The Ballad Of A Bachelor

poem: The Ballad Of A Bachelor by Ellis Parker Butler

Listen, ladies, while I sing
The ballad of John Henry King.

John Henry was a bachelor,
His age was thirty-three or four.

Two maids for his affection vied,
And each desired to be his bride,

And bravely did they strive to bring
Unto their feet John Henry King.

John Henry liked them both so well,
To save his life he could not tell

Which he most wished to be his bride,
Nor was he able to decide.

Fair Kate was jolly, bright, and gay,
And sunny as a summer day;

Marie was kind, sedate, and sweet,
With gentle ways and manners neat.

Each was so dear that John confessed
He could not tell which he liked best.

He studied them for quite a year,
And still found no solution near,

And might have studied two years more
Had he not, walking on the shore,

Conceived a very simple way
Of ending his prolonged delay--

A way in which he might decide
Which of the maids should be his bride.

He said, "I'll toss into the air
A dollar, and I'll toss it fair;

If heads come up, I'll wed Marie;
If tails, fair Kate my bride shall be."

Then from his leather pocket-book
A dollar bright and new he took;

He kissed one side for fair Marie,
The other side for Kate kissed he.

Then in a manner free and fair
He tossed the dollar in the air.

"Ye fates," he cried, "pray let this be
A lucky throw indeed for me!"

The dollar rose, the dollar fell;
He watched its whirling transit well,

And off some twenty yards or more
The dollar fell upon the shore.

John Henry ran to where it struck
To see which maiden was in luck.

But, oh, the irony of fate!
Upon its edge the coin stood straight!

And there, embedded in the sand,
John Henry let the dollar stand!

And he will tempt his fate no more,
But live and die a bachelor.

Thus, ladies, you have heard me sing
The ballad of John Henry King.

poem by Ellis Parker Butler

The Ballade Of The Automobile

poem: The Ballade Of The Automobile by Ellis Parker Butler

When our yacht sails seaward on steady keel
And the wind is moist with breath of brine
And our laughter tells of our perfect weal,
We may carol the praises of ruby wine;
But if, automobiling, my woes combine
And fuel gives out in my road-machine
And it's sixteen miles to that home of mine--
Then ho! For a gallon of gasoline!

When our coach rides smoothly on iron-shod wheel
With a deft touch guiding each taut drawn line
And the inn ahead holds a royal meal,
We may carol the praises of ruby wine;
But when, on some long and steep incline,
In a manner entirely unforeseen
The motor stops with a last sad whine--
Then ho! For a gallon of gasoline!

When the air is crisp and the brooks congeal
And our sleigh glides on with a speed divine
While the gay bells echo with peal on peal,
We may carol the praises of ruby wine;
But when, with perverseness most condign,
In the same harsh snowstorm, cold and keen,
My auto stops at the six-mile sign--
Then ho! For a gallon of gasoline!

ENVOY

When yacht or Coach Club fellows dine
We may carol the praises of ruby wine;
But when Automobile Clubmen convene
Then ho! For a gallon of gasoline!

poem by Ellis Parker Butler

The Ballade Of The Mistletoe Bough

poem: The Ballade Of The Mistletoe Bough by Ellis Parker Butler

I am standing under the mistletoe,
And I smile, but no answering smile replies
For her haughty glance bids me plainly know
That not for me is the thing I prize;
Instead, from her coldly scornful eyes,
Indifference looks on my barefaced guile;
She knows, of course, what my act implies—
But look at those lips! Do they hint a smile?

I stand here, eager, and beam and glow,
And she only looks a refined surprise
As clear and crisp and as cold as snow,
And as—Stop! I will never criticise!
I know what her cold glance signifies;
But I’ll stand just here as I am awhile
Till a smile to my pleading look replies—
But look at those lips! Do they hint a smile?

Just look at those lips, now! I claim they show
A spirit unmeet under Christmas skies;
I claim that such lips on such maidens owe
A—something—the custom justifies;
I claim that the mistletoe rule applies
To her as well as the rank and file;
We should meet these things in a cheerful guise—
But look at those lips! Do they hint a smile?

ENVOY

These customs of Christmas may shock the wise,
And mistletoe boughs may be out of style,
And a kiss be a thing that all maids despise—
But look at those lips, do! They hint a smile!

poem by Ellis Parker Butler

The Charge of the Second Iowa Cavalry

poem: The Charge of the Second Iowa Cavalry by Ellis Parker Butler

Comrades, many a year and day
Have fled since that glorious 9th of May
When we made the charge at Farmington.
But until our days on earth are done
Our blood will burn and our hearts beat fast
As we tell of the glorious moments we passed,
When we rode on the guns with a mighty shout
And saved Paine’s army from utter rout;
And our children in years to come will tell
How the 2nd rose through the shot and shell
Rode with a cheer on that 9th of May
And held the whole rebel army at bay.

