Hoosier Lyrics Part 9

Said he: "The stanchest, truest friend We have is Whitelaw Reid!

"There are no terms we can suggest That he will not concede; He is converted to our faith, Is gallant Whitelaw Reid!

"The union it must be preserved-- That is this convert's creed, And that is why we're whooping up The cause of Whitelaw Reid!"

"If what you say of him be sooth, You have a friend indeed, So go on your winding way," quoth I, "And whoop for Whitelaw Reid!"

So on unto the polls I saw That printer straight proceed While other printers swarmed in swarms To vote for Whitelaw Reid.

A VALENTINE.

Four little sisters standing in a row-- Which of them I love best I really do not know.

Sometimes it is the sister dressed out so fine in blue, And sometimes she who flaunts the beauteous robe of emerald hue; Sometimes for her who wears the brown my tender heart has bled, And then again I am consumed of love for her in red.

So now I think I'll send this valentine unto the four-- I love them all so very much--how could a man do more?

KISSING-TIME.

'Tis when the lark goes soaring, And the bee is at the bud, When lightly dancing zephyrs Sing over field and flood; When all sweet things in Nature Seem joyfully a-chime-- 'Tis then I wake my darling, For it is kissing-time!

Go, pretty lark, a-soaring, And suck your sweets, O bee; Sing, O ye winds of summer, Your songs to mine and me.

For with your song and rapture Cometh the moment when It is half-past kissing-time And time to kiss again!

So--so the days go fleeting Like golden fancies free, And every day that cometh Is full of sweets for me; And sweetest are those moments My darling comes to climb Into my lap to mind me That it is kissing-time.

Sometimes, may be, he wanders A heedless, aimless way-- Sometimes, may be, he loiters In pretty, prattling play; But presently bethinks him And hastens to me then, For it's half-past kissing time And time to kiss again!

THE FIFTH OF JULY.

The sun climbs up, but still the tyrant Sleep Holds fast our baby boy in his embrace; The slumb'rer sighs, anon athwart his face Faint, half-suggested frowns like shadows creep, One little hand lies listless on his breast, One little thumb sticks up with mute appeal, While motley burns and powder marks reveal The fruits of boyhood's patriotic zest.

Our baby's faithful poodle crouches near-- He, too, is weary of the din and play That come with glorious Independence Day, But which, thank G.o.d! come only once a year!

And Fido, too, has suffered in this cause, Which once a year right noisily obtains, For Fido's tail--or what thereof remains-- Is not so fair a sight as once it was.

PICNIC-TIME.

It's June agin, an' in my soul I feel the fillin' joy That's sure to come this time o' year to every little boy; For, every June, the Sunday schools at picnics may be seen, Where "fields beyont the swellin' floods stand dressed in livin'

green."

Where little girls are skeered to death with spiders, bugs an' ants, An' little boys get gra.s.s-stains on their go-to-meetin' pants.

It's June agin, an' with it all what happiness is mine-- There's goin' to be a picnic an' I'm goin' to jine!

One year I jined the Baptists, an' goodness! how it rained!

(But grampa says that that's the way "Baptizo" is explained.) And once I jined the 'piscopils an' had a heap o' fun-- But the boss of all the picnics was the Presbyterium!

They had so many puddin's, sallids, sandwidges an' pies, That a feller wisht his stummick was as hungry as his eyes!

Oh, yes, the eatin' Presbyteriums give yer is so fine That when _they_ have a picnic, you bet _I'm_ goin' to jine!

But at this time the Methodists have special claims on me, For they're goin' to give a picnic on the 21st, D. V.; Why should a liberal Universalist like me object To share the joys of fellows.h.i.+p with every friendly sect?

However het'rodox their articles of faith elsewise may be, Their doctrine of fried chick'n is a savin' grace to me!

So on the 21st of June, the weather bein' fine, They're goin' to give a picnic, and I'm goin' to jine!

THE ROMANCE OF A WATCH.

One day his father said to John: "Come here and see what I hev bought--- A Waterbury watch, my son-- It is the boon you long hev sought!"

The boy could scarcely believe his eyes-- The watch was s.h.i.+ny, smooth an' slick-- He s.n.a.t.c.hed the nickel-plated prize An' wound away to hear it tick.

He wound an' wound, an' wound an' wound, An' kept a windin' fit to kill-- The weeks an' months an' years rolled round, But John he kep' a windin', still!

As autumns came an' winters went An' summers follered arter spring, John didn't mind--he was intent On windin' up that darned ol' thing.

He got to be a poor ol' man-- He's bald an' deaf an' blind an' lame, But, like he did when he began, He keeps on windin', jest the same!

OUR BABY.

'Tis very strange, but quite as true, That when our Baby smiles Our club gets walloped black and blue In all the latest styles; But when our Baby's hopping mad It's quite the other way-- Chicago beats the Yankees bad When Baby doesn't play.

When baby stands upon his base, Just after having kicked, Upon his Scandinavian face Appears the legend, "Licked"; But when he orders out a sub, We well may hip-hooray-- Chicago has the winning club When Baby doesn't play.

But, if our Baby's getting old, And stiff, and cross, and vain, And if his days are nearly told, Oh, let us not complain.

Let's rather think of what he was And how he's made it pay To hire the kids that win because Our Baby doesn't play.

THE COLOR THAT SUITS ME BEST.