THE BEE'S BAYONET
(A LITTLE HONEY AND A LITTLE STING)
—CAMOUFLAGE IN WORD PAINTING—

BY
EDWIN ALFRED WATROUS
Author of "The Fooliam"

BOSTON
RICHARD G. BADGER
THE GORHAM PRESS

Copyright, 1918, by Edwin Alfred Watrous
All Rights Reserved

Made in the United States of America
The Gorham Press, Boston, U.S.A.

Dedicated to
THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
CIVILIZATION'S CRUSADER.

To Thee, My Native Land, America!

My heart with pride is filled: my lips exult

Because Thou art my Home—my Fatherland.

Beneath the Constellation of the States,

Set in the firmament of fadeless blue,

I bare my head and hail the Stars and Stripes,

Proud Emblem of our Unity and Might.

My Country calls! I give what I possess,—

All! All I say! and giving thus, regret

That my poor contribution to thy needs,

In hours of peril when dark war-clouds loom,

Is such a paltry thing

When measured by the debt of gratitude

I owe for Liberty.

All that I am and have belongs to Thee.

Upon thy Altar Fires,

Where Freedom glows and glorifies Mankind,

I consecrate

My flood-tide strength, my substance—life itself!

And rate not this as sacrifice

That gives me pleasure to repay

In this small way

Thy boon and bounty, priceless Liberty.

CONTENTS

[PROEM]

If you can find, within, a single line

To give you pleasure, then the pleasure's mine;

But if you fail and whine, or josh like Billings,

You might (I say you might!) get back your shillings.

But better yet! Bestow this Book of Verses

On some friend-foe you love with hate and curses,

And your revenge will be attained thereafter

For, when he reads it, he will die with laughter.

And, Cheerful Reader, if this work contains

A soporific for your bulging brains

So that you'll rave about it to your neighbors,

I'll feel repaid for all rebuffs and labors.

Though "Wisdom sometimes borrows, sometimes lends,"

You'll borrow trouble lending this to friends;

But earn my thanks if, when you've praised or shown it,

You'll sit upon the lid and never loan it:

For ev'ry copy sold, thru friends or slapbacks,

Just puts Mo'lasses on my buckwheat flapjacks.

And, Critic Friend, who halts Ambition's flight

And ties the can to Aspiration's kite,

Pray recollect that when you plied the pen

And had some stuff accepted now and then,

Your tales, O! Henry, did not prove inviting

Or else you'd be no Cynic but still writing.

[BEHOLD A MAN!]

There stands a Man! unyielding and defiant,

A master Leader, bold and self-reliant.

He seeks no conquest but his lance is set

Against the ruthless Despot's parapet.

Alert and conscious of his strength, his thrust

Is sure and timely, for his cause is just.

Invincible, he rallies to his cause

Those who love Justice and respect the laws.

To skulking traitors and to spying foes

He shows no mercy, but his heart o'erflows

For those oppressed, who live, nay! who exist

Where arrogance and tyranny persist:

But, tho distressed by all this human grief,

He weeps not idly, but compels relief:

And those he serves by act or speech or pen,

One Hundred Million freemen, shout, Amen!

"Safe for Democracy the world must be,

And all its bondaged peoples shall be free!"

So spake the Man: America thus voiced

Its ultimatum, and the Earth rejoiced!

Intensely human, cast from mortal clay

In Nature's mould, one epoch-making day,

Behold a Man! he seems a higher sort,

Refined with purest gold from God's Retort

And filled with skill and wisdom, Heaven-sent:

God bless and keep our peerless President!

[THE JULOGY]

To those who never heard my Songs before,

And those who have, and want to nevermore,

This Rhapsody, with all its pithy phrases,

Has passed the Censors with the highest praises.

Released by favor of the Board's caprice,

It takes its proper place—a masterpiece!

Soft pedal, please! The Knockers are outclassed,

And Genius finds its recompense at last!

Whene'er I read about this war-time pelf

It makes me sick: I can't contain myself!

The profits on the die-stuffs sent to France

Make Croesus' wealth a trifling circumstance;

And what the Farmers get for mules and wheat

Makes fortunes hitherto quite obsolete.

In by-gone days the Bards were praised and pensioned

Who now are at the Front—and rarely mentioned:

And all these hardships they endure while men

Who write big checks, thus scandalize the pen.

The Writers should throw off their yokes and collars

And drill their brains to cultivate the dollars.

The talents they possess are strictly mental

And can't be utilized for food and rental.

Their thoughts are capital, but who'll invest

In Sonnet Stock without some interest?

Or who'd take stock in Poem Plants? Alack!

He who invests expects the yellowback.

But here I'm talking money: what a joke

For one to thus discourse who's always broke!

Since "money talks" we'll suffer it to speak,—

"I am the thing that countless millions seek;

Greed's inspiration, Evil's very root,

The Nemesis of those in my pursuit.

