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SONGS 
 
 of 
 
 CY WARMAN 
 
 ^ 
 
 Published by 
 RAND AVERY CO., BOSTON 
 McLEOD & ALLEN, TORONTO 
 

 ^ 
 
 II 
 
 Copyright, 1911 
 
 Rand Avery Co., 
 
 Boston. 
 
 
 ©CLA286285 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 SONGS 
 
 Page 
 
 Sapho 9 
 
 When the Dark comes Down 10 
 
 When She Sings 11 
 
 When the Cows are coming Home 12 
 
 The Sad Sea . . . 13 
 
 You, Love 14 
 
 Happy Folks 15 
 
 Indiana 16 
 
 Cupid is King op the Seas 18 
 
 Song of a Serenader 19 
 
 How I Love Her 21 
 
 Heart of My Heart 21 
 
 This Little Pig went to Market 22 
 
 Forgotten 24 
 
 All is Well 25 
 
 Here Below 26 
 
 The Joy of Love 27 
 
 We were Deceived 28 
 
 Woman's Silence ' . . 29 
 
 It means so Much 30 
 
 Little Papoose 31 
 
 Little Wild Goose 32 
 
 The Sea 34 
 
 The Long, Hard Hill 35 
 
 A Country Town 37 
 
 Fiddle-de-dee 38 
 
 Clickety Click 39 
 
 Hush-a-by, Little One, Sleep 40 
 
 The Land of Annie Laurie 41 
 
 Constancy 42 
 
 Ashes 43 
 
 Morning on the Yukon 44 
 
 Agnes, I Love Thee 45 
 
 Whom do you Love? 46 
 
 The Columbine 47 
 
 Old Red Hoss Mountain 48 
 
 The Desert Mail 50 
 
 It cannot Be 51 
 
 The Eyes of Lizzette 52 
 
 " And you'll remember Me " 53 
 
 My Little Love 54 
 
 Nature Songs 55 
 
 Hoss Sense 55 
 
 An Antique Love Song 56 
 
 Love among the Mountains 57 
 
 Non Committal 58 
 
 Mother and I 59 
 
 An' de Watahmelon's ripen' all Aroun' 61 
 
 Because we Love 62 
 
 Sweet Marie . 63 
 
 The Convent 64 
 
 Song of a Sound Sailor 65 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 THOUGHTFUL RHYMES 
 
 Page 
 
 Will the Lights be White? 69 
 
 Alaska 70 
 
 This Life is Good 71 
 
 Hereafter 72 
 
 "All's Well with the World" 74 
 
 The Harvest 75 
 
 The Rise and Fall of Creede 76 
 
 The Soul of the Saskatchewan 78 
 
 The Bull Team 79 
 
 The Wreck at Cabaza 80 
 
 Two Soldiers 81 
 
 Sangre de Christo 82 
 
 There is no Death 83 
 
 Under the Willows 84 
 
 Little Theresa, the Waif 86 
 
 My Friend — the Prospector 87 
 
 In the Twilight 88 
 
 Where Women don't Go 89 
 
 We Never Know 90 
 
 God is Love 91 
 
 Give us this Day 92 
 
 Waiting for the Wild Goose 93 
 
 Transportation 94 
 
 To-morrow 95 
 
 " Give me not Riches " 96 
 
 Grief 96 
 
 Memorial Day 97 
 
 The Stage Coach 98 
 
 The Cry of a Shipwrecked Soul 99 
 
 The Widower 101 
 
 The Isolation of a Child 102 
 
 The West 103 
 
 The Canon of the Grand 104 
 
 In Memory 105 
 
 Sic Transit Gloria Mundi 106 
 
 Where the Flowers Talk 107 
 
 When we go off and Die 108 
 
 Lo, the Poor Indian 109 
 
 Worrisome Jim Ill 
 
 Bad on the Bird 112 
 
 Gentle Annie 113 
 
 The Way we Walked 114 
 
 The City Choir 115 
 
 We ain't had no Spring 116 
 
 The Death of a Dew-drop 116 
 
 The Printer 117 
 
 Jealousy 117 
 
 The Flyer 118 
 
 Engine .007 119 
 
 i ought to be better 123 
 
 The Princess Inginita 124 
 
 The Passing of the Locomotive — A Reverie .... 125 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Page 
 
 By-and-By 126 
 
 I would Know my Native Land 127 
 
 On Marshall Pass 128 
 
 Period! 130 
 
 The All Red Indian 131 
 
 The Sundown Sea 133 
 
 The Cry of a Wounded Heart 134 
 
 Local Color 134 
 
 is it really any good? 135 
 
 At the Rainbow's Tip 138 
 
 A Toast 138 
 
 To Baby Asleep 139 
 
 A Reporter's Report 140 
 
 Summer's Gone 145 
 
 The Poet and the Publisher 146 
 
 The First Christmas Gift 146 
 
 Adown the Dusky Dell 147 
 
 Misunderstood 148 
 
 Gone 149 
 
 CITIES I HAVE SEEN 
 
 Colorado Springs 153 
 
 Jerusalem 154 
 
 Salt Lake 155 
 
 In Montreal 155 
 
 Cheyenne 156 
 
 Cairo 158 
 
 San Francisco, 1894 159 
 
 Creede 160 
 
 Denver 161 
 
 In Saint Paul 162 
 
 Cripple Creek 163 
 
 At Jaffa 164 
 
 MORE OR LESS PERSONAL 
 
 A Tribute to Dr. Drummond . 167 
 
 To a Photograph — B. W 168 
 
 Pauline 168 
 
 Robert Elliot 169 
 
 To Mrs. for Charity 170 
 
 Bill and Hy 171 
 
 Jiu-Jitzu vs. Hockey 172 
 
 Friendship 173 
 
 To Julian Ralph, in China 175 
 
 To J. W. S. . 175 
 
 Him 176 
 
 Henry Prew 176 
 
 Father J. C 177 
 
Songs 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 SAPHO 
 
 Soul of Sapho ! if to-night, 
 When my boat is drifting near 
 
 Your fair island, spirit bright; 
 If I sing, and if you hear, 
 
 From your island in the sea, 
 Soul of Sapho, signal me. 
 
 Soul of Sapho ! they have said 
 That your hair, tho' not of gold, 
 
 Made a halo for your head; 
 
 And your eyes, I have been told, 
 
 Were like stars. O ! from the sea, 
 Soul of Sapho, speak to me. 
 
 Soul of Sapho, awake, awake, 
 Wake and tune your harp again; 
 
 While the foaming billows break 
 Let your song sweep o'er the main; 
 
 From your island in the sea, 
 Soul of Sapho, sing to me. 
 
 [91 
 
SONGS OF CY WARM AN 
 
 WHEN THE DARK COMES DOWN 
 
 Queen of my heart, when the dark comes down, 
 When the lingering light in the red, warm west 
 Glows faintly and fades over tower and town, 
 A new light burns in my happy breast. 
 I know it is morning wherever thou art, 
 Queen of my heart ! 
 
 Queen of my heart, when the day is drear, 
 And I take my scourge for the deeds I've done, 
 The dark clouds scatter when you draw near, 
 A rainbow smiles on the setting sun. 
 There's always a rainbow wherever thou art, 
 Queen of my heart ! 
 
 Queen of my heart, when the roses die, 
 
 And the low winds waltz with the eddying leaves, 
 
 We know a happiness, you and I, 
 
 Though the raindrops drip from the drooping 
 
 eaves. 
 I know it is summer, wherever thou art, 
 Queen of my heart ! 
 
 [10] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 WHEN SHE SINGS 
 
 When she sings the song birds listen, 
 While the pearly dewdrops glisten 
 On the hedge and on the hawthorn, 
 Trembling, poised on outspread wings; 
 And at night the moon swings nearer, 
 And the stars are hushed to hear her, 
 E'en the nightingale is silent, 
 Awed and silent when she sings. 
 
 When she sings the withered grasses 
 Catch the low wind as it passes, 
 
 Whispering, hush, and hushing hearken 
 While the dread of death takes wings; 
 And the summer roses, dying, 
 Smile one last sweet smile, and sighing, 
 Fold in peace their perfumed petals, 
 Soothed and solaced, when she sings. 
 
 [11] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 WHEN THE COWS ARE COMING HOME 
 
 Come, my love, and let us wander 
 'Cross the hills and over yonder; 
 We shall find the tangled trails we used to 
 roam; 
 Where the distant sea was moaning 
 And the honey bees were droning 
 
 In the twilight when the cows were coming 
 home. 
 
 Hear the tingle, tongle, tangle of the bells, 
 As they dingle on the downs and in the dells; 
 
 O'er the meadow in the gloam 
 
 See the cows are coming home; 
 Hear the dingle, dongle, dangle of the bells. 
 
 O, the sweet forget-me-never, 
 I should like to live forever, 
 
 Never more than two months either way from 
 June ; 
 Where the cherry blooms were falling 
 And the silver bells were calling 
 
 Through the twilight of a summer's afternoon. 
 
 [12] 
 
SONGS OF CY WABMAN 
 
 THE SAD SEA 
 
 " What makes the sea so sad, mother?" 
 
 Whispered a little child. 
 " Why do the billows sigh and break, 
 
 And why are the waves so wild?" 
 " The rivers run down to the sea 
 
 With all their grief, my lad, 
 And flood the sea with their misery, 
 
 And that's why the sea is sad. 
 
 " The Hudson goes with Gotham's woes, 
 
 And Paris chokes the Seine ; 
 The Danube blue and the dark Thames, too, 
 
 All hurrying to the main; 
 Losing the song of the running rill, 
 
 But keeping all that's bad, 
 They flood the sea with their misery, 
 
 And that's why the sea is sad." 
 
 [13] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 YOU, LOVE 
 
 (A Duet) 
 
 " When the rose in the East shows the long night 
 is gone" — 
 
 " I wake and watch for you." 
 "When you open your eyes, love, to welcome 
 the dawn' 7 — 
 
 "Darling, they look for you." 
 "Through the long summer day, in the sun's 
 
 golden gleam, 
 When the night shadows fall and the silver stars 
 
 beam, 
 When you lie a-sleeping, of whom do you 
 dream?" 
 
 "Darling, of you, of you." 
 
 Chorus 
 
 Of you, love, my true love, 
 
 When bright stars are beaming, 
 Of you I am dreaming, 
 
 Of you, love, my true love, 
 My darling, of you, of you. 
 
 " If you had but one life to live, where would you 
 live?" 
 
 "Love, I would live near you." 
 [14] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 "Had the gods but one gift, what would you 
 have them give?" 
 
 " O, I would ask for you." 
 "If you had the wings of a dove, would you 
 
 breast 
 The wind of the East or the wind of the West, 
 And when you're a- weary, 0, where would you 
 rest?" 
 
 "Darling, near you, near you." 
 
 Chorus 
 
 Near you, love, my true love, 
 
 And when I am weary 
 
 Of wandering, my dearie, 
 Near you, love, my true love, 
 
 My darling, near you, near you. 
 
 HAPPY FOLKS 
 
 Lucky beggars of Barbados, 
 Have no trouble — wear no clothes; 
 Want a banquet, they build a dish 
 Of sweet potatoes and flying fish; 
 And that I reckon's the reason why 
 The girls are sweet and the boys are fly. 
 
 [15] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 INDIANA 
 
 Hear the boastful bugles screaming high above 
 
 the rolling cheers, 
 See the Hoosier Gov'ner beaming on his valiant 
 
 volunteers ; 
 While beneath a spreading chestnut, where the 
 
 somber shadows lie, 
 A soldier and his sweetheart say good-bye. 
 " Forget? I'll ne'er forget you, love, and you'll 
 
 forget me not, 
 Because I'll never let you in the land that God 
 
 forgot." 
 Now he vows with lifted gauntlet : " By the stars 
 
 that stud the blue, 
 I'll be faithful to my country and to you." 
 
 " I'll come back to Indiana when this wicked war 
 
 is o'er, 
 I'll come back to Indiana and I'll leave you, 
 
 love, no more; 
 We shall walk and talk together here beneath 
 
 our native sky, 
 I'll come back to Indiana, by-and-by." 
 
 We were scouting in an island on a summer's 
 afternoon, 
 
 In that windless hush that harbingers the trop- 
 ical typhoon, 
 
 [16] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 When we walked into an ambuscade and made a 
 
 final stand 
 Where we fought the Filipinos, hand to hand. 
 I could see our banner streaming, I could hear 
 
 the lusty cheers, 
 I could see our good swords gleaming 'mongst 
 
 the foeman's rusty spears; 
 When a naked, blood-mad 'Pino whipped around 
 
 to rear and thrust, 
 And our valiant Hoosier captain bit the dust. 
 
 * * * 
 
 " Take me back to Indiana, boys, don't leave me 
 
 here to rot 
 On the bogs and moors and marshes in the land 
 
 that God forgot." 
 Then he lay and stared in silence up against the 
 
 steely sky: 
 " Take me back to Indiana when I die." 
 
 (Softly) 
 
 "Take me back to Indiana" — he was groping 
 
 for our hands. 
 " Take me back to Indiana — there's a girl in 
 
 old Vincennes — 
 O, it grieves me sore that sorrow soon shall dim 
 
 her azure eye; 
 Take me back to Indiana by-and-by." 
 
 [17] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 CUPID IS KING OF THE SEAS 
 
 When the rain falls and the snow palls, 
 
 I can still see the sunshine above, 
 Tho' my sky's drear, in your eyes, dear, 
 
 I am reading my rainbow of love. 
 O'er the dark tides safe my barque rides 
 
 For Cupid is King of the Seas; 
 When the wind cries my heart sighs : 
 
 Eloise. 
 
 When the gun peals and the sun reels 
 
 And the hushed world is holding its breath, 
 When the horns blare where the slain stare 
 
 And the Cannon are bellowing death, 
 Still our flag streams where the shell screams 
 
 For Cupid is King of the Seas. 
 When the storm dies my heart sighs : 
 
 Eloise. 
 
 [18] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 SONG OF A SERENADER 
 
 One night beneath my window, when the stars 
 
 were bright above 
 The music of a mandolin, blent with a lay of love, 
 Came stealing through the stillness like the 
 
 balmy breath of spring; 
 I opened up my window-blinds and heard a 
 
 singer sing : 
 
 " Cupid is an archer, and his arrow's ever set, 
 And swift and sure the arrow flies, as from a 
 
 falconet; 
 His bow is ever trusty and his aim is ever true. 
 Be wary of the archer when his arrow's aimed 
 
 at you!" 
 
 At first I only lingered there to listen for a while. 
 And thought the singer only sang the hours to 
 
 beguile. 
 My heart began to tremble with the touch of 
 
 every string. 
 I opened wide my window-blinds and heard the 
 
 singer sing : 
 
 " Cupid is an archer, and his arrow's ever set, 
 And swift and sure the arrow flies, as from a 
 
 falconet; 
 His bow is ever trusty and his aim is ever true. 
 
 [19] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 Be wary of the archer when his arrow's aimed 
 at you!" 
 
 The weary day I'm waiting for the twilight 
 
 shades to fall, 
 And where the tangled woodland waves I hear 
 
 the lone dove call. 
 The song of running brooklets and a thousand 
 
 birds a- wing 
 My eager ears will hear not, when my love begins 
 
 to sing: 
 
 " Cupid is an archer, and his arrow's ever set, 
 And swift and sure the arrow flies, as from a 
 
 falconet ; 
 His bow is ever trusty and his aim is ever true. 
 Be wary of the archer when his arrow's aimed at 
 
 you!" 
 
 [20] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 HOW I LOVE HER 
 
 Go, laughing, leaping, romping rill, 
 
 Go where my love is straying, 
 And, in the pools when you are still, 
 
 Then list to what she's saying; 
 And with the sunny, summer skies 
 
 Of azure arched above her, 
 Show her her own angelic eyes, 
 
 And tell her how I love her. 
 
 Go, gentle winds, soft, sighing winds, 
 
 Go where my love is sleeping, 
 And be about her window blinds 
 
 And through the curtains creeping; 
 Weave in the wimples of her hair 
 
 The perfume of the clover, 
 Caress her face, so sweet and fair, 
 
 And tell her how I love her. 
 
 HEART OF MY HEART 
 
 0, darling ! the first pale crocus peeps 
 
 Through a crack in the crusted snow; 
 Awake and awaken our love that sleeps, 
 
 Our love of the long ago. 
 And 0, my soul, when the world is fair 
 
 And sweet with the smell of June : 
 Ah, little I dreamed you would cease to care — 
 
 Heart of my heart so soon. 
 
 [21] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 THIS LITTLE PIG WENT TO MARKET 
 
 The moon looked down on Denver one matchless 
 summer night 
 And bathed the earth in splendor, a flood of 
 silver light 
 Suffused the hills and valley s, all warp't in sweet 
 repose ; 
 We wandered near a garden, I mind I smelled 
 a rose. 
 We rested in the garden, I and my heart's 
 delight : 
 The moon beamed down on Denver that 
 scented summer night. 
 
 The rain came down in Denver one blowy au- 
 tumn night, 
 One bleak night in November, and blurred the 
 tower light. 
 I told my love a story, the grate glowed warm 
 and red; 
 She toyed with her fair fingers, then slowly 
 shook her head. 
 She kindly drew her curtain to give my going 
 light; 
 Oh, how it rained in Denver that black 
 November night ! 
 
 [22] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 The snow came down in Denver, one windless 
 winter night, 
 And robed the earth in splendor, in splendid 
 robe of white; 
 I told the same old story, she did not shake her 
 head, 
 But toyed with her fair fingers. I took her 
 hand and said: 
 "And this pig went to market, and this pig 
 stayed at home. 
 This little pig had roast beef, this little pig 
 had none." 
 
