I LIBRARY] UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA I SAN DIEGO J 161 To VONDA MARIE WARMAN WITH THE FULL TIDE OF A FATHER'S LOVE 00 SONGS of CY WARMAN Published by BAND AVERT CO., BOSTON McLEOD & ALLEN, TORONTO COPYRIGHT, 1911 RAND AVERT Co., BOSTON. CONTENTS SONGS PAGE SAPHO 9 WHEN THE DARK COMES DOWN 10 WHEN SHE SINGS 11 WHEN THE Cows ARE COMING HOME 12 THE SAD SEA 13 You, LOVE 14 HAPPY FOLKS 15 INDIANA 16 CUPID is KING OP THE SEAS 18 SONG OF A SERENADER 19 How I LOVE HER 21 HEART OF MY HEART 21 THIS LITTLE PIG WENT TO MARKET 22 FORGOTTEN 24 ALL is WELL 25 HERE BELOW 26 THE JOY OF LOVE 27 WE WERE DECEIVED 28 W T OMAN'S SILENCE 29 IT MEANS so MUCH 30 LITTLE PAPOOSE 31 LITTLE WILD GOOSE 32 THE SEA 34 THE LONG, HARD HILL 35 A COUNTRY TOWN 37 FIDDLE-DE-DEE ' . 38 CLICKETY CLICK 39 HUSH-A-BY, LITTLE ONE, SLEEP 40 THE LAND OF ANNIE LAURIE 41 CONSTANCY 42 ASHES 43 MORNING ON THE YUKON 44 AGNES, I LOVE THEE 45 WHOM DO YOU LOVE? 46 THE COLUMBINE 47 OLD RED Hoss MOUNTAIN 48 THE DESERT MAIL 50 IT CANNOT BE 51 THE EYES OF LIZZETTE 52 " AND YOU'LL REMEMBER ME " 53 MY LITTLE LOVE 54 NATURE SONGS 55 Hoss SENSE 55 AN ANTIQUE LOVE SONG 56 LOVE AMONG THE MOUNTAINS 57 NON COMMITTAL 58 MOTHER AND I 59 AN' DE WATAHMELON'S RIPEN' ALL AROUN' 61 BECAUSE WE LOVE 62 SWEET MARIE 63 THE CONVENT 64 SONG OF A SOUND SAILOR . 65 CONTENTS THOUGHTFUL RHYMES PAGE WILL THE LIGHTS BE WHITE? 69 ALASKA 70 THIS LIFE is GOOD 71 HEREAFTER 72 " ALL'S WELL WITH THE WORLD " 74 THE HARVEST 75 THE RISE AND FALL OF CREEDE 76 THE SOUL OF THE SASKATCHEWAN 78 THE BULL TEAM 79 THE WRECK AT CABAZA 80 Two SOLDIERS 81 SANGRE DE CHRISTO 82 THERE is NO DEATH 83 UNDER THE WILLOWS 84 LITTLE THERESA, THE WAIF 86 MY FRIEND THE PROSPECTOR 87 IN THE TWILIGHT WHERE WOMEN DON'T Go 89 WE NEVER KNOW 90 GOD is LOVE 91 GIVE us THIS DAY 92 WAITING FOR THE WILD GOOSE 93 TRANSPORTATION 94 TO-MORROW 95 " GIVE ME NOT RICHES " 96 GRIEF 96 MEMORIAL DAY 97 THE STAGE COACH 98 THE CRY OF A SHIPWRECKED SOUL 99 THE WIDOWER 101 THE ISOLATION OF A CHILD 102 THE WEST 103 THE CANON OF THE GRAND 104 IN MEMORY 105 Sic TRANSIT GLORIA MUNDI 106 WHERE THE FLOWERS TALK 107 WHEN WE GO OFF AND DIE 108 Lo, THE POOR INDIAN 109 WORRISOME JIM Ill BAD ON THE BIRD 112 GENTLE ANNIE 113 THE WAY WE WALKED 114 THE CITY CHOIR 115 WE AIN'T HAD NO SPRING 116 THE DEATH OF A DEW-DROP 116 THE PRINTER 117 JEALOUSY 117 THE FLYER 118 ENGINE .007 119 I OUGHT TO BE BETTER 123 THE PRINCESS INGINITA 124 THE PASSING OF THE LOCOMOTIVE A REVERIE .... 125 CONTENTS PAGE BY-AND-BY 126 I WOULD KNOW MY NATIVE LAND 127 ON MARSHALL PASS 128 PERIOD! 130 THE ALL RED INDIAN 131 THE SUNDOWN SEA . 133 THE CRY OF A WOUNDED HEART 134 LOCAL COLOR 134 IS IT REALLY ANY GOOD? 135 AT THE RAINBOW'S TIP 138 A TOAST 138 To BABY ASLEEP 139 A REPORTER'S REPORT 140 SUMMER'S GONE 145 THE POET AND THE PUBLISHER 146 THE FIRST CHRISTMAS GIFT 146 ADOWN THE DUSKY DELL 147 MISUNDERSTOOD 148 GONE 149 CITIES I HAVE SEEN COLORADO SPRINGS 153 JERUSALEM . 154 SALT LAKE 155 IN MONTREAL 155 CHEYENNE 156 CAIRO 158 SAN FRANCISCO, 1894 159 CREEDE 160 DENVER 161 IN SAINT PAUL 162 CRIPPLE CREEK 163 AT JAFFA . 164 MORE OR LESS PERSONAL A TRIBUTE TO DR. DRUMMOND 167 To A PHOTOGRAPH B. W 168 PAULINE 168 ROBERT ELLIOT 169 To MRS. FOR CHARITY 170 BILL AND HY 171 JIU-JITZU ?-s. HOCKEY 172 FRIENDSHIP 173 To JULIAN RALPH, IN CHINA . . 175 ToJ. W. S.. 175 HIM 176 HENRY PREW 176 FATHER J. C.. 177 Songs SONGS OF CY WARMAN SAPHO Soul of Sapho ! if to-night, When my boat is drifting near Your fair island, spirit bright; If I sing, and if you hear, From your island in the sea, Soul of Sapho, signal me. Soul of Sapho ! they have said That your hair, tho' not of gold, Made a halo for your head ; And your eyes, I have been told, Were like stars. O ! from the sea, Soul of Sapho, speak to me. Soul of Sapho, awake, awake, Wake and tune your harp again; While the foaming billows break Let your song sweep o'er the main; From your island in the sea, Soul of Sapho, sing to me. [9] WHEN THE DARK COMES DOWN Queen of my heart, when the dark comes down, When the lingering light in the red, warm west Glows faintly and fades over tower and town, A new light burns in my happy breast. I know it is morning wherever thou art, Queen of my heart ! Queen of my heart, when the day is drear, And I take my scourge for the deeds I've done, The dark clouds scatter when you draw near, A rainbow smiles on the setting sun. There's always a rainbow wherever thou art, Queen of my heart ! Queen of my heart, when the roses die, And the low winds waltz with the eddying leaves, We know a happiness, you and I, Though the raindrops drip from the drooping eaves. I know it is summer, wherever thou art, Queen of my heart! [10] SONGS OF CY WARMAN WHEN SHE SINGS When she sings the song birds listen, While the pearly dewdrops glisten On the hedge and on the hawthorn, Trembling, poised on outspread wings; And at night the moon swings nearer, And the stars are hushed to hear her, E'en the nightingale is silent, Awed and silent when she sings. When she sings the withered grasses Catch the low wind as it passes, Whispering, hush, and hushing hearken While the dread of death takes wings; And the summer roses, d)dng, Smile one last sweet smile, and sighing, Fold in peace their perfumed petals, Soothed and solaced, when she sings. [11] SONGS OF CY WARMAN WHEN THE COWS ARE COMING HOME Come, my love, and let us wander 'Cross the hills and over yonder; We shall find the tangled trails we used to roam; Where the distant sea was moaning And the honey bees were droning In the twilight when the cows were coming home. Hear the tingle, tongle, tangle of the bells, As they dingle on the downs and in the dells ; O'er the meadow in the gloam See the cows are coming home: Hear the dingle, dongle, dangle of the bells. O, the sweet forget-me-never, I should like to live forever, Never more than two months either way from June; Where the cherry blooms were falling And the silver bells were calling Through the twilight of a summer's afternoon. [12] SONGS OF CY WARMAN THE SAD SEA " What makes the sea so sad, mother?" Whispered a little child. " Why do the billows sigh and break, And why are the waves so wild?" " The rivers run down to the sea With all their grief, my lad, And flood the sea with their misery, And that's why the sea is sad. " The Hudson goes with Gotham's woes, And Paris chokes the Seine; The Danube blue and the dark Thames, too, All hurrying to the main; Losing the song of the running rill, But keeping all that's bad, They flood the sea with their misery, And that's why the sea is sad." [13] SONGS OF CY WARMAN YOU, LOVE (A Duet) " When the rose in the East shows the long night is gone" " I wake and watch for you." "When you open your eyes, love, to welcome the dawn" "Darling, they look for you." "Through the long summer day, in the sun's golden gleam, When the night shadows fall and the silver stars beam, When you lie a-sleeping, of whom do you dream?" "Darling, of you, of you." CHORUS Of you, love, my true love, When bright stars are beaming, Of you I am dreaming, Of you, love, my true love, My darling, of you, of you. " If you had but one life to live, where would you live?" " Love, I would live near you." [14] SONGS OF CY WARMAN "Had the gods but one gift, what would you have them give?" "O, I would ask for you." "If you had the wings of a dove, would you breast The wind of the East or the wind of the West, And when you're a-weary, 0, where would you rest?" " Darling, near you, near you." CHORUS Near you, love, my true love, And when I am weary Of wandering, my dearie, Near you, love, my true love, My darling, near you, near you. HAPPY FOLKS Lucky beggars of Barbados, Have no trouble wear no clothes ; Want a banquet, they build a dish Of sweet potatoes and flying fish ; And that I reckon's the reason why The girls are sweet and the boys are fly. [15] SONGS OF CY WARMAN INDIANA Hear the boastful bugles screaming high above the rolling cheers, See the Hoosier Gov'ner beaming on his valiant volunteers ; While beneath a spreading chestnut, where the somber shadows lie, A soldier and his sweetheart say good-bye. " Forget? I'll ne'er forget you, love, and you'll forget me not, Because I'll never let you in the land that God forgot." Now he vows with lifted gauntlet : " By the stars that stud the blue, I'll be faithful to my country and to you." " I'll come back to Indiana when this wicked war is o'er, I'll come back to Indiana and I'll leave you, love, no more; We shall walk and talk together here beneath our native sky, I'll come back to Indiana, by-and-by." We were scouting in an island on a summer's afternoon, In that windless hush that harbingers the trop- ical typhoon, [161 SONGS OF CY WARM AN When we walked into an ambuscade and made a final stand Where we fought the Filipinos, hand to hand. I could see our banner streaming, I could hear the lusty cheers, I could see our good swords gleaming 'mongst the foeman's rusty spears; When a naked, blood-mad Tino whipped around to rear and thrust, And our valiant Hoosier captain bit the dust. * * * " Take me back to Indiana, boys, don't leave me here to rot On the bogs and moors and marshes in the land that God forgot." Then he lay and stared in silence up against the steely sky : "Take me back to Indiana when I die." (Softly) "Take me back to Indiana" -he was groping for our hands. "Take me back to Indiana there's a girl in old Vincennes - 0, it grieves me sore that sorrow soon shall dim her azure eye; Take me back to Indiana by-and-by." [17] SONGS OF CY WARMAN CUPID IS KING OF THE SEAS When the rain falls and the snow palls, I can still see the sunshine above, Tho' my sky's drear, in your eyes, dear, I am reading my rainbow of love. O'er the dark tides safe my barque rides For Cupid is King of the Seas; When the wind cries my heart sighs : Eloise. When the gun peals and the sun reels And the hushed world is holding its breath, When the horns blare where the slain stare And the Cannon are bellowing death, Still our flag streams where the shell screams For Cupid is King of the Seas. When the storm dies my heart sighs : Eloise. [18] SONGS OF CY WARMAN SONG OF A SERENADER One night beneath my window, when the stars were bright above The music of a mandolin, blent with a lay of love, Came stealing through the stillness like the balmy breath of spring; I opened up my window-blinds and heard a singer sing : " Cupid is an archer, and his arrow's ever set, And swift and sure the arrow flies, as from a falconet; His bow is ever trusty and his aim is ever true. Be wary of the archer when his arrow's aimed at you!" At first I only lingered there to listen for a while. And thought the singer only sang the hours to beguile. My heart began to tremble with the touch of every string. I opened wide my window-blinds and heard the singer sing : " Cupid is an archer, and his arrow's ever set, And swift and sure the arrow flies, as from a falconet ; His bow is ever trusty and his aim is ever true. [19] SONGS OF CY WARMAN Be wary of the archer when his arrow's aimed at you!" The weary day I'm waiting for the twilight shades to fall, And where the tangled woodland waves I hear the lone dove call. The song of running brooklets and a thousand birds a-wing My eager ears will hear not, when my love begins to sing: " Cupid is an archer, and his arrow's ever set, And swift and sure the arrow flies, as from a falconet; His bow is ever trusty and his aim is ever true. Be wary of the archer when his arrow's aimed at you!" [20] SONGS OF CY WARM AN HOW I LOVE HER Go, laughing, leaping, romping rill, Go where my love is straying, And, in the pools when you are still, Then list to what she's saying; And with the sunny, summer skies Of azure arched above her, Show her her own angelic eyes, And tell her how I love her. Go, gentle winds, soft, sighing winds, Go where my love is sleeping, And be about her window blinds And through the curtains creeping; Weave in the wimples of her hair The perfume of the clover, Caress her face, so sweet and fair, And tell her how I love her. HEART OF MY HEART O, darling ! the first pale crocus peeps Through a crack in the crusted snow; Awake and awaken our love that sleeps, Our love of the long ago. And O, my soul, when the world is fair And sweet with the smell of June: Ah, little I dreamed you would cease to care - Heart of my heart so soon. [211 SONGS OF CY WARM AN THIS LITTLE PIG WENT TO MARKET The moon looked down on Denver one matchless summer night And bathed the earth in splendor, a flood of silver light Suffused the hills and valleys, all warp't in sweet repose ; We wandered near a garden, I mind I smelled a rose. We rested in the garden, I and my heart's delight : The moon beamed down on Denver that scented summer night. The rain came down in Denver one blowy au- tumn night, One bleak night in November, and blurred the tower light. I told my love a story, the grate glowed warm and red; She toyed with her fair fingers, then slowly shook her head. She kindly drew her curtain to give my going light; Oh, how it rained in Denver that black November night ! [22] SONGS OF CY WARMAN The snow came down in Denver, one windless winter night, And robed the earth in splendor, in splendid robe of white; I told the same old story, she did not shake her head, But toyed with her fair fingers. I took her hand and said: "And this pig went to market, and this pig stayed at home. This little pig had roast beef, this little pig had none." Eight years ! The snow is falling to-night. Not far away I hear a baby calling and hear its mother say: "And this pig went to market, and this pig stayed at home. This little pig had roast beef, this little pig had none." Down past my study window the snow flakes flutter white, Just as they did in Denver that windless winter night. [231 FORGOTTEN Far out in the West-land, where the sun goes down, Dwelt a little maiden in a mountain town. Oft I used to see her oft I used to say : "I will sing a love song to the maid some day." Drearily the years dragged ; she was very young ; I was much her senior when the song was sung ; Still, I thought a teardrop trembled in her eye When she stood a-tiptoe kissing me good-by. Far away I wandered, where the breakers roar, Where the mighty ships come from a foreign shore; How my poor heart hungered, when the sun went down, For the little maiden in the mountain town. Years: the city lured me with a thousand charms, And I soon grew weary of my idle arms. Myriads of maidens, hair of golden brown - I forgot the maiden in the mountain town. Wretch! how oft her pillow has been wet with tears; How she must have mourned me all these weary years ! Sitting with her sorrow 'neath the cedar there, Weaving little wild flowers in her sunny hair. [24] SONGS OF CY WARMAN Now, her tear-stained face did haunt me so to-day, That I turned for surcease to the matinee. Lo ! My mountain maid, with new and sunnier hair, Sans her sorrow played as leading lady there. ALL IS WELL Slowly my native shore sinks in the sea, O, must we meet no more, Vonda Marie? Lo, now life's summer dies There where my treasure lies; God give you sunny skies, Vonda Marie. Slowly the dark ship ploughs deep in the waves, Over the armored bows Old Ocean laves ; Here comes a screaming shell, There goes the midnight bell - God watches all is well, Vonda Marie. [25], SONGS OF CY WARMAN HERE BELOW You can talk about your honey- Suckle home beyond the sky, Your sun-kissed over yonder, And your blooming by-and-by ; Of the silver waves that warble Up against the golden shore ; Of your heathery hereafter, And your endless evermore, But if you've a lot of rapture And would like to let it go, Just sift a little sunshine In the shadows here below. Don't cluster up your kisses For my cold and clammy brow. This life is long and lonely - Come and let me feel them now. It's all right to lay up treasures In the realms where they won't rust; And to figure on the future, And to try to put your trust In Him who made the Universe; But it won't hurt, I know, To sift a little sunshine In the shadows here below. [26] SONGS OF CY WARMAN THE JOY OF LOVE Oh, how I love my love ; such laughing eyes - Sweet, dreamy eyes, like little sun-kist seas, And face flushed like the west when daylight dies, Whose breath is like a summer-scented breeze. Where'er she walks the birds sing in their bowers, And mock her voice, melodious and sweet; She steals the peace and perfume of the flowers Whose little leaves are crushed beneath her feet. 