African American Poetry (1870-1928): A Digital Anthology

S.A. Beadle, "Lyrics of the Under World" (full text) (1912)

Lyrics of the Under World 
S.A. Beadle 

 Jackson, Mississippi 
 W. A. SCOTT, Publiser, Jackson, Miss. 


HOW active, longeval and fascinating, is hope; the accidents, reverses and misfortunes of today but invigorate it, and tomorrow it will be painting brighter goals, in all the colors of the rainbow, or embellishing the desert, where it faded yes'^erday, with the mirage. It follows but never comes up with the horizon; and when, at the end of its cable tow, it has reached the bourn, it is then, to many, so seductive in enchantment that death, in the hour of its triumph, is confused by the garlands hope wreaths upon the brow of faith. 
 Beguiled by this alluring vision, I have been seduced into 
 the difficult, yet pleasing labors of writing verse, a small collection 
 of which I am exposing to the consideration of the public, before 
 I have acquired the skill of a novice; who, I am sure, could have 
 done better, with less effort; and who will, perhaps, upon review- 
 ng my work, blush derisively at my poverty of thought and vague- 
 ness of expression: such is his pleasure. 
 It is enough for me to indulge the fancy that an asylum sur- 
 vives for him who is seduced by the muses, in the lenitive pas- 
 sions of those, whose love for the beautiful, causes them to tol- 
 erate its worshipers; whose affections for the esthetic, make them 
 partial to its vassals and whose loftiness of character and charity 
 of spirit impel them to be lenient where they might be rash, and 
 just where they might yield to malice; and who, in the exercise 
 of these happy virtues, do not forget that the daisy comes as 
 sweet from, the fallow as the rose from the garden. 
 In selecting a name for this poor work, I have, perchance, 
 done violence to the sensitive feelings of many zealous partizans 
 of the art of composition, who have, with the usurpation common 
 to squatter sovereigns, fenced off the domain of poesy, as an 
 exclusive sporting ground for themselves, where trespassers, such 
 as I am, are commanded to "Keep off the grass." To all such I 
 would like to say that the name is not chosen because the com- 
 position, for which it stands, is metrical; but rather because I am 
 a member of that unhappy race of people which are treated as 
alien enemies in the land of their nativity, and the victim of that 
 tyrannous public opinion which makes in them and me, what were 
 commendable in others, a bar to advancement; and since this 
 inclement public opinion has barred us from pursuing those civic 
 pursuits that distinguish** the civilian from the savage, and the 
 savage from the brute, may I not call this little volume "Lyrics o*^ 
 the Under World"? 
 The piece, "My Country," is but a fanciful flight of hope from 
 conditions that are to what ought to be the scope of one's environ- 
 ment in a country whose underlying principles are said to be, 
 "Equal rights to all, special benefits to none." And, since "My 
 Country" is a creature of fancy, may it not be palmed ofT on the 
 uninitiated as verse, if not poetry? Those of my fellows who 
 upbraid me for indulging the fancy, together with those who would 
 eliminate me under the doctrine, 'This is a white man's country," 
 will not, I hope, further deprive me from enjoying through the 
 imagination what seems to be impossible as a matter of fact. 
 if these truths are not self-evident, but false: "That all men 
 are created equal; that they are endowed by their Creator with 
 certain unalienable rights; that among these rights are life, liberty 
 and the pursuit of happiness, " let me at least hold them among the 
 things imaginable. I cannot abandon the position that this is my 
 There is, I think, enough in the overt acts of some of the 
 worshipers of the idol, Color, to justify the "Lines to Caste," 
 until a master comes, who will give the subject its proper treat- 
 ment. "The Jaunt" is mere jargon, thrown in to take the place of 
 "The Black Knight, " a poem I had intended for this collection, 
 but which I prefer not to publish at this time. I may say, how- 
 ever, that in writing "The Jaunt" I was trying to build a continued 
 discourse in sonnets, and failed utterly with the soliloquy of age. 
 Of the other subjects of this collection I prefer to say noth- 
 ing, since the reader, a better judge of their merits and demerits 
 than I am, will render a decision for himself. 
 I would like, however, to thank my two friends. Dr. W. A. 
 Scott, the publisher, and Hon. W. E. Mollison, who have conde- 
 scended, the one to publish the book and the other to write its 
 introduction, for the encouragement they gave me in my labors. 
They are the only two college graduates, among my many ac- 
 quaintances, who did not think it humiliating to themselves to 
 recognize me, whom abject poverty during my youth and early 
 manhood deprived of the benefits of school training. 
 As to the illustrations, I give "Sam in Sleepy Corner" the 
 place of honor, because he is an old companion of mine who 
 used to sit with me while I munched my food on the curb, or was 
 kicked into the gutter by the haughty and proud for intruding upon 
 the public thoroughfare. And yet 1 am free to say that there is 
 as much happiness upon the curb as there is in the palace, and 
 tnat I haven't had a happy day since I left it. But — 
 I've heard so much of poesy, of art, 
 And mystic things, the plumed wings of thought, 
 Which none but genius has; none but genius ought 
 Prime for gay fancy's flight, of awe I start 
 Amazed! yet motive moved, by buoyant heart 
 I'd labor where the nobler souls have wrought; 
 But when I would I'm told, for me 'tis naught 
 To strive, since neither muse nor art takes part 
 Where spirit is dull; yet may I not, beguiled 
 By no incentive but the soul's flood swell, 
 Aheave like high tides when the seas run wild. 
 Awake a passion note, since that strange spell. 
 Love and not art's the suasive soul of song. 
 Genius, but labor toiling late and long. 
 I am indebted to my son, Richard Henry Beadle, for the 
 photographic illustrations, and to Mr. Boon for the cartoon, that 
 appear in this book. 
 I entertain for the children of my fancy a fond solicitude, I 
 part with them with a feeling akin to pain lest they will not give 
 you as much pleasure, dear reader, in their perusal as I found in 
 their creation. 
 If it were not out of place for me to commend them to you I 
 would like to say a good word for Eulelia, Alice, lona, Sam and 
 the others. As it is I but consign them to your consideration 
 without a word further than subscribing myself, 
 YOURS truly, S. A. BEADLE. 

W. E. Mollison, Introductor 

Lyrics of the Under World 
 IT was Abraham Lincoln who said, "God Almighty must have 
 loved the common people, or he would not have made so 
 many of them. " It is not often that the bard makes any 
 effort to sing the songs of the lowly. The poet is prone to pay 
 court to the gods who dwell upon Olympus, rather than the delvers 
 in mines or the fellers of the forest. The author of this book has 
 seen lifein all of its phases. From the humblest of beginnings, he 
 has reached heights not dreamed of in his boyhood; has measured 
 swords with the best and master spirits of his age, and has held 
 his own among them. His heart must beat in unison with the 
 sufferings as well as the hopes and aspirations for such as are 
 not "brother to the ox." 
 Many of these poems voiced for the first time the dreams 
 and hopes of this Under- World; many of them have in the lines 
 glint of real genius, and while our author has not ridden Pegassus 
 like the Centaur, even Jupiter has nodded at times. Our author's 
 contribution to the literature of his people and his time will be 
 more appreciated as the years roll by. 
 He has placed all of us under lasting obligations to him for 
 having opened these new vistas into the hearts and souls of the 
 simple folk whose songs he sings with such consummate grace 
 and simple beauty. 
 Mr. Beadle has written many charming verses in earlier 
 years, many of them show sparks of poetic fire — but none come 
 up to the sustained height reached and kept in "Lyrics of the 
 Under World." 

 MY Country God bless thee! God bless thee, my home! 
 With harvest and plenty, thy dark fertile loam; 
 The brooklet that bickers from hills far above, 
 And dances and dallies through vales that I love. 
 Go purling on, may it, the sun on its sheen. 
 The cress and the fern on its banks growing green. 
 The mead ever verdant where graze gentle kine. 
 And wide roam the herds of my neighbor and mine. 
 Thou dearer and grander than all other earth. 
 With clime sweet and balmy, fair land of my birth; 
 May valiant thy youth grow,, more stalwart, more brave, 
 Till ne'er a poor laggard, nor coward, nor slave 
 Is seen in thy valleys, nor met on thy hills, 
 Where babbles the brook, or the bright dew distills. 
 Oh, Country of mme! may thy humblest son be 
 Ever true to thy genius, "brave, happy and free," 

May palsied the hand grow that strikes not for thee, 
 When traitors would spoil thee, thou land of the free; 
 And the alien who dares to invade thy domain. 
 By the sword let him fall, and from sleep with the slain 
 Let him never awake in the morning to greet 
 The daisies that bloom o'er his dank winding sheet; 
 And freedom, my Country's great boon to the world, 
 Let me die on the day that thy banners are furled. 
 I love thee, adore thee, my Country, I do; 
 Thy faults, though, are many, "in pulpit and pew, 
 The work of the vicious, the mean and the vain, 
 Who, vile in their motive and weak in their brain. 
 Forget that the law is the strength of the brave. 
 And the man who would break it worse than a slave. 
 But thou art my Country, still grand and sublime. 
 The noblest in genius, the fairest in clime. 

 OVE is homeless in a palace and in company is lone; 
 She s a vagabond in riches, and a vassal on a throne, 
 In the gilded halls of fortune, on the airy heights of fame, 
 If she's unresuscitated by the husbandman or dame. 
 Love's at home within the hovel, on the curb or in the den, 
 With the highest or the lowest, in the varied walks of men, 
 When they feel the animation of her bouyancy and zeal. 
 Wielding big with exultation in the glory of their weal. 
 Love is all there is of heaven. It's the Eden gained by those 
 W ho, pursuing art and fortune, loved humanity and rose 
 By the aid they've given others; through this jewel of the soul 
 Leading many wayward brothers to the mead of honor's goal. 

Love's a pleasure to the farmer, and his beaming, lucky star, 
 When at eve he comes returning from his work in fields afar; 
 When his spouse awaits his coming with the grace-enthroned 
 Paying homage to his courage, giving honor to his plough. 
 Never knight was half so gallant, never man was half so brave 
 When he greets her in the gloaming as his wife and not his 
 When he gives his steed the bridle, when he flings aside the 
 To assist her in the milking and to bear for her the pail. 
 I.ove is outraged in the pulpit when the lord presiding there 
 Overlooks the man in homespun for the opulent and fair; 
 For the dazzle of the jewels and the jingle of the coin, 
 Which the nabob, suave and guileful, from the common herd 
Love's a burden to a princess and a trifle to a throne; 
 For the glory of a monarch is a heart of brass and stone; 
 Else diplomacy would famish and intrigue and guile would 
 In the arms of ease and pleasure, find the certain way to 
 Love's a weakness to a soldier, and this fickle slave of fame 
 Better serves ambition's mandate when the carnage is his aim; 
 But to sailors love's a beacon, beaming bright across the seas, 
 To the glory of the passage, to The Haven of the Lees. 

