Horatiana 
 Cantica 
 Miscella 
 
 By 
 William Hathorn Mills 
 
 Published by the Author 
 
 THE WAYSIDE PRESS 
 
 Los Angeles, California 
 1919 
 
 Copyright 
 

 CONTENTS j^^— 
 
 'age 
 
 [oratiana » 3 
 
 Stet Capitolium 4 
 
 Puellis Idoneus 6 
 
 Militavi 7 
 
 Od. I. 4 9 
 
 I. 10 10 
 
 I. 12 11 
 
 I. 14 13 
 
 I. 16 14 
 
 I. 20 15 
 
 I. 26 16 
 
 II. 3 17 
 
 II. 14 18 
 
 III: 5 19 
 
 III. 30 21 
 
 IV. 7 22 
 
 Cantica 23 
 
 Jenny 24 
 
 Gardes Joyeuses ' 25 
 
 Eulalia 26 
 
 Letty 27 
 
 The Household Fly 28 
 
 Moods 30 
 
 Twins 31 
 
 Claro 32 
 
 Miscella 33 
 
 An Ode to the West Wind 34 
 
 Short Measure 36 
 
 What's in a Name? 37 
 
 Hostes Humani Generis 38 
 
 Jingles 39 
 
 Poetry 4p 
 
 Dry 40 
 
 Wet 40 
 
 Si Jeunesse Savait 41 
 
 Vox Populi ; 41 
 
 Sweet 42 
 
 Proverbs Annotated 43 
 
 C1A532790 
 
Horatiana 
 
 Three 
 
Stet Capitolium. 
 
 WHETHER he sings of high romance, 
 Or hymns the everlasting Sire, 
 Or suits his lay to choral dance, 
 
 Or scourges forms of base desire, 
 Or paints the lady of his choice, 
 Horace is still a living Voice. 
 
 Your sweetly smiling Lalage, 
 
 Whose spirit turned a wolf to flight. 
 
 Your little farm by Tivoli, 
 
 Bandusia's fountain crystal-bright. 
 
 Your haunts, your hospitalities — 
 
 Horace, they're all before our eyes. 
 
 Orbilius flogged you when at school; 
 
 You have our fullest sympathy, 
 For we remember a ferule, 
 
 That smote us oft and lustily; 
 Would it had gotten into us 
 A measure of your genius. 
 
 You sang how Regulus put aside 
 The crowds encumbering his return. 
 
 Refused his wife's kiss, and denied 
 Her plea with answer curt and stern; 
 
 "Rome must be saved; let cowards die" — 
 
 We hear it yet — that haught reply. 
 
 How Paulus and how Cato died. 
 
 Too staunch to fly, too proud to yield; 
 
 How stout Marcellus turned the tide 
 Of war in many a foughten field; 
 
 How yeomen played heroic parts — 
 
 You've stamped it all upon our hearts. 
 
They left their farms to fight; they braved 
 All pains of death; and, if they fell, 
 
 What mattered it, so Rome were saved? 
 Her weal safeguarded, all was well. 
 
 The State must stand, tho' men may die — 
 
 That was Old Rome's philosophy. 
 
 You made them household words — the names 
 Of those who fought and fell for Rome — 
 
 And you — your memory lives, and claims 
 Place at their side in every home; 
 
 Your bones lie on a Roman hill, 
 
 Horace, but you are with us still. 
 
 ♦ 4* 
 
 Five 
 
Puellis Idoneus 
 
 Od, III. 26 
 
 HORACE had many themes; his rimes 
 At times clomb Helicon's peak; at times 
 His Muse just sported; 
 He sang of Gods, of mighty men, 
 Of wines, of rustic joys, of ten 
 Damsels he courted. 
 
 It seems he had a lot of flames 
 From first to last; his list of names 
 
 Is gey an' long; 
 Were they real living demoiselles, 
 Or quite imaginary belles — 
 
 Just pegs for song? 
 
 Some anyhow were real, and two 
 Adorned, as gentle souls and true. 
 
 His poetry — 
 The kindly Cinara — rapt, alas! 
 From earth untimely — and the lass 
 
 Named Lalage. 
 
 Six 
 
Militavi 
 
 PYRRHA bound up her golden hair; 
 For whom? Well, Horace didn't know; 
 Well dressed yet simply, she was fair, 
 But was she constant? No. And so 
 Horace, shipwrecked by her of yore. 
 Thanked Heaven that he'd got safe to shore. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 When Lydia praised Telephus, 
 
 Horace, indignant, made a fuss; 
 
 He said that scratches on, her lips 
 
 And shoulders meant beauty's eclipse; 
 
 She'd better far have stuck to him; 
 
 Then she'd have been unscratched and trim. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 Glycera's face was slippery — 
 
 Too slippery for stedfast gaze; 
 Its beauty twinkled, seemingly, 
 
 Or dazzled as a flash-light's rays. 
 Each ray was aS' a Cupid's dart, 
 And Horace played the target's part. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 As Horace sorrowed that in battle 
 
 He'd left his shield, and fled to Rome, 
 
 Came Lalage, and with sweet prattle 
 Shifted his thoughts to joys of home; 
 
 Which shows that prattlings sweet may be 
 Sometimes as good as poetry. 
 
