Riley Songs of Friendship Part 4

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On the verge of some far land Still forever does he stand, With his cap-rim rakishly Tilted; so he smiles on me-- Little Tommy Smith.

Elder-blooms contrast the grace Of the rover's radiant face-- Whistling back, in mimicry, "Old--Bob--White!" all liquidly-- Little Tommy Smith.

O my jaunty statuette Of first love, I see you yet.

Though you smile so mistily, It is but through tears I see, Little Tommy Smith.

But, with crown tipped back behind, And the glad hand of the wind Smoothing back your hair, I see Heaven's best angel smile on me,-- Little Tommy Smith.

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TOM VAN ARDEN

Tom Van Arden, my old friend, Our warm fellowship is one Far too old to comprehend Where its bond was first begun: Mirage-like before my gaze Gleams a land of other days, Where two truant boys, astray, Dream their lazy lives away.

There's a vision, in the guise Of Midsummer, where the Past Like a weary beggar lies In the shadow Time has cast; And as blends the bloom of trees With the drowsy hum of bees, Fragrant thoughts and murmurs blend, Tom Van Arden, my old friend.

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Tom Van Arden, my old friend, All the pleasures we have known Thrill me now as I extend This old hand and grasp your own-- Feeling, in the rude caress, All affection's tenderness; Feeling, though the touch be rough, Our old souls are soft enough.

So we'll make a mellow hour: Fill your pipe, and taste the wine-- Warp your face, if it be sour, I can spare a smile from mine; If it sharpen up your wit, Let me feel the edge of it-- I have eager ears to lend, Tom Van Arden, my old friend.

Tom Van Arden, my old friend, Are we "lucky dogs," indeed?

Are we all that we pretend In the jolly life we lead?-- Bachelors, we must confess, Boast of "single blessedness"

To the world, but not alone-- Man's best sorrow is his own!

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And the saddest truth is this,-- Life to us has never proved What we tasted in the kiss Of the women we have loved: Vainly we congratulate Our escape from such a fate As their lying lips could send, Tom Van Arden, my old friend!

Tom Van Arden, my old friend, Hearts, like fruit upon the stem, Ripen sweetest, I contend, As the frost falls over them: Your regard for me to-day Makes November taste of May, And through every vein of rhyme Pours the blood of summer-time.

When our souls are cramped with youth Happiness seems far away In the future, while, in truth, We look back on it to-day Through our tears, nor dare to boast,-- "Better to have loved and lost!"

Broken hearts are hard to mend, Tom Van Arden, my old friend.

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Tom Van Arden, my old friend, I grow prosy, and you tire; Fill the gla.s.ses while I bend To prod up the failing fire. . . .

You are restless:--I presume There's a dampness in the room.-- Much of warmth our nature begs, With rheumatics in our legs! . . .

Humph! the legs we used to fling Limber-jointed in the dance, When we heard the fiddle ring Up the curtain of Romance, And in crowded public halls Played with hearts like jugglers' b.a.l.l.s.-- _Feats of mountebanks, depend!_-- Tom Van Arden, my old friend.

Tom Van Arden, my old friend, Pardon, then, this theme of mine: While the firelight leaps to lend Higher color to the wine,-- I propose a health to those Who have _homes_, and home's repose, Wife- and child-love without end!

. . . Tom Van Arden, my old friend.

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[Ill.u.s.tration: Our old friend Neverfail--headpiece]

OUR OLD FRIEND NEVERFAIL

O it's good to ketch a relative 'at's richer and don't run When you holler out to hold up, and'll joke and have his fun; It's good to hear a man called bad and then find out he's not, Er strike some chap they call lukewarm 'at's really red-hot;

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It's good to know the Devil's painted jes' a leetle black, And it's good to have most anybody pat you on the back;-- But jes' the best thing in the world's our old friend Neverfail, When he wags yer hand as honest as an old dog wags his tail!

I like to strike the man I owe the same time I can pay, And take back things I've borried, and su'prise folks thataway; I like to find out that the man I voted fer last fall, That didn't git elected, was a scoundrel after all; I like the man that likes the pore and he'ps 'em when he can; I like to meet a ragged tramp 'at's still a gentleman; But most I like--with you, my boy--our old friend Neverfail, When he wags yer hand as honest as an old dog wags his tail!

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MY BACHELOR CHUM

A corpulent man is my bachelor chum, With a neck apoplectic and thick-- An abdomen on him as big as a drum, And a fist big enough for the stick; With a walk that for grace is clear out of the case, And a wobble uncertain--as though His little bow-legs had forgotten the pace That in youth used to favor him so.

He is forty, at least; and the top of his head Is a bald and a glittering thing; And his nose and his two chubby cheeks are as red As three rival roses in spring;

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[Ill.u.s.tration: His mouth is a grin with the corners tucked in]

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His mouth is a grin with the corners tucked in, And his laugh is so breezy and bright That it ripples his features and dimples his chin With a billowy look of delight.

He is fond of declaring he "don't care a straw"-- That "the ills of a bachelor's life Are blisses, compared with a mother-in-law And a boarding-school miss for a wife!"

So he smokes and he drinks, and he jokes and he winks, And he dines and he wines, all alone, With a thumb ever ready to snap as he thinks Of the comforts he never has known.

But up in his den--(Ah, my bachelor chum!)-- I have sat with him there in the gloom, When the laugh of his lips died away to become But a phantom of mirth in the room.

And to look on him there you would love him, for all His ridiculous ways, and be dumb As the little girl-face that smiles down from the wall On the tears of my bachelor chum.

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[Ill.u.s.tration: Art and poetry--headpiece]