George Reginald Margetson, "The Fledgling Bard and the Poetry Society" (1910)
GEORGE REGINALD MARGETSON
The Fledgling Bard And
The Poetry Society
BY
GEORGE REGINALD MARGETSON
Author of "Songs of Life"
ARTI et VERITATI
BOSTON: RICHARD G. BADGER
TORONTO; THE COPP CLARK CO., LIMITED
To
GOD AND THE PEOPLE
PREFATORY NOTE
The author wishes to acknowledge his gratitude
and indebtedness to the late Selwyn Worrell, of
Barbados, B. W. I., for the use of the entire poem
“Let Justice Reign," written at the time of the
famous Brownsville episode and dedicated to Sena-
tor F. B. Foraker, of Ohio, who defended the Black
Regiment which had been dishonorably discharged by
President Roose elt.
G. R. M.
THE FLEDGING BARD AND THE
POETRY SOCIETY
PRELUDE
The critic, blest with more than mortal brains,
The leading light on literary things,
Shows the dull author what his book contains,
And worlds unknown before our vision brings;
Oblivion's curtains far apart he Alings,
Explores the abyss of deep mysteries,
Borne on the wings of thought o'er undiscovered seas.
Who made the critic with his searching eye,
His gashing wit, his subtle intellect,-
The man who never errs, who cannot lie,
Who can each big and little fault detect?
I do not know, and yet I do suspect
It is not he who doles out mortal dower,
But some criterion god that man may ne'er discover.
Oh, if I were a critic learned and great,
An exponent on literary art,
And held within my hand the author's fate,
And knew how every theme should end or start,
I would improve the author's thankless part
By placing on his work my honest stamp,
To cheer the unhappy lot of bard or poet tramp.
The Fledgling Bard And
The Poetry Society
PART I
I'm out to find the new, the modern school,
Where Science trains the fledgling bard to fly,
Where critics teach the ignorant, the fool,
To write the stuff the editors would buy;
It matters not e'en tho it be a lie,-
Just so it aims to smash traditions crown
And build up one instead decked with a new renown.
A thought is haunting me by night and day,
And in some safe archive I seek to lay it;
I have some startling thing I wish to say,
And they can put me wise just how to say it.
Without their aid, I, like the ass, must bray it,
Without due knowledge of its mood and tense,
And so 'tis sure to fail the bard to recompense.
Will some kind one direct me to that college
Where every budding genius now is headed,
The only source to gain poetic knowledge,
Where all the sacred truths lay deep imbedded,
Where nothing but the genuine goods are shred-
ded, -
II
The factory where shape new feet and meters
That make poetic symbols sound like carpet beaters.
Who would not gladly change his wornout raiment
To flash like freedom in a brand new suit,
And all the more when they demand no payment
And throw in hat, shoes, gloves and tie to boot.
I'd go parading with the royal loot,
And cut a figure like a yankee sport,
And be the proudest ship that ever hailed to port.
Why imitate an antiquated style
Which served its use and long has passed away;
It is the modern form that wins the smile,
The freak fantastic fashions of to-day;
And tho the fabric were as rotten clay,
'Twill catch the eye if it is new and bright;
The people like the hues that dazzle in their sight.
They should not e'en suspect that it is rotten;
Its flaming colors such defects would hide;
Such faults when polished o'er will be forgotten;
They'll take the harlot for the maiden bride,
More so when friends and bridesmaid at her side
Declare that she is of the perfect brand,
And kiss her painted cheek and clasp her gold-
braced hand.
The Fledgling Bard and the Poetry Society
13
I hope I'll be an eligible student,
E'en tho I am no poet in a sense,
But just a hot-head youth with ways imprudent,-
A rustic ranting rhymer like by chance
Who thinks that he can make the muses dance
By beating on some poet's borrowed lyre,
To win some fool's applause and please his own
desire.
Perhaps they'll never know or e'en suspect
That I am not a true, a genuine poet;
If in the poet's colors I am decked
They may not ask me e'er to prove or show it.
I play the wise old cock, nor try to crow it,
But be content to gaze with open mind;
I'll never show the lead but eye things from behind.
I think that this is just what I should do
When I shall meet with Browning, Poe and Blake:
I'll seal my yap nor let one word slip thro,
For fear that I may make some funny break
Which would not ever do for art's sweet sake.
And so this guarded course I will pursue:
I'll bark just like a dog or like a cat cry mew.
a
Ah, who can tell how happy I shall be
When I shall touch with Byron, Gray and Burns,
When my first cousin Wordsworth I shall see, -
A time for which my anxious spirit yearns.
From earth's low, vulgar crowd my fancy turns
To mingle with the minds of Keats and Shelley.
I'll laugh and crack my side and roll upon my belly.
In just one night I'll get an education,-
To hear Will Shakespeare read old Bacon's drama,
To note Mark Anthony's sublime oration,
And know the men who mould our speech and grammar,
The Goldsmiths, all who work with tongs and hammer
To build this great, this modern school of ours
Which like a beacon stands and like a pyramid towers.
I'll hear old Spencer read his Faery Queen,
And see the fairy-angels dance around,
All visible beneath the twilight sheen,
While the immortal melodies resound.
Ah, then my heart, touched with a joy profound,
Would turn to catch the Ancient Mariner's chime
O'er solemn-sounding seas in far off fairy clime.
And all the news reporters will be there,
Armed and arrayed in special color dight;
They'll get to work with Freedom's nightiest gear
The Fledgling Bard and the Poetry Society 15
And make the crooked straight, turn left to right,
They'll publish all that happens in a night,
Recording all our antics and our capers,
They'll make each little deed grow big and bloat the papers.
The lucky ones will get their pictures in,-
The star wind-jammer and the swell Miss Shorter;
Next morning they'll stare at it and grin
And breathe encomiums on the news reporter.
We'll all chip in to cheer him as we oughter,
The power that gives society its speed on,
Which brings to art the boost and gives to life the
lead on.
I'll write the hymnbook for the new religion.
And win a universal great applause;
I will confine me to the earthly vision
And keep shy of the common people's cause;
I'll sing of exploits, infidels and wars,
The Eliots and all the Ingersolls;
I'll rouse the kings of earth and raise infernal squalls.
There is a prize-fight coming off to-night,
And I will write each round into a verse.
The negro's art against the white man's might
Will draw a crowd and raise a heavy purse.
The doctor with his bandages and nurse
Will splice their broken ribs and soothe their groans:
Just think, the films alone will bring one million bones!
I have a little bet on with a friend
That Jess in five fast rounds will stop the "coon"
And bring his ring career unto an end
And make Jack Johnson hum another tune;
He'll see not stars alone but sun and moon
When Willard lands the solar plexus blow.
I bet that big black cock in hell will rise to crow.
Prize-fight and baseball hold the crowd to-day,
And should have held it years and years ago.
While lazy Christians sing to heaven and pray
We hustle round and whoop and win the “dough.”
Let all the merry fans their bugles blow,
With Red Sox colors flying in the lead,
And urge the game along, pitched at a break-neck
speed.
I can't see why the colleges and schools
Don't teach our boys and girls the manly art
In place of grammar and rhetoric rules
And on the road to genuine progress start.
T'would make them hale and hearty, strong and smart,
And though they could not read or write or spell,
They would be trained and fit to knock the "coons" to hell.
But that's the business of the school committees,
Which aim to lead the race from degradation.
A poet's business is to sing pure ditties
Within the office of his lofty station.
And so each day I pour the soul's oblation
In simple and sublime melodious verse
Which, as I hope, should prove a blessing, not a curse.
Besides, a poet has no right to teach:
That's the profession of the learned school teacher.
A poet should not pray, he must not preach:
That robs the church and starves the honest preacher.
A poet is a hurdy-gurdy creature,
To chant sweet tunes unto the stars and roses,
And not to preach or teach as Sinai unto Moses.
Of human souls I should not write a w
They are but slaves of small or no account.
Besides, if one desires that he be heard
One needs must take such things at great discount;
They never did and never will amount
To anything in these commercial times,
And so 'twould be unwise to use them in my rhymes.
In fact, the human stuff is not poetic.
Who ever made good poetry out of man?
I'd sooner sing of stars and things phonetic
Than all the souls who writhe in slavery's ban.
They have been fools and slaves since time began,
And will be so till time shall cease to be;
They haven't got the nerve to shake their shackles free.
John Masefield is the only man, they say,
Who turns such stuff to profit by his skill.
Of course he is a genius in a way
Who has a little extra time to kill.
But genius is disease; he needs a pill
To cure his craze for human flesh and blood.
Too bad his germs were saved with Noah from the flood.
I'll make each poem short instead of long,
For if I don't the people will not read it.
The world is all a hustling, bustling throng,
And like a horse in harness we must feed it,
Let loose the bridle, whip it, spur it, bleed it,-
Use any kind of means to make it go,-
Abbreviate the acts and cut out half the show.
It is a waste of energy and time
To tell the people things they need not know.
It is a loss of capital, a crime,
To sow two seeds where only one should grow;
And so 'tis best to cut out half the show,
Reduce the curtain, narrow down the stage;
The people want to gaze on life's contracted page.
Cut out the drama with the double acts
And draw the scene at once unto a close.
The people howl for facts, bald, naked facts,-
The craze of all the moving picture shows;
And thitherward the whole damned audience goes
While Hamlet thunders to the empty seats,
And like a fool repents and finally retreats.
In time I hope to capture the first prize
That's offered by the Poetry Magazine.
I'll turn out better stuff than the old guys
Tho I am but a youth of seventeen.
I'll write of apples, pears and spinach green,-
Such things as editors delight to eat;-
They'll think that it is good if it is seasoned sweet.
"I will embrace the critics with Sword Blades"
And treat them to a mess of “Poppy Seeds.”
I'll lead my deuce and trick the Jack of Spades;
All follow suit, e'en tho trump feebly leads
Thro barren waste or fragrant flowery meads
To sure defeat or victory's heights sublime.
I'll make the critics jig and whistle to my rhyme.
I'll make one line three foolscap pages long,
Another stunted like the letter T.
They'll hail it as the rightful heir of Song,
For 'tis the form the critics joy to see ;-
This is the One they praise most constantly,
For Whitman tried it ere he thought to die,
The form that takes the cake the pudding and the pie.
However poor the food we serve or eat,
If we in pop'lar style would serve or eat it,
Tho it were rotten shad or tainted meat,
Like hungry hogs the common horde would greet it;
They'd swallow it and say you cannot beat it
In all the world for either love or money,
Tho 'tis as nourishing as wax, the dregs of honey.
Critics all, both far and near,
You who hold the public ear
And interpret for the care
And counsel of the people,
If you find no merit here
Please tell it to the people;
Write it, speak it everywhere
In converse with the people;
You should really have no fear
To tell it to the people.
