Cape Cod Ballads, and Other Verse — Text and Context

She thought that the whole congregation Kept step ter the tune of her fife, But she found 't was a wrong calkerlation Applied ter the minister's wife.

Then Mrs. Jedge Jenks got excited-- She thinks she's the whole upper crust;-- When she found the Smiths was invited Ter meet'n', she quit in disgust. "_You_ can have all the paupers yer choose to," Says she, jest as sharp as a knife; "But if _they_ go ter church _I_ refuse to!" "Good-by!" says the minister's wife.

And then Mrs. Jackson got stuffy At her not comin' sooner ter call, And old Miss Macgregor is huffy 'Cause she went up ter Jackson's at all. Each one of the crowd hates the other, The church has been full of their strife; But now they're all hatin' another, And that one's the minister's wife.

But still, all their cackle unheedin', She goes, in her ladylike way, A-givin' the poor what they're needing And helpin' the church every day: Our numbers each Sunday is swelling And real, true religion is rife, And sometimes I feel like a-yellin', "Three cheers fer the minister's wife!"

"_I am Sir Oracle, and when I ope my lips let no dog bark!_"

Old Dan'l Hanks he says this town Is jest the best on earth; He says there ain't one, up nor down, That's got one half her worth; He says there ain't no other state That's good as ourn, nor near; And all the folks that's good and great Is settled right 'round here.

Says I "D'jer ever travel, Dan?" "You bet I ain't!" says he; "I tell you what! the place I've got Is good enough fer me!"

He says the other party's fools, 'Cause they don't vote his way; He says the "feeble-minded schools" Is where they ought ter stay; If he was law their mouths he'd shut, Or blow 'em all ter smash; He says their platform's nawthin' but A great big mess of trash.

Says I, "D'jer ever read it, Dan?" "You bet I ain't!" says he; "And when I do; well, I tell you, I'll let you know, by gee!"

He says that all religion's wrong 'Cept jest what he believes; He says them ministers belong In jail, the same as thieves; He says they take the blessed Word And tear it all ter shreds; He says their preachin's jest absurd; They're simply leatherheads.

Says I, "D'jer ever hear 'em, Dan?" "You bet I ain't!" says he; "I'd never go ter _hear_ 'em; no; They make me sick ter _see!_"

Some fellers reckon, more or less, Before they speak their mind, And sometimes calkerlate or guess,-- But them ain't Dan'l's kind. The Lord knows all things, great or small, With doubt he's never vexed; He, in his wisdom, knows it all,-- But Dan'l Hanks comes next.

Says I, "How d' yer know you're right?" "How do I _know_?" says he; "Well, now, I vum! I know, by gum! I'm right because I _be_!"

Jason White has come ter town Drivin' his tin peddler's cart, Pans a-bangin' up an' down Like they'd tear theirselves apart; Kittles rattlin' underneath, Coal-hods scrapin' out a song,-- Makes a feller grit his teeth When old Jason comes along.

Jason drives a sorrel mare, Bones an' skin at all her j'ints, "Blooded stock," says Jase; "I swear, Jest see how she shows her p'ints! Walkin' 's her best lay," says he, Eyes a-twinklin' full of fun, "Named her Keely Motor. See? Sich hard work ter make her run."

Jason's jest the slickest scamp, Full of jokes as he can hold; Says he beats Aladdin's lamp, Givin' out new stuff fer old; "Buy your rags fer more 'n they're worth, Give yer bran'-new, shiny tin, I'm the softest snap on earth," Says old Jason, with a grin.

Jason gits the women's ear Tellin' news and talkin' dress; Can 't be peddlin' forty year An' not know 'em more or less; Children like him; sakes alive! Why, my Jim, the other night, Says, "When I git big I'll drive Peddler's cart, like Jason White!"

"SARY EMMA'S PHOTYGRAPHS"

Our Sary Emma is possessed ter be at somethin' queer; She's allers doin' loony things, unheard of fur and near. One time there wa'n't no limit ter the distance she would tramp Ter get a good-fer-nothin', wuthless, cancelled postage-stamp; Another spell folks couldn't rest ontil, by hook or crook, She got 'em all ter write their names inside a leetle book; But though them fits was bad enough, the wust is nowadays, Fer now she's got that pesky freak, the photygraphin' craze.

She had ter have a camera--and them things cost a sight-- So she took up subscriptions fer the "Woman's Home Delight" And got one fer a premium--a blamed new-fangled thing, That takes a tin-type sudden, when she presses on a spring; And sence she got it, sakes alive! there's nothin' on the place That hain't been pictured lookin' like a horrible disgrace: The pigs, the cows, the horse, the colt, the chickens large and small; She goes a-gunnin' fer 'em, and she bags 'em, one and all.

