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A Satire Anthology
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Год написания книги
2017
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Cattle, cockroaches, and kings,
Beggars, millionaires, and mice,
Men and maggots – all as one,
As it falls into the sun —
Who can say but at the same
Instant, from some planet far
A child may watch us, and exclaim:
“See the pretty shooting star!”
Oliver Herford.
A BUTTERFLY OF FASHION
A REAL Butterfly, I mean,
With Orange-Pointed saffron wings,
And coat of inky Velveteen —
None of your Fashion-Plated Things
That dangle from the Apron-strings
Of Mrs. Grundy, or you see
Loll by the Stage-Door or the Wings,
Or sadly flit from Tea to Tea;
Not such a Butterfly was he;
He lived for Sunshine and the Hour;
He did not flit from Tea to Tea,
But gayly flew from Flower to Flower.
One Day there came a Thunder-Shower;
An Open Window he espied;
He fluttered in; behold, a Flower!
An Azure Rose with petals wide.
He did not linger to decide
Which Flower; there was no other there.
He calmly settled down inside
That Rose, and no one said “Beware!”
There was no Friend to say “Take care!”
How ever, then, could he suppose
This Blossom, of such Colour Rare,
Was just an Artificial Rose?
All might have ended well – who knows? —
But just then some one chanced to say:
“The very Latest Thing! That Rose
In Paris is the Rage To-day.”
No Rose of such a Tint outré
Was ever seen in Garden Bed;
The Butterfly had such a Gay
Chromatic Sense, it turned his head.
“The Very Latest Thing?” he said;
“Long have I sighed for something New!
O Roses Yellow, White, and Red,
Let others sip; mine shall be Blue!”
The Flavour was not Nice, ’tis true
(He felt a Pain inside his Waist).
“It is not well to overdo,”
Said he, “a just-acquired taste.”
The Shower passed; he joined in haste
His friends. With condescension great,
Said he, “I fear your time you waste;
Real Roses are quite out of date.”
He argued early, argued late,
Till what was erst a HARMLESS POSE
Grew to a Fierce, Inordinate
Craving for Artificial Rose.
He haunted Garden Parties, Shows,
Wherever Ladies Congregate,
And in their Bonnets thrust his nose
His Craving Fierce to Satiate.
At last he chanced – sad to relate! —
Into a Caterer’s with his Pose,
And there Pneumonia was his Fate,
From sitting on an Ice-Cream Rose.
O Reader, shun the Harmless Pose!
They buried him, with scant lament,
Beneath a Common Brier-Rose,
And wrote:
Here Lies a Decadent.
Oliver Herford.
GENERAL SUMMARY
WE are very slightly changed
From the semi-apes who ranged
India’s prehistoric clay;
Whoso drew the longest bow,
Ran his brother down, you know,
As we run men down to-day.
“Dowb,” the first of all his race,
Met the Mammoth face to face
Beggars, millionaires, and mice,
Men and maggots – all as one,
As it falls into the sun —
Who can say but at the same
Instant, from some planet far
A child may watch us, and exclaim:
“See the pretty shooting star!”
Oliver Herford.
A BUTTERFLY OF FASHION
A REAL Butterfly, I mean,
With Orange-Pointed saffron wings,
And coat of inky Velveteen —
None of your Fashion-Plated Things
That dangle from the Apron-strings
Of Mrs. Grundy, or you see
Loll by the Stage-Door or the Wings,
Or sadly flit from Tea to Tea;
Not such a Butterfly was he;
He lived for Sunshine and the Hour;
He did not flit from Tea to Tea,
But gayly flew from Flower to Flower.
One Day there came a Thunder-Shower;
An Open Window he espied;
He fluttered in; behold, a Flower!
An Azure Rose with petals wide.
He did not linger to decide
Which Flower; there was no other there.
He calmly settled down inside
That Rose, and no one said “Beware!”
There was no Friend to say “Take care!”
How ever, then, could he suppose
This Blossom, of such Colour Rare,
Was just an Artificial Rose?
All might have ended well – who knows? —
But just then some one chanced to say:
“The very Latest Thing! That Rose
In Paris is the Rage To-day.”
No Rose of such a Tint outré
Was ever seen in Garden Bed;
The Butterfly had such a Gay
Chromatic Sense, it turned his head.
“The Very Latest Thing?” he said;
“Long have I sighed for something New!
O Roses Yellow, White, and Red,
Let others sip; mine shall be Blue!”
The Flavour was not Nice, ’tis true
(He felt a Pain inside his Waist).
“It is not well to overdo,”
Said he, “a just-acquired taste.”
The Shower passed; he joined in haste
His friends. With condescension great,
Said he, “I fear your time you waste;
Real Roses are quite out of date.”
He argued early, argued late,
Till what was erst a HARMLESS POSE
Grew to a Fierce, Inordinate
Craving for Artificial Rose.
He haunted Garden Parties, Shows,
Wherever Ladies Congregate,
And in their Bonnets thrust his nose
His Craving Fierce to Satiate.
At last he chanced – sad to relate! —
Into a Caterer’s with his Pose,
And there Pneumonia was his Fate,
From sitting on an Ice-Cream Rose.
O Reader, shun the Harmless Pose!
They buried him, with scant lament,
Beneath a Common Brier-Rose,
And wrote:
Here Lies a Decadent.
Oliver Herford.
GENERAL SUMMARY
WE are very slightly changed
From the semi-apes who ranged
India’s prehistoric clay;
Whoso drew the longest bow,
Ran his brother down, you know,
As we run men down to-day.
“Dowb,” the first of all his race,
Met the Mammoth face to face
Другие электронные книги автора Carolyn Wells
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Очень интересная!