Kitabı oku: «Hoosier Lyrics», sayfa 5

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."