But if you perchance should find
Art with poetry interlined,
Reason, truth and wit combined,
So tell it to the people
All the tangled parts unwind
And show them to the people,
With a calm and candid mind
Present them to the people;
'Twould alike be fair and kind
To tell it to the people.
Tell it not to cheer me glad,
Tell it not to bruise me sad,
Tell it not to jar me mad,
Just tell it for the people,
As you find it good or bad,
Thus deal it to the people.
If in homely colors clad,
So show it to the people.
Nothing minus, nothing add
True tell it to the people.
Me they are not writ to please,
Nor the Yankee devil to tease,
But outrageous fate to pease,
I will write them for the people.
Out upon life's foaming seas.
I wrought them of the people
When I strike the tuneful keys
I strike to rouse the people
Tell it therefore at your ease
But tell it for the people.
I have a recommend from Uncle Sam
To introduce me at the poet show
Tho' but a bantam weather cock I am,
They'll sit up straight, take notice while I crow,
They'll take my little lazy bark in tow
And fix the hull and helm; they'll make it new,
And send it forth to sail with a brave hustling crew.
I have one good short-poem I shall read
It nerves me up and cheers me on the way,
'Twill throw me up at once full in the lead,
And win me fame and fortune in a day,
And while I hold the people 'neath its sway,
I'll flam around, make a gigantic bluff
And treat my audience to lots of rubbish stuff.
I'll bear in mind the things I know will sell,
I need the coin to buy my bread and butter,
I want to be well dressed and looking well,
So I'll be careful what I write or utter.
I keep shy of the worms down in the gutter,-
Write life upon the hill, not in the ditch,
I'll crack up the wealthy harlot, down the poor old bitch.
I'll send my little baby boy to college,
Perhaps to Harvard or perhaps to Yale,
But not to take much stock in bookish knowledge,
But just to star about and whoop and rail.
The sons of Eli never once did fail
To show the brawn upon the great gridirons,
They kick like elephants, wild tigers and brave lions.
I'll stop in here and get a little grub,
In this small lunch room open on the way,
Then speed along to find the poets' club
Before the breaking of another day.
What will you have? "A sandwich, did you say?"
Yah boss, a hot dog sandwich with the musted
Ten cents is all my gear, which leaves me broke or busted.
Five cents is for a chaser of cool beer,
Which now awaits me but a few doors off,
'Twill hurt the man but give the poet cheer,
It is the stuff the great bards like to quaff,
It makes them jig and whistle, sing and laugh;
And gives to genius clear and quick discerning;
It deadens human nerves, but puts the edge on learning.
Now I must hurry on, nor yield to sleeping
Until I find that great society,
I started on a trot but now I'm creeping
And tired quite with jeers and mockery.
The crowds along the way all laugh at me;
When I inquire for the hall of fame,
They ask to see the worth on which I base my claim.
I tell them that a fellow bard and friend
Will vouch for and propose me as a member,
Who would for my ability contend
And praise me as a warm poetic ember.
My birthday comes upon the 12th December,
A time they say great geniuses are born.
He'll hail me as a lark, a warbler 'mongst the corn.
They ask me why my friend should tell a lie,
Or say such things that were not really true,
To this I merely gave the short reply,
Such is the course of wisdom to pursue,
But added we're not of the righteous few
Who keep the faith of good George Washington.
He had no time to lie when Wallace made him run.
They tell me Woodrow Wilson has been fooled,
Fooled by the crafty-witted Englishman;
His diplomatic art is poorly schooled,
He's strong to execute but weak to plan,
Too bad we voted for him when he ran
For president of the United States,
He flings wide to the world our Canal's golden gates.
And see the game he plays with Mexico,
With all the Yankee blood there has been spilt,
Why Teddy would have been there long ago
And beat those Mexicans until they wilt.
He'd drive his vengeful dagger to the hilt
And civilize those damn barbarians,
Convert them to our creed as Unitarians.
They tell me Jennings Bryan is a fake,
They say he overpriced the human soul.
Why look at every corner turn we take
We see men bunched like insects in a hole,
Rolling like maggots of the fleshy mole,
On which the fiends of hell delight to feed,
And William knows it too, but preaches a false creed.
That Uncle Andrew stocked with gold brick dollars
Is building schools, peace palaces and such,
Who sent full many a man to hell with hollers
To gain the wealth he cannot value much.
He buys and sells the Irish and the Dutch
Imports the Scottish horde from Skibo Castle
And dumps them on our shores to hustle, howl and bustle.
That's poisoned dope and does not interest me,
Only the poetry society;
The devil in his hell does not molest me;
It is the little imp that's walking free.
He is the evil mote, the stinging bee
What yon wild raving mob is chasing after;
'Tis not the rooted thief, the scientific grafter.
I'm growing sleepy, wearied with the walk,
Like some blind beggar wandering from his lair,
A stranger in the city of New York,
Without a friend my failing hopes to cheer
I see a sign—“Night Board And Lodging Here.”
I'll go and plead a lodging for the night,
And rest till day returns and all the world is bright.
I left my ranch out on the Western prairie,
And tramped my way to find the poetry school;
I left the jolly boys, my own kind dearie,
And here I am a lost confounded fool.
I have not reached nor have I neared the goal,
But at the first sound of the milk-man's bell,
I'll start me out afresh to find it or find hell.
Is this the place where stands famed Matteawan,
The late deserted home of Harry Thaw,
Who did defeat Jerome's ingenious plan;
And cleared the fence of New York state and law.
It seems to me that somewhere there's a flaw
How do they make him out a lunatic,
Who with the lightning's stroke did turn the devil's
trick?
Is this New York, men rave so much about,
New York where time halts not to sleep or rest?
Dark dives of infamy dispel my doubt,
Is this the poet's Eden of the blest?
I must prepare myself to stand the test
At Helicon where all the muses dwell.
O maid of musty charms I lull beneath thy spell.
PART II
Sol sends his heralds o'er the broadening east,
Whose golden banners head the march of day,
There roars a sound as of some raving beast,
From out the fog-chained harbor of the bay,
Where big ships ride or at their anchors stay,
And roll and toss upon the tipsy tide,
Or sail in glad relief where watery ways divide.
I hear the singing of a morning song,
Made with the music of an angel's voice,
It aims to catch the lowly-laboring throng,
And caters to the ordinary choice.
A servant maid, lo! there she doth rejoice,
As far aside the shutters now she Alings,
As merry as the muse, she signals as she sings:
Roll back the curtain, the daylight is come,
Over the housetops the sunshine appears,
Out in the meadows glad warblers roam,
Sweetest Contentment her anthem declares;
Roll back the curtain, the daylight is come!
Roll back the curtain and welcome the morn,
Nature her quickening touch doth impart,
Let her fair jewels your vista adorn,
Once more on life's fretful voyage ye start,
Roll back the curtain, the daylight is come!
Roll back the curtain, ye veterans of toil,
On with your girdle and follow the sun,
Out on the prairie and furrow the soil.
Gather the harvest ere night is begun,
Roll back the curtain, the daylight is come!
Roll back the curtain, ye children of care,
Let your sad dreams as the darkness depart!
Open your souls; let the sunshine flow there!
Welcome glad sunshine of grace in your heart!
Roll back the curtain, the daylight is come!
Roll back the curtain, ye sons of Despair,
Heaven can wither the perils of earth,
Each broken system is Her's to repair,-
She, the Most High, who has given it birth,
Roll back the curtain, the daylight is come!
Roll back the curtain, ye tenants of Woe,
Hope has returned on the pinions of light.
When the wild tempest around you doth blow,
Faith be your anchor in fathoms of might,
Roll back the curtain, the daylight is come!
Roll back the curtain, ye servants of sin,
Lo! at your portal the Light doth appear,
Open ye now, let His glory come in!
Join with the saints Heaven's blessing to share.
Roll back the curtain, the true Light is come!
There goes a wench, a poor live human scrag,
Half crushed beneath the freight of seventy years,
With pail and scrub-brush, soapine and a rag,
To polish marble halls and dirty stairs.
I believe most times she cleans them with her tears,
Ah me, that's civilization at its height,
Democracy's full moon, obscured in darkest night.
I hope there are no cops ahiding by,
Alistening to my silly, sad comment,
Who'd sally forth and swat me in the eye,
Thinking I criticise the government.
Lord knows I do not harbor such intent,
I am an humble slave, content and calm,
Amuttering to myself with nothing meant for harm.
A poet has no right to poetise
And criticise earth's greatest government.
His business is to write of fleas and flies,
And not of fools who scrub to pay their rent.
Or else his poems will not bring a cent;
They'll dub his verse cheap sentimental rhymes,
And all that he may write won't yield a dozen dimes.
In short, no man should be allowed to write
Who cannot write like Lincoln or Shakespeare.
Great college graduates both learned and bright,
Men who had studied till their eightieth year,-
They, they should hold the public eye and ear
Who knew the subtle schemes of government
And spoke in polished tones like our great president.
Our president's a good old college gent,
Who never saw, poor little kids at play.
Save once he was on noble purpose bent,
The afternoon of his election day,
When he was sharing round the voters' pay.
I wonder how he knows poor people's need,
Who eats three squares a day and wears plug hat and tweed.
He saved us from a war with Mexico,
Yes, after he had gone and butted in,
When our dear comrades there were lying low,
Mowed down with shot and shell midst battle's din.
He called it off after it did begin
When our best blood had guild the battlefield,
He said unto himself, “ 'Tis now high time to
yield.”
He nailed the famous immigration bill
And killed it with the veto of his power.
He did a weak and harmless tyrant kill,
With his stout staff, the people's proffered dower.
In sooth one hell-hound he has made to cower,
Which shows his broad and sympathetic soul,
Aiding the alien hosts to Baal's infernal hole.
Perhaps he sees that as the only way,
He might exterminate a virile race,
Letting them in like sheep with wolves to play,
While he looks on and laughs with glad grimace,
To see the cubs the little she-lambs chase,
To see the vicious tiger and the bear
Hacking the human trunk to serve their bill of fare.
Is that his answer to the Negro question,
Would he thus grant this race its rightful claim?
By yielding it to wholesale vivisection,
For other tribes to slaughter and to tame,
Where prejudice still plays its barbarous game,
And honor sinks and justice ever fails,
Where law and order fall and anarchy prevails ?
He's neutral on the war, a nonpartisan,
And writes a lecture on neutrality,
Preaching defiance in the face of Britain
To show his fair impartiality,
Puffed up with college pride and vanity.
He's bucking up against John Bull, the lion;
He thinks that he can trim the god of ice and iron.
