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THE ARTIST 
 
 OF- 
 
 (SUuliamequacjgum 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS, 
 
 INCLUDING THE 
 
 Seer of Manito." "Only a Poor Mechanic," 
 "Bill Jones," "Cutting the Trocha,"--a 
 Cuban Episode. "Marie's Sacrifice," &c. 
 
 Copyrighted and all Rights Reserved by 
 D. DAVIES, Ardmore, I. T. 
 
 . 
 
 PRICE 2 
 
 38 r 
 CENTS. 
 
 ARDMORE, I. T., 
 
 Ardmoreite Steam Print. 
 
 1896. 
 
THE ARTIST OF QUILLAMEQUAGGUM 
 
 -AND- 
 
 OTHER POEMS 
 
 
 
 I i.;!ted 
 
 and all Rights Reserved bv D. D.^5, AMmore. I. T jffY 
 
 ' 
 
 ARDMORE, I.T., 
 
 Ardmoreite Steam Print. 
 
 1896. 
 
 jrc jtf U t 
 
*" 
 
 ^y 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 If the predictions of The Seer of Manito are too 
 metaphysical, and put too cool a quietus on sublunary 
 things to suit the' average reader, I would recommend 
 the Artist of Quill amequaggum as an afterpiece 
 (like the # farce after the tragedy) to restore his 
 equanimity. Then he can lend himself to the adventures 
 of the others with such zest as he can command, whether 
 the scene is laid in Cuba, Africa, the United States, 
 Bphesus or in the land of the "Brobdingnags." 
 
 Respectfully, 
 
 D. DAVIES. 
 
THE SEER OF MANITO. 
 
 Ho! that last glacial age in the long ago, 
 
 When the mantling pall of ice and snow, 
 
 Covering the earth like a winding sheet, 
 
 From Atlantis to the Rockies feet; 
 
 Piling Laurentian debris high 
 
 Above the coals of Illinois, 
 
 Leveling mountains in its course, 
 
 With crushing, grinding, bestial force; 
 
 When the "Ice King" piled the broad moraine, 
 
 From high bold port on many a plain, 
 
 As outworks to his stronghold grand, 
 
 That covered all the northern land; 
 
 That buried nations in its might, 
 
 With sweeping, blind, relentless blight; 
 
 Has left small trace of ancient art, 
 
 Small trace of workshop, tower or mart, 
 
 That marked where ancient civilization 
 
 Had fought against disintegration. 
 
 But, stripped of all that makes earth bright, 
 
 Few, few survived the withering blight. 
 
 In that far glacial age, man lost 
 
 His joy in that once pleased him most. 
 
 Forced to the most ungainly thrift, 
 
 The glacial cave and river drift 
 
 Betray small trace of what we feel 
 
 Must once have been a commonweal; 
 
 But forced to live mid ice and snows, 
 
 Like wandering hordes of Eskemo's; 
 
 Where once had been great populous nations 
 
THE SEER OF MANITO. 
 
 Were now mere scattered habitations, 
 
 Where, on* the ice-cliffs verge, a few 
 
 Might scant subsistence gain. Adieu 
 
 To thought of progress where no meed 
 
 Awaits the man of brains or greed. 
 
 Before there's progress architectural, 
 
 Before there's progress intellectual, 
 
 Before there's science, law and art: 
 
 Advancement in each minor part 
 
 That goes to make the varied scheme 
 
 Of civilization, man must deem 
 
 He has a right within the soil, 
 
 He has a right unto his toil 
 
 And what it brings him: Selfish ends, 
 
 In aggregate, is that which tend 
 
 To elevate the race. Each acts his part 
 
 In field, in palace, court or mart; 
 
 Each, subject to his rank and station, 
 
 Is part and parcel of the nation; 
 
 A freeman each in his degree, 
 
 Each owning his own royalty; 
 
 Blended together in one sense 
 
 For government and for defense; 
 
 Feeling the sense of power to hold 
 
 That which his thrift can turn to gold; 
 
 Banded together in the cause • 
 
 Of justice, liberty and laws, 
 
 With ail of their varying moods and phases 
 
 That come from contact with the races 
 
 With which we deal. Sweep all away, 
 
 As did the ice in ancient day, 
 
 Little is left to tell the story 
 
 Of what was once a nation's glory; 
 
 For, 'cept with fair environment, 
 
 Civilization is but weak and faint; 
 
 The intellect is dwarfed and stunted, 
 
 The finer faculties are blunted; 
 
 Man retrogrades. The mountain "cracker" 
 
 Wh,ose dreams are whiskey and "Terbacker" 
 
 Came from that stock that on King's Mount, 
 
 Would vanquish Tarleton, Vance or Blount; 
 
THE SEER OF MANITO, 
 
 But, buried in some quiet nook, 
 Remote from magazine or book, 
 Unknowing of tbe world's progression. 
 Begins tbe work of retrogression; 
 And be, wbo migbt bave been a "C7ass," 
 Is now a brainless, senseless ass. 
 Four generations from that Boone, 
 Wbo sighed for wider elbow room, 
 We find a set of drivelling dolts 
 Instead of Clays, Lamars or Holts. 
 ******** 
 
 The combat waged. How long? Who knows? 
 
 The glacial ag3 has passed; its snows, 
 
 That battled long, but battled in vain 
 
 Against onslaughts of sun and rain, 
 
 But foot by foot had to give way 
 
 Before the fervid of God of day. 
 
 Like earth's great conqueror, matchless till 
 
 He meets another greater still; 
 
 Forced to give ground,, with slow retreat 
 
 Before fierce Phebus' fervent heat, 
 
 Yet, urged by glacial power behind, 
 
 Condensed by sun, rain, snow and wind, 
 
 A constant, growing, ceaseless wave, 
 
 Brought that to southern plains that gave 
 
 A subsoil rich where waving grain 
 
 Now grows upon the treeless plain, 
 
 Supplying millions wants, with store 
 
 To furnish many millions more, 
 
 So list to this Saga of Manito's Seer 
 
 Who lived in the glacial epoch drear. 
 
 THE SEER. 
 
 Once o'er the plains that stretched from the east 
 To the base of the Rockies, dwelt man and beast; 
 The bison ranged in countless herds, 
 The forests rang with the songs of birds, 
 
THE SEER OF MANITO. 
 
 The tribes roamed over the forests wild, 
 The soil was fertile, the climate mild; 
 Storks fed on th^ lagoons of Illinois, 
 And the world was filled with content and joy. 
 
 The winter's frost was scarcely known, 
 
 The warmth was like that of the torrid zone; 
 
 Art, science, law and education 
 
 Had welded tribes into a nation; 
 
 The harvests of Assineboi 
 
 Fed fishermen of Illinois, 
 
 And all was peaceful and serene 
 
 As the lambs sporting on yon green. 
 
 A change came in those days of old; 
 The climate suddenly grew cold, 
 The streams were locked in winter's grasp, 
 Which springtime rays could not unclasp, 
 The glacial fields in widening course 
 Moved onward with resistless force, 
 Nor ceased until the sun's fierce glow 
 Held them in check at the Ohio. 
 
 Forced by the logic of circumstance, men 
 Sought shelter in caves, line beasts in a den. 
 Improvement had ceased, despair stalked abroad, 
 Famine and pestilence whetted the sword. 
 Hardships, want, famine and pestilent breath 
 Swept multitudes off to an unhonored death; 
 Subjects rebelled, though our rule had been mild, 
 And ruthlessly butchered man, woman and child. 
 
 The moraines were formed of rock, clay and sand, 
 
 The rank moist lagoon became tillable land, 
 
 The constant accretions moved steadily on, 
 
 Till forced to succumb to the heat of the sun. 
 
 The waters ice walled on the north changed mouth. 
 
 And their contents were drained to the far distant 
 
 south 
 Where Chicago's Creek and the Illinois flow, 
 The lakes sought drainage to Mexico. 
 
THE SEER OF MANITO. 
 
 6 Races weaker in physique, but skilled in the arts, 
 Used weapons of smoke 'gainst our arrows and darts. 
 Walled by ice on one side, on the other fell foes, 
 Sunk the sun of Maneeta, and nevermore rose. 
 Numberless ages have swept to their graves, 
 
 Gone are our wisemen. gone are our braves, 
 Our nation has perished, its glories are gone, 
 Oh! why am I left in my sorrow alone? 
 
 7 Once I read an old myth of a desperate fight 
 'Twixt the Titans of old through the morn, noon and 
 
 night 
 Of an extended age: So, in hopeless defeat, 
 The glacial band fought in their desperate retreat; 
 Long they held to the line of the great northern 
 
 waters, 
 Long the lakes drained into the great Father of 
 
 Waters, 
 Till, the ice-barriers melted, like a laughing Lothario, 
 The waves bounded north through the gorge of 
 
 Ontario. 
 
 8 South of the line of the great Northern bay, 
 From Laurentian hills to Rockamonta, 
 
 Long the ice-barrier lodged: The lake of the north 
 
 Took the debris the Assiniboia sent forth. 
 
 By the constant action of Jupiter Pluvius 
 
 The Morass and bog slowly filled with Alluvias, 
 
 Till, bursting its bonds with a mighty huzza, 
 
 The waters uncovered sweet Manitoba. 
 
 9 Oh, Manitoba! ere the glacial age, thou, 
 From the great northern ocean to hot Mexico. 
 From Labrador coasts to dark Florida, 
 
 And west to the Rockies held limitless sway. 
 The birch bark canoe floated over thy waters, 
 O, brave were thy sons, and lovely thy daughters, 
 My foresires in justice administered law, 
 And peace ruled supreme throughout Manitoba. 
 
 .0 O Manitoba, sweet clime of the north! 
 
 God's country thou art; land of honor and worth. 
 
THE SEER OF MANTTO, 
 
 I look down the ages r I see a new race, 
 Of different color* feature and face, 
 Covering the land, from the east to the west, 
 With broad iron roadways, with steeds of unrest ? 
 That panting and snorting with fabulous loads 
 Scream with delight as they traverse "~by roads. 
 
