TABLE OF CONTENTS
i. Social & Personal
Applied Philosophy
The Higher Authority
A Plaintive Thought
Under New Management
Compensation
Paper Ladies
The Real Stuff
Mere Management
Wifely Wisdom
The Night Before Christmas
A Personal Problem
Honest Lines
ii. The Passing Show
Inheritance Tax
Ingratitude
Open Letter
Campus Note
Horse-and-Buggy Days
In the Brave Days of Old
New Edition
Regarding Spring
Incompatibility
The Festive Season
Historical Research
iii. Down on the Farm
Tours and Detours
Slightly Handicapped
Lay of the Last Optimist
Personal Reflections
Loretta
“Dumb” Animals
A Personal Viewpoint
Unexpected Guests
The Changing Scene
The Penalty
The Wrong Kind of Rights
iv. The Calgary Ballades
Ballade of the Chase
Ballade of Social Restrictions
Ballade of Precautionary Measures
Ballade of a Bachelor’s Christmas Expectations
Ballade of a Lonely Exile
Ballade of Happy-go-Lucky
Ballade of Good Example
Ballade of a Blemish on Marriage
Ballade of Ethical Practice
Ballade of What Gentlemen Prefer
Ballade of Lucky Numbers
Ballade of an Indifferent Spectator
Ballade of the Western Farmer
Ballade of a Profitable Pastime
v. Trends of the Times
Bedtime Story
The Pioneer Spirit
The Great Silence
Our Mutual Friends
Passive Resistance
The Military Trend (1935)
University Fashions
Shadows Cast Before
The Rural Outlook
Campus Research
Notes from the Family
I. SOCIAL & PERSONAL
Applied Philosophy
The errors of my past are past—
I need not resurrect them.
Nor did my bygone pleasures last—
One scarcely could expect them.
New heights of joy my future may
Reveal, or depths of sorrow;
But lots of people here to-day
Are somewhere else to-morrow.
That’s why I hold from hour to hour
A limited objective,
And let things ride while I devour
A nice brand-new detective!
The Higher Authority
The lady-lecturer exclaimed,
In accents quite impassioned,
That husbands always were ashamed
Of wives grown too full-fashioned.
I would not cause my husband pain,
So was most conscientious
My figure trying to restrain
From being too pretentious.
All kinds of exercise I’d try,
My eating was suspended.
But still, despite all efforts, my
Circumference extended.
Of suicide I used to think,
When hungry past endurance,
And just was rescued from the brink
By hubby’s reassurance.
“You’re getting plump, old girl,” said he.
“I’m sure you can’t deny it.
But say, you sure look good to me,
And don’t you dare to diet!”
A Plaintive Thought
Most afternoons, at two-fifteen,
My mirrored self I scan,
Then lightly bound to rally round
The banner of the clan.
At dainty tables I partake
Of buttered buns and tea;
And why I go I do not know—
It’s not much fun for me.
Sometimes there is a game of bridge,
And sometimes there is not.
We mostly chat of this and that,
Without a scrap of thought.
Of new devices to reduce,
Of So-and-so’s new dress;
And, it is true, we gossip, too,
A little, more or less.
'Tis always late when I get home
The supper to prepare.
I feint and pass at plate and glass
With something like despair.
My mornings go in cleaning up,
My afternoons like this,
And there must be, it seems to me,
A lot of life I miss.
Under New Management
My husband has duly,
Sincerely and truly,
Bestowed on me all his affection.
I’ve ne’er had to smother
A pang lest another
Entice him to painful deflection.
But now a disarming,
Delightfully charming
Young maid, in a woolly pink jacket,
Presents some such danger—
The dear little stranger
Is horning right in on my racket!
Compensation
My Grandmother’s kitchen had no instant ice;
She washed on a board which was not very nice;
She used coal-oil lamps which were messy to clean;
She bought nothing canned—no, not even a bean.
She made all her bread, and her butter and cheese;
She scrubbed all her floors on her very own knees;
She raised seven children, and raised them all right;
Her net daily mileage, I’m sure, was a fright.
But somehow, in spite of her manifold labors,
She kept up a nice social life with her neighbours,
And never, like me, was despised and rejected
Because her bridge technique had not been perfected.
Paper Ladies
The ladies in the Fashion Books
Are really too austere.
Each individual lady looks
So painfully severe.
They are so very straight and thin;
Not one displays a double chin;
Of course, they all are kith and kin,
Or so it would appear.
In most unusual length of limb
These ladies do delight;
And all their feet are small and slim,
No matter what their height.