 * * * 
 
 Eight years ! The snow is falling to-night. Not 
 far away 
 I hear a baby calling and hear its mother say : 
 "And this pig went to market, and this pig 
 stayed at home. 
 This little pig had roast beef, this little pig 
 had none." 
 Down past my study window the snow flakes 
 flutter white, 
 Just as they did in Denver that windless winter 
 night. 
 
 [23] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 FORGOTTEN 
 
 Far out in the West-land, where the sun goes down, 
 Dwelt a little maiden in a mountain town. 
 Oft I used to see her — oft I used to say : 
 "I will sing a love song to the maid some day." 
 
 Drearily the years dragged ; she was very young ; 
 I was much her senior when the song was sung ; 
 Still, I thought a teardrop trembled in her eye 
 When she stood a-tiptoe kissing me good-by. 
 
 Far away I wandered, where the breakers roar, 
 Where the mighty ships come from a foreign 
 
 shore ; 
 How my poor heart hungered, when the sun 
 
 went down, 
 For the little maiden in the mountain town. 
 
 Years: the city lured me with a thousand 
 
 charms, 
 And I soon grew weary of my idle arms. 
 Myriads of maidens, hair of golden brown — 
 I forgot the maiden in the mountain town. 
 
 Wretch! how oft her pillow has been wet with 
 
 tears; 
 How she must have mourned me all these weary 
 
 years ! 
 Sitting with her sorrow 'neath the cedar there, 
 Weaving little wild flowers in her sunny hair. 
 [24] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 Now, her tear-stained face did haunt me so 
 
 to-day, 
 That I turned for surcease to the matinee. 
 Lo ! My mountain maid, with new and sunnier 
 
 hair, 
 Sans her sorrow played as leading lady there. 
 
 ALL IS WELL 
 
 Slowly my native shore sinks in the sea, 
 O, must we meet no more, Vonda Marie? 
 
 Lo, now life's summer dies 
 
 There where my treasure lies; 
 God give you sunny skies, Vonda Marie. 
 
 Slowly the dark ship ploughs deep in the waves, 
 Over the armored bows Old Ocean laves; 
 Here comes a screaming shell, 
 There goes the midnight bell — 
 God watches — all is well, Vonda Marie. 
 
 [25] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 HERE BELOW 
 
 You can talk about your honey- 
 Suckle home beyond the sky, 
 
 Your sun-kissed over yonder, 
 And your blooming by-and-by; 
 
 Of the silver waves that warble 
 Up against the golden shore ; 
 
 Of your heathery hereafter, 
 And your endless evermore, 
 
 But if you've a lot of rapture 
 And would like to let it go, 
 
 Just sift a little sunshine 
 In the shadows here below. 
 
 Don't cluster up your kisses 
 
 For my cold and clammy brow. 
 This life is long and lonely — 
 
 Come and let me feel them now. 
 It's all right to lay up treasures 
 
 In the realms where they won't rust; 
 And to figure on the future, 
 
 And to try to put your trust 
 In Him who made the Universe; 
 
 But it won't hurt, I know, 
 To sift a little sunshine 
 
 In the shadows here below. 
 
 [26] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 THE JOY OF LOVE 
 
 Oh, how I love my love; such laughing eyes — 
 Sweet, dreamy eyes, like little sun-kist seas, 
 
 And face flushed like the west when daylight dies, 
 Whose breath is like a summer-scented breeze. 
 
 Where'er she walks the birds sing in their 
 bowers, 
 And mock her voice, melodious and sweet ; 
 She steals the peace and perfume of the flowers 
 Whose little leaves are crushed beneath her 
 feet. 
 
 'Twas not the beauty of her face alone, 
 
 Nor yet her form, my willing heart that stole, 
 
 But sweeter still, the light of love that shone 
 From out her eyes, reflected from her soul. 
 
 Long winter nights we watch the glowing grate; 
 
 Her low, sweet laugh makes music like the 
 streams 
 That flow through forests ; when I leave her late 
 
 'Tis only to return to her in dreams. 
 
 How sweet to love, to have the heart enslaved, 
 
 Your future in a woman's hands ! What bliss 
 To know each day life's sweetest sweets are 
 saved 
 By woman's soft caress or tender kiss. 
 
 [27] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 If I could pray a prayer that God would hear 
 And answer, I would ask the powers above, 
 
 That all mankind upon this fading sphere 
 Be once allowed to taste the joy of love. 
 
 WE WERE DECEIVED 
 
 A wild Juanita, black and tan, 
 
 Rode into Wingate on a mule; 
 Met a Chicago traveling man: 
 Who told her, as a drummer can, 
 
 That she was wildly beautiful. 
 She smiled, she hoped, she lived ! Alas ! 
 She looked into a looking-glass. 
 
 "You are a poet," my friend said; 
 
 "Your fame has flashed from coast to coast. 
 You will be read when Riley's dead, 
 And Field has faded. Yes!" he said, 
 
 " If not before. You're Shakespeare's ghost." 
 But now, I sympathize with her, 
 The maid; I've seen the publisher. 
 
 [28] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 WOMAN'S SILENCE 
 
 'Tain't no use to woo a woman when she thinks 
 
 she wants to talk; 
 'Cause a woman's only human, and you'd better 
 
 take a walk 
 'Till she simmers down and settles; when a 
 
 woman's on her ear, 
 What she has to say in silence is the pleasantest 
 
 to hear. 
 
 'Tain't no use to try to crowd her, 'cause she's 
 
 bound to have her say; 
 You talk loud, and she'll talk louder; it is best 
 
 to break away, 
 When she's in the upper octaves, better wander 
 
 from her view; 
 For the song she sings in silence is the sweetest 
 
 song for you. 
 
 But you can coax her and caress her, and she'll 
 melt and run to you 
 
 Like the 'lasses on your pancakes in your boy- 
 hood used to do. 
 
 If you have a sorrow tell her, then just watch 
 the teardrops fall, 
 
 And the sighs she sighs in silence are the saddest 
 sighs of all. 
 
 [29] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 When you ask a girl to marry, and she hangs on 
 what you've said, 
 
 While your hope hangs on her answer, and the 
 moon hangs overhead; 
 
 When you seem to see the thought she thinks, 
 and kinder feel her fall, 
 
 That's her answer, said in silence, 'tis the sweet- 
 est word of all. 
 
 IT MEANS SO MUCH 
 
 Don't think me mercenary, pray, 
 Because I fain would sell this rhyme, 
 
 Or any rhyme; but every day 
 
 When I sit down to write, each time, 
 
 I've this assurance, all the while, 
 
 ■ Twill make at least one woman smile. 
 
 E'en though it may be hard to guess, 
 Unless to dally with the muse, 
 
 Just why we write; some will excuse 
 And some will call it meaningless; 
 
 But, Oh, it means so much to her, 
 My golden-haired stenographer. 
 
 [30] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 LITTLE PAPOOSE 
 
 Little papoose in a wicker of reed, 
 
 Under the willow bough swings, 
 Catching the music where over the mead 
 
 Rippling the rivulet sings. 
 Sings where the fairest of flowers are found, 
 Sings where the summer is all the year around, 
 Here where the beauties of nature abound, 
 Rippling the rivulet sings. 
 
 Refrain 
 
 Swing, swing, little papoose, 
 
 Gitchie will mind you 
 Swing, swing, little papoose 
 
 Mite hie won't find you, 
 Swing, swing, little papoose, 
 Husha, my brown baby, swing. 
 
 Agate and onyx and malachite beads, 
 Plata that's ribboned and rolled; 
 
 Mocassins made from the bark of the reeds, 
 Glittering garters of gold. 
 
 Catching the sound with his delicate ear, 
 
 Catching the croon when his mother is near. 
 
 Hearing the hoofs of the galloping deer, 
 Bounding away o'er the wolde. 
 
 [31] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARM AN 
 
 LITTLE WILD GOOSE 
 
 A wild goose lit in the Lake of Bays, lighter than 
 
 the floating foam; 
 She swam around for days and days looking for 
 a summer home. 
 She found a place and she made a nest, 
 Screened from the wind of the wide North 
 
 West 
 And she warmed her eggs with eider breast, 
 Cosy little summer home. 
 
 A grey goose gave her things to eat, gathered 
 
 from the floating foam; 
 She gave him love and life was sweet, mating 
 in their summer home. 
 And there they lived as man and wife 
 And nothing knew of care or strife, 
 'Till beneath her breast she felt new life 
 Waking in her summer home. 
 
 The baby geese began to swim, floating on the 
 
 floating foam ; 
 Just little laps from her to him, — happy little 
 summer home. 
 But one of them got up to fly 
 And he soared away to the sunny sky, 
 Then the mother goose began to cry : 
 "O! little wild goose, come home." 
 [32] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 He bathed his back in the summer sun, high up 
 
 in the azure dome, 
 Above a bad man with a gun — " ! little wild 
 goose, come home." 
 He raised his voice and he tried to sing 
 Such a quaint crude song, poor little thing ! 
 Then tumbled down with a broken wing, 
 "0! little wild goose, come home." 
 
 The mother wild goose saw him fall and flutter in 
 
 the floating foam ; 
 The wounded wild goose heard her call, "O! 
 little wild goose, come home." 
 He knew which way he ought to go 
 And he tried to swim, but he swam so slow, 
 For the wounded wing now pained him so, 
 "0! little wild goose, come home." 
 
 The wild goose soared across the lake, high above 
 
 the floating foam ; 
 It seemed to her her heart would break; "O! 
 little wild goose, come home." 
 Then the baby caught his mother's tail 
 And across the lake the two set sail; 
 Thus towed he rode with a Gitche gale 
 And the little wild goose went home. 
 
 [33] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 She folded up his wounded wing, floating on the 
 
 floating foam ; 
 And said, " Don't cry, poor little thing, little 
 wild goose is home." 
 And when the baby goose could stand 
 And flap his wings on the shifting sand, 
 He soared away to a sunny land, 
 And the little wild goose went home. 
 
 THE SEA 
 
 If I had too much money, money that I couldn't 
 
 use, 
 I'd spring a new philanthrophy that would be 
 
 joyful news 
 To seven million babies (if such a thing might be) 
 Whom I'd round up and I'd lead down to the sea, 
 And let them cool their kick-kicks in the sea. 
 
 And with them all lined up there and holding 
 
 hand to hand, 
 Their happy faces shining like sunlight on the 
 
 sand; 
 Angels would ope their windows (if such a thing 
 
 might be) 
 To see so many, sinless, by the sea 
 And watch them cool their kick-kicks in the 
 
 sea. 
 [34] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 THE LONG HARD HILL 
 
 They were standing in the sunlight 
 
 Of the summer time of life ; 
 She was still without a husband, 
 
 He was waiting for a wife. 
 And her cheeks were rich and rosy 
 
 And her lips were lucious red, 
 So he pressed her dimpled fingers 
 
 As he looked at her and said, 
 As they stood there in the heather 
 
 Where the road had crossed the rill : 
 "May we not fare together 
 
 Up this long, hard hill?" 
 
 Now her hand began to tremble 
 
 And her eyes were full of tears 
 As she trained them on the road that 
 
 Wound away among the years; 
 But she had no voice to answer 
 
 Him; she could not understand, 
 For the future lay before her 
 
 Like a far-off fairy land. 
 There was sunlight on the heather, 
 
 There was music in the rill, 
 As they went away together 
 
 Up the long, hard hill. 
 
 [35] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 Oftentimes the way was sunny, 
 
 Other times 'twas full of lures, 
 But the love that had come to them 
 
 Was the true love that endures. 
 Though the bony brow is wrinkled, 
 
 Though the raven lock be gray, 
 Yet the road might have been rougher 
 
 Had she gone the other way. 
 Now the frost is on the heather 
 
 And the snow is on the rill, 
 And they're coasting down the short side 
 
 Of the long, hard hill. 
 
 [36] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 A COUNTRY TOWN 
 
 I like the freedom of a country town, 
 
 The air and the open of the country; 
 You can tell when the sun goes up and down 
 
 Out in the God-made country. 
 The creeks are clear and the skies are blue, 
 The hearts of the people are kind and true 
 An' folks do just as they want to do, 
 Folks that are livin' in the country. 
 
 I like the color of a country town, 
 
 Almost the color of the country; 
 Farmer's wife in a country gown, 
 
 Bringin' in things from the country. 
 Water-melons an' sweet nut-megs, 
 Country butter an' country eggs, 
 Country girls an' chickens with plump hard legs, 
 
 All comin' in from the country. 
 
 [37] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 FIDDLE-DE-DEE 
 
 The Irishman, Dutchman and Frenchman in me 
 Are always contending — their purposes cross ; 
 
 Wherever I journey there journey the three, 
 Each claiming predominant right to be boss 
 
 Of the big job of Life; they cannot agree, 
 
 This Irishman, Dutchman and Frenchman in me. 
 
 Says the Dutchman: "Get up once and harvest 
 the hay 
 Before the sunshines — would you be yet a 
 tramp 
 For the rest of your life? There will come a wet 
 day; 
 Put something aside." The Hibernian scamp, 
 Says, tugging my sleeve, with a wink of his eye : 
 "Be 'asy — ye're Irish — ye'll always be dhry." 
 
 "Par ici," the Frenchman calls, leading the way, 
 We walk where the South Wind is cradling 
 Spring. 
 
 We paint pleasant pictures the long Summer day, 
 And gather primroses, and loiter and sing. 
 
 And so, we do nothing but fiddle-de-dee, 
 
 This Irishman, Dutchman and Frenchman in me. 
 
 [38] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 CLICKETY CLICK 
 
 Clickety click ! as out of town 
 
 The engine picks her way; 
 Where barefoot children, sunburnt brown, 
 
 In dusty alleys play. 
 All the summer, early and late, 
 
 And in the autumn drear, 
 A maiden stands at the orchard gate, 
 
 And waves at the engineer. 
 
 He likes to look at her face so fair, 
 
 And her homely country dress; 
 She likes to look at the man up there 
 
 At the front of the fast express. 
 Clickety click ! though miles apart, 
 
 To her he is always near, 
 And she feels the click of her happy heart 
 
 For the heart of the engineer. 
 
 Over the river and down the dell, 
 
 Beside the running stream, 
 She hears the clang of the engine-bell — 
 
 The whistle's startled scream. 
 Clickety click ! An open switch — 
 
 Onward the engine flies. 
 Clickety click ! They're in the ditch ! 
 
 Oh, angels ! hide her eyes ! 
 
 T391 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 Clickety click, and down the track 
 
 The train will dash to-day; 
 But what of the ribbons of white and black 
 
 The engine wears away; 
 Clickety click ! Oh, worlds apart — 
 
 The maiden hangs her head. 
 There is no click in the maiden's heart — 
 
 The engineer is dead. 
 
 HUSH-A-BY, LITTLE ONE, SLEEP 
 
 Nature is sinking to peaceful repose, 
 
 Hush-a-by, little one, sleep; 
 Sweetly the dewdrop's asleep on the rose, 
 
 Hush-a-by, little one, sleep. 
 Heaven shield father wherever he be, 
 Whether on land or the billowy sea, 
 And bring him back to his baby and me — 
 
 Hush-a-by, little one, sleep. 
 
 Lightly the ripples play over the rill, 
 
 Hush-a-by, little one, sleep; 
 Singing the wild rose to sleep on the hill, 
 
 Hush-a-by, little one, sleep. 
 Softly the katydid sings in the vines, 
 Up from the lowlands the murmuring winds 
 Steal through the stillness to play with the 
 pines — 
 
 Hush-a-by, little one, sleep. 
 [40] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 THE LAND OF ANNIE LAURIE 
 
 Where the mists of London come not 
 
 To obscure the Scottish sky; 
 Where they call a maid a "Lassie," 
 
 And they all say "dee" for die; 
 In my hands I hold the heather, 
 
 And my feet are in the ferns 
 Of the Land of Annie Laurie 
 
 And the home of Bobbie Burns. 
 
 Now I put the hills behind me, 
 
 And o'er the ocean gray, 
 I gaze out toward the Occident 
 
 With tear- wet eyes to-day; 
 To earth's mainland — America — 
 
 My tired spirit turns 
 From the Land of Annie Laurie, 
 
 And the home of Bobbie Burns. 
 
 [41] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 CONSTANCY 
 
 When the ringdove is calling 
 
 Down the woodland, little darling, 
 When the hills have turned green 
 
 And all nature is new; 
 When the gentle rain, falling 
 
 O'er this good land, little darling, 
 Makes the old earth grow glad, 
 
 Then my heart yearns for you. 
 
 When the brown birds are winging 
 
 O'er the moorland, little darling, 
 And the gray gulls are blown 
 
 With the mist o'er the blue, 
 Then I long for the warm clasp 
 
 Of your hand, little darling; 
 When this old earth seems sad, 
 
 Then my heart yearns for you. 
 
 [421 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 ASHES 
 
 Alone, on the birdless barrens, 
 
 Alone by a southern sea, 
 The ghosts of the days that have vanished 
 
 Come scurrying back to me. 
 
 Then a face on my memory flashes 
 Like the flash of a falling star, 
 
 When I'm flicking the fading ashes 
 From the end of a good cigar. 
 
 Life's spring, with its buds of promise, 
 Life's summer, with rose of June; 
 
 But the buds, they burst so early, 
 And the roses die o'er soon. 
 
 A rustle of silk and laces, 
 
 The wind of a passing car, 
 Then gray are the once glad faces, 
 
 Like the ash of my good cigar. 
 
