Individually Published Poems - May, 1909







THE HIGH OLD TIME IN GUNGAWAMP WHEN CIRCUS COMES TO TOWN
BY JOE CONE.




I. 
W
E don’t have no immense parades like city people know,
  With thirty thousand men in line, an’ all its pomp an’ show;
  No bold marines from off the fleets, nor Bunker Hill displays,
  ’Cuz Gungawamp warn’t never mixed in those historic days.
But we have somethin’ ev’ry year that jest makes up for all
The fun we lose in big parades, or functions big an’ small;
A day that Gungywamp holds up to honor an’ renown,
An that’s the day,
                                In fine array,
                                                          The circus comes to town.


II.
W
E’RE wide awake at break o’ day, when that event comes round,
  An’ skurcely any boy kin keep his feet upon the ground.
  The breakfast hour goes awful slow. No one kin stop to eat,
Becuz they wanter all be dressed an’ out upon the street.
An’ after waitin’ seems an age the band is heard afar,
An’ ev’rybuddy, fur an’ near, drops things right where they are.
An’ pretty soon, with pomp an’ show, with ellerfunt an’ clown,
With horsemen bold,
                                       An’ gilt an’ gold,
                                                          The circus comes to town.


III.
T
      HE boys fall in an’ march to where the cages circle round,
     And watch the mammoth tents go up like mushrooms o’er the ground.
     Sometimes we strike a job an’ help to water all the zoo,
The horses an’ the ellerfunt, the mules an’ kangaroo;
An’ if we labor hard enough, an’ keep right on the go,
Maybe the man will give us each a ticket to the show.
O, that is when our cups are full, an’ blessings sprinkle down,
When we can see,
                             The same as free,
                                                          The circus in the town.


IV.
T
     HEN in the side how, gee, what fun! The hairy man an’ all,
     An’ then the chap who runs to ketch a red-hot cannon ball!
     The bearded lady, an’ the giant – who eats boys big as me –
The big, fat lady in the pen, ain’t she a sight to see?
I wouldn’t want to be the man who eats live frogs an’ things,
Nor be the charmer of the snakes, with them tight-fittin’ rings;
But I would like to be the man who calls the others down,
The one who speaks
                                       About the freaks,
                                                          An’ interests the town.


V.
T
     HEN in the afternoon we set down in the foremost row,
     Where we can’t fail to see the hull that happens in the show;
     The bareback lady an’ the clowns who crack the funny jokes,
The trapeze men, an’ dancin’ dogs, an’ other circus folks.
An’ we jest say right then an’ there when we grow up we’ll be
Big circus men an’ do the things the same as what we see.
One wants to be the tattooed man, or clown, an’ so they go,
But as for me,
                              I’d rather be
                                                          The man who owns the show.


VI.
T
       HE feedin’ of the animals is joy enough for me;
       The roarin’ of the lions is great – jest suits me to a T.
       I’d like to be a trainer (bet I’d make ’em toe the mark),
Although I guess I wouldn’t want to meet ’em in the dark.
Then we go home an’ talk it o’er, an’ dream about it, too,
An’ lay our plans for circuses the future is to view.
O, Gungywamp is dull, but still, one day she knows renown,
An’ that’s the day,
                                 In fine array
                                                          The circus comes to town.




                                     
May 2, ‘09

















WHEN SAM TOOK HIS HOME-MADE FIDDLE AND COAXED OUT A BEAUTIFUL TONE



H

IS fiddle was only a home-made affair,
An’ashioned right out of a hemlock chunk;
His bow he pulled out of the tail of his mare,
So it had a most natural spunk.
His fiddle warn’t polished like some that you see,
          The model we reckoned a kind of its own;
But no one who heard it could help but agree
          That it had a most beautiful tone.
When ol’ Sam got a-hold of the bow, you can bet,
          (He never could let his ol’ fiddle alone,)
He could draw out a tone that would make your eyes wet,
          He’d coax out a most wonderful tone.
O


L’ Sam hadn’t studied his music abroad,
          Never heard any playin’ outside of his town;
He couldn’t have told you the name of a chord,
          Or whether creshando went upward or down.
He couldn’t read music, in fact, never tried,
          He was allus too busy with playin’, he said;
Jest put all the questions of technique aside,
          An’ played from his heart, not his head.
He ’lowed that to study would hamper his gait,
          An’ so he kept sawin’ long years all alone;
An’ people flocked round frum over the state
          To hear him produce such a beautiful tone.
S


