Читать книгу The Bee's Bayonet (a Little Honey and a Little Sting) - Edwin Alfred Watrous - Страница 4

To those who never heard my Songs before,

And those who have, and want to nevermore,

This Rhapsody, with all its pithy phrases,

Has passed the Censors with the highest praises.

Released by favor of the Board's caprice,

It takes its proper place—a masterpiece!

Soft pedal, please! The Knockers are outclassed,

And Genius finds its recompense at last!

Whene'er I read about this war-time pelf

It makes me sick: I can't contain myself!

The profits on the die-stuffs sent to France

Make Croesus' wealth a trifling circumstance;

And what the Farmers get for mules and wheat

Makes fortunes hitherto quite obsolete.

In by-gone days the Bards were praised and pensioned

Who now are at the Front—and rarely mentioned:

And all these hardships they endure while men

Who write big checks, thus scandalize the pen.

The Writers should throw off their yokes and collars

And drill their brains to cultivate the dollars.

The talents they possess are strictly mental

And can't be utilized for food and rental.

Their thoughts are capital, but who'll invest

In Sonnet Stock without some interest?

Or who'd take stock in Poem Plants? Alack!

He who invests expects the yellowback.

But here I'm talking money: what a joke

For one to thus discourse who's always broke!

Since "money talks" we'll suffer it to speak,—

"I am the thing that countless millions seek;

Greed's inspiration, Evil's very root,

The Nemesis of those in my pursuit.

Kings pay me homage, pawn their crowns to me

And, deathless, I enslave their progeny.

Men famed for noble deeds, who court my smile,

Ofttimes surrender probity to guile:

Who, needy, follows my uncertain path,

I may elude and favor him who hath,—

For I have wings, and lightning speeds my flight,—

Wealthy to-day, a pauper overnight!

The Ticker tells the tale from day to day:

Brings joy to some, to others dire dismay."

This Work is copyrighted just to show

To what low depths the Pirate Press will go.

They borrow thunder from the Vulcan forge,

Then draw the fire and put the smut on George.

Each song or verse, it seems to me, should be

Distinguished by originality

If nothing else (the matter may be sloppy,—

But that's no matter if there's ample copy)

So that the Author's face could be unmasked

And recognized without a question asked;

Or, so identify Calliope

By strident notes of high-toned quality;

Or thus detect some Poet's "fist" and style

By I. O. U.'s unhonored yet awhile.

The Pirates thus would cease perforce their trade,

And Bacon would not be confused with Ade.

In all my songs I do the work myself,

And draw no inspiration from the Shelf.

Perhaps my lines would be more read, if cribbed,

But George and I, you know, have never fibbed,

And what is more, I think my lines are sweeter

Than those of Dante, with infernal meter;

And more heroic, and not half so sad

As Homer's couplets in the Illiad;

And far more musical and much prettier

Than those by Tennyson or by Whittier.

Each bar is known to me, its licensee,

And ev'ry note has had my scrutiny:

I also watch my pauses, moods and tenses,

And have no words with fair amanuenses.

If you could see my workshop (do not ask it!)

You'd find more "carbons" in my paper-basket,

More rough, unpolished diamonds there immured

Than you, Dear Reader, ever have endured.

I have no Jewish blood, not e'en a strain:

That's what I lack! If ever born again

I'd requisition Hebrew sire and dam,

Something akin, methinks, to Abraham,

And take these "jewels," doomed unseen to flash,

Gloss o'er their flaws, and turn them into cash.

Here's where I doff my bonnet to the Jew!

Tho' sore oppressed they're still the Chosen Few:

A few in numbers but a mighty host

When reckoned by the things that count the most,—

I mean achievements, won by toilsome stages

In spite of persecutions thru the Ages.

I see these Davids watching o'er their flocks

In Palestine. (To-day they watch their stocks

And clip the coupons from their bonds, you see,

Just as they sheared the lambs in Galilee.)

There milk and honey in abundance vied

To keep the Simple Simons satisfied;

But here to luxuries the Josephs cling,

And milk the honey from most everything.

Time was when you were treated with disdain

But now the tune is quite a changed refrain,

And Gentiles everywhere take special pains

To pay respectful tribute to your brains!

Behold your ancient hills and rugged rocks;

Your fruitful valleys with their golden shocks

Of Grain that, grouped around the stately dates,

Seem to defy the threshing that awaits!

