With perfumes be requited,
And then shall prance in Salian dance
The girls and boys delighted,
And, while the lute blends with the flute,
Shall tender loves be blighted.
But as for me--as you can see--
I'm getting old and spiteful;
I have no mind to female kind
That once I deemed delightful--
No more brim up the festive cup
That sent me home at night full.
Why do I falter in my speech,
O cruel Ligurine?
Why do I chase from place to place
In weather wet and shiny?
Why down my nose forever flows
The tear that's cold and briny?
HORACE TO HIS PATRON.
Maecenas, you're of noble line--
(Of which the proof convincing
Is that you buy me all my wine
Without so much as wincing.)
To different men of different minds
Come different kinds of pleasure;
There's Marshall Field--what joy he finds
In shears and cloth-yard measure!
With joy Prof. Swing is filled
While preaching godly sermons;
With bliss is Hobart Taylor thrilled
When he is leading germans.
While Uncle Joe Medill prefers
To run a daily paper,
To Walter Gresham it occurs
That law's the proper caper.
With comedy a winning card,
How blithe is Richard Hooley;
Per contra, making soap and lard,
Rejoices Fairbank duly.
While Armour in the sugar ham
His summum bonum reaches,
MacVeagh's as happy as a clam
In canning pears and peaches.
Let Farwell glory in the fray
Which party hate increases--
His son-in-law delights to play
Gavottes and such like pieces.
So each betakes him to his task--
So each his hobby nurses--
While I--well, all the boon I ask
Is leave to write my verses.
Give, give that precious boon to me
And I shall envy no man;
If not the noblest I shall be
At least the happiest Roman!
THE "ARS POETICA" OF HORACE--XVIII.
(Lines 323-333.)
The Greeks had genius--'twas a gift
The Muse vouchsafed in glorious measure;
The boon of Fame they made their aim
And prized above all worldly treasure.
But _we_--how do we train _our_ youth?
_Not_ in the arts that are immortal,
But in the greed for gains that speed
From him who stands at Death's dark portal.
Ah, when this slavish love of gold
Once binds the soul in greasy fetters,
How prostrate lies--how droops and dies
The great, the noble cause of letters!
HORACE I, 34.
I have not worshiped God, my King--
Folly has led my heart astray;
Backward I turn my course to learn
The wisdom of a wiser way.
How marvelous is God, the King!
How do His lightnings cleave the sky--
His thundering car spreads fear afar,
And even hell is quaked thereby!
Omnipotent is God, our King!
There is no thought He hath not read,
And many a crown His hand plucks down
To place it on a worthier head!
HORACE I, 33.
Not to lament that rival flame
Wherewith the heartless Glycera scorns you,
Nor waste your time in maudlin rhyme,
How many a modern instance warns you.
Fair-browed Lycoris pines away
Because her Cyrus loves another;
The ruthless churl informs the girl
He loves her only as a brother.
For he, in turn, courts Pholoe--
A maid unscotched of love's fierce virus--
Why, goats will mate with wolves they hate
Ere Pholoe will mate with Cyrus!
Ah, weak and hapless human hearts--
By cruel Mother Venus fated
To spend this life in hopeless strife,
Because incongruously mated!
Such torture, Albius, is my lot;
For, though a better mistress wooed me,
My Myrtale has captured me
And with her cruelties subdued me!
THE "ARS POETICA" OF HORACE--I.
(Lines 1-23.)
Should painters attach to a fair human head
The thick, turgid neck of a stallion,
Or depict a spruce lass with the tail of a bass--
I am sure you would guy the rapscallion!
Believe me, dear Pisos, that such a freak
Is the crude and preposterous poem
Which merely abounds in a torrent of sounds
With no depth of reason below 'em.
'Tis all very well to give license to art--
The wisdom of license defend I;
But the line should be drawn at the fripperish sprawn
Of a mere cacoethes scribendi.
It is too much the fashion to strain at effects--
Yes, that's what's the matter with Hannah!
Our popular taste by the tyros debased
Paints each barnyard a grove of Diana!
Should a patron require you to paint a marine,
Would you work in some trees with their barks on?
