Riley Songs of Friendship Part 1

Songs of Friends.h.i.+p.

by James Whitcomb Riley.

To

Young E. Allison--Bookman

The bookman he's a humming-bird-- His feasts are honey-fine,-- (With hi! hilloo!

And clover-dew And roses lush and rare!) _His_ roses are the phrase and word Of olden tomes divine; (With hi! and ho!

And pinks ablow And posies everywhere!) The Bookman he's a humming-bird,-- He steals from song to song-- He scents the ripest-blooming rhyme, And takes his heart along And sacks all sweets of bursting verse And ballads, throng on throng.

(With ho! and hey!

And brook and brae, And brinks of shade and s.h.i.+ne!)

A humming-bird the Bookman is-- Though c.u.mbrous, gray and grim,-- (With hi! hilloo!

And honey-dew And odors musty-rare!) He bends him o'er that page of his As o'er the rose's rim.

(With hi! and ho!

And pinks aglow And roses everywhere!) Ay, he's the featest humming-bird, On airiest of wings He poises pendent o'er the poem That blossoms as it sings-- G.o.d friend him as he dips his beak In such delicious things!

(With ho! and hey!

And world away And only dreams for him!)

O friends of mine, whose kindly words come to me Voiced only in lost lisps of ink and pen, If I had power to tell the good you do me, And how the blood you warm goes laughing through me, My tongue would babble baby-talk again.

And I would toddle round the world to meet you-- Fall at your feet, and clamber to your knees And with glad, happy hands would reach and greet you, And twine my arms about you, and entreat you For leave to weave a thousand rhymes like these--

A thousand rhymes enwrought of nought but presses Of cherry-lip and apple-cheek and chin, And pats of honeyed palms, and rare caresses, And all the sweets of which as Fancy guesses She folds away her wings and swoons therein.

RILEY SONGS OF FRIENDs.h.i.+P

[Ill.u.s.tration: Back from town--headpiece]

BACK FROM TOWN

Old friends allus is the best, Halest-like and heartiest: Knowed us first, and don't allow We're so blame much better now!

They was standin' at the bars When we grabbed "the kivvered kyars"

And lit out fer town, to make Money--and that old mistake!

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We thought then the world we went Into beat "The Settlement,"

And the friends 'at we'd make there Would beat any anywhere!-- And they do--fer that's their biz: They beat all the friends they is-- 'Cept the raal old friends like you 'At staid at home, like I'd ort to!

W'y, of all the good things yit I ain't shet of, is to quit Business, and git back to sheer These old comforts waitin' here-- These old friends; and these old hands 'At a feller understands; These old winter nights, and old Young-folks chased in out the cold!

Sing "Hard Times'll come ag'in No More!" and neighbors all jine in!

Here's a feller come from town Wants that-air old fiddle down From the chimbly!--Git the floor Cleared fer one cowtillion more!-- It's poke the kitchen fire, says he, And shake a friendly leg with me!

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[Ill.u.s.tration: A hobo voluntary--headpiece]

A HOBO VOLUNTARY

Oh, the hobo's life is a roving life; It robs pretty maids of their heart's delight-- It causes them to weep and it causes them to mourn For the life of a hobo, never to return.

The hobo's heart it is light and free, Though it's Sweethearts all, farewell, to thee!-- Farewell to thee, for it's far away The homeless hobo's footsteps stray.

In the morning bright, or the dusk so dim, It's any path is the one for him!

He'll take his chances, long or short, For to meet his fate with a valiant heart.

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Oh, it's beauty mops out the sidetracked-car, And it's beauty-beaut' at the pigs-feet bar; But when his drinks and his eats is made Then the hobo shunts off down the grade.

He camps near town, on the old crick-bank, And he cuts his name on the water-tank-- He cuts his name and the hobo sign,-- "Bound for the land of corn and wine!"

(Oh, it's I like friends that he'ps me through, And the friends also that he'ps you, too,-- Oh, I like all friends, 'most every kind But I don't like friends that don't like mine.)

There's friends of mine, when they gits the hunch, Comes a swarmin' in, the blasted bunch,-- "Clog-step Jonny" and "Flat-wheel Bill"

And "Brockey Ike" from Circleville.

With "c.o.o.ney Ward" and "Sikes the Kid"

And old "Pop Lawson"--the best we had-- The rankest mug and the worst for lush And the dandiest of the whole blame push.

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[Ill.u.s.tration: He camps near town on the old crick-bank]

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Oh, them's the times I remembers best When I took my chance with all the rest, And hogged fried chicken and roastin' ears, too, And sucked cheroots when the feed was through.

Oh, the hobo's way is the railroad line, And it's little he cares for schedule time; Whatever town he's a-striken for Will wait for him till he gits there.

And whatever burg that he lands in There's beauties there just thick for him-- There's beauty at "The Queen's Taste Lunch-stand," sure, Or "The Last Chance Boardin' House" back-door.

He's lonesome-like, so he gits run in, To git the hang o' the world ag'in; But the laundry circles he moves in there Makes him sigh for the country air,--