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diff --git a/36150-8.txt b/36150-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..06b5cee --- /dev/null +++ b/36150-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,3939 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Hoosier Lyrics, by Eugene Field + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Hoosier Lyrics + +Author: Eugene Field + +Release Date: May 18, 2011 [EBook #36150] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HOOSIER LYRICS *** + + + + +Produced by Juliet Sutherland, David E. Brown, and the +Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + + + + +[Illustration: Eugene Field] + + + + + HOOSIER + LYRICS + + BY + + EUGENE FIELD + + AUTHOR OF + THE CLINK OF THE ICE, JOHN SMITH, + U. S. A., IN WINK-A-WAY-LAND, ETC. + + M. A. DONOHUE & COMPANY + CHICAGO, ILL. + + + + + SELECTED WORKS _of_ EUGENE FIELD + + _Uniform with this volume_ + + The Clink of the Ice + Hoosier Lyrics + In Wink-a-Way Land + John Smith, U. S. A. + + _Four volumes, boxed, $3.00_ + + _Single volumes, 75 cents, postpaid_ + + M. A. DONOHUE & CO. + 701-727 S. DEARBORN ST. CHICAGO + + Copyright, 1905 + M. A. Donohue & Co. + + + + +INTRODUCTION. + + +From whatever point of view the character of Eugene Field is seen, +genius--rare and quaint presents itself in childlike simplicity. That he +was a poet of keen perception, of rare discrimination, all will admit. +He was a humorist as delicate and fanciful as Artemus Ward, Mark Twain, +Bill Nye, James Whitcomb Riley, Opie Read, or Bret Harte in their +happiest moods. Within him ran a poetic vein, capable of being worked in +any direction, and from which he could, at will, extract that which his +imagination saw and felt most. That he occasionally left the +child-world, in which he longed to linger, to wander among the older +children of men, where intuitively the hungry listener follows him into +his Temple of Mirth, all should rejoice, for those who knew him not, can +while away the moments imbibing the genius of his imagination in the +poetry and prose here presented. + +Though never possessing an intimate acquaintanceship with Field, owing +largely to the disparity in our ages, still there existed a bond of +friendliness that renders my good opinion of him in a measure +trustworthy. Born in the same city, both students in the same college, +engaged at various times in newspaper work both in St. Louis and +Chicago, residents of the same ward, with many mutual friends, it is not +surprising that I am able to say of him that "the world is better off +that he lived, not in gold and silver or precious jewels, but in the +bestowal of priceless truths, of which the possessor of this book +becomes a benefactor of no mean share of his estate." + +Every lover of Field, whether of the songs of childhood or the poems +that lend mirth to the out-pouring of his poetic nature, will welcome +this unique collection of his choicest wit and humor. + + CHARLES WALTER Brown. + +Chicago, January, 1905. + + + + +CONTENTS. + + + PAGE. + + Hoosier Lyrics Paraphrased 9 + + Gettin' On 14 + + Minnie Lee 16 + + Answer to Minnie Lee 17 + + Lizzie 18 + + Our Lady of the Mine 20 + + Penn-Yan Bill 25 + + Ed 31 + + How Salty Win Out 33 + + His Queen 36 + + Answer to His Queen 37 + + Alaskan Balladry--Skans in Love 38 + + The Biggest Fish 39 + + Bonnie Jim Campbell 42 + + Lyman, Frederick and Jim 44 + + A Wail 46 + + Clendenin's Lament 48 + + On the Wedding of G. C. 49 + + To G. C. 51 + + To Dr. F. W. R. 52 + + Horace's Ode to "Lydia" Roche 54 + + A Paraphrase, Circa 1715 56 + + A Paraphrase, Ostensibly by Dr. I. W. 57 + + Horace I., 27 58 + + Heine's "Widow or Daughter" 59 + + Horace II., 20 60 + + Horace's Spring Poem, Odes I., 4 62 + + Horace to Ligurine, Odes IV., 10 64 + + Horace on His Muscle, Epode VI. 65 + + Horace to Maecenas, Odes III., 29 66 + + Horace in Love Again, Epode XI. 68 + + "Good-By--God Bless You!" 70 + + Horace, Epode XIV. 72 + + Horace I., 23 74 + + A Paraphrase 75 + + A Paraphrase by Chaucer 76 + + Horace I., 5 77 + + Horace I., 20 78 + + Envoy 78 + + Horace II., 7 79 + + Horace I., 11 81 + + Horace I., 13 82 + + Horace IV., 1 83 + + Horace to His Patron 85 + + The "Ars Poetica" of Horace--XVIII. 87 + + Horace I., 34 88 + + Horace I., 33 89 + + The "Ars Poetica" of Horace I. 91 + + The Great Journalist in Spain 93 + + Reid, the Candidate 95 + + A Valentine 97 + + Kissing-Time 98 + + The Fifth of July 100 + + Picnic-Time 101 + + The Romance of a Watch 103 + + Our Baby 104 + + The Color that Suits Me Best 106 + + How to "Fill" 108 + + Politics in 1888 109 + + The Baseball Score 110 + + Chicago Newspaper Life 112 + + The Mighty West 114 + + April 116 + + Report of the Baseball Game 118 + + The Rose 120 + + Kansas City vs. Detroit 121 + + Me and Bilkammle 122 + + To the Detroit Baseball Club 124 + + A Ballad of Ancient Oaths 125 + + An Old Song Revised 128 + + The Grateful Patient 130 + + The Beginning and the End 131 + + Clare Market 133 + + Uncle Ephraim 135 + + Thirty-Nine 138 + + Horace I., 18 141 + + Three Rineland Drinking Songs 143 + + The Three Tailors 147 + + Morning Hymn 150 + + Doctors 151 + + Ben Apfelgarten 155 + + In Holland 158 + + + + +HOOSIER LYRICS PARAPHRASED. + + + + We've come from Indiany, five hundred miles or more, + Supposin' we wuz goin' to get the nominashin, shore; + For Col. New assured us (in that noospaper o' his) + That we cud hev the airth, if we'd only tend to biz. + But here we've been a-slavin' more like bosses than like men + To diskiver that the people do not hanker arter Ben; + It _is_ fur Jeems G. Blaine an' _not_ for Harrison they shout-- + And the gobble-uns 'el git us + Ef we + Don't + Watch + Out! + + * * * * * + + When I think of the fate that is waiting for Ben, + I pine for the peace of my childhood again; + I wish in my sorrow I could strip to the soul + And hop off once more in the old swimmin' hole! + + * * * * * + + The world is full of roses, and the roses full of dew + (Which is another word for soup) that drips for me and you. + + * * * * * + + "Little Benjy! Little Benjy!" chirps the robin in the tree; + "Little Benjy!" sighs the clover, "Little Benjy!" moans the bee; + "Little Benjy! Little Benjy!" murmurs John C. New, + A-stroking down the whiskers which the winds have whistled through. + + * * * * * + + Looks jest like his grampa, who's dead these many years-- + He wears the hat his grampa wore, pulled down below his ears; + We'd like to have him four years more, but if he cannot stay-- + Nothin' to say, good people; nothin' at all to say! + + * * * * * + + There, little Ben, don't cry! + They have busted your boom, I know; + And the second term + For which you squirm + Has gone where good niggers go! + But Blaine is safe, and the goose hangs high-- + There, little Ben, don't cry! + + * * * * * + + Mabbe we'll git even for this unexpected shock, + When the frost is on the pumpkin and the fodder's in the shock! + + * * * * * + + Oh, the newspaper man! He works for paw; + He's the liveliest critter 'at ever you saw; + With whiskers 'at reach f'om his eyes to his throat. + He knows how to wheedle and rivet a vote; + He wunst wuz a consul 'way over the sea-- + But never again a consul he'll be! + He come back f'om Lon'on one mornin' in May-- + He come back for bizness, an' here he will stay-- + Ain't he a awful slick newspaper man? + A newspaper, newspaper, newspaper man! + + * * * * * + + You kin talk about yer cities where the politicians meet-- + You kin talk about yer cities where a decent man gits beat; + With the general run o' human kind I beg to disagree-- + The little town of Tailholt is good enough f'r me! + + Chicago was a pleasant town in eighteen-eighty-eight, + And I have lived in Washington long time in splendid state; + But all the present prospects are that after ninety-three + The little town o' Tailholt 'll be good enough f'r me! + + * * * * * + + "I wunst lived in Indiany," said a consul, gaunt and grim, + As most of us Blaine delegates wuz kind o' guyin' him; + "I wunst lived in Indiany, and my views wuz widely read, + Fur I run a daily paper w'ich 'Lije Halford edited; + But since I've been away f'm home, my paper (seems to me) + Ain't nearly such a inflooence ez wot it used to be; + So, havin' done with consulin', I'm goin' to make a break + Towards making of a paper like the one I used to make." + + * * * * * + + Think, if you kin, of his term mos' through, + An' that ol' man wantin' a secon' term, too; + Picture him bendin' over the form + Of his consul-gineril, stanch an' grim, + Who has stood the brunt of that jimblain storm-- + An' that ol' man jest wrapt up in him! + An' the consul-gineril, with eyes all bleared + An' a haunted look in his ashen beard, + Kind o' gaspin' a feeble way-- + But soothed to hear the ol' man say + In a meaning tone (as one well may + When words are handy and ----'s to pay): + "Good-by, John; take care of yo'_self_!" + + + + +GETTIN' ON. + + + When I wuz somewhat younger, + I wuz reckoned purty gay-- + I had my fling at everything + In a rollickin', coltish way, + But times have strangely altered + Since sixty years ago-- + This age of steam an' things don't seem + Like the age I used to know, + Your modern innovations + Don't suit me, I confess, + As did the ways of the good ol' days-- + But I'm gettin' on, I guess. + + I set on the piazza + An' hitch around with the sun-- + Sometimes, mayhap, I take a nap, + Waitin' till school is done, + An' then I tell the children + The things I done in youth, + An' near as I can (as a venerable man) + I stick to the honest truth! + But the looks of them 'at listen + Seems sometimes to express + The remote idee that I'm gone--you see! + An' I am gettin' on, I guess. + + I get up in the mornin', + An' nothin' else to do, + Before the rest are up and dressed + I read the papers through; + I hang 'round with the women + All day an' hear 'em talk, + An' while they sew or knit I show + The baby how to walk; + An' somehow, I feel sorry + When they put away his dress + An' cut his curls ('cause they're like a girl's)-- + I'm gettin' on, I guess! + + Sometimes, with twilight round me, + I see (or seem to see) + A distant shore where friends of yore + Linger and watch for me; + Sometimes I've heered 'em callin' + So tenderlike 'nd low + That it almost seemed like a dream I dreamed, + Or an echo of long ago; + An' sometimes on my forehead + There falls a soft caress, + Or the touch of a hand--you understand-- + I'm gettin' on, I guess. + + + + +MINNIE LEE. + + +Writing from an Indiana town a young woman asks: "Is the enclosed poem +worth anything?" + +We find that the poem is as follows: + + She has left us, our own darling-- + And we never more shall see + Here on earth our dearly loved one-- + God has taken Minnie Lee. + + Her heart was full of goodness + And her face was fair to see + And her life was full of beauty-- + How we miss our Minnie Lee! + + But her work on earth is over + And her spirit now is free + She has gone to live in heaven-- + Shall we weep for Minnie Lee? + + Would we call our angel darling + Back again across the sea? + No! but sometime up in heaven + We will meet loved Minnie Lee. + + +To the question as to whether this poem is worth anything we chose to +answer in verse as follows: + + Sweet poetess, your poetry + Is bad as bad can be, + And yet we heartily deplore + The death of Minnie Lee. + + It would have pleased us better + If, in His wisdom, He + Had taken you, sweet poetess, + Instead of Minnie Lee. + + Your turn will come, however, + And swift and sure 'twill be + If you continue sending + Your rhymes on Minnie Lee. + + From this we hope you will gather + A dim surmise that we + Don't take much stock in poems + Concerning Minnie Lee. + + + + +LIZZIE. + + + I wonder ef all wimmin air + Like Lizzie is when we go out + To theaters an' concerts where + Is things the papers talk about. + Do other wimmin fret and stew + Like they wuz bein' crucified-- + Frettin' a show or a concert through, + With wonderin' ef the baby cried? + + Now Lizzie knows that gran'ma's there + To see that everything is right, + Yet Lizzie thinks that gran'ma's care + Ain't good enuf f'r baby, quite; + Yet what am I to answer when + She kind uv fidgets at my side, + An' every now and then; + "I wonder ef the baby cried?" + + Seems like she seen two little eyes + A-pinin' f'r their mother's smile-- + Seems like she heern the pleadin' cries + Uv one she thinks uv all the while; + An' she's sorry