Cerberus

Dear Reader, should you chance to go
To Hades, do not fail to throw
A "Sop to Cerberus" at the gate,
His anger to propitiate.
Don't say "Good dog!" and hope thereby
His three fierce Heads to pacify.
What though he try to be polite
And wag his Tail with all his might,
How shall one amiable Tail
Against three angry Heads prevail?
The Heads must win.--What puzzles me
Is why in Hades there should be
A Watch dog; 'tis, I should surmise,
The last place one would burglarize.

Oliver Herford

Oliver Herford was born in England on December 2, 1860. He was a British-born American writer, artist, and illustrator, often referred to as 'The American Oscar Wilde' for his sharp wit and humorous works. Herford authored and illustrated many books for children and adults, contributing to magazines such as "The Criterion", "Life", and "Punch". He died on July 5, 1935, in France.

Oliver Herford

An Ostrich.

Oliver Herford, Simple Poetry

G. K. Chesterton

Oliver Herford, Simple Poetry

George Ade

Oliver Herford, Simple Poetry

Mark Twain: A Pipe Dream

Oliver Herford, Simple Poetry

English

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Escape

(August 6, 1916., Officer previously reported died of wounds, now reported wounded: Graves, Captain R., Royal Welch Fusiliers.)


... But I was dead, an hour or more.
I woke when I'd already passed the door
That Cerberus guards, and half-way down the road
To Lethe, as an old Greek signpost showed.
Above me, on my stretcher swinging by,
I saw new stars in the subterrene sky:
A Cross, a Rose in bloom, a Cage with bars,
And a barbed Arrow feathered in fine stars.
I felt the vapours of forgetfulness
Float in my nostrils. Oh, may Heaven bless
Dear Lady Proserpine, who saw me wake,
And, stooping over me, for Henna's sake
Cleared my poor buzzing head and sent me back
Breathless, with leaping heart along the track.
After me roared and clattered angr...

Robert von Ranke Graves

Rover

No classic warrior tempts my pen
To fill with verse these pages
No lordly-hearted man of men
My Muses thought engages.

Let others choose the mighty dead,
And sing their battles over!
My champion, too, has fought and bled
My theme is one-eyed Rover.

A grave old dog, with tattered ears
Too sore to cock up, reader!
A four-legged hero, full of years,
But sturdy as a cedar.

Still, age is age; and if my rhyme
Is dashed with words pathetic,
Dont wonder, friend; Ive seen the time
When Rove was more athletic.

He lies coiled up before me now,
A comfortable crescent.
His night-black nose and grizzled brow
Fixed in a fashion pleasant.

But ever and anon he lifts
The one good eye I mention,
And tries a thousand ...

Henry Kendall

Ave, Caesar!

(MAY 20, 1910)

Full in the splendour of this morning hour,
    With tramp of men and roll of muffled drums,
In what a pomp and pageantry of power,
    Borne to his grave, our lord, King EDWARD, comes!

In flashing gold and high magnificence,
    Lo, the proud cavalcade of comrade Kings,
Met here to do the dead KING reverence,
    Its solemn tribute of affection brings.

Heralds and Pursuivants and Men-at-arms,
    Sultan and Paladin and Potentate,
Scarred Captains who have baffled war's alarms
    And Courtiers glittering in their robes of state,

All in their blazoned ranks, with eyes cast down,
    Slow pacing in their sorrow pass along
Where that which bore the sceptre and the crown
    Cleaves at their head the silence of the throng.

R. C. Lehmann

The Two Dogs And The Dead Ass.

^[1]

The Virtues should be sisters, hand in hand,
Since banded brothers all the Vices stand:
When one of these our hearts attacks,
All come in file; there only lacks,
From out the cluster, here and there,
A mate of some antagonizing pair,
That can't agree the common roof to share.
But all the Virtues, as a sisterhood,
Have scarcely ever in one subject stood.
We find one brave, but passionate;
Another prudent, but ingrate.
Of beasts, the dog may claim to be
The pattern of fidelity;
But, for our teaching little wiser,
He's both a fool and gormandiser.
For proof, I cite two mastiffs, that espied
A dead ass floating on a water wide.
The distance growing more and more,
Because the wind the carcass bore, -
'My friend,' said one, '...

Jean de La Fontaine

The Dog

The Dog is black or white or brown
    And sometimes spotted like a clown.
He loves to make a foolish noise
    And Human Company enjoys.

The Human People pat his head
    And teach him to pretend he's dead,
And beg, and fetch and carry too;
    Things that no well-bred Cat will do.

At Human jokes, however stale,
    He jumps about and wags his tail,
And Human People clap their hands
    And think he really understands.

They say "Good Dog" to him. To us
    They say "Poor Puss," and make no fuss.
Why Dogs are "good" and Cats are "poor"
    I fail to understand, I'm sure.

To Someone very Good and Just,
    Who has proved worthy of her trust,
A Cat will _sometimes_ condescend--
    The Dog is Everybody's friend.

Oliver Herford

Old Mother Hubbard

Old Mother Hubbard
Went to the cupboard
To get her poor Dog a bone;
But when she came there
The cupboard was bare,
And so the poor Dog had none.

She went to the baker's
To buy him some bread,
But when she came back,
The poor Dog was dead.

She went to the joiner's
To buy him a coffin,
But when she came back,
The poor Dog was laughing.

She took a clean dish
To get him some tripe,
But when she came back,
He was smoking a pipe.

She went to the ale-house
To get him some beer,
But when she came back,
The Dog sat in a chair.

She went to the tavern
For white wine and red,
But when she came back,
The Dog stood on his head.

She went to the hatter's,
To buy him a hat,
But when...

Walter Crane