Cape Cod Ballads, and Other Verse

  I s'pose I hain't progressive, but I swan, it seems ter me
  Religion isn't nigh so good as what it used ter be!
  I go ter meetin' every week and rent my reg'lar pew,
  But hain't a mite uplifted when the sarvices are through;
  I take my orthodoxy straight, like Gran'pop did his rum,
  (It never hurt him, neither, and a deacon, too, by gum!)
  But now the preachin' 's mushy and the singin' 's lost its fire:
  I 'd like ter hear old Parson Day, with Nathan leadin' choir.

  I'd like ter know who told these folks that all was perfect peace,
  And glidin' inter heaven was as slick as meltin' grease;
  Old Parson Day, I tell yer what, his sermons made yer think!
  He'd shake yer over Tophet till yer heard the cinders clink.
  And then, when he'd gin out the tune and Nate would take his stand
  Afore the chosen singers, with the tuning-fork in hand,
  The meetin'-house jest held its breath, from cellar plum ter spire,
  And then bu'st forth in thunder-tones with Nathan leadin' choir.

  They didn't chime so pretty, p'r'aps, as does our new quartette,
  But all them folks was there ter sing, and done it, too, you bet!
  The basses they 'd be rollin' on, with faces swelled and red,
  And racin' the supraners, who was p'r'aps a bar ahead;
  While Nate beat time with both his hands and worked like drivin' plow,
  With drops o' sweat a-standin' out upon his face and brow;
  And all the congregation felt that Heav'n was shorely nigher
  Whene'er they heerd the chorus sung with Nathan leadin' choir.

  Rube Swan was second tenor, and his pipes was kinder cracked,
  But Rube made up in loudness what in tune he might have lacked;
  But 'twas a leetle cur'us, though, for p'r'aps his voice would balk,
  And when he'd fetch a high note give a most outrageous squawk;
  And Uncle Elkanah was deef and kind er'd lose the run,
  And keep on singin' loud and high when all the rest was done;
  But, notwithstandin' all o' this, I think I'd never tire
  Of list'nin' ter the good old tunes with Nathan leadin' choir.

  We've got a brand-new organ now, and singers—only four—
  But, land! we pay 'em cash enough ter fee a hundred more;
  They sing newfangled tunes and things that some folks think are sweet,
  But don't appeal ter me no more'n a fish-horn on the street.
  I'd like once more ter go ter church and watch old Nathan wave
  His tunin'-fork above the crowd and lead the glorious stave;
  I'd like ter hear old Parson Day jest knock the sinners higher,
  And then set back and hear a hymn with Nathan leadin' choir.

  My son Hezekiah's a painter; yes, that's the purfession he's at;
  An artist, I mean,—course he ain't a whitewasher or nothin' like that.
  At home he was always a-drawin' and shirkin' his work 'round the place,
  And kept me continyerly jawin' or dressin' him down with a trace;
  Till I says ter Mother, "Between us, this thing might's well be understood;
  Our Hez is jest simply a gen'us, and a gen'us is never no good;
  He won't stop fer jawin's and dressin's; he'll daub and he'll draw
      all the while;
  So he might as well have a few lessons, and learn how ter do it in style."

  So I sold a slice of the wood-lot ter the folks at the summer hotel,
  That fetched me some cash—quite a good lot—so now he's been gone a
      long spell;
  He's got a room up ter the City, an' calls it a name that is queer—
  I ain't up in French, more's the pity—but something that's like
      "attyleer."
  I went up last month on a visit, and blamed if that place wa'n't a sight!
  The fourteenth or fifteenth—which is it?—well, anyhow, it's the top
     flight;
  I wouldn't have b'lieved he could be there, way up on that
     breath-takin' floor,
  If't wa'n't fer the sign that I see there—"H. Lafayette Boggs"—on
     the door.

  That room was a wonder fer certain! The floor was all paint-spots and dirt,
  Each window was hung with a curtain, striped gay as a calico shirt;
  The walls was jest like a museum, all statoos and flim-flam and gush
  And picters—good land! when I see 'em I jest had ter turn 'round and
      blush;
  And Hez! he looked like a gorilla,—a leetle round hat on his head,
  And hair that would stuff a big piller, and necktie blue, yeller, and red;
  I swan, he did look like a daisy! I tell yer, it went ter my heart,
  'Cause, course I supposed he was crazy, until he explained it was ART.

