Who Was Joe Cone?: Individually Published Poems

ARREN and brown, in storm and sun, the front gate swings and swings,

With hinges rusty from the years, a mournful song it sings;

O, many burdens has it borne, sweet burdens not its own,

And now ’tis old and weather-stained, and swings there all alone.

The old gate swings and creaks away, scarce able now to stay,

Where once it held a maiden fair, a maiden blithe and gay;

A youth upon the other side, two voices soft and low –

O, happy was the old front gate, so many years ago!

II.

Ah! Many futures have been planned across the old front gate;

And some have known a happy course, and some a tragic fate.

It listened to the hopes and fears of young hearts beating fast,

And thought that, like their golden dreams, it would forever last.

But years have come and years have gone, and youths and maidens, too,

Each couple standing by the gate, a quiet hour to woo;

The stars looked down and blessed the ones who swung it to and fro –

But that was when the gate was strong, so many years ago!

III.

The farmhouse is deserted now, the yard, with weeds o’ergrown,

The birds who nested all about the trees have southward flown;

The fence leans outward here and there, in stages of decay,

And briars form a tangled mess where roses lined the way.

Where now the maidens and the youths who lingered nightly there?

Where now the youthful hopes and plans devoid of every care?

The silent stars will not disclose, the old gate waits in vain,

And waves its unprotected head in chilling wind and rain.

IV.

Ah, lone, deserted old front gate, you’ve had your halcyon day!

Like those who leaned across your arm, you’re weakened, old and gray;

You’ve felt the touch of fervent youth, you’ve heard love’s sweet refrain,

But comes a day you too must know the loneliness and pain!

Swing on, swing on, unto the end, and croon your plaintive song,

You’ve done your best in love and trust to help the world along;

Swing to and fro in wind and rain, a monument to fate,

And know some soul remembers you, O lonely old front gate!

_________________________________________________________

Nov. 14, ’09.

“It ain’t no use to try an’ try

To make right out uv wrong;

It ain’t no use to shet one eye

An’ try to sail along.

The longest road hez got a turn,

The longest day must fail;

An’ folks sometime are gonter learn

Who orter be in jail.”

– Jed Martin’s Motto.

E never hed no big event so nigh up to the scratch

Ez what Gabe Perkins give last year, a turkey shootin’ match;

“The Advercate” fur two hull weeks jest advertised it strong,

So ev’rybuddy in the town knew it would come along.

’Twuz advertised Thanksgivin’ day, at nine o’clock, an’ all

The shooters in the town wuz presunt, big an’ small;

They come frum near an’ fur, with all the firearms they could snatch,

An’ it jest looked like bizniz then at Gabe’s big shootin’ match.

II.

E hed a hundred turkeys in a pen close by the stand.

An’ how them fellers strutted back an’ forth with manners grand!

He gobbled out defiance jest same ez if to say

“No one wuz gonter to hit the mark on that Thanksgivin’ day!”

The shooters looked ‘em over with the eyes uv connoisseurs,

An’ loaded up their muskets like they hedn’t done in years.

The looks uv calm assurance that wuz on the hull durn’ batch

Hed ruther gloomy bearin’s on ol’ Gabr’el’s shootin’ match.

III.

WUZ 50 cts. fur shootin’ – mark wuz way down in the lot;

The ring you hed to pepper with a dozen uv your shot.

An’ if you got a dozen in you then could take your pick

Uv all the monstrous gobbler bunch so ruffed up an’ thick.

Three shots apiece, each man could hev, an’ ef you failed to win,

The next time round, fur 40 cts., he’d let you try ag’in.

The distance looked tremenjus frum the mark back to the line,

But no one questioned Gabr’el, so they started sharp at nine.

IV.

HE fust man blazed away, three times, an’ on’y one shot struck,

An’ he wuz counted in the town ez ruther “muck-a-muck”;

The next man shot, an’ Gabe yelled out: “You on’y got in two!”

An’ when the third man failed they knowed that somethin’ wuz askew.

