The Bee's Bayonet (a Little Honey and a Little Sting)

And never knew the anguish of de feet;
And had a face so honest, ear so quick,
That he could steal a bone and dodge a stick.
That's all the Reader says, but I believe
He grew too diabetic to retrieve,
And so was cast aside—the poor old brute!
Because the mange affected his hirsute;
Was driven from the confines of his birth
Because not prized: Great Scott! a Kennelworth:
And so, a rover still, thus doomed to flea
Far from his home and consanguinity;
But, cast adrift in sinking bark, O, Setter!
Than wienerwursts or sausages is better!

There was a time when Henry Clay awoke
To see his fame and name go up in smoke.
His reputation only went this far,
That he was featured as a choice cigar.
Before that day, when his renown was ripe,
He also was distinguished as a pipe.
Eliminating all attempts at joking,
He was thus honored then, and still is smo-King.

Had Eve, a woman of unusual birth,
Who had the love of ev'ry man on earth,
Been given what the modern wife receives,
Fine frocks and hats instead of wreaths and leaves;
A mansion, bank-account and car or carriage,
Hers would have been the first ideal marriage.
But selfish Adam took her to a cavern
(Our present bridal parties seek a tavern.)
And made her wash and sew and hem and haw
With fitting meekness 'cause his word was law.
First Lady of the Land, she should have had 'em—
All creature comforts but the stingy Adam.
Faithful to husband, she should have instead
Broken her marriage vows upon his head.
No wonder she was tempted: if she fell
'Twas circumstantial, else she wouldn't tell.

BELLES-LETTRES

Hear the perfume of the belles,
Social belles!
What a loud auroma, a monopoly in smells!
How they stinkle, stinkle, stinkle,
When the corsage bursts in sight!
While the powder in each wrinkle
And the gewgaw gems that twinkle
Make them ugly in the light;
Reeking scent, scent, scent,
When they're upright, prone or bent
While the sachet begs for freedom, and the musk, revolting, yells
On the belles, belles, belles, belles,
Belles, belles, belles,
On the weary, bleary, smeary Social Belles.

Hear the monstrous Schoolhouse bells,
Direful bells!
What a dirge of irony their ting-a-ling expels!
Like the chanticleer at morn,
How they torture us, and warn
We must hurry or be canned
At call of roll.
How they peel their tunics and
Whoop 'er up, with tireless tongues, to beat the band;
What a toll!

O, you blatant, brazen shells!
You ringers for Mephisto, from superheated hells,
With your knells!
Truth compels
That we voice our joy with yells
'Cause you're hung and bound in cells
While we're swearing and despairing,
O, you bells, bells, bells,
Wicked bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells,
O, you rocking, mocking, shocking Schoolhouse bells!

SANDY, THE PIPER

Do ye know me mon Sandy,—Sandy the Piper?
'E's 'ome on a leave, with 'is chin shot away!
They wouldn't a 'armed 'im, but some blooming sniper
Just slipped 'im a slug from a roof in Bombay.

'Ow did it all 'appen? Well, just one battalion
Was left in the Barracks: the rest 'ad been sent
To guard the new Viceroy, with Major MacCallion:
It was dubbed the "'Ot Scotch," this 12th Regiment.

The Colonel was sick with a Jungle disorder,
And 'arf of the time was well out of 'is 'ead;
And when the Sepoys, from the 'Yderbad Border
Revolted and rushed us, the Colonel was dead.

So Sandy and men were besieged and near choking,
And most the battalion was killed or 'ad fell,
While the fiends in the street, like devils a stoking,