Impertinent Poems

HUMBLER HEROES

It might not be so difficult to lead the light brigade,While the army cheered behind you, and the fifes and bugles played;It might be rather easy, with the war-shriek in your ears,To forget the bite of bullets and the taste of blood and tears.But to be a scrubwoman, with fourBabies, or more,Every day, every day setting your backOn the rack,And all your reward forever not quiteA full biteOf bread for your babies. Say!In the heat of the dayYou might be a hero to head a brigade,But a hero like her? I'm afraid! I'm afraid!It might be very feasible to force a great reform,To saddle public passion and to ride upon the storm;It might be somewhat simple to ignore the roar of wrath,Because a second shout broke out to cheer you on your path.But he who, alone and unknown, is trueTo his view,Unswerved by the crush of the mutton-browed,Blatting crowd,Unwon by the flabby-brained, blinking easeWhich he seesThroned and anointed. Say!At the height of the fray,You might be the chosen to captain the throng:But to stand all alone? How long? How long?

CONSCIENCE PIANISSIMO

You are honest as daylight. You're often assuredThat your word is as good as your note – unsecured.We could trust you with millions unaudited, but —(Tut, tut!There is always a "but,"So don't get excited,) I'm pained to perceiveIt is seldom I notice you grumble or grieveWhen the custom-house officer pockets your tipAnd passes the contraband goods in your grip.You would scorn to be shy on your ante, I'm certain,But skinning your Uncle you're rather expert in.Well, I'm proud that no taint of the sort touches me.(For I've never been over the water, you see.)Your yardstick's a yard and your goods are all wool;Your bushel's four pecks and you measure it full.You are proud of your business integrity, yet —(Don't fret!There is always a "yet,")I never have noticed a sign of distress, orDisturbance in you, when the upright assessorHas listed your property somewhere aboutHalf what you would take were you selling it out.You're as true to the world as the world to its axis,But you chuckle to swear off your personal taxes.As for me, I would scorn to do any such thing,(Though I may have considered the question last spring.)You have notions of right. You would count it a sinTo cheat a blind billionaire out of a pin.You have a contempt for a pettiness, still —(Don't chill!There is always a "still,")I never have noticed you storm with neglectBecause the conductor had failed to collect,Or growl that the game wasn't run on the squareWhen your boy in the high school paid only half fare.The voice of your conscience is lusty and audible,But a railroad – good heavens! why, that's only laudable.Of course, I am quite in a different class;For me, it is painful to ride on a pass!

THE WORLD RUNS ON

So many good people find fault with God,Tho' admitting He's doing the best He can,But still they consider it somewhat oddThat He doesn't consult them concerning his plan,But the sun sinks down and the sun climbs back,And the world runs round and round its track.Or they say God doesn't precisely steerThis world in the way they think is best,And if He would listen to them, He'd veerA hair to the sou', sou'west by west.But the world sails on and it never turns backAnd the Mariner never makes a tack.Or the same folk pray "O, if Thou please,Dear God, be a little more circumspect;Thou knowest Thy worm who is on his kneesWould not willingly charge thee with neglect,But O, if indeed Thou knowest all things,Why fittest Thou not Thy worm with wings?"So many good people are quite inclinedTo favor God with their best advices,And consider they're something more than kindIn helping Him out of critical crises.But the world runs on, as it ran before,And eternally shall run evermore.So many good people, like you and me,Are deeply concerned for the sins of othersAnd conceive it their duty that God should beApprised of the lack in erring brothers.And the myriad sun-stars seed the skiesAnd look at us out of their calm, clear eyes.