 [43] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 MORNING ON THE YUKON 
 
 'Twas morning on the Yukon : 
 
 The Yukon winds were fair. 
 Sunshine in the maiden's eyes ; 
 
 Sunlight on her hair : 
 Sunlight on the ripples, 
 
 Where the White Horse rapids roll. 
 They found a broken toll-gate, 
 
 And the maiden paid the toll. 
 
 The gate had been abandoned. 
 
 To the man 'twas not amiss. 
 He fixed the rate of tollage, 
 
 And the maiden paid a kiss. 
 The sunlight kissed the ripples, 
 
 Where the White Horse rapids roll, 
 Beside the broken toll-gate, 
 
 Where the maiden paid the toll. 
 
 He plucked a bunch of wild flowers, 
 
 And matched them with her eyes : 
 He matched them with her ribbon, 
 
 And matched them with the skies. 
 A willow arched the pathway. 
 
 He whispered, " O, my soul, 
 The fairies made this toll-gate, 
 
 And the maiden paid the toll. 
 
 [44] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 AGNES, I LOVE THEE 
 (After Hiene) 
 I stooped and wrote upon the sand 
 Along the shore, with trembling hand, 
 These words that she might understand : 
 
 Agnes, I love thee. 
 
 I watched the gentle waves wash o'er 
 These lines that lay upon the shore, 
 And leave them fairer than before : 
 Agnes, I love thee. 
 
 And so our love, from day to day 
 Grew stronger, better every way, 
 Until at last I dared to say: 
 Agnes, I love thee. 
 
 Alas, the sea got full one day 
 And came ashore and washed away 
 These lines that near the water lay: 
 Agnes, I love thee. 
 
 I climbed upon a mountain high, 
 Plucked a charred snag, wrote on the sky, 
 Above the waters high and dry: 
 Agnes, I love thee. 
 
 "I'd like to see some sloppy sea," 
 Said I, " slide up this canopy 
 And monkey with my motto, see? 
 Agnes, I love thee. 
 
 )} 
 
 [45] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 WHOM DO YOU LOVE? 
 
 " Whom do you love, my love?" she said, 
 
 As I bent my face above her; 
 And I tried to calm her and held her head, 
 And again in the same sweet voice she said : 
 
 "Whom do you love, my lover?" 
 
 " Look in your heart to-night and see 
 
 If there is a shadow in it, 
 A shadow of a thought that is not of me, 
 And tell me truly if there should be — 
 
 Whom do you love this minute?" 
 
 " Whom do you love? " — and her trembling hand 
 
 Left wandering caresses 
 Upon my face, and all the land 
 Was lit with love, and the night wind fanned 
 
 Her brow and shook her tresses. 
 
 " A woman's love is a priceless prize, 
 
 And if you should want to win it" — 
 And again I looked and to my surprise, 
 I saw two tears in her deep, dark eyes : 
 "Whom do you love this minute?" 
 
 " Whom do you love?" — and I caught the swell 
 
 Of her breast her grief had given, 
 And I touched her lips, and I smelled the smell 
 Of the passion flower and the Asphodel, 
 
 And earth was changed to heaven. 
 [46] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 " To me there's just one world, my dear, 
 
 And just two people in it, 
 And now to-night as we stand here 
 And I hold your hand have not a fear, 
 
 For I love you every minute." 
 
 THE COLUMBINE 
 
 Sweet Marie, here's a columbine, 
 
 The summer can surely spare it. 
 See! Here's a delicate twig to twine, 
 To braid in this beautiful hair of thine. 
 Sweet Marie, here's a columbine — 
 
 Take it, my queen, and wear it ! 
 
 Waved by the wind in the summer time ; 
 
 Wet by the summer showers; 
 Blown in the balm of this beautiful clime, 
 Over our heads where the hills are rime ; 
 Waved by the winds in the summer time — 
 
 Fairest of forest flowers. 
 
 And I have brought you this flower so fair, 
 Plucked from the hills above you, 
 
 To weave in the waves of your beautiful hair, 
 
 Or wear in your breast where the love songs are. 
 
 I have brought you this boutonniere — 
 Take it, because I love you. 
 
 [47] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 OLD RED HOSS MOUNTAIN 
 
 I've been to Red Hoss Mountain, where Field 
 
 once dwelt and wrote ; 
 I've seen the Place de Casey, but Casey's table 
 
 d'hote 
 Is gone ; and so is Casey. A solitary pine 
 The fires have spared now shadows the Gosh-all- 
 
 Hemlock Mine. 
 
 There's not a cabin standing, so that a man may say, 
 " The conversazzhyony in this abode held sway." 
 Aye, everything has perished save earth and sky 
 
 and space; 
 The bard of Red Hoss Mountain is gone to his 
 
 own place. 
 
 The mines are all abandoned, the rain-washed 
 
 trails are dim; 
 But where are all the people who tramped these 
 
 trails with him? [ a go, 
 
 And where are all the actors he staged here long 
 When magpies, "like winged shadows, were 
 
 fluttering to and fro"? 
 
 The trees that made the forest have fallen, one 
 
 by one, 
 Until Old Red Hoss Mountain lies bare beneath 
 
 the sun; 
 
 [48] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 Yet, in the deathlike stillness that hangs upon 
 
 the air, 
 I love to sit and fancy I feel his presence there. 
 
 Sweet soul ! He knew a heartache if e'en a robin 
 
 cried, 
 Then how he must have sorrowed when Martha's 
 
 baby died; 
 When strong, rough men stood weeping who had 
 
 not wept for years ; 
 With Martha's heart nigh breaking and Sorry 
 
 Tom in tears. 
 
 * * * 
 
 The brook that sang so " lonesome-like, an' loit- 
 ered on its way" 
 
 Is singing just as softly and lonesome-like to-day. 
 
 One pine above the hemlock and just one willow 
 weeps 
 
 Down in the ragged canyon where "Martha's 
 younket" sleeps. 
 
 [49] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 THE DESERT MAIL 
 
 When your feet have strayed from the everglade 
 
 To the shore of a shipless sea, [you're lost 
 When the bar you've crossed and at length 
 
 In its hushed immensity; 
 When you search the wild, with a silence piled 
 
 Waist deep, for the desert trail, 
 There's a distant roar like a sea ashore, 
 
 That's the moan of the desert mail. 
 
 Through the racing years there the engineers 
 
 Sit close to the cabin pane, 
 While they urge their steeds where the white 
 trail leads 
 
 Through the land of Little Rain; 
 Then out behind, on the desert wind, 
 
 Blown back like a bridal veil, 
 Far, dim and gray like the milky way, 
 
 Floats the dust of the desert mail. 
 
 When the gaunt wolves howl where the spirits 
 prowl — 
 
 The ghosts of the desert's dead, 
 And the living, lost, where their trails have crossed 
 
 Mill 'round, while the sun paints red 
 The western skies, as the long day dies 
 
 And the stars shine dim and pale; 
 There's a beacon fair on the desert there — 
 
 That's the light of the desert mail. 
 [50] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 IT CANNOT BE 
 
 The dying lips of a dear friend 
 
 At parting spoke to me, 
 Saying : " Wheresoe'er your path may trend 
 
 There ever I shall be. 
 
 "Go walk where over Egypt's sand 
 
 The burning simoons blow. 
 Or in Alaska's sunless land, 
 
 Your wake my wings shall know. 
 
 " When winter nights are long and dark 
 
 I'll lead you by the hand, 
 And when the waves beat on your bark 
 
 Will beacon you to land." 
 
 He died. I watched his spirit go 
 
 Across death's darkening sea : 
 He came not back, and now I know 
 
 Of things that cannot be. 
 
 [51] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 THE EYES OF LIZZETTE 
 
 The eyes of Lizzette were like miniature seas, 
 With ripples that laugh and willows that weep 
 
 On the shore; where the low-bending boughs of 
 the trees 
 Deepen and soften the shadows that creep 
 
 At night, near the water-edge. Can I forget 
 
 The far-away, ocean-like eyes of Lizzette? 
 
 Dear eyes of Lizzette ! I shall see them no more, 
 They are curtained in sleep — she is gone, she 
 
 is gone, 
 With her beautiful eyes to the evergreen shore ; 
 Death winged her away 'twixt the dusk and 
 
 the dawn. 
 There's a mound on the mountain-side where we 
 
 first met, 
 And the columbine blows o'er the eyes of 
 
 Lizzette. 
 
 [52] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 "AND YOU'LL REMEMBER ME 7 ' 
 
 One evening, as the sun went down 
 
 Among the golden hills 
 And silent shadows, soft and brown 
 
 Crept over vales and rills, 
 I watched the dusky bats a-wing 
 
 Dip down the dusky lea; 
 Hearkening, heard a maiden sing : 
 
 "And you'll remember me." 
 
 " When other lips and other hearts," 
 
 Came drifting through the trees; 
 " In language whose excess imparts," 
 
 Was borne upon the breeze. 
 Ah ! love is sweet and hope is strong 
 
 And life's a sunny sea, 
 A woman's soul is in her song; 
 
 "And you'll remember me." 
 
 Still rippling from the throbbing throat, 
 
 With joy akin to pain, 
 There seemed a tear in every note, 
 
 A sob in every strain; 
 Soft as the twilight shadows creep 
 
 Across the listless lea, 
 The singer sang her love to sleep 
 
 With, "You'll remember me." 
 
 [53] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 MY LITTLE LOVE 
 
 My little love, the livelong day 
 
 I've waited, toiled and dreamed 
 And wondered if I'd meet you here, 
 
 And, sweet, at times it seemed 
 That all my life's light would go out 
 
 Into a waste so drear, 
 If, when the shadows fell about, 
 
 I failed to find you here. 
 
 Ah, surely there's a lesson 
 
 To be learned in love like this; 
 Naught, save the hand of heaven, 
 
 Dear, could bring such boundless bliss. 
 Not that I love my Maker less; 
 
 His world is made more bright 
 When I can feel your fond caress 
 
 As we sit here to-night. 
 
 [54] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 NATURE SONGS 
 
 Tyrolian tomcat, every time 
 
 You scale an icy wall, 
 Know that the higher up you climb 
 
 The further you may fall. 
 
 And you, O summer birds, who win£ 
 The air the summer long, 
 
 Know that the merrier you sing 
 The more we'll miss your song. 
 
 HOSS SENSE 
 
 When the pheasant stops his drumming, 
 When the autumn's cyclone's coming, 
 
 When the gaunt gray wolf of winter is let loose 
 In the Injin Summer : Sonny, 
 Wouldn't you give ready money 
 
 For the wings and for the wisdom of a goose? 
 
 When the hoss that you are riding 
 Smells the cinnamon in hiding, 
 
 When he wheels and snorts and gives his head 
 a toss, 
 When he tries so hard to tell you 
 That the cinnamon can smell you — 
 Don't you wish you had the hoss sense of a hoss? 
 
 [55] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 AN ANTIQUE LOVE SONG 
 
 My lady fair, with eyes and hair, 
 
 And things to write about, 
 Elected to play I was going astray, 
 
 She wanted to try me out, out, out; 
 
 She wanted to try me out. 
 
 "Our love is dead/' my lady said, 
 
 And toyed with her hands and sighed, 
 
 Yet I knew that she knew that my heart was true 
 And the beautiful lady lied, lied, lied; 
 And the beautiful lady lied. 
 
 " The heart of gold will not grow cold, 
 
 Nor tire with time," I said, 
 "And the love that is sure will ever endure; 
 
 Nay, darling, our love is not dead, dead, 
 dead, 
 
 Nay, darling, our love's not dead." 
 
 "The love that's right will still burn bright, 
 Tho' the morning stars grow pale, 
 
 And the lover that's true will sorrow with you, 
 And go singing with you to jail, jail, jail, 
 And go singing with you to jail." 
 
 [56] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 LOVE AMONG THE MOUNTAINS 
 
 In a sequestered spot my love and I, 
 Hand clasped in hand, stood dreaming love's 
 sweet dream, 
 
 Watched from the craggy cliff the eagle fly, 
 And heard the far off murmur of the stream. 
 
 Ah! Happy soul in solitude that sips 
 
 From this grand cup of Nature sent from 
 heaven — 
 
 "But I," said I, "from your red rosy lips, 
 Quaff sweetest sweets by God or nature given. 
 
 "Hush, Hush!" she said, and dropped her 
 dusky head, 
 "Who knows what eyes are turned upon us 
 here?" 
 "The angels see, and say not that it's wrong," I 
 said, 
 And from her drooping lashes kissed a tear. 
 
 [57] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 NON COMMITTAL 
 
 "Who made the rose on the rose bush?" 
 
 " God made the red rose tree 
 And the lilies fair, in the garden there," 
 
 The little girl answered me. 
 
 " Who made the thorn on the rose bush?" 
 
 The little girl hung her head 
 With a troubled frown and eyes cast down, 
 Well — God made the rose," she said. 
 
 a 
 
 "Who made the sands at the seaside?" 
 " God made the sands of the sea, 
 
 And the waters blue, and the fishes, too," 
 The little girl answered me. 
 
 "Who made the dudes at the seaside?" 
 
 The little girl raised her head 
 With the faintest smile on her face the while 
 
 " Well — God made the sands," she said. 
 
 [58] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 MOTHER AND I 
 
 I laugh when I list to the stories they tell 
 
 Of how I was born one day; 
 And tied in a towel to kick and to yell, 
 
 And show them how much I could weigh. 
 And when they had finished and I'd ceased to cry, 
 
 While placidly chewing my thumb, 
 We pressed the same pillow, — mother and I, 
 
 And softly she started to hum : 
 
 " Rock-a-by-baby, on the tree top, 
 When the wind blows the cradle will rock ; 
 When the bough breaks the cradle will fall, 
 Down will come baby, cradle and all." 
 
 Sometimes, when I think of the days that are 
 dead, 
 
 And the joy of my youthful years — 
 Years that have rippled and gleamed and sped 
 
 With the tide down the ocean of tears ; 
 I remember at eve when the day would die 
 
 And the twilight shadows had come, 
 How we sat together — mother and I, 
 
 And softly I started to hum: 
 
 " Hush little mother, rest in my love, 
 None love you better except God above ; 
 Hush little mother, so loving and mild, 
 I'll be the mother now, you be the child." 
 
 [59] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARM AN 
 
 When together we sat in the gloaming again 
 
 In a faint and a feeble breath 
 Was wafted a song from over the fen — 
 
 From the valley and shadow of death; 
 'Twas the echo that came from the sweet by-and- 
 
 by, 
 
 And the voices were whispering ," Come." 
 We caught up the chorus — mother and I, 
 And softly we started to hum : 
 
 " Nearer, my God, to Thee, nearer to Thee, 
 E'en though it be a cross that raiseth me." 
 
 [60] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 AN' DE WATAHMELON'S RIPEN' ALL 
 AROUN' 
 
 I heah a noisy katydid a-shoutin' up a tree, 
 
 An' de watahmelon's ripen' all aroun'. 
 He orter be a sleepin' like de honey bee, 
 
 Wen de watahmelon's ripen' all aroun'. 
 I heah de lonesome whistle ob de whippoorwill, 
 De big, roun' moon's a fallin' down ahind de hill, 
 And de hoot owl's a-hootin' on de oP cane mill; 
 An' de watahmelon's ripen' all aroun'. 
 
 De possum an' de raccoon am a-settin' on a rail, 
 
 An' de 'simmons am a-ripen' all aroun' ; 
 De raccoon pow'ful haughty 'cause he got a 
 han'some tail, 
 An' de 'simmons am a-ripen' all aroun'. 
 Den de possum clim' de 'simmon, frap his tail 
 
 aroun' a lim', 
 An' he shout down to de raccoon, still a-starin' 
 
 up at him : 
 "Wen you want ter shake a 'simmon tree I'm 
 yo' Jim; 
 An' de 'simmons am a-fallin' all aroun'. 
 
 De win' ain't mo' an' whispin' in de shaddeh ob 
 de hill, 
 An' de blue grapes a-ripen' all aroun'. 
 
 [611 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 A nigger wid a milk can am a-usin' roun' de still, 
 
 For de liquah am a-leakin' on de groun'. 
 De mohnin' sta' am shinin' fo' de brokin' ob de 
 
 day. 
 Good mohnin', mistah red fox, yo' ain't got long 
 
 to stay, 
 Dah's a muffled-footed niggah gwin' ter chase de 
 fox away, 
 Fer de chickens am a-roos'in' all aroun'. 
 
 BECAUSE WE LOVE 
 
 Dear heart of mine, since we were wed, 
 The second summer now is here, 
 And love grows stronger every year. 
 
 We are so happy, sweet, I said; 
 
 Why is it? And she answered low, 
 "Because we love each other so." 
 
 Oft have I heard the moaning dove 
 
 Call her lost mate from out the wood; 
 She suffered, felt, and understood; 
 
 For she was filled with grief and love. 
 Such sorrow may we never know, 
 Because we love each other so. 
 
 [62] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 SWEET MARIE 
 
 I've a secret in my heart, sweet Marie, 
 A tale I would impart, love, to thee ; 
 Every daisy in the dell 
 Knows my secret, knows it well, 
 And yet I dare not tell, sweet Marie. 
 
 When I hold your hand in mine, sweet Marie, 
 A feeling most divine comes to me; 
 
 All the world is full of spring, 
 
 Full of warblers on the wing, 
 And I listen while they sing, sweet Marie. 
 
 In the morn when I awake, sweet Marie, 
 Seems to me my heart will break, love, for thee, 
 Every wave that shakes the shore, 
 Seems to sing it o'er and o'er, 
 Seems to say that I adore sweet Marie. 
 
