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

      This Work is copyrighted just to show

      To what low depths the Pirate Press will go.

      They borrow thunder from the Vulcan forge,

      Then draw the fire and put the smut on George.

      Each song or verse, it seems to me, should be

      Distinguished by originality

      If nothing else (the matter may be sloppy,—

      But that's no matter if there's ample copy)

      So that the Author's face could be unmasked

      And recognized without a question asked;

      Or, so identify Calliope

      By strident notes of high-toned quality;

      Or thus detect some Poet's "fist" and style

      By I. O. U.'s unhonored yet awhile.

      The Pirates thus would cease perforce their trade,

      And Bacon would not be confused with Ade.

      In all my songs I do the work myself,

      And draw no inspiration from the Shelf.

      Perhaps my lines would be more read, if cribbed,

      But George and I, you know, have never fibbed,

      And what is more, I think my lines are sweeter

      Than those of Dante, with infernal meter;

      And more heroic, and not half so sad

      As Homer's couplets in the Illiad;

      And far more musical and much prettier

      Than those by Tennyson or by Whittier.

      Each bar is known to me, its licensee,

      And ev'ry note has had my scrutiny:

      I also watch my pauses, moods and tenses,

      And have no words with fair amanuenses.

      If you could see my workshop (do not ask it!)

      You'd find more "carbons" in my paper-basket,

      More rough, unpolished diamonds there immured

      Than you, Dear Reader, ever have endured.

      I have no Jewish blood, not e'en a strain:

      That's what I lack! If ever born again

      I'd requisition Hebrew sire and dam,

      Something akin, methinks, to Abraham,

      And take these "jewels," doomed unseen to flash,

      Gloss o'er their flaws, and turn them into cash.

      Here's where I doff my bonnet to the Jew!

      Tho' sore oppressed they're still the Chosen Few:

      A few in numbers but a mighty host

      When reckoned by the things that count the most,—

      I mean achievements, won by toilsome stages

      In spite of persecutions thru the Ages.

      I see these Davids watching o'er their flocks

      In Palestine. (To-day they watch their stocks

      And clip the coupons from their bonds, you see,

      Just as they sheared the lambs in Galilee.)

      There milk and honey in abundance vied

      To keep the Simple Simons satisfied;

      But here to luxuries the Josephs cling,

      And milk the honey from most everything.

      Time was when you were treated with disdain

      But now the tune is quite a changed refrain,

      And Gentiles everywhere take special pains

      To pay respectful tribute to your brains!

      Behold your ancient hills and rugged rocks;

      Your fruitful valleys with their golden shocks

      Of Grain that, grouped around the stately dates,

      Seem to defy the threshing that awaits!

      Here olives ripen 'neath the summer skies

      And yield rich oil,—first Standard Oil supplies;

      'Twas here the mighty Samson filled with awe

      The Philistines and flayed them with his jaw;

      (No man before, or since, thus courted fame,

      For woman holds these records in her name.)

      And here wise Solomon refused the vote

      In statecraft matters to the Petticoat;

      But when the Referendum was installed

      The wise old King's objection was Recalled.

      And then there's David caring for his sheep,

      And big Goliath (rocking him to sleep).

      There Japheth, Shem and Ham are; Ham tabooed

      By Moses in his Treatises on Food;

      And Jehu with his pair of chestnut colts

      Trotting the highway down like thunderbolts.

      If Jehu reined to-day he'd swap his stable

      For high-power Auto, with a foreign label,

      And hold the record for the Shore Road trip

      From Tyre to Sidon at a lightning clip,—

      And make his whiskers, driven by the breeze,

      Look like a storm-tossed frigate on the seas.

      There's Jacob dreaming, seeing more than Esau,

      And giving him the double-cross and hee-haw;

      Obtaining Esau's birthright (Silly Dupe!)

      For three brass spheroids and a bowl of soup.

      He traded for it—didn't have to buy it!

      'Cause Brother Hairy, glutton, wouldn't diet.

      But "chickens come back home to roost," forsooth,

      And Jacob in his dotage learned this truth,

      When Leah's sons, of ordinary clay,

      Put Rachel's Joseph in the consommé.

      As Financiers the palm has been bestowed,

      In panegyric, melody and ode,

      On Jacob's sons. The caravans, that passed

      Thru burning sands, from cities far and vast,

      Into their land that teemed with grain and gold,

      Were richly laden. Thus they bought and sold,

      Exchanging corn and cattle, hides and honey

      For finest silks and linens, gems and money,—

      Until, thru bargain-insight, skill and daring,

      They cornered all the fabrics used for wearing,

      And then proceeded, with discerning lust,

      To hump themselves and form a Camel Trust.

      The Traders who had plied this Cargo Route

      Could never, in their deals, get cash to boot

      From Jacob's sons. Sometimes a fleece or skin,

      Of little size and worth, would be thrown in,

      But shekels—No! And so the nomad Sheik

      In quest of easy picking; Turk and