Finished Verse Not Typewritten

 

 

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F I N I S H E D   V E R S E

NOT

T Y P E W R I T T E N

 

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What odds how good a man may be,

     Be he a Briton, Yank’ or Celt,

If he’s at war with woman fair,

And no one’s round the deal to square,

     He’ll aim to hit below the belt.

 

 

Ballad of the Gungywamp Detective.

 

                                                      I.

Jim Potter allus hed a bug thet he wuz purty bright,

Thet he could beat a cat or owl at seein’ in the night;

An’ he wuz allus plunkin’ round at night, “becuz,” says he,

“I am a born detective, an’ I cannot help it, see?”

One time he bought a shiny badge, he got it way out west,

An’ pinned it in a showy place upon his soiled vest,

An’ then he wuz a sure enough detective, so he thought,

An’ ’lowed thet ev’rybuddy’d better toe the mark or they’d be caught.

 

                              II.

No matter where you wuz at night, or what you tried to do,

Jim Potter he wuz on the spot, an’ hed his eye on you;

He’d foller you o’er hill an’ dale, he’d circle round ahead

An’ be there when you hove in sight, with soft an’ stealthy tread.

An’ by an’ by the folks got sore, they couldn’t stand his game,

An’ so they planned to hold him up to ridicule an’ shame;

They said ef he wuz wondrous bright, and wanted to run down

A reg’lar case they’d give him one, an’ do the thing up brown.

 

                              III.

An’ so they conjured up a scheme to lead him in the night

Off to a lonely, wayback place an’ fill his soul with fright.

They talked uv burnin’ at a stake or hangin’ to a tree,

Or stone him up into a cave an’ end his misery.

Some druther throw him in the Crick, an’ tie him to a stun,

Then pull him to the shore ag’in when he wuz nearly done;

An’ so they hed a dozen schemes fur ol’ detective Jim,

An’ one dark summer night they planned to go an’ lay fur him.

 

                              IV.

They sent a rumor round the town, bank robbers hed been seen,

An’ knew thet Jim would be upon their footprints pretty keen;

So when he skulked around the bank, they grabbed him ha’f a score,

An’ threw him on the ground an’ roped him still an’ sore.

He cursed an’ swore, an’ threatened lives once he wuz clear an’ free;

“I’ll run Ye down,” says he, ‘although I don’t know who you be.”

An’ then they threw him in a cart an’ headed out uv town,

An’ muttered they might string him up or mebbe let him drown.

 

                              V.

Jim he wzu gittin’ purty scat, an’ weakened on the rack;

The men they looked ferocious with their masks an’ rifles black;

They put a rope around his neck, an’ tightened it a bit,

Till Jim beseeched ’em to let him up when he hed passed his fit.

They took him ’neath a big oak tree, an’ set him on the ground

An’ held a council there uv war in manner most profound.

They said they wuz a robber league, an’ worked all through the state,

An’ ev’ry known detective they would soon exterminate.

 

                              VI.

Jim watched ’em fix the hangman’s rope, an’ build the funeral pyre,

An saw ’em load their rifles up, an’ almost heard ’em fire.

He begged an’ squirmed an’ promised ’em thet never more would he

Work the detective scheme in Gungawamp, O, no sir-ee.

He begged so hard an’ plead so long they finley let him go,

An’ chased him out into the night a tremblin’ hulk uv woe;

They took his badge an’ nailed it on the village sign post, then

Retired to their peaceful homes, jest ordinary men.

 

 

Sept. 2, 1911

 

      Anxious Lady Speaks.

 

 

I am getting nervous

     Seems so I would fly

Just waiting for an airship

     Ride up to the sky.

 

(Undated)

 

  Science Knocked Out

 

 

A good, old fashioned aching tooth

     By any other name,

If plenty stout, would be no doubt,

     A toothache just the same.

 

(undated)

 

 

  The Difference.

 

 

A girl is a girl

     Until she’s a wife;

A boy is a “boy”

     As long as he’s “life”.

 

(undated)

 

 

 

 

 

   Robert Bonefant, Hero

 

(Robert Bonefant, a French Canadian sailor, swam 500 yards through breakers to the shore of Turks Island, and carried a rope from the wrecked British schooner Alexandra, by means of which the captain and four others were saved. – News Item.)

 

 

Chisel this man’s name in marble,

     Hang a medal on his breast;

On the wall of deeds heroic

     Let his name stand with the rest.