They let a dozen blaze away, but no one reached the pitch,

Meanwhile ol’ Gabe wuz chucklin’ soft at thoughts uv gittin’ rich.

An’ while they talked in undertones, an’ threatened this an’ that,

Jed Martin slyly paced the course to find where he wuz at.

E found that Gabe had measured off a good big rod, or more,

Than what he’d advertised, or what they’d ever shot afore.

Each man had shot, an’ paid his cash, an’ Gabe had stowed away

More’n twenty dollars, with no loss uv turkeys yit that day.

The crowd wuz gittin’ up in arms, when Jed, who warn’t no jay,

Jest kicked a slat frum off the pen, an’ slyly walked away.

Bimeby Gabe saw ’em comin’ out, an’ with a yell he run

To drive ’em in the pen ag’in, an’ then the fun begun.

VI.

HILE he wuz chasin’ here an’ there Jed yanked the target out

An’ put it three yards nearer home! Then quickly turned about

To help ol’ Gabe round up his flock, an’ when they all wuz in

He give him jest a little nip to calm his nerves ag’in.

The fust man then lined up ag’in, an’ quickly blazed away;

Nine shot he planked inside the ring, an’ ten the next; an’ say!

You’d orter seen Gabe’s eyes stick out when number two let go

An’ plugged the ring fur twenty shot! O, Gabe wuz filled with woe!

VII.

ED MARTIN he wuz right on hand with medicine an’ cheer,

Which cleared Gabe’s throat, but dimmed his sight, which wasn’t none too clear.

The next man up he got a bird, the next one done the same,

An’ when they’d all got one apiece Gabe tried to stop the game.

They wouldn’t hev no deal like thet; Jed said it wuzn’t strange

They missed at fust, the secont time they’d kinder got the range,

An’ ef he run a shootin’ match he’d got to stan’ his ground,

An’ finally he give consent to one more shoot around.

VIII.

ABE couldn’t see the shortened course, ’cuz Jed took keer uv that,

An’ them sharp-shootin’ Gungy boys jest hed the range down pat;

The way they cleaned them turkeys out wuz jest a sight to see,

An’ ev’ry one but Gabriel wuz loaded full uv glee.

Each shooter hed two birds apiece, Gabe ’lowed he wouldn’t care,

But “s’posed when it was over with he’d hev a few to spare;

But they hed cleaned him high an’ dry,” Jed Martin spoke up then:

“Ef you want turkey, Gabe, to eat, you’d better kill a hen!”

“I’ve tried my best all through my life

To keep frum sin an’ wrong;

Yit somehow it hez be’n a strife,

I kennot git along.

I love my neighbors ez myself,

An’ try to do ’em good;

Alas! I git upon the shelf,

I’m never understood.”

– Gabe Perkin’s Complaint

Nov. 21, ‘09

Originally titled ‘Ballad of Gabe Perkin’s Famous Shootin’ Match’

“Max, Max, give us some wax

Off of your bench of pegs an’ tacks;

Give us some wax to chew today

Or else we’ll drive your trade away.

Old Daddy Hall can mend a shoe

Every bit as good as you;

Max, Max, give us some wax

Off of your bench of pegs an’ tacks.”

– The Black Wax Song

HE cobbler set at his bench all day

An’ pegged on his shoes in a hum-drum way;

He drove in his awl and he drove in his pegs

Till he scarce could stand on his lanky legs.

All day you could pass by his dusty shop,

But you never could hear his old maul stop;

It was “tap, tap, tap,” and “whack, whack, whack,”

If you went down town or came along back.

II.

HE boys of the village all used to stop

On their way to school at the old shoe shop

To beg of the cobbler a chew of his wax,

Which was black as your hat and as tough as an axe.

Sometimes he would give it, and sometimes not,

For his moods were cold and his moods were hot,

But he never would miss his “tap, tap, tap,”

On the sole he held in his old foot strap.

III.

