Part 31 (1/2)

We know, at the touch of your garment's fold, May, my dear, The daisies come starring with white and gold The way, my dear; We know that the painted blossoms all Come starting up at your gentle call, By dale and meadow and garden wall, May, my dear.

We know that your birds have the sweetest tune, May, my dear; And lovers love best beneath your moon, They say, my dear.

And I might add that your perfumed kiss Is considered productive of highest bliss; But you must be so tired of hearing this.

Eh, my dear?

No, I really don't think there's anything fresh Or new, my dear; For life is short, and available rhymes Are few, my dear.

So if I say nought about vernal bowers, And forbear to mention the sunlit showers, I think I shall make the best use of my powers.

Don't you, my dear?

And yet--yet I cannot help loving you so, May, my dear, That the old words, whether I will or no, I say, my dear.

And how you are fair, and how you are sweet, My loving lips forever repeat,-- And is this the reason you pa.s.s so fleet?

Ah, stay, my dear!

GREGORY GRIGGS.

Gregory Griggs, Gregory Griggs, Had forty-seven different wigs; He wore them up, and he wore them down, To please the people of Boston town.

He wore them east, and he wore them west, But he never could tell which he liked the best.

A NURSERY TRAGEDY.

It was a lordly elephant, His name, his name was Sprite; He stood upon the nursery floor, All ready for a fight.

He looked upon the rocking-horse, Who proudly prancing stood: ”O rocking-horse! O shocking horse!

I'm thirsting for your blood!

”How dare you stand and look at me, You ugly snorting thing?

Know, that of every living beast, The elephant is king!

”And if a person looks at me, Unless I give him leave, He's very apt to meet his death Too swiftly for reprieve.

”You are the most unpleasant beast I e'er have looked on yet; Although the stupid children here Will make of you a pet.

”I hate your tail of waving hair!

I hate your bits of bra.s.s!

But more, oh, more than all, I hate Your gleaming eyes of gla.s.s!

”Were you of cotton-flannel made, As nursery beasts should be, With eyes of good black boot-b.u.t.tons, You then might look at me.

”I might forgive your want of tusks, Your lack of trunk forgive; But that wild, goggling, gla.s.sy glare-- No! never, while I live!

”So get you gone, you rocking-horse!

Go to your closet-shed, And there, behind the wood-basket, Conceal your ugly head!”