 I hope that Lalage was not 
 
 All talk — her name implies a tongue — 
 H so, she'd better far have got 
 
 Hold of a lyre, and sweetly sung; 
 Ah well — lest Horace should get rattled, 
 She smiled as sweetly as she prattled. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 Seven 
 
Chloe was like a fawn, so shy 
 That Horace couldn't get a talk in; 
 
 She wouldn't list his poetry, 
 
 Nor with him would she go a-walkin'; 
 
 Tied to her mother's apron-strings 
 
 She "slacked," so Horace sadly sings. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 A freedwoman, named Myrtale, 
 Ruled Horace for a season; 
 
 Her sway was as a tyranny, 
 A triumph of unreason. 
 
 Out upon Venus! The bronze yoke 
 
 That linked them was her cruel joke. 
 
 T* T* -K ^ 
 
 Barine, beauty and coquette, 
 
 Moved Horace to despair; 
 She broke all promises, and yet 
 
 Grew every day more fair. 
 What were the gods about that they 
 Laughed at it? Horace couldn't say. 
 
 >i< sis * * 
 
 Lyce — what of her? Horace prayed 
 She might grow old. And why? 
 
 Because she scorned his serenade, 
 And mocked his lover's cry. 
 
 The gods assented, and she grew 
 
 Not only old, but ugly too. 
 
 SjC SfC ^ ^ 
 
 Of Cinara we only know 
 
 What Horace says of her — that she 
 Was good — kindly, he meant — ^^and so 
 
 He flourished 'neath her dynasty. 
 What had become of her? Ah, she 
 Was then only a memory. 
 
 * * * * 
 Horace to Phyllis. Last thou art 
 
 Of all my loves, and last shalt be; 
 Lift not too high thy hopes; the heart 
 
 Of Telephus is not for thee. 
 Come to my arms; come to my home, 
 And sing my songs. Ah, Phyllis, come! 
 Eight 
 
Horace. Od. I. 4 
 
 Now loosed is Winter's cruel grip; now Spring 
 and Western wind 
 Bring welcome change; the windlass hauls dry 
 keels down to the sea; 
 No longer stalls make glad the herds, no longer 
 fires the hind; 
 No longer stand the meadows white with hoar- 
 frost's argentry. 
 Beneath the moon now Cytherean Venus leads her 
 choirs; 
 Graces and Nymphs, a comely troop, ring hand 
 in hand their ring; 
 Now this, now that, foot beats the ground; while 
 Cyc],ops' furnace-fires 
 Glow, as fierce Vulcan fans the flames, and bids 
 the hammers swing. 
 Now is it well to twine trim locks with myrtle, or 
 with flowers, 
 Brought forth by fields, now thawed, as from a 
 store of treasures hid; 
 Now is it well to sacrifice to Faunus, in dim bowers 
 Of shady groves, a lamb maybe, or, if he will, a kid. 
 Marching with step impartial. Death's pale Presence 
 raps its call 
 At doors of rich and poor alike. Wealth, Sestius, 
 is yours; 
 But life's brief span cuts short the range of hope 
 for one and all; 
 And even now a gloom of night and storied Manes 
 lours 
 O'er you, and Pluto's shadowy halls expect your 
 shade anon. 
 Once there, no longer shall you cast the dice to 
 settle who 
 Shall rule the feast, nor count young Lycidas a 
 paragon, 
 Whom all the lads now envy, and the lasses soon 
 shall woo. 
 
Od. I. 10 
 
 GRANDSON of Atlas eloquent, 
 Mercury, skilful to refine 
 Primaeval manners insolent 
 
 By speech and seemly discipline — 
 
 Thee will I sing, of mighty Jove 
 
 Herald and of the gods, whose deft 
 
 Hand bent the lyre: adept, for love 
 Of fun, to steal and hide the theft. 
 
 Phoebus once threatened thee unless 
 His stolen beeves returned anon — 
 
 Ah, naughty boy! — scolded thee, yes, 
 Yet laughed — his quiver too had gone. 
 
 With thee for guide rich Priam made 
 His way unseen past Atreus' sons, 
 
 Past Phthian fires, thro' the blockade 
 Of Troy-beleaguering legions. 
 
 Kind souls find under thy coYivoy 
 
 Blest homes; thy gold wand's waving gleam 
 Shepherds the shades — who art the joy 
 
 Of gods inferne and gods supreme. 
 
 Ten 
 
Od. I. 12 
 
 CLIO, what man's, what hero's, fame 
 Art fain with shrill-toned pipe to sing, 
 Or lyre: what god's — that so his name. 
 Flung back by echo's laugh, shall ring 
 
 Or in the shades of Helicon, 
 
 Or upon Pindus' heights, or chill 
 Haemus, whence woods swept blindly on 
 
 At tuneful Orpheus' heels, whose skill, 
 
 His mother's grace, made his art strong 
 
 To stay torrent and hurricane — 
 Made it a charm to draw along 
 
 The listening oaks that heard his strain? 
 
 Whose praise shall sooner claim my song 
 
 Than his, whom gods and men obey: 
 Whose seasons spin the world along. 
 
 Above, below, with tempering sway? 
 
 Naught greater than himself proceeds 
 
 From him; naught next his being is, 
 Or like it; yet her mighty deeds 
 
 Give Pallas nearest rank to his, 
 
 I will not let thy prowess go, 
 
 Liber, unsung — no, nor thy fame, 
 O Virgin huntress, nor thy bow, 
 
 Phoebus, whose shafts miss not their aim. 
 
 Alcides too, and Leda's sons — 
 
 Famed cavalier, famed pugilist — 
 I'll hymn — to mariners twin suns 
 
 Of hope, for tumbling breakers whist. 
 
 Soon as their white stars shine, and fall 
 
 Back from the rocks: rude tempests cease: 
 
 Clouds flee: waves' threats subside, and all, 
 Since such their will, is calm and peace. 
 
