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Halpine, Charles G. (Charles Graham), 1829-1868 [1866], Baked meats of the funeral: a collection of essays, poems, speeches, histories, and banquets. Collected, revised, and edited, with the requisite corrections of punctuation, spelling, and grammar, by an ex-colonel... (Carleton, New York) [word count] [eaf563T]. To look up a word in a dictionary, select the word with your mouse and press 'd' on your keyboard.
CONTRIBUTIONS TO ITS ALBUM FROM DISTINGUISHED Mr. Wm. Stuart, of the Winter Garden At this “Home of the Good Samaritan for the
Last year the institution of an album was RULES For the government of the Home of the Good Samaritan, in In the home of the Good Samaritan You must be extremely nice, Emphatic and most precise, In doing exactly the thing you please: For the rule of the Good Samaritan Is “Every man at his ease.”
In the home of the Good Samaritan With the bright blue bay before you, The shady veranda o'er you, And the pleasant bottles in the room behind; You must feel like a Good Samaritan To all of human kind! In the home of the Good Samaritan Your talk may have all variety, Save that politics or piety, If gabbled about some grief may brew; And to feel like a Good Samaritan These topics we must eschew. To the Home of the Good Samaritan, From the dust and heat of the town, Bohemia rushes gladly down— The gifted, the witty, the wise, the queer; “And oho!” says the Good Samaritan, “You are all of you welcome here!” By order of Grand Hierarch, Mi-les Au-Relius, A. A. G., and Chief of Staff. Following this introduction, there are verses
As samples of the contents of this really remarkable In the clear, large, and beautiful Italian chirography THE LEAGUE OF ANTI-BEEFERS. Pass the word along the line, Let the butchers come to grief; When we breakfast, sup, or dine, Let us shun the sight of beef! Let it be as flesh of swine, Unto Israel's strict believers; And, till present rates decline, Let us all be Anti-Beefers!
Lovely maid and tender wife, Soon our butcher-foes we'll humble; Join our league and share our strife, 'Till the beefy idol tumble! Raise your glistening hands to heaven, And swear—however fashion differs— That, until meat is cheaper given, You join the League of Anti-Beefers. Nor with hunger need we pine, While the trees their fruitage render; Fish are juicy, fresh, and fine, Salads, too, are crisp and tender. Join the banner that we raise; Already, see! the butcher quivers! And victory's wreath, ere many days, Shall crown the brows of Anti-Beefers! After this, in the revered handwriting of Wm.
SONG OF KING PESTILENCE. I am monarch of all I survey, No breeze my fierce ardor can cool, I am King of Manhattan to-day, Thanks to Brennan, and Develin, and Boole; Nor be Hoffman and Gunther forgot, Who nurtured my birth with their smiles— And the weather's delightfully hot, And the garbage rots rankly in piles. Oh, cleanliness, comfort, and health! Oh, summer-airs, laden with sweets! To increase of some villains the wealth Have you fled, and for ever, our street? Must King Pestilence riot and rule Unchecked and at will o'er the town, To enrich Brennan, Develin, and Boole, And contractors Devoe, Knapp, and Brown? In the tenement-houses where thick The poor, like red herrings, are stowed; In the alleys where fever is quick, And consumption hath made its abode; Where the offal is foul as the “ring” Of Tweed, Ottiwell, Farley and Co.— I am king—I am king—I am king! Thanks to Brown, Shepherd Knapp, and Devoe! Oh, mother! with babe at your breast, As its life flickers faintly and low, Be sure your full thanks are expressed To contractors Brown, Knapp, and Devoe!
Their gain is the object that keeps Our gutters with ordure defiled; And 'tis they pile the poison in heaps That is strangling the life of your child. The bright air of summer is dense With glutinous odors and stenches; We breathe at a dreadful expense Of olfactory tortures and wrenches; But this comforting fact we should know, And close to our hearts we should lock it— That contractors Brown, Knapp, and Devoe From this job two clear millions will pocket! The graveyards will fill, to be sure, Much faster than need would demand; And a full double-crop of the poor I will reap with my skeleton hand; Oh, the widows may mourn for the dead, And the orphans may snivel their woe— But the purses will largely be fed Of contractors Brown, Knapp, and Devoe! Oh, Fenton, our Governor dear! To you our entreaties ascend; Let your guillotine, gleaming and clear, On the necks of these villains descend! The basket of saw-dust, we know, Will keep the heads pleasant and cool Of contractors Brown, Knapp, and Devoe, And their “chums”—Brennan, Develin, and Boole! The next contribution claiming special attention
REFRIGERATION INSTANTANEOUS! All day the heat had been intense, No cloud obscured the burning ray, The air was sultry, close, and dense, And what we suffered, so immense That language never can portray; When suddenly a coolness came As some one cried, that “Demas Strong Now purposed by the law to claim An honest legislator's name”— Our laughter brake forth loud and long!
