Tag: Philander Johnson

From the Evening Star, May 30, 1915. By Philander Johnson.

Civilization! Mighty word,
Which with all reverence is heard!
You teach the world to read and write
And into day transform the night.
And yet ’tis ever in your name
That armies march to fearful fame.
As we your blessings great compute,
We ask one favor more: Don’t shoot!

As pictures fair entrance our eyes,
And splendid buildings swiftly rise,
Some of your skill you set apart
For guns to shatter works of art.
As Science seeks our lives to save
She digs anew the soldier’s grave.
As you are wise and resolute,
We pray, be generous, Don’t shoot!

From the Evening Star, April 26, 1915. By Philander Johnson.

It is difficult to be a politician,
    And labor for your country night and day.
There are times a man would rather go a-fishin’
    And let the precious moments drift away.
But a statesman has to stay in active service,
    And seek to elevate the human race;
With reminders of this fact to make him nervous—
    There are hundreds who are waiting for his place.

No matter if he’s eloquent or witty;
    No matter if his industry’s immense;
No matter if he can reform a city
    Or check the course of folly and pretense;
No matter if he’s wise and brave and moral,
    The world’s ingratitude invites a sob;
He is sure to find temptations to a quarrel
    With the hundreds who are waiting for his job.

From the Evening Star, April 16, 1915. By Philander Johnson.

There is a reason for each thing
    That time brings to attention;
Though sudden changes often bring
    A state of apprehension.
Somebody wears a funny hat,
    His friends straightway go dashin’
To get some headgear just like that
    Because it is the fashion.

Somebody uses language queer,
    And others imitate it.
An epigram we chance to hear
    And straightway all orate it,
Not for the thought it may contain
    Nor poetry nor passion;
We simply hand it out again
    Because it is the fashion.

A stock wakes up some morning fine.
    Somebody thinks he’ll try it.
The word is passed along the line
    And many rush to buy it.
Few of them pause to calculate
    As ticker talk comes flashin’.
It booms at an amazing rate
    Because it is the fashion.

From the Evening Star, April 1, 1915. By Philander Johnson.

A robin sat upon a limb,
    A-singin’ very jolly.
“Oh bird,” sez I, I sez to him,
    “You should be melancholy!

“You haven’t any children small,
    No friends nor no relations;
You’ve got no certainty at all
    Of lodgin’ or of rations.

“You haven’t got no place to went,
    You loafer in a tree, you!
Or if you have, I bet a cent
    No one is glad to see you.”

The robin stopped his song an’ said,
    “Excuse me while I snicker.
It is the narrow life you’ve led
    That makes you such a kicker.

“This limb I sit on ain’t so fine
    And scant is my apparel;
A simple sort o’ feed is mine,
    And yet I love to carol.

“While thinkin’ on my state of ease
    My soul in song relaxes.
I go an’ come jest when I please
    An’ never pay no taxes.”

From the Evening Star, March 29, 1915. By Philander Johnson.

Now that we’ve got electric lights
    An’ trolley cars an’ such;
An’ movies an’ a lot o’ sights
    That interest us much;
Now that we’ve built the buildin’s tall,
    An’ streets in fine condition;
We sit an’ dream an’ after all
    Jes’ want to go a-fishin’.

Though mightily we are improved
    By many a new invention;
By old-time impulses we’re moved
    To shun the world’s dissension.
Amid the rattle and the glare
    We find ourselves a-wishin’
To seek a lonesome spot somewhere
    An’ simply go a-fishin’.

From the Evening Star, March 12, 1915. By Philander Johnson.

Everybody has some fancy he’s compelled to toss aside,
Some little plan for profit or some little point of pride;
Some fond romance that flourished only just to fade away,
As a sigh of disappointment stilled the laughter once so gay.
Everybody has to feel that he is slighted, more or less,
And we’re all lame ducks together, if we only would confess.

The present may seem pleasant, but the pleasure doesn’t last;
The triumph of the moment swiftly fades into the past;
The glory that is ended makes the darkness seem more dense
That is hung about the future like a barrier of suspense.
Everybody has some hope that he is struggling still to clutch;
We are all lame ducks together, though we may not say as much.

From the Evening Star, March 11, 1915. By Philander Johnson.

“We had this old world going,”
    Said the sad philanthropist,
“Toward the milk and honey flowing,
    With no sorrows on the list;
We had pictures fair and buildings,
    And the work seemed nobly done
With its carvings and its gildings—
    Then somebody pulled a gun!

“We had ships that sailed the ocean
    With a majesty serene,
Till a strange and fierce commotion
    Scattered terror o’er the scene.
We went forth beyond the setting
    And the rising of the sun
In our giving and our getting—
    Then somebody pulled a gun.

We had hopes for youth to cherish;
    We had pride to solace age.
Now ideals all swiftly perish,
    Melted in a blast of rage.
We were planning a tomorrow
    When a victory should be won
That would conquer every sorrow—
    Then somebody pulled a gun.

From the Evening Star, March 8, 1915. By Philander Johnson.

When you find yourself a-pinin’
    Fur a slow, sunshiny day,
An’ a chance to throw a line in
    Where the shadows are at play,
You forget ambitious dreamin’
    An’ the hard an’ selfish wish;
All the plannin’ an’ the schemin’
    Make no difference to the fish.

They don’t ask you how you voted,
    When they give your line a look.
Though you’re humble and unnoted,
    That won’t keep ‘em from the hook.
An’ the deal is square you’re gettin’
    Where the waters gently swish.
All the argument an’ frettin’
    Make no difference to the fish.

From the Evening Star, February 28, 1915. By Philander Johnson.

A lot of wisdom was produced by Hezekiah Bings.
He wrote about the good and true and various other things,
But his very best production was a long typewritten page
Descriptive of the vices and the follies of the age.
He said a man should be above the cares of sordid pelf;
He ought to seek the birds and flowers and just enjoy himself;
The stuff that we call money is a superstitious sign
Which mystifies us as to what is yours and what is mine;
We should avoid its contact, for with evil it is fraught,
And happiness is something which with coin cannot be bought.
The men who crave not lucre, scribbled Hezekiah Bings,
Escape the cares which have undone philosophers and kings.
He copied it with care and then—oh, reader, do not laugh—
He sold those beauteous thoughts for seven dollars and a half.

From the Evening Star, February 27, 1915. By Philander Johnson.

“What constitues ‘Society?’” inquired the Man from Mars;
“Is it a gathering of wealth and intellectual stars?”
“Ho! ho!” replied the rustic youth who wore a grin serene,
“Society’s our Mayday dance upon the village green.”
“Not so,” the housemaid gaily said, “That isn’t it at all.
To find society, you should attend the coachman’s ball.”
The serious woman said, “If for society you search,
You’ll find the very best there is by coming to my church.”
The studious one remarked, “The very highest social force
You may discover if you will attend our lecture course.”
And some said that society was made for games of chance,
And others mentioned art and brains and beauty and the dance.
The Man from Mars looked puzzled and remarked, “It seems to me
Society is all mankind, including even me;
And each of us looks just beyond his own familiar sphere;
The impulse is what made me leave my home and come down here.
Society’s a picture which we fill with fays and elves
And, when we meet them, find that they are persons like ourselves.”