Ruthless Rhymes for Heartless Homes
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Dedicated to P. P
("Qui connait son sourire a connu le parfait.")I NEED no Comments of the Press,No critic's cursory caress,No paragraphs my book to blessWith praise, or ban with curses,So long as You, for whom I write,Whose single notice I invite,Are still sufficiently politeTo smile upon my verses.If You should seek for Ruthless Rhymes(In memory of Western climes),And, for the sake of olden times,Obtain this new edition,You must not be surprised a bit,Nor even deem the act unfit,That I have dedicated itTo You, without permission.P. T. O.1And if You chance to ask me why,It is sufficient, I reply,That You are You, and I am I, —To put the matter briefly.That I should dedicate to YouCan only interest us two;The fact remains, then, that I do,Because I want to – chiefly.And if these verses can beguileFrom those grey eyes of yours a smile,You will have made it well worth whileTo seek your approbation;No further meedOf praise they need,But must succeed,And do indeed,If they but leadYou on to readBeyond the Dedication.1901.H. G.Author's Preface
WITH guilty, conscience-stricken tearsI offer up these rhymes of mineTo children of maturer years(From Seventeen to Ninety-nine).A special solace may they beIn days of second infancy.The frenzied mother who observesThis volume in her offspring's hand,And trembles for the darling's nerves,Must please to clearly understand,If baby suffers by-and-byeThe Artist is to blame, not I!But should the little brat survive,And fatten on the Ruthless Rhyme,To raise a Heartless Home and thriveThrough a successful life of crime,The Artist hopes that you will seeThat I am to be thanked, not he!P. T. O.2Fond parent, you whose children areOf tender age (from two to eight),Pray keep this little volume farFrom reach of such, and relegateMy verses to an upper shelf, —Where you may study them yourself.Uncle Joe
AN Angel bore dear Uncle JoeTo rest beyond the stars.I miss him, oh! I miss him so, —He had such good cigars.Impetuous Samuel
SAM had spirits naught could check,And to-day, at breakfast, heBroke his baby sister's neck,So he shan't have jam for tea!Inconsiderate Hannah
NAUGHTY little Hannah saidShe could make her grandma whistle,So, that night, inside her bedPlaced some nettles and a thistle.Though dear grandma quite infirm is,Heartless Hannah watched her settle,With her poor old epidermisResting up against a nettle.Suddenly she reached the thistle!My! you should have heard her whistle!…A successful plan was Hannah's,But I cannot praise her manners.Aunt Eliza
IN the drinking-well(Which the plumber built her)Aunt Eliza fell, —We must buy a filter.Self-Sacrifice
FATHER, chancing to chastiseHis indignant daughter Sue,Said, "I hope you realizeThat this hurts me more than you."Susan straightway ceased to roar."If that's really true," said she,"I can stand a good deal more;Pray go on, and don't mind me."La Course Interrompue
IJEAN qui allait a Dijon(Il montait en bicyclette)Rencontra un gros lionQui se faisait la toilette.IIVoila Jean qui tombe a terreEt le lion le digère!…Mon Dieu! Que c'est embêtant!Il me devait quatre francs.John
JOHN, across the broad Atlantic,Tried to navigate a barque,But he met an unromanticAnd extremely hungry shark.John (I blame his childhood's teachers)Thought to treat this as a lark,Ignorant of how these creaturesDo delight to bite a barque.Said "This animal's a bore!" and,With a scornful sort of grin,Handled an adjacent oar andChucked it underneath the chin.At this unexpected junctureWhich he had not reckoned on,Mr. Shark he made a punctureIn the barque – and then in John.Sad am I, and sore at thinkingJohn had on some clothes of mine;I can almost see them shrinking,Washed repeatedly in brine.I shall never cease regrettingThat I lent my hat to him,For I fear a thorough wettingCannot well improve the brim.Oh! to know a shark is browsing,Boldly, blandly on my boots!Coldly, cruelly carousingOn the choicest of my suits!Creatures I regard with loathingWho can calmly take their fillOf one's Jæger underclothing: —Down, my aching heart, be still!The Fond Father
OF Baby I was very fond,She'd won her father's heart;So, when she fell into the pond,It gave me quite a start.Necessity
LATE last night I slew my wife,Stretched her on the parquet flooring;I was loath to take her life,But I had to stop her snoring.Unselfishness
