Casey's Table D'Hote
Oh, them days on Red Hoss Mountain, when the skies wuz fair 'nd blue,
When the money flowed like likker, 'nd the folks wuz brave 'nd true!
When the nights wuz crisp 'nd balmy, 'nd the camp wuz all astir,
With the joints all throwed wide open 'nd no sheriff to demur!
Oh, them times on Red Hoss Mountain in the Rockies fur away,--
There's no sich place nor times like them as I kin find to-day!
What though the camp _hez_ busted? I seem to see it still
A-lyin', like it loved it, on that big 'nd warty hill;
And I feel a sort of yearnin' 'nd a chokin' in my throat
When I think of Red Hoss Mountain 'nd of Casey's tabble dote!
Wal, yes; it's true I struck it rich, but that don't cut a show
When one is old 'nd feeble 'nd it's nigh his time to go;
The money that he's got in bonds or carries to invest
Don't figger with a codger who has lived a life out West;
Us old chaps like to set around, away from folks 'nd noise,
'Nd think about the sights we seen and things we done when boys;
The which is why _I_ love to set 'nd think of them old days
When all us Western fellers got the Colorado craze,--
And _that_ is why I love to set around all day 'nd gloat
On thoughts of Red Hoss Mountain 'nd of Casey's tabble dote.
This Casey wuz an Irishman,--you'd know it by his name
And by the facial features appertainin' to the same.
He'd lived in many places 'nd had done a thousand things,
From the noble art of actin' to the work of dealin' kings,
But, somehow, hadn't caught on; so, driftin' with the rest,
He drifted for a fortune to the undeveloped West,
And he come to Red Hoss Mountain when the little camp wuz new,
When the money flowed like likker, 'nd the folks wuz brave 'nd true;
And, havin' been a stewart on a Mississippi boat,
He opened up a caffy 'nd he run a tabble dote.
The bar wuz long 'nd rangy, with a mirrer on the shelf,
'Nd a pistol, so that Casey, when required, could help himself;
Down underneath there wuz a row of bottled beer 'nd wine,
'Nd a kag of Burbun whiskey of the run of '59;
Upon the walls wuz pictures of hosses 'nd of girls,--
Not much on dress, perhaps, but strong on records 'nd on curls!
The which had been identified with Casey in the past,--
The hosses 'nd the girls, I mean,--and both wuz mighty fast!
But all these fine attractions wuz of precious little note
By the side of what wuz offered at Casey's tabble dote.
There wuz half-a-dozen tables altogether in the place,
And the tax you had to pay upon your vittles wuz a case;
The boardin'-houses in the camp protested 't wuz a shame
To patronize a robber, which this Casey wuz the same!
They said a case was robbery to tax for ary meal;
But Casey tended strictly to his biz, 'nd let 'em squeal;
And presently the boardin'-houses all began to bust,
While Casey kept on sawin' wood 'nd layin' in the dust;
And oncet a tray'lin' editor from Denver City wrote
A piece back to his paper, puffin' Casey's tabble dote.
A tabble dote is different from orderin' aller cart:
In _one_ case you git all there is, in _t' other_, only _part_!
And Casey's tabble dote began in French,--as all begin,--
And Casey's ended with the same, which is to say, with 'vin;'
But in between wuz every kind of reptile, bird, 'nd beast,
The same like you can git in high-toned restauraws down east;
'Nd windin' up wuz cake or pie, with coffee demy tass,
Or, sometimes, floatin' Ireland in a soothin' kind of sass
That left a sort of pleasant ticklin' in a feller's throat,
'Nd made him hanker after more of Casey's tabble dote.
The very recollection of them puddin's 'nd them pies
Brings a yearnin' to my buzzum 'nd the water to my eyes;
'Nd seems like cookin' nowadays ain't what it used to be
In camp on Red Hoss Mountain in that year of '63;
But, maybe, it is better, 'nd, maybe, I'm to blame--
I'd like to be a-livin' in the mountains jest the same--
I'd like to live that life again when skies wuz fair 'nd blue,
When things wuz run wide open 'nd men wuz brave 'nd true;
When brawny arms the flinty ribs of Red Hoss Mountain smote
For wherewithal to pay the price of Casey's tabble dote.
And you, O cherished brother, a-sleepin' 'way out west,
With Red Hoss Mountain huggin' you close to its lovin' breast,--
Oh, do you dream in your last sleep of how we used to do,
Of how we worked our little claims together, me 'nd you?
Why, when I saw you last a smile wuz restin' on your face,
Like you wuz glad to sleep forever in that lonely place;
And so you wuz, 'nd I 'd be, too, if I wuz sleepin' so.
But, bein' how a brother's love ain't for the world to know,
Whenever I've this heartache 'nd this chokin' in my throat,
I lay it all to thinkin' of Casey's tabble dote.
poem by Eugene Field
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Prof. vere de blaw
Achievin' sech distinction with his moddel tabble dote
Ez to make his Red Hoss Mountain restauraw a place uv note,
Our old friend Casey innovated somewhat round the place,
In hopes he would ameliorate the sufferin's uv the race;
'Nd uv the many features Casey managed to import
The most important wuz a Steenway gran' pianny-fort,
An' bein' there wuz nobody could play upon the same,
He telegraffed to Denver, 'nd a real perfesser came,--
The last an' crownin' glory uv the Casey restauraw
Wuz that tenderfoot musicianer, Perfesser Vere de Blaw!