He'd end this war and hasten the Millenium
By loading war gear into Germany,
While dumping tons of foodstuff into Belgium,
To glut the feast of maniac Monarchy,
Where reigns black chaos and grim anarchy
With armed destruction belching fire and horror,
While babes and mothers fall struck down with death
and terror.
At last he sends his note to bluff the Kaiser,
'Tis good for nothing, for he sends it late.
He hoarded his opinion like a miser,
A watchful waiter hanging by the gate.
He tarried late to launch the ship of state,
To save crushed Belgium and humanity
From Culture viz. force, crime, hate, barbarity.
His watchful waiting cost the Lusitania,
With many a babe's and mother's life to loot;
He thought that he might cure the gerramania,
Giving the foul disease full time to root;
He is too proud to fight, too sane to shoot,
E'en when attacked by thugs with foul disease,
Who wreck his health, his wealth, his dignity, his
ease.
Our President is not a fighter,
He is too proud to shoulder arms,
He is a scholar and a writer
Who woos a wealthy widow's charms.
The President
A hightoned gent
The darling son
Of Washington
Has got the wit
He makes a hit
With campaign stuff
Of Yankee bluff.
He wields his English and his grammar,
His textbook and his rhetorics,
His words rain blows like a trip hammer
And cut much ice in politics.
He's getting wordier not wiser
In trained and skilled diplomacy;
He holds the maniac-champ the Kaiser
To strict accountability.
Come Woody, quiet your honey-mooning
The Austrians have sunk a boat;
Cut out your wooing and your spooning
Get busy, write another note!
If Washington had been to proud to fight,
To lead his sturdy farmers in the fray,
To shoulder arms in that rebellious night,
And stoutly march to stop tyrannic sway-
If Crispus Attucks armed with murderous might,
Who led the Grand Tea Party down the bay
And charged and clubbed the Red Coats in their flight,
Had stepped aside to sing a peaceful lay-
Had our forefathers cowardly ducked from sight,
When Monarchy marched blazen on his way,
Poor Woodrow would not have a chance to say:
“Boys stay at home, I am too proud to fight.”
And come what may his rule is safety first,
And safety last and safety all the time.
When war-clouds lower upon these shores to burst,
Or threaten to engulf his Yankee clime,
He builds a tower of eloquence sublime,
A dreadnought armed with metaphoric guns,
To stay the wrath of hell and all her fiery huns.
That's safety first, or sound philosophy,
Shrewd politics and skilled diplomacy,
The matchless bulwark of the brave and free,
Which guards the treasures of Democracy.
Sing, Yankee maids, exult with ardent glcc,
Proud honor's shield, Baal blushes to assail ;
Beside your witching charms no terrors can prevail.
He thinks that war is psychological,
Enforced hysteria of the idle brain,
A state of mind half diabolical,
With periods of exhilarating pain,
Whose haunted victims cry out to be slain,
To join the winged army of the dead,
And mount from star to star with time's triumphant tread.
Another term his honor might reclaim,
And so we'll back him for another term.
Perhaps not he but congress is to blame,
There's where he caught the cowardly neutral germ.
He once was member of a healthy firm,
In Jersey fair midst Princeton's classic grove,
Where his great name shall live to honor and to love.
Another term will show him up still better,
Another four years to perfect his mission,
To fix the Negro fast in slavery's fetter,
And cap the climax of his high ambition;
To starve damned fools and slaves into submission,
Submission to the holy trinity,
The great high priest the saint and saviour of
Democracy.
Maybe that wench knows where's the Poetry Club,
Who seventy years has scrubbed around New York,
Maybe that is the place she's going to scrub,
Where roost the royal blue bird and the lark.
She sleeps by light and toils and scrubs by dark,
And seems unequal to the strenuous task,
And needs a good square meal, beside some fire to
bask.
Perhaps she's scrubbing halls to get a pension,
Perhaps just for the love of slavish toil,
Perhaps through faithful filial attention,
Perhaps to keep her cooling blood aboil,
She's rolled up, knotted like a rubber coil, -
Sad sight, which seems not terrible and shocking,
Poor granny scrubbing halls in half a shoe and stocking.
She's weak and trembling, fainting with despair,
As though she soon shall leave this earthly scene;
Seems all the while she's muttering a prayer,
To ease her cracking frame all gaunt and lean.
And now and then the scrub brush plies between,
Like a frail bird that's cornered in a cage.
She sings a touching song, the song of bowing age:
“Now let me strike the dolorous chord,
And tell my suffering to my God.
I care not man's frail help to win,
I only pray release from sin,
And seek to rest my weary galling load,
Approaching towards the end of time's long beaten road.
“And who but He such aid can give
And show the better way to live?
Shall man outstep his humble sphere,
And mock God's image with repair ?
Nay, let me on the Lord my burden heave,
For this to me He gave and this He will receive.
“Eternal Love, Almighty King,
Thou canst alone me succor bring,
And lift me from these shades of night
Into a holier sphere of light.
Then let me unto Thee my sorrow sing,
And mount to Heaven's heights on prayer's tri-
umphant wing.
"My frame grows weak, my eyes grow dim,
I crawl along with struggling limb;
My ears grow deaf, my mouth grows dumb
As closer to the grave I come;
My health grows pale and hope now waxes slim,
I toss within the shoals upon life's outer rim.
“Then let me try the holier note,
Ere life's frail barque shall cease to float,
And here make reckoning with my God,
And sue to win his high award,
And safe embark in the Celestial boat,
To hail the happy land on Canaan's shores remote.”
II
I hear my Saviour call to me
Across the gulf eternity.
Shall I not heed his timely call,
And flee earth's rapid-breaking squall,
To share with Him his hospitality,
And join the vast seraphic throng in sweet serenity?
He bids me not to tarry more,
But cease to scour this barren shore,
To hearken to the voice of Love,
And hie to prosperous plains above,
And seek celestial grandeurs to explore;
Each wretched hope-forsaken wight may enter at
His door.
“My space is short herein to dwell,
Then let me look a last farewell
To these familiar scenes around,
While I await His signal sound.
But hark! betimes He tolls the parting knell,
The act is closed, the curtain falls and all with me is
well.”
Poor wench, she's dead and better to be so
Who had to scrub to eke out her existence;
Her form is stretched, her head is still and low,
She gives up all, can offer no resistance.
A crying mob now runs to her assistance,
The undertakers, doctors and their nurses,
They bring her food and drink, they loosen up their
purses.
They say a royal burial she must have,
And Uncle Sam will foot the funeral fee,
'Twas her own fault that she did scrub and starve,
She was too proud to beg for charity.
But bless her soul from cares forever free,
Her upturned face there greets the starry dome,
Yon mirror that reflects a higher, happier home.
A crimson cloud which lights the vault of Heaven,
Like some good omen hovers round her coil,
The factory bells proclaim the hour of seven,
Break up the crowd and call all hands to toil;
In sickly sunless shops to slave and moil,
Some beating it afoot, some rushed in cars,
All wearing on their brows grim labor's battle scars.
Thank God, I haven't got to toil and slave,
And sweat all day to earn a livelihood;
I use the talent that to me He gave,
And make it house me, buy me clothes and food,
And keep my spirits up in cheerful mood;
I'm not a harnessed beast nor sewer diver,
Made to be bossed around by some Blue Beard slave
driver.
I am not driven to work by man or devil,
I am a slave to my own thoughts and will,
I meet all men and treat them on the level,
And have no fear that they would do me ill.
Far, far removed to wealth's luxurious Hill,
I take no thought of beggars, crooks or knaves;
All look alike to me, the masters and their slaves.
I am an author, not a man machine,
I live not by the muscle, but the mind,
Engaged with honest schemes and conscience clean,
By Nature's proudest, noblest art designed,
I love it; 'tis a cheerful healthy grind,
In my swell mansion pillowed soft in ease,
From this low city life of darkness and disease.
a
Yet was I once a weary struggling wight,
With bitter toils and hardest knocks engaged,
Ere my life's flower was opened to the light,
When my great soul was like a bird encaged;
Restless I grew, dissatisfied, enraged,
And worked and prayed for better things to be,
Until I did emerge from slavish drudgery.
I live with ease in luxuries,
I take no thought of poor men;
With my good wife I live my life,
Far from the haunts of whore men.
I've built a wall both stout and tall,
That can't be scaled by beggars;
My gold is packed and tightly stacked,
Secure from thieves and beggars.
Here like a king I live and sing,
In quiet rest and slumber;
From life's high decks I view the wrecks,
Where drifts dead human lumber.
This is the jail, the sun-proof prison house,
Whose dome wards off the vengeance of the sky;
Here crime and pillage cease their mad carouse,
Where law extends its arm and guarded eye,
A steady human stream here rushes by,
And now and then one passes in or out,
Where the gruff prison guard sings as he moves
about.
By day or night I keep the guard,
And tramp about this lonely yard,
To earn the pitiful reward
Of ten gold eagle dollars.
They fly to me at each week's end,
To care my family and defend,
Their food to buy, their clothes to mend,
And win me shoes and collars.
Within these grim and gloomy walls,
In safety bins or sunless stalls,
We keep our wretched criminals,
To make men's lives secure.
We feed them on embalmed beef,
Which should kill murderer or thief,
And bring to woe a sure relief,
Through death's slow opening door.
Year in year out they come and go
In gloomy floods that ebb and flow,
Reaping the harvest they did sow
With many a sigh and groan;
And ever as they sulk along,
A barbarous deserted throng,
Each one takes up and all prolong
The sad and solemn moan.
Armed guards and prisons were not made for me,
I keep good counsel and obey the law,
Though many a time with men I disagree,
I bear to them no malice in my maw.
It is the teeth of ignorance that gnaw,
And undermine the sacred tree of life,
Where hate and envy dwell and wage combatted
strife.
I have my own pet scheme, my axe to grind,
No time to take and blunt the devil's dagger;
I move within the circle of my kind
With strength reserve to stay me when I'd stagger.
I am no brawler and I am no bragger,
I never was and shall not ever be;
I'm just a plain blunt man in smart society.
St. Paul says "every man to his own order,"
And sure the good St. Paul would never lie;
And though he lived beyond the ancient border,
His stream of truth still runneth never dry;
But modern prophets falsely prophesy,
And say my brother's business is my own
The wise St. Paul is right, fools to themselves alone.
But hold, my muse, you run along too fast,
And that is not the better way to do;
Come back and shape that shoe to fit the last.
Why look, you stretch the last to fit the shoe.
Make every thought show clear, each rhyme ring
true.
You have good sense but act much like a fool;
You bear this e'er in mind, the example is the rule.
You hurry past a church where scoundrels hide,
Whose doors are locked and shutters darkly drawn,
Which thus remains throughout the week-day tide,
Till lazy creeds bestir each Sunday morn.
The cradle where religious life is born
Lies ever in a mask a droney spell,
Except for one brief hour when chimes the Sabbath
bell.
The house of God is nigh forever closed,
While that of Baal is always open wide,
A poor religious zeal is here exposed,
Which thus reflects a lack of Christian pride.
From good to bad men daily turn aside,
As in a thrice from heaven to hell they leap;
The devil works overtime while ministers hug sleep.
Thy do not seem to keep their fervent pledges,
Who have been christened with the sacred flame;
They do not seek the byways and the hedges,
The lost deserted pilgrim to reclaim.
They do not catch the wild sheep, but the tame,
They toil not where the weeds of evil grow,
The dives, the wicked haunts where Jesus bade
them go.
The gambling dens, the rum shop, the fast house,
Are never closed; they show no flag of truce;
There sin and satan meet in mad carouse,
And plan Jehovah's Kingdom to reduce.
And suddenly like devils running loose,
They chase and catch the doping Christian Alies,
And bear them fast to hell in pleasure's luring guise.
Then what's the good of churches and of priests
That stand round idle six days in the week,
While other human creatures toil like beasts,
In some diseased and germ infested creek.
The ministers with Hebrew and with Greek,
Have saved the whole damned human race from
hell,
But they forgot to save the jackass in the well.
A man's religion ought to be his doctor,
And save him in the flesh from vice and sin,
His body guard, his guide, his all protector,
To teach him how life's sweeter joys to win.
Man's future heaven must on earth begin,
Even as his future hell is here devised
As in some evil mind debased and despised.
I've been inside a church twice in my life,
The first to be baptized with Holy water,
The next, last time, was when I got my wife
Albertha Lane, the good old chaplain's daughter.
She was a pure sweet girl, that's why I sought her;
I chased her far inside the church to get her,
She wouldn't run round with me, her parents
would not let her.
I realize she was a prize to win,
And 'twas my game to win her anyhow,
And since she would not come to me in sin,
I took her to the altar, made the vow;
Of course we do not live together now,
She was full bent to have things her own way,
And would not keep her pledge, her promise to obey.
She wanted to attend church just the same;
I told her she would have to cut it out,
She tried, but could not make a wild boar tame.
I kept my course on pleasure's giddy rout.
She stayed at home and would not go about
With me, and so we could not get along;
I can not seem to see where I was in the wrong.
She was her father's pet, her mother's pride;
Her beauty was the talk of all the town;
That's why I wanted her to be my bride,
E'en though I had no mind to settle down;
She seemed an angel in her wedding gown,
But I would not be tied down to one woman
Not though she were divine instead of just plain
human.
I have one life to live, and I shall live it,
And live it after my own sort and fashion;
What'er I owe the world I here shall give it,
And satisfy each wish, each crave, or passion;
I cut a sway with my swell suit and swash on,
And play the game for my sweet self alone,
And play it once for all, and when I'm dead, I'm
done.
Or win or lose come my kind muse,
And tune for me a merry ditty;
Sing it true, come won't you, do?
And yet it seems a sin and pity.
Christian Science hurls defiance,
At the Doctor and disease,
Holy Jumpers quaff their bumpers
And hug and kiss just as they please.
Universalist, wash foot Baptists,
Wesleyans and Moravianites,
Play their antics like old frantics,
And assert religious rights.
Zionist, ho! holy jingo!
Fight to take Jerusalem;
They take an oath to break the Sabbath,
Yet they take no stock in ham.
Methodist play games and whist,
Go to dances, cast their vote;
Catholics rule politics,
And get the Presbyterian's goat.
In such queer divisions of christian religions,
Where men curse and steal and fight,
Join the free Salvation Army,
For the soul's serene delight.
Here is a bank and here the Eagles roost,
And build their nests lay eggs and multiply;
They here take leave some hell-born scheme to boost,
As soon as they are fledged and learn to fly :
This is the pot, the big financial pie,
On which the big commercial hawks do feed,
Who catch the hens and chicks to glut their blasted
breed.
They say that Yankee money rules the world,
And gets an English Duke or German Count;
The Eagle's eye,-earth's brightest gem impearled,
Is star and king upon the social mount;
It lights the way to luxury's foaming fount
Where the great parasites delight to lave
Till like a failing dream they pass on to the grave.
I hear a sound,—the sound of bells,
That o'er the city soars and swells;
It chimes the signal note which tells,
A day of school is done.
With many a giddy shout and roar,
The children leave, the open door,
To chase the day o'er hill and moor,
Where glides the setting sun.
It makes me think of boyhood time,
Ere I could play the rustic rhyme ;-
In my dear happy native clime,
Full free to laugh and run.
I hail you, happy school days past,
I hail you first, I hail you last,
I'll hail you safe beyond the blast,
When Heaven's goal is won.
Earth is a landscape with frost-flakes ablow,
Death is the monster life's boundary that guards;
Heaven is the Publishers' Temple below,
Hell is the wretched mundane hearth of the bards.
This is their club night, this the night they meet,
I've read it in the papers but to-day;
I have with me the literary sheet,
Which I shall keep for reference and for aye;
I'll keep it free from dust and from decay,
I'll put it in a frame and hang it high,
To mind me of the stuff the editors will buy.
O where, O where's that great poetic building?
I cannot seem to see it anywhere.
I ought to know it by its golden guilding,
Perhaps it may be far or may be near.
Lo, there a light looks out from yonder square
Upon a curious crowd that stands and gazes,
Where pretty maidens dance and sing and shout
like blazes.
This is the hot-bed of the suffragist,
'Tis not the Lyric shrine I'm looking for.
Here's where they have late suppers, play bridge
whist,
And plan excursions and malicious roar.
Their voices blend in praise to Anna Shaw,
They clap their hands and shout with wild hurrahs,
While silks and diamonds flash to fire the stripes
and stars.
I am not interested in their cause,
Why should I be? I am a peaceful poet,
Let women play their antics, plan their wars.
I am a genius and I sure can show it;
With Sappho's Lyre and Lute I'll play or blow it,
My symphony shall roar like ocean thunder,
And rouse dead human beats to mutiny and wonder.
They voice their cause with a sweet touching strain
Which moves my heart to deepest sympathy,
It numbs and chills my blood like April rain
And makes me take the road reluctantly;
And though I can not openly agree;
Yet there's a germ of truth in what they say,
Which like a preaching saint thus haunts my dark-
some way:
There dwells an evil in the home,
Which there corrupts the youth
And lures him from the fold to roam
With manners most uncouth;
It saps the virtue of his mind,
And warps his tender feet,
And leaves him bare with senses blind,
Upon the vulgar street;
And there he roams from morn till night,
Through darkness back again to light,
Serving the god of crime.
When woman gains the ballot,
And reason's claims increase,
The trade of rum
Which wrecks the home,
Forever more shall cease
When women cast their ballot.
Should women gain their civil right,
To wield their greater power,
They would engage a bloodless fight,
And wreck the demon's tower;
This evil mote they would expel,
From man's sweet native bower,
And lead our morals back from hell
From rum's corrosive power;
They'd make each pure and tender youth,
To cleave the path of light and truth,
And lead a life sublime.
II
Whilst man with free unbridled step
Each calling doth pursue,
To reach ambition's noble goal
Where knowledge meets the view,
See woman with her mighty dower
In narrow spheres confined,
As if by Nature thus designed,
A subject to her kind.
And yet, they both were hither sent
To pave life's rugged way,
And share together with content
In study, work or play ;
As pilgrims from the mystic orb,
They entered at one door.
In civic counsel both should join
Life's labyrinth to explore.
Man moves with all controlling sway
O'er wide-extended grounds;
Woman his mandates must obey
In circumscribed bounds;
Should woman thus be made to serve
The selfish sense of man,
To be a weak dependent slave
Subservient to his plan?
If they as equals must abide,
Together they must breast the tide;
By nature they are both allied,
Ordained to struggle side by side;
Let loose the long enslavéd power,
And speed the progress of the hour.
Welcome the day,
For work and play,
With man and woman side by side.
Here hangs a crowd of darky colored faces,
Here the great Negro agitators meet;
They represent a thousand different races,
And make a howling Babel of the street,
They stall DuBois their leader and repeat:
"We stand for manhood's rights, full civic ration,
Pledged by the constitution of our nation.
"We stand for absolute equality,
For honor, Christian righteousness and law,
We plead an equal opportunity,
An equal chance the breath of life to draw;
We stand for justice fair without a flaw,
We ask a chance to labor and to love,
We claim by right divine our worth as men to
prove.
“We stand against all color legislation,
In church, in school, in city, and in state;
'Gainst Jim-crowism and 'gainst segregation
Disfranchisement and prejudice and hate.
We do declare that freedom's open gate
Must swing to all in a Democracy,
To blacks as unto whites of proudest pedigree.
"Keyed to the courage of our soul's conviction,
A race united full twelve million strong,
Pledged with an air of solemn benediction
To mass their strength against the power of wrong,
They voice their cause with one defiant song,
And face the foe with fearless step and grim
While in the face of heaven they chant their nation-
al hymn:
“We hail thee, land of liberty,
Star of our hope and destiny,
Where long we've been and long must be
In freedom's fabled place.
"We bless thee, land, in love's sweet name
Whereto as slaves our fathers came,
Where still we struggle lashed and lame,
As exiles torn from Grace.
“ 'The Scotchman tunes his pipe and drum,
Old Ireland's Harp is never dumb,
We make our rag-time banjo hum
To Uncle Sam's swift pace.
“'We follow where his footsteps lead,
We copy him in word and deed,
E'en though his low and vicious creed
Our morals should debase.
'With him we hail the stripes and stars,
The stripes that stand for color bars,
The stars that burn and leave their scars
On our black bleeding race.
“ 'We claim it as our only flag,
We found it when 'twas but a rag,
And while we yet have life to drag
It still shall lift our face.
“As Hope each bloody teardrop wipes,
We lift to hail the Stars and Stripes,
Till true-born Freedom's moving types,
All boundaries erase.
II
‘From East to West, 'neath every sky,
When man has wronged his fellow-man,
Though tongues of hate oft drowned the cry,
Some one has said since time began,
Though to all else the words seem vain:
“Let justice reign; let justice reign.”
“ 'In bygone years, when God seemed far,
And sore oppressed by day and night,
Our fathers groaned; ere Freedom's star
Broke through the clouds with welcome light,
A voice was heard, "Go break the chain,
Let justice reign; let justice reign.”
“'To-day when stripped of honors, fame,
Well earned in peace, 'midst shot and shell,
To prove them worthy of the blame
Our brethren dare the host of hell,
Ohio's son takes up the strain,
"Let justice reign; let justice reign."
“ 'Let justice reign; let justice reign."
Waft it yet winds, from shore to shore;
Your message cannot sound in vain;
Let justice reign; we ask no more;
Till earth's last day repeat the strain:
“Let justice reign; let justice reign.'
Some think this negro question is a joke,
Exploited by their leaders for mere gain;
They have no time to fool with colored folk,
Who seem to show more energy than brain,
Who're always fighting raising hell and cain
Among themselves; each wants a different leader,
They know no more their wants than donkeys
know their breeder.
Some look to Booker Washington to lead them,
Some yell for Trotter, some for Kelley Miller,
Some want DuBois with fat ideas to feed them,
Some want Jack Johnson, the big white hope
killer.
Perhaps some want Carranza, some want Villa,
I guess they want social equality,
To marry and to mix in white society.
Perhaps in time they'll get all that they want,
But time alone won't help them in the getting;
This Negro question is a big big cant,
So what's the use of howling and of fretting?
They'd better get to work and do some sweating,
Raise chickens on a water-melon farm
Instead of raising hell which works their cause
much harm.
If they don't quit their doggone agitation,
The color line we will most strongly draw,
And leave them to work out their own salvation;
For we'll transport them back to Africa,
There let them rule themselves, make their own
laws,
There let them fight and be their own grave dig-
gers;
God made this land for white folks, not for coons
and niggers.
This is the white man's country,
And he must bear the sway;
The Negro is an outcast,
Who happens here to stray;
He bears upon his forehead
The badge of negligence,
By chance he drifted hither,
So he must live by chance.
The people rejoice to hear the nations say,
"The whites alone must bear the sway."
This is the native rampart
Of Nature's chosen sons,
While 'tis the haunted prison
Of her despised ones.
This is the fruitful Eden
Where fortune bids us dwell,
This is the white man's heaven,
But 'tis the Negro's hell.
The people they laugh while all the nations yell
“The white man's heaven is the black man's hell."
But 'twas the white man who first brought them
here
To pay the pawn of brutal slavery,
And so the white man's burden he must bear
The curse of Negro crime and knavery.
And yet I must admire their bravery,
Their fight against such overwhelming odds;
How well they seem to bear vile tyranny's sharp
prods.
'Twould take them all and more to save their
race,
The Washington, the Johnson and the Trotter;
The fighter cannot fill the farmer's place,
The sculptor can't supplant the humble potter.
They need more zeal to make their fight wax hotter,
They need strong men the great grand prize to win,
They need the man of Grace to down the man of
sin.
1
They need all their white sympathizers, too,
Like Morefield Storey of the blue blood clan,
Sanborn and Brigham, honored men and true,
Who recognize the brotherhood of man,
Who've placed on prejudice the iron ban,
And stand for justice of one brand or breed,
Which knows not rich nor poor nor favors class
nor creed.
But mark you, I'm not doping out advice,
For such is not the business of a poet.
Had I the dope, I'd dope it at a price,
I would not roam like some wild cock to crow it,
I'd snatch the devil's trumpet-horn and blow it,
And rouse the tribes from here to Africa,
And bid each separate wing, each fraction closer
draw.
All well united they could show some fight,
And face the foe with fearless step and grim,
And battle in the cause of equal right,
When every man falls in to sink or swim,
When rills and rivers rushing to their brim,
Join in and form one vast and mighty sea,
The power is theirs to win a smashing victory.
a
Behold a brother yonder falls,
Hard pressed and driven to the walls.
Go forth and face the breaking squalls;
'Neath threatening skies
Arise, the voice of Duty calls
Arise, arise.
Shall we not heed a comrade's cry,
And strive to soothe each painful sigh,
And wipe the tears that dim the eye,
Ere hope is gone?
Or shall we leave him there to die,
A wretch forlorn ?
Shall we remain forever slaves,
To be the tools of crooks and knaves,
And crawl reluctant to our graves,
As coward's clay;
Or walk where honor proudly waves
In bold array ?
What tho from different climes we came,
Our race is one, our cause the same,
And we must stand with one high aim,
Through thick and thin,
And face the foe and play the game
The fight to win.
Cease inward strife, self pride dismiss,
Bid hate and envy cease to hiss,
Beware, beware the traitor's kiss,
False loyalty;
But work the good of all through This—
Fraternity
Unite each faction, class and creed,
Unite each high and humble breed
Unite and rush the dauntless steed
With flying mane;
Unite to cleanse with valor's deed,
Sin's foulest strain.
Unite to build a giant tower,
Unite to curb the tyrant's power;
Unite our strength, hale manhood's dower,
For manhood's right;
Unite, the watchword of the hour,
Unite, unite.
Then let us seize the manly oar,
Tho hissing storms their vengeance pour,
And lightnings flash and thunders roar,
Hold steadfastly,
And drive life's barque to Freedom's shore
Full fearlessly
Arise, ye sons of Afric's tar,
Brave, brawny men with many a scar,
Arise and break the color bar,
False knots and ties;
Unhinge glad freedom's gates ajar;
Arise, arise.
I have a problem all alone to solve,
A problem how to find the poetry club,
It makes my sky piece like a top revolve,
For fear that they might mark me for a snob.
They'll call me poetry monger and then dub.
Me rustic rhymer, anything they choose,
Ay, anything at all, but heaven's immortal muse.
Great Byron, when he published his Childe book,
In which he sang of all his lovely dears,
Called forth hot condemnation and cold look,
From lesser mortals who were not his peers,
They chided him for telling his affairs,
Because they could not tell their own so well,
They played the poet lord and made his life a hell.
They called him lewd, vile drunkard, vicious wight,
And all because he dared to tell the truth,
Because he was no cursed hermaphrodite,
A full fledged genius with the fire of youth.
They hounded him, they hammered him forsooth;
Because he blended human with divine,
They branded him “the bard of women and of
wine.”
Of course I soak the booze once in a while,
But I don't wake the town to sing and shout it;
I love the girls, they win me with a smile,
But no one knows, for I won't write about it.
And so the fools may never think to doubt it,
When I declare I am a moral man,
As gifted, yet as good as God did ever plan.
Every man has got a hobby,
Every poet has some fault,
Every sweet contains its bitter,
Every fresh thing has its salt.
Every mountain has a valley,
Every valley has a hill,
Every ravine is a river,
Every river is a rill.
Every fool has got some wisdom,
Every wise man is a fool,
Every scholar is a block-head,
Every dunce has been to school.
Every bad man is a good man
Every fat man is not stout,
Every good man is a bad man
But 'tis hard to find him out.
Every strong man is a weak man,
You may doubt it as you please,
Every well man is a sick man,
Every doctor has disease.
Every girl has got a fellow,
Near to view or far from sight,
Every man has got a woman,
But a cursed hermaphrodite.
Pity him the devil did make him,
And he's bondsman to the dark;
Pray for him that God would take him,
Send him soaring like the lark.
Behold a mammoth fresh built Tabernacle,
With pews, a pulpit and wide swinging doors,
Among the rafters wild fouls roost and cackle,
And drop their eggs upon the sawdust floors.
From out its mouth a smoky vapor pours,
Here breathes the population of twelve towns,
Where hate and envy cease and doff their puckered
crowns.
The millionaire, the beggar and the tramp
Once in their lifetime meet on common ground;
Here on this wild night, windy, cold and damp,
Bow heads together touched with thought profound,
While Jack Frost shrieking goes his annual round,
And hisses at the gathering multitude,
Gathering like Noah's hosts each with its family
brood.
And still they come all of one turn of mind,
Pressing with steady gait and look serene,
As if full sure some blessing here to find;
They come in flocks the filthy and the clean.
What does it mean, Great God, what can it mean?
I'll not expose my ignorance to ask,
But stay the expectant hour its purpose to unmask.
1
1
No doubt—it is the peace society
That waits the Prince who cometh from afar,
With virgin Love and meek-eyed Piety,
Coming to stop the slaughter and the war.
Lo! list; I hear the slowing of His Car.
Wild shouts! He's coming! there some run to
meet him;
Oh slush! 'tis Billy Sunday; what fools, they to greet
him!
Lo! he comes like John the Baptist,
Fired with holy wrath,
Holding high Jehovah's standard,
Straightening out his path;
'Mid the haunts of sin and slavery,
Where he played Base Ball,
There he got the gospel message,
Heard the inspired call.
Hail the good King Nicodemus
Of the spirit born again,
King of the Salvation Army,
Making o'er the lives of men.
With the gospel for a scrub brush,
He cleans out the church and home,
While his voice like an archangel's
Makes God's harvest age to come.
Hail the blessed reincarnation
Of Dwight Moody and Sam Jones,
Setting heavenly conflagration,
Kindling in dry withered bones.
He who in the name of Jesus
Feeds and cloths the needy poor,
Prone before whose marvelous influence
Men are falling by the score.
He defends the good Old Bible,
Holds it forth unto the light,
Which had lain for many a century,
Cheaply held from mortal sight.
He is not ashamed to preach it,
Preach the sacred word of God,
He delights, he loves to teach it,
For its own a blest reward.
He is not afraid nor trembling,
Like my pastor Rev. Cobb,
Fearing lest the congregation
Will unloose him from his job;
Scared he'd cure the sleeping sickness,
Should he shout Jehovah's Name;
Fearing that the handsome sisters
Will not love him just the same.
With the broad-belt of Jehovah
And salvation's armor on,
Vile temptation cannot touch him,
Hissing Satan down to scorn;
Shifting like a whirling fountain,
Watering sick plants and flowers,
Till they seem all but transplanted
To the sweet supernal bowers.
In the service of the Master,
With the power of His grace,
He treats Satan to disaster,
Drives him from the market place;
He rolls back the clouds of darkness,
Pierces through the vale of sin,
Wrecks the golden demon's power,
Lets God's love, the Christlight, in.
Hold the fort, for Sunday is coming,
Rodey close behind;
Waft the glad news o'er creation
Shout it to mankind.
Gather up your strength and forces,
Mass them full in line,
Wage the fight, a bloodless battle,
For our Lord Divine.
So Billy Sunday has turned Christian, eh?
I know when Billy used to play base ball.
Those were great times when Billy used to play;
He played right field, a veritable wall.
Bill was the great run-getter of them all;
He had the pitchers puzzled by his skill,
And all the fans would yell; good, keep him guess-
ing Bill.
These were the stars as I remember well,
Clarkson, McCormick, Connie, Flint, George
Gore,
Mike Kelley, Anson, Pfeffer, Burns and Bell,
Who made Chicago's White Sox fame secure.
They shook the grand stand with victorious war
Then shot their beams athwart the evening vale,
Billy alone is left behind to tell the tale.
And I was there the last time Billy played
I staked my fortune on that game and won,
From Tommy Round who staked all that he had
And borrowed for a side bet from his son.
But Detroit lost the game by just one run,
When Billy caught a fly and closed the game,
While the great diamond rang with cheers for
Billy's name.
1
It was the hand of God that did the trick,
Which gave White Sox the victory 3 to 2;
Not since has anything been done so slick,
And all declared they had seen something new,
A miracle most startling to the view.
We thought Detriot had struck a home run sure
For nothing like that catch was ever seen before.
That was the day Mike Murphy went dead broke
He bet his whole week's pay and lost the bet.
It gave his wife a paralytic stroke;
She pawned her rings, she hasn't got them yet;
They lost their home for which they toiled and
sweat,
The foxy landlord took it for back rent,
That day Mike threw in all down to his pocket
cent.
It served him right; he would not take the tip,
He was swell headed, thought he knew it all,
He choosed the cup of sorrow, took the sip
As though he was some prophet at Base Ball;
He drained his bitter cup unto the gall,
Which sickened him, his two kids and his wife,
And made a failure of a once quite prosperous life.
That was the day Sam Seaver lost his job,
When Tom Flint bilged his liver and went lame,
When those kid brothers Shrimp and Skinney Cobb,
Killed their grandmother just to see the game.
That was the day Billy went up to fame
Which turned his mind and made him curse his
lot,
And one man went across and gave Billy a ten
spot.
That day I got all mixed up in a scrap,
As Ed Wright yelled out, murder, I am cut!
Just like a baby yelling for its pay,
While belching blood both hands upon his nut.
There flowed a flood of language black as smut,
A bunch of fans got pinched and sent to jail,
It was my good Old Pal who had to stand my bail.
That was the time Joe Bragger broke his leg,
He missed his jump and fell under a car,
He humps around on crutches now to beg,
Smoking an old corn pipe or cheap cigar.
He has a brother who works tending bar,
And there he hangs out morning, night and noon,
Living upon free lunch, loafing from June to June.
'Twas all this stuff made Billy's stomach sick,
And changed him from a sinner to a saint.
I never thought a man could change so quick,
And do it without murmur or complaint.
Now Billy's got a job to preach and paint,
And gets a steady salary beside,
While all of Billy's pals long flew the coop and
died.
And Billy has a good and honest wife,
And Billy loves her and he calls her Nell,
Nell Thompson, she who saved poor Billy's life,
Her moral influence dragged him back from hell.
Where Billy now might be no one can tell;
If he had never made a lucky match,
He might have been a crook plying the prison latch.
But here's no place to flout the golden rule,
Within the hot fire of the fort of heaven,-
The voice of God calling the ass, the mule,
To love's rich fodder mixed with spiritual leaven,
As freely as received as freely given,
To lift it from the slime of sinful clay,
And fools who come to mock kneel down to weep
and pray.
I thank my lucky star that I am here,
A lost wayfarer at God's mammoth inn,
To see the mother dry each thoughtful tear,
Whose daughter sobbing, slights the ways of sin,
Whose son to better deeds do here begin;
To know the world in wisdom has improved,
To have each lingering doubt from my own
thoughts removed.
Behold a man and his close clinging vine,
Who yonder rise and shout Jehovah's Name,
Moved by the marvelous Sunday; O, he's fine,
He beat the devil at the devil's game.
With beacon eyeballs breaking into flame
He fires King Satan from his guarded tent,
Him and his hellborn host to weep with loud la-
ment.
A genuine Christian with a Christian name,
A name which tells the mission of the man,
A minister purged with the sacred flame,
Who heads the movement of a mighty plan;
The heavenly spirit cased in fleshy van,
To advertise God's business here below,
Where from inspired lips does heaven's full measure
flow.
He now explains Christ's divers miracles,
The miracle of the small Jew rolls and fishes;
Says he there were no housewife's articles,
No knives and forks, no silver spoons or dishes.
But just the same Christ satisfied their wishes,
The wishes of that crying multitude,
And led them forth to joy from gloomy solitude.
And there is not a soul who dares to doubt him,
He puts it strong and backs it up with facts,
A thousand ministers close round about him,
As he unravels the Apostle's Acts,
He doffs his coat, gets down to old brass tacks;
Clenching his fist the pulpit now he pounds,
While his metallic voice a clarion call resounds.
Come, O come unto the altar,
At the footstool of the Lord,
Foot it firm and do not falter,
Here awaits your sure reward.
Bring with you an eagle dollar,
It will help to save your soul,
If you choke it, it will holler,
Let it fly free to the goal.
Shoot away, you sharp crap shooter
Shoot with that new set of dice,
Come and root, you low down rooter,
I'll out root you in a thrice.
Take your turn, you gambling hawk, you,
Doing things up slick and pat,
Hiding there behind a cork screw,
I can see just where you're at.
Hit the trail, you old time gambler,
Bring with you that poker-pot
Night carouser, fore-day rambler,
Put a penny in the slot.
Skate along, you big bartender,
Bring a highball when you come,
You and your vile female gender,
She who likes to sip her rum.
Roll away, you stout beer barrel,
Roll along and spill your beer;
Come to pick a fight and quarrel?
Guess there's nothing doing here.
Sail along, you whiskey tankard,
From the bar-room and the slum,
Feel your way, you dropsied drunkard,
Libertine and beer soaked bum.
Have a smile, you swell gin guzzler,
With new suit and silken hose,
Sir henpecker, musty muzzler
Crawls out of his bed to doze.
Come and vote, you suffrage seeker,
Bridge whist player, suffragette,
Come and feel your heart grow meeker
As I light your cigarette.
Skip along, fair lady Charlotte,
Who's that bogus Count with you?
Dandy Jim and half dressed harlot,
God has better things to do.
Swag along, you swell dressmaker,
Hobbling in your harem skirt,
Bring the dude, that God forsaker,
Let me show you how to Alirt.
Here's my hand, fair fortune teller,
Tell me when I'm going to die;
Where is your last gipsy feller,
Who gave old Doc. Time the lie?
Chase along, you women chaser,
Here's a pretty one to chase;
Flatterer and shoe string lacer,
Come up here and take your place.
Yes, you too, Mr. Foreflusher,
Walk up here and read your fate; ;
Deacon, teacher, church clerk, usher
Eating out collection plate?
Hit the trail, you crack safe rifler,
Desperado, baseball fan,
Evil-doer, mocker, trifler,
Pick my pocket if you can.
Fake away, you pure food fakir,
I am famished, goodness lands.
Agent for the undertaker,
Let me see your favorite brands.
Fight your way, you strong prize fighter
Come here and put up your hands.
Statesman, banker, poet, writer,
God your services demands.
Look at me, you hanker shizer,
What's the trouble, why the halt?
Hanging back like some staid miser,
Looking round to turn rocksalt.
Here he comes, the buck-wing dancer,
Watch him do the buck and wing;
Buck-wing dancer, cure that cancer!
Gosh, he tries the chicken fling.
Do the two-step for the Master,
Turkey trot and bunny hug.
Sure you can, yes, do it faster,
Bumble bee and kissing bug.
Throwing lances at each other,
Circling in the scorpion's ring,
Waltz up here you, both together,
Take the poison for your sting.
Glide along, O graceful dancer,
Catch your partner, turn and bow,
Hug and kiss your affinancer,
Everybody's doing it now.
You walk straight, you bob-tail heathen,
You can't dance and don't you try;
Now I know you ain't a Christian,
Never tended church, that's why.
There is no one here can teach you,
Why did you not learn before?
Here the devil cannot reach you,
He can't waltz his sawdust floor.
Hurry up, you tail end loafer,
You have but one minute more,
Soon I'll seal these doors of Gopher,
And the flood will get you sure.
All aboard the Bark Salvation,
Steering towards the Christal strand;
Christ our pilot takes his station,
Leading safe to Gloryland.
Bid farewell to Sin and Sorrow,
Graft and Crime and Misery;
All shall meet and feast To-morrow
With the Holy Trinity.
Kneel, all kneel beside the fountain,
At the throne of Grace and Love,
Roll away sin's crimson mountain
With strength gathered from above.
Heaven is your strong Salvation,
Christ the light, the truth, the way;
Pour to him the soul's Oblation
Brethren-Sinners, while we pray.
Amen, he's got the congregation's goat,
He's got them going, going to the altar,
They move responsive to the signal note
Like horses racing without rein or halter,
Yet not one bolts the course, none seem to falter.
He's doing good, bless God, he's doing good,
Leading his herd to graze on sanctimonius food.
"Amazing Grace!” Hark the glad refrain,
A soul cries out with Newton's, wild and strong,
Commingled accents like the sighing main.
Repeat the sound full surging with the song;
Unnumbered converts to the altar throng,
Reformed and pledged they hit the sawdust trail,
A sad repenting host from hell let out on bail.
“Good to be there? Yes. Better to be here
Beneath Religion's guiding influence,
That from the haunts of sin's polluted sphere
Impelled my step and stirred my better sense.
How can I show the heart's due reverence
To God for all that He has done for me,
From Bethlehem's lowly stall to blood laved Cal-
vary?
How can I best give thanks to God
For all his precious gifts to me,
For daily needs He doth afford,
For all He bore on Calvary?
How can a poor unlettered bard
His dear Redeemer's love reward?
Shall I leap forth in hollow sound
From this low sin polluted sphere,
And tresspass on His holy ground,
And plague Him with the lance of prayer?
How can the tainted breath of sin
E'er hope to gain His private Inn?
Shall I with floating balls of fire
Disturb Jehovah's quiet dream,
And rouse the current of His ire,
Seeking to merit His esteem
As doth yon howling Pharisee,
Who prays in open blasphemy?
No. Let me first contented be
To use the talents me he gave,
And labor long and earnestly,
These rugged walks of life to pave,
And ever stem the busy tide
To urge His Kingdom far and wide.
Thus would I best show thanks to God
For all His precious gifts to me,
For daily needs He doth afford,
For all He bore on Calvary,
Thus may a rustic rhyming bard
His dear Redeemer's love reward.
Here lies a grave yard with a thousand tombs,
Here let me pause awhile to gaze in wonder,
Struck dumb with horror at the bleeding wombs,
Which bear fresh traces of the vandal's plunder;
A jeweled female's limb half torn asunder
Reveals the circle of a plighted ring,
Wrenched from her fond embrace by some vile bar-
barous thing.
This is a poet's tomb. Here stands Longfellow,
Like an immortal sentinel on guard,
Beside his head I kneel and whisper, "hello,
Your Psalm of Life has made me brave and hard.
For which I pray you're reaping your reward
In your sweet resting place where e'er you be,
Which you did fail to find in cheap mortality.”
But let me hurry from these shades of gloom,
My presence here suspicion might betray;
The sweet forget-me-nots here freshly bloom,
Which serve some mother's sorrow to allay;
Here dust embraces dust, clay fattens clay
And life's most baffling mystery reveals
Where human debris char beneath time's stepping
heels.
