In Other Words

Front matter

IN OTHER WORDS

Copyright, 1906, 1908, by Keppler & Schwarzmann Publishers of “Puck” Copyright, 1910, by Success Magazine Copyright, 1910, by Collier’s Weekly Copyright, 1911, by Century Company Copyright, 1911, 1912, by the Evening Mail Copyright, 1911, 1912, by Metropolitan Magazine

To THE W.-K. HUMAN RACE

Craving Your Attention

Craving Your Attention

Horace: Book I, Ode 32. “Poscimur. Si quid vacui sub umbra—” AD LYRAM

Help me, my lute, if we have ever made Some deathless ode, some song to live forever, A verse to make them say: “Some serenade, Believe me, this her Flaccus guy is clever”— Come, Lesbian lyre, assist me with the verses To bring thee fame, to garner me sesterces.

Stalling his motor-boat close to the shore, Thine erstwhile owner smote the strings to Bacchus And sang to Venus, in the midst of war, Be thou as kind to Mr. Q. H. Flaccus. Dear lute, I beg, implore, invoke thee do it; Give me thine aid, o lute! … Come, let’s go to it.

From the Rome Herald

From the Rome Herald, Nov. 29, 71 A. D.

Martial: Book IX, Epigram 81.

Though for my stuff my readers fall, A poet likes it not at all. But, pshaw! what time I give a feast The cook, perhaps, is pleased the least.

T.R. to W.H.T.

IN OTHER WORDS

T. R. to W. H. T.

“I was a king in Babylon And you were a christian slave.” >>Henley.

Or ever the knightly fight was on, The skirmish of smear and smudge, I was a King in Washington And you were a circuit judge.

I saw, I took, I made you great, Friendly I called you Will, And back in Nineteen Hundred and Eight, Out in Chicago, Ill., I made the convention nominate, And now—the terrible chill.

For many a sun has set and shone On the path we used to trudge When I was a King in Washington And you were a circuit judge.

I passed the lie and you passed it back; You said I was all untruth; I said that honesty was your lack;

You said I’d nor reck nor ruth. You called me megalomaniac— I called you a Serpent’s Tooth.

And now the convention days are gone And the past is full of grudge; Yet—I was a King in Washington, And you were a circuit judge!

The Costofliving

The Costofliving

This is the costofliving—$$

This is the retailer That raises the costofliving.

This is the wholesaler That soaks the retailer That raises the costofliving.

This is the packer That sticks the wholesaler That soaks the retailer That raises the costofliving.

This is the stockman That charges the packer That sticks the wholesaler That soaks the retailer That raises the costofliving.

This is the farmer That stings the stockman That charges the packer That sticks the wholesaler That soaks the retailer That raises the costofliving.

ppoem|start=stanza|end=close|This is the corn upon the farm Whose cost the farmer views with alarm; So he stings the stockman That charges the packer That sticks the wholesaler That soaks the retailer That raises the costofliving.

This is the cow with the crumpled horn, That must be fed on the farmer’s corn— The corn the farmer grows on the farm— The corn whose cost he views with alarm: So he stings the stockman That charges the packer That sticks the wholesaler That soaks the retailers That raises the costofliving.

{smaller} This the consumer all forlorn Who pays for the cow with the crumpled horn— The cow that feeds on the farmer’s corn That grows so fine on the farmer’s farm— The corn whose cost he views with alarm: So he stings the stockman That charges the packer That sticks the wholesaler That soakes the retailer That raises the costofliving.

It's Really Disheartening

It’s Really Disheartening

When Homer smote his you-know-what To sing about M. J. Ulysses, Old Constant Reader said ’twas not The thing to read to youths and misses. And Old Subscriber sent a note Whose words Hellenic I’ve forgotten— Translated, this is what he wrote: “Please can this Homer simp; he’s rotten.”

When Q. Horatius penned a pome And put it in the Sabine Journal, Pro Bono Publico, of Rome, Wrote in: “This column is infernal. If that is humorous, good night! Don’t tell me that you pay him money. Whoever said this boob could write? Whoever told him he was funny?”