 LAST night I lay dozing 
 When in there came, 
 And sat beside me, posing. 
 One whom I claim 
 Is neat, and sweet, and dutiful, 
 Bewitching, too, and beautiful, 
 Superbly grand in charm; 
 The glory of her jetty eyes. 
 The taper of her form, 
 Its taction and its guise — 
 But then 1 mustn't tell 
 Of that delightful swell 
 Of breast against my own; 
 Her touch of lips to mine, 
 Like Hebe's nectar wine, 
 Revived, refreshed and blessed me- 
 And still I mustn't tell 
 How that delightful swell 
 Of heart of hers, to soul of mine. 
 To mine, to mine, to mine! 
 Was like the flow of Hebe's wine 
 Upon a famished tongue. 

Waking, from dream, I found thee, 
 Too prone to pose 
 And others draw around thee, 
 And me with those 
 To taunt with airy flirting, 
 Too happy thou, in hurting, 
 Breaking the heart of me. 
 EuleHa, doth thou know thy crime, 
 Coquettish butchery. 
 Hath hut my spirit charmed to lime — 
 But then I mustn't tell 
 How cursed art thou and fell. 
 Locked in my rival's arms; 
 His touch of lips to thine, 
 A plague and curse to mine. 
 Doth demonize thee, dear; 
 So hence I mustn't dwell 
 On thought of thee, nor tell 
 How his lips touched to thine make brine 
 Of them for mine, for mine. 
 For mine, for mine, for mine! 
 Make brine of thine for mine. 

Eulelia, I'd be sleeping, 
 For then it seems 
 My old thought dome is keeping 
 Tab on happy themes, 
 Of one so rare, so beautiful. 
 With grace so sweet, immutable, 
 And like a Fay's concerned, 
 I can but fancy, love, that she 
 Is thine own self returned 
 With Hebe's cup for me — 
 But why should I disclose. 
 What charm dispels my throes — 
 Like Nepenthes' spell 's the heave 
 Of thy fond breast to mine; 
 So charming, rare, divine! 
 That is, so it seems, 
 When I am lost in dream, 
 My day dream's happy theme. 
 That captive holds the heart of mine. 
 Of mine, of mine, of mine! 
 That captive holds the heart of mine, 
 In vassalage to thine. 

Lines to Caste. 

 THE things I love I may not touch, 
 But kiss the hand that shackles bring; 
 The thraldom of my soul is such 
 I can but nurse my thongs and sing, 
 And hope and pray that destiny 
 Will somehow yet unfetter me. 
 I simply trust fate as I ought, 
 While hate defames, malice reviles. 
 And so distorts the public thought 
 That even innocence defiles 
 All who are not adjudged by caste, 
 Superior and nobly classed. 
 I may not ponder here nor muse, 
 Nor let the plain truth designate 
 The things it would. The hangman's noose 
 Unmans, deters, doth reinstate 
 The inquisition and its hell 
 Of terror, tyrannous and fell. 
 Oh! that thou'd grant me ^race, despair, 
 My dread, my sore distress, my pain, 
 Or I could breathe some form of prayer. 
 Or might some suasive word obtain. 
 Through which to move to clemency 
 The iron hand that shackles me. 

Fanciful thought; I must not hope, 
 Nor question prejudice and hate; 
 For they who read my horoscope 
 Say that the stars which rule my fate 
 Designed me for vile tyranny, 
 And plunder while they fetter me. 
 They bid me grovel, squirm and whine, 
 Nor strive against vile calumny; 
 And vain the thought that would decline 
 Submission to such tyranny; 
 For like a wild beast from its lair. 
 The state doth hound me to despair. 
 My fancy, sure, revives at times, 
 Soars, but to beat its weary wings 
 Against a bar, that basely limes 
 Me in my hope; vilest of things. 
 So dire, so fell, but strong my prison 
 Hope to escape it is derision. 
 And yet there often comes to me, 
 1 know not how, from whence nor where; 
 But comes the thought perpetually. 
 That justice is not deft to prayer. 
 Though it seems barren, yet for me. 
 With good is pregnant destiny. 

Then wherefore should my soul repine, 
 Why be disconsolate and sad; 
 All things are well in Fate's design, 
 Nor great, nor small, nor good, nor bad 
 Has aught to boast of o'er the clay, 
 Tyranny plunders, day by day. 
 Fret not, dear soul, whene'r the proud. 
 The haughty proud, would press you hard. 
 Have they so far subdued the shroud. 
 That clay can now assume the God? 
 Whate'er its form, or hue, or clan. 
 Clay's not the measure of the man. 
 The cup where dazzles bright the wine 
 Was in some distant day and clime 
 Crysalis of a soul like thine; 
 There spirit, daring, once did climb, 
 There dwelt and thought itself a god — 
 'Twas but a tenant of the sod. 
 Who is so great among mankind, 
 His infancy knew not the womb; 
 And, coming thence, still is not blind, 
 To wombed life, as he the tumb 
 Enfolds within its dank embrace, 
 Whate'er his prowess, clan or race. 

And who's so small that, should he fall, 
 Jehovah takes no note of him? 
 Though he be spurned by kings, and all 
 Who frown men down with visage grim, 
 Methinks he'll be as grand in clay 
 As he who tortures him today. 
 I know not why I live or die. 
 Nor why of me the Lord should reck. 
 When like the bruis'd reed prone I lie, 
 The tyrant's heel upon my neck; 
 I simply know that Caste is blind. 
 And that its hope is vicious mind. 
 Because God loves He doth chastise, 
 And makes another race the rod; 
 Then let the chasten race be wise 
 And know the lash is not the God; 
 'Tis not the rod's; chastisement is 
 Eternally and justly His. 
 We have forgot our own household, 
 To take our tribute to the strong-- 
 The willing vassal, young or old. 
 Deserve chastisement late and long; 
 And ours is but the well-earned hell 
 Of wanton, faithless infidel. 

 WE'VE reached diverging paths, dear heart, 
 'Tis pity, but 'tis true, we part; 
 It may be thine, itmay be mine; 
 But truly the fauh seems thine. 
 But place it, dear, just where you will, 
 The fault, let it be mine. 
 However deep the wound, dear heart. 
 Or slight, eternally we part, 
 No matter now who is to blame. 
 No matter who must weep. 
 The cruel fate that severed us; 
 The love that would not keep. 
 I long for rest, the quiet rest 
 Of home, and peace, and happiness. 
 That wedded hearts presage, 'tis mine 
 To know the emptiness of thine, 
 The jealousy of fick'e heart 
 To which thy fears incline. 
 No longer now I would conceal. 
 The blight, the pain, the curse I feel; 
 The misery you know, and yet. 
 Dear heart, I would forget. 
 The cruelties of nuptial ties. 
 The fatal day we met. 

 THE real estate assessment roll 
 Would be but plundering per se, 
 If still the courts did not control 
 And hold that deeds convey the fee. 
 Like holy writ and creed of fane, 
 Heart to heart, and cheek by jowl, 
 The courts their virtues still retain. 
 And keep the deed above the roll. 
 By it they stand, by it they fall. 
 What e'er the ambiguities. 
 They look to its intrinsic call. 
 For metes and bounds efficiencies. 
 And if they should consult a clue. 
 The deed itself must furnish that; 
 That rolls are not the points of view. 
 The courts stand uniformly "pat. " 

 IN the mid year's afternoon, 
 me and nature blushing June, 
 I go calling on my bonny girl, Irene, 
 And I meet her neath a bower, 
 Where the roses all a-flower. 
 Shed their fragrance in a deluge on Irene. 
 In all the world I know. 
 There's nothing just like this; 
 'Tis happiness, 'tis bliss! 
 And it delights me so; 
 There's nothing just like this. 
 In all the world I know. 
 Hers is blissful company. 
 And I'm happy, don't you see. 
 When I'm calling on my bonny girl, Irene; 
 In the haunts that harbor her, 
 There a scent of lavender 
 Blends its sweetness with the roses for Irene; 
 In all the world I know, 
 There's nothing just like this; 
 'Tis happiness, 'tis bliss! 
 And it delights me so; 
 There's nothing just like this. 
 In all the world I know. 

There is magic in her eye, 
 And the Graces seem to vie, 
 In the placing of their glories on Irene, 
 When I fold her in my arms, 
 Captivated by the charms. 
 And the fascinating taction of Irene, 
 In all the world I know. 
 There's nothing just like this; 
 'Tis happiness, 'tis bliss! 
 And it delights me so; 
 There's nothing just like this 
 In all the world know. 

 I'D roamed around by no ties bound, 
 But fancy's vain and fickle will; 
 Squandered my youth and trampled truth, 
 Beneath my wayward feet, until 
 IVly carnal heart had taken part 
 In all that pride finds pleasure in, 
 While fathoming the depths of sin. 
 At this vile wantonness, one day 
 I lost my immortality. 
 And stood before the open door 
 Of sheol's grim reality; 
 Brought face to face with death, and grace, 
 Jehovah's loving kindness, spurned, 
 How cravingly to live I yearned. 
 Praying for life, immortal life, 
 I offered what I had in lands. 
 Silver, my gold, the fees I hold. 
 And all the labor of my hands. 
 The decalogue, through fear of God, 
 I vowed to keep; yet none of these 
 The king of terrors could appease. 

At last I prayed for light and said, 
 Show me, O Lord, the way; what Thou 
 Wouldst have me do I'll now pursue; 
 Forgive! Cool thou my fevered brow. 
 Teach me to share my brother's care. 
 To love mankind; and if not me. 
 Bless Thou, O Lord, mine enemy. 
 At this there came a great acclaim, 
 Hosannas from the hills of peace. 
 Angelic throngs broke into songs 
 And Mercy brought me sure surcease 
 Of blighting pain, and o'er again 
 Jehovah reckoned unto me 
 The righteousness of purity. 
 THERE'S something fascinating on life's dark and 
 sombre side, 
 When the worn and travel-weary seek for rest 
 at even tide; 
 In the shadows where the fallen come to muse 
 on faded hope, 
 Expectancies that vanished like to bubbles 
 blown from soap. 
 If you should reach the shady side of life me- 
 thinks you'll find, 
 Some who have found the upper world so 
 heartless and unkind, 
 And so disposed to torture with the despotisms 
 They had to seek the shadows as a refuge from 
 Take him who grubs for fortune in a systematic 
 Till "biz" is rich in promise and responsive in 
 its pay. 
 And faith ascends the zenith lit with hope, his 
 lucky star, 
 And watch him when the nagger plies her 
 repartees that bar. 
 Then see him with the languor and forlorn in 
 all his air, 
 A standing on the curbstone in a semi-vacant 
 In pendulous vibrations 'twix the club-room and 
 his wife, 
 This a solace, that a nagger, to his swiftly 
 ebbing life. 

