The Book of Humorous Verse
Chapter 59 : Myself--und Gott.Vile some men sing der power divine, Mine soldiers sing, "Der Wac

Myself--und Gott.

Vile some men sing der power divine, Mine soldiers sing, "Der Wacht am Rhine,"

Und drink der health in Rhenish wine Of Me--und Gott.

Dere's France, she swaggers all aroundt; She's ausgespield, of no account, To much we think she don't amount; Myself--und Gott.

She vill not dare to fight again, But if she shouldt, I'll show her blain Dot Elsa.s.s und (in French) Lorraine Are mein--by Gott!

Dere's grandma d.i.n.ks she's nicht small beer, Mit Boers und such she interfere; She'll learn none owns dis hemisphere But me--und Gott!

She d.i.n.ks, good frau, fine s.h.i.+ps she's got And soldiers mit der scarlet goat.

Ach! We could knock them! Pouf! Like dot, Myself--mit Gott!

In dimes of peace, brebare for wars, I bear the spear and helm of Mars, Und care not for a thousand Czars, Myself--mit Gott!

In fact, I humor efery whim, With aspect dark and visage grim; Gott pulls mit Me, and I mit him, Myself--und Gott!

_Rodney Blake._

WHAT MR. ROBINSON THINKS

Gineral B. is a sensible man; He stays to his home an' looks arter his folks; He draws his furrer ez straight ez he can, An' into n.o.body's tater-patch pokes; But John P.

Robinson, he Sez he wunt vote for Gineral B.

My! ain't it terrible? Wut shall we do?

We can't never choose him, o' course--that's flat: Guess we shall hev to come round (don't you?), An' go in for thunder an' guns, an' all that; Fer John P.

Robinson, he Sez he wunt vote for Gineral B.

Gineral C. is a dreffle smart man: He's been on all sides that give places or pelf; But consistency still was a part of his plan-- He's been true to' _one_ party, and that is himself; So John P.

Robinson, he Sez he shall vote fer Gineral C.

Gineral C. goes in for the war; He don't vally principle mor'n an old cud; What did G.o.d make us raytional creeturs fer, But glory an' gunpowder, plunder an' blood?

So John P.

Robinson, he Sez he shall vote fer Gineral C.

We're gettin' on nicely up here to our village, With good old idees o' wut's right an' wut ain't; We o' thought Christ went against war and pillage, An' that eppyletts worn't the best mark of a saint; But John P.

Robinson, he Sez this kind o' thing's an exploded idee.

The side of our country must ollers be took, An' President Pulk, you know, _he_ is our country; An' the angel that writes all our sins in a book, Puts the _debit_ to him, an' to us the _per contry_; An' John P.

Robinson, he Sez this is his view o' the thing to a T.

Parson Wilbur he calls all these arguments lies; Sez they're nothin' on airth but jest _fee, faw, fum_; An' that all this big talk of our destinies Is half on it ignorance, an' t'other half rum; But John P.

Robinson, he Sez it ain't no such thing; an', of course, so must we.

Parson Wilbur sez _he_ never heered in his life Thet the Apostles rigg'd out in their swallow-tail coats, An' marched round in front of a drum an' a fife, To git some on 'em office, an' some on 'em votes; But John P.

Robinson, he Sez they didn't know everythin' down in Judee.

Wal, it's a marcy we're gut folks to tell us The rights an' the wrongs o' these matters, I vow-- G.o.d sends country lawyers an' other wise fellers To drive the world's team wen it gits in a slough; For John P.

Robinson, he Sez the world'll go right, ef he hollers out Gee!

_James Russell Lowell._

THE CANDIDATE'S CREED

BIGLOW PAPERS

I du believe in Freedom's cause, Ez fur away ez Paris is; I love to see her stick her claws In them infarnal Pharisees; It's wal enough agin a king To dror resolves and triggers,-- But libbaty's a kind o' thing Thet don't agree with n.i.g.g.e.rs.

I du believe the people want A tax on teas and coffees, Thet nothin' ain't extravygunt,-- Purvidin' I'm in office; For I hev loved my country sence My eye-teeth filled their sockets, An' Uncle Sam I reverence, Partic'larly his pockets.

I du believe in _any_ plan O' levyin' the taxes, Ez long ez, like a lumberman, I git jest wut I axes: I go free-trade thru thick an' thin, Because it kind o' rouses The folks to vote--and keep us in Our quiet custom-houses.

I du believe it's wise an' good To sen' out furrin missions, Thet is, on sartin understood An' orthydox conditions;-- I mean nine thousan' dolls, per ann., Nine thousan' more fer outfit, An' me to recommend a man The place 'ould jest about fit.

I du believe in special ways O' prayin' an' convartin'; The bread comes back in many days, An' b.u.t.tered, tu, fer sartin;-- I mean in preyin' till one busts On wut the party chooses, An' in convartin' public trusts To very privit uses.

I do believe hard coin the stuff Fer 'lectioneers to spout on; The people's ollers soft enough To make hard money out on; Dear Uncle Sam pervides fer his, An' gives a good-sized junk to all-- I don't care _how_ hard money is, Ez long ez mine's paid punctooal.

I du believe with all my soul In the gret Press's freedom, To pint the people to the goal An' in the traces lead 'em: Palsied the arm thet forges yokes At my fat contracts squintin', An' withered be the nose thet pokes Inter the gov'ment printin'!

I du believe thet I should give Wut's his'n unto Caesar, Fer it's by him I move an' live, From him my bread an' cheese air.

I du believe thet all o' me Doth bear his souperscription,-- Will, conscience, honor, honesty, An' things o' thet description.

I du believe in prayer an' praise To him thet hez the grantin'

O' jobs--in every thin' thet pays, But most of all in |Cantin'|; This doth my cup with marcies fill, This lays all thought o' sin to rest-- I _don't_ believe in princerple, But, O, I _du_ in interest.

I du believe in bein' this Or thet, ez it may happen One way, or t' other hendiest is To ketch the people nappin'; It ain't by princerples nor men My preudent course is steadied-- I scent wich pays the best, an' then Go into it baldheaded.

I du believe thet holdin' slaves Comes nat'ral tu a President, Let 'lone the rowdedow it saves To have a wal-broke precedunt; Fer any office, small or gret, I couldn't ax with no face, Without I'd been, thru dry an' wet, The unrizziest kind o' doughface.

I du believe wutever trash 'll keep the people in blindness,-- Thet we the Mexicans can thrash Right inter brotherly kindness-- Thet bombsh.e.l.ls, grape, an' powder 'n' ball Air good-will's strongest magnets-- Thet peace, to make it stick at all, Must be druv in with bagnets.

In short, I firmly du believe In Humbug generally, Fer it's a thing thet I perceive To hev a solid vally; This heth my faithful shepherd ben, In pastures sweet heth led me, An' this'll keep the people green To feed ez they have fed me.

_James Russell Lowell._

THE RAZOR SELLER