Chapter II: Part 2

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.

Maecenas, 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"

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