The Ballad of Sally in our Alley -- Henry Carey

(Poem #959) The Ballad of Sally in our Alley Of all the Girls that are so smart There's none like pretty SALLY, She is the Darling of my Heart, And she lives in our Alley. There is no Lady in the Land Is half so sweet as SALLY, She is the Darling of my Heart, And she lives in our Alley. Her Father he makes Cabbage-nets, And through the Streets does cry 'em; Her Mother she sells Laces long, To such as please to buy 'em: But sure such Folks could ne'er beget So sweet a Girl as SALLY! She is the Darling of my Heart, And she lives in our Alley. When she is by I leave my Work, (I love her so sincerely) My Master comes like any Turk, And bangs me most severely; But, let him bang his Belly full, I'll bear it all for SALLY; She is the Darling of my Heart, And she lives in our Alley. Of all the Days that's in the Week, I dearly love but one Day, And that's the Day that comes betwixt A Saturday and Monday; For then I'm drest, all in my best, To walk abroad with SALLY; She is the Darling of my Heart, And she lives in our Alley. My Master carries me to Church, And often am I blamed, Because I leave him in the lurch, As soon as Text is named: I leave the Church in Sermon time, And slink away to SALLY; She is the Darling of my Heart, And she lives in our Alley. When Christmas comes about again, O then I shall have Money; I'll hoard it up, and Box and all I'll give it to my Honey: And, would it were ten thousand Pounds; I'd give it all to SALLY; She is the Darling of my Heart, And she lives in our Alley. My Master and the Neighbours all, Make game of me and SALLY; And (but for her) I'd better be A Slave and row a Galley: But when my seven long Years are out, O then I'll marry SALLY! O then we'll wed and then we'll bed, But not in our Alley. -- Henry Carey

Notes: First published, 1715
       cabbage-nets: nets to boil cabbages in.
       There's an extensive set of notes on the UToronto site, see the links

At first glance, this poem is mere doggerel - indistinguishable from a
thousand others that with their rather myopic use of ballad metre and their
'perfect' but contrived rhymes have "amateur" stamped firmly across their
every verse. However, "Sally in our Alley" has a charm that shines through the
rough versification, raising it several notches above the common herd and
ensuring its immortality.

It is this indefinable charm that transforms the effusions of the narrator
into something we smile with rather than laugh at, that makes him endearingly
rather than annoyingly naive, and that makes the chorus,

         She is the Darling of my Heart,
         And she lives in our Alley.

work, when it could so easily have ruined the poem instead.

Why 'indefinable'? Well, because this is truly one of those poems that has to
be enjoyed rather than analysed - it would not, I think, stand up well to
being picked apart, but it is a lovely poem for all of that, and enjoy it I
certainly did. Go you and do likewise.

Links:

  http://www.library.utoronto.ca/utel/rp/poems/careyhenry3.html has a lengthy
  note on the identity of Sally.

  There's also a biography of Carey on the site:
  http://www.library.utoronto.ca/utel/rp/authors/careyhenry.html#notes

-martin

The Bookworm -- Anonymous

(Poem #958) The Bookworm A moth, I thought, munching a word. How marvellously weird! a worm Digesting a man's sayings -- A sneakthief nibbling in the shadows At the shape of a poet's thunderous phrases -- How unutterably strange! And the pilfering parasite none the wiser For the words he has swallowed. -- Anonymous

 From the Exeter Book, riddle No. 47.
 Translated by Gerard Benson.

[About the Exeter Book]

 Probably transcribed c960-970, and later owned by [Leofric,] the first
Bishop of Exeter. The riddles vary greatly in subject and style. Many are
about the animal kingdom, others are about artefacts and yet others about
the forces of nature -- and there is a sprinkling of teasing double
entendre, of a type still popular, which leads the reader to imagine two
parallel solutions, one obscene, the other innocent.

        -- "Poems on the Underground"

[Commentary]

 The physicality of language fascinates me. Not just the sounds of words,
nor even the feel of syllables rolling in my mouth; I'm equally entranced by
weight and texture, the heft of a good book in my hands, the beauty of its
pages. No surprise, then, that I love the curlicues and incidentals of of
medieval illuminated manuscripts such as the Winchester Bible and the Book
of Kells. And, of course, the Exeter Book, the oldest and most venerable of
them all.