His hair wuz long an' dishybill, an' he had a yaller skin,
An' the absence uv a collar made his neck look powerful thin:
A sorry man he wuz to see, az mebby you'd surmise,
But the fire uv inspiration wuz a-blazin' in his eyes!
His name wuz Blanc, wich same is Blaw (for that's what Casey said,
An' Casey passed the French ez well ez any Frenchie bred);
But no one ever reckoned that it really wuz his name,
An' no one ever asked him how or why or whence he came,--
Your ancient history is a thing the Coloradan hates,
An' no one asks another what his name wuz in the States!
At evenin', when the work wuz done, an' the miners rounded up
At Casey's, to indulge in keerds or linger with the cup,
Or dally with the tabble dote in all its native glory,
Perfessor Vere de Blaw discoursed his music repertory
Upon the Steenway gran' piannyfort, the wich wuz sot
In the hallway near the kitchen (a warm but quiet spot),
An' when De Blaw's environments induced the proper pride,--
Wich gen'rally wuz whiskey straight, with seltzer on the side,--
He throwed his soulful bein' into opry airs 'nd things
Wich bounded to the ceilin' like he'd mesmerized the strings.
Oh, you that live in cities where the gran' piannies grow,
An' primy donnies round up, it's little that you know
Uv the hungerin' an' the yearnin' wich us miners an' the rest
Feel for the songs we used to hear before we moved out West.
Yes, memory is a pleasant thing, but it weakens mighty quick;
It kind uv dries an' withers, like the windin' mountain crick,
That, beautiful, an' singin' songs, goes dancin' to the plains,
So long ez it is fed by snows an' watered by the rains;
But, uv that grace uv lovin' rains 'nd mountain snows bereft,
Its bleachin' rocks, like dummy ghosts, is all its memory left.
The toons wich the perfesser would perform with sech eclaw
Would melt the toughest mountain gentleman I ever saw,--
Sech touchin' opry music ez the Trovytory sort,
The sollum "Mizer Reery," an' the thrillin' "Keely Mort;"
Or, sometimes, from "Lee Grond Dooshess" a trifle he would play,
Or morsoze from a' opry boof, to drive dull care away;
Or, feelin' kind uv serious, he'd discourse somewhat in C,--
The wich he called a' opus (whatever that may be);
But the toons that fetched the likker from the critics in the crowd
Wuz not the high-toned ones, Perfesser Vere de Blaw allowed.
'T wuz "Dearest May," an' "Bonnie Doon," an' the ballard uv "Ben Bolt,"
Ez wuz regarded by all odds ez Vere de Blaw's best holt;
Then there wuz "Darlin' Nellie Gray," an' "Settin' on the Stile,"
An' "Seein' Nellie Home," an' "Nancy Lee," 'nd "Annie Lisle,"
An' "Silver Threads among the Gold," an' "The Gal that Winked at Me,"
An' "Gentle Annie," "Nancy Till," an' "The Cot beside the Sea."
Your opry airs is good enough for them ez likes to pay
Their money for the truck ez can't be got no other way;
But opry to a miner is a thin an' holler thing,--The
music that he pines for is the songs he used to sing.
One evenin' down at Casey's De Blaw wuz at his best,
With four-fingers uv old Wilier-run concealed beneath his vest;
The boys wuz settin' all around, discussin' folks an' things,
'Nd I had drawed the necessary keerds to fill on kings;
Three-fingered Hoover kind uv leaned acrosst the bar to say
If Casey'd liquidate right off, he'd liquidate next day;
A sperrit uv contentment wuz a-broodin' all around
(Onlike the other sperrits wich in restauraws abound),
When, suddenly, we heerd from yonder kitchen-entry rise
A toon each ornery galoot appeared to recognize.
Perfesser Vere de Blaw for once eschewed his opry ways,
An' the remnants uv his mind went back to earlier, happier days,
An' grappled like an' wrassled with a' old familiar air
The wich we all uv us had heern, ez you have, everywhere!
Stock still we stopped,--some in their talk uv politics an' things,
I in my unobtrusive attempt to fill on kings,
'Nd Hoover leanin' on the bar, an' Casey at the till,--
We all stopped short an' held our breaths (ez a feller sometimes will),
An' sot there more like bumps on logs than healthy, husky men,
Ez the memories uv that old, old toon come sneakin' back again.
You've guessed it? No, you hav n't; for it wuzn't that there song
Uv the home we'd been away from an' had hankered for so long,--
No, sir; it wuzn't "Home, Sweet Home," though it's always heard around
Sech neighborhoods in wich the home that is "sweet home" is found.
And, ez for me, I seemed to see the past come back again,
And hear the deep-drawed sigh my sister Lucy uttered when
Her mother asked her if she 'd practised her two hours that day,
Wich, if she hadn't, she must go an' do it right away!
