A Bald Statement

O, would I were*

     A poet great

With loads of hair

     Both long and straight.

What poems glad,

     What heights I’d strike

If I but had

     Hair poet-like!

Alas! Alas!

     My fate should be

So second class,

     In poetree!

No bard would dare

     To think him great,

Who has a bare

     And shiny pate.

   

March 31, ‘10

     *Pronounced “wair”

(flip side)

Success

Success is like a wary fish

     Down in the waters deep;

He waves his fins an’ blinks his eye,

     An’ ‘pears to be asleep.

You drop your hook, all baited nice,

     Down where you see him lay;

An' if you tech him on the nose

     He’s apt to back away.

Ol’ fish “success” is purty sly,

     Won’t gobble of your bait

At fust, but you light up your pipe

     An’ settle down an’ wait.

You stick right there, a-holt the line,

     Till he gets weak an’ thin;

Bime by he’ll swaller hook an’ all.

     An’ you kin pull him in.

March 31, ‘09

‘Twas But A Dream

‘Twas but a dream – you loved not me,

     But dear I do not blame you;

I love you still, and always will,

     Altho’ I ne’er can claim you.

I’ll watch o’er you, and pray for you,

     And naught shall come before you;

And tho’ not mine, ‘twere most divine,

     To know and to adore you.

The past! – ‘Twas but a dream, a dream

     To claim and shield forever;

The joy you shed, tho’ hope lies dead,

     Shall flee my soul, O never.

Your light shall be my guiding star,

     I swear to know no other;

And I’ll be true, and laugh with you,

     Although you love – another!

                                         March 31, ‘99

    Globe April 24,

                   ‘99

Omar Up To Date

||  ||  ||  ||  ||

Wake! For the Sun that follows after Night

Is soon the Rise an throw his shaft of light

     Within the beck’ning Pool wherein doth dwell

A hungry horde of Fruit possessed to Bite!

Before the silv’ry Dews of morning dried

Methought a voice within the Tavern cried,

     “When speckled beauts are Waiting by the score,

Why nods the drowsy Fisherman inside?”

And, as the Cock crew loud, adown the street

They rode to where the Bough and branches Meet,

     The jolly Fishermen, High Hopes in hand –

A Jug well Filled beneath the Wagon seat.

March 31, 1913

For Thursday,

April 13, 1913

                   

                            

        Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam
              (first four stanzas)
                                   Edward FitzGerald's Translation.


                             1
Awake! for Morning in the Bowl of Night
Has flung the Stone that puts the Stars to Flight:
And Lo! the Hunter of the East has caught
The Sultan's Turret in a Noose of Light.
                             2
Dreaming when Dawn's Left Hand was in the Sky
I heard a Voice within the Tavern cry,
"Awake, my Little ones, and fill the Cup
"Before Life's Liquor in its Cup be dry."
                             3
And, as the Cock crew, those who stood before
The Tavern shouted--"Open then the Door!
"You know how little while we have to stay,
"And, once departed, may return no more."
                             4
Now the New Year reviving old Desires,
The thoughtful Soul to Solitude retires,
Where the WHITE HAND OF MOSES on the Bough
Puts out, and Jesus from the Ground suspires.

https://www.library.cornell.edu/colldev/mideast/okhym.htm

Spring’s Sweetest Sound

The sweetest notes

     Of all this spring,

Are not the throats

     Of birds awing.

The sweetest sound

     For great and small,

Is that profound

     Old cry, “Play Ball!”

c. March 31, ‘13

Be On Time

If you’ve got a job to do

     Be on time;

If you want to see it through,

     Be on time.

If you want to do it right,

Please your boss’s appetite –

Feel contented comes the night;

     Be on time.

If you owe a little bill

     Be on time;

If you want to keep ‘em still

     Be on time.

If you want to feel content,

Be on time with every cent

That’s the way the deal was meant –

     Be on time.

If you want to catch a train

     Be on time;

If you’re not you’ll run in vain –

     Be on time.

Laggards never win the day,

Tardiness will never pay,

Hustle to it, that’s the way –

     Be on time.

March 31, 1913

For Friday, Apr. 4, ‘13

Worse And More Of It

Oh what is worse,

     Or meaner, pray?”

I wrote, in verse,

     A friend one day,

“Aye, what’s as bad

     As, I would ken,

A grouchy, mad

     Old setting hen?”

My friend he was

     A farmer king

And new the cause

     Of everything.

A clever verse

     Straightway he pens:

“I know what’s worse –

     Two setting hens!”

March 31, 1913

Jonas Lee’s Spring Feelin’

“I tell ye what,” says Jonas Lee,

“The spring is what appeals to me;

Don’t care fur all the rest the year,

But when the gentle spring gits here

There is a feelin’ in my soul

Which puts me way beyond control;

A joy thet busts my prison bars

An' kerries me beyond the stars.