She tuk me once a-settin' up on top a load er hay: My feet shets out the wagon, and my head's a mile away; She took her Ma in our back yard, a-hanging out the clothes, With hands as big as buckets, and a face that's mostly nose. A yard of tongue and monstrous teeth is what she calls a dog; The cat's a kind er fuzzy-lookin' shadder in a fog; And I've got a suspicion that what killed the brindle calf Was that he seen his likeness in our Sary's photygraph.

She's "tonin'," er "develerpin'," er "printin'," ha'f the time; She's allers buyin' pasteboard ter mount up her latest crime: Our front room and the settin'-room is like some awful show, With freaks and framed outrages stuck all 'round 'em in a row: But soon I'll take them picters, and I'll fetch some of 'em out And hang 'em 'round the garden when the corn begins ter sprout; We'll have no crows and blackbirds ner that kind er feathered trash, 'Cause them photygraphs of Sary's, they beat scarecrows all ter smash.

When Papa's sick, my goodness sakes! Such awful, awful times it makes. He speaks in, oh! such lonesome tones, And gives such ghas'ly kind of groans, And rolls his eyes and holds his head, And makes Ma help him up to bed, While Sis and Bridget run to heat Hot-water bags to warm his feet, And I must get the doctor _quick_,-- We have to _jump_ when Papa's sick.

When Papa's sick Ma has to stand Right 'side the bed and hold his hand, While Sis, she has to fan an' fan, For he says he's "a dyin' man," And wants the children round him to Be there when "sufferin' Pa gets through"; He says he wants to say good-by And kiss us all, and then he'll die; Then moans and says his "breathin''s thick",-- It's awful sad when Papa's sick.

When Papa's sick he acts that way Until he hears the doctor say, "You've only got a cold, you know; You'll be all right 'n a day or so"; And then--well, say! you ought to see-- He's different as he can be, And growls and swears from noon to night Just 'cause his dinner ain't cooked right; And all he does is fuss and kick,-- We're _all_ used up when Papa's sick.

THE BALLAD OF McCARTY'S TROMBONE

Sure, Felix McCarty he lived all alone On the top av a hill be the town av Athione, And the pride av his heart was a batthered trombone, That he played in an iligant style av his own. And often I've heard me ould grandfather say, That, long as he lived, on Saint Patherick's Day, the minute the dawn showed the first streak av gray McCarty would rise and this tune he would play:

"Pertaters and fishes make very good dishes, Saint Patherick's Day in the mornin'!" With tootin' and blowin' he kept it a-goin', For rest was a thing he was scornin'; And thim that were lazy could niver lie aisy, But jumped out av bed at the warnin'; For who could be stayin' aslape with him playin' "Saint Patherick's Day in the mornin'?"

And thin whin the b'ys would fall in fer parade, McCarty'd be gay with his buttons and braid, And whin he stipped out fer ter head the brigade, Why, this was the beautiful tune that he played:

"By--Killarney's--lakes--and--fells, Toot--tetoot toot--toot--toot--dells!" And--the heel av--McCart--y's--boot Marked--the time at--iv'--ry--toot, While--the slide at--aich--bass--note Seemed--ter slip half--down--his throat, As--he caught his--breath--be--spells:-- "By--Killarney's--lakes--and--fells!"

Now McCarty he lived ter be wrinkled and lean, But he died wan fine day playin' "Wearin' the green," And they sould the ould horn to a British spalpeen, And it bu'st whin he tried ter blow "God save the Queen";

But the nights av Saint Patherick's Days in Athlone Folks dare not go by the ould graveyard alone, For they say that McCarty sits on his tombstone And plays this sad tune on a phantom trombone:

"The harp that wance through Tara's halls The sowl av music shed, Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls As if that sowl were dead." And all who've heard the lonesome _keens_ That that grim ghost has blown, Know well by Tara's harp he means That batthered ould trombone.

I'll write, for I'm witty, a popular ditty, To bring to me shekels and fame, And the only right way one may write one to-day Is to give it some Irish girl's name. There's "Rosy O'Grady," that dear "steady lady," And sweet "Annie Rooney" and such, But mine shall be nearly original, really, For Susan Van Doozen is Dutch.

_O Susan Van Doozen! the girl of my choos'n',_ _You stick in my bosom like glue; While this you're perusin', remember I'm mus'n',_ _Sweet Susan Van Doozen, on you. So don't be refus'n' my offer, and bruis'n'_ _A heart that is willing to woo; And please be excus'n', not cold and refus'n',-- O Susan Van Doozen, please do_!

