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Shakespeare 
 Up to Date 
 
 And Ofh^r 
 Latter-Day Lyrics 
 
 BY 
 
 ARTHUR G. BURGOYNE. 
 
 Price, Twenty^i^e Cents y Postpaid, 
 
 — I — 4Wf-^189^ 
 
 Wi.' 
 
 T. W. NEViKyPaMisKer, 
 PITTSBURG, PA. 
 
1 
 
SH 
 
 
 [ 
 
 — AND- 
 
 ~BY- 
 
 7 
 Arthur G. Borgoyne, 
 
 It 
 
 (*'A11 Sorts" Man of the Pittsburg 
 "Leader"). 
 
 Illustrated by 
 
 FREDERICK EARL JOHMSTON. 
 
 APR g?1896f 
 
 T. W. Nevin, mhaMfynsvi'^^^!^''^ JX 
 
 Pittsburg, Pa. 
 1896. 
 
 V--«— ^ 
 
(Copyrighted, 1896, by T. W. Nevin.) 
 
INTRODUCTORY. 
 
 The verses collected in this little vol- 
 ume are offered to the public as an 
 example of rough-and-ready newspaper 
 jingle, literally "dashed off" by the 
 writer as a part of his daily allotment 
 of labor. 
 
 Every day since October 13, 1890, the 
 "All Sorts" column of the Pittsburg 
 "Leader" has been headed with a bit 
 of verse, dealing with the leading topio 
 of the hour, or, in case the leading topic 
 happened to be stale or unpalatable, 
 with some more congenial theme, arbi- 
 trarily chosen. As a rule, however, the 
 metrical department held its own as a 
 department of current comment and 
 moved along "pari passu" with the ed- 
 itorial colujam. 
 
 Of course, there could be no pol- 
 ishing of these "lyrics" under the 
 circumstances governing their manu- 
 facture. The poetical machinery work- 
 ed at high pressure and the period of 
 production was usually from five to 
 thirty minutes. 
 
 Nevertheless the writer, having been 
 
bred in a school of literary effort which 
 knows not fear or trembling, submits 
 the accompanying gems to the great 
 world outside the sphere of the "Lead- 
 er" with a cheerful indifference to the 
 consequences. 
 
 If any man's life should be brighten- 
 ed or his home broken up by these ma- 
 chine-made verses, the author will still 
 be honest enough to confess that they 
 were not, like the works of most other 
 metrical performers of modern times, 
 written with a ''purpose." It is merely 
 as a specimen of mechanical art, oper- 
 ating under a full head of steam, that 
 
 they are submitted by 
 
 The Author. 
 
RICHARD III. 
 
 Of subjects dramatic there's none more 
 absurd 
 
 Than that bull-headed Englishman Rich- 
 ard the Third, 
 
 For although he was wealthy and sat on 
 a throne 
 
 He could never let first degree murder 
 alone. 
 
 Old Shakespeare veraciously tells us that 
 Dick 
 
 (So we'll call him for sho-rt) had an im- 
 becile trick 
 
 Of arousing his relatives out of their beds 
 
 And exclaiming excitedly, "Orf with their 
 'eds!" 
 
 As a bracer each morning he'd string up 
 
 a lord; 
 As a nightcap, a duke he would put to the 
 
 sword; 
 When he'd bowl up on sack — very prime 
 
 was his stock— 
 A round dozen of viscounts he'd send to 
 
 the block. 
 
Two juvenile nephews he lodg-'d in the 
 
 Tow'r, 
 Where the poor little chaps were cut off 
 
 in their flow'r; 
 Brother Clarence, who tippled,, he brought 
 
 into line 
 By submerg-ing- the sot in a hogshead of 
 
 wine. 
 
 He surprised Rivers, Buckingham, Hast- 
 ings and Gray 
 
 By abruptly removing their craniums one 
 day, 
 
 And, though hunchbacked and cock-eyed 
 and evil of tongue, 
 
 He attempted to copy the late Brigham 
 Young. 
 
 While his record of felonies always was 
 
 full. 
 The courts wouldn't try him because of 
 
 his "pull," 
 And if anyone threatened to cure him by 
 
 force 
 He'd advance to the footlights and swear 
 
 he'd do worse. 
 
 The people of England knew well he did 
 wrong. 
 
 But had no secret ballot to help them 
 along-; 
 
 "What's the use of reform," they de- 
 jectedly said, 
 
 "When the high moral hustler must part 
 with his head?" 
 
 But at last Colonel Richmond, a gallant 
 free lance. 
 
 Who had long found it healthy to linger 
 in Prance, 
 
 Recruited an army, resolved on a kick, 
 
 And declared, by the gods, that he'd wal- 
 lop King Dick. 
 
 At Bos worth they met— 'twas a place 
 apropos— 
 
 For King Dick was a Boss worth defeat- 
 ing, you know. 
 
 There his liver went wrong on the eve 
 of the fight 
 
 And a horrible dream made him squirm 
 all the night. 
 
 6 
 
The ghosts of his victims emerged from 
 
 the tomb 
 And appeared in his tent with predictions 
 
 of gloom. 
 The calcium burnt blue as each muttered 
 
 a curse, 
 And the king woke up raving and called 
 
 for a horse. 
 
 The battle came off and King Dick lost 
 
 his life, 
 While Richmond triumphantly ended the 
 
 strife. 
 Then the victor stepped front with the 
 
 crown on his brow. 
 And the gallery gods raised a deuce of a 
 
 row. 
 
 7 
 
HAMLET, 
 
 There lived In Denmark years ago 
 
 A princeling adolescent, 
 Who always was in spirits low, 
 
 And never could be pleasant. 
 His stockings were of solemn black; 
 
 His cloak was made of camlet; 
 His stock of names was very slack— 
 
 'Twas limited to "Hamlet." 
 
 Hfts family disgraced the town; 
 
 The most of 'em were crooked; 
 His father wore a nobby crown; 
 
 His uncle schemed to hook it. 
 A dose of poison did the act, 
 
 ('Twas given circumspectly.) 
 The uncle by the queen was backed 
 
 And married her directly. 
 8 
 
The specter of the king appeared 
 
 And said in tones appalling-: 
 "O Ham, my son, your dad revered, 
 
 Though dead, for gore is calling. 
 Your uncle is a scalawag, 
 
 Your mother is no better; 
 Just kill 'em both— pray, do not lag — 
 
 And I will be your debtor." 
 
 At this poor Ham went off his nut, 
 
 And in his awful hurry 
 Polonius to death he cut. 
 
 Thus adding to his worry. 
 Polonius was Ham's girl's papa 
 
 And— O! the torture scathing!— 
 The girl went mad— yes, mad, ha! ha«! 
 
 And drowned herself while batning. 
 
 Then came Polonius' only son 
 
 Laertes, like a lion. 
 He went for Hamlet with a gun 
 
 And thought to leave him dyin'; 
 With poison and a fencing foil 
 
 He tried the Prince to slaughter. 
 But Ham knew how his game to spoil 
 
 And killed him as he oughter. 
 
 The king and queen by accident 
 
 Drank Hamlet's poisoned chalice. 
 Then Ham took one himself; he meant 
 
 To show he bore no malice. 
 As all the family now were dead 
 
 Through circumstances squally, 
 Old Shakespeare, with a level head. 
 
 Here wrote the word "Finale." 
 O 
 
SHYLOCK. 
 
 In a period archaic 
 
 Dwelt in Venice by the sea 
 An old gentleman Hebraic 
 
 Just as stingy as could be. 
 Ev'ry one that saw his sly look 
 
 When a ducat hove in view, 
 Would exclaim, "That Mr. Shylock 
 
 Is a skinflint through and through." 
 
 Sweet Miss Portia was an heiress 
 With a goodly store of pelf; 
 
 And besides she was as fair as- 
 Well, as fair as Love itself. 
 
 And her beaux she loved to baffle, 
 Young Bassanio 'mid the rest; 
 
 But he won her at a raffle 
 And he pressed her to his vest. 
 
 While Bassanio fixed his fences, 
 
 He was nicely kept afloat. 
 For Antonio paid expenses 
 
 With a promissory note. 
 Fhylock cashed it; Bass securing 
 
 The proceeds, said, "Israelite 
 When this notelet is maturing 
 
 You may walk the floor all night." 
 lO 
 
The security provided 
 
 By Antonio was a pound 
 Of his flesh, if he backslided 
 
 When the settling- time came round.- 
 As he didn't have a copper 
 
 Shylock swore he was a "beat," 
 And with expletives improper. 
 
 Vowed he'd have his pound of meat* 
 
 Poor Antonio was arrested 
 
 And was brought before the Duke 
 To be legally invested 
 
 With the status of a crook. 
 But the news abroad did journey 
 
 And when Portia heard the tale 
 She dressed up as an attorney 
 
 And got Tony out on bail. 
 
 At the trial, Purdon's digest 
 
 She produced and in the same 
 Found the groundwork for a sly jest— 
 
 'Twas a clever little game. 
 "Mr. Shylock," she said sweetly, 
 
 "With your little butcher knife 
 Cut an even pound off neatly 
 
 Or the law will have your life." 
 
 Shylock wilted; there was no test; 
 
 Portia won by iron gall; 
 And the note — it went to protest 
 
 And was never paid at all. 
 TTot a moment, then, they tarried 
 
 But the bells began to chime, 
 And they everyone got married 
 
 And had quite a nobby time. 
 11 
 
JULIUS CAESAR. 
 
 In ancient Rome on a street unknown, 
 
 At a number not recorded 
 A political sharp, of the highest tone, 
 With his family lodged and boarded. 
 
 Like Chris Magee 
 
 A boss was ht 
 And historians all agree, sir, 
 
 That in levelness of head 
 
 The universe he led, 
 Which his name 'twas Julius Caesar. 
 
 He went to war with a great hurrah 
 
 And burned his boats behind him. 
 Wherever the face of an enemy he saw 
 In the front you'd always find him. 
 
 The foreigners that kicked 
 
 Were summarily licked 
 And compelled fur their lives to flee, sir. 
 
 And sf.vage folk 
 
 Had to walk 'neath the yo!?0 
 Of Commander Julius Caesar. 
 
 13 
 
All Rome turned out with joy to greet 
 
 The warrior home returning; 
 But a few who couldn't with him compete 
 With envious rage were burning. 
 They chewed their nails, 
 Told trumped-up tales, 
 And were mad as mad could be, sir. 
 When they saw that all 
 Weie ready to fall 
 At the feet of Julius Caesar. 
 
 Old Brutus, he was the General's chum 
 
 And Cassius was another. 
 While Casca swore that, whate'er might 
 come, 
 He loved him as a brother. 
 
 As they loved him so, 
 In their overflow 
 Of affection true, these three, sir, 
 Fixed an early date 
 To assassinate 
 Ambitious Julius Caesar. 
 
 When Julius sought to wear a crown, 
 
 The plotters cried, "Have at you," 
 Then carved him up and he dropped rigHt 
 down 
 At the base of Pompey's statue. 
 Antonius spake 
 At the General's wake. 
 While the tears came fast and free, sir. 
 And the murderers fled, 
 Their hands still red, 
 With the gore of Julius Caesar. 
 
 Now Brutus, backed by Cassius, tried 
 
 In war to flnd salvation. 
 They failed and took to suicide 
 As a final consolation. 
 
 To record their shame 
 The task became 
 Of the Stratford bard and he, sir, 
 SflU evokes applause 
 And the public draws 
 With the tale of Julius Caesar. 
 13 
 
 J 
 
OTHELLO. 
 
 Shakespeare tells of one Othello, 
 An unpleasant sort of fellow, 
 Who resided once in Venice and enjoyed a. 
 hefty pull; 
 He was black as coal and boorish, 
 And his family was Moorish, 
 Yet an army he commanded and of honors 
 he was full. 
 
 Ne'er in Venice was there known a 
 Fairer lass than Desdemona— 
 She was spooney on Othello, and the pair 
 of 'em eloped; 
 Old Bassanio, her father, 
 Swore by all the gods he'd rather 
 Have been ruined than to see her into such 
 a marriage roped. 
 
 On the foul miscegenation 
 People frowned disapprobation, 
 And Othello was hauled up before the sign- 
 iors, grave and wise. 
 "You're a black," said they, indignant. 
 "She's a beaut." said he, benignant. 
 And the signiors dropped the case when 
 thus he did apologize. 
 14 X 
 
Of Othello's guards the highest 
 One was Cassio, and the slyest 
 Was lago, who was jealous of the Moor 
 and Cassio, too. 
 Now this cunning basilisk, he 
 Got young Cassio full of whisky, 
 Whereupon Othello bounced the youth, as. 
 duty bade him do. 
 Desdemona interceded 
 For the victim, and she pleaded 
 So devoutly that lago saw his chance to 
 play the deuce. 
 "See, Othello," said the villain, 
 "Cassio loves her and she's willin' 
 With that whisky-drinking scalawag to* 
 play you fast and loose." 
 Then a handkerchief was flashed up 
 Which the Moor completely smashed 
 up 
 Since lago said that Desdemona gave it to 
 her beau. 
 Says Othello: "Talk is idle. 
 Nothing short bf homicidal 
 Demonstrations will content me in the case 
 of Mrs. O." 
 Thereupon he wildly snorted, 
 And with visage much distorted. 
 Sword in hand he sought the chamber 
 where sweet Desdemona slept. 
 But too sweet she was for stabbing, 
 So thought he: "I'll do no jabbing; 
 It might hurt the girl," and at the thought 
 he sat him down and wept. 
 Finally, his nerve regaining. 
 He could brook no more restraining, 
 So he seized the sofa pillow and with that 
 he did the deed. 
 As they nevermore could wake her, 
 To bring in an undertaker 
 Was the next thing on the program in this 
 mournful hour of need. 
 On the instant, loud lamenting, 
 Came lago's wife, repenting 
 That she hadn't spoken out before, since 
 now it was too late. 
 Out of fear she had suppressed it, 
 But she freely now confessed it, 
 That lago had been lying and that Mrs. O. 
 was straight. 
 When he heard this sad recital 
 Then Othello pierced a vital 
 Portion of his composition with his jewel- 
 hilted blade. 
 Thus the circus terminated 
 <And the audience much elated 
 O'er the wind-up, thought a sweeter play 
 than this was never made. 
 15 
 
TIMON OF ATHENS. 
 
 See, on this flg-ure appears the stamp, 
 The thorough, indelible brand, 
 
 Which characterizes the genus tramp, 
 
 The chap who, whether 'tis dry or damp, 
 Goes strolling about the land. 
 
 Free lunch and of rum an occasional 
 drain 
 
 He chases, but labor is in vain, 
 He'd have you understand. 
 
