Hoosier Lyrics

THE "ARS POETICA" OF HORACE – I

(Lines 1-23.)Should painters attach to a fair human headThe 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 freakIs the crude and preposterous poemWhich merely abounds in a torrent of soundsWith 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 sprawnOf 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 debasedPaints 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 designA 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 awayThrough the mist and the sprayTo the sensuous climate of Spain.Strange sights shall he see in that beautiful landWhich 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 goldGlint the orchards of lemons and mangoes,And the ladies, we're told,Are a joy to beholdAs they twine in their lissome fandangoes.What though our friend Dana shall twang a guitarAnd murmur a passionate strain —Oh, fairer by farThan these ravishments areThe castles abounding in Spain!These castles are built as the builder may list —They are sometimes of marble or stone,But they mostly consistOf east wind and mistWith an ivy of froth overgrown.A beautiful castle our Dana shall raiseOn a futile foundation of hope,And its glories shall blazeIn the somnolent hazeOf 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 everywhereThrough that beautiful castle in Spain.

REID, THE CANDIDATE

I saw a brave compositorGo 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 voteFor gallant Whitelaw Reid!""But what has Whitelaw done," I asked,"That now he should succeed?"Said he: "The stanchest, truest friendWe have is Whitelaw Reid!"There are no terms we can suggestThat 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 upThe 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 sawThat printer straight proceedWhile other printers swarmed in swarmsTo 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 zephyrsSing over field and flood;When all sweet things in NatureSeem 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 raptureCometh the moment whenIt is half-past kissing-timeAnd time to kiss again!So – so the days go fleetingLike golden fancies free,And every day that comethIs full of sweets for me;And sweetest are those momentsMy darling comes to climbInto my lap to mind meThat it is kissing-time.Sometimes, may be, he wandersA heedless, aimless way —Sometimes, may be, he loitersIn pretty, prattling play;But presently bethinks himAnd hastens to me then,For it's half-past kissing timeAnd time to kiss again!

THE FIFTH OF JULY

The sun climbs up, but still the tyrant SleepHolds fast our baby boy in his embrace;The slumb'rer sighs, anon athwart his faceFaint, 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 revealThe fruits of boyhood's patriotic zest.Our baby's faithful poodle crouches near —He, too, is weary of the din and playThat 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' joyThat'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 fineThat 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 objectTo 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 prizeAn' 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 wentAn' summers follered arter spring,John didn't mind – he was intentOn 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 smilesOur club gets walloped black and blueIn all the latest styles;But when our Baby's hopping madIt's quite the other way —Chicago beats the Yankees badWhen Baby doesn't play.When baby stands upon his base,Just after having kicked,Upon his Scandinavian faceAppears the legend, "Licked";But when he orders out a sub,We well may hip-hooray —Chicago has the winning clubWhen 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 wasAnd how he's made it payTo hire the kids that win becauseOur 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 saidFor yellow and green and the rest;But the feeble tints, which some affectIn 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 bloodAnd quickeneth a man within,And bringeth to speedy and perfect budThe 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 comparedWith the blush of a buxom lass —Or where such warmth as of the hairOf the genuine white horse class?And, lo, reflected in this cupOf cherry Bordeaux I seeWhat inspiration girdeth me up —Yes, red is the color for me!Through acres and acres of art I've strayedIn Italy, Germany, France;On many a picture a master has madeI've squandered a passing glance;Marines I hate, madonnas andThose 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 abideThe tastes that obtain down east;And we are mighty proud to have it saidThat 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 lawFrom which no soul can sway or swerve,We have that in us which will drawWhate'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 timeAs 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 streetIn a most tumultuous way,And he hollered at all he chanced to meet:"Hooray, hooray, hooray!"His eyes and his breath were hot with joyAnd his cheeks were all aflame —'Twas a rare event with the little boyWhen the champions won a game!"Twenty to 6" and "10 to 2"Were rather dismal scores,And they wreathed in a somewhat somber hueThese classic western shores;We shuddered and winced at the cruel sportAnd our heads were bowed in shame'Till Somewhere sent us the glad reportThat the champions won the game!Our Baby says it'll be all rightFor the champions by and by,And the twin emotions of Hope and FrightGleam 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 sightWhen folks, who should harmonious be,Fall out and chide and fight."The tones of Andy and of JoeShould join in friendly games —Not be debased to vice so lowAs that of calling names."Bad names and naughty names requireTo be chastized at school,But he's in danger of hell-fireWho talks of 'crank' and 'fool.'"Oh 'tis a dreadful thing to seeThe old folks smite and jaw,But pleasant it is to agreeOn the election law."Let Joe and Andy leave their wrongsFor sinners to contest;So shall they some time swell the songsOf Israel's ransomed blest."

