Part 2

Ed was a man that played for keeps, 'nd when he tuk the notion, You cudn't stop him any more'n a dam 'ud stop the ocean; For when he tackled to a thing 'nd sot his mind plum to it, You bet yer boots he done that thing though it broke the bank to do it! So all us boys uz knowed him best allowed he wusn't jokin' When on a Sunday he remarked uz how he'd gin up smokin'. Now this remark, that Ed let fall, fell, ez I say, on Sunday-- Which is the reason we wuz shocked to see him sail in Monday A-puffin' at a snipe that sizzled like a Chinese cracker An' smelt fur all the world like rags instead uv like terbacker; Recoverin' from our first surprise, us fellows fell to pokin' A heap uv fun at "folks uz said how they had gin up smokin'." But Ed--sez he: "I found my work cud not be done without it-- Jes' try the scheme yourself, my friends, ef any uv you doubt it! It's hard, I know, upon one's health, but there's a certain beauty In makin' sackerfices to the stern demand uv duty! So, wholly in a sperrit uv denial 'nd concession I mortify the flesh 'nd fur the sake uv my perfession!"

HOW SALTY WIN OUT.

Used to think that luck wuz luck and nuthin' else but luck-- It made no diff'rence how or when or where or why it struck; But sev'ral years ago I changt my mind and now proclaim That luck's a kind uv science--same as any other game; It happened out in Denver in the spring uv '80, when Salty teched a humpback an' win out ten.

Salty wuz a printer in the good ol' Tribune days, An', natural-like, he fell in love with the good ol' Tribune ways; So, every Sunday evenin' he would sit into the game Which in this crowd uv thoroughbreds I think I need not name; An' there he'd sit until he rose, an', when he rose he wore Invariably less wealth about his person than before.

But once there come a powerful change; one sollum Sunday night Occurred the tidle wave what put ol' Salty out o' sight! He win on deuce an' ace an' jack--he win on king an' queen-- Cliff Bill allowed the like uv how he win wuz never seen! An' how he done it wuz revealed to all us fellers when He said he teched a humpback to win out ten.

There must be somethin' in it for he never win afore, An' when he tole the crowd about the humpback, how they swore! For every sport allows it is a losin' game to buck Agin the science of a man who's teched a hump f'r luck; An' there is no denyin' luck was nowhere in it when Salty teched a humpback an' win out ten.

I've had queer dreams an' seen queer things, an' allus tried to do The thing that luck apparrently intended f'r me to; Cats, funerils, cripples, beggars have I treated with regard, An' charity subscriptions have hit me powerful hard; But what's the use uv talkin'? I say, an' say again; You've got to tech a humpback to win out ten!

So, though I used to think that luck wuz lucky, I'll allow That luck, for luck, agin a hump ain't nowhere in it now! An' though I can't explain the whys an' wherefores, I maintain There must be somethin' in it when the tip's so straight an' plain; For I wuz there an' seen it, an' got full with Salty when Salty teched a humpback and win out ten!

HIS QUEEN.

Our gifted and genial friend, Mr. William J. Florence, the comedian, takes to verses as naturally as a canvas-back duck takes to celery sauce. As a balladist he has few equals and no superiors, and when it comes to weaving compliments to the gentler sex he is without a peer. We find in the New York Mirror the latest verses from Mr. Florence's pen; they are entitled "Pasadene," and the first stanza flows in this wise:

I've journeyed East, I've journeyed West, And fair Italia's fields I've seen; But I declare None can compare With thee, my rose-crowned Pasadene.

Following this introduction come five stanzas heaping even more glowing compliments upon this Miss Pasadene--whoever she may be--we know her not. They are handsome compliments, beautifully phrased, yet they give us the heartache, for we know Mrs. Florence, and it grieves us to see her husband dribbling away his superb intellect in penning verses to other women. Yet we think we understand it all; these poets have a pretty way of hymning the virtues of their wives under divers aliases. So, catching the afflatus of the genial actor-poet's muse, we would answer:

Come, now, who is this Pasadene That such a whirl of praises warrant? And is a rose Her only clo'es? Oh, fie upon you, Billy Florence!

Ah, no; that's your poetic way Of turning loose your rhythmic torrents-- This Pasadene Is not your queen-- We know you know we know it, Florence!

