Short Poems

'When Mrs Welch's chimney smokes,
'Tis a sign she'll keep her folks;
But when of smoke the room is clear,
It is a sign we shan't stay here.

With leering looks, bull-fac'd, and freckl'd fair,
With two left legs, and Judas-colour'd hair,
And frowzy pores that taint the ambient air.

I AM a poet famed the wide world through
For measures Ovid and Catullus knew,
For merry wit and kindly—this I claim.
Yet envy not—A Derby winner's fame
Is greater: mine of course must rank below it,

Though Paula wants to marry me,
That wealthy hag, I can't agree;
I really do not think I could:
If she were older, then I would!

Honoured of all but yesterday,
Loved of his men and of Egypt's throng,
Now in a stranger land, the prey
Of death, for his coming we vainly long;
O'er that marble face we might not weep,
Not ours with perfume the pyre to steep;
But the traitor Nile cannot take away
The fame that lives in a deathless song.

Those five-and-seventy years now safely gone,
How happy is your quiet age, how dear
Are memory's pictures that you gaze upon,
You need not shrink, tho' Lethe's wave be near:
The past has not a shade for you to fear,
No page of all its book you dread to con;
Redoubled happiness and life hath he
Whose joy doth live again in memory.

Of Theseus and Pirithous you rave
And boast yourself the peer of Pylades.
Hang me if you are fit to play the slave,
To clean a sty, or feed the swine for these!
You boast the thrice-turned coat, the loan you gave
Your friend to meet his need—Remember, please,
The heroes gave no doles, but shared their store;
Whatever you may give you keep far more.

He never entertains nor gives to any,
He never entertains nor gives to any,
He never lends, he has not got a penny;
Though barren his regard, men strive to win it;—
Your toga, Rome, has many a fool within it.

'T IS vain my Muse that you refuse your seasonable wit;
And so to do is lawless too, since Macer asks for it;
A quip, a jest will please him best—no solemn verses, pray—
For he complains your merry strains have ceased for many a day;
Reports, indeed, he ought to read as guardian of the roads;
O Appian Way, what will you say if he reads heavy odes?

I SMEAR my lips with salve, my chin with plaster,
And yet, Philaenis, there is naught amiss;
I only use them to avoid disaster:
What do I apprehend, you say?—A kiss.