CAP AND GOWN
A Treasury of College Verse
Frederic Lawrence Knowles
_Editor of "The Golden Treasury of American Songs and Lyrics," etc.
TO THE REVERED MEMORY OF A GREAT SCHOLAR AND GREAT TEACHER WHOM I WAS ONCE PROUD TO CALL MY FRIEND,
Frances James Child,
THIS LITTLE BOOK IS GRATEFULLY INSCRIBED.
In "Cap and Gown" you look in vain For epic or heroic strain. Not ours to scale the heights sublime, Which hardly masters dare to climb; We only sing of youth and joy, And love,—the credo of the boy!
The gay verses which celebrate undergraduate life must not be taken too seriously. They seldom pretend to the dignity of poetry. College verse, if I understand it, is verse suited to the period and point of view of undergraduate days. Light, graceful, humorous, sparkling,—this it should be for the most part; serious sometimes, it is true,—for young men and women about to take upon themselves the responsibilities of mature life are at heart by no means frivolous, but touching the note of grief, if at all, almost as though by accident. Life is often sad enough in the after-years, and for the period of sorrow, sad verse may be in place. Happy they who have not yet traded cap and bells (never far hidden under cap and gown) for the
"Sable stole of cypress lawn."
Happier still if they never need make such a sorry exchange.
Yes, like all sound art, college verse must, above all else, be honest. Let us not say, however, that the thoughtful moods of young men and women may not sincerely be set to the music of verse. One department in this collection bears the name "In Serious Mood," and its sentiment rings as true as that of any other.
In looking over very many undergraduate papers, I have been struck with several facts. I will give them for what they are worth, leaving their explanation to others. First, there seems to be a general fondness for the sonnet, and a very general lack of success in writing it. Second, the French forms of light verse are exceedingly popular—particularly the rondeau, ballade, and triolet. These, more easily lending themselves to gay moods than does the sonnet, are written with much greater success. Triolets are perhaps least often, rondeaus most often, successful. Third, purely sentimental verse is little written in women's colleges, its place being taken by poetry of nature or of reflection. Oddly enough, when it is attempted, the writer usually fancies herself the lover, and describes feminine, not masculine, beauty. College girls show possibly more maturity of reflective power than do their brothers, but they are notably weaker in the sense of humor. Fourth, amongst so much merely graceful verse, there are not wanting touches here and there of genuine poetry. I shall be disappointed if the reader does not discover many such in this little book.
While I have confined myself, for the most part, to verse printed in the college publications of the past five years, I have overstepped this limit in a few instances. None of the poems in the present book, however, were included in the first series published in 1892.
Thanks are due Messrs. Andrus & Church, of Ithaca, N.Y., for their generous loan of bound files of the Cornell Era, to the assistant librarian of Harvard University for numerous courtesies, and to the editors of many college papers, without whose kind cooperation the second series of "Cap and Gown" would have been impossible.
COLLEGE PUBLICATIONS REPRESENTED.
AMHERST COLLEGE Amherst Literary Monthly, The.
BALTIMORE, WOMAN'S COLLEGE OF Kalends, The.
BOWDOIN COLLEGE Bowdoin Orient, The. Bowdoin Quill, The.
BROWN UNIVERSITY Brown Magazine, The. Brunonian, The.
BRYN MAWR COLLEGE Bryn Mawr Lantern, The.
CALIFORNIA UNIVERSITY University of California Magazine.
CHICAGO UNIVERSITY University of Chicago Weekly, The.
COLGATE UNIVERSITY Madisonensis.
COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY Columbia Literary Monthly, The. Columbia Spectator, The. Morningside, The.
CORNELL UNIVERSITY Cornell Era, The. Cornell Magazine, The.
DARTMOUTH COLLEGE Dartmouth Literary Monthly, The. Dartmouth Lyrics, 16mo, 1893.
HAMILTON COLLEGE Hamilton Literary Monthly, The.
HARVARD UNIVERSITY Harvard Advocate, The. Harvard Lampoon, The. Harvard Monthly, The.
KANSAS, UNIVERSITY OF Kansas University Weekly.
LEHIGH UNIVERSITY Lehigh Burr, The.
LELAND STANFORD UNIVERSITY Palo Alto, The. Sequoia. Stanford Quad, The Four-Leaved Clover: Stanford Rhymes, 16mo, 1896.
MASS. INSTITUTE OF TECHNOLOGY Tech, The.
MICHIGAN UNIVERSITY Inlander, The. Wrinkle, The
MOUNT HOLYOKE COLLEGE Mount Holyoke, The
NORTHWESTERN UNIVERSITY Syllabus, The.
OHIO STATE UNIVERSITY Makio, The.
PENNSYLVANIA, UNIVERSITY OF Red and Blue.
PRINCETON UNIVERSITY Nassau Literary Monthly.
ROCHESTER, UNIVERSITY OF Campus, The.
SMITH COLLEGE Smith College Monthly.
SYRACUSE UNIVERSITY University Herald.
TEXAS, UNIVERSITY OF University of Texas Magazine.
TRINITY COLLEGE Trinity Tablet, The.
TUFTS COLLEGE Tuftonian, The.
UNION COLLEGE Concordiensis, The. Garnet, The. Parthenon, The.
VANDERBILT UNIVERSITY Vanderbilt Observer, The.
VASSAR COLLEGE Vassar Miscellany, The.
VIRGINIA, UNIVERSITY OF Virginia University Magazine.
WELLESLEY COLLEGE Wellesley Magazine, The. Wellesley Lyrics, 16mo, 1894.
WELLS COLLEGE Cardinal, The.
WESLEYAN UNIVERSITY Wesleyan Argus, The. Wesleyan Literary Monthly, The. Olla Podrida, The. Wesleyan Verse, 16mo, 1894.
WESTERN RESERVE UNIVERSITY College Folio, The.
WILLIAMS COLLEGE Williams Literary Monthly, The. Williams Weekly, The.
WISCONSIN, UNIVERSITY OF Badger, The. Wisconsin Aegis.
YALE UNIVERSITY Yale Courant, The. Yale Literary Magazine, The. Yale Record, The.
* * * * *
As a little child at play Blows upon a pipe of clay Bubbles, evanescent, bright, With their iridescent light, So I fling upon the wind Verses of the bubble kind.
And my friend with eyes of blue Looks my dainty verses through, Pauses from his books awhile, With an intellectual smile; For my fancy seems as naught To this man of deeper thought.
Still I plead as my excuse: "Even bubbles have their use. They are perfect while they live, And their short career may give, As they shimmer, and are flown, Some suggestion for our own.
"Let their beauty, pure and glad, Make another soul less sad, And, as upward they are whirled, Let them show their little world, Floating clouds and perfect sky, Warmly mirrored, ere they die."
HERBERT MULLER HOPKINS. Columbia Literary Monthly.
I. LOVE AND SENTIMENT
"Love laughs at locksmiths," laughs ho! ho! Still Thisbe steals to meet a beau, Naught recks of bolt and bar and night, And father's frown and word despite. As in the days of long ago, In southern heat and northern snow Still twangs the archer's potent bow, And as his flying arrows smite, Love laughs.
Where Cupid Dwells.
Way over the seas, is a far, far land, Where skies are blue and gold; Where ripples break on a silver sand, And sunbeams ne'er grow old; There's a dale where Cupid dwells, they say, And 'tis there that he rests from his frolic play.
Oh, there's many a lass and many a swain That knows of his shafts made there; For Cupid spares naught of a deep heart-pain. Though love be all his care. And I think he should make a reflection or two, When he rests over there from his play. Don't you?
ROBERT L. MUNGER. Yale Courant.
To Ruby Lips.
Two ruby lips are hers; a pair Of eyes a cynic to ensnare, A tinted cheek, a perfect nose, A throat as white as winter's snows, And o'er her brow bright golden hair.
But, though she's everything that's fair, My captured fancy's focused where A saucy smile suffuses those Two ruby lips.
Why longer wait their sweets to share? We're safe behind the portiere. A moment, then, that no one knows— Ah! now she's flown, couleur de rose, With, one might hint (but who would dare?) Too ruby lips.
H.A. RICHMOND. The Tech.
My friend holds careless in his palm A glittering stone. He does not know a jewel rare Is all his own.
But in its flashing lights I see A diamond shine, And though he holds it in his hand, The gem is mine.
ELIZABETH REEVE CUTTER. Smith College Monthly.
Are you filled with wonder, Jacqueminot, Do you think me mad that I kiss you so? If a rose could only its thoughts express, I'd find you mocking, I more than guess; And yet if you vow me a fond old fool, Just think if your own fine pulse was cool When you lay in her tresses an hour ago, Jacqueminot.
This pale, proud girl, you must understand, Held all my fate in her small white hand, And when I asked her to be my bride, She wanted a day to think—decide; And I asked, if her answer were no, she'd wear A Marshal Niel to the ball in her hair, But if 'twere yes, she would tell me so By a Jacqueminot.
My heart found heaven, I had seen my sign, And after the dance I knew her mine, And I plucked you out of her warm, soft hair, As her stately pride stood trembling there, And I felt in the dark for her lips to kiss, And I pressed them close to my own like this, And I held her cheek to my own cheek—so, Jacqueminot!
FREDERIC LAWRENCE KNOWLES. Wesleyan Literary Monthly.
Don't You Wish You Knew!
Glancing in the moonlight, Gliding in the dark, Down the river slowly, Floats our dainty bark. Sweetly sound two voices, Shadows hide the view; Heard the rushes something? Don't you wish you knew!
Gently sigh the zephyrs, Shine the stars above, Eyes of brighter lustre Speak of lasting love. Quickly pass the hours, Glides the bark canoe; Heard the rushes something? Don't you wish you knew!
Only a bunch of roses fair, A duster of pink and white, Roses that nod to the music low, The flowers she wore that night.
She tenderly lifts each drooping head That gracefully tosses there, And the dainty flowers, nestling close, Smile back at the maiden fair.
"How beautiful they are," she said, As she pressed them to her cheek, "Why, the opened petals almost seem As if they were trying to speak."
I wonder why she cannot hear The song that the flowers sing, I wonder if she knows or cares For the message the roses bring.
JAMES P. SAWYER. Yale Record.
Beneath the lilac-tree, With its breathing blooms of white, You waved a parting kiss to me In the deepening amber light.
Your face is always near, Your tender eyes of brown. I see your form in dreams; I hear The whisper of your gown.
Once more the lilac-tree With twilight dew is wet; But, oh, I would that you might be Alive to love me yet.
EDWARD M. HULME. The Palo Alto.
You say there's a sameness in my style, You long for the savor of something new, You tell me that love is not worth while, You wish for verse that is strong and true. Well, I will leave the choice to you— Prose or poetry, short or long, Only we'll let this be the cue— Love is excluded from the song.
I'll sing of some old cathedral pile, Where, as we sit in a carved oak pew, The sunlight illumines nave and aisle, And peace seems thrilling us through and through. No? you don't think that will do? How would you like a busy throng, A battle, Elizabeth's retinue? But love is excluded from the song.
A journey, a voyage, a tropic isle, The hush of the forest, the ocean blue, A lament for all that is false and vile, A paean for all that is good and true. Pompadour's fan, or Louis's queue, Mournful or merry, right or wrong. Subjects, you'll find, are not so few, But love is excluded from the song.
Oh! for a song of yourself you sue! Do you think you can trap me? You are wrong. Sing of your eyes and your smile and—Pooh! Love is excluded from the song.
