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 OP 
 
 CVCRY DAY, 
 
 BY 
 
 / 
 
 ARTHUR G. BURGOYNE. 
 
 PirrsDurgh, Pa., 1900. 
 
 PRESS OP 
 
 PITTSBURGH PRINTING COMPANY 
 
 1900. 
 
XNATO COPIES HECElVfiD. 
 
 Library of C0Bgrtl% 
 Office of tkt 
 
 MAY 1 1 1880 
 
 Keglafor of Copyrights 
 6EC0NDC0PY. r^ 
 
 RMY141800' il 
 
 
 61398 
 
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1900, 
 
 By ARTHUR G. BURGOYNE, 
 
 In the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C. 
 
INTRODUCTORY. 
 
 •np-HE verses in this volume are selected from a 
 series appearing daily in the columns of the 
 Pittsburgh ** Leader" since October, 1890, and consti- 
 tuting a running commentary on the events of the 
 hour. Unsandpapered and unvarnished, they were 
 turned in as regular "copy," and it is, therefore, sim- 
 ply as examples of ' ' short order ' ' newspaper verse 
 that the writer submits them to the public in book 
 form. All pretensions to a place in the class with 
 laureates and other lyrists of an exalted type are cheer- 
 fully waived, and only the indulgence due to a self- 
 confessed machine poet is claimed by 
 
 The Author. 
 Pittsburgh, January 19, 1900. 
 
COlslTEr^NTS 
 
 Page. 
 
 The Old Silver Dollar 5 
 
 To an Erring Astronomer 6 
 
 Oom Paul 8 
 
 Mason on the Floor 9 
 
 Nevermore 10 
 
 Mars at the Phone 12 
 
 The Fire Alarm 13 
 
 What Dewey Did 15 
 
 Dog Days . . 16 
 
 Echoes of the Fourth 17 
 
 Deadman's Isle 19 
 
 Old Joe 20 
 
 Good Times 22 
 
 Maceo 23 
 
 The Crowning of Nicholas 25 
 
 Menelik 27 
 
 A Soldier's Letter 28 
 
 When the Snow Melts 30 
 
 Merriman's Bar 31 
 
 Santa Glaus 33 
 
 The Thanksgiving Bird 34 
 
 The Day After Ghristmas 35 
 
 Princeton Inn 37 
 
 At the Ringside... 38 
 
 Trump Gards 40 
 
 A Blue Sunday 41 
 
 Lil's Restoration 43 
 
 Ghris Magee and Bill Flinn 44 
 
 On a Mean May Day 46 
 
 Sousa Triumphans 47 
 
 Titwillie 49 
 
 Ely's Great Home Run 50 
 
 "Sic Transit" 52 
 
 Harrisburg in '97 53 
 
 Theology Up to Date 55 
 
 To an Old Umbrella 56 
 
 Mary's Garden 58 
 
 At the Art Gallery 59 
 
 Bolting Time 61 
 
Page. 
 
 The Crime of '73 62 
 
 The Return of the Crinoline 64 
 
 When Brennen Quits the Chair 65 
 
 The Cycling Age 67 
 
 George and the Hatchet 69 
 
 Plain William 70 
 
 Nansen 72 
 
 Marching Through Cuba 74 
 
 Casablanca Redivivus 75 
 
 Dewey 77 
 
 The Merry Month of June 79 
 
 The Circus Parade 80 
 
 Spring 82 
 
 Philhellenic 84 
 
 The Tenth Pennsylvania 85 
 
 Infra "Dig" 87 
 
 Hymn of the National Delegates 88 
 
 Espanol 90 
 
 Inks 91 
 
 Albert Ed's Lament 93 
 
 Non Compos 94 
 
 Listing 96 
 
 Democracy's Love Feast 97 
 
 Turkey Day 99 
 
 Those New Year's Bills 101 
 
 A La Wilcox 102 
 
 The Plum Tree 104 
 
 In Allegheny 105 
 
 The '00 Model 107 
 
 The Jackaby 108 
 
 The Dinosaur 109 
 
 Hagenbeck's Visit Ill 
 
 Our Amazons 113 
 
 Clipping Coupons 114 
 
 Calumpit 116 
 
 St. Valentine 117 
 
 Summer 119 
 
 Davy Hill's Plea 120 
 
 The First Pantaloons 122 
 
 A Kentucky Deadlock 123 
 
 The Jingo 125 
 
 Dora and Cassius 126 
 
 Spring 128 
 
 Jolly Kaisers 130 
 
 In the Toils 132 
 
 Satan Rebuked 133 
 
 Not for Joe 135 
 
Page. 
 
 The Equinox 137 
 
 From Cairo to the Cape 138 
 
 Advice to the Shah 140 
 
 To a Lady in Distress 141 
 
 Coamo 143 
 
 Willie's Dinner Party 144 
 
 Slabtown 147 
 
 Seavey's Isle 149 
 
 Boley on the Watch 150 
 
 The Girl Graduate 152 
 
 The Mandolin Cluh 154 
 
 The Boy Graduate 155 
 
 Paddy Rewski 157 
 
 Columbus 158 
 
 Lullaby 160 
 
 Chautauqua 161 
 
 Election Day 163 
 
 Turning the Tables 165 
 
 Goosebone Wisdom 166 
 
 Gatacre's Inveiglement 168 
 
 Objurgatory 170 
 
 "In Extremis" 171 
 
 McKinley's Message 173 
 
 AVhere Can Aggie Be? 174 
 
 The Open Door 176 
 
 The Gobbler's Doom 177 
 
 Poe 178 
 
 A Meteoric Deception 179 
 
 Dreyfus Avenged 181 
 
 On the Ice 182 
 
 Bobs of Candahar 184 
 
 Naughty-Naught 185 
 
 Aggie's Flight 186 
 
 Brother Jolo 188 
 
 The Ground Hog 189 
 
 Lady Smith 191 
 
\ 
 
The Old Silver Dollar. 
 
 How dear to our hearts is the bright bit of metal, 
 
 That's known as a dollar all over the land ! 
 How blithely and gaily our due bills we settle, 
 
 And square up accounts with the cartwheels of Bland ! 
 Who cares for the notes of the national banker ? 
 
 Who cares for the greenback ? As gold 'tis the same. 
 Oh, no. For that coin of our fathers we hanker, 
 
 The old silver dollar of Popocrat fame. 
 
 The old silver dollar, 
 The heavyweight dollar, 
 The half value dollar 
 Of Popocrat fame. 
 
 Those dollars of old. Well, we used not to coin 'em 
 
 In days that were palmy ; for, as you'll recall, 
 We feared that the Rothschilds would darkly purloin 
 'em. 
 
 We dreaded that Wall street would corner 'em all. 
 Though suff'ring for silver, we just didn't use it. 
 
 We left it to Europe that metal to claim. 
 But now we'll restore it. Don't dare to abuse it, 
 
 That old silver dollar of Popocrat fame. 
 
 Ref. — The old silver dollar, etc. 
 
Professors informed us that when silver wandered 
 
 Away from our shores and was strange to the mint, 
 That metal alone was of prices the standard, 
 
 And boosted the laborer's wage without stint. 
 But when it came back and the government bought it 
 
 In hundreds of tons, — oh, the woe and the shame ! — 
 The government's help into disrepute brought it, 
 
 That old silver dollar of Popocrat fame. 
 
 Ref. — The old silver dollar, etc. 
 
 In Coin's School of Finance 'tis well demonstrated 
 
 That silver and prices to nothing must fall, 
 Unless at a price that by congress is stated, 
 
 The mints ask for silver and swallow it all. 
 When this comes to pass, the whole outfit of nations 
 
 Will pay any price that it suits us to name 
 For that wonderful output of Coin's demonstrations, 
 
 The old silver dollar of Popocrat fame. 
 
 Ref. — The old silver dollar, etc. 
 
 To an Erring Astronomer. 
 
 How now, Brashear? What break in your machine. 
 
 What jolts or jars 
 Switched off the show mapped out for yestere'en, 
 
 That show'r of stars ? 
 Didst slip a cog, or knock the belting off, 
 
 Or wheels disjoint 
 That thus the multitude (now prone to scoff) 
 
 You disappoint? 
 Where were your lenses, convex and concave, 
 
 Your quadrants true 
 And tools for measuring, with aspect grave, 
 
 The heavens blue ? 
 
Where were your never-failing charts and maps ? 
 
 Oh, let us hope 
 That Providence preserved from dire collapse 
 
 Your telescope. 
 Whate'er the mischief; aye, whate'er arose 
 
 Your plans to mar, 
 You can't deny your failure to disclose 
 
 One shooting star. 
 No, sir. Despite your promise to produce 
 
 A show'r with ease, 
 You did not turn a single twinkler loose. 
 
 The crowd to please. 
 E'en had a lonely two-pound meteor dropped 
 
 The mob among. 
 Perchance this visitation would have stopped 
 
 The public tongue. 
 But no. A million of us watched and watched 
 
 And strained our eyes 
 Until we found out that the job was botched 
 
 Beyond disguise. 
 Now this is not a fair and proper game. 
 
 An honest steer, 
 Nor can you kick if people lay the blame 
 
 On you, Brashear. 
 For just as Ancient Prob is roundly cussed 
 
 For storms undue. 
 So you when astronomic programs *'bust" 
 
 Must suffer, too. 
 But sir, we'll let you have another chance. 
 
 If you know how. 
 Shake up the sky, make all the planets dance, 
 
 Kick up a row. 
 Do this some night and criticisms severe 
 
 We'll then recall. 
 But you must hit the mark next time, Brashear. 
 
 Play ball, play ball. , 
 
Oom Paul. 
 
 Oom Paul is big, Oom Paul is fat, 
 A slow and cumbrous-looking fellow, 
 
 But well he knows where he is at 
 
 When dogs of war around him bellow. 
 
 With hand that's firm and nerve that's steady 
 He's always ready. 
 
 Behind him, solid as a rock, 
 
 His people stand, a sturdy race 
 That little fear the battle's shock. 
 
 What odds how strong the foe they face ? 
 No powV, while they've Oom Paul to guide 'em, 
 
 Can override 'em. 
 
 They proved a score of years ago 
 
 Their never-failing store of grit 
 When England sought to lay 'em low, 
 
 And furious battle fires were lit. 
 No danger scared ; no hardship tired 'em. 
 
 Oom Paul inspired 'em. 
 
 And so they won in many a fight, 
 
 And manfully they kept their feet 
 And England hailed with much delight 
 
 Her first good chance for peace to treat. 
 "Well done, Oom Paul," the whole world thun- 
 dered 
 
 And watched and wondered. 
 
 And now, forsooth, Joe Chamberlain 
 Serves notice of a war in store. 
 
 The Boers, he swears, must fight again 
 And cope with British steel once more. 
 
 Whereat Oom Paul gives out this fiat, 
 ''All right. Come try it." 
 
So in the future close at hand 
 
 Look out for squalls. In combat dire 
 The foemen face to face will stand 
 
 'Mid ruin black and blood and lire. 
 And any Boer will bet his dinner 
 
 That Paul's a winner. 
 
 Mason on the Floor. 
 
 When Billy Mason takes the floor 
 There is a sudden rush of gore; 
 
 From countless wounds it leaks. 
 War drums give out a fierce tattoo 
 And lightning streaks the heavens blue 
 
 When Billy Mason speaks. 
 
 The earth vibrates; the welkin rings; 
 A tremor runs through czars and kings, 
 
 Whose noses Billy tweaks ; 
 The stars, affrighted, cease to shine, 
 The dogs of war howl, snarl and whine 
 
 When Billy Mason speaks. 
 
 Cyclones spring up and waterspouts; 
 An angry mob infuriate shouts 
 
 Like Turks turned loose on Greeks. 
 From ev'ry scabbard leaps the sword. 
 Somebody's ox must needs be gored 
 
 When Billy Mason speaks. 
 
 Great guns are loaded; dynamite 
 Goes ofif. A pallor ghastly white 
 
 Shows on the women's cheeks: 
 Skyrockets mount with wicked fizz 
 On such occasions, namely, viz. : 
 
 When Billy Mason speaks. 
 
Armed men go marching to and fro, 
 Campfires send out a warning glow, 
 
 And on the mountain peaks 
 Strange signals greet the public eye; 
 The mob exclaims '*Oh me, oh my!'' 
 
 When Billy Mason speaks. 
 
 Columbia starts in sheer surprise, 
 Old Uncle Sammy rubs his eyes, 
 
 The eagle loudly shrieks 
 And circumambient oceans roar 
 And wildly try to smash the shore 
 
 When Billy Mason speaks. 
 
 The hapless infant king of Spain 
 Begins to wonder if his reign 
 
 Will last for many weeks; 
 And Blanco, wrapped in Fear's embrace, 
 Feels just like toppling off his base 
 
 When Billy Mason speaks. 
 
 Yet when 'tis over, when of Bill 
 The congressmen have had their fill 
 
 And shut down on his freaks, 
 Nobody's hurt ; no foe hurled hence ; 
 'Tis in a strict Pickwickian sense 
 
 That Billy Mason speaks. 
 
 " Nevermore r' 
 
 In Berlin the Reichstag sitting causes Yankee hearts to 
 
 thrill. 
 Causes horror and affliction with its meat inspection bill. 
 Ruthless measure. Its provisions, now affirmed with 
 
 angry roar, 
 Paralyze our Meat Trust tapping, tapping at the 
 
 Teuton's door. 
 Quoth the Reichstag ''Nevermore." 
 
 10 
 
In Chicago, Kansas City and in far-off Omaha 
 There's no trace of trichinosis nor a sign of lumpy jaw. 
 Guaranteeing this, the butchers and the packers hasten 
 
 o'er 
 To the tempting German market. But when entrance 
 
 they implore, 
 Quoth the Reichstag "Nevermore." 
 
 Cudahy and Nelson Morris, Swift and Armour all unite 
 In a plaintive note of protest. *'Boys," they say, **this 
 
 isn't right. 
 Here at home no clamps are on us. Why then from a 
 
 foreign shore 
 Should we be debarred? Ah, won't you treat us as in 
 
 days of yore?" 
 Quoth the Reichstag ''Nevermore." 
 
 Past placating is the Teuton, and his ire cannot be 
 calmed, 
 
 For has he not heard the grewsome narratives of beef 
 embalmed? 
 
 Salicylic ham appals him, boric sausage makes a sore 
 
 Species of impression on him. Knowing how our sol- 
 diers swore. 
 Quoth the Reichstag "Nevermore." 
 
 There's the record — Miles and Daly, backed by scores 
 
 of honest chaps, 
 Swore that on this kind of diet e'en an ostrich would 
 
 collapse. 
 Stomachs rose in fierce rebellion; men keeled over by 
 
 the score, 
 "Fiends," said Deutschland, "would you sell us meat 
 
 that's doctored to the core?" 
 Quoth the Reichstag "Nevermore." 
 
 Ah, the pity! Ah, the scandal! Is it not a woeful 
 
 shame 
 That our land should bear the stain of such a nasty little 
 
 game? 
 Out upon those hateful packers ! Fate for them should 
 
 have in store 
 Retribution since no neighbor trusts us as in times 
 
 before. 
 Quoth the Reichstag "Nevermore." 
 11 
 
Mars at the 'Phone 
 
 One Tesla on a summer day, 
 
 With tools electric toiled away. 
 
 Referring oft to bulky tomes, 
 
 He figured much with volts and ohms. 
 
 Like to a torrent was the flow 
 
 Of power from out his dynamo. 
 
 And cheerful was the pit-a-pat 
 
 That issued from his rheostat. 
 
 Anon he pufYed a fat cigar, 
 
 And quaffed things from a Leyden jar. 
 
 Whereat, refreshed, he'd soak with oil 
 
 His favorite induction coil; 
 
 Or, with a nonconductor drape 
 
 His magnets of the horseshoe shape. 
 
 Then upon problems deep intent 
 
 He'd ponder, ponder, and invent. 
 
 Just as the sun his downward slide 
 
 Began, ''Eureka !" Tesla cried. 
 
 "At last my toil and thought profound 
 
 With glorious success are crowned. 
 
 "For haply, thank my lucky stars ! 
 
 IVe found a way of reaching Mars. 
 
 "And" — here his face with glory shone- 
 
 "I'll call 'em up by telephone." 
 
 Now doth he stand his 'phone beside. 
 
 Transfigured in his joy and pride. 
 
 And with enthusiasm aglow. 
 
 He rings and shouts a loud "Hello!" 
 
 "Is that you. Mars?" — O dire suspense! 
 
 What answer? — Aye, the strain's intense. 
 
 Has Tesla failed ? Perhaps — But no, 
 
 There travels back a faint "Hello!" 
 
 Now hallelujah ! All's O. K. 
 
 For Tesla 'tis a happy day. 
 
 'Tis proved that he has had no peers 
 
 12 
 
On earth within a thousand years. 
 But, you may ask, with awe and dread, 
 What Mars to Tesla later said. 
 What were the words of mystic cast 
 That traveled through the ether vast? 
 Alas, those words were cold and few, 
 They were not singular or new. 
 No message of celestial grace 
 They carried to the human race. 
 The talk, in fact, we're bound to state, 
 Was, just Hke Central's, up to date. 
 Mars simply gurgled out somehow, 
 "Ring up again. We're busy now." 
 
 The Fire Alarm. 
 
 "One — Three" — the dread alarm rings out. 
 
 Its echoes putting sleep to rout. 
 
 Wayfarers pause, and sleeping folks 
 
 Wake up and count the laggard strokes. 
 
 Some finding that no danger's nigh. 
 
 Doze oi¥ again. Some when they spy 
 
 The blaze that in the distance glows 
 
 Rush forth in scanty meed of clothes, 
 
 And speed through mud and slush and mire, 
 
 While all the time they shriek "Fire, fire !" 
 
 "Bing, bing! Crash, bang!" Like Furies fleet 
 
 The firemen flash from street to street. 
 
 Hose, ladders, engines rattle past 
 
 Like thunderbolt or whirling blast. 
 
 The very horses, black as night, 
 
 Like war-steeds sweeping to the fight, 
 
 Seem crazed, as 'neath a red-lit sky 
 
 Forth to the scene of dread they fly. 
 
 Now comes the crowd. Each mother's son 
 
Excitedly upon the run. 
 Like phantoms from some ghostly sphere 
 In every quarter they appear. 
 Soon they are packed in solid mass 
 Behind the lines, which none can pass 
 Except the firemen and the few 
 Policemen in their coats of blue, 
 Who, much disgusted with their job. 
 Pull out their sticks and boss the mob. 
 The blaze roars upward to the skies. 
 And puny water-jets defies. 
 In vain the fire-chief, bronzed and stout, 
 Impassioned, gives his orders out. 
 In vain his men with hose and ax 
 Their skill and strength and courage tax. 
 As well might they attempt to snufT 
 Vesuvius out. Lion-like they strain 
 Their ev'ry nerve, but all in vain. 
 There go the walls. The lurch, the smash, 
 The thund'rous cataclysmal crash 
 Fill the beholders' hearts with fright. 
 And groans are heard and lips turn white. 
 And some their neighbors quick remind 
 Of venturous spirits left behind 
 When from the wreck the firemen fled. 
 And deeper grows the sense of dread. 
 The morning dawns. The thousands creep 
 Heart-sick and weary home to sleep. 
 The firemen stay, still working hard. 
 And all are grimy, stained and charred. 
 Well dressed adjusters come to count 
 The loss, nor start at the amount. 
 And enterprise, now fallen through, 
 Already fashions plans brand-new. 
 Thus short-lived is the Fire King's star. 
 But for a night his victories are. 
 
What Dewey Did. 
 
 He hurried forth, 
 
 He scurried forth 
 From Hong Kong where he lay, 
 
 He dashed along, 
 
 He flashed along 
 To old Manila's bay. 
 He went bare-knuckled to the fray. He wore no gloves 
 
 of kid, 
 For he meant to paralyze the Dons, and that's what 
 Dewey did. 
 
 His jolly boys. 
 
 His bully boys 
 Were crazy for the fight. 
 
 Equipped for it 
 
 And stripped for it 
 They were both day and night. 
 All hands, alike the veteran and young and verdant 
 
 "mid" 
 Were burning to avenge the Maine, and that's what 
 Dewey did. 
 
 Dark night it was, 
 Dread sight it was 
 To see the squadron glide 
 By foe unseen 
 And go unseen 
 The harbor lines inside. 
 Explosives 'neath the waters had been dexterously hid. 
 But heroes laugh at things like these, and that's what 
 Dewey did. 
 
 The quaking Dons, 
 The shaking Dons 
 Were taken by surprise. 
 
No grit they showed, 
 No wit they showed ; 
 Salt tears were in their eyes. 
 They thought that Yankee hands from h — 1 had Hfted 
 
 off the lid 
 To dump their poor old squadron in, and — that's what 
 Dewey did. 
 
 He battered 'em, 
 
 He shattered 'em, 
 He ripped 'em all, kersmash! 
 
 He turned 'em up, 
 
 He burned 'em up. 
 He sank 'em all, kersplash ! 
 And now of Spanish ships and men the Philippines are 
 
 rid, 
 For Uncle Sam said "Clean 'em out!" and that's what 
 Dewev did. 
 
 Dog Days, 
 
 Lo, the dog catcher! Soon he'll be in season 
 
 Prowling the streets uncannily along; 
 Ne'er will he pause to argufy or reason. 
 
 But simply yank the canine, right or wrong. 
 What does he care for value or for beauty? 
 
 What does he care for lengthy pedigree? 
 Moved by a sense of predatory duty, 
 
 '"Canines," he says, "are all alike to me." 
 Mastiff and pug and precious Gordon setter. 
 
 Lap dog and Dane and terrier of Skye, 
 Roaming at large — of course they should know better, 
 
 Into his hands will fall and groan and die. 
 Collie and pointer, bulldog heavy muzzled. 
 
 Frisky King Charles and greyhound long and slim, 
 Beagle and dachshund sorely will be puzzled 
 
 When they essay to get away from him. 
 
 16 
 
Raising his net, a thing of cruel meshes, 
 
 Deftly he'll aim and trap his helpless prey ; 
 And having safely bagged the burden precious, 
 
 Off to the pound he'll blithely drive away. 
 No Cerberus or fierce devouring dragon 
 
 Ever kept watch with vigilance so keen 
 As this dog-hunter with his net and wagon. 
 
 Always alert to feed the death-machine. 
 Gloom reigns around the pound, that place of slaughter. 
 
 Where wandering hounds the coup-de-grace receive ; 
 Caged up and sunk in black and chilly water — 
 
 Thus in disgrace the sunny world they leave. 
 Many a home will thus be filled with sorrow; 
 
 Many a hearth will miss a cherished form ; 
 Little it boots new dogs to buy or borrow, 
 
 When He is cold, no other is so "warm." 
 Haste then, and sink the necessary dollars 
 
 In chain and strap and muzzle built of wire. 
 Load up with ropes and hitching gear and collars ; 
 
 Nail up the "purp" each night ere you retire. 
 Then when around your home the catcher lingers, 
 
 'Twill be your turn to grin with ghoulish glee, 
 And to remark with careless snap of fingers, 
 
 "Catchers of dogs are all alike to me." 
 
 Echoes of the Fourth 
 
 Friends, Romans, Countrymen, rejoice, be glad 
 For great and glorious was the Fourth you had. 
 Ne'er has there been another such a gay 
 And blithe and brilliant Independence day. 
 It bloomed, it fizzed, it effervesced, it glowed; 
 In endless stream the fount of pleasure flowed. 
 Ah, after such a ripper of a Fourth. 
 Who'll say he failed to get his money's worth ? 
 
 17 
 
Drawbacks there were. Full many a luckless wight 
 Succumbed to powder or to dynamite, 
 Or yielding to the giant cracker's charm. 
 Gave up, perchance a leg, perchance an arm. 
 Or when he looked within to find out why 
 The "bang" was tardy, forfeited an eye. 
 And there is likewise mourning in the land 
 For him that held a rocket in his hand. 
 
 There was, in sooth, no little havoc played. 
 See what a rent the Roman candles made 
 Which, bursting at a moment unforeseen, 
 Assailed the celebrant and roused his spleen. 
 And eke the pistol, made for callow kids, 
 Led up to legends writ for coffin lids. 
 For such mishaps are foreordained by Fate 
 To mark always the Day We Celebrate. 
 
 But he that kicks on little things like these 
 Is certainly morose and hard to please. 
 For had we not as compensating joys 
 Prismatic fires and vast, volcanic noise ? 
 Ah, twas a sight for Jove himself to see. 
 This whole great nation on a jamboree. 
 From hades with a whoop we raised the lid 
 And ripped things open — that is what we did. 
 
 Ah, famous Fourth, well may we wonder when 
 
 Another such a day will come again. 
 
 Another day of patriotic zeal, 
 
 Pervading all this grand old commonweal. 
 
 'Twas all that man could hope for or desire : 
 
 A burst of light, a cataract of fire. 
 
 And Young America, w-hich had the floor, 
 
 Sighs deep and bitterly because 'tis o'er. 
 
 16 
 
Deadman's Isle. 
 
 A Ballade of the Ohio River. 
 
 At Deadman's Isle, ill-fated spot, 
 Where river furies lurk and plot, 
 The mariner is often caught 
 
 And wonders what the matter is. 
 The ripple grimly grasps his craft, 
 His cruiser, schooner, brig or raft, 
 And riles him till he, fore and aft, 
 
 As mad as any hatter is. 
 Unsparing Deadman ! There to-day 
 The stately coal boats on their way 
 To southern ports, — O reader, pray, 
 
 Give ear unto this tale of woe — 
 These coalers, with their white wings spread, 
 And all in trim to forge ahead, 
 Approach the Island of the Dead. 
 
 (Here please insert a wail of woe). 
 Each captain on the poop-deck stands, 
 A night glass in his sun-browned hands, 
 And thunders out his bold commands 
 
 In language terse and vigorous. 
 The mate skips round with vet'ran skill. 
 The bos'n pipes his whistle shrill. 
 The purser meets with iron will 
 
 The situation rigorous. 
 From topmast high the cabin boy 
 Sings out, "Land ho! Deadman ahoy!" 
 The captain groans, "My poor convoy 
 
 Of flats foredoomed to ruin is. 
 Yon binnacle of brass so bright ; 
 Yon marhnspike, my heart's delight. 
 Must go. No ray of hope's in sight 
 
 When such like trouble brewin' is." 
 Soon, soon, the vessel will be swiped, 
 
All hands are now to quarters piped, 
 The colors, neatly starr'd and striped, 
 
 Are dipped, distress to signify. 
 "Brave lads," the stricken captain cries, 
 "Fly while you can. Who lingers dies." 
 The tears that gather in his eyes 
 
 The hero's visage dignify. 
 Now comes the rush of flying feet, 
 The mariners, all lads discreet. 
 Care not a wat'ry grave to meet, 
 
 And skip with much celerity. 
 But mark the captain. Mercy, no ! 
 Can this be thus? Ah, yes, 'tis so, 
 Down with his ship he means to go, — 
 
 Oh, Spartanlike temerity ! 
 All's done. In water two feet deep. 
 The hero sleeps his final sleep 
 And loving ones for aye will weep, 
 
 Recalling what became of him. 
 Beneath the waters, noble soul! 
 He rests 'mid Youghiogheny coal, 
 And on th' immortal muster roll 
 
 We'll register the name of him. 
 
 Old Joe. 
 
 Old Joe Wheeler, 
 
 Solid at his post. 
 Not a thing to kick about. 
 
 Nobody to roast. 
 Never writes a letter 
 
 Full of gall and spite ; 
 Old Joe Wheeler, 
 
 He's all right. 
 
 20 
 
Old Joe Wheeler, 
 
 Flat upon his back, 
 Got the boys to carry him, 
 
 Marshaled the attack. 
 Doctors couldn't handle him, 
 
 Off he went to fight. 
 Old Joe Wheeler, 
 
 He's all right. 
 
 Weary was the army; 
 
 Spaniards hard to beat. 
 Some one passed the word along, 
 
 "Boys, we must retreat." 
 '* — it, no," says Ancient Joe. 
 
 "Never take to flight." 
 Old Joe Wheeler, 
 
 He's all right. 
 
 After Santiago fell. 
 
 Fighting men got sick. 
 Generals and colonels 
 
 All began to kick. 
 "Hang it all," thought General Joe, 
 
 "This disgusts me quite." 
 Old Joe Wheeler, 
 
 He's all right. 
 
 Teddy wrote an angry note, 
 
 Stirring Alger's bile. 
 Ripped the powers up the back 
 
 In a roughshod style. 
 Not a word old Joe let drop 
 
 At this woful sight. 
 Old Joe Wheeler, 
 
 He's all right. 
 
 Never mad, never huffed. 
 
 Never riled or sore. 
 Steady Old Reliable 
 
 Fights and nothing more. 
 Don't forget him. Uncle Sam, 
 
 (Some folks think you might). 
 Old Joe Wheeler, 
 
 He's all right. 
 
Good Times- 
 
 Happy is the farmer in his truly rural ranche. 
 
 To rejoice it is his turn ; 
 
 He has crops and things to burn. 
 Grain is in the granary and fruit is on the branch, 
 And the people rush to buy, 
 
 And to give him prices high. 
 His wagons heavy-laden to the city roll away. 
 Enabling him to tap a little Klondike ev'ry day. 
 Oh, 'tisn't any wonder that the farmer's feeling gay 
 
 For his pocketbook grows fat 
 
 And he's mighty glad of that. 
 
 Wheat and oats and yellow corn — Niag'ra-like they 
 pour, 
 Yet there isn't half enough 
 Of the life-sustaining stuflF. 
 Europe buys incessantly and still she cries for more, 
 For this year she hasn't struck 
 Her accustomed streak of luck. 
 A fleet of ships goes merrily a-sailing o'er the main ; 
 They're loaded to the quarter-deck with bags of yellow 
 
 grain ; 
 'Tis yellow gold they'll carry when they're sailing back 
 again. 
 Foreign folks their molars gnash. 
 For they must give up the cash. 
 
 Up goes flour a-whooping and our statesmen freely 
 shed 
 
 Tears of joy because the boom 
 
 Conquers poverty and gloom. 
 Bakers make arrangements to run up the price of bread, 
 
 Which economists opine 
 
 Is a very healthy sign ; 
 
 22 
 
And ev'ry agriculturist, with gladness in his soul 
 
 Believes that he in luxury will ultimately roll, 
 
 Nor fears that subsequently he'll again be in the hole. 
 
 With his pockets bulging out, 
 
 'Tis no time for dread or doubt. 
 
 Peaches by the million and the mellow canteloupe 
 
 Into market daily come, 
 
 And the glossy-coated plum 
 Numerously figures like a messenger of hope; 
 
 And the huckleberry, too. 
 
 Is extensively on view. 
 Tomatoes, blushing scarlet, are unloaded by the ton, 
 The grinding of the cider press is merrily begun, 
 The apple looms up 'apple-ly (excuse the scaly pun, 
 
 For we're truly overjoyed 
 
 And these things we can't avoid.) 
 