The wife is simply nothing if she can't assert 
 her rights; 
 Cannot attend the socials and the musicals of 
 And there forget the promise of our sunny years 
 flown long 
 With the graces of the angels and the eloquence 
 of song. 
 But the wayward, something wiser than your wife, 
 plays on your whim. 
 Veneering all your failures with the glow of 
 triumph's glim, 
 E'er sees in you some greatness, never finds in 
 you a fault. 
 You're every whit par excellence, though brim- 
 ming full of malt. 
 We cannot help but like them if we dared do 
 Their sympathy and fervor would their meaner 
 selves disguise; 
 So far transcend the nagging of our double- 
 tongued wives. 
 The nuptials were but prose beside the lyric 
 of our lives. 
 With naggers, life is painful if they do not roar 
 and snort 
 With frenzy and with fury, and the trespass of 
 And club men are so constant in their social 
 thought and air. 
 You just forget deception is the glory reigning 

Men know 'tis wrong to wander, that to dissipate 
 is sin, 
 That the dazzle ol the harem is the web the 
 evil spin, 
 To inveigle and to plunder, and to deprivate and 
 But to the flings of nagging wives the> make a 
 splendid foil. 
 You may moralize and blame them, you may put 
 them under ban. 
 And scourge them out of Eden, from Beersheba 
 unto Dan; 
 But they'll fly the track at intervals and seek the 
 Shady Side, 
 Though naggers all were angels and with deities 
 A lodge within the fastness of the desert waste, 
 or wild, 
 Is better^ than the castle hall and palace courts 
 By wielding of the epigram and reign of 
 Where the housewife's pride and glory is to nag 
 and disagree. 
 Again, take her whose virginhood bloomed on 
 the Sunny Side, 
 Who had no whim unfavored and no wish not 
 But loved while young, and loving, took the first 
 mad leap and lost. 
 And see what door will open, and what lord will 
 be her host. 

If she, perchance a mother, friend, should visit 
 you today. 
 Are you not sure you'd drive her and her infant 
 child away; 
 What matron of the sisterhood of elite folks 
 Would comfort give a wanderer from the sunny 
 haunts of love? 
 Except, perhaps, they might take him whose 
 purse has golden strings; 
 Or him who has a title to estates and fees and 
 Aye! truly they might lord the man who dragged 
 the maiden down. 
 And let him take his pick of hearts from 
 daughters of their own. 
 But she who young in loving took the first mad 
 leap and lost. 
 Must wander forth hereafter, friend, a vagabond 
 at most. 
 Unless she seeks the Shady Side, where high- 
 flown hopes are furled. 
 And take her portion and her chance with us of 
 the Under World. 
 And let her not be weary, nor in her soul cast 
 We have no social tyrants here who murder with 
 a frown; 
 But noble men and women, too, with souls like 
 open charts, 
 Who take one's measure not from gold, but pur- 
 poses of heart. 

 Today this cause came to be heard 
 On bill, process and proof; 
 Averments usual, form and word, 
 Prolixity forsooth. 
 John Marshall was complainant's name, 
 Carrie, his wife, defendant. 
 He charged as being wanton dame, 
 To lecher rake intendant. 
 For Carrie loud they called by rote, 
 The "Oyez! oyez! oyez. 
 Come into court, come into court, 
 Or you'll be barred, oyez. " 
 If Carrie heard, she heeded not. 
 Default she wholly made, 
 And John has still a spouseless cot, 
 If not a buxom maid 

And having heard what was averred 
 Of Carrie's wanton acts, 
 And finding she had not demurred, 
 The Court reviewed the facts. 
 These marriage ties, the Court beheves, 
 Have grown so lax, corrupt, 
 It should and does by fit decrees. 
 Break all the nuptials up. 
 We find the process good and true. 
 With regular procedure; 
 And on the whole there comes to view 
 The proofs the facts concede you. 
 Unquestioned those, efficient these. 
 All costs and fees enforced, 
 The Court now orders and decrees 
 John Marshall is divorced. 
 Done in the merry month of May, 
 Year nineteen hundred leven. 
 And if you would exact the day. 
 Know you 'tis twenty-seven. 

 If I had a million dollars, friend, I don't 
 know what I'd do, 
 But now and then I think I'd roam and simply spend a few; 
 Again I think I'd steal away to rural quietude. 
 And spend the rest of life among the simple and the rude, 
 I hardly think with flippancies that I would 
 be imbued. 
 The new club woman and her fad, I know 
 1 would elude; 
 Nor should my person be spruced up with 
 dress immaculate; 
 A whole big million I don't think my old 
 pate would inflate. 
 'Tis true, I'd like to slip a cog, and go it 
 wild a bit. 
 My soul aglow with passion for my brother 
 in the pit^ 
 Ay! proud to be with commoners, I'd rusti- 
 cate a-while. 
 Nor would I care a cursed thing about the 
 latest style. 
 "Old brogan shoes and homespun socks? " 
 the very things I need; 
 For too much dress and fashion, sir, would 
 my lithe step impede; 
 An old cord "gallus," friend, would hold my 
 breeches on to me. 
 And I'd not care a snap about their bagging 
 at the knee. 

The fine silk plug and Panama are hats I 
 do not need; 
 I'd rather poise my head beneath the straw 
 of Dixie's mead; 
 Indeed, my friend, I'd be content beneath a 
 brimless cap, 
 To sport it with the urching all, a jolly, 
 romping chap. 
 With them I'd like to take just now a little 
 bit of ease, 
 A-Iounging where I used to, sir, beneath the 
 apple trees, 
 A-whittling and a-swapping jokes with Bill 
 and Tom and Ned, 
 The while our fancies flit across the lore of 
 trundle bed. 

Yea, over and above it all, this is the 
 simple truth. 
 Had I the coin, and could, I'd spend a mil- 
 lion for my youth; 
 Then with my true love I would go 
 a-sparking it again. 
 And look the love upon her grace my tongue 
 could ne'er explain. 
 I'd lead her once again, my friend, through 
 old Virginia reel. 
 Salute her there and balance all; again I'd 
 fondly feel 
 The same old bliss so oft I've felt, while 
 swinging corners all. 
 And stepping to the music of the jocund 
 country ball. 
 These things were worth a million to a 
 maimed old chap like me, 
 I'd give it if I could, sir, with a zest of 
 childish glee. 
 Oh! if I could but put away my gout and 
 And take an old-time outing from the pres- 
 sure of my biz! 

A bonny girl and youth I'd take to Cupid's 
 mystic shrine, 
 That sylvan haunt of Dixie, where the jes- 
 samine doth twine; 
 Where lilies, fiant of sweetness, and where 
 ever blows the thyme; 
 Where seasons all are summer and the 
 climate is sublime 
 The rose aflame of beauty, there drops 
 petals on the sod, 
 To scarlet blush geraniums, and passion 
 flowers nod 
 In breezy swells of zephyrs that strike up 
 the mystic chime. 
 While carol winged minstrels in'the'glory 
 of their prime. 

If you could take the silver from this hoary 
 pate of mine, 
 And make it so my bouyant youth could 
 never more decline; 
 And bring me back my bonny girl that 
 long-lost love again, 
 So vivified she might not feel another touch 
 of pain; 
 The million dollars you might have, and 
 millions o er and o'er; 
 Again I'd take my youth and love, and ask 
 for nothing more. 
 As long as we could stroll about the old, 
 familiar ways. 
 And feel the bouyant, throbbing hearts of 
 love and better days. 

 IS strange that those for whom we care, 
 For us so httle feel; 
 And those we shun would gladly share 
 So much of service, love and weal, 
 So much of life for us. 
 And stranger still, those whom we serve 
 So slightly hold the deed; 
 And they our acts would best subserve. 
 So seldom get, .so often need 
 Encouragement from us. 
 Too true it is, they hold the rose 
 And flay us with the thorn; 
 And stranger still, we're foiled by those 
 Our fervent hope is to adorn, 
 Our will is but to serve. 

Lines to Iona. 

 HAD love an answer to its prayer, 
 Sweet lona, I would be there, 
 To solace and caress thee; 
 Had love an answer to its prayer, 
 How truly I wert thine; 
 But love seems prone to go alone. 
 Of first incentives shorn. 
 And thou art far away this eve. 
 And such an eve it is, believe 
 Me lona, believe! 
 How sorely doth thine absence grieve. 
 What happiness wert mine, 
 Could we now stroll and soul to soul 
 Unbosom and forget. 

Sweet lona, forget, forget, 
 Unbosom now and freely let 
 Vain, fickle pride depart. 
 Be thou thyself, come let us yet 
 Of love's nepenthe drink, 
 As in the olden and the golden 
 Happy, dreamy days. 
 For this I'd stroll with thee, sweetheart, 
 From all the social world apart, 
 I'd go once more with thee; 
 Nor would I care how keen the dart. 
 Sharp the wit, nor foul the tongue. 
 Of rumor, dear, that fills the ear 
 Of gossipers at large. 
 I'd rather stray, sweetheart, with thee, 
 Than know the sweetest ecstacy. 
 Of elite folks and grand. 
 Nor question I my destiny. 
 Be it but linked with thine; 
 For he lives best who is caressed 
 By the woman whom he loves. 

The moon is at its best tonight, 
 The sky is fair, the stars are bright, 
 The air, bescent'd with flowers, 
 Goes winging by in zephyrs light 
 As Aeolus can blow them; 
 And by the way he winds the lay 
 Of other youths and lassies. 
 It is the hour, the happy time. 
 When lovers strike their sweetest chime 
 Of deep and fervent wooing; 
 When looks are vows, and vows sublime, 
 That ripple into smiles and blend 
 Assenting thought to all they ought. 
 When words were mean expression. 
 And on the border line between 
 The upper and the lower sheen, 
 Of day and mystic night. 
 Our wounded love and pride, I wean. 
 Might find a charm to soothe them. 
 In mending all and blending all 
 Their broken chords of weal. 

 ONCE in a while in the hush of night, 
 Comes to hope's altar out of the dark, 
 A wanderer seeking light. 
 A wretched waif, in a wretched plight, 
 Comes to hope's altar out of the dark, 
 Once in a while at night. 
 She's not the blond and blue-eyed queen, 
 Whom Anglo-Saxon bards all sing, 
 With gauzy tresses of flaxen hair. 
 Falling in golden ringlets fair 
 Over a marble bust. 
 Bu'' simply stumbling in the dark, 
 Alone o'er desert, waste and wild. 
 She comes a child of the dark; 
 Poor queen, bewildered and beguiled, 
 Deserted, outraged and reviled, 
 She comes a child of the dark 
 Pleading for mercy's pitiful care. 
 Her weary eyes lose their leering light 
 Uplift from their awful dark despair, 
 A wistful beam o'er a luring dream 
 In prayer for charity. 