And here's a little elegy in rhyme,
Engraved upon the features of a stone,
Wrought by some rustic poet in his prime,
Around whose head the winds make rhythmic moan
With echoes of: “Alone, yet not alone.”
Which makes a mournful music in my ears,
Forcing my thoughts to flow in silent sobbing tears.
“Ye who perchance should wander here,
To humankind a friend,
Be comforted, do not despair
Nor mourn life's dismal end.
“Go back into the haunts of men
And there this message take,
Say when we come to earth again
We better men will make.
“As students here we do not grieve,
Where time guards closely by,
Where Nature shows how men should live
And not how they should die."
Old Thomas Gray spent twenty labored years
To write one poem in an old church yard,
Which never earned for him the critic's cheers,
Nor yet has brought the dead their just reward.
Instead of pleading with the mournful bard,
He might have given his time to healthful play;
Why brood oblivious where death has worked de-
cay?
But hark! I hear the thunder of that song,
A lively strain for folks long dead to sing;
Within my ears it echoes like a gong,
And far ahead of me its echoes fling;
And still I listen, still I hear it ring,
Which makes me shiver through and through with
fear;
I'm sad, I'm sorry now I ever wandered there.
It says: "Go back into the haunts of men'
A very stern and powerful command;
Which makes me think of dives or cattle pen,
Where ignorance wears crown on either hand;
But what I cannot seem to understand,
Is how dead bodies thus can groan or talk,
And make melodious moan like we real men that
walk.
Any yet perhaps they are not really dead,
But lying quiet resting up awhile,
Where time with gentle, noiseless footsteps tread,
Above each mound each grassy mouldering pile,
Where Nature heaves about to sing and smile,
And show them all her secrets in their dreams,
Where one lone willow weeps and the pale watch
star beams.
But soon, when I shall gain the poetry school,
Where all the great live spirits congregate,
Where men employed with art's most glorious tool,
Are making o'er the models of a state,
Where I'll be happy and supremely great
With bank accounts, a home, a nice warm bed,
I'll sing a sweeter song than saint alive or dead.
I have no time to stop to figure out
The mystery which this message doth contain.
I'll change my course and try another route,
Nor waste the hour to tax my nervous brain;
I've wasted hours already without gain,
So let me hurry on ere 'tis too late,
And reach the poet's club before they lock the gate.
The great John Milton wrote his "Paradise Lost,"
But perished in a hovel poor and blind.
Poor John; if he had counted first the cost
He should be living yet with wealth to grind.
His stuff is not the marketable kind
Why didn't he choose some mundane theme and
funny?
It would have brought him health, long life, and lots
of money.
If he had turned out stuff like Uncle Walt,
His works today would be in great demand.
If all his fiends could jig and somersault,
They would have earned the bucks to beat the band.
But Milton did not seem to understand
What 'tis that makes creation circle round,
Or else each little fiend had brought a sterling
pound.
If he had tied or clipped his angel's wing,
So that they could not soar so wonderous high,
One thousand golden dollars each would bring
Which might have kept the light in poor John's
eye, —
He would have earned the bacon and the pie
Lived long and happy like John D. Rockefeller,
He would not starve to death in a dark and dirty
cellar.
The only paradise that I believe in,
Is this great golden paradise on earth,
Where wealthy men retire and quit their grievin'
And feast and drink in everlasting mirth-
There is no Eden after, no new birth.
And strange a man like Milton did not know it;
Or if he thought or knew, how queerly he did show
it.
That's Christian medicine or bible morals,
Good dope but for the sick or feeble mind;
And though it is a genuine poet's carol,
It does not help the poor man's axe to grind;
'Tis good but for the deaf, the dumb, the blind,
But not for men who toil by night and day
Who have no time to loaf, to sit around and pray.
It is good literature, perfect art,
But Editors don't buy such stuff as that;
It does not interest the busy mart,
And it will never make me rich and fat;
I'd live and die like a church mouse or rat,
That feeds upon the wormy cellar rafter;
No one will know I live until I'm dead and after.
I will not write of angels or of God,
Nor take a thought of heaven or of hell;
Such things today mankind does not regard,
But just the brutes who on this vile earth dwell;
My stuff will catch the critics, it will sell;
'Tis just such stuff the editors will buy;
They publish it abroad and praise it to the sky.
And though I may not fool them all the time,
Yet I may fool them just one single time.
If there appears the glitter of a dime,
They'll purchase it as profitable rhyme;
And so with all my rubbish, slush and slime,
I yet may catch the editors a-napping
And loosen up their purse and start their hands a-
clapping.
A man must go to church to hear a sermon,
Why should he read one in his morning paper ?
He wants it from a lamb and not a lion,
A minister, not a religious aper.
He does not want the bard's fanatic caper;
So let me keep from off the mount of Zion
Nor let my genius soar to meet the great Orion.
Newspapers tell of business gains and losses,
Graft, base-ball, prize fights, murder, suicide;
They stall the kings of earth, the ruling bosses,
The wealthy scion who deserts his bride;
In such and such today do men take pride,
And throw sane moral tracts upon the dump,
The devil turned the trick with ace of hearts the
trump.
But I must let alone others' affairs,
And hurry on the poetry club to find,
Which holds the charter on poetic gears,
Not of the stupid old John Milton kind;
We fling the past to hell, future behind,
And hold the present ever in the eye
To mind us of the slush the editors do buy.
If life were a joke,
I would treat it as a joke,
And joke the years away;
I would make monkey tricks,
From six to six,
And mock from May to May.
If life were a fake,
I would treat it as a fake,
And fake the years away;
I would deceive,
To make men grieve,
And heartless force the fray.
If life were a bluff,
I would treat it as a bluff,
And bluff the years away;
I would sheer and sham,
And work flim flam,
Nor mind what men may say.
But life is real,
Life is honest tuo,
As a wise old bard did say;
I will treat it so,
As ever I
go,
Until my life's last day.
A dull, sad feeling creeps into my blood,
And weighs me down like a huge mass of lead;
A sound like bodies falling in a flood,
Now haunts me more than echoes of the dead:
I hear a sudden screech, a shuffling tread.
'Tis but scouting genius of the Muse.
Borne far on snowy wing the night god to enthuse.
This is the slum where Dante used to live,
For lo, his damned Inferno doth appear,
Tho I did never in his truths believe.
How can I doubt him when I see them bare?
Some sickening odor does possess the air,
Which smells as of decaying human forms,
Hurled to yon stinking pit by the infernal storms.
There's one of the lost species of mankind,
Lost since the grounding of the fated ark;
Gone wild with roaming of degenerate mind,
Shorn of his gift of speech, the art to talk;
Like a hyena screeching in the dark
He hurls a plea up at the throne of Grace
To save his shipwrecked tribe, the aborigines of his
a
race.
Dear Lord, where lurks Thy pity at this time?
Dost Thou withhold it in a needy hour?
One crust of bread, one draught, one little dime
Might save a wretch from death's consuming power.
On him, dear Lord, now let Thy blessing shower,
And so teach him to know there is a heaven
Nor wait until the soul absorbs the immortal leaven.
Poor outcast thing, he goes from street to street
Who should be sleeping in a snug warm bed,
With ragged suit, no shoes upon his feet,
Nor overcoat nor shelter for his head.
Poor soul, far better if he now were dead,
Dead to the terrors of a wintry sky.
He tramps the icea-paved walk raising this headless
cry!
"He comes, the ice enthroned King;
His breath congeals the air.
Full armed he thrusts his venomed sting
And smites the key of care."
:
All day I tramp from street to street
Thro biting frost and blinding sleet:
I have not had a bite to eat,
I fail to find employ.
Privation whets his thirsty knife
Upon the chords that hold my life.
I have no means to clothe my wife
And feed my baby boy.
“Another month comes to its close
How shall I meet my rent?
The cost of living daily grows,
Yet I'm not worth a cent.
"I have not earned a single dime
For many a trying day;
I struggle with outrageous time
My honest bills to pay.
"My poll-tax is long over due,
No coal is in my bin.
There's nothing more that I can do
To save my kith and kin.
“With surplus wealth of stagnant gold
My country's purse is filled;
Which yearly swells a thousand fold
Huge ironclads to build.
a
“A veteran of war am I;
I have my scars to show,
Received with many a groan and sigh
In combat with the foe.
“A true born Yankee, yes, I am,
I've fought my flag to free;
I've spilt my blood for Uncle Sam
Who takes no thought of me.
"Oh 'twere not for the family
I should not feel it so;
I would embrace adversity
And blunt the lance of woe.”
O hell, he is a bull moose, one might know
By the sad haunting tenor of his song.
He's reaping the cursed harvest he did sow
In due atonement for his deeds of wrong,
He and his tribe should live to suffer long
They wrecked the Temple with the brain and power
That put the I in life to cheer each gloomy hour.
Why didn't he vote the Democratic ticket?
He'd have a job his family's board to pay.
His baby-angel would not have the ricket;
He would not have to walk the streets and pray.
He would be prosperous yet for many a-day,
Till we elect another president
And drive the Democrats to their sure banishment.
It serves him right, the tramp; he sold his vote
For one wild eagle and a glass of beer.
That's why starvation grabs him by the throat
While Jack Frost sets his pincers on his ear.
The sting of their own folly fools must bear,
Who sunk their party in a tidal flood,-
The party good Abe Lincoln christened with his
blood.
It serves them right, the fools, it serves them right.
They put the whole blamed country on the bum.
They did it in a whirlwind of delight,
For just one greenback and a glass of rum.
But now their day of reckoning is come.
"What soothes the palate makes the behind sore”
This saying they had heard and many a time before.
I.
O every Democrat has got a job.
How would you like to be a Democrat?
Bull Moose, Republican, must steal and rob,
For every Democrat has got a job
'Till 1916.
O every Democrat has got a job.
What is the matter with the Democrats ?
There's nothing left in sight for you to grab,
For every Democrat has got a job
'Till 1916,
O every Democrat has got a job,
Life is a picnic for the Democrats;
Go learn to skate, you lanky Bull Moose scab
If you vote right you sure will get a job
In 1917
In 1916 there'll be hell to pay,
When those five brand new parties take the field.
The Democrats will sigh in sad dismay,
For doubtless they will be compelled to yield
The staff of government; their doom is sealed.
They're only killing time or saying grace,
Grace after meal praying, waiting to give up their
place.
There'll be the Yodlers or the Grape Juice party,
And the Peace party with the same fool's mission,
The Hohenzollerns both strong and hearty,
All bent to stop the sale of ammunition;
The Jim Crow party, with a white ambition,
And the war party with the big guns to slay us,
And in quick hustling time raise order out of Chaos.
'Tis well the Democrats should have their day;
Poor suckers, they had loafed for many a year.