PASS

Did somebody give you a pat on the back?Pass it on!Let somebody else have a taste of the snack,Pass it on!If it heightens your courage, or lightens your pack,If it kisses your soul, with a song in the smack,Maybe somebody else has been dressing in black;Pass it on!God gives you a smile, not to make it a yawn;Pass it on!Did somebody show you a slanderous mess?Pass it by!When a brook's flowing by, will you drink at the cess?Pass it by!Dame Gossip's a wanton, whatever her dress;Her sire was a lie and her dam was a guess,And a poison is in her polluting caress;Pass it by!Unless you're a porker, keep out of the sty.Pass it by!Did somebody give you an insolent word?Pass it up!'T is the creak of a cricket, the pwit of a bird;Pass it up!Shake your fist at the sea! Is its majesty blurred?Blow your breath at the sky! Is its purity slurred?But the shallowest puddle, how easily stirred!Pass it up!Does the puddle invite you to dip in your cup?Pass it up!

PUBLICITY

There's nothing like publicityTo further that lubricityWhich minted cartwheels needTo maximize their speedIn your direction.True, some hydropathist of stocks,Or one whose trade is picking locks,May make objection:Yet even those gentry always lurkWhere booming first has done its work.Observe how oft some foreigner,About the size of coroner,Can sell L O R D(Four letters, as you see,)For seven numbers,Because his trade-mark, thus devised,Is advertised and advertisedTill it encumbersThe mental view, as though 't were someBald-headed brand of chewing-gum.Study your own psychology!See how some mere tautologyOf picture, or of print,Has realized the glintOf your good money.How often have persistent viewsOf one bare head sold you your shoes!Which does seem funny;And yet 'twas head-work, after all,Which helped the shoe-man make his haul.There's some obscure localityIn every man's mentalityWhich, I am free to state,I'd like to penetrateFor my felicity.For now who gives a second lookWhen he perceives a POEM by Cooke?But come publicity!And then a poem by COOKE were seenThe first thing in the magazine!

MOVE!

We are on the main line of a crowded track;We've got to go forward; we can't go backAnd run the risk of colliding:We must make schedule, not now and again,But always, forever and ever, amen!Or else switch off on a siding.If ever we loaf, like a car in the yard,Doesn't somebody bump us, and bump us hard,I wonder?You've succeeded in building a pretty fair trade,But can you sit down in the grateful shadeAnd kill time cutting up capers?Or must you hustle and scheme and sweat,Though the shine be fine or the weather be wet,And keep your page in the papers?If ever you fail to be pulling the strings,Aren't some of your rivals around doing things,I wonder?You're a first-class salesman. You know your line;Your house is good and your goods are fine,So you fill your book with orders,But can you get quit of the ball and chain,Or are you in jail on a railroad train,With blue-coated men for warders?If you sent your samples and cut out the trip,Wouldn't somebody else soon be lugging your grip,I wonder?You are starred on the bills and are chummy with fame;The man on the corner could tell you your nameAt three o'clock in the morning,But can you depend on the mind of the mob?Can you tell your press-agent to look for a job,Or give your manager warning?Should you lie down to sleep, with your laurels beneath,Wouldn't somebody else soon be wearing your wreath,I wonder?Oh, I'm willing to work, but I wish I could lag,Not feeling as if I were "it" for tag,Or last in follow-my-leader;There is only one spot where, I haven't a doubt,Nobody will try to be crowding me out,And that is under the cedar.And even in that place, will Gabriel's trumpCome nagging along and be making me jump?I wonder.

GET NEXT

Chap. I., verse 1, is where you'll findThe text of what is in my mindIf, haply, you are so inclined.Chap. I., verse 1 – the primal ruleFor saint or sinner, sage or fool,No matter what his church or school.Though you may call it slangy solely,Though you may term it flippant wholly,Truth still is truth and is not vexed;I write this rhyme to prove the text —Get Next.Suppose I sought some lonely heightAnd dipped a stylus in the lightOf welding worlds and sought to writeUpon the highest, deepest blueMy message to Sam Smith and you.The chances are it would not do.You would not risk your neck to readMy much too altitudinous screed,And I, chagrined and half-perplexed,Had missed you when I missed my text —Get Next.Suppose you have a breakfast foodWhich you conceive I should includeWithin my lat-and-longitude.'T is not enough to have the stuff,But you must post, and praise, and puff,Until I memo. on my cuff,Among my most important notes —Be sure to bring home Oatless Oats.And then you know that I'm annexed,Because you followed out the text —Get Next.Get next! get next! and hold it trueThere's one you must get nextest to,And that important one is you.Be not of those who, uncommunedWith their own skins, have all but swoonedFrom some imaginary wound,But strip the rags from off your soulAnd find you are not maimed, but whole!'T is but a flea-bite which has vexedAs soon as you've applied the text —Get Next.