 So before the year is out the farmer we will see 
 
 In Prince Albert spick and span 
 
 And in shoes of yellow tan, 
 Also in a stovepipe hat as shiny as can be, 
 
 And when Christmas comes again 
 
 He'll be drinking fine champagne. 
 Then blessings on the season which these benefits has 
 
 brought 
 And magic alterations in our people's case has wrought. 
 A year like '97 with such happiness is fraught 
 
 That there's really no recourse 
 
 But to cheer until we're hoarse. 
 
 Maceo. 
 
 Behold yon new-made grave 
 And weep, ye sons of men, 
 
 r^or Maceo the brave 
 Is dead — yes, dead again. 
 
In Cuba's gallant fight, 
 
 Courageously unique, 
 He battled for the right 
 
 And fell — three times a week. 
 
 When Campos led the foe. 
 Did Maceo let him slide? 
 
 Not so. With zeal aglow 
 He fiercely charged and — died. 
 
 The men who write the news 
 Stood round and wept amain, 
 
 While scribbling interviews 
 With him who had been slain. 
 
 Next day, rememb'ring not 
 
 Their sorrow, they announced 
 
 That Maceo on the spot 
 
 The Dons again had trounced. 
 
 Soon Weyler things controlled, 
 And people held their breath, 
 
 For Maceo, as of old. 
 Went forth and met his death. 
 
 Where'er he met in strife 
 The Spaniards, sad to tell, 
 
 He risked his priceless life 
 And, foremost fighting, fell. 
 
 On Sanguillera's plain. 
 
 On Bandillera's coast, 
 He never could refrain 
 
 From giving up the ghost. 
 
 He used to vault across 
 
 The trocha evVy day, 
 And — oh, the mournful loss! — 
 
 He'd perish right away. 
 
 •24 
 
 I 
 
E'en when his foot and horse 
 Had conquered, people still 
 
 Would find poor Maceo's corse 
 All gory, stiff and chill. 
 
 In thicket, grove and dale, 
 On mountains and on plains, 
 
 The searcher could not fail 
 To find those same remains. 
 
 And still stern duty's call 
 Requires that we lament 
 
 Beneath a fun'ral pall 
 This truly sad event. 
 
 Then weep, good people weep, 
 Let tears in torrents pour, 
 
 For in his final sleep 
 
 Poor Maceo lies once more. 
 
 The Crowning of Nicholas 
 
 Not a bomb was thrown, not a dynamite mine 
 
 Was set off by conspirators frowning, 
 Of Anarchy's hand there was never a sign 
 At the great imperial crowning. 
 
 Great crowds came in over ev'ry road, 
 And they whispered the gruesome story 
 
 That Moscow's palace was booked to explode 
 And to blow all hands to glory. 
 
 And from lip to lip in a voice low-toned. 
 Went the rumor dark and dreary. 
 
 And ambassadors quaked and envoys groaned 
 And royalties felt quite weary. 
 
 2ft 
 
Few and short were the kicks they made 
 And they dared not think of skipping, 
 
 For of vengeance dire they were sore afraid 
 If the czar once caught 'em tripping. 
 
 So with faces blanched and with trembling knees, 
 
 And with hearts all palpitating, 
 They did what they could to seem at ease 
 
 In the course of the coronating. 
 
 Nicholas himself was cool and calm, 
 For his father of old had taught him 
 
 To be stiff of lip and of diaphragm 
 Whenever the Anarchists caught him. 
 
 And he said to his wife, did this fearless czar : 
 
 **If to-day T meet disaster, 
 You will find my will in the bureau draw'r. 
 
 Hid under my porous plaster." 
 
 On came the priests with the jeweled crown, 
 Which like to the sunbeams glistened, 
 
 And the czar put it on and screwed it down. 
 While for dynamite sounds he listened. 
 
 But nought did he hear save the anthems low 
 Of the choir and the pray'rs soft-spoken 
 
 Of patriarchs. It was really so 
 
 That the danger-spell was broken. 
 
 Glad of heart was the czar and proud 
 
 Of his neat escape from removal. 
 And he tipped his crown to the surging crowd 
 
 As a token of bland approval. 
 
 But half of his royal task is done. 
 For the Anarchs are still conspiring, 
 
 Yet little he'll reck if they let him alone 
 And at long range do their firing. 
 
Menelik. 
 
 Oh the mis'ry ! Oh, the pity ! 
 
 Over the Eternal City 
 
 Hangs a pall of tribulation, 
 
 Hangs a gloomy adumbration, 
 
 Sent to figure as a token 
 
 Of a nation's glory broken. 
 
 Hapless Rome ! What villain tricked her ? 
 
 Menelik? Yes, Menelicked her. 
 
 Things were diff'rent on the morning 
 When all thoughts of danger scorning, 
 Noble Romans, on their mettle, 
 Started Menelik to settle. 
 Bands were playing, flags were flying, 
 "Viva!" everyone was crying. 
 Guns were booming ev'ry minute; 
 Abyssinia wasn't in it. 
 
 On the hostile shore they landed 
 And apologies demanded. 
 "Menelik," they said, "be humble 
 Or from off your throne you'll tumble, 
 Losing all your royal pickings. 
 Paralyzed by Menelickings, 
 One last chance to you we'll tender. 
 Put your gun up and surrender." 
 
 Strange to say, the Abyssinian 
 King was not of this opinion. 
 So he called his fiercest kickers, 
 Filled 'em up with Meneliquors; 
 Said to 'em, "Shall we lie idle 
 Under pressure homicidal?" 
 "Never," cried they all in chorus. 
 "Italy shall fall before us." 
 
 27 
 
Thus a fierce campaign was fathered ; 
 Sixty thousand natives gathered. 
 Arms they had and ammunition 
 And advantage of position. 
 'Way up in the mountains airy 
 They lay low for Baratieri, 
 All prepared the scrap to mix in 
 Ere he'd gotten Menelicks in. 
 
 Crash! The armies came together, 
 All the Furies slipped their tether, 
 Romans fell like leaves in autumn. 
 "Ha!" cried Menelik, "I've got 'em." 
 Baratieri, wretched victim. 
 Never knew how Menelicked him. 
 Oh, the mis'ry ! Oh, the pity ! 
 Floored is the Eternal City. 
 
 A Soldier's Letter. 
 
 The neighborhood is all astir. 
 
 Great is the fuss and fluster. 
 Together in a busy swarm 
 
 The gossipmongers muster. 
 There's news on hand and when 'tis known, 
 
 They'll all be feeling better 
 For somebody, some lucky soul. 
 
 Has got a soldier's letter. 
 
 Tom, Dick or Harry — whosoe'er 
 
 It may be, 'mid the rattle 
 Of guns and drums tells rudely of 
 
 His baptism of battle. 
 No need has he with arts of speech 
 
 Ingeniously to juggle; 
 Howe'er he writes, they know he was 
 
 A hero in the struggle. 
 
 2B 
 
A qualm he felt, he freely states, 
 
 When bullets first fell near him, 
 But soon the fighting craze came on , 
 
 And nought on earth could "skeer" him. 
 What odds that life at such a time f 
 
 Was hardly worth a penny ! 
 His cartridge belt he emptied and 
 
 He slew — dear knows how many. 
 
 ! 
 
 Jack at his right was stricken down. 
 
 And at his left fell Eddie. .' 
 
 But still his nerve was iron-like, ! 
 
 And still his hand was steady. 
 And when a bullet grazed his head 
 
 And left a furrow gory, 
 It simply riled him. Twice as hard 
 
 He fought then for Old Glory. 
 
 He saw the brave Rough Riders charge ; 
 
 He saw guerillas shooting. 
 He helped to take San Juan and send \ 
 
 The Spanish outposts scooting. 
 And still he's living, safe and sound, 
 
 With not a thing to grieve him 
 Except a touch of Yellow Jack, 
 
 And that will quickly leave him. 
 
 The folks at home with swelling hearts 
 
 And eyes that oft need drying, 
 Devour the simple tale and set 
 
 The family colors flying. 
 For mark it well, not all the mails 
 
 In all creation carry 
 Such precious news as that which comes 
 
 From Tom or Dick or Harry. 
 
When the Snow Melts. 
 
 Slush, slush, slush ! — 
 
 There are seas and lakes of mud, 
 And pedestrians rash to ruin rush 
 
 And fall with a sullen thud. 
 For the street is slippy yet 
 
 And threatens misfortune dire, 
 And it's oh for the hapless ones upset 
 
 And wallowing in the mire. 
 
 The small boy whoops and hoots, 
 
 He shows no sign of dread. 
 But scoots along in his rubber boots 
 
 Dragging a bumping sled. 
 For youth is wild and rash. 
 
 Nor fears the tempest's wrath, 
 But covets the chance to slide and splash 
 
 And yearns for a muddy bath. 
 
 The maiden coy and prim. 
 
 With skirts pulled up around. 
 At fearful hazard to life and limb 
 
 Covers the doubtful ground. 
 She shrieks — she slips — she goes. 
 
 'Tis an awful sight, ah me ! — 
 When the slush engulfs those stainless hose 
 
 And dainty lingerie. 
 
 The stately merchant prince. 
 
 With shining silken tile. 
 Too proud in danger's face to wince 
 
 Moves in a pompous style. 
 And the coarse, unfeeling crowd, 
 
 And the kids en route to school, 
 Assail his ears with laughter loud 
 
 When he sits in a slimy pool. 
 
 
Oh, where is the singer sweet 
 
 That warbled years ago 
 A song of praise in verses neat 
 
 About the beautiful snow ? 
 That guy was off his base, 
 
 He knew not nature's law, 
 That snow some day must needs give place 
 
 To a foul and clammy thaw. 
 
 Slush, slush, slush ! — 
 
 After ev'ry snow it comes. 
 No use for giddy bards to gush — 
 
 'Tis umbrellas we need and gums, 
 And the poet's magic lyre 
 
 Is sorely out of tune. 
 In these days of the petticoat daubed with mire 
 
 And the soaking pantaloon. 
 
 Merriman's Bar. 
 
 Merriman's Bar — who has not heard tell 
 Of that ill-omened spot with its evil spell ? 
 When the water is low, its white sands gleam 
 'Mid the watersr swift of Ohio's stream. 
 When the water is high 'tis lost to sight. 
 Like a thief that's hid in the shades of night. 
 And then neither sunshine nor friendly star 
 Betrays the location of Merriman's Bar. 
 
 Merriman's Bar. At the very name 
 
 A shudder convulses the mariner's frame. 
 
 "Ah me !" he sighs. **What a dead soft snap 
 
 I'd have were it not for that old death trap ! 
 
 What a pleasure a sailor's life would be 
 
 If from breakers and snags his course were free. 
 
 And no vagrant plank or wand'ring spar 
 
 Told tales of wreck on Merriman's Bar." 
 
 31 
 
But no ! O ye that the waters ride, 
 
 Must often alas ! lay hope aside 
 
 And await the worst as a watch ye keep 
 
 On the trackless paths of the vasty deep. 
 
 For man, proud man, is a creature frail 
 
 Whose powers full oft are of small avail. 
 
 And he seldom, if ever, is up to par 
 
 When he runs aground on Merriman's Bar. 
 
 'Tis a gallant sight when the coalboats gay 
 From the Pittsburg landings sail away. 
 Mothers and wives, with a furtive tear, 
 Watch the lordly vessels disappear. 
 And with quivering lips and long-drawn sigh 
 Those dear ones murmur a last "Good-bye !" 
 Well do they know that the bold Jack Tar 
 May go down to his ruin at Merriman's Bar. 
 
 'Tis a sad, sad sight when the news comes in 
 Of terrible danger to kith and kin. 
 At the bulletin boards a surging crowd 
 Is seen, and with grief all heads are bow'd, 
 When the word is passed that with sick'ning crash 
 A clipper-built barge has gone to smash. 
 Ah, Juggernaut with his destroying car 
 Doesn't half size up with Merriman's Bar. 
 
 Who was Merriman ? What was his game, 
 And why did his doings belie his name? 
 Blank are the records; they give no guide 
 To this great promoter of homicide. 
 But whoever he was and whatever he meant, 
 He has wrought out a purpose malevolent. 
 And 'tis time for Progress to hitch up her car 
 And triumphantly haul away Merriman's Bar. 
 
 32 
 
Santa Claus 
 
 up in the mountains high, high, high, 
 There's a jolly old chap with a glist'ning eye. 
 In a workshop quaint he hammers and saws, 
 And the name on his sign is Santa Claus. 
 
 There's where he turns out Christmas toys 
 Ready for bright little girls and boys. 
 With knives and chisels and cans of paint 
 He works all day, does that jolly old Saint. 
 
 At early morn when the mail comes in 
 He goes through it all with a jolly old grin, 
 For it fills his heart with intense delight 
 To read ev'ry word that the children write. 
 
 "Santa Dear, won't you kindly bring 
 
 A jointed doll and a nice gold ring, 
 
 And a baby carriage and candy, too ?" 
 
 "Aha!" says the Saint, "That's just what I'll do." 
 
 "Santa, please, down the chimney come 
 With a punching bag and a gun and a drum. 
 And skates and boots and a sled for me. 
 "Aha!" says the Saint, "I'll be there, you'll see." 
 
 "Santa, dear, do not pass us by. 
 
 A turkey fat and a nice mince pie 
 
 Are all we want." Says the Saint, "Never mind 
 
 A Christmas dinner for you I'll find." 
 
 "Santa, dear, you must not suppose 
 That 'tis toys we want, for we're short of clothes. 
 Can't you slip our dad a ten-dollar bill?" 
 "Aye," says his Saintship, "that's what I will." 
 
 88 
 
So he hammers and saws and he cuts and he sews, 
 And he packs up jewels and toys and clothes. 
 And he chops down trees which you'd better be- 
 lieve 
 He'll be trimming himself on Christmas eve. 
 
 Dear old Saint ! If it wasn't for him 
 Christmas Day might be bleak and grim. 
 And old and young have the very best cause 
 To be glad that the world has a Santa Claus. 
 
 The Thanksgiving Bird. 
 
 The eagle is lord of a noble dominion, 
 
 Majestic he soars 'twixt the earth and the sky. 
 And hov'ring aloft on imperial pinion, 
 
 He holds his levee on the Fourth of July. 
 From the tropics clear up to the region that's polar, 
 
 His soul-stirring notes are with reverence heard, 
 And he's only eclipsed by that other high roller, 
 
 America's stand-by, the Thanksgiving bird. 
 
 The trav'ler who roams about hither and yonder 
 
 Hears many a vain and inordinate boast; 
 The proud South American brags of his condor — 
 
 Just think of that fowl for a Thanksgiving roast! 
 Wild Africans point to that top-heavy wobbler, 
 
 The long-legged ostrich, with pride that's absurd. 
 Ah, there's none can compare with our own turkey 
 gobbler, 
 
 Supreme in his tribe is the Thanksgiving bird. 
 
 The ibis, the lyre bird, the stately flamingo. 
 
 The snipe and the pheasant, the grouse and the quail. 
 
 Are glorified freely in all sorts of lingo 
 And figure in many a luminous tale. 
 
The partridge is dainty, the woodcock enticing, 
 The wild duck by epicures oft is preferred ; 
 
 But if life with the greatest of joys you'd be spicing, 
 You're bound to fall back on the Thanksgiving bird. 
 
 No need of a touch from the hand of a wizard 
 
 Controlling the arts of the mystic cuisine 
 To flavor his flesh. Leg and wing, neck and gizzard, 
 
 Are all proper fare for a king or a queen. 
 And as for the breast — oh, ye gourmands, confess it. 
 
 Your feelings thereby are resistlessly stirr'd. 
 You look for perfection and lo ! you possess it. 
 
 Enshrined in the flesh of the Thanksgiving bird. 
 
 Then here's wishing luck to the man whose researches. 
 
 Pursued 'mid the tribes of the air and the field. 
 Brought second-class claimants adown from their 
 perches 
 
 And first the rare charms of the Turkey revealed. 
 Yes, while we are feasting, let's duly remember 
 
 To recognize fondly the favor conferred 
 By whoever first thought in the month of November 
 
 Of crowning the board with the Thanksgiving bird. 
 
 The Day After Christmas, 
 
 The day after ! — 'Tis not very cheery, 
 
 The gilding has somehow worn off, 
 And Pa is decidedly weary 
 
 And Ma has a raspy old cough. 
 To the spirit so keenly vivacious 
 
 That yesterday all of us fired. 
 There succeeds a reaction ungracious, 
 
 Mankind is dejected and tired. 
 
 85 
 
Santa Claus is no longer enchanting 
 
 The spell that hung round him has fled. 
 And he leaves but a memory haunting 
 
 The soul with unspeakable dread. 
 For he comes pretty high and when, after 
 
 His visit, the bills come to hand, 
 There^s an end of melliflous laughter 
 
 And woe is abroad in the land. 
 
 Then the little ones — bless 'em ! — have striven 
 
 Their hoHday gifts to wipe out. 
 And the costliest playthings are riven 
 
 Apart at the very first bout. 
 An unmendable cripple is "dollie," 
 
 Collapsed are the drum and the horn ; 
 How could any young hopefuls be jolly 
 
 To-day as they were yestermorn ! 
 
 Like some downcast and penitent sinner 
 
 That's forfeited caste and repute 
 One looks back on that large turkey dinner 
 
 With mincemeat and pudding to boot. 
 Ah, if man would but think of the morrow. 
 
 When haply himself thus he fills, 
 There would be no post-prandial sorrow. 
 
 Inclusive of potions and pills. 
 
 'Tis too bad that the carnival festive 
 
 Should lose its attraction so fast 
 That satiety should get the best of 
 
 The happiest mortal at last. 
 That the goblet of pleasure heart-warming 
 
 Should always be doomed to be spilt. 
 But there's no use in fuming and storming, 
 
 You see, 'tis the wav that we're built. 
 
 3(» 
 
Princeton Inn. 
 
 At Princeton Inn, that hallowed place 
 Where sordid chasers never chase, 
 And bleary topers never try 
 With morning drams to ope the eye, 
 There's trouble nov^. An evil star 
 Has risen o'er the guileles bar 
 And brought dark obloquy and scorn 
 On gentle mug and peaceful horn, 
 Aye, there's a coarse hubbub and din 
 At Princeton Inn. 
 
 The sober souls that gather there 
 Indulge no thoughts of "jag" or "tear." 
 Grave scientists of mien austere 
 In solemn conclave sip their beer 
 And now and then a pretzel munch 
 Which serves 'em as a frugal lunch. 
 But stronger stimulants are scorned 
 And no one thinks of getting "corned," 
 For there's no whisky, rum or gin 
 At Princeton Inn. 
 
 Sometimes collegians strike the spot. 
 Pretending that a time red-hot 
 They love not but prefer, in fact. 
 The temperate and frugal act. 
 And this ingenious little game 
 Gives many a festive cuss the name 
 Of walking straight, whereas, you see 
 A lallycooler he may be. 
 There's none to doubt or cry "Too thin" 
 At Princeton Inn. 
 
 At times G. Cleveland, noble soul ! — 
 Drops in to drain a friendly bowl. 
 And while the foaming malt he sips. 
 
 87 
 
Wise words fall from his honored lips. 
 
 Then do the scientists make free 
 
 To clink their mugs and drink to G. 
 
 Who thus benignly condescends 
 
 To tipple mildly with his friends. 
 
 How nice that statesmen yarns should spin 
 
 At Princeton Inn. 
 
 But lo, the synods, pausing not 
 
 To learn who's who or what is what, 
 
 Pounce on this peaceful, harmless place 
 
 And call it ev'rything that's base. 
 
 And hence unless the Profs, rebel 
 
 G. C. must hunt a new hotel 
 
 And scientists and all that ilk 
 
 Must wash their pretzels down with milk 
 
 Whereat most men will give the grin 
 
 To Princeton Inn. 
 
 At the Ringside. 
 
 The brutal sport is finished, 
 
 The butchery is o'er, 
 The lawless, heartless sluggers 
 
 Have bathed themselves in gore. 
 And righteous people murmur, 
 
 Disgusted with the strife, 
 "Fitzsimmons is a corker 
 
 From Corkville — betcher life." 
 
 Like beasts of prey those sluggers 
 ( Mixed up within the ring, 
 
 And unto one another 
 
 They "didn't do a thing." 
 The world, appalled, beheld 'em. 
 
 And Conscience wide awake 
 Cried out, "This fight's a cuckoo, 
 
 And no dodgasted fake." 
 
As when the tiger hungry- 
 Leaps forth with wicked howl, 
 
 Jim jumped upon Fitzsimmons 
 And jabbed him in the jowl. 
 
 And moralists indignant 
 To see the cruel fun, 
 
 Observed, "Our stuff's on Corbett, 
 We'll lay you two to one." 
 
 As when the dread hyena 
 
 Proceeds to tear and claw, 
 Fitz hurled himself on Corbett 
 
 And plunked him in the jaw. 
 Whereat right-thinking people 
 
 With wrath began to storm 
 And shrieked, "Tho' Jim is hot stuff. 
 
 Bob certainly is warm." 
 
 Oh, cruel, cruel carnage! 
 
 Bob rose in round fourteen, 
 And with his deadly mitten 
 
 Banged Corbett in the spleen. 
 And as the erstwhile champion 
 
 Went down ith gurgling sob. 
 The world yelled, /'Shame upon ye! 
 
 Hooray for Lanky Bob !" 
 
 Yea. E'en while we prohibit 
 
 In all the states save one 
 The shocking, vicious prize fight. 
 
 Which all men ought to shun, 
 Our wrath pro tem. we smother. 
 
 And somehow cause enough 
 We find to yell like sixty, 
 
 "Fitzsimmons is the stuff." 
 
Trump Cards 
 
 With a card up his sleeve, 
 The redoubtable Piatt, 
 Feeling ripe for a spat. 
 At St. Louis arrives. 
 He looks daggers and knives. 
 
 And he hopes to retrieve 
 Levi's fortunes depressed. 
 Yes, he's doing his best 
 
 With a card up his sleeve. 
 
 With a card up his sleeve. 
 Tommy Reed comes from Maine. 
 "Have I labored in vain 
 As congressional czar ?" 
 He exclaims. "Must my star 
 
 The bright firmament leave?" 
 Though by Manley thrown down, 
 He's still after the crown. 
 
 With a card up his sleeve. 
 
 With a card up his sleeve, 
 Matthew Quay comes around. 
 Looking over the ground. 
 He has little to say. 
 But 'twill be a cold day 
 
 When opponents deceive 
 Or play tricks upon Matt. 
 He is ready for that 
 
 With a card up his sleeve. 
 
 With a card up his sleeve, 
 Old Man Allison bold 
 In his fealty to gold. 
 Isn't yielding a bit. 
 For though sentenced to quit, 
 
 He expects a reprieve. 
 Holding out to the last. 
 By his claims he stands fast, 
 
 With a card up his sleeve. 
 
 40 
 
With a card up his sleeve, 
 Hanna gets in the game, 
 And enlivens the same 
 By the way that he swings 
 Winning aces and kings. 
 
 Which his rivals aggrieve. 
 And he swears that he knows 
 He'll come in at the close 
 
 With a card up his sleeve. 
 
 With a card up his sleeve. 
 That's the way it is done. 
 That's the way that they run 
 Our conventions, for why 
 Should old Vox Populi 
 
 Any conquest achieve, 
 Since it fails to chip in 
 Where professionals win 
 
 With a card up his sleeve ? 
 
 A Blue Sunday. 
 
 In the parks the lounging masses 
 
 Waited for the Sunday band. 
 Waited for the wood and brasses, 
 
 Marshaled under deft command. 
 But in vain the people waited. 
 
 Dulcet strains were not in store, 
 And a voice ejaculated: 
 
 "Sunday music? Nevermore." 
 
 In advance the unsuspecting 
 
 Players had their gems rehearsed. 
 And the geniuses directing 
 
 For new triumphs were athirst. 
 But the news that they were sat on 
 
 Made 'em shudder, made 'em gasp, 
 Ah, 'twas sad to see the baton 
 
 Drop from Guenther's nerveless grasp. 
 
 41 
 
Brisk fantasias, swift potpourris, 
 
 Nocturnes in a minor key. 
 Two steps, sarabands and bourrees, 
 
 Opera bijouterie, 
 All these things with care selected. 
 
 Had been programmed. Who'd have thought 
 That such efforts well directed 
 
 Should be doomed to come to naught? 
 
 But 'twas so. A veto solemn 
 
 Fell upon the loud trombone, 
 On the E flat what-d'ye-call 'em. 
 
 On cornet and saxophone. 
 Some unfeeling Mrs. Grundy, 
 
 Tired of cymbals, drum and fife, 
 Wrathful cried : "What ! play on Sunday 
 
 In the parks? Not on your life.'' 
 
 To the people this embargo 
 
 Seemed like putting on a gag, 
 For they sighed for Handel's "Largo" 
 
 And the tempo of the "rag." 
 And they wanted things pathetic. 
 
 Such as music halls emit. 
 But they got the word splenetic, 
 
 "Sunday music? Aber nit." 
 
 Say who is the sour offender. 
 
 Who the tyrant that demands 
 That our people shall surrender 
 
 Interest in Sunday bands? 
 Let us hunt him up and show him 
 
 What is what. With horns immense 
 Off the earth let's promptly blow him, 
 
 Scouting thus his vile offense. 
 
LiPs Restoration. 
 
 With teardrops in her lovely eyes 
 The Sandwich Lily came 
 To Grover, 
 Good old Grover. 
 To reassume her queenly guise 
 She sweetly filed a claim 
 With Grover, 
 Good old Grover. 
 Says she, "Oh, Mr. President, you're chivalrous, I 
 
 know ; 
 You could not be a party to a lady's overthrow, 
 And hence for restoration quite confidingly I go 
 To Grover, 
 Good old Grover." 
 
 Her skin as dark as Erebus, 
 Her air of regal grace 
 Caught Grover, 
 Good old Grover. 
 "I'm happy madam, to discuss 
 Your interesting case." 
 Quoth Grover, 
 Good old Grover. 
 "Your dusky kind of beauty has its own peculiar charm 
 That moves me to relieve you from the slightest dread 
 
 of harm ; 
 If any one is competent your foemen to disarm 
 'Tis Grover, 
 Good old Grover." 
 
 He summoned then the cabinet, 
 Which held a grave pow-wow 
 With Grover, 
 Good old Grover. 
 They said, "We'll help the lady yet, 
 And set her right somehow, 
 Through Grover, 
 Good old Grover. 
 
 43 
 
The age of chivalry endures ; on that 'tis safe to bank ; 
 And since some scamps have ventured Lily's crown 
 
 away to yank, 
 Who is there in the universe that can restore her rank 
 But Grover, 
 Good old Grover?'' 
 
 The foremost goldsmith in the town, 
 Was summoned and he came 
 To Grover, 
 Good old Grover. 
 "Oh, make me quick a golden crown 
 With jewels in the same," 
 Said Grover, 
 Good old Grover. 
 The crown was made; no monarch could a finer head- 
 dress wear; 
 Instanter it was placed upon the Lily's kinky hair, 
 And now the greatest man on earth, Hawaiians all 
 declare, 
 
 Is Grover, 
 Good old Grover. 
 
 Chris Magee and Bill Flinn. 
 
 (Written when the venerable Pittsburg "Commercial 
 
 Gazette" was convicted of libeling the city bosses). 
 Observe, ye journals up-to-date, 
 The poor Old Lady's painful fate. 
 Convicted of that awful sin 
 
 Of jumping on * * * * * and ***** 
 Whose names to mention — curious fact ! — 
 Henceforth is a felonious act. 
 
 Sometimes the press finds time you see. 
 
 To jump on * * * * * and roast ***** 
 
 And heretofore, in doing this. 
 
 It spoke of them as * * * * and ***** 
 
 Which lack of reverential awe 
 
 Must cease, for 'tis against the law. 
 
'Twas often hinted that this pair 
 
 Of pious persons did their share 
 
 Of meddling in affairs of state 
 
 And meanwhile gathering riches great. 
 
 But now no man that drives a quill 
 
 May hint such things of * * * * * and * * * * 
 
 And oft when in the lobby they 
 
 Their plans with cunning art would lay, 
 
 Dark schemes concocting to outwit 
 
 That poor old stager, Father Pitt, 
 
 The press would howl. But now we'll miss 
 
 Those howls concerning * * * * and ***** 
 
 At Harrisburg the noble dukes 
 
 Likewise have gotten in their hooks. 
 
 And many a legislative pill. 
 
 Ill-flavored, came from ***** and * * * * 
 
 These things were shown up many a time. 
 
 But now — to breathe them is a crime. 
 
 Thus Providence prepares for us 
 
 A government anonymous. 
 
 Veiled prophets will our laws hand down 
 
 And in the dark control the town. 
 
 And only ringsters thick-and-thin 
 
 May name ***** or mention ***** 
 
 Wherefore, ye journals of our town, 
 
 Close up, keep dark, say nix, lie down. 
 
 And bid the men that type do set 
 
 To watch and guard the alphabet. 
 
 Lest lawless letters should get free 
 
 And form the names ***** and ***** 
 
 I 
 
i 
 
 On a Mean May Day. 
 
 No use to call her early, 
 
 Call her early, mother dear. 
 For May Day's getting meaner, 
 
 Getting meaner ev'ry year. 
 All day it drizzles, mother, 
 
 Giving ev'ry one the blues. 
 And celebrants wear rubber coats 
 
 And sloppy overshoes. 
 Oh, truly, such a day, mother, 
 
 Truly such a day 
 Is rough on the Queen o' the May, mother, 
 
 Rough on the Queen o' the May. 
 
 Don't waste your time, dear mother, 
 
 Vamping up a floral crown, 
 In half an hour or sooner 
 
 'Twould be soaked and wilted down. 
 The weather man sits waiting. 
 
 Dearest ma, to make a spring. 
 And to that poor old diadem 
 
 He wouldn't do a thing. 
 And this is no exception, ma, 
 
 It always is that way. 
 A.nd 'tis rough on the Queen o' the May, mother. 
 
 Rough on the Queen o' the May. 
 
 Your girl is fair to look upon, 
 
 Her locks are burnished gold. 
 But, mother, she cannot afford 
 
 To catch her death of cold. 
 And if, O ma, in robes of white 
 
 She gayly prances round. 
 The gloomy undertaker man 
 
 Will plant her underground. 
 Pneumonia hunting for a chance 
 
 The young and fair to slay 
 Is rough on the Queen o' the May, mother, 
 
 Rough on the Queen o' the May. 
 
Who talks about the Maypole 
 
 In a wild, romantic vein? 
 This Maypole nonsense, mother, 
 
 Gives to men of sense a pain. 
 To gambol on the greensward 
 
 When the flowers are in bud 
 Is well enough, but, bless you, ma'am ! — 
 
 Who'd gambol in the mud ? 
 'Tis mud that's holding sway, mother, 
 And mud that's holding sway 
 Is rough on the Queen o' the May, mother, 
 
 Rough on the Queen o' the May. 
 
 L'ENVOI. 
 
 Perhaps when we have gone to press 
 
 And when these lines are read. 
 The sunshine will have dried the earth. 
 
 And sorrow will have fled. 
 If so, O mother, let 'er rip. 
 
