Hoosier Lyrics Part 2

VI.

Lo, as these mighty prodigies the westerner relates, Her pretty mouth falls wide agape--her eyes get big as plates; And when he speaks of varmints that in the Rockies grow She shudders and she clings to him and timidly cries "Oh!"

And then says he: "Dear Susie, I'll tell you what to do-- You be my wife, and none of these 'ere things dare pester you!"

And she? She answers, clinging close and trembling yet: "I will."

And then he gives her one big kiss, does Penn-Yan Bill.

VII.

Avaunt, ye poet lovers, with your wishywashy lays!

Avaunt, ye solemn pedants, with your musty, bookish ways!

Avaunt, ye smurking dandies who air your etiquette Upon the gold your fathers worked so long and hard to get!

How empty is your nothingness beside the st.u.r.dy tales Which mountaineers delight to tell of border hills and vales-- Of snaix that crawl, of beasts that yowl, of birds that flap and trill In the wild egregious alt.i.tude of Penn-Yan Bill.

VIII.

Why, over all these mountain peaks his honest feet have trod-- So high above the rest of us he seemed to walk with G.o.d; He's breathed the breath of heaven, as it floated, pure and free, From the everlasting snow-caps to the mighty western sea; And he's heard that awful silence which thunders in the ear: "There is a great Jehovah, and His biding place is here!"

These--these solemn voices and these the sights that thrill In the far-away Montana of Penn-Yan Bill.

IX.

Of course she had to love him, for it was her nature to; And she'll wed him in the summer, if all we hear be true.

The blue gra.s.s will be waving in that cool Kentucky glade Where the black-eyed Susans cl.u.s.ter in the pleasant walnut shade-- Where the doves make mournful music and the locust trills a song To the brook that through the pasture scampers merrily along; And speechless pride and rapture ineffable shall fill The beatific bosom of Penn-Yan Bill!

ED.

Ed was a man that played for keeps, 'nd when he tuk the notion, You cudn't stop him any more'n a dam 'ud stop the ocean; For when he tackled to a thing 'nd sot his mind plum to it, You bet yer boots he done that thing though it broke the bank to do it!

So all us boys uz knowed him best allowed he wusn't jokin'

When on a Sunday he remarked uz how he'd gin up smokin'.

Now this remark, that Ed let fall, fell, ez I say, on Sunday-- Which is the reason we wuz shocked to see him sail in Monday A-puffin' at a snipe that sizzled like a Chinese cracker An' smelt fur all the world like rags instead uv like terbacker; Recoverin' from our first surprise, us fellows fell to pokin'

A heap uv fun at "folks uz said how they had gin up smokin'."

But Ed--sez he: "I found my work cud not be done without it-- Jes' try the scheme yourself, my friends, ef any uv you doubt it!

It's hard, I know, upon one's health, but there's a certain beauty In makin' sackerfices to the stern demand uv duty!

So, wholly in a sperrit uv denial 'nd concession I mortify the flesh 'nd fur the sake uv my perfession!"

HOW SALTY WIN OUT.

Used to think that luck wuz luck and nuthin' else but luck-- It made no diff'rence how or when or where or why it struck; But sev'ral years ago I changt my mind and now proclaim That luck's a kind uv science--same as any other game; It happened out in Denver in the spring uv '80, when Salty teched a humpback an' win out ten.

Salty wuz a printer in the good ol' Tribune days, An', natural-like, he fell in love with the good ol' Tribune ways; So, every Sunday evenin' he would sit into the game Which in this crowd uv thoroughbreds I think I need not name; An' there he'd sit until he rose, an', when he rose he wore Invariably less wealth about his person than before.

But once there come a powerful change; one sollum Sunday night Occurred the tidle wave what put ol' Salty out o' sight!

He win on deuce an' ace an' jack--he win on king an' queen-- Cliff Bill allowed the like uv how he win wuz never seen!

An' how he done it wuz revealed to all us fellers when He said he teched a humpback to win out ten.

There must be somethin' in it for he never win afore, An' when he tole the crowd about the humpback, how they swore!

For every sport allows it is a losin' game to buck Agin the science of a man who's teched a hump f'r luck; An' there is no denyin' luck was nowhere in it when Salty teched a humpback an' win out ten.

I've had queer dreams an' seen queer things, an' allus tried to do The thing that luck apparrently intended f'r me to; Cats, funerils, cripples, beggars have I treated with regard, An' charity subscriptions have hit me powerful hard; But what's the use uv talkin'? I say, an' say again; You've got to tech a humpback to win out ten!

So, though I used to think that luck wuz lucky, I'll allow That luck, for luck, agin a hump ain't nowhere in it now!

An' though I can't explain the whys an' wherefores, I maintain There must be somethin' in it when the tip's so straight an' plain; For I wuz there an' seen it, an' got full with Salty when Salty teched a humpback and win out ten!

HIS QUEEN.

Our gifted and genial friend, Mr. William J. Florence, the comedian, takes to verses as naturally as a canvas-back duck takes to celery sauce. As a balladist he has few equals and no superiors, and when it comes to weaving compliments to the gentler s.e.x he is without a peer. We find in the New York Mirror the latest verses from Mr. Florence's pen; they are ent.i.tled "Pasadene," and the first stanza flows in this wise:

I've journeyed East, I've journeyed West, And fair Italia's fields I've seen; But I declare None can compare With thee, my rose-crowned Pasadene.

Following this introduction come five stanzas heaping even more glowing compliments upon this Miss Pasadene--whoever she may be--we know her not. They are handsome compliments, beautifully phrased, yet they give us the heartache, for we know Mrs. Florence, and it grieves us to see her husband dribbling away his superb intellect in penning verses to other women. Yet we think we understand it all; these poets have a pretty way of hymning the virtues of their wives under divers aliases.

So, catching the afflatus of the genial actor-poet's muse, we would answer:

Come, now, who is this Pasadene That such a whirl of praises warrant?

And is a rose Her only clo'es?

Oh, fie upon you, Billy Florence!

Ah, no; that's your poetic way Of turning loose your rhythmic torrents-- This Pasadene Is not your queen-- We know you know we know it, Florence!

So sing your songs of women folks-- We'll read without the least abhorrence, Because we know Through weal and woe Your queen is Mrs. Billy Florence!

ALASKAN BALLADRY.--III.

(Skans in Love.)

I am like the wretched seal Wounded by a barbed device-- Helpless fellow! how I bellow, Floundering on the jagged ice!

Sitka's beauty is the steel That hath wrought this piteous woe: Yet would I rather die Than recover from the blow!

Still I'd rather live than die, Grievous though my torment be; Smite away, but, I pray, Smite no victim else than me!