To Stern Critics
Here's to stern Critics! May they some day learn The forward lookout's Better than the stern!
Here's to her shadow! May it mark the hours Upon the sundial of her life—in flowers!
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BY OLIVER HERFORD AND JOHN CECIL CLAY
NEW YORK MITCHELL KENNERLEY
COPYRIGHT, 1917, BY MITCHELL KENNERLEY
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PAGE TO STERN CRITICS 3 TO HER SHADOW 4 TO FASHION 9 TO THE TYPEWRITER 11 THE FLOOR 12 TO MUSIC 15 TO THE PUBLISHER 17 HERE'S LOOKING 19 THE DOVE OF PEACE 21 TO THE CLOCK 23 TO HOPE 25 TO LIBERTY 27 STAIRS: A TOAST 29 TO LADY NICOTINE 31 OH, EDITOR, EDITOR! 33 TO THE CREDITOR 35 TO NEPTUNE 37 TO THE WAITER 39 TO TEMPTATION 41 TO THE MAID WITH FANCY FREE 43 TO OUR SWEETHEARTS 45 TO OUR READERS 46
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Fashion! Lovely Dame! Pledge in sparkling wine! Let us add her name To the Muses' nine!
Though the lovely Nin All should pass away Why should Woman pine, If but Fashion stay?
Tho' the Muses' lore Molder on the shelf, Still may She adore In Fashion's glass—Herself.
To The Typewriter
Here's to the Typewriter! Health to her type! Whether blond or brunette Or budding or ripe. If she be the right type Be she buxom or slight, When she doesn't type wrong She is sure to typewrite.
Here's to the floor, Our best friend of all, Who sticks to us close In the time of our fall. When benches are fickle And tables betray And rugs are revolving, He meets us half-way. Our stay and support, When we can't stand alone, With the floor for a backer, We'll never be thrown. Here's to our friend, In life's every stage! Dry nurse of infancy, Wet nurse of age! A health to our floor! Supporter and stay; Though he often be full, May he never give way!
Here's to Music, Joy of joys! One man's music's Another man's noise.
To The Publisher!—Drink! Let his virtue be shown In the Good Works of others If not in his own.
TO THE PUBLISHER
Here's looking at you, dear! though I should pour A sea of wine, my eyes would thirst for more.
Here's to the Dove of Peace! May she find a mate some day, And may her tribe increase As fast as she can lay!
With cooing doves galore Then may the sky be dark Until the Dogs of War Can't see each other bark!
Here's to the Clock! Whose hands, we pray heaven, When we come home at three, Have stopped at eleven!
TO THE CLOCK
Here's to Hope, the child of Care, And pretty sister of Despair! Here's hoping that Hope's children shan't Take after their Grandma or Aunt!
Here's to our Goddess, Liberty, Idol of bronze and stone! May she awake to life some day And let her charms be known.
STAIRS A TOAST
Here's to the man who invented stairs And taught our feet to soar! He was the first who ever burst Into a second floor.
The world would be downstairs to-day Had he not found the key; So let his name go down to fame, Whatever it may be.
TO OUR LADY NICOTINE
Here's to Lady Nicotine! Saint and Sorceress and Queen! Saint, whose purple halo rings Lift our eyes from earthly things; Witch, whose wand of scented briar Transmutes dead weeds to fragrant fire; Queen, whose rod her slaves adore! What can freedom offer more?
OH, EDITOR, EDITOR, Awful and grand, Who holdest our fate In the palm of thy hand, Dost ever reflect How one day thy ghost To an Editor awf'ler And grander will post? Before him a great Golden scroll is spread wide, And a bottomless waste-basket Yawns at his side. With a swift searching glance He reads through thy soul, Then he looks at the basket, Then looks at the scroll; He purses his lips And nibbles his pen, And frowns for one long Awful moment—and then— Oh, Editor!—think! if thy Poor crumpled soul Fall into the basket And not in the scroll!
To The Creditor
Here's to the Creditor, Long may he reign! May his Faith never waver, His Trust never wane. May the Lord make him gentle And gracious and gay, Yet quick to resent The least offer of pay: May he soften his heart As he softened, we're told, To the Israelite's 'touch,' The Egyptian of old; And when on his last Long account he shall look, The angel will say As he closes the book: "The Lord gives you Credit For Credit you gave"! So here's to the Creditor— Long may he waive.
A health to King Neptune, The boss of the wave! Who sits on the Ocean And makes it behave. Come fill up your bumpers And take a long pull! When he's calm he's not dry— When he rolls, he's not full.
Whether sober or rough, He's always a sport, And we'll never stop toasting him Till we're in port. A jolly old salt, Though he smile or he frown. So here's to King Neptune! Fill up! Drink her down!
We drink your health, O Waiter! And may you be preserved From old age, gout, or sudden death!— At least till supper's served.
TO THE WAITER
Here's to temptation! Give us strength and grace Against her witching smile, To set our face!
Here's to the maid with Fancy Free; If Cupid's necromancy Imprison not her heart, maybe, It will arrest her Fancy.
To our Sweethearts and Wives, The joy of our lives! May our Wives be our Sweethearts— Our Sweethearts, our Wives.
To Our Readers
Here's to our Readers, Health! good Looks! And Joy ad infinitum And may they live to read our Books As long as we may write 'em.