The homestead in the States 'nd all its memories seemed to come
A-floatin' round about me with that magic lumty-tum.
And then uprose a stranger wich had struck the camp that night;
His eyes wuz sot an' fireless, 'nd his face wuz spookish white,
'Nd he sez: "Oh, how I suffer there is nobody kin say,
Onless, like me, he's wrenched himself from home an' friends away
To seek surcease from sorrer in a fur, seclooded spot,
Only to find--alars, too late!--the wich surcease is not!
Only to find that there air things that, somehow, seem to live
For nothin' in the world but jest the misery they give!
I've travelled eighteen hundred miles, but that toon has got here first;
I'm done,--I'm blowed,--I welcome death, an' bid it do its worst!"
Then, like a man whose mind wuz sot on yieldin' to his fate,
He waltzed up to the counter an' demanded whiskey straight,
Wich havin' got outside uv,--both the likker and the door,--
We never seen that stranger in the bloom uv health no more!
But some months later, what the birds had left uv him wuz found
Associated with a tree, some distance from the ground;
And Husky Sam, the coroner, that set upon him, said
That two things wuz apparent, namely: first, deceast wuz dead;
And, second, previously had got involved beyond all hope
In a knotty complication with a yard or two uv rope!
poem by Eugene Field
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Mindy and Casey’s Wedding
t was such a wonderful wedding
Two people so crazy in love
It was Mindy and Casey’s wedding
It was everything they ever dreamed of
Mindy was beautiful in her long white gown
Waiting to catch Casey’s eye
Casey so handsome and happy
Dressed in his black tux and bow tie
Casey slipped the garter off after the vows
And though it was a traditional part
There was something magical in the air
So much love they had in their hearts
They stood in the receiving line
For friends and loved ones to file past
For everyone knew this loving couple
Had something special that would last
They cut the cake soon after
Three tiers with sweet red roses
Their lives were officially beginning
Moving forward since Casey proposed
The little flower girls so precious
Stood for pictures with the bride
Donning white dresses too
So pretty they didn’t want to hide
Flashing that marriage certificate
With a happy smile on each face
Yes, life for them was just starting
Starting at this warm special place!
poem by Marilyn Lott
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Caseys Last Ride
Casey joins the hollow sound of silent people walking down
The stairway to the subway in the shadows down below;
Following their footsteps through the neon-darkened corridors
Of silent desperation, never speakin to a soul.
The poison air hes breathin has the dirty smell of dying
cause its never seen the sunshine and its never felt the rain.
But casey minds the arrows and ignores the fatal echoes
Of the clickin of the turnstiles and the rattle of his chains.
Oh! she said, casey its been so long since Ive seen you!
Here she said, just a kiss to make a body smile!
See she said, Ive put on new stockings just to please you!
Lord! she said, casey can you only stay a while?
Casey leaves the under-ground and stops inside the golden crown
For something wet to wipe away the chill thats on his bone.
Seeing his reflection in the lives of all the lonely men
Who reach for any thing they can to keep from goin home.
Standin in the corner casey drinks his pint of bitter
Never glancing in the mirror at the people passing by
Then he stumbles as hes leaving and he wonders if the reason
Is the beer thats in his belly, or the tear thats in his eye.
Oh! she said, I suppose you seldom think about me,
Now she said, now that youve a famly of your own;
Still she said, its so blessed good to feel your body!
Lord! she said casey its a shame to be alone!
song performed by by Kris Kristofferson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Caseys Last Ride
This song appears on two albums, and was first released on the aerie album, and has also been released on the the country roads collection album.
Casey joins the hallow sound of silent people walking down
The stairway to the subway in the shadows down below
Following their footsteps through the neon darkened corridors
Of silent desperation never speaking to a soul
The poison air hes breathing has a dirty smell of dying
Cause its never seen the sunshine and its never felt the rain
But casey minds the arrows and ignores the fatal echoes
Of the clicking of the turnstyle and the rattle of his chain
Oh she said, casey its been so long since Ive seen you
Here she said, just a kiss to make a body smile
See she said, I put on new stockings just to please you
Lord she said, casey can you only stay a while
Casey leaves the underground and stops inside the golden crown
For something wet to wipe away the chill thats on his bones
Seeing his reflection in the lives of all the lonely men
Who reach for anything thay can to keep from going home
Standing in the corner casey drinks his pint of bitter
Never glancing in the mirror at the people passin by
And he stumbles as hes leavin and he wonders if the reason
Is the beer thats in his belly or the tear thats in his eye
Oh she said, I suppose you seldom think about me
Now she said, now that youve a family of your own
Still she said, its so blessed good to feel your body
Lord she said, casey its a shame to be alone
Oh she said, casey its been so long since Ive seen you
Here she said, just a kiss to make a body smile
See she said, I put on new stockings just to please you
Lord she said, casey can you only stay a while
Lord she said, casey its a shame to be alone
Words and music by kris kristofferson
song performed by by John Denver
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Casey Affleck is a really good friend of mine. I know Casey a lot better than I know Ben, even though Ben and I have worked together a lot.
Casey at the Bat
The outlook wasn't brilliant for the Mudville nine that day;
The score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play,
And then when Cooney died at first, and Barrows did the same,
A pall-like silence fell upon the patrons of the game.
