$B 273 E 
 
 P S 
 
 3503 
 
 O89 
 
 A7 
 
 1905b 
 
 MAIN 
 
 8 
 
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Ancient Poetry 
 
 BY 
 
 J. EDWARD BOYD,B.B.B. 
 
 SIXTH EDITION 
 
Revised and Modernized by 
 
 J.EDWARD BOYD.B. B, B. 
 
 Professor of Trunkology, Graduate of Sing 
 
 Sing, and Lecturer on How to Rope a 
 
 Trunk and Honswogle 
 
 the Owner 
 
 ALSO 
 
 His VIEWS ON POETRY 
 
 ANCIENT AND MODERN 
 
 FIFTH EDITION 
 
 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 
 
 BERKELEY, CAL. 
 1905 
 
Entered at the Post-office as first-class 
 matter. Well, I should say so. 
 
PREFACE 
 
 In answer to a lot of feeble-minded 
 friends I have been compelled to issue 
 another edition of this magnificent work. 
 It has been not only a labor of love but 
 also a job to pay the printer. With no 
 extended remarks I might add a few com 
 plimentary words I have received from 
 distinguished personages. 
 
 Simply slumgacious ADAUNA PATTI 
 
 Shiver my topsails, but it s better than lob- 
 scouse ADMIRAL DEWEY 
 
 Good as ten years in San Quentin 
 
 JIMMY HOPE 
 What a nerve Boyd has got 
 
 HENRY SCHELLHAUS 
 
 The choicest work in my paujamas 
 
 AGUANAI^DO 
 
 Enough to make a man "look on the wine 
 when it is red" GOVERNOR. PENNOYER 
 
 And thousands of others when I have 
 time to invent them. 
 
 766970 
 
 Ai 
 
BEEKELEY S BOY POET 
 
 Berkeley has many attractions, but none 
 of which she is more proud of than our 
 "Boy Poet" a sweet-faced youth of 60 
 summers who may be found at Berke 
 ley Station at all times of day, where his 
 youthful beauty often attracts the atten 
 tion of strangers and visitors. The fol 
 lowing lines show his youthful genius: 
 
 How dear to my heart are the scenes of my 
 
 childhood, 
 
 Of pleasant old Berkeley that I used to know, 
 The gas tank, the planing mill, the old China 
 
 wash-house, 
 
 The sweet-smelling mud-holes where wild 
 weeds did grow. 
 
 The old corner grocer\ r store kept by Uucle Joe, 
 And his loud-talking driver who had such 
 
 big feet; 
 The old Golden Sheaf where we bought coffee 
 
 and sinkers, 
 And the old poky horse-car on Addison street. 
 
 How oft at the noon hour when the whistles 
 
 loud did blow 
 Did I hasten home to eat a cold feed, 
 
As gaily I sauntered down this well-beloved 
 
 road, 
 
 How pleasent to smell the fragrant tar- weed. 
 But those bright days have gone, never more 
 
 to come again - 
 Never more shall the sidewalk be trod by my 
 
 feet, 
 Never more shall I see the bright scenes of my 
 
 childhood 
 Or the poky old horse-car on Addison street. 
 
 How oft in my childhood I ve "nipped" on the 
 
 horse-car 
 To hear Mr. Morehead How he did rip, 
 
 curse and swear, 
 And when he got done with his shouting and 
 
 spouting, 
 He d say, "You can t ride unless you have a 
 
 nickel for fare." 
 But no more those bright days when the world 
 
 looked so rosy, 
 This earth seemed a heaven and all things 
 
 looked sweet, 
 But they ve faded away, those bright scenes of 
 
 my childhood, 
 With the poky old cars on Addison street. 
 
 Trunkology in Berkeley 
 
 Was ever any Expressman sent 
 
 To a house in town, and when he went 
 
Did the landlady ever fail to bawl 
 Don t YOU put no scratches on that wall"? 
 
 Whenever you go to a home for a trunk 
 They certainly imagine that you are drunk, 
 For they never fail to loudly bawl 
 "Don t put no scratches on that wall." 
 
 I ve found it so, and I m proud to say 
 I ve handled baggage for many a day; 
 But no sooner I ve entered into the hall 
 Than they loudly scream, Don t scratch the 
 wall. 
 
 You may do your best and strive to please 
 Till your body is weak from head to knees, 
 And still some female loud will call 
 "Be careful how you mark the wall." 
 
 It would drive a man unto strong drink 
 
 (When he is so tired he cannot think) 
 
 To hear again the same old call 
 
 "My goodness, how you ve marked the wall." 
 
 When through at last, at home to rest, 
 And striving to do your level best, 
 And tired out, into bed you crawl 
 To dream all night of that scratched wall. 
 
 This thing is getting worse than bad- 
 It s enough to drive Expressmen mad. 
 Even the Sheenies have the gall 
 To yell, "Dont from dot baper took der vail." 
 
But boys, when life s moving days are o er 
 And you re checked right through to Heaven s 
 
 bright shore, 
 
 The angels, they will gently call 
 "Come in, and never mind the wall." 
 
