Sonnets of a Budding Bard
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Lines Wrote in School Whilst I Shouldst Have Been Studyin’ My Lesson
I’ve just about madest up my mind to beA poet such as Shakespeare and the restOf them big literary gents, and dressedIn velvet clothes, write up the things I seeIn some grand style to show that Browning heHast been done up! And when plain folks requestMy autograph, then, throwin’ out my chest,I’llst make them wish that they wast great like me!I’m tired dwellin’ midst surroundin’s whereCheap things art always waitin’ to be done:I’dst rather loaf and dream and have long hairLike all great poets dost: and, oh! what fun,To dash off lays and sell them, then and there,Whenever I’llst be needin’ any “mon.”Thoughts Thought Whilst Thinkin’ about Mary and Her Pet Lamb
Full oft I’ve read how Mary’s lamb didst goWhere’er his kind and lovin’ mistress went,As if the little creature wast contentIf it couldst only be where she wast. Oh,I realize what madest it hanker soTo be in school that day: it surely meantIt loved her! Yet, that mean old teacher bentOn bossin’ things – he didst not seem to know.Sometimes I get to wishin’ I might beA little lamb like Mary’s, fond and true,With Susan Sanderson as Mary, see?We’d play amidst the clover sweet with dew,And everywhere that she wast there’d be me,And if she wasn’t, I’dst be elsewhere, too.Lines Wrote Whilst Thinkin’ about How Pa Acts When Dressin’ Up
Whilst pa and ma art dressin’ up to goTo church or somewhere, so I’ve heard ma tellThe neighbor women, pa tears ’round pell-mellAnd turns things upside down, and wants to knowWho hid his clothes! and makes ma stop and showHim where to find them. Ma she know’st full wellThey’re where he’s kept them since he earnest to dwellIn our house: that’s been twenty years or so.And when ma’s donest her level best to tryTo help pa so he wilt not fuss and fret,And found his clothes, shoes, collar, cuffs and tie,And there ain’t nothin’ more for her to get,Pa looks at her and with an awful sighSays: “Thunderation! Ain’t you ready yet?”Lines Wrote Whilst Realizin’ We Oughtst to Be Kind to Dumb Brutes
Wise William Goat, familiarly addressedAs “Billy!” Thou art an amusin’ brute,For thou hast some traits that are truly cuteAnd others, still, so it must be confessed,That I hast learned in sorrow to detest.’Tis fun to see thee, in thy manner mute,When boys dost tease thee, give some one a “beaut,”Yet, he who’s “it” deems thee a sorry jest.Yestreen I met some other boys, and we,At thy expense, wert havin’ much delightTill thou got’st ’round to where I didst not seeThat thou wast headed my way. Sorry plight!That’s why I write this standin’ – woe is me! —And slept’st upon my bosom all last night.Sonnet Wrote Whilst Thinkin’ of Our Parents in the Garden of Eden
O Adam and O Eve! How very niceIt must have been to live where you wast at.No neighbors anywhere with whom to spat,Nor any one to give you free advice.Ma says she’d gladly pay ’most any priceFor such a lay-out. And she’s certain thatBecause there wert no servants in your flatIs how you camest to call it “Paradise.”And pa says that if Eve hadst dressed the wayOur women do we shouldst have missed the fateOf goin’ forth into the world to stray,For she’d be somewhere, still, inside the gateDelayin’ things, as women dost to-day,A-tryin’ for to pin her hat on straight.Lines Wrote Whilst Smartin’ from Punishment Received for Lyin’
O Washington! (O Reader, hast thou notIn readin’ high-toned poems wrote for show,Observed how many of them start with “O?”Well, anyhow, there is an awful lot.)The noble deeds thou wrought’st are not forgotBut serve to make thy name, where’er we go,A household word. If all they say is soThou didst some mighty clever stunts. That’s what!And yet, thy fame belongest to thy dad;Thou shinest by reflected light, forsooth,For thou ’rt the only boy that ever hadA pa who, when his son dared tell the truthAbout some kiddish prank didst not get madAnd lamm him! O thou heaven-protected youth!Thoughts Thought about Ma’s Notions Regardin’ Love and House-keepin’
