Poor Peter
Blind Peter Piper used to play All up and down the city; I’d often meet him on my way, And throw a coin for pity. But all amid his sparkling tones His ear was
Someone's Mother
Someone’s Mother trails the street Wrapt in rotted rags; Broken slippers on her feet Drearily she drags; Drifting in the bitter night, Gnawing gutter bread, With a face of tallow white, Listless as the
Tea On The Lawn
It was foretold by sybils three That in an air crash he would die. “I’ll fool their prophesy,” said he; “You won’t get me to go on high. Howe’re the need for haste and
Breton Wife
A Wintertide we had been wed When Jan went off to sea; And now the laurel rose is red And I wait on the quay. His berthing boat I watch with dread, For where,
Madam La Maquise
Said Hongray de la Glaciere unto his proud Papa: “I want to take a wife mon Père,” The Marquis laughed: “Ha! Ha! And whose, my son?” he slyly said; but Hongray with a frown
Five-Per-Cent
Because I have ten thousand pounds I sit upon my stern, And leave my living tranquilly for other folks to earn. For in some procreative way that isn’t very clear, Ten thousand pounds will
My Calendar
From off my calendar today A leaf I tear; So swiftly passes smiling May Without a care. And now the gentleness of June Will fleetly fly And I will greet the glamour moon Of
The Duel
In Pat Mahoney’s booze bazaar the fun was fast and free, And Ragtime Billy spanked the baby grand; While caroling a saucy song was Montreal Maree, With sozzled sourdoughs giving her a hand. When
Was It You?
“Hullo, young Jones! with your tie so gay And your pen behind your ear; Will you mark my cheque in the usual way? For I’m overdrawn, I fear.” Then you look at me in
Fear
I know how father’s strap would feel, If ever I were caught, So mother’s jam I did not steal, Though theft was in my thought. Then turned fourteen and full of pitch, Of love
Fallen Leaves
Why should I be the first to fall Of all the leaves on this old tree? Though sadly soon I know that all Will lose their hold and follow me. While my birth-brothers bravely
My Garden
The world is sadly sick, they say, And plagued by woe and pain. But look! How looms my garden gay, With blooms in golden reign! With lyric music in the air, Of joy fulfilled
Unholy Trinity
Though Virtue hurt you Vice is nice; Aye, Parson says it’s wrong, Yet for my pleasing I’ll suffice With Women, Wine and Song. But though it be with jocund glee My tavern voice is
The Revelation
The same old sprint in the morning, boys, to the same old din and smut; Chained all day to the same old desk, down in the same old rut; Posting the same old greasy
Stamp Collector
My worldly wealth I hoard in albums three, My life collection of rare postage stamps; My room is cold and bare as you can see, My coat is old and shabby as a tramp’s;