 History of Poetry 
 
 aS the years swiftly glide by it is sad 
 to note thaf publishers take un 
 wonted liberties with some of our most 
 cherished poetry, not only changing the 
 wording but conveying a totally different 
 idea from the original manuscript. Take 
 for instance that grand old poem "Jack 
 and Jill." Why, publishers of the present 
 day assert with the most unblushing ef 
 frontery that their errand up the hill was 
 to obtain water, while it is \vell known 
 to all readers of ancient history that the 
 parents of Jack and Jill were accustomed 
 to "looking on the wine when it was 
 red," and it was no unfrequent thing to 
 "Rush the Growler" when they hap 
 pened to have the necessary short bit 
 to make the purchase with. Of late years 
 8 
 
it has become the fashion to hide the fact 
 that the children s errand was to pur 
 chase some steam beer. While the writer 
 cannot deny that temperance is a virtue, 
 he must also acknowledge the truth of 
 the saying of General Burgoyne, on the 
 field of Saratoga, when he uttered the 
 following well-known w r ords, "A glass of 
 beer goes mighty fine on a hot day;" and 
 right here, without extra cost, I intend 
 to favor my readers with the true ver 
 sion of 
 
 Jack and Jill 
 
 Jack and Jill went up the hill 
 
 To get some steam beer, I guess; 
 
 Jack fell down and broke his crown 
 While nipping on Boyd s Express. 
 
 The writer s sole idea in printing this 
 literary gem is to supply a long-felt want, 
 a nd to correct a growing tendency to 
 mislead the rising generation by publish 
 ing a true version of the delightful bal 
 lads of our childhood s days not the 
 mutilated and sawed-of corrections of 
 these latter-day soi-distant poets. Take 
 
for example that touching refrain which 
 pleased and soothed us in our infancy 
 
 Mother, may I go down to the beach? 
 Yes, my darling Bess 
 
 If you feel too lazy to walk, 
 Why, charter BOYD S EXPRESS. 
 
 Instead of which some antedeluvian 
 fossil has transmogrified those pathetic 
 lines as follows 
 
 Mother, may I go down to the beach ? 
 
 Yes, my darling Mag, 
 If you ve mislaid your bathing suit, 
 
 Why, wrap j ourself in a rag. 
 
 And still another paralyzed poet brings 
 into the cold, unfeeling world the follow 
 ing melodious mixture 
 
 Mother, may I go down to the beach ? 
 
 Yes, my darling Addie, 
 But if you get your tootsies wet 
 
 I ll spank your little paddie. 
 
 Again , look at that soul-stirring poem 
 of "The Boy Stood on the Burning 
 Deck. Not one person in a thousand can 
 recite the lines correctly. For the bene 
 fit of our numerous patrons we insert it 
 10 
 
Bold Boyd stood on the burning deck 
 
 And for help he telephoned 
 "Oh ! Central, sound the lire alarm, 
 
 "Our ship is burning," he groaned, 
 "Ring in an alarm, and do it quick, 
 
 No other is on board her!" 
 But all the answer that he got, was 
 
 "The line is out of order." 
 
 Mary Had a Little Lamb 
 
 And still another mutilated poem comes 
 floating over our brain-pan. We refer 
 to that too-utterly-too-sweet refrain of 
 "Mary and Her Lamb." The occurrence 
 took place during the Civil War, and the 
 following lines were published in the 
 Monthly Review, probably written by 
 some one who didn t know a lamb from 
 a lobster 
 
 Mary had a little lamb 
 The lamb got in the pound, 
 
 And to get her sweet pet out, 
 Poor Mar}- she was bound. 
 
 Her mother called the poundman up 
 "Let him feed the lamb some grain," 
 
 But all the answer she got was 
 "Line s busy, please call again." 
 
After reading the foregoing it must be 
 a source of great pleasure to read the 
 original, as follows 
 
 Mary had a little lamb, 
 
 That lamb it was a fool, 
 It followed her to camp one day 
 
 Instead of going to school. 
 
 And as it passed the picket-line 
 
 The sentry paid no heed, 
 For some one is sure to gobble him up 
 
 And we ll have a bully feed. 
 
 And soon a soldier raised his gun 
 When he saw the welcome sight, 
 
 And as he fired he shouted out 
 
 "We ll have roast lamb to-night." 
 
 How good the soldiers all did feel 
 
 When they smelt that mutton stew 
 
 Some, they ate a big pan full, 
 And some they gobbled two. 
 
 "What makes 3-0 ur men love mutton so?" 
 
 The people all did cry, 
 "Because they re tired of pork and beans" 
 
 The Colonel did reply. 
 
 "It is too bad," the children cried, 
 For Mary to lose her lamb," 
 
 But our soldier boj^s did have a feed 
 And she did n t care a ham. 
 
 12 
 
Royal Entertainment 
 
 Some years ago I was invited to a 
 musical entertainment given at Windsor 
 Castle, England, at which were present 
 not only all the members of the royal 
 family, but also a great many of the no 
 bility of Great Britain. On that occasion 
 I read, amid terrific applause, this touch 
 ing poem 
 
 Little Bo Peep has lost her sheep 
 
 And wonder where they can be found. 
 She hunted east, she hunted west 
 And through the U. C. grounds. 
 
 And sad to say if it is true, 
 
 It surely is a pity 
 They say that Boyd has stole the sheep 
 
 And sold it in the city. 
 