  This Art, it does stagger a feller that ain't got a connerseer's view,
  Fer trees by its teachin' is yeller, and cows is a shade of sky-blue.
  Hez says that ter paint 'em like natur' is common and tawdry and vile;
  He says it's a plaguey sight greater to do 'em "impressionist style."
  He done me my portrait, and, reely, my nose is a ultrymarine,
  My whiskers is purple and steely, and both of my cheeks is light green.
  When Mother first viewed it she fainted—she ain't up in Art, don't
      yer see?
  And she had a notion 'twas painted when Hez had been off on a spree.

  We used ter think Hezzy would shame us by bein' no good anyhow,
  But he says some day he'l be famous, so we're sort er proud of him, now.
  He says that the name he's a-makin' shall ring in Fame's thunderin' tone;
  He says that earth's dross he's forsaken, he's livin' fer Art's sake alone.
  That's nice, but what seems ter me funny, and what I can't get through
      my head
  Is why he keeps writin' fer money and can't seem ter earn nary red.
  I've been sort er thinkin' it over, and seems ter me, certain enough,
  That livin' for Art is just clover, but that livin' on it is tough.

  Oh! the horns are all a-tootin' as we rattle through the town,
  And we fellers are a-hootin' and a-jumpin' up and down,
  And the girls are all a-gigglin' and a-tryin' ter be smart,
  With their braided pig-tails wigglin' at the joltin' of the cart;
  There's the teachers all a-beamin', rigged up in their Sunday clothes,
  And the parson's specs a-gleamin' like two moons acrost his nose,
  And the sup'rintendent lookin' mighty dignerfied and cool,
  And a-bossin' of the picnic of the Baptist Sunday-school.

  Everybody's got their basket brimmin' full of things ter eat,
  And I've got one—if yer ask it—that is purty hard ter beat,—
  'Cept that Sis put in some pound-cake that she made herself alone,
  And I bet yer never found cake that was quite so much like stone.
  There'll be quarts of sass'parilla; yes, and "lemmo" in a tub;
  There'll be ice-cream—it's vernilla—and all kinds of fancy grub;
  And they're sure ter spread the table on the ground beside the spring,
  So's the ants and hoppergrasses can just waltz on everything.

  Then the girls they'll be a-yippin', 'cause a bug is in the cream;
  And a "daddy-long-legs" skippin' round the butter makes 'em scream;
  And a fuzzy caterpillar—jest the littlest kind they make—
  Sets 'em holl'rin', "Kill her! kill her!" like as if it was a snake.
  Then, when dinner-time is over and we boys have et enough,
  Why, the big girls they'll pick clover, or make wreaths of leaves and
      stuff;
  And the big chaps they'll set 'round 'em, lookin' soft as ever wuz,
  Talkin' gush and actin' silly, same as that kind always does.

  Then, we'll ride home when it's dark'nin' and the leaves are wet with dew,
  And the lightnin'-bugs are sparklin' and the moon is shinin', too;
  We'll sing "Jingle bells" and "Sailing," "Seein' Nelly home," and more;
  And that one that's slow and wailin', "Home ag'in from somethin' shore."
  Then a feller's awful sleepy and he kinder wants ter rest,
  But the stuff he's et feels creepy and like bricks piled on his chest;
  And, perhaps, he dreams his stummick has been stepped on by a mule;
  But it ain't: it's jest the picnic of the Baptist Sunday school!

  Our Aunt 'Mandy thinks that boys
  Never ought ter make a noise,
  Or go swimming or play ball,
  Or have any fun at all;
  Thinks a boy had ought ter be
  Dressed up all the time, and she
  Hollers jest as if she's hurt
  At the littlest mite er dirt
  On a feller's hands or face,
  Or his clothes, or any place.

  Then at dinner-time she's there,
  Sayin', "Mustn't kick the chair!"
  Or "Why don't yer sit up straight?"
  "'Tain't perlite to drum yer plate."
  An' yer got ter eat as slow,
  'Cause she's dingin' at yer so.
  Then, when Chris'mus comes, she brings
  Nothin', only useful things:
  Han'kershi'fs an' gloves an' ties,
  Sunday stuff yer jest despise.

  She's a ole maid, all alone,
  'Thout no children of her own,
  An' I s'pose that makes her fuss
  'Round our house a-bossin' us.
  If she 'd had a boy, I bet,
  'Tween her bossin' and her fret
  She'd a-killed him, jest about;
  So God made her do without,
  For he knew no boy could stay
  With Aunt 'Mandy every day.

  Oh, the story-book boy! he's a wonderful youth,
  A prodigy reeking with goodness and truth;
  As brave as a lion, as wise as a sage,
  And sharp as a razor, though twelve years of age.
  His mother is good and she's awfully poor,
  But he says, "Do not fret, I'll provide for you, sure!"
  And the hard grasping landlord, who comes to annoy,
  Is braved to his teeth by the story-book boy.

