Kitabı oku: «The Bee's Bayonet (a Little Honey and a Little Sting)», sayfa 6

NOT PEACE, BUT REVENGE!

 
Peace? do you say? When my homestead is razed,
And Death stalks the fields where my cattle once grazed;
And the Dear One is dead
Whom I courted and wed,
The Joy of my Life when the hearthstone fires blazed.
 
 
Peace? What a travesty! Give back my wife
And the brave little son, who gave up his life
That she might escape
From the murder or rape
Of helmeted hordes in the unequal strife!
 
 
Peace? Where is my father? Cleaning your shoes!
Like a thousand old men you maim and abuse.
He was true to his Land,
So you cut off his hand
And left him but slav'ry or famine to choose.
 
 
Peace? My wounds cry aloud: Never! I say
Till your legions are killed or driven away
And my country is free:
But, stay! What's that to me,
Since all my own Loved Ones lie murdered to-day?
 
 
No!! Not Peace, but Revenge! Here is my gun—
Surrendered? O, No! for its work is not done:
When my bayonet's sting
Smites the heart of your King,
And your hell-hounds are flayed,—then Peace will be won!
 

HEREDITY

 
I see her creeping 'long the nursery floor,—
A dainty, blue-eyed Babe, scarce old enough
To realize 'tis she whom I adore,—
She is a priceless diamond in the rough.
 
 
Again I see her playing with a host
Of noisy, kindergarten girls and boys;
She seems to me the fairest and the most
Refined: a pure gold girl without alloys.
 
 
And thus from stage to stage I watch the maid
As she develops like the budding rose,
And then, Ah me! I'm jealously afraid
That she admires me less than other beaux.
 
 
And then, anon, I see her on the knee
Of Willie Jones: I think she shouldn't oughter!
But then my Courtship Days come back to me—
Just like her Ma! She is my only Daughter!
 

THE CALL OF THE HOMESTEAD

 
There's a dear, little spot, near my Hoosier hometown,
Where the mortgage runs up as the buildings run down,
That I love to return to, a restful retreat,
Just to slush around there with the mud on my feet.
 
 
There's the forked, wormy apple-tree, dead to the bark,
And the sickle and grindstone, brought out of the Ark;
And the Shed, where I fled, with my illicit pipe,
To assuage stomach-aches when green apples were "ripe."
 
 
There's the collar and churn, worn by Dash day by day,
And the chain that prevented his running away;
And the yoke for the oxen—Haw, Buck! and Gee, Bride!
And the Troth for the Squealers the hen-house beside.
 
 
There's the Dovecote, unroofed, and the sweep by the well,
And the ooze in the barnyard and natural-gas smell:
There's the hayrake and silo; the tin weathervane,
And the two, moss-grown graves where the Old Folks were lain.
 
 
And the milk-stools are there, and the cowpath and stile;
And a few hardy scarecrows remain yet awhile;
And the taxes, unpaid, still appear on the book
Of the County Collector, Nathaniel U. Crook.
 
 
So I keep coming back, to my old Hoosier shack,
To inhale the sweet mildew of hay in the stack,
And to drink from the spring where the bull-frogs abound
That protect the young cowslips that grow all around.
 
 
Now the mortgage is due and the int'rest unpaid,
And I can't get a cent for the place, I'm afraid;
But I love to return here, at vacation time,
Just to revel again in the mud and the slime.
 

DECIMAL POINTS

 
The Paleface undertook, with sword and gun,
To civilize the Redskins one by one;
And Lo attempted, with his bow and arrow,
To sap the Paleface of his very marrow.
As fast as one, on either side, was slain
Another took his place to fight again;
Thus both the warring tribes said—"What's the use?"
And straightway called a halt and signed a truce.
 
 
Then Paleface planned and dug—and well of course—
A pit for Lo, without resort to force;
And Lo, in turn, a counter plan invented
To clear the forests where the Paleface tented.
And so the Paleface, from his fullness, gave
A cask of Laughing Water to each Brave;
And Lo, whose giving was an artful knack,
Took up the scent and sent tobacco back.
So, Time discloses how each plan availed;
Which won, at last, and which, in order, failed,
For now in Peace the Paleface moves about,
While Lo and Laughing Water fight it out.
 
 
He was the first to fly—Darius Green!
But Green had trouble with his crude machine
And failed to make a mark for lofty flying,
And so he just dropped out and gave up trying.
 
 
The Pickaninny to the bayou goes
And caches on the bank his homespun clothes;
Then headlong leaps into the pool below
Where Imps of Darkness destined are to go.
An alligator sees the urchin dive
And, Holy Moses! swallows him alive,
Not thinking that the Afric strength, thus caged,
Would prove his match and master when engaged:
But so it did! for Fate evolved a plan
To snatch the "charcoal" from the saurian;
And as the latter spewed and lashed his tail,
(A tale like Jonah wrestling with the whale)
The lad escaped; of course he had to shout some!
So overjoyed was he at such an outcome.
 
 
When Aaron Burr decided to invite
His hated rival to a pistol fight,
He knew, of course, because his aim was wicked,
That his opponent, in advance, was líckéd.
And thus the scheme of Providence began
To canonize the Hamiltonian.
 