When sister Maymie saidst she’d like to learnTo sweep the keys of a piano-forte,Ma she spoke up and cut her right off shortAnd saidst she’d rather that a girl of her ’nShouldst know just how to sweep a room, nor spurnA poor but honest man, for that’s the sortPa wast. And ma insists no woman ortTo spend more money than a man canst earn.A kid-gloved dandy with a stove-pipe hatWed ma’s proud cousin. Say, but he wast sly!“Our home shalt be next thing to Heaven!” ThatWast what he vowed. Ma says that that’s no lieFor they art packed into a stingy flatFour stairways up, and plumb against the sky!Thoughts Thought Whilst Thinkin’ of Peary on a Hot Summer Day
O Peary! With the scorchin’ summer hereAnd everybody payin’ double priceFor little weeny, teeny bits of ice,It dost no longer seem so very queerThat thou shouldst have the bravery to steerThy ship up North where it is cool and nice.I’ll bet you smile whilst thinkin’ thou hast twiceThe fun we’re havin’ at this time of year.And, say! old boy, since thou dost understandThe pole is an imaginary spot,Why not “imagine” thou hast found it andOf time and trouble save an awful lot?Couldst others track thee to that frozen landAnd prove thou didst not find it? I guess not!Thoughts Thought Whilst Thinkin’ of a Thanksgivin’ Day Turkey
O Eagle! emblem of my country, thou,Who art the boss of every other bird,My muse, to find the highfalutin wordWith which to name thee, dost not know just how.Yet ’tis not thee who hast, I must allow,My patriotic breast the deepest stirred,And they who planned our country’s banner erredIn makin’ thee the sign to which we bow.For whilst, O Eagle, thou dost dare to climbThe highest mountain peak and greet the sun,It is the turkey that dost nearest rhymeWith all the lofty thrills that through us run;He beats thee to a standstill every time,For, stuffed and roasted – say! he takes the bun!Sonnet Wrote Whilst Thinkin’ of My Sister Maymie’s Homely Beau
O Love! ’Tis saidst that thou art blind. Alas!I didst not think that it wast truly soUntil I saw my sister Maymie’s beauWho’s awful stingy and as green as grass!How love canst make such guys as he is passFor something beautiful, I dost not know.Hadst I my way, you bet! he’d stand no showOf settin’ in our parlor wastin’ gas.He steals things, too! Last night whilst in a nookOf our dark hall I heardst him say: “Alack!I must steal one!” This morn I went’st to lookAnd found’st all our umbrellas in the rack,And so I guess whatever ’twast he took,My sister Maymie madest him give it back.Lines Wrote Whilst Recovering from an Accident Caused by a Hornet
O Hornet! When I think’st what thou canst doTo make strong men just hump themselves and run,Men who wouldst boldly face a ten-inch gunBut lack the “sand” to halt whilst you pursue,And deem’st thy stinger something they wouldst rue,I’ve wondered if, when things that weigh a tonFlee from thy wrath, thou dost not deem it funTo chase folks that are so much bigger ’n you.Didst I accordin’ to my size possessThe means for gettin’ even thou dost own,’Twouldst be great sport to tackle – well, I guess! —A boy ’most any size, and hear him moanAs I didst when thou gavest me that caressFrom something hotter than the torrid zone!Lines Wrote on a Summer Day Whilst Thinkin’ of a Soda Fountain
When I’m a man I shalt not care to beThe President of these United States:I’dst rather be the drug-store clerk who waitsOn people at the soda-fountain. HeHast lots more first-class fun, it seems to me,For whilst the public dost not get rebatesOn soda, he canst get it at cut rates,And lots of times, I’ll bet, he gets it free!Of course, I know it must be pretty fineTo hear the brass bands and the big bass drumsCome marchin’ by the White House all in lineAnd playin’: “See, the Conquerin’ Hero Comes!”And, yet, no presidential job in mine:The soda clerk’s the one that gets the plums!Lines Wrote After Bein’ Scolded for Not Doin’ as Children Used To
