For mother was by nature so forgiving and so mild That she inclined to spare the rod although she spoiled the child; And when at last in self-defence she had to whip us, she Appeared to feel those whippings a great deal more than we: But how we bellowed and took on, as if we'd like to die,-- Poor mother really thought she hurt, and that's what made _her_ cry! Then how we youngsters snickered as out the door we slid, For mother's whippings never hurt, though father's always did!
In after years poor father simmered down to five feet four, But in our youth he seemed to us in height eight feet or more! Oh, how we shivered when he quoth in cold, suggestive tone: "I'll see you in the woodshed after supper all alone!" Oh, how the legs and arms and dust and trouser-buttons flew,-- What florid vocalisms marked that vesper interview! Yes, after all this lapse of years, I feelingly assert, With all respect to mother, it was father's whippings hurt!
The little boy experiencing that tingling 'neath his vest Is often loath to realize that all is for the best; Yet, when the boy gets older, he pictures with delight The bufferings of childhood,--as we do here to-night. The years, the gracious years, have smoothed and beautified the ways That to our little feet seemed all too rugged in the days Before you went to selling clothes and I to peddling rhymes,-- So, Harvey, let us sit awhile and think upon those times.
EROS is the god of love; He and I are hand-in-glove. All the gentle, gracious Muses Follow Eros where he leads, And they bless the bard who chooses To proclaim love's famous deeds; Him they serve in rapturous glee,-- That is why they're good to me.
Sometimes I have gone astray From love's sunny, flowery way: How I floundered, how I stuttered! And, deprived of ways and means, What egregious rot I uttered,-- Such as suits the magazines! I was rescued only when Eros called me back again.
Gods forefend that I should shun That benignant Mother's son! Why, the poet who refuses To emblazon love's delights Gets the mitten from the Muses,-- Then what balderdash he writes! I love Love; which being so, See how smooth my verses flow!
Gentle Eros, lead the way,-- I will follow while I may: Be thy path by hill or hollow, I will follow fast and free; And when I'm too old to follow, I will sit and sing of thee,-- Potent still in intellect, Sit, and sing, and retrospect.