When his strict orders are for a Japanese jar,
Would you give him a pitcher like Clarkson?
Now this is my moral: Compose what you may,
And fame will be ever far distant,
Unless you combine with a simple design
A treatment in toto consistent.
THE GREAT JOURNALIST IN SPAIN.
Good Editor Dana--God bless him, we say!
Will soon be afloat on the main,
Will be steaming away
Through the mist and the spray
To the sensuous climate of Spain.
Strange sights shall he see in that beautiful land
Which is famed for its soap and Moor,
For, as we understand,
The scenery is grand,
Though the system of railway is poor.
For moonlight of silver and sunlight of gold
Glint the orchards of lemons and mangoes,
And the ladies, we're told,
Are a joy to behold
As they twine in their lissome fandangoes.
What though our friend Dana shall twang a guitar
And murmur a passionate strain--
Oh, fairer by far
Than these ravishments are
The castles abounding in Spain!
These castles are built as the builder may list--
They are sometimes of marble or stone,
But they mostly consist
Of east wind and mist
With an ivy of froth overgrown.
A beautiful castle our Dana shall raise
On a futile foundation of hope,
And its glories shall blaze
In the somnolent haze
Of the mythical lake del y Soap.
The fragrance of sunflowers shall swoon on the air,
And the visions of dreamland obtain,
And the song of "World's Fair"
Shall be heard everywhere
Through that beautiful castle in Spain.
REID, THE CANDIDATE.
I saw a brave compositor
Go hustling o'er the mead,
Who bore a banner with these words:
"Hurrah for Whitelaw Reid!"
"Where go you, brother slug," I asked,
"With such unusual speed?"
He quoth: "I go to dump my vote
For gallant Whitelaw Reid!"
"But what has Whitelaw done," I asked,
"That now he should succeed?"
Said he: "The stanchest, truest friend
We have is Whitelaw Reid!
"There are no terms we can suggest
That he will not concede;
He is converted to our faith,
Is gallant Whitelaw Reid!
"The union it must be preserved--
That is this convert's creed,
And that is why we're whooping up
The cause of Whitelaw Reid!"
"If what you say of him be sooth,
You have a friend indeed,
So go on your winding way," quoth I,
"And whoop for Whitelaw Reid!"
So on unto the polls I saw
That printer straight proceed
While other printers swarmed in swarms
To vote for Whitelaw Reid.
A VALENTINE.
Four little sisters standing in a row--
Which of them I love best I really do not know.
Sometimes it is the sister dressed out so fine in blue,
And sometimes she who flaunts the beauteous robe of emerald hue;
Sometimes for her who wears the brown my tender heart has bled,
And then again I am consumed of love for her in red.
So now I think I'll send this valentine unto the four--
I love them all so very much--how could a man do more?
KISSING-TIME.
'Tis when the lark goes soaring,
And the bee is at the bud,
When lightly dancing zephyrs
Sing over field and flood;
When all sweet things in Nature
Seem joyfully a-chime--
'Tis then I wake my darling,
For it is kissing-time!
Go, pretty lark, a-soaring,
And suck your sweets, O bee;
Sing, O ye winds of summer,
Your songs to mine and me.
For with your song and rapture
Cometh the moment when
It is half-past kissing-time
And time to kiss again!
So--so the days go fleeting
Like golden fancies free,
And every day that cometh
Is full of sweets for me;
And sweetest are those moments
My darling comes to climb
Into my lap to mind me
That it is kissing-time.
Sometimes, may be, he wanders
A heedless, aimless way--
Sometimes, may be, he loiters
In pretty, prattling play;
But presently bethinks him
And hastens to me then,
For it's half-past kissing time
And time to kiss again!
THE FIFTH OF JULY.
The sun climbs up, but still the tyrant Sleep
Holds fast our baby boy in his embrace;
The slumb'rer sighs, anon athwart his face
Faint, half-suggested frowns like shadows creep,
One little hand lies listless on his breast,
One little thumb sticks up with mute appeal,
While motley burns and powder marks reveal
The fruits of boyhood's patriotic zest.