I yearn’st to live to be ten times as oldAs wast Mathusalem, the patriarch:Then when some older person durst remark:“When I wast young the children weren’t so boldAnd always loved to do as they wert told,And went to bed soon after it wast dark;”I’llst say to him: My errin’ friend, now harkTo one who wilt no longer hear thee scold:I knew thy great-great-great-grand-parents whenThey wert sly youngsters vexin’ their poor nurse,And children now art good as they wert then!They always have been stubborn, mean, perverse,And always wilt be, since, alas! like men,They’re just as heaven makes them – only worse!Lines Wrote On Readin’ How Cleopatra Made Men Act Very Foolish
To-day I readst in an old history bookHow Cleopatra used to make men doJust any fool thing that she wanted toBy givin’ them a “lovey-dovey” look.Time wast, long, long ago, when I’dst have shookMy head and saidst the story wast not true,But that, alas! that wast before I knewMiss Susan S. who hast my fancy took.To-day I hadst an apple I’dst have notLet any boy in school taste, but when sheAsked couldst she have a bite and took a lot,I didst not mind at all, for, oh, to me,Where she hadst bit hadst somehow made the spotTaste awful sweet! Thus dost love rule us. See?Sonnet Wrote Whilst Thinkin’ What I Wouldst Do with Carnegie’s Gold
O Great Carnegie! With thy wealth, oh, my!I dost not know exactly what I’d do,But seem’st to me I’d have more fun than youArt havin’ with it. Anyhow, if IHadst money, as they say, “to burn,” I’d tryTo burn it here, for, oh! ’twouldst make me blueTo think I’d have to smell it burnin’ throughThe endless eons of the by and by!And you can bet if I hadst gold in binsAs thou hast got, in quantities so vastThou canst not spend it, I’d buy diamond pinsAnd soda water to the very last!And I’d be sorry that I wast not twinsSo I couldst spend my fortune twice as fast.Some Thoughts Thought Whilst Havin’ to Bathe in a Bath-tub
I don’t like bathin’ in a bath-tub. Say!It’s no more like a good old swimmin’-holeWhere you can dive right in and splash and rollOr anything you please, than work’s like play!Some afternoon of a hot summer dayWhen thou from school and poky things hast stole,Oh, ain’t it good for heart and brain and soulTo plunge right in and swim your own sweet way?I pity folks who bathe where they must wearA bathin’-suit! I wouldst have none in mine.Give me a good old shady corner whereNobody’s lookin’. That’s what I call “fine!”And when I bathe in this sawed-off affair,The swimmin’-hole’s the thing for which I pine.Lines Wrote in School Whilst Throwin’ Glances at Susan Sanderson
“Oh, what is love?” the poet asks. I guessI’dst better tell him. When a girl’s cheeks seemAs fascinatin’ to you as ice-cream,And though snub-nosed and freckled, more or less,She’s still the phantom of pure lovelinessThat ever and anon athwart your dreamComes stealin’, whilst you scheme and scheme and schemeTo be where she is, thou ’rt in love! Oh, yes!When you keep thinkin’ how you’dst squeeze her handIf sometime thou couldst be her little glove,And if thou feelst that thou wouldst like to stand,With only just the frosty stars above,In some big snowdrift ’neath her window andStay there forever, then thou art in love!Thoughts Thought Whilst Mowin’ the Lawn on a Saturday Afternoon
O Circus Day! So very brief art thou,From early morn when first doth rise the tentTill midnight comes and all the show hath went;Thou ’rt like a swiftly passin’ dream. Oh, howI wish the laggin’ tasks that wet the browWith per-spi-ra-tion (sweat is what I meant)Would haste as thou dost haste. How differentThis world wouldst be from what we find it now!Or ’twouldst be better still if time wouldst pass,Whilst laughin’ at the antics of the clown,As slow as run’st the sands within the glassWhilst I, ’neath sun that almost melts me down,Must mow the lawn. O Fate, why must, alas!Thy smile be so much shorter than thy frown?Sonnet Wrote on the Fly-leaf of My Grammar Durin’ School Hours
O Education! Maybe thou art allOur teachers tell us, but just let me sayThat if my folks wouldst let me have my way,From early Spring till frost comes in the FallI’dst be outdoors, you bet! a-playin’ ballOr otherwise enjoyin’ each fine day.It seem’st a shame for boys to have to stayLike culprits shut in by a prison wall!I guess if you get rich folks wilt not careIf you don’tst know your grammar to a T,For baby boys, you’llst find ’most everywhere,Art named for uncles who hast money, see?Though they hain’tst got no learnin’ they canst spareNor never spell their ’taters with a p.Thoughts Thought on Hearin’ Folks Find Fault with the Weather
