Kitabı oku: «The Bee's Bayonet (a Little Honey and a Little Sting)», sayfa 2

ENGLAND

 
O, Mighty Atlas, thou hast borne the load
Of hapless peoples smarting from the goad
Of Tyranny, until thy giant strength
Seems overtaxed and doomed to break at length.
Unless thy vim endures with steadfast force;
Unless thy Ship of State keeps on its course;
Unless thou gird thy loins and stand astride,
Colossus-like, the struggles that betide—
While all the Furies strive, the Turk and Hun,
To sap thy power—undo what thou hast done—
Of what avail will all thy efforts be
Against the tottering walls of Tyranny?
And to what purpose will have lived thy men
Who won imposing fame with sword or pen?
And what, I pray, will all thy thousands slain
Avail thy Empire if they've died in vain?
 

PREPAREDNESS

 
The Ostrich has his wings, but not for flight;
He flies on foot when danger is in sight;
His mate lays eggs upon the desert reaches
And "sands" them over when the leopard screeches.
The eggs, thus mounded, fall an easy prey
To feline foragers who slink that way.
The Ostrich, thus, guards not his nest: instead
He hides, in burning sands, his shameless head
And lets his monoplane and rudder be
Stripped of their plumage by an enemy.
 
 
Ostriches should Carry
Their Eggs in a Basket
And use their Feathers
For Dusting over the Desert.
 
 
The Squirrel is quite a different kind of fowl:
He works while others sleep, the sly old owl!
And stores up food, against the rainy day,
In secret nooks, from forest thieves away.
When winter comes, or when besieged by foes,
Securely housed he feasts and thumbs his nose
And ridicules starvation: he's immune!
While others, shiftless, sing another tune.
The Squirrel, you see, is much misfortune spared
In times of stress because he is prepared.
 
 
Improvident Nuts
Should Tear a Leaf
From the Squirrel's Diary.
 
 
A Heifer on the Railroad Crossing stood
Chewing Contentment's Cud, as heifers should,—
When, rushing madly, "late again," there came
The Noonday Mail. The Heifer was to blame
For choosing her position, I would say,
Because the Engine had the Right of Whey.
The Cow was unprepared! Her switching tail
Failed signally to flag the Noonday Mail.
But why keep beefing over milk that's spilled?
She heeded not the sign and thus was killed.
 
 
Heifers with Unprotected
Flanks should not Invite
Rear-guard Actions.
 
 
The Busy Bee improves the shining hours
And gathers honey from the fragrant flowers.
When Winter comes, forsaking field and rill,
He hivernates, but lives in clover still.
While Famine stalks without, his Home, Sweet Home
Is stored with tempting food from floor to dome.
He never lacks, nor has to buy, but cells
His surplus food gleaned from the flower-fringed dells.
A thrifty fellow is the Busy Bee
And fortified against Emergency.
 
 
A Bee's Ears
Contain no Wax
And he Saves his Combings
Against the Baldness of Old Age.
 
 
The Mule is well equipped but lacks the mind;
His strategy is in his heels, behind.
If pointed wrong, his practice is not dreaded,
But kick he will, no matter how he's headed.
With foresight lacking, hindsight to the fore,
He'll be just simple Mule forevermore;
Without the range or sight he'll blaze away
And thwart his purpose with his brazen bray.
If well-directed effort were his cult
No fortress could withstand his catapult.
 
 
A Mule should Conserve
His Ammunition and
Not Shoot-off his Mouth.
 
 
The Burglar, have you noticed? never troubles
To look for petty loot in obscure hovels.
He packs his kit and steals adown the road
To Gaspard Moneybags' renowned abode.
He knows the house-plan ("inside" dope, no doubt)
And when he's in, old Moneybags is out.
But Jimmy does not dent the window-sash;
He enters thru the door and gets the cash.
Prepared? Well, yes! He knew just where to look,
For Nora hung the key upon the hook.
 
 
Team-work is
The Handmaiden
Of Efficiency.
 
