HOOSIER LYRICS PARAPHRASED.
| We've come from Indiany, five hundred miles or more, Supposin' we wuz goin' to get the nominashin, shore; For Col. New assured us (in that noospaper o' his) That we cud hev the airth, if we'd only tend to biz. But here we've been a-slavin' more like bosses than like men To diskiver that the people do not hanker arter Ben; It is fur Jeems G. Blaine an' not for Harrison they shout— And the gobble-uns 'el git us Ef we Don't Watch Out! |
| When I think of the fate that is waiting for Ben, I pine for the peace of my childhood again; I wish in my sorrow I could strip to the soul And hop off once more in the old swimmin' hole! |
| The world is full of roses, and the roses full of dew (Which is another word for soup) that drips for me and you. |
| "Little Benjy! Little Benjy!" chirps the robin in the tree; "Little Benjy!" sighs the clover, "Little Benjy!" moans the bee; "Little Benjy! Little Benjy!" murmurs John C. New, A-stroking down the whiskers which the winds have whistled through. |
| Looks jest like his grampa, who's dead these many years— He wears the hat his grampa wore, pulled down below his ears; We'd like to have him four years more, but if he cannot stay— Nothin' to say, good people; nothin' at all to say! |
| There, little Ben, don't cry! They have busted your boom, I know; And the second term For which you squirm Has gone where good niggers go! But Blaine is safe, and the goose hangs high— There, little Ben, don't cry! |
| Mabbe we'll git even for this unexpected shock, When the frost is on the pumpkin and the fodder's in the shock! |
| Oh, the newspaper man! He works for paw; He's the liveliest critter 'at ever you saw; With whiskers 'at reach f'om his eyes to his throat. He knows how to wheedle and rivet a vote; He wunst wuz a consul 'way over the sea— But never again a consul he'll be! He come back f'om Lon'on one mornin' in May— He come back for bizness, an' here he will stay— Ain't he a awful slick newspaper man? A newspaper, newspaper, newspaper man! |
| You kin talk about yer cities where the politicians meet— You kin talk about yer cities where a decent man gits beat; With the general run o' human kind I beg to disagree— The little town of Tailholt is good enough f'r me! Chicago was a pleasant town in eighteen-eighty-eight, And I have lived in Washington long time in splendid state; But all the present prospects are that after ninety-three The little town o' Tailholt 'll be good enough f'r me! |
| "I wunst lived in Indiany," said a consul, gaunt and grim, As most of us Blaine delegates wuz kind o' guyin' him; "I wunst lived in Indiany, and my views wuz widely read, Fur I run a daily paper w'ich 'Lije Halford edited; But since I've been away f'm home, my paper (seems to me) Ain't nearly such a inflooence ez wot it used to be; So, havin' done with consulin', I'm goin' to make a break Towards making of a paper like the one I used to make." |
| Think, if you kin, of his term mos' through, An' that ol' man wantin' a secon' term, too; Picture him bendin' over the form Of his consul-gineril, stanch an' grim, Who has stood the brunt of that jimblain storm— An' that ol' man jest wrapt up in him! An' the consul-gineril, with eyes all bleared An' a haunted look in his ashen beard, Kind o' gaspin' a feeble way— But soothed to hear the ol' man say In a meaning tone (as one well may When words are handy and——'s to pay): "Good-by, John; take care of yo'self!" |
GETTIN' ON.
