_W.M. Thackeray_.

NONSENSE VERSES

Lazy-bones, lazy-bones, wake up and peep!

The cat's in the cupboard, your mother's asleep.

There you sit snoring, forgetting her ills; Who is to give her her Bolus and Pills?

Twenty fine Angels must come into town, All for to help you to make your new gown: Dainty aerial Spinsters and Singers; Aren't you ashamed to employ such white fingers?

Delicate hands, unaccustom'd to reels, To set 'em working a poor body's wheels?

Why they came down is to me all a riddle, And left Hallelujah broke off in the middle: Jove's Court, and the Presence angelical, cut-- To eke out the work of a lazy young s.l.u.t.

Angel-duck, Angel-duck, winged and silly, Pouring a watering-pot over a lily, Gardener gratuitous, careless of pelf, Leave her to water her lily herself, Or to neglect it to death if she chuse it: Remember the loss is her own if she lose it.

_Charles Lamb_.

THE n.o.bLE TUCK-MAN

Americus, as he did wend With A. J. Mortimer, his chum, The two were greeted by a friend, "And how are you, boys, Hi, Ho, Hum?"

He spread a note so crisp, so neat (Ho, and Hi, and tender Hum), "If you of this a fifth can eat I'll give you the remainder. Come!"

To the tuck-shop three repair, (Ho, and Hum, and pensive Hi), One looks on to see all's fair, Two call out for hot mince-pie.

Thirteen tarts, a few Bath buns (Hi, and Hum, and gorgeous Ho), Lobster cakes (the b.u.t.ter'd ones), All at once they cry, "No go."

Then doth tuck-man smile. "Them there (Ho, and Hi, and futile Hum) Jellies three and sixpence air, Use of spoons an equal sum."

Three are rich. Sweet task 'tis o'er, "Tuckman, you're a brick," they cry, Wildly then shake hands all four (Hum and Ho, the end is Hi).

_Jean Ingelow_.

THE PESSIMIST

Nothing to do but work, Nothing to eat but food, Nothing to wear but clothes To keep one from going nude.

Nothing to breathe but air, Quick as a flash 'tis gone; Nowhere to fall but off, Nowhere to stand but on.

Nothing to comb but hair, Nowhere to sleep but in bed, Nothing to weep but tears, Nothing to bury but dead.

Nothing to sing but songs, Ah, well, alas! alack!

Nowhere to go but out, Nowhere to come but back.

Nothing to see but sights, Nothing to quench but thirst, Nothing to have but what we've got; Thus thro' life we are cursed.

Nothing to strike but a gait; Everything moves that goes.

Nothing at all but common sense Can ever withstand these woes.

_Ben King_.

THE MODERN HIAWATHA

He killed the n.o.ble Mudjokivis.

Of the skin he made him mittens, Made them with the fur side inside, Made them with the skin side outside.

He, to get the warm side inside, Put the inside skin side outside; He, to get the cold side outside, Put the warm side fur side inside.

That's why he put the fur side inside, Why he put the skin side outside, Why he turned them inside outside.

_Anonymous_.

ON THE ROAD

Said Folly to Wisdom, "Pray, where are we going?"

Said Wisdom to Folly, "There's no way of knowing."

Said Folly to Wisdom, "Then what shall we do?"

Said Wisdom to Folly, "I thought to ask you."

_Tudor Jenks_.

UNCLE SIMON AND UNCLE JIM

Uncle Simon he Clum up a tree To see what he could see When presentlee Uncle Jim Clum up beside of him And squatted down by he.

_Artemus Ward_.

POOR DEAR GRANDPAPA

What is the matter with Grandpapa?

What can the matter be?

He's broken his leg in trying to spell Tommy without a T.