that she come, + 'An' though she allus tries to hide + The truth, she'd ruther stay to hum + Than wonder ef the baby cried. + + Yes, wimmin folks is all alike-- + By Lizzie you kin jedge the rest. + There never was a little tyke, + But that his mother loved him best, + And nex' to bein' what I be-- + The husband of my gentle bride-- + I'd wisht I wuz that croodlin' wee, + With Lizzie wonderin' ef I cried. + + + + +OUR LADY OF THE MINE. + + + The Blue Horizon wuz a mine us fellers all thought well uv, + And there befell the episode I now perpose to tell uv; + 'Twuz in the year of sixty-nine--somewhere along in summer-- + There hove in sight one afternoon a new and curious comer; + His name wuz Silas Pettibone--an artist by perfession, + With a kit of tools and a big mustache and a pipe in his possession; + He told us, by our leave, he'd kind uv like to make some sketches + Uv the snowy peaks, 'nd the foamin' crick, 'nd the distant mountain + stretches; + "You're welkim, sir," sez we, although this scenery dodge seemed to us + A waste uv time where scenery wuz already sooper-_floo_-us. + + All through the summer Pettibone kep' busy at his sketchin'-- + At daybreak, off for Eagle Pass, and home at nightfall, fetchin' + That everlastin' book uv his with spider lines all through it-- + Three-Fingered Hoover used to say there warn't no meanin' to it-- + "God durn a man," sez he to him, "whose shif'less hand is sot at + A-drawin' hills that's full of quartz that's pinin' to be got at!" + "Go on," sez Pettibone, "go on, if joshin' gratifies ye, + But one uv these fine times, I'll show ye sumthin' will surprise ye!" + The which remark led us to think--although he didn't say it-- + That Pettibone wuz owin' us a gredge 'nd meant to pay it. + + One evenin' as we sat around the restauraw de Casey, + A-singin' songs 'nd tellin' yarns the which wuz sumwhat racy, + In come that feller Pettibone 'nd sez: "With your permission + I'd like to put a picture I have made on exhibition." + He sot the picture on the bar 'nd drew aside its curtain, + Sayin': "I recken you'll allow as how _that's_ art, f'r certain!" + And then we looked, with jaws agape, but nary word wuz spoken, + And f'r a likely spell the charm uv silence wuz unbroken-- + Till presently, as in a dream, remarked Three-Fingered Hoover: + "Onless I am mistaken, this is Pettibone's shef doover!" + It wuz a face, a human face--a woman's, fair 'nd tender, + Sot gracefully upon a neck white as a swan's, and slender; + The hair wuz kind of sunny, 'nd the eyes wuz sort uv dreamy, + The mouth wuz half a-smilin', 'nd the cheeks wuz soft 'nd creamy; + It seemed like she wuz lookin' off into the west out yonder, + And seemed like, while she looked, we saw her eyes grow softer, + fonder-- + Like, lookin' off into the west where mountain mists wuz fallin', + She saw the face she longed to see and heerd his voice a-callin'; + "Hooray!" we cried; "a woman in the camp uv Blue Horizon-- + Step right up, Colonel Pettibone, 'nd nominate your pizen!" + + A curious situation--one deservin' uv your pity-- + No human, livin' female thing this side of Denver City! + But jest a lot uv husky men that lived on sand 'nd bitters-- + Do you wonder that that woman's face consoled the lonesome critters? + And not a one but what it served in some way to remind him + Of a mother or a sister or a sweetheart left behind him-- + And some looked back on happier days and saw the old-time faces + And heerd the dear familiar sounds in old familiar places-- + A gracious touch of home--"Look here," sez Hoover, "ever'body + Quit thinkin' 'nd perceed at oncet to name his favorite toddy!" + + It wuzn't long afore the news had spread the country over, + And miners come a-flockin' in like honey bees to clover; + It kind uv did 'em good they said, to feast their hungry eyes on + That picture uv Our Lady in the camp uv Blue Horizon. + But one mean cuss from Nigger Crick passed criticisms on 'er-- + Leastwise we overheerd him call her Pettibone's madonner, + The which we did not take to be respectful to a lady-- + So we hung him in a quiet spot that wuz cool 'nd dry 'nd shady; + Which same might not have been good law, but it _wuz_ the right + maneuver + To give the critics due respect for Pettibone's shef doover. + + Gone is the camp--yes, years ago, the Blue Horizon busted, + And every mother's son uv us got up one day 'nd dusted, + While Pettibone perceeded east with wealth in his possession + And went to Yurrup, as I heerd, to study his perfession; + So, like as not, you'll find him now a-paintin' heads 'nd faces + At Venus, Billy Florence and the like I-talyun places-- + But no such face he'll paint again as at old Blue Horizon, + For I'll allow no sweeter face no human soul sot eyes on; + And when the critics talk so grand uv Paris 'nd the loover, + I say: "Oh, but you orter seen the Pettibone shef doover!" + + + + +PENN-YAN BILL. + + + I. + + In gallus old Kentucky, where the grass is very blue, + Where the liquor is the smoothest and the girls are fair and true, + Where the crop of he-gawd gentlemen is full of heart and sand, + And the stock of four-time winners is the finest in the land; + Where the democratic party in bourbon hardihood + For more than half a century unterrified has stood, + Where nod the black-eyed Susans to the prattle of the rill-- + There--there befell the wooing of Penn-Yan Bill. + + + II. + + Down yonder in the cottage that is nestling in the shade + Of the walnut trees that seem to love that quiet little glade + Abides a pretty maiden of the bonny name of Sue-- + As pretty as the black-eyed flow'rs and quite as modest, too; + And lovers came there by the score, of every age and kind, + But not a one (the story goes) was quite to Susie's mind. + Their sighs, their protestations, and their pleadings made her ill-- + Till at once upon the scene hove Penn-Yan Bill. + + + III. + + He came from old Montana and he rode a broncho mare, + He had a rather howd'y'do and rough-and-tumble air; + His trousers were of buckskin and his coat of furry stuff-- + His hat was drab of color and its brim was wide enough; + Upon each leg a stalwart boot reached just above the knee, + And in the belt about his waist his weepons carried he; + A rather strapping lover for our little Susie--still, + _She_ was _his_ choice and _he_ was _hers_, was Penn-Yan Bill. + + + IV. + + We wonder that the ivy seeks out the oaken tree, + And twines her tendrils round him, though scarred and gnarled he be; + We wonder that a gentle girl, unused to worldly cares, + Should choose a man whose life has been a constant scrap with bears; + Ah, 'tis the nature of the vine, and of the maiden, too-- + So when the bold Montana boy came from his lair to woo, + The fair Kentucky blossom felt all her heartstrings thrill + Responsive to the purring of Penn-Yan Bill. + + + V. + + He told her of his cabin in the mountains far away, + Of the catamount that howls by night, the wolf that yawps by day; + He told her of the grizzly with the automatic jaw, + He told her of the Injun who devours his victims raw; + Of the jayhawk with his tawdry crest and whiskers in his throat, + Of the great gosh-awful sarpent and the Rocky mountain goat. + A book as big as Shakespeare's or as Webster's you could fill + With the yarns that emanated from Penn-Yan Bill! + + + VI. + + Lo, as these mighty prodigies the westerner relates, + Her pretty mouth falls wide agape--her eyes get big as plates; + And when he speaks of varmints that in the Rockies grow + She shudders and she clings to him and timidly cries "Oh!" + And then says he: "Dear Susie, I'll tell you what to do-- + You be my wife, and none of these 'ere things dare pester you!" + And she? She answers, clinging close and trembling yet: "I will." + And then he gives her one big kiss, does Penn-Yan Bill. + + + VII. + + Avaunt, ye poet lovers, with your wishywashy lays! + Avaunt, ye solemn pedants, with your musty, bookish ways! + Avaunt, ye smurking dandies who air your etiquette + Upon the gold your fathers worked so long and hard to get! + How empty is your nothingness beside the sturdy tales + Which mountaineers delight to tell of border hills and vales-- + Of snaix that crawl, of beasts that yowl, of birds that flap and trill + In the wild egregious altitude of Penn-Yan Bill. + + + VIII. + + Why, over all these mountain peaks his honest feet have trod-- + So high above the rest of us he seemed to walk with God; + He's breathed the breath of heaven, as it floated, pure and free, + From the everlasting snow-caps to the mighty western sea; + And he's heard that awful silence which thunders in the ear: + "There is a great Jehovah, and His biding place is here!" + These--these solemn voices and these the sights that thrill + In the far-away Montana of Penn-Yan Bill. + + + IX. + + Of course she had to love him, for it was her nature to; + And she'll wed him in the summer, if all we hear be true. + The blue grass will be waving in that cool Kentucky glade + Where the black-eyed Susans cluster in the pleasant walnut shade-- + Where the doves make mournful music and the locust trills a song + To the brook that through the pasture scampers merrily along; + And speechless pride and rapture ineffable shall fill + The beatific bosom of Penn-Yan Bill! + + + + +ED. + + + Ed was a man that played for keeps, 'nd when he tuk the notion, + You cudn't stop him any more'n a dam 'ud stop the ocean; + For when he tackled to a thing 'nd sot his mind plum to it, + You bet yer boots he done that thing though it broke the bank to do + it! + So all us boys uz knowed him best allowed he wusn't jokin' + When on a Sunday he remarked uz how he'd gin up smokin'. + Now this remark, that Ed let fall, fell, ez I say, on Sunday-- + Which is the reason we wuz shocked to see him sail in Monday + A-puffin' at a snipe that sizzled like a Chinese cracker + An' smelt fur all the world like rags instead uv like terbacker; + Recoverin' from our first surprise, us fellows fell to pokin' + A heap uv fun at "folks uz said how they had gin up smokin'." + But Ed--sez he: "I found my work cud not be done without it-- + Jes' try the scheme yourself, my friends, ef any uv you doubt it! + It's hard, I know, upon one's health, but there's a certain beauty + In makin' sackerfices to the stern demand uv duty! + So, wholly in a sperrit uv denial 'nd concession + I mortify the flesh 'nd fur the sake uv my perfession!" + + + + +HOW SALTY WIN OUT. + + + Used to think that luck wuz luck and nuthin' else but luck-- + It made no diff'rence how or when or where or why it struck; + But sev'ral years ago I changt my mind and now proclaim + That luck's a kind uv science--same as any other game; + It happened out in Denver in the spring uv '80, when + Salty teched a humpback an' win out ten. + + Salty wuz a printer in the good ol' Tribune days, + An', natural-like, he fell in love with the good ol' Tribune ways; + So, every Sunday evenin' he would sit into the game + Which in this crowd uv thoroughbreds I think I need not name; + An' there he'd sit until he rose, an', when he rose he wore + Invariably less wealth about his person than before. + + But once there come a powerful change; one sollum Sunday night + Occurred the tidle wave what put ol' Salty out o' sight! + He win on deuce an' ace an' jack--he win on king an' queen-- + Cliff Bill allowed the like uv how he win wuz never seen! + An' how he done it wuz revealed to all us fellers when + He said he teched a humpback to win out ten. + + There must be somethin' in it for he never win afore, + An' when he tole the crowd about the humpback, how they swore! + For every sport allows it is a losin' game to buck + Agin the science of a man who's teched a hump f'r luck; + An' there is no denyin' luck was nowhere in it when + Salty teched a humpback an' win out ten. + + I've had queer dreams an' seen queer things, an' allus tried to do + The thing that luck apparrently intended f'r me to; + Cats, funerils, cripples, beggars have I treated with regard, + An' charity subscriptions have hit me powerful hard; + But what's the use uv talkin'? I say, an' say again; + You've got to tech a humpback to win out ten! + + So, though I used to think that luck wuz lucky, I'll allow + That luck, for luck, agin a hump ain't nowhere in it now! + An' though I can't explain the whys an' wherefores, I maintain + There must be somethin' in it when the tip's so straight an' plain; + For I wuz there an' seen it, an' got full with Salty when + Salty teched a humpback and win out ten! + + + + +HIS QUEEN. + + +Our gifted and genial friend, Mr. William J. Florence, the comedian, +takes to verses as naturally as a canvas-back duck takes to celery +sauce. As a balladist he has few equals and no superiors, and when it +comes to weaving compliments to the gentler sex he is without a peer. We +find in the New York Mirror the latest verses from Mr. Florence's pen; +they are entitled "Pasadene," and the first stanza flows in this wise: + + I've journeyed East, I've journeyed West, + And fair Italia's fields I've seen; + But I declare + None can compare + With thee, my rose-crowned Pasadene. + +Following this introduction come five stanzas heaping even more glowing +compliments upon this Miss Pasadene--whoever she may be--we know her +not. They are handsome compliments, beautifully phrased, yet they give +us the heartache, for we know Mrs. Florence, and it grieves us to see +her husband dribbling away his superb intellect in penning verses to +other women. Yet we think we understand it all; these poets have a +pretty way of hymning the virtues of their wives under divers aliases. +So, catching the afflatus of the genial actor-poet's muse, we would +answer: + + Come, now, who is this Pasadene + That such a whirl of praises warrant? + And is a rose + Her only clo'es? + Oh, fie upon you, Billy Florence! + + Ah, no; that's your poetic way + Of turning loose your rhythmic torrents-- + This Pasadene + Is not your queen-- + We know you know we know it, Florence! + + So sing your songs of women folks-- + We'll read without the least abhorrence, + Because we know + Through weal and woe + Your queen is Mrs. Billy Florence! + + + + +ALASKAN BALLADRY.