 11 A changeful, varying, unstable race, 
 Gifted with intellect, eneigy, grace. 
 In primeval forests the sharp rifie cracks, 
 And temples of learning keep pace with the axe, 
 Forces long hidden contribute their power, 
 Cities spring up as it were in an hour, 
 Strange temples, strange Gods; old faiths under ban 
 Even the lightning of Jove is the servant of man. 
 ******** 
 
 Again T look: Again great changes: 
 Low levelled are the mountain ranges. 
 The wide plateau with thread-like seams, 
 Growing into wild mountain streams, 
 Disintegrating, grinding, breaking, 
 Furrowing, pulverizing, shaking, 
 Gives block by block, or grain by grain, 
 What fills the distant sea or plain. 
 Each stream that crashes through the hill 
 W T as once a harmless puny rill. 
 But frost, snow, sunshine, wind and rain 
 Have seamed the solid mountain plain 
 Like a hand wide spread: Each space between 
 The fingers is a mountain stream: 
 Naught left but ridges which try in vain 
 To hold the semblance of mountain chain. 
 But such has been: The Titans slaughter 
 Is but the action of wind and water, 
 Frost, ice and snow, Sol's piercing rays 
 Acting through countless, countless days, 
 And in different ages to come yet the chains 
 Of the ice king will captive hold Manito's plains. 
 ******** 
 
 Look Eons yet adown the ages: 
 The Titans fight no longer rages. 
 
THE SEER OP MANTTO. 
 
 The powers that have always master been 
 
 Are vanquished now. Moisture and rain 
 
 No longer vivify the plain. 
 
 The waters that once over all the earth 
 
 Rippled and laughed in innocent mirth, 
 
 Retreating, brought forth first the mountain chain, 
 
 Then, later uncovered the blushing plain; 
 
 Raging and foaming in wild joyous glee; 
 
 Levelling the plateau and filling the sea, 
 
 Have filtered through the thirsty earth 
 
 To hidden fires. Now a land of dearth. 
 
 No longer does earth crust expand 
 
 With earthquake shock. Dry, streamless land, 
 
 Surrounded by an envelope 
 
 Of ether that has not a drop 
 
 Of moisture to provoke a storm, 
 
 Or show the rainbow's hue and form. 
 
 All life — fish, insect, quadruped. 
 
 Bird, tree and herb forever dead. 
 
 No moisture in the soil to nourish 
 
 Plant life that once on earth did flourish. 
 
 Earth's hidden stores of coal and oil, 
 
 Reluctantly, had yielded all 
 
 To keep man's ravening wants supplied 
 
 Ere desperate nations sank and died. 
 
 The rivers long had ceased to flow; 
 
 No longer formed rain, ice or snow. 
 
 The fiery sun as the ages swept by 
 
 Was slowly cooling in the sky 
 
 And now shone on a cloudless earth 
 
 Intensely cold. Bald, sterile dearth 
 
 Was in all things. Internal heat, 
 
 Ages had been in full retreat; 
 
 All substances that warmth could give, 
 
 Whereby a remnant small could live 
 
 A few more hours, had long since vanished: 
 
 The race of man, chilled, desperate, famished, 
 
 Extracting meager nutriment 
 
 From fossil forms long since extinct; 
 
 In desperate greed, brother 'gainst brother, 
 
 Father 'gainst son, slew one another. 
 
10 THE SEER OF MANITO. 
 
 The mother with haggard eyes, and wild, 
 
 No longer food could give her child; 
 
 The weaker tribes had long since vanished; 
 
 The stronger, decimated, famished; 
 
 Driven to madness with the strain 
 
 Of myriad phantasms in each brain, 
 
 In bestial struggles to maintain 
 
 A bare existence: Sank to animals, 
 
 They lived as famished cannibals, 
 
 Till all were gone. The world was dead. 
 
 No ice sheet o'er the land was spread, 
 
 No frosty filaments were seen 
 
 To mark where moisture once had been; 
 
 But, wrapped with pall of cold intense, 
 
 No atmosphere for a defense, 
 
 Earth sank to rest — a ruined world — 
 
 No Titan fragments outward hurled. 
 
 No furrowed, labyrinthine scars, 
 
 No rude concussion of the stars 
 
 Its death throes marked; No Vulcan's wrath. 
 
 No conflagration in its path — 
 
 Death settled, cold, majestic, grand 
 
 As ice pall o'er the arctic land. 
 
 c 
 
 ( . mKS 
 
THE ARTIST OF QUILLAMEQUAGGUM. 11 
 
 THE ARTIST OF QUILLAMEQUAGGUM, 
 
 A Tale of Pre -Adamite Times by Crankus Yagarius. 
 
 If most costly elaborate viands 
 
 Prepared by DeGastro of Gaul 
 Were offered a confirmed dyspeptic, 
 
 'Twould his gastric arrangements appal. 
 Why? The man has no stomach, and so 
 
 If I offer you food for the mind, 
 And you have none to take it, don't grumble, 
 
 But dig deep and a nugget you'll find. 
 
 I talk not to vacuous brainless snobs, 
 
 Nor to icicled chumps of frigidity; 
 Who, having no humor within themselves, 
 
 Would stiffen us all to rigidity: 
 Useless pimples and warts on natures broad face, 
 
 Seeing nothing outside ' l our society" 
 Would sneer at the thought of a good hearty laugh, 
 
 The index of healthful variety. 
 
 Dear brothers and sisters of Quallamequag, 
 
 'Tisn't often that poets and artists will brag; 
 Though we gulp it down kindly, if our patrons will 
 gush 
 At our marvelous works with pten, graver and 
 brush. 
 And I'm sure I'll not feel that you use me ungallant 
 If you say "brother Crankus shows wonderful 
 talent." 
 We artists and doctors may hang out our sign; 
 But 'twill forfeit our caste to advertise a line. 
 
12 THE ARTIST OF QUILL AMEQUAGGUM. 
 
 4 In grand old Cardiff are a dozen church spires; 
 
 And all of these churches have organs and choirs, 
 Where each singer bellows with fervor and zest, 
 And every one thinks his own clack sounds the 
 best. 
 Ah! your poets and songsters are one-idead men. 
 They remind me dear friends of our old speckled 
 hen, 
 Who, laying an egg with immense ingenuity 
 Will ne'er rest content till she cackles to shew it ye, 
 
 5 Now your Fadladeen critic has little but curses 
 
 For the singer of songs or maker of verses. 
 The bee sips sweet honey from the flower he flies on; 
 
 Same, tapped by the spider yields nothing but 
 pizon. 
 Your leader of choir, your black warbler of "Caws," 
 
 Each thinks his own music most merits applause; 
 So, critic, with songster and bard deal quite warily, 
 
 For Ego is large in their heads necessarily. 
 
 6 Do you think that Miller, Poe, Bryant, or Whittier 
 
 Would poetry write if they thought it unfit to hear? 
 Do you think that Harte, Stoddard, or Lowell de 
 Russell 
 Write verses just to cram under a bushel? 
 No! If drops something good from brush, pencil or 
 pen, 
 
 All cackle it forth like our old friend the hen; 
 This is well understood, though no words may be 
 said, 
 "Look! See what a beautiful egg I have laid." 
 
 7 "In pre-Adamite days they had lectures and plays, 
 
 And open air concerts legrand; 
 Where Quillamequaggumite numbskulls 
 
 The speakers oft hissed from the stand. 
 Often half-witted noodles, who thought themselves 
 smart, 
 
 Would groan, cat-call, hiss, snort and sneeze; 
 For those who know least about music and art 
 
 Are always the hardest to please." 
 
THE ARTIST OE QUILLAMEQUAGGDM. 13 
 
 "I grieve to record that in Quillamequag 
 
 Whenever an artist was singing, 
 The accompanying squad, on timbrel and lute 
 
 Made a most unmerciful dinging. 
 'Tis so even now, for, go to a play, 
 
 The orchestral bucks everlastingly bray, 
 Pipe, fiddle and lute, drums, brasshorns and tin, 
 
 Drown music and words with their hideous din." 
 
 "To vocal effect, the instruments all 
 
 Should be subordinated, 
 And a merciless thumper on ivory 
 
 Is a nuisance that should be abated. 
 Good, plain spoken English in ballad or song 
 
 Though with moderate voice, by jingo! 
 Is better to me than a seraphim's note 
 
 Couched in some foreign lingo." 
 
 From Helico-bawl to Quillamequag, 
 
 Come, Professor "De-run-on-the-treble clef" 
 He selected some arias of classical fame 
 
 Which he played on the "Bang-till-he-make-'em- 
 deaf." 
 Such music I alas! 'Tis not heard in our age; 
 
 He performed the Grand Wagner Enharmonic; 
 And forty-seven whang-doodles howling with rage 
 
 Would be mild to his cyclone climacteric. 
 
 *"Twas a failure! Alas! Some boys in the pit, 
 
 With heads soft enough to be plastic, 
 Cried, 'Rats,' 'Wipe off your chin,' 'Chestnuts,' 
 'Give us a rest,' 
 
 With other remarks quite sarcastic. 
 'Tis the same in this age. The average crowd 
 
 Is for minstrel tomfoolery burning, 
 As the Manna fed hordes of Moses 
 
 For the flesh pots of Egypt were yearning." 
 
 "I have known many ladies of wealth, 
 
 Refinement and social position 
 To whisper, sneer, giggle and laugh 
 
 While their neighbors were trying to listen. 
 
14 THE ARTIST OF QUILLAMEQUAGGUM 
 
 Small meed has the artist to squander 
 
 On such infinitesimal brains 
 The well conceived double entendre 
 
 Or the jest that is chiseled with pains." 
 
 13 "I decry not the comical ditty, 
 
 The jest or the minstrel's art, 
 Quaint Sambo's mishaps in the city, 
 
 Or brave Teddy exploring the mart; 
 But I pray you be fair to your neighbor 
 
 Who does not appreciate levity; 
 Though you think to laugh and grow fat 
 
 Is conducive to health and longevity." 
 
 14 "The crowd cheers the grossest buffoonery; 
 
 The antics of Yawcob or Pat, 
 Where fine wit and delicate humor 
 
 Would fall, as a batter cake, flat. 
 'Tis the kernel that's hid in the nut; 
 
 Takes a little brain effort to crack it, 
 While the dullest can laugh at an idiot, 
 
 Pin a tag on George Washington's jacket." 
 
 15 "Ah! The world, social life, Mistress Grundy, 
 
 methinks 
 
 Are much the same now as of yore, 
 For the plain man of modest merit 
 
 Is dwarfed by the side of a blower. 
 Aye! The man that is guiltless of brains 
 
 Is sure to be puffed and conceited, 
 As the monster balloon: 'Tis a slender affair 
 
 When of Hydrogen gas 'tis depleted." 
 
 16 "How oft we see brazen effontery 
 
 For genuine merit mistaken, 
 How oft the true husband or wife 
 
 For some shameless intriguer forsaken. 
 Your chaffy wheat stalk standeth straight 
 
 And scorns the filled head of the other, 
 As some collegebred makeshift, with orders, 
 
 Looks down on his less fortunate brother." 
 
THE ARTIST OF QUILLAMEQUAGGUM. 15 
 
 "Your Clay-eating, snuff-dipping women 
 
 Are most angry unless they're dubbed ladies, 
 And your goody-good prayers and preachers 
 
 Dread cholera, fever and rabies. 
 Your poet who sings of "Sweet Home" 
 
 Is either an outcast or tramp, 
 As your ranter of hellfire and brimstone 
 
 Is a rascal, a fool or a scamp." 
 
 "Your honey-sweet warbler, I fear 
 
 Is the devil to children and wife, 
 And your fork-using critic but lately 
 
 Only knew how to brandish his knife. 
 Ah! I think that the world is a farce, 
 
 That in Denmark — there's something quite rotten, 
 When I see country girls dumped in town 
 
 Don't know pumpkins, squash, carrots or cotton." 
 
 "Tn Quillamequag they had doctors of physic 
 Who cured all complaints from lumbago to 
 phthysic, 
 Or professed so to do; for their medical schools 
 Would often grind out some unmerciful fools. 
 'Gainst one luckless wight they would roar like 
 dangnation. 
 For modestly arguing the blood's circulation. 
 Hiss 'quack!' 'fool!' empiric!' and hurl brickbats 
 and rocks 
 'Gainst the man that would advocate using 
 cowpox." 
 
 "At Cardiff and Swansea the flashy-dressed maid 
 Shuns her over-worked, ignorant mother, 
 
 And the starveling dude looks down with contempt 
 On his plain dressed mechanical brother. 
 
 Matilda, Louisa, Jerusha and Jane 
 
 , Will sneer at a thrifty mechanic, 
 
 While the gorgeous clerk working for six-bits a day 
 Will set the dear things in a panic." 
 
 " 'Twas thus long ago; and how often we notice 
 
16 THE AKTIST OF QUILLAJVIEQUGGUM. 
 
 The partners our girls choose for German or 
 Sehottisehe, 
 To sensible men they act boorish or rude, 
 While they cling like grim death to the spider 
 legged dude. 
 If I venture to say, 'neice, this man has some 
 brain ' — 
 'Brain's a thin thing to dance with, dear uncle/ 
 says Jane, 
 "Talent like that doesn't count,' says Ann Meigs, 
 'But there's genius sure in the twirl of Bob's 
 legs.'" 
 
 22 "Metheglyn too stout makes a big bugaboo, 
 
 Disturbing good quiet folks slumber, 
 And a number six foot in a number three shoe 
 
 Breeds bunions and corns without number. 
 For fashion's sake, girls with a thirty inch girth 
 
 Compress it with corset to twenty, 
 And go to the boneyard at twenty and eight 
 
 When they might have been healthy at seventy." 
 
 23 "Your parvenu, suddenly lifted to wealth, 
 
 That on lousy old ohums bangs the door, 
 Ditto, wife from the washtub to affluence raised, 
 
 Now exacting and harsh to the poor, 
 Disgusted will turn from a grand masterpiece 
 
 By Raphael, Turner or 'Bob' 
 To a play bill engraved with a hatchet, 
 
 Which at once they pronounce the best job." 
 
 24 i; If an artist of exquisite talent 
 
 Should play on the viol or lute 
 In strains of melodious sweetness, 
 
 It fails their coarse natures to suit. 
 To their neighbors whose keener perception 
 
 Appreciates beauty and art, 
 They whisper, 'say, don't you think old Bob Jenkin 
 
 Fiddles better nor that a right smart?' " 
 
 25 "In Quillamequag, Dame Fashion decrees 
 
 That an actress, in order the public to please 
 
THE ARTIST OF QUILLAMEQUAGGUM. 17 
 
 Must have twenty gallants at least in her train, 
 Though but one is entitled to call her 'sweet 
 Jane,' 
 According to law, — 'tis a mighty thin show 
 
 If an actress has only one string to her bow. 
 A much married actress draws better than one 
 That is cold, prudish, chaste, and tries evil to 
 shun." 
 
 "With us 'tis the same: With faultless sur- 
 roundings, 
 An actress will fail to draw nabobs or groundlings. 
 'Jerusalem Jenkins,' or 'Gloria Patrie' 
 
 Give place on the boards to bold 'Cleopatra.' 
 To rouse public feeling- way down to the bottom, 
 Dame Scandal must point to Langtry and Sara; 
 Then to get choice of seats the bald magnates of 
 Gotham 
 Will rush like the winds o'er the plains of 
 Sahara." 
 
 "Your wrinkled old actor tries his best to look young, 
 Though windbroken, squinteyed, half deaf and 
 knee sprung. 
 He swears in his bills (though he pads every limb) 
 That the ladies are madly devoted to him, 
 And send him love letters, a deluging shower, 
 Which to stop is entirely out of his power. 
 
 Fifty such letters he burns every day — 
 Bah! They were every one written by a scribe in 
 his pay." 
 
 "In Quillamequag councils, 'tis said that their 
 
 solons, 
 
 Though counting spondulix by hundreds of 
 
 millions; 
 
 Placed in power by the people, will bleed 'em or 
 
 bust, 
 
 To further the schemes of some big sugar trust, 
 
 Fed on blue grass, dear colonels are apt to wax 
 furious 
 
 And thicken blue ether with language sulphurious, 
 
18 THE ARTIST OF QUILLAMEQUAGGUM. 
 
 Or with top-lofty language in church matters shine 
 While bobbing their bald pates at sweet 
 Madeline." 
 
 29 "The patriot brave for his party God howls. 
 
 And shouts loud as hired chief mourners, 
 And with filth his opponents fair nest befouls 
 
 To crowds round saloons and street corners. 
 Protection, free silver, bimetal or gold, 
 
 The way that the matter now stands, 
 No matter who wins, the poor rascal can bet 
 
 He's a dupe in monopolists hands." 
 
 30 "Free coinage, each rich silver baron will smile 
 
 With a fourteen inch grin on his phiz; 
 And if gold wins, the rich manufacturing crowd 
 
 Will immediately open up bizz. 
 Huge deals are in fashion; the populists there 
 
 Are with democrats rubbing their noses, 
 While in Texas repubs, pops and gold men well 
 fused, 
 
 To the daises are turning their toeses." 
 
 31 "At court balls, receptions, and fancy soirees, 
 
 The Quillamequag damsels the public to please, 
 
 In the hot flush of youth, would surge through the 
 
 press, 
 
 As they do in our times, all arrayed in full dress 
 
 What a monstrous misnomer! Yet, though Solons 
 
 wax sad 
 
 To see lovely women so scantly clad; 
 
 While my pulse bounds with life, I'm free to confess, 
 
 'Tis refreshing to see ladies decked in full dress." 
 
 
 32 "I have sometimes been asked why I choose simple 
 songs 
 Instead of grand classical Arias? 
 You are certain as night follows day to lose caste 
 
 And be classed among musical pariahs. 
 Here is John Wynde, Kate Squeal, Nan Screech and 
 Bob Blower, 
 Our boss choir, thinks such music a scandal; 
 
THE ARTIST OF QUILLAMEQUAGGUM 19 
 
 Root, Emerson, DAVIES, and Bliss they ignore, 
 And sing only Mozart and Handel. " 
 
 33 "Have you heard them?" "I have." "Did you like 
 
 them?" "So, so." 
 "They're the best in the county." "Oh! yes, yes, 
 I know, 
 Every choir is the best, though each wind-broken 
 rascal 
 Will shamefully butcher grand music and classical. 
 A Forzando tone will remorselessly cut it off, 
 Beat time with their voices when singing a dotted 
 half, 
 Squeal, bellow and fret in a manner most strange, 
 Yet always select music out of their range." 
 
 34 "Each amateur songster as soon as he's able 
 
 Plain music to grapple, shoves it under the table; 
 And your band tyro thinks that with Gabriel's key 
 bugle 
 He could rouse up the dead like Khan Khoob, the 
 grand mogul. 
 They sneer at plain songs and to Tophet they fling 
 them; 
 Then of classical anthems they make a sad guy. 
 Such arias I leave to the few that can sing them, 
 Dear friends, and the numberless thousands that 
 try." 
 
 35 "In musical matters you'll find some quite prominent 
 
 Who don't know a Tonic chord from a sub- 
 dominant; 
 Fret, scowl, pinch their throats, (unmusical grind) 
 Where the voice should roll free as the unfettered 
 wind. 
 Even the clergy— tread softly— there's not one in ten 
 
 Gives sentiment, feeling, or force to a hymn 
 When they read it; I tell you, dear friends, 'tis as 
 wrong 
 To butcher the words, as to murder the song." 
 
