Yet, as I afore-mentioned, these other charms are naught Compared with the paramount gorgeousness with which the West is fraught; For Art and Nature are just the same in the land where the porker grows, And the paint keeps getting redder the farther out West one goes.
Our savants have never discovered the reason why this is so, And ninety per cent of the laymen care less than the savants know; It answers every purpose that this is manifest: The paint keeps getting redder the farther you go out West.
Give me no home 'neath the pale pink dome of European skies, No cot for me by the salmon sea that far to the southward lies; But away out West I would build my nest on top of a carmine hill, Where I can paint, without restraint, creation redder still!
FROM out Cologne there came three kings To worship Jesus Christ, their King. To Him they sought fine herbs they brought, And many a beauteous golden thing; They brought their gifts to Bethlehem town, And in that manger set them down.
Then spake the first king, and he said: "O Child, most heavenly, bright, and fair! I bring this crown to Bethlehem town For Thee, and only Thee, to wear; So give a heavenly crown to me When I shall come at last to Thee!"
The second, then. "I bring Thee here This royal robe, O Child!" he cried; "Of silk 'tis spun, and such an one There is not in the world beside; So in the day of doom requite Me with a heavenly robe of white!"
The third king gave his gift, and quoth: "Spikenard and myrrh to Thee I bring, And with these twain would I most fain Anoint the body of my King; So may their incense sometime rise To plead for me in yonder skies!"
Thus spake the three kings of Cologne, That gave their gifts, and went their way; And now kneel I in prayer hard by The cradle of the Child to-day; Nor crown, nor robe, nor spice I bring As offering unto Christ, my King.
Yet have I brought a gift the Child May not despise, however small; For here I lay my heart to-day, And it is full of love to all. Take Thou the poor but loyal thing, My only tribute, Christ, my King!
IN Ipswich nights are cool and fair, And the voice that comes from the yonder sea Sings to the quaint old mansions there Of "the time, the time that used to be;" And the quaint old mansions rock and groan, And they seem to say in an undertone, With half a sigh and with half a moan: "It was, but it never again will be."