BEAK WITH US J. Collection of Tavern Club Verses Meum est propositum in tabema mori Et vinum appositum sitienti ori Ut dicant cum venerint angelorum chori Deus sit propitius isti potatori ANNO T. C. XXI COPYRIGHT, 1905, BT HOLKER ABBOTT, SECRETARY CONTENTS NOTE v The Bear and the Bowl, 1885 HENRY STRONG DUHAND 1 To my Brother: Salvini Dinner, 1889 Translated: THOMAS RUSSELL SULLIVAN 4 Bear Song in Antigone, 1890 ARLO BATES 5 To W. H. Kendal, 1891 THOMAS RUSSELL SULLIVAN 7 Prologue: The Maid s Tragedy, 1892 BARRETT WENDELL 9 Epilogue: A Night in Seville, 1896 THOMAS RUSSELL SULLIVAN 11 Prospect: Notice of Christmas Sports, 1897 HERBERT PUTNAM 12 A Toast ROBERT GRANT 15 The Prentices Song: The Prodigal Son, 1898 GEORGE PIERCE BAKER 18 Prologue: The Double Marriage, 1900 ARLO BATES 20 Verses at Dinner to Mark Twain, 1901 M. A. DEWOLFB HOWE 22 Song: "Lawyers Night," 1902 WINTHROP AMES 24 Lines on the Playing of Mercedes, 1903 ARLO BATES 25 iv CONTENTS To B. P.: A "Hellion" Verse, 1903 M. A. DEWOLFE HOWE 30 Song by "Musicus," Prize Competition, 1903 THOMAS RUSSELL SULLIVAN 31 The Musketeers, 1903 ROBERT GRANT 33 Glitha s Song: The Vanished Bride, 1903 HENRY COPLEY GREENE 35 To Owen Wister: A "Hellion" Verse, 1904 FRANCIS SHAW STURGIS 37 On Staging a Play by B. W.: A " Hellion " Verse, 1904 FRANCIS SHAW STURGIS 38 To the Taverners, with a Present of Champagne, 1904 OWEN WISTER 39 Lines at Dinner to Cameron Forbes, 1904 ARTHUR STANWOOD PIER 40 Lines at Dinner to Cameron Forbes, 1904 M. A. DEWOLFE HOWE 42 Sonnet: Twentieth Anniversary, 1904 ARLO BATES 44 Verses at Twentieth Anniversary Dinner, 1904 ROBERT GRANT 45 The Presidential Range: Song, Twentieth Anni versary dinner, 1904 M. A. DEWOLFE HOWE 49 Epilogue: Christmas play, 1904 M. A. DEWOLFE HOWE 51 Valentine : " Let the Hills be joyful together," 1905 THOMAS RUSSELL SULLIVAN 53 Valentine: to P. T., 1905 ARTHUR STANWOOD PIER 55 To Booker Washington, 1905 LE BARON RUSSELL BRIGGS 56 NOTE From the occasional verse read or recited by members of the Tavern Club at its meetings, these selections have been compiled. Some of the earlier manuscripts unfortunately are lost. The present examples of those that remain are privately printed to mark the twenty-first an niversary of the Club, as well as to insure their preservation and to furnish a pleasant reminder of the past. The compilation does not include the well- remembered work contributed at various times by club-guests. December 1, 1905. THE BEAR AND THE BOWL Read at the Dedication of the Bowl 1885 I RISE in honor of the Bowl; The Bowl itself, not that within it; I sing the body, not the soul, And how a Bear did first begin it. How Doctor Tilden, filled with zeal, 1 To buy that bear a fund collected, Nor hearkened to the sad appeal Of certain men who quite objected. But we were loath to lose our pet As lawyers are to lose a client; And vowing we should have it yet, The Doctor bargained with the Giant. 2 The following footnotes were prepared for the rereading of these verses at the Twentieth Anniversary Dinner, No vember 11, 1904. 1 The above is a true history. Dr. Tilden s fund for the purchase of the Bear was diverted and used for the purchase of the Bowl. 2 The Giant was the proprietor (and one of the curiosities as well) of the dime museum in which the bear was seen and coveted. 2 THE BEAR AND THE BOWL Ah! when again upon this Club Shall dawn an idea hah* so witty As purchasing an ursine cub! But that Executive Committee Which rules all things pertaining to Such ideas, be they ne er so clever, Which sits on things proposed to do, They sat upon that scheme forever. Still, Gentlemen, to our relief From that young b ar we find we re owing The bas-relief, which is the chief Adornment to this punch-bowl glowing. The bowl itself but here I pause. I do not dare thus single-handed To touch that subject deep, because It needs a strong force, well commanded, To well discuss it as it stands Filled full with Pitcher s 8 strong potation; I can but stretch forth both my hands And make this solemn invocation: * Pitcher was a noted publican and brewer of punch in the good town of Boston in the last century. THE BEAR AND THE BOWL 3 Oh! work of art to cheer the heart! Oh! Punch-Bowl most phenomenal! Whene er your contents glide adown the Tavern Club s oesophagus May it feel a presence rising From the cavity abdominal, As though King Cole in spirit stole from out that dark sarcophagus! HENRY STRONG DURAND. TO MY BROTHER From the Italian of Federico Calamati; for the dinner to Salvini, November 14, 1889. TORQUATO, all in vain your love demands A labored tribute at an exile s hands, To him whose gentle presence oversways The