--III. + +(Skans in Love.) + + + I am like the wretched seal + Wounded by a barbed device-- + Helpless fellow! how I bellow, + Floundering on the jagged ice! + + Sitka's beauty is the steel + That hath wrought this piteous woe: + Yet would I rather die + Than recover from the blow! + + Still I'd rather live than die, + Grievous though my torment be; + Smite away, but, I pray, + Smite no victim else than me! + + + + +THE BIGGEST FISH. + + + When, in the halcyon days of old, I was a little tyke, + I used to fish in pickerel ponds for minnows and the like; + And, oh, the bitter sadness with which my soul was fraught + When I rambled home at nightfall with the puny string I'd caught! + And, oh, the indignation and the valor I'd display + When I claimed that all the biggest fish I'd caught had got away! + + Sometimes it was the rusty hooks, sometimes the fragile lines, + And many times the treacherous reeds were actually to blame. + I kept right on at losing all the monsters just the same-- + I never lost a _little_ fish--yes, I am free to say + It always was the _biggest_ fish I caught that got away. + And so it was, when, later on, I felt ambition pass + From callow minnow joys to nobler greed for pike and bass; + I found it quite convenient, when the beauties wouldn't bite + And I returned all bootless from the watery chase at night, + To feign a cheery aspect and recount in accents gay + How the biggest fish that I had caught had somehow got away. + + And, really, fish look bigger than they are before they're caught-- + When the pole is bent into a bow and the slender line is taut, + When a fellow feels his heart rise up like a doughnut in his throat + And he lunges in a frenzy up and down the leaky boat! + Oh, you who've been a-fishing will indorse me when I say + That it always _is_ the biggest fish you catch that gets away! + + 'Tis even so in other things--yes, in our greedy eyes + The biggest boon is some elusive, never-captured prize; + We angle for the honors and the sweets of human life-- + Like fishermen we brave the seas that roll in endless strife; + And then at last, when all is done and we are spent and gray, + We own the biggest fish we've caught are those that get away. + + I would not have it otherwise; 'tis better there should be + Much bigger fish than I have caught a-swimming in the sea; + For now some worthier one than I may angle for that game-- + May by his arts entice, entrap, and comprehend the same; + Which, having done, perchance he'll bless the man who's proud to say + That the biggest fish he ever caught were those that got away. + + + + +BONNIE JIM CAMPBELL: A LEGISLATIVE MEMORY. + + + Bonnie Jim Campbell rode up the glen, + But it wasn't to meet the butterine men; + It wasn't Phil Armour he wanted to see, + Nor Haines nor Crafts--though their friend was he. + Jim Campbell was guileless as man could be-- + No fraud in his heart had he; + 'Twas all on account of his character's sake + That he sought that distant Wisconsin lake. + + * * * * * + + Bonnie Jim Campbell came riding home, + And now he sits in the rural gloam; + A tear steals furtively down his nose + As salt as the river that yonder flows; + To the setting sun and the rising moon + He plaintively warbles the good old tune: + + "Of all the drinks that ever were made-- + From sherbet to circus lemonade-- + Not one's so healthy and sweet, I vow, + As the rich, thick cream of the Elgin cow! + Oh, that she were here to enliven the scene, + Right merry would be our hearts, I ween; + Then, then again, Bob Wilbanks and I + Would take it by turns and milk her dry! + We would stuff her paunch with the best of hay + And milk her a hundred times a day!" + + 'Tis thus that Bonnie Jim Campbell sings-- + A young he-angel with sprouting wings; + He sings and he prays that Fate'll allow + Him one more whack at the Elgin cow! + + + + +LYMAN, FREDERICK AND JIM. + + + Lyman and Frederick and Jim, one day, + Set out in a great big ship-- + Steamed to the ocean down to the bay + Out of a New York slip. + "Where are you going and what is your game?" + The people asked to those three. + "Darned, if we know; but all the same + Happy as larks are we; + And happier still we're going to be!" + Said Lyman + And Frederick + And Jim. + + The people laughed "Aha, oho! + Oho, aha!" laughed they; + And while those three went sailing so + Some pirates steered that way. + The pirates they were laughing, too-- + The prospect made them glad; + But by the time the job was through + Each of them pirates bold and bad, + Had been done out of all he had + By Lyman + And Frederick + And Jim. + + Days and weeks and months they sped, + Painting that foreign clime + A beautiful, bright vermillion red-- + And having a -- of a time! + 'Twas all so gaudy a lark, it seemed, + As if it could not be, + And some folks thought it a dream they dreamed + Of sailing that foreign sea, + But I'll identify you these three-- + Lyman + And Frederick + And Jim. + + Lyman and Frederick are bankers and sich + And Jim is an editor kind; + The first two named are awfully rich + And Jim ain't far behind! + So keep your eyes open and mind your tricks, + Or you are like to be + In quite as much of a Tartar fix + As the pirates that sailed the sea + And monkeyed with the pardners three, + Lyman + And Frederick + And Jim. + + + + +A WAIL. + + + My name is Col. Johncey New, + And by a hoosier's grace + I have congenial work to do + At 12 St. Helen's place. + I was as happy as a clam + A-floating with the tide, + Till one day came a cablegram + To me from t'other side. + + It was a Macedonian cry + From Benjy o'er the sea; + "Come hither, Johncey, instantly, + And whoop things up for me!" + I could not turn a callous ear + Unto that piteous cry; + I packed my grip, and for the pier + Directly started I. + + Alas! things are not half so fair + As four short years ago-- + The clouds are gathering everywhere + And boisterous breezes blow; + My wilted whiskers indicate + The depth of my disgrace-- + Would I were back, enthroned in state, + At 12 St. Helen's place! + + The saddest words, as I'll allow, + That drop from tongue or pen, + Are these sad words I utter now: + "They can't, shan't, won't have Ben!" + So, with my whiskers in my hands, + My journey I'll retrace, + To wreak revenge on foreign lands + At 12 St. Helen's place. + + + + +CLENDENIN'S LAMENT. + + + While bridal knots are being tied + And bridal meats are being basted, + I shiver in the cold outside + And pine for joys I've never tasted. + + Oh, what's a nomination worth, + When you have labored months to get it + If, all at once, with heartless mirth, + The cruel senator's upset it? + + Fate weaves me such a toilsome way, + My modest wisdom may not ken it-- + But, all the same, a plague I say + Upon that stingy, hostile senate! + + + + +ON THE WEDDING OF G. C. + +(June 2, 1886.) + + + Oh, hand me down my spike tail coat + And reef my waistband in, + And tie this necktie round my throat + And fix my bosom pin; + I feel so weak and flustered like, + I don't know what I say-- + For I am to be wedded to-day, Dan'l, + I'm to be wedded to-day! + + Put double sentries at the doors + And pull the curtains down, + And tell the democratic bores + That I am out of town; + It's funny folks haint decency + Enough to stay away, + When I'm to be wedded to-day, Dan'l, + I'm to be wedded to-day! + + The bride, you say, is calm and cool + In satin robes of white-- + Well, _I_ am stolid, as a rule, + But now I'm flustered quite; + Upon a surging sea of bliss + My soul is borne away, + For I'm to be wedded to-day, Dan'l, + I'm to be wedded to-day! + + + + +TO G. C. + +(July 12, 1886.) + + + They say our president has stuck + Above his good wife's door + The sign provocative of luck-- + A horseshoe--nothing more. + + Be hushed, O party hates, the while + That emblem lingers there, + And thou, dear fates, propitious smile + Upon the wedded pair. + + I've tried the horseshoe's weird intent + And felt its potent joy-- + God bless you, Mr. President, + And may it be a boy. + + + + +TO DR. F. W. R. + + + If I were rich enough to buy + A case of wine (though I abhor it), + I'd send a quart of extra dry + And willingly get trusted for it. + But, lackaday! _You_ know that I'm + As poor as Job's historic turkey-- + In lieu of Mumm, accept this rhyme, + An honest gift though somewhat jerky. + + This is your silver wedding day-- + You didn't mean to let me know it! + And yet your smiles and raiments gay + Beyond all peradventure show it! + By all you say and do it's clear + A birdling in your heart is singing, + And everywhere you go you hear + The old-time bridal bells a-ringing. + + Ah, well, God grant that these dear chimes + May mind you of the sweetness only + Of those far distant, callow times + When you were Benedick and lonely-- + And when an angel blessed your lot-- + For angel is your helpmeet, truly-- + And when, to share the joy she brought, + Came other little angels, duly. + + So here's a health to you and wife-- + Long may you mock the Reaper's warning, + And may the evening of your life + In rising sons renew the morning; + May happiness and peace and love + Come with each morrow to caress ye, + And when you're done with earth, above-- + God bless ye, dear old friend--God bless ye! + + + + +HORACE'S ODE TO "LYDIA" ROCHE. + + + No longer the boys, + With their music and noise, + Demand your election as mayor; + Such a milk-wagon hack + Has no place on the track + When his rival's a thoroughbred stayer. + + With your coarse, shallow wit + Every rational cit + At last is completely disgusted; + The tool of the rings, + Trusts, barons, and things, + What wonder, I wonder, you're busted! + + As soon as that Yerkes + Finds out you can't work his + Intrigues for the popular nickel, + With a tear to deceive you + He'll drop you and leave you + In your normal condition--a pickle. + + Go, dodderer, go + Where the whisker winds blow + And spasms of penitence trouble; + Or flounder and whoop + In an ocean of soup + Where the pills of adversity bubble. + + + + +A PARAPHRASE, CIRCA 1715. + + + Since Chloe is so monstrous fair, + With such an eye and such an air, + What wonder that the world complains + When she each am'rous suit disdains? + + Close to her mother's side she clings + And mocks the death her folly brings + To gentle swains that feel the smarts + Her eyes inflict upon their hearts. + + Whilst thus the years of youth go by, + Shall Colin languish, Strephon die? + Nay, cruel nymph! come, choose a mate, + And choose him ere it be too late! + + + + +A PARAPHRASE, OSTENSIBLY BY DR. I. W. + + + Why, Mistress Chloe, do you bother + With prattlings and with vain ado + Your worthy and industrious mother, + Eschewing them that come to woo? + + Oh, that the awful truth might quicken + This stern conviction to