A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest
Clung to that hope which springs eternal in the human breast;
They thought, "If only Casey could but get a whack at that--
We'd put up even money now, with Casey at the bat."
But Flynn preceded Casey, as did also Jimmy Blake,
And the former was a hoodoo, while the latter was a cake;
So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat,
For there seemed but little chance of Casey getting to the bat.
But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,
And Blake, the much despisèd, tore the cover off the ball;
And when the dust had lifted, and men saw what had occurred,
There was Jimmy safe at second and Flynn a-hugging third.
Then from five thousand throats and more there rose a lusty yell;
It rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell;
It pounded on the mountain and recoiled upon the flat,
For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.
There was ease in Casey's manner as he stepped into his place;
There was pride in Casey's bearing and a smile lit Casey's face.
And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Casey at the bat.
Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt;
Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt;
Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,
Defiance flashed in Casey's eye, a sneer curled Casey's lip.
And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,
And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.
Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped--
"That ain't my style," said Casey. "Strike one!" the umpire said.
From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar,
Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore;
"Kill him! Kill the umpire!" shouted some one on the stand;
And it's likely they'd have killed him had not Casey raised his hand.
With a smile of Christian charity great Casey's visage shone;
He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;
He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the dun sphere flew;
But Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said, "Strike two!"
"Fraud!" cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered "Fraud!"
But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed.
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
And they knew that Casey wouldn't let that ball go by again.
The sneer has fled from Casey's lip, his teeth are clenched in hate;
He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate.
And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go.
And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey's blow.
Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright;
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,
And somewhere men are laughing, and little children shout;
But there is no joy in Mudville--great Casey has struck out.
poem by Ernest Lawrence Thayer
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Stupid Man
Stupid man, hitch-hiking out of a good life
In saskatchewan
And he thinks hes got big-big planes
Gonna build a house upon some land
Oh casey, dont it make you crazy
Oh, when youre living all alone by that damp water
Oh casey, dont it make you crazy
When youre living all alone by those still waters
Please say hello, please say hello
To my little baby daughter
Oh casey, tell her that her fathers gonna be coming home
So soon, so soon to see her
Well Im shooting down the turnpike
With a driver doing ninety-five or maybe
More dont you think hes loaded drunk
Or that he thinks that lifes a bore
Casey, oh casey, dont you know how it makes me so damn crazy
Living all alone by those waters
But please say hello, but please say hello
To my little baby daughter
Please, please, wont you just give her a great big kiss
Then tell her that her stupid daddy will be coming home soon
Oh casey, oh casey, dont you know I make me so damn crazy
When I was living there all alone by those still waters
But please tell, please tell my baby-baby-baby daughter
That Im tied up now, but Ill be home soon
And Ill be the daddy that I oughta
Please say hello, oh casey, please say hello
From a stupid man
Still my little baby daughter a big-big-big kiss
And tell her that her daddy will be coming home soon
But casey, dont you know I make me so damn crazy
When I was living there all alone
But wont you please give my, give my baby daughter
A great big stupid kiss
And tell her that her stupid father will be coming home soon
Stupid man
song performed by by Lou Reed
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Faithless Fantods
Bill Barcoo was a station 'and - 'e was a station 'and,
And grafted all the year like Pharaoh's Jews.
But all 'is pay, I grieve ter say, 'e blewed - you understand
This station 'and
Was drinky in his views;
An' 'e was wont ter lash it up on booze.
Fer Bill 'e wandered once a year - exactly once a year
Ter bust his cheque at Casey's Bush 'Otel;
An' drank the stuff - more than enough - that Casey sed wus beer.
An' it wus queer:
When 'e wus on a spell
'E used to 'old 'is sides an' larf like 'ell.
No doubt yer've 'eard of Casey's beer - of Casey's fightin' beer,
An' Casey's Three Star Blue Gum Brandy too,
The stuff that makes the crimson snakes when you get on yer ear.
Such visions queer
Were known ter quite a few;
That's why they called the shanty 'Casey's Zoo.'
Large purple frogs that sat an' croaked - jes' looked at yer an' croaked,
Goanners, snakes and spiders without end,
An' sich weird sights distrurbed the nights of such poor bushman bloke
As 'as a soak
In Casey's famous blend
In Casey's fierce an' famous Bushman's Friend.
But, once a year, Bill struck the spot - 'e blithely struck the spot,
An' slung across the bar 'is 'ard-earned cheque;
Then started in to bust 'is tin an' make things fairly 'ot
Until 'e got
Fair loaded to the neck;
An' then Bill looked a proper sort er wreck.
Then 'e begun to see the Zoo - ter gaze at Casey's Zoo.
But with the jims and fantods that 'e seen
'E made quite free. 'Fer,why,' sez 'e, 'I never see but two,
An' one is blue,
An' t'other's sort er green.
They're jes' the same 'ere ev'ry time I've been.'
They wus jes' like ole pals to 'im - like lifelong fren's to 'im.
