Carols of Cockayne

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J. C. Hotten, 1869 - Poetry, Modern - 207 pages

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Page 9 - For one of us was born a twin, Yet not a soul knew which. One day, to make the matter worse, Before our names were fixed, As we were being washed by nurse, We got completely mixed; And thus, you see, by fate's decree, Or rather nurse's whim, My brother John got...
Page 48 - I wondered hugely what she meant, And said, "I'm bad at riddles; But I know where little girls are sent For telling taradiddles. "Now, if you don't reform," said I, " You'll never go to heaven." But all in vain; each time I try, That little idiot makes reply, "I ain't had more nor seven!" POSTSCRIPT: To borrow Wordsworth's name was wrong, Or slightly misapplied; And so I'd better call my song "Lines after Ache-inside.
Page 27 - Folks were happy as days were long In the old Arcadian times ; When life seemed only a dance and song In the sweetest of all sweet climes. Our world grows bigger, and, stage by stage, As the pitiless years have rolled, We've quite forgotten the Golden Age, And come to the Age of Gold. Time went by in a sheepish way Upon Thessaly's plains of yore. In the nineteenth century lambs at play Mean mutton, and nothing more. Our swains at present are far too sage To live as one lived of old : So they couple...
Page 47 - I thought it would have sent me mad Last night about eleven." Said I, " What is it makes you bad? How many apples have you had?" She answered, "Only seven!" "And are you sure you took no more, My little maid?" quoth I; "Oh, please, sir, mother gave me four, But they were in a pie!" "If that's the case," I stammered out, "Of course you've had eleven.
Page 103 - NAY, start not from the banquet where the red wine foams .. , for thee — Though somewhat thick to perforate this epidermis be ; 'Tis madness, when the bowl invites, to linger at the brink : So haste thee, haste thee, timid one. Drink, pretty creature, drink ! I tell thee, if these azure veins could boast the regal wine Of Tudors or Plantagenets, the draught should still be thine ! Though round the goblet's beaded brim plebeian bubbles wink, 'Twill cheer and not inebriate. Drink, pretty creature,...

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