 
Had Mary tied her lambkin in the barn,
There might have been a different kind of yarn.
She could have said "I leave you" with the bull,
Or "I'll return anon," and pulled the wool;
 
 
The lamb could have replied—"What's all this for?
I'll meet you, Mary, in the abattoir!"
But No! They had to make the sheep the goat
And tie a siren bell around his throat,
And make him go to school. "Kids," as a rule,
Would rather much be killed than go to school.
 
 
Had Nero played on burning Rome the hose
Instead of fiddling while the blazes rose,
He might have been, in Fame's Retort, a hero,
Firemano Primo Volunteero Nero.
But quite another part this Cæsar played,
The part of Arson in red robes arrayed.
He watched the fire, in all its flares and phases,
Quite unconcerned, but fiddled on like blazes.
But Nero didn't finish what he started
Because, while Rome still burned, his E string parted.
Tho Julius Cæsar's Wars our lives inspire
This Cæsar wouldn't even fight a fire;
Nor would he lead the Roman Legions, tho
He was reputed skillful with the bow;
Perhaps the smoke-screen from the burning city
Was planned to hide the discords of his ditty;
And when at last this King is placed on trial,
This verdict will prevail,—his work was viol.
 
 
Had Antony been less a Marc and kept
His armor on while Cleopatra slept,
He might have been a Conqueror of note
Instead of Captor of a Petticoat;
And, traitor to his country, judged to be
A Soldier less than Slave to Lingerie.
Some Commentators—and I blush with shame—
Contend that "Cle" and Sheba were the same:
If this contention's true, as I surmise,
It follows that King Solomon was wise;
And so was Sheba when she left his regions
By camel-carriage for the Roman Legions,—
Leaving the King, with all his wives and breeders,
To pine for her among the stately cedars.
I'm not quite sure, but who's the bigger dunce?
The King? Or Marc, who got in wrong but once?
 
 
The oldtime Reader taught us self-reliance
(But this refers to school-days—not to Science!)
And pointed out, in no uncertain style,
Examples we should follow or revile.
Old Rover, for example, was to me
The highest standard of true loyalty.
He used to hang around the playground gate
And there for Bones, his Master, sit and wait,
Though Bones, poor dunce, each day when school was over,
Was kept and spanked, but waited still old Rover.
 
 
The Reader states that Rover, too, was fleet,
And never knew the anguish of de feet;
And had a face so honest, ear so quick,
That he could steal a bone and dodge a stick.
That's all the Reader says, but I believe
He grew too diabetic to retrieve,
And so was cast aside—the poor old brute!
Because the mange affected his hirsute;
Was driven from the confines of his birth
Because not prized: Great Scott! a Kennelworth:
And so, a rover still, thus doomed to flea
Far from his home and consanguinity;
But, cast adrift in sinking bark, O, Setter!
Than wienerwursts or sausages is better!
 
 
There was a time when Henry Clay awoke
To see his fame and name go up in smoke.
His reputation only went this far,
That he was featured as a choice cigar.
Before that day, when his renown was ripe,
He also was distinguished as a pipe.
Eliminating all attempts at joking,
He was thus honored then, and still is smo-King.
 
 
Had Eve, a woman of unusual birth,
Who had the love of ev'ry man on earth,
Been given what the modern wife receives,
Fine frocks and hats instead of wreaths and leaves;
A mansion, bank-account and car or carriage,
Hers would have been the first ideal marriage.
But selfish Adam took her to a cavern
(Our present bridal parties seek a tavern.)
And made her wash and sew and hem and haw
With fitting meekness 'cause his word was law.
First Lady of the Land, she should have had 'em—
All creature comforts but the stingy Adam.
Faithful to husband, she should have instead
Broken her marriage vows upon his head.
No wonder she was tempted: if she fell
'Twas circumstantial, else she wouldn't tell.
 

BELLES-LETTRES

 
Hear the perfume of the belles,
Social belles!
What a loud auroma, a monopoly in smells!
How they stinkle, stinkle, stinkle,
When the corsage bursts in sight!
While the powder in each wrinkle
And the gewgaw gems that twinkle
Make them ugly in the light;
Reeking scent, scent, scent,
When they're upright, prone or bent
While the sachet begs for freedom, and the musk, revolting, yells
On the belles, belles, belles, belles,
Belles, belles, belles,
On the weary, bleary, smeary Social Belles.
 
 
Hear the monstrous Schoolhouse bells,
Direful bells!
What a dirge of irony their ting-a-ling expels!
Like the chanticleer at morn,
How they torture us, and warn
We must hurry or be canned
At call of roll.
How they peel their tunics and
Whoop 'er up, with tireless tongues, to beat the band;
What a toll!
 
 
O, you blatant, brazen shells!
You ringers for Mephisto, from superheated hells,
With your knells!
Truth compels
That we voice our joy with yells
'Cause you're hung and bound in cells
While we're swearing and despairing,
O, you bells, bells, bells,
Wicked bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells,
O, you rocking, mocking, shocking Schoolhouse bells!
 

