Poems for Pale People

A Volume of Verse

By

Edwin C. Ranck

Humanity Printing and Publishing Co.
St. Louis, Mo.

Copyrighted 1906 by
EDWIN C. RANCK

PREFACE

This little volume was written for no reason on earth and with no earthly reason. It just simply happened, on the principle, I suppose that "murder will out." Murder is a bad thing and so are nonsense rhymes. There is often a valid excuse for murder; there is none for nonsense rhymes. They seem to be a necessary evil to be classed with smallpox, chicken-pox, yellow fever and other irruptive diseases. They are also on the order of the boomerang and eventually rebound and inflict much suffering on the unlucky verse-slinger. So you see nonsense, like a little learning is a dangerous thing and should be handled with as much care as the shotgun which is never known to be loaded.

A man who writes nonsense may become in time a big gun. But this is rare; more often he becomes a small bore. This appears paradoxical and will probably require thinking over, but the more you think it over the less you will understand. This is true of parlor magic. It is also true of the magazine poets. It really never pays to think. Thinking is too much like work. After reading these rhymes you will not think that the writer ever did think, which after all is the right way to think.

When Dryden wrote "Alexander's Feast" he modestly stated that it was the grandest poem ever written. Mr. Dryden evidently believed this or he wouldn't have said so. But then every one did not agree with Mr. Dryden. Now I am going one step further and will positively state that the writer of this volume is the greatest poetical genius who has not yet died in infancy.

This is an astounding statement but it can be corroborated by admiring friends, for the writer is like a certain brand of children's food in that he is advertised by his loving friends.

Speaking of "Alexander's Feast" it simply cannot be compared to any one of the finished, poetic gems in this collection because it is so utterly different. The difference is what made Dryden famous. But comparisons are odious, and Mr. Dryden has been dead several years.

"But what," you may ask, "is the object of nonsense verse?" Most assuredly to make one laugh. That masterpiece of nonsense "Alice In Wonderland" and its companion volume "Through The Looking Class" are absurd books, but their very absurdity is what appeals to us most. Their author, Mr. Lewis Carroll was, in private life a very sober gentleman (at least we hope so). Nonsense is the salt of life with which we season the dry food of everyday cooking.

"A little nonsense now and then

Is relished by the wisest men."

Even serious old Longfellow had this feeling in his bones when he wrote the immortal lines which all of us recall from childhood:

"There was a little girl

And she had a little curl

Which hung way down on her forehead;

And when she was good,

She was very good indeed,

But when she was bad, she was horrid."

This is nonsense pure and simple and even the most ardent admirers of Mr. Longfellow must, when they try to make "forehead" and "horrid" rhyme, admit that it was very poor verse for the author of "Evangeline."

Bret Harte flew off at a tangent when he wrote about "Ah Sin, The Chinaman," a nonsense poem that gave "Bill Nye" his pseudonym. Oliver Wendell Holmes wrote "The Wonderful One-Hoss Shay." Rudyard Kipling is often "caught with the goods on him" and Mark Twain wrote an "Ode to Stephen Dowling Botts."

And Great Scott! I almost forgot that even such a gentle, domestic creature as the cow has been the unconscious inspiration of much nonsense and has doubtless often chewed the bitter cud of reflection in deploring her undesired popularity. First she was forced (very much against her will, no doubt) to jump over the moon to the undignified strains of "Hey Diddle, Diddle." Then, just when beginning to breathe easily again after that astounding performance, Gelett Burgess came along and gave her more notoriety by raising the question as to whether there was such a thing as a "purple cow." And even today in many of the rural districts there are old farmers who never heard of Burgess and his "purple cow" who will tell you solemnly that "there is a cow of a sort of purplish color." Which goes to prove that after all nonsense is only sense plus—NON.

The poems in this collection have appeared from time to time in The Kentucky Post, The Cincinnati Post, The Cincinnati Commercial Tribune, Humanity and The Valley Magazine.

WHY THE MOLE IS BLIND.

In days gone by, when cows could fly

And goblins rode on bears;

When fairies danced upon the green

And giants moped in lairs,

There lived alone upon a shelf

A tinsie, winsie little elf.