 When the sunset tints the west, sweet Marie, 
 And I sit down to rest, love, with thee ; 
 All the stars that stud the sky 
 Seem to stand and wonder why 
 They're so dimmer than your eye, sweet Marie. 
 
 Not the sunglints in your hair, sweet Marie, 
 Not because your face is fair, love, to see; 
 But your soul so pure and sweet, 
 Makes my happiness complete, 
 Makes me falter at your feet, sweet Marie. 
 
 [63] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 THE CONVENT 
 
 What is there here, what can there be 
 That makes this drear old nunnery 
 So strangely, sweetly dear to me? 
 
 Down these old aisles the children pass, 
 
 At early morn, to early mass 
 
 To make them ready for the class. 
 
 I pause in every quaint retreat 
 
 And muse and say, " Here oft my sweet 
 
 Has been; these floors have felt her feet." 
 
 And so it's all made plain; I see 
 What makes this drear old nunnery 
 So strangely, sweetly dear to me. 
 
 [64] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 SONG OF A SOUND SAILOR 
 
 First we call at Bella Bella where they educate 
 the reds, 
 Where they learn to wear a Merry Widow 
 chapeau on their heads, 
 Where the hardy husky huskies lie asleep be- 
 neath their sleds, 
 But me heart is with me klutch at Kitsum- 
 Kaylum. 
 
 There's a maid at Metlakatla, holy city of the 
 sea, 
 
 And she says she hopes for heaven, but she al- 
 ways looks for me. 
 
 She's been maudlin at the Mission where she's 
 learned to say, " 'Tis he," 
 But she doesn't know my klutch at Kitsum- 
 Kaylum. 
 
 There's a woman waiting always on the wharf 
 at Essington, 
 
 There's a paleface at Prince Rupert who ad- 
 dresses me, "me man," 
 
 And I'm always t'rowing kisses at the kid at 
 Katchikan, 
 But you ought to see me klutch at Kitsum- 
 Kaylum. 
 
 [65] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 In me youth I used to reckon every female was 
 
 a flirt, 
 And I've heard a sailor call his 'Kaylum k'utch 
 
 his "Sunday skirt/' 
 But everything is different with me since I was 
 
 hurt, 
 An' me heart is with me klutch at Kitsum- 
 
 Kaylum. 
 
 Now, good-by, good-by, old Ocean, I am goin' 
 
 to shake the sea; 
 Just a little farm and fireside in the Skeena vale 
 
 for me, 
 And I'll rest me in the bosom of me little famillee. 
 I am camping with me klutch at Kitsum- 
 
 Kaylum. 
 
 [66] 
 
Thoughtful Rhymes 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 WILL THE LIGHTS BE WHITE? 
 
 Oft, when I feel my engine swerve, 
 
 As o'er strange rails we fare, 
 I strain my eye around the curve 
 
 For what awaits us there. 
 When swift and free she carries me 
 
 Through yards unknown at night, 
 I look along the line to see 
 
 That all the lamps are white. 
 
 The blue light marks the crippled car, 
 
 The green light signals slow ; 
 The red light is a danger light, 
 
 The white light, " Let her go." 
 Again the open fields we roam, 
 
 And, when the night is fair, 
 I look up in the starry dome 
 
 And wonder what's up there. 
 
 For who can speak for those who dwell 
 
 Behind the curving sky ? 
 No man has ever lived to tell 
 
 Just what it means to die. 
 Swift toward life's terminal I trend, 
 
 The run seems short to-night ; 
 God only, knows what's at the end — 
 
 I hope the lamps are white. 
 
 [69] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 ALASKA 
 
 Three sleeps in a sleeper from Montreal, 
 
 And a moon or so from the end of the line, 
 And you stand at the foot of the great white 
 
 wall — 
 That is white with the snows that fall, and fall, 
 O'er the cedar dwarfed and the drooping pine 
 That grow at the feet of Alaska. 
 
 Old and wrinkled and cold and gray, 
 
 With her white pall pulled o'er her stony breast ; 
 Frowning and frigid and far away, 
 She has ever stood, as she stands to-day, 
 
 In the desolate wastes of the wide Northwest — 
 Stands this hoary old woman — Alaska. 
 
 Unmolested for thousands of years, 
 
 Isolated, remote and lone; 
 Her hard face glacial with frozen tears, 
 While over her shoulders and in her ears 
 
 The winds of the North Land wail and moan, 
 In the ears of old Mother Alaska. 
 
 A party of prospectors passed that way, 
 
 And they thought the old face had forgotten 
 its frown, 
 And, pausing, they pulled her white robe away 
 And found her treasure: "Ah, q'est que c'est?" 
 Said the French Canadian, kneeling down 
 At the feet of old Mother Alaska. 
 [70] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 They told their story, and men went wild, 
 
 And pawned their chattels and joined the race. 
 The old croon jingled her gold and smiled, 
 And the gold-mad men of the world beguiled 
 With a promise of fortune in that far place, 
 At the feet of old Mother Alaska. 
 
 But Oh, the rivers are wide and deep, 
 And the north wind breathes with a killing 
 breath ; 
 And over the mountains so rough and steep 
 The old dread reaper shall come and reap ; 
 The rime old reaper that men call Death 
 Shall reap the white fields of Alaska. 
 
 THIS LIFE IS GOOD 
 
 When meads and glades and everything 
 
 Put on their sunny robe of spring — 
 When fragrant flowers scent the air 
 And birds make music everywhere, 
 
 I say, while wandering in the wood, 
 
 This life is good. 
 
 When roses rest in Winter's tomb, 
 
 And all the earth is garbed in gloom, 
 At eventide about the hearth 
 I sit, and say, despite the dearth, 
 
 Of sun and sunset down the wood, 
 
 This life is good. 
 
 [71] 
 
SONGS OF CY WABMAN 
 
 HEREAFTER 
 
 Canst picture, said a friend to me, 
 The joy of what is yet to be? 
 Canst thou describe eternity? 
 
 Dost thou believe that when we take 
 That last, long sleep, a day shall break 
 The dreamless night? Shall we awake? 
 
 Tell me, with reason in thy rhyme, 
 Dost think there'll be no end of time, 
 Nor end of bliss, in that blest clime? 
 
 I do not know, for sure, I said, 
 
 I know not those whose light feet tread 
 
 Yon shore; I know the dead are dead. 
 
 I've seen the summer birds take wing, 
 When winter came, and in the spring 
 Come back again, to soar and sing. 
 
 I've seen the red rose in the glen. 
 
 Hid 'neath the hoar frost, die, and then 
 
 In brighter hours, bloom again. 
 
 I've seen the soul, freed from the clay 
 That held it here, reach far away, 
 Take up its harp and start to play. 
 [72] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 I've seen a mother die, and she, 
 When came to her what must to me, 
 Looked smiling toward eternity. 
 
 And I can see while roses bloom 
 
 Where roses fade through life's long gloom, 
 
 A gleam of hope beyond the tomb. 
 
 But whatsoe'er the future be, 
 If there's a life for you and me, 
 To last through all eternity, 
 
 'Twere well to keep this point in view : 
 
 Do UNTO MAN, THY WHOLE LIFE THROUGH, 
 As THOU WOULDST HAVE HIM DO TO YOU. 
 
 And then when thou art o'er the range, 
 Where all are good, though many strange, 
 Thou may'st not feel too great the change. 
 
 [73] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 "ALL'S WELL WITH THE WORLD" 
 
 I 
 
 " 0, God, send down the rain, 
 The earth is parched and dry, 
 The roses die!" 
 
 With faces 'gainst the pane 
 The people cry. 
 
 Upon the quivering air 
 
 Spent birds on weary wing 
 
 Keep winnowing, 
 Because they have not where 
 
 To rest or sing. 
 
 Far in the north, a low 
 
 Deep rumbling; a lightning chain 
 
 Lights up the plain, 
 God's lights are off; and so 
 
 God sends the rain. 
 
 II 
 
 "0, God! Keep off the rain 
 
 A little while. Behold 
 
 A sea of gold, 
 Of wimpling, golden grain, 
 
 Thy wrath withhold." 
 
 [74] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 "O, God! withhold the hail/' 
 The anxious people prayed, 
 All sore afraid, 
 
 While o'er the prairie trail 
 The lightning played. 
 
 So, through the long, long night 
 With prayer the storm they staved, 
 The full heads waved. 
 
 Then God switched on the light — 
 The crops were saved. 
 
 THE HARVEST 
 
 I'm satisfied we're stratified, 
 
 And dwell upon a certain plane, 
 Souls meet and part, and meet again; 
 
 No soul that ever lived has died. 
 
 We plant and reap as on we go, 
 
 We sow in smiles, sometimes in tears, 
 To reap in kind in after years ; 
 
 We reap precisely as we sow. 
 
 All things are ordered ; and in fine, 
 We take our winnings on the way, 
 From year to year, from day to day; 
 
 And you get yours, and I get mine. 
 
 [75] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 THE RISE AND FALL OF CREEDE 
 
 A thousand burdened burros filled 
 The narrow, winding, wriggling trail. 
 
 A hundred settlers came to build, 
 Each day, new houses in the vale. 
 
 A hundred gamblers came to feed 
 
 On these same settlers — this was Creede. 
 
 Slanting Annie, Gambler Joe 
 And bad Bob Ford, Sapolio, — 
 
 Or Soapy Smith, as he was known, — 
 Ran games peculiarly their own, 
 
 And everything was open wide, 
 
 And men drank absinthe on the side. 
 
 And now the Faro Bank is closed, 
 
 And Mr. Faro's gone away 
 To seek new fields, it is supposed, — 
 
 More verdant fields. The gamblers say 
 The man who worked the shell and ball 
 
 Has gone back to the Capitol. 
 
 The winter winds blow bleak and chill, 
 The quaking, quivering aspen waves 
 
 About the summit of the hill — 
 Above the unrecorded graves 
 
 Where halt abandoned burros feed 
 And coyotes call — and this is Creede. 
 
 [76] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 Lone graves whose head-boards bear no name, 
 Whose silent owners lived like brutes 
 
 And died as doggedly, — but game, 
 And most of them died in their boots. 
 
 We mind among the unwrit names 
 The man who murdered Jesse James. 
 
 We saw him murdered, saw him fall, 
 
 And saw his mad assassin gloat 
 Above him. Heard his moans and all, 
 
 And saw the shot holes in his throat, 
 And men moved on and gave no heed 
 
 To life or death — and this is Creede. 
 
 [77] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 THE SOUL OF THE SASKATCHEWAN 
 
 The lifeblood of old Egypt courses with the 
 muddy Nile, 
 The Czar sleeps with his faith in men who 
 guard the empty street; 
 The peace of many nations rests behind a thin, 
 red file; 
 But the soul of the Saskatchewan's a little 
 grain of wheat. 
 
 The thin red line may riot, where but lately it 
 salaamed, 
 The sentinel may slumber, and a mob possess 
 the street; 
 Old Egypt may know famine and the muddy 
 Nile be dammed, 
 But the soul of the Saskatchewan remains, a 
 grain of wheat. 
 
 Let nation banter nation with their battle-flags 
 unfurled, 
 The State may stand secure a space behind a 
 frowning fleet; 
 God's sunshine on Saskatchewan! her fields 
 shall feed the world, 
 For the soul of the Saskatchewan's a little 
 grain of wheat. 
 
 [78] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 THE BULL TEAM 
 
 The sturdy bull, with stately tread, 
 Submissive, silent, bows his head 
 And feels the yoke ; the creaking wain 
 Rolls leisurely across the plain; 
 Across the trackless, treeless land, 
 An undulating sea of sand, 
 Where mocking, sapless rivers run; 
 
 With swollen tongue and bloodshot eye, 
 Still on to where the shadows lie, 
 And onward toward the setting sun. 
 
 With tearful eyes he looks away 
 
 To where his free-born brothers play 
 
 Upon the prairie wild and wide ; 
 
 He turns his head from side to side; 
 
 He feels the bull whip's cruel stroke; 
 
 Again he leans against the yoke. 
 
 At last his weary walk is done. 
 He pauses at the river's brink, 
 And drinks the while his drivers drink, 
 
 Almost beside the setting sun. 
 
 [79] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 THE WRECK AT CABAZA 
 
 When Engineer West saw the danger he reversed his engine and 
 set the air brake ; and thus, in his last moment on earth, saved 
 many lives. — Press Despatch. 
 
 At home, abroad, beyond the sea, 
 When over seas I chance to roam, 
 
 These sad, sad stories come to me 
 Of old-time friends I knew at home; 
 
 So that, where'er I voyage, I 
 
 Know what they do and how they die. 
 
 The driver saw — the wires so say — 
 The open switch : with his last breath 
 
 Alarmed his mate, and stayed, that they 
 Who filled the train might not see death. 
 
 There was the river, hard ahead : 
 
 Himself and mate made up the dead. 
 
 They die not with averted face; 
 
 For such their friends have not to blush. 
 When the dread reaper comes apace 
 
 They fall like heroes. In the hush 
 Go search the wreck, you'll find them pale 
 In death, and not far from the rail. 
 
 [80] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 TWO SOLDIERS 
 
 "Now," said the one-armed soldier, 
 
 " I'll tell you e'er I go, 
 About the Border Brothers, 
 
 Twin brothers of St. Joe. 
 
 " One did things on the desert, 
 Amid the dust and drought, 
 
 The other took his musket, 
 
 And soldiered at the South. 
 
 " One looked along a transit, 
 And trailed a tape of steel; 
 
 One squinted o'er a cannon 
 That made the rebels reel. 
 
 " While one was puffing, snuffing, 
 
 Away the vital spark, 
 The other kept his vigil 
 
 Where Sioux scalped in the dark, 
 
 " While one was routing rebels 
 
 Where the white Potomac foams, 
 
 One chisled out an Empire 
 
 That holds a million homes. 
 
 " One sleeps in the Sierros 
 
 Beneath a shroud of snow, 
 
 [81] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 One sleeps beneath a statue — 
 Equestrian in St. Joe. 
 
 " While one was making widows 
 The other made the West; 
 
 Now, children, choose your hero. 
 Which soldier battle lost?" 
 
 SANGRE DE CHRISTO 
 
 Sangre de Christo, let me trace 
 The beauties of thy furrowed face, 
 
 While soft the perfumed summer breeze 
 
 Makes music in thine arboles; 
 And, as I look, thine every peak 
 To me, in silence seems to speak ; 
 
 Sangre — the blood that flowed so free ; 
 
 Christ o — the Christ on Calvary. 
 
 I see upon thy riven side 
 
 Great rifts through which the rivers flow; 
 And they tell, too, how Jesus died, 
 
 As down to seek the sea they go ; 
 And through the verdant vale they sing 
 The praises of the Risen King. 
 
 Sangre — the blood that flowed so free; 
 
 Christ o — the Christ on Calvary. 
 [82] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 THERE IS NO DEATH 
 
 There is no death ! 
 
 The flowers bloom ; 
 
 Their sweet perfume 
 Floats o'er the night — 
 The hills are white. 
 
 The summer birds have sped away, 
 
 The summer days are dead, they say, 
 But when the spring comes back, the wren 
 Sings sweet, the flowers bloom again. 
 
 There is no death ! 
 
 We fall asleep 
 
 And wake to weep, 
 Youth's happy springtime wears away, 
 With voices weak, our hair grows gray; 
 
 But after that last sleep, ah, then, 
 
 We know that man must live again. 
 There is no death ! 
 
 [83] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARM AN 
 
 UNDER THE WILLOWS 
 
 Here I used to sit and listen for the patter of her 
 feet, 
 For the tiny hands to pound upon the door ; 
 But the icy hand of death has touched the fore- 
 head of my sweet, 
 And the baby voice is hushed forevermore. 
 
 Angels keep my baby, 
 
 Where the willows wave; 
 
 Where with each recurring spring 
 Feathered warblers come and sing, 
 
 When the violets are blooming o'er her grave. 
 
 To a quiet western woodland now my memory 
 sadly turns, 
 Where the summer wild rose scents the silent 
 gloom, 
 Where a busy little brook is singing softly in the 
 ferns, 
 And the willow boughs are bending o'er her 
 tomb. 
 
 Angels keep my baby, 
 Where the willows wave; 
 
 Where the low winds sob and sigh, 
 
 When the summer roses die, 
 And the autumn leaves are falling on her grave. 
 
 [84] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 Only now I slept and dreamed that I was kneel- 
 ing there to-night , 
 Where my little one is sleeping on the hill; 
 Even now, when I'm awake, and the tears fall as 
 I write, 
 I can seem to hear the music of the rill. 
 
 Angels keep my baby, 
 
 Where the willows wave; 
 
 Where the winds blow bleak and drear 
 When the silent woodland's sear, 
 
 And the snow is drifting deep upon her grave. 
 
 [85] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 LITTLE THERESA, THE WAIF 
 
 To a place where the poor of the city, 
 
 The shoeblacks and news children meet, 
 A fairy waif came with a banjo, 
 
 And a voice, oh, so soothing and sweet, 
 That it brought back the scent of the summer 
 
 With orange-trees blooming above, 
 And mocking-birds in the magnolias, 
 
 As soft as the song of a dove. 
 
 With holes in her sleeves and her stockings, 
 
 Torn shoes on her little brown feet, 
 Eyes like limpid pools in the mountains — 
 
 Her hair was like ripening wheat. 
 When she came out again — the Infanta 
 
 Joanna, bejewelled and gay — 
 My friend laughed: "I say, vot you cry for? 
 
 She vas yust make-belief in der play." 
 
