Читать книгу A Parody Anthology - Wells Carolyn - Страница 3

WAKE! for the sun has driven in equal flight

The stars before him from the Tee of Night,

And holed them every one without a Miss,

Swinging at ease his gold-shod Shaft of Light.

Now, the fresh Year reviving old Desires,

The thoughtful Soul to Solitude retires,

Pores on this Club and That with anxious eye,

And dreams of Rounds beyond the Rounds of Liars.

Come, choose your Ball, and in the fire of Spring,

Your Red Coat and your wooden Putter fling;

The Club of Time has but a little while

To waggle, and the Club is on the swing.

A Bag of Clubs, a Silver Town or two,

A Flask of Scotch, a Pipe of Shag, and Thou

Beside me caddying in the Wilderness —

Ah, Wilderness were Paradise enow.

Myself, when young, did eagerly frequent

Jamie and His, and heard great argument

Of Grip, and Stance, and Swing; but evermore

Found at the Exit but a Dollar spent.

With them the seed of Wisdom did I sow,

And with mine own hand sought to make it grow;

And this was all the Harvest that I reap'd;

“You hold it in this Way, and you swing it So."

The swinging Brassie strikes; and, having struck,

Moves on; nor all your Wit or future Luck

Shall lure it back to cancel half a Stroke,

Nor from the Card a single Seven pluck.

No hope by Club or Ball to win the Prize;

The batter'd, blacken'd Remade sweetly flies,

Swept cleanly from the Tee; this is the Truth

Nine-tenths is Skill, and all the rest is Lies.

And that inverted Ball they call the High,

By which the Duffer thinks to live or die,

Lift not your hands to It for help, for it

As impotently froths as you or I.

Yon rising Moon that leads us home again,

How oft hereafter will she wax and wane;

How oft hereafter rising, wait for us

At this same Turning – and for One in vain.

And when, like her, my Golfer, I have been

And am no more above the pleasant Green,

And you in your mild Journey pass the Hole

I made in One – ah, pay my Forfeit then!

ONE for her Club and her own Latch-key fights,

Another wastes in Study her good Nights.

Ah, take the Clothes and let the Culture go,

Nor heed the grumble of the Women's Rights!

Look at the Shop-girl all about us – “Lo,

The Wages of a month," she says, “I blow

Into a Hat, and when my hair is waved,

Doubtless my Friend will take me to the Show."

And she who saved her coin for Flannels red,

And she who caught Pneumonia instead,

Will both be Underground in Fifty Years,

And Prudence pays no Premium to the dead.

Th' exclusive Style you set your heart upon

Gets to the Bargain counters – and anon

Like monograms on a Saleslady's tie

Cheers but a moment – soon for you 'tis gone.

Think, on the sad Four Hundred's gilded halls,

Whose endless Leisure ev'n themselves appalls,

How Ping-pong raged so high – then faded out

To those far Suburbs that still chase its Balls.

They say Sixth Avenue and the Bowery keep

The dernier cri that once was far from cheap;

Green Veils, one season chic – Department stores

Mark down in vain – no profit shall they reap.

I sometimes think that never lasts so long

The Style as when it starts a bit too strong;

That all the Pompadours the parterre boasts

Some Chorus-girl began, with Dance and Song.

And this Revival of the Chignon low

That fills the most of us with helpless Woe,

Ah, criticise it Softly! for who knows

What long-necked Peeress had to wear it so!

Ah, my beloved, try each Style you meet;

To-day brooks no loose ends, you must be neat.

To-morrow! why, to-morrow you may be

Wearing it down your back like Marguerite!

For some we once admired, the Very Best

That ever a French hand-boned Corset prest,

Wore what they used to call Prunella Boots,

And put on Nightcaps ere they went to rest.

And we that now make fun of Waterfalls

They wore, and whom their Crinoline appalls,

Ourselves shall from old dusty Fashion plates

Assist our Children in their Costume balls.

Ah, make the most of what we yet may wear,

Before we grow so old that we don't care!

Before we have our Hats made all alike,

Sans Plumes, sans Wings, sans Chiffon, and – sans Hair!

HARK! for the message cometh from the King!

Winter, thy doom is spoke; thy dirges ring,

Thy time is o'er – and through the Palace door

Enter the Princess! Hail the new-crowned Spring!

Comes she all rose-crowned, glowing with the Joy

Of Laughter and of Cupid, the God-Boy;

Buds bursting on the bough in welcoming

To Her we Love, whose loving will not cloy!

List! from the organ rippling in the Street

Come sounds rejoicing, glad Her reign to greet.

The Shad is smiling in the Market Place

And eke the Little Neck! Ah – Life is Sweet!

Come, let us lilt a Merry Little Song

And in an Automobile glide along

Into the glory of the Year's new Birth.

Hasten! Oh, haste! For this is Spring, I Think!

Come where the Bonnets bloom within the Grove

And let us pluck them for the One we Love;

Violets and Things and chiffon-nested Birds.

Tell me – didst ever see a Glass-Eyed Dove?

Think you how many Springs will go and come

When We are Dead Ones – and the busy Hum

Of life will never reach us – Nothing Done

And Nothing Doing in the Silence Glum!

Listen! the cable car's Gay Gong has rang,

The Elevated on its perch, A-clang

Like to a District Messenger astir.

Thought you, it was a Nightingale that sang?