20 THE ARTIST OF QUILLAMEQUGGUM. 
 
 THE VILLAGE CHOIR. 
 
 BY MISS HIGH SEE. 
 
 36 "Let me show you, dear friends, our new village 
 
 choir. 
 To sing like an angel each one does aspire. 
 Sure there's Mary and Jane, there's Kitty and Fan, 
 oh! 
 They sing with my help most delightful soprano. 
 There's our sky-scraping tenor, with throat fit to 
 lasso, 
 Craned to reach upper "B;" then Jim Collins the 
 basso, 
 Here is Mattie McCoon and her sweet sister Sal, too; 
 Great spoons! Don't they sing most amazing 
 sweet alto? 
 
 37 There's a cloud in the sky, not predicted by Vennor. 
 
 Sal and Mattie McCoon have gone back on the 
 tenor; 
 They aver it a fact, and they're able to show it; 
 He sang three notes on their staff, when his score 
 was below it. 
 Need I tell you dear friends, such small things I 
 detest; 
 But in singing soprano all know I'm the best; 
 If any so bold as deny this position, 
 Better order a coffin or get a physician. 
 
 38 Why, just think! F Sharp our tall tenore immaculate. 
 
 Is determined the choir he will never evacuate; 
 And he swears that Jim Collins, the Basso Profundo, 
 
 Sings by mains strength, Primo, Tertio, Secundo. 
 And, to tell you the truth, though an excellent 
 fellow, 
 
 Our leader B Flat does most terribly bellow; 
 His voice is too loud for Jane, Kitty and Fan, oh! 
 
 If it wasn't for me you could hear no soprano." 
 
THE ARTIST OF QUILLAMEQUAGGUM. 21 
 
 "THE WORD AT THE DOOR." 
 
 BY BOB BROWN. 
 
 At a neighbor's, last winter, my wife and myself 
 
 Were making a neighborly call; 
 The farewells were spoken at nine o'clock sharp, 
 
 As she placed on her bonnet and shawl; 
 "Let me whisper one word" — at a quarter to ten, 
 
 Two streams of small talk still were pouring; 
 While poor I on the lounge, with my overcoat on, 
 
 Was contentedly sleeping and snoring. 
 
 THE MAJOR TELLS WHAT HE KNOWS. 
 
 BY DITTO. 
 
 As a scribe for the Banner, I once made a call 
 
 On a capital chap, Major Hattel. 
 He alone in the army saw Swingletree fall, 
 
 While leading his corps into battle. 
 Says I, "Major H., you saw Swingletree fall?" 
 
 "Why yes, my dear fellow, God bless you!" 
 "Then be kind enough, Major, to tell what you 
 know, 
 
 And we'll publish it in our next issue." 
 
 To this he assented, we took out some chairs, 
 
 Placed our feet on the piazza railings; 
 But I soon found that long winded stories 
 
 Was one of the Major's failings. 
 I sat him three days. He began at the war, 
 
 At night talked of Russia and Poland, 
 Next night talked of Smith and the big "Injun" girl, 
 
 And the next night of Christopher Colon. 
 
 My patience exhausted, at last, says I, "Major 
 
 I am really unable to see 
 What the 'dickens' all this palaver 
 
 Has to do with my friend Swingletree." 
 "A vast deal, sir," responded the Major, 
 
•22 THE ARTIST OF QUILLAMEQUAGGUM. 
 
 "As I'll quickly proceed to show; 
 For you dodgasted rascal, you asked me 
 To tell you all that I know. 5 ' 
 
 
 43 "I have been thus minute in description, says he, 
 To remove all doubts and perplexity, 
 But I've used up no hour saying, just one word 
 more 
 As your wife, sir, while holding the knob of the 
 door." 
 Stumped at this, bewildered and caught in my 
 trap, 
 I hastily picked up my satchel and cap. 
 "Now," says he, "I'm sorry, friend Brown, you 
 must go 
 For in three or four years I might tell what 1 
 know." 
 
 THE RIVAL SONGSTERS: 
 
 OR, 
 
 THE NIGHTINGALE AND CROW. 
 
 44 'Tis said that one time in the long, long ago 
 
 A?nightingale had a dispute with a crow 
 As to which was the better musician. 
 Each stoutly maintained that his voice was the 
 sweetest 
 The highest, the lowest, the clearest, the greatest; 
 Each vowed the tune taught by his own dad the 
 neatest, 
 And the one altogether sufficient. 
 
 45 The spite in his bosom each bird failed to smother, 
 
 For whenever they met, they assailed one another 
 With rancorous hate in their greetings. 
 
 Each felt of the other most terribly jealous, 
 Each would puff, swell and bluster while filling his 
 bellows 
 
THE ARTIST OF QUILLAMEQUAGGUM. 23 
 
 To toot, as full oft I have noticed two fellows 
 Of the human persuasion, at meetings. 
 
 46 As boys of today grow in time to be daddies, 
 
 As a quarrel must come to hard knocks 'twixt two 
 paddies, 
 So their row to a focus tended. 
 
 But neighbors of one said to friends of the other, 
 "Let us hush if we can this outrageous bother." 
 
 So they stated to one bird, and then to the other 
 A plan by which things might be mended. 
 
 47 Each bird then required a vast deal of teasing 
 
 Before he would listen to sound sense or reason, 
 For the plan, as proposed, was a wise one. 
 
 "Let us travel a straight line, due east and west, 
 'Till we come to a rock, then we'll sit down and 
 rest, 
 
 And who first approaches, bird, man or beast, 
 Shall tell which to place this prize on." 
 
 48 At last they agreed to this sensible plan ; 
 
 And the nightingale hoped 'twould be left to a 
 man 
 With some glimmer of musical taste. 
 "Faugh! Hear that old crow with his boisterous 
 hooting" — 
 Listen to me— "Bah!" says the crow, "stop your old 
 tooting — 
 Why the devil keep up this foolish disputing, 
 My CAWS shall not thus be disgraced." 
 
 49 They journeyed along 'till they came to a rock; 
 
 When the nightingale's feelings received a rude 
 shock, 
 For who should approach but John Donkey. 
 
 However, the compact could not be debated, 
 So quickly, to John the question was stated, 
 
 Who with unwonted honor felt highly elated, 
 Though some good folks reckoned John cranky. 
 
24 THE ARTIST OF Q1JILLAMEQUAGGUM. 
 
 50 "Well," (brays) says John, "I'll accept the position 
 with pleasure, 
 Come, Sir Nightingale, troll us a stave, or a 
 measure, 
 A song, hymn, ditty or ballad; 
 
 For music, you see, I've a bountiful ear, 
 And my voice (brays) is always amazingly clear; 
 Here my bones I will rest, while you tune up, my 
 dear, 
 Faith I'll munch this fine bundle of salad." 
 
 51 Then the nightingale perched on some tall granite 
 
 rocks 
 And his notes would wring tears from the heart of 
 an ox, 
 So cle.arly and sweetly they blended. 
 
 All bird-dom acknowledged him musical king; 
 Aye, even the bird of the grand swooping wing; 
 
 Never, never such notes did a nightingale sing; 
 All nature was hushed when he ended. 
 
 52 "Well, (brays) my friend, you're a buster, you are 
 
 sharp as a Yankee, 
 And you sing doggone well," says our noble John 
 Donkey, 
 "But as yet I withhold my decision; 
 
 An umpire must list to both sides, you must know, 
 So we'll lend our ears to our friend, Master Crow; 
 
 Come, Jimmy, cheer up, show us what you can do — 
 All right, that's a splendid position." 
 
 53 James M. Crow takes position, he clears up his 
 
 throat — 
 Now the prairie resounds with the harsh screech- 
 ing note 
 Of his CAW, CAW so long drawn and lanky. 
 
 See! our donkey judge loses all sense of decorum; 
 He strides up and down like a man in the forum, 
 And joins in the song with his hie (bray) hoc 
 (brays) horum (brays) 
 Tn the soul stirring strains of a donkey. 
 
 
THE ARTIST OF QUILLAMEQUAGGT3M. 25 
 
 "I know (brays) Master Nightingale that maketh you 
 sick. 
 Ah! 'tis seldom I hear such excellent music; 
 ,r Tis almost as good as what I make, 
 Whenever I serenade (brays) charming Miss 
 Jennet — 
 Ho! She kicks up her heels and is gay as a linnet— 
 
 I can not withhold my decision a minute— 
 The prize doth our friend Master Crow take.''' 
 
 Much more of this sort says one excellent judge; 
 
 While the nightingale hangs down his head and 
 says "fudge"— 
 In the tone of an old time Virginian. 
 
 "I'm compelled to abide by our judge's award 
 Though any fool knows the decision absurd: 
 
 But yet I will sing and my voice shall be heard; 
 This, at best, is a donkey's opinion." 
 
 THE STORY OF BELLY-GROW-B1G, 
 
 THE FAMOUS "WELSH EATER. 
 
 The Quillamequags of famous Cardiff, 
 
 In Pre-Adamite days long gone by, 
 Sent for Belly-Grow-Big, the Welshman, 
 
 One Christmas, or Fourth of July, 
 Saying, "Sure we have wagered, friend Belly^ 
 
 As you are more than an ordinary 'Taffy' 
 That you can at a single sitting 
 
 Devour a four-hundred pound calffy." 
 
 A smile of lordly dimensions 
 
 Crossed the face of our primitive Taffy; 
 "I'll do it tomorrow," "No, do it today, 
 , We are now barbecuing the calffy." 
 "Good day boys," says he, "Au revoir, au revoir, 
 
 I'll be back in two hours and a half; 
 I'm going to Swansea to gobble an ox, 
 
 Returning I'll tackle your calf." 
 
26 THE ARTIST OF QUILLASiEQUAGGUM. 
 
 THEOLOGY IN QUILLAMEQUAGGUM. 
 
 SHOWING OUR VAST SUPERIORITY. 
 