OMETIMES he would say, in his sing-song way:

“Your teacher she stopped here the other day

And furbid me to give you, and meant it, too,

A single bit more of my wax to chew.

She says she found it stuck into her chair,

And it sp’iled her dress, and it made it tear.

Go ’long with you now, you can’t have no wax,”

An’ his hammer came down with its great big whacks.

IV.

ND then they would sing him the song of “wax,”

Keeping good time with his steady whacks;

And above the sound of his steady blows

The threat of the ol’ wax song arose

Till he’d throw down his hammer and drop his awl,

And then in his nasal tones he’d bawl:

“Well, here is your wax, and now close your yap!”

And he’d chase them out with his old shoe strap.

HEN Max would slam his shoe shop door

And sit and peg on his soles once more;

And he smiled as he thought of the boys afraid,

For he liked their hearts and he liked their trade.

He kept on hand, if the truth they knew,

A lot of wax for the boys to chew,

And he’d feel so lonesome the whole day long

If they didn’t come sing him their old wax song.

THE years they came and the years they went,

And a peaceful life the cobbler spent.

The youngsters grew up to be good and great,

And some of them went to another state;

But when they came back they would seek out Max

And sing him a song for a piece of wax,

And they liked to hear the “tap, tap, tap,”

On the sole that lay in cobbler’s lap.

“Max, Max, give us some wax

Off of your bench of pegs and tacks.”

Shoe shop and cobbler are no more,

The song has died with days of yore.,

But now and then we lend an ear

An’ catch a sound of yesteryear:

“Max, Max, give us some wax

Off of your bench of pegs and tacks.”

Nov. 28, 1909

Originally titled ‘Ballad of the Village Cobbler’

WELL-DRESSED feller come to town, one who could talk, you bet,

An’ handed out a cheap cigar to every man he met,

An’ posted up some poster bills, them gaudy things, you know,

Announcin’ uv a big event, a movin’ picture show.

The grocer man he got a pass, Postmaster Ayer the same,

Fur hangin’ up the bills around so people when they came

Fur groceries, or fur the mail, would read an’ wanter go,

An’ for a week all Gungawamp jest hankered for the show.

II.

ELL, after waitin’, seemed a month, the evenin’ come along,

An’ to the Gungawamp Town Hall there went a mighty throng;

They come frum near, an’ frum afar, the young, the old an’ slow,
Becuz ’twuz new the Gungawamp, a movin’ pictur’ show.

We’d heerd the city people tell about them great machines,

How they would pictur’ real live folks, in home an’ foreign scenes;

Uv soldiers fightin’ in the wars, an’ railroad wrecks an’ all,

An’ so uv course it wuzn’t strange we filled the ol’ Town Hall.

III.

HEY fin’ly turned the lights all down, an’ switched on their machine,

An’ jest a ha’f-way pictur’ come upon the cotton screen;

They fussed an’ fiddled with the thing, an’ couldn’t make it go,

An’ then the boys begun to yell an’ guy the pictur’ show.

The thing it buzzed an’ sputtered like ’twas full uv pepper sass,

An’ all the time a streak uv light wuz comin’ through the glass,

But fully ha’f an hour went by afore they made it go,

An’ so we settled down once more to see the pictur’ show.

IV.

UST thing they showed wuz Uncle Sam a-standin’ on a ball,

A-wavin’ uv a flag which meant that he wuz boss uv all;

Uv course we cheered an’ stamped our feet, an’ encored long an’ loud,

An’ made ‘em throw it on again, to satisfy the crowd.

An’ then come one uv Washin’ton, goin’ ’crost the Delaware.

An’ for a minute most the crowd thought it wuz pretty fair;

Then some one saw some trickery wuz tryin’ to be done,

An’ for a while it looked ez tho’ we’us goin’ to git some fun.

HERE stood George Washin’tom ez straight ez any soldier could,

An’ men wuz pokin’ uv the ice, an’ rowin’ best they could,

But they wuz usin’ uv a boat right up to date, an’ so

Some feller up in front, says he, “this is a fakir’s show!”