 She was beautiful then, as a picture 
 
 Is beautiful — only to see ; 
 But she never can be so enchanting 
 
 As the little tramp singer to me. 
 I know you will say it is better, 
 
 For in luxury's lap she is safe; 
 If I could, though, I would not forget her 
 
 As little Theresa, the Waif. 
 
 [86] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 MY FRIEND — THE PROSPECTOR 
 
 If I were to write for the papers to print, 
 
 What here I indite, I opine 
 That my critics would say it was written that 
 way 
 
 For so many dollars a line. 
 And so, with the view that I'm writing to you, 
 
 Where no critic's lances are hurled, 
 I'll touch the taut string of my lyre and sing 
 
 Of the best-hearted man in the world. 
 
 Hark back to the prospect in Poverty Gulch, 
 
 Before you found dirt that would pay, 
 When the hope in your breast, like the gold in 
 The west, 
 
 Burned brightest at close of the day. 
 If I were but rich, or, if you were still poor, 
 
 And we sat where your cabin smoke curled, 
 Then in unstinted lays I could pour out the 
 praise 
 
 Of the best-hearted man in the world. 
 
 [871 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 IN THE TWILIGHT 
 
 My hands are growing weary, 
 While from my setting sun 
 
 The gold is slowly fading, 
 And so much work undone. 
 
 Now every passing moment 
 Some task unfinished brings 
 
 To hands grown weary doing 
 So many useless things. 
 
 My feet are also weary : 
 
 The ways they walk are hard, 
 
 The thorns have held and hurt them, 
 The stones have left them scarred. 
 
 Here, in the gathering twilight, 
 
 They falter now and fail, 
 Poor feet that stray so far from 
 
 The straight and narrow trail. 
 
 Away off in a canon 
 
 I hear a lost sheep cry, 
 And on the perfect pathway 
 
 See happy souls go by. 
 
 But, Oh ! My soul is weary 
 
 As wearily I plod, 
 And all because I've wandered 
 
 So far away from God. 
 
 [88] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 WHERE WOMEN DON'T GO 
 
 The flowers that bloom in the springtime, 
 And make the dull world seem so gay, 
 
 Have never a thought in the meantime 
 That bloom bringeth blight and decay. 
 
 The glad bird that sings by the river, 
 
 Smiling up at the blue opal sky, 
 Never dreams in its joy that the giver 
 
 Of Song has adjudged it to die. 
 
 The brooklet that babbles and blushes, 
 And gladdens the glen with its glee, 
 
 Knoweth not that it wilfully rushes 
 To the silent, sad shores of the sea. 
 
 But man, while in youth's happy morning, 
 When the world seems so sunny and bright, 
 
 In the song of each bird hears a warning, 
 And the brooklets are whispering, "Night." 
 
 For Time follows closely behind him, 
 And hurries him, half out of breath, 
 
 And the gathering gloaming will find him 
 In the valley and shadow of death. 
 
 Of course, we have heard the old story, 
 That down the dim vista of years, 
 
 [89] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 A woman took gladness and glory 
 And sold it for sorrow and tears. 
 
 But if woman has brought all this sorrow, 
 And filled this wide world full of woe, 
 
 I would not exchange it to-morrow 
 For a heaven where women don't go. 
 
 WE NEVER KNOW 
 
 We never know the joy of it 
 
 'Till love is turned to hate, 
 Nor heed the crimes that we commit 
 
 Until it is too late. 
 
 We never need the sun so much 
 As when it has gone down; 
 
 Nor know the bliss that's in a kiss 
 'Till we have felt a frown. 
 
 The empty arms when loved ones part, 
 
 From being idle, ache; 
 We never know we have a heart 
 
 'Till it begins to break. 
 
 [90] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 GOD IS LOVE 
 
 When they pressed the desert sand, 
 
 Love was there. 
 Joseph holding Mary's hand, 
 
 Love was there. 
 In the hovel where she slept, 
 Weary, travel-worn, she wept, 
 But the holy faith was kept — 
 
 Love was there. 
 
 When he walked upon the sea, 
 
 Love was there; 
 In the lone Gethsemane, 
 
 Love was there. 
 When they put Him to disgrace, 
 Mocked Him in a public place, 
 When the rabble smote His face, 
 
 Love was there. 
 
 And He counted nothing loss, 
 
 Love was there; 
 Though they nailed Him to the cross 
 
 Love was there. 
 "God is love" the Scripture saith, 
 Even to His parting breath, 
 At the open door of death, 
 
 Love was there. 
 
 [91] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 GIVE US THIS DAY 
 
 "Give us this day/' a mother prayed, 
 And knelt upon a naked floor, 
 " O God, from out thy plenteous store, 
 
 Give us this day our daily bread. 
 
 " I know that Thou wilt find the way — 
 Thou who hast fed the multitude — 
 For Thou art God, and God is good; 
 
 Give us our daily bread this day. 
 
 " 'Tis true a legion lips have said 
 This prayer for many, many weeks ; 
 But lo ! at last a nation speaks, 
 
 Give us this day our daily bread." 
 
 [92] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 WAITING FOR THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 In the shelter of my wigwam I am waiting for 
 the spring, 
 For the forest flowers to blossom in the vale : 
 I am watching from my wigwam for the wild 
 goose on the wing, 
 When Til gather up my traps and hit the trail 
 To the Highlands of Ontario, in the merry berry- 
 moon, 
 To the haunts of Hiawatha that are nigh; 
 To the banks of Athabaska, where it's always 
 afternoon — 
 0, I wonder when the wild goose will go by? 
 
 While the first black crow is calling in the dawn- 
 ing down the dell, 
 I am dreaming of the summer; in my dream 
 I can hear the Mudjekeewis sighing softly; I can 
 smell 
 A wild rose blooming near a northern stream ; 
 I am skirting Nova Scotia, that is gaily garbed 
 in green, 
 With the cool Atlantic billows breakin' high, 
 Or I sit and sigh where Gabriel kissed his fair 
 Evangeline — 
 I wonder when the wild goose will go by? 
 
 Then away to Western Canada — big fish on the 
 fine, 
 
 [93] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 A quaking aspen quivering in the breeze; 
 Again good Mudjekeewis comes a-crooning 
 through the pine, 
 And blows my little bark o'er Lake Louise. 
 Won't you come and camp in Canada? It's not 
 all snow and ice 
 (I thought I saw a shadow from the sky) — 
 It's the only Unstaked Empire — the Camper's 
 Paradise — 
 Adois ! — I see a wild goose going by. 
 
 TRANSPORTATION 
 
 If all our cars were motor cars, 
 
 Encumbering the land, 
 And shooting by like shooting stars, 
 
 We'd have nowhere to stand. 
 
 If all our plains were aeroplanes 
 
 Sweeping the curving sky, 
 The railroads might side-track their trains, 
 
 And put on wings and fly. 
 
 In many ways, in many things, 
 
 God's wisdom he reveals; 
 To some men he hath given wings, 
 
 And others — they have wheels. 
 [94] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 TO-MORROW 
 
 To-morrow! Oh, To-morrow; 
 
 The day that I like best; 
 For though my sunset's clouded 
 
 It's golden farther west. 
 Observe the little sparrow 
 
 Throughout the dark To-day, 
 She sings of her To-morrow 
 
 And th' egg she's going to lay. 
 
 I hear a sad soul sighing 
 
 To leave this "vale of tears" 
 But make no doubt he's lying 
 
 About a hundred years 
 And feel no twinge of sorrow 
 
 When his ship puts to sea, 
 The ship that sails To-morrow 
 
 Sails soon enough for me. 
 
 For tho' my sun's declining 
 
 Behind yon hoary hill, 
 I know that it is shining 
 
 Beyond the summit still; 
 And howsoe'er I sorrow, 
 
 I know 'twill pass away. 
 God gives a glad To-morrow 
 
 For every dull To-day. 
 
 [95] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 "GIVE ME NOT RICHES'' 
 
 I want to find a place for me 
 
 Where Nature's harps are all in tune, 
 
 A calm, or a still, on Life's rough sea, 
 A place where it's always afternoon, 
 
 A quiet, peaceful place somewhere 
 
 Between the tramp and the millionaire. 
 
 Where it's not all joy and not all pain; 
 
 Not too much shine, nor too much shade; 
 Just a place to hide me from the rain; 
 
 An easy place where the rent is paid, 
 And not too close to the man of care, 
 
 And not too far from the millionaire. 
 
 GRIEF 
 
 The first great grief that comes into a life 
 Falls heavy on the heart unused to pain; 
 
 But when each day brings greater care and strife 
 And life endures, we hope again. 
 
 Then, looking back to pain from which we 
 shrank, 
 
 To stony ways we walked with bleeding feet, 
 So bitter now the cup, that what we drank 
 
 In other days, would now seem sweet. 
 [96] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 MEMORIAL DAY 
 
 Gather the garlands rare to-day, 
 
 Snow-white roses and roses red; 
 Gather the fairest flowers of May, 
 Heap them up on the heaps of clay, 
 
 Gladden the graves of the noble dead. 
 
 Pile them high as the soldiers were 
 
 Piled on the field where they fought and fell; 
 They will rejoice in their new place there 
 To-day, as they walk where the fragrant air 
 
 Is sweet with the scent of the asphodel. 
 
 Many a time, I have heard it said, 
 
 They fell so thick where the battles were, 
 Their hot blood rippled, and running red, 
 Ran out like a rill from the drifted dead 
 And stained the heath and the daisies there. 
 
 This day the friends of the soldier keep, 
 
 And they will keep it through all the years, 
 To the silent city where soldiers sleep 
 Will come with flowers, to stand and weep 
 And water the garlands with their tears. 
 
 [97] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 THE STAGE COACH 
 
 The long lash wimples and curves and cracks, 
 In a puff of dust, on the nacked backs 
 Of the lithesome leaders and the joyous load 
 Is whisked away down the dusty road 
 
 Where the shameless aspens shiver, nude, 
 In the autumn winds. In the cabin rude 
 The lone prospector lightly dreams 
 Of a pay-streak hiding in the seams 
 
 Of the rifted rocks. On the very crest 
 Of these gnarled monarchs of the West 
 Trends the twisting trail where the laughing load 
 Is whisked away down the dusty road. 
 
 With fingers woofed in a warp of reins, 
 The driver shuns the heavy wains, 
 With their many mules with nodding ears, 
 Like waving palms; our driver jeers 
 
 At the freighter with his homely load, 
 And whisks away down the dusty road. 
 
 [98] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 THE CRY OF A SHIPWRECKED SOUL 
 
 Not many men are wholly bad, 
 
 None altogether good ; 
 In my brief life fine times I've had, 
 
 Yet half my life I've rued. 
 We're all twin-souled, and side by side, 
 Good Jekyll walks with Mr. Hyde. 
 
 This tent, foredoomed to moth and mold, 
 
 This frail and fading frame, 
 So sensitive to heat and cold 
 
 Yet dead to joy or shame, 
 Shelters a soul, and just inside 
 Sits Jekyll watching Mr. Hyde. 
 
 When I look back along life's way, 
 
 Wherever I have strayed 
 Are mile-posts gleaming grim and gray — 
 
 Mistakes that I have made. 
 The deeds of Jekyll all forgot 
 While Hydes remain to mark the spot. 
 
 By day I walk the woodland green, 
 
 And come so near to God 
 His answering signals may be seen 
 
 In each wild rose's nod; 
 Here, in the town, at night I ride 
 Headlong for hell, my horse is Hyde. 
 
 * 
 
 [99] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 And now, beneath His chastening rod, 
 I wring my hands and pray : 
 
 " Turn back Thy Universe, 0, God, 
 And give me yesterday." 
 
 Crush Lust and Vanity and Pride, 
 
 But not too hard on Mr. Hyde. 
 
 With mast and compass blown away, 
 The winds howl o'er the deck, 
 
 No sail in sight — the sea is gray — 
 I swim around the wreck. 
 
 O, ghost of Christ, thou crucified, 
 
 Have mercy on me — Mr. Hyde. 
 
 [100] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 THE WIDOWER 
 
 Christmas eve! How many hearts are light 
 
 to-night, 
 How many happy homes are bright ; 
 But to me the world seems cruel, cold and drear. 
 There's little left in life to cheer me here. 
 I wonder if in all the years to be 
 There'll be anything but clouds and tears for me? 
 
 Alone I walk the busy streets 
 And look into each happy face I meet; 
 Soul sick and sad I turn away 
 And upon my lonely pillow my aching head I lay, 
 And while the festive feasts go on 
 I think of happy Christmas times that have 
 come and gone. 
 
 Here in the silence and the gloom, 
 
 The solitude of my lonely room; 
 
 I close my eyes and then behold 
 
 Her still, white face, so calm, so cold, 
 
 Just as it looked to me that day 
 
 When I kissed her pale, still lips of lifeless clay. 
 
 [101] 
 
SONGS OF CY WABMAN 
 
 THE ISOLATION OF A CHILD 
 
 I once knew a dear little mother, 
 
 With a beautiful, blue-eyed boy. 
 She constantly bathed and brushed him, 
 
 And when he had tired of a toy 
 She would take it and scald it and scrap it, 
 
 And lay it away in the sun, 
 And that is the way she took care of 
 
 His playthings, every one. 
 
 Pent up in his own little playhouse, 
 
 The baby grew peaked and pale, 
 And there were the neighbors' children 
 
 All dirty and happy and hale. 
 If the baby went out for an airing, 
 
 The nurse was to understand 
 That none of the neighbors' children 
 
 Was ever to touch his hand. 
 
 But they did, and the injured mother 
 
 Brought the dear baby inside 
 And shut him up in his playhouse, 
 
 Where the little one fretted and died. 
 Then the torn heart turned to the Virgin, 
 
 And this was the weight of her prayer : 
 " Oh, mother, dear, don't let him play with 
 
 The other angels up there!" 
 
 [102] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 THE WEST 
 
 Come, take my hand and walk with me 
 To where the lifting prairies lie, 
 Close up against the western sky, 
 
 The land of Opportunity. 
 
 The Earth is yours ! And it is mine 
 To beacon you back to the land, 
 To help you find a place to stand, 
 
 To plant a fig tree and a vine 
 
 In God's good world. He made the West ! 
 Amid the hills set sunny vales, 
 And for the Iron Horse broke trails, 
 
 Wrote "Finis," and sat down to rest. 
 
 [103] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 THE CANON OF THE GRAND 
 
 I'm going to paint a picture with a pencil of my 
 
 own; 
 I shall have no hand to help me, I shall paint it 
 
 all alone. 
 Oft I fancy it before me and my hopeful heart 
 
 grows faint, 
 As I contemplate the grandeur of the picture I 
 
 would paint. 
 
 When I rhyme about the river, the laughing, 
 
 limpid stream, 
 Whose ripples seem to shiver as they glide and 
 
 glow and gleam; 
 Of the waves that beat the boulders that are 
 
 strewn upon the sand, 
 You will recognize the river in the Canon of the 
 
 Grand. 
 
 When I write about the mountains, with their 
 
 heads so high and hoar, 
 Of the cliffs and craggy canons, where the waters 
 
 rush and roar, 
 When I speak about the walls that rise so high 
 
 on either hand, 
 You will recognize the rock-work in the Canon 
 
 of the Grand. 
 
 [104] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 God was good to make the mountains, the val- 
 leys and the hills, 
 
 Put the rose upon the cactus and the ripple on 
 the rills; 
 
 But if I had all the words of all the worlds at my 
 command, 
 
 I could not paint a picture of the Canon of the 
 Grand. 
 
 IN MEMORY 
 
 In memory of a brow of snow, 
 Of one fair face I used to know, 
 Of love that languished, long ago. 
 
 Of miss-set signals and the wreck, 
 Of baby arms about my neck, 
 Of bitter tears I may not check. 
 
 In memory of a golden band, 
 Of one who could not understand 
 The empty clasp of her cold hand. 
 
 [105] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 SIC TRANSIT GLORIA MUNDI 
 
 A red rose grew by the garden gate, 
 And sweetly scented the silent gloom 
 
 When the city slept — when the hour was late, 
 The night wind wafted its pure perfume 
 
 Up to my window, and o'er my bed, 
 
 'Till I was in love with the rose so red. 
 
 But I think now, perhaps it's wrong 
 To love these things that only bide 
 
 A few brief days, with a love so strong; 
 For folding its petals the red rose died; 
 
 And then I sorrowed, and sighed and said : 
 
 "Life is lonely, my rose is dead." 
 
 And then, ere long, another rose 
 
 Bloomed in life's way — a human flower; 
 
 And it brought to me such sweet repose, 
 And held my heart with a hidden power, 
 
 And soothed my soul that was worn with care, 
 
 'Till I was in love with the rose so rare. 
 
 And that fair flower that I loved so long, 
 With a love that was never satisfied 
 
 That I loved with a love so strangely strong — 
 Folded its soft white hands and died; 
 
 Again I sorrowed and sighed and said; 
 
 " Life is lonely, my love is dead. 
 
 [106] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 WHERE THE FLOWERS TALK 
 
 I want to go where the flowers blow 
 
 On the mountains high and hoary; 
 Where the summer winds shake the patient pines 
 
 And the sun, in its golden glory, 
 Falls o'er the stream where the ripples gleam; 
 
 Where the shores are shoal and sandy. 
 I want to walk where the flowers talk 
 
 On the banks of the Rio Grande. 
 
 I love the stills in the running rills — 
 
 The willowy rills, half hidden — 
 That lie in the lap of the gentle hills — 
 
 In the lap of the hills unchidden. 
 I love the leas where the honey bees 
 
 Are making sweets from the clover. 
 I love to walk where the flowers talk, 
 
 With the blue sky arching over. 
 