Now through it I'll scatter--a quite easy matter-- Some lines that we all of us know, How "The neighbors all cry as she passes them by, 'There's Susan, the pride of the row!'" And something like "daisy" and "setting me crazy," --These lines the dear public would miss-- Then chuck a "sweetheart" in, and "never to part" in, And end with a chorus like this:

_O Susan Van Doozen! before I'd be los'n' One glance from your eyes of sky-blue, I vow I'd quit us'n' tobacco and booz'n', (That word is not nice, it is true). I wear out my shoes, 'n' I'm los'n' my roos'n'_ _My reason, I should say, dear Sue_,-- _So please change your views 'n' become my own Susan_, _O Susan Van Doozen, please do_!

Almost every other evening jest as reg'lar as the clock When we're settin' down ter supper, wife and I, there comes a knock An' a high-pitched voice, remarking', "Don't get up; it's _me_, yer know"; An' our mercury drops from "summer" down ter "twenty-five below," An' our cup of bliss turns sudden inter wormwood mixed with gall, Fer we know it's Sister Simmons come ter make her "reg'lar call."

In she comes an' takes the rocker. Thinks she'll slip her bunnit off, But she'll keep her shawl on, coz she's 'fraid of addin' ter her cough. No, she won't set down ter supper. Tea? well, yes, a half er cup. Her dyspepsy's been so lately, seems as if she _should_ give up; An', 'tween rheumatiz an' as'ma, she's jest worn ter skin an' bone. It's a good thing that she told us,--by her looks we'd never known.

Next, she starts in on the neighbors; tells us all their private cares, While we have the fun er knowin' how she talks of _our_ affairs; Says, with sobs, that Christmas comin' makes her feel _so_ bad, for, oh! Her Isaiah, the dear departed, allers did enjoy it so. Her Isaiah, poor henpecked critter, 's been dead seven years er more, An' looked happier in his coffin than he ever did afore.

So she sits, her tongue a-waggin' in the same old mournful tones, Spoilin' all our quiet evenin's with her troubles an' her groans, Till, by Jude, I'm almost longin' fer those mansions of the blest, "Where the wicked cease from troublin' an' the weary are at rest!" But if Sister Simmons' station is before the Throne er Grace, I'll just ask 'em to excuse me, an' I'll try the other place.

"THE FIFT' WARD J'INT DEBATE"

Now Councilman O'Hoolihan do'n't b'lave in annixation, He says thim Phillypynos air the r-r-ruin av the nation. He says this counthry's job is jist a-mindin' av her biz, And imparyilism's thrayson, so ut is, so ut is. But big Moike Macnamara, him that runs the gin saloon, He wants the nomina-a-tion, so he sings a different chune; He's a-howlin' fer ixpansion, so he puts ut on the shlate Thot he challenged Dan O'Hoolihan ter have a j'int debate.

_Ho, ho! Begorra! Oi wisht that ye 'd been there! Ho, ho! Begorra! 'Twas lovely, Oi declare_; _The langwudge, sure 't was iligant, the rhitoric was great_, _Whin Dan and Mack, they had ut back, At our big j'int debate_.

'T was in the War-r-d Athletic Club we had ut fixed ter hear 'em, And all the sates was crowded, fer the gang was there ter cheer 'em; A foine debatin' platfor-r-m had been built inside the ring, And iverybuddy said 't was jist the thing, jist the thing. O'Hoolihan, he shtarted off be sayin', ut was safe Ter say that aich ixpansionist was jist a murth'rin thafe; And, whin I saw big Mack turn rid, and shtart ter lave his sate, Oi knew we 'd have a gor-r-geous toime at our big j'int debate.

Thin Moike he tuk his tur-r-n ter shpake, "Av Oi wance laid me hand," Says he, "upon an 'Anti,' faith! Oi'd make his nose ixpand; Oi 'd face the schnakin' blackguar-r-d, and Oi'd baste him where he shtood. Oi'd annix him to a graveyard, so Oi would, so Oi would!" Thin up jumped Dan O'Hoolihan a-roar-r-in' out "Yez loie!" And flung his b'aver hat at Mack, and plunked him in the eye; And Moike he niver shtopped ter talk, but grappled wid him straight, And the ar-r-gymint got loively thin, at our big j'int debate.

Oi niver in me loife have seen sich char-r-min' illycution, The gistures av thim wid their fists was grand in ixecution; We tried to be impar-r-tial, so no favoroite we made, But jist sicked them on tergither, yis indade, yis indade. And nayther wan was half convinced whin Sar-r-gint Leary came, Wid near a dozen other cops, and stopped the purty game; But niver did Oi see dhress-suits in sich a mortial state As thim the or-r-ators had on at our big j'int debate.

_Ho, ho! Begorra! Oi wisht that ye'd been there! Ho, ho! Begorra! The foight was on the square_; _Ter see the wagon goin' off, wid thim two on the sate_!-- _Oi 'd loike ter shtroike, 'twixt Dan and Moilce_, _Another j'int debate_.

