He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;
He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the spheroid flew,
But Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said, “Strike two.”
“Fraud!” cried the maddened thousands, and the echo answered, “Fraud!”
But the scornful look from Casey, and the audience was awed;
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
And they knew that Casey wouldn’t let that ball go by again.
The sneer is gone from Casey’s lips, his teeth are clenched in hate,
He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate;
And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,
And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey’s blow.
Oh! somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright,
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light;
And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout,
But there is no joy in Mudville—mighty Casey has struck out.
Джон Кендрик Бэнгс, в свое время редактор журнала «Пак» (Puck), светлой памяти, написал тома юмористических стихов. В качестве примера упражнения в искусной рифмовке приведем:
МОНА ЛИЗА
Mona Lisa, Mona Lisa,
Have you gone? Great Julius Cæsar!
Who’s the Chap so bold and pinchey
Thus to swipe the great da Vinci,
Taking France’s first Chef d’œuvre
Squarely from old Mr. Louvre,
Easy as some pocket-picker
Would remove our handkerchicker
As we ride in careless folly
On some gaily bounding trolley?
Mona Lisa, Mona Lisa,
Who’s your Captor? Doubtless he’s a
Crafty sort of treasure-seeker—
Ne’er a Turpin e’er was sleeker—
But, alas, if he can win you
Easily as I could chin you,
What is safe in all the nations
From his dreadful depredations?
He’s the style of Chap, I’m thinkin’
Who will drive us all to drinkin’!
Mona Lisa, Mona Lisa,
Next he’ll swipe the Tower of Pisa,
Pulling it from out its socket
For to hide it in his pocket;
Or perhaps he’ll up and steal, O,
Madame Venus, late of Milo;
Or maybe while on the grab he
Will annex Westminster Abbey,
And elope with that distinguished
Heap of Ashes long extinguished.
Maybe too, O Mona Lisa,
He will come across the seas a—
Searching for the style of treasure
That we have in richest measure.
Sunset Cox’s brazen statue,
Have a care lest he shall catch you
Or maybe he’ll set his eye on
Hammerstein’s, or the Flatiron,
Or some bit of White Wash done
By those lads at Washington—
Truly he’s a crafty geezer,
Is your Captor, Mona Lisa!
Томас Л. Мэссон, писатель-юморист и многолетний редактор журнала «Лайф» (Life), несомненно, написал больше юмористических произведений и книг, чем кто-либо другой в стране.
ПОЦЕЛУЙ
“What other men have dared, I dare,”
He said. “I’m daring, too:
And tho’ they told me to beware,
One kiss I’ll take from you.
“Did I say one? Forgive me, dear;
That was a grave mistake,
For when I’ve taken one, I fear,
One hundred more I’ll take.
“’Tis sweet one kiss from you to win,
But to stop there? Oh, no!
One kiss is only to begin;
There is no end, you know.”
The maiden rose from where she sat
And gently raised her head:
“No man has ever talked like that—
You may begin,” she said.
ОПУСТОШЕНИЕ
Somewhat back from the village street
Stands the old fashioned country seat.
Across its antique portico
Tall poplar trees their shadows throw.
And there throughout the livelong day,
Jemima plays the pi-a-na.
Do, re, mi,
Mi, re, do.
In the front parlor there it stands,
And there Jemima plies her hands,
While her papa, beneath his cloak,
Mutters and groans: “This is no joke!”
And swears to himself and sighs, alas!
With sorrowful voice to all who pass.
Do, re, mi,
Mi, re, do.
Through days of death and days of birth
She plays as if she owned the earth
Through every swift vicissitude
She drums as if it did her good,
And still she sits from morn till night
And plunks away with main and might
Do, re, mi,
Mi, re, do.
In that mansion used to be
Free-hearted hospitality;
But that was many years before
Jemima dallied with the score.
When she began her daily plunk,
Into their graves the neighbors sunk.
Do, re, mi,
Mi, re, do.