 Today's poem is typical of the hundred or so riddles that make up the bulk
of the book (along with four major poems - The Seafarer, The Wanderer,
Widsith, and Eadwacer). It describes an object (in this case, the bookworm)
cleverly and well, yet every phrase can be interpreted differently, and
rather less charitably: the disparaging comments the author makes about the
bookworm could very easily apply to a certain type of scholar. After a
thousand years, the criticism remains ingenious and perfectly apt.

thomas.

[Links and stuff]

Minstrels Poem #676, "Eating Poetry", by Mark Strand, is similar to today's
poem, but also very different.

We've done quite a few pieces by that most prolific of authors, the
reclusive Anon.:
Poem #167, Pangur Ban  -- Anon. (Irish, 8th century)
Poem #109, The Viking Terror  -- Anon. (Irish, 9th century)
Poem #372, Icham of Irlaunde  -- Anon. (Irish, 14th century)
Poem #145, Ice  -- Anon. (Old English, 10th century)
Poem #326, The Seafarer  -- Anon. (Old English, pre-10th century
Poem #897, Grendel -- Anon. (Old English, pre-10th century)
Poem #333, Gnomic Stanzas  -- Anon. (Welsh, 12th century)
Poem #175, I am Taliesin. I sing perfect metre  -- Anon. (Welsh, 13th
century)

Here's a a short description of the Exeter Book, along with an image of a
page from the book - specifically, the page containing the opening lines of
"The Wanderer":
http://faculty.goucher.edu/eng211/exeter_book_and_wanderer.htm

Here are three riddles from the book which appear obscene on first reading,
but turn out to have perfectly innocent answers:
[broken link] http://itsa.ucsf.edu/~snlrc/britannia/flowers/enigmata.html

Here is another page from the book, featuring the starting lines of
"Widsith":
[broken link] http://www.exeter-cathedral.org.uk/Gallery/Library/L01.html

[Endnote]

There's a lot more I could say about the questions that today's riddle poses
on the relationship between form and content, idea and realization, meaning
and representation, reading and understanding. An additional frisson arises
from the fact that the riddle occurs in the Exeter Book, a truly lovely work
of art whose appeal lies as much in its form (the "physicality" alluded to
above) as in its content; furthermore, said content is always at a layer of
remove due to the artifice of translation, another subject I'm endlessly
interested in...

Whoso list to hunt, I know where is an hind -- Thomas Wyatt

Guest poem submitted by David Florkow:

(Poem #957) Whoso list to hunt, I know where is an hind Whoso list to hunt, I know where is an hind, But as for me, hélas, I may no more. The vain travail hath wearied me so sore, I am of them that farthest cometh behind. Yet may I by no means my wearied mind Draw from the deer, but as she fleeth afore Fainting I follow. I leave off therefore, Sithens in a net I seek to hold the wind. Who list her hunt, I put him out of doubt, As well as I may spend his time in vain. And graven with diamonds in letters plain There is written, her fair neck round about: Noli me tangere, for Caesar's I am, And wild for to hold, though I seem tame. -- Thomas Wyatt

Sir Thomas Wyatt (1503 - 1542) is known, if at all nowadays, for introducing
the Italian sonnet form (as used by Petrarch particularly) into English
usage.  Many of his best poems (such as "Whoso list to hunt") are imitations
of Petrarch (in this case, most likely Petrarch's 190th sonnet).  He was a
diplomat in the service of Henry VIII, traveling to Italy, France and Spain.
Wyatt was imprisioned for his affair with Anne Boleyn; and imprisioned a
second time for treason after the fall of Cromwell.

I like this poem for the way Wyatt expresses personal disappointment and
weariness in the great chase, while still admiring a quarry that has both
eluded him and is now possessed by a greater man (Caesar). All in sonnet
form.

The poet tells of his weariness in hunting a female deer (hind).  He asserts
that he is not giving up, just falling further behind; his wearied mind is
still game. But as she continues to flee, he finally leaves off, recognizing
his hunt to be as fruitless as seeking to catch the wind in a net.  And he
counsels others similarly inclined that they would be spending their time in
vain. Of course, there is more than hunting deer going on here, and the
imagery and the vocabulary take a turn for the more personal in the last
four lines.  For this fleeing female wears around her fair neck a necklace
with diamonds spelling out the last couplet of the poem: a phrase from the
Vulgate: 'touch me not', for I belong to Caesar (or Henry VIII, as the case
may be).  The wonderful final line captures both the passion and the yoked
submission suggested by the diamond necklace, both of great interest to the
speaker, who can appreciate both but enjoy neither.

