Books cannot always please, however good; The good is oft interred with their bones. To be great is to be misunderstood, The anointed sovereign of sighs and groans.
The Moving Finger writes, and, having writ, I never write as funny as I can. Remote, unfriended, studious let me sit And say to all the world, "This was a man!"
Go, lovely Rose that lives its little hour! Go, little booke! and let who will be clever! Roll on! From yonder ivy-mantled tower The moon and I could keep this up forever.
I rise and applaud, in the patriot manner, Whenever (as often) I hear The palpitant strains of "The Star Spangled Banner,"-- I shout and cheer.
And also, to show my unbounded devotion, I jump to me feet with a "Whee!" Whenever "Columbia, the Gem of the Ocean" Is played near me.
My fervour's so hot and my ardour so searing-- I'm hoarse for a couple of days-- You've heard me, I'm positive, joyously cheering "The Marseillaise."
I holler for "Dixie." I go off my noodle, I whistle, I pound, and I stamp Whenever an orchestra plays "Yankee Doodle," Or "Tramp, Tramp, Tramp."
But if you would enter my confidence, Reader, Know that I'd go clean off my dome, And madly embrace any orchestra leader For "Home, Sweet Home."
When You Meet a Man from Your Own Home Town
Sing, O Muse, in the treble clef, A little song of the A. E. F., And pardon me, please, if I give vent To something akin to sentiment. But we have our moments Over Here When we want to cry and we want to cheer; And the hurrah feeling will not down When you meet a man from your own home town.
It's many a lonesome, longsome day Since you embarked from the U. S. A., And you met some men--it's a great big war-- From towns that you never had known before; And you landed here, and your rest camp mate Was a man from some strange and distant state. Liked him? Yes; but you wanted to see A man from the town where you used to be.
And then you went, by design or chance, All over the well-known map of France; And you yearned with a yearn that grew and grew To talk with a man from the burg you knew. And some lugubrious morning when Your morale is batting about .110, "Where are you from?" and you make reply, And the O. D. warrior says, "So am I."
The universe wears a smiling face As you spill your talk of the old home place; You talk of the streets, and the home town jokes, And you find that you know each other's folks; And you haven't any more woes at all As you both decide that the world _is_ small-- A statement adding to its renown When you meet a man from your own home town.