 
It pays to be Prepared, you see, and so
The Snail in Armored Car goes safe, tho' slow;
And Alligators in their Coats of Mail
Withstand assaults where those, defenceless, fail.
The Tortoise totes his Caripace around
And dwells in safety where his foes abound;
While Wasps, with poisoned javelins, defend
Successfully their offspring to the end.
A Sheep with ramparts has no thought of fear,
But guards his buttress when his foes appear,
And any Skunk can frighten and harass
An Army with Asphyxiating Gas.
 

THE FUGITIVE KISS

 
How I loved her! There on the gate we'd lean,
(The dear, old gate that never gave away
The loving nothings we were wont to say)
From day to day,
And sometimes after dark;
She was my Angel-Sweetheart, just sixteen.
 
 
But I was shy! And while I longed to taste
The nectar of her lips, I was afraid
To draw her to my breast and kiss the Maid:
But I essayed!
And this is what I drew—
"There's Papa with the bulldog, so make haste!"
 
 
What could I do? The "bark" was flecked with foam,
And old man Jones was meaner than a cur;
So there I stood 'twixt fear, and love of her
And didn't stir
Until they came: and then
I kissed them all Good-bye and beat it home.
 

NEW MEXICAN NATIONAL ANTHEM

 
My Country vast and grand,
Sweet Montezuma Land,
My Stingareé.
Land of the Knife and Gun,
Villa and Scorpion;
Land of the Evil One
I weep for thee!
 
 
Smallpox and Rattlesnakes
Lurk in thy Cactus brakes,
And Yellow Jack.
Spiders and Centipedes
Gloat o'er thy murd'rous deeds:
To cure thy crying needs,
Call Diaz back.
 
 
Tarantula and Flies
Poison your lands and skies:
Behold your graves!
Carranza's waving beard
By Pancho's Band is feared,
And will be till he's sheared
Or dyes or shaves.
 
 
Horned Toads and Vampire Bats,
Gilas and Mountain Cats,
Where'er you go!
 
 
Buzzards and Vultures reign
Over a million slain;
And Mescal is the bane
Of Mexico.
 
 
O, Land of Chili con
Carne and Obregon,
Let murders cease!
Keep Freedom's fires aglow
Where La Frijólés grow;
Throw up your Sombrero
And Keep the Peace!
 

LOVE

I

 
Love is the Mecca of our Heart's Desire:
We worship at its shrine and feel its thrill;
Burning our Hopes upon its Altar Fire
Till Passion be consumed, but not until.
 

II

 
Then Love assumes a calmer mood, when spent—
His quiver empty and his bow unstrung—
And peers into the pleasing Past, content
To live, unmoved, his memories among.
 

STRONGARM'S WATERLOO

 
Some drive! From tee to green in one: par, three!
That's putting proper English on, you see!
And, Goodness Golfus! See the ball roll up
To easy putting distance from the cup.
Who is this man? Professional, no doubt!
He'll "card" a thirty-seven going out;
And if he gets the "breaks" he'll make, methinks,
A new low record for the Piedmont Links.
See with what confidence he wends his way
The Fairway thru to make his hole out play!
The Gallery, expectant, follows thru
To see the Champion go down in two.
Then to the ball he makes his last address,
(The ball was peeved at what he said, I guess)
And pulls his gooseneck back a foot or so
Before he hits the sphere the fateful blow.
Alas for human frailty! See it flit
Across the green into the sandy pit!
The sighing winds, in protest, moaned Beware!
While he invoked the Deity in prayer.
And then he played his third, but topped the sphere,
The Rubber Rogue responding with a leer.
 
 
A halo hung around the Stranger's head
It seemed: but, nay! 'twas brimstone fire instead,
For what he said, in type is not displayed
Except on fire-proof paper, I'm afraid.
 
 
Four! Five! Six! But still far from the goal!
The Player loses all his self-control
And breaks the "goose" in twain: then hark the din,
When Caddie trails the ball and kicks it in!
 
