Collected Poems of Richard Griffin Published by the Ex-Classics Project, 2025 Public Domain INTRODUCTION By Garett Scott (Taken from a bookseller's catalogue) The enigmatic poet Richard Griffin (born 1857, died sometime after 1932, self-publishing at a fairly good clip between 1913 and 1931) has—with his peculiar cracked talent for atrocious but compelling poetry—created a coterie of enthusiasts. I date my latter-day discovery of Griffin from two appreciations (perhaps an inadequate term) written by bookseller Eric Korn for the Times Literary Supplement in 1986 and later collected in his Remainders (Carcanet, 1989), his essays thence through some good luck ending up in my hands in the mid-1990s. Korn’s essays weren’t quite Chapman’s Homer in shaping my bookselling aesthetic, but from that date I certainly began to keep my eyes open for Griffin while scouting the less travelled stretches of the poetry sections of book shops (and on rare occasions would be rewarded). Generally bound in a pleasing uniform neat green cloth and illustrated with plates showing Griffin arrayed in a variety of outfits and poses (playing the banjo and covered in rubber spiders, attacking a lobster, etc.), the books as objects themselves suggested a dandy eccentric dwelling amid drab neighbours. Brief extracts do scant justice to the enigmatic Griffin (see the poet and translator Bill Zavatsky’s essay on Griffin in the literary journal Siennese Shredder #2 for some possible clues on the poet’s life), though certainly the man went forth with a facile pen, an unbalanced imagination, and a sadistic bent. His minor epic “The Lobster’s Gizzard” recounts the murky quest of one Mike O’Hara to scale the Hill of Tara at the behest of a wizard to consume the gizzard of a magical lobster; other pieces touch in Griffin’s own peculiar way on political corruption, Mormons, or fashion. Most, however, defy easy categorization—viz. “The Elm of Nax” (“The famous tree is spelled either Nax or Nacks. I use both ways,” notes Griffin) or “Notional Nimrod”: Under the sod Notional Rod Nimrod poor clod In his green pod— Say—does he fry? I don’t know, why, Do You? Evidence would suggest that Griffin spent time in an institution; the lengthy poem “Water on the Brain” makes detailed reference to life in “the captivating nuttery.” Eric Korn notes in his original essays that “The more Griffin I read . . . the less can I decide whether we are dealing with self-conscious Manhattan Dada, or barking crustacicidal lunacy.” Correspondence in 2000 on this point—“whether he [Griffin] is a satirist or loony”—drew from Korn the observation that perhaps the distinction is “a false antithesis.” LIFE AND WORKS OF RICHARD GRIFFIN. Richard Griffin was born in 1857 on New York to a family of English extraction. When he was a child, they moved to a cranberry bog in New Jersey. At the age of sixteen he started work as a clerk in New York City. In his spare time he was involved in amateur theatrical productions, subsequently becoming a professional actor and touring extensively throughout the United States and abroad. He served in the Spanish-American war of 1895. According to his own account, he also served in World War I as an intelligence officer, and arrested a German spy after a punch-up. Before and after this service, he lived in Greenwich Village and other parts of Manhattan, and wrote poetry which he self-published. From internal evidence it seems likely that at some stage he spent time in a mental institution. His date of death is unknown but was subsequent to 1931, the date of his last book. Works: The Delaware Bride and Other Poems 1913 A Tale of Fraunces' Tavern, A. D. 1765, and Other poems 1914 The Dead Rabbit Riot, A.D. 1857, and Other Poems 1915 The Lobster's Gizzard and Other Poems 1916 The Melancholy Yak 1917 Bug House Poetry (1st ed, contains all the above.) 1917 Fresh Bugs 1919 Bug House Poetry (2nd ed, as the first plus Fresh Bugs)1919 Bug House Poetry: The Complete Works of Richard Griffin, (Enlarged and Revised ) (3nd ed, as the second plus several new poems and a biographical note 1922 biographical note) 1922 The Camel’s Last Gasp 1931 This Ex-Classics edition is taken from the 2nd edition of Bug House Poetry, with the additions from the 3rd. edition EPIGRAPH Ne Vile Vilis I can't find a publisher who Will give me a chance with my ditty I've canvassed among quite a few In various parts of the city. I fly to my trusty canoe And hustle it through, yes I paddle Quite over that publishing crew In spite of their critical twaddle To hell with such rank fiddle-faddle! PREFACE The cauldron is steaming, the lobster cooked to a turn. The Jack scrambled goose stands at my shoulder, Oh vile Type Setter, I am at thy mercy. A certain man, a friend of mine from Oshkosh suggests I should gather, all my bugs into one volume. The said Guy from Oshkosh—a clever fellow by the way,—he has a brother in Brooklyn who can play the flute. Well—I have taken his advice. Good! I have arranged my eyelids. I have gone over my scrap book, collected all the bugs into one fold. For the benefit of those interested, I herein state that the bugs in the picture are genuine, all those darling vinegerones! The last one died yesterday, poor little Archibald, I never can forget him. I also wish to inform the Reader that the famous tree of Nax is still standing on the banks of the Sax. Pax pax. The tree is in a good state of preservation, the pride of the entire countryside. If the fellow in the next room would only can that flute. If the Tooter would only toot elsewhere, far, far away. They tell me that the flute is the grandfather of the fife. That brings me to the poor Rube who went dippy over the loss of his fife. My sympathies have always been with him and against the wife with the blistered heel. I am trying to scribble this in the heart of Greenwich village. My cosmos is all beclouded by the demoniac howls of "Hudson Dusters." They are hanging a man to a lamp-post on the corner. Those "Hudson Dusters" almost rival the famous "Flying Angels" of Ballarat, making my heart revert to dear old Australia. Oh for a change! Oh for the quiet of Billingsgate, or the shady side of Epping Forest where I might gaze on our old Baronial Hall of Saffron Walden. Be still my heart, be still! Ne Vile Vilis. I must do my level best—I always try to do so, whether at the frozen plains of far off Manitoba, or the cactus-laden banks of the Rio Grande. Oh my Ukulele! Oh the Dead March from Saul! Have just had it arranged for the banjo. Expect fine results. Dear friends, the lobster's gizzard is well done, the lobscouse just right, the bugs ready to serve. Oh that banana peel, I see thee in time. At last I am free. I avoid all pitfalls. The Type Setter, the Jack Scrambled goose is at my elbow. RICHARD GRIFFIN. SHORT ACCOUNT OF AUTHOR By GUY BARNABAS BONE THE ancestors of our Author came to America in the year 1675 and settled at Southold, Long Island, at that time a wilderness. The Griffin family came from County Essex, England. One branch of the family still retain the old home at Saffron Walden, near Epping forest, the home of the present Baron Braybrooke. The author of this book, Griffin, we call him Griff or Dick. He first saw the light when he was very young in the city of New York. Whilst still a child the whole bunch migrated to beyond the meadows and settled down at Kettle Creek, New Jersey. They lived on a cranberry bog. At this time young Griff's vocation was driving horses to pasture and washing dishes. This exciting existence lasted for some years. When Griff was sixteen he was sent to New York City and put to work, being placed as an office boy in a shipping office on South Street along the docks, one dollar per week being allowed the lad to pay for mid-day lunches and the weekly wash. The lunch question was rather hard on the growing boy, as for the wash question well, that did not matter. Those were the days of paper collars and cuffs. Dick soon found himself holding up a spear at Booth's Theatre. About this time Griff wrote a two-act tragedy, entitled the "Blood Monger's Vengeance." When Griff's employer (an Uncle) heard of this there was big commotion. The plan had been to make Griff a Merchant Prince. Everything fell through. Grill was bundled off to board at a retired School Master's at Wilton, Connecticut. The retired School Master turned out to be a first-class drunkard whose chief amusement consisted in picking up small rocks, studying their anatomy and then throwing said rock at the nearest passer-by. So Dick up and skips back to town. For the next fifteen years Griff worked in the theatre doing everything from property boy up to leading business. Griff became a real live actor. Next Griff turns to foreign travel, London, Paris, Switzerland. Dick finally found himself among the Basque smugglers on the borderland in the mountains between France and Spain. Dick was one dandy mixer. Now comes a change, oh wondrous change. We find Griff transported Westward Ho, a regular cowboy in far-off Texas. His cowboy friends called him "Lariat Dick." This is the time Griff became interested in scorpions, snakes and spiders. Next came the Spanish War. Griff enlisted and went to the front. After that "Bug House Poetry" more Texas, more scorpions, more spiders, more snakes. Then came the World War. Griff entered the U. S. Secret Service and started-in to work in earnest. On the early morning of July 9, 1917, at one A. M., Griff was attacked by a German spy in the lobby of the Marlborough Hotel, New York City. Dick was choked and very roughly handled, but held his own, and at the end of the scrimmage the spy had one dandy black eye and one swelled nozzle, and several teeth on the blink. The spy was sent to a detention camp in Georgia, where he wore white flannel and played lawn tennis. This escapade gained the victor the title of "One-round Griff." Since the war Griff has settled down in quaint old Greenwich Village, surrounded by all kinds of bugs. Go see Griff and get him to show you his specimens of scorpions, snakes and spiders. GUY BARNABAS BONE. PRELUDE – THE C.O.D. REVENGE I SENT the noble Senator a copy of this book. I thought perhaps His Honour might enjoy a little look. He did not have the manners of an ordinary cook. The Senator from Delaware is such a funny man He tried to thrust this little book deep in the grilling pan. He cuddled in his narrow brain such a revengeful plan. Wrapping the book in paper—'twas a bundle nice and neat He took it to an agent round the corner down the street Returning it to Dicky. His revenge is now complete. The bundle was returned to me, it really made me laugh, I had to pay the C. O. D. one dollar and a half I did not think the Senator was such a silly calf. Queer Miller dear if ever you are short of ready cash, Please drop a line to Dicky, I will help you out. Don't flash Another C. 0. D. on me and then we'll never clash. THE DELAWARE BRIDE AND OTHER POEMS Frontispiece – The Tribulations of Pefularties THE DELAWARE BRIDE THE whipping-post, the whipping-post, I love you: you're a dear! The whipping-post folks often roast. How whimsical, how queer! Men's taste is such, They change so much. Shut up, don't howl, don't cry. Saw wood, you'll soon know why. Don't get upset; now gently, gently. Give me your ear both ears intently. The day of the whipping broke clear and bright, The sun looked down on a wond'rous sight. Look! what is that crowd so patiently waiting? What means all this chatter, what are they debating? Why, haven't you heard, it's advertised wide— They are waiting to cheer the Delaware Bride. The Delaware Bride is a post made of deal, Dumb witness of many a sinner's sharp squeal. All hail to the lash, give us gore, let it pour! All hail to the time-honoured Delaware law! Pretty little Mabel was a teacher in the school; Pretty little Mabel thought she's break the golden rule. First she wasted stationery, then she broke the chalk. To potent Superintendents was addicted to back talk. One foxy Superintendent, a man of great resources, Did not at all believe in the mild and middle courses. He brought her a stripe, Of the Delaware type. He made his complaint in the proper direction; The Judge and the jury decided correction. On poor little Mabel the sentence now crashes— Her soft naked back must receive forty lashes. Her punishment will be applied Outside the jail, 'twill hurt her pride. Of course it will; A bitter pill. Her legal whipping is advertised well; Her press agents work both by book and bell; The preparations near the jail Are handled on tremendous scale. This tall massive platform of pine, long and wide, Is reached by a flight of ten steps on one side. On top of this platform, so stately and high, The whipping-post gracefully pierces the sky; The whipping-post, famous in prose and in song; The post of stern justice, inspiring, strong; The post of correction, the joy and the pride Of county and State, fair Delaware's Bride. Up high on a staff waves the flag of the free, Below stands the crowd, the whipping to see, All laughing, joking, poking fun. By Jove! it almost yanks the bun! It seems just like a county fair, This motley crowd, all free from care, Waiting to see one little girl whipped— Waiting to look at her shape when stripped. Ah! lo! a trumpet blow, a sudden blast. Ho ho! The whipping will begin at last; The prison gates open, the show commences. What! have the people lost their senses? Don't shove, don't move, don't rush! Hats off! don't speak! Hush, hush! The Sheriff and prisoner both appear; One bare-foot prisoner, Mabel dear. A slip of a girl with eyes of blue, Of violet hue—so honest, true; As clear and bright as the stars above, A sweet little girlie girl, made to love. She has to walk bare-foot, the law says she must; Both stockings and shoes are a cause of distrust. It's easy to give the Sheriff a kick Through spite; it is really a very old trick. And so to make everything safe and discreet, Our Mabel now walks on two pretty bare feet. Two cute little lily white, tender bare feet. Poor dearie, poor darling, so innocent, sweet. The sheriff and she As chic as can be, They walk up the stairs like a sister and brother, Confidingly holding the hand of each other. It is a touching sight to see This couple free from enmity; The Sheriff, dignified and calm, And Mabel, dear, all youth and charm, Dressed in white flannel so trim and so neat From the top of her head to her pretty bare feet. Oh, Mabel, child, Don't stare so wild. What can it be? Oh yes, I see. She looks at the Sheriff with trembling lip, She sees that he carries a large rawhide whip. Oh, cruel sight! Oh, dreadful plight! Oh, Mabel, you're in a sad fix; Too late now to register kicks. The platform is covered with oil-cloth complete; It tickles the soles of her pretty bare feet. Oh, what chills! Oh, what thrills! The Sheriff is concise and clear, And thus addresses Mabel dear: Hear! Hear! After this eloquent pow-wow, Where is Demosthenes' fame now? This is speech he made, Oh, will it ever fade? "Before the rod of justice swings, Remove your necklace, chain and rings; Before we fetch this racket off You'll have to take your jacket off— And then—you know—the other things— That thing of crepe de chine that clings. The law is plain—no more—no less. Here is the warrant—please undress. Your time has come—we cannot wait; Prepare yourself—don't hesitate— Just take a tip—don't get the pip." Thus spoke the guardian of the whip. This is the speech he made; Oh, will it ever fade? Mabel removes her chain and rings, And then her jacket off she flings, Her shirtwaist next she casts aside. She shuts her eyes, but cannot hide Her shame: she trembles like a reed, Unable further to proceed. Oh my! How shy! The Sheriff, rolling up his sleeve, Grasped firm the rawhide whip And said, "My duty makes me grieve. Be kind enough to strip Down to the skin. Come, come! begin. Lift up your head, don't hide your face; Take off that thing all trimmed with lace." Burning with shame, With eyes of flame, With trembling hands the gentle maid Her lingerie unlaced. And pretty little Mabel stood Stripped naked to the waist. Pink and white fairy! Fragile and airy! The mob around the scaffold press, Eager to see the girl undress. All eyes are centred on her form, So pretty, bare, and white. Upon her shoulder, soft and warm, Is one mosquito bite; One cute little dot; One pretty pink spot. The crowd is excited, bewildered, delighted, All dizzy, like fire and brimstone ignited; The women all nervous, the children affrighted, While most of the men have their cameras sighted On pink and white Mabel, the neat pearly pearl. The dearie, the darling, the sweet girlie girl. Oh, heaven! from the lash defend her! Pity the soft white flesh so tender! This is the murmur heard the most. They lead her to the whipping-post; Face to the post she takes her stand, Pink and white vision from fairy land. The Sheriff with official air Arranges Mabel with great care. He chains her up exactly right, Her body bent, her skin drawn tight. Her skin so dainty, oh, so fair! Down to the waist completely bare. The Sheriff stands ready, His whip hand is steady. Now Mabel bowed her lovely head, Closed both her eyes—a prayer said, Her misery complete. Glancing aside—bewildered—dazed, She shudders! see! the whip is raised. She shrinks against the post quite crazed. Oh, how her heart does beat! There comes a blinding whizzing flash The whip—it gives a crack, And then a cruel stinging lash On Mabel's bare white back. Oh, hear her cry! Oh, my; oh my! Look! a pink stripe— The Delaware type. Again the whip did rise and whirl, Whipping the sobbing little girl, Lashing and slashing with cruel crack, Whipping her beautiful naked back. Whipping and whipping, oh, how the whip flies! Whipping and whipping, what piteous cries! Lashing and slashing, with cruel crack, Whipping the skin off her naked back. Poor little Mabel, frantic with pain, Screaming and struggling, almost insane; Trembling, quivering, see the flesh shivering— All the croud jeering—witty and leering. So heartless—so vile! The Sheriff, meanwhile, All patience continues, with strenuous sinews, Lashing and slashing, with cruel crack, Whipping the poor little naked back. When lo! a trumpet blow! a sudden blast. Ho ho! the Sheriff drops his whip at last. The punishment ended, The law is defended, And poor little Mabel is writhing, suspended, Chained to the whipping post, Where pain is nipping most, Bleeding—half dying— Bitterly crying. Oh, look at her back! her bare pretty back! Those cruel pink stripes on her back. Oh, alack! Ah, many a stripe, Of the Delaware type. Hear her moan, Hear her groan, In that dull monotone. The Sheriff meanwhile Has put on a style, The cheering is loud as he bows to the crowd. See him smile! Oh, that smile, As he kisses his hand with a countenance bland. See him wink! What a blink! Don't he stink, don't he stink! The thirty-ninth lash has been given at last, The prisoner freed from the chain that held fast. The law is supreme, the whipping is over; Three cheers now for Wilmington, New Castle, Dover. WHEN? Question WHEN shall we sinners do quite right, The politicians cease their fight, Making queer deals that rob the town? When will the breaded veal fry brown? Answer When the little chickens cackle; When the ducky daddies quackle; When the firecrackers crackle On the hilltop by the stump; When the owly owls are screeching; When aunt Susan's hair is bleaching; When the preacher, he is preaching, In the pulpit near the pump. Question When will the days be always fine, The river take another turn? When will the ocean have no brine? When will the pancakes cease to burn? Answer When the attic beams are creaking; When the micey mice are squeaking; When the coffee pot is leaking On the table near the door; When the angry sea is breaking; When my large back tooth is aching; When my mother dear is making A bread poultice for my jaw. Question When will the frying-pan be graceful? When comes the crack of doom? When will quinine be less distasteful? When will the toadstools bloom? Answer When little Ikie's teeth are munching Dodo wings for a mid-day snack; When all his soul is wrapt with crunching, Washing it down with apple jack, Licking his lips when his father says, "No, no! Ikie dear, no second helping of dodo." Question. When will the earthquake stop its quake? When will the pudding never bake? When will the snow-man rake the flake? When will the frog pond be a lake? Answer When the bagpipes warble flutelike, To the song of Gypsy Toot Mike; When the women stop their cute hike, To show their strength and pluck; When the doctors are all quacked mad; When the frying-pan is cracked bad; When we all forget the hacked fad, Our story of hard luck. So let us all be carefree, And over our pink tea Resolve to let no spite bee Come poison our delight. Stand pat, let's all be jolly, No Mollie Coddle Nolly; The top notch of our folly Is grumble day and night. Don't grumble, don't stumble. Hold, hold! Don't scold, Don't fight! Keep bright. Amen. OH THERE! Oh, there was a man with a brass Adam's apple, Who one morning entered the moss-covered chapel. The sexton, he stood near the pulpit so green; His face was unwashed and not fit to be seen; He stuttered, he muttered, he talked through his hat, He sang like a bat and he coughed up a rat. The fleas from this rat scattered all through the chapel, And ate up the man with the brass Adam's apple. Oh, there was a man with a celluloid throat Who once sailed along in a little green boat; His wife, she was troubled with ossified liver; Her thumb, it was pierced with a sharp oaken sliver. Now this sliver, this liver, this boat, and this throat, Were at last swallowed up by a petrified goat. Oh, there was a man with a lop-sided ear-drum; It caused him to swagger, he was quite a queer bum. He swaggered so much it affected one eyelid, And everyone laughed at whatever this guy did. At last he decided, this life's but a bubble, Then jumped down a well, and so ended his trouble. Oh, there was a man with a mangy moustache, Whose nostrils were spotted with green nettle-rash; His left arm was swelled to a horrible size; He stretched up his right hand and scratched out his eyes; He tore out his heart, he gulped and he sighed; He burst all apart, and we fear he has died. Oh, there was a man who harangued a large crowd; His gestures were awkward, his howlings were loud; He injured one tonsil, he twisted one wrist-joint; So into his mouth we inserted a sharp point. And being quite sick of his shouts at the rabble We cut out his tongue, and that finished his gabble. Oh, there was a man, who when living down South cursed, Then dared to sing hymns without washing his mouth first. This shocked all the neighbours so much that they grabbed him, And spanking him soundly, they afterwards stabbed him; And being hard up, and requiring cash, They fried him in butter and sold him for hash. Oh, there was a man who stole forty-eight dollars, Investing the same in six cats with green collars. And wanting some dishes, he bought six tin milk cans. This extra expense made him steal twenty silk fans. Now, fearing his conduct not quite on the level, He blew out his brains and then went to the Devil. KIPPENS I LIKE dogs—I love cats, Guinea pigs and white rats. Only dumb creatures: Eloquent teachers! Oh, such fidelity! How it comes back to me What once befell a flea, Pussy cat found on me. Treat quite unreckoned. Seen, caught and eaten All in one second; Battered and beaten. Pussy cat purred with glee. Oh, how Puss rubbed 'gainst me. Oh, what a triumph, quite, On the flea, out of sight! Kippens was the kitten's name, Very soft and very tame. Topaz eyes, Very wise. Oh, pity the Kitty. She disappeared soon after, Like little Johnnie Shafter. Dear Kippens, I'll always Remember no brawl pays. Fighting all night, Kitty, Roaming the dark city Is not right you see. It don't pay for me. Oh Guinea pigs, rabbits, pet goats, and white rats, What makes many people love dogs and hate cats? A pig is a pig, a rat is rat; A cat, you know, cannot help being a cat. Poor Pussy, you'd much rather be an Archbishop, And live in a palace with servants to dish up Canaries, green catnip, soft canopied bed, And everything else at the toss of your head. Dear Kippens, sweet Kippens, oh, more is the pity, Instead of a Bishop, you're only a kitty. But still I've an inkling, Dear sweet little winkling, I'll meet you again; But when, dear, oh, when! They say cats have nine lives or more. I'll meet you on some other shore. Oh yes, yes, I confess. Draw the curtain, I feel certain, Kitty cats live on forever. Kippens, dear, what can dissever, The love I bear for you, Dear feline, friend so true. Kind reader, don't think me a fool. Forgive this foolish sigh, Because I have made it a rule, Sure as I hope to die, Regardless of sequels, To treat cats like equals. And when I pass both sod and clod, In dog and kitty's land of nod; Knowing who loves her, purring with glee, Kippens will come and welcome me. LEGEND OF THE RHINE IN ages long gone by, In a village very nigh, The banks of the beautiful Rhine, I have often heard said, Stood a statue of lead; Its mystery none could define. On one hand all rusty, Disfigured and musty, Some letters strange were found. Which people from the Far and near oft did see, But never could expound. There was one man, however, In the town who never Had yet tried to find them out. One summer night (Moon shining bright) He solved them without a doubt. He quickly discerned One finger was turned Toward the distant rocks; He searched around, And soon he found Parchment in a box. On the parchment he read Faded letters that said, Get a spade and take a hold; Dig 'neath the box, You'll soon see rocks When under them you'll find gold. Then home the man went To a friend that lent Him an old spade with rust covered. Which he took and began To dig hard like a man, Beneath the box he'd discovered. And decidedly soon, By the light of the moon, He beheld an iron door; Which he opened and found, Leading down under ground, Thirteen stone steps drenched in gore. He went down the stair To see what was there, And found a large hall lighted bright; Which as he rambled through, He suddenly came to A horrible, sickening sight. At a table there sat, Eaten half by a rat, A ghastly corpse all bloody red. It was tattered and torn, And it looked all forlorn; A diamond gleamed bright on its head. The table was spread, With black mouldy bread; Of gold the dishes were made, Heaped up with fruits, Savory as old boots, All very carefully laid. In one corner there stood, A coffin of rosewood, On which there were letters that read: "Take any dish That you may wish, But touch not the gem on the head." Now instead of obeying, Refraining from laying His hands on the gem—lack a day! He took it—the thief! But found to his grief, 'Tis better by far to obey. The lamps that shone bright Ceased to give their light— All was as dark as hell. The man in a fright, And an awful plight, Began to scream and yell. And pretty quick He felt a kick, And jumping up with a cry, Looking around— My stars, he found The Devil standing close by. He'd a swallow-tailed coat, And tied round his throat Was a handkerchief speckled with red; He'd a plum-colored vest, But what beat all the rest Were two very sharp horns on his head. The man, trembling and pale, Began to bewail, Beg, and entreat for his life, But Old Nick gave one peck At the nape of his neck, And now there began a great strife. The fight lasted long (The man being strong), But old Scratch came out victor at last. He got him down flat Like dog with a rat, And with one sharp claw held him fast. With the other he felt The sharp knife in his belt; When, lo! One bright whiz, one quick gash: The Fiend with great art, Plunged it in the man's heart, Then vanished away in a flash. So now ends my tale, But pray don't bewail The man's most deplorable end, But lest, sir, that you Be served that way too, Your duty—be sure to attend. WHERE THE FIRECRACKERS CRACK (To the Tune of "Old Solomon Levi") Of all the places in this world, there's none can beat, you bet, The terrace where the water lilies all keep dry, not wet. Upon the fourth of last July I dined beyond my means, And then the firecrackers cracked, and cracked my dish of beans. CHORUS He dinkety di do! Hinkety kinkety wink! He dinkety di do! Blinkety! Blinkety! Blink! When the beans are in the oven and when everything doth smack Of that hifalutin terrace where the firecrackers crack. Little Johnny Jumper jumped one morning in the spring, Little Johnny Jumper stole his sister's diamond ring, Little Johnny Jumper jumped close to a deep, deep well; Little Johnny Jumper jumped and found himself in Schenectady. CHORUS.— He dinkety, etc., etc. One day I kicked my mother and she said, "Please, Alfred, don't." My answer was, "Dear Mother, after this I think I won't. The neighbours, should they see me, might think my conduct queer; And so I promise never more to kick you, Mother dear." CHORUS.— He dinkety, etc., etc. Little Tommy's upper teeth one morning got on edge, Because he tried to bite the iron runner of a sledge. His father said, "My bonnie lad, I'll have to make you thrill, So contemplate the carpet while we practice bamboo drill." CHORUS.— He dinkety, etc., etc. There lives a man in London town whose ears are dapple grey In the early part of autumn, in the latter part of May; And when the blazing sun comes out and everything doth freeze, Instead of being dapple grey his ears are full of fleas. CHORUS.— He dinkety, etc., etc. I know a charming fellow, his name is Abel Strong; He is not very short, nor really could he be termed long. His elbows have the jaundice, his brain is quite befogged, His hair is full of mushrooms, and his neck is waterlogged. CHORUS.— He dinkety, etc., etc. Myself and my friend, Jimmy Stick-in-the-mud, we don't like application; We polish the sidewalks all day long in seeking recreation. Two sons of the soil, we live without toil, We feed like royal Turks; We have good luck In getting our chuck, And to hell with the man that works. CHORUS.— He dinkety, etc., etc. DEAR AUNT ANN AUNT ANN has arrived, I see. She has brought a strap, Oh, gee! Little James looks very sad— Goodness me, it is too bad. Something strange will soon occur, What it is you must infer; Something weird will happen soon— What it is ask of the moon. Moon, loony, puny, spoony moon! Little Johnny lost his cap, Aunt Ann has mislaid the strap. Oh, dear me, what shall we do? How create the boo-hoo-hoo? I have hit upon a wrinkle, You shall learn it in a twinkle. With these tongs his nose I'll tweak, That will make him loudly squeak, Squeak, squeaky, squeaky, squeaky, squeak. Little Peter stole some hash, Therefore he deserves the lash. Dear Aunt Ann is taken ill, Someone go and buy a pill. We must truly now confess We are all left in a mess. How shall we chastise this lad? We must go consult dear Dad; Dad, Daddy, Daddy, Daddy, Dad! Pills to health Aunt Ann did bring, Now her arm the strap will swing, Bow your heads and raise your hats, Ring the bell and call the brats, We will have a picnic, dears, To atone for misspent years; We'll a celebration make, That will truly take the cake. Cake, cakey, snakey, fakey cake. MIDNIGHT It was midnight in the great city. The Cathedral clock had already rang out the silent hour. A dark form glided thru the gloom. The moon darting one fiery beam sent a streak of light upon the upturned features. There was a dagger clenched between the teeth of the vanishing figure.—— (To be continued in our next.) TRIBULATIONS OF PEFULARTIES CANTO I A CUTE little dope fiend sat cleaning his ear, One bright summer morning in June. He dug with the stump of a pencil—how queer! His own patent cleanser—poor loon! From his name, Pefularties, you'd think him a Greek; But no! Not at all! He is only a sneak From prosy York State, a regular freak Who digs with a pencil; Alas! such a dense Bill. At school he won Greek prize by cheating, And then he gave a child a beating Because the child was very wise, Smelling the trick that stole the prize. So instead of plain Billy boy, All his crowd in a silly joy Dubbed him Greek Pefularties— 'Twill his dear Ma and Pa tease. Poor Pa! Poor Ma! Who always condone their pet, Dear Billy goat boy, you bet! The next event, Him great fame lent. He stole some rubber coats, Then sold them; felt his oats, Just like a well-fed nag. Hugging his money bag He ran away to fair Colorado. Deserting both his Ma and Dad, Oh! For many years he roamed the wild West, Then thought he might prefer the South best. Dazzled by vain glory, Now comes the pain story. CANTO 2 One picture of the South I'll now present: Down in a pit is Pefularties pent; Deep in the pit did Pefularites fall. He tries, he tries, but can't get out at all. Was ever a poor sinner in such stress? He can't get out—he's in an awful mess. An alligator, living in the pit, Has grabbed him by one leg, he thinks he's it. He loves to hear poor Pefularties squeal, He loves to see him wriggle like an eel. The alligator smiles with ardent zeal, Fixing his face all ready for the meal. Roused by the struggle, spiders, far and near, Nice large fat spiders, ready for good cheer; Crawl down the rocks, approach from every cleft, Stinging poor Pefularties right and left. Far up the cliff upon a rocky ledge, A monkey swings a heavy club-like sledge, Daring poor Pefularties to climb up. Poor Pefularties! Billy goat—poor pup! How he got out of this sad scrape, I don't know. Escape he did, I'm sure of that, yes, just so. In old York State he suddenly appeared In broad slouch hat, blue tie, and small red beard; High boots, both spurred, with eyes of sickly green, The lop-eared stranger comes upon the scene. His neighbours dubbed him this, a pack of rude Dutch, Because his slouch hat made his ears protrude much. And as the lop-eared stranger he is famous Throughout the land; West, North, South, East; Oremus. He met the sweetest girl in town. This lop-eared beast, this pimpled clown. And by his wit, He made a hit. The girl's only brother, suspecting some danger, Advised her to shake off this gay lop-eared stranger. She answered him thus: "Pray don't make a fuss; My Willy I'll stick to; I'll get him to lick you. He'll smash you to grease, So leave us in peace." CANTO 3 The wedding day came without delay; The Devil, though lame, had all his way, Full sway, full sway; All day, all day! The bride was dressed in spotless white. She started out in glad delight; She reached the church; there stood the groom. Five minutes more, she met her doom. For weal or woe. No weal! No, no! Out in the graveyard flowers bloom Close to the shade of her father's tomb. The wind swept by with a dismal cry; The raven croaked in a tree close by; The bell now tolled with a doleful knell, Just like the howl of a soul in hell. Inside the church the pledge is given; The fatal nail, forever driven. The groom bent close to the priest and said, "I'll pay your fee next week instead; I've got on my other pants to-day " And then he led the bride away. A cold damp thrill seemed to freeze the will Of all the wedding guests, how still! All mockery! It bodes of ill. No Godspeed here: Oh no! all chill. Hark! Hark! hear the bell peal; toll after toll, Like the dismal howl of a long-lost soul. Choirs of vampire bats raise a cry, Carrion crows sing a sweet lullaby. CANTO 4 A month has passed, oh, frightful change! The bright red beard has got the mange. New pimples sprout both here and there; The lop-eared stranger has less hair. Is he a hero? What d'yer think? His ranch out west is on the blink. The truth, alas! has now come out, He stands unmasked, this pimpled lout. He never owned a ranch, forsooth, Come close; I'll tell you all the truth. List, list! Hist, hist! In spite of his slouch hat, his pistol, his dirk, A second-class house-painter quite out of work There stands revealed, Quite, quite unsealed, The red-whiskered hero now fallen to zero. Ah, never a cowboy at all, His pride had a terrible fall; Only a painter—the rat, Not a first-class one at that. There was some talk of Doctor Tar, Also his partner, Feather; But all grew calm, without a jar, And now came pleasant weather. The pleasant weather lasted short. The helpless victim found she'd bought A leech. A sneak. In fact—she's caught, Trapped by a grasping, pimpled wart. This pimpled wart wasted His wife's private income. And soon they all tasted The fruits of a gin bum. This whisky bum, This frisky bum. Putrid offenses. My! such pretenses! Out all the night, shattered and nervous, This his excuse, early Church service. Oh, vile double life. Oh, lop-sided pill! His poor abused wife, she sticks to him still. Year followed year—the same old story, More highly coloured, now red and gory. This second-class painter, this meek Simon Peter Has now become changed to a first-class wife beater. When all of a sudden, he opium adds To the list of his charms, and a few other fads. Fads grimy! Eyes slimy. CANTO 5 The curtain rises on the final act, The young mechanic with his brain all cracked. Last scene of all, this contemptible smug louse, Finds himself nearing the doors of the bughouse. Ring out, ye bell, ring out and tell What doom on Pefularties fell. The lop-eared stranger sits alone Munching away at a marrow bone. Holding it firm in his strong right hand, Chewing away to beat the brass band. This pimpled shrimp, This shrimpled pimp, His left hand grasps his friend the pencil. Poor lop-eared Pefularties, dense Bill! He digs and he digs and he digs at one ear— There certainly must be some wheels out of gear. He listens, he sees—strange sights, such queer fleas. He fights them, He bites them, He swallows them whole. He clips them, He nips them, Poor suffering soul. One little Devil, tattered and twisted, Quickly stepped forward; gently insisted Poor Pefularties should drink of his chalice. Down with one gulp pours this nectar of malice. The lop-eared stranger sees the pit once more. Most awful phantoms all around him claw. Old times come back; He's on the rack. Motheaten apes in a hollow square Chatter and grin with ecstatic stare. Six Gila monsters, withered and bent, Sputter and snort to their heart's content. Vinegerones with squeaks of glee Climb down the cliff and join the spree. See the spiders dance and flirt, See the alligator squirt Smoke and brimstone from his teeth! See the fiery, white-hot wreath, Closing tight about