GUY WETMORE CARRYL. Columbia Spectator.
How I Love Her.
Dear, I'll tell you how I love you— Not by singing sweetly of you— Oh, I love you far too much, For the daintiest rhyme's light touch; No, it needs no language signs, It's written here between the lines, How I love you! You will see If you look there, loving me.
C.B. NEWTON. Nassau Literary Monthly.
She fluttered gaily down the hill— That merry, dimpled lass— She hurried singing down the hill, And then she loitered by the mill, And saw the bubbles pass, Made double in the glass Of the mirror of the water, greeny still.
She heard a sparrow pertly cry, She smelt the new-mown hay, She felt the sunshine in the sky, As lightly she went skipping by, A-down the sunny way— 'Twas like a holiday, The keen, expectant sparkle in her eye.
And Cupid's wings were on her feet, As nimbly she ran down; And Cupid's wings were on her feet: For pretty Polly went to meet Her lover in the town. She wore that lilac gown That made him say—oh, nothing to repeat!
CHARLES W. SHOPE. Harvard Advocate.
Under the Rose.
Last night the blush rose clustered,— To-day the rough wind blows In showers her broken petals; Last night,—yet no one knows,— I kissed thee, sweetheart, sweetheart, Under the rose!
Last night my fond hope blossomed,— To-day December snows Drift deep and cold above it; To-day,—ah! no one knows,— My heart breaks, sweetheart, sweetheart, Under the rose!
CATHERINE Y. GLEN. Mount Holyoke.
A Bit of Human Nature.
'Tis only a pair of woman's eyes, So long-lashed, soft, and brown, Half hiding the light that in them lies, As dreamily looking down.
'Tis only the dainty curve of a lip, Half full, half clear defined, And the shell-like pink of a finger-tip, And a figure half reclined.
'Tis only a coil of rich, dark hair, With sunlight sifted through, And a truant curl just here and there, And a knot of ribbon blue.
'Tis only the wave of a feather fan, That ruffles the creamy lace, Loose gathered about the bosom fair, By rhinestones held in place.
'Tis only the toe of a high-heeled shoe, With the glimpse of a color above— A stocking tinted a faint sky-blue, The shade that lovers love.
'Tis only a woman—a woman, that's all, And, as only a woman can, Bringing a heart to her beck and call By waving her feather fan.
'Tis only a woman, and I—'twere best To forget that waving fan. She only a woman—you know the rest? But I am only a man.
CHARLES WASHINGTON COLEMAN. Virginia University Magazine.
Her Little Glove.
Her little glove, I dare aver, Would set your pulses all astir; It hides a something safe from sight So soft and warm, so small and white, A cynic would turn flatterer!
Could Pegasus have better spur? 'Twould almost cause a saint to err— A Puritan to grow polite— Her little glove.
'Twill satisfy a connoisseur, This dainty thing of lavender; And when it clasps her fingers tight I think—I wonder if it's right— That somehow—well—I wish I were Her little glove.
FREDERIC LAWRENCE KNOWLES. Wesleyan Verse.
Skating Hath Charms.
So cold was the night, And her cheeks were cold, too, Though it wasn't quite right, So cold was the night, And so sad was her plight, That I—well, wouldn't you? So cold was the night, And her cheeks were cold, too.
H.H. Amherst Literary Monthly.
Pearls and patches, powder and paint, This was her grandmother years ago. Gown and coiffure so strange and quaint, Features just lacking the prim of the saint, From the mischievous dimple that lurks below; High-heeled slippers and satin bow, Red lips mocking the heart's constraint, Free from passion, devoid of taint— This was her grandmother years ago.
Straight and slender, gallant and tall. Ah, how he loved her, years ago! Just so she looked at that last dim ball, When, in a niche of the dusk old hall, They whispered together soft and low. She whispered "yes," but fate answered "no:" Some one listened and told it all, And the horses might wait by the garden wall, But none came to answer him, years ago.
So, standing, fresh as the rose on her breast, Smiling down on me here below, Never a care on her brow impressed, Never the dream of a thought confessed Of all the weariness and the woe, Hearts would break were time not so slow. Swept are life's chambers; comes the new guest. Old love, or new love—which was the best? For this was her grandmother years ago.
I wrote lots of trash about Cupid, And the telling bewitchment of curls, And that men were excessively stupid To be madly devoted to girls. I remarked that true love was unstable, As compared with position or pelf, 'Till one day I met you, little Mabel, And learned what it felt like, myself!
Don't read all the things I have written When I knew that my heart was my own, But since I confess I am smitten, Read these little verses alone. And sincerely I trust I'll be able To convince you, you sly little elf, To grant me your heart, little Mabel, And learn what it feels like yourself!
GUY WETMORE CARRYL. Columbia Literary Monthly.
A Thief's Apology.
I stole a kiss!—What could I do? Before the door we stood, we two, About to say a plain good-by; She seemed so innocent and shy, But what she thought, I thought I knew.
Ah, swift the blissful moments flew, And when at last I said adieu (Perhaps you think me bold), but I— I stole a kiss.
The tale is told; perhaps it's true, Perhaps it was a deed to rue; But when that look came in her eye I thought she wished to have me try— I don't know how 'twould been with you— I stole a kiss.
ROBERT PORTER ST. JOHN. Amherst Literary Monthly.
A Ballad of Dorothy.
It's "Dorothy! Where's Dorothy?" From morn to even fall, There's not a lad on Cowslip Farm Who joins not in the call. It's Dolly here and Dolly there, Where can the maiden be? No wench in all the countryside's So fine as Dorothy.
With tucked-up gown and shining pail, Before the day is bright, Down dewy lanes she singing goes Among the hawthorns white. Perchance her roses need her care, She tends them faithfully. There's not a rose in all the world As fresh and sweet as she!
With morning sunshine in her hair A-churning Dolly stands: Oh, happy chum, I envy it, Held close between her hands; And when the crescent moon hangs bright Athwart the soft night sky, Down shady paths we strolling go, Just Dorothy and I.
As true of heart as sweet of face, With gay and girlish air, The painted belles of citydom Are not a whit as fair. Come Michaelmas the parish chimes Will ring out merrily. Who is the bride I lead to church? Why, who but Dorothy?
ARTHUR KETCHUM. Williams Literary Monthly.
A Cup and Saucer Episode.
'Twas only coffee, yet we both drank deep, I won't deny I felt intoxication; For just to see those roguish moon-eyes peep Over the cup, I plunged in dissipation.
She raised her cup, and I raised also mine; She gave a look, as if "Now are you ready?" Our eyes met o'er the rims—it seemed like wine, So sweet, divine, bewitching, almost "heady."
So cup on cup! The salad, too, was good. I had of that far more than my fair rations. Yet served it merely as an interlude Between the music of the cup flirtations.
And then to have her say 'twas all my fault! I fairly blushed, and gazed down at my cup. I noticed, though, she had not called the halt Until the pot was empty, every sup.
BERT ROSS. Harvard Advocate.
Faint Heart Ne'er Won Fair Lady.
"The burn runs swiftly, my dainty lass, And its foam-wreathed stones are mossy, An I carry ye ower to yonder shore Ye will na think me saucy?"
"I thank ye, sir, but a Scottish lass Recks not of a little wetting. Will ye stand aside, sir? I can na bide, sir. The sun o' the gloamin's setting."
"Yet stay, my pretty, the stepping-stones Are a bridge o' my are hands' making. An ye pay no toll I maun be so bold— The sweeter a kiss for taking."
"Farewell, ye braw young Highlander. Tho' first ye sought to mask it: Unceevil 'tis to steal a kiss. But muckle waur to ask it."
CHARLES POTTER HINE. Yale Literary Magazine.
A Foreign Tongue.
When lovers talk, they talk a foreign tongue, Their words are not like ours, But full of meanings like the throb of flowers Yet in the earth, unborn. I think the snow Feels the mysterious passage and the flow Of inarticulate streams that surge below. And it is easy learning for the young; When lovers talk, they talk a foreign tongue.
ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH. Smith College Monthly.
Ye Gold-Headed Cane.
It stands in the corner yet, stately and tall, With a top that once shone like the sun. It whispers of muster-field, playhouse, and ball, Of gallantries, courtship, and fun. It is hardly the stick for the dude of to-day, He would swear it was deucedly plain, But the halos of memory crown its decay— My grandfather's gold-headed cane.
It could tell how a face in a circling calash Grew red as the poppies she wore, When a dandy stepped up with a swagger and dash. And escorted her home to her door. How the beaux cried with jealousy, "Jove! what a buck!" As they glared at the fortunate swain, And the wand which appeared to have fetched him his luck— My grandfather's gold-headed cane.
It could tell of the rides in the grand yellow gig, When, from under a broad scuttle hat, The eyes of fair Polly were lustrous and big, And—but no! would it dare tell of that? Ah me! by those wiles that bespoke the coquette How many a suitor was slain! There was one, though, who conquered the foe when they met With the gleam of his gold-headed cane.
Oh, the odors of lavender, lilac, and musk! They scent these old halls even yet; I can still see the dancers as down through the dusk They glide in the grave minuet. The small satin slippers, my grandmamma's pride, Long, long in the chest have they lain; Let us shake out the camphor and place them beside My grandfather's gold-headed cane.
FREDERIC LAWRENCE KNOWLES. Wesleyan Literary Monthly.
Matchless, melting eyes of brown, This is but a cheerless town; You should beam 'neath warmer skies, Matchless, melting, dark brown eyes.
Yours should be a land of flowers, Perfumed air and sunny hours; Eastern fires within you rise, Matchless, melting, dark brown eyes.
Eyes of beauty, eyes of light, Burning mystically bright, Prithee here no longer stay, You will burn my heart away.
W. Hamilton Literary Monthly.
A Fickle Heart.
A fickle heart! Let subtler poets sing Of changeless love and all that kind of thing, Of hearts in which a passion never dies— My heart's as fickle as the summer skies Across whose face the changing cloud-forms wing.
Unfailing loves unfailing troubles bring. I love to touch on Cupid's harp each string, Though each unto my questioning touch replies A fickle heart.
So, 'twixt some thirty loves I'm wavering, To each the same unstable vows I fling, Reading the first glad gleam of love's surprise In thirty pair of brown and azure eyes, Finding in all the same thought answering; A fickle heart.
GUY WETMORE CARRYL. Columbia Spectator.
My Lady goes to the Play.
With the link-boys running on before To light her on her way, A-lounging in her sedan goes Belinda to the play.
In patch and powder, puff and frill, From satin shoe to hair, Of all the maids in London town I wot there's none so fair!
From Mayfair down along the Strand To Covent Garden's light, Where Master David Garrick acts In a new role to-night,
The swinging sedan takes its way, And with expectant air Belinda fans, and wonders who To-night there will be there.
Sir Charles, perhaps, or, happy thought, Flushing thro' her powder, He might come in—beneath her stays She feels her heart beat louder.
The place, at last! The flunkies set Their dainty burden down, "Lud, what a crowd!" My Lady frowns And gathers up her gown.
Alack for human loveliness And for its little span! Where's Belinda? Here, quite fresh, Are still her gown and fan!
ARTHUR KETCHUM. Williams Literary Monthly.
Confession and Avoidance.
They say that you're a flirt at best, And warn me to beware: your glances Would make, they say, a treach'rous test By which to gauge a fellow's chances. And yet—I love you so! a throng Of passions bid me speak to-day. Ah! darling, tell me they are wrong! Are you as heartless as they say?