 Our sample was the first of his race; 
 
 In Athens he used to dwell. 
 Lord Timon he was till he sank from 
 
 grace; 
 For the gilded youth he set the pace 
 
 And was counted a howling swell. 
 With lavish hand his cash he spent, 
 And with lightning speed to the bow- 
 wows went 
 
 And into the gutter fell. 
 
The Coal Oil Johnny of Greece was he 
 
 And parasites hemmed him round; 
 Liucullus, Sempronius and Lucius were 
 
 three 
 That "pulled his leg." He was soft, you 
 see, 
 And 'twas thus that he ran aground. 
 For the fellow that scatters his ready 
 
 cash 
 On ev'ry hand in a manner rash 
 To go by the board is bound. 
 
 Collectors thronged at his palace door; 
 
 His notes to protest went; 
 Of letters he got full many a score 
 The legend "please remit" they bore; 
 
 And his landlord sued for rent. 
 He tried to borrow from friends es- 
 teemed, 
 But wofully short of cash they seemed; 
 
 They'd lend him nary a cent. 
 
 At this Lord Timon's rage was great, 
 
 And his curses rent the air. 
 He cursed the city; he cursed the state; 
 And then he fled on a passing freight, 
 
 For he had no railroad fare. 
 Quoth he, "Humanity's all a cheat 
 Henceforth I'll be nought but a stone- 
 dead beat 
 
 And cast-off clothes I'll wear." 
 
 Thus Timon laid the foundation stone 
 
 Of trampdom, and to-day 
 The Knights of the Road, who make 
 
 their moan 
 At kitchen doors in a puling tone. 
 Their homage are bound to pay 
 To the memory of their prototype. 
 Whose rags and bundle and short clay 
 
 pipe 
 Are the "motif" of Shakespeare's play. 
 17 
 
THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 
 
 There were four twins— two pair, you 
 know, 
 
 A set of real jolly cusses; 
 And two were known as Dromio 
 
 And two of 'em were Antipholuses. 
 
 Will Shakespeare picked these duplex 
 twins, 
 Foredoom'd to strange mishaps and 
 terrors, 
 To move the world to broadest grins 
 Throughout a "Comedy of Errors," 
 
 Each Dromio with an Antipholus 
 
 As bcdy-servitor abided. 
 The one pair lived at Ephesus, 
 
 The other at Syracuse resided. 
 
 A shipwreck split the pairs apart 
 In infancy, but human "natur" 
 
 Inspired them, with a loving heart, 
 To try and see each other later. 
 IS 
 
So, years thereafter, o'er the sea, 
 Supplied with information scanty, 
 
 Went "Anti" Number One. Thought he, 
 "Perchance I'll find the other *Anti.' " 
 
 His dad, Aeg-eon, paid his fare. 
 And went along, his bosom thaWing 
 
 As he beheld one "Anti" there 
 And hoped two pair he might be draw- 
 ing. 
 
 Arrived at Ephesus, they found 
 That four of a kind knocks two pair 
 silly; 
 
 All four were mixed and twisted round, 
 And things began to turn out illy. 
 
 The wife of "Anti" Number Two 
 Took Number One for hers and slapped 
 him. 
 While Number Two, by men in blue 
 Was gobbled, who in prison clapped 
 him. 
 
 The Dromios, too, were more or less 
 Confounded, railed at, kicked and sat 
 on. 
 In short both pairs, we must confess, 
 Were bad to draw to, or else stand pat 
 on. 
 
 To make things worse Aegeon was jailed 
 And doomed to death without rhyme 
 or reason; 
 
 And being in durance, of course he failed 
 To open the jack-pot in proper season. 
 
 But just at the time when 'twas agreed 
 That all hands round were drunk or 
 crazy, 
 Aegeon, en route to the gallows, took 
 heed 
 Of the several twins and the happ'nings 
 mazy. 
 
 By strawberry marks, 'twas all made 
 straight 
 And the twins reuned in a style de- 
 voted. 
 Aegeon was freed at an early date 
 And a royal flush on his cheek was 
 noted. 
 
 Then a long-lost mother came on the 
 scene 
 And greeted the crowd with embraces 
 hearty; 
 Whereat all hands, with emotion keen, 
 Cashed in their chips and broke up the 
 party, 
 
 19 
 
MRS. MACBETH. 
 
 Do not tell us of Susan B. Anthony's 
 fame 
 Or of sweet Lillie Devereux Blake; 
 Do not tell us that these in the woman's 
 rights game 
 Take the laurel, the palm and the cake. 
 For we've looked up the records and find 
 *tis a fact 
 (So Shakespeare decisively saith); 
 That there's none that can beat in the 
 masculine act 
 Her Scotch ladyship, Mrs. Macbeth, 
 for life 
 
 When she made her debut she was mated 
 
 To the cousin of Duncan, the king; 
 And she said to herself, "To be royalty's 
 wife 
 Would be quite an agreeable thing." 
 So she argued with Mac that by hook or 
 by crook 
 He was bound to put Duncan to death. 
 And his nerve fled away 'neath the 
 basilisk look 
 Fastened on him by Mrs. Macbeth. 
 20 
 
tCing Duncan to visit Macbeth was in- 
 duced, 
 And he took Captain BanquO' along*. 
 **Ah ha!" said the lady, aside, "You'll be 
 g-oosed. 
 Unless matters with Mac should go 
 wrong." 
 As for Mac, he met witches, who led him 
 astray. 
 And by ghosts he was robbed of his 
 breath. 
 Even daggers intangible rose in his way— 
 He'd have quit but for Mrs. Macbeth. 
 
 Egged on by the woman, the man did the 
 deed. 
 And Duncan was slain in his sleep; 
 Next Banquo was killed, and from rivalry 
 freed, 
 Mac arrived at the top of the heap. 
 But his conscience rebuked him; strange 
 visions he saw; 
 Of each victim there bobbed up the 
 wraith. 
 Still whenever he took to lamenting; "Oh, 
 pshaw," 
 Was the answer of Mrs. Macbeth. 
 
 At last from the furthest recesses of 
 Fife 
 Came Macduff with a force of his own; 
 Put an end to Macbeth, after murderous 
 strife. 
 And gave Malcolm the use of the throne. 
 Thus fell the conspirators, e'en though 
 they got 
 Prom the witches a queer shibboleth; 
 And, from that day to this, there is cer- 
 tainly not 
 Any rival to Mrs. Macbeth. 
 21 
 
FALSTAFF. 
 
 Before the days of anti-fat 
 
 There lived a doughty knight, 
 A sort of walking liquor vat. 
 
 Who ev'ry day got tight. 
 He guzzled sack at such a pace. 
 
 To stop he knew not when; 
 It took a mile of belt to brace 
 
 His knightly abdomen. 
 
 His name was Falstaff and the same 
 
 His nature did express; 
 For false stutt, never feeling shame, 
 
 He dealt in to excess. 
 He was the greatest fakir that 
 
 Great Britain eer produced, 
 And never cared where he was at 
 
 When once his tongue was loosed. 
 22 
 
•The knight Was fond of ladies fair; 
 
 A gay jLiOthario he. 
 He went to Windsor once and there 
 
 vVitn matrons two maae tree. 
 Fair Mistress l^age and Mistress Ford 
 
 iiincnained the rascal's gaze. 
 He vowed to each tnat he adored 
 
 Her charms and winning ways. 
 
 These "Merry Wives of Windsor" laid 
 
 A trap to catch tne Knignt. 
 A false pretense of love uiey made 
 
 Whicn iooied the lucKiess wignt. 
 They maae mm in a basKet nide 
 
 From tnose who came to seek; 
 And when ne once was fast inside 
 
 They threw him in the creek. 
 
 Again they lured him on and dressed 
 
 The knight in woman's clothes. 
 Witch hunters cnased him then with 
 zest 
 
 And multiplied his woes. 
 His carcass lat they kicked and cuffed, 
 
 i^elabored, smacKea ana switcned. 
 Says Falstaff, "I'm a Propnet stulted 
 
 L<ik© Cleveland, or bewitched." 
 
 And once at night those matrons twain 
 
 Enticed him to a dell, 
 Where goblins tried, with might and 
 main. 
 His am'rous mood to quell. 
 They pinched his flesh and burned his 
 toes 
 And pulled his scanty hair. 
 Says Falstaff, "That's enough; here 
 goes; 
 I'll try a change of air." 
 
 To London fast himself he hied 
 
 And bottled sack consumed, 
 Until of Keeley cure he died 
 
 And fitly was entombed. 
 To fat men Falstaff's life should be 
 
 A warning to refrain 
 Prom rum and wenches, which, you see. 
 
 Upset this fat man's brain. 
 23 
 
ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA. 
 
 Antony he was a Roman bold, 
 
 With a handsome face and a heap of 
 
 gold. 
 When Brutus and Cassius to pieces went. 
 To rule over Asia he was sent. 
 And there, at Tarsus, one day he met 
 A widow whose charms he could ne'er 
 
 forget. 
 Mrs. Cleopatra— that was her name; 
 And to capture a beau was her little 
 
 game. 
 
 Refrain. 
 
 See Antonius gazing on her lovely face. 
 Pouring forth his sentiments with ease 
 
 and grace; 
 Not another suitor could get in the race. 
 
 They fitted one another like a glove. 
 *'Come with me to Egypt, honeybird," 
 
 says she; 
 "Certainly," says Antony, "I'll stick to 
 
 thee." 
 When from duty fellows thus inanely 
 flee. 
 That is love; that is love. 
 24 
 
At Alexandria Antony stayed 
 
 For numerous moons with the lovesick 
 maid. 
 
 She was a queen, and of long green stuff 
 
 For all expenses had quite enough. 
 
 Adown the Cydnus in boats they sailed. 
 
 And with hugs and kisses themselves re- 
 galed, . 
 
 Till a telegraph message arrived from 
 Rome, 
 
 Which summoned the amorous Antony 
 home. 
 
 Refrain. 
 
 See Antonius weeping as his bark he 
 
 steers 
 Far away from Cleopatra, bathed in 
 
 That he never may return the widow 
 fears; 
 She is like a tender stricken dove. 
 
 "Antony, my petlet," o'er the brine she 
 cries; 
 
 *'Come back soon again and live in para- 
 dise." 
 
 Twenty miles away he heard her sobs 
 and sighs— 
 That is love; that is love. 
 
 Octavius Caesar was now the boss 
 
 In Rome, and when Antony came across 
 
 "A truce to your monkey work," he said; 
 
 "My sister Octavia you shall wed." 
 
 The wedding took place, and the bridal 
 
 pair 
 To Asia went for change of air; 
 But Antony, tired of wedded life, 
 Went back to Egypt and shook his wife. 
 
 Refrain. 
 
 See Antonius meet again his beauteous 
 
 queen. 
 Widows are his weakness; that is plainly 
 
 seen. 
 "Mark you, Cleopatra," he remarks, "I've 
 
 been 
 Forced for you my wife aside to shove." 
 "What of that, my love?" the lady softly 
 
 coos, 
 "Don't let little things like that give you 
 
 the blues, 
 For when people don't know which' s wife 
 
 is whose, 
 That is love; that is love." 
 25 
 
't'oun^ 6ctavius came over the sea; 
 
 He whipped Antonlus and made him flee» 
 
 Antonius thoug-ht he had been betrayed 
 
 By Cleopatra, and so he made 
 
 A skillful attempt at suicide, 
 
 And then in the lady's arms he died. 
 
 Here the widow's heart in anguish 
 
 breaks, 
 And she dies of a genuine case of snakes. 
 
 Refrain. 
 
 See Antonius done up; Cleopatra, too; 
 See the flow'rs wherewith kind friends 
 
 their grave bestrew; 
 See the legend on a tombstone, fair to 
 
 view, 
 "Both Of 'Em (perhaps) Have Gone 
 
 Above." 
 People think, "Well, well, it doesn't seem 
 
 to pay 
 When a married gentleman becomes too 
 
 gay." 
 But the sentimental ones drop tears and 
 
 say, 
 "That is love; that is love." 
 26 
 

 t2V 
 
ELECTION DAT. 
 
 Daybreak: The dawn with smiling- face 
 Illuminates the polling place; 
 Lights up the frosty sidewalk where 
 Election officers repair, 
 To figure out with caution due 
 "Which one is which and who is who, 
 And, swearing one another in, 
 The business of the day begin. 
 Inspectors, clerks and judges, all 
 Within the booths themselves install; 
 And watchers, early on the ground. 
 Look wise and idly stand around 
 Till with a self-approving grin. 
 The first stray voter ambles in. 
 A candidate or two comes by 
 To see that nothing is awry. 
 And in the foreground, full of grace, 
 A copper stands and twirls his mace. 
 28 
 
Midday: Now doth the fight wax hot, 
 
 A hundred men are on the spot; 
 
 The heeler, rounder, thug and bloat 
 
 Beset |the man who wants to vote. 
 
 In all directions, left and right, 
 
 Police and firemen are in sight, 
 
 With hosts of other active chaps, 
 
 Who live on soft official snaps. 
 
 The challenger now cuts a swath 
 
 And leaves his victims white with wrath. 
 
 Prone in the dust will he be laid 
 
 Whose taxes yet remain unpaid. 
 
 The candidates, with anxious air, 
 
 Are here and there and ev'ry where; 
 
 Liquor there is in large supply; 
 
 From hand to hand the greenbacks fiy. 
 
 While calm and heedless of the fray 
 
 The Baker ballot pounds away. 
 
 Evening: The hard-fought battle's o'er, 
 The warriors cleansed themselves of 
 
 gore. 
 Still on the sidewalk loafs the crowd, 
 Beery, obstreperous and loud. 
 The board within takes off its coat. 
 And figures up the total vote. 
 At last returns are given out, 
 And greeted with a rousing shout. 
 Moved by the mob's approving cheers, 
 The winners set up countless beers. 
 The losers, when they hear the news. 
 Sneak off unseen and get the blues. 
 This ends it all. At once the town 
 Gets sobered up and simmers down; 
 Business resumes its even flow. 
 All things return to statu quo. 
 And war's alarms are filed away 
 Until the next election day, 
 
 29 
 
JIM BLAINE. 
 
 "Blaine, Blaine!"— No more that cry shall 
 
 be 
 In chorus raised from sea to sea 
 
 With jubilation. 
 For just as victory's jeweled crown 
 Was in his grasp, our Jim backs down. 
 
 And scares the nation. 
 
 Republicans on bended knees 
 Entreated Jimmy— Would he please 
 
 Be standard bearer? 
 A unit in his cause they stood, 
 And swore that thus they'd stay; what 
 could 
 
 Than this be fairer? 
 
