| |
by
Ellis Parker Butler
Observe, my child, this pretty scene,
And note the air of pleasure keen
With which the widow’s orphan boy
Toots his tin horn, his only toy.
What need of costly gifts has he?
The widow has nowhere to flee.
And ample noise his horn emits
To drive the widow into fits.
MORAL:
The philosophic mind can see
The uses of adversity.
|
|
by
Ellis Parker Butler
Little cullud Rastus come a-skippin’ down de street,
A-smilin’ and a-grinnin’ at every one he meet;
My, oh! He was happy! Boy, but was he gay!
Wishin’ “Merry Chris’mus” an’ “Happy New-Year’s Day”!
Wishin’ that his wishes might every one come true—
And—bless your dear heart, honey,—I wish the same to you!
|
|
by
Ellis Parker Butler
And now behold this sulking boy,
His costly presents bring no joy;
Harsh tears of anger fill his eye
Tho’ he has all that wealth can buy.
What profits it that he employs
His many gifts to make a noise?
His playroom is so placed that he
Can cause his folks no agony.
MORAL:
Mere worldly wealth does not possess
The power of giving happiness.
|
|
by
Ellis Parker Butler
When young, in tones quite positive
I said, "The world shall see
That I can keep myself from sin;
A good man I will be.
"
But when I loved Miss Kate St.
Clair
'Twas thus my musing ran:
"I cannot be compared with her;
I'll be a better man.
"
'Twas at the wedding of a friend
(He married Kate St.
Clair)
That I became superlative,
For I was "best man" there.
|
|
by
Ellis Parker Butler
The forest holds high carnival to-day,
And every hill-side glows with gold and fire;
Ivy and sumac dress in colors gay,
And oak and maple mask in bright attire.
The hoarded wealth of sober autumn days
In lavish mood for motley garb is spent,
And nature for the while at folly plays,
Knowing the morrow brings a snowy Lent.
|
|
by
Ellis Parker Butler
Love took chambers on our street
Opposite to mine;
On his door he tacked a neat,
Clearly lettered sign.
Straightway grew his custom great,
For his sign read so:
“Hearts united while you wait.
Step in.
Love and Co.
”
Much I wondered who was “Co.
”
In Love’s partnership;
Thought across the street I’d go—
Learn from Love’s own lip.
So I went; and since that day
Life is hard for me.
I was buncoed! (By the way,
“Co.
” is Jealousy.
)
|
|
by
Ellis Parker Butler
I bowed my head in anguish sore
When Life made Death his bride;
“Soul, we are lost forever more!”
Unto my soul I cried.
“Nay, waste in wailing not thy breath,”
My soul replied to me,
“Behold! The child of Life and Death
Is Immortality!”
|
|
by
Ellis Parker Butler
Oh! Montmorency Vere de Vere,
To think that one I held so dear
Should use a base deceiver’s art
To trifle with my loving heart.
A brand new ten-cent valentine
With lace and hearts and verses fine,
I sent to show my love for thee
And in return you send to me
The one I sent to you last year,
Oh! Montmorency Vere de Vere.
|
|
by
Ellis Parker Butler
Well, then! How’d you like to bear the name of Butler
As an honor badge eight centuries at least,
And then have the Prohibitionists inform you
That a butler is a sort of outlawed beast?
|
|
by
Ellis Parker Butler
A glint of her hair or a flash of her shoulder —
That is the most I can boast to have seen,
Then all is lost as the shadows enfold her,
Forest glades making a screen of their green,
Could I cast off all the cares of tomorrow— Could I forget all the fret of today
Then, my heart free from the burdens I borrow,
Nature’s chaste spirit her face would display.
|
|
by
Ellis Parker Butler
Mary had a little frog
And it was water-soaked,
But Mary did not keep it long
Because, of course, it croaked!
|
|
by
Ellis Parker Butler
A full-fledged gun cannot endure
The trifling of an amateur;
Poor marksmanship its temper spoils
And this is why the gun recoils.
A self-respecting gun I’m sure
Delights to jar the amateur
And thinks that it is no disgrace
To kick his shoulder out of place.
Moral
When you go out to hunt, my son
Prepare to circumvent your gun
And on your shoulder firmly bind
A pillow of the largest kind.
|
|
by
Ellis Parker Butler
They hide in the brook when I seek to draw nearer,
Laughing amain when I feign to depart;
Often I hear them, now faint and now clearer—
Innocent bold or so sweetly discreet.