Here olives ripen 'neath the summer skies

And yield rich oil,—first Standard Oil supplies;

'Twas here the mighty Samson filled with awe

The Philistines and flayed them with his jaw;

(No man before, or since, thus courted fame,

For woman holds these records in her name.)

And here wise Solomon refused the vote

In statecraft matters to the Petticoat;

But when the Referendum was installed

The wise old King's objection was Recalled.

And then there's David caring for his sheep,

And big Goliath (rocking him to sleep).

There Japheth, Shem and Ham are; Ham tabooed

By Moses in his Treatises on Food;

And Jehu with his pair of chestnut colts

Trotting the highway down like thunderbolts.

If Jehu reined to-day he'd swap his stable

For high-power Auto, with a foreign label,

And hold the record for the Shore Road trip

From Tyre to Sidon at a lightning clip,—

And make his whiskers, driven by the breeze,

Look like a storm-tossed frigate on the seas.

There's Jacob dreaming, seeing more than Esau,

And giving him the double-cross and hee-haw;

Obtaining Esau's birthright (Silly Dupe!)

For three brass spheroids and a bowl of soup.

He traded for it—didn't have to buy it!

'Cause Brother Hairy, glutton, wouldn't diet.

But "chickens come back home to roost," forsooth,

And Jacob in his dotage learned this truth,

When Leah's sons, of ordinary clay,

Put Rachel's Joseph in the consommé.

As Financiers the palm has been bestowed,

In panegyric, melody and ode,

On Jacob's sons. The caravans, that passed

Thru burning sands, from cities far and vast,

Into their land that teemed with grain and gold,

Were richly laden. Thus they bought and sold,

Exchanging corn and cattle, hides and honey

For finest silks and linens, gems and money,—

Until, thru bargain-insight, skill and daring,

They cornered all the fabrics used for wearing,

And then proceeded, with discerning lust,

To hump themselves and form a Camel Trust.

The Traders who had plied this Cargo Route

Could never, in their deals, get cash to boot

From Jacob's sons. Sometimes a fleece or skin,

Of little size and worth, would be thrown in,

But shekels—No! And so the nomad Sheik

In quest of easy picking; Turk and Greek;

The wily Fellah from the distant Nile

Whose gaudy gewgaw "gems" reflect his guile;

The sleepy Peddlers from the Land of Nod,

Who still shekinah on ancestral sod;

And all the Wise Men from the Eastern marts

Who plan their ventures by the Astral charts,

Plotted and vowed, by Imps and Endor Witches,

To wrest from Jacobs Brothers all their riches.

So, working now with Bulls, anon with Bears;

Rigging the market to advance their wares

Or to depress the House of Jacobs' shares,

It looked as if the plotters might make good

Against the unsuspecting Brotherhood.

But patiently the Brethren stood their ground,

Unmindful of the rumors passed around,

Or baits to tempt Cupidity thrown out,

That throttle Judgment and put Sense to rout,—

Until the market, unsupported, broke:

Then, feigning sleep, they suddenly awoke

And took possession of the Stock Exchange.

Like beaten curs or mongrels with the mange

The Plotters cringed. The Shorts in wild dismay

To cover ran, but Zounds! they had to pay

Four prices to the Brethren who controlled

The entire issue of the short stock sold.

And thus the Brethren made a tidy sum,

Keeping their standing in Financialdom.

Keen businessmen, they sold or bought as well,

But never showed anxiety to sell.

So Jacob's Sons became, as was their bent,

The mighty Merchants of the Orient.

No goose that ever layed a golden egg

Would needs have come to one of them to beg

For life or respite. "Nay! Lay on, Good Goose!

We'll shield thee and thy gander from abuse!"

Long-headed and kind-hearted, in such cases

Their noses were not lopped to spite their faces.

Too wise they were: they had too good a teacher

To make the nose too prominent a feature!

While yet the goose was itching for the nest

They egged her on and Quack! she did the rest.

A goose she would appear to give so much

To those who had—but Life is ever such.

But Jacob's Sons like Isaac, sturdy Oak,

Made no complaint but bore their golden yolk,

And, thrifty men, in many baskets stored

The golden ovals and increased their hoard.

And so their nests were feathered, as we know,

But cautious men they were, who didn't crow.