ALL those who see my children say,"What sweet, what kind, what charming elves!"They are so thoughtful, too, for theyAre always thinking of themselves.It must be ages since I ceasedTo wonder which I liked the least.Such is their generosity,That, when the roof began to fall,They would not share the risk with me,But said, "No, father, take it all!"Yet I should love them more, I know,If I did not dislike them so.Scorching John
JOHN, who rode his Dunlop tireO'er the head of sweet Maria,When she writhed in frightful pain,Had to blow it out again.Misfortunes Never Come Singly
MAKING toast at the fireside,Nurse fell in the grate and died;And, what makes it ten times worse,All the toast was burned with nurse.The Perils of Obesity
YESTERDAY my gun explodedWhen I thought it wasn't loaded;Near my wife I pressed the trigger,Chipped a fragment off her figure;'Course I'm sorry, and all that,But she shouldn't be so fat.Tender-Heartedness
BILLY, in one of his nice new sashes,Fell in the fire and was burnt to ashes;Now, although the room grows chilly,I haven't the heart to poke poor Billy.Jim; or, the Deferred Luncheon Party
WHEN the line he tried to cross,The express ran into Jim;Bitterly I mourn his loss —I was to have lunched with him.Appreciation
AUNTIE, did you feel no painFalling from that apple tree?Will you do it, please, again?'Cos my friend here didn't see.Baby
BABY in the caldron fell, —See the grief on Mother's brow;Mother loved her darling well, —Darling's quite hard-boiled by now.Nurse's Mistake
NURSE, who peppered baby's face(She mistook it for a muffin),Held her tongue and kept her place,"Laying low and sayin' nuffin'";Mother, seeing baby blinded,Said, "Oh, nurse, how absent-minded!"The Stern Parent
FATHER heard his Children scream,So he threw them in the stream,Saying, as he drowned the third,"Children should be seen, not heard!""Bluebeard"
YES, I am Bluebeard, and my nameIs one that children cannot stand;Yet once I used to be so tameI'd eat out of a person's hand;So gentle was I wont to beA Curate might have played with me.People accord me little praise,Yet I am not the least alarming;I can recall, in bygone days,A maid once said she thought me charming.She was my friend, – no more I vow, —And – she's in an asylum now.Girls used to clamour for my hand,Girls I refused in simple dozens;I said I'd be their brother, andThey promised they would be my cousins.(One, I accepted, – more or less —But I've forgotten her address.)They worried me like anythingBy their proposals ev'ry day,Until at last I had to ringThe bell, and have them cleared away;(I often pondered on the costOf getting them completely lost.)To share my somewhat lofty rankWas what they panted for, like mad;You see my balance at the bankWas not so small, and, I may add,A Castle, Gothic and immense,Is my Official Residence.It overlooks a many a mileOf park, of gardens and domains;I'm staying now in lodgings, whileThey're doing up the – well – the drains, —For they began to give offenceAt my Official Residence.And, when I entertain at home,I hardly ever fail to please,The "upper tens" alone may comeTo join in my "recherché" teas;I am a King in ev'ry senseAt my Official Residence.My dances, on a parquet floor,My royal dinners, which consistOf fifteen courses, sometimes more,Are things that are not lightly missed;In fact I do not spare expenseAt my Official Residence.My hospitality to thoseWhom I invite to come and stayIs famed; my wine like water flows,Exactly like, some people say,But this is mere impertinenceAt my Official Residence.When through the streets I walk aboutMy subjects stand and kiss their hands,Raise a refined metallic shout,Wave flags and warble tunes on bands,While bunting hangs on ev'ry front, —With my commands to let it bunt.When I come home again, of course,Retainers are employed to cheer,My paid domestics get quite hoarseAcclaiming me, and you can hearThe welkin ringing to the sky, —Aye, aye, and let it welk, say I!And yet, in spite of this, there areSome persons who, at diff'rent times,– (Because I am so popular) —Accuse me of most awful crimes;A girl once said I was a flirt!Oh my! how the expression hurt!I never flirted in the least,Never for very long, I mean, —Ask any lady (now deceased)Who partner of my life has been; —Oh well, of course, sometimes, perhaps,I