Classic Poems: 'The Embarrassing Episode of Little Miss Muffet' by Guy Wetmore Carryl

Yes, the blog has been quiet for a while. (I've been busy promoting my book and getting it in the hands of more readers and reviewers, so that took my attention off the blog for a bit). 

Meanwhile, here's a classic poem by a poet who should really be better known than he is, Guy Wetmore Carryl (1873-1904). This fun poem is excerpted from his 1900 book titled 'Mother Goose For Grown-ups' 

The Embarrassing Episode of Little Miss Muffet

Little Miss Muffet discovered a tuffet, 

(Which never occurred to the rest of us) 

And, as 'twas a June day, and just about noonday, 

She wanted to eat - like the rest of us: 

Her diet was whey, and I hasten to say 

It is wholesome and people grow fat on it. 

The spot being lonely, the lady not only 

Discovered the tuffet, but sat on it. 

A rivulet gabbled beside her and babbled, 

As rivulets always are thought to do, 

And dragon flies sported around and cavorted, 

As poets say dragon flies ought to do; 

When, glancing aside for a moment, she spied 

A horrible sight that brought fear to her, 

A hideous spider was sitting beside her, 

And most unavoidably near to her! 

Albeit unsightly, this creature politely 

Said: " Madam, I earnestly vow to you, 

I'm penitent that I did not bring my hat. I 

Should otherwise certainly bow to you." 

Though anxious to please, he was so ill at ease 

That he lost all his sense of propriety, 

And grew so inept that he clumsily stepped 

In her plate - which is barred in Society. 

This curious error completed her terror; 

She shuddered, and growing much paler, not 

Only left tuffet, but dealt him a buffet 

Which doubled him up in a sailor knot. 

It should be explained that at this he was pained: 

He cried: "I have vexed you, no doubt of it! 

Your fists's like a truncheon." "You're still in my luncheon," 

Was all that she answered. "Get out of it!" 

 

And the Moral is this: Be it madam or miss 

To whom you have something to say, 

You are only absurd when you get in the curd 

But you're rude when you get in the whey.

- Guy Wetmore Carryl, 1900

Classic Poems: 'I'm Growing Old' by John Godfrey Saxe

As I turned another year older this week (sigh), I thought I'd share this poignant little poem 'I'm Growing Old' by John Godfrey Saxe, penned sometime in the 1800s. Seems like nothing has really changed in the last two centuries on how we grow old.

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I'm Growing Old
By John Godfrey Saxe

My days pass pleasantly away;
  My nights are blest with sweetest sleep;
I feel no symptoms of decay;
  I have no cause to mourn nor weep;
My foes are impotent and shy;
  My friends are neither false nor cold,
And yet, of late, I often sigh--
                 I am growing old!

My growing talk of olden times,
  My growing thirst for early news,
My growing apathy to rhymes,
  My growing love of easy shoes,
My growing hate of crowds and noise,
  My growing fear of taking cold,
All whisper, in the plainest voice,
                 I'm growing old!

I'm growing fonder of my staff;
  I'm growing dimmer in the eyes;
I'm growing fainter in my laugh;
  I'm growing deeper in my sighs;
I'm growing careless of my dress;
  I'm growing frugal of my gold;
I'm growing wise; I'm growing,-- yes,--
                 I'm growing old!

I see it in my changing taste;
  I see it in my changing hair;
I see it in my growing waist;
  I see it in my growing heir;
A thousand signs proclaim the truth,
  As plain as truth was ever told,
That, even in my vaunted youth,
                 I'm growing old!

Ah me! my very laurels breathe
  The tale in my reluctant ears,
And every boon the Hours bequeath
  But makes me debtor to the Years!
E'en Flattery's honeyed words declare
  The secret she would fain withhold,
And tells me in "How young you are!"
                 I'm growing old!

Thanks for the years! -- whose rapid flight
  My sombre Muse too sadly sings;
Thanks for the gleams of golden light
  That tint the darkness of their wings;
The light that beams from out the sky,
  Those heavenly mansions to unfold
Where all are blest, and none may sigh,
                   "I'm growing old!"  



Excerpted from 'The Poems of John Godfrey Saxe: Complete Edition', James R. Osgood and Company, Boston, 1873.

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I suspect I'm not the only one with whom this poem will resonate ... :)

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PS Happy Poetry Friday, hosted this week at the Mainely Write blog.
 

Classic Funny Poems: 'Faithless Nelly Gray' by Thomas Hood

Here's a poem written by Thomas Hood, a British Poet and Humorist, excerpted from 'The Humorous Poetry of the English Language' by J. Parton (Mason Brothers, 1857).

This poem is strikingly similar to John Godfrey Saxe's 'Briefless Barrister' (previously posted here, also excerpted from the same book) - lots of puns, lots of word-play. Note: The humor is a bit darker, and I can't tell if this was meant to be a farce of a farce, given the full title of the poem is 'Faithless Nelly Gray: A Pathetic Ballad'.

