Cape Cod Ballads, and Other Verse Part 7

And then a fat plum puddin' kind er grunted-like and said: "I'm round and hot and steamin', and I'm heavier than lead, And if you dare to eat me, boy, upon Thanksgivin' Day, I'll come at night and tease you in a frightful sort of way.

I'll thump you, and I'll b.u.mp you, and I'll jump up high and fall Down on your little stomach like a sizzlin' cannon-ball I'll hound you, and I'll pound you, and I'll screech 'Remember me!'

Beware, my boy! Take care, my boy!" that puddin says, says he.

And then, soon as the puddin' stopped, a crusty ol' mince pie Jumped from its plate and glared at me and winked its little eye; "You boy," it says, "Thanksgivin' Day, don't dare ter touch a slice Of me, for if you do, I'll come and cramp you like a vise.

I'll root you, and I'll boot you, and I'll twist you till you squeal, I'll stand on edge and roll around your stomach like a wheel; I'll hunch you, and I'll punch you, and I'll screech, 'Remember me!'"

I don't know what came after that, 'cause I woke up, you see.

You wouldn't b'lieve that talk like that one ever _could_ forget, But, say! ter-day's Thanksgivin,' and I've et, and et, and et!

And when I'd stuffed jest all I could, I jumped and gave a scream, 'Cause all at once, when 't was too late, I 'membered 'bout that dream.

And now it's almost bedtime, and I ought ter say my prayers And tell the folks "good-night" and go a-pokin' off up-stairs; But, oh, my sakes! I dasn't, 'cause I know them things'll be All hidin' somewheres 'round my bed and layin there fer me.

O'REILLY'S BILLY-GOAT

A solemn Sabbath stillness lies along the Mudville lanes, Among the crags of Shantytown a peaceful quiet reigns, For down upon McCarty's dump, in fiery fight for fame, The Shanties meet the Mudvilles in the final pennant game; And heedless of the frantic fray, in center field remote, Behind the biggest ash-heap lies O'Reilly's billy-goat.

The eager crowd bends forward now, in fierce excitement's thrall, The pitcher writhes in serpent twist, the umpire says, "Play ball!"

The batsman swings with sudden spite,--a loud, resounding "spat,"

And hissing through the ambient air the horse-hide leaves the bat; With one terrific battle-cry, the "rooter" clears his throat, But still serene in slumber lies O'Reilly's billy-goat.

Alas, alas for Shantytown! the Mudvilles forge ahead; Alas for patriotic hopes! the green's below the red; With one half inning still to play the score is three to two, The Shantys have a man on base,--be brave my lads, and true; Bold Captain Muggsy comes to bat, a batsman he of note, And slowly o'er the ash-heap walks O'Reilly's billy-goat.

The yelling Mudville hosts have wrecked his slumbers so serene, With deep disgust and sullen eye he gazes o'er the scene.

He notes the center-fielder's garb, the Mudvilles' shirt of red; He firmly plants his st.u.r.dy legs, he bows his horned head, And, as upon his s.h.a.ggy ears the Mudville slogan smote, A sneer played 'mid the whiskers of O'Reilly's billy-goat.

The valiant Muggsy hits the ball. Oh, deep and dark despair!

He hits it hard and straight, but ah, he hits it in the air!

The Mudville center-fielder smiles and reaches forth in glee, He knows that fly's an easy out for such a man as he.

Beware, oh rash and reckless youth, nor o'er your triumph gloat, For toward you like a comet flies O'Reilly's billy-goat.

Across the battle-field is borne a dull and m.u.f.fled sound, The fielder like a bullock falls, the ball rolls on the ground.

Around the bases on the wing the gallant Muggsy speeds, And follows swiftly in the track where fast his comrade leads.

And from the field of chaos where the dusty billows float, With calm, majestic mien there stalks O'Reilly's billy-goat.

Above the crags of Shantytown the flaunting pennant waves, And cheering myriads chant the praise of Muggsy's l.u.s.ty braves.

The children shout in gladsome glee, each fair one waves her hand, As down the street the heroes march with lively German band; But wilder grows the tumult when, with ribboned horns and coat, They see, on high in triumph borne, O'Reilly's billy-goat.

THE CUCKOO CLOCK

When Ezry, that's my sister's son, come home from furrin parts, He fetched the folks a lot of things ter brighten up their hearts; He fetched 'em silks and gloves and clothes, and knick-knacks, too, a stock, But all he fetched fer us was jest a fancy cuckoo clock.

'T was all fixed up with paint and gilt, and had a little door Where sat the cutest little bird, and when 't was three or four Or five or six or any time, that bird would jest come out And, 'cordin' ter what time it was, he'd flap his wings and shout: "_Hoo_-hoo! _Hoo_-hoo! _Hoo_-hoo!"

Well, fust along we had it, why, I thought 'twas simply prime!

And used to poke the hands around ter make it "cuckoo" time; And allers when we'd company come, they had ter see the thing, And, course they almost had a fit when "birdie" come ter sing.

