Arthur Macy

The Gurgling Imps of Mummery Mum
Lived in the Land of the Crimson Plum,
And a language very strange had they,
'Twas merely a chattering ricochet.

The Gurgling Imps of Mummery Mum
Caught hummingbirds for the sake of the hum,
Their cheeks were flushed with a sable tinge,
Their eyelids hung on a silver hinge.

The Gurgling Imps of Mummery Mum
Called each other "My charming chum,"
And floated in tears of joy to see
Their relatives hung in a cranberry tree.

The Gurgling Imps of Mummery Mum
Stole the whole of a half of a crumb,
And a wind arose and blew the Imps
Way off to the Land of the Lazy Limps.

My hatband goes around my hat,
And while there's nothing strange in that,
It seems just like a lazy man
Who leaves off where he first began.

But then this fact is always true,
The band does what it ought to do,
And is more useful than the man,
Because it does the best it can.

'Twas a tender little honeysuckle vine
That smiled and danced in the warm sunshine,
And spied a maid as fair as all maids be,
Who said, "Little honeysuckle, come up to me."
So it climbed and climbed in the sun and the shade,
And all summer long at her window stayed;
For that is the way that honeysuckles go,
And that is the way that true loves grow.

Then the loving little honeysuckle vine
Kissed the little maid in the warm sunshine;
But the winter came with an angry frown,
And the false little maid shut the window down;
And the sorrowing vine on the wintry side
Mourned and mourned for the love that died,
And faded away in the wind and snow, -
And that is the way that some loves go.

Between the two perplexed I go,
A shuttlecock, tossed to and fro.
I gaze on one, and know that she
Is all that womankind can be;
I seek the other, and she seems
The perfect idol of my dreams;
And so between the charming pair
My heart is ever in the air.
And yet, although it be my fate
To hover indeterminate,
I rest content, nor ask for more
Than this sweet game of battledore.

I'm a tough old salt, and it's never I care
    A penny which way the wind is,
Or whether I sight Cape Finisterre,
    Or make a port at the Indies.

Some folks steer for a port to trade,
    And some steer north for the whaling;
Yet never I care a damn just where
    I sail, so long's I'm sailing.

You never can stop the wind when it blows,
    And you can't stop the rain from raining;
Then why, oh, why, go a-piping of your eye
    When there's no sort o' use in complaining?

My face is browned and my lungs are sound,
    And my hands they are big and calloused.
I've a little brown jug I sometimes hug,
    And a little bread and meat for ballast.

But I keep no log of my daily grog,
    For what's the use o' being bothered?
I dri...

A little Maid sat in a Jonquil Tree,
            Singing alone,
            In a low love-tone,
And the wind swept by with a wistful moan;
        For he longed to stay
        With the Maid all day;
            But he knew
            As he blew
            It was true
            That the dew
        Would never, never dry
        If the wind should die;
So he hurried away where the rosebuds grew.
And while to the Land of the Rose went he,
            Singing alone,
            In a low love-tone,
A Little Maid sat in a Jonquil Tree.

The Little Maid's eyes had a rainbow hue,
        And her sunset hair
        Was woven with care
In a knot that was fit for a Psyche to wear;
        And she pressed her lips
        With her...

The Moper mopeth all the day;
    He mopeth eke at night;
And never is the Moper gay,
But, grim and serious alway,
    He is a sorry sight.

He liketh not the merry quip;
    He hateth other men;
Escheweth he companionship,
Nor doth he e'er essay to trip
    The light fantastic ten.

He seeketh not where murm'ring brooks
    With rippling music flow.
He seeth naught in woman's looks,
And never readeth he in books
    Except they tell of woe.

He e'en forgetteth that the sun,
    Likewise God's balmy air,
Were made to gladden every one;
But he preferreth both to shun,
    And taketh not his share.

He careth not for merry wights
    Who drink Château Yquem,
But he would set the world to rights
By peopling i...

You know,
Don't you, Joe,
Those merry evenings long ago?
You know the room, the narrow stair,
The wreaths of smoke that circled there,
The corner table where we sat
For hours in after-dinner chat,
And magnified
Our little world inside.
You know,
Don't you, Joe?

Ah, those nights divine!
The simple, frugal wine,
The airs on crude Italian strings,
The joyous, harmless revelings,
Just fit for us - or kings!
At times a quaint and wickered flask
Of rare Chianti, or from the homelier cask
Of modest Pilsener a stein or so,
Amid the merry talk would flow;
Or red Bordeaux
From vines that grew where dear Montaigne
Held his domain.
And you remember that dark eye,
None too shy;
In fact, she seemed a bit too free
For y...

Two halves of an oyster shell, each a shallow cup;
Here once lived an oyster before they ate him up.
Oyster shells are smooth inside; outside very rough;
Very little room to spare, but he had enough.
Bedroom, parlor, kitchen, or cellar there was none;
Just one room in all the house - oysters need but one.
And he was never troubled by wind or rain or snow,
For he had a roof above, another one below.
I wonder if they fried him, or cooked him in a stew,
And sold him at a fair, and passed him off for two.
I wonder if the oysters all have names like us,
And did he have a name like "John" or "Romulus"?
I wonder if his parents wept to see him go;
I wonder who can tell; perhaps the mermaids know.
I wonder if our sleep the most of us would dread,
If we slept like oysters, a...