 Eleven 
 
What name comes next? I hesitate — 
 
 Romulus, Numa's quiet sway, 
 Proud Tarquin's tyranny, Cato's fate — 
 
 The death that is his fame for aye? 
 
 Regulus, Scaurus, Paulus wight. 
 
 All reckless of his mighty soul 
 When Carthage won, in words of light 
 
 Grateful I'll set on honour's roll. 
 
 Fabricius, Curius unshorn, 
 
 Camillus — these stern penury 
 Reared, sons of toil, and yeomen-born, 
 
 To be true sons of chivalry. 
 
 As thro' unnoticed ages grows 
 
 The tree, so grows Marcellus' fame; 
 
 As moon 'mid lesser lights, so glows 
 The Julian star with brightest flame. 
 
 Father and guardian of our race, 
 
 Great Saturn's son. Fate gives to thee 
 
 Charge of great Caesar; of thy grace. 
 Reign thou; let him vicegerent be. 
 
 Whether he breaks their threats, and leads 
 In well-won triumph Parthia's hosts. 
 
 Or smites Chinese and Indian breeds. 
 Who dwell below the Orient's coasts, 
 
 Beneath thee let him rule the world 
 In justice, while thy ponderous car 
 
 Shakes heaven, and while thy lightnings hurled 
 On unchaste groves make holy war. 
 
 Twelve 
 
Od. I. 14 
 
 SHIP of the State, new waves will bear 
 Thee back to sea. What doest thou? Fight 
 To make the port; thy sides are bare 
 Of oars — ah, seest thou not thy plight? 
 
 Sprung by the swift South wind thy mast 
 And sail-yards groan; thy straining back, 
 
 Unfrapped by ropes, can scarce outlast 
 The sea's too tyrannous attack. 
 
 Thy sails are all unsound; thou hast 
 
 No gods whose guardiance thou mayst claim, 
 
 When swept by some fresh tempest-blast; 
 What tho' thou boastest race and fame, 
 
 As Pontic pine, and nobly born, 
 Gay poops bring mariners no cheer; 
 
 Beware lest thou become a scorn — 
 A laughing-stock for winds to jeer. 
 
 Of late did'st vex and tire my soul; 
 
 Now dear, dost still disturb my ease; 
 Prithee, avoid the seas that roll 
 
 Between the shining Cyclades. 
 
 Thirteen 
 
Od. I. 16 
 
 O FAIRER than your mother fair, 
 Put whatsoever end you please 
 To my lampoons — no matter where, 
 In furnace or m Hadria's seas. 
 
 Not Dindymene — no, nor he 
 
 Who sits upon his Pythian seat — 
 
 So shakes priests' souls with ecstacy; 
 Not Liber; not so fiercely beat 
 
 Their cymbals Corybants, as grim ire 
 Rages; which fears nor Noric steel, 
 
 Nor wreckstrewn sea, nor savage fire, 
 
 Nor Jove's down-rush with flash and peal. 
 
 Prometheus, forced to add a part 
 Cut from each creature to our clay 
 
 Primaeval, grafted on our heart 
 
 A mad lion's might — so legends say. 
 
 Passions once laid Thyestes low 
 
 In ruin, and have come to be 
 Root-cause of utter overthrow 
 
 To lofty cities, presently 
 
 Ploughed under by some haughty foe. 
 
 Restrain your wrath; me too, alas! 
 A hot heart tempted long ago. 
 
 In life's sweet youth; mad that I was, 
 
 I dashed off libels. Courtesy, 
 Not rudeness, now shall be my part. 
 
 If but, my taunts withdrawn, you'll be 
 My friend, and give me back your heart. 
 
 Fourteen 
 
Od. I. 20 
 
 WINE of a common Sabine brand 
 In moderate cups your thirst shall slake- 
 Wine stored and sealed by my own hand 
 In an old jar of Grecian make, 
 
 When from the theatre rang out 
 
 Your praise, dear knight Maecenas, till 
 
 Your native banks returned the shout, 
 And echoes laughed from Vatican hill. 
 
 Then wine from a Calenian press. 
 
 And Caecuban, shall cheer your soul; 
 
 Falernian grapes, I must confess. 
 And Formian, temper not my bowl. 
 
 Fifteen 
 
Od. I. 26 
 
 THE Muses' friend, I'll cast all fear 
 And grief to wanton winds, to bear 
 Where Cretan billows roll, 
 Utterly careless what dread king 
 Rules 'neath the cold North, or what thing 
 Frights Tiridates' soul. 
 
 O thou, to whom fresh springs are dear, 
 Nymph of Pimplea's fountain clear, 
 
 Weave of thy grace a wreath; 
 Weave it for Lamia, my friend; 
 Weave it of sunny flowers that blend 
 
 Thy sweetness with their breath. 
 
 Honours that I can pay are naught. 
 Apart from thee — the gracious thought 
 
 That tunes my new cithern; 
 Bid it with Lesbian quill — the gift 
 Were worthy thee and thine — uplift 
 
 This man to life eterne. 
 
 Sixteen 
 
Od. II. 3 
 
 REMEMBER, Dellius, doomed to die 
 Some day, to keep a level mind 
 When times are hard, nor pridefully 
 
 Exalt your horn when Fate seems kind — 
 
 Aye, doomed to die, whether each dawn 
 Renews your griefs, or days of rest 
 
 Comfort you, couched on some far lawn, 
 With old Falernian of the best. 
 
 Why does white poplar interlace 
 
 With mighty pine its welcoming shade? 
 
 Why does fleet rivulet toil to race 
 Adown the maze its frets have made? 
 
