From the Evening Star, March 16, 1913. Oh, Paddy dear, and did you hear The news that’s going round? The shamrock is forbid by law To grow on Irish ground. And Saint Patrick’s Day no more we’ll keep, His color can’t be seen; For there’s a bloody law against The wearin’ of the green. I met with Napper Tandy, And he took me by the hand, And he said, “How’s poor ould Ireland, And how does she stand?” She's the most distressful country That ever you have seen; They’re hanging men and women there For wearin’ of the green. Then since the color we must wear Is England’s cruel red, Sure Ireland’s sons will ne’er forget The blood that they have shed. You may take the shamrock from your hat, And cast it on the sod; But ’twill take root and flourish still, Tho’ under foot ’tis trod. When the law can stop the blades of grass From growing as they grow, And when the leaves in summertime Their verdure dare not show, Then I will change the color I wear in my corbeen; But till that day, please God, I’ll stick To wearin’ of the green. But if at last our color should Be torn from Ireland’s heart, Her sons with shame and sorrow From the dear old soil will part. I’ve heard whisper of a country That lies far beyond the say, Where rich and poor stand equal in The light of freedom’s day. Oh, Erin, must we leave you? Driven by the tyrant’s hand, Must we ask a mother’s welcome From a strange but happier land, Where the cruel cross of England’s thralldom Never shall be seen, And where, thank God, we’ll live and die Still wearin’ of the green?
Category: Newspapers
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Wearin’ of the Green
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Not a Cent
From The Topeka State Journal, March 15, 1913. By Thomas F. Porter. Happy is the man who is content With moderate wealth and store; Unhappy he whose mind is bent On ever gaining more. The road of endless greed is long, The journey dark and rough; So he but does himself a wrong Who seeks more than enough; For, with the piling up of wealth, There comes the added care, That when shall fail his strength and health, Will every joy impair. And yet on one the habit grows To dig, to drudge, to save; And ere a mortal hardly knows His call comes from the grave. Then people wonder and surmise, When he has passed from earth; And some are startled with surprise When told what he was worth. For, when his will is read, they find, Whate’er his heart’s intent, All that he had he left behind, Nor took with him a cent.
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Arcadia
From The Topeka State Journal, March 14, 1913. By Roy K. Moulton. I don’t want to live in Arcadia, Quite willingly I confess; The realm that the poets rave about, The kingdom of happiness; Where all is serene as a morn in Spring, Birds singing in every tree. There must be a catch in the thing somewhere. It doesn’t look good to me. The work in Arcadia is a cinch; They watch the sheep all day, And when they need music to while the time They hunt up their flutes and play. They work on a very peculiar plan. The salaries there are nil. No one ever saw an Arcadian Who had a two dollar bill. They wear sheepskin togas so very brief They reach only to the knees, And caper about in a care-free way No matter how chill the breeze. There’s nothing but happiness in that land With the proletariat, But I couldn’t ever be happy enough To dress in a rig like that. The life in Arcadia listens tame With no moving picture show, And never a single league bowling game, And never a chance to go And see a good circus and eat peanuts Or laugh at the chimpanzee. There may be pure joy in Arcadia, But this town looks good to me.
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Business Amenities
From The Topeka State Journal, March 13, 1913. Farmer to claim agent: A cow of mine stood on your track About a week ago, And now old Bessy’s in the land Where all good bovines go. Your engine poked her in the ribs And left her stiff and still; You bought old Bessy then and there, So kindly pay the bill. Claim agent to farmer: Old Bessy never should have stood Upon the railroad track; You cannot blame old Twenty-Four For hitting her a crack. We didn’t drive old Bessy there, It’s not our fault she died, So bury her and mark the grave: “A bovine suicide.”
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The Old Home Yonder
From the Rock Island Argus, March 12, 1913. By S. E. Kiser. We hurry through the busy days, We that within the cities dwell, And, having won a little praise For toiling hard or planning well, Turn homeward with a pride that dies Before another day has dawned And we again pursue the prize That always lies so far beyond. We have our little triumphs who Among the eager thousands strive; Each busy day brings something new To keep our feeble hopes alive, But sweeter than the fairest gains The cities yield us are the joys That come in dreams of country lanes Down which we strolled when we were boys. We nurse ambitions that are fair, And struggle on to win renown, But when the day ends with its care, We still dream of the little town Or of the orchard where the breeze Once stirred the fragrant buds in May; We keep the sweet old memories, It matters not how far we stray.
