Making New Year's Calls.

        Shining patent-leather,
            Tie of spotless white;
        Through the muddy weather
            Rushing 'round till night.
        Gutters all o'erflowing,
            Like Niagara Falls;
        Bless me! this is pleasant,
            Making New Year's calls.

        Rushing up the door-step,
            Ringing at the bell
        "Mrs. Jones receive to-day?"
            "Yes, sir." "Very well."
        Sending in your pasteboard,
            Waiting in the halls,
        Bless me! this is pleasant,
            Making New Year's calls.

        Skipping in the parlour,
            Bowing to the floor,
        Lady of the house there,
            Half a dozen more;
        Ladies' dresses gorgeous,
            Paniers, waterfalls,
        Bless me! this is pleasant,
            Making New Year's calls.

        "Wish you Happy New Year"
            "Many thanks, I'm sure."
        "Many calls, as usual?"
            "No; I think they're fewer."
        Staring at the carpet,
            Gazing at the walls;
        Bless me! this is pleasant,
            Making New Year's calls.

        "Really, I must go now,
            Wish I had more leisure."
        "Wont you have a glass of wine?"
            "Ah, thanks! greatest pleasure."
        Try to come the graceful,
            Till your wine-glass falls;
        Bless me! this is pleasant,
            Making New Year's calls.

        Hostess looks delighted
            Out of doors you rush;
        Sit down at the crossing,
            In a sea of slush.
        Job here for your tailor
            Herr Von Schneiderthals
        Bless me! this is pleasant,
            Making New Year's calls.

        Pick yourself up slowly
            Heart with anguish torn.
        Sunday-go-to-meetings
            In a state forlorn.
        Kick a gibing boot-black,
            Gibing boot-black bawls,
        Bless me! this is pleasant,
            Making New Year's calls.

        Home, and woo the downy,
            But your soul doth quake,
        At most fearful night-mares
            Turkey, oysters, cake.
        While each leaden horror
            That your rest appalls,
        Cries, "Dear heart! how pleasant;
            Making New Year's calls."

George Augustus Baker, Jr.

No biography available

George Augustus Baker, Jr.

Nocturne.

George Augustus Baker, Jr., Simple Poetry

Le Dernier Jour D'Un Condamné.

George Augustus Baker, Jr., Simple Poetry

Thoughts On The Commandments.

George Augustus Baker, Jr., Simple Poetry

A Song.

George Augustus Baker, Jr., Simple Poetry

English

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A New Years' Gift Sent To Sir Simeon Steward

No news of navies burnt at seas;
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That young men have to shoe the Mare;
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New Year's Eve

It's cruel cold on the water-front, silent and dark and drear;
Only the black tide weltering, only the hissing snow;
And I, alone, like a storm-tossed wreck, on this night of the glad New Year,
Shuffling along in the icy wind, ghastly and gaunt and slow.

They're playing a tune in McGuffy's saloon, and it's cheery and bright in there
(God! but I'm weak - since the bitter dawn, and never a bite of food);
I'll just go over and slip inside - I mustn't give way to despair -
Perhaps I can bum a little booze if the boys are feeling good.

They'll jeer at me, and they'll sneer at me, and they'll call me a whiskey soak;
("Have a drink? Well, thankee kindly, sir, I don't mind if I do.")
A drivelling, dirty gin-joint fiend, the butt of the bar-room joke;
Sunk and sodden and hopeless -...

Robert William Service

New-York in 1826.

(Address of the carrier of the New-York Mirror, on the first day of the year.)


Air--"Songs of Shepherds and Rustical Roundelays."




Two years have elapsed since the verse of S. W. [See Notes]
    Met your bright eyes like a fanciful gem;
With that kind of stanza the muse will now trouble you,
    She often frolicks with one G. P. M.
As New Year approaches, she whispers of coaches,
    And lockets and broaches [See Notes], without any end,
Of sweet rosy pleasure, of joy without measure,
    And plenty of leisure to share with a friend.

'Tis useless to speak of the griefs of society--
    They overtake us in passing along;
And public misfortunes, in all their variety,
    Need not be told in a holyday song.
The troubles of Wall-stre...

George Pope Morris

Dirge.

"Dr. Birch's young friends will reassemble to-day, Feb. 1st."

White is the wold, and ghostly
The dank and leafless trees;
And 'M's and 'N's are mostly
Pronounced like 'B's and 'D's:
'Neath bleak sheds, ice-encrusted,
The sheep stands, mute and stolid:
And ducks find out, disgusted,
That all the ponds are solid.

Many a stout steer's work is
(At least in this world) finished;
The gross amount of turkies
Is sensibly diminished:
The holly-boughs are faded,
The painted crackers gone;
Would I could write, as Gray did,
An Elegy thereon!

For Christmas-time is ended:
Now is "our youth" regaining
Those sweet spots where are "blended
Home-comforts and school-training."
Now they're, I dare say, venting
Their grief in transie...

Charles Stuart Calverley

A New Year's Plaint

In words like weeds, I'll wrap me o'er,
    Like coarsest clothes against the cold;
    But that large grief which these enfold
Is given in outline and no more.
                        - TENNYSON.

The bells that lift their yawning throats
    And lolling tongues with wrangling cries
Flung up in harsh, discordant notes,
    As though in anger, at the skies, -
Are filled with echoings replete,
    With purest tinkles of delight -
So I would have a something sweet
    Ring in the song I sing to-night.

As when a blotch of ugly guise
    On some poor artist's naked floor
Becomes a picture in his eyes,
    And he forgets that he is poor, -
So I look out upon the night,
    That ushers in the dawning year,
And in a vacant blur of light

James Whitcomb Riley

Lake Mahopac Saturday Night.

        "Yes, I'm here, I suppose you're delighted:
            You'd heard I was not coming down!
        Why I've been here a week! 'rather early'
            I know, but it's horrid in town

        A Boston? Most certainly, thank you.
            This music is perfectly sweet;
        Of course I like dancing in summer;
            It's warm, but I don't mind the heat.

        The clumsy thing! Oh! how he hurt me!
            I really can't dance any more
        Let's walk see, they're forming a Lancers;
            These square dances are such a bore.

        My cloak oh! I really don't need it
            Well, carry it, so, in the folds
        I hate it, but Ma made me bring it;
            She's frightened to death about colds.

George Augustus Baker, Jr.