Hoosier Lyrics

LYMAN, FREDERICK AND JIM

 
Lyman and Frederick and Jim, one day,
Set out in a great big ship —
Steamed to the ocean down to the bay
Out of a New York slip.
"Where are you going and what is your game?"
The people asked to those three.
"Darned, if we know; but all the same
Happy as larks are we;
And happier still we're going to be!"
Said Lyman
And Frederick
And Jim.
 
 
The people laughed "Aha, oho!
Oho, aha!" laughed they;
And while those three went sailing so
Some pirates steered that way.
The pirates they were laughing, too —
The prospect made them glad;
But by the time the job was through
Each of them pirates bold and bad,
Had been done out of all he had
By Lyman
And Frederick
And Jim.
 
 
Days and weeks and months they sped,
Painting that foreign clime
A beautiful, bright vermillion red —
And having a – of a time!
'Twas all so gaudy a lark, it seemed,
As if it could not be,
And some folks thought it a dream they dreamed
Of sailing that foreign sea,
But I'll identify you these three —
Lyman
And Frederick
And Jim.
 
 
Lyman and Frederick are bankers and sich
And Jim is an editor kind;
The first two named are awfully rich
And Jim ain't far behind!
So keep your eyes open and mind your tricks,
Or you are like to be
In quite as much of a Tartar fix
As the pirates that sailed the sea
And monkeyed with the pardners three,
Lyman
And Frederick
And Jim.
 

A WAIL

 
My name is Col. Johncey New,
And by a hoosier's grace
I have congenial work to do
At 12 St. Helen's place.
I was as happy as a clam
A-floating with the tide,
Till one day came a cablegram
To me from t'other side.
 
 
It was a Macedonian cry
From Benjy o'er the sea;
"Come hither, Johncey, instantly,
And whoop things up for me!"
I could not turn a callous ear
Unto that piteous cry;
I packed my grip, and for the pier
Directly started I.
 
 
Alas! things are not half so fair
As four short years ago —
The clouds are gathering everywhere
And boisterous breezes blow;
My wilted whiskers indicate
The depth of my disgrace —
Would I were back, enthroned in state,
At 12 St. Helen's place!
 
 
The saddest words, as I'll allow,
That drop from tongue or pen,
Are these sad words I utter now:
"They can't, shan't, won't have Ben!"
So, with my whiskers in my hands,
My journey I'll retrace,
To wreak revenge on foreign lands
At 12 St. Helen's place.
 

CLENDENIN'S LAMENT

 
While bridal knots are being tied
And bridal meats are being basted,
I shiver in the cold outside
And pine for joys I've never tasted.
 
 
Oh, what's a nomination worth,
When you have labored months to get it
If, all at once, with heartless mirth,
The cruel senator's upset it?
 
 
Fate weaves me such a toilsome way,
My modest wisdom may not ken it —
But, all the same, a plague I say
Upon that stingy, hostile senate!
 

ON THE WEDDING OF G. C

(June 2, 1886.)

 
Oh, hand me down my spike tail coat
And reef my waistband in,
And tie this necktie round my throat
And fix my bosom pin;
I feel so weak and flustered like,
I don't know what I say —
For I am to be wedded to-day, Dan'l,
I'm to be wedded to-day!
 
 
Put double sentries at the doors
And pull the curtains down,
And tell the democratic bores
That I am out of town;
It's funny folks haint decency
Enough to stay away,
When I'm to be wedded to-day, Dan'l,
I'm to be wedded to-day!
 
 
The bride, you say, is calm and cool
In satin robes of white —
Well, I am stolid, as a rule,
But now I'm flustered quite;
Upon a surging sea of bliss
My soul is borne away,
For I'm to be wedded to-day, Dan'l,
I'm to be wedded to-day!
 

TO G. C

(July 12, 1886.)

 
They say our president has stuck
Above his good wife's door
The sign provocative of luck —
A horseshoe – nothing more.
 
 
Be hushed, O party hates, the while
That emblem lingers there,
And thou, dear fates, propitious smile
Upon the wedded pair.
 
 
I've tried the horseshoe's weird intent
And felt its potent joy —
God bless you, Mr. President,
And may it be a boy.
 

TO DR. F. W. R

 
If I were rich enough to buy
A case of wine (though I abhor it),
I'd send a quart of extra dry
And willingly get trusted for it.
But, lackaday! You know that I'm
As poor as Job's historic turkey —
In lieu of Mumm, accept this rhyme,
An honest gift though somewhat jerky.
 
 
This is your silver wedding day —
You didn't mean to let me know it!
And yet your smiles and raiments gay
Beyond all peradventure show it!
By all you say and do it's clear
A birdling in your heart is singing,
And everywhere you go you hear
The old-time bridal bells a-ringing.
 
 
Ah, well, God grant that these dear chimes
May mind you of the sweetness only
Of those far distant, callow times
When you were Benedick and lonely —
And when an angel blessed your lot —
For angel is your helpmeet, truly —
And when, to share the joy she brought,
Came other little angels, duly.
 
 
So here's a health to you and wife —
Long may you mock the Reaper's warning,
And may the evening of your life
In rising sons renew the morning;
May happiness and peace and love
Come with each morrow to caress ye,
And when you're done with earth, above —
God bless ye, dear old friend – God bless ye!
 

HORACE'S ODE TO "LYDIA" ROCHE

 
No longer the boys,
With their music and noise,
Demand your election as mayor;
Such a milk-wagon hack
Has no place on the track
When his rival's a thoroughbred stayer.
 
 
With your coarse, shallow wit
Every rational cit
At last is completely disgusted;
The tool of the rings,
Trusts, barons, and things,
What wonder, I wonder, you're busted!
 
 
As soon as that Yerkes
Finds out you can't work his
Intrigues for the popular nickel,
With a tear to deceive you
He'll drop you and leave you
In your normal condition – a pickle.
 
 
Go, dodderer, go
Where the whisker winds blow
And spasms of penitence trouble;
Or flounder and whoop
In an ocean of soup
Where the pills of adversity bubble.
 

A PARAPHRASE, CIRCA 1715

 
Since Chloe is so monstrous fair,
With such an eye and such an air,
What wonder that the world complains
When she each am'rous suit disdains?
 
 
Close to her mother's side she clings
And mocks the death her folly brings
To gentle swains that feel the smarts
Her eyes inflict upon their hearts.
 
 
Whilst thus the years of youth go by,
Shall Colin languish, Strephon die?
Nay, cruel nymph! come, choose a mate,
And choose him ere it be too late!
 

A PARAPHRASE, OSTENSIBLY BY DR. I. W

 
Why, Mistress Chloe, do you bother
With prattlings and with vain ado
Your worthy and industrious mother,
Eschewing them that come to woo?
 
 
Oh, that the awful truth might quicken
This stern conviction to your breast:
You are no longer now a chicken
Too young to quit the parent nest.
 
 
So put aside your froward carriage
And fix your thoughts, whilst yet there's time,
Upon the righteousness of marriage
With some such godly man as I'm.
 

HORACE I, 27

 
In maudlin spite let Thracians fight
Above their bowls of liquor,
But such as we, when on a spree,
Should never bawl and bicker!
 
 
These angry words and clashing swords
Are quite de trop, I'm thinking;
Brace up, my boys, and hush your noise,
And drown your wrath in drinking.
 
 
Aha, 'tis fine – this mellow wine
With which our host would dope us!
Now let us hear what pretty dear
Entangles him of Opus.
 
 
I see you blush – nay, comrades, hush!
Come, friend, though they despise you,
Tell me the name of that fair dame —
Perchance I may advise you.
 
 
O wretched youth! and is it truth
You love that fickle lady?
I, doting dunce, courted her once,
And she is reckoned shady!
 

HEINE'S "WIDOW OR DAUGHTER."

 
Shall I woo the one or the other?
Both attract me – more's the pity!
Pretty is the widowed mother,
And the daughter, too, is pretty.
 
 
When I see that maiden shrinking,
By the gods, I swear I'll get 'er!
But, anon, I fall to thinking
That the mother'll suit me better!
 
 
So, like any idiot ass —
Hungry for the fragrant fodder,
Placed between two bales of grass,
Lo, I doubt, delay, and dodder!
 

HORACE II, 20

 
Maecenas, I propose to fly
To realms beyond these human portals;
No common things shall be my wings,
But such as sprout upon immortals.
 
 
Of lowly birth, once shed of earth,
Your Horace, precious (so you've told him),
Shall soar away – no tomb of clay
Nor Stygian prison house shall hold him.
 
