The Art of Book-Keeping
Dublin Core
Title
The Art of Book-Keeping
Creator
Unknown
Source
http://addison.vt.edu/record=b1775388~S1
Publisher
Virginia Polytechnic Institute and State University
Date
June 1876
Contributor
Nathan Blake, Arian Katsimbras
Language
English
Type
poem
Identifier
LD5655.V8 L4, ser.1, v.1, no.8 (June 1876), p.6
Text Item Type Metadata
Text
We are indebted to a friend for a copy of the following poem, which he states was first published in an English paper, several years ago, then in the New York Ledger, and lastly in the Protestant Churchman:
The Art of Book-Keeping.
How hard, when those who do not wish To lend, that lose their books, Are snared by angler-folks that fish With literary hooks.
Who call to take some favorite tome, But never read it through, Thus they complete their set at home. By making one at you.
I of my "Spencer" quite bereft, Last winter sore was shaken; Of "Lamb" I've but a quarter left, Nor could I save my "Bacon."
And then I saw my "Orabbe," at last. Like Hamlet's backward go ; And as my tide was ebbing fast, Of course I lost my "Rowe."
My Mallet" served to knock me down. Which makes me thus a talker; And once when I was out of town, My "Johnson" proved a "Walker."
While studying o'er the fire one day, My "Hobbes" amidst the smoke, They bore my " oleman" clear away And carried off my "Coke."
They picked my "Locke," to me far more Than Bramah's patent worth; And now my losses I deplore, Without a "Howe" on earth.
If once a book you let them lift, Another they conceal; For though I caught them stealing "Swift," As swiftly went my "Steele."
Even "Glover's" works I cannot put My frozen hands upon; Though ever since I lost my "Foote," My "Bunyan" has been gone.
My "Hoyle" with Cotton went oppressed — My "Taylor," too, must fail; To save my "Goldsmith" from arrest, In vain I offered "Bayle."
I "Prior" sought, but could not see The "Hood" so late in front; And when I turned to hunt for "Lee," Oh, where was my "Leigh Hunt ?"
I tried to laugh, old care to tickle, Yet could not "Tickle" touch, And then, alack ! I missed my "Mickle," And surely muckles much.
'Tis quite enough my grief to feel — My sorrows to excuse, To think I cannot read my "Reid," Nor even use my "Hughes."
My classic would not quiet lie, A thing so fondly hoped; Like Dr. Primrose I may cry "My ‘Livy' has eloped."
My life is wasting fast away, I suffer from these shocks; And though I fixed a lock on "Gray," There's gray upon my locks.
I'm far from "Young"—am growing pale, I see my "Butter" fly; And when they ask about my ail, 'Tis "Burton," I reply.
They still have made me slight returns, And thus my griefs divide; For oh ! they've cured me of my "Burns," And eased my "Akenside."
But all I think I shall not say, Nor let my anger burn; For as they never found me "Gay," They have not left me "Sterne.
The Art of Book-Keeping.
How hard, when those who do not wish To lend, that lose their books, Are snared by angler-folks that fish With literary hooks.
Who call to take some favorite tome, But never read it through, Thus they complete their set at home. By making one at you.
I of my "Spencer" quite bereft, Last winter sore was shaken; Of "Lamb" I've but a quarter left, Nor could I save my "Bacon."
And then I saw my "Orabbe," at last. Like Hamlet's backward go ; And as my tide was ebbing fast, Of course I lost my "Rowe."
My Mallet" served to knock me down. Which makes me thus a talker; And once when I was out of town, My "Johnson" proved a "Walker."
While studying o'er the fire one day, My "Hobbes" amidst the smoke, They bore my " oleman" clear away And carried off my "Coke."
They picked my "Locke," to me far more Than Bramah's patent worth; And now my losses I deplore, Without a "Howe" on earth.
If once a book you let them lift, Another they conceal; For though I caught them stealing "Swift," As swiftly went my "Steele."
Even "Glover's" works I cannot put My frozen hands upon; Though ever since I lost my "Foote," My "Bunyan" has been gone.
My "Hoyle" with Cotton went oppressed — My "Taylor," too, must fail; To save my "Goldsmith" from arrest, In vain I offered "Bayle."
I "Prior" sought, but could not see The "Hood" so late in front; And when I turned to hunt for "Lee," Oh, where was my "Leigh Hunt ?"
I tried to laugh, old care to tickle, Yet could not "Tickle" touch, And then, alack ! I missed my "Mickle," And surely muckles much.
'Tis quite enough my grief to feel — My sorrows to excuse, To think I cannot read my "Reid," Nor even use my "Hughes."
My classic would not quiet lie, A thing so fondly hoped; Like Dr. Primrose I may cry "My ‘Livy' has eloped."
My life is wasting fast away, I suffer from these shocks; And though I fixed a lock on "Gray," There's gray upon my locks.
I'm far from "Young"—am growing pale, I see my "Butter" fly; And when they ask about my ail, 'Tis "Burton," I reply.
They still have made me slight returns, And thus my griefs divide; For oh ! they've cured me of my "Burns," And eased my "Akenside."
But all I think I shall not say, Nor let my anger burn; For as they never found me "Gay," They have not left me "Sterne.