John Smith, U.S.A Part 4

And with these pretty little dears He mixed himself all up-- Oh, fie upon such boisterous play-- Fie, fie, you naughty pup!

Woe, woe on Annie's India mull, And Sissy's blue percale!

One got the pup's belathered flanks, And one his soapy tail!

Forth to the rescue of those maids Rushed gallant Willie Clow; His panties they were white and clean-- Where are those panties now?

Where is the nicely laundered shirt That Kendall Evans wore, And Robbie James' tricot coat All b.u.t.toned up before?

The leaven, which, as we are told, Leavens a monstrous lump, Hath far less reaching qualities Than a wet pup on the jump.

This way and that he swung and swayed, He gamboled far and near, And everywhere he thrust himself He left a soapy smear.

FITTE THE SIXTH.

That noon a dozen little dears Were spanked and put to bed With naught to stay their appet.i.tes But cheerless crusts of bread.

That noon a dozen hired girls Washed out each gown and shirt Which that exuberant Taylor pup Had frescoed o'er with dirt.

That whole day long the April sun Smiled sweetly from above On clothes lines flaunting to the breeze With emblems mothers love.

That whole day long the Taylor pup This way and that did hie Upon his mad, erratic course Intent on getting dry.

That night when Mr. Taylor came His vesper meal to eat, He uttered things my pious pen Would liefer not repeat.

Yet still that n.o.ble Taylor pup Survives to romp and bark And stumble over folks and things In fair Buena Park.

Good sooth, I wot he should be called Buena's favorite son Who's sired of such a n.o.ble sire And d.a.m.ned by every one.

LONG METER.

All human joys are swift of wing For heaven doth so allot it That when you get an easy thing You find you haven't got it.

Man never yet has loved a maid, But they were sure to part, sir; Nor never lacked a paltry spade But that he drew a heart, sir!

Go, Chauncey! it is plain as day You much prefer a dinner To walking straight in wisdom's way-- Go to, thou babbling sinner.

The froward part that you have played To me this lesson teaches: To trust no man whose stock in trade Is after-dinner speeches.

TO DE WITT MILLER.

Dear Miller: You and I despise The cad who gathers books to sell 'em, Be they but sixteen-mos in cloth Or stately folios garbed in vellum.

But when one fellow has a prize Another bibliophile is needing, Why, then, a satisfactory trade Is quite a laudable proceeding.

There's precedent in Bristol's case The great collector--preacher-farmer; And in the case of that divine Who shrives the soul of P.D. Armour.

When from their sapient, saintly lips The words of wisdom are not dropping, They turn to trade--that is to say, When they're not preaching they are swapping!

So to the flock it doth appear That this a most conspicuous fact is: That which these G.o.dly pastors do Must surely be a proper practice.

Now, here's a pretty prize, indeed, On which De Vinne's art is lavished; Harkee! the bonny, dainty thing Is simply waiting to be ravished!

And you have that for which I pine As you should pine for this fair creature: Come, now, suppose we make a trade-- You take this gem, and send the Beecher!

Surely, these graceful, tender songs (In samite garb with lots of gilt on) Are more to you than those dull tome?

Her pastor gave to Lizzie Tilton!

FRANCOIS VILLON.

If I were Francois Villon and Francois Villon I, What would it matter to me how the time might drag or fly?

_He_ would in sweaty anguish toil the days and night away, And still not keep the prowling, growling, howling wolf at bay!

But, with my valiant bottle and my frouzy brevet-bride, And my score of loyal cut-throats standing guard for me outside, What worry of the morrow would provoke a casual sigh If I were Francois Villon and Francois Villon I?

If I were Francois Villon and Francois Villon I, To yonder gloomy boulevard at midnight I would hie; "Stop, stranger! and deliver your possessions, ere you feel The mettle of my bludgeon or the temper of my steel!"

He should give me gold and diamonds, his snuffbox and his cane-- "Now back, my boon companions, to our brothel with our gain!"

And, back within that brothel, how the bottles they would fly, If I were Francois Villon and Francois Villon I!

If I were Francois Villon and Francois Villon I, We both would mock the gibbet which the law has lifted high; _He_ in his meager, shabby home, _I_ in my roaring den-- He with his babes around him, _I_ with my hunted men!

His virtue be his bulwark--my genius should be mine!-- "Go fetch my pen, sweet Margot, and a jorum of your wine!"

So would one vainly plod, and one win immortality-- If I were Francois Villon and Francois Villon I!

LYDIA d.i.c.k.

When I was a boy at college, Filling up with cla.s.sic knowledge, Frequently I wondered why Old Professor Demas Bently Used to praise so eloquently "Opera Horatii."

Toiling on a season longer Till my reasoning power got stronger, As my observation grew, I became convinced that mellow, Ma.s.sic-loving poet fellow Horace knew a thing or two

Yes, we soph.o.m.ores figured duly That, if we appraised him truly, Horace must have been a brick; And no wonder that with ranting Rhymes he went a-gallivanting Round with sprightly Lydia d.i.c.k!