Lines to Miss Florence Huntingdon

Sweet maiden of Passamaquoddy

Shall we seek for communion of souls
Where the deep Mississippi meanders
Or the distant Saskatchewan rolls?

Ah, no!

for in Maine I will find thee

A sweetly sequestrated nook,

Where the far-winding Skoodoowabskooksis Conjoins with the Skoodoowabskook.

There wander two beautiful rivers

With many a winding and crook; The one is the Skoodoowabskooksis; The other, the Skoodoowabskook.

Ah, sweetest of haunts! though unmentioned
In geography, atlas, or book,

How fair is the Skoodoowabskooksis
When joining the Skoodoowabskook!

Our cot shall be close by the waters,
Within that sequestrated nook,
Reflected by Skoodoowabskooksis,
And mirrored in Skoodoowabskook.

You shall sleep to the music of leaflets,
By zephyrs in wantonness shook,
To dream of the Skoodoowabskooksis
And, perhaps, of the Skoodoowabskook.

Your food shall be fish from the waters,
Drawn forth on the point of a hook,

From murmuring Skoodoowabskooksis,

Or meandering Skoodoowabskook.

You shall quaff the most sparkling of waters,
Drawn forth from a silvery brook
Which flows to the Skoodowabskooksis,
And so to the Skoodoowabskook.

And you shall preside at the banquet,
And I shall wait on you as cook;

And we'll talk of the Skoodoowabskooksis,
And sing of the Skoodoowabskook.

Let others sing loudly of Saco,

Of Quoddy and Tattamagouche,

Of Kenebeccasis and Quaco,

Of Merigoniche and Buctouche,

Of Nashwaak and Magaguadavique,
Or Memmerimammericook;

There's none like the Skoodoowabskooksis,
Excepting the Skoodoowabskook!

The burden of an ancient rhyme
Is "By the forelock seize on Time."
Time in some corner heard it said;
Pricking his ears, away he fled;
And, seeing me upon the road,
A hearty curse on me bestowed.
"What if I do the same to thee?

How would thou like it?" thundered he,
And without answer thereupon

Seizing my forelock-it was gone.

- Walter Savage Landor.

There flourished once a potentate
Whom History does n't name;
He rose at ten, retired at eight,

And snored unknown to Fame!
A night cap for his crown he wore,
A common cotton thing,

Which Jeanette to his bedside bore,
This jolly little king!

Ho, ho, ho, ho! Ha, ha, ha, ha!

This jolly little king!

With four diurnal banquets he

His appetite allayed,
And on a jackass leisurely

His royal progress made.

No cumbrous state his steps would clog,
Fear to the winds he 'd fling;

His single escort was a dog,

This jolly little king!

Ho, ho, ho, ho! Ha, ha, ha, ha!
This jolly little king!

He owned to only one excess-
He doted on his glass;

But when a king gives happiness,
Why that, you see, will pass!
On every bottle, small or great,
For which he used to ring,
He laid a tax inordinate,
This jolly little king!

Ho, ho, ho, ho! Ha, ha, ha, ha!
This jolly little king!

Such crowds of pretty girls he found
Occasion to admire,

It gave his subjects double ground
For greeting him as Sire!

To shoot for cocoa-nuts he manned

His army every spring,

But all conscription sternly banned
This jolly little king!

Ho, ho, ho, ho! Ha, ha, ha, ha!
This jolly little king!

He eyed no neighboring domain
With envy or with greed,
And, like a pattern sovereign,
Took Pleasure for his creed!
Yet 't was not, if aright I ween,
Until his life took wing,

His subjects saw that he had been

A jolly little king!

Ho, ho, ho, ho! Ha, ha, ha, ha!

This jolly little king!

This worthy monarch, readers mine,

You even may now see

Embellishing a tavern-sign

Well known to you and me.

There, when the fete-day bottle flows,

Their bumpers they will bring,

And toast beneath his very nose

This jolly little king!

Ho, ho, ho, ho! Ha, ha, ha, ha!

This jolly little king!

-William Toynbee, from the French of Béranger.

The Ballade of Prose and Rhyme

When the roads are heavy with mire and rut,

In November fogs, in December snows,

When the North Wind howls, and the doors are shut, There is place and enough for the pains of prose;But whenever a scent from the whitehorn blows, And the jasmine-stars to the casement climb,

And a Rosalind-face at the lattice shows, Then hey! for the ripple of laughing rhyme!

When the brain gets dry as an empty nut,

When the reason stands on its squarest toes, When the mind (like a beard) has a "formal cut,' There is place and enough for the pains of prose;But whenever the May-blood stirs and glows, And the young year draws to the "golden prime,”. And Sir Romeo sticks in his ear a rose,

Then hey! for the ripple of laughing rhyme!

In a theme where the thoughts have a pedant-strut In a changing quarrel of "Ayes" and "Noes,''

In a starched procession of “If” and “But,”

There is place and enough for the pains of prose;-
But whenever a soft glance softer grows,

And the light hours dance to the trysting-time,
And the secret is told "that no one knows,''
Then hey! for the ripple of laughing rhyme!

In the work-a-day world,-for its needs and woes, There is place and enough for the pains of prose; But whenever the May-bells clash and chime! Then hey! for the ripple of laughing rhyme! -Austin Dobson.