Our baby's faithful poodle crouches near--
He, too, is weary of the din and play
That come with glorious Independence Day,
But which, thank God! come only once a year!
And Fido, too, has suffered in this cause,
Which once a year right noisily obtains,
For Fido's tail--or what thereof remains--
Is not so fair a sight as once it was.
PICNIC-TIME.
It's June agin, an' in my soul I feel the fillin' joy
That's sure to come this time o' year to every little boy;
For, every June, the Sunday schools at picnics may be seen,
Where "fields beyont the swellin' floods stand dressed in livin'
green."
Where little girls are skeered to death with spiders, bugs an' ants,
An' little boys get grass-stains on their go-to-meetin' pants.
It's June agin, an' with it all what happiness is mine--
There's goin' to be a picnic an' I'm goin' to jine!
One year I jined the Baptists, an' goodness! how it rained!
(But grampa says that that's the way "Baptizo" is explained.)
And once I jined the 'piscopils an' had a heap o' fun--
But the boss of all the picnics was the Presbyterium!
They had so many puddin's, sallids, sandwidges an' pies,
That a feller wisht his stummick was as hungry as his eyes!
Oh, yes, the eatin' Presbyteriums give yer is so fine
That when _they_ have a picnic, you bet _I'm_ goin' to jine!
But at this time the Methodists have special claims on me,
For they're goin' to give a picnic on the 21st, D. V.;
Why should a liberal Universalist like me object
To share the joys of fellowship with every friendly sect?
However het'rodox their articles of faith elsewise may be,
Their doctrine of fried chick'n is a savin' grace to me!
So on the 21st of June, the weather bein' fine,
They're goin' to give a picnic, and I'm goin' to jine!
THE ROMANCE OF A WATCH.
One day his father said to John:
"Come here and see what I hev bought---
A Waterbury watch, my son--
It is the boon you long hev sought!"
The boy could scarcely believe his eyes--
The watch was shiny, smooth an' slick--
He snatched the nickel-plated prize
An' wound away to hear it tick.
He wound an' wound, an' wound an' wound,
An' kept a windin' fit to kill--
The weeks an' months an' years rolled round,
But John he kep' a windin', still!
As autumns came an' winters went
An' summers follered arter spring,
John didn't mind--he was intent
On windin' up that darned ol' thing.
He got to be a poor ol' man--
He's bald an' deaf an' blind an' lame,
But, like he did when he began,
He keeps on windin', jest the same!
OUR BABY.
'Tis very strange, but quite as true,
That when our Baby smiles
Our club gets walloped black and blue
In all the latest styles;
But when our Baby's hopping mad
It's quite the other way--
Chicago beats the Yankees bad
When Baby doesn't play.
When baby stands upon his base,
Just after having kicked,
Upon his Scandinavian face
Appears the legend, "Licked";
But when he orders out a sub,
We well may hip-hooray--
Chicago has the winning club
When Baby doesn't play.
But, if our Baby's getting old,
And stiff, and cross, and vain,
And if his days are nearly told,
Oh, let us not complain.
Let's rather think of what he was
And how he's made it pay
To hire the kids that win because
Our Baby doesn't play.
THE COLOR THAT SUITS ME BEST.
Any color--so long as it's red--
Is the color that suits me best,
Though I will allow there is much to be said
For yellow and green and the rest;
But the feeble tints, which some affect
In the things they make or buy,
Have never (I say it with all respect)
Appealed to my critical eye.
There's that in red that warmeth the blood
And quickeneth a man within,
And bringeth to speedy and perfect bud
The germs of original sin;
So, though I am properly born and bred,
I'll own, with a certain zest,
That any color--so long as it's red--
Is the color that suits me best!
For where is a color that can be compared
With the blush of a buxom lass--
Or where such warmth as of the hair
Of the genuine white horse class?
And, lo, reflected in this cup
Of cherry Bordeaux I see
What inspiration girdeth me up--
Yes, red is the color for me!
Through acres and acres of art I've strayed
In Italy, Germany, France;
On many a picture a master has made
I've squandered a passing glance;
Marines I hate, madonnas and
Those Dutch freaks I detest!