Kings pay me homage, pawn their crowns to me

And, deathless, I enslave their progeny.

Men famed for noble deeds, who court my smile,

Ofttimes surrender probity to guile:

Who, needy, follows my uncertain path,

I may elude and favor him who hath,—

For I have wings, and lightning speeds my flight,—

Wealthy to-day, a pauper overnight!

The Ticker tells the tale from day to day:

Brings joy to some, to others dire dismay."

This Work is copyrighted just to show

To what low depths the Pirate Press will go.

They borrow thunder from the Vulcan forge,

Then draw the fire and put the smut on George.

Each song or verse, it seems to me, should be

Distinguished by originality

If nothing else (the matter may be sloppy,—

But that's no matter if there's ample copy)

So that the Author's face could be unmasked

And recognized without a question asked;

Or, so identify Calliope

By strident notes of high-toned quality;

Or thus detect some Poet's "fist" and style

By I. O. U.'s unhonored yet awhile.

The Pirates thus would cease perforce their trade,

And Bacon would not be confused with Ade.

In all my songs I do the work myself,

And draw no inspiration from the Shelf.

Perhaps my lines would be more read, if cribbed,

But George and I, you know, have never fibbed,

And what is more, I think my lines are sweeter

Than those of Dante, with infernal meter;

And more heroic, and not half so sad

As Homer's couplets in the Illiad;

And far more musical and much prettier

Than those by Tennyson or by Whittier.

Each bar is known to me, its licensee,

And ev'ry note has had my scrutiny:

I also watch my pauses, moods and tenses,

And have no words with fair amanuenses.

If you could see my workshop (do not ask it!)

You'd find more "carbons" in my paper-basket,

More rough, unpolished diamonds there immured

Than you, Dear Reader, ever have endured.

I have no Jewish blood, not e'en a strain:

That's what I lack! If ever born again

I'd requisition Hebrew sire and dam,

Something akin, methinks, to Abraham,

And take these "jewels," doomed unseen to flash,

Gloss o'er their flaws, and turn them into cash.

Here's where I doff my bonnet to the Jew!

Tho' sore oppressed they're still the Chosen Few:

A few in numbers but a mighty host

When reckoned by the things that count the most,—

I mean achievements, won by toilsome stages

In spite of persecutions thru the Ages.

I see these Davids watching o'er their flocks

In Palestine. (To-day they watch their stocks

And clip the coupons from their bonds, you see,

Just as they sheared the lambs in Galilee.)

There milk and honey in abundance vied

To keep the Simple Simons satisfied;

But here to luxuries the Josephs cling,

And milk the honey from most everything.

Time was when you were treated with disdain

But now the tune is quite a changed refrain,

And Gentiles everywhere take special pains

To pay respectful tribute to your brains!

Behold your ancient hills and rugged rocks;

Your fruitful valleys with their golden shocks

Of Grain that, grouped around the stately dates,

Seem to defy the threshing that awaits!

Here olives ripen 'neath the summer skies

And yield rich oil,—first Standard Oil supplies;

'Twas here the mighty Samson filled with awe

The Philistines and flayed them with his jaw;

(No man before, or since, thus courted fame,

For woman holds these records in her name.)

And here wise Solomon refused the vote

In statecraft matters to the Petticoat;

But when the Referendum was installed

The wise old King's objection was Recalled.

And then there's David caring for his sheep,

And big Goliath (rocking him to sleep).

There Japheth, Shem and Ham are; Ham tabooed

By Moses in his Treatises on Food;

And Jehu with his pair of chestnut colts

Trotting the highway down like thunderbolts.

If Jehu reined to-day he'd swap his stable

For high-power Auto, with a foreign label,

And hold the record for the Shore Road trip

From Tyre to Sidon at a lightning clip,—

And make his whiskers, driven by the breeze,

Look like a storm-tossed frigate on the seas.

There's Jacob dreaming, seeing more than Esau,

And giving him the double-cross and hee-haw;

Obtaining Esau's birthright (Silly Dupe!)

For three brass spheroids and a bowl of soup.

He traded for it—didn't have to buy it!

'Cause Brother Hairy, glutton, wouldn't diet.

But "chickens come back home to roost," forsooth,

And Jacob in his dotage learned this truth,

When Leah's sons, of ordinary clay,

Put Rachel's Joseph in the consommé.

As Financiers the palm has been bestowed,

In panegyric, melody and ode,

On Jacob's sons. The caravans, that passed

Thru burning sands, from cities far and vast,

Into their land that teemed with grain and gold,

Were richly laden. Thus they bought and sold,

Exchanging corn and cattle, hides and honey

For finest silks and linens, gems and money,—

Until, thru bargain-insight, skill and daring,

They cornered all the fabrics used for wearing,

And then proceeded, with discerning lust,

To hump themselves and form a Camel Trust.

