Part 4
"Birds in their nests agree, And 'tis a shocking sight When folks, who should harmonious be, Fall out and chide and fight.
"The tones of Andy and of Joe Should join in friendly games-- Not be debased to vice so low As that of calling names.
"Bad names and naughty names require To be chastized at school, But he's in danger of hell-fire Who talks of 'crank' and 'fool.'
"Oh 'tis a dreadful thing to see The old folks smite and jaw, But pleasant it is to agree On the election law.
"Let Joe and Andy leave their wrongs For sinners to contest; So shall they some time swell the songs Of Israel's ransomed blest."
THE MIGHTY WEST.
Oh, where abides the fond kazoo, The barrel-organ fair, And where is heard the tra-la-loo Of fish horns on the air? And where are found the fife and drum Discoursed with goodliest zest? And where do fiddles liveliest hum? The west--the mighty west!
Sonatas, fugues, and all o' that Are rightly judged effete, While largos written in B-flat Are clearly out of date; Some like the cold pianny-forty, But whistling suits us best-- And op'ry, if it isn't naughty, Will not catch on out west.
From skinning hogs or canning beef Or diving into stocks, Could we expect to find relief In Haydns or in Bachs? Ah, no; from pork and wheat and lard We turn aside with zest To sing some opus of some bard Whose home is in the west.
So get ye gone, ye weakling crew! Your tunes are stale and flat, And cannot hold a candle to The works of Silas Pratt! His opuses are in demand And are the final test By which all others fall or stand In this the mighty west!
APRIL.
Now April with sweet showers of freshening rain Has roused last summer's vigorous breath once more; 'Tis in the air, the house, the street, the lane-- Puffs through the walls and oozes through the floor.
The rau-cous-throated frog ayont the sty Sends forth, as erst, his amerous vermal croak, Each hungry mooly casts her swivel eye For pots and pails in which her nose to poke.
With gurgling glee the gutter gushes by, Fraught all with filth, unknown and nameless dirt-- A dead green goose, an o'er-ripe rat I spy; Head of a cat, tail of a flannel shirt.
The querulous cry of every gabbling goose From thousand-scented mudholes echoes o'er; The dogs and yawling cats have gotten loose And mock the hideous howls of hell once more.
By yon scrub oak, where roots the sallow sow, In where John Murphy's wife outpours her slop; Right there you'll find there's almost stench now To cause the world its nostrils to estop.
And yonder dauntless goat that bank adown, That wreathes his old fantastic horns so high, Gnaws sadly on the bustle of Miss Brown, Which she discarded in the months gone by.
So in Goose Island cometh April round; Full eagerly we watch the month's approach-- The season of sweet sight and pleasant sound, The season of the bedbug and the roach.
REPORT OF THE BASEBALL GAME.
It was a very pleasant game, And there was naught of grumbling Until the baleful tidings came That Williamson was "fumbling." Then all at once a hideous gloom Fell o'er all manly features, And Clayton's cozy, quiet room Was full of frantic creatures.
"Click, click," the tiny ticker went, The tape began to rattle, And pallid, eager faces bent To read the news from battle; Down, down, ten million feet or more, Chicago's hope went tumbling, When came the word that Burns and Gore And Pfeffer, too, were "fumbling."
No diagram was needed then To point the Browns to glory-- The simple fact that these four men Were "fumbling" told the story. There is not a club in all the land-- No odds how weak or humble-- That beats us when our short-stop and Our second baseman "fumble."
There was some talk of hippodrome 'Mid frequent calls for liquor, Then each Chicago man went home Much wiser, poorer, sicker; And many a giant intellect Seemed slowly, surely crumbling Beneath the dolorous effect Of that St. Louis "fumbling."
Ah, well, the struggle's but just begun, So what is the use of fretting If by a little harmless fun Our boys can bull the betting? When comes the tug of war there'll be No accidental stumbling, And then, you bet your boots, you'll see No mention made of "fumbling."
THE ROSE.
Since the days of old Adam the welkin has rung With the praises of sweet scented posies, And poets in rapturous phrases have sung The paramount beauties of roses.
