Hoosier Lyrics Part 7

A better patron non est-- Come, quaff my home-made Sabine wine-- You'll find it poor but honest.

I put it up that famous day You patronized the ballet And the public cheered you such a way As shook your native valley.

Caecuban and the Calean brand May elsewhere claim attention, But I have none of these on hand-- For reasons I'll not mention.

_ENVOY._

So come! though favors I bestow Can not be called extensive, Who better than my friend should know That they're, at least, expensive!

HORACE II, 7.

Pompey, what fortune gives you back To the friends and the G.o.ds who love you-- Once more you stand in your native land, With your native sky above you!

Ah, side by side, in years agone, We've faced tempestuous weather, And often quaffed The genial draft From an amphora together!

When honor at Phillippi fell A pray to brutal pa.s.sion, I regret to say that my feet ran away In swift Iambic fas.h.i.+on; You were no poet-soldier born, You staid, nor did you wince then-- Mercury came To my help, which same Has frequently saved me since then.

But now you're back, let's celebrate In the good old way and cla.s.sic-- Come, let us lard our skins with nard And bedew our souls with Ma.s.sic!

With fillets of green parsley leaves Our foreheads shall be done up, And with song shall we Protract our spree Until the morrow's sun-up.

HORACE I, 11.

Seek not, Lucome, to know how long you're going to live yet-- What boons the G.o.ds will yet withhold, or what they're going to give yet; For Jupiter will have his way, despite how much we worry-- Some will hang on for many a day and some die in a hurry, The wisest thing for you to do is to embark this diem Upon a merry escapade with some such bard as I am; And while we sport, I'll reel you off such odes as shall surprise ye-- To-morrow, when the headache comes--well, then I'll satirize ye!

HORACE I, 13.

When, Lydia, you (once fond and true, But now grown cold and supercilious) Praise Telly's charms of neck and arms-- Well, by the dog! it makes me bilious!

Then, with despite, my cheeks wax white, My doddering brain gets weak and giddy, My eyes o'erflow with tears which show That pa.s.sion melts my vitals, Liddy!

Deny, false jade, your escapade, And, lo! your wounded shoulders show it!

No manly spark left such a mark-- (Leastwise he surely was no poet!)

With savage buss did Telephus Abraid your lips, so plump and mellow-- As you would save what Venus gave, I charge you shun that awkward fellow!

And now I say thrice happy they That call on Hymen to requite 'em; For, though love cools, the wedded fools Must cleave 'till death doth disunite 'em!

HORACE IV, 1.

O Mother Venus, quit, I pray, Your violent a.s.sailing; The arts, forsooth, that fired my youth At last are unavailing-- My blood runs cold--I'm getting old And all my powers are failing!

Speed thou upon thy white swan's wings And elsewhere deign to mellow With my soft arts the anguished hearts Of swain that writhe and bellow; And right away, seek out, I pray, Young Paullus--he's your fellow.

You'll find young Paullus pa.s.sing fate, Modest, refined, and toney-- Go, now, incite the favored wight!

With Venus for a crony.

He'll outs.h.i.+ne all at feast and ball And conversazione!

Then shall that G.o.dlike nose of thine With perfumes be requited, And then shall prance in Salian dance The girls and boys delighted, And, while the lute blends with the flute, Shall tender loves be blighted.

But as for me--as you can see-- I'm getting old and spiteful; I have no mind to female kind That once I deemed delightful-- No more brim up the festive cup That sent me home at night full.

Why do I falter in my speech, O cruel Ligurine?

Why do I chase from place to place In weather wet and s.h.i.+ny?

Why down my nose forever flows The tear that's cold and briny?

HORACE TO HIS PATRON.

Maecenas, you're of n.o.ble line-- (Of which the proof convincing Is that you buy me all my wine Without so much as wincing.)

To different men of different minds Come different kinds of pleasure; There's Marshall Field--what joy he finds In shears and cloth-yard measure!

With joy Prof. Swing is filled While preaching G.o.dly sermons; With bliss is Hobart Taylor thrilled When he is leading germans.

While Uncle Joe Medill prefers To run a daily paper, To Walter Gresham it occurs That law's the proper caper.

With comedy a winning card, How blithe is Richard Hooley; Per contra, making soap and lard, Rejoices Fairbank duly.

While Armour in the sugar ham His summum bonum reaches, MacVeagh's as happy as a clam In canning pears and peaches.

Let Farwell glory in the fray Which party hate increases-- His son-in-law delights to play Gavottes and such like pieces.

So each betakes him to his task-- So each his hobby nurses-- While I--well, all the boon I ask Is leave to write my verses.

Give, give that precious boon to me And I shall envy no man; If not the n.o.blest I shall be At least the happiest Roman!