AM wasn’t much good in a business way,
          Some called him a loafer, which wasn’t quite true;
He was kind an’ consid’rate, an’ played ev’ry day,
          Or oft’ner, if any one wanted him to.
At social or party he allus come round
          An’ played for his supper, but never for more,
An’ when he’d start playin’ a silence profound
          Pervaded the parlor an’ every floor.
Ol’ Sam, he bent over, an’ jest drew his bow,
          An’ Heaven shone out of his face. How it shown!
He lifted the souls of the high an’ the low
          By the grace of his wonderful tone.
W


HEN Sam goes to Heaven (he’ll go there, I say,
          For mortal was never more worthy than he),
They’ll want him to play on a harp right away,
          To which, I am sure, he will never agree.
If they’d let him jest take his ol’ fiddle along,
          To play up above in the heavenly street,
I’m sartin the hull of the heavenly throng
          Would leave all the others an’ be at his feet.
An’ then, as for me, an’ the rest of us, too,
          We know ’twould be joy at the heavenly throne,
If we listened to Sam on the Gold Avenue,
          Continue to play in his wonderful tone!


                                     
May 16, ‘09














SETH GRAY’S OLD SORREL MARE THAT WAS DEFEATED BY A TURNIP

– By JOE CONE.


I
       tell you there is somethin’ else
      Besides four legs an’ hair,
   An ol’ stub tail an’ a back to whale,
In that ol’ sorrel mare.”
So said Seth Gray on a summer’s day,
       With a deep, myster’ous air.


S
   ETH GRAY he warn’t no jockey an’ he warn’t no trader, too,
Jest lived a  quiet country life as farmers orter do;
But Seth had got a queer idee in his peculiar brain,
That there was speed in his ol’ mare, an’ that she’d orter train.
So unbeknownst to anyone he took her, ev’ry day,
Down in the lot behind his barn, hid from the great highway,
An’ put her through a course of sprouts, until she got a pace
That brought a sly, myster’ous smile upon her owner’s face.



H
E took a pair of for’ad wheels from his ol’ runabout,
An’ made another pair of thills to lengthen matters out;
Then nailed a soapbox good an’ stout upon the axletree,
An’ there he had a racin’ gig as fine as fine could be.
He fed the ol’ mare corn an’ oats, an’ rubbed her down each day,
An’ talked to her an’ won her heart in his soft soapin’ way;
An’ then the way she’d go around that lot was fun to see,
An’ Seth he kept it to himself, an’ shook himself with glee.



N
OW by an’ by the County Fair was opened big an’ wide,
An’ ev’rybuddy was on deck from o’er the countryside;
The maidens in their furbelows, bright hose an’ high-heeled boots,
The swains with extry big cravats, and brand-new city suits.
The band was playin’ all the airs from “Yankee Doodle” down,
An’ ev’ryone was steppin’ high from in an’ out of town.
The big event for afternoon was bound to be the race,
An’ there was great expectancy on each impatient face.

A
T last the teams come on the field an’ lined up for the start,
Each hoss a-chafin’ at his bits, all primed to do his part;
When Seth, with his ol’ sorrel mare, appeared with all the rest,
The crowd let loose an’ greeted him with merriment an’ jest.
An’ Seth took off his cap an’ bowed, an’ pulled it on ag’in,
An’ all the while exhibited a most myster’ous grin.


An’ when the shot was fired he give the sorrel mare a whack
That sent her off with sech a jump he most went over back.

T
HE crowd jest whooped an’ hollered loud at Seth’s ol’ sorrel mare,
But by an’ by she struck a gait that made ‘em stop an’ stare;
She dug right in, an’ inch by inch, she led ‘em one by one,
An’ Seth he larruped her with words the like he’d never done.
Around an’ ’round the field they went, the soap box in the lead,
The other fellers hammerin’ their nags for extry speed!
Once more – an’ if the sorrel mare could only hold her pace,
’Twas ten to one that ol’ Seth Gray would win the county race!


T
HE crowd broke out an’ yelled ag’in, an’ stood upon its feet,
Expectin’ now, an’ hopin’, too, the sorrel mare would beat.
The home-stretch now whipped into view, they all leaned for’ad fine,
To give each hoss a better show to reach the finish line.
Half way – Seth still two lengths ahead – then somethin’ happe’d, alack!
Some fiend in human form threw out a turnip on the track.
She stopped, she grabbed, an’ poor ol’ Seth went flyin’ out through space –
An’ that was how the sorrel mare lost Seth the county race!

I
 tell you where I erred,” said Seth,
       When he could talk next day,
“I shouldn’t hev gone an’ fed her corn,
       An’ nothin’ else I say;
If I’d a-fed her turnips instead,
       She wouldn’t hev stopped that way.”


                                     
May 23, ‘09

Originally called ‘Ballad of the Sorrel Mare’













































































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