  Oh, the story-book boy! when he sees that young churl.
  The Squire's spoiled son, kick the poor crippled girl,
  He darts to the rescue as quick as he can,
  And dusts the hard road with the cruel young man;
  And when he is sought by the vengeful old Squire,
  He withers the latter with tongue-lashing ire;
  For the town might combine his young nerve to destroy,
  And never once shake him—the story-book boy.

  Oh, the story-book boy! when the Judge's dear child
  Is dragged through the streets by a runaway wild,
  Of course he's on hand, and a "ten-strike" he makes,
  For he stops the mad steed in a couple of "shakes";
  And he tells the glad Judge, who has wept on his hat,
  "I did but my duty!" or something like that;
  And the very best place in the Judge's employ
  Is picked out at once for the story-book boy.

  Oh, the story-book boy! all his troubles are o'er,
  For he gets to be Judge in a year or two more;
  And the wicked old landlord in poverty dies,
  And the Squire's son drinks, and in gutters he lies;
  But the girl whom he saved is our hero's fair bride,
  And his old mother comes to their home to abide;
  In silks and sealskins, she cries, in her joy:
  "Thank Heaven, I'm Ma of a story-book boy!"

  Sometimes when we're in school, and it's the afternoon and late,
    And kinder warm and sleepy, don't yer know;
  And p'r'aps a feller's studyin' or writin' on his slate,
    Or, maybe chewin' paper-balls to throw,
  And teacher's sort er lazy, too—why, then there'll come a knock
    And everybody'll brace up quick's they can;
  We boys and girls'll set up straight, and teacher'll smooth her frock,
    Because it's him—the school-committee man.

  He'll walk in kinder stately-like and say, "How do, Miss Brown?"
    And teacher, she'll talk sweet as choclate cake;
  And he'll put on his specs and cough and pull his eyebrows down
    And look at us so hard 't would make yer shake.
  We'll read and spell, so's he can hear, and speak a piece or two,
    While he sets there so dreadful grand and cool;
  Then teacher'll rap her desk and say, "Attention!" soon's we're through,
    And ask him, won't he please address the school.

  He'll git up kinder calm and slow, and blow his nose real loud,
    And put his hands behind beneath his coat,
  Then kinder balance on his toes and look 'round sort er proud
    And give a big "Ahem!" ter clear his throat;
  And then he'll say: "Dear scholars, I am glad ter see yer here,
    A-drinkin'—er—the crystal fount of lore;
  Here with your books, and—er—and—er—your teacher kind and dear,
    And with—ahem—er—as I said before."

  We have ter listen awful hard ter every word of his
    And watch him jest like kittens do a rat,
  And laugh at every joke he makes, don't care how old it is,
    'Cause he can boss the teacher,—think of that!
  I useter say, when I growed up I 'd be a circus chap
    And drive two lions hitched up like a span;
  But, honest, more I think of it, I b'lieve the bestest snap
    Is jest ter be a school-committee man.

  South Pokus is religious,—that's the honest, livin' truth;
  South Pokus folks are pious,—man and woman, maid and youth;
  And they listen every Sunday, though it rains or snows or shines,
  In their seven shabby churches, ter their seven poor divines,
  Who dispense the balm and comfort that the thirstin' sperit needs,
  By a-fittin' of the gospel ter their seven different creeds,
  Each one sure his road ter Heaven is the only sartin way,—
  Fer South Pokus is religious, as I started off ter say.

  Now the Pokus population is nine hundred, more or less,
  Which, in one big congregation, would be quite a church, I guess,
  And do lots of good, I reckon; but yer see it couldn't be,—
  Long's one's tweedledum was diff'rent from the other's tweedledee.
  So the Baptists they are Baptists, though the church is swamped in debt,
  And the Orthodox is rigid, though expenses can't be met,
  And the twenty Presbyterians 'll be Calvinists or bust,—
  Fer South Pokus is religious, as I said along at fust.

  And the Methodist is buried, when his time comes 'round ter die,
  In the little weedy graveyard where no other sect can lie,
  And at Second Advent socials, every other Wednesday night,
  No one's ever really welcome but a Second Adventite;
  While the Unitarian brother, as he walks the village streets,
  Seldom bows unless another Unitarian he meets;
  And there's only Univers'lists in a Univers'list's store,—
  Fer South Pokus is religious, as I think I said before.

  I thought I'd read that Jesus come ter do the whole world good,—
  Come ter bind the Jew and Gentile in a lovin' brotherhood;
  But it seems that I'm mistaken, and I haven't read it right,
  And the text of "Love your neighbor" must be somewhere written "Fight";
  But I want ter tell yer, church folks, and ter put it to yer strong,
  While you're fighting Old Nick's fellers pull tergether right along:
  So yer'd better stop your squabblin', be united if yer can,
  Fer the Pokus way of doin' ain't no use ter God or man.

