Captain Billy's Whiz Bang, Vol. 3, No. 27, November, 1921 / America's Magazine of Wit, Humor and Filosophy

Smokehouse Poetry

The December Smokehouse Poetry section of the Whiz Bang will feature “Ten Years On the Islands” by an anonymous writer, and the old masterpiece “The Spirit of Mortal,” and don’t forget, folk, that the Winter Annual of Captain Billy’s Whiz Bang, which is now on sale, contains the greatest collection of lively poetry ever published in a single book.

Down In the Lehigh Valley

Let me sit down a minute stranger,

I ain’t done a thing to you

You needn’t start your cussing,

A stone got in my shoe.

Yes, I’m a tramp, what of it?

Some folks say we’re no good,

But a tramp has to live I reckon,

Though they say we never should.

Once I was young and handsome,

Had plenty of cash and clothes,

But that was before I tripped,

And gin colored up my nose.

It was down in Lehigh Valley

Me and my people grew

I was the village blacksmith

Yes, and a good one, too.

Me and my daughter Nellie,

Nellie was just sixteen,

And she was the prettiest creature,

The valley had ever seen.

Beaus she had a dozen,

They came from near and far.

But most of them were farmers,

And none of them suited her.

Along came a stranger,

Young, handsome, straight and tall,

Damn him, I wish I had him,

Strangled against that wall.

He was the man for Nellie,

Nellie knew no ill,

Her mother tried to tell her,

But you know how young girls will.

Well, it’s the same old story,

Common enough you’ll say,

He was a smooth tongued devil,

And he got her to run away.

It was less than a month later,

That we heard from the poor young thing;

He had gone away and left her,

Without a wedding ring.

Back to our home we brought her,

Back to her mother’s side,

Filled with a raging fever,

She fell at our feet and died.

Frantic with grief and trouble,

Her mother began to sink,

Dead in less than a fortnight,

That’s why I took to drink.

Give me a drink bartender,

And I’ll be on my way,

I’ll tramp till I find that scoundrel,

If it takes till judgment day.

* * *

Who Wrote This Crazy Thing?

If you and I were caught in a raging wind,

And our ship wrecked on a deserted land,

I’d build you a hut on its furthest end,

And treat you as if you were a man.

* * *

Your Letter, Lady, Came Too Late

The following beautiful and touching lines were written during the Civil War by an officer of the Confederate army, at the time a prisoner on Johnson Island. A young Georgian, when the war broke out, was engaged to be married to the most beautiful and brilliant belle of Savannah, but died in captivity. While he lay dead, a letter came from this young lady to her late lover. It was a cruel, cold, heartless letter, altogether different in tone and in manner from any she ever had written to him. She spoke of brilliant balls she had lately dealt with, unconcealed rapture upon the innumerable perfections of a certain colonel of General Wheeler’s staff—of his manly form, his exquisite dancing, his marvelous conversational powers—closing with these chilling words: “Respectfully, Virginia.” Hitherto she had ended her letters with: “Your own devoted and faithful Virginia.” This letter was received at the prison a few hours after the death of him to whom it was addressed, and replied to by his comrade as follows:

By Colonel W. S. Hawkins

Your letter, Lady, came too late,

For Heaven had claimed its own.

Ah, sudden change from prison bars,

Unto the great white throne.

And yet I think that he would have

To live his disdain.

Could he have read the careless words

Which you have sent in vain.

So full of patience did he wait

Through many weary an hour.

That o’er his simple soldier face,

Not even death had power;

And you, did others whisper low,

Their homage in your ears.

And through their shadowy tongue,

His spirit had appeared.

I would that you were by me now

To draw the sheets aside,

And to see how pure the look he wore,

The moment that he died.

That sorrow that you gave him

Has left its weary trace,

Ah, ’twas the shadow of the cross

Upon his pallid face.

“Her love,” he said, “could change for me

The cold into the spring,”

Ah, trust the fickle maiden’s love

Thou art a bitter thing.

For when these valley’s bright, in May

Once more with blossoms wave,

The northern violets shall blow

Above his humble grave.