 58 T Twas a strange faith that flourished in Quilla- 
 
 mequay. 
 Superstition, deep-dyed in the wool, there held 
 sway. 
 They believed in a God of all nature: 
 Held that all things existent were made by his 
 hand; 
 That be had no pet people, no base cut-throat band, 
 
 That suns, systems, planets — the universe grand 
 Moved throughout space by the will and command 
 Of this one indivisible Maker. 
 
 59 Their reasons were warped, for they firmly believed 
 
 That all men were destined, in time to be saved 
 From the gloom of a shadowing hell. 
 
 That in the grand plan of creation, man's ways 
 From youth to old age, through life's devious maze 
 
 Was known from the first to the Ancient of Days, 
 Who said of his work, "It is well." 
 
 60 How feeble such dogmas to us who are schooled 
 
 In modern theology. Tempted, tried, ruled 
 By diabolic monsters of evil; 
 
 Luring man to his fall, giving God the blank lie, 
 Sowing discord throughout the broad realms of the 
 sky, 
 
 Uplifting foul arms to dethrone the Most High, 
 Led by Satan, the grand master devil. 
 
 61 Ah! we relish strong creeds, though ninetenths of 
 
 mankind 
 God's mandates find cruel, harsh, devilish, unkind, 
 Tried by modern robustious theology. 
 
 "Though Christ died for all, yet on quivering 
 sand, 
 Lapped by treacherous waves, the unorthodox stand : 
 We are saved, yet hell's jaws for our foes will 
 expand 
 And devils will shout their doxology." 
 
 
THE ARTIST OP QUILLAMEQUAGGUM, TJ 
 
 STORY OF BISHOP PINCH-LIMB. 
 
 'Tis a tale of a worthy old bishop who traveled 
 
 In Wales, headquarters at Swansea, 
 Who, like many a man with an overworked noddle, 
 
 Possessed one peculiar fancy; 
 But so firmly impressed and believed in, that; 
 nothing 
 
 His friends said could soothe him or pacify; 
 Ife was this: As age drew upon him, he feared 
 
 That his bodily members would ossify. 
 
 A most excellent man, yet this one monomania 
 
 He talked through the cities and provinces; 
 And knowing this foible 'tis said that his friends 
 
 For the same made all needful allowances. 
 Hip, thigh, leg and arm he would pinch every day 
 
 Making thus a careful analysis, 
 To observe that each member when pinched should 
 display 
 
 No signs of approaching paralysis* 
 
 The Countess of Gower invited the bishop, 
 
 Lords, knights and fair ladies to tussle 
 With an elegant dinner of beef and plum pudding 
 
 She had spread on the boards of the castle. 
 On the right of the countess one worthy old priest, 
 
 Dressed in farthingale, surplice and gown, 
 Blessed the board and all present, and then to the 
 feast 
 
 All hands and the cook sat down. 
 
 He grabbed at his leg for the usual analysis, 
 
 While an extra broad smile illumined her grace. 
 Still harder he pinched, but the dreaded paralysis 
 
 Was certainly coming to judge from his face. 
 At first a pained look, then a yell like cat screeching 
 
 From one good worthy priest, who in great con- 
 sternation 
 Yelled '* 'tis on me at last — it has come sure as 
 preaching! 
 
 I've been pinching my legs yet I feel no sensation." 
 
28 THE ARTIST OF QUIL-LAMEQUGGUM. 
 
 66 Lords, ladies and knigbts shook their heads and 
 commented 
 At such a finale to such a grand feast; 
 Some averred the good bishop was surely demented ? 
 When the countess addressed thus the people and 
 priest: 
 "Be easy, good friends, stop this racket and row; 
 
 Be seated again and finish the stew: 
 For this is the truth," said the Countess of Gower, 
 44 'Tis my legs he's been pinching the lasc half an 
 hour." 
 
 
 THE ARTIST OF QULLAMEQUAGGUM. 
 
 BY CKANKUS VAGARIUS OF YE OLDEN TIME. 
 
 67 'Tis said in the mythical days of the past, sir, 
 
 The first artist essayed a picture; 
 And spying a quadruped out in the pasture 
 
 He produced an amazing caricature. 
 Unlike modern artists with palette, brush, stool, 
 
 Canvass, easel, and pigments in plenty; 
 His paint and his brush was a piece of charcoal, 
 
 And his canvass, a rock hard and flinty. 
 
 68 Like an urchin when rearing a structure of blocks, 
 
 Our artist was highly delighted, 
 And gleefully made many scrawls on the rocks 
 
 To show to bis brethren benighted. 
 To the call of the artist, howe'er it was made, 
 
 A hundred or more came together; 
 Just as now, every boy in the squad knowing more 
 
 Than his daddy and mam put together. 
 
 69 Now whether by whistling, by squeaking or 
 
 grunting, 
 
 For language devices, I care not; 
 Whether naked and hairy, or covered with bunting, 
 
 For truth's sake, to tell you I dare not; 
 But ignoring all questions of costume and st3 7 le, 
 
THE ARTIST OF QUILLAMEQUAGGUM. 29 
 
 A hundred or more for a quorum, 
 "Guess what 'tis," said the artist: then each took 
 
 one trial, 
 As he gazed on the picture before him. 
 
 70 In deliberate fashion then stepped to the front 
 
 John Quillamequaggum, the elder, 
 He gave a most knowing and sensible grunt, 
 
 And said 'twas a Whack-till e-welder! 
 Now these like the Fetch-your-gun Johnnie's have 
 gone 
 
 To the morass, the bog and the sink-hole, 
 Along with the Mastock, the Ichthy-co-john, 
 
 And the Hy-drix-i-col-i-co-dinkle. 
 
 71 Old John stepped aside, then sweet Peggy, his bride, 
 
 With a fur coat as sleek as a beaver, 
 Her eyeglass screwed in, shook her bracelets 
 of tin, 
 
 And vowed that they could not deceive her, 
 For she and old John for eight hundred years 
 
 Had kept their eyes peeled, Holy Moses! 
 And this picture evincing such artistio skill 
 
 Is meant for aDrink-mit-your-noses. 
 
 72 The third one affirmed that old Peggy and John 
 
 Being so aged, were scarcely to blamee 
 But cosmopolites, surely, could tell from the 
 sketch 
 'Twas a Melican-man-alle-samee. 
 The fourth one averred, "from the size of the flaps 
 
 Like panniers each side of a saddle 
 As I have but one guess you must see that I am 
 right; 
 'Tis a Fetch-him-a-lick-on-the-noddle." 
 
 73 Number five now danced in with a hop, skip and 
 
 jump, 
 Saying, "aw that ith weally % quite fine, 
 But 'twould weally be bettah if ouah ahtist had 
 
 uthed 
 Nithe blue colahed chahcoal like mine." 
 
30 THE ARTIST OF QUILLAMEQUAGGUM. 
 
 Ah! A dude of the dudes was our friend number 
 five, 
 
 He parted his hair in the middle: 
 Of a musical turn he would rasp hour by hour 
 
 His one tune (brays) on the Quillamequag fiddle. 
 
 74 Rejoice, clothing men that you live in our day; 
 
 Ye Christian, ye Pagan, ye Jew, 
 For the raiment in fashion in Quillamequay 
 
 Gave the clothiers but little to do. 
 Skintight was his outfit, bewitching his phiz 
 
 As any in Barnum's zoology; 
 Modern dudes! What are they? Simply copies 
 reduced 
 
 Of the dudes before Homer's Geology. 
 
 75 The next one says "Brethren of Quillamequag, 
 
 Our artist has sure made a puzzle; 
 It mostly resembles a Whall-a-me-whag, 
 
 Though his ears are too long for his nozzle. 
 But aside from some defects in shaping his nose. 
 
 And one leg being six inches the shortest, 
 If it is'nt meant for a Whall-a-me-whag 
 
 It's a Pack-up-your-duds-son-and-go-west." 
 
 76 Thus one and the other vented their criticisms 
 
 On the work of the artist in charcoal: 
 The punster delivered some marvelous witticisms, 
 
 While the artist wished him in a dark hole. 
 They all seemed to think that the artist had taste, 
 
 Though his efforts seemed pained and laborious, 
 And thought if he worked six or eight hundred 
 years, 
 
 He might really wax quite meritorious. 
 
 77 The poor artist wept. Do you wonder my friends? 
 
 He resigned his artistic profession; 
 But when feeble and ready to meet the pall-bearere, 
 
 He made this alarming confession; 
 "That 'twas neither a Mastock, an Ichthy-co-john, 
 
 A Hy-drix-i-col-i-co-dinkle. 
 
THE ARTIST OF QUILLAMEQUAGGUM 31 
 
 A pack-up-your-duds-and-go- west-my-dear-son , 
 But a Quadru-ped-hos-per-i-winkle." 
 
 78 When art thus from QuilJamequaggum was banished, 
 
 These three-fingered gents went to fighting, 
 'Till like Kilkenny cats, the last warrior vanished, 
 
 Which their maids left a pitiful plight in. 
 But whether fresh beaux with more or less toes 
 
 For a time these fair Amazons cherished, 
 Is more than you, I or any one knows, 
 
 For the last Quillamequaggumite perished. 
 
 7$ Perished! Perished! Alas! They mingled their 
 forms 
 With the dust of the Megathausorum 
 And the bones of the Cardiff giants hobnob 
 With the Big rooster high cock-a-lo-rum. 
 They sleep their last sleep; but science, alas! 
 
 Has evolved their remains from the caskets; 
 And found by careful analysis, 
 That they make most excellent phosphates. 
 
 80 And along with remains of the Ichthy-co-john, 
 The Quadruped-hoss-per-i-winkle, 
 The Pack-up-your-duds-and-go-west-my-dear-son 
 
 And the Hy-drix-i-col-i-co-dinkle, 
 Are skeletons vast, of long since defunct types; 
 That would stagger Munchausen's rich fancy, 
 Which as pulverized phosphates once more are 
 diffused 
 O'er the valleys of Cardiff and Swansea. 
 
 m= 
 
32 THE RESCUE OE ZlNGALAY. 
 
 THE RESCUE OF ZlNGALAY. 
 
