The Sixty Best Humorous Recitations

By S. C. Johnson

Many of the earliest books, particularly those dating back to the 1900s and before, are now extremely scarce and increasingly expensive. We are republishing these classic works in affordable, high quality, modern editions, using the original text and artwork.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Read Books Ltd.
• Release date: Sep 6, 2016
• ISBN: 9781473353749

Book preview

FALL

THE SIXTY BEST HUMOROUS RECITATIONS

THE HAMMER AND THE NAIL

She stood upon a kitchen chair,

The hammer in her hand—

Her snowy brow o’ercast by care—

Her aim, you’ll understand,

Being to show the scornful male

The way a woman hits a nail.

"The men may say just what they like,

I do not care a rap;

For once, at least, I’m on the strike."

She gave the wall a tap:

"I’ll hit that nail upon the head,

Or know the reason why," she said.

She noted the position where

The picture ought to hang;

Then, standing on the kitchen chair,

She gave a mighty bang

And hit right in the centre, plumb—

The nail that grew upon her thumb!

ADA LEONORA HARRIS

By kind permission of the Author and the Editor of the Royal Magazine.

THE TWO SIDES OF THE PICTURE

You talk about the pleasures and the joys of country life,

Its pleasant sights, its pure delights, the absence of all strife,

Its homely poor, its cottages, the simple life you lead;

That’s one side of the picture, and it’s very nice indeed.

But two sides every picture has, and when it rains all day,

On dripping and stale bread you have your appetite to stay;

You’re eight miles from a station, and a pipe you are denied

Because you’ve no tobacco left—well, that’s the other side!

It’s nice to think no creditors upon your doorstep lurk,

No chattering friends come dropping in when you are hard at work,

No yelling boys, no traffic noise, no neighbours to annoy;

You must admit the picture’s one of perfect peace and joy.

But you’ve no club, no theatres, no music-halls and that,

No friend comes in at night for supper and a cheery chat;

Your patience and your temper are by yokels sorely tried;

You’ve muddy roads, no paths, no gas—well, that’s the other side!

You’ve green fields all around you, and the atmosphere is sweet.

The birds awake you every morn, and, gracious, how you eat!

Your health is like the rustics—rude, you get up with the sun;

You’ll quite agree the picture is a very pleasant one.

But all the little lambs you see make butcher’s meat for Town;

Your cottage may be pretty, but it’s precious tumbledown;

By earwigs, spiders, ants, and cows, your wife is terrified;

Your’e in the world, yet out of it—well, that’s the other side!

CLIFTON BINGHAM

Reprinted by permission of the Editor of Pearson’s Magazine.

THE CONFESSION

There’s somewhat on my breast, father,

There’s somewhat on my breast!

The livelong day I sigh, father,

And at night I cannot rest.

I cannot take my rest, father,

Though I would fain do so;

A weary weight oppresseth me—

This weary weight of woe!

’Tis not the lack of gold, father,

Nor want of worldly gear;

My lands are broad, and fair to see,

My friends are kind and dear.

My kin are leal and true, father,

They mourn to see my grief;

But, oh! ’tis not a kinsman’s hand

Can give my heart relief!

’Tis not that Janet’s false, father,

’Tis not that she’s unkind;

Though busy flatterers swarm around,

I know her constant mind.

’Tis not her coldness, father,

That chills my labouring breast;

It’s that confounded cucumber

I’ve eat and can’t digest.

THOMAS INGOLDSBY

THE QUAKER’S MEETING

A traveller wended the wilds among,

With a purse of gold and a silver tongue;

His hat it was broad, and all drab were his clothes,

For he hated high colours—except on his nose;

And he met with a lady, the story goes.

The damsel she cast him a merry blink,

And the traveller nothing was loth, I think;

Her merry black eye beamed her bonnet beneath,

And the Quaker he grinned, for he’d very good teeth,

And he asked, Art thee going to ride on the heath?

I hope you’ll protect me, kind sir, said the maid,

"As to ride this heath over I’m sadly afraid,

For robbers, they say, here in numbers abound,

And I wouldn’t ‘for anything’ I should be found,

For, between you and me, I have five hundred pound."

If that is thee own, dear, the Quaker said,

"I ne’er saw a maiden I sooner would wed;

And I have another five hundred just now,

In the padding that’s under my saddle-bow,

And I’ll settle it all upon thee, I vow!"

The maiden she smiled, and her rein she drew,

Your offer I’ll take, though I’ll not take you;

A pistol she held at the Quaker’s head—

"Now give me your gold, or I’ll give you my lead,

’Tis under the saddle, I think you said."

The damsel she ripped up the saddle-bow,

And the Quaker was never a quaker till now:

And he saw by the fair one he wish’d for a bride

His purse borne away with a swaggering stride,

And the eye that looked tender now only defied.

The spirit doth move me, friend Broadbrim, quoth she,

"To take all this filthy temptation from thee;

For Mammon deceiveth, and beauty is fleeting;

Accept from thy maiden a right loving greeting,

For much doth she