prostrate soul, and stills the note of praise. Salvini! Glory of the art that blends All arts in one, and makes all nations friends! Nor lip, nor hand, nor trembling pen of mine Shall speak for him, whose speech is half divine; Demand for that a more than mortal strain; Bring Alfieri back to life again! Translated by THOMAS RUSSELL SULLIVAN. BEAR SONG IN "ANTIGONE" APRIL 1, 1890. Air: "Vive I Amour." LET every good Taverner fill up his mug; Vive la compagnie! We ll drink to our bear with a gluggity-glug; Vive la compagnie! We 11 lustily shout for the jolly brown bear, We 11 drink to him deep as we drink to the fair, For under his flag can be no care; Vive la compagnie! CHORUS: Vive la bear, vive la bear! Vive la, vive la, vive la bear! Joy we share; down with care! Vive la compagnie! There s many a tavern and many a bear; Vive la compagnie! None of them all with our own may compare; Vive la compagnie! So sharp with his ears, so quick with his jaw; 6 BEAR SONG IN "ANTIGONE" So strong in his stomach, so ready with paw; As clear in his head as a judge in the law; Vive la compagnie! CHORUS. Then every good Taverner fill up his glass; Vive la compagnie! And deep will we drink as we let the toast pass ; Vive la compagnie! We ll lustily shout for our jolly brown bear, And drink to him deep as we drink to the fair, Good comrades together with never a care; Vive la compagnie! CHORUS. ARLO BATES. TO W. H. KENDAL From the Tavern Club, February 28, 1891. WHEN, before the cauldron s flame, Glamis to the witches came, And its bubbles boiled away, Still the sisters bade him stay; Like a show, they brought to pass Kings, reflected in a glass. Through the Tavern, like a show, Kings have come, and kings will go; Loftiest of art s lineage, Hero, poet, seer, and sage; Still, departing from the door, Still the glass shows many more. Lo! to-night our taper shines For the art of fleeting lines; Of our guest the vanished trace Only memory can replace. By what spell, when he departs, Shall his image fill our hearts ? TO W. H. KENDAL How shall we this presence hold In the days when we are old ? Which of all his titles won Philamir, Pygmalion? Trevor, Crichton, Ira Lee, All he was, or is to be? Which of these, when each is best, Best befits the regal guest ? Ah! the best that art reveals Time, the thief, remorseless steals! Something dearer than his fame To the Tavern with him came; In the Tavern, to the end, Call him comrade, kinsman, friend. Friend, may all our hearts can do Bind us closer still to you! If, in Life s upsurging track, Wave on wave shall bring you back, Through the Tavern, like a show, Kings may come, and kings may go! So shall we this presence hold In the days when we are old! THOMAS RUSSELL SULLIVAN. Made for the performance of the "Maid s Tragedy" at the Tavern Club, March 4, 1892. THE play, good friends, we bring you here to night You have your parts in too. Ours to rehearse What Francis Beaumont wrote us in the days When still Westminster lacked him, when he lived Fellow to Shakespeare; what John Fletcher, too, Sharing his cloak and heart, so intertwined Amid his stronger verse that mortals since Name them together. Yours the subtler part: For would you know their meaning, who have slept Save for the drowsy book-worms, since the time When England still was merry, conscienceless, You must forget yourselves; nay, for a while, Forget the godly, warring centuries Of freedom that have made you what you are. The men our poets wrote for be to-night, Ready to make in fancy what the craft Of stage-wright in these unfantastic days 10 PROLOGUE Must fain make for the vulgar palaces, Worlds, beauty, shadowed in a word or two, But here for who will see them. Furthermore, You must be men who in the name of King Hear no more term of state, but God s deep voice Naming his earthly vicar. Prone to sin Crowned knaves may be, even as our baser selves ; But God s anointment makes their trespasses Graver than ours, yet safer. His the hand, No earthly one, that may chastise the wrongs The royal madmen wreak, whirling along To their damnation, deeper still than ours, When God shall ask them, trembling, how they bore The trust his chrism gave them. Even so Amintor, whose sad story you shall hear, Held sacred him that wronged him. This the part You play to-night, helping us shadow forth Such passions as made English folk forget Awhile their own vexations, when God s voice Still echoed, calling to his glorious ones Elizabeth, by grace of God, the Queen! BARRETT WENDELL. EPILOGUE To "A Night in Seville," December 23, 1896. FOUR souls are saved, and so our masque is ended, With two and two in one another blended! And we advance a twelvemonth nearer Heaven, When Time unfolds the gates of Ninety-Seven. Until that solemn hour let mirth and laughter Ring in our ears from every beam and rafter. All uncomplaining, let us look with pity On our Executive, our House Committee, Our doctors, statesmen, shades of Ford and Marlowe Even our poets, and thank God for Arlo! THOMAS RUSSELL SULLIVAN. PROSPECT Notice of Christmas Sports, 1897. TAVERNERS will please remember Twenty-second of December Is the date the powers that be For the Christmas Masque decree. What the plot I may not tell (Programme later on reveals). This at least be known: it deals With fable, myth, and prophecy, Was, May be, Might, May never be; For it pictures what befell When Venus, tired of blowing bellows, Planned a lark with some good fellows, Old acquaintance, whom her lord Deemed too rakish for his board: And Vulcan, frantic, sure he s sold Is now browbeaten, now cajoled; While, mid domestic downs and ups, Blithe Bacchus carols in his cups, And leads Olympus on a racket That threatens doom, but does not crack it. PROSPECT 13 And yet we would not have you think The motifs are but love and drink; Know, the bard doth loft his strain, As the revel moves again, Scruples not a Delphic measure (Happy Bard! who had the leisure!) And careless of the fame to follow, Pays his duty to Apollo. Ye, then, Keepers of the Bear, Ye, who are the true Arcturi, Pledged to guard his ursine fury, Fail not to assemble there Sharp at Seven. Who conies late Enters by the area gate. (Pray, now, mark how that s explicit, Leaded, so you shall not miss it.) Those who would the feast attend By Tuesday must their notice send That lacking Hebe Gan may get us Ample honey from Hymettus Assure fit service, and lay on Copious pipes from Helicon. One more caution, ye elect: Mindful that the laws reject From this solemn-jocund feast All save members, BRING NO GUEST. Lastly (not quite finished yet) 14 PROSPECT The Christmas Box: Do not forget The order is that all be merry. HERBERT PUTNAM, Secretary. A TOAST Verses read November 22, 1898, in response to the toast of "The Ladies," on the occasion of the dinner in honor of those who did service in connection with the Hospital Ship "Bay State." You ask me to speak in behalf of the ladies Who shone in our bout with the cohorts of Cadiz ! You ask me to speak on behalf of the nurses, And with your permission I 11 do it in verses. "The ladies, God bless them!" the toast never varies From Alaska s cold snows to the sunny Canaries. Man fills up his goblet and drains it while drink ing, But the sentiment lies in the thought which he s thinking. Those dear little dolls with their pretty grimaces, Their kittenish ways and their delicate faces, Are precious to some because dainty and fear ful, Adorably helpless and readily tearful. 16 A TOAST The housewives with tact, rather plump and good looking, Nice, amiable souls with a genius for cooking, Are popular still with the saint and the sinner, When the Chair cries, " The ladies! " man thinks of his dinner. The daughter of Spam with the night in her hair, With the sloe in her eye and an indolent air, Entrances her lover who taps at her pane; Delicious ! But where are the navies of Spain ? That new woman is fair no man needs to be told. She has night in her hair, she has tresses of gold ; But what makes her precious for you and for me Is the soul which is in her, the soul which is free. Which, bursting the fetters of fashion and caste, Undeterred by tradition and deaf to the past, Seeks a post in the ranks, claims the right to a place Wherever her presence can succor the race. Wherever there s room for sweet patience and care, For love which complains not and courage to bear A TOAST 17 The stress of life s battle; albeit to tread A hospital ship in the wake of the dead. Humanity calls, and undaunted she stands. There is sweat on her brow, there is blood on her hands. Ho! dames with traditions, does this give you pain? Take heed, and remember the navies of Spain! " The ladies, God bless them! " Long life to the toast. A health to the nurses who served at their post In a hospital ship on a hurricane sea For the sake of our country, for you and for me. ROBERT GRANT. THE PRENTICES SONG From "The Prodigal Son" (1598,) December 22, 1898. HERE S to the youth, the prentice lad, Keen, clever, ah, but lazy, Who quips and quirks, and plays his pranks, Till his master is nigh crazy. He loves a catch, this prentice lad, And lustily he sings it; Give him a holiday, and see How merrily he flings it. But when the catchpoles stop his play, Ah, best he loves the fighting; Come when it will, at morn or night, That never gets a slighting. CHO. Ho, ho, ho, ha, ha, ha, Ho, ho, ho, ha, ha, ha! What is the war-cry then, my dears, Of these apprentice cubs ? Softly now! Don t split my ears All (spoken). Clubs! Clubs! Ho, this way, clubs! THE PRENTICES SONG 19 CHO. Ho, ho, ho, ha, ha, ha, Ho, ho, ho, ha, ha, ha! Is it for fun alone he fights ? Oh, no, the Ordinary Oft turns him out aglow with port, With sherry, or Canary. Then take the wall as you pass by, Most courteously yield it, Or he will club you to the street For stoutly he can wield it. And oh he is a ready knight To aid distressed damsels, Both high and low, both dark and fair, Dutch fraiileins and French mamselles. CHO. Ho, ho, ho, ha, ha, ha, Ho, ho, ho, ha, ha, ha! What are the things, my gentle dears, That make him live so long ? Softly now! Don t shock my ears All (spoken). Why, laughter, love, and song! CHO. Ho, ho, ho, ha, ha, ha, Ho, ho, ho, ha, ha, ha! GEORGE PIERCE BAKER. PROLOGUE For "The Double Marriage," April 18, 1900. WHILE yet the stage spoke to the hearts of men, And wrought with deeper passions, nobler deeds, John Fletcher made this play. The men who heard, Uncumbered by the craft of later time, The tricks mechanic of this clever age That smothers art with gewgaws, heard and thrilled ; Lived in the actors, pictured every place, And bore a part in every mimic scene. The magic of the poet s verse for them Was like the wand of Prospero, to build The fabric of a vision; they were wise, Not through the tangible, but through the real; Not through the painted scene and sordid fact, But through the vision of the inner sight, Imagination s perfect prescience. To-night be as were they. Listen and look With inward ear and eye. Let our poor craft Be the suggestion of a gracious dream Your minds shall build. T is ours only to hint, PROLOGUE 21 To hint most haltingly, yet you may know The sweet persuasion of a moving truth. Your thought shall do the thing we cannot do; Your fancy climb to heights our buskins miss; And your imagination fill the stage. Whate er success attends will be your work; Whatever failure no less yours, not ours. ARLO BATES. VERSES Read at the Dinner to Mark Twain, January 16, 1901. FROM Hartford town a Yankee once across the ages strayed, And sate him down at Arthur s Court to ply his Yankee trade. And oh! it was a fearsome sight to see those Knights of old Learn all our little Yankee tricks, and do as they were told; Sir Mordred at the telephone, Sir Bedivere first base, Sir Galahad a bicyclist, breaking his pure young face, The lasso in a tournament, better than mail and spear, The weekly journal half misprints read by Queen Guenevere; Merlin himself outwitted his magic turned to dross; And over all the Yankee stranger lifted high Sir Boss! VERSES 23 But there is yet another Knight errant from Hartford town. His Arthur s Court has been the world, for wan dering up and down. From Calaveras County and the Mississippi stream He has roughed it to the mountains where the Alpine sunsets gleam; Punch, brothers, punch (but in the ribs) he sings through many a tome, And tramping much abroad he s left some inno cence at home. What wonder, then, if he has made a world of men his debtors, For all his lance of wit has wrought at the Game- lot of letters! Full well his accolade is won his enemies all slain; So let us cry, " Arise, Sir Mark nay, twice a Knight Mark Twain ! " M. A. DE WOLFE HOWE. SONG Lawyers Night, February 3, 1902. EVERY worthy club in Boston Has its proper point of pride: At the Botolph Sunday Concerts, At the Somerset t is " side;" And the graveyard gives the Union Its distinctive clammy calm, But the Dry Martini Cocktail Is the Tavern s special charm! OH! Take a pinch of pepper, Add a gill of ink, Hah* a rubber overshoe; Mix em in the sink. Stew em in a saucepan, Top em off with ale. . . . That s the Tavern mixture For a Dry Cocktail! WINTHROP AMES. LINES On the playing of "Mercedes," at the Tavern Club, February 24, 1903. ONCE, walking in the wilderness, I met a maiden fair; Wild were her eyes, wild was her mien, Wild was her tangled hair. She walked as one distraught by fate, And made her plaintive moan; I knew her the Dramatic Muse, Lost, and forgot, and lone. I spoke her kind, and would have stayed Her tears unceasing flow; Beside a runnel sat she down, And told me all her woe. Her voice had caught the notes of birds, But deepened like the sea, As half she spoke and half she sighed Her plaint all bitterly. " Once all the world was mine to rule, And mankind owned my sway; But now dominion have I none; My hests will none obey. 26 LINES Once, when my mimic world was shown All life was dim beside; This was the real, this the true, This only could abide. I showed the stuff the gods have used To fashion human life: The joy, the anguish, hope, and fear, The dreams, the doubt, the strife; Wild passion mingled like a cup Of honey mixed with gall; Human desire with quenchless thirst, And death that ends it all. The hearts of men were in my hand; Their souls throbbed at my will; I kindled in their breasts a flame Which lights the ages still. " Such lovers as I had of old When Greece was in her prime: Euripides with godlike brow, Vast JSschylus sublime; Rare Sophocles with gift of tears More sweet than love s own smile; Keen Aristophanes with wit Might e en the gods beguile. But now" LINES 27 Her voice broke off in sobs; Then sudden anger flashed From her wet eyes; with scornful hand The crowding tears she dashed; And in a fitful voice, now sad, Now swelling into rage, She poured her words indignant forth, Indicting thus our age: But now the stage which once I graced Is your reproach and shame; A place where scurril wantons jest, Or fools all good defame. Where once Apollo s lyre sung The twanging banjos beat; Where honor triumphed over death T is trampled under feet. Where Terence with a skill adroit Wrought shrewd satiric fun, Pinero turns the sewers out To fester in the sun. There Ibsen builds a lazar-house For lepers of the mind; And playwright-panders search the stews Fresh filthiness to find. His golden cup, divinely wrought With jewels sparkling rich, 28 LINES D Annunzio fills to its brave brim From hell s obscenest ditch. Where once pure maiden figures passed, Hapless Antigone, Cordelia sad, gay Rosalind, Sappho or Zaza see! I hear the silly laughter-spume Indecent jests exploit! I laughed with flashing Sheridan, I weep at Charlie Hoyt. Ah, when the gods a race would blast They send Vulgarity, The fellest fury known in hell, Its pest and curse to be. With jeweled names your history set, Imperishably fine, Ford, Fletcher, Webster, Beaumont, Ben, And Shakespeare the divine, Have you no place to do me grace ? Where men do not forget How in an earlier, happier time Such love on me was set ? Once I gave joy and grace to life, To valor, best renown; Now will not one poor worshiper My flameless altars crown ? " LINES 29 She ceased. The little runnel purled In music at our feet; And all the sombre wood was hushed To hear its chiming sweet. Fain would I comfort to her give, And sudden in my head Sprang a quick thought. I seized her hand, As eagerly I said: "Goddess, one place forgets thee not; There yet thine altars flame. The Tavern Club is faithful still, And guards thine ancient fame. Thine art still there hath reverence; There yet the lyre rings. Thou art not voiceless while for thee Melodious ALDEICH sings!" ABLO BATES. TO B. P. A "HELLION" VERSE "Literary Night," February 24, 1903. OH, Perry, in our hours of ease We send you verses worse than these ; When backward flows the Atlantic tide, T is just a case of Bliss Denied. M. A. DEWOLFE HOWE. A SONG By Musicus, winner of Prize in Song Competition, February 24, 1903. HERE S to the Bear who abides in his lair, His castle, his club and his cavern; Of his warm, shaggy hair may he never go bare, Here s a hug for the Bear in the Tavern! Here s to the Prex whom no hellion can vex; And here s to the chair he has sat in ; Here s to the speech that its lesson will teach, And here s to his lungs and his Latin! CHORUS Of his warm, shaggy hair may he never go bare ! Here s a hug for the Prex in the Tavern! Here s to our guest in a glass of the best, To prove him the warmth of our greeting! Once for his health, once again for his wealth, Once more for the joy of this meeting! CHORUS Of his warm, shaggy hair may he never go bare ! Here s a hug for the Guest in the Tavern ! 32 A SONG Here s to the Club that s the light of the Hub, And all who turned out to invent it! Let the red drink hard to the green-ribbon guard, Till the green and the red repent it! CHORUS Of its warm, shaggy hair may it never go bare! Here s a hug for the Club in the Tavern ! THOMAS RUSSELL SULLIVAN. THE MUSKETEERS Verses read at the Tavern Club, December 4, 1903. THE Musketeers are here again; Three gladsome Gallic gentlemen. Here s Athos with the poet s glance, Here s Porthos with the portly paunch, And Aramis, who somehow strayed, But comes to-night to claim his blade, And sit once more with this dear crowd, By whose kind vote it is allowed. Gallic are we in pulse and brain, For we were nourished on champagne; Whose bubbling vintage when man s dry Lifts him in zigzags to the sky. But though we love the last safe drop, We always know just when to stop, And tottering " hellions " see us stand Staunch as a lighthouse far from land. Our province has been to protect The Tavern s proper self-respect, Yet keep the note of gayety At just that fascinating key When men can tumble into bed And still remember what they ve said. 34 THE MUSKETEERS In these old halls enlarged and decked Our charge shall still be to protect The heaven-born poet as he sings, The minstrel when he stirs the strings; And yet give mirth full elbow room. We are the enemies of gloom. So Arlo s soul may sport in peace Perched on an ample mantel-piece. So nonsense voiced by joyous men Shall make the tired brain young again. And you, Sir, sitting in the chair Our D Artagnan and Captain are, Though D Artagnan was but a "gent" Compared with what you represent. What model for old Dumas pen, Had you been born and doing then! As Taverners and Musketeers We now renew the pledge of years. With ranks unbroken here we stand With sword and cup in either hand. Our blades are made of flawless steel, We slake our thirsts but never reel, Our hearts are true, our faith we swear To Art, to Friendship and the Bear! ROBERT GRANT. GLITHA S SONG From "The Vanished Bride," December 22, 1903. IN days long dead there lived a Knight, In old Mortaine, whose clouded sight Revealed not to him, day or night, The face of her whose soul he loved. And though he heard the singing call Of maid to man through every hall In gay Mortaine, no song at all Heard he of hers whose songs he loved. Yet had he faith that made the air Of strange Mortaine alive with fair Brave visions strengthening him to dare Great deeds for her whose strength he loved. Wherefore with dragon-shapes that flew And crawled and crept and rose anew To slay the Knight, he fought and slew Each one, for her whose heart he loved. 36 GLITHA S SONG And lo, the dragon-shapes once slain, The Knight, rejoicing, heard the strain Of lutes, and saw her face again Whose song and heart and soul he loved. HENRY COPLEY GREENE TO OWEN WISTER A " Hellion" Verse, January 15, 1904. ABOUT your novel, The Virginian, There seems to be but one opinion; As near as we can make it, Mr., There s lots of money Owin Wr. ! FRANCIS SHAW STURGIS. ON STAGING A PLAY BY B. W. "WE BOSTONIANS:" January 15, 1904. A " Hellion " Verse. BARRETT wrote a little play Whose plot was white as snow, And everywhere that Barrett played The play was sure to " go." FRANCIS SHAW STURGIS. TO THE TAVERNERS With a present of champagne on the occasion of the dinner to Perrier Jouet, February 3, 1904. BROTHERS in Tavern, you have willed A sparkling guest to entertain; And as you sit with glasses filled O hear an absentee complain: Pity, my brothers, his sore plight That may not dine with you to-night. His spirit and his heart are sore, His fortune like his wine is brute: But they that cannot go to war Make haste to send a substitute; For his dull stead this foam of France Shall make you gain from his mischance. OWEN WISTER. LINES Read at Dinner to Cameron Forbes, May 26, 1904. HE S hitched no wagon to a star; He drives a constellation; The Southern Cross his coursers are, Large deeds his destination. Drawn by those soft, imperial orbs That never wheel in Northern skies, He goes, from Emerson and Forbes, To make a people rich and wise. A thousand islands wait for him; The Tagalog and Moro, Visayans, Ygorotes grim Who use the bow and arrow. The Macabebe, friendly soul, All wait his coming to be won Out of a century of dole Into a thousand years of sun. All through the archipelago They 11 lay aside the bolo Whenever they shall come to know That Cam s advancing solo. LINES 41 He 11 keep them guileless of our worst And teach them all our best like Taft And shield them from one word, the curst New coinage of our language Graft. Let others build a great canal, Pick up the French dropped stitches; Our Cam does something less banal Than merely digging ditches. That railways now may loop the heights Where lurked the brutal ambuscade, That hospitals may rise on sites Where mercy shrank till now afraid, We send our football strategist, Our comrade and good fellow. And though among white men he s missed, He s good for brown and yellow. And when the years bring back to us The same Cam, only older, We Taverners, from Dick to Gus, Will dine him, shoulder to shoulder. ARTHUR STANWOOD PIER. LINES At Dinner to Cameron Forbes, May 26, 1904. To the East, to the East ! Some can hear nothing else Than the tinkling call of the old temple bells ; But a voice, like a memory waked from the past, Calls to him, him alone, "You are coming at last, For the blood of your fathers, still warm at the heart, Leaps free at the Orient cry to depart ! " One grandsire heeded the same searching cry When the flags at his mast -tops were wonted