 [107] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 WHEN WE GO OFF AND DIE 
 
 The road is rough and rocky, 
 
 The road that leads to fame; 
 The way is strewn with skeletons 
 
 Of those who have grown lame 
 And have fallen by the wayside; 
 
 The world will pass you by, 
 Nor pause to read your manuscript 
 
 'Till you go off and die. 
 
 You'll find no shoulders here below 
 
 To help you bear the cross ; 
 You'll have to eat your mutton plain 
 
 Without the caper sauce; 
 And when you read down to desert, 
 
 You'll find a dearth of pie, 
 And you'll never know what pudding is 
 
 'Till you go off and die. 
 
 But there's a consolation in 
 
 The thought that when we're dead 
 If we have written something good, 
 
 Our efforts will be read. 
 And friends will plant forget-me-nots, 
 
 And come and sit and sigh, 
 And irrigate our graves with tears 
 
 When we go off and die. 
 
 [108] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 LO, THE POOR INDIAN 
 
 There's only one 
 
 Good Indian, 
 
 It has been said, 
 
 And he is dead ; 
 
 But with this jeii d 7 esprit 
 
 I beg to disagree. 
 
 There's Lo, 
 
 Who for a century or so, 
 
 Has stood in sun and rain alone, 
 
 Making no moan. 
 
 Let those who frame freak laws 
 
 Give pause. 
 
 This painted Indian who guards the store 
 
 Knows more 
 
 Of the maudlin midnight secrets of the souls of 
 
 men, 
 Who mouthed them over and over, yet and 
 
 again, 
 Than any other Indian red or white. 
 How oft at night, 
 
 When the last riotous reveler had fled 
 Or lay dead, 
 Soused in the sawdust, have you gone forth to 
 
 find some one 
 To lean upon? 
 Then Lo, 
 
 The poor son-of-a-gun 
 Of an Indian, 
 
 [1091 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 Is made to bear the White Man's Burden for an 
 
 hour or so. 
 And when you have wept upon his vest 
 You sink to rest 
 Against his chest; 
 Presently you wake in dire distress 
 And evening dress, — 
 The rosy westering sunlight showing your 
 
 shame, — 
 And blame 
 
 The poor Indian for keeping you out all night. 
 It is a fright 
 
 The way we've used this Indian for years, 
 And now in tears 
 I tear off this tribute, and sob out this sentiment 
 
 to Lo — 
 He's got to go. 
 
 [HO] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 WORRISOME JIM 
 
 Jim worried and worried his weary life through 
 'Till we christened him Worrisome Jim, 
 
 Just wondering what would the company do 
 If anything happened to him. 
 
 His pumps were forgotten, his water ran low, 
 While he sat a- thinking, no doubt. 
 
 There's a rent in the roof of the mill shed to show 
 Where Worrisome Jimmie went out. 
 
 The ambulance came — he was wagoned away; 
 
 For a time he lay listless and still; 
 At the end of six months, half a year to a day — 
 
 And Jimmie came back to the mill. 
 
 But he wouldn't stop worrying. Out in the park, 
 Where the street lamps at intervals shine, 
 
 A motor came hurrying down through the dark 
 And it hit him a kick in the spine. 
 
 The old mill is grinding the same as of yore, 
 
 The eyes of his widow are dim; 
 The places that knew him now know him no 
 more, 
 
 For something has happened to him. 
 
 [Hi] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 BAD ON THE BIRD 
 
 A rash little robin sailed over the sea, 
 And lit on a tree-twig, and gazing at me, 
 He softly and silently folded his wing 
 And said, in a whisper, " I came here to sing." 
 "You pose as a poet," the little bird said, 
 "Then why don't you warble and waken the 
 dead 
 Fields and flowers that slumber? Warble and 
 
 bring 
 
 The lilies to life again — Why don't you sing?" 
 
 I looked at the snow-drifts that lingered around 
 
 The fences and trees, where the frost in the 
 
 ground 
 
 Seemed to keep them from melting, — I saw 
 
 not a thing, 
 Save the bird, that gave any assurance of 
 spring. 
 I was just about telling the bird what a joke 
 It would be if the spring didn't come, when there 
 broke 
 O'er the valley a storm, and the elements 
 
 played 
 Hail on his tail 'till his feathers were frayed. 
 
 [112] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 GENTLE ANNIE 
 
 Now the restless hand of Nature 
 
 Reaches out to shift the scene, 
 And the brooks begin to warble in the dell; 
 
 And the waking fields are fluffy, 
 And the meadow lands are green, 
 
 And the tassels on the trees begin to swell. 
 
 Now the young man finds his fancy 
 Turning tow'rd the things of time, 
 
 And the miner's lightly turning tow'rd the trail; 
 And when we would be prosy, 
 
 We are drifting into rhyme — 
 It is springtime, gentle Annie, in the vale. 
 
 Now the naked hills are hiding 
 
 'Neath a garb of gaudy hue, 
 And the tramps are growing restless in the jail; 
 
 All the woodland melts in melody, 
 And everything is new; 
 
 It is springtime, gentle Annie, in the vale. 
 
 [113] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 THE WAY WE WALKED 
 
 I met a woman on life's way, 
 
 A woman fair to see ; 
 Or caught up with her I should say, 
 
 Or she caught up with me. 
 "The way is long when one's alone," 
 
 I said, "and dangerous, too; 
 I'll help you by each stumbling stone, 
 
 If I may walk with you." 
 
 Then on we went; her laughing eyes 
 
 And sunny smiles were sweet ; 
 Above us blue and burnished skies, 
 
 And roses 'neath our feet. 
 " I'm glad your sunny face I've seen," 
 
 I said; " When life is through 
 I'll own the best of it has been 
 
 The way I walked with you. 
 
 " I do not say my love, my life, 
 
 Will all be given to grief 
 When you are gone; the ceaseless strife 
 
 Will bring me much relief. 
 But when Death's hand the curtain draws, 
 
 When life's long journey's through, 
 'Twill not have all been bad, because 
 
 I came part way with you." 
 
 [114] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 THE CITY CHOIR 
 
 I went to hear the city choir : 
 
 The summer night was still. 
 I heard the music mount the spire, 
 
 They sang: "He'll take the pil — " 
 
 "I'm on! I'm on!" the tenor cried; 
 
 And looked into my face ; 
 "My journey home, My journey home," 
 
 Was bellowed by the bass. 
 
 " It is for the — It is for the — " 
 
 Shrieked the soprano shrill. 
 I knew not why they looked at me, 
 
 And yelled, "He'll take the pil — " 
 
 Then clutching wildly at my breast, 
 Oh, heaven ! My heart stood still : 
 
 "Yes, yes," I cried, "If that is best, 
 Ye powers! I'll take the pil — " 
 
 As I, half fainting, reached the door, 
 
 And saw the starry dome, 
 I heard them sing : " When life is o'er 
 
 He'll take the pilgrim home." 
 
 [115] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 WE AIN'T HAD NO SPRING 
 
 Man's a chump to set and rhyme 
 'Bout this soft Italian clime — 
 
 Sunny skies, so blue and bright ; 
 
 Sky's all right, but out o' sight. 
 Summer birds with broken wing — 
 Some are birds that want to sing — 
 We ain't had a bit o' spring. 
 
 Sun comes out and then goes back ; 
 Ho'ses waitin' on the track. 
 
 Summer's here? We don't know where 
 
 There's no music in the air. 
 Spring's all scrambled with the fall — 
 I think Foster's got his gall — 
 We ain't had no spring at all. 
 
 THE DEATH OF A DEW-DROP 
 
 My sweetheart placed in my cOat lapel 
 A beautiful, blushing boutonnaire, 
 
 And there was a dew-drop where it fell, 
 
 In the heart of the rose was an angel's tear. 
 
 How sweet, I thought, when the petals close 
 The death of the dew-drop in the rose. 
 
 [1161 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 THE PRINTER 
 
 Poor artists, who preserve the arts, 
 
 Who toil through weary nights and days 
 
 With tired eyes and heavy hearts; 
 No poet sings the printer's praise. 
 
 To them, the years no glory bring, 
 They walk not in the path of fame; 
 
 But uncomplaining sit and sing 
 The praises of another's name. 
 
 And me they much have helped along, 
 
 And doubtless after I am dead 
 They'll print my name and spell it wrong, 
 
 And part it with a period. 
 
 JEALOUSY 
 
 A brindle pup in a prairie town 
 
 Saw a greyhound gliding past, 
 And he said to the other dogs around: 
 
 " You think that greyhound's fast? 
 Leave ut to muh," as the trail he hit: 
 "That hound can't go a little bit." 
 
 The brindle pup in the prairie town 
 
 Dug deep in the prairie trail, 
 But miles behind the hunting hound, 
 
 And he failed, as a cur must fail; 
 And then with biting, snapping snarl 
 The pup went back to the garbage barrel. 
 
 [117] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 THE FLYER 
 
 Across the hill and down the dell, 
 
 Past station after station; 
 The muffled music of the bell 
 
 Gives voice to each vibration. 
 
 Out o'er the prairie, cold and gray, 
 
 There falls a flood of fire, 
 While orders flash for miles away : 
 
 "Take siding for the flyer." 
 
 The engine seems to fairly float, 
 
 Her iron sinews quiver, 
 While swift, beneath her throbbing throat, 
 
 The rails rush like a river. 
 
 Upon the seat the engineer, 
 
 Who knows her speed and power, 
 
 Sits silently without a fear 
 At sixty miles an hour. 
 
 [118] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 ENGINE .007 
 To Mr. Kipling 
 
 " Now a locomotive is, next to a marine engine, of course, 
 the most sensitive thing man ever made." — Rudyard Kipling in 
 Scribner's Magazine. 
 
 I am not supersensitive like Canada that throws 
 A fit and has hysterics when she's called a land 
 
 of snows — 
 Which snow is half her glory, e'en as mine bides 
 
 in my pull, 
 And push, and speed, and come and go; and yet 
 
 my heart is full 
 Of grief and indignation. First off, you write 
 
 me "he," 
 And rate me 'long with stationary water boilers. 
 
 We — 
 (I speak for all my sisters — all who wear the 
 
 petticoat,* 
 For we are "ladies" every one, aye, even to the 
 
 Goat)f 
 We all are proud to have engaged the pen of one 
 
 who may 
 At will depict the eagle less imposing than the 
 
 jay; 
 
 * Draft, or lifting pipe. f A yard engine. — C. W. 
 
 [119] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 II 
 
 Who only needs to pause, and touch, or breathe 
 
 upon the strings 
 Of the mute lyre, and lo, the songless slumberer 
 
 wakes and sings, 
 And all the glad world listens to his songs that 
 
 rise and swell; 
 Blame not my poor interpreter, for he, too, loves 
 
 you well. 
 He loves your friend, McAndrews, too, who loved 
 
 his engines so ; 
 The engines Calvin might have made, "enor- 
 mous," aye, but "slow." 
 My driver also loves me. He knows the sort of 
 
 steel 
 Of which my wheels and ribs are wrought, and 
 
 what it is to feel 
 My hot breath on his upturned face; to test my 
 
 speed and power; 
 While holding me against the night at ninety 
 
 miles an hour. 
 
 Ill 
 
 And you call these more sensitive who flounder 
 in the sea, 
 
 Or drive the tug — or boil the glue — more sensi- 
 tive than we, 
 
 Who show ourselves in half an hour in half a 
 dozen towns, 
 
 [120] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 And sound our bells by running brooks and 
 
 whistle on the downs; 
 I thank you kindly, Kipling, for the kind words 
 
 you have said, 
 I'd blush to seem ungrateful, yet when my 
 
 driver read : 
 "Next to marine engine" — O! Mgger-stoked 
 
 at sea! 
 Well, when it all came home to him, he shot one 
 
 glance at me, 
 The sunset shimmering o'er my sides and on my 
 
 burnished bell, 
 And white steam fluttering from my dome as we 
 
 dropped down the dell. 
 
 IV 
 
 We passed a ferry coughing low and sidling cross 
 a stream; 
 
 The driver pulled my whistle valve and made me 
 fairly scream; 
 
 "Wi! Wi! watch the world goby!" you should 
 have seen his smile; 
 
 The clock hands marking forty-seven seconds to 
 the mile. 
 
 I hope it was not vanity. The engine in the 
 mill 
 
 That toils and runs from year to year, tho' al- 
 ways standing still, 
 
 Excites my pity. Like a fettered felon in his 
 
 chains 
 
 [121] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 She toils on patiently, while I go romping o'er 
 
 the plains. 
 I'm sure the lumbering engine that rolls in a 
 
 twisting sea 
 Would gladly, gladly come ashore and roam the 
 
 earth with me. 
 
 She knows there is a "world" somewhere that 
 
 she has never seen. 
 She knows she has a boiler, too, somewhere 
 
 below the green 
 Line of the ocean. Now the driver hooked my 
 
 lever back 
 A notch, and leaning, listened to the flutter of 
 
 my stack. 
 We passed a little thresher engine, sweating in 
 
 a field, 
 And how my heart went out to her, rust-red and 
 
 half concealed 
 In smoke and dust. The driver lightly laid his 
 
 hand on me, 
 And touched my throttle half a hair, 'n I felt 
 
 the touch. Says he: 
 "Did you read what that rooster writ, 'bout 
 
 sensitive machines?" 
 "Yes," said the fireman; "that's a joke, 'twas 
 
 writ for the marines." 
 
 [122] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 I OUGHT TO BE BETTER 
 
 Fm thinking, my queen, 
 As we sit here to-night, 
 
 How loveless and lone life would be 
 If I were to lose you, 
 My own heart's delight. 
 
 Ah, God has dealt kindly with me. 
 
 He's given you to me 
 To help me along 
 
 And brighten the days that are dim ; 
 And I do so much 
 In my life that is wrong — 
 
 I ought to be better to Him. 
 
 [123] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 THE PRINCESS INGINITA 
 
 A tawny princess, long ago, 
 
 Lived in the " middle Arid Zone" 
 And played upon the hills alone ; 
 
 The hills whereon the Cacti blow. 
 
 There came from out the sunny south 
 
 A Spaniard, with a mandolin, 
 
 Who sang and played and played to win, 
 And kissed the maiden on the mouth. 
 
 He told her she was beautiful, 
 
 And sang the same song o'er and o'er, 
 They kissed again — he sang some more ; 
 
 She made him moccasins of wool. 
 
 Anon he failed his tryst to keep, 
 For, after all, she was not fair. 
 Her hair was like a horse's hair — 
 
 She had to whip her face to sleep. 
 
 She contemplated suicide, 
 
 But saw, reflected from the stream 
 Her mirrored face ; he heard her scream : 
 
 "Cayuse! Cayuse! the Spaniard lied." 
 
 [124] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 THE PASSING OF THE LOCOMOTIVE — A 
 REVERIE 
 
 "Ah, well/' said the Iron Horse, heaving a sigh 
 That was followed anon by a tear ; 
 
 " They've made me do everything else but fly, 
 Since Stephenson sent me here. 
 
 " From killing, an hour for every twelve miles, 
 To a hundred and twelve an hour; 
 
 The Yankee redoubles his toil and smiles 
 As he doubles my pace and power. 
 
 " When tempests have howled I have gone to the 
 front 
 
 The force of the blizzard to check; 
 Of countless collisions I've taken the brunt 
 
 And have laid in the ruins a wreck. 
 
 " Now, like the ' old woman,' they say I must 
 
 go, 
 And so make a place for the 'new'; 
 A mile and a half in a minute's too slow 
 For the Yankee. I know what I'll do : 
 
 " I'll go back to England, far over the sea, 
 My pace will be swift there, I'm told; 
 
 Tho' the old things of England are new to me, 
 The new things of England are old. 
 
 [125] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 " There, a thousand long years are the same as a day, 
 
 And a day as a thousand years. 
 There, when an old thing has wasted away, 
 
 Another old thing appears. 
 
 " Adieu to the land of the setting sun, 
 
 Impetuous Yankee, good-by. 
 I'll just jog along to the end of my run, 
 
 You put on your pinions and fly." 
 
 BY-AND-BY 
 
 What shall we all be doing, by-and-by? 
 There'll be so much of blueing in our sky, 
 
 When we've made an end of Trusting, 
 
 And consequential Busting, 
 
 And Literary Dusting, 
 In your eye — by-and-by, 
 And Literary Dusting in your eye. 
 
 When the frenzy-freighted bombs have all been 
 
 hurled, 
 When the battle-bloody banner has been furled, 
 We shall know no more of Trusting 
 And Literary Dusting 
 When we've Stieffen-Tarbul-Lawsonized the 
 
 world — 
 Happy World — 
 When we've Stieffen-Tarbul-Lawsonized the 
 
 world. 
 [126] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 I WOULD KNOW MY NATIVE LAND 
 
 There are those who praise the poet who can soar 
 
 in starry spheres, 
 And can mold his mystic phrases from the 
 
 wrecks of other years. 
 I would have my inspiration fresh from Nature's 
 
 open hand; 
 I would sing a simple sonnet that a child can 
 
 understand. 
 
 I would walk the verdant valley, where the salt 
 
 waves wash the feet 
 Of the Wasatch; gazing upward where the sky 
 
 and mountains meet, 
 Filled with awe and admiration I would kneel 
 
 upon the strand, 
 And thank heaven for this picture even I can 
 
 understand. 
 
 [1271 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 ON MARSHALL PASS 
 
 Young Yanker came down the hill one day 
 And the wind could hardly keep out of his way; 
 The air was good, and the brakes were set, 
 And he waddled his head with a " you can bet 
 That I'm a brave young engineer, 
 Never see no thin' that looked like fear." 
 And this is the way, the brakemen say, 
 When the birds were singing one morning in May, 
 Young Yanker came down the mountain. 
 
