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

To Thee, My Native Land, America!
My heart with pride is filled: my lips exult
Because Thou art my Home—my Fatherland.
Beneath the Constellation of the States,
Set in the firmament of fadeless blue,
I bare my head and hail the Stars and Stripes,
Proud Emblem of our Unity and Might.
My Country calls! I give what I possess,—
All! All I say! and giving thus, regret
That my poor contribution to thy needs,
In hours of peril when dark war-clouds loom,
Is such a paltry thing
When measured by the debt of gratitude
I owe for Liberty.
All that I am and have belongs to Thee.
Upon thy Altar Fires,
Where Freedom glows and glorifies Mankind,
I consecrate
My flood-tide strength, my substance—life itself!
And rate not this as sacrifice
That gives me pleasure to repay
In this small way
Thy boon and bounty, priceless Liberty.

If you can find, within, a single line
To give you pleasure, then the pleasure's mine;
But if you fail and whine, or josh like Billings,
You might (I say you might !) get back your shillings.
But better yet! Bestow this Book of Verses
On some friend-foe you love with hate and curses,
And your revenge will be attained thereafter
For, when he reads it, he will die with laughter.
And, Cheerful Reader, if this work contains
A soporific for your bulging brains
So that you'll rave about it to your neighbors,
I'll feel repaid for all rebuffs and labors.
Though "Wisdom sometimes borrows, sometimes lends,"
You'll borrow trouble lending this to friends;
But earn my thanks if, when you've praised or shown it,
You'll sit upon the lid and never loan it:
For ev'ry copy sold, thru friends or slapbacks,
Just puts Mo'lasses on my buckwheat flapjacks.
And, Critic Friend, who halts Ambition's flight
And ties the can to Aspiration's kite,
Pray recollect that when you plied the pen
And had some stuff accepted now and then,
Your tales, O! Henry, did not prove inviting
Or else you'd be no Cynic but still writing.

There stands a Man! unyielding and defiant,
A master Leader, bold and self-reliant.
He seeks no conquest but his lance is set
Against the ruthless Despot's parapet.
Alert and conscious of his strength, his thrust
Is sure and timely, for his cause is just.
Invincible, he rallies to his cause
Those who love Justice and respect the laws.
To skulking traitors and to spying foes
He shows no mercy, but his heart o'erflows
For those oppressed, who live, nay! who exist
Where arrogance and tyranny persist:
But, tho distressed by all this human grief,
He weeps not idly, but compels relief:
And those he serves by act or speech or pen,
One Hundred Million freemen , shout, Amen!
"Safe for Democracy the world must be,
And all its bondaged peoples shall be free!"
So spake the Man: America thus voiced
Its ultimatum, and the Earth rejoiced!
Intensely human, cast from mortal clay
In Nature's mould, one epoch-making day,
Behold a Man! he seems a higher sort,
Refined with purest gold from God's Retort
And filled with skill and wisdom, Heaven-sent:
God bless and keep our peerless President!

To those who never heard my Songs before,
And those who have , and want to nevermore ,
This Rhapsody, with all its pithy phrases,
Has passed the Censors with the highest praises.
Released by favor of the Board's caprice,
It takes its proper place—a masterpiece!
Soft pedal, please! The Knockers are outclassed,
And Genius finds its recompense at last!
Whene'er I read about this war-time pelf
It makes me sick: I can't contain myself!
The profits on the die -stuffs sent to France
Make Croesus' wealth a trifling circumstance;
And what the Farmers get for mules and wheat
Makes fortunes hitherto quite obsolete.
In by-gone days the Bards were praised and pensioned
Who now are at the Front—and rarely mentioned:
And all these hardships they endure while men
Who write big checks , thus scandalize the pen.
The Writers should throw off their yokes and collars
And drill their brains to cultivate the dollars.
The talents they possess are strictly mental
And can't be utilized for food and rental.
Their thoughts are capital, but who'll invest
In Sonnet Stock without some interest ?
Or who'd take stock in Poem Plants? Alack!
He who invests expects the yellowback.
But here I'm talking money : what a joke
For one to thus discourse who's always broke!
Since "money talks" we'll suffer it to speak,—
"I am the thing that countless millions seek;
Greed's inspiration, Evil's very root,
The Nemesis of those in my pursuit.
Kings pay me homage, pawn their crowns to me
And, deathless, I enslave their progeny.
Men famed for noble deeds, who court my smile,
Ofttimes surrender probity to guile:
Who, needy, follows my uncertain path,
I may elude and favor him who hath,—
For I have wings, and lightning speeds my flight,—
Wealthy to-day, a pauper overnight!
The Ticker tells the tale from day to day:
Brings joy to some, to others dire dismay."

This Work is copyrighted just to show
To what low depths the Pirate Press will go.
They borrow thunder from the Vulcan forge,
Then draw the fire and put the smut on George.
Each song or verse, it seems to me, should be
Distinguished by originality
If nothing else (the matter may be sloppy,—
But that's no matter if there's ample copy)
So that the Author's face could be unmasked
And recognized without a question asked;
Or, so identify Calliope
By strident notes of high-toned quality;
Or thus detect some Poet's "fist" and style
By I. O. U.'s unhonored yet awhile.
The Pirates thus would cease perforce their trade,
And Bacon would not be confused with Ade.
In all my songs I do the work myself,
And draw no inspiration from the Shelf.
Perhaps my lines would be more read, if cribbed,
But George and I, you know, have never fibbed,
And what is more, I think my lines are sweeter
Than those of Dante, with infernal meter;
And more heroic, and not half so sad
As Homer's couplets in the Ill iad;
And far more musical and much prettier
Than those by Tennyson or by Whittier.
Each bar is known to me, its licensee,
And ev'ry note has had my scrutiny:
I also watch my pauses, moods and tenses,
And have no words with fair amanuenses.
If you could see my workshop (do not ask it!)
You'd find more "carbons" in my paper-basket,
More rough, unpolished diamonds there immured
Than you, Dear Reader, ever have endured.
I have no Jewish blood, not e'en a strain:
That's what I lack! If ever born again
I'd requisition Hebrew sire and dam,
Something akin, methinks, to Abraham,
And take these "jewels," doomed unseen to flash,
Gloss o'er their flaws, and turn them into cash.
Here's where I doff my bonnet to the Jew!
Tho' sore oppressed they're still the Chosen Few:
A few in numbers but a mighty host
When reckoned by the things that count the most,—
I mean achievements , won by toilsome stages
In spite of persecutions thru the Ages.