 Bid them bring hither wines, nards, blooms— 
 Rose-blooms, sweet all too brief a space — 
 
 While means and youth and the dark looms 
 Of the three Sisters grant us grace. 
 
 You'll leave parked hall and villa fair. 
 
 With yellow Tiber rolling by; 
 All that you bought you'll leave; your heir 
 
 Will own the wealth you heaped on high. 
 
 Rich scion of Inachus, or poor 
 
 And lowliest-born, with heaven's bare ceil 
 For roof — no matter, Orcus dour 
 
 Will set on you his ruthless heel. 
 
 One bourn awaits us all; each lot. 
 Tossed in the urn, or soon, or late. 
 
 Leaps forth, and — doom that changes not — 
 Exiles us on the bark of Fate. 
 
 Seventeen 
 
Od. 11. 14 
 
 AH Postumus, my Postumus, the fleeting years 
 roll by; 
 Wrinkles and ever nearing eld stay not for piety: 
 Relentless they, relentless death's unconquered tyranny, 
 
 Ah no; tho' with three hecatombs of bulls each day 
 
 you, try 
 To soften Pluto's tearless heart, whose sad stream's 
 
 custody 
 Prisons thrice ample Geryon and Tityon, you must die. 
 
 For, friend, that river must be crossed by each and 
 
 every one 
 Of all whom Earth's large bounty feeds and rears 
 
 beneath the sun : 
 By kings, by needy husbandmen, by every mother's son. 
 
 Vainly we seek to shun the risks and threats of 
 
 bloody war: 
 The rage of waves that swell and break where 
 
 Hadria's billows roar; 
 Vainly we fear the autumnal blights that blow from 
 
 Afric's shore. 
 No soul may miss Cocytus' gloom — the languid 
 
 streams that roil 
 Moaning along: the Danaid brides whose shame 
 
 naught can assoil: 
 Sisyphus, son of Aeolus, doomed to unending toil. 
 Earth, home, sweet wife — these must you leave — 
 
 aye, all that you hold dear; 
 And, of the trees that you, their short-lived master, 
 
 cherished here. 
 Only the hateful cj^^ress shall at last attend your bier. 
 
 Your Caecuban — a hundred keys once locked it in 
 your store — 
 
 A better wine than sacred feasts into priests' gob- 
 lets pour — 
 
 A worthier heir shall drink it, and its pride shall 
 stain the floor. 
 
 Eightae'/i 
 
Od. III. 5 
 
 THAT Jove is lord of all above 
 His thunders and his lightnings show; 
 Persia and Britain tamed shall prove 
 Augustus demigod here below. 
 
 That ever a soldier Crassus led 
 
 Should wed — ah Senate! ah the sin! — 
 
 A barbarous mate to shame his bed, 
 And grow old with her hostile kin, 
 
 Serving a Median king — and he 
 
 A Marsian or Apulian — 
 Forgetting — ah, that it should be! — 
 
 The name that linked him to his clan: 
 
 The shields borne by the Salii: 
 
 The civic cloak, and — type of home — 
 
 The Vestal fires that never die — 
 
 Tho' Jove still keeps the gates of Rome! 
 
 'Twas fear of this made Regulus 
 
 Reject base terms of peace with scorn. 
 
 Inferring precedents ruinous 
 To generations yet unborn, 
 
 H prisoners were not left to die 
 
 Unpitied. "Punic shrines display," 
 Quoth he, "our eagles — have not I 
 
 Seen them — seen weapons snatched away 
 
 "From warriors' unresisting hands — 
 Seen on free backs arms twist askew, 
 
 Gates left unbarred, and enemy lands. 
 Swept by our war, now tilled anew? 
 
 "Ransomed by gold, doubtless, a man 
 
 Returns the bolder! Ah, 'tis loss 
 Added to foul disgrace; for can 
 
 Dyed wool regain its native gloss? 
 
 Nineteen 
 
"Nor does true valour, once expelled, 
 
 Care to replace poltroonery. 
 Free the snared stag from toils that held 
 
 It captive — will it fight? Will he, 
 
 "Who to a treacherous foeman knelt, 
 Be brave, and in a second strife 
 
 Crush him — who on his shoulders felt 
 The thongs, nor fought, but clung to life? 
 
 "He, knowing not whence true life is won, 
 Confounded peace with war. O shame! 
 
 O mighty Carthage, throned upon 
 The wrecks of Italy's fair fame!" 
 
 His chaste wife's kiss, the lads he loved, 
 He put aside, in outlaw's wyse — 
 
 So runs the tale — and all unmoved 
 Bent sternly down his manly eyes; 
 
 Till by new counsel he made strong 
 
 The Fathers' wavering will, and straight 
 
 Went forth, his sorrowing friends among, 
 A glorious exile, to his fate. 
 
 He knew what tortures were in store 
 For him, and yet he pushed his way 
 
 Thro' troops of hindering kinsfolk, nor, 
 Tho' crowds beset him, brooked delay, 
 
 As tho', some clients' law-suit tried 
 
 And won, he sought a holiday 
 By green Venafro's country-side. 
 
 Or Dorian Taranto's bay. 
 
 Twenty 
 
Od. III. 30 
 
 LO, I have reared a monument that bronze shall 
 not outlast, 
 More lofty than the pyramids that despots piled 
 of yore; 
 Its strength defies devouring rain, defies the un- 
 governed blast 
 Of Aquilo, the wind that blows from where the 
 North seas roar; 
 It shall survive when the unnumbered tale of years 
 is past, 
 When days and months have ceased to be, and 
 Time shall be no more. 
 