 Lon^ like a sort of modern sphinx, 
 
 Jim held his peace, as though, methinks, 
 
 The prospect liking. 
 Those states that boast of fav'rite sons 
 Felt positive that soon their guns 
 
 He would be spiking. 
 
 30 
 
B. Harrison with steps infirm 
 Marched feebly on, a second term 
 
 In office seeking, 
 While others, in the background hid, 
 Made for B. H.'s shoes a bid, 
 
 Reserved and sneaking. 
 
 But just as long as Blaine kept mum 
 And people thought he'd forward come 
 
 At any minute, 
 Those other chaps of minor note 
 Could bank on not a single vote— 
 
 They were not in it. 
 
 Hence are we stricken with surprise 
 While, unrestricted, from our eyes 
 
 Hot tears are welling. 
 To hear that Blaine's resolved at last 
 The people's gift aside to cast. 
 
 High hopes dispelling. 
 
 Thus does the cruel hand of fate 
 Leave Quay without a candidate; 
 
 He's one of many 
 Who, if for Blaine they cannot vote. 
 Won't climb into the selfsame boat 
 
 With little Benny. 
 
 Where are we now to take our stand. 
 With scores of lesser lights on hand 
 
 To claim succession? 
 Alger and Sherman, Cullom, Reed 
 And Bill McKinley seek to lead 
 
 The big procession. 
 
 But stifled is the public voice; 
 
 We're powerless now to make a choice,— 
 
 That's how we view it— 
 Since we're forever robbed of him 
 Whose cinch was ironclad— Confound you, 
 Jim, 
 
 Why did you do it? 
 
 31 
 
GROVER'S BEACON. 
 
 There stands 'way up north, on a wave- 
 beaten coast, 
 A cottage, old-fashioned and gray, 
 That defies the wild Storm King's infuriate 
 host. 
 Sweeping nightly across Buzzards Bay. 
 There a babe and its mother in solitude 
 sleep, 
 Far away from the object they love, 
 While with touching devotion they fail 
 not to keep 
 A light in the window for Grove. 
 
 Refrain. 
 
 Far, far away 
 
 From the statesman they ardently love. 
 Until after election 
 They'll keep with affection 
 
 A light in the window for GroVe. 
 
 32 
 
If Grove is elected, that candle will be 
 To the White house transferred the next 
 day, 
 And whene'er the old man knocks around 
 in D. C, 
 To his home it will lighten the way. 
 Mrs. C. may be mad and Miss Ruth be in 
 tears 
 When the boss arrives, chewing* a clove, 
 But there's one thing that never will fall 
 in arrears — 
 That light in the window for Grove. 
 
 Refrain.— Far, far away, etc. 
 
 If Grove is defeated, in sorrow he'll slink 
 
 Buzzards bayward, to drop out of sight. 
 Such a backset would drive weaker spirits 
 to drink. 
 Or at least to get partially tight. 
 But there still will be one thing to lighten 
 the blow. 
 Though misfortunes flock round in a 
 drove; 
 'Tis that blessed, unchanging, affectionate 
 glow 
 Of the light in the window for Grove. 
 
 Refrain.— Far, far away, etc. 
 
 So cheer up, Mrs. C, don't be gloomy of 
 soul. 
 What's the odds if your hubby is 
 whipped? 
 He's hardly entitled to kick, on the whole, 
 
 If by Ben in the race he's outstripped. 
 You and Ruth can console him in chill 
 winter nights. 
 When you're all huddled up round the 
 stove. 
 By recalling the one thing wherein he de.- 
 lights — 
 That light in the window for Grove. 
 
 Refrain.— Far, far away, etc 
 33 
 
QUEEN LIL.. 
 
 With teardrops in her lovely eyes, 
 The Sandwich Lily came 
 To Grover, 
 Good old Grover. 
 To reassume her queenly guise 
 She sweetly filed a claim 
 With Grover, 
 Good old Grover. 
 Says she, "Oh, Mr. President, you're chiv- 
 alrous, I know; 
 You would not he a party to a lady's over- 
 throw, 
 And hence for restoration quite confiding- 
 ly I go 
 
 ^To Grover, 
 *Good old Grover." 
 34 
 
Her skin as dark as Erebus, 
 Her air of regal grace 
 Caught Grover, 
 Good old Grover. 
 *Tm happy, madam, to discuss 
 Your interesting case," 
 Quoth Grover, 
 Good old Grover. 
 ■'Your dusky kind of beauty has its own 
 
 peculiar charm 
 That moves me to relieve you from the 
 
 slightest dread of harm. 
 If any one is competent your foemen to 
 disarm. 
 
 It's Grover, 
 
 Good old Grover." 
 
 He summoned then the cabinec, 
 Which held a grave pow-wow 
 With Grover, 
 Good old Grover. 
 They said, "We'll help the lady yet 
 And set her right somehow 
 Through Grover, 
 Good old Grover. 
 The age of chivalry endures; on that it's 
 
 safe, to bank; 
 And since some scamps have ventured 
 
 Lily's crown away to yank, 
 Who is there in the universe that can re- 
 store her rank 
 
 But Grover, 
 Good old Grover?'* 
 
 The smoothest goldsmith in the town 
 Was summoned, and he came 
 To Grover, 
 Good old Grover. 
 **Oh, make me quick a golden crown 
 With jewels in the same," 
 Said Grover, 
 Good old Grover. 
 The crown was made; no monarch could 
 
 a finer head-dress wear; 
 Instanter it was placed upon the Lily's 
 
 kinky hair, 
 And now the greatest man on earth, Ha- 
 waiians all declare. 
 Is Grover, 
 Good old Grover. 
 35 
 
THE CZAR. 
 
 The Czar prowls around with a crown on 
 his head. 
 And jewels bedecking- his clothes, 
 While his subjects around him are howling 
 for bread 
 Which to give them he doesn't propose. 
 Small wonder that bombshells are thrown 
 with a view 
 His royal appearance to mar. 
 And that people should ask, as they fre- 
 quently do, 
 What on earth is the use of the Czar? 
 
 He has prying policemen, who revel in 
 fees. 
 Contingent on ev'ry arrest, - 
 Oligarchic marauders who do as they 
 please. 
 And do it with merciless zest. 
 Though you're guiltless of crime, they'll 
 arrest you on sight, 
 And send you to prison afar, 
 In Siberia's wastes, where you'll think day 
 ■> and night 
 What on earth is the use of the Czar? 
 36 
 
Petowsky gets banished for winking his 
 eye, 
 Pefoffsky "because of his looks, 
 Poniwisky because he's indulged in a sigh, 
 
 And Kawoskl for fooling with books. 
 And so many male Owskys and Offskys 
 are fired, 
 That, as if by the fortune of war, 
 Farms are turned into deserts, and then 
 'tis inquired 
 What on earth is the use of the Czar? 
 
 The Hebrews in Russia are hard-working 
 souls, 
 With a habit of saving their cash. 
 "Drive them out!" roars the Czar, who has 
 had a few bowls, 
 "Drive them out, or I'll do something 
 rash." 
 So out they are driven with curses and 
 jeers 
 And many an infamous scar. 
 Yes, indeed, 'tis a question to puzzle the 
 seers : 
 What on earth is the use of the Czar? 
 
 Our government's sending a shipload of 
 grain 
 To Russia, the poor to relieve; 
 And a chance now we'll have that may 
 not come again 
 A righteous exploit to achieve. 
 Man the vessel with mariners powerful 
 of lung. 
 And instruct every jolly Jack Tar, 
 That on landing the chorus sublime must 
 be sung: 
 What on earth is the use of the Czar? 
 37 
 
THE SILVERITES. 
 
 Listen to the never ending chin, 
 
 Silver chin. 
 What a world of prosy yarns the toga- 
 wearers spin, 
 As they gabble, gabble, gabble 
 
 Every morning, noon and night, 
 Like some idiotic rabble 
 That goes in for idle babble 
 
 With unlimited delight, 
 Prosing on, on, on. 
 Never, never to get done. 
 And for popular opinion they seem not to 
 
 care a pin, 
 As they chin, chin, chin, chin, chin, chin, 
 
 chin, 
 As they wantonly and garrulously chin. 
 
 Hear the voice of Stewart— he's a bore, 
 
 Ancient bore. 
 Every day you're sure to find him spouting 
 on the floor. 
 How he proses, proses, proses, 
 
 Quoting figures by the yard, 
 And outlandish schemes proposes. 
 
 Which his colleagues must discard! 
 He is slick, slick, slick, 
 88 
 
And to silver he will stick, 
 Till the surface of gehenna ultimately 
 
 freezes o'er. 
 He's a bore, bore, bore, bore, bore, bore, 
 
 bore, 
 An obnoxious and insufferable bore. 
 
 Peffer, too, inanely blows his horn, 
 
 Silver horn. 
 In the side of level headed people he's a 
 thorn. 
 He keep& quoting, quoting, quoting 
 
 From innumeiable books, 
 And repeaters bent on voting 
 
 Find they can't get in their hooks. 
 For old Peff, Peff, Peff 
 To all arguments is deaf. 
 And his hearers w.sh he never (here's 
 
 where Peff is met with scorn) 
 Had been born, born, born, born, born, 
 
 born, born^ 
 'Tis a pity that old Peff was ever born. 
 
 Cameron and Allen have their say, 
 
 S.tupid say. 
 But they cannot capture such a bright old 
 bird as Quay. 
 Though they're swearing, swearing-, 
 swearing. 
 That free coinage can't be downed, 
 Matthew Stanley isn't caring. 
 
 And with firmness holds his ground. 
 Saying, "Don, Don, Don, 
 All your prestige now is gone, 
 Having thrown your party loyalty un- 
 
 blushingly away. 
 You're too gay, gay, gay, gay, gay, gay 
 
 gay, 
 For the Keystone state, old chap, you are 
 too gay." 
 
 What's the use of wasting time in fur- 
 ther chat, 
 
 Idle chat? 
 How can we find out where we financially 
 are at 
 If in talking, talking, talking, 
 
 All the senate's time is spent. 
 While the nation's hope it's balking 
 
 To a pitiful extent? 
 Making breaks, breaks, breaks, 
 And nonsensical mistakes. 
 Yes, the senate does its talking— please to 
 
 make a note of that- 
 Through its hat, hat, hat, hat, hat, hat, 
 
 hat. 
 Through its brickbat-lined and humbug- 
 cov'ring hat. 
 
 30 
 
THE RACE FOR OFFICE. 
 
 Was there ever a queerer district than 
 the Twenty-fourth congressional, 
 Where you cannot throw a stone hut 
 what you hit a candidate? 
 You can see them flocking forward in a 
 manner that's processional, 
 Defying any citizen to do his voting 
 straight. 
 Oh, it's wonderful the sight that greets 
 the visitor that catches on 
 To things as there they stand to-day 
 and the circumstances probes, 
 He'll encounter Andy Stewart, Sipe and 
 Editor Erny Acheson, 
 Together with Johnny Cox and Rev. 
 Campbell Set-Up Jobes. 
 
 **Can it be," he'll cry in wonder, "that 
 these chaps are all petitioners 
 For a single seat in congress? Bless 
 my soul, it can't be so!'* 
 Yet it doesn't take an inquiry by elec- 
 toral commissioners 
 40 
 
To find that every man of 'em believes 
 he has a show. 
 Each keeps hustling" like a major and 
 proclaims that he a dandy is, 
 
 And ready his antagonists with awful 
 force to swipe; 
 That's the kind of a ranting, roaring pol- 
 itician Colonel Andy is, 
 
 And also Rev. Set-Up Jobes, Cox, Ache- 
 son and Sipe. 
 
 In Fayette the folks are furious; in 
 Greene they are uproarious. 
 And here in Allegheny they are simply 
 raising Cain; 
 Little Washington is swearing" in a style 
 that's quite notorious, 
 And Homestead vows that Chris and 
 Flinn won't boss the boys again. 
 Up in Uniontown the hayseed politicians 
 (sly old foxes) say 
 They'll never support a bolter— they'd 
 prefer to be undone; 
 And they watch with breathless interest 
 the feats that Sipe and Cox essay. 
 Together with Colonel Andy, Jobes and 
 Erny Acheson. 
 
 Where, oh, where, we'd like to know, is 
 all this rumpus going to terminate? 
 And who will be the gory-handed victor 
 over which? 
 When everybody means a heap of rivals 
 to exterminate. 
 There's sure to be for somebody a mon- 
 umental hitch. 
 Now, we don't pretend to prophesy, but 
 to state the truth in type is well. 
 Old Nick himself can't name the winner 
 till the plum he knocks. 
 But it's certain that there's fun ahead 
 for Set-Up Jobes and Sipe as well. 
 Together with Colonel Andy,Erny Ache- 
 son and Cox. 
 
 41 
 
LI'S DEGRADATION. 
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 
 Some time ago all China rang" 
 
 With words of praise for Li Hung Chang, 
 
 The general-in-chief. 
 He was the Emp'ror's right-hand man, 
 But in the fracas with Japan, 
 
 Alas, he came to grief. 
 Because the Emp'ror, tired of chinning, 
 Had set his royal heart on winning. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Li Hung sent out some sailor chaps 
 With iron ships to whip the Japs- 
 It was a grand array. 
 But suddenly with furious shout 
 The Japs came on and knocked 'em out 
 
 And drove those ships away. 
 Poor Li Hung had to stand the racket, 
 And lost for this his yellow jacket. 
 42 
 
ACT II. 
 
 In North Corea, near Ping Yan 
 
 The Chinese massed and dared Japan 
 
 To meet them face to face. 
 At this the Japs got out the ax 
 And slew those bluffers in their tracks 
 
 To China's great disgrace. 
 The Emp'ror, rattled altogether, 
 Now stripp'd off Li Hung's peacock 
 feather. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 At Pee-Ka-Boo, just as before, 
 
 The Japs shed streams of Chinese gore. 
 
 And made the pigtails fly. 
 They captured drums and guns and stores 
 And fugitives in scores and scores. 
 
 And this was rough on Li; 
 For now the Emp'ror, tired of hitches. 
 Deprived him of his silken breeches. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 The Chinamen, to madness stung, 
 
 Next hurled their forces at Wun Lung — 
 
 This effort was supreme. 
 But, as by some magician's art. 
 The Japs just split those troops apart, 
 
 And spoiled Li's greatest scheme. 
 Whereat the Emp'ror, filled with loath- 
 ing, 
 Took off Li's costly underclothing. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 Now China tried a hope forlorn, 
 Which by Japan was laughed to scorn, — 
 
 She knew what was in store. 
 At Hi-Lo-Jak they met again 
 And half a million Chinamen 
 
 Went down to rise no more. 
 This was the last and worst disaster, 
 And Li Hung lost his porous plaster. 
 
