The Book of Humorous Verse
Chapter 139 : And the Old man give him a colt he'd raised And follered him over to Camp Ben Wad

And the Old man give him a colt he'd raised And follered him over to Camp Ben Wade, And laid around fer a week er so, Watchin' Jim on dress-parade-- Tel finally he rid away, And last he heerd was the Old man say,-- "Well; good-bye, Jim: Take keer of yourse'f!"

Tuk the papers, the Old man did, A-watchin' fer Jim-- Fully believin' he'd make his mark _Some_ way--jes' wrapped up in him!-- And many a time the word 'u'd come 'At stirred him up like the tap of a drum-- At Petersburg, fer instance, where Jim rid right into their cannons there, And tuk 'em, and p'inted 'em t'other way, And socked it home to the boys in grey, As they skooted fer timber, and on and on-- Jim a lieutenant and one arm gone, And the Old man's words in his mind all day,-- "Well; good-bye, Jim: Take keer of yourse'f!"

Think of a private, now, perhaps, We'll say like Jim, 'At's clumb clean up to the shoulder-straps-- And the Old man jes' wrapped up in him!

Think of him--with the war plum' through, And the glorious old Red-White-and-Blue A-laughin' the news down over Jim, And the Old man, bendin' over him-- The surgeon turnin' away with tears 'At hadn't leaked fer years and years-- As the hand of the dyin' boy clung to His father's, the old voice in his ears,-- "Well; good-bye, Jim: Take keer of yourse'f!"

_James Whitcomb Riley._

A SAILOR'S YARN

_This is the tale that was told to me, By a battered and shattered son of the sea-- To me and my messmate, Silas Green, When I was a guileless young marine._

"'Twas the good s.h.i.+p _Gyascutus_, All in the China seas, With the wind a-lee and the capstan free To catch the summer breeze.

"'Twas Captain Porgie on the deck, To his mate in the mizzen hatch, While the boatswain bold, in the forward hold, Was winding the larboard watch.

"'Oh, how does our good s.h.i.+p head to-night!

How heads our gallant craft?'

'Oh, she heads to the E. S. W. by N., And the binnacle lies abaft!'

"'Oh, what does the quadrant indicate, And how does the s.e.xtant stand?'

'Oh, the s.e.xtant's down to the freezing point, And the quadrant's lost a hand!'

"'Oh, and if the quadrant has lost a hand, And the s.e.xtant falls so low, It's our bodies and bones to Davy Jones This night are bound to go!

"'Oh, fly aloft to the garboard strake!

And reef the spanker boom; Bend a studding sail on the martingale, To give her weather room.

"'Oh, boatswain, down in the for'ard hold What water do you find?'

'Four foot and a half by the royal gaff And rather more behind!'

"'Oh, sailors, collar your marline spikes And each belaying pin; Come stir your stumps, and spike the pumps, Or more will be coming in!'

"They stirred their stumps, they spiked the pumps, They spliced the mizzen brace; Aloft and alow they worked, but oh!

The water gained apace.

"They bored a hole above the keel To let the water out; But, strange to say, to their dismay, The water in did spout.

"Then up spoke the Cook, of our gallant s.h.i.+p, And he was a lubber brave: 'I have several wives in various ports, And my life I'd orter save.'

"Then up spoke the Captain of Marines, Who dearly loved his prog: 'It's awful to die, and it's worse to be dry, And I move we pipe to grog.'

"Oh, then 'twas the n.o.ble second mate What filled them all with awe; The second mate, as bad men hate, And cruel skipper's jaw.

"He took the anchor on his back, And leaped into the main; Through foam and spray he clove his way, And sunk and rose again!

"Through foam and spray, a league away The anchor stout he bore; Till, safe at last, he made it fast And warped the s.h.i.+p ash.o.r.e!

"'Taint much of a job to talk about, But a ticklish thing to see, And suth'in to do, if I say it, too, For that second mate was me!"

_Such was the tale that was told to me By that modest and truthful son of the sea, And I envy the life of a second mate, Though captains curse him and sailors hate, For he ain't like some of the swabs I've seen, As would go and lie to a poor marine._

_James Jeffrey Roche._

THE CONVERTED CANNIBALS

Upon an island, all alone, They lived, in the Pacific; Somewhere within the Torrid Zone, Where heat is quite terrific.

'Twould shock you were I to declare The many things they did not wear, Altho' no doubt One's best without Such things in heat terrific.

Though cannibals by birth were they, Yet, since they'd first existed, Their simple menu day by day Of such-like things consisted: Omelets of turtle's eggs, and yams, And stews from freshly-gathered clams, Such things as these Were,--if you please,-- Of what their fare consisted.

But after dinner they'd converse, Nor did their topic vary; Wild tales of gore they would rehea.r.s.e, And talk of _missionary_.

They'd gaze upon each other's joints, And indicate the tender points.

Said one: "For us 'Tis dangerous To _think_ of _missionary_."

Well, on a day, upon the sh.o.r.e, As flotsam, or as jetsam, Some wooden cases,--ten, or more,-- Were cast up. "Let us get some, And see, my friend, what they contain; The chance may not occur again,"

Said good Who-zoo.

Said Tum-tum, "Do; We'll both wade out and get some."

The cases held,--what do you think?-- "|Prime Missionary--tinned.|"

Nay! gentle reader, do not shrink-- The man who made it sinned: He thus had labelled bloater-paste To captivate the native taste.

He hoped, of course, This fraud to force On them. In this he sinned.

Our simple friends knew naught of sin; They thought that this confection _Was_ missionary in a tin According to direction.

For very joy they shed salt tears.

"'Tis what we've waited for, for years,"

Said they. "Hooray!

We'll feast to-day According to direction."

"'Tis very tough," said one, for he The tin and all had eaten.

"Too salt," the other said, "for me; The flavour might be beaten."

It was enough. Soon each one swore He'd missionary eat no more: Their tastes were cured, They felt a.s.sured This flavour might be beaten.

And, should a missionary call To-day, he'd find them gentle, With no perverted tastes at all, And manners ornamental; He'd be received, I'm bound to say, In courteous and proper way; Nor need he fear To taste their cheer However ornamental.

_G. E. Farrow._

THE RETIRED PORK-BUTCHER AND THE SPOOK