  Oh! they've swept the parlor carpet, and they've dusted every chair,
  And they've got the tidies hangin' jest exactly on the square;
  And the what-not's fixed up lovely, and the mats have all been beat,
  And the pantry's brimmin' over with the bully things ter eat;
  Sis has got her Sunday dress on, and she's frizzin' up her bangs;
  Ma's got on her best alpacky, and she's askin' how it hangs;
  Pa has shaved as slick as can be, and I'm rigged way up in G,—
  And it's all because we're goin' ter have the minister ter tea.

  Oh! the table's fixed up gaudy with the gilt-edged chiny set,
  And we'll use the silver tea-pot and the comp'ny spoons, you bet;
  And we're goin' ter have some fruit-cake and some thimbleberry jam,
  And "riz biscuits," and some doughnuts, and some chicken, and some ham.
  Ma, she'll 'polergize like fury and say everything is bad,
  And "Sich awful luck with cookin'," she is sure she never had;
  But, er course, she's only bluffin', for it's as prime as it can be,
  And she's only talkin' that way 'cause the minister's ter tea.

  Everybody'll be a-smilin' and as good as ever was,
  Pa won't growl about the vittles, like he generally does,
  And he'll ask me would I like another piece er pie; but, sho!
  That, er course, is only manners, and I'm s'posed ter answer "No."
  Sis'll talk about the church-work and about the Sunday-school,
  Ma'll tell how she liked that sermon that was on the Golden Rule,
  And if I upset my tumbler they won't say a word ter me:—
  Yes, a boy can eat in comfort with the minister ter tea!

  Say! a minister, you'd reckon, never 'd say what wasn't true;
  But that isn't so with ours, and I jest can prove it, too;
  'Cause when Sis plays on the organ so it makes yer want ter die,
  Why, he sets and says it's lovely; and that, seems ter me, 's a lie:
  But I like him all the samey, and I only wish he'd stay
  At our house fer good and always, and eat with us every day;
  Only think of havin' goodies every evenin'! Jimminee!
  And I'd never git a scoldin' with the minister ter tea!

  I've got a little yaller dog, a wuthless kind of chap,
  Who jest ain't good fer nothin' but ter eat and sleep and "yap."
  Fer all 'round general wuthlessness I never see his beat,
  And yet he makes more fuss and noise than all the farm complete.
  There ain't a mite of sense inside that yaller hide of his;
  But, as he ain't no good, he likes ter pester them that is.
  The critters all despise him, but there ain't a one but feels
  A little mite oneasy when he's "yappin'" round their heels.

  Yer see, he loves ter sneak around behind 'em, out of sight,
  And give a sudden snap and snarl as if he meant ter bite;
  Of course they know he wouldn't hurt, and only means to scare,
  But still, it worries 'em ter know the little scamp is there;
  And if they do git nervous-like and try to hit him back
  He swells up so with pride it seems as if his skin would crack;
  And then he's wuss than ever, so they find it doesn't pay,
  But let him keep on "yappin'" till he's tired and goes away.

  There's lots of people built like him—yer see 'em everywhere—
  Who, 'cause they ain't no use themselves, can't somehow seem ter bear
  Ter see another feller rise, but in their petty spite
  And natural meanness, snarl and snap and show they'd like ter bite.
  They don't come out in front like men, and squarely speak their mind,
  But like that wuthless yaller pup, they're hangin' 'round behind.
  They're little and contemptible, but if yer make a slip
  It must be bothersome ter know they'll take that chance ter nip.

  But there! perhaps it isn't right ter mind 'em, after all;
  Perhaps we ought ter thank the Lord our souls ain't quite so small;
  And they, with all their sneakin' ways, must be, I rather guess,
  The thorns that prick your fingers 'round the roses of success:
  Fer, when yer come ter think of it, they never bark until
  A feller's really started and a good ways up the hill;
  So, 'f I was climbin' up ter fame I wouldn't care a rap,
  But I'd think I was somebody when the curs begun ter "yap."

  She's little and modest and purty,
    As red as a rose and as sweet;
  Her children don't ever look dirty,
    Her kitchen ain't no way but neat.
  She's the kind of a woman ter cherish,
    A help ter a feller through life,
  Yet every old hen in the parish
    Is down on the minister's wife.

  'Twas Mrs. 'Lige Hawkins begun it;
    She always has had the idee
  That the church was built so's she could run it,
    'Cause Hawkins is deacon, yer see;
  She thought that the whole congregation
    Kept step ter the tune of her fife,
  But she found 't was a wrong calkerlation
    Applied ter the minister's wife.

  Then Mrs. Jedge Jenks got excited—
    She thinks she's the whole upper crust;—
  When she found the Smiths was invited
    Ter meet'n', she quit in disgust.
  "You can have all the paupers yer choose to,"
    Says she, jest as sharp as a knife;
  "But if they go ter church I refuse to!"
    "Good-by!" says the minister's wife.

  And then Mrs. Jackson got stuffy
    At her not comin' sooner ter call,
  And old Miss Macgregor is huffy
    'Cause she went up ter Jackson's at all.
  Each one of the crowd hates the other,
    The church has been full of their strife;
  But now they're all hatin' another,
    And that one's the minister's wife.

  But still, all their cackle unheedin',
    She goes, in her ladylike way,
  A-givin' the poor what they're needing
    And helpin' the church every day:
  Our numbers each Sunday is swelling
    And real, true religion is rife,
  And sometimes I feel like a-yellin',
    "Three cheers fer the minister's wife!"

  "I am Sir Oracle, and when I ope my lips let no dog bark!"

  Old Dan'l Hanks he says this town
    Is jest the best on earth;
  He says there ain't one, up nor down,
    That's got one half her worth;
  He says there ain't no other state
    That's good as ourn, nor near;
  And all the folks that's good and great
    Is settled right 'round here.

        Says I "D'jer ever travel, Dan?"
          "You bet I ain't!" says he;
        "I tell you what! the place I've got
          Is good enough fer me!"

  He says the other party's fools,
    'Cause they don't vote his way;
  He says the "feeble-minded schools"
    Is where they ought ter stay;
  If he was law their mouths he'd shut,
    Or blow 'em all ter smash;
  He says their platform's nawthin' but
    A great big mess of trash.

        Says I, "D'jer ever read it, Dan?"
          "You bet I ain't!" says he;
        "And when I do; well, I tell you,
          I'll let you know, by gee!"

  He says that all religion's wrong
    'Cept jest what he believes;
  He says them ministers belong
    In jail, the same as thieves;
  He says they take the blessed Word
    And tear it all ter shreds;
  He says their preachin's jest absurd;
    They're simply leatherheads.

        Says I, "D'jer ever hear 'em, Dan?"
          "You bet I ain't!" says he;
        "I'd never go ter hear 'em; no;
          They make me sick ter see!"

  Some fellers reckon, more or less,
    Before they speak their mind,
  And sometimes calkerlate or guess,—
    But them ain't Dan'l's kind.
  The Lord knows all things, great or small,
    With doubt he's never vexed;
  He, in his wisdom, knows it all,—
    But Dan'l Hanks comes next.

         Says I, "How d' yer know you're right?"
           "How do I know?" says he;
        "Well, now, I vum! I know, by gum!
          I'm right because I be!"

  Jason White has come ter town
    Drivin' his tin peddler's cart,
  Pans a-bangin' up an' down
    Like they'd tear theirselves apart;
  Kittles rattlin' underneath,
    Coal-hods scrapin' out a song,—
  Makes a feller grit his teeth
    When old Jason comes along.

  Jason drives a sorrel mare,
    Bones an' skin at all her j'ints,
  "Blooded stock," says Jase; "I swear,
    Jest see how she shows her p'ints!
  Walkin' 's her best lay," says he,
    Eyes a-twinklin' full of fun,
  "Named her Keely Motor. See?
    Sich hard work ter make her run."

  Jason's jest the slickest scamp,
    Full of jokes as he can hold;
  Says he beats Aladdin's lamp,
    Givin' out new stuff fer old;
  "Buy your rags fer more 'n they're worth,
    Give yer bran'-new, shiny tin,
  I'm the softest snap on earth,"
    Says old Jason, with a grin.

  Jason gits the women's ear
    Tellin' news and talkin' dress;
  Can 't be peddlin' forty year
    An' not know 'em more or less;
  Children like him; sakes alive!
    Why, my Jim, the other night,
  Says, "When I git big I'll drive
    Peddler's cart, like Jason White!"

  Our Sary Emma is possessed ter be at somethin' queer;
  She's allers doin' loony things, unheard of fur and near.
  One time there wa'n't no limit ter the distance she would tramp
  Ter get a good-fer-nothin', wuthless, cancelled postage-stamp;
  Another spell folks couldn't rest ontil, by hook or crook,
  She got 'em all ter write their names inside a leetle book;
  But though them fits was bad enough, the wust is nowadays,
  Fer now she's got that pesky freak, the photygraphin' craze.