 EPILOGUE. 
 
 Whene'er the cruel war is o'er 
 And China quits to fight no more, 
 
 A lesson having learned. 
 The world will watch with bated breath 
 To see what treatment worse than death 
 
 Li Hung will then have earned. 
 Oh, truly, 'twill be base excess 
 To strip him of his nakedness. 
 43 
 
THE MAID OP ORLEANS. 
 
 She was young, she was fair, 
 She had long- and wavy hair, 
 She was gay and free from care 
 
 As a lark, 
 Till one evening while by chance 
 She was lying in a trance, 
 Something said, "Go fight for France, 
 
 Joan of Arc.'* 
 
 At Orleans just then there lay 
 British troops prepared to slay. 
 And the dogs of war each day 
 
 Used to bark. 
 Poor King Charles was yet uncrowned 
 And he feared he would be downed, 
 Till the neighbors brought around 
 
 Joan of Arc. 
 
 "Bless your majesty," says Joan, 
 You will soon be on the throne, 
 Let me play this hand alone" 
 
 (Save the mark!) 
 "Very well," observed the king, 
 "Go ahead and have your fling, 
 But it is a risky thing, 
 
 Joan of Arc." 
 44 
 
Soon a charger Joan bestrode, 
 Wearing: armor a la mode, 
 And of fear the lady showed 
 
 Not a spark. 
 *Tm your general now," said she, 
 And the army yelled with glee, 
 For it did 'em good to see 
 
 Joan of Arc. 
 
 With a sword of monstrous heft, 
 Joan the foreign army cleft. 
 And those Britishers were left 
 
 Stiff and stark. 
 Then to Rheims the king she led. 
 Put the crown upon his head. 
 "Pray accept this token,'' said 
 Joan of Arc. 
 
 Honors great the Maid acquired. 
 But of quiet growing tired. 
 Was in war again inspired 
 
 To embark. 
 But the English were her match. 
 For they managed Joan to catch, 
 Aye, and hastened to dispatch 
 
 Joan of Arc. 
 
 Oh, French hearts were like to break 
 When they burnt her at the stake 
 As a witch; and hence we make 
 
 This remark: 
 Better far to seek a mate 
 And enjoy the married state. 
 Than attempt to emulate 
 
 Joan of Arc. 
 45 
 
IRISH LOGIC. 
 
 Says Patrick O' Casey to Dan Moriarty: 
 
 "Och, Dan'l, phat's wrong- wid the Dim- 
 mycrat party? 
 
 In ould Pennsylvania it used to be hearty, 
 But now, be me sowl, it's disayzed. 
 
 There's lashins av bosses that hither and 
 hither 
 
 Kape pullin', but bless yez they can't kape 
 togither. 
 
 Such eejots the healthiest party wud with- 
 er 
 That iver Americans raised. 
 
 "There's Pattison sittin' alone in his 
 
 glory, 
 While Wallace an' Harrity shtart in a 
 
 gory 
 Death sthruggle, an' Guffey is hammered 
 before he 
 Has time to get into the fuss. 
 There's Brennen, O'Larey, an' Larkin an' 
 Foley, 
 Wid Boyle, that wee gossoon, whose 
 form's roly-poly, 
 To factional fightin' they're given up 
 wholly. 
 Nice ducks to have pow'r over us." 
 46 
 
Says Dan Moriarty to Patrick O' Casey, 
 *'Phy, Pat, sure to answer your ques- 
 tion is aisy, 
 The cause av the scrappin' is not a bit 
 hazy, 
 'Tis thruth, be the mortial, I sphake. 
 'Tis the ould Irish blood that is back av 
 
 the rumpus. 
 An' that pints out the fact at all pints 
 
 av the compass 
 That clubs among Irishmen always the 
 thrump is; 
 Now that's what makes Dimmycrats 
 "wake." 
 
 "To the divil," shouts Pat, **wid yer lang- 
 widge disgraceful. 
 
 "The Irish, ye spalpeen, are dacent an* 
 paceful, 
 
 Wid holes in a minute I'd fill yer ould 
 face full." 
 So saying he hits Dan a cuff. 
 
 "Arrah, would yez?" says Dan, coming 
 back with a soaker, 
 
 "If clubs isn't thrumps, phy then here is 
 the joker;" 
 
 And so they play hob, while some white- 
 livered croaker 
 Yells "Dimmycrat doctrine's the stuff!" 
 
 There's a moral to this that's not hard to 
 
 unravel ; 
 If Democrats would at the enemy cavil 
 Alone, nor away from that policy travel. 
 
 To make one another eat crow, 
 They'd be certain to prosper, and oft 
 
 in the battle 
 By action united the hostiles to rattle 
 Instead of just butting each other like 
 cattle 
 And leaving the field to the foe. 
 47 
 
WASHINGTON'S BIRTHDAY. 
 
 This is the great and glorious day 
 When liars in the background stay, 
 Induced pro tern, themselves to quash 
 In honor of the late G. Wash, 
 Who, when his father's plants he'd hack, 
 Got off on the veracious tack, 
 And said, with candor in his eye, 
 "Father, I cannot tell a lie, 
 E'en though the rod wear out my pants: 
 'Twas I destroyed your valued plants"; 
 Which frank confession moved his dad 
 To pardon and reward the lad. 
 
 Of course we cannot all come out 
 Like George in his wood-chopping bout. 
 For why? Well, that is just because 
 Our dads are not as George'^ was. 
 If valuable trees we chop. 
 Our governors to think won't stop, 
 But with a rawhide fell let loose 
 And lam us like the very deuce; 
 Whereas, if they'd but grant a stay. 
 We, too, might try the truthful lay, 
 Win plaudits by our honest sta-nd. 
 And check the stern parental hand. 
 48 
 
 I 
 
How times have changed since George let 
 
 fly 
 With active ax and truthful eye! 
 Degeneracy leaves its trace 
 On parents well-nigh every place, 
 And truthful boys, whose dads Won't trust. 
 To lying take in sheer disgust. 
 Hence comes that awful social pest, 
 The fakir, who, as if possessed 
 Of Satan, labors with success 
 To fool the public through the press, 
 And broadcast through the country strews 
 Installments large of bogus news. 
 
 Thank Providence we don't belong 
 To those who thusly have gone wrong. 
 The fakir's dodges ne'er come nigh 
 Our haunts— We cannot tell a lie. 
 Full often with our little ax 
 We lay folks prostrate in their tracks; 
 And if we're charged with talking bosh. 
 We use the words of young G. Wash. 
 So, mark you, in a special way . 
 We seek to celebrate the day 
 Devoted to that noble youth 
 Who slung an ax anci told the truth. 
 49 
 
ELECTION NIGHT. 
 
 At last we've reached election eve, 
 
 And some are glad, 
 
 And some are sad. 
 Hearts throb apace for Cleve and Steve, 
 
 Or palpitate for Ben. 
 The wisest can't exactly guess 
 
 What fate's decree 
 
 Is booked to be. 
 And hope is mingled with distress 
 'Mid stalwart party men. 
 
 B. H. is strong; why should we fear 
 That m the fray 
 Collapse he may, 
 Since aptly he knows how to steer 
 
 The gallant ship of state? 
 But, bless you, there are turns and tricks 
 In ev'ry trade 
 Adroitly made. 
 And thus, in this confounded mix, 
 He may capitulate. 
 50 
 
Per contra, there's no reason why 
 
 G. C. should dupe 
 
 Us all and scoop 
 The pot, although the public eye 
 Sees where-his hand is weak. 
 Yet Grove has sharpers at his back, 
 
 Who know enough 
 
 With skill to bluff. 
 And threaten now the cards to "stack"- 
 How's that for icy cheek? 
 
 Election bets amount to "nix." 
 
 The "gams," you'll find 
 
 Must go it blind. 
 And while one-half get in their licks 
 
 The other half get left. 
 And he who blows his horn the most 
 
 Will, like as not, 
 
 Be nicely caught, 
 And feel like giving up the ghost 
 When of his pile bereft. 
 
 Alas! that in this age of guilo 
 And irksome doubt 
 We are without 
 An oracle of Delphic style 
 To give us tips exact! 
 But failing this, what can we do 
 Except to wait 
 And speculate? 
 So, till the voters all get through, 
 We'll do the anxious act. 
 61 
 
COLUMBUS. 
 
 Bring the good old Caravel across the 
 
 seas, yeo-ho! 
 Bring her as she first was brought four 
 
 hundred years ago, 
 When she came for Yankeeland a-hunting 
 
 high and low. 
 Thanks to the nerve of Columbus. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 Hurrah, hurrah! Let's sing the praise of 
 
 Chris. 
 Hurrah, hurrah! Just think what we 
 
 would miss 
 If Chris had never stumbled on a land so 
 
 fair as this; 
 That's what we owe to Columbus. 
 
 In the town of Genoa Columbus first drew 
 
 breath. 
 People there still ask you, "Didgenoabout 
 
 his death?" 
 For he is forgotten there; so many an ex- 
 pert sairh; 
 That's pretty rough on Columbus. 
 52 
 
Pedag-ogues insisted that the earth was 
 wholly flat; 
 
 Christopher declared he couldn't let it 
 g-o at that. 
 
 Thereupon the nincompoops with big rat- 
 tans got at 
 And tanned the hide of Columbus. 
 
 Christopher grew up and went a-sailing 
 on the sea. 
 
 **In the course of time I'll knock out Cap- 
 tain Cook," thought he. 
 
 Cook had not been born yet, but the gift 
 of prophecy 
 Lurked in the soul of Columbus. 
 
 Isabella met the lad (she was the Queen 
 
 of Spain); 
 Thought he was dead gone on her, for 
 
 Belle was pretty vain. 
 "Christopher," she said, "for thee my bank 
 
 account I'll drain." 
 Right in the swim was Columbus. 
 
 Bella she put up the cash; Columbus did 
 
 the rest; 
 Sailed away from Palos toward the undis- 
 covered west. 
 Everybody thought the scheme was but 
 a merr"- jest; 
 But they were fooled in Columbus. 
 
 Glorious the triumph was when Yankee- 
 land he struck. 
 
 Filled with copper-colored folks and lota 
 of g-arden truck. 
 
 "Gentlemen," says Christopher, "this Is a 
 run of luck." 
 Those were the words of Columbus. 
 
 Other foreign immigrants came after, 
 when they saw 
 
 That the Indians didn't have a contract la- 
 bor law; 
 
 Hence the Union flourishes with more or 
 
 All on account of Columbus. 
 
 Therefore join us, young and old, and 
 
 make the welkin ring". 
 Hymns of jubilation let us all in chorus 
 
 sings. 
 Thankful for the good things that continue 
 
 still to spring 
 Out of the cruise of Columbus. 
 
 03 
 
THE SOUTHERN CAVALIER. 
 
 Come hither, ye people, and hear us sing 
 The tale of ye knighte Sir Henry King. 
 
 A doughty cavalier was he, 
 
 And he lived in the state of Tennessee. 
 
 Sir Henry's middle name was Clay, 
 And he moistened the same the livelong 
 day. 
 
 For in Tennessee there is no lack 
 Of the good old Bourbon tamarack. 
 
 And when Sir Henry a jaglet wore, 
 
 He was ready for barrels of human gore. 
 
 Spear and buckler he did not don. 
 
 For those things out of fashion had gone. 
 
 But to cope with bluster and idle vaunts. 
 He carried a gun in his knightly pants. 
 
 54 
 
And hostilities came to a sudden stop 
 Whenever Sir Henry got the drop. 
 
 Posten he was an esquire plain, 
 
 Who practiced law for the sake of gain. 
 
 He plead the case of a wounded dove, 
 Who had been Sir Henry's light o' love. 
 
 For her the knight, of his senses stripped. 
 Away from his wife and babes had 
 skipped. 
 
 And now her return for his conduct rash 
 Was to capture the whole of his ready 
 cash. 
 
 Posten rebuked the knight in style, 
 And proved that he was a scoundrel vile. 
 
 •T faith," said the knight, with his teeth 
 
 tight set, 
 'Til have revenge upon Posten yet." 
 
 So he waited without in the public street, 
 And laid the esquire dead at his feet. 
 
 Yeomen came in coats of blue 
 
 And led off the knight without much ado. 
 
 The courts they hastened the case to try, 
 And informed Sir Henry that he must die. 
 
 And so this knight of the race of King 
 Was doomed on the gallows tree to swing. 
 
 Unexpectedly into the game 
 
 The governor. Baron Buchanan, came. 
 
 Says he, "By my halidome, this won't do, 
 The blood of the Kings is of azure hue. 
 
 *'And why should Sir Henry be undone 
 For the chivalrous use of his little gun? 
 
 "Is southern chivalry dead that thus 
 The gallows must gobble the cream of us? 
 
 "No, no; to hang an aristocrat 
 
 Is a positive crime; I'll have none of that." 
 
 That settled the case; Sir Henry then 
 Went off pro tem. to a cell in the "pen," 
 
 55 
 
From which In the course of time, no 
 
 doubt, 
 His friends will see that he's pardoned 
 
 out. 
 
 Nobility thus a victory won, 
 While the band played "Johnny, Get Your 
 Gun." 
 
 And southern cavaliers wept for joy 
 To think they could still their foes de- 
 stroy. 
 
 Howls went up from a violent mob. 
 Which claimed the thing was a lawless 
 job. 
 
 But folks who haven't a family tree 
 Amount to nothing in Tennessee. 
 
 Hence Baron Buchanan and his compeers. 
 Rejoicing, tackled the cup that cheers. 
 
 And they put a sign on the gallows high: 
 "No blooded murderers need apply." 
 
 56 
 
MigcEiiii^NEeag. 
 
 ^7 
 
CHAUTAUQUA. 
 
 Chautauqua! O thou sacred spot, 
 Where idle tourists linger not; 
 Where vulgar sports, of habits low, 
 Their brazen faces never show; 
 Where fakirs for their arts profane 
 A license ask, but ask in vain; 
 And where enlightened laws exclude 
 The noxious lady-killing dude; 
 The vivid fact we can't disguise— 
 Thou art a Christian paradise. 
 
 Pure are the ways thou walkest in, 
 Unlike those garish haunts of sin, 
 Seaside resorts, where throng like sheep 
 The vulgar, making angels weep. 
 Tom, Dick and Harry there combine 
 To soak themselves with rosy wine. 
 Along the beach the maidens scoot. 
 Each in a scanty bathing suit. 
 The righteous man, with burning cheek, 
 Must turn from these thy charms to seek, 
 58 
 
Lo, in thy temples do we find 
 Sublime reflection for the mind. 
 Thy people nearly all possess 
 A score of titles, more or less. 
 Doctors, Professors, Reverends, too, 
 In all directions are on view; 
 And every one his chance doth wait 
 To mount the platform and orate. 
 Thine is, in fact, Chautauqua dear, 
 A most didactic atmosphere. 
 
