Edwin Alfred Watrous - The Bee's Bayonet (a Little Honey and a Little Sting)

There's Baal and those exalting Gods of brass;
And Balaam, Prophet: but we'll let him pass!
And John the Baptist, man who lost his head
To fair Salomé, tho she cut him dead.
There's Absalom the Vain, whose hair was long,
Who, in the final parting, got in wrong:
And Pharaoh, with chariots and fighters
Pursuing Moses and the Israeliters;
Who, half-seas over, when the King dropped in,
Punished the latter for his divers sin,
And rescued on the Red Sea bar his folk,
Athirst for freedom from the Ptolemy yoke.

While yet the rushes bent beneath the blast
Of Red Sea winds, a prodigy was cast.
(From common mold , perhaps, but 'tis enough
To know that he was made of proper stuff.)
And little did the Tempest wot his noise
Was silence likened to the bawling boy's.
The Earth breathed on the shape and gave it speech,
Or something vocally akin, a screech.
Thus Moses had his coming out—and lo!
He rushed into the arms of Fairy O
(Daughter of Pharaoh, the mighty King)
Who bore him to the Palace 'neath her wing.
Fed on the Milk of Kindness to begin,
With Medica Materia thrown in,
He grew until appointed, by decree,
To Little Egypt, Princess, the M.D.
Thus Doctor Moses hung his shingle out,
And soon his fame was heralded about.
To doctors since, no fame like his doth cling:
No Specialist: he doctored everything!
He analyzed and stopped the human leak;
(His patience was rewarded, so to speak)
He charged his people to eschew the swine,
And made the Ten Commandments seem benign.
Not only as Physician did he rate,
But as a Surgeon: he could amputate!
He cut off Pharaoh in his pursuit
And, by this operation, gained repute.
He set his people right and made no bones
Of driving lepers from the Safety Zones;
He gave them tablets for their moral healing,
Knowing their pulses without even feeling.
His praises now resound from every lip
Because he saved the Jews from Phar'oh's grippe.
Still 'long the Nile the pink-winged curlews flock
Where Moses took his henchmen out of hock;
The minions of Æolus hurtle on,
Leaving a trail of foam the waves upon,—
Stopping anon, where restless driftwood crushes
The lotus pads that hover near the rushes,
To chant a requiem and breathe a prayer
Over the spot that cradled Moses there.
If modern doctors would obey the rule
Of common sense prescribed by Moses' School;
If they would note our pulses and our looks
Instead of feeling of our pocket-books
And judging circulation by the latter,
We'd sometimes know, perhaps, just what's the matter.
What doctor now would diagnosis make
And call it simple, old-time belly-ache,
Charging a trifling fee to cure the pain?
Ah, no! those days will not return again!
No more, alas! will green-fruit cramps delight us,
For colic now is styled appendicitis.
By leaps and bounds have grown the "trifling fees";
"Five hundred!" now, succeeds "One Dollar, please!"
And germs, in league with doctors, have their station
At vital points to force inoculation,
So that our Systems pay a pretty price
For ev'ry nostrum, ev'ry fake device
Known to the School of Quacks: and so we suffer
Imposed upon by patentee and duffer.
O, for a Moses! That's our crying need—
To cure Physicians of unbridled greed
And probe, no matter where it hurts, the cause
Of Doctors' strange immunity from laws.
O! for an instrument—an act or sermon—
Of Moses' kind—to cut the germ from German!
And lead them from the Wilderness of Vice
Whose hearts were warm but now have turned to ice!

All these and many more increase the lustre
Distinguishing this brilliant Jewish cluster.
And Abraham? We save him for the last,
Tho first in line, renowned Iconoclast.
Of all the Israelites, the men of mark,
Who else compares with this grand Patriarch?
And who besides, of all the racial roots,
Developed half the lusty leaves and shoots,
Strong limbs and branches, virile seed? some trunk!
The Ark, with all this luggage, would have sunk!
And so 'twere well the Deluge didst o'erwhelm
The Earth, ere this, with Noah at the helm,
Else to preserve the chosen and elite
Of Israel's line would needs have taxed a fleet.

I love these ancient tribesmen who illumine
The Archives of the Past: they were so human!
Their frailties were but habits of the Race
Since Father Adam set the human pace
Hitched up with Eve who, chafing at the bit,
Did well her part or bit, in spite of it.
But all their mortal weaknesses were nil
Compared with virtues that their Records fill;
And good or bad, or medium or fair,
No Tribe excelled their morals anywhere.
They freely gave their tithes, but did it pay
To advertise their wealth? a give away!
And so their pockets have been worn and frayed
By frequent contributions they have made
To Charity and Church. I hope and pray
They've saved a little for a rainy day!
I think they have! for Money talked,—confessed
That Hebrews were the ones he liked the best,
Because they never slighted or abused him,
And always were so careful how they used him.

And so, O Sons of Abraham, I say
You've come into your own and come to stay!
The Promised Land is yours, but what is more,
The Earth and Seas and Skies with all their store.
You wandered from Judea, but why care?
Because your home is here as well as there;
And we would miss you just as much, I vum,
As those who wait you in Capernaum;
For Broadway would despair and sackcloth don
If you should leave New York for Ascalon.

No more, thank God! will Infidels profane
Jerusalem. For centuries the stain
Of Turkish rule has laid its unclean hand
Upon the Altars of the Holy Land.
But now the Prophet's promise is fulfilled,
And Jews and Gentiles are rejoiced and thrilled
As Men of Allenby, God's Sword, restore
The Holy City: yours forevermore.

O, Mighty Atlas, thou hast borne the load
Of hapless peoples smarting from the goad
Of Tyranny, until thy giant strength
Seems overtaxed and doomed to break at length.
Unless thy vim endures with steadfast force;
Unless thy Ship of State keeps on its course;
Unless thou gird thy loins and stand astride,
Colossus-like, the struggles that betide—
While all the Furies strive, the Turk and Hun,
To sap thy power—undo what thou hast done—
Of what avail will all thy efforts be
Against the tottering walls of Tyranny?
And to what purpose will have lived thy men
Who won imposing fame with sword or pen?
And what, I pray, will all thy thousands slain
Avail thy Empire if they've died in vain?

The Ostrich has his wings, but not for flight;
He flies on foot when danger is in sight;
His mate lays eggs upon the desert reaches
And "sands" them over when the leopard screeches.
The eggs, thus mounded, fall an easy prey
To feline foragers who slink that way.
The Ostrich, thus, guards not his nest: instead
He hides, in burning sands, his shameless head
And lets his monoplane and rudder be
Stripped of their plumage by an enemy.

Ostriches should Carry
Their Eggs in a Basket
And use their Feathers
For Dusting over the Desert.

The Squirrel is quite a different kind of fowl:
He works while others sleep, the sly old owl!
And stores up food, against the rainy day,
In secret nooks, from forest thieves away.
When winter comes, or when besieged by foes,
Securely housed he feasts and thumbs his nose
And ridicules starvation: he's immune!
While others, shiftless, sing another tune.
The Squirrel, you see, is much misfortune spared
In times of stress because he is prepared.