  She had ter have a camera—and them things cost a sight—
  So she took up subscriptions fer the "Woman's Home Delight"
  And got one fer a premium—a blamed new-fangled thing,
  That takes a tin-type sudden, when she presses on a spring;
  And sence she got it, sakes alive! there's nothin' on the place
  That hain't been pictured lookin' like a horrible disgrace:
  The pigs, the cows, the horse, the colt, the chickens large and small;
  She goes a-gunnin' fer 'em, and she bags 'em, one and all.

  She tuk me once a-settin' up on top a load er hay:
  My feet shets out the wagon, and my head's a mile away;
  She took her Ma in our back yard, a-hanging out the clothes,
  With hands as big as buckets, and a face that's mostly nose.
  A yard of tongue and monstrous teeth is what she calls a dog;
  The cat's a kind er fuzzy-lookin' shadder in a fog;
  And I've got a suspicion that what killed the brindle calf
  Was that he seen his likeness in our Sary's photygraph.

  She's "tonin'," er "develerpin'," er "printin'," ha'f the time;
  She's allers buyin' pasteboard ter mount up her latest crime:
  Our front room and the settin'-room is like some awful show,
  With freaks and framed outrages stuck all 'round 'em in a row:
  But soon I'll take them picters, and I'll fetch some of 'em out
  And hang 'em 'round the garden when the corn begins ter sprout;
  We'll have no crows and blackbirds ner that kind er feathered trash,
  'Cause them photygraphs of Sary's, they beat scarecrows all ter smash.

  When Papa's sick, my goodness sakes!
  Such awful, awful times it makes.
  He speaks in, oh! such lonesome tones,
  And gives such ghas'ly kind of groans,
  And rolls his eyes and holds his head,
  And makes Ma help him up to bed,
  While Sis and Bridget run to heat
  Hot-water bags to warm his feet,
  And I must get the doctor quick,—
  We have to jump when Papa's sick.

  When Papa's sick Ma has to stand
  Right 'side the bed and hold his hand,
  While Sis, she has to fan an' fan,
  For he says he's "a dyin' man,"
  And wants the children round him to
  Be there when "sufferin' Pa gets through";
  He says he wants to say good-by
  And kiss us all, and then he'll die;
  Then moans and says his "breathin''s thick",—
  It's awful sad when Papa's sick.

  When Papa's sick he acts that way
  Until he hears the doctor say,
  "You've only got a cold, you know;
  You'll be all right 'n a day or so";
  And then—well, say! you ought to see—
  He's different as he can be,
  And growls and swears from noon to night
  Just 'cause his dinner ain't cooked right;
  And all he does is fuss and kick,—
  We're all used up when Papa's sick.

  THE BALLAD OF McCARTY'S TROMBONE

  Sure, Felix McCarty he lived all alone
  On the top av a hill be the town av Athione,
  And the pride av his heart was a batthered trombone,
  That he played in an iligant style av his own.
  And often I've heard me ould grandfather say,
  That, long as he lived, on Saint Patherick's Day,
  the minute the dawn showed the first streak av gray
  McCarty would rise and this tune he would play:

    "Pertaters and fishes make very good dishes,
      Saint Patherick's Day in the mornin'!"
    With tootin' and blowin' he kept it a-goin',
      For rest was a thing he was scornin';
    And thim that were lazy could niver lie aisy,
      But jumped out av bed at the warnin';
    For who could be stayin' aslape with him playin'
      "Saint Patherick's Day in the mornin'?"

  And thin whin the b'ys would fall in fer parade,
  McCarty'd be gay with his buttons and braid,
  And whin he stipped out fer ter head the brigade,
  Why, this was the beautiful tune that he played:

    "By—Killarney's—lakes—and—fells,
    Toot—tetoot toot—toot—toot—dells!"
    And—the heel av—McCart—y's—boot
    Marked—the time at—iv'—ry—toot,
    While—the slide at—aich—bass—note
    Seemed—ter slip half—down—his throat,
    As—he caught his—breath—be—spells:—
    "By—Killarney's—lakes—and—fells!"

  Now McCarty he lived ter be wrinkled and lean,
  But he died wan fine day playin' "Wearin' the green,"
  And they sould the ould horn to a British spalpeen,
  And it bu'st whin he tried ter blow "God save the Queen";

  But the nights av Saint Patherick's Days in Athlone
  Folks dare not go by the ould graveyard alone,
  For they say that McCarty sits on his tombstone
  And plays this sad tune on a phantom trombone:

    "The harp that wance through Tara's halls
      The sowl av music shed,
    Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls
      As if that sowl were dead."
    And all who've heard the lonesome keens      That that grim ghost has blown,
    Know well by Tara's harp he means
      That batthered ould trombone.