Ah! my Beloved, when it's Really Spring

We know it by the Buds a-blossoming,

Signals from earth to sky – Tremendous Sounds

That might to Some mean any Ancient Thing!

Then let us to the Caravan at Once,

The Sawdust where the Peanut haunts

The air with strange sweet Odors

And the Elephant does Wild and Woolly Stunts!

Asparagus is glowing on the Stall,

The Spring lamb cavorts on the Menu tall;

Strawberries ripe – a Dollar for the Box:

Wouldn't it jar You somehow, After all?

A Book of Coon Songs underneath the Bough,

A Jug of Wine, a Dozen Buns, and Thou

Beside me singing rag-time? I don't know?

I wonder would a dozen be enow?

I sent my soul afling through Joy and Pain

For Information that the Winds might deign.

Softly the breezes pitched it, Russie-curved,

And whispered slowly – sadly – “Guess Again."

Sometimes I think the Glories that they Sing

Are like the grape-vine the Fox tried to cling;

But take To-day – and make the Most of It,

I think it's Just Too Sweet for anything!

What of To-morrow – say you? Oh, my Friend —

To-morrow's Not been Touched. It's yet to Spend.

I often wonder if we should expire

If we could but Collect the Gold we Lend!

Ah, Love! could Thou and I Creation run,

How Different our Scheme! The Summer's sun

Would see another Springtime blossoming,

Another Summer's Rose to Follow On!

And Leaning from the Sky a Little Star

Would Tell Us from the Canopy afar

What now we Grope for in the Dinky-dink,

And wonder blindly, vaguely, What we Are!

And when Alone you dream your fancies ripe,

Thyself all Hasheesh-fed – My Prototype!

Smoke Up – and when you gather with the Group

Where I made One – Turn Down an Empty Pipe!

MASTER, in memory of that Verse of Thine,

And of Thy rather pretty taste in Wine,

We gather at this jaded Century's end,

Our Cheeks, if so we may, to incarnadine.

Thou hast the kind of Halo which outstays

Most other Genii's. Though a Laureate's bays

Should slowly crumple up, Thou livest on,

Having survived a certain Paraphrase.

The Lion and the Alligator squat

In Dervish Courts – the Weather being hot —

Under Umbrellas. Where is Mahmud now?

Plucked by the Kitchener and gone to Pot!

Not so with thee; but in Thy place of Rest,

Where East is East and never can be West,

Thou art the enduring Theme of dining Bards;

O make allowances; they do their Best.

Our Health – Thy Prophet's health – is but so-so;

Much marred by men of Abstinence who know

Of Thee and all Thy loving Tavern-lore

Nothing, nor care for it one paltry Blow.

Yea, we ourselves, who beam around Thy Bowl,

Somewhat to dull Convention bow the Soul,

We sit in sable Trouserings and Boots,

Nor do the Vine-leaves deck a single Poll.

How could they bloom in uncongenial air?

Nor, though they bloomed profusely, should we wear

Upon our Heads – so tight is Habit's hold —

Aught else beside our own unaided Hair.

The Epoch curbs our Fancy. What is more

To BE, in any case, is now a Bore.

Even in Humor there is nothing new;

There is no Joke that was not made before.

But Thou! with what a fresh and poignant sting

Thy Muse remarked that Time was on the Wing!

Ah, Golden Age, when Virgin was the Soil,

And Decadence was deemed a newish Thing.

These picturesque departures now are stale;

The noblest Vices have their vogue and fail;

Through some inherent Taint or lack of Nerve

We cease to sin upon a generous scale.

This hour, though drinking at my Host's expense,

I fear to use a fine Incontinence,

For terror of the Law and him that waits

Outside, the unknown X, to hale us hence.

For, should he make of us an ill Report

As pipkins of the more loquacious Sort,

We might be lodged, the Lord alone knows where,

Save Peace were purchased with a pewter Quart.

And yet, O Lover of the purple Vine,

Haply Thy Ghost is watching how we dine;

Ah, let the Whither go; we'll take our chance

Of fourteen days with option of a Fine.

Master, if we, Thy Vessels, staunch and stout,

Should stagger, half-seas-over, blind with Doubt,

In sound of that dread moaning of the Bar,

Be near, be very near, to bail us out!

OMAR'S the fad! Well then, let us indite

The shape of verse old Omar used to write;

And Juveniles are up. So we opine

A Baby's Omar would be out of sight!

Methinks the stunt is easy. Stilted style,

A misplaced Capital once in a while, —

Other verse writers do it like a shot;

And can't I do it too? Well, I should Smile!

But how I ramble on. I must dismiss

Dull Sloth, and set to Work at once, I wis;

I sometimes think there's nothing quite so hard

As a Beginning. Say we start like this:

Indeed, indeed my apron oft before

I tore, but was I naughty when I tore?

And then, and then came Ma, and thread in hand

Repaired the rent in my small pinafore.

A Penny Trumpet underneath the Bough,

A Drum that's big enough to make a Row;

A Toy Fire-Engine, and a squeaking Doll,

Oh, Life were Pandemonium enow.

Come, fill the Cup, then quickly on the floor

Your portion of the Porridge gaily pour.

The Nurse will Spank you, and she'll be discharged, —

Ah, but of Nurses there be Plenty more.

Yes, I can do it! Now, if but my Purse

Some kindly Editor will reimburse,

I'll write a Baby's Omar; for I'm sure

These Sample Stanzas here are not so worse.