Complete Poetical Works of a E Housman
Page 13
Yes, I have caught the tiger,
And he was hard to catch.
O tiger, tiger, do not try
To put your tail into my eye,
And do not bite and scratch.
Yes, I have caught the tiger.
O tiger, do not bray!
And what immortal hand or eye
Could frame his fearful symmetry
I should not like to say.
And may I see the tiger?
I should indeed delight
To see so large an animal
Without a voyage to Bengal.
And mind you hold him tight.
Yes, you may see the tiger;
It will amuse you much.
The tiger is, as you will find,
A creature of the feline kind.
And mind you do not touch.
And do you feed the tiger,
And do you keep him clean?
He has a less contented look
Than in the Natural History book,
And seems a trifle lean.
Oh yes, I feed the tiger,
And soon he will be plump;
I give him groundsel fresh and sweet,
And much canary-seed to eat,
And wash him at the pump.
It seems to me the tiger
Has not been lately fed,
Not for a day or two at least;
And that is why the noble beast
Has bitten off your head.
As I was walking slowly
As I was walking slowly
Among the grassy hay,
Oh, there I met an old man
Whose nerves had given way:
His heels were in an ant’s nest,
His head was in a tree,
And his arms went round and round and round,
And he squealed repeatedly.
I waited very kindly
And attended to his wants;
For I put his heels into the tree
And his head among the ants;
I tied his hands with a boot-lace,
And I filled his mouth with hay,
And I said “Good bye; fine morning;
Many happy returns of the day!”
He could not squeal distinctly,
And his arms would not go round;
Yet he did not leave off making
A discontented sound;
I gazed at him a little while
As I walked among the trees,
And I said “When old men’s nerves give way
How hard they are to please!”
Purple William
OR THE LIAR’S DOOM
The hideous hue which William is
Was not originally his:
So long as William told the truth
He was a usual-coloured youth.
He now is purple. One fine day
His tender father chanced to say
“What colour is a whelp, and why?”
“Purple” was William’s false reply.
“Pooh” said his Pa, “You silly elf,
“It’s no more purple than yourself.
“Dismiss the notion from your head.”
“I, too, am purple” William said.
And he was purple. With a yell
His mother off the sofa fell
Exclaiming “William’s purple! Oh!”
William replied “I told you so.”
His parents, who could not support
The pungency of this retort,
Died with a simultaneous groan.
The purple orphan was alone.
The African Lion
To meet a bad lad on the African waste
Is a thing that a lion enjoys;
But he rightly and strongly objects to the taste
Of good and uneatable boys.
When he bites off a piece of a boy of that sort
He spits it right out of his mouth,
And retires with a loud and dissatisfied snort
To the east, or the west, or the south.
So lads of good habits, on coming across
A lion, need feel no alarm,
For they know they are sure to escape with the loss
Of a leg, or a head, or an arm.
Now all day the horned herds
Now all day the horned herds
Dance to the piping of the birds;
Now the bumble-bee is rife,
And other forms of insect life;
The skylark in the sky so blue
Now makes noise enough for two,
And lovers on the grass so green
-
Muse, oh Muse, eschew th’obscene.
Aunts and Nieces
OR TIME AND SPACE
Some nieces won’t, some nieces can’t
Imbibe instruction from an aunt.
Eliza scorned her good Aunt Clare.
Where is Eliza now? Ah, where?
“Avoid, at the approach of dark,
Eliza, the umbrageous park.
During the daytime, lairs and dens
Conceal its direr denizens.
But when that brilliant orb, the Sun,
His useful journey nearly done,
Approaches the horizon’s verge,
They will, my dearest niece, emerge;
And forth the cockatrice will frisk,
And out will bounce the basilisk,
And the astoundingly absurd
Yet dangerous cockyoly-bird
Will knock you, with its baneful beak,
Into the middle of next week.”
“Pooh”, said Eliza, “that it can’t.
Still, if you think so, thank you, Aunt.
Now, after this exhausting talk,
I think that I will take a walk.”