 There's that in me which shall not die; that which 
 is most of me 
 Shall win where the death-goddess has no part 
 nor lot; my fame 
 Shall grow with increase ever new as the ages yet 
 to be 
 Uplift their voice in praise of me, and magnify my 
 name, 
 While up the Capitol shall climb, in solemn com- 
 pany, 
 Pontiff and they whose silent care guards Vesta's 
 holy flame. 
 
 It shall be said of me, who, where Ofanto storms 
 along 
 Raging, and where o'er arid realms ruled Daunus 
 in old days. 
 Waxed strong from low estate, that I, first of all 
 sons of song, 
 Married to modes of Italy Aeolia's lyric lays. 
 Be proud of right, Melpomene, and, for to thee be- 
 long 
 The honours, will to crown my brow with great 
 Apollo's bays. 
 
 Twenty-one 
 
Od. IV. 7 
 
 THE snows have fled; returns to every mead 
 Its grass, its crown of leaves to every tree; 
 Earth changes with the change; at lessened speed, 
 Within their banks, the rivers seek the sea. 
 
 The Graces and the Nymphs with never a fear 
 All naked dance the happy hours away; 
 
 Look not for things immortal — warns the year, 
 Aye, and the hour that steals the gracious day. 
 
 West winds abate the frosts; summer anon 
 Tramples on Spring, itself to disappear 
 
 As Autumn sheds its fruits; then, Autumn gone, 
 Winter comes back to close the working-year. 
 
 Yet, fast as moons wane in the sky, as fast 
 
 They wax; but we, poor mortals, when we fare 
 
 Whither the mighty ones of earth have passed. 
 Are naught but dust here, naught but shadows 
 there. 
 
 Who knows whether the gods who reign above 
 Add a new day's span to the sum of this? 
 
 Live while you live; that which the soul you love, 
 Your self, enjoys, your greedy heir will miss. 
 
 Once you are dead, once Minos, judge of men, 
 Has fixed by doom august your destiny, 
 
 Not rank, Torquatus, shall restore you then; 
 Not eloquence; not even piety. 
 
 Dian despite, Hippolytus remains, 
 
 Chaste tho' he was, hidden in nether gloom; 
 Nor can the love of Theseus break the chains 
 
 That hold Peirithous in dark Lethe's tomb. 
 
 Tw<enty-tW'0 
 
Cantica 
 
 Twenty-three 
 
Jenny 
 
 WHAT'S in a name? Her name is Jenny, 
 And of all girls I know not any 
 Who can with her compare; 
 For Oh! her eyes are bright as dew; 
 And Oh! her face is fair to view; 
 And her hair is golden hair. 
 
 But I don't think half as much, I swear, 
 Of her fair sweet face, and her golden hair, 
 
 As I think of her loyal heart; 
 For its beauty is beauty that can't grow old; 
 And its truth is truer than truest gold, 
 
 And will hold me till death us part. 
 
 She went for a walk with me one day, 
 And Oh! I didn't know what to say; 
 
 I was bashful, shy, tongue-tied; 
 But we looked in each other's eyes, and they 
 Said all, I guess, that there was to say, 
 
 Except what our lips implied. 
 
 And so to me the name of Jenny 
 
 Spells wife and love and home and many 
 
 A year, I hope, of bliss; 
 So a name may have in it paradise; 
 And a tale may be told by silent eyes, 
 
 And explained by a silent kiss. 
 
 Tw'enty-four 
 
Gardes Joyeuses 
 
 WE built joy-castles on the sand, 
 As Prince and Princess of our land, 
 And warders of her shores; 
 We'd hardly come to our full growth 
 In those far days; in fact we both 
 Wore frocks and pinafores. 
 
 Refrain. 
 
 O we played together once, 
 
 And I should be a dunce, 
 If I didn't want to play with her for ever and a day; 
 
 But, since our life is not 
 
 All a play-time byi a lot, 
 I would work for her and with her, and would 
 cherish her for aye. 
 
 I'm building castles still, but they 
 Are in the air as yet, and may 
 
 Remain a dream-creation; 
 She, only she, can bid them take 
 Shape, for I build them for her sake. 
 
 And for her approbation. 
 
 Refrain. 
 
 Will she? I'm waiting yet awhile 
 Until I've amassed a sufficient pile 
 
 For a castle in miniature; 
 And then I'll be off to my lass, I guess, 
 And ask her to rule it as its Princess 
 
 So long as our lives endure. 
 
 Refrain. 
 
 Twenty--fiV'e 
 
Eulalia 
 
 ' 'C WEET-HEART" they call her, when we meet 
 ^ Our men-friends sauntering down the street; 
 "We" means Eulalia and myself; 
 I'm an old fellow; she's an elf. 
 
 Refrain. 
 
 "Sweetheart," "Sweetheart," they gaily cry, 
 And then they smile and wave good-bye; 
 
 That's now; but, I guess, some day 
 'Twill be — not a smile and a waved good-bye, 
 But — "Sweet-heart, love me or I die;" 
 
 For that's what they mostly say. 
 
 It doesn't move her much as yet — 
 
 That word "Sweetheart;" her thoughts are set 
 
 On other matters, such as toys, 
 
 And dolls that mimic baby-boys. 
 
 Refrain . 
 
 She's two years old, and so, you see, 
 Has no care yet for galanteries, 
 No use for a lover's vows; and yet 
 She's a bit, I reckon, of a coquette. 
 
 Refrain. 
 
 Natheless she keeps a special place 
 In her heart of hearts, and a special grace, 
 For daddy, and mummy, and grandmamma, 
 Aye, and for me — her grandpapa. 
 