And when a column, all in rhyme, In solid agate, signed ‘‘John Milton,” Appeared, some cleped him “Quince” and “Lime,” And said his stuff was very Stilton. When Avon’s bard put on a play Those were who said: “He can’t deliver, This William Shaxpur! Fade away! Good sooth, the fellow is a flivver!”

His path is steep, his lot is hard, Who Rare and Wondrous Lines composes. Alas! to be a famous bard Is not an ostermoor of roses! And if of those great poet-men Some folks would say: “This guy a shine is,” What show have I? for now and then Their stuff was just as good as mine is.

More Advice

More Advice

AD QUINTIUM Horace: Book II, Ode 11. “Quid bellicosus Cantaber et Scythes—”

O Quintius, never mind the things Across the Adriatic; Let Scythian and Cantabrian kings Be never so emphatic, Our board and room and clothes are paid for; Why worry, then, what we were made for?

As I have said a thousand times, (Please pardon my repeating. One has to, writing reams of rhymes.) The longest life is fleeting. (Bromidic and unesoteric— See Longfellow and Robert Herrick.)

The flowers forget the vernal green, The moon has many phases. Why bother, then, the busy bean With the future’s fogs and hazes? Nix on the worry! Us for Bacchus! You, Quintius, and your Uncle Flaccus.

And while we’re waiting for the drinks Here in the grotto shady, There may appear the well-known minx, That lovely Lyde lady, Who fixes up her hair so graceful— Grab it from me, she beats an ace full.

A Bid to a House-Party

A Bid to a House-Party

AD TORQUATUM Horace: Book I, Epistle 5. “Si potes Archiacis conviva recumbere lectis—”

Torquatus, if you can recline On this cheap furniture of mine, If you are of a mind to dare My frugal vegetable fare, If six-year wine may pass your throat— Then come and visit this here pote. My house is clean, though far from sporty; I'll look for you about 5.40.

Some years ago to-morrow morn Was old Augustus Cæsar born. It is a legal holiday And so we needn’t leave the hay Till noon. To-night we'll fool around Discussing light things and profound: Girls, poetry and aviation, And eke the future of the nation.

What use is all my coin to me Without a friend or two or three? The guy who’s cagey with his kale Should beat it quick to Bloomingdale. A little wine’s the proper dope, It makes you talk and sing and hope, Peace it promotes, for who would bicker When plied with wine? Hooray for licker!

The gifted author of this pome Shall tend to everything at home; The dishes will be clean and fine, And how the knives and forks will shine! Three other chaps I shall invite (Five-handed games—are they all right?) Nor care nor woe shall agitate us, Come on, old scout, come on, Torquatus!

What Cut into Horace's Work

What Cut into Horace’s Work

AD MAECENATEM Horace, Epode XIV.

“Mollis inertia cur tantam diffuderit imis Oblivionem sensibus—”

“What is the cause of this tardy inspiring— Too many juleps traversing your throat?” Thus, my Maecenas, your ceaseless inquiring. Chop it, old top, it arouses my goat.

Blame not the stuff that is sacred to Bacchus; Cupid’s the reason that pome isn’t done. He is some deity, flip it from Flaccus, Keeps me from finishing work I’ve begun.

Well, Old Anacreon had the bacillus; Burning affection kept him on the rack. He couldn’t work when he thought of Bathyllus (Read what was written on that by Anack).

As to your Beautiful Lady, Maecenas, Helen herself was no fairer a frail. Phryne the flirt, but consid’able Venus, Keeps me from work for The Evening Mail.

Horace on Contentment

Horace on Contentment

Book II, Ode 18.

“Non ebur neque aureum Mea renidet in domo lacunar—”

Within my modest home nor ivory gleams, Nor in my room a golden ceiling glitters; No pillars mine from Africa’s extremes, No purple spun by lovely lady-knitters. I’m poor but honest, and—you’ll give me credit— Some poet, too. Some poet’s right; you said it.

For further favors I do not implore The gods above nor any human being; My Sabine farm’s enough. I ask no more. I never argue with the fates’ decreeing. Day follows day. I never dared to doubt it. Suppose I did? What could I do about it?

