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Read Ebook: John Smith U.S.A. by Field Eugene
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Ebook has 391 lines and 26897 words, and 8 pages
The punishment ordained for you In that infernal spot Is het by Satan's impish crew And kept forever hot.
Sumatra might be reckoned nice, And Tophet passing cool, And Sodom were a cake of ice Beside that sulphur pool.
An awful stench and dismal wail Come from the broiling souls, Whilst Satan with his fireproof tail Stirs up the brimstone coals.
Oh, sinner, on this end 'tis meet That thou shouldst ponder well, For what, oh, what, is worldly heat Unto the heat of hell?
PLAINT OF THE MISSOURI 'COON IN THE BERLIN ZOOLOGICAL GARDENS.
Friend, by the way you hump yourself you're from the States, I know, And born in old Mizzourah, where the 'coons in plenty grow; I, too, am a native of that clime, but harsh, relentless fate Has doomed me to an exile far from that noble state, And I, who used to climb around and swing from tree to tree, Now lead a life of ignominious ease, as you can see. Have pity, O compatriot mine! and bide a season near While I unfurl a dismal tale to catch your friendly ear.
My pedigree is noble--they used my grandsire's skin To piece a coat for Patterson to warm himself within-- Tom Patterson of Denver; no ermine can compare With the grizzled robe that democratic statesman loves to wear! Of such a grandsire I have come, and in the County Cole, All up an ancient cottonwood, our family had its hole-- We envied not the liveried pomp nor proud estate of kings As we hustled around from day to day in search of bugs and things.
And when the darkness fell around, a mocking bird was nigh, Inviting pleasant, soothing dreams with his sweet lullaby; And sometimes came the yellow dog to brag around all night That nary 'coon could wollop him in a stand-up barrel fight; We simply smiled and let him howl, for all Mizzourians know That ary 'coon can beat a dog if the 'coon gets half a show! But we'd nestle close and shiver when the mellow moon had ris'n And the hungry nigger sought our lair in hopes to make us his'n!
THE BIBLIOMANIAC'S BRIDE.
The women folk are like to books-- Most pleasing to the eye, Whereon if anybody looks He feels disposed to buy.
I hear that many are for sale-- Those that record no dates, And such editions as regale The view with colored plates.
Of every quality and grade And size they may be found-- Quite often beautifully made, As often poorly bound.
Now, as for me, had I my choice, I'd choose no folio tall, But some octavo to rejoice My sight and heart withal.
As plump and pudgy as a snipe-- Well worth her weight in gold, Of honest, clean, conspicuous type, And just the size to hold!
With such a volume for my wife, How should I keep and con? How like a dream should speed my life Unto its colophon!
Her frontispiece should be more fair Than any colored plate; Blooming with health she would not care To extra-illustrate.
And in her pages there should be A wealth of prose and verse, With now and then a jeu d'esprit-- But nothing ever worse!
Prose for me when I wished for prose, Verse, when to verse inclined-- Forever bringing sweet repose To body, heart, and mind.
Oh, I should bind this priceless prize In bindings full and fine, And keep her where no human eyes Should see her charms, but mine!
With such a fair unique as this, What happiness abounds! Who--who could paint my rapturous bliss, My joy unknown to Lowndes!
EZRA J. M'MANUS TO A SOUBRETTE.
'Tis years, soubrette, since last we met, And yet, ah yet, how swift and tender My thoughts go back in Time's dull track To you, sweet pink of female gender! I shall not say--though others may-- That time all human joy enhances; But the same old thrill comes to me still With memories of your songs and dances.
Soubrettish ways these latter days Invite my praise, but never get it; I still am true to yours and you-- My record's made--I'll not upset it! The pranks they play, the things they say-- I'd blush to put the like on paper; And I'll avow they don't know how To dance, so awkwardly they caper!
I used to sit down in the pit And see you flit like elf or fairy Across the stage, and I'll engage No moonbeam sprite were half so airy. Lo! everywhere about me there Were rivals reeking with pomatum, And if perchance they caught a glance In song or dance, how did I hate 'em!
At half-past ten came rapture--then Of all those men was I most happy, For wine and things and food for kings And tete-a-tetes were on the tapis. Did you forget, my fair soubrette, Those suppers in the Cafe Rector-- The cozy nook where we partook Of sweeter draughts than fabled nectar?
Oh, happy days, when youth's wild ways Knew every phase of harmless folly! Oh, blissful nights whose fierce delights Defied gaunt-featured Melancholy! Gone are they all beyond recall, And I, a shade--a mere reflection-- Am forced to feed my spirits' greed Upon the husks of retrospection.
And lo! to-night the phantom light That as a sprite flits on the fender Reveals a face whose girlish grace Brings back the feeling, warm and tender; And all the while the old time smile Plays on my visage, grim and wrinkled, As though, soubrette, your footfalls yet Upon my rusty heart-strings tinkled.
THE MONSTROUS PLEASANT BALLAD OF THE TAYLOR PUP.
Now lithe and listen, gentles all, Now lithe ye all and hark Unto a ballad I shall sing About Buena Park.
Of all the wonders happening there The strangest hap befell Upon a famous April morn, As you I now shall tell.
It is about the Taylor pup And of his mistress eke, And of the pranking time they had That I would fain to speak.
FITTE THE FIRST.
The pup was of a noble mein As e'er you gazed upon; They called his mother Lady And his father was a Don.
And both his mother and his sire Were of the race Bernard-- The family famed in histories And hymned of every bard.
His form was of exuberant mold, Long, slim and loose of joints; There never was a pointer-dog So full as he of points.
His hair was like a yellow fleece, His eyes were black and kind, And like a nodding, gilded plume His tail stuck up behind.
His bark was very, very fierce And fierce his appetite, Yet was it only things to eat That he was prone to bite.
But in that one particular He was so passing true That never did he quit a meal Until he had got through.
Potatoes, biscuits, mush or hash, Joint, chop, or chicken limb-- So long as it was edible, 'Twas all the same to him!
And frequently when Hunger's pangs Assailed that callow pup, He masticated boots and gloves Or chewed a door-mat up.
So was he much beholden of The folk that him did keep; They loved him when he was awake And better still asleep.
FITTE THE SECOND.
Now once his master lingering o'er His breakfast coffee-cup, Observed unto his doting spouse: "You ought to wash the pup!"
"That shall I do this very day," His doting spouse replied; "You will not know the pretty thing When he is washed and dried.
"But tell me, dear, before you go Unto your daily work, Shall I use Ivory soap on him, Or Colgate, Pears' or Kirk?"
"Odzooks, it matters not a whit-- They all are good to use! Take Pearline, if it pleases you-- Sapolio, if you choose!
"Take any soap, but take the pup And also water take, And mix the three discreetly up Till they a lather make.
"Then mixing these constituent parts, Let nature take her way," With such advice that sapient sir Had nothing more to say.
Then fared he to his daily toil All in the Board of Trade, While Mistress Taylor for that bath Due preparations made.
FITTE THE THIRD.
She whistled gayly to the pup And called him by his name, And presently the guileless thing All unsuspecting came.
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