Hoosier Lyrics

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 sakeThat 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 noseAs salt as the river that yonder flows;To the setting sun and the rising moonHe 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 IWould take it by turns and milk her dry!We would stuff her paunch with the best of hayAnd 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 allowHim 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 bayOut 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 sameHappy as larks are we;And happier still we're going to be!"Said LymanAnd FrederickAnd Jim.The people laughed "Aha, oho!Oho, aha!" laughed they;And while those three went sailing soSome pirates steered that way.The pirates they were laughing, too —The prospect made them glad;But by the time the job was throughEach of them pirates bold and bad,Had been done out of all he hadBy LymanAnd FrederickAnd Jim.Days and weeks and months they sped,Painting that foreign climeA 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 dreamedOf sailing that foreign sea,But I'll identify you these three —LymanAnd FrederickAnd Jim.Lyman and Frederick are bankers and sichAnd Jim is an editor kind;The first two named are awfully richAnd Jim ain't far behind!So keep your eyes open and mind your tricks,Or you are like to beIn quite as much of a Tartar fixAs the pirates that sailed the seaAnd monkeyed with the pardners three,LymanAnd FrederickAnd Jim.

A WAIL

My name is Col. Johncey New,And by a hoosier's graceI have congenial work to doAt 12 St. Helen's place.I was as happy as a clamA-floating with the tide,Till one day came a cablegramTo me from t'other side.It was a Macedonian cryFrom Benjy o'er the sea;"Come hither, Johncey, instantly,And whoop things up for me!"I could not turn a callous earUnto that piteous cry;I packed my grip, and for the pierDirectly started I.Alas! things are not half so fairAs four short years ago —The clouds are gathering everywhereAnd boisterous breezes blow;My wilted whiskers indicateThe 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 landsAt 12 St. Helen's place.

CLENDENIN'S LAMENT

While bridal knots are being tiedAnd bridal meats are being basted,I shiver in the cold outsideAnd pine for joys I've never tasted.Oh, what's a nomination worth,When you have labored months to get itIf, 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 sayUpon that stingy, hostile senate!

ON THE WEDDING OF G. C

(June 2, 1886.)Oh, hand me down my spike tail coatAnd reef my waistband in,And tie this necktie round my throatAnd 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 doorsAnd pull the curtains down,And tell the democratic boresThat I am out of town;It's funny folks haint decencyEnough 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 coolIn satin robes of white —Well, I am stolid, as a rule,But now I'm flustered quite;Upon a surging sea of blissMy 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 stuckAbove his good wife's doorThe sign provocative of luck —A horseshoe – nothing more.Be hushed, O party hates, the whileThat emblem lingers there,And thou, dear fates, propitious smileUpon the wedded pair.I've tried the horseshoe's weird intentAnd 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 buyA case of wine (though I abhor it),I'd send a quart of extra dryAnd willingly get trusted for it.But, lackaday! You know that I'mAs 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 gayBeyond all peradventure show it!By all you say and do it's clearA birdling in your heart is singing,And everywhere you go you hearThe old-time bridal bells a-ringing.Ah, well, God grant that these dear chimesMay mind you of the sweetness onlyOf those far distant, callow timesWhen 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 lifeIn rising sons renew the morning;May happiness and peace and loveCome 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 hackHas no place on the trackWhen his rival's a thoroughbred stayer.With your coarse, shallow witEvery rational citAt last is completely disgusted;The tool of the rings,Trusts, barons, and things,What wonder, I wonder, you're busted!As soon as that YerkesFinds out you can't work hisIntrigues for the popular nickel,With a tear to deceive youHe'll drop you and leave youIn your normal condition – a pickle.Go, dodderer, goWhere the whisker winds blowAnd spasms of penitence trouble;Or flounder and whoopIn an ocean of soupWhere 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 complainsWhen she each am'rous suit disdains?Close to her mother's side she clingsAnd mocks the death her folly bringsTo gentle swains that feel the smartsHer 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 botherWith prattlings and with vain adoYour worthy and industrious mother,Eschewing them that come to woo?Oh, that the awful truth might quickenThis stern conviction to your breast:You are no longer now a chickenToo young to quit the parent nest.So put aside your froward carriageAnd fix your thoughts, whilst yet there's time,Upon the righteousness of marriageWith some such godly man as I'm.