Am I? well, so I have been told, Though never yet have I confessed it; But you, sir, seem so very bold That I—well, I admit you've guessed it. Alas! 'tis true I'm heartless; yes, They're right, but only right in part; The reason, dear, is—can't you guess? Because—because you have my heart.
JOHN ALAN HAMILTON. Cornell Magazine.
Clarissa laughs. I plead in vain, She hears my suit with sweet disdain, When I remind her—speaking low— That once she did not flout me so, She asks me—do I think 'twill rain? Then when in anger I am fain To leave her, swear I've naught to gain By staying, save th'increase of woe, Clarissa laughs.
Yet when I beg of her to deign To answer, give it joy or pain, She smiles. So then I cannot go, For with her smiles my love doth grow. Yet when I press my suit again, Clarissa laughs.
RUTH PARSONS MILNE. Smith College Monthly.
'Mid the Roses.
'Mid the roses she is standing, In her garden, waiting there; Roses all about her glowing, Roses shining in her hair.
May I, dare I, ask the question Which my heart has asked before? Then I falter, "Can you love me, Darling?" I can say no more.
Now the petals fall more slowly: One has lodged upon her dress; Now her eyes she raises gently; Meeting mine, they answer "Yes."
F.T. GEROULD. Dartmouth Literary Monthly.
A Society Martyr.
Rustling billows of silk 'neath the foam of old lace, A half-languid smile upon each listless face,— A dreaming of roses and rose-leaf shades,— A medley of modern and Grecian maids. Such clatter and clink One scarcely can think Till he spies a shy nook where he lonely can sink,— For how can a bachelor be at his ease With such chatter and gossip at afternoon teas?
Fair Phyllis's gold lashes demurely cast down, Her face in sweet doubt 'twixt a smile and a frown,— A venturesome rosebud o'ertopping the rest Now lies all a-quiver upon her white breast, The curves of her neck Man's vow often wreck,— She has the whole world at her call and her beck. So how can a bachelor be at his ease With such variant emotions at afternoon teas?
Behind sheltering palms, safe from gossips' sharp gaze, Is acted in mime one of life's dearest plays,— Sweet Bessie's brown eyes raised beseechingly up, Her lips just released from the kiss of her cup, And Fred, I much fear, From small sounds that I hear, Is as bold as the rim of her cup,—and as near,— And how can a bachelor be at his ease With such sights and such sounds at our afternoon teas?
Shrewd maters watch Phyllis and Bessie and Fred,— Each smile and each look and each toss of the head,— And wonder and ponder and figure and scheme, While fortune and fashion 'gainst love tip the beam. For Bessie's dark locks And Phyllis's smart frocks Are but snares to entrap the society fox. Pray, how can a bachelor be at his ease With such artful devices at afternoon teas?
JOHN CLINTON ANTHONY. Brown Magazine.
Cupid's bow is lying broken, Fallen on the ground, And his arrows all with blunted Points are strewn around. For to reach our modern hearts Powerless are the blind god's darts, From his rosy shoulders stripped; Since, to pierce the breasts so cold, Shafts must always be of gold, Arrows must be diamond-tipped.
ALBERT ELLSWORTH THOMAS. Brunonian.
Blonde or brunette? Shall Ethel fair, My winter girl, with golden hair, Or Maud, whose dark brown eyes bewitch,— My summer girl,—now govern? Which?
Shall cold Bostonianism rule? Shall Love teach Browning in his school? Or shall coy glances, passion-rich, Compel my fond allegiance? Which?
And yet the solving's really clear. For winter's gone and summer's here. I want no statue in a niche, So Cupid says, "Let Maud be 'Which!'"
W.C. NICHOLS. Harvard Lampoon.
Then and Now.
When first we met she was three feet high, And three, I think, was her age as well, A touch of the heaven was in her eye; I cannot say she was very shy, (As you'll see by her actions by and by), But the way I behaved I blush to tell.
We met at a party, on the stair; She was decked in ribbons and silk galore, She smiled with a most bewitching air, And then, I'm afraid, I pulled her hair. You know you can't expect savoir-faire Of a cavalier of the age of four!
She only laughed with her subtle charm, And took it more sweetly than you'd have believed, But later she really took alarm— When she wanted to kiss me I pinched her arm, And she ran away to escape from harm; At which, no doubt, I was much relieved.
She did not offer to kiss again; I saw her go off with another beau. She pretended to hold up her ten-inch train, And whispered low to her new-found swain. I was eating ice-cream with might and main,— And that was some seventeen years ago.
I see her to-night on the winding stair, She replies with a smile to my sober bow; The palms lean lovingly toward her hair, And her foot keeps time to a distant air. I'm afraid she does not recall or care— She does not offer to kiss me now!
Heigho! What a sad, what a sweet affair, What a curious mixture life seems to be! I am fast in the net of love, and there, With another man on the winding stair, Is the girl I love,—and I pulled her hair When she wanted a kiss at the age of three!
GUY WETMORE CARRYL. Columbia Spectator.
Clink, clink, Fill up your glasses. Drink, drink, Drink to the lasses. Eyes that are blue, Lips that are sweet, Hearts that are true, Figures petite. Clink, clink, Fill up your glasses. Drink, drink, Drink to the lasses. Drink, for there's nothing so sweet as a maid is; Drink to the dearest of mortals, The Ladies.
HENRY MORGAN STONE. Brunonian.
A Bit of Lace.
It lay upon a pillow white, The framework of a beauteous sight Wherein its mistress laid a bright Ecstatic face, And when each night it proudly bore Her wavy wealth of "cheveux d'or" It seemed a very Heaven for The bit of lace.
But lace can from a pillow part And by a touch, of cunning art Adorn the casket of the heart, Where every grace, Half hidden by its witching fold, Seeks to betray a charm untold— How envies each admirer bold The bit of lace!
Still maidens' mind and garments change, And so there comes a new exchange; The real Valenciennes finds a strange New resting-place, Where tiny feet and ankles hide, And where but for a shoe untied No human eye had e'er espied The bit of lace.
A crowded street, a sudden scare, A little rush, a lengthy tear, A snowy skirt that needs repair, Decides the case. And what each morn her footman missed Hung from a dainty, dimpled wrist, And ardent lovers fondly kissed The bit of lace.
* * * * *
This tale is incomplete, I know, But where else could the traveller go? Ah, it was fifty years ago All this took place. And nodding, in her noonday nap, Secure from every sad mishap, I see in Grandma's dainty cap The bit of lace.
Red and Blue.
A Song to Her.
A song to a maid with eyes like stars; Lad, you can sing it. Any old tune to trip the bars, Any old voice to ring it; Love will wend it away to her; Love will mend it and pray to her; Love with his love will wing it.
A song to a maid, a song of songs Born in the singing Ever, oh! ever to love belongs; Ringing, ringing, ringing! Holly berry, a winter theme, Bursting cherry, a summer's dream, Love on love's pinions winging.
Merry smiles and entrancing eyes, Words that are light as passing air. Lips that never disown disguise, Hearts that endeavor hearts to snare, Tongues that know not the way to spare, Babbling on in a thoughtless whirl; Would-be worshippers, O beware! These are the ways of the modern girl.
Faces fickle as April skies, Eyes where Cupid has made his lair; When they tempt you to idolize, Then for a broken heart prepare. What does she care for your despair, Striving peace from your life to hurl? Would-be worshippers, O take care! These are the ways of the modern girl.
Ribbons and laces, smiles and sighs, A knot of vermilion in her hair, Glances where veiled deception lies, A kiss, perchance, on the winding stair, Exquisite gowns and roses rare, Shimmer of silver, gloss of pearl— Where is the heart, O woman, where? These are the ways of the modern girl.
Fashion and pique her hours share, Nature and truth their standards furl, Fair as fickle, and false as fair, These are the ways of the modern girl.
Cupid laughs, nor seems to care How his shafts are wont to harrow. Ah! that I could unaware, Wound him with his golden arrow.
A. Columbia Spectator.
I said your beauty shamed the rose's blush; You thought the simile was trite, untrue; But, oh, I saw each rose for pleasure flush To hear itself compared, dear heart, to you!
ALBERT PAYSON TERHUNE. Columbia Spectator.
We catch the fleeting perfume of roses As the evening closes the golden day, And the rhythmic beating of waves in motion Comes from the ocean a mile away; In the west is dying the sunset's splendor, And twilight tender enfolds the land; Where the tide is flying a-down the river, And the grasses quiver, we silent stand.
In your radiant eyes the sun unknowing Has left his glowing to deeper glow, And your tender sighs sound far more sweetly Than the winds that fleetly and blithely blow And first all shyly your small hand lingers With trembling fingers within my own, The blushes slyly and swiftly starting, And then departing like rose-leaves blown.
Alas, the envious time is fleeting, But your heart is beating in time with mine, And Cupid's rhyme rings louder—clearer, As I draw you nearer, my love divine! In the twilight dim we have found love's tether, And are linked together, no more to part; While the white stars swing in a maze of glory, To hear the story that bares your heart.
GUY WETMORE CARRYL. Columbia Spectator.
Lines on a Ring.
Oh, precious drop of crystal dew, Set in a tiny band of gold, Which doth within its little grasp A blue-veined finger softly hold— Thou failest if thy radiant rays Are seeking—bold attempt 'twould be!— To show a fraction of the love That beams from Edith's eyes on me.
LOREN M. LUKE. Nassau Literary Monthly.
Shadows up the hillside creeping, Gold in western sky, Meadow-brook beneath us keeping Dreamy lullaby.
Soft stars through the pine-trees gleaming— Gems in dark robes caught— Everything about us seeming With hidden meaning fraught.
Sweet dark eyes, upon me turning, Challenge if I dare, Vie with amorous sunbeams burning O'er her face and hair.
But a truce to idle musing— That was long ago. Was she gracious or refusing? You may never know.
Winter's snows those fields are hiding 'Neath a robe of white, For another she is biding Tryst of love to-night.
I was only glancing over A book beloved of yore, When a sprig of mountain clover Fluttered to the floor.
IRVILLE C. LECOMPTE. Wesleyan Literary Monthly.
The Soul's Kiss.
Not your sweet, red lips, dear, Tremulous with sighs, Lest their passion dull love's rapture; Kiss me with your eyes.
Gleam on Cupid's wing, dear, At the least touch flies, Even lips may brush to dimness; Kiss me with your eyes.
Pain within the bliss, dear, Of those soft curves lies; Only love the soul's light carries; Kiss me with your eyes.
MAUD THOMPSON. Wellesley Magazine.
A slim, young girl, in lilac quaintly dressed; A mammoth bonnet, lilac like the gown, Hangs from her arm by wide, white strings, the crown Wreathed round with lilac blooms; and on her breast A cluster; lips still smiling at some jest Just uttered, while the gay, gray eyes half frown Upon the lips' conceit; hair, wind-blown, brown Where shadows stray, gold where the sunbeams rest.
Ah! lilac lady, step from your gold frame, Between that starched old Bishop and the dame In awe-inspiring ruff. We'll brave their ire And trip a minuet. You will not?—Fie! Those mocking lips half make me wish that I, Her grandson, might have been my own grandsire.
On spinet old, Clarissa plays The melodies of by-gone days. Forgotten fugue, a solemn tune, The bars of stately rigadoon. With head bent down to scan each note, A crimson ribbon round her throat, The very birds to sing forget As some old-fashioned minuet Clarissa plays.