And yet the very marble newly hewn, The very stone you gaze at, eager, merry, That stone may lie above you very soon In Forest Hills, the well-known ceme-tery. And still, instead of charity and penance, You raise the rent and disposses your tenants.

But stay! Despite your wondrous wealth and fame, None is so sure as Plato, so rapacious— You cannot beat, you cannot tie his game; The grave that yawns for rich and poor is spacious. (Translator’s Note: Q. H. was euphemistic. They used to say. I call him socialistic.)

Simplicity

“Simplicity”

AD PUERUM Horace: Book I, Ode 38. “Persicos odi, puer apparatus—”

The Persian pomp and circumstance are things I do not like; I shall not buy a motor-car while I possess a bike; I will not buy a Panama to place upon my head, A simple sennitt bonnet, boy, purchase for me instead.

For such a thatch will do for you as it has done for me— An ordinary straw hat, for a dollar thirty-three. Then to the coolest bar in town for some Milwaukee liquor Where I may watch the ball-game—as it comes over the ticker.

Getting Lydia's Number

Getting Lydia’s Number

AD LYDIAM Horace: Book I, Ode 8. “Lydia, dic, per omnis—”

Lydia, by the gods above, Tell me why, O maid magnetic, You must ruin with your love Him that used to be athletic?

Tell me why, O maid magnetic, Sybaris will not cavort— Him that used to be athletic, Him that used to be a sport?

Sybaris will not cavort On the field or in the river— Him that used to be a sport With the quoit or with the quiver!

On the field or in the river, On the court or on the links, With the quoit or with the quiver— You’re his Jonah, you’re his Jinx!

On the court or on the links Sybaris was once a wonder, You’re his Jonah, you’re his Jinx— Why delight to drag him under?

Sybaris was once a wonder You must ruin with your love. Why delight to drag him under? Lydia, by the gods above!

Spring Pome

Spring Pome

AD SEXTIUM Horace: Book II, Ode 4. “Solvitur acris hiems grata—”

The backbone of winter is shattered to pieces; The breezes are balmy that blow from the west; The farmer his cows from the stable releases; The ploughman gets up from his fireside domest; No more are the meadows all icy and snowy; Come columns on Mathewson, Sweeney and Kling; The strawberry shortcake is heavy and doughy— <> ’Tis Spring!

Now Venus, the w. k. Cytherean, Cavorts Isadorably under the moon, Assisted by choruses gracile, nymphean, She dances a measure that’s wholly jejune. ’Tis time to divert one’s estraying attention To bonnets embowered with every old thing— Fruits, myrtle and parsley—again I must mention <> ’Tis Spring!

’Tis time for the sacrifice sacred to Faunus— He may get our lambkin, he may get our goat. O Sextius, ere death shall have wholly withdrawn us, Take this from Horatius, your favorite pote; Soon Pluto will cail you, at some unforeseen time, You'll go, be you journalist-jester or king, You can’t get away from it. But, in the meantime, <> ’Tis Spring!

A Sealed Proposal

A Sealed Proposal

AD CHLOËN Horace: Book I, Ode 23. “Vitas hinnuleo me similis, Chloë—”

Nay, Chloë, dear, forget your fear, Nor like a frightened fawn outrun me; No savage I to horrify— >> You shouldn’t shun me.

Come, Chloë, queen, you’re seventeen; There’s many a precedent to back us. Why shouldn’t you be Mrs. Q. <> Horatius Flaccus?

Cheer Up, Postumus

Cheer Up, Postumus

AD POSTUMUM Horace, Book II, Ode 14. “Eheu! fugaces, Postume, Postume—”

O Postumus, dear Postumus, Old Father Time’s a sprinter, The summer of my life is spent, approaches now the winter; Nor all my Wit nor Piety, to quote Omar Fitzgerald, Can keep my obit from appearing in the Sabine Herald.

If for a daily sacrifice you killed three hundred cattle, Think you that it would keep from you the Dread and Final Rattle? Nix! Though you build eight colleges and lib’ries eighty-seven, You can’t avoid what Rhyme demands I designate as Heaven.

Your home, your wife, your family, your uncles, ay! and your aunts— You'll have to leave ’em all behind. (Have you enough insurance?) And O, the cobwebbed Caecuban now aging in your cellar You'll have to deed to some one who’s a nice, deserving feller.

