University o. California Irvine CANZON1. \NZON! * k BY .anote wl'waj ?.[> 93 ,'mo-j SLOAN :912 David McKay, Publisher 610 f>. Washington Sa. CANZONI BY PICTURES BY JOHN SLOAN Thousand, April, 1912 David McKay, Publisher 610 S. Washington Sq. Philadelphia PS Copyright, IQOO l-y V. A. DALV. Firtt Edition, Oetobtr, tqob. Second Edition, Xo^irmbtr, tqoo Third Edition, J-'ttruary, IQffJ- Fourth Edition, August, iQffJ- Fifth F.dition, AitfMtt, M)o8. Sixth Edition, y*ne, IQOQ. Sn-rnth Edition, June, tQto. Eighth Edition, April, / An' after dat she through. Eef you be dog you jus* can go For sleepin' een da sun, An' you don't gat a wife, you know, For aska you for mon'. Eet's mak' no odds how you behave Eef^you are animal; You don't gat any soul to save, An* when you die, dat's all! 28 DA BLUE DEVIL. 29 O! my, how easy kind of life For justa nevva mind, To run away an' leave your wife An' evratheeng bayhind! Dees ees da way I feela w'en I'm, blue, but, alia same, W'en I am feel all right agen Eet mak'sa me ashame'. Wen devil gat ecnside o' me For mak' me feel like dat, I guess I would not even be A decen' dog or cat. FATHER O'SHEA AND FATHER McCREA. YE might search the world's ends, But ye'd find no such friends As Father O'Shea an' Father McCrea. Very caustic in wit Was Father O'Shea, But as droll every bit Was Father McCrea; An' O! such a volley o' fun they were pokin', The wan at the other, as good as a play, Wid their ready replies an' their innocint jokin', When Father O'Shea met Father McCrea. Now, upon a March Sunday it came for to pass Good Father McCrea Preached a very fine sermon an' then, afther Mass, Met Father O'Shea. " 'Twas a very appropriate sermon for Lent Ye delivered this minute. For the season o' fastin' 'twas very well meant I could find no meat in it!" Said Father O'Shea. .10 FATHER O'SHEA AND FATHER M'CREA. 31 Then, quick as the laughther that gleamed in his eye, Good Father McCrea Raised a finger o' protest an' made his reply To Father O'Shea. "Faith, I'll have to be workin' a miracle next, To comply wid your wishes. Dare you ask me for meat, my dear sir, when the text Was 'the loaves an' the fishes'?" Said Father McCrea. Very caustic in wit Was Father O'Shea, But as droll every bit Was Father McCrea; Though ye'd search the world's ends Ye would find no such friends As Father O'Shea an' Father McCrea. PADRE ANGELO. PADRE Angelo he say: "Why you no gat married, eh? You are maka playnta mon' For gon' taka wife, my son." "No; I am too beeza man 'Tandin' dees peanutta stan'. I no gatta time for play Fooleeshness weeth girls," I say. "My! you don'ta tal me so?" Ees say Padre Angelo. Bimeby, mebbe two, t'ree day, Younga girl she com' an' say: "Padre Angelo ees here? No? Eet eesa vera queer! Heesa housakeepa say 33 34 PADRE ANGELO. I gon' find hccm deesa way." While she eesa speaka so Ees com* Padre Angelo. "Rosa! you are look for me?" He ees say to her, an' she Say: "O! please, go homa, queeck, You are want' for som' wan seeck. I am sand for find you here." "Ah! da seecka-call, my dear. Com'," say Padre Angelo, "Deesa younga man ees Joe; Shaka han's bayfore we go. ' So I am shak' han's weeth her Leetla han' so sof like fur Den she bow to me an' go Weetha Padre Angelo. Bimeby, s'pose two, t'ree day more, She ees com' jus' like bayfore, An' she aska me: "You know Where ees Padre Angelo? Housakeep* she tal me wait Eef he don't be vera late." So I tal her taka seat An' to hav* som' fruit for eat. Den I talk to her an' she Smila sweet an' talk to me; PADRE ANGELO. 35 How long time I do not know. Den com' Padre Angelo. "O!" she say, "go homa queeck, You are want' for som' wan seeck." "My!" he say, "dees seecka-call! I am gat no peace at all. O! well, com', my dear," he say, An' he takin' her away. I am sad for see her go Weetha Padre Angelo. Many times ees lika dat. Peopla always seem for gat Seecka when he ees away. Rosa com' mos' evra day, An' som' time she gatta stay Pretta longa time, you know, Teell com' Padre Angelo. Steell I no gat any keeck How mooch peopla gatta sceck; I am feela glad cley do Rosa, she no keeckin', too. Lasta night my Rosa she Go to Padre weetha me, An' I tal heem: "Pretta soon Mebbe so da firsta June 36 PADRE ANGELO. Rosa gona be my wife!" He ees s'prise', you bat my life\ "Wat?" he say, an' rub hees eyes, "Dees ees soocha glada s'prise! My! you don'ta tal me so?" Ees say Padre Angelo. HEARTS APART. To count the days until we twain May read each other's eyes again. And dwell once more in Arcady, Is all my joy away from thee- Is all my joy and all my pain. When leaden-footed minutes wane To hours that burden heart and brain. 'Twere but a useless agony To count the days, Did thy most gracious heart not deign To bid my own heart entertain The hope of better things to be; Did I not know thy constancy And that, until we meet again, Two count the days. 37 BALLADE OF THOSE PRESENT. To the papers whose trade *is supplying The news in a gossipy way, All the workaday world should be hieing, Its compliments grateful to pay. How kind to the public are they When they publish our names in their pleasant Descriptions of ball or soiree As "among the most prominent present!" When we sit at the banquet board, trying To tickle our palates blase, Comes a thought that is more gratifying Than all the Lucullan array; More sweet than the sherry's bouquet, Or the flavor of succulent pheasant The thought of appearing next day As "among the most prominent present." 38 BALLADE OF THOSE PRESENT. 39 Since the common folk simply are dying To know what we do or we say, It were really a shame our denying To them all the pleasure we may. Then the news let the papers convey To the shopman, mechanic and peasant, Noting its at the dance or the play As "among the most prominent present." ENVOY. St. Peter, receive us, we pray, When we've done with this world evanescent, Assigning us places for aye As "among the most prominent present." LEETLA HUMPY JEEM. DA 'Merican boys eesa vera bad lot, Dey steala peanutta, banan', An' evratheeng gooda for eatin' I got, An' mak' all da troubla dey can. I gotta be keepin' awak* weeth both eye An' watch alia time for a treeck, An' gotta be queecka for runnin' an' try To spanka dcir pants weetha steeck. Ees wan o' dees boys dat ees call "Humpy Jeem," An' justa wors' wan in da pack, But how am I gona gat mada weeth hecm? He gotta rla hump on da back. Ees only a poor Icetla kccd an' so weak, An' I am so beeg an' so strong, I no can gat mad an' I not even speak For tal heem how moocha ees wrong. 40 LEETLA HUMPY JEEM. 41 Eet niaka heem laugha baycause ect ccs fun For reach weeth hees theen leetla han' An' grabbin' a coupla peanutta an' run So fas' as hees skeenny legs can. So always I maka pretand I no see How moocha peanutta he tak'. I guess I would like som" wan do dat tor me Eef I gotta hump on da back. Da beeg Irish cop ees say: "Poor leetla Jeem! Ees better for heem if he croke." I tal you eef som'theeng no happen to heem I guess pretta soon I be broke. I no like to theenkin' bad luck, but O! my! I weeshin' for evra one's sak' Dey soon gat an angela up in da sky Dat gotia da hump on da back. IF YOU WERE A BOY. IF you were a boy this morning, I wonder what you would do? Was ever a day more perfect, Was ever the sky more blue? I'm speaking to you, grave senior. I noticed you as you went, Hot-footing it into the city, To add to your cent, per cent. I noticed your sober manner, Your very important looks, And I noticed your boy beside you, The schoolboy with his books. I saw and you saw where the river Sweeps down to the "swimmin'-hole," Another boy playing "hookey" A boy with a fishing-pole. 42 IF YOU WERE A BOY. If you were a boy this morning, I wonder what you would do? I saw you stooping to whisper A word to the boy with you. It seemed to me then you told him That the truant boy was a fool, That nothing ripens manhood Like the moments spent in school. With the fresh blue sky above you And the green fields under it, How dare you utter such nonsense! O! liar and hypocrite? If you were a boy this morning, A boy with a heart and soul, You'd be, in spite of a licking, The boy with the fishing-pole. 43 CORNAYLIUS HA-HA-HA-HANNIGAN. TWAS the godfather stuttered, or mayhap the priest; But, be that as it may, it is certain, at least, That the wan or the other was surely to blame Fur presintin' the lad the quare twisht to his name. For there at the christ'nin', Wid iv'ry wan list'nin', Now didn't his Riverence, Father O'Flanigan, Wid nervousness stam'rin', Bechune the child's clam'rin', Baptize it "Cornaylius Ha-Ha-Ha-Hannigan!" Wid these words from the priest, shure, the cute little rogue Up an' stopped his own mouth wid his chubby kithogue, An' the dimples broke out an' prosaded to chase All the tears an' the frowns from his innocint face. For, faix, he was afther Absorbin' the laughther Stuck into his name by good Father O'Flanigan! Now that's the thruth in it, An' so from that minute Shure, iv'ry wan called the lad "Ha-Ha-Ha-Hannigan." 45 4 6 CORNAYL1US HA-IIA-HA-HANNIGAN. Now, the "ha! ha! ha!" stuck to him close as his name, For the sorra a tear could be drownin' the same. Not a care iver touched him from that blissid day But his gift o' the laughther would drive it away. Wid jokin* an' chaffin' He niver stopped laughin', Or if he did stop he immajiate began agin; An' iv'ry wan hearin* His laughther so cheerin' Jisht j'ined in the mirth o* young "Ha-Ha-Ha-Hanni gan." Shure, the throubles o' life are so palthry an' small Tis a pity we let thim disthurb us at all. There is niver a care but would Pave us in p'ace If we'd only stand up an' jisht laugh in its face. Faix, life were a pleasure If all had the treasure Conferred so unthinkin' by Father O'Flanigan; If all could but borrow That cure-all for sorrow Possissed by "Cornaylius Ha-Ha-Ha-Hannigan!' A NEW PATRIOT. EES no so hard for Dago man To be a gooda 'Merican. Too dumb, too slow, you theenka me, But I am sharpa 'nough for see Da firsta theeng dat you mus' know Ees how to speak da Inglaice, so Dat you can wave your hat an' say: "Da redda, whita, blue! Hooray!" Eef you are smarta 'Merican You try for skeen som' udder man, Baycause you know dat he weell do Da sama kinda treecks weeth you. But you are good as heem an' he Ees jus' so good as you an' me, So long we all stan' up an' say: "Da redda, whita, blue! Hooray!" 