 And as an encore I recited 
 
 Old Mother Hnbbard she went to the cupboard 
 
 To get her poor dog some grub, 
 She fell down and broke her neck 
 
 63^ tripping over a tub. 
 
 "Plague take the dog," she madly cried, 
 
 "I ll tie him vvith a rope 
 And keep him there for the next six weeks 
 
 While I feed him vvith soft soap." 
 
 13 
 
I shall never forget the delight I ex 
 perienced when I first read the following 
 touching sonnet by my old friend "Billy 
 the Kid." I felt as if I would like to shake 
 his hand and borrow two bits off him 
 
 Breathes there a man with soul so dead 
 Who to himself hath never said 
 When he sees the pretty girls of Kellogg school. 
 Don t you wish you were younger? you old fool. 
 
 If such there be, may he droop and fade 
 And wind up in marrying an old maid 
 The very opposite of a High school girl 
 Whose cheeks are roses and teeth are pearl. 
 
 One of the most pathetic pieces of po 
 etic gush I ever read is as follows: To 
 my great regret, though I have looked 
 through all the high-toned college and 
 prison libraries, I have been unable to 
 learn the name of the author or to dis 
 cover whether he was insane or drunk 
 when he inscribed his name on the Roll 
 of Fame by writing the following 
 
 Immortal Verse 
 
 As I was walking in the U. C. ground 
 Who do you think came driving round? 
 
 14 
 
Just as the Sophs lined up to muster 
 Along came BOYD, THE BAGGAGE BUSTER. 
 
 Said I, Mr. B. what is the news? 
 Now spit it out and don t refuse. 
 People do say, with all your knowledge 
 You should be Big Chief of Stanford College. 
 
 * There is no news," Bold Boyd replied 
 Just jump in and take a ride. 
 How my wife would kick if she could see 
 Those girls making goo-goo eyes at me. 
 
 It is not best she should be too wise 
 And hear about those goo-goo eyes, 
 For how unhappy she would be 
 If she knew the girls were in love with me." 
 
 During the late successful war with 
 Spain, when the continuous defeat of the 
 Spanish foes on land and sea brought 
 gloom and disappointment over the Cas- 
 tillian court and people, none had the 
 "blues" worse than the Queen. Every 
 effort was made to cheer and arouse her 
 without avail. One afternoon, when the 
 court physicians were consulting on the 
 perilous state of the queen s heajth and 
 planning some means to arouse her, the 
 
 15 
 
young Prince Alfonzo (the queen s only 
 son) burst into the room, crying out 
 "O, Mama ! your majesty! I am a poet!" 
 The queen read the following lines which 
 greatly pleased her and, as the doctors 
 said, did her more good than two bottles 
 of horse medicine. At great expense I 
 have procured a translation of this ten 
 der poem which is here inserted without 
 extra charge 
 
 I wished to talk to a friend one day 
 To inquire about a lady boarder, 
 
 But as quick as I said Dana 962, 
 
 Central said, "That line is out of order." 
 
 I went to telephone to a friend next night 
 
 And I was in a pickle 
 I had nothing but five frank in gold 
 
 And Central said, "Drop a nickel" 
 
 I ran to the Queen and borrowed five cents, 
 
 Although it was pouring rain, 
 And as I dropped the nickel in the slot 
 
 I heard, "Busy. Call again." 
 
 I think the best thing I can do 
 Before my brain gets into a whirl, 
 
 Is to buy a telephone of my own 
 And marry a telephone girl. 
 
 16 
 
From an Unknown Author 
 
 I would do an act of injustice to both 
 my readers and the directors of the Brit 
 ish Museum did I fail to insert the fol 
 lowing beautiful poem said to have been 
 written by Billy Shakespeare when he 
 had the delirium tremendous 
 
 The shades of night were falling fast 
 When through the town of Berkeley passed 
 A youth who dressed not over nice, 
 But on his cap the strange device 
 BOTD S EXPRESS. 
 
 A lady went to the telephone 
 To make to Boyd her wishes known, 
 And said "Please give me Stuart 81," 
 No sooner asked for than t was done. 
 There s no delay, as you may guess 
 When people call for BOYD S EXPRESS 
 
 I have never been able to positively dis 
 cover the name of the author. 
 
 Among the many interesting manu 
 scripts unearthed from the catacombs of 
 Egypt is the following pathetic effusion 
 discovered by Mrs. Carrie Nation while 
 
searching among the ruins for traces of 
 an Oriental "Blind Pig," and presented 
 to the author by that eminent lady, the 
 title of which is 
 
 The Wise Men of Berkeley 
 
 Said Trustee Brown to Trustee White, 
 What ordinance shall we pass to-night? 
 There ll be no excitement and no fun 
 No protests to hear about street work done. 
 We passed a law about the butcher cart, 
 I heard it broke Mike Fischel s heart. 
 On bicycle riding we passed a law 
 And our attorney says it has no flaw. 
 But some new law we must introduce 
 Or the people will raise the very deuce. 
 I have it now, said Trustee Briggs, 
 We ll make the expressmen move their rigs. 
 We ll make a law to "beat the band" 
 And on Wild-cat creek we"ll let em stand. 
 Said Trustee Gray, If I might speak, 
 Better move them on to Grizzly peak. 
 Said Trustee Payne, What are they worth? 
 We had belter fire them "off the earth." 
 Said Trustee Smith, It would be well 
 To send the whole derned crowd to 
 
 (No more ink) 
 
 18 
 
Flood on Center Street 
 
 One of the most soul-moving pieces of 
 poetry it was ever my good fortune to. read 
 was written by an uncouth, uneducated 
 Expressman of Berkeley who actually did 
 not seem to know enough to steal eggs. 
 