The Traders who had plied this Cargo Route

Could never, in their deals, get cash to boot

From Jacob's sons. Sometimes a fleece or skin,

Of little size and worth, would be thrown in,

But shekels—No! And so the nomad Sheik

In quest of easy picking; Turk and Greek;

The wily Fellah from the distant Nile

Whose gaudy gewgaw "gems" reflect his guile;

The sleepy Peddlers from the Land of Nod,

Who still shekinah on ancestral sod;

And all the Wise Men from the Eastern marts

Who plan their ventures by the Astral charts,

Plotted and vowed, by Imps and Endor Witches,

To wrest from Jacobs Brothers all their riches.

So, working now with Bulls, anon with Bears;

Rigging the market to advance their wares

Or to depress the House of Jacobs' shares,

It looked as if the plotters might make good

Against the unsuspecting Brotherhood.

But patiently the Brethren stood their ground,

Unmindful of the rumors passed around,

Or baits to tempt Cupidity thrown out,

That throttle Judgment and put Sense to rout,—

Until the market, unsupported, broke:

Then, feigning sleep, they suddenly awoke

And took possession of the Stock Exchange.

Like beaten curs or mongrels with the mange

The Plotters cringed. The Shorts in wild dismay

To cover ran, but Zounds! they had to pay

Four prices to the Brethren who controlled

The entire issue of the short stock sold.

And thus the Brethren made a tidy sum,

Keeping their standing in Financialdom.

Keen businessmen, they sold or bought as well,

But never showed anxiety to sell.

So Jacob's Sons became, as was their bent,

The mighty Merchants of the Orient.

No goose that ever layed a golden egg

Would needs have come to one of them to beg

For life or respite. "Nay! Lay on, Good Goose!

We'll shield thee and thy gander from abuse!"

Long-headed and kind-hearted, in such cases

Their noses were not lopped to spite their faces.

Too wise they were: they had too good a teacher

To make the nose too prominent a feature!

While yet the goose was itching for the nest

They egged her on and Quack! she did the rest.

A goose she would appear to give so much

To those who had—but Life is ever such.

But Jacob's Sons like Isaac, sturdy Oak,

Made no complaint but bore their golden yolk,

And, thrifty men, in many baskets stored

The golden ovals and increased their hoard.

And so their nests were feathered, as we know,

But cautious men they were, who didn't crow.

And so we see them on the filmy screens,

Matching their talents 'gainst the Philistines:

And looking close, we notice that the Brothers

Have bigger stacks before them than the others.

And then there's Job, the Paradox, who toils

To show good humor when beset by boils;

And Jinxy Jonah, ducked and rudely whaled,

Because he had no passport when he sailed.

(Whene'er I see the Ocean Mammal spout

Methinks it's habit—spewing Jonah out.)

Delilah's "next"! Tonsorial Adept—

A cutting up while headstrong Samson slept.

Shear nonsense—that man's vigor could be sapped

Because he had a haircut when he napped,

Or lose his nerve, e'en at the yawning grave,

Tho' just escaping by the closest shave.

With Samson's case a multitude compare,

For men miss greatness ofttimes by a hair.

'Twas his conceit that made him lose his nerve,

As long-haired, whiskered men, bereft, deserve.

The facts are these: that Samson used to wear

A wig with ringlets, 'cause his head was bare.

One night, in playful mood, Delilah stole

Up to his cot and touched the poor old soul

For his toupee. He woke, chagrined, and fled

Because his capillary roots were dead.

What transformation! Thus the Man of Might

Became a pussyfooter overnight,

And went to writing verses from that minute

Finding his strength, not on his head, but in it.

Of all your rulers, Roman, Jew or Fezzer,

The first or most pronounced is Nebu'nezzar.

(Too long this monstrous name has been derided,

And so the chad, for rhythm, is elided.)

"Neb" is enough, for short, and apropos

Of Shadrach, Meshack and Abednego,

The King waxed wroth because these three live wires

Passed thru his melting pots and furnace fires

Without a burn: remarkable endurance!

Because protected by good Fire Insurance.

He paid the price for arson ere he died,

Was kept lit up and rightly classified

Among the beasts: and now that all is over

'Tis safe to say he did not live in clover,

But roamed the pastures, when he lost his pull,

And grazed himself to death: he was some bull.

Then next we come to Ruth, the Moabite:

Her husband Chilion (not her!) one night

Blew out the gas, and Ruth was thus bereft;

But Naomi, her Ma-in-Law, was left

To comfort her: and jolly well she did it!

For Ruth's great grief soon ceased or else she hid it.

Then to Naomi's Land the two repaired,

Their love enhanced by sorrows they had shared.