Through the seething, angry breakers,

     Facing death a thousand fold,

Rock below and wave above him,

     Plunged he with a courage bold.

 

Inch by inch, now swallowed deeply,

     Now high on a murd’rous wave,

Hurled against the sunken ledges

     What is that, with souls to save?

Nearer, nearer, as the vessel

     Grinds and staggers on the reef,

Bonefant gains the ragged headland

     Midst a shout of wild relief.

 

Ho, a common, clumsy sailor!

     None of fame, and left unsung;

Let this modest, undecked hero

     Know the praise of pen and tongue!

Chisel this man’s name in marble,

     Hang a medal on his breast;

On the wall of deeds heroic

     Let his name stand with the rest.

 

 

Dec. 7, ‘09

 

 

 

The Mason Street Engine House

 

 

Don’t move the engine house away

     From good old Mason Street;

Nay, nay, good neighbors, let it stay

     To make our lives complete.

It is a landmark, old and rare,

     Historical and dear;

Disturb it not, but leave it there,

     Our daily lives to cheer.

 

You would not move the Common, sires,

     Nor Bunker Hill, I say?

Then let the King of Boston fires

     In Mason alley stay.

O, city fathers! Spare our tears,

     Touch not a brick, I trow,

In busy days it’s quelled the fears,

     And will protect it now.

 

We would not miss the “toot, toot, toot,”

     Adown the winding vale;

We fain would see the teamsters scoot

     To let the engine sail.

Ah! Life would be too dull for us,

     Too tame and incomplete

Without the scamper and the fuss

     Along old Mason Street.

 

 

March 10, ‘10

 

  When the Steam’s Turned On.

 

 

No more, no more we’re feeling sore, no more we fret and fume,

No more we sit with woolen mitt, in silence and in gloom

And wait to hear the click of cheer, excuse pro and con,

We live again like other men,

     The steam’s turned on!

 

No more we walk the streets and talk of plumbers dull and slow,

No more we rear and loudly smear, not knowing where to go.

No more we rail when prayers fail – the sun at last has shone;

Heat conquers gloom in Phillip’s room,

     The steam’s turned on!

 

 

Jan. 1, ’09.

 

 

 

An Arduous Limerick.

 

 

There’s a woman in Reno, Nev.,

For her husband lost all of her aev;

     She’s out there of course

     To procure a divource,

And will then live a life that is hev.

 

 

(undated)

 

 

   Poor Girl.

 

 

“O, dear!” she cried, her trembling voice

     Full of a vain regret,

“It’s rained all day, I cannot wear

My bathing suit, I do declare,

     Unless I get it wet.”

 

May 25, 1904.

 

 

 

A Double-Barreled Limerick.

 

 

There was once a young poet named Foote

Who wrote poems that never would soote

Who at the door of each daily would roote

Till he was weary of heart and of foote,

     But the editors bad

     All appeared to be mad

     And though it was sad

     Would take nothing he had,

So now he’s on the tramps roote

And is doing his Footing afoote.

 

 

Sept. 24, ’10.

 

 

    Sonnet To The Grippe.

 

 

I caud a liddle co’d two dayd ago

     Ad leed I thoughtd id wad a co’d, bud dow

     I know it id the Gribbe becaud – ker ’chow! –

I’be lade ad sore from head to foot, ad blow

My node ten thousa’d tibe a day or so.

I sneede ad sneede ad then I sneede sub bore

     Ad hag ad cough ad wheede like edythi’g

     Ad bundled id a dressi’g gowd so big,

With every bode ad buscle id be sore.

 

O, by! O, by! I wish that I wad dead!

I feel so – ker’choo! – awful id by head;

     You’ve doe idea wad gribbe id likg – ker’choo! –

     Until id geds an under hode on you;

I’d rather hab bost eddy thi’g instead.

 

 

Feb 25, ‘09

 

Uncle Joe

 

 

You are going to be the Speaker,

     Uncle Joe;

Tho’ there be another “seeker”

     Uncle Joe

You will turn your oratory

On the howling upper story,

And you’ll wrap yourself in glory,

     Uncle Joe.

 

You’re a grim and seasoned fighter,

     Uncle Joe;

You are older and you’re whiter,

     Uncle Joe.