'Twas not the beauty of her face alone, Nor yet her form, my willing heart that stole, But sweeter still, the light of love that shone From out her eyes, reflected from her soul. Long winter nights we watch the glowing grate; Her low, sweet laugh makes music like the streams That flow through forests ; when I leave her late 'Tis only to return to her in dreams. How sweet to love, to have the heart enslaved, Your future in a woman's hands! What bliss To know each day life's sweetest sweets are saved By woman's soft caress or tender kiss. [27] SONGS OF CY WARMAN If I could pray a prayer that God would hear And answer, I would ask the powers above, That all mankind upon this fading sphere Be once allowed to taste the joy of love. WE WERE DECEIVED A wild Juanita, black and tan, Rode into Wingate on a mule ; Met a Chicago traveling man : Who told her, as a drummer can, That she was wildly beautiful. She smiled, she hoped, she lived ! Alas ! She looked into a looking-glass. "You are a poet," my friend said; "Your fame has flashed from coast to coast. You will be read when Riley's dead, And Field has faded. Yes!" he said, " If not before. You're Shakespeare's ghost.' But now, I sympathize with her, The maid; I've seen the publisher. [28] SONGS OF CY WARMAN WOMAN'S SILENCE 'Tain't no use to woo a woman when she thinks she wants to talk; 'Cause a woman's only human, and you'd better take a walk 'Till she simmers down and settles; when a woman's on her ear, What she has to say in silence is the pleasantest to hear. 'Tain't no use to try to crowd her, 'cause she's bound to have her say; You talk loud, and she'll talk louder; it is best to break away, When she's in the upper octaves, better wander from her view; For the song she sings in silence is the sweetest song for you. But you can coax her and caress her, and she'll melt and run to you Like the 'lasses on your pancakes in your boy- hood used to do. If you have a sorrow tell her, then just watch the teardrops fall, And the sighs she sighs in silence are the saddest sighs of all. [29] SONGS OF CY WARM AN When you ask a girl to marry, and she hangs on what you've said, While your hope hangs on her answer, and the moon hangs overhead; When you seem to see the thought she thinks, and kinder feel her fall, That's her answer, said in silence, 'tis the sweet- est word of all. IT MEANS SO MUCH Don't think me mercenary, pray, Because I fain would sell this rhyme, Or any rhyme; but every day When I sit down to write, each time, I've this assurance, all the while, 'Twill make at least one woman smile. E'en though it may be hard to guess, Unless to dally with the muse, Just why we write ; some will excuse And some will call it meaningless; But, Oh, it means so much to her, My golden-haired stenographer. [30] SONGS OF CY WARMAN LITTLE PAPOOSE Little papoose in a wicker of reed, Under the willow bough swings, Catching the music where over the mead Rippling the rivulet sings. Sings where the fairest of flowers are found, Sings where the summer is all the year around, Here where the beauties of nature abound, Rippling the rivulet sings. REFRAIN Swing, swing, little papoose, Gitchie will mind you Swing, swing, little papoose Mitchie won't find you, Swing, swing, little papoose, Husha, my brown baby, swing. Agate and onyx and malachite beads, Plata that's ribboned and rolled; Mocassins made from the bark of the reeds, Glittering garters of gold. Catching the sound with his delicate ear, Catching the croon when his mother is near. Hearing the hoofs of the galloping deer, Bounding away o'er the wolde. [31] SONGS OF CY WARMAN LITTLE WILD GOOSE A wild goose lit in the Lake of Bays, lighter than the floating foam ; She swam around for days and days looking for a summer home. She found a place and she made a nest, Screened from the wind of the wide North West And she warmed her eggs with eider breast, Cosy little summer home. A grey goose gave her things to eat, gathered from the floating foam; She gave him love and life was sweet, mating in their summer home. And there they lived as man and wife And nothing knew of care or strife, 'Till beneath her breast she felt new life Waking in her summer home. The baby geese began to swim, floating on the floating foam ; Just little laps from her to him, happy little summer home. But one of them got up to fly And he soared away to the sunny sky, Then the mother goose began to cry : "O! little wild goose, come home." [32] SONGS OF CY WARMAN He bathed his back in the summer sun, high up in the azure dome, Above a bad man with a gun " ! little wild goose, come home." He raised his voice and he tried to sing Such a quaint crude song, poor little thing ! Then tumbled down with a broken wing, " ! little wild goose, come home." The mother wild goose saw him fall and flutter in the floating foam ; The wounded wild goose heard her call, "0! little wild goose, come home." He knew which way he ought to go And he tried to swim, but he swam so slow, For the wounded wing now pained him so, "O! little wild goose, come home." The wild goose soared across the lake, high above the floating foam ; It seemed to her her heart would break; "O! little wild goose, come home." Then the baby caught his mother's tail And across the lake the two set sail; Thus towed he rode with a Gitche gale And the little wild goose went home. [33] SONGS OF CY WARMAN She folded up his wounded wing, floating on the floating foam ; And said, "Don't cry, poor little thing, little wild goose is home." And when the baby goose could stand And flap his wings on the shifting sand, He soared away to a sunny land, And the little wild goose went home. THE SEA If I had too much money, money that I couldn't use, I'd spring a new philanthrophy that would be joyful news To seven million babies (if such a thing might be) Whom I'd round up and I'd lead down to the sea, And let them cool their kick-kicks in the sea. And with them all lined up there and holding hand to hand, Their happy faces shining like sunlight on the sand; Angels would ope their windows (if such a thing might be) To see so many, sinless, by the sea And watch them cool their kick-kicks in the sea. [34] THE LONG HARD HILL They were standing in the sunlight Of the summer time of life; She was still without a husband, He was waiting for a wife. And her cheeks were rich and rosy And her lips were lucious red, So he pressed her dimpled fingers As he looked at her and said, As they stood there in the heather Where the road had crossed the rill : " May we not fare together Up this long, hard hill?" Now her hand began to tremble And her eyes were full of tears As she trained them on the road that Wound away among the years ; But she had no voice to answer Him ; she could not understand, For the future lay before her Like a far-off fairy land. There was sunlight on the heather, There was music in the rill, As they went away together Up the long, hard hill. [35] SONGS OF CY WARMAN Oftentimes the way was sunny, Other times 'twas full of lures, But the love that had come to them Was the true love that endures. Though the bony brow is wrinkled, Though the raven lock be gray, Yet the road might have been rougher Had she gone the other way. Now the frost is on the heather And the snow is on the rill, And they're coasting down the short side Of the long, hard hill. [361 SONGS OF CY WARMAN A COUNTRY TOWN I like the freedom of a country town, The air and the open of the country; You can tell when the sun goes up and down Out in the God-made country. The creeks are clear and the skies are blue, The hearts of the people are kind and true An' folks do just as they want to do, Folks that are livin' in the country. I like the color of a country town, Almost the color of the country ; Farmer's wife in a country gown, Bringin' in things from the country. Water-melons an' sweet nut-megs, Country butter an' country eggs, Country girls an' chickens with plump hard legs, All comin' in from the country. [37] SONGS OF CY WARMAN FIDDLE-DE-DEE The Irishman, Dutchman and Frenchman in me Are always contending their purposes cross ; Wherever I journey there journey the three, Each claiming predominant right to be boss Of the big job of Life; they cannot agree, This Irishman, Dutchman and Frenchman in me. Says the Dutchman: "Get up once and harvest the hay Before the sunshines would you be yet a tramp For the rest of your life? There will come a wet day; Put something aside." The Hibernian scamp, Says, tugging my sleeve, with a wink of his eye : "Be 'asy ye're Irish ye'll always be dhry." "Par ici," the Frenchman calls, leading the way, We walk where the South Wind is cradling Spring. We paint pleasant pictures the long Summer day, And gather primroses, and loiter and sing. And so, we do nothing but fiddle-de-dee, This Irishman, Dutchman and Frenchman in me. [38] SONGS OF CY WARMAN CLICKETY CLICK Clickety click ! as out of town The engine picks her way; Where barefoot children, sunburnt brown, In dusty alleys play. All the summer, early and late, And in the autumn drear, A maiden stands at the orchard gate, And waves at the engineer. He likes to look at her face so fair, And her homely country dress ; She likes to look at the man up there At the front of the fast express. Clickety click ! though miles apart, To her he is always near, And she feels the click of her happy heart For the heart of the engineer. Over the river and down the dell, Beside the running stream, She hears the clang of the engine-bell - The whistle's startled scream. Clickety click ! An open switch - Onward the engine flies. Clickety click ! They're in the ditch ! Oh, angels ! hide her eyes ! [391 SONGS OF CY WARMAN Clickety click, and down the track The train will dash to-day; But what of the ribbons of white and black The engine wears away; Clickety click ! Oh, worlds apart - The maiden hangs her head. There is no click in the maiden's heart - The engineer is dead. HUSH-A-BY, LITTLE ONE, SLEEP Nature is sinking to peaceful repose, Hush-a-by, little one, sleep; Sweetly the dewdrop's asleep on the rose, Hush-a-by, little one, sleep. Heaven shield father wherever he be, Whether on land or the billowy sea, And bring him back to his baby and me - Hush-a-by, little one, sleep. Lightly the ripples play over the rill, Hush-a-by, little one, sleep; Singing the wild rose to sleep on the hill, Hush-a-by, little one, sleep. Softly the katydid sings in the vines, Up from the lowlands the murmuring winds Steal through the stillness to play with the pines - Hush-a-by, little one, sleep. [40] SONGS OF CY WARMAN THE LAND OF ANNIE LAURIE Where the mists of London come not To obscure the Scottish sky; Where they call a maid a " Lassie/' And they all say "dee" for die; In my hands I hold the heather, And my feet are in the ferns Of the Land of Annie Laurie And the home of Bobbie Burns. Now I put the hills behind me, And o'er the ocean gray, I gaze out toward the Occident With tear- wet eyes to-day; To earth's mainland America - My tired spirit turns From the Land of Annie Laurie, And the home of Bobbie Burns. [41] SONGS OF CY WARMAN CONSTANCY When the ringdove is calling Down the woodland, little darling, When the hills have turned green And all nature is new; When the gentle rain, falling O'er this good land, little darling, Makes the old earth grow glad, Then my heart yearns for you. When the brown birds are winging O'er the moorland, little darling, And the gray gulls are blown With the mist o'er the blue, Then I long for the warm clasp Of your hand, little darling; When this old earth seems sad, Then my heart yearns for you. [421 SONGS OF CY WARMAN ASHES Alone, on the birdless barrens, Alone by a southern sea, The ghosts of the days that have vanished Come scurrying back to me. Then a face on my memory flashes Like the flash of a falling star, When I'm flicking the fading ashes From the end of a good cigar. Life's spring, with its buds of promise, Life's summer, with rose of June; But the buds, they burst so early, And the roses die o'er soon. A rustle of silk and laces, The wind of a passing car, Then gray are the once glad faces, Like the ash of my good cigar. [43] SONGS OF CY WARMAN MORNING ON THE YUKON Twas morning on the Yukon : The Yukon winds were fair. Sunshine in the maiden's eyes; Sunlight on her hair : Sunlight on the ripples, Where the White Horse rapids roll. They found a broken toll-gate, And the maiden paid the toll. The gate had been abandoned. To the man 'twas not amiss. He fixed the rate of tollage, And the maiden paid a kiss. The sunlight kissed the ripples, Where the White Horse rapids roll, Beside the broken toll-gate, Where the maiden paid the toll. He plucked a bunch of wild flowers, And matched them with her eyes : He matched them with her ribbon, And matched them with the skies. A willow arched the pathway. He whispered, " O, my soul, The fairies made this toll-gate, And the maiden paid the toll. [44] SONGS OF CY WARMAN AGNES, I LOVE THEE (After Hiene) I stooped and wrote upon the sand Along the shore, with trembling hand, These words that she might understand : Agnes, I love thee. I watched the gentle waves wash o'er These lines