47 48 A NEW PATRIOT. For land dat I was Iccvin' ccn Da flag ccs rcdda, whita, green. So alia w'at I gotta do Ees jus' forgat da green for blue. I skecn you eef I gatta chance, But dat ees male' no dccferance. I gooda 'Mcrican, an' say: "Da redda, whita, blue! Hooray I" HOUSE AND HOME. ON the day when you were wed, Seven Junes ago, you said All your life's ambitions were Centred in a home with her. Wealth and health attending you, All these busy twelvemonths through, Blessed your life and hers, and yet, Where's the home you meant to get? That's your house across the way With the marble front, you say? That's your auto standing there Underneath the porte-cochere. That prim butler at the door Very likely lords it o'er Quite a dozen maids or more; Maids who toil and maids who shirk, Maids for menial kitchen work, Maids who guard with brush and broom Every richly furnished room, Every polished oaken stair; Maids to dress milady's hair 49 5 c HOUSE AND HOMR. Maids and flunkies everywhere! Quite a grand menage, but, sir, Where's the home you promised her? Wealth can rear a gilded dome; Love and Duty make the home. Gold is no essential thing In its proper furnishing. Not an auto at the door, But a coach becomes it more Tiny coach whose one or two Occupants resemble you. Gems of art that grace your hall You might well exchange for small Finger-marks upon the wall. Lisping voices, pattering feet, Furnish melody more sweet Than your grand salon has known. Where's the home you meant to own? All that lies behind your door Is a dwelling-place; no more. DOLCE FAR NIENTE. THERE'S lazy clouds a-driftin* In the lazy sky o' June, An' Nature's just in keepin' With this lazy afternoon. I've strolled out through the meaders To this pleasant little nook, An' I'm loafin' in the shadders, An' a-listenin' to the brool:. But I ain't a bit contented Not a bit, an' that's a fac' For I can't help a-thinkin Of the long walk back. The little brook's a-singin' Kinder lazy-like an' low, An' it's mighty cool an' restin' Where its crystal waters flow. An' its singin' charms a feller, An' it seems ter say to him As he's layin' nigh a-dozin': "Don't yer wanter take a swim?" Now there's nothin' I like better Than to take a swim, but then There's the trouble of a-puttin' On yer clothes again. Si A DIXIE LULLABY. O! DE sun quit a-shinin' fo' dis arternoon, De possum in de gum-tree mighty still, An* de ole San'-Man jump off fum de moon Wen hit done come obah de hill. An' he come erlong totin' a baig full o' san* Fo' ter frow inter pickaninnies' eyes, An' he teck dem erway to de sweet slumbcr-lan* Fo' ter stay 'twell de nex' sun-rise. So g'long wif de San'-Man, deah, De good Lawd keep Y<>' w'ile yo' sleep, An' yo' mammy'll 'wait yo' heah. 52 A DIXIE LULLABY. O! he'll teck yo' up on a bright moon-ray An' he'll rock yo' on a cloud in cle skies, An' he'll keep yo' dar 'twell de break o' day, So, mah honey, jes' close yo' eyes; 'Less de moon go down in de far-off west, An' outer de dahk swamp-Ian' De bad Boogy-Man come out ob he nest An' skeer off de good San'-Man. So g'long wif de San'-Man, deah, De good Lawd keep Yo' w'ile yo' sleep, An' yo' mammy'll 'wait yo' heah. 53 DA GREATA STRONGA MAN. You oughta see my Uncla Joe Wen he ees gatta mad. He ees da strongest man I know Wen som' wan treat heem bad. Hees eye eet flash like blazin' coal, An' w'en he ope hees mout' He growla like you theenk hees soul Ees turna eenside out. He eesa gat so stronga den An* swell so big an' fat, Eet gona taka seexa men For justa hold hees hat. You oughta see my Uncla Joe Wen he ees mad weeth you. You bat my life! den you will know I eesa speaka true. He gat so strong eenside of heem Eet mak' your hearta freeze, An' eef he looka at som' cream Eet turna cento cheese. 54 DA GREAT A STRONG A MAN. 55 Den you vveell run, you bat my life! So fast as you can go, An' throw away your gun or knife. Ha! strong man, Uncla Joe. You oughta see my Uncla Joe! Eet w'at you call "surprise." Las' night beeg Irish ponch heem so Eet close up bot' hees eyes. O! my! he eesa looka bad; Mus' be ees som'theeng wrong, Baycause w'en Uncla Joe ees mad He always been so strong. I guess dees Irish heet his blow So queecka an' so rough He no geeve time to Uncla Joe For gatta mad enough. TO A WEE COQUETTE. WEE lady, such a tease thou art One may not half believe thee. I share a corner of thy heart, And yet thou wouldst deceive me; For when I beg thee, little Flo, To grant just one caress, Thy pouting lips make answer: "No!" The while thine eyes say "Yes." Wise men assure us that the heart Is mirrored in the eyes; In thine I read with lover's art The truth thy tongue denies. So thou, my sweet, those eyes must close Or yield to my caress, For though thou speak ten thousand "Nocsl" Thine eyes still answer "Yes." THE "OUCHES." THE ^'Ouches" is the queerest crew On earth, or anywhere. They al'ays live inside o' you An' you don't know they're there. For jist as long as you are nice An' good as you kin be They'll stay as quite an' still as mice, Fur they're asleep, ye see. But sometimes when you git a bump 'At makes you kind o' mad, It wakes an Ouch! an' out he'll jump, An' 'at's a sign you're bad. Most Ouches makes your throat their home, Or, leastways, one appears Right there when mother starts to comb Your hair or wash your ears. An' funny thing about 'em, too, My mother tells about, An Ouch can't do no harm in you If you don't let it out. So if you really truly care To be the boy you should, Jist shut your mouth an' keep 'cm there, An' 'at's a sign you're good. 57 BETWEEN TWO LOVES. I GOTTA lov' for Angela, I lov' Carlotta, too. I no can marry both o' dem, So w'at I gona do? O! Angela ees pretta girl, She gotta hair so black, so curl, An* teeth so white as anytheeng. An' O! she gotta voic"e to seeng, Dat mak' your hcarta feel eet must Jump up an' dance or eet weell bust. 58 BETWEEN TWO LOVES. An' alia time she seeng, her eyes Dey smila like Italia's skies, An' makin' flirtin' looks at you But dat ees all w'at she can do. Carlotta ees no gotta song, But she ees twice so big an* strong As Angela, an' she no look So beautiful but she can cook. You oughta see her carry wood! I tal you w'at, eet do you good. When she ees be som'body's wife She worka hard, you bat my life! 6o nro She never gaum' lired, too But dat ces all w'at she can do. O! my! I weesh dat Angela Was strong for carry wood, Or else Carlotta gotta song An' looka pretta good. I gotta lov* for Angela, I lov' Carlotta, too. I no can marry both o' dem, So w'at I gona do? FATHER DAN O'MALLEY. WHIN Father Dan O'Malley came as curate to St. Ann's, There was work in Dublin Alley layin' ready to his han's. Aye! 'twas work o' sich a nature that no common man could do, Fur, indade, the only t'acher that the Alley gossoons knew Was the Divil that was lurkin' in the badness of their hearts, And it's never aisy wurkin' fur to strive agin his arts. But although he's cute, fur, shure, it is the Divil's trade to schame, Ye can trust an Irish curate fur to bate him at his game. There was little dilly-dally in the layin' out of plans Whin Father Dan O'Malley came as curate to St. Ann's. Now, the trouble jisht was layin' in the fact that as a rule The gossoons thought more of playin' than of goin' to Sunda' school. Ev'ry plisant Sunda' mornin', faith, ye'd find thim at their game, 61 62 FATHER DAN O'MALLEY. Nor could any threat or warnin' make thim feel a sinse o' shame. An' of all the little divils that desp'iled the holy day, The ringleader of their rivels was that rascal, Paddy Shea. He could set a top a-spinnin' till ye'd think 'twould never stop, An' the marbles he was winnin' would have aisy stocked a shop. Not a soul in Dublin Alley 'd won a vict'ry from his han's Till Father Dan O'Malley came as curate to St. Ann's. Father Dan was big an' jolly, wid a heart that filled his chist, An' a smile that it was folly fur ye tryin' to resist. Well, it took a bare half-hour of one Sunda' morn in May Fur to dimonstrate his power over roguish Paddy Shea. Though the bells had rung their rally to the Sunda' school, the hall Showed no lad of Dublin Alley had appeared at all, at all. Father Dan wint out a-gunnin* fur the rogues that stayed away, An' the rascals started runnin', but he captured Paddy Shea. Thin it was that Dublin Alley passed from out the Divil's han's, Fur Father Dan O'Malley now was curate at St. Ann's. FATHER DAN O'MALLEY. 63 "Now, me boy," sez he to Paddy, "y u ' re the champeen player here, So you'll play wid me, me laddie, jisht to make yer title clear; Is it marbles ye've been playin'? Well, we'll start agin to play, But you'll bend yer knees to prayin' whin I've licked ye, Paddy Shea. Come along, you rogue! Your luck'll not avail ye now to win. Whisht! More power to me knuckle, 'tis the Church's work it's in." From the very first beginnin' Father Dan outplayed the lad, An' he wasn't long in winnin' ev'ry marble that he had. After that the Dublin Alley lads was putty in the han's Of Father Dan O'Malley, who is curate at St. Ann's. So the Sunda' school is crowded to the doors this blessed day, Fur the lads had lost their marbles to the skill of Paddy Shea, An' the leader o' the Alley has in turn throwed up his han's To Father Dan O'Malley, who is curate at St. Ann's. CONTENT. ALONG about this time o' year, The while I set a-blinkin' In the warm sunshine here, I always git to thinkin' The old farm ain't so bad a place, But what I feel some pity Fur the dumb fools thet's in the race Fur gold down in the city. You don't ketch me a-praying God To better my position. I only want my fishin'-rod An' time to go a-fishin'. 1 got a shirt, a pair o' pants, Coat, hat, an' appetite; I know the fish, an' all their ha'nts An' when they're like to bite. An' all the clo'es I want is what Will keep off chill an' shiver, While I'm a-settin* in this spot The best along the river. Ketch me a-combin' of my hair An' wearin' cuffs an' collars! I wouldn't be a millionaire Fur seven hundred dollars! 