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


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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