To other worlds they’ve long since fled,
All thankful that they’re safely dead.
They stood the racket while alive
Until Jemima rose at five.
And then they laid their burdens down,
And one and all they skipped the town.
Do, re, mi,
Mi, re, do.
Стивен Крейн, странный и зачастую непонятый гений, никогда не предавался юмору в широком смысле. Но его едкий, сатирический остроумие вряд ли можно превзойти.
A man said to the universe,
“Sir, I exist!”
“However,” replied the universe,
“The fact has not created in me
A sense of obligation.”
Upon the road of my life,
Passed me many fair creatures,
Clothed all in white, and radiant;
To one, finally, I made speech:
“Who art thou?”
But she, like the others,
Kept cowled her face,
And answered in haste, anxiously,
“I am Good Deed, forsooth;
You have often seen me.”
“Not uncowled,” I made reply.
And with rash and strong hand,
Though she resisted,
I drew away the veil,
And gazed at the features of Vanity.
She, shamefaced, went on;
And after I had mused a time,
I said of myself, “Fool!”
“Think as I think,” said a man,
“Or you are abominably wicked;
You are a toad.”
And after I had thought of it,
I said, “I will, then, be a toad.”
Чарльз Баттелл Лумис был известным автором юмористических песенок и владел легким пером в жанре пародии.
ДЖЕК И ДЖИЛЛ
(Как мог бы написать Остин Добсон)
Their pail they must fill
In a crystalline springlet,
Brave Jack and fair Jill.
Their pail they must fill
At the top of the hill,
Then she gives him a ringlet.
Their pail they must fill
In a crystalline springlet.
They stumbled and fell,
And poor Jack broke his forehead,
Oh, how he did yell!
They stumbled and fell,
And went down pell-mell—
By Jove! it was horrid.
They stumbled and fell,
And poor Jack broke his forehead.
(Как мог бы написать Суинберн)
The shudd’ring sheet of rain athwart the trees!
The crashing kiss of lightning on the seas!
The moaning of the night wind on the wold,
That erstwhile was a gentle, murm’ring breeze!
On such a night as this went Jill and Jack
With strong and sturdy strides through dampness black
To find the hill’s high top and water cold,
Then toiling through the town to bear it back.
The water drawn, they rest awhile. Sweet sips
Of nectar then for Jack from Jill’s red lips,
And then with arms entwined they homeward go;
Till mid the mad mud’s moistened mush Jack slips.
Sweet Heaven, draw a veil on this sad plight,
His crazèd cries and cranium cracked; the fright
Of gentle Jill, her wretchedness and wo!
Kind Phœbus, drive thy steeds and end this night!
(Как мог бы написать Уолт Уитмен)
I celebrate the personality of Jack!
I love his dirty hands, his tangled hair, his locomotion blundering.
Each wart upon his hands I sing,
Pæans I chant to his hulking shoulder blades.
Also Jill!
Her I celebrate.
I, Walt, of unbridled thought and tongue,
Whoop her up!
What’s the matter with Jill?
Oh, she’s all right!
Who’s all right?
Jill.
Her golden hair, her sun-struck face, her hard and reddened hands;
So, too, her feet, hefty, shambling.
I see them in the evening, when the sun empurples the horizon, and through the darkening forest aisles are heard the sounds of myriad creatures of the night.
I see them climb the steep ascent in quest of water for their mother.
Oh, speaking of her, I could celebrate the old lady if I had time.
She is simply immense!
But Jack and Jill are walking up the hill.
(I didn’t mean that rhyme.)
I must watch them.
I love to watch their walk,
And wonder as I watch;
He, stoop-shouldered, clumsy, hide-bound,
Yet lusty,
Bearing his share of the 1-lb bucket as though it were a paperweight.
She, erect, standing, her head uplifting,
Holding, but bearing not the bucket.
They have reached the spring.
They have filled the bucket.
Have you heard the “Old Oaken Bucket”?