So sing your songs of women folks-- We'll read without the least abhorrence, Because we know Through weal and woe Your queen is Mrs. Billy Florence!

ALASKAN BALLADRY.--III.

(Skans in Love.)

I am like the wretched seal Wounded by a barbed device-- Helpless fellow! how I bellow, Floundering on the jagged ice!

Sitka's beauty is the steel That hath wrought this piteous woe: Yet would I rather die Than recover from the blow!

Still I'd rather live than die, Grievous though my torment be; Smite away, but, I pray, Smite no victim else than me!

THE BIGGEST FISH.

When, in the halcyon days of old, I was a little tyke, I used to fish in pickerel ponds for minnows and the like; And, oh, the bitter sadness with which my soul was fraught When I rambled home at nightfall with the puny string I'd caught! And, oh, the indignation and the valor I'd display When I claimed that all the biggest fish I'd caught had got away!

Sometimes it was the rusty hooks, sometimes the fragile lines, And many times the treacherous reeds were actually to blame. I kept right on at losing all the monsters just the same-- I never lost a _little_ fish--yes, I am free to say It always was the _biggest_ fish I caught that got away. And so it was, when, later on, I felt ambition pass From callow minnow joys to nobler greed for pike and bass; I found it quite convenient, when the beauties wouldn't bite And I returned all bootless from the watery chase at night, To feign a cheery aspect and recount in accents gay How the biggest fish that I had caught had somehow got away.

And, really, fish look bigger than they are before they're caught-- When the pole is bent into a bow and the slender line is taut, When a fellow feels his heart rise up like a doughnut in his throat And he lunges in a frenzy up and down the leaky boat! Oh, you who've been a-fishing will indorse me when I say That it always _is_ the biggest fish you catch that gets away!

'Tis even so in other things--yes, in our greedy eyes The biggest boon is some elusive, never-captured prize; We angle for the honors and the sweets of human life-- Like fishermen we brave the seas that roll in endless strife; And then at last, when all is done and we are spent and gray, We own the biggest fish we've caught are those that get away.

I would not have it otherwise; 'tis better there should be Much bigger fish than I have caught a-swimming in the sea; For now some worthier one than I may angle for that game-- May by his arts entice, entrap, and comprehend the same; Which, having done, perchance he'll bless the man who's proud to say That the biggest fish he ever caught were those that got away.

BONNIE JIM CAMPBELL: A LEGISLATIVE MEMORY.

Bonnie Jim Campbell rode up the glen, But it wasn't to meet the butterine men; It wasn't Phil Armour he wanted to see, Nor Haines nor Crafts--though their friend was he. Jim Campbell was guileless as man could be-- No fraud in his heart had he; 'Twas all on account of his character's sake That he sought that distant Wisconsin lake.

* * * * *

Bonnie Jim Campbell came riding home, And now he sits in the rural gloam; A tear steals furtively down his nose As salt as the river that yonder flows; To the setting sun and the rising moon He plaintively warbles the good old tune:

"Of all the drinks that ever were made-- From sherbet to circus lemonade-- Not one's so healthy and sweet, I vow, As the rich, thick cream of the Elgin cow! Oh, that she were here to enliven the scene, Right merry would be our hearts, I ween; Then, then again, Bob Wilbanks and I Would take it by turns and milk her dry! We would stuff her paunch with the best of hay And milk her a hundred times a day!"

'Tis thus that Bonnie Jim Campbell sings-- A young he-angel with sprouting wings; He sings and he prays that Fate'll allow Him one more whack at the Elgin cow!

LYMAN, FREDERICK AND JIM.

Lyman and Frederick and Jim, one day, Set out in a great big ship-- Steamed to the ocean down to the bay Out of a New York slip. "Where are you going and what is your game?" The people asked to those three. "Darned, if we know; but all the same Happy as larks are we; And happier still we're going to be!" Said Lyman And Frederick And Jim.

The people laughed "Aha, oho! Oho, aha!" laughed they; And while those three went sailing so Some pirates steered that way. The pirates they were laughing, too-- The prospect made them glad; But by the time the job was through Each of them pirates bold and bad, Had been done out of all he had By Lyman And Frederick And Jim.

