A merry burgomaster
In a burgh upon the Rhine
Said, “Our burghers all are
Far too fond of drinking wine.”
So the merry burgomaster,
When the burgomasters met,
Bade them look into the matter
Ere the thing went farther yet.
And the merry burgomasters
Did decide the only way
To alleviate the evil
Without worry or delay
Would be just to call a meeting
Of the burghers, great and small,
And then open every wine cask
And proceed to drink it all.
“For,” they said, “when we have swallowed
Every drop that’s in the land,
There can be no more of drinking,
It is plain to understand.”
So they called a monster meeting,
And the burghers, small and great,
Drank and drank until they were too
Tipsy to perambulate.
But there still was wine in plenty,
So, in sooth, the only way
Was to call another meeting;
So they called it for next day.
Thus from day to day the burghers
Met and swallowed seas of wine,
And they vowed the reformation
Was a mission quite divine.
And today the worthy burghers
In that burgh upon the Rhine
Still continue their great mission,
And still swallow seas of wine.
And they vow they will not falter
In their great reforming task
Till the last drop has been emptied
From the very last wine cask.
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Wednesday, June 26, 2013
A Question by Ellis Parker Butler
Whene’er I feed the barnyard folk
My gentle soul is vexed;
My sensibilities are torn
And I am sore perplexed.
The rooster so politely stands
While waiting for his food,
But when I feed him, what a change!
He then is rough and rude.
He crowds his gentle wives aside
Or pecks them on the head;
Sometimes I think it would be best
If he were never fed.
And so I often stand for hours
Deciding which is right—
To impolitely have enough,
Or starve and be polite.
My gentle soul is vexed;
My sensibilities are torn
And I am sore perplexed.
The rooster so politely stands
While waiting for his food,
But when I feed him, what a change!
He then is rough and rude.
He crowds his gentle wives aside
Or pecks them on the head;
Sometimes I think it would be best
If he were never fed.
And so I often stand for hours
Deciding which is right—
To impolitely have enough,
Or starve and be polite.
A Pastoral by Ellis Parker Butler
Just as the sun was setting
Back of the Western hills
Grandfather stood by the window
Eating the last of his pills.
And Grandmother, by the cupboard,
Knitting, heard him say:
“I ought to have went to the village
To fetch some more pills today.”
Then Grandmother snuffled a teardrop
And said. “It is jest like I suz
T’ th’ parson—Grandfather’s liver
Ain’t what it used to was:
“It’s gittin’ torpid and dormant,
It don’t function like of old,
And even them pills he swallers
Don’t seem no more t’ catch hold;
“They used to grab it and shake it
And joggle it up and down
And turn dear Grandfather yaller
Except when they turned him brown;
“I remember when we was married
His liver was lively and gay,
A kickin’ an’ rippin’ an’ givin’
Dear Ezry new pains ev’ry day;
“It used to turn clear over backwards
An’ palpitate wuss’n a pump
An’ give him the janders and yallers
An’ bounce around thumpty-thump;
“But now it is torpid and dormant
And painless and quiet and cold;
Ah, me! all’s so peaceful an’ quiet
Since Grandfather’s liver ’s grown old!
Then Grandmother wiped a new teardrop
And sighed: “It is just like I suz
T’ th’ parson: Grandfather’s liver
Ain’t what it used to was.”
Back of the Western hills
Grandfather stood by the window
Eating the last of his pills.
And Grandmother, by the cupboard,
Knitting, heard him say:
“I ought to have went to the village
To fetch some more pills today.”
Then Grandmother snuffled a teardrop
And said. “It is jest like I suz
T’ th’ parson—Grandfather’s liver
Ain’t what it used to was:
“It’s gittin’ torpid and dormant,
It don’t function like of old,
And even them pills he swallers
Don’t seem no more t’ catch hold;
“They used to grab it and shake it
And joggle it up and down
And turn dear Grandfather yaller
Except when they turned him brown;
“I remember when we was married
His liver was lively and gay,
A kickin’ an’ rippin’ an’ givin’
Dear Ezry new pains ev’ry day;
“It used to turn clear over backwards
An’ palpitate wuss’n a pump
An’ give him the janders and yallers
An’ bounce around thumpty-thump;
“But now it is torpid and dormant
And painless and quiet and cold;
Ah, me! all’s so peaceful an’ quiet
Since Grandfather’s liver ’s grown old!
Then Grandmother wiped a new teardrop
And sighed: “It is just like I suz
T’ th’ parson: Grandfather’s liver
Ain’t what it used to was.”
A Minute by Ellis Parker Butler
She plucked a blossom fair to see;
Upon my coat I let her pin it;
And thus we stood beneath the tree
A minute.
She turned her smiling face to me;
I saw a roguish sweetness in it;
I kissed her once;—it took, maybe,
A minute.
The time was paltry, you’ll agree;
It took but little to begin it;
But since my heart has not been free
A minute.
Upon my coat I let her pin it;
And thus we stood beneath the tree
A minute.
She turned her smiling face to me;
I saw a roguish sweetness in it;
I kissed her once;—it took, maybe,
A minute.