The faces in the whole long chain,
From Godey’s to The Chatelaine,
Are, to my taste, a little plain,
And dreadfully polite.
I’m almost sure I’d rather not
Such ladies’ mien reflect.
I know 'twould worry me a lot
To be so circumspect.
And, anyway, my bulges I
Could never quite conceal, so why
Dame Fashion should I deify,
And kinder gods neglect?
The Real Stuff
The man I loved when I was young,
Was slim and straight and slender;
The words that trembled on his tongue
Were timorous and tender.
I used to run my fingers though
His thick and tawny thatching,
While plans of pleasant things to do
Within my head were hatching.
But now, with youth a bit behind,
I love a grouchy giant;
His curves are strictly unconfined;
He’s beastly self-reliant;
His hank of hair is quite uncouth;
His baggy trousers shame one.
What of the lad I loved in youth?
My dears, he is the same one.
Mere Management
I’m solidly against divorce;
A proper frame of mind, of course,
In one who finds the path of life
Quite bare of matrimonial strife.
When married we discreetly vowed
That other people should not crowd
Our lives, and idle mischief make;
We also vowed to give and take.
And now we reap a rich reward
Of sweet harmonious accord.
Now, why can’t other couples be
Like us, all full of ecstasy,
Instead of rushing into court
For rights to seek another port?
In all the week we have been wed
No word of anger has been said.
Wifely Wisdom
When my dear husband’s eye grows bleak,
And he is disinclined to speak
Without a dash of friction,
Do I dispel his gloom with clothes,
Or extra powder on my nose,
As ladies do in fiction?
Oh, no!
Into the kitchen do I go!
I bang around the pots and pans,
And, carefully avoiding cans,
I roast and fry and beat and bake
The things his mother used to make!
As on his face a tender smile
Is kindled by this ancient guile,
I thrill with pride to know my art
Still holds the pathway to his heart!
The Night Before Christmas
The tree with its gay decorations
Is due to be stripped of its cheer.
The candies, my own sweet creations,
Will presently all disappear.
The cellophane used in my wrapping,
The tissue and tinsel galore,
Will soon now be cracking and snapping,
And litter the floor!
The pudding I’ve blended and beaten,
The turkey I’ve basted and grilled,
To-morrow, alas, will be eaten,
And so have their purpose fulfilled.
Such doings would commonly find me
A fountain of bubbling complaint,
But ethics of Christmastide bind me
To act like a saint.
A Personal Problem
I plan a garden, row on row,
With every flower and fruit I know,
And simply pine to weed and hoe—
When snow is blowing!
I do so long to ski and skate,
And joyously shed surplus weight,
For snow and ice I scarce can wait—
When streams are flowing!
Why must my mind thus agonize,
And quite refuse to synchronize
With pleasures that the day supplies?
There is no knowing!
Honest Lines
Regarding slenderizing lines
That fashion poets blithely sing,
I’ve sampled all the best designs,
And paid for them like anything;
Some stylish stouts have been likewise
Purveyed to me with soulful tact.
My curves, though, will not compromise,
And that’s a fact!
II. THE PASSING SHOW
Inheritance Tax
Yes, Santa’s a clever old fellow,
So snugly denned up at the Pole.
No wonder he’s chubby and mellow,
So nicely befitting his rôle.
He’s wise—I might even say foxy
And find lots of folks to agree!—
To do all his business by proxy
Through blighters like me.
His mail never reaches headquarters!
These notes that “Dear Santa” begin
Are pilfered by amateur sorters,
Who act on instructions therein.
Then over the gifts Christmas morning,
When shouts of approval are raised,
All obvious agencies scorning
'Tis Santa gets praised.
Well, Santa’s a great old romancer
And I’ll help him out with his tale,
So long as with Prancer and Dancer
I don’t have to take to the trail.
I’ll fill up the socks as desired to,
And give imitations of glee,
And patch up the myth as required to—
My Dad did for me!
Ingratitude
My Wife saves dollars every day,
But in her own peculiar way.
She goes to all the bargain sales
And saves in pounds and yards and bales.
She gets reductions, I’ll confess,
And often buys for “half and less.”
But I am such a wretched crank—
I’d like my savings in the bank.
Open Letter
To Gentlemen who dress day after day
In ageless suits of sombre brown or grey:
Dear Sirs,—
I know it scarcely is polite
To ask you what you wear to bed at night.