 Refrain. 
 
 Twenty-six 
 
Letty 
 
 WE sat on an ancient jetty — 
 Sally and Kate and I; 
 And, when I called Kate pretty, 
 Scorn flashed from Sally's eye; 
 Then, when to comfort Sally, 
 
 I said she was fair to see 
 As "Sally in our alley," 
 
 Kate turned her back on me. 
 
 Next time I sought that jetty, 
 
 I left those girls behind. 
 And took with me dear Letty, 
 
 For her heart, I knew, is kind. 
 I said they were very pretty — 
 
 Those two; but she didn't care, 
 For I had my arms round Letty, 
 
 And v/as kissing her soft brown hair. 
 
 They're fairer in face than Letty 
 
 To the casual outward gaze. 
 But I reckon her most pretty 
 
 Who's pretty in thoughts and ways. 
 She's beautiful, is my Letty, 
 
 With the beauty of inward grace; 
 There's nothing in her that's petty — 
 
 Nothing that's mean or base. 
 
 The waves were gently lapping 
 
 That ancient jetty's side. 
 When, my arms about her wrapping, 
 
 I asked her to be my bride. 
 And they seemed to murmur lowly — 
 
 "So long as our waters roll: 
 So long as your love is holy: 
 
 You twain shall be one soul." 
 
 Twe7ity-^even 
 
The Household Fly 
 
 OF pests which the primaeval curse 
 Brought into our economy — 
 Snakes, gophers, bugs — not one is worse 
 
 Than the ubiquitous house-fly. 
 It spreads disease — that sums in brief 
 
 The tale of its delinquencies; 
 Therefore, that you may win relief 
 
 From this grave nuisance, swat the flies. 
 
 Refrain. 
 
 O swat the flies with all your might; 
 Swat them from morning unto night; 
 Swat them in kitchen and boudoir; 
 Swat them on ceiling and on floor; 
 Swat them on table and on bed; 
 Swat them till every fly is dead. 
 
 Yet in this creature, sooth to say, — 
 
 This plaguey worrying house-fly — 
 There is just one redeeming trait; 
 
 It makes a field for energy. 
 For, say you're growing over-stout 
 
 Yet hate to take hard exercise, 
 Here's a device will help you out — 
 
 Start a campaign against the flies. 
 
 Refrain. 
 
 You're far too lazy to get up 
 
 Some morn, and go about your chores; 
 What stirs you? Not your early cup 
 
 Of tea, but flies that end your snores. 
 Your afternoon siesta's been 
 
 Far too prolonged a lethargy; 
 A fly appears upon the scene. 
 
 And lo! you're all activity. 
 
 Refrain. 
 Tw'enty-eight 
 
Or say you've been rejected, and 
 
 Scorned, by some girl you thought a duck; 
 You feel a bit dejected, and 
 
 Cheapened, and down upon your luck; 
 You mope; you need some occupation 
 
 To change your thoughts, to stop your sighs; 
 Jump up, and serve your generation, 
 
 Aye and yourself, by swatting flies. 
 
 Refrain. 
 
 Twenty-nine 
 
Moods 
 
 I FISHED one day for the wily trout, 
 On a pine-girt mountain lake; 
 But, spite of my pains, my luck was out, 
 
 For my lures they would not take. 
 I tried them with worms, with spoons, with flies; 
 
 I offered them salmon-roe; 
 But, try as I would, I got no rise. 
 No bite; it was all no go. 
 
 I fished one day for my Lady's smiles. 
 
 But fished for them all in vain; 
 I tried on her all my arts and wiles, 
 
 To be met by a cold disdain. 
 I got no smile from her — much less 
 
 A kiss — tho' I pled and sighed; 
 She deemed my flatteries foolishness, 
 
 And put my appeals aside. 
 
 I fished that lake another daj'. 
 
 And caught quite a lot of fish; 
 They rushed at the bait, and I had as gay 
 
 A time as I well could wish. 
 On the morrow I found my Lady kind; 
 
 In the light of her smiles I basked; 
 She kissed me. How often? Well, never mind. 
 
 But she gave me each kiss I asked. 
 
 Thirty 
 
Twins 
 
 You may think it past conceiving- 
 Most anybody would — 
 But once two girls, believing 
 
 I was wooing one, I wooed. 
 Twin sisters they— the bother 
 
 Was this, and this the hitch — 
 They were so like each other, 
 I knew not which was which. 
 
 Now, whether it was Polly 
 
 Or Molly whom I kissed 
 To wonder now were folly; 
 
 'Twas all "love-in-a-mist." 
 But, when I asked fair Polly, 
 
 As I thought, to marry me, 
 It happened to be Molly 
 
 Who was sitting on my knee. 
 
 So my wife's name is Molly; 
 
 It's good enough for me; 
 I meant it to be Polly, 
 
 But that was not to be. 
 What's in a name? My Molly 
 
 Is as fair and sweet, you bet, 
 As Polly. What of Polly? 
 
 O, she turned Suffragette. 
 
 Thirty-one 
 
Claro 
 
 ' ']\/f AN wants but little here below, 
 ^^^ But wants that little strong" — 
 So someone burlesqued years ago 
 
 The words of an old song. 
 Reverse that maxim, and you have 
 
 A counsel wise and true, 
 Which will, if you're a smoker, save 
 You cash and trouble too. 
 
 Refrain. 
 
 O smoke tobacco by the ton, 
 
 If you like, whenever your work is done, 
 
 Or you for it have leisure; 
 But smoke it mild, and then you'll find 
 Your "Lady Nicotine" will be kind, 
 
 And give you only pleasure. 
 
