John Smith, U.S.A. | Page 6

know,
And born in old Mizzourah, where the 'coons in plenty grow; I, too, am
a native of that clime, but harsh, relentless fate Has doomed me to an
exile far from that noble state,
And I, who used to climb around and
swing from tree to tree, Now lead a life of ignominious ease, as you can
see.
Have pity, O compatriot mine! and bide a season near
While I
unfurl a dismal tale to catch your friendly ear.
My pedigree is noble--they used my grandsire's skin
To piece a coat
for Patterson to warm himself within--
Tom Patterson of Denver; no
ermine can compare
With the grizzled robe that democratic statesman
loves to wear! Of such a grandsire I have come, and in the County Cole,

All up an ancient cottonwood, our family had its hole--
We envied
not the liveried pomp nor proud estate of kings As we hustled around
from day to day in search of bugs and things.
And when the darkness fell around, a mocking bird was nigh, Inviting
pleasant, soothing dreams with his sweet lullaby; And sometimes came
the yellow dog to brag around all night That nary 'coon could wollop
him in a stand-up barrel fight; We simply smiled and let him howl, for
all Mizzourians know That ary 'coon can beat a dog if the 'coon gets
half a show! But we'd nestle close and shiver when the mellow moon
had ris'n And the hungry nigger sought our lair in hopes to make us
his'n!

Raised as I was, it's hardly strange I pine for those old days-- I cannot
get acclimated or used to German ways;
The victuals that they give
me here may all be very fine
For vulgar, common palates, but they
will not do for mine! The 'coon that's been used to stanch democratic
cheer
Will not put up with onion tarts and sausage steeped in beer!
No; let the rest, for meat and drink, accede to slavish terms, But send
_me_ back from whence I came and let me grub for worms!
They come (these gaping Teutons do) on Sunday afternoons
And
wonder what I am--alas! there are no German 'coons!
For, if there
were, I might still swing at home from tree to tree, A symbol of
democracy that's woolly, blythe and free.
And yet for what my
captors are I would not change my lot, For _I_ have tasted
liberty--these others, _they_ have not! So, even caged, the democratic
'coon more glory feels
Than the conscript German puppets with their
swords about their heels!
Well, give my love to Crittenden, to Clardy and O'Neill,
To Jasper
Burke and Colonel Jones, and tell 'em how I feel; My compliments to
Cockrill, Munford, Switzler, Hasbrook, Vest, Bill Nelson, J. West
Goodwin, Jedge Broadhead and the rest; Bid them be steadfast in the
faith and pay no heed at all To Joe McCullagh's badinage or Chauncy
Filley's gall;
And urge them to retaliate for what I'm suffering here

By cinching all the alien class that wants its Sunday beer.
THE BIBLIOMANIAC'S BRIDE.
The women folk are like to books--
Most pleasing to the eye,

Whereon if anybody looks
He feels disposed to buy.
I hear that many are for sale--
Those that record no dates,
And such
editions as regale
The view with colored plates.
Of every quality and grade
And size they may be found--
Quite
often beautifully made,
As often poorly bound.

Now, as for me, had I my choice,
I'd choose no folio tall,
But some
octavo to rejoice
My sight and heart withal.
As plump and pudgy as a snipe--
Well worth her weight in gold,
Of
honest, clean, conspicuous type,
And just the size to hold!
With such a volume for my wife,
How should I keep and con?
How
like a dream should speed my life
Unto its colophon!
Her frontispiece should be more fair
Than any colored plate;

Blooming with health she would not care
To extra-illustrate.
And in her pages there should be
A wealth of prose and verse,
With
now and then a jeu d'esprit--
But nothing ever worse!
Prose for me when I wished for prose,
Verse, when to verse inclined--

Forever bringing sweet repose
To body, heart, and mind.
Oh, I should bind this priceless prize
In bindings full and fine,
And
keep her where no human eyes
Should see her charms, but mine!
With such a fair unique as this,
What happiness abounds!

Who--who could paint my rapturous bliss,
My joy unknown to
Lowndes!
EZRA J. M'MANUS TO A SOUBRETTE.
'Tis years, soubrette, since last we met,
And yet, ah yet, how swift
and tender
My thoughts go back in Time's dull track
To you, sweet
pink of female gender!
I shall not say--though others may--
That
time all human joy enhances;
But the same old thrill comes to me still

With memories of your songs and dances.
Soubrettish ways these latter days
Invite my praise, but never get it;

I still am true to yours and you--
My record's made--I'll not upset it!


The pranks they play, the things they say--
I'd blush to put the like
on paper;
And