meet a girl, like other chaps.And, if I like her very much,And if she cares for me a bit,Where is the harm of look or touchIf neither of us mentions it?It isn't right, I don't suppose,But no one's hurt if no one knows!And, if I placed my hand belowHer chin and raised her face an inch,And then proceeded – well, you know, —(Excuse the vulgarism) – to clinch;It would be wrong without a doubt,That is, if anyone found out.But then, remember, Life is shortAnd Woman's Arts are very long,And sometimes when one didn't oughtOne knowingly commits a wrong;Well – speaking for myself, of course,I almost always feel remorse.One should not break one's self too fastOf little habits of this sort,Which may be definitely classedWith gambling or a taste for port;They should be slowly dropped, untilThe Heart is subject to the Will.I knew a man on Seventh StreetWho, at a very slight expense,By persevering, was complete-Ly cured of total abstinence;An altered life he has begunAnd takes a horn with anyone.I knew another man whose wifeWas an invet'rate suicide,She daily strove to take her lifeAnd (naturally) nearly died;But some such system she essayed,And now she's eighty in the shade.Ah, the new leaves I try to turn,But, like so many men in town,I seem, as with regret I learn,Merely to turn the corner down;A habit which I fear, alack!Makes it more easy to turn back.I have been criticised a lot;I venture to enquire what for;Because, forsooth, I have not gotThe instincts of a bachelor!Just hear my story, you will findHow grossly I have been maligned.I was unlucky with my wives,So are the most of married men;Undoubtedly they lost their lives, —Of course, but even so, what then?I loved them dearly, understand,And I can love, to beat the band.My first was little Emmeline,More beautiful than day was she;Her proud, aristocratic mienWas what at once attracted me.I naturally did not knowThat I should soon dislike her so.But there it was! And you'll inferI had not very long to waitBefore my red-hot love for herTurned to unutterable hate.So, when this state of things I found,I naturally had her drowned.My next was Sarah, sweet but shy,And quite inordinately meek;Yes, even now I wonder whyI had her hanged within the week.Perhaps I felt a bit upset,Or else she bored me, I forget.Then came Evangeline, my third,And, when I chanced to be away,She, so I subsequently heard,Was wont (I deeply grieve to say)With my small retinue to flirt.I strangled her. I hope it hurt.Isabel was, I think, my next, —(That is, if I remember right) —And I was really very vexedTo find her hair come off at night;To falsehood I could not connive,And so I had her boiled alive.Then came Sophia, I believe,Her coiffure was at least her own,Alas! she fancied to deceiveHer friends by altering its tone.She dyed her locks a flaming red!I suffocated her in bed.Susannah Maud was number six;But she did not survive a day;Poor Sue, she had no parlour tricksAnd hardly anything to say.A little strychnine in her teaFinished her off, and I was free.Yet I did not despair, and soon!In spite of failures, started offUpon my seventh honeymoonWith Jane; but could not stand her cough.'Twas chronic. Kindness was in vain.I pushed her underneath the train.Well, after her, I married Kate.A most unpleasant woman. Oh!I caught her at the garden gateKissing a man I didn't know;And, as that didn't suit me quite,I blew her up with dynamite.Most married men, so sorely triedAs this, would have been rather bored.Not I, but chose another brideAnd married Ruth. Alas! she snored!I served her just the same as Kate,And so she joined the other eight.My last was Grace; I am not clear,I think she didn't like me much;She used to scream when I came near,And shuddered at my lightest touch.She seemed to wish to keep aloof,And so I threw her off the roof.This is the point I wish to make: —From all the wives for whom I grieve,Whose lives I had perforce to take,Not one complaint did I receive;And no expense was spared to pleaseMy spouses at their obsequies.My habits, I would have you know,Are perfect, as they've always been;You ask if I am good, and goTo church, and keep my fingers clean?I do, I mean to say I am,I have the morals of a lamb.In my domains there is no sin,Virtue is rampant all the time,Since I so thoughtfully brought inA bill which legalizes crime;Committing things that are