Category: The Birmingham Age-Herald

From The Birmingham Age-Herald, February 1, 1913.
 

 Certain creatures oft heard of, pray who ever saw?
 There’s the camel whose back broke beneath the last straw.
 There’s the wonderful goose that laid eggs of pure gold,
 And the bull that got in where the china was sold.
 There’s the ass that the skin of a lion doth wear,
 And the wrong pig we frequently get by the ear.
 The wild horses that never, no never could drag
 Us somewhere—there’s the cat we let out of the bag.
 There’s the bird that goes whispering secrets around,
 Whoever has seen it, whoever has found?
 There’s the oft-mentioned dog in the manger that stands,
 And the elephant someone has got on his hands.
 There’s the ravenous wolf from our doors that we keep,
 And the wolf that goes round in the clothing of sheep.
 There’s the nightmare that somebody tells us they’ve had.
 There’s the cat with nine lives and the March hare that’s mad.
 And the fox that declared that the high grapes were sour,
 And the grim dogs of war—it would take quite an hour
 Just to list all the odd, freakish creatures that we
 Nearly every day hear of, but never once see.

From The Birmingham Age-Herald, January 29, 1913.
 

 The horns were blaring, loud and long,
 The drum went “Oom-ta-ta!”
 I saw a melancholy man
 Stand in the orchestra.
 He bowed him o’er his big bass viol
 And sadly sawed away,
 Although a show was on the boards
 ’Twas thought extremely gay.
 
 The chorus kicked so high, so high,
 The funny men came out,
 The audience roared its applause
 With laughter-laden shout;
 Contagious mirth filled all the air,
 Increasing all the while,
 But he who played the big bass viol
 Was never seen to smile.
 
 He ne’er looked upward to the stage,
 Where festive maidens danced,
 Though at his cold impassive face
 The leading lady glanced.
 Oblivious to all around
 And heedless of the crowd,
 His eyes scarce wandered from his notes,
 His head was ever bowed.
 
 Oh, what could be the tragedy
 Which held this man in thrall,
 Who seemed so passionless and calm
 And yet so sad withal?
 Had some great sorrow ruined his life,
 Or scandal’s tainted breath?
 Ah, no, we rather think that he
 Was simply bored to death.
 
 How oft he’s toiled through scenes like these
 Let no one try to say;
 His soul on such fare surfeited,
 He longs to slip away.
 And doubtless never again be forced
 To earn his daily bread
 Where banal jokes and “ragtime” songs
 Roll o’er his hapless head.

From The Birmingham Age-Herald, January 26, 1913.
 

 Bill Wanders was smoking
 And thusly he spake:
 The high cost of living
 Ne’er keeps me awake,
 I travel wherever
 It suits me to go—
 Far south when the blizzards
 Of winter time blow,
 Then north in the summer,
 To ‘scape from the heat.
 I sleep when it pleases,
 I’ve plenty to eat.
 
 I never pay money
 For riding on trains,
 A fight with the brakeman
 The worst of my pains.
 No hotel clerk flaunts me,
 No head waiter frowns,
 I tarry quite cheaply
 In dozens of towns.
 ’Tis true that my garments
 Aren’t always well pressed;
 It frequently happens
 I’m carelessly dressed.
 
 And needing a bath and
 A shave, maybe, too.
 But granted these hardships,
 My troubles are few.
 O glad is the life of
 A knight of the road,
 Though little respected
 At home or abroad.
 Let socialists rave and
 Economists fight,
 Bill Wanders will tell you
 This world is all right!

From The Birmingham Age-Herald, January 4, 1913.
 

 The passionate shepherd
     His lot doth lament;
 Sweet Phyllida left him—
     One morning she went.
 
 Some say ’twas an actor
     Who led her astray,
 And some say a chauffeur
     Upon the “White Way.”
 
 Alone on the hillside
     The desolate swain
 Sheds tears of deep sorrow
     That shower like rain.
 
 His pipe is neglected,
     He singeth no more,
 His flock is a-straying
     The wide country o’er.
 
 She spoke of his manners
     As boorish and rude,
 When she would a lover
     With polish endued.
 
 Then shortly she left him,
     The hard-hearted girl;
 Grown tired of day-dreaming,
     She longed for a whirl.
 
 A Shepard, she knew it,
     Saw little of life;
 She’d be in the swim as
     An actor-man’s wife.
 
 Or was it a chauffeur?
     We really can’t say,
 But sad is the shepherd
     Since she went away.

From The Birmingham Age-Herald, December 26, 1912.
 

 El Shamar was a builder
     Of fame long years ago;
 Ar Hamel was a poet
     Of whom we little know.
 
 But once, a legend has it,
     Shamar stood and smiled
 Before a palace golden
     Which he had reared and styled.
 
 “Ar Hamel, I’m a builder,
     And you a singer—say,
 You write a song; I’ll wager
     Your song first fades away!”
 
 Ar Hamel wrote a love song;
     A fragile thing it seemed
 Beside the palace golden
     That in the sunshine gleamed.
 
 But when the lofty palace
     Had crumbled into dust,
 And on the wind was dancing,
     The plaything of each gust;
 
 When Shamar long had vanished,
     Forgotten was his name,
 When Hamel, happy hearted,
     Was known no more to fame;
 
 Still in that land the love song
     Was sung by lovers true;
 The love song was immortal,
     Its theme forever new!