Days and weeks and months they sped, Painting that foreign clime A beautiful, bright vermillion red-- And having a -- of a time! 'Twas all so gaudy a lark, it seemed, As if it could not be, And some folks thought it a dream they dreamed Of sailing that foreign sea, But I'll identify you these three-- Lyman And Frederick And Jim.

Lyman and Frederick are bankers and sich And Jim is an editor kind; The first two named are awfully rich And Jim ain't far behind! So keep your eyes open and mind your tricks, Or you are like to be In quite as much of a Tartar fix As the pirates that sailed the sea And monkeyed with the pardners three, Lyman And Frederick And Jim.

A WAIL.

My name is Col. Johncey New, And by a hoosier's grace I have congenial work to do At 12 St. Helen's place. I was as happy as a clam A-floating with the tide, Till one day came a cablegram To me from t'other side.

It was a Macedonian cry From Benjy o'er the sea; "Come hither, Johncey, instantly, And whoop things up for me!" I could not turn a callous ear Unto that piteous cry; I packed my grip, and for the pier Directly started I.

Alas! things are not half so fair As four short years ago-- The clouds are gathering everywhere And boisterous breezes blow; My wilted whiskers indicate The depth of my disgrace-- Would I were back, enthroned in state, At 12 St. Helen's place!

The saddest words, as I'll allow, That drop from tongue or pen, Are these sad words I utter now: "They can't, shan't, won't have Ben!" So, with my whiskers in my hands, My journey I'll retrace, To wreak revenge on foreign lands At 12 St. Helen's place.

CLENDENIN'S LAMENT.

While bridal knots are being tied And bridal meats are being basted, I shiver in the cold outside And pine for joys I've never tasted.

Oh, what's a nomination worth, When you have labored months to get it If, all at once, with heartless mirth, The cruel senator's upset it?

Fate weaves me such a toilsome way, My modest wisdom may not ken it-- But, all the same, a plague I say Upon that stingy, hostile senate!

ON THE WEDDING OF G. C.

(June 2, 1886.)

Oh, hand me down my spike tail coat And reef my waistband in, And tie this necktie round my throat And fix my bosom pin; I feel so weak and flustered like, I don't know what I say-- For I am to be wedded to-day, Dan'l, I'm to be wedded to-day!

Put double sentries at the doors And pull the curtains down, And tell the democratic bores That I am out of town; It's funny folks haint decency Enough to stay away, When I'm to be wedded to-day, Dan'l, I'm to be wedded to-day!

The bride, you say, is calm and cool In satin robes of white-- Well, _I_ am stolid, as a rule, But now I'm flustered quite; Upon a surging sea of bliss My soul is borne away, For I'm to be wedded to-day, Dan'l, I'm to be wedded to-day!

TO G. C.

(July 12, 1886.)

They say our president has stuck Above his good wife's door The sign provocative of luck-- A horseshoe--nothing more.

Be hushed, O party hates, the while That emblem lingers there, And thou, dear fates, propitious smile Upon the wedded pair.

I've tried the horseshoe's weird intent And felt its potent joy-- God bless you, Mr. President, And may it be a boy.

TO DR. F. W. R.

If I were rich enough to buy A case of wine (though I abhor it), I'd send a quart of extra dry And willingly get trusted for it. But, lackaday! _You_ know that I'm As poor as Job's historic turkey-- In lieu of Mumm, accept this rhyme, An honest gift though somewhat jerky.

This is your silver wedding day-- You didn't mean to let me know it! And yet your smiles and raiments gay Beyond all peradventure show it! By all you say and do it's clear A birdling in your heart is singing, And everywhere you go you hear The old-time bridal bells a-ringing.

Ah, well, God grant that these dear chimes May mind you of the sweetness only Of those far distant, callow times When you were Benedick and lonely-- And when an angel blessed your lot-- For angel is your helpmeet, truly-- And when, to share the joy she brought, Came other little angels, duly.

So here's a health to you and wife-- Long may you mock the Reaper's warning, And may the evening of your life In rising sons renew the morning; May happiness and peace and love Come with each morrow to caress ye, And when you're done with earth, above-- God bless ye, dear old friend--God bless ye!

HORACE'S ODE TO "LYDIA" ROCHE.