 The circumstances were as follows: 
 Along in the early eighties a gentleman 
 named B - kept a Boys Boarding 
 School on Atherton Street. One day 
 some of the boys got the idea that it 
 would advance their education to have a 
 "Beer Bust," and engaged the Express 
 man to purchase one ten-gallon keg of 
 beer which he was to keep at his home 
 until the boys called for it in the evening. 
 
 Now, Mr. B had got wind of the 
 
 affair and lay hidden in a dark corner 
 watching the transaction. As soon as 
 the boys started up the street with the 
 
 keg, Mr. B rushed out. The boys 
 
 dropped the keg and ran. Mr. 
 first stopped to turn the faucet, and al 
 lowing the beer to run into the gutter, 
 
 19 
 
started after them. We will let the poeti 
 cal Expressman finish the story 
 
 the beer ! the beautiful beer! 
 
 It flowed upon the sidewalk so bright and so 
 
 clear, 
 And the silent stars wept and the moon shed 
 
 a tear 
 To see such a waste of the beautiful beer. 
 
 As B disappeared I had the keg righted, 
 
 And srlancing around, not one of them sighted , 
 And into the cellar I soon did disappear 
 With about seven gallons of beautiful beer. 
 
 Now here s to old B and his gay boys so 
 
 frisky, 
 
 1 hope they ll stear clear of beer, rum and 
 
 whiskey; 
 
 But boys, don t worry, and never have fear, 
 For I ll get away with your beautiful beer. 
 
 Possibly my readers will feel inclined 
 to doubt my words, but this Expressman 
 still lives and is as handsome as ever. 
 
 The author of the following lines is 
 unknown. Tennyson claimed them, By 
 ron claimed them, as .did Aguinaldo, 
 Billy the Kid and several other authors 
 
of renown. The professor hesitates to 
 give his views on so important a subject. 
 
 Who is this crowd from Stanford town? 
 They look so sad, with eyes cast down; 
 From Palo Alto to play ball 
 They come, and show immaculate gall. 
 Beware! Beware! their friends all cried 
 The U. C. boys will "tan your hides." 
 
 It was a happy crowd came down 
 On that bright day from Stanford town. 
 They came from Frisco to play ball, 
 But met defeat and feel quite small. 
 Too bad ! too bad ! And they all cried, 
 The U. C. boys have "tanned our hide." 
 
 Now Stanfordite, don t be a fool, 
 But go way back to Jordan s school; 
 Obey your teachers, great and small 
 Don t dream you ever can play ball. 
 Remain at home at your country side, 
 Or a U. C. boy will "tan your hide." 
 
 So when to Stanford back you go 
 With faces sad and full of woe, 
 No flags will wave, no music play, 
 And all will feel bad and regret the day 
 When they went away our joy and pride 
 For the U. C. boys did "tan their hides." 
 
A Great Discovery 
 
 While we have found many friends to 
 help and encourage us in our endeavor 
 to bring this priceless gem into the liter 
 ary world others have not been so ac 
 commodating. 
 
 A few months ago we learned that 
 there was in the U. C. Library an unpub 
 lished poem said to have been written by 
 Napoleon the Great during his imprison 
 ment at St. Helena. On account of the 
 great jealousy of the English government 
 this beautiful lyric was smuggled from 
 the island and finally reached the U. C. 
 Library and, greatly to our surprise, when 
 we requested leave to copy it, we were 
 refused, and told that it could not leave 
 the building." We then offered to come 
 there with our typewriter and three bot 
 tles of "Mile limit" and treat the crowd. 
 But No. We were informed that the U. 
 C. authorities did not allow tramps around 
 the buildings, and it was not until we 
 brought the powerful influence of our 
 friend, Mr. James Potatoes. Professor of 
 
Broomology and Janitor of North Hall 
 to bear, that we could gain access to the 
 manuscript. Professor Potatoes accom 
 panied us over to the Library and said, 
 "Librarian, by dad, if ye don t let my 
 
 friend B see that paper, be jabers 
 
 I ll let your fire go out." The threat 
 was enough. The venerable document 
 was quickly produced and we here pre 
 sent it to our readers. It is entitled 
 
 The Poetical Congress 
 
 A meeting was called by learned men one day 
 To hear the opinions, and let each have his say 
 To settle a question no one could decide 
 Who was the Boss Poet of all the world wide. 
 
 The wise men of England did Shakespeare 
 
 uphold, 
 Until up spoke a German with voice loud and 
 
 bold, 
 Vots der matter, he said, you certainly must be 
 
 villing 
 To admit dare vas never a poet like Schilling. 
 
 Then up jumped a Frenchman, I d have you to 
 
 know it 
 That France has produced full many a poet: 
 
 23 
 
There was Hugo, Beranger and Monsieur 
 
 Racine 
 Whose poetry pleased both peasant and queen. 
 
