John Smith, U.S.A. | Page 5

the man who'd "worked with Dana on the Noo York Sun."
We dropped the matter quietly 'nd never made no fuss--?When we get played fer suckers--why, that's a horse on us! But every now 'nd then we Denver fellers have to laff?To hear some other paper boast uv havin' on its staff?A man who's "worked with Dana"--'nd then we fellers wink?And pull our hats down on our eyes 'nd set around 'nd think. It seems like Dana couldn't be as smart as people say?If he educates so many folks 'nd lets 'em get away;?And, as for us, in future we'll be very apt to shun?The man who "worked with Dana on the Noo York Sun"!
But, bless ye, Mr. Dana! may you live a thousan' years,?To sort o' keep things lively in this vale of human tears; An' may I live a thousan', too--a thousan', less a day,?For I shouldn't like to be on earth to hear you'd passed away. And when it comes your time to go you'll need no Latin chaff Nor biographic data put in your epitaph;?But one straight line of English and of truth will let folks know The homage 'nd the gratitude 'nd reverence they owe;?You'll need no epitaph but this: "Here sleeps the man who run That best 'nd brightest paper, the Noo York Sun."
A DEMOCRATIC HYMN.
Republicans of differing views?Are pro or con protection;?If that's the issue they would choose,?Why, we have no objection.?The issue we propose concerns?Our hearts and homes more nearly:?A wife to whom the nation turns?And venerates so dearly.?So, confident of what shall be,?Our gallant host advances,?Giving three cheers for Grover C.?And three times three for Frances!
So gentle is that honored dame,?And fair beyond all telling,?The very mention of her name?Sets every breast to swelling.?She wears no mortal crown of gold--?No courtiers fawn around her--?But with their love young hearts and old?In loyalty have crowned her--?And so with Grover and his bride?We're proud to take our chances,?And it's three times three for the twain give we--?But particularly for Frances!
THE BLUE AND THE GRAY.
The Blue and the Gray collided one day?In the future great town of Missouri,?And if all that we hear is the truth, 'twould appear?That they tackled each other with fury.
While the weather waxed hot they hove and they sot,?Like the scow in the famous old story,?And what made the fight an enjoyable sight?Was the fact that they fought con amore.
They as participants fought in such wise as was taught,?As beseemed the old days of the dragons,?When you led to the dance and defended with lance?The damsel you pledged in your flagons.
In their dialect way the knights of the Gray?Gave a flout at the buckeye bandana,?And the buckeye came back with a gosh-awful whack,?And that's what's the matter with Hannah.
This resisted attack took the Grays all a-back,?And feeling less coltish and frisky,?They resolved to elate the cause of their state,?And also their persons, with whisky.
Having made ample use of the treacherous juice,?Which some folks say stings like an adder,?They went back again at the handkerchief men,?Who slowly got madder and madder.
You can bet it was h--l in the Southern Hotel?And elsewhere, too many to mention,?But the worst of it all was achieved in the hall?Where the President held his convention.
They ripped and they hewed and they, sweating imbrued,?Volleyed and bellowed and thundered;?There was nothing to do until these yawpers got through,?So the rest of us waited and wondered.
As the result of these frays it appears that the Grays,?Who once were as chipper as daisies,?Have changed their complexion to one of dejection,?And at present are bluer than blazes.
IT IS THE PRINTER'S FAULT.
In Mrs. Potter's latest play?The costuming is fine;?Her waist is made decollete--?Her skirt is new design.
SUMMER HEAT.
Nay, why discuss this summer heat,?Of which vain people tell??Oh, sinner, rather were it meet?To fix thy thoughts on hell!
The punishment ordained for you?In that infernal spot?Is het by Satan's impish crew?And kept forever hot.
Sumatra might be reckoned nice,?And Tophet passing cool,?And Sodom were a cake of ice?Beside that sulphur pool.
An awful stench and dismal wail?Come from the broiling souls,?Whilst Satan with his fireproof tail?Stirs up the brimstone coals.
Oh, sinner, on this end 'tis meet?That thou shouldst ponder well,?For what, oh, what, is worldly heat?Unto the heat of hell?
PLAINT OF THE MISSOURI 'COON IN THE BERLIN ZOOLOGICAL GARDENS.
Friend, by the way you hump yourself you're from the States, I 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.
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