King George long since has passed away, And minuets have had their day. Within a hidden attic nook Covered with dust, her music-book. Gone are the keys her fingers pressed. The bunch of roses at her breast. But still, unmindful of time's flight, With face so fair and hands so white, Clarissa plays.
EDWARD B. REED. Yale Literary Magazine.
Tildy in the Choir.
Lines that ripple, notes that dance, Foreign measures brought from France, Reaching with a careless ease From high C to—where you please, Clever, frivolous, and gay— These will answer in their way; But that tune of long ago— Stately, solemn, somewhat slow (Dear "Old Hundred"—that's the air)— Will outrank them anywhere; Once it breathed a seraph's fire. (Tildy sang it in the choir.)
How she stood up straight and tall! Ah! again I see it all; Cheeks that glowed and eyes that laughed, Teeth like cream, and lips that quaffed All the genial country's wealth Of large cheer and perfect health, Gown—well, yes—old-fashioned quite, You would call it "just a fright," But I love that quaint attire. (Tildy wore it in the choir.)
How we sang—for I was there, Occupied a singer's chair Next to—well, no prouder man Ever lifts the bass, nor can, Sometimes held the self-same book, (How my nervous fingers shook!) Sometimes—wretch—while still the air Echoed to the parson's prayer, I would whisper in her ear What she could not help but hear. Once, I told her my desire. (Tildy promised in the choir.)
Well, those days are past, and now Come gray hairs, and yet somehow I can't think those years have fled— Still those roadways know my tread, Still I climb that old pine stair, Sit upon the stiff-backed chair, Stealing glances toward my left Till her eyes repay the theft; Death's a dream and Time's a liar— Tildy still is in the choir.
Come, Matilda number two, Fin de siecle maiden you! Wonder if you'd like to see Her I loved in fifty-three? Yes? All right, then go and find Mother's picture—"Papa!"—Mind! She and I were married. You Were our youngest. Now you, too, Raise the same old anthems till All the church is hushed and still With a single soul to hear. Do I flatter? Ah, my dear, Time has brought my last desire— Tildy still is in the choir!
FREDERIC LAWRENCE KNOWLES. Wesleyan Literary Monthly.
We sat in the lamplight's gentle glow, Alone on the winding stair, And the distant strains of a waltz fell low On the fragrance-laden air. I caught from her lips a murmured "yes," And the stately palms amid There came a blissful, sweet caress— I shouldn't have—but I did!
I might forget that joyous night, As the months slip swiftly by; I might forget the gentle light That shone in her hazel eye; But I can't forget that whispered "yes" That came the palms amid, I can't forget that one caress— I shouldn't have—but I did!
GUY WETMORE CARRYL Columbia Spectator.
The American Girl.
The German may sing of his rosy-cheeked lass, The French of his brilliant-eyed pearl; But ever the theme of my praises shall be The laughing American girl, Yes, the jolly American girl.
She laughs at her sorrows, she laughs at her joys, She laughs at Dame Fortune's mad whirl; And laughing will meet all her troubles in life, The laughing American girl, Yes, the joyous American girl.
You say she can't love if she laughs all the time? A laugh at your logic she'll hurl; She loves while she laughs and she laughs while she loves, The laughing American girl, Oh, the laughing American girl!
Ballade of Justification.
A jingle of bells and a crunch of snow, Skies that are clear as the month of May, Winds that merrily, briskly blow, A pretty girl and a cozy sleigh, Eyes that are bright and laughter gay, All that favors Dan Cupid's art; I was but twenty. What can you say If I confess I lost my heart?
What if I answered in whispers low, Begged that she would not say me nay, Asked if my love she did not know, What if I did? Who blames me, pray? Suppose she blushed. 'Tis the proper way For lovely maidens to play their part. Does it seem too much for a blush to pay If I confess I lost my heart?
What if I drove extremely slow, Was there not cause enough to stay? Such opportunities do not grow Right in one's pathway every day; Cupid I dared not disobey, If he saw fit to cast his dart; Is it a thing to cause dismay If I confess I lost my heart?
What if I kissed her? Jealous they Who scoff at buyers in true love's mart. Who can my sound good sense gainsay If I confess I lost my heart?
GUY WETMORE CARRYL. Columbia Spectator.
'Twas only a tiny, withered rose, But it once belonged to Grace. The goody didn't know that, I suppose— 'Twas only a tiny, withered rose, No longer sweet to the eye or nose, So she tossed it out from the Dresden vase.— 'Twas only a tiny, withered rose, But it once belonged to Grace.
Some, Cupid kills with arrows, Some, with traps; But this spring the little rascal Found, perhaps, That he needed both to slay me; So he laid a cunning snare On the hillside, and he hid it In a lot of maidenhair; And I doubt not he is laughing At the joke, For he made his arrows out of Poison-oak.
CHARLES KELLOGG FIELD. Sequoia.
Dip! Dip! Softly slip Down the river shining wide, Dim and far the dark banks are; Life is love and naught beside. Onward, drifting with the tide.
Drip, drip, from paddle tip Myriad ripples swirl and swoon; Shiv'ring 'mid the ruddy stars, Mirrored in the deep lagoon, Faintly floats the mummied moon.
Soft, soft, high aloft,— Ever thus till time is done,— Worlds will die; may thou and I Glide beneath a gentler sun, Young as now and ever one.
E. FRERE CHAMPNEY. Harvard Advocate.
A Rambling Rhyme of Dorothy.
When ye Crocuss shews his heade & ye Wyndes of Marche have flede, Springe doth come, and happylye Then I thinke of Dorothy.
Haycockes fragrante in ye sun Give me reste when taskes are done: Summer's here, & merrylye Then I dreame of Dorothy.
Scarlette leaves & heapinge binne; Cyder, ye cool Tankard in; Autumn's come. Righte jollylye Then I drinke to Dorothy.
When ye Northe Wynde sweeps ye snowe & Icyclles hange all belowe, Then, for soothe, Olde Winter, he Letts me dance with Dorothy!
ARTHUR CHENEY TRAIN. Harvard Advocate.
The Prof.'s Little Girl.
She comes to the Quad when her Ladyship pleases, And loiters at will in the sun and the shade; As free from the burden of work as the breezes That play with the bamboo is this little maid. The tongues of the bells, as they beat out the morning, Like mad in their echoing cases may whirl Till they weary of calling her,—all their sharp warning Is lost on the ear of the prof's little girl.
With a scarred-over heart that is old in the knowledge Of all the manoeuvres and snares of the Hall, Grown wary of traps in its four years at college, And able at last to keep clear of them all,— Oh, what am I doing away from my classes With a little blue eye and a brown little curl? Ah me! fast again, and each precious hour passes In slavery sweet to the prof's little girl.
She makes me a horse, and I mind her direction, Though it takes me o'er many a Faculty green; I'm pledged to the cause of her pussy's protection From ghouls of the Lab and the horrors they mean; I pose as the sire of a draggled rag dolly Who owns the astonishing title of Pearl;— And I have forgotten that all this is folly, So potent the charm of the prof's little girl!
Yet, spite of each sacrifice made to impress her, She smiles on my rival. Oh, vengeance I'd gain! But he wears the same name as my major professor, And so in his graces I have to remain; And when she trots off with this juvenile lover, Leaving me and the cat and the doll in a whirl, It's pitiful truly for us to discover The signs of her sex in the prof's little girl.
CHARLES KELLOGG FIELD. Four-Leaved Clover.
Fair Gertrude lives at Farmington, Perhaps you've seen her there; Her eyes delight in laughing light, Let gods describe her hair; Her figure—well, grave Juno ne'er Had half the supple grace Of Gertrude fair of Farmington— Perhaps you know that place?
Beneath her lips there gleam two rows Of greed-inspiring pearls; Such rows of teeth the gods bequeath To but their choicest girls. For other things at Farmington I do not care a rap, Although it is a lovely place— I've seen it (on the map).
I would the gods had given me Some mild poetic skill; In Gertrude's praise I'd sing for days, And volumes I could fill. Perhaps you think I love this maid— In sooth perhaps I do; Well, If I did, I'd tell her— But, by Jove, I'd not tell you.
J.H. Scranton Yale Record.
I am for gold—her golden hair Whose mesh my soul entrances; Caressing this, what do I care For national finances?
For silver, too—those silver tones That with her laughter rise; This wealth, thank God. no law or thrones Can e'er demonetize.
G.W. PIERCE. University of Texas Magazine.
The Summer Girl.
A half-reclining form In a "sleepy-hollow" chair, A cloud of curls that storm About her beauty fair, Two laughing eyes that tell A shyly answered "Yes." A dainty hand to—well, Say simply to caress.
An airy little sprite In a billowy flood of lace, Which flutters in its flight In the galop's tripping grace. And, oh, the broken hearts Which follow the rapturous whirl! Oh, the Redfern gown, and the arts Of the annual summer girl!
EDWIN OSGOOD GROVER. Dartmouth Literary Monthly.
The frost and snow of mistletoe, The warmth of holly berry, These I combine, O lady mine, To make thy yule-tide merry. And shouldst thou learn, sweet, to return My love, nor deem it folly, Twined in thy hair the snow fruit wear, And on thy breast the holly.
ALICE R. TAGGART. Vassar Miscellany.
A Passing Song.
Ah, only love I have ever known, Ah, only love I shall ever know, The careless hours of youth have flown And the light-hearted past to the winds is thrown, And faster and faster the hours go.
To your heart and mine there's a secret lying While the spring's breath thrills in the air of May, While life seems ever to be defying The flight of time and the thought of dying, And the great world runs on its careless way.
Yet one dear thought in my heart is resting As I face the path I must tread ere long, When wearied with life's unending questing, Its tawdry joys and its idle jesting, I shall pass to the midst of the missing throng.
That here I have known your heart's dear thrilling, Your helping hand and your watchful eye, My life with your tender love fulfilling. I know but this, and am strangely willing To learn your love and in learning—die.
GUY WETMORE CARRYL. Columbia Spectator.
When I picked up her glove I let Fate decide it. So great was my love, When I picked up her glove; 'Twas as soft as a dove And her hand was inside it. When I picked up her glove I let Fate decide it.
W. Columbia Spectator.
Her Winsome Smile.
Her winsome smile! It beams on me From where the choir makes melody, Behind the parson; maid demure, Her witching eyes my thoughts allure, Although, in church, this should not be. Pale Luna's light, the dimpling sea, Are very taking, I'll agree; But to her smile all else is poor— Her winsome smile.
The preacher, in a mournful key, Shoves on the Year of Jubilee, Shows present times without a cure, With pessimistic portraiture— His back is turned, he cannot see Her winsome smile.
HARRY KEISER MUNROE. Wesleyan Argus.
The Summer Girl.
I wooed her in the summer months, When all the world was gay, And on the hillside, in the sun, The yellow harvest lay, And late, across the level lawns, The twilight met the day.
Together, in the garden walks, At early morn we went; Together, in the deep green groves, The drowsy noontide spent; And in the evening watched how well The sunset glories blent.
Oh, happy morn! The trysting oak Hung o'er the orchard gate. I waited for her in the shade—- I had quite long to wait, For with the coachman she eloped And left me to my fate.
Before the firelight's genial glow She sits, and dreams of waltzes sweet, Nor heeds the curious gleams that show Grandmamma's slippers on her feet.
Ah, happy slippers, thus to hold So rare a burden! It were meet That you should be of beaten gold To clasp so close such dainty feet.