 The Station Agent flew out at the door 
 
 As the train went by with a rush and a roar, 
 
 Saying, " Young Yanker's exceedingly flip. 
 
 He must be making his maiden trip," 
 
 And then, after showing how fast he could run, 
 
 He'd pull the whistle for brakes for fun. 
 
 And this is the way all summer each day, 
 
 A little too sudden the "soop" would say 
 
 Young Yanker came down the mountain. 
 
 The shack and the stoker would congregate 
 And the youthful conductor would then relate 
 How the old-time runners would take it slow 
 And this daring young driver would let 'em go. 
 "Ah, well," said the hoary-haired knight of the 
 
 punch, 
 " We'll pick him up some day, all in a bunch." 
 And this is the way, all summer each day, 
 [128] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 When the fields were fraught with the odor of 
 
 hay, 
 Young Yanker came down the mountain. 
 
 Young Yanker came down the hill one day 
 His face was white and his hair was gray. 
 He shivered and shook as he stood on the deck, 
 And the bulk of his breakfast was up in his neck. 
 With the speed of a bullet he rounded a curve, 
 He wanted to jump, but he hadn't the nerve — 
 And this is the way, no cause for delay, 
 " Hellity-larupe, " the Brakemen say, 
 Young Yanker came down the mountain. 
 
 The trainmen thought he was trying his hand 
 'Till he pulled her over and gave her the sand. 
 The shack and the stoker flew over the deck 
 And the speed of the train were beginning to 
 
 check; 
 With the aid of the engine they finished their 
 
 work 
 And the cars all came to a stop with a jerk. 
 And this is the way, the trainmen say, 
 On this sear and serious autumn day, 
 Young Yanker came down the mountain. 
 
 Then he traded a lot of his sand for sense 
 With a lot of hilarity learned to dispense. 
 
 [129] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 He has no desire the card to exceed 
 
 He takes better care of his fiery steed. 
 
 His face wears a look that's serene and sublime, 
 
 He strikes every station exactly on time. 
 
 And this is the way, the officers say, 
 
 In the darkness of night or the stormiest day 
 
 Young Yanker comes down the mountain. 
 
 PERIOD ! 
 
 If I but could do what I would, 
 A pile driver would drop 
 
 On every pesky period 
 
 Within your bloomin' shop. 
 
 Then, later on, when I am gone, 
 Have petered out and past, 
 
 I need not dread that period 
 'Twixt my first name and last. 
 
 [130] 
 
SONGS OF CY W AIRMAN 
 
 THE ALL RED INDIAN 
 
 I am an all red Indian, 
 
 A British Columbia Cree; 
 I always lay aside my gun 
 
 When I go on a jamboree, 
 It is a disgrace to paint your face 
 
 When you ought to be painting the town, 
 And here is one to the son-of-a-gun 
 
 Who gets up when the sun goes down. 
 
 The pale-face hike to the lonely pike, 
 
 To the forest undefiled ; 
 With their little pack, they're trailing back, 
 
 To the heart of the ancient wild. 
 That's not for me ! I'm a timber Cree, 
 
 And I pant for the prairie brown, 
 And a midnight run with the son-of-a-gun 
 
 Who gets up when the sun goes down. 
 
 I hate the glare of the chemin de fer, 
 
 And the dusty trail by day; 
 But I delight in the lamps of night 
 
 That gleam on the Great White Way. 
 I hate the hush of the lonely bush 
 
 And the hills in glacial gown, 
 I take my fun with the son-of-a-gun 
 
 Who gets up when the sun goes down. 
 
 [1311 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 It were not wise to civilize 
 
 All of these carmin yaps, 
 For some must win the beaver skin 
 
 And some must mind the traps, 
 But the sparkling wine for me and mine, 
 
 Or a brew of autumn brown, 
 And a midnight run with the son-of-a-gun 
 
 Who gets up when the sun goes down. 
 
 [132] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 THE SUNDOWN SEA 
 
 Have you heard of the sundown sea, love, 
 
 With its blue and golden skies, 
 Where the ripples play the livelong day 
 
 And the summer never dies? 
 There is health and wealth for you, love, 
 
 There is wealth and health for me, 
 There is all that's in the golden west 
 
 On the shore of the sundown sea. 
 
 There's a tear on every thorn, love, 
 
 Of the storm-scarred locust ; there 
 Are dripping leaves and icy eaves, 
 
 And a wail on the wintry air. 
 There's a song in the frozen rill, love, 
 
 But it's lost to you and me; 
 There's a muffled cry in the wind-swept sky, 
 
 Then away to the sundown sea. 
 
 There is frost in your raven hair, love 
 
 Your cheeks are thin and pale 
 Your dark eye turns and your spirit yearns 
 
 For a glimpse of the sunset trail. 
 I will sing a new song to you, love 
 
 And you'll sing a new song to me, 
 And we'll grow young as we journey along 
 
 On the way to the sundown sea. 
 
 [133] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 THE CRY OF A WOUNDED HEART 
 
 Put by your lute — sing not to me 
 Of blood-red rose and sunny sky, 
 The clouds are come — the roses die 
 
 As my dead heart has died in me ; 
 
 There is no sunny, sundown sea ! 
 
 Sing not to me — sing not to me ! 
 There's no East, there is no West, 
 There's just a torn place in my breast, 
 
 There's nothing! Only land and sea, 
 
 All one wide waste of misery. 
 
 LOCAL COLOR 
 
 First the baby's bonny eyes caught the color of 
 
 the skies, 
 Then his tiny little toes took the color of the 
 
 rose; 
 But he never seemed so sweet 'till his pudgy 
 
 little feet 
 Ambled out across the lawn and caught the 
 
 color of the street. 
 
 [134] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 IS IT REALLY ANY GOOD? 
 
 You're a Critic, in your attic, 
 Up above the dust and din, 
 On an essay you're in duty bound to do; 
 When your sanctum opens softly 
 And a sonneteer comes in, 
 Who was never any good to you. 
 But the poet smiles serenely, while you're stifling 
 
 a moan, 
 For he wants your honest judgment on an effort 
 
 of his own; 
 When you tell him that it's rotten and the son- 
 neteer has flown — 
 Is he really any good to you? 
 
 Were you ever any good to him, William? 
 
 He was never any good, to you; 
 You could help him, if you would, 
 But you'd scalp him, if you could, 
 
 For he isn't any good, to you. 
 
 You're a Beauty, by the bard 
 
 And by the belted hero wooed, 
 Doing nothing, for you've nothing else to do; 
 Or, perhaps you're pouring pink tea 
 For a pink-a-doodle dude 
 Who was never any good, to you. 
 When you listen to his lyrics of a diamond in the 
 skies, 
 
 [135] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 With a glimmer that is dimmer than the shimmer 
 
 of your eyes, 
 When he tells you where his treasure lies — and 
 other little lies — 
 Is he really any good, to you? 
 
 Was he ever any good, to you, girlie f 
 
 He was never any good, to you; 
 You could choose him if you would 
 But you'd loose him if you could, 
 For he isn't any good, to you. 
 
 You're a Merger, with a hundred 
 Million dollars in the bank, 
 Up and doing, till there's no one left to do; 
 When your ship is on the ocean 
 And the oil is in the tank, 
 Is it really any good, to you? 
 When you're owning all that's ownable between 
 
 the earth and sky, 
 Every four-and-twenty hours will another day 
 
 goby; 
 When you dare not eat a carrot, lest you double 
 up and die, 
 Is it really any good, to you? 
 
 It was never any good to me, Rocky; 
 
 Was it ever any good, to you? 
 Could you stop it if you would, 
 Would you drop it if you could, 
 
 Is it really any good, to you? 
 [136] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 You're a Soldier, there's a Sultan, 
 On a lonely little isle, 
 Doing nothing, for there's nothing else to do; 
 When you hail him and the heathen 
 Comes to greet you with a smile — 
 Is he really any good, to you? 
 You approach him with your Bible and your 
 
 bottle and your gun, 
 If he doesn't hike he's high-balled, and you'll 
 
 hit him if he run; 
 When a dozen weedless widows stand aweeping 
 in the sun — 
 Are they really any good to you? 
 
 Were you ever any good, to him, Johnnie, 
 He was never any good, to you; 
 
 You could win him if you would, 
 
 But you'd skin him if you could, 
 For he isn't any good — to you. 
 
 [137] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 AT THE RAINBOW'S TIP 
 
 Under the arch of the curving sky, 
 
 The silent Siwash sits alone, 
 Close by the trail of the Pes'la-ki, 
 
 Hearing the low winds wail and moan, 
 Wagging his head and wondering why 
 
 The white man comes in a steaming ship 
 
 To search for gold at the rainbow's tip. 
 
 " For what is gold but a yellow stone? 
 
 A part of this worthless waste of hills?" 
 The Siwash questions. The sad winds moan, 
 
 But make no answer. A robin trills, 
 The long night curtains the Klondyke sky, 
 
 And still they come, ship after ship, 
 
 To search for gold at the rainbow's tip. 
 
 A TOAST 
 
 To woman, source of every curse 
 And every comfort man endures, 
 
 You bring relief as well as grief; 
 What one has caused another cures. 
 
 [138] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 TO BABY ASLEEP 
 
 God keep you, dearest, while the morning sun 
 Lights up the world and the world is bright; 
 
 And then at last, when the day is done, 
 
 God keep you, dearest, through the long, long 
 night. 
 
 God keep you, dearest, when the earth is gay 
 With singing birds and fields in bloom ; 
 
 When summer's verdure fades away 
 
 God keep you, dearest, through the winter's 
 gloom. 
 
 God keep you, dearest, from day to day 
 Throughout this life. When I am dumb, 
 
 And when your fair form turns to clay, 
 God keep you, dearest, in the life to come. 
 
 [139] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 A REPORTER'S REPORT 
 
 It was sometime in the P. M. of the fall of 
 '92, 
 I had cashed in the Creede Chronicle — had 
 nothing much to do. 
 I had seen the man of leisure who was loafing on 
 the street, 
 Who had every fad and fashion from his head 
 down to his feet, 
 And this prince was a reporter; so I shined my 
 Sunday shoes, 
 And went down to do the railroads for the 
 Rocky Mountain News. 
 
 Now the city man was Martin from McCullagh's 
 Democrat, 
 And he glanced above his glasses as I doffed my 
 derby hat — 
 I had owned a daily paper in the springtime of 
 that year 
 That had sunk ten thousand dollars; I had 
 nothing then to fear. 
 I had planned that in the morning I would dally 
 with the muse, 
 In the P.M. do the railroads for the Rocky 
 Mountain News. 
 
 [140] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 "Well, ahem, ahem!" said Martin, clearin' cob- 
 webs from his throat, 
 While the smoke from his Havana 'round my 
 face began to float, 
 " I presume that you're in touch with the officials 
 here in town, 
 Having worked for them; however, I shall 
 have to send you down 
 To police court"; then he coughed again and 
 shed his overshoes, 
 "That's included with the railroads on the 
 Rocky Mountain News." 
 
 I assured him that the railroads, to my mind, 
 would be a snap ; 
 I could talk about train orders, and could 
 write on lead and lap, 
 I could banquet with the president, or if I chose 
 could take 
 A turn down in the freight yards with the men 
 who twist the brake, 
 I could hobnob with the fireman while he augered 
 out his flues — 
 I could surely do the railroads for the Rocky 
 Mountain News. 
 
 " We're a little bit short-handed — you will do 
 the county courts, 
 And this evening after dinner drift around 
 among the sports — 
 
 [141] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 There's a prize fight down at Murphy's." Then 
 he paused and rubbed his head, 
 " That is all I have to say now/' this encyclo- 
 pedia said. 
 I didn't say a word then, but I thought it beat 
 the Jews 
 The way they did the railroads on the Rocky 
 Mountain News. 
 
 I had buttoned up my overcoat, was headed for 
 the stair, 
 When the quidnunc's restless fingers wandered 
 through his wealth of hair. 
 I had reached the elevator when he called me 
 back and said : 
 "You will have to do the state house for the 
 state house man is dead." 
 My poor heart sank within me, but I couldn't 
 well refuse 
 Since it all went with the railroads on the 
 Rocky Mountain News. 
 
 "See the concerts at the churches in the early 
 eve," he said. 
 " Try and do Dean Hart's cathedral where an 
 heiress is to wed 
 An English dude from Dublin — Freeman won't 
 be here to-day. 
 You may write about a column on what old- 
 timers say 
 [142] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 About the San Juan gold excitement — but 
 mind, we can't excuse 
 Any neglect of the railroads on the Rocky 
 Mountain News." 
 
 I was off. For ten long hours through the slush 
 and snow and sleet, 
 Up the stone steps at the state house, out 
 again and down the street, 
 Till I paused to feed at midnight — hit the bottle 
 till my soup 
 Seemed a sea of strange assignments — every 
 oyster was a scoop. 
 Mused on how the other papers would be bur- 
 dened with the blues 
 When they read about the railroads in the 
 Rocky Mountain News. 
 
 After lunch I wrote my copy, which told how 
 the Rio Grand 
 Had a good house, and the organ was wide 
 open working sand. 
 'Twas a cold day for the criminals who proceed 
 in wicked ways, 
 For they raided all the churches and the dean 
 got twenty days. 
 The soprano dropped her crown sheet, the police- 
 man warped his flues 
 Throwing in too much cold water, said the 
 Rocky Mountain News. 
 
 [143] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 Big strike on the reservation, all the Navajos 
 went out; 
 How the toughs had met at Trinity to hear the 
 seconds shout, 
 All the preachers in their pulpits piling up their 
 little piles 
 On Jim Corbett. How the ladies down at 
 Murphy's blocked the aisles. 
 
 The next day I got a letter that would give a 
 man the blues : 
 " This is good, but we can't read it." Signed : 
 "The Rocky Mountain News!" 
 
 Now I view the proud reporter as he swiftly 
 sallies by, 
 A botbailed flush upon his cheek, a twinkle in 
 his eye. 
 He has my sincere sympathy — I do not want 
 his place. 
 I pine not for his twinkle, nor the flush upon 
 his face. 
 No matter what inducements, I invariably 
 refuse, 
 Since the day I did the railroads for the 
 Rocky Mountain News. 
 
 [144] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 SUMMER'S GONE 
 
 Summer's gone. Ah, soon the sea 
 Will miss my summer love and me. 
 The soft sea-waves that used to float 
 Around her form and kiss her throat, 
 Will sigh and seek the shore, and then 
 Flow back into the gulf again. 
 The summer's gone. 
 
 Summer's gone. The robin's trill 
 Will soon be hushed, and o'er the hill 
 The aspen trees, in tints of gold, 
 Will shiver in the coming cold; 
 But when we part, how sweet 'twill be 
 To know that she's in love with me, 
 Tho' summer's gone. 
 
 [145] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 THE POET AND THE PUBLISHER 
 
 The uncomplaining Poet lives 
 On air and dreams and things; 
 
 With eager ears the world receives 
 The happy songs he sings. 
 
 But when the Poet's strength is spent, 
 
 His hands lie on his breast, 
 The Poet's heirs get ten per cent — 
 
 The Publisher the rest ! 
 
 THE FIRST CHRISTMAS GIFT 
 
 Of all the precious gifts that daily shower 
 From out a gracious Heaven on this ungrateful 
 earth, 
 Thou gav'st the best, sweet mother, in that hour 
 When, by God's will, thou gav'st the Saviour 
 birth. 
 
 [146] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 ADOWN THE DUSKY DELL 
 
 Behind the mossy mountain tip 
 
 Sinks the setting sun, 
 Aslant the shade the swallows dip, 
 
 The summer day is done. 
 The busy brook sings softly, 
 
 Like the tinkling of a bell, 
 And still and gray the shadows lay 
 
 Adown the dusky dell. 
 
 Across the silent summit steals 
 
 The melancholy moon, 
 And up the vale and vegas comes 
 
 The balmy breath of June. 
 Fraught with the sighs of summer, 
 
 Now the softly gentle breeze, 
 With tender touch has come to comb 
 
 The tresses of the trees. 
 
 [147] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 MISUNDERSTOOD 
 
 "Poor little ring/' a woman said, 
 
 " Twelve weary years ! twelve to a day 
 
 Since thou wert given, and love is dead; 
 He weeps alone, far, far away. 
 
 Ah ! little present, can it be 
 
 I loved him less than he loved me?" 
 
 "Poor withered rose!" a soldier said; 
 
 "Once worn upon my lady's breast; 
 She weeps alone where love lies dead, 
 
 And I the truth have never guessed 
 Through all these years. Oh! can it be 
 
 I loved her less than she loved me?" 
 
 [148] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 GONE 
 
 Only a dream of you, only a dream, 
 All I can claim of you; yet it doth seem 
 That we are still sailing the same summer sea, 
 And that you are ever and always with me. 
 
 Only a dream of you, born in a day, 
 Full-blown and beautiful, fadeless alway; 
 Things are not always the things that they 
 
 seem, — 
 Spare me this dream of you, — beautiful dream. 
 
 Lift up the face of you, turn not away, 
 Bear but a moment and hear what I say, 
 When you drift onward, down Life's limpid 
 
 stream, 
 Leave me this dream of you, — beautiful dream. 
 
 Waking, I walk with you; slumbering deep 
 I dream of you. 0, when I wake from my sleep, 
 I grope for you, dear, in the dusk of the dawn 
 And find myself sobbing: " She's gone, she is 
 gone!" 
 
