Hoosier Lyrics Part 6

(Epode XI.)

Dear Pettius, once I reeled off rhyme Satiric, sad and tender, But now my quill Has lost its skill And I am dying in my prime Through love of female gender!

Nay, do not laugh Nor deign to chaff Your friend with taunts of Lyde And other dames Who've been my flames-- _This_ time it's bona-fide!

I maunder sadly to and fro-- I who was once so jolly!

My old time chums Gyrate their thumbs And taunt me, as I sighing go, With what they term my folly.

I told you once, Lake a garrulous dunce, Of my all consuming pa.s.sion, And I rolled my eyes In tragedy wise And raved in lovesick fashion.

And when I'd aired my woes profound You volunteered this warning: "Horace, go light On the bowl to-night-- Ten hours of sleep will bring you round All right to-morrow morning!"

Now ten hours sleep May do a heap For callow hearts a-patter, But I tell you, sir, This affair du coeur Of _mine_ is a serious matter!

"GOOD-BY--G.o.d BLESS YOU!"

I like the Anglo-Saxon speech With its direct revealings-- It takes a hold and seems to reach Way down into your feelings; That some folk deem it rude, I know, And therefore they abuse it; But I have never found it so-- Before all else I choose it.

I don't object that men should air The Gallic they have paid for-- With "au revoir," "adieu, ma chere"-- For that's what French was made for-- But when a crony takes your hand At parting to address you, He drops all foreign lingo and He says: "Good-by--G.o.d bless you!"

This seems to me a sacred phrase With reverence impa.s.sioned-- A thing come down from righteous days, Quaintly but n.o.bly fashioned; It well becomes an honest face-- A voice that's round and cheerful; It stays the st.u.r.dy in his place And soothes the weak and fearful.

Into the porches of the ears It steals with subtle unction And in your heart of hearts appears To work its gracious function; And all day long with pleasing song It lingers to caress you-- I'm sure no human heart goes wrong That's told "Good-by--G.o.d bless you!"

I love the words--perhaps because, When I was leaving mother, Standing at last in solemn pause We looked at one another, And--I saw in mother's eyes The love she could not tell me-- A love eternal as the skies, Whatever fate befell me; She put her arms about my neck And soothed the pain of leaving, And, though her heart was like to break, She spoke no word of grieving; She let no tear bedim her eye, For fear _that_ might distress me, But, kissing me, she said good-by And asked her G.o.d to bless me.

HORACE.

(Epode XIV.)

You ask me, friend, Why I don't send The long since due-and-paid-for numbers-- Why, songless, I As drunken lie Abandoned to Lethaean slumbers.

Long time ago (As well you know) I started in upon that carmen; My work was vain-- But why complain?

When G.o.ds forbid, how helpless are men!

Some ages back, The sage Anack Courted a frisky Samian body, Singing her praise In metered phrase As flowing as his bowls of toddy.

'Till I was hoa.r.s.e Might I discourse Upon the cruelties of Venus-- 'Twere waste of time As well of rhyme, For you've been there yourself, Maecenas!

Perfect your bliss, If some fair miss Love you yourself and _not_ your minae; I, fortune's sport, All vainly court The beauteous, polyandrous Phryne!

HORACE I, 23.

Chloe, you shun me like a hind That, seeking vainly for her mother, Hears danger in each breath of wind And wildly darts this way and t'other.

Whether the breezes sway the wood Or lizards scuttle through the brambles, She starts, and off, as though pursued, The foolish, frightened creature scrambles.

But, Chloe, you're no infant thing That should esteem a man an ogre-- Let go your mother's ap.r.o.n-string And pin your faith upon a toga!

A PARAPHRASE.

How happens it, my cruel miss, You're always giving me the mitten?

You seem to have forgotten this: That you no longer are a kitten!

A woman that has reached the years Of that which people call discretion Should put aside all childish fears And see in courtship no transgression.

A mother's solace may be sweet, But Hymen's tenderness is sweeter, And though all virile love be meet, You'll find the poet's love is metre.

A PARAPHRASE BY CHAUCER.

Syn that you, Chloe, to your moder sticken, Maketh all ye yonge bacheloures full sicken; Like as a lyttel deere you been y-hiding Whenas come lovers with theyre pityse chiding, Sothly it ben faire to give up your moder For to beare swete company with some oder; Your moder ben well enow so farre shee goeth, But that ben not farre enow, G.o.d knoweth; Wherefore it ben sayed that foolysh ladyes That marrye not shall leade an aype in Hayde; But all that do with G.o.de men wed full quicklye When that they be on dead go to ye seints full sickerly.

HORACE I, 5.

What perfumed, posie-dizened sirrah, With smiles for diet, Clasps you, O fair but faithless Pyrrha, On the quiet?

For whom do you bind up your tresses, As spun-gold yellow-- Meshes that go with your caresses, To snare a fellow?

How will he rail at fate capricious, And curse you duly; Yet now he deems your wiles delicious-- _You_ perfect truly!

Pyrrha, your love's a treacherous ocean-- He'll soon fall in there!

Then shall I gloat on his commotion, For _I_ have been there!

HORACE I, 20.

Than you, O valued friend of mine!