But, really, I am curious to know
If these pyjamas of barbaric glow,
All splashed with yellows, purples, pinks and blues,
Are what you do, without compulsion, choose
For private wear?
Then why reserve for night
Such pagan splendors that would so delight
The eyes that are offended every day
By mass parades of soulless brown and grey?
Some rainbow stripes and dinky dots and such
Would tone the landscape up so very much.
I ask you, please, to give this matter thought.—
A Lady
Who admires you
Quite a lot!
Campus Note
The finals now come on apace
And lads and lasses, grave of face,
Gird on the dismal chains of toil,
And squander quarts of midnight oil.
Gray matter sizzles! Craniums creak!
It is a major crime to speak!
With stinging eyes and fevered domes
They plunge in dry-as-dust old tomes,
And, coming up for air, surprise
The calendar before their eyes.
Three weeks! Two weeks! A week! Alas!
There’s not an earthly that they’ll pass!
They wrap wet towels around their brows
And register assorted vows
All social joys, next term, to slight,
And do their whack of stew each night.
But in the time that must elapse
Twixt terms the may forget perhaps!
Horse-and-Buggy Days
[A Semi-Appreciation]
The horse-and-buggy days were not
At all to be despised.
Just give them some unbiased thought
And you may be surprised
To find they offered quite a lot
Of joys we’ve sacrificed.
The quiet walks in Lovers’ Lane
Made courting very cheap.
No gas or movies foiled the swain
Who had a date to keep.
In budgeting a love campaign
The cost was never steep.
The crooner and his croon had not
Developed at that time,
Nor had the novels with no plot,
And poems with no rhyme.
Nor had the Mutt and Jeff strip got
To rank as art sublime.
Pyjamas were reserved for bed!
Smart dietitians had
Not yet filled hungry folks with dread
That good square meals were bad.
And flaming youth had not yet shed
Respect for deal old dad.
One was not socially obscure
Through faulty bridge technique.
In fact, one might all games abjure
And still not be a freak.
No noble ladies’ portraiture
Did creams and such bespeak.
Although the horse-and-buggy days
Were somewhat overdressed,
And gentlemen’s hirsute displays
Just had to be suppressed,
Perhaps from horse-and-buggy days
We have too far digressed.
In the Brave Days of Old
My Grandfather set himself three times a day
To eat what my Grandmother chose to purvey.
Of Vitamin A, likewise Vitamin B,
He knew not a thing, nor more learned was she.
The birds of the air, and the beasts of the field,
And all the nice fishes the ocean would yield,
The roots of the soil, and the fruits of the tree,—
Just what at the moment there happened to be!—
My Grandmother cooked in preposterous lots
That simmered all day in great oversized pots.
To eat in those days synchronized with to stuff—
Whatever the fare there was always enough.
As Grandfather’s board in the district was known
As one of the kind well accustomed to groan,
'Twas seldom the family dined by themselves,
But Grandmother always had well-laden shelves.
Indigestible foods on the table ran riot,
For no one suspected the need of a diet.
Well, what of this gorging on unbalanced fare,
And giving their organs no specialized care,
And having no bottles or pills to offset
The poisons in all the rich foods that they et,
And having no doctor within easy call,
My Grandfather, after a very bad fall,
Was tucked into bed in a serious state,
And departed this life when a bare ninety-eight.
While Grandmother wilted and wasted away
And died ere the dawn of her hundredth birthday.
The neighbors to whom they had meant to be kind
Died, too, when and how I can not call to mind.
But certainly none of them knew of the facts
Of a life-long abuse of the digestive tracts.
And often, when breakfasting off orange-juice,
I feel that my in’ards could stand the abuse
That hot-cakes and bacon and eggs would supply,
But expert opinion I’m scared to defy!
New Edition
The Shade of Mr. Gilbert, I am happy to relate,
Called me up about that list, that famous little list!
He asked me most politely would I bring it up to date
With folks not on the list, who never would be missed?
Such as those who disassociate pyjamas and repose,
And people in apartment-blocks with non-stop radios;
The crooners who imagine that their noise confers a boon;
The programme organizers who let crooners loose to croon;
And all the dial-twisters who can not resist their twist!
They’d none of 'em be missed! They’d none of 'em be missed!
There’s the chap with poor digestion who details his every pain,
And the appendix rhapsodist—I’ve got them on the list!
There’s the lady on a diet with her tale of loss and gain.
She never would be missed! She never would be missed!
The folks who think they buy a road with payments on a car;
The dear young things who deify a movie sheik or star;
The novelist without a plot, the poet with no rhymes;
Kibitzers, back-seat drivers, and such products of our times;
The customers of Reno and the honest bigamist!