 Then up spoke bold Scottie whose face red did 
 
 turn 
 
 Did ye ever hear tell o my freen Robbie Burn? 
 Be japers, said Pat, not wan a good poet 
 Torn Moore bates them all I have \e to 
 
 know it. 
 
 Then spoke up Ah Sing a learned Chinaman, 
 You sabe Confucius he neber play tan, 
 But he potry make velly good, velly nicey 
 All Chinamen read when he eat he ricey. 
 
 Then up spoke our President, a man of great 
 
 knowledge, 
 Who came to the meeting right straight from 
 
 our College, 
 Said he You poor fellows, have you never 
 
 enjoyed 
 That beautiful poetry written by Boyd ? 
 
 So pleased were they when they heard the name 
 And that Boyd was climbing up the pillar of 
 fame, 
 
 They decided at once, to the credit of our nation, 
 That Boyd, as a poet, beat the rest of creation, 
 And that none other his place could ever take, 
 And that Boyd, as a poet, captured the cake. 
 
 24 
 
So Bevel s the boss poet of the whole Yankee 
 
 nation 
 And the Boss Baggage-buster flfBerkeley Station 
 
 Railroad Agent s Nightmare 
 
 What means this look so forlorn and sad 
 
 Which comes over the ticket agent s face 
 As on the approach of the train now due 
 
 At the window he takes his place? 
 He knows he ll hear the same old gag 
 
 Which he s heard both day and night 
 As some female pokes her face right in 
 
 And says, "Is that clock just right? 
 Five thousand times within the last year 
 
 The same old question has been sprung 
 It has been asked all hours of day 
 
 By middle-aged, old and young. 
 How oft the agent s heart feels faint 
 
 And his face turns pale with fright 
 When some one shoves his mug right in 
 
 And says, "Is that clock just right?" 
 Poor agent, I know how bad you feel 
 
 You d like to yell and swear 
 As you answer that question day after day 
 
 While they regard you with a stare. 
 It s enough to wear your patience out 
 
 And you should yell with all your inight- 
 "Yes, damn it, if you want to know, 
 
 That clock is always right." 
 
 25 
 
THE TELEPHONE GIRL 
 
 What is the matter, my pretty May ? 
 
 You mind your biz, sir, she did say; 
 
 Don t bother me, my brain s in a whirl 
 
 Since George made a mash on the telephone girl. 
 
 He conies at night and stays quite late, 
 I bid him good bye at the garden gate. v 
 Does he go straight home ? Ah ! I m afraid 
 He has fixed a date with the telephone maid , 
 
 Oh ! George, Oh ! George, my heart will break 
 If this "Hello girl" you do not shake. 
 Is it true what I heard said 
 You will "fly the coop" with the telephone 
 maid ? 
 
 For George, you remember you promised me 
 That in the spring we wedded should be; 
 And I feel sad, and my feelings hurt 
 When you "chew the rag" with the telephone 
 flirt. 
 
 So George, take care and go straight home, 
 And promise me you no more will roam, 
 Or go down town and get too gay 
 Awalking around with that telephone jay. 
 
 And George, kiss me, and tell me true 
 That you will shake the telephone crew, 
 And by my side you ll be each night 
 And speak no more to the telephone fright. 
 
 20 
 
The "Vigilante Oak" on Allston Way 
 
 Aye, cut it down, this old landmark, 
 
 Tis but a relic of the past, 
 Though for ages it has stood 
 
 The storm-king s wintry blast. 
 
 What though it sprang from mother-earth 
 Ere the white man reached this land, 
 
 Before kind earth did yield its gold 
 To the grasping Gringo s hand. 
 
 No matter if an outlaw met his death 
 By Judge Lynch s stern decree 
 
 No matter if the court was held 
 Beneath the old oak tree. 
 
 No matter of the statement made 
 
 By one of Berkeley s sages; 
 No matter if the wise L,e Conte 
 
 Said, tis a relic of past ages. 
 
 Aye, cut it down, ye ruthless sons 
 
 Of Berkeley s lovely clime; 
 Aye, cut it down and burn it up 
 
 It has outlived its time. 
 
 BOVD the Boss Crank of Berkeley 
 
 MYRTLE S PLAGUY CORN 
 
 Myrtle had a little corn 
 
 Upon her little toe 
 And every time that Myrtle stepped 
 
 That corn did hurt her so. 
 
She let her ma do all the work 
 
 And would not wash a dish; 
 And when mama said. Please make your bed, 
 
 She boldly said "Go fish." 
 
 But at all balls and parties too 
 
 She always could be found, 
 And not a Sunday but she went 
 
 To the picnic at Shell Mound. 
 
 She wanted to go to the fireman s dauce 
 Still, she knew she hadn t oughter, 
 
 But she soaked that corn for two long hours 
 In vinegar and hot water. 
 
 But when she pulled her slipper on 
 
 Upon that little foot, 
 She felt the pain of that darn corn 
 
 Away down to the root. 
 
 When her parduer asked her to dance 
 
 Upon the well-waxed floor, 
 The plaguy corn did hurt her so 
 
 It almost made her roar. 
 
 Why do you make that awful face ? 
 
 Her pardner he did say. 
 You mind your.biz, poor Myrtle said, 
 
 And don t you get too gay. 
 