 Tobacco, if you smoke it strong, 
 
 Intoxicates your soul; 
 It wrecks your nerve, and makes you long 
 
 To play the slacker's role; 
 Smoked mild it soothes, and the dreams it brings 
 
 Are uplifts of the heart; 
 They bid you aim at noble things. 
 
 And play the hero's part. 
 
 Refrain. 
 
 Thirty-two 
 
Miscella 
 
 Thirty-three 
 
Ode to the West Wind 
 
 TYPHOONS, siroccos, and tornados — 
 In fact all gales of that description — 
 Rank with the vilest desperadoes, 
 And claim all forms of malediction. 
 
 They're bad 'uns; yet they can't be worse, 
 These — shall we call them devil's brooms?— 
 
 Than California's chiefest curse, 
 Mohave's villainous simooms. 
 
 They sweep down telephone-posts and trees; 
 
 Lift roofs from houses, crops from land; 
 Blast the young plants, worse than a freeze, 
 
 And block the roads with drifts of sand. 
 
 Some call them Santa Anas — why, 
 I know not, and I cannot guess; 
 
 Each blast is an atrocity. 
 And Santa Ana ought to bless. 
 
 Maybe that, as the Axein sea 
 Was called the Euxein, to appease it, 
 
 So too Mohave's infamy 
 
 Received a holy name to please it. 
 
 But naught appeases it; one foe 
 
 Alone, the West Wind, can defeat it; 
 
 Wherefore, O Western breezes, blow. 
 And make this blustering demon beat it. 
 
 Mostly ye are as temperate airs, 
 
 Which cool our brows and fan our faces; 
 
 But, when Mohave's desert swears. 
 
 Beat back with blasts its contumacies. 
 
 Thirty-four 
 
All winds are spirits; this wind, I guess, 
 
 Comes from Gehenna's lowest pit, 
 And makes Mohave's wilderness 
 
 Its camping-ground — bad luck to it! 
 
 Can it be that a secret shaft 
 
 Runs up from this infernal den, 
 And that thro' it these blasts are waft 
 
 Abroad to vex the souls of men? 
 
 If so, the State Authorities 
 
 Should take prompt steps to choke this tunnel 
 By pouring adequate supplies 
 
 Of sand down a gigantic funnel. 
 
 The Santa Fe folk, after all, 
 
 Might, to help things, if they saw fit, 
 
 Block the Cajon Pass w4th a wall. 
 And let these Northers bust on it. 
 
 A mountain-high wall, strong and tough. 
 Proof against every storm and gale — 
 
 'Twould give these wretched Northers snuflf; 
 They'd sneeze their hearts out, and turn tail. 
 
 Thirty-five 
 
Short Measure 
 
 SONGS of two verses? Could the nightingale 
 Cut short her melody, 
 And in two stanzas gather up her wail, 
 Her passionate elegy? 
 
 Carols of soaring lark, and fluting thrush — 
 
 Are these wild strains too long? 
 Can we cry out to them, and say, "O hush! 
 
 Shorten, ye birds, your song?" 
 
 Do its five verses and long lines rule out 
 
 Our noble battle-hymn? 
 What should we call him but a shameless lout, 
 
 Who rent from it one limb? 
 
 Two verses are at time, no doubt, enough — 
 
 More than enough — they pall; 
 But are they worth, if fashioned of such stuff. 
 
 Music and voice at all? 
 
 Why do folk crave short songs? Because they want 
 
 To shorten the programme? 
 If that's the case, then let each singer chant 
 
 A two-lined epigram. 
 
 Is it to get as many names upon 
 
 The list as possible? 
 Then let 500 "Stars" each utter one 
 
 Curt monosyllable. 
 
 Or is it just the old Athenian craze 
 
 For hearing something new? 
 In that case let the crazed ones spend their days 
 
 And nights in some big Zoo. 
 
 Thirty-six 
 
What's in a Name? 
 
 10NCE asked a small company, 
 That sat around the fire, 
 What little gift to each would be 
 An object of desire. 
 
 Two children, two years old pr so, 
 
 I questioned for a start; 
 Cookies and chocs, they let me know, 
 
 Came nearest to their heart. 
 
 Then next I asked a little lad 
 
 What sort of gift he'd like; 
 He promptly said that he'd be glad 
 
 To own a motor-bike. 
 
 A girl — she'd like a book to read; 
 
 A lady — well, she felt 
 That a new hat would meet her need, 
 
 Likewise a silver belt. 
 
 Lastly I asked old Uncle — would 
 
 A pipe be best or, maybe. 
 Cigars? "You'll pay?" — he answered — "Good; 
 
 I'D LIKE TO KISS THE BABY." 
 
 Well, well; so far as in me lay, 
 
 I met their wants, I think; 
 But O! why couldn't old Uncle say 
 
 He meant a long, long drink. 
 
 For I went hunting all around 
 
 To find some handy baby; 
 There wasn't a baby to be found. 
 
 And I got called a gaby. 
 
 What's more — what made me sui.e of this 
 
 Was Uncle's scornful mirth — 
 He wouldn't have given a babe a kiss 
 
 For all that he was worth. 
 
 Thirty-seven 
 
Hostes Humani Generis 
 
 THIS earth of ours — what use has it 
 For "Reds," for "Bolshevists," 
 For "I-won't-works?" Well, not a bit 
 More than for Huns' mailed fists. 
 
 Man is a social being, set 
 
 In a community; 
 And common life claims, as a debt, 
 
 Work, Order, Sympathy. 
 
