Professor Luther Cranmer Bangs

Has travelled in Europe more than a year,

And no one need ever be troubled with pangs

At telling him aught which he thought was severe;

For there’s ne’er a Yankee of any size,

No matter how sharply he chaffs or slangs,

That can boast he ever has taken a rise

On Professor Luther Cranmer Bangs.

He was the man whom Dr. Snayle

Read a lecture to on a morning call—

Read it clear through from bill to tail;

And Bangs like Old Piety bore it all.

Said Snayle, when the sheets were all up-read,

“I’m a-going with this to Boston, you know”—

“I’m glad to hear it,” his listener said:

“I always did hate those Bostonians so!”

Well, last week on a City Atlas ’bus

The Professor and I went riding down,

While the driver politely gave to us

Opinions on things about the town.

And finding my friend was “prone to receive,”

And came from the Western land afar,

He told him just what one ought to believe

In politics, piety, love, and war.

Then glancing at Bangs, who sat to leeward,

Looking as mild as cambric tea,

He said: “I once ’ad—but I soon got cured

Of—a wish to go to Amerikee.

I was tired of always a-drivin’ these cusses,

And so I thought I would like to range”——

“You were right,” said Bangs. “In our Yankee ’busses

It’s the driver who takes (and keeps) the change!”

Sharp glanced the driver at Bangs; then said,

“What scared me of goin’ was this, d’ye see,—

I’d a friend in New York, whose letters I read;

And he wrote: In the whole of your country,

He ’ad looked the biggest graveyards through,

Looked ’em through with uncommon keer,

But never ’ad come to a single view

Of a cove^[10] as wos aged fifty year.

“And as this is the case in hevery State,

I think there’s nothink on hearth for cure’n

A chap hof a fancy to hemigrate

Like readin’ of them graveyards of yourn.

So I thought I’d rather perlong my breath,

Tho’ sometimes here a fellow they hangs”——

“You are right, my friend. Choose your own way of death,

I go in for that,” said Professor Bangs.

“But I see you have not understood

Why no aged person is ever found

Among us. We only want young blood

On our driving, thriving, Yankee ground.

Youth alone has the power to go it;

Old men are a drag on putting it through,

So we kill them off—and our tombstones show it—

Before they arrive at forty-two.”

Here the driver gave a long cher—rup!

And gazed at the Yankee, dark and wan,

As if he had woke the wrong passenger up

While calmly Professor Bangs went on:

“In walking up and down Broadway,

Large mourning sign-boards at times appear

With this inscription in letters grey—

‘Elderly persons extinguished here.’

“And they put in your hand a pamphlet small,

Adapted to people of different stations,

Which cites the law, and exhorts them all

To dismiss in peace their old relations.

‘Why let them linger in a vale,’

It states, ‘where often colds they catch?

Send them to us, and we’ll end the tale

With politeness, humanity, and dispatch.’

“ ‘N.B.—For those who would die by the trigger

We’ve a merciful man who’s a practised shot,

With an elegant room, and a careful nigger

To lay them genteelly out on the spot.

Our principal has a chemist of fame,

Whom he exclusively employs on

Those who set their checks on a different game

And like to pass to heaven by poison.’

“ ’Tis thus the ladies generally choose it;

They love to die without pain or pangs

By a nice little globule—who could refuse it?

None but a man,” said Professor Bangs.

“A saw buck extra they always charge

For the stylish mode of extinguishing breath.

A saw buck’s ten dollars. It’s rather large,

But then it ensures you a cocktail death.”

“Vot may that be?” said the driver, meekly,

In the tone of a greatly altered man.

I observed that he seemed to be growing weakly

Since the Professor his story began.

“A cocktail’s a tipple—America vaunts of it—

So flavoured, so foamy, so spiced, and whirled,

That he who can get as much as he wants of it

Very soon drinks himself out of the world.

“ ’Tis said in the sky—right over Paris,

Where the American heaven is found,

Where everything brick-like and fast and rare is—

The cocks with tumblers for tails run round.

They cut to the bar for all things thinkable,—

All that is nice is a gratis boon,—

Then they come back with your favourite drinkable

And their sickle-feather’s a silver spoon!

“But he who invented the cocktail brew is

The man before you. Thus came the hint:

I had once been kissing a pretty Jewess,

Who just before had been nibbling mint;

And in order to recall the taste

Which I found in pressing her luscious two lips,

I mingled brandy and mint, in haste,

With sugar and ice—and thus made Juleps.

“The first step was, therefore, the julep perfected,

Which gives us a menthal spirit of wine;

And finding myself thereby respected,

I sought to make bitter and sweet combine.

So I took of bitters aromatic

(I prefer the tincture of bark myself,

With orange flavoured, but if you lack it,

Try any kind on the bar-room shelf).

“And I fixed them with sugar, and ice, and spirits,

In a silver tumbler, lightning-quick, sir,

Which I shook till all their several merits

Were combined in one subtle and strange elixir.