And so the elder of the widowed twain

Set out to find, for Ruth, another swain;

And all her schemes, 'tis said, succeeded so as

To marry Ruth to wealthy kinsman Boaz.

Unselfish? No! She was too old to wed,

So Ruth agreed to give her board and bed,

Trusting to Boaz not to spoil her plan

Who swallowed hook and line like any man.

The attic room, or one just off the hall,

Was where Naomi nightly had to crawl;

And all her meals, unleavened bread and 'taters,

Were eaten in the kitchen with the waiters,—

For Boaz, when the honeymoon was spent,

Tightened his purse-strings—wouldn't spend a cent!

And Naomi as welcome was, I think,

As hungry roaches in the kitchen sink.

This is the only case,—I know no other!

Where widowed wife abided husband's mother;

Or, where a woman, in such circumstance,

Would give her son's relict another chance.

There's Baal and those exalting Gods of brass;

And Balaam, Prophet: but we'll let him pass!

And John the Baptist, man who lost his head

To fair Salomé, tho she cut him dead.

There's Absalom the Vain, whose hair was long,

Who, in the final parting, got in wrong:

And Pharaoh, with chariots and fighters

Pursuing Moses and the Israeliters;

Who, half-seas over, when the King dropped in,

Punished the latter for his divers sin,

And rescued on the Red Sea bar his folk,

Athirst for freedom from the Ptolemy yoke.

While yet the rushes bent beneath the blast

Of Red Sea winds, a prodigy was cast.

(From common mold, perhaps, but 'tis enough

To know that he was made of proper stuff.)

And little did the Tempest wot his noise

Was silence likened to the bawling boy's.

The Earth breathed on the shape and gave it speech,

Or something vocally akin, a screech.

Thus Moses had his coming out—and lo!

He rushed into the arms of Fairy O

(Daughter of Pharaoh, the mighty King)

Who bore him to the Palace 'neath her wing.

Fed on the Milk of Kindness to begin,

With Medica Materia thrown in,

He grew until appointed, by decree,

To Little Egypt, Princess, the M.D.

Thus Doctor Moses hung his shingle out,

And soon his fame was heralded about.

To doctors since, no fame like his doth cling:

No Specialist: he doctored everything!

He analyzed and stopped the human leak;

(His patience was rewarded, so to speak)

He charged his people to eschew the swine,

And made the Ten Commandments seem benign.

Not only as Physician did he rate,

But as a Surgeon: he could amputate!

He cut off Pharaoh in his pursuit

And, by this operation, gained repute.

He set his people right and made no bones

Of driving lepers from the Safety Zones;

He gave them tablets for their moral healing,

Knowing their pulses without even feeling.

His praises now resound from every lip

Because he saved the Jews from Phar'oh's grippe.

Still 'long the Nile the pink-winged curlews flock

Where Moses took his henchmen out of hock;

The minions of Æolus hurtle on,

Leaving a trail of foam the waves upon,—

Stopping anon, where restless driftwood crushes

The lotus pads that hover near the rushes,

To chant a requiem and breathe a prayer

Over the spot that cradled Moses there.

If modern doctors would obey the rule

Of common sense prescribed by Moses' School;

If they would note our pulses and our looks

Instead of feeling of our pocket-books

And judging circulation by the latter,

We'd sometimes know, perhaps, just what's the matter.

What doctor now would diagnosis make

And call it simple, old-time belly-ache,

Charging a trifling fee to cure the pain?

Ah, no! those days will not return again!

No more, alas! will green-fruit cramps delight us,

For colic now is styled appendicitis.

By leaps and bounds have grown the "trifling fees";

"Five hundred!" now, succeeds "One Dollar, please!"

And germs, in league with doctors, have their station

At vital points to force inoculation,

So that our Systems pay a pretty price

For ev'ry nostrum, ev'ry fake device

Known to the School of Quacks: and so we suffer

Imposed upon by patentee and duffer.

O, for a Moses! That's our crying need—

To cure Physicians of unbridled greed

And probe, no matter where it hurts, the cause

Of Doctors' strange immunity from laws.

O! for an instrument—an act or sermon—

Of Moses' kind—to cut the germ from German!

And lead them from the Wilderness of Vice

Whose hearts were warm but now have turned to ice!

All these and many more increase the lustre

Distinguishing this brilliant Jewish cluster.

And Abraham? We save him for the last,

Tho first in line, renowned Iconoclast.

Of all the Israelites, the men of mark,

Who else compares with this grand Patriarch?

And who besides, of all the racial roots,

Developed half the lusty leaves and shoots,

Strong limbs and branches, virile seed? some trunk!

The Ark, with all this luggage, would have sunk!

And so 'twere well the Deluge didst o'erwhelm

The Earth, ere this, with Noah at the helm,

Else to preserve the chosen and elite

Of Israel's line would needs have taxed a fleet.