that lay upon the shore, And leave them fairer than before : Agnes, I love thee. And so our love, from day to day Grew stronger, better every way, Until at last I dared to say: Agnes, I love thee. Alas, the sea got full one day And came ashore and washed away These lines that near the water lay : Agnes, I love thee. I climbed upon a mountain high, Plucked a charred snag, wrote on the sky, Above the waters high and dry: Agnes, I love thee. "I'd like to see some sloppy sea," Said I, " slide up this canopy And monkey with my motto, see? Agnes, I love thee." [45] SONGS OF CY WARM AN WHOM DO YOU LOVE? " Whom do you love, my love?" she said, As I bent my face above her; And I tried to calm her and held her head, And again in the same sweet voice she said : " Whom do you love, my lover?" " Look in your heart to-night and see If there is a shadow in it, A shadow of a thought that is not of me, And tell me truly if there should be - Whom do you love this minute?" " Whom do you love? " and her trembling hand Left wandering caresses Upon my face, and all the land Was lit with love, and the night wind fanned Her brow and shook her tresses. "A woman's love is a priceless prize, And if you should want to win it" And again I looked and to my surprise, I saw two tears in her deep, dark eyes : "Whom do you love this minute?" " Whom do you love? " - and I caught the swell Of her breast her grief had given, And I touched her lips, and I smelled the smell Of the passion flower and the Asphodel, And earth was changed to heaven. [46] SONGS OF CY WARMAN " To me there's just one world, my dear, And just two people in it, And now to-night as we stand here And I hold your hand have not a fear, For I love you every minute." THE COLUMBINE Sweet Marie, here's a columbine, The summer can surely spare it. See! Here's a delicate twig to twine, To braid in this beautiful hair of thine. Sweet Marie, here's a columbine - Take it, my queen, and wear it ! Waved by the wind in the summer time ; Wet by the summer showers; Blown in the balm of this beautiful clime, Over our heads where the hills are rime; Waved by the winds in the summer time - Fairest of forest flowers. And I have brought you this flower so fair, Plucked from the hills above you, To weave in the waves of your beautiful hah*, Or wear in your breast where the love songs are. I have brought you this boutonniere - Take it, because I love you. [47] SONGS OF CY WARMAN OLD RED HOSS MOUNTAIN I've been to Red Hoss Mountain, where Field once dwelt and wrote ; I've seen the Place de Casey, but Casey's table d'hote Is gone; and so is Casey. A solitary pine The fires have spared now shadows the Gosh-all- Hemlock Mine. There's not a cabin standing, so that a man may say, " The conversazzhyony in this abode held sway." Aye, everything has perished save earth and sky and space; The bard of Red Hoss Mountain is gone to his own place. The mines are all abandoned, the rain-washed trails are dim; But where are all the people who tramped these trails with him? [ago, And where are all the actors he staged here long When magpies, "like winged shadows, were fluttering to and fro"? The trees that made the forest have fallen, one by one, Until Old Red Hoss Mountain lies bare beneath the sun; [48] SONGS OF CY WARMAN Yet, in the deathlike stillness that hangs upon the air, I love to sit and fancy I feel his presence there. Sweet soul ! He knew a heartache if e'en a robin cried, Then how he must have sorrowed when Martha's baby died; When strong, rough men stood weeping who had not wept for years; With Martha's heart nigh breaking and Sorry Tom in tears. * * * The brook that sang so " lonesome-like, an' loit- ered on its way" Is singing just as softly and lonesome-like to-day. One pine above the hemlock and just one willow weeps Down in the ragged canyon where "Martha's younket" sleeps. [49] THE DESERT MAIL When your feet have strayed from the everglade To the shore of a shipless sea, [you're lost When the bar you've crossed and at length In its hushed immensity; When you search the wild, with a silence piled Waist deep, for the desert trail, There's a distant roar like a sea ashore, That's the moan of the desert mail. Through the racing years there the engineers Sit close to the cabin pane, While they urge their steeds where the white trail leads Through the land of Little Rain; Then out behind, on the desert wind, Blown back like a bridal veil, Far, dim and gray like the milky way, Floats the dust of the desert mail. WTien the gaunt wolves howl where the spirits prowl - The ghosts of the desert's dead, And the living, lost, where their trails have crossed Mill 'round, while the sun paints red The western skies, as the long day dies And the stars shine dim and pale ; There's a beacon fair on the desert there - That's the light of the desert mail. [50] SONGS OF CY WARMAN IT CANNOT BE The dying lips of a dear friend At parting spoke to me, Saying : " Wheresoe'er your path may trend There ever I shall be. " Go walk where over Egypt's sand The burning simoons blow, Or in Alaska's sunless land, Your wake my wings shall know. " When winter nights are long and dark I'll lead you by the hand, And when the waves beat on your bark Will beacon you to land." He died. I watched his spirit go Across death's darkening sea: He came not back, and now I know Of things that cannot be. [51] SONGS OF CY WARMAN THE EYES OF LIZZETTE The eyes of Lizzette were like miniature seas, With ripples that laugh and willows that weep On the shore; where the low-bending boughs of the trees Deepen and soften the shadows that creep At night, near the water-edge. Can I forget The far-away, ocean-like eyes of Lizzette? Dear eyes of Lizzette ! I shall see them no more, They are curtained in sleep she is gone, she is gone, With her beautiful eyes to the evergreen shore; Death winged her away 'twixt the dusk and the dawn. There's a mound on the mountain-side where we first met, And the columbine blows o'er the eyes of Lizzette. [52] SONGS OF CY WARMAN "AND YOU'LL REMEMBER ME" One evening, as the sun went down Among the golden hills And silent shadows, soft and brown Crept over vales and rills, I watched the dusky bats a-wing Dip down the dusky lea; Hearkening, heard a maiden sing : " And you'll remember me." "When other lips and other hearts," Came drifting through the trees; " In language whose excess imparts," Was borne upon the breeze. Ah ! love is sweet and hope is strong And life's a sunny sea, A woman's soul is in her song; "And you'll remember me." Still rippling from the throbbing throat, W T ith joy akin to pain, There seemed a tear in every note, A sob in every strain; Soft as the twilight shadows creep Across the listless lea, The singer sang her love to sleep With, "You'll remember me." [53] SONGS OF CY WARMAN MY LITTLE LOVE My little love, the livelong day I've waited, toiled and dreamed And wondered if I'd meet you here, And, sweet, at times it seemed That all my life's light would go out Into a waste so drear, If, when the shadows fell about, I failed to find you here. Ah, surely there's a lesson To be learned in love like this; Naught, save the hand of heaven, Dear, could bring such boundless bliss. Not that I love my Maker less; His world is made more bright When I can feel your fond caress As we sit here to-night. [54] SONGS OF CY WARMAN NATURE SONGS Tyrolian tomcat, every time You scale an icy wall, Know that the higher up you climb The further you may fall. And you, O summer birds, who wing The air the summer long, Know that the merrier you sing The more we'll miss your song. HOSS SENSE When the pheasant stops his drumming, When the autumn's cyclone's coming, When the gaunt gray wolf of winter is let loose In the Injin Summer : Sonny, Wouldn't you give ready money For the wings and for the wisdom of a goose? When the hoss that you are riding Smells the cinnamon in hiding, When he wheels and snorts and gives his head a toss, When he tries so hard to tell you That the cinnamon can smell you - Don't you wish you had the hoss sense of a hoss? [55] SONGS OF CY WARMAN AN ANTIQUE LOVE SONG My lady fair, with eyes and hair, And things to write about, Elected to play I was going astray, She wanted to try me out, out, out ; She wanted to try me out. "Our love is dead," my lady said, And toyed with her hands and sighed, Yet I knew that she knew that my heart was true And the beautiful lady lied, lied, lied; And the beautiful lady lied. " The heart of gold will not grow cold, Nor tire with time," I said, " And the love that is sure will ever endure ; Nay, darling, our love is not dead, dead, dead, Nay, darling, our love's not dead." " The love that's right will still burn bright, Tho ; the morning stars grow pale, And the lover that's true will sorrow with you, And go singing with you to jail, jail, jail, And go singing with you to jail." [56] LOVE AMONG THE MOUNTAINS In a sequestered spot my love and I, Hand clasped in hand, stood dreaming love's sweet dream, Watched from the craggy cliff the eagle fly, And heard the far off murmur of the stream. Ah! Happy soul in solitude that sips From this grand cup of Nature sent from heaven - "But I," said I, "from your red rosy lips, Quaff sweetest sweets by God or nature given. "Hush, Hush!" she said, and dropped her dusky head, "Who knows what eyes are turned upon us here?" " The angels see, and say not that it's wrong," I said, And from her drooping lashes kissed a tear. [57] SONGS OF CY WARMAN NON COMMITTAL " Who made the rose on the rose bush?" " God made the red rose tree And the lilies fair, in the garden there/' The little girl answered me. " Who made the thorn on the rose bush?" The little girl hung her head With a troubled frown and eyes cast down, " Well God made the rose," she said. "Who made the sands at the seaside?" " God made the sands of the sea, And the waters blue, and the fishes, too," The little girl answered me. "Who made the dudes at the seaside?" The little girl raised her head With the faintest smile on her face the while " Well God made the sands," she said. [58] SONGS OF CY WARM AN MOTHER AND I I laugh when I list to the stories they tell Of how I was born one day; And tied in a towel to kick and to yell, And show them how much I could weigh. And when they had finished and I'd ceased to cry, While placidly chewing my thumb, We pressed the same pillow, mother and I, And softly she started to hum : " Rock-a-by-baby, on the tree top, When the wind blows the cradle will rock ; When the bough breaks the cradle will fall, Down will come baby, cradle and all." Sometimes, when I think of the days that are dead, And the joy of my youthful years - Years that have rippled and gleamed and sped With the tide down the ocean of tears ; I remember at eve when the day would die And the twilight shadows had come, How we sat together mother and I, And softly I started to hum : " Hush little mother, rest in my love, None love you better except God above; Hush little mother, so loving and mild, I'll be the mother now, you be the child." [591 SONGS OF CY WARM AN When together we sat in the gloaming again In a faint and a feeble breath Was wafted a song from over the fen - From the valley and shadow of death; 'Twas the echo that came from the sweet by-and- by, And the voices were whispering ," Come." We caught up the chorus mother and I, And softly we started to hum : " Nearer, my God, to Thee, nearer to Thee, E'en though it be a cross that raiseth me." [60] SONGS OF CY WARMAN AN' DE WATAHMELON'S RIPEN' ALL AROUN' I heah a noisy katydid a-shoutin' up a tree, An' de watahmelon's ripen' all aroun'. He orter be a sleepin' like de honey bee, Wen de watahmelon's ripen' all aroun'. I heah de lonesome whistle ob de whippoorwill, De big, roun' moon's a fallin' down ahind de hill, And de hoot owl's a-hootin' on de ol' cane mill; An' de watahmelon's ripen' all aroun'. De possum an' de raccoon am a-settin' on a rail, An' de 'simmons am a-ripen' all aroun' ; De raccoon pow'ful haughty 'cause he got a han'some tail, An' de 'simmons am a-ripen' all aroun'. Den de possum clim' de 'simmon, frap his tail aroun' a lim', An' he shout down to de raccoon, still a-starin' up at him : " Wen you want ter shake a 'simmon tree Pm yo' Jim; An' de 'simmons am a-fallin' all aroun'. De win' ain't mo' an' whispin' in de shaddeh ob de hill, An' de blue grapes a-ripen' all aroun'. [611 SONGS OF CY WARMAN A nigger wid a milk can am a-usin' roun' de still, For de liquah am a-leakin' on de groun'. De mohnin' sta' am shinin' fo' de brokin' ob de day. Good mohnin', mistah red fox, yo' ain't got long to stay, Dan's a muffled-footed niggah gwin' ter chase de fox away, Fer de chickens am a-roos'in' all aroun'. BECAUSE WE LOVE Dear heart of mine, since we were wed, The second summer now is here, And love grows stronger every year. We are so happy, sweet, I said; Why is it? And she answered low, "Because we love each other so." Oft have I heard the moaning dove Call her lost mate from out the wood; She suffered, felt, and understood; For she was filled with grief and love. Such sorrow may we never know, Because we love each other so. [62] SONGS OF CY WARMAN I've a secret in my heart, sweet Marie, A tale I would impart, love, to thee; Every daisy in the dell Knows my secret, knows it well, And yet I dare not tell, sweet Marie. When I hold your hand in mine, sweet Marie, A feeling most divine comes to me; All the world is full of spring, Full of warblers on the wing, And I listen while they sing, sweet Marie. In the morn when I awake, sweet Marie, Seems to me my heart will break, love, for thee, Every wave that shakes the shore, Seems to sing it o'er and o'er, Seems to say that I adore sweet Marie. When the sunset tints the west, sweet Marie, And I sit down to rest, love, with thee ; All the stars that stud the sky Seem to stand and wonder why They're so dimmer than your eye, sweet Marie. Not the sunglints in your hair, sweet Marie, Not because your face is fair, love, to see; But your soul so pure and sweet, Makes my happiness complete, Makes me falter at your feet, sweet Marie. [63] SONGS OF CY WARM AN THE CONVENT What is there here, what can there be That makes this drear old nunnery So strangely, sweetly dear to me? Down these old aisles the children pass, At early morn, to early mass To make them ready for the class. I pause in every quaint retreat And muse and say, " Here oft my sweet Has been; these floors have felt her feet.' And so it's all made plain; I see What makes this drear old nunnery So strangely, sweetly dear to me. [64] SONGS OF CY WARMAN SONG OF A SOUND SAILOR First we call at Bella Bella where they educate the reds, Where they learn to wear a Merry Widow chapeau on their heads, Where the hardy husky huskies lie asleep be- neath their sleds, But me heart is with me klutch at Kitsum- Kaylum. There's a maid