H. A. RICHMOND. The Tech.
Pray, why do maidens ever stand beneath The mistletoe? And why was ever hung the mystic wreath— Why should it grow? And why were laughing eyes and lashes made, If not to tease? And such an opportunity displayed, If not to seize? Why, pouting lips should always ready be To catch a kiss. If cheeks will blush, why, it is plain to see 'Tis not amiss. And when a maiden sweet, and roguish eyes, And mistletoe, And madd'ning lips, while telltale blushes rise, A-teasing so— Think you that I all idle waiting sat To see her go? Did I believe when she insisted that She didn't know?
ARTHUR MAURICE SMITH. Wrinkle.
To an Imaginary One.
Say, darling, do you love me true? Return you my affection? Pray answer as I want you to, And speak with circumspection.
Don't blurt me out a yes, cherie, And throw your arms around me: A lack of maiden modesty Would shock me and confound me.
Be distant as the morning star, Nor let me know how real, How most material you are— My love is too ideal.
Yes, be a little bit afraid, And make a sweet resistance; So near, a maid is but a maid, A goddess at a distance.
Still deign to play the charmer, dear, Blush while you're thinking of me, Breathe coyest wordlets in mine ear, But don't confess you love me!
HENRY B. EDDY. Harvard Advocate.
When Gladys Plays.
When Gladys plays in gladsome glee, All men and gods might wish to see. With flushing cheek and flashing eye She strokes the ball or lobs it high, With cuts of great variety.
The ball hides in some blooming tree, And sorely tries poor patient me; But I swear not, oh, no! not I, When Gladys plays.
When whist with all propriety, As Foster, Hoyle, or Pole decree, We play together, although my Good ace she trumps, I merely sigh And grant the points to the enemy, When Gladys plays.
FERRIS GREENSLET. Wesleyan Literary Monthly.
At the Club.
When a pretty maiden passes By the window down the Street, Cards and billiards lose their sweet; Conversation on old brasses Languishes; up go the glasses: "Nice complexion!" "Dainty feet!" When a pretty maiden passes By the window down the street
Smith forgets the "toiling masses," Robinson, the fall in wheat; All the club is indiscreet. Ah, the wisest men are asses When a pretty maiden passes By the window down the street!
RICHARD HOVEY. Dartmouth Lyrics.
The wintry sky may be chill and drear, And the wind go sighing in mournful strain, Or it may be the spring of the waking year, When flowers and birds return again. Be it March or May, it matters not, Snow or violets on the ground, I know a little bewitching spot, Where it is fair the whole year round.
A low tea-table set out for two, A divan with cushions piled on high, Dresden tea-cups of pink and blue, A fat little kettle simmering nigh, In winter a fire that cracks and roars, In summer a window where breezes play. What if it hails or snows or pours, In that little spot it is always May.
A girl—of course, you will say, when one Describes such a haven from life's mad whirl. There must be a—wait till my song is done. This is such an entrancing girl! Cheeks as fresh as a summer rose, Eyes that change like the changing sea, Lips where a smile first comes, then goes. And, oh! but she makes delicious tea.
So we sit and talk while the kettle sings, And. life seems better at least to me, The fleeting hours have golden wings, When in that little spot I'm drinking tea. Love? Ah, no, we are far above Such folly. Our time we can better spend. This world is brimming with loveless love, But 'tis rarely enough one finds a friend.
GUY WETMORE CARRYL. Columbia Spectator.
Another Complaint Against Cupid.
Wherever maidens may be found Dan Cupid's sure to wander round, I found him once, the little fool, Attending on a cooking-school. The scholars only laughed and smiled, And cried: "How sweet, how smart a child!" He kept his wings close hid, yet I Remembered him from days gone by, And, stepping up, I whispered this: "My boy, compound for me a kiss." His face grew thoughtful, then the rogue Lisped out: "Well, this is most in vogue: An acorn-cup of sugar first, Sprinkle quite well with bubbles burst, Then add a pinch of down that lies All over June's brown butterflies. Mix well, and take, to stir it up, The stem of one long buttercup. But, sir, you ne'er can taste a mite Until I add the appetite." Whereat, ere I could turn to start, I saw—I felt the flashing dart.
FREDERIC LAWRENCE KNOWLES. Olla Podrida.
We two stood near The chandelier, With mistletoe upon it. A lovely girl, My head awhirl, Her wrap—I'll help her don it.
A button caught; I surely ought To help, when she'd begun it. A pause, a hush, A kiss, a blush, And now, by Jove, I've done it!
She Sayeth "No."
She sayeth "No"—my lady fair— And lightly laughs at my despair. She quick evades my least caress, Nor grants to me a single tress From out her wealth of golden hair.
Yet to her cheeks creeps crimson rare, When I for her my love declare. But while her blue eyes tell me "Yes," She sayeth "No."
The maid well knows I would not dare Try to escape her gentle snare. And, if I really must confess, I own I trust her lips far less Than her blue eyes beyond compare. She sayeth "No."
BERTRAND A. SMALLEY. Dartmouth Literary Monthly.
Grandma's shadow on the wall, Graceful figure, slim and tall, Shadow of a maiden fair, Lofty head, with rippling hair, Nose "la Grecque" from Hebe stole: Charming, very, on the whole, Is this shadow on the wall, Fifty years ago,—that's all.
Grandpa's shadow on the wall, Straight this shadow is, and tall; (Nose "la Roman," we might say) Stately mien, and courtly way; Now it's deeply bowing, oh! But see! for kneeling low Is this shadow on the wall, Fifty years ago,—that's all.
* * * *
Grandma's shadow on the wall, Bent this figure is, not tall; Shadow in a rocking-chair, Rocking gently,—now with care; Now it nodding, nodding seems. Do you think this shadow dreams Of some shadows on the wall Fifty years ago,—that's all?
ANNIE KNOWLTON PILLSBURY. Mount Holyoke.
Bread and Wine.
All day work in the shops, The weary tread Of toil that knows no change. And this is bread.
At night when work is done, Her hand in mine, The hope of happier days, And this is wine.
ELIZABETH REEVE CUTTER. Smith College Monthly.
This I learned from the birds, Dear heart, And they told me in woodland words, Apart, And they told me true, That all their singing the summer through Was of you, of you.
This I learned from the flowers, Dear heart, In the dewy morning hours Apart, And they sware it, too, That all their sweetness the summer through Was for you, for you.
This I learned from the leaves, Dear heart, On stilly, starry eves Apart, Though their words were few, That all their sighing the summer through Was for you, for you.
This I learned from the stars, Dear heart,— From the Seven Sisters, and Mars, Apart In the boundless blue,— That their light the lingering summer through Was for you, for you.
This I learned from my life, Dear heart, 'Mid its storms, and stress, and strife, Apart, (God knows it's true!) That I need to love me my long way through, Only you, dear, you.
FRANCIS CHARLES MCDONALD. Nassau Literary Monthly.
Drifting in our frail canoe On the dusky, silent stream, Dearest, see! The sunset-gleam Fires love's torch for me and you.
Coral clouds and pearly sky, Flaming in the farthest west, Softly whisper peace and rest, Peace and rest that never die.
Let us shun the sable shore, Frowning at us slipping by. Let's be happy, you and I, Drifting, drifting evermore.
H. H. CHAMBERLIN, JR. Harvard Advocate.
Over the hills, at the close of day, Gazing with listless-seeming eyes, Margery watches them sail away, The sunlit clouds of the western skies.
Margery sighs with a vain regret, As slowly they fade from gold to gray, Till night has come, and the sun has set, And the clouds have drifted beyond the day.
What are you dreaming, my little maid For yours are beautiful thoughts, I know; What were the words that the wild wind said, And where, in the dark, did the cloud-ships go?
Come through the window and touch her hair, Wind of the vast and starry deep! And tell her not of this old world's care, But kiss her softly and let her sleep.
Columbia Literary Monthly.
Two of a Kind.
Down in the glen By the trysting tree, Somebody's sister is waiting for me. Under the stars, In the dewy grass Waiting for me—the poor little lass!
And I sit alone In my cozy den, A much better place than that clammy glen, And I think of her tears As she waits in vain Till it seems almost cruel to give her such pain.
Down in the glen By the trysting tree, Somebody's brother is waiting for me; Waiting in vain, Though it may seem cruel, But how can I help it—the poor little fool!
I know I'm not faithful As he is—but then, Women are never as constant as men. He'll never forgive me; I know I'm to blame, But he might have treated me some day the same.
WALTER TALLMADGE ARNDT. The Badger.
To the Cigarette Girl.
Your motions all are sweet and full of grace As daintily you roll your cigarette; You smoke it with a pretty puckered face That I, a mortal man, can ne'er forget.
It's jolly fun when you adopt our sins; Pray never fear of being thought a "poke." Your every mood sincerest worship wins, And yet I wish, my dear, you didn't smoke.
H. F. H. Amherst Literary Monthly,
A Game of Chess.
We played at chess one wintry night Beside the fire, that warm and bright Was mirrored in her hazel eyes; Methought a gleam from Paradise Outshone the back-log's flickering light.
The hand that took my queen was white, I trembled at its gentle might; Nor sweeter game could Love devise— We played at chess.
I scarce could see to play aright, I took a pawn and lost a knight, And then she gazed with mild surprise— She said I was not shrewd nor wise; And yet, to me, with strange delight We played at chess.
ROBERT PORTER ST. JOHN. Amherst Literary Monthly.
When Margaret Laughs.
When Margaret laughs the world is gay, All care is driven far away; Her hat aslant, with roguish air, A red carnation in her hair— True daughter of the merry May.
The rosebuds of a summer's day, The modest flowers along her way, All seem to have a grace more fair, When Margaret laughs.
Oh, youth! for her so bright and gay, Oh, years! that slip so fast away, Keep her, I pray thee, fresh and fair, Dainty, bewitching, debonair, For life is but a holiday When Margaret laughs.
GEORGE B. KILBOURNE. Williams Literary Monthly.
I've sought for Cupid by day and night, But he always contrived to elude me, And kept discreetly out of my sight, Nor showed his face, the crafty wight, Nor e'er for a moment sued me.
And often while for his face I sought I thought with a thrill I had found him, By my little wiles and my coaxing caught, Or even for gold ignobly bought, With his arrows and bow around him.
But now my pulse gives a fresh, wild start, And a throb of joyous surprise, dear, As I see him, armed with his subtle dart, A fellow prisoner with my heart, In the depths of your hazel eyes, dear.
GUY WETMORE CARRYL. Columbia Spectator
All in the days of long ago, When Grandfather a-wooing went, He looked a gallant, dashing beau, And with his looks was well content
He rode beside My Lady's chair With gracious salutation, He vowed she was divinely fair And told his adoration.
But now, alas, poor Grandfather Would stand but sorry chances Of passionately telling her His bosom's sweetest fancies.
For since a wheel My Lady rides, The bravest, gayest courtier Would lose her, if he weren't besides A fairly rapid scorcher.
H.K. WEBSTER. Hamilton Literary Monthly.
The Lenten Maid.
Her wonted smiles are turned to frowns, Her laugh a sigh, Sackcloth and ashes for ball gowns— Ah, luckless I.
While worldly thought! away are gone,— Her Lenten part,— Does Cupid blunt his darts upon A stony heart?
Ah, though her mirth and jollities She puts aside, The silent laughter of her eyes She cannot hide.
S. R. KENNEDY. Yale Record.
I like pretty maids flushed with joy, With glad hair blowing free. They smile right kind on many a boy, But only one on me. But I have a penny, a fiddle, and Joan, And my sweet Joan has me.