to fly Over cargoes of sweet-scented wares from the land Of magic and mystery, bound for the strand Where all that he ventured forth bore him again Tenfold in the wealth and the wisdom of men. Another that sage of New England, whose name Needs not to be spoken, so sure is his fame LINES 43 Cruised wide through the Eastern dominions of thought, And home for our treasure his argosies brought, Enlarging the spirit, enabling the man When "thou must" is the order, to whisper "I can." See them both in the darkness of war s bitter hour, Full-armed with the weapons of wisdom and power One counseling greatly with rulers perplexed Over soldiers, and sinews, and what to do next; One lifting the heart of the people with song, And girding the right still to conquer the wrong. What wonder then, Cam, that you turn from our feast And journey afar to your grandfathers East, Where a patriot s mission of mercy awaits Your part in its doing ? Oh fortunate fates Now the isles of the East shall account them selves blest That young Cameron Forbes is come out of the West! M. A. DEWOLFE HOWE. SONNET For the Twentieth Anniversary, November 11, 1904. GRIEVED for lost Youth, who not for prayers would stay, But mocking with light laughter, her fair head Gold-aureoled with her sunny hair, had fled Like some wild dryad down a woodland way, Taking the cheer and brightness of my day, I walked beside grim beldam Age instead; Till happy chance up to the Tavern led: And here with joy I found once more my may, Here where the man speaks with the boy s frank tongue; Laughs the lad s laugh, catches youth s wine- foam jest; Where stiffened throats supple in blithesome song, And lips white-bearded yet in smiles are young; Here, where, though heads be gray, we find the zest And mirth that to immortal youth belong. ARLO BATES. VERSES Read at the Dinner on the Twentieth Anniversary November 11, 1904. TWENTY years of bread and fizz, Clever stunts and honest mirth! Twenty happy years it is Since the moment of our birth. Whiskered men to-night we sit, Saving Arlo who has shaved, Well because we ve welcomed wit, Young because we ve misbehaved. Surgeons brilliant with the knife Capering like pantaloons, Leaders of litigious strife Howling songs in many tunes, Artists hungry after fame Popping champagne corks at care, These and more whom I could name Are the followers of the Bear. Ever to be serious Indicates the tedious mind. Usefulness is labor plus Joy of a relaxing kind. 46 VERSES Those who deign not to unbend To the follies of their peers Rust out lonely to the end. We shall live a thousand years. Mr. Eliot has said That the ashman or the clerk Toiling for his daily bread Should take pleasure in his work. Is there not an equal need That our nervous native clay Driven by the " hustling " creed Should take pleasure in its play ? Joy comes first, but art is next, And our A is underlined. Scorn of cheapness is our text, Reverence for the well-trained mind, Homage for the gifted soul Which keeps true unto its aim As the needle to the pole, Deaf to fashionable fame. We have thrown some huge bouquets At the famous of our time. Sent home staggering under bays Genius from many a clime. VERSES 47 But the fullness of your heart Aggravated by champagne Never has acclaimed false art Nor has crowned a shallow brain. Fellowship comes third and last; Nature s kindest gift to man, Gilder of the dreamy past, Henchman of time s caravan, Who upon life s winding road Keeps the dust of travel down, Helps the wanderer with his load, Balks the fly-blown cynic s frown. Here we learn to love and serve, And each spirit warms to each When the barriers of reserve Fall before the flood of speech. As to what the psychists claim Controversial folk may vary, But our Dick s best hold on fame Are his words, the dictionary. Joy and Art and Fellowship! So we know the reason why Some men when life s cables slip In a tavern fain would die. 48 VERSES Twenty years have come and gone, Twenty years will pass again; Other doctors will be born, Others wielding brush and pen Here will sit and pledge the toast Dear to age and beardless youth, * To the Bear, our merry host, While we live let s live for truth." Thus each generation s birth Shall attest the nearing goal, While the echoes of your mirth Bring refreshment to the soul. ROBERT GRANT. THE PRESIDENTIAL RANGE Tune: " Vicar of Bray " Sung by John Sturgis Codman at the Twentieth Anniversary Dinner, November 11, 1904. WHEN first our brotherhood began, In days of ancient fable, They looked about for just the man To sit at the head of the table; They spied him out with foresight keen, Who d make all men his debtors, And seated Howells William Dean The Dean of Yankee letters. CHORUS : Then bless the Bear That guards the Chair At the Hub within the Hub, sir! My purpose still I will fulfill And die in the Tavern Club, sir! Next came a Colonel to command The Boylston Place battalions; He guided well the noisy band Of gentlemen rapscallions. 