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THE húman skull is of deceit
As fúll as any egg of meat;
Full of deceit 's the human skull
As ány egg of meat is full.
Some eggs are addled, some are sweet,
But every egg 's chokefúl of meat;
Clever some skúlls, some skulls are dull,
Bút of deceít each skull 's chokeful.
Lét your egg áddled be or sweet,
To have your eggshell clean and neat
The first step is: scoop out the meat;
And clever let it be or dull,
would háve an honest skull,
Out you must scrape to the last grain
The vile, false, lýing, pérjured brain.
VERONA , August 19, 1854.
I AM a versemaker by trade
And verses of all kinds have made,
Bád ones to win me fame and pelf,
And good ones to amuse myself.
Of various humor grave and gay
I poetise the livelong day
And sometimes sít up half the night
Some flúent nonsense to indite
About an elephant or a fly,
Or Annabel's bewitching eye,
About past, present, or to come,
About America, Carthage, Rome,
About high, lów, or great, or small,
Or máybe about nothing at all.
I wish you saw me when I write
Vérses for mine own delight;
I can't sit still, I jump about
Úp and down stairs, in and out;
My cheeks grow red, my eyes grow bright,
You'd swear I 'd lost my senses quite.
But when I 'm set a verse to spin
That shall be sure applause to win,
Lórd, but it is an altered case!
I wouldn't my foé see in my place;
In vain my locks I twirl and pull,
And bite my nails, and thúmp my skull,
My spirit 's ebbed, my wit 's at null;
Góds, but it is hard work to write dull!
To whóm that task was never hard!
Teach me the art into my Muse
Not "géntle pity" to infuse,
Or fear or hópe or jealousy,
Or sweet love, or philosophy
And reason strong and manly sense,
But páltry cunning, sleek pretence,
And how to give no vice offence,
That síts installed in station high
And mixes with good company;
In áll, sufficient skill to cook
Some fiddle faddle, pious book
On drawing-room table fit to lie
And catch the idle visitor's eye
And hélp the author on to fame
And pension and a poet's name.
Don't ask me can I nothing find
More fitting to employ my mind
And while away my idle time
Than “stringing blethers up in rhyme”
For you and other fools to sing,
For Í 'm as happy as a king:
My tróchees are my diamond crown,
My ánapests my purple gown,
My pen 's my sceptre, my inkstánd
Sérves me for révenues and land,
And as for súbjects
In heaven and earth owns mé for king;
So many have I that I choose,
And táke the good, the bad refuse;
Ín the whole world, I'd like to know,
Where's th’ other king that can do so?
Walking from BEUERN to WEINGARTEN (BADEN), Octob. 14 - 15, 1854.
"On, to the fight!" St. Arnaud called
Though faint and like to die;
"Bring me my horse and hold me up,
We 'll win the victory.”
Ínto the field the hero rushed,
One héld him on each side,
He won the fight, then turned about
And droóped his head and died.
BRUCHSAL in BADEN, Octob. 16, 1854.
SOMETÍMES I 've with my Muse a miff,
Sometimes my Muse with me, You'd think we fell out just to have
The pleasure to agree.
Last night she came to my bedside
And twitched me on the “Well, Miss," said I, turning about,
“What is it brings you here?"
“I 've come to sing you a new song,'
With a sweet smile she said, And on the table laid her lamp
And sát down by my bed.
“This is no time to sing,” said I
And turned me round to sleep, “You would not trill one note all day,
Your song for morning keep."
No word replied the dear sweet maid,
Nor taúnted me again,
But géntly laid her hand on mine
And sáng so sweet a strain,
So ténder, melancholy, soft,
That tears came to mine eyes And sometimes scarce the words I heard
Fór mine own bursting sighs:
“Chármer, sing on, sing ever on,
We're once more friends," I cried; “A thousand years I 'd not think long,
My sóngstress at my side."
I turned about as thus I said,
But ló! the maid was gone,
Had táken her lamp and left me there
Ín the dark night alone.
In vain I watched the livelong night,
All dáy I 've watched in vain:
But stáy - aye, thát 's her own dear voice,
And here she comes again.
Walking from OPPENAU to BEUERN (BADEN), Octob. 12-13, 1854.
SWEET breathes the hawthorn in the early spring
And wallflower petals precious fragrance fling,
Sweet in July blows full the cabbage rose
And in rich beds the gay carnation glows,
Sweet smells on sunny slopes the new-mown hay,
And belle-de-nuit smells sweet at close of day,
Sweet under southern skies the orange bloom
And lánk acacia spread their mild perfume,
Bút of all odorous sweets I crown thee queen,
Plain, rústic, unpretending, black eyed bean.
Walking from ACHENKIRCHEN to SEEHAUS German TYBOL, July 9, 1854.