HORACE I, 27

In maudlin spite let Thracians fightAbove their bowls of liquor,But such as we, when on a spree,Should never bawl and bicker!These angry words and clashing swordsAre 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 wineWith which our host would dope us!Now let us hear what pretty dearEntangles 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 truthYou 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 thinkingThat 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 flyTo 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 clayNor Stygian prison house shall hold him.Upon my skin feathers beginTo warn the songster of his fleeting;But never mind – I leave behindSongs 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 bestAnd therefore hold my memory dearer,For by that lake a bard shall makeMy 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 hairThe envy and the pride of all is,As onward rollThe years, that pollWill 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 beholdYourself grown oldThese words shall speak your spirits moody:"Unhappy one!What heaps of funI've missed by being goody-goody!Oh! that I might have felt the hungerOf 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 seeHow 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 snowThe shepherd dog pursues what foeSkulks 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 caskOf wine solicits attention —And roses fair, to deck your hair,And things too numerous to mention,So tear yourself awhile awayFrom urban turmoil, pride and splendorAnd deign to share what humble fareAnd sumptuous fellowship I tender;The sweet content retirement bringsSmoothes out the ruffled front of kings.The evil planets have combinedTo make the weather hot and hotter —By parboiled streams the shepherd dreamsVainly of ice-cream soda-water;And meanwhile you, defying heat,With patriotic ardor ponderOn what old Rome essays at homeAnd what her heathen do out yonder.Maecenas, no such vain alarmDisturbs the quiet of this farm!God in his providence observesThe goal beyond this vale of sorrow,And smiles at men in pity whenThey 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, thenI 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 charmOf life upon the Sabine farm!

HORACE IN LOVE AGAIN

(Epode XI.)Dear Pettius, once I reeled off rhymeSatiric, sad and tender,But now my quillHas lost its skillAnd I am dying in my primeThrough love of female gender!Nay, do not laughNor deign to chaffYour friend with taunts of LydeAnd other damesWho'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 chumsGyrate their thumbsAnd 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 eyesIn tragedy wiseAnd raved in lovesick fashion.And when I'd aired my woes profoundYou volunteered this warning:"Horace, go lightOn the bowl to-night —Ten hours of sleep will bring you roundAll right to-morrow morning!"Now ten hours sleepMay do a heapFor callow hearts a-patter,But I tell you, sir,This affair du coeurOf mine is a serious matter!

"GOOD-BY – GOD BLESS YOU!"

I like the Anglo-Saxon speechWith its direct revealings —It takes a hold and seems to reachWay 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 airThe 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 handAt parting to address you,He drops all foreign lingo andHe says: "Good-by – God bless you!"This seems to me a sacred phraseWith 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 placeAnd soothes the weak and fearful.Into the porches of the earsIt steals with subtle unctionAnd in your heart of hearts appearsTo work its gracious function;And all day long with pleasing songIt lingers to caress you —I'm sure no human heart goes wrongThat's told "Good-by – God bless you!"I love the words – perhaps because,When I was leaving mother,Standing at last in solemn pauseWe looked at one another,And – I saw in mother's eyesThe love she could not tell me —A love eternal as the skies,Whatever fate befell me;She put her arms about my neckAnd 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-byAnd asked her God to bless me.

HORACE

(Epode XIV.)You ask me, friend,Why I don't sendThe long since due-and-paid-for numbers —Why, songless, IAs drunken lieAbandoned 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 AnackCourted a frisky Samian body,Singing her praiseIn metered phraseAs flowing as his bowls of toddy.'Till I was hoarseMight I discourseUpon the cruelties of Venus —'Twere waste of timeAs well of rhyme,For you've been there yourself, Maecenas!Perfect your bliss,If some fair missLove you yourself and not your minæ;I, fortune's sport,All vainly courtThe beauteous, polyandrous Phryne!

