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 BOHEME

   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.”