his head On the rack, all bleeding red— Mockery of a dying bed! One gasp more—the man is dead. That stiffened form—that sightless stare! The soul has fled—but where? Oh, where? Again the raven gave a croak, "I'll hide you now beneath my cloak." But stop! Don't judge! We cannot tell. Hope for the best that all is well. Where is his soul? We cannot tell. We hope—but oh! That dreadful bell! Again the raven croaked and said, "This is a merry dying bed. Croak, croak! Oh hell! Croak, croak! Farewell." THE EXECUTIONER I am an executioner bold: I work near the deep, deep river, By the Traitor's Gate, Where many a fate Is sealed when my axe doth quiver. I dearly love my work, I dearly love my axe. When I chop off a head, That's the way I make bread, With classic hacks and cracks, Some say I'm a lout and a clown; I often am called up to town. My tastes are domestic, I'm put in a mess quick When told to do victims up brown. I say brown—I mean red—a bright clear, healthy red. I know when I die, with what food I'll be fed. When I pass in my checks An array of red necks, All bleeding, will dance a quadrille round my bed. With a high diddle di. Diddle—Oh my, oh my! I live near the ocean. Oh, what a commotion, When somebody has to be lopped off. When the bright beacon light, Sizzles out with delight, "Come to town, there's a head to be chopped off." My friends line the road, As I leave my abode, Jump on the saddle and gallop away. I hasten to go Where raising the dough, By my art, is a very rare art I should say. The art of neat chops, Then stepping aside Before the blood pops. So not to collide, With the flow from Red Lane And the nasty red stain. With a high diddle di. Diddle—Oh my, oh my! Oh, this is the song—ah yes—this is the ditty I sang long ago when I worked in the city. A work then much needed, When necks were oft bleeded. A work very useful, though minus of pity. This happened long ago, Oh misery—oh woe! Its all in the past tense. I'm now on the last fence. Since my axe flashed on high Many years have passed by. It seems like a dream since I stood by the block. Because I retired Before I was fired, And settled down here on my lone ocean rock. A true county squire, No champion liar, No wonder I swell when I strut off. I dream of the heads that I've cut off. Dozens of Dukes—Earls and Queens, Old men and young girls in their teens. From Cardinal Hay To Lady Jane Grey. Two wives of King Hal, Each one a game gal. My, oh my! I've a good royal list. I shortened them all, Each head took a fall; With one whiz, and one twist of my wrist. I cannot help but recollect, I cannot stop my retrospect, While on long winter nights, Far away from the frost rills. Burning log fire lights, Bring good cheer to my nostrils; Then terrible shocks to my rim rams. Like poisonous cats with the jim jams. So I sing my last song: It is sweet—nixie long— It is never a chestnut to me. With a high diddle di, Diddle—oh my, oh my! Here it is, let it siz, he, he, he! I am an executioner bold, I work near the deep, deep river, By the Traitor's Gate, Where many a fate Is sealed when my axe doth quiver. Oh, the axe, oh, the axe! Oh, the work it has done, And the fame it has won! Oh, the hacks, the deep hacks! Hurrah for the axe! Its crashes and cracks. I'll never forget. My lollipop pet. When it whizzed, when it flashed, When it hacked, when it slew. When it caused a great flowing, Of rose-colored hue. With a high diddle di. Diddle—oh my, oh my! My heart clings round my rusty love. My well-notched passive turtle dove. Oh, no, dear axe, nothing can now dissever. My soul from thee, my close companion ever. Amen, Amen! GROANINGS FROM THE SEPULCHRE "I FEAR there's no more hope," the doctor said. My friends assembled round my dying bed With tearful faces, pale as they could be, Expecting now my last death gasp to see. I struggled only once and then lay still. To move or speak I only had the will. The doctor, leaning softly o'er the bed, Seeing I'd ceased to breathe pronounced me dead. My friends then all grew very sickly pale, My sisters all began to loudly wail. My mother screamed and fainted dead away. The fat old parson for my soul did pray. Not the shortest word had my lips the power to utter, Not the slightest sound nor syllable then could I mutter. I could not show my soul had not yet fled; Just like a corpse I lay upon the bed. The very next day, about a quarter to five, A beautiful casket did at the house arrive. Of the finest polished rosewood 'twas all made, And with gold and silver handsomely inlaid. Within the casket then was I encased, And on the parlour table quickly placed. A wreath of roses lay upon my chest, With this inscription, "Here he lies at rest." And all the room was filled with lovely flowers Which had been gathered from the neighbouring bowers. The window curtains all were tightly closed, And dark the room in which I then reposed. And thus I lay for many a dreary hour With mind still clear, but yet without the power To move or speak, or any way to give My friends a sign to show I still did live. They all in whispered murmurings did tell, Gazing on him whom once they'd loved so well, Of all the traits my character had had, And all were melancholy, pale, and sad. The door swung back, the clergyman came in, He'd snow white hair, red nose, and double chin. He held a gold-edged prayer book in one hand, And gazed around with countenance quite bland. He placed himself close to the casket head, "Peace be to thee," he then devoutly said. And opening the gilded book he read With solemn voice the service of the dead. Loud groans and moans and sobs did rend the air Upon the closing of the funeral prayer. The undertaker shut the casket's lid, And then in utter darkness I was hid. The casket then was placed within the hearse, My dreary prospects growing yet still worse. I felt the motion as the wheels turned round; The hearse was moving slowly o'er the ground. How far we rode I really cannot say. The hearse did jar me badly all the way As over stumps and stones we roughly rode, Drawing me nearer to my last abode. At length we finished up our dismal drive And at the family vault we did arrive. The casket then was placed upon its shelf, And now my feelings you may guess yourself. Long hours thus I lay within the tomb With mind still raging on my awful doom, And wishing that it quickly might be o'er, That I might be at rest forevermore. While thinking on my miserable fate, I sunk into a semi-conscious state. My shattered thoughts then took another turn And soon my heart with merriment did burn. Upon a handsome chair I seemed to sit Within a spacious hall all brightly lit. Before a table strewn with cake and wine, And silver plate of beautiful design. The great room seemed all filled with merry guests, All drinking ale and beer and making jests. None gazed upon me as they walked the hall— I seemed to be a stranger midst them all. At last one looked upon me with a leer, Then roared aloud, "What means this fellow here, Sitting up stiff like a lazy worthless lout. Come, along, boys, and let us oust him out!" And then the noisy drunken rabbling crowd; With awful maledictions, fierce and loud, Rushed straight upon me with a deaf'ning scream That echoed through the hall from beam to beam. And swinging heavy clubs and canes and sticks, And jeering at my useless yells and kicks, Dragged me across the spacious hall so bright, Opened a window, where the moon gave light, Gazing but once at the beautiful starry night, Out of the window, they flung me with all their might. On the way down my head did roughly bump Against the side of the house with many a thump, Sharp throbs of pain shot quickly through my head, And ere I reached the ground all sense had fled. When sense returned I heard a voice, that said, "For my share boys, I mean to have the head." I wondered whether I did dream again, When on my neck I felt a cutting pain. And opening my eyes, behold, I saw, A ghastly sight, that struck me dumb with awe. A sight that made my frame with terror shake; A sight that made my very marrow quake; A sight that drove the cold sweat from my brow, On thought of which, I even tremble now As on this sheet I pen this fearful tale, One that should make the hardest heart grow pale. I lay upon a table all surrounded By fiendish, beastly men with looks astounded. Each member of this miserable band Clutched tight a knife within his brawny hand. Looking upon me a moment in speechless fright, Never before in their lives had they seen such a sight. Out of the room with frantic screams they tore As quickly as they could, and slammed the door. It seems, when I'd laid in the vault about a day Some medical students passing along that way, Knowing a body had lately been cast within, Thought if they carried it off, 'twould be no sin. So into the vault they very stealthily broke, And thinking they were all playing a capital joke, Carried my senseless, deathlike body away To a large dissecting room without delay. And many happy years since then have fled, Since that sad time, and still, I'm not yet dead. Upon my neck there is an ugly scar, Which does my looks considerably mar. Reminding me how near death's door I lay In years gone by—that memorable day. A TALE OF FRAUNCES' TAVERN A.D. 1765 AND OTHER POEMS Frontispiece – Griffin Playing the Banjo A TALE OF FRAUNCES TAVERN. A. D. 1765. PROLOGUE THE year, one thousand, seven, sixty-five. The period when France and England strive, To thrust each other from the western shore. The Ecclefechan strips for iron war. The Lob Scouse Boy stood on the after poop. With fingers deeply in a bowl of soup. The Captain called him but he would not go. Because he did enjoy the lob scouse so. The contents of the bowl was very nice. And so he licked his fingers over twice. The Captain called again "Ahoy, ahoy." Bring me my soup, where is that Lob Scouse Boy." The boy now brings the bowl of boiling broth. The wandering Demons leap about the froth. Black Witch craft skips upon the fins of night. The.Captain groans beneath a dreadful blight. A sulphurous sickly odor struck the air. The crew, all wondered how it came, oh where! A spell of sadness filled the Captain's soul. The wandering Demons danced a farandole. CANTO I The good Ship "Ecclefechan" gave a creak. The death watch in the bulkhead squeaked a squeak. The Surgeon shook his head and heaved a sigh. Observing that the sailor soon must die. The Powder Monkey to the Captain sped. Bowed low his head, then touched his cap and said: "I bring you news from Wagstaff's dying bed. He soon will join the roll call of the dead." The Captain walked the deck with hasty stride. Then muttered to himself, "the Surgeon lied. It's all a lie, a hoax, a scurvy joke. The Guy will live, get well, he must not croak." That morning Johnny Wagstaff had been flogged. And now he lay near death, with brain half clogged. He moved his lips, then pointed to the clock; And faintly whispered, "Send for Hiram Bock." The Captain stood beside the dying bunk. He held his nose as if he smelt a skunk. And seemed to say, "Oh hit him with a brick. These kind of people always make me sick." Young Wagstaff opened both his eyes and gazed, On Captain Hiram Bock who now amazed, Returned the sailors look, who smiled on him; Then spoke four simple words, "Please douse that glim." The good ship "Ecclefechan" gave a lurch. Which quite upset the champion of the birch. He staggered, timbers creaked, out went the light. And all was grimy darkness, black as night. For many moments all was very still. Then came a voice, it gave them both a chill. Yea—through the darkness, came a dismal voice. Demons of water, fire, air rejoice! The dying sailor spoke; "Sir Hiram Bock. Beware, repent, don't gibe, don't sneer, don't mock. Beware! your chain is forged, doomed, link on link. Beware I You totter on an awful brink! "I die, and yet we'll meet, yea, many times. Before it is too late, repent your crimes: The wandering Demons leap, heap coal on coal. Oh God have mercy on my erring soul." One gasp, one struggle, Wagstaff is no more. His troubles now are over, close the door. On such deep thoughts it is not wise to dwell. Oh Death: Oh Judgment, Purgatory, Hell! The victim of the cat o' nine tails sleeps. He's left his mates, his mess, he's gone for keeps. Up to the deck with careful hands they drag. The sailors body in a canvas bag. One of the crew, a pious, good old bloke; Began to pray, the Captain quickly spoke. "Cut that yarn short, you superstitious dunce! And throw the carrion overboard at once." Oh Captain Hiram Bock, remorseless mocker! Down went the bag to Davy Jones's locker. Poor sailor Johnny Wagstaff's soul I ween; Is dancing hornpipes now on Fiddlers Green. The Captain to the crew now made this speech. If any speak of Wagstaff's death, 'tis breach, Of discipline. I'll have my little joke. I'll stop his grog, and send him up in smoke! Next day at noon they sighted Sandy Hook. The Captain grit his teeth and closed his book. The log is finished for the voyage now. Black clouds are hanging on the Captain's brow. The Lob Scouse Boy, poor simple cracked brained lad. Without sufficient wit for good or bad, With canine instinct chafes with bated breath. Scenting calamity, despair and death. 'Twas in the evening of a lovely day. They came to anchor in the lower bay. They squared the yards, the anchor rattled, fell. The officer reported "All is well." The Captain jumped into his gig and roared, "Let every Mother's son remain on board. If any leave this ship ere I come back: I'll trice him up and flog him blue and black. "Take well to heart my orders worthy friends. For if you don't, you'll have to make amends. You know I mean exactly what I say. The Captain plied the oars and rowed away. The Bosun whistled through one crooked fang. "By gosh, this beats the bugs, I'll leave this gang." The Quarter Master said, "I'm really vexed." The Powder Monkey scratched his nose, perplexed. One member of the crew stood all alone. The tears were in his eyes, he gave one moan. Another moment—listen—hear that splash? The lad is in the water, makes a dash. Strikes boldly out, swims for the nearest shore. With lusty strokes, full breath and well set jaw. His heart is firm, is true, without alloy. God bless his soul! It is the Lob Scouse Boy. CANTO 2 Crook'd Pearl Street, ever turning left and right, More gloomy now than ever, casts a blight, On man, on beast, on every living thing. Chilling the Watchman's cry, "God save the King!" The lamplight in the lane is very faint. It shines upon a figure cloaked and quaint. The figure squirms and crawls along so sleek. Just like some slimy musk rat in a creek. Weird dread mysterious powers seem to blight, This ill conditioned wanderer of the night, Sir Hiram Bock. Black vengeance seems to beckon, The evil genius of the "Ecclefechan." The Captain starts, transfixed; what can it be? Both eyes are bulging; look! what does he see? He sees a Court of Justice, and a Judge. He tries to turn and run, he cannot budge. INTR'ACTE. The Judge sits dignified in wig and gown: He looks upon the Captain with a frown. The Captain's eye meets his, (he chokes for breath.) It is the sailor who was flogged to death. The Judge and sailor all in one combined. The Captain now the prisoner; confined, Within the dock. The lowly sailor lad. Raised from the dead confronts this cringing cad. Oh man of sin, Oh Yap, Oh Captain Bock! You are my prisoner within the dock. Your sentence death, you crawling beast, you Muck! I'll have your life before eight bells have struck. Forth from the ground a penetrating stench, Arose, enveloping the Judge's bench, Mixed with a cloud of slimy, greenish hue, That hid the sailor from the Captain's view. The Captain fell upon his face abashed. From every side a dreadful tumult crashed. Plutonian cymbals struck a tardo clang. Sweet Madrigals of wandering Demons sang. When hush, the music ceased, a silence came. All prone the Captain lay, his massive frame, Convulsed with apprenhension, begging time: More time, for expiation of his crime. He shrieks, he howls, he feels a cold damp hand, Upon his brow. No earthly red hot brand, Could shake him now. He turns, he sees, Oh joy! Can it be true? It is the Lob Scouse Boy! The Captain clasped the lad and wept aloud: Yes, this proud Noble, trembling, all cowed, Begged this poor menial boy to help him now, And save him from himself, but how! Oh how! The chimes of Trinity began to toll. The Loh Scouse Boy, taking the leading role, Conducted Captain Bock with tottering walk. Along the narrow lanes of Old New York. The boy looked keenly as they went their way, For some safe place to rest until next day. He reads a sign board "Welcome man and beast. Old Fraunces' Tavern—now they'll have a feast." CANTO 3 Old Fraunces' Tavern, famous far and near, For good old Yorkshire pudding, ale and beer, Now meets the travellers gaze, (supreme it reigns.) Clearing the clouds that mingle through their brains. They ring the bell, it answers soft and deep, Rousing the faithful Porter from his sleep. He gets the key, he turns it in the lock, Opens the door and welcomes Captain Bock. The Porter leads them to a room in back, Shrouded in darkness, stuffy, dismal, black. Lights them a candle in the candlestick, Bids them good night and then gets out right quick. The gallant Captain Bock all in a grouch, Now laid himself to rest upon a couch, And told the boy to sleep upon the floor. On yonder rug stretched quite across the door. Soon all is still, all wrapt in sleep profound. Black witchcraft claims its consecrated ground. Fantastic forms chassé from out their cavern. Deep silence holds its sway in Fraunces' Tavern. When suddenly there came a piercing shriek. As if some fiend had thrust its red hot beak, Straight through the heart of Captain Hiram Bock, Who screamed and howled, transported by the shock. All Fraunces' Tavern now is wide awake. The house begins to totter and to quake. Sharp shrieks belch forth again, and yet again. The halls are crowded with excited men. They batter down the door with axe and sledge. They enter with a rush—a human wedge. They stopped, they gasped, amazed, too late! too late! God help his sinful soul, Oh dreadful fate! That which you sow you certainly will reap. The Captain lies all huddled in a heap. Beside the cot, the sailor Wagstaff stands, Waving aloft on high two bloody hands. He spat upon the cold form on the bed. He hissed these words above the mangled dead, "Remember what I said, you Yap, you Muck, I'd have your life before eight bells had struck." There came a strange mysterious wind that blew, Green smoke about, it hid the form from view. It awed the crowd, it kept them all at bay. And when it cleared, the ghost had fled away. The Lob Scouse Boy stood shouting, "Grab him, stab him! The sailor, see the sailor, nab him, jab him!" Above all this commotion, all these yells, The chimes of Trinity rang out eight bells. EPILOGUE Deep in the shadow of the City wall. Close to the sacristy of old Saint Paul, There stands an obelisk of crisket rock, Which lauds the memory of Hiram Bock. One autumn night, the watchman on his round, Across the churchyard stopped, there on the ground, Behold! A human form, so still, so dank, With dew; stretched lifeless on a grassy bank. This world of sin was not for such as thee. Poor boy! Upon his Captain's grave died he, Just like some faithful dog that can't survive His master's death—'gainst fate he could not strive. The moonlight shines upon a childish face. A smile is on that face, oh state of grace! He went to meet his God. No trouble more. The Lob Scouse Boy has reached another shore. SEVENTEEN GANDERS FROM FLANDERS. CANTO I Seventeen Ganders, Hailing from Flanders, Are taking a voyage together. How the saucy brig flies, Under Southern skies, Enjoying most beautiful weather. The cage of these Ganders, Imported from Flanders, Is lashed to the forward deck. Quite close to the life boat, That can't sink, it must float. So handy in case of wreck. The Mate Jimmy Sankey. Rheumatic and cranky. Brought up on the bottle and rope. Quite spavined with hard knocks. Unsightly, he stops clocks. He walks with a droop in his slope. Jim don't like these Ganders, Imported from Flanders. He thinks it Tommy rot. He feels that he's all right, Then waits for a dark night, To carry out his plot. At last all is ready. One shove, quick and steady. There, overboard, Hi! a great lark. The cagefull of Ganders, Imported from Flanders, Goes floating away in the dark. INTR'ACTE. On the Texas coast, On a hickory post, Straight as a crooked arrow. Like a twisted bat. All hunched up sat, One narrow minded sparrow. The sparrow winked, Then cutely blinked. See that speck on the ocean! He craned his neck. Now clickety Cleck! There comes a great commotion. The Penguin bright, With head upright, Clawed at the Petrel Blinker. The Dodo dropped, Yes down he flopped. The Magpie piped, "The clinker." The bipeds agree, The speck on the sea, Is nearing the shore. The sage, Doctor Owl says it is, Don't you see it means biz. A regular floating cage. The cage takes a ride. The incoming tide, Sweeps up on the rocks with a dash. One thump and a roar, One bump on the shore. The cage opens wide with a crash. No gang plank required: Bedraggled and tired. The passengers land, very fine. The seventeen Ganders, Imported from Flanders, March up on the rocks in a line. Plain truth is so rare. The wise men declare. This is a recorded fact. The feathered bystanders, Stood watching these Ganders. And now for the second act. CANTO 2 Illustration: Grifin and his tame Vinegerones Up high in a crack, Of a rock murky black: Comes music like rattling bones. Where lively and dappy, All peaceful and happy, Live seventeen Vinegerones. The poor hungry Ganders, So lately from Flanders; They walked with a limp and a moan. They pricked up their ears. They heard, oh poor dears. The squeak of the Vinegerone. Eager and pert. Ever alert; The Ganders have groans in their quacks. Over the stones: Vinegerones, Are taking a stroll, oh how lax! The Vinegerones, The Ganders all bones, Confront one another with squeaks and quacked groans. The Ganders breathe deep, Then make a big leap, And instantly swallow the Vinegerones. They swallow them whole. Each one a hot coal: A burning hot coal, Oh the sting! The bugs still alive, In each crop, they strive. The poisonous bugs have their fling. That night on the rocks. A strange paradox. Oh poor little birds, such a fix. The seventeen Ganders. The pride of old Flanders; Are safe in the land of the Styx. Oh the drones, Oh the groans, Of the Vinegerones. The stars looked down on the graves of the Ganders. The whiz of a bat, The squeal of a rat, Is all the dirge sung o'er the birdies from Flanders. QUESTIONS "Why has Minnie lost a tooth?" Someone gave her mouth a blow. Oh how shocking! How uncouth! This is not artistic, no. Now when little Minnie smiles. Down her throat we look three miles. "Why is Johnny's jaw unhinged?" Johnny tried to talk too much. Bricks went flying, Johnny cringed, Someone held him in a clutch. Johnny spoke bad words; Oh fie! Johnny's jaw is now awry. "Why is Michael's ear lobe split? Why has Michael lost his teeth? "Michael got an awful hit. Michael staggered, fell beneath, Dennis Dugan's fisticate. Michael is bilabiate. "Why does Alfred eat like that, Standing near the mantelpiece. Patient, docile, gentle brat, Like a little golden fleece? See him rub himself and cry." "Father knows the reason why." "Why does little Mabel blush? " "She is musing on the past." What a pretty rosy flush. Still she hears the trumpet blast. Still she hears the babbling brook. Read it in my other book. "Why does Winfred hold her tongue? Does she really hit the pipe? Has she got a damaged lung?" "She is quite a guttersnipe. Symptoms now no longer vague. Troubled with bubonic plague. "Why has teacher that long switch. (So methodical, so calm.) " Gentle Ruth poor little witch, Now holds out one soft pink palm. Whiz and whack—a stinging slap. All is over—just one rap. Why does that strange man appear? See the forceps in his grasp. Like some Oriental Seer. Hear his voice; Oh what a rasp! Shocking man, Oh frightful work! Teeth from jaws he loves to jerk." "Why is Phoebe Snow all mud? "She strolled by the river edge. Yestereve there was a flood. Phoebe went too near the ledge. In in the muddle puddle fell. Now alas! She looks like—well? Why oh why should such things be. All the people in these verses. Joining in the Devil's spree: First class subjects for the hearses. Chew the rag, pick the bone. Let the Devil get his own. TAFFY ON A STICK Jack in a box. Taps on the rocks. Produces the taffy and starts in to lick quick. Old Mother Goose, Smiling lets loose, Her children all daffy the day of their picnic. Little Red Riding Hood fell in the gutter. Grandmother picked her out thumping her. Little Red Riding Hood made a great splutter. Grandmother kept right on bumping her. The man in the moon felt sad at this. To see all these things go mad amiss. He hit the old lady with one of his beams. That sent her a-scooting to Bun Land of dreams. The wolf sat yawning near the gate. He pricked up his ears, winking sniffy. He bristled at Grandma, snarled with hate. Then gobbled her up in a jiffy. Old King Cole. Merry old soul, The monarch of Bun Land, Promoter of Fun Land, Is taking a nap, And don't give a rap. The Fiddlers three, Were out on a spree, And never came home till late. And when they did come, All three on the bum, Were in a very bad state. Fiddler number one dishevelled. Fiddler number two bedevilled. Fiddler number three, Oh woe! Lost his fiddle, smashed his bow. Barbara Smith, Scratched herself with, The broken bow. The Fiddlers three, Yelled out, "Oh gee." "Go slow, go slow." Little Maude's spider, Not now beside her On mischief bent, Entered the tent. Oh ho! Woe woe! The Queen of hearts is stung. When presto; bing, bang, bung! The Queen began to howl and kick. The King aroused, now grabbed his stick. And said, you minx! You awkward cow. Please close your face and stop that row. Or else I'll slit your lip, you shrew, And slip a collar button through. Then clinch it well inside and out. I'll teach you how to quench that shout. I'll box your ear. My pretty dear. The Queen to appease the old King. Now tried very sweetly to sing, "The beggars are coming to town, Hard pressed by the old man in brown." When who should arrive but the piggy from Bonner: Quite minus his wig and without any honour. The pig caught the poor ugly duckling; (How could he expect it would luck bring,) Danced her around through the hall: Ate her up feathers and all. Liking it better than roast. Devil fermented on toast. Such dancing, such wriggles, All crazy, all giggles! The Fun Land, Of Bun Land, Is all full of wiggles! When listen, hear! That sound so queer! The Heavens flash, the thunder howls. Just like ten thousand billion owls. That rumbling is not a fake. The tumbling rocks proclaim the quake. Before you could say pitapat, The King and Queen are both smashed flat. Flatter than a kite. Evil, fateful night. Pluto brought along his taper. That is quite the proper caper. Earth quakes always light up fires. Burning lakes engulf the liars. It happened thus. Oh what a muss. Poor puss in boots, Away it scoots, Then falls upon its back. And finds itself, Poor little elf, Not far from Jill and Jack. The wind got sick of blowing east. The Salamander had a feast. Half-starved Hyenas were a pest. The wind now turned and blew south west. Which sent the smoke another way, And quenched the flames on Hopscotch Bay. The Topsy Turvys try to mop The tigers on the fence. The taxidermist saves his shop. But at a great expense. The list of roast, Includes almost, The contents of the ark. The little frog. And Pollywog. Are served on hemlock bark. Little boy blue. Is in a stew, With grated mice on top. These-dainties tough, Are quite enough, To make an ostrich flop. The earth still quakes. The kitten bakes. Men are scorched like wisp. Oh dreadful cries, The red flames rise, Roasting them to crisp. Baked Alaska never harms: It always yanks my vote. Muskrat liver ever charms, The palate of a goat. Sometimes I think I'll change my trade, And deal in flounders fins, Or hunt throughout some everglade, For tabby polecat skins, Or else perhaps I'll change my mug, And serve a sentence in the jug. Never be still, work with a will. Chewing the rags in a paper mill. Excuse me for a minute and a half. Excuse me while I go feed the calf. I've thought long on the subject Mother dear. And have decided I feel very queer. Good bye: Don't cry! I've said quite enough. Cut it out, the hot stuff. I might go on and demonstrate, Forever at a fearful rate. And yet I won't, I'll make it short, Just like the day I carved my wart. The donkey brays. The champagne pops. My will obeys. My quill pen drops. So ends my taffy. Don't think me daffy. TO A DODO All hail, thou mighty feathered dolt. Weird emblem of the thunderbolt. Thy fame, Oh Madagascar's pride. Throughout the world is spreading wide. Poor Dodo, now in realms unknown. Forever left thy once proud throne. Quite gone, a veritable Guy fled. Thy very name a joke, poor biped. Thy graceful beak is seen no more. Thy voice no longer holds the floor. Thy swinging walk, engaging smile. No longer animates thy isle. Quite true it is, poor bird maligned. That many people feel inclined, Oh Dodo dear to use thy name, Mixed up with expletives profane. The politician of the day. Just like some wild beast turned at bay. Who execrates, thus doth berate, The opposition Candidate. You Dodo Rook, I'll fix you yet. You Chump, I'll get your scalp you bet. You Dodo Owl, I'll break your rungs. Jump down your throat, stamp on your lungs. In one day more, you Dodo Jack, I'll have you flat upon your back. But stop, Oh Dodo dear, I grieve. My heart beats fast, a great upheave: To think that any doubtful word, Is ever linked with such a bird. Good Dodo unexcelled, now rest. Secure, you are the very best, Of birds, bright star, your glory fixed. Oh purest gem, all gold unmixed. Now Dodo sleep, you stand immure. Forever great, your fame secure. The maelstrom may be dried up. The mother dog may lose her pup. The oatmeal cake be turned to wheat. The tabby cat her kittens eat. The beetle toot his bugle call. Niagara's torrent cease to fall. So Dodo dear have courage now. And scratch the cob webs from thy brow. Consider, all the fame great bird. Bestowed on thee, yea every word, Of adulation far beneath. Thy rich desert, thy laurel wreath. Hold up your beak, and don't stop. Watch. Be sure you seek the high top notch. Pull down your chin, stick up your lip. And then you'll never get the pip. Oh gentle Dodo pray be calm. You cannot now be brought to harm. Thy past secure, thy future gleams. All sunshine bright with radiant beams. SNOOKY BILLY Why is Billy all unstrung? See the nasty little sneak, Standing on the ladder rung, Puffing out his pimpled cheek. Pretty Emma Whitehouse shook, Billy. Now he's quite forsook. How is Billy's juglar vein? See the bruise upon his jaw! Snooky Billy has a pain. Got it in a corner store. One good punch upon his mug. Then he landed in the jug. Little wifie got him out: Paid the fine that set him free. Got a carriage for the lout: Brought him home in secrecy. Then he hit his wife a swot. Took a nap. Oh beastly sot. Billy lives upon his wife. Billy don't approve of work. Billy lives a double life. Billy should have been a Turk. Fond of mottled turtle doves. Capable of many loves. Wifie knows the life he leads. But she is a faithful spouse. Quite condones his evil deeds. Though she sees he is a louse. Willingly accepts the pill. Calling him her Snooky Bill. Saintly woman, faithful wife. Since you first became a bride; All your days one hopeless strife, Trying hard his sins to hide. Turning from old friends well tried. When you took his part, you lied. Foolish wife, misguided, blind! Have you not one single tear, For that lost one. How unkind! How you wronged your brother dear. You have made your rocky bed. Sleep upon it, ram your head. Billy's trade is chewing rags. All his teeth are badly nicked. Sad result of many jags. Snooky has been lately licked. Something in his brain has clicked. Like a chicken roughly picked. Gentle Reader, draw the latch. Duck your head and close the hatch. SWEENY TOD The day of the execution broke, The sun extra brightly shone; a cloak. Of darkness permeated all, Within the jail, and cast a pall, Upon the keepers, matrons, turnkeys, Causing a wholesale, deep goldurn wheeze. Oh Sweeny Tod, Oh Sweeny Tod. You think you are a model Cod, Because you dine at Dirty Dick's And give poor Sinners rickety jicks, Because you are the hangman, high, In great repute where e'er you ply Your trade upon poor fallen wrecks. And earn your fame by breaking necks. All is bustle in the jail. Joyful rapture wags its tail, Expectation, all on wing. In the prison yard, pong ping. Little birds their carols sing. Dancing round a rosy ring. One man sang another tune. Tune of "Slip knot Mike Magoon." Hapless wretch, the poor condemned, Iron bars about him hemmed, Holding him as in a vice. 