“I like to set outside the door

Jest where the sure rays shed an’ pour

Their warmth down on my head all day

An’ doze an’ dream, an’ doze away

An’ hold communion with the skies

An’ ketch a glimpse uv parrerdise!

But jest ez soon ez I git sot

My wife she lands right on the spot.

“My wife ain’t got the least idee

Uv soulful things the same ez me,

She’ll come at me full tilt an’ say:

‘I’m goin’ to clean the house today,

Now peel your jacket, Jonas Lee,

An’ bang that parlor carpet, see!’

An’ then the dreams thet I hev had

Are busted, an’ my soul is sad!”

March 31, ‘10

When Father Files His Saw

When father starts to file his saw,

     As of the has to do,

There is a rush for other spheres

     Until he gets all through.

My ma she goes across the street

     Altho’ it’s cold and raw;

And sister takes her sewing out

     When father files his saw.

The cat jumps off the kitchen mat

     And straightens neck and tail,

And Towser, tho’ he’s somewhat deaf,

     Sets up a dismal wail,

And soon he follows all the rest

     With fleetness in his paw;

For naught can stand that awful pitch

     When father files his saw.

When father files his saw it seems

     As tho’ my time was near;

And when he says, “Young man, sit still!”

     Life holds me nothing dear.

I wish he was a minister,

     Or counsellor at law,

Or something so he’d never have

     To file another saw.

March 31, 1901

                                       John Hall Cone 

                                                

Ther Ol’ Fr’en’s

I wanter see ther ol’ fr’en’s,

     An’ hear ther ol’ fr’ens talk;

Whose hearts are warm an’ lovin’,

     Whose souls are white es chalk.

I wanter see th’r ol’ fr’en’s,

     An’ shake ‘em by th’ han’,

En talk ergen ‘ith Tom an’ Ben

     ‘Bout things we unnerestan’.

I wanter see th’r ol’ fr’en’s,

     An’ hear ‘em laff ergen;

Ther ol’ laff, loud an’ hearty,

     ‘Ithout th’r leas’ perten’.

 I wanter be ermoungst ‘em

     A little while ter stay;

An’ here erbout th’r doins

     Sence I ‘ev b’en away.

Th’r new fr’en’s, thank God for ‘em,

     Er good es ‘ey kin be;

But ter-night I want th’r ol’ fr’en’s

     Ter laff an’ tlk ‘ith me.

Ter-noght I feel ol’ fashuned,

     An’ want th’r ol’ fr’en’s aroun’;

I wanter hear th’r voices

     An’ linger on th’r soun’.

Th’r ol’ fr’en’s are th’r bes’ fr’en’s,

     Th’r trusty, tried an’ true;

Th’r ones et stood all through chil’hood

     An’ see a fellow through.

Ah yes, I want th’r ol’ fr’en’s

     Ter cheer me up ter-night;

Th’r sight uv all th’r faces

     ‘Nd fetch all thing aright.

March 31, ‘92

Conn. Valley Ad.

Apr. 23, ‘92 

Books

Books are silent lecturers;

To be secured at trifling cost,

To be companions at our firesides;

Let us, then, be choice to what we lend an ear.

Books are welcome humorists;

To lift us for a spell from gloom and thus our earthly stage prolong.

Books are preachers of the gospel;

Piloting wand’rers into straight and everlasting lanes;

Books are Nature’s melodies;

The raven’s cry, the thrush’s song, the brooklet’s tune,

The cowbell’s chime and all the music of her chanting flowers.

Books are miles of travel;

Journeys unto distant lands, sight of grandeur,

And rich harmonies of the combined orchestra of the world.

Books are Heaven;

Heaven and earth united, causing this drear spot to be a Heavenly earth.

All these, and more, are books.

March 31, 1893

Fleeting Joys

How sad! When summer joys appear

     Then joys we’ve had must pass away;

In just another month, O, dear!

     The oyster he will be passé!

March 30 or 31, ‘10

Compliments of the Season

I take my pen in hand today

To write a most attractive lay;

A verse to thrill all who shall read

My bright and beneficial screed.

So watch you out, both old and young;

And ponder well what here is sung.

Would you have happiness and health?

Would you have luxury and wealth?

Just follow this down line by line,

And you may strike a diamond mine.

Great secrets I’ll unfold to you,

I’ll bring a pot of gold to you.

Have patience, yet awhile

For you shall broadly smile,

Shall know the joy and ease

Of reading lines like these,

Shall know the things of life

Removed from toil and strife.

Shall feel the magic touch

Of wealth and fame and such,

Shall know the wondrous kinks

And secrets of the Sphynx;

So read on all of you

The great and small of you.

Good things come slow,

As you all know,

But come they will

Your soul to thrill,

And bring you bliss

You would not miss.

So here’s the thing

Of which I sing.

Please take it cool:

‘Tis April Fool!

March 30, ‘09