Yet

(AFTER F. E. W.)

Sing me a drawing-room song, darling!
    Sing by the sunset's glow;
Now while the shadows are long, darling;
    Now while the lights are low;
Something so chaste and so coy, darling!
    Something that melts the chest;
Milder than even Molloy, darling!
    Better than Bingham's best.

Sing me a drawing-room song, darling!
    Sing as you sang of yore,
Lisping of love that is strong, darling!
    Strong as a big barn-door;
Let the true knight be bold, darling!
    Let him arrive too late;
Stick in a bower of gold, darling!
    Stick in a golden gate.

Sing me a drawing-room song, darling!
    Bear on the angels' wings
Children that know no wrong, darling!
    Little cherubic things!
Sing of their sunny hair, darling!
    Get them to die in June;
Wake, if you can, on the stair, darling!
    Echoes of tiny shoon.

Sing me a drawing-room song, darling!
    Sentiment may be false,
Yet it will worry along, darling!
    Set to a tum-tum valse;
See that the verses are few, darling!
    Keep to the rule of three;
That will be better for you, darling!
    Certainly better for me.

Owen Seaman

Owen Seaman, an English poet born on September 18, 1861, and passed away on February 2, 1936, is most renowned for his tenure as the editor of the satirical magazine "Punch." His work is characterized by its wit and humor, often addressing social and political issues of his time. Seaman's influence on literary and journalistic satire was significant, and he contributed greatly to the popularization of this style in English literature during the late 19th and early 20th centuries.

Owen Seaman

To Julia In Shooting Togs

Owen Seaman, Simple Poetry

Ballad Of A Bun, A

Owen Seaman, Simple Poetry

Song Of Renunciation, A

Owen Seaman, Simple Poetry

Marsyas In Hades

Owen Seaman, Simple Poetry

English

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Song Of Renunciation, A

(AFTER A. C. S.)

In the days of my season of salad,
    When the down was as dew on my cheek,
And for French I was bred on the ballad,
    For Greek on the writers of Greek,
Then I sang of the rose that is ruddy,
    Of 'pleasure that winces and stings,'
Of white women and wine that is bloody,
    And similar things.

Of Delight that is dear as Desi-er,
    And Desire that is dear as Delight;
Of the fangs of the flame that is fi-er,
    Of the bruises of kisses that bite;
Of embraces that clasp and that sever,
    Of blushes that flutter and flee
Round the limbs of Dolores, whoever
    Dolores may be.

I sang of false faith that is fleeting
    As froth of the swallowing seas,
Time's curse that is fatal as Keating
    Is fat...

Owen Seaman

Autumn.

    As a harvester, at dusk,
    Faring down some woody trail
    Leading homeward through the musk
    Of may-apple and pawpaw,
    Hazel-bush, and spice and haw, -
    So comes Autumn, swart and hale,
    Drooped of frame and slow of stride.
    But withal an air of pride
    Looming up in stature far
    Higher than his shoulders are;
    Weary both in arm and limb,
    Yet the wholesome heart of him
    Sheer at rest and satisfied.

    Greet him as with glee of drums
    And glad cymbals, as he comes!
    Robe him fair, O Rain and Shine.
    He the Emperor - the King -
    Royal lord of everything
    Sagging Plenty's granary floors
    And out-bulging all her doors;
    He the god of corn and wine,
    Honey, milk, and fruit...

James Whitcomb Riley

Two Songs Rewritten For The Tune's Sake

I

My Paistin Finn is my sole desire,
And I am shrunken to skin and bone,
For all my heart has had for its hire
Is what I can whistle alone and alone.
i(Oro, oro.!)
i(Tomorrow night I will break down the door.)
What is the good of a man and he
Alone and alone, with a speckled shin?
I would that I drank with my love on my knee
Between two barrels at the inn.
Oro, oro.!
i(Tomorrow night I will break down the door.)
Alone and alone nine nights I lay
Between two bushes under the rain;
I thought to have whistled her down that
I whistled and whistled and whistled in vain.
i(Oro, oro!)
i(To-morrow night I will break down the door.)


II

I would that I were an old beggar
Rolling a blind pearl eye,
For he cannot see my...

William Butler Yeats

The Serenade.

I.

The winds were hushed, and thin and high
    The fleecy clouds were drifting,
And through them as she sailed the sky
    The moon's soft light was sifting.


II.

Beneath her pale and tender ray,
    Its silvery kiss imprinting,
All dew-bedecked each flower and spray
    Like myriad jewels glinting.


III.

Across the lawn there floats the sound
    Of music sweet--entrancing--
'Neath a latticed casement, ivy-bound,
    Where love-lit eyes were glancing.


IV.

The flute and harp and mandolin
    There dulcet notes were blending,
And strains divine from a violin
    In harmony ascending.


V.

Enraptured by the magic spell,
    I lingering stood, and listening,

George W. Doneghy

Vigo-Street Eclogue, A

(AFTER J. D.)

Maecenas. John. George. Arthur. Grant. Richard.

                MAECENAS.

What ho! a merry Christmas! Pff!
Sharp blows the frosty blizzard's whff!
Pile on more logs and let them roll,
And pass the humming wassail-bowl!

                    JOHN.

The wassail-bowl! the wind is snell!
Drinc hael! and warm the poet's pell!

                MÆCENAS.

Richard! say something rustic.

                RICHARD.

                    Lo!
The customary mistletoe,
Prehensile on the apple-bough,
Invites the usual kiss.

                GEORGE.

            And now
Cathartic hellebore should be
A cure for imbecility.

                GRANT.

Now holly-berries have ...

Owen Seaman

Ode - 'On A Distant Prospect' Of Making A Fortune.

Now the "rosy morn appearing"
Floods with light the dazzled heaven;
And the schoolboy groans on hearing
That eternal clock strike seven:-
Now the waggoner is driving
Towards the fields his clattering wain;
Now the bluebottle, reviving,
Buzzes down his native pane.

But to me the morn is hateful:
Wearily I stretch my legs,
Dress, and settle to my plateful
Of (perhaps inferior) eggs.
Yesterday Miss Crump, by message,
Mentioned "rent," which "p'raps I'd pay;"
And I have a dismal presage
That she'll call, herself, to-day.

Once, I breakfasted off rosewood,
Smoked through silver-mounted pipes -
Then how my patrician nose would
Turn up at the thought of "swipes!"
Ale, - occasionally claret, -
Graced my luncheon then:- and now
...

Charles Stuart Calverley