your breast: + You are no longer now a chicken + Too young to quit the parent nest. + + So put aside your froward carriage + And fix your thoughts, whilst yet there's time, + Upon the righteousness of marriage + With some such godly man as I'm. + + + + +HORACE I, 27. + + + In maudlin spite let Thracians fight + Above their bowls of liquor, + But such as we, when on a spree, + Should never bawl and bicker! + + These angry words and clashing swords + Are quite de trop, I'm thinking; + Brace up, my boys, and hush your noise, + And drown your wrath in drinking. + + Aha, 'tis fine--this mellow wine + With which our host would dope us! + Now let us hear what pretty dear + Entangles him of Opus. + + I see you blush--nay, comrades, hush! + Come, friend, though they despise you, + Tell me the name of that fair dame-- + Perchance I may advise you. + + O wretched youth! and is it truth + You love that fickle lady? + I, doting dunce, courted her once, + And she is reckoned shady! + + + + +HEINE'S "WIDOW OR DAUGHTER." + + + Shall I woo the one or the other? + Both attract me--more's the pity! + Pretty is the widowed mother, + And the daughter, too, is pretty. + + When I see that maiden shrinking, + By the gods, I swear I'll get 'er! + But, anon, I fall to thinking + That the mother'll suit me better! + + So, like any idiot ass-- + Hungry for the fragrant fodder, + Placed between two bales of grass, + Lo, I doubt, delay, and dodder! + + + + +HORACE II, 20. + + + Maecenas, I propose to fly + To realms beyond these human portals; + No common things shall be my wings, + But such as sprout upon immortals. + + Of lowly birth, once shed of earth, + Your Horace, precious (so you've told him), + Shall soar away--no tomb of clay + Nor Stygian prison house shall hold him. + + Upon my skin feathers begin + To warn the songster of his fleeting; + But never mind--I leave behind + Songs all the world shall keep repeating. + + Lo, Boston girls with corkscrew curls, + And husky westerns, wild and woolly, + And southern climes shall vaunt my rhymes-- + And all profess to know me fully. + + Methinks the west shall know me best + And therefore hold my memory dearer, + For by that lake a bard shall make + My subtle, hidden meanings clearer. + + So cherished, I shall never die-- + Pray, therefore, spare your dolesome praises, + Your elegies and plaintive cries, + For I shall fertilize no daisies! + + + + +HORACE'S SPRING POEM. + +(Odes I, 4.) + + + The western breeze is springing up, the ships are in the bay, + And Spring has brought a happy change as Winter melts away; + No more in stall or fire the herd or plowman finds delight, + No longer with the biting frosts the open fields are white. + + Our Lady of Lythera now prepares to lead the dance, + While from above the ruddy moon bestows a friendly glance; + The nymphs and comely Graces join with Venus and the choir, + And Vulcan's glowing fancy lightly turns to thoughts of fire. + + Now is the time with myrtle green to crown the shining pate, + And with the early blossoms of the spring to decorate; + To sacrifice to Faunus--on whose favor we rely-- + A sprightly lamb, mayhap a kid, as he may specify. + + Impartially the feet of Death at huts and castles strike-- + The influenza carries off the rich and poor alike; + O Sestius! though blest you are beyond the common run, + Life is too short to cherish e'en a distant hope begun. + + The Shades and Pluto's mansion follow hard upon la grippe-- + Once there you cannot throw at dice or taste the wine you sip, + Nor look on Lycidas, whose beauty you commend, + To whom the girls will presently their courtesies extend. + + + + +HORACE TO LIGURINE. + +(Odes IV, 10.) + + + O cruel fair, + Whose flowing hair + The envy and the pride of all is, + As onward roll + The years, that poll + Will get as bald as a billiard ball is; + Then shall your skin, now pink and dimply, + Be tanned to parchment, sear and pimply! + + When you behold + Yourself grown old + These words shall speak your spirits moody: + "Unhappy one! + What heaps of fun + I've missed by being goody-goody! + Oh! that I might have felt the hunger + Of loveless age when I was younger!" + + + + +HORACE ON HIS MUSCLE. + +(Epode VI.) + + + You (blatant coward that you are!) + Upon the helpless vent your spite; + Suppose you ply your trade on me-- + Come, monkey with this bard and see + How I'll repay your bark with bite! + + Ay, snarl just once at me, you brute! + And I shall hound you far and wide, + As fiercely as through drifted snow + The shepherd dog pursues what foe + Skulks on the Spartan mountain side! + + The chip is on my shoulder, see? + But touch it and I'll raise your fur; + I'm full of business; so beware, + For, though I'm loaded up for bear, + I'm quite as likely to kill a cur! + + + + +HORACE TO MAECENAS. + +(Odes III, 29.) + + + Dear noble friend! a virgin cask + Of wine solicits attention-- + And roses fair, to deck your hair, + And things too numerous to mention, + So tear yourself awhile away + From urban turmoil, pride and splendor + And deign to share what humble fare + And sumptuous fellowship I tender; + The sweet content retirement brings + Smoothes out the ruffled front of kings. + + The evil planets have combined + To make the weather hot and hotter-- + By parboiled streams the shepherd dreams + Vainly of ice-cream soda-water; + And meanwhile you, defying heat, + With patriotic ardor ponder + On what old Rome essays at home + And what her heathen do out yonder. + Maecenas, no such vain alarm + Disturbs the quiet of this farm! + + God in his providence observes + The goal beyond this vale of sorrow, + And smiles at men in pity when + They seek to penetrate the morrow. + With faith that all is for the best, + Let's bear what burdens are presented, + That we shall say, let come what may, + "We die, as we have lived, contented! + Ours is to-day; God's is the rest-- + He doth ordain who knoweth best!" + + Dame Fortune plays me many a prank-- + When she is kind, oh! how I go it! + But if, again, she's harsh, why, then + I am a very proper poet! + When favoring gales bring in my ships, + I hie to Rome and live in clover-- + Elsewise, I steer my skiff out here, + And anchor till the storm blows over. + Compulsory virtue is the charm + Of life upon the Sabine farm! + + + + +HORACE IN LOVE AGAIN. + +(Epode XI.) + + + Dear Pettius, once I reeled off rhyme + Satiric, sad and tender, + But now my quill + Has lost its skill + And I am dying in my prime + Through love of female gender! + Nay, do not laugh + Nor deign to chaff + Your friend with taunts of Lyde + And other dames + Who've been my flames-- + _This_ time it's bona-fide! + + I maunder sadly to and fro-- + I who was once so jolly! + My old time chums + Gyrate their thumbs + And taunt me, as I sighing go, + With what they term my folly. + I told you once, + Lake a garrulous dunce, + Of my all consuming passion, + And I rolled my eyes + In tragedy wise + And raved in lovesick fashion. + + And when I'd aired my woes profound + You volunteered this warning: + "Horace, go light + On the bowl to-night-- + Ten hours of sleep will bring you round + All right to-morrow morning!" + Now ten hours sleep + May do a heap + For callow hearts a-patter, + But I tell you, sir, + This affair du coeur + Of _mine_ is a serious matter! + + + + +"GOOD-BY--GOD BLESS YOU!" + + + I like the Anglo-Saxon speech + With its direct revealings-- + It takes a hold and seems to reach + Way down into your feelings; + That some folk deem it rude, I know, + And therefore they abuse it; + But I have never found it so-- + Before all else I choose it. + I don't object that men should air + The Gallic they have paid for-- + With "au revoir," "adieu, ma chere"-- + For that's what French was made for-- + But when a crony takes your hand + At parting to address you, + He drops all foreign lingo and + He says: "Good-by--God bless you!" + + This seems to me a sacred phrase + With reverence impassioned-- + A thing come down from righteous days, + Quaintly but nobly fashioned; + It well becomes an honest face-- + A voice that's round and cheerful; + It stays the sturdy in his place + And soothes the weak and fearful. + Into the porches of the ears + It steals with subtle unction + And in your heart of hearts appears + To work its gracious function; + And all day long with pleasing song + It lingers to caress you-- + I'm sure no human heart goes wrong + That's told "Good-by--God bless you!" + + I love the words--perhaps because, + When I was leaving mother, + Standing at last in solemn pause + We looked at one another, + And--I saw in mother's eyes + The love she could not tell me-- + A love eternal as the skies, + Whatever fate befell me; + She put her arms about my neck + And soothed the pain of leaving, + And, though her heart was like to break, + She spoke no word of grieving; + She let no tear bedim her eye, + For fear _that_ might distress me, + But, kissing me, she said good-by + And asked her God to bless me. + + + + +HORACE. + +(Epode XIV.) + + + You ask me, friend, + Why I don't send + The long since due-and-paid-for numbers-- + Why, songless, I + As drunken lie + Abandoned to Lethæan slumbers. + + Long time ago + (As well you know) + I started in upon that carmen; + My work was vain-- + But why complain? + When gods forbid, how helpless are men! + + Some ages back, + The sage Anack + Courted a frisky Samian body, + Singing her praise + In metered phrase + As flowing as his bowls of toddy. + + 'Till I was hoarse + Might I discourse + Upon the cruelties of Venus-- + 'Twere waste of time + As well of rhyme, + For you've been there yourself, Maecenas! + + Perfect your bliss, + If some fair miss + Love you yourself and _not_ your minæ; + I, fortune's sport, + All vainly court + The beauteous, polyandrous Phryne! + + + + +HORACE I, 23. + + + Chloe, you shun me like a hind + That, seeking vainly for her mother, + Hears danger in each breath of wind + And wildly darts this way and t'other. + + Whether the breezes sway the wood + Or lizards scuttle through the brambles, + She starts, and off, as though pursued, + The foolish, frightened creature scrambles. + + But, Chloe, you're no infant thing + That should esteem a man an ogre-- + Let go your mother's apron-string + And pin your faith upon a toga! + + + + +A PARAPHRASE. + + + How happens it, my cruel miss, + You're always giving me the mitten? + You seem to have forgotten this: + That you no longer are a kitten! + + A woman that has reached the years + Of that which people call discretion + Should put aside all childish fears + And see in courtship no transgression. + + A mother's solace may be sweet, + But Hymen's tenderness is sweeter, + And though all virile love be meet, + You'll find the poet's love is metre. + + + + +A PARAPHRASE BY CHAUCER. + + + Syn that you, Chloe, to your moder sticken, + Maketh all ye yonge bacheloures full sicken; + Like as a lyttel deere you been y-hiding + Whenas come lovers with theyre pityse chiding, + Sothly it ben faire to give up your moder + For to beare swete company with some oder; + Your moder ben well enow so farre shee goeth, + But that ben not farre enow, God knoweth; + Wherefore it ben sayed that foolysh ladyes + That marrye not shall leade an aype in Hayde; + But all that do with gode men wed full quicklye + When that they be on dead go to ye seints full sickerly. + + + + +HORACE I, 5. + + + What perfumed, posie-dizened sirrah, + With smiles for diet, + Clasps you, O fair but faithless Pyrrha, + On the quiet? + For whom do you bind up your tresses, + As spun-gold yellow-- + Meshes that go with your caresses, + To snare a fellow? + + How will he rail at fate capricious, + And curse you duly; + Yet now he deems your wiles delicious-- + _You_ perfect truly! + Pyrrha, your love's a treacherous ocean-- + He'll soon fall in there! + Then shall I gloat on his commotion, + For _I_ have been there! + + + + +HORACE I, 20. + + + Than you, O valued friend of mine! + A better patron non est-- + Come, quaff my home-made Sabine wine-- + You'll find it poor but honest. + + I put it up that famous day + You patronized the ballet + And the public cheered you such a way + As shook your native valley. + + Cæcuban and the Calean brand + May elsewhere claim attention, + But I have none of these on hand-- + For reasons I'll not mention. + + + + +_ENVOY._ + + + So come! though favors I bestow + Can not be called extensive, + Who better than my friend should know + That they're, at least, expensive! + + + + +HORACE