No powder flash for her has burned, 
 Nor cannon roared, nor boomed for her. 
 Nor sword in scabbard turned. 
 Blood of her bardel chief to spill 
 But all have sought to ruin her, 
 However much she's yearned 
 The aid of power's bristling steel, 
 That shields the pride of Dixie's dame, 
 And keeps her pure; lest she might reel, 
 And every cur that meets with her 
 Might satiate his lust. 
 The waif queen doth in horror drain 
 The dregs of shame, her woeful plight 
 Tells how the iron reign 
 Blights sire and son of Dixie's might 
 Their matron-spouse and lassies bright. 
 Their lords of State and fane, 
 In spite of caste, by thraldom's chain. 
 The moral blight which this entails 
 On human soul and human brain. 
 Is like a frightful destiny. 
 In tyranny run mad. 

Alike the lord of wealth and fame, 
 The renegade and plunderer, 
 The libertine inane; 
 When my waif queen appeals to such 
 They lead a dual life with her, 
 And ravish while they feign 
 To be immaculate in creed, 
 In utterance, infallible, 
 Par excellence in deed; 
 The vile and chaste, they foul and waste, 
 In harem and in church. 
 The iron hand her actions tone, 
 And mammon leads to perfidy, 
 Away from all her own, 
 When comes the lordly heir of caste, 
 Triumphant in his lechery. 
 To sow his oats upon 
 The fallow of the Under World; 
 And then at morn, what blasting horn? 
 What banners to the breeze unfurled? 
 He spurns the spouse of his carouse, 
 Murders when truth comes home. 

 ONG ago, when evening's twilight, 
 Came vermilion, touched with gold. 
 Save where nature penciled shadows 
 Of a lassie, herd and wold. 
 On the emerald of the meadow, 
 By a pathway to a fold, 
 Came a lassie o'er the heather. 
 Where the sleek kine browse and roam. 
 Calling of the cattle home. 
 Then I felt a mystic rapture, 
 I could never all explain; 
 Nor the why my heart a tattoo 
 Sets to throbbing in my brain. 
 When of nights I watch the embers 
 Of the yule-log glow and wane, 
 Through the long and dreary evenings, 
 While the ghosts of things that were, 
 O'er the waning embers stir. 
 There's enchantment full and plenty. 
 Where the cattle roam and feed, 
 In my reminiscent fancy, 
 On the em'rald of the mead; 
 Where the shimmers of the sunset. 
 From the sombre woodlands speed. 
 Fall but brightly on the pathway, 
 Till it beams a thread of gold. 
 From the moorland to the fold. 

Now, from ouf the icy claspings, 
 Of the sepulcher of years. 
 While the glow of dying embers 
 On my old hearthstone appears, 
 Comes an angel through the shadows. 
 Age encumbers with, and clears 
 All the clouds from recollections 
 Of my truant coming home. 
 With the lassie through the gloam. 
 But the lassie, heaven bless her, 
 Went a-calling long ago. 
 On a cherub up in glory, 
 Whom she did but scarcely know. 
 There the angels hold her captive. 
 Envying her beauty so; 
 But of evenings when they revel. 
 And I lapse to revery, 
 She as often visits me. 
 Comes with all her mystic beauty, 
 Budding on her like the rose, 
 Blowing wild upon the heather, 
 With a charm of grace that grows 
 On my mem'ry when I'm waking, 
 In my vision when I doze. 
 With her lobate bust a-heaving. 
 And a scent of lavender. 
 In the rustic robes of her. 

Then we stroll again, fond lovers, 
 Through the embers waning glovv'; 
 Not a crow-foot on her visage. 
 Nor a shadow on my brow; 
 Both as charmed, as free, as happy. 
 Now within the afterglow. 
 As when first we went a-sparking, 
 Down the verdant hills of loam 
 Driving of the cattle home. 
 Strolling homeward in the gloaming, 
 'Twix a nap and fancy's flight. 
 As the time upon the dial 
 Loiters towards the noon of night, 
 And the yule-log, gray with ashes, 
 Smoulders to a leering light. 
 And the cerfew bells of glory 
 Call the lassie back from me. 
 Through the hazy reverie. 
 Let the yule-log's embers smoulder, 
 And the angels sportive be. 
 While I sit in sleepy corner. 
 Nap and dream, sweetheart, of th( 
 Till the rare and brilliant glory 
 Of the by-gones come to me, 
 And we stroll, the happy lovers, 
 Hearts a-welling vvith the swells 
 Of the tinkling cattle bells. 

Ah, the subtle, pleasing fiction 
 That is bundled up in dreams. 
 Dreams that lead us on and ravish 
 With their sweet, alluring themes, 
 Diorames bright and sparkling 
 Kike to beacons over streams, 
 Or like some mirage, oasis 
 Of Sahara, oft they come 
 With their mystic polycrome 

 LET us weld the bond of union, 
 Make the standard stronger stil 
 Till the fellowship of brothers, 
 All our dreams of hope fulfill; 
 Let us purge ourselves of error, 
 Spurn the villain from our midst, 
 Bring the shrine of honor nearer 
 Christian consciousness of heart. 
 Let us build a shrine to virtue, 
 Where the graces may sojourn; 
 Sacred to their cause forever, 
 There let honor's incense burn; 
 On that altar let religion, 
 Such as Christ has given us, 
 Be the sole inspiring mission 
 Of a nobler brotherhood. 
Let us strive, and striving, conquer. 
 First of all our erring selves; 
 Then we'll hope, and hoping, labor. 
 As one in the quarry delves. 
 Working on our racial heart. 
 Till it beams, in form sublime, 
 Like a precious stone, which art 
 Aided nature to adorn. 
 Onward, upward, high and higher. 
 Seeking each and all the light; 
 Press, ye legions, on and up to 
 Freedom's dazzling goal of light. 
 Grant us peace, O gracious Master, 
 Since our cause is one divine, 
 Never let thou fell disaster 
 Mai k our star of Fate's decline! 

 ONCE a wee bit baby darling, 
 Pure as beauty, sweet as grace, 
 Sat upon my knee and thrilled me 
 With her rare bewitching face; 
 Face so fair, so charmed, so pregnant 
 With the glow of buoyant soul. 
 That the angels paid her homage; 
 And, disputing earth's control, 
 Trooped about her crib and worshipped 
 Baby darling's virgin soul. 
 Lingered there and learned to love her. 
 And to envy us the child, 
 Till our jealousies grew frenzied, 
 As the spirit world beguiled. 
 Lured and charmed, and so enrapt her 
 With the ditties of the skies, 
 That she pined and looked the languor, 
 Through her fever-stricken eyes. 
 All our mortal love we gave her. 
 But the angels: — paradise. 

Yes, they took her, jealous angels, 
 Thus to take the baby child, 
 All because she was the fairest 
 That e'er looked on them and smiled. 
 Up in glory where they keep her. 
 Can they, will they really be 
 Half as careful, half as anxious 
 Of our baby's weal as we? 
 Did they really give her fever. 
 In their joyous ecstacy? 
 Sick of pain, she daily wilted 
 Through a typhus fever's blight, 
 Till her spirit dropped its body-- 
 Far from earthly things took flight. 
 With the cherubim then journeyed. 
 Up in yon ethereal dome, 
 Purest, fairest being, truly. 
 That e'er through it flitted home 
 To Elysian fields of glory. 
 Where the Savior bids all come. 

My Remington 

 IN the still and silent night, 
 When I sit me down to write, 
 There is mystery and ease, 
 In the movement of the keys, 
 And the smooth and even run 
 Of my magic Remington. 
 Let the man who glories still. 
 In the ancient pen or quill. 
 Take it of all glory shorn, 
 Like that of his old ink horn; 
 Put his paste-brush in the ink 
 When, if ever, he should think. 
 I have now a wizard's wand. 
 Underneath my dexter hand. 
 Bringing happiness to me, 
 Through its runic melody. 
 Making time without the waste 
 Of the ink quill in the paste. 


 TOMORROW 's but a dream, dear Alice, 
 In truth, it never appears; 
 The past, a tenantless old palace, 
 Where hope lies tombed in tears; 
 The urn is broken, Alice, 
 Whence incense rose above; 
 But you may see, if you will, today. 
 The magical haunts of love. 
 My fancy sees a chalice, 
 A harp all strung, attuned, 
 A famed, enchanted palace. 
 Where Cupid oft communed; 
 The theme of his dreaming, Alice, 
 In waking or sleeping the same, 
 A glory that ever dazzles. 
 Till it sets the soul a-flame. 

Like the burning bush on Horeb, 
 Or lit phosphoric seas, 
 The dream is metamorphosed, 
 And Cupid makes wild pleas. 
 For a glance of your dark eyes, Alice, 
 And a touch of your lips, my dear. 
 For all the bliss of caressing. 
 Laughter, and song, and cheer. 
 Tis to you and none other, Alice, 
 My thought reverts in its fTight, 
 A little perhaps out of ballas'. 
 Perhaps with too much delight; 
 So crude, so humble and callous 
 That a message it scarce can bear. 
 From a heart that wears your image. 
 And the passion that fixed it there. 

Come thou with me, dear Alice, 
 To where there's building for thee 
 A loved, charmed, magical palace, 
 Hard by the Mexic sea; 
 Where date, and spice and lemon 
 Doth blow perpetually, 
 By that enchanted palace 
 That looks out over the sea. 
 Tomorrow? That's cruel, Alice, 
 Why speak of a day that is not? 
 That spoils the bliss of living, 
 Makes mine a miserable lot, 
 And love's enchanted palace 
 A wild and desolate place; 
 No land of dates and flowers 
 Wert blessed without thy grace. 

 The following piece was intended as a brief *satire on the 
 manner of conducting elections in the benevolent societies in'the 
 State of Mississippi. That the manner of conducting elections 
 in many of these societies is corrupt, no one who regards truth 
 will deny: 
 OH! have you heard the boastful song 
 Of Highland-Buckingham; 
 Who often in their zeal go wrong, 
 And never care a damn. 
 Gay, happy pals, the coin and bag, 
 The records and what not, 
 They'd hold by fraud, or guile and gag. 
 While Eddie "bulls" the pot. 

You hold the records and the seal, 
 And Buck '11 hold the bag, 
 While John and Ed, by crooked deal. 
 The delegates will gag- 
 The people's choice we may not be. 
 But what care we for that: 
 We've fixed it so that you and "me" 
 And Johnny can stand pat. 
 'Twas in the sunny month of May, 
 I think, or thereabout. 
 When Eddie Jones devised a way. 
 Of counting people out. 
 Since Eddie taught us how to buck 
 And gag the delegate, 
 ^\ e'll slime the people's choice with muck 
 And let the rascals bleat. 
 Our John will quack it like a duck. 
 And straddle like a clown; 
 Till 'twix vile roguery and luck 
 We steal for him the crown. 