HORACE I, 23

Chloe, you shun me like a hindThat, seeking vainly for her mother,Hears danger in each breath of windAnd wildly darts this way and t'other.Whether the breezes sway the woodOr lizards scuttle through the brambles,She starts, and off, as though pursued,The foolish, frightened creature scrambles.But, Chloe, you're no infant thingThat should esteem a man an ogre —Let go your mother's apron-stringAnd 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 yearsOf that which people call discretionShould put aside all childish fearsAnd 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-hidingWhenas come lovers with theyre pityse chiding,Sothly it ben faire to give up your moderFor 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 ladyesThat marrye not shall leade an aype in Hayde;But all that do with gode men wed full quicklyeWhen 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 dayYou patronized the balletAnd the public cheered you such a wayAs shook your native valley.Cæcuban and the Calean brandMay elsewhere claim attention,But I have none of these on hand —For reasons I'll not mention.

ENVOY

So come! though favors I bestowCan not be called extensive,Who better than my friend should knowThat they're, at least, expensive!

HORACE II, 7

Pompey, what fortune gives you backTo 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 quaffedThe genial draftFrom an amphora together!When honor at Phillippi fellA pray to brutal passion,I regret to say that my feet ran awayIn swift Iambic fashion;You were no poet-soldier born,You staid, nor did you wince then —Mercury cameTo my help, which sameHas frequently saved me since then.But now you're back, let's celebrateIn the good old way and classic —Come, let us lard our skins with nardAnd bedew our souls with Massic!With fillets of green parsley leavesOur foreheads shall be done up,And with song shall weProtract our spreeUntil 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 diemUpon 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 showThat 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 TelephusAbraid 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 theyThat call on Hymen to requite 'em;For, though love cools, the wedded foolsMust cleave 'till death doth disunite 'em!

HORACE IV, 1

O Mother Venus, quit, I pray,Your violent assailing;The arts, forsooth, that fired my youthAt last are unavailing —My blood runs cold – I'm getting oldAnd all my powers are failing!Speed thou upon thy white swan's wingsAnd elsewhere deign to mellowWith my soft arts the anguished heartsOf 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 ballAnd conversazione!Then shall that godlike nose of thineWith perfumes be requited,And then shall prance in Salian danceThe 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 kindThat once I deemed delightful —No more brim up the festive cupThat sent me home at night full.Why do I falter in my speech,O cruel Ligurine?Why do I chase from place to placeIn weather wet and shiny?Why down my nose forever flowsThe tear that's cold and briny?

HORACE TO HIS PATRON

Mæcenas, you're of noble line —(Of which the proof convincingIs that you buy me all my wineWithout so much as wincing.)To different men of different mindsCome different kinds of pleasure;There's Marshall Field – what joy he findsIn shears and cloth-yard measure!With joy Prof. Swing is filledWhile preaching godly sermons;With bliss is Hobart Taylor thrilledWhen he is leading germans.While Uncle Joe Medill prefersTo run a daily paper,To Walter Gresham it occursThat 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 hamHis summum bonum reaches,MacVeagh's as happy as a clamIn canning pears and peaches.Let Farwell glory in the frayWhich party hate increases —His son-in-law delights to playGavottes and such like pieces.So each betakes him to his task —So each his hobby nurses —While I – well, all the boon I askIs leave to write my verses.Give, give that precious boon to meAnd I shall envy no man;If not the noblest I shall beAt least the happiest Roman!

THE "ARS POETICA" OF HORACE – XVIII

(Lines 323-333.)The Greeks had genius – 'twas a giftThe Muse vouchsafed in glorious measure;The boon of Fame they made their aimAnd 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 speedFrom him who stands at Death's dark portal.Ah, when this slavish love of goldOnce binds the soul in greasy fetters,How prostrate lies – how droops and diesThe 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 learnThe 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 downTo place it on a worthier head!

HORACE I, 33

Not to lament that rival flameWherewith the heartless Glycera scorns you,Nor waste your time in maudlin rhyme,How many a modern instance warns you.Fair-browed Lycoris pines awayBecause her Cyrus loves another;The ruthless churl informs the girlHe 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 hateEre Pholoe will mate with Cyrus!Ah, weak and hapless human hearts —By cruel Mother Venus fatedTo 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 meAnd with her cruelties subdued me!