Part 6 (2/2)
Then visit my grave, like a good little la.s.s, Where'er it may happen to be, And if any daisies should peer through the gra.s.s, Be sure they are kisses from me.
And place not a stone to distinguish my name, For strangers to see and discuss: But come with your lover, as these lovers came, And talk to him sweetly of _us_.
And while you are smiling, your father will smile Such a dear little daughter to have, But mind,--O yes, mind you are happy the while-- _I wish you to visit my Grave_.
THE JESTER'S PLEA.
These verses were published in 1862, in a volume of Poems by several hands, ent.i.tled ”An Offering to Lancas.h.i.+re.”
The World! Was jester ever in A viler than the present?
Yet if it ugly be--as sin, It almost is--as pleasant!
It is a merry world (_pro tem._) And some are gay, and therefore It pleases them--but some condemn The fun they do not care for.
It is an ugly world. Offend Good people--how they wrangle!
The manners that they never mend!
The characters they mangle!
They eat, and drink, and scheme, and plod, And go to church on Sunday-- And many are afraid of G.o.d-- And more of _Mrs. Grundy_.
The time for Pen and Sword was when ”My ladye fayre,” for pity Could tend her wounded knight, and then Grow tender at his ditty!
Some ladies now make pretty songs,-- And some make pretty nurses:-- Some men are good for righting wrongs,-- And some for writing verses.
I wish We better understood The tax that poets levy!-- I know the Muse is very _good_-- I think she's rather heavy: She now compounds for winning ways By morals of the sternest-- Methinks the lays of now-a-days Are painfully in earnest.
When Wisdom halts, I humbly try To make the most of Folly: If Pallas be unwilling, I Prefer to flirt with Polly,-- To quit the G.o.ddess for the maid Seems low in lofty musers-- But Pallas is a haughty jade-- And beggars can't be choosers.
I do not wish to see the slaves Of party, stirring pa.s.sion, Or psalms quite superseding staves, Or piety ”the fas.h.i.+on.”
I bless the Hearts where pity glows, Who, here together banded, Are holding out a hand to those That wait so empty-handed!
A righteous Work!--My Masters, may A Jester by confession, Scarce noticed join, half sad, half gay, The close of your procession?
The motley here seems out of place With graver robes to mingle, But if one tear bedews his face, Forgive the bells their jingle.
THE OLD CRADLE.
And this was your Cradle? why, surely, my Jenny, Such slender dimensions go somewhat to show You were a delightfully small Pic-a-ninny Some nineteen or twenty short summers ago.
Your baby-days flowed in a much-troubled channel; I see you as then in your impotent strife, A tight little bundle of wailing and flannel, Perplexed with that newly-found fardel called Life.
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