 Get out those robes of white. 
 And crown of flo'wrs and give to us 
 
 A vision of delight. 
 But the outlook is dark, we must say, mother, 
 
 Dreary and dark, we must say, 
 And 'tis rough on the Queen o' the May, mother. 
 
 Rough on the Queen o' the May. 
 
 Sousa Triumphans. 
 
 O Sousa, gallant Sousa, 
 
 With the marches that you wrote 
 Our warriors equipped themselves 
 
 And came and saw and smote. 
 No matter whom they had to fight. 
 
 In any foreign clime, 
 To the music of your two-steps 
 
 They could conquer ev'ry time. 
 
 47 
 
When Dewey in Manila bay 
 
 His awful sweep began, 
 The band upon his flagship 
 
 Started up "El Capitan." 
 And thus inspired, our sailor lads 
 
 Got at and let 'er go 
 Till not a Spanish ship remained 
 
 To tell the tale of woe. 
 
 At Santiago, when Toral 
 
 His arms was laying down, 
 "The Stars and Stripes Forever" 
 
 Stirred the echoes of the town. 
 And when our conq'ring flag was raised, 
 
 Drum, trumpet and bassoon 
 Topped off the ceremony 
 
 With a rattling Sousa tune. 
 
 In forests, where guerillas lurked. 
 
 In trenches damp and drear, 
 The grim and seasoned regular 
 
 And homesick volunteer 
 Alike forgot their troubles 
 
 And no more were feeling glum 
 When somebody bethought himself 
 
 A Sousa march to hum. 
 
 "A Hot Time" figured also; 
 
 There are words to that, you know ; 
 But though the tune is warm, it lacks 
 
 The Sousa swing and go. 
 To stir our lusty lads ashore 
 
 And gallant tars afloat, 
 There's nothing half so jolly as 
 
 The things that Sousa wrote. 
 
 Then here's to Hero Sousa, 
 
 To that king of fighting men 
 Who routs the foe completely 
 
 With his paper and his pen. 
 Bow down, ye foreigners, bow down; 
 
 We do not care a cuss 
 For the whole confounded universe 
 
 While Sousa writes for us. 
 
 48 
 
Titwillie. 
 
 On the avenue sidewalk a willie-boy stood 
 Sing willie, titwillie, titwillie, 
 Putting on all the style that a willie-boy could 
 
 Sing willie, titwillie, titwillie. 
 He was feeble of limb and defective in brain, 
 But his hair it was banged and he carried a cane. 
 Those who passed him remarked, for they couldn't re- 
 frain, 
 
 " Oh willie, titwillie, titwilUe." 
 
 As the willie-boy puffed at his mild cigarette. 
 
 Sing willie, titwillie, titwillie. 
 He fancied he was of the fair sex the pet, 
 Sing willie, titwillie, titwillie. 
 So he ogled the girls in a languishing style. 
 Feeling sure that their hearts he would thusly beguile, 
 And he cared not for folks who observed with a smile, 
 ** Oh willie, titwillie, titwiUie." 
 
 A lass came along who was wondrously fair. 
 
 Sing willie, titwillie, titwillie, 
 The wilHe-boy, seeing her, lisped out, "Ah there!" 
 
 Sing willie, titwillie, titwillie. 
 In those two little words what he meant to convey 
 Was that love at first sight to the heart found the way, 
 And besides that's the thing that all willie-boys say. 
 Sing willie, titwillie, titwilUe. 
 
 The lass passed along as if nothing she'd heard, 
 
 Sing willie, titwillie, titwillie. 
 But the willie-boy's soul by her beauty was stirred, 
 
 Sing willie, titwillie, titwillie. 
 So he followed her quickly and reaching her side, 
 With his cane in the air, and his eyes opened wide. 
 Said "Ah there" once again — he would not be denied, 
 " Oh willie, titwillie, titwillie." 
 
 49 
 
It happened alas! that the lady unkind, 
 Sing willie, titwillie, titwillie. 
 
 Had a husband, who just then was walking behind. 
 Sing willie, titwillie, titwillie. 
 
 The husband was tall and of ponderous weight, 
 
 And the way he went after that masher was great. 
 
 Did the willie-boy skip ? No, indeed, 'twas too late, 
 Sing willie, titwillie, titwillie. 
 
 Ely's Great Home Run. 
 
 Tradition tells of paladins who met in fearful fights. 
 And swung their broadswords round their heads and 
 
 smote tremendous smites; 
 Of knights who single-handed fought and laid whole 
 
 armies flat; 
 Of Richard who on Saladin victoriously sat. 
 Great heroes these, but all their famous feats rolled into 
 
 one 
 Look feeble by comparison with Ely's great home run. 
 
 You've heard of Ely. Such a strange anatomy he 
 owns 
 
 That people widely know him by the sobriquet of 
 "Bones." 
 
 He's shortstop for our Pittsburg team, but when to rip 
 and snort 
 
 And tear things up old "Bones" begins no pow'r can 
 stop him short; 
 
 And so he turned things upside down till e'en the shin- 
 ing sun 
 
 Stood still and gasped astonishment at Ely's great home 
 run. 
 
 Eight innings had been played, the ninth was drawing 
 
 to a close ; 
 The score it stood at 3 to 2 in favor of our foes. 
 For Boston, full of ginger and of chipperness and gall, 
 
 50 
 
Had certainly been putting up a famous game of ball. 
 Two men were out. Our boys, it seemed, were totally 
 
 undone; 
 Such was the lay-out at the time of Ely's great home 
 
 run. 
 
 The crowd, which thought the jig was up, was moving 
 off the ground. 
 
 When click ! — there came from Ely's bat the sharp, de- 
 cisive sound 
 
 Which tells of leather fiercely swiped. Great Christmas ! 
 Could it be 
 
 That "Bones" was doing business? Ev'ry eye was 
 strained to see. 
 
 Then from two thousand throats there came the cry, 
 "Well done, well done!" 
 
 And ev'ry one went crazy over Ely's great home run. 
 
 Oh, what a fearful swipe that was! The leather trav- 
 eled hence 
 
 Away to farthest center field and landed at the fence, 
 
 While "Bones" around the bases skipped at locomotive 
 speed, 
 
 And landed home, a hero and a conqueror, indeed. 
 
 And Boston, which supposed itself to have the battle 
 won. 
 
 Fell flat beneath the crushing weight of Ely's great 
 home run. 
 
 Our Own, inspired by Ely's feat, came nobly to the fore. 
 And in the tenth another run they added to the score. 
 Aye, from the jaws of dire defeat a victory was snatched, 
 And poor old Boston sneaked away, undone and over- 
 matched. 
 Ah, boys, that was a record. Other feats may shine 
 
 but none, 
 Past or present, figures in the class with Ely's great 
 home run. 
 
 u 
 
''Sic Transit-" 
 
 As Sully fell and Corbett, too, 
 
 So Fitz at last goes tumbling down. 
 Another hero wears the crown. 
 
 Ring out the old ; ring in the new. 
 
 Ring out the pride of lanky Bob, 
 Ring out the laurels that he bore 
 Away from far New Zealand's shore, 
 
 'Mid plaudits from the howling mob. 
 
 Ring out his long and nobby string 
 Of finish fights, with ev'ry bout 
 Concluding wath a clean knock-out. 
 
 To such old mem'ries who will cling? 
 
 Ring out the glory that he won 
 
 When Dempsey, Goddard, Maher, all 
 Before his prowess had to fall. 
 
 All that is past. His day is done. 
 
 Ring out his triumph unexcelled 
 When with a solar plexus thrust 
 He laid Jim Corbett in the dust 
 
 And thenceforth sway imperial held. 
 
 Ring out the oceans of long green 
 
 That surged around him while the crowd 
 To shake his royal hand felt proud 
 
 And ''hollered" for the great ''champeen." 
 
 Ring out the floods of interviews, 
 The cuts of Fitz in every style, 
 His demon grin, his fatal smile. 
 
 The endless "ads" dished up as news. 
 
 Ring out the plays of garish hue 
 Wherein the mighty fistic star 
 Was wont to punch the bag and spar 
 
 A condescending round or two. 
 
Ring out the rivers of champagne 
 Set up by those that sang his praise. 
 Likewise the ladies with bouquets 
 
 That followed in the hero's train. 
 
 Ring out, wild bells, and let your tune 
 Bid him that cut so wide a swath 
 Go hence and follow Corbett's path 
 
 And run an up-to-date saloon. 
 
 For lo, in the ethereal blue 
 
 A brand-new star is shining high. 
 "Hurrah for Jeff!" the people cry. 
 
 Ring out the old ; ring in the new. 
 
 Harrisburg In '97, 
 
 O Harrisburg, du schoene stadt, 
 
 Where legislators dwell, 
 Where men of guile on jobs grow fat 
 
 And statutes buy and sell. 
 Your streets are paved with good, long green, 
 
 Your founts with boodle Aow, 
 And from your statesmanlike machine 
 
 Reformers get no show. 
 
 O Harrisburg, you know the way 
 
 To close the public eye. 
 Full oft upon election day 
 
 You work that same old guy. 
 To lead a better life you swear, 
 
 And voters cry "Amen !" 
 But just as soon as you get there 
 
 You turn us down again. 
 
O Harrisburg, two years ago, 
 
 You burned with honest zeal. 
 You promised to reform, you know, 
 
 This blessed commonweal. 
 But now your weather eye you wink, 
 
 And tell us with a sneer : 
 "Yes, we're reformers, we don't think. 
 
 Call round some other year." 
 
 O Harrisburg, within your hand 
 
 You hold the G. O. P. 
 Its hopes and prospects you command, 
 
 'Tis ruled by your decree. 
 And at the next election-tide, 
 
 Oh, say, perfidious town, 
 How can you then the record hide 
 
 That drags the party down ? 
 
 O Harrisburg, your boodlers rush 
 
 In squadrons and brigades. 
 To-day they all are in the push 
 
 And each the cash box raids. 
 Strong men must groan and women weep 
 
 This carnival to see, 
 And Democrats prepare to sweep 
 
 From earth the G. O. P. 
 
 O Harrisburg, du schoene stadt, 
 
 The state would plan and scheme 
 To sink you, if it knew what's what. 
 
 In Susquehanna's stream. 
 And honest men upon the bank 
 
 In pray'rful style would kneel, 
 And cry together "Gott sei Dank'' — 
 
 That's how the people feel. 
 
Theology Up to Date. 
 
 In the town that's known to many 
 By the name of Allegheny, 
 So recorded in its charter, 
 There's a far-famed pious quarter, 
 Where the spectacled scholastic 
 Under regulations drastic 
 Cut out for a theologian 
 Toils and struggles like a Trojan 
 And by light of midnight taper 
 Feeds on book and pen and paper. 
 
 Dominies severely ruling 
 Carry on the work of schooling. 
 Now in phrases finely rounded 
 Puzzling doctrines are expounded. 
 Now baldheaded old ascetics 
 Drill the class in homiletics 
 Or the souls of students harrow 
 With old P. Virgilius Maro, 
 Homer, Livy and, for ballast, 
 Caesar, Cicero and Sallust. 
 
 All the young men, wearing glasses, 
 
 In their rooms or in their classes 
 
 Are required to lead a level 
 
 vSort of life and shun the d — 1. 
 
 Laws more harsh than those of Draco 
 
 Smite the user of tobacco. 
 
 Or the scamp who in a sly way 
 
 Winks at females on the highway. 
 
 Each must be a truly good 'un 
 
 And display a visage wooden. 
 
 But — alas that any vandal 
 
 Should promote so great a scandal ! — 
 
 1 
 
Rumor says that, scorning rigid 
 Rules and regulations frigid, 
 Pious youths their virtue slacken 
 And improper games fall back on; 
 That by light of midnight tapers 
 They indulge in worldly capers, 
 Crying, free from ev'ry fetter, 
 ''Ante up, boys. Jacks or better." 
 
 "Jacks or better!" — Moral science 
 Shudders at the bold defiance ; 
 Meek theology goes under, 
 Homiletics fall asunder, 
 Seeing thus scholastics trample 
 On all precept and example. 
 And deport themselves as jaunty 
 Followers of penny ante. 
 Ah, 'tis sinful ways they grope in 
 When the festive jackpot's open. 
 
 Haste, then, dominies. Oh, hasten 
 To rebuke and eke to chasten. 
 Jump upon the faithless sinner 
 Who comes out a four-time winner. 
 And when outraged virtue crushes 
 Houses full and bobtailed flushes 
 Then, perchance, in Allegheny 
 Satan will be "not so many." 
 Now, if you'd completely daze 'em, 
 See the scalawasrs and raise 'em. 
 
 To an Old Umbrella. 
 
 Hail, old umbrella! Tempest-scarred 
 
 And wobbly as thou art, 
 One cannot help but view thee, pard. 
 
 With kindliness of heart. 
 
 56 
 
Although thy ribs are out of gear, 
 Although thy coat is torn, 
 
 For thee there is no covert sneer. 
 No epithet of scorn. 
 
 For in thy old age, thou art proof 
 Against the itching hands 
 
 That somehow ne'er can hold aloof 
 From one's umbrella-stands. 
 
 In railway trains thou mayst be left 
 Untouched by those that loot. 
 
 Thy owner cannot be bereft 
 Of thee, old parachute. 
 
 If thou wert made of silken stuff, 
 With silver mountings gay, 
 
 Thieves could not hurry fast enough 
 To carry thee away. 
 
 But, old ''umbrell," the duty's thine 
 
 To hold thy place as yet. 
 To travel with us when 'tis fine 
 
 And vanish when 'tis wet. 
 
 At home in leisure thou shalt lie 
 When rain begins to pour, 
 
 But when there is a cloudless sky, 
 Be always to the fore. 
 
 Such is thy custom, aged gamp — 
 
 With innocence demure, 
 To hide thyself in weather damp 
 
 And hold a sinecure. 
 
 But. bless thy ancient heart, why not 
 Thus slumber on the shelf? 
 
 If we were an "umbrell," that's what 
 We'd like to do ourself. 
 
 67 
 
Mary's Garden 
 
 Mary had a garden patch, 
 
 It measured two by four ; 
 She was a floral amateur, 
 
 Just this and nothing more. 
 She had some little garden tools, 
 
 A spade, a rake, a hoe. 
 And ev'ry seed that Mary sowed 
 
 Was certain not to grow. 
 
 A seedsman heard of Mary's fad ; 
 
 He grinned a wicked grin 
 And sent her gorgeous catalogues 
 
 With colored plates therein. 
 The lily and the queenly rose, 
 
 Geraniums red and white 
 Grew lavishly on ev'ry page 
 
 To Mary's great delight. 
 
 And there were dahlias many-hued, 
 
 Verbenas, pansies, stocks. 
 Chrysanthemums and marguerites 
 
 And tow'ring hollyhocks. 
 The tulip and the hyacinth, 
 
 The castor bean so tall. 
 Quoth Mary, "These are out of sight," 
 
 I've got to have 'em all." 
 
 Soon ev'ry train and ev'ry mail 
 
 Brought in a precious freight 
 Of floral things that Mary thought 
 
 She'd neatly propagate. 
 And soon with hoe and rake and spade 
 
 She delved and dug and scratched ; 
 "I'll have a garden," Mary said, 
 
 "That can't on earth be matched." 
 
 58 
 
But fortune on poor mortals oft 
 
 Is predisposed to frown; 
 It proved that Mary's choicest bulbs 
 
 Were planted upside down. 
 Her finest seeds — ^just think of this ? — 
 
 'Twould make an angel weep — 
 Grew not at all because they had 
 
 Been buried three feet deep. 
 
 The plants she purchased ready made 
 
 Took sick and pined away; 
 Somehow the soil that Mary used 
 
 Set everything astray. 
 And when the gayest ones were gone, 
 
 For reasons unexplained, 
 Ten million bugs came prancing 'round 
 
 And ate up what remained. 
 
 At this the maid threw up her hands, 
 
 She'd done the best she could ; 
 But now she yielded and her tools 
 
 Were used for kindling wood. 
 And if she ever should again 
 
 Attempt the floral lay, 
 She'll hunt some German gard'ner up 
 
 And hire him by the day. 
 
 At the Art Gallery. 
 
 Now the crowd with expectancy eager, 
 
 And burning desire in its heart. 
 Presses onward, resolved to beleaguer 
 
 Carnegie's great temple of art. 
 A truce to malevolent strictures, 
 
 A truce to foul jealousy's taint, 
 While the mob is turned loose on the pictures 
 
 And revels sublimely in paint. 
 
There are critics, of course, pompous fellows, 
 
 Descanting with loud "haws" and *'hems," 
 On the blues and the reds and the yellows 
 
 In exquisite classical gems. 
 Each of talent at home is a spurner; 
 
 Thereat they consumedly scoff 
 And they rave over Landseer and Turner 
 
 And RulDens, and won't be called off. 
 
 But the common unlettered '*Hoi Polloi" 
 
 Enjoy ev'ry canvas in sight. 
 They find Rembrandt uncommonly jolly 
 
 And Vandyck a source of delight. 
 They give way; to the witching concoctions 
 
 Of Whistler and Bouguereau, too, 
 And go wild over local productions 
 
 And never once know which is who. 
 
 Tell them not about tints ineffective, 
 
 And ill-managed shadows and lights. 
 Don't bore them by talking perspective, 
 
 They care not to soar to such heights. 
 Please keep mum on Pre-Raphaelite schooling 
 
 And Renaissance methods, unless 
 With a buzz-saw y^ou're bent upon fooling. 
 
 And carry the thing to excess. 
 
 No, let folks neither skilled nor presuming. 
 
 Just follow the catalogue's lead. 
 And read up on each masterpiece blpoming 
 
 Without to the source giving heed. 
 For the acme of popular pleasure, 
 
 Unmarr'd by a drawback or hitch, 
 Is to view each pictorial treasure 
 
 And not know the t'other from which. 
 
 fiO 
 
Bolting Time 
 
 ''Bolt, bolt, bolt!" 
 
 'Tis the universal cry, 
 And the faction that can't get a strangle "holt" 
 
 Is sure the plan to try. 
 
 The silver-gilt Prohib 
 
 Is first to fly the track. 
 You can tell from the cut of his beaming jib 
 
 That he'll never again come back. 
 
 Don't talk to him of rum, 
 
 Of the soul-destroying cup. 
 He is pounding his toy financial drum 
 
 And won't be bottled up. 
 
 And the stately schooners flit 
 
 For a nickel across the bar, 
 But Prohibition in twain is split 
 
 And has lost its guiding star. 
 
 St. John, the Kansan sleek. 
 
 Triumphant leads the way. 
 He carries a tempting silver brick 
 
 To lead the Prohibs astray. 
 
 "Heed not the drinking horn. 
 
 But come with me," he cries. 
 And the National party thus is born 
 
 And dons a warlike guise. 
 
 So, too, within the ranks 
 
 Of older parties lurk 
 A host of furious silver cranks 
 
 Ready for ugly work. 
 
 And the Grand Old Party quails 
 
 As the antics queer it sees 
 Of Bill McKinley trimming his sails 
 
 To suit 'most any breeze. 
 
 61 
 
*'Speak out, McKinley, speak," 
 
 The Stalwarts wildly call. 
 But in William's views there's never a leak, 
 
 He will not speak at all. 
 
 And it's oh for the fatal day 
 
 When into St. Louis troop 
 The delegates ! Fully convinced are they 
 
 That somebody'll fly the coop. 
 
 The Democrats, too, are pained. 
 
 And Harrity can't but weep. 
 For his followers, rather than be restrained, 
 
 Will scatter abroad like sheep. 
 
 And November's ides mav see, 
 
 To the regulars' great dismay. 
 Heretical mobs from parties three. 
 
 All on the bolting lay. 
 
 Bolt, bolt, bolt. 
 
 Oh, what wonder that bosses "cuss?" 
 For the good old days, with nary a jolt. 
 
 May never come back to us. 
 
 The Crime of '73. 
 
 The truth we'll now unfold about 
 
 The crime of '73. 
 No more can men afford to doubt 
 
 The crime of '73. 
 All ills to which the flesh is heir. 
 All sorts of worry, woe and care 
 Result from that most foul affair. 
 
 The crime of 'y^- 
 
 What injures men that never toil? 
 
 The crime of '73. 
 What makes the blood of shirkers boil? 
 
 The crime of '73. 
 
 62 
 
 I 
 
What causes folks to dodge their bills? 
 What drives a few to tapping tills? 
 What is the root of human ills ? 
 The crime of '73. 
 
 What was it led to Noah's flood ? 
 
 The crime of '73. 
 What laid out Caesar in his blood ? 
 
 The crime of '73. 
 What brought Ould Ireland 'neath the yoke 
 Of England and her heart nigh broke. 
 Oh, Pat, it was — this is no joke — 
 
 The crime of '73. 
 
 What caused the London plague and fire ? 
 
 The crime of '73. 
 What caused in France rebellion dire? 
 
 The crime of '73. 
 What did a hapless British king. 
 Whose barons had him on a string, 
 Repeal? It was that same old thing, 
 
 The crime of '73. 
 
 What led to Joan of Arc's crusade ? 
 
 The crime of '73. 
 What killed off Nolan's Light Brigade? 
 
 The crime of '73. 
 What was it that in Asia bred 
 The cholera, which black ruin spread 
 Abroad? Ah, 'twas that monster dread. 
 
 The crime of '73. 
 
 What is behind the Bryan boom? 
 
 The crime of '73. 
 What fills the Pops with wrath and gloom ? 
 
 The crime of '73. 
 And what impels irreverent folk 
 With wicked merriment to choke? 
 It is that source of m^ny a croak, 
 
 The crime of '73. 
 
 68 
 
The Return of the Crinoline. 
 
 The hoopskirt is coming ; Dame Fashion's decree 
 Is bringing it hither from over the sea ; 
 And our girls, it appears, ('tis a thing to deplore) 
 Must go back to the togs that their grandmothers wore. 
 
 O woman, sweet woman ! how hard is thy case, 
 To be thus, nolens volens, enlarged at the base. 
 And, without an appreciable chance of escape, 
 To be forced to assume a pyramidal shape. 
 
 What wonder that youths of an amorous turn 
 Breathe curses intense and with wrathfulness burn? 
 Of woman's caprice they'll of course be the Hupes, 
 For there's no hope of hugging a charmer in hoops. 
 
 The waltz! — dear, oh dear, there's an end of all that; 
 Never more can a chap feel the loud pit-a-pat 
 Of a feminine heart on his shoulder so stout. 
 Since the crinoline — infamous thing ! — bars him out. 
 
 Alas for the sidewalk, already too small, 
 
 A couple of ladies will cover it all. 
 
 And the streets will be closed against masculine craft 
 
 When the "gals" promenade every Saturday "aft." 
 
 The street railway trav'ler who's sandwiched between 
 Two females will yearn to decamp from the scene; 
 Oh, 'tis easy to guess how a fellow must feel 
 When environed with whalebone and girdled with steel. 
 
 Is there no dress reformer, with gumption enough 
 
 To inflict on this evil an early rebuff. 
 
 And induce the dear girls, ere they've pushed things too 
 
 far. 
 To fall back upon trousers, or stay as they are ? 
 
 If not, then, by Jove, let us males all unite 
 In a prayer that Boreas will rise in his might 
 And send forth such a blast, bringing woe and dismay, 
 As will fill up the hoopskirts and blow 'em away. 
 
 64 
 
When Brennen Quits the Chair. 
 
 [Apropos of the Rumored Resignation of the Demo- 
 cratic Chairman of Allegheny County, Pa.] 
 
 The stars above will cease to shine 
 When Brennen quits the chair; 
 The bosses will their crowns resign 
 
 When Brennen quits the chair. 
 
 Our millionaires will help the poor, 
 
 Physicians will not kill, but cure. 
 
 And councils will be good and pure 
 
 When Brennen quits the chair. 
 
 Ed Bigelow will economize 
 
 When Brennen quits the chair. 
 The "Times" no more will deal in lies 
 
 When Brennen quits the chair. 
 
 The Coxey scheme will win the day, 
 
 The month of June will come in May, 
 
 And the Pope will join the A. P. A. 
 
 When Brennen quits the chair. 
 
 Bill Flinn will cease to legislate 
 
 When Brennen quits the chair. 
 Prohibs. will all get on a skate 
 
 When Brennen quits the chair. 
 Speak-easies will be free to run, 
 Installment men will cease to dun, 
 The moon will overpower the sun 
 When Brennen quits the chair. 
 
The traction roads will fares reduce 
 
 When Brennen quits the chair. 
 Saloons will sell no lightning juice 
 When Brennen quits the chair. 
 Defunct will be the coupon fake, 
 G. Cleveland will free trade forsake, 
 And "pugs" will fight without a stake 
 When Brennen quits the chair. 
 
 Old Prob the truth will always tell 
 When Brennen quits the chair. 
 
 Brazilians won't again rebel 
 When Brennen quits the chair. 
 
 No dude will smoke a cigarette, 
 
 Phil Flinn on candidates won't bet 
 
 And water won't be very wet 
 When Brennen quits the chair. 
 
 John Larkin will with Sipe agree 
 When Brennen quits the chair. 
 The British will set Ireland free 
 
 When Brennen quits the chair. 
 
 Herr Most will wash his hairy face, 
 
 The "Leader" won't be pressed for space 
 
 And Breckinridge will win his case 
 
 When Brennen quits the chair. 
 
 The south will have no lynching mobs 
 
 When Brennen quits the chair. 
 B. Mullen will resign his jobs 
 
 When Brennen quits the chair. 
 Led on by Billy's action rash, 
 The universe, with awful crash, 
 Will split apart and go to smash 
 When Brennen quits the chair. 
 
The Cycling Age. 
 
 All the world these days is riding 
 
 On a wheel. 
 To and fro mankind is sliding 
 
 On a wheel. 
 Universal the divorce is 
 From the thrall of mules and horses, 
 And the wise man swiftly courses 
 
 On a wheel. 
 
 Kings and princes do their ruling 
 
 On a wheel. 
 Children go to get their schooling 
 
 On a wheel. 
 Pedagogues who give instructions 
 In geometry and fluxions 
 Reach conclusions and deductions 
 
 On a wheel. 
 
 Preachers hurry to their preaching 
 
 On a wheel. 
 Public speakers do their ''speeching" 
 
 On a wheel. 
 Babies on the bottle feeding 
 Nurses' care no more are needing, 
 For we let 'em go a-speeding 
 
 On a wheel. 
 
 Painters dally with their palettes 
 
 On a wheel. 
 Politicians purchase ballots 
 
 On a wheel. 
 Poets, careless of contusions, 
 Nurse their fancies and illusions 
 And produce their swift effusions 
 
 On a wheel. 
 
 f)7 
 
Architects their plans unravel 
 
 On a wheel. 
 Moderators swing the gavel 
 
 *'On a wheel. 
 Pitchers practice curves deceiving, 
 Novelists, when plots they're weaving. 
 Peg along, with bosoms heaving, 
 
 On a wheel. 
 
 Concert singers take to trilling 
 
 On a w^heel. 
 Weyler does his daily killing 
 
 On a wheel. 
 And McKinley with a knowing 
 Wink foresees good fortune flowing, 
 When all things ahead are going 
 
 On a wheel. 
 
 Coppers chas^^ the bold law-breaker 
 
 On a wheel. 
 "Stiffs" hunt up the undertaker 
 
 On a wheel. 
 Bargain hunters go a-jewing, 
 Lovers in their pristine wooing 
 Do their billing and their cooing 
 
 On a wheel. 
 
 Yes, life's worth the living only 
 
 On a wheef. 
 No one's helpless, sad or lonely 
 
 On a wheel. 
 Then let's hope, to end the story, 
 That we'll all be hunky-dory 
 And go scorching off to glory 
 
 On a wheel. 
 
George and the Hatchet. 
 
 Once more 'tis here, that famous date 
 Whereon the birth we celebrate 
 Of him who, howsoe'er he'd try, 
 Could never, never tell a lie — 
 Our nation's noblest, biggest gun. 
 The great and good G. Washington. 
 
 Great was the joy when first to Truth 
 
 George pledged himself in early youth. 
 
 Before that time his parents had 
 
 No special reverence for the lad. 
 
 ''Boys will be boys," they said, and guessed 
 
 That George might yarn like all the rest. 
 
 Now George was much aggrieved to know 
 
 That people should regard him so. 
 
 And hence he watched his chance to make 
 
 Correction of the odd mistake. 
 
 ''Zounds !" cried the lad, "I'll prove some day 
 
 That morally I am O. K." 
 
 It chanced that one fine Christmas morn 
 (Seven years had passed since George was born), 
 Chriskingle down the chimney slid 
 And left a hatchet for the kid. 
 'Twas small, but chroniclers agree 
 That it was famous cutlery. 
 
 "Aha !" said George when he awoke. 
 "Once more that old Chriskingle joke. 
 'Twas father that put up the tax 
 To purchase this incipient ax, 
 But punished for his trick he'll he : 
 I'll chop his fav'rite cherry tree," 
 
 Thus saying, George went forth and plaved 
 Sad havoc with his keen-edged blade. 
 And soon that priceless cherry stood 
 A shapeless mass of kindling wood. 
 "Its place" quotli he, "they'll hardly fill. 
 It cost a twenty dollar bill." 
 
 f.9 
 
Meanwhile the elder Washington 
 Unto the spot had traced his son. 
 "Unhappy youth" he howled, "I see 
 That someone's felled my priceless tree. 
 And from your hatchet, plain to view, 
 I'm reasonably sure 'twas You," 
 
 "Father," said George, "I must confess 
 
 You've struck it at a single guess. 
 
 But touch me not. Learn now with shame, 
 
 I've tumbled to your Christmas game. 
 
 Mark my example. Dad, and try 
 
 Like Me to NEVER tell a lie." 
 
 The words struck home. The old man said, 
 "You're right, my boy. Great head, great head. 
 'Tis very clear that, as you state, 
 You can't and v^^on't prevaricate." 
 And thus wound up the great event 
 That made G. Wash our President. 
 
 Plain William 
 
 In his modest home at Canton, that blessed Buckeye 
 town. 
 Where pilgrims go to worship at his shrine. 
 Plain William sits a-waiting for the presidential crown 
 
 Which comes to him, you know, by right divine. 
 At St. Louis they have named him with a glorious 
 hurrah. 
 And committeemen will wait on him to-day 
 To inform him of his triumph, and before the boys with- 
 draw 
 In tones Napoleonic he will say : 
 
 Refrain. 
 
 70 
 
"Just tell 'em that you saw me, and they will know the 
 rest, 
 
 Just tell 'em 1 was looking well, you know, 
 Just tell 'em you surprised me, and the merry, merry jest 
 
 Will please 'em as it did long, long ago." 
 
 The major has a Fireside. A picture of the same 
 
 Is shown in ev'ry journal up-to-date. 
 The reason that 'tis utilized is simply to proclaim 
 
 That William is domestically straight. 
 At that dear old chimney corner, with associations 
 sweet. 
 
 He will stand with swelling heart and flashing eye. 
 And in simple pious language, free from semblance of 
 deceit, 
 
 To the notifying speeches he'll reply : 
 
 Ref : "Just tell 'em that you saw me," etc. 
 