  I'll write, for I'm witty, a popular ditty,
    To bring to me shekels and fame,
  And the only right way one may write one to-day
    Is to give it some Irish girl's name.
  There's "Rosy O'Grady," that dear "steady lady,"
    And sweet "Annie Rooney" and such,
  But mine shall be nearly original, really,
    For Susan Van Doozen is Dutch.

  O Susan Van Doozen! the girl of my choos'n',    You stick in my bosom like glue;
  While this you're perusin', remember I'm mus'n',    Sweet Susan Van Doozen, on you.
  So don't be refus'n' my offer, and bruis'n'    A heart that is willing to woo;
  And please be excus'n', not cold and refus'n',—
    O Susan Van Doozen, please do!

  Now through it I'll scatter—a quite easy matter—
    Some lines that we all of us know,
  How "The neighbors all cry as she passes them by,
    'There's Susan, the pride of the row!'"
  And something like "daisy" and "setting me crazy,"
   —These lines the dear public would miss—
  Then chuck a "sweetheart" in, and "never to part" in,
    And end with a chorus like this:

    O Susan Van Doozen! before I'd be los'n'
      One glance from your eyes of sky-blue,
    I vow I'd quit us'n' tobacco and booz'n',
      (That word is not nice, it is true).
    I wear out my shoes, 'n' I'm los'n' my roos'n'      My reason, I should say, dear Sue,—
    So please change your views 'n' become my own Susan,
      O Susan Van Doozen, please do!

  Almost every other evening jest as reg'lar as the clock
  When we're settin' down ter supper, wife and I, there comes a knock
  An' a high-pitched voice, remarking', "Don't get up; it's me, yer know";
  An' our mercury drops from "summer" down ter "twenty-five below,"
  An' our cup of bliss turns sudden inter wormwood mixed with gall,
  Fer we know it's Sister Simmons come ter make her "reg'lar call."

  In she comes an' takes the rocker. Thinks she'll slip her bunnit off,
  But she'll keep her shawl on, coz she's 'fraid of addin' ter her cough.
  No, she won't set down ter supper. Tea? well, yes, a half er cup.
  Her dyspepsy's been so lately, seems as if she should give up;
  An', 'tween rheumatiz an' as'ma, she's jest worn ter skin an' bone.
  It's a good thing that she told us,—by her looks we'd never known.

  Next, she starts in on the neighbors; tells us all their private cares,
  While we have the fun er knowin' how she talks of our affairs;
  Says, with sobs, that Christmas comin' makes her feel so bad, for, oh!
  Her Isaiah, the dear departed, allers did enjoy it so.
  Her Isaiah, poor henpecked critter, 's been dead seven years er more,
  An' looked happier in his coffin than he ever did afore.

  So she sits, her tongue a-waggin' in the same old mournful tones,
  Spoilin' all our quiet evenin's with her troubles an' her groans,
  Till, by Jude, I'm almost longin' fer those mansions of the blest,
  "Where the wicked cease from troublin' an' the weary are at rest!"
  But if Sister Simmons' station is before the Throne er Grace,
  I'll just ask 'em to excuse me, an' I'll try the other place.

  Now Councilman O'Hoolihan do'n't b'lave in annixation,
  He says thim Phillypynos air the r-r-ruin av the nation.
  He says this counthry's job is jist a-mindin' av her biz,
  And imparyilism's thrayson, so ut is, so ut is.
  But big Moike Macnamara, him that runs the gin saloon,
  He wants the nomina-a-tion, so he sings a different chune;
  He's a-howlin' fer ixpansion, so he puts ut on the shlate
  Thot he challenged Dan O'Hoolihan ter have a j'int debate.

  Ho, ho! Begorra! Oi wisht that ye 'd been there!
  Ho, ho! Begorra! 'Twas lovely, Oi declare;
    The langwudge, sure 't was iligant, the rhitoric was great,
  Whin Dan and Mack, they had ut back,
    At our big j'int debate.

  'T was in the War-r-d Athletic Club we had ut fixed ter hear 'em,
  And all the sates was crowded, fer the gang was there ter cheer 'em;
  A foine debatin' platfor-r-m had been built inside the ring,
  And iverybuddy said 't was jist the thing, jist the thing.
  O'Hoolihan, he shtarted off be sayin', ut was safe
  Ter say that aich ixpansionist was jist a murth'rin thafe;
  And, whin I saw big Mack turn rid, and shtart ter lave his sate,
  Oi knew we 'd have a gor-r-geous toime at our big j'int debate.

