A Little Book of Western Verse Part 4

Before _she_ came--that rival flame!-- (Was ever female creature sillier?) In those good times, Bepraised in rhymes, I was more famed than Mother Ilia!

HORACE

Chloe of Thrace! With what a grace Does she at song or harp employ her!

I'd gladly die If only I Might live forever to enjoy her!

LYDIA

My Sybaris so n.o.ble is That, by the G.o.ds! I love him madly-- That I might save Him from the grave I'd give my life, and give it gladly!

HORACE

What if ma belle from favor fell, And I made up my mind to shake her, Would Lydia, then, Come back again And to her quondam flame betake her?

LYDIA

My other beau should surely go, And you alone should find me gracious; For no one slings Such odes and things As does the lauriger Horatius!

OUR TWO OPINIONS

Us two wuz boys when we fell out,-- Nigh to the age uv my youngest now; Don't rec'lect what't wuz about, Some small deeff'rence, I'll allow.

Lived next neighbors twenty years, A-hatin' each other, me 'nd Jim,-- He havin' _his_ opinyin uv _me_, 'Nd _I_ havin' _my_ opinyin uv _him_.

Grew up together 'nd would n't speak, Courted sisters, 'nd marr'd 'em, too; Tended same meetin'-house oncet a week, A-hatin' each other through 'nd through!

But when Abe Linkern asked the West F'r soldiers, we answered,--me 'nd Jim,-- _He_ havin' _his_ opinyin uv _me_, 'Nd _I_ havin' _my_ opinyin uv _him_.

But down in Tennessee one night Ther' wuz sound uv firin' fur away, 'Nd the sergeant allowed ther' 'd be a fight With the Johnnie Rebs some time nex' day; 'Nd as I wuz thinkin' uv Lizzie 'nd home Jim stood afore me, long 'nd slim,-- _He_ havin' _his_ opinyin uv _me_, 'Nd _I_ havin' _my_ opinyin uv _him_.

Seemed like we knew there wuz goin' to be Serious trouble f'r me 'nd him; Us two shuck hands, did Jim 'nd me, But never a word from me or Jim!

He went _his_ way 'nd _I_ went _mine_, 'Nd into the battle's roar went we,-- _I_ havin' _my_ opinyin uv Jim, 'Nd _he_ havin' _his_ opinyin uv _me_.

Jim never come back from the war again, But I ha' n't forgot that last, last night When, waitin' f'r orders, us two men Made up 'nd shuck hands, afore the fight.

'Nd, after it all, it's soothin' to know That here _I_ be 'nd yonder's Jim,-- _He_ havin' _his_ opinyin uv _me_, 'Nd _I_ havin' _my_ opinyin uv _him_.

MOTHER AND CHILD

One night a tiny dewdrop fell Into the bosom of a rose,-- "Dear little one, I love thee well, Be ever here thy sweet repose!"

Seeing the rose with love bedight, The envious sky frowned dark, and then Sent forth a messenger of light And caught the dewdrop up again.

"Oh, give me back my heavenly child,-- My love!" the rose in anguish cried; Alas! the sky triumphant smiled, And so the flower, heart-broken, died.

ORKNEY LULLABY

A moonbeam floateth from the skies, Whispering, "Heigho, my dearie!

I would spin a web before your eyes,-- A beautiful web of silver light, Wherein is many a wondrous sight Of a radiant garden leagues away, Where the softly tinkling lilies sway, And the snow-white lambkins are at play,-- Heigho, my dearie!"

A brownie stealeth from the vine Singing, "Heigho, my dearie!

And will you hear this song of mine,-- A song of the land of murk and mist Where bideth the bud the dew hath kist?

Then let the moonbeam's web of light Be spun before thee silvery white, And I shall sing the livelong night,-- Heigho, my dearie!"

The night wind speedeth from the sea, Murmuring, "Heigho, my dearie!

I bring a mariner's prayer for thee; So let the moonbeam veil thine eyes, And the brownie sing thee lullabies; But I shall rock thee to and fro, Kissing the brow _he_ loveth so, And the prayer shall guard thy bed, I trow,-- Heigho, my dearie!"

LITTLE MACK

This talk about the journalists that run the East is bosh, We've got a Western editor that's little, but, O gosh!

He lives here in Mizzoora where the people are so set In ante-bellum notions that they vote for Jackson yet; But the paper he is running makes the rusty fossils swear,-- The smartest, likeliest paper that is printed anywhere!

And, best of all, the paragraphs are pointed as a tack, And that's because they emanate From little Mack.

In architecture he is what you'd call a chunky man, As if he'd been constructed on the summer cottage plan; He has a nose like Bonaparte; and round his mobile mouth Lies all the sensuous languor of the children of the South; His dealings with reporters who affect a weekly bust Have given to his violet eyes a shadow of distrust; In glorious abandon his brown hair wanders back From the grand Websterian forehead Of little Mack.

No matter what the item is, if there's an item in it, You bet your life he's on to it and nips it in a minute!

From multifarious nations, countries, monarchies, and lands, From Afric's sunny fountains and India's coral strands, From Greenland's icy mountains and Siloam's shady rills, He gathers in his telegrams, and Houser pays the bills; What though there be a dearth of news, he has a happy knack Of sc.r.a.ping up a lot of scoops, Does little Mack.

And learning? Well he knows the folks of every tribe and age That ever played a part upon this fleeting human stage; His intellectual system's so extensive and so greedy That, when it comes to records, he's a walkin' cyclopedy; For having studied (and digested) all the books a-goin', It stands to reason he must know about all's worth a-knowin'!

So when a politician with a record's on the track, We're apt to hear some history From little Mack.

And when a fellow-journalist is broke and needs a twenty, Who's allus ready to whack up a portion of his plenty?

Who's allus got a wallet that's as full of sordid gain As his heart is full of kindness and his head is full of brain?

Whose bowels of compa.s.sion will in-va-ri-a-bly move Their owner to those courtesies which plainly, surely prove That he's the kind of person that never does go back On a fellow that's in trouble?

Why, little Mack!

I've heard 'em tell of Dana, and of Bonner, and of Reid, Of Johnnie c.o.c.kerill, who, I'll own, is very smart indeed; Yet I don't care what their renown or influence may be, One metropolitan exchange is quite enough for me!

So keep your Danas, Bonners, Reids, your c.o.c.kerills, and the rest, The woods is full of better men all through this woolly West; For all that sleek, pretentious, Eastern editorial pack We wouldn't swap the shadow of Our little Mack!

TO ROBIN GOODFELLOW

I see you, Maister Bawsy-brown, Through yonder lattice creepin'; You come for cream and to gar me dream, But you dinna find me sleepin'.