at Metlakatla, holy city of the sea, And she says she hopes for heaven, but she al- ways looks for me. She's been maudlin at the Mission where she's learned to say, "Tis he," But she doesn't know my klutch at Kitsum- Kaylum. There's a woman waiting always on the wharf at Essington, There's a paleface at Prince Rupert who ad- dresses me, "me man/' And I'm always t'rowing kisses at the kid at Katchikan, But you ought to see me klutch at Kitsum- Kaylum. [65] SONGS OF CY WARMAN In me youth I used to reckon every female was a flirt, And I've heard a sailor call his 'Kaylum k'utch his " Sunday skirt/' But everything is different with me since I was hurt, An' me heart is with me klutch at Kitsum- Kaylum. Now, good-by, good-by, old Ocean, I am goin' to shake the sea; Just a little farm and fireside in the Skeena vale for me, And I'll rest me in the bosom of me little famillee. I am camping with me klutch at Kitsum- Kaylum. [66] Thoughtful Rhymes WILL THE LIGHTS BE WHITE? Oft, when I feel my engine swerve, As o'er strange rails we fare, I strain my eye around the curve For what awaits us there. When swift and free she carries me Through yards unknown at night, I look along the line to see That all the lamps are white. The blue light marks the crippled car, The green light signals slow ; The red light is a danger light, The white light, " Let her go." Again the open fields we roam, And, when the night is fair, I look up in the starry dome And wonder what's up there. For who can speak for those who dwell Behind the curving sky ? No man has ever lived to tell Just what it means to die. Swift toward life's terminal I trend, The run seems short to-night ; God only, knows what's at the end I hope the lamps are white. [69] SONGS OF CY WARMAN ALASKA % Three sleeps in a sleeper from Montreal, And a moon or so from the end of the line, And you stand at the foot of the great white wall- That is white with the snows that fall, and fall, O'er the cedar dwarfed and the drooping pine That grow at the feet of Alaska. Old and wrinkled and cold and gray, With her white pall pulled o'er her stony breast ; Frowning and frigid and far away, She has ever stood, as she stands to-day, In the desolate wastes of the wide Northwest- Stands this hoary old woman Alaska. Unmolested for thousands of years, Isolated, remote and lone; Her hard face glacial with frozen tears, While over her shoulders and in her ears The winds of the North Land wail and moan, In the ears of old Mother Alaska. A party of prospectors passed that way, And they thought the old face had forgotten its frown, And, pausing, they pulled her white robe away And found her treasure: "Ah, q'est que c'est?" Said the French Canadian, kneeling down At the feet of old Mother Alaska. [70] SONGS OF CY WARMAN They told their story, and men went wild, And pawned their chattels and joined the race. The old croon jingled her gold and smiled, And the gold-mad men of the world beguiled With a promise of fortune in that far place, At the feet of old Mother Alaska. But Oh, the rivers are wide and deep, And the north wind breathes with a killing breath ; And over the mountains so rough and steep The old dread reaper shall come and reap ; The rime old reaper that men call Death Shall reap the white fields of Alaska. THIS LIFE IS GOOD When meads and glades and everything Put on their sunny robe of spring - When fragrant flowers scent the air And birds make music everywhere, I say, while wandering in the wood, This life is good. When roses rest in Winter's tomb, And all the earth is garbed in gloom, At eventide about the hearth I sit, and say, despite the dearth, Of sun and sunset down the wood, This life is good. [71] SONGS OF CY WARMAN Canst picture, said a friend to me, The joy of what is yet to be? Canst thou describe eternity? Dost thou believe that when we take That last, long sleep, a day shall break The dreamless night? Shall we awake? Tell me, with reason in thy rhyme, Dost think there'll be no end of time, Nor end of bliss, in that blest clime? I do not know, for sure, I said, I know not those whose light feet tread Yon shore; I know the dead are dead. I've seen the summer birds take wing, When winter came, and in the spring Come back again, to soar and sing. I've seen the red rose in the glen. Hid 'neath the hoar frost, die, and then In brighter hours, bloom again. I've seen the soul, freed from the clay That held it here, reach far away, Take up its harp and start to play. [72] SONGS OF CY WARMAN I've seen a mother die, and she, When came to her what must to me, Looked smiling toward eternity. And I can see while roses bloom Where roses fade through life's long gloom, A gleam of hope beyond the tomb. But whatsoe'er the future be, If there's a life for you and me, To last through all eternity, 'Twere well to keep this point in view: Do UNTO MAN, THY WHOLE LIFE THROUGH, As THOU WOULDST HAVE HIM DO TO YOU. And then when thou art o'er the range, Where all are good, though many strange, Thou may'st not feel too great the change. [731 SONGS OF CY WARMAN "ALL'S WELL WITH THE WORLD" I " O, God, send down the rain, The earth is parched and dry, The roses die!" With faces 'gainst the pane The people cry. Upon the quivering air Spent birds on weary wing Keep winnowing, Because they have not where To rest or sing. Far in the north, a low Deep rumbling ; a lightning chain Lights up the plain, God's lights are off; and so God sends the rain. II " O, God ! Keep off the rain A little while. Behold A sea of gold, Of wimpling, golden grain, Thy wrath withhold." [74] "0, God! withhold the hail/' The anxious people prayed, All sore afraid, While o'er the prairie trail The lightning played. So, through the long, long night With prayer the storm they staved, The full heads waved. Then God switched on the light - The crops were saved. THE HARVEST I'm satisfied we're stratified, And dwell upon a certain plane, Souls meet and part, and meet again; No soul that ever lived has died. We plant and reap as on we go, We sow in smiles, sometimes in tears, To reap in kind in after years ; We reap precisely as we sow. All things are ordered ; and in fine, We take our winnings on the way, From year to year, from day to day; And you get yours, and I get mine. [75] SONGS OF CY WARMAN THE RISE AND FALL OF CREEDE A thousand burdened burros filled The narrow, winding, wriggling trail. A hundred settlers came to build, Each day, new houses in the vale. A hundred gamblers came to feed On these same settlers this was Creede. Slanting Annie, Gambler Joe And bad Bob Ford, Sapolio, - Or Soapy Smith, as he was known, - Ran games peculiarly their own, And everything was open wide, And men drank absinthe on the side. And now the Faro Bank is closed, And Mr. Faro's gone away To seek new fields, it is supposed, - More verdant fields. The gamblers say The man who worked the shell and ball Has gone back to the Capitol. The winter winds blow bleak and chill, The quaking, quivering aspen waves About the summit of the hill - Above the unrecorded graves Where halt abandoned burros feed And coyotes call and this is Creede. [76] Lone graves whose head-boards bear no name, Whose silent owners lived like brutes And died as doggedly, but game, And most of them died in their boots. We mind among the unwrit names The man who murdered Jesse James. We saw him murdered, saw him fall, And saw his mad assassin gloat Above him. Heard his moans and all, And saw the shot holes in his throat, And men moved on and gave no heed To life or death and this is Creede. [77] THE SOUL OF THE SASKATCHEWAN The lifeblood of old Egypt courses with the muddy Nile, The Czar sleeps with his faith in men who guard the empty street ; The peace of many nations rests behind a thin, red file; But the soul of the Saskatchewan's a little grain of wheat. The thin red line may riot, where but lately it salaamed, The sentinel may slumber, and a mob possess the street; Old Egypt may know famine and the muddy Nile be dammed, But the soul of the Saskatchewan remains, a grain of wheat. Let nation banter nation with their battle-flags unfurled, The State may stand secure a space behind a frowning fleet ; God's sunshine on Saskatchewan! her fields shall feed the world, For the soul of the Saskatchewan's a little grain of wheat. [78] SONGS OF CY WAR MAN THE BULL TEAM The sturdy bull, with stately tread, Submissive, silent, bows his head And feels the yoke ; the creaking wain Rolls leisurely across the plain; Across the trackless, treeless land, An undulating sea of sand, Where mocking, sapless rivers run; With swollen tongue and bloodshot eye, Still on to where the shadows lie, And onward toward the setting sun. With tearful eyes he looks away To where his free-born brothers play Upon the prairie wild and wide; He turns his head from side to side; He feels the bull whip's cruel stroke; Again he leans against the yoke. At last his weary walk is done. He pauses at the river's brink, And drinks the while his drivers drink, Almost beside the setting sun. [79] SONGS OF CY WARMAN THE WRECK AT CABAZA When Engineer West saw the danger he reversed his engine and set the air brake ; and thus, in his last moment on earth, saved many lives. Press Despatch. At home, abroad, beyond the sea, When over seas I chance to roam, These sad, sad stories come to me Of old-time friends I knew at home ; So that, where'er I voyage, I Know what they do and how they die. The driver saw the wires so say - The open switch : with his last breath Alarmed his mate, and stayed, that they Who filled the train might not see death. There was the river, hard ahead : Himself and mate made up the dead. They die not with averted face; For such their friends have not to blush. When the dread reaper comes apace They fall like heroes. In the hush Go search the wreck, you'll find them pale In death, and not far from the rail. [80] SONGS OF CY WARMAN TWO SOLDIERS " Now," said the one-armed soldier, " I'll tell you e'er I go, About the Border Brothers, Twin brothers of St. Joe. " One did things on the desert, Amid the dust and drought, The other took his musket, And soldiered at the South. " One looked along a transit, And trailed a tape of steel; One squinted o'er a cannon That made the rebels reel. " While one was puffing, snuffing, Away the vital spark, The other kept his vigil Where Sioux scalped in the dark, " While one was routing rebels Where the white Potomac foams, One chisled out an Empire That holds a million homes. * * * " One sleeps in the Sierros Beneath a shroud of snow, [81] SONGS OF CY WARMAN One sleeps beneath a statue - Equestrian in St. Joe. " While one was making widows The other made the West ; Now, children, choose your hero. Which soldier battle lost?" SANGRE DE CHRISTO Sangre de Christo, let me trace The beauties of thy furrowed face, While soft the perfumed summer breeze Makes music in thine arboles; And, as I look, thine every peak To me, in silence seems to speak ; Sangre the blood that flowed so free; Christo the Christ on Calvary. I see upon thy riven side Great rifts through which the rivers flow; And they tell, too, how Jesus died, As down to seek the sea they go ; And through the verdant vale they sing The praises of the Risen King. Sangre the blood that flowed so free; Christo the Christ on Calvary. [82] SONGS OF CY WARM AN THERE IS NO DEATH There is no death ! The flowers bloom ; Their sweet perfume Floats o'er the night - The hills are white. The summer birds have sped away, The summer days are dead, they say, But when the spring comes back, the wren Sings sweet, the flowers bloom again. There is no death ! We fall asleep And wake to weep, Youth's happy springtime wears away, With voices weak, our hair grows gray; But after that last sleep, ah, then, We know that man must live again. There is no death ! [83] SONGS OF CY WARM AN UNDER THE WILLOWS Here I used to sit and listen for the patter of her feet, For the tiny hands to pound upon the door ; But the icy hand of death has touched the fore- head of my sweet, And the baby voice is hushed forevermore. Angels keep my baby, Where the willows wave; Where with each recurring spring Feathered warblers come and sing, When the violets are blooming o'er her grave. To a quiet western woodland now my memory sadly turns, Where the summer wild rose scents the silent gloom, Where a busy little brook is singing softly in the ferns, And the willow boughs are bending o'er her tomb. Angels keep my baby, Where the willows wave; Where the low winds sob and sigh, When the summer roses die, And the autumn leaves are falling on her grave. [84] SONGS OF CY WARMAN Only now I slept and dreamed that I was kneel- ing there to-night, Where my little one is sleeping on the hill ; Even now, when I'm awake, and the tears fall as I write, I can seem to hear the music of the rill. Angels keep my baby, Where the willows wave; Where the winds blow bleak and drear When the silent woodland's sear, And the snow is drifting deep upon her grave. [85] SONGS OF CY WARMAN LITTLE THERESA, THE WAIF To a place where the poor of the city, The shoeblacks and news children meet, A fairy waif came with a banjo, And a voice, oh, so soothing and sweet, That it brought back the scent of the summer With orange-trees blooming above, And mocking-birds in the magnolias, As soft as the song of a dove. With holes in her sleeves and her stockings, Torn shoes on her little brown feet, Eyes like limpid pools in the mountains - Her hair was like ripening wheat. When she came out again the Infanta Joanna, bejewelled and gay - My friend laughed : " I say, vot you cry for? She vas yust make-belief in der play/' She was beautiful then, as a picture Is beautiful only to see ; But she never can be so enchanting As the little tramp singer to me. I know you will say it is better, For in luxury's lap she is safe ; If I could, though, I would not forget her As little Theresa, the Waif. [86] SONGS OF CY WARMAN MY FRIEND THE PROSPECTOR If I were to write for the papers to print, What here I indite, I opine That my critics would say it was written that way For so many dollars a line. And so, with the view that I'm writing to you, Where no critic's lances are hurled, I'll touch the taut string of my lyre and sing Of the best-hearted man in the world. Hark back to the prospect in Poverty Gulch, Before you found dirt that would pay, When the hope in your breast, like the gold in The west, Burned brightest at close of the day. If I were but rich, or, if you were still poor, And we sat where your cabin smoke curled, Then in unstinted lays I could pour out the praise Of the best-hearted man in the world. [87] SONGS OF CY WARMAN IN THE TWILIGHT My hands are growing weary, While from my setting sun The gold is slowly fading, And so much work undone. Now every passing moment Some task unfinished brings To hands grown