(Suggested by John Golobie's recent article, "The Apotheosis of the Meal Ticket Man")
Away with the heroes that litter the past!
Tear the crown from the brow of each unworthy pate!
We have come to the truth and its virtues at last,
And our heroes are modern and quite up to date!
Neither warrior nor prelate is praiseworthy now;
Neither saint nor philosopher cumbers our plan;
Let us gather the laurels and twine o'er the brow
In a crown of delight for the Meal-Ticket Man!
Just search through the musty old mists of the years,
For the men who have lifted the world to the stars!
You will find it was never the sages or seers
Who have healed human hearts from their terrible scars;
They were those who from one vagrant week to the next
In the garret or cellar lived life's little span,
And whatever their thought or where ever their text,
All the glory belongs to the Meal-Ticket Man.
What matter though seedy his hat and his coat.
That his pantaloons bagged and were ragged and frayed?
Still the world by its modern, unanimous vote
Says it danced to the tune that his chin-music played!
At the touch of his hand, at the thrill of his thought,
It leaped on the paths where the greater truths ran,
And though in the ways that were humble he wrought
Yet it crowns him at last—the great Meal-Ticket Man!
Then hail to this hero of shadow and shine!
Never doubt he's as great as the greatest in worth,
And his greatness surpasses the greatness divine
Of the sword and the miter that saddened the earth!
From the poverty-ways where his fellows hard toil
All the blessings arise that our sorrows shall ban;
He's a hero, indeed! He's the king of the soil!
Then a song and a crown for the Meal-Ticket Man!
Our Joe's at Home Agin.
Yaas, our Joe he run fer office:
Said he'd try his hand a bit;
Thet the kentry needed savin'
An' he'd tinker some at it;
But the 'lection now is over,
An' our Joe he didn't win;
But we're glad,—me an' his mother,—
'Cause our Joe is home agin!
Joe made quite a race fer sartin'!
He's a pollytishun right,
An' he's jest a bully feller
At a foot-race er a fight;
You jest ort ter hear his speeches!
How they cheered with mighty din!
But the 'lection now is over
An' our Joe is home agin!
Spent two months a polly-tickin';
Workin' every day and night;
Says its harder work then thrashin';
Beats rail-splittin' out o' sight!
But to hear the brass-ban's playin'
Nerves him up, he says, like sin;
But we're glad,—me an' his mother,—
'Cause our Joe's at home agin!
Course we'd like our Joe elected,
But it makes no diff'rence now;
If the kentry needed savin'
Guess she'll manage it somehow;
Fer she's got to do without him,
An' we're glad he didn't win;
An we'll keep him,—me an' mother,—
Sence our Joe's at home agin!
Caught on the Fly.
Nobody has to take a dog and gun and go out to hunt trouble. It generally calls you up by 'phone and says it's coming around for lunch.
"Politics makes strange bed-fellows," no doubt; but the candidate for office seldom goes to bed, and he manages to get along on very little sleep till the returns get in.
It may be doubted whether "the Devil takes care of his own" in every way, but we'll bet our old hat that he never allows them to get hard up for fire-wood in the winter season.