A White Rose said, "How fair am I.
Behold a flower that cannot die!"

A lover brushed the dew aside,
And fondly plucked it for his bride.
"A fitting choice!" the White Rose cried.

The maiden wore it in her hair;
The Rose, contented to be there,
Still proudly boasted, "None so fair!"

Then close she pressed it to her lips,
But, weary of companionships,
The flower within her bosom slips.

O'ercome by all the beauty there,
It straight confessed, "Dear maid, I swear
'Tis you, and you alone, are fair!"

Turning its humbled head aside,
The envious Rose, lamenting, died.

A Rollicking Mastodon lived in Spain,
    In the trunk of a Tranquil Tree.
His face was plain, but his jocular vein
    Was a burst of the wildest glee.
His voice was strong and his laugh so long
    That people came many a mile,
And offered to pay a guinea a day
    For the fractional part of a smile.
        The Rollicking Mastodon's laugh was wide -
        Indeed, 'twas a matter of family pride;
        And oh! so proud of his jocular vein
        Was the Rollicking Mastodon over in Spain.

The Rollicking Mastodon said one day,
    "I feel that I need some air,
For a little ozone's a tonic for bones,
    As well as a gloss for the hair."
So he skipped along and warbled a song
    In his own triumphulant way.
His smile was bright and his skip...

I heard an old, familiar air
    Strummed idly by a careless hand,
Yet in the melody were rare,
    Sweet echoings from childhood land.

The well-remembered mother touch,
    The wise denials and consents,
The trivial sorrows that were much,
    Small pleasures that were large events;

The fancies, dreams, strange wonderings,
    The daily problems unexplained,
Momentous as the cares of kings
    That on unhappy thrones have reigned,

Came back with each unstudied tone;
    And came that song remembered best,
Which, with a sweetness all its own,
    Once lulled the play-worn child to rest.

And there, secure as Tarik's height,
    He slumbered, shielded from alarms,
Safe from the mystery of night,
    Close folded in the moth...

"Now what is that, my daughter dear, upon thy cheek so fair?"
"'Tis but a kiss, my mother dear - kind fortune sent it there.
It was a courteous stranger-man that gave it unto me,
And it is passing red because it was the last of three."

"A kiss indeed! my daughter dear; I marvel in surprise!
Such conduct with a stranger-man I fear me was not wise."
"Methought the same, my mother dear, and so at three forbore,
Although the courteous stranger-man vowed he had many more."

"Now prithee, daughter, quickly go, and bring the stranger here,
And bid him hie and bid him fly to me, my daughter dear;
For times be very, very hard, and blessings eke so rare,
I fain would meet a stranger-man that hath a kiss to spare."

There once was a man who asked for pie,
In a piping voice up high, up high;
And when he asked for a salmon roe,
He spoke in a voice down low, down low;
But when he said he had no choice,
He always spoke in a medium voice.

I cannot tell the reason why
He sometimes spoke up high, up high;
And why he sometimes spoke down low,
I do not know, I do not know;
And why he spoke in the medium way,
Don't ask me, for I cannot say.

I'm a gentle, meek, and patient human worm;
                Unattractive,
                Rather active,
With a sense of right, original but firm.
            I was taught to be forgiving,
                For my enemies to pray;
            But what's the use of living
                If you never can repay
All the little animosities that in your bosom burn -
Oh, it's pleasant to remember that "the worm will turn."

I'm so gentle and so patient and so meek,
                Unpretending,
                Unoffending.
But if, perchance, you smite me on the cheek,
            I will never turn the other,
                As I was taught to do
            By a puritanic mother,
                Whose theology was blue.
Your experience will widen when e...

The thistle-down floats on the air, the air,
    Whenever the soft wind blows,
And the wind can tell just where, just where
    The feathery thistle-down goes.
And it tells the bird in a single word,
    Who whispers it low to the bee;
And they try to keep the mystery deep,
    And none of them tell it to me.
But I know well, though they never will tell,
Where the thistle-down goes when it says "Farewell,"
It floats and floats away on the air,
And goes where the wind goes - everywhere!

    Thou art to me
As are soft breezes to a summer sea;
    As stars unto the night;
    Or when the day is born,
    As sunrise to the morn;
As peace unto the fading of the light.

    Thou art to me
As one sweet flower upon a barren lea;
    As rest to toiling hands;
As one clear spring amid the desert sands;
    As smiles to maidens' lips;
As hope to friends that wait for absent ships;
    As happiness to youth;
    As purity to truth;
    As sweetest dreams to sleep;
As balm to wounded hearts that weep.
All, all that I would have thee be
    Thou art to me.

Sweet visions came to me in sleep,
    Ah! wondrous fair to see;
And in my mind I strove to keep
    The dream to tell to thee.

But morning broke with golden gleam,
    And shone upon thy face,
And life was lovelier than a dream,
    And dreams had lost their grace.