II, 7. + + + Pompey, what fortune gives you back + To the friends and the gods who love you-- + Once more you stand in your native land, + With your native sky above you! + Ah, side by side, in years agone, + We've faced tempestuous weather, + And often quaffed + The genial draft + From an amphora together! + + When honor at Phillippi fell + A pray to brutal passion, + I regret to say that my feet ran away + In swift Iambic fashion; + You were no poet-soldier born, + You staid, nor did you wince then-- + Mercury came + To my help, which same + Has frequently saved me since then. + + But now you're back, let's celebrate + In the good old way and classic-- + Come, let us lard our skins with nard + And bedew our souls with Massic! + With fillets of green parsley leaves + Our foreheads shall be done up, + And with song shall we + Protract our spree + Until the morrow's sun-up. + + + + +HORACE I, 11. + + + Seek not, Lucome, to know how long you're going to live yet-- + What boons the gods will yet withhold, or what they're going to give + yet; + For Jupiter will have his way, despite how much we worry-- + Some will hang on for many a day and some die in a hurry, + The wisest thing for you to do is to embark this diem + Upon a merry escapade with some such bard as I am; + And while we sport, I'll reel you off such odes as shall surprise ye-- + To-morrow, when the headache comes--well, then I'll satirize ye! + + + + +HORACE I, 13. + + + When, Lydia, you (once fond and true, + But now grown cold and supercilious) + Praise Telly's charms of neck and arms-- + Well, by the dog! it makes me bilious! + + Then, with despite, my cheeks wax white, + My doddering brain gets weak and giddy, + My eyes o'erflow with tears which show + That passion melts my vitals, Liddy! + + Deny, false jade, your escapade, + And, lo! your wounded shoulders show it! + No manly spark left such a mark-- + (Leastwise he surely was no poet!) + + With savage buss did Telephus + Abraid your lips, so plump and mellow-- + As you would save what Venus gave, + I charge you shun that awkward fellow! + + And now I say thrice happy they + That call on Hymen to requite 'em; + For, though love cools, the wedded fools + Must cleave 'till death doth disunite 'em! + + + + +HORACE IV, 1. + + + O Mother Venus, quit, I pray, + Your violent assailing; + The arts, forsooth, that fired my youth + At last are unavailing-- + My blood runs cold--I'm getting old + And all my powers are failing! + + Speed thou upon thy white swan's wings + And elsewhere deign to mellow + With my soft arts the anguished hearts + Of swain that writhe and bellow; + And right away, seek out, I pray, + Young Paullus--he's your fellow. + + You'll find young Paullus passing fate, + Modest, refined, and toney-- + Go, now, incite the favored wight! + With Venus for a crony. + He'll outshine all at feast and ball + And conversazione! + + Then shall that godlike nose of thine + With perfumes be requited, + And then shall prance in Salian dance + The girls and boys delighted, + And, while the lute blends with the flute, + Shall tender loves be blighted. + + But as for me--as you can see-- + I'm getting old and spiteful; + I have no mind to female kind + That once I deemed delightful-- + No more brim up the festive cup + That sent me home at night full. + + Why do I falter in my speech, + O cruel Ligurine? + Why do I chase from place to place + In weather wet and shiny? + Why down my nose forever flows + The tear that's cold and briny? + + + + +HORACE TO HIS PATRON. + + + Mæcenas, you're of noble line-- + (Of which the proof convincing + Is that you buy me all my wine + Without so much as wincing.) + + To different men of different minds + Come different kinds of pleasure; + There's Marshall Field--what joy he finds + In shears and cloth-yard measure! + + With joy Prof. Swing is filled + While preaching godly sermons; + With bliss is Hobart Taylor thrilled + When he is leading germans. + + While Uncle Joe Medill prefers + To run a daily paper, + To Walter Gresham it occurs + That law's the proper caper. + + With comedy a winning card, + How blithe is Richard Hooley; + Per contra, making soap and lard, + Rejoices Fairbank duly. + + While Armour in the sugar ham + His summum bonum reaches, + MacVeagh's as happy as a clam + In canning pears and peaches. + + Let Farwell glory in the fray + Which party hate increases-- + His son-in-law delights to play + Gavottes and such like pieces. + + So each betakes him to his task-- + So each his hobby nurses-- + While I--well, all the boon I ask + Is leave to write my verses. + + Give, give that precious boon to me + And I shall envy no man; + If not the noblest I shall be + At least the happiest Roman! + + + + +THE "ARS POETICA" OF HORACE--XVIII. + +(Lines 323-333.) + + + The Greeks had genius--'twas a gift + The Muse vouchsafed in glorious measure; + The boon of Fame they made their aim + And prized above all worldly treasure. + + But _we_--how do we train _our_ youth? + _Not_ in the arts that are immortal, + But in the greed for gains that speed + From him who stands at Death's dark portal. + + Ah, when this slavish love of gold + Once binds the soul in greasy fetters, + How prostrate lies--how droops and dies + The great, the noble cause of letters! + + + + +HORACE I, 34. + + + I have not worshiped God, my King-- + Folly has led my heart astray; + Backward I turn my course to learn + The wisdom of a wiser way. + + How marvelous is God, the King! + How do His lightnings cleave the sky-- + His thundering car spreads fear afar, + And even hell is quaked thereby! + + Omnipotent is God, our King! + There is no thought He hath not read, + And many a crown His hand plucks down + To place it on a worthier head! + + + + +HORACE I, 33. + + + Not to lament that rival flame + Wherewith the heartless Glycera scorns you, + Nor waste your time in maudlin rhyme, + How many a modern instance warns you. + + Fair-browed Lycoris pines away + Because her Cyrus loves another; + The ruthless churl informs the girl + He loves her only as a brother. + + For he, in turn, courts Pholoe-- + A maid unscotched of love's fierce virus-- + Why, goats will mate with wolves they hate + Ere Pholoe will mate with Cyrus! + + Ah, weak and hapless human hearts-- + By cruel Mother Venus fated + To spend this life in hopeless strife, + Because incongruously mated! + + Such torture, Albius, is my lot; + For, though a better mistress wooed me, + My Myrtale has captured me + And with her cruelties subdued me! + + + + +THE "ARS POETICA" OF HORACE--I. + +(Lines 1-23.) + + + Should painters attach to a fair human head + The thick, turgid neck of a stallion, + Or depict a spruce lass with the tail of a bass-- + I am sure you would guy the rapscallion! + + Believe me, dear Pisos, that such a freak + Is the crude and preposterous poem + Which merely abounds in a torrent of sounds + With no depth of reason below 'em. + + 'Tis all very well to give license to art-- + The wisdom of license defend I; + But the line should be drawn at the fripperish sprawn + Of a mere cacoethes scribendi. + + It is too much the fashion to strain at effects-- + Yes, that's what's the matter with Hannah! + Our popular taste by the tyros debased + Paints each barnyard a grove of Diana! + + Should a patron require you to paint a marine, + Would you work in some trees with their barks on? + When his strict orders are for a Japanese jar, + Would you give him a pitcher like Clarkson? + + Now this is my moral: Compose what you may, + And fame will be ever far distant, + Unless you combine with a simple design + A treatment in toto consistent. + + + + +THE GREAT JOURNALIST IN SPAIN. + + + Good Editor Dana--God bless him, we say! + Will soon be afloat on the main, + Will be steaming away + Through the mist and the spray + To the sensuous climate of Spain. + + Strange sights shall he see in that beautiful land + Which is famed for its soap and Moor, + For, as we understand, + The scenery is grand, + Though the system of railway is poor. + + For moonlight of silver and sunlight of gold + Glint the orchards of lemons and mangoes, + And the ladies, we're told, + Are a joy to behold + As they twine in their lissome fandangoes. + + What though our friend Dana shall twang a guitar + And murmur a passionate strain-- + Oh, fairer by far + Than these ravishments are + The castles abounding in Spain! + + These castles are built as the builder may list-- + They are sometimes of marble or stone, + But they mostly consist + Of east wind and mist + With an ivy of froth overgrown. + + A beautiful castle our Dana shall raise + On a futile foundation of hope, + And its glories shall blaze + In the somnolent haze + Of the mythical lake del y Soap. + + The fragrance of sunflowers shall swoon on the air, + And the visions of dreamland obtain, + And the song of "World's Fair" + Shall be heard everywhere + Through that beautiful castle in Spain. + + + + +REID, THE CANDIDATE. + + + I saw a brave compositor + Go hustling o'er the mead, + Who bore a banner with these words: + "Hurrah for Whitelaw Reid!" + + "Where go you, brother slug," I asked, + "With such unusual speed?" + He quoth: "I go to dump my vote + For gallant Whitelaw Reid!" + + "But what has Whitelaw done," I asked, + "That now he should succeed?" + Said he: "The stanchest, truest friend + We have is Whitelaw Reid! + + "There are no terms we can suggest + That he will not concede; + He is converted to our faith, + Is gallant Whitelaw Reid! + + "The union it must be preserved-- + That is this convert's creed, + And that is why we're whooping up + The cause of Whitelaw Reid!" + + "If what you say of him be sooth, + You have a friend indeed, + So go on your winding way," quoth I, + "And whoop for Whitelaw Reid!" + + So on unto the polls I saw + That printer straight proceed + While other printers swarmed in swarms + To vote for Whitelaw Reid. + + + + +A VALENTINE. + + + Four little sisters standing in a row-- + Which of them I love best I really do not know. + Sometimes it is the sister dressed out so fine in blue, + And sometimes she who flaunts the beauteous robe of emerald hue; + Sometimes for her who wears the brown my tender heart has bled, + And then again I am consumed of love for her in red. + So now I think I'll send this valentine unto the four-- + I love them all so very much--how could a man do more? + + + + +KISSING-TIME. + + + 'Tis when the lark goes soaring, + And the bee is at the bud, + When lightly dancing zephyrs + Sing over field and flood; + When all sweet things in Nature + Seem joyfully a-chime-- + 'Tis then I wake my darling, + For it is kissing-time! + + Go, pretty lark, a-soaring, + And suck your sweets, O bee; + Sing, O ye winds of summer, + Your songs to mine and me. + For with your song and rapture + Cometh the moment when + It is half-past kissing-time + And time to kiss again! + + So--so the days go fleeting + Like golden fancies free, + And every day that cometh + Is full of sweets for me; + And sweetest are those moments + My darling comes to climb + Into my lap to mind me + That it is kissing-time. + + Sometimes, may be, he wanders + A heedless, aimless way-- + Sometimes, may be, he loiters + In pretty, prattling play; + But presently bethinks him + And hastens to me then, + For it's half-past kissing time + And time to kiss again! + + + + +THE FIFTH OF JULY. + + + The sun climbs up, but still the tyrant Sleep + Holds fast our baby boy in his embrace; + The slumb'rer sighs, anon athwart his face + Faint, half-suggested frowns like shadows creep, + One little hand lies listless on his breast, + One little thumb sticks up with mute appeal, + While motley burns and powder marks reveal + The fruits of boyhood's patriotic zest. + + Our baby's faithful poodle crouches near-- + He, too, is weary of the din and play + That come with glorious Independence Day, + But which, thank God! come only once a year! + And Fido, too, has suffered in this cause, + Which once a year right noisily obtains, + For Fido's tail--or what thereof remains-- + Is not so fair a sight as once it was. + + + + +PICNIC-TIME. + + + It's June agin, an' in my soul I feel the fillin' joy + That's sure to come this time o' year to every little boy; + For, every June, the Sunday schools at picnics may be seen, + Where "fields beyont the swellin' floods stand dressed in livin' + green." + Where little girls are skeered to death with spiders, bugs an' ants, + An' little boys get grass-stains on their go-to-meetin' pants. + It's June