I will sing it:—
Of what countless patches is the bed-quilt of life composed!
Here is a piece of lace. A babe is born.
The father is happy, the mother is happy.
Next black crêpe. A beldame “shuffles off this mortal coil.”
Now brocaded satin with orange blossoms,
Mendelssohn’s “Wedding March,” an old shoe missile,
A broken carriage window, the bride in the Bellevue sleeping.
Here’s a large piece of black cloth!
“Have you any last words to say?”
“No.”
“Sheriff, do your work!”
Thus it is: from “grave to gay, from lively to severe.”
I mourn the downfall of my Jack and Jill.
I see them descending, obstacles not heeding.
I see them pitching headlong, the water from the pail outpouring, a noise from leathern lungs out-belching.
The shadows of the night descend on Jack, recumbent, bellowing, his pate with gore besmeared.
I love his cowardice, because it is an attribute, just like
Job’s patience or Solomon’s wisdom, and I love attributes.
Whoop!!!
Гай Уэтмор Кэррил, сын Чарльза Э. Кэррила, обладал обаятельной и причудливой натурой и владел необычайно остроумным пером как в стихах, так и в прозе. Его безвременная кончина лишила нас одного из самых восхитительных молодых юмористов.
КАК ДЕВУШКА СЛИШКОМ НЕБРЕЖНО ОТНОСИЛАСЬ К ГРАММАТИКЕ
Matilda Maud Mackenzie frankly hadn’t any chin,
Her hands were rough, her feet she turned invariably in;
Her general form was German,
By which I mean that you
Her waist could not determine
Within a foot or two.
And not only did she stammer,
But she used the kind of grammar
That is called, for sake of euphony, askew.
From what I say about her, don’t imagine I desire
A prejudice against this worthy creature to inspire.
She was willing, she was active,
She was sober, she was kind,
But she never looked attractive
And she hadn’t any mind.
I knew her more than slightly,
And I treated her politely
When I met her, but of course I wasn’t blind!
Matilda Maud Mackenzie had a habit that was droll,
She spent her morning seated on a rock or on a knoll,
And threw with much composure
A smallish rubber ball
At an inoffensive osier
By a little waterfall;
But Matilda’s way of throwing
Was like other people’s mowing,
And she never hit the willow-tree at all!
One day as Miss Mackenzie with uncommon ardour tried
To hit the mark, the missile flew exceptionally wide.
And, before her eyes astounded,
On a fallen maple’s trunk
Ricochetted and rebounded
In the rivulet, and sunk!
Matilda, greatly frightened,
In her grammar unenlightened,
Remarked, “Well now I ast yer, who’d ’er thunk?”
But what a marvel followed! From the pool at once there rose
A frog, the sphere of rubber balanced deftly on his nose.
He beheld her fright and frenzy
And, her panic to dispel,
On his knee by Miss Mackenzie
He obsequiously fell.
With quite as much decorum
As a speaker in a forum
He started in his history to tell.
“Fair maid,” he said, “I beg you do not hesitate or wince,
If you’ll promise that you’ll wed me, I’ll at once become a prince;
For a fairy, old and vicious,
An enchantment round me spun!”
Then he looked up, unsuspicious,
And he saw what he had won,
And in terms of sad reproach, he
Made some comments, sotto voce,
(Which the publishers have bidden me to shun!)
Matilda Maud Mackenzie said, as if she meant to scold;
“I never! Why, you forward thing! Now, ain’t you awful bold!”
Just a glance he paused to give her,
And his head was seen to clutch,
Then he darted to the river,
And he dived to beat the Dutch!
While the wrathful maiden panted
“I don’t think he was enchanted!”
(And he really didn’t look it overmuch!)
МОРАЛЬ
In one’s language one conservative should be;
Speech is silver and it never should be free!
Эдвин Арлингтон Робинсон, один из величайших наших поздних поэтов, обладает тонким остроумием, что лучше всего проявилось в:
МИНИВЕР ЧИВИ
Miniver Cheevy, child of scorn,
Grew lean while he assailed the seasons;
He wept that he was ever born,
And he had reasons.
