Book Borrower
I am a mild man, you’ll agree, But red my rage is, When folks who borrow books from me Turn down their pages. Or when a chap a book I lend, And find he’s
Lip-Stick Liz
Oh Lip-Stick Liz was in the biz, That’s the oldest known in history; She had a lot of fancy rags, Of her form she made no myst’ry. She had a man, a fancy man,
Pantheist
Lolling on a bank of thyme Drunk with Spring I made this rhyme. . . . Though peoples perish in defeat, And races suffer to survive, The sunshine never was so sweet, So vast
MACTAVISH
I do not write for love of pelf, Nor lust for phantom fame; I do not rhyme to please myself, Nor yet to win acclaim: No, strange to say it is my plan, What
Bastard
The very skies wee black with shame, As near my moment drew; The very hour before you cam I felt I hated you. But now I see how fair you are, How divine your
Apollo Belvedere
A-sitttin’ on a cracker box an’ spittin’ in the stove, I took a sudden notion that I’d kindo’ like to rove; An’ so I bought a ticket, jest as easy as could be, From
Little Puddleton
I Let others sing of Empire and of pomp beyond the sea, A song of Little Puddleton is good enough for me, A song of kindly living, and of coming home to tea. I
Clemenceau
His frown brought terror to his foes, But now in twilight of his days The pure perfection of a rose Can kindle rapture in his gaze. Where once he swung the sword of wrath
A Year Ago
I’m sitting by the fire tonight, The cat purrs on the rug; The room’s abrim with rosy light, Suavely soft and snug; And safe and warm from dark and storm It’s cosiness I hug.
Externalism
The Greatest Writer of to-day (With Maupassant I almost set him) Said to me in a weary way, The last occasion that I met him: “Old chap, this world is more and more Becoming
Flies
I never kill a fly because I think that what we have of laws To regulate and civilize Our daily life – we owe to flies. Apropos, I’ll tell you of Choo, the spouse
Old Crony
Said she: ‘Although my husband Jim Is with his home content, I never should have married him, We are so different. Oh yes, I know he loves me well, Our children he adores; But
Retired Shopman
He had the grocer’s counter-stoop, That little man so grey and neat; His moustache had a doleful droop, He hailed me in the slushy street. “I’ve sold my shop,” he said to me, Cupping
My Hour
Day after day behold me plying My pen within an office drear; The dullest dog, till homeward hieing, Then lo! I reign a king of cheer. A throne have I of padded leather, A
My Will
I’ve made my Will. I don’t believe In luxury and wealth; And to those loving ones who grieve My age and frailing health I give the meed to soothe their ways That they may