The Project Gutenberg eBook of Hoosier Lyrics, by Eugene Field

This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world 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 https://www.gutenberg.org/license. If you are not located in the United States, you’ll have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

Title: Hoosier Lyrics

Author: Eugene Field

Release Date: May 18, 2011 [EBook #36150]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Juliet Sutherland, David E. Brown, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ***

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:

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 THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ***

Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will be renamed.

Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away—you may do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark license, especially commercial redistribution.

START: FULL LICENSE

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE

PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK

To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the free distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work (or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project Gutenberg™ License available with this file or online at www.gutenberg.org/license.

Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works

1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg™ electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property (trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in your possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.

1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg™ electronic works even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project Gutenberg™ electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg™ electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below.

1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the Foundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the United States and you are located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg™ works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg™ name associated with the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg™ License when you share it without charge with others.

1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project Gutenberg™ work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any country other than the United States.

1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:

1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg™ License must appear prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg™ work (any work on which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, copied or distributed:

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world 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. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase “Project Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg™ trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is posted with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked to the Project Gutenberg™ License for all works posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work.

1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg™ License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg™.

1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project Gutenberg™ License.

1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg™ work in a format other than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official version posted on the official Project Gutenberg™ website (www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg™ License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.

1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg™ works unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing access to or distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works provided that:

• You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from the use of Project Gutenberg™ works calculated using the method you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, but he has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in Section 4, “Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.”

• You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg™ License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg™ works.

• You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of receipt of the work.

• You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free distribution of Project Gutenberg™ works.

1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark. Contact the Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below.

1.F.

1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project Gutenberg™ collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg™ electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain “Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by your equipment.

1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, and any other party distributing a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGE.

1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further opportunities to fix the problem.

1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’, WITH NO OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.

1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions.

1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone providing copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg™ work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg™ work, and (c) any Defect you cause.

Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg™

Project Gutenberg™ is synonymous with the free distribution of electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from people in all walks of life.

Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg™’s goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg™ collection will remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure and permanent future for Project Gutenberg™ and future generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org.

Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation

The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit 501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws.

The Foundation’s business office is located at 809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up to date contact information can be found at the Foundation’s website and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact

Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation

Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive without widespread public support and donations to carry out its mission of increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations ($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt status with the IRS.

The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate.

While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who approach us with offers to donate.

International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.

Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate

Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg™ electronic works

Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg™ concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and distributed Project Gutenberg™ eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support.

Project Gutenberg™ eBooks are often created from several printed editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.

Most people start at our website which has the main PG search facility: www.gutenberg.org.

This website includes information about Project Gutenberg™, including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.

Table of Contents

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Hoosier Lyrics, by Eugene Field

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE