Hoosier Lyrics Part 14

(From the German of C. Herlossohn.)

I shall tell you in rhyme how, once on a time, Three tailors tramped up to the Inn Ingleheim On the Rhine--lovely Rhine; They were broke, but, the worst of it all, they were curst With that malady common to tailors--a thirst For wine--lots of wine!

"Sweet host," quoth the three, "we're as hard up as can be, Yet skilled in the practice of cunning are we On the Rhine--genial Rhine; And we pledge you we will impart you that skill Right quickly and fully, providing you'll fill Us with wine--cooling wine!"

But that host shook his head, and warily said: "Though cunning be good, we take money instead, On the Rhine--thrifty Rhine; If ye fancy ye may without pelf have your way You'll find there's both host and the devil to pay For your wine--costly wine!"

Then the first knavish wight took his needle so bright And threaded its eye with a wee ray of light From the Rhine--sunny Rhine; And in such a deft way patched a mirror that day That where it was mended no expert could say-- Done so fine--'twas for wine!

The second thereat spied a poor little gnat Go toiling along on his nose broad and flat Toward the Rhine--pleasant Rhine; "Aha, tiny friend, I should hate to offend, But your stockings need darning," which same did he mend, All for wine--soothing wine!

And next there occurred what you'll deem quite absurd-- His needle a s.p.a.ce in the wall thrust the third, By the Rhine--wondrous Rhine; And then, all so spry, he leapt through the eye Of that thin cambric needle; nay, think you I'd lie About wine? Not for wine!

The landlord allowed (with a smile) he was proud To do the fair thing by that talented crowd On the Rhine--generous Rhine!

So a thimble filled he as full as could be; "Drink long and drink hearty, my jolly guests three, Of my wine--filling wine!"

MORNING HYMN.

I'd dearly love to tear my hair And romp around a bit, For I am mad enough to swear Since Brother Chauncy quit.

I am so vilely p.r.o.ne to sin-- Vain ribald that I am-- I'd take a hideous pleasure in Just one prodigious "d.a.m.n."

But shall I yield to Satan's wiles And let my pa.s.sions swell?

Nay, I will wreath my face in smiles, And mock the powers of h.e.l.l.

And howsoever pride may roll Its billows through my frame, I'll not condemn my precious soul Unto the quenchless flame!

But rather will I humbly pray Divinity to wash From out my mouth such words away As "Jiminy" and "Gosh."

DOCTORS.

'Tis quite the thing to say and sing Gross libels on the doctor-- To picture him an ogre grim Or humbug-pill concocter; Yet it's in quite another light My friendly pen would show him-- Glad that it might with verse repay Some part of what I owe him!

When one's all right he's p.r.o.ne to spite The doctor's peaceful mission; But, when he's sick, it's loud and quick He bawls for a physician!

With other things the doctor brings Sweet babes our hearts to soften; Though I have four, I pine for more-- Good doctor, pray, come often!

What though he sees death and disease Run riot all around him, Patient and true, and valorous, too-- Such have I always found him!

Where'er he goes he soothes our woes, And, when skill's unavailing And death is near, his words of cheer Support our courage failing.

In ancient days they used to praise The G.o.dlike art of healing; An art that then engaged all men Possessed of sense and feeling; Why, Raleigh--he was glad to be Famed for a quack elixir, And Digby sold (as we are told) A charm for folk love-sick, sir!

Napoleon knew a thing or two, And clearly he was partial To doctors, for, in time of war, He chose one for marshal, In our great cause a doctor was The first to pa.s.s death's portal, And Warren's name at once became A beacon and immortal!

A heap, indeed, of what we read By doctors is provided, For to those groves Apollo loves Their leaning is decided; Deny who may that Rabelais Is first in wit and learning-- And yet all smile and marvel while His brilliant leaves they're turning.

How Lever's pen has charmed all men-- How touching Rab's short story!

And I will stake my all that Drake Is still the schoolboy's glory!

A doctor-man it was began Great Britain's great museum; The treasures there are all so rare, It drives me wild to see 'em!

There's Cuvier, Parr and Rush--they are Big monuments to learning; To Mitch.e.l.l's prose (how smooth it flows!) We all are fondly turning; Tomes might be writ of that keen wit Which Abernethy's famed for-- With bread-crumb pills he cured the ills Most doctors get blamed for!

In modern times the n.o.ble rhymes Of Holmes (a great physician!) Have solace brought and wisdom taught To hearts of all conditions.

The sailor bound for Puget sound Finds pleasure still unfailing, If he but troll the barcarole Old Osborne wrote on Whaling!

If there were need I could proceed Ad naus, with this prescription, But, inter nos, a larger dose Might give you fits conniption; Yet, ere I end, there's one dear friend I'd hold before these others, For he and I in years gone by, Have chummed around like brothers.

Together we have sung in glee The songs old Horace made for Our genial craft--together quaffed What bowls that doctor paid for!

I love the rest, but love him best, And, were not times so pressing, I'd buy and send--you smile, old friend?

Well, then, here goes my blessing.

BEN APFELGARTEN.

There was a certain gentleman, Ben Apfelgarten called, Who lived way off in Germany a many years ago, And he was very fortunate in being very bald, And so was very happy he was so.

He warbled all the day Such songs as only they Who are very, very circ.u.mspect and very happy may; The people wondered why, As the years went grinding by, They never heard him once complain or even heave a sigh!

The women of the province fell in love with genial Ben, Till (maybe you can fancy it) the d.i.c.kens was to pay Among the callow students and the sober-minded men-- With the women folk a-cuttin' up that way!

Why, they gave him turbans red To adorn his hairless head, And knitted jaunty nightcaps to protect him when abed!

In vain the rest demurred-- Not a single chiding word Those ladies deigned to tolerate--remonstrance was absurd!

Things finally got into such a very dreadful way That the others (oh, how artful!) formed the politic design To send him to the reichstag; so, one dull November day They elected him a member from the Rhine!

Then the other members said: "Gott in Himmel; what a head!"

But they marveled when his speeches they listened to or read; And presently they cried: "There must be heaps inside Of the smooth and s.h.i.+ny cranium his const.i.tuents deride!"

Well, when at last he up 'nd died--long past his ninetieth year-- The strangest and the most luguberous funeral he had, For women came in mult.i.tudes to weep upon his bier-- The men all wond'ring why on earth the women had gone mad!

And this wonderment increased, Till the sympathetic priest Inquired of those same ladies: "Why this fuss about deceased?"

Whereupon they were appalled, For, as one, those women squalled: "We doted on deceased for being bald--bald--bald!"

He was bald because his genius burnt that shock of hair away, Which, elsewise, clogs one's keenness and activity of mind, And (barring present company, of course,) I'm free to say That, after all, it's intellect that captures woman-kind.

At any rate, since then (With a precedent in Ben), The women-folk have been in love with us bald-headed men!

IN HOLLAND.