ARE YOU YOU?

Are you a trailer, or are you a trolley?Are you tagged to a leader through wisdom and folly?Are you Somebody Else, or You?Do you vote by the symbol and swallow it "straight"?Do you pray by the book, do you pay by the rate?Do you tie your cravat by the calendar's date?Do you follow a cue?Are you a writer, or that which is worded?Are you a shepherd, or one of the herded?Which are you – a What or a Who?It sounds well to call yourself "one of the flock,"But a sheep is a sheep after all. At the blockYou're nothing but mutton, or possibly stock.Would you flavor a stew?Are you a being and boss of your soul?Or are you a mummy to carry a scroll?Are you Somebody Else, or You?When you finally pass to the heavenly wicketWhere Peter the Scrutinous stands on his picket,Are you going to give him a blank for a ticket?Do you think it will do?

THE PRICE

In, or under, or over the earth,What will fill you, and what suffice?No matter how mean, or much its worth,It is yours if you pay the price.Never a thing may a man attain,But gain pays loss, or loss pays gain.Lady of riches, riot and rout,Fair of flesh and sated of sense,Nothing in life you need do withoutExcept the trifle of innocence.Counterfeit kisses you paid, and gotJust what you paid for – which is what?Man of adroitness, place and power,Trampled above and torn below;Set in the light of your noonday hour,Playing a part in the public show;Fooling the mob that the mob be ruled:You know which is the greater fooled.Artist of pencil, or paint, or pen,Reed, or string, or the vocal note,Making the soul to suffer againAnd the wild heart clutch the throat;Ever your fancy has paid in fact;You rack my soul, as yours was racked.

THE BUBBLE-FLIES

Let me read a homilyConcerning an anomalyI viewIn you.Whatever you are striving for,Whatever you are driving for,'T is not alone because you craveTo be successful that you slaveTo swim upon the topmost wave.You care less what your station is,But more what your relation is.To be a bit above the rest!To be upon, or of, the crest!Ah! that is where the trouble liesWhich stirs you little bubble-flies.(I sneer these sneers, but just the sameI keep my fingers in the game.)See! you have eat-and-drinkablesAnd portables and thinkablesAnd yetYou fret.For what? Let's reach the heart of youAnd see the funny part of you.For what? I find the soul and seedOf it is not your lack or need,Or even merely vulgar greed.Gold? You may have a store of it,But someone else has more of it.Fame? Pretty things are said of you,But – some one is ahead of you.Place? You disprize your easy oneFor some one's high and breezy one.(I smile these smiles to soothe my soul,But squint one eye upon the goal.)Tell me! what's your capacityCompared to your voracity?I guess'T is less.And so I strike these attitudesAnd tender you these platitudes; —Not wishing wealth, or spurning it,Not hoarding it, or burning itIs equal to the earning it.Life's race is in the riding it,Not in the word deciding it.And after all is said and utteredThe keenest taste is bread-and-buttered.(And yet – and yet – my palate achesFor pallid pie and pasty cakes!)

QUALIFIED

I love to see my friend succeed;I love to praise him; yes, indeed!And so, no doubt, do you.But will you tell me why it isThe praise we parcel out as hisSo often goes askew,And ends by running in the rutOf "if," "except" or "but"?"Boggs is a clever chap. His tradeIs doubling yearly, and he's madeA fortune all right, but – ""Sharp is elected. Well, I say!He'll hit a high mark yet, some day,If – " (here one eye is shut)."Such acting! Why, I laughed and wept!Fobb's art is great – except.""Miss Hautton has such queenly grace.And then her figure and her face!She'd be a beauty if – ""And Mrs. Follol entertainsWith so much taste and so much pains;But – " (here a little sniff)."And Mrs. Caste has ever keptThe narrow path – except."I wish some man were great and goodThat I might praise him all I couldAnd never add a "but."I would that some would value meAnd never hint what I would be"If" – but why cavil? Tut!Eternal justice still is keptAnd Heaven is good – except!

WHAT ARE YOU DOING?

Do you lazily nurse your knee and muse?Do you contemplate your conquering thewsWith a critical satisfaction?But yesterday's laurels are dry and deadAnd to-morrow's triumph is still ahead;To-day is the day for action.Yesterday's sun: is it shining still?To-morrow's dawn: will its coming fillTo-day, if to-day's light fail us?Not so. The past is forever past;To-day's is the hand which holds us fast,And to-morrow may never hail us.The present and only the present endures,So it's hey for to-day! for to-day is yoursFor the goal you are still pursuing.What you have done is a little amount;What you will do is of lesser account,But the test is, what are you doing?

THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR

McUmphrey's a fellow who's lengthy on lungs.Backed up by the smoothest of ball-bearing tongues,And his topic – himself – is worth talking about,But he works it so much he has frazzled it out.He never will give me my half of a chanceTo chip in my own little, clever romanceIn the first person singular. Yes, and they say,He offended you, too, in a similar way.Cousin Maud tells her illnesses, ancient and recent,In a most minute way which is almost indecent!Vivisecting herself, with some medical chatter,She serves us her portions – as if on a platter,Never noting how I am but waiting to stirMy dregs of diseases to offer to her.And I hear (such a joke!) that your chronic gastritisStands silent forever before her nephritis.Mrs. Henderson's Annie goes out every night,And Bertha, before her, was simply a fright,While Agnes broke more than the worth of her head,And Maggie – well, some things are better unsaid.Such manners to talk of her help – when she knowsMy wife's simply aching to tell of our woes!And I hear that she never lets you get a startOn your story of Rosy we all know by heart.You'd hardly believe that I've heard Bunson tellThe Flea-Powder Frenchman and Razors to Sell,The One-Legged Goose and that old What You Please —And even, I swear it, The Crow and the Cheese.And he sprang that old yarn of He Said 't was His Leg,When you wanted to tell him Columbus's Egg,While I wanted to tell my own whimsical tale(Which I recently wrote) of The Man in the Whale!

THE CHOICE

The little it takes to make life bright,If we open our eyes to get it!And the trifle which makes it black as night,If we close our lids and let it!Behold, as the world goes whirling by,It is gloomy, or glad, as it fits your eye.As it fits your eye, and I mean by thatYou find what you look for mostly;You can feed your happiness full and fat,You can make your miseries ghostly,Or you can forget every joy you ownBy coveting something beyond your zone.In the storms of life we can fret the eyeWhere the guttering mud is drifted,Or we can look to the world-wide skyWhere the Artist's scenes are shifted.Puddles are oceans in miniatures,Or merely puddles; the choice is yours.We can strip our niggardly souls so bareThat we haggle a penny between us;Or we can be rich in a common shareOf the Pleiades and Venus.You can lift your soul to its outermost look,Or can keep it packed in a pocketbook.We may follow a phantom the arid milesTo a mountain of cankered treasure,Or we can find, in a baby's smiles,The pulse of a living pleasure.We may drink of the sea until we burst,While the trickling spring would have quenched our thirst.

THE SAVING CLAUSE

Kerr wrote a book, and a good book, too;At least I1 managed to read it throughWithout finding very much room for blame,And a good many other folks did the same.But when any one asked me2: "Have you read?"Or: "How do you like?" I3 only said:"Very good, very good! and I'm glad enough;For his other writings are horrible stuff."Banks wrote a play, and it had a run.(That's a good deal more than ever I've4 done.)The interest held with hardly a lagFrom the overture to the final tag.But when any one asked me5: "Have you seen?"Or: "What do you think?" I6 looked sereneAnd remarked: "Oh, a pretty good thing of its kind,But I guess Mr. Shakespeare needn't mind!"Phelps made a machine; 't was smooth as grease.(I7 couldn't invent its smallest pieceIn a thousand years.) It was tried and tried,Until everybody was satisfied.But when any one asked me8: "Will it pay?" —"Is it really good?" – I9 could only say:"It's a marvelous thing! Why, it almost thinks!And Phelps is a wonder – too bad he drinks!"

BETWEEN TWO THIEVES

Sure! I am one who disbelievesIn thieves;At which you interrupt to cry"Aye, aye, and I."Hmf! you're so sudden to agree.Suppose we see.I know a thief. No matter whetherI ought to know a thief, or not.Perhaps "we went to school together;"That old excuse is worked a lot.One day he "copped a rummy's leather,"Which means – I hate to tell you what.It's such a vulgar thing to stealA drunkard's purse to buy a meal."Hey, pal," said he, "come help me dine;I've hit a pit and got the swag;To-day, Delmonico's is mine;To-morrow once again a vag.Come on and tell me all the stuntsOf all the boys who knew me – once.""Did I go with him?" I did not.Would you have gone? Could you be boughtBy dinners – when the trail was hotAnd any hour he might be caught?I know a thief, whose operationsAre colored by a kindly law.Your income and a beggar's rationsContribute to his cunning claw;Cities and counties, courts and nationsPay portion to his monstrous maw.He gave a dinner not long sinceIn honor of some played-out Prince.The decorations, ah, how chaste!And how delicious was the wine!For Mrs. Thief has perfect tasteAnd Mr. Thief knows how to dine.And so the world has long agreedQuite to forgive, forget – and feed.But really I was shocked to seeHow many decent folks could beInduced to come and bow the knee;I think you were my vis-a-vis.Yes, yes, I quite despise him, too,Like you;And (though it's not a thing to brag)I somehow like the vag.But, oh, the difference one perceivesBetween two thieves!

THE SPECTATOR

Look at the man with the crownWeighing him down.Plumed and petted,Galled and fretted!Why do you eye him askanceWith a quiver of hate in your glance?Why not conceive him as human,Nursed at the breast of a woman,Growing, mayhap, as he could,Not as he would?How are you sure you would beBetter and wiser than he?Look at the woman whose eyeFollows you by.Silked and satined,Scented, fattened!Why does the half smile slipInto a sneer on your lip?You pity her? Ah, but the fashionOf your complacent compassion.Pity her! yet you have said,"Better the creature were dead.What is there left here for herBut to err?"Thus would you make the world right,Hiding its ills from your sight.Look at the man with the packBreaking his back.Ragged, squalid,Wretched, stolid.And you are sorry, you say,(Much as you are at a play.)But do you say to him, "Brother,Twin-born son of our motherWhat were the word, or the deedFitting your need?"Or, as he slouches by,Do you breathe "God be praised, I am I?"

THE SQUEALER

Of course some people are born so brightThat no matter what one may say, or write,The theme is old and the lesson is trite,Which is what you may say, as these lines unreelAnd I mildly suggest it is better to feelThan to squeal.Everybody knows that? Yes, it's certain they do,Everybody, that is, with exception of two,Of whom I am one and the other is you.But for us the lesson is still remote,Although we commit it and cite it and quoteIt by rote.But still when you thrill with the thudding thumpFrom the fist of the fellow you tried to bumpAnd the world looks hard at the swelling lump,There's a strong temptation to open your doorAnd invite the public to hear you roarThat you're sore.And again, tho' 'tis plain as the printed page: —"Keep your hand on the lever and watch the gaugeWhen the fire-pot's full and the boilers rage,"How often the steam-pressure grows and growsAnd before the engineer cares or knows,Up she goes.So why should you fret if I send you to schoolAgain to consider the sapient ruleThat Wisdom is Silence and Speech is a Fool.Close up! and a year from to-day you will kneelAnd thank the good Lord that you knew how to feelAnd not squeal.

