University of Virginia Library

Search this document 
A little book of tribune verse

A number of hitherto uncollected poems, grave and gay

collapse section
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
collapse section
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
A NEW YEAR IDYL.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
collapse section
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
collapse section
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 


141

A NEW YEAR IDYL.

Upon this happy New Year night,
A roach crawls up my pot of paste,
And begs me for a tiny taste.
Aye, eat thy fill, for it is right
That while the rest of earth is glad,
And bells are ringing wild and free,
Thou shouldst not, gentle roachling, be
Forlorn and gaunt and weak and sad.
This paste tonight especially
For thee and all thy kind I fixed,
You'll find some whisky in it mixed,
For which you have to thank but me.
So freely of the banquet take,
And if you chance to find a drop
Of liquor, prithee do not stop
But quaff it for thy stomach's sake.
Why dost thou stand upon thy head,
All etiquette requirements scorning,
And sing “You won't go home till morning”
And “Put me in my little Bed?”

142

Your tongue, fair roach, is very thick,
Your eyes are red, your cheeks are pale,
Your underpinning seems to fail,
You are, I wot, full as a tick.
Envoi.
I think I see that roach's home,
That roach's wife, with broom in hand,
That roach come staggering homeward and
Then all is glum and gloom and gloam.
January 2d, 1882.