Category: Rock Island Argus

From the Rock Island Argus, February 13, 1913.
 By S. E. Kiser.
 

 There’s always something goin’ on to make the cowards quake with dread
 And set around and talk about the dangers that are on ahead;
 I’ll bet you that when Caesar fell the folks who kept the stores in Rome
 Expected that the mobs would rise to drive them out of house and home;
 But things kept goin’ right along, the old world never swerved a jot
 And in a little while the crowds went back to workin’ and forgot.
 
 When Cromwell got his dander up and went to knockin’ things about
 I’ll bet that lots of folks supposed the world was goin’ up the spout;
 The radicals, I s’pose, were blamed for recklessly destroyin’ trade
 And probably wild howls went up for all the changes that were made.
 But England didn’t go to smash. In fact the rip-up helped a lot,
 And in a little while the crowds went back to workin’ and forgot.
 
 It’s always been the same old cry. We hear it every now and then;
 Some man that ain’t afraid steps out and does things for his fellow men.
 And they throw up their hands and say, because his way is strange or new,
 That he has knocked the bottom out and things will soon be fallin’ through.
 But gener’ly it happens that what needs upsettin’ gets upsot,
 And when the crowds get back to work the whole affair is soon forgot.

From the Rock Island Argus, February 10, 1913.
 By S. E. Kiser.
 

 He left her at the gate, one day
     Because his plea she had denied;
 But as he turned to go his way
     His breast, though sad, was filled with pride.
 “Some time,” he said, “you shall regret;
     Some time the world shall grant me fame
 Upon a height my goal is set
     And well won honors I will claim.”
 
 She merely smiled and let him go.
     He went out in the world to strive.
 Though fortune dealt him many a blow
     He bravely kept his hopes alive.
 He toiled for years with all his might
     And thought of her and of his vow
 His goal still gleaming on the height
     And deep lines forming on his brow.
 At last his day of triumph came.
     He was rewarded with success;
 The world accorded him the fame
     Which he had sworn he would possess;
 Through ceaseless efforts he had won
     The crown of honor for his own;
 For splendid things which he had done
     His name o’er all the land was known.
 
 Then, having played a splendid part
     He turned from where his goal was set
 And started back to break her heart
     To overwhelm her with regret.
 He found her, but unhappily
     Discovered that she did not care.
 The crown of fame was his, but she
     Was married to a millionaire.

From the Rock Island Argus, February 8, 1913.
 By S. E. Kiser.
 

 There’s a lot of folks who always keep a-growlin’ at the rich;
 Every man who has a million they’d have put in boilin’ pitch;
 They will not forgive a person who contrives to get along
 But I don’t believe that havin’ lots of cash is always wrong.
 
 Mind I don’t pretend to argue that the rich are always right;
 There are lots of men with millions that have souls as black as night;
 But I’ve studied the thing over, and I guess there’s one thing sure:
 It’s no sign a man is noble just because he’s keepin’ poor.
 
 I’ve a sort of crazy notion that there may be here and there
 Some rich man who’ll go to heaven and secure a crown to wear
 For I’ve met some wealthy people as I’ve traveled round about
 That I don’t believe that heaven can afford to do without.
 
 And I’ve got another notion which I’d like to have you know-
 All the poor may go to heaven; I can’t half believe it, though.
 There are poor men who are worthy, but I can’t help feelin’ sure
 That you’ll not get past St. Peter just because you have been poor.

From the Rock Island Argus, February 5, 1913.
 By S. E. Kiser.
 

 When pa was my age he was glad
     To do just as they told him
 He never made his parents sad
     They never had to scold him.
 He never, never disobeyed
     Nor punched his little brother
 And day and night he always made
     Things pleasant for his mother.
 
 When pa was my age he would clean
     His shoes when they were muddy.
 He never thought his folks were mean
     Because they made him study.
 He always tried his best to be
     For goodness celebrated
 And he was praised by all—but, gee!
     How pa’s degenerated!

From the Rock Island Argus, January 16, 1913.
 By S. E. Kiser.
 

 A lovely girl whom I could name, but who shall not be here betrayed,
 Remained within a nook with me one evening when the harpist played;
 Perhaps it was the pleasing air, emerging from the tuneful strings
 That caused me while we lingered there to speak to her of love and things.
 
 I slipped my arm around her waist and felt her soft cheek close to mine;
 I think she sweetly yielded thus because the music was divine;
 I whispered in her dainty ear things she no doubt had heard before,
 But she was glad, it seemed, to hear and listened patiently for more.
 
 We lingered there, not caring what the others, missing us, might say;
 We stood within a shaded niche and listened to the harpist play.
 Alas! The sequel I’d suppress if I might do as I’d prefer;
 But while our lips were joined I guess I got some active germs from her.
 
 I’ve been flat on my back a week, but one thought comes to make me glad;
 Within my being I possess germs that the lovely maid once had—
 Germs that were part of her, in fact, therefore it seems that we somehow
 Must bear relationship we lacked, and may be cousins germ-an now.

From the Rock Island Argus, January 8, 1913.
 By S. E. Kiser.
 

 He used to hate the idle rich,
     And often spoke with dread
 About the fearful dangers which
     Were looming up ahead;
 He saw a time when blood would flow,
     And anarchy be rife;
 But that was when his funds were low,
 He had the luck a year ago
     To get a wealthy wife.
 
 He used to say the millionaires
     Were blinded by their greed;
 He thought the world and its affairs
     Were managed wrong, indeed;
 He saw the time when class and mass
     Would wage a bloody strife,
 When chaos would prevail. Alas!
 Since then a change has come to pass!
     He has a wealthy wife.
 
 He cannot understand today
     Why those who toil complain;
 The ills he feared are cleared away,
     No signs of strife remain.
 Content to let things drift along,
     He lives an easy life,
 Forgetting, if sometimes the strong
 Oppress the weak, that it is wrong:
     He has a wealthy wife.