 
Far from the scene of strife the Club House becks
The weary Golfers on their inward treks;
And close beside, beneath the porch's shade,
The Nineteenth hole dispenses lemonade
And other cheering drinks, within the law;
But little ice that cuts: who cares a straw?
 

THE SPIRIT OF FRANCE

 
Yes! I've done my bit, as you fellows would say,
If serving one's country deserves any praise:
Two years at the front, then an arm shot away!
And this is my "cross" in reward for those days.
But I can do more! While there's blood in my veins
I'll give the last drop, while the hoof of the Hun
Polluted and cloven in Alsace remains:
Until France is free we must fight: every one!
 
 
Of course I'll go back to the trenches again:
My wound is fast healing and soon will be sound;
Six chevrons have I, but I'll fight with the men
Who fill up the shell-holes like moles in the ground.
I'll charge with the Boys when they hurdle the top,
The Tri-color lashed to my half-useless arm,
With pistol or sword in my hand, till I drop:
For Freedom is menaced: Go sound the alarm!
 
 
France needs every son, be they crippled or strong,
To rid our fair land of the murderous horde:
So flock to the Colors, Brave Boys: come along!
And fight till the Glory of France is restored!
Our women are outraged, our children enslaved;
Up, Frenchmen! and strike till the last dying breath!
We can never turn back, so be it engraved
On our spears and escutcheons,—Vengeance or Death!
 

WAR

 
Down by the village runs the stream
Once placid, now a raging flood:
Behold it, by the day's last gleam
Gorged with the dead and dyed with blood.
 
 
The Chapel bell has tolled its last;
The trees are bare, tho this be Spring:
Death's shroud is on the village cast,
And Ruin reigns o'er everything.
 
 
A grist of carnage clogs the Mill,
And shells have razed the quondam homes:
Fresh graves the trampled vineyards fill,
Whose cellars are but catacombs.
 
 
Beyond the village, Refugees
Stand, herded, cowed by fear and grief,
Or, gassed, implore on bended knees
For death, despairing of relief.
 
 
With bayonets and faces set
The Grenadiers, by L'Aiglon led,
Present a gruesome parapet,—
Thus, still defending, tho they're dead.
 

SONG OF THE SAMSONS

 
We are Samsons, Biff! Boom! Bang!
Here to pot the Potsdam Gang.
If Bad Bill is found in Metz,
We'll not vouch for what he gets!
If in Essen he is caught,
Good Night! Kultur, Him und Gott!
Shades of Bismarck! Watch him faint
When he finds his Empire ain't!
 
 
To our Sweethearts we said "Knit,"
We must go and do our Bit!
How d'ye do, Pierrot? Pierrette?
We are friends of Lafayette!
Wait until our Drive begins,—
Bill, you'll suffer for your sins!
Sick 'em, Prince! We'll tie the fuse
Onto Frederich Wilhelm's shoes.
 
 
When we occupy Cologne—
Phew! How big and strong you've grown!
We will paint each shop and lodge
With bright red in camouflage!
Then to Carlsbad we will swing;
Need the baths like everything!
Frauleins leave your fears behind;
We don't war on womankind!
 
 
We are filled with fire and zeal:
Watch us pick the locks to Kiel!
We are coming to our own
In Lorraine across the Rhone!
When our Flocks of Eaglets fly–
Dunder! Blitzen! Bill, Good-bye!
Beaks of Steel and Claws of Lead–
Sun eclipsed! The Geezer's dead.
 
 
CHORUS
 
 
O, you U Boats,
That for U!
We slipped thru you;
How d'y' do?
Hindenberg? Ach, let him rant!
He won't stop us 'cause he can't!
Zepps and Taubs are falling down;
Butcher Bill will lose his crown;
Watch your step, you Horrid Hun,
You can't goosestep when you run!
 
