And underneath a dreesome moon POSTSCRIPT Then blame me not, altho' my verse Sounds like an echo of C. S. C. Since still they make ballads that worse and worse Savor of diddle and hey-de-dee. Unknown. A MAUDLE-IN BALLAD TO HIS LILY My lank limp lily, my long lithe lily, My languid lily-love fragile and thin, With dank leaves dangling and flower-flap chilly, To my own wan soul and my own wan chin, My long lithe lily, my languid lily, How shall I sing to thee, softly or shrilly? What shall I weave for thee-what shall I spin- Shall I buzz like a bee with my face thrust in Gillian My languid lily, my lank limp lily, 511 What care I while you smile? Not a pin! I have watered with chlorodine, tears of chagrin, In a rough red flower-pot, sweeter than sin, Unknown. GILLIAN JACK and Jille I have made me an end of the moods of maidens, Went up a hylle Where the strong fell faints in the lazy levels We left the levels, we left the river, And turned us and toiled to the air above. To fetch a paile of water, By the sad sweet springs that have salved our sorrow, morrow The wells of Lethe for wearied lips. Jack felle downe The low light trembled on languid lashes, As night's dim net on the day was thrown. And brake his crowne, and Jille came tumblynge after. While the blood burns bright on our bruised brows, Unknown. EXTRACTS FROM THE RUBAIYAT OF WAKE! for the Hack can scatter into flight The Penny-a-Liner is Abroad, and strikes Before Historical Romances died, Methought a Voice from Art's Olympus cried, "When all Dumas and Scott is still for Sale, Why nod o'er drowsy Tales, by Tyros tried?" Extracts from Rubaiyat of Omar Cayenne 513 A Book of Limericks-Nonsense, anyhow Alice in Wonderland, the Purple Cow Beside me singing on Fifth AvenueAh, this were Modern Literature enow! Ah, my Beloved, write the Book that clears To-morrow!-Why, To-Morrow I may see And we, that now within the Editor's Room Ourselves must we give way to next month's Set- As then the Poet for his morning Sup Fills with a Metaphor his mental Cup, Do you devoutly read your Manuscripts That Someone may, before you burn them up! And if the Bosh you write, the Trash you read, Think that you are no worse than other Scribes, So, when WHO's-WHO records your silly Name, You'll fancy you're a Genius, just the Same! Why, if an Author can fling Art aside, And in a Book of Balderdash take pride, Were't not a Shame-were't not a Shame for him A Conscientious Novel to have tried? And fear not, if the Editor refuse Your work, he has no more from which to choose; Millions of Manuscripts too bad to use. The Woman's Touch runs through our Magazines; Of Love-and-Action, Happy at the End- But if, in spite of this, you build a Plot You gaze To-DAY upon a Slip, which reads, "The Editor Regrets "—and such-like Rot. Waste not your Ink, and don't attempt to use Better be jocund at two cents a word, Strange is it not?-that of the Authors who Make a Success, though here they score a Hit? The Scribe no question makes of Verse or Prose, And he who buys three thousand words of Drool, Would but some wingèd Angel bring the News And make the stern Reviewer do as well Ah, Love, could you and I perchance succeed Gelett Burgess. |