 As for these Bolshevists and Co, 
 
 Their object is to live 
 An others, not for them, and so 
 
 They want to grab, not give. 
 
 Aye, and this selfish spirit, run 
 
 Riot, breeds infamies; 
 Begets the Turk; begets the Hun: — 
 
 Rival atrocities. 
 
 Wherefore let those who claim to be 
 Industrials, and won't work. 
 
 Find in some penitentiary 
 Tasks that they cannot shirk. 
 
 And let that progeny of Cain- 
 Huns, Reds, and Bolsheviki — 
 
 Be dumped in some far-distant main. 
 To hobnob with Auld Reekie. 
 
 Thirty-eight 
 
Jingles 
 
 HYMNS, lyrics, epics of romance, 
 Tragedy, Comedy, 
 Love poems. Choral song and dance, 
 Sum up all Poetry. 
 
 ifi ^ i^ ^ 
 
 7 Muses ruled all Poetry — 
 
 Thalia and Melpomene , 
 
 Erato and Terpsichore, 
 
 Polymnia and Euterpe, 
 
 And — queen of verse heroic, she — 
 
 Last, but not least, Calliope. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 Thalia's sock meant Comedy; 
 Melpomene's buskin, Tragedy; 
 Terpsichore was Muse of choirs; 
 Erato sang of love's desires; 
 Polymnia hymned the deities; 
 Euterpe fluted melodies — 
 Called "lyrics" nowadays, but they 
 Were "melics" in Euterpe's day. 
 As for Calliope — well, she 
 Claimed mighty Homer's fealty. 
 
 Thirty-nine 
 
Poetry 
 
 THE verse of Homer, Virgil, Sophocles, 
 Aeschylus, Horace, Ovid, aye, and what 
 Shakespeare and Milton sang — such songs as these 
 Will let you know what's Poetry, what's not. 
 
 You'll get it anyhow stamped upon your soul 
 That Poetry has laws of symmetry — 
 
 Of rhythm and form — and gains thro' their control 
 A beauty that is of eternity. 
 
 Aye, and you'll find that Poetry is kin 
 To Music, kin too to the painter's art: 
 
 That each interprets each, and that they win 
 The world's acceptance as they touch its heart. 
 
 * * 
 
 Dry 
 
 ( i 
 
 I DREAM of. you all the night long; 
 I dream of you by day:" — 
 That was the lost explorer's song. 
 The 49er's lay. 
 
 What was it all about? A lass? 
 
 Gold? A lost pipe? A feast? 
 Well no; the motif of it was — 
 
 "OLD SCOTCH; A QUART AT LEAST." 
 
 Wet 
 
 THE town embraced a jail (not used) for loons. 
 Post Office, Customs' House, a Picture Show, 
 Two Stores, bull-ring and cock-pit, and, by Jo!- 
 What made the place — just 42 saloons. 
 
 Forty 
 
Si Jeunesse Savait 
 
 IF youth but knew 
 What old age knows, 
 What would it do, 
 Do you suppose? 
 
 Well, infantile 
 
 Precocity 
 Means infantile 
 
 Mortality. 
 
 So youth, made pre- 
 maturely wise, 
 
 Might win a pre- 
 mature demise. 
 
 <$> <$> 
 
 Vox Populi 
 
 I CANNOT sing an old song, tho' 
 That's what I'd like to do; 
 Songs now must have two verses; so 
 Old-time songs are taboo. 
 
 I must obey; and, as the soul 
 
 Of wit is brevity, , 
 So my song's soul — in fact, its whole — 
 
 Is "Howdy-do? Good-bye." 
 
 Forty-one 
 
Sweet 
 
 SWEET is the sunrise, when it's clear, 
 And sweet the sunset ray; 
 Sweet are the wild flowers that appear 
 When Spring has come-to stay. 
 
 Sweet are the dimples on the face 
 
 Of a small child at play; 
 And sweet a woman's smiles, in case 
 
 She gets her own sweet way. 
 
 Sweet is the taste of strawberries 
 
 And peaches, if they're ripe; 
 But sweetest of all sweet things is 
 
 The after-breakfast pipe. 
 
 Forty -two 
 
w^mmi5'M4:7r 
 
 Proverbs Annotated 
 
 i iQ LOW and steady wins the race," 
 •^^ What! when raging lions chase? 
 
 ^ 3|* ^ ^ 
 
 "A cat in pattens catches no mice." 
 
 Who'd clog the cat? Who'd try it twice? Cp. ''Bell- 
 
 the-Cat." 
 
 * * * * 
 
 "A stitch in time saves nine." 
 Bad rhyme: moral fine. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 "Birds of a feather flock together." 
 Carrion crows know no such tether. 
 
 H: H: 4: ^ 
 
 "There's many a slip 'twixt the cup and the lip." 
 If there's a risk, stoop dowp to sip. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 "More haste, worse speed." 
 Aye, for speed claims heed. 
 
 The proverb may be Latinized — 
 Quo citius properas, tardius ibis eo. 
 
 H-' * * * 
 
 "A cat may look at a king." 
 Some cats will do anything. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 "He goes a sorrowing, who goes a borrowing." 
 The lender's oft the one who does the sorrowing. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 "A rolling stone gathers no moss." 
 What if it doesn't? Where's the loss? 
 
 * * * * 
 
 "All comes to him who has learnt to wait." 
 Perhaps; yet it may come too late, 
 
 3fC 2)C ^ ]f£ 
 
 "Well begun is half done." 
 And half done is but begun. 
 
 Forty-iJiree