Parodies of the works of English & American authors, vol. VI
General
Parodies of the works of English & American authors, vol. VI
Parodies
Oh! breaking ribs, that would not break,
Nicotina!
Oh! damaged nose, so snub and meek,
Nicotina!
She winketh, but she does not speak;
I rub the chalk dust from my cheek,
Nicotina!
And feel inclined away to sneak,
Nicotina!
I cry, “my corns!” none hear my cries,
Nicotina!
And, rueful, rub my blacken’d eyes,
Nicotina!
My face is like to boneless size,
Up from my chin unto my eyes,
Nicotina!
On thy programme my name it lies,
Nicotina!
Oh! cursed boot! oh! cursed blow,
Nicotina!
I was not happy lying low,
Nicotina!
All night my nose with blood did flow;
A quart it bled, and more, I know,
Nicotina!
A damaged man, away I go,
Nicotina!
When my old pipe is lit by me
Nicotina!
I crawl about and think of thee,
Nicotina!
I do not dare to look at thee,
I fear _him_, tall as forest tree,
Nicotina!
I “cuss” him, and his pedigree.
Nicotina!
H. L.
――――
O DARLING WEED!
O darling weed! my heart’s delight,
Dear plant, the apple of my sight,
Thou hast a ray so warm and bright
I know no charm so exquisite
As puffing out thy smoke so white.
It puts all troublous thoughts to flight,
Sending dull spirits left and right,
While yielding joy by day and night.
This is a parody of a little poem by Alfred Tennyson, published in
1833, but afterwards omitted from his works, probably because of the
ridicule it received from Lord Lytton in “The New Timon”:――
O darling room, my heart’s delight
Dear room, the apple of my sight,
With thy two couches soft and white,
There is no room so exquisite,
No little room so warm and bright,
Wherein to read, wherein to write.
* * * * *
――――
THE WEED.
I come from vaunted root, and burn
To many a merry sally;
I sparkle, and to ashes turn,
Men’s spirits worn to rally.
Thrice thirty ills that press folks down,
I fumigate like midges;
In country, city, little town,
My charm some care abridges.
Yon chattering Stiggins with a craze,
In little sharps and trebles,
A hubbub makes in my dispraise――
Demosthenes, _sans_ pebbles.
Ay! chatter, with thy face of woe;
With bile and anger quiver;
Thus Antis come and Antis go,
But I’m smoked on for ever.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
Reviews
Reviews
No reviews yet
Be the first to share your thoughts on this work.
Elsewhere in the archive
Join the Discussion
Join the discussion
Sign in to leave a comment or review.
Sign InorCreate an account