64 W'AT'SA USE? W'AT'SA use for gattin' mad Jus' .baycause you feela bad? You gon' feela worse an' worse Eef you gona stop an' curse Evra time ees som'thceng wrong. You no gotta leeve so long. Wan, two, t'ree, four year, bimeby, Mebbe so you gona die. So ees best from day to day Maka sunshine weetha hay. Don't be gattin' mada while You can hava time to smile. W'at'sa use? Padre Smeeth he tal me, too, Justa like I tal to you. Wan day he ees say, "Hallo! Wat ees mak' you growla so? Evra time you gatta mad Eet ees mak' Diablo glad. Justa laugh an' don'ta care, Den you mak' Diablo swear." Smila now an' den bimeby You can smila w'en you die. Growla now an' you weell yell Weeth Diablo down een well W'at'sa use? 65 KISS HER. SAY, young man! if you've a wife, Kiss her. Every morning of your life, Kiss her. Every evening when the sun Marks your day of labor done, Get you homeward on the run- Kiss her! Even though you're feeling bad, Kiss her. If she's out of sorts and sad, Kiss her. Act as if you meant it, too; Let the whole true heart of you Speak its ardor when you do Kiss her. 66 KISS HER. 67 If you think it's "soft," you're wrong. Kiss her! Love like this will make you strong. Kiss her. You're her husband now, but let Her possess her lover yet. Every blessed chance you get, Kiss her. Every good wife lets her man Kiss her. Be a man then, when you can; Kiss her. If you'd strike with telling force At the Evil of Divorce, Just adopt this simple course: Kiss her. DEAR UNSELFISH DAN. 'MosT every one that knowed our Dan Agreed he was the kindest man They ever see. He had the knack Of takin' on his own broad back The burdens an' the slaps and pokes Belonged by rights to other folks. If any one was in distress An' went to Dan, he'd say: "I guess We'll pull you out all right; let's see, Suppose you leave all that to me." Was nothin* finer than the way He cared for poor old Uncle Jay, Who was the most unlucky han* For havin' trouble with his Ian' 'Bout taxes, or the early spring Plowin', or some other thing That plumb upsot the poor old man. Then, in the nick o' time, our Dan Steps in, and sez, "Don't fret," sez he, "Suppose you leave all that to me." 68 DEAR UNSELFISH DAN. 69 It got to be that Uncle Jay He couldn't git along no way Without our Dan, an' our Dan he Jest cared fur him unselfishly. An' when the old man come to die Our Dan, o' course, was right close by. Sez Uncle Jay: "I'm worrit, Dan, 'Bout what's to come of all my Ian' An' all my money out at loan, An' in the bank, when I am gone." Then Dan, he ups an' sez, sez he : "Suppose you leave all that to me." HER ANSWER. "DEAR Nell," he wrote, "these violets I've made so bold to send to you Shall be my mute ambassadors; And each shall tell how deep and true The sender's love is, craving yours For him. What messengers more meet? Are they not typical of you, They are so sweet?" "Dear Jack," she wrote, "your violets Have just this moment been received. Their message took me by surprise, 'Twas something scarce to be believed. I send my answer back with them; What fitter messengers for you? So typical of how you'll feel They are so blue!" KITTY'S GRADUATION. DUBLIN Alley jisht was crazy, jubilation was the rule, Chewsday week whin Kitty Casey won the honors at the school. Shure, the neighbors had been waitin', all impatient of delay, For to see her graduatin' on that most important day. Eddication is a power, an' we owned wid one accord Casey's girl's the sweetest flower ever blossomed in the ward, Whin, wid dress white as the daisy, but wid cheeks that shamed the rose, We beheld wee Kitty Casey in her graduation clo'es. Now, this Casey loved his daughther in a most indulgent way, An' he spent his gold like wather for her graduation day. Sich a dale of great preparin'! Shure, ye'd think she was a bride; Sorra hair was Casey carin' for a blessed thing beside. For whin Casey once comminces, faith, he niver stops at all, An' he dressed her like a princess at a Coronation Ball. An' 'twas Madame Brigette Tracy for dressmaker that he chose, For to fit out Kitty Casey in her graduation clo'es. 71 KITTY'S GRADUATION. Of dressmakers, shure, the oddest was this one that Casey'd got, For her bill-heads called her "Modiste," though the prices there did not. "But," scz Casey, "I can stan it for to pay a few more cints, So jisht go ahead an' plan it, ma'am, raygardless of ixpinse." Kl TTY'S GRA D UA TION. 73 "Bong Moonseer," sez she, "I'll try it wid the usual 'savoir fair.' " "As fur that," sez Casey, "buy it, wid the other things she'll wear." So ye see the man was crazy for to get the best that goes For his little Kitty Casey in her graduation clo'es. KITTY'S GRADUATION. 75 All the women jisht were itchin' for to see her gettin' dressed, Some were crowded in the kitchen an' the stairway, while the rest, The most favored ones,\vint rushin' to the livin' room above, Where stood Mrs. Casey blushin' wid a mother's pride an' love. "O!" sez she, " 'twould be a pity if I couldn't schame an' plan So that Kitty'd look as pritty as Mag Ryan's Mary Ann." "Tut! ye needn't be onaisy," sez a neighbor. "Goodness knows, There'll be none like Kitty Casey in her graduation clo'es.'' An' there's really no denyin', whin they marched into the hall Kitty Casey pushed the Ryan girl complately to the wall. Whin she made her prize oration an' they gave her her degree, There was sich a dimonstration as ye'll niver live to see, For the men from Dublin Alley voiced their feelin's in a cheer Like they utther whin they rally in a Dimmycratic year, An' of Casey's proudest days he counts that best of all he knows Which beheld his Kitty Casey in her graduation clo'es. AN ITALIAN KING. I AM so good for cvratheeng I ouglita be clecta Kceng! Ees no soin'budy else at all So strung like me, so bccg, so tall, An' no som'body else can do So grcata thccngs like I can, too. How mooch you try you no can be So luia bccga man like me. You bat my life! I ouglita gat A crown for wear censide my hat, An* makin* all da style I can, Baycause I am so granda man. All dees ees true. Eh? how I know? My Icetla boy he tal me so. You maka fun wccth me an' tease, An' call me "Dago" cef you please; An* mcbbe so I what you call "No good for anythecng at all," An' you weell thccnk you speaka true Baycause ect looka so to you. Wai, mebbe som* time you are right, But not w'en I gat home at night. Ha! dat'sa time dat I am Keeng An* I am good for evratheeng! I know; baycause Patricio, My leetla boy, he tal me so. 76 DA PRITTA LADY. EES playnta reecha ladies com' By dees peanutta-stan'; I like to watcha dem, for som' Ees looka justa gran'. Dey got so fina hat an' dress, An' evratheeng so clean, Most any Keeng be proud, I guess, For calla one hees Queen. Beeg Irish cop say: "Looka dat! I tal you she's a peach! Dat's kinda wife a man can gat Eef he ees only reech." I theenk of Angela, my wife, An' weesha: "My, O! my, Eef she like dat, you bat my life, I would be satisfi'." But den I theenk, su'pose my wife Was beautiful like dees; I would be frighten of my life To aska her for keess. 77 78 DA PR1TTA LADY. I would be scare' to hug her so Like w'at I always do To Angela, baycause, you know, She mebbe bust in two. Baysides, my Angela she gat My baby at her breas'; Eet mighta not be lika dat Eef she was reech, I guess. No reecha lady coulda be So pritta eef she try, Like Angela ees look to me. So I am satisfi'. A FROSTY MORNING. I LOVE these frosty mornings, When all the outer air Is tingling with a freshness And vim beyond compare. The north-wind in the tree-tops Proclaims the coming dawn, And sends the crisp leaves rattling Across the frozen lawn. From some adjacent farmyard A watchful chanticleer, With raucous, joyous crowing Assails the atmosphere. Then, nearer home, a watchdog, Awakened from his sleep, Gives voice to his resentment In tones prolonged and deep. 79 80 A FROSTY MORNING. A wagon, bound for market, Goes creaking down the road I hear the axles groaning Beneath the heavy load. The light grows at my window, And on the pane, I see, Jack Frost has limned a picture Of silver tracery. Now, from the servants' stairway, Slow feet descend the hall; And then a kitchen shutter Bangs out against the wall. I love, these frosty mornings, To note these things, and then To draw the bed-clothes closer And go to sleep again. TO THE GROWLER. BE patient! Be a Christian and forbear To objurgate the Weather-man and swear Because the sting of winter's in the air. Do you remember Those days in June, a few short months ago, Whose scorching heat oppressed and baked you so, And made you yearn the blest relief to know Of cool September? And when September came and in its train Brought days of frost and days of sodden rain, Good gracious! how you kicked and growled again! Do you remember? Those summer days will soon have come once more, And you'll forget how bitterly you swore At all the winter weather gone before. Will you remember, When you are sweltering in mid-July, The flakes, frost-feathered, that were wont to fly From out the windy reaches of the sky, This past December? Meantime, if you should die and you should get Your just desserts, with O! what vain regret, These winter days (because they're cold and wet) You will remember! 81 DEESA GREATA HOLIDAY. HOORAH! for deesa General Dat maka Fourth-July! I sella playnta lemonade, Banan' an* cake an' pie. He maka beezaness for me At dees peanutta-stan', An' w'en I eesa gotta time I go for shak' hees han'. W'en I am com' America, Some fallow on da sheep He tal how deesa General He "mak* da Inglaice skeep." "We don'ta wanta fightin' here," Dees General he say, "So, Meester Inglaice Fightin'-man, You besta go away." An' den dees Inglaice Fightin'-man, He aska heem "For why?" Da General ees gatta mad. "I no can tal a lie," 82 DEES A GREAT A HOLIDAY. 83 He say to deesa Fightin'-man, "An* so I speaka true. If you no gatta 'way from here I tal you w'at I do. I tie you een a cherry tree, An' den I tak' my knife An' feeda you weeth cherry pie Ees cooka by my wife!" "O! No!" ees say da Fightin'-man, An' looka pretta seeck, "I notta wanta fight weeth you. I go for home dees week." Da Fightin'-man he was so scare He justa run away. * * * * * "An' now," ees say de General, "We maka holiday, For leetla boys to maka noise An' eata cake an' pie. Dees holiday will be da one We calla Fourth-July." THE NATIONAL ENCAMPMENT. He's a-comin', he's a-comin'l An' he sets the town a-buzz. Though they ain't as many of 'im As what they useter wuz. He's a-growin' more important Jest because he's dyin' out. The G. A. R.'s a-comin', "Hats off!" along the rout'. He's a-comin', he's a-comin' ! An' a grateful people tries To bring the light o' gladness To the old-time fighter's eyes. So the old flag waves above 'im, An' he hears the people shout: "The G. A. R.'s a-comin', Hats off along the rout'!" / He's a-marchin', he's a-marchin'! There's a reminiscent touch Of his bearin' in the "Sixties" In the way he slings his crutch, As he marches ever onward To the last Great Muster-out. The G. A. R.'s a-comin'! "Hats off!" along the rout'. 