The Good Old Socialistic Days

The Good Old Socialistic Days

IN SUI SAECULI LUXURIAM Horace: Book II, Ode 15. “Jam pauca aratro jugera regiae—”

With skyscrapers building a dozen a day, I am anxious, I View-with-Alarm; And I’d like to know how there’ll be room for the plow, And what’s going to become of the farm.

Time was when the olive was w. k., Now myrtle and violet are in. I urge on this nation of Rome, Conservation— This waste is a shame and a sin.

When Romulus reigned and when Cato was king, Conditions were never so tough; The Morgans and such hadn’t any too much, And the poorest had more than enough.

Return once again, O ye days that I sing, When Labor was wearing a crown! O life was more spacious, grab this from Horatius, When Rome was a Socialist town.

A Plea for the Present

A Plea for the Present

AD LEUCONOEM. Horace: Book I, Ode 11. “Tu ne quaesieris, scire nefas—”

Be not, I pray, so curious For knowledge; it’s injurious To know about the future And compute your Every chance. ’Twould be a source of pain to you To find what years remain to you To know your length of tether And the weather In advance.

Life? Don’t have such a thirst of it; The best you get’s the worst of it! You can’t be here forever, They assever. Watch your step! While I’ve been oratorical Pa Tempus (metaphorical) Has, as it were, been guying Me by flying. —Are you hep?

Indorsing Xanthias's Choice

Indorsing Xanthias’s Choice

AD XANTHIUM PHOCEUM. Horace: Book II, Ode 4.

“Ne sit ancillae tibi amor pudori, Xanthia Phoceu!”

Don’t let your yearning for your cook, O Xanth, give you the willies. Remember how Brisëis, though a slave, aroused Achilles; The Telamonian Ajax young Tecmessa made a hit with; And Agamemnon had a maid whom he was awful smit with. Why, I would give you 8 to 5—and I am far from gambly— That Phyllis is descended from some fine old Southern fam’ly. Accept it from the occupant of this here conning steeple: As nice a girl as she is must have come from Lovely People. Look at her arms—they’re perfect! So the beauty of her face is; And—as an artist—I indorse her—well, her other graces. Nay, be not jealous of the bard, my Xanthias! Remember Your uncle will be forty-one the seventh of September.

Horace to Maecenas

Horace to Maecenas

THE BARD ASKED HIS PATRON FOR BASEBALL TICKETS

Maecenas, in many an ode I’ve jollied and flattered and praised you, In metre Glyconic, alcaic, adonic, I’ve mentioned you dozens of times. The virtues that I have bestowed On you! and the heights where I’ve raised you! You pander and pet me, but what does it get me? I want some reward for my rhymes.

I’ve called you a great little guy Right n. p. r. m., top o’ colyum; I’ve pinned some verbenas on you, Bill Maecenas, And all that I got was a drink— A pint of Old Caecuban Rye! My verses to you’d fill a volume. You used to command me, but now, y’understand me, I’ve quit being Marcus O’Gink.

Maecenas, you get me, I hope. I want a reply to my queries; They’re plain and vocalic, in 8-point italic, And clear as a midsummer sky This, then, is the drift of my dope: Do I get a seat for The Series? Am I to be present next Sat. if it’s pleasant? Maecenas, I pause for reply.

Good-by, My Lover, Good-by

“Good-by, My Lover, Good-by!”

AD PYRRHAM Horace: Book I, Ode 5. “Quis multa gracilis te puer in rosa—”

O pretty Pyrrha, false as fair, For whom dost thou do up thy hair, Thy crown of gold, thy shining tresses? What gracile youth gives thee caresses?

Alas! How often shall he find The faithlessness of womankind! As who should say, in utter wonder, “How fair it was! Who thought of thunder?”

Ah—wretched they that think thee fair, Enmeshed in thy seductive snare! I vow, by Neptune, ne’er to woo thee Again, for I am jerry to thee.

Thoughts on Matters and Things

Thoughts on Matters and Things

AD GROSPHUM Horace: Book II, Ode 16.