 
Hooray for the crimson, white and blue!
'Rah for Old Glory! Chapeau bas vous!
'Rah for the Tri-Color! We're at home
In la belle France by the eau de Somme;
Hooray for our Allies true and brave!
We'll all sweep thru like a tidal wave
Over the top in a mighty Drive–
And never stop while the Hunds survive!
 

SIX DAYS

 
O, the comfort we feel
When we finish a meal
Consisting of rice cakes and whey;
Because beyond question
There's no indigestion
At the end of a Meatless day.
 
 
When the "buck" dough doth rise
From y'East to the skies
And hot griddled pancakes—oh, say!
With sausages frying
There's no use denying
Your welcome, O Wheatless day.
 
 
When the house is afrost
Without fuel: its cost
Is more than we're able to pay:
With our hearts all aglow
We can thaw ice or snow
Making light of a Heatless day.
 
 
When there's discord with wife
There's a shadow on life
That once was so sunny and gay;
But billing and cooing
Subordinate stewing
At the end of a Sweetless day!
 
 
When will beefsteak and ham
Not be sold by the gram?
How long will these high prices stay?
When the bad Profiteers
Show contrition and tears
At the dawn of a Cheatless day.
 
 
When our Soldiers in France
Do their Indian dance
And scalp all the Huns in the fray,
The Kaiser will holler,
With rope for a collar,
At the end of his Ruthless day!
 

A PROTEST

 
While now 'tis meet to eat fish, eggs and maize,
Vice meat and wheat whene'er we dine or sup,
So be it! but this protest I would raise—
In spite of warnings—veal keeps bobbing up!
 

A PRAYER

 
O Sun and Skies, that Hoover o'er our Fields
Where Grains implanted lie, and Silos stand,—
Pour out thy Warmth and Rains till Hunger yields
Thruout the World to our blest Fodderland!
 

SINCE THE LITTLE ONE CAME

 
I seem to have taken a new lease on life
Since the little one came;
I've lost the old grouch, and I say to my wife,
Do you think I'm to blame
Because I have changed in my feelings towards you
Since the Little One came?
The furnace, 'tis true, gave me something to do,
But I think it a shame
That some tiny tie like the Little One here
(How is Snooks for a name?)
Was not sooner left on our doorstep, my dear!
 
 
The Store takes my time, but a very small part,—
It's all over at four!
I've cut Clancy's out and have made a new start;
All my cronies are sore!
But what do I care? I have mended my ways,
So I rush from the Store
And hasten back home where the Little One plays
On the ruggèd hall floor,
And pick him up quick (O, how pretty he looks!)
Without shutting the door;
So anxious I am to caress little Snooks.
 
 
The chafing-dish chafes and the Joy-car is sore;
We have given them up!
The Two-step and Bridge are tabooed evermore;
There is Joy in our Cup!
We've cut out the movies and dining about
For our own modest sup;
And billiards and golfing, I've cut them both out!
As I did to the Hup.
With playthings and drum (and a ruppy, tup, tup!)
Loaded up like a Krupp,
I beat it to Snooky,—our English Bull Pup.
 

RUN ALONG, LITTLE GIRL!

 
Run along, Little Girl! for it's bed-time now:
Your Dollies are sleepy and poor old Bow-wow
Is weary and lonesome, curled up in a heap—
'Twould take little rocking to put him to sleep!
Your Teddy Bear's growling: or is it a snore?
Perhaps he objects to his bed on the floor?
So pick up your treasures and when prayers are said—
 
 
Run along, Little Girl, and climb in to bed!
Run along, Little Girl! The Sandman is here;
You've crowded too much into one day, I fear!
Poor, little, tired Girlie, you've worked at your play
Till the bloom of your cheeks has faded away.
To-morrow, again, you can sit by the fire
And dress all your Dollies in gala attire.
Say, Good Night! to your thimble, needle and seams;
 
 
Run along, Little Girl, and sweet be your dreams!
Run along, Little Girl, and cover up tight!
There's nothing to harm you, no spooks in the night
Nor Bogeymen glaring when you are awake;
For they're bad little girls that Bogeymen take.