 And William has relations. They're females ev'ry one — 
 
 Romantically guiding his career. 
 Historians inform us that when daily toil is done, 
 
 He fondly turns to gentle woman's sphere. 
 Ev'ry mention of this winning trait, so rare in public 
 men. 
 
 Wins applause, and so in language soft and fond, 
 The committee will refer to it successfully, and then 
 
 The Plain One will immediately respond : 
 
 Ref: "Just tell 'em that you saw me," etc. 
 
 There are many kicking citizens, who oftentimes pre- 
 tend 
 
 That presidential aspirants should speak 
 Unevasively and plainly, making clear how they intend 
 
 To act, if chosen to the place they seek. 
 So it may be said to William, "Will you drop the silver 
 craze 
 
 And hoist the honest money flag at once?" 
 Whereupon the modest hero on the wall will fix his gaze 
 
 And murmur the appropriate response: 
 
 Ref: "Just tell 'em that you saw me," etc. 
 
 71 
 
In November 'twill be settled whether William gets the 
 plum 
 Or before the rabid enemy shall fall. 
 In the latter case 'tis understood that ruin's bound to 
 come, 
 And play the very mischief with us all. 
 But no matter what the outcome is, we'll ne'er forget 
 the day 
 When at Canton, with admirers grouped around. 
 That committee said to William, "Take the nomination, 
 pray," 
 And he replied with no uncertain sound: 
 Ref : "Just tell 'em that you saw me," etc. 
 
 Nansen 
 
 In the European region 
 Tenanted by folks Norwegian, 
 Dwelt a youth of lore prolific, 
 Steeped in knowledge scientific. 
 Nansen — so his name is written — 
 With the polar craze was smitten ; 
 Days and nights he passed in dreaming, 
 Plotting, planning, deeply scheming. 
 Ceasing not the hope to cherish 
 That he'd find the Pole or perish. 
 
 One fine day the King of Norway 
 Loafing at the palace doorway, 
 Noted Nansen, darkly musing 
 O'er his plans of polar cruising, 
 And the monarch philanthropic 
 Braced him on his favorite topic. 
 ''Ah, my liege," said Nansen sadly, 
 ''Cash I need and need it badly." 
 "Tut !" the king said. "I'll befriend you 
 To the blamed old Pole I'll send you." 
 
 72 
 
Soon a ship, the Fram, was ready, 
 Well-built, solid, stout and steady; 
 And with captain, mate and bos'n 
 Duly used to being frozen, 
 Nansen sailed away rejoicing 
 Praise for good King Oscar voicing. 
 **Soon," he said, "in matters polar 
 I shall be a true high roller, 
 And — oh, prospect full of rapture ! 
 Easily the Pole I'll capture. 
 
 On he kept a-sailing, sailing, 
 Where the whalers go a-whaling, 
 Where the sealers go a-sealing 
 'Mid perpetual congealing. 
 Where when fields of ice are growing 
 Esquimaux go forth a-"mauing." 
 Where, a ton of clothing wearing. 
 White bear hunters go a-bearing, 
 And in advertising phrase he 
 Murmured *'This Great Sail's a Daisy." 
 
 Finally his gallant vessel 
 Had with icebergs huge to wrestle 
 And the passageway to close up, 
 Ev'rything around him froze up. 
 No more laughed his sailors gladly; 
 "*Tis a frost," they whispered sadly. 
 
 " it all," said Nanse profanely, 
 
 "Is my trip to wind up vainly? 
 Never. Fate may seek to balk it, 
 But by all the gods, I'll walk it." 
 
 Forth he skipped and walked with vigor, 
 Heeding not the season's rigor ; 
 Walked and walked the ice fields over, 
 Yet no pole could he discover. 
 Not the smallest piece of timber 
 
Showed itself. So tired and limber 
 After many days, the hero, 
 At a point far under zero. 
 Struck his flag, with anger burning 
 And resolved on home returning. 
 
 Homeward then he wandered, wandered. 
 Zigzagged, circled and meandered. 
 Lost himself and woe hung round him 
 When a cruising vessel found him. 
 *'How's the Pole?" they asked him smiling 
 In a tone of voice beguiling. 
 But — this thing there's no romance in — 
 "Blank, blank, blank the Pole," said Nansen. 
 
 Marching Through Cuba 
 
 Bring the good old bugle, boys, that's long been laid 
 
 away. 
 As she rang out years ago, so let'er ring to-day. 
 To the martial tunes of yore we'll rally to the fray, 
 As we go marching thro' Cuba. 
 
 Chorus : 
 
 Hurrah, Hurrah! we'll sound the jubilee, 
 When Cuba's sons from tyrant thrall are free. 
 Blanco and his cutthroat band we'll drive across the sea, 
 As we go marching thro' Cuba. 
 
 Gives us "Yankee Doodle," which in early days inspired 
 Gallant patriotic hearts with hope of freedom fired. 
 Blanco, when he hears the strain, will feel exceeding 
 tired, 
 As we go marching thro' Cuba. 
 
 Cho. — Hurrah, hurrah, etc. 
 
 74 
 
Give us, while the drummers beat a glorious tattoo, 
 Stirring "Hail Columbia," and the old "Red, White 
 
 and Blue." 
 At the very sound of 'em the Dons will hide from view. 
 As we go marching thro' Cuba. 
 
 Cho. — Hurrah, hurrah, etc. 
 
 Give us "Rally Round the Flag," and while we jest at 
 
 scars 
 Let us have the Banner that is spangled o'er with stars, 
 Telling us the glory of our soldiers and Jack Tars, 
 As we go marching thro' Cuba. 
 
 Cho. — Hurrah, hurrah, etc. 
 
 Top 'er off with "Dixie," which to all men will attest 
 That the North and South are hand in hand and breast 
 
 to breast. 
 Sending forth unitedly their bravest and their best, 
 As we go marching thro' Cuba. 
 
 Cho. — Hurrah, hurrah, etc. 
 
 Soon the thrilling echoes of these tunes will penetrate 
 To the heart of old Madrid and to her palace gate. 
 Get up, then, ye Dons, and "git" before it is too late, 
 As we go marching thro' Cuba. 
 
 Cho. — Hurrah, hurrah, etc. 
 
 Casablanca Redivivus, 
 
 The Boy, the Oratoric Boy, 
 Stood on the burning deck 
 
 And viewed with signs of fiendish joy 
 The Democratic wreck. 
 
Around him fast and fiercely burned 
 
 The old Jacksonian craft. 
 Her ropes and spars to ashes turned 
 
 Afore and eke abaft. 
 
 What lit the terror-breeding fire ? 
 
 What set the ship ablaze ? 
 Alas for the misfortune dire! — 
 
 It was the silver craze. 
 
 Amid it all the Boy stood forth 
 
 And said with flashing eye : 
 ''Call fifty cents a dollar's worth, 
 
 Or at my post I'll die.'' 
 
 In vain Jacksonians called to him 
 
 To quit the scene of woe. 
 He held his ground, stern-faced and grim 
 
 The Youngster would not go. 
 
 'Troud youth," the old-time leaders said, 
 '*To swift demise you're doomed." 
 
 But still the Youth with bulging head 
 Stood there to be consumed. 
 
 'Tm from the surging Platte," said he, 
 
 *'Vm fresh from Omaha, 
 And, oh, I'll shout for silver free 
 
 Clear to Gehenna's maw." 
 
 The fire raged on. Its angry glow 
 
 Told of Destroying Fate. 
 The boy stuck fast. He would not go ; 
 
 He was a candidate. 
 
 Soon one by one the older hands 
 Among the good ship's crew, 
 
 Slipped off, unmindful of commands. 
 In lifeboats, staunch and true. 
 
There still remained a handful small 
 
 Around the nervy Lad. 
 The silver craze had made 'em all 
 
 Stark, staring, raving mad. 
 
 And so, while flames lit up the sky, 
 
 They danced a wild cancan. 
 And screamed: "The old ship we'll stand by 
 
 And Bryan is our man." 
 
 Soon burns the fire. Oh, will that Child 
 
 In ashes yet be laid ? 
 Ask of the winds that make up wild 
 
 Bill Bryan's stock-in-trade. 
 
 Dewey 
 
 Cool as a crystal chunk of ice 
 
 Is Dewey. 
 No need of warning or advice 
 
 For Dewey. 
 No foreign emperor or king 
 His funny tricks may haply spring, 
 For there, prepared for ev'rything. 
 
 Is Dewey. 
 
 Three months ago but few had heard 
 
 Of Dewey; 
 Small public notice was conferred 
 
 On Dewey. 
 No one to howls of joy gave vent 
 When to the far-off Orient 
 The first commands of war were sent 
 
 For Dewey. 
 
 M 
 
McKinley's words were short and sweet 
 
 To Dewey: 
 "Go forth and smash the Spanish fleet, 
 
 Friend Dewey." 
 Did Dewey falter? Did he pause? 
 Or hesitate from any cause? 
 Nay. Into Ruin's very jaws 
 
 Went Dewey. 
 
 But Ruin somehow failed to fall 
 
 On Dewey. 
 Success was at the beck and call 
 
 Of Dewey. 
 Across explosive mines he skipped 
 And Spanish ships to pieces ripped. 
 Teetotally the Dons were whipped 
 
 By Dewey. 
 
 At first there were no troops to stand 
 
 By Dewey, 
 But still like iron was the hand 
 
 Of Dewey. 
 And when the Germans thought it cute 
 His regulations to dispute, 
 " Lie down, ye terriers, or Til shoot." 
 
 Said Dewey. 
 
 If all commanders ruled the seas 
 
 Like Dewey, 
 All round we'd boss things with the ease 
 
 Of Dewey. 
 But bless you! while of sea dogs grim 
 And brave our stock is nowise slim, 
 The world can hold but one Uke him, 
 
 One Dewey. 
 
 78 
 
The Merry Month of June. 
 
 Oh, the frost is on the dahlias and the rosebud is n. g. ; 
 The nascent peach sustains a chill and dies upon the tree ; 
 The birds abandon melody and mournful dirges croon, 
 Hoarsely hailing the arrival of the "merry month of 
 June." 
 
 Fires that long have been extinguished are rekindled 
 
 with a sigh. 
 And grate screens are abandoned till the sweeter by- 
 
 and by. 
 Hot toddy strikes the spot again, and cough drops are 
 
 a boon 
 To pneumonia-stricken wretches in the "merry month 
 
 of June." 
 
 See the maiden in the shirtwaist. She has reason to 
 
 repine. 
 A seriatim course of chills is trav'ling down her spine. 
 She sneezes and she wheezes and they'll plant her pretty 
 
 soon 
 If she doesn't wear her flannels in the "merry month of 
 
 June." 
 
 Mark that hectic looking citizen with pinched and 
 
 hollow jaw. 
 He was the very first to wear a hat of Mackinaw. 
 He's looking now for rock-and-rye, and breathes in each 
 
 saloon 
 Dark and dismal imprecations on the "merry month of 
 
 June." 
 
 On the public highway still we see a visage worn and 
 
 wan; 
 It is that super-previous lad, the hanky-panky man. 
 "I-i-scream !" the dismal utterance is sadly out of tune 
 With the frostiness that permeates the "merry month 
 
 of June." 
 
 79 
 
Panic seizes on the churches, and the Sunday schools 
 
 are grieved 
 To think that by the weather man they thus should be 
 
 deceived. 
 Methinks 'twere better far to be a dog and bay the moon 
 Than to lay the ropes for picnics in the "merry month 
 
 of June." 
 
 Ask the railroads what they think of it. They'll tell you 
 
 that the Fates 
 Are down on summer traveling at cheap excursion rates. 
 With wreckage of their brightest plans their lines are 
 
 thickly strewn, 
 And they shudder at the advent of the "merry month of 
 
 June." 
 
 Matrimony is the caper in the early summer time; 
 Erotic poets sing of it in ev'ry sort of rhyme. 
 But what's the use of poetry when lovers cease to spoon 
 And fall back on pills and powders in the "merry month 
 of June." 
 
 To the bow-wows we are going ; that's a sure and certain 
 
 thing; 
 We haven't any summer and we haven't any spring. 
 Then, prithee, Mr. Weather Man, confer on us a boon 
 And just jolt the sun a little in this "merry month of 
 
 June." ' 
 
 The Circus Parade. 
 
 Circus in town. See 'em running, 
 
 The youngsters with wings on their feet. 
 When the pageant breaks loose on the street 
 In splendor and majesty stunning. 
 They're certainly doing it brown. 
 Circus in town. 
 
Circus in town. Many-tinted 
 And brilliantly gilt are the cars 
 Which princes and grand dukes and czars 
 Have gazed on with pleasure unstinted 
 And never a trace of a frown. 
 Circus in town. 
 
 Circus in town. The musicians 
 Ahead of the gay caravan 
 Keep a-pounding out ''El Capitan" 
 And "All Coons," and with no intermissions 
 The noise of the highway they drown. 
 Circus in town. 
 
 Circus in town. In their cages 
 The wildest of beasts move along; 
 Lions glare at the onlooking throng, 
 And the tiger ferociously rages. 
 
 He'd like to gulp somebody down. 
 Circus in town. 
 
 Circus in town. Here come creeping 
 The elephants, massive to view ; 
 They're a thick-skinned and slow-going crew, 
 And they carry their trunks for safe keeping, 
 And — ha! ha! — there's a rollicking clown. 
 Circus in town. 
 
 Circus in town. Lady riders 
 In fairy-like tarlatan clothes 
 Are posing and each in her pose 
 Much resembles a pair of dividers 
 
 Dressed up in a fractional gown. 
 Circus in town. 
 
 81 
 
Circus in town. See the juggling 
 And tumbling and other such feats, 
 All performed in the march o'er the streets; 
 And the populace madly is struggling 
 The artists with glory to crown. 
 Circus in town. 
 
 Circus in town. 'Tis a magnet 
 Attracting the young and the old, 
 And the wise and the fair and the bold, 
 Or a sort of omnipotent drag-net. 
 No bounds to its royal renown. 
 Circus in town. 
 
 Spring. 
 
 In the spring the little birdies 
 
 From their southern quarters come; 
 In the spring the young man's fancy 
 
 Lightly turns to coats of gum; 
 In the spring the cooing dovelets 
 
 Don their brightest burnished suits ; 
 In the spring the population 
 
 Hoists a million umbrachutes. 
 
 In the spring the blithesome rabbit 
 
 O'er the greensward gaily scoots; 
 In the spring suburban dwellers 
 
 Don extensive rubber boots; 
 In the spring the brooks and streamlets 
 
 Prattle with a gleeful ''prat;" 
 In the spring the sad policeman 
 
 Glow'rs beneath an oilskin hat. 
 
 8S 
 
 I 
 I 
 
In the spring the sugar maple 
 
 Lets its stored-up sweetness slip; 
 In the spring the doctors revel 
 
 In the sudden spread of grip; 
 In the spring, with colors radiant, 
 
 Butterflies begin to whizz ; 
 In the spring old residenters 
 
 Double up with "rheumatiz." 
 
 In the spring the violet modest 
 
 Lifts her head and peeps about ; 
 In the spring the rivers rising 
 
 Seize the chance to flood us out ; 
 In the spring the farmer's offspring 
 
 Scour the woods for sassafras; 
 In the spring the thrifty housewife 
 
 Shuts down on the natural gas. 
 
 In the spring the fruitful orchard 
 
 Puts forth many a leaf and bud; 
 In the spring the sturdy plowman 
 
 Plows profanely through the mud; 
 In the spring the earth is full of 
 
 Light and life and hope and cheer ; 
 In the spring the cemetery 
 
 Does the bus'ness of the year. 
 
 In the spring the heart of Nature 
 
 Swells with feelings of good will; 
 In the spring the stoutest infant 
 
 Baffles the physician's skill ; 
 In the spring — well, talk of wetness ! 
 
 Weather men don't do a thing. 
 Pouring, drizzling, soaking, seeping — 
 
 That's your size, O gentle Spring. 
 
 83 
 
Philhellenic. 
 
 Up, up, ye Greek societies that dwell in college halls, 
 And gird ye on your weapons, for duty loudly calls. 
 No more blow-outs and banquets. The obligation's 
 
 strict 
 To live up to your lettered names until the Turk is 
 
 licked. 
 
 Up, up Phi Gamma Epsilon. Go forth to do or die. 
 Let not the world, beholding you, look black and say, 
 
 "Oh, Phi!" 
 But, breathing to Olympian ones a pray'r in classic 
 
 strain, 
 Go forth to show that alphabetic names are not in vain. 
 
 Up, up. Pi Kappa. Now's the time for arming 
 
 Kap-a-pie. 
 Into the ring your castor you've simply got to shy. 
 And where the tide of Moslem steel is seen to surge and 
 
 swell, 
 Pile in, lads, and stampede 'em with a good old college 
 
 yell. 
 
 Up, up, O Gamma Delta, nor fail to understand 
 
 That to your members Providence has dealt-a fighting 
 
 hand. 
 No use to frame excuses. The same must needs be 
 
 weak, 
 For bless you, sirs, talk as you will, your very name is 
 
 Greek. 
 
 Aye faith. There is no way to dodge the obligation 
 
 stern 
 That rests on our Greek letter men their warlike spurs 
 
 to earn. 
 From Alpha down to Omega, the whole caboodle must 
 Prance forth like Homer's warriors and whale the Turk 
 
 or "bust." 
 
 84 
 
For now's the time when Hellas needs the aid of lusty 
 
 hands 
 To shield her shrines traditional from bloody Moslem 
 
 bands. 
 And now she cries, ''Shall Moslems grim my fields and 
 
 towns despoil, 
 When alphabetic Grecians are thick on Yankee soil?" 
 
 Not so. A million Alphas, Gammas, Sigmas, Chis and 
 
 Taus, 
 Will surely hasten to the front and boost the Grecian 
 
 cause, 
 And Turkey when she finds herself thus fearfully beset 
 Will groan, "I never thought to fight the whole blamed 
 
 alphabet." 
 
 The Tenth Pennsylvania. 
 
 Bring a thousand bugles, boys. Let's have another 
 
 song. 
 Thundered by a chorus that is half a million strong. 
 Sing it to the boys whose fame to us and ours belong, 
 Heroes of old Pennsylvania. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 The Tenth ! The Tenth ! Sing out the glad refrain. 
 The Tenth ! The Tenth ! Brave boys, they're home 
 
 again. 
 Back they come with glory that will never, never wane. 
 Shout for the Tenth Pennsylvania ! 
 
 When McKinley called for volunteers to cross the sea. 
 Who advanced demanding in the foremost place to be? 
 Who to join the battle made the first and strongest plea ? 
 Who but the Tenth Pennsylvania? 
 
 Cho.— The Tenth ! The Tenth ! etc. 
 
Off to far Manila went those noble hearts of oak, 
 Longing for the conflict, with its blood and fire and 
 
 smoke. 
 Soon upon the foeman's ears their cry of battle broke. 
 Loud spoke the Tenth Pennsylvania. 
 
 Cho.— The Tenth ! The Tenth ! etc. 
 
 Spaniards at the dead of night essayed a fierce attack. 
 "Forward, boys!" cried Hawkins, "Drive the sneaking 
 
 dagoes back !" 
 Helter skelter went the Dons and quickly cleared the 
 track, 
 
 Chased by the Tenth Pennsylvania. 
 
 Cho.— The Tenth ! The Tenth ! etc. 
 
 When the Dons were routed and the Filipos broke out 
 Aguinaldo's fighters found themselves in ev'ry bout 
 Beaten and discomfited and scattered by the stout 
 Rustlers from old Pennsylvania. 
 
 Cho.— The Tenth ! The Tenth ! etc. 
 
 Never did they lose a fight. Where'er their colors flew 
 Victory was sure to come. The old Red, White and 
 
 Blue 
 Never waved o'er warriors more steadfast, brave and 
 
 true 
 
 Than those from old Pennsylvania. 
 
 Cho.— The Tenth ! The Tenth ! etc. 
 
 That's the song we have to sing. Let all, with might 
 
 and main, 
 Join in ripping out the glad and glorious refrain. 
 Honoring the heroes that are with us once again. 
 Glorious Tenth Pennsylvania. 
 
 Cho.— The Tenth ! The Tenth ! etc. 
 
Infra "Dig." 
 
 Are they long-sepultured Pawnees! 
 
 Are they dead and buried Shawnees ? 
 Are they slumb'ring Kickapoos? 
 
 Are they Choctaws, gone to glory? 
 
 Are they Blackfeet, famed in story? 
 Are they Chippewas or Sioux ? 
 
 Are they AHquippas haughty, 
 
 Are they Hurons, wild and naughty? 
 Are they Iroquois or Crees? 
 
 Or — oh, horror ! — 'stead of red men, 
 
 Are there only recent dead men 
 In that moundlet of McKee's? 
 
 In that pile of earth prolific, 
 
 A. Carnegie's scientific 
 Corps has delved these many day? 
 
 'Spite of rain and of caloric, 
 
 Scores of relics prehistoric 
 They've been managing to raise. 
 
 Bones they've spaded up in plenty. 
 
 Skeletons — they number twenty — 
 They have found beneath the trees. 
 
 And the doctrine now is nourished. 
 
 That an Indian village flourished 
 In that moundlet of McKee's. 
 
 But now comes the blatant scoffer, 
 
 With strange evidence to offer, 
 Contradicting Gerodette. 
 
 "Friends," he says, ''Your work's indecent, 
 
 That these upturned stiffs are recent, 
 Any sum I'd like to bet." 
 
 Then, with nothing to restrict him, 
 
 He identifies each victim 
 Just as easy as you please. 
 
 And he demonstrates that very 
 
 Like a modern cemetery 
 Is that moundlet of McKee's. 
 
 87 
 
''There's Wun Lung, who kept a laundry; 
 
 Oh, he died of 'yaller jandry,' 
 In the year of fifty-six. 
 
 There's old Hans, the Dutch salooner, 
 
 There's the old piano tuner. 
 Whisky sent him all to sticks. 
 
 There's a Dago, there's a 'naygur ;* 
 
 To the fever and the ager 
 We attribute their decease. 
 
 Paddy Whack and Bill McCarty, 
 
 All are in the Indian party 
 In that moundlet of McKee's." 
 
 Thus he speaks. A ghastly feeling 
 O'er professors grave is stealing 
 
 As the painful news they hear. 
 Not a chief nor ancient prancer, 
 To such names as these could answer. 
 
 Oh, 'tis truly too severe. 
 
 And one trembles when reflecting, 
 That the wholesale resurrecting 
 
 Of such recent chaps as these 
 Leaves no way of hunting cover; 
 We must bury 'em all over 
 
 In that moundlet of McKee's. 
 
 Hymn of the National Delegates. 
 
 Bring the good old platform, boys, triumphantly along. 
 Make it, as we used to make it, good and hot and strong. 
 Let it be a corker, whether we are right or wrong, 
 
 Strike hard and fast at St. Loo-ey. 
 Hurrah, hurrah ! Our hearts are filled with pride. 
 We're out for gold with — silver on the side. 
 Just a little while from now the spoils we shall divide, 
 
 That's why we meet at St. Loo-ey. 
 
Gentlemen disinguished ask to be our candidate ; 
 Morton, Reed and Allison and Quay our pleasure wait, 
 But McKinley's name already figures on the slate, 
 
 He has the call at St. Loo-ey. 
 Hurrah, hurrah ! McKinley's flag we fly. 
 Hurrah, hurrah! We really don't know why. 
 Anyhow we're booming Mac and no one can deny 
 
 That's why w^e meet at St. Loo-ey. 
 
 Have you heard of Hanna who commands McKinley's 
 
 troops? 
 Ev'rywhere the delegates w'ith ease and grace he scoops. 
 When he opes his satchel there are wild McKinley 
 
 whoops. 
 Rending the air at St. Loo-ey. 
 Hurrah, hurrah ! Let beaten rivals bark. 
 Hurrah, hurrah ! We'll still be true to Mark. 
 Ample is his barrel, boys, and (kindly keep it dark) 
 That's why we meet at St. Loo-ey. 
 
 Why do w^e go back on Reed and other leaders stout ? 
 Why do w^e the noblest of our party chieftains flout ? 
 Hang it ! That's a question we don't care to figure out ; 
 
 Don't press the same at St. Loo-ey. 
 Hurrah, hurrah ! We'll never, never flinch. 
 Hurrah, hurrah ! We'll never yield an inch. 
 We are for the candidate that has the richest cinch ; 
 
 That's why w^e meet at St. Loo-ey. 
 
 When the great convention and election, too, are o'er, 
 Happiness and comfort for us rooters are in store. 
 Hanna will provide for us forever, ever more, 
 
 True to his vows at St. Loo-ey. 
 Hurrah, hurrah ! The platform bring along. 
 Hurrah, hurrah! Let's make 'er hot and strong. 
 Till we're all in clover, boys, it won't be very long. 
 
 That's why we meet at St. Loo-ey. 
 
Espanol. 
 
 Step in, step in Senores, 
 
 Make all we have your own, 
 Receive 'mid bow'rs of Acres 
 
 Our salutacion. 
 A greeting in your lingo 
 
 We'd spring with heart and soul 
 Instanter, but, by jingo! 
 
 No hablo Espanol. 
 
 Step in, commerciales 
 
 From blooming Uruguay, 
 And Chile's hot tamales 
 
 And Venezuelans gay. 
 Some day perhaps you'll need us 
 
 And meanwhile, on the whole. 
 You are our bienvenidos; 
 
 (How's that for Espanol?) 
 
 Brazilians, do not linger; 
 
 Peruvians, do not wait; 
 Old Pitt with beck'ning finger 
 
 Is standing at the gate. 
 To welcome you he's had his 
 
 Young men fill up the bowl. 
 Then here's hospilidades — 
 
 That's straight-out Espanol. 
 
 Will anybody touch you 
 
 While you're on Pittsburg ground? 
 Caramba, sirs, non mucho. 
 
 You all are safe and sound. 
 A land of milk and honey 
 
 Awaits you. 'Tis a goal 
 To melt the corazone — 
 
 See there. More Espanol. 
 
 90 
 
Ah, Senors, when you've seen us, 
 
 And riveted your gaze 
 Upon our great molinos 
 
 You can't withhold your praise. 
 You can't go home and d — n us 
 
 Or claim that we cajole 
 For plaudits esperamos — 
 
 Hurrah for Espanol! 
 
 Then, waiter, fetch the biera. 
 
 And fetch the vino, too; 
 Let's pledge a toast sincera 
 
 Unto hermanos true. 
 Saludad, ev'ry brother, 
 
 While Pittsburg has a roll 
 To spend, let's take another — 
 
 That style is Espanol. 
 
 Inks. 
 
 Far off upon a summit high 
 A dazzling thing to human eye, 
 The baseball pennant gaily waves, 
 Beyond the reach of Pittsburg's braves, 
 
 Methinks ; 
 For have they not at Louisville 
 Succumbed already to the skill; 
 The deft and cunning dexter hand 
 And curves they could not understand 
 
 Of Inks? 
 
 Ah, yes! One's blood must fairly boil 
 To think that on Kentucky soil, 
 Where ev'ry man to corn-juice sticks 
 And loftily disdains to mix 
 
 His drinks. 
 
Onr rustlers, deemed of splendid heft, 
 Should let themselves get sadly left, 
 Kerflummuxed, pounded, hammered, slashed, 
 And totally to pieces smashed 
 By Inks. 
 
 Yet so they fared. They couldn't hit 
 Nor even pitch a little bit; 
 'Twas simply fatal to the nerves 
 To see how Killen lost his curves 
 
 And kinks, 
 And how the rest, alarmed, surprised 
 And one and all demoralized, 
 Slid uselessly about the field, 
 Threw up their hands and had to yield 
 
 To Inks. 
 
 All Louisville turned out to scream 
 Its plaudits for the local team. 
 Considering those Colonels dense 
 To be of manly excellence 
 
 The pinks; 
 And sure enough their sanguine view 
 To all appearances came true, 
 For Louisville was ''out of sight" 
 When Pittsburg's crowd was slaughtered quite 
 By Inks. 
 
 A plague on Inks ! It is a shame 
 That one of his unseemly name — 
 A name that smacks of blot and smear, 
 A name suggesting very queer 
 
 High jinks — 
 Should stump us. Still the fact is there. 
 That Pittsburg simply pawed the air 
 Before this dandy, smeary chap. 
 Poor pennant I 'Twill be grabbed mayhap 
 
 By Inks. 
 
 92 
 
 J 
 
Albert Ed's Lament. 
 
 I'm getting old and feeble; I'm a sporty boy no more. 
 
 The elephant I do not care to see. 
 I've let up a bit on baccarat; likewise on rouge-et-noir 
 
 And the betting book has lost its charms for me. 
 Ah, yes, I'm crawling up in years; my hair is getting 
 gray; 
 
 At 56, I'm stiff in ev'ry bone, 
 But I have a little parent, who is built another way. 
 
 She seems booked to sit forever on the throne. 
 
 Refrain : 
 
 She's a very ancient dame, but she stays there just the 
 same; 
 
 Such another wondrous case was ne\'er known. 
 At the age of 78, she keeps up that same old gait. 
 
 Oh, she's booked to sit forever on the throne. 
 
 In my childhood people used to come and fondle Al- 
 bert Ed. 
 ^'Noble youth," they'd say, "the time cannot be long, 
 Till he wears a royal mantle and a crown upon his head, 
 
 And supplies us with a reign that's hot and strong. 
 But the years kept rolling onward and I still remained a 
 prince. 
 (Please excuse me while I step aside and groan). 
 I've been nothing but a crownless heir apparent ever 
 since 
 To that little aged lady on the throne. 
 
 Ref. — She's a very ancient dame, etc. 
 
 Early manhood found me splurging in a very vivid style. 
 
 Oh, I painted things the deepest carmine hue. 
 And although my royal parent wouldn't let me touch 
 her pile, 
 
I had coin to burn and spent it freely, too. 
 Sage advisers said, ''Be virtuous." I answered ''No, 
 indeed ; 
 
 I intend to have a hot time of my own. 
 'Twill be time enough to sober up whenever I succeed 
 
 My perennial little parent on the throne." 
 
 Ref. — She's a very ancient dame, etc. 
 
 Middle age came on and found me getting in my merry 
 licks, 
 
 And I'd still be with the foremost in the swim, 
 But you see a fellow cannot hold his own at fifty-six — 
 
 Youthful high jinks are no longer good for him. 
 So I'm gradually settling dowm, and upon this natal day 
 
 Please regard me as a person who has sown 
 All his wild oats and quite decently awaits the right of 
 way 
 
 From that little aged lady on the throne. 
 
 Ref. — She's a very ancient dame, etc. 
 
 Non Compos. 
 
 Softly breathe it, gently break it. 
 
 Do not rattle, do not scare 
 Those that bear the news, but make it 
 
 Easy for the world to bear. 
 Oh, the cup of tribulation 
 
 That must now be deeply quaffed ! 
 Hear the mournful information : 
 
 Paderewski has gone daft. 
 
 Do you ask us who is Paddy ? 
 
 Himniel ! Have you ne'er set eyes 
 On that pretty, winsome laddie, 
 
 Never heard him concertize ? 
 If you have, you're bound to feel it 
 
 Like a deadly sabre cut. 
 Ah, good friends, we can't conceal it, 
 
 Paderewski's off his nut. 
 
