Short Poems

Anchises, Paris, and Adonis too,
Have seen me naked, and expos'd to view;
All these I freely own, without denying:
But where has this Praxiteles been prying?

Around the rick, around the rick,
And there I found my Uncle Dick.
I screwed his neck,
I sucked his blood,
And left his body lying.

Bourtree, bourtree, crookit rung,
Never straight, and never strong,
Ever bush, and never tree
Since our Lord was nail'd t' ye.

Marry Monday, marry for wealth;
Marry Tuesday, marry for health;
Marry Wednesday, the best day of all;
Marry Thursday, marry for crosses;
Marry Friday, marry for losses;
Marry Saturday, no luck at all.

After such years of dissension and strife,
Some wonder that Peter should weep for his wife;
But his tears on her grave are nothing surprising--
He's laying her dust, for fear of its rising.

1. I 'rived in the camp, and all I could see Was a
lousy old cook and a lousy cookee; The floors were all dirty, all
covered with mud; The bed quilts were lousy, and so was the grub.

2 The cook called for supper; they all tore from work.
Some had two knives and other two forks.
While fighting for molasses they upset the lamp,
And thus I was greeted at Burns's log camp.

I suffered so much from printer's errors
That death for me can hold no terrors;
I'll bet this stone has been misdated,
I wish to God I'd been cremated.

'T WUS in the fall of 'forty - nine
The gold fever broke out,
'N' I'd hev been a pioneer
Without the slightest doubt,
But Molly, here, took on 'n' said,
“Ar go naut, dearest Joe!”
I thought I'd argy not with her,
So, boys, I didn't go.

Glance loftily through my book. Take quite a minute
To allot its place among the damned or blest.
And O! be sure to quote the worst thing in it
As the poor author's best.

Who found for you the waters that soothed your heart-break first?’
‘Oh, who but these, my Sorrow, my Hunger and my Thirst!’

‘Who made your eyes the wiser to hail the farthest star?’
‘Who but my Dark I thanked not,—the Dark where no lamps are!

‘And I come singing, Neighbor, to tell you, where you grieve.
And though my song bled, bled afresh,—yet would you not believe.’