THE MIGHTY WEST

Oh, where abides the fond kazoo,The barrel-organ fair,And where is heard the tra-la-looOf fish horns on the air?And where are found the fife and drumDiscoursed with goodliest zest?And where do fiddles liveliest hum?The west – the mighty west!Sonatas, fugues, and all o' thatAre rightly judged effete,While largos written in B-flatAre 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 beefOr diving into stocks,Could we expect to find reliefIn Haydns or in Bachs?Ah, no; from pork and wheat and lardWe turn aside with zestTo sing some opus of some bardWhose home is in the west.So get ye gone, ye weakling crew!Your tunes are stale and flat,And cannot hold a candle toThe works of Silas Pratt!His opuses are in demandAnd are the final testBy which all others fall or standIn this the mighty west!

APRIL

Now April with sweet showers of freshening rainHas 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 stySends forth, as erst, his amerous vermal croak,Each hungry mooly casts her swivel eyeFor 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 gooseFrom thousand-scented mudholes echoes o'er;The dogs and yawling cats have gotten looseAnd 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 nowTo 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 grumblingUntil the baleful tidings cameThat Williamson was "fumbling."Then all at once a hideous gloomFell o'er all manly features,And Clayton's cozy, quiet roomWas full of frantic creatures."Click, click," the tiny ticker went,The tape began to rattle,And pallid, eager faces bentTo read the news from battle;Down, down, ten million feet or more,Chicago's hope went tumbling,When came the word that Burns and GoreAnd Pfeffer, too, were "fumbling."No diagram was needed thenTo point the Browns to glory —The simple fact that these four menWere "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 andOur second baseman "fumble."There was some talk of hippodrome'Mid frequent calls for liquor,Then each Chicago man went homeMuch wiser, poorer, sicker;And many a giant intellectSeemed slowly, surely crumblingBeneath the dolorous effectOf that St. Louis "fumbling."Ah, well, the struggle's but just begun,So what is the use of frettingIf by a little harmless funOur boys can bull the betting?When comes the tug of war there'll beNo accidental stumbling,And then, you bet your boots, you'll seeNo mention made of "fumbling."

THE ROSE

Since the days of old Adam the welkin has rungWith the praises of sweet scented posies,And poets in rapturous phrases have sungThe paramount beauties of roses.Wheresoever she bides, whether nestling in lanesOr gracing the proud urban bowers,The red, royal rose her distinction maintainsAs the one regnant queen among flowers.How joyous are we of the west when we findThat Fate, with her gifts ever chary,Has decreed that the Rose, who is queen of her kindShall bloom on our wild western prairie.Let us laugh at the east as an impotent thingWith envy and jealously crazy,While grateful Chicago is happy to singIn the praise of the rose – she's a daisy.