'E looked to meet 'em ev'ry time 'e came
Ses 'e, 'The blue un's christened Sue; she's uppish-like an' prim;
But t'other, Jim,
'E'll answer to 'is name,
An' feed out of yer 'and, 'e is that tame.'
One time when Bill was on the spree - a real ole rorty spree
'E larfed the 'ole blame time till 'e wus thro'.
We wonders wot noo sort 'e'd got, 'e wus so full er glee.
'You oughter see!'
Ses 'e, when 'e come to.
'Why, blowed if my ole Jim ain't courtin' Sue!'
Bill 'ad but one spree after that - just one more after that.
An' sich another sight I'd grieve ter see,
'E cursed, an' swore, an' raved, an' tore 'is 'air an' foamed, an' spat.
It knocked us flat,
Fer generally 'e,
When on a jag, was merry as could be.
An' after that Bill guv up drink - yes, fairly chucked the drink.
But why, ther' wasn't one among us knoo.
'O, struth!' ses Bill, 'I've 'ad me fill, and so 'ud you, I think
O, strike me pink!
They once wus green an' blue;
But now ther's yaller, red an' purple too!'
But one day Bill 'e chats ter me - in conferdence ter me.
'Yer know,' ses 'e, 'that Jim was courtin' Sue.
'Twas quite a joke ter see that bloke; but, spare me days! - if she
Did not agree!
An' they got married too!
Got hitched up quiet, an' I never knoo!
'I never knoo till my next spree - till my next yearly spree,
An' then, fust thing - the flamin' quadrupids!
I learned them two - my Jim and Sue - was spliced, with twenty-three
In familee!
An', spare me days! SUCH KIDS!
I wouldn't 'ave another drink fer quids!
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Seventh Inning Stretch
Written in 1908 by jack norworth and albert von tilzer
Katie casey was baseball mad
Had the fever and had it bad
Just to root for the home town crew
Every sou, katie blew
On a saturday her young beau
Called to see if shed like to go
To see a show but miss kate said no,
Ill tell you what you can do...
Chorus
Take me out to the ball game
Take me out to the crowd
Buy me some peanuts and cracker jack
I dont care if I never get back
So its root, root, root for the home team
If they dont win its a shame
For its one, two, three strikes youre out
At the old ball game
Second verse
Katie casey saw all the games
Knew all the players by their first names
Told the umpire he was wrong
All along, good and strong
When the score was just two to two
Cagey casey knew what to do
Just to cheer up the boys she knew
She made the gang sing this song
Chorus
song performed by by Gin Blossoms
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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John Smith
To-day I strayed in Charing Cross as wretched as could be
With thinking of my home and friends across the tumbling sea;
There was no water in my eyes, but my spirits were depressed
And my heart lay like a sodden, soggy doughnut in my breast.
This way and that streamed multitudes, that gayly passed me by--
Not one in all the crowd knew me and not a one knew I!
'Oh, for a touch of home!' I sighed; 'oh, for a friendly face!
Oh, for a hearty handclasp in this teeming desert place!'
And so, soliloquizing as a homesick creature will,
Incontinent, I wandered down the noisy, bustling hill
And drifted, automatic-like and vaguely, into Lowe's,
Where Fortune had in store a panacea for my woes.
The register was open, and there dawned upon my sight
A name that filled and thrilled me with a cyclone of delight--
The name that I shall venerate unto my dying day--
The proud, immortal signature: 'John Smith, U.S.A.'
Wildly I clutched the register and brooded on that name--
I knew John Smith, yet could not well identify the same.
I knew him North, I knew him South, I knew him East and West--
I knew him all so well I knew not which I knew the best.
His eyes, I recollect, were gray, and black, and brown, and blue,
And, when he was not bald, his hair was of chameleon hue;
Lean, fat, tall, short, rich, poor, grave, gay, a blonde and a brunette--
Aha, amid this London fog, John Smith, I see you yet;
I see you yet, and yet the sight is all so blurred I seem
To see you in composite, or as in a waking dream,
Which are you, John? I'd like to know, that I might weave a rhyme
Appropriate to your character, your politics and clime;
So tell me, were you 'raised' or 'reared'--your pedigree confess
In some such treacherous ism as 'I reckon' or 'I guess';
Let fall your tell-tale dialect, that instantly I may
Identify my countryman, 'John Smith, U.S.A.'
It's like as not you are the John that lived a spell ago
Down East, where codfish, beans 'nd bona-fide school-marms grow;
Where the dear old homestead nestles like among the Hampshire hills
And where the robin hops about the cherry boughs and trills;
Where Hubbard squash 'nd huckleberries grow to powerful size,
And everything is orthodox from preachers down to pies;
Where the red-wing blackbirds swing 'nd call beside the pickril pond,
And the crows air cawin' in the pines uv the pasture lot beyond;
Where folks complain uv bein' poor, because their money's lent
Out West on farms 'nd railroads at the rate uv ten per cent;
Where we ust to spark the Baker girls a-comin' home from choir,
Or a-settin' namin' apples round the roarin' kitchen fire:
Where we had to go to meetin' at least three times a week,
And our mothers learnt us good religious Dr. Watts to speak,
And where our grandmas sleep their sleep--God rest their souls, I say!