I love these ancient tribesmen who illumine

The Archives of the Past: they were so human!

Their frailties were but habits of the Race

Since Father Adam set the human pace

Hitched up with Eve who, chafing at the bit,

Did well her part or bit, in spite of it.

But all their mortal weaknesses were nil

Compared with virtues that their Records fill;

And good or bad, or medium or fair,

No Tribe excelled their morals anywhere.

They freely gave their tithes, but did it pay

To advertise their wealth? a give away!

And so their pockets have been worn and frayed

By frequent contributions they have made

To Charity and Church. I hope and pray

They've saved a little for a rainy day!

I think they have! for Money talked,—confessed

That Hebrews were the ones he liked the best,

Because they never slighted or abused him,

And always were so careful how they used him.

And so, O Sons of Abraham, I say

You've come into your own and come to stay!

The Promised Land is yours, but what is more,

The Earth and Seas and Skies with all their store.

You wandered from Judea, but why care?

Because your home is here as well as there;

And we would miss you just as much, I vum,

As those who wait you in Capernaum;

For Broadway would despair and sackcloth don

If you should leave New York for Ascalon.

No more, thank God! will Infidels profane

Jerusalem. For centuries the stain

Of Turkish rule has laid its unclean hand

Upon the Altars of the Holy Land.

But now the Prophet's promise is fulfilled,

And Jews and Gentiles are rejoiced and thrilled

As Men of Allenby, God's Sword, restore

The Holy City: yours forevermore.

[ENGLAND]

O, Mighty Atlas, thou hast borne the load

Of hapless peoples smarting from the goad

Of Tyranny, until thy giant strength

Seems overtaxed and doomed to break at length.

Unless thy vim endures with steadfast force;

Unless thy Ship of State keeps on its course;

Unless thou gird thy loins and stand astride,

Colossus-like, the struggles that betide—

While all the Furies strive, the Turk and Hun,

To sap thy power—undo what thou hast done—

Of what avail will all thy efforts be

Against the tottering walls of Tyranny?

And to what purpose will have lived thy men

Who won imposing fame with sword or pen?

And what, I pray, will all thy thousands slain

Avail thy Empire if they've died in vain?

[PREPAREDNESS]

The Ostrich has his wings, but not for flight;

He flies on foot when danger is in sight;

His mate lays eggs upon the desert reaches

And "sands" them over when the leopard screeches.

The eggs, thus mounded, fall an easy prey

To feline foragers who slink that way.

The Ostrich, thus, guards not his nest: instead

He hides, in burning sands, his shameless head

And lets his monoplane and rudder be

Stripped of their plumage by an enemy.

Ostriches should Carry

Their Eggs in a Basket

And use their Feathers

For Dusting over the Desert.

The Squirrel is quite a different kind of fowl:

He works while others sleep, the sly old owl!

And stores up food, against the rainy day,

In secret nooks, from forest thieves away.

When winter comes, or when besieged by foes,

Securely housed he feasts and thumbs his nose

And ridicules starvation: he's immune!

While others, shiftless, sing another tune.

The Squirrel, you see, is much misfortune spared

In times of stress because he is prepared.

Improvident Nuts

Should Tear a Leaf

From the Squirrel's Diary.

A Heifer on the Railroad Crossing stood

Chewing Contentment's Cud, as heifers should,—

When, rushing madly, "late again," there came

The Noonday Mail. The Heifer was to blame

For choosing her position, I would say,

Because the Engine had the Right of Whey.

The Cow was unprepared! Her switching tail

Failed signally to flag the Noonday Mail.

But why keep beefing over milk that's spilled?

She heeded not the sign and thus was killed.

Heifers with Unprotected

Flanks should not Invite

Rear-guard Actions.

The Busy Bee improves the shining hours

And gathers honey from the fragrant flowers.

When Winter comes, forsaking field and rill,

He hivernates, but lives in clover still.

While Famine stalks without, his Home, Sweet Home

Is stored with tempting food from floor to dome.

He never lacks, nor has to buy, but cells

His surplus food gleaned from the flower-fringed dells.

A thrifty fellow is the Busy Bee

And fortified against Emergency.

A Bee's Ears

Contain no Wax

And he Saves his Combings

Against the Baldness of Old Age.

The Mule is well equipped but lacks the mind;

His strategy is in his heels, behind.

If pointed wrong, his practice is not dreaded,

But kick he will, no matter how he's headed.

With foresight lacking, hindsight to the fore,

He'll be just simple Mule forevermore;

Without the range or sight he'll blaze away

And thwart his purpose with his brazen bray.

If well-directed effort were his cult

No fortress could withstand his catapult.

A Mule should Conserve

His Ammunition and

Not Shoot-off his Mouth.

The Burglar, have you noticed? never troubles

To look for petty loot in obscure hovels.