 The next dance is a peach, he said 
 
 I wouldn t miss it for a dollar, 
 But, Jimmy Crips! when Myrtle stood up, 
 
 It almost made her holler. 
 
 28 
 
You should not wear such small shoes, 
 
 The young man said again; 
 Go screw your nut, poor Myrtle cried 
 
 Your chin gives me a pain. 
 
 Will you let me see that darling corn ? 
 
 Said the young man, with a sigh. 
 Go chase yourself around the block, 
 
 Poor Myrtle did reply. 
 
 Now Myrtle goes to hops no more, 
 For she finds it will not pay, 
 
 She has turned over a new leaf 
 And joined the Y. M. C. A. 
 
 JAPAN S PBOMISE 
 
 We are coming, Mr. School Trustee, about 
 
 seventy-five or eighty more; 
 We are coming, dear directors, from Japan s 
 
 pagan shore 
 We are coming to gay Berkeley, a town upon 
 
 the bay, 
 W T here a poor Jap gets free schooling for which 
 
 the people pay. 
 
 Why your people are such greenies, we don t 
 
 quite understand, 
 As to give free education to the Japs from 
 
 Japan land; 
 To pay all the taxes, cause them to toil with 
 
 might and main, 
 
 29 
 
And it looks as if the Yankees had these poor 
 Japs on the brain. 
 
 But don t worry, Berkeley people, for we will 
 
 fill your schools, 
 And be thankful to our idols that the Yankees 
 
 are such fools. 
 All we want is a job washing dishes night and 
 
 morn, 
 And if your short on taxes why put your 
 
 watch in pawn? 
 
 Praise the gods we ve struck a land where tbe 
 
 people are such fools 
 As to give to us, smart Japies, the freedom of 
 
 their schools. 
 The people they may kick when they come to 
 
 pay the tax, 
 But if we wash their dishes, what more can 
 
 they ax ? 
 
 So now, good Berkeley people, keep your piib- 
 
 lic schools a going, 
 And our jolly Japanese boys will fill them to 
 
 overflowing; 
 And if there is no room for the children of your 
 
 race 
 Why, let them stay at home and we will take 
 
 their place. 
 
 Written by the cute little Jap who 
 attends the Berkeley school. 
 
 30 
 
RICHMOND ON THE JEEMS 
 
 A soldier of Jeff. Davis lay dead drunk at Ball s 
 Bluff, 
 
 His canteen was nearly empty, for he d drank a 
 pile of stuff 
 
 A comrade was beside him, and he too lav- 
 stretched out, 
 
 But he bent with pitying glances to hear what 
 the other fellow might shout. 
 
 The drunken hobo staggered as he took that 
 
 comrade s hand, 
 Saying If I don t get off this jag I shan t see 
 
 my own, my native land. 
 Take a message to my home it is not as far as 
 
 it seems 
 For I was born at Richmond calm Richmond 
 
 on the Jeems. 
 
 My father was a soldier, and often when a kid. 
 My heart felt gay to hear him tell of the awful 
 
 things he did, 
 And when he turned his toes up and was planted 
 
 neath the green, 
 I let them take what else they would, but kept 
 
 the old canteen. 
 
 When I left my old home about ten months ago 
 My ma and sister Ruby both said I shouldn t go,. 
 But I ax d all my friends to think of me in 
 
 dreams, 
 
 For I was hound to fight the Yanks upon the 
 river Jeems. 
 
 31 
 
And his comrade took another drink and 
 
 quietly he turned o er, 
 And, pulling his cap o er his eyes, straightway 
 
 began to snore, 
 Forgetful of war s alarms or love s delightful 
 
 dreams 
 He dreamt that Lee had licked the Yanks upon 
 
 the river Jeems. 
 
 But soon the Yanks advanced their lines and 
 
 the two were gathered in 
 And sent to Johnson s Island without a drop 
 
 of gin. 
 
 Then said No. i to No. 2, Oh! dear, how hard it 
 
 seems, 
 I wish I was back in Richmond, upon the river 
 
 Jeems. 
 
 WELCOME TO UNION VETERANS 
 
 Written for the G. A. R. Encampment 
 held in San Francisco August 1903 
 
 Welcome ! Union Veterans, welcome ! 
 
 Welcome to our college town, 
 We have heard in song and story 
 
 Of your deeds when our flag was down. 
 
 How you fought to save "old glory" 
 When by erring sons disgraced, 
 
 Then you marched to save the nation 
 On Freedom s brow a crown you placed. 
 32 
 
Welcome ! Union Veteran, welcome ! 
 
 Welcome to this sun-kissed land, 
 You have fought to save the Union 
 
 We extend a welcome hand. 
 
 You have bravely faced the danger 
 Have heard the cannon s deadly roar; 
 
 You have seen your comrades falling 
 Their gaze fixed on heaven s bright shore. 
 
 Welcome ! Union Veteran, welcome ! 
 
 To the fairest spot on earth ; 
 Thou hast made the home of freedom 
 
 On the land that gave me birth. 
 
 As we read the page of history 
 
 Of Five Forks, Shiloh, Vicksburg too, 
 
 We pray "God bless the Union soldier" 
 May thy days be long and troubles few. 
 