One party should not hold continuous sway;
They should take turns the ship of state to steer.
Each dog must get his due, each man his share.
One demigod shan't rule continually,
Or it would sound the death knell of Democracy.
Democracy, Democracy,
Whom patriots vainly praise,
Thine art is foul hypocrisy;
Deceit lurks in thy gaze.
Thy name is but a pleasing sound
Thy nature to conceal.
What precious lives are daily ground
Within thy hustling wheel,
Democracy!
Thy voice, a vauntful heraldry,
Allures men from afar
Who find the homestead of the free
A faithless phantom star.
They prove the mainstay of thy life,
A freak, a failing rock,
And from the vicious tempered strife,
Receive a startled shock,
Democracy!
Thy gates lead to the
open
fields
Of vice and tyranny;
The crops thy civic harvest yields
Are graft, a villainy;
Thy kiss is but a soothing salve,
Thy wilful wound to heal;
What hopeless countless thousands starve
Who thy vile Nature feel,
Democracy!
Thy form appears much neater
Than the form of Monarchy; :
Yet are thy charms no sweeter
Than those of Autocracy;
They who a saint pronounce thee
Haply have found thee so,
But we who do denounce thee
Have felt thy barbarous blow,
Democracy!
When scientists or doctors disagree,
Each for himself may claim authority.
But he whom grim experience trained and taught,
His honest verdict showeth not for naught.
Let partisans o'er party spirit rave;
He is a dupe whom custom holds a slave;
For forms of government let fools contest,-
Whate'er is best administered is best.
a
But bye the way I've heard there is much talk
Of a reward that's offered as a prize
To any man who in his quiet walk
Can trap a Bull Moose of the breeding size,
Or take a picture of him ere he dies,
And hand it over to the G. O. P.
To be bequeathed to time and to posterity.
'Tis said they threaten to become extinct,
Or beat it to the jungle whence they came;
Their name and fame with history is linked,
And art and canvas must preserve their frame.
Now here's my chance; this bastard here is lame,
He faints and staggers for the want of bread;
I'll trap him with the noose and catch him by the
head.
'Tis useless trying to bring him with a gun;
They swallow bullet-balls as they would peas.
At campaign time we shoot at them for fun,
Then watch them as they gambol off at ease
And rear their horns just like a bunch of trees.
They take the bullets in, then dance and sing,
And make earth, air and sea with Bull Moose echoes
ring:
“It takes more than bullets to kill a Bull Moose,
And bring to the dust his ambition;
A gun which to nothing man's strength might re-
duce
Has served a Bull Moose for nutrition.
a
“A Bull Moose eats bullets as some men eat beans,
He swallows them down without chewing;
When served up leather or lens-colored greens,
He finds them too tender for stewing.
"A Bull Moose has organs superior to man's,
His powers are nigh superhuman;
You cannot enfeeble or cripple his plans
As you may to Newman the shoeman.
"I'm strong in the fact that I am a Bull Moose,
The shots of the huntsman shan't hurt me;
I'll lazily strut like a gander or goose,
The stag and the deer may desert me.
“The smack of the whip or the blast of the horn
Can never disturb my digestion;
I'll graze in the open at night or at morn,
And round out my health to perfection.
"Ye mad raving huntsmen, who hunt down big game
To roast on your party's gridiron,
You waste your munition, tho true be your aim,
To use a pop-gun on a lion.”
What might not the ballot do
In an age of tyranny,
In a land of villainy,
If each citizen were true.
Were mankind but half sincere,
With the Good Book in his hand,
Joy might float from land to land,
Peace and plenty freely share.
One should not stick his nose in politics
When one is not a crafty politician.
I have my little garden fence to fix,
And I must go about my honest mission.
What they do need, I think, is a physician
To cure them of their ravenous diseases.
The devil owns a store and he runs it as he pleases.
The torch of night burns through the midnight hour
While half the world lies dreaming or asleep;
Like blossoms blowing out of heaven's bower
The silver snowflakes dancing downward leap.
I've lost all power save the one to creep,
My courage fails me and strength waxes weak
And have I followed far a phantom goal to seek!
The night watchman now winds his drowsy watch,
He carries round a lantern burning low;
A sound,—the silent clicking of a latch
Betrays blind shadows drilling to and fro;
While cold and sharp the wintry high winds blow
And send a numbing chill into my veins
In these tall regions where commercial grandeur
reigns.
I've searched this whole wide country up and down,
And yet I have not found the poetry club.
I've tramped the whole length of Manhattan town
'Till I am famished for the want of grub,
My stomach feels just like an empty tub,
My spirit sinks and all my hopes expire,
I feel the feeble pulse of a once strong desire.
I'll bet there is no poetry club at all.
Don't critics say there are no bards today?
Then how can they have club or dancing hall
Who late have mingled with the silent clay?
All poets died when Shakespeare passed away.
Time burned the patent and can make no other,
Like some unthankful beast who kicks and kills his
mother.
Will Shakespeare was no poet anyhow,
It was from Bacon that he cogged the art.
They are but fools who idolize him now,
Who think a high-school grad. could be so smart.
His works betray the scholar's head and heart.
Shakespeare was but a clever actor lad
Who went parading round in Bacon's mantle clad.
a
Ye learned jackalls tend your call,
How skillfully ye write or scrawl,
And brew a controversial squall
With earnest care,
To drive from fame's immortal hall
Our loved Shakespeare.
What odds it makes to you or me
If Shake was Bacon's bumble bee.
If Bacon wrought each tragedy
And set each scene,
Rejoice to know they were to be
And long have been.
Should some blind butcher build a pair
Of pants and give me for to wear,
And I preserve them with kind care
From death's decline,
Would ye begrudgingly declare
They were not mine?
Would they be still the butcher's claim,
To bear his trade-mark and his name,
And hang up with the butcher's game
In butcher store,
To perish like a butcher's fame,
Forevermore?
If ye to Bacon bear much pride,
To bacon raw or bacon fried,
Then chew your fill of bacon's hide,
Or bacon's meat;
But for myself I will decide
What I shall eat.
A tip to you that Winter's here;
And if you have much time to spare
In delving here and delving there
From hole to hole,
A greater gain will be your share
To delve for coal.
Each human soul is made a poet.
Some are afraid and fake to show it,
Like chanticleer some dare to crow it,
Some like a wind-bag puff and blow it,
Like evil seeds some take and sow it,
Some find a job to care or hoe it,
While some coin money just to mow it,
In safety vaults some daily stow it,
While some to market take and tow it,
In dreams alone some live to trow it,
Some sound Eternity to know it.
a
Behold a shower of light upon the way.
Dear sight, that's where the sacred mansion stands.
It shines just like a dollar, bright as day,
And quite a brilliant circle it commands.
Methinks I hear the playing of the bands
And see the muses dancing in a row.
Then blow ye merry bards, your pipes trumphant
blow.
Where is the man who knows the entrance way,
The usher-bard purged with the christening flame,
The keeper of the guard by night or day
Who leads new lights into the hall of fame,
Where I may play the universal game
As member of this great society
And learn to read and write the modern poetry?
What blinding brilliance! 'tis the Imagists,
That grand illustrious galaxy of stars.
Their flood of light rolls back the frosty mists
In rainbow folds that match the veil of Mars.
This is the club; they leap in glad hurrahs
To greet their leader Pound, the Master wit.
This is the school, the class, and here is where I fit.
But they might ask me what is poetry.
Why then I'll answer in an off hand way
It is, it is some awful mystery
That makes a monkey out of human clay,
Which gives it sense and takes it hence away
And makes some men a doggone puppet show,
The God that Adam knew but fools
may never know.
Perhaps they'll ask who Adam is or was,
Thinking that they can stick me now for fair
I'll tell them 'tis a bee that used to buzz
In some wild forest round a honeyed lair.
But when it lanced a tree to make it bear,
Or cored the fruit to make a honey jug,
It found hid in the core a bard, a blight, a bug.
No doubt they'll have enough of asking questions
And pass me in to teach them history;
To give them helpful excellent suggestions
How they might turn out better poetry;
And knowing my instructions will be free,
They'll give me steady work in this great college
To teach them common sense, sound wisdom and
deep knowledge.
There sits Foreflusho in Apollo's chair,
With Sappho's mantle buckled round his neck,
Beside the staff that broke the “Lyric Year”
And sent the "Poetry Journal" to the wreck;
Which forced the 'Magazine of Verse" on deck
To act life saver, fight the treacherous shark
And save the valiant crew of that adventurous bark.
He reads his ode that won the high award
And cleaned up the Five Hundred Dollar purse,
Which has immortalized the deathless bard
Thus saved from hell and the Adamic Curse.
A rescued corpse from out time's funeral hearse.
Sing, Sovereign muse, and lead the matchless Choir
And tame yon barbarous crowd with Sappho's sainted
lyre.
Lead out, inspire and liberate the slaves,
The slaves of good old Father Washington,
Lead kindly light into yon low-browed caves
And bid them lift their faces to the sun;
And when thy God-appointed task is done,
Stand forth right ready to defend the free
Thou ornament and guard of true Democracy.
I hear the vibrant strings of Wordsworth's Harp
Say "hail, blithe spirit" I am there with thee,
I catch great Shelley's echo shrill and sharp
Flung from the heights of immortality.
This is the muses' home, the place for me,
To wile the eves away with hearts content,
Such must inspire the bard whose evenings there are
spent.
Now comes an echo: “man was made to mourn”
Which sounds a requiem on the listening ears.
Some awful scene from heaven full earthward borne
Which strikes the gazers dumb with sudden fears--
All hearts cease merriment and turn to tears
As Tennyson himself reads "In Memoriam,”
While floor and rafter groan and sobs the Audi-
torium.
From Hellas, borne upon the bellowing wind
A voice cries out in rhythm smooth and sweet:
“On with the dance! let joy be unconfined;
No sleep 'til morn when Youth and Pleasure meet
To chase the glowing hours with flying feet;"
Child Harold's spirit like a baying hound
Full shames the weeping nine; confused they mope
around.
"Beauty is truth, truth beauty that is all
Ye know on earth and all ye need to know."
From heaven's immortal heights the accents fall
And still the scene and stop the bartered
They leave the hall shamefacedly and slow,
Chastised and purged by the Almighty Rod
Forever to serve their conscience and their God.
God the Father, God the Son,
God the Holy Ghost all One,
Unto Thee I lift my voice,
Let me in Thy Faith rejoice.
All my doubt and fears displace
With the counsel of Thy Grace;
Charge my soul with sacred fire,
To burn out each low desire,
Let my raptured spirit rise,
In sweet cadence to the skies;
Day by day, oh make me strong
To endure the bustling throng.
And when this frail life is o'er
To Thy bosom let me soar
And retain me clasped to Thee,
Ever through Eternity.