  The Paleface undertook, with sword and gun, To civilize the Redskins one by one; And Lo attempted, with his bow and arrow, To sap the Paleface of his very marrow. As fast as one, on either side, was slain Another took his place to fight again; Thus both the warring tribes said—"What's the use?" And straightway called a halt and signed a truce. Then Paleface planned and dug—and well of course— A pit for Lo, without resort to force; And Lo, in turn, a counter plan invented To clear the forests where the Paleface tented. And so the Paleface, from his fullness, gave A cask of Laughing Water to each Brave; And Lo, whose giving was an artful knack, Took up the scent and sent tobacco back. So, Time discloses how each plan availed; Which won, at last, and which, in order, failed, For now in Peace the Paleface moves about, While Lo and Laughing Water fight it out. He was the first to fly—Darius Green! But Green had trouble with his crude machine And failed to make a mark for lofty flying, And so he just dropped out and gave up trying. The Pickaninny to the bayou goes And caches on the bank his homespun clothes; Then headlong leaps into the pool below Where Imps of Darkness destined are to go. An alligator sees the urchin dive And, Holy Moses! swallows him alive, Not thinking that the Afric strength, thus caged, Would prove his match and master when engaged: But so it did! for Fate evolved a plan To snatch the "charcoal" from the saurian; And as the latter spewed and lashed his tail, (A tale like Jonah wrestling with the whale) The lad escaped; of course he had to shout some! So overjoyed was he at such an outcome. When Aaron Burr decided to invite His hated rival to a pistol fight, He knew, of course, because his aim was wicked, That his opponent, in advance, was lÍckÉd. And thus the scheme of Providence began To canonize the Hamiltonian. Had Mary tied her lambkin in the barn, There might have been a different kind of yarn. She could have said "I leave you" with the bull, Or "I'll return anon," and pulled the wool; The lamb could have replied—"What's all this for? I'll meet you, Mary, in the abattoir!" But No! They had to make the sheep the goat And tie a siren bell around his throat, And make him go to school. "Kids," as a rule, Would rather much be killed than go to school. Had Nero played on burning Rome the hose Instead of fiddling while the blazes rose, He might have been, in Fame's Retort, a hero, Firemano Primo Volunteero Nero. But quite another part this CÆsar played, The part of Arson in red robes arrayed. He watched the fire, in all its flares and phases, Quite unconcerned, but fiddled on like blazes. But Nero didn't finish what he started Because, while Rome still burned, his E string parted. Tho Julius CÆsar's Wars our lives inspire This CÆsar wouldn't even fight a fire; Nor would he lead the Roman Legions, tho He was reputed skillful with the bow; Perhaps the smoke-screen from the burning city Was planned to hide the discords of his ditty; And when at last this King is placed on trial, This verdict will prevail,—his work was viol. Had Antony been less a Marc and kept His armor on while Cleopatra slept, He might have been a Conqueror of note Instead of Captor of a Petticoat; And, traitor to his country, judged to be A Soldier less than Slave to Lingerie. Some Commentators—and I blush with shame— Contend that "Cle" and Sheba were the same: If this contention's true, as I surmise, It follows that King Solomon was wise; And so was Sheba when she left his regions By camel-carriage for the Roman Legions,— Leaving the King, with all his wives and breeders, To pine for her among the stately cedars. I'm not quite sure, but who's the bigger dunce? The King? Or Marc, who got in wrong but once? The oldtime Reader taught us self-reliance (But this refers to school-days—not to Science!) And pointed out, in no uncertain style, Examples we should follow or revile. Old Rover, for example, was to me The highest standard of true loyalty. He used to hang around the playground gate And there for Bones, his Master, sit and wait, Though Bones, poor dunce, each day when school was over, Was kept and spanked, but waited still old Rover. The Reader states that Rover, too, was fleet, And never knew the anguish of de feet; And had a face so honest, ear so quick, That he could steal a bone and dodge a stick. That's all the Reader says, but I believe He grew too diabetic to retrieve, And so was cast aside—the poor old brute! Because the mange affected his hirsute; Was driven from the confines of his birth Because not prized: Great Scott! a Kennelworth: And so, a rover still, thus doomed to flea Far from his home and consanguinity; But, cast adrift in sinking bark, O, Setter! Than wienerwursts or sausages is better! There was a time when Henry Clay awoke To see his fame and name go up in smoke. His reputation only went this far, That he was featured as a choice cigar. Before that day, when his renown was ripe, |
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