 94 
 
Rondo and capriccioso, 
 
 Scherzo and concerto grand, 
 By this glorious virtuoso 
 
 Were performed, to beat the band. 
 Kings and princes howled approval 
 
 When the ivories he'd thump. 
 Now we witness his removal. 
 
 Paderewski's off his chump. 
 
 Oh, the tawny mane that crowned him ! 
 
 Wondrous was the hair of Pad; 
 High school maidens swooned around him, 
 
 Spinsters saw him and went mad. 
 One and all they threw him kisses, 
 
 Sighing for a wild embrace. 
 Ah, those disappointed misses ! — 
 
 Paderewski's off his base. 
 
 What came over Pad to queer him ? 
 
 What occurred his mind to smash? 
 Did the mob too loudly cheer him ? 
 
 Was he overcome with cash ? 
 Nay, it was the overpow'ring 
 
 Rush of "gals" that cooked his goose. 
 Thanks to womankind devouring, 
 
 Paderewski's roof is loose. 
 
 Take him to his gloomy prison; 
 
 Hide away his yellow hair; 
 Curb the symptoms strangely risen; 
 
 Cover up the vacant stare. 
 Hedge him round with watchers wary, 
 
 Lest the mob should come and scoff. 
 Poor old chap! He was too hairy, — 
 
 That is why his trolley's off. 
 
'Listing. 
 
 'Listing for the Philippines. 
 
 Who's inclined to join? 
 Plenty of hard knocks ahead, 
 
 Precious little coin. 
 Heavy gun and pack to lug ; 
 
 Sky with fire aglow. 
 Swelter, swelter all the time, 
 
 Who's inclined to go ? 
 
 'Listing for the Philippines. 
 
 Weary is the tramp 
 Through the jungle dense and dark 
 
 Over bog and swamp. 
 Mauser bullets flying round 
 
 Try a fellow's nerve. 
 Zip ! another one laid out. 
 
 Who would like to serve ? 
 
 'Listing for the Philippines. 
 
 Always on the jump, 
 Chasing "varmints" hidden in 
 
 Ev'ry forest clump. 
 One is killed and ten spring up. 
 
 Fighting such a mob 
 Seems a never-ending task. 
 
 Say, who wants the job ? 
 
 'Listing for the Philippines. 
 
 Trenches ev'ry where 
 Filled with dusky chaps that won't 
 
 Do things on the square. 
 Not a chance for villainous 
 
 Deviltry they miss. 
 Hard it is to smoke 'em out, 
 
 Who'll go in for this ? 
 
 96 
 
'Listing for the Philippines. 
 
 Somehow, after all, 
 Lines of sturdy patriots 
 
 Answer to the call. 
 Up to Uncle Sam they step ; 
 
 Tell him with a grin, 
 "We are ready any day. 
 
 Kindly count us in." 
 
 'Listing for the Philippines. 
 
 For the stalwart son 
 Of Columbia — happy dame ! — 
 
 Terrors it has none. 
 Where the Stars and Stripes are borne 
 
 There in time of need 
 Yankee boys are glad to go. 
 
 Blessings on the breed ! 
 
 Democracy's Love Feast. 
 
 Lo, the tribesmen Democratic 
 Once mercurial and erratic, 
 Finally have ceased their fussing, 
 'Ceased their snarling and their cussing, 
 And from Temperancevillihaha, 
 And from Allegheniawawa, 
 And from Bayardstowniwiski, 
 So Ho and Southsidiski, 
 And from divers other regions 
 Come the former hostile legions 
 Saying: "Let us all be merry 
 And the ax forever bury." 
 
No more on the warpath running 
 
 Silver cranks for foes are gunning. 
 
 No more in their war paint savage 
 
 Do they fiercely wreck and ravage, 
 
 Shouting in their guttural lingo, 
 
 "Bryan is the stuff, by jingo!'* 
 
 But with former hostiles joining 
 
 They forsake their schemes of coining. 
 
 Coining silver — thought audacious ! — 
 
 At the wildest kind of ratios. 
 
 Quoth each medicine man and sachem, 
 
 "Make what coins you please. We'll take 
 
 No more, shouting war cries horrid, 
 And emitting cusswords torrid. 
 Come with fierce determination 
 Tribesmen of the Goldbug nation. 
 Now, with bland and courteous greeting 
 Ancient foemen they are meeting. 
 And instead of scalp-locks hooking 
 Elbows at the bar they're crooking. 
 Jimclark blandly hails Pefoley, 
 Fagan grasps the hand of Boley. 
 No one kicks about preferment 
 And the ax receives interment. 
 
 Whence this marvel? How explain it? 
 
 Can the tribes, forsooth, maintain it ? 
 
 Can they always in subjection 
 
 Keep the fires of disaffection, 
 
 And behave each to the other 
 
 Like a gentle, loving brother? 
 
 Ask us not. This game new-fangled 
 
 Leaves us quite non-plussed and tangled. 
 
 Hardly can we yet conceive it 
 
 Or accept it and believe it. 
 
 Democrats no more asunder ! 
 
 Boys, this is the world's eighth wonder. 
 
Turkey Day. 
 
 One more glad turkey day 
 
 Full of good cheer. 
 Nowise a murky day 
 Dismal and drear. 
 Joyously, chipperly 
 And Jack-the-Ripperly 
 Keen knife and fork 
 Cut out the heart of thee, 
 Slashed ev'ry part of thee. 
 Thanksgiving ''turk !'* 
 
 Out of doors whistled 
 
 The razor-edged blizzard, 
 Indoors men wrestled 
 
 With Pope's nose and gizzard. 
 Ah, it was wreck to thee 
 Right in the neck to thee, 
 
 Swift to destroy, 
 Came the unnerving knife. 
 Aye, the deft carving knife 
 Cleft thee, old boy. 
 
 None stopped to muse on 
 
 Thy youth when existence 
 Took roseate hues on 
 And Death at a distance 
 Immense seemed to be. 
 Hadst thou a family, tenderly dear to thee — 
 Brothers and sisters and other ones near to thee? 
 Had some romantic 
 Hen-turkey paid frantic 
 Devotion to thee? 
 Nobody cared a red, 
 Those on thy flesh that fed 
 Were up in G. 
 
 Utfa 
 
 I 
 
Ah, lad, how easily 
 
 Fate strikes the blow ! 
 Oozily, greasily 
 
 Thou wert laid low. 
 
 Round thee light-yellery 
 Bunches of celery 
 
 Raised each its plume. 
 Stuffing inside of thee; 
 Gone was the pride of thee, 
 Gone to the tomb. 
 
 Olden folks fluffy-faced 
 Toyed with thy corse. 
 Juveniles puffy-faced, 
 
 Large-mouthed and hoarse 
 Smacked Hps and panted all ; 
 Drumsticks they wanted all. 
 
 Great was the fuss. 
 'Twas a sad job for thee 
 By a whole mob to be 
 Eaten up thus. 
 
 But from thy grave, O turk, 
 
 Sardonic laughter 
 Comes now. Thy heavy work 
 Comes the day after. 
 
 They that your flesh devoured, 
 Used up and overpow'red, 
 
 In desperation, 
 Call in the grave M. D. 
 Herein, O turk, we see 
 Just reparation. 
 
 I 
 
 100 
 
Those New Year's Bills. 
 
 Those New Year's bills, those New Year's bills, 
 
 Down ev'ry spine they send the chills. 
 
 Scarce have the chimes, so crisp and clear, 
 
 Rung in the new and smiling year 
 
 Than ev'rywhere the mails convey 
 
 Those short and sweet requests to pay. 
 
 Most hearts with grief their advent fills. 
 
 Those New Year's bills, those New Year's bills. 
 
 To homes where joy supreme has reigned. 
 
 Where Christmas fun was unrestrained, 
 
 Where all hands had a time immense 
 
 And "blew themselves" at large expense. 
 
 Where out of Santa's precious load 
 
 A goodly store of presents flowed. 
 
 Now comes the aftermath of ills, 
 
 Those New Year's bills, those New Year's bills. 
 
 The parent fond who, coaxed and urged 
 
 By wife and offspring, boldly splurged, 
 
 Who, though the outlay blanched his hair, 
 
 Went in for presents rich and rare, 
 
 Now finds that he the cost must count 
 
 And dig up soon a large amount. 
 
 To him they're bitter, bitter pills, 
 
 Those New Year's bills, those New Year's bills. 
 
 And there's the youth, of slender store, 
 
 Whose boarding mistress trusts no more. 
 
 "Young man," she says, "you're much inclined 
 
 To travel fast, yet run behind. 
 
 You ask a stay. 1 answer No. 
 
 My fiat is, Pay up or go." 
 
 And so he views, with whitening gills, 
 
 Those New Year's bills, those New Year's bills. 
 
 101 
 
 i 
 
Ah, sore the test of human grit 
 When there's a postscript — 'Tlease remit,'^ 
 Which means that those will sorrow sup 
 Who do not promptly settle up. 
 Then he that's short, in black despair. 
 Sheds tears of blood and tears his hair. 
 They warn us 'gainst the pace that kills. 
 Those New Year's bills, those New Year's bills. 
 
 ♦ 
 
 But mark it well. The suff'rer now 
 
 Takes on the spot a solemn vow 
 
 That twelve months hence he'll not be rash 
 
 But hold a store of saved-up cash. 
 
 And this his mind at ease may set. 
 
 Although such vows he'll soon forget. 
 
 Next year, as now, they'll give him chills, 
 
 Those New Year's bills, those New Year's bills. 
 
 A La Wilcox. 
 
 Come, O Muse, and let us fashion, 
 'Stead of songs and politicians, 
 And of coarse and rank ambitions 
 
 Just a little "pome" of passion. 
 
 Let us sing Hke Ella Wheeler 
 Wilcox of mankind's surrender 
 To emotions sweet and tender. 
 
 Warm is "El." Naught could congeal 'er. 
 
 For such warbling there's a reason. 
 Are we not — 'tis great to think of- 
 Fairly trembling on the brink of 
 
 Spring, the sentimental season? 
 
 102 
 
And does Tennyson not tell us 
 That the youth now daily, nightly, 
 Lets his fancy revel lightly 
 
 In amours and tangles jealous? 
 
 Now the crow the air is sawing. 
 
 Moving north. With pride he*s swelling. 
 Soon he'll build his love a dwelling 
 
 And a serenade he's cawing. 
 
 Bluebirds whistle and the robin 
 
 Hops around and none pursues him, 
 For beneath his ruddy bosom 
 
 Matrimonial hopes are throbbin'. 
 
 Sunshine, wintry blasts disarming, 
 
 Lights the landscape, rousing, cheering. 
 Mother Earth, with visage clearing. 
 
 To her fav'rite work is warming. 
 
 And the poets and the various 
 
 Seekers after joys romantic, 
 
 Boil with inspiration frantic. 
 Mark the rush of gay Lotharios. 
 
 Lutes are tuned. Guitar and zither 
 Sound a strain which tells it plainly 
 That some youth — let's hope not vainly- 
 
 Sighs — oh, would that he were with her ! 
 
 Yes. Let Spring the great revealer 
 Of men's hearts perform her duty 
 At the shrine of Love and Beauty. 
 
 Let us stand by Ella Wheeler. 
 
 Say not that the hint is wicked. 
 
 All that's not approved by Ella 
 
 Is but ''leather and prunella." 
 Passion, passion — that's the ticket. 
 
 108 
 
The Plum Tree. 
 
 A plum tree once in an orchard grew 
 
 (Listen to my tale of woe.) 
 And the plums it wore were of golden hue. 
 *'This is elegant fruit," says M. S. Q. 
 Matt Q. 
 That's who. 
 (Listen to my tale of woe.) 
 
 Refrain : 
 
 Oh, wait for election day. 
 Some one then for those plums must pay. 
 Ask who it is and the people say, 
 ''Matt Q. 
 That's who." 
 (Listen to my tale of woe.) 
 
 Outside the fence stood a bank cashier. 
 
 (Listen to my tale of woe.) 
 Quoth he, "To me it would appear 
 That paper and plums go together here." 
 "They do," 
 Says Q. 
 (Listen to my tale of woe.) 
 
 Ref. — Oh, wait for election day, etc. 
 
 The Old Man winked. "Take a taste," says he. 
 
 (Listen to my tale of woe.) 
 If you'll help Son Dick and be true to me 
 I'll be ready and willing to shake that tree. 
 "That's true," 
 Says Q. 
 (Listen to my tale of woe.) 
 
 Ref. — Oh, wait for election day, etc. 
 
 104 
 
Alas for Stone, who would governor be. 
 
 (Listen to my tale of woe.) 
 
 For the spectral form of that same plum tree 
 
 Makes his friends turn tail, and they groan and flee. 
 
 Stone and Q. 
 
 Feel blue. 
 
 (Listen to my tale of woe.) 
 
 Ref. — Oh, wait for election day, etc. 
 
 In Allegheny. 
 
 Hark to that old familiar click 
 
 In Allegheny. 
 Another gun has done the trick 
 
 In Allegheny. 
 Another mortal, tired of toil 
 And grief upon earth's sordid soil, 
 Has shuffled off this mortal coil 
 
 In Allegheny. 
 
 Who talks of joy and light and hope 
 
 In Allegheny? 
 What's that? Another dangling rope 
 
 In Allegheny? 
 Aye. aye, Horatio. 'Tis a fact: 
 Once more poor Yorick, sorely rack'd, 
 In spirit has performed the act 
 
 In Allegheny ! 
 
 Short is the span of human life 
 
 In Allegheny. 
 Right grimly gleams the butcher knife 
 
 In Allegheny. 
 A glint of steel, a groan, a tear. 
 Another citizen — dear, dear! — 
 Has slit himself "from ear to ear" 
 
 In Allegheny. 
 
 105 
 
Broad, deep and black the river flows 
 
 In Allegheny. 
 How nice therein to sink one's woes 
 
 In Allegheny ! 
 Bankrupt in pocket, full of booze, 
 Off come hat, vest and coat and shoes, 
 And one more resident they lose 
 
 In Allegheny. 
 
 Convenient is the poison store 
 
 In Allegheny. 
 Wide open stands the druggist's door 
 
 In Allegheny. 
 Heart aches and rude domestic spats. 
 And jim-jams bred by frequent "bats" 
 Lead oftentimes to "Rough on Rats" 
 
 In Allegheny. 
 
 Such is the normal daily round 
 
 In Allegheny. 
 A sudden death, a body found 
 
 In Allegheny. 
 A line of print, a "crowner's quest," — 
 Ah, reader, 'tis no idle jest. 
 To shuffle off men deem it best 
 
 In Allegheny. 
 
 What strange decree of Fate thus works 
 
 In Allegheny? 
 What suicidal demon lurks 
 
 In Allegheny? 
 We trow not, but some people say. 
 That one devouring thought holds sway, 
 To wit : the hope to get away 
 From Allegheny. 
 
 106 
 
The 'oo Model 
 
 Invention marches onward, never dropping to the rear; 
 
 New models of the bicycle it gives us every year. 
 
 A man has scarcely bought his wheel and started in to 
 
 blow 
 When fresh improvements come along and quickly lay 
 
 him low. 
 But the biggest thing of all has yet to come along the 
 
 pike. 
 'Tis the chainless, wheelless, pedalless, seatless, handle- 
 
 barless bike. 
 
 Wherever scorchers meet and talk, with real warmth and 
 zest 
 
 You'll hear each one among 'em swear his wheel's the 
 very best. 
 
 This is a point of honor recognized the whole world o'er 
 
 From Greenland's icy mountains unto farthest Singa- 
 pore. 
 
 Alas that some mechanic's skill the guns of all should 
 spike 
 
 With the chainless, wheelless, pedalless, seatless, handle- 
 barless bike. 
 
 Hill climbers are a boastful lot. They dearly love to show 
 How easy 'tis to leave the feeble common herd below. 
 With eyes that from their sockets start and veins that 
 
 sorely swell 
 They work their way up mountains and pretend to like 
 
 it well. 
 Oh, we'll all be climbing Alpine heights as quickly as we 
 
 like 
 With the chainless, wheelless, pedalless, seatless, handle- 
 
 barless bike. 
 
 107 
 
Talk about your century records ! They are good enough 
 
 to-day, 
 When bicycling is a heavy work upon a rough highway. 
 But wait till 1900, O ye lads that loudly boast, 
 And then 'twill be an easy thing to skip from coast to 
 
 coast, 
 Kor the very least among us will a gait of lightning strike 
 With the chainless, wheelless, pedalless, seatless, handle- 
 
 barless bike. 
 
 The Jackaby. 
 
 The Jackaby Frostlet from Nipaway Land 
 
 Comes creeping, comes sneaking. 
 (These lines are intended for babes, understand. 
 And that's why in words of the infant school brand 
 
 We're jabb'ring; not speaking). 
 From Icetown he brings us a nice little freeze. 
 And our noses get red and we sputter and sneeze 
 While we watch the thermometer drop its degrees. 
 
 'Tis falling. 'Tis leaking. 
 
 The poor little flow'rets are in for it now; 
 
 He'll soak 'em ; he'll rip 'em. 
 No time for repentance to them he'll allow. 
 For the Jackaby seems to have taken a vow 
 
 To smite 'em ; to nip 'em. 
 Geraniums and dahlias he hastes to attack. 
 At morning you'll find them all withered and black. 
 Oh, he can't be induced when he gets on their track 
 
 To pass 'em, to skip 'em. 
 
 The Jackaby goes for the hat built of straw, 
 
 Now waning, now dying; 
 And you'll see from his rippling and gurgling guffaw, 
 
 He's laughing; he's guying. 
 
 108 
 
The summer girls wilt and the summer boys flee ; 
 That the weather's too chilly they all must agree. 
 And a razor-edged breeze o'er the land and the sea 
 Comes moaning, comes sighing. 
 
 The Soda Founts stop. There's an end of the fizz 
 
 So bracing, so cooling. 
 Ice cream has departed. No time now there is 
 
 For nonsense; for fooling. 
 A magical uncle will now from his chest 
 Produce the top-coat and the thick undervest. 
 And the Jackaby thinks it an excellent jest. 
 
 He's bossing; he*s ruling. 
 
 Now what do you think of the Jackaby's work. 
 
 So chilling, so blighting? 
 He's surely a cruel, unmerciful Turk, 
 
 Rampaging, affrighting. 
 But next spring, if we chance to be living and well. 
 We'll cast off the Jackaby's horrible spell. 
 'Twill be our turn to laugh when that monster so fell 
 
 We're downing; we're smiting. 
 
 The Dinosaur, 
 
 A dinosaur of extensive girth 
 
 Sat in the bosom of Mother Earth. 
 
 He was not pretty ; he was not neat ; 
 
 For he measured in height full sixty feet, 
 
 And he seemed when bared to the curious view, 
 
 Like a mixture of frog and kangaroo. 
 
 Oh, not for peace, but for cruel war 
 
 Did Nature construct the dinosaur. 
 
 109 
 
This dinosaur, we would have you know, 
 Had died and petrified ages ago. 
 Nerves and muscles and parchment hide 
 Had all decayed when the monster died, 
 And only his skeleton still sat there 
 With changeless pose and a stony stare. 
 And tambourines might rattle away. 
 But never a word had Bones to say. 
 
 And he mused as he sat on the glories great 
 That marked the earth at an early date. 
 He thought of the days when ev'ry beast 
 Weighed a couple of hundred tons at least. 
 When brutes that dwelt in the woodland bow'rs. 
 Were tall as churches or light house tow'rs. 
 All these had gone from this earthly sphere. 
 And the dinosaur dropped a fossil tear. 
 
 There came a day when the Indian red 
 
 Trampled the sod o*er his poor old head. 
 
 And dusky corpses around him lay 
 
 As civilization blazed its way 
 
 Through the western land. "This thing called War 
 
 Is a new one on me," said the dinosaur, 
 
 "And if civilization thus holds its own 
 
 I am glad to be nought but a mass of stone." 
 
 And finally one fine day there came 
 A digger and delver, Holland his name. 
 While spades and crowbars cheerily clanked. 
 That dinosaur from his bed he yanked. 
 And soon our Pittsburg folks will gaze 
 On that strange survival of ancient days. 
 And the dinosaur — well, he'll never know 
 That he's down to the grade of a curio. 
 
 no 
 
Hagenbeck's Visit. 
 
 The king of zoo promoters in our city is on deck. 
 
 He comes from far-off Hamburg and his name is Hagen- 
 
 beck. 
 He's here to visit Eddie, and his expert eyes he feasts 
 Upon the local galaxy of foreign birds and beasts. 
 Our Eddie plays the pilot with distinguished grace and 
 
 ease 
 For the highly honored visitor and this is what he sees : 
 
 Whitewingus Paisleyensis, shining in the public view. 
 Flycoppus Joeybrownus, with his plumage colored blue. 
 The ringtailed flinflamingo, picking up the early worm, 
 The Bonvon horse that gallops through his forty-second 
 
 term. 
 The Payrollus Magistris, up to ev'ry sort of trick, 
 The docile little councilmanic monkey-on-a-stick. 
 " Ton my word," says Mr. Hagenbeck, "the like I never 
 
 knew 
 Of the marvelous exhibits in the famous Pittsburg zoo." 
 
 "Yes, yes," the visitor went on, " 'tis wonderful, indeed. 
 Pray tell me. Brother Eddie, how these animals you 
 
 feed?" 
 "That's easy," answered Bigelow, "the softest kind of 
 
 snaps 
 Are fed to 'em and patronage is given out in scraps. 
 And then, you see, we've lobbies where they loaf around 
 
 and browse 
 And nice protected club rooms where each evening they 
 
 carouse. 
 And in the summer holidays we have a nice menu 
 Of Atlantic City passes which we pass around our zoo." 
 
 Ill 
 
"I see, I see," says Hagenbeck. "Now tell me if you 
 
 please. 
 Whence comes the flow of boodle for expenses such as 
 
 these." 
 "Why, bless you, man, quoth Eddie, 'Tittsburg doesn't 
 
 care a durn 
 For such small considerations. We have money here 
 
 to burn. 
 And even when the cash runs out, which happens ev'ry 
 
 year, 
 We hit the banks for millions, which instanter disappear. 
 No other town on earth is so intelligently bossed; 
 We continually blow ourselves and never count the 
 
 At this a loud approving roar went up from ev'ry cage 
 Except from one where sounds were heard of sorrow 
 
 mixed with rage. 
 There dwelt the wild reformeros and 'twixt his teeth he 
 
 said, 
 "If ever I get loose, then lud-a-mercy on you, Ed." 
 "Don't mind him, Mr. Hagenbeck," said Edde, "Fm 
 
 ashamed 
 To own that still we harbor here a specimen untamed." 
 
 Now Hagenbeck, delighted with the wonders that he 
 
 saw. 
 Declares we must enlarge the zoo and add to its eclat 
 And so he says he'll search the globe and see if he can 
 
 find 
 Some novelties and marvels of an interesting kind. 
 And with this bland assurance to our town he bids Adieu 
 And goes back to startle Hamburg with his tales of Ed- 
 die's zoo. 
 
 112 
 
Our Amazons. 
 
 'Tis not the genus masculine 
 
 Alone that yearns for fighting, 
 For cannon's roar and charging line, 
 
 The Spaniards boldly smiting. 
 Likewise to smell the battle's smoke 
 
 On plaza and on prado 
 Come forth the gentle women folk 
 
 Of far-off Colorado. 
 
 On, on they come in pow'rful force ; 
 
 Their zeal each day grows larger. 
 "To arms !" they cry. "A horse ! a horse ! 
 
 Our kingdom for a charger . 
 No common infantry are we, 
 
 In war to be discounted. 
 But furious cavaliers we'll be 
 
 On blooded prancers mounted." 
 
 And so without the least dismay 
 
 Nor heeding grewsome rumors 
 They don, expectant of the fray, 
 
 Their neatest shot-proof bloomers. 
 Not theirs to flinch or hesitate 
 
 Upon the path of glory. 
 They put their soldier hats on straight 
 
 And all is hunky-dory. 
 
 With carbine primed, with lance in rest 
 
 And hat-pin fiercely flourished 
 Behold 'em. In each tender breast 
 
 The hope of fame is nourished; 
 In high soprano tones they shriek 
 
 A battle-cry inspiring. 
 Who says that womankind is weak 
 
 Or timid or retiring? 
 us 
 
Nay, nay. Those Colorado belles 
 
 Will figure in the mauling 
 Where'er the tide of carnage swells 
 
 With fury most appalling. 
 And Spain will feel beneath her vest 
 
 A heart with terror drumming 
 When word comes in, ''From out the West 
 
 The Amazons are coming." 
 
 But hold. The Dons themselves may save 
 
 By mean and vicious scheming 
 Employed against those females brave, 
 
 Of trickery ne'er dreaming. 
 And many a Colorado house 
 
 With sorrow will be laden 
 If Spaniards cry "A mouse ! A mouse !" 
 
 And scare off ev'ry maiden. 
 
 Clipping Coupons. 
 
 This is the shearsman, hired to clip 
 Carnegie's coupons — snip, snip, snip ! 
 Day in, day out, the whole year round 
 At duty's post he will be found. 
 While wreathed in smiles Carnegie hears 
 The merr}^ music of the shears. 
 
 Dear children, would you like to know 
 Why coupons should be clipped off so? 
 Few words it takes the tale to tell 
 Which bloated bond sharps know so well. 
 (Ah, children, would that shearsmen thus 
 Were constantly at work for us !) 
 
 114 
 
Carnegie, you're aware, no doubt, 
 Has sold his mammoth bus'ness out. 
 Two hundred millions — so they say — 
 The buyers have agreed to pay. 
 (Dear children, must it not be nice 
 To sell out for so large a price?) 
 
 Since coin is hard to lug away, 
 In bonds Carnegie takes his pay; 
 And on these pledges, good as gold, 
 A claim for interest he'll hold. 
 (Say, little folks, would you not like 
 A mother lode like this to strike ?) 
 
 On evVy bond are little squares 
 Like tickets used for street car fares. 
 Each serves upon the date correct 
 One interest payment to collect. 
 How's that for a luxurious lay — 
 Just with a snip to earn your pay ? 
 
 But when the bonds at — per cent, 
 Two hundred millions represent, 
 To snip and clip so vast a heap 
 Must be an undertaking steep. 
 Laborious ? Aye, but by the pow'rs 
 We'd do it if the chance were ours. 
 
 Be good, then, little ones, and pray 
 
 That you may also some fine day 
 
 Get rich like Andy and retire 
 
 And able-bodied shearsmen hire. 
 
 Ah, Paradise indeed is nigh 
 
 When coupons pile up mountains high. 
 
 115 
 
Calumpit. 
 
 Hear the trumpet 
 
 At Calumpit 
 Calling Yankee lads to fight. 
 
 Night or morning 
 
 At its warning 
 They turn out the foe to smite. 
 
 Ah, they love the clarion note 
 
 Coming from that brazen throat. 
 "Here's an army. Come and thump it," 
 
 Says the trumpet 
 
 At Calumpit. 
 
 When the trumpet 
 
 At Calumpit 
 Gives its message to the Yanks, 
 
 There is shaking — 
 
 Aye and quaking 
 In the Filipino ranks, 
 
 And commanders brown of skin 
 
 Hearken with a sickly grin. 
 "Filipos, 'tis time to hump it," 
 
 Says the trumpet 
 
 At Calumpit. 
 
 When the trumpet 
 
 At Calumpit 
 Splits the welkin, there's a howl 
 
 From the kickers 
 
 And flaw-pickers 
 That upon expansion scowl. 
 
 "Ah, McKinley, there's no reason 
 
 To be mild with semi-treason. 
 Ofif the earth you ought to dump it," 
 
 Says the trumpet 
 
 At Calumpit. 
 
 116 
 
When the trumpet 
 
 At Calumpit 
 Starts the boys, they do not lag. 
 
 But despising 
 
 Those advising 
 That they quit the starry flag, 
 
 They uphold the nation's fame 
 
 And they curse the clique of shame, 
 ''Full of lead some day let's pump it/' 
 
 Says the trumpet 
 
 At Calumpit. 
 
 Ah, the trumpet 
 
 At Calumpit 
 Never summons to retreat. 
 
 In its message 
 
 There's the presage 
 Of a victory complete. 
 
 And the Antis they may frown 
 
 And want Uncle Sam turned down 
 But their game — "Aha ! we'll stump it," 
 
 Says the trumpet 
 
 At Calumpit. 
 
 St. Valentine. 
 
 St. Valentine, your day is past, 
 
 No longer lovers falter 
 And tremble as with eyes downcast 
 
 They loaf around your altar. 
 No longer at your fabled shrine 
 Do mooncalves kneel and mope and pine 
 And venture with the pow'r divine 
 
 Of poetry to palter. 
 
 117 
 
There was a time, O ancient saint, 
 When 'twas your pride and pleasure 
 
 Mankind to please with daubs of paint 
 And rhymes in lilting measure. 
 
 Soft youths and maidens you'd entrance 
 
 And lead 'em coyly to advance 
 
 Along the paths of love's romance 
 In quest of precious treasure. 
 
 And oh, what missives you'd inspire ! — 
 Perfumed and gilt the paper; 
 
 And ev'ry line ablaze with fire 
 Enkindled at love's taper. 
 
 And at the end, sure sign of bliss, 
 
 A string of "X's," each a kiss; 
 
 You used to tell 'em, Val, that this 
 Was quite the proper caper. 
 
 Then you were fond of Cupid's darts 
 
 In colors loud depicted ; 
 The same were used for piercing hearts 
 
 To mooncalfism addicted. 
 And underneath you'd have a strain 
 About the woes of love in vain 
 (Those old-time lovers with a pain 
 
 Were all the time afflicted.) 
 
 But now, St. Val., your lovesick loons 
 
 Rearwards are relegated. 
 And nought we have but tough cartoons 
 
 By malice vile dictated. 
 Sign-painters wield the brush and paint. 
 The verses — well, it makes us faint 
 To think, sir, that so great a saint 
 
 Has so degenerated. 
 
 118 
 
Summer. 
 
 'Tis usual at this time of year 
 For poets tunefully to sing 
 Their lays in praise of gentle spring, 
 
 But now another song we hear ; 
 
 The bards proclaim another comer, 
 And twang the lyre in praise of summer. 
 
 For these are truly summer days. 
 
 No need there is to wait till June 
 
 Ere undertaking to attune 
 The voice and lute to languorous lays 
 
 Wherein the poet deftly shows us 
 
 Church picnics, lemonade and roses. 
 
 The gardens prematurely bloom, 
 
 The Easter flow'rs have done their duty. 
 And shrubs and trees display their beauty 
 
 And load the air with sweet perfume. 
 
 And o'er the lawn grass, thickly growing. 
 The swift lawn-mower goes a-mowing. 
 
 Straw hats appear and eke the soft 
 And jaunty headgear pearly-hued 
 Is sported by the natty dude. 
 
 The lightest overcoats are doffed 
 
 And shirts once viewed with keen derision 
 Loud-striped and gay beguile the vision. 
 
