Lines in Pleasant Places Rhythmics of many moods and quantities. Wise and otherwise |
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ON A BUTCHER'S LETTER.
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 | Lines in Pleasant Places |  |
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ON A BUTCHER'S LETTER.
[_]
An admirer of Tennyson, who has done considerable in the tender-line business with a butcher, received a letter, that was couched in rather bilious language, enclosing a bill from him; whereupon the feeder sat down and wrote the following in reply, which those who are familiar with the laureate's “Spiteful Letter” will appreciate:—
Here, it is here—the close of the year,
And with it a butcher's letter.
My appetite strong has done him wrong,
For himself he should have done better.
And with it a butcher's letter.
My appetite strong has done him wrong,
For himself he should have done better.
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O foolish chap, you aren't up to trap,
When men forget to pay you.
I think you're an ass,—'twixt you and me,—
I hear the town bewray you.
When men forget to pay you.
I think you're an ass,—'twixt you and me,—
I hear the town bewray you.
This written leaf, is it all for beef?
My stomach ne'er was stronger.
You hate me not, but stopped my scot,
And wouldn't trust me longer.
My stomach ne'er was stronger.
You hate me not, but stopped my scot,
And wouldn't trust me longer.
O written leaf, where's all the beef?
What room is here for question?
Yet the blotted leaf mocks the unwritten leaf,
And brags of good digestion.
What room is here for question?
Yet the blotted leaf mocks the unwritten leaf,
And brags of good digestion.
Bigger than I—isn't that your cry?
You'll make my optics see it!
Well, go it so—if so you know,
And when it's so, so be it.
You'll make my optics see it!
Well, go it so—if so you know,
And when it's so, so be it.
O blotted leaf, isn't life a thief?
But I shall still be jolly.
And my heart and my palate shall turn elsewhere:
I cut you and your folly.
But I shall still be jolly.
And my heart and my palate shall turn elsewhere:
I cut you and your folly.
On a Spiteful Letter.
Here, it is here—the close of the year,
And with it a spiteful letter.
My fame in song has done him much wrong,
For himself has done much better.
And with it a spiteful letter.
My fame in song has done him much wrong,
For himself has done much better.
O foolish bard, is your lot so hard,
If men neglect your pages?
I think not much of yours or of mine:
I hear the roll of the ages.
If men neglect your pages?
I think not much of yours or of mine:
I hear the roll of the ages.
This fallen leaf, isn't fame as brief?
My rhymes may have been the stronger.
Yet hate me not, but abide your lot:
I last but a moment longer.
My rhymes may have been the stronger.
Yet hate me not, but abide your lot:
I last but a moment longer.
O faded leaf, isn't fame as brief?
What room is here for a hater?
Yet the yellow leaf hates the greener leaf,
For it hangs one moment later.
What room is here for a hater?
Yet the yellow leaf hates the greener leaf,
For it hangs one moment later.
Greater than I,—isn't that your cry?—
And I shall live to see it.
Well, if it be so, so it is, you know;
And if it be so—so be it!
And I shall live to see it.
Well, if it be so, so it is, you know;
And if it be so—so be it!
O summer leaf, isn't life as brief?
But this is the time of hollies.
And my heart, my heart is an evergreen:
I hate the spites and the follies.
But this is the time of hollies.
And my heart, my heart is an evergreen:
I hate the spites and the follies.
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