Some Postscripts

Two Portraits

    Wild hair flying, in a matted maze,
    Hand firm as iron, eyes all ablaze;
    Bystanders timidly, breathlessly gaze,
    As o’er the keno board boldly he plays.
    —That’s Texas Bill.
    Wild hair flying, in a matted maze,
    Hand firm as iron, eyes all ablaze;
    Bystanders timidly, breathlessly gaze,
    As o’er the keyboard boldly he plays.
    —That’s Paderewski.

A Contribution

    There came unto ye editor
    A poet, pale and wan,
    And at the table sate him down,
    A roll within his hand.
    Ye editor accepted it,
    And thanked his lucky fates;
    Ye poet had to yield it up
    To a king full on eights.

The Old Farm

    Just now when the whitening blossoms flare
    On the apple trees and the growing grass
    Creeps forth, and a balm is in the air;
    With my lighted pipe and well-filled glass
    Of the old farm I am dreaming,
    And softly smiling, seeming
    To see the bright sun beaming
    Upon the old home farm.
    And when I think how we milked the cows,
    And hauled the hay from the meadows low;
    And walked the furrows behind the plows,
    And chopped the cotton to make it grow
    I’d much rather be here dreaming
    And smiling, only seeming
    To see the hot sun gleaming
    Upon the old home farm.

Vanity

    A Poet sang so wondrous sweet
    That toiling thousands paused and listened long;
    So lofty, strong and noble were his themes,
    It seemed that strength supernal swayed his song.
    He, god-like, chided poor, weak, weeping man,
    And bade him dry his foolish, shameful tears;
    Taught that each soul on its proud self should lean,
    And from that rampart scorn all earth-born fears.
    The Poet grovelled on a fresh heaped mound,
    Raised o’er the clay of one he’d fondly loved;
    And cursed the world, and drenched the sod with tears
    And all the flimsy mockery of his precepts proved.

The Lullaby Boy

    The lullaby boy to the same old tune
    Who abandons his drum and toys
    For the purpose of dying in early June
    Is the kind the public enjoys.
    But, just for a change, please sing us a song,
    Of the sore-toed boy that’s fly,
    And freckled and mean, and ugly, and bad,
    And positively will not die.

Chanson De Bohême

    Lives of great men all remind us
    Rose is red and violet’s blue;
    Johnny’s got his gun behind us
    ’Cause the lamb loved Mary too.
    —Robert Burns’ “Hocht Time in the aud Town.”
    I’d rather write this, as bad as it is
    Than be Will Shakespeare’s shade;
    I’d rather be known as an F. F. V.
    Than in Mount Vernon laid.
    I’d rather count ties from Denver to Troy
    Than to head Booth’s old programme;
    I’d rather be special for the New York World
    Than to lie with Abraham.
    For there’s stuff in the can, there’s Dolly and Fan,
    And a hundred things to choose;
    There’s a kiss in the ring, and every old thing
    That a real live man can use.
    I’d rather fight flies in a boarding house
    Than fill Napoleon’s grave,
    And snuggle up warm in my three slat bed
    Than be André the brave.
    I’d rather distribute a coat of red
    On the town with a wad of dough
    Just now, than to have my cognomen
    Spelled “Michael Angelo.”
    For a small live man, if he’s prompt on hand
    When the good things pass around,
    While the world’s on tap has a better snap
    Than a big man under ground.

Hard to Forget

    I’m thinking to-night of the old farm, Ned,
    And my heart is heavy and sad
    As I think of the days that by have fled
    Since I was a little lad.
    There rises before me each spot I know
    Of the old home in the dell,
    The fields, and woods, and meadows below
    That memory holds so well.
    The city is pleasant and lively, Ned,
    But what to us is its charm?
    To-night all my thoughts are fixed, instead,
    On our childhood’s old home farm.
    I know you are thinking the same, dear Ned,
    With your head bowed on your arm,
    For to-morrow at four we’ll be jerked out of bed
    To plow on that darned old farm.

Drop a Tear in This Slot

    He who, when torrid Summer’s sickly glare
    Beat down upon the city’s parched walls,
    Sat him within a room scarce 8 by 9,
    And, with tongue hanging out and panting breath,
    Perspiring, pierced by pangs of prickly heat,
    Wrote variations of the seaside joke
    We all do know and always loved so well,
    And of cool breezes and sweet girls that lay
    In shady nooks, and pleasant windy coves
    Anon
    Will in that self-same room, with tattered quilt
    Wrapped round him, and blue stiffening hands,
    All shivering, fireless, pinched by winter’s blasts,
    Will hale us forth upon the rounds once more,
    So that we may expect it not in vain,
    The joke of how with curses deep and coarse
    Papa puts up the pipe of parlor stove.
    So ye
    Who greet with tears this olden favorite,
    Drop one for him who, though he strives to please
    Must write about the things he never sees.

Tamales

    This is the Mexican
    Don José Calderon
    One of God’s countrymen.
    Land of the buzzard.
    Cheap silver dollar, and
    Cacti and murderers.
    Why has he left his land
    Land of the lazy man,
    Land of the pulque
    Land of the bull fight,
    Fleas and revolution.
    This is the reason,
    Hark to the wherefore;
    Listen and tremble.
    One of his ancestors,
    Ancient and garlicky,
    Probably grandfather,
    Died with his boots on.
    Killed by the Texans,
    Texans with big guns,
    At San Jacinto.
    Died without benefit
    Of priest or clergy;
    Died full of minie balls,
    Mescal and pepper.
    Don José Calderon
    Heard of the tragedy.
    Heard of it, thought of it,
    Vowed a deep vengeance;
    Vowed retribution
    On the Americans,
    Murderous gringos,
    Especially Texans.
    “Valga me Dios! que
    Ladrones, diablos,
    Matadores, mentidores,
    Caraccos y perros,
    Voy a matarles,
    Con solos mis manos,
    Toditas sin falta.”
    Thus swore the Hidalgo
    Don José Calderon.
    He hied him to Austin.
    Bought him a basket,
    A barrel of pepper,
    And another of garlic;
    Also a rope he bought.
    That was his stock in trade;
    Nothing else had he.
    Nor was he rated in
    Dun or in Bradstreet,
    Though he meant business,
    Don José Calderon,
    Champion of Mexico,
    Don José Calderon,
    Seeker of vengeance.
    With his stout lariat,
    Then he caught swiftly
    Tomcats and puppy dogs,
    Caught them and cooked them,
    Don José Calderon,
    Vower of vengeance.
    Now on the sidewalk
    Sits the avenger
    Selling Tamales to
    Innocent purchasers.
    Dire is thy vengeance,
    Oh, José Calderon,
    Pitiless Nemesis
    Fearful Redresser
    Of the wrongs done to thy
    Sainted grandfather.
    Now the doomed Texans,
    Rashly hilarious,
    Buy of the deadly wares,
    Buy and devour.
    Rounders at midnight,
    Citizens solid,
    Bankers and newsboys,
    Bootblacks and preachers,
    Rashly importunate,
    Courting destruction.
    Buy and devour.
    Beautiful maidens
    Buy and devour,
    Gentle society youths
    Buy and devour.
    Buy and devour
    This thing called Tamale;
    Made of rat terrier,
    Spitz dog and poodle.
    Maltese cat, boarding house
    Steak and red pepper.
    Garlic and tallow,
    Corn meal and shucks.
    Buy without shame
    Sit on store steps and eat,
    Stand on the street and eat,
    Ride on the cars and eat,
    Strewing the shucks around
    Over creation.
    Dire is thy vengeance,
    Don José Calderon.
    For the slight thing we did
    Killing thy grandfather.
    What boots it if we killed
    Only one greaser,
    Don José Calderon?
    This is your deep revenge,
    You have greased all of us,
    Greased a whole nation
    With your Tamales,
    Don José Calderon.
    Santos Esperiton,
    Vincente Camillo,
    Quitana de Rios,
    De Rosa y Ribera.