Just when the stars came out at night

And moonbeams filled the earth with light,

Down from his perch this little elf

Would jump and wander by himself.

He wore a pair of little wings

Tied in their place by golden strings.

One day he took a kind of notion

To take a trip upon the ocean.

He combed his hair and washed his face

And put his little wings in place,

Then from his shelf he softly stole

And went to see his friend the mole

Who gave to him a pea-green boat

And guaranteed that it would float.

A funny thing about this boat

'Twas patterned from a ten-pound note.

The little elf was greatly pleased

And laughed until he sneezed and sneezed;

He launched his boat upon the sea

And kicked his little heels in glee.

The mole looked on in glad surprise

(For in those days all moles had eyes.)

He shouted out a loud farewell

As the little row-boat rose and fell.

The elf picked up a golden oar

And soon lost sight of mole and shore.

The elf rowed out for quite a way

And in the waves did sport and play,

Until at length the sun sank low

And then he thought it time to go.

Now just as luck would have it then

A prowling sea gull left his den.

The savage sea gull loudly laughed

To see an elf in such a craft,

And swooping down upon the water

He did a thing he hadn't oughter,

For with his strong and sturdy beak

He caused the boat to spring a leak.

He said he longed for a little change

And the bank-note boat was just in range;

The poor young elf gave one big holler

Just as the sea gull made a swallow

(And this is strange indeed to follow

For a gull himself is just a swallow.)

The faithful mole heard this loud yell

And rushed down to the shore pell-mell.

Alas, alas he was too late

And saw his friend's unhappy fate;

He groaned, and shrieked and tore his fur

And raised an awful din and stir.

The sea gull heard this awful racket

And seized the mole, just like a packet.

He carried him across the seas

To teach the young gulls A B C's.

But the loving mole went blind with rage

And they had to put him in a cage,

And ever since that fatal night

The moles have all been out of sight.

NOW THERE'S A COON IN THE MOON.

There was once an eccentric old coon,

Who ate dynamite with a spoon,

But when he got loaded

The powder exploded—

And now there's a coon in the moon.

THE COUNTY FAIR.

Oh, let's go out to the county fair

And breathe the balmy country air,

And whittle a stick and look at the hosses,

Discuss the farmer's profit and losses.

We'll take a look at the country stock

And drink some milk from a dairy crock;

Look at the pigs and admire the chickens,

And try to forget it's hot as the dickens.

Forget there are any political rings

Just think of the butter and eggs and things;

So wash off the buggy and hitch up the mare,

And we'll all go out to the county fair.

O'DOWD OF THE JEFFERSON CLUB.

A maddened horse comes down the street,

With waving mane and flying feet.

The crowd scatters in every direction;

It looks like a fight at a city election.

A big policeman waves his hands,

And the air is full of vague commands,

While across the street a retail grocer

Shrieks to his child as the horse draws closer

When suddenly out of the mad hubbub,

Steps Jimmie O'Dowd of the Jefferson Club.

Every man there holds his breath—

To stop the horse means sudden death.

But quick as a flash,

O'Dowd makes a dash.

With all his might and the horse's mane,

He brings the old plug to a halt again.

Then every man there doffs his hat

And cries "Well, what do you think of that?"

Never since the days of Nero

Has there been a greater hero.

HALLOWEEN.

A night when witches skim the air,

When spooks and goblins climb the stair;

When bats rush out with muffled wings,

And now and then the door-bell rings;

But just the funniest thing of all

Is 'cause you can't see when they call.

SATURDAY ON THE FARM.

'Tis Saturday morn and all is bright

By nature's own endowing;

The sun is fiercely giving light,

And only me—

Plowing.

Across the river I hear the sound

Of a boatman slowly rowing;

I have no time to fool around,

Especially when I'm—

Hoeing.

And when the dinner hour has come,

And thoughts of work are fleeting,

I only hear the insects hum,

Because I'm busy—

Eating.

At night when all things are at rest,

Safe in Old Morpheus' keeping,

No troubles do my mind infest,

For I am soundly—

Sleeping.

LOVING JOHN.

John went into the garden one day

And found his baby sister at play;

John hit baby with a brick

And laughed because it made her sick.