KANSAS CITY VS. DETROIT

A rooster flapped his wings and crowedA merrysome cockadoodledoo,As out of the west a cowboy rodeTo 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 trueWhy do you crane your neck and singThat wearisome cockadoodledoo?Would you like to learn the tralalaloo?"Now the rooster squawked an impudent wordWhereat the angered cowboy threwHis lariat at the haughty birdAnd choked him until his gills were blueAnd 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 newsThat will greatly astound you, I know;You would never suspectMy ambition was wreck'd'Till you heard my confession of woe.'Tis not that my boomHas ascended the flume —In other words, gone up the spout —I could smile a sweet smileThis 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 ambitionTo soar to positionSo I gave it exclusive attention;And supposin' that heWould 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 hairIn a fit of despairI heard my Achates complainThat the gent with the cofferHad nothing to offerIn the way of relieving his pain!* * * * * *If there's mortal to blameFor this villainous gameWhich has snuffed a great man beyond doubt.It's that treacherous mammalEntitled Bilkammle —Which accounts for us two bein' out!

TO THE DETROIT BASEBALL CLUB

You've scooped the vealy city crowdOf glory and of purse —Why shouldn't Pegasus be proudTo trot you out in a verse?Chicago hoped to wallop youBy a tremendous score,But bit off more than it could chew,As witness: "5 to 4."Well done, you 'Ganders! here's a handTo every one of you;These record-breakers of the landNow break themselves in two.Well get their pennant – it shall floatUpon our distant shore,So let each patriotic throatHurrah for "5 to 4."

A BALLAD OF ANCIENT OATHS

Ther ben a knyght, Sir Hoten hight,That on a time did swereIn mighty store othes mickle sore,Whiche grieved his wiffe to here.Soth, whenne she scoft, his wiffe did oftSwere as a lady may;"I'faith," "I'sooth," or "lawk" in truthBen alle that wiffe wold say.Soe whenne her good man waxed him woodShe mervailed much to hereThe hejeous sound of othes full roundThe which her lord did swere."Now, pray thee, speke and tell me ekeWhat thing hath vexed thee soe?"The wiffe she cried; but he repliedBy swereing moe and moe.Her sweren zounds which be Gog's wounds,By bricht Marie and Gis,By sweit Sanct Ann and holie TanAnd 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 thornAnd 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 adoAnd sore his wiffe ben wepen.Giff you wold know why sweren soeThe 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 acquaintYou were as lavish as could beWith your vermillion paint;But now the head that once was redSeems veiled in sable woe,And clouds of gloom obscure your boom,John Hamilton, my Jo.Oh, was it Campbell's hatchet wroughtThe ruin we deplore?Or was it Abnor Taylor's thirstFor your abundant gore?Or was it Hank's ambitious pranksThat 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 tellThe story – full of tragic fire —How one great statesman fell;How dives' hand stalked in the landAnd dealt a crushing blowAt one proud name – which you're the same,John Hamilton, my Jo!

THE GRATEFUL PATIENT

The doctor leaned tenderly over the bedAnd 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 recommendationIs morphia by hypodermic injection."The patient looked up with a leer in his eyeAnd 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 positionTo ask the commissionT' excuse me from serving as judge of election."

THE BEGINNING AND THE END

DeathIn my breath,Cried I then:"MenBurn and blight!Nourish crime!Scale the height!Climb, men, climb!Climb and fight!Win by might!Wrong or right!Blood!"WellIn a cellHere I am —D – n!From my flightSo sublimeI alightEre my time,And in frightHere I gropeThrough the nightWithout hope.What a plight!Ah, the rope!Thud!

CLARE MARKET

In the market of Clare, so cheery the glareOf 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 despairOf 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 criesOf the vender proclaiming his puddings and pies;And sniffing he goes through the lanes that discloseMuch cause for disgust to his sensitive nose;Once free from the crowd, he admits that he is proudThat 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 slumIs charmed by the magic of dazzle and hum;He feasts his big eyes on the cakes and piesAnd they seem to grow green and protrude with surpriseAt 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 amazeAt treasures that glitter and torches that blaze —What sense of despair in this world can compareWith that of the waif in the market of Clare?So, on Saturday nights, when my custom invitesA stroll in old London for curious sights,I am likely to stray by a devious wayWhere goodies are spread in a motley array,The things which some eyes would appear to despiseImpress 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 declareThat 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 growTo 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 wonSuch 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 whenMy 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 sphereI 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!"