Works

There was an old person of Stroud,
Who was horribly jammed in a crowd;
Some she slew with a kick,
Some she scrunched with a stick,
That impulsive old person of Stroud.

There was an old man of Boulak,
Who sate on a Crocodile's back;
But they said, "Towr'ds the night
He may probably bite,
Which might vex you, old man of Boulak!"

There was an old person of Skye,
Who waltz'd with a Bluebottle fly:
They buzz'd a sweet tune,
To the light of the moon,
And entranced all the people of Skye.

There was an old person of Bree,
Who frequented the depths of the sea;
She nurs'd the small fishes,
And washed all the dishes,
And swam back again into Bree.

There was an old man of Blackheath,
Whose head was adorned with a wreath
Of lobsters and spice,
Pickled onions and mice,
That uncommon old man of Blackheath.

There was an old man, who when little
Fell casually into a kettle;
But, growing too stout,
He could never get out,
So he passed all his life in that kettle.

There was an old person of Dundalk,
Who tried to teach fishes to walk;
When they tumbled down dead,
He grew weary, and said,
"I had better go back to Dundalk!"

There was an old person of Shoreham,
Whose habits were marked by decorum;
He bought an Umbrella,
And sate in the cellar,
Which pleased all the people of Shoreham.

There was an old person of Bar,
Who passed all her life in a jar,
Which she painted pea-green,
To appear more serene,
That placid old person of Bar.

There was a young person of Kew,
Whose virtues and vices were few;
But with blamable haste
She devoured some hot paste,
Which destroyed that young person of Kew.

There was an old person of Jodd,
Whose ways were perplexing and odd;
She purchased a whistle,
And sate on a thistle,
And squeaked to the people of Jodd.

There was an old person of Bude,
Whose deportment was vicious and crude;
He wore a large ruff
Of pale straw-colored stuff,
Which perplexed all the people of Bude.

There was an old person of Brigg,
Who purchased no end of a wig;
So that only his nose,
And the end of his toes,
Could be seen when he walked about Brigg.

There was an old man of Messina,
Whose daughter was named Opsibeena;
She wore a small wig,
And rode out on a pig,
To the perfect delight of Messina.

FROM "THE TRIUMPH OF MUSIC."


... Fresh from bathing in orient fountains,
In wells of rock water and snow,
Comes the Dawn with her pearl-brimming fingers...

("Mes soeurs, l'onde est plus fraiche.")

[TO THE FLORAL GAMES, Toulouse, Feb. 10, 1820.]


"Sisters! the wave is freshest in the ray
Of the young morning; the reapers are asleep;...

Beautiful mother is busy all day,
So busy she neither can sing nor say;
But lovely thoughts, in a ceaseless flow,
Through her eyes, and her ears, and her bosom go--
Motion, sight, and sound, and scent,...

Nature, the gentlest mother,
Impatient of no child,
The feeblest or the waywardest, --
Her admonition mild

In forest and the hill
By traveller is heard,
Restraining rampant squirrel...

"Give me a son, grant me an heir!"
The fairies granted her the prayer.
And to the partial parent's eyes
Was never child so fair and wise;
Waked to the morning's pleasing joy,...

(with apologies to Frederic Taber Cooper)

I well recall (and who does not)
The circus bill-board hippopotamus,
whose wide distended jaws
For fear and terror were good cause.
...