Volume 100 — NOTES FROM A NURSERY-GARDEN.
Reading edition
(By an Awfully Clever Child.)
DEAR MR. PUNCH,—I am a Poetess. I am told that the Age is old, and that Poetry is over. My age is ten, and my poetry is certainly not over. My nurse (one of those horrid critics) has ventured to suggest that I am not original. I leave you to judge. Yours impatiently, ENFANT TERRIBLE.
N.W.
Alack! up Northern Primrose Hill (Sing, oh, JACK! sing, ah, GILL!) They climbed, and deemed it Helicon, Those childish bards, GILLETTE and JOHN, Their pails with Hippocrene to fill. (Sing, oh, JACK! sing, ah, GILL!) Adown that Western Hill, alack! (Sing, ah, GILL! sing, oh, JACK!) Or e'er they gained the Muses' well, JACK kicked his bucket frail and, fell. And GILL was brought upon her back. (Sing, ah, GILL! sing, oh, JACK!)
TO A SCENTY PEDE.
How doth yonder miniature featness, Though wingless, with gossamer wit, Foregather mellifluent sweetness, While Fates unrelenting permit— Wise heir of bright hours, completeness Of blossoms that flicker and flit.
ON A JAPANESE SCREEN.
In Yeddo, where long lilies weep, Bo' Peep The shepherdess hath lost her sheep. She recks not where the sheep have strayed, Poor maid, Beneath the Boodha-Temple's shade. Her solace is the Minstrel's: I'd Let slide My flocks of verse without a guide. So will they best return without A doubt— Or tale that mortal can make out.
MISS MUFFET.
So sweet! Child-Innocence, with upward-curling feet On buffet-seat, Resolving (as we all resolve) to eat. So sad! The ravening Spider from his eyrie mad Swoops, boldly bad, And scares (as spiders scare) the Pure and Glad.
ON A KLEPTOMANIAC.
Ah, Violin Cremonian! Ah, Pussy-cat of Ispahan! Moo-cow that dost outmoon the moon! Yes, dainty poodle, laugh away, And mock the pranks poor mortals play Who spoon the dish and dish the spoon!
TO THE QUEEN OF MAYS.
Give me an elfin, frolic MAY, No Queen with hoarse cadenzas, Who pipes a frozen roundelay Of spiteful influenzas. My MAY shall air no voices crude. No chained and chilly dances— With wordless harmonies endued And pirouetting fancies. She'll draw us round no Northern Poles With crowns of mimic roses. That mock our sad sepulchral souls And counterfeit our noses. But white as hawthorn blossom, free As air to shed her pleasures, My mute, melodious MAY shall be The soul of wayward measures. To put it plainly, while the ban Of Spring on us and gales is, I'll bask and smile and worship JEANNE Within the Prince of Wales's.
CONSERVATIVE COMMENT ON A RECENT ELECTION (after Mr. Middlewick).—"Humph! Inferior Dosset!"
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