John is only two and six

And loves to do these funny tricks.

THE CIRCUS.

O, the circus parade! O, the circus parade!

It lays all the politics back in the shade,

And the merchants forget that they've got any trade,

While many remember they've never been paid

As they rushed out to look at the circus parade;

And preachers who used to be terribly staid

Yell just like boys at the circus parade.

Every one's there, both the mistress and maid,

All looking on at the circus parade.

And out at the grounds, when you've seen the parade,

How delicious it is to drink pink lemonade;

And look at the elephant twirling his trunk,

And laugh at the capers cut by the monk;

Watch the old clown who is acting a dunce,

And try hard to see three rings going at once;

Gaze at the ringmaster cracking his whip,

And watch the tight-rope artist skip.

I saw that circus, Yes Sirree!

Saw about enough for three.

LENT.

"Oh lend me five," the young man cried,

"My money all is spent."

The maiden shook her head and sighed,

"I'm sorry but it's Lent."

THE PROCESSIONAL.

(Written in collaboration with R. B. Hamilton.)

When Julius Caesar met his death,

He muttered in his dying breath:

"It is not patriotism now

Prompts you to break your friendship's vow."

Quoth Brutus, as he stabbed again

The greatest of his countrymen:

"You're in this fix

Through politics."

As on his path Columbus sped,

A sailor to the great man said:

"Without a break, without a bend,

The broad Atlantic has no end."

And to the sailor at his side,

'Tis rumored, that great man replied:

"I guess I know.

You go below."

The snow fell fast on Russia's soil,

The soldiers, wearied with their toil,

Cried: "'Tis not possible that we

Our native France again shall see."

Stern ever in the face of death,

Napoleon said beneath his breath:

"Go take a walk,

I hate such talk."

A cherry tree lay on the ground,

On George's body, pa did pound;

"But pa," George cried, "It seems to me

That you are wrong; dis ain't your tree."

The old man sadly shook his head

And to his wayward son he said:

"Don't lie to me

I know my tree."

When Dewey on his flagship sailed,

The Spaniards never even quailed.

"Oh, it ain't possible," said they,

"For him to reach Manila Bay."

But Dewey merely smiled in glee,

"It isn't possible?" quoth he,

"Why, hully gee,

Just wait and see."

MORAL.

Thus onward as through life we go,

Amid the pomp, and glare, and show,

We oft some proverb misconstrue

And mutter boldly, "'Tis not true."

But in their calm, majestic way,

We hear the tongues of wise men say:

"You go way back

And then sit down."

AT THE TELEPHONE.

Ting-ling—"South, please, 1085;

Why hello, Jim—Oh, Saints alive!

It's south, I told you—hello; no,

I said once that I could not go.

"Say, can you meet me there tonight?

Confound it, Jim, you must be tight.

What are you saying anyhow,

I've got the wrong ear by the sow?

"Not pretty? Why, she's out o'sight,

Oh, shut up; that will be all right.

You can't walk there? Why it ain't far;

We get there on a 'lectric car.

"Well, Great Scott, man, don't talk all day,

But let me know now right away.

Miss B——, Oh, let the old girl wait;

We won't be out so very late.

"You will? All right then—eight o'clock;

Be sure and meet me on the block,

Remember now, don't get it wrong;

All right, old man (Ting-ling), so long."

A HARDSHIP.

I never saw a loaf of bread

Conspicuous in its purity,

But that I sadly shook my head

And left five-cents as surety.

CHRISTMAS TOYS.

Say, I like toys,

Christmas toys.

Remember when we were boys

Long ago?

Then you were a kid

Not a beau.

And on Christmas Day,

Oh, say,

We got up in the dark

And had a jolly lark

Round the fire.

The cold air was shocking

As we peeped in our stocking—

And, way down in the toe,

Now say this is so—

Dad placed a dollar.

Made me holler.

Yes, sirree,

They were good to me.

Remember Jim?

Mean trick I did him.

You know Jim was surly?

Well I got up early

Took his dollar out,

And put a rock

In his sock.

Gee, he was mad,

Went and told dad;

But dad he just laughed

And said: