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A Satire Anthology
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Год написания книги
2017
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They are all in the Fourpenny Box!
Andrew Lang.
CHORUS OF ANGLOMANIACS
IT is positively false to call us frantic,
For the soundness of our mental state is sure,
Yet we look upon this side of the Atlantic
As a tract of earth unpleasant to endure.
We consider dear old England as the fountain
Of all institutions reputably sane;
We abominate and loathe a Rocky Mountain;
We regard a rolling prairie with disdain.
We assiduously imitate the polish
That we notice round the English nabob hang;
We unfailingly endeavour to abolish
From our voices any trace of nasal twang.
Every patriotic duty we leave undone,
With aversion such as Hebrews hold for pork,
Since we venerate the very name of London
In proportion to our hatred of New York.
No treaty could in any manner soften
Our contempt for native tailors when we dress;
If we bet, we “lay a guinea,” rather often,
And we always say “I farncy” for “I guess.”
We esteem the Revolution as illegal;
If you mention Bunker Hill to us, we sigh;
We particularly execrate an eagle,
And we languish on the fourth day of July.
We are not prepared in any foolish manner
The vulgarities of Uncle Sam to screen;
We dislike to hear that dull “Star-Spangled Banner,”
But we thoroughly respect “God save the Queen.”
We revere the Prince of Wales, though he should prick us
With a sneer at the republic we obey!
We would rather let his Royal Highness kick us
Than have been the bosom friend of Henry Clay!
Edgar Fawcett.
From “The Buntling Ball.”
THE NET OF LAW
THE net of law is spread so wide,
No sinner from its sweep may hide.
Its meshes are so fine and strong,
They take in every child of wrong.
O wondrous web of mystery!
Big fish alone escape from thee!
James Jeffrey Roche.
A BOSTON LULLABY
BABY’S brain is tired of thinking
On the Wherefore and the Whence;
Baby’s precious eyes are blinking
With incipient somnolence.
Little hands are weary turning
Heavy leaves of lexicon;
Little nose is fretted learning
How to keep its glasses on.
Baby knows the laws of nature
Are beneficent and wise;
His medulla oblongata
Bids my darling close his eyes
And his pneumogastrics tell him
Quietude is always best
When his little cerebellum
Needs recuperative rest.
Baby must have relaxation,
Let the world go wrong or right.
Sleep, my darling – leave Creation
To its chances for the night.
James Jeffrey Roche.
THE V-A-S-E
FROM the madding crowd they stand apart,
The maidens four and the Work of Art;
And none might tell from sight alone
In which had culture ripest grown —
The Gotham Millions fair to see,
Andrew Lang.
CHORUS OF ANGLOMANIACS
IT is positively false to call us frantic,
For the soundness of our mental state is sure,
Yet we look upon this side of the Atlantic
As a tract of earth unpleasant to endure.
We consider dear old England as the fountain
Of all institutions reputably sane;
We abominate and loathe a Rocky Mountain;
We regard a rolling prairie with disdain.
We assiduously imitate the polish
That we notice round the English nabob hang;
We unfailingly endeavour to abolish
From our voices any trace of nasal twang.
Every patriotic duty we leave undone,
With aversion such as Hebrews hold for pork,
Since we venerate the very name of London
In proportion to our hatred of New York.
No treaty could in any manner soften
Our contempt for native tailors when we dress;
If we bet, we “lay a guinea,” rather often,
And we always say “I farncy” for “I guess.”
We esteem the Revolution as illegal;
If you mention Bunker Hill to us, we sigh;
We particularly execrate an eagle,
And we languish on the fourth day of July.
We are not prepared in any foolish manner
The vulgarities of Uncle Sam to screen;
We dislike to hear that dull “Star-Spangled Banner,”
But we thoroughly respect “God save the Queen.”
We revere the Prince of Wales, though he should prick us
With a sneer at the republic we obey!
We would rather let his Royal Highness kick us
Than have been the bosom friend of Henry Clay!
Edgar Fawcett.
From “The Buntling Ball.”
THE NET OF LAW
THE net of law is spread so wide,
No sinner from its sweep may hide.
Its meshes are so fine and strong,
They take in every child of wrong.
O wondrous web of mystery!
Big fish alone escape from thee!
James Jeffrey Roche.
A BOSTON LULLABY
BABY’S brain is tired of thinking
On the Wherefore and the Whence;
Baby’s precious eyes are blinking
With incipient somnolence.
Little hands are weary turning
Heavy leaves of lexicon;
Little nose is fretted learning
How to keep its glasses on.
Baby knows the laws of nature
Are beneficent and wise;
His medulla oblongata
Bids my darling close his eyes
And his pneumogastrics tell him
Quietude is always best
When his little cerebellum
Needs recuperative rest.
Baby must have relaxation,
Let the world go wrong or right.
Sleep, my darling – leave Creation
To its chances for the night.
James Jeffrey Roche.
THE V-A-S-E
FROM the madding crowd they stand apart,
The maidens four and the Work of Art;
And none might tell from sight alone
In which had culture ripest grown —
The Gotham Millions fair to see,
Другие электронные книги автора Carolyn Wells
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