The Book of Humorous Verse. Various
Чтение книги онлайн.

Читать онлайн книгу The Book of Humorous Verse - Various страница 35

Название: The Book of Humorous Verse

Автор: Various

Издательство: Bookwire

Жанр: Языкознание

Серия:

isbn: 4057664612601

isbn:

СКАЧАТЬ 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! "Rise with the lark, and with the lark to bed," Observes some solemn, sentimental owl; Maxims like these are very cheaply said; But, ere you make yourself a fool or fowl, Pray just inquire about his rise and fall, And whether larks have any beds at all! The time for honest folks to be a-bed Is in the morning, if I reason right; And he who cannot keep his precious head Upon his pillow till it's fairly light, And so enjoy his forty morning winks, Is up to knavery; or else—he drinks! Thompson, who sung about the "Seasons," said It was a glorious thing to rise in season; But then he said it—lying—in his bed, At ten o'clock A.M.—the very reason He wrote so charmingly. The simple fact is His preaching wasn't sanctioned by his practice. 'Tis, doubtless, well to be sometimes awake— Awake to duty, and awake to truth— But when, alas! a nice review we take Of our best deeds and days, we find, in sooth, The hours that leave the slightest cause to weep Are those we passed in childhood or asleep! 'Tis beautiful to leave the world awhile For the soft visions of the gentle night; And free, at last, from mortal care or guile, To live as only in the angel's sight, In sleep's sweet realm so cosily shut in, Where, at the worst, we only dream of sin! So let us sleep, and give the Maker praise. I like the lad who, when his father thought To clip his morning nap by hackneyed phrase Of vagrant worm by early songster caught, Cried, "Served him right!—it's not at all surprising; The worm was punished, sir, for early rising!" John G. Saxe.

       Table of Contents

       Table of Contents

       Table of Contents

       Table of Contents

My temples throb, my pulses boil, I'm sick of Song and Ode and Ballad— So Thyrsis, take the midnight oil, And pour it on a lobster salad. My brain is dull, my sight is foul, I cannot write a verse, or read— Then Pallas, take away thine Owl, And let us have a Lark instead. Thomas Hood.

       Table of Contents

       Table of Contents