They’d none of 'em be missed! They’d none of 'em be missed!
Said the Shade of Mr. Gilbert, “Sir, your judgement is so nice
That I really must insist you continue with the list.”
Well, the party who takes pride in telling truth at any price
Would surely not be missed! I know would not be missed!
The lady who each afternoon a bridge or tea attends,
And serves her husband’s supper from some sketchy odds and ends;
The prophets who are certain some calamity is due;
The hide-bound politician with a changeless point of view;
And here and there I might efface a spare economist!
They never would be missed! They’d none of 'em be missed!
Regarding Spring
The beauties of Spring have been tooted
Since early beginnings of time.
Spring poets have raided and looted
The very last strongholds of rhyme.
But, spading the muddy old garden,
I feel there is something all wrong.
My heart and my soul seem to harden
To Spring and its song.
The wily Dan Cupid in Springtime,
With Nature to pipe him a tune,
Promotes a great free-for-all ring-time,
And lines up his couples for June.
But while our young people are spending
Their sweetness on love in the Spring,
We older folks must be attending
To some other thing.
While daughters—and sons, too!—are preening,
In natty Spring garments arrayed,
Poor mothers must do the Spring-cleaning,
And fathers stand by with first-aid.
And so if the Spring must be sung of
I vote we let youth set the key.
Spring songs do not roll off the tongue of
Old stagers like me!
Incompatibility
When I make some endeavor to revive
The fast-declining art of conversation,
I find it hard to keep a theme alive,
Or marshal words in elegant formation,
When Station XRB—the Bounding Boys—
Lets loose a flood of devastating noise.
The modest games of bridge that come my way
I used to find delightful,
But now, since jazz accompanies the play,
I find them rather frightful.
I never can remember what is trump
When some big band goes crash and bang and thump.
I often read a bit when I have time—
I’m rather intellectual!
But now all books of either prose or rhyme
Seem somewhat ineffectual.
The acrobatic music that I hate
To my remotest perch can penetrate.
Methinks the myriad noises in the air
Had better ne’er been captured.
I sometimes find them very hard to bear—
At best I’m not enraptured.
Music hath charms, of course—you know the rest—
But, plainly, mine is not a savage breast.
The Festive Season
The herald of Christmas is cropping
Up everywhere now in the press.
The days left to do Christmas shopping,
It urges, are fast growing less.
But really, despite the old slogan,
Our best advertisers admit,
So far as they know, there is no one
Who hurries a bit.
Some folks have to wait for their pay-day,
And some hope for Christmas-eve sales,
And some long to have a real gay day,
When last-minute scramble prevails.
And Scrooges hold back while they ponder
Extravagant trends of the times,
But later they’ll rush in and squander
Their very last dimes.
But, done late or early, conditions
Of shopping for Christmas-tide cheer
Make one of the pleasantest missions
That fall to our lot through the year.
It does the heart good to be mingling
With crowds all on giving intent,
Where money is rustling and jingling
In haste to be spent.
Historical Research
“Dick Whittington was a fraud.”—London Dispatch
Dick Whittington, so scholars say,
Was never really great.
He lived in quite a common way,
And had no rich estate.
To Henry Fifth he lent no gold—
I do not care for that.
But now I’m dreading to be told
He never had a cat.
Bo-peep they may deprive of sheep,
And Jack of magic beans,
Or Rip Van Winkle of his sleep—
That’s what this movement means.
And what of Cinderella’s shoe,
Or young Jack Horner’s plum?
Regarding Jack they’re likely to
Decide he had no thumb.
The wolf that stalked Red Riding Hood
Will soon be swept away;
Poor Mother Hubbard’s dog was rude;
There was no Dapple Grey.
A conference will soon spread woe,
Or so I understand,
By taking from the brave Crusoe
His footprints in the sand.
O powers that be, I pray you stay,
Before they go too far,
Inhuman minds that would X-ray
The twinkle of the star.
Don’t spread the path of youth with gloom.
No, even if it’s wrong,
Leave Mother Goose astride her broom,
And keep her going strong.
III. DOWN ON THE FARM
Tours and Detours
When Spring comes round I always plan
To cross the sparkling ocean.
For Venice, Egypt or Japan
I take an urgent notion.
But while I make a small delay
To study styles in baggage,
The voice of duty bids me stay
And plant the spuds and cabbage.