Ha’f uv the people then riz up an’ wanted back their cash,

An’ ’lowed ef twazn’t comin’ quick some things would go to smash.

The movin’ pictur’ man he begged fur them to settle down,

~~An’ for a while it looked e~~z ~~tho’ we’us goin’ to git some fun.~~

An’ he would put some pictures on a credit to the town .

VI.

HEY settled back into their seats, but most uv ’em wuz filled

With doubt, an’ when the next one come what faith they hed wuz killed.

He showed a southern river scene, an’ on the bank there lay

An alligator sleepin’ like, an’ children come to play,

An’ pretty soon the “gaitor” woke – a make believe one, too,

An’ grabbed a child an’ swallered him, jest like real “gaiters” do.

Some woman screamed becuz they thought the thing wuz real, an’ all,

An’ then there wuz a big revolt in Gungawamp’s Town Hall!

VII.

HE boys upset the blamed machine, an’ run the men out-door,

An’ tore the screen frum off the stage an’ stamped it on the floor.

The grocer man he tried to speak, Postmaster Ayer the same,

But they hed got admission free, an’ both wuz in the game!

They chased the movin’ pictur’ men way up the street, an’ then

The sheriff come upon the scene an’ quieted ’em again.

But many years went by before, ez ev’rybody knows,

A movin’ pictur’ man durst come to Gungawamp with shows.

~~__________________________________________________________________________________~~

Dec. 5, 1909

Originally called ‘Ballad of Gungawamp’s First Moving Picture Show’

AM STREETER drove the Gungy stage for hard on thirty year,

An’ never lost a piece o’ mail or package in his care;

He never had no timidness, he never knew no fear,

Just cracked his whip an’ rolled along the grass-grown thoroughfare.

“Big Ham” they christened him for short, he was so awful big,

He weighed three hundred pounds when he was in his winter rig,

He stood six foot four inches high just in his woolen socks,

An’ made a most imposin’ site when perched upon his box.

II.

E handled his four hosses like they was a pair o’ cats,

An’ ev’rything got pretty scarce when Streeter whooped along;

He thundered down the hillsides an’ acrost the medder flats,

An’ allus whistled “Greenville” when he didn’t hum a song.

He had a face as rosy as a sunset in the fall,

His eyes were blue as summer skies an’ twinkled like a gem;

An’ Ham, he was a favorite with men folks one an’ all,

But when it come to women, well, he stood “O K” with them.

III.

AM STREETER had a whip that measured twenty foot or so,

An’ he could crack a chestnut burr an’ never miss his aim;

Could pick an apple from a tree when he was on the go,

Or fetch his forrud hosses’ ears – an’ often did the same.

One day when he was comin’ through a lonely wooded place,

A man was by the roadside in a “biznez attitude”;

A gun was in his fingers an’ a mask upon his face –

He pointed straight at Streeter an’ the driver understood.

IV.

AM had no pistol handy, but he wasn’t stuck, O, no,

His thought was quick as lightnin’, an’ his deed was like a flash;

He curled that whip like lightnin’ in a most tremenjous blow,

An’ on that robber’s forehead cut a deep an’ awful gash!

He dropped right in his footprints, then Ham Streeter bound him tight,

An’ throwed him in his wagon an’ went singing off to town;

An’ when he’d throwed his mail bags on the P. O. steps that night

He ’lowed he had a special piece of mail for sheriff Brown.

AM STREETER drove the Gungy stage for thirty years or more,

An’ sung an’ whistled on his way just like a boy of nine;

His heart was big an’ tender, an’ the children mauled him o’er,

An’ ev’rybody hailed him as he whooped ’er down the line.

There warn’t no rain too heavy, an’ there warn’t no wind too tough,

To keep him from his duty or to stop the Gungy mail;

Ham Streeter even from natur’ wouldn’t stand no kind o’ bluff,

An’ in his dictionary there was no such word as fail.

VI.

NE night we set in Stokes’ an’ the snow was pilin’ high,

Three foot upon the level an’ still comin’ thick an’ fast;

“No mail tonight,” says Crockett, as he shet his weather eye,

“I’ll bet you ha’f a dollar,” says Ezekiel Pendergrast.

“Ham Streeter never’ll make it, why, they’s seven feet o’ snow

Down in the ‘Foxtown Ledges,’” added Crockett, lookin’ wise;

“Don’t care if there is forty, Streeter’ll git here, that I know,”

An’ ’Zekiel pulled his corncob an’ awaited their replies.

VII.

N hour went by the usual time for Streeter to yell “Whoa!”

An’ we was growin’ nervous, gittin’ ready to depart,

When come an awful stampin’ an’ a shuffle in the snow,

An’ “Ham” stood in the doorway an’ we give an’ awful start.

He dropped from off his shoulder two big mail bags on the floor,

On ’tother he’d a bundle wrapped in blankets from the storm;

It was a woman passenger, an’ there in Stokes’ store

Ham Streeter dropped her gently down all safe an’ sound an’ warm!

VIII.

E’D left his hosses in a shed a mile or so behind,

An’ come the rest the way afoot, a-bringin’ of his freight;

“I tell you, boys,” said Pendergrast, when we had got resigned,

“Ham fetched the mail an’ female, too, an’ then warn’t special late!”

* * * * * * * *

Ham Streeter’s gone from Gungawamp, the stage coach is no more,

A train now brings the daily mail with grunt an’ groan an’ splash;

But memory still has a spot for Ham of days of yore,

Who whistled “Greenville” on his box an’ cracked his mighty lash!

Dec. 12, 1909

Originally titled ‘Ballad of Ham Streeter and The Gungy Stage’

STINGY ABE OF LONESOME LANE ~~~ A NEW ENGLAND CHRISTMAS POEM ~~~ By JOE CONE

__________

VER hear of ol’ Abe Peters, stingy Abe of “Lonesome Lane”?

He was called the meanest person ever swung an ugly cane;

No one ever called to see him, leastwise none was known to stay,

For A. P. he would charge ’em storage ’fore they’d run to get away.

He was called the village miser, he was also called a bear,

He would never talk like others, but would wanter rip an’ tear,

An’ the children would cross over when they met him on the road,

Which was comfortin’ to Peters as his manner allus showed.

II.

NCE there came an awful blizzard, not so many years ago,

An’ the home of ol’ Abe Peters was most buried up in snow,

An’ the men an’ boys they shoveled clear from town to “Lonesome Lane,”

Then he tried to sue for trespass when he got around again.

There were many woeful stories which the people used to tell,

An’ the hearers all believed ’em as they fitted him so well;

An’ no wonder he was livin’ all alone in “Lonesome Lane.”

An’ no wonder, once you’d seem him, you would never call again.

III.

L’ Abe Peters once was married, but his wife just couldn’t stay,

She just couldn’t stand his actions, so she died to git away.

He’d a boy come nearin’ twenty, weak an’ spindlin’ as a rail,

Whom ol’ Peters used to wallop with a seasoned oaken flail.

But one day the boy was missin’, an’ a week or so went by,

When his dad was seen a nursin’ of a damaged head an’ eye.

Gossip said the boy had mauled him – Peters never said a word –

But ’twas sure the boy was missin’, where he went they never heard.

IV.

NCE upon a Christmas mornin’ our good women folks was sad

‘Cuz the cruel ol’ Abe Peters looked so lonesome like, an’ bad.

So they fixed a temptin’ basket full of Christmas things to eat,

An’ got someone then to take it to ol’ Peter s’ retreat.

When he found what they had fetched him he just raised an awful row,

Said he knew the stuff was pizened, wouldn’t eat it anyhow.

Then he threw it in the highway, an’ with that ol’ crooked cane

Chased the frightened boy who fetched it up an’ out of “Lonesome Lane.”