“Otium divos rogat impotenti Pressus Ægæo—”

Grosphus, a guy who’s sailing in a tempest On the Aegean when the moon is hidden— He wants a rest, while stewing in his stateroom, Weary and seasick.

Weary of war, what do the Thracians yearn for? What seek the Medes, with quivers full of arrows? What can’t you buy with purple, gold or rubies? Rest is the answer.

Not Morgan’s cash, nor Rockefeller’s money, No blue-and-brass can drive away the willies Caused by the care of elegant apartments, Rugs and swell ceilings.

Wise the gazabe upon whose simple table Old-fashioned truck like salt-and-pepper castors Yet may be found. His bean is never bothered— Sleeps like a hallboy.

Why do we fuss for one thing and another? Why do we hike to Saranac or Newport? How can a human leave himself behind him? Answer: He cannot.

Worry can get a guy on the Olympic; Worry can chase a colonel in the Army; Swift as the wind, to use a new expression— Care is some sprinter.

Merry and bright, the citizen who’s cheerful Won’t worry much about to-morrow’s breakfast. “No one,” he smiles, “who faces Time the pitcher Wallops one thousand.”

There was Achilles, cut off in his twenties, And, au contraire, Tithonus was a hundred: I may be lucky; you might be run over Most any morning.

You’ve got a farm with fancy sheep and heifers; You’ve got a mare all curry-combed and glossy; Purple silk socks and purple fancy weskits— You’re a swell dresser.

And what has Fate, the undeceitful, slipped me? Only a small apartment out in Harlem, And, with a trick of turning snappy Sapphics, Scorn for the roughnecks.

On an Upright Life

On an Upright Life

AD ARISTIUM FUSCUM Horace: Book I, Ode 22.

[Those whom the original verbiage may confuse are advised to read only the italics: those who detest our efforts may read only Q. H. Flaccus’s words, set of course in Roman; and the rest may combine them.]

(Integer vitae) A man who’s on the level, (Non eget arcu) He needn’t have a fear; (Nec venenatis) Not arrows of the devil (Fusce, pharetra) Can harm a conscience clear—

(Sive per Syrtes) Whether he’s in Peoria, (Sive facturus) New York or Newtonville, (Caucasum vel) East Orange or Emporia, (Lambit Hydaspes) Or Pocahontas, Ill.

(Namque me lupus) For once, when I was singing, (Dum meam Lalagen) A wolf came up to me; (Terminum curis) He heard my lyric ringing, (Fugit inermem) And fled immejitlee.

(Quale portentum.) Believe me, he was some wolf, (Daunias latis) Not wood from Noah’s Ark, (Nec Jubae tellus) No little Daunian bum wolf (Arida nutrix) Like those in Central Park.

(Pone me, pigris) O put me on the prairie, (Arbor aestiva) Or let me hire a hall, Quod latus mundi) Set me upon Mt. Airy, (Jupiter urget) Or anywhere at all.

(Pone sub curru) Still I, on the equator, (Solis negata) At ninety in the shade, (Dulce ridentem) Shall love—a poor translator— (Dulce loquentem) My sweetly smiling maid.

The Stinging of V. Catullus, Esq.

The Stinging of V. Catullus, Esq.

(Which is his 70th Ode, dry-cleaned and rekalsomined)

Myrtilla says that there is none So strong, so fine, so cavalierly, From New Rochelle to Evanston, <> As yours sincerely.

She says that no one else is half So utterly attractive to her, That she’d give Jove himself the laugh <> If he should woo her.

I say she SAYS so Ah, I find The words of Eve’s most lovely daughter Ought to be written on the wind <> In running water!

V. Catullus Said in Part

V. Catullus Said in Part:

(Being a shy at the Fifty-first Ode.)

Whose seat is opposite to thine, My Lesbia, seems to me divine; For it were heaven to be so near thee, To gaze upon thee and to hear thee.

But, lowlife lyrist that I am, I see thee, and am like a clam; My tongue is mute; my heart’s a lead one; Sight, hearing fail me—I’m a dead one!

The Mathematics of Catullus

The Mathematics of Catullus

Ode 7.