weary doing So many useless things. My feet are also weary : The ways they walk are hard, The thorns have held and hurt them, The stones have left them scarred. Here, in the gathering twilight, They falter now and fail, Poor feet that stray so far from The straight and narrow trail. Away off in a canon I hear a lost sheep cry, And on the perfect pathway See happy souls go by. But, Oh ! My soul is weary As wearily I plod, And all because I've wandered So far away from God. [88] SONGS OF CY WARM AN WHERE WOMEN DON'T GO The flowers that bloom in the springtime, And make the dull world seem so gay, Have never a thought in the meantime That bloom bringeth blight and decay. The glad bird that sings by the river, Smiling up at the blue opal sky, Never dreams in its joy that the giver Of Song has adjudged it to die. The brooklet that babbles and blushes, And gladdens the glen with its glee, Knoweth not that it wilfully rushes To the silent, sad shores of the sea. But man, while in youth's happy morning, When the world seems so sunny and bright, In the song of each bird hears a warning, And the brooklets are whispering, "Night." For Time follows closely behind him, And hurries him, half out of breath, And the gathering gloaming will find him In the valley and shadow of death. Of course, we have heard the old story, That down the dim vista of years, [89] SONGS OF CY WARMAN A woman took gladness and glory And sold it for sorrow and tears. But if woman has brought all this sorrow, And filled this wide world full of woe, I would not exchange it to-morrow For a heaven where women don't go. WE NEVER KNOW We never know the joy of it 'Till love is turned to hate, Nor heed the crimes that we commit Until it is too late. We never need the sun so much As when it has gone down; Nor know the bliss that's in a kiss 'Till we have felt a frown. The empty arms when loved ones part, From being idle, ache; We never know we have a heart 'Till it begins to break. [90] SONGS OF CY WARMAN GOD IS LOVE When they pressed the desert sand, Love was there. Joseph holding Mary's hand, Love was there. In the hovel where she slept, Weary, travel-worn, she wept, But the holy faith was kept - Love was there. When he walked upon the sea, Love was there ; In the lone Gethsemane, Love was there. When they put Him to disgrace, Mocked Him in a public place, When the rabble smote His face, Love was there. And He counted nothing loss, Love was there; Though they nailed Him to the cross Love was there. "God is love," the Scripture saith, Even to His parting breath, At the open door of death, Love was there. [91] SONGS OF CY WARMAN GIVE US THIS DAY " Give us this day/' a mother prayed, And knelt upon a naked floor, " O God, from out thy plenteous store, Give us this day our daily bread. " I know that Thou wilt find the way - Thou who hast fed the multitude - For Thou art God, and God is good; Give us our daily bread this day. " 'Tis true a legion lips have said This prayer for many, many weeks ; But lo ! at last a nation speaks, Give us this day our daily bread." [92] SONGS OF CY WARMAN WAITING FOR THE WILD GOOSE In the shelter of my wigwam I am waiting for the spring, For the forest flowers to blossom in the vale : I am watching from my wigwam for the wild goose on the wing, When Fll gather up my traps and hit the trail To the Highlands of Ontario, in the merry berry- moon, To the haunts of Hiawatha that are nigh ; To the banks of Athabaska, where it's always afternoon - 0, I wonder when the wild goose will go by? While the first black crow is calling in the dawn- ing down the dell, I am dreaming of the summer ; in my dream I can hear the Mudjekeewis sighing softly; I can smell A wild rose blooming near a northern stream ; I am skirting Nova Scotia, that is gaily garbed in green, With the cool Atlantic billows breakin' high, Or I sit and sigh where Gabriel kissed his fair Evangeline - I wonder when the wild goose will go by? Then away to Western Canada big fish on the line, [93] SONGS OF CY WARMAN A quaking aspen quivering in the breeze ; Again good Mudjekeewis comes a-crooning through the pine, And blows my little bark o'er Lake Louise. Won't you come and camp in Canada? It's not all snow and ice (I thought I saw a shadow from the sky) - It's the only Unstaked Empire the Camper's Paradise - Adois ! I see a wild goose going by. TRANSPORTATION If all our cars were motor cars, Encumbering the land, And shooting by like shooting stars, We'd have nowhere to stand. If all our plains were aeroplanes Sweeping the curving sky, The railroads might side-track their trains, And put on wings and fly. In many ways, in many things, God's wisdom he reveals; To some men he hath given wings, And others they have wheels. [94] SONGS OF CY WARMAN TO-MORROW To-morrow! Oh, To-morrow; The day that I like best; For though my sunset's clouded It's golden farther west. Observe the little sparrow Throughout the dark To-day, She sings of her To-morrow And th' egg she's going to lay. I hear a sad soul sighing To leave this "vale of tears" But make no doubt he's lying About a hundred years And feel no twinge of sorrow When his ship puts to sea, The ship that sails To-morrow Sails soon enough for me. For tho' my sun's declining Behind yon hoary hill, I know that it is shining Beyond the summit still; And howsoe'er I sorrow, I know 'twill pass away. God gives a glad To-morrow For every dull To-day. [95] SONGS OF CY WARMAN "GIVE ME NOT RICHES" I want to find a place for me Where Nature's harps are all in tune, A calm, or a still, on Life's rough sea, A place where it's always afternoon, A quiet, peaceful place somewhere Between the tramp and the millionaire. Where it's not all joy and not all pain; Not too much shine, nor too much shade; Just a place to hide me from the rain; An easy place where the rent is paid, And not too close to the man of care, And not too far from the millionaire. GRIEF The first great grief that comes into a life Falls heavy on the heart unused to pain; But when each day brings greater care and strife And life endures, we hope again. Then, looking back to pain from which we shrank, To stony ways we walked with bleeding feet, So bitter now the cup, that what we drank In other days, would now seem sweet. [96] SONGS OF CY WARMAN MEMORIAL DAY Gather the garlands rare to-day, Snow-white roses and roses red ; Gather the fairest flowers of May, Heap them up on the heaps of clay, Gladden the graves of the noble dead. Pile them high as the soldiers were Piled on the field where they fought and fell; They will rejoice in their new place there To-day, as they walk where the fragrant air Is sweet with the scent of the asphodel. Many a time, I have heard it said, They fell so thick where the battles were, Their hot blood rippled, and running red, Ran out like a rill from the drifted dead And stained the heath and the daisies there. This day the friends of the soldier keep, And they will keep it through all the years, To the silent city where soldiers sleep Will come with flowers, to stand and weep And water the garlands with their tears. [97] SONGS OF CY WARMAN THE STAGE COACH The long lash wimples and curves and cracks, In a puff of dust, on the nacked backs Of the lithesome leaders and the joyous load Is whisked away down the dusty road Where the shameless aspens shiver, nude, In the autumn winds. In the cabin rude The lone prospector lightly dreams Of a pay-streak hiding in the seams Of the rifted rocks. On the very crest Of these gnarled monarchs of the West Trends the twisting trail where the laughing load Is whisked away down the dusty road. With fingers woofed in a warp of reins, The driver shuns the heavy wains, With their many mules with nodding ears, Like waving palms; our driver jeers At the freighter with his homely load, And whisks away down the dusty road. [98] SONGS OF CY WARMAN THE CRY OF A SHIPWRECKED SOUL Not many men are wholly bad, None altogether good; In my brief life fine times I've had, Yet half my life I've rued. We're all twin-souled, and side by side, Good Jekyll walks with Mr. Hyde. This tent, foredoomed to moth and mold, This frail and fading frame, So sensitive to heat and cold Yet dead to joy or shame, Shelters a soul, and just inside Sits Jekyll watching Mr. Hyde. When I look back along life's way, Wherever I have strayed Are mile-posts gleaming grim and gray Mistakes that I have made. The deeds of Jekyll all forgot While Hydes remain to mark the spot. By day I walk the woodland green, And come so near to God His answering signals may be seen In each wild rose's nod; Here, in the town, at night I ride Headlong for hell, my horse is Hyde. * * * [99] SONGS OF CY WARMAN And now, beneath His chastening rod, I wring my hands and pray: "Turn back Thy Universe, O, God, And give me yesterday." Crush Lust and Vanity and Pride, But not too hard on Mr. Hyde. * * * With mast and compass blown away, The winds howl o'er the deck, No sail in sight the sea is gray - I swim around the wreck. O, ghost of Christ, thou crucified, Have mercy on me Mr. Hyde. [100] THE WIDOWER Christmas eve! How many hearts are light to-night, How many happy homes are bright; But to me the world seems cruel, cold and drear. There's little left in life to cheer me here. I wonder if in all the years to be There'll be anything but clouds and tears for me? Alone I walk the busy streets And look into each happy face I meet ; Soul sick and sad I turn away And upon my lonely pillow my aching head I lay, And while the festive feasts go on I think of happy Christmas times that have come and gone. Here in the silence and the gloom, The solitude of my lonely room ; I close my eyes and then behold Her still, white face, so calm, so cold, Just as it looked to me that day When I kissed her pale, still lips of lifeless clay. [101] SONGS OF CY WARMAN THE ISOLATION OF A CHILD I once knew a dear little mother, With a beautiful, blue-eyed boy. She constantly bathed and brushed him, And when he had tired of a toy She would take it and scald it and scrap it, And lay it away in the sun, And that is the way she took care of His playthings, every one. Pent up in his own little playhouse, The baby grew peaked and pale, And there were the neighbors' children All dirty and happy and hale. If the baby went out for an airing, The nurse was to understand That none of the neighbors' children Was ever to touch his hand. But they did, and the injured mother Brought the dear baby inside And shut him up in his playhouse, Where the little one fretted and died. Then the torn heart turned to the Virgin, And this was the weight of her prayer : " Oh, mother, dear, don't let him play with The other angels up there!" [102] SONGS OF CY WARMAN THE WEST Come, take my hand and walk with me To where the lifting prairies lie, Close up against the western sky, The land of Opportunity. The Earth is yours ! And it is mine To beacon you back to the land, To help you find a place to stand, To plant a fig tree and a vine In God's good world. He made the West ! Amid the hills set sunny vales, And for the Iron Horse broke trails, Wrote " Finis/' and sat down to rest. [103] THE CANON OF THE GRAND I'm going to paint a picture with a pencil of my own; I shall have no hand to help me, I shall paint it all alone. Oft I fancy it before me and my hopeful heart grows faint, As I contemplate the grandeur of the picture I would paint. When I rhyme about the river, the laughing, limpid stream, Whose ripples seem to shiver as they glide and glow and gleam; Of the waves that beat the boulders that are strewn upon the sand, You will recognize the river in the Canon of the Grand. When I write about the mountains, with their heads so high and hoar, Of the cliffs and craggy canons, where the waters rush and roar, When I speak about the walls that rise so high on either hand, You will recognize the rock-work in the Canon of the Grand. [104] SONGS OF CY WARMAN God was good to make the mountains, the val- leys and the hills, Put the rose upon the cactus and the ripple on the rills; But if I had all the words of all the worlds at my command, I could not paint a picture of the Canon of the Grand. IN MEMORY In memory of a brow of snow, Of one fair face I used to know, Of love that languished, long ago. Of miss-set signals and the wreck, Of baby arms about my neck, Of bitter tears I may not check. In memory of a golden band, Of one who could not understand The empty clasp of her cold hand. [105] SONGS OF CY WARMAN SIC TRANSIT GLORIA MUNDI A red rose grew by the garden gate, And sweetly scented the silent gloom When the city slept when the hour was late, The night wind wafted its pure perfume Up to my window, and o'er my bed, 'Till I was in love with the rose so red. But I think now, perhaps it's wrong To love these things that only bide A few brief days, with a love so strong; For folding its petals the red rose died ; And then I sorrowed, and sighed and said : " Life is lonely, my rose is dead." And then, ere long, another rose Bloomed in life's way a human flower; And it brought to me such sweet repose, And held my heart with a hidden power, And soothed my soul that was worn with care, 'Till I was in love with the rose so rare. And that fair flower that I loved so long, With a love that was never satisfied That I loved with a love so strangely strong - Folded its soft white hands and died; Again I sorrowed and sighed and said; " Life is lonely, my love is dead. [106] WHERE THE FLOWERSTALK I want to go where the flowers blow On the mountains high and hoary; Where the summer winds shake the patient pines And the sun, in its golden glory, Falls o'er the stream where the ripples gleam; Where the shores are shoal and sandy. I want to walk where the flowers talk On the banks of the Rio Grande. I love the stills in the running rills - The willowy rills, half hidden - That lie in the lap of the gentle hills - In the lap of the hills unc hidden. I love the leas where the honey bees Are making sweets from the clover. I love to walk where the flowers talk, With the blue sky arching over. [107] SONGS OF CY WARMAN WHEN WE GO OFF AND DIE The road is rough and rocky, The road that leads to fame; The way is strewn with skeletons Of those who have grown lame And have fallen by the wayside; The world will pass you by, Nor pause to read your manuscript 'Till you go off and die. You'll find no shoulders here below To help you bear the cross ; You'll have to eat your mutton plain Without the caper sauce; And when you read down to desert, You'll find a dearth of pie, And you'll never know what pudding is 'Till you go off and die. But there's a consolation in The thought that when we're dead If we have written something good, Our efforts will be read. And friends will plant forget-me-nots, And come and sit and sigh, And irrigate our graves with tears When we go off