 AN BPI60DE OF THE MATABELE WAR IN SOUTH AFRICA IN 1896. 
 
 "To horse! to horse! in the twilight gray; 
 
 To horse! to horse! for the Matabele 
 Have risen in arms and are thundering down, 
 
 With vindictive wrath, on fair Zingalay's town." 
 Their sinewy forms on coursers fleet, 
 
 That reck not of storm or the mid-sun's heat, 
 Sweep all before them in frenzy and wrath; 
 
 Leaving a fire-ravaged desolate path. 
 Armed with magazine rifle and sharp assegai; 
 
 Death! death is the watchword of Matabele. 
 
 "To horse, boys, to horse!" over hill and away, 
 
 The troopers are off for the Matabele. 
 There are forty odd miles to Zingalay's town, 
 
 And the hillsides are barren, and parched and 
 brown. 
 Ho! merry their hearts, but fierce gleams the light 
 
 In the eyes of each man as he speeds to the fight. 
 Reckless plainsmen are they that would spring into 
 death 
 
 With a smile on the face and a jest on the breath 
 To save helpless ones from the Matabele, 
 
 The blood-reeking dart or the sharp assegai. 
 
 Little is said till they sweep o'er the brow 
 
 Of the mountain. "God's blessing! see how 
 They're fighting! dash on, on!" said laughing Will 
 Brown, 
 "Perhaps we can yet save fair Zingalay town. 
 Ah! fierce is the conflict and keen is the strife 
 
 Down in the vale where they're fighting for life. 
 Fire and smoke mark the wreck of the outlying 
 kraal — 
 Hark! the sound of the battle is borne on the 
 gale — 
 On, on gallant boys, soon we'll join in the fray 
 With these bloodthirsty devils of Matabele." 
 
THE RESCUE OF ZINGALAY. 33 
 
 4 Ho! The heart of each rider beats high in bis 
 
 breast. 
 Here are sons of the east, the south, north and 
 west. 
 Men from Cambridge, from Yale, Oxford, Italy, 
 Spain, 
 In far Afric are brothers, lured by prospects of 
 gain. 
 Ah! wherever the savage with murderous knife 
 Wantons with innocent blood, then, in strife 
 Each is kin to the other, country's claims are 
 ignored, 
 For Civilization each man draws his sword. 
 As these to the rescue of Zingalay ride 
 O'er the sun-scorched plain and the steep moun- 
 tain side. 
 
 5 When the last stand was made on the Little Big 
 
 Horn, 
 The strains of 'Our Country' on the breezes were 
 borne 
 As Custer's doomed men with true Spartan pride, 
 
 Died like brave Greeks on Thermopyle's side. 
 Now, three years have vanished since Wilson's 
 brave men, 
 Trapped in the savage Lobengulas den; 
 Cut off from succor by Shanganis' flood, 
 While hordes of black Tmpi's were thirsting for 
 blood, 
 Sang "God Save the Queen" as they perished that 
 day, 
 When they made their last fight 'gainst the 
 Matabele. 
 
 6 'The old guard,' by murderous onslaughts depleted, 
 
 When from Moscow, in winter, the Frenchmen 
 retreated, 
 Had dwindled, till, crossing Borysthenes' flood, 
 
 But one man was left who the foemen withstood. 
 He, faint from deep wounds, still stands to his 
 arms, 
 
34 THE RESCUE OF ZINGALAY. 
 
 As the Cossacks press round him with wars wild 
 alarms; 
 E'en the rude sons of Asia respectfully stand, 
 And, scorning to slay the last of that band, 
 They list to his challenge, with hearts strangely 
 tender, 
 "The old guard may die but will never surrender.' 7 
 
 7 Ah ! we of the western world glory in thought 
 
 Of the deeds that our Saxon forefathers have 
 wrought. 
 The Jgfeaven that unites us in one common land, 
 
 Peacefully sharing our heritage grand, 
 Comes from the blood of our English fore-sires, 
 
 Fearlessly offered on Liberty's fires. 
 To our Saxon ancestry, then let us prove true; 
 
 Yet true to our colors, the red, white and blue; 
 
 So let hearts throb with pride as our kindred an< 
 clay 
 
 Are victorious now o'er the Matabele. 
 
 8 "Fire a volley now, boys, let them know we are 
 
 near — 
 
 Charge up yon hillside with a good rousing cheer — 
 Now plunge in the fight." Ho! the Matabele 
 
 Are taken by storm and they yield in the fray. 
 The settlers, hard-pressed in the unequal battle, 
 
 Fighting from ramparts of bullet-slain cattle 
 That in haste they had driven the previous night 
 
 With loved ones for safety to Zingalay's height, 
 Had fought against terrible odds all that day 
 
 'Gainst magazine rifle and sharp assegai. 
 
 9 Ho! success to Rhodesia! let Brittain have sway; 
 
 For Ham to the Aryan, must yield in the fray. 
 Celt, Saxon, Latin, the heart of each ranger 
 
 Scorned the thought of peril or danger. 
 Right or wrong be the cause, when humanity 
 cries, 
 
 Man flies to the rescue; he conquers or dies. 
 So Spartan in honor, in valor and pride, 
 
 They rode as only the fearless can ride; 
 
ONLY A POOR MECHANIC. 35 
 
 Then a health to the troopers who saved Zingalay 
 From the murderous cut-throats of Matabele. 
 
 All colonization is based upon wrong. 
 
 Did our fore-sires do right when they bought for a 
 song 
 From the untutored Indian, the vast fertile plains 
 
 East and west of the great Appalachian chains? 
 Even now in the west, in the great reservation, 
 Though bound by our Uncle Sam's sealed 
 obligation, 
 Peaceful, it may be, but still sure and slow, 
 
 There are forces at work undermining poor 'Lo;' 
 For 'Saxa' and 'Arya' with banners unfurled, 
 Resistlessly march to the sway of the world. 
 
 ONLY A POOR MECHANIC. 
 
 1 " 'Tis only a poor mechanic." 'Twas quickly noised 
 
 around, 
 As in breathless haste the people rushed where ruin 
 
 strewed the ground. 
 "The damage to life is very light, but the loss falls 
 
 very heavy 
 On Hardgrip and Pinchnickel by this bursting of 
 
 their levee." 
 
 2 " 'Tis only a poor mechanic: I'm sorry, but feel 
 
 worse 
 For Brother Hardgrip who is hurt in person and in 
 
 purse; 
 For with all this wreck and ruin, 'twill take a month 
 
 to make up 
 The losses that he has sustained by this confounded 
 
 shake-up." 
 
 3 " 'Tis only a poor mechanic." What notes of deep 
 
 disdain! 
 But the anguished face of the weeping wife was 
 furrowed o'er with pain; 
 
3£ ONLY A POOR MECHANIC. 
 
 "Oh. God! our help, our stay is gone— what shall w( 
 
 do for bread, 
 Now husband, father, ALL is gone— he breathes— he 
 
 is not dead! 
 
 4 For Christ's sake, fetch a surgeon, quick!" the 
 stricken woman cried; 
 "Perhaps his life may yet be saved if remedies are 
 tried. " 
 
 But the surgeon dresses Hardgrip's toe, sligh 
 
 though the bruises be, 
 Nor deigns to look at the dying man till guarantee 
 . his fee. 
 
 
 5 'Tis only a poor mechanic; that's all; and he is 
 
 dead." 
 
 His wife and children roam the streets in the strug 
 
 gle for daily bread, 
 While in the hated Potter's field unknown, unwept 
 
 at large, 
 They cursed the poor mechanic buried there at the 
 
 city's charge. 
 
 6 Only a poor mechanic; yet the widowed and father- 
 
 less mourn 
 O'er the loss of loving protector from their arms 
 
 thus rudely torn ; 
 And tears of bitterest anguish o'er that lonely grave 
 
 are shed, 
 Though sculptured marble marks not where rests the 
 
 lowly dead. 
 
 7 Only a poor mechanic, scarce missed from the busy 
 
 crowd, 
 With a heart that sighed for a better lot, with an 
 
 honest soul endowed, 
 Who toiled and struggled with might and main for 
 
 wife and loved ones dear, 
 But'had failed to lay bright dollars by, a rainy day 
 
 to cheer. 
 
ONLY A POOR MECHANIC. 37 
 
 8 Who judges the worth of the casket before he has 
 
 lifted the lid? 
 Ah! beneath an uncouth exterior a sensitive soul 
 
 oft is hid; 
 Then, success to the poor mechanic, though scanty 
 
 and small be his pay, 
 Who labors for those that are dearest through the 
 
 turmoil and dust of the day. 
 
 9 Ah! sometimes this thought does impress us as being 
 
 exceedingly queer, 
 That men with incomes, five, ten, twenty thousand a 
 
 year 
 Will mutter and grumble that prices so exorbitant 
 
 they, must pay 
 These extortionate greasy mechanics who charge 
 
 them two dollars a day. 
 
 10 And if financial misfortunes o'ertake a poor laboring 
 
 man, 
 God pity, assist and defend him from sharks of the 
 
 Hardgrip clan 
 Who would take, without scruple, the last from 
 
 his little coffer and store, 
 And like insatiate demons still greedily watch for 
 
 more. 
 
 11 Aye! who would compel their victims, despite their 
 
 pressing need, 
 To pledge all future prospects to stay their insatiate 
 
 greed. 
 What reck they that every advantage from childhood 
 
 is swept away, 
 So their capacious pockets absorb the mechanics 
 
 pay? 
 
 12 Honor the brave mechanic, aye! honor the work of 
 
 his hand; 
 For that is the sign of advancement and culture in 
 
 every land ; 
 Who looks for civilization where his foot-prints have 
 
 not been? 
 
38 CUTTING THE TBOCHA. 
 
 Who looks for science and art and law where the 
 wigwam and hovel are seen? 
 