| When I wuz somewhat younger, I wuz reckoned purty gay— I had my fling at everything In a rollickin', coltish way, But times have strangely altered Since sixty years ago— This age of steam an' things don't seem Like the age I used to know, Your modern innovations Don't suit me, I confess, As did the ways of the good ol' days— But I'm gettin' on, I guess. I set on the piazza An' hitch around with the sun— Sometimes, mayhap, I take a nap, Waitin' till school is done, An' then I tell the children The things I done in youth, An' near as I can (as a venerable man) I stick to the honest truth! But the looks of them 'at listen Seems sometimes to express The remote idee that I'm gone—you see! An' I am gettin' on, I guess. I get up in the mornin', An' nothin' else to do, Before the rest are up and dressed I read the papers through; I hang 'round with the women All day an' hear 'em talk, An' while they sew or knit I show The baby how to walk; An' somehow, I feel sorry When they put away his dress An' cut his curls ('cause they're like a girl's)— I'm gettin' on, I guess! Sometimes, with twilight round me, I see (or seem to see) A distant shore where friends of yore Linger and watch for me; Sometimes I've heered 'em callin' So tenderlike 'nd low That it almost seemed like a dream I dreamed, Or an echo of long ago; An' sometimes on my forehead There falls a soft caress, Or the touch of a hand—you understand— I'm gettin' on, I guess. |
MINNIE LEE.
Writing from an Indiana town a young woman asks: "Is the enclosed poem worth anything?"
We find that the poem is as follows:
| She has left us, our own darling— And we never more shall see Here on earth our dearly loved one— God has taken Minnie Lee. Her heart was full of goodness And her face was fair to see And her life was full of beauty— How we miss our Minnie Lee! But her work on earth is over And her spirit now is free She has gone to live in heaven— Shall we weep for Minnie Lee? Would we call our angel darling Back again across the sea? No! but sometime up in heaven We will meet loved Minnie Lee. |
To the question as to whether this poem is worth anything we chose to answer in verse as follows:
| Sweet poetess, your poetry Is bad as bad can be, And yet we heartily deplore The death of Minnie Lee. It would have pleased us better If, in His wisdom, He Had taken you, sweet poetess, Instead of Minnie Lee. Your turn will come, however, And swift and sure 'twill be If you continue sending Your rhymes on Minnie Lee. From this we hope you will gather A dim surmise that we Don't take much stock in poems Concerning Minnie Lee. |
LIZZIE.
| I wonder ef all wimmin air Like Lizzie is when we go out To theaters an' concerts where Is things the papers talk about. Do other wimmin fret and stew Like they wuz bein' crucified— Frettin' a show or a concert through, With wonderin' ef the baby cried? Now Lizzie knows that gran'ma's there To see that everything is right, Yet Lizzie thinks that gran'ma's care Ain't good enuf f'r baby, quite; Yet what am I to answer when She kind uv fidgets at my side, An' every now and then; "I wonder ef the baby cried?" Seems like she seen two little eyes A-pinin' f'r their mother's smile— Seems like she heern the pleadin' cries Uv one she thinks uv all the while; An' she's sorry that she come, 'An' though she allus tries to hide The truth, she'd ruther stay to hum Than wonder ef the baby cried. Yes, wimmin folks is all alike— By Lizzie you kin jedge the rest. There never was a little tyke, But that his mother loved him best, And nex' to bein' what I be— The husband of my gentle bride— I'd wisht I wuz that croodlin' wee, With Lizzie wonderin' ef I cried. |
OUR LADY OF THE MINE.
| The Blue Horizon wuz a mine us fellers all thought well uv, And there befell the episode I now perpose to tell uv; 'Twuz in the year of sixty-nine—somewhere along in summer— There hove in sight one afternoon a new and curious comer; His name wuz Silas Pettibone—an artist by perfession, With a kit of tools and a big mustache and a pipe in his possession; He told us, by our leave, he'd kind uv like to make some sketches Uv the snowy peaks, 'nd the foamin' crick, 'nd the distant mountain stretches; "You're welkim, sir," sez we, although this scenery dodge seemed to us A waste uv time where scenery wuz already sooper-floo-us. All through the summer Pettibone kep' busy at his sketchin'— At daybreak, off for Eagle Pass, and home at nightfall, fetchin' That everlastin' book uv his with spider lines all through it— Three-Fingered Hoover used to say there warn't no meanin' to it— "God durn a man," sez he to him, "whose shif'less hand is sot at A-drawin' hills that's full of quartz that's pinin' to be got at!" "Go on," sez Pettibone, "go on, if joshin' gratifies ye, But one uv these fine times, I'll show ye sumthin' will surprise ye!" that's wuz |