 The gentler sex is glad to don 
 
 The shirt waist with its cincture neat 
 And dainty collar. Very sweet 
 
 Are summer girls to look upon. 
 Behold, unto these visions sightly 
 The young man's fancy still turns lightly. 
 
 119 
 
Along the roadway thick with dust 
 The biker scoots at racehorse speed 
 Upon his faithful silent steed. 
 
 He'll make his century or "bust." 
 Alas, if at some fatal juncture 
 The Fates should queer him with a puncture ! 
 
 A thousand other things combine 
 To prove to any man of reason 
 That spring no longer is in season, 
 
 But yields to summer's sway divine. 
 Ah, no one has a right to know it 
 
 Much better than the floored spring poet. 
 
 Davy Hill's Plea. 
 
 "Roast me no more." It is the voice of Hill, 
 Of warlike Davy, him that in the heat 
 Of battle fierce delights the foe to meet 
 
 And slaughter him. But oh, the bitter pill ! 
 
 Submission humble is for him in store 
 
 With broken lance he stands. Another leads, 
 And Davy murmurs with a heart that bleeds, 
 "Roast me no more." 
 
 "Roast me no more." It was not thus he spake 
 When at Chicago in tremendous flights 
 Of eloquence he rammed the silverites. 
 
 And jumped upon the fiat money fake. 
 
 Then, then, war's honors from the field he bore. 
 But now, shamefaced and eke with downcast eyes, 
 He makes apology and meekly cries, 
 "Roast me no more." 
 
 120 
 
 ii 
 
"Roast me no more." Were these the words that 
 flowed 
 From Davy when, his strength not overtaxed, 
 G. Cleveland, chick-like, in the neck he *'axed," 
 And, this achieved, with satisfaction glowed? 
 Not so. Those all too palmy days are o'er, 
 And he that used G. Cleveland's hair to raise, 
 Now kneels before the Silver Gang and says, 
 ''Roast me no more." 
 
 "Roast me no more." Just fancy words like these 
 
 Proceeding from the lips of David B., 
 
 When in the senate like a hero he 
 Brought bluflfing statesmen to their wicked knees. 
 How things do change! The eagle long may soar. 
 
 But lo, at last his royal wing gives out. 
 
 How pitiful those words of fear and doubt, 
 " Roast me no more ! " 
 
 "Roast me no more." The Popocratic press 
 And orators that howl for fiat coin, 
 The played-out warrior would thus enjoin 
 His soul no more to harrow and distress, 
 With jeering talk of bolters to the fore. 
 "My principles," he says, "advise revolt. 
 But I've a stake in this. I cannot bolt. 
 "Roast me no more." 
 
 "Roast me no more." Herewith an idol drops. 
 To-day with Bryan he sits down to lunch, 
 And o'er the oysters, terrapin and punch. 
 
 Declares — alack ! — his fealty to the Pops. 
 
 While, like a lost soul's shriek, from shore to shore, 
 From Texas to the confines of New York, 
 That awful cry gets in its deadly work, 
 "Roast me no more." 
 
 121 
 
The First Pantaloons. 
 
 If the depths of real sentiment you're wishing to ex- 
 plore, 
 Seeking pathos that will fill your eyes with tears, 
 And reviving plaintive memories from out the days of 
 yore, 
 Dim and gray now after long and weary years ; 
 Don't be fooled with plaints deceptive as to rings and 
 baby shoes. 
 Things to which the bogus bard his song attunes, 
 But recall with deep emotion how in youth you did 
 enthuse 
 O'er your first abbreviated pantaloons. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 Galluses went with 'em ; whopping ones were they. 
 Prized beyond all other earthly boons. 
 
 And 'twill set your heart a-throbbing 
 
 When you think of upward bobbing 
 In your first abbreviated pantaloons. 
 
 How you blessed your dad for buying them — those pre- 
 cious hand-me-downs, 
 And your mother when she helped you put them on ! 
 How you burned to show them ofif to kids in petticoats 
 and gowns 
 And excite the rage of Tommy, Dick and John ! 
 How you strutted back and forward feeling ev'ry inch a 
 man, 
 While your comrades sneered — the jealous little 
 loons ; 
 And you felt that all the world your form admiringly 
 must scan 
 In those first abbreviated pantaloons. 
 
 Chorus — Galluses went with 'em, etc. 
 
 122 
 
O how bitter was the day when, through an unforeseen 
 mishap, 
 In the basement of those pants a void was torn ; 
 Then your aggravated parent laid you promptly on her 
 lap 
 And pro tern you wished you never had been born. 
 Soon the buttons slipped their moorings and the knees 
 they sprang a leak, 
 And the patches looked Hke dissipated moons, 
 So that people discontinued in admiring tones to speak 
 Of your first abbreviated pantaloons. 
 
 Chorus — Galluses went with 'em, etc. 
 
 Where, oh where, is now that garment ? Has it gone Hke 
 Caesar's clay 
 In some weather-beaten shed to stop a hole? 
 Is it worked into a crazy quilt or has it found its way 
 To the haunts which carpet-weaving sharps con- 
 trol? 
 Have the ragmen gently fondled it? Well, wherefore 
 should we ask ? 
 'Tis enough that with the past your soul communes 
 And that lovingly you think how in the joys you used 
 to bask 
 Of those first abbreviated pantaloons. 
 
 Chorus — Galluses went with 'em, etc. 
 
 A Kentucky Deadlock 
 
 Not a head was smashed; not a jugular vein 
 In the course of the fracas was severed, 
 
 Not a pistol was pulled when Kentucky raised Cain 
 And to wreck the old state house endeavored. 
 
 128 
 
They brought in Joe Blackburn and Johnny Carlisle, 
 
 And Boyle, to the senate aspiring, 
 And the populace listened with anxious smile 
 
 For the sound of revolver firing. 
 
 No useless ballot would suit the crowd 
 
 In the lobby grimly standing, 
 But they slapped hip-pockets and cussed aloud. 
 
 Recognition forthwith demanding. 
 
 Few and short were the caucuses held. 
 For 'twas known to the members' sorrow, 
 
 That a riot one day by a caucus repelled 
 Would bob up afresh on the morrow. 
 
 And the governor on his executive bed 
 
 Tossed about in a fitful fever. 
 "Militiamen, double quick march," he said, 
 
 "Ere the state is lost, retrieve 'er." 
 
 Lightly they'll talk of this fearful strife. 
 
 And forget the fright infernal. 
 That old Jack Chinn with his bowie knife 
 
 Gave to many a fellow-colonel. 
 
 But little the Blue Grass state will reck 
 
 If the boys who howled so madly 
 Will only lie down, since direct in the neck 
 
 They have got it from Governor Bradley. 
 
 But half of their heavy task is done. 
 
 For no senator yet is elected. 
 And the populace still from the random gun 
 
 Is substantially unprotected. 
 
 Slowly and sadly the rest of us see 
 
 The conclusion; but, friends, we're lucky 
 
 To live in a land where a statesman is free 
 From the shotguns of old Kentucky. 
 
 124 
 
The Jingo 
 
 (1896.) 
 
 A jingo, in his fighting gear 
 
 Swept with his eye the earthly sphere. 
 
 Where'er his vision roved he saw 
 
 The stirring signs of martial law. 
 
 He saw the sword and burning brand 
 
 Turn'd loose on many a helpless land, 
 
 And, fired with zeal, he cried, "What bliss ! 
 
 Our country must get in on this." 
 
 He saw on Madagascar's soil 
 
 The Hovas from the French recoil. 
 
 *Neath waving palms, where monkeys dwell. 
 
 The savage tribesmen fought and fell. 
 
 The Frenchmen, flushed with triumph, vow'd 
 
 That France had reason to be proud, 
 
 "Confound it !" said the jingo grim, 
 
 "Can't w^e be likewise in the swim ?" 
 
 He saw John Bull in Ashantee 
 Compel the native troops to flee. 
 King Prempeh got a turning down, 
 And lost his richly jeweled crown. 
 Great heaps of gold and silver ware 
 Were filched from Prempeh then and there. 
 "Ah, sighed the jingo, " 'tis a shame 
 That Uncle Sam can't do the same." 
 
 He saw the Cubans in revolt, 
 From monarchy they had to bolt. 
 And so they march and countermarch, 
 And out of Weyler take the starch. 
 "We're after liberty," they cry, 
 "We'll get that priceless boon or die." 
 The jingo heard, and, with a blush, 
 He said, "We must get in the push." 
 
 126 
 
 1 
 
He saw King Humbert's soldiers fling 
 Themselves on Abyssinia's king; 
 Who, being somewhat stout himself, 
 Just laid those Romans on the shelf. 
 "Great Scotland!" — Thus the jingo spoke, 
 "This is indeed a sorry joke. 
 If barbarism such feats can do. 
 Why can we not be in it, too ?" 
 
 Perhaps some day the jingo's hope 
 Will be fulfilled in widest scope. 
 Perhaps we, too, will feel the crash 
 Of battle, and the foeman smash. 
 And if perchance that jingo then 
 Should be among the fighting men, 
 And perish in the blood-red tide, 
 Say, would he then be satisfied ? 
 
 Dora ^nd Cassius. 
 
 Young Dora, down Kentucky way, 
 Did chores and things for Gin'ral Clay. 
 
 She was a child of tender age, 
 
 While he had reached the doting stage. 
 
 But Cassius Clay, though old and gaunt, 
 Was still a blooded old gallant. 
 
 And to himself the Ancient said : 
 "Methinks I'm not too old to wed." 
 
 Young Dora, flattered, nursed a dream 
 Of endless candy and ice cream. 
 
 Her heart within her leaped to think 
 Of countless sodas that she'd drink. 
 
 126 
 
And how, right smartly primped and gowned, 
 She'd eat French candy by the pound. 
 
 And eke her neighbors she'd strike dumb 
 By using yards of chewing gum. 
 
 Therefore when Cassius made a play 
 Tow'rds marriage, he was met half way. 
 
 And when he murmured, "Be my wife," 
 His handmaid answered, "Betcher life." 
 
 The knot was tied, but Dora soon 
 Grew weary of the honeymoon. 
 
 Ice cream and candy lost their charm, 
 And chewing gum was "not so warm." 
 
 Consumed with languor and with doubt 
 She dodged the Gin'ral and lit out. 
 
 Will Bryant, young and fresh and straight, 
 Met Dora at the outer gate. 
 
 And, smitten with her girlish grace. 
 Took boarding at the self-same place. 
 
 Whereat the Gin'ral, struck aghast. 
 Collapsed as though he'd breathed his last. 
 
 Now, on both sides the kith and kin 
 Of all concerned come piling in. 
 
 The rifle and the bowie-knife 
 Are ready for ensanguined strife. 
 
 And when the bloody feud is o'er. 
 'Most ev'ryone will be no more. 
 
 Yet Dora, in her childish way, 
 Just munches candy all the day. 
 
 Ah, that the Kates should ever so 
 O'erwhelm a white-haired Romeo! 
 
 127 
 
Spring, 
 
 No; we can no more conceal it, 
 
 'Tis high time that we reveal it — , 
 
 That this fair and fragrant thing JL 
 
 Which by gliding in among us '^H 
 
 Into ecstasies has flung us 
 Is the spring, gentle spring. 
 Tra la la ! 
 Hear us sing, 
 Yes, 'tis spring. 
 
 Winter, dull and frozen-hearted, 
 Has undoubtedly departed — 
 
 For a year he's taken wing, 
 Giving place, though far from willing, 
 To that fascinating, killing 
 Damsel spring, gentle spring. 
 Tra la la! 
 Hear us sing, 
 Yes, 'tis spring. 
 
 Hear the birdies how they warble, 
 They would get a heart of marble 
 
 Or of iron on a string. 
 Each for better or for worse is 
 Wed and thinks not of divorces 
 In the spring, gentle spring. 
 Tra la la ! 
 
 Hear us sing, I 
 
 Yes, 'tis spring. J 
 
 ) 
 What though roads and streets are muddy ,J 
 
 And the weather charts we study ^ 
 
 Wet prognostications bring. ; 
 
 128 ^ 
 
 1 
 
It should hold us good and level 
 
 To remember that we revel 
 In the spring, gentle spring. 
 Tra la la! 
 Hear us sing, 
 Yes, 'tis spring. 
 
 With the dead past let us bury 
 The seductive Tom and Jerry ; 
 
 Beer henceforward is the king. 
 And the druggist soon will load a 
 Marble fountain up with soda, 
 In the spring, gentle spring. 
 Tra la la! 
 Hear us sing, 
 Yes, 'tis spring. 
 
 One more word — avoid pneumonia, 
 Which assuredly will bone you 
 
 If you indiscreetly fling 
 Heavy clothes aside, for, look you, 
 Death is very prone to hook you 
 In the spring, gentle spring. 
 Tra la la ! 
 Hear us sing, 
 Yes, 'tis spring. 
 
 Postscript. 
 
 Seventy thousand million curses 
 On these unpropitious verses — 
 
 Dingety jam, bam dod bang bing I 
 As we write a snowfall traps us 
 And the mercury collapses 
 In the spring, tricky spring. 
 Ow, ow, ow! 
 Hear us sing, 
 Nary spring. 
 
 V29 
 
i 
 
 I 
 
 Jolly Kaisers. j 
 
 In old Budapest, 
 
 Of Hungarian fame, 
 
 Together they came, 
 Kaiser Franz and his guest, 
 Kaiser WilHe, whose plan 
 
 Is his neighbors to hug 
 
 O'er the little brown jug 
 And the free-flowing can. 
 
 It tickled the town 
 
 Monarchs thus to behold. 
 Each so gallant and bold, 
 
 With his twenty-pound crown 
 
 Tilted back on his head 
 
 Just as much as to say, 
 "We are out to get gay, 
 
 And we'll paint the place red." 
 
 "Nun, mein Lieber," said Franz, 
 As the Kellner drew nigh, 
 "Shall we start off on rye?" 
 
 (Stowed away in his pants 
 
 Was a flask of the same.) 
 
 "Nay," quoth Willie, "Nicht das. 
 Let the tanglefoot pass 
 
 Till the end of the game." 
 
 So the Kellner drew near 
 
 And made haste to fill up 
 Each imperial cup 
 
 With old Bay'risches bier. 
 
 And the ilagon-like steins 
 
 Were no sooner drained out 
 Than the emperors stout 
 
 Cried together, "Noch eins!" 
 
 130 
 
 4 
 
Next the cup-bearers bore 
 
 On a rich-jeweled tray 
 
 A few quarts of tokay 
 From the blue Danube's shore. 
 " ^Tis hot stuff, Willie— not?" 
 
 Said old Franz, with a wink, 
 
 "Ach," says Will, " 'Tis a drink 
 That goes right to the spot." 
 
 Then there followed champagne, 
 Some old widow Clicquot, 
 Made in days long ago — 
 
 And of claret a drain. 
 
 And Madeira and port. 
 
 And Chartreuse. Over this 
 The boys started to kiss — 
 
 They were chockfull of sport. 
 
 Rye came in at the close 
 
 And the ultimate bowls 
 Fired the emperors' souls, 
 
 And they jointly uprose. 
 
 Shedding tears on the floor, 
 Each the other embraced 
 And with hearts interlaced 
 
 To be brothers they swore. 
 
 Hence 'tis perfectly clear 
 
 That if monarchs would fain 
 From dissension refrain 
 
 They must start in with beer. 
 
 And 'tis likewise no lie 
 
 That if brothers they'd be 
 They must also agree 
 
 To wind up on old rye. 
 
 181 
 
In the Toils. 
 
 Drill, drill, drill. 
 
 With unremitting toil. 
 And the poor producers work with a will 
 
 Sapping the earth of oil. 
 They have hopes of profits fat, 
 
 Which are of life the spice, 
 But the best of 'em doesn't know where he's at 
 
 When the Standard cuts the price. 
 
 No monarch upon his throne 
 
 Would have riches more profuse 
 If the pipe lines weren't the Standard's own. 
 
 Than the men that oil produce. 
 There is wealth in the deep sunk well. 
 
 But the "plans of men and mice 
 Gang aft aglee," and it's "oh, wot t'ell !" 
 
 When the Standard cuts the price. 
 
 Drill, drill, drill, 
 
 When the sun is shining bright. 
 Drill, drill, drill, 
 
 Through the watches of the night. 
 With an open market, — say. 
 
 Mines of gold would cut no ice 
 With the men on the oleaginous lay 
 
 Till the Standard cuts the price. 
 
 Just five brief weeks ago 
 
 Oil brought, with the Trust's consent. 
 One twenty a barrel — The quid pro quo 
 
 Made many a heart content. 
 Has the output changed since then? 
 
 Not much, but nowise nice 
 Is the language that comes from the lips of men 
 
 As the Standard cuts the price. 
 
 182 
 
Down to a dollar she drops, 
 
 And then to 99, 
 And she falls and falls and never stops 
 
 To rest in her quick decline. 
 'Tis not demand and supply, 
 
 Nor Fortune's cast of the dice, 
 But monopoly winking its ugly eye 
 
 As the Standard cuts the price. 
 
 Drill, drill, drill. 
 
 What use to count the cost 
 When individual effort still 
 
 By the same old trust is boss'd ? 
 And it's oh for a pow'r to sweep 
 
 Away that thing of vice ! 
 And it's oh to bury the trust down deep, 
 
 When the Standard cuts the price! 
 
 Satan Rebuked, 
 
 At Flushing, in the Empire state, 
 
 A town that's highly moral, 
 P'or virtue strictly up-to-date 
 
 The school board takes the laurel. 
 Its laws are moulded by the rules 
 
 Of custom Puritanic, 
 And peccadillos in the schools 
 
 Create a real panic. 
 
 There are among the teachers fair 
 
 Three maids of beauty striking. 
 Whom Satan, seeking to ensnare, 
 
 Induced to practice biking. 
 They hiked at noon, they hiked at eve ; 
 
 They hiked when schoolward hieing. 
 Some folks pretended to believe 
 
 They'd bike if they were dying. 
 
 183 
 
Of course these maids could not conceal 
 
 Their strange and fatal weakness 
 For scudding to and fro awheel 
 
 With feminine uniqueness. 
 And so unto the school board came 
 
 A host of ugly rumors, 
 And gossips murmured, ''Oh, for shame! 
 
 They're on the road to bloomers." 
 
 At this the grave directors met 
 
 And talked the matter over ; 
 It filled them with profound regret 
 
 Such doings to discover. 
 They felt they couldn't tolerate 
 
 Three careless young carousers, 
 Whose wonderfully rapid gait 
 
 Would some day lead to trousers. 
 
 Forthwith they raked those maidens o'er 
 
 The coals, no mercy showing; 
 Each speaker showed how more and more 
 
 The world to sticks is going; 
 How women duty's call forget, 
 
 And go with dudes a-spooning, 
 And how those hateful wheels must yet 
 
 Result in pantalooning. 
 
 The maidens wept. What could they do? 
 
 Their case was past repairing; 
 And so they broke their wheels in two, 
 
 The use thereof forswearing. 
 And now in Flushing, this decree 
 
 Is firmly promulgated : 
 That wheels for woman all must be 
 
 Within her head located. 
 
 184 
 
Not for Joe. 
 
 You've heard of Joseph Sibley, who 
 
 To farming fame aspires; 
 He farms upon a kite-shaped track 
 
 And grows pneumatic tires. 
 In politics he thinks he ought 
 
 To get a goodly show, 
 And hankers to be governor, but 
 
 That job is not for Joe. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 Not for Joe, not for Joe, 
 
 Not for Joseph, 
 
 Oh dear no, sir. 
 Not for Joe, no, no, no, 
 
 The governorship is 
 Not for Joe. 
 
 Joe lives in old Venango, but 
 
 When he for office ran, 
 The Erie-Crawford voters chose 
 
 Him for their congressman. 
 And still their hearts with love of J. 
 
 So largely overflow, 
 That they want to make him governor, but 
 
 That job is not for Joe. 
 
 Cho. : — Not for Joe, etc. 
 
 In congress Joseph made a hit. 
 
 Free silver he upheld. 
 And when the Wilson bill came forth, 
 
 He valiantly rebelled. 
 His Democratic backers sought 
 
 A dark revenge, and so 
 They trot him out for governor, since 
 
 That job is not for Joe. 
 
 Cho. : — Not for Joe, etc. 
 
 186 
 
 ! 
 
The Populists beheld his course 
 
 With half-suspicious eye ; 
 They said, "Let us indorse him and 
 
 Right there is where he'll die." 
 Old J. discreetly answered back: 
 
 "Hands off, kind friends, for lo. 
 If I'm your choice for governor, then 
 
 That job is not for Joe." 
 
 Cho. : — Not for Joe, etc. 
 
 The ruling Dems. at Harrisburg 
 
 Now mingled in the fun. 
 And cheerfully took Joey up 
 
 Since no one else w^ould run. 
 "Get out your barrel, J.," they cried, 
 
 "And freely let her go, 
 " 'Tis nice to run for governor, though 
 
 That job is not for Joe." 
 
 Cho.: — Not for Joe, etc. 
 
 The voice of General Coxey, too, 
 
 Was raised in tones of zeal. 
 "I'm with you, J.," the general said, 
 
 "And so's the Commonweal." 
 The Commonweal, J. might have known, 
 
 Foreshadows comin' woe; 
 The governorship it settles, and 
 
 That job is not for Joe. 
 
 Cho.: — Not for Joe, etc. 
 
 If Joseph only profits by 
 
 The lessons of events, 
 He'll hie back to his kite-shaped track 
 
 And farming implements. 
 The governorship on General Dan 
 
 The people will bestow. 
 And crack a smile as they remark, 
 
 "That job is not for Joe." 
 
 136 
 
The Equinox, 
 
 Now the time has come for voicing 
 Great and glorious rejoicing, 
 For the vernal equinox 
 Is on hand, bright-eyed and ruddy 
 And old winter with a thud he 
 
 From his coign of vantage knocks. 
 And this equinoctial stranger 
 
 By whose coming hearts are stirred 
 Entertains no thought of danger — 
 
 Such a thing would be absurd. 
 He's a bird, bird, bird, bird, bird, bird, bird. 
 He's a ripping, rattling equinoctial bird. 
 
 Fairly over the equator 
 Hangs Old Sol, the conservator 
 
 Of creation's vital spark. 
 He was somewhat misanthropic 
 While he hugged the southern tropic — 
 Then our clime was cold and dark. 
 But to-day he gives us gladly 
 
 Equal length of day and night, 
 And the poets carol madly 
 
 And declare the season quite 
 Out of sight, sight, sight, sight, sight, sight, sight; 
 They declare it to be strictly out of sight. 
 
 Bit by bit the Orb will creep up 
 Tow'rds the north and he will keep up 
 
 His performance ev'ry day, 
 Getting warmer as he travels. 
 Shutting up the man who cavils. 
 
 Making friends along the way, 
 
 137 
 
Till in June he'll come to Cancer 
 
 And the boiling point he'll hit; 
 Farther north he can't advance or 
 
 He'd press on; but there he'll quit; 
 Yes, he'll quit, quit, quit, quit, quit, quit, quit, 
 Having roasted us and broiled us he will quit. 
 
 Blessings on that just arrangement 
 Which prohibits long estrangement 
 
 'Twixt ourselves and Ancient Sol. 
 After winter's blizzards vicious 
 'Tis a privilege delicious 
 
 Under balmy skies to loll. 
 Oh, tho' all the world may perish, 
 
 Let us hope that cruel shocks 
 Ne'er will touch the thing we cherish, 
 
 Our delightful equinox. 
 For it 'nox, 'nox, 'nox, 'nox, 'nox, 'nox, 'nox. 
 The persimmon — that's precisely what it 'nox. 
 
 From Cairo to the Cape. 
 
 Come Austin, Alfred Austin, wake up and earn your 
 
 wage; 
 The glory of Great Britain now is at its highest stage. 
 Up, lad, and twang your laureate lyre. Don't let the 
 
 chance escape 
 To glorify the pow'r that strides from Cairo to the Cape. 
 
 Along the valley of the Nile, across the wild Soudan, 
 Through parts of Darkest Africa scarce visited by man. 
 Where dwell the lordly elephant, the lion and the ape, 
 J. Bull is carving out his path from Cairo to the Cape. 
 
 188 
 
Khartoum goes down before him with a heart-appall- 
 ing thud, 
 
 Dear knows how many Dervishes lie welt'ring in their 
 blood! 
 
 And, smitten in the portion of the neck that's called the 
 nape. 
 
 The fierce Kalifa flies the track 'twixt Cairo and the 
 Cape. 
 
 Who threatens at Fashoda ? One Marchand — sacre 
 
 bleu !— 
 A little hint from Kitchener soon shows him who is who. 
 Ah, many a Frenchman's family would soon be wearing 
 
 crepe. 
 If the Mounseers dared to bar the way from Cairo to the 
 
 Cape. 
 
 Along the edge of Congo, where the Belgians hold 
 
 their own. 
 Past Ujiji and Zambe, brought to light by Livingstone; 
 On, on, past Bangweolo's lake, in true heroic shape 
 Sweeps Johnny Bull along the road from Cairo to the 
 
 Cape. 
 
 Through Bechuanaland he goes. Tremendous is his 
 
 gait. 
 No use for Boers and Hottentots to vent their spleen 
 
 and hate. 
 Those warriors in mourning gear their citadels may 
 
 drape. 
 For Bull is bound to make the run from Cairo to the 
 
 Cape. 
 
 *Tis done. The road is open. Rivals in the cold are 
 
 left. 
 Arise then, Mr. Laureate. Arise and show your heft. 
 Bid all the Britishers fill up on nectar from the grape, 
 In honor of the Queen's Highway from Cairo to the 
 
 Cape. 
 
 139 
 
Advice to the Shah. 
 
 There's a new Shah in Persia, a bright-looking chap, 
 Who will listen, perhaps, to a plain "verbum sap," 
 To a bit of advice having visible force 
 Since it comes from a thoroughly civilized source. 
 So give ear, if you please, ere your work you begin, 
 To a few words of counsel, Muzaf¥er-ed-Din. 
 
 First, we haste to remind this incipient Shah 
 That his lately deceased and lamented papa 
 Of his ways saw the folly three decades ago. 
 And to mend 'em went trav'ling for years to and fro. 
 On returning the seeds of reform he put in. 
 Why not go and do likewise, Muzaff er-ed-Din ? 
 
 Now the Shah that is dead, though he did fairly well 
 When the great wheels of progress he tried to propel, 
 Was a tyro at best and — unfortunate man ! — 
 He survived not to finish the work he began. 
 Hence the rest of it falls on his nearest of kin. 
 Take it up, then, instanter, Muzaffer-ed-Din. 
 
 We are told that in Persia the natives perforce 
 Have been led superstitions of old to unhorse, 
 And with open reluctance, themselves to resign 
 To the railroad and eke to the telegraph line. 
 But they need something more if a place they would 
 
 win 
 Among civilized nations, Muzaffer-ed-Din. 
 
 There's the hat a la stovepipe, which progress denotes. 
 There's the plan of electing a man without votes, 
 There's the ''poster" disease and the bicycle hump. 
 There's the style of oration that's used on the stump. 
 And the ballet, which baldheads behold with a grin ; 
 They are all worth a trial, Muzaffer-ed-Din. 
 
 140 
 
You must not forget baseball. Your governing scheme 
 Should embrace an invincible Teheran team, 
 And you'll find that when Ispahan, Shiraz et cet. 
 Make a race for the pennant and cranks start to bet 
 The applause of the world you will certainly win, 
 There's no charge for this pointer, Muzaf¥er-ed-Din. 
 
 Just throw in the New Woman. Prepared is her sphere, 
 For your people already wear bloomers we 'hear. 
 Make your theater folk warble heart-stirring lays 
 On the model of "She May Have Seen Better Days." 
 Make each "copper" a statesman. (You say that's too 
 
 thin. 
 Well, perhaps, — but 'tis progress, Muzafifer-ed-Din.) 
 
 Now, Muzaffer, begin on the lines we have shown, 
 And you'll do yourself proud while you sit on the 
 
 throne. 
 For as ignorance fades and the glorious light 
 Of superlative culture comes fairly in sight. 
 All creation will swear by the Prophet's old chin 
 That there's never a fly on Muzaffer-ed-Din. 
 
 To a Lady in Distress 
 
 O Lady Smith, O Lady Smith, 
 
 Unless we're much mistaken, 
 You're lacking in the means wherewith 
 
 To save your precious bacon. 
 Nearby a ruthless foeman waits. 
 
 In fashion nowise tender. 
 He soon will batter at your gates 
 
 And call for your surrender. 
 
 141 
 
Aye, madam, 'neath the skilled command 
 
 Of Joubert, stern old marshal, 
 Twelve thousand Boers are close at hand, 
 
 And, ma'am, to gore they're partial. 
 They're seasoned hunters ev'ry one, 
 
 And 'tis no idle banter 
 To say that with unerring gun 
 
 They'll pot their game instanter. 
 
 They've come from veldts and drifts and neks 
 
 To ply a soldier's calling. 
 And, ma'am, they won't respect your sex; 
 
 You're certain of a mauling. 
 Unless — and this we sorely doubt — 
 
 You've adequate resources 
 To keep those fierce assailants out 
 
 And paralvze their forces. 
 
 Lo, even now the trumpet notes 
 
 Of quick assault give warning. 
 Oh, ma'am, tuck up your petticoats. 
 
 Nor think of danger scorning. 
 But with your cannon emphasize 
 
 Your hate of fighters shady 
 That would with shot and shell surprise 
 
 A Smith who is a lady. 
 
 O Lady Smith, O Lady Smith, 
 
 In such a situation 
 Why not invite your kin and kith 
 
 To lend co-operation. 
 If all the Smiths from foreign shores 
 
 Would but take up your quarrel. 
 They'd swiftly polish oft the Boers 
 
 And wreathe your brow with laurel. 
 
 142 
 
Aye, e'en the plain John Smiths would make 
 
 An army fully able 
 The pow'r of all the Boers to break — 
 
 Just call 'em, then, by cable. 
 For, Lady Smith, 'twill never do 
 
 If, through some painful blunder, 
 An interesting dame like you 
 
 Should suddenly go under. 
 
 Coamo. 
 
 This is the song of Coamo, 
 Where Hulings, the brave, with his legion 
 From Old Pennsylvania's oil region. 
 Came down on the Dons and o'erthrew 'em 
 And shot 'em and otherwise slew 'em. 
 It seemed one of Destiny's rulings 
 That nothing could stand before Hulings 
 Or cope with the courage infernal 
 Of the oil country boys and their colonel. 
 
 Girdled with walls is Coamo. 
 On all sides the mountains surround it. 
 Not easy our warriors found it. 
 To get there. The general commanding 
 Bid all march ahead notwithstanding. 
 To Hulings he said : ''While we pound 'em 
 In front and our lines close around 'em 
 Go you to their rear, there to catch 'em. 
 And then we shall quickly dispatch 'em." 
 
 Ah for the fate of Coamo ! 
 '*A11 right, sir," quoth Hulings and, leading 
 His men, he was soon seen proceeding 
 O'er boulders and torrents swift-rushing, 
 
 143 
 
Nor feared any Spaniard ambushing. 
 Not one of his soldier boys tarried, 
 But proudly the old flag they carried 
 And waved it with great airs and graces 
 In most inaccessible places. 
 