agin, an' with it all what happiness is mine-- + There's goin' to be a picnic an' I'm goin' to jine! + + One year I jined the Baptists, an' goodness! how it rained! + (But grampa says that that's the way "Baptizo" is explained.) + And once I jined the 'piscopils an' had a heap o' fun-- + But the boss of all the picnics was the Presbyterium! + They had so many puddin's, sallids, sandwidges an' pies, + That a feller wisht his stummick was as hungry as his eyes! + Oh, yes, the eatin' Presbyteriums give yer is so fine + That when _they_ have a picnic, you bet _I'm_ goin' to jine! + + But at this time the Methodists have special claims on me, + For they're goin' to give a picnic on the 21st, D. V.; + Why should a liberal Universalist like me object + To share the joys of fellowship with every friendly sect? + However het'rodox their articles of faith elsewise may be, + Their doctrine of fried chick'n is a savin' grace to me! + So on the 21st of June, the weather bein' fine, + They're goin' to give a picnic, and I'm goin' to jine! + + + + +THE ROMANCE OF A WATCH. + + + One day his father said to John: + "Come here and see what I hev bought--- + A Waterbury watch, my son-- + It is the boon you long hev sought!" + + The boy could scarcely believe his eyes-- + The watch was shiny, smooth an' slick-- + He snatched the nickel-plated prize + An' wound away to hear it tick. + + He wound an' wound, an' wound an' wound, + An' kept a windin' fit to kill-- + The weeks an' months an' years rolled round, + But John he kep' a windin', still! + + As autumns came an' winters went + An' summers follered arter spring, + John didn't mind--he was intent + On windin' up that darned ol' thing. + + He got to be a poor ol' man-- + He's bald an' deaf an' blind an' lame, + But, like he did when he began, + He keeps on windin', jest the same! + + + + +OUR BABY. + + + 'Tis very strange, but quite as true, + That when our Baby smiles + Our club gets walloped black and blue + In all the latest styles; + But when our Baby's hopping mad + It's quite the other way-- + Chicago beats the Yankees bad + When Baby doesn't play. + + When baby stands upon his base, + Just after having kicked, + Upon his Scandinavian face + Appears the legend, "Licked"; + But when he orders out a sub, + We well may hip-hooray-- + Chicago has the winning club + When Baby doesn't play. + + But, if our Baby's getting old, + And stiff, and cross, and vain, + And if his days are nearly told, + Oh, let us not complain. + Let's rather think of what he was + And how he's made it pay + To hire the kids that win because + Our Baby doesn't play. + + + + +THE COLOR THAT SUITS ME BEST. + + + Any color--so long as it's red-- + Is the color that suits me best, + Though I will allow there is much to be said + For yellow and green and the rest; + But the feeble tints, which some affect + In the things they make or buy, + Have never (I say it with all respect) + Appealed to my critical eye. + + There's that in red that warmeth the blood + And quickeneth a man within, + And bringeth to speedy and perfect bud + The germs of original sin; + So, though I am properly born and bred, + I'll own, with a certain zest, + That any color--so long as it's red-- + Is the color that suits me best! + + For where is a color that can be compared + With the blush of a buxom lass-- + Or where such warmth as of the hair + Of the genuine white horse class? + And, lo, reflected in this cup + Of cherry Bordeaux I see + What inspiration girdeth me up-- + Yes, red is the color for me! + + Through acres and acres of art I've strayed + In Italy, Germany, France; + On many a picture a master has made + I've squandered a passing glance; + Marines I hate, madonnas and + Those Dutch freaks I detest! + But the peerless daubs of my native land-- + They're red, and I like them best! + + 'Tis little I care how folks deride-- + I'm backed by the west, at least, + And we are free to say that we can't abide + The tastes that obtain down east; + And we are mighty proud to have it said + That here in the critical west, + Most any color--so long as it's red-- + Is the color that suits us best! + + + + +HOW TO "FILL." + + +It is understood that our esteemed Col. Franc B. Wilkie is going to +formulate a reply to Mrs. Ella Wheeler Wilcox's latest poem, which +begins as follows: + + "I hold it as a changeless law + From which no soul can sway or swerve, + We have that in us which will draw + Whate'er we need or most deserve." + +We fancy the genial colonel will start off with some such quatrain as +this: + + "I fain would have your recipe, + If you'll but give the snap away; + Now when four clubs are dealt to me, + How may I draw another, pray?" + + + + +POLITICS IN 1888. + + +The Cleveland Leader must be getting ready for the campaign of 1888. We +find upon its editorial page quite a pretentious poem, entitled "Alpha +and Omega," and here is a sample stanza: + + "Whose name will stand for coming time + As hypocrites in prose and rhyme, + And be despised in every clime? + The Mugwumps." + +Well, may be so, but may we be permitted to add a stanza which seems to +us to be very pertinent just now? + + And who next year, we'd like to know, + Will feed the Cleveland Leader crow, + Just as they did three years ago? + The Mugwumps. + + + + +THE BASEBALL SCORE. + + + A boy came racing down the street + In a most tumultuous way, + And he hollered at all he chanced to meet: + "Hooray, hooray, hooray!" + His eyes and his breath were hot with joy + And his cheeks were all aflame-- + 'Twas a rare event with the little boy + When the champions won a game! + + "Twenty to 6" and "10 to 2" + Were rather dismal scores, + And they wreathed in a somewhat somber hue + These classic western shores; + We shuddered and winced at the cruel sport + And our heads were bowed in shame + 'Till Somewhere sent us the glad report + That the champions won the game! + + Our Baby says it'll be all right + For the champions by and by, + And the twin emotions of Hope and Fright + Gleam in his cod fish eye; + And Spalding says (in his modest way) + That we'll get there all the same; + So let us holler, "Hooray, hooray," + When the champions win the game. + + + + +CHICAGO NEWSPAPER LIFE. + + +It pleases us to observe that the shocking habit of hurling opprobrious +epithets at each other has been abandoned by the venerable editor of the +Journal and the venerable editor of the Tribune. At this moment we are +reminded of the inspired lines of the eminent but now, alas! neglected +Watts: + + "Birds in their nests agree, + And 'tis a shocking sight + When folks, who should harmonious be, + Fall out and chide and fight. + + "The tones of Andy and of Joe + Should join in friendly games-- + Not be debased to vice so low + As that of calling names. + + "Bad names and naughty names require + To be chastized at school, + But he's in danger of hell-fire + Who talks of 'crank' and 'fool.' + + "Oh 'tis a dreadful thing to see + The old folks smite and jaw, + But pleasant it is to agree + On the election law. + + "Let Joe and Andy leave their wrongs + For sinners to contest; + So shall they some time swell the songs + Of Israel's ransomed blest." + + + + +THE MIGHTY WEST. + + + Oh, where abides the fond kazoo, + The barrel-organ fair, + And where is heard the tra-la-loo + Of fish horns on the air? + And where are found the fife and drum + Discoursed with goodliest zest? + And where do fiddles liveliest hum? + The west--the mighty west! + + Sonatas, fugues, and all o' that + Are rightly judged effete, + While largos written in B-flat + Are clearly out of date; + Some like the cold pianny-forty, + But whistling suits us best-- + And op'ry, if it isn't naughty, + Will not catch on out west. + + From skinning hogs or canning beef + Or diving into stocks, + Could we expect to find relief + In Haydns or in Bachs? + Ah, no; from pork and wheat and lard + We turn aside with zest + To sing some opus of some bard + Whose home is in the west. + + So get ye gone, ye weakling crew! + Your tunes are stale and flat, + And cannot hold a candle to + The works of Silas Pratt! + His opuses are in demand + And are the final test + By which all others fall or stand + In this the mighty west! + + + + +APRIL. + + + Now April with sweet showers of freshening rain + Has roused last summer's vigorous breath once more; + 'Tis in the air, the house, the street, the lane-- + Puffs through the walls and oozes through the floor. + + The rau-cous-throated frog ayont the sty + Sends forth, as erst, his amerous vermal croak, + Each hungry mooly casts her swivel eye + For pots and pails in which her nose to poke. + + With gurgling glee the gutter gushes by, + Fraught all with filth, unknown and nameless dirt-- + A dead green goose, an o'er-ripe rat I spy; + Head of a cat, tail of a flannel shirt. + + The querulous cry of every gabbling goose + From thousand-scented mudholes echoes o'er; + The dogs and yawling cats have gotten loose + And mock the hideous howls of hell once more. + + By yon scrub oak, where roots the sallow sow, + In where John Murphy's wife outpours her slop; + Right there you'll find there's almost stench now + To cause the world its nostrils to estop. + + And yonder dauntless goat that bank adown, + That wreathes his old fantastic horns so high, + Gnaws sadly on the bustle of Miss Brown, + Which she discarded in the months gone by. + + So in Goose Island cometh April round; + Full eagerly we watch the month's approach-- + The season of sweet sight and pleasant sound, + The season of the bedbug and the roach. + + + + +REPORT OF THE BASEBALL GAME. + + + It was a very pleasant game, + And there was naught of grumbling + Until the baleful tidings came + That Williamson was "fumbling." + Then all at once a hideous gloom + Fell o'er all manly features, + And Clayton's cozy, quiet room + Was full of frantic creatures. + + "Click, click," the tiny ticker went, + The tape began to rattle, + And pallid, eager faces bent + To read the news from battle; + Down, down, ten million feet or more, + Chicago's hope went tumbling, + When came the word that Burns and Gore + And Pfeffer, too, were "fumbling." + + No diagram was needed then + To point the Browns to glory-- + The simple fact that these four men + Were "fumbling" told the story. + There is not a club in all the land-- + No odds how weak or humble-- + That beats us when our short-stop and + Our second baseman "fumble." + + There was some talk of hippodrome + 'Mid frequent calls for liquor, + Then each Chicago man went home + Much wiser, poorer, sicker; + And many a giant intellect + Seemed slowly, surely crumbling + Beneath the dolorous effect + Of that St. Louis "fumbling." + + Ah, well, the struggle's but just begun, + So what is the use of fretting + If by a little harmless fun + Our boys can bull the betting? + When comes the tug of war there'll be + No accidental stumbling, + And then, you bet your boots, you'll see + No mention made of "fumbling." + + + + +THE ROSE. + + + Since the days of old Adam the welkin has rung + With the praises of sweet scented posies, + And poets in rapturous phrases have sung + The paramount beauties of roses. + + Wheresoever she bides, whether nestling in lanes + Or gracing the proud urban bowers, + The red, royal rose her distinction maintains + As the one regnant queen among flowers. + + How joyous are we of the west when we find + That Fate, with her gifts ever chary, + Has decreed that the Rose, who is queen of her kind + Shall bloom on our wild western prairie. + + Let us laugh at the east as an impotent thing + With envy and jealously crazy, + While grateful Chicago is happy to sing + In the praise of the rose--she's a daisy. + + + + +KANSAS CITY VS. DETROIT. + + + A rooster flapped his wings and crowed + A merrysome cockadoodledoo, + As out of the west a cowboy rode + To the land where the peach and the clapboard grew, + Humming a gentle tralalaloo. + + "O insect with the gilded wing," + The cowboy cried, "Pray tell me true + Why do you crane your neck and sing + That wearisome cockadoodledoo? + Would you like to learn the tralalaloo?" + + Now the rooster squawked an impudent word + Whereat the angered cowboy threw + His lariat at the haughty bird + And choked him until his gills were blue + And his eyes hung out an inch or two. + + "Now hear _me_ sing," the cowboy cried; + "It ain't no cockadoodledoo-- + It's a song we sing on the prairies wide-- + The simple song of tralalaloo, + Which is cowboy slang for 12 to 2." + + + + +ME AND