Are they Nymphs of the Stream at their playing
Or but the brook I mistook for a voice?
Little care I; for, despite harsh Time’s flaying,
Brook voice or Nymph voice still makes me rejoice.
|
|
by
Ellis Parker Butler
Whene’er I feed the barnyard folk
My gentle soul is vexed;
My sensibilities are torn
And I am sore perplexed.
The rooster so politely stands
While waiting for his food,
But when I feed him, what a change!
He then is rough and rude.
He crowds his gentle wives aside
Or pecks them on the head;
Sometimes I think it would be best
If he were never fed.
And so I often stand for hours
Deciding which is right—
To impolitely have enough,
Or starve and be polite.
|
|
by
Ellis Parker Butler
I hold her letter as I stand,
Nor break the seal; no need to guess
What dainty little female hand
Penned this most delicate address.
The scented seal—I break it not,
But stand in stormy revery;
I tremble as I wonder what
She who penned this will say to me.
I wonder what my wife will say
If so it be she e’er shall know
I only mailed her note today—
It should have gone two weeks ago!
|
|
by
Ellis Parker Butler
O wonderful! In sport we climbed the tree,
Eager and laughing, as in all our play,
To see the eggs where, in the nest, they lay,
But silent fell before the mystery.
For, one brief moment there, we understood
By sudden sympathy too fine for words
That we were sisters to the brooding birds
And part, with them, in God’s great motherhood.
|
|
by
Ellis Parker Butler
A Scotchman whose name was Isbister
Had a maiden giraffe he called “sister”
When she said “Oh, be mine,
Be my sweet Valentine!”
He just shinned up her long neck and kissed her.
|
|
by
Ellis Parker Butler
When I taught Ida how to ride a
Bicycle that night,
I ran beside her, just to guide her
Erring wheel aright;
And many times there in the street
She rode upon my weary feet.
But now can Ida mount and ride a
Wheel with graceful ease,
And I, untiring in admiring,
Fall upon my knees
To worship her,—and, for her part,
She rides upon my proffered heart!
|
|
by
Ellis Parker Butler
One year ago I wished that I
A banker great might be
With a hundred million dollars
And financial majesty;
A mighty Wall Street banker
With a whopping lot of power
And an income of somewhere around
A thousand plunks per hour;
A solid Wall Street banker
With securities in sacks
And with clever men to show me
How to pay no income tax;
A wealthy Wall Street banker
Who raked in cash like hay;
I wished that just a year ago—
And I wish the same today.
|
|
by
Ellis Parker Butler
I know something wonderful—wonderful;
So strange it will quite startle you;
So strange and absurd and unusual
It seems it can hardly be true!
I know something wonderful—wonderful;
You’ll hardly believe it can be—
You know my appendix? Well, honest,
I’ve still got it inside of me!
|
|
by
Ellis Parker Butler
She plucked a blossom fair to see;
Upon my coat I let her pin it;
And thus we stood beneath the tree
A minute.
She turned her smiling face to me;
I saw a roguish sweetness in it;
I kissed her once;—it took, maybe,
A minute.
The time was paltry, you’ll agree;
It took but little to begin it;
But since my heart has not been free
A minute.
|
|
by
Ellis Parker Butler
When with me the play she goes,
I much admire the buds and bows
And all that on Kate’s headgear grows.
But when some other night I see
That hat between the stage and me,
My taste and Kate’s do not agree.
|
|
by
Ellis Parker Butler
So great my debt to thee, I know my life
Is all too short to pay the least I owe,
And though I live it all in that sweet strife,
Still shall I be insolvent when I go.
Bid, then, thy Bailiff Cupid come to me
And bind and lead me wheresoe’er thou art,
And let me live in sweet captivity
Within the debtor’s prison of thy heart.
|
|
by
Ellis Parker Butler
I have no heart to write verses to May;
I have no heart—yet I’m cheerful today;
I have no heart—she has won mine away
So—I have no heart to write verses to May.
|
|
by
Ellis Parker Butler
In hand I take this pen of mine
To write you, sweet, a valentine;
I’d take your dainty hand instead,
But—you’re a drawing—I am wed—
And that is why, you understand,
I only take my pen in hand.
|