Jingles

By
Frank J. Medina

THE SMITH-BROOKS PRESS, DENVER

Copyright 1919
by
Frank J. Medina
Denver, Colo.

CONTENTS

Frank J. Medina

My Jingles

These jingles, I present to thee,

Were written years ago by me;

Some are fair and some are not,

Some, you’ll say, are simply rot;

Some’s not worth the second look—

But then I had to fill the book.

Life’s Reality

Gather ’round me closely and a story I’ll relate

Of life in different stages—its sad and happy state—

When as a youth, before the storm and all the world is fair,

And then a man of middle-age, with nothing left but care.

Life’s story has a happy hue and the world seems bright,

Yes, life is full of sunshine, we can not see the night,

And we with hearts all filled with plans, look forward and we see

With eyes of hope, our future fights end in a victory.

But when the days of youth are o’er, storms gather thick and fast,

The happiness of childhood has vanished with the past.

Instead of all our victories and conquest to attain,

Our fight is principally in life, our daily bread to gain.

Our plans have all been shattered; castles gone to decay;

Our childhood dreams of happiness have long since passed away.

No sunshine now we see in life, all is grief and despair,

Our joyful dreams of former years turned to trials, toil and care.

In old age we look back to these things we labored after.

Sometimes it causes sorrow; sometimes it causes laughter.

Some of our best days were ill spent in joy and dissipation,

Or mayhap some mistake in life, such as missing a vocation.

Such things will hover ’round our minds when we have all turned gray,

But what’s the use of pining for things long passed away,

For if we had the means wherewith, our lives we could relive;

We’d do the same and to these same hopes we would a nursing give.

Life has its joys and sorrows; its sunshine and its rain;

Its griefs and disappointments; its happiness and pain.

We struggle hard for happiness, think we have a boundless store,

When the monster disappointment comes knocking at the door.

Echoes from the Sea

Drifting along in my gallant craft,

Over the ocean, broad and vast.

This story of old to me is told

’Midst the roar of the sea and the creak of the mast.

Millions have I in my deep bed; millions in silver; millions in gold;

Stones that are precious, jewels so rare;

Relics of kingdoms beyond compare.

Antiques that are centuries old.

It was echoes from the sea, whispering to me;

Echoes floating out into the air.

Stories to me told of wealth and shining gold

That are hidden in the mighty ocean there.

Then it spoke of vessels proud

That boasted their power to conquer all.

The sea with its might they’d gladly fight,

No power on earth could make them fall,

But each brave ship, as it came their turn, gave up the fight (if the story be true);

Gave up the fight, the echoes say;

Ne’er again will they sail so gay.

Relinquished all and sank from view.

It was echoes from the sea, whispering to me;

Echoes floating out into the air.

Stories to me told of gallant ships of old

That are hidden in the mighty ocean there.

Next it spoke of seamen gay;

Of sailors that were brave and true,

Whose boasts would be, “We sail the sea;

We sail the mighty ocean blue.”

They sailed away in their gallant bark, these heroes who were staunch and brave.

Those at home they weep and yearn

For these gallant tars who’ll not return,

But sleep in a watery grave,

It was echoes from the sea, whispering to me,

Echoes floating out into the air.

Stories to me told of sailors brave and bold,

That are hidden in that mighty ocean there.

Rocky Mountains

I love to climb these hills unique,

To reach their very topmost peak,

O’er trails of a thousand thrills.

Away from the cities’ pomp and noise,

Its affectation, care and joys,

Its falsehood, sham and ills.

Your mind, your thoughts to purity cleave;

There’s nothing here for the make-believe

In these gorgeous Rocky Mountains.

You’re filled with awe, along the trail,

When first these mighty mounts you scale

And o’er these hills you trod;

Its wall of rock will tower high

Above the clouds, toward the sky,

Like citadels of God.

Its sepulchral silence—naught is heard

Save the call of the beast, the song of the bird

And the wind in the trees of the mountains.

But soon you love—almost revere

Those massive heights the first you fear;

That stand out there alone.

The air, exhilarant and pure,

Castles of rock that will ever endure;

Those mighty walls of stone

In colors of red and gray and blue,

Of green and brown and every hue,

These beautiful Rocky Mountains.

You know there’s a God (when you’re up there

With nothing above but sky and air)

That made those rocks you stand on.

Surely there’s an Omnipotent Power,

Who built these hills that tower and tower,

Beyond the too-far horizon;

Created these peaks and canons grand,

Constructed these rocks of granite and sand,

These majestic Rocky Mountains.

You feel your unimportance here,

Up on top of earth’s great sphere,

Standing there alone

You see how little man can do

When these scenes burst upon your view,

From out the great unknown;

He only can scratch at its treasures untold,

He never can gather a tithe of the gold

From the wonderful Rocky Mountains.

Out of the rocks, from God knows where,

Water springs to life up there,

From the sides of these eminent mounts;

Rushes down from these old hills,

Down o’er the rocks and sands to the rills,

Out of these mighty founts;

Down through the gorge, over the brakes,

Through creeks and rivers and on to the lakes,

In these amazing Rocky Mountains.

Amid these scenes that’s most sublime

The poet will burst into rhyme,

The sculptor molds his clay;

The layman shouts his admiration,

The artist feels his inspiration,

The author writes his play

Of tragedy, romance, tales that thrill

In these beautiful canons and wonderful hills,

Of these marvelous Rocky Mountains.