Say, I've got a little brother, Never teased to have him, nuther, But he's here; They just went ahead and bought him, And, last week the doctor brought him, Wa'n't that queer?

When I heard the news from Molly, Why, I thought at first 't was jolly, 'Cause, you see, I s'posed I could go and get him And then Mama, course, would let him Play with me.

But when I had once looked at him, "Why!" I says, "My sakes, is _that_ him? Just that mite!" They said, "Yes," and, "Ain't he cunnin'?" And I thought they must be funnin',-- He's a _sight!_

He's so small, it's just amazin', And you 'd think that he was blazin', He's so red; And his nose is like a berry, And he's bald as Uncle Jerry On his head.

Why, he isn't worth a dollar! All he does is cry and holler More and more; _Won't_ sit up--you can't arrange him,-- _I_ don't see why Pa do'n't change him At the store.

Now we've got to dress and feed him, And we really didn't _need_ him More 'n a frog; Why'd they buy a baby brother, When they know I'd _good_ deal ruther Have a dog?

Me and Billy's in the woodshed; Ma said, "Run outdoors and play; Be good boys and don't be both'rin', till the company's gone away." She and sister Mary's hustlin', settin' out the things for tea, And the parlor's full of women, such a crowd you never see; Every one a-cuttin' patchwork or a-sewin' up a seam, And the way their tongues is goin', seems as if they went by steam. Me and Billy's been a-listenin' and, I tell you what, it beats Circus day to hear 'em gabbin', when the Sewin' Circle meets.

First they almost had a squabble, fightin' 'bout the future life; When they'd settled that they started runnin' down the parson's wife. Then they got a-goin' roastin' all the folks there is in town, And they never stopped, you bet yer, till they'd done 'em good and brown. They knew everybody's business and they made it mighty free, But the way they loved _each other_ would have done yer good to see; Seems ter me the only way ter keep yer hist'ry off the streets Is to be on hand a-waitin' when the Sewin' Circle meets.

Pretty quick they'll have their supper, then's the time to see the fun; Ma'll say the rolls is _awful_, and she's 'fraid the pie ain't done. Really everything is bully, and she knows it well enough, But the folks that's havin' comp'ny always talks that kind of stuff. That sets all the women goin', and they say, "How _can_ you make Such _delicious_ pies and biscuits, and such _lovely_ choc'late cake?" Me and Billy don't say nothin' when we pitches in and eats Up the things there is left over when the Sewin' Circle meets.

I guess Pa do'n't like the Circle, 'cause he said ter Uncle Jim That there cacklin' hen convention was too peppery for _him_. And he'll say to Ma, "I'm sorry, but I've really got ter dodge Down t' the hall right after supper--there's a meetin' at the lodge." Ma'll say, "Yes, so I expected." Then a-speakin' kinder cold, "Seems ter me, I'd get a new one; that excuse is gettin' old!" Pa'll look sick, just like a feller when he finds you know he cheats, But he do'n't stay home, you bet yer, when the Sewin' Circle meets.

"Blessed are the poor in spirit": there, I'll just remember that, And I'll say it over 'n over, till I've got it good and pat, For when I get home from meetin', Gran'ma'll ask me for the text, And if I say I've forgot it, she'll be goin' for me next, Say in', I don't pay attention, and what _am_ I comin' to; Tellin' 'bout when _she_ was little, same as old folks always do. Say, I'll bet she didn't like it any better than the rest, Sittin' 'round all stiff and starchy, dressed up in your Sunday best.

"Blessed are the poor"--I tell yer, some day I'll be clearin' out, Leavin' all this dressin' nonsense, 'cause I'm goin' ter be a scout, Same as "Deadwood Dick," a-killin' all the Injuns on the plains: _He_ do'n't comb his hair, you bet yer; no, nor wash, unless it rains. And bimeby I'll come home, bringin' loads of gold and di'mon' rings; My, won't all the boys be jealous when they see those kind of things! 'N' I'll have a reputation, folks'll call me "Lariat Ben," Gran'ma'll think I 'mount ter somethin', maybe, when she sees me then.

"Blessed are the"--There's a blackbird, outside, sittin' on a limb,-- Gosh! I wish it wasn't Sunday, p'raps I wouldn't go for him. Sis says stonin' birds is wicked, but she's got one on her hat,-- S'pose that makes it right and proper, if yer kill 'em just for that. There's that dudey city feller, sittin' in the Deacon's pew. Needn't feel so big now, Smarty, just because your clothes are new; Me and Sam has rigged a hat line; when it's dark to-morrer night We'll just catch your shiny beaver and we'll send it out of sight.