 Now in the rear of Coamo 
 At length Hulings' warriors gritty 
 Line up, while in front of the city 
 The mainguard's artillery batters 
 The walls, which it speedily shatters. 
 No use to wait there for a beating. 
 The Dons get the word for retreating. 
 They start, but unhappy their fate is. 
 For Hulings outside the back gate is. 
 
 Quick was the end at Coamo. 
 The Dons, although cornered and rattled. 
 With desperate bravery battled. 
 No terror their grit could diminish. 
 But Hulings soon showed 'em their finish, 
 And the general, on learning the wind-up. 
 Observed to the regiments lined up, 
 With countenance visibly brightening: 
 *'Those oil country boys are chain lightning." 
 
 Willie's Dinner Party. 
 
 There were covers laid for fifty 
 Politicians shrewd and thrifty. 
 Willie Flinn, you see, was giving 'em a lay-out "a la 
 carty." 
 At his invitation urgent 
 Ev'ry true and tried insurgent 
 Donned his spiketail and betook himself to Willie's din- 
 ner party. 
 
 144 
 
Oh, the viands were delicious 
 There were rare and costly dishes 
 From the soup that mocked the turtle to the toast that 
 never quailed. 
 And the guests they murmured "Trust us, 
 Mr. Flinn, to render justice 
 To your bill of fare," whereat the same they gallantly 
 assailed. 
 
 And the host with visage shining 
 Sa3^s, "I'm proud to see you dining 
 Here to-day, and boys I'm hoping that you'll one and 
 all eat hearty." 
 Ah, such ancients as LucuUus 
 Would have reason to be jealous 
 If they only saw the royal spread at Willie's dinner 
 party. 
 
 There were speeches full of vigor, 
 Davy Martin cut a figure 
 Quite distinguished when he rattled off an anti-Quay 
 oration. 
 John Dalzell in language polished 
 Mathew Stanley soon demolished. 
 And his views were hailed with evidence of real appro- 
 bation. 
 
 Calvin Wells demanded credit 
 For the gentlemen who edit 
 Mr. Wanamaker's organs and with hot philippics fill 
 'em, 
 And Van Valkenburg dilated 
 On the furore he created 
 By his threats to hold the Quayites up and hammer 'em 
 and kill 'em. 
 
 145 
 
Koontz, of Somerset, describing 
 How the bribers did their bribing, 
 Made a famous hit. He told how in the lobby many a 
 "smarty" 
 Used a "wad" but was detected 
 By the boys that "insurrected." 
 This delighted all the spotless ones at Willie's dinner 
 party. 
 
 Wanamaker wasn't present, 
 His condition was unpleasant, 
 Since he happened to be laid up with a twenty-pound 
 carbuncle. 
 But he sent a letter saying : 
 " 'Tis a noble game we're playing, 
 And I'm with you to a finish. Very truly yours — 
 Your Uncle." 
 
 Then there was a general slaughter 
 Of the best champagney water, 
 And of Burgundy, Madeira, claret, hock and port and 
 sherry. 
 And those co-mates vowed that never 
 Would the fates their friendship sever, 
 But they'd cleave together always in a union chaste and 
 merrv. 
 
 After which the boys meandered 
 While the band of music rendered 
 Strains expensively Beethovenish and some of 'em 
 Mozarty. 
 Thus the curtain fell and ended 
 The diversion great and splendid, 
 Which historians will enlarge upon as Willie's dinner 
 party. 
 
 146 
 
Slabtown 
 
 At Slabtown, sev'ral days ago, 
 All coondom wore a merry glow, 
 And bright and sparkling was the flow 
 Of Plum Creek rolling rapidly. 
 
 Great was the uproar and the fun; 
 Of bug-juice steady was the run. 
 Each Ethiopian had a gun 
 
 And plunked his neighbor gallantly. 
 
 Speak-easies did a rushing trade, 
 The booze upon the spot was made, 
 'Twas keen as any razor blade, 
 And deadly in its potency. 
 
 But on the colored heroes rushed 
 And charged the kegs and lushed and lushed, 
 And mugs were carved and craniums crushed 
 In tantrums of insanity. 
 
 And there were stirring games of crap 
 All day and all the night on tap; 
 Bankrupting many a dusky chap 
 And breeding rows promiscuously. 
 
 Amid the rattle of the bones 
 You'd hear 'em yell in murd'rous tones. 
 Bing, bang! Tremendous oaths and groans 
 Would permeate the shrubbery. 
 
 Around the coons who tried their skill 
 Gay ladies loafed in deshabille, 
 Awaiting an invite to swill 
 The product of the doggery. 
 
 147 
 
And when the ladies got their load 
 With gaiety they overflowed. 
 And ugly-looking guns they showed 
 And fired 'em off right nobbily. 
 
 At night when Luna lit her lamp 
 The coons would carry out of camp 
 The corpses of the day, and damp 
 And drear would be their burial. 
 
 But burials quickly were forgot, 
 For some one else would soon be shot. 
 Dear, dear, but they had times red-hot 
 When Slabtown held its carnival! 
 
 But Slabtown saw another sight. 
 When Kersten came, in all his might. 
 Commanding fires of death to light 
 The haunts of giddy revelry. 
 
 And Plum Creek wore a carmine hue 
 When busted kegs of liquor flew 
 Athwart its tide, within the view 
 Of Afros, moaning wearily. 
 
 Farewell then, Slabtown. Here's a toast 
 Unto the boys that laid thy ghost: 
 Oh, may their days be long to roast 
 The pow'rs that deal in deviltry. 
 
 148 
 
Seavey's Isle. 
 
 From Seavey's isle they've sailed away, 
 
 Cervera and his seamen. 
 In jail they made a two-months' stay 
 
 And now they all are freemen. 
 They're sailing back to sunny Spain, 
 
 But though their thraldom's over, 
 They'd like to strike that jail again, 
 
 For there they were in clover. 
 
 Before Cervera's famous fleet 
 
 Was sunk, their woe was utter. 
 They didn't have a thing to eat. 
 
 Not even bread and butter. 
 So keenly hunger's pangs they felt 
 
 That with despairing faces, 
 They tightened every man his belt 
 
 To close the hollow spaces. 
 
 Now when these lads were yanked to jail, 
 
 All fresh from scenes of slaughter. 
 They looked with countenances pale 
 
 For naught but bread and water. 
 And, oh, you should have seen 'em grin 
 
 When Uncle Sam, the sinner, 
 Sang out, ''My skinny friends, pitch in," 
 
 And sat 'em down to dinner. 
 
 He served up tubs of milk and soup, 
 
 And tons of beef and bacon. 
 And springtime chickens from the coop 
 
 In countless dozens taken. 
 Cold slaw and mushrooms, garden truck, 
 
 Bologna, rice and sago, 
 Such luck before was never struck 
 
 By any Spanish dago. 
 
 14U 
 
Now such a life as this was sweet. 
 
 By dint of meals and luncheons, 
 Those Dons, with naught to do but eat, 
 
 Swelled out as big as puncheons. 
 Perceiving what might happen here, 
 
 Says Uncle Sam, half weeping, 
 "I'll have to ship you home for fear 
 
 You'd burst while in my keeping." 
 
 And that is why they sail to-day 
 
 Across the ocean briny. 
 Four hundred pounds apiece they weigh, 
 
 And all are sleek and shiny. 
 And when the Dons at home in Spain 
 
 Behold these fattened sailors. 
 They'll all be rushing o'er the main 
 
 To board with Yankee jailers. 
 
 Boley on the Watch 
 
 Now from his castle turret Sir Boley casts his eye 
 Upon the outstretched landscape, the plain, the sea and 
 
 sky. 
 His brow is pale and anxious, his mouth is drawn and 
 
 hard. 
 With Brennen at his elbow and the chairmanship to 
 guard. 
 
 "Say, Boley," quoth the chairman, "dost thou per- 
 chance behold 
 
 Far off upon the highroad a foeman blithe and bold; 
 
 Some cavalier pretentious, sent hitherward by Sipe 
 
 To paralyze our henchmen and the chairmanship to 
 swipe?" 
 
 150 
 
 \ 
 
*'Nay, nay," the judge responded, "mine eyes are true 
 and keen, 
 
 But I behold no cavaher as yet upon the scene. 
 
 Be calm, good brother William, don't yield thee to 
 despair. 
 
 As long as I can wield the lance, thou'lt hold that bles- 
 sed chair." 
 
 "Hark, Bole," quoth Brennen trembling, "what distant 
 
 noise is that ? 
 Don't tell me it's a thunder-clap; don't tell me it's the 
 
 cat. 
 Like to the tramp of Xerxes' host across the grassy 
 
 plain ; 
 Methinks ten thousand Rutledges are after me again." 
 
 "Now, prithee, William," said the judge, "do let thine 
 heart be still. 
 
 Yon sound is not of savage men, who mean to burn and 
 kill; 
 
 The mighty host that passes is merely out for fun ; 
 
 'Tis but the gang of postmasters en route to Wash- 
 ington." 
 
 Big beads of sweat stood out upon Sir William's marble 
 
 brow ; 
 He saw Pat Foley, Larkin, too, and recognized them 
 
 now. 
 "May Providence be praised," he said, "that peaceful 
 
 men are they. 
 Too busy holding Grover up to take my chair away." 
 
 The army passed and soon another dubious cloud of 
 dust 
 
 Appeared on the horizon to Brennen's great disgust. 
 
 "Hand me my culverin," he cried, "no more suspense 
 for me, 
 
 To arms! to arms! that chair of mine must never cap- 
 tured be." 
 
 161 
 
*Teace, caitiff," Bole responded, "the cloud that yonder 
 
 looms 
 Is only Tim O'Leary, who's laden down with booms; 
 He, too, is bound for Washington with Grover to 
 
 confer. 
 And careth not though from that chair thou nevermore 
 
 shouldst stir." 
 
 At this the chairman brightened, the anguish left his 
 
 soul; 
 He saw the coast was keeping clear. He put his trust 
 
 in Bole. 
 And well he might, for haply no man will ever dare 
 To break a lance with William while Boley guards the 
 
 chair. 
 
 The Girl Graduate. 
 
 What form is this whose charms serene 
 With delicate and lustrous sheen. 
 
 The stage illuminate? 
 Is't Venus or Diana? Nay, 
 'Tis one far lov'lier than they — 
 
 The sweet girl graduate. 
 
 In robes of virgin white she stands. 
 With jewels on her dainty hands. 
 And flow'rets in her hair. 
 Her glass has told her of her charms. 
 And so she feels no strange alarms, 
 Nor shirks the footlights' glare. 
 
 162 
 
A thousand dudes in yellow shoes, 
 And neckties of hilarious hues, 
 
 Look on with lovesick eyes. 
 Their gaze she does not fear to meet, 
 But just to bring them to her feet 
 
 Her level best she tries. 
 
 A hush upon the audience falls; 
 Deep interest its soul enthralls, 
 
 No covert sneer doth lurk 
 When she unties a ribbon blue. 
 And opens up to public view 
 
 Her essay — peerless work ! 
 
 Now, now she lets the torrents loose 
 Of learning vast, and thoughts abstruse, 
 
 Worthy of sages old. 
 The field of rhetoric for flow'rs 
 She ransacks. Wondrous are the pow'rs 
 
 That here themselves unfold. 
 
 Scarce have the plaudits died away, 
 When lo ! she seats herself to play 
 
 Piano solos grand. 
 Mozart, Tschaikowsky, Sydney Smith, 
 She bangs and slams and rattles with 
 
 A finely cultured hand. 
 
 She closes. Flow'rs fall round her fast, 
 How can she ever be outclassed? 
 
 Folks ask with flushing cheek. 
 Ask of young Counter Jumper who 
 Gets twelve per month, his honest due ; 
 
 She'll marry him next week. 
 
 158 
 
The Mandolin Club. 
 
 O list to the music that's borne on the breeze, 
 
 (Tink-a-tink, tink-a-tunk, tink-a-tay); 
 Like the ripple of wavelets on sweet summer seas 
 
 (Tink-a-tonk, tink-a-tank, tink-a-too). 
 No semblance of discord the harmony warps, 
 One would think 'twas the angels performing on harps, 
 But 'tis only a concert of mandolin sharps 
 
 (Twink-a-twank, twink-a-twunk, twink-a-twee). 
 
 Refrain. 
 
 Then hearken with rapture beyond all compare, 
 
 To the sweet twinkle-twankling that twunks through 
 
 the air. 
 Flee away from the brass band's delirious blare, 
 
 And the orchestra's giddy hubbub. 
 Dull care to the winds will at once be consigned. 
 And a solace for grief you'll immediately find, 
 In the gentle and soft twinkle-twanklesome grind 
 
 Of the twunklesome MandoHn club. 
 (Twink-a-twoo.) 
 
 Beethoven's sonatas they play like old vets 
 
 (Tink-a-tink, tink-a-tunk, tink-a-tay) ; 
 And full justice they do to the *'High School Cadets" 
 
 (Tink-a-tonk, tink-a-tank, tink-a-too). 
 The waltzes of Strauss and Waldteufel they play 
 In a witchingly winsome and delicate way; 
 Till you wish they'd keep at it all night and all day. 
 
 (Twink-a-twank, twink-a-twunk, twink-a-twee). 
 
 Ref. — Then hearken with rapture, etc. 
 
 The "Dead March in Saul" they can render with skill 
 
 (Tink-a-tink, tink-a-tunk, tink-a-too). 
 And the strains of the "Yorke" they reel ofif with a will 
 
 (Tink-a-tonk, tink-a-tank, tink-a-too). 
 
"McGinty," "Tannhaeuser," the songs of the war, 
 '^Semiramide," "White Wings" and "Rory O'More, 
 Are among the bright things in their vast repertoire. 
 (Twink-a-twank, twink-a-tvvunk, twink-a-t\vee). 
 
 Ref. — Then hearken with rapture, etc. 
 
 Pianos and organs must move to the rear 
 
 (Tink-a-tink, tink-a-tunk, tink-a-tay). 
 Their Hght is bedimmed while the mandoHn's here 
 
 (Tink-a-tonk, tink-a-tank, tink-a-too). 
 The future May Festival, all must agree, 
 Will be shaped to conform to the people's decree, 
 And a mandolin carnival surely 'twill be 
 
 (Twink-a-twank, twink-a-twunk, twink-a-twee). 
 
 Ref. — Then hearken with rapture, etc. 
 
 The Boy Graduate. 
 
 He mounts the stage. His brow is clear, 
 He knows no qualm, no puny fear, 
 
 No quiver of dismay. 
 Noble and lofty is the state 
 Of youthful Mr. Graduate 
 
 Upon commencement day. 
 
 Garments brand-new his form bedeck, 
 A tow'ring collar walls his neck. 
 
 His cuffs are snowy white. 
 Who, in such radiant togs as these, 
 Could stoop to weak'ning at the knees, 
 
 Beset with vulgar fright? 
 
 165 
 
Not he. The proud and happy lad 
 Expertly coached and nobly clad, 
 
 Feels "to the manor born." 
 Genius his soaring soul expands, 
 And fame nearby awaiting stands — 
 
 He views the mob with scorn. 
 
 What's this that he unfolds? Oh, yes 
 It is, it is, a large MS., 
 
 With burning thoughts inscribed. 
 The people listen with intense 
 Delight, till all his eloquence 
 
 They've joyously imbibed. 
 
 All nature's secrets he unlocks, 
 The rules of science orthodox 
 
 He handles like a sage. 
 Problems that make our statesmen swear 
 He settles with astuteness rare 
 
 In this benighted age. 
 
 Then, when the thunders of applause 
 Have ceased, and he at length withdraws, 
 
 'Mid torrents of bouquets. 
 The glee club claims him, and he takes 
 His turn at rippling trills and shakes 
 
 In rattling college lays. 
 
 Alas! that after college days, 
 
 With light and life and hope ablaze. 
 
 There comes a cold, cold deal ; 
 When heroes of the stage must try 
 Their luck at hustling, or — oh, my ! — 
 
 Go join a ''Commonweal." 
 
 i»s 
 
Paddy Rewski. 
 
 A strain of mourning fills the air; a strain of anguish 
 
 keen, 
 Because the gcd-like maestro has vanished from the 
 
 scene. 
 Unto their grief our Pittsburg maids unceasingly give 
 
 vent, 
 The world for them has lost its charm since 
 
 Paddy 
 Rewski 
 
 Went. 
 
 The mem'ry of his tawny hair is like a bushy dream. 
 Three feet of wiry waviness — a poet's fitting theme. 
 Out, out upon close-shaven heads! Who cares a 
 
 copper cent 
 For ordinary barber work since 
 
 Paddy 
 Rewski 
 
 Went. 
 
 His features they are classic, and he has a melting eye , 
 He doesn't wear a spiketail coat Hke any common guy; 
 His limblets are a poem, in their movements eloquent. 
 We'll never see their like again since 
 
 Paddy 
 Rewski 
 
 Went. 
 
 i 
 They say he plays sonatas and symphonic thingumbobs, 
 
 Which move expert musicians to indulge in pray'rs and 
 
 sobs; 
 But music doesn't enter to a very great extent 
 Into what the girls are thinking of since 
 
 Paddy 
 Rewski 
 
 Went. 
 
 157 
 
O ye who at his ahar have been worshiping, suppose 
 The whole ecstatic crowd go after 'Tad" where'er he 
 
 goes. 
 'Tis only thus that kindred souls forever can be blent 
 And wipe out all the pangs one feels since 
 
 Paddy 
 Rewski 
 
 Went. 
 
 Columbus. 
 
 Bring the good old Caravel across the seas, yeo-ho ! 
 Bring her as she first was brought four hundred years 
 
 ago, 
 When she came for Yankeeland a-hunting high and low, 
 Thanks to the nerve of Columbus. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 Hurrah, hurrah ! Let's sing the praise of Chris. 
 Hurrah, hurrah ! Just think what we would miss 
 If Chris had never stumbled on a land so fair as this ; 
 That's what we owe to Columbus. 
 
 In the town of Genoa Columbus first drew breath. 
 People there still ask you, ''Didgenoabout his death?" 
 For he is forgotten there ; so many an expert saith ; 
 That's pretty rough on Columbus. 
 
 Pedagogues insisted that the earth was wholly flat ; 
 Christopher declared he couldn't let it go at that. 
 Thereupon the nincompoops with big rattans got at 
 And tanned the hide of Columbus. 
 
 158 
 
Christopher grew up and went a-sailing on the sea. 
 ''In the course of time I'll knock out Captain Cook," 
 
 thought he. 
 Cook had not been born yet, but the gift of prophecy 
 Lurked in the soul of Columbus. 
 
 Isabella met the lad (she was the Queen of Spain); 
 Thought he was dead gone on her, for Belle was prettj 
 
 vain. 
 "Christopher," she said, *'for thee my bank account I'll 
 
 drain." 
 Right in the swim was Columbus. 
 
 Bella she put up the cash; Columbus did the rest; 
 Sailed away from Pales toward the undiscovered west. 
 Everybody thought the scheme was but a merry jest ; 
 But they were fooled in Columbus. 
 
 Glorious the triumph was when Yankeeland he struck, 
 Filled with copper-colored folks and lots of garden 
 
 truck. 
 ''Gentlemen," says Christopher, "this is a run of luck." 
 Those were the words of Columbus. 
 
 Other foreign immigrants came after, when they saw 
 That the Indians didn't have a contract labor law; 
 Hence the Union flourishes with more or less eclat, 
 All on account of Columbus. 
 
 Therefore join us, young and old, and make the welkin 
 
 ring. 
 Hymns of jubilation let us all in chorus sing. 
 Thankful for the good things that continue still to 
 spring 
 Out of the cruise of Columbus. 
 
 ir.9 
 
Lullaby. 
 
 Over the mountains to Booze-Away Land, 
 
 Bye-bye, bye-bye. 
 Where fairies are sporting on Tamarack strand, 
 
 Bye-bye, bye-bye. 
 Weary eyes closing and legs getting weak. 
 Tongue getting thick — ah, 'tis hard now to speak, 
 Papa's been on it, dear babe, for a week. 
 
 Bye-bye, bye-bye. 
 
 Daily he trudges to Barrelhouse Town, 
 
 Bye-bye, bye-bye. 
 His nose it is red and his taste is seal brown, 
 
 Bye-bye, bye-bye. 
 Bright is the sheen of the dollars he spends. 
 Setting 'em up for his thousands of friends ; 
 A white-aproned goblin upon him attends, 
 
 Bye-bye, bye-bye. 
 
 Alcohol River's aglow in the sun. 
 
 Bye-bye, bye-bye. 
 Dad goes a-swimmin' when he has the "mon," 
 
 Bye-bye, bye-bye. 
 Rivulets enter its bosom so clear, 
 Rhine wine, and claret, ale, porter and beer. 
 But King Corn- Juice lays over 'em all, never fear, 
 
 Bye-bye, bye-bye. 
 
 See where the boas and copperheads play, 
 
 Bye-bye, bye-bye. 
 Always frisk round when the old man's that way. 
 
 Bye-bye, bye-bye. 
 Take him away where the Strait Jackets dwell. 
 Into a cute little Hospital Cell : 
 Medical fairies will soon make him well. 
 
 Bye-bye, bye-bye. 
 
 100 
 
Grand is the kingdom of Do-It-No-More, 
 
 Bye-bye, bye-bye. 
 Dad will land there when the circus is o'er, 
 
 Bye-bye, bye-bye. 
 O little babe, when to manhood you grow, 
 Never to Booze-Away Land must you go ; 
 Look at your father, and tell me ''No, no!" 
 
 Bye-bye, bye-bye. 
 
 Chautauqua. 
 
 Chautauqua! O thou sacred spot, 
 Where idle tourists linger not ; 
 Where vulgar sports, of habits low. 
 Their brazen faces never show; 
 Where fakirs for their arts profane 
 A license ask, but ask in vain; 
 And where enlightened laws exclude 
 The noxious lady-killing dude ; 
 The vivid fact we can't disguise — 
 Thou art a Christian paradise. 
 
 Pure are the ways thou walkest in. 
 Unlike those garish haunts of sin. 
 Seaside resorts, where throng like sheep 
 The vulgar, making angels weep. 
 Tom, Dick and Harry there combine 
 To soak themselves with rosy wine. 
 Along the beach the maidens scoot, 
 Each in a scanty bathing suit. 
 The righteous man, with burning cheek, 
 Must turn from these thy charms to seek. 
 
 1 
 
Lo, in thy temples do we find 
 Sublime reflection for the mind. 
 Thy people nearly all possess 
 A score of titles, more or less. 
 Doctors, Professors, Reverends, too. 
 In all directions are on view ; 
 And every one his chance doth wait 
 To mount the platform and orate. 
 Thine is, in fact, Chautauqua dear, 
 A most didactic atmosphere. 
 
 Rostrums and blackboards huge abound ; 
 They're utilized by thinkers sound ; 
 Philosophers with heads that bulge, 
 Who scientific truths divulge ; 
 Linguists well versed in ev'ry freak 
 Of Latin, Hebrew, French and Greek ; 
 Artistic sharps who'd have you know 
 That they could teach Mike Angelo. 
 Glory is theirs that never fades 
 In blest Chautauqua's classic shades. 
 
 The woman on the suffrage lay — 
 Of course, you know, '*she'd-talk-away," 
 And so she does. Her light's not hid, 
 For John stays home to mind the kid, 
 And while his hand the cradle rocks 
 She lectures on the ballot box. 
 This feat, so woman-like and cute, 
 Brings forth the handkerchief salute, 
 And as the girls the speaker greet, 
 They vow Chautauqua's "just too sweet." 
 
 162 
 
Alas, Chautauqua, with distress 
 
 The ghastly truth we must confess, 
 
 With thee and thine we can't consort, 
 
 Because on goodness we are short. 
 
 Excuse our conscienceless remarks, 
 
 But we prefer midsummer larks 
 
 To hearing the discourse complex 
 
 Of Doctor Y. or Reverend X. 
 
 Therefore, thy charms with reverend awe 
 
 We'll worship from afar. 
 
 Ta, ta 
 
 Election Day. 
 
 Daybreak : The dawn with smiling face 
 
 Illuminates the polling place ; 
 
 Lights up the frosty sidewalk where 
 
 Election officers repair, 
 
 To figure out with caution due 
 
 Which one is which and who is who, 
 
 And, swearing one another in. 
 
 The business of the day begin. 
 
 Inspectors, clerks and judges, all 
 
 Within the booths themselves install; 
 
 And watchers, early on the ground, 
 
 Look wise and idly stand around 
 
 Till with a self-approving grin, 
 
 The first stray voter ambles in. 
 
 A candidate or two comes by 
 
 To see that nothing is awry, 
 
 And in the foreground, full of grace, 
 
 A copper stands and twirls his mace. 
 
 163 
 
Midday : Now doth the fight wax hot, 
 
 A hundred men are on the spot ; 
 
 The heeler, rounder, thug and bloat 
 
 Beset the man who wants to vote. 
 
 In all directions, left and right. 
 
 Police and firemen are in sight, 
 
 With hosts of other active chaps, 
 
 Who live on soft official snaps. 
 
 The challenger now cuts a swath 
 
 And leaves his victims white with wrath. 
 
 Prone in the dust will he be laid 
 
 Whose taxes yet remain unpaid. 
 
 The candidates, with anxious air. 
 
 Are here and there and ev'rywhere; 
 
 Liquor there is in large supply; 
 
 From hand to hand the greenbacks fly, 
 
 While calm and heedless of the fray 
 
 The Baker ballot pounds away. 
 
 Evening : The hard-fought battle's o'er, 
 The warriors cleanse themselves of gore. 
 Still on the sidewalk loafs the crowd. 
 Beery, obstreperous and loud. 
 The board within takes ofT its coat. 
 And figures up the total vote. 
 At last returns are given out. 
 And greeted with a rousing shout. 
 Moved by the mob's approving cheers, 
 The winners set up countless beers. 
 The losers, when they hear the news. 
 Sneak off unseen and get the blues. 
 This ends it all. At once the town 
 Gets sobered up and simmers down; 
 Business resumes its even flow, 
 All things return to statu quo. 
 And war's alarms are filed away 
 Until the next election day. 
 
 101 
 
Turning the Tables. 
 
 If Roberts should turn the tables; 
 If when he gets the bounce 
 
 He has the grit 
 
 And ready wit 
 His foemen to denounce ; 
 If in terms distinct he labels 
 The false-pretending crew 
 
 That makes to-day 
 
 A virtuous play 
 What then will congress do? 
 
 They call his life improper; 
 They say that prison gyves 
 
 Would fit the case 
 
 Of the Mormon base 
 Who sports a trio of wives. 
 But what if a sudden stopper 
 
 Were placed on the statesmen who 
 
 Dark byways tread 
 
 With wives unwed? — 
 Then what would congress do? 
 
 For among those purists smiting 
 The man from Utah state 
 
 There's many a one 
 
 That never was known 
 To walk in pathways straight. 
 And after their blatherskiting 
 If Roberts should bring to view 
 
 In vengeful style 
 
 Their covert guile 
 Then what would congress do? 
 
And why should he not thus settle 
 His score with the snarling pack 
 
 That rolls its eyes 
 
 And loudly cries: 
 *'A sinner thou art ! Stand back !" 
 Ah, friends, if a man of mettle 
 Would tell us just who is who 
 
 And what is what 
 
 In that plague-struck spot, 
 Then what would congress do? 
 
 Lay on, then, Roberts, and spare not; 
 With the rod of truth chastise 
 
 The sorry array 
 
 That make their play 
 Togged out in virtue's guise. 
 Lay on, sir, and forbear not. 
 Till we know the record true 
 
 Of the statesmen all 
 
 That seek your fall. 
 Then what will congress do? 
 
 Goosebone Wisdom 
 
 What warning voice is this we hear? 
 Lo, 'tis the goosebone prophet who 
 Alarms us with a forecast blue, 
 
 (His liver must be out of gear). 
 
 Like to Cassandra, who in days 
 
 Long past, gave all the world a chill 
 By prophesying nought but ill 
 
 The goosebone sharp his views conveys. 
 
 166 
 
No sign propitious can he see. 
 His osseous indicator shows 
 No trace of aught but blackest woes ; 
 
 A most dyspeptic cuss is he. 
 
 "Be warned," he cries, "Ye mortals all 
 This year you'll miss the keen delight 
 That's in a winter crisp and white. 
 
 The mercury will refuse to fall. 
 
 "No friendly snow the earth will deck 
 Inviting youths and maids to glide 
 In sleighs across the country side; 
 
 Such joys will get it in the neck. 
 
 **The small boy, with his bumping sled, 
 Will have no chance to yell, 'Track, track ;' 
 And lay the traveler on his back. 
 
 Bunged up with cold, he'll lie abed. 
 
 "And there will be no stretches vast 
 
 Of solid, smooth and glassy ice 
 
 Skatorial artists to entice. 
 The skater's happy day is past. 
 
 "Old Santa Claus when he comes out 
 By seas of mud will be appalled; 
 His dainty reindeer will be stalled. 
 
 The Saint will shake his job, no doubt. 
 
 "Then, owing to the Christmas mean, 
 All hands will sicken and collapse 
 And then the doctors, lucky chaps ! 
 
 Will fill their wallets with long green." 
 
 Thus speaks the Goosebone sharp. And oh, 
 If what he says were really true, 
 To give that sour old boy his due. 
 
 We'd get an ax and lay him low. 
 
Gatacre's Inveiglement. 
 
 Out spake Gatacre boldly as the natives flocked around : 
 ''Now who will guide mine army to the burghers' 
 
 camping ground? 
 For I am on my way to join Methuen, but before 
 We meet I want to wipe out ev'ry intervening Boer. 
 Speak up, then. Ample recompense will fall unto the 
 
 lot 
 Of whosoever humps himself and leads me to the spot." 
 
 Forth stepped some aborigines. Of guileless mien 
 were they. 
 
 "Command us, honored sir," they said ; "we'll guide you 
 on your way. 
 
 We know the veldt from end to end. We know the tor- 
 rents swift. 
 
 We're onto ev'ry kopje, ev'ry neck and ev'ry drift. 
 
 Besides, we're true and faithful, and your army, never 
 fear, 
 
 With guidance such as we supply will get the proper 
 steer." 
 
 The deal was closed instanter, and the British marched 
 along 
 
 With confidence unflinching. Were they not four thou- 
 sand strong, 
 
 And had they not of deadly arms a plentiful supply? 
 
 Well might they yearn to sight the Boers and catch 'em 
 on the fly. 
 
 "In sooth," the bold Gatacre said, "my plans can hardly 
 fail. 
 
 And 'twill be strange if any Boer survives to tell the 
 tale." 
 
 16S 
 
"Bang, boom!" What's that? "Boom, bang!" What's 
 
 this? On center, left and right 
 A hundred flashes overcome the darkness of the night, 
 And through the British columns, taken wholly una- 
 wares, 
 A hail of shells and rifle balls incessant rips and tears. 
 While to the ears of Gatacre, that warrior of renown 
 A laugh of mockery is borne. Those guides have done 
 him brown. 
 