And God bless yours, ef you're that John, 'John Smith, U.S.A.'
Or, mebbe, Colonel Smith, yo' are the gentleman I know
In the country whar the finest democrats 'nd horses grow;
Whar the ladies are all beautiful an' whar the crap of cawn
Is utilized for Bourbon and true dawters are bawn;
You've ren for jedge, and killed yore man, and bet on Proctor Knott--
Yore heart is full of chivalry, yore skin is full of shot;
And I disremember whar I've met with gentlemen so true
As yo' all in Kaintucky, whar blood an' grass are blue;
Whar a niggah with a ballot is the signal fo' a fight,
Whar a yaller dawg pursues the coon throughout the bammy night;
Whar blooms the furtive 'possum--pride an' glory of the South--
And Aunty makes a hoe-cake, sah, that melts within yo' mouth!
Whar, all night long, the mockin'-birds are warblin' in the trees
And black-eyed Susans nod and blink at every passing breeze,
Whar in a hallowed soil repose the ashes of our Clay--
Hyar's lookin' at yo', Colonel 'John Smith, U.S.A.'!
Or wuz you that John Smith I knew out yonder in the West--
That part of our republic I shall always love the best?
Wuz you him that went prospectin' in the spring of sixty-nine
In the Red Hoss mountain country for the Gosh-All-Hemlock Mine?
Oh, how I'd like to clasp your hand an' set down by your side
And talk about the good old days beyond the big divide;
Of the rackaboar, the snaix, the bear, the Rocky Mountain goat,
Of the conversazzhyony 'nd of Casey's tabble-dote,
And a word of them old pardners that stood by us long ago
(Three-Fingered Hoover, Sorry Tom and Parson Jim, you know)!
Old times, old friends, John Smith, would make our hearts beat high again,
And we'd see the snow-top mountain like we used to see 'em then;
The magpies would go flutterin' like strange sperrits to 'nd fro,
And we'd hear the pines a-singing' in the ragged gulch below;
And the mountain brook would loiter like upon its windin' way,
Ez if it waited for a child to jine it in its play.
You see, John Smith, just which you are I cannot well recall,
And, really, I am pleased to think you somehow must be all!
For when a man sojourns abroad awhile (as I have done)
He likes to think of all the folks he left at home as one--
And so they are! For well you know there's nothing in a name---
Our Browns, our Joneses and our Smiths are happily the same;
All represent the spirit of the land across the sea,
All stand for one high purpose in our country of the free!
Whether John Smith be from the South, the North, the West, the East--
So long as he's American, it mattereth not the least;
Whether his crest be badger, bear, palmetto, sword or pine,
He is the glory of the stars that with the stripes combine!
Where'er he be, whate'er his lot, he's eager to be known,
Not by his mortal name, but by his country's name alone!
And so, compatriot, I am proud you wrote your name to-day
Upon the register at Lowe's, 'John Smith, U.S.A.'
poem by Eugene Field
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Ballad Of Casey's Billy-Goat
You've heard of "Casey at The Bat,"
And "Casey's Tabble Dote";
But now it's time
To write a rhyme
Of "Casey's Billy-goat."
Pat Casey had a billy-goat he gave the name of Shamus,
Because it was (the neighbours said) a national disgrace.
And sure enough that animal was eminently famous
For masticating every rag of laundry round the place.
For shirts to skirts prodigiously it proved its powers of chewing;
The question of digestion seemed to matter not at all;
But you'll agree, I think with me, its limit of misdoing
Was reached the day it swallowed Missis Rooney's ould red shawl.
Now Missis Annie Rooney was a winsome widow women,
And many a bouncing boy had sought to make her change her name;
And living just across the way 'twas surely only human
A lonesome man like Casey should be wishfully the same.
So every Sunday, shaved and shined, he'd make the fine occasion
To call upon the lady, and she'd take his and coat;
And supping tea it seemed that she might yield to his persuasion,
But alas! he hadn't counted on that devastating goat.
For Shamus loved his master with a deep and dumb devotion,
And everywhere that Casey went that goat would want to go;
And though I cannot analyze a quadruped's emotion,
They said the baste was jealous, and I reckon it was so.
For every time that Casey went to call on Missis Rooney,
Beside the gate the goat would wait with woefulness intense;
Until one day it chanced that they were fast becoming spooney,
When Shamus spied that ould red shawl a-flutter on the fence.
Now Missis Rooney loved that shawl beyond all rhyme or reason,
And maybe 'twas an heirloom or a cherished souvenir;
For judging by the way she wore it season after season,
I might have been as precious as a product of Cashmere.
So Shamus strolled towards it, and no doubt the colour pleased him,
For he biffed it and he sniffed it, as most any goat might do;
Then his melancholy vanished as a sense of hunger seized him,
And he wagged his tail with rapture as he started in to chew.
"Begorrah! you're a daisy," said the doting Mister Casey
to the blushing Widow Rooney as they parted at the door.
"Wid yer tinderness an' tazin' sure ye've set me heart a-blazin',
And I dread the day I'll nivver see me Anniw anny more."
"Go on now wid yer blarney," said the widow softly sighing;
And she went to pull his whiskers, when dismay her bosom smote. . . .