Wheresoever she bides, whether nestling in lanes Or gracing the proud urban bowers, The red, royal rose her distinction maintains As the one regnant queen among flowers.
How joyous are we of the west when we find That Fate, with her gifts ever chary, Has decreed that the Rose, who is queen of her kind Shall bloom on our wild western prairie.
Let us laugh at the east as an impotent thing With envy and jealously crazy, While grateful Chicago is happy to sing In the praise of the rose--she's a daisy.
KANSAS CITY VS. DETROIT.
A rooster flapped his wings and crowed A merrysome cockadoodledoo, As out of the west a cowboy rode To the land where the peach and the clapboard grew, Humming a gentle tralalaloo.
"O insect with the gilded wing," The cowboy cried, "Pray tell me true Why do you crane your neck and sing That wearisome cockadoodledoo? Would you like to learn the tralalaloo?"
Now the rooster squawked an impudent word Whereat the angered cowboy threw His lariat at the haughty bird And choked him until his gills were blue And his eyes hung out an inch or two.
"Now hear _me_ sing," the cowboy cried; "It ain't no cockadoodledoo-- It's a song we sing on the prairies wide-- The simple song of tralalaloo, Which is cowboy slang for 12 to 2."
ME AND BILKAMMLE.
I will, if you choose, Impart you some news That will greatly astound you, I know; You would never suspect My ambition was wreck'd 'Till you heard my confession of woe. 'Tis not that my boom Has ascended the flume-- In other words, gone up the spout-- I could smile a sweet smile This tempestuous while, But me and Bilkammle are out!
Being timid and shrinkin', He did all the thinkin', When _I_ did the talkin' worth mention; 'Twas my constant ambition To soar to position So I gave it exclusive attention; And supposin' that he Would of course be for me, I rambled and prattled about 'Till I found to my horror, Vexation, and sorror, That me and Bilkammle were out.
As I tore my red hair In a fit of despair I heard my Achates complain That the gent with the coffer Had nothing to offer In the way of relieving his pain!
* * * * *
If there's mortal to blame For this villainous game Which has snuffed a great man beyond doubt. It's that treacherous mammal Entitled Bilkammle-- Which accounts for us two bein' out!
TO THE DETROIT BASEBALL CLUB.
You've scooped the vealy city crowd Of glory and of purse-- Why shouldn't Pegasus be proud To trot you out in a verse? Chicago hoped to wallop you By a tremendous score, But bit off more than it could chew, As witness: "5 to 4."
Well done, you 'Ganders! here's a hand To every one of you; These record-breakers of the land Now break themselves in two. Well get their pennant--it shall float Upon our distant shore, So let each patriotic throat Hurrah for "5 to 4."
A BALLAD OF ANCIENT OATHS.
Ther ben a knyght, Sir Hoten hight, That on a time did swere In mighty store othes mickle sore, Whiche grieved his wiffe to here.
Soth, whenne she scoft, his wiffe did oft Swere as a lady may; "I'faith," "I'sooth," or "lawk" in truth Ben alle that wiffe wold say.
Soe whenne her good man waxed him wood She mervailed much to here The hejeous sound of othes full round The which her lord did swere.
"Now, pray thee, speke and tell me eke What thing hath vexed thee soe?" The wiffe she cried; but he replied By swereing moe and moe.
Her sweren zounds which be Gog's wounds, By bricht Marie and Gis, By sweit Sanct Ann and holie Tan And by Bryde's bell, ywis.
By holie grails, by 'slids and 'snails, By old Sanct Dunstan bauld, The virgin faire that him did beare, By him that Judas sauld;
By Arthure's sword, by Paynim horde, By holie modyr's teir, By Cokis breath, by Zooks and 's death, And by Sanct Swithen deir;
By divells alle, both greate and smalle, And in hell there be, By bread and salt, and by Gog's malt, And by the blody tree;
By Him that worn the crown of thorn And by the sun and mone, By deir Sanct Blanc and Sanct Fillane, And three kings of Cologne;
By the gude Lord and His sweit word, By him that herryit hell, By blessed Jude, by holie rude, And eke be Gad himsell!