84 AT CASTLE GARDEN. HERE'S a whole ship-load of swate femininity Girls of the Sod! Faith! but I'm glad to be in the vicinity. Here with me hod, Mortar and bricks have engaged me this solid day. O! but I wish I was drissed fur a holiday! Wouldn't I show ye the taste of a jolly day, Girls of the Sod? Let me stand by in this workaday guise of mine, Girls of the Sod, O! but the sight of ye moistens these eyes of mine. Isn't it odd? Maybe the view of yer solemn processional Out of the ship, as it were a confessional, Carries my heart in a tour retrogressional Back to the Sod. 85 86 AT CASTLE GARDEN. O! I am thinkin' 'twas jisht a mistake of ye L'avin' the Sod. All that is best ye have left in the wake of ye, There where ye trod Fields that were full of the swateness that's blessin' ye. Fresh with the breezes so fon'd of caressin' ye O! but there's many a heart will be missin' ye, Girls of the Sod! There ye reaped joy if ye only were knowin' it, Here 'twill be odd If what ye're reapin' will pay ye fur sowin' it, Girls of the Sod. Arrah! No wonder ye're lookin' so serious, This is a country to make ye delirious, Toilin' an* moilin* to serve the imperious Mammon, its god. Listen to me an' I'll have the whole crowd of ye Back to the Sod, Back to the valleys that love and are proud of ye, Girls of the Sod! Ireland needs ye, her love that has girt ye there Yearns fur ye still an' will 1'ave nothin' hurt ye there Gold isn't counted like goodness and virtue there, Thanks be to God! AT CASTLE GARDEN. 87 Still if there's wan of ye bent upon tarryin', Girls of the Sod, Did I not mintion the merits o' marryin' I'd be a clod. So if ye're needin' the love of a merry man, Merry but sober, a dacint young Kerry man, Faith, I could whishper the name of the very man Give me a nod! DA BESTA FRAND. No keeck my dog! Ha! don'ta dare! For jus' so queeck you do, You Meester 'Merican, I swear I brack your face for you! Eh? Wat? Well, den, dat's alia right, But let my Carlo be. Escusa me for gat excite'; Com', look! 1 smila! See? I want be frand weeth you, eef dat You wanta be my frand, But Carlo ees bes' frand I gat Een all dees bigga land, An' he ees firsta 'Merican For com' w'en I am blue An' mak' me feela like man I tal eet all to you. W'en I am com' from Italy, Jus' landa from da sheep, Som' thief he tak' my mon' from me An' presto! he ees skeep. 89 90 DA BESTA FRAND. An* w'en I find ees gon', O! my! I scream, I pull my hair, An' justa run aroun' an' cry Like crazy man an* swear. W'en com'sa beeg poleecaman, I ask, I beg dat he Weell catcha thiefa eef he can He justa laugh at me! I sect een street I am so blue An' justa hold my head An' theenk "w'at am I gona do?" An* weesh dat I am dead. Som' peopla com' an' look, but dey Jus* smile an" notta care; So pretta soon dey gon' away An' leave me seettin* dere. How long I sect I no can tal; I pray, I cry, I curse I bat you eef I go to hal I no could feel more worse! But while I sect ees som'theeng sof Dat touch my cheek an' w'en I tak' my hand for brush eet off Eet touch my cheek agen. I look. Ees justa Icctla cur Dat wag hees yellow tail! An* blood ees on hees yellow fur, DA BEST A PR AND. An' dere ees old teen pail Tied on bayhind. Poor leetla pup! But steell he leeck my hand, As eef he say to me: "Cheer up! I gona be your frand." I hug heem up! I am ashame' For let heem see dat he Ees justa dog, but alia same Ees better man dan me. So! dees ees Carlo, Meester Man; I introduce to you, Da true, da kinda 'Merican; Da first I evva knew! THE WISDOM OF THE SPARROWS. TWAS a city sparrow, wise and debonair, Idly loafing through the country with his mate. Stupid country birds were building everywhere, For the nesting-time was growing very late, But the sparrow, with his lady, In a tree-top, cool and shady, Gazed with scorn upon the work and twittered: "Stuff!" To his mate he chirruped shrilly: "Isn't all this labor silly, When a roosting-place at night is quite enough?" Twas a motherly old robin, near at hand, Who was busy at her building with the rest, And she turned upon the sparrows to demand How they meant to hatch their eggs without a nest. "Such impertinence!" half sadly Said the sparrow; "and yet gladly I'll impart to you the knowledge that you beg." Then, with haughty condescension, He remarked: "I need but mention That it's possible to obviate the egg." * 92 THE ll'ISDOM OF THE SPARROWS. 'Twas a congress of the birds of every sort, All indignantly assembled to protest Their displeasure, when the robin made report Of the threatened abolition of the nest; And they spoke of it as "awful!" "Selfish," "scandalous," "unlawful," And they prophesied "the country's speedy fall." But the sparrows, quite disdaining All this ignorant complaining, Simply went their way, unmindful of it all. 'Twas a sage old owl, a very solemn bird, Sat and listened while his feathered fellows fought. Never once he oped his mouth to say a word, But he did a lot of thinking and he thought: "So the sparrows think it best To abolish eggs and nest. Well, perhaps the wisdom isn't theirs at all, But a plan of good Dame Nature's To eliminate such creatures. Let them have their way; the loss is mighty small." 93 THE MODEST COLLEEN. IF I should sing of "Mary" Don't think that that's her name. My colleen bawn's conthrary And doesn't care for fame. She sez 'twould make her fidget To see her name in print, So I can't sing of Murther! I nearly gev a hint! She likes to watch me writin* A sonnet to her eyes, In poethry recitin' The love that in me lies, But holds one rosy digit, Resthrainin' of me pen, For fear I'll mintion Musha! I almost wrote it then. 04 THE MODEST COLLEEN. 95 So whin the names of Nora, An' Nell an' Kate, betimes, Or Mary, Rose or Dora Are mintioned in me rhymes, They mean that modest midget, That charmin' little elf, Whose name is O! I'll 1'ave ye To guess her name yerself. THE OLD PARISHIONER. THE graybeard glories in the past Mid prates of "good old days." These times are out of joint, he growls, And sneers at modern ways. He shakes his head at every move That's up-to-date and new, And everything you do is just The thing you shouldn't do. It's: "Mercy save us! Look at that! We're slidin' back, I fear. The parish isn't what it was Whin Father Mack was here. ' "The weddin's now are not as fine As weddin's used to be, An', faith, they're not so numerous At all, at all," says he. 96 THE OLD PARISHIONER. 97 "Then, christ'nin's, too, were plentiful An' carried out wid style; 'Twould warm your heart to see them there A-crowdin' up the aisle. An' sermons! How the crowds would come To listen! Dear, O! dear, The parish isn't what it was Whin Father Mack was here." Yet, from a study of the rolls And records, 'twould appear The parish claimed but fifty souls When Father Mack was here. LEETLA GIORGIO WASHEENTON. You know w'at for ees school keep out Dees holiday, my son? Wai, den, I gona tal you 'bout Dees Giorgio Washeenton. Wai, Giorgio was leetla keed Ees leeve long time ago, An' he gon' school for learn to read An* write hees nam', you know. He moocha like for gona school An' learn hard all day, Baycause he no gat time for fool Weeth bada keeds an* play. Wai, wan cold day w'en Giorgio Ees steell so vera small, 98 LEETLA GIORGIO WASHEENTON, 99 He start from home, but he ees no Show up een school at all! O! my! hees Pop ees gatta mad An' so he tal hees wife: "Som' leetla boy ees gon' feel bad To-day, you bat my life!" An' den he grab a beega steeck An' gon' out een da snow An' lookin' all aroun' for seek Da leetla Giorgio. Ha! w'at you theenk? Firs' theeng he see Where leetla boy he stan', All tangla up een cherry tree, Weeth hatchet een hees han'. "Ha! w'at you do?" hees Pop he say, "W'at for you busta rule An' stay away like dees for play Eenstead for gon' to school?" Da boy ees say: "I no can lie, An' so I speaka true. I stay away from school for try An' gat som' wood for you. I theenka deesa cherry tree Ees gooda size for chop, An' so I cut heem down, you see, For justa help my Pop." 100 LEETLA GIORGIO WASHEEXTON. Hees Pop he no can gatta mad, But looka please* an* say: "My leetla boy, I am so glad You taka holiday." Ees good for leetla boy, you see, For be so bright an* try For help hees Pop; so den he be A granda man bimeby. So now you gatta holiday An' eet ees good, you know, For you gon' do da sama way Like leetla Giorgio. Don't play so mooch, but justa stop, Eef you want be som* good, An' justa help your poor old Pop By carry home some wood; An' mebbe so like Giorgio You grow for be so great You gona be da Presidant Of dese Unita State'. BALLADE OF MODEST HEROES. I LIKE the historical play Whose action is dashing and free, Whose hero is quick in the fray, Yet modest, withal; for, you see, True manhood and power should be With gentleness bred in the bone. Such traits appeal strongly to me, They remind me so much of my own. I'm also quite willing to say A word for the novels, where we May read of Love's devious way, And share in its sorrow and glee. I'm right with the lover when he Has got his coy sweetheart alone. His words are familiar to me, They remind me so much of my own. 101 102 BALLADE OF MODEST HEROES. And as for the prints of the day Which spread over land, over sea, Reports of all news that they may, From a fight to a five o'clock tea, I'm fond of them also, perdie! More deeds in their columns are shown That can't help appealing to me, They remind me so much of my own. ENVOY. Ye Writers, of every degree, Come, sit at the foot of my throne. Your heroes' traits clamor to me, They remind me so much of my own. THE "BUILDING INSPECTOR." WHEN ground is broken on the site For your new church, some busy wight Is certain to assume the right To pose as chief inspector. He deems it quite the thing that he Should represent the laity, And watch the builder's work and see He doesn't cheat the rector. Of course the whole thing's badly plannad, He tells you, and you understand How good it is that he's at hand To check some greater blunder. The mortar's bad. He breaks a crumb Between his finger and his thumb, And shakes his head and murmurs, "Bum! Who sold 'em that, I wonder?" Thus after church each Sunday morn, With mingled pity, grief and scorn, He goes about on his forlorn Grim duty of inspection. But, no, not every Sunday though That statement's not exactly so Some Sundays you take up, you know, The building fund collection. 