Meadow and flock, the wise folk said, It never were right to miss, But my maid Joan has a kirtle red And a merry mouth to kiss. And I can fiddle and Joan can sing, And what were better than this?
The young men talk of getting and gold, And lands far over the sea. But I and my fiddle will never grow old, And this is the life for me. I have a penny, my fiddle, and Joan, And my sweet Joan has me.
ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH. Smith College Monthly.
Jamie's Word wi' the Sea.
(A-WAITIN' FER JINNIE.)
Ye'll no fret ye mair the noo, Wull ye, sea? Like ye've dune the winter through, Roarin' at the sands and me.
Ye were wearyin' yersel' Till her bit, Wee, licht fuitstep by ye fell. Ay, but lookee noo! an' quit!
Ken ye no the way she rins? Hoo her hair, Ower-muckle fer the pins, Blaws aboot her everywhere?
Ye'll no stop yer clatt'rin' din? Puir blin' thing! Ye'll no see her happy rin; "Jamie!" ye'll no hear her sing.
Hoots! Awa', ye loupin' sea, Doon yer sands, Jinnie's callin' doon tae me! Jinnie's haudin' oot her hands!
ROBERT JERMAIN COLE. Columbia Literary Monthly.
Priscilla is a maid devout In this repentant season, And to the world and all its ways Has vowed a pious treason.
Sweet little saint, so shy, demure!— Though long I've tried to win her I fear that I'm not in it with Some other lucky sinner.
For when I begged she'd trust her heart To me, and o'er her bent, She blushed and softly murmured, "How can I when it's Lent."
T. L. CLARKE. Yale Record.
I Dream of Flo.
I dream of Flo, and memory, fleeting light, Calls up the happy bygone days to-night, The scent of lavender is faint in air, (Ah, well-remembered flowers she loved to wear!) My senses float afar in rapt delight.
How can I e'er forget that summer night! 'Tis not because her black eyes shone so bright, Nor is it for the witchery in her hair, I dream of Flo.
She promised me a cushion well bedight With ruffles blue, and I, oh, luckless wight, Must send to her—she said, exchange is fair— My college pin in gold. Her cushion's where With half-closed eyes I lie. Is't not aright I dream of Flo?
ALBERT SARGENT DAVIS. Yale Courant.
A Humble Romance.
Her ways were rather frightened, and she wasn't much to see, She wasn't good at small talk, or quick at repartee; Her gown was somewhat lacking in the proper cut and tone, And it wasn't difficult to see she'd made it all alone. So the gay young men whose notice would have filled her with delight Paid very small attention to the little girl in white.
He couldn't talk the theatre, for he hadn't time to go, And, though he knew that hay was high, and butter rather low, He couldn't say the airy things that other men rehearse, While his waltzing was so rusty that he didn't dare reverse. The beauties whom he sighed for were most frigidly polite, So perforce he came and sat beside the little girl in white.
She soon forgot her envy of the glittering beau monde, For their common love of horses proved a sympathetic bond. She told him all about the farm, and how she came to town, And showed the honest little heart beneath the home-made gown. A humble tale, you say,—and yet he blesses now the night When first he came and sat beside the little girl in white.
JULIET W. TOMPKINS. Vassar Miscellany.
"Foot-sore, weary, o'er the hills To your friendly door I come. I'm a mother; in my breast I have wrapped my only son. Lady, blessed of the Three, Give us shelter for a night. Pure and wise they say thou art, Pity one by fate bedight."
Calm and grave the maiden stood; Eyed that weary mother long, Drooping form, despairing face, Eyes pathetic with great wrong. "Enter," gently then she spake, "Peace be thine from skies above, Only I have closed my door, Closed and barred it fast from Love."
By the hearthstone warm and bright Sits the mother crooning low; Ah! an arrow's silver gleam, Flashes of a golden bow! Soft she sways a dimpled child Winged with down, and innocent; "Hush thee, Eros,—sleep, my son," Sings her voice in glad content.
M. E. H. EVERETT. Madisonensis.
With My Cigar.
With my cigar I sit alone, Alone in twilight's undertone, With wav'ring shadows growing deep, While long-forgotten faces peep Midst curling mists of smoke, now blown Into a frame that doth enthrone A face that from my heart hath grown. Sweet mem'ries o'er my being creep, With my cigar.
Those hazel eyes on me have shone, Those roguish lips have pressed my own, And this the harvest that I reap! And this the sweetness that I keep, To wake, to find the vision flown With my cigar!
JOHN CLINTON ANTHONY. Brunonian.
To Waltz with Thee.
To waltz with thee, my pretty belle, To silver music's magic spell, Was such a strange unmixed delight That I had wished the merry night Into eternity might swell.
* * * *
Terpsichore ne'er danced so well! Can all the Graces in thee dwell? My soul was raised to such a height To waltz with thee.
Enchanting strains now rose, now fell, Thy charms what raptures would compel! Thy feet were winged, thy figure slight, Thy winning tread, entrancing, light,— What bliss to me that night befell, To waltz with thee!
GEORGE B. ZUG. Amherst Literary Monthly.
To Maude's Guitar.
Sweet guitar, so old thou art Thou seemest strange to modern eyes, Yet in thy broad-backed cavern-heart The softest music hidden lies.
Whene'er thy strings with gentle hand I lightly sweep in deep-bassed chords, There comes a breath of foreign lands That seems to sing soft Spanish words.
Was Caballero's passion deep E'er sung to thy rich-chorded bass? Didst ever break senora's sleep By music 'neath her window-case?
Somewhere—sometime, a song was sung By lover bold or maiden fair, So sweet, thou hid'st it deep among Thy soulful strings, and kept it there.
Whoe'er it was, that distant day, That loved to strike thy mellow strings, Whoever sang that sweet love-lay, Its echo still within thee rings.
Though Maude may vow she loves me not, And jolly glees may lightly play, I look beyond the surface thought, And hear that echoing old love-lay.
L. C. STONE. Amherst Literary Monthly.
Her rosy cheeks are pressed to mine, Her gleaming hair lies on my shoulder, Her arms are clasped about my neck, And yet my arms do not enfold her.
Her throbbing heart beats loud and fast, Her wistful eyes are gently pleading. Her blushing lips are pursed to kiss, And yet my lips are all unheeding.
I coldly loose her clinging arms, And roughly from my side I shove her. It's amateur theatricals, And I must play the tyrant lover.
HENRY MORGAN STONE. Brunonian
Her beaming eyes of deepest blue Enthralled all who to Yale were true. Her crimson lips, too, conquests made: Fair Harvard's sons their homage paid, And many a suitor came to woo Petite Elaine.
I begged a kiss awhile ago; The crimson lips, 'tis true, said "No," But in her eyes turned up to me I read the answer differently— The crimson never had a show, Yale won again.
She plucked a rosebud by the wall And placed it in his outstretched hands; It was love's token, that was all, And he rode off to foreign lands.
He kept the rosebud in his breast, And when the battle charge was led, They found him slain among the rest, The rosebud stained a deeper red.
But she, beside the wall that day, A rosebud gave to other hands; Nor thought of that one borne away By him who rode to foreign lands.
Young bashful Johnny loved sweet May, And went to court her every day, But his tongue could never swear He loved her true. It seems to me, had I been there, I'd vowed my love—now wouldn't you?
Sweet May would sit by Johnny's side And all her thoughts to him confide, Yet take her hand he'd never dare— So near his, too. It seems to me, had I been there, I'd clasped it tight—now wouldn't you?
And May's red lips seemed to invite Sweet kisses, but so bold a flight He thought—yet wondered if she'd care— Would never do. It seems to me, had I been there, I would have kissed her—now wouldn't you?
GEORGE G. GILLETTE. Williams Literary Monthly.
Poor Cupid froze his wings one day, When winds were cold and skies were gray, And clouds with snow were laden. A little maid was passing by; She caught the rogue,—he could not fly,— O naughty little maiden!
She sent him off with sharpen'd dart, To steal for her a certain heart; But, oh, the mishap stupid! Since Cupid's blind, and cannot see. He went astray, and came to me. O naughty little Cupid!
So that is why my heart is gone, And I am dreary and forlorn, With tears my eyes are laden. She does not want my heart—ah, no! I did not wish to have it go; O Cupid, and O maiden!
GERTRUDE JONES. Wellesley Magazine.
Lovely Mabel, were you dreaming? Glad the day you said to me, Dancing eyes so brightly beaming, "Give my love to dear Marie!" What a strange exhilaration To be bearer of your heart, What a wonderful temptation For a part.
For I have not tried to find her Since you sent your love by me; Day by day I think I'm blinder,— Fruitless search, as you might see. I wonder, if in sending, If you choose your slave by chance, What that twinkle was portending In your glance?
Tell me, when I bear the treasure, Would you very angry be Should I keep a trifling measure That was hardly meant for me?
For it's common in commissions Some percentage of the whole To extract from you patricians. Just for toll.
JOHN BARKER. Williams Literary Monthly.
Dimpled cheeks and scarlet lips, Pink and dainty finger-tips, Glowing blushes, fragrant sighs, Looks dove-sweet from starry eyes, These do show this saying true— Maidens all were meant to woo!
Guerdon dear shall be his meed Who will be Love's thrall in deed: Strollings 'neath a mellow moon, Whispers soft as rain in June, Kisses, maybe, one or two— Maidens all were meant to woo!
WILL L. GRAVES. Makio.
He kissed me 'neath the mistletoe! Of course I said it wasn't fair To take advantage of me so, And kiss me 'neath the mistletoe,— But then, 'twas only Jack, you know, And so I really didn't care! He kissed me 'neath the mistletoe, Although I said ft wasn't fair!
GERTRUDE CRAVEN. Smith College Monthly.
The April sun smiles bright above, The skies are deep and blue, I walk among the growing fields And dream, sweetheart, of you. And as I go, from out the wood A mocking-bird calls clear, "Sweetheart, sweetheart," and I turn, Half hoping thou art here.
Alas! the sunlight floods the earth, Yet all is dark to me; The flowers may gaily bud and bloom, The earth be fair to see; And "sweetheart, sweetheart," evermore The mocking-bird may sing, But in a fairer land thine eyes Are opening to the spring.
R.L. EATON. Morningside.
And so she smiles!—Nor frown nor pout That look divine can put to rout.
I would, my love, thou wert half So constant as thy photograph!
Sing we of the summer, Of the old, old days, Of the reed songs and the murmur Of the waterways. Let thy song be merry, ever mine be sad; Let thy sigh be airy, even ofttimes glad; For then comes a sadness I cannot explain, Like the deep-plunged echo of a sea's refrain; And it dooms the sweetness Of her winsome ways To the dead completeness Of the old, old days.
Sing, Oh! then with joyance, Thou, my mandolin; Drown each dread annoyance Deep, thy soul within; Whisper ever lowly of her glad, true eyes; Sing her name, love, slowly, thou can'st sympathize; Teach my heart, my wilful heart, the faith of peace, Promising her constancy with time's increase. Bar, Oh! break the sadness Of the doubter's sin; Sing eternal gladness, Thou, my mandolin.
HAROLD MARTIN BOWMAN. Inlander.
On Tying Daphne's Shoe.
Tying her shoe, I knelt at Daphne's feet; My fumbling fingers found such service sweet, And lingered o'er the task till, when I rose, Cupid had bound me captive in her bows.
J. STUART BRYAN. Virginia University Magazine.
I walked one day with Phyllith Ovah in Bothton town, I in me long Pwinth Albert, She in a new Worth gown,
I talked that day with Phyllith, Ovah in Bothton town, Of things intenth and thoulful, Begged her me love to cwown.