Miniver loved the days of old
When swords were bright and steeds were prancing;
The vision of a warrior bold
Would set him dancing.
Miniver sighed for what was not,
And dreamed and rested from his labors;
He dreamed of Thebes and Camelot
And Priam’s neighbors.
Miniver mourned the ripe renown
That made so many a name so fragrant;
He mourned Romance, now on the town,
And Art, a vagrant.
Miniver loved the Medici,
Albeit he had never seen one;
He would have sinned incessantly
Could he have been one.
Miniver cursed the commonplace,
And eyed a khaki suit with loathing;
He missed the mediæval grace
Of iron clothing.
Miniver scorned the gold he sought,
But sore annoyed he was without it;
Miniver thought and thought and thought
And thought about it.
Miniver Cheevy, born too late,
Scratched his head and kept on thinking;
Miniver coughed, and called it fate,
And kept on drinking.
ДВА ЧЕЛОВЕКА
There be two men of all mankind
That I should like to know about;
But search and question where I will,
I cannot ever find them out.
Melchizedek he praised the Lord,
And gave some wine to Abraham;
But who can tell what else he did
Must be more learned than I am.
Ucalegon he lost his house
When Agamemnon came to Troy;
But who can tell me who he was—
I’ll pray the gods to give him joy.
There be two men of all mankind
That I’m forever thinking on;
They chase me everywhere I go,—
Melchizedek, Ucalegon.
Артур Гитерман, один из лучших современных нам юмористических писателей, не создал ничего лучше этого концентрированного образца бурлеска.
МАВРОНЕ. ОДНО ИЗ ТЕХ ГРУСТНЫХ ИРЛАНДСКИХ СТИХОТВОРЕНИЙ С ПРИМЕЧАНИЯМИ
From Arranmore the weary miles I’ve come;
An’ all the way I’ve heard
A Shrawn[2] that’s kep’ me silent, speechless, dumb,
Not sayin’ any word.
An’ was it then the Shrawn of Eire,[3] you’ll say,
For him that died the death on Carrisbool?
It was not that; nor was it, by the way,
The Sons of Garnim[4] blitherin’ their drool;
Nor was it any Crowdie of the Shee,[5]
Or Itt, or Himm, nor wail of Barryhoo[6]
For Barrywhich that stilled the tongue of me.
’Twas but my own heart cryin’ out for you
Magraw![7] Bulleen, shinnanigan, Boru,
Aroon, Machree, Aboo![8]
ЭЛЕГИЯ
The jackals prowl, the serpents hiss
In what was once Persepolis.
Proud Babylon is but a trace
Upon the desert’s dusty face.
The topless towers of Ilium
Are ashes. Judah’s harp is dumb.
The fleets of Nineveh and Tyre
Are down with Davy Jones, Esquire
And all the oligarchies, kings,
And potentates that ruled these things
Are gone! But cheer up; don’t be sad;
Think what a lovely time they had!
Оливер Херфорд, родившийся в Англии, но проживший большую часть жизни в Америке, несомненно, обладает самой юмористической душой в мире.
Его искусство, которое является как живописным, так и литературным, уникально и носит неуловимый, неописуемый характер.
Столь же изящный в своей фантазии, как Спенсер, столь же по-настоящему смешной, как сэр Уильям Гилберт, он также обладает глубокой философией и совершенной техникой.
ФИЛЛИС ЛИ
Beside a Primrose ’broider’d Rill
Sat Phyllis Lee in Silken Dress
Whilst Lucius limn’d with loving skill
Her likeness, as a Shepherdess.
Yet tho’ he strove with loving skill
His Brush refused to work his Will.
“Dear Maid, unless you close your Eyes
I cannot paint to-day,” he said;
“Their Brightness shames the very Skies
And turns their Turquoise into Lead.”