“Quaeris quot mihi basiationes Tuae, Lesbia, sint satis, superque?”

Lesbia, you would have me state What the number is Of the times to osculate. Let your pote approximate, Namely, t’wit, and viz:

Lesbia, count the sands that lie On the spicy shore; Sum the stars that in the sky Coruscate; and multiply That by thousands more—

That, O sweetest of your sex, Fails the full amount. Let the total number vex All the jealous rubbernex Trying to keep count!

Catullus to His Knockers

Catullus to His Knockers

AD AURELIUM ET FURIUM Ode 16.

If now and then I spill a pome That seems too peppery for a paper Subscribers take into The Home— Too filled with chili sauce and caper— Because I’m fresh and will not shut up You think that I’m an awful cut-up.

A poet in the major league Must lead a life above suspicion, Though he may write of love, intrigue, Society and prohibition. His stuff has got to be so snappy That it will make all ages happy.

Cease, lowlifes, then, to lamp my line; Your knocking never shall upset me. I lyricize of love and wine, And those who care for such will get me. And you who don’t—oh, yes, I mean you, Aurelius, Furius—I’ll bean you!

Handing It to Cynthia

Handing It to Cynthia

Propertius: Book II, Elegy 5.

“Hoc verumst, tota te ferri Cynthia Roma Et non ignota vivere nequitia?”

O Cynthia, tell me, is it true That you’re not acting fit to print? That Roman clubdom talks of you And whispers things I may not hint? What has this gossip of the street meant? Do I deserve that sort of treatment?

Tush! I shall seek some other skirt Who loves to lamp her printed name In poems written by Propert. Me for a grateful kind of dame. Before you get a chance to con me, I’ll do it—while the peeve is on me.

For lovers’ quarrels disappear As clouds before the southern wind, Wherefore I say, let’s cut it here, Before we knot the ties that bind. You’ll weep and wail and sob and sorrow, But you’ll forget it all to-morrow.

I shall not biff you with a brick Nor pull your hair. I scorn to spleen. I leave such actions to the hick Who wears no laurel on his bean. Far subtler you shall find my curses; Your cheek shall pale at these here verses!

The Beefing of S. Propertius, Esq.

The Beefing of S. Propertius, Esq.

AD TULLUM Book I, Elegy 1. “Cynthia prima suis miserum me cepitocellis—”

Cynthia first and the wonderful eyes of her Taught me the meaning of Love and Romance; Now I have sung to the stars and the skies of her— Love has diluted the pride of my glance.

Ah! ’tis a year, yet the madness diminishes Never a fraction, a tittle, or jot, Though I anticipate well what the finish is, Though I bewail my unfortunate lot.

Tullus, Milanion traveled the universe Till Atalanta was thrall to his heart, Futile my pleading and vain is my tuny verse, Zero’s the sum of my amorous art.

Witches that lure by some sorcery-ritual Luna right down from the regular sky, I shall concede that your power is habitual An ye make Cynthia paler than I!

And, O my friends who have warned me too tardily, Let me but utter the truth in my mind, I’ll endure iron and suffer foolhardily Luck, wedded friends I am leaving behind!

No luck for me Here is counsel gratuitous: Cleave to your true love forever plus aye; Else, if your path be a trifle circuitous, How you’ll remember my words of to-day!

Indorsing a w. k. Emotion

Indorsing a w. k. Emotion

AD TULLUM Propertius: Book I, Elegy 14. “Tu licet abjectus Tibernia molliter unda—”

Though by the Tiber you recline, Luxurious, inert, supine, Drinking five quarts of Lesbian wine, Or six. I’m in the know, grab this from me: That, and the wealth of Old Johndee Plus seven multiplied by three, Is nix.

Nope. Me for Love. When I’m with Cynth, I, modest writer of this Plinth, Am jutht ath good ath any printh; And, say, If she should suddenly grow cold, What then would help Pierp Morgan’s gold? By millions could I be cajoled? Nay, nay!

Propertius Confesses

Propertius Confesses

AD DEMIPHONEM Book II, Elegy 18.