I pawted that day fwom Phyllith Ovah in Bothton town; She'd be a bwothah to me, she said, But wouldn't be Mitheth Bwown.
FERRIS GREENSLET. Wesleyan Literary Monthly.
I love confinement in thy bonds, I love thy little stock to hold, Thy very scent, Aye, marigold!
I'll love confinement of thy bonds, I'll love thy little stocks to hold, Thy every cent, I marry gold!
HENRY SAFFORD CANDEE. Trinity Tablet.
An Idyl of the Strap.
She spoke to me, her voice was low And sweet, With hidden thought I could not know Replete. She cast on me a lingering look That all my inmost being shook, And, as our glances mixed, she took My seat.
Red and Blue.
The Jim-Jam King of the Jou-Jous.
AN ARABIAN LEGEND.
Translated from the Arabic.
Far off in the waste of desert sand, The Jim-jam rules in the Jou-jou land: He sits on a throne of red-hot rocks, And moccasin snakes are his curling locks; And the Jou-jous have the conniption fits In the far-off land where the Jim-jam sits— If things are nowadays as things were then. Allah il Allah! Oo-aye! Amen!
The country's so dry in Jou-jou land You could wet it down with Sahara sand, And over its boundaries the air Is hotter than 'tis—no matter where: A camel drops down completely tanned When he crosses the line into Jou-jou land— If things are nowadays as things were then. Allah il Allah! Oo-aye! Amen!
A traveller once got stuck in the sand On the fiery edge of Jou-jou land; The Jou-jous they confiscated him, And the Jim-jam tore him limb from limb; But, dying, he said: "If eaten I am, I'll disagree with this Dam-jim-jam! He'll think his stomach's a Hoodoo's den!" Allah il Allah! Oo-aye! Amen!
Then the Jim-jam felt so bad inside, It just about humbled his royal pride. He decided to physic himself with sand, And throw up his job in the Jou-jou land. He descended his throne of red-hot rocks, And hired a barber to cut his locks: The barber died of the got-'em-again, Allah il Allah! Oo-aye! Amen!
And now let every good Mussulman Get all the good from this tale he can. If you wander off on a Jamboree, Across the stretch of the desert sea, Look out that right at the height of your booze You don't get caught by the Jou-jou-jous! You may, for the Jim-jam's at it again. Allah il Allah! Oo-aye! Amen!
ALARIC BERTRAND START. Tuftonian.
Love up to Date.
I know she loves me, though with scorn She treats my adoration; I know she loves me, though my suit She checks with strong negation.
And this I know, with proof as sure As though her lips had said it: Her heart I have before my eyes, And there I've plainly read it.
For cathode rays have stolen through This maiden so deceiving; And thus her heart I've photographed, And seeing is believing.
S. L. HOWARD. The Tech.
Miss Milly O'Naire.
She is not young and fair, Nor has she golden hair, Nor a dimple in each cheek, If that is what you seek; Hers is a gift more rare, Miss Milly O'Naire.
She has not laughing eyes, Blue as the summer skies, Nor lips of cherry red, On kisses to be fed; No, it's not for these I care, Miss Milly O'Naire.
She is not wondrous wise, Seeks not for learning's prize. 'Tis true she knows no Greek, And her English grammar's weak, But why should I despair, Miss Milly O'Naire.
So woo and win her I will, For there's my tailor's bill, And creditors by the score; But they'll trouble me no more, For she has a million to spare, Miss Millionaire.
WILLARD GROSVENOR BLEYER. The Badger.
A Shy Little Maid.
A love-lorn lad wooed a coy maid once, All of a summer's day he plead; Oft he spoke of the bonds of love—the dunce! And she shyly shook her head.
When from his heart hope had almost fled, He spoke of bonds he had in town. Still the shy little maiden shook her head— But she shook it up and down.
I met her on a Pullman car, In section number nine; Each eye shone like a morning star, With radiance divine. So when I placed my bags and traps In section number ten, She looked so tempting 'mid her wraps I sought her face again.
She glanced at me with roguish pose, Yet innocent of guile, Then colored like a blushing rose, And tried to hide a smile; The sweet confusion but enhanced Her dainty tint of pink, And quite by accident she chanced The nearest eye to wink.
When she refused my proffered card With scorn and proud disdain, I tried my best, and pleaded hard My error to explain. She listened to my mumblings crude, Then tossed her nose on high; "I think," she said, "you'd wink, if you'd A cinder in your eye."
E. P. G. The Tech.
I sent her a spoon, She is married to-day; The wedding's at noon. I sent her a spoon— And she loved me in June! But that's always their way. I sent her a spoon, She is married to-day.
WILL L. GRAVES. Makio.
A Modern Instance.
Her little hand in his he took, All hot and quivering it was; And noted how her eyes did look Bright as a lucent sapphire does.
Within her dainty little wrist Her pulse throbbed quick, as if her heart Beat love's glad summons to be kissed, Heart's first reveille since life's start,
Her oval cheeks were flushed with rose; Her red lips parted for such breath As hot from tropic spice lands blows; Enough 'twas to have warmed old Death!
He gazed at her; he spoke—and she Stuck out at him a small tongue's tip: The family doctor old was he, And she—he said she had la grippe.
Red and Blue.
The Echo from the 17th.
Who builds de railroads and canals, But furriners? Who helps across de street de gals, But furriners?
Who in de caucus has der say, Who does de votin' 'lection day, And who discovered U.S.A., But furriners?
FRANK TOURTELLOT EASTON. Brunonian.
Ballade of Laura's Fan.
It was never imported from France With a dainty Parisian frou-frou, Nor upon it do bull-fighters prance, As only the Spaniards can do. It was stencilled by no one knows who, Yet I'd give all my coupons and rents For that one precious keepsake from you— The fan that cost $0.63.
On the staircase we sat out a dance, Or twenty, for all that I knew; At times on the bliss of my trance The breath of the roses stole through. But redder than rose-petals grew Your cheeks, at my swift compliments; So the softest of breezes it blew— The fan that cost $0.63.
It all seemed like a fairy romance, Below us the laughter and mu- Sic, while now and again, such a glance As is given on earth but to few From the depths of your eyes, fond and true, Set me dreaming of all their contents, Till I woke,—something hid them, from view,— The fan that cost $0.63!
My queen, for your favor I sue; If your heart through my pleading relents, To your feelings pray send me one clue— The fan that cost $0.63.
When I questioned young Smithson, a short time ago, Why no longer he courted Miss B., He looked at me strangely, and smiled just a bit— "The reason's a parent!" cried he.
ALBERT ELLSWORTH THOMAS. Brunonian.
The Call of Duty.
At early morn, a valiant knight, On prancing charger, richly dight, With helm and lance and armor bright, Rose from his lordly halls: "Now, in this region, round about, There dwell three outlaws, strong and stout: If luck be mine, I'll find them out! For duty calls."
Friday, at three, another knight (Knowing that ladies all delight In music), shod with patents bright, Steers clear of Music Halls: "In Boston's Back Bay, round about, There dwell three matrons, plain and stout: If luck be mine, I'll find them out— For 'duty calls.'"
R. C. ROBBINS. Harvard Lampoon.
'Tis a curious fact, but a fact very old; You can keep a fire hot by keeping it coaled.
HERBERT ERNEST DAY. Brunonian.
St. Valentine's Eve.
"I will write little Ethel some verses, The love that I bear her to tell; I've no money for tokens more costly, I'm sure these will do quite as well.
"How pleased she will be when she gets them! What a sweet little note I'll receive In acknowledgment of the verses I sent her St. Valentine's eve."
"What a miserable jumble of phrases! What chaotic verse do I see! I wonder what could have possessed him To send these effusions to me!
"Never mind, though, I'm sure they'll be useful, And I think I know just about where." So she took them, and twisted, and placed them In the newly made curls of her hair.
E.W. BURLINGAME. Yale Record.
Of all the lines that volumes fill, Since Aesop first his fables told, The wisest is the proverb old, That every Jack must have his Jill.
But when the crowd that nightly fills The down-town places, hillward goes, To hear them sing, one would suppose That every Jack had several gills.
B.O.H. Cornell Magazine.
The Widow's Mite.
She was a widow stern and spry, And brimming with lots of fight; She married a little man five feet high, And he died from the widow's might.
Lines to Her.
There are other fellows nearer,— And some of them are dearer,— Of those sad thoughts my heart has not a doubt.
But I want to get in line With my little Valentine, So's not to let those fellows cut me out.
CHARLES FLOYD McCLURE. Wisconsin Aegis.
A Sensible Serenade.
I sing beneath your lattice, love, A serenade in praise of you; The moon is getting rather high, My voice is, too, my voice is, too.
The lakelet in deep shadow lies, Where frogs make much hullabaloo, I think they sing a trifle hoarse, And I do, too, and I do, too.
The blossoms on the pumpkin vine Are weeping diamond tears of dew; 'Tis warm, the flowers are wilting fast, My linen, too, my linen, too.
All motionless the cedars stand, With silent moonbeams glancing through, The very air is drowsy, love, And I am, too, and I am, too.
Oh, could I soar on loving wings, And at your window gently woo! But then your lattice you would bolt, So I'll bolt, too, so I'll bolt, too.
L.M.L. Columbia Spectator.
Well I know she is not handsome, She can neither sing nor dance, But I strangely am attracted By each careless nod and glance Of my Madeline.
Quite a philanthropic feeling Is my love, so true and rare, For she's burdened with great riches; In which burden I would share With my Madeline.
From such heavy care to shield her, Each and every purpose tends. I will help to clip the coupons, And I'll draw the dividends Of my Madeline.
ROBERT PECK BATES. Trinity Tablet.
Pity 'tis, 'tis True.
I sat me down at leisure; The ready waiter flew, My order took suavely, And shouted, "Oyster stew!"
The steaming dish was waiting, The ready waiter flew, Then, rose I up in anger, And left,—'twas "oysters two!"
HERBERT WELCH. Wesleyan Argus.
He was tired of being shackled; She was faithless, that was plain; So his lawyer filed the papers, And the papers filed his chain.
EUGENE A. COX. Vanderbilt Observer.
I love my adversary's leg to kick, To frisk upon his features with my feet, Or bunt him in the stomach till he's sick— All this is sweet.
I smile to hear his collar bone collapse, Accompanied by his expiring screech; To crack his ribs is happiness, perhaps, Beyond all reach.
I laugh aloud when, in the scrimmage wild, I smash the thigh bone of some lusty boy, And see him borne off, helpless as a child— That, that is joy.
My sturdy heel into his spine I jam, To beat his mouth until he pouts at fate, To punch him sternly in the diaphragm Is rapture great.
Than to perceive his manly blood run red No greater joy can unto me be given; But at one kick to kick him down stone-dead— That, that is heaven,
The Man without a Country.
The "man without a country" was in such a sorry plight, There wasn't any place on land where he might pass the night, But if you'd like to see a man as badly off as he, Who hasn't any place at all to stay on land or sea, Who has no spot he may enjoy to any great extent, Just wait until you see some time the man without a cent.
H.F.H. Amherst Literary Monthly.
She Shook Her Head.
"May I kiss you, dear," a youth once cried, Although scarce hoping what he said; But the maiden turned away her eyes And slowly, sadly, shook her head.
"But would you mind," he still went on, "Now would you really care," he said, "If I should kiss you?" and again She turned aside—and shook her head.