103 THE IRISH BACHELOR. HERE fur yer pity or scorn, I'm presintin' ye Jerry McGlone. Trustin' the life of him will be previntin* ye Marrin' yer own. Think of a face wid a permanint fixture of Looks that are always suggistin' a mixture of Limmons an' vinegar. There! ye've a pixture of Jerry McGlone. Faix, there is nothin' but sourest gloom in this Jerry McGlone. Chris'mas joy, anny joy, niver finds room in this Crayture of stone. Cynical gloom is the boast an' the pride of him, An' if a laugh iver did pierce the hide of him, Faix, I belave 'twould immajiate, inside of him, Change to a groan. 105 106 THE IRISH BACHELOR. Whisht! now, an* listen. I'll tell ye the throuble wid Jerry McGlone. He preferred single life rather than double wid Molly Malone. Think of it! Think of an Irishman tarryin* While there's a purty girl wishful fur marryin'! Arrah! no wonder the divils are harryin' Jerry McGlone. Ah! but there's few o* the race but would scorn to be Jerry McGlone. Shure, we all know that a Celt is not born to be Livin' alone. O! but we're grateful (I spake for the laity) Grateful fur women the bountiful Deity Dowers wid beauty an* virtue an' gaiety, All for our own! TO A PLAIN SWEETHEART. I LOVE thee, dear, for what thou art, Nor would I wish thee otherwise, For when thy lashes lift apart I read, deep-mirrored in thine eyes, The glory of a modest heart. Wert thou as fair as thou art good, It were not given to any man, With daring eyes of flesh and blood, To look thee in the face and scan The splendor of thy womanhood. 107 THE CONQUEST OF THE NORTH. LAST night the winter's rear-guard passed In utter rout through lane and street; With faint and fainter bugle-blast The North-wind sounded the retreat. Far echoes of the stubborn flight Crept backward from the distant hill, Stray stragglers lurched across the night, But soon were gone, and all was still. Then vaguely, through the pregnant hush, The murmur of a marching host Surged swiftly onward as the rush Of breakers on a level coast, Until up-swelled through lane and street, In swift crescendo thundering, The drums of Southern rain that beat Reveille to the waking Spring. 1 08 THE CONQUEST OF THE NORTH. 109 O! glad gray army of the South! Our sky is your triumphal arch. Nor deed of arms nor word of mouth Shall here oppose your onward march. The little children of the North, Long captive to the winter's cold, Impatient yearn to sally forth And tread the fields of green and gold. For, love of life renewed, we greet With joy your conquest, welcoming Invading drums of rain that beat Reveille to the waking Spring. A BOOK NOT "GIVABLE." . HAVE only poor words to send you in time for this Christmas Day; My wonted gift of the season must suffer a slight delay. Though I had what I felt would please you, I find that it will not do, And I needs must wait till the morrow to purchase a gitt for you. I had you in mind this morning. The thought of you bade me drop My daily cares for the moment and hie to the bookman's shop, The shop that we haunted so often, down there in the little back street, In the days when we slaved together over ledger and balance-sheet And squandered our hard-earned pennies for an intel lectual treat. You remember those shelves in the corner where you discovered your Burns And I unearthed those treasures of Congreve's, Smollett's and Sterne's? Well, there's where I looked this morning in search of a gift for you, no A BOOK NOT "GIVABLE." \\\ And I saw what I thought would please you, but I find that it will not do. 'Twas the title, "She Stoops to Conquer", that arrested my roving eye, And the make of the volume pleased me and prompted me to buy. So I tucked it away in my pocket, with only a casual look To the points that are most essential in a thoroughly "givable" book. But to-night in my hearthside leisure, ere posting it off to you, I imposed on myself the duty to examine it through and through. I was rather shocked at the cover, and vexed that I had not seen How the russet calf was mottled with mildew-spots of green. Then the title-page is rather a trifle the worse for wear, And it really cost me an effort to read the announcement there That the book was "printed for Griffiths," and the smaller line below: "To be had of Timothy Becket in Paternoster Row." I discover the date of the printing is 1774. Was it after the author's exit, I wonder, or before? The thought that this book had being in the very year of his death, 112 A BOOK NOT "Gll/ABLE." Perhaps in the very hour that claimed his departing breath, Iv'akes misty the reader's vision and carries the fancy back To the times and the haunts of the genius, poet and book man's hack. What phantasies, sweet and tender, out of that golden age, March by in the time-dimmed type of the quaintly printed page! But, pshaw! I am boring you, surely, with this sort of folderol; You never were partial as I am to "poor old lovable Noll." The book's well enough in its fashion, but it wouldn't be proper to send A thing well so battered and shabby as a holiday gift to a friend. As I told you, the old leather cover is very much mil dewed and worn, And a few of the pages are dog-eared and others are torn. I thought at first sight it would please you, bujt I find that it will not do, So I needs must wait till the morrow to purchase a gift for you. I've only "God-bless-you" to send you in time for this Christmas Day, But my wonted gift of the season will follow. Forgive the delay. DA MUSICA MAN. You knowa Giovanni, da musica man? He playa da harpa, he playa pian', For maka da mona wherevra he can. Da styleesha peopla dey geeve heem da chance For maka da music for helpa dem dance. He playa da music so gooda, so gran', He tal me, da ladies dey calla heem "sweet" An' geeve heem da playnta good fooda for eat. I like be Giovanni, da musica man. Giovanni, da musica man, he ees fat, An' sleepy an" lazy so lika da cat, So moocha da dreenkin' an* eatin' he gat. I gotta da music eensida my heart; I weesh I have also da musical art For mak' eet com' outa my heart like he can, An' filla my stomach weeth fooda for eat. I digga da tranch; I work hard on da street I like be Giovanni, da musica man. THE "MODERATE DRINKER." I HONOR more the merry wight Who, though he curbs his appetite, Still takes a social beaker, Than any Prohibition crank Who prates about the "water-tank." I hate a temperance speaker. So, come, lift up a brimming cup To all who've wit to use it. And let it be our boast that we May use but not abuse it. Kind Nature brings her gift of wine That Thought may glow, that Wit may shine, And shall we then reject her? 'Tis true the sodden sot's a beast, But he's a death's-head at the feast Who will not touch the nectar. 114 THE MODERATE DRINKER. 115 Once more! Lift up a brimming cup To all who've wit to use it. And let it be our boast that we May use but not abuse it. What need to men of common sense Is any "total abstinence"? There's shimply nothin' to it. What harm to use th' good ole stuff If you (hie) shtop when you've enough? That'sh way that I (hie) do it. Whoopla! fill up a brimmin' cup To all (hie) wit t' ushe it. (Hie) let (hie) be ou' boash (hie) we (Wow!!) ushe (whoop!) not (hie) 'buzhe it. DA 'MERICANA GIRL. I GATTA mash weeth Mag McCue, An' she ees "Mericana, too! Ha! w'at you theenk? Now, mcbbe so, You w cell no calla me so slow Eef som' time you can looka see How she ees com' an' flirt weeth me. Most evra two, t'ree day, my frand, She stop by dees pcanutta-stand An' smile an' mak' da googla-eye An' justa look at me an' sigh. An* alia time she so excite' She peeck som' fruit an' taka bite. O! my, she eesa look so sweet I no care how much fruit she cat. Me? I am cool an* mak' pretand I want no more dan be her frand; But een my heart, you bat my life, I theenk of her for be my wife. 116 t DA 'M ERIC AN A GIRL. To-day I theenk: "Now I weell see How moocha she ees mash weeth me," An' so I speak of dees an' dat, How moocha playnta mon' I gat, How mooch I makin' evra day An' w'at I spand an' put away. An' den I ask, so queeck, so sly: "You theenk som' pretta girl weell try For lovin' me a leetla beet?" O! my! she eesa blush so sweet! "An* eef I ask her lika dees For geevin' me a leetla keess, You s'pose she geeve me wan or two?" She tal me: "Twanty-t'ree for you!" An' den she laugh so sweet, an' say: "Skeeddoo! Skeeddoo!" an' run away. She like so mooch for keessa me She gona geeve me twanty-t'ree! I s'pose dat w'at she say "skeeddoo" Ees alia same "I lova you." Ha! w'at you theenk? Now, mebbe so You weell no calla me so slow! FAINT HEART. I WONDER if she knows how much My heart cries out for her dear heart. I wonder if she's felt the touch, The joyous thrill, the bitter smart Of Cupid's dart. I wonder. I wonder what she'll say to me When I have told my tale to-night. O! will it be my fate to be Transported to the sun-kissed height Of sheer delight? I wonder. I wonder if I'll tell my tale At all! I've often tried before. By Jove! I feel my courage fail, And here, a timid mouse once more, On past her door I wander. DA LEETLA BOY. DA spreeng ees com'; but O! da joy Eet ees too late! He was so cold, my leetla boy, He no could wait. I no can count how many week, How many day, dat he ees seeck; How many night I sect an' hold Da leetla hand dat was so cold. He was so patience, O! so sweet! Eet hurts my throat for theenk of eet; An' all he evra ask ees w'en Ees gona com' da spreeng agen. Wan day, wan brighta sunny day, He see, across da alleyway, Da leetla girl dat's livin' dere Ees raise her window for da air, An' put outside a leetla pot Of w'at-you-call? forgat-me-not. So smalla flower, so leetla theeng! But steell eet mak* hees hearta sing: "O! now, at las', ees com' da spreeng! 