'Til he paid his awful price. Here in his cell we find him now, With heated brain and fevered brow. Gazing around with a ghastly stare. Paroxysms of rage and despair. All of a sudden he starts with fear. A heavy footstep falls on his ear. The jailer enters with a tray. The man's allowance, for that day. Setting it down he then withdrew, Locked tight the door and barred it too. The man now left alone again, Tormented with the curse of Cain Strides up and down his dismal cell, Trying in vain remorse to quell. Trying his guilty conscience to kill. Trying the thoughts on his future to still. At last he pauses near the tray, Of food that had been left that day. He sees a long knife gleaming there. And overcome with deep despair. Groans out aloud, "life for a life." Puts forth his hand, grasps firm the knife. Now from his presence we must turn. Now to the Sheriff's room adjourn, 'Tis nearly noon, the time draws nigh. When the poor criminal, must die. The Sheriff, with a careless air His mind serene and free from care: Looks at his watch and then says "Well, It's time to move," He rings a bell; The turnkey smilingly appears, The looked for order greets his ears. "Fetch the prisoner here" the Sheriff cries. "Hurry up too, the time quickly flies. Don't poke along as you usually do. Bring him to me, and quickly too." The man hurries off the culprit to bring. And with joy does jump, skip, whistle and sing. Again the iron door swings in. Oh wicked act, Oh deadly sin! Behold upon the cells damp floor. Haggard and stiff and drenched in gore. With bleeding throat the man did lie. Quite rigid, cold, thus did he die. The bells rang out a fruitless toll. I fear the man has lost his soul. I fear the Devil comes out first. The blackest angel slakes his thirst. That night a sad faced man sat up. He did not taste the flowing cup He'd had an unsuccessful day. The turkey buzzard lost its prey. He don't feel like a model, Cod. The sad faced man is Sweeny Tod. The bate is bit, the fish is hooked. I greatly fear your goose is cooked. Now let the welkin ring! All screech, "Oh Sweeny Tod you are a peach!" Oh Sweeny Tod, don't be a loon. There'll be another hanging soon. Begin the ditty, start your tune. Your song of "Slip knot Mike Magoon." We all will try to join you in, The chorus, go ahead and win. Oh—yellow goats, Molasses! Oh Ephraim Manasses! The tea leaves circle there and here, I see thy future written clear. I see thy corner barber shop. I hear a dreadful hollow flop. I see thy victim stumble, pitch; Sink through the floor and reach the ditch: Fleet ditch. And now I plainly see, Suspended on a gallows tree, Thy form. Oh Sweeny Tod, repent. Relentless fortune makes a dent. I see a surging multitude. I see thy swollen tongue protrude. Sweeny has munched his own sweet pill. And cashed the last receipted bill. HUBBIE HAS WORK AT LAST Dedicated to Pavement Stone Polishers (Tune of Johny Comes Marching Home THE bells are ringing, people shout, "Oh my ! Oh my !" They arch their eyebrows, seem to doubt The guy, they cry. It's too tremendous, can't be true, They look at me, then turn to you. Where are the proofs, what is the clew That hubbie has work at last. Send for the halo, give him his due. Yes, hubbie has work at last ! Now hubbie awakes from his fit of the blues. The skunk! the skunk ! He knows he can pay for that new pair of shoes. What punk! what punk! He now has a chance to make up his arrears Without any conscience, without any fears. He's gobbled a paying position, my dears. Yes, Hubbie has work at last. He lived on his wife for at least twenty years. But Hubbie has work at last ! Now Hubbie can handle his own pocket book. The sport! the sport! Make love to sweet Emma the housemaid and cook, And not get caught. He knows where to pick out a nice corner nook, In that gay cabaret by the side of the brook. Poor wifie at home, nice hubbie the crook. Yes, Hubbie has work at last. Sweet Emma calls Hubbie her own Tooky Took. Dear Hubbie has work at last We'll never find out till the great judgment day Oh no Oh no! Why suffering women are eager to pay Just so, just so! Buy pants for their hubbies forever and ever And don't ask one question for twenty years, never But patiently wait till provokingly clever Pet Hubbie has work at last! The faith and those knots nothing ever can sever; Dear Hubbie has work at last ! Now Hubbie and wife are sentenced for life To Hell! To Hell! In all kinds of weathers they sizzle like feathers. They smell, they smell! Now Hubbie and wifie are shoveling coal. In Hades they work from Equator to pole. They don't like their job, it's a Hell of a hole Where Hubbie has worked at last! Each culprit a pill, they bubble and grill Where Hubbie has work at last! THE SHIP SAILED ON FRIDAY DID you see the soldiers march along— Did you see the banners waving, While the parrot sang another song And the barber kept on shaving. Did you see the tom-cat arch his back And hiss loudly at that guy gay While the rattlesnake fell in the sack, And the good ship sailed on Friday. So hop up there, and drop down here, Tip your elbow quick you guy gay. For the mulled bock beer will be served next year. And the good ship sailed on Friday. The pumpkin pie got full of snails. How do you think I fixed it? I got a pint of rabbits' tails And in the dish I mixed it. I gave the mess to Uncle Ben, He is a dreadful fellow, He threw it at the speckled hen And then began to bellow. So hop up there and drop down here Tip your elbow quick ! you guy gay. For the mulled bock beer will be served next year. And the good ship sailed on Friday. Did you know that Tommy Rot has got Another bright green necktie, Such a fine job lot, from Ike the sot, A vertitable gay guy. They hanged him up on a green pear tree While the mob was wildly raving. With a fiddle de dum and a fiddle de dee, And the barber kept on shaving. So hop up there and drop down here. Tip your elbow quick ! you guy gay. For the mulled bock beer will be served next year. And the good ship sailed on Friday. HIT THE PIPE A blithesome neat potato bug Lay dying on a chip Which rested on a Persian rug All stained with greasy kip- Pered herring. See the dying eyes Are riveted; the type We often see in old pig sties. Some man doth hit the pipe. Six demons in a rocky dell With voices clear and high Sing halleluia, go to Hell! Jerusalem, you guy We'll wreathe your brow with garlands sweet Then grind your flesh for Devil's meat. The man that hits the pipe is named James Ebenezer Grimes, His character is rank, ill famed, He's rich with many crimes. He dearly loves to scratch his head. There's something that doth gripe His very soul. All hope is dead. Poor man! He hits the pipe. Six angels on a golden cloud Sing, "Nixie, Oh the muss. Poor foolish sinner, damned, all cowed He'll never eat with us." The fumes of Hell are rising up, Salted in flame, the Devil's pup. Poor Grimes alas, joins the quack class That prowl, and howl and growl. Matriculated black jack ass, Inoculated owl; Dreams he's in a grove of myrtles. Little nits are hatching Cunning miniatures of turtles. See! he keeps on scratching. The Angels weep, the Devils chant. Triumphant howls are cast. The teeth are gnashed, they gurgle, pant, "He's one of us at last." One week ago his soul was ripe And now he smokes the Devil's pipe. The dying sinner calmly rests Upon the Persian rugs Beside the dead potato pests, Those red and yellow bugs. The soul departs. Where? You know well: Where everything is ripe. Poor Grimes, now in the seventh Hell Forever hits the pipe. Old Satan hugs the pipe and bugs. Ten thousand stinging adders Assail the sinner, jam the jugs Chuck full of serpents' bladders, And plant him in the Devil's patch Where sinners hit the pipe and scratch. DAWN The morning of the execution broke clear and bright. The little birds sang on the gallows tree. But all was dark within. The prisoner slept. The slumber was fitful. A happy smile appeared on his lips, he breathed the word "Mother," a moment later the word "reprieve." But no reprieve came and the hours still rolled on. By ten o'clock all was over. TO THE GUILLOTINE What a nifty Guillotine. Perfect in its many parts. Quite the greatest killer seen, In this world of manly arts. Very sharp: so slick, so keen. What a pretty Guillotine! Labor saving; useful pet. Mirth provoking; yes, you bet! Did you ever see it slice? Did you ever hear it clack? Dulcet, beautiful, precise. See it pile up stack on stack. Human heads, so neat, so clean. What a fruitful Guillotine! Dropping heads like falling stars, From the bloody planet Mars. Gallows, chopping block and rack, When compared with thee, art slow. Thou hast such a happy knack. Bungle? Never! Oh dear no! Just one clip, thou gem, great Queen! Tittivating Guillotine! Ever sliding, chipping midget, Fascinating, hacking fidget. Once they sought to banish thee, From the land from whence thou camest. But the French are clannish. We, All rejoice. Thou art the gamest, Sport, all brilliancy, all sheen. Blessings on thee, Guillotine! Pie bald, scientific tinker. Cat like, nimble, bloody drinker. Useful instrument. Sublime! Like some rare exotic delf. May we never see the time, When they place thee on the shelf. Thou art such a grand machine. Retributive Guillotine! Thrusting heads with gory locks, Slopping, popping in the box. The Guillotine is up on high. Now glut thyself with necks galore. "Excelsior," thy battle cry: Great advocate of ruddy gore. Thy glory be forever green. Ever majestic Guillotine! Hear it thump! What a bump! Hear it smash! What a crash! The greatest seller yet. Oh labour saving pet! LEGEND OF THE GAP OF DUNLOE The Purple Mountain rises up. That mighty headland stands abrupt: Defiant, proud, while far below, Mysterious shades flit to and fro. The Gap of Dunloe turns and twists. Obstructed by dark bluish mists. Even at noon day, shadows creep. Along the black ravine, so deep. One cottage stands there by itself. Its owner lives alone for pelf. He is a miser, stingy, close: A money lender, mean, morose. Across that pretty grassy dell, The cot; where Geoffrey Lynch doth dwell. Stands weirdlike, solitary, prim: Within a rocky chasm, grim. There comes a pattering of rain. Just as the day begins to wane. A light gleams through the window pane. The place is free from earthly stain. Angel of death canst thou unroll, The fate of Geoffrey Lynch's soul. Is he in bliss, or does he bake. Or bubble in the fiery lake? Oh what is taking place beyond. The fringe that hides the cancelled bond. What has the process brought about? What is the justice meted out? Saint Peter stands before the portal, And says, "Begone, thou art immortal. Oh poor lost soul without a crown. Thy residence is further down." The flaming sword on high now flashed. Poor Geoffrey Lynch slunk off abashed. He fell through space, ten trillion miles; And found himself between two stiles. Old father Abraham stood near. Athwart one stile he held a spear. Then pointed to the other stile. And spoke with goblinistic smile. "I see you wear no wedding gown. Thy residence is further down. Look! see that steep descending path. Please go and take thy brimstone bath." Geoffrey obeys, and now too late. Stands knocking at another gate. It is the Devil who appears. With fluted horns and gothic ears. The Devil said, "This is a treat. Have I the honour now to greet, Some client fresh from cooler climes, Encrusted well with many crimes?" Now the miser all elated, Cleared his throat, and simply stated, "I am Geoffrey Lynch kind Sir. While on earth I made some stir." The Devil staggered back, turned green. His rage was frightful to be seen. He snorted, foamed; his teeth he ground; He lashed his tail around and round. The Devil spake. "You putrid peach! I know you now, you stingy leech! You are not worthy of a cell, In any self-respecting Hell." At this tirade, old Geoffrey Lynch, Said to the Devil; "Loose the cinch; Where shall I go, my debt to pay, Porter of Limbo, tell me, pray." The Devil pointed up to earth, And said, "resume the same old berth. Thy punishment will be to haunt, Thy former home. Begone! Avaunt!" Oh Geoffrey Lynch, oh man of woe! Not fit to live in Hell below, Forever and forever twist, Thy grinding wheel, thy sulphurous grist. Oh Gap of Dunloe, beauteous spot. Blurred with one stigma, just one blot. The self-same house where Geoffrey sold, His own immortal soul for gold. Throughout the country everywhere, The Irish peasantry declare. The house is haunted by the sprite. Of Geoffrey Lynch who roams at night. Lost soul, forever gulp thy pill; Though yet on earth, condemned to grill. Forever roast, a glowing faggot. Oh Geoffrey Lynch, poor rotten maggot. Mind your business, shun the fight. Let the lost soul scratch and bite. Stand firm, be steadfast, firm; don't flinch. Avoid the house of Geoffrey Lynch. PENDENNIS McGUIRE Pendennis McGuire had worked hard all day. From morning till night had been pitching the hay. He felt hot and tired; he coughed and he wheezed. Pendennis McGuire the coffee pot seized. He filled up the coffee pot out at the pump: Then sat himself down on an old oaken stump. He rested the coffee pot brim full of water, Upon a flat rock; alas he'd not oughter. The coffee pot brought a fat bucket of sorrow. Pendennis McGuire must die ere tomorrow. His friend Micky Flannigan, passing that way: Called out, "Hi Pendennis McGuire, you jay; Come help me along, I'm in need of a crutch; You see, I have taken a wee drop too much." Pendennis McGuire, obligingly quick, Assisted his friend, the great Flannigan Mick. Escorted him safe to his home on the plain. Forgetting his own little nest in the lane. A blithe squirming centipede; smilingly smug. With ears pointed forward; inscrutable bug! All weary with walking, with legs full of kinks. Now closes his eyes and takes forty-two winks. Oh innocent slumber, refreshing, reviving. So mystical, cristical, blue devil driving. The Grand Mucky Muck brings the High Rinky Dink! The centipede wakes and then calls for a drink. The coffee pot gleams, 'tis of double blocked tin. The bug scents the sparkling water within. He raises his head, makes a hop, in he dashes. And up to his chin in the liquid he splashes. The coffee pot makes a superb swimming pool. Refreshing, relaxing, delightfully cool. The centipede drinks to his fill with delight. Then crawls up the spout and declares it, "All right." He stretches himself almost ready to bust. Shuts his eyes; takes a nap; the sleep of the just. The clouds overhead become blacker and blacker. Stentorian tones ring out, "back her quick, smack her." Wagon wheels grate, causing bright sparks of fire. Out jumps the hero; Pendennis McGuire. Pendennis McGuire, staggering, weary; Wild staring and glaring, bloodshot and bleary. Rum-sodden, quarrelsome, ready to burst. He Looks for the coffee pot, desperate, thirsty. There on the rock, gleams the coffee pot, dim. Flowing with water, quite up to the brim. Pendennis McGuire grabs quick at the handle. I fear he is burning both ends of his candle. He places the spout of the coffee pot deep, Down his throat, takes a drink, gives a choke, then a leap. Oh horror of horrors, unfortunate gulp! His gullet is chuck full of poisonous pulp. Pendennis McGuire, your chance is now zero. The centipede gets in its work like a hero. The centipede sticks in his throat, out of reach. It can't be choked up; it sticks like a leech. Pendennis McGuire falls down in a spasm. Then gives in his checks for eternity's chasm. His cat runs away; his dog has a cry. And this is the end of Pendennis; poor guy! THE DEAD RABBIT RIOT A.D. 1857 AND OTHER POEMS Frontispiece: Griffin with walking stick THE DEAD RABBIT RIOT A.D. 1857 CANTO I The organization of Dead Rabbits meet To-day at high noon at two-six Baxter Street. The members are mostly expert masons' clerks Who meet in the back room of Peter MacGuirk's, The Marquis of Mulberry Bend. The bunch of hod carriers, minus their hods, Are eating smoked herring and first class Cape Cods, Like so many bloaters without any bladders. The hods meanwhile rest in the shade of the ladders, 'Tis lunch time at Mulberry Bend. The lunch being munched and washed down by a chaser, The floor now belongs to the policy racer, Sylvester O'Grady, the bug, a great talker. This day he means business, you bet he's a corker, The Mayor of Mulberry Bend. Sylvester O'Grady, the bug, took a chew of The smoked hunk of herring; he took it in lieu of Tobacco, then made this announcement while munching, His audience howling were ready for punching And beating up Mulberry Bend. My men," said O'Grady, "it's time now to act and At once, for the Bowery Boys form a pact and They mane to march through the Five Points, yis indade, Through blood they will wade, sure they mane to invade The district of Mulberry Bend." The bunch of Dead Rabbits were all in commotion, Montgomery Flaherty rose with a motion, He called on the crowd to collect all the brickbats, And then stand in wait for those Bowery Mick rats And drive them from Mulberry Bend. The crowd loudly cheered and declared they would do it; Most hazardous scheme, buggy bug house, they knew it, Nevertheless these full-fledged crazy hod carriers Blocked up the streets with impregnable clod barriers, Cheering for Mulberry Bend. CANTO II The Bowery Boys have decided to march, sure, And give the Five Points one last settling souse cure. They hold a big meeting, there's all kinds of blather. The clans from the different wards quickly gather, The pick of the Bowery Boys. They meet in the corner saloon, stick the stake, Sing Lannigan's Ball, also Finnigan's Wake; The gin mill in question by name "Badden Badden," Is run by the famous Gustavus MacFadden The chief of the Bowery Boys. A voice said "Beware o' those dirty 'Dead Rabbits,' We all know too well are addicted to habits Outrageous! They threatened, yes, this very morning, To get us the next time we trespass. Take warning, Take warning, ye Bowery Boys." No hand in the wall inciting indictment, Could ever have brought the frightful excitement Now caused by these ugly prophetic plain words. MacFadden in fury exhorted his herds Of crazy mad Bowery Boys. They rush to the street, they gather in line (Triumphantly sour like pickles in brine), The brightest red shirts, the tallest high hats, Well armed with stout clubs, this gang of wharf rats The pride of the Bowery Boys. They march to the tune of the "Dying Cow Jenny." The child of the regiment, little kid Benny, With bucket and dipper distributes the drink. They dance to the music of "Stinkety Wink." Good luck to the Bowery Boys. CANTO III In wild expectation the Dead Rabbits gather, Up alley way, sally way, wasting no blather, But grimly determined to fight, no retreat. The Bowery Boys now intrude on their beat, The region of Mulberry Bend. From fair Doyer lane comes the tread of invaders Resplendent with red shirts, implacable raiders, Who shout their defiance with impudence, braving The wrath of the "Rabbits." Oh, hear them curse, raving To thunder with Mulberry Bend! From up on a roof came a voice, "Quick, Mike, swat her!" The chimney is seen first to tremble, then totter. Great Heaven! that yell, Oh, that flash, hear the smash! The chimney is falling, great God, what a crash, Have mercy on Mulberry Bend! Rocks, splinters and brick all congested with plaster, Crash dashing, an avalanche bent on disaster. Such yelling, such cursing, such struggling yeggs! Such breaking of heads and such tearing of legs, All havoc in Mulberry Bend. The cops soon arrive (in the usual way) Just missing the scrimmage, too late for the fray. The bunch of "Dead Rabbits," defunct in the lump, Mixed up with dead "Bowery Boys," form a clump— The flower of Mulberry Bend. The fame of the scuffle will never die out No creature can ever its brilliancy doubt. From that time to this we have mused on the diet We gobbled that day at the "Dead Rabbit "riot. The glory of Mulberry Bend. WILLIAM THE BUTCHER The rambling goblin twists his wrist And grabs the kindling kiddo grist. Forth from the earth there comes a mist Enveloping the throne. The Hohenzollern lifts his sword On high, and says, "I am your Lord, Your war Lord, forward, clip the cord, And smash the British drone. The Kaiser boasts one running ear. His whole get-up is rather queer, Rotting away with shrivelled gear, This war Lord, son of Cain: Who raves, blasphemes and howls all wroth, Who bids his hirelings go forth To battle red with bloody froth, And murder on the brain. Let kultur revel deep in blood, The royal Kaiser chews his cud, Swallows all logic, spits out mud. The bloody mud takes shape. The Death Head legion in the lead Stabs at the victim, makes him bleed, Initiates the reign of greed Of arson, murder, rape. Louvain, the beautiful, all flame; Namur, the strong, has lost the game. Foul murder in the Kaiser's name Is now the kultured cult. Teutonic cruelty doth lurk, United with the mighty Turk. The bolts of Hell get in their work, Red death's black catapult. The Lusitania plies the wave, Unmindful of the yawning grave, Unheedful of that low-bred knave, William, the butcher King; Degenerate down to the core, Unprincipled, defies all law, Exhaling stench from every pore. Murder is on the wing. The black assassin lies in wait, Chanting the hellish hymn of hate. The submarine draws near. Dread fate Points with a sinister smirk. See the white ripple on the crest, See that bright sunbeam from the west, Guiding with demoniac zest The butcher King's sharp dirk. Women and children struggle for life, Mother and father, husband and wife. Death claims the victory. Anarchy, strife, Triumphant, cheer, curse and brag. Rushing waters and rattling guns, Women scream for their little ones. Grins and gibes from the kultured Huns, Piracy shakes out its flag. The Kaiser groans aloud "Oh, rot," The wen upon his head burns hot. He puts a nickel in the slot, Then waves his limber wattle. The drum within his running ear Beats loudly, see, he shakes with fear, he fortune-telling slot fakes queer. Oh, what a mellow rattle! This is the fortune that he reads While perspiration, greasy beads Stand on his forehead. Now he weeds, Or tries to weed, the chaff. But all is rottenness within, At last he knows he cannot win William the butcher rubs his chin. Poor derelict giraffe! The scales don't tip to please the King The clinging vine says, "Nixie cling, You can no longer fling your sling, Go to the nearest dock, Say to the Devil, 'Friend, you win.' Give one deep sigh and then jump in. Your former chums both kith and kin Will never more say 'Hock.' But night and day forever, yea All men will sing, and fling Your name, poor clay, to black decay William the butcher King." HASH HASH! hash! hash! There's a new kind of hash to-day. Curious kind of a dash Of spice that cannot allay The marvellous taste, three cheers for the cook! The landlady smiles with a faraway look. The cat grabs something with its teeth, And quickly carries it beneath The fence, then rolls about pit pat, Purrs with delight—it is a rat. The Swedish housemaid spies the rat, Then nabs it, saying "Vas is dat?" She takes it to the cook who grins, And then at once adds to her sins. HASH! hash! hash! Deep, devilish—what is it? guess. Beautiful silvery clash! The pewter spoon mixes the mess Of mystery rare—she's a dandy old cook. The landlady smiles with a faraway look. Next day the spotted kitten died. Ere it was cold two sharp eyes spied The silent lump of fur. Once more The Swedish maid defies all law. Strange smells belch from the kitchen stove. The vicious boarders vainly strove To pierce th' impenetrable wall To find the meaning of it all HASH! hash! hash! The same old story runs. Boarders wanted. Cash. (The theme of many puns.) Regular old-fashioned family cook. Th' landlady smiles with a faraway look. And now we have the western breeze; The caterpillars fill the trees, From mountain top to grassy dale. Scrape off the pests, fill up the pail. Once more the kitchen door opes wide. Again the rubric, cut and dried. That smell, that smoke, that crackle pop Emitting from the chimney top. HASH! hash! hash! Wake up, quick, be keen. Lively! make a mash With the foxy kitchen queen. Just get on the side of that bird of a cook, While th' landlady smiles with a faraway look. The boarder has a dog, a mutt— Its ears and tail ought to be cut. The doctor calls, he grabs the whelp, Doggie begins to fight and yelp. The ears and tail lie on the dish. The Swedish housemaid has her wish. One rapid movement, there now, look, The dish is carried to the cook. HASH! hash! hash! Fetch down the bowl, all hail! Hash! hash! hash! Chop up the ears and tail. Donate them at once to the rollicksome cook, While the landlady smiles with a faraway look. So fill up the mugs, And wash down the hash, Rats, kittens and bugs Mixed up with a dash Of little dogs' tails, And brown spotted snails, And worms packed with quails. Oh the hash, oh the hash! Oh the wonderful hash! MEMORY OF CHILDHOOD DAYS All things were dark and dismal, It was early in thewinter. I had tended to the cattle in the shed, Had chopped the kindling wood and got a nasty little splinter In my left hand, pinky winky, how it bled! I yanked the splinter out, and then Ran quickly to my cosy den. I sat before the fire, bowed my head, and took to thinking And blinking, I was in a cosmic state. A bowl of Jersey lightning on the table kept me drinking, Until I felt a buzzing in my pate. Sweet visions of the past came back, When suddenly I felt a whack. My head was roughly bumped, my wit completely trumped by A dragon fly so sly, I tired ran. My weary gullet gulped; great thunder, I was thumped by The mule that often kicked the hired man. When biff! sights of my dear old home Throughout my vision seemed to roam. The hawthorn bush neglected, withers quite away uncared For; the water lily nestles in the lake; The handle of the pump is broken, ne'er to be repaired, And the peddler is honest—not a fake. He rubbed my sore head with a cake Of ointment, till it squelched the ache. I see my white-haired mother and her dear old bunch of keys; She personally does the weekly wash. The honey suckles cluster, while the extra busy bees Attack the budding blossom on the squash. Inside the house the scene is just like when, So many years ago, I plucked the hen. There's one little treasure here I ever prize, oh my! Far more than all the wealth beneath the sea, That small leather riding whip dear mother swung on high While punishing my sister Ruth and me. The whip now hangs upon its peg Above the Jersey lightning keg. The little bunnies bubble with delight and nibble stubble, The ancient goat kicks at the pretty kid. The children sweetly smile and howl with glee. Meanwhile The guinea-hen eats up the katydid. All this by second sight I see, Oh rapture wonderful, he! he! The Irish stew is ready, it is time to draw the tea, The woodman takes the wedge to split the log; Out at the pig pen near the barn a tragedy I see; They use a clam shell when they scrape the hog. They cut its liver out, and poke It up upon a shelf to smoke. While dreaming, shrill I heard the piping of a bird. I then awoke; I yelled! Oh, what a bite! I felt a sudden shocking, 'twas something in my stocking, I took the stocking off; oh what a plight! Oh see that big red patch, How I did claw and scratch. I'd been giving board and lodging To a bug who had been dodging And nipping, sipping, clipping, playing tag. I could not help but scream, I'd been bitten in my dream, The bug took mean advantage of my jag. DANGLING GUYS THE hangman snorted, rubbered a twist With his neck as he sat on the porch, Then opened, clinched his knotted fist, By the light of the dismal torch— The dismal torch. His trade up the spout, yanked to pieces, The holiday season drew near, He thought of those bright little nieces, Sweet Meta and Lulu dear— So very dear. He wanted to give each a nice gift, But didn't know how to fix it. He got down his bitters and rice mift, And vigorously did mix it— Did mix it. He sighed as he thought with emotion— His craft both artistic and rare, Now spoiled by that new-fangled notion, The mighty electrical chair— Nasty chair. He sipped at the grog till it cheered him, Dispersing his arrows and slings. He drank more and more till it queered him, And now he sees very tart things— Such queer things. Long ropes, nooses, cross-beams and traps, Mementos of sweet bye and byes Flit past. Pinioned arms and black caps. Great hooky, those dangling guys— Dangling guys. With elbows well in and tongues out, The phantoms flit gaily along, With voices deep, facing about, I ntoning this swaggering song— Swaggering song. "My worthy friend, hanging is nice, Far better than black chicken pox. So neat, gentle, soothing, precise, Jack Ketch, with a rope in a box— Jack in a box. "Hold on to your gear, hangman dear, You've raked up the tin in your time. Don't look through your hat at your ear, You've filled up your purse mixing lime— Punishing crime." The hangman awoke with a whoop, Then smiled, and observed "I'll be rammed, My savings are not on the droop, My pocketbook fatly is crammed— Fatly is jammed. "Dear Lulu shall have a wax doll, Dressed up like a queen, robes of plush. Sweet Meta shall have a green poll In a platinum cage, fed on mush— Fed on mush. "Good luck to those dangling guys. They've changed all the pith of my life To sweetmeats and all kinds of pies, Instead of the blue devil strife— Blue devil strife. "Farewell to blue black and black blue, Dangling guys, sweetmeats, pies Are mine, never more dismal stew. Hurrah for the dangling guys— Dangling guys." REVERIE OF THE CATSKILLS ON sunset rock there perched a bird, A chattering magpie jay. One cadence brief alone was heard This day so gay in May. The wind was soft, my brain most clear, The owl cut out its hoot. Sweet dulcet chirps regaled my ear, The magpie said, "Quack toot, Quack toot." The magpie said, "Quack toot." Far down the clove I see a grove Close to the town of Sarket. The well-tanned rustic drives his drove Of nanny goats to market. I raise the trumpet to my lips; The blast shakes twig and root. The mountains echo from their tips. The magpie said, "Quack toot, Quack toot." The magpie said, "Quack toot." Beyond the clove of Catskill The stars and stripes wave out Before the school of Palenville. Oh, hear the children shout. The teacher waves the switch around And says, "Get out, skip, scoot, You brats, or else I'll spank you sound." The magpie said, "Quack toot, Quack toot." The magpie said, "Quack toot." Far up the hill behold a skunk; He seems to be all smell. My brain doth twist, I'm all kerflunk, I'm in the mud, Oh, Hell! What shall I do, I'm sinking fast, Look! look! I've lost one boot. I'm safe across the bog at last. The magpie said, "Quack toot, Quack toot." The magpie said, "Quack toot." The old grey tower on the shelf Of rock presents its clock To view. I fear some sportive elf Has cast its spell to lock Remembrance of my long-lost boot. I find the boot; I hoot. An echo answers, "Ain't he cute." The magpie said, "Quack toot, Quack toot." The magpie said, "Quack toot." I started home with pensive gait Across the muddy bog. I felt just like some poor cheapskate Belated like a frog Forgetful of its tadpole, while I stopped to nibble fruit That would not rile my rising bile. The magpie said, "Quack toot, Quack toot." The magpie said, "quack toot." 'Twas getting near my dinner time. I quickly made a dash Across the slime, the mud, the grime, For fear I'd lose my hash. The fish horn sounded, hear it blend And mingle its salute, Yes, jingle with my feathered friend. The magpie said, "Quack toot, Quack toot." The magpie said, "Quack toot." Oh, see the flames, the burning chips Where playful laughing kiddies, With gleeful childish smiling lips Singe headless chickabiddies. When hark! that sound, it is the same, A cadence like a flute, As through the flame a murmur came. The magpie said, "Quack toot, Quack toot." The magpie said, "Quack toot." That night, while half asleep, I heard A toot that sounded like My little friend the pretty bird. I thought I still did hike Across the meadow by the lake, When pipe! sweet as a lute I heard the voice I love (no fake). The magpie said, "Quack toot, Quack toot." The magpie said, "Quack toot." A PASTORAL ADAPTED FOR LYCEUM PERFORMANCES, SUNDAY SCHOOLS, ETC. SCENE I Hillside in Palestine. Bell tower on left. PILGRIM and STRANGER enter C. STRANGER "HOLY Pilgrim, tell me, pray, Do you ever brush your hair? Oh, how shaggy, just like hay, Ragged, quite unkempt, beware. Change your habit, take a scrub. Go and tumble in the tub." PILGRIM "Gentle Stranger, patience have. See my whiskers, ain't they thick? Don't you see I am a Slav? It is not my place to kick. Must I grumble with my lot? Soap and water know me not." STRANGER "Holy Pilgrim, what are those Lumps within your whiskers, say? Wait until I get the hose, Soon we'll have a lovely spray Cleansing out the dust; don't grin, Turn the spigot, we'll begin." PILGRIM "Gentle Stranger, smooth thy brow. I must really say thee nay. I have made a solemn vow Always to remain a jay. I decline to wash my face. Fare thee well, sweet child of grace." STRANGER "Holy Pilgrim, I declare Now I see those horrid lumps, Heavens! mushrooms in your hair? First I thought you had the mumps." (A bell tolls.) "Hark! I hear the convent bell. Holy Pilgrim, fare thee well." [Both exit. SCENE II Exterior of Bishop's palace at R. Tavern at left. Enter PILGRIM and STRANGER. STRANGER "Holy Pilgrim, I'll be switched, You are curried like a horse. What strange power hath bewitched, What hath made the change, what source? All the mushrooms you so cherished In your whiskers vanished, perished." PILGRIM "Gentle Stranger, it is simple; Just as plain as plain can be. Do you see this little pimple On my nose? It troubles me. Goodness mercy how it stings! If 'twould only take to wings." STRANGER "Holy Pilgrim, you emerged From the Bishop's cellar door, You are clean, have you been purged? You have washed your lower jaw. In that purse I hear a chink. Won't you give your friend a drink?" PILGRIM "Gentle Stranger, cork your guzzle, Mushrooms bring ten cents a quart. Clinch the brake upon your muzzle. I confess I have been caught. Sold the mushrooms for a dollar, Had to wash and buy a collar." STRANGER "Holy Pilgrim, gentle toiler Hear that crackle, what a smell! Mushrooms cooking on a broiler, Holy Pilgrim, you've done well. Dainties for the Bishop. Cluck! Now I'll blow you off, my duck." [Both exit into tavern. SCENE III A Barroom. CLERGYMAN and WIFE at table drinking beer. PILGRIM and STRANGER enter. BARKEEPER "Holy Pilgrim, nice and clean, Gentle Stranger, somewhat soiled. Mushrooms, grated lima bean First parboiled and then well broiled. Never let your zeal abate. Serve it on the Bishop's plate." THE CLERGYMAN "Children, I must raise my voice. I am pastor of your church. Happy people, all rejoice, I'll not leave you in the lurch. Sunday I'll take off my coat If you people get my goat. Holy Moses, mighty Caesar! Here I'll raise my Ebenezer." WIFE OF CLERGYMAN "Sisters, brothers, pray don't fight, Everyone should love the Lord. I adore the free lunch bite. Smash the purse, let loose the hoard. Chauffeurs waiting, hear the honks. One Manhattan, then a Bronx." BARROOM LOAFER "Won't you pity one poor bum, Have you got a heart to melt? Drop a tear, for this humdrum Johnnie hit the road a welt. In my throat I feel a tickle Shovel out one greasy nickel." CHORUS OF EVERYBODY "Let us all be happy. See How the great unwashed doth glow, Like some dandy dapper he. Let us all sing 'Old Black Joe.' While the Bishop over there At his dinner table sits, Upright in his gilded chair, Gobbles quick and never quits. See the Bishop bluster, puff, Eat mushrooms a la dandruff." BENEDICTION (Given by Clergyman.) "Kneel, my friends, my blessing take. Presently the calf will fatten. Always shun the fiery lake. Sure! We'll drink one more Manhattan. Each soul clinging to his rock, Blessings on my little flock." (Embraces WIFE.) "Dear speckled hen, Amen, amen. Angel of light sails in on a broomstick. ANGEL "Little children, really I Pin no faith in foxy skates. They're not smart, just merely sly. When they die they're packed in crates Filled with burning red-hot coals. Lord have mercy on your souls. May you never boil or bake; May you sing the song of praise; May you feed on angel cake; Mend all errors of your ways; Scrape the spiritual scruff Off your hide. Don't be a muff. Do your duty. Make a hit. Chuck the devil in the pit. Do not be a silly kite, Thus I sprinkle you pure white." The angel dips brush in bucket and sprinkles the whole bunch. Everybody is overcome by emotion. All weep. Moon shines through window. Invisible chorus of Monks chant "Te Deum." Curtain descends. The piece to be costumed as follows: CLERGYMAN. Black cassock. White surplice richly embroidered with lace. Carries gold-headed cane. PILGRIM. Pyjama jacket without the pants. Legs uncovered. Broad-brimmed straw hat. Carries long staff ornamented with gilded eagle at top. Red Turkish slippers curled up at ends. STRANGER. Modern full-dress evening suit. No hat. Carries large umbrella. BARKEEPER. White flannel suit. White shoes. Head tied up with wet towel. LOAFER. Dressed as a tramp. Unwashed. Carries bundle done up in coloured handkerchief in one hand and a hymn book in the other. WIFE OF CLERGYMAN. Short green jersey sweater. No skirt at all. Pink tights. Jewelled order of the garter clasped below right knee. Satin slippers. Very large shaker bonnet. Carries prayer book. Is followed by white poodle dog. ANGEL OF LIGHT. Red beard. Blue wings. Cavalry boots. Long white robe. Carries bucket in one hand and white-wash brush in the other. THE HORSE THIEF MacGregor Jay MacDougel Had a pimple on his bugle And a ringworm up his cauliflower ear. MacGregor was a horse thief. Bold, daring, yes, a fierce chief And they hanged him on an apple tree last year. They made him bite a double slice, Great Scott Oh yes, he paid the proper price. Why not? He long had been a terror To th' neighbourhood. An error Seemed to magnify his qualities. The key At last unlocked the socket Of th' problem, bumped the locket. So they hanged him on a sour apple tree. They hanged him like some nasty bird, Foul goose; The ringworm in his ear demurred, Got loose. On the outskirts of Rome City, Indiana, a committee Decided that the village must be free. They got the horse thief's goat slick, Placed a noose about his throat quick, And hanged him on a sour apple tree. The pimple faded, vanished, yea, Vamoosed. He kicked (just once) then passed away, Unloosed. MacGregor faced the halter, His courage did not falter. MacGregor was a game guy, you can see. His medicine he gulped down, His gall was roughly pulped brown. They hanged him on a sour apple tree. MacGregor chokes, he gets his due Yes, heaps. His cauliflower ear turns blue For keeps. They buried him with 'taps.' He's in Heaven now. (Perhaps?) A shaft of marble rears its mighty head. The bones beneath the ground Await the trumpet sound, "Arise, and come to judgment, oh ye dead." Meanwhile the pimple and the ear, How queer, Both vanish; now don't waste a tear, My dear. If MacGregor is in bliss He is finished quite with this World, always will be happy, no veneer. His pimple will have vanished, His evil genius banished, As also will his cauliflower ear. But if he died beneath the ban, All muck, Eternity's great frying pan, Worse luck, Grabs tight his soul within its trap, Black sty, And crowns him with a brimstone cap. Good bye. EPITAPH Impartiality sieves sin, And if the scale shows scanty weight, The village where Old Scratch lives in Is sure to claim its precious freight. THE PANAMA CANAL I'll sing you a song of the Culebra cut, The place that resembles a mad goat all butt. The treacherous landslide is ready to slump And squelch the canal with a squash and a dump. In the midst of the stream see that small raking scow. It is filled up with dynamite like a mad cow All ready to burst at the touch of a match, So keep on your shirt, please, and don't pull the catch. The Rip Snorter sits on one side of the stream. He sups at the bowl of pomegranate and cream. The fire is low, the liver undone, The fried monkey withers away in the sun. On the opposite side of the sluggish canal, The Rip Snorter's friend, that jolly old pal, The Hum Dinger, perched on the rocking stone drones Love songs to his flock of tame vinegerones. The Hum Dinger dozed on the rocking stone tippy. The Rip Snorter snorted, demoralized dippy. The moonbeams beamed down on the sign on the scow, see, Read, "Thompson's torpedoes, be careful, allow me." The vinegerones flirt around the Hum Dinger. The Rip Snorter scribbles, he is an ink slinger. Oh ignorance blissful, serenely doltlike. Cimmerian clouds creep along, thunderbolt like. The green lizard, beautiful gleams iridescent, The crawling tarantula sniffs ever present, The sleek German Indian hides under cover, The moonbeams reflect from the green lizards' mother. The tropical sun is a big proposition, It centers its aim on the scow's ammunition. The heat is tremendous, the lyddite explodes, click! 'Tis Thompson's torpedoes just having their picnic. The crackling thunderbolt bumps the bump slick. The rickety earth slides the slumpety, quick. The spider, the Hum Dinger, bugs and Rip Snorter Sink down out of sight in the black muddy water. Just keep up your courage and don't give a rap, don't. Because if you worry, why, nobody else won't. Of course they don't mind, don't care nothing whatever. So please follow suit, you'll be deucedly clever. The daily occurrence of landslides are useful. It stirs up the insects, it feeds the wild goose full— I mean his fat stomach and crop were extended— His tummy felt comfy as homeward he wended. The Wang Doodle grins with delight, a forerunner Of rapturous times, he's a "son of a gunner." More vinegerones and Rip Snorters assemble. They gurgle with glee and with frightened awe tremble. The Culebra cut, one gigantic success is. Unites the two seas after many a mess fizz. The spiders and vinegerones have their fling. Rejoice! all is gladness. Triumphantly sing! MUTINY OF THE "SOMERS." DECEMBER, 1842 (Founded on fact.) Captain Mack, Cracker Jack, "Here's to you, here's to me." That's the toast On that dandy clipper rig, The "Somers," a neat brig. We are off for the African coast. Sing he! ho! Off we go! The little middy Phil And secretary Bill Clung to the cross-tree span Well up out of hearing. Philip whispered leering, "Mate, dare you kill a man If it pays enough?" "Come, I call the bluff." The middy continued The black cat of sin mewed. It perched on the capstan and purred, Its tail and its back up, Deep murmurings crack up The plot. The Scribe Billy demurred, Showed his surprise. Pussy blinked, wise. The brig tossed its head. The very old Ned Through each plank and beam in the hulks Plays havoc and tag And nothing can gag The Spectre. Dark mutiny skulks, The very old Nick Delivers his kick. The Midshipman Phil, His hands on the frill Of his neck cloth, looked ugly and black. He hissed through his teeth, "Hush! th' Captain's beneath, Avast! douse it, all clear the track Mum's the word." The cat purred. The brig ploughed its way, Bright, lively and gay. The Midshipman slobbers his deck broth; He clutches his digits And nervously fidgets. The fringe of his black satin neck cloth, Mysterious tie. Anon, bye and bye. The topman, Pete Small, Poor weakling, he'll fall, Slack baked, somewhat foxy, but giddy. Cromwell, the mate, Worthless ingrate, Soon bowed to the wiles of the middy. Treason is chronic, Wicked, sardonic. The cook stole an axe From off the port racks And thrust it down deep in his togging. One young sailor laddie Concealed in a caddy The marlin spike. Next came a flogging. The crew liked the show. The cat howled, "Woe! woe! " The middy won through, Corrupted the crew, Concocted the scheme, got his hunch. Of honour bereft, He played his cards deft, And soon undermined the whole bunch, That crooked vile bunch. The black cat said, "Crunch." The Captain felt pesky, He sat at his desk. He Suddenly starts as the bin creaks. Down through the hatchway, Like the bright patch gay, Smirking, his private scribe in sneaks, Mysterious mien As ever was seen. The scribe said, "Tot rot. Unearthed! a hot plot Concocted by Philip the middy, Who says with one clip He'll gobble this ship." The Captain howled out, "Really, did he? Did he not reck? All hands up on deck." The bosun's pipe squeals, The forecastle reels, The crew soon collect, tension tightened. They eye one another, Suspecting each brother, All guiltily trembling, frightened. Anxious, perplexed. What will come next? The Captain spurts out: "My men, a great doubt Presents itself flat, quite a riddle Which Philip can solve. I fear 'twill involve And fry many more on the griddle, Wasting good rope per. Out with the dope, sir. The neck cloth untied, With scrutiny eyed. The case is as plain as your face. The Captain yelled out "Step lively about. The rope! make a noose, fetch a brace. Foxy lout, Spit it out." Inside the tie wound This paper was found (Oh, wretched man! short sighted, vain). The name of each plotter. No flexible blotter Can ever erase the foul stain. Oh, poor wretched sinners, Confirmed gibbet winners. How very entrancing Three forms dangle dancing The foxtrot on nothing but air. Such heaving of lungs Protruding of tongues, How charming, esthetic, so rare! The black cat now shook His head. Get the hook. The mutiny over All hands safe in clover, Three canvas bags lay on one plank, The Captain said, "Go it, Quick, hurry up, stow it." There! splash, out of sight all three sank. One handful of bubbles Have ended all troubles. All ready, boys, hip! Stand steady, cheer ship. With freedom we now ply the wave. Next week we will sight Dear Sandy Hook light The land of the free and the brave. All cheer Captain Mack The brave Cracker Jack. POOR LITTLE CLYTIE I wandered through the orchard near the brook. That's how I came to write about the hook, The hook-worm, very fancy in its work, Shooting ahead with many a foxy quirk. I lingered near the brook, I stopped to rest, Albeit I knew it not a winsome pest Lurked very near awaiting but the time To procreate, a sneaky, slimy crime. Plump in the middle of the babbling brook One small flat blackish rock protrudes, just look! That yellow streak upon the rock so gay, It is a hook-worm waiting for its prey. I shook my cane and said, "My squirming friend, Keep off my private pasture, do not rend My heart by creeping deeply into me." The hook-worm smiled and told this tale with glee. The hook-worm said, "I'm on to you, Alphonse, You are too fly for me; yes for the nonce I'm beaten like a liquidated whale. Just rest a bit and listen to my tale. "I killed a girl last week, she was a peach! Look, see that rocky hill this side the breach That cuts in twain the precipice beyond. That's where I killed the girl, a pretty blond. "Perhaps you marvel at my heartless drawl, You see a hook-worm has no heart at all. I only kill because I have to eat, Before I eat I nibble into feet. "The girl, my latest victim, came this way Last week; she tripped along so happy, gay. She rested underneath that willow tree That grows aslant the brook, my mystic key. "The brooklet is my mystic key, because Its cooling water often gently draws Attention to the fact how nice it is To wade knee deep. The brooklet helps my biz. "The gentle Clytie, pretty little girl, Took off her shoes and stockings in a whirl Of pleasure, wading in the stream knee deep, Laughing aloud—but let the angels weep. "The small bare foot has got one pink bare sole, The hook-worm's harbinger, my flowing bowl, The place I enter when I ply my trade, Wiggle with glee and sing my serenade. "Close to the bank I stealthily did crawl, Ready my pretty victim to forestall, Ready to make my fascinating bite, Dive in the bleeding tunnel out of sight. "The gentle Clytie splashes in the stream, Then slashes out to rest, oh, happy dream! Beneath the spreading branches of the larch, I crawl beneath the foot, I bite the arch. "I hear a splash, and still another splash, The gentle Clytie says, 'Dear me, how rash, Where are my shoes? I left them on the ledge.' And then she rushes to the water's edge. "The footwear floats away at rapid rate. She utters one despairing crepitate, 'My mother's shoes and stockings, heaven spare 'em, Oh dear, oh dear, she told me not to wear 'em!' "The naughty Clytie wrings her hands and weeps. She don't know what to do, she has the creeps. Far down the stream the shoes and stockings whirl, Poor little Cly, poor little barefoot girl. "She homeward limps along without delay. Of course I get a joy ride all the way Inside the tender, bleeding, throbbing sole. The whole affair to me is rather droll. "The mother, standing in the door, says, 'Douse That crying, Clytie, and come in the house.' They enter and the door is closed at once. The mother says, ' Now for the spanking dunce.' "Mother brings water in a cedar tub, Bathes the small feet, then tenderly doth rub The muddy soles, when presto! biff, bang, wink! The little naked feet are nice and pink. "Clytie knelt down, one fervent prayer said. Her mother helped her to prepare for bed. The child began to cry, 'Oh, mother, pray Don't whip me, mother, spare me, please, to-day.' "The mother said, You are so careless, dear. I have to whip you, have to be severe. Now lie across my knee, poor wilful Clytie, I fear I must roll up your little nightie.' "I hung my head and started off to go. Even the hook-worm has some shame, you know. I left my nest, one jump, I did alight Upon a shelf from which I saw this sight. "Clytie across her mother's knee did lay, Face downward, in the prehistoric way, The mother swings the shingle with a whirl Spanking pink blisters on the little girl. "Poor Clytie to her mother's knee is clinging, Screaming with pain under the cruel stinging, The angry parent slapping with the shingle, Spanking the naughty girlie. Oh, the tingle! "At length the whipping ceased. A sweet voice said 'There, that will do, my child, now go to bed, It hurts me much to lash my pretty pet; Now kiss your mother, dear, but don't forget.' "The child is left to cry and die alone. Alone she meets the struggle. Hear that moan! Her life is sobbing out. One little quiver— Another tiny soul has crossed the river. "I leave my hiding place. Though but a worm, Unfit for anything but sting and squirm, I feel a throbbing in my links, a rush Of something to my head, I almost blush. "Upon a cot the gentle Clytie lay; Only her night-robe covers the poor clay. Oh, dignity of death, that marble brow! The little naked feet are quiet now. "One purple spot upon the pink bare sole Tells its own story more than bell can toll. I bow my head; I shudder, creep away. I've done enough at least for this one day. "The white enamelled hearse moves down the road Nearing the graveyard with its precious load. Poor gentle Clytie, innocent sweet child, Whipped by her mother, by a bug defiled. "I'm built without a conscience, like a spider; Am now on sentry duty, no backslider, My shadow of a heart all withered soot. I'm looking for another little foot. "I'm king of all the hook-worms in the bog. Forever writing entries in my log, To-day I wrote about the pollywog I bled to death. Her father was a frog. "The latest entry in my book is cranked, Relating to poor Clytie who was spanked. I set it down, that all who wish may know The truth about that tale of long ago. "Oh what a doleful flight of weary years. The mother's words are ringing in my ears, ' Dear Clytie, you have lost my Sunday shoes; 'Tis time for shingle drill, come pay your dues.' "If I had been a man and not a bug, In Clytie's sole I never would have dug. I cannot drive her from my mind, oh no! Her presence follows me where e'er I go." PRAYER AND PETITION OF A WORM Just see that little graveyard on the hill. Forgive me, Clytie dear, for I am nil, Naught but a worm, and is it all my fault? Forgive and send a message from the vault. Pity me, Clytie, nature made me queer; Pity me, Clytie, spare me just one tear. The Grecian seer is right. Some future time May see me rise out of this hell, this grime. Poor little Clytie, girlie dear, forgive. The poor misguided sinner yet may live. THE APE CHASE On, shall I e'er forget? Not much. No, risk no bet When the ape Broke through his iron cage, Put the keepers in a rage, Made escape. The people gurgled, ran Away, and then began The mad pace. My! 'twas great fun indeed To see the monkey lead Such a chase. The large bird in the zoo, The famous ostrich flew. How it jars The nervous people when It claws, like some mad hen, At the bars. The ape got in the street, And then away it beat. Thump it, sock it. It's hiding in a thicket. Just grab it, hustle, kick it, Snap a rocket. One keeper, Yang a lang, The swiftest of the gang, Made a clinch, Got the monkey by the nap Of his neck, oh what a snap, What a cinch! The table soon was turned. Jehovah! I'll be durned, Poor, poor Rube! The monkey bit quite through His thumb; he got his due, Simple boob! The ape was also hurt, His jugular red did spurt. Let us weep. The monkey died that night, His grave the pigs' delight— The ash heap. Oh, can we e'er forget The fuzzy little pet, Ugly, quaint? You may laugh and you may shrug, And may think I have a bug, But I ain't. THE LOBSTER'S GIZZARD AND OTHER POEMS Frontispiece: Griffin with lobster. THE LOBSTER'S GIZZARD Put on your thinking cap, Scorn your notched ear lobe. Go run another lap— What a botched queer globe! Get out your rifle, Mike, Slide in a cartridge, Go to the Devil's Dike, Bring down a partridge. Sweep off the Persian rugs, Shake out the buggy bugs, Buy up the bunch of jugs, Pull out their wooden plugs. Slip down from Solway Firth, Come into Galway with Me. Climb the Hill of Tara. Where the great Mike O'Hara During a frightful blizzard Cut out the lobster's gizzard, (Or tried to do it.) How he did rue it! Michael, be steadfast, sure, Don't wear a mask, Do take the Keely cure, Stick to your task. Think of that mighty Wizard. Don't mind your trouble, Think of the lobster's gizzard, Blow out your bubble. Michael was thinking hard Deep in the thicket, Kinking the slinking card Close to the wicket. Suddenly—listen—hist, What makes that clinking? Why does he clinch his fist, What means this blinking? Everything leading to Oh, such a dreadful stress, Something all pleading, new, Fresh to my rim rams, yes. Enter the lizard. Now comes the Wizard, Now for the wonderful Seer. He appears Spouting his thunderful Voice at Mike's ears, Saying "Great Michael Don't be a Flunky Compass the cycle All hunky dunky. Never expect good luck 'Til from the core you pluck One bleeding gizzard pop Forth from the lobster's crop. Hurriedly hobble it. Rapidly gobble it. Always remember me, Get out your sling. Study the apple tree Late in the spring. When plunk upon the trunk You see your lizard, Look sharp, there is your hunk, Ominous gizzard! Up in the apple tree There waits your lobster. Farewell and think of me Don't fail your Slobster. Thus spoke the thunderful Voice from the cycle, Oh, what a wonderful Fortune, dear Michael. Oh, what a fearful creak Let the Earth shock. Sneak off, thou Wizard sneak Into thy rock. Michael is left alone Scratching his chin all soup. Rubbing his funny bone, Don't be a Nincompoop. Mike, yank some other prize, Heed not the Wizard. Take my advice, be wise, Avoid the lizard. Quick! run another mile Out of the wreck, Come in and have a smile, Do wash your neck, Anything, anything, Only be cheerful, Don't hail the Ding Ding Wagon so fearful. Mike rubs his funny bone, Prowling about alone, Searching from tree to tree. Now comes the blizzard, Michael all eager, he Looks for the gizzard. Michael, the great O'Hara, Climbing the Hill of Tara, Where the Harp famous once Twang. Now this foolish dunce, Trusting the wicked Wizard, Looks for the lobster's gizzard. Wind, snow and blinding hail Pour down the mountain dale. Oh, what a dreadful gale Slaps Michael with its flail. Weak kippered Jackass, Looking for boodle, This withered slack ass, Noodle and poodle Falls in the trap, Hell's own flip flap. Death chops the door Sneaking all hidden. Hell shows its claw Grim and forbidden. What means this thud Sickening, harsh? Mike in the mud Deep in the marsh, Troubled with cramps Sinks to his lamps. Poor Mike Can't hike. He splutters and chokes, He curses the hoax. Forgetting the lizard He curses the Wizard. Oh, vile phantom gizzard! Fierce raging the blizzard Stirs up the thick mud Around with a thud. Mike over his head On nothing doth tread. The Devil, his keeper, Now pokes him down deeper In filthy black mush His mouth full of slush. Mike, covered entire, Is deep in the mire. And still the life lingers. The struggling fingers Rise out of the slush. But now look—hush, hush! Mike splutters for breath And now—welcome Death! The fingers stop wiggling, No desperate wriggling. Now—now beyond doubt The Fiend has won out. The King of the blizzard Triumphant—the Wizard Now laughs at the lizard. That fake lobster's gizzard Comes in for its joke. Oh, why did Mike choke. Oh, why did he croak. Unfortunate Bloke! Oh why did he croak Poor Bloke, oh Poor Bloke! WHERE IS THE JAIL? THE maiden lies upon the couch wrapped in a troubled sleep. The day is drawing to a close, the shadows darkly creep In wavy weird fantastic form. May her good Angel keep Evil away, come let us pray with fervency deep. Gentle Elvina, breathing hard, began to whisper low, Clasping both hands about her head she shook it to and fro, Sobbing aloud these broken words "Please, Judge, do let him go." "Heaven I do beseech thee, please, I ask on bended knee, Grant me this request, dear Lord, and send him back to me, I'll penance say both night and day, but only set him free." Soon from the casement came a shout up from the busy street, The fresh young boyish voice arose above the falling sleet. "Last edition, buy my paper, all the news complete." The little girl despairing gasps. She learns the truth full soon. Found guilty on the second count, the Jury out since noon. Gentle Elvina gave one scream, then sank into a swoon. Unconsciousness, most charitably kind, however brief, Comes to an end. She wakes, she moans, all overcome with grief. Kind friends now try to help the girl but cannot bring relief. For many days all in one maze the brain intense quite dense, Whirls in and out all round about reaching one consequence. The pendulum swings forth red wroth all on the anxious fence. What shall we do, poor girl so true, where sails your brain, ah whence? Gentle Elvina keeps her bed. The same heartbroken wail Day after day, "Tell me do pray, where, oh where is the jail, Where have they put my lover, tell me, is he out on bail? See, I am strong enough to walk, oh, take me to the jail." The girl, now wanders on the street, stumbles through wind and hail. Sobbing aloud the same heartbroken, useless, fruitless wail, "Kind friends, oh tell—I seek his cell, oh where, where is the jail." Day after day, month after month, she walks along the street, Oh dire inquire with brain all fire, with weary aching feet— The same old wail, "where is the jail, oh, shall we never meet!" At last she learns the awful truth. Her lover pined away. Despairing in his lonely cell, wearing out. There he lay, Calling on her he loved to come and cast one last bright ray Upon his soul ere muffled roll call to the judgment day. They buried him in the jail yard, along with a bunch of yeggs, Departed chums of the lock step, society's lowest dregs, In a pit of lime, one puddle of grime, like ill-conditioned eggs. See that crowd on the corner, what are they looking at? Only a bundle of rags, two hands, one face, that's all, just that. To give this picture a classic name, we'll call it "After the bat." They buried her in a pauper's grave, she has no friends to claim— All disclaim the poor little girl. Nobody knows her name. And so they call her "Number Six," the very last in the game. Now come with me and we shall see, together we will glance, Into the world beyond. Unfurled, my soul it doth enhance Ten thousand fold what I behold. I see as in a trance. The little girl is happy now, most joyful mystery. The lovers are together and forever they shall be United, no more trouble, no parting, ever free. Love and be loved is theirs, oh blessed bright decree, Comforting two broken hearts, uniting he and she, Songs of praise forevermore throughout eternity. WATER ON THE BRAIN SLOBBY PETER—what an eater! See him wobble on the cobble. Teeter teeter, see him gobble Fried potatoes in his coffee. Mix it, stir it up all frothy. Yes, his case is very plain, He has water on the brain. What an awful thing it is, That an intellect all fizz Should meander in a maze. Such a parting of the ways! Peter's ways—so very plain. He has water on the brain. Nature now is steeped in bile. The Rocks of ages tremble while th Donkey and its Donkling brays. Little Bessie broke her stays Frightening the Jenny wren. Hear the cackle of the Hen, Sister of the Rooster. Rays From the solar magnet flays Burning red forth from the sky. Let us drink some rock and rye. Even the poor Turkey gobbler, Beaten by the Devil's cobbler Totters, then puts on its brakes Hissing like a brace of snakes. See all nature upside down From its heels e'en to the crown. Insect, quadruped and biped Quite perplexed—some wicked Spy said, —But no matter what that Guy said. 'Tis one fabricated lie, said To divert us from that plain Ailment—water on the brain. See the Booby rub his glasses, As he pours the thick molasses On the slice of sirloin steak. What a wrinkle, what a fake! Will his intellect awake? That's all right, his mind opaque, Feels its way through paths dark, devious, —Same old trouble written previous. Doctor's treatment all in vain! He has water on the brain. Silly Tilly has a pain. In her cranium no grain— Common sense departed—zip! See that glass of sherry flip, Relic of those evil deeds. All her belfry full of weeds Sticking out in nasty shape, But too late, they can't escape. Tilly has an ugly mug, Down her face one claw she dug. Sherry flip and whisky plain Gave her water on the brain. Ikie Ikeson runs a Hock Shop where needy people flock, Where the handsome well-clad thug Gliding in so nice and smug, There presents the small gold watch. Goodness Heaven! what a botch, What a bungle nature gave To the World. This sneaking knave Hurries to Saint Martin's Lane, Pawns his sister's watch and chain. Yes, the symptoms all are plain. He has water on the brain. When the Ding Ding wagon drives Through the gate, as it arrives, See those eyes as bright as stars Flashing through the iron bars Looking for the buggy bus Ever ringing, what a fuss! Fresh fish, more bugs, dandy haul! Mary welcomes one and all. She—poor Trusty, tends the door, Washes dishes, scrubs the floor, Churns the butter in the buttery Of the captivating Nuttery, Does all work about the dairy And her name is crazy Mary. Everything against her grain. She has water on the brain. Now we have another hero. All grey matter is at zero. James, the Watchman, has the cramp, Yes—he is a listless swain. There—he overturns the lamp. He has water on the brain. See him choke, the careless Bloke. What a bursting, what a smoke. Angry flames soon claim their own. Hear the crackle, hear the groan Rising from each buggy lung, While the fire, rung on rung Rises to the topmost floor. See each Inmate scratch and claw On his comrade's jaw. Howl, howl! Curses, imprecations foul Mingle with that dreadful smell— Roasting flesh. Oh, what a yell. Hear that yell—now softer, quiet— Hear the echo answer "Fry it, Get the hose, quick, quick—now ply it." But that other water—dry it, Squeeze it, ease it from all pain. Dry the water on the brain. See, the Bug House is a ruin, All its Inmates now are due in Paradise, or else 'tis—where? Climbing down the sooty stair To that pool of racking pain, Boiling water on the brain. See the carcases all charred, Filling up the Bug House yard, Twisted into many shapes Like huge worms, those made like tapes Of all sizes, big and little, Crisp and brown, both soft and brittle, But quite free from Earthly pain. No more water on the brain. THE WOMAN WITHOUT ANY EARS THE Empress of beauty don't slice Her ears like some tiny bull pup. She hides them away—so precise. She carefully covers them up: Then orders the sparkling cup. For a sup. The brindle cow chews at the cud; She has two long beautiful ears. The piggie pig revels in mud— All ears. No deformity queers The heifer and little brown steers: They have ears. Last week as I rode in the trolley, I could not control the hot tears. I sighted that Dolly so jolly, The woman without any ears. Oh what has become of her ears All these years? She parted her hair in the middle, Then looped it in two drooping gears, Arranged it down low—quite aquiddle, Brave woman without any fears: The woman who hides both her ears Many years. Oh, why should there be such a custom, Why steer your ear under the waves? You might as well dive in and bust 'em As bow to all novelty craves. Don't swallow the twaddle it craves Digging graves. You meet them wherever you wander. Oh my—see that freak that appears At th' head of the stairs over yonder, The creature with rickety gears. The woman without any ears, Now appears. She thinks she is quite a neat model. She blinks, then turns white as she hears Sweet prattle—The babe that can't toddle Lisps, "Mother mine, where are her ears, That woman without any ears. Oh these tears!" We call her the woman without any Ears. She sheds oceans of tears. The starter of fashion sinned when he Decreed that all girls hide their ears. Yes, girls, hurry up, hide your ears, Quick, my dears. The first in the dandy caboodle The woman without any ears. Yes, sure—a neat model—no noodle. Her hearing the hairy rat queers, As into the market she steers Without fears. The lady that flops down her rats Is far from a donkey—no noddle She certainly laces her slats. They call her the high-stepping coddle. Yes, really an extra neat model, All toddle. My dear, hide your ear, it's a duty. Just set up your smiles and your wiers, Pure type of American beauty (One charming neat model, my dears). The woman without any ears Rightly steers. Don't sag—follow suit with each wrinkle. Trot up and don't fall in arrears. Take after the stars—ever twinkle Fair Lady, quite lacking all fears. The woman without any ears. Now three cheers! THE ELM OF NAX (A REVELATION) (This famous tree is spelled either Nax or Nacks. I use both ways.—The Author. "The Bottomless pit Yawns ever forever. The blasphemous wit Of th' Blacksmith can never Extract from the pit The damned lost forever." I entered the valley, Felt nil, truly ill. ('Twas no time to dally.) I tried hard to still My heart. I choked—bally! I swallowed the pill. Look, see the sharp axe Swing out as it cracks The Elm called Nax. The Angel of light Glided through the dark chasm, Then wended its flight To th' cave choked with wassum. The twilight though slight, Brought on a fierce spasm. The bright Angel feels A sort of a flickety Shock through the heels. Wheels scrape a clickety Knock. See the keels Decidedly rickety. The bright Angel cracks To slivers the branch Of th' Elm called Nacks. 'Tis on my own ranch. My classic lip smacks Saying, "Dicky, be stanch." "Dear Angel, oh pray, Please tell me, oh do, The Pilgrim dead, say— The souls of those few Friends dead—oh allay My sad fears, some clue. What are they doing? Hear that cat mewing, Sprite of the air, How do they fare? " The Angel spoke brightly, Extending one wing Which drew his robe tightly. Commencing to sing, He yodels quite sprightly And flings out his sling. Then grabs my ear lightly, Oh, oh, what a sting! My hearing not queering, I turn very pale. Though all of my gearing In order, I quail. My weedy brain clearing, I hear a sad tale. THE REVELATION "The Clergyman, base, Alas he doth dwell In a very hot place, No salubrious dell. Black sin doth deface The region called Hell." Again the sharp axe Swings out as it cracks The Elm of Nax. "The Clergyman's wife, With eyes meekly down, (No trouble, no strife), Receives the white gown, Pure water of life, Immortal bright crown. "Now what shall we say, That Pilgrim thought holy— Oh dread judgment day! Apparently lowly, Now deep in hot clay, That place most unholy. "The boss Hobo he, Dense Jackass, lame soul; After many a spree Now steeps in the bowl, Accepts the decree And pays the last toll By shovelling coal. "Poor Stranger, befuddled, Not fit to be seen. Dumbfounded, quite muddled, Wrapped up in a sheen Of fire all cuddled In Fiddler's green." Again the sharp axe Swings out as it cracks The Elm of Nax. "The black oven door— Just open it—well, One girl, nothing more In th' fiery cell. She screams evermore. Poor girlie in Hell. "The girlie, proud boasting, Once walked through the street To sin. What a toasting! Fierce punishment meet. The fire is roasting The soles of her feet. "Poor little Chippy, Barefoot and dippy, Begging for stockings, While fiendish mockings Are shockings, that yell! Poor girlie in Hell, 'Midst fiendish mockings, Begging for stockings. "We cannot defend her, Oh judgment most dire! No, nothing can render Relief from the briar, The soles of her tender Bare feet all on fire. Hot flaming blister. Such fearful mockings! Frail little Sister Begging for stockings." The Elm is twisted, The Fiend is enlisted 'Gainst Heaven collided, And all is decided. All business is lax No more the axe cracks The Elm of Nax. The Angel chews tacks. Black Hell Reaper quiver Keep twisting and turning, While broiling yet shiver, All sizzling, churning Th' flowing hot river Both freezing and burning, Anarchy hurling Th' torch, see it curling. Burning, no respite, no never, Burning forever and ever. The Angel of light Now swallows the tacks, Quite eager for flight. He gathers the flax All glistening bright And rubs it with wax, In the shade of the Nax, On the banks of the Sax Fair river, Pax, Pax! The cute foxy Sprite, Now wove the flax tight In shape of a boat. He sails through the night, Away he doth float By th' silvery light Of th' moon. See him gloat, Caressing his axe, Saying, "Pax, brother, Pax." The sprite sings a song In praise of the axe. The boat skips along, That boat made of flax, Far out on the sea Where the sun ever beams, To th' island so free The Bun Land of Dreams. The Arch Angel, he Fair neat model cod Far out in the sea Now carries the hod Of platinum bright, In fair land of Nod. Most wonderful tree Of Nacks, bend the knee And worship the axe, "Oh Pax, brother, Pax." NOTIONAL NIMROD Notional Nimrod is steering On through the current of trouble. See how the Demon is leering, Casting the spell on his double. Holding his grip on the bubble. Nimrod could never help stealing, Everything good within sight. E'en while approaching that speeling, Encroaching, unfeeling, dread sprite, Who governs the darkening night. Nimrod was once a pickpocket, Up in fair Ossining's book. When near a till he would knock it, Slip out the money, sly Hook. Really—one fine, clever Crook. Nimrod felt sure of his salary, Treated the bunch at the bar. First in the famous Rogues' gallery, Who cares? He drives his own car. Notional Nimrod is drunk, Nimrod is caught in the bracket. Fate says, "Oh, nixie all junk! Here is your jacket, quick pack it. Put on the style, clip the racket." Notional Nimrod once speared Some hen, she'd a voice like a rooster, Cut off her head, now 'tis feared The bird cannot crow as she uster. It really is useless to boost her. Notional Nimrod—his days Hurry along to a close. Oh dread accounting—his stays Bursting—we pass—squirt the hose. Wash up and squash up his nose. Oh for one nice honest sinner Carrying squarely the load, Gallant Bank breaker, some winner, One dandy Knight of the Road Ready to jump the high hurdle Up into fame. Crack the girdle. Nimrod the foxy eel stealer, Dealer in bum willow ware. Nimrod the coward and squealer, Guy who would not take a dare, Making his coconut flare Bouncing about in the air, Handsfull of hair he doth tear, Shaking the bright golden stair. Nimrod the man with a dirk Bellows and kicks like a mare, Nimrod all quirk with a smirk, Gives up his soul to despair, Climbs down the stair, crazy loon, Dancing the Devil's own tune. Nimrod the man with a notion, Got down the bottle of pulp, Shaking up well the vile potion, Drinking it down with one gulp. Soon the great Nimrod felt groggy— Leaping about on one knee— See the big mind fluster foggy, All the grey matter at sea. Nimrod is reeling all cloggy, Crazy as crazy can be. Soon his friends bring eggie noggie, Making one last final plea, Trying to turn back his fate, Useless! Alas 'tis too late. All the egg nog in the punch bowl Can't oil the poor Buffer slick. All the rare munch in the crunch roll Never can make Nimrod kick Changing the dead to the quick. My! what a pretty gazelle Leaping about in the churchyard. Wandering Demons now spell Dismal award in the birch guard. There underneath the grey tombstone, Just about three feet or so, Nimrod is safe in the Doom Zone, Fighting the man with a hoe. Poor little Notional Nimrod Withering crisp like old leather Half starving, carving green slim rod, Crushed shaky weed in bad weather. Down in the caves of the ocean Bones of the dead spread about. Hear that harsh frightful commotion, While Father Neptune doth shout, Ordering mermaids to dance, Nixie two legs can they prance? They never heard of poor Nimrod Safe in his own narrow trim pod. EPITAPH Oh! Fairy soap, oh! Fairy soap, You cannot hope the least to cope With sin, or polish off the stain Nor bring relief to any pain. Under the sod Notional Rod Nimrod poor clod In his green pod— Say—does he fry? I don't know, why, Do You? THE WEEK'S WASH Look, see the man with the bright sharp knife. The man cut his throat. See the bright red blood. How clear and bright the blood is where it drops on the pure white snow. The day's wash is hanging on the line. Run quick, stop the man. Don't let him get near the wash on the line. He would spoil all the nice white linen. But don't worry. The bleeding man staggers—he falls—the nasty blood flows in the gutter. The nice wash is safe. THE PINK TEA They held a pink tea at the Rink. The Gink had a kink in his blink. He took a pink drink—hear the clink Of his glass. As he gulps see him wink. Hank pays for the drink. Hear the chink Of the tin in his purse. See the link— Pink link as it squelches the Gink, And pushes him over the brink. The grasshopper foolishly hops, And lands in the bucket of slops. 'Tis better by far to be frank. Tea drinking we all know is rank. The Devil himself keeps the bank. Just listen—that horrible clank Of the chain on the leg of the Crank. Poor Hank so lank turns on his plank In the cell, 'tis his bed—down he sank, His teeth gnashing, weeping—poor Hank. Oh! look at that bright yellow spider, The lady bug tries hard to ride her. They both spin around like mad tops, Then fall in the bucket of slops. Dear Hank, please agree drinking tea Is worse than tobacco for thee. Poor Hank, how he slank—all we see Are cobwebs high up in his tree. You see—Foolish Hank—bugs! Oh gee! The Bug House, my dear friend, keep shy of. Be certain you don't make a guy of Yourself. Too much tea makes a sty of Poor Ginks like old Hank. There's no why of Nor wherefore. Alas! too much pink Tea landed poor Hank like a mink In the buggy clap trap, with one slap. Poor Hank, foolish Crank, Oh poor Yap. The tube—how the mercury drops To zero. The lady bug flops, The spider kicks once and then pops Down deep in the bucket of slops. The Pink Tea continues to rob All boobs who are on to the job. Avoid all pink tea, be a slob If you like, but don't howl—never sob Over what can't be helped, don't be loose. No—don't be one Jack scrambled goose, Or worse, an ambiguous flounder, Be one dandy all about Rounder. The spider desparingly hops. The lady bug languidly mops. Deserted, without any props, Both die in the bucket of slops. Next week there will be a fandango, And after the spree one plain tango. We'll finish with one Foxy Fox, And then we'll adjourn to the rocks, The cliff that o'er hangs the dark river. With neither a shake nor cold shiver, We'll top off the vixenish revel. Oh yes, we will jump to the Devil. And after the spree, surely we, Will never more call for pink tea. The spider and lady bug soak To death. When at last they awoke They never drank any pink tea In bugs' Paradise, we'll agree. Such stuff don't pan out with their chops Down deep in the bucket of slops. Yes, in the bugs' Heaven, now we Feel certain they never drink tea. THE ROUND-SHOULDERED LICKER IN Wilmington City there lives an official, His art is all thumps, on the touch He fondles with leather. His hinder initial, The third in the alphabet. Such A wonderful Licker, Round-shouldered Big Sticker, Nix bicker, no kicker, not much. Lively Andrew Once a plan drew, Of a bank around the corner. Someone blabbed, He was nabbed. I am sure he feels forlorner Than two superannuated Pair of candlesticks, ill mated. What can he do? Trouble doth brew Fast for you, But don't stew. He's now introduced to, Is properly noosed to, Th' joist, that dark post called black Susan. Andrew, don't fret Cancel your debt, Howl away, squirm, pay your dues an Ah! thank the Spanker all zeal. Th' round-shouldered Spanker whose speel Is swinging the strap, And making it slap, Blistering Slobs while they squeal. Moonlight Charlie Stole some barley; Hear the voice say, "Beat it, beat it, Do it properly, complete it." Thus spoke Peter Patsy Farley, But too late, the Copper socked him, Nabbed him, ran him in and locked him In the Workhouse near the trolley, Turned him over to the jolly Warden, such a merry Switcher. Every lashing makes him richer. Ten gold dollars he did net; Ten sharp slaps did Charlie get. His conscience only once Troubled this Spanking Dunce. At the meeting of the board, Some one read an ancient clipping. It has struck some tender cord. How it drives the Warden skipping From the room completely awed, Thinking of that painful whipping, When he lashed poor little Mabel. Read the clipping. News by cable. It is rather painful reading, Full of much unwritten pleading. See the little girl all bleeding. Little Mabel broke some chalk, We have read of that before. See the Warden tremble, balk, See the quiver of his jaw. Sneak, poor Warden, sneak, reflect, See him shiver, skip out early. He don't like to recollect How he whipped the little girlie, Forcing the poor gentle pet To take off her chemisette, Leaving her fair, Lily white, bare. The soft spoken Licker With iron-grey hair, Is never a kicker. They always declare, The Round-Shouldered Slapper Would rather whip Guys Than plug the strap clapper And eat cherry pies. Like slippery elm He stands at the helm. The Spanker is dapper, Quite neat in attire. His trade is a Sapper That quenches all fire Effect. Yet this Licker Is never a kicker. One regular Clicker, He never would dicker With minor objections. No smooth genuflections, None such. This gentle nose picker Is never a tricker, No, never would bicker Not much! This legalized Switcher Heaping up cash, Gets richer and richer Swinging the lash. The pride of the Work House, This regular skunk louse, Will soon need a crutch To hold up his figger, While spanking some nigger. You can't beat the Dutch, As such, no not much. The Round-Shouldered Flogger Is never a clogger. He still plies his trade. No shovel or spade Swings out with more zeal— That strap. Oh that squeal, While peal after peal— The chime in the tower Announces the Licker Is working—one sticker— No flicker nor cower, No nothing can sever This man from his whip. Forever and ever The Guy gets the clip. The Round-Shouldered Sticker Quite happy don't bicker. No crutch Props th' licker, no kicker, Not much. GUY BARNABAS BONE I LIVE near the Stygian river, Way down in the tropical zone. My name is Guy Barnabas Bone. My principal meal frizzled liver. Come close to the fire, don't shiver. And while we are here quite alone I'll tell you the tale of the Shepherd Poor man, foolish donkey, he jeopard- -ized life by the seed he had sown, The bite of the vinegerone. Last Friday I heard a queer cry, And then such a pitiful moan. My stars, 'twas a vinegerone! Most fatal, unfortunate guy! No hope, he would certainly die. I made one dash over the grime, Ran hurriedly through the damp briar. The light from the blazing camp fire Revealing the sad yet sublime Bite that was full of Bug slime. The vinegerone stung the cracker Alphonse, while he lay fast asleep Near th' sheep, oh you luckless Bo Peep. His heel smashed his little attacker, And then he grew blacker and blacker. One struggle. Alphonse doth atone His fault. That implacable stanch man The brawny inflexible Ranch man Now said, "Dig a grave, don't postpone The work of the vinegerone." I dug up the earth all alone, We buried Alphonse that same evening. The Ranchman meanwhile made believe ring The funeral bell; Heart of stone! He's worse than the vinegerone. High up on his own little throne The vinegerone is a corker, Attends to his duties, no balker. Great Queen of the tropical zone, The wonderful vinegerone. My card please. "Guy Barnabas Bone." I live near the Stygian river, My principal food, gophers' liver. I'll sell you a vinegerone (My business), I stand all alone. My name is Guy Barnabas Bone. I've built on my alkali cone One nice little business, by golly! I live by the bugs, oh how jolly! High prices? You bet. All alone, Like Caesar, I wear laurel holly; Unique in this tropical zone. My name is Guy Barnabas Bone. I live by my wit, I'm all luck. Don't fight me, it's useless to buck Against me, my lucky birth stone Is th' eye of a vinegerone. I fodder with beautiful huck- -leberries my lop-sided duck. Come visit my alkali cone, And ask for Guy Barnabas Bone. I'll sell you a vinegerone. THE CORNER OF MY THUMB THE multitude is shouting, Oh hear the fife and drum. I lie upon the bed of pain, I feel so very bum I cannot move an inch. Oh dear, I know I shall succumb. The uric acid gathers in the corner of my thumb. The awful night is passing, my thumb is on the bum. The little robin singing, while looking for a crumb, Doth gladden my poor rim rams, my heart is overcome. The ministering Angel bringeth a glass of rum. That Angel of the hospital, the kind and gentle nurse, Now slips one hand beneath the pillow, softly grabs my purse, Then quietly she slips away, more favours to disburse Among the sick and dying—how horribly perverse! I cannot budge, I cannot move one inch, that glass of rum Has paralyzed all faculties, I feel as if a drum Was beating in my brain. I cannot speak, I'm dumb. The uric acid gathers in the corner of my thumb. That woman with the cancer in the gullet, hear her stammer. The gentle nurse, ungentle now, raises the staff to slam her. Why don't they end the case at once and hit her with a hammer. I do not know what I am writing in this garbled rare Selection. Oh! the pain it doth my heated brain ensnare Causing contradictions. All qualities forswear Allegiance, now leaving me sick as a spavined bear. My stomach now doth bulge, oh! for one single crumb— That may excite my appetite, oh! what a buzzing hum! The Doctor made me take quinine, one ear is almost dumb, The uric acid gathers in the corner of my thumb. The acid poisonous now crawls insidious beneath The gum and circles round, and forms one nasty little wreath, And worse, that sting, that horrid thing, the tartar on the teeth. That fellow in the corner bed was lately amputated, He lost his leg, but does not care, he truly is elated. The artificial limb is bright. He is so antiquated He thinks the leg is made of gold, we see it's only plated. But let the fellow smile away, we all know he is fated, Yes, slated in a day or so to take a journey crated. Of all the pains on our earth, rheumatic pains are bum, Leave acid fruit alone, my friend, never indulge in rum. I know what I am writing of, my left ear still is dumb. The uric acid gathers in the corner of my thumb. THE LATTER DAY SAINT True follower of the great Prophet Without any blemish or taint, Quite orthodox, pious, "Great Tophet!" Yes, I am a Latter Day Saint. My mansion is all full of chickens, I love every one of my wives; Of late they have eaten queer pickin's. They scratch—see them scratch, each one strives To outscratch the bunch, they have hives. The first girl I married, sweet Lulu, Oh my! Such a dumpling, one corker, High stepper, stuck up like a Zulu, But also a nice little porker. Fat Lulu, obedient worker, Affectionate, eager to learn, Neat housewife, was never a shirker, She fried the lamb chops to a turn, And never let anything burn. 