The Water Of Gold.

"Buy,--who'll buy?" In the market-place,
Out of the market din and clatter,
The quack with his puckered persuasive face
Patters away in the ancient patter.

"Buy,--who'll buy? In this flask I hold--
In this little flask that I tap with my stick, Sir--
Is the famed, infallible Water of Gold,--
The One, Original, True Elixir!

"Buy--who'll buy? There's a maiden there,--
She with the ell-long flaxen tresses,--
Here is a draught that will make you fair,
Fit for an emperor's own caresses!

"Buy,--who'll buy? Are you old and gray?
Drink but of this, and in less than a minute,
Lo! you will dance like the flowers in May,
Chirp and chirk like a new-fledged linnet!

"Buy,--who'll buy? Is a baby ill?
Drop but a drop of this in his throttle,
Straight he will gossip and gorge his fill,
Brisk as a burgher over a bottle!

"Here is wealth for your life,--if you will but ask;
Here is health for your limb, without lint or lotion;
Here is all that you lack, in this tiny flask;
And the price is a couple of silver groschen!

"Buy,--who'll buy?" So the tale runs on:
And still in the great world's market-places
The Quack, with his quack catholicon,
Finds ever his crowd of upturned faces;

For he plays on our hearts with his pipe and drum,
On our vague regret, on our weary yearning;
For he sells the thing that never can come,
Or the thing that has vanished, past returning.

Henry Austin Dobson

Henry Austin Dobson, commonly known as Austin Dobson, was an English poet and essayist. A civil servant by profession, Dobson was one of the most renowned poets and literary critics of the late Victorian and Edwardian periods. His work is noted for its delicate craftsmanship and profound interest in 18th-century literature. Dobson's poetry often revisited and celebrated historical themes and characters, blending scholarly interest with lyrical form.

Henry Austin Dobson

Household Art.

Henry Austin Dobson, Simple Poetry

Little Blue-Ribbons.

Henry Austin Dobson, Simple Poetry

Verses To Order.

Henry Austin Dobson, Simple Poetry

Pepys' "Diary"

Henry Austin Dobson, Simple Poetry

English

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Faery Gold

(TO MRS. PERCY DEARMER)

A poet hungered, as well he might -
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'Sold for a farthing? and,' he sighed,
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Yet store of gold, great store had he, -
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He had the gold of his burning dreams,
He had his golden rhymes - in reams,
He had the strings of his golden lyre,
And his own was that golden west on fire.

But the poet knew his world too well
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Cobbler Keezars Vision

The beaver cut his timber
With patient teeth that day,
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Surveyors of highway,

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Upon his cobblers form,
With a pan of coals on either hand
To keep his waxed-ends warm.

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In the pewter mug his tongue.

Well knew the tough old Teuton
Who brewed the stoutest ale,
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The songs they still are singing
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In New Orleans

'Twas in the Crescent City not long ago befell
The tear-compelling incident I now propose to tell;
So come, my sweet collector friends, and listen while I sing
Unto your delectation this brief, pathetic thing--
No lyric pitched in vaunting key, but just a requiem
Of blowing twenty dollars in by nine o'clock a.m.

Let critic folk the poet's use of vulgar slang upbraid,
But, when I'm speaking by the card, I call a spade a spade;
And I, who have been touched of that same mania, myself,
Am well aware that, when it comes to parting with his pelf,
The curio collector is so blindly lost in sin
That he doesn't spend his money--he simply blows it in!

In Royal street (near Conti) there's a lovely curio-shop,
And there, one balmy, fateful morn, it was my chance to stop;

Eugene Field

Beer.

In those old days which poets say were golden -
(Perhaps they laid the gilding on themselves:
And, if they did, I'm all the more beholden
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Of gods and demigods and fauns and elves,
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And staid young goddesses who flirt with shepherds:)

In those old days, the Nymph called Etiquette
(Appalling thought to dwell on) was not born.
They had their May, but no Mayfair as yet,
No fashions varying as the hues of morn.
Just as they pleased they dressed and drank and ate,
Sang hymns to Ceres (their John Barleycorn)
And danced unchaperoned, and laughed unchecked,
And were no doubt extremely incorrect.

Yet do I think their t...

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The White Knight's Song

"Haddock's Eyes" or "The Aged Aged Man" or
"Ways and Means" or "A-Sitting On A Gate"

I'll tell thee everything I can;
There's little to relate.
I saw an aged, aged man,
A-sitting on a gate.
"Who are you, aged man?" I said.
"And how is it you live?"
And his answer trickled through my head
Like water through a sieve.

He said "I look for butterflies
That sleep among the wheat;
I make them into mutton-pies,
And sell them in the street.
I sell them unto men," he said,
"Who sail on stormy seas;
And that's the way I get my bread,
A trifle, if you please."

But I was thinking of a plan
To dye one's whiskers green,
And always use so large a fan
That it could not be seen.
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Touchstone On A Bus

Last night I rode with Touchstone on a bus
From Ludgate Hill to World's End. It was he!
Despite the broadcloth and the bowler hat,
I knew him, Touchstone, the wild flower of folly,
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That should be wiser. He had watched a play,
Read several books, heard men discourse of art
And life; and he sat bubbling like a spring
In Arden. Never did blackbird, drenched with may,
Chuckle as Touchstone chuckled on that ride.
Lord, what a world! Lord, what a mad, mad world!
Then, to the jolt and jingle of the engine,
He burst into this bunch of madcap rhymes...

Alfred Noyes