 Rostrums and blackboards huge abound; 
 They're utilized by thinkers sound; 
 Philosophers with heads that bulge, 
 Who scientific truths divulge; 
 Linguists well versed in ev'ry freak 
 Of Latin, Hebrew, French and Greek; 
 Artistic sharps who'd have you know 
 That they could teach Mike Angelo. 
 Glory is theirs that never fades 
 In blest Chautauqua's classic shades. 
 
 The woman on the suffrage lay— 
 Of course, you know, "she'd-talk-away," 
 And so she does. Her light's not hid, 
 For John stays home to mind the kid, 
 And while his hand the cradle rocks 
 She lectures on the ballot box. 
 This feat, so woman-like and cute, 
 Brings forth the handkerchief salute, 
 And as the girls the speaker greet. 
 They vow Chautauqua's "just too sweet." 
 
 Alas, Chautauqua, with distress 
 
 The ghastly truth we must confess. 
 
 With thee and thine we can't consort. 
 
 Because on goodness we are short. 
 
 Excuse our conscienceless remarks, 
 
 But we prefer midsummer larks 
 
 To hearing the discourse complex 
 
 Of Doctor Y. or Reverend X. 
 
 Therefore, thy charms with reverend awe 
 
 We'll worship from afar. 
 
 Ta, ta. 
 59 
 
THE BARBER. 
 
 Victim in the barber shop 
 Has a heavy thatch on top; 
 Has a crop of whisker rough, 
 Wants to have 'em both cut off. 
 Peels off collar, coat and vest, 
 Lets the barber do the rest. 
 
 Barber takes his prey in tow, 
 Oils his tongue and lets her go, 
 Hopes the razor doesn't pull, 
 Tells of happ'nings wonderful; 
 Baseball records, foreign wars. 
 Habits of the planet Mars. 
 
 Tariff schedules new and old 
 He is happy to unfold; 
 (Seafoam, sir? What, no? Then do 
 Try my extra-fine shampoo"); 
 fVeaks of great men he'll recite 
 With unlimited delight. 
 60 
 
Boxing? He is quite at hom6 
 In the latest hippodrome. 
 Yachts? What need to say that he 
 Knows their points liite A, B, C. 
 (Cut her close, sir? Ah, just so), 
 Bless us, 'how his tongue does go! 
 
 Messages from Cleveland's pen, 
 Scandals in the Upper Ten, 
 Newest dramas on the stage, 
 Songs that have become the rage; 
 (Part it on the side, you say?") 
 Thus the barber pounds away. 
 
 Victim stands it all he can. 
 Bears up like a little "man; 
 Barber's talk he can't avoid, 
 Doesn't want to be destroyed; 
 ("Now, sir; wax on your mustache?") 
 Victim's done and pays his cash. 
 
 Barber, barber, some fine day 
 Justice will assert her sway; 
 Then to keep you clear of crime 
 You'll be muzzled all the time. 
 Think of this next time and spare 
 Captives in your fatal chair. 
 
 Gl 
 
TWO LITTLE GIRLS BLEW IN. 
 
 An old man's nephew conversed one day 
 
 With his uncle, a stager old, 
 Who had formerly been on the am'rous 
 lay, 
 
 But whose ardor had now grown cold. 
 *'My boy," quoth the unc, "hear the 
 mournful tale 
 
 Of two of your kith and kin, 
 Whose marital hopes were of no avail 
 
 Till two little girls blew in. 
 
 Refrain. 
 
 Two little girls blew in, lad, 
 
 Two little girls blew in. 
 We were brothers, they were sisters, 
 
 Each of 'em was a twin. 
 Two little girls blew in, lad, 
 And here's where there came a hitch, 
 None could without bother 
 Tell one from the other. 
 And few could tell whom was which. 
 62 
 
We all fell in love in a mutual style, 
 
 Pledges we interchanged. 
 Fortune upon us was fain to smile, 
 
 And the weddings were soon arranged. 
 But, lad, in the hurry and bustle and whirl 
 
 At the church— 'twas a shame and a 
 sin- 
 Each one of us married the other one's 
 girl, 
 
 When two little girls blew in. 
 
 Ref.— Two little girls blew in, etc. 
 
 What could we do in this terrible plight? 
 
 Ah, lad, 'twas a trial sore. 
 We went to Chicago that very same night 
 
 And got a divorce for four. 
 'Twas mournful to think of the time we 
 had lost 
 
 In our efforts those brides to win, 
 Little knowing how sadly our lives wouM 
 be crossed 
 
 When two little girls blew in. 
 
 Ref.— Two little girls blew in, etc. 
 
 But stay— there's a sequel— whene'er we 
 got back, 
 And the torrents of tears had dried, 
 We somehow resumed the original track. 
 
 And for marital bliss we sighed. 
 So we shuffled the pair, and quick as a 
 flash 
 Each wedded a blooming twin. 
 And 'twas awful the total of honeymoon 
 cash 
 Those two little girls blew in." 
 
 Ref.— Two little girls blew in, etc. 
 
 — With apologies to ** Two Little Girls in Blue ' 
 
ST. VALENTINE. 
 
 St. Valentine, St. Valentine, 
 
 In former days you used to shine 
 
 With glory that was splendid; 
 But in these sordid modern days 
 No long-er does your glory blaze, 
 
 Your day is nearly ended. 
 
 No more the maid who's badly mashed 
 Waits eagerly and unabashed 
 
 Your long-expected coming. 
 And when the postman heaves in sight 
 Jumps up to meet him with delight 
 
 And heart insanely drumming. 
 
 No more she looks for Cupid's darts, 
 Transfixing lovers' bleeding hearts 
 
 With verses printed under; 
 Nor views the lace and satin fair, 
 The silver, gold and colors rare 
 
 With ecstasy and wonder. 
 64 
 
Ko Strephon who for her doth pm^ 
 Sends in an eleg-ant design 
 
 Of unexampled value, 
 Conveying" in its ins and outs 
 The sighs of "Streph,'* the fears, the 
 doubts, 
 
 The "will you?" and the "shall you?" 
 
 No, no, at most she gets a screed 
 That makes her furious, indeed, 
 
 A "comic" most insulting. 
 That treads upon her tender toes. 
 And indicates that ugly foes 
 
 Are o'er her faults exulting. 
 
 Perhaps it shows a wall-flower lone, 
 A scrawny frame of skin and bone 
 
 And corkscrew curls to match it, 
 And says "This hatchet-faced old thing 
 Will never wear a wedding ring; 
 
 No man would care to catch it." 
 
 Or else mayhap in manner gross 
 It loads her down with adipose 
 
 And pictures standing round her 
 A gaping crowd of jays that cry 
 "Get on to this. Who'll buy; who'll buy 
 
 The sixteen hundred pounder?" 
 
 And Strephon by some rascal rude 
 Will be depicted as a dude. 
 
 All clothes with nothing in 'em; 
 A dawd er on the avenue 
 Who looks for lovely girls to woo 
 
 His precious self and win him. 
 
 Such is the dire and painful pass 
 To which the valentine, alas, 
 
 Has come. Oh, 'tis a pity 
 That love no more the artist's hand 
 Directs and turns out verses grand. 
 
 Harmonious, chaste and witty. 
 
 St. Valentine, St. Valentine, 
 
 Your pearls are cast these days to swine, 
 
 Go seek your final slumber; 
 For wherefore strive and strive and strive 
 To keep your vital spark alive 
 
 When you're an old back number? 
 65 
 
THE HOLIDAYS. 
 
 The holidays, the holidays! 
 
 O days of love and joy and praise, 
 
 When every heart with warmth expands 
 
 And time hangs lightly on our hands; 
 
 When people young and old unite 
 
 In wild, hilarious delight; 
 
 When enemies lay down the sword 
 
 And heave their quarrels overboard; 
 
 There's music in the very phrase — 
 
 "The holidays, the holidays!" 
 
 The holidays, the holidays! 
 'Tis then that in a thousand ways 
 The merchant stimulates surprise 
 If he knows how to advertise. 
 A sled, a drum, a pair of skates 
 With ev'ry purchase he donates; 
 Sells books for nothing (generous cuss!) 
 And grows almost delirious. 
 He'll tell you, if you ask what pays— 
 "The holidays, the holidays!" 
 66 
 
 1 
 
The holidays, the holidays! 
 Who is too poor to make a rais6 
 And blow it in, with secret glee, 
 On trimmings for the Christmas tree; 
 On gifts to gratify the whim 
 Of Kit tie, MoUie, Tom and Jim. 
 Slippers for dad, a chain for ma, 
 And something cheap for mother-in-law? 
 What causes all this giving craze? 
 The holidays, the holidays! 
 
 The holidays, the holidays! 
 With happiness they fairly blaze. 
 See Santa Glaus, with skip and hop, 
 Cavorting tow'rds the chimney top. 
 While little folks in cosy beds 
 Beneath the comforts hide their heads. 
 And older ones with dread are racked 
 While doing the Chriskingle act. 
 List to the rattle of the sleighs!— 
 The holidays, the holidays! 
 
 The holidays, the holidays! 
 
 The mem'ry of them with us stays; 
 
 A gilt-edged mem'ry, strangely dear 
 
 (We've got to wax pathetic here; 
 
 For pathos is a simple ruse 
 
 That Christmas poets always use)— 
 
 Aye, faith, Horatio, many a one 
 
 Will miss these pleasures when (he's gone. 
 
 Lead on, then, to the giddy maze— 
 
 The holidays, the holidays! 
 
 67 
 
IRENE'S VOW. 
 
 Irene Mac Welsh was passing fair, 
 All hearts she took by storm; 
 
 Her moral character was square 
 And rounded was her form. 
 
 Two lovers her young heart addressed; 
 
 Two handsome, winsome "beauts"; 
 Their Sunday suits they first got pressed. 
 
 And then they pressed their suits. 
 
 One was De Smith, a youth who throve 
 
 As teller in a bank. 
 Says he, "I'll tell 'er of my love 
 
 And win 'er with my rank." 
 
 The other was De Jones, a spry 
 
 Young lawyer erudite. 
 Quoth he, "I'll win the case if I 
 
 Acquit myself aright." 
 
 Now Irene took to sobs and sighs, 
 To choose, the girl was loth, 
 
 For— not to deal in idle lies- 
 She idolized them both. 
 
 as 
 
De Smith waxed hot; De Jones grew 
 wrath, 
 
 In unison they cried: 
 "Two hands to give the lady hath, 
 
 But how her heart divide?" 
 
 Then did those youths find out a way 
 
 Their troubles to dispel; 
 A duel would, so reasoned they, 
 
 Duelegantly well. 
 
 Unto the football field they bent 
 Their steps and bent 'em straight 
 
 To where a very large per cent. 
 Of heroes met their fate. 
 
 Their weapons were* the flying wedge. 
 
 The tackle and the punt. 
 Of footfalls heavy as a sledge 
 
 Each bore the murd'rous brunt. 
 
 Soon, soon the bloody fray was o'er. 
 The ball had crossed the goal. 
 
 And both the youths lay in their gore. 
 With not a bone left whole. 
 
 Friends told Irene about the fray, 
 
 How, in the wild attack, 
 The twain who had been whole one dav 
 
 The next came not half-back. 
 
 Stunned by the blow, the maiden said: 
 *"Tis I that slew those men; 
 
 Henceforth on thorns will be my bed, 
 ril ne'er touch down again." 
 6& 
 
LULLABY. 
 
 Over the mountains to Booze-Away Land 
 
 Bye-bye, bye-bye, 
 Where fairies are sporting on Tamarach 
 strand, 
 
 Bye-bye, bye-bye. 
 Weary eyes closing and legs getting weak 
 Tongue getting thick— ah, 'tis hard now tc 
 
 speak. 
 Papa's been on it, dear babe, for a week; 
 
 Bye-bye, bye-bye. 
 
 Daily he trudges to Barrelhouse Town, 
 
 Bye-bye, bye-bye. 
 His nose it is red and his taste is sea] 
 brown. 
 
 Bye-bye, bye-bye. 
 Bright is the sheen of the -dollars hi 
 
 spends. 
 Setting 'em up for his thousands ol 
 
 friends ; 
 A white-aproned goblin upon him attends 
 Bye-bye, bye-bye. 
 
 TO 
 
Alcohol River's aglow in the sun, 
 
 Bye-bye, bye-bye. 
 Dad goes a-swimmin' when he has the 
 "mon," 
 
 Bye-bye, bye-bye. 
 Rivulets enter its bosom so clear, 
 Rhine wine, and claret, ale, porter and 
 
 beer, 
 But King Corn- Juice lays over 'em all, 
 never fear. 
 
 Bye-bye, bye-bye. 
 
 See where the boas and copperheads play. 
 
 Bye-bye, bye-bye; 
 Always frisk round when the old man's 
 that way, 
 
 Bye-bye, bye-bye. 
 Take him away where the Strait Jack- 
 ets dwell. 
 Into a cute little Hospital Cell; 
 Medical fairies will soon make him well. 
 
 Bye-bye, bye-bye. 
 
 Grand is the Kingdom of Do-It-No-More, 
 
 Bye-bye, bye-bye. 
 Dad will land there when the circus is 
 o'er. 
 
 Bye-bye, bye-bye. 
 O little babe, when to manhood you grow. 
 Never to Booze-Away Land must you go; 
 Look at your father, and tell me "No, no!" 
 
 Bye-bye, bye-bye. 
 71 
 
THE KEELEYITES. 
 
 Yesterday with faces shining, 
 Never the slightest bit repining 
 For the days when they were wining 
 
 And rampaging round at nights. 
 In the baking, broiling weather, 
 Out to Oakland all together, 
 In the very highest feather 
 
 Came the noble Keeleyites. 
 
 Some could' not refrain from thinking" 
 Of the fun they had in d.^inking. 
 At saloonists slyly winking, 
 
 (Those were genume delights.) 
 Lager beer and Roman punches, 
 Juleps, slings and barroom lunches, 
 Soon would render quite unconscidus 
 
 Those who now are Keeleyitds. 
 73 
 
Medford rum and brandy smashes 
 Absinthe gulped in modest dashes, 
 (Don't you think a fellow rash is 
 
 Who his brain with these excites?) 
 Cocktails, cobblers, Tom and Jerry, 
 Claret, port, champag-ne and sherry. 
 All were guzzled by the merry 
 
 Chaps who now are Keeleyites. 
 