 13 Honor the brave mechanic whose labor your homes 
 adorn; 
 
 Hail him as 'man and brother r with a welcome hearty 
 and warm; 
 
 All are children of ONE GREAT PARENT, the boun- 
 tiful GOD OF LOVE; 
 
 The MASTER MECHANIC AND BUILDER of the 
 eternal worlds above. 
 
 "CUTTING THE TROCHA.". 
 
 A CUBAN EPISODE — 1896. 
 
 "Away for the line of the trocha." The band, 
 
 With revolver in holster and machete in hand, 
 Stealthily pass in the night, cut the wires, 
 
 Spring on the parapet, kindle the fires. 
 The sentries on duty are swept from their feet 
 
 With murderous bullet and deadly machete. 
 A panic ensues for the moment; but then 
 
 The long roll is sounded, the quick tramp of men 
 Is heard on all sides; so the leader, Bob Day, 
 
 Shouts "Vamose the ranch, away lads, away." 
 
 A rapid retreat, a vault onto horse — 
 To the hills, to the hills they are taking their 
 course. 
 At a good swinging gallop they ride full three hours; 
 Rest their steeds — "list! hark! saddle boys, by the 
 powers! 
 That's the tramp of pursuers." They have mounted 
 again 
 And are speeding away over valley and plain; 
 They gain for a time on the band in pursuit, 
 
 "Ho, ho," laughs Bob Day, "every dandy galoot 
 Is safe and sound yet, and if horse-flesh holds out, 
 In less than an hour we'll be in our redoubt." 
 
CUTTING THE TR'OCBA. S9 
 
 3 The sun has arisen — "look! look down the road; 
 
 See that squad of guerrillas bent on plunder-— by 
 G— d! 
 We must rescue the women those scoundrels have 
 bound- 
 Charge 'em boys.*' Four rascals have bitten the 
 ground; 
 The three women mount on the steeds thus released, 
 Then all speed again towards the hills in the east* 
 "We are half a mile yet in advance of yon troop, 
 
 And we lack adoggoned heap of being in the soup; 
 Look to your tools, boys, there's four to our one, 
 And if they round us up there'll be bushels of fun.'* 
 
 4 A volley of musketry rings on the air— 
 
 "Ride to the front, we will bring up the rear," 
 Said Bob Day to the Cubans who smiled in reply, 
 
 "Nay, we are not cowards, we fear not to die. 
 Stop not for us if we fall in the strife, 
 
 But ride for the lines as you value your life; 
 We know how to handle our weapons full well, 
 
 And, come to the worst, our lives we can sell; 
 My life is no more than yours, senor," says she*. 
 
 "And I'll part with it freely for Liberty*" 
 
 •5 A volley— another — two men bite the dust— 
 
 "Take to the timber— we'll whip 'em, or bust^ 
 Up the ravine— by the big sainted Turk, 
 
 But we've got 'em demoralised! shoot in your 
 work- 
 Dismount— keep your cattle 'twixt you and the foe." 
 
 A dozen or more of the foemen lie low* 
 The senoras smile for in front of them lay 
 
 The forms of four horsemen that fell in the fray. 
 Now one-half of the foemen are stealthily seen 
 
 Moving through copse that commands the ravine. 
 
 6 "Mount again, charge the troop that are barring the 
 
 path — 
 
 Swing the trusty machetes^ boys, like demons of 
 wrath," 
 
40 BILL JONES. 
 
 They break through the press, but five brave men 
 are slain, 
 And one of the women is stretched on the plain. 
 They are spurring their steeds and now gain on the 
 foe, 
 For their swift headlong charge had a dozen laid 
 low. 
 "On, on to the hills, we have friends over there — 
 
 See! they check the pursuit — the fiends do not dare 
 To come within reach of the lion, hurrah! 
 We are safe amongst friends, hurrah, boys, 
 hurrah!" 
 
 BILL JONES. 
 
 THE LAST PRIVATE OF LEE'S ARMY. 
 
 Bill Jones was a soldier boy true; 
 
 He had fought all the way through the war: 
 He trained with the butternut crew 
 
 And carried full many a scar. 
 He fought as a private soldier; 
 
 Simply one of the rank and file; 
 No man had a heart that was bolder; 
 
 Though many could sport more style, 
 
 William Jones was oft grimy and sooty, 
 
 But he knew how to handle his gun; 
 He was never a dude nor a beauty, 
 
 But a hero when fighting was on. 
 He was never a flincher from danger; 
 
 He always obeyed his commanders; 
 And on duty as gunner and ranger 
 
 Would outswear a trooper in Flanders. 
 
 He follows the rattle and boom 
 Of the cannon, where General Lee goes, 
 
 And never is he left at home 
 To take care of twenty stout negroes, 
 
 Like many a fire-eating ranter 
 That is lucky enough to be rich, 
 
BILL JONES. 41 
 
 For Bill isn't the son of a planter; 
 And must fight till he reach the last ditch. 
 
 But now, it is more than a score 
 
 Of years since the fighting is over; 
 Yet Bill, as a church-mouse is poor, 
 
 Or a pig that has ne'er tasted clover, 
 lie lives in a cabin that's rented, 
 
 Dines on bacon, corn-dodger and pones, 
 And ne'er since we left Appomattox 
 
 Had I seen my old comrade Bill Jones. 
 
 Says I "Hello! Billy, good morning! 
 
 Don't you know me, you doggoned old stager?" 
 When he answers me "Whut ez yer handle? 
 
 Air yer guv'nor 'er kernul 'rmajer?" 
 "Ho!" says I, "Bill, you rusty old bummer, 
 
 We were privates in company K, 
 And we fought under Longstreet that summer 
 
 In old Pennsylvania." 
 
 As in language terse, pointed and graphic, 
 
 I talked of brave Pickett's command; 
 A bountiful smile and seraphic 
 
 His countenace did expand. 
 "I've ben the most lonsomest critter, 
 
 I told yer, in ole Tennersee; 
 Fer I've looked many a year fer a soldier 
 
 What fout under Jacks'n 'nLee. 
 
 I foun' three what trained under Johnston, 
 
 'N two frum th'army uv Hood; 
 One cripple thut fit with Dick Taylor, 
 
 But none that 'ith Kirby Smith stood. 
 Thank th' Lord! here's my ole frien' Jack Maddox 
 
 Pucs er thar jes' as squar 'za Journal, 
 Thet, sence he lef Appermattox, 
 
 He hasn't growed inter a Kernel! 
 
 Say Jack! I've jes tookened a trip 
 
 All erround at a heap uv expense; 
 An' the privates roster is nit, 
 
42 BILL JONES. 
 
 While the Ossifers roll is immense. 
 I called fer er show uv th'han's 
 
 In Marylan' my Marylan" 
 But I foun' the last private had gone; 
 
 There was nary a han', no nary a nan'. 
 
 9 I wen' down ter Fortress Monroe, 
 
 Then over ter ole Richmon' town; 
 Thar was nary a private \ef\ 
 
 But thet rus'y ole bummer, Tim Brown; 
 Yer may travil th 'rail-road kyeer 
 
 Frum Tampa ter ole Baltimo', 
 An' daggone it all Jack, I swar, 
 
 Not a private his noddle 'ud show. 
 
 10 I driv 'ith ole Spavin ter Tex, 
 
 I taurked 'ith both Yankee 'nRebel: 
 
 The privates hed passed'n ther checks, 
 'R as some sed 'bed gone ter the debbil.' 
 
 But 'n Marylan' V'ginny', Kyarerline, 
 'V kernuls thar crap wez immense; 
 
 Thar war twenty-seven thousan' an' nine 
 
 Er straddlin' stool, donkey'r fence. 
 
 il Thar air fellers what taurKs by the'our, 
 
 Over coffee'n lobsters'n chowder, 
 r V their valor, thair bravery 'n power, 
 
 Wen th'fack is they never smel't powder. 
 'Nwhite-livered scoundrels z'heap, 
 
 'Fa sentry hed tole 'em ter stan'! 
 'Nd hev runned like er passel'v sheep, 
 
 Air ther braves' men now'n th'lan'. 
 
 12 How off' I've bean maanin'n winkin' 
 
 Thet ther private soldiers'v Johns'n 
 7 N th'others whut fout agin Link'n 
 
 Hev dwin'ld ter fiy'r six doz'n. 
 An' 'tsfunny thet aurl'r foun' worthy 
 
 'V promotion erbove us ole stagers, 
 Fer we fin' thet young men less'n thirty, 
 
 'R'allready dubbed cap'ns an' majers. 
 
BILL JONES. 43 
 
 'N sometimes we fin' turbid souls 
 
 Eternally growlin' 'n furssin; 
 Jes' like us at one time seen big fools 
 
 Thet each thaurt he c'd whip harf'r dorzen 
 We hev wearily tramped o'er the road 
 
 Frum Richm'nter Charls'son 'n Cairo, 
 'N fer fightin'n marchin'n bile 
 
 They air welcome ter hev my full sheer, oh! 
 
 Jack M add ox, dear fren'v m 'heart, 
 
 I know doggone little 'bout flattery, 
 'N I see you hev changed a right smart 
 
 Sence we trained 'n ole Puwtermugs battery. 
 Huh! 'twas music then, sweet to our ears, 
 
 T'list to the shells dainty whistle; 
 'N'we fared through four wearisome years, 
 
 Many s the time 'na soup-bone 'rgristle. 
 
 'N ez'n due course uv events 
 
 Each galoot chap mus' pass'n his checks 
 Es he's borne ter ther rear frum th'tents; 
 
 Your turn, Jack'rmine may kum nex'. 
 But while we're permitted to live; 
 
 Whatever our rank, race or nation, 
 Let us pray the Great Father to give 
 
 Us hearts meet and fit for our station. 
 
 And, Maddox I often have thought, 
 
 Though we suffered and bled for the Gray, 
 That in casting the nations accounts, 
 
 It is well that our side lost the day. 
 And, though in our own heart of hearts 
 
 To Dixie we'll ever be true, 
 We will cherish our grand common land, 
 
 And live— aye! and die for the Blue." 
 
 z=gt 
 
44 BIANCA CAPELLO. 
 
 BIANCA CAPELLO. 
 