When Summer drowsy heat distils
Along the fragrant valley,
My very soul with longing fills
On Arctic shores to dally.
I sail blue icebergs in my dreams,
Where cold grey tides are flowing,
But spuds and cabbage, so it seems,
Delight in Summer hoeing.
When Autumn smoke drifts down the breeze,
In mellow golden weather,
I fain would roam the Hebrides
And pick the purple heather.
What can’t be cured must be endured—
My person is conscripted.
The spuds and cabbage have matured
And, therefore, must be lifted.
For Winter I am torn between
Palm Springs and Honolulu.
Or to the South of France I lean,
But well know what I’ll do-do!
By spuds and cabbage still my plans
Are totally stampeded—
All winter long, in pots and pans,
I’ll cook them up as needed!
Slightly Handicapped
The golden sun is setting in the West;
(The kitchen’s cold—I guess the stove needs wood!)
In gauzy veils the evening sky is dressed;
(I’ll light the other lamp—this one’s no good!)
The filmy clouds of purple and of pink
(Now, say, did I forget to feed the hogs?)
Are really very beautiful, I think!
(I surely must put out these lousy dogs!)
The quiet earth is sinking into sleep.
(I’ll fix that yeast in case I should forget!)
While I a tryst with culture fain would keep,
The sun is setting—
Darn it, let it set!
Lay of the Last Optimist
Oft I complain most bitterly
That I my bread must make.
But would it not be sadder lot
Had I no flour to bake?
On bended knees I scrub my floor,
Objecting all the while.
Yet would I know a great woe
Had I no domicile.
I trim my coal-oil lamps and scorn
Their unaggressive light,
But pause to mark that in the dark
How long would be the night!
I don’t like washing on a board,
But there is this, by gosh!
'Twould surely be much worse for me
Had I no clothes to wash.
But should the times accentuate
The slimness of my purse,
The day must come when I’ll be dumb
On how things might be worse.
Personal Reflections
Why May as a month should be merry
I’ve pondered both deeply and long.
I do not consider May very
Conducive to laughter and song.
The firewood so heavy and soggy
Makes cooking a wearisome chore,
While footprints from fields that are boggy
Embroider the floor!
The hens that are solemnly sitting
Each day must be tended with care.
Mosquitoes are tunefully flitting
To grab off a meal here and there.
The turnips and greens must be planted!
The meat must be pickled or spoil!
May is, it should surely be granted,
A season of toil!
The frogs their weird lullabies croaking
For me hold but moderate charm.
And bird-song is very provoking
When trilled to a ringing alarm.
No, May does not strike me as merry—
I give it no rounds of applause!—
Which leads me around to the query,
Who said that it was?
Loretta
Loretta was a teacher who
Had newly started in,
And many things she planned to do
To help her kith and kin.
To pay the mortgage for her dad
She would not hesitate.
Her brother, a most worthy lad,
She’d surely educate.
She’d help her married sister now,
Whose lot was very glum,
And to her mother she’d allow
A little monthly sum.
So education she dispensed
With these fine aims in view.
But now the tale must be condensed—
What did Loretta do?
She met the Chairman of the Board
And found him full of charm.
Into her willing ear he poured
The beauties of his farm.
Now when Loretta’s kith and kin
Do to her mind occur,
She wonders when they will begin
To send some help to her.
“Dumb” Animals
How can I bake a Christmas cake?—
My chickens won’t co-operate.
I’ve fed them grit and fed them wheat,
And tender scraps of fat and meat,
But still, with Christmas drawing near,
Essential eggs do not appear.
My nuts and raisins, dates and spice,
Are all prepared and seem so nice.
If only I had eggs! But when
Did Christmas matter to a hen?
A Personal Viewpoint
The pictures Jack Frost slyly etches,
His castled and turreted scenes,
Are lauded in poems and sketches
In all our best magazines.
But rising on some nippy morning,
The fires of my household to start,
Jack’s pictures my window adorning
Don’t strike me as art!
The beauties of snow when it’s falling
Are written each winter in reams.
The poet, to further his calling,
Must use all available themes.
But shovelling paths, as my duty
Compels me to do, I am stung
To think that the snow and its beauty
Were better unsung!
The business of immortalizing
The eventide hearth seems to grow,
But fires need some strong subsidizing
To keep up that wonderful glow.
And really of tools prehistoric
The buck-saw I do most disdain,
So these winter nights allegoric
Just give me a pain!