 No chance to rally now. No hope of silencing the foe. 
 
 Thus trapped, the Britishers have not the semblance of 
 a show. 
 
 With lines cut up and hearts bowed down, those war- 
 riors undone 
 
 Have no recourse remaining but at once to cut and 
 run, 
 
 While those whom they designed to slay, with vengeful 
 thoughts aglow, 
 
 Pursue the fugitive brigades and smash 'em as they go. 
 
 So comes from poor Gatacre the woe-beg one report 
 That his campaign of triumph has been suddenly cut 
 
 short. 
 "I'm sorry, gentlemen," he writes, "it cuts me to the 
 
 quick 
 To think that I should ever fail a band of Boers to lick." 
 And henceforth when Gatacre takes his troops to parts 
 
 unknown 
 He'll give the native guides the shake and play his hand 
 
 alone. 
 
 169 
 
Objurgatory 
 
 Lo, the cup of German wrath 
 
 Is uncomfortably full, 
 All by reason of the swath 
 
 That is cut by Johnny Bull. 
 For his emmissaries bag- 
 In a most offensive way 
 Ships that fly the German flag 
 
 Down by Dalagoa bay. 
 Over bows they're firing shots 
 
 (This their nation ill befits), 
 And the reichstag thunders 'Totz T 
 
 And the kaiser mutters " Blitz !" 
 
 Ask Bull the reason why 
 
 On his high horse thus he rides, 
 To the question he'll reply, 
 
 " 'Tis the fault of Dr. Leyds. 
 None that knows the truth disputes 
 
 That this agent of the Boers 
 Has been drumming up recruits 
 
 And accumulating stores; 
 And since Germans take his cash, 
 
 Their offense is mighty rank, 
 Driving me to mutter 'Dash !' 
 
 While my people thunder 'Blank !' " 
 
 Frenchmen join the hue and cry, 
 
 "Bull," they say, "may rule the seas, 
 But he cannot justify 
 
 Hateful infamies like these. 
 No ; he can't assert the right 
 
 Like a cat to lie in wait. 
 Seizing ev'rything in sight. 
 
 Whether passengers or freight 
 He's a pirate; he's a wrecker; 
 
 He cares not a fig for law; 
 Here the men of France cry 'Sacre !' 
 
 And the journals shout 'A bas !' " 
 
 170 
 
Bull, impassive as a rock, 
 
 Hears it all and doesn't blanch; 
 He expects no battle shock 
 
 From the Germans or the French. 
 So he gathers in his prey. 
 
 And he never cares a pin 
 What his critics choose to say 
 
 As the ships he gathers in ! 
 Let 'em freely wag the jaw 
 
 While of indignation full. 
 "Potz!'' "Blitz!" "Sacre!" and "A Bas"- 
 
 They are all the same to Bull. 
 
 'Mn Extremis." 
 
 ''Now hang it all," says Chamberlain, "this thing has 
 gone too far, 
 
 Tho' 'tis glory that we sieek. 
 
 We are licked three times a week. 
 We need a man like Roberts, who won fame at Can- 
 dahar. 
 
 Or Hke Kitchener to soak 
 
 These unruly burgher-folk. 
 Our strategists are rusty and their tactics are n. g. 
 Their method of campaigning simply isn't worth a D. 
 'Tis perfectly disgraceful that high rollers such as wc. 
 
 Rich and brave and big and strong 
 
 Should be walloped right along." 
 
 Roberts at the summons comes upon the double quick, 
 
 And he makes obeisance low 
 
 To the Honorable Joe. 
 "Now, my boy," says Joseph, " 'tis for you to do the 
 trick, 
 
 You must scoot across the wave 
 
 And the nation's honor save. 
 
 171 
 
Gatacre has been razzled on his journey from the Cape, 
 Methuen has been paralyzed and pounded out of shape, 
 And Buller — well for Buller's troops we're mostly wear- 
 ing crepe. 
 
 Hors de combat are they all. 
 
 That's why you receive a call." 
 
 ''Well and good," says Roberts, "your command shall 
 be obeyed. 
 Though my hair is snowy white 
 Still I'm not afraid to fight. 
 All my brethren have been whipped, but hang it ! Who's 
 afraid ? 
 With decided ease and grace 
 Mr. Joubert I will face. 
 It isn't very pleasant for a man to risk his fame 
 By taking up the thread of an infernal losing game, 
 And though I later on may find that Dennis is my 
 name, 
 I am ready for the trip 
 And I'll try to let 'er rip." 
 
 Kitchener is ordered to accompany his chief. 
 
 He's the stout and sturdy man 
 
 Who won out in the Soudan. 
 The coming of the pair of 'em gives promise of relief 
 
 (If their fame is not a myth) 
 
 To beleaguered Ladysmith. 
 And to the troops demoralized that now are on the 
 
 ground 
 'Tis glorious to hear about the heroes thither bound, 
 But Kruger only winks his eye and says, ''When they 
 come round 
 
 Will our people have to flee? 
 
 Ha, ha, ha ! Just wait and see." 
 
 172 
 
McKinley's Message. 
 
 Congress from its labors dizzy 
 
 Suddenly was bid to cease. 
 Members loud and brisk and busy 
 
 Simmered down and held their peace. 
 In the house forensic bruisers 
 
 Ceased to make a grand stand play. 
 In the senate ancient snoozers 
 
 Closed their eyes and snored away. 
 
 For the voice of Pruden ringing 
 
 Loud and clear proclaims to men 
 That a message he is bringing 
 
 From the presidential pen. 
 And the statesmen must be docile; 
 
 None must praise or blame or scofif, 
 While the document colossal 
 
 By a clerk is rattled off. 
 
 Lo, the clerk with visage solemn 
 
 In a high-pitched monotone 
 Reels off colum after column 
 
 With full many an inward groan, 
 Till at last his voice comes thinly 
 
 And he finds it hard to speak, 
 For that message from McKinley 
 
 Seems as if 'twould last a week. 
 
 Plans for strengthening our finances. 
 Little stabs at trade combines 
 
 And occasional side-glances 
 
 At our neighbors' monkey-shines. 
 
 Treaty outlines, full of promise, 
 Words of thankfulness sincere 
 
 To convince the doubting Thomas 
 That prosperity is here. 
 
 173 
 
Diagrams of our campaigning 
 
 On the Filipino shore; 
 Pledges meant to check complaining 
 
 From the Cubans, always sore. 
 Tips on many a happy presage 
 
 Of good times within our land, 
 All are furnished in that message 
 
 From McKinley's honored hand. 
 
 But, although the thread they're losing, 
 
 Which may seem a trifle odd, 
 Still the senators keep snoozing 
 
 And the other fellows nod. 
 And they hear it not nor heed it 
 
 For this reason, which is true, 
 That in print some day they'll read it 
 
 When they've nothing else to do. 
 
 Where Can Aggie Be ? 
 
 They say that Aguinaldo is no longer to be found; 
 That somehow he has slipped away from Luzon's 
 
 bloody ground. 
 They're searching for him high and low, on land and 
 
 on the sea. 
 But all in vain. He can't be traced. Oh, where can 
 
 Aggie be? 
 
 Perhaps he's in the Transvaal pounding Johnny Bull. 
 Perhaps he's in a temperance town, getting good and 
 
 full. 
 Perhaps he's up in cloudland with a harp and crown. 
 Perhaps — perhaps — but what's the use? We can not 
 
 run him down. 
 
 174 
 
A nimble leg has Aggie. When he first received a hint 
 
 That Uncle Sam meant business, he at once began to 
 sprint. 
 
 Says Otis : "This will never do. We must not let him 
 flee," 
 
 But now the general wonders where on earth can Ag- 
 gie be? 
 
 Perhaps he's gone to Russia with a bombshell for the 
 
 czar. 
 Perhaps he's being kodaked as the only shooting star. 
 Perhaps he's playing football in the realm of cap and 
 
 gown. 
 Perhaps — perhaps — but what's the use? We can not 
 
 run him down. 
 
 Our troops kept gamely on his trail. They hustled af- 
 ter Ag 
 
 From Calembangaloocan to the wilds of Balinag. 
 
 They often thought they had him, but just like the Irish 
 flea. 
 
 He wasn't there. He wouldn't stay. Oh, where can 
 Aggie be ? 
 
 Perhaps he's in Kentucky doubling up the Goebel vote. 
 Perhaps he's drinking CHcquot with the Prince and 
 
 Joey Choate. 
 Perhaps he's gone to Hades with the Ancient Boy to 
 
 sup. 
 Perhaps — perhaps — but what's the use? We give the 
 rascal up. 
 
 iia 
 
The Open Door, 
 
 Now in a chorus uniform, 
 
 A great harmonious strain, 
 That overpow'rs the howHng storm 
 
 And echoes o'er the main, 
 The nations join. In such a lay 
 
 They've never joined before; 
 For the rattHng song they sing to-day 
 
 Is the song of the open door. 
 
 Open door on Chinese coast. Heathen shan't say nay. 
 Open door in Cochin ; open door in Mandalay. 
 Break the lock of the Orient. Riches are in store. 
 There's golden coin for the pow'rs that join in the song 
 of the open door. 
 
 The voice of England leads the stave; 
 
 **0 brethren mine," quoth she, 
 '' 'Tis not the land and loot I crave 
 
 In cHmes beyond the sea. 
 To hopes of blessed peace I cling 
 
 Unmix'd with thoughts of gore, 
 xA.nd in this righteous mood I sing 
 
 The song of the open door. 
 
 Open door in Africa — soon 'twill be in shape. 
 Open door along the line from Cairo to the Cape. 
 Afrikanders, hold your peace. Proudly to the fore. 
 Is Progress, stepping onward to the song of the open 
 door. 
 
 The German kaiser's basso voice 
 
 Comes in to swell the tune. 
 The Japs do likewise, and rejoice 
 
 With allies to ''reune." 
 
 176 
 
And last, but nowise least, you'll hear 
 
 On fair Columbia's shore, 
 Sent out from Uncle Sammy's throat, 
 
 The song of the open door. 
 
 Open door, Samoa, shall forevermore be thine. 
 Open door — hold on, though; we must somewhere 
 
 draw the line. 
 If Luzon, too, must be unlocked, why, then, perhaps no 
 
 more 
 You'll hear your Uncle Sammy sing the song of the 
 
 open door. 
 
 The Gobbler's Doom 
 
 He does not know. He harbors no suspicion 
 
 Of ruin high. 
 No sign of aught to alter his condition 
 
 Can he espy. 
 
 With head erect and ample breast expanded 
 
 He struts around. 
 No fears has he of foes against him banded — 
 
 He knows his ground. 
 
 What if the farmer now doth feed him double 
 
 To make him fat? 
 Quoth he : ''A gobbler has the right to gobble. 
 
 No doubt of that." 
 
 And when strange people come around and eye him. 
 
 And note his size. 
 He feels that they are there to glorify him. 
 
 That's no surprise. 
 
 For is he not the noblest thing that's living — 
 
 A sovereign born ? 
 And gossips rude that talk about Thanksgiving 
 
 He laughs to scorn. 
 
 177 
 
He to be slaughtered ! He to make a dinner 
 
 For gourmands gay ! 
 'T would take a fearfully case-hardened sinner 
 
 To act this way. 
 
 Ask of the hens that humbly gather round him; 
 
 They'll all declare 
 That none can overawe him or confound him. 
 
 He knows no scare. 
 
 And yet — this in a whisper we're reve*aling — 
 
 We'll soon behold 
 The ax across that gobbler's jugular stealing, 
 
 Keen-edged and cold. 
 
 This tale is duly with a moral salted : 
 
 Remember, all, 
 That pride, stiflf-necked and overly exalted 
 
 Must have a fall. 
 
 Poe. 
 
 Heroes invincible, patriots, warriors. 
 
 Statesmen whose names are on tables of gold, 
 Poets, philosophers, fistical ''tarriers." 
 
 All that by Fame on her list are enrolled. 
 Lights of antiquity, notables latter-day. 
 
 Ne'er will again have the ghost of a show. 
 Dwarfed and o'ershadowed they all were last Saturday ; 
 
 Now the world's worshiping centers on — Poe. 
 
 What is the trade of him? What is the style of him? 
 
 What makes him greater and grander than all? 
 Why does the multitude hang on the smile of him? 
 
 Why is the universe under his thrall ? 
 Wherefore will babes be endowed with the name of him, 
 
 Which the fond parents rejoice to bestow? 
 Whence the spectacular, earth-shaking fame of him? 
 
 Marvelous, mighty, redoubtable Poe! 
 
 1T8 
 
Is he a new sort of mental phenomenon. 
 
 Is he a demigod ,far above men, 
 Blest with the gifts of a Greek or a Roman 'un 
 
 Such as we mortals may ne'er see again? 
 Is he a conqueror, bard or philosopher? 
 
 Is he with fire superhuman aglow, 
 That this old earth should accept as the boss of her 
 
 Glorious, wonderful, wizard-like Poe? 
 
 None of these roles is one-half big enough for him, 
 
 Wider and nobler by far is his sphere ; 
 Only one human pursuit is the stuff for him, 
 
 Only one calling on earth he holds dear. 
 Ask for old Princeton whose prowess revealed for her 
 
 Glories that will sempiternally glow? 
 Who against Yale kicked a goal from the field for her? 
 List to the roar of 'em. 
 Ninety-nine score of 'em 
 
 Thunder the answer : Who was it but Poe ? 
 
 A Meteoric Deception. 
 
 Put away the kodak and the lengthy telescope. 
 
 File the heavenly charts away 
 
 Till a more propitious day. 
 Shed a bitter tear or two and bid good-bye to hope. 
 
 There is sorrow in the cup, 
 
 And we've got to drink it up. 
 The scientists contracted for a great and glorious show 
 None like it had been seen since three and thirty years 
 
 ago— 
 With meteors the realms of Space, they said, would be 
 aglow. 
 
 But 'twas all a hollow cheat 
 
 And the meteors didn't mete. 
 
 179 
 
Thousands of the populace sat up and watched the sky. 
 
 Not a blessed wink they slept, 
 
 But a steady vigil kept. 
 Nobody amongst 'em had the nerve to close an eye ; 
 
 None would venture on a snooze 
 
 Lest the spectacle he'd lose. 
 They sat and sat and sat and sat and sat and sat and sat, 
 And strained their eyes till many a one was blind as any 
 
 bat 
 But ah, their weary vigil turned out profitless and flat. 
 
 They were victims of deceit. 
 
 For the meteors didn't mete. 
 
 On the Allegheny hills Brashear was on the watch 
 In an eager attitude; 
 To a lens his eye was glued. 
 Close at hand were cameras the gorgeous sight to 
 catch, 
 Ev'ry kodak cocked and primed 
 And with accuracy timed. 
 A multitude around him w^atched his ev'ry move with 
 
 awe. 
 They knew that in his processes there couldn't be a 
 
 flaw. 
 But somewhere in the small hours he was heard to cry, 
 "Oh, pshaw !" 
 Then he beat a quick retreat 
 For the meteors didn't mete. 
 
 Clouds did all the mischief. They were piled up thick 
 and black 
 
 And they acted as a bar 
 
 To the festive falling star. 
 Ev'ry blessed meteor was driven ofif the track. 
 
 And no other show'r is due 
 
 Until 1932. 
 No wonder that vindictive ones are looking for Bra- 
 shear. 
 No wonder that a sleepless mob is wildly on its ear. 
 No wonder that the awfulest anathemas we hear, 
 
 iFar too wicked to repeat, 
 
 For the meteors didn't mete. 
 
 180 
 
Dreyfus Avenged. 
 
 Ah, little did the Frenchmen know 
 
 When Dreyfus they were hounding, 
 That Nemesis was lying low 
 
 To take revenge astounding. 
 Had they foreseen the awful fruits 
 
 Of Dreyfus' cruel sentence, 
 They'd all have trembled in their boots 
 
 And made a swift repentance. 
 
 But all unchecked the men of guile 
 
 Achieved their shameful purpose. 
 Their victim went to Devil's Isle 
 
 Beyond all habeas corpus. 
 And all too late they brought him back 
 
 And loosed the chain that bound him, 
 For Nemesis was on their track 
 
 Determined to confound 'em. 
 
 To-day, behold, the crushing blow 
 
 Upon their heads is falling. 
 Their great and glorious Expo 
 
 Will meet a fate appalling. 
 To Thomas, peerless Theodore, 
 
 For music they are turning. 
 But vainly, vainly they implore; 
 
 Their ofifers he is spurning. 
 
 His answer is both hot and strong, 
 
 He glares and thunders : "Diable ! 
 Think you I'd trust my band among 
 
 Your mischief-making rabble? 
 Begone, avaunt ! No base Mounseers 
 
 My peerless men shall rope in. 
 Just think of feasting brigand ears 
 
 On Mendelssohn and Chopin ! 
 
 181 
 
'Td rather die than treat you to 
 
 Tschaikowsky and Beethoven, 
 Or even to such Hghts brand-new 
 
 As Herbert and DeKoven. 
 From me you'll never, never drag 
 
 A single theme or chanson ; 
 You'll get no tempo of the rag, 
 
 No Massenet, no Saint-Saens." 
 
 This floors 'em. ''Theodore," they say, 
 
 ''With fatal force you knife us." 
 'Tis thus a fitting price they pay 
 
 For what they did to Dreyfus. 
 And henceforth when they're in the mood 
 
 To chase men and undo 'em 
 They'd better let up and be good, 
 Or Yankee strings and brass and wood 
 
 Will never more come to 'em. 
 
 On the Ice. 
 
 Now the skater, shod with steel, 
 Full of vigor and of zeal. 
 Notes with pleasure that the waters have consented to 
 congeal. 
 And he girdeth up his feet. 
 And with motion smooth and fleet 
 He cavorts across the landscape at a pace that's hard 
 to beat. 
 
 If perchance he is brand-new. 
 
 Then affairs go all askew, 
 And his pristine evolutions are appalling to the view. 
 
 Lightly he essays to skim 
 
 O'er the ice, but Fortune grim 
 Designates a sitting posture as the only one for him. 
 
 182 
 
Then he may be young and rash, 
 Fond of surfaces that smash, 
 And in consequence he'll frequently go under with a 
 splash. 
 And though rescued on the spot 
 And filled up with liquor hot, 
 He most likely gets pneumonia and goes where it 
 freezes not. 
 
 But if fully skilled is he, 
 
 Everybody must agree 
 That his dexterous gyrations are a charming thing to 
 see. 
 
 As he glides from place to place, 
 
 At a very giddy pace, 
 He presents the true embodiment of poetry and grace. 
 
 'Tis a source of pleasure great 
 When he doth ejaculate, 
 ''Keep your eye upon me, fellers, while I cut the fig- 
 ure 8." 
 And beholders must proclaim 
 That their feelings are the same 
 When in lettering that's faultless on the ice he cuts his 
 name. 
 
 Accidents, of course, may mar 
 His career. It is a bar 
 To his triumph when his cranium hits the ice and makes 
 a star. 
 And the hearts of all are sore. 
 And with anguish brimming o'er. 
 When he strikes a wicked air-hole and goes down to 
 rise no more. 
 
 But he is a chipper chap. 
 
 Full of blood and vim and snap ; 
 So let's hope that he'll encounter no misfortune or 
 mishap. 
 
 And that frosty weather still 
 
 Will maintain its grip until 
 Ev'ry skater of the edifying sport has had his fill. 
 
Bobs of Candahar. 
 
 Now haste thee, Bobs of Candahar, 
 For lo, in Afric's land afar, 
 The Hght of fair Britannia's star 
 
 Is sadly on the wane. 
 Her soldiers, formerly the best 
 In all the world, are sore distress'd 
 What they've ''bit off" they can't digest, 
 
 And bitter is their pain. 
 
 Ah, Bobs, you may conceive their woe, 
 
 Recalling how, not long ago. 
 
 Those lads were sneering at the foe 
 
 That has them now at bay ; 
 How Buller, that distinguished chief, 
 In public said, " 'Tis my belief 
 That in Pretoria our roast beef 
 
 We'll eat on Christmas day." 
 
 Did Buller's forecast come to pass? 
 What need to answer No. Alas, 
 Elsewhere the knife and fork and glass 
 
 On Christmas day he plied. 
 With Boers in front and Boers behind 
 And Boers on right and left he dined, 
 While shot and shell by hands unkind 
 
 Were fired from ev'ry side. 
 
 Poor Buller! 'Twas his hope forthwith 
 
 To bring relief to Ladysmith, 
 
 And all his friends and kin and kith 
 
 Believed he'd do the trick. 
 But when he reached Colenso, lo, 
 Old Joubert suddenly let go 
 And dealt him a destructive blow 
 
 Upon the double-quick. 
 
 184 
 
Hence, Bobs, you're needed in a rush. 
 Make haste, lad, and get in the push 
 Before the Boers to atoms crush 
 
 The flow'r of Britain's flock. 
 To you Britannia's people turn, 
 Exhorting you in words that burn 
 To whip the Boers from stem to stern, 
 
 And all their games to block. 
 
 And, Bobs — oh, melancholy thought ! — 
 
 If all in vain your aid is sought, 
 
 And if your plans should come to naught, 
 
 (Here let's indulge in sobs) 
 Then Britain nothing else can do 
 But simply skip the tra-la-loo 
 From Africa, and as for you — 
 
 Oh, but you'll catch it, Bobs ! 
 
 Naughty-Naught. 
 
 We may drop a tear 
 
 For the good old year 
 That is dead, but why repine 
 
 Since the year brand-new 
 
 Is as good and as true 
 And as jolly as Ninety-nine? 
 
 Yes, the rising star 
 
 Is brighter far 
 Than the star whose fall is wrought. 
 
 Then a toast let's drink 
 
 And our glasses clink 
 To the health of Naughty-naught. 
 
 Chorus : 
 
 Cheer, boys, cheer. 
 
 Never a tear, 
 Here's to the naughty, naughty year. 
 May his coming with bliss for all be fraught. 
 Here's a health to Naughty-naught. 
 
 ISiS 
 
The good old year 
 
 Had a bright career, 
 He was chipper and blithe and gay, 
 
 With generous hand, 
 
 He gave to our land 
 Success that is here to stay. 
 
 Aye, more than enough 
 
 Of the long green stuff 
 To this land of ours he brought. 
 
 But there's plenty more 
 
 Long green in store, 
 Then hurrah for Naughty-naught ! 
 
 Cho. — Cheer, boys, cheer, etc. 
 
 Yes, love grows cold 
 
 And it's off with the old 
 And on with the love that's new, 
 
 And the year that's fled 
 
 To the world is dead 
 And vanished from mortal view. 
 
 But wherefore mourn 
 
 For another is born 
 And to serve us well he ought. 
 
 Then your glasses fill, 
 
 And drink with a will 
 To the health of Naughty-naught. 
 
 Cho. — Cheer, boys, cheer, etc. 
 
 Aggie's Flight 
 
 There was terror in Bimbolango; 
 The news came in that day. 
 That the Yankee troops 
 With murderous whoops 
 Were coming to burn and slay 
 They had taken Tingotango, 
 And wrought destruction dire. 
 And 'twas oh, the dread 
 Of a scene blood-red 
 And of terrible sword and fire. 
 
 186 
 
Quoth Aguinaldo's mother, 
 ''My son, what news is this 
 That makes you shake 
 And quiver and quake? 
 Oh, tell me, what's amiss." 
 "Oh, mother," says he, "don't bother 
 It is but a passing chill. 
 'Twill yield no doubt. 
 To a poultice stout 
 Or an antibilious pill." 
 
 "O son, you speak not truly. 
 I see by your troubled looks 
 And your quiv'ring shanks 
 That the awful Yanks 
 Will soon get in their hooks. 
 I urge you not unduly. 
 But if you love me, Ag. 
 You'll leave me not 
 On this ill-starr'd spot 
 For Lawton's men to bag." 
 
 "Say, mother, what harum-scarum 
 Idea is this you've framed ? 
 
 Fear not, fear not. 
 
 For even if caught 
 By Lawton's troops untamed. 
 You'll grace no Yankee harem 
 Nor yet be a slave for sale. 
 
 And those Yankee chaps 
 
 Some day, perhaps. 
 Might let you out on bail." 
 
 Thus saying the dauntless leader 
 Picked up his valise and skipped. 
 In vain the chase. 
 His lightning pace 
 Pursuers all outstripped. 
 But his mother, who was no speeder. 
 Just sat in her hut and whined. 
 And the Yanks came round 
 And all they found 
 Was the old girl left behind. 
 
 187 
 
Brother Jolo. 
 
 Uncle Sam plays no longer a solo ; 
 
 Without the least sign of regret 
 He has taken the Sultan of Jolo 
 
 To join in a ruling duet. 
 ''Yes," quoth Sam to the Sultan, "Old chappie, 
 
 Your throne I don't want to pull down, 
 Your vassalage won't be unhappy. 
 
 For, lad, I shall leave you your crown." 
 
 "My liege," quoth the Sultan, "pray tell me, 
 
 In case to my slaves I hold on. 
 Do you mean to chastise and expel me 
 
 And leave me completely undone? 
 And then my poor wives — will you scare 'em 
 
 By ruling polygamy out ? 
 Oh, sire, if I give up my harem 
 
 My glory will vanish, no doubt." 
 
 "Fear not," Uncle Sam answered gaily, 
 
 Though slavery counts among us 
 As a thing that is deucedly scaly, 
 
 About it we'll not have a fuss ; 
 And your wives — well, we won't be outlawing 
 
 Those ladies. Just keep the whole crew. 
 For a careful distinction wx're drawing 
 
 Between Brigham Roberts and you." 
 
 Quoth the Sultan: "You'll certainly lay me 
 
 Beneath obligations immense. 
 If a stipend you're willing to pay me. 
 
 I'd like to have some recompense." 
 "Dear fellow, I'll do it," said Sammy. 
 
 "Five dollars a week is the price, 
 And your chiefs and your courtiers — why, damme, 
 
 For them five a year should sufiiice." 
 
The bargain was closed and 'twas settled 
 
 That henceforth the star-spangled flag 
 Should float o'er the Moros high-mettled, 
 
 Confounding such traitors as '*Ag." 
 Ended now was the vile domination 
 
 Of pirates and bandits and "sich," 
 And we added an isle to our nation 
 
 Without the least sign of a hitch. 
 
 Then here's to our brothers in Jolo, 
 
 No longer condemned and despised, 
 They have laid down the gun and the bolo 
 
 And as Yankees they're now recognized; 
 They are yellow, but bless you! their color 
 
 With us shouldn't cut any ice, 
 For their isle will yield many a dollar 
 
 And oh, but it's cheap at the price! 
 
 The Ground Hog, 
 
 In tradition old and hoary 
 Treasured up in song and story 
 (Jealously such things are hoarded), 
 Solemnly it is recorded 
 
 That upon this date and day 
 From his hole, where he's been sleeping 
 Through the winter, softly creeping 
 Comes the ground hog, nosing, Avinking, 
 Sizing up the scene and blinking 
 
 In a very furtive way. 
 
 Not in fashion helter skelter 
 Does he issue from his shelter. 
 There in quarters snug and cozy 
 He's been having dreams of rosy 
 
 Times when summer days come round. 
 There no biting blasts could chill him 
 And with pains rheumatic fill him. 
 Thickest snowstorms never "fazed" him. 
 Zero's edges never grazed him ; 
 
 He's been warm and safe and sound. 
 
 189 
 
Shyly he slips out and shivers. 
 Aye, in ev'ry nerve he quivers. 
 For he dreads the wintry tussle, 
 Dreads the Ice King on his muscle, 
 
 Dreads Jack Frost's inclement hand. 
 And his heart within him flutters, 
 And the sentiments he utters 
 Signify his anxious feeling 
 In the face of things congealing 
 
 Ev'rywhere throughout the land. 
 
 Now for him there comes a crisis. 
 Minus warnings or advices. 
 He must deftly put together 
 Two and two and gauge the weather, 
 
 Gauge for forty days ahead. 
 All mankind on him depending 
 Waits upon the fateful ending 
 Of his mission. Ah, 'twould grieve us 
 If the ground hog should deceive us. 
 
 But he never does, 'tis said. 
 
 If the sun he should set eyes on 
 Climbing up from the horizon, 
 And his shadow darkly throwing 
 On the snow, then he'll be going 
 
 Underground again to snooze. 
 And for forty days unpleasant 
 Things will keep on as at present. 
 Freezing right along and snowing, 
 Likewise polar winds a-blowing 
 
 While men shiver in their shoes. 
 
 But if he beholds no trace of 
 Sun and shadow, then in place of 
 Going back again to cover 
 He'll stay out, for winter's over 
 
 And the way for spring is clear. 
 Hence humanity has reason 
 At this very doubtful season 
 In the very choicest phrases 
 To recite the ground hog's praises, 
 
 .And that's why these lines appear. 
 
 190 
 
Lady Smith. 
 
 Do you hear that distant drumming, 
 
 Lady Smith, Lady Smith? 
 That's a sign that Buller's coming, 
 Lady Smith, Lady Smith. 
 
 He has sworn by high and low 
 To release you from the foe. 
 But he happens to be slow. 
 Lady Smith, Lady Smith. 
 He is desperately slow, 
 Lady Smith. 
 
 Do not kick because he's tardy, 
 
 Lady Smith, Lady Smith. 
 Haste, you know, would be foolhardy, 
 Lady Smith, Lady Smith. 
 
 For 'twixt you and him there lurk 
 Foes that, like the heartless Turk, 
 Do all sorts of deadly work. 
 Lady Smith, Lady Smith. 
 Theirs is very deadly work, 
 Lady Smith. 
 
 How, indeed, could BuUer hustle, 
 
 Lady Smith, Lady Smith, 
 When with Boers he has to tussle, 
 Lady Smith, Lady Smith ? 
 
 They have guns on ev'ry kop. 
 Firing broadsides from the top. 
 And they simply will not stop, 
 
 Lady Smith, Lady Smith. 
 They're too hard of heart to stop, 
 Lady Smith. 
 Ill 
 
Buller once essayed to flank 'em, 
 
 Lady Smith, Lady Smith; 
 And he really hoped to spank 'em. 
 Lady Smith, Lady Smith. 
 Spion Kop he occupied, 
 But the Boers ran up the side. 
 Then the Britons mostly died, " 
 
 Lady Smith, Lady Smith. 
 Quite a number of 'em died. 
 Lady Smith. 
 
 Buller ever since is careful. 
 Lady Smith, Lady Smith. 
 He is watchful now and pray'rful, 
 Lady Smith, Lady Smith. 
 He is hoping that some day 
 He will find a passageway 
 And slip through without delay. 
 
 Lady Smith, Lady Smith. 
 There will then be no delay. 
 Lady Smith. 
 
 Then wait patiently and coolly, 
 
 Lady Smith, Lady Smith. 
 Don't be fractious and unruly. 
 Lady Smith, Lady Smith. 
 For be sure, the British race 
 Won't commit desertion base 
 When a lady's in the case, 
 Lady Smith, Lady Smith. 
 And it won't neglect your case, 
 Lady Smith. 
 
 192 
 
 C 32 89 iff 
 
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