not wrongMust pall before so very long.And if what you imagine viceIs not considered so at all,Crime doesn't seem the least bit nice,There's no temptation then to fall;For half the charm of things we doIs knowing that we oughtn't to.Believe me, then, I am not bad,Though in my youth I had to trekBecause I happened to have hadSome difficulties with a cheque.What forgery in some might beIs absentmindedness in me!I know that I was much abused,No doubt when I was young and rash,But I should not have been accusedOf misappropriating cash.I may have sneaked a silver dish; —Well, you may search me if you wish!So, now you see me, more or less,As I would figure in your thoughts;A trifle given to excessAnd prone perhaps to vice of sorts;When tempted, rather apt to fall,But still – a good chap after all!The Cat
(Advice to the Young)MY children, you should imitateThe harmless, necessary cat,Who eats whatever's on his plate,And doesn't even leave the fat;Who never stays in bed too late,Or does immoral things like that;Instead of saying "Shan't!" or "Bosh!"He'll sit and wash, and wash, and wash!When shadows fall and lights grow dimHe sits beneath the kitchen stair;Regardless as to life and limb,A simple couch he chooses there;And if you tumble over him,He simply loves to hear you swear.And, while bad language you prefer,He'll sit and purr, and purr, and purr!The Children's "Don't"
DON'T tell Papa his nose is redAs any rosebud or geranium,Forbear to eye his hairless headOr criticise his cootlike cranium;'Tis years of sorrow and of careHave made his head come through his hair.Don't give your endless guinea-pig(Wherein that animal may build aSufficient nest) the Sunday wigOf poor, dear, dull, deaf Aunt Matilda.Oh, don't tie strings across her path,Or empty beetles in her bath!Don't ask your uncle why he's fat;Avoid upon his toe-joints treading;Don't hide a hedgehog in his hat,Or bury bushes in his bedding.He will not see the slightest sportIn pepper put into his port!Don't pull away the cherished chairOn which Mamma intended sitting,Nor yet prepare her session thereBy setting on the seat her knitting;Pause ere you hurt her spine, I pray —That is a game that two can play.My children, never, never steal!To know their offspring is a thiefWill often make a father feelAnnoyed and cause a mother grief;So never steal, but, when you do,Be sure there's no one watching you.Perhaps you have a turn for whatIs known as "misappropriation,"Attractions this has doubtless gotFor persons of a certain station,But prevalent 'twill never beAmong the aristocracy.Of course, suppose you want a thing(The owner's absent), and you borrowA ruby ring; you mean to bringYour friend his trinket back to-morrowMeanwhile you have the stones reset,Lest he forget! Lest he forget!And if some rude detective's handShould find beneath your cloak a rollOf muslin, or a cruet-standThat's labelled "Hotel Metropole,"With kindly smile you hand them back,A harmless Kleptomaniac!…Don't tell a lie! Some men I've knownCommit the most appalling acts,Because they happen to be proneTo an economy of facts;And if to lie is bad, no doubt'Tis even worse to get found out!…Don't take the life of any one,However horrid he may be;That sort of thing is never done,Not in the best society,Where even parricide is thoughtA most unfilial kind of sport.Among the "Upper Ten" to-day,It is considered want of tactTo slay one's kith and kin, and mayBe classed as an "unfriendly act."Oh, yes, of course I know that thisIs merely public prejudice.But ever since the world began,Howe'er well meant his motives are,The man who slays his fellow manIs never really popular,Whether he sins from love of crime,Or merely just to pass the time.Envoi
SPEED, Ruthless Rhymes; throughout the landDisperse yourselves with patient zeal!Go, perch upon the Critic's hand,Just after he has had a meal.But should he still unkindly be,Unperch and hasten back to me.And, wheresoever you may roam,Remember the secluded shelf(Where, sitting in his Heartless Home,The author chortles to himself),There, in the distant by-and-bye,You still may flutter back – to die.1
Transcriber's Note: P.T.O. means please turn over. This is retained in the text although the instruction is not necessary.
2
Transcriber's Note: P.T.O. means please turn over. This is retained in the text although the instruction is not necessary.