Poetry
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Clever Class Poem
Up Learning’s ladder, round by round
We’ve climbed with many a fall;
But, through the toil, companionship
Has made amends for all.
Now from our giddy heights we glance,
With calm thoughts and serene,
Once more at those we leave today—
Our class of sweet sixteen.
I want to take you with me through
The ranks of our small crowd;
And, if you’ll listen carefully,
You’ll know why we are proud.
Grace, as our goodly president
Has served her second year;
In singing, speaking, poetry,
She stands without a peer.
Blanche is the sunshine of our class,
She drives dull care away
Her laughing eyes, her smiling face,
Have gladdened many a day.
Alice, the calm, the dignified,
I know we’ll ne’er forget;
Her views are wide—but, best of all,
She is the teacher’s pet.
Lena excels in whispering.
Few are the notes she writes;
She studies hard throughout the day,
For pleasure, saves her nights.
Belle was the star in physics class,
She always knew the laws
And when she failed to know a thing,
She always had a cause.
Anna has graced our piano stool,
And mingled tunes with laughter;
Ah, well, one can be young but once,
The frowns may come hereafter.
Ruth is a clever, pretty girl,
So everyone remarks,
Yet lives in constant danger—what?
The danger of her “Sparks.”
Will is the pride of all the girls,
The slave of every teacher,
When someone wants a window closed,
She calls on “Jube,” poor creature.
Clayt is the lad who’s in to win,
He is the teachers’ boy,
And though at times his face is sad,
His heart is full of “Joy.”
Gertie has made a record proud,
She seldom failed in class,
She studied hard these last four years
And well deserved to pass.
Bertha, the singer of our class,
How diligent she’s been!
She did her share of whispering,
But then that’s not a sin.
Bess is the class historian,
That office, well, she’ll fill.
She’s “Sortore” set in all her ways,
And has an iron “Will.”
Lawrence is the one who thinks
He’s been our comrade long;
His fav’rite stone, an “Opal” bright
He’s blest with an “Arm strong.”
Sweet Genevieve has worked and toiled,
Her honor’s justly won,
And every teacher in our school
Will say her work’s well “Dunn.”
And now there’s only one remains,
He should have come before;
His name is John, his hopes all lie
In a corner grocery store.
And now, I’ve mentioned everyone,
I hope no one feels slighted,
But if one does, let him approach,
His wrong will soon be righted.
At last your poet ends his lay,
He’s nothing more to tell,
But leaves the class of nineteen-one
With blessing and farewell.
In the Wake of the News1
Opening Chorus
Goodbye, everybody; goodbye, Jimmy Cal;
Goodbye, William Gleason; goodbye, Doc, old pal;
Sully, Matty, Harry, and Morrie, goodbye, goodbye.
Sure hope you all will feel sorry the same as I.
Goodbye, good old Edward; goodbye, little Ray;
Goodbye, all you White Sox—I quit gadding today.
[Encore]
Goodbye, Johnny Evers; goodbye, Lurid Lew;
Goodbye, Charley Williams; goodbye, Lower Two;
Schulte, Heine, Jimmy, and Larry, goodbye, goodbye.
P’rhaps you’ll look me up when you tarry awhile in Chi.
Goodbye, clams and swordfish; goodbye, Gay White Way;
Goodbye, joys of Brooklyn—I quit gadding today.
A Split Century
Half a C, half a C,
Half a C, sundered,
Cut from the other half,
Half a big hundred.
Forward the Cub Brigade!
“Charge at the umps!” they said,
But Zim in silence stood.
O you big hundred!
Past the Great Zim the pill
Whistled. “Strike three,” said Bill,
And the Great Heine knew
William had blundered;
His not to make reply,
His not to query why,
’Though ’twas outside and high.
Silence is golden, Zim.
O you big hundred!
Players to right of him,
Players to left of him,
Players in front of him
Hollered and thundered,
Bellowing like a calf
At the whole umpire staff,
But Heine’s jaws are locked,
Earning the other half
Of the big hundred.
Monday
A friend of mine, who reads the Wake (a friend he sure must be)
Had me to dine a week ago last Sunday,
And after we had dined awhile, the friend inquired of me:
“Why is the Wake so very short on Monday?”
I told him, and I’ll tell you, too—’twas thus my boss did speak:
“Each week, to rest your brain, we’ll give you one day.
We really can’t expect a man to keep a Wake all week,
So just send in a verse or two for Monday.”
And, yielding to the boss, which is the proper thing to do,
I set aside each Sunday as a fun day.
And Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday—all the whole week through—
I wonder wotinel to write for Monday.
Heine’s Soliloquy
The C or not the C, that is the question—
Whether ’tis nobler for the dough to suffer
Mistakes and errors of outrageous umpires,
Or to cut loose against a band of robbers,
And, by protesting, lose it? To kick—to beef—
To beef!—perchance to scream: “Ah, there, you dub,
You ——— ——— ——— ——— ——— ———!!!”
But that sharp flow of breath, what would it cost,
A sloughing off of these one hundred bucks,
Must give me pause—there’s the respect
That makes dumb agony of two long weeks;
For who would bear the crazy work of Klem,
Cy Rigler’s slips, the raw mistakes of Quigley,
The guesses wild of Orth and Hank O’Day.
When he himself might his quietus make
With a few cuss words! Who would Brennan bear,
Or shut up under Eason’s worst offense,
But for the dread of dropping all that dough,
Of losing all those togs, deprived of which
No guy is really swell!—Yes, I’ll keep still.
Thus money does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native Bronix disposition
Is stifled by a bunch of filthy luc;
And ravings of my own fantastic sort
Are all unheard, though my long silence does
Disgrace the name of Heine.
Just Now—
Their game is
Famous
For its
Witless
Blunders;
Those runless,
Wonless,
Catchless,
Matchless,
Stopless,
Copless,
Useless,
Mooseless,
Spitless,
Hitless
Wonders
Come On, You Roseate Day!
When you’ve penned an especially bright bit of verse,
It’s good for one day in the year;
When you’ve made a neat hit or an epigram terse,
In only one sheet ’twill appear.
No matter how bright be the stuff that you write
About organized ball and its quarrels,
Don’t stop, trip, or shirk, but keep up the good work,
For you never can rest on your laurels.
When strenuous rhyming bedews your pale brow,
And you’ve gained an effect really snappy,
Don’t think, “That’ll hold ’em a while, and so now
I’ll rest up a bit and be happy.”
For when you do well, you have to excel
Your own lyrics and sonnets and chorals;
So keep on with the dance, O you Anatole France,
For you never can rest on your laurels.
Keep the engine a-going, the furnace keep hot,
With plenty of pepper and spice.
For you see that’s the kind of a job you have got—
Oh, I say, this is beaucoup advice!
But don’t get too good, or really you would
Revolutionize all baseball morals.
Ah, well, you should fret, for some day, you bet,
Some roseate day in the far, far away,
[Funereal? No, for I don’t mean it so],
You’ll take a long rest on your laurels.
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