J.P. SAWYER. Yale Record.
Priscilla in the garret loft
Of rare old silks and velvets soft A heap espying,— Forgotten hues of a by-gone day!— The little maid in deft array Carefully folds and lays away With envious sighing.
Did they some rustic beauty grace, A comely form and winsome face. With footsteps flying? Or does she sigh because a bride They once adorned; now cast aside, Left in the garret there to hide, The dust defying?
Perchance her great-grandmother wore Them hundred years ago and more— Priscilla's crying! "Come little maid, why this despair? What makes those big tears standing there?" "Ah, sir! because they will not bear Another dyeing."
Hard to Beat.
Last night I held a little hand So dainty and so neat, Methought my heart would burst with joy, So wildly did it beat. No other hand into my soul Could greater solace bring, Than that I held last night, which was Four aces and a king.
WILLIAM A. THOMPSON. Wesleyan Literary Monthly.
That Sweet Girl Graduate.
So stately and so dignified She looks in cap and gown, I hardly dare to speak to her, This grad. of great renown.
I scarcely can believe my eyes! It surely can't be she Who always seemed so very shy, So very coy to me!
But suddenly the spell departs, And I give thanks to Fate; For anxiously she asks me if Her mortar-board's on straight.
My lady fair Her golden hair Lets fall a-down her shoulder. I'd steal a tress,— She's no redress,— Were I a little bolder.
From her sweet lip A bee might sip, Sweeter than rose-leaf's savor. A kiss I'd take,— No cry she'd make,— Were I a little braver.
Her neat, trim waist Just suits my taste; Close in my arms I'd fold her, And clasp her tight,— She'd feel no fright,— Were I a little bolder.
She's waiting now 'Till I find how To ask of her a favor. She'll be my wife,— I'd stake my life,— When I'm a little braver.
HARLAN COLBY PEARSON. Dartmouth Literary Monthly.
A Spring Lament.
The spring is come; warm breezes blow; It doesn't make me happy, tho';— For seasons' changes only bring To me the pain of ordering Another suit. Style changes so!
This hat I'll hardly dare to show Near "Easter bonnets;" it's too low; I fear I must be purchasing; The spring is come.
I'm glad to have the winter go; I don't like ice, I don't like snow. Green fields, bright flowers, and birds to sing, Of course I like that sort of thing; But still—it makes me blue to know The spring is come.
LOUIS JONES MAGEE. Wesleyan Argus.
A Street-Car Romance.
I write to offer you my heart, O maiden, whom I do not know. Pray do not think me premature In making known my feelings so, For I have loved you steadfastly, O damsel of the unknown name, And all last night and half to-day My passion has been in a flame.
'Twas not your face, though that is fair, Nor yet your voice bewitched me so: (I heard you ask the motor-man How long before the car would go.) I saw you on the car that went From Harvard Square on Tuesday noon; I don't believe that you saw me, For you were reading the Lampoon.
And this is why I write to you: To say that I am wholly thine, I love you, for that first-page joke,— The one you laughed at,—that was mine.
W. AMES. Harvard Lampoon.
"My daughter," and his voice was stern, "You must set this matter right; What time did the Sophomore leave, Who sent in his card last night?"
"His work was pressing, father dear, And his love for it was great; He took his leave and went away Before a quarter of eight."
Then a twinkle came to her bright blue eye, And her dimple deeper grew. "'Tis surely no sin to tell him that, For a quarter of eight is two."
The District Telegraph Boy.
Hear the clatter of those feet; See him coming up the street On the trot! He is going to the Greens; No, he's going to the Dean's, Is he not?
See the uniform of blue, And the shiny letters, too, On his cap. I imagine he is quite An intelligent and bright Little chap.
What a careless tune he hums, And how innocently comes Hurrying. Ah, how little does he know Of the happiness or woe He can bring!
Now he brings a hopeless sigh. Now a sparkle to the eye, Now a tear. More of griefs, I think, than joys— Why! the fateful little boy's Coming here!
Goodness, how he pulls the bell! He has some bad news to tell, I'm afraid. Oh, I hope it's not for me! Alice, sign for it, and see If it's paid.
It is surely not from Will, For his morning smoke is still In the air. Has poor uncle breathed his last? Has his weary spirit passed From all care?
Then poor auntie is bereft, And that sunny home is left Fatherless. Or old cousin Ed and May 'Ve gone and had another ba- By, I guess.
What if John has lost, poor man, Little Clementine or Nan, Or his wife! Oh, the hopefulness, the fears! Oh, the rapture! Oh, the tears! Of this life!
I don't like the thing a bit; I don't dare to open it; How I shake! Why, It's from that man of mine: "Will bring partner home to dine; Get a steak."
LOUIS JONES MAGEE. Wesleyan Argus.
I study Evolution, And hear the teacher tell How we have all developed From an isolated cell; And in the examination Some fellows make it plain Their principles will bring them To the starting-point again.
CHARLES KELLOGG FIELD. Sequoia.
Yale, A.D. 2000.
Far from the ball-room's crowded throng These two had strolled apart, While he with fervor whispered of Her image in his heart.
And that he might detain it there Forever from that day, Our Co-ed shyly gave to him A Yale lock long and gray.
In Maiden Meditation.
"Were I a man," quoth Mistress Jane, "Ah, would I were!—I'd drink champagne And smoke—be dashing in my dress— And let my roving eyes express A love I never entertain.
"With rose lips near, I'd not refrain From kissing. I would e'er maintain That woman's 'No' is often 'Yes,' Were I a man.
"Yet while I muse, it seems quite plain That as I am I can't complain, For Tom and Jack—they both confess— Adore me. So I rather guess I'd wish I were a girl again, Were I a man!"
W.C. NICHOLS. Harvard Lampoon.
"Three's a Crowd."
Crisp and hard lay the snow beneath, The frosty air made young blood tingle. As we glided over the polished road To the sleigh-bells' merriest jingle.
We were warmly wrapped to our chins in rugs, Fur-proof against winter's biting weather, There was room in the sleigh for only two, But—three of us sleighed together.
The moon from the clear, cold sky above Flooded the snow with a golden glory, And I whispered—for how could I refrain?— The old, old, world-famous story.
Must have seemed quite a crowd, you say, With three in the sleigh? Well you are stupid! Three's a pleastanter company far, than two, When the person who crowds you is Cupid!
At the first of the month I grow morbid and sad; As I gaze on that pile I believe In the saying that never was potent before— "'Tis more blessed to give than receive."
A Senior's Plea.
"Dear Father: Once you said, 'My son, To manhood you have grown; Make others trust you, trust yourself, And learn to stand alone!'
"Now, father, soon I graduate, And those who long have shown How well they trust me, want their pay, And I can stand a loan."
JOHN CURTIS UNDERWOOD. Trinity Tablet.
After the Game.
They played at cards on the yellow sand. When the fields and the trees were green, She thought that the trump was in her hand, He thought that he held the queen. But winter has come, and they both have strayed Away from the throbbing wave— He finds 'twas only the deuce she played, She finds that he played the knave.
Sing a song of old days, Old days and true, True days and bold days, Deeds to dare and do.
Quarter-staff and buckles Trip, turn and tread— Tapped upon the knuckles, Rapped upon the head.
Pouch and pocket-fillings, Knavery and worse— Oh, the crowns and shillings In the miser's purse!
Tumbled into limbo, Picking thro' the locks, Fast with arms akimbo, Stewing in the stocks.
Pretty maids a-laughing— Here's to rosy lips, Port and sherry quaffing While the pottle drips.
Quaffing port and sherry, Jolly roaring blades, Making gay and merry With the giddy maids.
Red blood and revel, Murder, love, and fraud,— Dancing to the devil, Laughing to the Lord.
Bright gold and yellow, Meek maids and bold, Old wine and mellow— Wine and maids and gold.
Light life and long life, Brisk life and brave; Strong life and wrong life, Great to the grave.
Sing a song of old days, Sing them back again; Kill the canny, cold days, Let us live like men.
A Reward of Merit.
The father asked: "How have you done In mastering ancient lore?" "I did so well," replied the son, "They gave me an encore; The Faculty like me and hold me so dear, They make me repeat my Freshman year."
A Fin de Siecle Girl.
She studies Henrik Ibsen "to cultivate her mind," And reads Shakespeare and Browning through and through; Meanwhile she knits her brows—it is the only kind Of fancy work this modern maid can do.
Once a learned Boston maiden Was besought for one sweet kiss; "Only one," he softly pleaded, But the maid's reply was this:
"I am quite surprised you ask it, When you know physicians say That for spreading dire contagion Kissing is the surest way.
"Though I own that what you ask me Would be pure, unbounded bliss, Yet, from hygienic reasons, I cannot allow a kiss."
JAMES P. SAWYER. Yale Record.
The Cruel Maid.
One summer night, in twilight dim, A fellow wooed a maiden prim. Around her waist, with, some alarm, The naughty man had put his arm.
Her dimpled hand he stroked awhile, Then murmured low, with loving smile, "Could e'er so soft a thing be found, If all the world were searched around?"
With laughing eyes and flaming cheeks, The maid replied, "'Tis just two weeks Since I found out that you, my pet, Have something that is softer yet!"
"That I? I have? Oh, can it be? You darling, now I do love thee!" Oh, Vanitas! No sooner said, She put her hand upon his head.
A. BRADLEY. Columbia Spectator.
A Football Tragedy.
She clung to him, the game was o'er. Content was in her soul; "Dear heart, I'm very happy now That you have come back whole."
With gentle hand he smoothed her curls, And tried to keep a laugh back; "My dear, your joy is premature, For I am only half-back."
University of Chicago Weekly.
He seized her in the dark and kissed her, And for a moment bliss was his; "Oh, my! I thought it was my sister!" He cried. She laughed and said, "It is."
A Summer Campaign.
I've travelled from the coast of Maine To Jersey's balmy shore. Nor have my efforts been in vain, For maids I've won galore.
In mountain climbs I spent my breath, On lakes and rivers, too; I flirted here with coy Beth, And there with lovely Sue.
No tournament, no sail, nor hop, Without me was complete; Nor from love-making did I stop, Till all were at my feet.
The summer's gone upon the run, Maids utter sighs in billows; I've broken sixteen hearts and won Just sixteen sofa pillows.
J. H. SCRANTON. Yale Record.
From June to June.
Two lovers 'mong the weedy brake Were rowing—happy pair! They drifted far upon the lake To get the sun and air.
A year has fled. Again they float; But one is now the pair, And three are riding in the boat— They bring their son and heir.
NORMAN STAUNTON DIKE. Brunonian.
At the North Avenue Fire.
The boy stood in the burning block, Whence all but him had fled; He smashed the china on a rock, But saved the feather bed.
A.M. WHITE, JR. Harvard Lampoon.
I Love my Love.
Every one thinks some face fairer Than all others in the land, Thinks this one alone is perfect, Vows to her his heart and hand.
Then he sings in loudest praises Of her wealth of golden hair, Of her lips like ripest cherries, She alone divinely fair.
But there's one that's quite forgotten, One whose charms they fail to see; Yet in my abject devotion Fairest of the fair is she.
There's not one half so entrancing Or so makes my poor heart thrill— It is Martha Washington's picture On a bright one dollar bill.
J. P. SAWYER. Yale Record.
Gone are her bird-notes, thin she sings, and flat, Enough to craze Concone or Scarlatti. Where once she made our hearts go pit-a-pat, To-day, alas, they only pity Patti.