He sweren soe (and mickle moe) It made man's flesch to creepen, The air ben blue with his ado And sore his wiffe ben wepen.
Giff you wold know why sweren soe The goodman high Sir Hoten, He ben full wroth, because, in soth, He leesed his coler boten.
AN OLD SONG REVISED.
John Hamilton, my Jo John, When first we were acquaint You were as lavish as could be With your vermillion paint; But now the head that once was red Seems veiled in sable woe, And clouds of gloom obscure your boom, John Hamilton, my Jo.
Oh, was it Campbell's hatchet wrought The ruin we deplore? Or was it Abnor Taylor's thirst For your abundant gore? Or was it Hank's ambitious pranks That laid our idol low? Come, let us know how came you so, John Hamilton, my Joe!
We pine to know the awful truth. So, pray, be pleased to tell The story--full of tragic fire-- How one great statesman fell; How dives' hand stalked in the land And dealt a crushing blow At one proud name--which you're the same, John Hamilton, my Jo!
THE GRATEFUL PATIENT.
The doctor leaned tenderly over the bed And looked at the patient 's complexion, And felt of the pulse and the feverish head, Then stood for a time in reflection. "A strange complication! My recommendation Is morphia by hypodermic injection."
The patient looked up with a leer in his eye And winked in the doctor's direction-- "Well, Doc," he remarked, "since you say I must die, I'm grateful to you for protection-- I'm now in position To ask the commission T' excuse me from serving as judge of election."
THE BEGINNING AND THE END.
Death In my breath, Cried I then: "Men Burn and blight! Nourish crime! Scale the height! Climb, men, climb! Climb and fight! Win by might! Wrong or right! Blood!"
Well In a cell Here I am-- D----n! From my flight So sublime I alight Ere my time, And in fright Here I grope Through the night Without hope. What a plight! Ah, the rope! Thud!
CLARE MARKET.
In the market of Clare, so cheery the glare Of the shops and the booths of the tradespeople there, That I take a delight, on a Saturday night, In walking that way and viewing the sight; For it's here that one sees all the objects that please-- New patterns in silk and old patterns in cheese, For the girls pretty toys, rude alarums for boys, And baubles galore which discretion enjoys-- But here I forbear, for I really despair Of naming the wealth of the market of Clare!
The rich man comes down from the elegant town, And looks at it all with an ominous frown; He seems to despise the grandiloquent cries Of the vender proclaiming his puddings and pies; And sniffing he goes through the lanes that disclose Much cause for disgust to his sensitive nose; Once free from the crowd, he admits that he is proud That elsewhere in London this thing's not allowed-- He has seen nothing there but filth everywhere, And he's glad to get out of the market of Clare.
But the child that has come from the neighboring slum Is charmed by the magic of dazzle and hum; He feasts his big eyes on the cakes and pies And they seem to grow green and protrude with surprise At the goodies they vend and the toys without end-- And it's oh if he had but a penny to spend! But alas! he must gaze in a hopeless amaze At treasures that glitter and torches that blaze-- What sense of despair in this world can compare With that of the waif in the market of Clare?
So, on Saturday nights, when my custom invites A stroll in old London for curious sights, I am likely to stray by a devious way Where goodies are spread in a motley array, The things which some eyes would appear to despise Impress me as pathos in homely disguise, And my tattered waif friend shall have pennies to spend, As long as I've got 'em (or friends that will lend); And the urchin shall share in my joy and declare That there's beauty and good in that marketplace there!
UNCLE EPHRAIM.
My Uncle Ephraim was a man who did not live in vain, And yet, why he succeeded so I never _could_ explain; By nature he was not endowed with wit to a degree, But folks allowed there nowhere lived a better man than he; He started poor but soon got rich; he went to congress then, And held that post of honor long against much brainier men; He never made a famous speech or did a thing of note, And yet the praise of Uncle Eph welled up from every throat.