Your dole of scanty words had been

One more pang to bear,

For who kissed until the last

Your tresses of golden hair?

I did not put it where he said

For when the angels come,

I would not let them find the sign

Of falsehood in the tomb.

I see you better, and I know

The wiles that you have wrought,

To win that noble heart of his,

And gained it—cruel thought.

What lavish wealth some men sometimes give

For what is worthless all,

What manly bosoms beat for them

Is follies falsest thrall.

You shall not pity him, for now

His sorrows have an end,

Yet, would that you could stand with me

Beside your fallen friend.

And I forgive you for his sake,

As he—if it be given—

May be even pleading grace for you

Before the Court of Heaven.

Tonight the cold winds whistle by,

As I my vigil keep,

Within the death house of the prison,

Where few mourners come to weep;

A rude plank coffin hold his form,

Yet death exalts his face,

And I would rather see him thus,

Than clasped in your embrace.

Tonight your home may shine with lights

And ring with merry songs,

And you be smiling as though your soul

Ha done no deathly wrong.

Your hands so fair, none would think

Had penned these words of pain,

Your skin so white, would God, your heart

Were half so free from stain.

I’d rather be my comrade dead

Than you in life supreme;

For you’re the sinner’s walking dread

And in the Martyr’s dreams.

Whom serve we in this, we serve

In that which is to come,

He chose his way, you yours, let God

Pronounce the fighting done.

* * *

Bein’ Human

By Bill Stinger.

God made us human bein’s, but, often, we will find

That few are bein’ human if we scrutinize mankind—

There’s a lot of folks pretendin’ till their lives are out of joint,

With the things that bust the heartstrings, burn the soul, and disappoint.

And, instead of bein’ natural, jist the way God meant ’em to,

They are losing all life’s rapture apin’ what the others do.

Bein’ human is a practice that jist everlastin’ pays,

In peace, and love, and fellowship through all the livelong days.

Makes folks trust you for they sense it that your inner self is true,

So you’ll find ’em all a-feelin’ like confidin’ lots in you—

While it pays another’s virtues fur to try to emulate.

You’ll have to be your honest self if ever you are great.

There’s no folly like the folly of the fool who tries to be,

Like some other feller’s pattern, in exact conformity—

Be yourself, there’s no way tellin’, mebbe it was in the plan,

Fur yourself to be the makin’ of superior kind of man.

Anyway there’s joy and laughter put in every feller’s lot,

If he’ll only quit pretendin’ he is sumpin he is not.

* * *

God’s Richest Blessing

Backward, turn backward, Oh, time in your flight,

Give us a maiden with skirts not so tight

Give us a girl whose charms many or few,

Are not exposed by so much peek-a-boo.

Give us a maiden no matter what age,

Who won’t use the street for a vaudeville stage.

Give us a girl not so sharply in view,

Dress her in skirts that the sun won’t shine through.

Then give us the dances of days long gone by,

With plenty of clothes and steps not so high.

Take away turkey-trot, capers, and butter-milk glide

The hurdy-gurdy twist, and wiggle-tail slide.

Then let us feast our tired optics once more

On a genuine woman as sweet as of yore.

Yes time, please turn back and grant our request,

For God’s richest blessing, but not one undressed.

* * *

What Every Girl Thinks

There’s a little bit of Devil in the swagger of your walk,

There’s a little bit of Devil in your sigh.

There’s a little bit of Devil in your senseless loving talk,

There’s a Devil in your laughing, teasing eye.

There’s a little bit of angel in the way you love a girl,

With a reverence that Woman claims her due.

There’s a little bit of Angel in the way you would protect,

Love, and keep her and be tender, kind and true.

Now this Being, Imp and Angel, is a puzzle, I’ll admit,

Guess the answer, Gentle Reader, if you can.

How this queer old combination makes you thrill with admiration,

When you find this Angel-Devil is a Man.

* * *

If

If she didn’t have her hair bobbed,

If she didn’t daub with paint,

If she had her dresses made to reach

To where the dresses ain’t,

If she didn’t have that baby voice,

And spoke just as she should;

Don’t you think she’d be as popular?

I hardly think she would.

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