Behind lay the swamp, a dank morass.
A marsh - no horse nor man could pass
Save by one road, one narrow way.
But beyond that road our safety lay,
In front rose the hills which the rebels held
With his howling cannon that raked and shelled
Our troops.
We lay in the centre.
Paine,
Our general saw he must cross again
The narrow road, or his men were lost
The road was narrow. It must be crossed,
And crossed in haste, and the deadly rain
of the rebel guns "Must be stopped!" said Paine.

Twenty-four cannon thundered and roared!
Twenty-four cannon into us poured.
Twenty-four cannon! A devil’s den
Backed by full fifteen thousand men.
Must be held at bay till our troops could pass
In order over the dank morass.
Up to where the cavalry stand,
Waiting in order the word of command,
Gallops Paine. And his mighty shout
Rings the daring order out -
"Take and hold that battery!
Take it! Whatever the hazards be!"
"Draw sabres!" They flash in the startled air.
"Forward! Gallop! March!" Away
We ride. We must show our steel today!

"Gallop! Charge!" On the rebels ears
Ring the thundering Yankee cheers!
And on, like a wave of maddened sea,
On - Dash the Iowa cavalry!
Into the torrents of shot and shell
That shrieks and screams like the fiends of hell!
Into the torrent of shot that kills!
Into the torrent of shell that stills
The cheer on many a lip, we ride
Like the onward rush of a whirling tide
Up to the cannon’s mouth,
Our cheers
Curdle the blood of the cannoneers
To right and left from his silenced guns
In wild retreat the rebel runs.
And the charge of the Iowa cavalry
Rushes on!

Can you stop the sea
When the storm waves break on the sandy shore
Driving the driftwood awrack? No more
Can the rebel resist the terrible charge
As we ride right up to their army’s marge -
They waver - the fifteen thousand men,
Waver and rally, and waver, and then
Our work is done.
Paine’s men had crossed
The swamp while our little band was lost
In the smoke and dust of the eager ride,
And are safe at last on the other side.
Then we ride back! We had saved the day
By holding the whole rebel army at bay,
While Paine made a hasty and safe retreat
Over the swamp.

We had conquered defeat!

Comrades, many a year and day
Have fled since that glorious 9th of May
When we made the charge at Farmington.
And our time on earth is almost run,
But when we are gone our children will tell
How we rode through rebel shots and shell.
How we rode on the guns with a mighty shout,
And saved Paine’s army from utter route.
And carved in the temple of glory will be
The roll of the 2nd Iowa Cavalry.
The brave old 2nd, that never knew
A deed too hard or rash to do.
The dear old 2nd, that would have spurred
Into Hell itself, if Hatch said the word.

poem by Ellis Parker Butler

The Cut Finger - Ellis Parker Butler

poem: The Cut Finger by Ellis Parker Butler

THE GOSSOON [Weeping]

It’s bleedin’! It’s bleedin’!

THE OULD WOMAN [Soothingly]

An’ shure, me lad, ‘t is bleedin’;
But come, me hearty laddy buck, be brave an’ do not cry;
A lad that’s learnin’ readin’ sh’u'd be far beyant the heedin’
Av a tiny bit o’ finger cut that hurrts a bit foreby.

‘Ere ye come till wan an’ twinty
Ye’ll be havin’ hurrts in plinty
An’ ye’ll learn a bit o’ bleedin’ doesn’t mean ye’re goin’ t’ die.

THE GOSSOON [Crying]

It’s bleedin’! It’s bleedin’!

THE OULD WOMAN [Comfortingly]

An’ shure, me lad, ‘t is bleedin’;
But he’s me slashin’ buckeen, an’ he will not weep at all;
A rag is all ‘t is needin’ fer t’ sthop the whole proceedin’,
An’, shure, a bit o’ rosy blood won’t make me gossoon bawl;
Fer ‘t is but wan way av knowin’
Ye have good red blood a-flowin’
An’ a-workin’ all inside av ye t’ make ye strong an’ tall.

THE GOSSOON [Sobbing]

It’s bleedin’! It’s bleedin’!

THE OULD WOMAN [Lovingly]

Aye, aye, me lad, ‘t is bleedin’,
An’ some foine day yer hearrt will bleed as bleeds the hearrt av me.
The saints ye will be pleadin’, but ‘t is little they’ll be heedin’,
Fer the worrld is full av bleedin’ hearrts on either side the sea.
An’ I’d die t’ aise the achin’
Whin ye feel yer hearrt a-brealdn’,
But, ah! the poor ould woman won’t be there t’ comfort ye.

poem by Ellis Parker Butler