HUMOR

The lavish legacy of Frank Legree No doubt is sorrowing him yet; For once he owned a million francs in gold, But now he owes a million debt. When first he eyed his huge inheritance His uncle left to him in fee, He smiled to see himself a millionaire, And moved in best society. He built a tomb for his dear uncle then, And epitaphed him “grand old man,” Though in his life he had ne’er thought of him And liked him better dead than— Alive. So then he called his friends around,— Patrons of wine and song and ease; Mild drinks did make him thirst for stronger gins, And small jags grew protracted sprees. He squandered thousands on the race course; In dice he lost at every throw; He scattered change like oatmeal fed to chickens; His pile soon melted down like snow— In July. His banker sent a gentle invitation To straighten his o’erdrawn account. He did. He sent a bullet in his brain And never stopped to ask the amount. The lavish legacy of Frank Legree No doubt is sorrowing him yet; Lieu of an earthly million francs in gold, He’s serving time for soul lost debt.

Whene’er you miss A field of bliss, It is not half so bad As to presume Your words are known, When you but thought you had. When you’ve planned up A good stand up, And fall to the other end, It brings aroun’ A funny frown Which judgment cannot mend. Your playmates’ laugh Is only half The ugliness you feel; You’d kick yourself Like the Ghib the Guelf If that the pang would heal. So boys, I say, Study away And ever strive your best, So you’ll be glad Instead of sad, And keep your level with the rest.

I passed him in his high-born mansion oft, And lo! he would not speak to me, For I was born of humble parentage And my fortune lacked his dignity. The days rolled by. We often met in face Upon the highway of our town; I hoped to see him cast a smile on me, But only reaped a scowling frown. I clenched my fist, and silent passed him by With words—perhaps revenge or spite; But they breathed inspiration to my soul To strive and set our scores aright. With such thought buried in mine aching breast, I labored ceaseless at my task; And saw my fortunes not unenvied rise Until no greater could I ask. But what of him? In some far distant place, Again as oft we chanced to meet. His wealth had flown, while mine tenfold had grown,— Foul luck had made him indiscreet. I picked him from the gutter,—a sorry sight, Reeling with wine, and sick and sore: And as I passed a snug goldpiece, he said, “Beg pard’, that I knew you not before.”

Be merry, let us drink wine, And sip, sip, sip; Full soon the days shall slip, Gray hairs shall catch us, Grim death will dispatch us Long ere our pleasures be full. Let not the soul be dull,— Therefore be merry; let us drink wine. Be merry, let us drink wine, And quaff, quaff, quaff; Loud ring your cheering laugh,— Care we for Gringos? Let ’em come, by Jingos! Ne’er fear that all will be well, We’ll lick ’em spite of hell,— Therefore be merry; let us drink wine.

Hoch der Kaiser! How he slapped his son, When he saw the war begin! Spoke the Kaiser in his wrath to the crown prince, “What an awful mess you’ve got me in!” “Squads of Russians, French, and Englishmen, Swords a-tilt to quell us all; Couldn’t you wait until we had grown stronger, With more men and guns on which to fall? “I’ll not say that I am so displeased, That you’ve laid Mar’s spirit bare,— ’Tis the will of every noble Deutscher,— But you should ’a used much greater care. “Now we’ve got to battle,—we’re in for war! But I guess I’ll let you fight. ’Sides, it’s just as good a time as any Just to show them all our might. “Let the drum beat to its martial tune; Strike Wacht am Rhein and let’s begin; Austria’s aid will go to help us some, So I guess we’ll now stay in.”

A bashful, blushing maiden fair it was Who to the altar bent her way, A-trembling on her future spouse’s arm, To Justice Rome Van Rennsler Day. The judge looked through his nose-pinched specs and smiled, “Ah, ha! Two dollars for a fee.” Then when the ceremony was over, rose, “I guess I’ll kiss the bride,” says he. The groom was game, and led the justice down To where the wedding party sat; But law! the judge was really so excited He didn’t know just where he was at. But on he stumbled, and the groom cried out, “You’re making it fine, so hurry on.” The bride just flinched and turned her pretty head, While the judge picked out a dress of lawn. Our blushing bride had worn a crepe de chene,— The bride’s maid a lawn did grace,— But the judge seized on the first he came to there, And planted a smack on her ruby face. “Why, what’s the matter?” all the guests did cry, As the lawn flew through the questioning throng. Alas! the judge had kissed the maid instead, And the dad-blamed kiss went wrong. Now what could the poor excited justice do? The first kiss for the bride was lost— “Impertinence! How dare you?” the maid did scream. “I’ll get you arrested at any cost.” The bride got angry, too, at such a muddle, And said she’d aid the maid for spite— But what was the legal remedy, I ask; For the judge couldn’t pull himself by right?

He came down from the Klondike Brief days ago, Bowed down by tribulations, Weighted with human woe,— Where he had cast his fortune ’Mid fields of ice and snow. He left his friends and kinsmen And a happy home To fill his life with that adventure Told of in a Wild West tome, But wandered unsuccessfully From Yukon to Cape Nome. He searched the fields of Yukon With few supplies, And camped beside its shallows Where little Yukons rise, But missed that mine of nuggets Which in that gold field lies. He tramped amid the mountains From Spring till Fall, He strode the great crevasses And crossed the rivers all, The wealth he sought was spacious But what he got was small. He drank the wines of Dawson And Behring’s Strait, And stronger drinks did capture him In camp on White Horse Lake; He cursed the luck that sent him thither A deep inebriate. He felt the pangs of hunger And northern cold, As oft his comrades perished Around the camp fires’ mold And false guides led them to destruction In their search for Yukon gold. He came down from the Klondike Brief days before, Bearing the resolution, Tested and tried of yore, To earn a humble living And search for gold no more.