119 DA LEETLA BOY. 121 Da leetla plant ees glad for know Da sun ees com' for mak' eet grow. So, too, I am grow warm and strong." So, lika dat he seeng hees song. But, ah! da night com' down an' den Da weenter ees sneak back agen, An' een da alley all da night Ees fall da snow, so cold, so white, An' cover up da leetla pot Of w'at-you-call? forgat-me-not. All night da leetla hand I hold Ees grow so cold, so cold, so cold! Da spreeng ees com'; but O! da joy Eet ees too late! He was so cold, my leetla boy, He no could wait. BALLADE OF FAMILY NAMES. CHANGE is the order in man's estate, Times have changed and the customs, too; Everything now must be up-to-date, Things old-fashioned will never do. Even the names that our fathers knew Jonas, Zachary, Zebedee Fashion adjures us we must eschew. What will the names of To-morrow be? Patronymics with frills ornate, Out of the roots of the old names grew. "Kathryn" cooed in the arms of "Kate," "Hugo" lisped at the knees of "Hugh." Nursery walls of the wealthy few Rang with titles of high degree, All affecting the blood that's blue What will the names of To-morrow be? 122 BALLADE OF FAMILY NAMES. 123 Greater changes have come of late; Even these new names fade from view. Wife and husband no more debate Titles fitting their infant crew. Even the infants lie perdue. "Fido," "Rover" and "Tige" Ah! me, These are the names that the maids halloo. What will the names of To-morrow be? ENVOY. Man, it is sad, but alas! it's true, Fashion's killing your family tree. If but a little bark's left to you. What will the names of To-morrow be? DA STYLEESHA LADY. I TAL you w'at, you oughta see Carlotta, dat's my girl, w'en she Ees feex' for holiday. I guess You nevva see sooch styleeshness. She gotta yallow seelka skirt Ees look so fine you theenk ees wort* 'Bout twanty dollar, mebbe more, Eef you gon' buy eet een da store. So, too, she gotta purpla wais' Dat's treem' weeth pretta yallow lace, An' beega golda breasta-peen Ees steeckin' ondraneat' her cheen. Eh? Wait, my frand! On toppa dat She got da beega redda hat Weeth coupla featha, brighta green, An' whita rosa een baytween. Da redda, whita, green, you see, Ees lika flag of Italy! 124 DA STYLEESHA LADY, 125 Ha! w'at you theenka dat for style? Ah! yes, my frand, eet mak' you smile; You can eemagine, den, of me, How proud I smile w'en first I see. You can baylieve how proud I feel For walkin' out weeth her; but steell I gatta w'at you call "deestress" Baycause for all dees styleeshness. You see, w'en she ees look so sweet I 'fraid for let her on da street. I justa feela scare' dat som' Beeg reecha man ees gona com' An' see how styleesh she can be, An' steala her away from me. ALMOST. *THERE stands the parson's house," he said. The maiden hung her modest head, Lest he who thus was moved to speak Should note the blush that dyed her cheek. The moonlit fields, the sky above, Were mutely eloquent of love; And love surcharged the ambient air Breathed in by this young rustic pair. With beating hearts, across the road, They saw the minister's abode. The study lamp a welcome gleamed, And, through the summer twilight, seemed Inviting them to near the door. "There stands the parson's house!*' Once more His fervid thoughts broke forth in speech. Then silence, thrilling each to each, Surrounded them and held them mute. Far-off they heard an owlet hoot ia6 ALMOST. 127 "To whit! to woo!" The maiden's heart Was warm for him, but hers the part To modestly await the word That she in fancy oft had heard, And which, instinctively she knew, Was trembling on his tongue. He, too, Was conscious of his own love's strength, And meant to speak. He said, at length: "There stands the parson's house, and there " His hand a-tremble cleft the air "Is where it used to stand!" And then He led her down the road again. CAREY, THE KILL-JOY. IF yc iver see Timothy Carey Jisht trust to the^speed o' ycr heels. Take warnin' from Malachy Cleary That's me, an' I know how it teeis. If ye're bint on rcvivin' yer nature Wid innocint pleasure, me boy, Get out o' the way o* this crayture His thrade is the killin* o* joy. Now, wan day whin I sat at me dinner, Wid hunger enough an' to spare, In walks this same gloomy ould sinner An' leans on the back o' me chair. "Come an' jine me," sez I; "I'd be hatin' Mesel' fur the glutton I am To deny ye this taste o* good 'atin* 'Tis luscious b'iled cabbage an* ham!" "Man alive! are ye crazy?" sez Carey, An 1 frowns in his soberest way, 128 CAREY, THE KILL- JOY. 129 "Shure an' have ye furgot, Misther Cleary, That this is a fasht-day th'-day?" An' wid that the ould joy-killin' sinner Jisht turned on his heel an' wint out, An' he left me me illigant dinner Like ashes, stone-cowld, in me mout'. 'Twas a sin o' me, bein' forgetful; I should have remimbered the day, But I couldn't help feelin' regretful To see me feast fadin' away; For 'twas not for me soul's sake that Carey Shpoke up, but 'twas jisht to annoy. 'Tis his nature that's mane an' conthrary His thrade is the killin' o' joy. A LESSON IN POLITICS. I NO care for gattin' mcex' Een decs Ceety politeecs. I no gatta vote, an' so I no weeshin' mooch to know W'eech side right an' w'eech side wrong; I no bother mooch so long Dey no bother mooch weeth me I jus* want do beez'ness, see? I no like poleecaman Com' to dees peanutta-stan', Like he do most evra day, Jus* for talka deesa way: "Wai, my frand, I tal you w'at. Politeecs ees gattin' hot. Don't you mind all deesa queer Talka 'bout da 'Graft' you hear. Notheeng een eet!" (Here he tak' Bigga pieca geenger cak'.) "Dees 'Reforma' mak* me seeck! Sucha foolish theengs dey speak 1 130 A LESSON IN POLITICS. 131 All dees 'graft' ees een deir eye." (Now he taka pieca pie.) "I been een dees politeecs Seexa year an' know da treecks, But I tal you I ain't met Any kinda grafta yet." (Here he taka two banan'.) "Evra publeec office man Worka for a salary Jus' da sama lika me. We no want no more dan dat Jus' contant weeth w'at we gat." (Den he tak' weeth botha hand Som' peanutta,) "So, my frand, Don't baylieva all dees queer Talka 'bouta 'graft' you hear." Nutta, caka, pie, banan', All for wan poleecaman! Mebbe ees no "grafta" say! W'at ees "grafta," anyway? MISTLETOE AND HOLLY. THE mistletoe is gemmed with pearls, Red berries hath the holly. Remember, all ye modest girls, The mistletoe is gemmed with pearls, And when it hangs above your curls, Away with melancholy! The mistletoe is gemmed with pearls. Red berries hath the holly. Since mistletoe is hard to find, We do not need it, Mollie. O! do, I beg of you, be kind; Since mistletoe is hard to find, Pretend that you are color-blind And kiss beneath this holly. Since mistletoe is hard to find, We do not need it, Mollie. 132 THE IRISH NATIONAL BIRD. GOOD luck to the Aigle, America's bird, That stands for the land o' the free! Faix, I'm not the wan to be sayin' a word That'd ruffle its feathers. Not me! I'm proud o' the bird as I'm proud o' the land, An' glad to be under its wing, But there is another bird aiqually grand Whose praises I'm wishful to sing. Now let ye not pucker yer face wid a smile, Tis soberest truth that we've got A national bird in the Emerald Isle That's aisily king o' the lot! Aye! "national bird." He is certainly that. Though others may claim him at times, He's busiest most wid the fortunes of Pat At home an' in far-away climes. An', faix, 'tis the Irish that love him the best An' welcome his favors the most; The man's not true Irish that has him for guest Widout feelin' proud to be host. He seeks out the Irish raygardless of place At home or abroad in New York So here's to the National Bird of the Race! Here's "hip, hip, hurrah!" for the stork! 133 HANDICAPPED. EEF I could talka 'Merican Like w'at I can Italian, So stronga langwadpc pot would be You would be scare* for joke wcetb me. U4 HANDICAPPED. Een Italy I am so queeck For theenk of sassy theengs to speak, Wen som' wan makin' fun weeth me, Dat nexta time dey let me be. Da profcssori from da school Som' time was try for mak' me fool; Ah! wal, dey find, you bat my life, My tongue ees sharpa like da knife. So, evra wan was 'fraid weeth me Wen I am home, een Napoli. But een New Yorka Ceety here Ees deefferant; an' eet ees queer! Da streeta keed, so tough, so small, He ees no scare' weeth me at all. He talk to me so sharp, so queeck My tongue ees gat too twist' for speak; He mak' da face an' laugh, an' den Ees gat me tangla up agen. Wen he ees two, t'ree blocks away, I theenk of som'theeng sharp to say Dat mak' heem stop from be so tough Eef I have say eet queeck enough. Wal, mebbe eet ees better so, Baycause ecf sucha keed could know How sharpa tongue ees een my head He be so scare' he droppa dead! BALLADE OF THE POOR TOURIST. AT home or in far-away climes, Wherever the tourist may stray, He must look to his quarters and dimes To keep them from melting away. One hates to appear like a jay, So into his pocket he dips, Such scorn do the servants display For the fellow who never gives tips. The magnate, the maker of rhymes, The "poor devil author," and they Whose money-bags jingle like chimes, Are marked as legitimate prey. Have little or much as you may, The food and drink passing your lips Claim toll. O! the outlook is gray For the fellow who never gives tips. 136 BALLADE OF THE POOR TOURIST. 137 We need a reformer at times, A man of true courage, to stay Society's foibles and crimes, And keep us from getting too gay; One needs to be brave to say "Nay" To the porter who handles his grips, So there really is something to say For the fellow who never gives tips. ENVOY. Good Fellows! We grumble, but pay, Like lords, for our holiday trips. But come, let us twine a bouquet For the fellow who never gives tips. THE FIGHTING RACE. I'VE been readin* the papers And watchin' the capers Of Russian and Jap on the land and the sea. And it's got me to guessin' Why some names is missin' That should be conspickyus where fightin's so t Shure! where are the Reillys, The Caseys and Kileys, And all of the rest of the Macs and the O's? There was never real fightin' Or wrongs to be rightin* But some o' thim byes 'd be strikin' their blows. Now the longer I ponder The struggle out yonder, Where the Jap and the Russian are flirtin' wid Fame, The more I'm decidin' The Irishman's hidin* Behind the quare front of a haythenish name. If ye read of "Patriski" Or "Michelkomiski" Ye will know they're not Russian at all, if ye're wise, And the Jap "Tomohara" Or "Teddimagara" Are simply good Connaught men there in disguise. 