50 THE PRESIDENTIAL RANGE In peace and war, to all the arts He held the magic key, sir, The key that opens kindred hearts Did Colonel Henry Lee, sir! CHORUS. To Deans and Colonels now farewell, And hail to their successor! From out his academic cell Steps forth a loved professor, Of golden heart and golden tongue, A gold the market s short on, The Cambridge Grecian, ever young, Our own Charles Eliot Norton. CHORUS. Now he whose joy it is to enrich Both sides of Boston s river Adorns our presidential niche T is Higginson, the Giver. But titles new he needs them not, He d scorn them all, I wager; Yet never here shall be forgot The Bear s the Ursa s Major. CHORUS. M. A. DEWOLFE HOWE. EPILOGUE The Christmas Play, December 23, 1904. NOTE you this, we looked to-night To the Bear for our delight; He, t was said, would rule the sport, Lead the revels at his court, Show the members, young and old, Tavern antics manifold. Yet if I remember true, This is what he did not do; T was the members you and you Showed the Bear a thing or two; His may be the Tavern s body, Yours the spirit, Paul and Waddy, Holker, Gericke, and Sturgis You provide the true Walpurgis Night or day-time in the Tavern! Shall we grudge him, then, his cavern ? If the cubs outgrow the Bear, Shall he lose their love and care? Nay, a thousand times, nay, nay! May he dwell with us for aye Emblem of the best that s here, Honest, big, without a fear, 52 EPILOGUE Rough without, and snug within, Loyal to his kith and kin! Hand in hand, then, heart by heart, Up, my brothers, ere we part! He shall lead our ancient song, Rendered in a Bearish tongue: " *T is my purpose here to die In the Tavern, where the dry Still may find whereof to sip Opposite the thirsting Up, That the angel chorus may, While it wafts me heavenward, say Crown, oh Lord, with approbations This good friend of all potations. " M. A. DEWOLFE HOWE. VALENTINE February 14, 1905. "LET THE HILLS BE JOYFUL TOGETHER." WHEN to write you have the will, Take a dose of Adams Hill. If twixt " shall" and "will" you stick, Try page forty, Rhetoric. If you d flash with verbal prisms, Mind page thirty, " Solecisms." If "colloquial" is your size, Dissect Hill s " Improprieties." For every form of vulgar ill, Deliverance lurks in Doctor Hill. If you court the law s delay, Arthur Hill will stop the way. If you need a " Lawyer s Night," Arthur Hill will set you right. 54 VALENTINE When you re clubbed by the police, Arthur Hill will bring surcease. So you shall, where er you roam, Fondly seek the Hills of home. " Copp s Hill." THOMAS RUSSELL SULLIVAN. VALENTINE (TO P. T.) February 14, 1905. WHEN Paul draws near the Belvidere In Robinson s Museum, In one another s marble ear The statues whisper, "See him!" And Venus wakes upon her shelf And tries hotfoot to follow, And Satyr chuckles to himself When Paul appals Apollo. ARTHUR STANWOOD PIER. TO BOOKER WASHINGTON Lines read at the dinner in his honor, March 15, 1905. BORN of a race enslaved, despised, and taunted, Quick in the burning bush God s voice to know, Before the king the prophet stood undaunted. " The Lord hath spoken : Let my people go ! " In cloud and fire Jehovah moved before him; He stretched his hand above the waters bed; Through cleaving waves the God of Israel bore him Where Pharaoh s mighty chariots sank as lead. Three thousand years. A freeborn nation s morning Was black with gathering thunder-clouds of woe ; Once more unheeded rang the prophet s warn ing. " The Lord hath spoken : Let my people go ! " The God of Hosts our stubborn hearts con founded; He smote the waters with avenging hand. High in the heavens Jehovah s trumpet sounded, And the red sea rolled wide across the land. TO BOOKER WASHINGTON 57 On Horeb still the bush of God is burning; Still in the smoke and flame his sign we know, Still cries the prophet, from the mount returning, " The Lord hath spoken: Let my people go! " My people, bound in darkness and in terror. My people, childlike, trustful, patient, slow, Yearning for light, yet groping long in error Children of Freedom, let my people go ! " ! Stretch forth thine hand, O prophet giant- hearted, Divide the waters of the rolling sea. Lead thou thine host betwixt the billows parted, Till black shall stand with white, erect and free. LE BARON RUSSELL BRIGGS. PRIVATELY PRINTED AT THE RIVERSIDE PRESS 20263 A 000 674 784 4 sitv of i