BE PETERS sat in “Lonesome Lane,”

His ol’, hard face convulsed in pain;

His room was cold, the fire was low,

Without there swept light gusts of snow.

Last year he’d thrown into the street

The Christmas things they sent to eat,

This year no goodies found their way

To “Lonesome Lane” on Christmas day.

No timid knock, no signal came,

An’ Abe sat there bowed down with shame;

If only they would bring once more

Some Christmas cheer within his door.

But, no, he’d driven with his cane

All love an’ hope from “Lonesome Lane.”

VI.

BE PETERS he was bent an’ old,

An’ down his wrinkled cheek there rolled

A tear for happy days long past

When he was young. an’ love was vast.

He got his dead wife’s picture down,

So faded out, so dull an’ brown,

An’ squinted with his poor ol’ sight

Until he could distinguish quite

The girlish face, the laughing eyes

That once had been his paradise.

An’ then he dusted from the pile

A card that bore a baby’s smile;

An’ groanin’ deep, he settled there,

To grieve in his big kitchen chair.

VII.

E didn’t hear the winds that blew

The snow against the pane, nor knew

The sun had clouded in the skies

So full of sorrow were his eyes.

He didn’t hear the chuggin’ strain

That woke the peace of “Lonesome Lane,”

Nor see the big red tourin’ car

That fought, like some great man o’ war,

Its way right down the narrow road,

Apuffin’ chuggin’ with its load,

Through drifts of snow, with hiss an’ roar,

Until it reached his great front door.

He didn’t hear the voices clear

That filled the air with Christmas cheer.

VIII.

MOMENT later came a tap,

Which roused him from his dismal nap;

He seized his cane from off the floor,

An’ hobbled to the kitchen door.

“Who’s there?” he yelled in tremblin’ tones,

While hunger filled his very bones.

An’ then a voice piped loud an’ free:

“Don’t be afraid, grandpa, it’s me!”

Abe Peters swung the creakin’ door,

An’ on the threshold stood before

Him, with a face lit up with joy,

A tiny, golden-headed boy,

Who held by all their colored strings

Some Christmas wreaths, an’ other things!

IX.

BE PETERS stood with eyes agleam,

Like someone in a mystic’ dream,

He thought his spirit had awoke

Among a far-off angel folk,

An’ he just looked, an’ partly smiled

Upon the seemin’ angel child.

Then finally he broke the spell,

An’ asked the little one to tell

Him who he was, an’ why he came,

An’ what might be his father’s name;

An’ as he sought the door to close

From out the whirlin’ snow there rose

Another voice, which brought a trace

Of wonder on Abe Peters’ face.

HERE stood his son, who years before

Had left his father’s dismal door.

Beside him stood a woman fair

Who gave the child his golden hair.

They seized the ol’ man by the hand,

Who was too overcome to stand,

An’ sat him in his kitchen chair,

An’ smoothed his face an’ stroked his hair.

He mumbled for forgiveness; they

Just laughed his sorrow all away,

An’ put the boy upon his knee,

An’ filled the house with Christmas glee.

XI.

BE PETERS’ house was never so gay

As on that blessed Christmas day.

The heart, once selfish an’ defiled,

Was melted by a little child.

A Christmas tree from grandpa’s wood

Within the spacious parlor stood,

An’ presents from that red machine

Beat anything he’d ever seen.

An’ ol’ Abe Peters blessed the day

That he had learned the better way;

He blessed the Christmas mornin’ when

He felt a Good Will Toward Men.

An’ never more he viewed with pain

A Christmas morn in “Lonesome Lane.”

Published in December 1909

Originally titled: ‘Abe Peter’s Christmas’

__________

’VE heard a lot of country bands in many a distant land

An’ some were counted pretty good, by chaps who understand

The ins an’ outs of time an’ tune, expression an’ the like,

But I ain’t heard a single one nowherse could ever strike

A chord of feelin’ in my heart, or make my pulses thrill

Like our ol’ Gungy band that met, an’ a-meetin’ still

Upstairs in Mack’s ol’ wagon stop, on Monday nights. I stand

Forever an’ a day, by George! For Gungawamp’s brass band.