Her ould red shawl! 'Twas missin' where she'd left it bravely drying -
Then she saw it disappearing - down the neck of Casey's goat.
Fiercely flamed her Irish temper, "Look!" says she, "The thavin' divvle!
Sure he's made me shawl his supper. Well, I hope it's to his taste;
But excuse me, Mister Casey, if I seem to be oncivil,
For I'll nivver wed a man wid such a misbegotten baste."
So she slammed the door and left him in a state of consternation,
And he couldn't understand it, till he saw that grinning goat:
Then with eloquence he cussed it, and his final fulmination
Was a poem of profanity impossible to quote.
So blasting goats and petticoats and feeling downright sinful,
Despairfully he wandered in to Shinnigan's shebeen;
And straightway he proceeded to absorb a might skinful
Of the deadliest variety of Shinnigan's potheen.
And when he started homeward it was in the early morning,
But Shamus followed faithfully, a yard behind his back;
Then Casey slipped and stumbled, and without the slightest warning
like a lump of lead he tumbled - right across the railroad track.
And there he lay, serenely, and defied the powers to budge him,
Reposing like a baby, with his head upon the rail;
But Shamus seemed unhappy, and from time to time would nudge him,
Though his prods to protestation were without the least avail.
Then to that goatish mind, maybe, a sense of fell disaster
Came stealing like a spectre in the dim and dreary dawn;
For his bleat of warning blended with the snoring of his master
In a chorus of calamity - but Casey slumbered on.
Yet oh, that goat was troubled, for his efforts were redoubled;
Now he tugged at Casey's whisker, now he nibbled at his ear;
Now he shook him by the shoulder, and with fear become bolder,
He bellowed like a fog-horn, but the sleeper did not hear.
Then up and down the railway line he scampered for assistance;
But anxiously he hurried back and sought with tug and strain
To pull his master off the track . . . when sudden! in the distance
He heard the roar and rumble of the fast approaching train.
Did Shamus faint and falter? No, he stood there stark and splendid.
True, his tummy was distended, but he gave his horns a toss.
By them his goathood's honour would be gallantly defended,
And if their valour failed him - he would perish with his boss
So dauntlessly he lowered his head, and ever clearer, clearer,
He heard the throb and thunder of the Continental Mail.
He would face the mighty monster. It was coming nearer, nearer;
He would fight it, he would smite it, but he'd never show his tail.
Can you see that hirsute hero, standing there in tragic glory?
Can you hear the Pullman porters shrieking horror to the sky?
No, you can't; because my story has no end so grim and gory,
For Shamus did not perish and his master did not die.
At this very present moment Casey swaggers hale and hearty,
And Shamus strolls beside him with a bright bell at his throat;
While recent Missis Rooney is the gayest of the party,
For now she's Missis Casey and she's crazy for that goat.
You're wondering what happened? Well, you know that truth is stranger
Than the wildest brand of fiction, so Ill tell you without shame. . . .
There was Shamus and his master in the face of awful danger,
And the giant locomotive dashing down in smoke and flame. . . .
What power on earth could save them? Yet a golden inspiration
To gods and goats alike may come, so in that brutish brain
A thought was born - the ould red shawl. . . . Then rearing with elation,
Like lightning Shamus threw it up - AND FLAGGED AND STOPPED THE TRAIN.
poem by Robert William Service
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Marthy's younkit
The mountain brook sung lonesomelike, and loitered on its way
Ez if it waited for a child to jine it in its play;
The wild-flowers uv the hillside bent down their heads to hear
The music uv the little feet that had somehow grown so dear;
The magpies, like winged shadders, wuz a-flutterin' to an' fro
Among the rocks an' holler stumps in the ragged gulch below;
The pines an' hemlocks tosst their boughs (like they wuz arms) and made
Soft, sollum music on the slope where he had often played;
But for these lonesome, sollum voices on the mountain-side,
There wuz no sound the summer day that Marthy's younkit died.
We called him Marthy's younkit, for Marthy wuz the name
Uv her ez wuz his mar, the wife uv Sorry Tom,--the same
Ez taught the school-house on the hill, way back in '69,
When she marr'd Sorry Tom, wich owned the Gosh-all-Hemlock mine!
And Marthy's younkit wuz their first, wich, bein' how it meant
The first on Red Hoss Mountain, wuz truly a' event!
The miners sawed off short on work ez soon ez they got word
That Dock Devine allowed to Casey what had just occurred;
We loaded up an' whooped around until we all wuz hoarse
Salutin' the arrival, wich weighed ten pounds, uv course!
Three years, and sech a pretty child!--his mother's counterpart!
Three years, an' sech a holt ez he had got on every heart!
A peert an' likely little tyke with hair ez red ez gold,
A-laughin', toddlin' everywhere,--'nd only three years old!
Up yonder, sometimes, to the store, an' sometimes down the hill
He kited (boys is boys, you know,--you couldn't keep him still!)
An' there he'd play beside the brook where purpul wild-flowers grew,
An' the mountain pines an' hemlocks a kindly shadder threw,
An' sung soft, sollum toons to him, while in the gulch below
The magpies, like strange sperrits, went flutterin' to an' fro.