David.

Ashes of Life -- Edna St Vincent Millay

Back after a period of net deprivation - thanks to Thomas for holding the
fort.

(Poem #956) Ashes of Life Love has gone and left me and the days are all alike; Eat I must, and sleep I will, -- and would that night were here! But ah! -- to lie awake and hear the slow hours strike! Would that it were day again! -- with twilight near! Love has gone and left me and I don't know what to do; This or that or what you will is all the same to me; But all the things that I begin I leave before I'm through, -- There's little use in anything as far as I can see. Love has gone and left me, -- and the neighbors knock and borrow, And life goes on forever like the gnawing of a mouse, -- And to-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow There's this little street and this little house. -- Edna St Vincent Millay

A beautiful poem, Millay giving me, as usual, that wonderful thrill of
seeing a poet get it wonderfully, satisfyingly *right*. And today's poem is
not just beautiful, but impressive - the concentration of imagery in each
line, the way the lines blend into a seamless whole, and the sheer music of
the words are breathtaking.

The way the poem's construction reinforces its content is worth a closer
look. "Love has gone and left me, and the days are all alike", starts the
poem, encouraging the reader to flow with, rather than seek to vary, the
rather metronomic rhythm. The invariance is reinforced by repetition - the
repetition of "love has gone and left me' at the start of each verse, the
parallel constructions like "eat I must and sleep I will', and the climactic
"And to-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow" all underscore the
poem's basic theme.

The most notable variation in the rhythm is the series of stresses in "slow
hours strike", where the words lose their rhythmic flow and gain an emphasis
that evokes the dull, weighty striking of the clock as it ticks the weary
hours off. This is followed immediately by the brilliant "Would that it
were day again! -- with twilight near!" - as perfect a phrasing of the
sentiment as any I've seen.

And finally, the poem appears to end uncharacteristically weakly - this is,
however, perfectly consistent - like the speaker's days and nights, the poem
has no satisfying conclusion, just a weary trailing off that promises no
change and no surcease.

Links:

Millay poems on Minstrels:
  Poem #34, First Fig [with biography and criticism]
  Poem #49, The Unexplorer
  Poem #108, The Penitent
  Poem #317, Inland
  Poem #590, Sonnet XLIII
  Poem #604, Euclid Alone Has Looked On Beauty Bare
  Poem #817, Grown-up
  Poem #860, Sonnet: Love Is Not All
  Poem #905, Sonnet: I will put Chaos into Fourteen Lines
  Poem #926, Dirge Without Music

-martin

Gus: The Theatre Cat -- T S Eliot

(Poem #955) Gus: The Theatre Cat Gus is the Cat at the Theatre Door. His name, as I ought to have told you before, Is really Asparagus. That's such a fuss To pronounce, that we usually call him just Gus. His coat's very shabby, he's thin as a rake, And he suffers from palsy that makes his paw shake. Yet he was, in his youth, quite the smartest of Cats - But no longer a terror to mice and to rats. For he isn't the Cat that he was in his prime; Though his name was quite famous, he says, in its time. And whenever he joins his friends at their club (Which takes place at the back of the neighbouring pub) He loves to regale them, if someone else pays, With anecdotes drawn from his palmiest days. For he once was a Star of the highest degree - He has acted with Irving, he's acted with Tree. And he likes to relate his success on the Halls, Where the Gallery once gave him seven cat-calls. But his grandest creation, as he loves to tell, Was Firefrorefiddle, the Fiend of the Fell. `I have played', so he says, `every possible part, And I used to know seventy speeches by heart. I'd extemporize back-chat, I knew how to gag, And I know how to let the cat out of the bag. I knew how to act with my back and my tail; With an hour of rehearsal, I never could fail. I'd a voice that would soften the hardest of hearts, Whether I took the lead, or in character parts. I have sat by the bedside of poor Little Nell; When the Curfew was rung, then I swung on the bell. In the Pantomime season I never fell flat And I once understudied Dick Whittington's Cat. But my grandest creation, as history will tell, Was Firefrorefiddle, the Fiend of the Fell.' Then, if someone will give him a toothful of gin, He will tell how he once played a part in East Lynne. At a Shakespeare performance he once walked on pat, When some actor suggested the need for a cat. He once played a Tiger - could do it again - Which an Indian Colonel pursued down a drain. And he thinks that he still can, much better than most, Produce blood-curdling noises to bring on the Ghost. And he once crossed the stage on a telegraph wire, To rescue a child when a house was on fire. And he says: `Now, these kittens, they do not get trained As we did in the days when Victoria reigned. They never get drilled in a regular troupe, And they think they are smart, just to jump through a hoop.' And he'll say, as he scratches himself with his claws, `Well, the Theatre's certainly not what it was. These modern productions are all very well, But there's nothing to equal, from what I hear tell, That moment of mystery When I made history As Firefrorefiddle, the Fiend of the Fell.' -- T S Eliot