’Cuz Uncle Hamp he plays the drum,

An’ Ezra Bates the “Double B”;

Bill Dodd he taps the snare “tum-tum,”

An’ he can bang it, yes sir-ee!

An’ talk about a baritone?

Why Gordon Simms can git that high

An’ fine an’ clear, sounds pretty near

Like music comin’ from the sky.

II.

OR years an’ years, on Monday nights, the band has gathered there

Upstairs in Mack’s ol’ wagon shop to have its weekly blare;

They all set ’round there in a ring from piccolo to drum,

An’ when they all git under way they just make matters hum.

Ted Harding he’s the leadin’ man, an’ blows a “B” cornet,

An’ he kin blow the stuffin’ out of that brass thing, you bet;

He just stan’s in the middle there an’ waves it up an’ down,

An’ you kin hear his topmost notes most anywhere in town.

Ben Carter he just works the slide

Trombone, an’ does it mighty good;

The other tenors they have tried

To distance Ben, but never could.

The bass it gives a mighty “pom,”

The altos answer, “ta-ta-ta”;

An’ when the cymbals an’ the drum

Strike home it makes the buildin’ jar.

III.

WOULDN’T miss a meetin’ night of that ol’ band no more

Than I would miss the other nights in Stokes’ grocery store;

A dozen of us gather there an’ smoke an’ set around

On barrel heads an’ other things to listen to the sound

Of “Yankee Doodle,” “Dixie’s Land,” “Red, White an’ Blue” an’ all

The tunes they’ve got, an’ I tell you, they’re repitaw ain’t small!

I couldn’t whistle “Home, Sweet Home,” but I just think it’s grand

To sit there ev’ry Monday night an’ listen to the band.

Cal. Fairchild plays the clarinet,

Doc. Rowley blows the piccolo;

An’ they just run them scales you bet

Like water down a mountain flow.

Herm Stokes he blows the alto horn,

An’ ol’ Bill Deane he plays the same;

There seems to be a rivalry

Between the two for noise an’ fame.

IV.

’VE been to Boston an’ New York an’ heard them big bands play;

It seems to me an awful mix of early grass an’ hay.

A little here, a little there, an’ then an awful “swat,”

An’ when they’ve finished up a piece what has a feller got?

No, sir; give me the Gungy band, that’s got some depth an’ noise,

Tobarker smoke, an’ “howdy-do,” from ev’ry one the boys;

They start right in an’ whoop it up, things we can understand –

They ain’t no show nor fillergree in Gungawamp’s brass band.

I like to hear Fred Grummer play

Them “pom-pom” notes upon his bass;

Ted Harding he just toots away,

An’ makes the fellers keep his pace.

The tenors don’t have much to do

’Cept answer of the basses lead;

An’ Uncle Hamp he gits there too,

An’ keeps the hull thing up to speed.

NCE ev’ry year they come outside an’ have a grand parade,

An’ I tell you the boys look fine in all their gilt an’ braid;

The “Fourth” they allus git in line an’ march around an’ play,

An’ Gungawamp just shows itself on that eventful day.

I allus like to lug the drum ahead of Uncle Hamp,

An’ if they marched a hundred mile I wouldn’t mind the tramp.

Ain’t nothin’ I would ruther do than allus take a hand

An’ help in ev’ry way I can the ol’ Gungawamp brass band.

I’d ruther hear that ol’ band play

Than any music off in town;

Mebbie ’tain’t classic ev’ry way,

But it jest keeps my hunger down.

An’ so, on Monday nights, if you

Would like to know just where I stop,

You’ll allus find me just behind

The band in Mack’s ol’ wagon shop!

Dec. 26, ‘09

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Who Was Joe Cone?

Individually Published Poems - November & December, 1909

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