 Welcome ! Union Veteran, welcome ! 
 
 Welcome, boys of sixty one, 
 You have stood the storm of battle 
 
 From Appomatox to Bull Run. 
 
 As we read of fields of danger 
 
 Where you marched to meet the foe 
 
 Bearing Freedom s flag triumphant ; 
 We now reap what you did sow. 
 
 Welcome! Union Veteran, welcome! 
 
 Welcome to our town, so gay 
 This is the spot the poet dreamed of 
 
 Where "the star of empire wends its way." 
 
No more shall your order meet in Berkeley, 
 For its race on earth is nearly run, [us 
 
 But we ll make you welcome while you re with 
 You fighting boys of sixty-one. 
 
 THE BLUE AND THE GRAY 
 
 Long years ago men s passions were rife 
 And both sides called for war 
 
 Political tricksters then took up the row 
 And fought with both tongue and jaw. 
 
 But those crafty ones didn t rush to the field 
 
 Nor arm themselves for the fray, 
 But left the fighting to be done 
 By men who wore blue and gray. 
 
 Four long years dread war s alarms 
 
 Shook our country to the core 
 And we rejoiced, both North and South, 
 
 When those terrible days were o er. 
 
 Our friends felt pleased on our return, 
 
 And happy was the day 
 When our soldier boys came marching home 
 
 And took off the blue and gray. 
 
 Long years rolled by blue and gray at rest 
 
 And peace had long held reign 
 When Spain commenced her dirty tricks 
 
 By blowing up the Maine. 
 
Again the bugle sounded war s alarm 
 
 Our boys hastened to the fray 
 No one asked where their fathers fought, 
 
 Or whether they wore blue or gray. 
 
 We honor the men who wore the blue 
 
 And those who wore the gray, 
 And the time for questioning has gone past 
 
 On what side did you fight that day ? 
 
 You "walloped us sweet, you Southland boys. 
 
 And we gave you "Jessie" too, 
 For American boys are the devil to fight 
 
 Whether wearing the gray or blue. 
 
 Then here s to the gray and to the blue 
 
 Who fought long years ago. 
 And on many a southern battle field 
 
 The crimson tide did flow. 
 
 Those days are past and gone, comrades, 
 
 Old friendships we ll renew, 
 And we dou t care a "hang" as we shake hands 
 
 Whether you wore gray or blue. 
 
 But one thing, comrades, let us all stear clear 
 
 Whatever else we may do 
 Of political sharps who shoot off their mouth 
 
 About loving the gray and the blue. 
 
 For when election day has come and gone 
 They have nothing more to say [fought 
 
 They don t give a whoop on which side you 
 Or whether you wore blue or gray. 
 
 Ho 
 
THE GOVERNMENT MULE 
 
 Have you read the sad story of Charley O Toole 
 Who was shot by the heel of a government mule? 
 He was the best scholar in our village school 
 And he didn t give a whoop for a government 
 
 mule. 
 
 Twas down at the fort where Ben Butler did rule 
 And Charley was chief chambermaid to a gov 
 ernment mule. 
 While buckling the croupier, this dod-gasted 
 
 old mule 
 Kicked the brains galley west of poor Charley 
 
 O Toole. 
 Oh ! Charley, my darling, why was you such a 
 
 fool 
 
 As to get in the rear of a government mule. 
 It may be all right to die for old glory, 
 But to die by a mule is a different story. 
 So, comrades, be careful and make it a rule 
 To keep to windward of a government mule. 
 And should one heave in sight, be steady and 
 
 cool 
 
 And avoid the sad fate of poor Charley O Toole. 
 Blood and brains mixed together lay mixed in 
 
 a pool 
 And its all that was left of poor Charley O Toole. 
 
 So here lies the body of Charley O Toole 
 Who was hit by the starboard battery of a gov 
 ernment mule. 
 
HOME, SWEET HOME 
 
 T was down on a southern streamlet 
 
 Where silver waters did flow 
 On one side camped we Yankees, 
 
 On the other, our southern foe. 
 The western sun was setting 
 
 And right was drawing near, 
 The pickets paced their lonely beats 
 
 Stout hearts that had no fear. 
 From out the gathering shades of night 
 
 Came the music of a band, 
 And a cheer rose from the southland boys 
 
 At tht- sound of "Dixie Land." 
 
 The challenge was accepted 
 
 And our band began to play 
 The moon rose in the heavens 
 
 And the scene was bright as day, 
 But all the world seemed gayer 
 
 And everything looked bright 
 As we heard "O! say can you see" by the 
 day s gray dawn 
 
 If our flag be still in sight ? 
 
 What a cheer rose from Yankee throats 
 As the grand old hymn was played, 
 
 But our southern foes soon answered us, 
 To show they were not dismaved; 
 
 37 
 
And clear the stirring notes we heard 
 
 Echoing from hill and crag, 
 Of that well-known air the Johnnies loved 
 
 "Hurrah for our Bonnie Blue Flag," 
 
 The cheer scarce died from rebel throats 
 
 Ere our band tuned up again 
 And soon there floated o er the camp 
 
 That well-remembered strain 
 A song we sung both night and day, 
 
 And we sang with true devotion, 
 And Yankee throats yelled loud and strong 
 
 Columbia s the Gem of the Ocean." 
 