'Til one day, by chance, I did learn The dead rat was found in the churn. Yes, after a while Lulu strangled My love, she became one stale plodder. Her cooking, now rank, she entangled My tonsils with very queer fodder. My poor aching heart bled in sodder. While resting one day in the gutter, I suddenly felt my pulse quicken, That rustle, my heart gave a flutter, I thought it must be a stray chicken. 'Twas certainly something with feathers, Some bird, chicken, angel or drake, Accustomed to all kinds of weathers, All flutters without any brake. I rubbered my neck looking over My shoulder. I thought I'd observe Some species of partridge or plover, And there stood a Cherub all curve, Quite cheeky and all full of nerve. The Cherub with one graceful swish Of feathery wing, drew a knife And said, "Oh you tame 'flying fish', It's time that you take one more wife. See this knife? On your life time is rife." The Cherub continued, "Oh Elder! The Lord says again you must marry. The Lord sticks the dart, has compelled her To give you her heart, I mean Carrie. So hurry up, Elder, don't parry, Wed Carrie at once, never tarry." Oh rapture, oh foretaste of Heaven! The Cherub now danced me a jig, Two steps to the left and then seven Around to the right like a big Hop Turvy Drop Tumble—the sprig! The Cherub repeated, "Wed Carrie, The law has decided you must. Two wives must you feed, quickly marry Young Carrie, or else you will bust. Your soul will belong to Old Harry, You never will be upper crust. Hop up, marry Carrie, don't tarry; Or go to the Devil and rust. Two wives (for the present) no trust. "Thy duty, dear Mormon—no taint Should jar thee, nor mar my decision. Be careful, thou Latter Day Saint, 'Tis time to obscure the sweet vision This Elf, yes myself must skedaddle. Pray don't think my words are all twaddle; Farewell, dearest Elder, farewell, Be careful and don't go to Hell." The cherub now vanished through space While I feeling ticklish queer, Made off at a rattling pace. I soon drank a gallon of beer, Delighting my heart with its cheer. I'll never forget the tongue lashing I got when I told my first spouse To get things in order, that dashing, Fair Carrie as meek as a mouse, Would soon be the head of my house. Fat Lulu said, "Drat the fair Carrie, The minx, wait, I'll give her the rap. What! Carrie, that she-wolf—you marry? I'll scratch Carrie quite off the map." Oh Hooky! poor wifie, one struggle— Dear Lulu lay over my lap— Another slight kick—soon I juggle The drapery off—now rap, rap, I paddle her well with a strap. Soon after the spanking her eyes Were gentle, she gave me no sass. It all was a grateful surprise, And now one strange thing came to pass. She kissed me. I gave her a prize, Two earrings of gold (made of brass). She knelt, wept aloud, oh such cries! She said she'd be good (poor jackass)! I petted her, made her arise. She thanked me, another first class Kiss, there where the beer clings, Alas! So much for those earrings all brass. The cure, though severe, did its work, It sobered her up, smoothing lumps, And then we three went to the Kirk, Myself, Lulu, Carrie—all grumps. All fits of the dumps took to slumps, And when I got home I cut trumps And paddled them over their rumps. They thought me a weakling, I ain't; But just one plain Latter Day Saint. I let Carrie know I was boss, I put her at once in her place. I made Carrie work like a horse. I found her a very hard case. She wanted to wear velvet coats, Expecting her three meals per day. You can't feed your women on oats, Because if you do they will bray And baulk like a sow, all decay. All this happened long, long ago. Fat Lulu the corker survives, Elastic with health, plastic dough. I'll read you a list of my wives. There's Bridget, the Irish canary. Lame Susie I'm always selecting To kick (our old Mother Cary) With such a big flock. I'm erecting The Whipping Post. Let the unwary Beware! There will be much correcting. Oh, thou erring wifie will nary Escape. I spank each naughty fairy. There's pretty Matilda, all dimples, And Emma, the bird from Rhinebeck, And gentle Rosanna, all pimples, And Bess with the boil on her neck. There's Ethelred, coaxing and catching, So artless—the cute little witch. And Isadore, all the time scratching, She seems to be troubled with itch. Belinda, Lucinda and Molly- Are each a fine peach in their way. Cordelia, Ophelia and Polly The same, while Irene is a jay Who often must pay for some folly, Shut up in a closet all day. And as for my numerous offspring— Oh give me a rest, fly a kite, Send out the alarm, ting it off, ring, I don't know my children by sight. Say, give me a drink. Blow it off, sing All praise to the Latter Day Sprite! My castle is curious, quaint My kingdom as strong as a rock, They call me a beast, but I ain't, I simply look after my flock. I'm only a plum without paint; My wives have to work by the clock. Oh, I. am a Latter Day Saint, The pride of the Shrine, I don't crock. Greeting, greeting, Hear that knocking; Come to meeting, Nothing crocking. Amen. RETROSPECT THE wandering Demons assemble, Each gink has a kink in his snoot. Each Imp is a bute on a toot. Terrestrials whiff, sniff and tremble. The maiden that can't find the prison Is now in a terrible fix. We'll call it a seven or six. One question of note has arisen— That bell, oh that horrible knell! The blistering maiden in Hell, She walks on the burning hot tiling. The heat in the cavern is fierce, The Demon pursues, carte and tierce. The girl flung her fling—oh defiling! Oh poor little girlie, poor thing! Poor birdie, poor, poor broken wing. The Fiend is vindictively surly, He stabs with a sharp burning knife. She walked into sin all her life. Oh pity the blistering girlie! Poor girlie! We can't speak too highly of Riley, Nor notional Nimrod the peach. Mike certainly is not a leech, All generous—just a bit wily. Kink winkie, he puts on the slugs. ('Tis better to live without bugs.) The Dong Dinger quite a good fellow, Is zealous when not on the drag, Astride of that steep rocky crag. Quite jaundiced and partially yellow, He is such a wonderful wag. Especially during a jag. Don't gag. And now for that creature all gears, The woman without any ears, She's a classical problem to parse, Is almost an optical farce. She sometimes calls forth a few jeers. There's a crack in her tumbledown beak Like a flageolet minus the squeak; Or a mandolin tuned to a fourth, Or a fiddle bow weak in the middle; Or an overdone cake on a griddle, Or a bowlful of underdone broth, All froth. And as for my dandy old chummer The vinegerone—oh my curves! Alas it is hard on my nerves. I fear I am quite a fierce bummer. So lest you fall down in a fit 'Tis better to be a swift pruner. Now out with it, quick or I split. I treated the old bagpipe tuner— One freakish farewell, yes to wit, The very same way I'll treat you. Dear me I am broke, get the glue. And fix me up just a wee bit. Step lively about in a jiffy, And then we will enter the pit. So give me yer mitt. We now quit As soon as I sign the name, Griffy. THE MELANCHOLY YAK AND OTHER POEMS Frontispiece: Griffin and his tame Vinegerones PRELUDE TO MELANCHOLY YAK QUESTION The Mother of the Witch of Endor Said, "Griffy thy account now render In a jiffy. Oh alack Why revive the poor lost Yak? hy repeat your stale old poem, You can bet that we all know 'em. Seek some new track Drop the Poor Yak." ANSWER I resurrect the Yak because There's a fault in verse thirteen In my last book—Oh such flaws! One line is quite omitted. More's The pity, Oh how mean! That base Type Setter—may he burn In everlasting brine. The guy left out this line "Bumping like butter in a churn" Search, study verse thirteen, Look there's fault in line the six. There's no butter bumping, nix. How criminal, how mean! Go and have a look In my other book. Take a look alack I revive the Yak. THE MELANCHOLY YAK THE punky Carpenter all grime Just loves to sharpen tools. He loiters, wasting half the time, Yet keeps within his rules. The Union says it's quite the thing To be one sneaking thief, and wring The lion's share, yes, all, From we poor slobs who pay the bill. The Carpenter has got his fill, Enlargement of the gall. Let Raphael his harp inter, And Gabriel his trumpet. To-day the punky Carpenter, While munching at his crumpet Says to himself, "I'll file the saw," Wasting an hour, but his law With tommyrot doth twinkle. We pay him while he steals an hour And if we kick, Hell! ain't he sour, This is the proper wrinkle. The dapper nightingale across The river pipes a tune. The Zephyr turns the wooden horse, That weather vane. 'Tis June. The Carpenter now wipes his brow, His tools are all in order now. We pay while that poltroon Sharpens away full half a day. We are the victims, we must pay, That shirking, mean buffoon. The Carpenter is quite a dandy, Gerrymander gay. Many a time he slings the bandy, Stuffing a County jay. The Gerrymander higgles as He grabs the gun. He giggles as He leaps the garden wall, Knowing kind fortune, with a sway Passing the tray, chucks luck his way Enlargement of the gall. The Carpenter from Abbington Decided that he'd climb The summit of Mount Skabbington The height was not sublime. He hurries on, he does not slack His gait, he is a steeple Jack Whose courage cannot pall. You must not think this tale all myth. The Carpenter is troubled with Enlargement of the gall. The Carpenter from Abbington, All itching to entrain And climb the hill of Skabbington, Meanders down the lane. The punky Carpenter now blew Through ragged teeth of saffron hue, Whistling sounds of pain. Although the punker knew it not, There was a gruesome counter plot 'Forging his mortal chain. Enlargement of the Gall, I fear, Gives the Mechanic string, Drawing him on with steadfast gear. He listens, ah! bang, bing! That crashing in the bushes, Oh! That rumbling above, below. The donkey Steeple Jack Sees hallowed in a grove of quince That mighty Himalaya Prince The melancholy Yak. The floating gosling swimming by Squirmingly, languid, slack, Opens his mouth, heaving a sigh And lispeth one faint quack. The floating gosling skims the pond Beneath the cataract beyond The precipice. The fox Guardeth the yellow docks. Away Poor little birdie, do not stay. Keep shy of yonder rocks. Thou rotten Carpenter all punk, Why shouldst thou be a jack? Why art thou such a crawling skunk, O'ershadowed by the Yak? Why dost thou have a punky brain? Thou givest me one large-sized pain. Go get a move on, hock Thyself, thou punky beast, so dense, Minus one grain of common sense, With eyes upon the clock. The punky Carpenter begins To feel as though a yoke Of iron rested on his pins. He sleeps (the punky bloke). Yes, that poor, thoughtless Steeple Jack Sleeps 'neath the cliff from where the Yak The sentinel now sweeps His gaze. Meanwhile, the spinner spins, Casting the mystic javelins Down where the punker sleeps. Even the breeze has little ease. It has no ease at all. The Yak doth tremble at the knees, Yet does not fear the squall Which rises to a fierce cyclone. Hark ! hear that moan, that awful groan! The Yak is beaten stiff. The whirlwind, with a clicking clack, Now catches up the noble Yak, Throwing him down the cliff. The melancholy Yak is tumbling Headlong down the cliff, And hovers o'er the slumbering Mechanic. Oh! but if The Carpenter from Abbington, Deep in the vale of Skabbington, All threatened by the panic Could only wake in time to slip Away. Alas! he cannot skip. Unfortunate Mechanic! The Carpenter upon his back Most innocently sleeping, Smiles as he sleepeth, while the Yak From crag to crag is leaping. Around and round the Yak doth turn Bumping like butter in a churn. Oh, what an awful whack! Yes, the poor beast, with crushing crash, Smashes the Carpenter one smash, Poor Carpenter, poor Yak! The Carpenter and Yak both now Dismember many ways. The process doth the place endow With hearts and livers. Trays Of entrails, kidneys grace the vale Of Skabbington with bloody trail. But first and over all, The country side, yea, everywhere, Doth reek with sticky blood and hair, Everything soaked in gall. The punky Carpenter is thus Distributed in thirty Putrid shares (one nasty muss), Promiscuously dirty. His lights and lungs are scattered, yea, All in one muddle cast astray, Nice puddle fit for swine Huddled together full of germs, Swilling with filthy yellow worms, Thou rotten, broken vine! ENVOY Shade of that mighty Monarch Saul Why fall upon thy knife? Thou hast enlargement of the gall. Why sever mortal life? Why disregard thy sacred call, Why be so cowardly, and haul Thy banner down? How slack! How sad that one with swollen gall Throws up the sponge and takes a fall Down like the poor lost Yak. THE STINGING BEE Prelude THERE'S a Bee Hive deep in Hell, Far beneath the Devil's well, Near that place called Fiddlers' Green, Where the Imps are seldom seen. Every thousand years each bee Is allowed to have one spree. In that prison underneath All the things of this creation, Bumble bees from Brimstone Heath Are awaiting their vacation When each bee in turn as King, Is permitted just one fling. Every thousand years each bee Is allowed to have one spree. THE LITTLE GIRLIE Darling little girlie kneeling Lost to every human feeling, She is rapt with bliss divine, Saying, "Not my will but Thine." Charming little Lady Clare Is a picture very fair. Kneeling down beside her bed, Piously she bows her head. What a pretty picture she Now presents to you and me, Kneeling there so quietly, Rapt in holy ecstasy. Darling little Girlie kneeling— She is rapt with bliss divine, Lost to every human feeling, Saying, "Not my will, but thine." Heaven let thy mercy shine On the tender clinging vine. Plead for little Clare, oh plead, What a lovely form, indeed! See the kneeling girl so fair, See the golden head of hair, See the moonbeams shining bright O'er her robe so snowy white. Muslin nightie, fluffy, warm, Clinging to the kneeling form Of the lovely girlie girl, Fairer than the gleaming pearl. See the little feet—look there!— Peeping out so pretty bare, Nestling upon the floor Where the Moonbeam, floating o'er, Showers silver aureoles O'er the pretty naked soles Of the tender little feet. What a picture—how complete! Silver moon, now risen higher, Lighting up the scene but hear! Hear the stinging bee. Retire, Stop thy venomous career. Disappear, thou stinging flyer, Do not harm the girlie dear. Discontent is now inciting Evil, setting witchcraft free, Hovering about and smiting, Fighting, blighting, like some she Dragon charging, scratching, biting, Monster from the Devil's tree, With resemblance of a bee, Now ascending whirly twirly, Just above the little girlie. Now the bee is near the ceiling, Buzzing o'er the girlie kneeling. Round and round the bee doth twirl Circling o'er the silent girl, So uncanny—queer and queerer. Now the bee is buzzing nearer, Just above the head so curly Of the kneeling little girlie Kneeling on the silken mat. See the bare feet thrust out flat, See the naked soles upturning Waiting for the stinging burning. Now the bee is flying slower, Circling a trifle lower. It is buzzing through the air All about the Lady Clare, Hovering above those neat, Pretty, little dimpled feet, With the naked soles upturning Waiting for the stinging burning. What a cruel, stinging bee. See it stinging—it is pre- Occupied—fierce—no retreat, Cruelly it stings the feet. See the crimson bleeding marks On the little naked soles, Flaming, stinging cruel sparks! Click the final curtain rolls. See the stinging bee career Headlong to its proper sphere. Now the midnight bell is pealing, Still the little girl is kneeling In her fluffy muslin nightie, While her bare feet look at them, Soft and dimpled pink and whitie Peeping from beneath the hem Of her fluffy muslin nightie. See the pink spot on each foot Where the ugly bee has put Stinging poison in those bare Dimpled feet so cute and fair. Little girlie, gentle, pure, Evil cannot harm thee—never. Pearl of innocence, secure, Heaven will protect thee ever. Gentle footsteps are approaching, Stealthily they are encroaching, On the scene—look, she is there— Mother of the little Clare. Mother comes to rake the fire, As the air is chilly, rare. Mother has but one desire Looking after little Clare. Little dreaming of the fate But we'll not anticipate. Mother gently stirs the ashes In the fire place. Red flashes, Red-hot ashes scatter o'er, Sizzling upon the floor. Awful tragedy, appalling! Blazing ashes crackle, falling All about the room, revealing Where the little girl is kneeling In the midst of blazing ashes, Kneeling where the fire flashes, Kneeling while the flaming coal Falls upon the naked sole Of her little foot, Oh my! Yet the girlie does not cry. See the flaming red-hot coal Dropping on the pink bare sole Of the dimpled foot. But why Don't the little girlie cry? 'Tis the writing on the wall. All is quiet, not a scream, Not a sob, all quiet, all 'Tis a cataleptic dream. What's the matter, Lady Clare? What—no answer ? Is she weeping? See the silver moonbeam creeping Lighting up her form so fair, Lighting up her golden hair. Can it be that she is sleeping? Nothing now can terrify Little Clare, nor make her cry. She has heard the Angel call, And at once she did obey Unbeknown to us all. Little Clare has passed away. All her troubles disappear, Blessings on the girlie dear. Epilogue Rank despair racks Fiddlers' Green, All the stinging bees are seen Fluffing up their horns like owls With congestion of the jowls. What an awful stir there is In the Bee Hive—what a fizz! There is news from up on Earth, And of joy there is a dearth. Gloom assails each stinging bug Like the handle of a jug On one side. 'Tis plainly seen All are sad in Fiddlers' Green. They have played the losing game, Lady Clare escapes the flame. THE SMILING JUDAS HIGH in the sky (serenely sly, the smiling Judas chuckles). The crimson Demon dancing in the air, Skipping along, singing a song while drawing tight his buckles, He nimbly leaps upon the flying mare. Up from the cliff wafted a whiff—sweet Breath of honeysuckles. Oh, plead for me, thou foxy Demon Gelf, Waiting awhile, with sinister smile, biting thy ugly knuckles. The smiling Judas chuckles to himself, Self, self, The smiling Judas chuckles to himself. The crimson Demon lighting on the steeple top across The promontory, sliding down the slope, Finding himself one total loss, minus the hellish horse, He tumbles in the keg of boiling soap. Now, being but a Devil, immune from burning pitch, Landing upon the shelf, that nasty Elf Escaping, gains the sewer, a darksome, filthy ditch. The smiling Judas chuckles to himself, Self, self, The smiling Judas chuckles to himself. How sadly I remember the rabbit while at play, Gnawing the buckled strap close to the buckle. The 'tater vine, refused to swine, was withering away Poor Fido rooted up the honeysuckle. Just hear that awful crashing in the manor house, that rumble— Oh, can it be my Auntie's precious delf! What shall I do to lubricate and smooth away the tumble? The smiling Judas chuckles to himself, Self, self, The smiling Judas chuckles to himself. Oh, crimson dancing Demon, these things are all thy work, Bungling jobber, truly a frisky Robber, Thy apers cut mean capers, stabbing with harmless dirk. Limper douse that whimpering, that slobber. You are so dense, you have no sense; why howl for sour grapes? Your only God is filthy rotten pelf. The crimson Demon now promoted passes through the capes. The smiling Judas chuckles to himself, Self, self, The smiling Judas chuckles to himself. The very firmest Taxidermist fumbles with the drake; He tries to pluck a feather from its tail. The second firmest Taxidermist stole a raisin cake; The Judge refused to let them out on bail. The very firmest Taxidermist cut his throat. (Well! well!) Thus yielding to that tempting Devil Gelf— The second firmest Taxidermist died and went to Hell. The smiling Judas chuckles to himself, Self, self, The smiling Judas chuckles to himself. The lecturer from Avondale once thought he'd run a race, His rival was the timepiece on the tower. He lost his head completely, began to feed his face. The apple in the cider press was sour, And gave him such a stomach ache he raised an awful yell, Then, yielding to the mighty Demon Gelf, He cut his throat and in a trice was buried deep in Hell. The smiling Judas chuckles to himself, Self, self, The smiling Judas chuckles to himself. The sulphur pie completed, they ring the dinner bell. The patient cook impatient is, I fear. "Come hurry to the table. Oh, menu fit for Hell! Sit down at once and gobble quick, my dear." The porcupine is roasted, well done, so nice and brown, Presented by the purple Demon Gelf, The crimson Devil giggling—the naughty little clown! The smiling Judas chuckles to himself, Self, self, The smiling Judas chuckles to himself. The foxy Gelf and all the other Demons in the wreck Are working hard to settle our hash, And when the books are open we'll get it in the neck. "Be ready, boys, send in your petty cash." The crimson dancing Demon, the favorite of the ladies, Together with his close companion Gelf, Is ready to conduct us away down south in Hades. The smiling Judas chuckles to himself, Self, self, The smiling Judas chuckles to himself. SABOTAGE THE waiter, deep in dotage, Now practiceth Sabotage With a silver Of poisonous ingredient Insidiously obedient. Oh, my liver! I drop my little nickel In th' slot, and soon a pickle And a bun Are ready to be taken With a rasher of pig bacon Underdone. I chew the toothsome pickle, I feel a nasty tickle And a wiggle In my stomach, while the Waiter Is doctoring my 'tater— Hear him giggle. Soon the whole bunch of eaters, Poor nauseated skeeters, Squirming sick Groan underneath the table Alas, this is no fable, Just a trick. Unreasonable spite! Vile cabalistic rite! Diners reel With doses in the dishes. The Devil—his tail swishes. Hear the squeal. The Waiter scribbles serious— His writing is mysterious. See the check I try to fathom, dot it Quite useless; yes I've got it In the neck. My only poor alternative Is fight; but I prefer to live Half peaceful, And so (poor me) I pay, while he The Waiter dopes the toast and tea So greaseful. This often happens, Reader. Many a hapless feeder Chases down His gullet wond'rous dope. The Waiter flops his soap Through the town. If correctly you would do, Starch your backbone, keep the glue Off the shelf. Punky Waiter, rotten Dope, No more soap; look, get the rope. Hang yourself. Bundle all the Waiters snug Closely in the County jug, Punky Batch! Lock the door, let none escape. Don't be troubled with red tape. Strike a match. You might think that Heaven—yes, Might have pity. Nevertheless, Smoking craters Open and engulf those dopers. Fire singes the soft-soapers, The punk Waiters. Roasting Waiters, that is well, Give them all their merry Hell. Slap a lash On those Waiters. Cinch the hobble. That in future we may gobble Harmless hash. "BERI-BERI" Preface THE Unicorn once held a feast. The animals all think him dense. He is a very foxy beast, He leaps across the picket fence, He drives the lion from the town And hurriedly retrieves the crown. Though thick as dough, my bitter foe, Pray listen to my tale of woe. Eva has such graceful dimples, Also many purple pimples, Hot potatoes on the shore Help me close my under jaw. See the Unicorn so funny Gobbles up the roasted bunny Calling for the nutty boarders, Those insidious microbe hoarders. Don't you be so cross—untidy— Oh you naughty, naughty Hidie! Slobbering those words of honey, But so very short of money, Peating out retreating orders, Hustling your bug recorders. Eva travels on a beaten Path, her nose is badly eaten. Vermin take a deadly aim, And begin to play their game. While the Unicorn makes merry, Eva has the Beri-Beri. The Record Rambunctious little Eva Is troubled with a fever, Most wondrous turn the lever. Bring the hot Tom and Jerry, Eva doth cross the ferry That leads to Memphis Natchez. My goodness! how she scratches!— Her face is full of patches— Red patches. The Unicorn makes merry, Eva has "Beri-Beri." Eva—the hook did get her, The awful plague beset her And conquered when it met her, Like Oliver (the Perry), Two bites from one foul cherry. Don't be an unbeliever, Old Father Time with cleaver Stands ready—black deceiver— Vile deceiver. The Unicorn makes merry, Eva has "Beri Beri." The vermin in large patches Pour forth from out their hatches, Eva the fever catches. The girl has left the werry, And now she asks this query, "Why do I feel so dizzy, Where is my maid? Quick, Lizzy, Why are the microbes busy So busy?" The Unicorn makes merry, Eva has "Beri Beri." The snake give her a bit of Its liver. She's a fit of The "Hicus Flucus Kitoff." The Minister from Derry, Clearing his throat, looks very Grave, like a boiled Hyena Or a frosted scandal gleaner Or a busted concertina, Or meaner. The Unicorn makes merry, Eva has "Beri Beri." Envoy Oh mighty Prince Locrado, There is a fierce Tornado Blowing from County Kerry North into Londonderry, Tough (very) Which ruffles up the dado In mystic Eldorado. Eva croaks on th' "Prado" Dying of "Beni Berl." The Unicorn makes merry. NEVER GOT THE TOP When Johnny was six years old his Mother told him she would give him a new top if he was a good boy for one whole day. Johnny went out to play. His little companions said, "Let's pick those apples." Johnny answered, "Oh no, the apples are not ours." Johnny was so affected by the wickedness of the other children, he stamped about and got mud all over one boot. When Johnny returned home and Mother saw the mud on Johnny's boot. Well, I won't say what happened but Johnny never got the new top. NEMESIS A tragedy in one act and five scenes. Scene I. CHORUS asleep L. Banks of the River Nile near Cairo. Enter CUPID. CUPID UPON yon crest methinks I see a dove. I thank thee, Heaven, strike my heart, oh pierce Thy little Cupid Baby, God of love, With love, a gill, a gallon, nary a tierce. Ye men and women do not push, don't shove, Nor garble much with expectation fierce. Think of the future, of thy home above, Oh, wretched world! Enter SATAN SATAN Oh pray thee, stop that foolish prattle, cease Thy meditations—hike along and grease Thy path to Elsewhere—well you know the place, Look—the Last Chance, Cupid you lead the pace Thou wicked little baby god so frisky. But first and foremost let us have some whisky. Brace up thy wing, be spry, advance, advance, Look at that sign-board plainly, the Last Chance. [Both exit in Tavern R. CHORUS (Looking in crystal) What do I see— Oh, wondrous, the Sphinx, stupendous pile! The Priestess standing on the cliff—that crunch! That sound now rising from the mighty Nile, That noble river flowing swift, all punch. The Priestess holds a baby—shocking, vile! That crocodile—the baby is its lunch. That crunching sound—those monster teeth defile Each baby of the sacrifice—that bunch Of heathen worshippers transfixed all guile. That flash, that whizz, oh vile, abhorrent lunch! The stomach of the sacred crocodile Receives its hunch, oh, cabalistic crunch! This strange presentiment, oh what, I'll tarry not! [Exit Scene 2. That section of Hell called Fiddlers' Green. Pig sty R. Grating L. Little girl discovered in her night dress standing on her head on the hot pavement. Enter SEVENTEEN DAMNED SOULS ALL IN FIRE. Smell of burning hair. DAMNED SOUL Oh pray thee, tell me, maiden! Why art thou sorrow laden? You seem so young and innocent, why fry Thus, standing on thy head, dear Thy torments out of gear, queer. What is the reason for it, tell me, why? LITTLE GIRL You wonder why I stand upon my head. I only do it for a change instead Of keeping one position all the time. This is my sentence for one mortal crime. I am a naughty little culprit Fay. I alternate each day. I but obey. To-morrow, I will twist about and stay The livelong day, standing the other way Upon the broiling pavement of the street, Blistering both my little tender feet. (Braying in distance.) That sound, at last the darling donkey brays. Oh, joyful sound, we'll Ebenezer raise! JUDAS ISCARIOT appears at grating. JUDAS ISCARIOT Attention, little prisoner! please turn Your somersault, and let your tootsies burn. So just be kind enough to alternate, Do make a change at once and cool your pate. Upsy-daisy, in she goes. The girl stands on her bare feet. Don't you wish you wore your hose? [Exit. Enter MODERNIZED DEVIL, dancing. MODERNIZED DEVIL (dancing around girl). My name is Alexander, I am a salamander. It is such fun to caper on the coal. The burning flame delights me, The fire never frights me, It cannot harm my foot upon the sole. Poor little girl, the beauty Is standing there so cutie Upon the flaming street her tender feet Are in the fire, frying, Oh, hear the birdie crying! The gentle lambkin, listen to her bleat. This fire is a riddle, One everlasting griddle, This everlasting roasting, what a smell! So scrape the Devil's fiddle, Hi diddle, diddle, diddle! First to right, then to the left, Oh, Hell! [Exit. A large snout appears above edge of pig sty followed by two bright eyes. (Little girl weeps bitterly.) SPEAKING HOG Remember you were full eight years of age When you committed mortal sin. Don't rage Poor child. 'Tis pitiful to see Thy fate so dire in the burning fire. Arrange thy troubled thoughts, agree Without one plea. You do not burn entire. Though treated to the roasting treat You are not all exposed to heat. Though standing on the red hot street Your misery is not complete, Naught sees the fire but your feet. [Little girl steps about uneasily as flames caress her ankles. Scene 3. Paris. A Boulevard. Tower, R. Corn crib, L. Enter CAGLIOSTRO, gazing in bowl, and followed by Mothers leading children. CAGLIOSTRO The hair brush taken from the toilet case Will never kill the child. 'Tis better far To beat it half to death. We'll slap its face Then throw it down the stairs. 'Twill badly jar The child (of course), but in a little space There will not be a trace or bruise to mar The beauty of thy offspring dear. So brace Thyself with glass of whisky, strong. Thy star Will reach an eminence sublime. Your case Will sometime see an awful change. Bizarre As my opinion now may seem, I place The case upon its value face. Coal tar Well mixed with feathers soon will nicely grace All Spankers at the Vigilantes bar. All kneel. CAGLIOSTRO raises hand in benediction. Invisible chorus of Vestal Virgins. VESTAL VIRGINS In yonder dish-pan broiling There lies a sinner tattered and torn, There lies a sinner all forlorn, There where the smoke is coiling, There where the Stoker toiling, Poking the Sinner partially done Sings to himself. The day is won. Oh, hear him howl while broiling! Broiling—Broiling—Broiling— Broiling—Broiling—Br—r-r-r— Voices and moonbeam blend languidly broken as the scene closes in. Scene 4. Street in Danville, Indiana. Grecian temple, C. Pig sty, L. Cabbage patch, R. Mount Vesuvius in the distance. Parrot in cage, C. Enter MODESTUS, followed by Fathers leading children. MODESTUS Ye Guardians of children, do not spank Those tiny charges with correcting brush. Nay, do not visit every childish prank; With slap from thy descending palm. Tush, tush! I know thy answer ere it come. Don't yank Those small offenders o'er thy knee, nor rush The child into a closet dark, but thank Thy lucky star thou hast a chance to gush And flush each little soul with love. Be frank, Repent thy false philosophy. Don't crush The gem confided to thy care, don't spank. But look, sweet Elsie Dinsmore comes, all mush. All exit in temple, R. Invisible chorus chant litany. Enter ELSIE swinging a slap stick and followed by a crowd of children. CHILD I'm sick of all this quack trick, Why don't you get a move on? Pray, throw away your slap stick, Get in another groove, John Calvin's eyes are on us, He soon will charge upon us. Children utter murmurs of indignation. ELSIE DINSMORE Shut up, you brats, I'll break each little neck! Shut up, you bunch of nasty skunks, I'll wreck And pulverize each kid with dirty nose! I've half a mind to drench you with a hose. I once attended meeting twice a day, But found my Pastor made of Common Clay. And so I shook the church and took to quite. Another method, dandy, out of sight. (Bell rings) Just listen to that dismal funeral bell. I fear my saintly husband went to Hell. (Children all murmur) You won't be quiet? then, I'll have to blister, Yes, I must spank each brother and each sister. Children raise their fists. ELSIE retreats to table, L, followed by children. ELSIE drops slap stick—goes to table, takes up slop bucket. Children continue to advance. ELSIE douses children with contents of slop bucket. The children hide their faces, screaming. There comes a clap of thunder. Vesuvius spouts forth fire. Spirit of washerwoman floats by from R. to L. VESTAL VIRGIN (appearing at door of temple). The washerwoman's dead, How sad, how sad ! Her husband is revved The cad, the cad! How smugly shady, Poor washer lady, Paying her bill, Gulping her fill. Oh, washer lady! Oh, so shady ! You've done ill, Swallow yer pill, Swallow yer pill. Chorus fades away. Stage grows dark. Moonbeam lights up the cabbage patch, L. Many rabbits are seen hopping about. Enter SPEAKING HOG. HOG grabs rabbit and runs down stage holding rabbit aloft. The rabbit has but one eye. VESTAL VIRGIN He's caught the one-eyed rabbit, Thou lucky hog. Oh, grab it, Oh, lucky, lucky hog, Emerging from the fog! (Braying in distance.) The darling donkey brays. 'Twill Ebenezer raise. Moonbeam shifts to cage, L. Discovering parrot picking at grasshopper. Music dies slowly away as scene closes in. Scene in Hell. Enter CUPID floating on cloud. CUPID Touching on and appertaining to I'd remark, it's very paining to Nervous systems, quite a freezer Bolstering poor Ebenezer. Evil doers get their fill, Swallowing their proper pill Settling their diary, Of this earthly mill, Gulping down the fiery Retributive pill. Ye have acted ill, Swallow down the pill. [Exit. Clouds roll away, discovering Wop enveloped with chains of fire. WOP I am a Methodist Wop, See where I sizzle and pop. Listen, I'll tell you, my dear, What is the reason I'm here. While upon earth I was living, Fridays, I ran about giving Catholic Wops hungry young Sandwiches, made of beef tongue. There in the open fresh air, Playing in Washington Square, Catholic children, poor Wops, Look for the Methodist slops. Put out the bait, let them bite. Oh, such a wicked delight! Always selecting some Friday, Yes, that day always was my day As a good Methodist Wop. Oh, what a pain, I must flop! METHODIST WOP shrieks as crackling flames hide him from view. Enter braying DONKEY. DONKEY I'm a donkey, as you see, Ebenezer bends his knee. Ebenezer, pray, be up, Up and doing, lazy pup. Now, I'll have to heat the freezer, Fetch the pincers, turn the squeezer, Pinch that teaser, lazy greaser, Here I'll raise my Ebenezer. [Exit. Enter seventeen half-starved DEVILS. DEVILS (Dancing in chorus) Ring around a rosy, Get the sulphur ready, Everything is cosy. Even Mother Eddy In her little niche thinks She is quite a dandy, Goodness, how the witch stinks, Fetch along the brandy. Poke the fire, make them smell, High diddle di diddle, Hell, Hell, Hell ! [Exit dancing. Enter LORD CHANCELLOR, TREVELLA and VIOLET LORD CHANCELLOR Rest here awhile my worthy pal, Fit company for bluff King Hal, And furthermore there is a rumour, Thy darling Elsie burst a tumour. Soon will she reach this sultry clime, Look for thy wife at any time. [Exit. MR. TREVELLA. (All in fire.) Oh, it is weary waiting in this place! Waiting impatiently my wife to die. When will she ever end her mortal race And come and join me and the little Vi, Here, in this suffocating, dreadful jug? Oh, sweetest Elsie, thee I long to see. Oh, dearest wife, when will I lamp thy mug? Now, get a move on, darling, come to me, King Beelzebub, himself, doth hold the key, Waiting, my love, to lead you here to me, Where we will hold one everlasting spree. Even in Hell I know we will agree. (Braying in distance) Sing joyful praise, the darling donkey brays, Open the gate, we'll Ebenezer raise. Enter LORD CHANCELLOR LORD CHANCELLOR I bring intelligence from Earth, 'Twill fill thy heart with peaceful mirth. The gentle Elsie Dinsmore, dead, Awaits the judgment o'er her head. All is despair, all hope is fled, The furnace now is flaming red. Elsie will soon arrive in Hell, Damnation now her name doth spell. Rejoice, rejoice, poor husband lone! Thy wife and thee will pick the bone, Forever and forever, yes, You both are in one dandy mess. [Exit. VIOLET (Offering glass of whisky) Father, this is quieting, Mother soon will come. In a day our dieting, Hot, with boiling rum, Will be shared with Mother dear, In this place. I think I hear Some one knocking, Doors unlocking. MR. TREVELLA Joy, my wife is coming nigh To enliven this black sty, Will she smell when she will fry, In the gloaming, bye and bye? Enter MODESTUS, CAGLIOSTRO, ELSIE DINSMORE and CUPID. MR. TREVELLA embraces ELSIE. The DEVILS enter, dancing around NERO, followed by HENRY VIII, QUEEN BESS, MARTIN LUTHER, and CALVIN. DEVILS form circle, taking hands and spitting fire. ELSIE DINSMORE I never thought it was so nice in Hell. Sweet husband, dearest, you are looking well. And you, my daughter, also doth dispel All fears on thy account, my heart doth swell, And when my other little children croak, Let's pray they join us here, oh, holy smoke! My heart is full, what a peculiar smell! I wish my other children were in Hell. VIOLET Joyful reunion, ecstasy of mirth! Thou very best of Mothers, Tell me—my brothers—how are things on Earth? How are my younger brothers? Is their health failing—speak, I want to know, Will they soon die and join us here below? O Mother dearest by thy face I see My younger brothers soon will come to me. DEVILS (All dancing) Hell is now complete, yes, Devils by the million! Let us have more heat, yes, What a fine cotillion! Here is bluff King Hal, Oh! Martin Luther, Nero, Good Queen Bess from Soho, Judas is the hero. Calvin joins the prancing, Never ending, never, Mockery of dancing Hot, hot Hell, forever! Let's be jolly all's well. High diddle di diddle, Hell! Hell! TREVELLA and ELSIE DINSMORE turn somersaults in the flame. All shout. Red fire. More yells. Confusion. Smell of burning flesh permeates entire theatre. Howls of blasphemy. (Slow music.) Curtain. The production under the immediate supervision of PETER PRATT. Stage Manager STINKY FINN Acting Director BILL GREEN Electric Lighting POWDER-FACE MITCHELL Costumes TOM KELLY Property Man RED-NOSE HAMILTON Mistress of Wardrobe. SUSAN HACK Keepers of Hog and Donkey LEONZO BROTHERS Musical Director SENIOR PATRICK OPERTI Housing of Live Stock. MONTGOMERY STABLES Call Boy LOOK-UP JOHNSON THE SECOND STORY MAN I RIDE upon the bridle path Of sin, and never take a bath. All opportunities I clench, On the qui vive (you see I'm French), Dandy at Second Story work. I am a Billy McGlory Turk. I married a pretty Spanish hen, She dotes on second story men. My business is so neat, genteel, My name is ambidextrous Neil. My soul doth glow with ardent zeal, And when I'm pinched, I never squeal, For I belong to the sporty clan, One regular Billy McGlory man. Perhaps you think my business queer, Of course you do, that's very clear. You silly dear, ring up the town, And kick the sinner further down The ladder, till I reach the pool. I know you think me one damned fool. I do not keep your golden rule, I'm obstinate as any mule I think my business fine. Don't quench My ardour, you can never drench With water cool, poor me, nor wrench My soul. You think my art all stench, But no it ain't, I'm dandy Dan, One regular Billy McGlory man. I live on Baxter Street near Pell, Third floor back, that's where I dwell, Oh, thunderation, hooky Hell! Gracious, what a Maloney smell— Onion hash, please keep yer coat on, That is what the lodgers dote on— Onions. Fumigate the house, Kill the buggy smelling louse. All the lodgers love to fry Onion hash. I hope to die If I ever change my taste, How I love the nasty paste! Keep yer shirt on, chase the fox, I wear Billy McGlory sox. Brace yer kidney, pluck yer goose, I and the Devil am both let loose. My plighted word was put to proof, I kicked my Mother off the roof. The dear old lady took a scrape, Athwart the iron fire escape. She hung mid air, yelling aloud, To the amusement of the crowd. It really was a sight, my dear, To see my Mother wild with fear, Suspended bleeding in the air, The rabble shouting—but forbear, I'm very dry, please rush the can I am a Billy McGlory man. The dear old lady died, how sad! The officer arrived, too bad! There was a mixing up of fists, They got the handcuffs on my wrists, After a dozen upper cuts. Ain't it enough ter jar yer guts? Don't let yer under lip retort, Lick yer guzzle, be a sport, Look up, Jakie, ain't I game? The knotted rope my neck will claim. Yet I am happy in this cell, Waiting until I go to Hell. And when I do please roll the rock, I am of Billy McGlory stock. ODE OF THE LEPER I LIVE in luxurious style, Am almost a Prince, one high stepper, Far out on the Molaki Isle, In short, I'm a King, though a Leper. I'm full of white blisters. Each scale Is a curio fierce. I'll regale Your brain with one sickening spasm. I'll tell you the tale, 'twill amaze And almost enlighten, though craze Your ears with the truth, no phantasm. I am a Leper, Dandy high stepper, Fiery pepper! All sickening details— Better omit them, and as for the exhales— Rotten! I'm trembling— Something resembling Poisonous clinches, Microbes with winches, Tear at my scales, most horrible details! Everything quails, I'm scratching my entrails. They tell me I'll shortly be dumb, So, therefore, I'd better be squealing. My nose is quite perfect, though numb, Congealing with cancerous peeling. The large swollen joint where my thumb Adjoineth my hand has no feeling. My members I constantly doff, It makes me feel creepy to state it, Last Friday my left ear fell off The Kitty Cat caught it and ate it. Kittens are playful All of the day full. Kittens are lively, all action. Lepers belong to one faction, Dropping by pairs Ears unawares. Kitty Cat dares— Playfully tears, While yanking out hairs—strange attraction, Oh, horrible, what an infraction. Pity the Leper chuck full of pepper, Dandy high stepper Eaten away Verily yea. The soup very thin, Stuck under my chin— Not knowing my nose was all tottering, My poor eaten nose—bloody, clottering! While placidly waiting, So lax, aviating About antedating Oh, ye! Oh, ye! Foul death aggravating, Unknown to me My nose quite detaching, Fell into the bowl Of soup. My breath catching, I swallow it whole. I am beaten, beaten, My nose I've eaten. I've eaten my nose. I'll coddle my woes 'Til everything goes To carrion crows. Verily yea Eaten away. I sat all distracted ablaze With soul trodden down, my will beaten. My brain all confusion, one daze My very own nose I had eaten. I'm beaten as flat as a kite, yes, That sorrowful mystical bite, yes, Oh, what is this pain, oh, my spasm! There's something congesting one lung. My soul now is leaping the chasm I'm stung yes, I spat out my tongue. I'm now on the way To a rapid decay, Enjoying my nondescript status. Ah, will the foul fiend antedate us? I'll patiently stay Until eaten away, I stand all dismay On the great Judgment Day, When Heaven or Hades will crate us, And Peter will pet or berate us. Oh, pity the leper all chuck full of pepper! Dandy high stepper. Eaten away Verily yea. TEA LEAVES Prologue BY bell and book and candle, I grab the tea-cup handle Shake well until the tea leaves Show inner vision free weaves. Follow, I'll be your leader, Listen! fierce, gentle Reader. Predictions The Priestess says, "Oh, cricky! 'Tis wonderful! say Dicky It makes my stomach sticky, Give me a glass of beer. I see a mighty river, I feel a pain—that sliver Is sticking in my liver, Singular things appear." The Iceman, see, he's messing Over the salad dressing, The cider press is pressing And squeezing out the juice. The coffee urn is rusting, The fine-tooth comb is crusting, The parlor maid is dusting The antiquated goose. The Donkey brays on week days, The Coachman drives the sleek bays Along the muddy byways And highways near the river. Apollo rubs the red styes That mar his troubled blink eyes. He shoots an arrow crosswise, Then gobbles up his quiver. The Priestess smiling sweetly Fingers the tea leaves, neatly Licking her lips: Completely Buried in occult science Dreams not—but, hush (don't mention)! All silently, all tension, The Tea Pot makes ascension— Infallible defiance! The Tea Pot rises ever Flaming with heat. Sly,clever Witch of the tea cup—Never Can I forget the squeal, She uttered when I smashed her. The broken Tea Pot slashed her, From ear to ear I gashed her And hashed her like hashed veal. And now there came reaction, Strange sort of weird attraction, As though some fiendish faction Was poking at my slim knee. The Priestess sniffing all agog, Spat out a rat and pollywog And hopping like a jolly frog, She vanished up the chimney. Don't pay the least attention, Nor quail with apprehension, The fortune-telling tension, Is not worth book and bell. Be easy, keep your shirt on, And let the she wolf squirt on And flirt along and blurt on Paving the way to Hell. Hell, Hell, Hell! Lucifer, Prince of Hell, Hammer her flat, The Witch, the sly cat, With a bruise on her slat, Foul rat on the bat. Hammer her down, Sizzle her brown, Oh, that horrible smell! Oh, Hell, Hell, Hell! THE CHIMNEY CORNER Introduction (By the Father) I OFTEN thrash my eldest son, He says, "Thy holy will be done." And then I grease the strap with lard And spank him, oh, so very hard! I spank him, "Easy?" "Oh, dear, no!" That method would not be a go It would not have the right effect, It hardly could be termed correct, It would not be the wiser course. I come from Norway, I'm a Norse. And, now, regarding naughty Jim, I leave the narrative to him. Narrative (By the Son) On a bright September morning, Father spanked me, without warning, Laying me across the table, Spanking me upon my gable. How engrossing! how compelling! Father loves to hear me yelling, Blistering the proper landing. I must eat while I am standing. See the pretty oaken ruler, Color of the coffee cooler. Such an ever-slapping toiler, Yes, one perfect, stinging broiler. Father's method is uplifting, Ever searching, never drifting, Never swerving, ever landing, I must eat while I am standing. Yes, I fear that I must ever Eat while standing. Father's clever, Handles well the strap, outflinging With full justice. Oh, the stinging! Oh, the smarting, oh, the Devil! Father's on the proper level. Oh, the blistering, the branding! I must eat while I am standing. See where they arrange the dinner For the chimney corner Sinner- Absolutely true, no fable; See where they arrange the table. See the mantelpiece all ready, I've no use for Mother Eddy, She will never ease the branding, I must eat. while I am standing. One day Father lost the ruler, Color of the coffee cooler, While we quietly were strolling Through the meadow near the rolling Banks of the Euphrates River. Father made me totter, shiver. Like some ghastly, cruel Werner, Father grabs the pancake turner, Flourishing the tin utensil, Marking me as with a stencil, Oh, the slapping, scorching, branding! I must eat while I am standing. Father is so captivating, Ever spanking, no abating, Tingle, shingle,* ever frightful Yet uplifting, how delightful! No reprieve, not on yer kidney, Father spanks his little Sidney, Slapping me in two-four time, In a sort of Tuscan rhyme. Father is so perserving, No side tracking, perfect steering. Daddy is King pin at branding. I must eat while I am standing. *Shingle: A small, oblong bit of cedar wood made for covering roofs. Shingles are also very frequently used for purposes of youthful correction. The Author. THE NOBLE MATRON MOTHER is a noble matron Of all industry, the patron— Yes, she's toiling like a mule, Keeping up her golden rule. Mother is a darling hen, Sheltering poor helpless men. What's the use of toiling, clerking? Mother, dear, is always working. Father is so comical, Mother's economical, Rising every morning early It is very hard upon her. Cooking breakfast makes her surly. All the same she feels her honour Is at stake, no lagging, shirking, Hallelujah! Mother's working. Mother is the dear old stay-by, Working on the farm, oh, gracious! How she weeds the garden day by Day, while Senor Hans Ignatius Smokes the pipe of peace securely, Lying at full length demurely, Never scowling, ever smirking. All is well while mother's working. Hans Ignatius is the father Of the family, we love him Honour him, protect and bar th' Cares and troubles that might shove him To the wall or make him hurry, Scurry for a job, all worry. 'Tis a plain fact, without jesting, Father needs a heap of resting. When I scrub the curly spaniel Mother screeches, "Don't wash Daniel!" When we play the game Queen Dido With the frisky poodle, Fido, Mother, dear, has naught to say, Mother, dear, is far away, Toiling at the plough, no shirking. Hallelujah! Mother's working. "Father, let my word prevail, Open up the keg of ale. Dearest father, please don't worry, Let thy life be free from care. Never hurry, skip nor scurry, Ever restful—spare, oh spare— Spare thyself, keep smiling, smirking— Courage, father, mother's working." Thou, my soul, with horror sickens, Pondering on yester eve. Father thought he'd pick the chickens, Oh, be still my heart, don't grieve! Feel my pulse, oh, how it quickens! Calm thyself, my soul, don't weave Tendrils through my gall. Deceive Not thyself with yellow pickens, Clear away all jagged jerking, Hallelujah! mother's working. Dearest father broke his wen Feathering the guinea hen, It is sad that he should thus Tire out himself and muss Up his pleated shirt—but, then, Think of it—he broke his wen. Wrapping up my father's chin Now, I tune my mandolin, Thus, fulfilling my big mission, Like a mystic electrician. Sweetest waves of music fill Father's ears—oh, how they thrill! Much improving his condition. Trying to make father happy Is my principal ambition. Dad is dropsical, so sappy. Years ago I gave up clerking What's the use when mother's working? Seek the oracle from Delphy Rake the cobwebs from thy belfry, Don't be worried, dearest father, What's the use of vainly wishing, That is foolish, better, rather, Come along, I'm going fishing. Get a hook and line, no shirking, Let's be merry—mother's working. Thus we ever live contented, Mother dominates us all. Our lives run smooth, undented, Free from care, naught can befall Such a family, containing Every virtue. Truth is reigning All supremacy, no shirking Our duty, mother's working. THE LITTLE CHRISTIAN 1 I am a little Christian, I go to Sunday School, I always learn my lessons, I never break a rule. I dearly love the Teacher, he knows that he can trust His angel child. The Preacher—he comes from upper crust. He sees I am a good boy, invites me to his home, I play the tunes of Wesley upon the fine-tooth comb. The Teacher and the Preacher both love their Willie, dear Although my near relations decidedly are queer. My brother and my sister go hand in hand in crime. My mother hits the pipe, father is doing time. 2 I am a little Tell-tale, most popular with all The teachers and the preachers. Since Adam took a fall, We have to have the Tell-tales, therefore, I'm doing well. To gain the teacher's confidence, I run along and tell The naughty things the children do. The teacher says I'm cute, And yet my playmates all declare I'm such a nasty brute. They all can smell the Tell-tale, it isn't hard to guess, They say they'll roll me in the mud, soiling my pretty dress. They seem to think I am a skunk ; at least, they say I am, Christening me another name, they call me "Dirty Sam." 3 My eyes are blue, my golden hair is flowing down my back, I still wear dresses, mother loves to pet her baby Jack My mother is particular to have me often scrub. The housemaid, Susan, used to wash me in a cedar tub. But now that I am twelve years old, I always wash myself. I keep the soap and towel upon mother's gilded shelf. The Doctor says that I must use an antiseptic soap, Because I am all pimples. Look, there is mother's dope! Inside the old accordion. I'm glad she has that streak, I surely will blackmail her for a dollar bill per week. 4 My father is a burglar bold, they caught him yestereve, He'd broken in a bank downtown, my mother does not grieve, She says it serves the old man right and she will let him rot Before she helps him to escape, she is a rotten lot. I'd like to rap her on the nut, 'twould make the people talk, But, being such an angel child, I really have to balk. I've kept the ten commandments since I came of age at seven, I am a little Christian and I hope to go to Heaven. 5 My sister dear and brother queer are Kleptomaniacs, Last night they brought a willow basket home, 'twas full of quacks. Uncovering the basket—what is this?—a brace of geese! "We'll never fight for drumsticks—see, we have one leg apiece!" With tears now coursing down my face, I drew the bowie knife. One gash—the heads fly off—out comes the bloody stream of life. There is a knock upon the door—dear me, what can it mean? Two officers, policemen, stern, well satisfied, serene. They handcuff both my sister and my brother, thus you see It always pays to be an honest, angel child, like me. I've kept the ten commandments since I came of age at seven, I am a little Christian and I hope to go to Heaven. 6 There's no one living now at home but mother dear and me, I am her little baby boy, we always disagree, I hear an awful thud upstairs, what can the matter be? I hurry up the stairs—oh, Hell!—imagine what I see. My mother dear is in a fit, she's foaming at the mouth, One of her hands is pointing north, the other pointing south. Her head is east, her legs are west and, clinching with her teeth, She bites her heart—she spit it up. She's lying there beneath Her Angel child. She smiles in death, oh, mother, now demure! You must resign all hope of bliss, of that I'm very sure. As for myself, I've been an angel since the age of seven. I am a little Christian and I hope to go to Heaven. 7 My mother is cremated. I, returning home alone, Now feeling hungry, thought I'd pick the gander's funny bone. What is the use of ever grieving? really, what's the use? I ate a slice, 'twas very nice, that confiscated goose. And then I sought the preacher in the ivy-mantled church. And afterwards the teacher, they'll not leave me in the lurch. They cannot get along without their Angel baby blue. I tell them all the naughty things the other children do. I'm good as any peach yes, ever since the age of seven, I've been a little Christian and I hope to go to Heaven. MARY WENT IN ALONE THE first year of their married life Brings happiness unto the wife. And yet, surrounding them all rife, There is a cruel little knife Stabbing—a problem sure to grow One little atom all aglow, With evil to this happy twain, Shadowing them with evil stain. The heedless husband busy now, Absorbed at work, forgets the vow To make her happy, peace has flown, Mary goes it alone. One Sunday morning Mary said, "It's time to go to Mass, instead Of sitting at your desk all day, Once out of seven let us pray," The husband said, "It's quite enough For you, my dear; go, get your muff And jacket— quick there, run along, I don't believe the Devil's prong Can do me any evil. No, I work too hard, that's a sure go. Run to the Chapel, pick my bone, Mary, you go alone." The neighbours passing by the door, Quickly their own conclusions draw While listening unto the scrap, Ain't it enough ter make yer flap? These words they hear inside the house, "Oh, go along with you and douse Yourself, my dear; go, move on, do! And throw away the rag, don't chew! You make me tired, do not spar." There—click, the front door swings ajar. Poor little creature overthrown— Mary comes out alone. One year has flown. Holy church Don't leave her children in the lurch. Husband and wife are hand in hand, Preparing for that great command, Sacred event—the first baptism, Bestowing of the holy chrism. The letter-carrier now knocks, Hubby remarks, "I'm in a box. I'll have to write a letter to Spriggins and Wiggins; do not chew The rag, but run along, my dear, The Priest, won't miss me, never fear, Give him five dollars, he won't moan." Mary comes out alone. Month by month and day by day, Things run along the same old way. The church sees Mary every week, Sadly she goes alone. Now wreak Thy vengeance, Heaven, snap life's thread, Come to judgment, Oh, ye dead! Come to judgment, man and wife. Instantly both depart this life. They quickly cross the river Styx. Walking the road of golden bricks, They find themselves before the gate Of Heaven. Oh, poor man, too late!— That open gate—that painful moan— Mary goes in alone. GLANDERS THE rash is travelling across My face, what shall I do? I caught the glanders from my horse. The black infection grew, Taking its ordinary course. My spine is in a stew Beaten by the germ that panders To that vile disease, the glanders. The scales are forming on both eyes I'm curving like a drom- edary. Oh these bumble flies! I must assume the nom- deplume "Unclean." I can disguise That pestilential bomb (Nit.) The bumble bug meanders O'er my spine bringing me glanders. My brain is wandering about Playing the game of tag. The jaundice creeps along. The gout Aflame! Sunk in a quag- mire I writhe, I twist, I shout. I've run against a snag. Wretched itching snag which panders To that vile infection glanders. That snag, that pestilence the boil Madly attacks my gum. Most painful boil (no soothing oil) "Quick, Doctor, stab the jum- bo. Lance the ulcer—see it coil, The ring worm oh how bum! Close yer face, cut out all slanders. Doctor Danders, cure my glanders." My countenance is twisted and The buzzing ear doth fry. Microbes all enlisted stand Ready to do or die Scratching away—hard fisted band Eating their pigeon pie. Rank infection now meanders Through my brain, it is the glanders. Bumble bugs are eating pie Delving in my brain. Many worms with evil eye Stabbing doth disdain Minor ills. Vile sluggish dye— Oh my heart the pain! 'Tis the bumble bug that panders. To the worm that brings me glanders. Both my eyes are eaten out. Come, ye bugs, begin. Twist my rubber neck about Do thy work; yea, spin Wire through my brain. No doubt I will lose my chin. All is lost the bug' meanders Through my spine. I have the glanders. Oh my eye my gullet! What's The matter with my ear? Th'hammer on my ear now swats. One brazen frozen tear Now dots my face. Such queer hard knots Are tugging at my heart. My lungs have burst apart. My liver—Oh that porcupine! Begone, keep off my ragged spine. The bright red blood, it spatters That crimson flood what matters, The ring worm—Oh, oh, Mercy—* * Just about this time the unhappy man died. THE CHICKEN Prelude Be still, my soul, don't turn a hair. Now listen and compare—don't tear The vale of sweet oblivion. Spare My memory and let the mare Kick off the horseshoe. Where oh where Has the shoe fallen? There oh there It is. The nettle hides the rare Omen of luck. Quick, nail it square Upon the door. Oh vision fair— I see the youth with auburn hair Swinging his hatchet in the air. Revelation While wandering along the lane I heard a crackle where the grain Is thickest. 'Twas a mother hen Tending her little brood, so then I took to thinking oh how soon Those chicks would pipe another tune. Oh happy family of chicks You pretty fluffy Dicky Dicks So full of cunning little tricks I left my summer cottage home And to the city I did roam And shortly after went to sea. I was as busy as a bee. They kept me working. Still my brain Reverted to that country lane Reverted to the fluffy fowl Regardless of the Captain's growl Who loved to swear and raise a howl. 'Tis six months later. I return Walking along the lane. I yearn To see those little chicks once more— When down upon my ears there bore The sound of pattering steps. Compelled To halt and listen I beheld— Oh, vision wonderfully fair— The pretty youth with auburn hair Swinging his hatchet in the air. The little chickens big have grown 'Twill never do now to postpone Th' task. Th' head is on the block. It is the flower of its flock. The pretty youth with auburn hair Swinging the hatchet in the air Now chops a chop—oh what a chop! The head drops off oh what a flop! he chicken now begins to hop. The dancing of a chicken with No head upon its neck's no myth. The chicken dancing down and up The barnyard, really lifts the cup Lifting it with its bloody neck While round about she doth bedeck The barnyard with the stream of life. Unhappy hen, most bloody strife Thou shouldst have been the rooster's wife. Despite the strain upon my nerves The table bountiful deserves All praise, it is a charming sight. The silverware is polished bright. The little chick is roasted brown His dancing days are slipping down The vale of sweet oblivion. Thor That mighty God ceases to roar. The bloody neck is seen no more. Envoy Almighty Nabob, Prince of all The muses, lift thy hand, appall All enemies of peaceful clime. Come fill my brain with thoughts sublime. And nevermore with chopping axe Let auburn headed youth so lax Cater to morbid mind and chase Tater and onion fry—how base! Go hang yourself and swap your face. Twist yer neck and mend yer pace Shuffle th' deck, turn up the ace. THE BLUE DRAGOON "I'M a misanthropic owl," Said the Blue Dragoon. "And when I prowl I growl," Said the Blue Dragoon "With language very foul Like an owl minus a jowl Or a Monk without a cowl," Said the Blue Dragoon. "Yes a Monk without a cowl." "I was caught out in the rain," Said the Blue Dragoon. "While walking through the lane," Said the Blue Dragoon. "I met the little Jane, Her pleadings were in vain I struck her with my cane." Said the Blue Dragoon "I struck her with my cane." "Oh what a piercing squeal," Said the Blue Dragoon. "It was a rotten deal," Said the Blue Dragoon "Look see the kiddy reel As I turn upon my heel. My heart is made of steel," Said the Blue Dragoon "My heart is cold hard steel." "You bet I'm not all bluff," Said the Blue Dragoon. "My voice my ain't it gruff," Said the Blue Dragoon "I'm made of proper stuff Don't think I am a muff. You bet I am a tough," Said the Blue Dragoon "You bet that I am tough." "Don't try it out with me," Said the Blue Dragoon. Lest you may catch a flea," Said the Blue Dragoon. "I'll take you o'er my knee We'll have a little spree You'll get the third degree," Said the Blue Dragoon "You'll get the third degree." "Please ring up the alarm," Said the Blue Dragoon. "You bet I'll yank the palm," Said the Blue Dragoon. "Yea evil cannot harm My walking stick, pray calm Thyself, I'll chant a psalm," Said the Blue Dragoon. "The penitential psalm." THE JACK SCRAMBLED GOOSE Pray what is a Jack Scrambled goose with a noose? Can it swim, does it quack ? All trash mere excuse— One neat little hoax, Jokes for the bloke's fiddle faddle. Before the goose croaks Sing the song—it's all twaddle. Attention good folks Escape from all yokes Hail the black buggy juice. Flail the Jack scrambled goose Jail the cracker gay quack. Ever sack the brave Jack Spriggins—Wiggins pray tarry. Time—more time don't parry. Leave me alone, please, lest I Scribble the truth. Oh I fry! My heart is on fire. The demon let loose Now tightens the noose With cruel desire. No mercy no truce With th' Jack scrambled goose. Don't be a Jack scrambled goose f you play slack there's a noose All ready to gripe Your neck. Your poor tripe Will be sore afflicted because The monster with feathery paws Sharpening both of its jaws Concealing its poisonous claws Will give you the deuce Far worse than bug juice Defying all laws And foolish seesaws. So pray thee cut loose From th' Jack scrambled goose. Th' Type Setter waits. I can't scribble Nor nibble—Oh dolorous dribble. My broken heart sickens. Deplorable plight! My torpid pulse quickens Oh help me do right! Oh give me the heart of a Bruce I'll banish the Jack scrambled goose. That Type Setter vile With villainous smile— He won't wait an hour for me He holds the right bower. Oh gee! That Type Setter Joe He thinks I am slow No go—the time presses Yes that's his excuse Correctly he guesses. The Demon let loose Now fondly caresses The Jack scrambled goose Whose feathery tresses Hide many abscesses. Pray hang up the noose. Jug The Jack scrambled goose bug. May fire eternal Devour the kernel Down deep in thy brain. Descendant of Cain. Thou wretched Type Setter The Devil's abettor This manuscript now Is thine; clear thy brow And swallow the juice The bug juice poor goose. All victory thine Unfaithful Type Setter. I'm sticky with brine Sifted fine, oh this fetter! Oh Spriggins and Wiggins I'm sick of these diggins. Stand off—quick unloose The Jack scrambled goose. Wash out my poor brain! Oh this sickening pain! Begone no excuse I've done with the juice The bug juice abuse So go to the deuce— (Oh yes I've cut loose From th' Jack scrambled goose). NOT A HERO "Willie, do not be afraid. It won't hurt. It won't hurt because you are seven years old." (That's what we told Willie.) Willie sits in the big chair. The Dentist thrusts the turn key in Willie's mouth. One twist to the right, two twists to the left. Oh Lord, Oh Lord! Poor Willie, that yell! The tooth is out. Willie howled. Willie did not bear up bravely. Willie is not a hero. No one will give Willie a box of tin soldiers. FRESH BUGS AND OTHER POEMS Frontispiece: Griffin and Kitty Clover TEN WICKED MEN They gather at the chapel door Defying all restraint, all law, Jigging the Devil's own see-saw— Ten evil men. The hidden cymbals clash a ding, Ten wicked brothers, chanting, sing With fearful, sad, uncanny ring, These evil ten. With knotted circles on each brow The wicked brothers make a vow To go the limit down the slough. Have they gone mad? They stand before the chapter door Raising their hands. The Dragon's claw Drags them along forevermore. How very sad! Their lips are parted back, how strange hose pointed teeth. See them arrange The eyelids. Crack—now comes a change Over these ten. With stealthy step like naughty nautch They enter through the chapel porch Each carrying a flaming torch— Ten wicked men. Mysterious, in single file They march along the middle aisle, Looking ahead without a smile They form a ring. The solemn stillness of the place Seemeth to cast the holy grace Of heaven with a leaden mace Ready to swing. The wicked brothers chant a verse, They raise their heads on high, they curse And afterwards blaspheme still worse With raging voice. With cadence curiously gruff They cannot seem to curse enough. Fierce punishment they surely snuff. Let Hell rejoice. Almighty Heaven, are ye weak? Sharpen at once thy vengeful beak And make the wicked brothers sneak, Crawling away. The hidden cymbals clash a ding. The wicked brothers, chanting, sing With fearful, sad, uncanny ring Their minstrel lay. That crash—that thunder from afar, Proceeding from a falling star, Strikes with a smell of burning tar Down from the Arch. Claws without bodies now appear, Grabbing each brother from the rear, Steering them down the aisle so drear, Making them march. They open up a trap, and then They kick them down, these wicked men, Into a darksome prison pen— One dungeon den. The trap door closes with a click. Each devil's claw slips through a nick, Thus playing slick the fearful trick Upon these ten. The purple vapor oozes in— The wicked brothers now begin To realize their deadly sin. Oh! Hear them howl! Poor, fallen souls, they forfeit bail. The wicked brothers can't break jail. Standing in line, they raise a wail With language foul. The hidden cymbals clash a ding. The wicked brothers, chanting, sing With fearful, sad, uncanny ring, Their minstrel lay. The voices faintly echo through The dismal prison, wet with dew, All grimy, slimy, to the view This judgment day. The wicked brothers face a spell Unspeakable. Their souls they sell. Loudly they yell the hymn of Hell. Meanwhile they squirm. Their eyeballs glare, each face is blue, Well streaked with green. They shriek anew. With pointed teeth they gnash, they chew The salted worm. Too late to expiate their sin Now lock the wicked brothers in Forever, in the burning bin. Sharpen the spear. The little robin on the tree, As sprightly as a bumble bee, Warbles to me so happy, free, The chippy dear. The hidden cymbals clash a ding, The wicked brothers, chanting, sing With fearful, sad, uncanny ring Forevermore. Please come with me and take a look Into the peep-hole. Let us crook One eye—ah, what a hellish nook Under the floor. The silken raven on the oak, That smoky moke, seemeth to choke, Then gives a croak, sarcastic joke, Grotesquely queer. Ten thousand years have flown by, And still the wicked brothers cry, Cursing their luck forever, aye, Caught in the weir. Behold the wicked brothers quake With bleeding livers. See them shake. They doubtless find the burning lake Disgusting, foul. Their eyes are bulging—how they stick Beyond their sockets! Let them lick The dust of Hades. Jab them quick, And make them howl. The wicked brothers sip the cup, Both soul and body eaten up, Tormented by the Devil's pup, That beast of prey. The canine watches near the door, Barking with malice. Feeling sore, The brothers howl for evermore In blank dismay. Forever let their dismal yell, The song of songs, the hymn of Hell, Be chanted in the sunken well With yellow jaw. The hidden cymbals clash a ding The wicked brothers, chanting, sing With fearful, sad, uncanny ring, Forevermore. The Woodman from the grotto black Upon each brother turns his back, Opens his sack, and eats his snack Of rancid cheese. The Stoker of the prison pen Swallows the percolated yen, And mumbling to himself, "Amen," Jingles the keys. NEVER LOST A SPANGLE The dainty circus rider Is a perfect human spider, With eyes so blue. She dyed 'er Hair a golden hue. She kicks one leg a-dangle At the forty-seventh angle, But she never lost a spangle, That's quite true. Her first name is Maria, Her eyes are full of fire, She is a dandy liar, Th' darling little clam! So very jolly that she Will smile beneath her hat. She Will kick you in the prat. She Never gives a damn. The paint is getting thicker Upon her face. Quick, quicker, Look—what a dandy kicker, Enough to make yer screech! Her eye—see how it flashes— The gallery she mashes, As round the ring she dashes, Now isn't she a peach! She rides without a saddle. She never goes astraddle, One perfect ducky daddle. She'd make a lovely wife. She is so deuced clever I'll worship her forever, Just think of it, she never Lost a spangle in her life. She says she'll be my ducky, They tell me I am lucky, I feel so very plucky, I'll make her name the day. When, biff—a clap of thunder, My brain is torn asunder. Too late I see my blunder, Oh, hear the donkey bray. I am the donkey. Please you, Take off yer shirt, 'twill ease you Tho the denouement freeze you. I'll have to yank the trigger. Whilst at my ease I tarried, My dear Maria parried— She ran away and married The tesselated nigger. Maria's yanked away by, Completely led astray by The guy who rakes his pay by The very useful moon. Maria jabs the rigger, While bracing up her figger. She loves the painted nigger, The tesselated coon. Foxy Maria so spunky Gobbled the Hottentot flunky So punky, half man, half monkey, What a queer triangle! Maria unhinging the socket Flung out the string like a rocket, Landing her fish in the pocket An' never lost a spangle. Hark—hear the whirlwind crashing. Mark—see the lightning flashing. The center-pole is dashing. And smashing to the tune Called "Pull the Devil's Trigger." Look—What a funny figger, It is the painted nigger, The tesselated coon. Maria also gets it In th' neck. Th' doctor sets it. She smokes her cigarettes. It Is no use. The time Has come to go to Hades, The final home of ladies Like sweet Maria Quadies. This is the end of crime. Maria went to Heaven? At a quarter of eleven. It is six and it is seven. The devil casts the die. My darling smirks and guggles," She muggles flaming juggles. All hopelessly she struggles In Hades where they fry. Her hair is curled with crimples, Both cheeks are wreathed with dimples, Her nose is full of pimples, But please don't cry. Maria's legs now dangle At th' forty-seventh angle. She will never need a spangle In the sweet bye and bye. THE COOTIE Fetch me the cauldron of toddy, Scorching. Ah, now I can palp The cooties all over my body. The bugs dig away at my scalp Like Indians eager to niggle With whoop and a yell on th' path. The cooties all over me wriggle, Almighty in their wrath. It is scratch, scratch, scratch, In the early morning air, And it's scratch, scratch, scratch. I must rid my tangled hair Of the little dears that bite Forever in their ditch. I've a dandy fight in sight To rid me of the itch. It is scratch, scratch, scratch, Before I am half awake, And it's scratch, scratch, scratch, Ere the steak begins to bake. Oh, if I could only rest And coddle my finger nails. Have pity, thou little pest, Cootie with seventeen tails. Some years ago I thought That bugs of every style Were marvelously wrought And free from motives vile. All wrong. Before the flood, The bugs were clever chicks, Yearning to drink your blood, And other lousy tricks. It is lice, lice, lice, Flirting about through my hair. And it's lice, lice, lice, Cooties—they sing me an air. The music is all their own, Their work is so complete While eating into the bone, So comical, so sweet. It is bugs, bugs, bugs, When I try to cook my meal, And it's bugs, bugs, bugs, Oh, what a crooked deal! The bugs fall in the soup, That isn't very nice. Ah me, poor nincompoop, I'm surfeited with lice. It is scratch, scratch, scratch, The cooties have come to stay. And it's scratch, scratch, scratch, The cooties have full sway As they scamper through my hair, How they enjoy their play! I'll see they have one square Deal, also extra pay. With fingers worn down, Down to the quick, I'm sick. The cooties, yellowish brown, Each have a personal kick Against mankind, and so They dig and dig away, Each one a deadly foe. I know they've come to stay. It is scratch, scratch, scratch, When I lay me