One of the charms of Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats is the
effortlessness with which Eliot merges the feline and human worlds. Such is
the felicity of his rhymes that we do not think twice of the incongruity of
Bustopher Jones sauntering down Pall Mall in spats, nor of Skimbleshanks
directing operations on the Highland Express, nor yet of Macavity tormenting
Scotland Yard with his criminal exploits (from stealing naval plans to
absconding with the milk). Gus, the Theatre Cat, is one more player in this
wonderful parade; his roles may be four-footed (Dick Whittington's cat,
sundry tigers and ghosts, and of course, "Firefrorefiddle, the Fiend of the
Fell"), but his nostalgia is entirely (and convincingly) human.

thomas.

[Notes]

Little Nell is a character who dies (in a scene of great pathos) (some would
say maudlin sentimentality) in Dickens' "The Old Curiosity Shop".

"East Lynne, or, The Earl's Daughter", was one of the most popular plays of
the 19th century. A full text of the book on which it is based (written by
one Mrs Henry Wood) can be found here:
http://docsouth.unc.edu/imls/woodhen/menu.html

The tiger "which an Indian Colonel pursued down a drain" is almost certainly
a reference to the infamous Colonel Sebastian Moran, the "second most
dangerous man in London", who once "crawled down a drain after a wounded
man-eating tiger" [Conan Doyle, The Adventure of the Empty House]. Many more
Sherlock Holmes references can be found in "Macavity: the Mystery Cat" (see
link below).

[Minstrels Links]

Thomas Stearns Eliot:
Poem #9, La Figlia Che Piange (The Weeping Girl)
Poem #107, Preludes
Poem #193, The Love Song Of J. Alfred Prufrock
Poem #248, Sweeney Among the Nightingales
Poem #258, Macavity: The Mystery Cat
Poem #291, The Journey of the Magi
Poem #354, The Waste Land (Part IV)
Poem #466, Rhapsody on a Windy Night
Poem #532, Little Gidding
Poem #574, Growltiger's Last Stand
Poem #630, To Walter de la Mare
Poem #846, The Hippopotamus
Poem #858, The Waste Land (Part V)

Cats, practical and otherwise:
Poem #165, The Owl and the Pussy-Cat  -- Edward Lear
Poem #167, Pangur Ban  -- Anon. (Irish, 8th century)
Poem #258, Macavity: The Mystery Cat -- T. S. Eliot
Poem #273, How a Cat Was Annoyed and a Poet Was Booted  -- Guy Wetmore
Carryl
Poem #282, Fog  -- Carl Sandburg
Poem #401, To a Cat  -- Jorge Luis Borges
Poem #572, Mort aux Chats -- Peter Porter
Poem #574, Growltiger's Last Stand -- T. S. Eliot
Poem #575, To Mrs Reynolds' Cat -- John Keats
Poem #577, The Cat and the Moon -- William Butler Yeats
Poem #659, Poem -- William Carlos Williams
Poem #660, On a Night of Snow -- Elizabeth Coatsworth
Poem #661, Jubilate Agno -- Christopher Smart
Poem #662, Cat -- Jibanananda Das
Poem #663, A Child's Nightmare -- Robert Graves
Poem #674, Aunt Jennifer's Tigers -- Adrienne Rich
Poem #727, Milk for the Cat -- Harold Monro