and die. [108] LO, THE POOR INDIAN There's only one Good Indian, It has been said, And he is dead ; But with this jeii d'esprit I beg to disagree. There's Lo, Who for a century or so, Has stood in sun and rain alone, Making no moan. Let those who frame freak laws Give pause. This painted Indian who guards the store Knows more Of the maudlin midnight secrets of the souls of men, Who mouthed them over and over, yet and again, Than any other Indian red or white. How oft at night, When the last riotous reveler had fled Or lay dead, Soused in the sawdust, have you gone forth to find some one To lean upon? Then Lo, The poor son-of-a-gun Of an Indian, [109] SONGS OF CY WARMAN Is made to bear the White Man's Burden for an hour or so. And when you have wept upon his vest You sink to rest Against his chest ; Presently you wake in dire distress And evening dress, The rosy westering sunlight showing your shame, And blame The poor Indian for keeping you out all night. It is a fright The way we've used this Indian for years, And now in tears I tear off this tribute, and sob out this sentiment to Lo - He's got to go. [110] SONGS OF CY WARM AN WORRISOME JIM Jim worried and worried his weary life through 'Till we christened him Worrisome Jim, Just wondering what would the company do If anything happened to him. His pumps were forgotten, his water ran low, While he sat a-thinking, no doubt. There's a rent in the roof of the mill shed to show Where Worrisome Jimmie went out. The ambulance came he was wagoned away; For a time he lay listless and still ; At the end of six months, half a year to a day And Jimmie came back to the mill. But he wouldn't stop worrying. Out in the park, Where the street lamps at intervals shine, A motor came hurrying down through the dark And it hit him a kick in the spine. The old mill is grinding the same as of yore, The eyes of his widow are dim ; The places that knew him now know him no more, For something has happened to him. [Ill] BAD ON THE BIRD A rash little robin sailed over the sea, And lit on a tree-twig, and gazing at me, He softly and silently folded his wing And said, in a whisper, " I came here to sing." "You pose as a poet," the little bird said, "Then why don't you warble and waken the dead Fields and flowers that slumber? Warble and bring The lilies to life again Why don't you sing?" I looked at the snow-drifts that lingered around The fences and trees, where the frost in the ground Seemed to keep them from melting, - - I saw not a thing, Save the bird, that gave any assurance of spring. I was just about telling the bird what a joke It would be if the spring didn't come, when there broke O'er the valley a storm, and the elements played Hail on his tail 'till his feathers were frayed. [112] SONGS OF CY WARMAN GENTLE ANNIE Now the restless hand of Nature Reaches out to shift the scene, And the brooks begin to warble in the dell ; And the waking fields are fluffy, And the meadow lands are green, And the tassels on the trees begin to swell. Now the young man finds his fancy Turning tow'rd the things of time, And the miner's lightly turning tow'rd the trail; And when we would be prosy, We are drifting into rhyme - It is springtime, gentle Annie, in the vale. Now the naked hills are hiding 'Neath a garb of gaudy hue, And the tramps are growing restless in the jail; All the woodland melts in melody, And everything is new; It is springtime, gentle Annie, in the vale. [113] SONGS OF CY WARMAN THE WAY WE WALKED I met a woman on life's way, A woman fair to see; Or caught up with her I should say, Or she caught up with me. " The way is long when one's alone," I said, "and dangerous, too; I'll help you by each stumbling stone, If I may walk with you." Then on we went ; her laughing eyes And sunny smiles were sweet; Above us blue and burnished skies, And roses 'neath our feet. "I'm glad your sunny face I've seen," I said; " When life is through I'll own the best of it has been The way I walked with you. " I do not say my love, my life, Will all be given to grief When you are gone; the ceaseless strife Will bring me much relief. But when Death's hand the curtain draws, When life's long journey's through, 'Twill not have all been bad, because I came part way with you." [H4] SONGS OF CY WARMAN THE CITY CHOIR I went to hear the city choir: The summer night was still. I heard the music mount the spire, They sang: "He'll take the pil " "I'm on! I'm on!" the tenor cried; And looked into my face ; "My journey home, My journey home,' Was bellowed by the bass. " It is for the -- It is for the " Shrieked the soprano shrill. I knew not why they looked at me, And yelled, "He'll take the pil " Then clutching wildly at my breast, Oh, heaven ! My heart stood still : "Yes, yes," I cried, "If that is best, Ye powers ! I'll take the pil - As I, half fainting, reached the door, And saw the starry dome, I heard them sing : " When life is o'er He'll take the pilgrim home." [115] SONGS OF CY WARMAN WE AIN'T HAD NO SPRING Man's a chump to set and rhyme 'Bout this soft Italian clime - Sunny skies, so blue and bright ; Sky's all right, but out o' sight. Summer birds with broken wing - Some are birds that want to sing - We ain't had a bit o' spring. Sun comes out and then goes back ; Ho'ses waitin' on the track. Summer's here? We don't know where There's no music in the air. Spring's all scrambled with the fall - I think Foster's got his gall - We ain't had no spring at all. THE DEATH OF A DEW-DROP My sweetheart placed in my coat lapel A beautiful, blushing boutonnaire, And there was a dew-drop where it fell, In the heart of the rose was an angel's tear. How sweet, I thought, when the petals close The death of the dew-drop in the rose. [116] SONGS OF CY WARMAN THE PRINTER Poor artists, who preserve the arts, Who toil through weary nights and days With tired eyes and heavy hearts; No poet sings the printer's praise. To them, the years no glory bring, They walk not in the path of fame; But uncomplaining sit and sing The praises of another's name. And me they much have helped along, And doubtless after I am dead They'll print my name and spell it wrong, And part it with a period. JEALOUSY A brindle pup in a prairie town Saw a greyhound gliding past, And he said to the other dogs around: " You think that greyhound's fast? Leave ut to muh," as the trail he hit: "That hound can't go a little bit." The brindle pup in the prairie town Dug deep in the prairie trail, But miles behind the hunting hound, And he failed, as a cur must fail ; And then with biting, snapping snarl The pup went back to the garbage barrel. [117] SONGS OF CY WARMAN THE FLYER Across the hill and down the dell, Past station after station; The muffled music of the bell Gives voice to each vibration. Out o'er the prairie, cold and gray, There falls a flood of fire, While orders flash for miles away : "Take siding for the flyer." The engine seems to fairly float, Her iron sinews quiver, While swift, beneath her throbbing throat, The rails rush like a river. Upon the seat the engineer, Who knows her speed and power, Sits silently without a fear At sixty miles an hour. [118] SONGS OF CY WARMAN ENGINE .007 To Mr. Kipling " Now a locomotive is, next to a marine engine, of course, the most sensitive thing man ever made." Rudyard Kipling in Scribner's Magazine. I am not supersensitive like Canada that throws A fit and has hysterics when she's called a land of snows - Which snow is half her glory, e'en as mine bides in my pull, And push, and speed, and come and go; and yet my heart is full Of grief and indignation. First off, you write me "he," And rate me 'long with stationary water boilers. We- (I speak for all my sisters all who wear the petticoat,* For we are "ladies" every one, aye, even to the Goat)f We all are proud to have engaged the pen of one who may At will depict the eagle less imposing than the jay; * Draft, or lifting pipe. f A yard engine. C. W. [1191 SONGS OF CY WARMAN II Who only needs to pause, and touch, or breathe upon the strings Of the mute lyre, and lo, the songless slumberer wakes and sings, And all the glad world listens to his songs that rise and swell; Blame not my poor interpreter, for he, too, loves you well. He loves your friend, McAndrews, too, who loved his engines so; The engines Calvin might have made, "enor- mous," aye, but "slow." My driver also loves me. He knows the sort of steel Of which my wheels and ribs are wrought, and what it is to feel My hot breath on his upturned face ; to test my speed and power; While holding me against the night at ninety miles an hour. Ill And you call these more sensitive who flounder in the sea, Or drive the tug or boil the glue more sensi- tive than we, Who show ourselves in half an hour in half a dozen towns, [120] SONGS OF CY WARMAN And sound our bells by running brooks and whistle on the downs; I thank you kindly, Kipling, for the kind words you have said, I'd blush to seem ungrateful, yet when my driver read : "Next to marine engine" -O! Nigger-stoked at sea ! Well, when it all came home to him, he shot one glance at me, The sunset shimmering o'er my sides and on my burnished bell, And white steam fluttering from my dome as we dropped down the dell. IV We passed a ferry coughing low and sidling cross a stream; The driver pulled my whistle valve and made me fairly scream ; "Wi! Wi! watch the world goby!" you should have seen his smile; The clock hands marking forty-seven seconds to the mile. I hope it was not vanity. The engine in the mill That toils and runs from year to year, tho' al- ways standing still, Excites my pity. Like a fettered felon in his chains [121] She toils on patiently, while I go romping o'er the plains. I'm sure the lumbering engine that rolls in a twisting sea Would gladly, gladly come ashore and roam the earth with me. She knows there is a "world" somewhere that she has never seen. She knows she has a boiler, too, somewhere below the green Line of the ocean. Now the driver hooked my lever back A notch, and leaning, listened to the flutter of my stack. We passed a little thresher engine, sweating in a field, And how my heart went out to her, rust-red and half concealed In smoke and dust. The driver lightly laid his hand on me, And touched my throttle half a hair, 'n I felt the touch. Says he: "Did you read what that rooster writ, 'bout sensitive machines?" "Yes," said the fireman; "that's a joke, 'twas writ for the marines." [122] SONGS OF CY WARMAN I OUGHT TO BE BETTER I'm thinking, my queen, As we sit here to-night, How loveless and lone life would be If I were to lose you, My own heart's delight. Ah, God has dealt kindly with me. He's given you to me To help me along And brighten the days that are dim ; And I do so much In my life that is wrong - I ought to be better to Him. [123] SONGS OF CY WARMAN THE PRINCESS INGINITA A tawny princess, long ago, Lived in the "middle Arid Zone" And played upon the hills alone ; The hills whereon the Cacti blow. There came from out the sunny south A Spaniard, with a mandolin, Who sang and played and played to win, And kissed the maiden on the mouth. He told her she was beautiful, And sang the same song o'er and o'er, They kissed again he sang some more ; She made him moccasins of wool. Anon he failed his tryst to keep, For, after all, she was not fair. Her hair was like a horse's hair - She had to whip her face to sleep. She contemplated suicide, But saw, reflected from the stream Her mirrored face ; he heard her scream : "Cayuse! Cayuse! the Spaniard lied." [124J SONGS OF CY WARMAN THE PASSING OF THE LOCOMOTIVE A REVERIE "Ah, well/' said the Iron Horse, heaving a sigh That was followed anon by a tear; " They've made me do everything else but fly, Since Stephenson sent me here. " From killing an hour for every twelve miles, To a hundred and twelve an hour; The Yankee redoubles his toil and smiles As he doubles my pace and power. " When tempests have howled I have gone to the front The force of the blizzard to check; Of countless collisions I've taken the brunt And have laid in the ruins a wreck. " Now, like the ' old woman,' they say I must go, And so make a place for the 'new 7 ; A mile and a half in a minute's too slow For the Yankee. I know what I'll do : " I'll go back to England, far over the sea, My pace will be swift there, I'm told; Tho' the old things of England are new to me, The new things of England are old. [1251 SONGS OF CY WARMAN "There, a thousand long years are the same as a day, And a day as a thousand years. There, when an old thing has wasted away, Another old thing appears. " Adieu to the land of the setting sun, Impetuous Yankee, good-by. I'll just jog along to the end of my run, You put on your pinions and fly." BY-AND-BY What shall we all be doing, by-and-by? There'll be so much of blueing in our sky, When we've made an end of Trusting, And consequential Busting, And Literary Dusting, In your eye by-and-by, And Literary Dusting in your eye. When the frenzy-freighted bombs have all been hurled, When the battle-bloody banner has been furled, We shall know no more of Trusting And Literary Dusting When we've Stieffen-Tarbul-Lawsonized the world - Happy World - When we've Stieffen-Tarbul-Lawsonized the world. [126] SONGS OF CY WARMAN I WOULD KNOW MY NATIVE LAND There are those who praise the poet who can soar in starry spheres, And can mold his mystic phrases from the wrecks of other years. I would have my inspiration fresh from Nature's open hand; I would sing a simple sonnet that a child can understand. I would walk the verdant valley, where the salt waves wash the feet Of the Wasatch; gazing upward where the sky and mountains meet, Filled with awe and admiration I would kneel upon the strand, And thank heaven for this picture even I can understand. [1271 SONGS OF CY WARMAN Young Yanker came down the hill one day And the wind could hardly keep out of his way; The air was good, and the brakes were set, And he waddled his head with a " you can bet That I'm a brave young engineer, Never see nothin' that looked like fear." And this is the way, the brakemen say, When the birds were singing one morning in May, Young Yanker came down the mountain. The Station Agent flew out at the door As the train went by with a rush and a roar, Saying, " Young Yanker's exceedingly flip. He must be making his maiden trip," And then, after showing how fast he could run, He'd pull the whistle for brakes for fun. And this is the way all summer each day, A little too sudden the "soop" would say Young Yanker came down the mountain. The shack and the stoker would congregate And the youthful conductor would then relate How the old-time runners would take it slow And this daring young driver would let 'em go. "Ah, well," said the hoary-haired knight of the punch, " We'll pick him up some day, all in a bunch." And this is the way, all