 Night was drawing near taps close at hand, 
 
 Both bands had ceased to play, 
 As though the boys had gone to rest 
 
 To prepare for another day; 
 But soon there arose from the southern camp, 
 
 Echoing from earth to dome, 
 That tender air we loved so well 
 That good old "Home, Sweet Home." 
 
 Our band joined in with the southern band 
 
 In the song we loved so well, 
 And as they played of "Home, Sweet Home" 
 
 Both sides began to yell. 
 We thought of home and mother, too, 
 
 As determined no more to roam, 
 And both sides sang when the music ceased, 
 
 H-w "Johnnie Conies Marching Home." 
 
Lost Poem Deals on a Live Subject 
 
 The following beautiful poem was picked up 
 at Berkeley station. The owner ma3 r gain pos 
 session of it by calling at the office of the Ex 
 pressmen s Union. 
 
 Come all you Berkeley expressmen and list to 
 what I say, 
 
 Don t get in the road of the carmen while driv 
 ing on Bancroft \vay. 
 
 For if you do you ll have a smash and soon 
 repent the day 
 
 You ever had the impudence to drive on Ban 
 croft way. 
 
 The street is very narrow only about sixty 
 
 feet wide. 
 And the carmen want the middle while you 
 
 can take the side, 
 But look out when they come "kiting down" 
 
 though you ma} 7 not hear the bell, 
 For if you don t quickly clear the track, they ll 
 
 knock your rig to thunder. 
 
 They will knock 3 r ou silly if you are in their 
 
 way, 
 And if you commence to "kick," they call you 
 
 a "country jay." 
 
No matter how much damage done, these an 
 gels do not care, 
 
 But simply shout, "Oh, close your trap" and 
 "get the hayseed out yer hair" 
 
 You may talk about free country and all that 
 sort of rot, 
 
 But, boy, be careful, take my advice, don t get 
 the carmen hot, 
 
 But keep your weather-eye lifted, now remem 
 ber what I say, 
 
 And clear the track for the ding-a-ling when 
 driving on Bancroft way. 
 
THE BLOOMIN CORONATION 
 
 Much sorrow was expressed during the 
 summer of 03 when one of Berkeley s 
 most distinguished citizens was recalled 
 to his native land to assist in the coro 
 nation of King Edward VII. Great sor 
 row was manifested by his fellow towns 
 men, and a thrill of joy swept over the 
 college town when the glad news was 
 heralded that he was on his way to Berke 
 ley and would soon be with us. 
 
 The Town Trustees ordered the poet- 
 laureat to compose some verses for the 
 joyful occasion. 
 
 What is this good news that we hear 
 As we pass by Berkeley Station, 
 
 That Sammy Wakeham was made a Lord 
 At the bloomin coronation. 
 
 How all our people will rejoice, 
 And shout and screach and roar 
 
 When Sammy puts his bloomin foot 
 On the Bloomin Yankee shore. 
 
 But the English King did a noble deed 
 
 When a Peer of Sam he did make um, 
 And now his cards read "werry swell" 
 Houses painted by Lord Wakeham. 
 
ON A HOOK AND EYE 
 
 I won t compete, and I ll tell you why 
 
 I have no use for a hook or an eye. 
 
 If I "bust a button," I simply grin 
 
 Until I get hold of a safety pin. 
 
 A fellow would be in a terrible mess 
 
 If he had a woman to hook his dress. 
 
 A man will make all kinds of hitches 
 
 Ere asking a woman to button his breeches 
 
 And you can bet as sure as fate 
 
 She d make a blunder and not button 
 
 straight. 
 
 So now you know the reason why 
 I want nothing to do with hook or eye. 
 For I should faint I do confess 
 If a woman asked me to hook her drtss. 
 
 In conclusion, let me express :he hope 
 that my readers may feel as much pleas 
 ure in perusing this little gem as my 
 printers did when I planked down the 
 cash to pay for the printing. To be sure, 
 I had formed a plan to "stand them off." 
 But the other night, when I had retired 
 to my virtuous couch, and while sleeping 
 in childish innocence, 1 had a fearful 
 dream. In my dream, a figure with clo- 
 
 40 
 
ven hoofs and horns on his head appeared 
 at my bedside. In his hand he held a 
 copy of this book and opening it read as 
 follows 
 
 I am sorry to say, sad is your case, 
 You ll go way hack to the other place; 
 On such sad doings we must frown 
 As swindling the people of Berkeley town. 
 But one thing in your favor I will say 
 You did not forget your printer to pay; 
 And you certainly did have lots of fun 
 While your silly book never hurt any one. 
 
 I have often heard of the printers 
 devil, but if the fellow I saw in my dream 
 is a sample of their collecting agent I ll 
 "ante up" without a visit from the party 
 of the first part, his heirs, assigns, or 
 any of his relatives. 
 
 J. EDWARD BOVD, B. B. B. 
 N. B. No flowers. 
 
Photomount 
 Pamphlet 
 
 Binder 
 Gaylord Bros. 
 
 Makers 
 Stockton, Calif. 
 
 PAT. IAN. 21. 1908 
 
 I20c 
 
 U.C.BERKELEY LIBRARIES 
 
 7GG970 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY