The Bulls
Six bulls I saw as black as jet, With crimsoned horns and amber eyes That chewed their cud without a fret, And swished to brush away the flies, Unwitting their soon sacrifice. It is
Intolerance
I have no brief for gambling, nay The notion I express That money earned ‘s the only way To pay for happiness. With cards and dice I do not hold; By betting I’ve been
Awake To Smile
When I blink sunshine in my eyes And hail the amber morn, Before the rosy dew-drop dries With sparkle on the thorn; When boughs with robin rapture ring, And bees hum in the may,
The Living Dead
Since I have come to years sedate I see with more and more acumen The bitter irony of Fate, The vanity of all things human. Why, just to-day some fellow said, As I surveyed
The Lost Master
“And when I come to die,” he said, “Ye shall not lay me out in state, Nor leave your laurels at my head, Nor cause your men of speech orate; No monument your gift
Don't Cheer
Don’t cheer, damn you! Don’t cheer! Silence! Your bitterest tear Is fulsomely sweet to-day. . . . Down on your knees and pray. See, they sing as they go, Marching row upon row. Who
The Search
Happiness, a-roving round For a sweet abiding place, In a stately palace found Symmetry and gilded grace; Courtliness and table cheer, All that chimes with evening dress. . . “I could never stick it
L'Escargot D'Or
O Tavern of the Golden Snail! Ten sous have I, so I’ll regale; Ten sous your amber brew to sip (Eight for the bock and two the tip), And so I’ll sit the evening
Soldier Boy
My soldier boy has crossed the sea To fight the foeman; But he’ll come back to make of me And honest woman. So I am singing all day long, Despite blood-shedding; For though I
The Twins Of Lucky Strike
I’ve sung of Violet de Vere, that slinky, minky dame, Of Gertie of the Diamond Tooth, and Touch-the-Button Nell, And Maye Lamore, at eighty-four I oughta blush wi’ shame That in my wild and
A Busy Man
This crowded life of God’s good giving No man has relished more than I; I’ve been so goldarned busy living I’ve never had the time to die. So busy fishing, hunting, roving, Up on
Kail Yard Bard
A very humble pen I ply Beneath a cottage thatch; And in the sunny hours I try To till my cabbage patch; And in the gloaming glad am I To lift the latch. I
The Blood-Red Fourragere
What was the blackest sight to me Of all that campaign? A naked woman tied to a tree With jagged holes where her breasts should be, Rotting there in the rain. On we pressed
Cheer
It’s a mighty good world, so it is, dear lass, When even the worst is said. There’s a smile and a tear, a sigh and a cheer, But better be living than dead; A
The Widow
I don’t think men of eighty odd Should let a surgeon operate; Better to pray for peace with God, And reconcile oneself to Fate: At four-score years we really should Be quite prepared to