And so we see them on the filmy screens,

Matching their talents 'gainst the Philistines:

And looking close, we notice that the Brothers

Have bigger stacks before them than the others.

And then there's Job, the Paradox, who toils

To show good humor when beset by boils;

And Jinxy Jonah, ducked and rudely whaled,

Because he had no passport when he sailed.

(Whene'er I see the Ocean Mammal spout

Methinks it's habit—spewing Jonah out.)

Delilah's "next"! Tonsorial Adept—

A cutting up while headstrong Samson slept.

Shear nonsense—that man's vigor could be sapped

Because he had a haircut when he napped,

Or lose his nerve, e'en at the yawning grave,

Tho' just escaping by the closest shave.

With Samson's case a multitude compare,

For men miss greatness ofttimes by a hair.

'Twas his conceit that made him lose his nerve,

As long-haired, whiskered men, bereft, deserve.

The facts are these: that Samson used to wear

A wig with ringlets, 'cause his head was bare.

One night, in playful mood, Delilah stole

Up to his cot and touched the poor old soul

For his toupee. He woke, chagrined, and fled

Because his capillary roots were dead.

What transformation! Thus the Man of Might

Became a pussyfooter overnight,

And went to writing verses from that minute

Finding his strength, not on his head, but in it.

Of all your rulers, Roman, Jew or Fezzer,

The first or most pronounced is Nebu'nezzar.

(Too long this monstrous name has been derided,

And so the chad, for rhythm, is elided.)

"Neb" is enough, for short, and apropos

Of Shadrach, Meshack and Abednego,

The King waxed wroth because these three live wires

Passed thru his melting pots and furnace fires

Without a burn: remarkable endurance!

Because protected by good Fire Insurance.

He paid the price for arson ere he died,

Was kept lit up and rightly classified

Among the beasts: and now that all is over

'Tis safe to say he did not live in clover,

But roamed the pastures, when he lost his pull,

And grazed himself to death: he was some bull.

Then next we come to Ruth, the Moabite:

Her husband Chilion (not her!) one night

Blew out the gas, and Ruth was thus bereft;

But Naomi, her Ma-in-Law, was left

To comfort her: and jolly well she did it!

For Ruth's great grief soon ceased or else she hid it.

Then to Naomi's Land the two repaired,

Their love enhanced by sorrows they had shared.

And so the elder of the widowed twain

Set out to find, for Ruth, another swain;

And all her schemes, 'tis said, succeeded so as

To marry Ruth to wealthy kinsman Boaz.

Unselfish? No! She was too old to wed,

So Ruth agreed to give her board and bed,

Trusting to Boaz not to spoil her plan

Who swallowed hook and line like any man.

The attic room, or one just off the hall,

Was where Naomi nightly had to crawl;

And all her meals, unleavened bread and 'taters,

Were eaten in the kitchen with the waiters,—

For Boaz, when the honeymoon was spent,

Tightened his purse-strings—wouldn't spend a cent!

And Naomi as welcome was, I think,

As hungry roaches in the kitchen sink.

This is the only case,—I know no other!

Where widowed wife abided husband's mother;

Or, where a woman, in such circumstance,

Would give her son's relict another chance.

There's Baal and those exalting Gods of brass;

And Balaam, Prophet: but we'll let him pass!

And John the Baptist, man who lost his head

To fair Salomé, tho she cut him dead.

There's Absalom the Vain, whose hair was long,

Who, in the final parting, got in wrong:

And Pharaoh, with chariots and fighters

Pursuing Moses and the Israeliters;

Who, half-seas over, when the King dropped in,

Punished the latter for his divers sin,

And rescued on the Red Sea bar his folk,

Athirst for freedom from the Ptolemy yoke.

While yet the rushes bent beneath the blast

Of Red Sea winds, a prodigy was cast.

(From common mold, perhaps, but 'tis enough

To know that he was made of proper stuff.)

And little did the Tempest wot his noise

Was silence likened to the bawling boy's.

The Earth breathed on the shape and gave it speech,

Or something vocally akin, a screech.

Thus Moses had his coming out—and lo!

He rushed into the arms of Fairy O

(Daughter of Pharaoh, the mighty King)

Who bore him to the Palace 'neath her wing.

Fed on the Milk of Kindness to begin,

With Medica Materia thrown in,

He grew until appointed, by decree,

To Little Egypt, Princess, the M.D.