But the peerless daubs of my native land--
They're red, and I like them best!
'Tis little I care how folks deride--
I'm backed by the west, at least,
And we are free to say that we can't abide
The tastes that obtain down east;
And we are mighty proud to have it said
That here in the critical west,
Most any color--so long as it's red--
Is the color that suits us best!
HOW TO "FILL."
It is understood that our esteemed Col. Franc B. Wilkie is going to
formulate a reply to Mrs. Ella Wheeler Wilcox's latest poem, which
begins as follows:
"I hold it as a changeless law
From which no soul can sway or swerve,
We have that in us which will draw
Whate'er we need or most deserve."
We fancy the genial colonel will start off with some such quatrain as
this:
"I fain would have your recipe,
If you'll but give the snap away;
Now when four clubs are dealt to me,
How may I draw another, pray?"
POLITICS IN 1888.
The Cleveland Leader must be getting ready for the campaign of 1888. We
find upon its editorial page quite a pretentious poem, entitled "Alpha
and Omega," and here is a sample stanza:
"Whose name will stand for coming time
As hypocrites in prose and rhyme,
And be despised in every clime?
The Mugwumps."
Well, may be so, but may we be permitted to add a stanza which seems to
us to be very pertinent just now?
And who next year, we'd like to know,
Will feed the Cleveland Leader crow,
Just as they did three years ago?
The Mugwumps.
THE BASEBALL SCORE.
A boy came racing down the street
In a most tumultuous way,
And he hollered at all he chanced to meet:
"Hooray, hooray, hooray!"
His eyes and his breath were hot with joy
And his cheeks were all aflame--
'Twas a rare event with the little boy
When the champions won a game!
"Twenty to 6" and "10 to 2"
Were rather dismal scores,
And they wreathed in a somewhat somber hue
These classic western shores;
We shuddered and winced at the cruel sport
And our heads were bowed in shame
'Till Somewhere sent us the glad report
That the champions won the game!
Our Baby says it'll be all right
For the champions by and by,
And the twin emotions of Hope and Fright
Gleam in his cod fish eye;
And Spalding says (in his modest way)
That we'll get there all the same;
So let us holler, "Hooray, hooray,"
When the champions win the game.
CHICAGO NEWSPAPER LIFE.
It pleases us to observe that the shocking habit of hurling opprobrious
epithets at each other has been abandoned by the venerable editor of the
Journal and the venerable editor of the Tribune. At this moment we are
reminded of the inspired lines of the eminent but now, alas! neglected
Watts:
"Birds in their nests agree,
And 'tis a shocking sight
When folks, who should harmonious be,
Fall out and chide and fight.
"The tones of Andy and of Joe
Should join in friendly games--
Not be debased to vice so low
As that of calling names.
"Bad names and naughty names require
To be chastized at school,
But he's in danger of hell-fire
Who talks of 'crank' and 'fool.'
"Oh 'tis a dreadful thing to see
The old folks smite and jaw,
But pleasant it is to agree
On the election law.
"Let Joe and Andy leave their wrongs
For sinners to contest;
So shall they some time swell the songs
Of Israel's ransomed blest."
THE MIGHTY WEST.
Oh, where abides the fond kazoo,
The barrel-organ fair,
And where is heard the tra-la-loo
Of fish horns on the air?
And where are found the fife and drum
Discoursed with goodliest zest?
And where do fiddles liveliest hum?
The west--the mighty west!
Sonatas, fugues, and all o' that
Are rightly judged effete,
While largos written in B-flat
Are clearly out of date;
Some like the cold pianny-forty,
But whistling suits us best--
And op'ry, if it isn't naughty,
Will not catch on out west.
From skinning hogs or canning beef
Or diving into stocks,
Could we expect to find relief
In Haydns or in Bachs?
Ah, no; from pork and wheat and lard
We turn aside with zest
To sing some opus of some bard
Whose home is in the west.
So get ye gone, ye weakling crew!
Your tunes are stale and flat,
And cannot hold a candle to
The works of Silas Pratt!
His opuses are in demand
And are the final test
By which all others fall or stand
In this the mighty west!