Three years, an' then the fever come,--it wuzn't right, you know,
With all us old ones in the camp, for that little child to go;
It's right the old should die, but that a harmless little child
Should miss the joy uv life an' love,--that can't be reconciled!
That's what we thought that summer day, an' that is what we said
Ez we looked upon the piteous face uv Marthy's younkit dead.
But for his mother's sobbin', the house wuz very still,
An' Sorry Tom wuz lookin', through the winder, down the hill,
To the patch beneath the hemlocks where his darlin' used to play,
An' the mountain brook sung lonesomelike an' loitered on its way.
A preacher come from Roarin' Crick to comfort 'em an' pray,
'Nd all the camp wuz present at the obsequies next day;
A female teacher staged it twenty miles to sing a hymn,
An' we jined her in the chorus,--big, husky men an' grim
Sung "Jesus, Lover uv my Soul," an' then the preacher prayed,
An' preacht a sermon on the death uv that fair blossom laid
Among them other flowers he loved,--wich sermon set sech weight
On sinners bein' always heeled against the future state,
That, though it had been fashionable to swear a perfec' streak,
There warn't no swearin' in the camp for pretty nigh a week!
Last thing uv all, four strappin' men took up the little load
An' bore it tenderly along the windin', rocky road,
To where the coroner had dug a grave beside the brook,
In sight uv Marthy's winder, where the same could set an' look
An' wonder if his cradle in that green patch, long an' wide,
Wuz ez soothin' ez the cradle that wuz empty at her side;
An' wonder if the mournful songs the pines wuz singin' then
Wuz ez tender ez the lullabies she'd never sing again,
'Nd if the bosom of the earth in wich he lay at rest
Wuz half ez lovin' 'nd ez warm ez wuz his mother's breast.
The camp is gone; but Red Hoss Mountain rears its kindly head,
An' looks down, sort uv tenderly, upon its cherished dead;
'Nd I reckon that, through all the years, that little boy wich died
Sleeps sweetly an' contentedly upon the mountain-side;
That the wild-flowers uv the summer-time bend down their heads to hear
The footfall uv a little friend they know not slumbers near;
That the magpies on the sollum rocks strange flutterin' shadders make,
An' the pines an' hemlocks wonder that the sleeper doesn't wake;
That the mountain brook sings lonesomelike an' loiters on its way
Ez if it waited for a child to jine it in its play.
poem by Eugene Field
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Don't cut my throat, I may want to do that later myself.
quote by Casey Stengel
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My first commercial was for Miller High Life beer.
quote by Casey Kasem
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Casey Jones
Driving that train, high on cocaine,
Casey jones is ready, watch your speed.
Trouble ahead, trouble behind,
And you know that notion just crossed my mind.
This old engine makes it on time,
Leaves central station bout a quarter to nine,
Hits river junction at seventeen to,
At a quarter to ten you know its travlin again.
Driving that train, high on cocaine,
Casey jones is ready, watch your speed.
Trouble ahead, trouble behind,
And you know that notion just crossed my mind.
Trouble ahead, lady in red,
Take my advice youd be better off dead.
Switchmans sleeping, train hundred and two is
On the wrong track and headed for you.
Driving that train, high on cocaine,
Casey jones is ready, watch your speed.
Trouble ahead, trouble behind,
And you know that notion just crossed my mind.
Trouble with you is the trouble with me,
Got two good eyes but you still dont see.
Come round the bend, you know its the end,
The fireman screams and the engine just gleams...
song performed by by Grateful Dead
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Ode To John
Ode To John
You can have your fancy restaurants
Nightclubs and downtown haunts
He'd rather find a place to camp
If it's not too cold and damp
He'd rather scorch a can of beans
Than get a meal by other means
Just get the coals red and hot
He'll cook whatever he's got
He'd rather view a starlit sky
With shoreline lights gliding by
Then gaze upon the city lights
And all the other urban sights
No shiny shoes, no stylish suits
He's quite content in his canoe
No motor for the stream or lakes
Some paddle strokes is all it takes
A tugging fish upon his hook
Explaining it would take a book
Such fun does seem a crime
Until you try it just one time
And when his days work is done at last
They'll be no midnight party blast
He'll simply head off quite content
To sleeping bag or cozy tent
No modern tunes to help him sleep
Tranquility in camp he'll keep
Better to hear the hoot or howl
The serenade of a loon or owl
The city life may be right for you
He'll take a camper with a view
Keep your noisy city streets
Broadway show and front row seats
He'll take the simple life complete
Sometimes even wet and smelly feet
At camp he'll brave the dirt and bugs
Haul firewood and water jugs
You think camping's not ideal
Still not convinced of it's appeal
Poke fun at him if you wish
John's content to just
FISH FISH FISH
Jim 2008
poem by James Casey
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Money does not make you happy but it quiets the nerves.
quote by Sean O'Casey
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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No man is so old as to believe he cannot live one more year.
quote by Sean O'Casey
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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You sleep with people all the time that you hate.
quote by Casey Affleck
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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You don't want to get the same kind of advice from everyone on your board.
quote by M. Kathleen Casey
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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