DISTANCE AND DISENCHANTMENT

He was playing New York, and on Broadway at that;I was playing in stock, in Chicago.I heard that his Hamlet fell fearfully flat;He heard I was fierce, as Iago.Each looked to the other exceedingly small;We were too far apart, that is all.You, too, if your vision is ever reflective,Have noticed your rival is small in perspective.I heard him in Memphis (a chance matinée);He heard me (one Sunday) in Dallas.His critics, I swore, never witnessed the play;He vowed mine were prompted by malice.A pleasanter fellow I cannot recall.We were closer together; that's all.And your rival, too, if you once see him clearly,Is clever, or how could he rival you, nearly?In Seattle they said he was greater than Booth,(Or in Portland, perhaps; I've forgotten);I said 'twas ungracious to speak the plain truth,But his work in the first act was rotten.I had only intended to speak of the thrallOf his wonderful fifth act; that's all.But when a man's praised far ahead of his talents,I guess you say something to even the balance.In Atlanta I heard a remark that he madeAnd again in Mobile, Alabama; —That he hardly thought Shakespeare was meant to be playedLike a ten-twenty-thirt' melodrama.Oh, well, there was one honey-drop in the gall;The fellow was jealous; that's all.And you, too, have found, when a friendship is broken,That his words are worse than the ones you have spoken.

FAMILY RESEMBLANCE

I used to boost the P. and P.,Designed to run from sea to sea,From Portland, Ore., to Portland, Me.,But which, as all the maps agree,Begins somewhere in MinnesotaAnd peters out in North Dakota.You gibed because I used to mockIts streaks of rust and rolling-stock,Its schedule and its G. P. A.(Who took your Annual away,)But lately you seem much inclinedTo own a sudden change of mind.Ah, me,You're much like other folks, I see.I much admired the book reviewsOf Quillip of the Daily News.I laughed to see him put the screwsOn some sprig of the late Who's-Whos,Tear off his verbiage and skin himTo show the little there was in him.You said the book he wrote himselfLay stranded on the dealer's shelfAnd wasn't worthy a critique;(Just what he said of mine last week).Perhaps your reasoning was strongAnd you were right and I was wrong.Heigho!I'm very much like you, I know.O'Brien's zeal ran almost daftIn its antipathy to graft.He raked the practice fore and aft;Lord! how his sulphurous breath would waft"Eternal and infernal tarmintTo ivery grasping, grafting, varmint."The worst of these upon the planet,He said, were those who wanted graniteIn public buildings, – "yis, begorry!"(O'Brien owns a sandstone quarry.)Of course I'd hate to see it tested,But would he be less interestedIn civic virtue – uninvested?Oh, dear!O'Brien's much like us, I fear.

NEED

Don't you remember how you and IHeld a property nobody wanted to buyIn San José,Until one dayA man came along from Franklin, Pa.?And didn't we jump till we happened to findThe chap wasn't going it wholly blind,But all the rest of the block was boughtAnd he simply had to have our lot.Well, didn't our land go up in priceTill double the figures would scarce suffice?And don't we sometimes figure and fretHow he got the best of us, even yet?Don't you remember the perfect planYou had, which needed another manTo make it win,To jump right inAnd everlasting make things spin?And you said I had the requisite dashAnd also the trifle of hoarded cash.Was I glad to get in? Well, yes, indeed!Until I saw the compelling needWhich had brought you to me, and then, "Ho! ho!None of that for me, nay, not for Joe."And I'm always provoked when I think you madeThe plan get along without my aid.Don't you remember the time we metAt Des Moines, or was it at Winterset?But anyway, youWere feeling blueAnd tickled to see me through and through.And "Come, let's open a bottle of – ink,"Said you, "and see if it's good to drink."But weren't you sorry because you spokeWhen I had to tell you I was "broke"?Oh, you lent me the saw-buck, I know, but stillI fancied your ardor had taken a chill.And you've never been able to quite forgetThat once I was "broke," and in your debt.