The Bee's Bayonet (a Little Honey and a Little Sting). Edwin Alfred Watrous

      To Thee, My Native Land, America!

      My heart with pride is filled: my lips exult

      Because Thou art my Home—my Fatherland.

      Beneath the Constellation of the States,

      Set in the firmament of fadeless blue,

      I bare my head and hail the Stars and Stripes,

      Proud Emblem of our Unity and Might.

      My Country calls! I give what I possess,—

      All! All I say! and giving thus, regret

      That my poor contribution to thy needs,

      In hours of peril when dark war-clouds loom,

      Is such a paltry thing

      When measured by the debt of gratitude

      I owe for Liberty.

      All that I am and have belongs to Thee.

      Upon thy Altar Fires,

      Where Freedom glows and glorifies Mankind,

      I consecrate

      My flood-tide strength, my substance—life itself!

      And rate not this as sacrifice

      That gives me pleasure to repay

      In this small way

      Thy boon and bounty, priceless Liberty.

      If you can find, within, a single line

      To give you pleasure, then the pleasure's mine;

      But if you fail and whine, or josh like Billings,

      You might (I say you might!) get back your shillings.

      But better yet! Bestow this Book of Verses

      On some friend-foe you love with hate and curses,

      And your revenge will be attained thereafter

      For, when he reads it, he will die with laughter.

      And, Cheerful Reader, if this work contains

      A soporific for your bulging brains

      So that you'll rave about it to your neighbors,

      I'll feel repaid for all rebuffs and labors.

      Though "Wisdom sometimes borrows, sometimes lends,"

      You'll borrow trouble lending this to friends;

      But earn my thanks if, when you've praised or shown it,

      You'll sit upon the lid and never loan it:

      For ev'ry copy sold, thru friends or slapbacks,

      Just puts Mo'lasses on my buckwheat flapjacks.

      And, Critic Friend, who halts Ambition's flight

      And ties the can to Aspiration's kite,

      Pray recollect that when you plied the pen

      And had some stuff accepted now and then,

      Your tales, O! Henry, did not prove inviting

      Or else you'd be no Cynic but still writing.

      There stands a Man! unyielding and defiant,

      A master Leader, bold and self-reliant.

      He seeks no conquest but his lance is set

      Against the ruthless Despot's parapet.

      Alert and conscious of his strength, his thrust

      Is sure and timely, for his cause is just.

      Invincible, he rallies to his cause

      Those who love Justice and respect the laws.

      To skulking traitors and to spying foes

      He shows no mercy, but his heart o'erflows

      For those oppressed, who live, nay! who exist

      Where arrogance and tyranny persist:

      But, tho distressed by all this human grief,

      He weeps not idly, but compels relief:

      And those he serves by act or speech or pen,

      One Hundred Million freemen, shout, Amen!

      "Safe for Democracy the world must be,

      And all its bondaged peoples shall be free!"

      So spake the Man: America thus voiced

      Its ultimatum, and the Earth rejoiced!

      Intensely human, cast from mortal clay

      In Nature's mould, one epoch-making day,

      Behold a Man! he seems a higher sort,

      Refined with purest gold from God's Retort

      And filled with skill and wisdom, Heaven-sent:

      God bless and keep our peerless President!

      To those who never heard my Songs before,

      And those who have, and want to nevermore,

      This Rhapsody, with all its pithy phrases,

      Has passed the Censors with the highest praises.

      Released by favor of the Board's caprice,

      It takes its proper place—a masterpiece!

      Soft pedal, please! The Knockers are outclassed,

      And Genius finds its recompense at last!

      Whene'er I read about this war-time pelf

      It makes me sick: I can't contain myself!

      The profits on the die-stuffs sent to France

      Make Croesus' wealth a trifling circumstance;

      And what the Farmers get for mules and wheat

      Makes fortunes hitherto quite obsolete.

      In by-gone days the Bards were praised and pensioned

      Who now are at the Front—and rarely mentioned:

      And all these hardships they endure while men

      Who write big checks, thus scandalize the pen.

      The Writers should throw off their yokes and collars

      And drill their brains to cultivate the dollars.

      The talents they possess are strictly mental

      And can't be utilized for food and rental.

      Their thoughts are capital, but who'll invest

      In Sonnet Stock without some interest?

      Or who'd take stock in Poem Plants? Alack!

      He who invests expects the yellowback.

      But here I'm talking money: what a joke

      For one to thus discourse who's always broke!

      Since "money talks" we'll suffer it to speak,—

      "I am the thing that countless millions seek;

      Greed's inspiration, Evil's very root,

      The Nemesis of those in my pursuit.

      Kings pay me homage, pawn their crowns to me

      And, deathless, I enslave their progeny.

      Men famed for noble deeds, who court my smile,

      Ofttimes surrender probity to guile:

      Who, needy, follows my uncertain path,

      I