John Smith, U.S.A Part 2

IT IS THE PRINTER'S FAULT.

In Mrs. Potter's latest play The costuming is fine; Her waist is made decollete-- Her skirt is new design.

SUMMER HEAT.

Nay, why discuss this summer heat, Of which vain people tell?

Oh, sinner, rather were it meet To fix thy thoughts on h.e.l.l!

The punishment ordained for you In that infernal spot Is het by Satan's impish crew And kept forever hot.

Sumatra might be reckoned nice, And Tophet pa.s.sing cool, And Sodom were a cake of ice Beside that sulphur pool.

An awful stench and dismal wail Come from the broiling souls, Whilst Satan with his fireproof tail Stirs up the brimstone coals.

Oh, sinner, on this end 'tis meet That thou shouldst ponder well, For what, oh, what, is worldly heat Unto the heat of h.e.l.l?

PLAINT OF THE MISSOURI 'c.o.o.n IN THE BERLIN ZOOLOGICAL GARDENS.

Friend, by the way you hump yourself you're from the States, I know, And born in old Mizzourah, where the 'c.o.o.ns in plenty grow; I, too, am a native of that clime, but harsh, relentless fate Has doomed me to an exile far from that n.o.ble state, And I, who used to climb around and swing from tree to tree, Now lead a life of ignominious ease, as you can see.

Have pity, O compatriot mine! and bide a season near While I unfurl a dismal tale to catch your friendly ear.

My pedigree is n.o.ble--they used my grandsire's skin To piece a coat for Patterson to warm himself within-- Tom Patterson of Denver; no ermine can compare With the grizzled robe that democratic statesman loves to wear!

Of such a grandsire I have come, and in the County Cole, All up an ancient cottonwood, our family had its hole-- We envied not the liveried pomp nor proud estate of kings As we hustled around from day to day in search of bugs and things.

And when the darkness fell around, a mocking bird was nigh, Inviting pleasant, soothing dreams with his sweet lullaby; And sometimes came the yellow dog to brag around all night That nary 'c.o.o.n could wollop him in a stand-up barrel fight; We simply smiled and let him howl, for all Mizzourians know That ary 'c.o.o.n can beat a dog if the 'c.o.o.n gets half a show!

But we'd nestle close and shiver when the mellow moon had ris'n And the hungry n.i.g.g.e.r sought our lair in hopes to make us his'n!

Raised as I was, it's hardly strange I pine for those old days-- I cannot get acclimated or used to German ways; The victuals that they give me here may all be very fine For vulgar, common palates, but they will not do for mine!

The 'c.o.o.n that's been used to stanch democratic cheer Will not put up with onion tarts and sausage steeped in beer!

No; let the rest, for meat and drink, accede to slavish terms, But send _me_ back from whence I came and let me grub for worms!

They come (these gaping Teutons do) on Sunday afternoons And wonder what I am--alas! there are no German 'c.o.o.ns!

For, if there were, I might still swing at home from tree to tree, A symbol of democracy that's woolly, blythe and free.

And yet for what my captors are I would not change my lot, For _I_ have tasted liberty--these others, _they_ have not!

So, even caged, the democratic 'c.o.o.n more glory feels Than the conscript German puppets with their swords about their heels!

Well, give my love to Crittenden, to Clardy and O'Neill, To Jasper Burke and Colonel Jones, and tell 'em how I feel; My compliments to c.o.c.krill, Munford, Switzler, Hasbrook, Vest, Bill Nelson, J. West Goodwin, Jedge Broadhead and the rest; Bid them be steadfast in the faith and pay no heed at all To Joe McCullagh's badinage or Chauncy Filley's gall; And urge them to retaliate for what I'm suffering here By cinching all the alien cla.s.s that wants its Sunday beer.

THE BIBLIOMANIAC'S BRIDE.

The women folk are like to books-- Most pleasing to the eye, Whereon if anybody looks He feels disposed to buy.

I hear that many are for sale-- Those that record no dates, And such editions as regale The view with colored plates.

Of every quality and grade And size they may be found-- Quite often beautifully made, As often poorly bound.

Now, as for me, had I my choice, I'd choose no folio tall, But some octavo to rejoice My sight and heart withal.

As plump and pudgy as a snipe-- Well worth her weight in gold, Of honest, clean, conspicuous type, And just the size to hold!

With such a volume for my wife, How should I keep and con?

How like a dream should speed my life Unto its colophon!

Her frontispiece should be more fair Than any colored plate; Blooming with health she would not care To extra-ill.u.s.trate.

And in her pages there should be A wealth of prose and verse, With now and then a jeu d'esprit-- But nothing ever worse!

Prose for me when I wished for prose, Verse, when to verse inclined-- Forever bringing sweet repose To body, heart, and mind.

Oh, I should bind this priceless prize In bindings full and fine, And keep her where no human eyes Should see her charms, but mine!

With such a fair unique as this, What happiness abounds!

Who--who could paint my rapturous bliss, My joy unknown to Lowndes!

EZRA J. M'Ma.n.u.s TO A SOUBRETTE.

'Tis years, soubrette, since last we met, And yet, ah yet, how swift and tender My thoughts go back in Time's dull track To you, sweet pink of female gender!

I shall not say--though others may-- That time all human joy enhances; But the same old thrill comes to me still With memories of your songs and dances.

Soubrettish ways these latter days Invite my praise, but never get it; I still am true to yours and you-- My record's made--I'll not upset it!

The pranks they play, the things they say-- I'd blush to put the like on paper; And I'll avow they don't know how To dance, so awkwardly they caper!

I used to sit down in the pit And see you flit like elf or fairy Across the stage, and I'll engage No moonbeam sprite were half so airy.

Lo! everywhere about me there Were rivals reeking with pomatum, And if perchance they caught a glance In song or dance, how did I hate 'em!

At half-past ten came rapture--then Of all those men was I most happy, For wine and things and food for kings And tete-a-tetes were on the tapis.

Did you forget, my fair soubrette, Those suppers in the Cafe Rector-- The cozy nook where we partook Of sweeter draughts than fabled nectar?

Oh, happy days, when youth's wild ways Knew every phase of harmless folly!

Oh, blissful nights whose fierce delights Defied gaunt-featured Melancholy!

Gone are they all beyond recall, And I, a shade--a mere reflection-- Am forced to feed my spirits' greed Upon the husks of retrospection.