But, by and by, b'gosh! I found it somehow lost its joys, I found it kind er made me sick to hear that senseless noise; I wished 't was jest a common clock, that struck a gong, yer know, And didn't have no foolish bird ter flap his wings and go: "_Hoo_-hoo! _Hoo_-hoo! _Hoo_-hoo!"

Well, things git on from bad to wuss, until I'm free ter grant, I'd smash it into kindlin', but a present, so, I can't!

And, though a member of the church, and deacon, I declare, That thing jest sets me up on end and makes me want ter swear!

I try ter be religious and ter tread the narrer way, But seems as if that critter knew when I knelt down ter pray, And all my thoughts of heaven go a-tumblin' down ter,--well, A different kind of climate--when that bird sets out ter yell: "_Hoo_-hoo! _Hoo_-hoo! _Hoo_-hoo!"

I read once in a poetry book, that Ezry had ter home, The awful fuss a feller made about a crow, that come And pestered him about ter death and made him sick and sore, By settin' on his mantel-piece and hollerin' "Nevermore!"

But, say, I'd ruther have the crow, with all his fuss and row, His bellerin' had _some_ sense, b'gosh! 'T was _English_, anyhow; And all the crows in Christendom that talked a Christian talk Would seem like nightingales, compared ter that air furrin squawk: "_Hoo_-hoo! _Hoo_-hoo! _Hoo_-hoo!"

THE POPULAR SONG

I never was naturally vicious; My spirit was lamb-like and mild; I never was bad or malicious; I loved with the trust of a child.

But hate now my bosom is burning, And all through my being I long To get one solid thump on the head of the chump Who wrote the new popular song.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "The washwoman sings it all wrong."]

The office-boy hums it, The book-keeper drums it, It's whistled by all on the street; The hand-organ grinds it, The music-box winds it, It's sung by the "cop" on the beat.

The newsboy, he spouts it, The bootblack, he shouts it, The washwoman sings it all wrong; And I laugh, and I weep, And I wake, and I sleep, To the tune of that popular song.

Its measures are haunting my dreaming; I rise at the breakfast-bell's call To hear the new chambermaid screaming The chorus aloud through the hall.

The landlady's daughter's piano Is helping the concert along, And my molars I break on the tenderloin steak As I chew to that popular song.

The orchestra plays it, The German band brays it, 'T is sung on the platform and stage; All over the city They're chanting the ditty; At summer resorts it's the rage.

The drum corps, it beats it, The echo repeats it, The ba.s.s-drummer brings it out strong, And we speak, and we talk, And we dance, and we walk, To the notes of that popular song.

It really is driving me crazy; I feel that I'm wasting away; My brain is becoming more hazy, My appet.i.te less every day.

But, ah! I'd not pray for existence, Nor struggle my life to prolong, If, up some dark alley, with him I might dally Who wrote that new popular song.

The bone-player clicks it, The banjoist picks it, It 'livens the clog-dancer's heels; The ba.s.s-viol moans it, The bagpiper drones it, They play it for waltzes and reels.

I shall not mind quitting The earthly, and flitting Away 'mid the heavenly throng, If the mourners who come To my grave do not hum That horrible popular song.

MATILDY'S BEAU

I hain't no great detective, like yer read about,--the kind That solves a whole blame murder case by footmarks left behind; But then, again, on t'other hand, my eyes hain't shut so tight But I can add up two and two and get the answer right; So, when prayer-meet'ns, Friday nights, got keepin' awful late, And, fer an hour or so, I'd hear low voices at the gate-- And when that gate got saggin' down 'bout ha'f a foot er so-- I says ter mother: "Ma," says I, "Matildy's got a beau."

[Ill.u.s.tration: Matildy's Beau]

We ought ter have expected it--she's 'most eighteen, yer see; But, sakes alive! she's always seemed a baby, like, ter me; And so, a feller after _her_! why, that jest did beat all!

But, t' other Sunday, bless yer soul, he come around ter call; And when I see him all dressed up as dandy as yer please, But sort er lookin' 's if he had the shivers in his knees, I kind er realized it then, yer might say, like a blow-- Thinks I, "No use! I'm gittin' old; Matildy's got a beau."

Just twenty-four short years gone by--it do'n't seem five, I vow!-- I fust called on Matildy--that's Matildy's mother now; I recollect I spent an hour a-tyin' my cravat, And I'd sent up ter town and bought a bang-up shiny hat.

And, my! oh, my! them new plaid pants; well, wa'n't I something grand When I come up the walk with some fresh posies in my hand?

And didn't I feel like a fool when her young brother, Joe, Sang out: "Gee crickets! Looky here! Here comes Matildy's beau!"

And now another feller comes up _my_ walk, jest as gay, And here's Matildy blushin' red in jest her mother's way; And when she says she's got ter go an errand to the store, We know _he_ 's waitin' 'round the bend, jest as I've done afore; Or, when they're in the parlor and I knock, why, bless yer heart!