John Smith, U.S.A. | Page 8

whisked his lathery sides
On overcoat and shawl.
Attracted by the dreadful din,
His mistress came below--
Who, who
can speak her wonderment--
Who, who can paint her woe!
Great smears of soap were here and there--
Her startled vision met

With blots of lather everywhere,
And everything was wet!
Then Mrs. Taylor gave a shriek
Like one about to die;
"Get out--get
out, and don't you dare
Come in till you are dry!"
With that she opened wide the door
And waved the critter through;

Out in the circumambient air
With grateful yelp he flew.

FITTE THE FIFTH.
He whisked into the dusty street
And to the Waller lot
Where bonny
Annie Evans played
With charming Sissy Knott.
And with these pretty little dears
He mixed himself all up--
Oh, fie
upon such boisterous play--
Fie, fie, you naughty pup!
Woe, woe on Annie's India mull,
And Sissy's blue percale!
One got
the pup's belathered flanks,
And one his soapy tail!
Forth to the rescue of those maids
Rushed gallant Willie Clow;
His
panties they were white and clean--
Where are those panties now?
Where is the nicely laundered shirt
That Kendall Evans wore,
And
Robbie James' tricot coat
All buttoned up before?
The leaven, which, as we are told,
Leavens a monstrous lump,
Hath
far less reaching qualities
Than a wet pup on the jump.
This way and that he swung and swayed,
He gamboled far and near,

And everywhere he thrust himself
He left a soapy smear.
FITTE THE SIXTH.
That noon a dozen little dears
Were spanked and put to bed
With
naught to stay their appetites
But cheerless crusts of bread.
That noon a dozen hired girls
Washed out each gown and shirt

Which that exuberant Taylor pup
Had frescoed o'er with dirt.
That whole day long the April sun
Smiled sweetly from above
On
clothes lines flaunting to the breeze
With emblems mothers love.
That whole day long the Taylor pup
This way and that did hie
Upon
his mad, erratic course
Intent on getting dry.

That night when Mr. Taylor came
His vesper meal to eat,
He
uttered things my pious pen
Would liefer not repeat.
Yet still that noble Taylor pup
Survives to romp and bark
And
stumble over folks and things
In fair Buena Park.
Good sooth, I wot he should be called
Buena's favorite son
Who's
sired of such a noble sire
And damned by every one.
LONG METER.
All human joys are swift of wing
For heaven doth so allot it
That
when you get an easy thing
You find you haven't got it.
Man never yet has loved a maid,
But they were sure to part, sir;
Nor
never lacked a paltry spade
But that he drew a heart, sir!
Go, Chauncey! it is plain as day
You much prefer a dinner
To
walking straight in wisdom's way--
Go to, thou babbling sinner.
The froward part that you have played
To me this lesson teaches:

To trust no man whose stock in trade
Is after-dinner speeches.
TO DE WITT MILLER.
Dear Miller: You and I despise
The cad who gathers books to sell 'em,

Be they but sixteen-mos in cloth
Or stately folios garbed in vellum.
But when one fellow has a prize
Another bibliophile is needing,

Why, then, a satisfactory trade
Is quite a laudable proceeding.
There's precedent in Bristol's case
The great
collector--preacher-farmer;
And in the case of that divine
Who
shrives the soul of P.D. Armour.
When from their sapient, saintly lips
The words of wisdom are not

dropping,
They turn to trade--that is to say,
When they're not
preaching they are swapping!
So to the flock it doth appear
That this a most conspicuous fact is:

That which these godly pastors do
Must surely be a proper practice.
Now, here's a pretty prize, indeed,
On which De Vinne's art is
lavished;
Harkee! the bonny, dainty thing
Is simply waiting to be
ravished!
And you have that for which I pine
As you should pine for this fair
creature:
Come, now, suppose we make a trade--
You take this gem,
and send the Beecher!
Surely, these graceful, tender songs
(In samite garb with lots of gilt
on)
Are more to you than those dull tome?
Her pastor gave to
Lizzie Tilton!
FRANCOIS VILLON.
If I were Francois Villon and Francois Villon I,
What would it matter
to me how the time might drag or fly? _He_ would in sweaty anguish
toil the days and night away, And still not keep the prowling, growling,
howling wolf at bay! But, with my valiant bottle and my frouzy
brevet-bride,
And my score of loyal cut-throats standing guard for me
outside, What worry of the morrow would provoke a casual sigh
If I
were Francois Villon and Francois Villon I?
If I were Francois Villon and Francois Villon I,
To yonder gloomy
boulevard at midnight I would hie;
"Stop, stranger! and deliver your
possessions, ere you feel The mettle of my bludgeon or the temper of
my steel!"
He should give me gold and diamonds, his snuffbox and
his cane-- "Now back, my boon companions, to our brothel with our
gain!" And, back within that brothel, how the bottles they would fly, If
I were Francois Villon and Francois Villon I!

If I were Francois Villon and Francois Villon I,
We both would mock
the gibbet which the law has lifted