But you’re full of vim and vigor –

Aspirants will cut no “figger”,

Let your “booms” be louder, bigger,

     Uncle Joe.

 

March 11, ’09.

 

    Just Girls.

 

 

The N.Y. girls are passing fair,

     And more than up to date;

They’re very chic and debonair,

     As Gotham poets prate.

I’ve known sweet “Philly” maidens too,

     So modest and demure;

But that they please us through and through

     We’re not quite passing sure.

 

Chicago girls quite famous are

     In fame and beauty too;

They’re wittier than some by far,

     Yet they will hardly do.

St. Louis maids are worth your while

     In all the breezy west

Her red-lipped girl with cheery smile

     She reckons far the best.

 

And so on from the Golden Gate,

     To Key West, back to Maine,

Each city thinks her daughters great,

     The reason which is plain.

But one we know leads all the rest,

     From Maine to Frisco’s strand;

The Boston girl is far the best

     And fairest in the land.

 

 

March 14, ‘09

 

     Land For Sale.

 

“Why durn my skin,” said Eben Potts,

     One night in Stokes’s store

“This case in California State

     It ruther makes me sore.

They say they do not want to sell

     Land to the Japanese.

Wall, I suppose thet they kin do

     Eggsactly ez they please,

 

“But they ain’t like us folks round here

     In good ol’ Gungy town;

We wanter build the ol’ town up

     Insted uv run it down.

I ain’t well read ez Bryan is,

     Nur Johnson, I ’callate;

But I know somethin’ ez to how

     To sail the Ship uv State.

 

I know we’ve got a lot of land,

     Out west ez well ez here,

Thet ain’t a-bringin’ no returns,

     Nur never will I fear,

Unless some people buys it up

     An’ works it ez they should;

Land settin’ mud a-dryin’ up

     Ain’t doin’ no one good.

 

So ef them Jappers wanter buy

     Some farmin’ land o’ me

All they hev got to do is show

     The money, yes sir-ee.

I’ll sell ’em all the land they want

     An’ sell it to ’em low;

I think them Californy folks

     Are purty dog-gone slow.”

 

May 5, 1913.

                           Sent May 6, 1913

 

 

    Familiar Sounds.

 

 

I’ve traveled north and traveled south

     I’ve traveled east and west

In search of story and of song,

     Of merry quip and jest.

The north is cold and practical,

     The south is warm and bright,

The west is breezy, hale and rough,

     The east is most polite.

 

You get a story down in Maine,

     You think is new and pat;

You take it out to Frisco Bay

     Well guarded ’neath your hat;

You spin it at the Golden Gate

     With all the zest you know;

Some one will say: “my father told

     That fifty years ago.”

 

Palm Beach is noted for its yarns,

     In mellow anthem tone;

You drink them with the balmy air

     And call the joke your own.

You carry it to Montreal,

     Up where the north wind chills

And some one there will blandly say:

     “That’s older than the hills.”

 

And so it goes, from north to south,

     And so from east to west;

It is a risk to perpetrate

     The merry quip and jest.

One finds the story and the song

     No matter where he goes;

It is the same old skeleton,

     Attired in different clothes!

 

May 1, 1913

 

     Put Up a Kick.

 

 

If someone’s doing you a wrong,

     Put up a kick;

If someone’s coming at you strong

     Put up a kick.

Don’t be the victim of the shark, –

If someone wants you in the dark,

Don’t keep your toes upon the mark,

     Put up a kick.

 

If you have bought some goods not good

     Put up a kick;

’Tis best for everyone you should

     Put up a kick.

Put up a kick and put it high,

And lift your victim to the sky;

He’ll come down better, by and by –

     Put up a kick.

 

If you possess a daughter fair

     Put up a kick

If chaps are round her thick as hair,

     Put up a kick.

If there’s a Johnnie there to call

And you don’t want him there at all,

And he’s just going out the hall –

     Put up a kick!

 

 

May 7, 1913

 

 

     Penny Diplomacy.

 

 

“A penny for your thoughts,” she said.

“My thoughts are worth thousands,” he replied.

“Huh!” she sniffed, “I can’t imagine the reason.”

“Because you are the reason,” he murmured.

And then, of course, what could she say?

 

(undated)

 

 

 

 

 

 Looking Ahead.

 

 

It takes all kinds of folks to make

     This world, they say, ah me!

If that is so I’d like to know

     What will the next one be?