 [149] 
 
Cities I Have Seen 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 COLORADO SPRINGS 
 
 Here on the selvedge of the plain, 
 
 Where Pike's lone peak is towering tall; 
 
 Just where the shipless sun-dried main 
 Breaks on the rough, resistless wall; 
 
 Beyond a desert sea of sands 
 
 The city that I sing of stands. 
 
 Broad boulevards trend toward the hills, 
 Where from the shaded canon springs 
 
 A balm for all our earthly ills; 
 
 And down the verdant valley sings 
 
 The joyous stream, through summer hours, 
 
 Through beds of fern and fields of flowers. 
 
 Above the city soars the lark, 
 
 And wakes the earth with joyous sounds; 
 Glad children playing in the park, 
 
 And lovers loitering through the grounds; 
 The sighing breeze and honey bees 
 Are drifting, droning through the trees. 
 
 [153] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARM AN 
 
 JERUSALEM 
 
 How cheerless is the wind that sweeps 
 
 The hills of Galilee, 
 Where murmurless the Jordan creeps 
 
 Down to the deep Dead Sea. 
 
 O'er barren rocks the dead vines trail, 
 
 And by dead tendrils cling, 
 And on the hill and in the vale 
 
 There is no breath of spring. 
 
 The dying glance of Christ the King 
 Seems to have stayed and stilled 
 
 The voice of every living thing 
 Where Christ the King was killed. 
 
 The brooks, the birds that sang with them, 
 
 Have long since passed away, 
 And all about Jerusalem 
 
 The earth is dead to-day. 
 
 [154] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 SALT LAKE 
 
 With awe I watch the sun go down 
 
 Across the great Salt Lake; 
 The mountains don their golden crown, 
 The soaring seagulls circle 'round, 
 The gentle billows break. 
 
 And when I scan what's made for man, 
 To make his heart grow glad, 
 
 With wonderment my heart I hush; 
 
 I feel the flush of shame's hot blush, 
 Because my soul is sad. 
 
 IN MONTREAL 
 
 The Bobsled to the Motor, 
 As it choo-chooed to and fro : 
 
 " Comment ca va, old Honk-honk ; 
 How do you like the snow?" 
 
 It rained ! the big red motor 
 Was right there on the job: 
 
 "This leaves you on your uppers," 
 Said the Motor to the Bob. 
 
 [155] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 CHEYENNE 
 
 Have you been to Cheyenne? 
 
 There's the loneliest place, 
 The drearest and searest 
 
 You'll find on the face 
 Of the earth. And hard by 
 
 Lieth Laramie town, 
 
 Once a camp of renown 
 As the home of Bill Nye. 
 
 Empty bottles and gravel, 
 
 And cactus and cans, 
 Broken vows and old hoops 
 
 Freight the hot wind that fans 
 The parched plain. Going back 
 
 To the bottle and can — 
 I was broke in Cheyenne. 
 
 Years after I sat 
 
 In the manager's car 
 As it slipped o'er the steel 
 
 Trail with never a jar, 
 And our train orders ran 
 
 Us by way of Cheyenne. 
 
 What a wonderful change 
 
 Had come over the place ! 
 Oh, the women were fair. 
 
 [156] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 There was one who had eyes 
 Just the hue of the skies; 
 And the low winds were soft, 
 And the things that we quaffed 
 Well, we laid over there. 
 
 "Ah, so much depends," 
 
 I said, with a sigh, 
 
 As the hours flew by, 
 
 " On a friend and his friends. 
 
 Say, Deuel, how can 
 
 We go 'way from Cheyenne?" 
 
 [157] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 CAIRO 
 
 I had banqueted in Berlin, seen a festival in 
 
 Rome, 
 Had a midnight lunch in London and a heap o' 
 
 things at home; 
 But I never knew what life was 'till I lingered for 
 
 a while 
 Where they used to have a harem on the margin 
 
 of the Nile. 
 
 Where the swaying palm and pepper fling their 
 fragrance on the air, 
 
 And the moaning camel kneels to take the bur- 
 den he must bear, 
 
 Then, rising shakes his silver bells and shuffles 
 down the file, 
 
 Where they used to have a harem on the margin 
 of the Nile. 
 
 Here dreamy, dark-eyed maidens come to loiter 
 
 in the leaves 
 That begirth Gezerich Palace, where, like rain 
 
 from dripping eves, 
 Runs the ceaseless song of summer, for the 
 
 heavens seem to smile 
 Where they used to have a harem on the margin 
 
 of the Nile. 
 
 [158] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 SAN FRANCISCO, 1894 
 
 There's a band of dusky damsels 
 
 From the Occidental Isles; 
 They are wily, wild and wooly, 
 
 But they wear such winsome smiles 
 That the high walls of the wigwam 
 
 Fairly echo with delight 
 When they do the Hula Hula, 
 
 And they dance it every night. 
 
 With an air of Eve-like innocence 
 
 That time has not effaced, 
 They wear no clothes, to speak of, 
 
 Save a reef around the waist 
 Made of sea- weeds; beads and bangles 
 
 And their sandals, limp and light, 
 When they do the Hula Hula, 
 
 And they dance it every night. 
 
 They're consigned to Colonel Cody; 
 
 They are going to the Fair, 
 With their smiles and troubled tresses 
 
 And whatever else they wear. 
 They have faded San Francisco, 
 
 And they're sure to hold the host 
 If they do the Hula Hula 
 
 As they dance it on the coast. 
 
 [159] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 CREEDE 
 
 Here's a land where all equal — 
 
 Of high or lowly birth — 
 A land where men make millions, 
 
 Dug from the dreary earth. 
 Here meek and mild-eyed burro's 
 
 On mineral mountains feed. 
 It's day all day in the day-time, 
 
 And there is no night in Creede. 
 
 The cliffs are solid silver, 
 
 With wondrous wealth untold, 
 And the beds of running rivers 
 
 Are lined with purest gold. 
 While the world is filled with sorrow, 
 
 And hearts must break and bleed — 
 It's day all day in the day-time, 
 
 And there is no night in Creede. 
 
 [160] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 DENVER 
 
 Denver, sunny Denver, 
 
 I know the skies are clear, 
 I know the winds blow gently 
 
 Although the leaves be sear; 
 I know the sunlight lingers 
 
 On mountain, hill and plain 
 'Round Denver, dear old Denver 
 
 I'm going back again. 
 
 I know the oak and aspen 
 
 Are burning as of old, 
 I know the hills are changing 
 
 From summer green to gold; 
 The columbine and bluebell 
 
 Are numbered with the slain, 
 But Denver, dear old Denver — 
 
 I'm going back again. 
 
 [161] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 IN SAINT PAUL 
 
 If you're ever left alone 
 
 In Saint Paul, 
 There's a "conversashiown" 
 
 There for all; 
 In the station, overhead, 
 When the shades of night have fled 
 And the sun is rising red, 
 
 O'er Saint Paul. 
 
 O, they're always going strong 
 
 In Saint Paul, 
 Where the victims wait along 
 
 Down the wall; 
 You can hear the beardies moan 
 As the vocalizers hone 
 At the conversashiown, 
 
 In Saint Paul. 
 
 Always, when a barber dies, 
 
 In Saint Paul, 
 And his comrades close his eyes, 
 
 Over all 
 You can hear the Union shout 
 As they pass him up the spout : 
 " 'Nother brother has talked out, 
 
 In Saint Paul!" 
 
 [162] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 CRIPPLE CREEK 
 
 Where yesterday 
 
 We picked our way 
 
 'Mong trees where tangled timber lay 
 
 The happy hamlet stands to-day, 
 
 From every hill 
 
 Resounds the drill, 
 
 And where the frost has hushed the rill 
 
 We hear the music of the mill. 
 
 Where fierce and bold 
 
 The red man strolled 
 
 With painted face in days of old 
 
 The hills he touched have turned to gold. 
 
 [163] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 AT JAFFA 
 
 High on the beach the breakers dance, 
 
 For the winds blow hard from the pyramids; 
 
 And over the sea, in sunny France, 
 A woman waits with tear-wet lids 
 
 While the waves roll high on the Syrian sand 
 And the ships go by, but never land. 
 
 Ah ! cruel waves ; they keep from me 
 Sweet messages from one most dear, 
 
 And all I see is the ruffled sea 
 
 With sand-soiled lace. All night I hear 
 
 The waves moan high on the Syrian sand, 
 But the ships go by and never land. 
 
 When the sea is high the ships go by, 
 When the sea is low there are no ships; 
 My heart runs down to my finger tips 
 
 And my hands stretch out o'er the drifted sand 
 But the ships go by and never land. 
 
 [164] 
 
More or Less Personal 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 A TRIBUTE TO DR. DRTJMMOND 
 
 A friend whose lips lie motionless, 
 
 Whose name I breathe, not without pain; 
 
 Yet, what rich gifts he left to us, 
 The cheerful children of his brain : 
 
 Leetle Batise, an Dieudonne, 
 
 Dose feller will not pass away ! 
 
 You who have broken bread with him, 
 Have lingered, laughing late at night; 
 
 You will know why mine eyes are dim 
 With tears that blur the lines I write; 
 
 Dare's won, he's frien', I'm not forget, 
 
 Dat small cure of Calumette. 
 
 Time rolls, and brings us frost and flowers 
 Set changes of the changeless years; 
 
 He passed 'mid early April showers 
 As tho' the world were moved to tears; 
 
 De Rosignol sing on an' on, 
 
 More sadder now 'cause he is gone. 
 
 He would not have his friends repine, 
 
 He fought and wrought and made a name. 
 
 His work — I'd gladly make it mine, 
 Believe, not for wealth or fame, 
 
 But just because he had to go 
 
 And leave it, when he loved it so. 
 
 [167] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 TO A PHOTOGRAPH — B. W. 
 
 Beautiful woman with wondrous hair, 
 Beautiful ears half hidden there, 
 Beautiful eyes that seem to look 
 Into the world as an open book ; 
 Beautiful hand with careless grace 
 Pillows your perfectly pictured face. 
 
 Beautiful windows of a sweet soul, 
 Over you lightly the slow years roll, 
 Beautiful heart, so tender and true, 
 Drawing the heart o 7 the world to you; 
 Wish I were great enough just to stand 
 By you, and breath you and touch your hand. 
 
 PAULINE 
 
 I know a woman, 
 The light of whose eyes, 
 Is like to the wonder 
 We see in the skies. 
 
 Whose lips seem to whisper : 
 " The rose is dew-pearled, 
 God's in His heaven, 
 AlPs well with the world." 
 
 [168] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 ROBERT ELLIOT 
 
 We rambled where the river winds 
 
 By an abandoned mill; 
 Where forest flowers and northern pines 
 
 The air with fragrance fills. 
 
 A wild rose bloomed beside the trail, 
 
 A bird sang on a limb ; 
 He whistled to a whistling quail, 
 
 The bird called back to him. 
 
 God set his soul and turned his song 
 
 And clarion-clear it rang ; 
 He walked the woodland, summer long, 
 
 And with the song-birds sang. 
 
 He wandered on across the hill 
 
 Where death's dark shadow creeps; 
 
 The wild rose died, his voice is still, 
 And with the flowers he sleeps. 
 
 [169] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 TO MRS. FOR CHARITY 
 
 Dear friend, I should like to write something for 
 you, 
 
 But there's so little here in my head; 
 And life is so short and there's so much to do, 
 
 And the children are crying for bread; 
 There are stories for Munsey, McClure and 
 
 Success, 
 The Post, the Companion and others. I guess 
 For this time, a failure I'll have to confess, 
 
 For the children are crying for bread. 
 
 'Twere a pleasure to sing for the good of the 
 cause, 
 
 (But the children are crying for bread) 
 And I know in your house, I'd be sure of applause 
 
 If I knew just the thing to be said; 
 For the women are kind as the women are fair, 
 And their laughter is lighter than timberline air ; 
 If I gave them a song, they would give me a 
 prayer, 
 
 But the children are crying for bread. 
 
 You know there are times when you can't do a 
 thing, 
 
 When the wheels whirl around in your head ; 
 And you must know it's hard for a fellow to sing 
 
 With the children all crying for bread. 
 [170] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 Though my lute may be mute, you will pray 
 
 understand, 
 I am with you in spirit all over the land, 
 And to you and your comrades, I'm kissing my 
 
 hand, 
 While the children are crying for bread. 
 
 BILL AND HY 
 
 Hy Ballsome was just one of us — 
 Sometimes he's better, sometimes wo'se; 
 Sometimes when he'd get hot, he'd cuss - 
 But he never got religion. 
 
 Bill Davis said to him: a 'z Hy, 
 Where'll you be goin', by an' by; 
 You reckon you be fit to die? 
 You ain't got no religion!" 
 
 "Bill Davis, I been watchin' you," 
 Says Hy, " an' when I learn to do 
 To others as they orto do, 
 I won't need no religion." 
 
 [171] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 JIU-JITZU VS. HOCKEY 
 To T. R. 
 
 If you want to rear a nation 
 
 To be fit for future scraps, 
 Cut away this imitation 
 
 That you're taking from the Japs. 
 You can never win your battles 
 
 With these monkey-springs and squats — 
 To the Highlands and play hockey with the 
 Scots. 
 
 "Hoot, mon! Hoot!" says big Macdonald, 
 And Mac Williams answers, "Hoot!" 
 
 As he smashes Angus Campbell 
 On the apex of his snoot ; 
 
 While the polished floor is freckled 
 By a score of crimson spots, 
 
 Ah! you're busy when you hockey with the 
 Scots. 
 
 Hear Macpherson's smothered curses 
 
 As his bosom swells with pride, 
 And the horses on the hearses 
 
 Paw the atmosphere outside 
 With the coroner and undertaker 
 
 Waiting on the spot 
 Oh you're strenuous when you hockey with a 
 
 Scot. 
 [172] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 FRIENDSHIP 
 
 Doubtless, in dear old London, 
 
 If you were ever there, 
 You've looked on Nelson's monument 
 
 Down in Trafalgar Square; 
 Our Nelson has a monument 
 
 That higher still extends, 
 Stouter than stone, it's builded on 
 
 The friendship of his friends. 
 
 Sometimes this thing called friendship 
 
 Is likened to a tree 
 Among whose leaves on Summer eve's 
 . The cooling winds blow free; 
 It shades the passing pilgrim 
 
 Whose weary way he wends, 
 A noble tree, it seems to me — 
 
 The friendship of our friends. 
 
 At other times this friendship 
 
 Is fashioned as a flower, 
 Whose sweet perfume pervades the gloom 
 
 Of many a weary hour; 
 Our smiles, as so much sunshine, 
 
 Will keep it fresh for years 
 If grief should come, in sorrow dumb 
 
 We lave it with our tears. 
 
 [173] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 I like to liken friendship 
 
 Unto the Breath of Morn, 
 Fresh from the dewy uplands 
 
 And singing through the corn, 
 Or Flora, faring barefoot 
 
 With all her arms can hold ; 
 A Peace-flag on the fortress, 
 
 A sunset full of gold. 
 
 And so your friends have fashioned 
 
 A monument so high, 
 Its base is hidden in our hearts, 
 
 Its top lost in the sky; 
 When, through the years that follow, 
 
 When sun or shower descends, 
 One thing is sure and will endure, 
 
 The friendship of your Friends. 
 
 To Nelson E. W. 
 
 From his friends of the 
 
 New England Passenger Association. 
 
 Boston, Massachusetts, 
 
 December 21, 1910. 
 
 [174] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 TO JULIAN RALPH, IN CHINA 
 
 When you drifted down the Pacific 
 
 Across the Atlantic I sped; 
 And when you dropped anchor at Hong Kong 
 
 I whistled down brakes at Port Said. 
 
 I came here in quest of the morning, 
 
 The cradle of day to behold; 
 You came here in search of the sunset 
 
 'Neath skies ever gilded with gold. 
 
 I swear my trail ends at the morning, 
 You say, "Here's the edge of the night" ; 
 
 Then where is the sunrise and sunset? 
 What jurist shall judge which is right? 
 
 Go back to the noonland, my brother, 
 
 That holds the half sphere you have known; 
 
 Come let us be frank with each other, 
 What land is as fair as our own? 
 
 TO J. W. S. 
 
 Great little man, whose name and fame 
 
 Shall reach from Pole to Pole; 
 I wonder how so slight a frame 
 
 Can cage so great a soul. 
 
 [175] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 HIM 
 
 He will come back. The stress of things, 
 The Comet and the death of Kings 
 Eclipse him for a little space, 
 But he'll come back to his own place 
 On the front page — The Cracker jack — 
 He will come back. 
 
 He will come back again, and lo, 
 The Little Ones who think they know 
 The inner workings and the tricks 
 Of twentieth century politics 
 Will take their chapeaux from the rack 
 When he comes back. 
 
 HENRY PREW 
 
 A Toast 
 
 Here's to you, Henry Prew, 
 
 Henry Prew, here's to you. 
 
 Happy Henry! May your skies be always blue; 
 
 Kindly, thoughtful, gentle-souled, 
 
 May your joys be manifold, 
 
 And your sunset full of gold, 
 
 Henry Prew. 
 [176] 
 
SONGS OF CY WARMAN 
 
 FATHER J. C. 
 
 I know a man, whom God gives me to know, 
 And if I had met with him long years ago, 
 When the spirit was strong and the flesh near so 
 
 frail, 
 I might not have wandered so far from the trail. 
 
 But now that I know him, and since he knows 
 
 me, 
 He'll mark me and mind me, and when I'm at 
 
 sea 
 And storms beat against me, he'll watch on the 
 
 strand 
 To beckon and beacon me back to the land. 
 
 [177] 
 
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