APRIL.
Now April with sweet showers of freshening rain
Has roused last summer's vigorous breath once more;
'Tis in the air, the house, the street, the lane--
Puffs through the walls and oozes through the floor.
The rau-cous-throated frog ayont the sty
Sends forth, as erst, his amerous vermal croak,
Each hungry mooly casts her swivel eye
For pots and pails in which her nose to poke.
With gurgling glee the gutter gushes by,
Fraught all with filth, unknown and nameless dirt--
A dead green goose, an o'er-ripe rat I spy;
Head of a cat, tail of a flannel shirt.
The querulous cry of every gabbling goose
From thousand-scented mudholes echoes o'er;
The dogs and yawling cats have gotten loose
And mock the hideous howls of hell once more.
By yon scrub oak, where roots the sallow sow,
In where John Murphy's wife outpours her slop;
Right there you'll find there's almost stench now
To cause the world its nostrils to estop.
And yonder dauntless goat that bank adown,
That wreathes his old fantastic horns so high,
Gnaws sadly on the bustle of Miss Brown,
Which she discarded in the months gone by.
So in Goose Island cometh April round;
Full eagerly we watch the month's approach--
The season of sweet sight and pleasant sound,
The season of the bedbug and the roach.
REPORT OF THE BASEBALL GAME.
It was a very pleasant game,
And there was naught of grumbling
Until the baleful tidings came
That Williamson was "fumbling."
Then all at once a hideous gloom
Fell o'er all manly features,
And Clayton's cozy, quiet room
Was full of frantic creatures.
"Click, click," the tiny ticker went,
The tape began to rattle,
And pallid, eager faces bent
To read the news from battle;
Down, down, ten million feet or more,
Chicago's hope went tumbling,
When came the word that Burns and Gore
And Pfeffer, too, were "fumbling."
No diagram was needed then
To point the Browns to glory--
The simple fact that these four men
Were "fumbling" told the story.
There is not a club in all the land--
No odds how weak or humble--
That beats us when our short-stop and
Our second baseman "fumble."
There was some talk of hippodrome
'Mid frequent calls for liquor,
Then each Chicago man went home
Much wiser, poorer, sicker;
And many a giant intellect
Seemed slowly, surely crumbling
Beneath the dolorous effect
Of that St. Louis "fumbling."
Ah, well, the struggle's but just begun,
So what is the use of fretting
If by a little harmless fun
Our boys can bull the betting?
When comes the tug of war there'll be
No accidental stumbling,
And then, you bet your boots, you'll see
No mention made of "fumbling."
THE ROSE.
Since the days of old Adam the welkin has rung
With the praises of sweet scented posies,
And poets in rapturous phrases have sung
The paramount beauties of roses.
Wheresoever she bides, whether nestling in lanes
Or gracing the proud urban bowers,
The red, royal rose her distinction maintains
As the one regnant queen among flowers.
How joyous are we of the west when we find
That Fate, with her gifts ever chary,
Has decreed that the Rose, who is queen of her kind
Shall bloom on our wild western prairie.
Let us laugh at the east as an impotent thing
With envy and jealously crazy,
While grateful Chicago is happy to sing
In the praise of the rose--she's a daisy.
KANSAS CITY VS. DETROIT.
A rooster flapped his wings and crowed
A merrysome cockadoodledoo,
As out of the west a cowboy rode
To the land where the peach and the clapboard grew,
Humming a gentle tralalaloo.
"O insect with the gilded wing,"
The cowboy cried, "Pray tell me true
Why do you crane your neck and sing
That wearisome cockadoodledoo?
Would you like to learn the tralalaloo?"
Now the rooster squawked an impudent word
Whereat the angered cowboy threw
His lariat at the haughty bird
And choked him until his gills were blue
And his eyes hung out an inch or two.
"Now hear _me_ sing," the cowboy cried;
"It ain't no cockadoodledoo--
It's a song we sing on the prairies wide--
The simple song of tralalaloo,
Which is cowboy slang for 12 to 2."
ME AND BILKAMMLE.
