John Godfrey Saxe (1816 – 1887)
American poet.
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But blast the man, with curses loud and deep,
Whate'er the rascal's name, or age, or station,
Who first invented, and went round advising,
That artificial cut-off, — Early Rising!
"God bless the man who first invented sleep!"
So Sancho Panza said, and so say I.
I asked of Echo 't other day
(Whose words are few and often funny),
What to a novice she could say
Of courtship, love, and matrimony.
Quoth Echo, plainly, — "Matter-o'-money."
A youth would marry a maiden,
For fair and fond was she;
But their sires disputed about the Mass,
And so it might not be.
Again I hear the creaking step! —
He's rapping at the door! —
Too well I know the boding sound
That ushers in a bore.
It was six men of Hindustan
To learning much inclined,
Who went to see the Elephant
(Though all of them were blind)
That each by observation
Might satisfy the mind.
He takes the strangest liberties —
But never takes his leave!
Laws, like sausages, cease to inspire respect in proportion as we know how they are made.
INGLORIOUS friend! most confident I am
Thy life is one of very little ease;
Albeit men mock thee with their similes
And prate of being "happy as a clam!"
The Poet's License! — 't is the right,
Within the rule of duty,
To look on all delightful things
Throughout the world of beauty.
A youth would marry a maiden,
For fair and fond was she;
But she was rich, and he was poor,
And so it might not be.
In vain I speak of urgent tasks;
In vain I scowl and pout;
A frown is no extinguisher —
It does not put him out!
'T is wise to learn; 't is God-like to create.
A youth would marry a maiden,
For fair and fond was she;
But he was high and she was low,
And so it might not be.
And so these men of Hindustan
Disputed loud and long,
Each in his own opinion
Exceeding stiff and strong,
Though each was partly in the right
And all were in the wrong.
I'm growing fonder of my staff;
I'm growing dimmer in the eyes;
I'm growing fainter in my laugh;
I'm growing deeper in my sighs;
I'm growing careless of my dress;
I'm growing frugal of my gold;
I'm growing wise; I'm growing — yes, —
I'm growing old!
Bless me! this is pleasant
Riding on the Rail.
Young men! it 's a critical thing to go
Exactly right with a lady in tow;
But when you are in the proper track,
Just go ahead, and never look back!
When Nature gives a gorgeous rose,
Or yields the simplest fern,
She writes this motto on the leaves, —
"To whom it may concern!"
And so it is the poet comes
And revels in her bowers,
And, — though another hold the land,
Is owner of the flowers.
"Once more, my gallant boys!" he cried:
"Three times! — you know the fable, —
(I'll make it thirty," muttered he,
"But I will lay the cable!")
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