Hoosier Lyrics

THIRTY-NINE

O hapless day! O wretched day!I hoped you'd pass me by —Alas, the years have sneaked awayAnd all is changed but I!Had I the power, I would remandYou to a gloom condign,But here you've crept upon me andI – I am thirty-nine!Now, were I thirty-five, I couldAssume a flippant guise,Or, were I forty years, I shouldUndoubtedly look wise;For forty years are said to bringSedateness 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 trueOf one at thirty-nine.)And you, dear girl with velvet eyes,I wonder what you meanThrough all our keen anxietiesBy 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 raceAs blithely as you canAnd, sweetheart, let your tender graceExalt the Day and Man;For then these factors (I'll engage)All subtly shall combineTo make both juvenile and sageThe one who's thirty-nine!Yes, after all, I'm free to sayThat I rejoice to beStanding as I do stand to-day'Twixt devil and deep sea;For, though my face be dark with careOr with a grimace shine,Each haply falls unto my share;Since I am thirty-nine!'Tis passing meet to make good cheerAnd lord it like a king,Since only once we catch the yearThat doesn't mean a thing.O happy day! O gracious day!I pledge thee in this wine —Come let us journey on our wayA year, good Thirty-Nine!

HORACE I, 18

O Varus minePlant thou the vineWithin this kindly soil of Tibur;Nor temporal woesNor spiritual knowsThe man who's a discreet imbiber.For who doth croakOf being brokeOr who of warfare, after drinking?With bowl atween us,Of smiling VenusAnd Bacchus shall we sing, I'm thinking.Of symptoms fellWhich brawls impelHistoric data give us warning;The wretch who fightsWhen full of nightsIs bound to have a head next morning.I do not scornA friendly horn,But noisy toots – I can't abide 'em!Your howling batIs stale and flatTo one who knows, because he's tried 'em!The secrets ofThe life of love(Companionship with girls and toddy)I would not dragWith drunken bragInto the ken of everybody,But in the shadeLet some coy maidWith smilax wreathe my flagon's nozzle —Then, all day long,With mirth and song,Shall I enjoy a quiet sozzle!

THREE RHINELAND DRINKING SONGS

IIf 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 floodAnd 'twill bloom all the sweeter —Yes, life's the completerFor 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 cheeryWith 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 wineAnd sung their songs together,What recked they of the griefs of lifeWith 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 dayRepaired the lonely brother,And still, as gayly as of old,That third one, hero-hearted,Filled to the brim each cup of goldAnd called to the departed:"O comrades mine, I see you not,Nor hear your kindly greeting;Yet in this old familiar spotBe still our loving meeting!Here have I filled each bouting cupWith 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 riseAnd quaff the beakers foaming;He heard two spirit voices call:"Fiducit, jovial brother!"And so forever from that hallWent they with one another.III(Der Mann im Keller.)How cool and fair this cellar whereMy throne a dusky cask is!To do no thing but just to singAnd drown the time my task is!The cooper, he'sResolved to please,And, answering to my winking,He fills me upCup after cupFor drinking, drinking, drinking.Begrudge me not this cozy spotIn which I am reclining —Why, who would burst with envious thirstWhen he can live by wining?A roseate hue seems to imbueThe world on which I'm blinking;My fellow men – I love them whenI'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 blissIn 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 IngleheimOn the Rhine – lovely Rhine;They were broke, but, the worst of it all, they were curstWith that malady common to tailors – a thirstFor 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 weOn the Rhine – genial Rhine;And we pledge you we will impart you that skillRight quickly and fully, providing you'll fillUs 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 wayYou'll find there's both host and the devil to payFor your wine – costly wine!"Then the first knavish wight took his needle so brightAnd threaded its eye with a wee ray of lightFrom the Rhine – sunny Rhine;And in such a deft way patched a mirror that dayThat where it was mended no expert could say —Done so fine – 'twas for wine!The second thereat spied a poor little gnatGo toiling along on his nose broad and flatToward 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 eyeOf that thin cambric needle; nay, think you I'd lieAbout wine? Not for wine!The landlord allowed (with a smile) he was proudTo do the fair thing by that talented crowdOn 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 hairAnd romp around a bit,For I am mad enough to swearSince Brother Chauncy quit.I am so vilely prone to sin —Vain ribald that I am —I'd take a hideous pleasure inJust one prodigious "damn."But shall I yield to Satan's wilesAnd let my passions swell?Nay, I will wreath my face in smiles,And mock the powers of hell.And howsoever pride may rollIts billows through my frame,I'll not condemn my precious soulUnto the quenchless flame!But rather will I humbly prayDivinity to washFrom out my mouth such words awayAs "Jiminy" and "Gosh."