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In School Days
From The Birmingham Age-Herald, March 11, 1913. By John Greenleaf Whittier. Still sits the schoolhouse by the road, A ragged beggar sunning; Around it still the sumachs grow, And blackberry vines are running. Within, the master’s desk is seen, Deep scarred by raps official; The warping floor, the battered seats, The jack knife’s carved initial. The charcoal frescoes on the wall; Its door’s worn sill, betraying The feet that, creeping slow to school Went storming out to playing. Long years ago a winter sun Shone over it at setting; Lit up its western window panes, And low eaves icy fretting. It touched the tangled golden curls, And brown eyes full of grieving, Of one who still her steps delayed When all the school was leaving. For near her stood the little boy Her childish favor singled; His cap pulled low upon a face Where pride and shame were mingled. Pushing with restless feet the snow To right and left, he lingered— As restlessly her tiny hands The blue checked apron fingered. He saw her lift her eyes; he felt The soft hand’s light caressing, And heard the tremble of her voice, As if a fault confessing. “I’m sorry that I spelt the word; I hate to go above you, Because,”—the brown eyes lower fell— “Because, you see, I love you!” Still memory to gray haired man That sweet child face is showing, Dear girl! The grasses on her grave Have forty years been growing! He lives to learn in life’s hard school How few who pass above him Lament their triumph and his loss, Like her—because they love him.
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The Good Fellow
From the Evening Star, March 10, 1913. By Walt Mason. You’re welcome at the booze bazaar while you have got a roll; they’ll say you are a shining star, a genial, princely soul. The low-browed gent who sells the suds will call you “Cap” or “Judge,” while you have bullion in your duds to buy his baneful budge. And all the mirthful hangers-on will cheer your wit and sense, while merrily the demijohn goes round at your expense. They’ll greet with wide ecstatic grin the stalest of your jokes, while you have cash to buy the gin or fix the crowd with smokes. But when your little roll is lost, and you all busted are, there falls a chill antarctic frost about the shining bar. And when you fix your thirsty gaze upon the bottled shelf, the gent who smirked in other days, growls fiercely, “Chase yourself!” The loafers eye you with disdain, who once said you were It, and grumble that you cause them pain, when you’d display your wit. The days when you showed up so strong no one can now recall; and if you hang around too long they’ll push you through the wall. Good fellows go the same old gait, the gay, high-rolling chumps; and they will meet the same old fate, and bump the same old bumps.
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Spirit of Resignation
From the Evening Star, March 9, 1913. “I did my best,” said Uncle Jim,. “No one can say I shirk. I started in with earnest vim To get a chance to work. I didn’t sit in calm content Nor indolent disgrace. I wrote straight to the President And asked him for a place. “The sun is shining on the stream That sings its song so light; And underneath the waves that gleam Are fish who yearn to bite. In spite of disappointment sad I do not sigh or sob. To tell the truth, I’m rather glad I didn’t get a job.”
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A Philosopher
From The Birmingham Age-Herald, March 8, 1913. There lived a happy man one time Who ne’er was known to sigh; He simply spat tobacco juice And watched the world go by. In winter time he sought a stove, In summer by a stream He stretched himself in careless ease, Well pleased to rest and dream. The busy turmoil of this life Did not appeal to him; He had no brilliant plans mapped out For keeping “in the swim.” The song of birds was sweet to hear, He loved the skies of blue And when the sun beamed on the earth It warmed him through and through. “A worthless chap,” some people said, Who did not understand, Merely because he scorned to work With head or foot or hand. But life was passing sweet to him, And though without a cent, He often laughed at millionaires Who knew far less content.
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Oft in the Stilly Night
From The Topeka State Journal, March 7, 1913. By Roy K. Moulton. Oft in the stilly night, Ere slumber’s chains have bound me Just when I’ve neatly tucked The flannel blanket ‘round me, There comes the alarming thought, With possibilities dire; I know that I have forgot To fix that blamed furnace fire. I scramble out in the cold With every nerve fibre quaking; My nasal appendage is blue; My elbows and knees are shaking. I stumble o’er rugs and chairs And make a terrible noise By falling downstairs head first— I’ve tripped on a pile of toys. I strike a tin railroad train, And slide o’er the hard oak floor On elbows and shoulder blades; My head bangs against a door. When I reach the basement depths, I’m sick and I’m sore and lame, I open the furnace mouth And seek for the tongue of flame. I find that the fire’s all right; That it’s just as it ought to be To last through the entire night And that’s where the joke’s on me. I remember when it’s too late, As I rub each lame bruised spot, I’d fixed the blame thing all right— I’d fixed it and then forgot.