New England Magazine - Ellis Parker Butler

poem: New England Magazine by Ellis Parker Butler

Upon Bottle Miche the autre day
While yet the nuit was early,
Je met a homme whose barbe was grey,
Whose cheveaux long and curly.

“Je am a poete, sir,” dit he,
“Je live where tres grande want teems—
I’m faim, sir. Sil vous plait give me
Un franc or cinquatite centimes.”

I donne him vingt big copper sous
But dit, “You moderne rhymers
The sacre poet name abuse—
Les poets were old timers.”

“Je know! I know!” he wept, contrite;
“The bards no more suis mighty:
Ils rise no more in eleve flight,
Though some are beaucoup flighty.

“Vous wonder why Je weep this way,
Pour quoi these tears and blubbers?
It is mon fault les bards today
Helas! suis mere earth-grubbers.

“There was a time when tout might see
My grande flights dans the saddle;
Crowned rois, indeed, applauded me
Le Pegasus astraddle.

“Le winged horse avec acclaim
Was voted mon possession;
Je rode him tous les jours to fame;
Je led the whole procession.

“Then arrivee the Prussian war—
The siege—the sacre famine—
Then some had but a crust encore,
We mange the last least ham-an’

“Helas! Mon noble winged steed
Went oft avec no dinner;
On epics il refusee feed
And maigre grew, and thinner!

“Tout food was gone, and dans the street
Each homme sought crusts to sate him—
Joyeux were those with horse’s meat,
And Pegasus! Je ate him!”

My anger then Je could not hide—
To parler scarcely able
“Oh! curses dans you, sir!” Je cried;
“Vous human livery stable!”

He fled! But vous who read this know
Why mon pauvre verse is beaten
By that of cinquante years ago
‘Vant Pegasus fut eaten!

poem by Ellis Parker Butler

Night In The City - Ellis Parker Butler

poem: Night In The City by Ellis Parker Butler

The sluggish clouds hang low upon the town,
And from yon lamp in chilled and sodden rays
The feeble light gropes through the heavy mist
And dies, extinguished in the stagnant maze.

From moisty eaves the drops fall slowly down
To strike with leaden sound the walk below,
And in dark, murky pools upon the street
The water stands, as lacking life to flow.

With hopeless brain, oppressed and sad at heart,
Toil’s careworn slave turns out his flickering light
And treads in dreams his dulling round again,
Where weary day succeeds to dismal night.

poem by Ellis Parker Butler

No Beer, No Work - Ellis Parker Butler

poem: No Beer, No Work by Ellis Parker Butler

The shades of night was fallin’ slow
As through New York a guy did go
And nail on ev’ry barroom door
A card that this here motter bore:
“No beer, no work.”

His brow was sad, his mouth was dry;
It was the first day of July,
And where, all parched and scorched it hung,
These words was stenciled on his tongue:
“No beer, no work.”

“Oh, stay,” the maiden said, “and sup
This malted milk from this here cup.”
A shudder passed through that there guy,
But with a moan he made reply:
“No beer, no work.”

At break of day, as through the town
The milkman put milk bottles down,
Onto one stoop a sort of snore
Was heard, and then was heard no more—
“No beer, no work.”

The poor old guy plumb dead was found
And planted in the buryin’ ground,
Still graspin’ in his hand of ice
Them placards with this sad device:
“No beer, no work.”

poem by Ellis Parker Butler

October by Ellis Parker Butler

poem: October by Ellis Parker Butler

The forest holds high carnival to-day,
And every hill-side glows with gold and fire;
Ivy and sumac dress in colors gay,
And oak and maple mask in bright attire.

The hoarded wealth of sober autumn days
In lavish mood for motley garb is spent,
And nature for the while at folly plays,
Knowing the morrow brings a snowy Lent.

poem by Ellis Parker Butler

Outbid by Ellis Parker Butler

poem: Outbid by Ellis Parker Butler

When Cupid held an auction sale,
I hastened to his mart,
For I had heard that he would sell
The blue-eyed Dora’s heart.

I brought a wealth of truest love,
The most that I could proffer,
Because, forsooth, of stocks or bonds
I had not one to offer.

When Cupid offered Dora’s heart,
I bid my whole heart’s love,
A love that reached from sea to sea
And to the sky above;

And When Sir Cupid called for more,
I bid my hands and life,
That should be hers for servitude
If she became my wife.

Then “Going! going!” Cupid cried;
The silence was intense
Until old Goldbags said, “I bid
My stocks and four per cents!”

Then Cupid cried, “Fair Dora’s heart,
That ne’er was sold before!
Does anybody raise the bid?
Will any offer more?”

“If not—,” but Count Decrepit rose,
Infirm, decayed and slim;
“I hid my title!” and her heart
Was there knocked down to him.

Well! titles may be more than love!
I shall not rant nor rail;
For after all I much prefer
Some heart that’s not for sale!

poem by Ellis Parker Butler