Without further ado:

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Faithless Nelly Gray: A Pathetic Ballad
By Thomas Hood (1798-1845)

Ben Battle was a soldier bold,
And used to war's alarms;
But a cannon-ball took off his legs,
So he laid down his arms.

Now, as they bore him off the field,
Said he, "Let others shoot;
For here I leave my second leg,
And the Forty-second Foot!"

The army-surgeons made him limbs:
Said he, "They're only pegs;
But there's as wooden members quite
As represent my legs!"

Now, Ben he loved a pretty maid,
Her name was Nelly Gray;
So he went up to pay his devours,
When he devoured his pay!

But when he called on Nelly Gray,
She made him quite a scoff;
And when she saw his wooden legs,
Began to take them off!

"O, Nelly Gray! O, Nelly Gray!
Is this your love so warm?
The love that loves a scarlet coat
Should be more uniform!"

Said she, "I loved a soldier once
For he was blithe and brave;
But I will never have a man
With both legs in the grave!

"Before you had those timber toes,
Your love I did allow;
But then, you know, you stand upon
Another footing now!"

"O, Nelly Gray! O, Nelly Gray!
For all your jeering speeches,
At duty's call I left my legs
In Badajos's breaches !"

"Why then," said she, "you've lost the feet
Of legs in war's alarms,
And now you cannot wear your shoes
Upon your feats of arms!"

"O, false and fickle Nelly Gray!
I know why you refuse: --
Though I've no feet -- some other man
Is standing in my shoes!

"I wish I ne'er had seen your face;
But, now, a long farewell!
For you will be my death; -- alas
You will not be my Nell!"

Now, when he went from Nelly Gray,
His heart so heavy got,
And life was such a burden grown,
It made him take a knot!

So round his melancholy neck
A rope he did entwine,
And, for his second time in life,
Enlisted in the Line.

One end he tied around a beam,
And then removed his pegs,
And, as his legs were off -- of course
He soon was off his legs!

And there he hung, till he was dead
As any nail in town--
For, though distress had cut him up,
It could not cut him down!

A dozen men sat on his corpse,
To find out why he died--
And they buried Ben in four cross-roads
With a stake in his inside!

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[I have to admit one thing though: I did not understand the ending of this poem. If you have an interpretation of the last two lines, please share your insight via a comment for the benefit of the rest of us].

My favorite pun in this poem was 'Death...Nell' - how about yours?

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Here is the biography of Thomas Hood from the same book. (Presumably, since this was written closer to his lifetime than, say, Wikipedia, we may consider it more authentic):

HOOD, THOMAS - Author of the "Song of the Shirt", which Punch had the honor of first publishing. Born in 1798; died in 1845. Hood was the son of a London BookSeller, and began life as a clerk. He became afterward an engraver, bur was drawn gradually into the literary profession, which he excercised far more to the advantage of his readers than his own. His later years were saddened by ill-health and poverty. Some of his comic verses seem forced and contrived, as though done for needed wages. Hood was one of the literary men who should have made of literature a staff, not a crutch. It was in him to produce, like Lamb, a few very admirable things, the execution of which should have been the pleasant occupation of his leisure, not the toil by which he gained his bread.


Thomas Hood

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Classic Funny Poems: 'The Briefless Barrister' by John G. Saxe

Here's an old little-known poem by John Godfrey Saxe penned sometime prior to 1857. Although John G. Saxe is most well known for his poem 'The Blind Men and the Elephant', he was a prolific poet and I was delighted to stumble across this gem in an old obscure book. I particularly enjoyed the word-play sprinkled through-out this poem. Note that John Saxe was a barrister by profession, so presumably he knew what he was writing about when he wrote this poem.

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      The Briefless Barrister
A Ballad by John G. Saxe (1816 - 1887)

An attorney was taking a turn,
    In shabby habiliments drest ;
His coat was shockingly worn,
    And the rust had invested his vest.

His breeches had suffered a breach,
    His linen and worsted were worse ;
He had scarce a whole crown in his hat,
    And not half-a-crown in his purse.

And thus as he wandered along,
    A cheerless and comfortless elf,
He sought for relief in a song,
    Or complainingly talked to himself :

" Unfortunate man that I am !
    I've never a client but grief ;
The case is, I've no case at all,
    And in brief, I've ne'er had a brief !

" I've waited and waited in vain,
    Expecting an 'opening' to find,
Where an honest young lawyer might gain
    Some reward for the toil of his mind.

" 'Tis not that I'm wanting in law,
    Or lack an intelligent face,
That others have cases to plead,
    While I have to plead for a case.

" O, how can a modest young man
    E'er hope for the smallest progression-
The profession's already so full
    Of lawyers so full of profession !"

While thus he was strolling around,
    His eye accidentally fell
On a very deep hole in the ground
    And he sighed to himself, "It is well !"

To curb his emotions, he sat
    On the curb-stone the space of a minute,
Then cried, " Here's an opening at last !"
    And in less than a jiffy was in it !

