Hoosier Lyrics Part 11

Now April with sweet showers of freshening rain Has roused last summer's vigorous breath once more; 'Tis in the air, the house, the street, the lane-- Puffs through the walls and oozes through the floor.

The rau-cous-throated frog ayont the sty Sends forth, as erst, his amerous vermal croak, Each hungry mooly casts her swivel eye For pots and pails in which her nose to poke.

With gurgling glee the gutter gushes by, Fraught all with filth, unknown and nameless dirt-- A dead green goose, an o'er-ripe rat I spy; Head of a cat, tail of a flannel s.h.i.+rt.

The querulous cry of every gabbling goose From thousand-scented mudholes echoes o'er; The dogs and yawling cats have gotten loose And mock the hideous howls of h.e.l.l once more.

By yon scrub oak, where roots the sallow sow, In where John Murphy's wife outpours her slop; Right there you'll find there's almost stench now To cause the world its nostrils to estop.

And yonder dauntless goat that bank adown, That wreathes his old fantastic horns so high, Gnaws sadly on the bustle of Miss Brown, Which she discarded in the months gone by.

So in Goose Island cometh April round; Full eagerly we watch the month's approach-- The season of sweet sight and pleasant sound, The season of the bedbug and the roach.

REPORT OF THE BASEBALL GAME.

It was a very pleasant game, And there was naught of grumbling Until the baleful tidings came That Williamson was "fumbling."

Then all at once a hideous gloom Fell o'er all manly features, And Clayton's cozy, quiet room Was full of frantic creatures.

"Click, click," the tiny ticker went, The tape began to rattle, And pallid, eager faces bent To read the news from battle; Down, down, ten million feet or more, Chicago's hope went tumbling, When came the word that Burns and Gore And Pfeffer, too, were "fumbling."

No diagram was needed then To point the Browns to glory-- The simple fact that these four men Were "fumbling" told the story.

There is not a club in all the land-- No odds how weak or humble-- That beats us when our short-stop and Our second baseman "fumble."

There was some talk of hippodrome 'Mid frequent calls for liquor, Then each Chicago man went home Much wiser, poorer, sicker; And many a giant intellect Seemed slowly, surely crumbling Beneath the dolorous effect Of that St. Louis "fumbling."

Ah, well, the struggle's but just begun, So what is the use of fretting If by a little harmless fun Our boys can bull the betting?

When comes the tug of war there'll be No accidental stumbling, And then, you bet your boots, you'll see No mention made of "fumbling."

THE ROSE.

Since the days of old Adam the welkin has rung With the praises of sweet scented posies, And poets in rapturous phrases have sung The paramount beauties of roses.

Wheresoever she bides, whether nestling in lanes Or gracing the proud urban bowers, The red, royal rose her distinction maintains As the one regnant queen among flowers.

How joyous are we of the west when we find That Fate, with her gifts ever chary, Has decreed that the Rose, who is queen of her kind Shall bloom on our wild western prairie.

Let us laugh at the east as an impotent thing With envy and jealously crazy, While grateful Chicago is happy to sing In the praise of the rose--she's a daisy.

KANSAS CITY VS. DETROIT.

A rooster flapped his wings and crowed A merrysome c.o.c.kadoodledoo, As out of the west a cowboy rode To the land where the peach and the clapboard grew, Humming a gentle tralalaloo.

"O insect with the gilded wing,"

The cowboy cried, "Pray tell me true Why do you crane your neck and sing That wearisome c.o.c.kadoodledoo?

Would you like to learn the tralalaloo?"

Now the rooster squawked an impudent word Whereat the angered cowboy threw His lariat at the haughty bird And choked him until his gills were blue And his eyes hung out an inch or two.

"Now hear _me_ sing," the cowboy cried; "It ain't no c.o.c.kadoodledoo-- It's a song we sing on the prairies wide-- The simple song of tralalaloo, Which is cowboy slang for 12 to 2."

ME AND BILKAMMLE.

I will, if you choose, Impart you some news That will greatly astound you, I know; You would never suspect My ambition was wreck'd 'Till you heard my confession of woe.

'Tis not that my boom Has ascended the flume-- In other words, gone up the spout-- I could smile a sweet smile This tempestuous while, But me and Bilkammle are out!

Being timid and shrinkin', He did all the thinkin', When _I_ did the talkin' worth mention; 'Twas my constant ambition To soar to position So I gave it exclusive attention; And supposin' that he Would of course be for me, I rambled and prattled about 'Till I found to my horror, Vexation, and sorror, That me and Bilkammle were out.

As I tore my red hair In a fit of despair I heard my Achates complain That the gent with the coffer Had nothing to offer In the way of relieving his pain!

If there's mortal to blame For this villainous game Which has snuffed a great man beyond doubt.

It's that treacherous mammal Ent.i.tled Bilkammle-- Which accounts for us two bein' out!

TO THE DETROIT BASEBALL CLUB.

You've scooped the vealy city crowd Of glory and of purse-- Why shouldn't Pegasus be proud To trot you out in a verse?

Chicago hoped to wallop you By a tremendous score, But bit off more than it could chew, As witness: "5 to 4."

Well done, you 'Ganders! here's a hand To every one of you; These record-breakers of the land Now break themselves in two.

Well get their pennant--it shall float Upon our distant sh.o.r.e, So let each patriotic throat Hurrah for "5 to 4."

A BALLAD OF ANCIENT OATHS.