No longer the boys, With their music and noise, Demand your election as mayor; Such a milk-wagon hack Has no place on the track When his rival's a thoroughbred stayer.

With your coarse, shallow wit Every rational cit At last is completely disgusted; The tool of the rings, Trusts, barons, and things, What wonder, I wonder, you're busted!

As soon as that Yerkes Finds out you can't work his Intrigues for the popular nickel, With a tear to deceive you He'll drop you and leave you In your normal condition--a pickle.

Go, dodderer, go Where the whisker winds blow And spasms of penitence trouble; Or flounder and whoop In an ocean of soup Where the pills of adversity bubble.

A PARAPHRASE, CIRCA 1715.

Since Chloe is so monstrous fair, With such an eye and such an air, What wonder that the world complains When she each am'rous suit disdains?

Close to her mother's side she clings And mocks the death her folly brings To gentle swains that feel the smarts Her eyes inflict upon their hearts.

Whilst thus the years of youth go by, Shall Colin languish, Strephon die? Nay, cruel nymph! come, choose a mate, And choose him ere it be too late!

A PARAPHRASE, OSTENSIBLY BY DR. I. W.

Why, Mistress Chloe, do you bother With prattlings and with vain ado Your worthy and industrious mother, Eschewing them that come to woo?

Oh, that the awful truth might quicken This stern conviction to your breast: You are no longer now a chicken Too young to quit the parent nest.

So put aside your froward carriage And fix your thoughts, whilst yet there's time, Upon the righteousness of marriage With some such godly man as I'm.

HORACE I, 27.

In maudlin spite let Thracians fight Above their bowls of liquor, But such as we, when on a spree, Should never bawl and bicker!

These angry words and clashing swords Are quite de trop, I'm thinking; Brace up, my boys, and hush your noise, And drown your wrath in drinking.

Aha, 'tis fine--this mellow wine With which our host would dope us! Now let us hear what pretty dear Entangles him of Opus.

I see you blush--nay, comrades, hush! Come, friend, though they despise you, Tell me the name of that fair dame-- Perchance I may advise you.

O wretched youth! and is it truth You love that fickle lady? I, doting dunce, courted her once, And she is reckoned shady!

HEINE'S "WIDOW OR DAUGHTER."

Shall I woo the one or the other? Both attract me--more's the pity! Pretty is the widowed mother, And the daughter, too, is pretty.

When I see that maiden shrinking, By the gods, I swear I'll get 'er! But, anon, I fall to thinking That the mother'll suit me better!

So, like any idiot ass-- Hungry for the fragrant fodder, Placed between two bales of grass, Lo, I doubt, delay, and dodder!

HORACE II, 20.

Maecenas, I propose to fly To realms beyond these human portals; No common things shall be my wings, But such as sprout upon immortals.

Of lowly birth, once shed of earth, Your Horace, precious (so you've told him), Shall soar away--no tomb of clay Nor Stygian prison house shall hold him.

Upon my skin feathers begin To warn the songster of his fleeting; But never mind--I leave behind Songs all the world shall keep repeating.

Lo, Boston girls with corkscrew curls, And husky westerns, wild and woolly, And southern climes shall vaunt my rhymes-- And all profess to know me fully.

Methinks the west shall know me best And therefore hold my memory dearer, For by that lake a bard shall make My subtle, hidden meanings clearer.

So cherished, I shall never die-- Pray, therefore, spare your dolesome praises, Your elegies and plaintive cries, For I shall fertilize no daisies!

HORACE'S SPRING POEM.

(Odes I, 4.)

The western breeze is springing up, the ships are in the bay, And Spring has brought a happy change as Winter melts away; No more in stall or fire the herd or plowman finds delight, No longer with the biting frosts the open fields are white.

Our Lady of Lythera now prepares to lead the dance, While from above the ruddy moon bestows a friendly glance; The nymphs and comely Graces join with Venus and the choir, And Vulcan's glowing fancy lightly turns to thoughts of fire.

Now is the time with myrtle green to crown the shining pate, And with the early blossoms of the spring to decorate; To sacrifice to Faunus--on whose favor we rely-- A sprightly lamb, mayhap a kid, as he may specify.