For you the seal, for me the bag, 
 Or you the bag and me 
 The seal; we'll swap em as we wag, 
 'Twix guile and tweedledee. 
 We'll gull 'um here and gag 'urn there; 
 The delegates^ you see, 
 Have got no rights for which we care — 
 Friend Buck, that's you and "me." 
 You are my candidate, dear Buck, 
 And I your jolly pal; 
 You need not doubt your Hiland's pluck. 
 It's cheek by jowl with mal. 
 For me the seal, for you the bag. 
 For John the gavel's trust; 
 The people's choice we'll buck and gag. 
 And take the bag or bust. 
 Tis true, we've been a little lax — 
 Just twenty thousand short — 
 But still we have the gall to tax 
 The people while they snort. 

They are such queer, such simple things; 
 I mean the people, Buck; 
 They'd leave their rights to clicks and rings 
 And court the Boss and luck. 
 The Boss, by jingo, he is a bird, 
 There's magic in his name. 
 Not by our suffrage; but his word 
 We win or lose the game. 
 On rights, the people would not toss 
 A copper's head nor tail. 
 They'd rather, far, to know the "Boss " 
 Had drove a heeler's sale. 
 The days of patriot!^ have passed. 
 Their principles are dead. 
 The heeler has the sage outclassed 
 And sports a price per head. 
 For principles men used to fight, 
 To 'venge a wrong would die. 
 But now they slip a cog that's tight 
 And barter rights lor rye. 

And there's a trait that's glorious, 
 In diplomatic art, 
 'Tis making right so odious 
 That wrong seems "pure of heart.' 

My Brother John, 

 MY brother John has beds of down 
 And mansions of his own; 
 The humble bed where I rest my head 
 Is Httle less than stone; 
 But peace is there to soothe my care 
 While Brother John has pride; 
 So I pity John and all who bear 
 Great fortune's weight and care. 
 My brother John has fertile farms 
 Of cotton, and corn and maize; 
 While naught have I but earth and sky 
 To look on all my days; 
 Mine's not the lot to own the spot 
 Of humble cabin home; 
 And ne'er the of airy fame 
 Buzzes about my name. 
 My brother's hold is fixed on gold 
 And auto cars for tour, 
 That flash today in their gala way 
 With rush and dash by the poor; 
 When go I must, I tramp the dust 
 Whither my brother speeds, 
 Unawares to the common lot 
 Of peer, and sage, and sot. 

Brother John has a splendid lawn, 
 Scythed and rolled and^green, 
 A verdant spot where such a sot 
 As I am never seen. 
 To all that plod, "Keep off the sod,' 
 Is John's command today; 
 And I pass on and muse why clay. 
 Like mine, not John's, is gay. 

 H, give me a kiss 
 To mate with the bhss 
 Of the heart I swear, love, is thine; 
 Let beam a smile 
 To cheer the while 
 I give thee of all that is mine. 
 Now, ere we part, 
 Let's feel your heart 
 In unison beat, love, with mine; 
 Your head at rest, 
 Sweet on my breast, 
 While my arms, dear, about thee I twine. 
 Kiss me again, 
 And then again! 
 Turn Cupid wild tonight, sweeth eart. 
 Thy soul and mine 
 By a kiss confine. 
 To love's wild dream, dear, ere we part. 

 About two miles, as the crow flies, south from Meridian, in 
 Lauderdale Countv, Mississippi, stands Mt. Barton, probably the 
 highest hill in East Mississippi. One can get a splendid view 
 of the surrounding country from this hill; and, in the early morn- 
 ing or late afternoon, the beauty of the landscape viewed from 
 its summit is pleasing. 
 I frequently visit Mt. Barton, which I call the Heights of 
 Lauderdale. I can see and contemplete Meridian better from 
 this point, and the sweet sensations which come when the winds 
 play among the pines, and the absence of the din and noise of 
 the city, make it a hap^y resort for a weary mind. 
 I CAN but feel a swell of soul. 
 Over my vision's broader scope, 
 When from the city's mart I stroll 
 And climb along the northern slope, 
 Of Lie Heights of Lauderdale. 
 Hard by, a heath of Lauderdale, 
 A verdant sweep of broken lea, 
 Rolls into knolls from out the vale, 
 And undulates and swells a sea 
 Of bil'-'wy emerald waves. 

Far off on that sea there lies, 
 North of the Heights of Lauderdale, 
 Meridian, 'neath a haze of skies, 
 And seems, upon that distant vale. 
 Fleet like, anchored on the deep. 
 How often have I lingered there. 
 To have my simple thought dome teem. 
 With fancy's fictions of the fair, 
 And catch a glimpse of beauty beam. 
 Scintillate and dazzle there. 
 And when beneath some lofty pine, 
 I muse on Nature's loveliness. 
 As oft it seems something divine. 
 Places a rare peculiar stress. 
 Of melody in the pines. 
 Among the pines of Lauderdale, 
 A whispered cadence sighs along, 
 And when the winds become a gale. 
 The verdant hills burst into song 
 And sweetly soughs ravien. 
 And far away down the cultured vale. 
 Echoing goes the evening hymn, ■ 
 Of some rude swain of Lauderdale; 
 Soothing and sweet, the lay of him 
 Chimes with the metre wild. 

The metre wild, the metre wild, 
 How many an eve I loiter where, 
 By its sweet melody beguiled, 
 I muse on nature's charms and share 
 Her metrical symposium. 
 Sublime the scene when twilight flies, 
 Up through the green tines of the pines, 
 As, on the deep vermillion skies, 
 Day, weary and worn, declines. 
 Beaming last on Lauderdale. 
 There, looking on him spent, supine, 
 How oft have I been filled with awe, 
 To see his gold on emerald shine. 
 And crimson fingered evening draw 
 The starry curtains of the night. 
 Again to hear the wild anthem, 
 The intonations of the pines, 
 And all the mystic airs of them 
 A-soughing through the vast confines 
 Of Lauderdale is my delight. 


 THE sunny years am gone and all 
 De jolly makin' gloree time, 
 From farm an' hut an' manshun hall 
 De cullurd population's gwine, 
 Tur try de styles uv city folks. 
 De Boss he lef some time ergo, 
 And built er house in town, yer kno'. 
 His plans dey seem ter thrive, an* so 
 De cullurd brother thinks he'll go 
 An' just metroperlate er while. 
 An' when he gits ter town, yer kno', 
 He's ruint by de fashuns there; 
 'Tis "Miss and Madum" So and So; 
 'Tis Mr. Johnson or 'tis "Square"; 
 Dhey all has nicknames up in town. 
 Dhar's Sam, what quit his plowin' biz 
 Ter move to town dis very year; 
 Well, he's stark crazy, 'deed he is; 
 Jist call 'im Sam, an' you'll hear 
 Him 'rectin' yer, "Dis m Mr. Jones. 

Lizer, his wife, done ruint too, 
 Wid her 'tis "Madum, ef yer please," 
 An' den she'll highfalute wid you 
 Behint her fan, wid all de ease 
 De big folks does up dhar in town. 
 Sure! ebry blessed one uv dem 
 Done changed his name, an' dat aint all; 
 Dhey dress so fine, both gals and men, 
 Er country mam looks ruther small 
 Besides of dem when she's in town. 
 Dhey's got er new fandangle word 
 For our ol' fashun names, somehow, 
 Dhey titles use, us neber heard 
 Before — de elder's doctor now. 
 An' de church benches all am pews. 
 Chile, what yer thinks dhey calls de lane 
 Dat trails er long betwix de stores? 
 Nawp, 'taint "Big road," yer gess is vain 
 Yer'll crack dat woolly pate uv yours 
 'Fore yer ken gess what is er lane. 

"Cross-road?" No, sir ree, try er gin; 
 Nawp, 'tis nuthin' like er highways 
 Nuther! I don't care whar yer's bin 
 Nur what yer's heard in all yer days, 
 'Twas nuthin' like "Bully-Yard " fur lane. 
 Yer ought ter see urn struttin' down 
 Dat "Bully-Yard. " It tickles me 
 Ter see dem niggers up in town; 
 See Lawyer Bhoon wid Dr. Lee, 
 An' hear dem gent'mens 'scussin news. 

Yer'd think dat some great folks done come 
 Like Linctom, Grant and Douglas wuz, 
 Er batin' human ri'ts upon 
 De public square in Dixie, c'uz 
 Et kinder 'pears dat way to me. 
 'Taint nuthin' like et uster be, 
 Wid ax, an' hoe, an' plow; dat's changed; 
 Dar's Bishop Smith wid his D. D., 
 Presidin' Elder Reveren' Grange, 
 An' Madum Sloan, what leas'd de quare. 

De rag dat's on de bush am dheirs; 
 Ruther, dey take de bush an' all 
 When *t comes to highfalutin' airs, 
 An' showin' off; ez I recall, 
 Dhar's nuffin' real bout none uv dem. 
 IJv course, dhar is a better folk, 
 What's prudent, wise and good; but these 
 Mus' serve an' wear de gallin' yoke, 
 An' be de prey uv make-believes. 
 An' low an' worthless renurgades. 
 Who'd have yer b'leave dhey had not seed 
 Er mule, or cotton patch, or ax; 
 An' claim to be so wise, indeed, 
 Et somehow all yer senses tax, 
 Ter 'zacley 'scribe um as dhey is. 

 WE have a mighty government of high and brilliant fame, 
 Triumphant we the suflfrage wield and all our kith and kin; 
 And those who would the nation rule by equity, not awe, 
 Know the President is ruler only in the people's name; 
 For the sovereign is the people, and the people's will is law. 
 The voter he is royalized, his dame's a sov- 
 ereign's queen. 
 The millions ot them common heirs apparent 
 to a throne. 
 Whose prowess is invincible, whose glory 
 is supreme; 
 And whom they will they designate to wield 
 the mace, I wean. 
 Their common heritage, the mace, rotation its 
 And Washington, impregnable, did Freedom's 
 glory set 
 Above the rage of passion and beyond ambi- 
 tion's blow; 
 And Lincoln died to keep it there, the honor 
 of the West; 
 A government of commoners, that is tri- 
 umphant yet 
 In the suffrage of the people, for the people's 
 reign is best. 

Yet Roosevelt brought us princely whims, and 
 honor and renown; 
 And led the Russ and Japanese to pleasant 
 fields to peace. 
 And sent our valiant fighting tars a spinning 
 round the globe, 
 And boosted up the Cabinet, and held the 
 Congress down, 
 And kept the trust contending with the gov- 
 ernmental probe. 
 A brilliant man of letters, he eclipsed the 
 fourth estate, 
 And kept the galleys flooded with his seas of 
 So coached our representatives, with mes- 
 sages of whim. 
 The great became his echoist, "My policies 
 to prate. 
 And everything spectacular was left to fate 
 and him. 
 He found among our nation's hoards but one 
 who tells the truth, 
 And he is wasting dictums on the Ananias 
 And holds in his opinion, and by all the 
 rules of law. 
 Apparent is presumption and self-evident 
 is proof. 
 That Harriman, and Tillman, and the World 
 once made a draw. 

All glory to the President, for truly he has 
 Which weaker mortals haven't got and wise 
 ones wouldn't have, 
 For he can wield a mammoth club and wear 
 his cap awry; 
 With fiction's greatness he can come, crazed 
 by his frantic frights. 
 And frail the mischief out of many such as 
 you and I. 
 Ay, truly is the President sagacious, great 
 and wise, 
 Who keeps his soul in peace and reigns o'er 
 eighty million kings 
 Who are themselves the common heirs and 
 lords who emulate 
 The virtues of our patron sires who did to us 
 The tenue of the suffrage and the legacy of 
 The President is glorious, we think he is 
 Whene'er he represents the will of eighty 
 million souls; 
 A commoner of commoners, by commoners 
 And made the peer of all the kings of every 
 age and clime, 
 Whose glory none will dare despoil, and none 
 has yet disowned. 

The patriots who built the realm, have in their 
 will decreed, 
 The sceptre is the people's and among them 
 shall rotate, 
 Till home rule is immortalized in ev'ry people's 
 For royal blood's a fiction and all royalty's a 
 And suffrage of the people still the hope of 
 state and fane. 
 So here's to Mister President, and here's to 
 Taft the man, 
 A commoner of commoners by commoners 
 And here is to the commoners, my country- 
 men, my peers, 
 And here's to law and equity, to party and 
 to clan, 
 And here's to equal suffrage in our govern- 
 ment's careers. 
 God bless our common country, and preserve 
 chief of state, 
 And solace him who has the charge, with all 
 Thy gracious love; 
 Lest many should, perchance, forget this ie 
 the people's reign, 
 We pray Thee, Lord, to keep it so the sceptre 
 shall rotate. 
 The common people e'er among in common- 
 wealth and fane. 

Sam, the Garbager 

 SAM, the Garbager, had carpet, 
 And some scraps of office jot, 
 Optomacy stooped to throw him. 
 As he passed from lot to lot. 
 And with these he decked his cabin 
 In a rather modern style; 
 But himself remained old-fashioned 
 Like — simple and true the while. 
 And the milk of human kindness 
 Seemed to bubble from his heart, 
 As he rolled about the city 
 In his two-wheeled garbage cart. 
 He could tell about the weather 
 From the corns upon his feet. 
 And he said, "De kind dat rests yer 
 Is de drizzle, rain or sleet." 

Dhar am sometin in de wedder, 
 Dat yer can't jist al'ays splain. 
 When the clouds am runnin' rivers 
 In de drizzlin' of de rain; 
 Ween de win' am jist ez quiet, 
 Ez de las' yer's mouldin' leaves 
 Wid nothin' breaking silence 
 'Cep'en murmurs on your eves. 
 Wid de night ez dark ez Hades, 
 An' er tinyus po in rain, 
 Er ripplin into murmurs 
 Off yer windo' sill an' pane, 
 Dhar am som'thin' in de weder 
 Lak er op'ate so it seems 
 Dat brings yer deeper slumber, 
 Dat wakes yer lighter dreams. 
 In dear ol' sleepy corner, 
 Whar lax'tion grows and grows, 
 Tell yer nap and nod ter music, 
 Dat's er lullin' yer to 'pose. 
 An' de study ripplin' measure 
 Dat am tumblin off yer eves. 
 Seems er lullaby of angels, 
 Forcin' worries all ter leave. 

Den yer soul all ober joyed 
 Wid de dreams de driz le weaves; 
 Kinder feels dat et am courted 
 By de nymps of reveries; 
 An' yer mouth er fallin' open, 
 Hangs yer chin erpun yer chest, 
 While yer soul goes splorin dream Ian 
 Ez de driz'le lulls ter rest. 

For A Woman. 

 DEN, lost to all but fancy, 
 Was it ever aught but legend 
 Handed down from sire to son, 
 As descriptive of the region. 
 Of the sunny haunts of love? 
 Famous garden where the passion, 
 Bursting first disclosed the morn 
 Whose effulgent, beaming glory 
 Cleft old Chaos, brain and spine; 
 Lit up incense burning shrine. 
 In the heart of man for Eve. 
 Round that shrine the zeal of Adam, 
 Glowing like the flaming sword, 
 Soon forgot his peaceful Eden, 
 And the order of his lord; 
 Left the garden to its thistles. 
 And his Master to His wrath, 
 Bartered Eden for a woman. 
 Braved the fates to please his wife; 
 Took her from the lap of nature 
 Just as God had fashioned her, 
 In her rare bewitchery. 

Ever since that fatal error. 
 Whether fart or mythic story, 
 From the ancient tombs of thought, 
 Brought by art through mystic glory, 
 They have journeyed, both astray, 
 Over many steeps of woe; 
 Through the fens and bogs of shame, 
 Fled from sorrow unto sorrow, 
 Sounding all the deeps of pain; 
 But never crossed, nor can again, 
 Eden in their pilgrimage. 
 Talked with God in burning bushes. 
 Held the seas till Isr'el passed; 
 Ate of manna fresh from heaven; 
 Took a town with trumpet blast; 
 Slept with lions, stood in Are; 
 And, in Price of Bethlehem, 
 Had a God to mourn their dead, 
 And vivify the corpse again; 
 But ne'er since man squandered Eden 
 On the fancy of a maiden. 
 Has he found the land of bliss. 

May be, after all, old Eden 
 Is wrapped within our meaner selves 
 Hid beneath our pride ard envy; 
 That the sword which us repels; 
 Is our secret wickedness: 
 Could we deftly lift the curtain 
 Which the cunning serpent draws, 
 Like the veil of night about us, 
 We would find that paradise. 
 Like a flower in winter, lies 
 'Neath the stubbles of our souls, 
 "So near and yet so far away". 
 For who has ever purged his heart, 
 Of all the guilt that in it lies, 
 Though the purging would impart 
 To him the bliss of paradise? 
 Who does not harbor in his breast 
 The fruitage of forbidden things 
 Culled from beauty's lips and heart. 
 And folded in between the leaves 
 Of memory's roll of reveries: 
 A charm, a hope, a dream! 

Whether truth, fancy or legend 
 Is what allures our faith through fears, 
 Let us hope beyond the shadows 
 Of this wilderness of tears. 
 We shall reach the blest dominion 
 That so long has failed us here; 
 Where our friends will cease to doubt us, 
 Where our foes will learn to love; 
 Still let's hope to find the Eden 
 Whence we wandered with our maiden; 
 If not here, beyond the bourn. 
 Let us hope life's pilgrimage. 
 Has some other goal than Hell; 
 Hope that we may find the glory. 
 Whence the first degenerate fell; 
 Hope to foil the shafts of envy; 
 Hope to sooth the pangs of pain; 
 Hope to find our dead are living; 
 Hope to find our living dead 
 To the errors time is weaving; 
 To lip service and deceiving 
 Hope to conquer death at last. 

The Jaunt, 

 SIRE and youth went out upon a jaunt, 
 Along a course as old, 'tis said, as time; 
 The scene was varied, beautiful, sublime; 
 None saw ne er landscape fairer nor was wont 
 And yet the course, with all its high blown vaunt, 
 Was but veneered fiction, still youth would climb 
 From vale and foot-hill to the mountain clime; 
 Fear could not check him, nor could danger daunt: 
 For hope and destiny, with mystic force. 
 Allured, and youth knew not that there lurked pain; 
 Yet how e'er fair the prospect, smoothe the course, 
 Few, who assension dare, can ever gain 
 The little hills of glory there hard by 
 The heights where Fame her plumage dips in sky. 
 They journeyed first a-down a verdured vale, 
 By sunny fountains, and by gurgling rills, 
 Where he amused himself by piping quills 
 To a fair damsel with a milking pail; 
 Then frowned the sire and at the youth did rail 
 Some suasive reprimand, and of the hills 
 Of fame would say, no man ascends who wills 
 To pipe his pibroch to a lover's tale; 
 Then youth, impatient, strolled alone and sire 
 Trailed after, like mother's hope, for he knew 
 The sure fatality of love's sweet lyre. 
 Then youth took winged ankles, swiftly flew 
 Unto the bowers of a floral grove, 
 Where Venus wooed him into dreams of love. 

 Umbrage and guile were there, and said "Ah friend. 
 The hope of fame's but fancy's fiction set 
 To the fitful music of life's calumet; 
 If you'd do well, be gay and happy, tend 
 The revelries and be content to spend 
 The time at song and laughter, and forget 
 The rampage of thy sire, just let him fret; 
 Ere you achieve life's honors: life will end: 
 The wise fret not but Jeast and let their mirth 
 Flood deep: for tomorrow shadows will be 
 Burdens, and hope a plague: the salt of earth 
 Is cheerfulness mixed with wit and levity, 
 No matter whether good or bad it be. 
 Cheer on, for mirth's a foil to destiny. 
 At this youth vvandered from the beaten way, 
 Piping his pibroch to a festive air; 
 The maid, her virginhood a-budding fair. 
 Forsook her kine, the mystic rounderlay 
 A-carrolling, and tripping like a Fay, 
 At love's enchantment, wended with him there. 
 Her breast a heave neath silken gauze, her hair 
 With myrtle wreathed, both passion drunk and gay, 
 Forgot the care and wisdom of their sire, 
 And all he ever taught them of the course. 
 Its lapse of righteous law, the strife and ire 
 And carnivals of crime, the vicious force 
 Upon the sense of innocence at large. 
 And never grant it respite nor discharge. 

 In such a plight the sire might well despair 
 Of converse with his wayward child; but he, 
 Still on the course did loiter long, to see 
 What late pedestrian would there repair; 
 But care possessed his soul and through his hair 
 Did nervous fingers dig his pate, to free 
 Its thought of virtue's ebb, and fate's decree. 
 Youth, spurning his solicitude and care, 
 Sang on, and danced in love's sensual haunt. 
 With Venus fair, until the gray dawn blushed 
 To crimson on the cheeks of morn; then gaunt 
 Did innocence lie on their wan brows, crushed 
 And wilted, like a wild rose on a stone; 
 And to his sire youth plied quibbles of his own. 
 Misogymy's dead world you fled, 'tis said. 
 With woman fair and fickle. Sire, and strolled 
 Along life's sunny side an ardent soul; 
 If not a reed you piped, 'twas that you played 
 A stringed instrument and to Venus laid 
 Your heart, a tribute unto her control. 
 And thought the drama brilliant when the roll 
 A master should have played, the buffo swayed: 
 So Sire, away till I've sown my "wild oats, " 
 And scythe, keen scythe, has mown the grain of mine; 
 Hold thou! thy tongue, my lord until the moats 
 In my eyes grow to beams like those in thine. 
 And then the two grew reckless in their thought. 
 And neither saw the other as he ought. 

