitzdotterel’s eldest son?
My Lord Tomnoddy to college went;
Much time he lost, much money he spent;
Rules, and windows, and heads, he broke;
Authorities wink’d – young men will joke!
He never peep’d inside of a book;
In two years’ time a degree he took,
And the newspapers vaunted the honours won
By the Earl of Fitzdotterel’s eldest son.
My Lord Tomnoddy came out in the world;
Waists were tighten’d and ringlets curl’d;
Virgins languish’d, and matrons smil’d.
’Tis true, his lordship is rather wild;
In very queer places he spends his life;
There’s talk of some children by nobody’s wife;
But we mustn’t look close into what is done
By the Earl of Fitzdotterel’s eldest son.
My Lord Tomnoddy must settle down —
There’s a vacant seat in the family town!
(’Tis time he should sow his eccentric oats) —
He hasn’t the wit to apply for votes:
He cannot e’en learn his election speech;
Three phrases he speaks, a mistake in each,
And then breaks down; but the borough is won
For the Earl of Fitzdotterel’s eldest son.
My Lord Tomnoddy prefers the Guards
(The House is a bore), so, it’s on the cards!
My lord’s a lieutenant at twenty-three;
A captain at twenty-six is he;
He never drew sword, except on drill;
The tricks of parade he has learnt but ill;
A full-blown colonel at thirty-one
Is the Earl of Fitzdotterel’s eldest son!
My Lord Tomnoddy is thirty-four;
The earl can last but a few years more;
My Lord in the Peers will take his place;
Her Majesty’s councils his words will grace.
Office he’ll hold, and patronage sway;
Fortunes and lives he will vote away.
And what are his qualifications? – ONE!
He’s the Earl of Fitzdotterel’s eldest son.
Robert Barnabas Brough.
HIDING THE SKELETON
We’re our own Gods, say the Positivists.
Mortimer Collins.
SKY-MAKING
TO PROFESSOR TYNDALL
JUST take a trifling handful, O philosopher,
Of magic matter, give it a slight toss over
The ambient ether, and I don’t see why
You shouldn’t make a sky.
O hours Utopian which we may anticipate!
Thick London fog how easy ’tis to dissipate,
And make the most pea-soupy day as clear
As Bass’s brightest beer!
Poet-professor! now my brain thou kindlest;
I am become a most determined Tyndallist.
If it is known a fellow can make skies,
Why not make bright blue eyes?
This to deny, the folly of a dunce it is;
Surely a girl as easy as a sunset is.
If you can make a halo or eclipse,
Why not two laughing lips?
The creed of Archimedes, erst of Sicily,
And of D’Israeli … forti nil difficile,
Is likewise mine. Pygmalion was a fool
Who should have gone to school.
Why should an author scribble rhymes or articles?
Bring me a dozen tiny Tyndall particles;
Therefrom I’ll coin a dinner, Nash’s wine,
And a nice girl to dine.
Mortimer Collins.
MY LORD TOMNODDY
MY Lord Tomnoddy’s the son of an earl;
His hair is straight, but his whiskers curl;
His lordship’s forehead is far from wide,
But there’s plenty of room for the brains inside.
He writes his name with indifferent ease;
He’s rather uncertain about the “d’s”;
But what does it matter, if three or one,
To the Earl of Fitzdotterel’s eldest son?
My Lord Tomnoddy to college went;
Much time he lost, much money he spent;
Rules, and windows, and heads, he broke;
Authorities wink’d – young men will joke!
He never peep’d inside of a book;
In two years’ time a degree he took,
And the newspapers vaunted the honours won
By the Earl of Fitzdotterel’s eldest son.
My Lord Tomnoddy came out in the world;
Waists were tighten’d and ringlets curl’d;
Virgins languish’d, and matrons smil’d.
’Tis true, his lordship is rather wild;
In very queer places he spends his life;
There’s talk of some children by nobody’s wife;
But we mustn’t look close into what is done
By the Earl of Fitzdotterel’s eldest son.
My Lord Tomnoddy must settle down —
There’s a vacant seat in the family town!
(’Tis time he should sow his eccentric oats) —
He hasn’t the wit to apply for votes:
He cannot e’en learn his election speech;
Three phrases he speaks, a mistake in each,
And then breaks down; but the borough is won
For the Earl of Fitzdotterel’s eldest son.
My Lord Tomnoddy prefers the Guards
(The House is a bore), so, it’s on the cards!
My lord’s a lieutenant at twenty-three;
A captain at twenty-six is he;
He never drew sword, except on drill;
The tricks of parade he has learnt but ill;
A full-blown colonel at thirty-one
Is the Earl of Fitzdotterel’s eldest son!
My Lord Tomnoddy is thirty-four;
The earl can last but a few years more;
My Lord in the Peers will take his place;
Her Majesty’s councils his words will grace.
Office he’ll hold, and patronage sway;
Fortunes and lives he will vote away.
And what are his qualifications? – ONE!
He’s the Earl of Fitzdotterel’s eldest son.
Robert Barnabas Brough.
HIDING THE SKELETON
Другие электронные книги автора Carolyn Wells
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