Hoosier Lyrics Part 12

Ther ben a knyght, Sir Hoten hight, That on a time did swere In mighty store othes mickle sore, Whiche grieved his wiffe to here.

Soth, whenne she scoft, his wiffe did oft Swere as a lady may; "I'faith," "I'sooth," or "lawk" in truth Ben alle that wiffe wold say.

Soe whenne her good man waxed him wood She mervailed much to here The hejeous sound of othes full round The which her lord did swere.

"Now, pray thee, speke and tell me eke What thing hath vexed thee soe?"

The wiffe she cried; but he replied By swereing moe and moe.

Her sweren zounds which be Gog's wounds, By bricht Marie and Gis, By sweit Sanct Ann and holie Tan And by Bryde's bell, ywis.

By holie grails, by 'slids and 'snails, By old Sanct Dunstan bauld, The virgin faire that him did beare, By him that Judas sauld;

By Arthure's sword, by Paynim horde, By holie modyr's teir, By c.o.kis breath, by Zooks and 's death, And by Sanct Swithen deir;

By divells alle, both greate and smalle, And in h.e.l.l there be, By bread and salt, and by Gog's malt, And by the blody tree;

By Him that worn the crown of thorn And by the sun and mone, By deir Sanct Blanc and Sanct Fillane, And three kings of Cologne;

By the gude Lord and His sweit word, By him that herryit h.e.l.l, By blessed Jude, by holie rude, And eke be Gad himsell!

He sweren soe (and mickle moe) It made man's flesch to creepen, The air ben blue with his ado And sore his wiffe ben wepen.

Giff you wold know why sweren soe The goodman high Sir Hoten, He ben full wroth, because, in soth, He leesed his coler boten.

AN OLD SONG REVISED.

John Hamilton, my Jo John, When first we were acquaint You were as lavish as could be With your vermillion paint; But now the head that once was red Seems veiled in sable woe, And clouds of gloom obscure your boom, John Hamilton, my Jo.

Oh, was it Campbell's hatchet wrought The ruin we deplore?

Or was it Abnor Taylor's thirst For your abundant gore?

Or was it Hank's ambitious pranks That laid our idol low?

Come, let us know how came you so, John Hamilton, my Joe!

We pine to know the awful truth.

So, pray, be pleased to tell The story--full of tragic fire-- How one great statesman fell; How dives' hand stalked in the land And dealt a crushing blow At one proud name--which you're the same, John Hamilton, my Jo!

THE GRATEFUL PATIENT.

The doctor leaned tenderly over the bed And looked at the patient 's complexion, And felt of the pulse and the feverish head, Then stood for a time in reflection.

"A strange complication!

My recommendation Is morphia by hypodermic injection."

The patient looked up with a leer in his eye And winked in the doctor's direction-- "Well, Doc," he remarked, "since you say I must die, I'm grateful to you for protection-- I'm now in position To ask the commission T' excuse me from serving as judge of election."

THE BEGINNING AND THE END.

Death In my breath, Cried I then: "Men Burn and blight!

Nourish crime!

Scale the height!

Climb, men, climb!

Climb and fight!

Win by might!

Wrong or right!

Blood!"

Well In a cell Here I am-- D----n!

From my flight So sublime I alight Ere my time, And in fright Here I grope Through the night Without hope.

What a plight!

Ah, the rope!

Thud!

CLARE MARKET.

In the market of Clare, so cheery the glare Of the shops and the booths of the tradespeople there, That I take a delight, on a Sat.u.r.day night, In walking that way and viewing the sight; For it's here that one sees all the objects that please-- New patterns in silk and old patterns in cheese, For the girls pretty toys, rude alarums for boys, And baubles galore which discretion enjoys-- But here I forbear, for I really despair Of naming the wealth of the market of Clare!

The rich man comes down from the elegant town, And looks at it all with an ominous frown; He seems to despise the grandiloquent cries Of the vender proclaiming his puddings and pies; And sniffing he goes through the lanes that disclose Much cause for disgust to his sensitive nose; Once free from the crowd, he admits that he is proud That elsewhere in London this thing's not allowed-- He has seen nothing there but filth everywhere, And he's glad to get out of the market of Clare.

But the child that has come from the neighboring slum Is charmed by the magic of dazzle and hum; He feasts his big eyes on the cakes and pies And they seem to grow green and protrude with surprise At the goodies they vend and the toys without end-- And it's oh if he had but a penny to spend!

But alas! he must gaze in a hopeless amaze At treasures that glitter and torches that blaze-- What sense of despair in this world can compare With that of the waif in the market of Clare?

So, on Sat.u.r.day nights, when my custom invites A stroll in old London for curious sights, I am likely to stray by a devious way Where goodies are spread in a motley array, The things which some eyes would appear to despise Impress me as pathos in homely disguise, And my tattered waif friend shall have pennies to spend, As long as I've got 'em (or friends that will lend); And the urchin shall share in my joy and declare That there's beauty and good in that marketplace there!

UNCLE EPHRAIM.

My Uncle Ephraim was a man who did not live in vain, And yet, why he succeeded so I never _could_ explain; By nature he was not endowed with wit to a degree, But folks allowed there nowhere lived a better man than he; He started poor but soon got rich; he went to congress then, And held that post of honor long against much brainier men; He never made a famous speech or did a thing of note, And yet the praise of Uncle Eph welled up from every throat.

I recollect I never heard him say a bitter word; He never carried to and fro unpleasant things he heard; He always doffed his hat and spoke to every one he knew, He tipped to poor and rich alike a genial "how-dy'-do"; He kissed the babies, praised their looks, and said: "That child will grow To be a Daniel Webster or our president, I know!"

His voice was so mellifluous, his smile so full of mirth, That folks declared he was the best and smartest man on earth!