The time was paltry, you’ll agree;
It took but little to begin it;
But since my heart has not been free
A minute.
A Lost Angel by Ellis Parker Butler
When first we met she seemed so white
I feared her;
As one might near a spirit bright
I neared her;
An angel pure from heaven above
I dreamed her,
And far too good for human love
I deemed her.
A spirit free from mortal taint
I thought her,
And incense as unto a saint
I brought her.
Well, incense burning did not seem
To please her,
And insolence I feared she’d deem
To squeeze her;
Nor did I dare for that same why
To kiss her,
Lest, shocked, she’d cause my eager eye
To miss her.
I sickened thinking of some way
To win her,
When lo! she asked me, one fine day,
To dinner!
Twas thus that made of common flesh
I found her,
And in a mortal lover’s mesh
I wound her.
Embraces, kisses, loving looks
I gave her,
And buying bon-bons, flowers and books,
I save her;
For her few honest, human taints
I love her,
Nor would I change for all the saints
Above her
Those eyes, that little face, that so
Endear her,
And all the human joy I know
When near her;
And I am glad, when to my breast
I press her,
She’s just a woman, like the rest,
God bless her!
I feared her;
As one might near a spirit bright
I neared her;
An angel pure from heaven above
I dreamed her,
And far too good for human love
I deemed her.
A spirit free from mortal taint
I thought her,
And incense as unto a saint
I brought her.
Well, incense burning did not seem
To please her,
And insolence I feared she’d deem
To squeeze her;
Nor did I dare for that same why
To kiss her,
Lest, shocked, she’d cause my eager eye
To miss her.
I sickened thinking of some way
To win her,
When lo! she asked me, one fine day,
To dinner!
Twas thus that made of common flesh
I found her,
And in a mortal lover’s mesh
I wound her.
Embraces, kisses, loving looks
I gave her,
And buying bon-bons, flowers and books,
I save her;
For her few honest, human taints
I love her,
Nor would I change for all the saints
Above her
Those eyes, that little face, that so
Endear her,
And all the human joy I know
When near her;
And I am glad, when to my breast
I press her,
She’s just a woman, like the rest,
God bless her!
A Culinary Puzzle by Ellis Parker Butler
In our dainty little kitchen,
Where my aproned wife is queen
Over all the tin-pan people,
In a realm exceeding clean,
Oft I like to loiter, watching
While she mixes things for tea;
And she tasks me, slyly smiling,
“Now just guess what this will be!”
Hidden in a big blue apron,
Her dimpled arms laid bare,
And the love-smiles coyly mingling
With a housewife’s frown of care—
See her beat a golden batter,
Pausing but to ask of me,
As she adds a bit of butter,
“Now just guess what this will be!”
Then I bravely do my duty,
Guess it, “pudding,” “cake” or “pie,”
“Dumplings,” “waffles,” “bread” or “muffins;”
But no matter what I try,
This provoking witch just answers:
“Never mind, just wait and see!
But I think you should be able,
Dear, to guess what this will be.”
Little fraud! she never tells me
Until ’tis baked and browned—
And I think I know the reason
For her secrecy profound—
She herself with all her fine airs
And her books on cookery,
Could not answer, should I ask her,
“Dearest, what will that mess be?”
Where my aproned wife is queen
Over all the tin-pan people,
In a realm exceeding clean,
Oft I like to loiter, watching
While she mixes things for tea;
And she tasks me, slyly smiling,
“Now just guess what this will be!”
Hidden in a big blue apron,
Her dimpled arms laid bare,
And the love-smiles coyly mingling
With a housewife’s frown of care—
See her beat a golden batter,
Pausing but to ask of me,
As she adds a bit of butter,
“Now just guess what this will be!”
Then I bravely do my duty,
Guess it, “pudding,” “cake” or “pie,”
“Dumplings,” “waffles,” “bread” or “muffins;”
But no matter what I try,
This provoking witch just answers:
“Never mind, just wait and see!
But I think you should be able,
Dear, to guess what this will be.”
Little fraud! she never tells me
Until ’tis baked and browned—
And I think I know the reason
For her secrecy profound—
She herself with all her fine airs
And her books on cookery,
Could not answer, should I ask her,
“Dearest, what will that mess be?”
The Whale by Ellis Parker Butler
The Whale is found in seas and oceans,
Indulging there in fishlike motions,
But Science shows that Whales are mammals,
Like Jersey cows, and goats, and camels.
When undisturbed, the Whale will browse
Like camels, goats, and Jersey cows,
On food that satisfies its tongue,
Thus making milk to feed its young.
Asking no costly hay and oats,
Like camels, Jersey cows, and goats,
The Whale, prolific milk producer,
Should be our cheapest lactic juicer.
Our milk should all come from the sea,
But who, I ask, would want to be—
And here the proposition fails—
The milkmaid to a herd of Whales?
Indulging there in fishlike motions,
But Science shows that Whales are mammals,
Like Jersey cows, and goats, and camels.
When undisturbed, the Whale will browse
Like camels, goats, and Jersey cows,
On food that satisfies its tongue,
Thus making milk to feed its young.
