Читать книгу Hoosier Lyrics - Field Eugene - Страница 2

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!"