 Thus they'd go ahead competing, 
 
 Everyone the other treating 
 
 Till they'd have no time for eating. 
 
 Nor for aught but crazy flights. 
 Every night would find them staving. 
 Ripping, roaring, ranting, raving 
 And outrageously behaving, 
 
 Those who now are Keeleyites. 
 
 Finally their blood relations 
 Tired of furious demonstrations. 
 Would suspend recriminations 
 
 And let up on useless fights. 
 To the hospital they'd hurry, 
 Make the topers thither scurry, 
 Hoping thus to end their worry 
 
 With the future Keeleyites. 
 
 All this nonsense now is ended, 
 
 Since the "topes" their way have 
 
 wended 
 To the place where Keeley's splendid 
 
 Method gets 'em dead to rights. 
 No more wine for them or liquors. 
 They are stayers, aye and stickers, 
 Regular sober old jimslickers 
 
 Are those noble Keeleyites. 
 73 
 
IN OLE KAINTUCK. 
 
 Dar's ole Bill Breckinridge a-settin* up in 
 
 co't 
 Wirl people all admirin* him bekase he 
 
 am so smart; 
 His ha'r am white, but old Billy am a 
 
 spo't; 
 Mos' ebry pretty gal he sees plays hob 
 
 wid Billy's heart. 
 If de gal escapes, she's got a heap o* luck, 
 Dat's de way we does down in old Kain- 
 
 tuck. 
 
 Dar's young Mattie Pollard, jes' as sweet 
 
 as any peach, 
 She caught old Mistah Bill mighty easy 
 
 on de fly, 
 Wen he sez "I love yo' " Mattie didn't 
 
 screech 
 She jes* sez **Willyum, no odah need 
 
 apply." 
 Each on de odah one immegiuntly wuz 
 
 struck, 
 Dat's de way we does down in old Kain- 
 
 tuck. 
 
 74 
 
Wen ole Bill wuz widdered, Mattie 
 
 bought a little gun, 
 "Willyum," sez she, "Don't yo' tink we 
 
 oughter wed?" 
 Sez ole Bill to Mat, "Well dis kind er 
 
 takes de bun; 
 Marry j^ou I won't, gal, so don' yo' lose 
 
 yo' head." 
 At dat Mattie's gun undah ole Bill's nose 
 
 she stuck, 
 Dat's de way we does down in old Kain- 
 
 tuck. 
 
 Ole Bill wuz scart; his face turned w'ite 
 
 as snow, 
 "Matti^" sez he, *Tm not ready yet ter 
 
 die, 
 If I mus' be yo' husband an' no longer be 
 
 yo' beau. 
 Drop dat *ar gun, an' de weddin' ring 
 
 I'll buy." 
 De ole man, yo' see, 'gainst a weppin 
 
 couldn't buck, 
 Dat's de way we does down in old Kain- 
 
 tuck. 
 
 Nex' t'ing yo' know, ole Bill he skips 
 
 away; 
 Gibs de gall de shake an' gets himself a. 
 
 wife, 
 "Well an' good," says Mat, "Now I t'ink 
 
 de propah lay 
 Is ter reach fo' Willyum's cash, 'stead 
 
 ob Willyum's useless life;" 
 So Mattie hired a lawyah her Willyum's 
 
 wings ter pluck, 
 Dat's de way we does down in olo Kain- 
 
 tuck. 
 
 Now dey's in de co't-rcom, both a bilin' 
 
 mad, 
 Mat she tells on Bill and Bill he tells 
 
 on Mat, 
 Oh, dem co't-room stories am real, real 
 
 bad, 
 ut all dem long-faced Christyuns seem 
 
 awful glad ob dat. 
 Maybe dey de case out dQ winder soon 
 
 will chuck, 
 Dat's de way we does down in ol© Kain- 
 
 tuck. 
 
 75 
 
^w 
 
 PADDYWHISKY. 
 
 A strain of mourning" fills the air; a strain 
 
 of anguish keen, 
 Because the god-like maeslro has vanished 
 
 from the scene. 
 Unto their grief our Pittsburg maids un- 
 ceasingly give vent, 
 The world for them has lost its charm 
 since 
 
 Paddy 
 Whisky 
 
 Went. 
 
 The mem'ry of his tawny hair is like a 
 
 bushy dream. 
 Three feet of wiry waviness— a poet's fit- 
 ting theme. 
 Out, out upon close-shaven heads! Who 
 
 cares a copper cent 
 For ordinary barber work since 
 Paddy * 
 Whisky 
 
 Went? 
 70 
 
His features they are classic, and he has 
 
 a melting" eye; 
 He doesn't wear a spiketail coat like any 
 
 common guy; 
 His limblets are a poem, in their move- 
 ments eloquent, 
 We'll never see their like again since 
 Paddy 
 Whisky 
 
 Went. 
 
 They say he plays sonatas and symphonic 
 
 thingumbobs, 
 Which move expert musicians to indulge 
 
 in pray'rs and sobs; 
 But music doesn't enter to a very great 
 
 extent 
 Into what the girls are thinking of since 
 Paddy 
 Whisky 
 
 Went. 
 
 O ye who at his altar have been 
 
 worshiping, suppose 
 The whole ecstatic crowd go after "Pad" 
 
 where'er he goes. 
 'Tis only thus that kindred souls forever 
 
 can be blent 
 And wipe out all the pangs one feels since 
 Paddy 
 Whisky 
 
 Went. 
 77 
 
BALLADE. 
 
 'Tis the fashion in the theaters in plain- 
 tive tones to sing 
 Of antiquities that reverence compel. 
 There's the "hat me father wore" and 
 grandma's matrimonial ring, 
 And the oaken bucket hanging in the 
 well. 
 There is grandpa's eight-day clock and 
 some one else's baby shoe; 
 Shaky tenors love these relics to recall; 
 But we've got a little token that can all 
 of them outdo— 
 Our thermometer that hangs upon the 
 wall. 
 
 Refrain. 
 
 Touch it gently; handle it with care; 
 
 Spurn it not, whatever may befall. 
 Though 'tis knock-kneed now and crazy. 
 Yet it used to be a daisy— 
 
 Our thermometer that hangs upon the 
 wall. 
 
 7S 
 
Ah! how well do we remember when ^ 
 quarter we blew in 
 For that instrument— 'twas many years 
 ago. 
 Mother met us with a gurgle, and said fa- 
 ther with a grin, 
 "Bless you, lad, the heat henceforth 
 we'll always know." 
 On the porch we hung it proudly— there 
 a splendid show it made, 
 And the spectacle the neighbors did en- 
 thral. 
 For it registered immediately two hundred 
 in the shade— 
 Our thermometer that hangs upon the 
 wall. 
 
 Ref.— Touch it gently, etc. 
 
 When the cruel winter came and brought 
 along the snow and ice. 
 Ninety-nine below the zero mark it 
 showed. 
 You can bet we wouldn't sell it then— no, 
 not for any price, 
 For with pride our system fairly over- 
 flowed. 
 Weather experts tried to down us, and 
 gave lying figures out; 
 Their audacity was such as to appall; 
 But our friends would not go back on us 
 —not one of 'em would doubt 
 Our thermometer that hangs upon the 
 wall. 
 
 Ref.— Touch it gently, etc. 
 
 In the end there came a scorcher; 'twas 
 a broiling August day, 
 And the mercury the "boiling point" had 
 passed; 
 But it couldn't stand the pressure, and to 
 every one's dismay 
 The thermometer was busted up at last. 
 Bitter, bitter were our tears as with the 
 keenest of regret 
 Old Infallible we hastened to install 
 In a place of lasting honor— and 'tis there 
 you'll see it yet— 
 Our thermometer that hangs upon the 
 wall. 
 
 Ref.— Touch it gently, etc. 
 79 
 
W-r, 
 
 
 
 
 SMILING SPRING. 
 
 'Tis bound to come; we can't refrain 
 From grinding- out a merry strain 
 
 About the smiling spring. 
 For, after many a chill rebuff, 
 We've weather now that's not a bluff, 
 But bona fide vernal stuff, 
 
 The regulation thing. 
 
 No more at morn a polar breeze 
 Makes finger-tips and noses freeze 
 
 And vegetation nips. 
 No more good wives are lost in doubt. 
 If they shall get their fire screens out 
 Or put the dust and dirt to rout, 
 
 And husbands thus eclipse. 
 
 Behold, the festive bock beer sign 
 Gets thirsty topers right in line— 
 
 The prancing goat they hail. 
 
 Saloonists hang out doors of green, 
 
 The druggist works his fizz machine 
 
 And hankey-pankey men are seen 
 
 With mystic stuff for sale. 
 
 80 
 
Light-coated dudes to§rether flock; 
 (Their winter clothing is in hock), 
 
 Their looks a smile invite. 
 In tailors' windows cards appear, 
 "Three-dollar pantaloonings here," 
 Or "Coatings less than cost"— 'tis clear 
 
 They're strictly out of sight. 
 
 Policemen on their corners doze 
 
 And dream of donning lighter clothes, 
 
 With helmets made to match. 
 The letter carrier hums a tune; 
 He'll wear a fragile duster soon, 
 For which as a superior boon 
 
 He's now upon the watch. 
 
 Suburban residents go wild, 
 
 By seedsmen's gorgeous ads beguiled. 
 
 And dig and rake like mad. 
 Unhappy folk, how sad 'twill be 
 "When of their work the fruits they see, 
 Which somehow will not seem to gee 
 
 With any seedsman's ad! 
 
 The farmer— pessimistic chap- 
 Arises from his winter nap. 
 
 And navigates the plow; 
 Puts in preliminary crops. 
 Works day and night and never stops 
 Unless a moment while he mops 
 
 His overheated brow. 
 
 The trees put on their choicest duds, 
 By which we mean the leaves and buds: 
 
 Small flow'rs stick up their heads 
 The birds, with furtive looks of gloom. 
 Get up a secret building boom. 
 Domestic cares they will assume, 
 
 When each the other weds. 
 
 And human lovers— here we stick; 
 The subject always makes us sick; 
 
 No Tennyson in ours. 
 The signs we've given should suffice 
 To prove that spring's no more on ice, 
 But serves to-day an extra slice 
 
 Of sunshine and of flow'rs. 
 81 
 
iS-^^^ 
 
 JUNE. 
 
 Bright month of June, to thee we sing, 
 
 Two days ahead of time, 
 Because our artist's taken wing, 
 And left us not a blessed thing 
 On which to build a rhyme, 
 Except a 'ikeness fair to see 
 Of thee, sweet June, of thee. 
 
 O sunny June, we love to view 
 
 The roses on thy cheek; 
 And feel thy genial warmth anew, 
 For May has made us mighty blue- 
 Each day it sprang a leak. 
 So if with joy you'd fill our cup, 
 Dry up, sweet June, dry up. 
 82 
 
O lively June— convention days 
 
 'Tis thine to bring along; 
 What time the politicians raise 
 Partic'lar Cain, and Matthew Quay's 
 
 Mailed hand controls the throng. 
 
 This year you must keep clear of Matt, 
 
 Mark that, sweet June, mark that. 
 
 O festive June— when, dropping book 
 
 And slate, Young Hopeful hails 
 Vacation— need he now play hook? 
 Not so, to thee he'll gladly look 
 
 As one whose aid avails 
 
 To bring eight weeks of solid fun. 
 
 Well done, sweet June, well done. 
 
 O kindly June— please don't forget 
 
 To bring us summer heat. 
 Straw hats are 'neath a cloud as yet, 
 And no one has a chance to sweat; 
 
 In fact by Prob we're beat. 
 
 So, inasmuch as that's a sin, 
 
 Pile in, sweet June, pile in. 
 83 
 
'■''■tU\i' 
 
 PICNIC SEASON. 
 
 Now the picnic season's starting 
 
 And on ev'ry side you'll see 
 People merrily departing, 
 
 Bound to sport upon the lea. 
 What the lea may be we dare not 
 
 Give away to any one. 
 More than this to say we care not: 
 
 *Tis the thing they'll sport upon. 
 
 Lads and lasses, free from sadness, 
 
 Will together dance and sing; 
 Yes, with ditties full of gladness 
 
 They will make the welkin ring. 
 Of the welkin do not ask us 
 
 If the meaning we'll expound, 
 C'-uelly the same would task us, 
 
 For to secrecy we're bound. 
 84 
 
Mr. Strephon (sly persuader) 
 
 Will with Phyllis press his suit, 
 And perhaps he'll serenade her 
 
 Very neatly on his lute. 
 Of the lute to*get a notion 
 
 The desire you may indulge, 
 But we answer with emotion 
 
 That we really can't divulge. 
 
 Lemonade will flow profusely, 
 
 And so dry will be a few 
 That they'll liquor up quite loosely, 
 
 As the dryads used to do. 
 Maybe some one will be asking 
 
 What's a dryad, anyhow? 
 But our duty the unmasking 
 
 Of this myst'ry won't allow. 
 
 Yes, those picnics are delightful 
 
 In a multitude of ways; 
 Do away with feelings spiteful. 
 
 And make happy halcyon days. 
 As to halcyon— pray be lenient. 
 
 Ask us not to make it clear, 
 For we're making it convenient 
 
 To wind ud the Ivric here. 
 85 
 
AUTUMN. 
 
 What ho, there, varlet! hither bring 
 
 The quinine flask inviting, 
 For in my bones I feel the sting 
 
 Of blasts both cold and biting. 
 Old Sol, you see, has slid away 
 
 (He's somehow slipped his tether), 
 And in his stead there's come to stay 
 
 Bleak, damp, autumnal weather. 
 
 My pills? Ah, yes, these are the stuff 
 
 To knock out chills and fever. 
 My doctor gives 'em many a puff, 
 
 And Doc. is no deceiver. 
 Here's the prescription, writ with skill 
 
 (Ah, Doc, I am your debtor): 
 "Two pillulae each hour until 
 
 The patient's feeling better." 
 
My plasters? Yes, just stick them an 
 
 My shoulders, sides and middle— 
 They toast a fellow, every one, 
 
 Like cakes upon the griddle. 
 A royal thing a plaster is 
 
 To aid the renovation 
 Of one who has the rheumatiz 
 
 And needs some lubrication. 
 
 Hot water? Certainly, my lad. 
 
 And put some mustard in it. 
 The foot-bath treatment isn't bad, 
 
 And wherefore not begin it? 
 I'd rather be fried, steamed and boiled. 
 
 Strewed, roasted, swathed and sweated, 
 Greased, buttered, tarred and carbon-oiled, 
 
 Than die ana be regretted. 
 
 But stay— the punch? Oh, happy thought. 
 