He packs his kit and steals adown the road

To Gaspard Moneybags' renowned abode.

He knows the house-plan ("inside" dope, no

doubt)

And when he's in, old Moneybags is out.

But Jimmy does not dent the window-sash;

He enters thru the door and gets the cash.

Prepared? Well, yes! He knew just where to look,

For Nora hung the key upon the hook.

Team-work is

The Handmaiden

Of Efficiency.

It pays to be Prepared, you see, and so

The Snail in Armored Car goes safe, tho' slow;

And Alligators in their Coats of Mail

Withstand assaults where those, defenceless, fail.

The Tortoise totes his Caripace around

And dwells in safety where his foes abound;

While Wasps, with poisoned javelins, defend

Successfully their offspring to the end.

A Sheep with ramparts has no thought of fear,

But guards his buttress when his foes appear,

And any Skunk can frighten and harass

An Army with Asphyxiating Gas.

[THE FUGITIVE KISS]

How I loved her! There on the gate we'd lean,

(The dear, old gate that never gave away

The loving nothings we were wont to say)

From day to day,

And sometimes after dark;

She was my Angel-Sweetheart, just sixteen.

But I was shy! And while I longed to taste

The nectar of her lips, I was afraid

To draw her to my breast and kiss the Maid:

But I essayed!

And this is what I drew—

"There's Papa with the bulldog, so make haste!"

What could I do? The "bark" was flecked with foam,

And old man Jones was meaner than a cur;

So there I stood 'twixt fear, and love of her

And didn't stir

Until they came: and then

I kissed them all Good-bye and beat it home.

[NEW MEXICAN NATIONAL ANTHEM]

My Country vast and grand,

Sweet Montezuma Land,

My Stingareé.

Land of the Knife and Gun,

Villa and Scorpion;

Land of the Evil One

I weep for thee!

Smallpox and Rattlesnakes

Lurk in thy Cactus brakes,

And Yellow Jack.

Spiders and Centipedes

Gloat o'er thy murd'rous deeds:

To cure thy crying needs,

Call Diaz back.

Tarantula and Flies

Poison your lands and skies:

Behold your graves!

Carranza's waving beard

By Pancho's Band is feared,

And will be till he's sheared

Or dyes or shaves.

Horned Toads and Vampire Bats,

Gilas and Mountain Cats,

Where'er you go!

Buzzards and Vultures reign

Over a million slain;

And Mescal is the bane

Of Mexico.

O, Land of Chili con

Carne and Obregon,

Let murders cease!

Keep Freedom's fires aglow

Where La Frijólés grow;

Throw up your Sombrero

And Keep the Peace!

[LOVE]

I

Love is the Mecca of our Heart's Desire:

We worship at its shrine and feel its thrill;

Burning our Hopes upon its Altar Fire

Till Passion be consumed, but not until.

II

Then Love assumes a calmer mood, when spent—

His quiver empty and his bow unstrung—

And peers into the pleasing Past, content

To live, unmoved, his memories among.

[STRONGARM'S WATERLOO]

Some drive! From tee to green in one: par, three!

That's putting proper English on, you see!

And, Goodness Golfus! See the ball roll up

To easy putting distance from the cup.

Who is this man? Professional, no doubt!

He'll "card" a thirty-seven going out;

And if he gets the "breaks" he'll make, methinks,

A new low record for the Piedmont Links.

See with what confidence he wends his way

The Fairway thru to make his hole out play!

The Gallery, expectant, follows thru

To see the Champion go down in two.

Then to the ball he makes his last address,

(The ball was peeved at what he said, I guess)

And pulls his gooseneck back a foot or so

Before he hits the sphere the fateful blow.

Alas for human frailty! See it flit

Across the green into the sandy pit!

The sighing winds, in protest, moaned Beware!

While he invoked the Deity in prayer.

And then he played his third, but topped the sphere,

The Rubber Rogue responding with a leer.

A halo hung around the Stranger's head

It seemed: but, nay! 'twas brimstone fire instead,

For what he said, in type is not displayed

Except on fire-proof paper, I'm afraid.

Four! Five! Six! But still far from the goal!

The Player loses all his self-control

And breaks the "goose" in twain: then hark the din,

When Caddie trails the ball and kicks it in!

Far from the scene of strife the Club House becks

The weary Golfers on their inward treks;

And close beside, beneath the porch's shade,

The Nineteenth hole dispenses lemonade

And other cheering drinks, within the law;

But little ice that cuts: who cares a straw?

[THE SPIRIT OF FRANCE]

Yes! I've done my bit, as you fellows would say,

If serving one's country deserves any praise:

Two years at the front, then an arm shot away!

And this is my "cross" in reward for those days.

But I can do more! While there's blood in my veins

I'll give the last drop, while the hoof of the Hun

Polluted and cloven in Alsace remains:

Until France is free we must fight: every one!

