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

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

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

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

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

France is the fairest land on earth, Lovely to heart’s desire, And twice a year I span its girth, Its beauty to admire. But when a pub I seek each night, To my profound

As I go forth from fair to mart With racket ringing, Who would divine that in my heart Mad larks are singing. As I sweet sympathy express, Lest I should pain them, The money-mongers

If you’re up against a bruiser and you’re getting knocked about Grin. If you’re feeling pretty groggy, and you’re licked beyond a doubt Grin. Don’t let him see you’re funking, let him know with

You see that sheaf of slender books Upon the topmost shelf, At which no browser ever looks, Because they’re by. . . myself; They’re neatly bound in navy blue, But no one ever heeds;

The lone man gazed and gazed upon his gold, His sweat, his blood, the wage of weary days; But now how sweet, how doubly sweet to hold All gay and gleamy to the campfire

It’s good the great green earth to roam, Where sights of awe the soul inspire; But oh, it’s best, the coming home, The crackle of one’s own hearth-fire! You’ve hob-nobbed with the solemn Past;

The Rector met a little lass Who led a heifer by a rope. Said he: “Why don’t you go to Mass? Do you not want to please the Pope?” The village maiden made reply,

There were two brothers, John and James, And when the town went up in flames, To save the house of James dashed John, Then turned, and lo! his own was gone. And when the

When I have come with happy heart to sixty years and ten, I’ll buy a boat and sail away upon a summer sea; And in a little lonely isle that’s far and far from

I must not let my boy Dick down, Knight of the air. With wings of light he won renown Then crashed somewhere. To fly to France from London town I do not dare. Oh

I greet the challenge of the dawn With weary, bleary eyes; Into the sky so ashen wan I wait the sun to rise; Then in the morning’s holy hush, With heart of shame I

When Chewed-ear Jenkins got hitched up to Guinneyveer McGee, His flowin’ locks, ye recollect, wuz frivolous an’ free; But in old Hymen’s jack-pot, it’s a most amazin’ thing, Them flowin’ locks jest disappeared like

That Barret, the painter of pictures, what feeling for color he had! And Fanning, the maker of music, such melodies mirthful and mad! And Harley, the writer of stories, so whimsical, tender and glad!

A pencil, sir; a penny won’t you buy? I’m cold and wet and tired, a sorry plight; Don’t turn your back, sir; take one just to try; I haven’t made a single sale to-night.

I’ve often wondered why Old chaps who choose to die In evil passes, Before themselves they slay, Invariably they Take off their glasses? As I strolled by the Castle cliff An oldish chap I

I There was Claw-fingered Kitty and Windy Ike living the life of shame, When unto them in the Long, Long Night came the man-who-had-no-name; Bearing his prize of a black fox pelt, out of

“Miss Rosemary,” I dourly said, “Our balance verges on the red, We must cut down our overhead. One of the staff will have to go. There’s Mister Jones, he’s mighty slow, Although he does

I like to look at fishermen And oftentimes I wish One would be lucky now and then And catch a little fish. I watch them statuesquely stand, And at the water look; But if

Three widows of the Middle West We’re grimly chewing gum; The Lido chef a quail had dressed With garlic and with rum, And they were painfully oppressed For they had eaten some. Said One:

If on water and sweet bread Seven years I’ll add to life, For me will no blood be shed, No lamb know the evil knife; Excellently will I dine On a crust and Adam’s

Sweet maiden, why disguise The beauty of your eyes With glasses black? Although I’m well aware That you are more than fair, Allure you lack. For as I stare at you I ask if

Why am I full of joy although It drizzles on the links? Why am I buying Veuve Cliquot, And setting up the drinks? Why stand I like a prince amid My pals and envy

Stupidity, woe’s anodyne, Be kind and comfort me in mine; Smooth out the furrows of my brow, Make me as carefree as a cow, Content to sleep and eat and drink And never think

Because back home in Tennessee I was a champeen shot, They made a sniper outa me An’ ninety krouts I got: I wish to Christ I’d not! Athinkin’ o’ them blasted lives It’s kindo’

When I was cub reporter I Would interview the Great, And sometimes they would make reply, And sometimes hesitate; But often they would sharply say, With bushy eyebrows bent: “Young man, your answer for

I wish I had a simple style In writing verse, As in his prose had Ernie Pyle, So true and terse; Springing so forthright from the heart With guileless art. I wish I could

Sez I: My Country calls? Well, let it call. I grins perlitely and declines wiv thanks. Go, let ’em plaster every blighted wall, ‘Ere’s ONE they don’t stampede into the ranks. Them politicians with

The clover was in blossom, an’ the year was at the June, When Flap-jack Billy hit the town, likewise O’Flynn’s saloon. The frost was on the fodder an’ the wind was growin’ keen, When

When I was young I was too proud To wheel my daughter in her pram. “It’s infra dig,” I said aloud, Bot now I’m old, behold I am Perambulating up and down Grand-daughter through

When a girl’s sixteen, and as poor as she’s pretty, And she hasn’t a friend and she hasn’t a home, Heigh-ho! She’s as safe in Paris city As a lamb night-strayed where the wild

My Muse is simple, yet it’s nice To think you don’t need to think twice On words I write. I reckon I’ve a common touch And if you say I cuss too much I

Full well I trow that when I die Down drops the curtain; Another show is all my eye And Betty Martin. I know the score, and with a smile Of rueful rating, I reckon

A child saw in the morning skies The dissipated-looking moon, And opened wide her big blue eyes, And cried: “Look, look, my lost balloon!” And clapped her rosy hands with glee: “Quick, mother! Bring

My Lady is dancing so lightly, The belle of the Embassy Ball; I lied as I kissed her politely, And hurried away from it all. I’m taxiing up to Montmartre, With never a pang

I have some friends, some worthy friends, And worthy friends are rare: These carpet slippers on my feet, That padded leather chair; This old and shabby dressing-gown, So well the worse of wear. I

We have no heart for civil strife, Our burdens we prefer to bear; We long to live a peaceful life And claim of happiness our share. If only to be clothed and fed And

In youth when oft my muse was dumb, My fancy nighly dead, To make my inspiration come I stood upon my head; And thus I let the blood down flow Into my cerebellum, And

Now Kelly was no fighter; He loved his pipe and glass; An easygoing blighter, Who lived in Montparnasse. But ‘mid the tavern tattle He heard some guinney say: “When France goes forth to battle,

This is the song of the parson’s son, as he squats in his shack alone, On the wild, weird nights, when the Northern Lights shoot up from the frozen zone, And it’s sixty below,

Familiarity some claim Can breed contempt, So from it let it be your aim To be exempt. Let no one exercise his brawn To slap your back, Lest he forget your name is John,

Said a monkey unto me: “How I’m glad I am not you! See, I swing from tree to tree, Something that you cannot do. In gay greenery I drown; Swift to skyey hights I

Son put a poser up to me That made me scratch my head: “God made the whole wide world,” quoth he; “That’s right, my boy,” I said. Said son: “He mad the mountains soar,

The porter in the Pullman car Was charming, as they sometimes are. He scanned my baggage tags: “Are you The man who wrote of Lady Lou?” When I said “yes” he made a fuss

The daughter of the village Maire Is very fresh and very fair, A dazzling eyeful; She throws upon me such a spell That though my love I dare not tell, My heart is sighful.

When I am old and worse for wear I want to buy a rocking-chair, And set it on a porch where shine The stars of morning-glory vine; With just beyond, a gleam of grass,