I recollect I never heard him say a bitter word; He never carried to and fro unpleasant things he heard; He always doffed his hat and spoke to every one he knew, He tipped to poor and rich alike a genial "how-dy'-do"; He kissed the babies, praised their looks, and said: "That child will grow To be a Daniel Webster or our president, I know!" His voice was so mellifluous, his smile so full of mirth, That folks declared he was the best and smartest man on earth!
Now, father was a _smarter_ man, and yet he never won Such wealth and fame as Uncle Eph, "the deestrick's favorite son"; He had "convictions" and he was not loath to speak his mind-- He went his way and said his say as he might be inclined; Yes, _he_ was brainy; yet his life was hardly a success-- He was too honest and too smart for this vain world, I guess! At any rate, I wondered he was unsuccessful when My Uncle Eph, a duller man, was so revered of men!
When Uncle Eph was dying he called me to his bed, And in a tone of confidence inviolate he said: "Dear Willyum, ere I seek repose in yonder blissful sphere I fain would breathe a secret in your adolescent ear; Strive not to hew your way through life--it really doesn't pay; Be sure the salve of flattery soaps all you do and say! Herein the only royal road to fame and fortune lies; Put not your trust in vinegar--_molasses_ catches flies!"
THIRTY-NINE.
O hapless day! O wretched day! I hoped you'd pass me by-- Alas, the years have sneaked away And all is changed but I! Had I the power, I would remand You to a gloom condign, But here you've crept upon me and I--I am thirty-nine!
Now, were I thirty-five, I could Assume a flippant guise, Or, were I forty years, I should Undoubtedly look wise; For forty years are said to bring Sedateness superfine, But thirty-nine don't mean a thing-- _A bas_ with thirty-nine!
You healthy, hulking girls and boys-- What makes you grow so fast? Oh, I'll survive your lusty noise-- I'm tough and bound to last! No, no--I'm old and withered, too-- I feel my powers decline. (Yet none believes this can be true Of one at thirty-nine.)
And you, dear girl with velvet eyes, I wonder what you mean Through all our keen anxieties By keeping sweet sixteen. With your dear love to warm my heart, Wretch were I to repine-- I was but jesting at the start-- I'm glad I'm thirty-nine!
So, little children, roar and race As blithely as you can And, sweetheart, let your tender grace Exalt the Day and Man; For then these factors (I'll engage) All subtly shall combine To make both juvenile and sage The one who's thirty-nine!
Yes, after all, I'm free to say That I rejoice to be Standing as I do stand to-day 'Twixt devil and deep sea; For, though my face be dark with care Or with a grimace shine, Each haply falls unto my share; Since I am thirty-nine!
'Tis passing meet to make good cheer And lord it like a king, Since only once we catch the year That doesn't mean a thing. O happy day! O gracious day! I pledge thee in this wine-- Come let us journey on our way A year, good Thirty-Nine!
HORACE I, 18.
O Varus mine Plant thou the vine Within this kindly soil of Tibur; Nor temporal woes Nor spiritual knows The man who's a discreet imbiber. For who doth croak Of being broke Or who of warfare, after drinking? With bowl atween us, Of smiling Venus And Bacchus shall we sing, I'm thinking.
Of symptoms fell Which brawls impel Historic data give us warning; The wretch who fights When full of nights Is bound to have a head next morning. I do not scorn A friendly horn, But noisy toots--I can't abide 'em! Your howling bat Is stale and flat To one who knows, because he's tried 'em!
The secrets of The life of love (Companionship with girls and toddy) I would not drag With drunken brag Into the ken of everybody, But in the shade Let some coy maid With smilax wreathe my flagon's nozzle-- Then, all day long, With mirth and song, Shall I enjoy a quiet sozzle!
THREE RHINELAND DRINKING SONGS.
I.
If our life is the life of a flower (And that's what some sages are thinking), We should moisten the bud with a health-giving flood And 'twill bloom all the sweeter-- Yes, life's the completer For drinking, and drinking, and drinking!
If it be that our life is a journey (As many wise folks are opining), We should sprinkle the way with the rain while we may; Though dusty and dreary, 'Tis made cool and cheery With wining, and wining, and wining!
If this life that we live be a dreaming (As pessimist people are thinking), To induce pleasant dreams there is nothing, me seems, Like this sweet prescription, That baffles description-- This drinking, and drinking, and drinking!