  Thin Moike he tuk his tur-r-n ter shpake, "Av Oi wance laid me hand,"
  Says he, "upon an 'Anti,' faith! Oi'd make his nose ixpand;
  Oi 'd face the schnakin' blackguar-r-d, and Oi'd baste him where he shtood.
  Oi'd annix him to a graveyard, so Oi would, so Oi would!"
  Thin up jumped Dan O'Hoolihan a-roar-r-in' out "Yez loie!"
  And flung his b'aver hat at Mack, and plunked him in the eye;
  And Moike he niver shtopped ter talk, but grappled wid him straight,
  And the ar-r-gymint got loively thin, at our big j'int debate.

  Oi niver in me loife have seen sich char-r-min' illycution,
  The gistures av thim wid their fists was grand in ixecution;
  We tried to be impar-r-tial, so no favoroite we made,
  But jist sicked them on tergither, yis indade, yis indade.
  And nayther wan was half convinced whin Sar-r-gint Leary came,
  Wid near a dozen other cops, and stopped the purty game;
  But niver did Oi see dhress-suits in sich a mortial state
  As thim the or-r-ators had on at our big j'int debate.

  Ho, ho! Begorra! Oi wisht that ye'd been there!
  Ho, ho! Begorra! The foight was on the square;
    Ter see the wagon goin' off, wid thim two on the sate!—
  Oi 'd loike ter shtroike, 'twixt Dan and Moilce,
    Another j'int debate.

  Say, I've got a little brother,
  Never teased to have him, nuther,
    But he's here;
  They just went ahead and bought him,
  And, last week the doctor brought him,
    Wa'n't that queer?

  When I heard the news from Molly,
  Why, I thought at first 't was jolly,
    'Cause, you see,
  I s'posed I could go and get him
  And then Mama, course, would let him
    Play with me.

  But when I had once looked at him,
  "Why!" I says, "My sakes, is that him?
    Just that mite!"
  They said, "Yes," and, "Ain't he cunnin'?"
  And I thought they must be funnin',—
    He's a sight!

  He's so small, it's just amazin',
  And you 'd think that he was blazin',
    He's so red;
  And his nose is like a berry,
  And he's bald as Uncle Jerry
    On his head.

  Why, he isn't worth a dollar!
  All he does is cry and holler
    More and more;
  Won't sit up—you can't arrange him,—
  I don't see why Pa do'n't change him
    At the store.

  Now we've got to dress and feed him,
  And we really didn't need him
    More 'n a frog;
  Why'd they buy a baby brother,
  When they know I'd good deal ruther
    Have a dog?

  Me and Billy's in the woodshed; Ma said, "Run outdoors and play;
  Be good boys and don't be both'rin', till the company's gone away."
  She and sister Mary's hustlin', settin' out the things for tea,
  And the parlor's full of women, such a crowd you never see;
  Every one a-cuttin' patchwork or a-sewin' up a seam,
  And the way their tongues is goin', seems as if they went by steam.
  Me and Billy's been a-listenin' and, I tell you what, it beats
  Circus day to hear 'em gabbin', when the Sewin' Circle meets.

  First they almost had a squabble, fightin' 'bout the future life;
  When they'd settled that they started runnin' down the parson's wife.
  Then they got a-goin' roastin' all the folks there is in town,
  And they never stopped, you bet yer, till they'd done 'em good and brown.
  They knew everybody's business and they made it mighty free,
  But the way they loved each other would have done yer good to see;
  Seems ter me the only way ter keep yer hist'ry off the streets
  Is to be on hand a-waitin' when the Sewin' Circle meets.

  Pretty quick they'll have their supper, then's the time to see the fun;
  Ma'll say the rolls is awful, and she's 'fraid the pie ain't done.
  Really everything is bully, and she knows it well enough,
  But the folks that's havin' comp'ny always talks that kind of stuff.
  That sets all the women goin', and they say, "How can you make
  Such delicious pies and biscuits, and such lovely choc'late cake?"
  Me and Billy don't say nothin' when we pitches in and eats
  Up the things there is left over when the Sewin' Circle meets.

  I guess Pa do'n't like the Circle, 'cause he said ter Uncle Jim
  That there cacklin' hen convention was too peppery for him.
  And he'll say to Ma, "I'm sorry, but I've really got ter dodge
  Down t' the hall right after supper—there's a meetin' at the lodge."
  Ma'll say, "Yes, so I expected." Then a-speakin' kinder cold,
  "Seems ter me, I'd get a new one; that excuse is gettin' old!"
  Pa'll look sick, just like a feller when he finds you know he cheats,
  But he do'n't stay home, you bet yer, when the Sewin' Circle meets.