THE STIRRUP CUP

  Come, drink a stirrup cup with me,
    Before we close our rouse. 
  You ’re all aglow with wine, I know: 
    The master of the house,
    Unmindful of our revelry,
    Has drowned the carking devil care,
      And slumbers in his chair.

  Come, drink a cup before we start;
    We ’ve far to ride to-night. 
  And Death may take the race we make,
    And check our gallant flight: 
    But even he must play his part,
    And tho’ the look he wears be grim,
    We ’ll drink a toast to him!

  For Death,—­a swift old chap is he,
    And swift the steed He rides. 
  He needs no chart o’er main or mart,
    For no direction bides. 
    So, come, a final, cup with me,
    And let the soldiers’ chorus swell,—­
    To hell with care, to hell!

A CHOICE

  They please me not—­these solemn songs
  That hint of sermons covered up. 
  ’Tis true the world should heed its wrongs,
    But in a poem let me sup,
  Not simples brewed to cure or ease
  Humanity’s confessed disease,
  But the spirit-wine of a singing line,
    Or a dew-drop in a honey cup!

HUMOUR AND DIALECT

THEN AND NOW

THEN

  He loved her, and through many years,
  Had paid his fair devoted court,
  Until she wearied, and with sneers
  Turned all his ardent love to sport.

  That night within his chamber lone,
  He long sat writing by his bed
  A note in which his heart made moan
  For love; the morning found him dead.

NOW

  Like him, a man of later day
  Was jilted by the maid he sought,
  And from her presence turned away,
  Consumed by burning, bitter thought.

  He sought his room to write—­a curse
  Like him before and die, I ween. 
  Ah no, he put his woes in verse,
  And sold them to a magazine.

AT CHESHIRE CHEESE

  When first of wise old Johnson taught,
  My youthful mind its homage brought,
  And made the pond’rous crusty sage
  The object of a noble rage.

  Nor did I think (How dense we are!)
  That any day, however far,
  Would find me holding, unrepelled,
  The place that Doctor Johnson held!

  But change has come and time has moved,
  And now, applauded, unreproved,
  I hold, with pardonable pride,
  The place that Johnson occupied.

  Conceit!  Presumption!  What is this? 
  You surely read my words amiss;
  Like Johnson I,—­a man of mind! 
  How could you ever be so blind?

  No.  At the ancient “Cheshire Cheese,”
  Blown hither by some vagrant breeze,
  To dignify my shallow wit,
  In Doctor Johnson’s seat I sit!