Next morning twelve citizens came
    ('Twas the coroner bade them attend),
To the end that it might be determined
    How the man had determined his end !

" The man was a lawyer, I hear,"
    Quoth the foreman who sat on the corse ;
" A lawyer?   Alas! " said another,
    "Undoubtedly he died of remorse !"

A third said, " He knew the deceased,
    An attorney well versed in the laws,
And as to the cause of the death,
    'Twas no doubt from the want of a cause."

The jury decided at length,
    After solemnly weighing the matter,
" That the lawyer was drownded, because
    He could not keep his head above water !"

Excerpted from 'The Humorous Poetry of the English Language' by J. Parton, Mason Brothers, 1857

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For more poetic fun, head on over to this week's Poetry Friday roundup at Diane Mayr's Random Noodling Blog.
Happy Poetry Friday!

Classic Funny Poems: 'A Nightmare' by W. S. Gilbert

(Once upon a time people actually managed to publish books of light verse. Sadly we've lost our collective sense of poetic humor since then).

The other day, while thumbing through an old book of humorous poems, I came across what-I-thought-was a stunning poem titled 'A Nightmare'. It took me a while to figure out that the unfamiliar-to-me author it was attributed to, one 'WS Gilbert' was none other than the Gilbert from the operatic duo 'Gilbert & Sullivan'. The poem is actually better known as the 'Nightmare Song from Iolanthe', but Sir Gilbert re-published it in a book of poems (Songs of a Savoyard) back around 1894 and I think it's actually a pretty fun and rollicking read as a poem (much better than it is as a song). Here it is in it's entirety for your reading pleasure

Note the way this poem is laid out with long unbroken sentences that contribute a breathlessness and sense of urgency and unease to the poem, which will feel very familiar to anyone who's ever had any kind of nightmare... 

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A Nightmare

Poem (and Illustration) by Sir W. S. Gilbert
 

When you're lying awake with a dismal headache, and repose is taboo'd by anxiety,
I conceive you may use any language you choose to indulge in without impropriety;
For your brain is on fire - the bedclothes conspire of usual slumber to plunder you:
First your counterpane goes and uncovers your toes, and your sheet slips demurely from under you;
Then the blanketing tickles - you feel like mixed pickles, so terribly sharp is the pricking,
And you're hot, and you're cross, and you tumble and toss till there's nothing 'twixt you and the ticking.
Then the bedclothes all creep to the ground in a heap, and you pick 'em all up in a tangle;
Next your pillow resigns and politely declines to remain at its usual angle!
Well, you get some repose in the form of a doze, with hot eyeballs and head ever aching,
But your slumbering teems with such horrible dreams that you'd very much better be waking;
For you dream you are crossing the Channel, and tossing about in a steamer from Harwich,
Which is something between a large bathing-machine and a very small second-class carriage;
And you're giving a treat (penny ice and cold meat) to a party of friends and relations -
They're a ravenous horde - and they all came on board at Sloane Square and South Kensington Stations.
And bound on that journey you find your attorney (who started that morning from Devon);
He's a bit undersized, and you don't feel surprised when he tells you he's only eleven.
Well, you're driving like mad with this singular lad (by the bye the ship's now a four-wheeler),
And you're playing round games, and he calls you bad names when you tell him that "ties pay the dealer";
But this you can't stand, so you throw up your hand, and you find you're as cold as an icicle,
In your shirt and your socks (the black silk with gold clocks), crossing Salisbury Plain on a bicycle:
And he and the crew are on bicycles too - which they've somehow or other invested in -
And he's telling the tars all the particulars of a company he's interested in -
It's a scheme of devices, to get at low prices, all goods from cough mixtures to cables
(Which tickled the sailors) by treating retailers, as though they were all vegetables -
You get a good spadesman to plant a small tradesman (first take off his boots with a boot-tree),
And his legs will take root, and his fingers will shoot, and they'll blossom and bud like a fruit-tree -
From the greengrocer tree you get grapes and green pea, cauliflower, pineapple, and cranberries,
While the pastry-cook plant cherry-brandy will grant - apple puffs, and three-corners, and banberries -
The shares are a penny, and ever so many are taken by ROTHSCHILD and BARING,
And just as a few are allotted to you, you awake with a shudder despairing -
You're a regular wreck, with a crick in your neck, and no wonder you snore, for your head's on the floor, and you've needles and pins from your soles to your shins, and your flesh is a-creep, for your left leg's asleep, and you've cramp in your toes, and a fly on your nose, and some fluff in your lung, and a feverish tongue, and a thirst that's intense, and a general sense that you haven't been sleeping in clover;
But the darkness has passed, and it's daylight at last, and the night has been long - ditto, ditto my song - and thank goodness they're both of them over!  

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Don't you just love the perfect meter and rhyme in this poem!

[Note: To my knowledge the copyright for both this poem, and the accompanying illustration above - also by Sir W. S. Gilbert, is in the public domain]