BILKAMMLE. + + + I will, if you choose, + Impart you some news + That will greatly astound you, I know; + You would never suspect + My ambition was wreck'd + 'Till you heard my confession of woe. + 'Tis not that my boom + Has ascended the flume-- + In other words, gone up the spout-- + I could smile a sweet smile + This tempestuous while, + But me and Bilkammle are out! + + Being timid and shrinkin', + He did all the thinkin', + When _I_ did the talkin' worth mention; + 'Twas my constant ambition + To soar to position + So I gave it exclusive attention; + And supposin' that he + Would of course be for me, + I rambled and prattled about + 'Till I found to my horror, + Vexation, and sorror, + That me and Bilkammle were out. + + As I tore my red hair + In a fit of despair + I heard my Achates complain + That the gent with the coffer + Had nothing to offer + In the way of relieving his pain! + + * * * * * + + If there's mortal to blame + For this villainous game + Which has snuffed a great man beyond doubt. + It's that treacherous mammal + Entitled Bilkammle-- + Which accounts for us two bein' out! + + + + +TO THE DETROIT BASEBALL CLUB. + + + You've scooped the vealy city crowd + Of glory and of purse-- + Why shouldn't Pegasus be proud + To trot you out in a verse? + Chicago hoped to wallop you + By a tremendous score, + But bit off more than it could chew, + As witness: "5 to 4." + + Well done, you 'Ganders! here's a hand + To every one of you; + These record-breakers of the land + Now break themselves in two. + Well get their pennant--it shall float + Upon our distant shore, + So let each patriotic throat + Hurrah for "5 to 4." + + + + +A BALLAD OF ANCIENT OATHS. + + + Ther ben a knyght, Sir Hoten hight, + That on a time did swere + In mighty store othes mickle sore, + Whiche grieved his wiffe to here. + + Soth, whenne she scoft, his wiffe did oft + Swere as a lady may; + "I'faith," "I'sooth," or "lawk" in truth + Ben alle that wiffe wold say. + + Soe whenne her good man waxed him wood + She mervailed much to here + The hejeous sound of othes full round + The which her lord did swere. + + "Now, pray thee, speke and tell me eke + What thing hath vexed thee soe?" + The wiffe she cried; but he replied + By swereing moe and moe. + + Her sweren zounds which be Gog's wounds, + By bricht Marie and Gis, + By sweit Sanct Ann and holie Tan + And by Bryde's bell, ywis. + + By holie grails, by 'slids and 'snails, + By old Sanct Dunstan bauld, + The virgin faire that him did beare, + By him that Judas sauld; + + By Arthure's sword, by Paynim horde, + By holie modyr's teir, + By Cokis breath, by Zooks and 's death, + And by Sanct Swithen deir; + + By divells alle, both greate and smalle, + And in hell there be, + By bread and salt, and by Gog's malt, + And by the blody tree; + + By Him that worn the crown of thorn + And by the sun and mone, + By deir Sanct Blanc and Sanct Fillane, + And three kings of Cologne; + + By the gude Lord and His sweit word, + By him that herryit hell, + By blessed Jude, by holie rude, + And eke be Gad himsell! + + He sweren soe (and mickle moe) + It made man's flesch to creepen, + The air ben blue with his ado + And sore his wiffe ben wepen. + + Giff you wold know why sweren soe + The goodman high Sir Hoten, + He ben full wroth, because, in soth, + He leesed his coler boten. + + + + +AN OLD SONG REVISED. + + + John Hamilton, my Jo John, + When first we were acquaint + You were as lavish as could be + With your vermillion paint; + But now the head that once was red + Seems veiled in sable woe, + And clouds of gloom obscure your boom, + John Hamilton, my Jo. + + Oh, was it Campbell's hatchet wrought + The ruin we deplore? + Or was it Abnor Taylor's thirst + For your abundant gore? + Or was it Hank's ambitious pranks + That laid our idol low? + Come, let us know how came you so, + John Hamilton, my Joe! + + We pine to know the awful truth. + So, pray, be pleased to tell + The story--full of tragic fire-- + How one great statesman fell; + How dives' hand stalked in the land + And dealt a crushing blow + At one proud name--which you're the same, + John Hamilton, my Jo! + + + + +THE GRATEFUL PATIENT. + + + The doctor leaned tenderly over the bed + And looked at the patient 's complexion, + And felt of the pulse and the feverish head, + Then stood for a time in reflection. + "A strange complication! + My recommendation + Is morphia by hypodermic injection." + + The patient looked up with a leer in his eye + And winked in the doctor's direction-- + "Well, Doc," he remarked, "since you say I must die, + I'm grateful to you for protection-- + I'm now in position + To ask the commission + T' excuse me from serving as judge of election." + + + + +THE BEGINNING AND THE END. + + + Death + In my breath, + Cried I then: + "Men + Burn and blight! + Nourish crime! + Scale the height! + Climb, men, climb! + Climb and fight! + Win by might! + Wrong or right! + Blood!" + + Well + In a cell + Here I am-- + D----n! + From my flight + So sublime + I alight + Ere my time, + And in fright + Here I grope + Through the night + Without hope. + What a plight! + Ah, the rope! + Thud! + + + + +CLARE MARKET. + + + In the market of Clare, so cheery the glare + Of the shops and the booths of the tradespeople there, + That I take a delight, on a Saturday night, + In walking that way and viewing the sight; + For it's here that one sees all the objects that please-- + New patterns in silk and old patterns in cheese, + For the girls pretty toys, rude alarums for boys, + And baubles galore which discretion enjoys-- + But here I forbear, for I really despair + Of naming the wealth of the market of Clare! + + The rich man comes down from the elegant town, + And looks at it all with an ominous frown; + He seems to despise the grandiloquent cries + Of the vender proclaiming his puddings and pies; + And sniffing he goes through the lanes that disclose + Much cause for disgust to his sensitive nose; + Once free from the crowd, he admits that he is proud + That elsewhere in London this thing's not allowed-- + He has seen nothing there but filth everywhere, + And he's glad to get out of the market of Clare. + + But the child that has come from the neighboring slum + Is charmed by the magic of dazzle and hum; + He feasts his big eyes on the cakes and pies + And they seem to grow green and protrude with surprise + At the goodies they vend and the toys without end-- + And it's oh if he had but a penny to spend! + But alas! he must gaze in a hopeless amaze + At treasures that glitter and torches that blaze-- + What sense of despair in this world can compare + With that of the waif in the market of Clare? + + So, on Saturday nights, when my custom invites + A stroll in old London for curious sights, + I am likely to stray by a devious way + Where goodies are spread in a motley array, + The things which some eyes would appear to despise + Impress me as pathos in homely disguise, + And my tattered waif friend shall have pennies to spend, + As long as I've got 'em (or friends that will lend); + And the urchin shall share in my joy and declare + That there's beauty and good in that marketplace there! + + + + +UNCLE EPHRAIM. + + + My Uncle Ephraim was a man who did not live in vain, + And yet, why he succeeded so I never _could_ explain; + By nature he was not endowed with wit to a degree, + But folks allowed there nowhere lived a better man than he; + He started poor but soon got rich; he went to congress then, + And held that post of honor long against much brainier men; + He never made a famous speech or did a thing of note, + And yet the praise of Uncle Eph welled up from every throat. + + I recollect I never heard him say a bitter word; + He never carried to and fro unpleasant things he heard; + He always doffed his hat and spoke to every one he knew, + He tipped to poor and rich alike a genial "how-dy'-do"; + He kissed the babies, praised their looks, and said: "That child will + grow + To be a Daniel Webster or our president, I know!" + His voice was so mellifluous, his smile so full of mirth, + That folks declared he was the best and smartest man on earth! + + Now, father was a _smarter_ man, and yet he never won + Such wealth and fame as Uncle Eph, "the deestrick's favorite son"; + He had "convictions" and he was not loath to speak his mind-- + He went his way and said his say as he might be inclined; + Yes, _he_ was brainy; yet his life was hardly a success-- + He was too honest and too smart for this vain world, I guess! + At any rate, I wondered he was unsuccessful when + My Uncle Eph, a duller man, was so revered of men! + + When Uncle Eph was dying he called me to his bed, + And in a tone of confidence inviolate he said: + "Dear Willyum, ere I seek repose in yonder blissful sphere + I fain would breathe a secret in your adolescent ear; + Strive not to hew your way through life--it really doesn't pay; + Be sure the salve of flattery soaps all you do and say! + Herein the only royal road to fame and fortune lies; + Put not your trust in vinegar--_molasses_ catches flies!" + + + + +THIRTY-NINE. + + + O hapless day! O wretched day! + I hoped you'd pass me by-- + Alas, the years have sneaked away + And all is changed but I! + Had I the power, I would remand + You to a gloom condign, + But here you've crept upon me and + I--I am thirty-nine! + + Now, were I thirty-five, I could + Assume a flippant guise, + Or, were I forty years, I should + Undoubtedly look wise; + For forty years are said to bring + Sedateness superfine, + But thirty-nine don't mean a thing-- + _A bas_ with thirty-nine! + + You healthy, hulking girls and boys-- + What makes you grow so fast? + Oh, I'll survive your lusty noise-- + I'm tough and bound to last! + No, no--I'm old and withered, too-- + I feel my powers decline. + (Yet none believes this can be true + Of one at thirty-nine.) + + And you, dear girl with velvet eyes, + I wonder what you mean + Through all our keen anxieties + By keeping sweet sixteen. + With your dear love to warm my heart, + Wretch were I to repine-- + I was but jesting at the start-- + I'm glad I'm thirty-nine! + + So, little children, roar and race + As blithely as you can + And, sweetheart, let your tender grace + Exalt the Day and Man; + For then these factors (I'll engage) + All subtly shall combine + To make both juvenile and sage + The one who's thirty-nine! + + Yes, after all, I'm free to say + That I rejoice to be + Standing as I do stand to-day + 'Twixt devil and deep sea; + For, though my face be dark with care + Or with a grimace shine, + Each haply falls unto my share; + Since I am thirty-nine! + + 'Tis passing meet to make good cheer + And lord it like a king, + Since only once we catch the year + That doesn't mean a thing. + O happy day! O gracious day! + I pledge thee in this wine-- + Come let us journey on our way + A year, good Thirty-Nine! + + + + +HORACE I, 18. + + + O Varus mine + Plant thou the vine + Within this kindly soil of Tibur; + Nor temporal woes + Nor spiritual knows + The man who's a discreet imbiber. + For who doth croak + Of being broke + Or who of warfare, after drinking? + With bowl atween us, + Of smiling Venus + And Bacchus shall we sing, I'm thinking. + + Of symptoms fell + Which brawls impel + Historic data give us warning; + The wretch who fights + When full of nights + Is bound to have a head next morning. + I do not scorn + A friendly horn, + But noisy toots--I can't abide 'em! + Your howling bat + Is stale and flat + To one who knows, because he's tried 'em! + + The secrets of + The life of love + (Companionship with girls and toddy) + I would not drag + With drunken brag + Into the ken of everybody, + But in the shade + Let some coy maid + With smilax wreathe my flagon's nozzle-- + Then, all day long, + With mirth and song, + Shall I enjoy a quiet sozzle! + + + + +THREE RHINELAND DRINKING SONGS. + + + I. + + If our life is the life of a flower + (And that's what some sages are thinking), + We should moisten the bud with a health-giving flood + And 'twill bloom all the sweeter-- + Yes, life's the completer + For drinking, + and drinking, + and drinking! + + If it be that our life is a journey + (As many wise folks are opining), + We should sprinkle the way with the rain while we may; + Though dusty and dreary, + 'Tis made cool and cheery + With wining, + and wining, + and wining! + + If this life that we live be a dreaming + (As pessimist people are thinking), + To induce pleasant dreams there is nothing, me seems, + Like