Impartially the feet of Death at huts and castles strike-- The influenza carries off the rich and poor alike; O Sestius! though blest you are beyond the common run, Life is too short to cherish e'en a distant hope begun.

The Shades and Pluto's mansion follow hard upon la grippe-- Once there you cannot throw at dice or taste the wine you sip, Nor look on Lycidas, whose beauty you commend, To whom the girls will presently their courtesies extend.

HORACE TO LIGURINE.

(Odes IV, 10.)

O cruel fair, Whose flowing hair The envy and the pride of all is, As onward roll The years, that poll Will get as bald as a billiard ball is; Then shall your skin, now pink and dimply, Be tanned to parchment, sear and pimply!

When you behold Yourself grown old These words shall speak your spirits moody: "Unhappy one! What heaps of fun I've missed by being goody-goody! Oh! that I might have felt the hunger Of loveless age when I was younger!"

HORACE ON HIS MUSCLE.

(Epode VI.)

You (blatant coward that you are!) Upon the helpless vent your spite; Suppose you ply your trade on me-- Come, monkey with this bard and see How I'll repay your bark with bite!

Ay, snarl just once at me, you brute! And I shall hound you far and wide, As fiercely as through drifted snow The shepherd dog pursues what foe Skulks on the Spartan mountain side!

The chip is on my shoulder, see? But touch it and I'll raise your fur; I'm full of business; so beware, For, though I'm loaded up for bear, I'm quite as likely to kill a cur!

HORACE TO MAECENAS.

(Odes III, 29.)

Dear noble friend! a virgin cask Of wine solicits attention-- And roses fair, to deck your hair, And things too numerous to mention, So tear yourself awhile away From urban turmoil, pride and splendor And deign to share what humble fare And sumptuous fellowship I tender; The sweet content retirement brings Smoothes out the ruffled front of kings.

The evil planets have combined To make the weather hot and hotter-- By parboiled streams the shepherd dreams Vainly of ice-cream soda-water; And meanwhile you, defying heat, With patriotic ardor ponder On what old Rome essays at home And what her heathen do out yonder. Maecenas, no such vain alarm Disturbs the quiet of this farm!

God in his providence observes The goal beyond this vale of sorrow, And smiles at men in pity when They seek to penetrate the morrow. With faith that all is for the best, Let's bear what burdens are presented, That we shall say, let come what may, "We die, as we have lived, contented! Ours is to-day; God's is the rest-- He doth ordain who knoweth best!"

Dame Fortune plays me many a prank-- When she is kind, oh! how I go it! But if, again, she's harsh, why, then I am a very proper poet! When favoring gales bring in my ships, I hie to Rome and live in clover-- Elsewise, I steer my skiff out here, And anchor till the storm blows over. Compulsory virtue is the charm Of life upon the Sabine farm!

HORACE IN LOVE AGAIN.

(Epode XI.)

Dear Pettius, once I reeled off rhyme Satiric, sad and tender, But now my quill Has lost its skill And I am dying in my prime Through love of female gender! Nay, do not laugh Nor deign to chaff Your friend with taunts of Lyde And other dames Who've been my flames-- _This_ time it's bona-fide!

I maunder sadly to and fro-- I who was once so jolly! My old time chums Gyrate their thumbs And taunt me, as I sighing go, With what they term my folly. I told you once, Lake a garrulous dunce, Of my all consuming passion, And I rolled my eyes In tragedy wise And raved in lovesick fashion.

And when I'd aired my woes profound You volunteered this warning: "Horace, go light On the bowl to-night-- Ten hours of sleep will bring you round All right to-morrow morning!" Now ten hours sleep May do a heap For callow hearts a-patter, But I tell you, sir, This affair du coeur Of _mine_ is a serious matter!

"GOOD-BY--GOD BLESS YOU!"

I like the Anglo-Saxon speech With its direct revealings-- It takes a hold and seems to reach Way down into your feelings; That some folk deem it rude, I know, And therefore they abuse it; But I have never found it so-- Before all else I choose it. I don't object that men should air The Gallic they have paid for-- With "au revoir," "adieu, ma chere"-- For that's what French was made for-- But when a crony takes your hand At parting to address you, He drops all foreign lingo and He says: "Good-by--God bless you!"