 
Upon my skin feathers begin
To warn the songster of his fleeting;
But never mind – I leave behind
Songs all the world shall keep repeating.
 
 
Lo, Boston girls with corkscrew curls,
And husky westerns, wild and woolly,
And southern climes shall vaunt my rhymes —
And all profess to know me fully.
 
 
Methinks the west shall know me best
And therefore hold my memory dearer,
For by that lake a bard shall make
My subtle, hidden meanings clearer.
 
 
So cherished, I shall never die —
Pray, therefore, spare your dolesome praises,
Your elegies and plaintive cries,
For I shall fertilize no daisies!
 

HORACE'S SPRING POEM.
(Odes I, 4.)

 
The western breeze is springing up, the ships are in the bay,
And Spring has brought a happy change as Winter melts away;
No more in stall or fire the herd or plowman finds delight,
No longer with the biting frosts the open fields are white.
 
 
Our Lady of Lythera now prepares to lead the dance,
While from above the ruddy moon bestows a friendly glance;
The nymphs and comely Graces join with Venus and the choir,
And Vulcan's glowing fancy lightly turns to thoughts of fire.
 
 
Now is the time with myrtle green to crown the shining pate,
And with the early blossoms of the spring to decorate;
To sacrifice to Faunus – on whose favor we rely —
A sprightly lamb, mayhap a kid, as he may specify.
 
 
Impartially the feet of Death at huts and castles strike —
The influenza carries off the rich and poor alike;
O Sestius! though blest you are beyond the common run,
Life is too short to cherish e'en a distant hope begun.
 
 
The Shades and Pluto's mansion follow hard upon la grippe —
Once there you cannot throw at dice or taste the wine you sip,
Nor look on Lycidas, whose beauty you commend,
To whom the girls will presently their courtesies extend.
 

HORACE TO LIGURINE.
(Odes IV, 10.)

 
O cruel fair,
Whose flowing hair
The envy and the pride of all is,
As onward roll
The years, that poll
Will get as bald as a billiard ball is;
Then shall your skin, now pink and dimply,
Be tanned to parchment, sear and pimply!
 
 
When you behold
Yourself grown old
These words shall speak your spirits moody:
"Unhappy one!
What heaps of fun
I've missed by being goody-goody!
Oh! that I might have felt the hunger
Of loveless age when I was younger!"
 

HORACE ON HIS MUSCLE.
(Epode VI.)

 
You (blatant coward that you are!)
Upon the helpless vent your spite;
Suppose you ply your trade on me —
Come, monkey with this bard and see
How I'll repay your bark with bite!
 
 
Ay, snarl just once at me, you brute!
And I shall hound you far and wide,
As fiercely as through drifted snow
The shepherd dog pursues what foe
Skulks on the Spartan mountain side!
 
 
The chip is on my shoulder, see?
But touch it and I'll raise your fur;
I'm full of business; so beware,
For, though I'm loaded up for bear,
I'm quite as likely to kill a cur!
 

HORACE TO MAECENAS

(Odes III, 29.)

 
Dear noble friend! a virgin cask
Of wine solicits attention —
And roses fair, to deck your hair,
And things too numerous to mention,
So tear yourself awhile away
From urban turmoil, pride and splendor
And deign to share what humble fare
And sumptuous fellowship I tender;
The sweet content retirement brings
Smoothes out the ruffled front of kings.
 
 
The evil planets have combined
To make the weather hot and hotter —
By parboiled streams the shepherd dreams
Vainly of ice-cream soda-water;
And meanwhile you, defying heat,
With patriotic ardor ponder
On what old Rome essays at home
And what her heathen do out yonder.
Maecenas, no such vain alarm
Disturbs the quiet of this farm!
 
 
God in his providence observes
The goal beyond this vale of sorrow,
And smiles at men in pity when
They seek to penetrate the morrow.
With faith that all is for the best,
Let's bear what burdens are presented,
That we shall say, let come what may,
"We die, as we have lived, contented!
Ours is to-day; God's is the rest —
He doth ordain who knoweth best!"
 
 
Dame Fortune plays me many a prank —
When she is kind, oh! how I go it!
But if, again, she's harsh, why, then
I am a very proper poet!
When favoring gales bring in my ships,
I hie to Rome and live in clover —
Elsewise, I steer my skiff out here,
And anchor till the storm blows over.
Compulsory virtue is the charm
Of life upon the Sabine farm!