She therefore fetched her parasol,
Her gloves and reticule and all,
And need I specify the spot
Which drew her footsteps? I need not.
“Eliza”, said her aunt, “is late.
Jane, place the crumpets by the grate.
What was that distant crow I heard?
Was it the cockyoly-bird?
I think so. There is goes again.
You may remove the crumpets, Jane.”
Meanwhile Eliza took the air.
(Shall I? - I will not - mention where),
And as the afternoon progressed
She sat upon the grass to rest,
Drew from her reticule a bun,
And bit it in the setting sun.
Soon, with her mouth full, she perceives
Movements and rustlings in the leaves
Which spoil the situation’s charm
And tend to substitute alarm.
She dropped the bun and said “Dear me
I fear I shall be late for tea.”
Then, from behind, a vicious peck
Descended on Eliza’s neck.
Eliza into the azure distance
Followed the line of least resistance.
In the middle of next week
There will be heard a piercing shriek,
And looking pale and weak and thin
Eliza will come flying in.
The Latin author Lucan
The Latin author Lucan,
When bitten by a toucan,
Exclaimed in anguish “O!
That bird must have been frantic
To cross the broad Atlantic
From distant Mexico,
And come to ancient Rome,
And bite me in my home,
And make me cry in anguish
And in the Latin language
O!”
Little Miss Muffet sat on a tuffet
Little Miss Muffet sat on a tuffet
Opening her mouth very wide.
There came a great spider; she opened it wider
And the spider ran down her inside.
Fragment of an English Opera
(Designed as a model for young librettists)
Dramatis personae: —
Mother (contralto)
Father (bass) —
Daughter (soprano)
Scene: a room Time: Evening
Father: — Retire, my daughter;
Prayers have been said;
Take your warm water
And go to bed.
Daughter: — But I had rather
Sit up instead.
Father: — I am your father,
So go to bed.
Daughter: — Are you my father?
Father: — I think so, rather:
You go to bed.
Mother: — My daughter, vanish;
You hear me speak:
This is not Spanish,
Nor is it Greek.
Daughter: — Oh, what a bother!
Would I were dead!
Mother: — I am your mother,
So go to bed.
Daughter: — Are you my mother?
Mother: — You have no other:
You go to bed.
Father: — Take your bed-candle
And take it quick.
This is the handle.
Daughter: — Is this the handle?
Father: — No, that’s the wick.
This is the handle,
At this end here.
Take your bed-candle
And disappear.
Daughter: — Oh dear, oh dear!
Father & Mother: Take your warm water,
As we have said;
You are our daughter,
So go to bed.
Daughter: — Am I your daughter?
Father & Mother: If not, you oughter:
You go to bed.
Daughter: — I am their daughter;
If not, I oughter:
Prayers have been said.
This is my mother;
I have no other:
Would I were dead!
That is my father;
He thinks so, rather:
Oh dear, oh dear!
I take my candle;
This is the handle:
I disappear.
Father & Mother: The coast is clear.
Whit Monday, 1903
How lovely the band and how lovely the banners!
How lovely the kids with their company manners!
How lovely the lovely balloon!
How lovely the cups of the Chinaman’s nectar!
How lovely the lawn and how lovely the rector!
How equally lovely the moon!
How lovely the skips of the skippers a-skipping!
How lovely the slips of the slippers a-slipping!
How lovely, how lovely indeed!
How lovely the strains that my pen is inditing!
’Tis only a trouble to read.
The oyster is found in the ocean
The oyster is found in the ocean
And cucumbers grow on the land;
And the oyster is slightly the moister,
As most people well understand.
And the reason I mentioned this fact was
That oyster and moister will rhyme;
And cucumber, that word exact was
The noun to be brought in this time.
And therefore with joy the most boister’us
I conclude with the prudent remark,
That as to the whiskers of oysters
I am totally all in the dark.
At the door of my own little hovel
At the door of my own little hovel,
Reading a novel I sat;
And as I was reading the novel
A gnat flew away with my hat.