I will, if you choose,
Impart you some news
That will greatly astound you, I know;
You would never suspect
My ambition was wreck'd
'Till you heard my confession of woe.
'Tis not that my boom
Has ascended the flume--
In other words, gone up the spout--
I could smile a sweet smile
This tempestuous while,
But me and Bilkammle are out!
Being timid and shrinkin',
He did all the thinkin',
When _I_ did the talkin' worth mention;
'Twas my constant ambition
To soar to position
So I gave it exclusive attention;
And supposin' that he
Would of course be for me,
I rambled and prattled about
'Till I found to my horror,
Vexation, and sorror,
That me and Bilkammle were out.
As I tore my red hair
In a fit of despair
I heard my Achates complain
That the gent with the coffer
Had nothing to offer
In the way of relieving his pain!
* * * * *
If there's mortal to blame
For this villainous game
Which has snuffed a great man beyond doubt.
It's that treacherous mammal
Entitled Bilkammle--
Which accounts for us two bein' out!
TO THE DETROIT BASEBALL CLUB.
You've scooped the vealy city crowd
Of glory and of purse--
Why shouldn't Pegasus be proud
To trot you out in a verse?
Chicago hoped to wallop you
By a tremendous score,
But bit off more than it could chew,
As witness: "5 to 4."
Well done, you 'Ganders! here's a hand
To every one of you;
These record-breakers of the land
Now break themselves in two.
Well get their pennant--it shall float
Upon our distant shore,
So let each patriotic throat
Hurrah for "5 to 4."
A BALLAD OF ANCIENT OATHS.
Ther ben a knyght, Sir Hoten hight,
That on a time did swere
In mighty store othes mickle sore,
Whiche grieved his wiffe to here.
Soth, whenne she scoft, his wiffe did oft
Swere as a lady may;
"I'faith," "I'sooth," or "lawk" in truth
Ben alle that wiffe wold say.
Soe whenne her good man waxed him wood
She mervailed much to here
The hejeous sound of othes full round
The which her lord did swere.
"Now, pray thee, speke and tell me eke
What thing hath vexed thee soe?"
The wiffe she cried; but he replied
By swereing moe and moe.
Her sweren zounds which be Gog's wounds,
By bricht Marie and Gis,
By sweit Sanct Ann and holie Tan
And by Bryde's bell, ywis.
By holie grails, by 'slids and 'snails,
By old Sanct Dunstan bauld,
The virgin faire that him did beare,
By him that Judas sauld;
By Arthure's sword, by Paynim horde,
By holie modyr's teir,
By Cokis breath, by Zooks and 's death,
And by Sanct Swithen deir;
By divells alle, both greate and smalle,
And in hell there be,
By bread and salt, and by Gog's malt,
And by the blody tree;
By Him that worn the crown of thorn
And by the sun and mone,
By deir Sanct Blanc and Sanct Fillane,
And three kings of Cologne;
By the gude Lord and His sweit word,
By him that herryit hell,
By blessed Jude, by holie rude,
And eke be Gad himsell!
He sweren soe (and mickle moe)
It made man's flesch to creepen,
The air ben blue with his ado
And sore his wiffe ben wepen.
Giff you wold know why sweren soe
The goodman high Sir Hoten,
He ben full wroth, because, in soth,
He leesed his coler boten.
AN OLD SONG REVISED.
John Hamilton, my Jo John,
When first we were acquaint
You were as lavish as could be
With your vermillion paint;
But now the head that once was red
Seems veiled in sable woe,
And clouds of gloom obscure your boom,
John Hamilton, my Jo.
Oh, was it Campbell's hatchet wrought
The ruin we deplore?
Or was it Abnor Taylor's thirst
For your abundant gore?
Or was it Hank's ambitious pranks
That laid our idol low?
Come, let us know how came you so,
John Hamilton, my Joe!
We pine to know the awful truth.
So, pray, be pleased to tell
The story--full of tragic fire--
How one great statesman fell;
How dives' hand stalked in the land
And dealt a crushing blow
At one proud name--which you're the same,
John Hamilton, my Jo!
THE GRATEFUL PATIENT.