By Irving Vanderblock-Wheedle.

Consider, if you please, the gnu.
Now, hasn’t he been true to you?
The gnarwhal has a pointy end;
The gnewt’s at best a chilly friend;
The gnighthawk seldom stops to chat;
The gnumbat up and left me flat;
The gnautilus just backed away;
The gnapu said, “Some other day.”
So if you want a friend who’s true,
Consider, if you please, the gnu.

Fennigan Finnegan,
Pa’s at the gin again;
Finnegan Fonnegan,
Looks like he’s gone again.
Melligan Milligan,
Ma made some swill again;
Milligan Mulligan,
Things sure are dull again.

Chorus:
Row, row, row, Romania!
You’ve just got to beat Albania!
We’ve all got Romania mania,
So row, row, row, Romania!

1. We’re the pride of Transylvania!
In our hair we wear gazania,
In our buttonholes, gerania—
So row, row, row, Romania! (Chorus.)

2. We were tops in Lithuania,
And we held off Mauritania.
We sure showed Tripolitania—
So row, row, row, Romania! (Chorus.)

3. And we’ll row to Pennsylvania
Round the south coast of Tasmania
(While we mispronounce “Tanzania”)—
So row, row, row, Romania! (Chorus.)

4. And our song keeps getting zania
(The effect of melomania)
Till it hurts our poor old crania—
So row, row, row, Romania! (Chorus.)

What shall we do with the Hrothaloo?
     It seems to eat too much.
It’s very bland to look at, and
     It’s pinkish to the touch.

What shall we do with the Hrothaloo?
     It takes up too much space.
It wears Pa’s skirts and tears his shirts
     And chews up Mama’s lace.

What shall we do with the Hrothaloo?
     It smells like clarinets.
The servants don’t; the children won’t;
     It mystifies the pets.

What shall we do with the Hrothaloo?
     We’ll paint its toenails red
And feed it ham with rhubarb jam,
     And then we’ll go to bed.

Sing
     Sang
          Song
               Sung.

Ding
     Dang
          Dong
               Dung.

Ring
     Rang
          Wrong
               Wrung.

According to Joycean scholars, this poem is based on the Irish myth of Siobhán Mac Tuilliseach, which no one had ever heard of before the discovery of the poem.

Jane Greer, one of the founders of the “new formalism” in poetry, died last night at the age of seventy-two. She left us far too few poems, but enough poetic intensity to fill volumes by lesser poets. Regular readers of this Magazine are familiar with her even if they do not remember the name: she often left us clever remarks (signed simply “Jane”) in the comments.

We console ourselves for the loss by reminding ourselves that Jane’s poetry was only a small part of her work. She was a sower, and we are still reaping the harvest from the dozens of good poets she encouraged. She even encouraged your humble servant here, which shows us that charity was not the least of her virtues.

The loss to poetry is mitigated, then, by her enormous legacy. The personal loss is a little harder. Every so often we will run across something that we know would amuse Jane and no one else, and what can do with it?

The grief: I cannot seem to move beyond it,
but in this silence I will try to save
some shred of this beastly day, try to believe
in redemption, and that I am not the beast—
voice tight, teeth showing, my hour come round at last.
(From “Motherhood on the One Quiet Night” by Jane Greer.)

Two of Jane’s books are in print from Lambing Press. It was our honor to be present at the birth of both these books—not as the midwife, perhaps, but at least as one of those technicians who roll the cart in. If our own recommendation is not sufficient, they come with glowing recommendations from Samuel Hazo, James Matthew Wilson, Anthony Esolen, Ryan Wilson, Rachel Hadas, Boris Dralyuk, Maryann Corbett, and a host of other big names in current literature.

To be sung by a tenor in his best imitation of Caruso.

     Isabella!
     Isabella!
In the whole wide world there isn’t any swella!
     Isabella!
     Isabella!
Ev’rybody tells me I’m a lucky fella!
     Isabella!
     Isabella!
With your kiss so sweet my teeth are tuning yella—
     Though my dental bills are high,
     You can see the reason why,
Isabella! You’re the one for me!