TATI’s & TONY’s DEAD POET TOUR // St. Anthony’s Sermon To The Fishes by Abraham a Sancta-Clara

Saint Anthony at church
Was left in the lurch,
So he went to the ditches
And preached to the fishes.
They wriggled their tails,
In the sun glanced their scales.

The carps, with their spawn,
Are all thither drawn;
Have opened their jaws,
Eager for each clause.
No sermon beside
Had the carps so edified.

Sharp-snouted pikes,
Who keep fighting like tikes,
Now swam up harmonious
To hear Saint Antonius.
No sermon beside
Had the pikes so edified.

And that very odd fish,
Who loves fast-days, the cod-fish,
The stock-fish, I mean,
At the sermon was seen.
No sermon beside
Had the cods so edified.

Good eels and sturgeon,
Which aldermen gorge on,
Went out of their way
To hear preaching that day.
No sermon beside
Had the eels so edified.

Crabs and turtles also,
Who always move low,
Made haste from the bottom
As if the devil had got ’em.
No sermon beside
The crabs so edified.

Fish great and fish small,
Lords, lackeys, and all,
Each looked at the preacher
Like a reasonable creature.
At God’s word,
They Anthony heard.

The sermon now ended,
Each turned and descended;
The pikes went on stealing,
The eels went on eeling.
Much delighted were they,
But preferred the old way.

The crabs are backsliders,
The stock-fish thick-siders,
The carps are sharp-set,
All the sermon forget.
Much delighted were they,
But preferred the old way.

by ABRAHAM A SANCTA-CLARA (1644-1709)
Public Domain Poetry

TATI’s & TONY’s DEAD POET TOUR // The Dead Child. by Charles Hamilton Musgrove

Life to her was a perfect flower,
And every petal a jeweled hour,
Till all at once–we know not why–
God sent a frost from His clear blue sky.

Life to her was a fairy rune;
Her light feet tripped to the lilting tune,
Till all at once–we know not why–
God stopped th’ enchanting melody.

Life to her was a picture book
That her glad eyes searched with eager look
Till all at once–we know not why–
God put the wondrous volume by.

by CHARLES HAMILTON MUSGROVE (1871-1926)
Public Domain Poetry

TATI’s & TONY’s DEAD POET TOUR // The Tourist. by Hattie Howard

Lo! carpet-bag and bagger occupy the land,
And prove the touring season actively begun;
His personnel and purpose can none misunderstand,
For each upon his frontlet bears his honest brand –
The fool-ish one!

By caravan and car, from country and from town,
A great grasshopper army fell foraging the land;
Like bumblebees that know not where to settle down,
Impossible it is to curb or scare or drown
The tourist band.

With guidebook, camera, with rod and gun, to shoot,
To lure the deer, the hare, the bird, the speckled trout,
The pauper or the prince unbidden they salute,
And everywhere their royal right dare none dispute –
To roam about.

From dark immuring walls and dingy ways of trade,
From high society’s luxurious stately homes,
From lounging places by the park or promenade,
From rural dwellings canopied in sylvan shade,
The tourist comes.

To every mountain peak within the antipodes,
To sweet, sequestered spots no other mortal knows;
To every island fair engirt by sunny seas,
To forest-centers unexplored by birds or bees,
The tourist goes.

For Summer’s fingers all the land have richly dressed,
Resplendent in regalia of scent and bloom,
And stirred in every heart the spirit of unrest,
Like that of untamed fledglings in the parent nest
For ampler room.

What is it prompts the roving mania – is it love
Of wild adventure fanciful, unique, and odd?
Is it to be in fashion, and to others prove
One’s social standing, that impels the madness of
The tramp abroad?

The question hangs unanswered, like an unwise prayer,
Importunate, but powerless response to bring;
Go ask the voyagers, the rovers everywhere –
They only say it is their rest-time, outing, their
Vacationing.

So is the world’s eccentric round of joy complete
When happy tourist-traveler, no more to roam,
His fascinating, thrilling story shall repeat
To impecunious, luckless multitudes who greet
The tourist home.

by HATTIE HOWARD (1860-1920)
Public Domain Poetry

TATI’s & TONY’s DEAD POET TOUR // Aunt Tabitha – The Young Girl’s Poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes

Whatever I do, and whatever I say,
Aunt Tabitha tells me that is n’t the way;
When she was a girl (forty summers ago)
Aunt Tabitha tells me they never did so.

Dear aunt! If I only would take her advice!
But I like my own way, and I find it so nice
And besides, I forget half the things I am told;
But they all will come back to me – when I am old.

If a youth passes by, it may happen, no doubt,
He may chance to look in as I chance to look out;
She would never endure an impertinent stare, –
It is horrid, she says, and I must n’t sit there.

A walk in the moonlight has pleasures, I own,
But it is n’t quite safe to be walking alone;
So I take a lad’s arm, – just for safety, you know, –
But Aunt Tabitha tells me they did n’t do so.

How wicked we are, and how good they were then!
They kept at arm’s length those detestable men;
What an era of virtue she lived in! – But stay –
Were the men all such rogues in Aunt Tabitha’s day?

If the men were so wicked, I ‘ll ask my papa
How he dared to propose to my darling mamma;
Was he like the rest of them? Goodness! Who knows?
And what shall I say, if a wretch should propose?

I am thinking if Aunt knew so little of sin,
What a wonder Aunt Tabitha’s aunt must have been!
And her grand-aunt – it scares me – how shockingly sad
That we girls of to-day are so frightfully bad!

A martyr will save us, and nothing else can;
Let me perish – to rescue some wretched young man!
Though when to the altar a victim I go,
Aunt Tabitha ‘ll tell me she never did so.

by OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES (1809-1894)
Public Domain Poetry

TATI’s & TONY’s DEAD POET TOUR // Solitude. by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Laugh, and the world laughs with you;
Weep, and you weep alone;
For the sad old earth must borrow its mirth,
But has trouble enough of its own.
Sing, and the hills will answer;
Sigh, it is lost on the air;
The echoes bound to a joyful sound,
But shrink from voicing care.

Rejoice, and men will seek you;
Grieve, and they turn and go;
They want full measure of all your pleasure,
But they do not need your woe.
Be glad, and your friends are many;
Be sad, and you lose them all;
There are none to decline your nectar’d wine,
But alone you must drink life’s gall.

Feast, and your halls are crowded;
Fast, and the world goes by.
Succeed and give, and it helps you live,
But no man can help you die.
There is room in the halls of pleasure
For a large and lordly train,
But one by one we must all file on
Through the narrow aisles of pain.

by ELLA WHEELER WILCOX (1855-1919)
Public Domain Poetry