I remember, I remember, That curl I used to wear; It cost a dollar ninety-eight (It was the best of hair). It always stayed right in its place, It never went astray; But now, I sometimes wish the wind Had blown that curl away. I remember, I remember, How good I used to be; Why, St. Cecelia at her best Was not as good as me. I never tore my pinafore, Or got my slippers wet; I let my brother steal my cake— That boy is living yet! I remember, I remember, How bad I've sometimes been; How all my little childish tricks Were counted fearful sin. I'm glad I cut up, anyway, But still 'tis little joy To know I could have played worse pranks If I had been a boy.

Mr. Wordsworth took it quietly:

I met a gentle Little Girl, She was sixteen years, she said; Her hair was thick; that same old curl Was hanging from her head. "You're very, very good, you say; And you look good to me, Yet you are bad. Tell me, I pray, Sweet maid, how that may be?" Then did the Little Girl reply (The curl bobbed on her forehead), "When I am good, I'm good as pie, And when I'm bad, I'm horrid."

At the next meeting of the Re-Echo Club there was achieved a vindication of the limerick. "It has been said," remarked the President of the Re-Echo Club, "by ignorant and undiscerning would-be critics that the Limerick is not among the classic and best forms of poetry, and, indeed, some have gone so far as to say that it is not poetry at all.

"A brief consideration of its claims to preëminence among recognized forms of verse will soon convince any intelligent reader of its superlative worth and beauty.

"As a proof of this, let us consider the following Limerick, which in the opinion of connoisseurs is the best one ever written:

There was a young lady of Niger, Who smiled as she rode on a tiger; They came back from the ride With the lady inside, And the smile on the face of the tiger.

Now let us compare this exquisite bit of real poesy with what Chaucer has written on the same theme:

A mayde ther ben, in Niger born and bredde; Hire merye smyle went neere aboute hire hedde. Uponne a beeste shee rood, a tyger gaye, And sikerly shee laughen on hire waye. Anon, as it bifel, bak from the ryde Ther came, his sadel hangen doone bisyde, The tyger. On his countenaunce the whyle Ther ben behelde a gladnesse and a smyle.

Again, Austin Dobson chose to throw off the thing in triolet form:

She went for a ride, That young lady of Niger; Her smile was quite wide As she went for a ride; But she came back inside, With the smile on the tiger! She went for a ride, That young lady of Niger.

Rossetti, with his inability to refrain from refrains, turned out this:

In Niger dwelt a lady fair, (Bacon and eggs and a bar o' soap!) Who smiled 'neath tangles of her hair, As her steed began his steady lope. (You like this style, I hope!) On and on they sped and on, (Bacon and eggs and a bar o' soap!) On and on and on and on; (You see I've not much scope.) E'en ere they loped the second mile, The tiger 'gan his mouth to ope; Anon he halted for a while; Then went on with a pleasant smile, (Bacon and eggs and a bar o' soap!)

Omar looked at the situation philosophically, and summed up his views in such characteristic lines as these.

Why if the Soul can fling the Dust aside And, smiling, on a Tiger blithely ride, Were't not a Shame—were't not a Shame for him In stupid Niger tamely to abide? Strange, is it not? that, of the Myriads who Before us rode the Sandy Desert through, Not one returns to tell us of the Road Which to discover we ride smiling, too. We are no other than a moving Row Of Magic Niger-shapes that come and go Round with the Smile-illumined Tiger held In Midnight by the Master of the Show.

Tennyson saw a dramatic opportunity, and gloried in his chance, thus:

Half a league, half a league, On the big tiger, Rode with a smiling face The lady of Niger. Mad rushed the noble steed, Smiled she and took no heed; Smiled at the breakneck speed Of the big tiger. Boldly they plunged and swayed, Fearlessly and unafraid,— Tiger and lovely maid, Fair and beguiling; Flash'd she her sunny smiles, Flash'd o'er the sunlit miles; Then they rode back, but not— Not the same smiling! When can their glory fade? O the wild charge they made, Riding from Niger! Honor the ride they made! Honor the smiles displayed, Lady and Tiger!

Kipling, of course, seized the theme for a fine and stirring Barrack-Room Ballad:

"What is the lady smiling for?" Said Files-On-Parade. "She's going for a tiger ride," The Color-Sergeant said; "What makes her smile so gay, so gay?" Said Files-On-Parade; "She likes to go for tiger rides," The Color-Sergeant said. "For she's riding on the tiger, you can see his stately stride; When they're returning home again, she'll take a place inside; And on the tiger's face will be the smile so bland and wide, But she's riding on the tiger in the morning."

Browning was pleased with the subject and did the best he could with it, along these lines:

THE LAST RIDE TOGETHER:

(The Tiger speaks.) I said, "Then, Dearest, since 'tis so, Since now at length your fate you know, Since nothing all your smile avails, Since all your life seems meant for fails, Henceforth you ride inside." Who knows what's best? Ah, who can tell? I loved the lady. Therefore,—well,— I shuddered. Yet it had to be. And so together, I and she Ride, ride, forever ride.

Swinburne spread himself thusly:

O marvellous, mystical maiden, With the way of the wind on the wing; Low laughter thy lithe lips hath laden, Thy smile is a Song of the Spring. O typical, tropical tiger, With wicked and wheedlesome wiles; O lovely lost lady of Niger, Our Lady of Smiles.

Edgar Allan Poe put it this way:

See the lady with a smile, Sunny smile! Hear her gaysome, gleesome giggle as she rides around in style! How the merry laughter trips From her red and rosy lips, As she smiles, smiles, smiles, smiles, smiles, smiles, smiles, While she rides along the dusty, desert miles. See the tiger with a smile, Happy smile! If such a smile means happiness, he's happy quite a pile; How contentedly he chuckles as he trots along the miles. Oh, he doesn't growl or groan As he ambles on alone, But he smiles, smiles, smiles, smiles, smiles, smiles, smiles, As he homeward goes along the desert miles.

And Longfellow gave it his beautiful and clever "Hiawatha" setting:

Oh, the fair and lovely lady; Oh, the sweet and winsome lady; With a smile of gentle goodness Like the lovely Laughing Water. Oh, the day the lovely lady Went to ride upon a tiger. Came the tiger, back returning, Homeward through the dusky twilight; Ever slower, slower, slower, Walked the tiger o'er the landscape; Ever wider, wider, wider, Spread the smile o'er all his features.

"And so," said the President, "after numerous examples and careful consideration of this matter, we are led to the conclusion that for certain propositions the Limerick is the best and indeed the only proper vehicle of expression."

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