Of course I'll go back to the trenches again:

My wound is fast healing and soon will be sound;

Six chevrons have I, but I'll fight with the men

Who fill up the shell-holes like moles in the ground.

I'll charge with the Boys when they hurdle the top,

The Tri-color lashed to my half-useless arm,

With pistol or sword in my hand, till I drop:

For Freedom is menaced: Go sound the alarm!

France needs every son, be they crippled or strong,

To rid our fair land of the murderous horde:

So flock to the Colors, Brave Boys: come along!

And fight till the Glory of France is restored!

Our women are outraged, our children enslaved;

Up, Frenchmen! and strike till the last dying breath!

We can never turn back, so be it engraved

On our spears and escutcheons,—Vengeance or Death!

[WAR]

Down by the village runs the stream

Once placid, now a raging flood:

Behold it, by the day's last gleam

Gorged with the dead and dyed with blood.

The Chapel bell has tolled its last;

The trees are bare, tho this be Spring:

Death's shroud is on the village cast,

And Ruin reigns o'er everything.

A grist of carnage clogs the Mill,

And shells have razed the quondam homes:

Fresh graves the trampled vineyards fill,

Whose cellars are but catacombs.

Beyond the village, Refugees

Stand, herded, cowed by fear and grief,

Or, gassed, implore on bended knees

For death, despairing of relief.

With bayonets and faces set

The Grenadiers, by L'Aiglon led,

Present a gruesome parapet,—

Thus, still defending, tho they're dead.

[SONG OF THE SAMSONS]

We are Samsons, Biff! Boom! Bang!

Here to pot the Potsdam Gang.

If Bad Bill is found in Metz,

We'll not vouch for what he gets!

If in Essen he is caught,

Good Night! Kultur, Him und Gott!

Shades of Bismarck! Watch him faint

When he finds his Empire ain't!

To our Sweethearts we said "Knit,"

We must go and do our Bit!

How d'ye do, Pierrot? Pierrette?

We are friends of Lafayette!

Wait until our Drive begins,—

Bill, you'll suffer for your sins!

Sick 'em, Prince! We'll tie the fuse

Onto Frederich Wilhelm's shoes.

When we occupy Cologne—

Phew! How big and strong you've grown!

We will paint each shop and lodge

With bright red in camouflage!

Then to Carlsbad we will swing;

Need the baths like everything!

Frauleins leave your fears behind;

We don't war on womankind!

We are filled with fire and zeal:

Watch us pick the locks to Kiel!

We are coming to our own

In Lorraine across the Rhone!

When our Flocks of Eaglets fly--

Dunder! Blitzen! Bill, Good-bye!

Beaks of Steel and Claws of Lead--

Sun eclipsed! The Geezer's dead.

CHORUS

O, you U Boats,

That for U!

We slipped thru you;

How d'y' do?

Hindenberg? Ach, let him rant!

He won't stop us 'cause he can't!

Zepps and Taubs are falling down;

Butcher Bill will lose his crown;

Watch your step, you Horrid Hun,

You can't goosestep when you run!

Hooray for the crimson, white and blue!

'Rah for Old Glory! Chapeau bas vous!

'Rah for the Tri-Color! We're at home

In la belle France by the eau de Somme;

Hooray for our Allies true and brave!

We'll all sweep thru like a tidal wave

Over the top in a mighty Drive--

And never stop while the Hunds survive!

[SIX DAYS]

O, the comfort we feel

When we finish a meal

Consisting of rice cakes and whey;

Because beyond question

There's no indigestion

At the end of a Meatless day.

When the "buck" dough doth rise

From y'East to the skies

And hot griddled pancakes—oh, say!

With sausages frying

There's no use denying

Your welcome, O Wheatless day.

When the house is afrost

Without fuel: its cost

Is more than we're able to pay:

With our hearts all aglow

We can thaw ice or snow

Making light of a Heatless day.

When there's discord with wife

There's a shadow on life

That once was so sunny and gay;

But billing and cooing

Subordinate stewing

At the end of a Sweetless day!

When will beefsteak and ham

Not be sold by the gram?

How long will these high prices stay?

When the bad Profiteers

Show contrition and tears

At the dawn of a Cheatless day.

When our Soldiers in France

Do their Indian dance

And scalp all the Huns in the fray,

The Kaiser will holler,

With rope for a collar,

At the end of his Ruthless day!

[A PROTEST]

While now 'tis meet to eat fish, eggs and maize,

Vice meat and wheat whene'er we dine or sup,

So be it! but this protest I would raise—

In spite of warnings—veal keeps bobbing up!

[A PRAYER]

O Sun and Skies, that Hoover o'er our Fields

Where Grains implanted lie, and Silos stand,—

Pour out thy Warmth and Rains till Hunger yields

Thruout the World to our blest Fodderland!