II.
("Fiducit.")
Three comrades on the German Rhine-- Defying care and weather-- Together quaffed the mellow wine And sung their songs together, What recked they of the griefs of life With wine and song to cheer them? Though elsewhere trouble might be rife, It would not come anear them!
Anon one comrade passed away, And presently another-- And yet unto the tryst each day Repaired the lonely brother, And still, as gayly as of old, That third one, hero-hearted, Filled to the brim each cup of gold And called to the departed:
"O comrades mine, I see you not, Nor hear your kindly greeting; Yet in this old familiar spot Be still our loving meeting! Here have I filled each bouting cup With juices red and cherry-- I pray ye drink the portion up, And, as of old, make merry!"
And once before his tear-dimmed eyes, All in the haunted gloaming, He saw two ghostly figures rise And quaff the beakers foaming; He heard two spirit voices call: "Fiducit, jovial brother!" And so forever from that hall Went they with one another.
III.
(Der Mann im Keller.)
How cool and fair this cellar where My throne a dusky cask is! To do no thing but just to sing And drown the time my task is! The cooper, he's Resolved to please, And, answering to my winking, He fills me up Cup after cup For drinking, drinking, drinking.
Begrudge me not this cozy spot In which I am reclining-- Why, who would burst with envious thirst When he can live by wining? A roseate hue seems to imbue The world on which I'm blinking; My fellow men--I love them when I'm drinking, drinking, drinking.
And yet, I think, the more I drink, It's more and more I pine for-- Oh such as I (forever dry!) God made this land of Rhine for! And there is bliss In knowing this, As to the floor I'm sinking; I've wronged no man, And never can, While drinking, drinking, drinking!
THE THREE TAILORS.
(From the German of C. Herlossohn.)
I shall tell you in rhyme how, once on a time, Three tailors tramped up to the Inn Ingleheim On the Rhine--lovely Rhine; They were broke, but, the worst of it all, they were curst With that malady common to tailors--a thirst For wine--lots of wine!
"Sweet host," quoth the three, "we're as hard up as can be, Yet skilled in the practice of cunning are we On the Rhine--genial Rhine; And we pledge you we will impart you that skill Right quickly and fully, providing you'll fill Us with wine--cooling wine!"
But that host shook his head, and warily said: "Though cunning be good, we take money instead, On the Rhine--thrifty Rhine; If ye fancy ye may without pelf have your way You'll find there's both host and the devil to pay For your wine--costly wine!"
Then the first knavish wight took his needle so bright And threaded its eye with a wee ray of light From the Rhine--sunny Rhine; And in such a deft way patched a mirror that day That where it was mended no expert could say-- Done so fine--'twas for wine!
The second thereat spied a poor little gnat Go toiling along on his nose broad and flat Toward the Rhine--pleasant Rhine; "Aha, tiny friend, I should hate to offend, But your stockings need darning," which same did he mend, All for wine--soothing wine!
And next there occurred what you'll deem quite absurd-- His needle a space in the wall thrust the third, By the Rhine--wondrous Rhine; And then, all so spry, he leapt through the eye Of that thin cambric needle; nay, think you I'd lie About wine? Not for wine!
The landlord allowed (with a smile) he was proud To do the fair thing by that talented crowd On the Rhine--generous Rhine! So a thimble filled he as full as could be; "Drink long and drink hearty, my jolly guests three, Of my wine--filling wine!"
MORNING HYMN.
I'd dearly love to tear my hair And romp around a bit, For I am mad enough to swear Since Brother Chauncy quit.
I am so vilely prone to sin-- Vain ribald that I am-- I'd take a hideous pleasure in Just one prodigious "damn."
But shall I yield to Satan's wiles And let my passions swell? Nay, I will wreath my face in smiles, And mock the powers of hell.
And howsoever pride may roll Its billows through my frame, I'll not condemn my precious soul Unto the quenchless flame!
But rather will I humbly pray Divinity to wash From out my mouth such words away As "Jiminy" and "Gosh."
DOCTORS.