Lewis Carroll

"You are old, Father william," the young man said, "And your hair has become very white; And yet you incessantly stand on your head-- Do you think, at your age, it is right?

"In my youth," Father William replied to his son, "I feared it might injure the brain; But now that I'm perfectly sure I have none, Why, I do it again and again."

"You are old," said the youth, "as I mentioned before, And you have grown must uncommonly fat; Yet you turned back a somersault in at the door-- Pray, what is the reason of that?"

"In my youth," said the sage, as he shook his gray locks, "I kep all my limbs very supple By the use of this ointment--one shilling a box-- Allow me to sell you a couple."

"You are old," said the youth, "and your jaws are too weak For anything tougher than suet; Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak-- Pray, how did you manage to do it?"

"In my youth," said his father, "I took to the law, And argued each case with my wife; And the muscular strength, which it gave to my jaw, Has lasted the rest of my life."

"You are old," said the youth, "one would hardly suppose That your eyes was as steady as ever; Yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose-- What made you so awfully clever?"

"I have answered three questions, and that is enough," Said his father; "don't give yourself airs! Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff? Be off, or I'll kick you downstairs!"

"SISTER, sister, go to bed! Go and rest your weary head." Thus the prudent brother said.

"Do you want a battered hide, Or scratches to your face applied?" Thus his sister calm replied.

"Sister, do not raise my wrath. I'd make you into mutton broth As easily as kill a moth"

The sister raised her beaming eye And looked on him indignantly And sternly answered, "Only try!"

Off to the cook he quickly ran. "Dear Cook, please lend a frying-pan To me as quickly as you can."

And wherefore should I lend it you?" "The reason, Cook, is plain to view. I wish to make an Irish stew."

"What meat is in that stew to go?" "My sister'll be the contents!" "Oh" "You'll lend the pan to me, Cook?" "No!"

Moral: Never stew your sister.

Sent to a friend who had complained that I was glad enough to see him when he came, but didn't seem to miss him if he stayed away.

And cannot pleasures, while they last, Be actual unless, when past, They leave us shuddering and aghast, With anguish smarting? And cannot friends be firm and fast, And yet bear parting?

And must I then, at Friendship's call, Calmly resign the little all (Trifling, I grant, it is and small) I have of gladness, And lend my being to the thrall Of gloom and sadness?

And think you that I should be dumb, And full DOLORUM OMNIUM, Excepting when YOU choose to come And share my dinner? At other times be sour and glum And daily thinner?

Must he then only live to weep, Who'd prove his friendship true and deep By day a lonely shadow creep, At night-time languish, Oft raising in his broken sleep The moan of anguish?

The lover, if for certain days His fair one be denied his gaze, Sinks not in grief and wild amaze, But, wiser wooer, He spends the time in writing lays, And posts them to her.

And if the verse flow free and fast, Till even the poet is aghast, A touching Valentine at last The post shall carry, When thirteen days are gone and past Of February.

Farewell, dear friend, and when we meet, In desert waste or crowded street, Perhaps before this week shall fleet, Perhaps to-morrow. I trust to find YOUR heart the seat Of wasting sorrow.

"WHAT'S this?" I pondered. "Have I slept? Or can I have been drinking?" But soon a gentler feeling crept Upon me, and I sat and wept An hour or so, like winking.

"No need for Bones to hurry so!" I sobbed. "In fact, I doubt If it was worth his while to go - And who is Tibbs, I'd like to know, To make such work about?

"If Tibbs is anything like me, It's POSSIBLE," I said, "He won't be over-pleased to be Dropped in upon at half-past three, After he's snug in bed.

"And if Bones plagues him anyhow - Squeaking and all the rest of it, As he was doing here just now - I prophesy there'll be a row, And Tibbs will have the best of it!"

Then, as my tears could never bring The friendly Phantom back, It seemed to me the proper thing To mix another glass, and sing The following Coronach.

'AND ART THOU GONE, BELOVED GHOST? BEST OF FAMILIARS! NAY THEN, FAREWELL, MY DUCKLING ROAST, FAREWELL, FAREWELL, MY TEA AND TOAST, MY MEERSCHAUM AND CIGARS!

THE HUES OF LIFE ARE DULL AND GRAY, THE SWEETS OF LIFE INSIPID, WHEN thou, MY CHARMER, ART AWAY - OLD BRICK, OR RATHER, LET ME SAY, OLD PARALLELEPIPED!'

Instead of singing Verse the Third, I ceased - abruptly, rather: But, after such a splendid word I felt that it would be absurd To try it any farther.

So with a yawn I went my way To seek the welcome downy, And slept, and dreamed till break of day Of Poltergeist and Fetch and Fay And Leprechaun and Brownie!

For year I've not been visited By any kind of Sprite; Yet still they echo in my head, Those parting words, so kindly said, "Old Turnip-top, good-night!"

There are certain things--as, a spider, a ghost, The income-tax, gout, an umbrella for three-- That I hate, but the thing that I hate the most Is a thing they call the Sea.

Pour some salt water over the floor-- Ugly I'm sure you'll allow it to be: Suppose it extended a mile or more, That's very like the Sea.

Beat a dog till it howls outright-- Cruel, but all very well for a spree: Suppose that he did so day and night, That would be like the Sea.

I had a vision of nursery-maids; Tens of thousands passed by me-- All leading children with wooden spades, And this was by the Sea.

Who invented those spades of wood? Who was it cut them out of the tree? None, I think, but an idiot could-- Or one that loved the Sea.

It is pleasant and dreamy, no doubt, to float With "thoughts as boundless, and souls as free": But, suppose you are very unwell in the boat, How do you like the Sea?

There is an insect that people avoid (Whence is derived the verb "to flee"). Where have you been by it most annoyed? In lodgings by the Sea.

If you like your coffee with sand for dregs, A decided hint of salt in your tea, And a fishy taste in the very eggs-- By all means choose the Sea.

And if, with these dainties to drink and eat, You prefer not a vestige of grass or tree, And a chronic state of wet in your feet, Then--I recommend the Sea.

For I have friends who dwell by the coast-- Pleasant friends they are to me! It is when I am with them I wonder most That anyone likes the Sea.

They take me a walk: though tired and stiff, To climb the heights I madly agree; And, after a tumble or so from the cliff, They kindly suggest the Sea.

I try the rocks, and I think it cool That they laugh with such an excess of glee, As I heavily slip into every pool That skirts the cold cold Sea.