[SINCE THE LITTLE ONE CAME]

I seem to have taken a new lease on life

Since the little one came;

I've lost the old grouch, and I say to my wife,

Do you think I'm to blame

Because I have changed in my feelings towards you

Since the Little One came?

The furnace, 'tis true, gave me something to do,

But I think it a shame

That some tiny tie like the Little One here

(How is Snooks for a name?)

Was not sooner left on our doorstep, my dear!

The Store takes my time, but a very small part,—

It's all over at four!

I've cut Clancy's out and have made a new start;

All my cronies are sore!

But what do I care? I have mended my ways,

So I rush from the Store

And hasten back home where the Little One plays

On the ruggèd hall floor,

And pick him up quick (O, how pretty he looks!)

Without shutting the door;

So anxious I am to caress little Snooks.

The chafing-dish chafes and the Joy-car is sore;

We have given them up!

The Two-step and Bridge are tabooed evermore;

There is Joy in our Cup!

We've cut out the movies and dining about

For our own modest sup;

And billiards and golfing, I've cut them both out!

As I did to the Hup.

With playthings and drum (and a ruppy, tup, tup!)

Loaded up like a Krupp,

I beat it to Snooky,—our English Bull Pup.

[RUN ALONG, LITTLE GIRL!]

Run along, Little Girl! for it's bed-time now:

Your Dollies are sleepy and poor old Bow-wow

Is weary and lonesome, curled up in a heap—

'Twould take little rocking to put him to sleep!

Your Teddy Bear's growling: or is it a snore?

Perhaps he objects to his bed on the floor?

So pick up your treasures and when prayers are said—

Run along, Little Girl, and climb in to bed!

Run along, Little Girl! The Sandman is here;

You've crowded too much into one day, I fear!

Poor, little, tired Girlie, you've worked at your play

Till the bloom of your cheeks has faded away.

To-morrow, again, you can sit by the fire

And dress all your Dollies in gala attire.

Say, Good Night! to your thimble, needle and seams;

Run along, Little Girl, and sweet be your dreams!

Run along, Little Girl, and cover up tight!

There's nothing to harm you, no spooks in the night

Nor Bogeymen glaring when you are awake;

For they're bad little girls that Bogeymen take.

[A RETROSPECT]

Picture a Home with love aglow and laughter

Reverberating from each joist and rafter;

A sweet-faced Mother kissing you "Good Night"!

With "Go to sleep! lest Santa Claus take fright

And dashes by—leaving no books or toys

For naughty, wide-eyed, little girls and boys."

Then see her tip-toe down the stairs, and trim

The tree—a toy on ev'ry outstretched limb;

The rocking-horse and wagon at the base,

And candy-stockings in the big fireplace:

For thus we retrospect to show, no other

Would scheme and work and "fabricate" like Mother

To make our Christmas Day a grand fruition,

And keep the secret of its sweet tradition.

[THE EAGLE SCREAMS]

We have arrived! America is First!

Here Freedom cradled; here its pæan burst

Upon the ears of nations, near and far

Till Light of Freedom is the Guiding Star

Thruout the world; though Thraldom still obscures

The Guiding Star where Tyranny endures.

'Twas ever thus till Boston's "Reb" array

Upset King George's teapot in the Bay,

And Pegasus, whom we Revere, astride

His high-bred hobby, warned the countryside.

Before that time the Briton played the game

Of pour la tea or Golf (its proper name).

With confidence and brassie nerve, methinks,

Until they struck a Bunker on our links

That thwarted all their prowess—'pon my soul!

And left them groggy at the nineteenth hole.

But still they puttered 'round and drank our rum

Till Washington's avenging time had come;

When, with his army, steeled at Valley Forge,

He, George the First, uncrowned the other George,

And all the "red-breasts," from our eyries shooed

Where now the Bird of Freedom guards his brood.

[THE SERVICE STAR]

The stars are agleam in their azurine field,

Diffusing effulgence afar;

But magnitude, lustre and fixedness yield

To the glorious Service Star.

In aureate setting, a pendant aglare,

Is the radiant Service Star;

That blazes with fire like a rare solitaire,

A gift to the Valkyr of War.

Protect thou our treasure, O, Valkyr! Restore

Our Jewel so priceless! and bar

From Valhalla's Dungeons, where Death's torrents pour,

Our sanctified Service Star!

[SOME DAY]

Some day when the war is ended

And we sail from France away,

With sorrow and longings blended,

Back home to America;

And we live once more in Blighty

A thousand years in a day,

In the Land of God Almighty

Where the Old Folks watch and pray:

Some day, when we hit the pillow

Again on a box-spring bed,

As snug as an armadillo

With his shell-protected head;

When bugles refrain from tooting,

And noises of battle stop;