Poems for Pale People Part 8

IN KENTUCKY.

(A Response to Judge Mulligan's Famous Toast.)

The moonlight may be softest In Kentucky, And summer days come oftest In Kentucky, But friendship is the strongest When the money lasts the longest Or you sometimes get in wrongest In Kentucky.

Sunshine is the brightest In Kentucky, And a right is often rightest In Kentucky, While plain girls are the fewest, They work their eyes the truest, They leave a fellow bluest In Kentucky.

All debts are treated lightest In Kentucky, So make your home the brightest In Kentucky, If you have the social entree You need never think of pay, Or, at least, that's what they say In Kentucky.

Orators are the proudest In Kentucky, And they always talk the loudest In Kentucky.

While boys may be the fliest, Their money is the shyest, They carry bluffs the highest In Kentucky.

Pedigrees are longest In Kentucky, Family trees the strongest In Kentucky.

For blue blood is a pride, But, if you've ever tried You'll find 'sporting blood' inside In Kentucky.

Society is exclusive In Kentucky, So do not be intrusive In Kentucky.

If you want the right of way, And have the coin to pay, You'll be in the swim to stay In Kentucky.

The race track's all the money In Kentucky, But don't you go there, sonny In Kentucky.

For, while thoroughbreds are fleetest, They get your coin the neatest, And leave you looking seediest In Kentucky.

Short-skates are the thickest In Kentucky, They spot a sucker quickest In Kentucky.

They'll set up to a drink, Get your money 'fore you think, And you get the "d.i.n.ky d.i.n.k"

In Kentucky.

If you want to be fraternal In Kentucky, Just call a fellow "Colonel"

In Kentucky, Or, give a man a nudge And say, "How are you, Judge?"

For they never call that "fudge"

In Kentucky.

But when you have tough luck In Kentucky, In other words "get stuck"

In Kentucky, Just raise your voice and holler And you'll always raise a dollar, While a drink is sure to follow In Kentucky.

'Tis true that birds sing sweetest In Kentucky, That women folk are neatest In Kentucky, But there are things you shouldn't tell About our grand old State--and, well-- Politics is h----l In Kentucky.

IN DEEPER VEIN.

The Incubus.

The way was dark within the gloomy church-yard, As I wandered through the woodland near the stream, With slow and heavy tread Through a city of the dead, When suddenly I heard a dreadful scream.

My heart gave frantic leap, as when the roebuck Is started by the clamor of the chase, And I halted all atremble In the vain hope to dissemble, Or cloak the leaden pallor on my face.

'Twas in the ghostly month of grim December, The frozen winds were bitter in their cry And I muttered half aloud To that white and silent crowd: "'Tis a somber month to live in or to die."

And then as if in answer to my whisper, Came a voice of some foul fiend from h.e.l.l: "No longer live say I, 'Tis better far to die And let the falling snow-flakes sound the knell."

Perched upon a tombstone sat the creature Grewsome as an unquenched, burning l.u.s.t.

Sitting livid there With an open-coffin stare-- A stare that seemed the mocking of the just.

And in my thoughts the dreadful thing is sitting-- Sitting there with eyelids red and blear, And see it there I will 'Til my restless soul is still And the earth-clods roll and rumble on my bier.

TO CLARA MORRIS.

In days gone by, the poets wrote Sweet verses to the ladies fair; Described the nightingale's clear note, Or penned an Ode to Daphne's hair.

To dare all for a woman's smile Or breathe one's heart out in a rose-- Such trifles now are out of style, The scented ma.n.u.script must close.

Yet Villon wrote his roundelays, And that sweet singer Horace; But I will sing of other days In praise of Clara Morris.

Youth is but the joy of life, Not the eternal moping; We get no happiness from strife Nor yet by blindly groping.

All the world's a stage you know The men and women actors; A little joy, a little woe-- These are but human factors.

The mellow days still come and go, The earth is full of beauty; If we would only think it so, Life is not all a duty.

And you are young in heart not years, Is this not true because You mingle happiness with tears And do not look for flaws?

Your silver hair is but the snow That drifts above the roses, And though the years may come and go They can but scatter posies.

REQUIESCAT.

(Mrs. Jefferson Davis, widow of the President of the Southern Confederacy died October 16, 1906.)

Oh weep fair South, and bow thy head For one is gone beyond recall!

Cast flowers on the sainted dead Who sleeps beneath a funeral pall.

To the sound of m.u.f.fled drum, To the sound of m.u.f.fled drum.

She saw a n.o.ble husband's fame Grow more enduring with the years, And in the land his honored name Loom brighter through a mist of tears, But the sound of m.u.f.fled drum!

O the sound of m.u.f.fled drum!

Our fate is but to meet and part Upon Life's dark and troubled sea, Yet recollection stirs the heart, Of men in gray who used to be, But the sound of m.u.f.fled drum!

O the sound of m.u.f.fled drum!