And when again 'twas louder cried: “Strong brings a libel-suit to prove That never in corruption's tide Have his white hands been blackly dyed”— Chill currents o'er us seemed to move! No iceberg drifting toward the line Brings quicker chill to nearing ships; The coolness grew so keen and fine, 'Twas piquant as some well-iced wine Of bubbling foam to thirsty lips. “Let now thy servant part in peace, Oh! Lord,” arose our humble prayer; For never till the years shall cease Can come a coolness like to this— So fresh, so pure and debonnair! But let the words not oft arise, For such the coolness they unfold, That, spoken oft, a woof of ice Seems to have seized us in a vice, And our souls perish in the cold! Having quoted from so many editorial celebrities,
THE BALMORAL SKIRT. Oh, contrast divine with the pale, saintly face, And the blue eyes that beam, now in mirth, now in dolor! Oh, Garment that blends picturesqueness and grace, Suggesting sweet dreams full as warm as thy color! Oh, feet flashing out from the roseate ring, Like doves from a sunset that crimsons behind them! Oh, flame still attracting each moth on the wing To court the embrace which but dazzles to blind them! As the pomegrante glistening, an apple of gold, Invites every tooth with its flesh to make issue, Yet contains richer coloring, fold within fold, And the nearer its heart so the warmer its tissue; Thus, Laura, to me a pomegranate thou art, With thy rich golden hair and thy lips of red coral; Yea! the dreamy similitude startles the heart, When thy silken skirt raised shows the glowing “Balmoral.” We shall conclude our extracts—confessing
NOT QUITE IN VAIN. How often in days of our sore distress, When we faint with an absolute weariness Of endless labor and endless pain, The sickening thoughts in our souls will rise, Clouding with gloom even the summer skies, And chilling the pulse and filling the eyes— `We have lived—we have lived in vain!” When hearts we thought golden and trusted best, Prove but shrivelling dross in the fiery test Which the Fates for all friendships ordain; As we turn the false picture with face to the wall, Or veil the lost idol with charity's pall, How cold on the soul seems the whisper to fall— “We have lived—we have lived in vain!” When some prize of ambition, for years postponed, Is at length attained, yet we feel unatoned For the struggle that gave us the gain— Oh, spurning the dead-sea fruit we sought, “Must it ever be thus?” is the weary thought, And again to our ear is the whisper brought— “We have lived—we have lived in vain!” Oh, friends! how rare in this workaday life Are the prizes, if won, that are worth the strife, The clangor, the dust, and the strain!
There is only one in the world below, But one, that, whatever its price of woe, Bids the soul in the veins to exultingly know That we have not lived in vain. 'Tis that moment unspeakable—best unsaid— When blushingly downward the dear drooping head To our breast for the first time we strain; And the promise is given, not in words, but in sighs, And the sweet humid tenderness filling her eyes— “Oh, soul of my soul, if my love be a prize, Then you have not lived in vain!” In salient contrast with the loving and eminently
MY PRIVATE HEAVEN. BY THEODORE TILTON. Well, talk of pleasures as you will, 'Tis all a point of taste; Some like to scrape, collect, and fill, Some like to spend and waste. Some choose in love's young smile to bask, Exchanging sigh and look; But give to me—'tis all I ask— My coffee, pipe, and book! Some, led by fortune's fickle star, All seas and countries roam; And some—I think the wisest far— Prefer to stay at home. Some love the angler's tedious task, The harmless fish to hook; But give to me—'tis all I ask— My coffee, pipe, and book. Some love to hunt with gun and hound, Some hunt for wealthy widows; Some go geologizing round, Some botanize in meadows. Full many love to steal a kiss In some not public nook; But give to me—'tis all I ask— My coffee, pipe, and book.
Yes! many men have many tricks, To make a pleasant living; And Tom takes up with politics, While Dick does bolder thieving. Full many tastes to us are given, And each man's whim I brook; But give me as my private Heaven, My coffee, pipe, and book!
Halpine, Charles G. (Charles Graham), 1829-1868 [1866], Baked meats of the funeral: a collection of essays, poems, speeches, histories, and banquets. Collected, revised, and edited, with the requisite corrections of punctuation, spelling, and grammar, by an ex-colonel... (Carleton, New York) [word count] [eaf563T]. |