DOCTORS

'Tis quite the thing to say and singGross libels on the doctor —To picture him an ogre grimOr humbug-pill concocter;Yet it's in quite another lightMy friendly pen would show him —Glad that it might with verse repaySome part of what I owe him!When one's all right he's prone to spiteThe doctor's peaceful mission;But, when he's sick, it's loud and quickHe bawls for a physician!With other things the doctor bringsSweet babes our hearts to soften;Though I have four, I pine for more —Good doctor, pray, come often!What though he sees death and diseaseRun 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 unavailingAnd death is near, his words of cheerSupport our courage failing.In ancient days they used to praiseThe godlike art of healing;An art that then engaged all menPossessed of sense and feeling;Why, Raleigh – he was glad to beFamed 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 partialTo doctors, for, in time of war,He chose one for marshal,In our great cause a doctor wasThe first to pass death's portal,And Warren's name at once becameA beacon and immortal!A heap, indeed, of what we readBy doctors is provided,For to those groves Apollo lovesTheir leaning is decided;Deny who may that RabelaisIs first in wit and learning —And yet all smile and marvel whileHis 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 DrakeIs still the schoolboy's glory!A doctor-man it was beganGreat 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 areBig monuments to learning;To Mitchell's prose (how smooth it flows!)We all are fondly turning;Tomes might be writ of that keen witWhich Abernethy's famed for —With bread-crumb pills he cured the illsMost doctors get blamed for!In modern times the noble rhymesOf Holmes (a great physician!)Have solace brought and wisdom taughtTo hearts of all conditions.The sailor bound for Puget soundFinds pleasure still unfailing,If he but troll the barcaroleOld Osborne wrote on Whaling!If there were need I could proceedAd naus, with this prescription,But, inter nos, a larger doseMight give you fits conniption;Yet, ere I end, there's one dear friendI'd hold before these others,For he and I in years gone by,Have chummed around like brothers.Together we have sung in gleeThe songs old Horace made forOur genial craft – together quaffedWhat 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 daySuch songs as only theyWho 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 payAmong the callow students and the sober-minded men —With the women folk a-cuttin' up that way!Why, they gave him turbans redTo adorn his hairless head,And knitted jaunty nightcaps to protect him when abed!In vain the rest demurred —Not a single chiding wordThose ladies deigned to tolerate – remonstrance was absurd!Things finally got into such a very dreadful wayThat the others (oh, how artful!) formed the politic designTo send him to the reichstag; so, one dull November dayThey 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 insideOf 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 priestInquired 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 sayThat, 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 canalThrough tracks of velvet green,And through the shade that windmills made,And pasture lands between.The kine had canvas on their backsTo temper Autumn's spite,And everywhere there was an airOf comfort and delight.My wife, dear philosophic soul!Saw here whereof to prate:"Vain fools are we across the seaTo 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 homesIn 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 sayI 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-oneHe played at dominoes.Then quoth my wife: "How fair to seeThis sturdy, honest manBeguile all pain and lust of gainWith whatso joys he can;Methinks his spouse is down belowBeading a kerchief gay —A babe, mayhap, lolls in her lapIn the good old Milky way."Where in the land from whence we cameIs there content like this —Where such disdain of sordid gain,Such sweet domestic bliss?A homespun woman I, this landDelights 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 foundWhat motor moved the boat;Hitched up in tow-path harness thereWas neither horse nor cow,But the buxom frame of a Hollandische dame —Meynheer van Blarcom's frau.