 Where is my friendly flagon? 
 Don't tell me that one never ought 
 
 To get a quiet jag on. 
 Hot punch? What else in all this land 
 
 Can beat it? Oh, my brothers. 
 As long as we've this cure on hand, 
 
 Away with all the others. 
 87 
 
THE WAGNER ERA. 
 
 Our town is progressing-, they tell us, 
 
 In thoroughbred musical taste, 
 And people are getting more zealous 
 
 In studying harmonies chaste. 
 Dutch street bands are wholly demolished, 
 
 Cheap harpists have fled far away, 
 And the hand-organ fiend is abolished, 
 
 For culture is coming to stay. 
 
 The minstrel show's left us forever 
 
 ('Tis utterly vulgar, you know). 
 The ditties we used to think clever 
 
 Are scouted as trashy and low. 
 The melodies of the plantation, 
 
 Which made quite a hit in their day, 
 Now are said to involve degradation. 
 
 For culture 1.3 coming to stay. 
 8S 
 
No more do we hear "Suwanee River," 
 And the "Sweet Bye and Bye" has gone 
 hence; 
 
 "Annie Laurie" makes classicists shiver- 
 To sing it's a penal offense. 
 
 "Home, Sweet Home," there's no use In 
 performing ; 
 The warbler thereof is a jay; 
 
 He would simply set critics a-storming, 
 For culture is coming to stay. 
 
 If your end you would socially keep up, 
 
 And move in an elegant sphere. 
 Your heart must delightedly leap up 
 
 When Wagner's productions you hear. 
 "Goetterdaemmerung" must be your Bible, 
 
 "Walkyrie" your passions must sway; 
 Simple tunes are on music a libel, 
 
 For culture is coming to stay. 
 
 Comic opera always a scandal 
 
 And curse to the world you must vote; 
 Just tolerate Mozart and Handel 
 
 And the little things Beethoven wrote. 
 Bear in mind that a strict sense of duty 
 
 Compels you contempt to display 
 For J. L. Molloy and Pinsuti, 
 
 Since culture is coming to stay. 
 
 Now 'tis true that the goal is still distant, 
 
 Some hanker for melody yet. 
 But by patience and labor persistent. 
 
 At length to a point we will get, 
 Where in technique and art contrapuntal 
 
 We'll all be professionals gay, ^ 
 And the critics no more we'll disgruntle, 
 
 For culture is coming to stay. 
 89 
 
THE BOY GRADUATE. 
 
 He mounts the stage. His brow is clear, 
 He knows no qualm, no puny fear, 
 
 No quiver of dismay. 
 Noble and lofty is the state 
 Of youthful Mr. Graduate 
 
 Upon commencement day. 
 
 Garjnents brand-new his form bedeck, 
 A tow'ring- collar walls his neck, 
 
 His cuffs are snowy white. 
 Who, in such radiant togs as these. 
 Could stoop to weak'ning at the knees, 
 
 Beset with vulgar fright? 
 
 Not he. The proud and happy .lad 
 Expertly coached and nobly clad. 
 Peels "to the manor born." 
 Genius his soaring soul expands, 
 And fame nearby awaiting stands- 
 He views the mob with scorn. 
 
 90 
 
What's this that he unfolds? Oh, ye 
 It is, it is, a large MS., 
 
 With burning thoughts inscribed. 
 The people listen with intense 
 Delight, till all his eloquence 
 
 They've joyously imbibed. 
 
 All nature's secrets he unlocks, 
 The rules of science orthodox 
 
 He handles like a sage. 
 Problems that make our statesmen swear 
 He settles with astuteness rare 
 
 In this benighted age. 
 
 Then, when the thunders of applause 
 Have ceased, and he at length withdraws, 
 
 'Mid torrents of bouquets, 
 The glee club claims him, and he takes 
 His turn at rippling trills and shakes 
 
 In rattling college lays. 
 
 Alas! that after college days. 
 
 With light and life and hope ablaze. 
 
 There comes a cold, cold deal; 
 When heroes of the stage must try 
 Their luck at hustling, or— oh, my!— 
 
 Go join a "Commonweal." 
 91 
 
THE GIRL GRADUATE. 
 
 What form is this whose charms serene. 
 With delicate and lustrous sheen, 
 
 The stage illuminate? 
 Is't Venus or Diana? Nay, 
 'Tis one far lovelier than they— 
 
 The sweet girl graduate. 
 
 In robes of virgin white she stands, 
 With jewels on her dainty hands, 
 
 And flow'rets in her hair. 
 Her glass has told her of her charms. 
 And so she feels no strange alarms. 
 
 Nor shirks the footlights' glare. 
 
 A thousand dudes in yellow shoes. 
 And neckties of hilarious hues, 
 
 Look on with lovesick eyes. 
 Their gaze she does not fear to meet, 
 But just to bring them to her feet 
 
 Her level b .-l : .- tries. 
 
 99 
 
A hush upon the audience falls. 
 Deep interest its soul enthralls. 
 
 No covert sneer doth lurk 
 When she unties a ribbon blue, 
 And opens up to public view 
 
 Her essay— peerless worki 
 
 Now, now she lets the torrents loose 
 Of learning" vast, and thoughts abstruse, 
 
 Worthy of sages old. 
 The field of rhetoric for flow'rs 
 She ransacks. Wondrous are the pow'rs 
 
 That here themselves unfold. 
 
 Scarce have the plaudits died away, 
 When lo! she seats herself to play 
 
 Piano solos grand; 
 Mozart, Tschaikowsky, Sydney Smith, 
 She bangs and slams and rattles with 
 
 A finely cultured hand. 
 
 She closes. Flow'rs fall round her fast. 
 How can she ever be outclassed? 
 
 Folks ask with flushing cheek. 
 Ask of young Counter Jumper who 
 Gets twelve per month, his honest due; 
 
 She'll marry him next week. 
 03 
 
ODE TO AN UMBRELLA. 
 
 Hail, old umbrella! Tempest-scarred 
 
 And wobbly as thou art, 
 One cannot help but view thee, pard, 
 
 With kindliness of heart. 
 
 Although thy ribs are out of gear, 
 
 Although thy coat is torn, 
 Por thee there is no covert sneer, 
 
 No epithet of scorn. 
 
 For, in thy old age, thou art proof 
 
 Against the itching hands 
 That somehow can ne'er hold aloof 
 
 From one's umbrella-stands. 
 
 In railway trains thou mayst be left. 
 Untouched by those that loot. 
 
 Thy owner cannot be bereft 
 Of thee, old parachute. 
 
 If thou wert made of silken stuff, 
 
 With silver mountings gay. 
 Thieves could not hurry fast enougla 
 
 To carry thee away. 
 
 04 
 
35ut, old "umbreli/' the duty's thine 
 
 To hold thy place as yet, 
 To travel with us when 'tis fine 
 
 And vanish when 'tis wet. 
 
 At home in leisure thou shalt lie, 
 
 When rain begins to pour, 
 But when there is a cloudless sky, 
 
 Be always to the fore. 
 
 Such is thy custom, aged gamp— 
 
 With innocence demure, 
 To hide thyself in weather damp, 
 
 And hold a sinecure. 
 
 But, bless thy ancient heart, why not 
 Thus slumber on the shelf? 
 
 If we were an "umbrell," that's, what 
 We'd like to do ourself. 
 
 95 
 
THE MANDOLIN CLUB. 
 
 O list to the music that's borne on a 
 breeze, 
 (Tink-a-tink, tink-a-tunk, tink-a-tay) ; 
 Like the ripple of wavelets- on sweet sum- 
 mer seas 
 (Tink-a-tonk, tink-a-tank, tink-a-too) ; 
 No semblance of discord the harmony- 
 warps, 
 One would think 'twas the angels per- 
 forming- on harps, 
 But 'tis only a concert of mandolin sharps 
 (Twink-a-twank, twink-a-twunk, twink- 
 a-twee). 
 
 Refrain. 
 
 Then hearken with rapture beyond all 
 
 compare. 
 To the sweet twinkle-twankling that 
 
 twunks through the air. 
 Flee away from the brass band's delirious 
 blare. 
 And the orchestra's giddy hubbub. 
 96 
 
Dull care to the winds will at once be 
 
 consigned, 
 And a solace for grief you'll immediately 
 
 find, 
 In the gentle and soft twinkle-twankle- 
 some grind 
 Of the twunklesome Mandolin club. 
 (Twink-a-twoo.) 
 
 Beethoven's sonatas they play like old 
 
 vets 
 And full justice they do to the "High 
 
 School Cadets" 
 (Tink-a-tonk, tink-a-tank, tink-a-too) ; 
 The waltzes of Strauss and Waldteufel 
 
 they play 
 In a witchingly winsome and delicate 
 
 way; 
 Till you wish they'd keep at it all night 
 
 and all day. 
 (Twink-a-twank, twink-a-twunk, twink- 
 
 a-twee). 
 
 Ref.— Then hearken with rapture, etc. 
 
 The "Dead March in Saul" they can ren- 
 der with skill 
 (Tink-a-tink, tink-a-tunk, tink-a-tay) ; 
 And the strains of the "Yorke" they reel 
 off with a will 
 (Tink-a-tonk, tink-a-tank, tink-a-too) ; 
 "McGinty," "Tannhauser," the songs of 
 
 the war^ 
 "Semiramide," "White Wings" and "Rory 
 
 O'More," 
 Are among the bright things in their vast 
 repertoire. 
 (Twink-a-twank, tw:nk-a-twunk, twink- 
 a-twee). 
 
 Ref.— Then hearken with rapture, etc. 
 
 Pianos and organs must move to the rear 
 
 (Tink-a-tink, tink-a-tunk, tink-a-tay) ; 
 Their light is bedimmed while the mando- 
 lin's here 
 (Tink-a- ^nk, tink-a-tank, tink-a-too); 
 Ine futur^ May Festival, all must agree, 
 Will be shaped to conform to the people's 
 
 decree. 
 And a mandolin carnival surely 'twill be 
 (Twink-a-twank, twink-a-twunk, twink 
 a-twee). 
 
 Ref.— Then hearken with rapture, e^to. 
 07 
 
THE PUNSTER. 
 
 There was a jolly Irish lad, 
 
 Who hailed from down in Munster. 
 He met with influences bad, 
 
 And thus became a punster. 
 Like poor Tom Hood, whene'er he spoke, 
 
 Facetiously he would wink. 
 And with some light and playful joke 
 
 The populace he'd Hood-wink. 
 
 The doingrs of the dentist's ax 
 
 To him were ax-i-dental. 
 The feeling toward a landlord's tax 
 
 He looked on as pa(y)rental. 
 The undertaker he'd remind 
 
 That death would overtake him; 
 The final sleep one's eyes might blind, 
 
 And yet this man would "wake" him. 
 
 Napoleon Bonaparte, he said, 
 
 Was just a Water-loser; 
 A .iimjam victim's bugaboos 
 
 Just marked the bugaboozer. 
 Ben Butler's eye, he said, was like 
 
 A pistol, since he cocked it. 
 Withv stones a babe he would not strike. 
 
 Although he sometimes "rocked" it. 
 
 08 
 
"Alas," he'd cry, "it makes me pail 
 
 To think I'll kick the bucket"; 
 And if a duck he saw for sale, 
 
 He'd offer just a duc(k)at. 
 Whene'er a painting made him weep, 
 
 A hue-and-cry he'd call it. 
 He'd curse baseball in tones so deep 
 
 That the curse— well, he'd bass-bawl it. 
 
 A schooner's mast he deemed all right, 
 
 But the captain must be master. 
 He never mustered courage quite 
 
 To wear a mustard plaster. 
 A comet left him comatose 
 
 If e'er he dared to scan it; 
 And the heavenly chart made him morose. 
 
 Because he couldn't plan-it. 
 
 To garden tools he'd cry "Yeo-hoe," 
 
 An observation rakish; 
 And when he'd read what wasn't so, 
 
 He'd say, "Well, faix, it's fakish." 
 "Men should not darkly frown," thought 
 he, 
 
 "No matter who their frows are; 
 And he deemed it pantalunacy 
 
 To call a pant a trouser. 
 
 , At last the worst came to the worst. 
 
 This youth so ready witted 
 Acquired a fit of coughing first. 
 
 His coffin then was fitted. 
 The marble cutter asked in doubt: 
 
 "For whom's this stone intended?" 
 "Why, I'm the mon-u-ment," cried out 
 
 The youth— then all was ended. 
 
 90 
 
LA VIE PARISIENNE. 
 
 I am a zhentelman Francais, 
 
 In Paris bred and born. 
 All foreign vays and mannaires I 
 
 Regard viz hate and scorn. 
 My brozzaire Frenchmen vill unite 
 
 In von super-r-be Amen 
 Ven I declare zat nozzing beats 
 
 La vie Parisienne. 
 
 In Paris every von puts on 
 
 Ze clothes so fine— Ah, Dieu! 
 Zose ozzaire nations nozzing know 
 
 Of vot ze clothes can do. 
 Who spiks of taste in ozzaire lands? 
 
 Pardieu! zat' s— what you call?— 
 Oh, yes— cold cheek— for, as to taste, 
 
 Dear Paris has eet all. 
 
 Ve Frenchmen are ze poets true; 
 
 In fancy ve excel; 
 Ve love ze paints, ze bric-a-brac, 
 
 Ze flowers so sveet to smell. 
 Ve love ze women and ze vine, 
 
 Ze music and ze dance- 
 One cannot tell what living meann 
 
 Unless he's lived in France. 
 100 
 
Ve are ze cooks par excellence, 
 
 Our deeshes— sacre bleu! 
 It takes a zhenius heaven-born 
 
 To make a French menu. 
 2e epicure whose palate's cloyed 
 
 In climates far away, 
 Need only come to Paris and 
 
 He'll eat ze livelong day. 
 
 Ve have ze only journalists, 
 
 Ze only Zola books, 
 Ze greatest can-can dancers and 
 Ze lightest-fingered crooks. 
 Ve are "sans peur et sans reproche," 
 
 All knights like Bayard still; 
 But, entre nous, vene'er ve fight 
 
 Ve do not fight to kill. 
 
 Vy did I come tO' Ameriquei 
 
 If France I love so dear? 
 Ah, zat's ze puzzling question, yet 
 
 Ze answer's very clear. 
 You zee, I am of noble blood 
 
 And honorable life. 
 But, mille tonnerres!— I'm poor as Job; 
 
 I vant a Yankee vife. 
 
 Ze lady must have lots of cash, 
 
 Zat's all vot I exact 
 And she can have my title ven 
 
 She does ze nuptial act. 
 Zen back to France I'll take her, and 
 
 I'll hasten once again 
 To laveesh all my vealth upon 
 
 La vie Pari?i^nrip. 
 
 lOl 
 
AT HOMESTEAD. 
 