summer each day, [128] SONGS OF CY WARMAN When the fields were fraught with the odor of hay, Young Yanker came down the mountain. Young Yanker came down the hill one day His face was white and his hair was gray. He shivered and shook as he stood on the deck, And the bulk of his breakfast was up in his neck. With the speed of a bullet he rounded a curve, He wanted to jump, but he hadn't the nerve - And this is the way, no cause for delay, " Hellity-larupe, " the Brakemen say, Young Yanker came down the mountain. The trainmen thought he was trying his hand 'Till he pulled her over and gave her the sand. The shack and the stoker flew over the deck And the speed of the train were beginning to check ; With the aid of the engine they finished their work And the cars all came to a stop with a jerk. And this is the way, the trainmen say, On this sear and serious autumn day, Young Yanker came down the mountain. Then he traded a lot of his sand for sense With a lot of hilarity learned to dispense. [129] SONGS OF CY WARMAN He has no desire the card to exceed He takes better care of his fiery steed. His face wears a look that's serene and sublime, He strikes every station exactly on time. And this is the way, the officers say, In the darkness of night or the stormiest day Young Yanker comes down the mountain. PERIOD ! If I but could do what I would, A pile driver would drop On every pesky period Within your bloomin' shop. Then, later on, when I am gone, Have petered out and past, I need not dread that period 'Twixt my first name and last. [130] SONGS OF CY WARMAN THE ALL RED INDIAN I am an all red Indian, A British Columbia Cree; I always lay aside my gun When I go on a jamboree, It is a disgrace to paint your face When you ought to be painting the town, And here is one to the son-of-a-gun Who gets up when the sun goes down. The pale-face hike to the lonely pike, To the forest undefiled ; With their little pack, they're trailing back, To the heart of the ancient wild. That's not for me ! I'm a timber Cree, And I pant for the prairie brown, ' And a midnight run with the son-of-a-gun Who gets up when the sun goes down. I hate the glare of the chemin de fer, And the dusty trail by day; But I delight in the lamps of night That gleam on the Great White Way. I hate the hush of the lonely bush And the hills in glacial gown, I take my fun with the son-of-a-gun Who gets up when the sun goes down. [131] SONGS OF CY WARMAN It were not wise to civilize All of these carmin yaps, For some must win the beaver skin And some must mind the traps, But the sparkling wine for me and mine, Or a brew of autumn brown, And a midnight run with the son-of-a-gun Who gets up when the sun goes down. [132] SONGS OF CY WARMAN THE SUNDOWN SEA Have you heard of the sundown sea, love, With its blue and golden skies, Where the ripples play the livelong day And the summer never dies? There is health and wealth for you, love, There is wealth and health for me, There is all that's in the golden west On the shore of the sundown sea. There's a tear on every thorn, love, Of the storm-scarred locust ; there Are dripping leaves and icy eaves, And a wail on the wintry air. There's a song in the frozen rill, love, But it's lost to you and me; There's a muffled cry in the wind-swept sky, Then away to the sundown sea. There is frost in your raven hair, love Your cheeks are thin and pale Your dark eye turns and your spirit yearns For a glimpse of the sunset trail. I will sing a new song to you, love And you'll sing a new song to me, And we'll grow young as we journey along On the way to the sundown sea. [133] SONGS OF CY WARMAN THE CRY OF A WOUNDED HEART Put by your lute sing not to me Of blood-red rose and sunny sky, The clouds are come the roses die As my dead heart has died in me ; There is no sunny, sundown sea ! Sing not to me sing not to me ! There's no East, there is no West, There's just a torn place in my breast, There's nothing! Only land and sea, All one wide waste of misery. LOCAL COLOR First the baby's bonny eyes caught the color of the skies, Then his tiny little toes took the color of the rose; But he never seemed so sweet 'till his pudgy little feet Ambled out across the lawn and caught the color of the street. [134] SONGS OF CY WARM AN IS IT REALLY ANY GOOD? You're a Critic, in your attic, Up above the dust and din, On an essay you're in duty bound to do; When your sanctum opens softly And a sonneteer comes in, Who was never any good to you. But the poet smiles serenely, while you're stifling a moan, For he wants your honest judgment on an effort of his own; When you tell him that it's rotten and the son- neteer has flown - Is he really any good to you? Were you ever any good to him, William? He was never any good, to you; You could help him, if you would, But you'd scalp him if you could, For he isn't any good, to you. You're a Beauty, by the bard And by the belted hero wooed, Doing nothing, for you've nothing else to do; Or, perhaps you're pouring pink tea For a pink-a-doodle dude Who was never any good, to you. When you listen to his lyrics of a diamond in the skies, [135] SONGS OF CY WARMAN With a glimmer that is dimmer than the shimmer of your eyes, When he tells you where his treasure lies and other little lies - Is he really any good, to you? Was he ever any good, to you, girlie f He was never any good, to you; You could choose him if you would But you'd loose him if you could, For he isn't any good, to you. You're a Merger, with a hundred Million dollars in the bank, Up and doing, till there's no one left to do ; When your ship is on the ocean And the oil is in the tank, Is it really any good, to you? When you're owning all that's ownable between the earth and sky, Every four-and-twenty hours will another day goby; When you dare not eat a carrot, lest you double up and die, Is it really any good, to you? It was never any good to me, Rocky; Was it ever any good, to you? Could you stop it if you would, Would you drop it if you could, Is it really any good, to you? [136] SONGS OF CY WARMAN You're a Soldier, there's a Sultan, On a lonely little isle, Doing nothing, for there's nothing else to do ; When you hail him and the heathen Comes to greet you with a smile - Is he really any good, to you? You approach him with your Bible and your bottle and your gun, If he doesn't hike he's high-balled, and you'll hit him if he run; When a dozen weedless widows stand aweeping in the sun - Are they really any good to you? Were you ever any good, to him, Johnnie, He was never any good, to you; You could win him if you would, But you'd skin him if you could, For he isn't any good to you. [137] SONGS OF CY WARM AN AT THE RAINBOW'S TIP Under the arch of the curving sky, The silent Siwash sits alone, Close by the trail of the Pes'la-ki, Hearing the low winds wail and moan, Wagging his head and wondering why The white man comes in a steaming ship To search for gold at the rainbow's tip. " For what is gold but a yellow stone? A part of this worthless waste of hills?" The Siwash questions. The sad winds moan, But make no answer. A robin trills, The long night curtains the Klondyke sky, And still they come, ship after ship, To search for gold at the rainbow's tip. A TOAST To woman, source of every curse And every comfort man endures, You bring relief as well as grief ; What one has caused another cures. [138] SONGS OF CY WARMAN TO BABY ASLEEP God keep you, dearest, while the morning sun Lights up the world and the world is bright; And then at last, when the day is done, God keep you, dearest, through the long, long night. God keep you, dearest, when the earth is gay With singing birds and fields in bloom ; When summer's verdure fades away God keep you, dearest, through the winter's gloom. God keep you, dearest, from day to day Throughout this life. When I am dumb, And when your fair form turns to clay, God keep you, dearest, in the life to come. [139] SONGS OF CY WARMAN A REPORTER'S REPORT It was sometime in the P. M. of the fall of '92, I had cashed in the Creede Chronicle had nothing much to do. I had seen the man of leisure who was loafing on the street, Who had every fad and fashion from his head down to his feet, And this prince was a reporter; so I shined my Sunday shoes, And went down to do the railroads for the Rocky Mountain News. Now the city man was Martin from McCullagh's Democrat, And he glanced above his glasses as I doffed my derby hat - I had owned a daily paper in the springtime of that year That had sunk ten thousand dollars; I had nothing then to fear. I had planned that in the morning I would dally with the muse, In the P.M. do the railroads for the Rocky Mountain News. [140] SONGS OF CY WARMAN "Well, ahem, ahem!" said Martin, clearin' cob- webs from his throat, While the smoke from his Havana 'round my face began to float, " I presume that you're in touch with the officials here in town, Having worked for them; however, I shall have to send you down To police court"; then he coughed again and shed his overshoes, "That's included with the railroads on the Rocky Mountain News." I assured him that the railroads, to my mind, would be a snap ; I could talk about train orders, and could write on lead and lap, I could banquet with the president, or if I chose could take A turn down in the freight yards with the men who twist the brake, I could hobnob with the fireman while he augered out his flues - I could surely do the railroads for the Rocky Mountain News. " We're a little bit short-handed you will do the county courts, And this evening after dinner drift around among the sports - [141] There's a prize fight down at Murphy's." Then he paused and rubbed his head, "That is all I have to say now," this encyclo- pedia said. I didn't say a word then, but I thought it beat the Jews The way they did the railroads on the Rocky Mountain News. I had buttoned up my overcoat, was headed for the stair, When the quidnunc's restless fingers wandered through his wealth of hair. I had reached the elevator when he called me back and said : "You will have to do the state house for the state house man is dead." My poor heart sank within me, but I couldn't well refuse Since it all went with the railroads on the Mountain News. "See the concerts at the churches in the early eve," he said. " Try and do Dean Hart's cathedral where an heiress is to wed An English dude from Dublin Freeman won't be here to-day. You may write about a column on what old- timers say [1421 SONGS OF CY WARMAN About the San Juan gold excitement but mind, we can't excuse Any neglect of the railroads on the Rocky Mountain News." I was off. For ten long hours through the slush and snow and sleet, Up the stone steps at the state house, out again and down the street, Till I paused to feed at midnight hit the bottle till my soup Seemed a sea of strange assignments every oyster was a scoop. Mused on how the other papers would be bur- dened with the blues When they read about the railroads in the Rocky Mountain News. After lunch I wrote my copy, which told how the Rio Grand Had a good house, and the organ was wide open working sand. 'Twas a cold day for the criminals who proceed in wicked ways, For they raided all the churches and the dean got twenty days. The soprano dropped her crown sheet, the police- man warped his flues Throwing in too much cold water, said the Rocky Mountain News. [143] SONGS OF CY WARMAN Big strike on the reservation, all the Navajos went out; How the toughs had met at Trinity to hear the seconds shout, All the preachers in their pulpits piling up their little piles On Jim Corbett. How the ladies down at Murphy's blocked the aisles. The next day I got a letter that would give a man the blues : " This is good, but we can't read it." Signed : "The Rocky Mountain News!" Now I view the proud reporter as he swiftly sallies by, A botbailed flush upon his cheek, a twinkle in his eye. He has my sincere sympathy - - I do not want his place. I pine not for his twinkle, nor the flush upon his face. No matter what inducements, I invariably refuse, Since the day I did the railroads for the Rocky Mountain News. 144] SONGS OF CY WARMAN SUMMER'S GONE Summer's gone. Ah, soon the sea Will miss my summer love and me. The soft sea- waves that used to float Around her form and kiss her throat, Will sigh and seek the shore, and then Flow back into the gulf again. The summer's gone. Summer's gone. The robin's trill Will soon be hushed, and o'er the hill The aspen trees, in tints of gold, Will shiver in the coming cold; But when we part, how sweet 'twill be To know that she's in love with me, Tho' summer's gone. [145] SONGS OF CY WARMAN THE POET AND THE PUBLISHER The uncomplaining Poet lives On air and dreams and things; With eager ears the world receives The happy songs he sings. But when the Poet's strength is spent, His hands lie on his breast, The Poet's heirs get ten per cent - The Publisher the rest ! THE FIRST CHRISTMAS GIFT Of all the precious gifts that daily shower From out a gracious Heaven on this ungrateful earth, Thou gav'st the best, sweet mother, in that hour When, by God's will, thou gav'st the Saviour birth. [146] SONGS OF CY WARMAN ADOWN THE DUSKY DELL Behind the mossy mountain tip Sinks the setting sun, Aslant the shade the swallows dip, The summer day is done. The busy brook sings softly, Like the tinkling of a bell, And still and gray the shadows lay Adown the dusky dell. Across the silent summit steals The melancholy moon, And up the vale and vegas comes The balmy breath of June. Fraught with the sighs of summer, Now the softly gentle breeze, With tender touch has come to comb The tresses of the trees. [147] SONGS OF CY WARMAN MISUNDERSTOOD "Poor little ring," a woman said, " Twelve weary years ! twelve to a day Since thou wert given, and love is dead; He weeps alone, far, far away. Ah ! little present, can it be I loved him less than he loved me?" "Poor withered rose!" a soldier said; "Once worn upon my lady's breast; She weeps alone where love lies dead, And I the truth have never guessed Through all these years. Oh ! can it be I loved her less than she loved me?" [148] GONE Only a dream of you, only a dream, All I can claim of you; yet it doth seem That we are still sailing the same summer sea, And that you are ever and always with me. Only a dream of you, born in a day, Full-blown and beautiful, fadeless alway; Things are not always the things that they seem, - Spare me this dream of you, beautiful dream. Lift up the face of you, turn not away, Bear but a moment and hear what I say, When you drift onward, down Life's limpid stream, Leave me this dream of you, beautiful dream. Waking, I walk with you; slumbering deep I dream of you. O, when I wake from my sleep, I grope for you, dear, in the dusk of the dawn And find myself sobbing: "She's gone, she is gone!" [149] Cities Have Seen SONGS OF CY WARMAN COLORADO SPRINGS Here on the selvedge of the plain, Where Pike's lone peak is towering tall; Just where the shipless sun-dried main Breaks on the rough, resistless wall; Beyond a desert sea of sands The city that I sing of stands. Broad boulevards trend toward the hills, Where from the shaded canon springs A balm for all our earthly ills; And down the verdant valley sings The joyous stream, through summer hours, Through beds of fern and fields of flowers. Above the city soars the lark, And wakes the earth with joyous sounds; Glad children playing in the park, And lovers loitering through the grounds; The sighing breeze and honey bees Are drifting, droning through the trees. [153] SONGS OF CY WARMAN JERUSALEM How cheerless is the wind that sweeps The hills of Galilee, Where murmurless the Jordan creeps Down to the deep Dead Sea. O'er barren rocks the dead vines trail, And by dead tendrils cling, And on the hill and in the vale There is no breath of spring. The dying glance of Christ the King Seems to have stayed and stilled The voice of every living thing Where Christ the King was killed. The brooks, the birds that sang with them, Have long since passed away, And all about Jerusalem The earth is dead to-day. [154] SONGS OF CY WARMAN SALT LAKE With awe I watch the sun go down Across the great Salt Lake; The mountains don their golden crown, The soaring seagulls circle 'round, The gentle billows break. And when I scan what's made for man, To make his heart grow glad, With wonderment my heart I hush ; I feel the flush of shame's hot blush, Because my soul is sad. IN MONTREAL The Bobsled to the Motor, As it choo-chooed to and fro : " Comment ca va, old Honk-honk ; How do you like the snow?" It rained ! the big red motor Was right there on the job: "This leaves you on your uppers," Said the Motor to the Bob. [155] SONGS OF CY WARMAN CHEYENNE Have you been to Cheyenne? There's the loneliest place, The drearest and searest You'll find on the face Of the earth. And hard by Lieth Laramie town, Once a camp of renown As the home of Bill Nye. Empty bottles and gravel, And cactus and cans, Broken vows and old hoops Freight the hot wind that fans The parched plain. Going back To the bottle and can - I was broke in Cheyenne. Years after I sat In the manager's car As it slipped o'er the steel Trail with never a jar, And our train orders ran Us by way of Cheyenne. What a wonderful change Had come over the place! Oh, the women were fair. [156] SONGS OF CY WARMAN There was one who had eyes Just the hue of the skies; And the low winds were soft, And the things that we quaffed Well, we laid over there. "Ah, so much depends," I said, with a sigh, As the hours flew by, " On a friend and his friends. Say, Deuel, how can We go 'way from Cheyenne?" [157] SONGS OF CY WARMAN CAIRO I had banqueted in Berlin, seen a festival in Rome, Had a midnight lunch in London and a heap o' things at home ; But I never knew what life was 'till I lingered for a while Where they used to have a harem on the margin of the Nile. Where the swaying palm and pepper fling their fragrance on the air, And the moaning camel kneels to take the bur- den he must bear, Then, rising shakes his silver bells and shuffles down the file, Where they used to have a harem on the margin of the Nile. Here dreamy, dark-eyed maidens come to loiter in the leaves That begirth Gezerich Palace, where, like rain from dripping eves, Runs the ceaseless song of summer, for the heavens seem to smile Where they used to have a harem on the margin of the Nile. [158] SONGS OF CY WARMAN SAN FRANCISCO, 1894 There's a band of dusky damsels From the Occidental Isles; They are wily, wild and wooly, But they wear such winsome smiles That the high walls of the wigwam Fairly echo with delight When they do the Hula Hula, And they dance it every night. With an air of Eve-like innocence That time has not effaced, They wear no clothes, to speak of, Save a reef around the waist Made of sea- weeds; beads and bangles And their sandals, limp and light, When they do the Hula Hula, And they dance it every night. They're consigned to Colonel Cody; They are going to the Fair, With their smiles and troubled tresses And whatever else they wear. They have faded San Francisco, And they're sure to hold the host If they do the Hula Hula As they dance it on the coast. [159] SONGS OF CY WARMAN CREEDE Here's a land where all equal - Of high or lowly birth - A land where men make millions, Dug from the dreary earth. Here meek and mild-eyed burro's On mineral mountains feed. It's day all day in the day-time, And there is no night in Creede. The cliffs are solid silver, With wondrous wealth untold, And the beds of running rivers Are lined with purest gold. While the world is filled with sorrow, And hearts must break and bleed - It's day all day in the day-time, And there is no night in Creede. [160] SONGS OF CY WARMAN DENVER Denver, sunny Denver, I know the skies are clear, I know the winds blow gently Although the leaves be sear; I know the sunlight lingers On mountain, hill and plain 'Round Denver, dear old Denver I'm going back again. I know the oak and aspen Are burning as of old, I know the hills are changing From summer green to gold ; The columbine and bluebell Are numbered with the slain, But Denver, dear old Denver - I'm going back again. [161] SONGS OF CY WARMAN IN SAINT PAUL If you're ever left alone In Saint Paul, There's a "conversashiown" There for all; In the station, overhead, When the shades of night have fled And the sun is rising red, O'er Saint Paul. O, they're always going strong In Saint Paul, Where the victims wait along Down the wall; You can hear the beardies moan As the vocalizers hone At the conversashiown, In Saint Paul. Always, when a barber dies, In Saint Paul, And his comrades close his eyes, Over all You can hear the Union shout As they pass him up the spout : " 'Nother brother has talked out, In Saint Paul!" [162] SONGS OF CY WARM AN CRIPPLE CREEK Where yesterday We picked our way 'Mong trees where tangled timber lay The happy hamlet stands to-day, From every hill Resounds the drill, And where the frost has hushed the rill We hear the music of the mill. Where fierce and bold The red man strolled With painted face in days of old The hills he touched have turned to gold. [163] SONGS OF CY WARMAN AT JAFFA High on the beach the breakers dance, For the winds blow hard from the pyramids ; And over the sea, in sunny France, A woman waits with tear-wet lids While the waves roll high on the Syrian sand And the ships go by, but never land. Ah! cruel waves; they keep from me Sweet messages from one most dear, And all I see is the ruffled sea With sand-soiled lace. All night I hear The waves moan high on the Syrian sand, But the ships go by and never land. When the sea is high the ships go by, When the sea is low there are no ships; My heart runs down to my finger tips And my hands stretch out o'er the drifted sand But the ships go by and never land. [164] More or Less Personal SONGS OF CY WARM AN A TRIBUTE TO DR. DRUMMOND A friend whose lips lie motionless, Whose name I breathe, not without pain; Yet, what rich gifts he left to us, The cheerful children of his brain : Leetle Batise, an Dieudonne, Dose feller will not pass away ! You who have broken bread with him, Have lingered, laughing late at night; You will know why mine eyes are dim With tears that blur the lines I write; Dare's won, he's frien', I'm not forget, Dat small cure of Calumette. Time rolls, and brings us frost and flowers Set changes of the changeless years; He passed 'mid early April showers As tho' the world were moved to tears ; De Rosignol sing on an' on, More sadder now 'cause he is gone. He would not have his friends repine, He fought and wrought and made a name. His work I'd gladly make it mine, Believe, not for wealth or fame, But just because he had to go And leave it, when he loved it so. [167] SONGS OF CY WARMAN TO A PHOTOGRAPH B. W. Beautiful woman with wondrous hair, Beautiful ears half hidden there, Beautiful eyes that seem to look Into the world as an open book; Beautiful hand with careless grace Pillows your perfectly pictured face. Beautiful windows of a sweet soul, Over you lightly the slow years roll, Beautiful heart, so tender and true, Drawing the heart o' the world to you; Wish I were great enough just to stand By you, and breath you and touch your hand. PAULINE I know a woman, The light of whose eyes, Is like to the wonder We see in the skies. Whose lips seem to whisper; " The rose is dew-pearled, God's in His heaven, All's well with the world/' [1681 SONGS OF CY WARMAN ROBERT ELLIOT We rambled where the river winds By an abandoned mill; Where forest flowers and northern pines The air with fragrance fills. A wild rose bloomed beside the trail, A bird sang on a limb; He whistled to a whistling quail, The bird called back to him. God set his soul and turned his song And clarion-clear it rang ; He walked the woodland, summer long, And with the song-birds sang. He wandered on across the hill Where death's dark shadow creeps; The wild rose died, his voice is still, And with the flowers he sleeps. [169] SONGS OF CY WARMAN TO MRS. - - FOR CHARITY Dear friend, I should like to write something for you, But there's so little here in my head; And life is so short and there's so much to do, And the children are crying for bread; There are stories for Munsey, McClure and Success, The Post, the Companion and others. I guess For this time, a failure I'll have to confess, For the children are crying for bread. 'Twere a pleasure to sing for the good of the cause, (But the children are crying for bread) And I know in your house, I'd be sure of applause If I knew just the thing to be said; For the women are kind as the women are fair, And their laughter is lighter than timberline air ; If I gave them a song, they would give me a prayer, But the children are crying for bread. You know there are times when you can't do a thing, When the wheels whirl around in your head; And you must know it's hard for a fellow to sing With the children all crying for bread. [170] SONGS OF CY WARMAN Though my lute may be mute, you will pray understand, I am with you in spirit all over the land, And to you and your comrades, I'm kissing my hand, While the children are crying for bread. BILL AND HY Hy Ballsome was just one of us - Sometimes he's better, sometimes wo'se; Sometimes when he'd get hot, he'd cuss - But he never got religion. Bill Davis said to him : " 'z Hy, Where'll you be goin', by an' by; You reckon you be fit to die? You ain't got no religion!" "Bill Davis, I been watchin' you/' Says Hy, " an' when I learn to do To others as they orto do, I won't need no religion." [171] SONGS OF CY WARMAN JIU-JITZU VS. HOCKEY To T. R. If you want to rear a nation To be fit for future scraps, Cut away this imitation That you're taking from the Japs. You can never win your battles With these monkey-springs and squats - To the Highlands and play hockey with the Scots. "Hoot, mon! Hoot!" says big Mac donald, And Mac Williams answers, "Hoot!" As he smashes Angus Campbell On the apex of his snoot ; While the polished floor is freckled By a score of crimson spots, Ah! you're busy when you hockey with the Scots. Hear Macpherson's smothered curses As his bosom swells with pride, And the horses on the hearses Paw the atmosphere outside With the coroner and undertaker Waiting on the spot Oh you're strenuous when you hockey with a Scot. [172] SONGS OF CY WARMAN FRIENDSHIP Doubtless, in dear old London, If you were ever there, You've looked on Nelson's monument Down in Trafalgar Square; Our Nelson has a monument That higher still extends, Stouter than stone, it's builded on The friendship of his friends. Sometimes this thing called friendship Is likened to a tree Among whose leaves on Summer eve's The cooling winds blow free; It shades the passing pilgrim Whose weary way he wends, A noble tree, it seems to me - The friendship of our friends. At other times this friendship Is fashioned as a flower, Whose sweet perfume pervades the gloom Of many a weary hour; Our smiles, as so much sunshine, Will keep it fresh for years If grief should come, in sorrow dumb We lave it with our tears. [173] I like to liken friendship Unto the Breath of Morn, Fresh from the dewy uplands And singing through the corn, Or Flora, faring barefoot With all her arms can hold; A Peace-flag on the fortress, A sunset full of gold. And so your friends have fashioned A monument so high, Its base is hidden in our hearts, Its top lost in the sky; When, through the years that follow, When sun or shower descends, One thing is sure and will endure, The friendship of your Friends. To NELSON E. W. From his friends of the New England Passenger Association. Boston, Massachusetts, December 21, 1910. [1741 SONGS OF CY WARMAN TO JULIAN RALPH, IN CHINA When you drifted down the Pacific Across the Atlantic I sped; And when you dropped anchor at Hong Kong I whistled down brakes at Port Said. I came here in quest of the morning, The cradle of day to behold; You came here in search of the sunset 'Neath skies ever gilded with gold. I swear my trail ends at the morning, You say, " Here's the edge of the night" ; Then where is the sunrise and sunset? What jurist shall judge which is right? Go back to the noonland, my brother, That holds the half sphere you have known ; Come let us be frank with each other, What land is as fair as our own? TO J. W. S. Great little man, whose name and fame Shall reach from Pole to Pole; I wonder how so slight a frame Can cage so great a soul. [175] SONGS OF CY WARMAN HIM He will come back. The stress of things, The Comet and the death of Kings Eclipse him for a little space, But he'll come back to his own place On the front page - - The Crackerjack - He will come back. He will come back again, and lo, The Little Ones who think they know The inner workings and the tricks Of twentieth century politics Will take their chapeaux from the rack When he comes back. HENRY PREW A TOAST Here's to you, Henry Prew, Henry Prew, here's to you. Happy Henry ! May your skies be always blue ; Kindly, thoughtful, gentle-souled, May your joys be manifold, And your sunset full of gold, Henry Prew. [176] SONGS OF CY WARMAN FATHER J. C. I know a man, whom God gives me to know, And if I had met with him long years ago, When the spirit was strong and the flesh near so frail, I might not have wandered so far from the trail. But now that I know him, and since he knows me, He'll mark me and mind me, and when I'm at sea And storms beat against me, he'll watch on the strand To beckon and beacon me back to the land. [177] uC SOUTHERN RESlONA. _;3RAR^ PAC : . '". [Illlll! Mill Mill Mill IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIMHIMIIIIII III A 000677113 3