The Shorter Catechism
I burned my fingers on the stove And wept with bitterness; But poor old Auntie Maggie strove To comfort my distress. Said she: ‘Think, lassie, how you’ll burn Like any wicked besom In fires
The Palace
Grimy men with picks and shovels Who in darkness sweat unseen, Climb from out your lousy hovels, Build a palace for the Queen; Praise the powers that be for giving You a chance to
Patches
Mother focused with a frown The part of me where I sit down. Said she: “Your pants are wearing through; Let me sew on a patch for you.” And so she did, of azure
Our Daily Bread
“Give me my daily bread. It seems so odd, When all is done and said, This plea to God. To pray for cake might be The thing to do; But bread, it seems to
Jaloppy Joy
Past ash cans and alley cats, Fetid. overflowing gutters, Leprous lines of rancid flats Where the frowsy linen flutters; With a rattle and a jar, Hark! I sing a happy ditty, As I speed
The Locket
From out her shabby rain-coat pocket The little Jew girl in the train Produced a dinted silver locket With pasted in it portraits twain. “These are my parents, sir” she said; “Or were, for
Humility
My virtues in Carara stone Cut carefully you all my scan; Beneath I lie, a fetid bone, The marble worth more than the man. If on my pure tomb they should grave My vices,
Euthansia
A sea-gull with a broken wing, I found upon the kelp-strewn shore. It sprawled and gasped; I sighed: “Poor thing! I fear your flying days are o’er; Sad victim of a savage gun, So
The Twa Jocks
Says Bauldy MacGreegor frae Gleska tae Hecky MacCrimmon frae Skye: “That’s whit I hate maist aboot fechtin’ it makes ye sae deevilish dry; Noo jist hae a keek at yon ferm-hoose them Gairmans are
The Odyssey Of 'Erbert 'Iggins
Me and Ed and a stretcher Out on the nootral ground. (If there’s one dead corpse, I’ll betcher There’s a ‘undred smellin’ around.) Me and Eddie O’Brian, Both of the R. A. M. C.
Good-Bye, Little Cabin
O dear little cabin, I’ve loved you so long, And now I must bid you good-bye! I’ve filled you with laughter, I’ve thrilled you with song, And sometimes I’ve wished I could cry. Your
Evenfall
When day is done I steal away To fold my hands in rest, And of my hours this moment grey I love the best; So quietly I sit alone And wait for evenfall, When
The Hat
In city shop a hat I saw That to my fancy seemed to strike, I gave my wage to buy the straw, And make myself a one the like. I wore it to the
Jim
Never knew Jim, did you? Our boy Jim? Bless you, there was the likely lad; Supple and straight and long of limb, Clean as a whistle, and just as glad. Always laughing, wasn’t he,
At The Parade
I cannot flap a flag Or beat a drum; Behind the mob I lag With larynx dumb; Alas! I fear I’m not A Patriot. With acrid eyes I see The soul of things; And