Bert Williams with "Oh, _I_ Don't Know?"

Into the night go one and all.

Where's Lizzie Raymond, peppy jade?

The braggart Lew, the simple Joe?

And where the Irish servant maid That Jimmie Russell used to show?

Charles Sweet, who tore the paper snow?

Ben Harney's where? And Artie Hall?

Nash Walker, Darktown's grandest beau?

Into the night go one and all.

L'ENVOI

Prince, though our children laugh "Ho! Ho!"

At us who gleefully would fall For acts that played the Long Ago, Into the night go one and all.

To a Prospective Cook

Curly Locks, Curly Locks, wilt thou be ours?

Thou shalt not wash dishes, nor yet weed the flowers, But stand in the kitchen and cook a fine meal, And ride every night in an automobile.

Curly Locks, Curly Locks, come to us soon!

Thou needst not to rise until mid-afternoon; Thou mayst be Croatian, Armenian, or Greek; Thy guerdon shall be what thou askest per week.

Curly Locks, Curly Locks, give us a chance!

Thou shalt not wash windows, nor iron my pants.

Oh, come to the cosiest of seven-room bowers, Curly Locks, Curly Locks, wilt thou be ours?

Variation on a Theme

June 30, 1919.

Notably fond of music, I dote on a clearer tone Than ever was blared by a bugle or zoomed by a saxophone; And the sound that opens the gates for me of a Paradise revealed Is something akin to the note revered by the blessed Eugene Field, Who sang in pellucid phrasing that I perfectly well recall Of the clink of the ice in the pitcher that the boy brings up the hall.

But sweeter to me than the sparrow's song or the goose's autumn honks Is the sound of the ice in the shaker as the barkeeper mixes a Bronx.

Between the dark and the daylight, when I'm worried about The Tower, Comes a pause in the day's tribulations that is known as the c.o.c.ktail hour; And my soul is sad and jaded, and my heart is a thing forlorn, And I view the things I have written with a sickening, scathing scorn.

Oh, it's then I fare with some other slave who is hired for the things he writes To a Den of Sin where they mingle gin--such as Lipton's, Mouquin's, or Whyte's, And my spirit thrills to a music sweeter than Sullivan or Puccini-- The swash of the ice in the shaker as he mixes a Dry Martini.

The drys will a.s.sert that metallic sound is the selfsame canon made By the ice in the shaker that holds a drink like orange or lemonade; But on the word of a travelled man and a bard who has been around, The sound of tin on ice and gin is a snappier, happier sound.

And I mean to hymn, as soon as I have a moment of leisure time, The chill susurrus of c.o.c.ktail ice in an adequate piece of rhyme.

But I've just had an invitation to hark, at a beckoning bar, To the sound of the ice in the shaker as the barkeeper mixes a Star.

"Such Stuff as Dreams"

Jenny kiss'd me in a dream; So did Elsie, Lucy, Cora, Bessie, Gwendolyn, Eupheme, Alice, Adelaide, and Dora.

Say of honour I'm devoid, Say monogamy has miss'd me, But don't say to Dr. Freud Jenny kiss'd me.

The Ballad of Justifiable Homicide

They brought to me his mangled corpse And I feared lest I should swing.

"O tell me, tell me,--and make it brief-- Why hast thou done this thing?

"Had this man robbed the starving poor Or lived a gunman's life, Had he set fire to cottages, Or run off with thy wife?"

"He hath not robbed the starving poor, Nor lived a gunman's life; He hath set fire to no cottage, Nor run off with my wife.

"Ye ask me such a question that It now my lips unlocks: I learned he was the man who planned The second balcony box."

The jury pondered never an hour, They thought not even a little, But handed in unanimously A verdict of acquittal.

The Ballad of the Murdered Merchant

All stark and cold the merchant lay, All cold and stark lay he.

And who hath killed this fair mer_chant_?

Now tell the truth to me.

Oh, I have killed this fair mer_chant_ Will never again draw breath; Oh, I have made this fair mer_chant_ To come unto his death.

Oh, why hast thou killed this fair mer_chant_ Whose corse I now behold?

And why hast caused this man to lie In death all stark and cold?

Oh, I have killed this fair mer_chant_ Whose kith and kin make moan, For that he hath stolen my precious time When he useth the telephone.

The telephone bell rang full and clear; The receiver did I seize.

"h.e.l.lo!" quoth I, and quoth a girl, "h.e.l.lo!... One moment, please."

I waited moments ane and twa, And moments three and four, And then I sought that fair mer_chant_ And spilled his selfish gore.

That business man who scorneth to waste His moments sae rich and fine In calling a man to the telephone Shall never again waste mine!