 Golden months ago in a mill beside a 
 
 stream 
 An artisan was laboring" with happiness 
 
 supreme ; 
 The tariff hovered over him like guardian 
 
 angels' wings, 
 But now another chap is there, and this is 
 
 what he sings: 
 
 Refrain. 
 
 Do not forget me, do not forget me. 
 Sometimes think of me still. 
 
 I'm from another state. 
 
 And I don't "amalgamate"; 
 I'm the non-union man in the mill. 
 Do not forget me, do not forget me, 
 
 I'|n the non-union man. 
 
 The man in the mill. 
 102 
 
Where are now the wages that were paid 
 
 long-, long ago? 
 Have they followed the example of last 
 
 winter's ice and snow? 
 The scale is topsy-turvy; labor's out upon 
 
 a foul. 
 And it's hard upoii. the nerves to hear that 
 
 sentimental howl: 
 
 Ref.— Do not iorget me, etc. 
 
 What's wrong with Brother Pinkerton? 
 
 Why does he weep and wail? 
 What cares that man of Winchesters 
 
 about the labor scale? 
 Alas! his memory is keen— he does not 
 
 like to hear 
 The echo of those words that break upon 
 
 his list'ning ear: 
 
 Ref.— Do not forget me, etc. 
 
 O fate, what is thy program now? Is it 
 thy sovereign will 
 
 To make the hapless artisan pay all that 
 Little Bill; 
 
 Or is the Tide to take a turn and ter- 
 minate the reign 
 
 Of the gentleman who warbles the monot- 
 onous ref ram: 
 
 Ref.— Do not forget me, etc. 
 
 Cheer up, O ye who mourn the loss of 
 
 jobs with heai^y pay, 
 The silver lining of the cloud will yet 
 
 come forth to stay; 
 And the mill beside the streamlet will with 
 
 gladsome voices ring 
 When no one has occasion any more the 
 
 strain to sing: 
 
 Ref.— Do not forget me, etc. 
 103 
 
BRIGGS AT Alt HE BAR. 
 
 He did it, yes, he did it, 
 
 And guilty he's been found. 
 No longer from the pulpit 
 
 Deep dogmas he'll expound. 
 The deed that Briggs committed 
 
 Is mystic, veiled and grim. 
 But anyhow he did it, 
 
 And that's the end of him. 
 
 Briggs was a great professor. 
 
 Theology he taught: 
 But all his skill and learning 
 
 Have come at last to naught. 
 He cared not for his prestige. 
 
 But through some idle whim. 
 He went— ha,ha!~and did It, 
 
 And that's the end of him. 
 
 104 
 
Men fell upon his bosom 
 
 And begged him to retract. 
 Fair women thronged about him 
 
 And did the tearful act. 
 His brethren rallied round him. 
 
 And plead his cause with vim. 
 But still, you see, he did it, 
 
 And that's the end of him. 
 
 Accomplices he had not; 
 
 He sought not sordid pelf. 
 But went ahead free gratis 
 
 To criminate himself. 
 Then stood before his judges, 
 
 Long-visaged chaps and prim. 
 They settled that he did it, 
 
 And that's the end of him. 
 
 If Briggs had only chosen 
 
 To take another path; 
 If in the ways of darkness 
 
 He had not cut a swath. 
 He'd still be great and honored 
 
 And in the best of trim; 
 But then, you know, he did it, 
 
 And that's the end of him. 
 
 What did he do? Confound it. 
 
 How can a layman tell? 
 'Twas something very horrid, 
 
 Without a parallel. 
 The church's cup of sorrow 
 
 Is filled up to the brim, 
 Because he went and did it, 
 
 And ._:..t's : ^ ^iid of him. 
 105 
 
OUIDA. 
 
 When you are in a lovesick mood 
 
 And thrill with fiery passion; 
 When agonies themselves obtrude 
 
 Because you've got a mash on. 
 Then is the time, when at the feet 
 
 Of Love your spirit grovels, 
 To turn on lots of extra heat 
 
 By reading Ouida's novels. 
 
 The plot— she only has the one- 
 Is simple but enticing; 
 
 Nine parts there are of naughty fun 
 To one of legal splicing. 
 
 Sobs, oaths, blood, tears, Italian pray'rs 
 And classical quotations 
 
 Make up the giddy wheat and tares 
 Of Ouida's lucubrations. 
 
 Her hero is an English lord^ 
 
 A haughty young Apollo; 
 Who only has to say the word 
 
 And all the world must follow. 
 He versifies and plays and sings, 
 
 Talks all the tongues of Babel, 
 Yet calls his talents silly things- 
 
 Thi^ chap in Ouida's fable. 
 106 
 
In strength he is a Hereules 
 
 And carries all before him; 
 In battle bullets on the breeze 
 
 Go whistling-, harmless, o'er him. 
 He rows, he boxes, drinks old wine 
 
 Along with friends from college, 
 Yet thinks it tiresome to combine 
 
 All kinds of human knowledge. 
 
 Away in foreign lands he meets 
 
 A maiden fair but lowly; 
 Of purest love he tastes the sweets 
 
 And swears devotion holy. 
 But marriage as a gen'ral thing 
 
 His Highness isn't much on 
 And so, he claims; a wedding ring 
 
 Would "bust" his old escutcheon. 
 
 At this the maiden takes a fit 
 
 So much the freeze-out grieves her; 
 The Duke don't like her plaints a bit; 
 
 He packs his grip and leaves her. ^ 
 Then, then, for sixteen thousand miles 
 
 Or more the maiden rambles; 
 While he enjoys rich ladies' smiles 
 
 Drinks deep and even gambles. 
 
 At last she runs him down and though 
 
 He sees her not— poor girlie, 
 In secret gazes on her beau. 
 
 And sheds some tear-drops pearly. 
 Then with an agonizing sigh 
 
 And feeble limbs that quiver, 
 She ruins all her clothing dry 
 
 By taking to the river. 
 
 The Duke, when he finds out her fate, 
 
 Says something wise in Latin, 
 And straightway weds some female great 
 
 Attired in silk and satin. 
 Here having made us taste the cup 
 
 Of love's most bitter rumpus, 
 Miss Ouida winds her novel up 
 
 And leaves us quite non cor^pos. 
 107 
 
THE CHRYSANTHEMUM. 
 
 The flow'rs of summertime are dead, 
 Killed by the frost and in their stead 
 
 In gallant state has come, 
 Prepared to have his royal fling, 
 The many-hued autumnal king, 
 
 Yclept Chrysanthemum. 
 
 What cares he for the bitter blast 
 And skies with darkness overcast? 
 
 No tender chap is he; 
 But grows and thrives with careless grace. 
 His blossoms opening up apace, 
 
 A charming sight to see. 
 
 No niggard thought his soul can sway; 
 He blooms and blooms and blooms away. 
 
 Loading his branches down 
 With gems "of purest ray serene," 
 Fit to display their brilliant sheen 
 
 In any mon.-r-irs crown. 
 108 
 
Anon he Hashes up to view 
 Great blooms of golden-yellow hue 
 
 Delightful to the eye; 
 Anon his fancy takes a flight 
 In masterstrokes of dazzling- white 
 
 That rivalry defy. 
 
 Here red and yellow he combines. 
 And there in Tyrlan purple shines, 
 
 Both suit him to a dot; 
 To dissipate at times he seeks. 
 And perpetrates wine-colored, freaks, 
 
 Yet call him not a sot. 
 
 Nay, for despite his football head 
 And dudish bang, he's gently bred. 
 
 His ancestry's lum-tum: 
 He dates back to the days when man 
 i^lrst set his foot in old Japan, 
 
 This proud, chrysanthemum. 
 
 Unto Jack Frost we humbly pray 
 For grace. Deal gently with him, J., 
 
 This floral monarch spare; 
 Nor bear him malice just because 
 He sports that pettiest of Haws— 
 
 A Rugby head of hair. 
 109 
 
DANCING IN THE BARN. 
 
 O, 'twas down at the Bakerstown picnic, 
 Where the lads and lasses met to 
 dance and sing, 
 Horns a-blowing, 
 Feet a-g-oing-, 
 And a-dancing of the Highland fling. 
 (Ta-ra-rum.) 
 Young David, a pulpiteer prospective, 
 For theology not caring then a darn. 
 Took to skipping, 
 Lightly tripping 
 And dancing in the barn. 
 
 REFRAIN : 
 
 As he moved so gracefully (tra la-la-la~la; 
 
 tra la-la-la-la;) 
 He forgot his theology (tra la-la; tra la- 
 la; tra la-la; ta-ra-rum.) 
 An4 they swung their partners all to- 
 gether. 
 'Twas David's opportunity to "larn," 
 Nought regretting, 
 Pirouetting 
 And dancing in the barn. 
 
 no 
 
When the presbytery met to deal with 
 David, 
 The clerics nearly fainted with dismay. 
 "How imprudent 
 In a student 
 Thus to act" was all they had to say. 
 (Ta-ra-rum.) 
 Then David, like Washington, admitted 
 His fault. Quoth he, "I cannot tell a 
 yarn. 
 Down the middle 
 To the fiddle 
 I went dancing in the barn." 
 
 Ref. :— As he moved, etc. 
 
 Then the ministers they all wept to- 
 gether, 
 A-thinking of the days when they were 
 young. 
 And with Mary 
 Or with Sairy 
 An active pair of heels had slung. 
 (Ta-ra-rum.) 
 So they said to him: "David, you're for- 
 given," 
 But we deem it right young clergymen 
 to warn. 
 That we'll frown on 
 And sit down on 
 Wicked dancing in the barn. 
 
 Ref. :— As he moved, etc. 
 Ill 
 
OUR JUGGERNAUT. 
 
 With many a bump and jar, 
 
 With many a bang- and whack, 
 A lumbering-, hulking traction car 
 
 Thundered along- the track; 
 To the helpless passer-by 
 
 A terrible fate it brought, 
 And still it roared in a voice four-ply 
 
 The song of the Jugg-ernaut. 
 
 "Scrunch, scrunch, scrunch," 
 How easy 'tis to kill! 
 'Scrunch, scrunch, scrunch," 
 How easy graves to fill! 
 And it's clear the track or die. 
 
 That's the lesson distinctly taught, 
 As the ogre roars in a voice four-ply 
 The song- of the Juggernaut. 
 112 
 
The small boy at his play 
 
 With marbles, top or kite, 
 Must never attempt to cross the way 
 
 With traction cars in sight. 
 If ever he breaks the rule, 
 
 In a death-trap he'll be caught, 
 While the monster shouts, like a hideous 
 g-houl, 
 
 The song- of the Juggernaut. 
 
 "Grind, grind, grind," 
 
 'Tis only a helpless child, 
 "Grind, grind, grind," 
 
 Though mothers with grief are wild. 
 What's the odds if some are slain? 
 
 Who cares if ruin is wrought? 
 While the monster howls in a harrowing 
 strain 
 
 The song of the Juggernaut. 
 
 There's law to say him nay, 
 
 There's law to bid him halt, 
 But he takes the law in his own sweet 
 way, 
 
 With a liberal grain of salt. 
 For he's backed by wealth and pow'r. 
 
 And in vain is justice sought, 
 When the monster screams in accents 
 sour 
 
 The song of the Juggernaut. 
 
 "Crush, crush, crush," 
 
 With never a thought humane, 
 "Crush, crush, crush," 
 
 Is there any one dares complain? 
 "Hands off!" the magnates cry, 
 
 "The privilege we have bought 
 Of bellowing forth in a voice four-ply 
 
 The song of the Juggernaut." 
 113 
 
MOTHER'S MUSTARD PLASTERS. 
 
 Tell us not of patent remedies to cure a 
 heavy cold, 
 They are mock'ries and delusions every 
 one. 
 Dr. Quack may swear his pectoral is worth 
 its weight in gold, 
 And his liniment the finest 'neath the 
 sun. 
 Dr. Do-'em-Up may brag about the syrup 
 he compounds, 
 While his neighbor lauds the oleo of St. 
 Jake; 
 But there's none of 'em can drive 
 away the halo that surrounds 
 The mustard plasters mother used to 
 , make. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 Who could help but to regret her? 
 Who could venture to forget her? 
 She did honor to her sex and no mistake. 
 There is joy our souls in linking 
 To the olden times when thinking 
 Of the mustard plasters mother used to 
 make. 
 
 114 
 
When an infant in the winter time went 
 riding- on a sled, 
 And baptized itself completely in the 
 snow— 
 If they brought it home non compos, did 
 dear mother lose her head 
 And employ a dozen medicos?— Oh, na. 
 She would simply slap a mustard-pie upon 
 the victim's chest. 
 Steaming hot, and soon the cold would 
 have to break— 
 Oh, 'twould take a salamander to endure 
 beneath his vest 
 The mustard plasters mother used to 
 make. 
 
 Cho.— Who could help but to regret her? 
 etc. 
 
 When the dreary thawing weather laid the 
 old man on his back. 
 With the rheumatiz, pneumonia and ca.- 
 tarrh. 
 The old lady used devotedly to keep him. 
 on the track 
 Toward recovery— she was his guiding 
 star. 
 Doctors never were admitted, for 'twas 
 certain, if they wertc, 
 That there soon would be a corpselet and 
 a wake. 
 And in consequence the patient felt it 
 proper to prefer 
 The mustard plasters mother used to 
 make. 
 
 Cho.— Who could help but to regret her? 
 etc. 
 
 Ev'ry ailment fell before * em; they were 
 always apropos. 
 Cancer, measles, typhus, smallpox— 
 what you will- 
 Had to knuckle to those plasters in the 
 days of long ago— 
 There's no doubt of it but what they 
 filled the bill. 
 Not such namby-pamby make-believes as 
 those we have to-day, 
 But the sort of thing to make a fellow 
 quake, 
 Were those big volcanic flapjacks, which 
 would burn and burn away— 
 The mustard plasters mother used to 
 make. 
 
 Cho.— Who could help but to regret her? 
 etc. 
 
 115 
 
Ah, what boot9 it to be weeping- o'er those 
 landmarks of the past! 
 Times have changed and ancient customs 
 are forgot; 
 And 'tis not the proper thing to ask for 
 plasters that'll plast, 
 Such affairs are classed as antiquated 
 rot. 
 Still the mem'ry lingers with us and is 
 cherished all the time — 
 'Tis a heritage too precious to forsake — 
 Of those triumphs of the healing art, com- 
 bustively sublime, 
 The mustard plasters mother used to 
 make. 
 
 Cho.— Who could help but to regret her? 
 etc. 
 
 116 
 
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