down to sleep, And it's scratch, scratch, scratch, Alas! I cannot keep The festering bugs at bay. They like my flavor well. The lice have come to stay— Biting away like Hell. It is lice, lice, lice, When the wintry winds blow fierce, And it's lice, lice, lice, When the zephyr seems to pierce All matter grey within, Causing a wistfull lull, Quite filling up the bin, That cave dug thru my skull. Dear cootie, do not drain My bloody scalp. Off creep, Thou venomed stinger! Vain Ah, vain, I plead. Quick, leap The fence, traverse the lane Of pain. Ah, yes, I feel Fierce stinging thru my brain. With fractured pith I reel. It is scratch, scratch, scratch, The itch grows worse and worse. And it's scratch, scratch, scratch, Yet nothing can disperse My faculties all smug. The vermin cannot awe Me here within the jug. I'm chained upon the floor. THE EVIL TAXIDERMIST The Demon of the forest from a limb on yonder yew Displays a set of ivories all glistening with dew, He dips one finger in the bowl of mysticated stew. The scientific Taxidermist stuffs the Kangaroo, Assisted by the faithful Thomas, innocent and true. The faithful Thomas is a trump with eyes of azure hue. The bundle of excelsior is growing very small. The scientific Taxidermist doesn't care at all; But furtively he tries to stab a bed-bug on the wall. The faithful Thomas, ever watchful, says, "I'll go and bring Some more of that excelsior, also a hank of string, We haven't got enough of hay to stuff a dodo's wing." "You see we're short of stuffing, sir," the faithful Thomas pled. "You'd better let me go and buy the hay, and also thread." "There's quite enough, there's quite enough," the Taxidermist said. The faithful Thomas, with his knife, begins to skin the mink. The Taxidermist drops his tools, giving a knowing wink, Leaving the shop with this remark, "I'll go and take a drink." The faithful Thomas skins the mink, then scrapes the dodo's bone. No use. He cannot work at all. He murmurs out one moan, Singing the De Profundis in a hollow monotone. Outside the house nature is black, the world is full of stacks Of fallen timber. Thru the cave the ugly thunder cracks Over the Taxidermist—he is sharpening his axe. The Demon of the forest smiles, delighted with the scene, Such utter destitution of all charity—a sheen Of Hellish satisfaction thrills the Demon thru th' spleen. The sun came up, the sun went down, leaving us full of awe, The Taxidermist walks along the same path as before, As for the faithful Thomas—he is lost for evermore. The scientific taxidermist finishes the work Of stuffing up the kangaroo. Now it is time to perk. He scrapes his bloody fingernails, then hides away the dirk. The Demon cracks his knuckles as he chuckles in the ditch, All hell is filled with merriment, the smell is very rich. The Devil's wife is working, knitting, picking stitch by stitch. The people in the neighbourhood their own conclusions drew, Each county clown from Daggerstown is twisted like a screw Without an edge lost in a hedge—they don't know what to do. The Faculty attended by the Mandarin San Toy, Call on the Taxidermist. They are led by that old boy The Burgomaster, dressed in aromatic corduroy. The most impartial City Marshal springs this question, "May We ask about—where is your lout, the faithful Thomas, pray?" The Taxidermist made reply, "I really cannot say." We all depart. Each beating heart is burning with a flush Of apprehension. There's no mention—we are made of mush, And if we broach the theme again, the listener says "Hush!" The kangaroo upon the shelf is very lifelike, yes, Appearing to all visitors uncanny to excess, Struggling with a secret mysterious distress. The years roll by, the witches cry, stupendous things bestir, The dancing demons, prancing tremens drive th' poisoned spur Straight through th' mire of hot Hell fire, stinging th' beastly cur. The Taxidermist, prospering, has risen from the ditch; From step to step he is all pep—yes, he is very rich. He runs an exhibition place up in the highest niche. The Taxidermist feels his oat, the man is in the swim, Great King of Taxidermists—one gala day for him, Strutting around among his guests, his figure neat and trim. The bunch of stuffed mammalias, each in a natural pose, They line against the wall, whilst from its pedestal arose The figure of the kangaroo, quite mangy on the nose. I deem it rather pitiful that such a perfect, true, Majestic specimen of art, bow to the buggy crew, With doggy-mangy remedy I rub the kangaroo. The Demon of the everglade, blessing the kangaroo, Stirs up its own concoction, the patent honeydew, Consigning it forever to the mysticated stew. The Taxidermist says that I may wear his dressing gown, The liniment is greasy and it stains my fingers brown. I rub the mangy kangaroo, I rub it up and down. I rub the smelly ointment in, rubbing with rapid pace, Crack—the kangaroo breaks open—see that yawning space, And through the opening appears a grinning human face. I see the missing Thomas, he is grinning from above, Half hidden in the kangaroo, as docile as a dove. The face of faithful Thomas—those features we all love. The murdered victim of the axe now claims the right of way. Half hidden in the kangaroo, corrupting in the hay. Oh, Taxidermist, now thou squirmest, 'tis thy judgment day! The scientific Taxidermist gurgles bloody foam, Then falling down upon a rock, he smashes in his dome. Another crash—the brains ooze out. Vengeance is driven home. The goblin of the universe looks down without a sigh Sneering upon the lifeless nasty human forms. They lie Upon their backs with sightless eyes turned upward to the sky. We chuck the Taxidermist, also Thomas, in a well, Thus burying the hatchet deep all in one narrow cell, Now, let us hope they soon arrive each in their proper hell. We cast a load of cobble-stones into the well—the flash Is sickening—an echo seems to rumble up a splash. Then all is over—silence—worse than any thunder crash. The Demon of the forest from a limb on yonder yew Displays a set of ivories all glistening with dew, He drops one finger in the bowl of mysticated stew, And then performs this mockery of blessing on the crew: "Be thou a fallen Christian, a Mohammedan or Jew We surely keep reserved for you one saturated pew, Flaming with boiling, oiling beer, that's the sort we brew, All reprobates with axes grace the cages in my zoo." THE RED-HOT STOVE Is the stove hot? Oh, yes, the stove is hot. The Mother—what is she doing? She is holding the child on the red-hot stove. Hear the child scream. The child does not like to sit on the red-hot stove. The Mother do'nt care, she likes to hear the child scream. The child has been naughty. The child must be punished. Hence, this result. The Mother has a keen sense of justice. THE DAY I LOST MY CHIN Whilst swimming up the stream, I sip a gulp of water. I bump against a beam— Worse than the gunner's daughter. Fierce pain—I choke, I scream, All vain! around I spin, And then I lose my chin. Chin! Chin! Chin! Alas! I lose my chin. Demons of death, you win! I lose my tarnished quarter— One splash—look, see it spin And fall into the water. The quarter sinks. Begin, Ye demons, amputate My chin. Vindictive fate! Yank, yank, swish. Alas, poor me, poor fish. That cruel hickory beam, It rushes through the water. I fight against the stream, Trying to save my quarter. I choke, I cannot scream. I feel a bump, I spin, And then I lose my chin. Chin! Chin! Chin! Dear me, I lose my chin. The beam has struck my chin, Oh, what a fearful whacking! My under jaw! I spin— Excruciating, racking! The red-hot sticking pin— I lose my under jaw Forever, evermore. Jaw! Jaw! Jaw! No jaw for evermore. I feel dejected, ill. Alas, I cannot swallow. They feed me through a quill, The gander's quill, all hollow. They'll keep it up, until The threads of life pass o'er, Alas, I lost my jaw. Jaw! Jaw! Jaw! Alas, I've lost my jaw. I'm numbered with the dead, Most cruel, fateful river! My underjaw has fled, Therefore it cannot quiver. Thus, thus I shake my head. My shattered brain doth spin. How I do miss my chin. Chin! Chin! Chin! How I do miss my chin. My jaw has fled. The flaw I deeply feel. I'm aching. I miss my under jaw. The loss, alas, is making My withered gall at war With everyone. Now gnaw— Beelzebub, do thy chore, Claw! Claw! Claw! Oh, my poor under jaw. My useful under chop Can't chop. I feel a quiver. Help me before I flop. That sliver in my liver— Support me ere I drop. Hold up my head, don't slop With chilly element. Stop, Chop! Chop! Chop! My chop—I've lost my chop. And thus forever, I Must live without my chin. Oh, Heaven, let me die, Forgive my grievous sin, Oh! I never can chew pie Without a chin. Don't grin. I can't hold up my chin. Chin! Chin! Chin! I can't hold up my chin. I've lost my under lip, My intellect is failing. Yes, now I have the pip. My future is unveiling Itself. I flop the flip. Poor fish without a fin, Poor me, I lost my chin. Chin! Chin! Chin! Alas, I lost my chin. Ah me, I patience lack. I cannot help but slobber. Could I but chop or hack. I'm but a weak slob, dobber. This is the third attack. Summon my kith and kin, To-day I lost my chin. Chin! Chin! Chin! To-day I lost my chin. ENVOY Go, can that mandolin. Give me a glass of gin. My jaw can't chop. Don't grin, Beware—Oh, deadly sin! Demons of death, you win, I haven't any chin. Chin! Chin! Chin! To-day I lost my chin. FATHER AND SON (A LULLABY) I keep a gin mill down among The slums, the lowest level— My mother died when I was young, My father went to the Devil. The Devil, the Devil, My father went to the Devil. Hell's Kitchen is a lovely place For those who understand it. My family has lost all grace, My father is a bandit. I am the envy of the bums, They tell me I am handy. I always hang around the slums; They call me Foxy Sandy, One dandy, don't bandy With Foxy Quiller Sandy. When I was young my mother kept A stand for selling candy, Swindling everyone except Myself, her darling Sandy. With private means of raising dough, I was a fancy trouncer. I joined a free and easy show, And soon became the bouncer, One pouncer, ten-ouncer, I soon became the bouncer. My father ran thru every rut, Descending to the kegman. Lapping the beer from every butt. One night he met a yeggman. The Yeggman said to Pa, "You are One very silly slobber. Come, join the gang, the guiding star Proclaims you as a jobber. No dobber, slob dobber, You'll make an A-one robber." The famous ninth ward voted, and, By gosh, I was selected To run for Sheriff. 'Twas the hand Of Fate poor me erected. And now I am a magistrate, Envy of all late comers. I enter through the golden gate, Arisen from the slummers, Bum hummers, humdrummers, I'm King of all the bummers. I have a gruesome bit of news That makes me kind of hanker After another job. Excuse Me while I raise my anchor, And skip away to other climes. I'm shrivelled by a canker Eating me up. My father's crimes Rise up, he killed a banker. Poor Daddy, poor yanker— My father killed a banker. As Sheriff of the county, I Will have to hang my father. I cannot jump the bounty. I Stand firm, tho it will jar th' The stuffing. See, I have the rope All ready. I'm a laddy One Buck. I'm quite the proper dope. I'll have to hang my Daddy. Old Daddy, dear Daddy. I'll have to hang my Daddy. My dear old Daddy stands beneath The gallows, calmly smiling. There shines a halo, one bright wreath Encircling the piling. My father, smirking, seems to beck- On me to do my duty. I tie the rope about his neck, The slipping knot's a beauty— So cutie, so cutie. The slipping knot's a beauty. The day I make the old man dance, We all enjoy the kicking. It is a joke to see him prance, Look at his heels, both clicking. His tongue is sticking out, all slime, The job will soon be over. We'll chuck him in the pit of lime And then he'll be in clover. All over, all over. Oh, yes, he'll be in clover. The job is strenuously slick. My father strangles slowly. Look, did you see the old man kick? He makes a very holy Show of himself, unlucky Mick! That struggle was a thumper, So graceful, quite the proper trick; He is a Holy Jumper. No frumper, but slumper, He is a Holy Jumper. When all is over I go back To home and learn the wife has Eloped with the Nick the Barber (black) I'm thankful that my life has Been disinfected—nasty pest, That wife. I feel so merry I yell like Hell, pull down my vest, Then drink a glass of sherry From Derry in Kerry. I gobble down the sherry. I keep a gin mill down among The slums, the lowest level. My mother died when I was young, My father went to th' Devil, The Devil, the Devil, My father went to th' Devil. JACK THE DROMEDARY The Dromedary From Tipperary Is very hairy— He has a pain. Go tell Jack's master To make a plaster Run faster, quick, faster, He'll lose his brain. The spasm ceases The pain decreases He'll fall to pieces With nerve all gone. Ah, have you handy Some sugar candy? Melt it with brandy, Mix it with corn. We're off the mooring We fail at curing The camels touring That awful flow, The river "Scare all," That horrid snare all, That leads to where all Bad camels go. Come along, quick, Mike, Bring me a thick stick, Don't let the beast kick, Pull down his jaw. Don't let his legs loose, Pour down the bug juice. Oh, you poor Jack, goose, Why do you gnaw? Scrape the enamel From off the trammel Hook, stuff the camel, Show us thy worth. Great taxidermist, Plainly thou squirmest, Although the firmest, Stuffer on earth. Oh, may the hairy Jack (dromedary) From Tipperary, Forever bloom— Thru rocks of ages, Light of the cages, Shine on all pages ' Til crack of doom. THE TEACHER How sad is my heart when the north wind is blowing Around the old church where the dull preacher rants. Young Susie is stunted, while Johnny is growing. I'll have to procure him a new pair of pants. Yet Susie is healthy while Johnny is sickly. I cannot decide what to do. I am loth To punish, and yet I must move along quickly— Poor Susie, poor Johnny, I'll flagellate both. Go question the neighboring nabobs, alarm them. Pray, why does deformity thrive? Guinea pigs Live longer tho ailing and nothing can harm them; Some Hercules often his sepulchre digs. My dear little Johnny sleeps under the pansy Whilst Susie the stunted works hard at the tub. The preacher is wearing his buttonhole tansy, We'll sound the Hosanna, one rub-a-dub-dub! Come, sing, give all praise to the jackass the laggard, The sick pussy cat and all mangy dogs thrive. The fiddle string always is better when ragged. The littlest bee is the head of the hive. The riding whip hangs in the quaint cozy corner, Cute relic of many corrections from me. I've done my full duty and now I'm chief mourner, My comfort is big and my conscience is free. Then go to the devil, all critics of teachers, I don't give a damn and it's no use to howl. My right arm is aching. The dear little creatures I spank, all declare I'm a darling old owl. THE GIRL WITH THE BLISTERED HEEL What shall I do without my fife, It is the jewel of my life. I shake the roasted veal. Fierce strife Is mangling my spine. Oh, my lost fife! I am a clown, Impelled to wander up and down, Searching each corner of the town. Vengeance will soon be mine. The day I seek the barber shop, I throw away the mutton chop, I hurry to the red-head Wop, I leave my beaten path. Yes, after this I'll take a scrub More frequently within the tub, And after I have had a rub I'll seek the shower bath. I lingered in the barber shop, I whispered to the red-head Wop. He shook his head, and said "Pray, stop, Your turn you cannot steal." The red-head barber crooked his head, Then spoke again. He firmly said, "Although I am the barber red, I play the even deal." Then bowing to the red-head Wop, Says I, "My friend, you have the drop." Quickly I leave the barber shop. I feel just like an eel Compelled to wear his skin. Poor me, My heart doth spin. I cannot flee, I stand enthralled. Again I see The roasted leg of veal. I feel a spasm. Oh, the pain! I hurry down the country lane. My rubber neck I twist, I crane, I stand entranced at bay. I feel a dizziness, I reel. My spine is writhing like an eel, I see the girl with the blistered heel Limping along that way. She said to me, "You are a fish, I swear you'll never have your wish, Before I'm through with you, I'll dish You up and make you squeal. I'll make you pay the piper well, You'll often wish you'd gone to Hell, Before you fell beneath my spell, Th' girl with the blistered heel." I hear the rattle of a coach, The black maria doth encroach. Two men in uniform approach, They grab me, hear them yell. They push me in the bus, they yank Me down. I hear the chauffer crank The wheel. We're off, I've got it—rank, Where Kitty wore the bell. I found myself inside the jail Without a friend to go my bail. They bring a dish of roasted kale With chops. My teeth rejoice. Inside a cell across the aisle, I see the pretty face whose style— That fairy form, that winsome smile— And then I hear her voice. Her low voice murmurs, "Thus I seal Thy fate, now hasten, do thy spiel. Deep vengeance may you ever feel, Thou worst of evil men. You scorn the dish of roasted veal, Upon your luck you turn your heel. And now depart. Forever squeal. Go join thy Nicky Ben." Most fatal malediction grim, Uttered with energetic vim. My heart grows faint, my eyes grow dim, The demon grabs my soul. We float along a darksome slough, We pause—the demon makes his bow, Gives me a walking-stick. Oh, how, How dare I sip the bowl? I find myself alone. My ear Is ringing. Now I shake with fear, No wonder. All is black, all drear. I draw my trusty knife. I sharpen it upon a brick. The walking-stick is very thick, I scrape it thinner, oh, so slick! This is the proper life. I never pause, I scrape the cane— That sound—is it a weather vane— That racket? 'Tis an aeroplane Doing its mighty spiel, Whilst hanging from the flying frame That human form, the pretty dame, Swings high upon the frame—the same, Th' girl with the blistered heel. Dear maiden, hide thy heel, retrench Thy stench. Repent thy spiel and wrench Thy putrid cuticle. Vile wench— Begone, athletic hen! Why ride upon that aeroplane? Why do you bid me scrape the cane? You give me such a large-sized pain. Return to Nicky Ben. I've lost my fife. The devil's coop— That open door—that fiendish troop Of scorpions, keep them off, they scoop, They tear my very life From out my gut. That turkey hen— Mercy, thou cobbler, Nicky Ben. Keep off the dreadful gobbler. When— When will they bring my fife? KEY The hero of this gruesome tale Once ate a dish of poisoned kale, Was sent to jail, got out on bail, And then his blistered wife Refused to live with him again. Old Nicky Ben possessed him then. He lost his mind completely when Some rascal stole his fife, Dearer to him than any Strad. Ah, then he went completely mad. All his affairs went very bad, He croaked away his life! THE TOWER WITHOUT ANY OWL (A SONNET) The tower without any owl— I see it wherever I prowl— There's no use in scolding, I'm always beholding The tower without any owl. The beautiful watch tower rears Its head far above the dense bunch Of juniper trees. The sky clears. I open my bundle of lunch. The top of the tower appears, My soul is invested with fears. The tower—that lowering pile— No moping owl ever complains To th' moon. All is dreary—no smile. The June bug distracting my brains Consumeth my body with pains, And all kinds of muscular sprains. My clustering brain is all sticky. Snap cricky! poor Dicky, tell Micky The chauffeur, please put up a lunch. Good, come, now jump into the flivver The flivver all life, feel it shiver! Hurrah for the bunch! Ah, that crunch- I fear we ran over a polecat, Hop skunk—Hi, Micky, you droll rat, Look out, don't run over the brink Of the cliff; hurry up, what a stink! Oh, bring back my birdie to me, Have mercy and change the decree. The tower without any owl— I see it wherever I prowl— There's no use in scolding, I'm always beholding, The tower without any owl. On the banks of the beautiful Dee I see far above that high tree, The tavern that's kept by The Prussian adept—by The Jackass from Hackensack sea. The German with ponderous jowl, That Hun with a villainous scowl— Rot—that's what he's made of, He lives in the shade of The tower without any owl. All nature seems wrapt in a trance, The Devil himself seems to dance. Across to the window I go, And what do I see? Ah, just so— That tower—I smother a growl— That parapet, minus the owl. My dewlap is falling apart I've a kink in the lobe of my ear. There's a festering dart in my heart, Which stretches me flat on my bier. The tower looms up, the full moon Gleams out of the sky, bright as noon. My soul is all dross. What a loss! Poor birdie, poor chippy. Of course, I swallow the dippy bug sauce. I leap from my limousine car, I stop for a drink at the bar, Some whiskey and egg. I fear I shall peg Quite out. I've a chain on each leg, And a hoop torn off of my keg. The loss of that owl—ah, I feel I'll squeal. I've a kink in my wheel Which scrapes through my soul. No more sparkling bowl. Give me air, raise the window, I reel. Remove, take away the vile fodder. The salad prepared from the dodder, The liver cut out of that mut, Extracted, squeezed into a cut In my gut—oh, how painful—tut, tut Get out of this Hell of a rut. These terrible blue-bottle flies, Are trying to bite out my eyes, And yet I see plainly, Distorted, ungainly, The parapet—see it arise, The tower without any owl. I see it wherever I prowl. There's no use in scolding, I'm always beholding The tower without any owl. THE WINDLASS WINDER It is the flash light with its flash There at the window—hear the crash. The Scissors Grinder lifts the sash, Wrenching with lever. The Grinder—see him flop, then pop, Getting the butcher on the drop, He gives the man one hollow chop, Swinging the cleaver. We catch the Grinder in the act, His guilt is evident, one fact. We form a pact, we are intact, All on one angle. Oh, cruel law, most fiercely fanged, We sentence him, he must be hanged. He made a howl, the kettle clanged, The guy will strangle. The burglar's gullet has a lump, The final sentence is one trump, The wooden conscience gets a bump— Such a reminder. Poor sinner, how his head we banged! Oh, cruel law, most fiercely fanged, The kettle clanged the day we hanged The Scissors Grinder. The Windlass Winder of the ship Now travels on another trip, Twisting the handle, what a grip! He is a poker. He makes the victim walk one lap, He pokes his client on the trap, Crowning him with a little cap. He is a joker. The scientific hangman, bluff, Is quite an artist, though a tough, Of splendid stuff quite up to snuff. This Windlass Winder Scraped off the dirt, his hair he banged Got out the bell. Away he clanged, Then scientifically hanged The Scissors Grinder. The Executioner, quaint goose, Thinking it fun to play the deuce, Splices the knot, slipping the noose. He is a choker. He oils the handle of the catch, Before he drops the guy—that scratch— His pipe—lighting it with a match, He is a smoker. The morning sun is all one smile. We gaze upon that awful pile— The gallows tree of graceful style. Oh, dread reminder, Those ravens on their perch close by. Poor Scissors Grinder, he must die, he Executioner stands by The Windlass Winder. The gallows tree, unbending sheer, Rises above that funny dear, Making him look so very queer. The Windlass Winder, Winking away, his hair well banged With castor oil. The kettle clanged, All nature smiled the day we hanged The Scissors Grinder. The fascinating giblet clicks, Placing the Grinder in a fix. The motley crowd, the Wops, the Micks, Breathe out a snicker At such an overflowing peck Of horror. What a strangled wreck, Dancing with rope around his neck. He is a kicker. THE JOY RIDE We leap in the Ford as the clock strikes eleven, Ye seldom will finds such a rare merry party. The main guy myself, king pin of the seven, There's Willy and Tilly and Izzie McCarty. Cute Ikie the baker, Fat Micky the faker, And Pat, the muckracker, The Tammany Squire. In garbage attire. The car skips along with a villainous racket, We leap o'er the drawbridge, we cross the Styx River. The car slips—poor flivver! The forecastle jacket Now bumps 'gainst an oak. Oh, see the Micks shiver. The live wires quiver, Whilst roasting each liver-- Poor Lizzie, tin flivver! We save the fat squire In garbage attire. Behold the metallic Elizabeth sizzle! My brain is congested, my heart is on fire. The joy ride is ended, the racket a fizzle. We stick in the mud, we have busted a tire, And roasted a wire. Poor flivver, poor flyer! From out the mire, We rescue the squire, In garbage attire. The hock-shop is empty since Lizzie departed, Whilst Ikie the baker no more makes us dizzy. The hearse from the neighbouring village has carted Away the poor mangled cadaver. Poor Izzie Is now very busy In dodging that dizzy Black devil, tin Lizzy, And cursing the squire In garbage attire. The gloomy hyena howls in the arena With rage in his cage, quaintly sage, th' French briar, I place 'twixt my lips whilst the bowl of farina Awaiting brings solace. The pitch pine, the pyre Burns up the flyer, That flivver. No guyer. But vengenace entire. Burns up the black squire. In garbage attire. Whenever I closeth my eyes in the twilight, I see the cadaver of Izzie the hocker, Pray stop all palaver, attention, that sky bright The stately cadaver of Izzie, no mocker, Thou bones of my sire, Cut out all enquire- Ing talk, lest hot fire Consume the black Squire, In garbage attire. KITTY CLOVER Near the schoolhouse on the hilltop Where the hawthorn bushes thrive, Naughty children make the cat flop, They are skinning it alive. Afterwards they hang the kitten Just for fun, to see it prance One boy has a finger bitten. Goodness gracious! don't he dance! See the twisted stranger walking Thru the gravel pit across Near the hill where kitty, squawking, Kicking like a baby horse, Disapproves of what the boys are Doing. She don't like the role She is playing, all her joys are Turning into burning coal. "Keep away from yonder casement," Said the teacher to the class, "I will lock you in the basement, If you give me any sass. Shut your mouth, cut out all niggle, Please obey, mind what I say, If you see the kitten wiggle, It will make you sick all day." As the children leave the schoolhouse, See them turn their heads away, With their little pails of lobscouse, In their baby grasp. To-day They are free from mirthful giggles, Such a very solemn hush, While the little kitten wiggles On the hilltop near the brush. See the twisted hobo stranger, Known by the name of tramp (He is not afraid of danger, He is of the proper stamp), See, he grabs the cruel gang man, Saves the kitten from the grasp Of the amateurish hangman, Soon my kitten pet I clasp. If I had my way, I'd get a Hose of boiling water; then If you hurt my cat, you'd better Get away from me, for when The pet kitten mews, the steam flies From the scalding hose, vile Sir. I will blast your bloody two eyes, Oh, you cruel, nasty cur! If I were the Emperor Nero, You would get the proper dope, I would play the noble hero, You would soon abandon hope. As you lay upon the griddle, Chained within the broiling can, I would play upon my fiddle, While you sizzled in the pan. See the God-forsaken stranger, What a noble, twisted man! Now he sleeps within the manger Of the stable near the dam, Where the water-wheel is turning, While the stranger, dreaming, aye, Ever learning, always yearning, Soon becomes a fancy guy. When I lay me down to slumber, As I close my eyes, I see, Towering, a frame of lumber, The almighty gallows tree. Then I hear the pensive ditty, 'Tis the plaintive voice, 'tis she, It is darling little kitty, Just as sweet as she can be. When I twang the tuneful lyre, Meanwhile I am looking at Kitty Clover, near the fire, Purring on the velvet mat. Kitty knows my heart is ever With herself. I'm quite above All deceit, she is one clever, Domineering little love. THE HOP HEWER (A BALLAD) I ramble along on the hill where the tillage Is fragrant with roses where dandelions bloom, And when I arrive at the green near the village, I see what appears like a wide-open tomb. 'Tis all a mistake, 'tis the mouth of a sewer— There, standing erect, so familiar—'tis he, The fine, manly form of the prosperous brewer, Dan Dugan, as handsome as handsome can be. Descending the sewer, the prosperous brewer, Is soon out of sight of poor Dicky, poor me. I hurry, I strive like The devil. I drive like A drunken rat out on a terrible spree. I entered the sewer to look for the brewer, Descending the wondrous earthenware chute. It took me an hour to find the hop hewer, I staggered, then uttered a loud, piercing hoot. A venomous ebony carrion crow bent O'er the cadaver. A wandering roach Was ready to nibble, while also a rodent With malice intent, on the scene did encroach. They gobble the brewer, unlucvky hop hewer. Dan Dugan, so tender, so toothsome, so ripe. Became a cadaver— A yellow cadaver— Stuck fast in the sewer, the earthenware pipe. Dan Dugan the brewer got stuck in the sewer, Of thick, dirty mush. Unhappy hop hewer— He tried to swim out from the sickening slush. The underground torrent so slimy, so slippy, Caught Dan in the current all sticky with muck. Dan swallowed a mouthful and then became dippy. Down deep in the earthenware pipe he got stuck. Poor Daniel the brewer turned bluer and bluer, He spoke for a berth in the devil's own house, Became a cadaver— Oh, such a cadaver! He died in the pipe like a flexible louse. I stole to the edge of the sewer to rubber, I twisted my neck, glancing into the well, My heart filling up at the sight—now I blubber, Then fall away fainting, consumed by the smell. Unfortunate brewer, now stuck in the sewer And gone to decay like a peach over-ripe, Look—isn't he yellow, uncanny and mellow, The muck disagreed with his pitiful tripe. Poor tripe! now we have—er—a yellow cadaver— Unlucky hop hewer, poor brewer, poor snipe. The yellow cadaver, The twisted cadaver, The swollen cadaver that stuck in the pipe. I now seek the aid of the earthenware ewer, And after my wash I feel perfectly snug. I think of the tragical fate of the brewer, Now safe in his pipe like a bug in a rug. Dear Danny—how lucky to be a cadaver, Secure in thy earthenware tube over-ripe. We'll rake up a wake for thy sake, yes, we'll have—er— A jolly old time in the shade of the pipe. Dan Dugan, the brewer, now safe in the sewer, Doth rattle his bones—he is one rotten snipe. The yellow cadaver, The swollen cadaver, The twisted cadaver is safe in the pipe. With sad expectations the north wind comes cheating. The night where the moonbeam in ecstasy dwells, My heart without rations is sadly repeating About sixty curses, like so many Hells. The banjo is busted, the strings out of order, The rim is all rusted, encrusted like tripe. I fear my poor soul will be crossing the border And joining the brewer down deep in the pipe. The swollen hop hewer grows bluer and bluer, That yellow cadaver, the plum over-ripe. The mellow cadaver, The twisted cadaver, The swollen cadaver that stuck in the pipe. THE BASTINADO Illustration: The Bastinado CANTO I The wicked Whipper is a freak, Also, a most malignant sneak. He always shows his presence when We let him kick his fellow men. He'd rather beat a child than eat. He loves to whip the girl so sweet, Whipping th' soles of her dainty feet. The grim Sultana said, "Pray why, Dear Daughter, must I lash my clown With bastinado? Do not cry, But tell me why thou art awry With crease upon thy silken gown? Alas, thou must be tickled down Under each foot ere we leave town. You are a perfect little cheat, We'll have to sting your naughty feet. Ring for the slave, suppress that cough, Please take thy shoes and stockings off." The little girl with timid voice Said, "Mother, make the slave rejoice. He loves to flagellate thy pet. Of late I've been so good, and yet, My silken gown—this ragged hole— It's time to flagellate my sole. Nay, dearest Mother, do not cough. I'll take my shoes and stockings off." The grim Sultana made a sign. The little maiden, breathing hard, Weeps,—poor, gentle, clinging vine. Stern fate has caught her off her guard. Her little feet—they tremble so From dainty heel to pretty toe. I hear the tinkling of lutes Accompanied by magic flutes, Seventeen maidens in spotless white Enter the hall (classical sight), Waving palms. Their presence there Is just to see all things go fair. The grim Sultana bites one nail, The girlie girl grows deadly pale; The walking cavalcade appears, Led by a man with monstrous ears. This is the mighty Whipping Turk, Priding himself upon his work; He thinks it is superb to beat His fellow creatures on their feet, When victim groans, when victim squirms, Like agitated angle worms. Upon the floor there is a rug Where naughty sinners lie out snug, Face downward, waiting the event When Mother orders chastisement. The little girlie, kneeling down, Smooths out the creases from her gown. Holding her breath with nervous shrug, She flings herself upon the rug Face down. She lifts her slippered feet— Such pretty slippers, very neat. She raises both her feet on high, Holding them steady. Hear her sigh. The Whipper brings the wooden frame, Now we appreciate his fame. He moves the wooden frame up close, Close to the dainty limbs—jocose? You bet. He locks each ankle tight, Upon the frame—most hapless plight! The slippered feet remain upright. The maiden hides her pretty face With both her hands. She says her grace, Then shudders with a nervous cough. They take her shoes and stockings off. Indeed, it is a lovely sight. Her naked feet are pink and white. The bare soles blushing like a rose From dainty heel to pretty toes. The girlie closes both her eyes, Utters a prayer—Oh, how she sighs, Awaiting the first smarting sting Upon her pink, bare feet—poor thing! Poor wounded bird with broken wing. The wicked Whipper whirls the whip With spiteful crack, with vicious clip He whips the naked feet—Oh, my! Poor little girlie, hear her cry. The wicked Whipper—see him whirl The cruel whip, lashing the girl, Whipping away with stern conceit, Whipping the soles of her naked feet. Whipping and whipping th' poor little girl, Whipping and whipping th' cute pearly pearl. Whipping away with stern conceit, Whipping the soles of her naked feet. The girl is writhing on the floor, Screaming with pain. Look, see her claw The air. Her hair is all awry, Poor little creature, hear her cry. Pity the little naked feet, Pity each pink, bare sole so sweet, Bleeding away with crimson flow From dainty heel to pretty toe. Hold off thy hand, malignant brute, Pity the little feet so cute, Pity the dimpled baby soles All bleeding. Hark! The timbrel tolls. The grim Sultana waves one hand, The slave obeys the high command, Throwing away the rawhide whip From whence now flows th' crimson drip. We now unlock the iron link Just as the girl is on the brink Of fainting dead away. Woe! woe! Those bleeding feet, that crimson flow From dainty heel to pretty toe. The little girlie creeps upon Her knees. She vainly tries to don Her slippers, but she can't; oh, no, They hurt each dainty, pretty toe, Starting afresh the crimson flow, Over the naked foot. Woe! woe! CANTO II The wicked Whipper, all alert, Because his feelings have been hurt Down to the very deepest core, Opens and shuts his dragon claw. He is so very measly, With feelings injured easily, Possessing no benignity, And yet a man of dignity. The wicked Whipper darkly scowls, Stamping about, the lout—he howls Extending both his ugly jowls. He gobbles down a brace of drinks And then he sharpens up his dirk He hisses out, "The lazy minx, Making me do her dirty work, I, the official Whipping Turk. "She is so useless, so inert, The nasty, little, lazy squirt. She made me do her work. 'Twas I Removed her slippers, I, poor guy —Her stockings also, think of that! The worthless, silly little rat. "She thinks she is so cute, so smug, While flopping there upon that rug Face down. She lifted up her feet, Her slippered feet, so trim, so neat. "She had the impudence to cough. I took her shoes and stockings off. She should have done that work herself, She is a saucy little elf. I'm not her handy maid. She's punk, One nasty, little, lazy skunk, Humiliating me with work Unfit for any noble Turk." The Whipper shook his head with glee Remarking, "I'm a cunning fox. She didn't get the best of me, Not much, I thrashed her like an ox. Oh, yes, I made the job complete. Look at her little naked feet. What think you of the crimson flow From dainty heel to pretty toe? CANTO III The harem now is quiet. See The grim Sultana on one knee Arranging the fair daughter there Upon the cushion. What a pair, United so in love. The slave Brings water in a bowl. They lave The bleeding feet, and very soon The pain has left. The silver moon Shines on the loving pair, who now Converse. The Mother speaks of how Displeased she is, saying, "My dear, Why do you act so very queer Each time the Whipper whips my dear?" The Mother says, "All is not right, The mighty Whipper feels the slight You put upon him out of spite. "Deliberately you flopped upon The floor with shoes and stockings on, Quite a premeditated sin, I saw the mighty Whipper grin With rage. I'll set him right with you And then he may forgive me, too. "Do take thy Mother's warning, love, As if inspired from above And never our talk rehash. Be sure you reverence the lash. Ever respect the Whipper, tho' He blister thee from heel to toe. "The Bastinado with a cane, Causing the most exquisite pain, Is quite essential, curing sin. When Mother calls the Whipper in To lash my pet, my heart is sore, So do not grieve me any more, But lovingly submit and do Remember what I say to you. "Before you come of age, dear girl, I'll often have to whip my Pearl. The stinging lash thy soul may save. Next time the Whipper calls, be brave. I'll tell you how you must behave. "Dear girlie, when you hear him cough, Please take your shoes and stockings off, Lie down with face upon the rug, Lift up your little, pink, bare feet, There—keep them steady, keep those neat Pink, naked soles together. Hug The carpet close. Bury your face Deep in the pillow. Keep in place Your bare feet, keep them very still Until the Whipper doth fulfill His cruel will. You bet he'll win Fresh laurels with your tender skin. So when you hear the Whipper cough, Please take your shoes and stockings off." The little girl said, "Mother mine, Forever may thy wisdom shine. You know I am a clinging vine. Next time the Whipper calls on me I'll be as humble as can be, And when his highness deigns to cough, I'll take my shoes and stockings off." Daughter and Mother now enmbrace, With radiance upon each face. They both are in a state of grace. ENTR'ACTE The wicked Whipper sits alone, Biting his nails, picking his bone, Chewing the rag in his proper zone, Waiting a call on the telephone. The Wicked whipper is a quack, The lash is hanging on the rack, Just like a pipe without a bowl. The Whipper has a lousy soul. The Whipper thinks he's quite a mash. His heart is made of Oak and Ash Quite ossified. He's feeling rash, Longing once more to swing the lash. The wicked Whipper's wife now sang This pretty song. Its cadence rang Throughout the hall. Her voice was clear. This is the song, it's rather queer. "Fatima, rising from the rack, Suddenly steps upon a tack. She screams aloud, exclaiming, 'Hell, What is the cause of all this smell? Is it the bacon on the stove?' The nanny goats all in a drove Are hurrying along this way. I hope they have not come to stay. They are obnoxious to the nose. They don't remind me of the rose. Soft soap is hard upon the face— You'll never find it in this place. There is a fish cake in the pan, From whence the sizzling ham-fat ran. But now the fish is burning up Because the fat ate by the pup Has travelled into other ways. Where will I find another craze? It can't be done, and, therefore, I Will have to bid you all good-bye. I'll go to Uncle Abe and hock Myself, and then jump off the dock. The snow fell thick at Valley Forge; What do you think of truthful George?" The Whipper did not like this song, Therefore he grabbed a leather thong; He hit his wife upon the head, And sent her sprawling on the bed. Saying, "Your voice disturbs my tripe." And then he lit his faithful pipe. CANTO IV Almost a year has passed away. The girlie has been good (they say). The Mother has a doubt, and so She now unties the riddle bow. She gets up in the night and steals Along the hall. Some rotten deals She fears are on the way that night To rob her of her heart's delight. 