As fast as a fraudulent banker
Away with my hat it fled,
And calmly came to an anchor
In the midst of the cucumber-bed.
I went and purchased a yacht,
And traversed the garden-tank,
And I gave it that insect hot
When I got to the other bank;
Of its life I made an abridgment
By squeezing it somewhat flat,
And I cannot think what that midge meant
By flying away with my hat.
The Bear or The Empty Perambulator or The Pathos of Ignorance
The bear, untameable and wild,
Has eaten up the infant child.
The infant child is not aware
It has been eaten by the bear.
Of old the little Busy Bee
Of old the little Busy Bee
Improved the shining hour,
And gathered honey all the day
From every opening flower.
But now the little Spelling Bee
Has new ideas quite,
Gathers, not honey in the day,
But money in the night.
Oft when the night is chilly
Oft when the night is chilly
And creation is ill at ease,
The piano twangles shrilly
As the cat walks over the keys.
And I lie on my bed complaining,
“There is nothing at all in that,
‘Twould be far more entertaining
If the keys walked over the cat.”
Oft when the night is murky
I lie on my bed and snore,
And the Sultan exclaims in Turkey,
“Are they taking in coals next door?”
They say, “May your shadow be glorious,
O Commander of faithful souls!
’Tis a poet of Queen Victoria’s
Who is snoring - not taking in coals.”
Inhuman Henry
OR CRUELTY TO FABULOUS ANIMALS
Oh would you know why Henry sleeps,
And why his mournful Mother weeps,
And why his weeping Mother mourns?
He was unkind to unicorns.
No unicorn, with Henry’s leave,
Could dance upon the lawn at eve,
Or gore the gardener’s boy in spring,
Or do the very slightest thing.
No unicorn could safely roar,
And dash its nose against the door,
Nor sit in peace upon the mat
To eat the dog, or drink the cat.
Henry would never in the least
Encourage the heraldic beast:
If there were unicorns about
He went and let the lion out.
The lion, leaping from its chain
And glaring through its tangled mane,
Would stand on end and bark and bound
And bite what unicorns it found.
And when the lion bit a lot
Was Henry sorry? He was not.
What did his jumps betoken? Joy.
He was a bloody-minded boy.
The Unicorn is not a Goose
The Unicorn is not a Goose
And when they saw the lion loose
They grew increasingly aware
That they had better not be there.
And oh, the unicorn is fleet
And spurns the earth with all its feet,
The lion had to snap and snatch
At tips of tails it could not catch.
Returning home in temper bad,
It met the sanguinary lad,
And clasping Henry with its claws
It took his legs between its jaws.
“Down, lion, down!” said Henry, “cease
My legs immediately release.”
His formidable feline pet
Made no reply, but only ate.
The last words that were ever said
By Henry’s disappearing head,
In accents of indignant scorn,
Were “I am not a unicorn”.
And now you know why Henry sleeps,
And why his Mother mourns and weeps,
And why she also weeps and mourns;
So now be kind to unicorns.
Fragment of a Greek Tragedy
Alcmaeon. Chorus.
Cho. O suita
bly attired in leather boots
Head of a traveller, wherefore seeking whom
Whence by what way how purposed art thou come
To this well-nightingaled vicinity?
My object in inquiring is to know.
But if you happen to be deaf and dumb
And do not understand a word I say,
Nod with your hand to signify as much.
Alc. I journeyed hither a Boeotian road.
Cho. Sailing on horseback or with feet for oars?
Alc. Plying by turns my partnership of legs.
Cho. Beneath a shining or a rainy Zeus?
Alc. Mud’s sister, not himself, adorns my shoes.
Cho. To learn your name would not displease me
much.
Alc. Not all that men desire do they obtain.
Cho. Might I then hear at what your presence shoots?
Alc. A shepherd’s questioned mouth informed me
that -
Cho. What? for I know not yet what you will say.
Alc. Nor will you ever, if you interrupt.
Cho. What? for I know not yet what you will say.
Alc. - This house was Eriphyla’s, no one’s else.
Cho. Nor did he shame his throat with hateful lies.