 A FRAGMENT OF A 16TH CENTURY TRAGEDY. 
 
 Act I — Scene 4 — (Room in Capello's palace.) 
 
 (Enter Bianea) Bianca — "Sold! like an ox that's for the 
 market gorged! Aye! sold! to minister to foul 
 corroding lust! 
 To populate the state, forsooth, ha! ha! (laughs) 
 With sickly progeny and cankering scrofula! 
 Must T? A scion of that race whose mighty prowess 
 In the long-gone days when Adria's isles, 
 Now crowned by lovely Venice, had slight coherence, 
 Unmarked by pile and colonnade, and where 
 The humble fisher craft, in tortuous course 
 Unchallenged passed where now the glorious pillar 
 Of Saint Mark defies the'mbattled world — bah! 
 What, then was Venice? AVhat, then,- the race 
 From which the merchant princes of today 
 Are proud to claim descent? What but a band 
 Of desperate ruffian thieves and outcasts foul, 
 Forced by an outraged people from the main, 
 And driven to shelter 'mid the rushes of the noisome 
 Rank lagoon? Patrician blood! indeed! 
 The finest strain that courses through the veins of 
 
 Araby 
 Is strengthened when 'tis mixed with Tartar blood 
 Inured to arduous exercise upon the steppes. 
 The golden tiara adorned with gems 
 That graces now the brow of England's queen 
 Was once a pirates treasure. 
 
 If fond tradition errs not, my own fierce nature 
 Is derived from Suabian loins unwilling lent 
 To bold patricians lust three generations gone. 
 Thence, taken by childless wife and claimed, forsooth, 
 To further ends of state and selfish policy, 
 And increased prestige give to name of Morosin. 
 Patrican blood! a farce! Guard kingly blood 
 With jealous care from plebian contact: What then 9 
 Do we not see a race dwarfed, imbecile, deformed, 
 A prey to vicious lusts, unbalanced, weak? 
 
BIANCA CAPELLO. 45 
 
 Without the aid of nobler intellects raised from the 
 
 masses, 
 The glorious fabric of the state would totter, 
 And law give place to chaos. Anarchy 
 With baleful hand would seize the reins of state, 
 And, in a wild ungoverned mood would dash 
 Like storm-driven bark upon a dangerous coast. 
 Patrician blood! It sickens me to note the stress 
 Laid on the accident of birth by those with whom 
 I am in daily contact thrown. To see the mass 
 Of books in libraries filled — filled, page on page, with 
 
 what? 
 The vilest trash forsooth: the pedigrees 
 Of purse-proud — pirates — if backward traced 
 To the paternal head. I will have none of them, 
 -Not 1. I will not mate with base voluptuous churl, 
 To bolster up a falling family, or minister to 
 Brutish ravening lust. Rather will I bestow my hand, 
 (And with my hand such fortune as by force or stealth 
 I can appropriate) on that young prentice Pietro, 
 Whose uncle lives in Florence. I faith! 
 He is a comely youth, and bold. 
 But yestere'en. upon the Grand Canal, 
 Did he not almost make me own my love, 
 When I, by strength of my patrician birth, 
 Would at a distance hold him? True. 
 I feel that I with Pietro could endure 
 The world's cold shoulder, brave its shrugs, its frowns, 
 And be to him a true and loyal wife. Aye, 
 Though e'en gaunt Penury with foul embrace 
 Should clasp me, and force me earn my bread 
 With vile, ungainly thrift; seaming my features 
 With furrowing lines of care and petty troubles; 
 Bending the plastic contour of my form 
 With unaccustomed toil, decked in 
 The tattered garb of dreary indigence. 
 I will be free. Patrician was I born, 
 And I with safe-guards appertaining to my sphere 
 Have been hedged round. Pride, caste, 
 The love of power inherent in mankind, 
 My own ambition (of which I have a vague imagining), 
 
46 "MY CAMBRIAN LASS JEAN 
 
 Parental love, the love of kindred, friends — 
 
 All, all should have due weight in my determining; 
 
 But free, wild, violent as was my Suabian ancestress, 
 
 I hale the very thought of slavery, though gilded 
 
 With the fairest pearls of Ind. My father tells me 
 
 That he has pledged my hand. My hand! To whom? 
 
 To one who is a libel on the name of man ; 
 
 Base, sensuous, sodden, ignorant, vile; 
 
 Devoid of all that raises man above the brute. 
 
 And I, perforce, must be the wife of such! Must drag 
 
 Life's lengthening chain tied to such incubus. 
 
 It must not be. Before high Heaven, 
 
 On bended knee, I vow that never, never will I, 
 
 A willing or unwilling bride be led to gratify 
 
 The lusts of such a vampire, bestial, brutish, gross. 
 
 Never, never. Tonight, beneath the shadow of Saint 
 
 Mark 
 I'll meet my lover and arrange our flight, 
 Bidding adieu to Venice. Where then? 
 To Tuscany where Pietro says he has an uncle 
 High in the duke's esteem, who will his influence invoke 
 Tojfavor us. Yet I am sad, am sad 
 At thought of leaving Venice, Queen of the seas, 
 Proud empress of the East. To bid adieu to home 
 And all that makes life glad, to leave thy Grand Canal 
 Thy watery, safe and noiseless streets 
 To tread the stony hills and paves of Florence, 
 Where, as to sailor from the seas returned, 
 The ground will seem unstable to my feet. 
 Down, tears! fie! fie! adieu,. adieu." (exit) 
 
 
 "MY CAMBRIAN LASS JEAN." 
 
 The songsters of Castile may boast of the charms 
 Of Spain's dark-haired passionate maids; 
 
 And Attican poets vow none can compare 
 With those of Olympian glades; 
 
 The Gaul may affirm that for beauty and grace 
 You must search by the waves of the Seine; 
 
 But there dwells not a maid in the universe wide 
 
"MY CAMBRIAN LASS JEAN." 47 
 
 That I love like my Cambrian lass Jean. 
 
 CHORUS. — 
 
 There is none like my Cambrian lass - T ean; 
 
 In my heart she reigneth supreme; 
 Oh! there dwells not a maid in the universe wide 
 
 To compare with my Cambrian lass Jean. 
 
 I have known many damsels, in various climes, 
 
 With features more faultlessly fair; 
 More polished in manner, more graceful in form, 
 
 And gifted with intellects rare. 
 
 No fortune has she nor blazon of birth, 
 
 Nor argent or golden sheen; 
 But soul-jewels lovely as pearls of the sea 
 
 Grace the brow of my Cambrian lass Jean. 
 
 chorus — 
 
 It may be the eyes of my Cambrian lass Jean 
 
 Do not scintillate, sparkle and shine, 
 Nor captivate lovers like those in the lands 
 
 Of the olive, the figtree and vine; 
 Less classic her profile, perchance, than the maids 
 
 On the banks of the sunny Egean; 
 But there's constancy, love, virtue, honor and truth 
 
 In the breast of my Cambrian lass Jean. 
 
 chorus — 
 
 No mixture has she of base alien blood — 
 
 Shemitic or Mongal strains; 
 Neither does the fierce blood of the desert 
 
 Course maddening through her veins. 
 Unlike the Sirrocco's scorching breath, 
 
 But placid and calm and serene 
 Like to a deep ocean current 
 
 Is the love of my Cambrian lass Jean. 
 
 chorus— 
 
 She dates not her lineage back to the days 
 
 When William with blood-reeking hands 
 Divided amongst his partisans 
 
 The stolen Saxon lands. 
 Titled blood may not course through my mountain 
 girls veins, 
 
 Yet in my heart she reigneth supreme, 
 And the heraldic page could not add one whit 
 
 To the charms of my Cambrian lass Jean. 
 chorus— 
 
48 mariar! mariar!! mariar!!! 
 
 MARIAR! MARIAR!! MARIAR!!! 
 
 BEING A PORTION OF A SERENADE DELIVERED BY MY 
 FRIEND THOMAS CATT ESQUIRE. 
 
 1 I have traversed the plains with an emigrant train; 
 
 Big Injuns I've slain by the score: 
 I have shot elk and moose on the Saskatchewan, 
 
 And seals on Alaska's cold shore; 
 I've been roused from my slumbers, on Neptunes 
 broad breast, 
 By the maddening cry of fire! 
 But this shocks my nerves more than all sounds 
 combined; 
 Mariar! Mariar! Mariar! 
 
 chorus — 
 
 Mariar! Mariar! Mariar! 
 
 Oh, list to my tuneful lyre; 
 There's no tune invented, by man so resented 
 
 As this chorus, Mariar! Mariar!! Sh 
 
 2 I have known cannon rattle and tear up the ground, 
 
 With twenty-two hundred weight loaded; 
 I have ridden a mile on a huge granite rock 
 
 When Altruria mountain exploded; 
 I heard Bill Stubbs howl as the toe of my boot 
 
 Drove him plump through a thicket of briar; 
 
 But there's naught like a T Cat that enters the 
 
 yard 
 
 And shrieks out Mariar! Mariar! 
 
 chorus— 
 
 3 A pig may squeal lustily under a gate; 
 
 A dog may howl loudly and long; 
 I bid them defiance and sleep soundly on 
 
 Through the din of a Japanese gong. 
 Loud thunders may peal, Big Injuns may squeal 
 
 Like when David of old slew Goliar; 
 But sleep quick dispels if a Thomas C yells 
 
 Mariar! Mariar! Mariar! 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 -t> 
 
 80- 18 
 
 1RRATA. 
 
 The fifth stanza of Sbiraz should read: 
 Judges, Prophets, Priests, Martyrs and Kings thou hasl 
 
 known ; 
 Saul, David and Solomon, kingly in glory; 
 Fair Sheba acknowledged the half was untold — 
 Land of the Orient famous in story. 
 
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