Quoth Phyllis, then, “To save the Skies
And speed your Brush, I’ll shut my Eyes.”
Now when her Eyes were closed, the Dear,
Not dreaming of such Treachery,
Felt a Soft Whisper in her Ear,
“Without the Light, how can one See?”
“If you are sure that none can see
I’ll keep them shut,” said Phyllis Lee.
ГУСИ
Ev-er-y child who has the use
Of his sen-ses knows a goose.
See them un-der-neath the tree
Gath-er round the goose-girl’s knee,
While she reads them by the hour
From the works of Scho-pen-hau-er.
How pa-tient-ly the geese at-tend!
But do they re-al-ly com-pre-hend
What Scho-pen-hau-er’s driv-ing at?
Oh, not at all; but what of that?
Nei-ther do I; nei-ther does she;
And, for that mat-ter, nor does he.
ШИМПАНЗЕ
Children, behold the Chimpanzee:
He sits on the ancestral tree
From which we sprang in ages gone.
I’m glad we sprang: had we held on,
We might, for aught that I can say,
Be horrid Chimpanzees to-day.
КУРИЦА
Alas! my Child, where is the Pen
That can do Justice to the Hen?
Like Royalty, She goes her way,
Laying foundations every day,
Though not for Public Buildings, yet
For Custard, Cake and Omelette.
Or if too Old for such a use
They have their Fling at some Abuse,
As when to Censure Plays Unfit
Upon the Stage they make a Hit,
Or at elections Seal the Fate
Of an Obnoxious Candidate.
No wonder, Child, we prize the Hen,
Whose Egg is Mightier than the Pen.
МАРК ТВЕН: ТРУБОЧНАЯ ГРЕЗА
Well I recall how first I met
Mark Twain—an infant barely three
Rolling a tiny cigarette
While cooing on his nurse’s knee.
Since then in every sort of place
I’ve met with Mark and heard him joke,
Yet how can I describe his face?
I never saw it for the smoke.
At school he won a smokership,
At Harvard College (Cambridge, Mass.)
His name was soon on every lip,
They made him “smoker” of his class.
Who will forget his smoking bout
With Mount Vesuvius—our cheers—
When Mount Vesuvius went out
And didn’t smoke again for years?
The news was flashed to England’s King,
Who begged Mark Twain to come and stay,
Offered him dukedoms—anything
To smoke the London fog away.
But Mark was firm. “I bow,” said he,
“To no imperial command,
No ducal coronet for me,
My smoke is for my native land!”
For Mark there waits a brighter crown!
When Peter comes his card to read—
He’ll take the sign “No Smoking” down,
—Then Heaven will be Heaven indeed.
ЗОЛОТО
Some take their gold
In minted mold,
And some in harps hereafter,
But give me mine
In tresses fine,
And keep the change in laughter!
ПОДРАЖАНИЕ ГЕРРИКУ
ПЕСНЯ
Gather Kittens while you may,
Time brings only Sorrow;
And the Kittens of To-day
Will be Old Cats To-morrow.
БЛУДНОЕ ЯЙЦО
An egg of humble sphere
By vain ambition stung,
Once left his mother dear
When he was very young.
’Tis needless to dilate
Upon a tale so sad;
The egg, I grieve to state,
Grew very, very bad.
At last when old and blue,
He wandered home, and then
They gently broke it to
The loving mother hen.
She only said, in fun,
“I fear you’re spoiled, my son!”
Фрэнк Гелетт Берджесс, в свое время редактор недолговечного юмористического журнала «Жаворонок» (The Lark), лучше всего проявляет себя в сфере чистого нонсенса. Его «Фиолетовая корова» (Purple Cow) пользуется общенациональной известностью, а его юмористические экскурсы во французские поэтические формы всегда отличаются строгим соблюдением правил и законов.
ФИОЛЕТОВАЯ КОРОВА
I never saw a Purple Cow,
I never hope to see one;
But I can tell you, anyhow,
I’d rather see than be one.