Unexpected Guests
The threshing lasting all the week
Had left me tired and sore,
So, though the day was Saturday,
I hadn’t scrubbed the floor,
Nor dusted round the window-sills,
Nor shaken out the rug,
Nor done the hundred other things
That make a home look snug.
And that is why I could not help
But feel a pang of shame
To be like that on Saturday—
The day the company came.
I’d baked so much in threshing week
That suddenly I quit.
Although the day was Saturday
I hadn’t baked a bit.
I didn’t have a penny cake,
Nor yet a ha’penny scone;
The shortbread tin was empty,
And the currant-bun was gone.
I had no abernethy
Or a parkin to my name,
And that was on a Saturday—
The day the company came.
And Bella May’s untidy looks
Were also a despair—
Because the day was Saturday
She hadn’t brushed her hair.
And daddy’s beauty was disguised
In whiskers inches long,
And really, for a Saturday,
'Most everything was wrong.
And nobody would quite believe
The threshing was to blame
For such a mess on Saturday,
The day the company came.
But what are spotty window-panes,
Or stove that needs a shine,
When company comes from far away
With talk of auld lang syne?
But oh, I would have liked to make
My house all spic and span,
And spread a dainty meal for them,
As neighbors know I can.
But whether I were fixed or not
I’m wishful just the same
That there were many Saturdays
That that same company came.
The Changing Scene
Though change we ever must expect
By evolution’s law,
Who ever thought it would affect
The good old peanut-straw?
The knights of disc and drill and plow
Have cast their hats away.
In very sporty helmets now
They hie them to the fray.
The rural scene of rustic charm
This headgear deftly robs.
Like tropic tourists farmers farm,
Or lion-hunting nobs.
Although at change I seldom scoff,
A line I’d wish to draw,
And wish its hands had been kept off
The good old peanut-straw.
The Penalty
I like to pat and roll and shape
A mound of spicy dough.
It pleases me so much to see
My stack of cookies grow.
And in a pie I always take
A very special pride;
With utmost care do I prepare
Both shell and what’s inside.
I like to mix and blend and beat
A cake and make it light,
And bake it just that so the crust
Is good at every bite.
And doughnuts I delight to fry
To just the proper shade.
My griddle-cakes are golden flakes
So lightly are they made.
I like to stir up candy, too,
Especially nut fudge.
My chocolate creams are perfect dreams
If I am any judge.
And often I may beat and bake
According to my wishes,
But joy departs when clean-up starts
And I must wash the dishes.
The Wrong Kind of Rights
The season’s work at last is done
And winter lies ahead,
With cosy evenings full of fun,
And stories to be read.
Alas, that I must wind my wool
And knit all winter through.—
The other seasons are so full
Of other things to do.
I’m not so keen on equal rights
Applied to votes and such,
But equal rights on winter nights
Would please me very much.
IV. THE CALGARY BALLADES
Ballade of the Chase
When men sit round and talk these nights
Their thoughts all seem to veer
To shots and shells and guns and sights,
From which I greatly fear
The portly moose and slender deer
Are due for lots of woe!
The chorus falls on every ear—
A-hunting we will go!
At hunting’s desperate delights
We stay-at-homes may jeer!
The draughty tents on frosty nights!
The silence front and rear!
Do hunters tap a source of cheer
Of which we do not know,
Since with a pleasure most sincere
A-hunting they will go!
They now go through the solemn rites
Of fixing up their gear.
An oily rag such joy excites
As does one good to hear!
Their scarlet tops, so quaint and queer,
Will soon wave to and fro
O’er hills and hollows far and near,—
A-hunting they will go!
L’Envoi:
My dear Diana, it is clear
You’ve kept your status quo.
Your legions rally year by year
And all a-hunting go!
Ballade of Social Restrictions
I’m never anything but bright—
I wallow not in woe!
I’m never anything but trite—
I do not spark and glow!
I never yield to any throe
Of anger or despair.—
I am a rural school-ma’am, so
I simply wouldn’t dare!
I’m never rude or impolite!
When walking to and fro;
No citizen I snub or slight,
But always pleasure show!
On bachelors I don’t bestow
Too hot or cold a glare!
I am a rural school-ma’am, so
I simply wouldn’t dare!
No arguments do I incite,
Nor o’er my knowledge crow!
My enemies I do not smite,
Nor mild aspersions throw!
In gossip’s sparkling ebb and flow
I never take a share.—
I am a rural school-ma’am, so
I simply wouldn’t dare!
L’Envoi:
Ah, Parents, while these lines I write
I feel they are unfair.
Your bark is bad, but not your bite,
And teachers often dare!