From Mother’s Geese, by George Barr Baker, George C. Chappell, and Oliver Herford, pictured by T. Gilbert White; Dodd, Mead & Company; New York, 1906 [unpaginated].
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REGGIE and Richard were two
pretty men.
Who lay in their beds till the clock
struck ten.
Then up starts Reggie and looks in
the sky,
“Oh Richard, dear Richard, the
sun’s on high.”
“Oh shut up,” said Richard, “and
pull the blinds tight,
Since father’s in Wall street, let us
sleep till night.”
PRETTY-FAKE, pretty-fake
Jeweler’s man,
Make me a fake as fast as you
can.
Mix it and fix it and mark it
with “R,”
And say, “It’s a Ruby,” and sell
it to Pa.
LITTLE Belle Peep
Has lost her sleep,
And can’t tell where to find it.
In the season’s height
She’ll dance all night
And never seem to mind it.
For she must keep pace
In the social race,
Or she’ll soon be left behind it.
THERE was an old Mormon
who lived in a flat,
He had so many wives he said,
"Where am I at ?"
To some he gave taffy, to some he
talked fake,
And then he went daffy and jumped
in the lake.
LITTLE Mister O'Shay
Sat in a buffet,
Sipping a petit Verre,
When a pink and green rabbit
Attempted to grab it,
And gave him a terrible scare.
THERE was a young woman
who had three fads,
Beauty and Cupid and Fun.
Beauty grew old and Cupid grew
cold,
Fun got lost and left her a scold,
And there was an end of the three
fads
Beauty and Cupid and Fun.
LITTLE Miss Muffet
She wanted to rough it
To shoot mountain goats like
A man, sir !
But a very Rough-rider
Came and sat down beside her
And said, “I’m the goat: what’s
The answer ?”
WHAT are little plays made of,
What are little plays made of ?
Scandals and spice and things
not quite nice
Sprinkled with dollars and
done in a trice,
And that’s what little plays are
made of.
What are little books made of,
What are little books made of ?
Little fake tales and little fake
wails
Printed and pictured and turned
out in bales,
And that’s what little books are
made of.
LITTLE Bo-peep has lost her
sleep
And does n’t know where to find it.
Though it’s not right to play Bridge
all night,
She never seems to mind it.
Little Bo-peep beware of Black sheep,
They may n’t have yet malign’d you,
But leave ’em alone or they’ll go
home
Leaving their tales behind you.
LITTLE Boy Blue, come blow
your coin,
Mine is all gone and yours is all
goin'.
Where is the man who waits on
Black Sheep ?
Why, he’s under the ice-box, fast
asleep.
I HAD a little straight-flush,
It’s hue was apple-red,
I lent it to an Old Friend
(Will someone hold my head ?)
He dropped it ! and slopped it,
And picked up half the pack.
I would n’t lend that straight-flush
now
(If I could get it back).
RUB a dub dub,
Three men at the club !
And what do you thing
They had ?
Veuve cliquot in cases,
And ’stremely red faces,
And all of them bound for
The bad !
AS I was going to St. Ives
I met a man with seven wives.
Every wife had seven kids,
Every kid has seven cats,
Every cat had seven kits,
Every kit had seven fits,
Kits, cats, fits, brats --
Was the man committing race-
suicide ?
AN Anti-Race-Suicide Mother,
they say,
Had so many kids for whose clothes
she must pay
That all of her Life she had lived in
a Stew,
In despair that her flock she never
could shoe,
“Oh shoe-fearing woman,” cried they
of the wise,
“Take your troubles to Teddy, they
are just his size.”
So she took the advice of her neigh-
bors farsighted.
And presented her tribe to the only
De-lighted.
“Oh, ho !” and “Ah, me !” with
Rooseveltian fervor
He exclaimed, “I perceive you’re your
country’s preserver.
“Believe me, dear lady, I’m your
ethical brother,
“And therefore am proud you’re so
often a mother.
“Here’s my photograph, signed by
me, treasure it softly;
“And here’s a big stick, which use
early and oftly.
“Remember, the childless, the rich,
are benighted,
“You are poor, but have children —
and I am delighted.”
“CHATTER cat, chatter cat,
Where have you been ?”
“I’ve been in society
Slanging the Queen !”
Chatter cat, chatter cat,
Why did you do it ?”
“Because she was pretty,
And I made her rue it.”
OLD King Coal was of trusts
the soul,
And of trusts the soul was he.
He raised his price and lost his
weight,
“For of Kings I’m King,” said
he.
Old King Coal was a firey soul,
And a firey soul was he.
He roasted folks in metres foul,
For he was a gas trustee.
Old King Coal was a merry old soul,
And a merry old soul was he.
He baked his wife in an upper crust
Of high society.
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