 

(undated)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Abe Peters

 

 

Abe Peters lived in Gungywamp,

     An’ lived there all alone;

He had a voice sharp as an axe,

     A heart cold as a stone.

Abe Peters never threw a smile,

     Nur spoke a kindly word;

In town affairs or gospel meets

     His voice wuz never heard.

 

An’ all the children round about

     Wuz ’fraid ez they could be;

They crossed the street to let him pass,

     Or dodged behind a tree.

He trudged the windin’ village street,

     Or sat in silence grim;

He never called on anyone,

     Or let them call on him.

 

An’ so Abe Peters lived an’ died

     A hermit, sad an’ sore;

An’ not a tear wuz shed when he

     Went feet first out the door.

A kindly word, a smile or two

     Lights all the darkened way;

An’ people will remember us

     Furever an’ a day.

 

Don’t be Abe Peters o’er again,

     ’Twill shorten up your days;

We all kin spread sunshine around

     In many, many ways.

The path is always dark enough,

     The skies will oft be gray;

Good cheer is just a lantern which

     Will help to light the way.

 

May 2, 1913

(“May 5, 1913” cut off, along with what happened on that date.)

 

 

 

   Swimmin’ In The Crick.

 

 

The sun is high up in the sky,

     The days are growin’ long;

The trees are full uv trembly leaves,

     The birds are full uv song.

The shores are lined with hangin’ boughs,

     To cover noisy frogs;

An’ turkles they jes’ sun themselves

     Upon the fallen logs.

 

Ol’ “Lizzard Crick” is free once more,

     An’ glistens in the sun;

The time o’ year is comin’ when

     The Gungy boys hev fun.

It’s divin’ off the mossy banks

     An’ swimmin’ in the pool;

An’ playin’ “hookey” now an’ then

     Frum Gungy’s village school.

 

Bathtubs an’ houses are all right

     Fur city folks, I ween;

An’ bathin’ in the surf is fun,

     In waters white an’ green.

But let me dive in “Lizzard Crick”,

     An’ git a taste o’ that;

Ef that don’t beat the salty sea,

     I’ll eat my ol’ straw hat!

 

 

May 7, 1913

 

Missing Words Poem.

 

 

We have two missing words today,

     Which you may find, dear friend,

If you will read, with utmost care,

     This poem to the end.

They are two, simple, common words.

     Used by the grave and gay;

Words on most everybody’s tongue,

     Especially today.

 

You have not come across them yet,

     Unless, like womankind

You’ve peeked ahead – we trust you’ve not –

     To ease your prying mind!

Read on with patience to the end,

     It is the only way

To get the beauties of a tale

     No matter what they say.

 

Two missing words! They’re close at hand,

     You almost have them now;

We know, because that lowly cloud

     Is rising from your brow.

We’re going to let you guess, because,

     You know it is the rule

In all the puzzles of this kind –

     The words are “____ ____!”

 

 

Mar. 29, 1913.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Her Eyes of Brown

 

 

When I look in her eyes of brown

     Across the table day by day;

No matter if she smile or frown,

     All speech of mine is held at bay.

I only know that she is there,

     A jewel in my muse’s crown;

But tell her so, I do not dare,

     When I look in her eyes of brown.

 

Her eyes of brown are deep, so deep

     That I am lost, as one at sea;

They haunt me in my hours of sleep,

     Through busy days they dwell with me.

Their liquid depths are food and drink

     To one within a lonely town;

Tho ’twere less clear for me, I think,

     When I look in her eyes of brown.

 

 

July 13, ‘09

 

 

 

  Advertise It.

 

 

If you have got a thing to sell

     You’d better advertise it;

Folks like a bargain pretty well,

     You’d better advertise it.

Folks never’ll know what you have got

Unless you get it in the “spot”;

So if you want your stock to trot

     You’d better advertise it.

 

If there is something you would buy

     You’d better advertise it;

This world has got a searching eye, –

     You’d better advertise it.

The buyer must get in the light,

The seller wants to keep in sight,

They want to meet, and so the right

     Way is to advertise it.

 

Just advertise it left and right

And advertise it day and night –

That such a method is all right

     No one here denies it;

Just advertise it long and well,

     If you have got a thing to sell

     Or else to buy; the ad. will tell

         Always advertise it.

 

Apr. 30, 1913.

 

(Another lyric of the same name and nature was written on June 13, 1910.)