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

      How I loved her! There on the gate we'd lean,

      (The dear, old gate that never gave away

      The loving nothings we were wont to say)

      From day to day,

      And sometimes after dark;

      She was my Angel-Sweetheart, just sixteen.

      But I was shy! And while I longed to taste

      The nectar of her lips, I was afraid

      To draw her to my breast and kiss the Maid:

      But I essayed!

      And this is what I drew—

      "There's Papa with the bulldog, so make haste!"

      What could I do? The "bark" was flecked with foam,

      And old man Jones was meaner than a cur;

      So there I stood 'twixt fear, and love of her

      And didn't stir

      Until they came: and then

      I kissed them all Good-bye and beat it home.

      My Country vast and grand,

      Sweet Montezuma Land,

      My Stingareé.

      Land of the Knife and Gun,

      Villa and Scorpion;

      Land of the Evil One

      I weep for thee!

      Smallpox and Rattlesnakes

      Lurk in thy Cactus brakes,

      And Yellow Jack.

      Spiders and Centipedes

      Gloat o'er thy murd'rous deeds:

      To cure thy crying needs,

      Call Diaz back.

      Tarantula and Flies

      Poison your lands and skies:

      Behold your graves!

      Carranza's waving beard

      By Pancho's Band is feared,

      And will be till he's sheared

      Or dyes or shaves.

      Horned Toads and Vampire Bats,

      Gilas and Mountain Cats,

      Where'er you go!

      Buzzards and Vultures reign

      Over a million slain;

      And Mescal is the bane

      Of Mexico.

      O, Land of Chili con

      Carne and Obregon,

      Let murders cease!

      Keep Freedom's fires aglow

      Where La Frijólés grow;

      Throw up your Sombrero

      And Keep the Peace!

      Love is the Mecca of our Heart's Desire:

      We worship at its shrine and feel its thrill;

      Burning our Hopes upon its Altar Fire

      Till Passion be consumed, but not until.

      Then Love assumes a calmer mood, when spent—

      His quiver empty and his bow unstrung—

      And peers into the pleasing Past, content

      To live, unmoved, his memories among.

      Some drive! From tee to green in one: par, three!

      That's putting proper English on, you see!

      And, Goodness Golfus! See the ball roll up

      To easy putting distance from the cup.

      Who is this man? Professional, no doubt!

      He'll "card" a thirty-seven going out;

      And if he gets the "breaks" he'll make, methinks,

      A new low record for the Piedmont Links.

      See with what confidence he wends his way

      The Fairway thru to make his hole out play!

      The Gallery, expectant, follows thru

      To see the Champion go down in two.

      Then to the ball he makes his last address,

      (The ball was peeved at what he said, I guess)

      And pulls his gooseneck back a foot or so

      Before he hits the sphere the fateful blow.

      Alas for human frailty! See it flit

      Across the green into the sandy pit!

      The sighing winds, in protest, moaned Beware!

      While he invoked the Deity in prayer.

      And then he played his third, but topped the sphere,

      The Rubber Rogue responding with a leer.

      A halo hung around the Stranger's head

      It seemed: but, nay! 'twas brimstone fire instead,

      For what he said, in type is not displayed

      Except on fire-proof paper, I'm afraid.

      Four! Five! Six! But still far from the goal!

      The Player loses all his self-control

      And breaks the "goose" in twain: then hark the din,

      When Caddie trails the ball and kicks it in!

      Far from the scene of strife the Club House becks

      The weary Golfers on their inward treks;