Thus Doctor Moses hung his shingle out,

And soon his fame was heralded about.

To doctors since, no fame like his doth cling:

No Specialist: he doctored everything!

He analyzed and stopped the human leak;

(His patience was rewarded, so to speak)

He charged his people to eschew the swine,

And made the Ten Commandments seem benign.

Not only as Physician did he rate,

But as a Surgeon: he could amputate!

He cut off Pharaoh in his pursuit

And, by this operation, gained repute.

He set his people right and made no bones

Of driving lepers from the Safety Zones;

He gave them tablets for their moral healing,

Knowing their pulses without even feeling.

His praises now resound from every lip

Because he saved the Jews from Phar'oh's grippe.

Still 'long the Nile the pink-winged curlews flock

Where Moses took his henchmen out of hock;

The minions of Æolus hurtle on,

Leaving a trail of foam the waves upon,—

Stopping anon, where restless driftwood crushes

The lotus pads that hover near the rushes,

To chant a requiem and breathe a prayer

Over the spot that cradled Moses there.

If modern doctors would obey the rule

Of common sense prescribed by Moses' School;

If they would note our pulses and our looks

Instead of feeling of our pocket-books

And judging circulation by the latter,

We'd sometimes know, perhaps, just what's the matter.

What doctor now would diagnosis make

And call it simple, old-time belly-ache,

Charging a trifling fee to cure the pain?

Ah, no! those days will not return again!

No more, alas! will green-fruit cramps delight us,

For colic now is styled appendicitis.

By leaps and bounds have grown the "trifling fees";

"Five hundred!" now, succeeds "One Dollar, please!"

And germs, in league with doctors, have their station

At vital points to force inoculation,

So that our Systems pay a pretty price

For ev'ry nostrum, ev'ry fake device

Known to the School of Quacks: and so we suffer

Imposed upon by patentee and duffer.

O, for a Moses! That's our crying need—

To cure Physicians of unbridled greed

And probe, no matter where it hurts, the cause

Of Doctors' strange immunity from laws.

O! for an instrument—an act or sermon—

Of Moses' kind—to cut the germ from German!

And lead them from the Wilderness of Vice

Whose hearts were warm but now have turned to ice!

All these and many more increase the lustre

Distinguishing this brilliant Jewish cluster.

And Abraham? We save him for the last,

Tho first in line, renowned Iconoclast.

Of all the Israelites, the men of mark,

Who else compares with this grand Patriarch?

And who besides, of all the racial roots,

Developed half the lusty leaves and shoots,

Strong limbs and branches, virile seed? some trunk!

The Ark, with all this luggage, would have sunk!

And so 'twere well the Deluge didst o'erwhelm

The Earth, ere this, with Noah at the helm,

Else to preserve the chosen and elite

Of Israel's line would needs have taxed a fleet.

I love these ancient tribesmen who illumine

The Archives of the Past: they were so human!

Their frailties were but habits of the Race

Since Father Adam set the human pace

Hitched up with Eve who, chafing at the bit,

Did well her part or bit, in spite of it.

But all their mortal weaknesses were nil

Compared with virtues that their Records fill;

And good or bad, or medium or fair,

No Tribe excelled their morals anywhere.

They freely gave their tithes, but did it pay

To advertise their wealth? a give away!

And so their pockets have been worn and frayed

By frequent contributions they have made

To Charity and Church. I hope and pray

They've saved a little for a rainy day!

I think they have! for Money talked,—confessed

That Hebrews were the ones he liked the best,

Because they never slighted or abused him,

And always were so careful how they used him.

And so, O Sons of Abraham, I say

You've come into your own and come to stay!

The Promised Land is yours, but what is more,

The Earth and Seas and Skies with all their store.

You wandered from Judea, but why care?

Because your home is here as well as there;

And we would miss you just as much, I vum,

As those who wait you in Capernaum;

For Broadway would despair and sackcloth don

If you should leave New York for Ascalon.

No more, thank God! will Infidels profane

Jerusalem. For centuries the stain

Of Turkish rule has laid its unclean hand

Upon the Altars of the Holy Land.

But now the Prophet's promise is fulfilled,

And Jews and Gentiles are rejoiced and thrilled

As Men of Allenby, God's Sword, restore

The Holy City: yours forevermore.