“Scis here mi multas pariter placuisse puellas. Scis mihi, Demophoön—”

You know, my Dem, that each p. m. I comb the gay Rialto (Posterity will say I was a James Buchanan Brady, And any frail can have my kale, soprano or contralto— You’re c. to k. the reason why my theme is only Lady.

Tush: ask a guy the reason why the days are short in winter, And ask him why is water wet and why’s a ballet dancer, And where’s the snow of long ago, or ask why is a printer— Old top, it’s just my temp’rament. There ain’t no other answer.

Roman Innuendo

Roman Innuendo

Martial: Book I, Epigram 72.

O Fidentinus, when you steal— My words are chosen and impartial— My stuff, it is a phony deal You put across on M. V. Martial.

Thus Aegle thinks the teeth she wears, So sozodontalish and pearly, Are hers; thus black Lycoris swears, Daubed with white lead, she is Some Girlie.

Bard of the Mrs. Harris school, (This stanza should be double-leaded), As you’re a poet now, so you’ll Have lots of hair when you’re bald-headed!

To Julia, on June 21

To Julia, on June 21

[In the Elizabethan manner.]

ppoem| {blackletter} Thou askest of me why to-day,

My Julia, I do love thee moe;

And thou art fain to have mee saie

Wherefore I am affected soe.

{blackletter} An thou wouldst wit the reasoun of

Thyself to-day beeing more dere

Than othertime, it is, my love,

The longest day of all the yere.

Martial's Bit of a Joke

Martial’s Bit of a Joke

Epigrams II, 38.

Linus, you are c2k What I grow from day to day At my Sabine spot suburban. Pipe—and paste it in your turban:

Try it on your piccolo, Linus: this is what I grow: (Get my snappy repartee, you) Happy that I do not see you.

A Ballade of Known and Unknown Matters

A Ballade of Known and Unknown Matters

By Francois Villon

[Editor’s Note: One of the things we know less than we do others is how to translate French. And so, to translate another of Mons. Villon’s refrains, “We cry you mercy, every one.”]

I’m not a simp; I’m not a joe; I’m on when cream is full of flies. By what they wear I always know A lot about these dressy guys. I know the black from sunny skies; I know a staller from a pep; I know the phony from the prize— But to myself I am not hep.

I’m jerry to the fashions, bo; I cop the clerics by their ties; I know the chieftain from Poor Lo, And cherry tarts from blueb’ry pies, I know the con men and the Cys; I know “Both gates!” and “Watch your step!”’; I know the Bourbons from the ryes— But to myself I am not hep.

A dray is not a tally-ho; (That is a thing I realize). I know 16 from Double-O, Ben Davises from Northern Spies. I know some frails who have some eyes; I know the honey from the skep; I know just how to balladize, But to myself I am not hep.

<> L’ENVOI. Prince, I am Jeremiah Wise, Clutch it from me, that is my rep: Excepting only this revise: But to myself I am not hep.

The Translated Way

The Translated Way

I

“Wenn ich in deine Augen seh’, So schwindet all mein Leid und weh”

When I into your eyes do see So goes away my woe from me, And, too, when I your mouth do kiss So gains my health a benefice.

When I upon your bosom lie It comes o’er me like joy from sky, And when you speak it: “I love thee!” So must I weep quite bitterly.

II

“Ich hab’ im Traum geweinet.”

I have in a dream been weeping, Medreamt thou didst lie underground, Then wakened I up and the tears flowed Still down from my cheek all around.

I have in a dream been weeping, Medreamt thou didst me forget, Then wakened I up, I continued Crying long, bitterly yet.

I have in a dream been weeping, Medreamt thou wert to me yet good, Then wakened I up and still always My tears did come down in flood.

III

“Hör ich das Liedchen klingen, Das einst die Liebste sang,”

Hear I the songlet singing That once the dearest sang, From out my breast upspringing There comes wild painful pang.

Impels me one dark languish That high wood to attain, Dissolves in teardrops’ anguish My extraordinary pain.

IV

“Was will die einsame Thraene?”

What wants the teardrop single? She mists my glance with pains. She back from olden times yet Within mine eye remains.

She had many glittering sisters Who all have taken flight, With my torments and my gladnesses Dissolved they in wind and night.