 Then youth, a plunging heedless in the chase, 
 Went deeper down than honor e'er was wont 
 And lost his virtue in the dismal haunt. 
 Where vice and sloth doth chastity deface, 
 And love is but a license to disgrace. 
 What ever fair and gracious is; where gaunt 
 And reckless villians, shorn of shame, doth flaunt 
 Perfidy's triumph in the public place. 
 The lassie, lost to mother's love, and truth 
 Saw scenes where Grace had never placed her feet; 
 And at a time she knew not of, gay youth 
 Took wings and flew like beaming light, too fleet 
 For her, she sought the shades of solitude and yearned 
 For what age had taught her and she had spurned. 
 Many a Summer past them ere youth knew, 
 The purpose of his pilgrimage, and he. 
 Too often wayward, wilful, wild and free. 
 Returned unto the jaunt and would pursue 
 A wiser, if not better course; but few 
 Are those who do their childhood's errors flee; 
 They cling unto old customs and must be 
 Progressive in performing what they rue 
 The coquet, still a flirting, oft will feign, 
 Her waining summers are but budding springs, 
 And, in the realm of passion, long would reign 
 Where honor should preside o'er better things. 
 And later on, in wed-lock find that life. 
 Is noblest in the mother that's a wife. 

 Beware of women who are quoquetts, bard, 
 Their ruhng passion is a fatal dart, 
 Set to the fancy of sensual art, 
 Of zeal their souls are void, cold, sterile, hard. 
 The heart's vivacious flame in them is charred. 
 If they are old, and feign the maid, lose heart 
 And hope; for prone to drift from grace apart, 
 They'd crush the fervor of thy fond regard; 
 For, though they have refinement, graceand ease. 
 They have not love's enchantment nor its flame; 
 For they are outlawed by Hesperides, 
 Nor are, nor can be, ever more the same; 
 Bright, charming, gay; but neither wise nor good. 
 They are but shadows of their virginhood. 
 All who have seen them in their glory say 
 That men have rarely neath their sceptres passed, 
 Who did not feel that something awful massed 
 The passions carnal, in their souls; and they 
 Who fell not, look on that eventful day 
 As one, in which the fair dissemblers, masqued 
 As cherubim of light, were by them classed 
 Good friends immaculate, whom to inveigh 
 Wert madness; such were the whims of youth. 
 Who did the woman, fallen in her prime. 
 Adore; and, spurning virtue and fair truth, 
 Did hold the ways of wantonness sublime; 
 However much we chide them still they get 
 And dissipate our fortune while we fret. 

 And though you deem one gracious, fairer far 
 Than fabled nymph, or ought that lives in song, 
 Romance and drama, or the toilings long 
 Of art, at form and grace and charm — all are 
 But false conceptions of thy beauteous star. 
 She'll spurn thy hopes and will not right, but wrong, 
 Consider; free love's her realm; among 
 The sons of men her will doth often mar 
 Fortunes; passion is her sceptre; the ^reat 
 The good, the wise her prey; genius her toy; 
 Her smiles the gods doth conjure with and Fate, 
 Doth of her mien and beauty make decoy 
 For human souls: if life means aught to you, 
 Beware, lest her bewitchery you rue. 
 Thus spoke the sire, to youth, who knew the force 
 Of woman shorn of blessed chastity; 
 And then he masqued the boy, that he might n't see 
 And led him down a by-path from the course; 
 But on the ears of him, from its sweet source 
 Some rythmic music swept its cadency- 
 "A damsel shook her tambourine at me," 
 Said youth, and then a stupor, like morose 
 Was his; for him the music witched and haunted, 
 Soothing in melody, like chords in flight. 
 By some fair being touched^and love enchanted. 
 Sent wandering and echoing through night, 
 So well the temptor plays .lis subtle role 
 That they who on the by-path fall lose soul. 

 Then to the temple of the wise did age 
 Lead youth, and bade him with the muses mate 
 His soul, embelish and enrich his state 
 Of mind, and so enlarge his heritage. 
 That lucid wisdom might declare him sage; 
 And well the youth applied him long and late; 
 But ever and anon at wisdom's gate. 
 The song of sisters fallen rung; engage 
 Him as he would, with books, he could not part 
 With phantom beautiful, a woman's face, 
 Nor th' sweeter memoirs of his fickle heart; 
 So he, between his study and her grace. 
 Swung like a pendulum, in fitful doubt, 
 Till carnal passion won him and he spoke out: 
 Oh let the sage get what he can from books. 
 Divert from science and purloin fom lore, 
 All will but tax his energy the more. 
 Derange digestion and confound his cooks. 
 Where e'er his path of glory runs or crooks; 
 He'll find that mortals journeyed there before, 
 And found what he shall find on evVy shore; 
 The more he learns, the more the sage he looks. 
 The more he shows the same old grooves he treads 
 That fate allures him with the same old charms. 
 And gives him little else besides life's shreds; 
 The gold he hoards, his princely fees and farms, 
 All that fortune brings him, might commands. 
 Tomorrow fate will place in other hands. 

 It matters little who the tensures hold. 
 Who vassal is, who peasant, lord, or king; 
 Whether we laugh, or we weep, or we sing; 
 As we climb the heights, or go down the wold, 
 When Youth is fervent, or when Age is cold. 
 We grow immortal if we simply cling 
 To self denial and will kindly fling 
 Charity's mantle o'er the wilful souled; 
 He who goes thus to the end of his cord, 
 With which environment encumbers him, 
 To aid the fallen of mankind, is lord 
 Superior to him whose law, is whim; 
 Whose hope, is pedigree; whose God, is Caste, 
 Though his grace were crowned with dominions vast. 
 They sat them then upon a mossy stone. 
 Where glances of the eye could sweep the plain, 
 And Youth gave ear to him, who did explain, 
 The strife of those who before had gone, 
 To fame and glory, or oblivion: 
 How small the glory and how great the pain. 
 Of those who strive for opulency's vain 
 Pomp and show; how little their deeds atone. 
 The evil done, the paupers they have made 
 Of happy childhood and decrepid age, 
 That lucre might prance 'neath a gay cockade: 
 Tyranny have its minions, pomp its page 
 And avaricious misers hoard the coin. 
 They from the innocent and just purloin. 

 While thus their light and happy discourse ran, 
 A hag came riding in a peddler's cart, 
 Drawn by a filly to the pnblic mart. 
 The hag was old, the filly for a clan 
 Of robers fit, or bold equestrian; 
 A horse she needed that was sure in start. 
 And not a filly that would jump and dart. 
 And prance and gallop in a trading van: 
 And sure there came a man with steed for trade, 
 That sturdy was, road-proof and bridle wise; 
 Ne'er had he shied and ne'er a balk had made. 
 Her nag she swapped with him; and what surprise: 
 The steed she gst had lost its eyes, its speed 
 Was ox-like and its urgent want was feed. 
 The villain mounted, on the filly fled. 
 Nor looked he back, nor cared how ill her luck, 
 Nor in the mire how fast the hag was stuck, 
 Who o'er her filly's loss, lamenting, said, 
 "I wish the filly and the rogue were dead," 
 Then fell to nagging at the maimed old buck. 
 Till she forgot and in her anger struck 
 Him a blow so hard, on his dense old head. 
 He fell the carcass of a quadruped; 
 And then she journeyed o'er the course unknown. 
 Morose, unpitted and disquieted. 
 With nothing on earth she could call her own, 
 Brought from the harvesting of human strife 
 But steedless apple cart and such is life. 

 As was the hag with filly, steed and cart. 
 So is it with whoever journeys here, 
 Whatever his endeavor, hope or fear, 
 In the contest at arms, the toils of art 
 Or barter and trade in the world's great mart; 
 In heart affairs, be it laughter and cheer, 
 Or what is better still, staunching a tear 
 A-drip from rupture in a stranded heart, 
 No matter which, experience alone 
 Is the supreme tutor of human thought; 
 With all the learning of the schools one's own, 
 Still he's a simpleton, who has not caught 
 The inspiration which contact brings, 
 To him who rubs elbows with serfs and kings. 
 On youth the sire looked wistfully and smiled, 
 Wondering whence his wisdom came and he, 
 But yesterday a child, had grown to be 
 Pensived souled; and, sore of waywardness, whiled 
 Away the time; his mind, now unbeguiled. 
 At issue on the void; 'twix bound and free; 
 Why all who labor should not earn the fee 
 Of freemen; and, toiling, be undefiled 
 By odium, caste and greed, miscalled fate, 
 By men who feed their maws upon the hard 
 Earned wage of honest toil; degenerate 
 And fallen must he be who the award 
 Of serfdom does not spurn, though wide gaped hell 
 Him to coerce and he with Satan fell. 

 Standing upon an eminence, they saw 
 As far beyond as mortal eye could scan, 
 Upon a plain, a myriad host that ran, 
 To and fro, its confines, to hum and haw. 
 And hesitate twix anarchy and law; 
 The vile negation fixed on the hide of man, 
 The vagaries of parties, sex and clan, 
 Where despotism's power sways to awe 
 The weaker man, by terror into thrall; 
 "It ever has and ever will be so, " 
 Said he to Youth, "If I aright recall, 
 Man is the prey of man the wide world o'er 
 Since Cain hid Able in the sand and fled 
 The stark, cold visage of a brother dead. 
 They now were well advanced upon the way. 
 Some forty leagues or more, and youth would fain 
 Of his companion's further discourse gain 
 Intelligence about the course, which lay 
 Before them still, a theatre where play 
 The great and petty lords of earth, with vain 
 Hope; there humanity, an ebbless main. 
 Floods on, and on, "Forever and a day," 
 The meed of its pursuit the same old toys, 
 Wealth, greed and power; or the tyrant's stroke 
 That makes of weaklings slaves, or them destroys; 
 Let him whose soul is weak accept the yoke. 
 Unhinge thp knee and kiss the liand that smites. 
 And grope the vassal shorn of human rights. 

