London Society, Volume 32

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William Clowes and Sons, 1877 - English literature

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Page 237 - 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.
Page 558 - Thither have been carried, through successive ages, by the rude hands of gaolers, without one mourner following, the bleeding relics of men who had been the captains of armies, the leaders of parties, the oracles of senates, and the ornaments of courts.
Page 237 - And hast thou slain the Jabberwock? Come to my arms, my beamish boy! O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!" He chortled in his joy. 'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe; All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe.
Page 237 - 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?
Page 240 - Home they brought her sailor son, Grown a man across the sea, Tall and broad and black of beard, And hoarse of voice as man may be. Hand to shake and mouth to kiss, Both he offered ere he spoke ; But she said — " What man is this Comes to play a sorry joke? " Then they praised him — call'd him " smart," " Tightest lad that ever stept ; " But her son she did not know, And she neither smiled nor wept.
Page 200 - Whoe'er has travell'd life's dull round, Where'er his stages may have been, May sigh to think he still has found The warmest welcome at an inn.
Page 559 - of the waiting-rooms of the Opera House, was seated a woman of fashionable appearance, still beautiful, but not " in the bloom of beauty's pride ; " she was not noticed, except by the eye of pity.
Page 238 - 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 239 - My book in turn avers (No author's name is stated) That sometimes those Philosophers Are sadly mistranslated.
Page 204 - Enfant! si j'étais roi, je donnerais l'empire, Et mon char, et mon sceptre, et mon peuple ŕ genoux, Et ma couronne d'or, et mes bains de porphyre, Et mes flottes, ŕ qui la mer ne peut suffire, Pour un regard de vous!

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