Nothing can--with Lalage.

Paste this, Fuscus, in your hat:
Not a pesky thing can peeve me.
Take it, too, from Horace flat,
She's some gal, is Lal, believe me.
So I coin this word to-day,
"Lallygag"--from Lalage.

V

TO SYLVIA

Were I on the Latin lay,
Were I turning Odes to-day,
You would draw a gem from me,
Little maid of mystery!

In an Ode I'd love to spout you;
I am simply bug about you.
That's the way!--the fairest peach
Is the one that's out of reach.

I have toasted in my time
Many a peach (and many a lime),
All of them, I must confess,
Lacking your elusiveness.

Lalage, my well known flame,
Was considerable dame;
Likewise Lydia and Phyllis,
Chloe, Pyrrha, Amaryllis.

Syl, if you had lived when they did
You'd have had those damsels faded.
(That will give you, girl, some notion
Of your Flaccus's devotion.)

Yep. If I were doing Odes
In my quondam favorite modes,
With your image to qui-vive me
I'd tear off some Ode, believe me!

A BALLAD OF MISFITS

"_Chacun son metier:_
_Les vaches seront bien gardees._"
--LA FONTAINE.

With skill for doing this or that
The Lord each man endows.
Some men are best for pushing pens,
And some for pushing plows;
And oh, the many many more
That should be tending cows!
_Chacun son metier:_
_Les vaches bien gardees._

The ivory-headed serving maid
Who poses as a "cook,"
She hath a very bovine brain,
She hath a bovine look.
Oh, prithee, lead her to the kine,
Oh, prithee get the hook!
_Chacun son metier:_
_Les vaches bien gardees._

The papering-and-painting gents
Whose work is never done,
Who mess around your house until
You pine to pull a gun,
Who take three mortal days to do
What should be done in one;--
_Chacun son metier:_
_Les vaches bien gardees._

The pestilential "pianiste,"
The screechy singer too,
The writer of the stupid book
And of the dull review,
The actor who is greatest when
He takes his exit cue;--
_Chacun son metier:_
_Les vaches bien gardees._

If every one were set to do
The task for which he's fit,
The writer of these trifling lines
Might also h