138 PADRE DOMINEEC. PADRE Domineec McCann He ees great beeg Irish man. He ees growla w'en he speak, Like he gona go for you Jus' for busta you in two. My! he talk so rough, so queeck, You weell weesha you could be Som'where elsa w'en you see Padre Domineec. Padre Domineec McCann Stop at dees peanutta-stan' W'en my leetla boy ees seeck; Talk so rough he mak' me cry, Say ees besta boy should die So he go to Heaven queeck! He ees speak so cold to me Nevva more I wanta see Padre Domineec. 139 140 PADRE DOMINEEC. Den gran* doctor com'. Ees queer! Wen I ask who sand heem here, He jus' smile an* weell no speak Only justa for to say: "You no gotta cent to pay, I gon' feex dees boy dat's seeck." O! beeg-hearta man, an' true! I am gattin' on to you, Padre Domineec! A FANCY NICOTIAN. TIME was, my love, ere you came as queen To this bachelor heart of mine, I bowed to the princess of Nicotine, Who dwelt in an amber shrine. And there, when I willed, her heart glowed red And her languorous spirit rose, And my soul followed where her soul led, Away from the world of prose, To a world rerisen from out of the shade Of ages passing belief, Where she was again a Delaware maid And I was a Huron chief. * 141 142 A FANCY NICOTIAN. I had made a journey to seek her hand, I had come from the inland seas, Far down to the Big Salt Water's strand Where clustered her tribe's tepees. And thither I brought a hundred pelts Of the beasts my arm had slain, And beaded garments and wampum belts, That my love-quest be not vain. Then her people said: "It is meet indeed! The eagle shall mate with the dove." O! their little hearts they were drunk with greed, But hers was big with love. When into my hand she slipped her own, And our souls thrilled each to each, My full heart clogged my throat like a stone And robbed my tongue of speech. But faith burns fervid and hope is high In the heart of a loving maid, Ami reading but joy in her lover's eye She follows him, unafraid. Beasts of the forest there were, and men, To harry our path with strife. But her love gave me the strength of ten. We were masters of love and life. A FANCY NICOTIAN. 143 All this, my love, was before you came To brighten this life of mine. But still I dream when the touch of flame Enkindles that amber shrine; And the fragrant spirit of Nicotine, In circles my head above, Discloses ever the self-same scene, The picture of world-old love, That world rerisen trom out of the shade Of ages passing belief; But now it is than art the Delaware maid When I am the Huron chief. UN LAZZARONE. So lazy man I nevva see Like Joe Baratt' een Napoli. You no could mak' heem work at all; Een Napoli he w'at you call "Un lazzarone"; dat'sa "bum." No crotta job, no gotta home, No gotta weesh for maka mon', But jus' for seetin' een da sun. So lazy, good-for-notheeng, O! Da worsta wan ees decsa Joe. You say "Gelato, Joe?" to heem "Gelato" ees da same "ice-cream" He ope' hees eyes a leetla beet Baycause he ees so fond of eet, An" den he ope' hees mout' so wide An' wait for you to put eenside. He weell no tak" da dcesh of cream. But so you gona feeda heem! So lazy man I nevva see Like Joe Baratt' een Napoli 1 144 UN LAZZARONE. 145 I no can tal how eet should be, But deesa Joe he cross da sea An' com' Noo York las' Fall, vou know, Wen vratheeng ees ice an' snow. Ees nevva so disgusta man Like Joe Baratt' w'en he ees Ian'. O! my! he sheerer, shake an' sneeze, An' he mus' dance for keep from freeze. So lively man I nevva see Like Joe Baratt' from Napoli! An' now he work for stevedore Like w'at he nevva do bayfore, Baycatise he needa mon', so he Can gat back home een Napoli, For sleepin' een da sunshine w'en Da weenter-time ees com' agen. So lively man you nevva see Like Joe Baratt' from Napoli. BEDFELLOWS. AIN'T no one so glad as me When they's lady-company Comes to visit us an' stay All that night until it's day. Ain't much sleepin'-room at all In our house it's made so small- But my Pa he'll always 'low We kin "double-up somehow." 'Nen when all my prayers is said Ma she tucks me into bed 'Way 'way over on one side. 'Nen I feel real satisfied To be sleepy an' to go Right spang off, because I know When I wake fust thing I'll see Will be Pa in bed with me. 146 BEDFELLOWS. 147 'Nen for fun! I tell you what, 'At's the time I have a lot. I jist crawl on Pa an' shake His ole head till he's awake. Fust he'll lay real still an' play He's asleep an' goin' to stay. 'Nen he'll raise up in the air, Growl an' cut up like a bear Come to eat me up, an' I Laugh an' squeal an' yell. O my! We jist run things, me an' Pa, Havin' lots o' fun, till Ma, In the next room, sez: "You boys Best git dressed an' quit that noise." I wisht every night 'at we Might have lady-company. THOSE DIRTY LITTLE FINGERS. FROM the moment he could stand alone and toddle Across the bed-room floor from chair to chair, There was never any respite for his mother; He was getting into mischief everywhere. There were somersaults distracting down the stairway, And tumbles off the sofa, to be sure, And the bumps he gpt were really quite terrific, 'But none a mother's kisses couldn't cure. He'd a most plebeian fondness for the kitchen, Whose precincts were his favorite retreat, And the coal-hod held for him a fascination, For he seemed to think its contents good to eat. But the thing that caused his mother's greatest worry, And made her ply her house-cloth o'er and o'er, Was his subsequent invasion of the parlor With his grimy little fingers on the door. 148 THOSE DIRTY LITTLE FINGERS. 149 How the whiteness of the paint was desecrated By those dirty little digits every day; Though his weary mother wept and begged and scolded He pursued the even tenor of his way. It was evident that he was only happy When his fingers held their share and more of dirt; And the only thing he loathed was soap and water, And O! my goodness gracious! how that hurt. But it hurts us now to contemplate the cleanness Of everything about this quiet place; All the finger-marks that used to mar the wood-work Have disappeared, nor left the slightest trace. For the last of them were wiped away last summer, Glad summer that is gone forevermore! We are lonely, Lord, and hungering to see him, With his grimy little fingers on the door. V/.- DA YOUNGA 'MERICAN. I, MYSAL', I feela strange Een dees countra. I can no Mak' mysal' agen an' change Eento 'Merican, an' so I am w'at you calla me, Justa "dumb ole Dago man." Alia same my boy ees be Smarta younga 'Merican. Twalv' year ole! but alia same He ees learna soocha lot He can read an' write hees name Smarta keed? I tal you w'at! He no talk Italian; He say: "Dat's for Dagoes speak, I am younga 'Merican, Dago langwadge mak' me seeck." Eef you gona tal heem, too, He ees "leetla Dago," my! He ees gat so mad weeth you He gon' ponch you een da eye. 1 52 DA YOUNG A 'M ERIC AN. Mebbe so you gona mak' Fool weeth heem an' mebbe not. Queeck as flash he sass you back; Smarta keed? I tal you w'at! He ees moocha 'shame' for be Mcexa weeth Italian; He ees moocha 'shame' of me I am dumb ole Dago man. Evra time w'en I go out Weetha heem I no can speak To som'body. "Shut your mout'." He weell tal me pretta queeck, "You weell gceve yoursal' away Talkin' Dago lika dat; Try be "Merican," he say Smarta keed? I tal you w'at! I am w'at you calla me, Justa "dumb ole Dago man;" Alia same my boy ees be Smarta younga 'Merican. NIGHT IN BACHELOR'S HALL. THEY'VE gone away! It seems a year, Aye! weeks of years, since they were here; And yet it was but yesterday I kissed them when they went away, Away from all the scorching heat That grips this brick-walled city street. And it was I who bade them go, Though she, dear heart, protested so, And vowed I'd find no joy at all, Nor any peace, in Bachelor's Hall. I laughed at that, but she was right; I never knew a sadder night Than this, while thus I tread, alone, These silent halls I call my own. I never thought this place could change So utterly and seem so strange. The night is hot, and yet a chill Pervades the house; it is so still. 153 I 5 4 NIGHT /.V n AC 1 11- LOR' S HALL. I miss the living atmosphere That comforts me when they are here; I miss the sigh, long-drawn and deep, The music of refreshing sleep, That undulates the gentle breast Of weary motherhood at rest. And in the unaccustomed gloom That shrouds the small adjoining room I miss the moans, the muffled screams, Of childhood troubled in its dreams. And is this all? Nay! more I miss The strong, heart-thrilling joy. the bliss Of warding, with protecting arm, Between these precious hearts and harm. O! sing your song, all ye who roam, Your wistful song of "Home, Sweet Home, But, though unhappy is your lot, You will not find a sadder spot In all the world than Home, when they Who make it Home have gone away. THE INDOMITABLE CELT. ALTHOUGH the joy's denied to me This blessed "Patrick's Day" To be where I would wish to be And whistle Care away, My mem'ry lives within me still; So I may close my eyes And fancy I can feel the thrill Of spring from Irish skies, And make myself believe to-day I'm off with my colleen To Clogher's, where the pipers play "The Wearing of the Green." It's cold and drear in this far land, And winter's skies are gray, And there's no sign that spring's at hand This drear St. Patrick's Day. But though no shamrocks brave the air Of this new home of mine, I've -found a bit of green to wear This sprig of Northern pine. So I'll be joyful as I may, And dream of my colleen And Clogher's, where the pipers play "The Wearing of the Green." 155 DA FAM'LY MAN. I AIM' gon' gatta mad so queeck Like w'at I use" to do. I gon' geeve up dees ogly treeck Of speakin' swear-words, too. An' now w'en com'sa bada keed For call me "Dago!" wal, I ain' gon' do like w'at I deed An* tal heem "gotohal!" Eef som' one com' for makin* fool Weeth me, I show dem how I jus' can smile an' keepa cool I gon' be good man now. I am too prouda man to-day For wanta swear an' fight, An' I no care w'at bad keeds say For makin' me excite'. So eef som'body com' an' try For makin' fool weeth me, I justa gon' be dignifi* Like fam'ly man should be. Las' night da doctor bring my wife A baby girl. Dat's how I am so proud. You bat my life, I gon' be good man now! 156 DA FIGHTIN' IRISHMAN. IRISHMAN he mak' me seeck! He ees gat excite' so queeck, An' so queeck for fightin', too, An', baysides, you nevva know How you gona please heem. Sc W'ata deuce you gona do? Wen I work een tranch wan day Irish boss he com' an' say: "Evra wan een deesa tranch, I no care eef he ees Franch, Anglaice, Dago, Dootch or w'at, Evra wan he musta gat Leetla pieca green to show For da San Patricio. Dees ees Irish feasta day. Go an' gat som' green!" he say, "An' eef you no do eet, too, I gon' poncha head on you!" So I gat som' green to show For da San Patricio. 