Then I passed it through a silver sieve

Kept carefully free from spot or rust;

And the final jimglorious touch to give,

I threw in a sprinkle of nutmeg-dust.

“And I am told by the spirit-rappers

That in the American Paris-heaven,

Though they’ve fancy drinks which are total snappers,

There’s nothing better than mine are given.

So they die in New York without any pangs,

For they know in the next world, to requite ’em,

They’ll sit over Paris,” said Mr. Bangs,

“A-drinking cocktails ad infinitum.”

Here we got down, and the driver said,

“Vell, you’re of the kind that will allers bang ’em!”

And turning our mocassins homeward, we sped

To that great American wigwam, the Langham.

Said Bangs, “O’er my eyes there is drawn no wool.

That man has no heart who would tell you a mock tale;

But story for story I told to the Bull,

What I call a real American cocktail.”

Long ago, in the State of Maine,

  There lived a Judge—a good old soul,

Rather well up in “genial vein,”

  And not by any means “down on” the bowl.

N.B.—By “bowl” I mean the “cup,”

  And by “cup”—N.B.—I mean a glass,

Since neither bowls nor cups go up

  At present when we our liquor pass.

        (Although I recall—

        ’Tis three years this Fall—

When travelling in the wilderness,

And things were all in an awful mess,

And our crockery, with a horrible crash,

Had gone its way to eternal smash)

(It came, as the driver allowed, from racin’),

We drank champagne from a tin wash-basin.

Excuse the digression—non est crimen—

And return to our Judge, whose name was Wyman.

The Judge oft drank in a hostelrie

  Kept by a man whose name was Sterret,

Where he met with jolly company,

  But where the whisky was void of merit.

The real Minié rifle brand,

That at forty rods kills out of hand.

Well, it came to pass that one night the Judge

  At Sterret’s, after a long, hot day,

Got so tight that he couldn’t budge,

  And found himself “well over the bay,”

With a “snake in his boot” and one in his hat,

  Like a biled owl, or a monkey horned,

Tangle-legged, hawk-eyed, on a bat,

  Peepy, skewered, and slewed, and corned.

Couldn’t tell a skunk from a pint of Cologne,

  Couldn’t see the difference ’tween fips and cents;

And when he attempted to walk alone,

  Simply made a Virginia fence;

Till liquor yielded at last to sleep,

And he sank into Dream River—four miles deep.

Sanctus Ivus fuit Brito, advocatus sed non latro.

“Saint Ives the Briton first took a brief,

For though a lawyer he wasn’t a thief.”

This is what the story declares,

Which says he listens to lawyers’ prayers.

Likely enough! perhaps he may—

Whenever a lawyer tries to pray!

But another legend, old and quaint,

Assigns them a different kind of saint,

With a singular foot and peculiar hue,

Whose breath is tinged with a beautiful blue;

  And this was rather the saint, I think,

Who inspired the young lawyers, twenty-four,

  Who helped Judge Wyman to stow his drink,

And made them rejoice to hear him snore.

  Who, save the devil, would not have wept

To see these graceless legal loons

  Tricking the good old Judge as he slept,

And filling his pockets with Sterret’s spoons?

  With silver spoons; likewise for butter

A handsome ten-dollar silver knife;

  Then put Judge Wyman on a shutter,

And carried him home to his loving wife.

If any ladies read these rhymes,

  Which in Edgar A. Poetry are called “runes,”

They may just imagine what sort of times

  Mrs. Wyman had when she found the spoons!

The Judge’s grief was full of merit,

  And his lady wasn’t inclined to flout it;

But she quietly took the spoons to Sterret,

  And nothing more was said about it.

A month went by, and Fama, the wench!

  Had not spread a whisper to urge remorse,

And Judge Wyman sat on the legal bench,

  Trying a fellow for stealing a horse.

The evidence was all due north.

  It froze the prisoner every minute,

Till Judge Wyman called the culprit forth,

  And asked what “he had to say agin it?”

The prisoner looked at the planks of pine

  Of the little rural court-house ceiling,

At all the jury in a line,

  Then answered, his only small card dealing,

“Judge, I hev lots of honesty,

  But when I’m drunk I can’t control it;

And as for this ’ere hoss—d’ye see?—

  I was drunk as blazes when I stole it.”

Answered the Judge, “If this Court were a dunce,

  She would say, in law that is no excuse;

For the Court held that opinion once,

  But of late her connection’s been gettin’ loose.

One may be certain on law to-day,

  And find himself to-morrow dumb.—

“But answer me one thing truly, and say

  Where’bouts it was you got your rum?”

“I drank because I was invited,

  And got my rum at Sterret’s, d’ye see?”

“Mr. Sheriff,” cried the Judge, excited,

  “This instant set that poor man free!

The liquor that Sterret sells, by thunder!

  Would make a man do anything,

And some time or other, I shouldn’t wonder

  If it made a saint on the gallows swing;

It will run a man to perdition quicker

  Than it takes a fiddler to reel off tunes;

Why, this Court herself once got drunk on that liquor,

  And stole the whole of old Sterret’s spoons!”