 But he who feels his sou! within him yearn 
 To fly his thrall, and flying, sound alarm, 
 That laggards cow'ringmay have never calm; 
 And he who'd vassals into freemen turn, 
 Dethrone a tyrant and his minions spurn. 
 Should shield his soul against the dread of harm; 
 Should agitate the mass, direct the storm. 
 Until the hearts of patriots should burn, 
 Struck by the thunderbolt of righteous cause. 
 Youth, put thou thy frivolities aside. 
 Learn of Divinity's eternal laws, 
 That there's no question what the fates decide; 
 Though ne'er so frail the bark, nor rough the sea. 
 The fiat is, sail on or cease to be. 
 Far out upon the plain the youth could see 
 An old cathedral lift its burnished spire, 
 Agleam into the sky. "Aye tell me sire. 
 The story of yon pile of masonry?" 
 He shook his hoary locks and sighed, "Ah me:" 
 The record there's a tale of tense desire. 
 There neither truth, nor faith nor hope aspire 
 Longer to light man to his destiny; 
 Full many and many an age has flown. 
 So run the annals of that pile of stone. 
 Since man for solace to its pews has gone. 
 With faith in creed and tenets there; 'tis known 
 The creeds are spurned, and yet some feign belief 
 While in their conscience they but malice sheath. 

 But there in olden time the curfew rung 
 Its calm and rythmic melody, and there 
 A-weary did the peasant kneel in prayer; 
 And there the priesthood in its glory rung 
 The heart of might, and greed and wealth, and sung 
 Te-Deum airs, kings and vassals together there 
 With woman beautiful, glorious, fair. 
 Repaired, the penitential host among. 
 To the confessional; 'twas the vica's reign; 
 And well his highness did the sceptre wield. 
 Between the mighty and the poor, the fane. 
 Then arbiter of empire, hung a shield; 
 For whoever worshipped there, great or small, 
 Lost both, his caste distinction and his thrall 
 By its grace judges at their trials swore. 
 And Justice did at its behest declare, 
 "Betwixt a shadow and a shade, " the tare 
 Of Equiiy and Law, and further more 
 Tis said, its chalice, pews and altars bore 
 The majesty of fate; and glory there 
 Beamed like a diadem in beauty's hair; 
 And to humanity the wide world o'er 
 The simple tenets of the place have been, 
 So all tradition and the records tell, 
 That liberty and life is the right of man; 
 Except when some infamous fiend of hell, 
 Escaping thence, has marred the common good 
 Of our own God-created brotherhood. 

 And there, in that majestic pile, was taught, 
 That our Creator, the eternal God, 
 Did make us from some simple bit of sod, 
 Regarding not the clay in which he wrought. 
 Whether it was muck of chaos, or ought 
 Else that then was inanimate, 'twas clod 
 Whicn took its being from Jehovah's nod 
 And moved a living soul; in its own thought 
 The first progenitor of human kind; 
 That mother. Eve, "Creations master-piece," 
 Did from his fancy spring endowed with mind, 
 And with the glory of the world's increase 
 So charged, that all the races of the earth 
 Their lineage doth reckon from her birth. 
 Forgetting he is one of transcient things. 
 Blind to his commonage and mystic love 
 Which placed him in his order nich above 
 The worn, vain man, grown haughty, proud, now springs 
 A petty god, and, gorged with pillage, sings 
 Of his own prowess, until the fleet wing'd dove 
 Of peace flies this unhappy vale, to move 
 Henceforth and forever on restless wings. 
 Contemned by man: he who is himself the law 
 Dethrones justice, and doth the virtues spurn; 
 And that he might some humbler brother awe 
 Into his service, oft fiend-like, doth burn 
 Some fellow mortal at the stake, and by 
 Caste makes the bench, as the shrine his ally. 

 For, so I take it, none will dare deny. 
 That there's a cism, as well as caste in church; 
 The pew and pulpit have a sep'rate perch. 
 They like dissension, and my, my, my! 
 When it comes to a fellow man, how they do lurch 
 And on the tangent fly, squirm o'er and smirch 
 Beatitude with vile hypocricy; 
 And of self-righteousness together vie 
 In feigning love to God: yet spurn the test, 
 Which says you love not him you've never seen, 
 While spurning fellow mortals from your breast: 
 It's in the ethics of the Nazarene, 
 They come the surest to the mercy seat, 
 Who !ove the people whom they daily meet. 
 The passion service of our Lord no more 
 Reminds men now that He will come again, 
 Nor does it show the anguish, care and pain 
 Of Him whose sacred heart for mortals bore 
 The sin accumulations of the sore. 
 Deluded wanderers from Eden's reign, 
 Who prostitute the sacraments with vain 
 Display; they who around the altar soar 
 In fashion's garb, love not the mystic shrine; 
 They congregate and babble there, not prayer. 
 But quibs of fashion while they sip the wine. 
 And claim God's mercy, since they there repair; 
 While sitting on the altar, cheek-by-jowl. 
 Devil and parson barter human soul. 

 And there hard by the old cathedral stands, 
 An edifice of grandeur with a dome; 
 Tell me what ruler, sire, made that his home; 
 What of his passions, prowess, tenures, lands; 
 What people came and went at his commands, 
 In the olden times, ere he had passed to loam? 
 Ah, youte! Your query bids my mem'ry roam 
 Across a dreary waste of shifting sands; 
 A mighty ^eople they, who tribute paid 
 The lord of yon old castle in its prime; 
 But he, as well as they, have long since laid 
 His glory by with th' annals of his time, 
 Which show that he, of old, was held to be 
 A shield for high and low, for bond and free. 
 From time immemorial, the ruler there 
 Was king, and lord and vassal too; and high 
 From his exalted state he cast the die 
 That wrecked a throne, or made a crown; still where 
 A tyrant would have murdered, he heard prayer, 
 And then he'd put the sceptre's terror by 
 And clemency, its brighter glory, try 
 On penitent souls; yet withal, the fair. 
 The mean, the low, the opulent and grand — 
 ^^ hoever stood before him, king or serf. 
 No matter which, nor what his native land, 
 His prime anatomy he held but earth. 
 With all the rank and file of human kind, 
 With him, man's fitness came from upright mind. 

 And Themis was his patron, and his reign 
 O'er all man's civic glory was sublime; 
 The soul of virtue and the ban of crime, 
 He neither winked at felony, nor feign'd 
 Friendship to vassals while he gave them pain; 
 He took them as they came, from time to time. 
 Upon the records of their manhood's prime; 
 To fix a right 'twix man and man, he fain 
 Would storm a citidel, or spurn a crown; 
 Unknown to quibbles and to factions blind. 
 Caste was a fiction he could never Ovvn; 
 The soul of equity by him defined. 
 Excluded favor, pedigree and blood. 
 As blights destructive of the public good. 
 Because of his imperial bent of mind. 
 His erudition and his lofty poise. 
 Aversion to vain glory's pompous noise; 
 And the ease with which he did of logic find. 
 The motive of an act and hope combined; 
 Just what was sterling worth, and what alloys, 
 That filled the measure of their carnal joys. 
 Men called him siern, inexorable and blind: 
 But Justice was his name, the law his shield, 
 And, say the legends of his time and age. 
 So long as Justice did the sceptre wield. 
 Men felt no terrors of a tyrant's rage; 
 But on a fatal day for them, bold caste 
 Did Themis rape and Justice strayed outcast. 

 Why further scan the annals of the vile, 
 Since riddle seems to mystify the light; 
 And often crime is reckoned to be right, 
 When innocense it plunders to defile: 
 And Youth, the prey of vanity and guile. 
 Must die and age live on: by day, by night, 
 Harrassing soul till time and wear unplight 
 The heart? Why not let weary spirit file 
 Into the vista of the years that make 
 Eternity? Why not the curtains fall, 
 Since youth is gone and whither none can break 
 Intelligence, nor ever him recall? 
 For he comes not back when he and the sage 
 Jaunt down two score years of their pilgrimags. 
 But hear his low soliloquy you may, 
 'Far, far away, in the land of dream and hope, 
 What leisure Time did gently take; to mope 
 And play the truant seemed his wont, delay 
 His virtue was, minority a stay 
 With which he vexed wild youth, a fetter rope 
 That held captive, so ne'er a sunbeam oped 
 The morn, but Time would dally it away, 
 So it seemed; but at forty, when I fain 
 Would rest. Time flew, fleet as a beam of light; 
 Then 'twas the flight of Time did give me pain, 
 How pitiless is Time! When I gloried in flight, 
 He bade me climb; now, old, lame and blind, 
 He bids me pace it with the rushing wind. 

 "Seeking repose, 1 slept, awoke and found 
 I d fifty summers gone, gone like a dream, 
 Ah me! how brief, huw silently they teem; 
 The years at fifty, winged years, that wound 
 The pages of youth's blotted scroll and bound 
 It to inertia, whence my foe, supreme 
 Nemesis comes, chanting a doleful theme, 
 The advent of Fate, and bids me with her sound 
 The requiem of all my hopes, or fiud 
 Glory in reminiscences of things 
 That were: but now, plumeless and bare, behind 
 IVIe lie the broken pinions of Fancy's wings 
 Where memory journeys in her pensive mood 
 To sit upon the tomb of youth and brood." 


 Again, Kiss Me 99 
 Alice 83 
 Baby Darling 75 
 Brother, John My 95 
 Caste, Lines to 14 
 Country, My 1 
 Deeds vs. Assessment Rolls 23 
 Delight, My 101 
 Divorce, John Marshall's 41 
 Eulelia 10 
 Forgiven 31 
 Home, When Truth Comes 61 
 Home, Driving The Cattle 65 
 Highland-Buckingham 87 
 Irene 27 
 lona, Lines to 57 
 Jaunt, The 129 
 Nicknames 105 
 Love, The That Would Not Keep 19 
 Lees, The Haven of the 4 
 Million, If I Had 45 
 Onward 71 
 Remington My 79 
 Sovereign, The 113 
 Sleepy Corner 119 
 Thorn, The * 53 
 Shady Side, The 35 
 Woman, For a .- 124 

 Where the Cattle Roam 2 
 Euleha 9 
 Reading My Brief 20 
 Irene „ 24 
 Under the Apple Trees 46 
 A Bonny Girl 48 
 The Old, Familiar Ways 50 
 lona : ^ 55 
 The Lassie 69 
 The Typewriter 77 
 Alice 85 
 John : 92 
 John's Mansion 93 
 Pleading for a Kiss 96 
 Sam, the Garbager 121 
 The Wife 133 

 The 5th word in 13th line oi Introduction is "voice." 
 The 1st word in 8th Hne on page 5 is "weHing," not wielding 
 The 1st word in 2nd line on page 27 is "Time," not me. 
 "I" is omitted in 12th line on page 28. 
 The 4th word of 3rd line on page 125 is "tomes," not 
 The 3rd word ir 6th line ol 2nd stanza, page 125, is 
 "Prince," not Price. 
 The 3rd 'yvord in the 9th line of the Sonet in the Preface 
 should be 's. 
 The 6th word in the 8th line, page 101, is "contemplate." 
 There should be more space between "it" and "may" in 3rd 
 line, page 19. 
 The last word in 1st line of page 63 is "fane." 
 The 5th word in 6th line, last stanza, page 67, is "comes." 
 The 5th word in 13th line of the Introduction is "voice.'