He lived in Persia, long ago, Upon a somewhat slender pittance; And Persia is, as you may know, The home of Shahs and fubsy kittens, (A quite consistent _habitat_, Since "Shah," of course, is French for "cat.")

He lived--as I was saying, when You interrupted, impolitely-- Not loosely, like his fellow-men, But, _vice versa_, rather tightly; And drank his share, so runs the story, And other people's, _con amore_.

A great Astronomer, no doubt, He often found some Constellation Which others could not see without Profuse internal irrigation; And snakes he saw, and crimson mice, Until his colleagues rang for ice.

Omar, who owned a length of throat As dry as the proverbial "drummer,"

And quite believed that (let me quote) "One swallow does not make a summer,"

Supplied a model to society Of frank, persistent insobriety.

Ah, fill the cup with nectar sweet, Until, when indisposed for more, Your puzzled, inadhesive feet Elude the smooth revolving floor.

What matter doubts, despair or sorrow?

To-day is Yesterday To-morrow!

Oblivion in the bottle win, Let finger-bowls with vodka foam, And seek the Open Port within Some dignified Inebriates' Home; a.s.suming there, with kingly air, A crown of vine-leaves in your hair!

A book of verse (my own, for choice), A slice of cake, some ice-cream soda, A lady with a tuneful voice, Beside me in some dim paG.o.da!

A cellar--if I had the key,-- Would be a Paradise to me!

In cosy seat, with lots to eat, And bottles of Lafitte to fracture (And, by-the-bye, the word La-feet Recalls the mode of manufacture)-- I contemplate, at easy distance, The troublous problems of existence.

For even if it could be mine To change Creation's partial scheme, To mould it to a fresh design, More nearly that of which I dream, Most probably, my weak endeavour Would make more mess of it than ever!

So let us stock our cellar shelves With balm to lubricate the throttle; For "Heav'n helps those who help themselves,"

So help yourself, and pa.s.s the bottle!

What! Would you quarrel with my moral?

(Waiter! Leshavanotherborrel!)

_Andrew Carnegie_

In Caledonia, stern and wild, Whence scholars, statesmen, bards have sprung, Where ev'ry little barefoot child Correctly lisps his mother-tongue, And lingual solecisms betoken That Scotch is drunk, as well as spoken, There dwells a man of iron nerve, A millionaire without a peer, Possessing that supreme reserve Which stamps the caste of Vere de Vere, And marks him out to human ken As one of Nature's n.o.blemen.

Like other self-made persons, he Is surely much to be excused, Since they have had no choice, you see, Of the material to be used; But when his noiseless fabric grew, He builded better than he knew.

A democrat, whose views are frank, To him Success alone is vital; He deems the wealthy cabman's "rank"

As good as any other t.i.tle; To him the post of postman betters The trade of other Men of Letters.

The relative who seeks to wed Some nice but indigent patrician, He urges to select instead A coachman of a.s.sured position, Since safety-matches, you'll agree, Strike only on the box, says he.

At Skibo Castle, by the sea, A splendid palace he has built, Equipped with all the luxury Of plush, of looking-gla.s.s, and gilt; A style which Ruskin much enjoyed, And christened "Early German Lloyd."

With milking-stools and ribbon'd screens The floor is covered, well I know; The walls are thick with tambourines, Hand-painted many years ago; Ah, how much taste our forbears had!

And nearly all of it was bad.

Each flow'r-embroidered boudoir suite, Each "cosy corner" set apart, Was modelled in the Regent Street Emporium of suburban art.

"O Liberty!" (I quote with shame) "The crimes committed in thy name!"

But tho' his mansion now contains A swimming-bath, a barrel-organ, Electric light, and even drains, As good as those of Mr. Morgan, There was a time when Andrew C.

Was not obsessed by l. s. d.

Across the seas he made his pile, In Pittsburg, where, I've understood, You have to exercise some guile To do the very slightest good; But he kept doing good by stealth, And doubtless blushed to find it wealth.

And now his private hobby 'tis To meet a starving people's need By making gifts of libraries To those who never learnt to read; Rich mental banquets he provides For folks with famishing insides.

In Education's hallowed name He pours his opulent libations; His vast deserted Halls of Fame Increase the gaiety of nations.

But still the slums are plague-infested, The hospitals remain congested.

Carnegie, should your kindly eye This foolish book of verses meet, Please order an immense supply, To make your libraries complete, And register its author's name Within your princely Halls of Fame!

_King Cophetua_

To sing of King Cophetua I am indeed unwilling, For none of his adventures are Particularly thrilling; Nor, as I hardly need to mention, Am I addicted to invention.

The story of his roving eye, You must already know it, Since it has been narrated by Lord Tennyson, the poet; I could a moving tale unfold, But it has been so often told.

But since I wish my friends to see My early education, If Tennyson will pardon me A somewhat free translation, I'll try if something can't be sung In someone else's mother-tongue.

"Cophetua and the Beggar Maid!"

So runs the story's t.i.tle (An explanation, I'm afraid, Is absolutely vital), Express'd, as I need hardly mench: In 4 a.m. (or early) French:--

_Les bras poses sur la poitrine Lui fait l'apparence divine,-- Enfin elle a tres bonne mine,-- Elle arrive, ne portant pas De sabots, ni meme de bas, Pieds-nus, au roi Cophetua._

_Le roi lors, couronne sur tete, Vetu de ses robes de fete, Va la rencontrer, et l'arrete.

On dit, "Tiens, il y en a de quoi!"

"Je ferais ca si c'etait moi!"

Il saits s'amuser donc, ce roi!_

_Ainsi qu'la lune brille aux cieux, Cette enfant luit de mieux en mieux, Quand meme ses habits soient vieux.

En voila un qui loue ses yeux, Un autre admire ses cheveux, Et tout le monde est amoureux._

_Car on n'a jamais vu la-bas Un charme tel que celui-la Alors le bon Cophetua Jure, "La pauvre mendiante, Si seduisante, si charmante, Sera ma femme,--ou bien ma tante!"_

_Joseph F. Smith_

Though, to the ordinary mind, The weight of marriage ties is such That many mere, male, mortals find One wife enough,--if not too much; I see no no reason to abuse A person holding other views.

Though most of us, at any rate, Have not acquired the plural habits, Which we are apt to delegate To Eastern potentates,--or rabbits; We should regard with open mind The more uxoriously inclined.