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A Satire Anthology
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Год написания книги
2017
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There were three young maids of Lee;
They were fair as fair can be,
And they had lovers three times three
For they were fair as fair can be,
These three young maids of Lee.
There are three old maids of Lee,
And they are old as old can be,
And one is deaf, and one cannot see,
And they are all as cross as a gallows-tree,
These three old maids of Lee.
Now, if any one chanced – ’tis a chance remote —
One single charm in these maids to note,
He need not a poet nor handsome be,
For one is deaf and one cannot see;
He need not woo on his bended knee,
For they all are willing as willing can be.
He may take the one, or the two, or the three,
If he’ll only take them away from Lee.
There are three old maids at Lee;
They are cross as cross can be;
And there they are, and there they’ll be
To the end of the chapter, one, two, three,
These three old maids of Lee.
Frederick Edward Weatherly.
AN ADVANCED THINKER
THIS modern scientist – a word uncouth —
Who calls himself a seeker after truth,
And traces man through monkey back to frog,
Seeing a Plato in each pollywog,
Ascribes all things unto the power of Matter.
The woman’s anguish, and the baby’s chatter —
The soldier’s glory, and his country’s need —
Self-sacrificing love – self-seeking greed —
The false religion some vain bigots prize,
Which seeks to win a soul by telling lies —
And even pseudo-scientific clatter —
All these, he says, are but the work of Matter.
Thus, self-made science, like a self-made man,
Deems naught uncomprehended in its plan;
Sees naught he can’t explain by his own laws.
The time has come, at length, to bid him pause,
Before he strive to leap the unknown chasm
Reft wide ’twixt awful God and protoplasm.
Brander Matthews.
A THOUGHT
IF all the harm that women have done
Were put in a bundle and rolled into one,
Earth would not hold it,
The sky could not enfold it,
It could not be lighted nor warmed by the sun;
Such masses of evil
Would puzzle the devil,
And keep him in fuel while Time’s wheels run.
But if all the harm that’s been done by men
Were doubled, and doubled, and doubled again,
And melted and fused into vapour, and then
Were squared and raised to the power of ten,
There wouldn’t be nearly enough, not near,
To keep a small girl for the tenth of a year.
J. K. Stephen.
A SONNET
TWO voices are there: one is of the deep;
It learns the storm-cloud’s thunderous melody,
Now roars, now murmurs with the changing sea,
Now bird-like pipes, now closes soft in sleep:
And one is of an old, half-witted sheep,
Which bleats articulate monotony,
And indicates that two and one are three,
That grass is green, lakes damp, and mountains steep;
And, Wordsworth, both are thine. At certain times
Forth from the heart of thy melodious rhymes,
The form and pressure of high thoughts will burst;
At other times – good Lord! I’d rather be
Quite unacquainted with the A B C,
Than write such hopeless rubbish as thy worst.
J. K. Stephen.
THEY SAID
BECAUSE thy prayer hath never fed
Dark Atë with the food she craves;
Because thou dost not hate, they said,
Nor joy to step on foemen’s graves;
Because thou canst not hate, as we,
How poor a creature thou must be!
Thy veins as pale as ours are red!
Go to! Love loves thee not, they said.
They were fair as fair can be,
And they had lovers three times three
For they were fair as fair can be,
These three young maids of Lee.
There are three old maids of Lee,
And they are old as old can be,
And one is deaf, and one cannot see,
And they are all as cross as a gallows-tree,
These three old maids of Lee.
Now, if any one chanced – ’tis a chance remote —
One single charm in these maids to note,
He need not a poet nor handsome be,
For one is deaf and one cannot see;
He need not woo on his bended knee,
For they all are willing as willing can be.
He may take the one, or the two, or the three,
If he’ll only take them away from Lee.
There are three old maids at Lee;
They are cross as cross can be;
And there they are, and there they’ll be
To the end of the chapter, one, two, three,
These three old maids of Lee.
Frederick Edward Weatherly.
AN ADVANCED THINKER
THIS modern scientist – a word uncouth —
Who calls himself a seeker after truth,
And traces man through monkey back to frog,
Seeing a Plato in each pollywog,
Ascribes all things unto the power of Matter.
The woman’s anguish, and the baby’s chatter —
The soldier’s glory, and his country’s need —
Self-sacrificing love – self-seeking greed —
The false religion some vain bigots prize,
Which seeks to win a soul by telling lies —
And even pseudo-scientific clatter —
All these, he says, are but the work of Matter.
Thus, self-made science, like a self-made man,
Deems naught uncomprehended in its plan;
Sees naught he can’t explain by his own laws.
The time has come, at length, to bid him pause,
Before he strive to leap the unknown chasm
Reft wide ’twixt awful God and protoplasm.
Brander Matthews.
A THOUGHT
IF all the harm that women have done
Were put in a bundle and rolled into one,
Earth would not hold it,
The sky could not enfold it,
It could not be lighted nor warmed by the sun;
Such masses of evil
Would puzzle the devil,
And keep him in fuel while Time’s wheels run.
But if all the harm that’s been done by men
Were doubled, and doubled, and doubled again,
And melted and fused into vapour, and then
Were squared and raised to the power of ten,
There wouldn’t be nearly enough, not near,
To keep a small girl for the tenth of a year.
J. K. Stephen.
A SONNET
TWO voices are there: one is of the deep;
It learns the storm-cloud’s thunderous melody,
Now roars, now murmurs with the changing sea,
Now bird-like pipes, now closes soft in sleep:
And one is of an old, half-witted sheep,
Which bleats articulate monotony,
And indicates that two and one are three,
That grass is green, lakes damp, and mountains steep;
And, Wordsworth, both are thine. At certain times
Forth from the heart of thy melodious rhymes,
The form and pressure of high thoughts will burst;
At other times – good Lord! I’d rather be
Quite unacquainted with the A B C,
Than write such hopeless rubbish as thy worst.
J. K. Stephen.
THEY SAID
BECAUSE thy prayer hath never fed
Dark Atë with the food she craves;
Because thou dost not hate, they said,
Nor joy to step on foemen’s graves;
Because thou canst not hate, as we,
How poor a creature thou must be!
Thy veins as pale as ours are red!
Go to! Love loves thee not, they said.
Другие электронные книги автора Carolyn Wells
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