SANDY, THE PIPER

 
Do ye know me mon Sandy,—Sandy the Piper?
'E's 'ome on a leave, with 'is chin shot away!
They wouldn't a 'armed 'im, but some blooming sniper
Just slipped 'im a slug from a roof in Bombay.
 
 
'Ow did it all 'appen? Well, just one battalion
Was left in the Barracks: the rest 'ad been sent
To guard the new Viceroy, with Major MacCallion:
It was dubbed the "'Ot Scotch," this 12th Regiment.
 
 
The Colonel was sick with a Jungle disorder,
And 'arf of the time was well out of 'is 'ead;
And when the Sepoys, from the 'Yderbad Border
Revolted and rushed us, the Colonel was dead.
 
 
So Sandy and men were besieged and near choking,
And most the battalion was killed or 'ad fell,
While the fiends in the street, like devils a stoking,
Were firing this 'ell 'ole with bullet and shell.
 
 
'Twas 'ere that me Sandy broke out thru a window,
Disguised as a Rajah, with turban and sword;
And so, quite unnoticed (they thought him a Indoo!)
'E soon joined the ranks of the mutinous 'orde.
 
 
And then 'e 'arrangued 'em ('e knew all their jargon!)
And urged 'em to scatter and uphold the law;
But 'ere 'e was thru 'e was sick of 'is bargain
When a bloody bomb-bullet 'alf shattered 'is jaw.
 
 
So Sandy's back 'ome, but his features are altered:
What a close shave 'e 'ad! 'is face is a sight!
But when duty called 'e was there and ne'er faltered:
With toot, shoot or Hoot, Mon! 'e mixed in the fight.
 
 
'Is goatee is gone, with the chin where 'e grew it:
'E was once very bonnie when 'e was a lad;
And 'is bagpipe would charm me: my, 'ow 'e blew it!
When 'e marched with 'is squad, a playing like mad.
 
 
And I makes o'er 'im still, tho Sandy's not pretty,
But a 'ero 'e is in Northlands and South:
A gude wife I've been, tho I think it a pity
That Sandy was given to shoot off 'is mouth.
 

"BEN BOLT"

 
Ben Franklin was a Jester of the sort
That fused, with wit, rare wisdom in retort;
And, on his mettle, tempered by a smile
His irony could hold them all awhile.
King Louis' Court to impotence made plea
Before the onslaughts of his repartee.
His well-aimed jibes were quite as hard to dodge
As meteors agleam with persiflage.
His oily tongue worked on a swinging swivel,
For he spat out his thoughts and didn't drivel.
The Quakers, in his absence, had attacks
Of blues, because they missed his almanacs;
And Frenchmen soon began to understand
And praise his jokes (in England contraband).
He said to Louis, "Sire, the skies are down;
I wouldn't give a Fillip for your crown."
And added, "Nay, I wouldn't give a sou!
There's just one Philip, but sixteen of you!"
He had no fear, you see, of raining Kings,
And, with umbrella raised, enjoyed his flings.
Such pointed puns disfavor oft beget,
But Louis laughed and so did Lafayette.
Tho galley slave, like creatures of his type,
He broke his chains, when Freedom's plans were ripe,
And put the U. S. A. upon the chart,
Allied to France, thru diplomatic art.
To-day Ben Bolt, who clipped the lion's claws,
For lightning work gets thunderous applause.
The thunderbolts obeyed at his command,
And currents, insubordinate, were canned.
He kept the Upper Regions on the string
And shocked the Lower World like everything.
All praise to Franklin, Diplomatic Star!
He went where he was sent, but not too far:
And tho he flew his mortal kite so high,
Poor Richard's name illuminates the sky.
 

EXCELSIOR

 
The bale consigned to O. U. Crook,
Upholsterer—marked, USE NO HOOK,
Was not curled hair or even moss,
Nor yet a mixture or a cross,
Excelsior!
 
 
"This Davenport was made to wear;
Fine leather and best camel hair!"
Said Crook (a patent skin all right,
But all the "hair" was out of sight).
Excelsior!
 
 
And so Crook sold the lounge or couch
To some poor Boob with gold-filled pouch;
And also sold an easy chair
(The Easy Mark was stuffed for fair.)
Excelsior!
 
 
And thus he plied his artful trade
(A better Craftsman ne'er was made)
Until the shavings, dyed and curled,
Resembled hair for all the world.
Excelsior!
 
 
O, baleful occupation his!
The way he made his mattresses
Would make a lounging layman sick.
He sold for cash and gave no tick tick—
Excelsior!
 
 
A mark-down sale Crook staged in time—
"Such bed-rock prices are a crime,"
"I get my hair by camel-train":
But all his "hair" was cut in Maine—
Excelsior!
 
 
And then a fire occurred at length
To bolster Crook's financial strength:
The glue that mocked the incensed air
Mistaken was for burning hair;
Excelsior!
 
 
Beware the pine-tree's fibrous heart!
But this gave Crook his fiscal start,
And now a tall, pine shaft is seen
Above Crook's grave; 'tis evergreen—
Excelsior!