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Category: Funny Whimsical Poems
       Classic humorous and funny poems using whimsy. Humourosly quaint and fanciful, especially in an amusing way.

  THE ART OF BOOK-KEEPING  

How hard, when those who do not wish
    To lend, that's lose, their books,
Are snared by anglers--folks that fish
    With literary hooks;

Who call and take some favourite tome,
    But never read it through;
They thus complete their set at home,
    By making one at you.

Behold the bookshelf of a dunce
    Who borrows--never lends;
Yon work, in twenty volumes, once
    Belonged to twenty friends.

New tales and novels you may shut
    From view--'tis all in vain;
They're gone--and though the leaves are "cut"
    They never "come again."

For pamphlets lent I look around,
    For tracts my tears are spilt;
But when they take a book that's bound,
    'Tis surely extra guilt.

A circulating library
    Is mine--my birds are flown;
There's one odd volume left, to be
    Like all the rest, a-lone.

I, of my "Spenser" quite bereft,
    Last winter sore was shaken;
Of "Lamb" I've but a quarter left,
    Nor could I save my "Bacon."

My "Hall" and "Hill" were levelled flat,
    But "Moore" was still the cry;
And then, although I threw them "Sprat,"
    They swallowed up my "Pye."

O'er everything, however slight,
    They seized some airy trammel;
They snatched my "Hogg" and "Fox" one night,
    And pocketed my "Campbell."

And then I saw my "Crabbe" at last,
    Like Hamlet's, backward go;
And as my tide was ebbing fast,
    Of course I lost my "Rowe."

I wondered into what balloon
    My books their course had bent;
And yet, with all my marvelling, soon
    I found my "Marvell" went.

My "Mallet" served to knock me down,
    Which makes me thus a talker;
And once, while I was out of town,
    My "Johnson" proved a "Walker."

While studying o'er the fire one day
    My "Hobbes" amidst the smoke;
They bore my "Colman" clean away,
    And carried off my "Coke."

They picked my "Locke," to me far more
    Than Bramah's patent's worth;
And now my losses I deplore,
    Without a "Home" on earth.

If once a book you let them lift,
    Another they conceal,
For though I caught them stealing "Swift,"
    As swiftly went my "Steele."

"Hope" is not now upon my shelf,
    Where late he stood elated;
But, what is strange, my "Pope" himself
    Is excommunicated.

My little "Suckling" in the grave
    Is sunk, to swell the ravage;
And what 'twas Crusoe's fate to save
    'Twas mine to lose--a "Savage."

Even "Glover's" works I cannot put
    My frozen hands upon;
Though ever since I lost my "Foote,"
    My "Bunyan" has been gone.

My "Hoyle" with "Cotton" went; oppressed,
    My "Taylor" too must fail;
To save my "Goldsmith" from arrest,
    In vain I offered "Bayle."

I "Prior," sought, but could not see
    The "Hood" so late in front;
And when I turned to hunt for "Lee,"
    Oh! where was my "Leigh Hunt!"

I tried to laugh, old care to tickle,
    Yet could not "Tickell" touch;
And then, alas! I missed my "Mickle,"
    And surely mickle's much.

'Tis quite enough my griefs to feed,
    My sorrows to excuse,
To think I cannot read my "Reid,"
    Nor even use my "Hughes."

To "West," to "South," I turn my head,
    Exposed alike to odd jeers;
For since my "Roger Ascham's" fled,
    I ask 'em for my "Rogers."

They took my "Horne"--and "Horne Tooke" too,
    And thus my treasures flit;
I feel when I would "Hazlitt" view,
    The flames that it has lit.

My word's worth little, "Wordsworth" gone,
    If I survive its doom;
How many a bard I doted on
    Was swept off--with my "Broome."

My classics would not quiet lie,
    A thing so fondly hoped;
Like Dr. Primrose, I may cry,
    "My 'Livy' has eloped!"

My life is wasting fast away--
    I suffer from these shocks;
And though I fixed a lock on "Grey"
    There's grey upon my locks.

I'm far from young--am growing pale--
    I see my "Butter" fly;
And when they ask about my ail,
    'Tis "Burton" I reply.

They still have made me slight returns,
    And thus my griefs divide;
For oh! they've cured me of my "Burns,"
    And eased my "Akenside."

But all I think I shall not say,
    Nor let my anger burn;
For as they never found me "Gay,"
    They have not left me "Sterne."

                             Laman Blanchard.


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