157 l5 8 DA rn'.imx' IRISHMAN. Bimcby, 'nuddcr Irishman He ees com* where I am stan', An' he growl at me an 1 say: "Wat you wearin' dat for, eh? Mebbe so you thccnk you be Gooda Irishman like me. Green ees jus' for Irishman, No for dumb Eyetalian! Tak' eet off!" he say, an', my! He ees ponch me ecu da eye! Irishman he mak' me sceck! He ees gat excite' so queeck, An' so queeck for fightin', too, An', baysides, you nevva know How you gona please heem. So W'ata deuce you gona do? THE WEDDING GUEST. WHENEVER you're a wedding guest Be jolly as you can, Endeavoring your level best To be a "funny man." Don't get the notion in your head That you were bidden there To see an earnest couple wed, And merely wish the pair All peace and joy along the way That they have just begun. O! no, be gay! Remember, pray, A wedding's simply fun. A bride and groom are often prone To take a sober view Of life and duties like their own, And so it's up to you To counteract this sense of gloom With your peculiar mirth. So just bombard that bride and groom With jokes for all your worth. Displeasure they, of course, may show At some things that are done; Don't mind them, though; they ought to know A wedding's simply fun. 159 160 THE WEDDING GUEST. You may begin by throwing rice And shoes, and after that An ancient egg or two are nice And come in very pat. Of course their carriage should be decked With placards weird and queer; To this the bridegroom may object, But bang him on the ear! If after that the silly wight Should still kick up his heels, Explode a stick of dynamite Beneath the carriage wheels. This move will take them by surprise, If it is neatly done, And surely make them realize A wedding's simply fun. THE SPOILED CHILD. WEN Gran'-pa takes me on his knee I'm jist as glad as I kin be; 'Cause he's the bestest friend I got, An' in his pockets they's a lot Of candies, sugar-cakes an' things Like dear ole Gran'-pa always brings. An' he'll say: "Now, my little dear, Let's see w'at's in this pocket here;" And I put in my hand and take Some candy out or else some cake. 'Nen Gran'-pa laughs, an' so do I; He'll play he's s'prised an' say: "O! My! I wonder how that got in there, Now w'at do I git fur my share?" I laugh, an' climb right up an' kiss Him where his tickly whiskers is. He hugs me tight, an' sez: "Oho! Here's jist the goodest boy I know." An' I am good as I kin be Wen Gran'-pa takes me on his knee. 161 162 THE SPOILED CHILD. When Papa takes me on his knee I ain't so glad as I might be. He ain't as nice as Gran'-pa wuz, For he don't do like Gran'-pa does. He on'y does it w'en he's mad, An' w'en he sez I'm awful bad. He don't like Gran'-pa's "carryin's-on." Fur onct w'en Gran'-pa'd been an' gone He told Ma: "Say, it drives ma wild The way your Pa jist sp'iles that child," An' 'nen he maked a grab fur me An' upside-downed me on his knee. An' says, "Now if it's in the wool I'll see if I can't make you good." An' w'en Pa let me off his knee I promised him how good I'd be. DA STYLEESHA WIFE. GIUSEPPE, da barber, ees catcha da wife! O! my, you weell laugh w'en you see w'at he gat. She gotta da face ees so sharp like da knife He say "ees no styleesh for face to be fat." Her fingers, so skeenny, ees notheeng but bone; You "fraid dey weell bust w'en you go for shak' han' He say: "Dat'sa sign she ees vera high-tone', She no gotta han's like two bonch da banan'." Ha! w'at you theenk dat For talk een hees hat? W'at good eesa wife eef she don'ta be fat? Giuseppe he tal me I no ondrastan' Da 'Merican lady so gooda like heem; He tal me hees wife ees da "swell 'Mericar," An' looka so styleesh baycause she ees "sleem." I tal heem da "styleeshness" notta so good For keepa da house an' for helpin' her mooch To nursa da baby an' carry da wood. He say: "I no care eef she nevva do sooch." Ha! w'at you theenk dat For talk een hees hat? W'at good eesa wife eef she don'ta be fat? 163 THE KETTLE'S SONG OF HOME. AIN'T berry menny people w'at'll listen to a niggah, Or Mow dey's enny sense in w'at he say, But I gwine to gib de 'sperience ob mah feelin's, an' I figgah Dat dey's quite a smaht ob people t'inks mah way. Wen a man begins a-shoutin' 'bout de good t'ings dat he's missin', Kickin' kase dey ain't no fo'tune in his job, Let 'im go home to his kitchen, an' set down a while an' listen To de singin' ob de kittle on de hob. De rich man kin inhabitate a palace ef he wishes, \Vif chiny-war' an' pictuahs on de wall, An' kin lay on velvet sofers an' eat offn golden dishes, But I wouldn' swap mah kitchen fo' it all. Fo' hit wouldn' seem laik home to me, but 'ceptin' I could listen, A-puffin' at de backy in mah cob, While de good Lawd seemed a-speakin' ob a home-like kind o' blessin' Frough de singin' ob de kittle on de hob. 164 TO THE ATHEIST. SAY! you gat to hal weeth your talk! I gotta da troubla my own. You please me by taka da walk I wanta for sect here alone. Eh? Wat? Yes, I s'pose I am dumb, An' so you no maka me wise No matter how moocha you com' For tryin' to open my eyes. Jus' s'posa my eyes dey are blind So blind like you theenk dem to be More beautiful theengs dey can find Dan w'at you are able to see. You want I should tal you da sight I see w'en I sect here alone? You wanta for see?. Alia right, I geeve you my eyes for your own. Com', look! dere is beautiful girl, So sweeta, so good an' so true; Ah! you are a keeng of da worl' To know dat she smila for you. 165 !66 TO THE ATHEIST. Now, sec! she ecs gccvin' her ban* Forevra da wifa to be To "no-good-for-notheenga" man Dat no gooda man, eet ees me! Now presto! da peectura change. Da beautiful girl eesa gon'; Da man ees look olda an' strange An' he ees jus' seettin' alone. But steell you can see weeth hees eyes, So blind, like you say, an' so dumb, An angela up in da skies Dat smila an' wait teell he com'. You sneer; you no gotta belief. You tal me we die an' we be Like dogs, an' you com' lika thief For steala my faitha from me. Wai, even eef you no be dam, An' eef w'at I see ees no true, I radder be dumb like I am Dan wisa beeg foola like you! AT HOME. AT home to-night, alone with Dot, I loaf my soul and care not what In worlds beyond may come or go. Four walls, a roof, to brave the snow, Suffice to bound this Eden spot. Dot has her sewing things; I've got My pipe, a glass of something hot And Dot herself. The world's aglow, At home to-night. As lovers in some golden plot The poet weaves of Camelot, We feel apart from earth. We know The servant in the hall below Will say to all who call we're not At home to-night. 167 TO AN OLD LOVER. THERE is silvery frost on your hair, old boy, There are lines on your forehead, too; But your clear eyes speak of the peace and joy That dwell in the heart of you. For the passing of youth you have no regret, No sighs for the summer gloam And the lovers' moon. They are with you yet In the light of the lamp at home. In your summer of youth, in that sunny hour That will come to you never again, 168 TO AN OLD LOVER. 169 When you wooed your love as the bee the flower, The sweets that you gathered then You have hived and stored for your later life, And your heart is the honeycomb Ah! I've seen your face when you kissed your wilt In the light of the lamp at home. O! you rare old lover! O! faithful knight, With your sweetheart of long ago. You are many days from the warmth and light Of the summers you used to know; But you need not yearn for the glamor and gold Of the fields you were wont to roam O! the light for the hearts that are growing old Is the light of the lamp at home. TREASURE-TROVE. THERE'S a letter come this minute From across the boundin' sea, And it has a treasure in it That delights the soul of me. Not a shinin' bit o' gold Does this blessed letther hold, But a priceless gem as ancient as the world is old. 'Tis meself, to-morrow mornin', Will be proud to let ye see This most precious gem adornin' Of the Sunday hat of me. Tis a little sprig o' green Of the sort I've often seen My grandfather wearin' in his ould caubeen. Then here's to the trefoil, An' may it grow in free soil That knows not the dominion of a Saxon King or Queen; The Shamrock of old Erin! That the patriot's still wearin' Where the whole world may see it, in his ould caubeen. 170 THE LITTLE BOY. THE little boy Jack was a Jack o' Hearts, For every one loved the lad, And the birds from near and foreign parts Were some of the friends he had. The man in the Moon was his friend at night. When little Jack's prayers were said, And his doting mother had dimmed the light And cuddled him up in bed, He'd lie and talk to his friend in the skies Through the casement open wide, And ask if the stars were not the eyes Of good little boys who had died. O! the Moon-Man laughed at this odd conceit Of his little boy friend on earth, And the wee stars, clustered about his feet. Just winked at his childish mirth. But once when the moon rose over the hill And shone on the cottage wall, The birds in the neighboring trees were still And a gloom hung over all. Then the Moon-Man wondered much of Jack, And he pondered it o'er and o'er, Till he saw two stars in the sky at his back That he never had seen before. 171 A SONG TO ONE. IF few are won to read my lays And offer me a word of praise, If there are only one or two To take my rhymes and read them through, I may not claim the poet's bays. I care not, when my Fancy plays Its one sweet note, if it should raise A host of listeners or few If you are one. The homage that my full heart pays To Womanhood in divers ways, Begins and ends, my love, in you. My lines may halt, but strong and true My soul shall sing through all its days, If you are won. 172 12274 DATE DUE lt*43 CAYLOMD m.NTtO IN U A. UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY A A 000309186 5