Classic Poem

The first of them is Elsa, and Greta is the second,
Right well the two have reckoned
The force of their valor upon me.
Small hurricanes are they, that come and go but never tarry,
Like modern Goths and Vandals they raid me and they harry,
Until they despoil me utterly.

For Greta's eyes are smiling, each one an artful beggar,
Most shrewd they look, and eager
For mischief and candy no doubt,
And lips has she to quarrel and vex—the little rover!—
Such merry lips as Greta's you never could discover,
So boldly they purse themselves and pout.

And Elsa's eyes are large, confiding and caressing,
But never quite suppressing
A deep-seated appetite for cake,
And lips has she, demure and yet so very sly too,
They never can conceal, however they may try to,
That love of fruit is always awake.

And both of them have feet and legs for nimble tripping,
And waltzing and skipping
Most gracefully in stockings and shoes;
And both can dance about till it pleases and provokes one,
And both have naughty little hands to fondle and to coax one,
And nails which as claws they can use.

They scratch and laugh and mock me, they choke me in the scrimmage,
And are the very image
Of Cupid in a trouser-skirt;
And if they are Vandals, they are cunning little Vandals,
If hurricanes, then hurricanes that come on fairy sandals
In full daylight and cause no hurt.

I walk along half-musing, when something nearly trips me,
And holds my leg and nips me,
And pulls my coat before I can flee;
There's fumbling at my pocket as if there were a crab there,
I snatch at it and sure enough a girlie's hand I grab there,
The smallest and prettiest that could be.

Then Elsa and Greta and eight more small princesses,
All stout vexatious lasses
Who seem to shirk their lessons at will,
Rush up and with the noise of their battle-cry astound me,
And dance the schottische, polka and horn-pipe all around me,
While, thunderstruck, I stand there still.

Then straightway sounds the onset, there's patting and stroking
And pushing and joking
Of how I am a great millionnaire
Who simply overflows with streams of useless money,
And next they shout in chorus, as if they thought it funny:
“There's fruit at gardener Lind's by the square!”

I fight then like a man, but the Vandals are victorious,
And laugh and rush uproarious
Around the corner swift as the wind;
They leave me there disarmed, despoiled and wholly beaten,
And guzzle till they're sick with the cherries they have eaten
At the fruit-shop of gardener Lind.

If on my couch at home my senses I would muffle,
I hear a stealthy shuffle,
And ask myself what sounds are these,
Until the door flies back and I'm summoned to surrender,
I struggle and I wrestle—alas! my chance is slender
With such a horde of wild enemies.

They scramble and they clamber and violently seize me,
They pinch me and they squeeze me,
And tie me to the rack forthwith,
Where Greta and her band soon put me to the question
And wring from me my pennies to ruin their digestion
On sweets bought of candy-man Smith.

So goes it every day, and my funds are growing scanty,
For coppers run a-plenty
In many a little rill from my purse;
And if I dare refuse them, they make the wriest faces,
And scout the stingy churl with contemptuous grimaces,
And punish, and slap me and disperse.

But if they stay away and leave me at my leisure,
I lie there in displeasure,
With lifeless books I soon grow bored,
Till mournfully I think of the battles fierce and strong then,
And furtively for Elsa and Greta do I long then,
For them and all their Vandal horde.