this sweet prescription, + That baffles description-- + This drinking, + and drinking, + and drinking! + + + II. + + ("Fiducit.") + + Three comrades on the German Rhine-- + Defying care and weather-- + Together quaffed the mellow wine + And sung their songs together, + What recked they of the griefs of life + With wine and song to cheer them? + Though elsewhere trouble might be rife, + It would not come anear them! + + Anon one comrade passed away, + And presently another-- + And yet unto the tryst each day + Repaired the lonely brother, + And still, as gayly as of old, + That third one, hero-hearted, + Filled to the brim each cup of gold + And called to the departed: + + "O comrades mine, I see you not, + Nor hear your kindly greeting; + Yet in this old familiar spot + Be still our loving meeting! + Here have I filled each bouting cup + With juices red and cherry-- + I pray ye drink the portion up, + And, as of old, make merry!" + + And once before his tear-dimmed eyes, + All in the haunted gloaming, + He saw two ghostly figures rise + And quaff the beakers foaming; + He heard two spirit voices call: + "Fiducit, jovial brother!" + And so forever from that hall + Went they with one another. + + + III. + + (Der Mann im Keller.) + + How cool and fair this cellar where + My throne a dusky cask is! + To do no thing but just to sing + And drown the time my task is! + The cooper, he's + Resolved to please, + And, answering to my winking, + He fills me up + Cup after cup + For drinking, drinking, drinking. + + Begrudge me not this cozy spot + In which I am reclining-- + Why, who would burst with envious thirst + When he can live by wining? + A roseate hue seems to imbue + The world on which I'm blinking; + My fellow men--I love them when + I'm drinking, drinking, drinking. + + And yet, I think, the more I drink, + It's more and more I pine for-- + Oh such as I (forever dry!) + God made this land of Rhine for! + And there is bliss + In knowing this, + As to the floor I'm sinking; + I've wronged no man, + And never can, + While drinking, drinking, drinking! + + + + +THE THREE TAILORS. + +(From the German of C. Herlossohn.) + + + I shall tell you in rhyme how, once on a time, + Three tailors tramped up to the Inn Ingleheim + On the Rhine--lovely Rhine; + They were broke, but, the worst of it all, they were curst + With that malady common to tailors--a thirst + For wine--lots of wine! + + "Sweet host," quoth the three, "we're as hard up as can be, + Yet skilled in the practice of cunning are we + On the Rhine--genial Rhine; + And we pledge you we will impart you that skill + Right quickly and fully, providing you'll fill + Us with wine--cooling wine!" + + But that host shook his head, and warily said: + "Though cunning be good, we take money instead, + On the Rhine--thrifty Rhine; + If ye fancy ye may without pelf have your way + You'll find there's both host and the devil to pay + For your wine--costly wine!" + + Then the first knavish wight took his needle so bright + And threaded its eye with a wee ray of light + From the Rhine--sunny Rhine; + And in such a deft way patched a mirror that day + That where it was mended no expert could say-- + Done so fine--'twas for wine! + + The second thereat spied a poor little gnat + Go toiling along on his nose broad and flat + Toward the Rhine--pleasant Rhine; + "Aha, tiny friend, I should hate to offend, + But your stockings need darning," which same did he mend, + All for wine--soothing wine! + + And next there occurred what you'll deem quite absurd-- + His needle a space in the wall thrust the third, + By the Rhine--wondrous Rhine; + And then, all so spry, he leapt through the eye + Of that thin cambric needle; nay, think you I'd lie + About wine? Not for wine! + + The landlord allowed (with a smile) he was proud + To do the fair thing by that talented crowd + On the Rhine--generous Rhine! + So a thimble filled he as full as could be; + "Drink long and drink hearty, my jolly guests three, + Of my wine--filling wine!" + + + + +MORNING HYMN. + + + I'd dearly love to tear my hair + And romp around a bit, + For I am mad enough to swear + Since Brother Chauncy quit. + + I am so vilely prone to sin-- + Vain ribald that I am-- + I'd take a hideous pleasure in + Just one prodigious "damn." + + But shall I yield to Satan's wiles + And let my passions swell? + Nay, I will wreath my face in smiles, + And mock the powers of hell. + + And howsoever pride may roll + Its billows through my frame, + I'll not condemn my precious soul + Unto the quenchless flame! + + But rather will I humbly pray + Divinity to wash + From out my mouth such words away + As "Jiminy" and "Gosh." + + + + +DOCTORS. + + + 'Tis quite the thing to say and sing + Gross libels on the doctor-- + To picture him an ogre grim + Or humbug-pill concocter; + Yet it's in quite another light + My friendly pen would show him-- + Glad that it might with verse repay + Some part of what I owe him! + + When one's all right he's prone to spite + The doctor's peaceful mission; + But, when he's sick, it's loud and quick + He bawls for a physician! + With other things the doctor brings + Sweet babes our hearts to soften; + Though I have four, I pine for more-- + Good doctor, pray, come often! + + What though he sees death and disease + Run riot all around him, + Patient and true, and valorous, too-- + Such have I always found him! + Where'er he goes he soothes our woes, + And, when skill's unavailing + And death is near, his words of cheer + Support our courage failing. + + In ancient days they used to praise + The godlike art of healing; + An art that then engaged all men + Possessed of sense and feeling; + Why, Raleigh--he was glad to be + Famed for a quack elixir, + And Digby sold (as we are told) + A charm for folk love-sick, sir! + + Napoleon knew a thing or two, + And clearly he was partial + To doctors, for, in time of war, + He chose one for marshal, + In our great cause a doctor was + The first to pass death's portal, + And Warren's name at once became + A beacon and immortal! + + A heap, indeed, of what we read + By doctors is provided, + For to those groves Apollo loves + Their leaning is decided; + Deny who may that Rabelais + Is first in wit and learning-- + And yet all smile and marvel while + His brilliant leaves they're turning. + + How Lever's pen has charmed all men-- + How touching Rab's short story! + And I will stake my all that Drake + Is still the schoolboy's glory! + A doctor-man it was began + Great Britain's great museum; + The treasures there are all so rare, + It drives me wild to see 'em! + + There's Cuvier, Parr and Rush--they are + Big monuments to learning; + To Mitchell's prose (how smooth it flows!) + We all are fondly turning; + Tomes might be writ of that keen wit + Which Abernethy's famed for-- + With bread-crumb pills he cured the ills + Most doctors get blamed for! + + In modern times the noble rhymes + Of Holmes (a great physician!) + Have solace brought and wisdom taught + To hearts of all conditions. + The sailor bound for Puget sound + Finds pleasure still unfailing, + If he but troll the barcarole + Old Osborne wrote on Whaling! + + If there were need I could proceed + Ad naus, with this prescription, + But, inter nos, a larger dose + Might give you fits conniption; + Yet, ere I end, there's one dear friend + I'd hold before these others, + For he and I in years gone by, + Have chummed around like brothers. + + Together we have sung in glee + The songs old Horace made for + Our genial craft--together quaffed + What bowls that doctor paid for! + I love the rest, but love him best, + And, were not times so pressing, + I'd buy and send--you smile, old friend? + Well, then, here goes my blessing. + + + + +BEN APFELGARTEN. + + + There was a certain gentleman, Ben Apfelgarten called, + Who lived way off in Germany a many years ago, + And he was very fortunate in being very bald, + And so was very happy he was so. + He warbled all the day + Such songs as only they + Who are very, very circumspect and very happy may; + The people wondered why, + As the years went grinding by, + They never heard him once complain or even heave a sigh! + + The women of the province fell in love with genial Ben, + Till (maybe you can fancy it) the dickens was to pay + Among the callow students and the sober-minded men-- + With the women folk a-cuttin' up that way! + Why, they gave him turbans red + To adorn his hairless head, + And knitted jaunty nightcaps to protect him when abed! + In vain the rest demurred-- + Not a single chiding word + Those ladies deigned to tolerate--remonstrance was absurd! + + Things finally got into such a very dreadful way + That the others (oh, how artful!) formed the politic design + To send him to the reichstag; so, one dull November day + They elected him a member from the Rhine! + Then the other members said: + "Gott in Himmel; what a head!" + But they marveled when his speeches they listened to or read; + And presently they cried: + "There must be heaps inside + Of the smooth and shiny cranium his constituents deride!" + + Well, when at last he up 'nd died--long past his ninetieth year-- + The strangest and the most luguberous funeral he had, + For women came in multitudes to weep upon his bier-- + The men all wond'ring why on earth the women had gone mad! + And this wonderment increased, + Till the sympathetic priest + Inquired of those same ladies: "Why this fuss about deceased?" + Whereupon they were appalled, + For, as one, those women squalled: + "We doted on deceased for being bald--bald--bald!" + + He was bald because his genius burnt that shock of hair away, + Which, elsewise, clogs one's keenness and activity of mind, + And (barring present company, of course,) I'm free to say + That, after all, it's intellect that captures woman-kind. + At any rate, since then + (With a precedent in Ben), + The women-folk have been in love with us bald-headed men! + + + + +IN HOLLAND. + + + Our course lay up a smooth canal + Through tracks of velvet green, + And through the shade that windmills made, + And pasture lands between. + The kine had canvas on their backs + To temper Autumn's spite, + And everywhere there was an air + Of comfort and delight. + + My wife, dear philosophic soul! + Saw here whereof to prate: + "Vain fools are we across the sea + To boast our nobler state! + Go north or south or east or west, + Or wheresoever you please, + You shall not find what's here combined-- + Equality and ease! + + "How tidy are these honest homes + In every part and nook-- + The men folk wear a prosperous air, + The women happy look. + Seeing the peace that smiles around, + I would our land was such-- + Think as you may, I'm free to say + I would we were the Dutch!" + + Just then we overtook a boat + (The Golden Tulip hight)-- + Big with the weight of motley freight, + It was a goodly sight! + Meynheer van Blarcom sat on deck, + With pipe in lordly pose, + And with his son of twenty-one + He played at dominoes. + + Then quoth my wife: "How fair to see + This sturdy, honest man + Beguile all pain and lust of gain + With whatso joys he can; + Methinks his spouse is down below + Beading a kerchief gay-- + A babe, mayhap, lolls in her lap + In the good old Milky way. + + "Where in the land from whence we came + Is there content like this-- + Where such disdain of sordid gain, + Such sweet domestic bliss? + A homespun woman I, this land + Delights me overmuch-- + Think as you will and argue still, + I like the honest Dutch." + + And then my wife made end of speech-- + Her voice stuck in her throat, + For, swinging around the turn, we found + What motor moved the boat; + Hitched up in tow-path harness there + Was neither horse nor cow, + But the buxom frame of a Hollandische dame-- + Meynheer van Blarcom's frau. + + + + +Transcriber's Notes: + + + Passages in italics are indicated by _italics_. + + Obvious typographical errors have been corrected as follows: + + Page 6: "Japan" changed to "Spain" + Page 85: "you re" changed to "you're" + Page 101: comma added after "spiders" + Page 113: ' changed to " before "Let" + Page 157: "the" changed to "they" + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Hoosier Lyrics, by Eugene Field + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HOOSIER LYRICS *** + +***** This file should be named 36150-8.txt or 36150-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/6/1/5/36150/ + +Produced by Juliet Sutherland, David E. 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