I am the member of a club of reg’lar noble seeds,

Whose object is to give rewards for philanthropic deeds.

We root for magnanimity as spiders hunt for flies,

So we lately held a meeting to award our annual prize.

Then our President reported with great solemnity

The case of Dayball Carter, a man in Tennessee,

Who plunged into a burning store as if his doom had come,

But emergéd with an infant—and a gallon jug of rum.

But the club could nowise settle, admitting all the fact,

If the baby or the liquor had inspired the noble act,

For ’twas proved he kept the liquor while he let the infant go,

So the case of Mr. Carter was adjourned in dubio.

Then the Secretary read us, in very moving tones,

The wondrous case of courage of General Pompey Jones,

Who found a hydrophobic dog upon a neighbour’s farm,

And roped his neck and led him off where he could do no harm.

Then Brother Chunk, of Pewterville, declared that it was sad

To have to state that Jones had no idea the dog was mad,

And that in circles where he moved ’twas very freely said

He’d picked it up intending to come out one dog ahead.

Then the next case reported in the doings of the day

Was that of Huckleberry Pod, a man in Iowa,

Who slopped into a raging flood to save a drowning maid,

And did it like a beaver, as admiring neighbours said.

Then Brother Chunk again let down his fist with startling bump,

And said he’d found that Mr. Pod refused to make the jump

Till offered fifty dollars by the people of the town,

And that then he wouldn’t do it till he got the money down.

Last of all we heard the instance of Golias Purple Fife,

Who went into an awful well to save a fellow’s life,

A man who always spoke of Fife as of a blooming fool,

And who recently had done him blind in trading for a mule;

And on top of this, moreover, in addition, ’twas a fact,

He refused a quarter-dollar for this noble manly act,

And when they asked him what he’d drink, or if he’d take a bite,

He jumped in silence on his mule and rode into the night.

This case, in the opinion of the members of the club,

Was much the most deserving, and the nearest to the hub;

And each allowed he’d never heard the like in all his life,

So, by general acclamation, they bestowed the prize on Fife:—

A silver-plated snuff-box, with a compass in the lid,

With the words, “If sold at auction always do as you are bid,”

Which we sent him in a hurry ere it might be understood

That this, too, was not an instance of the pure unmingled good.

And these are the proceedings of these noble-minded seeds,

Who make it their profession to discover virtuous deeds;

And every day turns out a lot, but still ’tis on our mind

That a case without a speck in it is very hard to find.

Pete Jonsing went to see the County Clerk

About a marriage license, and the man

Said unto him for fun, but seriously:

“I hope the bride possesses fifty cents,

Because the Legislature’s passed a law

That any girl with less must not be wed.”

“Jis’ go ahead wid dat ’ar paper, Boss,”

Peter replied; then whispered, bending down:

“Dar’s rumers—and dey is reliable—

Dat de young woman dat I’m goin’ fur

Has got two dollars and a quarter—shoa.

And dat’s de reason wy I marries her.”

When William Penn appeared before King Charles

To get the charter of his Promised Land

            In Pennsylvaniá,

’Twas in his usual free-and-easy style,

With hands in pockets and his hat on side—

            Singing Lard-dardy day!

Let us drink and be merry, laugh, sing, and rejoice,

With claret and sherry, theorbo and voice,

            Merry-ton-ton-ton ta-lay!

King Charles at once removed his feathered tile.

“Keep on your hat, young man!” said William Penn,

            “It is our Quaker way;

And people will not know that you are bald;

Be quite at home to make your guests at home—

            Singing Lard-dardy day!

This changeable world to our joys is unjust,

All treasure’s uncertain, so down with your dust,

            Merry-ton-ton-ton ta-lay!”

“It is the custom here,” the King replied,

“For only one to cover at a time;

            This is the courtly way.”

“Then you should have more covers,” warbled Penn.

“Warm people’s heads to make them merry men—

            Singing Lard-dardy day!

And in frolics dispose of your shillings and pence,

Since we all shall be past it a hundred years hence,

            Merry-ton-ton-ton ta-lay!

“ ’Tis a queer world, and faith! I do not lay

My hat around, loose, in a domicile

            Where I don’t know the way,

Unless some party gives a check for it;

I’ve travelled some—I have—and can’t be bit—

            Singing Lard-dardy day!

Since, despite your invention, and learning, and sense,

You’ll be non est inventus a hundred years hence,

            Merry-ton-ton-ton ta-lay!”

“Odds-fish!” exclaimed his Royal Majesty,

“He talks full well, but as it seems to me,

            According to our way,

There’s a tremendous pig in this same Penn.”

“Bravo, young man!” said William; “try again—

            Singing Lard-dardy day!

You have brought me a terrible one on the nob,

But I bear you no malice, not being a snob,

            Merry-ton-ton-ton ta-lay!”