Asking no costly hay and oats,
Like camels, Jersey cows, and goats,
The Whale, prolific milk producer,
Should be our cheapest lactic juicer.
Our milk should all come from the sea,
But who, I ask, would want to be—
And here the proposition fails—
The milkmaid to a herd of Whales?
The Sheep by Ellis Parker Butler
The Sheep adorns the landscape rural
And is both singular and plural—
It gives grammarians the creeps
To hear one say, “A flock of sheeps.”
The Sheep is gentle, meek and mild,
And led in herds by man or child—
Being less savage than the rabbit,
Sheep are gregarious by habit.
The Sheep grows wool and thus promotes
The making of vests, pants and coats—
Vests, pants and coats and woolen cloths
Provide good food for hungry moths.
With vegetables added to
The Sheep, we get our mutton stew—
Experiments long since revealed
The Sheep should first be killed and peeled.
Thus, with our debt to them so deep,
All men should cry “Praise be for Sheep!”—
And, if we happen to be shepherds,
“Praise be they’re not as fierce as leopards!”
And is both singular and plural—
It gives grammarians the creeps
To hear one say, “A flock of sheeps.”
The Sheep is gentle, meek and mild,
And led in herds by man or child—
Being less savage than the rabbit,
Sheep are gregarious by habit.
The Sheep grows wool and thus promotes
The making of vests, pants and coats—
Vests, pants and coats and woolen cloths
Provide good food for hungry moths.
With vegetables added to
The Sheep, we get our mutton stew—
Experiments long since revealed
The Sheep should first be killed and peeled.
Thus, with our debt to them so deep,
All men should cry “Praise be for Sheep!”—
And, if we happen to be shepherds,
“Praise be they’re not as fierce as leopards!”
Mary Had A Little Frog by Ellis Parker Butler
Mary had a little frog
And it was water-soaked,
But Mary did not keep it long
Because, of course, it croaked!
And it was water-soaked,
But Mary did not keep it long
Because, of course, it croaked!
Good - Better - Best by Ellis Parker Butler
When young, in tones quite positive
I said, "The world shall see
That I can keep myself from sin;
A good man I will be."
But when I loved Miss Kate St. Clair
'Twas thus my musing ran:
"I cannot be compared with her;
I'll be a better man."
'Twas at the wedding of a friend
(He married Kate St. Clair)
That I became superlative,
For I was "best man" there.
I said, "The world shall see
That I can keep myself from sin;
A good man I will be."
But when I loved Miss Kate St. Clair
'Twas thus my musing ran:
"I cannot be compared with her;
I'll be a better man."
'Twas at the wedding of a friend
(He married Kate St. Clair)
That I became superlative,
For I was "best man" there.
Ellis Parker Butler Biography
Ellis Parker Butler American Author, Humorist and Speaker Born: December 5, 1869; Muscatine, Iowa. Died: September 13, 1937; Williamsville, Massachusetts.
Author of more than 30 books and more than 2,000 stories and essays, Ellis Parker Butler is most famous for his short story "Pigs is Pigs" in which a bureaucratic stationmaster insists on levying the livestock rate for a shipment of two pet guinea pigs that soon start proliferating geometrically.
Working from his home in Flushing (Queens) New York, Ellis Parker Butler was -- by every measure and by many times -- the most published author of the pulp fiction era.
His career spanned more than forty years and his stories, poems and articles were published in more than 225 magazines. His work appeared along side that of his contemporaries including Mark Twain, Sax Rohmer, James B. Hendryx, Berton Braley, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Don Marquis, Will Rogers and Edgar Rice Burroughs.
Despite the enormous volume of his work #Ellis Parker Butler was, for most of his life, only a part-time author. He worked full-time as a banker and was very active in his local community. A founding member of both the Dutch Treat Club and the Author's League of America, Butler was an always-present force in the New York City literary scene.
Ellis Parker Butler dies of cancer complicated by diabetes. The next day, the New York Times publishes this obituary. The Times also reports that more than 200 people attend his funeral two days later.
Author of more than 30 books and more than 2,000 stories and essays, Ellis Parker Butler is most famous for his short story "Pigs is Pigs" in which a bureaucratic stationmaster insists on levying the livestock rate for a shipment of two pet guinea pigs that soon start proliferating geometrically.
Working from his home in Flushing (Queens) New York, Ellis Parker Butler was -- by every measure and by many times -- the most published author of the pulp fiction era.
His career spanned more than forty years and his stories, poems and articles were published in more than 225 magazines. His work appeared along side that of his contemporaries including Mark Twain, Sax Rohmer, James B. Hendryx, Berton Braley, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Don Marquis, Will Rogers and Edgar Rice Burroughs.
Despite the enormous volume of his work #Ellis Parker Butler was, for most of his life, only a part-time author. He worked full-time as a banker and was very active in his local community. A founding member of both the Dutch Treat Club and the Author's League of America, Butler was an always-present force in the New York City literary scene.
Ellis Parker Butler dies of cancer complicated by diabetes. The next day, the New York Times publishes this obituary. The Times also reports that more than 200 people attend his funeral two days later.