Love Will Find the Way

Though oceans divide, apart they roam,

True love will contrive to find its own;

In darkest night or cloudy day,

True love will delight to find the way.

You can’t stop its course or bar its route,

Love surely will force its own way out;

It will come to all, it’s always gay,

In hovel or hall, it finds its way.

Love at Dawn

The fields are full of flowers,

The sky is very blue;

In these bright morning hours

I’m thinking, love, of you.

If I, with love and laughter,

Could drive away your tears,

I’d chance the whole hereafter

Eternity of years.

Life offers us but little,

So little we can lose;

My patience you but nettle

When you my love refuse;

Our happiness may vanish

Before the sun will set;

Would you our pleasure banish

And live but to regret?

Who Was the Fool?

A fool there was, so the story goes,

Who fell in love with some feminine clothes,

And a bit of a bone and a hank of hair,

That’s known as the woman that did not care;

But a fool must follow his natural bent,

So it wasn’t long ’fore his goods were spent.

When he was stripped to his foolish hide

It naturally followed she threw him aside,

But memory of happiness still survived—

So some of him lived, if most of him died.

A wise man, too, whom everyone knows,

Once fell in love with some feminine clothes

And a bit of a bone and a hank of hair,

That’s known as the woman who did not care,

That the fool had called his lady fair;

But the man of wisdom—he did not dare,

Though he loved as much, his will was strong;

He knew the world would say ’twas wrong,

And say it as though they were sincere,

To love this woman who had a career.

Then she must go, or the world would scoff

If they knew of his love, so he cast her off.

He lived alone and he soon grew rich,

For he hadn’t been tarred by the vampire’s pitch.

To himself he said, he was doing right,

Though he craved for her love both day and night—

’Twas then he sought, as he but knows,

For the one he loved in those feminine clothes,

And the hank of hair and the bit of bone

That had gone her way and left him alone,

For she had pride and she’d never forgive—

He never died—for he never did live;

He had bowed to the world, had been its tool—

Who was the wise man and who was the fool?

Alone

It’s queer how the seasons affect us sometimes,

And how incidents turn our attention to rhymes,

How sentiment (foolish as most superstition),

Seem very sane under certain conditions.

So when one’s alone at this time of year,

How gloomy we feel when the holiday’s here;

We think that our life is not worth the living

And forget to give thanks on the day of Thanksgiving.

Perchance, when we dine, if it be alone,

We’ll crave for the place that we love to call home.

Be angry because other people are glad

While enjoying the pleasures we often have had.

We should think of the blessings we have even now,

And be thankful for life and for health, anyhow;

Be thankful we have our bread and our meat,

There’s many poor creatures have nothing to eat.

It’s queer that in most every case we forget

To give thanks for our many blessings—and yet

Unless we have all that our hearts have desired,

We’re ungrateful for that which we have acquired.

There’s always something we wish to obtain,

Or something we’ve lost that we want to regain;

Some hope that has vanished, some love that has flown

And taught us the meaning of that word, alone.

Pleading Suitor

Give me the love, the love I crave

Or else refuse—don’t bid me wait.

Give or refuse; refusal I can brave

But not suspense; you only hesitate.

“It’s All Been Done Before”

There are many things in this world

To aggravate a man,

And upset almost everything

That he will try and plan.

He will build castles in the air,

Have prospects by the score,

When everything’s complete he’ll find

Some one’s done it before.

He’ll think that he’s original,

But ere long he will know

The same thing has been done before—

Yes, many years ago.

The author of the novel

Tries to think of something new;

The poet with his lyre,

The same thing tries to do.

The musical composer

Wants something odd and queer;

When they think they are original,

Find they’ve an old idea.

The actor tells a funny joke,

But don’t say any more,

When he finds an actor told it

That was there the week before.

So this thing will continue;

New things are seldom found,

And history will repeat itself

While the world goes ’round.

But with all of Adam’s trouble,

No one could make him sore

By saying, when he did a thing,

It had been done before.

Boarder’s Soliloquy

(A Parody)

To board or not to board? That is the question,

Whether ’tis nobler for mind and stomach

To suffer pains of outrageous hunger

Or get thee to a hasherie in the city,

And there to masticate tough meat and pie crust,

To eat, to consume stale eggs, to say we end

The stomach ache and thousand shocks

That flesh is heir to in a boarding house.

To eat, to sleep; perchance to dream; aye, there’s the rub,

For in that sleep what nightmare dreams may come;

When we have conquered our dyspepsia

And sought repose upon our bed of corncobs

That makes a burden of our righteous life.

Who could bear this tantor without demur?

The oppressing wrong of the boarding-house mistress,

The pangs of a dyspeptic stomach,

The insolence of the landlady’s daughter,

The stale jokes of her fat husband,

The squalls of her sister’s baby,

The whistling of her ten-year-old son,

The vocalization of the lady in the next room,

The violent piano exercise of the widow boarder,

When we might seek another place? aye, there’s the respect,

Why leave this bedlam, to which no boarder e’er returns?

Puzzles the will and makes us rather bear these ills we have,

Than fly to those we know not of.

Thus hunger makes cowards of us all,

And thus the native hue of resolution