I love cold winter weather with the snowA-driftin’ on the walks I hast to clear,And frost a-bitin’ nose and cheek and ear,With the thermometer “away below.”I also love the summer when it’s soRed-hot that clothes next to you all “adhere”And everybody’s frantic, pretty near,And sayin’ things that hot folks dost, you know?I love both seasons, but I wish I couldEnjoy them whilst they’re with us, for, you see,It’s winter when the summer seem’st so good,And summer when the winter pleases me.But, somehow, I have never understoodWhy either of them whilst it’s here’s “n. g.”Lines Wrote After Seein’ Shakespeare’s Hamlet from an Upper Gallery
O Shakespeare! Thou whom’st all the world dost thinkHast written some good things, I, too, wouldst payMy best respects to thee; yet, wouldst I sayThat whilst I like thee yet I dost not shrinkFrom tellin’ thee that thou art on the “blink”And very sadly out of date to-day.Still, if thou’lt follow my advice thou mayStill count as one of us, and get more “chink.”Your plays ain’t any good the way they stand:Thou ought’st to tone them up with something nice:Some coon-songs, fire-engines, blood-hounds andA swingin’ bridge and chunks of floatin’ iceWouldst make your old plays draw to beat the band,And folks wouldst crowd your show at any price!Sonnet Wrote Whilst Retrospectively Contemplatin’ My First Cigar
Oh, woe is me! and other things like that!Yestreen I soughtst to smoke my first cigar:It gav’st my system a tremendous jar!I didst not have the gumption of a gnat.All night I couldst not tell where I wast at.I wish I knew just what those cheap smokes are;It seem’st to me they’re made of glue and tar.Ah, me! I’m weaker than a half-starved cat.Oh, let them smoke henceforth, say’st I, who will,For who am I that I shouldst dare condemnTheir vile tobacco? I have hadst my fill:Let others have it; I sha’n’tst envy them,For I’llst not never smoke no more untilI’m ten times older than Mathusalem!Sonnet Wrote Whilst Thinkin’ About a Vacation Spent on a Farm
O Farmer, independentest of allMankind art thou! I know, because, last yearI spent my whole vacation, pretty near,On Uncle Eben’s farm, and though I’m small,I hoed the corn and beans, and helped him haulAnd stack his hay. I’dst work until I’dst fearI’dst just drop down and end my sad careerBefore they’dst give the welcome dinner call.My uncle dost not weigh his words with care,For once he told me that I wast a shirk;But I wouldst rather breathe the country airThan be a shut-in office-boy or clerk;For I found out whilst visitin’ out thereThat I like farmin’, but I hate farm work.Lines Composed After Seein’ a Book Full of Byron’s Love Letters
One reason why I’m ’most afraid to getSo famous like we poets always do,Is that they’ll print my spoony letters, too,As is the way with all of us who letOur fancies caper. Hadst I thought whilst yetUnknown, I’dst be a poet, quite a fewEndearin’ words with which I soughtst to wooMore girls than one I’dst not have wrote, you bet!If Susan Sanderson shouldst find I sentThe valentine I saidst I wrote for herTo Jane Jones, too, the thirty cents I’ve spentFor soda water’s wasted, I’dst infer:Why must we poets do things we’ll repent?And oh! why thus didst me and Byron err?Sonnet Wrote After Hearin’ a Youth Oratin’ about “Casabianca”
O Boy, that stood’st upon the burnin’ deckAnd gotst thyself in our school readers andThe “Whoop-’er-up” school speakers of our landBecause thou wouldst not leave that sinkin’ wreck,Oh, don’tst thou think if thou hadst saved thy neckAnd wisely cut and run to beat the band,Thou couldst have later done things still more grand?Alas! too soon didst death thy valor check!Oh, didst thou stay because thou couldst not swim?Or wast it fame for which thy heart didst yearn?Of course thou gotst a name time canst not dim,But seemst to me that all I canst discernIn thy foolhardy, stickin’-to-it whimIs that thou deemed the world hadst boys to burn.