'Twas midnight in the harem dark. All gloomy. Creeping footsteps—hark, 'Tis the Sultana roaming through The marble halls. Those voices, two Voices. She slips into a niche. She is a curious old witch. Across the hall a figure slight, Shrinking against the lattice, quite Hidden from every eye but one, Is having just a little fun. It is my friend, the little girl, Giving away her mother's pearl Quite in two senses (you will see) She is a buzzing busy bee. She whispers through the lattice grate Holding a quiet tête-a-tête, With a poor boy who twangs the harp, But by profession peddles carp. The moonlight shines beyond a cloud, The little girlie whispers loud Dispatching news to mother's ears. The girl, her reputation queers. The girl is passing through the grate, The little golden box of state. It is her dearest mother's ouch, That put her mother in a grouch. The ouch is full of jewels rare, The little girl is very fair Now, lighted by the moonlight there, Which casts a halo round her hair. She whispers to the fisher boy, "This box, it is my mother's joy, It's all I have to give to you." It's full of gems of every hue. The boy outside the lattice grate Through which they hold the tête-a-tête Gobbles the ouch (poor, useless clay) Kisses her hand, then runs away. The girlie gazes through the grate, Then turns to go to bed, too late— Her head doth swim, her heart doth burn, She sees the brave Sultana stern. The brave Sultana grabs her by The neck and says, "You living lie," The little girl sobs out one sigh. The mother drags her daughter through The marble hall. She'll get her due (The daughter). She's condemned to stew Locked in her room—and then at two O'clock to-morrow, she will get The bastinado, yes, you bet. Early the next day, Mother speaks Unto that king of all the freaks, The wicked Whipper, telling him The news. He's boiling to the brim With holy joy, fanatic vim. The wicked Whipper hurries home, How he did dance, how he did foam. With joy he gathers all his whips, Looking them over, smacking his lips. He soons picks out the bamboo switch, The yellow switch. How he doth itch. To whip my little girlie witch. Seventeen jealous maidens, green, Whisper softly back of a screen. They snicker, sneer, they leer, they jeer. They never shed one single tear. The bastinado they revere— They hate my little girlie dear. She has a swetheart, they have none. Therefore they think it lots of fun To see her get her whipping. They Are spiteful snakes ready to coil, Eager to bite, itching to slay, Poking the caldron, seeing it boil. They'd swim through scalding linseed oil To drag my little girl away, Her skin to flay, making her pay The price. Poor maiden gone astray. CANTO V I hear the barking of a pup, I fear a storm is coming up, Around my neck I feel a noose, The thunderstorm is breaking loose. The clock will soon be striking two, All of the household take the cue. They throng the Gothic marble hall, All pushing, trying to forestall Each other in the rush for seats. This is one of the A-one treats. There has not been a whipping since The girlie suffered so. I wince And trust the wicked Whipper queer Will now be easy with my dear. The roll of drums, the trumpet strain, The Whipper marches through the lane Of staunch admirers. They rain Flowers upon this son of Cain. The wicked Whipper, with a screech, Making a most unholy speech, Flourished a switch about his head. These are the very words he said— "Wait 'till I tackle that young kid, That saucy little katydid. "I'll lash her with my smallest whip— One that can sting, one that can rip, Scorching the flesh like flaming coal, Whipping her bare feet on each sole. I'll cut a bleeding crimson flow From dainty heel to pretty toe." The clear note of the timbrel rolls Denoting tinkling on the soles. The Whipper enters with his switch, Standing within the Gothic niche. Soft footsteps are approaching there, There where the timbrel tinkled blare Is wafted through the perfumed air. The Girlie enters, dressed with care. Hopelessly downcast, sweet and fair. Where can she hope for mercy, where? Everything goes without a hitch, She looks so sweet, my baby witch, She kneels before the Gothic niche, And then she takes off every stitch, Except the satin slippers, rich And stockings made of silk from Kych. The Whipper has the whip in hand, The girl awaits the dread command, The whipper grins, with hacking cough She takes her shoes and stockings off. She flops face down upon the floor, Lifting her feet just as of yore, Breathing a prayer and waiting for The whipping from the dragon claw. The small bare feet are all aglow With rosy flush, they tremble so From dainty heel to pretty toe. The girl is waiting for the flash, That whizzing sound, that awful slash Succeeded by the stinging lash. There is a silence through the hall, Mysterious, it strikes thru all, Like breezes from the desert heath Or snaps from the hellbender's teeth. The spell is broken by a shout By everyone all round about. The girl all trembling arose, Bewildered by the cries of those Assembled in the marble hall. There is a look of fear on all. The wicked Whipper is a sight. His mouth is flaming red and white. He's in a fit, a spectacle Severe, most epileptical. The Whipper raises up the whip On high, and then he lets it slip Out of his hand. He burst his gall. He has a fit (no doubt at all). His eyes are concentrated straight Upon the little girl, all hate; His eye-balls crackle worse and worse, He hisses out this fearful curse. "You miserable little minx, Descended from the cursed sphinx, May holy Allah, God of Strife, Grant me the strength, I'll have your life." As quick as thought this wicked Turk The Whipper, draws his pointed dirk— And stabs the darling little girl Straight through the heart, poor little pearl! We grab the Whipper by the neck, He bites and scratches, tries to peck, Dig our eyes, tearing the hair,— But what of my little girl so fair? There on the marble floor she lay, Lifeless, pink and pretty, yea More beautiful than words can tell, Poor little girlie baby belle. I feel a concentrated shock, The marble hall begins to rock, I am bewildered in a maze, The harem trembles all ablaze. The lightning and the thunder roar, Ripping the heavens more and more. The storm grows fiercer, thunders drown— That crash—the house is falling down. In shorter time than we can think, The thunderbolt, straight from the brink, Of yonder cloud—that awful crack— The harem is in ruins black. The storm blows over, all is still, No living creature ever will Disturb the harem any more; No one is living, all is o'er. The moon is smiling from above On the remains of all I love; There on the pile of broken stone The little darling is alone. The little white bare body lay Far from the outer world away, There on the ruined pile of rock, The moonbeam lights the scene. A flock Of white doves linger there. They seem To guard the place made sacred by The little girlie dear. No cry Of living thing disturbs my dream. NOTE—The tragedy happened at a Persaian colony on the Isle of Pines. The poor girl was a dear little friend of mine. I was powerless to mitigate the sentence. I sat close to the poor child during the punishment and held her hand while she received the whipping—forty stinging lashes on the soles of the little bare feet. Soon after the child perished in the fearful earthquake which engulfed the Isle of Pines. None were saved. All were lost.—THE AUTHOR. THE GLYPTODON Poor clay, reweigh the fossil glyptodon. They say (poor jay) at least he tipped a ton. The scales can never lie. The lama's on From Wales, imported from the Amazon. Away, thou petty beast and fossil vile, Don't stay, don't trifle any more. The file Of geese all cease their quack, fading away; Sweet peace is mine, yes, it has come to stay. Go join the troop of nincompoops. Poor jay, Don't coin false money for thyself, 'twon't pay. Call Kitty Clover dear. My raptured soul— Have pity, fill Grimalkin's flowing bowl. I'm lonely in the absence of my cat. 'Tis only Kitty Clover, only that Can fetch me sweet oblivion. I'll ram Jack Ketch, I'll break his blasted neck. Flim flam Me any way you please, don't steal my cat. Kilkenny is its native shrine. Yes, bat Yer sleeve and joke and poke your fun at me, But leave my cat in peace. Farewell to thee. 'Tis wonderful, the way I slipt upon So blunderful, that mighty glyptodon. REFLECTIONS In the barn of a farmer named Brewster, Lived a hen with a voice like a rooster. When they cut off her head She smiled sadly and said, "I fear I can't crow as I uster." There was a young man of Kildare, Who one morning died in despair. He went straight to Hell. With a terrible yell Which scared all the devils down there. EPILOGUE The Bandit leapt from crag to crag until he reached the border of the forest. He halted in his mad career, turning upon us with a countenance all hate. Then with one gesture of defiance, he parted the bushes and was gone. EPITAPH TO THOSE PUBLISHERS THESE Publishers always the same Seem banded together to aim Th' fiery dart through my heart. They never appreciate art. They say I'm eccentric and crazy. Some of them say, "I'm a daisy." They say I'm too fond of the bugs Or am I addicted to drugs? No that is not so, pray be careful Many a critic too dareful Is languishing deep in the cell Of the buggy jug Dingley Dell. So close up your trap in a jiffy And try not to criticize Griffy. THE EXTRA KIDNEY WHEN it's time to kill the turkey Call me early teacher please. Won't you do it in the kitchen; If you don't your ears you'll freeze. Chop its head off with the hatchet, I have sharpened it to-day. That will make the operation Very easy; let us pray! Rub the hatchet on the oil stone. Chase the cat, it's acting queer, Kick it out the kitchen window, That will settle it my dear. Afterwards we'll have a picnic, One fine caper, just the thing. Hark I hear the barber singing As he chews the turkey's wing. Tickle pickle, yank yer nickel Don't be fickle, don't yer see, That I have an extra kidney Where my liver ought to be. Hasten to the mystic arbor, There beneath the cypress tree You will see the barking barber, Grab him, fetch him here to me. He is such a skilful sailor He will surely guide us right Thru the eye of Satan's tailor. Do not shriek aloud with fright. Quick—decapitate the turkey, Give it to him in the neck. Get a move on, come and join me Here upon the lower deck. Soon well reach the seventh heaven, Gulping down the gobbler's wing What a racket–take my jacket. Now at last I'll have my fling. Tickle pickle, yank yer nickel, Don't be fickle, don't yer see, That I have an extra kidney Where my liver ought to be. See the barking barber twisting, He is clever with his fist. I declare! the boat is listing, See the barking barber twist. Make him ply the oar more quickly— Else within the mud we'll stick. Is the barking barber sickly? Some one hit him with a brick. Light the taper, that's the caper, Slap the barber in the groin. That's the wrinkle, quite a stinkle. Come on everybody join In the search for deviation. Wash yer neck, 'twill comfort bring. Raise yer voice, sing hallelujah! Oh be joyful, let us sing. Tickle pickle, yank yer nickel Don't be fickle, don't yer see, That I have an extra kidney Where my liver ought to be. We are sailing o'er the billow On the pretty mountain lake— Perched upon the seat of willow Munching at a bit of cake, Gazing at the vale of Geddo Eating Danish pastry sweet. From the distant mountain meadow Hear that wail—the lambkins bleat, On the cresto of that nesto, There I'll find the game I lamp. Daffodillies, I've the willies— That's the ticket, thus I stamp One loud holler, loose my collar. Now at last I'll have my fling. In the racket. Take my jacket. Holy Moses! Let us sing, Tickle pickle; yank yer nickel . Don't be fickle, don't yer see, That I have an extra kidney Where my liver ought to be. What a lazy barking barber See him glue his eyes afar On an avalanche of charcoal Charging like a dusky star Bent on mischief. I am certain Satan's wife is on the mash. Hell triumphant, see the lightning Followed by the thunder crash. Yanking off my head, and also Beating up the little boat Splitting every sturdy timber. Now we can no longer float. Kicking, choking, we poor madmen Sink beneath the slimy trail. What a fancy bunch of corpses Altogether in one jail. Tickle pickle, yank yer nickel Don't be fickle, don't yer see, That I have an extra kidney Where my liver ought to be. Life is over. Now in clover I am certain I am dead. All dishevelled quite bedeviled, Things seem queer without my head. I am bumping on the sea shore Near the mighty Inchcape* rock Carpeted with rhododendrons Mingled with the yellow dock. Presently two fisher maidens Gaze upon my cold remains Throwing up their hands with horror. Then these sympathetic Janes Drag me up the hill of Geddo, Get a shovel and a pick Dig my grave here on the meadow, Everything is nicely slick. Now my extra flaming kidney With an evil eye of spite Quite extinguishes all gladness. We have fought the losing fight. Tickle pickle, yank yer nickel Don't be fickle, don't yer see, That I have an extra kidney Where my liver ought to be. *NOTE—Inchcape Rock. See note on last page of book. THE AMBIDEXTROUS MONKEY (Tune of "Moloney with His Name Above the Door") THERE'S a monkey in the lane, He is always raising Cain. Enough to put your liver in a rile. Let us calmly contemplate The dilapidated state, The ambidextrous monkey near the stile. The ambidextrous monkey near the stile, That nasty little critter ain't he vile. He doesn't care a nickel I fear we'll have to pickle, The ambidextrous monkey near the stile. We will get a ton of salt, We will mix it well with malt And then we'll hit the monkey with a club, We will dislocate his spine, Then we'll stir him up in brine And after that we'll fry him in the tub. The ambidextrous monkey in the tub, Will make a very tender plate of grub. The nasty critter net it, We never can forget it, The ambidextrous monkey in the tub. The monkey don't agree With either you or me. I fear I know the reason why I ache, The villagers are sick, Each Harry, Tom or Dick. We feel as though we'd eaten up a snake. We feel as though we'd eaten up a snake. It's quite enough to make yer marrow quake. So brace yer kidney Nunkey And never eat a flunky, Especially a monkey or a snake. Take my advice and don't Eat monkey—then you won't Have any deep infliction with an ache In your liver and your lungs, Your kidney nor your rungs. There's nothing worse than gobbling a snake. Take my advice, don't ever eat a snake, Your marrow then will never take a quake. Be careful with your dishes. Just follow out my wishes And never eat a monkey with a snake. Go sharpen up a scythe, I'll make that monkey writhe, I'll slice him like a carrot in a box. But not to-day my dear. Without my keg of beer I'm but a poor dilapidated fox. I'm but a poor dilapidated fox, Without a bit of gumption in my box. So tighten up the halter And then we cannot falter. I'll polish up the gumption in my box. We'll cut the monkey up Before we go to sup On pigeon pie without a drop of wine, And after we are through I'll tell you what we'll do, We'll throw the monkey's carcass to the swine. We'll throw the monkey's carcass to the swine. You bet 1'11 put a stuffer in my spine. I'll liquidate poor griffy, I'll do it in a jiffy. I'll throw the monkey's carcass to the swine. THE ANTEDILUVIAN SKUNK I WORK in the underground Flannigan section, Down deep in the radium mine, Which counts for my unprecedented complexion. The air in this section is fine. One day in the castle whilst brushing my teeth Young Christopher entered the bower. All breathless he murmured, "Look out on the heath, There's something approaching, the tower. Dear chappie I pray thee look out for your neck, Don't wander in such a mad manner. Beware of that ominous yellowish speck, The skin of the ancient banana." Far off on the horizon looming with lumps The tropical ichthyosaurus Comes plodding along, undulating, all bumps. The ground in this region is porous. My mind is perplexed with a swaggering swing, When quickly I think of Aunt Hanna. She told me to always fight shy of that thing, The skin of the ancient banana. Said Christopher Strap with a rollicksome yawn, "Pray why is yer tooth brush so flabby?" Replying, I answered, "The reason doth dawn On my brain, it is wretchedly shabby, Because I have used it of late on my teeth In a most indescribable manner. Beware of that obstacle there on the heath, The skin of the ancient banana." Don't totter with fear on the sidewalk my dear Because if you do you won't like it. It's horribly painful to land on your ear, So brace up yet cranium, hike it Away like an antediluvian skunk On a mission of doubtful endeavour. And when all is ended you'll smell like a monk And feel oh so deucedly clever. So don't go to pieces, just sign up your leases Remember that squash of a tanner. Just be a wise guy and always pass by The skin of the ancient banana. The antediluvian skunk is a rat That yelps like an ichthyosaurus And smells like an ancient memorial slat All rotten. Come join in the chorus. Let's banish all trouble, 'tis only a bubble, Don't slide on yer elbow, don't tumble Down flat as a bat on that bug of a gnat, The yellowish bee we call bumble. Beware of the cobble, that hurdle, that hobble, 'Twill knock you as flat as a tanner. That ominous smear on the sidewalk my dear, The skin of the ancient banana. Fight shy of the antediluvian skunk Whose dreadful aroma grows stronger. Whose smell is a miniature Hell in a trunk, We'll faint if we sniff it much longer. So fozzle yer nozzle and keep on yer shirt. Be sure you don't flop like a tanner. Behave like a Christian and then you'll avert The skin of the ancient banana. The antediluvian skunk has a trunk Adjoining his terminal stuffer. The ichthyosaurus so sticky, so porous Is also an obstinate bluffer. Now both of these dodgers are gluttonous codgers With nary a gut in the griddle. So keep on yer shirt, be careful, don't flirt With every gregarious fiddle. My dear little bugs don't flirt with the jugs, Keep sober, don't flop like a tanner. And when all is ended and mended and blended We'll laugh at the ancient banana. LOCKJAW I SEE the matter clearly, I love my sweetie dearly, Oh such a perfect lumpy dumpy fairy! I took her on a racket, She wore a yellow jacket The day we ate the gopher on the prairie. "Say Doctor, yank yer curtain, She has the lockjaw—certain." We fill the bellows full of mutton gravy. We try to feed it to her. No use. She's in the sewer, We chuck her in the locker kept by Davy. She trembled thru her gullet. We rubbed her throat with mullet And after that we hit her with a hammer. Oh hear her front teeth chatter! It seems an awful matter, The last act in the melancholy drama. She proudly wears the ermine, Although it's full of vermin. Her teeth are gone, her upper lip is hairy. One perfect Saxon German, Her presence quite a sermon. Her grave is on the Adirondack prairie. THE BLATHERSKITE UPON a stormy fitful night I sailed around the Isle of Wight, 'Twas there I met that foxy sprite, The hypernated Blatherskite, Who thinks he is a frisky trump Standing upon the slippery slump. Dressed in a suit of spotted rep, The Blatherskite smiles from the step With manner frisky, full of pep. Swinging on high the wooden skep, The Blatherskite taking one jump, Falls flat upon the slippery slump. Just as I left the graceful yawl I missed my dollar Ingersoll. My pulse began to rise and fall I felt a tugging at my gall, I took one tumble, then a bump And landed on the slippery slump. The Blatherskite stood on the dock Waving aloft his dollar clock. "Old clocks for new," says he. "Go hock Yourself," says I. "Jump off the dock Or else you'll land upon your rump, Whilst sliding down the slippery slump." Turning on me with rubber neck He said, "I have a hypothec Upon your property by Heck! Cough up you miserable geck. Hands up you dolt before you bump Your rump upon the slippery slump." My purse is stolen by that bright Matriculated parasite, That frisky, foxy Blatherskite. Fetch me a quart of aconite. Alas, I bump with many a thump Upon the rocky, slippery slump. ENVOY The Scallywag—alas he won, With wooden skep he yanks the bun, But soon this geck will take a run Hiding his mug, poor beaten Hun, Down deep in Hell he'll chew the rag This hypernated Skalewag. Down deep in Hell he'll bite, this trite Matriculated Blatherskite, The hypothec all in a lump Will land upon the slippery slump. STACKFREED THE Jeweller from Shepherds Bush, Scorning the stackfreed with its push Produces watches—rotten eggs, Fit company for wicked yeggs. He'll never reach the high top notch Without the stackfreed on the watch. The timepiece on a ship should be Perfect in every part, you see, Because the sailing of a ship Should go without a flop or flip. The Captain to avoid a botch, Should have a stackfreed on his watch. The Captain thinks he's foxy, yes, Unconscious that he's in a mess, Resembling the porcupine Minus the starch stuck thru the spine. Striving to reach the high top notch Without a stackfreed on his watch. The Captain in this instance lacks The mighty stackfreed—thus he smacks Of that smug smirking porcupine, Lacking the vestige of a spine. Seeking to reach the high top notch Without a stackfreed on his watch. The ship's chronometer is slow, Ten minutes late, all wrong below. All wrong above—my what a shock! The ship strikes on the Lizard rock Cracking against the granite notch. There was no stackfreed on the watch. In Davey's locker the whole crew Commingle uncongenial stew, With eyeballs glaring at the fish. Now could the Captain have his wish, He'd leap up to the high top notch Placing the stackfreed on the watch. Deep in the sea the Captain sighs Whilst floppy flounders eat his eyes. His Waterbury don't keep time, How can it, when it's full of slime. The little ticker is a botch. There is no stackfreed on his watch. Forth from the darkness doth emerge, The egg from Nuremberg, whose verge Escapement regulates for me, The time of day with brilliancy Extending to the high top notch. I have a stackfreed on MY watch. WIDDLES AND WADDLES THE Widdle Waddles thrill— They tumble down the hill. The dingle in the pit is Very deep. The useful pollywog Will shortly be a frog. The jingle from the jungle is asleep. The striking of the clock Says, "get along and hock Your overcoat. Don't trifle With a bump." The chip, the little sparrow, Is crushed beneath the barrow. The jingle from the jungle Takes a jump. We snuggle in the hedge, We cannot find a kedge, With which to catch the tiger In the zoo. We grab it by the snout. We try to yank about The Widdles and the Waddles In the stew. The Widdles and the Waddles Call for the ducky daddies, I rise above my trouble With a swish. The Waddles and the Widdles They rosin up their fiddles Flopping round about, Poor silly fish. Now in the Seventh Heaven My number is eleven. High in the catalogue. One dandy guy. Here in this place I daily Play on the Ukulele, Until my tongue and lung Both petrify. The Widdle Waddle mixture Is now one certain fixture, Quite sprinkled o'er with Listerated hog. This is the innovation Which makes my whole creation As happy as a rocky Stocky frog. WHERE IS JIM? (Tune of "Auld Lang Syne") WHEN I arrived I asked for Jim, What do you think I heard? What do you think they said of him? Outrageous—most absurd. They told me Jim had run away Sneaking it on the jump, He had to skip without delay Because he stole a pump. Because he stole a pump, my dear, Because he stole a pump. He had to steer upon his ear Because he stole a pump. The pump was painted olive green Without a bit of slime. It was a negligent machine Which tempted Jim to crime. What shall we do when thirsty we Can't find the pump, I say? We don't blame Jim we plainly see He had to run away. We'll riddle Jim the gink, my dear, We'll riddle Jim the gink. We'll make him steer upon his ear, We'll riddle Jim the gink. What will we do without the pump? I wish I had a swig Of water. Don't yer see the stump? That's where I'll have to dig. We miss the pump and also Jim. One moment while I think. We stand upon the sticky rim, Oh how I miss my drink. We'll razzle Jim the gink, my dear, We'll razzle Jim the gink. We'll make him steer upon his ear, We'll razzle Jim the gink. When other hearts and other lips Bear witness, Jim the gink Will never look for any tips. We'll kick him thru the rink, We'll drag his carcass thru the camp, Let everybody wink. We'll have a racket when we stamp The guts of Jim the gink. The guts of Jim the gink, the tramp, The guts of Jim the gink. We'll have a racket when we stamp The guts of Jim the gink. Note: This song is founded on fact. Jim was a waiter on the Isle of Sark. Jim was a good fellow. He always sent half his wages to his aged parents in Norway. Jim actually stole a pump. Jim was hanged. How sad.—THE AUTHOR. HIS SHOES ARE GOOD Blow, ye wind, blow, Bury in the snow Dear Alexander Joe. Flopping away quite dead His spirit croaking fled. Poor frizzle, frazzle pet, Caught in the final net. Shine on his face, oh moon, Bright as the nickel spoon. Paying the final debt. Why did he die so soon His shoes are good yet! Blow, ye wind, blow, There is no dumpy dough, For Alexander Joe. Oh woe, woe, woe, Crow lightning crow. Bury him in slime. Dying in his prime He was not worth a dime. Dippy below the moon Poor boy—rejected pet, Pity he died so soon, His shoes are good yet. Blow, ye wind, blow, Quickly and safely stow Poor Alexander Joe, Deep in his proper nest. Now he will do his best Atoning for his crime, Packed in a bed of lime, Hopping about in slime, Singing his painful tune. What can I do but fret. Pity he died so soon His shoes are good yet. ENVOY Blow, ye wind, blow, Ho, ho, ho, ho, Poor Alexander Joe, Now he has faded quite Into a sickly white, Tho yesterday forsooth, He was a nifty youth With nary a black check Crossing his graceful neck. He ate one sour prune. No wonder that I fret. Pity he died so soon His shoes are good yet. SPRINGTIME IN RUSSIA WE tread the path of discontent, I told you not to sup the grout. Meander not on mischief bent, I am compelled to thump your snout. It is my most sincere lament That I must swing the bloody knout. I'll trice you up with leather mesh, I'll crack your bones, I'll tear your flesh. One year ago, here in this fold, I bid you lubricate your snout. It was a pleasure to behold The way your snout became so stout. But now your fault, so very bold, Must be corrected by the knout. I'll trice you up with leather mesh, I'll crack your bones, I'll tear your flesh. My bonny lad we must retrench, We'll have to lubricate your snout. We'll strap you firmly on the bench, We'll crack you with the whip so stout. We'll carve you up and also drench With bloody gore the useful knout. I'll trice you up with leather mesh, I'll crack your bones, I'll tear your flesh. We'll lacerate your skin, we'll wring, We'll bathe each mangled part throughout With salt and pepper. Will it sting? You bet it will, yes you will shout. The picnic will be mine. I'll sing All praises to the bloody knout. I'll trice you up with leather mesh, I'll crack your bones, I'll tear your flesh. The sunbeam on the plate of hash Breaks into coloured bric-a-brac, One perfect rainbow with a dash Of sausage gravy. Hear that quack. The flock of ganders with a splash Jump in the river Hackensack. They reach the shore in time to see The first act of the jubilee. ENVOY The knout it wiggles with a crunch And crackles at the dippy bunch. I'll rip you up until you swell, Until you feel like merry Hell. I'll drag you out upon the porch, I'll burn you with a flaming torch And when I think you have surfice, I'll roll you up in broken ice. NEAR THE PUMP There's a buckle tower bell Where the can of goose grease fell. Near the prison wall along the river edge. The pretty Swedish dame Sells pastry, also game, There in the yellow wagon. See her dredge The plate of griddle cakes With a dash of gravy flakes, It's quite enough to make yer liver jump. Your stomach never aches When the Swedish maiden bakes The waffle in the wagon near the pump. With a diddle daddle dump And a fiddle'faddle flump, We contemplate the waffle near the pump. It's time to close each eye. In my unpretentious sty Invariably I fight with many fleas Whilst dreaming of the jugs I'm troubled with the bugs, They fight about my nozzle till I sneeze. I wake, I hear a creak That pump it makes a squeak, Where many blossoms cluster in a clump. Oh what a happy clay! From that prison far away I first beheld the grease upon the pump. With a diddle daddle dump And a fiddle faddle flump, We contemplate the grease upon the pump. From the parapet on high This fascinates my eye— Behold the valley slipping like a slump. Beneath the frowning rocks I see the copper box— The goose grease in the shadow of the pump. Dear me, alas, alack! I'm itching down the back, I'm looking for a window, let us jump. More oxygen I reel! Oh if I could but steal The sausage in the wagon near the stump. With a diddle daddle dump And a fiddle faddle flump, The sausage in the shadow of the pump. Please come along climb up The parapet. We sup Upon the turkey fricassee on toast. Don't think it all a myth, Nor dare to trifle with The buckle tower honoured with a ghost. Dear Reader if I don't Cut short this yarn you won't Hold sacred my remembrance. Don't bump My reputation flat. Don't gobble like a rat The canister of goose grease near the pump. With a diddle daddle dump And a fiddle faddle Rump, We contemplate the grease upon the pump. THE KNOTTED BAVARIAN SPHINX THE juggling jigger departed Whilst dangling over the place, He dug like a rat heavy-hearted. I dealt him a bump with my mace. He died with a smile on his face. Whilst up in a tree—how it winks, The knotted Bavarian Sphinx. The nebulous niggery nigger Engulfed in the pond of distress, Drags downward each wiggling figger. The demons of death yell, "Yes, yes!" We're all in a terrible mess. Engulfed by that nebulous lynx, The knotted Bavarian Sphinx. The wiggling wigger all swagger Falls deep in the soup with a splash, Quite killing the nagger, the bragger, And now I become very rash. I call for the platter of hash, Prepared by that nebulous lynx, The knotted Bavarian Sphinx. The skin of the juggling jigger Turns quite inside out with a jerk. The nebulous niggery nigger, Now sharpens the quivering dirk. He slashes his throat with a smirk. ' Whilst up in a tree—how it winks. The knotted Bavarian Sphinx. The wigger and jigger they drizzle Like oysters without any fat. Each nebulous nigger will sizzle And smell like a rat on the bat, With a skunk in the crown of his hat. Prepared by that nebulous lynx, The knotted Bavarian Sphinx. I quickly assemble my neighbours, Distributing harlequin roast. At last I'm well paid for my labours, Each duffer now stuck on a post, Is poisoned with nigger on toast. Prepared by that nebulous lynx, The knotted Bavarian Sphinx. THE HAPLESS BENJAMIN Benjamin buckles up his welt, Benjamin swats the child a pelt, Slapping it just below the belt. Standing upon two kitchen chairs, The hapless Benjamin—he swears, Then throws the baby down the stairs. The child skedaddles mad with fear, Just like a ragged chanticleer, Sobbing its grief in mother's car. The Mother Molly, hear her yell, Saying, "The gink I'll make him spell Perdition in the flames of Hell." The Mother Molly with a sniff Mysteriously hieroglyph, Says to herself, "I'll scrape that guy, Salting each gut with alkali." With vengeful purpose, no retreat, Moll hurries down the shady street. She pauses at the proper goal, The house of Benjamin, poor soul. Moll rushes thru the sticky mud, She hurries up the flight of stairs, Gnashing her teeth, oh how she swears, "Oh give me blood, oh give me blood." The hapless Benjamin poor pimp, Stood on the upper step quite limp, All rickety. His ear he picks, One of his many ratty tricks. Much like the stricken deer at bay, The hapless Benjamin says, "Pray Don't let your duty flop the tray. What is the use of splitting hairs? The child was naughty, put on airs, That's why I threw it down the stairs." Benjamin now begins to scratch, Fighting his bugs. He is no match For Moll, the agitated mare. Benjamin jumps upon a chair. The hapless Benjamin all chill Up to the neck with sticky thrill, Shrieks like a pig deprived of swill. Moll hops across the open space, Slapping poor Ben across the face, Plump on the kisser. See the blood Flow from his nose, running a race There on the floor mingled with mud. Moll strikes with fistic flaming squibs, Cutting the flesh with razor nibs. Her fingers penetrate Ben's ribs. Moll delves within tearing apart Ben's lungs. She stabs the traitor heart. She hacks Ben's liver, never swerves. She disembowels Ben. She serves Each kidney with the third degree. Thirsting for vengeance, don't you see. She wraps Ben's entrails round her knee. Ben's liver rests upon the shelf, There is no semblance of himself. His wicked heart cooks on the stove, Sizzling from Mosquito Cove. The hapless Benjamin takes wings, Both of his lungs do funny things, Whirling about the room in rings. Listen, I hear the brazen knell. The wicked Sinner went to Hell With all his members disembogue. Poor hapless Benjamin the rogue. FIDDLERS' GREEN What a strange place, so calm so still, so wonderfully weird. The bottom of the Indian ocean. Ah there, that majestic form. It approaches. Is it alive? Yes it is alive, all gold all glitter, and walking on the bottom of the sea. It is the Patriarch of Constantinople. He is clinging to one leg of an octopus. The great fish struggles to get free, but it cannot get free. The august potentate clings fast to the mighty sea monster. Ah, Ah! Darkness sets in all black. Horrible yells. Now there is deep silence. The scene changes, lights up. What a transformation. The Mosque of Saint Sophia. Beautiful, sublime. What is that object? Is it an altar? No it is a kitchen table. See the bucket on the table. The bucket is full of hashed liver mixed with feathers. Liver and feathers. Just think of it. Liver and feathers, half and half. What a mess. See that dark form. It moves, it approaches. What is it? Is it a kangaroo? No it is a man. See the lighted torch in his hand. He pauses near the table. He looks at the bucket. He sees that the bucket is chuck full of liver and feathers. He extends one hand. Now the lighted torch is close to the bucket. The liver and feathers ignite, they burn. Oh what a smell. Horrible! How dreadful. What does it all mean? What an awful mystery. The man with the torch, who is it! Who? Can it be the "Itching Frog of Antioch?" No. Ah, Ah, we now see plainly. The gloom clears. This potentate all gold all glitter—Eureka! We recognize the man with the torch. It is our old friend. It is the Patriarch of Constantinople. The lop-sided he lop-sided funnel like end of the tunnel and therefore—G. B. B. Note—I was known as Guy Barnabas Bone the summer I boarded on the Inchcape Rock off the coast of Scotland. The Inchcape is a small island covered from base to summit with a rich growth of rhododendrons of such brilliancy that the fishermen call it the Red Island. It is inhabited by a race of black goats with yellow eyes.—RICHARD GRIFFIN. THE END NOTICE Please don't think this is the end of the book. See next page. THE IRISH ANACONDA THE Irish anaconda There in the hedge out yonder Looks for the boobs Poor foolish Rubes Wherever they may wander. The Irish anaconda My—how he loves to squander My ruddy gore Forevermore. I'm in the clutches yonder My hair turns white, I'm blonder Than any Swede Indeed, indeed The snake—he's an absconder. I feel a bite I cannot fight The Irish anaconda— He curls about Poor me poor lout When suddenly from yonder The Orange boa constrictor Just like a Roman Lictor Tackles the green absconder. The fight is short No sport, he's caught That Orange snake, he'll wander No more poor bug Smashed in the hug Crushed by the anaconda. He sprawls out limp The simp, poor pimp That Orange boa constrictor Poor foolish fake Caught by that snake The Irish Roman lictor. We shout with glee Both you and me We bless the snake absconder Each Orange sty Is conquered by The Irish anaconda. THE END